‘I don’t believe so. Not after you’ve seen this.’
Agar produced a package the size of a videocassette and placed it in front of Oliver.‘Personally, I will never understand why people allow themselves to be filmed doing these things. But they do. I guess it’s part of the excitement.’
Oliver’s stomach turned to water. He’d had the same sensation in court, when an unexpected twist changed the whole complexion of a case. This unpleasant surprise was invariably caused by the client failing to disclose vital information that falls into the hands of the opposition. It was a feeling of betrayal, and helplessness.
Raydon had not said anything about a fucking tape. Shit.
‘Take it. View it at your leisure. We have plenty of copies. One for each TV station.’
Pritchett gave his short little laugh again. That seemed to be his only contribution.
‘We’re not paying a quarter of a million,’ Oliver said in a dead voice, eyes fixed on the cassette. He’d hit the wall. Where to next? In a situation like this, in which he was outnumbered and outgunned, it was necessary to box clever. He had to produce something special and totally unexpected from his back pocket. It was crucial not to show signs of distress. Nearly every legal wrangle came down, in the end, to a test of will. His mind was spinning into overdrive: searching, searching, searching for some way through, or around . . .
‘What you mean is,’ Agar said, puffing happily, ‘that you’ll watch the tape, you’ll weigh up your chances, and then you’ll pay.’
Flash. Oliver straightened. Jesus . . . What if . . .?
‘Wait on—I have an idea.’
Agar’s eyes lit up. The effect was to trigger a wholesale— and unflattering—change in his appearance: for all his ‘suffer the little children’ ravings, this creature was every inch the sadistic torturer, thrilled to witness his victims’ last, desperate writhings. In that instant Oliver thought: headcase.
‘This is not some brains trust, Mr McEncroe. We’re not interested in your ideas.’
‘Why settle for a quarter of a million?’ Oliver said with all the sangfroid he could muster at short notice.‘Why not go for the whole nut?’
Agar inspected Oliver’s face, trying to decipher his meaning—and the direction in which his mind was travelling.
‘And what nut are we referring to?’
Oliver was a chess player, not great, but better than most. With the strategy he’d decided on it was necessary to tempt Agar with an offer he couldn’t refuse, at the same time staying two or three moves ahead of him and trying to visualise how it would all turn out. Of course it could all explode in his face, but . . .
Fuck it. Too much Chivas Regal had made him too brave. Aware of this, he nonetheless jutted his jaw and delivered his reply with a level of gravitas normally reserved for those rare courtroom moments, defining moments when fortunes can turn around on a single shiny coin.
‘We are referring to the missing Petrakos millions,’ he said.
He locked onto Agar’s intense gaze, waiting for the information to kick in, determined not to be intimidated by his powerful physical presence and unpredictability. Agar draped his arms over the sofa backrest with the cigar burning idly between his lips. A shade of uncertainty crossed his eyes. Oliver watched and waited, but the next surprise was on him: it was Pritchett who responded.
‘I know all about that,’ he said. ‘But I’d sure be surprised if you did.’
A couple of hours later, dining alone on filet mignon (there was no roast beef on the Ritz-Carlton menu) and an excellent bottle of Margaret River cabernet sauvignon, Oliver wondered if he had done the right thing. No good lawyer gave in to reckless impulses: victory in law was all about playing the percentages, chipping away at the enemy until the edifice collapsed. Blinding, inspirational flashes were not supposed to come into it except on TV. But Oliver was not in court and nor was he dealing with normal people who played according to a civilised code.
They were dogs. They would tear each other apart if someone were to throw a juicy enough bone between them. And maybe Oliver had done just that.
Oliver was a believer in serendipity. Shaun McCreadie had entered this tight, select circle at his own peril: now let him deal with the fallout. His unwelcome arrival on the scene had to have a positive angle, which remained hidden until the time came for it to show itself—now. Oliver was surprised at how much Pritchett did know: it seemed he’d made a point of following developments in this out-of-state matter. He even knew the names of all the players, and claimed to know who topped them all. Of course he was a bullshit artist. They were all bullshit artists in Sydney.
The more Pritchett talked about it the more animated he became. Agar was vague on the subject, but allowed himself to be carried along on Pritchett’s enthusiasm and his obvious grasp of detail—no doubt gleaned from newspaper reports. Then again, given he was a professional sleazebag, perhaps he had connections with the Victorian crime scene. In a while Oliver thought: this is the real player, not Agar. Agar was a mad and very bad clown. And so he concentrated on Pritchett, priming him with tidbits of information but withholding the most important part: McCreadie’s current whereabouts. That was the clincher, his prime currency. They could have it— provided they got off Raydon’s case. That was the deal Oliver laid out. Shit—everyone knew the amount stolen from Petrakos was large, and McCreadie was the only person alive who knew where it was. Possibly he had recovered it already. If Agar and Pritchett wanted a piece, they couldn’t afford to waste time.
In the end they said they’d consider the proposal and call back. Agar had wanted to keep the fifty grand ‘on account’, but Oliver had snaffled it—along with the videotape. He was not looking forward to viewing it.
Swallowing some of the nice wine, he allowed himself to bathe in self-congratulation. Was that a smart bit of footwork or not? Could he mix it in the same sandpit as the heavy-hitters? No doubt, your worship. Down went some more red wine.
The videotape was every bit as awful as he’d expected.
When it was all over, Oliver felt decidedly queasy—either from the tape, or too much booze, or both.
In the morning, more hungover than he’d been in a while, he wasn’t so convinced of his cleverness. In the cold light of sobriety it felt as if he’d made a serious error of judgement. He was playing with fire and could well finish up on the rotisserie. Worse, he had exposed Jo to possible danger if these animals did come after McCreadie. She could be caught in the crossfire. He was worrying seriously about all this, wondering if and how he could change everything back, when his phone went.
‘Mr McEncroe?’ It was Pritchett.
‘Yes.’
‘Give us what we need and your mate’s off the hook,’ he said, not bothering with social niceties. ‘One condition: if we come up empty, you’re back on again. Same deal.’
17
It had been a long time between flights for Shaun. He’d never particularly relished the experience, which in the past had unfailingly put him in a cold, clammy sweat from take-off to touchdown. Crashing to a fiery death in a plane was the one thing he truly feared. Now, as the pilot gave it full throttle, he found his hands involuntarily clenching on his thighs and his eyes closing. The 767 Airbus reached optimum runway speed and lifted smoothly, and shortly afterwards came the double bump of the undercarriage retracting. Immediately a high-pitched whistling noise coming from the wing jolted his eyes open and made his heart thump. He’d always believed that if a plane were going to crash it would occur shortly after takeoff. That was when things went wrong. Whenever he had read about such disasters that phrase was generally used: shortly after take-off. There were many reasons an accident might happen— jetliners were complex machines with miles of electrical wiring, thousands of moving parts and a large surface area that only needed a single hairline crack somewhere for the whole shebang to break up midair. And that wasn’t even taking into account the possibility of some wild-eyed band of fanatics suddenly announcing they had a change o
f plans for you.
Shaun didn’t think there was much chance of terrorists targeting a Melbourne-Sydney flight. All the same, you could never completely discount the lone madman. Why, just a few months ago on a flight out of Melbourne . . .
The flight was incident-free, however, and since he had only carry-on luggage Shaun bypassed the carousel and made directly for the Hertz counter. Five minutes of form filling, followed by cash payment (he’d applied for,but not yet received, a MasterCard and Visa) and he had in his possession the keys to a spanking new Ford Falcon Forte with all the trimmings, together with an NRMA roadmap of New South Wales. It felt—and smelt—good sliding in behind the wheel. After familiarising himself with the instrumentation and setting the electric mirrors he switched on the ignition. The car was so silent he thought it hadn’t started,so he tried again and triggered an awful screech from under the hood. It was a warm, sunny Sydney day, so he turned on the air conditioning. Then he put the T-bar in drive and left the airport, following the maze of exit signs. By the time he was on the open road, pointed north, it was after eight o’clock. Even though he had avoided the city, the sprawling suburbs of the greater Sydney area took some getting through, and the freeway system was largely new to him. Eventually he found himself on his way to Newcastle, so he was at least headed in the right direction. All he had to do was stay on Highway 1 until the turn-off to Nambucca Heads.
Earlier he had telephoned Dave Wrigley. During their meeting in the pub Dave had said Leon Turner had retired somewhere on the New South Wales coast. Shaun had inquired if he could be more exact than that. Dave had said, ‘Why, what are you going to do?’ and Shaun had told him, ‘Nothing. Just chat to him, that’s all.’ Dave had replied, ‘Hold on.’ While Shaun waited he turned towards Jo, who was sitting in a lounge chair sipping a cup of coffee and giving him the once-over with her evil green eyes. She had on that same satin dressing gown, loosely held together in a carelessly provocative manner. Since he was only wearing briefs she could see over her steaming cup that he was becoming aroused. Dave had come back on and said, ‘Nambucca Heads.’
Words froze in Shaun’s throat for a second, and then he’d said, more in hope than expectation, ‘Got an address?’
No address. Still, Nambucca Heads wasn’t that big a town. It hadn’t been, anyway.
He made love to her where she sat. She was an amazingly passionate woman. Even when sex wasn’t in his immediate thoughts she only had to give a sign and he was out of his mind as soon as he touched her. When it was over and he was still kneeling in front of her with his face turned against her chest she said,‘How long will you be away?’ and he answered, ‘Two, three days. No more.’ She said, ‘Not sure if I can go without that long.’ He said, ‘I’ll call. We can have phone sex.’ She made him promise he would.
After five and a half hours on the road he took a right turnoff at a signpost, and in a few minutes dropped down into the attractive coastal village of Nambucca Heads. It gave him an exhilarating rush of pleasure to see the ocean suddenly materialise in front of him. It was a liberating sensation—not just like being released from prison,but something so far greater and more mysterious that he couldn’t find a name for straightaway. Whatever it was, it made his heart fly up. And it took him back a ways.
Shaun had been here once before, a long time ago during the summer of ’79. That made it nearly twenty-four years. It made him sad to realise that so much of his life had disappeared. For what? What did he have to show? A pile of money, which was stolen, and Joanna Steer, another man’s wife. Could be a lot worse. He remembered Nambucca Heads as a bit of a pleasant backwater with a fine surf beach, a couple of pubs and a caravan park, where he and two good mates had spent a week at the end of their final school year. Life had been pretty straightforward then—not just his, but everyone’s, it seemed. In his memory the days he’d passed here blurred together into a dreamy montage of surfing and sunbathing under a broiling sun during the day, eating greasy chicken, pizza or mixed grills at the pub for dinner and consuming copious amounts of beer through the night. They sat up till late in that caravan, playing music and cards—penny poker and blackjack—laughing a lot and generally having a top end-of-school time. Some nights they’d light a fire on the beach and have a midnight swim.
No sex. Not then.
The town had come on a little bit since those days. It had never been in the same league as the more prosperous resort destinations of Coffs Harbour, Byron Bay or Tweed Heads further north, but as he drove though the main street and unsuccessfully tried to find the old caravan park his impression was that,far from being a forgotten backwater,Nambucca Heads was now a going concern: the pubs were still there, basically as he remembered them, but as well there were various motels, new-looking apartment buildings, B&Bs, an RSL club, some luxury beachfront housing and plenty of expensive boats sitting out on a blinding sea. It wasn’t the holiday season, or even a weekend,but there were groups of young surfer types doing the shopping mall shuffle. That mall hadn’t existed in 1979.
He checked in at the Blue Dolphin, an attractive double-storeyed motel perched on a hillside amid palm trees, with a commanding view of the mouth of the Nambucca River and the Pacific Ocean. Again he paid cash in advance, which created a minor problem for the manager, who wanted a credit card imprint to cover extras such as phone calls or the bar fridge. This was standard practice, he explained, but when Shaun made it clear he didn’t own a credit card but would happily put down some additional cash, the manager waived the requirement. After depositing his overnight bag and freshening up he cruised around for a while until he found an angle park in the main street, outside a newsagent’s. That might be a useful place to begin. Maybe Turner had the paper home delivered, or bought his lottery tickets here. It was worth a try.
No joy. The newsagent was distinctly unfriendly, in fact. Shaun seemed to recall that they mostly were, for some reason. What was it about running a paper shop that made the proprietor a pain in the butt? Maybe it was the other way around—paper shops probably attracted that type of guy anyway. After that he visited the post office and checked the phone book to see if there were any Turners. Sometimes doing the obvious could save a lot of unnecessary detective work.
Not on this occasion, however. No Turners were listed. Shaun was not surprised: many cops, both active and retired, preferred a silent phone number. A long-serving senior officer like Leon Turner would have accumulated many enemies during his career, and even years after the event it was still on the cards that some ugly head from the past might surface to satisfy a long-held grudge.
Leon ‘Brick’ Turner: so nicknamed, according to police legend, because he once chased down a burglar and half-killed him with a house brick when the guy ‘resisted arrest’. That was in the days when you could get away with anything.
Next on the list were the golf club and the RSL. He hadn’t noticed a sign indicating one, but these holiday/retirement towns always had a golf course—often proclaimed to be ‘the best course in the country’. It seemed to be a law that even people who had never played the game became avid golfers the day after their retirement, and there was no reason why this law wouldn’t apply to Leon Turner. Aside from the sport itself, membership provided a social life. Same for the RSL, and since that was close by he went in there first.
While he was signing in he noticed that the attendant was one of those hearty, cheerful fellows who so often worked front-of-house in community clubs such as this. He had something witty to say to nearly everyone who passed by. According to the plastic ID tag clipped to his shirt his name was Wally Jacobs, and he was the Assistant Manager. Shaun waited for him to finish exchanging pleasantries with an old guy on a walking frame and then casually said,‘Could you tell me if Leon Turner is a member here?’
‘Leon Turner?’ Wally said. ‘He sure is. In fact he’s on the committee.’
‘Is that so. Well, I’m not surprised. Leon would always want to be running things.’
Wally said,‘
Too true,’ and laughed as he waved at someone else going in.
‘I used to know him years ago,’ Shaun said. ‘We were in the same job. I’m passing through town, and I was hoping to catch up with him. Trouble is, I doubt if I’d recognise him after all this time. Do you know if he’s here now?’
‘No, it’s a bit early,’ Wally said, eager to please. ‘But he won’t be long.’
Shaun checked the time: two o’clock.
‘Guess I can have something to eat while I wait,’ he said, more or less to himself.
‘You most certainly can,’ Wally told him. ‘Best meals anywhere in Nambucca Heads, bar none.’
He thanked Wally and went in amid the brightly lit rows of gaming machines, most of which were occupied. In the room next door there were people sitting at tables eating, so he went in and found a free table. There were no gaming machines in the dining room, just a Keno screen and Sky Channel showing horse racing with the volume on mute. He ordered a king-sized porterhouse, medium-rare, then went to the bar and got a schooner of Toohey’s New. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until he’d swallowed half of it in the first mouthful. Standing at the bar he surveyed the scene: everyone was old and some were ancient. There were a lot of shouted conversations, either because of the racket from the gaming machines next door and the frequent announcements on the PA system, or because they were all deaf.
Wally Jacobs was right about the food: Shaun’s porterhouse was two inches thick, a perfect shade of pink in the middle and so full of delicious juice he began salivating after the first bite. It lasted a short time on the plate. A middle-aged waitress with a blonde beehive hairdo came to clean up and said,‘That wasn’t too awful then.’
Shaun sat back, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and smiled at her. ‘Best steak I’ve had in years.’ He meant it.
He sat there for a time,toying with a schooner and watching the races. He finished his beer and wandered out into the gaming area. On the far side, near the front entrance, was the TAB section. He positioned himself at a table there, close to the glass doors where he could see everyone coming through. Wally was still at the front counter serving up his bonhomie to all and sundry. Shaun wasn’t sure if he would spot Turner or not: he had an image of him from years ago, but age could alter a man’s appearance radically. He figured Turner would be around sixty-five by now. In his mind he had a picture of a rather tall man,rangy and straight-backed,with deep-set eyes,a heavily creased forehead and greying, wavy hair. He had the bearing of a strict headmaster from a bygone era, one who wasn’t frightened to use the cane at the slightest opportunity.
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