‘My mother’s dead, isn’t she?’ said Tristan.
Jack looked away, feeling suddenly cold. How does he know? he asked himself, his mind racing. What am I going to say? He deserves the truth.
‘How do you know?’ asked Jack, biting his lip.
‘You just told me.’
‘But I didn’t say anything ...’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘I don’t understand ...’
‘But she does,’ said Tristan, pointing to Rebecca standing at the door. ‘Thank you for being honest with me. It’s a good beginning,’ he added quietly after a while and closed his eyes. ‘Please go now, I need to be alone.’
‘What did you make of that?’ asked Jack, walking down the corridor with Rebecca. ‘Amazing kid.’
Remembering her conversation with Cassandra in Andrew’s kitchen in Alice Springs, Rebecca stopped. ‘He has the gift, just like his mother,’ she said.
‘You mean he’s a ...’ Jack said, searching for the right word.
‘Seer? Yes. Do you want to know what Cassandra said about him?’ Rebecca asked.
Jack nodded.
‘She told me his powers are much stronger than hers. And there was something else she said. Something extraordinary. It’s all coming back to me ...’
‘What?’ asked Jack.
‘He’s one of a chosen few ...’
‘In what way?’
‘He can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity ...’
Overwhelmed by fatigue, Jack put his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder and said, ‘If I don’t get some shuteye, I’ll pass out. Let’s go home.’
‘I don’t quite know how, but you’ve pulled it off,’ said Rebecca, linking arms with Jack. ‘It’s finished.’
‘Not quite. There’s one more thing – remember?’
‘The funeral?’
‘Yes. It’s part of it,’ said Jack. ‘Somehow, the last step is always the hardest, isn’t it?’
76
Will’s antique shop, 10 March
Jack slept for eighteen hours straight, the stress of the past two days finally taking its toll. Anna had been transferred by air ambulance to Sydney for admission into a private hospital.
The Australian government’s spin doctors had lost no time. Andrew had become the public face of the police investigation and was hailed as a hero who had never lost faith. The authorities, they said, had kept the case alive in the background all these years. Following new leads, the police had acted quickly, a proud Police Commissioner told the media during a news conference. Raiding premises belonging to the notorious Wizards of Oz outlaw motorcycle club, they had discovered new evidence linking club members to the abduction of the two backpackers in 2005. Investigations were continuing.
A statement issued by Professor Popov on behalf of Anna and her family thanked the Australian authorities for their diligence and support and appealed for privacy. But the statement also said that Anna had suffered serious psychological trauma and had been hospitalised, which fanned the flames of curiosity and speculation of a voracious press. Only round-the-clock police protection ensured that Anna and her family weren’t mobbed by the media.
Rather than waking Jack to find out what had happened, Andrew decided to let him sleep. The longer Jack could be kept out of the investigation the better.
‘He’s just getting up,’ said Rebecca a while later, handing Andrew another mug of coffee. ‘I’ve never seen anyone sleep this long.’
‘It’s the way the body deals with stress,’ Andrew said. ‘And from what I’ve seen, there would have been quite a bit of that ...’
Unshaven, head bandaged, and wearing an ill-fitting pair of pyjamas borrowed from Will’s wardrobe, Jack padded into the kitchen.
‘You look like I feel,’ said Andrew, pushing his mug of coffee towards Jack. ‘Here, drink this.’ Jack drained the mug without saying a word and looked at Andrew through bleary eyes.
‘I’m here as a friend and not as a police officer,’ began Andrew. ‘First, listen to what I’ve got to say. Please?’
Jack nodded.
‘So far, believe it or not, your name hasn’t come up in the investigation. No one knows that a copy of the DVD exists, or that you were at the compound. Let’s hope it stays that way. The Wizard and the Undertaker are both dead. Therefore – no witnesses. But I’m sure you already know that.’
Jack reached for the coffee plunger on the table.
‘When I last saw the Wizard, he had lost his head,’ said Andrew, watching Jack carefully. ‘I mean literally. He’d been decapitated. But you probably know that as well ...’
‘He didn’t tell us anything,’ said Rebecca, beginning to understand why Jack had been so reticent with details.
‘Good. Let’s keep it that way,’ said Andrew. ‘Of course the police found the tunnel.’ Andrew paused, letting his words sink in. ‘The official version is that it was an inside job. Bikie gangs fight each other all the time, but the code of silence makes it very hard to prove. There’s been a suggestion that the Warriors may have been involved, but of course you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Jack?’
Jack frowned. ‘Warriors?’
‘I don’t know how you’ve done it and frankly I don’t care. Tristan’s safe and the Wizard is no more. That’s good enough for me. I guess what I’m telling you is that you’ve been incredibly lucky.’
‘Rebecca keeps telling me I’m a lucky guy,’ said Jack, a twinkle in his eyes.
‘One last question, Jack,’ said Andrew. ‘What happened to the DVD?’
‘It’s right here. I can give it back to you now, if you like.’
Andrew shook his head, dismayed. ‘You mean you didn’t have to use it?’
‘I did, in a way.’
Relieved, Andrew changed direction. ‘How’s your head?’ he asked.
‘It’s all right. It stopped bleeding and doesn’t hurt that much anymore.’
‘You didn’t go to a hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Good. No records. Incidentally, the forensics guys reckon that the Undertaker fired a shot just before he died. They dug the bullet out of the wall behind the Wizard’s portrait. But you wouldn’t know anything about that either, would you?’
‘No. Should I?’ Jack said, a mock frown creasing his face. ‘Rebecca’s right – you’re one lucky guy.’ Andrew stood up, walked across to Jack and held out his hand. Jack stood as well and the two men shook hands.
‘It’s been quite a ride, Jack,’ Andrew said. ‘I could make a reasonable detective out of you yet. Given a little time, that is. Interested?’
‘A part-time Poirot, perhaps? I’d like that.’
‘You don’t speak French, and you’re too skinny,’ Rebecca cut in.
‘I could learn ...’
‘Don’t you dare! You’re an author not a sleuth.’
‘There is one more thing,’ said Jack. ‘Cassandra’s funeral.’
‘I know. The body’s been released and is on its way back to Sydney,’ Andrew said.
‘Good. I’ll make the necessary arrangements, just as she requested.’
‘It’s the least we can do for her,’ said Rebecca.
Andrew lit a cigarette and looked at Jack. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he said.
‘I’ll stay here for a while and sort out Will’s affairs. I’m his executor. He’s got no family to speak of; both his parents are dead. And then there’s my own mess. Ruined house, insurance claims, exciting stuff like that.’
‘And then?’ asked Rebecca.
‘I’ll write Anna’s story, I suppose. Exclusive rights – remember?’
‘You suppose?’
Jack pulled the little notebook held together with rubber bands out of his pocket, and threw it on the kitchen bench. ‘It’s all in here,’ he said, ‘and up here,’ he added, pointing to his bandaged head. ‘Well, most of it is. However, there are a few gaping holes and nagging questions in the story I have to look into.’
&n
bsp; ‘What are you going to do about that?’ asked Rebecca.
‘The only thing I can. Find the answers; my way. That’s what I’m good at. All I need is a little time, and a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Andrew, turning to Rebecca.
‘I’ve got to get back to New York in a hurry and see if I still have a job. I have to make peace with Jack’s publishers. They must be tearing their hair out ... I’ve been too afraid to open my emails. The new book should help ...’
‘Don’t worry about the publishers,’ interrupted Jack. ‘I’ll sort them out.’
‘Sure ...’ said Rebecca.
‘Tell them life is what happens while they fret about sales.’
‘That should really do it, Jack. Tactful, and businesslike.’
‘Frankly, I don’t give a stuff! My best friend’s dead.’ Rebecca reached across and squeezed Jack’s hand. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ Jack said, looking at her.
‘Neither can I. You’re right – there are more important things.’
‘Did you hear from McGregor?’ asked Jack, looking at Andrew.
‘Yes. He went back with Merriwarra and got the women out.’
‘And?’
‘He drove downstream and had a look ...’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Sorry.’
‘Perhaps it’s better that way,’ said Jack sadly, and began to play with the little notebook on the bench.
‘What’s troubling you?’ said Rebecca, feeling Jack’s pain.
‘When it all began, it looked so exciting and so promising. A great new story, we thought, a winner with fantastic potential. Go for it, Jack, I told myself. Not in our wildest dreams could we have imagined that a few short weeks later, Cassandra and Will would both be dead, and Anna ...’
‘We cannot change the past, Jack, only the future,’ interrupted Andrew, realising where this was heading.
‘You’re right, and that’s exactly what’s worrying me.’
‘In what way?’ said Rebecca.
‘Being a responsible writer is a delicate balancing act. I learnt that in Afghanistan. The line between decency and exposing something at all cost is a fine one, requiring both judgement and moral values. And most importantly, the courage to say no.’
‘Yes, that’s never easy,’ Rebecca agreed, ‘but what has that to do with us here?’
‘Not sure ...’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I feel like an umpire who has to adjudicate between competing interests: between what is right, and what will sell.’
Rebecca stood up in a huff. ‘I’m keeping out of this,’ she said, and walked to the door.
‘Well, do you have an opinion on this?’ Jack called out.
‘You want to know what I’m thinking?’
‘Sure.’
‘You’re an adventure junkie, Jack, who’s got cold feet. Post- excitement blues. Go back to bed and sleep it off,’ Rebecca said.
Andrew waited until Rebecca had left the kitchen and he was alone with Jack. ‘You’ve pissed her off big time, mate,’ he said.
‘You reckon?’ Jack watched Andrew roll another cigarette. ‘Adventure junkie, that’s a good one.’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Andrew.
‘I’m not sure about the book ...’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m too close. I’m no longer on the outside looking in. Anna may have survived, but objectivity, impartiality and sober judgement all died in the gorge. I’ve become part of the story. It’s too personal.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Could be.’
Andrew lit his cigarette and looked pensively at Jack through the spiralling smoke. ‘Will?’ he asked.
‘Yes; and all the others. And that includes you. We’ve become like ...’
‘A family?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And that family has gone through a lot together?’
‘Yes, and it doesn’t stop here.’
‘And you don’t want to jeopardise or expose ...?’
‘The problem is I know too much,’ interrupted Jack, ‘and a lot of what I know was given to me in confidence. No, more than that, I’ve lived it.’
‘You have obligations?’
‘Precisely; I made promises. I cannot be true to myself as a writer and ...’
‘A human being?’ suggested Andrew.
‘Yes; you are absolutely right. That’s my dilemma.’
‘Ironic, don’t you think?’
Jack shrugged. ‘What do you reckon I should do about that?’
‘You’ll know when the time comes, mate.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Jack looked pensively into his empty coffee mug, dreading the choices he would soon have to make. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked, changing direction.
‘I’m going back to Alice, the gallery, and fundraising for the kids. That’ll do me.’
‘You’re a lucky guy, but it must feel good, though ...’
‘Vindication?’
Jack nodded.
‘You bet. We’ve taught the bastards a lesson. Even the Commissioner sent congratulations. That must have really hurt.’
‘You’re the man of the moment. Celebrity cop and Outback legend. I bet they’ll roll out the red carpet for you in Alice.’
Andrew laughed. ‘Perhaps they will,’ he said.
‘You deserve it, mate.’
Andrew began to laugh. ‘Deserve? Life doesn’t work that way, and you know it.’
‘You know me too well.’
‘I tracked down the cemetery and the plot number Cassandra gave you,’ Andrew said, changing the subject.
‘Good. We can go right ahead then. She was quite specific. She wants to be cremated and laid to rest in that plot.’
‘That’s right. But there’s a complication ...’
‘Oh?’
‘Someone claimed the body.’
‘When?’
‘This morning.’
‘I thought she had no one. Apart from her son.’
‘Not quite true.’
‘Where does this leave us then, with the funeral?’
‘Well ... this is where it becomes interesting ...’
‘In what way?’
‘The person who claimed the body wants us to go ahead with the funeral exactly as Cassandra requested.’
‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’
‘Not really. He wants to honour her wishes.’
‘Who is he?’
Andrew was enjoying himself. ‘You’re in for a big surprise,’ he said.
‘Are you stringing this out for a reason? Who claimed the body, Andrew?’
‘There’s more.’
‘For Christ’s sake, just tell me!’
‘Do you want to know who’s buried in the plot next to hers?’
‘This is relevant?’ asked Jack.
‘Sure is.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘I will, but only if you tell me about the Bone Scraper.’
Jack looked apprehensive. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘You’ll find out in a moment, but you have to keep all this to yourself for the time being.’
‘Okay, Andrew. You first.’
77
Cassandra’s funeral, 13 March
Cassandra’s funeral was to be a quiet and private affair with only a handful of mourners attending. Jack and Rebecca were waiting outside the church for the hearse to arrive, and the countess and Professor Popov sat next to Andrew inside.
Tristan’s sudden recovery had surprised everyone. He had insisted on coming along, and was seated next to a nurse who had accompanied him on doctor’s orders. Otherwise, the church was empty.
All was quiet until the bikies turned into the street – thirty of them – riding in formation. Led by the Bone Scraper in full Warriors regalia astride a bike with sidecar, they pulled up in
front of the church, the throaty burble from their bikes all but drowning out the lonely little bell tolling in the steeple above.
‘Friends of yours?’ asked Rebecca, taken aback by the Warriors’ unexpected appearance.
Jack didn’t reply. Instead, he was remembering another funeral not that long ago where a mother and daughter killed by terrorists had been laid to rest.
‘Quiet funeral, you said?’
The Bone Scraper and five others – all huge Maoris with tattooed faces just like his – lined up on the footpath behind the hearse.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ said the Bone Scraper to the undertakers, placing his huge hand on the coffin.
Confused, the men stepped aside. Lifting the coffin onto their broad shoulders, the Maori pallbearers walked slowly into the church.
‘What are these guys doing here?’ whispered Rebecca.
‘Wait and see,’ replied Jack.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ said Rebecca. Jack squeezed her hand in confirmation.
‘You’re a dark horse, Jack Rogan.’
‘The best is yet to come – watch.’
If the celebrant waiting in front of the altar was surprised by the strange procession coming towards him, he didn’t show it. Jack and Rebecca followed the coffin down the aisle and sat down next to Tristan in the front.
Jack had requested a short and simple service, and the celebrant, a friend of Will’s, was about to deliver just that. Within minutes the small church was filled to capacity with unexpected mourners as the Warriors filed in and took their seats at the back.
With the short service almost at an end, the celebrant asked if anyone wanted to say a few words. Having been told earlier that there would be no eulogy, the question was merely routine.
But the Bone Scraper stood up and spoke. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said.
For a moment there was complete silence as all heads turned towards him. Walking slowly down the aisle until he reached the coffin, he turned and looked first at Tristan, and then at the others seated close to him.
‘I owe you all an apology and an explanation,’ he began, his distinctive New Zealand accent giving his deep voice a pleasant, melodious tone. ‘Firstly, I want to apologise for coming here unannounced and uninvited, but there are good reasons why that had to be so. A funeral is a solemn and serious occasion which must be treated with respect. It is respect that brings me here. And a lot more ...’
The Disappearance of Anna Popov: A supernatural suspense thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2) Page 35