All of a sudden, silence fell over the kitchen; the game was on. Tommy reached for Jude’s hand and took the liberty of finding a quiet space in their hosts’ backyard. They sat alongside each other on a wrought-iron seat under an arbour covered with sprays of wisteria flowers.
‘No hero shit, sweetheart,’ he said to a clearly worried Jude, who was getting her mind set for her role.
‘Leigh will have a six-shot .32 down his pants in case there’s trouble.’
Jude nodded, needing the instruction, the jolt into the world of covert reality.
‘Your only role is to try to find a cave. It’s going to be a long day. Watch each other’s back and, if anyone sees you, go into lover mode.’
She continued to nod; she was ready.
‘Once you’ve ticked off the list get straight back to your hire car and back to the rendezvous. I’ll be waiting at the RV for you. Be back by 7 p.m. at the absolute latest.’
‘Easy-peasy. I’ve been doing it for years.’ Jude reached over and gave Tommy a peck on the lips, running her hands through his hair.
‘And you’ve got years more to go, babe,’ he said directing her back to serious matters. ‘With me.’
Jude liked what she heard and wrapped her arms around him. They kissed tenderly for a moment before being disturbed by a loud cough from the Commissario, who handed Jude the neatly folded map with a smile.
Daybreak in a hospital was a strange occurrence. Lynette Peterson’s room was perhaps the quietest in the hospital. It had become the place where tired, caring nurses would come to sit, to take a break from the maddening hustle and bustle of the wards and ponder Lynette’s serenity and struggle for life. Sandra’s head lay on the open-weave cotton blanket at the foot of the bed; she had been asleep for hours. The rest of her was wedged awkwardly into the forced curvature of the moulded chair. The person she was most interested in slept peacefully close by. The door of the room slowly opened more fully and the Charge Sister stepped inside. At first she was startled by the sight of Sandra’s uncomfortably draped body, unused to visitors in 7B. She picked up the patient’s notes on her clipboard. Pinned inside was a note: ‘A detective from Melbourne is waiting to speak with the patient’. The Charge Sister looked at the sleeping pair and quietly retreated, closing the door behind her.
That same winter daybreak reflected off the mirrored glass of the massive unclad windows of Donny’s apartment. Henri was at the very end of his night shift and, thankfully, running to rule, Donny had left his internet connection on. Every ten minutes or so, in between a whole mess of unrelated analytical duties, Henri would glance up at the screen, just in case Donny was visible. There was a log book beside him on the desk, where he would note his observations along with a time and date for each occurrence. Long-winded and boring work to some, Henri relished it; it was the type of detail that juries loved to see, especially if the audio-visual evidence was damning enough.
It had been a quiet night shift on that front, Donny having grabbed his house keys and headed out for the evening many hours earlier. Henri looked up from his musings at the sound of rustling; his quarry was returning, from an obviously very, very long night out. Quickly, Henri swivelled his chair across for a better view. The target cast his valuable leather coat onto the floor and unclipped his Rolex, placing it down on the credenza next to the computer. He tapped a few keys to check incoming messages as he peered closely into his screen. Henri felt sure that Donny was looking up at his nose hair. He edged his seat back just a tad. It was the next sound that made him realise that his observations were going to be a little more interesting this morning. He was certain that he could hear the flushing of a toilet, even though his view didn’t encompass the bathroom.
On cue, a young girl with somewhat disarrayed, matted hair strolled in front of the monitor and embraced Donny. She flopped her tired, drug-wasted body onto his, draped both arms around his neck and they kissed unromantically. Henri felt sure he recognised her face, as he rummaged through a stack of assorted photographs on his desk. Donny’s hands groped her tight jeans and loose-fitting blouse just for a moment or two before the spent pair slumped themselves onto chairs at the dining table. Henri’s chair swivelled urgently across to his main desk, where he opened a manila folder, still searching for the image of a girl he felt sure he knew. He watched the corrupt detective pull a small plastic bag of white powder from his trouser pocket and, using a Visa card, chop and cut at a small hill of it on the table surface, producing four neat parallel lines. As soon as that small task was completed, the detective and his lady friend each snorted two lines. Most probably cocaine, Henri thought, trying to keep up with his photo search while he scrawled notes on the changing images in Donny’s apartment in his increasingly fat log. At about the same time as the drug hit the brains of the two users, the identity of the girl hit Henri, as he found the photograph he had been searching for. It was a happy-snap, a family photo, stolen on a midnight covert entry into the office of the co-suspect in this case, Inspector Mack. It was his daughter Chloe.
It had been a long shift the day before for Donny. He’d been suckered into helping out another crew, who were closing down a job. A handful of South Americans were to be raided and there was much work ahead. Begrudgingly, Donny joined the search crew for one of the raids. As luck would have it, a drawer he happened to open in one of the dealer’s bedrooms was home to six one-ounce bags of cocaine. Donny declared three of them and squirrelled the other three down his Y-fronts. Later that night, during his traipsing of the nightclubs, he rid himself of two of the three bags for a tidy $10 000 profit. While he had no idea of the purity, Donny had made his own private professional assessment that, given the Colombians were at the very bottom of the drug-trafficking ladder, the bags were most likely to be cut sufficiently for immediate use. That was certainly the yarn he told his buyer at Bar 99%, the same bar in which he happened to bump into Chloe. She was having difficulty walking with a tumbler of gin and tonic between the bar and her booth full of spaced-out girlfriends.
Henri’s next observation would cause him to react in a way not familiar to an analyst. He watched the two drug users slump slowly back into their individual chairs, both pairs of eyes closed, as if their minds were travelling to another world somewhere. At least that’s what he thought until his eyes fixed more closely on Chloe, who, without warning, began to convulse. Her back and shoulders surged violently forwards, and she was jittering frantically as she attempted to stand. Having fallen back into her chair, she attempted again to get to her feet with more exaggerated convulsions before projectile-vomiting across the table and finally collapsing, motionless, to the floor. Donny remained still, lost in his own personal heaven, oblivious to the tortured Chloe. He was also oblivious to the fact that the cocaine he had stolen from the drug-dealers was in fact 96 per cent pure, strong enough to stop a herd of elephants. Henri, too, was somewhat in a mess. He frantically tried to recall the police emergency number to call for an ambulance, a procedure he hadn’t had to bring to mind since his graduation from the academy fifteen years earlier.
Spud was first in the office, bright and early that morning, for one very good reason: there was no one else left in his crew—they were all overseas. No sooner had he placed his lunchbox, with its two neatly cut and cling-wrapped sandwiches, two pieces of fruit and snack box of biscuits, on his desk than his phone rang. It was his Henri, spouting the news of the day Henri was no different from anyone else. He hit the speed dial to a dozen different people before he got to Spud. His description of what happened seemed to floor his new analyst friend.
‘She’s dead. They tried everything but couldn’t revive her,’ explained Henri.
‘And Donny?’ enquired Spud.
‘He came good halfway through the ambos trying to revive Chloe. Just as Fountain arrived.’
Tommy had hardly sat down all day, constantly pacing—initially in the backyard of Mario’s home and later that afternoon with the Commissario, as they waited together
at the RV. They were well secreted in the dense undergrowth between the tall timbers. Tommy held his left wrist firmly and observed anxiously as the second hand of his watch ticked over to exactly 7.00 p.m. Although the Commissario hadn’t said as much to his Australian equivalent, he had sensed since breakfast that Tommy and Jude were more than mere co-workers; it was clear that they held a great affection for each other.
A mere four kilometres away in the thick of the forest hiked the exhausted Leigh and Jude. They’d had a big day, ticking off far more caves than they had originally planned, as well as several others that weren’t even registered. The sun had taken its piercing rays to the other side of a high ridge, and with less than an hour left before complete darkness, they welcomed the soothing coolness of the early night air. Jude was attempting to gain her bearings for the last cave of the day as she studied her map by torch light. She was overly conscious that she and Leigh were now officially running late but she felt certain that they were only metres away from the entrance of the last cave. Leigh handed her the picnic basket, which was now completely empty.
‘Hold that, champer. I’ll just climb down here,’ Leigh offered.
‘It should be just about ten metres away, Leigh,’ Jude said, pointing towards where she reckoned the cave entrance would be.
Within a dozen short steps, Leigh disappeared from her sight, so dark was it becoming under the canopy. All of a sudden, she felt an extraordinary sense of aloneness, total vulnerability. For the first time that day, Jude felt scared. She listened painfully for Leigh’s steps, hoping to keep hearing them. Then from the opposite direction, somewhere behind her, she thought she heard another set of steps. At least it sounded like shuffling among the dead foliage of the forest floor. She dropped to the ground instantly and crawled behind the trunk of a large moss-covered pine tree. The noise that she was now certain was footfalls increased in volume as it approached her. A man appeared from the shadows and stood beside her, looking down upon her huddled form. She clung as tightly as she possibly could to the handle of the picnic basket and rose to meet the gaze of the heavily whiskered peasant face. The man’s full height was no greater than hers, and he was dressed in a putrid pair of dark trousers, an equally dirty shirt with a seriously frayed collar and a sports jacket. He was at least sixty-five years of age. There was nothing friendly about him and he grimaced at her, revealing rotten teeth.
‘Signorina?’ he enquired.
Jude returned the comment, ‘No. Signora, scusa. Signora. Mio husband Inglese,’ she said firmly but nervously as she pointed towards the last location she had seen Leigh.
‘Toilette, toilette, mio husband,’ she repeated as she continued to point to the now dark side of the hill.
The old man looked just as Leigh appeared, fumbling as if doing up the fly of his trousers.
‘Sorry I took so long, darling. Who’s your friend?’ he said, smiling broadly.
The elderly man stood with both hands clasped behind his back, watching the two of them. He didn’t utter another word, looked long and hard at Leigh, then turned around and simply walked back in the direction he’d come from. Leigh took a deep breath, released the grip on the firearm in his pocket and wrapped both arms around Jude. He felt the adrenalin dissipate.
‘You okay?’ he asked, lifting the face of Jude.
‘Sure, just a scare,’ she said somewhat unconvincingly. ‘What about the cave?’
‘Hasn’t been used since the Bronze Age. Let’s get to the car. Our day is over.’
The very fast train pulled to an abrupt stop at the Avignon Railway Station, a short drive from Beaucaire. A slightly more relaxed Inspector Mack helped his wife from the train before returning to the carriage for the four fat suitcases and various pieces of hand luggage. He was glad to almost see the end of his long journey. It had been a difficult trip despite the comfort of first class, what with the worry of second-guessing his detective’s jaunt to New Zealand. As tempted as he was in Singapore, and then later in Paris, to telephone the Auckland Hospital, he bothered not. Once or twice before, when he had attempted to source information on that near-dead pesky bed-and-breakfast woman, the snooty Charge Sister had insisted on knowing his name and rank, details he didn’t care to pass on.
Dorothy knew that her husband had something significant on his mind. She’d seen that look a number of times in recent years, a look of uncertainty, of trouble looming. Just as she’d seen that same look on the face of her first husband, the bank robber. She’d suffered his moods until after the armed robberies when smiles returned to faces and good times rolled. And now her Mack too often had that same look; she didn’t like it.
As Mack neatly stacked the suitcases on the railway platform, Dorothy rummaged up a porter’s trolley to lend a hand. They were the last out of the side gate of the railway station, out to the carpark and into the dark. Standing alone, and waving for the Inspector, was Pierre, the local man Mack had been dealing with for many weeks; the man who had received 3000 euros in payment, via the Western Union office, for the 1990 model Citroën 2CV. It was still a secret from Dorothy, who was expecting a taxi to be waiting.
Pierre, in a strange and peculiar way, was standing to attention beside the driver’s door of the 2CV as Mack approached, recognising the car, not the man. A confused Dorothy followed. She watched as Pierre stepped forward and handed over a set of keys. Mack, clasping the keys and offering his best version of merci beaucoup turned to his wife and handed her the keys along with the birthday card he had printed out weeks earlier. Dorothy instantly comprehended the surprise and squealed with delight.
As Mack stared longer at his new purchase, his mind drifted to a more imminent troublesome equation: how to fit so many suitcases and people into one tiny vehicle?
The old oak tree growing in the grounds of the Base Hospital had the most perfect seat underneath. One of those old-fashioned timber-slatted park benches, each slat painted a different colour, just to brighten up the day. It was midday and Sandra was well into her novel, borrowed from a patient across the hallway. She lay on her back under the spreading branches, taking up the entire bench, flicking her eyes up from the book every now and then to watch the patterns made between leaves and sky. She had made her calls for the day, and fielded a few as well, none more important than that from Spud. His news, she was certain, would find its way onto every media broadcast in Australia: ‘Cop’s daughter dead from overdose’. Sandra had never met Chloe, although she’d seen her once or twice in her father’s office, looking like death. As sad as the news was for any father, Sandra couldn’t help but hope that she too could deliver a little more bad news to her boss, but of a different type. If only Lynette would drift into consciousness again.
She could hear herself being called from the distance. ‘Detective!’
She recognised the voice of the Charge Sister, and she turned to see her frantically waving her back into the hospital. Sandra hurried across the lawn.
‘She’s been conscious about half an hour. We think it’s probably safe for you to have a short conversation with her.’
They walked together to the ward.
Just as they reached Lynette’s room, Sandra retrieved a large blow-up copy of Massimo’s passport photograph from her briefcase, ready to show to Lynette. The sister, quick to decipher the purpose of the snapshot, blocked her way into the room.
‘You are not to show her that photograph,’ she instructed.
‘Of course I am,’ returned Sandra, whose patience was starting to wear thin with a woman who had been difficult every time they had spoken. The sister stood her ground and, almost nose to nose, issued the sternest of warnings in a loud whisper.
‘This patient has spent weeks in a coma and has just drifted back into consciousness. If you dare to show her a photograph of her attacker she is very likely to return to that state. You will not show her any photograph. If you attempt to do so I will have you escorted from my ward.’
Sandra snapped back, ‘How am I supposed t
o clear my sergeant’s name then?’
‘You’re the detective. You work it out. Just keep your photographs in your briefcase.’
The sister marched away from the room towards her nursing station. Sandra quietly opened the door and tiptoed inside.
The bedside lamp to the far side was switched on, and Lynette sat partially up, illuminated by its soft glow. A young nurse sat with her and encouraged the intake of fluids. She smiled towards the detective and introduced the two women. A few moments earlier the young nurse had explained the visit of Detective Sandra Butler and had gained Lynette’s consent for a brief conversation. She was lucid and more than willing to greet her Australian visitor.
‘You’ve come a long way, Detective.’
‘And so have you, Lynette.’
‘The nurse said you’ve been here a couple of days, sleeping by my bed?’
‘We’ve been worried for you, and are just so pleased that you’re recovering.’
‘And you’re a friend of Cole’s, they said?’ Lynette seemed somewhat confused by the association of the man she knew as an art dealer, and the detective.
‘Yes,’ was all Sandra could reply, and all she should have offered, bearing in mind the independence of the investigation.
‘Cary will be pleased to meet you, and to know that you are Cole’s friend,’ she said.
Sandra looked across at the nurse who gave her a surreptitious wink. Sandra wasn’t to know but, on doctor’s orders, the nursing staff had informed a very worried Lynette that her husband was still alive and in another ward of the hospital. They hoped to reduce the shock for the patient, until she was well enough to deal with the truth.
On the Run Page 25
