by Garry Disher
My uncle comes to mind.
Chaffey went still. Then he tossed another pebble. Heard something about him during the week that doesnt exactly inspire confidence.
Like what?
He tried to flog some precious stones back to an insurance company and almost got caught by the cops.
Raymond felt the pull of conflicting emotions. He could picture his uncles nerve and style, but why hadnt Wyatt told him about the botched handover, had a laugh about it with him, if nothing else? They were family, after all.
And did Wyatt still have the stones?
But he didnt get caught.
True, true, Chaffey said.
Plus hes stolen paintings before, Raymond said. Art, stuff like that, its not my thing.
He recreated his apartment in his head. Half a dozen prints hed rented, along with the furniture.
See if you can arrange a meeting, Chaffey said.
Have to find him first, Raymond thought. He coughed and said, About the prison break.
Yes?
Keep it between you and me. My uncle doesnt need to know about it.
Chaffey swung his huge head around. Raymond felt the force of the mans hard gaze. Men like Chaffey saw corruption every day. It corrupted them, gave a corrupt spin to their insights.
You mean he wouldnt approve, Chaffey said finally, and Raymond would quite happily have strangled Chaffey then.
* * * *
Fifteen
Chaffey called in favours and made promises and when Steer was finally moved to the remand centre in Sunshine he made the trip out there by taxi. The place was privately run and tried to kid itself that plenty of bright fresh paint and natural light, and its situation alongside other public buildings, placed it at the cutting edge of modern incarceration practice, but Chaffey wasnt fooled. There was no concealing the rifles and batons, the commerce in drugs, phonecards and cigarettes, the stench of hopelessness and hate the moment you got through the main door.
Still, hed rather have a consultation with Steer in the remand centre than in Pentridge, where the interview rooms were grim and spare, the walls always cold to the touch, the high windows too smeared and deep-set to catch the light, the air always ringing with the smack of metal against metal.
Steer, they said, was helping the maintenance crew. Thered be a thirty-minute wait. Chaffey mentally added another thirty to that and asked to see the paperwork on his client.
The clerk sighed elaborately. You want it now?
Chaffey was used to grudging prison staff. One, he was a lawyer, he had it easy. He didnt have to be shut up with the dregs of society for hours at a time. Two, lawyers, like cops, kept things to themselves. They looked at a blokes file and their little minds ticked over and they went off and did important things. They were right up themselves. Three, Chaffey looked rich and fat. Four, he didnt wear a uniform. Chaffey read all of these things in the sour face of the clerk, not necessarily in that order.
The man put him in a smoky side room. A transistor radio vibrated on a window shelf, a poorly tuned talkback host encouraging every vicious prejudice ever thought or uttered. Two guards came in, made coffee, stared at Chaffey, yelled above the racketing radio, went out again. Chaffey knew that he was being put in his place. He didnt care. It was all in their heads, not his.
The officer came back with Steers file. Apparently Steer was behaving himself. Well, he would be, given that he intended to escape on the one hand and was looking at long gaol time if that fell through on the other.
Fifty minutes later, Chaffey was taken to an interview room. Steer sat on a plastic chair at a plastic table, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.
Chaffey turned to the guard. My client and I would like some privacy, if you dont mind.
The man flushed. No skin off my nose.
He left. Chaffey said, Are we okay in here?
Steer nodded. Cost me fifty smackers. No-ones listening.
Good, Chaffey said.
He made a rapid assessment of his client. Steer was watchful, careful, apparently relaxed and self-contained. Keeps to himself, the report said. The hard men of the yard leave him alone. Chaffey could see why. You sensed the glittering danger in him, just as you sensed it in certain dogs.
Ive seen Denise, Chaffey began.
Steer nodded. He tipped back his throat and huffed three smoke rings at the spitting fluorescent tube.
Chaffey saw his teeth then: gaol-rotted teeth, full of stumps and black cavities. Were ready to roll, our end, he said. New Zealand passports and drivers licences, a boat from Lakes Entrance to a freighter, a guy to drive you.
Who?
His name is Ray Wyatt. The police dont know him. Good nerve, cautious, he wont let you down. Denise has been working on your shopping list. The rest is up to you.
Things are jake my end, Steer said. Back up a bit. This guy, you say his name is Wyatt?
Chaffey nodded, adding a chin to the chins that hung over the knot of his tie. You know him?
Steer shook his head. Has he got a father, a nasty piece of work, knocks over payroll vans and that?
Chaffey thought that nasty piece of work pretty well described Steer. The lads uncle. Is that a problem?
Steer smiled. There was no humour or good will in it. Just asking.
Now, about your money, Chaffey said.
Two hundred thousand dollars, in a fireproof steel floor-safe at his house, cemented into a hole in the corner of his basement. Steers money, and Steer knew the combination, just in case, but that two hundred grand still burnt a hole in Chaffeys head. He was not mug enough to touch it, though. Steer would slice him open and whistle Waltzing Matilda while he did it.
What about my money? You fucking lost it at the casino?
Keep your shirt on, Chaffey said. Its in the basement where its always been. As soon as youre settled somewhere, Ill wire it to you.
That you will, Steer said, reaching to stub out his cigarette on the table, just millimetres away from Chaffeys soft, fat, pink, well-tended hand.
* * * *
Sixteen
Wyatt always kept an emergency bag packed. Within minutes of killing Frank Jardines brother, hed left another stage of his life behind him.
A new bolthole. He couldnt stay in Hobart. There was the mainland, but too many people knew him there, too many wanted him dead. Hed risk short, hit-and-run visits to the capital cities, but it would be inviting trouble to base himself in one of them.
And so Wyatt drove north, in a Magna rented using a false set of papers. He took the Midland Highway. Wind gusts rocked the car in the high country after Hobart, where the road narrowed and levelled out for the dreary stretch up through the centre of the state. Traffic was sparse and slow and inclined to be careless. Wyatt found himself tensing at the wheel. The long hours and the strain of his life brought sharp aches to his neck and shoulders.
A new bolthole, and a big score to build up his cash reserves. That meant working with someone again. Wyatt thought about his nephews proposition. He counted the advantages again. One, Raymond was family and seemed to look up to him. Two, Raymond had successfully planned and pulled a number of armed hold-ups. Three, hed never been caught. Four, he wasnt a junkie. The boy probably had vices and weaknesses, but they werent apparent, and they hadnt got in the way of his bank raids.
Something else was prompting Wyatt, a feeling that lacked clear definition but connected Raymond with the child who had stepped into the traffic, inviting death. His brothers son. Raymond was the son of a weak, vicious man, and Wyatt had done nothing to make things better.
The road wound through valleys and rich farmland. The headlights flared over roadsigns that portrayed fat sheep and historic towns. He saw convict-built stonewall fences and imposing gates that indicated fine homesteads set back amongst English trees. He was in Tasmanias conservative heartland. The seat of government was in the south but the old money was in the north and it ruled the upper house of government.
At one oclock he pul
led off the road and slept until dawn. He was no more than thirty minutes from Devonport, but he knew that hed attract suspicion if he tried to rent a room this early in the morning.
He drove to the next town, locked the car and walked to a cafe. Smells of toast and coffee inside; a couple of bleary farmers and truckies at a corner table. He ate, walked for an hour, drove on.
Later that morning he rented a holiday flat in Devonport. It was a depressing place. The window of the main room overlooked a block of similar flatsthe Astor Apartments, pale yellow brick, rusting wrought iron, rotted window sillsand leaked a weak grey light into the place. Low, pebbled ceiling, wiry carpets the consistency of a kitchen scourer. Aborigines on black velvet in wooden frames on the walls. Frayed, burnt-orange armchairs and sofa. Parents came here exhausted with their tribes of children every summer and found little rest. They existed on fish and chips and videos. Humankind herded together in disappointment and conflict until death, Wyatt thought. He thought of Liz Redding and wondered at his own fate.
That afternoon he went out for maps, tourist brochures and real-estate listings. He spent the afternoon poring over them and making phone calls. He gave himself a week. When he stared out of the window, early that evening, he saw the running lights of the ferry as it set out for Melbourne, sliding massively down the channel toward the open sea, its superstructure dwarfing the little houses and cheap holiday flats.
In the end, he didnt need a week. Three days later, Wyatt moved to a remote wooden house near Flowerdale on the north coast, with a view across abrupt small hills to a slice of Bass Strait. It was a region of orchards, tree nurseries, dairy farms, creeks, gorges and muddy tracks. No-one was likely to question him in such a place. It was a rental house and renters had always stayed a while there, working or not working, maybe bludging on the welfare system, maybe teaching in the local school for a few terms. Wyatt was just another one of them.
* * * *
Seventeen
Liz Redding didnt get to Hobart. Her suspension was made official, and she was obliged to report every day, pending an inquiry. She might have slipped away regardless of that, but Gosse called her into his office and told her that theyd had a call from the Tasmania Police.
He drummed his fingers on his desk. The name Jardine mean anything to you?
Youve read my report, sir.
Indeed I have. Your friend Wyatt worked with a man called Frank Jardine.
Not my friend, sir.
Gosse ignored her. This Jardine hasor rather, hada brother.
I wouldnt know, sir.
Wouldnt you? Well, the brother has turned up dead stabbedin a flat in Battery Point, down in Hobart. Needless to say, being a resident of Melbourne, it wasnt his flat.
So thats what Nettie meant, Liz thought. Whose flat was it, sir?
Thats the interesting part, Sergeant. The tenant was a man, no-one knew him, the name probably false, nothing left to identify him, no prints, wiped clean.
Liz sat stonily watching Gosse.
That photograph we have of Wyatt. Its not very clear, but the real estate agent who let the flat to this man positively identifies him.
What did Gosse want from her? He was playing some kind of game, loading a lot of meaning between the lines. Liz said, So, hes on the run, sir. I hope you catch him.
Gosse snapped forward across the empty desk. She smelt toothpaste and coffee. He said, Did you warn him, Sergeant?
She stared at a point above his shoulder. Sir, Ive talked to the Association lawyer. If you want to charge me, charge me. If you want to find evidence against me, go out and find it. Meanwhile, all Im guilty of is being too dedicated to my job, working outside of regulations in the interest of bringing a crooked copper to justice. Thats all Im admitting to, thats all Ive done. Either throw the book at me or sack me or reinstate me. Until then, Ive said all Im obliged to say.
Gosse rubbed his ring finger vigorously over his forehead. The movement made him grimace, as though he were screaming silently. Liz thought of Wyatt, who had probably been the killer. Self-defence? She hoped so. Wyatt didnt have the empty moral centre of a thrill killer. Anyway, not the Wyatt shed known on the yacht.
Fuck this, Gosse said. He hunted in his side drawer, slid a form across the desk toward her. A warrant to search your house.
Liz let the anger burn coldly. You wont find anything. Plenty of knickers, in case you want to have a sniff.
You may accompany us. You may even have the Association rep present if you so desire.
That wont be necessary. But Ill be watching you, you bastard, every step of the way.
An hour later she was sitting, seething, in an armchair by the window, as Gosse, two other detectives and two uniformed constables searched her flat. She knew there was nothing to find. There was also nothing they could plant, unless Gosse had somehow got hold of the remaining rings and necklaces from the Asahi Collection, or something that belonged to Wyatt.
A third constable stayed in the room with her, standing uncomfortably by the door.
Sit down, Liz said.
He blushed. He was young and pimpled. Im right, thanks.
Suit yourself.
She watched gloomily as one of the detectives searched the room. He looked inside the CD cases and magazines, shook vases, tapped the fireplace tiles with his knuckles. He even took a screwdriver to the gas heater. It was dusty. He rocked back on his heels, sneezing.
Where would you hide a fortune in rings, bracelets, necklaces and tiaras if you were Wyatt and on the run and needing to travel light? Her thinking brought her by degrees to the yacht. Where on the yacht had the jewels been hidden in the first place, before Wyatt ran with them?
She straightened involuntarily, coughed to mask it, relaxed again. Three oclock. Gosse would want to question her again at ten the next morning. Plenty of time.
At 3.30 Gosse said, Thats all for now, Sergeant. Thank you.
Liz said, putting on the sweetness, Find anything? That earring I lost last year? A ten cent piece down the back of the sofa? Maybe a letter from my old Gran I forgot to answer?
Tomorrow morning, ten sharp, Gosse said.
When they were gone, Liz left through her back door, climbed the fence into the alley, and made her way to a taxi stand two blocks away. She told the driver to take her to the Budget place in Elizabeth Street, where she rented a Corolla, and by 5.15 she was on the foreshore at Hastings.
It looked different. Then again, everything had been distorted the first timedawn, the aftermath of a storm, her groggy head.
She found the yacht tied to a berth amongst a lot of small, flashy weekend yachts. There was a crime-scene tape around the rail. She looked about her. The place was closing for the day. She stepped over the tape and climbed down the steps to the area beneath the deck.
The yacht had been baking in the sun for days. The air below smelt of vinyl and glue, close and stale.
She started with the cabins, and worked her way along. By the time she got to the galley her hands were dirty, her fingernails torn.
She found the safe by accident. She was leaning her weight on the wall oven, resting, thinking, and when she stepped back she heard the soft click of a spring lock. The oven had moved a little, the edge jutting out a few millimetres from the wall. Liz hooked her sore fingers on the lip and pulled.
The oven slid out silently on well-greased channels, rather like a drawer in a modern kitchen. There was a space behind it. Liz reached into the wall cavity and the bulky, black felt bundle she brought into the light fell open and poured a stream of vivid stones and cool gold settings onto the carpet at her feet. The gold gleamed, the faceted stones flashed the colours of the spectrum. Oh, she said aloud.
Liz Redding dated the permanent seal on the shift in her view of the world, and of herself, to this moment. She felt the tug of the stones. Her head filled with risky impulses. Her heart beat. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to walk further into the edgy darkness enjoyed by a man like Wyatt.
* * *
*
Eighteen
The safe house was a boxy weatherboard perched on a steep slope above a creek in Warrandyte, in the ranges north of Melbourne. Raymond felt claustrophobic, shut in by the dense overhang of trees, the squabbling birds, the gullies and hills. You could see for miles from his balcony in the city. Here all you could see was the fence through the trees in the garden, then more trees. If you were lucky you got a glimpse of the sky. Otherwise there was only the house and the driveway and his Jag.
