by Garry Disher
I know all this.
What you may not know is that by the 1820s the coin shortage was over and in 1825 the British government passed a law that only English sterling currency could be legal tender in the colonytwo years before the Eliza Dean was sunk. Foreign coins, holey dollars and dumps were recalled from circulation. That coin youve got there is unlikely to have come from the Eliza Dean.
So what about the coins Raymond saw?
Vallance must have dived ahead of Raymond and salted the wreck. Its a not uncommon scam in the Caribbean, involving Spanish Main vessels.
Salted was an unfamiliar term to Wyatt but he guessed what Liz Redding meant by it. There was no treasure on the Eliza Dean. Vallance had stolen old coins and scattered them near the wreck in order to attract cash investors, and Raymond had fallen for it.
He groaned. Bloody fool.
Raymond?
Yes.
What will happen when he finds out?
Wyatt shrugged. Right now hes probably desperate because he doesnt have the cash he promised Vallance, and Chaffey is unlikely to give him any. He probably thinks he can use the paintings to buy into Vallances syndicate, but if Vallances under arrest and Raymond cant find him, he could do anything.
You think Raymonds in danger?
Wyatt said, He was in danger from the moment he was born.
How do you mean?
Look at the family he was born into.
Youre being too hard on yourself. He had choices.
Wyatt thought about Raymonds choices: Whether he should burgle houses or steal cars. Whether or not he should betray his uncle. Whether he should shoot Denise Meickle or slap her face to shut her up.
Wyatt, will he come after you?
Wyatt said, I would put money on it.
* * * *
Thirty-six
It was an odd sensation, knowing that she was in the house. Wyatt went for a prowl of the creek and nearby gullies and trees, tracing in his mind the useful landmarks: traps, places where they could hide, places of ambush. All the while he felt the pull of her, back there in his house.
When Wyatt walked back through his door a wall of heat enveloped him. Coals glowed in the open grate and freshly split logs had been tumbled on to the hearth. He looked around. He was not an untidy man, so hed not left much that needed attention, but it was clear to him, from the aligned edges of an old newspaper and footprints showing against the raised weave of the carpet, that Liz Redding had cleaned and vacuumed the house.
Finally, as he advanced on the open fire, Wyatt made a swift appraisal of Liz herself. She was sprawled in an armchair, looking well-scrubbed and serene in a black tracksuit, with thick socks on her feet, her hair bright in the firelight, alive with static electricity. A cup and saucer on the end of the hearth held the dregs of weak black tea. He bent to kiss her.
Her cheek was cool. She made a sound in her throat. But, as he straightened, her composure cracked a little. She shifted self-consciously in the armchair, as though aware that shed created a warm domestic cocoon but was in fact far from home and far from secure.
She turned away, fixed her gaze on the grate. Wyatt crossed to an ancient sideboard and cracked the seal on a bottle of Scotch. He poured a couple of fingers into a glass and left it on the mantelpiece while he swung the two-seater sofa to the opposite side of the hearth. But he stumbled, the room yawed, the sofa tipped with him to the floor.
All he wanted to do was lie there, in warmth and security, until the buzz and fog was gone from his head, but Liz was cupping his face in her warm hands. You shouldnt make sudden movements. Do you want a doctor? Her palms tensed. She began to slap his cheeks. Wake up!
Wyatt rolled onto his side, levered himself to his feet and righted the sofa. He collapsed into it, then remembered his Scotch.
Liz pushed him back. Stay there. Ill get it.
Wyatt let the Scotch burn him into a state of relief from his trials. Liz, hovering uncertainly, sank into her armchair when she saw him smile thinly at her, saw the vulnerability rather than the customary chill in his hooded eyes.
She stared at his head. You need a doctor. When he didnt respond she sighed. At least get some rest.
Right.
After a while she said, a little sadly, I cant see you wanting me here with you.
Wyatt said nothing. Beyond sleep, he didnt know what he wanted. He felt secure and warm, another chapter over. Then, as the Scotch burned a little more, the thought came unbidden into his head that he did want her there.
Then he felt her sit beside him, her thigh warm against his. In the light and warmth of the fire, Wyatt shifted position on the sofa and saw that Liz was watching him. Surprised by desire, the intensity and suddenness of it, he hooked his hand behind her neck. She shuddered. When they fell to the carpet, they made a clawing kind of love, Wyatt giving and getting back, finding a deep relief.
But when it was over, so was the pleasure. Wyatt didnt know Liz Redding, nor she him. They had desire and regard for each other, and were both in flight from the law, but that wasnt yet enough. He realised from her face that she shared his detachment, his drawing away. Her sadness matched his own. When the feeling passed they moved to the bed together for sleep. Wyatt wondered if he would wake in the morning and find her gone.
That was sad, too.
But if she was thereif he hadnt driven her away or allowed her to feel that she must gothen he would have to find a way of saying that he wanted her to stay. He wondered how people did that. Did they state it baldly? Thats how he normally communicated his feelings, but surely that wasnt enough?
She was still there when he awoke at four in the morning. Moonlight streamed into the house, so he didnt bother with lights. He padded naked to the kitchen, downed a glass of tap water and mused at the window. That probably saved his life, for he was gazing unfocusedly across the moon-drenched open ground and otherwise might not have detected a flicker at the far end of the belt of trees that screened the house from the road. It was slight, and it was not repeated, but although stealthy it was not the movement of an animal of the night.
Wyatt drew back from the window and moved swiftly back to the bedroom. He clamped his hand over Lizs mouth, watched as she woke, struggled and subsided, before he whispered, We have visitors.
She heaved against his hand. He released her. Who? she demanded.
Keep your voice down. I dont know if theyre after you or after me. Theyre not showing themselves.
Somewhere nearby the house creaked. Wyatt hissed, Get into the wardrobe.
Liz pushed the bedclothes away and slipped across the room. She didnt question or argue further, and Wyatt saw that she had dressed again while hed been asleep.
He thought of his nakedness then and pulled on jeans, hiking boots and a cotton sweater. He kept a .38 revolver strapped to the underside of the bedframe, and hurriedly dropped to the floor now and reached in and retrieved it. After a moments thought, he shoved spare pillows under the bedclothes to suggest sleeping forms and placed a dark handkerchief on one of the pillows at the head of the bed.
Wyatt wished that hed had more time to imagine his house defensively. He knew how to escape from ithe had a mental map of the rooms, doors and windows, their positions and dimensionsbut what he needed to know was how to use the house. He concentrated for a moment, identifying the areas where light, natural or artificial, didnt fully penetrate. There were several: between the door to the kitchen and the refrigerator, the space behind the couch . . .
He ran out of time. He heard a footfall in the hall outside the bedroom and he rolled across the carpet until he lay flush where the wall met the floor. From this position he put his weight on his stomach and elbows and trained the .38 at the open door.
That might have worked if the shooter had been careless. Wyatt willed him into the doorway, even into the room, but all he got was a glimpse of a barrel. He was up against an assault rifle and a man who was too careful to frame himself as a target. Wyatt saw the barrel appe
ar, squeezed off a shot from his .38, then all hell broke loose and he found himself deafened by the stutter of automatic fire. But hed seen a face in the muzzle flash. It was Steer come to get him, not Raymond.
* * * *
Thirty-seven
When Steer had stepped onto the steel deck of Quincys boat and shouted Freeze! he had the satisfaction of watching Raymond spasm in fright, almost piss himself with it.
Then, a few hours later, he watched Raymond all doubled over with seasickness, and that was pretty satisfying, too. Not the ultimate satisfactionthat was still to comebut still pretty good.
The trawler had ploughed on into choppy seas. Steer could have taken Raymond out in Melbourne, a clear shot to the brainbox while the little shit was trying to get into Chaffeys house, but a neighbour had been pottering around in the garden next door and Steer had decided to tail Raymond instead, hoping hed lead him to the uncle.
Instead, it was to a one-horse town on the coast and Quincy and Quincys boat.
Raymond had got his nerve back pretty quickly after the Freeze. Hed swallowed, screwed a look of relief and apology onto his face and said, Steer? Tony? Jesus Christ, man, I thought youd be out of the country by now. I mean, when you didnt come back, me and Denise
Steer had broken in calmly: You and Denise what?
Well, we figured that was it, youd decided to go it alone.
Did you just?
Raymond had swallowed again. Quincy stood off to one side, bleary, a fag in the comer of his mouth, holding a rope. Hed swung his head, trying to follow the conversation.
Yep, Raymond said. Denise was that upset. She thought, thats it, Ill never see him again, hes walked out on me.
I got delayed, Steer said.
Raymond managed a laugh. Good to know youre okay.
Steer had watched Raymond without expression for a few long seconds, wondering how the little shit would play it.
She was upset?
Raymond nodded vigorously. Ill say. Inconsolable. In the end she just cleared out.
Is that a fact?
Yeah. She knew shed be arrested if she went home. Said something about dropping out of sight up north somewhere.
You dont say?
Raymond had found encouragement in Steers indifference. He took charge. Mate, you cant stick around here. Plus youre too late for that boat Chaffey had lined up for you. I dont know what to suggest.
This is a boat, Steer said.
Forgetting my manners, Raymond said. He indicated the other man. This heres Quincy. Its his boat.
Quincy.
Like the TV show, the bleary captain said.
Raymond frowned, clearly puzzled by the reference, but Steer knew it. Re-runs of Quincy, M.E. had always been popular in the places Steer had beenLong Bay gaol, Bathurst, Yatala. All those men hoping the medical examiner would find the killer yet also hoping theyd learn how to make a murder look like a suicide or an accident.
How about it, Quince? This tub make it to New Zealand for my mate here?
Quincy contrived to look cunning. Itll cost him.
No problem, Steer said. In the meantime, where are you two off to?
Raymond had zipped open a red Thomas Cook bag. Take a gander at this.
Old coins and ingots, worn by the tides, encrusted with the sediments of the sea.
This stuff comes from a wreck out on the Cornwall Islands. Quincys taking me there. Lets hope were not too late. You want to get in on the deal?
As transparent as glass. Steer saw it from Raymonds perspective: distract Steer from the question of Denise and get him out on the high seas where it was two against one. Sure, he said.
And now he was in the bow, getting on for three hours out of Westernport, his head tipped back slightly, sniffing the wind, while Quincy stood in the wheelhouse and Raymond chucked his guts out over the side.
From the alignment of the bow with the coastline and the still clouds on the horizon, Steer judged that Quincy had turned a few degrees to starboard. Quincy seemed incurious enough about everything; probably did a spot of illegal abalone diving or was paid to go out and pick up bales of cannabis from the odd ocean-going yacht, but no doubt some internal head-scratching was going on.
Steer looked back. The Victorian coastline was receding in the afternoon light. Ahead of them lay choppier water. It wasnt bad; Steer had seen worse in his time. According to Quincy, there were no gale warnings, no storms expected. It was just surface chop, but it had got young Raymond in the guts. Steer smiled again.
Quincy caught his eye and winked comically. Steer nodded. Quincy wasnt a man who shaved or wore fresh clothes. Steer had spent a lot of time in gaol, a lot of time in cramped conditions, and a man soon learnt to value cleanliness. There was little toleration for the inmate who didnt wash, didnt make an effort. Just as well Quincy was downwind, in his wheelhouse. Steer took in the mans greasy overalls and towelling cap, his fuckwits eyes in a nest of wrinkles, and turned back to his contemplation of the sea and fate.
He supposed that the treasure would be a bonusif there was any. It would top up his two hundred grand, which had still been sitting in Chaffeys safe, wonder of wonders. Steer had felt certain that it wouldnt have been there, given the rip-off that Chaffey and Raymond were working on Denise and himself.
At his elbow, Quincy said, Wouldnt have a smoke on you by any chance?
Steer gazed past him involuntarily to the wheelhouse.
Oh dont worry about this old darling, Quincy said. Ive set a course and shell more or less keep to it for the time being. I mean, what are we going to hit out here? An iceberg? Fucking nuclear warship?
A gurgling cough started deep inside Quincy and Steer realised that the man was laughing. He recoiled, stepped back a couple of paces, but Quincy followed. Quincy was a crowder. That was another thing you soon learnt not to do in the places Steer had been. To stall the sailor, Steer got out his Stuyvesants.
Ta muchly, Quincy said.
Where Steer came from, a complex pattern of human intercourse revolved around cigarettes. It wasnt like being on the outside, where you simply walked into a shop and bought smokes and smoked them. In gaol they were an item of currency. You bartered with them, accumulated and bought favours with them. They soothed you when you burned inside. You didnt, on any account, offer them without expecting something back. Quincy, puffing contentedly now, wasnt to know that, but that didnt lessen Steers contempt for the man.
Your little mates puking his guts up.
They gazed at Raymond, who lay on his side near the starboard safety rail, both arms around his head. He must be wrung dry by now, Steer thought.
Is there calm water around the islands?
Quincy said that there was.
Hell be okay when we get there.
Quincy looked at the sky, the deck, a point past Steers shoulder. I dont want no funny business.
Steer looked at him. Did the man mean sex? Does he think Raymond and I have a thing for each other?
I dont want no shipwreck inspector arseholes breathing down my neck.
Right, Steer said.
Not worth the aggravation, know what I mean? They could seize this boat, fine us, slap us in gaol. Not worth it.
I understand, Steer said.
They watched as Raymond rolled onto his other side.
Theres a thin blue line between fossicking and scavenging.
I guess there is.
Anything you find belongs to the government, by rights.
Now Steer had a fix on him. Seabirds sideslipped above their heads and the air hummed with a heady, briny ozone freshness. It was good to be alive. Well cut you in, Steer said.
Quincys whiskery face contorted into an expression of cunning. Nice to know were on the same wavelength. Those other bastards your mate was partners with were paying me by the hour, only they skipped, owing me six hundred bucks.
What other bastards?
Your mates partners, Quincy said.
Where are they?
&nbs
p; Scarpered, most probably. They didnt smell right to me.
They gazed at Raymond. So we work something out, okay? Quincy said. Ill see you dont get disturbed. If anyone shows, Ill have a good story ready, fishing rods over the side, stuff like that. We split whatever you find, no questions asked.
Fair enough, Steer said.
Moron.
Quincy went back to the wheelhouse. They butted on through the swell and eventually Steer lost interest in the sea and Raymond and Quincy. He went below, found a paperback and stretched out with it on his bunk. Later he took a chart up to Quincy, breathed shallowly while Quincy indicated the location of the Eliza Dean.