Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout

by Garry Disher

  But all that mattered was the job, and Chaffey. Wyatt assessed the big man, noting the unhealthy skin, his wheezing chest and damp neck and brow, then looked for what the face and eyes might reveal, some predisposition that told Wyatt he should walk away from this.

  He was startled to find that Chaffey was returning the intense scrutiny. Heard you were at the centre of a ruckus in the city the other day.

  Wyatt waited a beat, then said, The police know it was me?

  Yes.

  Thats all they know?

  Yes.

  How did you hear about it?

  Pal, the big man said, Im a lawyer. I hear things.

  Im here, Wyatt said. Theyre no closer to finding me.

  Glad to hear it, Chaffey said. He moved decisively, placing a briefcase on the grass between them, patting it. Take this when you leave here. It contains a list of the works my client wants, their dimensions, and floor plans of the building.

  Your client wants only some of the paintings?

  A big Whiteley, two Tuckers, two Booths, three Lloyd Rees drawings, a Dobell and four Heysen watercolours.

  You say youve got floor plans. I hope they cant be traced back to you.

  Chaffey shook his head. I applied for them in the name of the firm renovating the building.

  Whos your client?

  Chaffey laughed. The wife of the man who put the collection together. According to her, the paintings were a present, but the husband pissed off overseas with his secretary, owing a few million to his creditors, so the collection was sold off and the wife got nothing. Shes understandably upset, wants her paintings back.

  What makes you think the cops wont look closely at her?

  They will, but shes no longer around. The paintings are going straight to New York, where she lives now. You deliver the paintings to me, you get paid, I crate them up and courier them to her, thats how it works.

  Raymond stretched out in the sun. Hed shaken off his mood. Youre her lawyer?

  No.

  How do you know her?

  Our kids went to the same school.

  If often happened that unimaginable lives were revealed to Wyatt. They were lives lived parallel to his, defined by money and respectability, private schools and skiing holidays, Volvo station wagons and horse-riding teenage daughters, divorces and charity functions. Now and men his life and theirs veered course sufficiently to intersect. Whose life was the most honest or the least unrealistic, he couldnt say.

  He followed the exchange between Chaffey and his nephew. Raymond was asking all the right questions. The same school? So theres no other connection between you? The cops wont come looking at you?

  No.

  Good. Because I dont want to sit on these paintings while the air clears. I need my fifty grand the moment we hand you the pictures.

  Chaffey said nothing while a woman wheeling a pram passed close behind them. When it was safe, he cocked his head. Gambling debt, young Raymond?

  Business deal, Raymond said, and Wyatt and Chaffey looked at him, waiting, but Raymond didnt elaborate.

  How about things in general? Chaffey asked. Everything going according to plan, Ray? No hiccups?

  There was something about this, some sort of private communication. Wyatt watched and listened, but all Raymond said was, No dramas my end, Chafe, no worries.

  Glad to hear it, Chaffey said. He climbed in painful stage-- to his feet. Keep me posted.

  Wyatt shook his head. Were dropping out of sight till this is over.

  * * * *

  Twenty-four

  Back at Raymonds flat, Wyatt felt himself switching gears, taking in his surroundings as he retreated mentally from matters of escape routes and the unknown. He had a few days up his sleeve for planning the job. Right now there was Raymond and Raymonds flat.

  Wyatt didnt feel comfortable. Unless the apartment was being watched, he was safe enough staying there, but he hated not having control. Nothing here belonged to him, he liked to have his feet at ground level, not ten floors above the street, and he had to wear a public face.

  Perhaps thats why he scribbled down his Tasmanian address for Raymond. Treat it strictly as a way out if youre in trouble, he said. Somewhere to go if you cant come back here.

  Raymond held the slip of notepaper in both hands, examined it, made to slip it into his wallet. Thanks.

  Wyatts fingers clamped on his wrist. Memorise it, he said.

  Raymond sighed raggedly. He looked bad to Wyatt, the demons still chasing around in his head. Wyatt saw his nephew mouth the address silently, close his eyes in concentration, blink open again.

  Got it. Where the hell is Flowerdale?

  Between Burnie and Stanley on the north coast.

  Yeah, right, lots of cafe society, nightclubs, Raymond said, screwing the paper scrap into a ball and tossing it into an ashtray. They both looked at it. Suppose you want me to swallow it now? he said sourly.

  Wyatt said nothing, simply put a match to the paper and crossed to the window to stare down at the river and the city.

  He liked to know that he was close to water. Water was alive. It meant contradictory things to him: stealth, power, restlessness, an endless calm.

  He heard a groan and turned to see Raymond clutch himself, his face white. My guts have been playing up.

  Food poisoning?

  Maybe nerves, Raymond said, grinning weakly. No, dont worry, nerves of steel.

  Theres a chemist downstairs.

  Good idea.

  Raymond left the flat. Wyatt stood for some time, staring at the river, seeing the job ahead of them. He became conscious of the open door to Rays room, and wandered across to the door and went in. The boy was untidy. Wyatt knew that he employed a cleaning lady, so presumably there was no incentive for him to be tidy.

  The cash box sat in darkness on a high shelf, under an empty nylon overnight bag. The key was in it. It surprised Wyatt, seeing Steer there, gazing coldly at the camera. Raymond stood next to him, grinning. The photograph had been taken at night, near trees. He found Steer in another photograph, his arms around a short, broad-faced unhappy woman, the woman close to him as though she wanted to meld herself with him.

  Wyatt hunted deeper into the cashbox. Newspaper clippings, going back several years. He recognised some of the headlines: Airport Bullion Heist was an old one, one of his own. More recently there were clippings about the bush bandit, highlighted here and there with strokes from a yellow pen.

  And clippings about Steers escape from gaol.

  When Raymond returned to the flat, Wyatt forearmed him across the throat, propelling him backwards and pinning him to the wall. He said, in a low, dangerous rasp: Im going to remove my arm now. I will ask you some questions. You will answer them.

  Raymonds eyes were wide and aggrieved. He forced a nod.

  Wyatt let him go. Good. Did you help Steer escape?

  Me?

  Wyatts forearm went back across his nephews windpipe. He relaxed it again.

  Raymond gasped, Yeah, it was me.

  The papers say the woman was involved.

  Her and me.

  Where is Steer now?

  Raymond swallowed. Overseas. That was the deal. Boat from Lakes Entrance.

  The woman too?

  Her, too.

  Raymond, Steer was seen running from a roadblock recently.

  Well, yeah, then he turned up as planned where I was minding the girlfriend and I took both of them to the boat. I swear.

  Wyatt stepped back. He took Raymond into the bedroom and forced his head onto the cashbox, then off again, as if Raymond were a dog whod fouled the carpet. This is what an amateur does. He keeps all his little mementos with him, letters from his pals, photos, clippings, stuff that will tie him to everything hes ever done or come near. Its stupid, stupid. Itll get you gaol time. Its sentimental and theres no room for sentiment in this game. Burn this crap.

  Fuck you

  In a cold rage, Wyatt gathered the spill and took it into
the bathroom. He made a bonfire of it in the bath, and when it was reduced to ashes he sluiced it all away with the shower nozzle, his own long career and his nephews shorter one.

  He went out to Raymond. Your life starts over again, he said, as if the past had had nothing to do with anything.

  You bastard.

  Ray, youre on your own now. Im out of this. Youre on your own.

  Wyatt said it heatedly, a new sensation for him, almost as if he hadnt decided on the words but let them pop out.

  Raymond grew passionate in the face of them. Havent I always been alone? You dumped me and my mum. You dumped family. I thought Id at least see you when she died, but you couldnt give a stuff, couldnt even come to the funeral.

  Wyatt had been on the run when it happened. Hed heard the news weeks later. Seeing the fretfulness, frustration and sore feelings in his nephew now, he allowed his expression to soften. It was intended to be a look of compassion, but Wyatt was not good at compassion and somethinghis habitual scepticism, his permanently unimpressed view of the worldmade itself known to Raymond. Raymond swung away and left the room.

  Wyatt followed him. Tell me about the break-out.

  Raymond said, You still here? I thought you were pissing off on me again.

  Wyatt said, I was too hasty. I apologise. But I dont like surprises. Did Chaffey put the escape together?

  Raymond nodded.

  You did it for a fee?

  Yes.

  What do you know about Steer?

  Wyatt saw his nephew shrug. Whats there to know? Chaffeys his lawyer.

  You dont know anything of Steers history? Chaffey didnt tell you anything about that?

  No. Why should he? Whats Steer to you?

  An old grievance, thats all, Wyatt said. Steer was a loose end, like a live power line snaking around on the ground nearby, but one that could be attended to later. He made for his room and packed his bag.

  So, this is it? Raymond said.

  The jobs still on. But we both need to find somewhere else to stay. Separate places.

  You must be joking.

  I never joke.

  You ought to try it sometime, Raymond said.

  * * * *

  Twenty-five

  From the drivers seat of her car, Liz Redding watched Raymond Wyatt stride down the slope toward her, into the underground residents garage. The location was a pricey motel in Parkville, and Raymond was whistling, swinging a key ring around his index finger. He passed right by her. Two days earlier shed followed him here from his apartment block on the other side of the city, but this was her first close look at him. A more sullen version of his uncles hooked face and hooded eyes. The same black hair, only worn longer, so long that it hung greasily about his face, meaning he was forever clawing it back with his left hand. The hands: not shapely and nimble. Shorter, thicker. And while Raymond was built like Wyatttall, sinuous, compact, with a quickness under the still surfacehe lacked strength and vigour. Liz Redding formed an impression of unfocused courage and grand, frustrated ambitions.

  His Jaguar was in the far corner. Liz started her car and ploughed up the ramp and onto the street, where she slowed down, as though looking for an address, one eye on the rear-view mirror. She wanted to be moving when the Jaguar appeared behind her. If Raymond saw a parked car turn on its lights and pull in behind him, hed know he was being tailed and hed try to lose her. Of course he might turn left out of the driveway, in which case shed switch off her headlights, U-turn, and follow him for a distance before switching on again, but she doubted that he would turn left. Twice now shed followed him right, down to Gatehouse Street, then around by the cemetery to north Carlton, before losing him.

  She inched along, whistling impatiently. A moment later, headlights rose and dipped behind her as the Jaguar entered the street. The car accelerated, coming up behind her, and Liz turned on her indicator and steered into the kerb, letting him pass. She saw his brake lights flare at the corner. He turned right, then was gone from sight. Liz pulled out again and put her foot down.

  She relaxed when she was on the Parade, settling in three car lengths behind the Jaguar. Even if he veered onto an unfamiliar route or tried to be evasive, she was reasonably confident of staying with him. The XJ6 was a distinctive car, but, even so, earlier in the day shed detailed the rear of the big car with small strips of reflective tape. They were under the bumper and not immediately apparent to someone standing close to the car, but clearly visible to anyone farther back in a car at night, showing as an irregular red pattern in the headlights. Raymonds car was unmistakeable. He could merge with a freeway of similar cars and Liz would know him.

  The minutes passed. Raymond followed the cemetery around and headed toward Princes Street. Now and then he altered speed or skipped lanes, as though to shake off a tail, but Liz didnt let herself be drawn. He was simply going through the motions. He probably imagined a tail even when he went out for bread and milk. She stayed where she was, in the left lane, at the speed limit, more or less.

  Liz followed the XJ6 to Alexander Parade and onto the Doncaster Freeway. Raymond wasnt so tricky now. He kept to one lane and to the speed limit, a young blade tooling along in his glossy big car. Liz drifted close to him from time to time and had a clear view through the rear window of the casual way he draped himself in the car, one shoulder against the door, one hand on the wheel, the other along the top of the passenger seat.

  Raymond took the Bourke Road exit, winding through the cuttings in the little hills of Ivanhoe and down into West Heidelberg. He surprised her by parking in a side street and strolling into the grounds of the University of Technology. Liz parked, got out, removed the reflective tape from the XJ6, and hurried after him, into a world of lighted footpaths between clumps of shrubbery and a hotchpotch of blockish buildings, many of them well lit. Even so, the place seemed dark and creepy, and she thought of the female students braving the shadows at night, on their way to a lecture or back to their cars in the vast car parks.

  Raymond came to a bench seat near a pond. Here there was plenty of light, even a couple of smooching students on the grass, and then, for the first time in two weeks, she saw Wyatt. He wore a dark cap and a dark zippered jacket and was standing rock still, watching from the corner of a nearby building. She knew that look: dark, sceptical, wary as a cat. He didnt spot her. He began to approach his nephew, moving with an easy fluid lope that could have turned into an attack or flight in an eyeblink. Part of her stirred, transforming the loose grace of his walk into the more concentrated grace of his hands and his body as hed touched and flowed with her on their narrow bunk aboard the yacht. Despite the distance, she noted tight lines of exhaustion, even of sadness, on Wyatts narrow, hooked face. She was reminded of a prowling creature aware of its needs and the hunters weaknesses.

  What broke the spell for her was Wyatt lifting his cap to scratch his head. Hed shaved off most of his hair. He looked monkish, like a grim recluse in an old painting.

  Liz watched them for an hour. They could pass as mature-age students, she realised, taking a break from the library stacks. One of them went for takeaway coffee from a machine. They talked, strolled, sat again. Once when a nightwatchman went by she saw a subtle stiffening of their spines, and after a while it occurred to her that Wyatt and his nephew were watching a particular building. She would have to find out why. It had a shut-down look about it, a cyclone security fence around an area of building supplies against one wall.

  She wondered what Vallance had to do with it. Twice shed seen Vallance and a young woman arrive at Raymonds flat. Shed also seen the woman visit Raymond alone, at the motel in Parkville. Liz had had dealings with Vallance before and couldnt see someone like Wyatt getting involved with him. Maybe Raymond had his own agenda. It might be worth tipping the wink to her friends in CIB. They could pull Vallance and the woman. If nothing else, it might scare Raymond and Wyatt into walking away from this job, whatever it was. She hated to think of Wyatt in gaol. Shed crossed a line and was w
alking with him, now.

  Wyatt parted from his nephew at nine, when the late lectures and tutorials broke. Liz knew where Raymond lived. Time to learn where Wyatt had his bolthole.

  * * * *

  Twenty-six

  Okay, Raymond, Vallance said, just so you know I havent been twiddling my thumbs.