“Oh. Maybe that’s not such a good thing.” Carlos had to agree.
“Bet your fucking arse it’s not. She’s pretty shitty about it. Problem is, she’ll clam up completely and won’t tell me shit from now on. Up until now, I was privy to inside information. Fuck!” Darren turned and lunged at the doorjamb with his right fist.
“Hey! Fucking calm down. You’re going to break something!” Carlos yelled as he shot up from his chair. Darren’s furore was met with less than equal measure from his mentor and friend; nevertheless, Carlos’ anger made him stop. Their eyes met and Darren dropped his arms by his side; he suddenly felt spent.
“I’m sorry.” Darren turned around and walked away from Carlos.
“Hey mate. Just a minute.” Carlos came out after Darren. “It’s not the end of the world. Cate will be alright. If you need my help with anything, I’m here.”
Darren nodded and left the gym.
CHAPTER 70
THE PLOT THICKENS
By lunchtime the dashing young detective arrived in the outskirts of Wollongong. The drive down from Sydney had not dulled the excitement of adventure. Adam quickly finished his Quarter-pounder and rushed out the door as his phone rang in his pocket. He brought the mobile phone to his ear while speed-walking to his car. It was Cate calling.
“I’ve just spoken with a Kevin Thompson, the investigator for that shooting. You are to meet with him today to discuss details about the case. But more importantly I want you to prise as much info out of him about a possible link between our friend Martin and the ‘dead girl in the ravine’ case.”
Adam scribbled the name on a piece of newspaper. “Okay, thanks, got a number for him? And what’s the dead girl in the ravine case?”
She read out the number and added, “It’s an unsolved homicide involving a young girl from Heathcote found dead down the bottom of a ravine not long before the shooting. By the way, this detective sounds a bit wishy-washy. Don’t let him get away with it, pin him down for answers.”
Adam contacted Kevin Thompson to arrange a meeting.
The obese detective was panting as he came down the concrete stairs. Adam extended his hand as the puffing man stepped off the last tread. “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”
Kevin Thompson blew some air to catch a breath. “Sorry, getting old. Retiring soon.”
Adam suggested they find a park bench nearby. The pigeons flocked around them briefly and flew off in a huff when the senior cop shooed them away.
Kevin filled Adam in about the pub shooting. Background information about the brawl was useful. “My boss also said you had some insight into another crime. A murder case? An unsolved homicide involving a girl from Heathcote?”
“Yes, I did mention something to your boss. Cold case. Poor girl, rotting away in a ravine. She should have been in school. It was a bastard thing to do. Forensics established she was stabbed in the neck with some force and then callously thrown over the side into a deep and dark crevasse. Because of the advanced state of decomposition it took some time for evidence to be put together.” Kevin’s forehead had gathered some sweat.
“How come you linked the murder with the shooting?” Adam asked.
Kevin’s face sunk. “We didn’t link the two crimes. There was some speculation.
We thought there might have been a connection. But there wasn’t enough real evidence to act on it.” The fat man moved his big body around on the bench feeling uncomfortable. “There was no definitive connection.” Kevin stressed.
“Can you tell me a bit about how you thought there might be a correlation between the homicide and the seller of the Ruger?” Adam asked.
Kevin sighed and nodded passively. “The murder victim’s sister lived in the cottage bordering the Heathcote National Park. She had been reported missing after a few days, by her sister. Anyway, the victim’s silly sister took her younger sibling’s diary. And one day, after she had it sitting in her bed-side table for a month, she opened it and read about some bloke named “Mick” that her sister Rosie had befriended, probably just before she went missing. You see, young Rosie wasn’t real good at writing down dates or keeping a daily account of her activities. She probably only wrote in her diary when she felt like it. The dairy described her friend “Mick” as short, skinny, with dark eyes, nearly black. He’s so cool, but scary at the same time. She thought she loved him. Bloody hell. Keep in mind, her body was down that gorge for a few months and we didn’t get the diary until a few weeks after the discovery of the body, you know. The shooting at the pub happened well before she was discovered. The connection between this Mick character and the description by the bloke that shot the bikie was not entertained at the time. A thousand other crimes took place between the shooting and the discovery of her body.”
“So when did you ‘entertain’ a connection?” Adam’s sarcasm was blatant.
“It came up in one of our meetings to hand over cases. Anyway, we looked into the possibility of Mick the gun-runner being the same as the ‘Mick’ in the girl’s diary.”
“And?” Adam quizzed.
“And we dropped the idea for the time being. We had a series of other very serious crimes to solve at the time. Priorities. Also, it took time to establish that she was murdered. Sometimes decisions are made that could be argued as premature, or even regretful.” Kevin wiped some gumnuts off the bench next to him.
Kevin was far from convincing, Adam decided. Pointless to prod him. Too crafty to make him trip. “Thanks for meeting with me. I know you must be a busy man.” Adam extended his hand politely. “Enjoy your retirement.”
Before Adam walked away, he turned with one more question, “Any idea where this Mick disappeared to?”
“At the time, when he sold the gun, he was heading south. That’s all we know.” Kevin had had enough, he stood from the bench and walked away into the opposite direction.
At the top of the stairs Adam reached for his phone. “Hi, there might be a connection between the seller of the gun and someone called Mick, who was described in a diary entry written by the murder victim. Apparently, the seller of the Ruger was also named Mick. No last names.”
“Geographical proximity, time-line, and both suspects are called ‘Mick’. Oh, what am I missing here? Is this Kevin for real?” Cate commented.
“I’m heading to Ulladulla tomorrow early. Are you on board with that?”
“Safe travels.” She ended the call.
Cate sat back in her lounge, nursing a stubby. The plot thickens. She took another sip. She wondered if she should tell Darren.
The trail leads south. Adam decided to leave early in the morning. Destination Ulladulla. What a strange name. It was 8.15pm. He pressed ‘1’ on the speed dial. It rang out. Disappointed, but not surprised. His partner, James, was undercover. Deep cover. Adam hated it at first, but that’s how it was. It was supposed to be for a few months, but the investigation was more complex and dangerous. When Adam was re-assigned a new job and promoted, it took some of the pressure away from the long absences. A probationary junior detective role; answer to Senior Inspector Catherine Hawkins, his new trainer, partner and boss. The ‘Hawk’, because she didn’t miss a trick. Have her on your tail and her talons into your flesh, she’ll only let go when she’s finished with you. Handcuffed, charged and in gaol.
James and Adam were lovers from the Goulburn days where they trained at the Police Academy. Their secret relationship played out like on-the-job training in preparation for future detective work, it ‘helped’ their careers; and their livelihood, in turn, helped maintain their anonymity. Adam hoped to see his lover soon but he wasn’t counting on it.
The alarm buzzer went off and the gay detective rolled over on his side. Fuck, five-thirty already.
Adam presented himself at the front desk of the Ulladulla Police Station. He showed his credentials to the duty officer at the counter and was promptly whisked through the security door. A fit and handsome police-woman extended her hand.
“Sergeant Wilson,” she introduced herself with a courteous smile and she invited her colleague from Sydney to take a chair. “You’re after some info about the Villier boys?” Immediately coming to the point, she wasted little time and continued, “The local cousin, Matthew has been on our radar for a few years. His sidekick and younger cousin, Martin, appeared on the scene more recently. We have not been too concerned with their activities, until recently. Since having contact with you guys in Manly they were only on the far edge of the radar. We’ve suspected these boys were dabbling with minor illicit contraband, but nothing to stay awake over.”
Adam took notes while his colleague spoke.
“Moving kilos of cocaine and amphetamines for outlaw bikie gangs, well, that’s a different kettle of fish of course. That’s new.” The sergeant leant over her desk resting her elbows on the laminated top.
Adam interjected, “Do they live in town here?”
“No, they have moved further south. West of Moruya. They reside on a large rural property. However, they are still seen in town here, most weeks. They operate a legitimate courier business.”
“So you’ve never arrested them?”
“No. Never. They are an enigma. The grapevine provides some innuendo about Matt’s connection with some of the local crims. But basically, they have been squeaky clean as far as the law goes.”
“Can you tell me anything else about them? Do they do anything for fun? Adam asked while taking more notes.
“The older cousin, the larger one, he’s quite cagey. Smart. Keeps out of trouble. Jokes around a bit. Met him at a local fundraiser once. Sociable, but knows how to skirt questions quite well. The younger one, the skinny one with the unusual eyes, I’ve never had the pleasure. He’s been in a few pub brawls. Nothing serious. Although not long ago a local concreter was badly beaten at his own home. He reckoned he fell from his back porch or something. The doctor on duty reported it to us, but the victim wouldn’t talk. Plenty of hearsay, of course. Small town. Word gets around.”
Adam nodded, satisfied with the results of this meeting and put his notepad and pen away, “Thank you, Sergeant. Appreciate your insights.”
“Before you go, one thing I should add. The skinny cousin, he’s not a popular guy. Comments like, ‘he’s weird and scary, or stay away from him, he’s a nutcase’, there are a few of them.”
“Did I hear you say something about ‘unusual eyes’? Adam noted.
“Yes, the skinny Villier, Martin, has an unusual pair of eyes. Very dark and beady. No warmth in them apparently,” she answered.
“Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.” Adam rose from his chair and extended his hand.
When back at his car, he pressed ‘2’ on the speed dial. It rang only twice.
“Yep. Talk to me,” Cate answered her mobile while zooming in and out of traffic on the busy road.
“Not much progress on the courier angle. But there is a lot more to this Martin character. The uncanny resemblance of “Mick”, the gunrunner with beady eyes, and a “Mick” described in a diary from a dead girl, with our Martin Villier. A reputation locally down here that describes him as a nutcase, weird and scary, also matches the description of him in that diary. He sounds dangerous. He sounds like he could kill.”
Cate took in her partner’s analysis. He’s not silly is he?
“What are you thinking?” Adam asked.
“Maybe he already has.”
“Killed, you mean,” Adam replied.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER 71
AMATEURS
Eddie hung up the phone. He snorted like a bull about to charge. “Fuckin’ dickheads.” Never a dull moment. He shook his head in anger. Amateurs.
He pushed back his desk chair with the back of his knees as he stood up. He left the boardroom and made his way to the back door and walked across the rear concrete driveway to the workshop. The small office for the repair business also concealed a safe. That safe contained a few thousand in cash. Twenties, fifties and a few stacks of one hundred dollar notes, as well as a number of mobile phones. Eleven of them. The amount of credit on each was limited. He selected a Motorola flip-phone. Without leaving the cramped office he selected the speed-dial button and braced himself. It rang only briefly, before the familiar voice answered, “Hello.”
“Don’t wait for it, the train’s running late. Problem with the tracks. I’ll let you know the new ETA.” Eddie pressed the end button and shut the flap; he waited. After thirty seconds of no return phone call, he was relieved, good, he’s not going to ring back and do his nut.
As the day progressed, things weren’t improving for Eddie. No delivery of the package until next week and no Harley for him. The loud ringer on the landline disrupted his thoughts.
“My uncle is hopping mad. He wants me to find another courier. He says you bikie cunts are not reliable and can’t be trusted. I’m sending someone around to collect it.”
Eddie could hear the voice inhaling heavily, he imagined the smoke coming through the phone as his caller exhaled. “I don’t have it. The courier has it. He’s broken down while travelling.” There was a pause on the line.
“My uncle won’t be happy.”
Eddie was left listening to a dial tone. Guess they’ll ring me back. Fucking wogs.
He pulled the drawer of his desk open. Staring him in the face was a packet of Winfield Blue, the foil had been ripped but the packet was still full. He slammed the drawer shut.
Eddie had other things on his mind as well, like .22 calibre things. He wasn’t ignorant to the fact that most black market handguns were twenty-twos. But it was too coincidental that the weapons on offer matched the ones that were lost in the deal with Lars. There was also supposed to be a .45 calibre included. A Browning. A beast of a weapon, as Lars had said, ‘Stops a pig, imagine it’ll stop an Angel’.
Lars was a warlord.
Eddie was a businessman. Still the business he was in was no corner shop milk-bar. Having an arsenal of weapons in your back pocket was a necessity. The choice was simple: the threat of being trampled on had to be met by brute force. Otherwise you’d be scampering off like a kicked dog without a home.
Restless and impatient, he couldn’t resist testing his theory, so he picked up the Nokia and pressed the speed-dial. Eddie schemed. Let’s put him to the test. Ask him for a forty-five.
When Matt answered the call Eddie’s words rolled straight off the tongue, “Your situation has upset my supplier, and now they want their merchandise back.”
“Fuckin’ what?” Matt answered.
“The Italians don’t like getting fucked around and I’m pissed off with all this shit as well,” Eddie growled.
“Look, mate, everything would have been fine, if you hadn’t organised your fucking Harley. I’ve had to divert to pick up my truck to bring back your motor-bike. That package would have been there now if it weren’t for your little request! Do you fucking copy?” Matt snarled back.
“Regardless, of my request it’s still your truck that’s down!” Eddie shot back.
“Well I can’t fuckin’ help that!”
Silence.
“This blame-game doesn’t solve our problem with the Italians.” Eddie was not about to admit he was partly to blame for their predicament. “How long before it’s fixed?”
“Don’t know. I can still deliver the package by tomorrow night, but I won’t be bringing back your Harley.” Matt waited for an answer.
“Let me think about that.” Then Eddie followed on, “Now, let’s talk about these twenty-twos.”
“What about them?” Matt’s anger receded.
“I’m interested in them. But do you have anything a bit bigger? You know with more stopping power.”
“What are you after?” Matt trod carefully. He had to think about this. The guns weren’t really his to sell and at this moment an invisible switch in his brain told him not to rush into answering.
“What about a .45 calibre
?” Eddie lobbed the bait hoping for a bite, but the reply was slow and not the one he wanted to hear.
“No, don’t have one of those.” Somehow Matt felt it was a trick question. Years of dealing with other criminals taught him to be cautious and question motives. “Why do you want a cannon?” Lobbing the question back into the biker’s court.
Eddie quietly considered his reply, before he answered, “Always wanted to own one.”
The lame excuse didn’t wash with Matt. “Look, Eddie, I can’t help you there, but I’ll keep a look-out for your .45. Right now there are more pressing issues, like how about an answer?”
The furious bikie boss yelled through the phone, “What fucking answer!”
Matt fired back with equal rage, “Your fucking Harley!”
“Fuck the goddamn wogs! Get your fucking truck fixed. Ring me when it’s done! I want my Harley here. Next week,” And Eddie hung up. He threw the mobile phone against the wall; it thudded and dropped to the lino floor. He was fuming. That cunt is lying.
Matt tossed the mobile onto his passenger seat. Why is everyone lying? Fucking Martin, he’s a liar. What’s the real story with these bloody guns? Fucking Eddie, he knows something I don’t. He’s a liar too.
A lone figure moved away silently from the other side of the boardroom door. He had overheard the conversation between his boss and the courier. It was a good sign – tempers flaring and players losing their cool. Poor decisions were made in angry moments. Now was the time to stick close. Ears glued to the walls. Eyes needling through keyholes.
By the time Eddie came through the boardroom door the lone figure had just shut the rear exit door behind him. Making sure he wasn’t conspicuous he casually sauntered to the front of the clubhouse. He walked past the open chain-wire mesh gate and continued in a light stride down the side-walk in an eastern direction. The evening was cool with a light south-easterly brushing past his ears. He adjusted his black-framed spectacles. A dark leather jacket covered the tattoo of a cobra coming through a skull. He picked up the pace to a powerwalk. Closer to the main road, he relaxed some. Never once did he waiver in his belief that his cover was sound. But the risk of discovery became more probable with time. Communication was more frequent now, so the risk was greater. Even he had made an error. Just now. He should have left on his Harley, not gone walk-about. But he was edgy as well. The tension around the clubhouse was building in the last day or so. Eddie kept his cards close to his chest, although he wasn’t good at hiding stress. Ever since getting into bed with the Italians, the name of the game had changed. The Devil’s Sinners were becoming a serious player in drug distribution.
Stealth Page 30