As Riker rose from his chair, the guy with the sun-bleached curls tapped him on the shoulder. His leathery mate stood just behind.
‘Just wanted to tell you footy ain’t the same since you quit, Riker. And congrats on tying the knot.’
‘Thanks, mate.’ Riker collected his keys from the table. ‘Sorry, gents, gotta go. Catch you later.’
The footy fan and his mate hovered at the table, smiling at Linc. Each gripped a half-finished pint. Linc let the silence drag, but Strzelecki cracked under the pressure.
‘Have a seat, guys. Linc Drummond, meet Gary and Stubbsie.’
It was easy to figure out which was which; the one with two fingers shorter than the others was obviously Stubbsie.
Gary held out is hand. ‘Everyone calls me Gazza.’
Linc smiled politely and shook hands. At least this was a chance to find out what they knew about Carlson. The newcomers plonked their beers on the table and nabbed a seat. They started on about whether he’d played footy or rugby back in Sydney. When Linc told them he favoured ultramarathons, Gazza handed his mate a folded twenty. A shadow at the entrance caught Linc’s eye. He watched Wainright’s wide back disappear into the overcast day, then interrupted the conversation which had turned to cricket.
‘I remember you two from the community meeting,’ he said. ‘You were standing next to Slab Carlson.’
‘Who?’ Gazza seemed genuinely mystified.
‘You know.’ Stubbsie elbowed his friend. ‘That guy with all the tats. The one having his ear bent by Gwen.’
‘Ah, him. We don’t know him, mate. He was just standing there.’ Gazza took a long slug of his beer then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Jeez, it’s something when you can’t even stand next to a bloke without getting accused. First bikies. Now people. What’s the world coming to?’
‘Christ.’ Stubbsie turned on Linc. ‘Don’t get him started on the bikie thing.’
As Gazza launched into a tirade against right-wing governments and ridiculous knee-jerk legislation that blocked motorcyclists’ rights to congregate, Linc watched Strzelecki. The constable struck him as too shrewd not to have a reason to allow these two to join them. When Gazza stopped talking to down his beer, Strzelecki announced the two used to surf.
‘Gromets like me,’ he said, ‘were always trying to outdo these two and their mate, Jacko Everton.’
Gazza spluttered his beer. ‘Jeez, that’s a name you slide in sideways around here.’
‘Jacko was a mate,’ Stubbsie’s sea-weathered eyes were hard. ‘We’re not gonna waste our breath on that gossip.’
Linc caught the meaningful look the two men exchanged. Strzelecki’s invitation was a good call. It was nice to know his instinct about the young constable was correct.
‘The only thing that interests me,’ Linc said, ‘is the truth.’
The silence that fell was more oppressive than the humidity. Linc’s mobile vibrated on his hip. To answer could break the tenuous grip he had on these two.
‘You must know what effect that rumour is having on his daughter,’ he said. ‘If I can end that line of enquiry, it’ll make it a bit easier for her.’
The men exchanged another look, this one longer and more eloquent. His phone stopped vibrating.
‘So,’ said Stubbsie, ‘are you one of those blokes what whispers?’
Whispers? How the hell was he supposed to take that? ‘Anything you want to tell me is completely confidential.’
‘Well, that’s good to know, mate,’ Gazza said. ‘But that’s not what we’re after.’
He was being tested. Strzelecki seemed just as eager to see if he could figure it out. He’d obviously failed once. This could be his only chance to get them to open up.
His phone resumed vibrating.
Linc ran through all the various possibilities, saw their glasses weren’t too far from empty, thought about the term they’d used: whisper.
He grinned. ‘What’ll it be, gentlemen? My shout.’
He was halfway to the bar when the vibrations started up again. He snatched the phone from his belt. The number was blocked, the voice disguised.
‘You got an hour to get to the Oasis Café opposite Carlson’s penthouse,’ the caller said. ‘Keep your eyes on the ground floor brasserie. There’s something you need to see.’
Chapter 30
IN THE BRASSERIE ON THE ground floor of his apartment building, Slab winked at the waitress as she carefully set down his burger and Heineken and let his gaze roam her ample curves. It’d take more than a few hours in the gym to fix her problems.
‘I got a tattoo, Mr Carlson. Wanna see?’
Slab nodded. Might be interesting.
The waitress almost ditched the plate of chicken salad in the Everton girl’s lap then turned her back and lifted her shirt. A small roll of pale skin bulged over the waistband of her cotton trousers, but it didn’t distract from the flowing beauty of the phoenix inked on her lower back. Slab grabbed her pelvis. At his touch, she trembled with excitement.
‘Wow, babe. That’s beautiful. Tell us the truth. You got that for me, didn’t you?’
The girl nodded, blushing. ‘You said you’d like it.’
‘Oh, yeah. I do.’
He slapped her backside and watched her round arse jiggle as she walked away. She frequented his nightclub in sequins and short skirts, so he knew beneath the black cotton trousers she had legs like a bloke. It was a nice tat though. And it proved what he could get a girl to do with a grope and a half-arsed promise.
‘When you’ve finished ogling the desperate staff,’ the blonde opposite him said, ‘perhaps you’d like to give me the information I came for.’
‘Shut your mouth, Everton. Eat your salad.’
When she drew a breath to speak he stretched his face in a smile and ran his fingers down her forearm. She flinched but didn’t pull away. Perfect. Her pig-headedness would play right into his plans.
He bit into his burger. The hunk of meat was cooked just how he liked it. Good. He glanced sideways and glimpsed the worried face of the chef. He gave a thumbs-up, smiling around his full mouth, almost laughing when the wimp visibly relaxed. The bloke was a quick learner all right, but most people learned pretty quick around him. They usually decided the alternative would cost them too much.
The blonde picked up her fork and toyed with the colourful lettuce in her bowl. ‘Hmm. Heavy on balsamic, light on chicken.’ She pushed the bowl away from her. ‘How do they know I didn’t want a burger?’
He laughed. ‘In my world, you ain’t even close to carnivorous.’
‘Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean I’m a light salad either.’
Tiny, sitting at a table behind the blonde, asked if he should get her something else.
‘Just mind your business and keep your eye out.’
Tiny was a great bloke but sometimes …
‘So are you going to tell me about my dad,’ she said, ‘or do I just sit here while you drop half your burger down your chin?’
He wiped the grease off his stubble with a paper napkin and smiled at her. What he really wanted was to reach across the table and slap the bitch ’til she bled. If she’d been anyone else, he wouldn’t have let her out of the apartment, would have done her every which way until she knew who was boss. For now, he needed her. What happened later depended on how well she played along.
‘I’ve done what you asked, Carlson. I expect you to deliver. Or are you all promise and no follow-through? Your girlfriends must be thrilled.’
Oh yeah, he was going to enjoy bringing this bitch down. First he’d have some fun.
It was getting so overcast outside, they’d turned all the lights on in the restaurant and the downlight right above them cast bright rings upon the tabletop. It was like they were actors in their very own play. The café opposite was doing a brisk lunch trade thanks to the nearby hospital. He spotted Drummond one table back from the window, sipping coffee and pretending to read a folded newspaper
.
The stage was perfect for his little show.
Slab reached across the small table and stroked the blonde’s face with his greasy fingers. Her gaze locked on his. Earlier, he’d made sure to show her how much he enjoyed her fear, and now she was so determined not to give in that she was doing exactly what he wanted.
‘I’ve got guests arriving tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Be at my place by eight a.m. You can go over the merchandise, and then you’ll do the slickest negotiating of your life.’
He took another bite of his burger, watching her, letting her get nice and uncomfortable. She didn’t drop her eyes or squirm, but he could tell she was working hard at eyeballing him.
‘You don’t know anything about my dad.’
She moved to rise. Slab grabbed her hand.
‘Don’t test me, babe. Tiny ain’t around just ’cos he’s pretty. Ties a good knot and he likes to watch me work. Says it calms him down. Isn’t that right, Tiny?’
‘Yeah, boss.’ Tiny didn’t even pause in his pizza eating.
She resettled in her seat, her eyes wary, her face pale.
‘You’re gonna listen and keep your trap shut.’ He took her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers.
‘Stop touching me,’ she snapped, ‘or your waitress friend is going to fork your eyes out.’
Slab grunted. She had guts. He had to give her that. He let go of her hand and patted it like a favourite uncle, then gulped some of his Heineken.
‘Right, tomorrow, you make sure you give these blokes all that shit about that candelabra—its history, authenticity. The usual garbage.’
‘Why don’t you ask Gibson? Seeing as how you’re best mates.’
‘You reckon him and me would be mates, do you?’
She shifted her gaze, but the self-righteous smile stayed in place. ‘The two of you are definitely something.’
Beneath the table, Slab fisted his hand. It would be so easy to take her out to the wool store and take his time. He risked a glance at the Oasis Café. He’d hooked Drummond. By the look on his face, he was buying every second of it. Slab upped the ante, smiling at the blonde, and trailing his finger down her forearm again like he couldn’t wait for them to get hot and heavy between his silk sheets.
‘You chicks, you’ve all got your price. You’re just the type that holds out for the stooge with a big wallet and a wandering dick.’
She folded her arms and moved out of reach. He’d gone too far.
‘You’ve done nothing but try to impress me with your wealth and power,’ she said. ‘And I’m certainly not throwing myself at you.’
‘You’re only valuable to me because my buyers will cream themselves over someone like you. Like it or not, that’s what you’re selling. And if you want me to give you Jacko, you’re gonna smile and do what I tell you.’
‘I’m not doing anything for you.’
‘You ain’t got a choice. I’ve got you on a leash and I can haul you in any time.’
She leaned in close, whispered, ‘I know you’re trying to use me to off-load stolen goods. Did you think I wouldn’t recognise them?’
‘Yeah, and now I’ve got your fingerprints all over them.’
The blonde didn’t flinch, but they were never as tough as they thought they were.
‘My apartment. Eight a.m.,’ he said. ‘Be ready to play up to those blokes like they are the richest arseholes on earth.’ When she rose and gathered her bag, he eyed her pinstripe shirt and black trousers. ‘And try to look like a woman and less like a banker about to foreclose.’
‘If I don’t turn up, you’ll look like a dickhead.’
‘You’ll turn up, babe. You’ll turn up and do your bit because if you don’t, you’ll find out just what kind of work me and Tiny like to do with ropes and the sharp edge of a knife.’
He watched her try to decide if he meant it. He didn’t see that much anymore. Mostly they shut up and fell into line. For some reason, they always believed if they gave in they’d get away. Amazing.
‘If you want that quality time with Daddy you’re so desperate for, you’ll turn up.’
Her brow cleared and her smug smile returned. ‘Your little empire won’t last long. You’re not even a good liar.’
Slab laughed and slugged the last of his Heineken. ‘At least I’m not blind. This morning you were staring at your old man and didn’t even know it.’
‘You’re delusional.’
‘Eight a.m. on the dot. Don’t think about going to Drummond either. That stooge might like screwing you, but to him you’ll always be as crooked as old Jacko Everton.’
Chapter 31
SHE HAD HER HEAD DOWN, hurrying away from her cosy lunch, when Linc pulled her into the side street out of sight of the brasserie.
‘Haven’t you got the sense to stay away from him?’
‘Let go of me.’
He’d expected anger or abuse. Not loathing so strong he felt its heat. He let go. ‘Pity you didn’t show such repulsion when Carlson had his hands all over you.’
She stiffened. ‘Do you think you own me now that we…’
Her cheeks flushed. She looked at the pavement, wrapped her arms around her body and hunched into herself. Shame. The realisation floored him. She was ashamed of what they’d shared. Instead of heading off to interrogate Gibson, he’d stayed to warn her. He’d possibly risked the case because of what he’d felt between them, and she was ashamed. She hadn’t walked away last night because of his thoughtless comment about her father. It was just a convenient excuse to leave.
‘Don’t think Carlson sees you as anything other than Jacko’s daughter.’
She lifted her chin, her eyes shadowed by the darkening clouds. ‘Why would he? You don’t.’
‘Is this payback for what I said?’
He watched her throat move, but she said nothing.
‘Don’t do what Carlson wants.’
‘How do you know what he wants?’
He could guess. Mina didn’t need to tell him a thing. Once lunch shift was over, he could interview that waitress who had hovered close enough to hear almost everything. But he wanted Mina to trust him. To tell him everything. Now was the time to speak, to admit he’d been an idiot and beg for another chance. He reached out. She flinched. Flinched! When she’d let Carlson drag his paws all over her. He thrust his hands into his pockets, felt too much like a geeky teenager and folded his arms.
‘Stay away from Carlson, unless you want to end up in lock up.’
She seemed to grow two inches. ‘So, I have one lunch with him and I’m guilty of collusion?’
‘You tell me.’
They stared at each other. There was barely any traffic in the usually bustling street. Moisture crackled on the powerlines overhead.
‘Go on.’ She thrust out her hands. ‘Arrest me.’
‘Do I have reason?’
‘Since when did cops need a reason for anything?’
He clenched his jaw against the accusation. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of this town. You resent being seen only as Everton’s daughter, yet you’re happy to lump me in with a bunch of Keystone Cops from twelve years ago.’
She stared at the footpath.
‘You won’t help yourself or listen to anyone who might. Even your darling Forbes couldn’t talk you into playing nice.’
Jealousy coloured his words and she glanced up, a question in her eyes.
For God’s sake, tell her the truth, he thought. Tell her that without her nothing matters, not the case, not Sydney, not even Quinlan. His mouth was dry, his throat itchy, the words seemed stuck to the back of his tongue. Mina stared up at him. He could fool himself that he saw hope in her gaze, that she wanted him to say how he felt, but he couldn’t forget the familiar way Carlson had played with the bow of her red dress or how his hands had lingered on hers over lunch. And he couldn’t forget the way she’d smiled at Carlson. They’d probably laughed as she bragged about how she’d wrapped the Sydney cop around her little fi
nger.
‘Carlson is scum,’ he said. ‘I’m going to shut him down and anyone who is with him. I won’t play favourites.’
‘You’ve made that obvious.’ She turned her face away, colour flooding her cheeks.
‘Mina—’
She stepped away as if worried he’d try to touch her again. He wouldn’t. Two rebuffs were enough.
‘You came to Failie desperate to find a case that would get you back to your high-flying job in Sydney,’ she said. ‘You heard about Jacko, and when I wouldn’t help, you decided I was an easier target.’
Nothing about her was easy. She was right about his motives though; he had latched onto the antiques robberies as his way back to his life in Sydney. Her father’s crime, her career, her secretive attitude, they all fitted so perfectly. Everything he’d learned said she was right in the middle of it. He just couldn’t be sure whether his doubt about her guilt was his detective’s instinct or more to do with what they’d shared in his bed.
‘You need to stay away from Carlson.’
Mina kept her distance, a frown between her perfect brows as her gaze searched his. ‘Do you believe my dad is involved with him?’
How the robberies fitted into it he wasn’t yet sure, but a drug dealer in property development, hiding his assets in syndicates, pointed to one thing—money laundering. Carlson wasn’t smart enough to set that up by himself. He’d need a shrewd man. A money man. And considering that a guy like Carlson was as natural to antiques as an iceberg in the desert, whoever was advising him had to know something about the trade. Quinlan fit, but he had too much to lose and his name in the syndicate made him vulnerable enough. Yet someone who had worked in the council’s finance department, who had disappeared with millions and who knew art, someone like Jacko Everton, would be ideal.
Mina had her arms folded. Her foot tapped the concrete as she waited for his answer. He couldn’t risk telling her anything about his investigation. Not while she had any links to Carlson. Yet he had to make her see sense.
‘Carlson’s got a history of terminating anyone who gets in his way,’ he said. ‘Women in particular. Starting with his mother.’
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