Did you hear me?
I did, William. I did. What did he want?
He’s got it into his head you’re trying to kill him. I know it sounds crazy, but tell me it isn’t true, Thomas.
William, of course not. We’ve enjoyed some successful business dealings, but I believe those have now come to a conclusion. I don’t anticipate any further contact with the man.
It was true, Dominic Previti advised him earlier in the week it would be best for all concerned to terminate his association with Eamonn. He’d contacted the lawyer several weeks earlier to look into a possible leak based on the information passed along by William. Dominic’s recommendation being all he needed. Thomas not requiring further clarification.
Of course, he lamented, the loss of revenue was a shame. But fate still smiled upon him; it would soon be replaced tenfold courtesy of the man sitting at the table behind him.
Thomas watched a group of young schoolchildren walk hand-in-hand along the footpath and smiled at the young female teacher leading the procession.
What else did Mahoney have to say?
He wants you to call off the dogs, Thomas. Or he’d set his own upon me, then share certain business dealings with the press. He’s got powerful friends over here, Thomas. And if anything happens to him they’ll…
William’s voice continued to rise in pitch as he explained to his brother the situation.
Relax, William. I will talk to my people over here. I’m sure it is all a misunderstanding.
He theorised – Dominic – it has to be, taking matters to the extreme. Now he questioned if he’d unwittingly placed his brother in danger.
Make sure you do, brother. I don’t want to be looking over me shoulder for the rest of me days.
William cut the connection.
Thomas stared blankly at his mobile before walking back to the dark-haired man at the table sliding a small sliver of biscotti into his mouth.
Is everything okay, Father?
Yes, yes, just some family business.
The waiter brought his coffee and Thomas stirred in a spoonful of sugar. He sipped his cappuccino before continuing.
Now, for us to pursue this proposed business arrangement, you will need the assistance of an excellent lawyer here in Rome.
He placed Dominic Previti’s business card on the table. It was quickly scooped up by the dark-haired man.
I trust you will find him and his firm very discreet and extremely competent in taking care of all your needs. I will call him myself this evening and let him know to be expecting your call.
As well as speaking to him about another matter of a more personal nature, he reminded himself.
Excellent, Father Thomas. We are anticipating this to be a tremendous year for my… associates.
The grin from the dark-haired man revealed a rotten stump where a once healthy incisor resided. His name was Thiago Miele, a government functionary for the State of Rio de Janeiro. In his role with the Vatican Bank, Thomas didn’t expect to enjoy working with everyone he came in contact. But the man across from him left a particularly bad taste in his mouth – much like the rotten stump.
Thomas felt the tickle of a small amount of foam from his cappuccino collect at the corner of his mouth. Lifting the serviette lying beside his plate, he wiped it away, then wiped the image of the blackened tooth from his mind.
Tell me again about your role in the preparations for the upcoming Olympics.
Melbourne, Australia
Thursday, March 31
Two hours of steady drinking while absorbing the screaming vocals and thrashing guitars of The Wet Blankets clearly wasn’t the best way to mourn the passing of my mother, but the week had taken its toll and I no longer cared.
I sat slumped in a chair against the wall at the Yarra. The table pulled close so I wouldn’t have to stretch too far to reach my beer. Empty pint glasses littered the table; they’d given their all in my pursuit of oblivion.
’Empty,’ I scoffed, a perfect metaphor for my life. No family, no job and hiding out from the people wanting my dead for what I knew.
What are you thinking about, mate?
Dayne joined me at the Yarra earlier in the evening and, like a good friend, wasn’t judging my drinking or surly manner too harshly.
That my life is fucked.
Well, it may look that way right now, but remember we have a plan and that’s just the first step.
Forever the eternal optimist.
I know, I know. One step at a time. But from over here all I see are a bunch of years ahead of me looking more like a prison sentence than life.
Dayne looked away, then made an attempt at changing the subject.
A shame Judy had to work tonight, but probably for the best. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. And tomorrow’s going to be a big day.
Tomorrow seemed a lifetime away, and I secretly hoped the night’s drinking would indefinitely delay that lifetime. Dayne spent the week preparing our plan. He believed it would allow me some breathing room until the threat passed. Exactly how long; depended upon an old family friend and how he responds to the communication I sent earlier in the evening.
Deputy Chief Commissioner Slattery of the Victoria Police Force, now the acting chief, had given me his business card late last year and said anytime I needed anything to contact him. Well, if this didn’t qualify…
I’d spent the past four days holed up on Dayne’s couch; venturing out only for Mum’s funeral earlier today. Calling work to take the week off for bereavement leave was simple enough, and I felt certain wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.
The search for Garth O’Neal’s killer continued, so the threat to my life was still very real. But not attending the funeral wasn’t an option.
It was a simple service held at St Ann’s in Bundoora performed by Father Kelly. Mum would’ve been pleased with the kind words he spoke. Leaving the church, the only thought in my mind was of how light the simple oak casket felt. The months at the hospice reducing her to a hollowed-out shell. It reinforced my feeling she’d long since departed this life before the heart monitor rang out its final monotonous tone.
Mother was laid to rest at Fawkner Memorial Park under a threatening sky. A strong southerly wind kicked up as Father Kelly recited a final prayer. As the attendants lowered her casket into the ground next to my father, the ten of us in attendance huddled together against the approaching storm.
The gravediggers had been meticulous in keeping my father’s headstone spotless in their digging. I’d have bet money Mother wouldn’t have minded just a little mud flung in his direction. We’d never discussed the subject of selecting a different plot; perhaps she’d decided lying by his side giving him the silent treatment for eternity was apropos.
Judy and I huddled under her umbrella as the rain began in earnest. Dayne walked beside us; eyes downcast tracking his footsteps, oblivious to the soaking rain. The rest of the afternoon, spent at Mum’s best friend’s house in Bundoora, passed in a blur. Hours spent with endless cups of sugary tea, rock-hard scones and condolences from Mum’s friends I barely knew.
Mate, you about ready to get out of here?
Dayne’s question brought me back to the here and now.
Not really, I need another beer.
Don’t you think you’re done? You’ve drunk enough to float your eyeballs.
Just get me another would ya.
Dayne made his way to the bar. He’d stopped drinking over an hour ago, so I’m sure soberly watching my pathetic performance was starting to wear thin. He returned and slapped the glass down on the table with a solid thunk.
Tell me again why we couldn’t tell Judy about the plan. You know she’ll be pissed-off at me all over again.
We’ve been over this, Craig. Her knowing will only put her in danger.
Danger, danger… Fuck, mate!
In my wild exclamation, an arm I had little control of knocked over the full glass of beer. The contents arced majestically acros
s the table and made a beeline for Dayne’s coat hanging on the back of the chair.
Ah, shit. Sorry about that, Dayne.
Dayne just glared at me as he frantically tried to wring 500 ml of Carlton Draught from his coat.
You know the material of your jacket is quite absor… ashor… very…
Are you trying to say “absorbent”?
Maybe.
I knew he was angry and didn’t mean to laugh. But both my self-control and good decision-making sauntered hand-in-hand from the bar well over an hour ago.
You know it’s a fine line between being a tortured soul and just being a plain old arsehole, mate.
Dayne was on his feet, holding his sodden coat and glowering at me.
I’m going home. Where are the keys to the Beast?
Here, here, take my coat. The keys are in the pocket.
I don’t need your coat.
Yes, you do. It’s bloody cold out tonight.
He knew better than arguing the point with a drunk, so he slipped on my coat and flipped up the collar.
What about you?
I’m going to sit here and listen to the band a little while longer. I’ll be okay; I’ll catch a taxi.
I kept my word. Thirty minutes later, I stumbled into a taxi; however, in my drunken stupor, I gave the address of my unit to the driver instead of going back to Dayne’s as planned.
***
Dayne made his way to the front door of the Yarra and held it open for two young women. The cuter of the two flashed him a smile as she passed, then halted.
Hey, don’t you play in a band?
Yeah, occasionally.
Cool. Thought I recognised you. Hey, Wendy. You got a smoke?
Dayne watched the two women search through a bag the size of a shopping basket. He considered prolonging the conversation, but the moment had passed.
Turning right, he dug his hands deep into the pockets of Craig’s jacket and shuffled off towards Rich Street where the Beast awaited.
***
There he is.
The young man wearing jeans and a black leather jacket turned right and quickly headed in the opposite direction. A passing Silver Top Taxi momentarily blocked their view, but even from 50 metres, they were sure it was their man.
Sean Costello had searched for Craig Walters since midday Tuesday. After the hit on the lawyer, he thought it prudent to lay low for a day, follow the news reports and check with his contacts to determine which way the wind blew. With no sign of the police sniffing around his usual haunts, he began tracking down the man whose elimination would complete his assignment. Surveillance on Walters’s home address proved fruitless, as did the time spent observing his workplace. He’d begun to think his mark had already gone to ground. Then last evening he received a tip; Walters would be attending a funeral the next day.
They’d tracked him for almost the entire day; from the church in Bundoora to the cemetery, back again to Bundoora, then to a run-down house in Clifton Hill. Finally, the time had arrived where he was totally isolated.
***
Dayne waited for a Silver Top Taxi to pass before jogging across Johnston Street. Then, one more time, went through in his mind the game plan for tomorrow. The last item needed; delivered as promised earlier in the afternoon. The man in Fitzroy producing the documents doing an excellent job. He’d used his services in the past and although a little pricey, you couldn’t argue with the quality of his work.
***
Sean’s driver eased the Volkswagen Jetta out of the parking spot and merged slowly into traffic just as the young man in the black leather jacket crossed Johnston Street 120 metres ahead.
Looks like he’s going back to his car. Perfect. Easy now, give him some space.
Sean pulled the Walther PPX 9mm from his pocket, screwed on the silencer and pulled back on the slide. The weapon felt comfortable in his hands. A trusted friend. Together again mere days after the elimination of Garth O’Neal; now just minutes away from completing their busy week’s schedule.
Let me out at the corner and be ready. I’ll take him as he unlocks his door.
The driver slowed to a crawl and Sean Costello was out of the vehicle and stalking the target, a mere 30 metres ahead, in the blink of an eye.
***
Dayne was pleased to find the Beast still parked where Craig told him he could find it. Which, he mused, wasn’t always a given in this part of Abbotsford. He held the key ring up to what little light was filtering through the thick foliage overhead and searched for the correct key.
He wondered for a moment if he was making a mistake leaving Craig at the bar. Dayne shook off the notion, deciding instead to give him a little space. His best friend had been through the wringer in the past few weeks, blowing off a little steam wouldn’t hurt. Then smiled, thinking, he’ll have a real bastard of a hangover in the morning.
Out the corner of his eye, he noticed movement in the shadows.
***
Sean Costello closed the remaining distance and from less than five metres squeezed the trigger twice. Two nine-millimetre slugs found their mark at the base of the young man’s skull. The lifeless body of the man Sean knew as Craig Walters crumpled to the ground with barely a sound.
Melbourne, Australia
Friday, April 1
Dayne stood to the right of the stage strumming the opening chords to Don’t Dream It’s Over. Getch held the microphone stand with one hand and swayed in time to the beat. As Skip joined in on his Dhal, Getch’s spinning and twirling became even more pronounced. After one frenzied pirouette Judy’s face replaced that of the original singer. Dayne, drowned out by an over-emphatic Skip on his drum, walked off stage in disgust. The keyboardist, hunched over her instrument, played the same discordant note over and over. And when she looked up, I saw my mother’s smiling face.
I awoke with a start and slapped the snooze bar on my alarm clock with enough force to knock it to the floor. Blinking several times to focus my vision, I sat up and gingerly rubbed my hands over my face. The annoying conversation amongst a flock of cockatoos in the parkland filtered through my window. Their incessant screeching bored into my brain, a painful reminder of how much I drank the night before. I’d attempted to drown my sorrows; unfortunately, they’d taken swim lessons behind my back.
The effort of swinging my legs off the bed and planting them on the floor brought on a wave of nausea. I remained perfectly still until it passed, all the while the weight of my head pulled me forward toward the floor. My clothes lay strewn across the carpet; like a crime scene without a body. The memory of a pissed-off Dayne leaving the bar came flooding back. There was no holding back the nausea this time. I barely made it to the bathroom before the first retch. Sadly, it wasn’t to be the last. I’m not sure how long I lay on the floor of the bathroom. The cool porcelain of the toilet bowl was soothing to my fevered brow. I held on like a long-lost lover.
In time, my insides finally abandoned their plan of escaping through my mouth; I managed to stand and lurched toward the shower. Standing under the weak stream of lukewarm water, while leaning precariously against the tiled wall, I hoped the water’s fall would revive me. Ten minutes later, I’d rinsed away the taste of bile from my throat and felt some of my senses returning.
Attempting what Dayne and I planned for today was at the minimum audacious; with a hangover in tow, it became foolhardy. But nothing for it now; better options weren’t lining up to be counted. I checked my watch: 11:20, I needed to change and be out the door in ten minutes. A quick peek through the lounge room window confirmed what I’d already guessed, the street was empty but for a Volkswagen Jetta slowing to park a few houses down. No Beast. No Dayne.
Moving with the speed of a sloth on Valium, I collected my running clothes and iPod and prayed there was something in the fridge. Opening the door, a bottle of Powerade and an apple appeared before my eyes like a King’s banquet. Keeping it down may prove difficult, but I needed fluids and something to settle my
stomach.
On the back step, I slipped on my running shoes and began a gentle stretch. For a moment, I wondered why a flower pot by the step lay on its side, then remembered the spare key hidden beneath. The first part of our plan involved Dayne driving me home this morning after lying low at his place for another night. I’d stuffed that up with last night’s drunken performance. Dayne’s no-show, I assumed, his way of showing his disapproval. But I knew, with time, he’d forgive me.
At any rate, part two of our plan was all mine.
***
Mr Premier. Chief Slattery here. I need five minutes of your time.
Having already spoken with the head of the Federal Police Force, after an interminable amount of time, Steve Slattery finally had the Premier on the line.
In the meantime, he’d received the preliminary report on last night’s murder in Abbotsford. The victim listed as Dayne Wallingham. His relationship with Craig Walters uncertain. But the fact his body was found beside a car registered in Walters’s name, and with the keys to the vehicle in his possession, proved too much of a coincidence for Slattery to ignore.
With the whereabouts of Walters still unknown; time was of the essence.
Yes, Steve. How can I help?
Are you familiar with the Southern Cross Bank and Trust?
Yes, if memory serves, I believe Thom Lewis is the CEO.
Turn A Blind Eye Page 27