‘No. And I don’t bloody have to. Anything else?’
‘Are you aware of any drug-related activities Ed may have been involved in?’
‘Oh, sure. He was the Pablo Escobar of Hobart. Imported tonnes of narcotics and picked them up in an armoured tank at the waterfront every Tuesday afternoon.’
‘No need to be sarcastic.’
‘The answer is no, DI Brandt. No drugs. No Dylan Wagner. No sex with geriatrics. Now please, leave me in peace and go and find Ed’s killer.’
The urge could not be quelled. Turrell flicked on his PC, checked emails – only spam – and logged on to Randies. The homepage started to load; pixels assembled into half images. Faces, torsos. His finger bent at the middle knuckle, clicked out. Would it register as a visit? Dumb question. Of course it would. But the chances of him being linked to Ed’s death were now infinitesimal. He was in charge of the IT report; Fitch was on a pointless wild goose chase around Instagram. Selina, bless her, had held strong like a guerrilla soldier. As he shut down the HP, he vowed to leave her a little something in his will.
Chapter 46
Hipsters gathered at the bar, debated which craft beer listed on the chalkboard was the tastiest. Mule’s Breath and Nuclear Fallout emerged as favourites in a field of local brews. Two heavily made-up women in billowing Marilyn Monroe dresses rested boots on foot rails. They chatted about boys they knew, throwing the word ‘like’ into their conversation at every opportunity. Bev ached inside – she wished she was one of them, not a lonely old woman waiting to meet up with a couple of heavies. She paid for her Chardonnay and retreated to a relatively quiet spot at the end of the room.
Bev observed the blur of human interactions from a table abutting the back wall. One never knew when a hasty exit would be required. This slick venue, a converted servo, attracted a mixed clientele. A well-heeled mover-and-shaker like Bev Cooke could hang out with long-haired tattooed thugs without raising eyebrows.
By the time Kyle Dunn and Jerome Kemp arrived, the number of patrons had swollen. Punters now stood almost shoulder to shoulder, their shouted words rebounded off myriad hard surfaces. Through the forest of bodies, Bev saw it was even more crowded in the bar on the other side of Elizabeth Street. The thought of spending even a few minutes in a sweaty claustrophobic environment like that made her shudder. This cramped space was bad enough.
‘What have you got for us, Ms Cooke?’ asked Jerome.
To her surprise, the men wore crisp white shirts and navy suits. Not tailored, but decent off-the-rack fits. She’d expected jeans and leather jackets. Black shoes were scuffed. If not for their wild hair and facial graffiti, they could pass for cops.
‘Sorry, I didn’t get you anything to drink.’ Bev leaned in. The loud background noise made conversing difficult.
Jerome tilted his head back and laughed. ‘Nah, I meant what kind of job do you want us to do?’
‘Perhaps you boys would like a drink before we discuss business.’ Bev held out a $100 note.
Jerome shook his head. ‘Put your money away. Our shout. Kyle, grab us a couple of beers and something for the lovely lady. What are you having, Ms Cooke?’
‘For heaven’s sake, call me Bev. And nothing. This one’s enough for me. I’m driving.’
Kyle returned with two stubbies, set one down a little too casually, straddling a wad of coasters. The bottle wobbled and clanked against Bev’s wineglass. Jerome leapt to his feet and slapped Kyle across the face. ‘Dickhead. This is a fucken classy lady. Be careful.’
‘Sorry.’ Kyle rubbed a jagged runic symbol on his cheek.
Bev shook her head. What’d she been thinking engaging these morons? But since she’d gone to the trouble of arranging the tryst, she might as well see it through.
‘My information is that you boys are up for, how shall I put it, unsavoury types of work.’
‘As long as the money’s right,’ said the big one, grinning like a shot fox. Bev already knew he was Kyle and the smaller man Jerome. She and Ed had discussed using them to top Nugget before Dylan Wagner emerged as a more convenient option. But Wagner, the damned traitor, had gone rogue. Killed the wrong person. Now it was time for him to pay.
‘Money, as they say, is no object. Name your price.’
‘But you haven’t told us what the job is yet,’ said Jerome.
A quick shoofty left and right. ‘I need you to take care of someone. Some ones, in fact.’
‘Huh?’ said Kyle, struggling to hear in the noisy bar room. Maybe he’d held his head next to shotguns too many times.
‘Oh dear, do I need to spell it out?’
‘No, no, course ya don’t.’ Jerome winked at Bev, then Kyle. ‘Understood. Fact we had a bit of practice yesterday. Piece of vermin was cheatin’ on the horse racing. Fixing his nags up wiv some kinda new drug. Had to send a message that cheats ain’t tol’rated here in Tassie. Level playing field, ‘n that.’
She knew what Jerome was alluding to. The story was all over the news, although as with Ed’s murder, the cops hadn’t been forthcoming with the nitty-gritty. Two murders equalled a crime spree in this town. With two more hits on the program, Hobart would soon be known as Homicide Central.
So, Nugget must have been supplying Taspep to more than just that horse, Jigsaw. And without telling her. Resolve to do him in stiffened. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘What?’ said Kyle.
‘One of the men I want you to pay a visit to is the one who supplied the drug you mentioned.’
The big man slapped his thigh. ‘Waddaya know! And who’s the other one?’
Bev unfolded a piece of A4. It was the copy of an image captured by her internal cameras the night Gary came to her home. She tapped the paper. ‘This young man.’
Jerome softly whistled through his teeth. ‘Oh, man. As the saying goes, Hobart’s a small place.’
‘Indeed,’ said Bev. ‘So, how much?’
She plucked a photo album from a shelf, methodically thumbed the pages. Absorbed each image, moved to the next one. A life of material acquisition in pictures. Group shots with other bigwigs, politicians, vacuous celebrities. Standing at daises holding awards, winning prizes, humbly accepting accolades. Nothing soothed a bad mood like a bit of reflection. She puffed on her vape, savouring the berry flavour, closed the book.
The epiphany arrived suddenly. No light-bulb moment, no booming voice in her head. It was just there.
She turned off the downstairs lights and headed for bed. She knew what she had to do.
The affair with Ed had been predestined to end in disaster.
Would revenge bring Ed back from the dead? Would killing Wagner and Nugget make her happier? Would embarking on a new and risky drug manufacturing exercise be more fulfilling than the achievements already under her belt?
No, no and no again.
The most important thing was to stop the bloodshed.
Tomorrow, she’d call Detective Brandt, tell him she suspected a man called Dylan Wagner of killing Ed Hurst.
It was Wagner who lured Ed into the forest on some unknown pretence, murdered him in cold blood, she’d confess to the police. Yes, I was involved in the manufacture of Taspep. Wagner was the go-between with me and Nugget. We planned to sell it around the world.
She’d not get into trouble for that, since it was only a plan. If there was history between Ed and Wagner, some deeper motivation, I was ignorant of it, she’d say. But Wagner is the killer, I have no doubt.
That would be enough for Brandt to start sniffing around. He’s a smart man. A visit to Nugget’s property will uncover the manufacturing base. The police will put two and two together and, bingo, Wagner goes to prison.
Did she have proof? No.
Wait a minute… It might still be in the house.
She checked in all her dressing table drawers, the wardrobe. Damn. Not there. One last place it could be. And there it was, sitting obediently in the drawer of Ed’s bedside table. She pulled a tissue from its box, wrapped it around
the little bottle. The tiny vial of Taspep Wagner had delivered. Gotcha, sunshine. Your fingerprints. It was a cold night when he visited, but she was sure he’d removed his gloves.
One last thing before sleep. Contact the Kiwi Neanderthals and call off the hits.
Bring, bring. Bring, bring.
No answer. And no voice mail option – not that she’d leave a message. She wasn’t an idiot.
11:15pm. No answer.
Five more attempts in quick succession, no answer.
Come on!
Sixth attempt. ‘Hello?’
Thank God.
Chapter 47
Light glinted off the surface of the water in the protected little bay, flat as a mirror. Not a puff of wind, the warm sunshine kissed his face with the affection of a doting girlfriend. If every day at the oyster farm was like this, Gary would enjoy his work. Perhaps enjoy was too strong a word. But in these mild conditions, he might tolerate the hard labour without cursing the bivalve bastards and the entire industry built upon them.
‘Hey, Jordie. What’s the time?’
His mate, knee-deep in the water five metres away, glanced at a brand new water-proof watch.
‘Nearly smoko. Eight more minutes.’ Jordie had heeded Gary’s hot tip to back rank outsiders Melbourne to win the AFL flag, even before the Demons secured their place in the finals. The loudmouth bookie at the Shearer’s Arms offered juicy odds of 80 to 1 with three rounds of the home-and-away season still to play. Reckoned the Dees were no chance in hell. Chokers.
Jordie ignored that negative talk, gambled $100 on the Demons not only to get a ticket to the big dance, but to win first prize. The two of them cleaned up: Gary collected nearly $20,000, Jordie $8,000. The afterparty was huge, even Shifty downed a couple of beers.
The dual inconvenience of having so much cash lying about and turning up to a day job sucked, but Gary knew Tracey was right to insist on maintaining the routine, keeping their unexplainable wealth under wraps. The investigation into Ed’s murder was ongoing and relentless. Since the cops had publicly floated the possibility Hurst had been murdered, speculation was running rife; everyone had a theory. Rumours about Beverley Cooke were all over the Internet. The mystery was the number one topic of conversation in the pub, relegating footy to second place.
Two days after the first raid on his house, Brandt and Turrell turned up again. Sirens blaring and tyres spinning. They bundled Gary into the car, hauled him off to the station for questioning. Said they had compelling new evidence and if he didn’t come voluntarily, they’d have no hesitation in charging and arresting him. Tracey went along for the ride to make sure he said nothing to incriminate himself.
Since that day, the interview at police HQ kept replaying in his mind.
‘Can you explain why your fingerprints are all over this?’ Brandt held the medicine bottle inches from Gary’s eyes. The cop wiggled it about like he was flogging vitamins in a TV commercial.
‘They–’
‘Say nothing.’ Peter Grieves QC rested a steadying hand on Gary’s shaking fingers. ‘I know these two. Their evidence is weak, they’ll try to trick you.’
‘Weak?’ Brandt’s face flushed. ‘We’ve got what amounts to a smoking gun. It would be in your client’s best interests to answer our questions honestly.’
‘The–’
‘Shush, Dylan,’ Grieves snapped. ‘You’re under no obligation to say anything. I put it to you, officers, that you’re bluffing. There are no records of my client’s prints because he’s never been charged with anything.’
Brandt frowned briefly, ploughed on as if Grieves had said nothing. ‘So,’ Brandt said and flicked open a notebook. ‘What is your association with Beverley Cooke and Bruce Buckpitt?’ He licked the tip of a pencil. A small black machine was already recording proceedings.
Gary responded with pursed lips and a sharply expelled breath. He conquered the overwhelming urge to speak. Thankfully, Grieves’s presence put an effective brake on recklessness.
‘Not answering our questions won’t look good for you when the matter goes before the courts, Dylan. Your counsel is doing you a disservice. You’ve got a great opportunity to clear yourself, why don’t you take it?’
‘He won’t take it because he’s entirely innocent. Mr Wagner knows nothing that could be of any conceivable use to your bumbling enquiries. We’ve already established the bottle you’re holding contained a home-made experimental drug the deceased was trialling on himself. No crime committed.’
‘Yet your client previously told us he only knew the victim through a chance meeting at a bar. That’s been proven to be an outright lie. Beverley Cooke kindly supplied us with security camera images of Dylan handing over the bottle…TO ED HURST!’
Grieves coughed into his hand. ‘Detective Inspector Brandt, with all due respect, you’re clutching at straws. This proves nothing. Except your predisposition to employ histrionic methods.’
‘It proves a lot. Like how the suspect and the deceased were involved in a scheme to produce a drug. How, together with Bev Cooke and a certain Bruce Buckpitt, they planned to sell that drug in Australia and around the world. It’s not been approved by government agencies and contains banned chemicals. Buckpitt, the guy who concocted this poison – Taspep he calls it – is suspected of supplying it to a horse trainer who turned up dead in his own stable. Riddled with bullets. We’ve already got two shitbags in our sights for that murder, too. Know who they are?’
‘No idea.’ Grieves’s expression was as lifeless as a Madam Tussaud’s exhibit.
‘Your two favourite clients, Dunn and Kemp.’
DI Turrell smiled broadly, the first time Gary noticed a reaction from the second cop.
Grieves huffed. ‘May I remind you that you’ve got no evidence to find Mr Dunn and Mr Kemp guilty of any charges.’ He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair. ‘Just because the Kiwis keep beating Australia at rugby, that’s no reason to take it out on my clients.’
‘Let’s turn our attention back to the evidence relating to this case, shall we?’ Grieves’s attempt at humour fell flat with Turrell.
‘Okay. What have you really got, detectives?’ Grieves rose to his feet, paced. ‘The connection may be true, but it’s meaningless. If there was some kind of mini cartel, as you seem to be suggesting, then the perpetrator is more likely someone at the top of the ladder. Not some lowly errand boy.’ Gary didn’t know whether to feel elated Grieves was postulating plausible alternatives, or annoyed at the insulting term. ‘What does Mr Wagner have to gain by murdering a man he barely knows?’ Grieves paused, resumed his seat. ‘It’s not him who was in a sexual relationship with—’
‘Alleged,’ interrupted Brandt. ‘The person you are talking about denies such a relationship.’
‘Whatever, detective. But a jury will believe she was if it becomes germane to the case. Her public persona isn’t a positive one, to say the least. And then there’s the farmer who invented the drug. If the killer doesn’t turn out to be one of those two, I’ll eat my barrister’s wig.’
Brandt and Turrell exchanged a look of defeat.
‘Come on, Dylan,’ said Grieves. ‘Let me organise a cab for you and Tracey. Tasmania Police are footing the bill.’
Retaining Grieves was the best piece of advice Harrison Devlin had ever given him, Gary reflected. Whenever the shit hit the fan, the devil came good. Grieves was a master defender the cops were unable to combat.
‘It’s smoko time.’ Jordie displayed the watch proudly. ‘See?’
‘I reckon you haven’t had that thing off your wrist since you bought it.’
‘Ha ha, yep.’
‘Can’t blame you. Nice to have some luxuries, isn’t it?’
‘Too right. I’m getting me ute overhauled on the weekend. New shockies and exhaust. There’ll be leftover money for Christmas pressies, too. ‘Bout time I spoiled me mum and dad.’
The two men sat on upturned plastic crates inside a galvanised tin shed. They smoke
d in silence. Ninety percent of the staff were blue-collar stock for whom smoking was a part of life. Gary and Jordie were no exceptions, and they puffed greedily to extract maximum effect from the nicotine before they ate.
Gary’s stomach rumbled. He extinguished the cigarette under a boot, opened his lunchbox and smiled. His mouth watered: Thai chicken curry with coconut rice. He looked at Jordie. ‘What have you got, mate?’
‘Me favourite.’ Jordie pulled a brown paper bag out of a small blue Eski. ‘Peanut butter and banana sandwiches.’
‘I’m done with that kind of lunch. Only proper meals from now on.’
Jordie scratched his stomach. ‘Yours does smell pretty good.’
‘Tracey’s gone mad for all the fancy appliances in the new flat. Getting all experimental in the kitchen. No more boring sandwiches.’ Gary placed the Tupperware container in a microwave and nuked it for 99 seconds.
Ding.
‘Smells even better now’, said Jordie with a trace of envy.
Gary examined the contents of the lunchbox. It was full to the brim, enough to offer some to his little mate. But he never got around to voicing the offer. In fact, he never said another word to Jordie ever again.
Two men in black suits suddenly appeared at the shed door. Tucked behind them, the shift supervisor, pointed an index finger directly at Gary.
‘That’s him.’
The man on the right stuck a hand behind his back, produced a pair of shiny silver handcuffs. Gary instantly recognised the second man. A horrible individual he hadn’t seen since fleeing the Gold Coast. The rat’s smirking face sent a shiver down Gary’s spine. Beads of cold sweat trickled along the ridges of his eyebrows.
A quick analysis of the situation. Could he make a run for it? No way, the cops filled the doorframe, barely admitting light. The windows were too high to leap through in a last gasp bid for freedom. Plus the Feds would be armed. Fuck it!
‘My name is Detective Gareth Richardson, Australian Federal Police. You already know my colleague, Detective Zaffaroni, I believe. Gary Braswell, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Federal police officer Simon Barnett and Russian national, Ivan Romashkin.’
Sold to the Devil Page 26
