by Garry Disher
He broke off to look Monger up and down. Jesus, you got it wrong from the start, didnt you? He flicked his fingers at Mongers worn shirt, his patched trousers. Look at this gear they gave you. You shouldnt have accepted it. Same goes for smokes. In here you only accept the offer of something if it comes from a close mate, not some bloke you dont know. Marks you out as weak, accept anything, unable to stand up for yourself. Plus, youd then owe the guy something in return. Thats what that was all about with Bence this afternoon.
So why are you helping me?
Steer said, Dont like to see a young bloke stuffed around.
Im not a poofter. I tell you that right now.
Didnt say you were. Im not either. But we got to pass the time away, right? Might as well give you a few pointers.
In fact, Steer liked to lecture young crims. It was a side of him that could be irritating, but he couldnt help himself. He liked to point out where theyd gone wrong. Partly he got a kick out of it, partly he was reminding himself of where hed stuffed up in the past, and partly it earned him respectif he didnt push it.
The next day they called to say he had a visitor. He was escorted to a room that smelt of hopelessness. Denise was waiting for him. She gave him a watery smile, and a kind of sadness settled in Steer.
The visitors room was like a cheap cafe, a place of scraping chairs, shouted conversations, coughing smokers and general defeat. Poverty, that was the word, poverty. This was a world of poor men and their poor families. Their clothes were cheap, their haircuts and shoes, their ambitions. Every man in the room had showered and shaved that morning, but most had used soap in place of shampoo, and wore bad shaves from blunt electric razors, and generally looked unwashed and unkempt. It was no place to be meeting your bird.
Steer shook off the sadness. He became vigorous and sharp. Great to see you, sweetheart.
Great to see you, too.
Chaffeys got to get me into remand.
Denise touched the back of his hand. I saw him this morning. Hes working on it.
Steer gave her a loaded look. Any other news?
He rang before I left. Hes confident.
Steer snarled. Confident? What does he think I pay him for? I want results.
* * * *
Eight
Vallance and Allie said the Windsor Hotel, said could he pick them up and give them a lift to their place in Westernport. Maybe they didnt own a car, maybe they didnt drivewhatever, when Raymond left Chaffey he walked back to his apartment so that he could change and collect the keys to his XJ6, then he drove to the Windsor, parked outside and called up to their room on the courtesy phone.
On our way, Vallance said.
Raymond went back to the car and waited. There was still a lot of cop activity in the centre mile of the city. The Windsor. Clearly Vallance and Allie werent short of a bob or twounless it was all for show.
As he waited, he let himself think about Chaffeys proposal. A hundred grand for lifting a collection of paintings was better money at a lower risk factor than robbing a bank, so it was worth thinking aboutif he were able to find himself a good partner.
According to Chaffey, art theft was the worlds most lucrative crime after drug dealing. Stolen paintings found their way into private collections, were used as a stake in buying and selling arms and drugs, sold to crooked gallery owners and dealers for a third of their retail value or sold back to insurance companies or owners for the reward money. Police in Australia had only a twenty per cent clear-up rate. They were forced to sift through computerised records that listed stolen chainsaws and laptop computers alongside Picassos and Renoirs. Security was costly for most gallery owners and most private collectors kept inadequate records.
As Chaffey put it, there was only a 48-hour window of opportunity for lifting the paintings. The building where they were housed was undergoing a renovation, and for 48 hoursa Saturday and a Sundaythe power would be switched off and the paintings locked away in a storeroom. No cameras, no alarms, for 48 hours. Just a few locked doors and a nightwatchman every now and then through the night.
Twenty minutes later, Allie and Vallance appeared with their cases. They wore jeans and polo shirts, designer quality. Raymond found both of them hard to figure out. The jeans hung loosely on Vallances bony hips and he looked all wrong, somehow too old for the picture he was presenting to the world. Allie didnt, so what was she doing with him? Raymond wanted to peel her open like a piece of fruit.
Vallance got into the back seat. Allie slid into the passenger seat and her long thighs filled Raymonds imagination. Vallance leaned into the gap between the seats. Now, this is a no-obligation trip, okay? You dont have to commit yourself. Spend the night at our summer place and well take a boat out in the morning, look at the wreck, then you think about it. But Ill ask you to keep this confidential. I think you understand.
No drama, Raymond said.
He fired up the Jaguar and slid into traffic. Neither Allie nor Vallance said anything about the car, as though they were born to luxury.
You were talking about some old newspaper clipping, Raymond prompted, watching Vallance in the rear-view mirror.
Satisfaction and passion mingled on the mans narrow face. Got it right here, he said, opening a document wallet. You know, it can be like detective work, hunting down old wrecks. You accumulate apparently random fragments of information and look for the patterns and answers. Often what you get are false leads; you find yourself exercising your mind about the wrong problem.
He paused, staring into space. Raymond groaned inwardly. He was about to learn more than he needed to know, but the world was full of Vallances, full of tidy, narrow, pointless passions.
In 1827, Vallance said, a barque called the Eliza Dean was reported missing between Sydney and Hobart. Shed sailed with a handful of passengers, plus provisions, plus fifty thousand quids worth of gold, silver and copper coinage. Can you imagine what that would be worth today?
Raymond allowed himself to look awed. He sensed Allie next to him, her secret, almost conniving smile.
Gold and silver coins, mostly. Also bank notes, cheques and the royal mail. Most of the coins were bound for the garrison stationed in Hobart Town. The officers and soldiers hadnt been paid for some time.
Raymond steered with one hand, fished out his Spanish dollar with the other. You think this came from the Eliza Dean?
Im sure of it. The date is right, all the other wrecks and missing ships around that period have been accounted for, and none was carrying currency. You want to know how I worked it out?
Sure.
At first I thought Bass Strait pirates. What theyd do was build bonfires on the shores of King Island during fogs and lure ships ashore. Theyd loot anything they could usecutlasses, pistols, knives, clothing, food, toolsand store it all on Robbins Island. One story I heard, a woman was washed ashore wearing diamond rings. What did they do? They chopped off her fingers to get the rings. Theyd fight amongst themselves. Theyd drink, trade women, disappear without trace.
Charming, Raymond said.
Allie turned to him, smiling her smile. Of course, she said, weve come a long way since then in relations between men and women.
Raymond thought: Maybe he hits her, the bastard. He coughed, glanced into the rear-view mirror. You thought pirates got the Eliza Dean?
I did, Vallance said. Then I thought, no, why would she be sailing that far west? The Cornwall Group, islands about seventy ks south-east of Wilsons Promontory seemed like a better bet. A score of vessels have come to grief there. Thick sea fogs, howling gales, no lighthouse until the 1840s.
So well be diving in howling gales and thick fogs? Raymond asked.
Nope. Where I found the coins we can anchor in sheltered waters, safely spend weeks exploring the reefs there if we wanted to. Want to know how come I focused on the Cornwall Group and not Flinders Island or the east coast of Tassie?
Sure. Raymond wound the big car past the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The big lights loomed coldly l
ike spy cameras.
Okay, listen to this. Hobart Town Courier, 1827. Its what I mean by piecing clues together.
Vallance waved a photocopy between the seats, then settled back to read aloud. Blah, blah, blah . . . Captain Whitby, master of the Government cutter, Swordfish, was dispatched to make a search among the Bass Strait Islands for tidings or wreckage of the missing brig, Mary May. Captain Whitby reported on his return that considerable wreckage from the Mary May had been discovered on Clarke and Preservation Islands, but no trace of her passengers or crew.
Nevertheless a curious but related fact has emerged as a result of Captain Whitbys search. Whilst at anchor under the Cornwall Group during the term of a powerful gale, Captain Whitby had occasion to take the ships vessel to the nearest shore, where he came upon a sealer living with two native women. The sealer, Sydney Dan by name, was unable or unwilling to provide a satisfactory account for the presence in his hut of certain items, namely a sea chest, a snuff box, numerous pistols and a majors uniform. Furthermore, part of a deckhouse had been converted for use as a pigsty roof. Having ascertained that none of these items belonged to the Mary May, Captain Whitby questioned the man more closely. His answers appeared to be most evasive, and Whitby returned to the Swordfish with his curiosity and suspicion considerably aroused.
Next morning Captain Whitby returned to the island and, taking the native women aside for questioning, discovered a cooked leg of mutton, a ham and a cushion. Pursuing his inquiries farther afield, among sealers, fishermen and sailors from diverse parts of the Bass Strait islands, Captain Whitby learned that numerous sealers had recently arrived in Launceston bearing cheques, gold coins and bank notes for which they could not give a clear accounting. One man possessed a ships studding sail boom, with the sails still attached.
The mystery has since deepened. The Courier has it on good authority that Captain Gibb, Port Officer at Hobart Town, last month received anonymously in the post the register and other papers from the Eliza Dean, a barque missing between Sydney Town and Hobart Town this past half year. Further to this, letters which could only have been carried by the Eliza Dean recently arrived at their destinations in Hobart Town, postmarked Launceston.
Grave concern is held for the Eliza Dean, if indeed she was lost upon the reefs surrounding the Cornwall Group. There is a dereliction of duty on the part of the Government if immediate steps are not taken to unravel the mystery that enshrouds the fate of the thirty individuals on board. It is a matter of importance to know whether they were drowned or murdered, and whether they landed alive or if the bodies were plundered after being washed ashore.
Raymond frowned. Yeah, yeah, yeah, but how do we know the treasure is still on the wreck? It sounds as if she was looted before she broke up. The coins you found could have been a handful that got left behind.
He saw Vallance smile complacently. Trust me, I know. Ive already made several passes with a metal detector and accounted for all of the ferrous metals. The rest is gold, solid gold, and silver.
Gold. The word lodged in Raymonds head. He found himself braking hard to avoid ramming the rear of a taxi on the approach to the south-eastern freeway at Hoddle Street.
As the endless suburbs slipped past their windows, Raymond asked questions. They were as hard and knowing as he could make them. He wasnt an easy catch. He didnt want them to think he was.
Youre looking for investors, fifty grand each. What does my fifty grand buy me?
A sixth share in the treasure. Me, Allie, you, and three others. Equal sixths.
I dont mean that. I mean, what kind of expedition are we mounting here?
He sensed Allie shift in her seat. She was looking at him, her knees swivelled toward him. Raymond had read about that in a book on body language. If they cross one leg over the other or face away from you, they were unconsciously saying they didnt want to screw you. Allie wasnt saying that. She was saying she wanted him, clear as day. Raymond almost didnt hear Vallance say:
We need a ship we can live on in comfort for a few days. Something with a winch and a fair-sized deck and hold area. Well need different types of metal detectors, sonar gear, underwater video, an airlift, underwater scooters, maybe even a prop wash.
Those were just words to Raymond. He was more interested in concealment. I get the impression you dont want anyone knowing about this expedition, so how do you propose to outfit it and spend a few days searching without being noticed?
Youre right, Vallance said smoothly. Why should we arouse the curiosity of others? I intend to hire a good boat in one port, the gear in a range of other ports around Victoria and Tasmania.
Do we need all that gear?
That coin youve got there is one of a handful I found on a quick dive. The rest have been buried by the action of the tides. Theyll need some getting at. Its been a hundred and seventy years, after all.
Ive scuba dived, but thats all, Raymond said.
Thats good enough for tomorrows dive. Its just exploratory. I guarantee you wont be disappointed. When the time comes to mount a salvage dive, Ill do the diving. Ive got hours of experience.
How long?
The salvage itself?
Raymond nodded.
Several days, maybe a couple of weeks. We have to locate the wreck first
I thought you already had.
What I found were loose coins shaken free by the tides. The actual wreck, where the majority of the treasure is, could be some distance away after all this time. It might have broken up and be scattered over several hundred metres. So we locate the wreck, then make a plot chart of the overall site, then we start excavating, marking all our finds on the chart. Thatll give us a better picture of the spread pattern.
They were off the freeway now, heading south on the Dandenong-Hastings road, past waterlogged farmland. Raymond looked at his watch. Almost time for lunch.
When do we go out?
First thing in the morning, Allie said, her soft growl almost in his ear as she shifted to get comfortable.
Raymond liked her voice. So I stay the night at your summer place.
Be it ever so humble, Vallance said.
Do you have your own boat?
We have a friend who runs a charter operation. Hell take us out in the morning.
Good old Quincy, Vallance said.
Good old Quincy, Allie agreed.
Raymond frowned. How many people are in on this?
Allies cool fingers touched his wrist. Its all right. Quincys not involved. So far weve lined up three of the four investors.
Raymonds draw dropped. Three of the four? Already? Who are they?
Vallance seemed to close down. Youll understand that they dont want their identities revealed. These are professional men. Theyve paid their fifty thousand.
What if I say no?
Then no hard feelings. Well approach one of our other contacts. Its just that you appeal to us. These are old geezers were talking about. To them its just another investment. Theyve got no soul, no romance in their veins. Someone like you, likes to hear the stories, willing to come out and dive with us, willing to have an open mind and not tie us up with lawyers and accountantsthats what we want for our fourth investor.
Raymond was silent. He felt a gut-clench of anxiety, a feeling that he might miss out entirely if he didnt act soon.
They drove over the railway tracks on the outskirts of Hastings, Vallance directing Raymond to a run-down flat in a block of four, several streets back from the waterfront. Again, Raymond couldnt work them out. It was an ugly little flat. They unpacked and drove to a cafe at the marina. One hour passed. Two. They made small talk. Raymond guessed that Allie and Vallance were maintaining a delicate silence around the topic of his investing with them, and so didnt want to pressure or confuse him. After a while they left him to think, saying they were going to make arrangements with their charter-captain friend, Quincy.
Raymond ordered another coffee and stretched his legs. Gulls wheeled above the cafe tables. Sail r
igging pinged on the drydocked yachts. He blinked, taking in the man who was staring moodily at the chalked menu.
Uncle Wyatt? he said, his old name for his fathers brother.
* * * *
Nine
A while since Wyatt had been called that. He knew of only one person in the world whod called him that, but Wyatt distrusted coincidence and didnt turn around, not until hed sought out the voice in the mirror behind the cash register. Still Wyatt didnt respond. He ran a checklist of his senses. They were a barometer of the town, the marina, the cafe itself. The place seemed all right: scratchy muzak, idle yachting types, tourists, the clank of cafe cutlery. Finally he said, Ray? and turned to his nephew.