In order to have a future, he’d need to find some way out of the current problems. Logic. Strategy. Starting with one issue at a time.
His mother – not much he could do about that now, except arrange a decent burial for her, when the forensic lot finished with her remains. Maybe he could ask Kris to help him find her relations … No, he wouldn’t be around Kris much longer. He’d track down his mother’s family himself, have her buried where she belonged, if possible.
But first he had to get through the next few days. Which brought him to Marci’s murder. On the list he’d drawn up for Kris, he’d written a few possibilities – Marci’s boyfriend, a client, an associate of Jones and crew, and Tony Russo.
He didn’t think it likely that Tony had actually killed her himself. The sex factor didn’t sound like Tony’s personal work. Violence, yes. Sex with it, no. But Tony was the one common link among all the names on all the lists. Whoever had actually killed Marci, Flanagan’s network had been used to torch the café and destroy the evidence, and Tony must have called Flanagan in.
As to who’d killed Vince, Tony had to be a possibility, although presumably his alibi had been checked already. He was smart enough and connected enough to arrange an assassination, but why now, instead of five, ten, fifteen years ago? The relationship between him and Vince had been strained for years. Likewise, the Jones gang had always seen Vince as a rival, but why would they act now, when Kevin had been in jail for the last nine months?
If it was either Tony or a Jones associate, then something must have happened to trigger it. Gil cast his mind back to his meeting with Vince on Wednesday morning, trying to remember if Vince had said anything, indicated anything, that suggested a problem. He came up with nothing. The meeting had been brief, less than ten minutes, closer to five. He’d handed over the cash to Vince, explained what it was for, told him – told him, not asked him – to warn Tony off interfering any further with Marci, and let him know he’d arranged for Marci to go to Melbourne. Vince had asked if Marci had agreed to leave, and Gil had replied that he was working on it, and then he had asked, not told, Vince to speak with Marci and persuade her to go.
That had been pretty much it. Vince had been his usual self, greeting him with a degree of warmth Gil never returned. At the end, when Gil turned to leave, Vince had thanked him for keeping an eye on Marci, congratulated him on running a good business, and asked what he planned to do next. When Gil had shrugged and said he had no plans yet, Vince had smiled and said he hoped Gil wouldn’t need the contents of his safety deposit box.
Which, when Gil came to think about it now, did seem a bit odd. In all the years since Gil had confronted him and laid out his terms, Vince had never once mentioned the safety deposit box.
Had Vince been trying to warn him he could no longer control Tony? If that was the case, then his own actions in involving Vince in repaying Marci’s debt might have brought Vince and Tony into further conflict. He had no way of knowing – yet – but it raised the odds of Tony being a likely candidate.
He still had nothing definite. And he could either wait here in Dungirri for their next move – having sent Liam and Deb away – or he could go to Sydney himself and see what he could find out there. The latter seemed the better option. Dangerous, especially since he had nothing to hold over Tony, but then waiting around here was dangerous, too. Dangerous for him, but more so for Kris. The sooner he took himself away from her, the better for both of them.
The two bands combined to play the last waltz of the evening. As the first notes sounded, Frank Williams bowed before Delphi O’Connell and led her onto the floor, with more than a few interested people watching. Mark held out his hand, and Kris took it, slipping comfortably into the waltz hold and into the dance. Mark was an excellent dancer, guiding her around the room in perfect rhythm with the gentle melody.
The floor was crowded with couples and, as they danced, Kris saw Eleni’s huge smile shining at George, Frank engaging Delphi in conversation, their hands clasped firmly, Paul and Chloe dancing close, eyes only for each other and, sitting beside each other, Beth leaning in to kiss Ryan.
Inexplicably, her eyes prickled with tears. God, she must be getting soft and melancholy in her old age, if the sight of happy couples could turn her to mush.
‘It’s been a successful night,’ Mark commented.
‘It has,’ she agreed, grateful for a safe topic. ‘Thank you for your contributions – the food and matching the funds raised for Jeanie. I think people feel better for having done something for her tonight.’
His hand tightened a little on her waist. ‘Do you feel better?’
‘Me? Yes. It’s nice to have everyone together for something positive for a change.’
‘So why are you still frowning?’ he asked quietly. ‘And why are you being so polite with me?’
He was right, she was being polite. And their friendship was too solid, too important for her to shut him out like that. Mark was a good mate, her closest male friend, and one of the few men with whom she could relax and be herself.
‘I’m sorry, Mark. I’ve just got a lot on my mind at the moment.’
‘Gil Gillespie got anything to do with that?’
She briefly considered evasion, and discarded the idea as both pointless and an insult to Mark, and to Gil.
‘Yes. Events connected to him. And Gil himself.’
He smiled, but although his eyes twinkled at her, she read a touch of sadness, too. ‘You like him.’
‘I … Yes, I do like him. I know you mightn’t feel the same way, because of Paula, but underneath the tough exterior, I’ve found there’s a lot about him to respect.’
He broke eye contact, his hand tightening on hers as he manoeuvred them away from a crowded corner of the dance floor.
‘There always was a lot to like. And I don’t hate him, Kris.’
‘You were injured in the accident when Paula died.’
‘Yes. A head injury. I can’t tell you anything about the accident, Kris. There’s a hole in my memory. I don’t remember a thing from a week before the accident, until the day I woke up in the hospital. I still don’t remember anything.’
‘So that’s why you weren’t called as a witness.’ She’d noticed that in the court reports, but then Gil had pleaded guilty, and with the blood-alcohol report they wouldn’t have needed anything more for a conviction.
But Mark might be able to shed some light on the recent troubles. He’d grown up in the district, worked for the previous local politician before he’d entered Parliament himself, and he knew a lot of people in the region, kept a finger on the district pulse.
‘Have you ever heard anything about Mafia activity around here?’
He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t miss a step. ‘A few stories. Nothing ever solid. There was a marijuana trafficking bust, ten years or so back that people gossiped about, but nothing suggesting organised crime came out of the investigation, as far as I’m aware.’
Crazy to be waltzing around with a handsome man, and talking about the mafia. She should just enjoy the moment, but she mightn’t have another chance to talk to him before he went back to Canberra.
‘Know anything about Dan Flanagan?’ she asked.
‘Hmmm.’ He frowned, guided her around a couple doing a slow-sway version of the dance. ‘How shall I put this diplomatically? A canny, successful businessman, with an excellent knowledge of the law – including its weaknesses and loopholes.’
The music slowed to the final notes, and he twirled her around and finished with a gentlemanly bow.
Although the last dance signalled the official end of the ball, there seemed to be a general reluctance to finish the evening. Ryan and Beth went home to relieve their babysitter, Megan, as did some other parents. A few of the older people left, but others stayed and talked, sitting in small groups inside and outside the hall. The bar closed, but people lingered over their last drinks, and others were happy with soft drink or coffee from the kitchen.
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Mark brought Kris a drink and she stayed for a while, but she was distracted, unable to concentrate on the social conversation, and when her phone rang in her purse, she excused herself with some relief. Steve’s mobile, she saw, as she answered the call. And she’d missed a number of calls and messages.
‘It’s after midnight, Steve,’ she told him, straight up.
‘I know it is, Cinderella. The ball’s over and we’ve got trouble. I’m driving into Dungirri right now. Meet me at the station, and check your email. I sent your photos from this afternoon to Alec, and he knows one of your guys. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’
Apprehension rising, Kris apologised to Mark and walked across the grass to the station, punching in the keycode and turning the lights on as she went inside. Their harsh fluorescent glare was a world away from the fairy lights of the hall.
She felt ridiculous, sitting there in her office in her silk dress and heeled sandals waiting for her computer to boot, but once it finished its whirring and she opened her email, she forgot all about the incongruity.
With the message, ‘Is this one of the men you photographed?’ Alec had sent her an image. It looked like a detail from a surveillance photo, taken with a far better camera and zoom than her phone. A man’s face, almost front-on, neatly cut dark hair, dark brows, straight nose, and a well-shaped chin, held high, with a confidence that could easily be arrogance.
She’d seen that angle of the head before, on the man in the dark jacket who’d casually fired off shots into the bush. She hit reply on her email, typed ‘Yes. Who is he?’ and pressed send.
Five seconds later, her phone rang. Alec. He must have been sitting by his computer.
‘Are you sure about the identification, Kris?’ he asked, as soon as she answered the call. There was a knock at the door and, phone to her ear, she went to let Steve in.
‘I can’t be absolutely certain, because I didn’t get close, but I’m pretty sure he’s the one with the handgun, who gave orders.’ She waved Steve through to her office and flicked the phone to speaker. ‘So who is he, and why do you have his portrait on your computer?’
‘Sergio Russo,’ Alec answered her question as she put the phone on her desk, between her and Steve. ‘Sergio’s a distant cousin of Vince and Tony. He turned up in Sydney about nine months ago. We’ve got nothing solid on him yet, but we’re seeing an increase in cocaine and ecstasy on the streets, in Sydney and all along the coast, and he’s suspected by Interpol of connections to key players in a major Calabrian-run drug supply system.’
She tugged her wrap closer over her chilly arms. This is Dungirri, she wanted to say. We don’t have mafia here. But they did. Had for a long time, and she’d been oblivious. Now she had to deal with it, somehow.
‘Kris, we can’t prove it yet,’ Alec’s voice continued, ‘but I’m damned sure the guy is a killer, and that he’s behind a resurgence in the ‘Ndrangheta activity in Australia. We put away Kevin Jones and most of his gang at the beginning of the year, and it looks like the Russos have moved in to fill the gap. Tony’s never been particularly strong, but the remnants of the Jones crew had already gravitated to him, and now with Sergio here, and the new connections, they’re knocking off the competition, or absorbing it. Sergio came up to the north coast a couple of weeks ago, and within days I had three dead dealers from rival gangs.’
‘And now Vince is dead, and the Russos have reason to think Gil is a threat.’
Steve shot her a questioning glance, and on the phone there was a pause before Alec spoke. ‘Yes. He’s a danger to them, Kris. Vince kept Tony in check for years, but in an odd way he seems to have trusted Gillespie. I don’t know how much information Gillespie has, and neither do the Russos. But they probably know he’s prepared to use what he has. Add that to Tony’s long-held resentment of him, and they’ve got more than enough reason to want him out of the way.’
Now she was cold, a bone-deep chill that had little to do with the air temperature.
‘I’ve got to go, Kris,’ Alec said. ‘I’m expecting another call. Liaise with Fraser and Petric on this, and keep me informed. If I can help any more, let me know.’
The phone fell silent, and the room seemed emptier without Alec’s capable authority.
‘Gillespie has more information against the Russos than what we got today? And am I the last to know about it?’ Steve asked dryly.
‘He had information against Vince,’ Kris said carefully. The fewer people who knew Gil had informed against the corrupt officers, the better. Even when it came to fellow officers. ‘That’s how he got the hotel out of the Russos’ territory.’
‘So that’s what they’ve got against him. And why they’re aiming to silence him.’
She nodded. ‘What I don’t understand is, if this Sergio Russo is now involved, and Tony’s more powerful through him, then why not go straight for Gil? Why the attempt to frame him for Marci’s murder, why the search of his place?’
‘If he’d been charged with murder, the likelihood is he’d have been punished in prison,’ Steve suggested. ‘The search – perhaps that was part of getting the local boys on-side. They’re operating outside their familiar territory here.’
It made a kind of sense. ‘Get the information compromising Flanagan, and Flanagan will put his resources at their disposal. But why not just act themselves? He hasn’t exactly been hiding the past two days.’
‘He’s been in police company most of that time,’ Steve pointed out. ‘But also, guys like this, they often want revenge, not just to get him out of the way. My guess is, they’re looking for some way to punish him before he’s executed.’
FIFTEEN
Gil came back into town on the southern edge, avoiding the hall. The moon rode high in the sky, and no more music carried on the light breeze. After midnight, then, he figured.
Coming past the school he heard voices, three or four of them, male, laughing and jeering. He couldn’t see anything from the road. They must have been beyond the senior classroom, where a security light was on. He’d have ignored them, but for a shout and a strangled cry.
Gil walked faster, sprinting when there was another cry, and came around the corner as a girl – Megan – broke away from the four men, tried to run, but was quickly caught again and pressed back against the wall.
He roared, went straight in, grabbed the closest by his hair and yanked his head back, jerking him around to fling him to the ground. Two of them came for him. He got one in the face with his right fist, caught a weak punch in the head from the other, but managed to grab the guy’s arm and wrench it down, twisting around him to ram him against the wall.
The fourth man – Sean bloody Barrett – had released his hold on the girl, and the first was already up off the ground, both of them advancing on Gil. The moonlight glinted on a knife in Barrett’s hand.
‘Run!’ he shouted to the girl. She hesitated for an instant, then ran, disappearing around the corner. She had enough sense to go for help; all he had to do was keep these four from following her.
Barrett was strong, experienced and, Gil guessed, handy with a knife. The guy he’d knocked to the ground was young, not much more than a teenager, and lightly built. He made the mistake of grinning to someone behind Gil, a warning Gil took every advantage of. When the guy moved to grip his arms, he rammed his elbows back into soft flesh, doubling him over in pain.
Number three staggered a short distance away, nursing a broken nose, and the one on the ground behind him groaned and puked.
Which left Barrett and the lad – Gil thought it might be one of the Dawson boys – circling around him. The Dawson kid was a bit drunk; enough to make him brave, dull his senses a bit, but not enough to make him easy pickings. Barrett had drunk a few, too, he’d bet, but he was old enough to hold it well.
Dawson came first, barrelling in with a shout, trying to ram him down. More courage than sense, Gil thought, as he caught him by the shoulders, heaved him upright, and slammed his fist into his gut
. The kid crumpled into a heap.
‘Did you learn that in prison?’ Barrett taunted.
‘I learned a lot in prison,’ Gil replied. ‘Maybe you’re afraid to find out how much, since you sent the boys in first.’
Barrett’s hand clenched on the knife, but he didn’t take the bait. ‘You shouldn’t have interfered in what doesn’t concern you, Gillespie. We were just having some fun with the little slut. It’s not as though she hasn’t done it before. She’s been on the streets.’
Gil saw red before his eyes, rage threatening to blast a hole through his head.
‘Don’t go near her again,’ he ordered, through gritted teeth.
‘Why? Cause you want to screw her? Sorry, Gillespie, but there’s not much talent around here these days so I’m claiming her.’
He could hear movement behind him, braced to deal with an attack, but he kept still, studying Barrett, watching his eyes. Dawson went for Gil’s legs, tackling him, and he couldn’t stop toppling, but he struck out as he fell, landing a hard kick, twisting so that he landed on his side and not his face, ready to take on Barrett as he leapt on him. Barrett slashed at his face with the knife, but Gil jerked his head away in time and caught a slice on the shoulder instead. A street-fighter would have plunged the knife in for the kill, but Barrett wanted to best him, to punish him, and thought he could. His mistake.
They rolled on the ground, wrestling for the knife. Gil had a grip on Barrett’s wrist, keeping the knife at bay, until Dawson joined in, wrenching at his arm, giving Barrett the control for a swipe at his chest. The blade burned on his skin, even as he pushed back hard at the weight of both of them on his arm.
There was a dull thud, and the kid’s grip vanished. Barrett started, and Gil took the advantage of the split second of distraction and threw him, slamming a punch to his gut as he went over, disabling him long enough to get his knee on the knife arm and the blade out of Barrett’s grip.
Dark Country (Dungirri) Page 21