While his parents, his mother in particular, were saddened at the collapse of Cole’s short marriage, their greatest disappointment was that their only son had never given them the grandchildren they so longed for. He was sure that his mother compensated by grandmothering the young ladies that he would bring home for a meal every now and then. He only wished that they had been able to meet Jude.
He did wonder, however, with a slight smile, what his mother might have made of him bringing home a girl betrothed to another. On the other hand he was certain his father would have picked up on the romantic and sexual tension that existed between him and Jude. He snapped back into the moment and thought how he longed to talk with Jude. To be in her company, instead of second-guessing what she was up to, in her job, with her fiancé, and her list of ‘maybes’. He wondered how she had handled his disappearing act. However, he kept reminding himself she was spoken for. Jude belonged to the past now; time had helped on that count.
He was grateful to his new mates from Inn the Black, who sensed, in the way only older people can, that skeletons lay in the closet, but were decent enough not to pry, although they were getting a little curious as to when he might go home to his art gallery and his life.
By the time Lynette’s canapés had disappeared, Cole was thinking about an afternoon siesta as he raised himself from his seat, leaving Lynette and Cary to watch the afternoon ferry come in. Cary had his eye focused into the telescope he kept beside his chair, and was fixed on the mooring post of the jetty. It was at this time of the year that tourism almost packed up and went home in Russell. The scheduled daily ferry was lucky to deliver a man and his dog. Still Cary chose to spy on them each afternoon and run his humorous commentary.
Cole’s last thought as he dropped off was to tell Cary and Lynette about his impending desire to return home. It was then he heard the laughter coming from Lynette. Cary was in fine form, he could hear, recounting the exploits of a mother and father getting off the jetty with a couple of kids, each of them nearly falling into the water, and a silly ‘dago’-looking guy on his own with an old powder-blue suitcase, heading purposefully for the Marlborough Hotel. Cary principally objected to the colour of the suitcase.
About to drift off, Cole sat bolt upright. In no time he stood anxiously beside Cary in nothing more than his jockey shorts.
‘Where is that guy?’ he asked urgently.
Cary was a little taken aback by the forcefulness.
‘What’s wrong, mate?’
Cole realised the tone of his question was out of kilter with his normal demeanour, and had concerned his hosts. He composed himself and changed tack.
‘Sorry, Cary. I just remembered I spoke to a mate on the phone last week and suggested he might come over if he had some time. Maybe that’s him? I forgot about it.’
His explanation was delivered perfectly. Of course it was. He was a covert operative and knew how to deliver lines when the pressure was on.
So convincing were his comments, Lynette then offered, ‘He’s gone into the Marlborough. Do you want him to come up here? We’ll ring them, there’s a spare bed.’
Cole stood dumbfounded as Lynette got up out of her chair to lean across and pick up the cordless telephone.
‘They’re on speed dial,’ she said helpfully.
‘Wait, wait,’ Cole pleaded. ‘I’d like to surprise him. Just ask your friend at the Marlborough who’s checking in but don’t alert him.’
‘Why?’ asked a now very curious Cary as he looked across at Lynette.
‘Well, that way, if it is him, we’ll surprise him tonight in their dining room, and drag him up here tomorrow,’ Cole said with his fingers crossed behind his back.
‘Fabulous!’ said Lynette. ‘What a great idea. I love surprises. I’ll go and start fixing his room now, and find something special to wear tonight.’
She got up from the table, carrying the cordless phone, leaving Cary less than convinced, mulling over the change in human behaviour that he had witnessed in the last minute.
Cole quietly retreated to his own guest bathroom. His eyes fixed on the manhole cover, just as Lynette yelled from the kitchen, ‘Cole, I spoke to the Marlborough. It’s an Italian guy … he “no speaka the English”. Is that him? … Cole, where are you? … Cole?’
Lynette was in her laundry, busily ironing the heavy fabric dress she had picked out for the evening. Perry Como crooned from the tape deck perched on the laundry shelf. Lynette nodded her head left and right in time with the music. Cary hadn’t moved from the terrace, although the volume of chardonnay in his glass had. It was now all gone. He leant forward, looking through his telescope to the bosun, who had unravelled the mooring rope of the ferry to commence the return journey across the bay. The V8 diesel engine churned the surface of the water as the Captain slowly eased the ferry from the dock. Cary checked the focus ring on the telescope and looked again. He saw his guest of one month sprinting from the flower shop along the jetty carrying his fully laden Bees-Knees shoulder bag, just in time to jump the last metre and land safely, if not dangerously, on the very end of the ferry platform.
Lynette walked out into the garden carrying an elegant black silk shirt.
‘Shall I iron your shirt for dinner tonight, darling?’
Cary replied with a frown on his face, ‘I don’t think we’ll be eating out tonight, sweetheart.’
29th May
The backstreet internet café tucked between the technical bookshop and the art supply store behind Auckland University was packed to the rafters. Students fought over computers to check their emails and Facebook entries before classes resumed for the afternoon. Cole found himself squeezed between a geeky Japanese kid of about nineteen and a pretty Indian girl wearing her iPod earphones as she tapped her slim elegant fingers on her keyboard.
It took no time to create a new email account on Yahoo. Cole put in Ingrid Rossellini’s last details. In less time than it took to drink the small bottle of fruit juice beside him he had created a 35-year-old woman from San Francisco. It made him realise how easy it was to be a terrorist these days. Communicating with others around the world. Or, worse still, a paedophile, cruising the planet for unsuspecting victims. Madness. How much harder it was to be a detective in the globalised world.
But he had other uses for Ingrid. He was on the move again, and would need to speak to Sandra somehow. No doubt she had worried herself into a pink fit.
He was tempted to check his own personal email address on a different server, but he stopped himself. He knew from investigations within the ACA that a tag could be placed on email addresses. While such a ploy required the authority from those at the highest levels, he had no doubt that Inspector Mack would have set those wheels in motion.
After securing his Yahoo account, Cole went online to Air New Zealand to check the flight schedules for Auckland to Buenos Aires.
He had to make his next move. When he woke in the backpackers’ dormitory that morning, to the sound of half-a-dozen snoring 20-year-olds, he realised that he could neither stay in New Zealand nor head back to the east coast of Australia. It was time to get smart.
The doorbell at Inn the Black was pressed for the second time, with a long pause in between. Cary sat in his usual position in his garden, his trusty telescope within reach. A lone ant was making its way up Cary’s left forearm, his head rested back on an embroidered black cushion and his eyes were shut, as if he was taking it easy for the afternoon. His chin was whiskered and he wore the same clothes as the day before. A narrow, long-bladed knife was embedded in the centre of his chest.
The doorbell rang again. Lynette lay slumped on the laundry floor, awkwardly wedged between the washing machine and the door. The ironing table had upended itself in the struggle, and collapsed over her legs. She had suffered a massive laceration to the throat. The laundry door, which acted as a side exit to the white wooden house, was wide open. A set of footsteps could be heard coming from the front door, along the side path, towards the
laundry. The proprietor of the Bloomin’ Russell flower shop walked smartly down the side footpath in her white sneakers, white linen slacks and sailor jacket.
‘Lynette!’ she called out, in a voice that indicated familiarity.
She approached the door carrying a magnificent spray of Aurelian lilies with a little card attached that read, ‘Sorry to treat you that way, you were both such fun, Cole.’
The gift shop lady had no hesitation, on seeing the laundry door open, in walking straight in with another call of ‘Lynette, honey.’
The sound of her initial scream, one of four in total, would pierce the air across Russell, ensuring all siestas were put to an end that afternoon.
Almost twelve hours later, just after 4 a.m., Cole stood at the New Zealand Airlines ticketing counter at Auckland International Airport. Despite the early hour, there was at least half a planeload of travellers going through the final motions of check-in and seat allocation on the Auckland-to-Buenos Aires flight. Cole was a lone soldier at the ticketing counter, attempting a one-way fare, without a reservation. A procedure he knew he couldn’t undertake via email, without offering up his credit card details again.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Goodwin. There is nothing my supervisor can do, I’ve checked. You will have to pay the full fare rate.’
Cole found himself in no position to argue, and counted out $2900. As the counter attendant recounted his bills, Cole glanced around at his fellow passengers. He took particular note of every male, none of whom looked familiar. Although he did notice what he reckoned to be an Italian man, possibly thirty years of age, walk through the lounge wheeling a trolley. His eyes followed the man’s path till he and his trolley reached the newspaper stand on the other side of the foreign currency exchange kiosk, which Cole had visited earlier. His initial concern was allayed when he realised that the Italian was merely opening his news stand for the morning. His trolley was full of early edition newspapers.
Fifteen minutes later the grumpy counter assistant, who had obviously suffered from the early morning blues, put on her best smile as she handed the very expensive one-way ticket to Mr Goodwin, as well as a boarding pass. Cole declined the offer of checking in his Bees-Knees, electing to carry it on board. He walked from the counter and took a seat nearby to make a last-minute adjustment to his shoulder bag and check his ticket. The only other lone male in the nest of seats, a suited man, had walked across to the news stand to buy a newspaper. The Italian had now opened for the morning and was snapping the wire from the bundle of newspapers. Cole heard the final call announcement for his flight. By now the check-in lounge was all but empty. The 5 a.m. flight was the only scheduled international departure before dawn.
As Cole made a final adjustment to his bag and headed for the luggage X-ray machine, he spied the man in a cheap suit at the kiosk staring at him. He knew that expression—it was the unmistakeable look of a surveillance cop who had been burnt by a target. Both sets of eyes met when they shouldn’t have. He stopped dead in his path, seeing the now empty X-ray machine. The only exit door to the opposite direction.
Cole turned back to glance at the suited newspaper reader who was now walking briskly towards the empty ticketing counter. The final call for his flight sounded again over the public address system. Convinced his initial impression was due to paranoia, he placed the Bees-Knees on the X-ray machine. A dozen steps later and Cole and his bag were on the other side, clearing customs, sprinting for the departure gate. The suited man moved quickly through the X-ray machine and customs.
After the $15-an-hour team of airline security guards had seen the last of their passengers through the security regime, they ambled along lazily in a small herd in search of coffee, taking advantage of the hour’s lull before the next stampede. One of the security guards broke from the herd momentarily to wander past the ticketing desk; there was a free newspaper on the counter. The security guard picked it up to see on the front page a colour photograph, of Cole standing proud holding a prize catch. The photo accompanied the main story: ‘Bed and breakfast slaying. Suspect sought’.
Despite the best efforts of the flight attendant, Cole rejected the breakfast tray, opting for another orange juice, his fourth for the morning. It was his only tell-tale sign of pressure. Otherwise, he was known for his reliably calm demeanour. Still, the suited gent had rattled him and triggered the need for cold drinks. The rattling only increased when he saw the same guy board the aircraft a minute after he had. Just as the cabin doors closed and the stewards began their customary pre-flight checks, Cole made it his business to know exactly which seat the nosy male occupied, six rows ahead on the opposite aisle. Apart from one serious glance towards Cole, when stowing away his hand luggage, there had been no other reason to be concerned. Nonetheless, Cole firmly believed that two hard looks from the one person meant that something was not right.
While Cole was rejecting his breakfast, Sandra sat in a pink terry-towelling dressing gown at her breakfast bar, 6000 kilometres to the west. She was alone in her modest Edwardian home in suburban Melbourne, with her bigger than usual bowl of Special K. Alone, apart from the overweight fluffy Persian cat that was pushing for attention. Sandra ignored his protestations and instead topped her cereal with a carefully sliced Fuji apple. The 7 a.m. news on the tiny bench-top television caught her attention. It wasn’t so much item one that made her take notice, but the flash of the photo on the next news segment, which caused her spoon to drop into her cereal bowl, splashing milk onto the bench, appeasing the now happy feline. She reached for the phone as the news reader told of the macabre murder in New Zealand of an American, and his wife, whose life hung by a thread in intensive care.
The morning newspaper was already old news by the time Sandra had charged into the office, with more urgency than to a Boxing Day sale. ‘Bad Cop’ Cole Goodwin was all over the headlines. During initial enquiries into a lodger named ‘Cole’, the New Zealand police were told by virtually the entire village of Russell that Cary and Lynette were often seen dining at night in the restaurants with their long-term guest from Melbourne. Enquiries overnight with their Victorian counterparts had revealed an uncanny resemblance to one of their own, a Detective Sergeant Cole Goodwin, minus the moustache. And, true to form, the late shift duty officer who handled the enquiry had passed the information onto his contact at the daily newspaper, ensuring himself an invitation to the media Christmas party that year, always a lot of fun, and the chance to spy a few celebrities.
Not a desk was without the front-page headline glaring up at Sandra as she strolled past. The room reeked of suspicion. But then she stopped dead, angry at the denigration of her dear friend, one of the finest police she had ever met. Her hands balled into fists and she turned to face the doubting Thomases. She stepped slowly towards them, grabbed a newspaper from the detective closest to her, snatching it clean from the woman’s hands, and yelled, ‘If you believe this fuckin’ crap’—and with that she threw the paper high into the air and let it fall to the floor—‘then you believe in the fuckin’ Easter bunny.’
She spun around and continued towards her desk, hurling her handbag against the pin board.
‘Mack’s walking around as if he’s won Tattslotto,’ said Leigh, his face riddled with stress.
‘He couldn’t have done it, could he?’ chirped Spud, who stood alongside Leigh.
‘It won’t fuckin’ change, Leigh, if you read it all day long,’ snapped Sandra, trying to gather her composure. ‘And if you ask me that fuckin’ stupid question again, Spud, I’ll put you on your arse.’
‘Okay. I’m sorry,’ said Spud, ‘but what’s he doing over there?’
‘Fishing, by the looks of things,’ said Sandra, as Jude joined the team, tears running down her cheeks. The four of them sat together in silence.
His world had changed overnight. Inspector Mack was reading the comics pages of the daily paper, his body swaying rhythmically to the music on the tearoom radio. He ate his fingers of toast and Vegemite with precisi
on.
It was 6.30 a.m. when he first received news of the slaying in New Zealand. He had just dragged himself out of his bed at home after having spent another night impotent and gripped with worry. It was his mate, Donny, who had seen the early news, laughed his head off, and who had told the boss to go find a television. For the next ten minutes, Mack channel surfed until he locked on to a news service that was running the story. When the photo of Cole and the big fish appeared on screen Mack dropped to his knees and crawled closer to get a better look. The fisherman bore an uncanny resemblance to his Detective Sergeant Cole Goodwin, minus the handlebar moustache and head of hair.
His first thought was of the perfectly presented exit door that now opened for him.
Cole Goodwin, a suspected murderer. His name blackened. Something which would be of great use to the Mafia, in time. Mack knew the New Zealand detectives had the perfect case against Cole, in a tiny fishing village that would have no stories to tell about Italians. He bounced back into bed to join Dorothy.
Like lost sheep, they followed one after the other. Each of the passengers returned their tray to the upright position; seats moved forwards, in readiness for landing. With only fifteen minutes to go before arrival, the suited gent quickly snuck off to the toilet, but not before giving Cole a third hard glance as he passed. That was one too many for Cole who just as quickly unsnapped his seat belt and made a bee-line for the toilet, brushing aside the unnecessary roll of the eyes of the stewardess staring at him.
On the Run Page 7
