‘Magnum.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘Sorry, I mean Turrell. Josh Turrell.’
‘He was the hero cop, all right. You sure can pick ‘em.’
‘One more thing.’
‘Bloody hell. Does it ever end? What?’
‘I can’t rule out the possibility Turrell’s got something to do with Ed’s disappearance. The last time the three of us hooked up, Ed got mad ‘cos I went a bit gooey over the guy. Ed gave Turrell the big hint he wasn’t wanted anymore. Maybe Turrell felt rejected and took it out on Ed. Killed him.’
‘Surely a big tough cop like Turrell wouldn’t go psycho over being jilted. He’d dive right back into the pool. I could be wrong, but it’s far more likely Dylan’s involved if anything bad has happened. Which it probably hasn’t.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘You know I am. Now, let’s get this place cleaned.’
Chapter 34
Beverley Cooke sat at her kitchen table, thinking hard. Minutes before midnight, she tipped the remnants of melted ice cubes into the sink. She pushed the plastic lever on her fridge and chunks of ice clinked into the crystal whiskey glass. She poured a generous three fingers’ worth of 25-year-old Glenlivet.
The last communication with Ed was a frantic 30-second phone call. He was agitated, excited, nervous. But what to say if the police came a-knocking? Ed was calm and relaxed. Nothing suspicious about his behaviour, officer. Everything was perfectly normal.
Good thing she insisted on calls between us rather than texts. Beverley would tell the cops she and Ed talked about mundane things. The cops couldn’t claim otherwise – unless the calls were being recorded. No, this was sleepy Hobart, not Washington or Moscow.
She puffed at her e-cigarette, glanced at the clock. Close to bed time. She should be getting ready for nigh-nighs. Things were taking a worrying direction. When the police do ask about the phone calls, I won’t panic.
We spoke about a meeting he had to attend, officer. With a supplier for his catering company.
If the cops grill me about our relationship, I’ll be circumspect. Ed’s my personal trainer. Sometimes he seeks my advice on certain matters. Everyone knows about my high standing in the Tasmanian business community. Yep, certain to satisfy any police investigation.
But what if some hard-nosed cop sniffed out a stinky rodent in the story? They might dig deeper, find a reason to search the house. There were lots of phone conversations between you two, they might say. An unusual amount between a woman of your advanced years and a fit, attractive man moonlighting as a personal trainer.
Stuff ‘em. Let them be suspicious. They’ll find nothing, because there’s nothing to find. Just one small bottle of Taspep and it’ll be long gone before the cops make a start. But that’s it. Bedsheets washed. Maybe dispose of them out and get new ones. Nothing more to clean up.
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling a tragedy had befallen her beloved sexy man. The content of that blitz conversation verbatim was burned into her brain.
‘Beverley, he’s done it.’
‘Who’s done what?’
‘Dylan Wagner’s killed Nugget. He’s going to show me the body.’
‘Fantastic. Where are you?’
‘On my way to his place. Wattle Hill.’
‘Have you–’
‘I can see Dylan up ahead. I’ll call you back when the kill’s confirmed.’
The last words she heard from Ed. In her heart, she sensed the arse had fallen out of the plan. Somehow, that bastard Nugget must have got wind of his impending demise and organised a pre-emptive strike. Only explanation.
A few hours passed and still no word from Ed. She called Nugget’s number. 12:03am. Damn that fat farmer. Seven rings before voicemail kicked in. Not surprising – the guy was either dead or asleep. She hung up, left no message.
The return call came back in less than a minute.
‘Beverley. What the hell’s so important for you to ring me at this ungodly hour?’
‘Hello? Derrick?’
‘What? No, it’s me. Bruce.’
‘Oh, sorry Nugget. Must’ve misdialled. I was after my cousin in Western Australia.’
‘Thank God. I thought there was some emergency at your end. Everything okay?’
‘Yes. Sorry to disturb you. Good night.’
So, Nugget’s still alive. That means Ed’s probably dead. She topped up her scotch, drained half the glass. Bloody Dylan Wagner the killer, Nugget the organiser. Jesus suffering fuck, as her grumpy Glaswegian grandfather used to say.
When half the bottle of scotch had flowed through Beverley’s system and entered her brain, what to do next became as clear as the view from Mount Wellington on a cloudless day.
Wait.
Chapter 35
Gary waved his gleaming knife and fork like an orchestra conductor and regaled his dining companions with tales: true, exaggerated, and invented. Tracey grinned as he lurched off on another tangent.
‘Then there was that time I found a stash of home-made porn videos at a house I was selling on the Gold Coast. Unbelievable!’
‘Shit,’ said Jordie, eyes agog. ‘What was on it?’
‘Stuff you wouldn’t even dream of, mate.’
‘Like what?’
‘Yuman beans having sex with each other!’
Tracey howled with glee, Shifty spat out a half a mouthful of water. Jordie frowned for an instant, before succumbing to the infectious laughter. The yarns were mostly familiar to Tracey, but a fresh captive audience was oxygen to Gary. Some of the patrons at Hobart’s premier fine-dining restaurant stared daggers when the guffaws boomed through the room. The head waiter cast a look of disapproval over the eclectic gathering but said nothing, because this little party was spending up big. The leader of the group ordered $200-a-bottle champagne; so far they’d quaffed three of those. With dessert still to come, the bill already exceeded a thousand dollars.
The maître d’hôtel told his minions to indulge the guests despite their behaviour approaching a standard that would see cheapskates tossed to the pavement. Besides which, Gary gave zero fucks about what anyone thought. This was a night to celebrate a turnaround in fortunes.
Even Shifty got an invite to dinner. Who could ignore the efforts of Hobart’s number-one safe cracker? Yesterday, Jordie’s friend became Gary’s friend. His new best friend. Because yesterday Shifty opened a big metal box containing a tick under $150,000. Watching an artist like Shifty at work was a privilege. The so-called Mini Fortress proved no match for the ingenuity of the veteran petty crim.
And so, to mark the return of Gary Braswell aka Dylan Wagner, he decided to treat his cohorts to a night of bacchanalian, no-holds-barred revelry. Dammit, they all deserved a reward. The world had conspired to bring them down, but they’d overcome the odds. Defeated the powers of darkness.
‘So, Jordie,’ said Gary after the laughter subsided. ‘What do you make of the Pickled Thylacine?’
‘Unreal. Never been to a …’ chomp chomp ‘… place as fancy as …’ chew chew ‘… this before.’
‘And you won’t again until you learn not to talk with food in your mouth, you little grot.’
‘Then why did ya arks me the question when I was eatin’?’
‘You got me there,’ said Gary with a wink. Don’t be too hard on the little fella tonight. Make him feel special. ‘I’ve got to say, you look rather handsome in the clothes I got you.’ He pointed at Jordie’s navy-blue Burberry jacket. He’d bought an outfit for Shifty too, because neither of his henchmen had anything even approaching acceptable for Hobart’s premier waterfront restaurant. In reality, the pair looked as out of place as clowns at a funeral, but after a couple of beers they loosened up nicely. And loosened their ties.
‘Thanks, Dylan. I feel weird in this penguin suit, but.’
‘Worth it for the food, though, hey?’
Jordie dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. ‘Fucken oath.’
Gary marvelled at the fare on his plate. Truffle-infused butter smeared over a perfectly cooked Cape Grim prime eye fillet was a novel idea. Novel to Gary, anyway. The waiter suggested it. Turned a delicious piece of meat, aged for over a month and costing $80, into a heavenly repast. Every mouthful was a joy to savour. It was so long since Gary had eaten anything this good, he’d nearly forgotten what a proper meal was. The decanted Shiraz on the table was the most expensive on the wine list. Since wine was far too posh for Jordie and Shifty, they contented themselves with Japanese beer. Tracey sipped a local Chardonnay with a bunch of embossed medals on the bottle.
The rest of the gang were enjoying their food as much as he was. Tracey tucked into lobster thermidor, Jordie munched on wallaby fillets he swore were vastly superior to those he cooked on the bush barbie, while Shifty stuck with prosaic fish ‘n chips, albeit at a poetic cost of $75.
‘Gotta thank you for organising, Dylan,’ said Shifty during a rare pause in one of Gary’s anecdotes. ‘I’m like Jordie. Never been to a place as posh as this before.’
‘Stick with me, son, and you’ll be dining like this more often.’
‘Could get used to it, I reckon,’ said the burglar, stabbing a fork into a crispy-on-the-outside-fluffy-on-the-inside chip.
‘Me too,’ said Tracey. She’d purchased a little black dress with sequins for the occasion, matched with a Prada clutch bag and Chloe Gosselin pumps. Overnight, she evolved from punk bar attendant to glamour girl. She’d make the perfect gangster’s moll, with Gary as Michael Corleone. ‘Might even put on weight.’
Gary nodded. More fat on her body would transform Tracey into a curvy babe. Another ten kilos should do the trick. With her junkie’s metabolism and habits, though, that could take years. Never mind, he’d keep her at home on a zero-exercise regime to accelerate the process.
‘Could you get used to driving a fancy car?’ Gary gave Shifty a sly wink. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go collect it for you. Some moron left it abandoned by the side of the road in the middle of a forest.’ Another wink, this time at Jordie. ‘And I have the keys.’
‘Reckon I’ll have to rebirth it.’ Shifty put down his fork and chewed thoughtfully. ‘But yeah, sounds fucken ace.’
‘Don’t worry, little mate,’ said Gary, detecting a hurt look on Jordie’s face. Can’t favour this newcomer over a longstanding ally. ‘I only offered it to Shifty ‘cos of his garage. He can keep it there while he’s working on it. I’ll look after you, too.’
‘I know you will, Dylan.’
Dessert proved too much for everyone except Jordie. The tubby trojan demolished his chocolate pudding with kiwifruit ice cream in about the same time it took Shifty to crack the safe. Jordie then put away what was left on his companions’ plates.
The drinking and merry-making continued unabated, with occasional cigarette and toilet breaks. Emboldened by alcohol, Shifty embarked on a story of his own.
‘Couple of years ago the greenies were having this big protest rally on the lawns of Parliament House. I went along with some of me mates for a laugh.’
‘Oh, this is a good story,’ said Jordie. ‘Gets me every time.’
‘What happened?’ said Tracey.
‘I got caught in a huge crush, pushed me right to the front of the crowd. And who do I find myself rubbing shoulders with?’
‘Who?’ said Tracey.
‘None other than the Premier of Tasmania.’
‘Really?’ said Gary. ‘I met the British Prime Minister once. Did I tell you–’
‘Anyway,’ Shifty barrelled over the top of Gary’s interruption. ‘I reached into his back pocket and lifted the guy’s wallet.’
‘What did ya find in it?’ snickered Jordie.
‘The usual. Cash. Credit cards. Oh, and a couple of textured condoms labelled “snug fit”.’
Jordie threw his head back and roared with laughter, rubbed tears from his cheeks. ‘I know what snug means. Little dick.’
Tracey chuckled and shook her head.
Gary gave a begrudging smile. ‘Yeah, great story. Now,’ he banged his fist on the table, rattling the glasses, ‘who’s for shots?’
Eventually, all the other customers were gone. A row of lights switched off behind the servery area. A fidgety waitress approached Gary, bent low and whispered, ‘Sir, it’s 11:30pm. If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to clear up and close.’
‘Would you now?’ Gary stood, wobbled for an instant, grabbed the edge of the table. ‘We haven’t finished yet, so you can f-f-fuck off.’
‘Hey.’ Tracey tugged his sleeve so hard a cufflink popped off and clanked onto a bread plate. ‘What the hell? She doesn’t deserve that.’
‘Bullshit. We’re spending half the state’s fucken budget tonight. We stay until I decide it’s time to go. Not,’ he said, pointing at the ashen-faced woman, ‘her.’
‘C’mon, mate, ease up.’ Jordie folded his napkin and stood. ‘Let’s head down to Salamanca. There’s an awesome band playing at Irish Murphy’s.’
‘Hey. Since when did you make the decisions around here, fat guts? If it wasn’t for me,’ said Gary and thumped a fist into his chest, ‘none a youse would ever enjoy a meal like this. You got it? Bunch of losers with no hope of achieving anything beyond your miserable little lives.’
He should’ve stopped the tirade against his only friends in the world, at least Tasmania, but he couldn’t. ‘I’ve had enough of all your negativity, laziness, lack of ambition. Look at you, Jordie.’ He sneered, his nose a twisted knot. ‘I offer a grand to do a job that’s piss easy, doing one of the few things you’re fucken good at, and you run away crying.’
‘But–’
‘Shut up when I’m speaking. Now, quiet everyone, I’ve got something important to say…’ At that moment his stomach decided to rebel. Maybe it was the rich food consumed throughout the evening. More likely the combination of champagne, Shiraz and shots was the catalyst. Half a litre of vomit erupted from the pit of Gary’s gut and spread in a two metre arc over the dining table.
‘Whoa!’ Tracey ducked her head under the table to avoid the vile spray.
‘Holy shit! Shifty swayed back in his seat like a boxer dodging a right cross.
‘Dylan, are you all right?’ Jordie leapt to his feet and scampered around the table, put a hand on his sick mate’s shoulder.
Gary rocked back and forth, felt his eyes cross. A shimmering mirage appeared. Was it Maddie? Or Foss? He squinted, tried to make it out.
A smashed-in face resembling the remains of a pizza dropped from a skyscraper. It was Ed! Harrison Devlin sat on Ed’s shoulder. The good, non-bleeding one. Ed crooked a finger, beckoned. Gary sized the man up, but didn’t budge. The Arsehole was drooling, edging forward. Ed was naked. His erection forming in slow motion, like a massive protea blooming in a time-lapse video, getting closer. Gary wanted to scream, but nothing came out.
Then…blackness.
Nimble hands undid his top shirt button. He looked up. Tracey’s angular elfin features stared at him.
‘You okay?’ she asked and stroked his clammy forehead.
‘Where am I? I was having a nightmare.’
‘In a hotel. You’re safe. Relax.’
‘Not the Happy Traveller, I hope.’
‘No, babe.’ Her lips parted; a smile crinkled the edges of her eyes. ‘A better one. We managed to get you here in a taxi. The driver wasn’t keen to take you, but it’s amazing what a wad of cash can get you.’
Gary lifted his head, took in his surroundings. He remembered. They’d booked the presidential suite from themselves, the next-best rooms for the boys across the corridor. One of the old sandstone classics overlooking Constitution Dock. The most expensive hotel in the city at $800 a night for a basic room in the off-season.
‘What time is it?’
‘After midnight.’
He was lying on a plush couch; shoes, socks and trousers spread across the floor. ‘C’mon,’ said Tracey. ‘Let’s get you i
nto that gorgeous king-size bed.’
The elegant four-poster looked inviting. But no, the night wasn’t over. He’d merely had a little “episode”, as Maddie used to say. A cool band was playing at Salamanca.
‘Fuck that. I wanna see the band Jordie was talking about.’
‘Forget about it. You lost your rag back at the restaurant. Brought all kinds of attention on yourself. That’s exactly what you shouldn’t be doing right now. Ed’s body’s not even cold. They probably haven’t even found him yet. And when they do…all hell’s gonna break loose.’
‘I told you not to worry about that. It’s being taken care of.’ Gary pulled a sock back on. ‘Plus, the restaurant was empty.’
‘I’d like to slap you sometimes. The customers might have left, but the waiters were still there. And the chef, kitchen hands, the owner. Causing a scene for no reason is stupid.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ Second sock on. ‘It was dumb. I’m blaming the shots. Bad idea. But hey, all good now.’ Both shoes on. ‘Grab your coat, let’s go.’
‘Not going.’
‘C’mon. Enjoy the moment. Listen. After tonight’s fling I promise to rein it in. What’s the big deal about blowing a couple of grand? You do realise how much is still left, don’t you?’
‘Not going.’
‘Fucks sake, you are a stubborn one. We could…’
‘Don’t “fucks sake” me. You’re the one who spewed up in a fancy restaurant then passed out. The first rule of holes is to stop digging when you’re in over your head.’
‘Sorry, I… ooh, I like that one. Where’d you get it?’
‘My dad. He was a gravedigger.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No, you idiot. I’m joking. But I’m not joking about not wanting to go out again tonight. Please, babe. Get into bed.’ Tracey unsnapped her bra, waved it around her head. Some sensuous R&B played softly on the radio as she gyrated like a pole dancer late with the rent. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘Dammit, woman. I can’t argue with that.’ What a pity to miss the band. But Tracey, as usual, was right. They’d had a fabulous knees-up, why spoil it now?
Sold to the Devil Page 20
