No Safe Place

by Jenny Spence

  After we organise a few details and say goodbye I email Diana and ask her if she could book me a seat in her name on the nine o’clock flight. That done, I put a scarf over my head, then go out and prowl the streets of Newtown. In the end, I eat at one of the places where Steve got good takeaway and go to a French film at the Dendy. It’s a weepie, and I come out with sore eyes, barely able to stagger back to the flat. Not wanting to use the sheets again, I sleep on top of the bed, wrapped in the doona, and don’t stir until the alarm on my phone wakes me.

  42

  At the airport Miranda, hair stringy and eyes puffy, is monosyllabic. No need to ask how she’s feeling right now, though she swears she’s had ‘the best time’ in Sydney. She sleeps all the way to Melbourne.

  For my own part, there’s a steadily increasing sense of euphoria. My heart swells with love as we sweep over the flat basalt plains west of Melbourne then bump down under grey drizzle at Melbourne Airport. I don’t say anything as we wait for Miranda’s luggage, of which, as usual, there is far too much.

  One of Miranda’s friends, a pleasant plump boy called Tariq, picks us up in my car. I don’t recall being asked that he could use it, but all’s well with the world today. I’m a little less agreeable when the fuel alarm starts beeping, but at least we’re still in the airport precinct and close to a place where we can fill up. None of us has enough cash, so I get out my credit card. I really don’t think these people will be still trying to track me through things like that. I can’t see why I’d be worth the effort now.

  I feel a pang when we reach the house, but Mai has cleaned away all traces of that terrible night – in fact the whole house is unnaturally clean. Someone has even been watering the pots on my front veranda.

  I notice a small package on the kitchen table. It looks like a CD mailer in a courier’s satchel.

  “What’s that doing there?” I say.

  “Oh, yeah,” says Miranda, cringing. “I meant to tell you. Some bloke brought it in. Mabel’s nephew.”

  “Her nephew?”

  “Yeah. They were cleaning up her house and they found it with her mail.”

  “But I told you not to come here.”

  “It was just for a minute, Mum. I’m sorry.”

  I pick up the plastic courier bag with the familiar Rush’n’Around logo.

  “You should have told me about this,” I say.

  “I know, but it’s nothing, Mum. We had a peep inside. It’s just a DVD of some movie from one of your nerdy friends.”

  I open the package. Inside is something that looks like a DVD of Inception. There’s also a note.

  Hi Elly

  I found this particularly interesting, and I’m sure you will too.

  Make sure you watch it before you go to Sydney.

  Keyser Söze

  Keyser Söze? Oh, Carlos. He always insisted on using Rush’n’Around because he trusted Marina. I’ve got her mobile number in my computer. I catch her on the way to rehearsal – she’s in some kind of folk band.

  “Hi Elly!” she says. “I’m not working today.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I wanted to get you while you’re not at work anyway.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s about the last job you did for Carlos.”

  “Right,” she says cautiously.

  “Marina, I know Carlos sometimes gave you extra deliveries, just for him. For cash. You wouldn’t have mentioned anything like that to the police, would you?”

  “I couldn’t, Elly. My boss was right there.”

  “Thought so.”

  “But you got it, didn’t you? The package, that day?”

  “Yes, it’s okay.”

  “There was an old lady out the front. She insisted I leave it with her and she’d take care of it for you.”

  “Yeah, it’s fine, Marina. I got it. Thanks.”

  Poor Mabel. Poor, interfering old busybody Mabel. I never asked myself why she was lying in wait for me that cold evening when she should have been inside in front of the telly, already eating her tea, the heater going full blast. She’d spotted Marina with a delivery for me and swooped, full of importance, taking it upon herself. She was starting to say something to me when the shot silenced her. She wanted to tell me that she had something for me, so that I’d thank her, and let her know what a good neighbour she was, that I didn’t know what I’d do without her.

  “It’s just a DVD,” Miranda says again after I hang up.

  Well, no. It’s not a DVD and it’s not Inception, though it’s convincingly labelled. Carlos’s note was carefully worded to make that obvious, and of course he knew I’ve got this movie and have watched it several times. What I’m holding in my hand is a CD, Carlos’s favoured medium for reliable data storage.

  I turn on my computer and slot in the disc. A list of files pops up, headed by one called AardvarkAspAnaconda.txt.

  It is, of course, a message for me:

  Hi Elly

  If the job in Sydney is that 3A application that Derek’s been offered, there are some things you should know.

  Some time ago I got a tentative approach from a rather interesting company. In the absence of a name I’ll call them Darkside Inc. This company is kind of like the flip side of Soft Serve Solutions. They employ contractors who are prepared to do anything at all for the right price. Obviously they need IT specialists, and someone thought I might be interested. Guess they heard I don’t have any principles.

  Anyway, I told them politely no, but since then I’ve been very carefully checking them out. Of course the approach was anonymous, but the guy wasn’t as clever as he thought and dropped a couple of clues, and I’ve managed to find out a bit about them.

  For understandable reasons a lot of their work is in unpopular areas: they help tobacco companies fight claims for damages, they cover up evidence of asbestos exposure – that sort of thing. And of course they get plenty of work on projects that are environmentally suss.

  They seem to do their financials through a very interesting online bank called Mercantile Mutual that I’ve also been checking out. There’s been a fair bit of noise recently that I think relates to the Green Dragon Resources consortium that’s trying to get that coal mine approved – a lot of money going through various accounts. There’s a woman called Helena Banfield who seems to be part of Darkside’s inner circle, and she’s on the board that’s expected to approve the coal mine, so I suspect skulduggery. You may remember me mentioning Peter Talbot, who went missing in the Warburton Ranges? He was on Darkside’s payroll – it looks like he was falsifying EIS reports for logging companies. My theory is that Banfield recruited him. There’s a high-priced resort in Bali where she’s been three times in the last two years, and a close friend of Talbot’s works there, so they could have met through him.

  So keep your eyes open and let me know if you spot anything unusual, but be VERY, VERY CAREFUL. These are pretty heavy people, and when I say they’ll do anything, I mean ANYTHING. I’ve been able to hack into their accounts without being spotted, but I wouldn’t want anyone else to try it. They’ve got some pretty cool ice in place.

  I’ve put the main stuff I’ve discovered on this disc. Just keep it safe somewhere, in case we ever need it.

  Good luck, and remember – be careful!

  Carlos

  Tears are streaming down my face as I fold the note back up.

  “Mum?” says Miranda. “Is it bad? Have I done something wrong?”

  I look up. Her eyes have filled with tears too.

  “No, love, no. It’s okay.” I put my arms around her.

  What would have happened if I’d known this? I suppose it depends what’s on the CD. I would have been alerted to Helena, not that it took me long to suspect her in any case. Would I have gone to that building with Brett? Would Brett be alive today?

  There can’t be any moral sense in which Miranda, by not understanding the importance of this package, could be answerable for Brett’s death. Or for mine, if it
had gone that way. What was it that Carol said? The person responsible is the one who pulled the trigger.

  I get my phone out and call Steve.

  “We’re not quite finished,” I tell him. “Can you get hold of Luke and Ravi and meet me in the office?”

  I also call Lewis.

  “I shouldn’t disturb you on your day off,” I say.

  “Who has days off?”

  “Oh. In that case, would you like to meet my fellow conspirators, and see some new evidence I’ve got?”

  I drive in to the office and park in the basement. We’re allowed to do that on weekends. I’m the first one there, so I occupy my time copying the disc for Lewis and printing out Carlos’s message.

  Steve and Luke arrive with Lewis in tow, and I introduce them all properly. Ravi’s gone skiing, so it’s just the four of us. We go into the meeting room.

  “I had already given everything to Detective Senior Sergeant Lewis,” I tell the others.

  “Call me Mike,” he murmurs.

  “But now I find I’ve got a whole lot more stuff from Carlos. This is probably what the killer thought he’d told me.”

  I explain how the CD arrived and read the message to them.

  “Wow,” says Luke.

  Steve takes the CD without a word and disappears with it. Lewis drums his fingers on the table.

  “I’ve heard rumours about this organisation,” he says. “I thought it was just talk. Nobody’s ever come up with any evidence.”

  “It’s awfully plausible,” says Luke. “If you think about it, it sort of fills a gap, doesn’t it? Call it a black hole. Everyone needs services, on both sides of the law. And I can imagine them approaching Carlos because he was sort of asocial.”

  “They must cover the whole spectrum of bad people,” I say. “There’s whoever it was who doctored that document, and Peter Talbot of course – what he did for them must have been pretty lucrative for someone, when you look at what he was paid. But there’s also someone who organised the professor’s car crash, and of course, there’s our killer.”

  “Some good tech people, too,” says Luke. “They were pretty quick to notice when Carlos started snooping around.”

  “What was that about ice?” asks Lewis. “He says they had some cool ice?”

  “Yeah, a pretty bad tautology,” I say. “It’s just – you know – security systems. Programs designed to keep out intruders, and alert you if someone’s snooping around. Carlos would have tiptoed in, but obviously not quietly enough.”

  “Carlos thought he was infallible,” says Luke. “But there’s always another level in the game, isn’t there?”

  Steve puts his head around the door.

  “Better come and look at this,” he says.

  We follow him into the big team room. He has three screens on his desk, and they’re all showing CCTV footage of the front of Carlos’s building and the street around it.

  “This is him, isn’t it?” Steve says to me. He’s frozen the film at a shot of the killer, his hood down, glancing towards the camera.

  “He wasn’t careful enough,” I say with satisfaction.

  “I don’t think Carlos particularly noticed him,” says Steve. “He just wanted to back up his footage for that day.”

  “It’s a good image,” says Lewis. “This should help us find him.”

  “What else have you got?” asks Luke.

  “Just preliminaries,” says Steve. “Some stuff we already had, triangulation etcetera, and there’s more bank data. Helena, Gleisman, yes, multiple accounts for both. Some evidence about Talbot. Resources list: a few IT people, some of whom we know. That Serbian guy’s in it – Nick’ll be happy – that could be how they heard of Carlos. More stuff we’ve never heard of. Better get back into it.” He turns his back on us and addresses his keyboard.

  “Smart guy,” says Lewis as we go back to the meeting room. “Is he always like that?”

  “Not usually so verbose,” says Luke. “If this stuff’s been obtained illegally, what are your options?”

  “It’s delicate,” says Lewis, “but we’re investigating quite a few murders here, so we can dig into all sorts of records. It’ll help tell us where to look.”

  He looks at me.

  “The guys in NSW are building the case against Helena, and it’s going to take a while, but for the moment she’s taken off somewhere and no-one knows where she is.”

  “Right.” Of course I want Helena caught eventually, but I like the idea of her being on the run, her life turned upside down. Pity there’s no invisible assassin to add an element of terror.

  “Remember you said there was something funny about O’Dwyer?” I say. “That it looked like someone put him up to killing Talbot?”

  “Yeah,” says Lewis. “You don’t think . . .”

  “They knew each other,” I said. “You saw what Carlos said in the letter. Helena met a friend of Talbot’s at a resort in Bali – that has to be O’Dwyer. Then he kills Talbot, and someone gets hold of Talbot’s money.”

  “But we don’t think that was O’Dwyer,” says Luke.

  “No, but remember your theory that the first hundred thousand taken out of Talbot’s account paid for the hit? O’Dwyer had gambling debts, and it seems he could have been getting desperate.”

  “Desperate enough to kill his best friend?” says Luke.

  “Could be,” I say, “especially if he was besotted with Helena. What I heard was, he went to Sydney after some ‘gorgeous chick.’”

  “And you think Helena got the rest of Talbot’s money?” asks Lewis.

  “It’s feasible,” I say. “She’s been buying land in the coal mine area, presumably looking to make a profit. She’d need money for that.”

  “Well, we can investigate that,” says Lewis.

  “Great,” I say. “And there’s another thing you might want to investigate. Professor Bartholomew, the author of the report that was doctored? He crashed his car while drunk, according to police records, but apparently he didn’t drink. I don’t know if that’s a North by Northwest scenario, or maybe this sinister organisation has some cops in it?”

  “North by Northwest?” Lewis looks a bit hunted.

  “Don’t mind Elly,” says Luke. “She’s assuming you’re up with the company culture. You should probably be flattered.”

  “It’s probably bent cops anyway,” I say. “It’s one of Hitchcock’s sillier ideas, to force alcohol down someone’s throat then put them behind the wheel.”

  “They would need cops, as well as lawyers, accountants . . .” says Luke.

  “. . . such as Daniel Gleisman,” I say. “Steve made a list of the companies he represents. That’ll tell us a lot . . .”

  “Now, listen,” says Lewis. “This is a matter for the police from now on, okay?”

  “When they get around to it,” I say. “When all the paperwork is signed off?”

  “I mean it,” he says. “It has to be done right, for the courts. If DS Webster gets a whiff of what you’ve been up to she’ll be around here with a charge of withholding evidence and a warrant to seize all these lovely computers. Time to take a break, Elly.”

  “All right,” I say. “But you can’t stop us giving you the odd hint if we find out any more.”

  “Fair enough. But you just keep a low profile until we catch this killer, okay?” He’s serious now.

  “I will,” I say. “But surely no-one’s going to pay him to come after me now.”

  I hand over the CD and we part company. Outside, the rain’s all gone and it’s a glorious day with a hint of spring. I wonder if the golden wattles are in flower yet.

  43

  Miranda’s in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, when I come in with food from the market and start throwing together some sandwiches.

  “It’s probably still safer to stay away from the house,” I say. “I’m going to get some more money from Derek on Monday, then you and I will find somewhere out-of-the-way to stay
until this is completely over. But until then, I was thinking – why don’t we go up to Canton Creek? No-one will look for us there.”

  “Great,” she says. “The air up there is the best hangover cure.”

  “So you’ve got a hangover?”

  “No! I’m just saying.”

  “Okay, great. It’ll be like old times.”

  We pack our warmest clothes and stuff our doonas into the back seat of the car, along with the bags of food I’ve bought. Miranda also brings her pillow. She makes herself comfortable and hands out the sandwiches as I thread my way through to the freeway, looping back a couple of times until I’m sure no-one is following.

  “Do you think Charlie will be there?” she asks sleepily.

  “Sure to be,” I say. Miranda’s always had a soft spot for Charlie, who’s been a sort of uncle to the children and grandchildren of the Canton Creek collective. “I don’t think he ever leaves the place these days.”

  “Good,” she says. “I’ve been teaching the kids pottery, and I want to ask him some stuff.”

  She’s quiet for a while, and I think she’s dozed off.

  “Do you know,” she says suddenly, “kids still play that game, ‘Charlie over the water, Charlie over the sea’? They play it in the schoolyard, just like we did.”

  “Really? We played that when I was at school. ‘Charlie came to my house and stole a cup of tea.’”

  “That’s not right!” she laughs.

  “No? That’s what we used to sing.”

  “I used to think it was about our Charlie,” she says, yawning. “I used to wonder why there wasn’t any water around his house.”

  “There’s no water anywhere these days,” I say. “When the drought broke all that rain filled the dams, but half of it’s gone already.”

  But there’s silence. She really is asleep this time.

  I drive the route I know so well, ticking off the towns, unseen these days, on my mental map. The land is different from New South Wales in a way I can’t define, the trees stringier, struggling, the undergrowth thin. In winter the eucalyptus trunks are dark and damp. In summer the air crackles. Right now, as I’d hoped, there’s a haze of yellow from the golden wattles, just coming into bloom.