Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  ‘You’ve got the wrong guy!’ Gary screamed. ‘It’s all a big mistake!’

  They’d finally tracked him down. But how? Ironic, though. Arrested for killing two men when he was innocent, yet they couldn’t pin the Arsehole’s murder on him. He would have laughed if he wasn’t terrified. There was a glimmer of hope. Grieves. A high-profile case defending Australia’s most wanted man would appeal to the fop’s vanity. A chance to make a huge name for himself. The eyes of the nation on him. Yes. Grieves would take the case.

  ‘I think not,’ said Zaffaroni. ‘I never forget the face of a liar. Even one that’s undergone plastic surgery. Shit job, by the way.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ The gig might be up, as they say in the classics, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. Even if it was just verbal one. ‘I’m friends with the best lawyer in Tasmania. Australia, probably. You’ll lose your job for this, dickhead.’ Despite the instinctive bravado, Gary’s heart rate careened to hummingbird levels.

  Gary turned his head to gauge his mate’s reaction to the big reveal. Jordie quaked, tears flooded his eyes, ran down his cheeks. ‘Wha-wha-what’s going on?’

  There were no words. Just a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders. He hoped it conveyed what he wanted to say. Sorry, mate.

  The first cop clamped a strong hand on Gary’s shoulder, another around a wrist. Then he pulled Gary’s hands together, snapped the cuffs shut.

  ‘Wrongful arrest!’ Gary protested one last time. More for Jordie’s sake than anything.

  ‘Don’t worry, son. You’ll have your day in court. You’re to be extradited to Sydney immediately to officially face charges of double homicide.’

  ‘Leave Dylan alone!’ Jordie stamped his feet like a toddler. ‘He’s me mate. Youse dunno what youse are doing!’

  ‘What about reading me my rights first?’ Gary looked at Zaffaroni. He gritted his teeth, tried to look defiant, but his voice shook.

  A reptilian grin played around the Fed’s lips.

  ‘What about get fucked?’

  ‘Josh, you’re not going to believe this.’

  ‘What?’ Turrell blinked. Dropped the mobile in his lap, retrieved it. He’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. Mentally knackered from investigating grisly murders and trying to hide his intimate connection to one of the victims. Although he frequently swore off shows like MasterChef, he couldn’t help himself. Once again he’d succumbed and tuned into the cooking show. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Only 9:00pm. Not asleep were you?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Anyway, what am I not going to believe?’

  ‘Listen up…’

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ said Turrell

  ‘No, it’s true. The man’s been pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes since he arrived in Tasmania. In the end, it was the reward money that got him. A million bucks. Someone anonymous. I’ve pumped a mate in the Feds, but he won’t divulge any names. Told me the how, but not the who.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Turned out to be quite simple, really. The Feds collected strands of Braswell’s hair from the doss house in Kings Cross where he killed Bennett, and from his house on the Gold Coast. But there wasn’t much they could do with it. Until someone down here’s grabbed a sample of something on suspicion and sent it off for comparison. And hit the fucken jackpot.’

  ‘Pity we never grabbed any samples. Might’ve shared in the spoils ourselves.’ Turrell had a momentary vision of sailing a yacht through crystal-clear waters, sipping champagne.

  ‘We weren’t looking in the right direction. Anyway, I’m not sure we’d have been eligible.’ said Brandt. ‘It’s also a damn shame the prints on that vial were smudged. We’d have had the bastard, if not for our murder, then for the other two. Fuck, the bloke’s bumped off three people. Hard to credit, hey?’

  ‘Sure is. What about the Ed Hurst case?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the other matter takes precedence. Evidence is overwhelming against Braswell, plus it’s federal jurisdiction. Even his girlfriend’s gonna testify against him.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Apparently, when they interviewed Braswell he tried to finger Southern for killing the Fed in Kings Cross. What a bastard, hey?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, with Braswell accusing her, naturally she’s gonna drop him in the shit.’

  Turrell heard the sound of Brandt unscrewing a metal cap. Then the glug-glug-glug of an alcoholic liquid finding a temporary home in a glass. A swallow. ‘So, we’re left with Wagner aka Braswell as our number one suspect for the Hurst murder,’ said Turrell.

  ‘Indeed. But what can we do?’

  ‘Are you that simple, Josh?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Turrell laughed. ‘I’m still half asleep.’

  ‘I’ve already set the wheels in motion.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Called Southern. She was very cooperative. Said flat out that Braswell lured Ed Hurst into the woods and shot him. Chopped him up with an axe and left the body for wild animals to clean up.’

  ‘Where’s the gun and axe then?’

  ‘Says he chucked them into the Derwent but he was never specific about location. We can trawl the reaches around the Tasman and Bowen bridges, but he could have done it anywhere.’

  ‘What about Rixon and Fukakarkas?’

  ‘She reckons Braswell acted alone.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Turrell muted the volume when one of the loopy TV show contestants started screaming at another. ‘I’m calling bullshit on that one.’

  ‘Me too. She’s shielding them. Probably played a part herself. But you know what? I don’t care. As long as we get him, I’m happy.’

  ‘Next steps?’

  ‘Like I said. We wait till the federal case is concluded, then we get her to testify against Braswell for Hurst’s murder.’

  ‘Sounds logical.’

  ‘Even if completely pointless. He’ll serve zero time for offing Hurst. When Braswell goes down for killing a federal policeman, the sentence is going to be a long one.’

  ‘Bloody oath. My prediction is he’ll die in Long Bay.’

  ‘I agree. He’ll never see the inside of Risdon Prison. Doesn’t matter, though. One jail’s as big a shithole as the next.’

  ‘Not wrong, Mickey.’ If Turrell never saw Gary Braswell again it would be too soon. Let him rot in Sydney.

  Chapter 48

  For a self-proclaimed sophisticated person, a citizen of the world, Fern had to admit the truth. She was a fraud. Never taken a trip outside Tasmania, until today. She glanced out the plane’s window and caught her breath. Endless white-sand beaches, deep-blue water stretching to the horizon. The Gold Coast’s skyline reminded her of the Manhattan she’d seen in movies. The glass and steel towers refracted colours like a kaleidoscope. Nothing like Hobart where buildings heights were limited to 45 metres. This was a Wonderland.

  The plane touched down. ‘Welcome to Coolangatta Airport,’ the steward announced. Gave the time and weather, recited from memory a bunch of factoids about the Gold Coast, fun things to do and see.

  There was only one person Fern wanted to see.

  ‘Hello. Ms Fern Bingham?’

  ‘Yes?’ The mobile danced a jig in her quivering hand. The long-awaited call from the lab assistant. Fern fluffed and propped a pillow on the motel’s lumpy bed, tried to get more comfortable.

  ‘We have the test results. I’d like to briefly run through them, if that’s all right. Shouldn’t take too long.’

  For heaven’s sake. Just tell me. Yes. Or. No. ‘Okay, no worries.’

  Fern caught words like sequencing, false-positives, electrophoresis, but she couldn’t concentrate. ‘In conclusion, the analysis shows the sample DNA matches that of Gary Braswell.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘No doubt.’

  A couple of deep breaths. Keeping the skin she scraped off Gary’s back with her fingernails turned out to be a smart move. A decision spurred by a trail of cl
ues. She’d read about the sensational case of the Russian gangster and federal cop being murdered in a Kings Cross doss house. Not a leading news story in parochial Tasmania, but it grabbed her attention nevertheless. Not long after that, Dylan rocks up in Hobart. The woman in tow, Tracey, looked like a seasoned junkie. If there’s one thing the Cross is famous for, it’s druggos. Fern thought Tracey was the wrong fit for a guy like Dylan. Those facts alone couldn’t link him to the crimes.

  But there were other things.

  His cauliflower ears and fat lips were too weird to be explained away simply as rugby injuries. That was a crock. Most likely cheap plastic surgery. The elaborate toast he gave at the revolving restaurant dinner was completely out of context. Might have been something he learned from the Russian syndicate. Then there was the huge pile of cash. The amount didn’t match what was reported stolen from the bank via the Russians’ money laundering scheme. There was a fair chunk out of it. But there would be. They would have had to spend plenty to set up a new life in Tassie. But the clincher – the clear proof – was his own slip of the tongue. ‘I’m Ga…Dylan.’ Words only Fern had heard.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Officers will be dispatched to your hotel to take an official statement and your banking details. Other officers have already flown to Hobart and arrested Mr Braswell. Once he’s locked away in Long Bay maximum security, the one-million-dollar reward will be transferred to your account.’

  ‘Thank you. Oh my God, thank you,’ said Fern.

  ‘You’re welcome. The AFP is grateful for your help in catching this dangerous man.’

  Fern switched off her phone, leapt onto the couch and began to laugh hysterically.

  ‘Another white wine.’

  ‘I guess one more won’t hurt.’ Fern poured Pinot Gris from a carafe covered in condensation droplets. Sunshine filtered onto the deck through a hedge of Bougainvillea. It was warmer than Fern had ever experienced at this time of year. She was used to wearing cardigans till Christmas.

  The woman sitting opposite could have been a refugee from a concentration camp. Jaundiced skin stretched tight across a thin face, plum-purple depressions under the eyes. Despite the hell she’d been through, she still managed half a smile. She wore the thinnest layer of makeup. A flick of foundation here, a dab of blusher there. The faintest glide of pink lipstick. Sparingly, with taste. Fern’s half-shaved, dreadlocked hairstyle and flouncy hippy dress stood in stark contrast to the woman’s tucked-behind-the-ears straight hair and sun frock.

  ‘Of course it won’t. Pour away.’ Fern liked her instinctively. A wallflower compared to the wild women she hung out with back home. Women like Selina. Poor Selina.

  ‘So, here’s to you, Maddie Braswell.’ Fern lifted her glass. ‘To your half of the reward for putting away your scumbag husband.’

  ‘I can’t believe you bothered to reach out to me.’ Maddie gave a weak smile. ‘Lots of people would have taken all the money and kept their mouth shut.’

  Fern nodded. Maddie’s observation was correct. However a more naïve person might think it appropriate to give Maddie the entire amount. Would that have been the right thing to do? No, keeping a generous cut for herself in return for handing in a murderer was a fair deal.

  ‘I had to see you for myself. Make sure you were okay. You’ve been through the wringer, girlfriend.’

  ‘I’m grateful. Believe me. Life’s going to be a whole lot different now with all this money.’

  ‘In a good way. Let’s drink to your new life. And half a million to spend!’

  They clinked glasses. An awkward silence fell for a few moments before Maddie spoke.

  ‘I can’t imagine my recovery was page one material in Tasmania.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. About a month ago I spotted an article buried in the middle of the Hobart Mercury. How Maddie Braswell, wife of Australia’s most wanted man, was alive after months in a coma. Six months since you were attacked, since Gary killed the cop and the Russian. A lot’s happened over that time. People forget shit real fast.’

  ‘But you didn’t forget.’ Maddie’s lips formed another gentle smile. One that said thank you for caring.

  ‘No. Especially when the main player in the drama falls into your lap.’

  ‘Can you tell me how that happened?’

  Fern gulped. This was the bit she wasn’t looking forward to. ‘Look, it’s rather complicated, but let’s just say Gary and I were, ah, oh Jesus, how do I even say it?’

  ‘You slept with him.’ A statement, not a question.

  ‘Yeah.’ Fern looked away, fixed her gaze at a spot on the horizon.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Fern didn’t expect this calm reaction. ‘How could I feel my husband was cheating when he must’ve thought he was a widower?’

  ‘That’s very generous of you,’ Fern breathed a sigh, looked back to Maddie.

  ‘Whatever.’ Maddie shrugged. ‘Can tell me how you came to nail him?

  ‘Oh my,’ Fern burst out laughing. ‘How ironic.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when I thought there was a chance Dylan was Gary, I scratched his back one night when…’

  Maddie flinched, started to sob.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Too much?’

  ‘No. I need to know.’

  ‘Okay.’ No point beating around the bush. ‘After we…did it…I scraped some skin out from under my nails with a nail file. I kept it in a ziplock bag, just in case my hunch was right. Turned out to be the final piece of evidence the cops needed to arrest him. Now he’ll pay for his crimes and you can start over.’

  ‘I guess.’ Maddie took a sip of wine, a sparrow at a bird bath. ‘But you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t believe Gary did half of what they say he did. No way.’

  A stillness hung over them like humid air before a tropical downpour.

  ‘One thing’s been bugging me,’ said Fern. ‘Surely he could have phoned someone to find out if you were still alive. He never did that. Not even after news broke that you were up and about again.’

  ‘He was on the run.’ Maddie’s justification sounded feeble. ‘He couldn’t risk getting caught. Besides, if he ever picks up a newspaper it’s only to check the sports results.’

  Fern shook her head. She extended a hand heavy with bejewelled rings and laid it gently over the top of Maddie’s. ‘Sticking by your man is admirable. But going from my experience, from the short time I’ve known Gary, I believe you’re mistaken.’

  An empty shell of a face stared back at Fern. It silently said I know.

  Chapter 49

  Interstate travel for work was rare for DI Josh Turrell. Tasmania Police usually flew people in when the tiny state’s resources were insufficient, not the other way around. Fifteen years ago he’d been picked to play in the interstate police footy carnival in Alice Springs. The Tassie team came last in a competition high on drinking and larrikinism, low on football. More recently, a Canberra conference on trends in hacking and digital crime. Again, lots of drinking and larrikinism, but this time he learned skills which came in handy. How to Bury Files should be a subject taught to all recruits at the academy.

  The iron gates of Long Bay Prison were rimmed with razor wire. The brick and sandstone edifice was a creation straight from Edgar Allen Poe. Turrell’s footstep echoed in the corridor. He wanted to turn around and walk straight back out. But he had a job to do.

  He was scheduled an hour to interview the prisoner. Whether anything positive would come from it or not was a moot point. The Commissioner said go, so he went. Brandt declined the offer. Turrell wasn’t interested either, but drew the short straw because Brandt had a couple of years’ seniority.

  The Long Bay Correctional Facility had serious history. On the flight to Sydney, Turrell flicked through a book recounting its most notorious inmates and their antics: Kate Leigh and Tilly Devine, Russell ‘Mad Dog’ Cox, Darcy Dugan, Roger Rogerson, Neddy Smith. Names synonymous with violent crime, d
eceit and savage retribution. The lowest rungs of humanity. Now, another name was added to that list of criminals.

  Gary Braswell.

  Due to the severity of the crimes he was accused of committing, Braswell had limited access to television, radio and newspapers, no Internet or mobile phone. No visitors allowed except legal representation.

  The prisoner coming through the door was a shell of the man Turrell remembered. It was the weight loss. Maybe seven kilos. Turrell knew most inmates take a giant shit the moment they check into one of Her Majesty’s hotels. And plenty more until they get used to the joint. Braswell’s face was gaunt and pallid from being locked up 20 hours a day with nothing but his own shadow for company. But the cocky grin and the swagger were still there, as yet unbroken.

  Something maniacal flickered in Braswell’s eyes. His shoulders flexed in twitches, like he was trying to protect his jaw from a punch but couldn’t use his hands. Which he couldn’t, because they were manacled together in his lap. A stocky guard with a Ned Kelly beard led the prisoner to his seat opposite the Tasmanian policeman.

  ‘Okay, I’ll take it from here,’ said Turrell with a nod. ‘Don’t think this will take long.’

  The guard drew a deep breath. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? He might get nasty.’

  ‘Look at the guy. Think he presents a danger to me?’

  ‘Ah, no. But I’ve been told—’

  ‘I don’t care what you’ve been told. I’m fine. Wait outside. I’ll knock when I’m done.’

  ‘Yeah, righto. Suit yourself.’

  With the guard out of the room, Turrell studied Braswell like a fine arts student looking for meaning in a famous painting. But Gary was like one of those abstract jobs that required deep thought and contemplation, with no guarantee you’d interpret it properly.

  ‘Where’s your brief?’

  The man in dull prison greens fidgeted. ‘I’ve declined.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Got no fucken money, have I?’ Braswell spat his words.