by Jon Cleary
“What about Chantelle?”
“She'll be at his flat waiting for him, to welcome him home. She's gotta do that, so's the police won't be suspicious. Then she's going back to London. Incidentally, she hates Chantelle as a name.”
“I always did, meself.”
Shirlee was sniffy. “You think I should of waited till you'd all grown up before I named you? Got your own choice? What would you of called yourself?”
“Bert. Or Fred.” He grinned at her, felt for a moment like kissing her. He was so fucking relieved the kidnapping, the whole business, was over.
“I'm hungry,” she said, “waddya you want for dinner?”
“It'll be His Nibs' last supper,” said Corey, who had once attended Sunday school. “Let's give him a good send-off. He told me he liked French cooking.”
“He'll get what's in the fridge. You're getting too matey with him.”
Corey thought about it. “Yeah, maybe. We could of picked worse to kidnap.”
“Like a rock star or one of them rap stars with the foul mouths?” Darlene grinned at her mother. “You'd of loved cooking for one of them. She'd of fed soap to Eminem.”
Errol Magee got grilled sausages, mashed potatoes, green beans and what was left of the upside-down cake with whipped cream. He was appreciative. “This isn't bad.”
“I'll tell the chef,” said Corey through his hood. “Sport, we're letting you go, later on.”
Magee stopped eating. “Why?”
“Things've got complicated.”
“The police on to you?”
“No, nothing like that. They haven't a clue who we are. Neither have you, right?”
“Is that a threat?”
“Errol, sport—” Corey studied the man whom he was still trying to understand. A successful man, a millionaire forty times over. “How much were you worth when things were going well?”
“On paper? About two hundred and fifty million. But it's all gone.” The taste of the food for the moment turned sour in Magee's mouth. “The world, the IT world, that was all it was for a while. Paper.”
Corey himself had never thought in terms of success; the word wasn't in his vocabulary. You battled from one day to the next and if today was better than yesterday, you were ahead. But ahead of what? He had never given any consideration to that.
“You've still got that forty million, though.”
Magee went back to eating. “I told you, that's all bullshit. You let me go, I'm going back to bankruptcy. You're going to forget the ransom, all that shit?”
“All of it, sport. You go scot free.”
Magee stopped eating, suddenly relaxed. It was maybe a little premature; nonetheless he felt he could trust this guy. Trust had never been one of his weaknesses, but you had to use it occasionally. “When?”
“Later.”
“Do you have to keep me trussed up like this till then?”
The smile was apparent even under the blue hood. “Errol, did you ever trust the other guy till the deal was signed and delivered?”
Magee, too, smiled. “What business are you in, other than kidnapping?”
Corey stood up. “Ladies underwear.”
Magee laughed, totally relaxed now. “You and I must have a drink when this is all over.”
“Yeah,” said Corey and went out of the room with the dinner tray.
At midnight Shirlee, Darlene and Corey, all hooded, came back into the bedroom. Corey gently woke Magee, who had dozed off. “Time to go, sport.”
Magee blinked, came awake. “Where are you going to let me go? Not out in the fucking bush, I hope.”
“Wash your mouth out,” said Shirlee, but it was automatic now, she no longer cared.
“You'll find that out when we dump you,” said Corey. “I'm gunna have to strap your hands behind your back and gag you, too. We can't have you yelling your head off.”
“You don't have to do that. Trust me—”
Shirlee's laugh inside the hood was a cackle; she hated the thought of letting him go. “Mr. Magee, I'm not the trusting sort. I've had too much experience . . .”
She had continued to argue against letting him go. She could see her fortune going out the door, dreams disappearing as if Darlene and Corey had abruptly shaken her awake. They had been adamant. For the first time that she could remember, they had taken charge. Later, in bed, she would be surprised at her anger at them.
Corey was moving around Magee, pulling back the waist on his jeans, the collar of the football jumper.
“What're you doing?” Magee was now on edge, fearful of a change of plans at the last moment.
“Relax, Errol. I'm just checking there's no names on the jeans and the jersey. Laundry marks. When we say goodbye, sport, it's gunna be forever.”
“I never send anything to the laundry,” said Shirlee; she, too, was on edge. “They never wash anything as well as I do.”
“Okay, I'm looking for dry-cleaning marks. No, you're clean, sport. You can make a comeback in a Souths' jersey. The only one they probably will make.”
The veteran rugby league club had been dropped from the local competition after decades of involvement and a court case was pending. A small war was going on; so far the UN had not been asked to intervene. Errol Magee had as much interest in it as he had in wars in the Congo or Chechnya.
“We should put him back in the blue dress he was wearing when you picked him up,” said Shirlee, still shirty.
“Don't put it like that,” said Corey, grinning inside the hood. He was feeling much better now things were under way to get out of this mess. He still had pangs of guilt about what had happened to Magee's maid and the cop Haywood, but eventually, he hoped, he would turn the back of his mind to them, too. “I didn't pick you up, did I, sport?”
“I don't know how else you got me here,” said Magee. “You—”
But Darlene was gagging him with some tape. “When you peel it off, Mr. Magee, rip it off quickly. It hurts less like that.”
Magee's eyes shone: it was hard to tell whether he was abusing her or thanking her for her concern. Corey hauled him to his feet.
“Behave yourself, sport, and in another twenty minutes you'll be free as a bird.”
“Free to spend all that money you have somewhere,” said Shirlee, getting in the last word.
All the lights were out in the house as Corey and Darlene took Magee, blindfolded and gagged, out the back door of Emoh Ruo and led him across to the Toyota in the garage. Shirlee took off her hood and stayed in the house, sitting down in the dark kitchen and suddenly, for the first time in years, bursting into tears. Dreams and greed are bedmates, of a sort.
Darlene got into the back seat with Magee. She felt a mixture of excitement and relief; but she knew she would walk away with less emotion than the rest of the family. Except, perhaps, Chantelle, who, even when they were kids, had always been the cool one.
Corey gave the car a push, jumped in behind the wheel and they ran silently down the short driveway and out into the roadway. Corey swung to the right and they were halfway down the street before he switched on the engine. Mrs. Charlton, sound asleep, missed the street gossip item of the new century.
Twenty minutes later Corey pulled the car in beside a deserted park. He turned round in the front seat. “Good luck, sport.”
Magee felt something being pushed into his jeans' pocket. “What's that?”
“Cab fare,” said Darlene. “Fifty dollars. You've made more outa us than we made outa you.”
She laughed, kissed him on his blindfold, then pushed him gently out of the car. By the time he had freed his hands and pulled off the blindfold, the Toyota was just two red tail-lights disappearing into the distance like fireflies that had had their fun. He felt for the gag, hesitated, then ripped it off as the girl, whoever she was, had suggested. It hurt like buggery and he yelped.
Ten minutes later he was out on a road he didn't recognize and hailing a wandering cab. He fell into the back seat, a most un-Austral
ian thing to do and which instantly aroused the suspicion of the driver, a Korean and still learning how to deal with the natives.
“Where are we?” asked Magee.
“Rocky Point Road.”
That meant nothing to Magee. “Okay, take me to the Garden Apartment. East Circular Quay.”
The Korean was also still learning the geography of Sydney: “Where's that?”
“Holy Christ!” said Magee, gave him instructions and lay back, all at once exhausted and wanting to cry with relief. He could hardly believe he was free, that the ordeal was over.
When the cab drew up outside the apartments in Macquarie Street, Magee handed the driver the fifty-dollar note and waited.
“No tip?” said the driver, who was also learning the necessary phrases of English. He was learning, too, that the average Australian, especially the women, had fists as tight as those of Kim Il-Sung.
“No tip,” said Magee. “Give me my change.”
There was no night concierge and Magee only then realized he had no key. He pressed the buzzer against his name on the board beside the locked doors. He kept his finger on the buzzer till a sleepy voice said, “Yes?”
“Kylie? Let me in!”
“This is Detective Dallen. Who's that?”
“Me, for Crissake! Errol Magee!”
When he got upstairs there were four women in night attire waiting for him. Kylie, Caroline and two women he had never seen before. One of them, Sheryl Dallen, as she introduced herself with Detective in front of her name, was holding a gun aimed at the front door, which had been opened by the other strange woman.
“What the hell—”
“I'm Detective Decker. Come in, Mr. Magee.”
Kylie rushed at him as if expecting to have to race Caroline. She flung her arms round him and kissed him. Caroline, arms folded, watched the reunion with a smile. Detectives Dallen and Decker busied themselves putting on lightweight dressing-gowns, non-police issue. Sheryl put her gun in the pocket of her gown, where it sagged like a hidden growth.
Magee broke free of Kylie's possessive embrace, ignored the two policewomen and looked at Caroline. “What are you doing here?”
Sheryl stepped forward. “Before we get into the domestic scene, Mr. Magee—”
“Who are you?” He was tired and belligerent.
“Detective Constable Dallen, of Homicide. This is Detective Constable Decker—”
“Homicide? You thought I was dead?”
“No, darling—” Kylie had her arm locked in his; she wasn't going to let him go. “Juanita was murdered—”
Then Monica and her husband, Clarrie, appeared, both in pyjamas. The room looked like an adult slumber party. Magee was puzzled, bewildered. All at once the last two days caught up with him, swamping him like a huge surf dumper. He did something he had never done in his life before: he fainted.
IV
At six the next morning Darlene, in her Spirit of Olympics T-shirt and shorts, went out for her usual daily jog. She carried with her a brown paper bag half-full of twenty-cent coins. Shirlee put all her spare coins into a large jam jar and each year, when the Salvation Army made its usual annual door-knock, she gave them the jar full of coins and, for an hour or two, felt like Mother Teresa.
Darlene jogged half a mile from home to a public phone box. From there she rang four television stations, three radio stations and two morning newspapers. Then she jogged back home, feeling healthier and in better humour than she had in the past two days.
9
I
AT SEVEN-THIRTY Malone, Clements and Chief Superintendent Random arrived simultaneously, as if on cue, outside the Garden Apartments. There were press cars and radio cars and TV vans and a horde of reporters; one might have thought a sporting hero had come back from the dead, instead of just another IT whiz. The three officers double-parked, gave their keys to one of the several uniformed men keeping the peace, and went into the lobby of the apartments.
A brown-uniformed concierge was already on duty, holding open a side door beside the revolving door through which the detectives had entered. A thin, prematurely grey-haired man in a track suit and trainers was pushing someone in a wheelchair out through the doorway. Malone had to look twice, discreetly, to tell whether the cerebral palsy victim in the wheelchair was a boy or a man. It was a boy, maybe twelve years old, who twisted his head and looked out at the packed pavement with fear. Then he and the man were gone, the crowd opening up to let them through, then closing behind them.
“They go out every morning,” said the concierge, recognizing Malone. “For their constitutional.”
Malone could only nod, silently blessing himself and Lisa for their luck. Some people were born, he thought, while God was looking the other way.
“Fantastic news, eh?” said the concierge, holding open the lift doors for them. “Mr. Magee being back.”
“Fantastic,” said Malone; then added to Random and Clements as the doors closed: “Basically, that is.”
Random looked at Clements. “Is he usually as shitty as this early in the morning?”
“No, usually at the end of the day,” said Clements and he and Malone shook hands on the cliché.
“I hope by the end of this day,” said Random, “all our troubles are over.”
“For you, maybe,” said Malone. “We still have to find who killed the maid. She keeps being overlooked.”
They rode up to Magee's floor, got out of the lift to be greeted by a young uniformed officer standing outside the apartment's closed front door.
“Anyone in there?” asked Random. “The strike force guys?”
“No, sir. They've come and gone. They were here at six. Mr. Magee didn't exactly welcome them.”
“Neither would I,” said Random. “But don't quote me.”
Magee, hair in a pony tail, dressed in pyjamas and a silk dressing-gown, was having breakfast with Kylie Doolan, Caroline Magee and Sheryl Dallen. The latter, fully dressed, rose as the senior detectives came into the apartment. She was in charge, but the other three were unaware of, or ignoring, the fact.
“Paula Decker has gone off, sir. Miss Doolan's sister and brother-in-law left half an hour ago.” She looked at Malone as if to tell him it was time she, too, left. She looked tired and fed up. “The strike force officers questioned Mr. Magee for almost an hour.”
“I've had questioning up to here,” said Magee without rising from the table.
“I'm sure you have,” said Random.
“Who are you, anyway?” Magee was making no effort to be polite. Malone felt Clements, beside him, stiffen and he waited for the big man to smear Magee's face with the poached eggs he was eating. Something he would have applauded.
“I'm Chief Superintendent Random, in charge of the force that's been trying to find you.”
“You weren't too successful, were you?”
“Pull your head in, Errol,” said Caroline.
On the surface Random looked unperturbed by Magee's rudeness. “The men who were here earlier would have questioned you about the kidnapping. Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements are here to question you about the murder of your maid.”
“I know nothing about that! I told those other guys—”
“Take it easy,” said Caroline.
“Mind your own business!” snapped Kylie and in the background Sheryl rolled her eyes at Clements, who grinned.
“Mr. Magee,” said Random, “could we talk to you in another room? It won't take long.”
Magee looked as if he were about to refuse; he had a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, his fork sliced into the poached egg. Then he put down the toast and the fork and stood up. Kylie, too, stood up. “I'll come with you, darling—”
“No,” said Random and for the first time since coming into the apartment his voice had iron in it. “Sergeant Clements will talk to you ladies out here. Mr. Magee?”
Magee led them into a small study off the main bedroom. Through the open bedroom door Malone cou
ld see the rumpled bed and he wondered who had slept with Magee last night. Or maybe Magee, if he were sensible, had slept alone.
The room was too small; the three men were close together. Magee sat in a chair at the small desk against one wall; Random sat in the only other chair. Malone found a place for his bum on the desk, hard up against a computer. Which, he noted, now had a blank screen. Magee, it seemed, was not yet interested in the world he had once occupied, that cyberspace out there full of strangers you were asked to trust.
“Look, I was shocked when they told me last night about Juanita—”
“We accept that, Mr. Magee. But the people who kidnapped you—”
“Jesus, do I have to go through it all again?” There was no mistaking his fatigue.
“Inspector Malone would prefer it. Were the kidnappers vicious towards you? Did they threaten to kill you?”
“I don't know if they were threats, I mean real threats. I got on pretty well with the guy I saw most. Well, I didn't exactly see him. He wore a hood all the time, a blue hood. So did the other two, the two women. Yeah, and there was a second guy, I think. He sorta disappeared.”
“Two women?” said Malone.
“Yeah. They seemed to be mother and daughter. They called the older one Mum.” Malone tried to hide his grin, but Magee caught it. “Yeah, I know, that was what I thought. Kidnapped by a gang run by Mum.”
“There was a famous outlaw gang in America run by a mum, Ma Barker,” said Random. “The worst Mafia gang in Naples is run by a mum. It happens, Mr. Magee. Where did they hold you? You got any idea?”
Magee had had time to think about it; he was still tired, but his mind had begun to click like a computer. One that had a virus in it somewhere, but which still worked: “The first night and the second day we were in the bush somewhere. I don't know where, it sounded as if it was pretty isolated. Then when they moved me, I was in the boot of a car, I dunno, we must've travelled for about an hour. We stopped somewhere along the way and pulled off what sounded like a main highway. I was pretty groggy, I couldn't breathe in the hood they'd pulled over my head. I dimly remember being pulled out of the boot of the car and being dumped in another one. I must've passed out, because the next thing I remember, I was in a bedroom in a house in the suburbs, I'd say. I could hear the occasional car and every so often a plane would go over. So I couldn't have been too far from the airport.”
