by Garry Disher
Jesus Christ, the man said.
They had driven him to a dark corner of a hotel carpark. Five minutes and one hundred dollars later, Stolle and Mostyn had known for certain that Wyatt and the Reid woman had a job ready to go. After that it was a matter of watching and waiting.
They had watched and waited for a week. Little happened in the early days. The three men met twice for short periods. Anna Reid did not appear again but, curiously, Wyatt staked out her house a couple of times. Other than that he stayed low, moving hotels every couple of days. Then, on the Wednesday and again on the Friday, Wyatt had staked out a house in East Brisbane and followed the man who lived there to the bank. The manager, Stolle discovered later.
On Saturday, Stolle saw the three men go shopping. When they stole the cars on Sunday, he knew they were getting ready to strike.
It was time to stop leaving a paper trail. Using cash and fake papers, Stolle had rented a Range Rover mounted with a bullbar. Hed need something with muscle for what he had in mind.
This morning, early, Wyatt and the others had moved. When Stolle saw them go straight to the managers house, he knew at once how they planned to get into the bank. When they left in the silver Volvo, he followed, leaving Mostyn to deal with the hostage taker. Mostyn with his clever hands.
Now it was three hours later, and the money was all his.
On his way out of the city, hed paid for courier delivery of a package. It hadnt far to go. Police HQ. Call it insurance, call it payback.
Next stop, the International Room at the Flamingo. Where your big-money boys like to play.
Stolle was grave for a moment. A shame about Mostyn.
Then he whooped and giggled and slapped his knee again.
* * * *
Thirty-eight
If it had been anything elsecomputer fraud, stealing from a trust accountshe might have got bail, but this was armed robbery and the police argued that there was an unacceptable degree of risk that she would abscond. So it was remand in a new, privately-owned womens prison complex in Inala, and Anna wondered if Wyatt would get to her eventually, revenge for the grief shed caused him in the past, the grief he was blaming her for now.
At least she knew now that he was alive. For a while, shed thought he was dead. Shed heard a couple of news flashes on the tiny radio shed taken to work, and tried to piece it together. There had been a gun battle at the bank: two men dead, a third escaped with a limited amount of money from the vault, and then news that a man was dead in a separate but related incident at the university.
She had felt her control slipping away. She was partnered to three men and there had been three bodies. No names, no indication of what had gone wrong. One of those men could have been Wyatt, and in the minutes before the lift door opened she had allowed herself a prayer or two, a tribute.
She had not believed in forever with him, not even in the afterglow of the kind of lovemaking that told her sex could be more than just a quick loss of joy. But she had believed in six months, a year. And, a long time ago, three months ago in Melbourne, he had said they could work together, that he had jobs lined up where a woman would be needed. Three months, in which there hadnt been a day when she didnt want to taste again his bitterness, watchfulness and buried humour.
She remembered what it had been like, seeing him again at the bus station lockers after Stolle had delivered him to her. His angular face showing too many lines of strain and exhaustion around the eyes; the hard quickness of his body, poised ready to escape or fight. Clearly hed had a hard time of it on the run, held together by fortitude and nothing else, dancing on thin ice for so long that he was almost through to the chilling black water underneath.
Later, at the bistro in the mall, it had been hard work. There had been something unrelenting and final about the way hed watched her, quite still, eyes dark and hooded. If shed been hiding anything from him she would not have been able to withstand his scrutiny at all. If hed sensed the smell of something wrong in her story, in her head, he would have killed her, shed been certain of it.
And he still might, one day. He would never forgive or forget and the damage was irreversible.
He hadnt touched her at the bistro. He hadnt even touched her for some minutes when he came to her house. But when he did, a hand on each flank, hands flat and wide and highly charged, the jolt had gone straight to the base of her stomach, and shed watched the layers of caution peel away, letting the man inside surface.
Shed wanted a future with Wyattsix months, a year. She was never one to tie herself to men whose steps were small and delicate, one after the other.
And now shed lost it and it hadnt been her fault.
The questions had started almost immediately. Detectives from the armed robbery squad questioned her in relays, first at the City Watchhouse, then at the prison. They wouldnt tell her what had happened; they wouldnt tell her how they knew she was involved.
They had photographs.
Shed been stripped of her corporate outfitstockings, skirt, silk shirtdecked out in a prison issue tracksuit and cheap canvas runners, and taken to an interview room where a dozen glossy black and whites were fanned out over the table.
Carafe of water. Three glasses. Ashtray. Three chairs around the table: one that she was pushed into, one for the man who sat opposite her, one for the female detective who preferred to stand behind her, leaning her cheaply perfumed head close to Annas from time to time.
A second woman waited at the door.
The man was called Vincent, the woman Clyne. Lets start again, Vincent said.
Clynes warm, stale breath stirred the hair at Annas neck. Some names.
One by one, Vincent spun several photographs around with the tips of his fingers. Two grainy, long-distance shots of Riding and Phelps in the motel carpark; a couple more of them in a car outside a shop; two sharp close-ups of men shed never seen before, both lying dead in pools of their own blood, one on a carpet in a building, one on gravel somewhere.
Whoever took those night shots knew what he was doing, Vincent said. Telephoto, infra-red, the works.
I dont know who these people are. Ive never seen them before.
Oh please, said Vincent wearily. The detective was small and buttoned-down and clerkish; they both were.
Never seen them.
Silently Vincent spun a further two photographs toward Anna. She saw herself at the door of the motel, letting Riding in, letting Phelps in.
I can meet friends if I want to.
Clyne leaned over her shoulder and stabbed a bitten-down forefinger on the men at the motel. This man was found shot dead at the bank. We know who he is, Jeffrey Riding. This man she indicated Phelps is also known to us: Brian Phelps. Were currently looking for him.
Vincent pointed to the photographs of the dead men. This man was also killed at the bank, and this one was found dead at the university. We dont know who they are.
He paused. Two further photographs lay face down in front of him and now he turned one of them over. But the man were most interested in is this one.
Wyatt leaving the motela grainy, blurred shot, not helped by the automatic caution that governed everything he did, for he had his collar up, a cap over his, brow, dark-rimmed glasses on his face.
Anna chanced a question. So you knew about this all along? Youve been watching?
Vincent looked around her shoulder at Clyne. A signal passed between them and the woman breathed on Annas neck again: Looks like youve got some enemies out there, Anna. We got this lot by courier just a couple of hours ago. An anonymous note with it.
Vincent leaned forward. Anna felt herself cringing. They both had her hemmed in with their body heat. A citizen doing his duty? Vincent asked. A rival gang? You tell us.
In a way its no skin off our nose, Clyne said behind her. Weve got enough here to make a case stick against you. Well find a way to explain the incidental bodies
They all belong to your gang, for example, Vincent said. You all had a falling ou
t.
and case closed, Clyne concluded. Once we find Phelps and this other character.
Phelps will be easy.
Its this other man, Clyne said. Him were really interested in. Interests you as well, eh, Anna? Something going on there?
Anna drew her neck into her shoulders to escape the woman behind her. I havent had my phone call. Im entitled to a lawyer.
Not if we have good reason to believe youll tip off your accomplices, Vincent said.
He turned the other photograph over. Wyatt was still indistinct but clearly holding her shoulders on the South Bank on that Sunday afternoon a week ago. Stolle, Anna thought. Who else apart from the police had the know-how to run a surveillance like that? He saw what we were up to and got curious and greedy.
Is he good, Anna? Clyne breathed, reaching over to tap Wyatts face. Give you a good time, does he?
Vincent leaned back, folded his arms. Hold onto your memories, sweetheart. Hes the last bit of dick youll have for a long, long time.
Attractive woman like you, Clyne said, all that lovely hair, unmarked skin, good education, nice manners, proper way of speakingyou know how long someone like you will last in here?
Anna said nothing. Shed been wondering exactly that but she said nothing.
Dont talk, dont trust, dont feel, thats what its going to be like from now on. But that wont save you. Theres an element in here that hates what you represent. The merest hint that youre waving your tits or arse around, theyll shaft you.
Or maybe theyll pussy-tame you. You might even get to like it, Vincent said.
Shed be better off not flaunting it, though, dont you think?
Oh, absolutely.
Anna tried to let the words run off her back and sink into the hard floor. It was cruelty and gutter talk from a couple of people who looked like adherents to a fundamentalist church and she would not let it get to her. She closed her mouth in a thin line and did not speak again.
Clyne said, Come on, Anna. Who is he?
Are you scared? Maybe we could arrange something, some protection, Vincent said. What do you think, Lesley?
The woman at the door wore the nastiest suit Anna had ever seen. It was electric blue, a vampish 1950s film star outfit in polyester. She came and sat near Anna and smiled a smile of hard falsity at her.
Vincent stood up, stashing the photographs in a vinyl briefcase. DC Clyne and I are going now. Youll be seeing us again.
They left the room. After a while, Anna forced herself to look at the woman in the blue suit. The name on the ID pinned to her lapel was Lesley Van Fleet. She wasnt government: she was employed by the corporation that ran the prison. What happens now?
You and I have a little talk.
Why should I talk to you? Youre not a cop.
Dont make it hard on yourself, Van Fleet said. Talk to me. She leaned close. Start with the money.
* * * *
Thirty-nine
Anna didnt talk. Finally Van Fleet said, Youll be sorry you didnt, and went out the door.
A custodial officer took Anna down long corridors, past a methadone dispensary, a television lounge, a library, a room for table tennis and chess. It was recreation time for the inmates and she got assessing looks, a cool challenge, one or two grins. They knew all about her and what had happened. What a bringdown, someone called.
She passed cells on the long walk. They looked bright and lived-in, books and candles on shelves, posters and cuttings on the walls, tie-dyed scarves over lampshades, the intimate indentations of the owners body on bedclothes and pillows. The cell she was shown to was small and bare.
The custodial officer shoved sheets, blankets and a pillowcase into her hands and began to walk away. Anna said, What happens now?
The officer stopped. Evie will show you the ropes. Evie, come here.
An Aboriginal woman emerged from the next cell along. Young, large-framed, intensely shy, she stared at the floor until the custodial officer had left.
Pleased to meet you, Anna said. She held out her hand. Evie touched her fingers briefly, then snatched her hand away. She kept her eyes averted, smiling a little.
So, Anna said. She shifted the bedding from one arm to the other.
Evie looked up, unable to hide her curiosity. You done that bank?
Thats what they say.
Your feller got away?
I hope so.
Evie nodded.
They stood there like that for a while. Anna sat on her mattress, foam, the cover new-looking. She pointed to a plastic chair in the corner. Have a seat.
Evie sat and looked around at the walls. Ill have to start decorating tomorrow, Anna said.
I got some pictures. Till you get your own stuff.
Thanks.
Evie came back with a slippery bundle of magazine clippings: Madonna in a bra and jeans, grinding a microphone; Demi Moore naked and pregnant; a woman with windswept hair on a wild stretch of coastline; a sleeping Labrador bitch with a tortoiseshell kitten curled against her teats.
Thanks.
Evie was wearing a tracksuit top and fished in the pockets. Sticky tape.
Thanks. Thats great.
Anna smoomed Madonna over her knee. What are you in for? Is it all right to ask?
Killed me old man.
Really?
He come home drunk and wanted to put it up me tail and bashed me when I said no. I had enough. Five years of it, so when he flaked out I stuck him in the guts.
He used to hit you?
And the rest, Evie said. Five years.
You should have got a protection order. You could have gone to a shelter.
Evie shrugged. No-one told me.
How long?
They reckoned I meant to do it, Evie replied, so I got twenty-five years.
God.
Well, I did mean to do it.
The doorway darkened. The two women looking in at Anna wore amiably mocking expressions but underneath it they had a keen, hard interest in her. They were big, lithe women, one black-haired, the other tawny, hair that was cut brutally short everywhere except for long patches along the crown. Blue-black tattoos ran the length of their bare arms, from shoulder to wrist. Silence and power; Anna was reminded of a panther and a leopard and she went tense on the edge of the bed. She wondered if Evie would protect her.
The women came in. The fair one sat next to her on the bed. A grin split her face. My names Blaze.
The panther leaned on the wall and laughed. She burns.
Anna nodded at one, then the other. Anna, she said.
We know, the panther woman said. She uncoiled from the wall and held out her hand. Im Lauris.
Anna shook hands warily with both women.
Then Lauris pointed at the clipping of Madonna on Annas knee. Evie! What are you giving her that crap for?
A giggle shook Blaze, seeming to pass through her entire body.
Femming it up, showing her tits off. Get rid of it.
Anna glanced at Evie. Evie had drawn back into herself, shy again, looking at the floor. Anna began to sort through the clippings. A sheet of notepaper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, saw broad, round handwriting, a few lines of verse that expressed a lament, an aching in the heart.
Evie snatched it from her, furiously embarrassed. Didnt know that was there.
Anna said, Did you write it?
Lauris took up a stance on the cell floor. The grin had left her face and she pointed her finger at Anna. Theres one thing youd better learn right now, lawyer lady. There are people in here who use things like that against you. Inmates, screws, they like to find personal stuff so they can twist the knife. Know what I mean?
Anna knew it would be a mistake to lose face, let herself be cowed. She got to her feet, her eyes on a level with Lauriss. And youd better learn right now that Im not one of them.
Lauris was expressionless. Then she shrugged. I guess well find that out.
Blaze said, keeping the peace, You write to keep yourself fr
om going crazy. I was in solitary for ten months. All I could see was this star and Id look out at it and write.
Ten months?
Stress showed on her face. They said I was uncontrollable.
Lauris approached the younger woman, held her head to her stomach briefly, ruffled her hair. Blaze closed her eyes and the strain vanished from her face.
