‘About bloody time,’ Carlson snapped.
Kegs filled him in on their progress, and made sure to tell him the chick was acting weird.
‘Weird how?’ Slab asked.
‘Like she’s on step nine of a twelve-step programme.’
‘The point?’
‘Well, you know. It’s like she’s making amends, or something, by visiting all these people.’
Thick silence met his ear. He knew better than to ask if the boss was still there. The tightness in his chest got worse. Better the boss figured it out for himself than Kegs being the bad news bear.
Finally the boss said, ‘Tell me exactly what she’s doing.’
‘Okay, well, she’s got us following her all over town. She pulls up to a house, knocks on the door, there’s a bit of a natter and in she goes. Sometimes she stays for a while. Sometimes she’s in and out in a few minutes. Don’t look like she knows most of them.’
He wouldn’t have thought a little thing like that had it in her to be so pushy.
‘Do you know what I do to people who waste my time?’ Slab growled.
‘I ain’t wasting your time, mate. See these houses, these people—’ Shit, he was crap at dropping hints. It looked like he’d have to spell it out, though it wasn’t like Mr Carlson not to twig. ‘See, most of ’em are places where we—’ May as well get it over with. ‘They’re the places we liberated stuff from.’
A faint whistling filled his ears. It could be the boss breathing through his teeth—never a good sign—or it could just be his frigging hearing aid playing up again.
Kegs asked, ‘What do you reckon it means?’
‘Hey,’ Dunny said, ‘she’s coming out already.’
The Everton chick was smiling, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that made you feel good. She walked just like his ex when she had her dander up. Whatever they talked about during these little visits, it wasn’t no social chitchat.
‘She got a list or something?’ Slab asked.
‘Reckon it might be. She’s got a bit of paper she keeps writing on.’ Kegs started the Ford as her car door slammed. ‘Dunny’s been trying to get a look at it through the binoculars. That’s why I thought it was some programme, like AA. Thought she was looking for—what is it the churchies are always banging on about? Redemption? Forgiveness? Something like that.’
‘She been to the Schmidt house?’
‘Yeah, mate.’
Slab muttered something that sounded like ‘fucken moron’.
‘How’s that?’
‘Stay on her tail. You see anything else interesting you call me straight away. And tell that Dunny to go easy with the binoculars. Don’t want the neighbours ringing the cops.’
§
Slab tossed down the disposable mobile and considered the girl on the bed. She was on her stomach, her arms out-stretched, and a lock of long brown hair curled across her cheek. Her slim back boasted an awesome bit of ink—artistic, worthy of display—but he couldn’t get sidetracked. He had to focus on a certain blonde was well on her way to stirring up a shit load of trouble. He’d have Kegs’ balls for this.
Ever since he discovered the blonde’s dad was the great Jacko Everton, he’d been mulling the possibilities, including why Gibson had kept her to himself until challenged. According to that loud-mouthed redhead at the community meeting, the girl had been heading for trouble as a teenager but had cleaned herself up and was about to launch into the antiques business. A few not-so-subtle questions around town made it clear most of Failie thought she was too much like her old man to be trusted. If he could believe the gossip, the girl couldn’t have been better if he’d created her himself. Except that she was thick with that council guy who’d brought in Drummond. If she wasn’t like her old man, and she had stumbled on their scheme, he’d have to shut her up before that nosey copper got a whiff of it.
The girl on the bed mumbled. From where he sat, he got the full spectacle of the tattoo that ran from her right hip to her shoulder blades: an airborne Pegasus, his feathered wings arched, his mane and tail flying decadently. When he’d made her strip for him at the club he was just going to have a bit of fun breaking in a new girl. That changed once he got an eyeful of that ink.
A pity really. The hesitant shyness under all that street kid bravado would have given the show a new angle.
A street kid having an expensive bit of art like that on her was unusual. She’d said an uncle was a tattoo artist, but she’d been lying. Just like she’d lied when she said he couldn’t think of anything she wouldn’t be up for, although she probably hadn’t imagined half of what went on inside his head, or this room. She’d kept it together until he’d swung the false entertainment cabinet aside. One look at his art and the plastic on his bed and she’d kicked up enough fuss to stir the neighbours—if he had any.
He poured himself two thick fingers of Glen Moragnie and raised his glass.
‘Thank God for hanging judges and do-gooders.’
He relaxed into the leather chaise and surveyed his sanctuary. He might not be James Packer yet, but the snot-nosed loser his ma knew was dead and buried. His penthouse was a showcase of elegance, designed to impress the most skittish of his business associates, but this room was just for him. If anyone managed to get through the coded door, they’d see the black leather chaise, the mirror-topped side table, and the far wall covered by the huge entertainment cabinet. They’d never guess at what lay behind the cabinet.
Slab chuckled. In a way he had Justice Evelyn Browne to thank for this. She was the type who supported the death penalty, and given half a chance would’ve caned a kid for littering. His solicitor had put him in a suit, coached him to smile and nod, and assured him his record as a minor wouldn’t be relevant. The judge wouldn’t play along. She took one look at his rap sheet and gave him eighteen months. He’d done six.
That Browne bitch had lit the fire in his gut, but it was the lonely do-gooder who visited him in prison, with her craving for flattery and her knowledge of art history, who’d opened his eyes to a new way to get what he wanted. Because of her, his hunger to be as rich and powerful as Packer became more than a fantasy. As soon as the prison gates slammed behind him, he made a visit to the hanging judge. The look on her face when she saw what he had planned for her was almost worth the time inside.
‘Don’t worry, babe,’ he’d told her. ‘I’m pretty skilled. Shouldn’t take long. Unless you want to put up a fight.’
She’d put up a fight, all right. The time they’d spent in her bedroom was one of his favourite memories. When a chick wasn’t doing it for him, he got himself off by reliving what he’d done to that sour-faced old tart. She must have wished she’d sent him away for life. When he turned up at the do-gooder’s door, the stupid cow thought he’d come courting. He soon set her straight. She cried and carried on of course, but she loved every minute of it. They all did. All that struggling was just for show.
They were all the same under their skin. The only difference between his ma and those private school bitches who sniggered at her social climbing was the labels in their clothes.
Chapter 13
MINA GAZED UP AT the red brick bungalow. It was the kind of place the real estate pages always listed as a Gentleman’s Residence, complete with diamond-latticed windows and ivy climbing to the pitched roof. She adjusted the collar of her blouse and rubbed her palms along her hips. A dull ache banded her ribs. Her head throbbed. A curtain twitched at the window beside her, the owner no doubt thinking of calling the cops on her for loitering on his property. She raised her hand and knocked.
‘Whatever you’re selling,’ a voice boomed from behind the bright blue front door, ‘I’m not interested.’
‘Dr Andrews?’ She raised her voice and spoke close to the door. ‘I’m here about your insurance claim.’
The imposing bungalow was the last place on her list, her ninth. She’d almost had enough of it: the heat, the lies, the certainty she’d be exposed.
; Somewhere down the street a car pulled up with a mechanical rattle. It would be the dusty green Ford that had followed her all morning. The one time they’d come close enough for her to see through the windscreen, glare had obscured the occupants. She could guess who they were. A few glances in her rear view mirror had let her piece together the number plate. What she could do with that, she wasn’t sure, but having it felt like she was prepared. For something.
The door opened wide. Dr Andrews’ beige hair swept back from a shiny forehead. Lines criss-crossed his cheeks. Frameless reading glasses threatened to slip from his patrician nose as he regarded her with a coldness that made her stomach flutter. She was back in Failie now and though she knew none of those on her list, the chance was high that someone would recognise her as an Everton.
She spun him her story about needing to clarify some aspects of his recent break-in. So far, no one had admitted to owning the watch and there was no evidence her father had ever lived in any of the homes. It was a half-arsed idea anyway. Her dad was a liar and a thief. He probably made up that story about the watch, like he’d made up the rest of it. Thinking he would have stuck around, clinging to his watch and looking out for his family was a ridiculous fantasy.
‘Everything you need to know, young lady, is in the report I gave my insurers.’
‘Unfortunately, due to a computer glitch and the number of claims from this area, the details have been muddled.’
He pursed his lips, looked her over and resettled his glasses.
It had been surprisingly easy to piece together what she needed. Most of the news reports she’d Googled included the name of the victim or a neighbour and some even had a background picture of the house. As one of the more prestigious dealers in the area, Gibson had sold to many of the homeowners. It had taken her longer to find the courage to access his client list without permission than to print the file.
She said, ‘I just need to clarify that the fob watch was among items stolen from this address.’
‘I suppose you’d like to get out of the heat, come in for a cool drink?’
She longed for a tall glass of ice-cold water and a packet of Panadol. Her shirt clung to her back and perspiration dampened her scalp, but Andrews didn’t look the type to take pity. Nor did he look the sort to try his luck and shove his hand up her skirt. Thank God. The lecherous grandfather at the last house was enough for a lifetime.
She smiled. ‘A cool drink would be nice.’
‘I’m sure you’d love to come into my home. Have a good look around. Make a few notes. Then take it back to your buddies ready for round two.’
‘Pardon?’
His meaning was clear enough. She fisted her hands and focused on the alarm pad on the wall behind his right shoulder as his loathing swept over her.
‘Do I have to speak in words of one syllable—Miss Everton?’
There, it was out in the open. Like everyone else in this damn town he’d determined she was as bad as her father.
‘Perhaps you’d better?’ she said. ‘You seem to have it all figured out.’
Deep in the hallway, spotlit by a bright ray of sunlight, was a walnut credenza with inlay detail. On top, a collection of Murano blown-glass figurines sparkled. Collectively the display must be worth more than twenty thousand. It was a safe bet the house was full of similar items.
‘You people have already made off with my precious Napoleon III candelabra,’ Andrews said. ‘I won’t give you another chance to case the joint for your father and his gang of lowlifes.’
His face came into sharp focus. Her thoughts filled with all the words she wanted to throw at him and everyone else in this gossip-ridden town. She wanted to scream that Jacko Everton had not returned, but she was no longer certain she believed it.
In clipped words flecked with spittle, Andrews railed about how he’d invited in an insurance assessor just a few weeks prior to the break-in.
‘It was my most treasured piece, and you have the temerity to stand on my veranda and reel off close to the same story as that other thief. Only, he had a lot more charm than you do, my girl, and he was much more subtle about eyeing off my Murano collection. Now get off my land before I have you hauled away by the police.’
‘Do that. Perhaps you can explain how your supposed thieves avoided setting off that high-tech alarm system.’
She purposely looked at the alarm pad and then the credenza with its valuable collection of glass, which would have been a lot easier to steal than an oversized vase with its branch-like candelabra.
‘Maybe I should get the cops to look at your finances,’ she continued. ‘I hear self-funded retirees aren’t doing so well now the market’s bombed.’
‘How dare you! Get off my property.’ He thrust out his arm, pointing at his gate. ‘I’ll have you arrested for trespass and intent to commit fraud.’
She stuck to her spot and her story. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
He lifted his chin, his top lip pinched into a sneer. ‘As if an insurer would let you anywhere near a job like this, with your mongrel pedigree.’
She could have busted those glasses right off his smug, self-righteous face. It had been years since anyone had spoken so blatantly. She’d become used to the whispered innuendo and judgemental glances when she passed, but since her mother had started her ramblings about Jacko’s midnight visits the whispers had become a murmur.
Why couldn’t Jacko be back? they asked. The missus was dying, wasn’t she? Only natural the bloke would come to say his goodbyes.
But if Jacko was so concerned about his wife, he wouldn’t have left her in the first place. He wouldn’t have pissed off and let his sick wife and teenage daughter deal with the crap he left behind; to have to stand firm in the face of the accusations, forced to live in a town that shunned them.
The dusty green Ford idled a little way down the street. The brown-haired passenger had his head out of the window, binoculars trained on her as she hurried from Andrews and his vicious tongue.
What the hell did they want? They’d stuck to her like glue since she left Gibson’s shop, and hadn’t seemed bothered that she might suss them. Well, she wasn’t going to cower from two losers in a heap worse than her own. She strode toward the Ford. The mountain in the driver’s seat tugged at his seatbelt. The engine revved. The binoculars disappeared from the passenger window. She kept walking, determined to look them in the eye and show she wasn’t afraid.
The car jerked away from the curb. Sunlight glinted off the chrome bumper as it gained speed. The fat one planted his fist on the horn. The blare thrust her back to her senses, but her feet seemed glued to the bitumen.
Chapter 14
‘I COPIED OFF THE ENTIRE constitution.’ Forbes’ secretary handed him a stack of paper as thick as two fingers, with corners that jutted like a cubist impression. ‘I hope you’ll find an answer.’
‘So do I, Roberta. So do I.’
His email inbox trilled. Councillor Dobson had joined the debate. Increasing numbers of his colleagues seemed supported replacing the role of mayor with that of chairman, but there’d be snow on Uluru before he’d let that happen. He pushed aside the half-read EPA report. A small landslide of paper slipped from his in-tray to fan across his desk. He had a sudden urge to grab the offending paperwork and toss it out the window, but that was more Baldwin’s style than his.
The email debate, in fact the entire chairman debacle, was typical of the shenanigans that bogged this council down. Throughout his three long terms, Daley had revelled in the trappings of his office. Now he was retiring and fancied going down in history as the last Mayor of Failie it was easy for him to argue the role was out of step with today’s society; that it had become no more than a straw man wrapped in costly ceremony.
Roberta cleared her throat. ‘There’s also a gentleman here to see you.’
‘I think the rest of my day is full.’ He indicated the pile of words resting on the maroon leather blotter.
‘It’s Lincol
n Drummond.’
Through his open door, he saw the tall detective pacing the outer office. Forbes waved him in. The email trilled again. This one was from Warren, Mayor Daley’s uglier conjoined twin—or maybe, given the way he fed off Daley’s position, he was a succubus. Warren had left the caps lock on again. In meetings, he tried to make up for his lack of stature by bellowing over everyone. Why would email be any different?
‘Do you have another number for Mina Everton?’ Drummond asked. ‘She isn’t answering her phone.’
Forbes’ thoughts swelled with scenarios, each worse than the last. He snatched up his mobile. She took her phone everywhere, almost had a compulsion about answering the thing.
This phone is switched off or out of range.
Okay, it didn’t have to mean anything. She sometimes turned it off when she was negotiating. Hadn’t she said she had to meet with Gibson today? That’s right. Today was the day she’d finally get that invitation the antiques dealer kept dangling before her nose.
‘She must be with Gibson,’ he told Drummond. ‘She’ll call you back, I’m sure.’
He wasn’t sure at all. Not when it came to Drummond. He’d never seen her get so mad so quickly, but some of that was his fault.
Forbes considered the urbane man sitting easily in his visitor’s chair. For all he could read in Drummond’s face, the man could be worried, pissed off or meditating. He’d only been on the case a few days, but the shadows beneath his eyes suggested he’d been going on coffee and little else for weeks. Despite that, the fall of his trousers was perfect, the sleeve of his jacket showed just the right amount of shirt cuff. Normally, Forbes would ask about his tailor, go out of his way to make him feel at ease, but there was something about his silence that unnerved him.
‘Treating you all right at the station, are they?’ he asked.
Drummond crossed one long leg over the other and fiddled with a cufflink. Ah, so that was it. Forbes had already had two complaints from someone called Wainright.
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