Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout

by Garry Disher

  Raymond unfolded from a plastic chair and grinned awkwardly. Been a long time.

  Wyatt was shocked. It was as if his brother stood there, languid, graceful, knockabout, wearing a likeable grin. But in the case of Wyatts brother there had always been sour grievances under the grin. A lot of people, like Rays mother, hadnt seen that until it was too late.

  Wyatt stepped forward and shook the boys hand. Ray.

  Boyhardly a boy. If this were a normal occasion and Wyatt a normal man he might have said something like, Youve certainly shot up, or The last time I saw you you were knee high to a grasshopper, but Wyatt had nothing mindless to say.

  Instead, he looked at his grown-up nephew and asked, aware of the suspicion in his voice: What brings you here?

  Raymond sensed it. Dont worry, Im not tailing you if thats what you think. Im here with some friends. He searched for the term he wanted. Fishing trip. You? On holiday?

  It occurred to Wyatt that he hadnt had a holiday in his life, just long stretches of idle, recuperative time between heists, periods spent resting his body but not his head. There was always the next job to plan, for when the money ran out. He clapped a hand shyly on his nephews shoulder. Good to see you, he said.

  Raymond seemed to fill with pleasure. Sit, he said, signalling to the waitress. Beer? Something stronger?

  Wyatt shook his head. Not for me.

  At once Raymond went still. Youre not working on something? He looked around the marina, as though banks and payroll vans had materialised there.

  Wyatt allowed himself to smile. He watched carefully as Raymond turned to signal the waitress again. The last time Wyatt had seen the boy was fifteen years ago, when theyd put his father in the groundWyatts brother, a man weak and vicious enough to blacken the eyes and crack the ribs of his wife and kid whenever the world let him down. In the end the world had disappointed him all the way to the morgue. Raymond had been ten at the time, fine-boned and quick like his mother, laughter always close to the surface. Hed had a black eye at the funeral, Wyatt recalled, and it was clear how hed got it. Hed shown no emotion when the family tossed dirt into the yawning grave, only satisfaction. The official story was that Wyatts brother had pitched head-first from a flight of steps, onto a concrete floor. Hed been drinking heavily. Wyatt had gone with the accident storyuntil he saw Raymond at the graveside. Then hed known it wasnt an accident, or mostly not.

  More coffee here, Raymond told the waitress.

  Wyatt had known that his brother was no good. Hed tried to help, giving the family money, giving his own brother hard warnings to play it straight with his wife and son. It hadnt been enough, and later, after the funeral, they lost touch with one another. It seemed to be the best thing to do. Raymond had been getting too interested in the stories that surrounded Wyatt, making them add up to something more than the truth, until hed asked, at the wake: Can I live with you, Uncle Wyatt?

  What have you been doing? Wyatt said now.

  This and that. Then, slyly, Not checking up on me, are you?

  Wyatt said nothing. He searched deep behind the open face. If Raymond was a user, his body would betray him. The boys eyes were clear. No twitches. If Raymond were somehow wrong inside, like the man whod fathered him, that might reveal itself as well. Wyatt needed to know.

  The waitress came with their coffees. For a moment, Wyatt wondered if hed seen something in Raymond, but now it was gone. He blinked, and saw Raymond sitting across from him, cool, very collected.

  For the next thirty minutes, they talked, Wyatt keeping the conversation away from himself, away from questions about the past, always shifting the focus back onto Raymond. He had no use for small talk and an abhorrence of the world knowing anything about him. If he had to be the focus, he stuck to an abbreviation of the present. But Raymond was equally withholding. To cover it, he sometimes made absurd wagers. Bet you five the woman drives, he said, nodding at an elderly couple crossing the car park to their car.

  Finally he said, So, Uncle Wyatt, lets cut the crap. What are you doing here?

  Going home.

  Home? No point asking where that is?

  Wyatt didnt reply.

  As if to say, Im a better man than you are, Raymond fished out a pen and scribbled on the back of a coaster. This heres my address and phone number. Look me up next time youre passing through Melbourne.

  Wyatt nodded.

  Look, no more bullshit, Raymond said. Colour and embarrassment showed on his face. Those country banks? The bush bandit? Thats me.

  Wyatt waited for it to sink in. He felt faintly shocked. After a moment, he said flatly, The bush bandit.

  He supposed that it could be true. Raymond wasnt boasting, just stating who he was now. Wyatt had no wish to offer advice or warnings to his nephew, and there was nothing at risk for himself, so he decided to leave it at that.

  Never been caught, never even been a suspect. I work alone. If I pick up something I cant offload, theres a guy wholl do it for me.

  Maybe I know him.

  Chaffey. Lawyer in the city.

  Wyatt shook his head. He was out of touch.

  Chaffey knows you, Raymond said. I mean, he said hastily, catching the stiffening of Wyatts face, he knows youre my uncle, thats all, knows all the stories about you, knows we dont have anything to do with each other. He hasnt sent me to track you down, if thats what youre thinking.

  Good.

  Although, Raymond said, he did mention a job to me.

  Wyatt waited. He could see now that Raymond had been working up to this. I see.

  I more or less turned it down, Raymond said. Its an art collection, outside my field, plus Id need a partner and I dont know anyone I trust enough to work with.

  Wyatt felt a stir of interest, almost an itch. What sort of art collection?

  Raymond outlined the job swiftly. Worth a hundred grand, he concluded. Chaffeys got a buyer already lined up.

  Wyatt kept stony-faced. A hundred thousand dollars, split two ways.

  Think about it, Uncle Wyatt. This is right up your alley. I wouldnt know a print from a poster.

  Wyatt felt his nerve endings stir. He looked around the marina, looking for the trap. You sure youre not following me?

  Raymonds face darkened. Fuck you. For fifteen years I havent known where you were. How could I follow you? Pure coincidence.

  Okay, okay.

  So, you interested?

  Ill let you know.

  Gloomily Raymond began to shred a paper napkin. Dont suppose you need the money. You must have stashed a fair bit away over the years.

  Wyatt couldnt tell his nephew about the big jobs that had gone wrong, the stuff hed left behind, the pissy jobs in the past couple of years. A kind of sadness settled in him. If hed stepped in all that time ago, he could have saved Raymond from a world in which the only men he had to model himself upon were brutes like his father and hold-up men like his uncle. Raymond had grown up too quickly and seen too much too soon. Wyatt tried to name the source of his sadness. It was composed of many things, among them guilt, sadness for his brothers short, failed life, a renewed sense of responsibility for Raymond.

  All of these things, but mostly his memory of that last meeting, when Raymond was ten and had seen his father into the ground and had turned to Wyatt and asked, Can I live with you, Uncle Wyatt?

  Raymond, my boy, there you are.

  Wyatt felt his interest wane and his wariness return. A man and a woman, the man a skinny character in his fifties, the woman a lithe, pouting fluffball in her twenties.

  Um, meet my fishing mates, Raymond said.

  He named the man as Brian Vallance, the woman as Allie Roden, and told them that Wyatt was an old family friend. Known Macka since I was a kid, he said.

  Wyatt shook the womans hand briefly, then the mans. The man held on, slowly squeezing, testing Wyatt.

  A waste of time. Wyatt shook his head irritably and withdrew his hand. He didnt like the man or the woman, and watched them when they were all
seated. Vallance wore the pout of a man convinced that hed never exercised choice, that his failures were none of his doing but the result of the raw deals that life had thrown up for himthe bad luck, accidents and treachery of others. He wore costly jeans and Wyatt saw him tug the fabric away from his knees carefully and smooth it under his thighs whenever he shifted in his seat. The woman was playing some kind of game. She was with Vallance, but giving Raymond soulful looks. And once, when the other two men were not looking, Wyatt found her looking long and hard at him.

  You a fisherman, Macka? she asked, a slow heat in her face and her voice.

  Wyatt shook his head. He climbed to his feet. Not me. She was slippery. He had to get away. Unaccountably then, he thought of Liz Redding.

  * * * *

  Ten

  She was under orders from Gosse not to leave the building before five. Hed call her in every couple of hours for another bout of questioning, sometimes with Montgomery in attendance, sometimes with the faceless men from the Internal Investigations branch. It was always the same thing: they wanted times, dates, places, names, and they wanted her to account for her motives in going to Vanuatu and coming back with a known crook.

  Liz chafed through the day. At one point a friend came by and whispered, Mate, theyre searching your locker.

  Mate, Liz thought. Man or woman, youre everyones mate in the police. It was a life built for mates, all differences levelled out, including gender. But one false step and they soon reminded you how different you were.

  She found Gosse there, supervising. Go back to your desk, Sergeant.

  You have no right

  I have every right.

  You think Ive got the jewels hidden in my tracksuit pants? Think Ive got a valentine from Wyatt hidden in my tampon box?

  Gosse turned, snarling, Nothing about you would surprise me. Back to your desk, Sergeant.

  Liz went back. She felt the beginnings of a shift in the way she viewed the world. She wanted to find Wyatt but realised that she no longer wanted to find him on behalf of the Victoria Police. She hunted the files for an address. When Wyatt had first come to her attention hed been trying to offload stolen goods. Liz had posed as a fence, and the man whod led Wyatt to her was Jardine, a burnt-out thief and friend of Wyatts. Jardine had since died, but his sister Nettie might know something.

  At 5 oclock Liz drove to a flat, depressed corner of Coburg, where small weatherboard and brick-veneer houses breathed into one anothers mouths and old women and men broke their hips on the root-buckled footpaths. The paint was flaking on Nettie Jardines house. One corner needed restumping and the external boards and frames harboured a deep, rotting dampness. It would be there even in midsummer, like an exhalation of hopelessness.

  Nettie opened the sticking main door to Liz but not the screen door. She wore the cares of the world in her thin frame, her limp pale hair, her narrow mouth. But a spark of something animated her sorrowing face when she saw Liz. You again.

  Hello, Nettie.

  Thats the shot, first names. What do I get to call you, your majesty?

  I dont mind if you call me Liz.

  Nettie Jardine sniffed. Thought Id finished with you lot.

  Just a couple of questions. Do you think I could

  Right here will do, Nettie said, folding her arms firmly behind the screen door.

  Right. About your brother

  Hes dead.

  I know. Im sorry.

  Sorrys not going to bring him back.

  Nettie, were more interested in a man your brother was involved with. Wyatt.

  That bastard.

  Liz said mildly, I understand he was your brothers friend. Didnt he help out with rent, bills, living costs?

  Guilt money.

  Your brother blueprinted burglaries for him, Nettie. He wasnt forced into it.

  Nettie was stubborn. Wyatt had influence over Frank.

  Liz doubted that. She said, What I need to know is, how did Frank get in touch with Wyatt? When Frank put a burglary or a robbery together, how did he pass on the photographs, the floor plans, the briefing notes?

  Mail drop.

  You mean a holding address?

  Call it what you want. Hes paranoid. Doesnt like you to know where he lives.

  Liz nodded. She had an impression of the unreality of her life. Wyatts life, a secretive, complicated parallel life, seemed suddenly clearer and more appealing to her than her own. So youve never seen his place.

  Nettie shrugged. Why would I?

  Know anyone who has? His family, maybe?

  Far as I know, theres only a nephew.

  Liz sharpened at that. Nephew?

  Raymond Wyatt. Flash bugger.

  Where would I find him?

  Nettie laughed. Try the bloody phone book.

  Fair enough, Liz thought. This mail drop. Where was it?

  Hobart, Nettie muttered.

  Hobart. The mail drop was probably inoperative now, given Wyatts caution, but a man cant live in total isolation. He has wants and needs that bring him into contact with the wider world. He has dealings with dentists, doctors, real-estate agents, local shopkeepers. Hobart was a small place. She could go down there, flash his photo around. It wasnt much of a likeness. It was a blurred, long-distance surveillance shot. Wyatt, eternally watchful, had never let himself be photographed clearly. Liz made a few impressionistic notes in her mindtall, slender, graceful on his feet, big hands, rarely smiles, thin face, sharp lines with a dark cast to the skin.

  Where in Hobart?

  There was no humour in Netties smile. Couldnt say, really. All I know is, youre too far away and too late.

  Nettie, Liz said warningly, whats going on?

  You wait and see. All Im saying is, no-one hurts the Jardines and gets away with it.

  * * * *

  Eleven

  On the outskirts of Hastings the cab driver caught Wyatts eye in the rear-view mirror. You got a yacht down here?

  He wants to discuss sailing with me, Wyatt thought. To forestall that, he said, Just been visiting for a few days.

  Like it?

  Sure.

  People think this is a bit of a backwater, but we have our share of drama.

  Yes, Wyatt said.

  That kiddie abducted on the other side of the Peninsula, that killer up in Frankston. Youll even see in the marina a boat the police impounded. Something to do with smuggling from Vanuatu, one of them places.

  Wyatt glanced out of the window. The taxi was passing swampy flatland. Beyond it was the refinery. A big tanker was in dock.

  He let the driver talk on. Once inside the terminal at Tyabb aerodrome, he stood at the glass, gazing across the airstrip. Suddenly a shadow washed over the field, cutting off the sun briefly, and a harsh motor swamped the ordinary human sounds behind him. Wyatt looked up. A plane was barrelling in, hard and fast. It was squat-looking with a high cockpit, and it wore US Navy markings. It dated from the Second World War and Wyatt hadnt seen it for a while. Hed forgotten it. It used to roll and flip in the sky above his house behind Shoreham. He watched it sideslip against the cross-wind and touch down, skipping a little before it settled into a fast run toward the hangars. It dwarfed the Cessnas and Pipers.

  At 4 oclock Wyatt and six other passengers boarded a twin-prop, ten-seater commuter plane. During the ascent, he watched the topography clarify into a school at a crossroads, a trucking firm, a motel, a sunflash in the distance from the refinery at Westernport, the wingless, snout-up DC3 in a corner of the airfield, then horse studs, wineries, small holdings, roads and fences. The plane held a course southeast. This was a part of the world that Wyatt had crossed and recrossed a thousand times, on foot, in a car, in the air, often on the run from the law. He had staked life and a degree of contentment on it, using the little farmhouse somewhere below as his bolthole, slipping away from time to time to knock over a bank or a payroll van. That life had failed him in the end. But he knew the place, it had mapped itself in his brain and on his nerve endings.


  Inverloch and the Victorian coast slipped by beneath him. King Island was ahead, and a separate flight to Hobart. The water looked choppy.

  Wyatt allowed himself to think of Liz Redding again, and of their voyage from Vanuatu in the stolen yacht. For six days they had managed to forget who they were, but when the coastline of Australia appeared, Wyatt had found himself planning the next stage, escaping with the jewels. He hadnt known how to include Liz in his plans, so convinced himself that she wasnt a factor.