Northern Heat

by Helene Young

  ‘He’s not staying. He’s coming home with me.’ He’d turned away again. ‘Sorry, mate, something’s come up. I’ll call you back.’ He slid the phone into the pocket of the faded jeans that sat low on broad hips.

  He met her angry gaze and his lips twitched in a smirk. He was handsome: a man’s man with broad shoulders, a solid jaw with a slight cleft and straight brows above his hooded blue eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but asthma in children this young can be caused by many issues. We need to ascertain what it is in Buddy’s case. He’s only two. He could end up with long-term complications if we don’t deal with it early.’

  ‘Is that right? Old Monty reckoned it was just the change of weather. Nothing he wouldn’t grow out of. My son’s not going to be treated like a girl, fussed over. He needs to toughen up. He’s coming home.’

  Kristy seethed. Old Monty was about twenty years behind the rest of the medical profession and was now taking a well-earned retirement trip around Europe.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but —’

  ‘No fucking buts, lady. I’m taking my son with me. Now.’

  A red mist of rage coursed through her. ‘I strongly advise against it,’ she said again, but he brushed past and headed to the small ward.

  With gritted teeth she made him sign every damn form she could find in the place. Buddy sat, drowsy and compliant, in a chair in the waiting room, his breathing almost normal again. Jonno had left without so much as a thank-you.

  The next time she saw Buddy was with Freya on the strange day when the younger woman had taken a pair of scissors to her son’s hair. For a brief instant fear had flooded Kristy, then she’d launched into damage control. A month later she’d realised the extent of the violence when Freya presented to the hospital with a cut on the back of her head from a fall. Since then, Kristy had been quietly chipping away at the chains that bound Freya to a relationship that clearly did more damage than good.

  As Kristy went looking for Abby, a sudden thought made her feet falter. ‘Freya?’ she breathed. Could Danny have been seeing Freya?

  15

  Conor lay on his bunk, his limbs heavy with fatigue as he tried to wake. Exhaustion made him melancholy and his sleep in the late afternoon had been disturbed, broken by old dreams that left his skin slick with sweat.

  By the time Joyce had finished with him this morning Conor was ready to punch the cop in his sneering, self-satisfied face. But if he’d learnt anything in the last five years, it was that self-control was all that stood between him and a descent into the sort of person he despised.

  Five years ago he’d had it all: a beautiful wife, a gorgeous daughter, a finance career with a six-figure salary and an illustrious footy career behind him. If he’d gone to the police when he first realised that Rod Reeves was part of the Russian mafia, he wouldn’t be lying in a boat on the Endeavour River in far-northern Australia. He’d be in Sydney, picking Lily up from ballet lessons, cooking on the barbecue when Annabel finished a shift at the hospital. Their pool would be glistening in the late afternoon, the trees in the yard yet to drop their summer leaves.

  Instead, he’d turned a blind eye to the true nature of his employer’s business. Then, when he turned whistleblower, he’d naively believed Australian authorities would keep them all safe.

  Forty-eight hours later, Lily and Annabel were gunned down outside the school and his identity was stripped from him as he was forced into witness protection. Everything he loved was lost, yet the killer was still free.

  Conor rolled over on the bed, punched his pillow into shape. And now here he was yearning for a woman who’d blown his mind in one sultry afternoon, then turned her back on it all. Was the emotion he’d felt that day just an echo of his previous love, his first love? Had he now brought danger to her life? Did the answer to the true identity of the killer really lie in this small rural town?

  He sifted through Joyce’s questions from this morning, looking for a pattern, any clues to the line the police were following. It was possible that Rod Reeves’ family had caught up with him again, but he didn’t believe they’d have shot the wrong person. He also didn’t believe they would have bashed Bill and left him for dead. They made clean kills or they tortured their victims. No one survived.

  So that left the morons up the creek with the expensive motor launch. He had no idea if Bill did know their identities or not. His best guess was that the cops thought Bill was up to his old tricks again and that Conor was part of it.

  No way would Conor be party to smuggling drugs in or out of the country. And he was confident it hadn’t been happening on any of the trips he’d shared with Bill. But it was easy to see how it could work up here in a part of the country where the defence of the law was left to a few hardy souls and where people, by necessity, kept their heads down and their noses out of other people’s business.

  He stared at the varnished timber on the bulkhead. Shafts of sunlight cut through gaps in the blinds and glinted on the brass work. He cupped his hands behind his head, stretching his shoulders back, feeling the tension there. Why the hell did he accept an invite to lunch tomorrow? His smile was wry. Who was he trying to kid? Kristy’s lush beauty was the temptation that had made him say yes. And seeing that awareness mirrored in her eyes had made his heart quicken. He hadn’t given up yet.

  He sat up, avoided banging his head on the low ceiling and swung his legs over the side. The Veritas had given him freedom, but some days he resented the smallness of his world.

  Ten minutes later, cup of tea in hand, he opened his laptop and connected to the internet. First stop was a weather check. Cyclone Kate was gathering momentum and size as she swirled over the Coral Sea between Australia and Papua New Guinea. Category four already and likely to make it to five before she made landfall. Coastal communities between Port Douglas and the Torres Strait were now on cyclone watch. He’d need to keep up to date. Not only would he have to move the Veritas, but he’d also feel obliged to drive the Lady Leonie somewhere more sheltered than the fishing wharf.

  Next he clicked on a folder named ‘Furies’ then opened the file labelled ‘Photos’. Noah had spent considerable time tracking down every piece of information on Annabel and Lily’s killer. The most pertinent stuff he’d given Conor, with the approval of those further up the food chain in the police.

  The couple of grainy photos showed a man in three-quarter profile. Broad-shouldered, beaky nosed, well groomed, with an unremarkable face bar a cleft chin. His real identity had never been properly proven. There were theories, urban myths, gossip, but nothing concrete. Cooktown was one tiny possibility.

  Conor opened another file labelled ‘Danny’. Everything he’d remembered from that morning was listed, along with other information he’d managed to glean since. Unsure of whether the attack on Bill was related, he added in last night’s events. His phone rang and he answered with a smile.

  ‘Noah. What’s up?’

  ‘Thought I’d better update you so you’re prepared.’

  Conor sat a little straighter. ‘Go for it.’

  ‘Your old mate Bill’s got a long history of running drugs, illegal arms and probably sly grogging as well. The witness protection boys are scrambling to create enough confusion to ensure Joyce and his mates don’t haul you in and charge you. I believe the evidence is pretty compelling.’

  ‘Shit.’ Conor ran a hand around his neck, his hair damp with sweat.

  ‘And I’ve just spoken to Cairns Base Hospital. Bill’s not doing too well. There’s extensive swelling on his brain and no guarantee that there’s no permanent damage. One of his lungs is punctured. It’ll be touch and go.’

  ‘Fuck. That’s terrible. He’s a tough old nugget. I hope he pulls through.’

  ‘So do I. Easier for you.’

  ‘Isn’t there some way of going “hands off, he’s one of ours,” without being specific?’

  ‘But you’re not one of ours, Conor. You opted out of the program so you’re
not in any system that’s official. You’re one of those shadowy figures that make people nervous. I’ve called in favours.’

  ‘Thanks. Again. But you’re making me nervous. They must have other leads. Who the hell was shooting at us? Clearly I didn’t do that myself.’

  ‘That’s your view on it. I believe you weren’t going to report Bill’s injury, according to the doctor who attended to him.’

  ‘I didn’t want to go near the cops. After Danny Parnell’s murder this makes me look even more involved. And I don’t believe they’ve even looked at the Lady Leonie. They would have had to ask me for the keys to get aboard.’

  ‘Maybe you need to remind them.’

  Conor snorted. ‘Like Joycie boy would listen to me.’

  ‘Sergeant Miller’s a good bloke. Worked with him in Longreach. He’d never be on the take, but he’s probably letting Joyce run the investigation. He’s a master of delegation. Call him.’

  ‘It’s a Saturday night. He won’t be on duty.’

  ‘You can’t leave it until Monday.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘I’m kind of surprised that you aren’t already in the lock-up.’

  ‘Great. Your sympathy’s killing me.’

  ‘I can’t figure out how an intelligent bloke keeps getting himself in the shit. You’re either very unlucky or the fates have something big planned for you.’

  ‘Can I have a third option?’

  There was a slight hesitation. ‘Maybe you haven’t paid all your debts yet, mate. Here’s Miller’s home number. Be nice to his wife. She bakes unreal scones.’ He rattled off the number and Conor wrote it down.

  ‘Call if you need me to swing into action. Might let you sit for a night, but at least you won’t be cold up in Cooktown.’

  Conor stared at the phone number. It was almost six o’clock.

  He dialled and waited, half expecting it to ring out.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice answered, firm, older.

  ‘Good evening, I’m wondering if I could speak to Sergeant Miller. It’s Conor, the guy off the yacht who coaches at the PCYC.’

  ‘Right. Hang on a mo.’

  A clatter followed as the receiver was placed on a bench.

  ‘G’day, Conor.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you on your day off, Sarge. I wanted to talk to you about Bill and his injuries. No one’s inspected the Lady Leonie and there must be bullets lodged in her deck and wheelhouse. I know I’m only a deckhand, but it seems to me there’s a pattern here.’

  ‘And why’s that, son?’ Miller sounded like he’d sat down and propped his feet up. Conor heard him take a slurp from a drink.

  ‘A few weeks ago the same boat that was shooting at us the other night warned us off laying crab pots in their stretch of the river. I can show you on a map where we were. They did some damage to the nets and both Bill and I took their warning at face value. The shooting had to be connected to that – I can see no other reason for doing the damage they did to him last night.’

  ‘So you told Joyce all this?’

  Conor felt like an errant schoolboy dobbing at school. ‘He didn’t ask the questions.’

  ‘You know he’s got the evidence that says you’re responsible for beating Bill up?’

  ‘I’m aware he’s pursuing a particular line of inquiry which I strongly believe to be leading him up a garden path.’

  ‘Some might think you had a vested interest in leading that investigation up another garden path.’

  ‘I’m only interested in catching whoever did this to Bill. He’s been a mate since I arrived. I wish him a long and happy retirement when the time is right, but seeing him as he was last night was pretty bloody hard. I want justice.’

  ‘Justice, eh.’

  Conor held his nerve.

  ‘Well, Noah’s vouched for you, so I’ll talk to Joyce, find out what he’s done with the Lady Leonie.’

  ‘He’s done nothing. I have the key to her and nothing has happened. I didn’t go looking for bullets, but they must still be buried in her.’

  ‘Did you wash off the deck where you and Bill were standing?’

  ‘No. I assumed someone would need to verify where we’d both been at the time of shooting. It’s all there.’

  ‘Right.’ There was the sound of boots hitting the floor. ‘I’ll be in touch. Mind you, I reckon it’s going to get busy here. Cyclone Kate’s heading our way. Don’t care what the Met Bureau says, the way the termites in the back paddock are going it’ll be a decent blow. I’d be moving that boat of yours up the river.’

  ‘Thanks. I plan to, as well as the Lady Leonie when you guys finish with it. I’d rather have something for old Bill to come home to.’

  ‘Right. Good idea. I’ll be in touch.’

  Conor woke to light streaming in through the porthole. Not often he slept in. Two strong coffees later, he was starting to feel capable of facing the world. Uncharacteristic nerves had surfaced. What was he was going to say to Kristy Dark on the drive? It wasn’t going to be easy, sitting that close to her, smelling her perfume and knowing exactly how her skin tasted and how her back arched when she climaxed. He sighed. Maybe she was right and the whole thing had been a very bad mistake.

  An hour later he was still debating what to wear, and in ten minutes he was due on the dock. For the first time in a long time he felt the need to impress. He had two pairs of pants and a pair of shorts strewn on the bed along with four shirts. He didn’t want to look like the disreputable trawler deckie any more than he wanted to look desperate and single.

  He finished buttoning his shirt, left it to hang loose over a pair of worn denims, dragged a comb through his hair. It was time for a haircut as well. He shoved his wallet and phone in his pocket, pushed his computer into the hidden space behind the bookshelf. He didn’t trust Joycie boy not to pay an unscheduled visit.

  Climbing aboard the dinghy, he could see Kristy’s car by the ramp. He waved but couldn’t see any response from inside the vehicle. Today could go either way, and he was hoping they could come to an understanding that put them back on a friendly, bantering footing. And maybe he was deluding himself. He wanted to kiss every inch of the good doctor again, not play word games with her in a crowded PCYC.

  16

  ‘Mum, can you stop tapping? It’s driving me nuts.’

  Kristy looked in the rear-vision mirror. Abby was glaring at her.

  ‘He’s late.’

  ‘You’re early. You’re always early.’

  Kristy folded her hands in her lap to keep them still. Abby was sulking. Firstly because they’d only had pink ribbon for Sissy’s present and Abby wanted something to contrast with the pink wrapping paper, and secondly because Kristy had refused to allow her to wear a slinky dress she’d bought from the second-hand shop with her pocket money. Abby was now wearing long denim shorts and a loose T-shirt.

  When Abby appeared in the sexy number it had jolted Kristy. She thought she’d made inroads into Abby’s eating habits but her usually curvy daughter had knobbly knees and a rack of ribs. And she knew Abby had barely eaten today. Kristy had put it down to excitement, but she wondered how much longer before she’d need to bring in outside help for her daughter.

  ‘There he is!’

  Kristy looked across to where Abby was pointing. Conor stood on the stern of his yacht. The graceful hull threw a sharp reflection into the cobalt water. She watched as he reeled in his dinghy, started the motor with a smooth pull and turned the bow towards the shore. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she remembered the way his muscles had rippled under his tanned skin as he steered the boat.

  It took another five minutes before he strode across the gravel to them. Kristy leant over and opened the front passenger door. ‘Hi,’ she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her nerves. ‘Jump in.’

  ‘Right. Hello.’ He smiled and held her gaze for a second too long. Her skin grew hot. She’d taken the time to apply makeup. Armour, she’d justified it, even while she k
new it accentuated the colour of her eyes.

  ‘Hey, Abby,’ he said, folding himself into the car. ‘How’d you pull up after yesterday’s game?’

  ‘Okay. My right knee’s a bit sore, but . . . I’m okay.’

  ‘Make sure you keep doing those stretches.’

  Kristy shot a quick glance at him.

  ‘Unless, of course, your mum has another plan. I’m not the doc.’

  Kristy snorted and started the car, conscious of his knee so close to the gear stick. ‘I happen to agree that the stretches will help. It’s overworked more than strained.’

  She caught a glimpse of his wry smile as she checked for traffic.

  He’d brought the tang of citrus and sandalwood into the car. The air-conditioning was turned to max, but it hadn’t won the battle against the relentless heat of the summer.

  Abby leant forward. ‘So can the Taipans win the premiership this year?’

  ‘Bit early to tell, Abby. We’ll need to see some points on the board before I’d be rash enough to predict that. Don’t know how that new import they’ve hired will do.’

  Kristy drove in silence. Hearing Abby so animated was a relief. Beside her, Conor’s long legs stretched out, hands loose on his thighs. She looked ahead, told herself to concentrate on driving, not on wayward memories of her lack of control. He chuckled at something Abby said and the sound rippled down Kristy’s spine. She’d decided he was closer to forty than thirty. There were threads of silver in his dark hair, creases around his eyes that deepened with his quick laugh. Yet he had an almost boyish charm, as if he didn’t consider himself quite an adult yet. So different to Tyler.

  ‘Mum?’ Abby’s voice ripped her back to the present.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘Can we go sailing?’

  She shot a look at Conor. Was he toying with her?

  ‘No offence taken if you don’t want to go,’ he said. ‘It’s not for everyone.’

  ‘Abby’s never been sailing. We’re a bit busy on the weekends.’