by Garry Disher
He wrapped his hands around it and twisted, and out it came. Inside was a nylon bag containing bearer bonds, a box crammed with diamond, ruby and emerald rings, a Rolex, many bundles of currency—euros, sterling and US and Australian dollars—a tiny pistol and a passport. Jack’s face, but not Jack’s name. Benjamin Meyn.
Impey replaced the pipe and the panel. He shouldered the nylon bag and left the Windward Passage, stopping off to talk to the security guard along the way.
‘You’ll let me know if anyone pays any particular attention to my boat?’
‘Yes, Mr Impey.’
Impey kept a fully restored E-Type Jaguar in a storage unit thirty minutes south of Newcastle. He took an Uber down there, stowed the nylon bag and had the Uber take him back to a street two blocks from his house. He was trembling. He feared Jack Tremayne, and a part of him was full of doubt. What if the stash was to fund Jack’s legal defence? He wouldn’t want creditors or the authorities getting their hands on it.
And another voice in his head was saying, Bullshit, Mark. A fake passport? And clearly the Probity Commission thought Jack was going to run. If he wanted his bag of goodies back, he could just come and ask for it. But he’d better have a convincing explanation.
WYATT RETURNED IN THE dead hours of Friday night wearing a thin wetsuit and a waterproof pouch under loose blue trousers, a maroon jumper and a dark grey jacket. Dark colours for a night of moving shadows. Ordinary autumn-wear colours. Not black, a colour to stir suspicion in a passing policeman or security guard; but colours of concealment even so.
Slipping from one patch of darkness to another, he made his way to a small shed. He stripped and folded his outer clothing into a bin liner, which he stowed on top of cardboard boxes in a nearby dumpster before sliding into the water.
He swam slowly, barely disturbing the surface. A small boat, returning late from somewhere, hummed up Throsby Creek and under the Couper Street bridge, setting up a hard chop against the moored yachts, the small hulls pitching like frenzied animals for a minute or two.
He found Windward Passage and pulled himself aboard, keeping low. As expected, the below-decks area was sealed off by a locked door. Impey would have a key, but the important question was: did Tremayne still have one?
Wyatt took a lock pick from the pouch around his waist and broke in. He searched the staterooms first: one king size with ensuite, a queen and a room with two bunks. Then the galley, the second head and the storage areas, noting the powerful engines, long-range fuel tanks and well-stocked pantry.
He found a safe. It was a rich man’s safe, from what he could tell: outer wall, a layer of insulation, an inner liner and a serious locking mechanism. Bolted to the hull in one of the storage areas. He itched to open it. But would Tremayne use it as a hiding place? Unlikely—it was Impey’s boat now, Impey would want to use the safe. Anyway Wyatt didn’t have the gear with him to crack a safe.
He returned to the galley and suddenly torchlight came bobbing along one arm of the marina, sweeping erratically: someone in a hurry.
Wyatt took the GPS tracker from the pouch, dropped to the floor, snaked his arm under the sink and smacked the device’s magnetic base against a metal bracket. Movement and a footstep above his head.
‘Anyone there?’
A male voice, and Wyatt guessed the man was looking at damp footprints on the deck by now. He crept to the door and, when it swung open and the torch was poking about, he jerked on a knobbly wrist, a uniformed arm.
The guard flew past him and sprawled across the floor, and Wyatt slipped back onto the deck and into the water.
25
LYNX TREMAYNE HAD THOUGHT long and hard, and by Saturday morning she knew what to do. She texted Will DeLacey: dinosaur motel noon
She found him waiting for her. They’d used the dinosaur motel once before. A tourist place north of Newcastle that overlooked a scruffy little dinosaur park, the pitifully small creatures cracked and faded from years of exposure to sunlight and small, disappointed fingers. And the room was a wash of pinks and greys, colours that Lynx hoped might have disappeared at the end of the eighties. Then, when William moved the bed on its castors so he could watch himself fucking her in the mirror, two crumpled tissues came to light. It was an effort for Lynx to find an erotic spark.
Not helped by William himself, who was particularly unsexy today. Thrusting and grimacing, straining for a release that didn’t arrive, until he went soft inside her.
He jerked away as if he couldn’t bear to touch her. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her. A damp, mottled, unappealing back above hairy buttocks. Then he was shaking, and at last a sob broke free.
Oh, for Christ’s sake. Lynx scooted closer, not letting her breasts or stomach touch him, and draped an arm over his meaty shoulder. She stroked his neck and cheek. ‘Something wrong?’
He let it all out then, heaving and shuddering. It was embarrassing to witness, frankly. Still.
‘Sweetheart?’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ he gasped. ‘Sorry.’ Turning to face her when, really, she’d rather have kept looking at his back than his pot belly and gluey dick.
Lynx kept her distance. She screwed concern onto her face. ‘What is it?’
More tears. ‘The partners have said they need to let me go.’
Well, of course they have. ‘Oh, no,’ said Lynx. ‘That’s so unfair.’
‘And I’ve been served,’ he said. ‘Subpoenaed to appear before the Probity Commission next week.’
In the wash of weak autumn sunlight entering the room through the window, his face was devoid of confidence and authority.
‘Was it the man who bailed you up outside your office the other evening?’
‘Different one. Two of them.’
‘When do you have to appear?’
‘Next week. I’m ruined, Lynx.’
Lynx Tremayne looked stricken and it wasn’t entirely an act. She sat up, reached for the bedclothes and tugged them to the tops of her breasts. They comforted her. They blotted out most of William, too. It’s interesting how you can fall out of…love, lust, whatever…in an instant, she thought.
‘Do you think they’ll come after me as well?’
Will’s gallantry had deserted him. He said dismissively, ‘Hardly likely, is it? Me, I could lose everything.’
Your job, such as it is; your reputation, ditto; your mousy wife and retarded daughter. ‘You’re a good lawyer,’ she soothed. ‘You’re smarter than a bunch of pen-pushers.’
‘Lynx, I could go to jail!’
Get your shit together. And don’t spit on me. Lynx patted him half-heartedly. In truth, she was spooked. Events were slipping from Jack’s control—hers, Will’s—quicker than she liked. What she needed to concentrate on now was her exit strategy.
She thought about the people who’d been watching her house. She’d believed they were only interested in Jack—but maybe they were also interested in Will. Interested enough to follow him? Also interested in her? She suppressed a sudden panicky giggle to think of two surveillance teams bumping into each other at this godforsaken shithole.
Would they use her infidelity to goad Jack somehow, rattle him, get him to confess? She’d never witnessed his dangerous side, but she knew it was there. He’d said once, soon after they got hitched, ‘You won’t be sleeping with anyone else. If you do, I’ll kill him. Then you. Slowly.’
William was weeping again, on her shoulder and upper right breast. A gusting creep of wetness. She reflected that Jack liked to surround himself with weak people. William. Mark.
Me? Not me.
She thought of what she might do with Jack’s running-away money—if it existed. Steal it for herself, let it go cold for a year, divorce Jack in the meantime and start again quietly somewhere new. Or steal it and run. Or steal it with William and run with William. Better still, steal it with William’s help, then ditch him.
IT WAS PILLOW TALK of a kind she’d never engaged in before, but the money talk calmed
them both, brought some focus.
‘We do have to consider that it’s all bullshit, there is no money,’ she said, ‘but the Probity Commission man raised the possibility, and if I know my husband, he will have something up his sleeve.’
For once, William didn’t take a remark about Jack as a reflection on himself. ‘Let’s just act on the assumption there is a hidden stash.’
‘Let’s,’ she agreed. ‘I started looking as soon as you told me about the guy who bailed you up. But I can’t find any paperwork indicating a house or a storage unit or anywhere else I can think of where he might hide it.’
‘What about in someone else’s name? Friends, family?’
‘The Probity Commission’s been all over us. Jack wouldn’t be so dumb.’
Will looked deflated. Christ, she was going to have to spell it out for him. ‘If only we could get Jack to break cover somehow…’
She could feel William musing on that, his body tense and expectant, and unpleasantly warm. She wanted to peel her hip and upper arm away from his, but he was sensitive about body language.
After a while he said, ‘That might happen if he has to face court. He’ll go for the money then.’
‘But what if he keeps stonewalling? Time goes by and everyone drops their guard, and suddenly we all realise he’s done a runner. We need something else to give him a fright. Something he can’t bear to lose, something he’d willingly fork out for.’
A long few minutes passed and then William stuck his face in hers, his breath gusting. ‘There’s you,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re worth something to him.’
THEY SAT PROPPED UP on pillows for the next step. Lynx absently hauled the sheets up each time the bedding slipped. William, multi-tasking, plotted and looked at her nipples.
‘You’ll have to stay somewhere else for a couple of days,’ he said. ‘Somewhere no one would think to look for you.’
‘Okay.’
‘And leave your purse and phone behind. I’ll get you an untraceable one, so I can let you know when I have the money.’
‘You won’t run off with it yourself, will you?’
She thought that was actually unlikely. However, as one thieving dirtbag dealing with another, it was a concern he’d expect.
‘No,’ he said stoutly. ‘I want to be with you, Lynx.’
‘What if he calls the police?’
‘We tell him if he does that, you die. We tell him if he does that—or refuses to pay—then certain information about his financial dealings is released to the police.’
‘Do you actually have information that could sink him?’ Lynx asked, bending to take the flesh of William’s upper arm between her lips. Too close for comfort to his armpit, but it couldn’t be helped.
He gave a little shiver of pleasure. ‘He must know there’s material out there that could put him in jail. But is he really likely to go to the cops? He’s been running rings around them for so long now, are they likely to believe him, or even care?’
Now that the plan was taking shape, Lynx could see the holes in it. A practical tone reasserted itself in her voice. ‘Will, listen. What if he does contact the police?’
‘We don’t make it easy. We send him to a string of different locations. Meanwhile, I’ll be watching. If I see any cops I’ll call you and you can miraculously escape from your kidnappers.’
‘Christ.’
‘You need a good story. You think you were grabbed by people who lost money to him.’
But the key question, from Lynx’s point of view, was what if Jack suspected her, or him, or both of them?
‘He won’t, if he’s frightened enough. He’ll want you back. He’ll want to avoid any more bad press, too.’
‘Will, realistically, how are you going to get him to run around Newcastle while you watch for cops? We give him a time limit, like thirty minutes, and watch what he does. If he doesn’t leave the house, we call it off. If he runs straight to the police, we call it off. If he heads somewhere unexpected, that’s where the money is.’
Will DeLacey gave the appearance of a man weighing opinions raised by a woman and finding, to his surprise, that they were worth considering. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Could work.’
26
IT WAS NEVER QUIET in Property Crimes and that Saturday was no different, especially with Kitty Brenner steaming along the corridor towards him. Reaching Muecke, she snarled, ‘What’s this about you flying up to Newcastle today? I told you, it’s out of our hands and I don’t need you freelancing on my watch.’
The senior sergeant had the stark look of an avenging angel. Muecke was sick of it all. He reached back for his almost-forgotten street-cop grittiness and put some gravel into his voice. ‘Your watch? Get the fuck out of my face, senior sergeant. A different case. None of your concern.’
For the merest instant, a period so fleeting it might have been imagined, he saw the cold gleam of her soul. She doesn’t forgive or forget, he thought. He’d have to watch his back.
‘To hell with separate case,’ she said mildly. ‘It’s all connected.’
Muecke said, ‘Talk to Sam Henderson in Robbery. We were watching a man here, and now he’s popped up in Newcastle.’
‘Don’t give me that. You went out to Watervale and interviewed Kyle Roden yesterday. He told you something that’s got you tearing off to Newcastle.’
‘With the boss’s approval.’
She took a step back, regarding him a little too coolly for his peace of mind. She wore a jacket, a slim-line skirt, court shoes: interviews with heavy-duty people today, he thought. She might be so busy brown-nosing she wouldn’t insist on flying up with him.
‘What did Roden tell you?’
Muecke weighed it up. Brenner had spent a week in Newcastle with a pair of junior officers and might have uncovered something that would help him.
‘I’ve got some free time before I need to drive to the airport. Buy you coffee?’
She came closer, stirring the air: shampoo, a hint of perfume. ‘Tell me now.’
‘Remember that collection of Kelly memorabilia?’
They’d all been briefed on the robbery. Brenner gestured irritably. ‘What about it?’
‘And those rare banknotes?’ continued Muecke. ‘I’m looking at one man for both—and several other robberies. I think he acts on information from others. I think he’s in Newcastle to rob Jack Tremayne.’
‘Tremayne’s broke.’
Muecke shook his head. ‘He’s got a stash, according to Roden.’
Brenner’s face briefly registered dismay and worry, then the look vanished, replaced by her usual sourness. ‘That makes it a property crime, does it?’
‘Kitty,’ Muecke said, ‘I know something about this guy, so they want me to fly up and brief them. I’ll only be gone a day or two.’ He paused: ‘I won’t be leading raids, I won’t be covering myself in glory.’
She flushed, turned on her heel and marched away.
His phone pinged for an incoming email. SA Police, responding to his request for photographs of Dirk and Missy van Horen. Peering at the screen, he saw a tall, bearded man standing beside a little dumpling wife. Clearly not Bryce and Felicity Reschke.
MUECKE’S PLANE LANDED AT noon, but the briefing was not until 4 p.m. He went looking for the airport’s security suite. Forty minutes later, by way of facial recognition software, he had isolated the man from Centennial Park entering the main terminal by one door and exiting by another. He wore jeans and a jacket and carried a small weekender suitcase. ‘What day is this?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Can you follow him a bit further?’
‘Give me a moment.’
Muecke waited. The security technician, diffident and grey-faced, as if she spent all of her time indoors, began switching between other camera vantage points, tracking the man on her bank of screens.
‘Car rental,’ she said at last.
‘Okay. Where did he come from?
Did he fly in?’
More keys clacking, more cameras logged onto. ‘That’s weird. Long-term carpark,’ she said.
Not weird, thought Muecke. The guy didn’t want his car spotted in Newcastle. ‘Is that the only day he was here at the airport?’
Another wait. ‘In the past week? Yes.’
‘What car did he arrive in? Or leave by?’
The answer was disappointing. The technician found the car—a Toyota Corolla—but the numberplates were smeared with mud. He washes it off as soon as he’s out of the carpark, Muecke thought. He began to see a careful mind at work. Not that it was helpful to know that. A pattern suggested itself, however. The guy probably drove to Newcastle from an outside base and rented a car, as needed, from different locations around the city or in nearby towns. Might have used his own car on the first day but was careful not to repeat that.
‘What car-hire firm?’
‘Budget.’
‘What kind of car?’
He waited. Soon she had a small white sedan driving away. ‘Looks like a Hyundai. They’re popular.’
All part of the pattern, Muecke thought. He walked through to the car-hire booths. One Budget staffer was on the phone, the other busy selling an insurance upgrade. Muecke waited, and when she’d handed over keys and paperwork and turned to him with an expectant smile, he fronted up to the desk with his ID and a printout from the surveillance files.
‘On Tuesday of this week, ten in the morning, you rented a white Hyundai to this man. I need his name, address, credit card details, licence details, anything you can give me. It’s in regard to a very serious crime.’
The staffer, young, glanced at her offsider. ‘I’m not sure that I’m allowed…’
‘Terrorism implications,’ Muecke said, with an air of impatience barely suppressed.
She recoiled from the counter, looked at him in stupefaction. The other woman was still on the phone examining her nails, close up then at a distance, but aware of everything happening nearby. Putting the phone receiver to her breast, she said, ‘It’s okay, Sherry, it’s not going to hurt.’
