by Nick Place
‘Because of that Honda, whoever that is.’
‘And yet we didn’t sort him out either, then and there.’
Stig poured the boiling water, being careful with the kettle. ‘You’re not much of a one for forward planning, are you, Wildie.’
‘We’re not supposed to be in Melbourne long enough for planning, remember? We were going to be in and out of here in about twenty-four hours and the fuck out of the country. I think you’re planning to be here to collect superannuation.’
‘That’s fair,’ admitted Stig, coming into the lounge room. ‘It’s taking way longer than I’d planned. I’m pushing it as hard as I can.’
‘How? Drinking coffee in your tracksuit pants? Consuming the majority of the stash before we can sell it?’
Stig let that one go. Pondered what else he could do. He couldn’t believe how the drug underworld had changed in such a short time. A few years and everybody was dead, in jail or appearing as a celebrity criminal, riding the Underbelly wave. Not at the level Stig dealt with, but at the top. It was surreal.
He stood and opened the blinds a crack, gazed at a white courier van parked across the road and two houses down. Why would a courier be in Thornbury? Maybe the bloke lived in the street? Was there somebody in it?
Stig went to the front door and out to the yard, standing with his coffee and staring, directly, at the van. There was a guy in it. Wearing dark glasses and staring right back at him. What the fuck?
Stig took a deep breath, wished again for some of the product, and told himself to stay calm. Looked around in general, not a care in the world, and then wandered back into the house.
‘Wildie,’ he said. ‘I think we have a visitor. Feel like seeing if you can tear a courier van into pieces, or is your muscle strictly virtual these days?’
The Wild Man was on his feet. ‘No, mate. Action is what I need. Who is it?’
‘No idea.’
‘Giddyup.’
Wildie moved fast to the front door and onto the veranda, heading for the lawn. But then stopped dead.
‘What van?’
Stig followed him to the yard. The street was empty. The van was gone.
‘That’s not good,’ he said. He sipped his coffee. ‘Wildie, there’s no way Jenssen could have tracked us already, could he? It’s not possible.’
‘If he had, we’d be dead,’ Wildie shrugged. It was a statement of fact. ‘We might have to check out that silver Honda after all.’
The Wild Man looked at his partner, pondered again why Stig always thought he was the brains. ‘Who was following the dweeb, Stig, from the Groc-o-Mart. The dweeb is the key.’
‘Maybe both,’ Stig said.
‘Maybe three, including your little Louie, who seems to be very bloody matey with this guy, whoever he is.’
Stig sighed. ‘Come on, let’s pack up. We should get out of this house for good.’
‘Thank Christ,’ Wildie said. ‘And once we’ve moved, I say we hit the town. I want to let off some steam.’
‘I might have things to do. If you do go out, no headlines tonight, okay?’
‘What are you,’ Wildie asked, ‘my mum?’
‘Just a guy trying to stay alive,’ Stig said.
‘Then sell the shit and get us out of here.’
***
Laver dropped off the van and headed back to Collingwood, remembering he had left his stuff at his desk and hadn’t officially signed off for the day. Marvelling that he even still remembered such a detail with his career so far down the toilet.
He was coming through Carlton when his mobile buzzed. An SMS from Marcia.
The text read: Last chance. Same place. Same time. Be there. Or don’t.
That gave him an hour and a half. Shit.
At the Mobile Public Interaction Squad headquarters everybody had gone, apart from Ashley McGregor, on late shift. They nodded to each other, McGregor taking the sensible approach of only engaging with Laver if it was absolutely unavoidable. A cop who would go far, Laver decided. Good judge of character and good instincts.
One of the computer terminals was still active, Ollerton having forgotten to log out. Gold. Laver grinned.
He sat and moved into criminal records. Typed the word ‘STIG’.
The computer offered five.
Four were recent, crims known for carjacking and joy-riding who had adopted the moniker of The Stig, the mystery racer on Top Gear, a popular TV show.
But one was from eight years ago: a minor assault charge. ANDERSON, Stig Sebastian, of Footscray. Just a boy.
Laver clicked for detail. The accused had been outside the Sun theatre in Yarraville at 3 am and became involved in an altercation with two drunks. The police had happened to be driving past in time to break it up and the accused took off, decamping in a westerly direction to the train station. He was arrested mysteriously close to where a small pile of white pills was also found in the scrub, but he denied all knowledge and there were no fingerprints. He got a good behaviour bond for the fight.
That was it.
Laver sat and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. Thornbury, he thought. Time to head into The Sewer.
Moving to the underground wire required shifting databases, and a pop-up screen demanded Ollerton’s password. Laver cursed and logged out, logging in again under his own username and password. His Siberian status meant he could not input info or access the major databases, but he could surf the wire.
He tapped some more keys and started scrolling. Narrowed his search results to the previous fortnight.
The underground wire is like a cop blog. It’s known among police as The Sewer because it is where all the undiluted shit of the city flows and ferments. It’s where members lodge incidents and observations that may not have led to formal charges or aren’t officially investigated. Also outstanding crimes that might have loose leads or new evidence and could use help from another unknown cop’s knowledge. The Sewer is a virtual scrapbook of what is happening at street level and who’s roaming. As he browsed, Laver couldn’t help but reflect it was the computerised version of exactly the discussion he’d been trying to have with every police officer he knew since seeing those two guys on Smith Street.
The Sewer can be daunting, a mess of random activity and notes, but if you know what you’re looking for, it can suddenly take shape. Laver could see his target moving across Melbourne like a cyclone, heading north/north-west. A car salesman assaulted south of the city by a large, violent man with orange hair. A woman complaining that a man with strange-coloured hair and a beard, very tall, had sexually taunted her in St Kilda. Two men, one tall and with bright red hair maybe, threatening a man and his two teenage sons in a Fitzroy North hotel. A minor traffic accident where one of the drivers, appearing to be a giant man in his twenties, orange hair, beard, yelled an obscenity and then left the scene of the accident. A dog kicked savagely in Thornbury two days ago, the owner too scared to press charges. No description offered. Just that the attacker was ‘very big, very frightening. Tattooed’.
Laver wished he had an actual name to call up. There was no way this guy wasn’t on a police computer somewhere, in Victoria or elsewhere.
Laver looked at his watch. It was getting tight but he grabbed a phone and dialled Flipper’s mobile. Message bank, dammit.
‘Mate, it’s Rocket. Those two guys I keep talking about? They’re in The Sewer, more than once, clear as day. And there’s a few new bodies as well, in the mix. You heard of a private snoop called Thirsk? Very amateur but somehow involved. And two blokes I don’t know yet. Call me. This is brewing.’
He printed all the noted incidents, bundled them and left the office. If he wasn’t on time for Marcia, the world would shake.
Lou was enjoying the thrill of being nude in the middle of Brunswick Street. She never tired of it, walking stark naked under the loose fur of the giant koala suit, complete with cartoonish stuffed animal–style head with mesh in the eyes. It was always hot in the suit and s
he was usually out there for several hours at a time, collecting change in a white bucket for the Wilderness Society. A month ago, she’d thought: why not? Stripped completely and donned the suit. It was liberating, like anonymously streaking across the Melbourne Cricket Ground. In full view but seen by no one. She even smiled as group of guys after group of guys fobbed her off. If only they knew what was going on under the suit. All they saw was a slightly tattered human koala.
The suit was sweaty and claustrophobic and Lou wished she could get some fresh air. The night was warm and her vision was being hampered by sweat in her eyes, as well as the black mesh. She stopped for a moment, leaning against a traffic light in front of Polyester Records.
Found her mind drifting, thinking of a cool shower, and of hands on her. Stig’s hands, which disturbed her and excited her in equal parts. The ex-boyfriend from hell, who had ripped off her not-for-profit workplace, and vanished without a decent goodbye, and now showed up with a Neanderthal mate, involved in who knew what? And yet … and yet … God, she hated the way her heart had started pounding, her physical reaction, when he’d appeared in the Soul Food Café. Even as the anger kicked in, she couldn’t deny that rivers were running underneath. And he’d known it, too, the bastard. She could sense it. She’d have to be careful if he showed up again. He’d surprised her last time, that was all. Next time, she’d have her walls up.
She tried to shake it off, starting to walk again, rattling her bucket at passers-by. Lou saw the couple walking on the other side of the road and peered through the eye-holes, trying to work out how she knew the guy. She was so crap with names, but better with faces. It struck her – he was the cop who had walked into the Soul Food Café and sent Stig packing. Out of uniform, he was the guy who had been with Jake when Jake had arrived at the bar last night. Tonight the cop was walking with a woman, hands in his pockets and taking in the crowd. The woman had her arms folded across her chest and was walking slightly ahead of him. She was in a business suit with a medium-length skirt. High heels. Corporate. He was in a T-shirt and jeans.
Lou watched him catch up to the woman and then ahead, so he got to the door of the Vegie Bar in time to open it for her. Chivalry, Lou thought, smiling. They were gone and she flicked sweat out of her left eye. Could feel a line of perspiration crawling down the slope of her breast, gathering on her nipple then falling, somewhere south in the suit. She shook the white bucket and got back to work.
***
Jake had driven home in a state of confusion. The texts from the cop had said ‘get in your car and go’, so he had. A normal drive home, nothing out of the ordinary. He’d hurried from his car in the driveway into the house, just in case, but hadn’t noticed anything apart from a couple of cars drifting past his house. A red SUV and a smaller car. But late afternoon sun hitting the car windows meant he couldn’t see in and anyway, they’d kept going. It wasn’t a white Ford with the guys from the car park at his work. He eventually got another text from Detective Laver, checking he was home safely and he’d replied, ‘sure:)’.
It was the American sitcom Two and a Half Men that got Jake back out of the house. A week ago, he would have settled in and enjoyed the show. Tonight he looked at his mum glued to the TV, laughing at Charlie Sheen, and Jake couldn’t do it, his head full of the wonders and wildlife of Fitzroy.
‘But The Bill’s about to start,’ his mother said as he reached for his keys, tonight wearing a brand new T-shirt with ‘Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ on the front, red on black.
‘Tell me what happens later,’ he said, and headed for his car.
Now he was parking in a side street, off Brunswick Street, thinking he might just walk up and down, or maybe get a light beer in the hotel on the corner near the Fitz Café. Look at some books. This time tomorrow night, he and Lou would be in the Groc-o-Mart, placing their stickers. He was surprised to realise he was more excited than nervous. New Jake was in full flight.
As he locked the car door and wandered towards the lights, he was blissfully unaware of the car that had followed him all the way from Kew, now illegally parked with its headlights off.
Or the silver Honda that had pulled up right behind him.
The two occupants of the first car found themselves caught, watching the kid walk away but wondering about the dishevelled-looking man getting out of the silver Honda and fumbling with his keys. The kid not waiting for him, not even seeming to be aware of him.
The same guy who’d also followed the kid home.
A man who kept turning up.
It hadn’t started well. Laver and Marcia were still waiting to be given a table at the Vegie Bar when Laver spotted Andrew Wo sitting in a dark corner, near the door.
‘Excuse me for one second,’ he said to Marcia.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Say hello to somebody.’
‘Wow,’ she said, pulling out her iPhone and starting to tap the screen.
Wo was sitting with a beautiful woman. Laver registered long blonde hair, stylish but simple clothing; pegged her as maybe in her early thirties, sitting very straight in her chair. Great posture. Laver forced himself to keep his eyes mostly on Wo as he approached.
‘Detective Laver. What a pleasant surprise,’ Wo said in his precise English.
‘I feel the same way, Andrew. How’s business?’
Wo smiled without warmth. ‘The trucking industry is always a tough one, Detective. Fuel excises, driver fatigue, government regulations on loads. It’s an endless headache.’
‘I’m sure,’ Laver said, taking in Wo’s companion.
‘This is my wife, Charlotte. I don’t believe you’ve met.’
‘No, we haven’t. A pleasure,’ Laver said and meant it. She held out a hand and he shook it. The skin was cold.
Laver turned back to Wo. ‘Andrew, I was wondering if you might have heard about anybody new in town?’
‘In what sense, Detective? Another trucking company?’
‘Possibly – maybe an importer. Somebody who might be a competitor who’s turned up unexpectedly from interstate.’
Wo’s face was a pleasant mask, not the least bit offended or worried by the question – possibly slightly bored. ‘I really wouldn’t know what you were talking about, Detective. There are so many cowboys with their own trucks and big ideas these days.’
‘Just a long shot, I guess,’ said Laver. ‘Better get back. Take care of yourself, Andrew.’
‘You too, Detective. I hope you get over your, ah, troubles.’
Perfectly delivered, without any chance of a comeback. Laver gave him a nod, offered another to Charlotte, and walked to the bench seats in the window where Marcia was now sitting, putting her phone away and glaring in Wo’s direction.
‘Who was that?’
‘Andrew Wo.’
‘A friend of yours?’ she asked. ‘A cop?’
‘One of Melbourne’s bigger drug dealers. On the rise.’
Marcia looked shocked. ‘And you went over and said hello, like he’s an old footy teammate?’
‘Best to stay on good terms where you can.’
‘The man’s a drug dealer.’ Slightly too loudly for Laver’s liking.
He leaned in and said quietly, ‘Unproven.’
She hesitated. ‘So he might not be?’
‘Oh no, he is. Worth millions already.’ Laver still keeping his voice low. ‘He’s got some of the best distribution channels in the country.’
‘But you exchange pleasantries, then sit here, both having dinner in the same restaurant.’
‘Marcia, a guy like him, you don’t throw him across a table and fish a bag of cocaine out of his pocket. It takes years to build a case and to swoop at exactly the right moment.’
‘So there are police working on it?’
‘Absolutely. I just don’t happen to be one of them.’
A waiter arrived with two glasses of wine. They sat in awkward silence until he was gone.
Marcia said, ‘So why say hello? Why digni
fy his presence?’
‘Because he might know things I need to know.’
Laver noticed she hadn’t clinked glasses before taking her first sip.
Instead she said, ‘Did he?’
‘No,’ Laver admitted. ‘Well, if he did, he wasn’t saying.’
Marcia shook her head in exasperation. ‘So this is tonight’s trick. As opposed to last night, where I think you might have been discussing us being together forever, with your work no longer coming between us, at the exact moment you got up to chase some suspect and left me sitting in this restaurant, never to return.’
And so it begins, thought Laver. ‘I did return. You were gone.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘When I did try to talk about us being together forever, you chose instead to sends texts to whoever is on the end of that phone.’
‘I have friends that aren’t you, Tony. Outside your world.’
Laver wondered what that meant. ‘Outside my world. Which is different to yours?’
She shrugged. Reached for her wine.
‘Marcia, I’m sorry about last night. There’s a lot going on.’
‘When isn’t there a lot going on?’
‘I’m not an accountant. I don’t work nine to five, deliver a pay cheque and a foot massage at the end of the day. You know that. You even liked that about me at the start.’
Again, a shrug.
‘Marcia, I killed a man and it’s been messing with me. I’m not the cowboy you seem to have decided I am. My career is flushed down the toilet. I can’t sleep for shit. I’m seeing a ghost. Really. I’ve had things on my mind.’
‘Well, this is the first I’ve heard about it.’
‘Because you haven’t been around. Not answering your phone, or at the theatre, out for another run with the gang from work.’
‘I have a life.’
‘But not with me, right now. When I need you.’
‘So suddenly you need me. To help prop you up in your little cop world until you get your slap on the wrist, tut, tut, Tony, and are allowed to disappear back into the murk.’
‘You don’t think it’s reasonable that I’m upset I killed a man?’