The two women shook their heads.
‘It’s a salutary lesson about how people who nick cash that doesn’t belong to them end up dead.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘After breakfast I’ll head over to the Happy Traveller and hand the money over. Tell the guy we took it by mistake. I’m sure there’ll be no repercussions if we play it cool.’
‘You two go without me,’ said Selina. ‘Not sure I want anything to do with either of you right now.’
‘Totally understand.’ Ed squeezed out a repentant smile. Selina would play Miss Defiant for a day or two then all would be forgiven. Hopefully.
‘I’m not going either,’ said Fern. ‘I want to avoid any awkwardness with Dylan. Hopefully, he can’t remember the good time he had with me – and you. Although the way you…oh dear.’ She sauntered into the kitchen, placed her empty coffee cup in the sink and raised the blind.
‘Hey, Ed,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Do you have snow chains for the Megane?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Come take a look.’
Ed and Selina walked to the kitchen bench and looked out at the sugar-coated back garden.
‘Holy shit,’ said Selina. ‘A weird day just got weirder.’
Of course Ed had no snow chains. Why would he? He was more into the beach than snow sports. But his neighbour, Andrei, had a kick-arse 4x4 Land Rover and was happy to let Ed borrow it for a while. Especially when Ed promised he’d cater Andrei’s fiftieth birthday party for half price.
‘Yeah, mate. Take it. It’s fully insured.’ Andrei grinned like a proud dad. ‘I’ve had this baby up in the Highlands in the middle of winter, no chains. She handled the conditions perfectly.’ He plopped the keys into Ed’s hand. ‘Take your time. I’m taking a sickie today like most of this city’s residents.’
The drive down Churchill Avenue turned Ed’s knuckles as white as the gleaming snow drifts on the side of the street. Andrei’s assurances that the 4x4 was capable of negotiating any terrain was hot air. Either that or Ed’s lack of driving skills caused the Land Rover to slide whenever he tapped on the brakes. Luckily, the heater bore muscles to match his own and created a cosy atmosphere inside the vehicle. He was grateful there were no other cars on this stretch of road. As he was getting comfortable, sure he could predict which way the car would react to the conditions, a dark object flashed in the corner of his eye. He jumped on the brakes. The car’s rear end lurched to the left. Ed’s heart lodged in his throat before the car skidded to a halt and stalled. A couple of kids on a sled shot out from behind a tree at the bottom turn. Dressed like characters from South Park, they sailed past at windscreen wiper height, having launched off a little snow pyramid. Idiots. He leaned on the horn and copped two defiant middle fingers and a call of ‘Get fucked!’. Ed chuckled despite his anxiety. Exactly what he would have done as a teenager.
Past the university campus, where Churchill Avenue inexplicably morphs into Regent Street, he pulled into a bus stop. The bloody car wouldn’t go in a straight line. Sweat pooled under his arms and he shook like he had the ague. Up ahead was a steep ascent where the road undergoes another identity crisis and becomes Antill Street. He took a few deep breaths. What was the worst that could happen? He wasn’t in the wilderness but on the doorstep of the CDB. Plenty of houses around. If he got stuck, he could simply tap on a few doors until someone let him in. Who was going to argue with someone his size?
A few more minutes to regather and he set off again, slow and steady. He flicked the radio to the ABC, sick of the manufactured hype of commercial radio. All talk was about the weather. Celebrity scandals, the global economy and civil wars wouldn’t get a look in today. The announcer reported there were dozens of people skiing down the slopes of the Tasman Bridge. Last time that happened was back in 1986, and even then it was one bloke in a suit and tie and a fur hat desperate to get to work. He’d check out all crazy clips sure to be appearing all over social media later.
He fished his mobile from the depths of his puffy, logged onto RandyRooters.com. Maybe a new playmate had popped up amid the dross.
What do we have here? Ed smiled to himself. A message. Single male, Magnum69. He laughed and read the message aloud. ‘Looking for women to play with but open minded about meeting a couple. Professional, fun-loving, intelligent man looking for adventurous fun on the side with like-minded people.’ Likes my and Selina’s profile. And why not? We uploaded some pretty hot photographs, not overly graphic. Most members are clueless. Out-of-focus selfies are bad enough. Christ, but those close-ups of genitals, blurry shots of flabby, hairy bodies. Gross. No, Selina and I pride ourselves on the elegance of our pics, understated yet erotic and inviting. Ed checked his appearance in the rear vision mirror, smoothed down a couple of stray hairs. So, how did this bloke shape up?
Jeez, not too bad, Magnum69. Not the usual prize bogan like most of the men on the site. Profile well written, nice photos, toned body. Probably visits the gym a few times a week. No face shot. Probably married or has a girlfriend. So what? People’s private lives are their own concern. Besides, Ed had no issues fooling around with married people. Although they don’t usually stick around for long. A quick fling and then back to the spouse before being found out. As for the lack of face pics, didn’t matter. Lots of members post ancient photos. Barely resemble the reality of today. Better to meet prospects in a bar, suss them out on the spot.
He fired off a reply. Yep. Let’s meet up, Magnum, and see what you’ve got.
The hotel corridors were eerily quiet, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
A light rap of knuckles – tap, tap, tap – followed by a clearing of the throat.
‘Dylan? It’s Ed from last night. Open up please, mate. Got something of yours.’ Ed hefted the bag in his hand – a pity to have to return such a tidy sum, but smarter in the long run. He was far from poor and, as he told the girls, being in possession of someone else’s money could have fatal consequences.
Intense silence. Three more knocks. Heavier this time. Nothing. Looks like the birds have flown the coop.
What to do? Leave the bag at reception?
‘Excuse me,’ Ed enquired of the young, bustling woman on the desk. ‘I’m looking for someone who’s staying here. It’s extremely important I find him.’
‘Name?’ She tapped a few times on a keyboard.
‘Ed.’
‘Ed who?’
‘Oh, sorry, that’s me.’ He smiled and she grinned back. Look helpless. Make her feel important and helpful. ‘I meant Dylan. Can’t remember his last name.’
‘Just a second. Hmm. Yes. Dylan Wagner and–’
‘Of course! Wagner.’
‘–and his companion checked out rather early.’
‘Any idea where they’ve gone?’
‘I’m sorry sir. We don’t keep information like that. Why would we?’
Ironclad logic. ‘Okay, thanks for your time.’ He dropped a business card on the counter. ‘If they come back, give them this, okay?’
‘No worries. Maybe you should try the police if it’s that important.’
‘Maybe I will.’ Like hell I will.
In the car park Ed flipped Andrei’s bulky keyring a couple of times in his palm. It was too early to make enquiries back at the Welcome Stranger. The pub wouldn’t be open for hours, if it opened at all today. His instinct told him that would be pointless anyway; Dylan and Tracey were new in town, nobody knew them from Adam. Hopefully they’d remember the name of his catering company and track him down that way. The company website displayed his phone number and email. He wasn’t sure they paid that much attention when he was blabbing on about himself. Should have given them his business card. Better head home. Maybe Fern and Selina could come up with some ideas in case the robbery victims didn’t make contact.
‘If they checked out without waiting for us to return, I reckon they’re running scared.’ Fern cradled a glass containing a green herbal smoothie. ‘They could be more worried about
being caught with the money than getting it back. Ten to one they won’t be going to the cops.’
‘Fern’s right, Ed.’ Selina nodded vigorously.
‘Looks suss, that’s for sure.’ Ed gazed out the window, eyes wide as snow started bucketing down again.
‘How about we sit on it for a while,’ said Fern. ‘Keep it for a rainy day. You never know when a big lump of cash is going to come in handy.’
Exactly, thought Ed. Perspicacious, that Fern. Besides, No Country for Old Men was just a movie. ‘Tell you what, ladies. If Dylan doesn’t front up with an air-compressor connected to a pistol by the end of the year, we’ll split the dough and pretend we never met him and Tracey. Agreed?’
‘Sure,’ said Selina. ‘Don’t get the bit about the air-compressor and the gun, but yeah. Sounds like a fair deal.’
‘I’m good with that.’ Fern smiled and drained the last of her green gloop.
Chapter 8
Detective Inspector Josh Turrell sat a cup of tea next to the black monitor. The computer hummed under the desk, a sound punctuated only by mouse clicks, tapping on keys and his own soft, even breathing. The study was wanly illuminated, a ceiling light dimmed down to minimum level. Easy enough to read webpages and type short messages without straining his eyes.
Erin snored loudly in the next room. Even if he banged the dishwasher closed, gunned the Pajero’s engine, slammed the driver’s door shut and turned the portable blues and twos to full volume, she wouldn’t stir. There was a lot to be said about the sedative power of Valium.
Even with his spouse close to comatose, whenever he logged onto the favourite dating site from home, his heart clogged his throat. He paid sneaky visits to RandyRooters.com every night on the computer, and several times during the day on his mobile. This was a dating site unlike any other. Not foolish hopefuls looking for love, but fun and adventure of the sexual variety. He checked for incoming messages, found none and huffed. No nibbles for a while now. Might need to visit a sex worker if this drought kept up for much longer.
Next, he scanned a couple of articles in the capital’s online scandal sheet, Rumours of Hobart, tiptoed to the kitchen and made another cup of tea, white with three. Used to be six. This weaning off was ridiculous. Really should cut the white poison out altogether, but a man needed some vices, doesn’t he? In addition to the pleasures of the flesh, that is. But that’s not a vice – virtually every human being indulges and if they don’t, they should. Hell, he was addicted to sex and he wasn’t a freak. Merely an ordinary bloke who has to explore extraordinary avenues to slake his sexual thirst. All because his wife possesses less life in her than a speed hump.
He read somewhere that the most perverse form of sexuality was abstinence, and that sentiment struck a chord. And one backed up by statistics; look at the celibate Catho kooks who turn to the weak for their gratification. A few creepy stalkers he’d arrested over the years backed up that theory.
He knew it was stupid, skulking about in his own home like a burglar. Not only pathetic, but unnecessary, considering the 20mm thick shag carpet that muffled his footfalls and the padded bed socks that muffled them even more. Skulking driven by guilt, not logic. What if, by some miracle, the zombie upstairs emerged from its lair, stumbled down the corridor and discovered him red-handed, looking for women on a dating site? He shuddered thinking about it.
A scandalmonger. That’s what she was before the turn. Known for years as the biggest shit-stirring whinger in the local area. Nah, fuck that. Everyone in Hobart knew who she was, at least by name. All those letters to The Gabbler. At least one a week. Erin Turrell, “Concerned of Taroona”, bitching about this and that. A negative NIMBY to be reckoned with. No tall buildings; no cable cars; no fish farms; no logging; no development; no nothin’. The type to hold strong views on every subject known to humanity and ram them down the throat of anyone who made the colossal mistake of engaging her in conversation.
Then last year came “the turn”, after which he added “no sex” to her list of prohibited pursuits. If she somehow woke up now and caught him at this extracurricular activity, she’d no doubt get on the blower to tell the kids, the neighbours, his copper mates – especially them – that he was a pathetic excuse of a man whose wife had lost interest in him. Not only sexually but in every way possible. Look at him, she’d say, dirty bloody perve.
But that wasn’t going to happen. No way.
A blast of cold wind stung Turrell’s nose and lips, the tips of his ears. His eyes watered, the moist air and snowflakes created condensation tears. Why had he scrimped on installing that internal door to connect the garage with the laundry? Bloody Erin said it was a waste of money, and he’d acquiesced to her demand to renovate the kitchen instead. Anything to keep the peace. But what would she care about his discomfort? Hardly ever ventured out the front door. Not like him. He had to brave the winter chill, early morning darkness, bad guys with knives and guns, domestic violence perpetrators and victims. No, enough was enough. That connecting door would go in before the “official” winter started.
A parrot squawked in the trees, shattered the silence of the snow-blanketed morning. His heart jumped; he turned instinctively to find the source of the noise. He swore under his breath, pluming steam as he stumbled. The sulphur-crested cockatoo looked straight at him, mocked the awkward human. Bastard.
He wobbled down the front steps. Near the bottom his weight shifted, legs faltered. He grabbed the iron railing to stop himself from falling. Please, not on a day like this. He’d be lying there for hours before help arrived, probably die of hypothermia, unconscious in a puddle of freezing piss.
The drive from his three-bedroom weatherboard home in Taroona to the Liverpool Street station was going to test his nerves. A uniformed cop for fifteen years before making detective, he’d driven the streets of Tasmania every day and clocked up more miles than a space shuttle. Still, these extreme conditions tested all his experience. Despite approaching with extra caution a treacherous hairpin turn near the old Shot Tower, the bastard still nearly got him. The Pajero fishtailed a couple of times before he wrestled back control. Plenty had succumbed to the magnetic pull of the nasty bend, even without the added complication of ice and snow. Come on, Turrell. Concentrate.
He slowed the car to 30kph as the dull grey snow curtain grew thicker. It was almost impossible to see the edge of the road; his hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles nearly poked through the skin. This Antarctic surprise party had caught everyone on the hop.
A quick call to his partner, Mickey Brandt, confirmed the worst.
‘What’s going on at HQ? I can barely see a metre in front of me. At this rate, it’ll take me an hour to get to the station.’
‘Things are off the show, Tuzz. All rostered-off cops have been called in today.’
‘Christ, this weather’s ridiculous. Bloody Bureau of Meteorology. Useless crystal ball gazers. They forecast light snow falls overnight down to 400 metres.’ He wiped a film of condensation from the windscreen to reveal a curtain of frozen feathers bucketing down. ‘It’s at sea level for the first time in years and piling up fast.’
‘Officers are struggling to make it to work, mate. It was a miracle I managed to get here myself.’ Brandt’s voice brimmed with relief. ‘Nearly skidded into a friggin light pole.’
The pair laughed uneasily. ‘It’s gonna be a helluva day,’ said Turrell. ‘ABC radio said the entire south of the state’s come to a standstill.’
Brandt barked a sardonic laugh. ‘Not for us cops, it hasn’t. The rule book says essential services personnel have to front for work even if Jesus himself arrives for the Second Coming.’
‘I should have listened to my father, become an accountant.’
‘No fun in that, Tuzz. Everybody knows you’re a man of action.’
Why were people always bringing up the incident? He was sick of it.
‘Anyway,’ Brandt continued. ‘There’s shit happening all over town. Minor bingles mostly, but
a few serious accidents. Plus medical emergencies. You should see the ambulances going in and out of the hospital across the road. Non-stop procession.’
‘Christ, Mickey. We’re up to our eyeballs in that big drugs prosecution. Supposed to be interviewing witnesses down at Kingston.’
‘Scratch that, pal. Southern Outlet’s closed indefinitely.’
A chuckle from Turrell. ‘Actually, I’m not upset about it. Wasn’t looking forward to dealing with those crackheads. Witnesses? They’re about as reliable as a North Korean iPhone.’
‘Yeah, but their statements are key to nailing the head honcho. We’ll get to them eventually.’
‘Guess so. What’s the plan for today?’ Turrell already knew the answer.
‘Assisting the uniformed boys and girls out on the streets. No detective work today, I’m afraid. Even for a couple of DIs.’
‘Great.’
‘I’m not hearing a lot of enthusiasm.’
‘Not much gets past you. I’ll be there as fast as I can. At this rate, in time for afternoon tea.’
Turrell ended the call and pulled over to the side of the road. He chugged coffee from a silver thermos. Thank Christ he’d thought to bring it; all shops on Sandy Bay Road were shut, even Macca’s. He checked the BOM website on his phone. If one could believe them anymore after the latest epic fail. In a few days the snow was supposed to ease and eventually stop, but below zero temperatures would persist for at least another two weeks. The fact the eggheads missed this sudden change was put down to a computer error that was now fixed. He shook his head. Too much reliance on algorithms and data. Reading tea leaves gave more accurate results.
The government would be pulling its collective hair out if the BOM’s prediction was correct. The state simply wasn’t geared to deal with a situation like this. Sure, a bit of snow could be cleared off Mt Wellington – there were a couple of snow ploughs up there. But down the hill there was nothing to clear the roads. This wasn’t Canada. In Tasmania, when there was a rare snow fall down to sea level, roads were automatically closed and things ground to a halt, usually for half a day to a day at the most. Then the snow melted away. This situation was Armageddon. People would die: the homeless, pensioners who can’t afford to heat their homes. Drastic action must be taken. Not by him, thank God, he’d be at the coalface.
Sold to the Devil Page 6