Assassin

by Tara Moss

  Mak put her bags on the pavement and bumped hard against the side of the car with her hip. No alarm. She looked around and, finding herself unobserved, she took the wire hanger from her room, untwisted the end and pushed the hook down between the glass window and the door. On her second try, she pulled the locking mechanism upwards, and the metal button popped up. She tossed the mangled hanger inside along with her carry-on bag and loaded backpack, closed the door and took a breath.

  Right.

  She took the flat-head screwdriver out of her backpack and considered it for a moment before pushing it hard into the ignition where the key should go. She used the hammer to shove it into place, ruining the old ignition housing in the process. But then, she wasn’t stealing a car to be considerate.

  Damn, I hope this works.

  She turned the screwdriver and heard the ignition turn over. A smile spread across her face. There was no need for the gloves and wire cutters.

  Not bad, she thought as she strapped herself in. Not bad.

  She pulled out onto the road and headed for Canberra, the GPS on her new iPhone showing the way.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jack Cavanagh drove his emerald-green Jaguar through the gates of his waterfront mansion in Point Piper, past the high stone walls and down the circular drive, barely noticing his well-tended gardens, which were picked clean of falling leaves, or the rows of tortured willows standing like emaciated sentries, twisted on their feet and fast becoming bare in anticipation of the winter ahead.

  The tall gates closed behind him and the broad garage opened, revealing two more gleaming vehicles. He pulled in smoothly between his four-wheel-drive BMW and red Enzo Ferrari, feeling dispirited and anxious. Nonetheless, he was relieved to be within his own grounds. His conversations with The American and with Cameron Goldsworthy had rattled him.

  He switched off the ignition and the garage lights flickered on with a hum as he stepped out, shut the Jag and walked towards the interior door of his home, his face slack, shoulders hunched. The cleaner, Rosie, had left him some food. He hadn’t tried it yet, but it was likely good. If it wasn’t, he could order in. He didn’t feel like going out. He didn’t think he could face anyone so soon after the bad news.

  Just think about it.

  Jack had hired security for parties, as most people of standing did, but a personal bodyguard? Someone to follow him around for his protection? Since The American had suggested it, the possibility had vexed him. No. For Beverley, perhaps, but not for him. He refused to be scared by this woman, Makedde Vanderwall. It was a ridiculous notion and besides, he refused to change his lifestyle for her. It would mean she’d stolen something vital from him beyond what she had already achieved by chipping away relentlessly at his reputation.

  No.

  If that woman had indeed come to Australia, she had signed her own death warrant. That was all.

  Jack Cavanagh pressed a fist against a button on the wall of the garage, and the roller door began to close, humming as the gears clicked over. Slowly the gardens, the tortured willows, the evening light disappeared from view. He opened the door to his house, stepped into the hall and waited for the low wail of the alarm, giving him twenty seconds to type in the security code.

  As long as they get to her before she causes any more trouble, that’s the main thing, he decided. He’d already come to terms with the fact that Vanderwall needed to die, that she wouldn’t have it any other way. It was an ugly fact, but life was ugly sometimes. They just needed to finish what had been started. They needed to finish her and be done with it. The longer it went on, the messier it became — there was no reason for it to stretch on any longer. She was just one woman. It should not be so hard. Soon it would be done and then Jack could move on. He could get on with turning things around. Jack Cavanagh had faced challenges before. Plenty of them. His father had built his empire up piece by piece, rising from lowly janitor to powerful businessman. The Cavanaghs were resilient men. He’d acquired that quality from his father, that determination. This was just a new kind of challenge: that was all.

  In time, Richard Staples’s unfortunate piece in the Tribune would be forgotten. He need only replace all that unflattering speculation with something solid, something positive. A high-profile donation, perhaps? Philanthropy, yes. Didn’t Beverley have some children’s hospital she wanted to help out? Or was it animals? Jack couldn’t recall. The important thing was that no one had any proof of his wrongdoing. That was clear enough in Staples’s article. It was a patchwork of rumours, nothing more. There was nothing that could be pinned on him: he’d made sure of that, paid handsomely for that.

  And that woman, Vanderwall, wasn’t even officially in the country: she’d supposedly arrived under a false identity. So she had appeared clandestinely in Australia and she could disappear clandestinely as well. Mr White would take care of it. He always did. He’d been reliable since their very first dealings in the Middle East. And then once it was done, Beverley would come back and they would make a sizeable donation to the right cause, and they would be seen with the right people again and he could turn it all around …

  Odd.

  The sound of the alarm had not come, Jack realised. He arrived at the keypad only to discover the system was not engaged. He squinted at the screen, puzzled. He was sure he’d put it on. He always did.

  Someone is in the house.

  At this realisation, an electric shiver shot up the back of his neck. For one strange moment, Jack found himself frozen with fear — a sensation most unfamiliar — standing in his basement hallway with his mouth gaping open and his mobile phone gripped in one hand like a weapon.

  The gun.

  Jack had only ever used it once, at his sixtieth birthday party, firing it into the sky from the lawn down behind the house. It was a gift from a former police commissioner, purchased on a trip to Texas and personally engraved with Jack’s name. A collector’s item. Jack wasn’t even sure it was still registered, wasn’t sure where the bullets were. He’d displayed it in his office at one time, in a glass case. Eventually he’d put it in the drawer, a few years after the commissioner had passed on. Jack had never considered bringing the gun home or carrying it with him for any reason. Yet he’d found himself gazing at the thing not an hour earlier, as if reconsidering.

  Outrageous. This is damned outrageous.

  Jack had allowed the problem of Vanderwall to get to him. He’d forgotten the alarm: that was all. Or the gardener was in. Or the cleaner. Though he’d given them the day off. But that had to be it. It made Jack angry now — angry to think that all this mess was seeping further into his life, invading his thoughts, even at home, in his personal space. He shook off the feeling of fear, replacing it with a seething bitterness. Still, as he walked down the hallway of his hard-won, luxurious home, and up the staircase past his artworks and the expensive vases filled with fresh flowers, his heart pounded dangerously in his chest. And he thought about The American’s words.

  A personal bodyguard. Just think about it.

  ‘Rosie?’ Jack called out. ‘Rosie, is that you?’

  Yes, it had to be the cleaner. She’d come back to finish something. That was all. Upstairs, he sensed the shift in atmosphere. The house had been lonely since Beverley’s departure. But tonight something had changed. He came around the corner, into the high-ceilinged living room.

  Someone is there. Someone …

  ‘Hello, Father.’

  His son was reclining on the lounge, silhouetted by a flat horizon of water slowly turning black with the fading sunset.

  Jack closed his eyes and put his hand to his chest. ‘Damien.’

  He flicked on the Terzani Hugo floor light next to him and the living room was illuminated in a soft glow, the tall lamp’s spindly metal legs throwing peculiar shadows up the wall. Jack had not seen his only child in weeks, and he clapped eyes on the familiar features with a mixture of intense relief and horror. He began to smile, to open his arms, but faltered. Makedde Vanderwa
ll was in town. And Damien was, too. His son’s presence might attract unwanted media attention. This was not a good time for any kind of attention.

  Jack swallowed. ‘You’re back. That’s … good.’

  Damien seemed not to notice his father’s conflicting emotions. He was sprawled out barefoot on the black leather lounge wearing white linen shorts and a trendy V-neck T-shirt and cardigan. In his right hand he held a tumbler filled with some deep amber liquor poured over ice. His dark hair was styled in a new way, long at the front and swept to one side. He looked tanned and fit. Jack remembered being like that — young and strong. That body could almost have been his own, once. Though Jack had never been carefree. He’d never considered himself above responsibility the way his son did.

  ‘Where’s Mother?’ Damien asked, swirling the cubes in the glass.

  ‘She’s in Europe.’

  He raised a brow.

  ‘On holiday,’ Jack explained tersely.

  ‘I ran out of money.’

  Jack felt himself harden. Ah. So that is your reason for returning, he thought. Once again, he wished he and Beverley had been able to have a second child. A boy, to take over from Jack. A girl even. Any alternative to this young man, who was now looking at his nails and appearing to pout.

  ‘Vanderwall is here,’ Jack warned. ‘In Australia.’

  ‘Here? She’s alive?’ Damien said, sitting up suddenly, eyes ablaze.

  Jack nodded solemnly.

  ‘Well, for fuck’s sake, Father, have her killed already. What’s taking so long?’

  The words, said aloud, felt like a punch in the guts. For a moment Jack’s head filled with a fog of anger and defensiveness, red and vicious. He went wrong. He went so wrong with Damien. And he didn’t know how it happened.

  ‘You have no idea what I’ve had to do for you. You have no idea how much money —’

  But clearly Damien did know what his father had done. He’d tried to have Mak killed. Unsuccessfully. He’d already docked his son’s trust fund by two million dollars as a form of punishment. The American’s services did not come cheaply.

  ‘I don’t want to hear another word out of you. You can stay out at the beach house,’ Jack said. ‘And keep a low profile, will you? Don’t get yourself paparazzied. No parties.’

  From the look on his son’s face, Jack knew he might as well have told him to eat his Brussels sprouts.

  ‘No parties,’ Jack said firmly. ‘I mean it.’

  Parties were what had started this whole mess. One party in particular, where a girl — a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl who had no business being in the country — had died of an overdose in this very house. And though Damien denied it, Jack knew his son had had sex with her first. Had paid for that.

  It was a mess.

  An expensive mess.

  ‘And I’ll be getting a bodyguard … for you,’ Jack found himself saying.

  Damien crossed his arms. ‘A what?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘I don’t want a babysitter. Christ.’

  Jack ignored him. ‘You’ll be driven out to Palm Beach tomorrow. You can stay there until this blows over.’

  ‘Welcome home, son,’ Damien muttered sarcastically under his breath. He curled his bare feet up under him and turned to look out at the water.

  With nothing further to say, Jack left his thirty-year-old son on the lounge, sulking like a teenager. He walked through to the kitchen, pulled the fridge door open and examined the meal from the cleaner, Rosie, sealed under cling wrap. It was a roast, with all the trimmings. He pulled it out, heated it in the microwave and ate it in his room.

  CHAPTER 21

  The woman wore blood-red stiletto shoes in a shiny patent leather, the heels as sharp as needles. She was just his type — petite and curvy, with ample breasts disguised beneath a cowl-neck minidress and little dimples above her tanned knees. She had kinky hair in a mousy brown, and large, sad eyes that seemed to search for him through the slow, late-night crowd. He’d spotted her through the large window, even before she set foot in the White Cockatoo. He’d known she would come to him.

  The ones in stilettos were asking for it.

  And the ones in the red stilettos?

  They were desperate for it.

  The woman looked around with an air of uncertainty, standing between the small circular tables and attracting a couple of looks. He watched her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, locked on to her signal, her vulnerability, her presence. He felt stronger with her proximity, felt like the predator he longed to be, the predator he was fast becoming after Victoria. He’d claimed one prize and he would claim another to prove to himself that he could, to prove to himself that he was as powerful as those he admired, to prove it to the world. He kept his cap tilted down, trying not to beam with the joy of seeing the lovely, lonely, perfect woman, drawn to him as if by some dark magic. Taking careful sips of Victoria Bitter, he watched her every move in the reflection between the bottles.

  The woman neared him, crossing the room. She arrived just next to him and leaned forwards, flicking her hair to one side and sliding a small leather handbag onto the bar, one brown, lightly freckled forearm only inches from his wrist. His pulse jumped.

  ‘Um … bartender?’ she said in a voice that was timid and immediately washed away by music coming through the speakers nearby.

  But he heard her. He heard everything she was saying. She had an Australian accent, but she wasn’t local. He would already have noticed her if she was.

  ‘Um, can I have a Heineken, please?’ the woman said, trying again, seemingly unaware that she was being closely watched by the very man who could give her what she needed. It was her subconscious that had brought her there. Her subconscious. It was like that with all of them. It had been like that with Victoria, who’d shown herself to him again and again until he finally took her, just as she’d silently begged him to, with her high shoes and her coyly averted eyes and her brazen body. Displayed.

  He shut his eyes and inhaled. He smelled cigarettes on her. He smelled her sex.

  The music changed, and he took another sip of his beer and placed it back on the bar. The bartender was filling a mug for the woman now. A large mug. It would be easy to drop a pill into it. Just a single white pill and by the end of that drink he would have her and she would get what she was asking for. He reached into his pocket.

  ‘Hey!’

  Someone was between them now, interfering. He drew a sharp breath and stayed hunched over his drink, watching in the reflection as everything around him shifted. It was a blonde woman. She was fat and sweaty, and she tapped his woman’s shoulder with a manicured hand and slid in next to her, standing with her back to him; he seethed quietly, his view obliterated.

  He kept his head down, breathing quickly. In his pants pocket, he unclenched his hand, let go of the little pill.

  ‘Hey, what took you so long?’ the woman in the red shoes said and embraced the blonde interloper as he sat frozen on his stool, looking at his beer and fighting violent thoughts.

  ‘One more, please. Bartender?’ the woman in the red shoes ordered, before she and her disgusting friend began an animated discussion about a band he had not heard of and would never see. He groaned — a primal sound so animal and low that no one would hear it. He removed his leather wallet, his mouth tight with anger. He found some bills, put his crumpled money on the bar and vacated his favourite stool to slide away into the night shadows. He would find her, he felt certain. He would find her.

  Another night.

  The man was slim and white and unremarkable, and he was walking around slowly under the harsh, colourless fluorescent lights of a convenience store; the place was lit up like a TV set in the darkness of Surry Hills. An actor in the most boring play ever conceived, he walked from aisle to aisle, listlessly, wearing camouflage pants, sneakers and a T-shirt, his every non-action artificially lit. His face was slack and he held something red in his hand. Occasionally, he scratched
himself.

  Senior Constable Perkins loitered outside, watching.

  The man in the overlit convenience store browsed a magazine rack near the register. He picked up the Daily Telegraph. Put it down. He picked up the Tribune, flicked through a few pages. Put it down. He picked up a ZOO magazine, considered the heavily endowed creature on the front — her red string bikini, her platinum hair — and put it down. Finally, he turned left and walked with agonising slowness to a humming fridge full of overpriced water and soft drinks and milk. He opened it. Pulled out a carton. Closed the door again. He shuffled towards the counter. Paused. Picked a can of soup off a shelf. Turned it over in his hands. Put it back.

  Christ.

  Perkins rubbed his neck.

  The man abandoned the can of soup and brought his carton of milk to the counter. He fished around in his pocket. He pointed at something on the rack below the counter, spoke in a voice too low for Perkins to make out.

  The man behind the counter was a young Sikh. He wore a white turban and a look of intense boredom. ‘It says right on it,’ he protested in loud, accented English and threw up his palms.

  The man picked up a packet of gum and dropped it on the counter next to the milk. The Sikh rang it up on the till and the man took a while to count out his change, one coin at a time.

  Perkins moved across the street, away from the store. He stopped outside a busy Japanese restaurant and watched the man exit the shop and cross the street at the zebra crossing, toting his white plastic bag. He’d bought a carton of milk and a packet of gum. Perkins would note it all down — the time, the place, the purchases.