by Helene Young
‘She drives an oversized escort, was due home tonight. Her phone’s going to message bank. No one from the company will take my call.’
Noah felt relief. ‘The driver of the escort is fine. He’s on the other side with one of my colleagues.’
‘They work in pairs, you frickin’ moron,’ the man snarled.
Noah let it go. People regularly swore at him in these situations. He felt like doing the same some days.
‘So, come and give me her details and I’ll see if I can find her for you.’ If she was the driver of the escort vehicle behind the oversize truck, then DNA was going to be required before they would be able to identify her. ‘Constable, give me five, then you can go and have a break.’
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ the young man replied. He was brand new and this was probably his first major accident. It never really got any easier, but the first was by far the worst.
It took Noah several phone calls to ascertain that the man’s daughter was stuck in the traffic jam to the south of the scene still leading her oversize truck. There’d been six trucks with mining gear on the move in convoy tonight. Mobile phone reception was patchy at best so it had taken a call to the escort company to reach them via radio. Noah watched the relieved father do a U-turn and head home. The line of cars and trucks stretched over the rise and disappeared into the night. With a nod at a couple of men smoking cigarettes and lounging on the bonnet of a ute, he trudged back to the roadblock.
‘Off you go, Constable. Sit in the patrol car and grab half an hour. I’ll wake you when I need you.’
‘If you’re sure, Sarge.’
‘Go or I might change my mind.’ Noah replied with a quick smile.
He walked over to the closest knot of people. It was time to see if there were any witnesses who might be able to shed some light on it.
‘G’day, folks. Hell of a night and I’m afraid it’s going to be quite some time before the road opens again.’
There was a general murmuring and a shuffling of feet. ‘Anyone see a BP oil tanker on the road tonight?’
‘I did.’ A man wearing shorts and a ratty singlet nodded. ‘A BP tanker passed me going like a cut snake. Not long after I saw the freakin’ great flash in the sky. Wasn’t much I could do once I got here. This bloke called it in.’ He gestured at a young guy who was covered in filth. ‘We did what we could, but most of them?’ His shrug said it all. Most of the victims were caught in the initial explosion. Those first on the scene were driven back by the intensity of the flames and from the marks on their cars they’d all sustained some sort of blast damage.
‘And the dickheads in that black LandCruiser were just as bad,’ the younger man said.
‘Idiots, all right.’ Another driver chimed in. ‘Driving like they owned the friggin’ road. They overtook me and the tanker in one hit. I don’t know what the hell went on, but it looked like they pulled in front of the tanker and then hit the skids. Thought he’d lost it the way the back end fishtailed. They both took off like scalded cats. I lost sight of them until this.’ He waved at the crash scene.
‘Is that right?’ The first man spoke again. ‘Maybe the tanker was chasing them. He was flashing his lights as they both came up behind me, then they all overtook me on freakin’ double white lines.’
‘Really?’ Noah’s fatigue had melted away. There might be many black four-wheel drives on the road and this probably had nothing to do with anything, but there were too many coincidences right now for his liking. ‘No chance of a rego, I guess?’
‘Nah, sorry, mate. Bit dark and a bit too late in the evening for me to notice stuff like that.’
‘If it’s the same one I sat behind for a while, it was 158 SOL.’ A woman wearing a uniform with patches on her sleeves spoke up. ‘I’m security with Sea Swift in Gladstone.’ She gave a nervous smile, looking embarrassed as everyone stared at her. ‘I read numberplates, make up rhymes. It keeps me awake. The way he was driving I’d turned it into 158 Stayed Out Late. Figured he was going to get an earful for being home so late.’
The men managed tired chuckles. Anything was a relief at a time like this.
Noah tried hard not to smile as he pulled out his notebook and wrote it down. It was unexpected information like this that made policing satisfying. ‘Thanks. I’ll just go call it in. I’ll be back to take some statements.’ They nodded and went back to discussing the latest development, the security guard now the centre of attention.
He tapped the numbers into the system and hit send. In less than a minute the information flashed up. It was a black Toyota LandCruiser registered with AVIS rental cars. Shortly after control verified it had been rented from Bundaberg airport by a Mr Grigory Orlov who’d flown in on a scheduled flight from Brisbane two days ago. His home address was in Sydney. Noah hung up and then sat for a moment joining more dots in his head. Darcy might well have saved Tyrone Hillsmith for now, but if these guys were desperate enough to cause a traffic accident, then they weren’t going to stop until they found him. He needed time to do some more digging, but that wasn’t going to be tonight.
He dialled her number and she answered almost immediately.
‘Noah, where are you?’
‘Still at the crash. It’s a mess. Beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. We’ve got more resources coming, but it’s in the middle of nowhere with huge traffic jams in either direction. You all right?’
‘Yes, but I’m worried. Got your pen and paper handy?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Conor Stein.’ She spelled it out. ‘One N. His wife and daughter were gunned down in Sydney two years ago.’
‘Fuck.’ Noah ran a hand around the back of his neck. ‘No wonder they had him in protection. What a screw-up.’
‘It gets worse. He used to be Rod Reeves’ financial controller. You remember the jerk that was best mates with Stirling?’
‘I do indeed. He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment.’
‘Well, that’s the court case Conor’s due to appear at as star witness in two weeks.’
‘No wonder they want him safe.’
‘He reckons the other target is Stirling and the Stallions.’ Her voice sounded shaky.
’You’re kidding me?’ Noah didn’t know what to say. Was all that dirty linen about to be aired in public?
‘I wish I was. I got a little heated tonight so he told me some of it. I still don’t think it’s enough to make someone shoot his family so there’s obviously more.’
‘And he’s still with you?’
‘Yep, but I reckon he would have done a runner if I hadn’t locked the gates. Probably only a matter of time before he realises the fences aren’t exactly secure. So how soon can you get here?’
‘Darce, I have no idea. I’m the most senior cop here and it’s going to take a bloody long time to clear this mess up. I’ll let the two New South Wales boys know. Maybe you could arrange to meet them at the airport?’
‘I don’t have my phone charger so let’s not assume I’ll have a phone. My iPad’s doing better. Email me if the phone’s diverting.’
‘What about the charger in your car?’
‘We had to borrow Reggie’s old car, from up the road. I could hardly stroll past the two men and take my ute.’
‘Right.’ Noah could feel the vein in the side of his temple pulsing. ‘I know that I don’t need to tell you that this is no joke. I’ll see what I can track down in between sorting out this mess. Text me if anything changes. What about work tomorrow?’ He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Make that today.’
‘Rosie’ll cover me. Oh, and one more thing: apparently Stirling has decided to pay me a visit tomorrow. Should be here just after lunch.’
‘Really? Darcy . . .’ He swallowed. The radio sprang to life next to him almost drowning out Darcy’s words.
‘It can’t all be a coincidence, can it? But you’re busy. Keep in touch and stay safe, big buddy.’
‘And you, Darcy.’ But he was already talking
to a dead line.
18
Conor watched Darcy walk outside again. He couldn’t miss the distress in her face. She carried a weight too heavy for her slim shoulders and elfin face. Her reserved veneer hid a warm and caring woman who had little reason to love or laugh yet managed to do both in spades.
And Noah? He didn’t doubt the policeman carried a torch for Darcy, but she was so prickly on the subject that Conor wasn’t sure they’d ever bridge that gap. A selfish part of him admitted that if he survived this court case, if he could see a future without fear, then he’d be back in Banksia Cove with the sole purpose of winning Darcy Fletcher’s heart.
He got to his feet and headed for the room with its narrow bed. It was a long way from goose-down quilts, Egyptian cotton sheets and ducted central heating. If he’d known three years ago what he knew now, would he still have turned whistleblower? The uncomfortable truth was that without a doubt he would have found another exit strategy, another way out of the mess, one that didn’t have such a high price. Annabel, talented caring Doctor Annabel, was always so determined, so brave, and behind him every step of the way once he’d explained the reality of the crime he’d helped cover up. He saw many of his wife’s qualities in Darcy, a younger, feistier version of Annabel. Maybe that’s why he’d been stupid enough to kiss her.
He lay down on the bed, pulled the towel over his legs and squeezed his eyes shut against the wave of longing. He knew he’d probably never feel the soft warmth of a woman again, never share the intimacy, the emotional connection of loving and being loved. It was something he’d missed intensely for the last two years.
But even more intense was the deep loss, the ache he felt for his daughter, beautiful, ethereal Lily, whose life ended before she’d even reached her teens. Lily, whose dream was to be a ballerina, never had the chance to do more than wear her new satin pointes and dance in the ballet school productions. Lily, whose breathless laughter squeezed his heart every time he heard it, would never run across the room and fling herself into his arms again. He’d never smell the fresh apple of her favourite shampoo or taste the chocolate cake batter as she shared the beaters with him.
He’d grieved for his girls alone as he was shunted from safe house to safe house, knowing his sudden disappearance hurt not just his own parents but also Annabel’s family. They blamed him for the death of their daughter and granddaughter and his absence only leant weight to that.
Tears trickled across his temples and onto the mattress. At least he and Annabel had made the decisions together. Lily had no say. Rod Reeves and Stirling Fletcher would pay the price for their sins. That Stirling’s daughter had saved him, enabling him to seek an eye for an eye, seemed like poetic justice.
But first he had to survive long enough to make it to court and give evidence. He figured it was close to an eighteen-hour drive from Bundaberg to Sydney. What was more prudent? Stay around here, then fly down for the hearing? Or maybe try and lose himself in the vast country between here and Sydney on a road trip? Perhaps it was better to hop on a bus or hitch a lift and get there early, find somewhere to hole up?
Of course the reality was that without identification and money, he really didn’t have many options. Darcy was right. He could contact his lawyer, but there was a risk she’d in turn contact the police, just to reassure them he was safe and that he would be there at the trial. Who knows what reaction that might provoke? But he didn’t want the court case to be cancelled because the police were worried he wouldn’t show up. He’d have his day in court and hopefully any conviction would open the door on more information about Annabel and Lily’s killer. Putting the men who ordered it in jail would only be part of the justice. He wanted more.
He still had a great deal of money locked up in overseas banks and investments. When he’d turned the evidence over to the Australian Crime Commission, part of the deal had been to safeguard his own future and that of his family. He didn’t want to live on the poverty line because he’d eventually done the right thing. Most of his money had come from hard work, Annabel’s and his. Yes, they’d had a couple of spectacular family holidays on the proceeds of a couple of big bets he’d made on matches that were a certainty, but for the most part he didn’t gamble. He prided himself on analysing the risks. How could he have got the biggest calculation so wrong?
That horrible day when the police, with their serious faces, came to his office would always be with him. He relived it now as sleep eluded him.
He remembered being on the phone, gazing at the panoramic view of Sydney Harbour, when he heard his office door opened. He turned with a frown to find his receptionist flanked by two men in suits.
‘Mate, got to go,’ he said, hanging up on a friend.
‘Mr Conor Stein?’ One of the detectives walked forwards with his hand extended. ‘Detective Reynolds. My colleague, Detective Brown.’
‘Please, sit down. What can I do for you?’ he asked, feeling his stomach rolling with fear even as he struggled to stay calm.
‘Mr Stein, there’s been a shooting. I’m sorry, but we believe it’s your wife and daughter.’
‘No.’ Willing himself to stay strong, he tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t work. ‘Annabel? Lily? It can’t be. They’d be at home by now.’ He glanced at his watch. Five sixteen. ‘Ballet lessons are finished.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ There was more talk, platitudes. None of it stayed in his memory until the moment they stood to leave.
‘Mr Stein,’ Reynolds said, ‘I know it’s difficult, but we need to positively identify them. Is there someone . . . someone else?’
‘No.’ Conor shook his head. ‘No, it’s the least I can do for them.’
The drive to the morgue was a blur. Inside the air-conditioned building he followed the men and a morgue assistant to a sterile-looking sitting room with a large window covered by a curtain. After a murmured conversation the curtain was drawn back and Conor found himself looking at his wife lying on her side on a metal gurney. A round hole through her temple was clearly visible, but they’d covered half her face with gauze. Her left arm was clear of the sheet. Familiar rings sparkled on her hand, a hand that had healed, nurtured, that now lay lifeless on her hip. He reached out, placed his hand against the glass, his chest clasped in iron bands and vomit rising in his throat. He swallowed convulsively, struggling to maintain a thread of self-control. He would never smooth her hair back from her high forehead again, never again comfort her after a day when life was impossibly cruel, never again see the look of wonderment in her eyes as the power of love tipped her over the edge in a shadowy dawn. Never again.
‘Sir? Can you identify this person as your wife, Annabel Stein?’
Conor remembered looking at Reynolds, unable to do anything but nod, his vision blurring as tears trickled down his cheeks. The curtains swung closed, leaving him staring at the dull beige folds, his chest heaving with an emotion too large to contain.
He felt a hand under his elbow and realised he was swaying.
‘Would you like a break?’
Conor shook his head. He needed to do this, get it over with. Reynolds nodded to the assistant and the curtains opened again.
‘Lily,’ he whispered, certain he couldn’t feel any more pain. Yet seeing his daughter lying there, looking as though she were asleep, stripped the strength from his legs. Reynolds caught him before he collapsed, but still he remembered sliding to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and sobbing as only a grieving father can, and knowing that he was the reason they lay dead.
He’d made it through their funeral by the barest of margins, knowing, as he’d read their eulogy with a faltering voice, that a security cordon ringed the church. The cops had wanted a private funeral, but he owed Annabel and Lily this one last honour. He owed Annabel’s parents the chance to speak of their great love and loss. Her father’s speech had given him the courage he needed to walk away from his life and into witness protection. His father-in-law’s closing lines had reduced the con
gregation to tears. ‘They will live forever in our hearts, as will the knowledge that they died too young with dreams unfulfilled, their potential unrealised. We will continue to love Annabel and Lily as though they are with us still, knowing they are already safe with God, for how could he not gather his angels home again?’
After the funeral Conor Stein had ceased to exist. Tyrone Hillsmith was born. His last meeting with Annabel’s father had been tense. Her mother had been too distraught to see him. Her father was a criminal lawyer and knew all too well what was happening, even if Conor couldn’t explain it. By implication he also knew that Conor’s action had caused their deaths. As they shook hands one last time he’d looked Conor in the eye. ‘Find the courage to fix it. At least be man enough for that.’
After that, the internet had become his lifeline, his world a small computer screen. He left Sydney, went to Melbourne, but he found the loneliness overwhelming. They moved him to Newcastle where he rekindled his love of surfing and of sailing. The water brought some solace. He purchased Phoenix. She was a cutter with beautiful lines and white sails that filled him with optimism. When the call came that his files had been accessed and his cover was blown, he didn’t hesitate. His life couldn’t be any lonelier afloat. He left no forwarding address and sailed all the way to the tip of Cape York. Next stop would have been Papua New Guinea and another new life. He wasn’t going back.
He vividly remembered the night he was sitting in the Gateway Hotel on Thursday Island watching TV and talking to people for the first time after many weeks at sea. The Footy Show was on the big screen and suddenly there was Stirling Fletcher in all his carefully groomed imposing style talking about how clean his team was. Conor’s blood felt like liquid fire as it pumped through his body. His father-in-law’s words echoed in his head. Be man enough for that.
He restocked Phoenix and began the arduous task of sailing back down the coast, beating into the south easterlies and battling strong wind warnings. Seeing Stirling so lauded galvanised him into searching for more evidence and that’s when he stumbled upon the fact that Stirling had taken a provincial team of part-time rugby league players all the way to the top of a State competition with Rod Reeves as his assistant coach. He’d found a reference to Stirling going on coaching exchange to San Francisco and a photo of a smiling Stirling at a sporting event with several high-profile American athletes. It didn’t take much research to discover that the athletes had subsequently been banned for drug use. For him it was proof enough that Stirling and Rod had been giving their team performance-enhancing drugs long before the use of them became so widespread. What else was hiding out in Banksia Cove that might help to nail them?
