‘Sounds good.’ Forbes didn’t have a clue what had just been said. ‘Let’s go through it one more time and make sure there are no holes to trip us up.’
Baldwin had mapped out the election campaign. Literally. Across the great expanse of blackwood table, he’d unfurled a map of the council area, which encompassed much more than Failie. The four-person team had produced reams of paperwork about demographics, voting preferences, and who would actually get off their large backside and vote.
‘It’s a no-brainer.’ Never one to miss out on a free breakfast, Bruce Innes selected a pastry from the tray near his elbow. ‘Middle and upper-middle class are more active in the community. They’ve got a vested interest in who leads them. They like the idea they have some influence.’
In other words, his team were figuring out who they could promise what to make sure Forbes Monroe, the perennial bridesmaid—or would that be groomsman? The whole institution of marriage and weddings was something he’d managed to avoid—would actually become mayor. Third time’s a charm. Baldwin had been saying that for months now.
Forbes watched Bruce plough through the chocolate éclair and select a jam-filled doughnut while his cheeks still bulged. Who could blame him? Gwen’s pastries were irresistible. Her generosity might well be due to her desire to linger with the staff and replenish her store of gossip, but her regular carbohydrate contributions to his meetings ensured his team showed up. As dedicated to his cause as they appeared, he didn’t kid himself that this was all for his benefit. It was just that at this point in time his coattails were the most appealing. One slip and he’d lose that coat and the shirt that went with it.
Of course, there were those who said it was his association with Mina that had cost him the previous two elections. People in this town said a whole lot of rubbish once the beer started flowing. And the Evertons were a favourite topic.
Valerie though, he’d been surprised at her. She’d always been a bit off about Mina. Jealousy, he’d thought. God, he could be a smug bastard. It was only last night that he realised just how deep her dislike of Mina ran.
‘My God, Forbes,’ Valerie had snapped as she tugged on her lace panties, ‘has she got you wrapped so tightly around her finger that you can’t see the truth? This is a pathetic cry for attention. Just like all those other times.’
It had taken him a moment to figure out that by ‘other times’ she’d meant Mina’s behaviour after Alyssa died.
‘You think she doesn’t know who you’re with?’ Valerie had sneered. ‘You think she doesn’t want me to know that with one phone call you’ll drop me cold? She’s playing you, just like she always does.’
Valerie had stood there, partially naked, her hands on her luscious hips while the bedroom light made a claret halo of her hair. Her dark eyes glittered and there was a decidedly unbecoming mottled flush to her cheeks. Suddenly he understood why her husband was never around; that body of hers was one curvaceous mean streak. But Valerie knew other ways to use her tongue, and he’d let himself believe it was healthiest for everyone if he stopped mollycoddling and let Mina stand on her own two feet. What a colossal fool he’d been. He was far too old, with too much riding on this election, to be thinking with his dick.
Silence. Those gathered around the table stared at him.
Crap. Had he said that aloud?
‘That’s workable, isn’t it?’ Baldwin’s eyebrows had disappeared beneath his chunk of salt and pepper fringe, his eyelids waxy with perspiration. ‘You make a few funding promises to the posh schools and sporting clubs—footy, cricket, sailing—get them onside. And we’ll get a majority among those most likely to go to the polling booth.’
Forbes grinned. ‘Just wind me up and point in the right direction, mate.’
The team laughed, as he expected, but Baldwin’s brow remained pinched in a frown.
As worried as he was about Mina—losing her mother the way she had, all that crazy talk about a dog—he couldn’t afford to let this election drift. Another three years and he’d be too long in the tooth to get away with the Energy and Vision ticket he was riding now.
He stayed focused long enough for Baldwin’s frown to fade. To win this election he needed this gang of brutal home invaders shut down. For that to happen, Drummond and Mina had to get along.
A tinny rendition of Living on a Prayer burst into the room. Baldwin snatched up his phone with a dark scowl. ‘I’m in a meeting.’
Drummond hadn’t been convinced Mina’s behaviour was due to getting sprung in a towel, though from the way the feller’s tongue had practically rolled out of his mouth it was a wonder he could think straight. Word was the detective had almost had a meltdown after that hostage case, and Forbes still had some misgivings about bringing him in. Yet Drummond seemed cool as ice. There was much more to that man than tailored suits. Mina, now, she’d been just plain strange; he couldn’t blame Drummond for thinking she had something to hide. If he didn’t know her as well as he did, he would’ve thought the same.
When she’d called him around midnight, interrupting his interlude with Valerie, she’d sounded like she was at the bottom of a well. If he’d been alone, he would have rushed right over. He should have. Yet by morning she was up and showered like nothing had happened. And why, when she had the perfect chance to report it, had she denied the break-in? Sure, she had no love for cops—natural enough considering what happened when her dad vanished—but he’d brought Drummond in. As an outsider, the detective had come without preconceptions.
And all that nonsense about the dog. She’d even named it. Spirit. Dear God. She couldn’t be going through that again. Certainly, this plan to start her own business would have put her under pressure, and though she’d never said so, she must be concerned the town would boycott it, but she’d been coping so well. Was he wrong? Did she feel so bereft of friendship and support that she’d slipped back to those dark days after Jacko deserted them all?
‘They can’t do this!’ Red-faced, Baldwin pulled his lips into snarl. ‘I don’t care. It’s not going to happen!’
He hurled his phone against the far wall and with a roar of outrage swept everything from the table. Bruce rescued the plate of pastries just in time.
‘What the hell, Bob?’
‘We’re screwed.’ Baldwin shoved a hand through his hair. ‘Daley and that weasel Warren have moved to make the role of mayor redundant. They want to vote in a chairman. If we don’t do something fast, we’re out.’
Chapter 7
KEGS LIT UP A FAG and wished he could shove the driver’s seat farther back. He wasn’t built for sitting in cars following bloody sheilas around while they did God knows what.
‘Dunny, put those things down.’ The kid had binoculars welded to his face. ‘Go find us a doughnut or something. I’m starving.’
Kegs tugged a VB from the Esky on the back seat and shook it. Empty. Just like all the others. ‘How many times I gotta tell you? Crush the can when you’re done with it.’
‘Sorry, Kegs.’ Dunny didn’t shift the binoculars from his face. ‘Man, she sure looks sweet. Check out those legs.’
Kegs didn’t give a shit about Mina Everton’s legs. It was what she could blab that worried him.
The Everton chick paced a short stretch of side street beside Gibson’s Fine Antiques. She kept checking her watch and her phone then looking up and down the street. Parked in the small space behind the shop was a classic Jag XJS. From the way she’d jammed on her brakes and reversed out to park down the street, she hadn’t expected the Jag—or more rightly, its owner—to be there. Slab reckoned if she was Everton’s kid they were safe enough, but if she was casing the joint, she weren’t exactly subtle. She’d already gotten a weird look from the biddy in the bridal shop across the street.
‘What do you reckon she’s doing?’ Dunny adjusted the vision.
‘Who freaking knows?’
He could use a beer. A beer and a big steak, preferably in a pub with the aircon on full bore. No chanc
e of that. Too early anyway. None of them opened their doors ’til ten a.m., and then he’d have Buckley’s of a decent meal until nearer midday. ’Specially in this posh street. Probably wouldn’t even get in the door in his thongs and stubbies.
‘Hopefully she’ll disappear inside long enough for us to shove something down our gob,’ he said.
Dunny didn’t answer.
Poor kid had it bad for the Everton girl. Hadn’t stopped talking about her since he’d seen her in the shop. Kept going on about how he liked to watch her sleep.
‘She has bad dreams,’ he’d told Kegs. ‘Cries out, things like that. Thought she’d seen me. Nearly wet myself.’
‘You get caught, they’ll lock you up this time.’
‘Nah, mate.’ Dunny grinned like a moron. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
Kegs peeled his back off the vinyl seat. It wasn’t easy. His gut had gotten a lot bigger since the last time he’d done something like this. One wrong move, it would press against the horn and that’d be it. He’d found a spot behind a plumber’s van that gave them some cover and a good view, but his bog-standard ’74 Fairlane didn’t exactly blend in with the Audi A7s and Lexus SUVs.
Dunny had watched the girl’s house ’til morning. When the kid reckoned two cops in fancy suits had rocked up to her house first thing, Kegs had nearly had a stroke ’til he figured out they were probably Mormons. None of the pigs he’d ever come across dressed like that. One had buggered off though, which wasn’t like those God-botherers. Usually always travelled in pairs. Had to make sure they wasn’t tempted by some bored housewife.
A removalist’s van rattled into the parking bay. The Everton chick hurried to the driver’s door. Snippets of conversation reached him. Seemed they were an hour late, some problem of a holdup on the freeway. She signed the delivery note with jerky movements and thrust the pen and clipboard back at the driver.
The two delivery men hauled something from the back of the truck. It was wrapped in a blanket held together with brown packing tape.
‘Looks like something big,’ Dunny said. ‘Could be a door. You reckon it’s a door?’
‘Ain’t gonna be a door, is it? It ain’t a salvage yard. This place sells fancy antiques.’
She held open the rear entrance while the two men lugged the package inside. She wasn’t casing the joint then. Must have something to do with it. Best to pass that on to Mr Carlson quick smart ’cos the boss was already pissed the girl had rumbled their scheme. Wasn’t his fault though, was it? Couldn’t expect a man to know some little girl was gonna get herself lost and come asking for directions, or that she’d come barging into his back room when it was clearly marked private. Certainly couldn’t expect that girl would know enough about the business to suss them. Of course, he hadn’t told Mr Carlson all that. Shouldn’t have even mentioned those medals. Pretty big coincidence, if you asked him, someone with her knowledge turning up at his shop just as Dunny dumped their score out on the table. But the boss wasn’t the kind of bloke you went to with problems. Not when you fucked up as bad as he had. Besides, the girl had made such a show of pretending she hadn’t zeroed in on those medals, there was no way she was going to the cops. He hoped.
The store’s back door clanged shut and the two delivery men clambered into their truck talking about what they’d do to that stuck-up bitch if they got her alone.
‘Go find us a cold one and something to eat, would you?’ Kegs struggled to pull his wallet from the pocket of his stubbies. ‘And don’t let her spot you. You’re lucky you got away last night.’
‘Nah, that was skill, mate. Besides, she needs me to look out for her. Already had to scare some other dude out of her bushes.’
Kegs managed not to scoff. The kid was full of bullshit like that. Had a hero complex bigger than Hercules, that boy did.
‘You be careful. If Slab reckons you’re stirring up trouble, you’re history.’ He handed Dunny a creased twenty. ‘You know why they call him Slab?’
The kid shrugged like he didn’t care. ’Cos he’s built like one?’
‘Nah. ’Cos he’s put plenty of blokes under one.’
Chapter 8
IN THE MEETING ROOM of the Failie Police Station, Linc assessed the tanned faces turned toward him. These were the three constables who’d done the legwork on the robberies; after the grumbling from his local colleagues at the community meeting, the constables’ willingness to share information surprised him. Perhaps they were still new enough to the job that they weren’t yet gripped by cynicism. He couldn’t assume the same of Senior Constable Frank Wainright, the absent crime scene officer. Linc had hoped the man’s curiosity would have been enough to get him here.
‘I see that on three occasions someone called Paul Carlson, aka Slab Carlson, was pulled in for questioning,’ Linc said. ‘Tell me why it never went any further.’
Strzelecki, tall and angular with a regulation haircut, rolled his shoulders. ‘His alibis are tighter than a thug’s t-shirt. Clean as a whistle and twice—’
With the whoosh of gas-sprung hinges, the glass door to the meeting room swung open.
‘Didn’t wait for the big guns, I see.’
The newcomer flexed meaty arms hidden by his navy blue uniform shirt, and pulled a comical face. A massive wad of gum slapped between his teeth as he goofed it up for his younger colleagues.
‘All that beer drinking’s keeping you in good shape.’ Riker’s muscular frame provided the irony.
‘Yeah, pity it’s all dropped to one place.’ Strzelecki patted his own flat belly.
Linc put out his hand. ‘You must be Senior Constable Wainright.’
‘In the flesh, mate.’
Wainright ignored the offered hand and made a great show of picking out a chair from the several empty ones at the conference table. He settled on one a little removed from the others and dropped into it. The cantilever frame creaked in protest.
The snub wasn’t exactly a surprise. Cops had no time for interlopers, particularly burnt-out, formerly high-flying detectives with enough baggage to down an aircraft. Yet he had expected some professional courtesy. Failie didn’t seem to have much to spare. When he’d asked for forensics to be sent to Mina’s house, he’d got the runaround.
‘Right.’ Wainright rubbed his hands together. ‘Fill me in.’
‘You’ll have to catch up.’ Linc returned his attention to the officers. ‘So what do we know about Carlson?’
Wainright snorted and slapped the gum between his teeth.
‘Something you wanted to say?’ Linc heard the edge in his voice and softened it with a smile.
The CSO grinned and shook his head.
‘The guy’s a sleaze,’ Strzelecki said. ‘He started with strip clubs and street dealing, but he got wise pretty fast and branched into nightclubs. The word is he’s behind that twenty-four-hour fitness franchise, Gym Junkies.’
Riker laughed. ‘Got a sense of humour then.’
‘What do you mean, “the word is”?’ Linc asked. ‘Why aren’t we certain?’
‘Clever,’ Riker said. ‘One of the forensic accountants said following the money was like trying to comb dreadlocks.’
‘Nightclubs, strip clubs and gyms. He seems pretty well placed to be dealing,’ Linc said, ‘but there’s nothing in the notes to show he’s been charged.’
‘That bloke is as slick as wet soap.’ Riker raked his fingers through his dark hair and checked his reflection in the opaque glass wall. ‘Always close to a crime, but apart from a brief stretch a few years ago, we’ve never pinned him down.’
‘What was he in for?’
Riker checked his notes. ‘Possession with intent to sell. Cocaine.’
‘There’s more.’ Dubois, her ginger curls twisted into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, pulled a sheet of handwritten notes from her manila folder. ‘For most of his teenage years, Carlson was in juvie. More disturbing is the suggestion he was involved with his mother’s death. He would have been a little over twe
lve at the time.’
Linc asked, ‘How was he involved, allegedly?’
Dubois handed him a slim folder. ‘I’ve put together a report—’
‘Trust the woman to suck up.’ Wainright smirked.
‘Shut up, Wainright.’ Dubois didn’t sound outraged, just bored.
‘That’s Senior Constable Wainright to you, girly.’
‘Give us a quick rundown, Dubois.’ Linc placed her manila folder beside his thicker blue one that contained everything he’d been able to access about the robberies.
Dubois looked around the room as she spoke. ‘One night the house went up in flames with the mother and her dodgy boyfriend trapped inside. Coroner found they were dead before it went up. Tortured by person or persons unknown. Rumours surfaced that Carlson had done it. The kid had an abusive home life—widely known, but never reported—but no one really believed a kid that young could perpetrate such a gruesome act. I’ve requested full copies of the autopsy and forensic results.’
‘Gossip and conjecture,’ Wainright said. ‘Won’t get a promotion on that.’
‘I’m doing my job.’
‘Yeah, right. What you’re doing has nothing to do with the robberies.’ He looked at his two male colleagues, but they stared at their hands. ‘She’s hoping the Sydney bloke will slip her one, isn’t that right, boys?’
‘That’s enough, Wainright. We’re here to solve a crime.’ Linc’s urge to reel off a lecture about respect and professionalism would be a red rag to a guy like Wainright, and experience had shown him Dubois wouldn’t thank him for it either.
‘I’m just saying, kids who set fire to their parents don’t usually find robbery exciting,’ Wainright said.
‘I don’t expect Carlson is doing the work himself. Do you?’
‘You expect me to do your job for you, Drummond?’ Wainright snapped his gum and gazed at the constables, as if bemused. ‘Not in the job two minutes and he’s slacking off. No wonder they booted his arse out of New South Wales.’
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