Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

  The three of them watched as the ghostly figure appeared waving down the car and nearly getting sideswiped in the process. The time-stamp verified some of Warner’s statement, but thanks to Engles cutting him out, Linc hadn’t been able to talk with the primary witness, Mrs Warner. Luckily the pub owner hadn’t cared who collected his CCTV data as long as they were off the premises before opening time.

  ‘Can you get a close-up of who’s in the car?’ Linc asked.

  Dubois shook her head. ‘The quality is too poor.’

  Warner had claimed he’d reported his concerns to the driver, and this was verified by the footage: at 1916 Warner flags down the squad car. They talk for less than thirty seconds. At no time is the driver visible. Any policeman, no matter how green, would have checked the premises and radioed in that they were doing so. Yet at no time that night had a call been logged about a report of gunshots in the area. Dispatch was tracking down the patrols on duty at the time, but so far no one had admitted being anywhere close.

  Linc watched the two constables getting on with a job they had no reason to do. Though the local detectives had given him the cold shoulder, it was hard to believe that anyone who’d chosen to become a cop could be on the take, but the longer it took to get an answer, the more Candii’s claims gained traction. Wainright was an obvious contender, of course, and if the car Warner flagged down had been a Crime Scene vehicle he would have acted no matter the consequences to his career.

  Dubois sipped at her latte and caught his eye. She raised her cup in a toast. ‘Thanks for dinner, Linc.’

  ‘Don’t get used to it. I’m on constable wages, remember.’

  Strzelecki grinned, and Dubois, with a mouth full of her ham and cheese toastie, waggled her eyebrows. They seemed to like that his pay scale was currently the same as theirs. Truth was, he would have sprung for a slap-up pub meal, if they’d had the time—and if he hadn’t been so worried about Mina. Just the thought of doing anything as mundane as eating while she was missing wrung his insides. Dubois and Strzelecki though, they needed sustenance. And a little appreciation. When he’d asked for their help, they’d already pulled a twelve-hour shift, and apart from a bit of good-natured ribbing and the odd gripe about Riker missing out on the fun, they seemed content.

  Strzelecki ran his forefinger around the inside of his empty take-away cup and licked the last of the foam from his finger. ‘I think I’ve gone cross-eyed from all this footage.’

  Dubois laughed. ‘Nah, you always look like that, Strez.’

  He rolled his eyeballs inward.

  ‘See,’ she turned to Linc, ‘no difference, is there?’

  Linc let them banter. They made a good team and they’d been looking at hours of recorded images with very little to show for it. He tried Mina’s phone once more, not really expecting her to answer, but hoping by some miracle she would, that she’d snap at him for checking up on her and accuse him of being suspicious. Anything was better than this silence.

  Dubois ran the footage back and watched it through again. ‘Linc? Do you really think it could have been one of us?’

  ‘At this stage, I don’t believe anything except evidence.’

  That wasn’t strictly true, but until he found Mina, he had to stay logical. And these two eager constables didn’t need to lug his emotional baggage.

  Mina’s phone was still switched off, so he ended his futile call and watched the scene run through again. The M.E. had factored in the airconditioned chill of Gibson’s shop and estimated he’d died between 1600 hours and midnight. The time-stamp showed Mina leaving Gibson’s at 1605, so it was just possible Gibson had been dead when she left him. His gut told him differently. Warner had claimed the gunshot was heard closer to 1900, a much more realistic fit for the timeline.

  The internal phone bleeped. Strzelecki snatched it up, his gaze still pinned to the screen.

  Without the footage, they’d have very little, and if Linc hadn’t acted when he did they wouldn’t even have that; another couple of hours and the recording would have been erased as a new twenty-four hour loop began. Of course, if it had been taped over that would have erased any hard evidence Mina had been there at all. That he felt relieved to have the footage made him realise that despite what he felt for her, despite what they’d shared in his bed, he was still more cop than man.

  Strzelecki put the phone down, a frown between his thick eyebrows. When he looked at Linc his eyes were liquid with sorrow.

  ‘They’ve found another body at the quarantine station. A young woman. A blonde.’

  Chapter 47

  FORBES MOVED ACROSS the lawn towards Alyssa’s workshop. Sun beat upon his head. Beneath his feet, the dry grass crunched and crackled. What he’d seen inside the house made his heart pound. Photos. Dozens, maybe hundreds, torn to pieces and scattered across the floor of that old box room where she’d locked away all of Jacko’s stuff. He’d pieced some together, enough to know it was Jacko’s image she had ripped to shreds.

  Jesus! She’d lost her mind and it was all his fault.

  The state of the cottage garden beside the old workshop was a sure sign things were amiss. He’d never bothered to look before now. He’d fooled himself into thinking he knew best, patting himself on the back because she’d followed his advice and had found some direction. Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t decided to bring in Drummond, hadn’t forced him on Mina when he knew how she felt about cops, if he hadn’t been so egotistical he believed Drummond would respect his request to tread carefully. Right from the start, Drummond had been gunning for her.

  He walked the perimeter of the old workshop. It was more dilapidated than he remembered. A narrow, weed-infested verge pushed against a fence so lopsided only weeds and an old oilskin tarpaulin bunched against it kept the fence from collapsing. The pebble-dashed mortar was just the same, but the weathered stone had dropped flints. On the side nearest the little wilting garden, he could have put his whole hand through a fissure that ran the height of the building.

  Forbes put his eye to the gap and peered into the gloom. Apart from a few beads of light where the roof sheeting no longer met the stone, he could see little. The smell of grit and decay mingled with that of cinders. He felt the numbing heat of blistering coals, as if Alyssa’s foundry still operated. Perspiration ran down his cheek, down his back. In the depth of the shed something moved. Something dark and otherworldly. He saw the curve of a cheek, heard the whisper of his name. Forbes.

  He jerked away from the fissure. Jesus! He was seeing things now. Maybe Mina’s delusions were contagious. Maybe it was the heat. He could hardly catch his breath and loosened his collar, cringed at the chill touch of his own fingers upon his neck. He wanted to bolt and never look back.

  Shit. What was happening to him? Forbes Monroe didn’t run away. And he did not believe in ghosts. Heatstroke. It had to be.

  He marched himself to the shed door. The same door he’d padlocked all those years ago. The lock was gone, but when he yanked on the handle, the door barely budged. Decayed metal flecked his palm. Weeds had grown up around the base of the door, and a good five inches of the corrugated cladding had rusted right through. He gave it a kick, dusting the weeds with dark flakes of rust.

  Behind him came a menacing growl.

  Forbes turned, saw the broad silver chest, the muscled shoulders and eyes the colour of an ancient glacier. A dog. In his path. A bloody huge, growling husky with black lips and sharp white teeth.

  ‘Easy boy. Easy.’

  The dog growled, pulling back his upper lip to show fangs sharp as a pick. The workshop blocked retreat. The only way back to the house was past the hackle-raised giant. He gripped his phone. He had the police station on speed dial. If he could just— Forbes raised his phone. The dog snarled and moved closer.

  Shit, shit, shit! Okay, think. Why is the dog here? It’s a husky. Had Mina said her dog was a husky? He couldn’t remember, because he hadn’t believed it was real. It looked real enough now. She’d
called it Spirit. That he did remember. He tried out the name, calling softly. The dog stopped snarling and lifted its head. Forbes stared, couldn’t remember if eyeballing it was the right thing or the worst mistake he could make.

  The opening bars of his ringtone broke the standoff. The dog growled and hunched its shoulders. Forbes hit ‘accept call’ before it could ring again.

  ‘You need to come to council chambers.’ It was Baldwin.

  ‘Bob, get help. I need—’

  ‘Mayor Daley and Warren have called a press conference.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Call the dog catcher.’

  The dog dropped its rear and closed its mouth, but its piercing gaze never left him. He chanced a step forward. The dog didn’t move, but it watched him. He chanced another step. Baldwin yabbered on about a press conference and a coup.

  ‘Call the bloody dog catcher!’ Forbes snapped. ‘Send them to Mina’s.’

  He tried two more steps. The dog’s gaze followed him, its silence more menacing than its snarl. Three more steps and he’d be past the dog. Then he just had to make sure he didn’t panic and run. Bob was still yacking. What was wrong with the bloke?

  Forbes took another step, then another and finally another. The dog stood. Forbes froze. The dog shifted to face him then sat on its haunches again, as if it wanted to make sure its adversary left. Forbes was happy to oblige. He reached the safety of the house and shut the back door. His heart pounded in his chest. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and lifted the phone to his ear. Baldwin was still talking.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Bob? Didn’t you hear what I said?’

  ‘Look, Forbes, you need to listen to me. If you don’t stop them, you’re done for.’

  ‘Stop who? What’s so bloody important you can’t fucking help me when I need it?’

  Silence. ‘I’ve always helped you, Forbes. Frankly I’m offended—’

  ‘Yes, yes. All right.’ Forbes hurried through the house. He wanted out of there before the dog decided to bail him up at the front door. ‘What’s got you so fired up?’

  ‘Daley and Warren have called a press conference.’ He spoke as if Forbes was a little slow. ‘They’re going to announce the change to the constitution. To vote in a chairperson. If you don’t stop it, it’ll lead on the early news.’

  ‘Stuff them. It isn’t legal. All changes need a quorum.’

  ‘They’re trying for a fait accompli. To embarrass you into going along. The press is already here. Warren’s been busy “leaking”. You need to be here.’

  ‘Screw them. They haven’t a leg to stand on.’

  ‘If you don’t show, all the press are going to say is “Mayoral hopeful Forbes Monroe was unavailable for comment”. You know what that means.’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Forbes ended the call. Nothing made a man look more peevish—or wrong—than being unavailable for comment. Everything he’d worked for could be swept away in a two-minute news report. If he didn’t stop that press conference, he was done for.

  His phone rang again.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bob!’

  ‘Forbes Monroe?’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘This is Constable Dubois. I’m calling about Mina Everton.’

  Chapter 48

  SLAB WATCHED THE LITTLE blonde work the room. His show in the woolshed had done the trick; for the last two hours she’d smiled sweetly, laughed at their dumb jokes, and even flirted with the French guy—or was he Belgian?—whose forgettable features said insurance salesman and whose busy hands said horny as a FIFO miner. Of course, she thought her actions would free Drummond. What a laugh.

  The idea had hit him while he’d been giving Lucky a taste of his own medicine for bashing that Schmidt bloke when the plan had been to keep things subtle. They’d been supposed to steal back the fakes and keep the cops chasing their tales by making it look random. Lucky had fucked up and now Drummond had his nose to the scent. Tiny had reckoned even in the dark with a blindfold Lucky wouldn’t pass for the cop, but he’d been wrong. Candii getting those cufflinks had really clinched it; the Everton chick had taken one look and believed it all.

  Love made suckers of everyone.

  The Europeans had shown greedy appreciation for his Cohibas, and the cigars perfumed the penthouse, smoke circling in the breeze that drifted through the open balcony doors where Tiny stood with his hands crossed in front of his groin, his expression distant. Though the faint sound of traffic rose from below, there was no chance anyone could hear their conversation. Surveillance was impossible. Only the glittering stars in the dark sky could see what went on here.

  Frenchy laid it on thick. ‘You are saving important items from the destruction of war and looting, Ms Everton. By finding owners who appreciate their significance, you are a saviour of the cultural heritage of countless nations.’

  The sleaze kissed her hand. She glanced at Slab then smiled her thanks.

  He had to admit, the blonde looked good in that clingy black number of Candii’s. Classy. The perfect fit for his penthouse and the task he’d given her. The heels showed off her calves, but he would have preferred the dress a little shorter. On Candii it barely cleared her arse, but on the Everton chick it covered most of her thigh. It was cut low enough to compensate, though she had some obsession about not letting them look down her top. Every time she leaned forward, she pressed her hand to the plunging neckline. It seemed to excite the buyers. Especially Frenchy.

  He hadn’t thought she could be so convincing. Since he’d shown her his blade and let her think about it for most of the day locked in his spare room with nothing but her iPod for company—Tiny’s idea, not his—she’d been as docile as a dope-head on a weekend love-in. She was sharp though. Before the meeting, she’d quizzed him about the mechanics of the deal.

  ‘All you need to know is they’re looking for a new market for their goods,’ he told her.

  ‘Stolen goods.’

  A cold glare had dealt with that comment.

  ‘Why Australia?’ she’d asked. ‘Surely there’s a thriving black market in Europe.’

  ‘Too hot. In Europe, they’ve got registers and lawyers and curators all doing their thing for the richie-rich.’

  ‘But won’t they follow it here?’

  She’d gazed up at him with genuine curiosity, and he’d almost forgotten she was only temporary.

  ‘Over here, no one gives a shit. Just ask your buddy Gibson.’

  The girl quit looking at him then. Just stared at the floor with her brow creased.

  He’d laughed when he realised why. Laughed some more when he thought of how easily he could make a fool of those self-important Border Protection losers. They were so busy sniffing out drugs coming in that they didn’t care what sailed out. And as for antiques looted from war-torn countries, well, most of the customs officials wouldn’t know a silver samovar from a tin-plate teapot, or a medieval relief carving from a bit of Balinese tourist junk. He’d been testing and expanding his route for years now with not one sign of trouble.

  Except for Gibson. The dealer’s little fraud was nothing, but when that whingeing punter from the club threatened to go to the cops about the faked paperwork for his Chippendale—well, something had to be done. If it had come out, and the wrong cops started looking into it, they might have cottoned on to his scheme, and with so much riding on this expansion, on this deal with the Europeans, he wasn’t about to risk even a hint. And then this blonde bitch had blundered in and brought Drummond with her.

  ‘How can you be sure it won’t get “too hot” over here?’ she’d asked. ‘The market for these can’t be that big.’

  ‘Jesus, don’t you ever stop asking questions?’

  ‘You want me to be convincing, don’t you?’

  She’d had a point. These buyers were already twitchy. They expected Gibson, not some blonde who looked like she’d just left school. If she looked too stupid about it, they might wonder why he didn’t trust her. Then again, if she looked too smart, they’d th
ink she worked for the Feds or something.

  ‘See, babe, buyers for these artefacts are like mining magnates—there aren’t too many of them, but they’re loaded, greedy and don’t give a shit about where it came from. And just like mining magnates, most of the cashed-up ones are in Australia or China.’

  She looked confused by that. Maybe she wasn’t as sharp as he thought. This was his chance at the big score. He wasn’t going to let this little bimbo ruin it for him.

  ‘Catch my drift,’ he sneered, ‘or are you too stupid?’

  ‘I’m just surprised by your contempt for mining. You don’t strike me as a tree-hugger.’

  ‘Shut your mouth. And if you’ve got any idea these guys are gonna rescue you, forget it. They ain’t exactly saints. Neither are you, Everton. One false move, one slip-up with these tossers, and your little cop friend gets it.’

  He needed this deal to go through. It wasn’t just artefacts they were trading. The buyers wanted his drugs and he needed a new market. The Asian’s were flooding his turf with badly cut stuff that was ruining his trade. The trouble with junkies was once they were hooked they’d go for the cheap stuff, even if it could fry their brains. This deal would get him access to rich kids with fast lifestyles and money to burn, who used drugs to party, where rehab was part of the game and minders got paid plenty to get them cleaned up enough to keep using. Once these buyers established the market, he’d cut them out. Use Europe as his cash cow. All he had to do in return was peddle a few ancient bits of crap to greedy tossers whose ego wouldn’t let them ask too many questions.

  He’d taken a big risk using the Everton chick. The three buyers had initially been suspicious of her, but she’d performed like a pro. Maybe he’d keep her around for a while. It would be fun to break her. Not too much. She needed spirit to handle the European pricks. They all fancied themselves in their designer suits with tongue-twister names—bespoke, Frenchy had said. Whatever the fuck that meant. If these three hadn’t been his road to the big time, he might have had to flex a bit of muscle, put them in their place.