by Garry Disher
Another pause. ‘Sounds like Alan Trask, the investigator I told you about. Why do you say he’s Leah’s boyfriend?’
‘I followed her home one afternoon. He called in, stayed a few hours.’
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘If you put her up to this…’ Wyatt said.
‘I know, I know, you’ll put a bullet in each of our heads. Do you think someone saw you enter the house and called the police?’
Wyatt said, ‘No, not possible. They were waiting for me and they had backup nearby. This was organised.’
‘And the painting wasn’t there?’
Wyatt didn’t answer. He’d already told Minto that.
Minto said, ‘I swear, I have no idea what happened. Maybe Ormerod put the painting in a safe or a bank vault, and he’ll rehang it when he gets back on Monday. Somehow he got wind of things and called the police. Except…’
‘Except what?’
‘My guy in Melbourne followed him to the airport. He boarded a flight to Thailand.’
‘Pre-booked?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Find out,’ Wyatt said. He couldn’t make sense of it. If Ormerod had his passport with him on a simple interstate trip to watch a game of football, it meant he was ready to run. ‘You have police on the payroll, yes?’
‘So?’
‘Make some calls. Do they have the painting, do they have your niece in custody, do they have the boyfriend in custody, et cetera. I’ll contact you again in an hour.’
28
Leah Quarrell asked for protection. ‘I could be in danger,’ she said, standing to peer out at the backyard.
‘Sit down, Ms Quarrell,’ Snyder said.
‘Tell your boss I’m making a formal request for witness protection.’
‘Oh, witness protection, is it? Witness to what?’
‘I know things.’
‘I’m sure you do. Protection from what?’
‘People who want me dead,’ Leah said.
‘Sit down, Ms Quarrell.’
‘I’m scared,’ Leah said.
The woman joined Leah at the window. They stared through the glass at the car park, the bin and back fence, the stretch of asphalt. Paper scraps caught here and there in dark corners.
‘Please, I need protection.’
‘There’s no one out there. I’m here with you and there is an armed constable in the corridor.’
‘I’d feel better if he was stationed out the back.’
‘Sit down, Ms Quarrell. I won’t say it again.’
Leah returned to the hard-backed chair, glumly watching the plain woman seated behind her desk. She badly wanted to call Rafi. Couldn’t even risk calling him pretending she was contacting her lawyer. No one must know about him.
But as time went by and she made no contact, what would he think? She burned with questions and doubt.
Then Batten returned. Still neatly combed and ironed in his dull suit but looking irate.
He swapped places with the dyke, ignoring Leah. ‘Anything?’
‘Miss Quarrell has asked for witness protection, boss.’
‘I’ll bet she has.’
‘Boss?’ Snyder asked.
Batten was staring at Leah. ‘We’ve got shots fired, traffic chaos, one constable shot, another assaulted and an armed man on the run.’
Leah stared back, her mind racing. Wyatt would come after her for sure. ‘I could be in danger.’
Batten steepled his fingers under his sharp chin. Narrow, buttoned down. Leah was betting he’d have no imagination and give no leeway. He’d be one of those retributive Christians, she thought. Repressed about sex, for sure—he’d want it but feel guilty about it.
Leah gave him a winning smile. Maybe she could—
‘Not going to work, Ms Quarrell. Now, for the sake of argument, let’s pretend I think you’re about to tell the truth at last, and let’s pretend I care about your health and welfare. Who do you need protection from?’
‘Where do I start? I—’
‘Start with the man who broke into Thomas Ormerod’s house. Is he a danger?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Wyatt. He’s a killer. A thief.’
‘And your business with him?’
‘I don’t have business with him. My uncle has business with him.’
‘To steal a painting? A painting Trask says you stole? It’s not at your home, it doesn’t seem to be here, but was there a painting? We’re trying to contact Mr Ormerod to see if in fact a painting has been stolen, but haven’t been able to get hold of him.’
‘I didn’t steal a painting! Wyatt was hired to steal it. Look, I’m not giving you anything until you promise me protection.’
‘I’m not convinced you need it.’
‘Wyatt’s a killer. So is my uncle,’ Leah said. She paused. ‘I’m correct in assuming you’re not one of his tame cops?’
Batten curled his lip, as if he could strangle her.
Leah said, ‘Please. You know he has policemen in his pocket. If you put me in the system one of them will find me and I’ll have a nasty accident.’
‘I’ve yet to hear any useful evidence against this Wyatt or your uncle,’ said Batten amusedly, as if about one per cent of anything Leah said was worth a pinch of salt.
Leah folded her arms, set her jaw. ‘I’m not saying another thing. Get me a lawyer.’
‘But you’re not under arrest.’
‘I get it. You let me go, you follow me. Maybe I lead you to one of the others, maybe one or all of them try to kill me. Doesn’t matter, I’m expendable.’
Batten ignored that. ‘Have you any idea where he’d go? Wyatt?’
‘No. I don’t even know where he’s from.’
‘At least we know where your uncle is.’
Leah, feeling she was getting nowhere, said, ‘What am I looking at?’
‘I don’t know, Leah. What are you looking at?’
‘All my life I’ve been bullied by my uncle.’
‘Not your fault then. You’re not a free agent. You’re innocent, in fact,’ Batten said.
‘Fuck you,’ Leah said. ‘I need protection.’
‘Why would anyone hurt you? Revenge?’
‘Do they need a reason? Crazed killers…’
Batten snorted. ‘So Trask was crazed when he shot Gavin Wurlitzer?’
‘What? Who?’
‘He said you ordered it, Leah.’
Leah felt cornered. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. As for Alan Trask, he’s a wannabe bikie with a steroid habit.’
‘He said you ordered the hit on Wurlitzer, Wurlitzer being a liability, and told him to dump the body.’
‘That’s insane, I’ve never…Who is this Wurlitzer?’
Batten shook his head. ‘Wurlitzer was talking to us, Leah.’
Rafi, the painting, thought Leah despairingly. ‘I don’t even know who he is.’
‘You went to a house on Iluka Islet this morning and stole a painting. Where is it?’
Leah, dizzied by the changes in subject, wanted to rise from the chair and circle the room. She forced herself to count to ten. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, working for my uncle, and Trask watching everything I do and reporting back.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘They’re both ruthless. I’m dispensable. I’ve been frightened for years.’
The smile came from the deepest corner of the Arctic Circle. ‘Ms Quarrell, Alan Trask said that you and he are lovers, that his head was turned by you, he was led astray. He told us you’d do this, pretend to be a frightened little thing. He says you’re a monster, in fact.’
‘No. I’ve been scared for years!’
‘Tell me more about this Wyatt fellow.’
‘I don’t know anything!’
‘Your uncle kept you in the dark, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘So when we ask him, he’ll confirm your story.’
/>
Leah said with unfeigned bitterness, ‘He’s Teflon, my uncle. Nothing sticks to him.’
‘If we were to look at your movements, bank records, phone records, business records, put it all together with what we know about Trask and your uncle and the activities and death of Gavin Wurlitzer, you’ll come out squeaky clean?’
‘Yes!’
‘Or viewed another way, that same material could see you facing multiple charges and several years in jail. All you’re doing is dancing with me, Leah. Back and forth and round and round and up and down and sideways, getting nowhere.’ He leaned forward, spitting the words: ‘Give me something.’
There was a spot on the wall beside the window. Spy camera? No, just a fly. ‘I didn’t want Wurlitzer killed. I was scared of him, too, but a man like that is a coward so when Alan said he was going to deal with him I assumed he meant he’d just bash him up, the kind of thing a man like that would understand. Instead…’
‘Humane of you,’ Batten said, ‘but you’re still complicit.’
‘I want a deal. I’ll tell you where Wyatt’s staying. I’ll give you Trask and my uncle. Written records, the whole deal. But you have to accept that everything I did was under duress, I was living in fear the whole time.’
‘There’s something angelic about you, Leah. A kind of holy aura.’
Leah flushed. ‘Do you want my help or not?’
‘What were you doing in Thomas Ormerod’s house?’
‘I was never there!’
‘And this mysterious Wyatt?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Trask said he was supposed to kill Wyatt.’
‘Nothing to do with me. It’s something Alan and Uncle David or Wyatt and Uncle David worked out.’
‘The theft of a painting and the murder of the man hired to steal it.’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘But you do know where Wyatt is staying?’
‘Chapter and verse when I get a deal.’
‘I’m afraid in the meantime you’ll be charged and bailed while we sort it out.’
Leah was on her feet, frightened. ‘Are you insane? I need protection. You need to put me in a safe house.’
Batten was amused. ‘I dunno. Costly. And all you’ve given me is a promise.’
So Leah told him of her uncle’s involvement with a Sunshine Beach developer and a missing shire environment protection official. ‘He’s buried under a concrete slab,’ Leah said.
Batten said, ‘Well, it’s a start.’
‘I need to go home and pack.’
Batten laughed. ‘I thought you were going to be targeted by a dozen crazed killers? No deal, Leah. For your own safety, it’s best if you go straight to one of our safe houses. Someone will collect your things in the next day or two.’
29
Rafael Halperin had told Leah he was going stir-crazy, but that was only the half of it. He missed his wife and son, missed New York, hated this brain-dead beach resort he’d found himself in. People slopping along the street or the beach, shopping, eating. That’s all. Not a coherent thought between them.
Nodding to the doorman, he stepped out of the Flamingo Gate apartments and headed to the national park. Leah had been adamant, don’t show his face for a few days, but that was easier said than done. Besides, the national park was for the slightly more serious holiday-maker. Walkers, joggers and so on. He’d be unlikely to encounter anyone who recognised him: Minto and Sten were down on the Gold Coast, Leah was running around Noosa buying and selling real estate, and the private detective was waiting to ambush the fall guy.
As he toiled up the first slope and down to Tea Tree Bay, Halperin weighed the pros and cons of leaving now, tonight. A flight to Sydney, Qantas direct to LAX and home to New York. The painting securely crated in the hold.
Finally, safely home, arrange the sale of the painting. He’d had a pretty good nibble from an Antwerp gallery director, and veiled interest from another in Frankfurt. Once the price was confirmed and the handover was done, place the money in an offshore account and put his feet up. Practice proper law again.
But Leah Quarrell and her uncle were dangerous people. He wouldn’t put it past Leah to red-flag his name with travel agents, the airlines, luggage handlers, customs officials or airport police. He stopped, patted his pants absently, realised he’d left the pistol tucked behind a sofa cushion.
He walked on. Too risky to bolt now. Better to stick with the plan, stay on a couple more weeks, keep Leah Quarrell happy, get rid of her later.
How, though? After today, she would stick to him like glue, and when the time was right, follow him to New York, imagining some kind of life ahead. The sex was fine, but Rafi didn’t think that would last more than a few months. Anyway, it was hardly likely she’d play second fiddle to his wife.
His wife. If he’d told Leah about Dana they might not have gotten involved and there wouldn’t have been a plan to steal the painting—and he’d have gone home to his debts and anxieties. But by not telling Leah he was married, he’d got himself saddled with a crazy woman who would surely hurt him if she found out.
Could he shoot her? He slapped at his pockets for the gun again.
Finding a water fountain beside the track, Halperin drank deeply. He stepped down onto the sand of Tea Tree Bay and perched on a rock under a straggly tree. Teenage girls sunbathed on huge towels, women read paperbacks and men stared at the water and wished they were young again. The sun glinted on the horizon, but closer in the water was choppy and a howling powerboat was leaping across the wave tops, a dozen terrified tourists holding on in the back. What kind of life was it, chasing five-minute thrills in the sunshine? Halperin wore shorts, sandals and a T-shirt so he wouldn’t stand out from the locals, but all he wanted was to dress himself properly again—Armani suit, blue Oxford shirt, the Hermès tie with the ranks of tiny elephants across it—and argue points of law in a courtroom.
He stood, slapped the sand off his pants, and walked back to the park entrance. He was heading past information boards set among the trees when he smelled coffee. A tiny kiosk beside a souvenir shop, one guy working the machine. One thing Halperin would say for Australia, the coffee was okay. He ordered a double-shot latte and a blueberry muffin, raising his voice over the football commentary barfing from a portable radio behind the guy, and was counting out a couple of the local gold-coloured coins when a newsflash cut in.
Shots fired on Iluka Islet.
Keeping his voice amiable, affectless, he said, ‘Sounds like a Hollywood movie.’
‘You got that right,’ the barista said, busy with his milk-frothing machine. ‘All I want is to listen to the game, and they keep breaking in with updates. Updates, my arse. Same thing over and over again.’
‘Yeah?’ said Rafi Halperin.
‘Some guy took a coupla pot shots at the cops, there was a car chase, he got away. End of story.’
‘Any arrests? Anyone hurt?’
‘Dunno,’ the guy said, distracted by the roar and splutter of his machine.
Rafi returned to his apartment and turned on the TV. Footage of Ormerod’s house, a broad description of a gunman, people standing around a wrecked police car.
Bad idea to call Leah’s mobile. The wrong person could get his number. Halperin called the main RiverRun Realty number instead. When the receptionist answered, he adopted his father’s old country accent and said, ‘Yes, I am at house but Miss Quarrell she not here.’
‘I’m afraid Miss Quarrell is, ah, occupied for the rest of the day. May I suggest you call back on Monday and reschedule.’
‘Is pity,’ Halperin said, cutting the call.
He tried Leah’s landline in Tewantin. A male voice said curtly, ‘Leah Quarrell’s phone.’
Mangling his accent again, Halperin said, ‘Yes, pliss, I am confirm Miss Quarrell shoes ready be picked up.’
‘I’ll be sure she gets the message,’ the guy said, sounding amused.
Halperin pulled on a business
shirt and trousers and left the apartment again, walking down to Hastings Street and hailing a taxi. ‘Gympie Terrace in Noosaville.’
‘Gunna take a while.’
‘Is that a fact.’
‘We had some drama here this afternoon.’
‘Oh?’
‘They could stop and search, so be warned.’
One stop and search, at Quamby Place, the police taking one look at Halperin and waving them through. ‘Guess you passed the test,’ the driver said.
Then down towards the water and along Gympie Terrace, the cab creeping over the speed bumps. When they drew adjacent to Quarrell’s real estate office, Halperin chanced a quick glance. A uniform in the foyer, another outside the front door, a police car at the kerb. He settled back and a short while later said, ‘Sorry, change of plan, take me back to Hastings Street.’
‘Your dollar,’ the cabbie said.
Dropped at the roundabout, he walked west until he’d found a travel agent. One seat available, 3 p.m. to Sydney, but it was 2.30 now.
‘Nothing later today?’
‘All booked out,’ the travel agent said. She sounded pleased. ‘End of the school holidays, everyone’s flying home today and tomorrow.’
There was a Monday 7 a.m. to Sydney; a wait of several hours for the LA flight, however.
Halperin thought about it.
‘How about Singapore?’ Singapore was a hub. He could fly anywhere from there. Direct to London and across the Atlantic to home. So long as he could leave Australia—leave Queensland—unobserved.
Yes, she could do Singapore.
In the end he smiled, said he’d think about it, and walked out. He could hire a car and drive to Sydney. But still, there was the long reach of Leah Quarrell and her uncle. Wishing he had fake ID, Halperin returned to the Flamingo Gate apartments. If he flew anywhere, his name would appear on a database. Ditto if he applied for customs approval to ship the painting out of Australia. Proof of purchase, proof of ownership, approval from the authorities…And a similar routine when he got to the States.
He’d been relying on Leah Quarrell for all of that, and now he was stuck. What he needed was some other way to profit from the mess.
Passing a newsagency, he saw a heap of newspapers. The Courier-Mail, with a banner headline that meant nothing to him: ‘Hear the Lion Roar’. He walked on. He doubled back, bought a copy, carried it to his apartment.
