by Garry Disher
Another of those empty smiles. ‘A man was seen leaving the park and getting into a blue Camry. One witness mentioned seeing blood and broken glass. The man said he was a policeman. We’ve checked: no suspicious shooting, burns or accident victims have been admitted to hospital anywhere today. No cops unaccounted for, either.’ She paused. ‘Do you or Joe own a blue Camry, Henri?’
He smirked. ‘You are joking.’
‘Isn’t it in your best interests to help me? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’
‘You’re the detective. Go and detect. I merely make and sell jewellery.’
‘What can you tell me about Danielle?’
Furneaux tried to meet Rigby’s gaze. ‘She’s honest.’
‘A man in your profession would want to do a background check on potential employees, wouldn’t he?’
‘She checked out okay.’
‘She was interviewed by a uniformed officer this morning. Now she’s uncontactable.’
‘I sent her home. She was upset.’
‘How did you follow the Audi, Henri? How did you know which way it went?’
‘We didn’t follow it.’
‘A man like you, prosperous jeweller, you’d want to keep track of your vehicles, wouldn’t you? GPS and so on. Maybe you tailed the thieves, shot it out with them, hurried back here and slashed your own tyres to cover it up?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Furneaux was getting pissed off with her. Like a lot of cops, Rigby was driven by self-love; you could see it in her smartarse expressions. Meanwhile the woman who had his bonds was about to call back and he still hadn’t told Alain and he didn’t have a million bucks. ‘Like I told you, it was a couple of thieving little bastards who let my tyres down.’
‘Kids.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s your brother, Henri? I thought he’d be here with you.’
‘Had a delivery.’
‘He told the uniformed officers that the back gate was locked.’
‘He’s just trying to protect me. It’s instinctive.’
‘Protect you from what?’
‘Insurance hassles.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s true,’ Furneaux insisted. ‘He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s solid.’
‘He likes to beat people up, Henri. Put them in hospital with brain damage.’
Furneaux flushed.
Rigby leaned across the desk and patted his wrist. He’d been leaning his forearms on the pristine blotter there, fiddling with a paperclip. Her fingers were cool and dry but they felt like burning brands and he jerked back from her touch.
‘No reason for CIU to be involved.’
‘Then I’ll find a reason,’ Rigby said.
‘What, you’re going to fit me up?’
It came out heated and cranky. It was getting late and he needed a scotch. Plus, he’d missed lunch. His shirt was sticking to him. Please god Joe wouldn’t decide to wander in before Rigby left. The only good thing was, she didn’t seem to know about Alain.
‘Fit you up, Henri? You’ve already done a pretty good job of fitting yourself up.’
* * * *
23
After ditching Danielle, Wyatt went shopping and returned to his apartment in the role of jogger: running shorts, singlet, Nike trainers. He didn’t think he’d been tailed, but the defensive measures were instinctive. Lydia was still unconscious.
Late afternoon, she stirred. Her eyes fluttered, opened, and registered pain, bewilderment and grogginess. Her hand went to her ear. Wyatt said, ‘You were shot.’
He saw her struggle to remember. He saw the knowledge dawn in her. She shut her eyes for some time.
When she opened them again, Wyatt said, ‘Who was the woman?’
The tiny responses of Lydia’s face and body said that she didn’t have a clue.
‘Did Eddie have a secret girlfriend?’
Lydia shrugged minutely.
‘Did you ever go to a place called Blue Poles with him?’
She was baffled. ‘What?’
Wyatt piled on the questions. ‘Did you know that he intended to rip me oil? Were you part of it?’
There was a whispered no.
He watched her neutrally. ‘I was also shot.’
Her gaze flickered across his face and body.
‘The vest.’
He continued to watch her, his eyes bright, alert and empty. ‘Tell me about the woman.’
‘I swear I—’
‘Is she Eddie’s sister? Cousin?Your sister or cousin or friend? The three of you intended to rip me off, except you didn’t know you’d be ripped off, too?’
‘No.’
‘Convince me.’
Tears were leaking from her eyes. He was watching for the lies and evasions. Struggling against the pain, she said, with minimal movements of her mouth, ‘Someone shot me. That’s all I know.’
She blinked and tried to sit up. Wyatt propped a pillow beneath her shoulders, another behind her head, but the effort was too much for her. ‘My head’s killing me,’ she said, and slid into unconsciousness again. Wyatt waited. When she stirred he gave her a painkiller and a glass of water. She gulped the water, screwed up her eyes and flopped back on the pillow. ‘Such a headache, you wouldn’t believe.’
Wyatt was unimpressed. ‘Do you know who Eddie’s friends are?’
‘Clearly not all of them,’ she murmured, a knot of bitterness in her voice.
‘I went to your house, thinking he might be there.’
Lydia was baffled. ‘Why would he be?’
‘The question I had to ask myself,’ said Wyatt, ‘was why wouldn’t he be.’
‘Eddie...’ She was distressed. ‘Look, the bastard sold me out.’
‘Then I went to his house. It’s empty, been sold.’
She frowned. ‘What?’
‘You didn’t know?’
She shook her head.
‘You know what Henri Furneaux’s store manager looks like?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she the woman who shot you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘She showed up at Eddie’s.’
Wyatt watched Lydia’s face. She closed her eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’
Wyatt pressed on. ‘And the Frenchman, Le Page, was there outside Eddie’s house. Know anything about that?’
Lydia groaned. ‘Why would I?’
‘I think he followed the store manager, but encountered some locals before he could kill us.’
His voice offered no comfort, so she said, desolately, ‘Is that what you’re going to do, kill me?’
Wyatt allowed himself a trace of irritation. If it was necessary to kill her, he would. But it wasn’t. Only fools let it be the solution to everything. Right now, killing Lydia would compound his problems. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Nothing ,’ she said hoarsely, straining again to lift from the pillow.
The motion, minute and exhausting, finished her. She fell asleep. Wyatt let her sleep. He walked to his window high above the streets and watched the lengthening shadows. Realising that he was hungry, he zapped a microwave dinner and ate it at the bare table, closed off from the world by walls and heavy glass. Lydia would have to stay here until he’d taken care of Eddie Oberin and the female shooter. Then it would be safe for her to be admitted to a discreet private hospital or nursed at home. She’d mend. Apart from a scar she could hide under her hair, she’d be herself again.
He listened to the news-radio station and to the chatter on his police scanner. Only a little about the torched Audi and none of it new. When Lydia surfaced again he helped her to sip water, even some soup. The spills he mopped from her breasts with a soft towel. She watched him helplessly as he dabbed. It was almost a lover’s touch. Lydia was dismayed to feel her body responding, even as she sensed his distance, distance of the worst kind, not respect for her condition but coming from a far place where he felt nothing at all
.
* * * *
24
Khandi was ticking over nicely. Pumped since the call to the jeweller, she couldn’t wait for the call-back. The only downer was Eddie. Khandi guessed he was thinking about his skinny fucking bony fucking slag of an ex-wife. She felt the need to point out some home truths and so, in the dim main room of the shack, amid the dust, cobwebs and old frying-pan grease, she gave Eddie a few slaps and kicks. ‘You think bitchface was just going to let you disappear? Doesn’t work like that.’
She rolled a joint, took a hit off it, passed it to Eddie. ‘Go on.’
Eddie took the joint from her fingers and stared at it absently. ‘It’s just, I thought we agreed...’
There was only so much treachery of the heart that Khandi could take. She said savagely, ‘The skinny cunt would of found out about you and me and gone to the cops, Eddie, jealous cow. She’d of given you up.’
‘I told you, there was nothing between us.’
Khandi took a ferocious hit off the joint. She didn’t know why, but she actually loved Eddie. But that could change, mate, she thought, factoring in the money. She glared at him. He still looked gloomy. Counting the good times? Guilt, regret, now that it was too fucking late?
Another thought popped into her head: maybe Eddie and bitchface had plans of their own. Khandi stewed on that for a while. What’s done is done, she thought, staring at Eddie. It was time the weak prick focused on her, not that scrawny, dried up, frigid, cuntfaced, pissflapping bitch of a professional virgin. Khandi, doing what she did best, reached over and fished around inside Eddie’s pants.
Afterwards, chasing the scum with a slug of tequila and another joint, she said, ‘Besides, you heard the news. Nothing. No dead bodies, no one knows where to find us and we have the gear. So chill out Eddie, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I want you focused: me, and the job at hand.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Eddie, grabbing the joint and focusing on that.
‘Time to see what Henri Furneaux has to say,’ Khandi said.
* * * *
Wednesday afternoon, 4.45.
Khandi destroyed the mobile phone. Her initial call to Furneaux had been too brief to monitor or triangulate, but the jeweller might have alerted the police or hired a security company in the meantime, so she and Eddie went looking for a public phone. Driving out of the hills, they headed west to Ringwood and its endless used-car yards. Inside the vast expanse of Car City was a public phone where she’d not be noticed or remembered, and where Eddie could keep watch in case the cops descended. If that happened, they’d fade into the crowd like some young couple down on their luck and looking to buy a cheap rustbucket.
The phone was bolted to the outside of a caf é , alongside a cluttered wall map of the complex. Furneaux answered and Khandi said, ‘Got our money ready?’
‘It’s not your money, it’s my money.’
‘Oh, hello, Mr Defiance. Well, have I got news for you,’ Khandi said, meanwhile wondering where the guy’s resistance had come from. ‘I just now posted you an envelope.’
‘What envelope?’
‘An envelope containing ashes, if you know what I mean.’
She hadn’t. It had only just occurred to her. Good idea, though. Burn one of the bonds—better still, scorch it. He wouldn’t be able to cash it and he’d know she meant business and wasn’t just sending him the ashes of that morning’s Herald Sun.
He was silent. ‘I haven’t got a million,’ he said. ‘I can’t get a million.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ Khandi said.
‘Where are you calling from? A public phone? I thought I heard a PA announcement just then.’
‘Stop stalling.’
‘Look, I can rustle up ten grand,’ Furneaux said.
‘You must be joking.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘It’s going to be cold tonight,’ Khandi said. She was in lycra tights, heels and a pink waisted jacket, genuine vinyl, over a singlet top. She looked good to the late afternoon tyre kickers wandering around Car City, being glared at by Eddie Oberin. She was a magnet. The gawkers kept doubling back, finding excuses to buy takeout coffee or read the wall map beside the public phone on which she was trying to get a lot of cash out of a crook.
‘Cold?’
‘Might have to light a fire to get warm,’ Khandi said. ‘You know, kindling, paper...’
‘Who the fuck are you anyway?’ demanded Furneaux.
Why wasn’t the guy grovelling? One of Khandi’s tsunamic rages swamped her. Her fingers tightened around the phone and with her other hand she traced the outline of her .32 Beretta through the leather of her shoulder bag. The only thing that saved her was the look on Eddie’s face: her sweet man—insanely jealous of the guys who were eye-fucking her—was making throat-cutting gestures with the flat of his hand, telling her to get off the phone. Khandi turned all of her rage and grief into a sweetly chilling voice. ‘I’d better go, Henri. Keep an eye on the mail.’
‘Wait.’
Khandi turned her perfect behind to the world and chirruped, “Bye now.’
‘Fifty,’ said Furneaux.
‘Pal, I can add. Bonds and treasury notes worth millions, and you’re offering me fifty grand?’
‘Sixty.’
‘Sounds like desperation to me,’ Khandi said. She glanced around uneasily. This was taking too long. Were they tracing the call?
‘I know where the stuff comes from,’ she went on. ‘A street robbery in London, correct?’
Furneaux was silent and that answered her question. Behind her Eddie was saying to some guy, ‘Eyes off, pal,’ and that was a balm to Khandi just then, after his doubts and sulks earlier. Being in love and staying in love were hard work. Meanwhile she still had a job to do. ‘But what I don’t know,’ she told Furneaux, ‘is how come you got your hands on some of the stolen paper.’
Silence.
‘You must be working for, or with, some pretty powerful people. International people.’
Silence.
‘I bet they don’t like stuffups, do they? And, boy, have you stuffed up, Henri.’
There was some conviction, not a lot, in Furneaux’s response. ‘The stuffup’s yours, not mine.’
‘What will these shadowy people say or do when they learn you let yourself get robbed?’
‘Hundred grand. That’s my final offer. That’s all I can raise.’
Khandi put her palm over the mouthpiece and turned to Eddie, who was standing close against her now, while the clouds slipped across the sinking sun and the plastic pennants snapped in the wind. ‘Hundred grand,’ she murmured.
‘Get one more raise,’ he said promptly, ‘then agree.’
Khandi returned sweetly to the phone and said, ‘Maybe instead of burning the bonds I could send them to the cops. You would of handled them, right, Henri? Your prints would be all over them? Are your prints on file, Henri?’
‘Hundred and twenty,’ said Furneaux with a little yelp of strangled emotions. ‘But I need time.’
‘You have all day tomorrow to raise the cash,’ Khandi said. ‘I’ll call you late morning with the details. Oh, and be a good boy—no cops or we destroy the gear.’
That’s when she saw a cop car come creeping in from Whitehorse Road and lift its snout as it prowled over the speed bumps. Khandi kissed Eddie, snuggled her waist against his thigh, hooked her hand into his back pocket, and walked him into the café, which was all glass. She watched the patrol car cruise once through the cramped grounds of Car City and out again and she relaxed and grabbed Eddie’s cock under the table.
* * * *
Le Page was loading the images from his digital camera onto Henri’s office computer. ‘It was the woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now that you have heard her a second time, did you recognise her voice?’
‘No.’
‘You’re c
ertain it was not Danielle.’
‘Positive,’ Furneaux said.
His control brittle after the day’s debacles, Le Page tried some slow breathing, tried telling himself things weren’t all bad. They’d lost the bonds, but now looked like getting them back. The Turkish widow had called his bluff—phoned her sons to come and turf him out—but he’d had the sense not to pull his gun or his knife. He’d lost the man with the clipboard, but had his photograph. And he’d learned who owned the house with the white door.
