Jill made her way along the edge of the driveway, creeping through the shrubbery to avoid the crunch of the gravel on one side and the well-lit lawn on the other. When she drew parallel with the back of the house, she saw huge windows filled with light, and movement inside. She froze again. Should she try to get closer to the house? Scotty would be on the way, but she knew it would have taken him some time to wake the inspector, explain the situation and coordinate a plan of approach. The boss would probably want a search warrant before anyone came near the place. He'd have started out, but she knew he'd be a while yet.
Swaying slightly on her feet from the mental tug-of-war, Jill suddenly swore under her breath. The white-eyed girl was running down the lawn towards the ocean. Jill noticed a boatshed at the bottom of the grounds. It was a better place to wait than here, exposed. She followed her down to the water's edge.
It wasn't until Mr Sebastian told Jerome that he wouldn't be able to stop Jamaal from hurting him that Jerome managed to stop himself crying.
'He doesn't have a lot of patience, I'm afraid, Jerome,' said the big man, smiling down at him kindly. 'He particularly dislikes crying, you see. He once told me that his father would punish him when he used to cry, and now it seems that the sound of it triggers something quite ferocious in him.'
Jerome swallowed hard. Jamaal was looking at him as though he were food.
Jerome thought it was maybe an hour since the big man, Tadpole and Jamaal had entered through a heavy door into the garage. The big man had spoken first.
'Jerome, I realised only this afternoon that I have not properly introduced myself to you. My name is Mr Sebastian, and I hope that we can be firm friends.' His eyes crinkled in a friendly fashion. 'I know you've met Tadpole here' – Tadpole positively beamed – 'and this is Jamaal, who brought you to us, of course.'
Although he was ashamed of it, Jerome could not stop some hot tears falling.
'I-I want to go home.'
'Of course you do, but not before the party, young man!' Mr Sebastian continued. 'Jamaal has some clothes for you to wear, and I'm afraid you'll have to have a shower now.' He leaned forward and stage-whispered conspiratorially, 'You're starting to smell!'
Tadpole giggled.
'I . . . d-don't want to go to a party,' Jerome cried in earnest now. He felt like someone had punched him in the throat.
'Oh, but of course you do. There will be balloons and cake, lollies and chips, and you're the guest of honour, young man. Some very important men have come here to meet you. We've told them all about you. You wouldn't want them to be sad, would you?'
'N-no.'
'Of course not.'
'And then can I go home?'
'Well, that will be then, and this is now, is it not? And you've a shower to take, and a party to attend.'
It was around then that Mr Sebastian had told Jerome about Jamaal's aversion to crying.
The floodlights didn't reach the water's edge, and Jill approached the boatshed by padding quietly across the thick lawn. Boats clanked gently, rocking in the calm water where the property ended. The harbour smelt like life and death.
The white-eyed girl stood on her toes at the boatshed, peering into a rind of light around a window. Jill crept up to join her, the grass giving way to sand beneath her sneakers. The boatshed sat at the very edge of the water, a single-room wooden structure that could have been sold for twice what Jill's flat was worth. Silent, she stepped up on a rock upon which the shed was built, and peered in through a crack in some sort of window covering.
A small gasp of surprise from the white-eyed girl made Jill want to scream. Dr Mercy Merris lay on the floor of the boatshed staring unseeingly at the window through which Jill peered. Blood pooled on a white concrete floor lit by a single overhead bulb. Probably she's been knocked out, probably she's going to be okay, she tried to reassure the white-eyed girl.
Jill determinedly ignored the cabbage-sized hole of an exit wound in the middle of Mercy's chest.
There's definitely going to be a problem with her brother, thought Jamaal. The father he could talk around – Allah knew the father could manage his own women – but his wife's brother was going to be difficult. The last time his wife had got out of control, her brother had promised Jamaal he would kill him if he ever saw her bruised that way again. This time she was in Westmead Hospital with a fractured jaw. And his brother-in-law was no softcock. He'd done infantry training in Lebanon, he'd been shot twice in Sydney, and he had a lot of friends, inside and out of gaol. The brother was going to be a problem.
Jamaal knew where the blame lay, and he intended to make the bitch pay. His wife's questioning about why the cops had come to his home had been too much to bear after the interrogation that morning. He had a hard-on for Sergeant Jillian Jackson that would not go away until she was bleeding.
Now in the basement, Jamaal chewed on an antacid tablet and stared at Jerome. Just give me a fuckin' reason, his eyes told the boy. The kid didn't, showering and dressing in the small bathroom off the garage without saying another word.
Tadpole danced through the basement room, whipping himself up for the special party. He stopped mid-pirouette in the kitchen when he caught the look in Jamaal's eye.
'Coffee, Jamaal?' asked Tadpole uneasily.
Jamaal just chewed the tablet; the burning in his diaphragm remained.
'Mr Japan is going to love our little friend in there,' Tadpole continued. 'Let's just hope he doesn't love him too long 'cause Sebastian's promised me seconds.' There was a pause. 'Unless, of course, you wanted to play first, Jamaal? You found him, after all. Fair's fair.' He smiled ingratiatingly.
His face full of the acid in his gut, Jamaal left the room. I'll cut that fuckin' poofter's throat if I have to listen to any more, he thought. He'd take what he wanted when he was ready. Using the hidden stairwell, he made his way up to the house.
When the foundations had been laid for the harbourside mansion, the basement garage had been cut deep into the hill upon which it sat. There were no windows in the huge room, and it was undetectable from the outside of the property. The two entrances to the basement were also concealed, and neither was accessible unless one knew where to look. Sebastian had told him years ago that his father had bought the house in the sixties from some paranoid Jew. Along the back of the regular, above-ground, triple garage was a motorised fibro wall that slid sideways to reveal a truck-sized entry dropping to a short, sharply angled concrete tunnel. Jamaal had driven his van, with the kid in the back, down through this tunnel to the basement. A couple of other kids had made the same journey with him in the past. Enough room existed in the underground bunker to drive the van full-circle and exit back up the same way. Not many had made this journey back with him.
Tonight, however, Jamaal left the room through the second access door. He knew Sebastian did not like the door used when there were guests in the house, but it was after midnight and it was unlikely that anyone was still in the entry foyer. They'd bring the kid up to the main house this way soon. He climbed the steep wooden staircase in darkness, and pushed open the trapdoor that lay in the floor of the large coat cupboard in the lobby of the stately house. He leaned the trapdoor against the wall of the interior of the cupboard, careful to be silent, and climbed out of the hole in the floor. He stood upright and listened. He could hear nothing outside the cupboard. He cracked the door and, seeing no-one in the marble foyer, Jamaal slipped out and headed for the rear of the home.
Ten years ago, Jamaal had at first found it diverting to attempt to find the barely discernible handle in the cupboard that gave access to the basement room, but when the moments had ticked away, and Sebastian had laughed once too often, he'd lost patience. He would watch in admiration as Sebastian would instantly locate the recessed lever that lifted the trapdoor. Even after seeing it done several times, Jamaal would usually wait for Sebastian to open the door ahead of him.
As he made his way through the opulence of the house towards the lights and music in
the ballroom, he looked down at his black jeans and jumper with satisfaction. Sebastian would be pissed that he was not wearing a suit. Sebastian's other minder, that cement-head wog, would be all decked out. Arse kisser. Jamaal's wife's 'accident' would serve as an excuse for not dressing properly. He enjoyed such small moments of power over his boss.
An air of expectancy filled the ballroom. Those invited knew they were a highly select group, and the ridiculous price they had paid as their entrance fee ramped up their expectations. Sebastian had promised them all a double delight. A live boy under fourteen. And a virgin. Jamaal could see the admiration in their faces as they drank and chatted in small groups – you have to hand it to Sebastian, he could imagine them saying; how does he do it?
It'sme, he wanted to scream at them all; I got the kid. You should all be kissing my feet, you cocksuckers.
Near the fireplace, where tonight a low fire provided cosy effect rather than real warmth, Sebastian stood looking particularly pleased. He leaned against the mantelpiece, immaculately groomed in a dark suit, speaking to his Japanese guests, a middle-aged millionaire and his elderly father, both predisposed to the same pleasures. He looked up when he saw Jamaal. The light left his eyes for just a moment when he took in Jamaal's clothes. Jamaal suppressed a smile as Sebastian beckoned him over.
'My very dear friend Jamaal. May I introduce you to Mr Smith and Mr Roberts?'
The Japanese men gave a slightly drunken giggle at their Anglo pseudonyms. They were looking forward to using these names with one another in the future when they wanted to recall the particular delights of this special evening.
Jamaal nodded and smiled at the men. Another tiny frown from Sebastian. Good. Jamaal knew he was supposed to bow to these guests, but he bowed to no-one.
'Mr Roberts, Mr Smith, please excuse me for a moment,' Sebastian said, bowing, giving Jamaal a sideways glance to emphasise that this was how to greet and leave these men. 'Jamaal and I must go and attend to the entertainment for the evening. Please make yourselves very comfortable. My home is your own. We will return shortly.'
Sebastian placed a big arm around Jamaal's shoulders, and, smiling affably, guided him from the room. They entered Sebastian's study, a luxurious, masculine room that overlooked the gardens on the left side of the property.
Sebastian dropped himself into one of his corpulent leather armchairs, and reached for a long cigar from a side table. Jamaal waited for the lecture. Sebastian just kept smiling, sending jets of blue smoke into the air.
'What?' Jamaal finally had to know.
'My friend, today has been a very good day.'
Jamaal could not have agreed less. He looked forward to telling this smiling bastard about the cops' questioning early today. Why should he be the only one with a burning gut?
'You want to go first, or should I?' Jamaal asked.
'I believe I will. I think that after I have spoken, you will be less dismayed about your ordeal with the police this morning.'
'You know about that.'
'Yes, Jamaal, but we've no need to worry about them any longer.' He paused for effect, and sucked again on the cigar. 'I told you I would take care of it, and I have. You see, the person who had been drawing the police ever closer to our world is now lying dead in the shed at the bottom of the garden.'
Jamaal started to the window, but he could not see the boatshed from this room. He turned back to Sebastian, stunned.
'I know!' Sebastian beamed at the look on Jamaal's face. 'I shot her myself. This evening. Just half an hour ago, in fact. I've had time for a lovely bath and to greet my guests, and all in all, I'm greatly looking forward to tonight.'
'Her? A woman?'
'Yes, yes. A female psychotherapist. She was very good, I believe. At one time, half of the Mosman tennis club was delving into their mummy-issues with her. She's been watching our activities for some time, and could really have hurt us very much. Fortunately, Jamaal,' he blew more smoke, 'I've taken care of that problem.'
Jamaal just stared at his boss. How did this guy get away with everything? Still, he thought, this was good news for both of them. He realised that his stomach didn't hurt so much any more. And there was more to come.
'Tonight, my friend, will be a celebration in more ways than one,' Sebastian continued. 'Although this bitch is dead, she has attracted more attention to us than is desirable. I've decided to sell this house and change the way we conduct our business. I'd like to be more . . . virtual about the way we do things from now on. I've determined that we shall expand our internet interests, and disband our little club. We can conduct such a business from anywhere on the planet, Jamaal, and frankly, I'm growing tired of Sydney at the present time. In short, my friend, what say you to a bit of a holiday, an extended overseas vacation?'
Jamaal just smiled. Praise Allah. Fuck my brother-in-law and my fat, lazy wife. He knew he was smart for staying loyal to Sebastian. Rewards come to those who wait, he reminded himself.
'That is good news, boss,' Jamaal said. 'I would like that very much. For now, though, I should go down to the shed. Make sure everything's tidy down there.' He wanted a look. They both knew it, and each understood the compulsion well.
'Thank you, Jamaal. I'd appreciate it very much, you know. Don't be too long, though. When you get back here we'll see the evening off with a bang.' He cleared his throat and smiled jovially. 'So to speak.'
Jill crouched behind the rocky outcrop upon which she'd stood to peer into the boatshed, her back to the water, her face to the house. She'd sent the white-eyed girl packing with a sharp mental shake. This is no time for nightmares, she told herself.
A glance at her watch told her that Scotty should be arriving soon. He and the others would approach the house from the street; go in through the front doors with the warrant. For the fortieth time she wished she'd had the good sense to bring her radio or phone from the car. She knew what she'd rather have, however; and she adjusted the heavy weight of her gun in her pocket.
She figured she'd wait down here until she saw the cops' lights, and then make her way back up towards the house. She hoped Sebastian or Jamaal would run down this way, trying to escape the police at the front door. She'd be ready.
Jill alternately stretched her thighs. While she waited for Scotty, she listened to Sydney Harbour breathing behind her back.
She pretended the white-eyed girl was not crouched on the sand beside her.
Jamaal left the house through the French doors in Sebastian's office in time to see the sensor lights at the opposite side of the building click off. He frowned. Who's out here? he wondered. The guests knew they weren't to go out the back of the building. Sebastian's nearest neighbours were Ethel and Beatrice Graham, a pair of spinster sisters who made it their mission in life to gossip about their neighbours with other neighbours. They would also call the police the moment a gathering became more audible than the gulls and the boats. The guests knew that within the house they were welcome to indulge in whatever took their fancy, but were not to venture outside unaccompanied. Even so, during past gatherings, Jamaal had several times had to usher the shy or the secretive out of the backyard and back into the ballroom.
He decided to go around the front of the house first, to ensure they had no uninvited guests. The front lawns stood darkly serene. The night slept quietly. He made his way around the other side of the house, avoiding the sensors for the spotlights he'd installed. Nothing around here. He inched to the rear of the home, moving through darkness, pressed against the walls. The light spilling from the ballroom windows splashed upon empty sandstone pavers and garden furniture. Anyone who might have been out here was not any longer.
From this vantage point, for at least a hundred years, the lights of Sydney Harbour had failed to bewitch very few. Jamaal didn't even notice them. Instead, he peered greedily at the boatshed, excitement mushrooming in his stomach and below it. He'd be alone with the body. Where did Sebastian shoot her? Did her face register surprise, the interfering fucking
bitch? He moved from the shadows, needing to hurry now to the shed.
A light shone in the boatshed.
Vodka Doesn't Freeze Page 23
