Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher.
Flanagan leaned his head back until it connected with the wall. Then he closed his eyes and let the cigarette smoulder between his fingers.
*
HE TIED THE mail with an elastic band, only opening the letter from the settlement broker stating the papers for the house were ready to be signed and waiting for him at their office in Fremantle. The reality of the house seemed a fanciful prospect compared to Allyson’s disappearance. Flanagan stuffed it back into the envelope with barely another glance. Instead, he struggled out to the Fairmont and tried several times before bringing it back to life.
“What are you going to do, Michael?” Nuala asked. “You look like you shouldn’t be walking, let alone driving.”
“Well if I can’t walk, what am I going to do? I have to drive.”
“Where are you going? You can stay here. The couch’s gone, but there’s the other side of the bed. It’ll be like when we were kids.”
“I don’t think so, Nee,” Flanagan said, wincing in slow motion. “Too much has changed. I smell a lot worse, that’s for sure.”
“Hard to believe,” Nuala smiled.
“I have to go see Lord and Teneille. That newspaper report is a load of shit . . . and then there’s this cop, Pringdegar.” Flanagan shrugged rather helplessly.
The detective called while Flanagan was on the road. The sky’d grown dark while he and Nuala talked, and Flanagan pulled into a bus bay on the road out of Fremantle, the harbour and its myriad cranes and containers lit up against the coming dark. Flanagan stuffed a thumb into his opposite ear as tail-end peak traffic streamed past him.
“Mr Flanagan, this is Detective Constable Mahmoud Pringdegar. I hear you’re up and about. I left you my card at the hospital. Did you take it?”
“I took it, mate. What are you doing about this girl’s disappearance?”
“Alleged disappearance, Mr Flanagan. I was hoping we could talk about that.”
“You sound about as Indian as my mother. Why don’t you get a real name and fuck off.”
Flanagan disconnected the phone and threw it down angrily onto the floor on the passenger side of the car. Then he checked his mirrors before pulling out into traffic one more time.
*
THE HOUSE WAS like a tomb. Lord opened the front door for him without making a sound. He had a scotch in his hand and he went back and methodically poured another, putting it on the sideboard rather than passing it to Flanagan as he sunk tiredly into one of the over-comfortable chairs in the amphitheatre-cum-living room.
“What’s happening?” Lord asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Should you really be up and about?”
“I’m not staying put until we’ve found her,” Flanagan said tightly. “I’m gonna make that cunt Hopkins pay.”
Lord looked away, fatigue rendering him almost disinterested.
“Just make sure he makes the finals. I’ve got a bet on.”
“He’ll be lucky to make his fucking funeral by the time I’ve finished with him. Any idea where he lives?”
“Hmmm, Claremont?” Lord shrugged. “That’s just, you know, what the papers say. When he ran from that booze bus last year, he was just a few miles from home in Claremont, they said.”
“Roosveldt will know,” Flanagan sighed. “Or it’ll be in Ally’s diary.”
“Her diary?”
Lord sat up, splayed fingers gripping the ends of the armchair.
“Yeah,” Flanagan slowly told him. “That was where I’d been when Hopkins jumped me. She kept a diary, Lord. Kept a diary, and I think she meant to turn them all in, make a name for herself or something. Money. I don’t know yet.”
“That’s why they . . . so does that mean they did abduct her?”
“That’s what your wife believes, what she said in the newspaper, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, she said it, but . . . I don’t know. It’s been nearly two weeks. Nothing seems straight-forward any more. Anything’s possible with Allyson. She could’ve flown to New Zealand or bloody Sydney, for all we knew.”
“Teneille thinks she was kidnapped?”
“Yes,” Lord said. “I guess I . . . I may have doubted her.”
Flanagan shook his head slowly, sad, and dropped his heavy chin on his collar.
“They don’t know about the book,” he said. “Never mentioned it. The whole thing’s in German. Teneille said she was on a scholarship. My sister has it. She’ll transcribe the fucking thing.”
“How soon can she have it done?” Lord asked.
“I asked her to call me in the morning.”
From the pocket of his jeans, Flanagan extracted Allyson’s photos, a small dark blue card almost forgotten among them.
TWENTY-THREE
HE WOKE AT eight and found Lord gone. He felt rough, as much from his injuries as a dreadful night’s sleep, his worries assuming a nightmarish quality in dream-form, rousing him constantly throughout the night into disoriented, impotent action. Dawn came as a relief, like the breaking of a fever, and the subsequent sleep was the only good to come of it. After dousing himself slowly in a careful shower, removing the elastic bindings from his ribs and only wincing a little, Flanagan moved through the cold house wearing nothing but his jeans, Tricia Renald’s business card in hand.
Of course it was much later in Sydney. The lady herself answered on the fourth ring.
“Tricia, my name is Flanagan. I’m calling about Allyson Jacobsen.”
“Allyson, yes,” the woman’s crisp voice replied. “Where is she?”
“I thought you might be able to answer me that.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t been on the TV,” the reporter answered. “Are they awake over there, your media?”
“You read the newspaper article,” Flanagan said.
“Yeah, we get media monitoring like anyone else. You’re a friend of Miss Jacobsen’s, Mr Flanagan?”
“That’s right.”
An image of the TV journalist slowly resolved in Flanagan’s mind. He imagined long legs and flashy ear-rings, a crème power-suit and blonde hair lacquered like a snail’s shell.
“You wouldn’t happen to be the ‘apparent victim of an alleged assault’ after ‘an altercation in Fremantle between two or more unidentified men,’ would you, Mr Flanagan?”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
She made a rude noise. “Memory nothing. I’ve got the clipping here.”
Renald cleared her throat and it sounded like she lit a cigarette, though Flanagan imagined in her trendy, hectic surrounds, such a thing was nigh impossible.
“I haven’t spoken with Allyson since August 15, Mr Flanagan. I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“Yet you spoke with Allyson about her involvement with Brett Hopkins, didn’t you?” Flanagan asked, knowing his voice sounded urgent.
Tricia gave a knowing laugh, but answered, “I wasn’t interested in this Blanco bloke, that’s for sure. Small fish compared to over here, I’m afraid. But I really can’t divulge the substance of a confidential discussion, Mr Flanagan.”
“Tricia,” Flanagan said flatly, “there’s a pretty good chance they’ve taken her. It’s not a fluff piece about a footballer any more. I need to know what you discussed, because the way the police are acting here, I’m the only one likely to be getting her back – if she’s not dead already.”
“Come on, Mr Flanagan, surely you’re being a bit melodramatic. You know as well as I do that Allyson’s a little tease. It’s because she wouldn’t just come forward and deliver that we had to contact Hopkins and try and get him into a confession.”
“You contacted Hopkins?”
“Contacted him? Hell, we did a doorstop to camera.”
“You were in Perth?”
“Yes,” the reporter answered slowly. “Last month. It was useless, though. Never aired.”
“That would’ve been around or before the 22nd, is that right, Miss Renald?”
&n
bsp; The journalist cleared her throat, but said nothing, the silence turning her guilty. Flanagan eased out a hitching breath, his ribs like the louvres in an ancient beach house not wanting to move after thirty years in the same salt-locked position. He rolled a cigarette from the pouch beside the phone as he sat at the country table in the kitchen and pulled over a dirty mug for ashes.
“I know I should treat people like you with honey to get what I want, Trish, but I just can’t do it,” Flanagan said bitterly and lit up. “Your interference set this whole thing in motion. Allyson might be dead because of you. Fuck.”
“I can’t divulge –”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Flanagan all but spat. “I’ve seen that formaldehyde head of yours on TV enough over the years, you stupid bitch. You think you’re a gung-ho journo, living your little Sex in the City existence, high power lunches and knobbing cocks with celebs. You’re kidding yourself. If you’ve done anything in the last five years while I’ve been away that wasn’t a complete sham, I’d be fucking stunned. I want you to tell me about your arrangement with Allyson.”
“Or what?” the reporter sneered.
“I don’t know,” Flanagan said, inhaling and exhaling smoke. “I don’t know if I should come to Sydney and stick a shotgun up your arse or if I should just get my lawyer – Allyson’s brother-in-law – to write to your producers about your shoddy ethics.”
“There’s nothing unethical about what I did,” Tricia said.
“If I know Allyson, it’s one thing: there’s no way she was doing this without a pay packet in sight. You do know she was only sixteen, right?”
“Sixteen turning seventeen on September 4.”
“Still a minor, honey,” Flanagan replied. “How were you going to handle that?”
“We discussed a variety of options. Frankly, her story was too good to turn down, Mr Flanagan. Whatever her testimony, we agreed she wouldn’t be identified. Her parents didn’t have to be informed. My lawyers will attest to that.”
“Well, they might try,” Flanagan said. “How were you going to pay her?”
“It was Allyson’s idea,” Tricia said slowly, the whole thing teasing out of her like a long, well-fed tapeworm. “We agreed to sign a document entitling her to a lump sum payment on her eighteenth birthday, which is in a little under year’s time, if I recall.”
“Fuck,” Flanagan said hoarsely. “How much?”
Tricia sighed, knowing she was beyond the point of bothering to conceal that final, tiny damning detail.
“Fifty thousand dollars. That’s just a drop compared to what she’d get for magazine rights to the story of her underage romp with a star footballer.”
“You people sicken me,” Flanagan said. “I knew I never liked journalists, but I’ve never actually met one till now.”
“If it’s that repugnant to you, Mr Flanagan, I trust you’ll never purchase a newspaper or turn on the nightly news again?”
Flanagan slammed the phone down so hard it bounced from the receiver and went flying across the room, caroming off the table and disappearing over the edge. Borderline to hyper-ventilation, Flanagan looked up shirtless to see Teneille in the doorway.
“I see what you meant now about making yourself at home,” she said.
*
THEY TALKED, BUT Flanagan was yet to learn how to sit and listen. He had too many opinions and too many regrets. He could tell by the look on Teneille’s face the experience was less than satisfactory.
“If it’s any compensation, Lord believes you,” Flanagan said.
“Yes, maybe he does now,” Teneille answered slowly. “But what about you? You knew all along, didn’t you?”
“It’s different, Teneille. I was there. Hopkins as much admitted what was going on.”
“I still wish Lord accepted it straight away,” Teneille said. “He didn’t want me to go to the papers about Allyson.”
“He may have been right,” Flanagan said, wincing to see the crushing effect of his words. “From what I read, it gave Franco a free shot to run her down. No wonder the police aren’t taking it seriously, knowing she’s run away before. And that wasn’t the first time, was it?”
“It was just overnight, a couple of times, she didn’t come home. . . .”
“It’s enough for them. The Girl Who Cried Wolf. If a dickhead footballer and a leading criminal figure are the ones fingered, there’s not much the pigs can do without some kind of evidence.”
“So what do we do, then?” Teneille asked, frustration pitching her voice into the rafters.
“We? Nothing. You need to get off whatever medication you’ve been offered and be ready,” Flanagan said.
“Be ready?” She laughed hoarsely. “Is that all the use I am? For what?”
“For when Allyson comes home.”
*
FLANAGAN RETRIEVED HIS phone from the floor of the car. Needing a charge, it still showed Pringdegar had rung three more times. Flanagan carried the phone back into the house and sat while Teneille ran a bath.
In Flanagan’s hand was a scrap of paper with a number in pencil. The number rang twice before it was answered by a gruff voice.
“Rambo speaking.”
Flanagan almost smiled. The pregnant pause turned into an awkward silence, Flanagan’s eyes watering as he thought about the bearded bikers and their contraband van.
“Sorry mate. Wrong number.”
He sighed as he hung up.
“Maybe another time.”
“Who was that?”
Teneille stood in the French doors between the kitchen and living room, nothing except a towel and loose hair keeping her decent.
“Your friendly neighbourhood arms dealer,” Flanagan told her.
“Jeez. Don’t ever try and woo chicks with danger, Mick. It sends me cold.”
Flanagan turned on the pine chair so his back was to her.
“I wouldn’t even dream of it. Go have your shower.”
Flanagan stared resolutely at the Nokia’s small window until she left.
*
IF IT WAS a premonition of summer, the heat only served to remind Flanagan of where he’d come from. Coogee was far from the jungles of Borneo, West Papua or the Golden Triangle, but sitting in Teneille’s car with the Colt Python loaded in his lap lent a certain nostalgic air to the proceedings. The question was whether things had been simpler, back in Asia. He’d craved home after all that time abroad, and worse, wished desperately to relent of the life he’d chosen. Yet life and hindsight always had a “grass is greener” veneer. Nothing, he was learning, was ever simple.
Franco’s house for example.
The mansion looked impregnable. Even if the Fairmont hadn’t refused to budge from the Tennysons’ drive, Franco’s gates looked strong enough to rebuff anything short of the most military of ram raids. Flanagan had stealth and intrusion countermeasures training up the wazoo, but something like Franco’s place required technology he simply didn’t possess. The days of getting by with a paperclip and an old credit card were long gone.
So he sat in the car, fuming, imagining a Barrett sniper rifle sight every time he glimpsed movement in an upper window or when a hedge rustled. He had thought at least Charlie had taken care of the dog, but two more of the creatures had sprung up to replace the one lost to shotgun practice the previous month. As far as Flanagan could tell, the new ones shared the one little house and bowl.
After half an hour, the front door opened above the curling concrete staircase and a big, tracksuit-clad figure appeared. RJ lifted a pair of expensive-looking binoculars from around his neck and hefted them Flanagan’s way. It only served to make Flanagan grit his teeth and turn the ignition. RJ lowered the sights, and lifted a tentative hand, as if waving to a recalcitrant friend. Flanagan exhaled heavily, most of it through his sneering nose, and whirled the sporty Jap car in a tight circle before firing down the street the other way.
TWENTY-FOUR
IF TERMINATOR 2 had taught him anything, it
was always check for the obvious first. Just like car keys hidden in the most banal places, Flanagan didn’t rule out Brett Hopkins might be listed in the residential phone book. The only problem he had was knowing whether he was pleased or disappointed when he saw the star footballer wasn’t.
He knew a real private investigator would have all sorts of tricks and contacts to help him find where Hopkins lived without driving out to Peter Roosveldt’s place and bashing the information out of him. Unfortunately, Flanagan still hadn’t done the TAFE course as an enquiries agent yet. If he was in the field and on the job in his previous life, he’d have the Australian government and unprecedented access to the files of any citizen he wished. Overseas, like on the streets of half-lawless Dili and the netherworld of bars and back room drug dens in the Golden Triangle, money and force were a powerful combination, an “information laxative”, as a friend once called it – and a narcotic in their own right. And he missed them like the strong drug they were, faced with this new personal search.
The lights were on at Roosveldt’s pad. As Flanagan parked Teneille’s Civic across the street, the apartment gate clicked open and a pair of laughing girls in short shorts and off-the-shoulder t-shirts staggered into the night leaning into each other, their mirth a shared burden and quite possibly at Peter Roosveldt’s expense. Flanagan had only known women to laugh like that when confronted with the latest in hopeless male behaviour.
If Roosveldt was in a bad mood now, his night was about to get much worse.
Flanagan was through the gate before it latched shut and at the front door a skipping heartbeat later. Thumping with the underside of his curled fist, Flanagan went in as Roosveldt pulled the latch and revealed a put-upon expression with his hang-dog face.
“Jesus!”
Two lefts into the ribs and a right cross saw Roosveldt skitter backwards across the tiled entry. There was a bloke sitting on the far couch down in the sitting room, pulling his eyes with surprise from the two plastic blondes eating each other out on the big-screen TV. Flanagan caught only a glimpse of the matte automatic as the wannabe hood tugged the weapon free of his waistband. Flanagan snatched up the lightweight wine rack from the entrance, spilling thongs and trainers across the floor, and hurled the whole thing like the world’s most awkward Frisbee. The wooden lattice took the bloke in the face and chest and the handgun went over the back of the couch.
Hard Light- Infamous Page 17
