Ash Island

by Barry Maitland

  ‘You see? The judge had the power to kill Konrad’s plans, or at the very least cost him a great deal more money. Of course he had to die.’

  ‘I see, yes. Do you have any proof of that?’

  Amber shrugs as if it’s a small matter. ‘There may not be any after all this time, and even if we eventually found it it would be too late—the land council is about to come to a final decision on Konrad’s revised offer. There’s only one way forward now, to bring all this out into the open, to publish the truth.’

  ‘Amber, no newspaper or publisher is going to accuse Konrad Nordlund of anything without proof. Very solid proof.’

  ‘No, no. We begin with the story of the threat to the valley, then the dilemma of the Yoongooar, and then the dramatic coincidence of the death of their chief advisor, Danny Belltree. We don’t have to accuse Konrad, it’ll be obvious to everyone what happened, and he’ll have to deny it, and then people will come forward with what they know. Harry and I discussed all this. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I asked him to use his contacts with the press to publicise it, and here you are.’

  It is a great story, Kelly thinks. Hell, it might even be true. The problem is Amber. Kelly can imagine how Harry must have reacted to this obsessive torrent.

  Which is still going. ‘Actually I believe we will find evidence. I’m a director of Konrad’s company and I’m getting access to the archives. There must be something—a secret memo, a comment scribbled on a letter, the record of a phone call—something to point to Konrad’s guilt. So what do you say?’

  ‘I think it’s a very powerful story, Amber,’ she begins, conscious of how guarded that sounds.

  Luke Santini picks it up too, and gives a contemptuous snort, a shake of his black curls.

  Kelly turns to him. ‘What’s your role in this, Luke?’

  ‘I support Amber absolutely. This is not some isolated incident.’

  Kelly picks up the North American intonation.

  ‘It’s happening everywhere, the rape of the planet by increasingly ruthless oligarchs. Murder is nothing to them, they do it every day, directly or indirectly. Whole populations displaced and starved. Humans are just another disposable asset to them.’

  ‘Luke has a wider perspective, you see,’ Amber says. ‘I tend to get stuck in my own little nightmare, but he reminds me that all over the world people are realising these things have to be stopped. We have to fight them and we have to use whatever weapons we can lay our hands on—the media, the courts, the finance markets. Even direct action.’

  ‘This is a lot to take in, Amber,’ Kelly says. ‘I’m going to need to think about it.’

  ‘Of course. And I have documents here, copies of the offers to the land council and their deliberations, maps, a timetable of events I drew up. I can’t let you take them away, but you can stay and study them as long as you like.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Amber hesitates, then says, ‘There is one thing…In your article in the Times the other day you said—well, you didn’t actually say, but reading between the lines it seemed as if you were making a connection between the murders on Ash Island and some kind of drug ring.’

  ‘Yes, that seems quite possible.’

  ‘You mean the bikie gang—the Crows you mentioned—bringing drugs up to Newcastle?’

  ‘Or the other way round, bringing drugs into the country up here, in the port. There is one thing that I’d like to ask you about, Amber. Harry mentioned that you had a housekeeper here at the time his parents visited.’

  ‘Karen Schaefer, yes. She and her husband have worked here for years. Harry asked me about them too. Why?’

  ‘Were they working here last June?’

  ‘June? No, they had to move down to Sydney for a year to look after Karen’s sick mother. She died in July and they came back here, to my relief.’

  ‘Karen’s maiden name was Suskind, yes?’

  ‘I think so, yes. How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘I happened to meet Karen in Sydney last July when I was doing a story, and I did a bit of research. Her mother, Donna Suskind, died in 2008.’

  ‘What? No, that isn’t possible. She told me herself…’

  ‘In Sydney Karen was living under a different name, Donna Fenning.’

  ‘I…I don’t understand.’

  ‘How did you find her in the first place?’

  ‘Um, it was when I came back from Europe. Dylan, my son, was just a baby, and someone suggested I needed help to look after him and run the homestead. We got Karen through an agency. She’d been a nurse, and her husband being an electrician and mechanic was a big plus.’

  ‘Who suggested it and helped you find her?’

  ‘I can’t remember…um, I think maybe…yes, I think it was Trixie.’

  ‘Trixie?’

  ‘Konrad’s mother…’

  ‘Shit.’ Luke is staring at Amber.

  Kelly says, ‘I believe she’s been—’

  ‘Working for Konrad?’ Amber’s voice is faint. ‘Dear God… I trusted her with everything, discussed everything…’

  They are silent, then Kelly says, ‘Well, she’s gone now. Have you heard from her lately?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  Luke says, ‘Amber, we have to talk.’

  ‘Yes.’ She runs her fingers through her hair, shaking her head. ‘I need to think…Kelly, let’s set you up in the study. I’ll bring you all the documents you might find useful. We can meet again later.’

  Kelly agrees. She follows Amber into a room lined with glass-fronted bookcases and fitted cupboards, with a cedar table and massive desk, a large antique ceiling fan, a stone fireplace with elaborate cast iron grate.

  As Amber brings in armfuls of document boxes and rolled plans and dumps them on the table, Kelly studies the volumes in the bookcases, a set of the 1910 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, rows of old Baedeker travel guides, Shakespeare’s collected works, volumes on botany and agriculture.

  ‘My great-grandfather, Axel,’ Amber explains. ‘A great collector. Look at this…’

  She opens a series of shallow drawers filled with labelled birds’ eggs on beds of cotton wool; pinned insects, spiders, bird skeletons, snake skins; test tubes full of different shades of powdered rock, like chemical samples or drugs.

  ‘What was it about the reference to drugs that disturbed you, Amber? Do you think Konrad could be involved in something like that?’

  ‘Hah,’ Amber says lightly, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised by anything he might do. I’ll leave you to it.’

  63

  Ricsi has the order ready. He hands over a drivers licence in the name of John Brown, bearing Harry’s picture.

  ‘Does he exist?’

  ‘He does, a respectable gentleman currently on a six-month touring holiday in Greece. Here’s his last electricity bill, genuine, to back it up, and the phone.’

  ‘Thanks, Ricsi.’

  Harry practises the signature on the licence a few times, then pays. He returns to Parramatta Road, where he catches a bus, getting off at the first car sales yard he comes to. He picks a four-year-old Focus—small, dark blue, anonymous—and beats the salesman down with the offer of cash. He signs forms and drives away, the registered owner. He calls Jenny. She has various bits of information for him that she’s found on her computer, but first tells him about the fantasy she’s been having.

  ‘You come and live with us here, Harry. We keep ourselves to ourselves, and over time they forget about you and we slip away, overseas, and start again.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that too,’ he says. ‘But it’s a small community, and we’d soon run out of money.’

  ‘Yes…yes, I know.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Well, the good news is that the police seem to be keeping you in-house. There’s been no announcement that they’re looking for you, no publication of your picture.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I have some stuff on Sammy L
ee.’

  He listens, making notes. When she’s finished he says, ‘Hang on, Jen. We’ll get this sorted.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I know.’ But it sounds like a sigh of despair.

  He goes to a barber and has his hair shaved off. He buys a new pair of sunglasses, returns to pick up his bag at the hotel and sets off for Newcastle once again.

  The Marine is quiet, no one in the bar. He slips in through the side entrance and takes the exit door to the yard immediately on his right. There’s a row of bins here and behind them a stack of bricks and tiles, the remnants of recent building work. He pulls back the tiles and feels around in the cavity beneath for the sealed package he buried here. It contains the Taurus pistol he bought previously from Ricsi. He slips it under his jacket, replaces the tiles and leaves.

  64

  Amber’s documents are out of sequence, incomplete and in some cases incomprehensible, at least to Kelly. After grappling with them for a couple of hours she feels no more confident about Amber’s story than before. While she works, the silence in the study is punctuated from time to time by the voices of Amber and Luke. Out on the veranda one moment, crossing the hall another, always sounding at odds with one another.

  Finally Kelly stretches, rubs her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. She decides to look for a glass of water and an aspirin. In the hall she hesitates, hearing their voices from the kitchen. Luke, impatient, is saying, ‘Will you leave it! They have no idea.’

  ‘But we have to be sure, Luke! Dear God, I don’t want to go to jail. Maybe we should just stop.’

  Fascinated, Kelly edges closer to the door, but her hip brushes against a small table and it creaks. The voices in the kitchen stop abruptly. She has no choice but to call out. ‘Hello? Amber?’

  After a second, Amber replies, ‘In here, Kelly,’ and appears at the kitchen door.

  ‘Right, I thought I heard voices. I just wanted a glass of water.’

  ‘Of course.’ Amber smiles brightly. ‘Or better still, a glass of wine. What do you say? Luke, will you?’

  He nods, looking sulky.

  Amber says, ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘A bit slow.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t let you take them away. Why don’t you keep going and have dinner with us? Stay here the night?’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

  They take their glasses outside and sit on the veranda in the evening light. A couple of stable hands drive by, heading back to their homes in Gloucester, and Kelly imagines the sense of isolation that Amber must feel out here, pinned to this lonely property as surely as the specimens in her great-grandfather’s cabinets.

  She puts in another couple of hours on the documents, then shares a roast beef salad with the others. She has been hoping that they’ll let something slip, some clue about why they’d be afraid of going to jail. But she learns nothing at dinner, and nothing afterwards when they sit up drinking, talking about the environmental movement and the campaigns Luke has been involved in. He seems to have had plenty of experience, but won’t be drawn on his future plans.

  Feeling slightly drunk, Kelly says goodnight and goes upstairs. The bathroom is a short distance away from her room, along a corridor overlooking the hall below, and as she returns from it she hears them arguing again. Amber sounds as if she’s insisting on something. ‘Tonight,’ Kelly hears her say. ‘After she’s gone to sleep.’

  Kelly doesn’t like the sound of that. She goes back to her room, locks the door, and props herself up on the bed. After a few minutes she turns off the light.

  It’s hard to stay awake, sitting there in the dark after all that wine, and gradually Kelly nods off. She jerks awake at a sound, unable to identify it at first. Feet crunching on the gravel below her open window. She looks out. There is a full moon, and in its cool white light she sees Amber walking away from the house. She disappears into the shadows. There is the sound of a car starting, the rumble of an engine, and Kelly watches a sports car emerge into the moonlight. Luke runs down the steps and there is a murmured exchange before Amber slides over to the passenger seat and Luke takes the wheel. The car moves forward slowly onto the drive, then its headlights come on and it picks up speed.

  Kelly grabs her things and runs down to the hall, out through the front door to her own car and jumps in. The sports car is out of sight but in the distance she can still see the faint glow of the headlights. She puts her foot down. She doesn’t switch on her own lights, using the moonlight to steer by, and this isn’t too difficult until she reaches the unsealed road through the forest. As she hits it the car jumps and crashes over the first unseen potholes and she has to slam on the brakes. She feels wildly unsteady—the drink, the ruts, the moonlight—driving madly to…what?

  She takes a deep breath and moves forward more cautiously, focusing intently on the treacherous darkness. From time to time she catches glimpses of yellow light up ahead, glimmering among the trees.

  But there’s no sign of it when she reaches the main road, and she switches on her headlights and drives as fast as she can into Gloucester. The town is quiet as she speeds down the main street and out the far end into open countryside. Far ahead she spots a pair of tail-lights.

  Despite her haste the sports car is moving faster than she is, and eventually she loses sight of it altogether. When she finally reaches the Pacific Highway she puts her foot down hard and races towards Newcastle, assuming that their destination is somewhere there. But she’s caught no sight of them as she crosses the Hexham Bridge, and has to admit to herself that she’s lost them. She stops for a red light near the turn onto the Ash Island bridge and, as she sits there drumming her fingers on the wheel, she glances over at the all-night filling station on the far side of the highway. And there is the distinctive shape of the sports car. When the lights change she drives on until she finds a lay by. She pulls over and waits.

  65

  The narrow laneway is deserted, the moon casting dark shadows over the bins and cartons in the yard behind Sammy’s restaurant. There is no van here. Sammy is out, provisioning another Chinese bulk carrier, the Xingjuan out of Wenzhou, which docked two hours ago.

  Harry pulls on latex gloves and feels for the lock to the back door, tries inserting a couple of Ricsi’s bump keys until he finds the right one. He gives the key a tap with the butt of his gun as he turns it, and the lock opens. He pushes the door. Steps inside.

  There is a pervasive smell of garlic and ginger. Absolute silence, the diners and staff long gone. In the darkness the alarm panel glows on the corridor wall. Harry enters the numbers Jenny has given him, hacked from the computer of the local back-to-base security company. He uses his phone light to begin a search.

  To his left is the kitchen. To the right the cold store, the cool room and then the counter of the grocery section with its shelves of dry goods. He explores, opening cabinets and drawers, searching racks of packets and cans.

  He hears the sound of a vehicle entering the yard and tucks himself into the space behind a stack of drums of noodles and rice. The slam of a door, voices, fluorescent lights flickering into life. Sammy appears.

  He is followed by a big Pacific Islander carrying a large aluminium box. He is wearing a lightweight jacket, and as he leans forward to put the box on the counter Harry notices the bulge in the small of his back.

  Together they bring more boxes in from the van until there are half a dozen stacked on the counter. ‘You’ve got the key, George?’ Sammy says, and the other man nods and produces a small tool from his pocket. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

  The Islander takes the lid off one of the boxes and inserts the tool under the lip of the bottom section. He gives it a twist. Lifts the lining, scattered with cabbage leaves, off the base and sets it aside. Starts to take flattened plastic packets out of the cavity beneath, setting them out on the table.

  Sammy places them in turn on a set of scales at the end of the counter, tapping numbers into an addin
g machine. ‘Eight forty-six,’ he says. ‘Plus the pills. Try the next one.’

  ‘Sammy?’ A woman’s voice calls from the direction of the back door, and both men freeze. The Islander backs away from the counter towards the cool room as Amber hurries in. ‘Oh, I’ve caught you. Good. This is from the Xingjuan? I’ve got a bit of a problem, Sammy, I…’

  She stops and turns towards Harry’s hiding place. ‘Who are you?’

  For a moment Harry thinks she’s talking to him, but then the Islander moves into view.

  Sammy, looking alarmed, says quickly, ‘This is George Taufa, Amber. He’s my driver. It’s all right.’

  ‘Your driver? What are you talking about?’ Her eyes go to the plastic bags on the counter and she says, ‘What are those?’

  ‘It’s just your pills, Amber. Don’t worry. I think we should…’

  ‘No, the other ones, the white crystals.’ She picks up one of the packets and examines it. ‘What is it?’

  In front of him Harry sees Taufa’s hand move to his back, lift the hem of his jacket and close around a pistol butt. Harry moves quickly out of his hiding place and grips Taufa’s wrist, pressing the muzzle of his own gun to the man’s temple.

  ‘Relax,’ he says, and then, to Sammy, ‘It’s a good question. What are they?’

  ‘Harry!’ Amber’s cry is panicky. Then she sees the gun in his hand and shuts her mouth.

  ‘Looks like crystal meth, Sammy.’

  Sammy says nothing, eyes darting around as if for escape.

  ‘No, Harry!’ Amber finds her voice. ‘Nothing like that, just party pills, ecstasy,’ the words tumble out. ‘They’re not harmful, not really…And it’s for a good cause…’ She seems to realise how ridiculous this sounds. ‘It takes money, Harry. We’re up against billion-dollar companies.’

  Harry slips handcuffs on Taufa’s wrists, holsters his own pistol and removes the gun from Taufa’s belt, tells him to sit on the floor, then steps over to the counter. He puts Taufa’s pistol down and picks up the single bag of small heart-shaped pills. ‘This, yes. But these?’ He shows her.