by Karen Bell
She didn’t know for certain if Ryan would be working but was relieved to see that his bike was gone. Pausing only to take one more fleeting look around, Mila opened the gate and walked to the front door before slipping the note in the gap underneath. She gave a good push and heard it slide along the floorboards. There, it was done. No going back. Her fate now rested in his hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jack was gnawing the last morsels of a pig’s ear on the back porch of his home. He’d almost forgotten about it when his keen sense of smell reminded him he’d buried it in a shallow grave only a few weeks before. It was ripe for exhuming and he’d done so with a few determined scratches.
His remaining teeth weren’t so good anymore and despite the soil being soft after the rain, the pig’s ear was hard and dry so he’d dropped it into his water bowl and waited patiently on his haunches for it to reconstitute. Now his restraint had paid off and he licked his lips after savouring the last sinuous bits. It was a sunny day, and normally he’d stay out longer but the heat was packing a punch through his thick coat and the flies that had come to share his meal were still hanging around to annoy him. He thought he might have heard something out the front but his hearing wasn’t what it had once been either.
He pulled himself lazily to his paws and stretched his aching limbs before heading inside through the small door his master had made for him.
It was cooler on the floorboards of the living room and as Jack wandered in, he noticed something at the front door. It was a long time since the postie had put any mail under their door. Nowadays he had to wait until his master came home to help collect it from the box outside, but as he ambled over, he saw that it was indeed a letter. He sniffed it and recognized it instantly as the same smell as his master’s new lady friend.
He loved being able to please his master. Collecting the mail and the papers was small consolation for no longer accompanying him to work, but he could at least deposit this letter in its rightful place. Pushing it along the floor until it met the vertical line of the wall, he was able to get one claw underneath to lift the edge and from there he picked it up easily in his mouth before turning and loping back down the corridor. There was a similar stack of papers on the desk in his master’s office and he surmised that this one should go there too. Using the drawer handles as a kind of a ladder, Jack reached up and deposited it on top of the pile. He was smiling inwardly thinking that while he was no longer the dog he once was, at least he could still be useful.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ryan was out of sorts, edgy and distracted. He kept his mobile out on the desk in case it should ring. Not that he expected it to. There had been ample time for Mila to try to explain herself the previous night or to leave a message on his machine at home, but she’d done neither.
He’d half heartedly collected the accident report from the records office only because Sally Pierce had left three messages on his phone since Friday and he had no doubt she’d leave more. She’d been visibly disappointed when he’d interrupted her small talk and made some excuse about having to get to the office early. Anyone would have thought she didn’t have a job to do.
Even after his stop, Ryan was still the first one in, and he sat at his desk scanning through the folder he’d just collected, first getting an overview and then looking more specifically for a mechanical report, and any possible anomalies.
A quick perusal of the accident report offered the first surprise. It showed conclusively that the accident had been caused by brake failure. More detailed notes showed that it was an early suggestion by officers on the scene that the driver may have fallen asleep. Those suggestions having been based on witness reports that the speeds reached, had been well in excess of those that would have been expected of the car’s elderly occupants. Further the Yaw analysis based on black rubber skid marks for some fifty metres before the vehicle had hit the barrier, had led them to hypothesise that the driver may have momentarily nodded off and then woken too late, slamming on the brakes before careening with deadly consequence into the wall.
Bulli Pass had always been somewhat of a black spot, a long steep descent that required consistent application of the brakes for a good couple of kilometres. Had the event occurred eighteen months earlier, there would have been a chance for the driver to have made it to the sand safety road at the bottom of the hill, but the concrete barrier, erected at the base only the year before, had created a death trap when hit at the wrong angle and judging by the frenzied careening of the black lines that Ryan viewed from an aerial photo, the brakes had locked up and the car had lost control.
It didn’t matter that he’d seen hundreds of crumpled wrecks in his career, the idea of Mila’s parents having been in this one still made him shudder.
Ryan looked next at the mechanical forensics. It was noted that the car was old, but well maintained. That correlated with Mihael’s assessment. The mechanic who had received the totalled car had looked over every possibility and ruled each of them out, until he’d been left with only one. Brake failure, caused by too much water or condensation in the brake fluid reservoir.
Growing up on a farm as one of only two boys, Ryan had a good foundational knowledge of engines and motor mechanics. He knew that too much water in the brake fluid was dangerous. The reason being that the more water, the lower the boiling point. He also knew that over-heated brake fluid could lead to spongy and ineffective braking. Generally the only way water would get mixed in, was over time, by condensation through the housing or by opening and closing the lid too often in humid conditions. But the mechanic who had examined the car suggested that the quantity was high enough to all but rule out both possibilities. He suggested that the old car had most likely been overheating and the elderly driver had somehow poured water into the wrong reservoir.
In an old or unfamiliar vehicle it would have been conceivable but given Alexi’s intimate knowledge of his own car coupled with his engineering background, Ryan was far from convinced.
There was one burning question that was putting a spoke in his wheel, so to speak, and he looked at his watch before making a call to his mechanic, Jason.
Bulli Pass was over a hundred kilometres from Sydney’s East, and while Ryan suspected that Robert had been responsible for sabotaging the vehicle, he could only have done it in the days prior to their travel. Ryan wondered if so much water could flow without problem through the brake line for that time and distance, before showing itself in the brakes.
His mate listened with interest to the theory before answering. ‘Yeah, it’s definitely possible that you could get all that way without noticing any issues – on short trips the fluid might barely heat up at all. It wouldn’t be until the brakes were in constant use like on a long downhill stretch that they might fail.’
‘Why would that be?’ asked Ryan.
‘Because it’s not until that point that you’d get enough heat build up in the disc pads to transfer into the callipers and then into the fluid to cause boiling and loss of hydraulic pressure.’
‘How much water would it take?’
‘In an older car, as little as half a cup would do it.’
‘And how would an experienced driver be likely to respond?’
‘Well if you were old school, I reckon you’d pump the brakes first and then if that didn’t work, if you had the presence of mind, you’d likely go for the handbrake, which might slow you down but depending on the speed, it would most likely lock up the rear wheels and cause you to lose control. Sounds like you’ve got a set of suspicious circumstances. Anything I can do to help?’
‘Thanks mate but unfortunately it’s now a closed case and the car’s long since been turned to scrap metal.’
‘That’s a shame, we could have tested the ratios. I get people in now and again who’ve poured water or oil into their brake fluid but more often I get old cars that have been badly serviced or had no service. Having said that, it’d take years of negligence for it to get to such a da
ngerous level.’
‘That was my thought,’ agreed Ryan.
He hung up, more convinced than ever that this had been no accident. He scanned the report again and found the mechanic’s hand written notes stapled to the back. The writing was messy, but there it was, estimated one hundred and fifty millilitres of water in the brake fluid reservoir. It was way too much to get there by condensation, and pouring water into the wrong place? Ryan needed no convincing that it was a mistake Alexi Korovin would never have made. He was elderly, but according to Mihael, as sharp as a tack, and he’d treasured and serviced that car for over thirty years.
It had been February, the last month of Summer and cars regularly over-heated at that time of year. He understood why the mechanic would have come to the wrong conclusion about how the water got there. But then there had been no cause for anyone to suspect foul play at the time…
Ryan realized he had formed a picture of Robert Taylor, based on nothing but a growing mental file of information. He’d never actually seen an image, there’d been no wedding or family photos on show at Mila’s home and despite the casino’s head of security describing him as ‘good-looking’, Ryan had envisaged him as short, thin lipped and narrow eyed. On the back of these latest findings, the officer had an urge to get a look at the man most likely responsible for a double homicide.
He opened a search engine and typed in the name. There were a hundred listings so he keyed in the suburb and on a hunch, the name of a professional networking site Linkedin.
There it was. Robert Taylor of Randwick, previously Regional Taxation Advisor for PriceWaterhouse Coopers, freelance chartered accountant; private and corporate tax advisor still listed on the database.
Ryan did a double-take at the face staring out at him and a wrenching pain, which he recognized as a combination of hatred and jealousy, hit him hard.
Not jealousy over the way he looked – although he was handsome enough - but jealousy over the fact that he was the man who had shared years of intimacies with Mila and had the irrevocable title of being the father of the child she adored. He was a man who’d had it all and still didn’t see it. Ryan would never have made that mistake. The hatred that jumped up and bit him, was a gut reaction. He was looking at the face of the man who’d betrayed Mila’s trust and dared to hurt her.
Hatred was an emotion that Ryan had become familiar with ever since his partner had been executed. As much as he’d tried to rise above it, it continued to eat him up, but jealousy was something that had never entered his thought process, even when his first wife had remarried. Eyes still glued to face on the screen, he couldn’t deny that he’d been hijacked by both emotions.
Robert had sharp features, a strong jaw-line and a full head of hair. But his gaze was too intense and his smile, unconvincing. There was a callousness that lay immediately behind the façade. He wondered if this man had somehow lured Mila into the sex industry.
Ryan noticed that his own jaw was aching from clenching, as his mind was led back to the events of the previous night. Why did he keep going back there? It was humiliating enough at the time. Did he have to re-live it over and over again?
He squinted at the face looking out from his computer screen. There was something familiar about it that he couldn’t quite place. He didn’t recognize him as such, not as someone he might have met, but there was something about the composition of the features that gave Ryan the feeling that he’d seen that face before, and not even very long ago. He was ruminating on the photo when his colleagues began trickling in.
Now that he was working with the newly formed Specialist Response Group or SRG, as they were known, Ryan had meetings that were due to run most of the day with various divisions. At 0900, he and the team were meeting with Tactical Intelligence; then at 1100, the head of the Tactical Response Team and Customs officials were due to join them. That afternoon at 1500 hours, Communications Response was going to brief them on any news from the reconnaissance team who were staking out the house of the dealer who’d been given up by that sex worker Tamsin Baker.
It was a pretty slick operation compared to the one he and Mike had been thrown into all those years ago. Most of the time they’d been flying in the dark, and by the seat of their pants. Ryan wished Mike was here with him now. As quickly as the AFP could shake up their act, the crims were smartening up theirs too. Syndicates were often multi national, with expert logistics and often their own counter surveillance. To Ryan, it seemed to be a never-ending game of cat and mouse where strategy required you to be several moves ahead. He could well have used some of the Korovin chess genius right now.
Damn, there it was again. All thoughts leading back to Mila. Why hadn’t she even tried to call? He looked at his phone screen for the hundredth time and it was still empty.
He wondered how long she’d been leading a double life and whether circumstances could have been so dire as to force her into the sex industry even after that bastard was dead and buried.
She lived in a solid home on an expensive street. Even if the house had been mortgaged, there had to be money in his super, and a life insurance policy that should be coming to Mila now.
According to Mihael, Mila’s parents had owned their own home in the area too. Ryan didn’t doubt that Robert had staged his in-laws death to get his hands on their money but surely even a compulsive gambler couldn’t have blown that much in less than two years. Besides, it didn’t alter the fact that Mila had elected to sell her body ahead of any number of other ways she could have thought of to make a wage. Surely anyone with a shred of self worth would sooner sell their home than subject themselves to the degradation of stripping and maybe more. He couldn’t bear to think about maybe more. Jesus, after she’d told him she was on the pill, he hadn’t even used condoms.
Maybe there was more to her sexual preferences than she’d let on in the short time she’d known him. Maybe he’d misread what she’d told him about Robert and maybe she’d been complicit in the rough sex or whatever it was she’d hinted at. He tried to think back and recall their conversation but she’d been a reluctant participant and her expression had been hard to read.
There were plenty of screwed-up women out there. He’d stopped counting the number who’d asked him to use his handcuffs in the bedroom. God, it was practically an occupational hazard, once they learnt he was in the force, but for him, the novelty had worn off quickly, and realistically there was only so far he was prepared to take it.
In his experience, the women fell into two categories; those who just wanted to play and those who were into BDSM as a preset channel. He was comfortable with the first type, but steered well clear of the second. He’d seen way too much of that stuff in his time in the drug squad. By his non-scientific calculations, for every girl that was into BDSM by choice, there were nine others who’d been raped, abused, or lured into it via drug addictions and prostitution.
Way too many had started as victims of child abuse or incest, or left broken homes to find themselves on the streets of the Cross – from the frying pan into the fire. In the face every crack head or ice junkie, that he’d arrested Ryan couldn’t help looking for the child that once was. He couldn’t help thinking of his nieces and nephews and how fortunate they were to come from loving and protective homes. In his view, stealing the innocence of a child was a crime for which no punishment sufficed.
Was Mila ever a victim of Robert’s? Ryan thought it highly possible, but that bastard was dead now and whatever reasons she might have had previously, should have ceased to exist along with him. Further, try as he might to find reasons, nothing could alter the duplicity of her actions.
Since they’d met, she’d been living two lives at once and had allowed him to continue seeing her, when she could have said no. She’d encouraged intimacies even when he thought he’d made it pretty clear he was falling for her. Come to think of it, he was fairly sure they’d talked about how important honesty was to him. God he’d been such a fool!
Thankfully,
he didn’t have time to dwell on it further and rest of the day passed quickly, as he and the team worked out strategy for the case and the much hoped for bust. They had been briefed by the Port Botany shipping director and customs officials about the first of two ships due to arrive that week.
The original tip-off from Chinese authorities had come after both ships were already on the high seas. All they knew so far, was that the shipment was loaded through the port of Tianjin and was headed to Sydney.
The source of the information had been an employee of a small pharmaceuticals company just outside of Beijing. He’d come back to work one night after accidentally leaving his phone behind and been surprised to see a three tonne truck being loaded from the dock.
He was employed in the dispatch department and he sure as hell knew nothing about it. After hiding in his car out of sight, he’d followed the truck to a warehouse where it had disappeared inside. An hour later, a shipping container had come out on the back of another truck, and headed off in the direction of Tianjin.
He hadn’t caught the ID number in the dark and didn’t want to risk tailing the vehicle so had instead taken the expressway to the port and waited. Sure enough, not long after, the truck had turned up and he’d watched from a distance as it went into a particular dock.
Having been spooked by the whole ordeal and fearing for his safety, he’d taken two days to report it to the police, by which time two ships had already left that dock, destined for Sydney.
Based on the size of the vehicle and depending on what other substance may have been used to conceal the drug, the ephedrine quantity could easily have been in excess of 2000 kilos. Given that the employee had identified the container as being a forty-footer, there could well have been other contraband in the container too, even before the drugs were loaded. It wouldn’t have been the first time – ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ as the saying went.
