Vanished

by James Delargy

  He pulled up outside a house on Hoover Street, the business nothing more than a prefab steel building in the yard with a couple of chairs, a desk and a safe inside.

  The dealer’s hopes of a sale were dashed as soon as they introduced themselves, his open, expressive and blotchy face tightening to pinched as if they had barged in and shat on his Sunday lunch.

  She left it to Rispoli to explain that they were not investigating anything he might have done wrong. It didn’t ease the dealer’s suspicions.

  ‘We’re looking for anyone new who might have been here in the last few months. Maybe a one-off. Probably selling a sizeable amount,’ said Emmaline.

  The dealer kept his eyes on them as he unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out a notebook.

  ‘No computer?’ asked Rispoli.

  ‘I’m hardly the bloody Mint, am I?’

  ‘Mind if we take a look?’ asked Emmaline.

  ‘If you think you can read it,’ said the dealer, grinning as he handed the notebook over. It was lined with figures and squiggles that were impossible to read never mind decipher.

  She passed it back. The dealer ran his finger down the page. Then flipped back one. Then another, his digit scanning as if reading Braille.

  He tapped the page. ‘Here,’ he said, flipping it round to show them. ‘Fifteenth of December. One point five eleven troy.’

  ‘Troy?’

  ‘Troy ounces,’ said the dealer with a haughtiness of knowledge. ‘From fifteenth century England. It differs from the standard avoirdupois ounce—’

  Emmaline cut him off. ‘In terms we understand, please.’ The ‘please’ grated on her tongue.

  ‘It means forty-seven grams of twenty-one carat gold. Dust and small nuggets. I paid out two thousand. Made over seven hundred on the deal.’

  Emmaline pointed at a symbol scrawled in the side panel. She knew what it looked like but wondered why it was there.

  The dealer sneered. ‘It’s a cock, surely you’ve seen one before?’

  Rispoli stepped forward as if to defend her, but she put her hand up.

  ‘Is that something you have to clarify to many women?’ said Emmaline, arrowing her head towards his crotch. ‘Misshapen or just tiny?’

  The dealer sneered at her.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Rispoli.

  ‘It means that they were cocky.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘See the blank space before the WA on the page? West Australia was all he gave when I asked him where the gold came from.’

  ‘And you didn’t push it?’

  ‘Not for seven hundred bucks.’

  ‘Does that happen much?’

  ‘Occasionally. Some people are secretive. Some have rings or heirlooms to sell. I don’t want their life story.’

  ‘Name?’ asked Emmaline.

  The dealer looked closely at the page. ‘Ian King. He provided an ID.’

  Rispoli started to work through his notepad for matches as Emmaline asked for a description.

  ‘Tall, bearded. Wore a beanie hat that covered his hair.’

  ‘In this heat?’

  ‘I trade gold, not fashion advice.’

  ‘Here!’ said Rispoli, holding out his notepad to her. ‘The name Ian King has come up before. Twice at other buyers. Selling significant amounts.’

  * * *

  Returning to the car they asked Zhao to run the name through the system. As they waited for a response, they got in touch with Barker and Anand for an update.

  ‘Have you come across any deals made by an Ian King?’ asked Rispoli.

  There was a rustle of pages across the line before Barker responded. ‘Yeah. One off Hoffmann, two near Remington. Decent amounts according to the dealers.’

  ‘Did you get a description?’

  ‘Tall with a beard.’

  ‘And a beanie?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Emmaline. ‘Keep on it.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Anand, from the background as Barker rung off.

  ‘It’s as if he was going from dealer to dealer to stay somewhat anonymous,’ said Emmaline.

  ‘Or looking for the best price.’

  Zhao called. ‘Ian King doesn’t match with anything we have.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Emmaline.

  ‘But there was an Ian Kinch who did a couple of stints for theft, including minor assault.’

  ‘And how do they link?’

  ‘Ian Kinch is a Queensland native. Born in Cairns. Did time in Capricornia Correctional Centre in Rockhampton. Mainly petty stuff but the assault he got done for took place around Miles. The Surat Basin.’

  ‘In the same area where Mike Andrews and Stevie Amaranga worked for Skyline,’ said Emmaline.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Zhao.

  ‘Do we have a photo and a description?’

  Before she finished the sentence there was a ping on her phone. A photo and description of Ian Kinch. In the picture there was no beard. His face was striking, angled and chiselled, his blue eyes piercing even in the police photo, his jaw held firm, unamused but certainly not scared. A solid nine. Six-one and a hundred and seventy pounds. Without a beanie his brown hair was tousled perfectly, as if it had been styled for the mugshot.

  It wasn’t conclusive proof that Ian Kinch was working with Mike Andrews and Stevie Amaranga but considering that gold was being traded without Mike’s and Stevie’s presence it meant there had to be a third party. And Ian Kinch fitted that bill. He was the face and the muscle. They were the brains.

  73 Mike Andrews

  It was a bagful of crocodile shit idea. The problem was he didn’t have an alternative. Ian was still convinced that they should try and live alongside the family. Mike stuck by his remark that they were parasites. Lorcan begging for money had proved that. It would only get worse now the house had collapsed. If he found out the true amount they were bringing in then he would demand a piece of the action. And they had worked hard for it. They were the ones who stole and studied the readings, who came all the way out here, who put their savings into buying the machines, who dug out two tunnels before this one, who camped down them. They were the ones putting themselves at risk from the law. Or the collapse of a hundred-year-old tunnel. Lorcan had taken no risks.

  ‘Aside from poking his nose in our business,’ said Stevie, as they gulped down water, wishing it was beer.

  ‘A poked nose can soon be bloodied,’ said Mike, allowing the undercurrent of menace to drift freely in the afternoon air, the penknife blade worked under his nails.

  ‘We don’t antagonize them,’ said Ian.

  ‘But they can antagonize us?’

  ‘They’re loose cannons,’ said Stevie.

  ‘Parasites and loose cannons. Nothing about this is good for us. If I had wanted a screaming, bawling family tagging along…’

  ‘We can use them as cover if we need to,’ said Ian.

  ‘Why?’ said Mike, instantly suspicious. ‘What are you expecting?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Ian. ‘I’ve been inside. Expect anything and your arse is covered.’

  Mike wasn’t keen on prison talk. Being an unabashed pessimist he foresaw complications in everything. Which was beneficial when undertaking experiments but not so constructive on a practical level. Daily he fluctuated between being sure that they were going to jail and convinced that they would get away with it. Ian had already accused him of having a borderline personality disorder. ‘Nobody’s perfect,’ he had replied.

  A drone came into earshot. From overhead. Immediately they picked up their things and ducked for cover like they were in a war zone.

  ‘There you go. We duck for cover but they stay out in the open,’ said Mike, the echo of his gum clacking. ‘And I swear there’s been more planes lately. Flying low enough that I can hear them in the tunnel.’

  ‘Less of the crazy,’ said Ian, admonishing.

  ‘The only thing crazy is being here with that family still around.’

/>   ‘He has a point, Ian,’ said Stevie.

  Mike knew that his friend would side with him. They had worked together at Skyline for three years, bound by similar interests in complex board games and in getting ahead. But Skyline had other ideas. So he and Stevie found another way.

  ‘You have two options,’ said Ian. ‘Leave or continue digging. And we’ve hit a good seam so it would be a shame to stop now.’

  ‘Quit while you’re ahead,’ said Stevie.

  ‘You can,’ said Ian. ‘I won’t stop you. But you don’t get any money until I finish.’

  ‘Why?’ said Mike.

  ‘To keep your mouths shut.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘It is compared to the alternative way of keeping your mouths shut,’ said Ian, letting the threat hang. He continued, ‘No one quits halfway through. I won’t quit on you, you don’t quit on me.’

  It was a see-through move, playing on how shoddily Skyline had treated them. Then came the carrot.

  ‘How about tomorrow we head to a motel for the day – get some sleep and some action?’

  The bribe was as obvious as the ludicrously oversized ‘Big Cassowary’ statue in Mission Beach but the offer of a bath, bed, booze and babes compared to a cold bivvy bag under the stars was a winning combo. His concerns could wait another night at least.

  74 Emmaline

  If they didn’t have conclusive proof before, the latest info from Queensland changed that. Ian Kinch’s movements for the last two months had been tracked.

  He had disappeared at the start of October, at almost exactly the same time as the two scientists. This had been confirmed by his social media blackout – his Facebook silent, his Twitter account closed – his bank account untroubled.

  Mike’s and Stevie’s family and friends had been helpful, concerned about their loved ones. And even more concerned now that the police were making enquiries.

  Most recalled a guy fitting Ian Kinch’s description, good-looking and quick-witted, a new mate that Mike and Stevie had hung around with since Skyline had let them go. An odd bunch given how introverted Mike and Stevie were compared to Ian. For a few weeks before their disappearance they had been hitting clubs and bars every few nights. As if they were trying to blow all their redundancy money. As if it was their last night on earth. Their friends had been worried about the influence this new guy seemed to have but couldn’t deny that Mike and Stevie deserved some release.

  Emmaline was now convinced that there were three miners in Kallayee. She imagined a timeline. Knowing that Skyline had given them the boot, they went out to blow off some steam and fell in with Ian. They got to talking, maybe about opportunities or just work in general. Ian then persuaded them to steal the data, or Mike and Stevie knew about the data already but didn’t know what to do with it. At this stage the first seemed more likely. An outgoing and street-smart Ian Kinch would have gained influence over the introverted scientists. Maybe he even appointed himself head of the crew, a dangerous but intriguing development for the previously reserved pair. Ian learned what the data could do. He hatched a plan and sourced the mining equipment, the serial numbers scrubbed. Ian Kinch was the face, Mike Andrews and Stevie Amaranga the brains, studying the data, surveying and picking the target. Kallayee might have been a lucky first stab or maybe they had tried a few locations in mid-to late November, before settling on Kallayee.

  Weeks of hard graft had been put into the tunnel. A vein found, fortune struck. Then the Maguire family had shown up and interrupted them. So why didn’t Ian Kinch scare them off immediately? He had previous convictions for theft and minor assault after all. But the family had lived alongside them for more than a couple of weeks. Did it take that long for someone in the family, possibly Lorcan Maguire, to uncover the mine? Then he was chased and killed? But what about Naiyana and Dylan? The still un-answered question.

  Finally she had a lead. Now that they could place the three miners and the family together in Kallayee, Emmaline needed to find out where the miners had gone.

  75 Emmaline

  But even before she could consider looking into the miners’ current whereabouts, something else came to light. The whereabouts of Nikos Iannis. On 30 December. His image had been captured on CCTV at a petrol station north of Kalgoorlie. Not his usual hunting ground. A city animal exclusively. Emmaline could think of no reason to be out there other than a meeting with Lorcan Maguire. And whatever might have followed.

  In two hours she was back in Perth. Oily briefed her. Nikos had said nothing so far, other than to request his lawyer.

  ‘Want to take it?’ asked Oily.

  There was no doubt about that.

  In the interview room, Nikos sat behind the table, dressed in black slacks and a shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck. His arms were folded, leaning back in the seat in a come-and-get-me pose.

  ‘You again?’ said Nikos. Then he turned to his lawyer, a stately-looking man, his red tie neatly pinned. ‘She’s the one pestering me at my home.’

  ‘You invited us in, Mr Iannis,’ said Emmaline.

  ‘’Cause I thought you were a stripper,’ said Nikos. ‘Before the boob job.’

  Emmaline smiled. ‘Are you the After shot then?’ she said and nodded towards the open shirt and prominent man-boob cleavage.

  With a stony silence descending after, she ran through the formalities of where they were and who was present, the lawyer announcing himself as Vasilios Drakos, from the firm Drakos and Galanis. He was in his sixties, with thick eyebrows that shielded his face like a sun visor, oddly jet black as opposed to his nearly pure grey hair.

  Emmaline jumped straight in. ‘Do you know why you are here, Mr Iannis?’

  ‘The same reason we all are, Detective. Failed to win the lottery.’

  ‘You have been identified on CCTV at a petrol station just north of Kalgoorlie on the thirtieth of December,’ said Emmaline, pushing the image towards him. The resolution wasn’t perfect, but with Nikos practically staring at the camera, it was clear enough for identification.

  Nikos studied the page. Emmaline waited for the denial. In preparation for this, Rispoli had already interviewed the petrol station owner who had identified Nikos too.

  Vasilios got to work. ‘My client does not wish to—’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ said Nikos.

  Vasilios turned to him. ‘You do not have to—’

  ‘I know what I don’t have to do, Vasi,’ he snapped. He faced Emmaline again. ‘I was out there.’

  ‘On the thirtieth?’

  ‘I’ll take your word for that.’

  ‘What were you doing out there?’

  ‘Whale-watching.’

  ‘Mr Iannis, may I remind you that this interview is being recorded.’

  Nikos laughed. ‘Okay, snake-whispering. I heard it was a good area to find them.’

  ‘Are you referring to Lorcan Maguire?’

  Nikos stayed quiet, smirking.

  ‘How did you find him? Through one of his work colleagues?’

  Having lured her with some information, Nikos clammed up, basking in having Emmaline scramble for more, a wry smile on his face. Emmaline supposed this interview room was no different to hundreds he had been in before. Now he was studying the corners, looking for anything to distract him. She had just the thing, something he hated most of all – disrespect.

  ‘You wanted to talk to him about the missing information, didn’t you? You wanted to find him. For making a complete fool out of you.’

  Nikos’s head whipped sharply around. This had stung. He wouldn’t be able to resist biting back.

  Spotting the danger, Vasilios attempted to interrupt. ‘My client hasn’t confirmed he was even there. We would need a line-up, a focused—’

  It was Emmaline’s turn to interrupt. ‘But I get the feeling he fooled you again? Didn’t he?’ A thin smile crept onto her face, one designed to antagonize Nikos.

  Nikos’s nostrils flared. His teeth clamped shut. He looked to
Vasilios, silently asking him to shut this down.

  ‘Did you pay him money, Mr Iannis? To get back the information. But he double-crossed you? Maybe he’d already sold it to someone else. His double pay-off for your company’s hard work. For your hard work. That wouldn’t look good, would it? Fleeced by one of your employees. Some geek behind a desk. It would look like you were losing your grip without your brother in control. But there’s not much he can do from a sickbed, is there? Can’t hold his little brother’s hand anymore.’

  ‘These aren’t questions—’ said Vasilios, but Nikos had had enough, his face blazing red with anger.

  ‘He swore he didn’t have it,’ said Nikos.

  ‘Nikos, you don’t—’ started Vasilios but his comforting hand was batted away. Nikos had a rep to defend.

  ‘He said he’d destroyed it.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘It was hard to believe anything that rat bastard said.’

  ‘That “rat bastard” was shot dead soon after, Mr Iannis.’

  He shrugged. ‘These things happen. He should have been more afraid of me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Nikos went quiet again, his rep defended to those in this room and on tape. There was anger but no fear. He was confident that he couldn’t be linked to Lorcan Maguire’s death. He had spilled the motive but knew that Emmaline lacked any evidence.

  The door knocked. Neil Templeton passed her a sheet of paper. It made for some interesting reading.

  ‘You’ve threatened people before haven’t you, Mr Iannis? What do you want to tell us about Georgina Harbles?’

  Nikos said nothing.

  ‘What has this got to do with—’ said Vasilios.

  ‘Demonstrating that your client has prior in this area,’ said Emmaline. ‘Significant prior. Miss Harbles had a case against INK Tech for harassment regarding threats issued over social media. Personal, nasty stuff. Then the company she went to work for had a fire. The building burnt down with a guard inside. It looked like arson but it couldn’t be proved. It had all the hallmarks of a message not to mess with the Iannis family.’