by Annie Seaton
He could pinpoint the date and time that this bloody restlessness had begun to consume him. The seventeenth of April, 2005—his twenty-eighth birthday.
Up until then, he’d been content with the three bedroom house in the suburbs of Canberra while he built up his career in the Australian Federal Police. Until a betrayal of mammoth proportions had taken his job, his fiancée and everything Connor had believed he wanted. He’d left it all behind without a backward glance, and tried to put it behind him.
For a while he thought he had, but since the two Australians had been executed on Bang Kwang last year the nightmares had returned.
Truth, integrity, justice. There was no such thing. But in his immaturity and naivety, he’d believed they existed.
A road sign informed him that Wyndham was ten kilometres ahead. He glanced in the rear-vision mirror; there was no traffic following so he slowed the car, keeping a lookout for a turn-off to the right. Five minutes later, he reached the five kilometre sign and realised he’d missed the turn he was looking for. He checked for traffic before pulling onto the middle of the road in a U-turn, and headed back the way he’d come. This time he kept his eyes on the scrub at the edge of the road.
To the west, flat saltpans glinted in the late afternoon sun, stretching as far as he could see, broken only by occasional clumps of mangroves. The salt flats were dry white cracked mud, so vast it created a mirage. The Cockburn Ranges bordered them to the south, incredibly tall, brilliant orange sandstone rising to over six hundred metres. The occasional derelict and abandoned boat lay in the mangroves and the only things moving were plovers scurrying across the tidal flats in search of food. A fragment of memory tugged at him; how did he know they were called plovers?
He turned back to the eastern side of the road and lifted his foot from the brake, but slammed it down hard as a large vehicle and caravan appeared in his side mirror right up behind his back bumper bar. It whizzed past with a toot of the horn, and as he indicated to go back onto the bitumen, the sun flashed on something a short way into the scrub just ahead. This time he pulled further off the road and nosed the ute into a low stand of trees. A slow smile lifted his lips. From his new vantage point, he could see a thick chain linked to a small steel post on each side of a narrow sandy track. Opening the door, he climbed out and picked up his Akubra hat, shoved it on his head and then reached across to the back seat for the brown paper bag containing the bottle of Glenlivet he’d purchased in Kununurra.
On the top of one of the posts ahead was a handpainted sign. Daubed in white and red paint on an old piece of corrugated iron, rusty and jagged at the edges, was a warning.
‘Enter at your own peril. Bugger off. Or go out in a box.’
He’d arrived.
Locking the car, Connor climbed over the chain and headed up the sandy path that led to his destination. Putting his hand up, he tilted the brim of his hat down and shaded his eyes. He peered ahead but there was no sign of any habitation between the road and the next low hill.
Striding out, he kept his eyes on the track as it climbed to the top of the hill. He gave a short grunt of satisfaction when he spotted faint tyre marks in the mound of sand the wind had blown to the side of the track. The distant sound of dogs barking broke the silence and he squinted into the bright sun. Ahead and about two hundred metres to the left, a bright flash split the afternoon sky. Connor slowed his pace and kept the direction of the flash in his sight as he stepped off the track and headed that way. He’d approach the dwelling from the bush; it was safer that way. Knowing the temperament of the man who lived there, and how rarely Connor—or anyone—visited, he’d probably have the dogs set on him before he got anywhere near.
Or worse. Connor came to a dead stop as the cold nudge of metal pressed through his shirt into his left kidney.
‘Don’t take one more fucking step.’
The gravelly voice brought a smile to Connor’s lips. He’d know that voice anywhere.
‘Can’t fucking read, hey bud?’ The rifle pushed harder into his back.
The smell of unwashed man wafted across to him on the slight breeze and he slowly turned around. ‘Better than you ever could, Gregory,’ Connor retorted. ‘I thought you might like some company. Especially with the house-warming gift I brought you.’
Connor stepped back as Gregory Francis opened his arms wide. ‘I said to call me. I didn’t expect you to pay a personal visit.’
‘Wasn’t hard, Greg. I could smell you from the road.’ He held out the bottle of Glenlivet. ‘Now are you going to invite me in? Or set the bloody dogs on me? You said you had something for me so I came to get it. I don’t have an address at the moment. Not one for sensitive stuff anyway.’
Greg took the bottle from him. His hands were filthy and the rank odour got stronger as he stepped closer. He wore a tracksuit with a hooded top, even though it had to be over thirty-five degrees out here in the afternoon sun. His hair was matted and greasy and his beard long and tangled. A shaft of anger sliced through Connor’s chest and he closed his eyes.
Fucking Nina Smythe. She could take full responsibility for the wasted human being who stood in front of him. Not only had Greg walked away from his career that day; he’d dropped right out of society. Connor had walked too, on his career, on his workmates and on his conniving deceitful fiancée who had shafted them both.
Never trust a woman.
He should have listened to Greg’s mantra before it was too late. Connor had started up his business and become a loner, only being able to persuade Greg to work with him from this hideout over the years.
But I could have ended up like this, he thought. And the thing that frightened him most was that he still could.
*
An hour later they were sitting on the verandah of the old hut on the side of the hill. It was a small dwelling with an outside concrete tub that doubled as a bathroom. A composting toilet was situated about fifty metres into the scrub at the back of the hut. A couple of chooks clucked around and a mangy ginger cat stretched itself along Greg’s lap. Connor leaned back in the creaky rocking chair and looked out over the view. The road was hidden by the tree-covered hill between the house and the coast. The sun sat low in the sky and the salt pans glistened with a ferocity that hurt his eyes.
‘It’s a peaceful spot here,’ he commented. The dogs had stopped barking once they’d come through the gate and were settled beneath the tree beside the house lazily snapping at flies.
‘Yeah, and no bugger bothers me. Usually.’
Greg had washed and changed after Connor had refused to drink with him until he cleaned himself up. He lifted his glass and looked at Connor over the rim. ‘You’re looking a bit stressed, Kirkie. You still working yourself into an early grave?’
‘Still working. Don’t know about the grave.’
‘Still doing your bit to make amends though?’ Greg’s voice was quiet but it held a hard edge.
Connor stared past him but didn’t take in the view. He didn’t answer for a few minutes. ‘Yeah, but I’m not sure it’s about making amends anymore.’
‘So what’s with the company ute out there?’
‘Undercover job.’
Greg nodded and picked up the whisky bottle, holding it up to the light. Fragments of light splintered and danced across the old weathered beams holding up the tin roof. ‘You up for a big night? I’ve got a cold carton in the fridge out the back.’
‘Why not? Might help me sleep.’ Connor’s voice was bitter.
Greg slammed his glass onto the table beside his chair. ‘Did you see what that bitch said the day after they were executed?’
‘Yep.’
Greg put on a high-pitched voice with a plum accent. ‘ “The organisation cannot predict where an investigation might lead as no two scenarios are the same.” Or some bullshit along those lines. She swore it didn’t start with a tip-off.’
Connor leaned back on the chair and it gave a gruesome creak. ‘We have to let it go, Greg. We did o
ur bit. We got shafted but life goes on.’
‘Fucking hell. I was the one who got the tip-off and set up the travel alerts for when they hit customs.’ Greg’s eyes were wide. He picked up his glass and swallowed another hefty slug.
They sat in silence for a while before Greg spoke again. ‘I guess it was doubly hard for you. You were sleeping with the bitch.’
Connor gestured inside the house with a nod, ignoring Greg’s comment about Nina. ‘You got a spare bed in there?’
‘How long for?’
‘Couple of days, maybe. As long as it takes you to chase up some more information I need.’
‘Couple of days? Where’s your faith in me, mate?’ Greg blew out a plume of smoke.
‘Tell me what you’ve got already.’
‘Chasing up some drug baron? That Liam Carruthers bloke you got me to delve into works at a diamond mine.’
‘That’s where I’m based undercover.’
‘A change for you, mate. Carruthers recently inherited a shitload of money. I’ll show you later. And by the way, I’ve had a look at that Finlayson and Hennessey already.’
‘Why did you want me to call you?’
‘Technology problems. Fixed now. Anyway, Hennessey’s pretty ordinary too, nothing jumped out of the box there, but I probably wouldn’t have emailed the stuff I found out about Finlayson so it’s just as well you turned up here.’
Connor sat up straight. ‘What did you find out about him?’
‘I got into his private email.’
‘And?’
‘He’s got a big secret. And like we both know, anyone with a big secret is open to blackmail.’
‘Spill.’ Connor finished his drink and put his glass down.
‘Your man is married. Couple of kids. Nice house in Perth.’ Greg reached for the Scotch and held it up but Connor shook his head.
‘Not yet, I want to keep my head clear until we do a bit more work. Keep talking.’
‘Your choice. So back to your man. By all accounts, he’s a fine upstanding bloke.’
‘But? His finances came up dodgy?’ Connor was hoping.
‘No, not at all. Thing is, he’s got another house, one I wonder if his wife knows about. Leads a bit of a double life, does your Don Finlayson.’
Connor sat up straight and wrinkled his brow. ‘Like what?’
‘He’s gay. And he’s got a partner that no one seems to know about.’
‘Damn.’ Connor stared at Greg.
‘Damn what?’
‘That’s nothing like I was expecting.’
‘Remember, Kirkie. When there’s some deceit, there’s sure to be more. And he’s open to being blackmailed with that sort of secret. Is this another drug investigation?’
‘No. I’ve taken on something a bit different. A diamond theft. Having a bit of a holiday up here in the Kimberley.’ Connor ran his hands though his hair. ‘Shit. Maybe that takes one of the suspects off the hook a bit. But I’ll still get you to look into his finances later. I’ve got a few more jobs for you. Up to it?’
‘Pleasure.’ Greg smiled and stood with the Scotch bottle tucked beneath his arm. ‘Long as you keep the whisky flowing, I’ll do whatever you ask.’
Connor shook his head as he stood up. ‘I need to track someone’s bank account over a couple of years. And maybe tap into a company database in Dubai. A bit more than I can handle.’
‘Piece of piss, mate.’ Greg flashed him a grin and for a fleeting moment, it was like looking back to the carefree face of his partner in the Australian Federal Police ten years ago. ‘Now tell me what else you want and we’ll go and have a look.’
Walking through the crooked doorway of the old hut was a bit like stepping into Doctor Who’s TARDIS. The dwelling was composed of a single room with a double bed in one corner and a low bench running along the back wall. Three computer screens blinked as Connor stood in the room. He shook his head as Greg ambled across to the large leather desk chair in front of the middle screen.
‘Pull up a pew, mate. You’ll have to bring in one of the chairs from outside.’
Connor stepped back onto the verandah and looked around. There was an old plastic chair in the corner and he picked that up and carried it inside. He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been here five years.’
Greg leaned back in his chair with a grin and put his hands over his hefty paunch. ‘What? You don’t like my choice of abode? The payout I got from the force paid off the missus and left me enough to buy my computers.’
Connor didn’t comment on the reference to Greg’s wife. He knew it had almost broken him when she’d walked out with the kids after the incident that precipitated their resignations.
Greg rolled his chair closer to the desk. ‘All the creature comforts covered. Bed, food and beer. Not a lot of spare cash around this month though. I did my dough at the salt flat races a couple of weeks back. So now what else can I do for you?’
Connor checked underneath the chair for spiders before he sat down gingerly. The flimsy plastic legs moved and he redistributed his weight to the back of the chair.
‘I need to find some bank accounts. Australian and maybe foreign. Some maybe Dubai based.’
‘What name?’ Already his fingers were flying over the keyboard and the middle screen changed to an MS-DOS command prompt. He moved to the screen on the left and brought up Google.
‘Drusilla Porter.’ Connor watched as Greg started a Google search. ‘There’s not a lot there on her. Just some uni stuff.’
‘Clever woman. If she’s savvy enough not to have a digital footprint we might start at the uni. Which university and how long since she was there?’
‘James Cook and I’d say about three years.’
Greg moved back to the centre screen and typed a string of commands. Connor wasn’t surprised when a student database filled the screen.
‘Campus?’
‘Townsville.’
The clicking of the keyboard filled the room and the screen burst into colour. A photo of a young Dru Porter appeared in the centre. Her ice-blue eyes stared at the camera but her mouth was tilted in a smile. She looked happier than the times he’d spoken to her.
‘Hmm. What’s she into? Something to do with the diamond theft?’
Connor gave a short laugh. ‘A suspect high on the list. But my money is on her. As sweet as she looks there, she’s as hard as nails.’
‘Mate, after what we saw I’d believe anything.’ Greg grunted and his fingers flew over the keyboard. ‘Her uni fees were paid through a local building society account back then. Most people keep their early accounts.’
Connor watched as the screen filled with rolling text.
‘Yep. She’s still with them. There’s the account number.’ Greg lifted his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Now for the fun part; finding her password. Grab us a coffee, Kirkie. We might be here for a while.’
Connor raised his eyebrows. ‘No more Glenlivet?’
The response was a wave of an arm. ‘Time for that later. You have me intrigued here. Need a clear head to get into the international stuff. Once I get her personal details from the building society, we can go searching deeper. Kettle’s out the back on the fridge. Go down to the creek to get the water. I found a dead possum in the tank yesterday so the water in there is a bit dodgy.’
Connor stepped out onto the verandah. Since they had gone inside the sun had dropped below the horizon and the evening sky was shot with streaks of purple and vivid orange. He took a deep breath and watched as the vapour trail of a jet heading north dispersed in the high winds. It turned into a golden line on the purple velvet backdrop of the brilliant sky. Where was it going? It would do him good to board a plane and head off somewhere new for a while.
After this job is over.
Connor let the peace and quiet of his surroundings seep into his soul. Greg had the right idea. Find somewhere to live where no one bothered you, and where you had no stress to tug at you constantly. Nothing
to achieve and nothing to prove.
He walked around to the back of the building and found the kettle plugged into a double power point above the old rusty fridge. Two towers of tinned food balanced precariously next to the kettle and he lifted it down carefully after he’d unplugged it. He opened the fridge and frowned. Nothing but a carton of milk and a dozen cans of beer. If he was going to stay here a couple of days, he should have brought some supplies with him.
By the time Connor had found the creek and filled the kettle, then returned and made the coffee it was pitch dark. Night came quickly in the tropics, as did the mosquitoes that buzzed around his head as he came back into the light.
He put the coffee down on the desk beside Greg and walked back over to close the door to keep the insects out.
‘Bring the bottle in too.’ Greg gestured towards the door with his head.
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’m almost done here. Put a slug of whisky in my coffee.’ The laugh was pure evil and Connor couldn’t help but smile. He’d enjoyed working with Greg in Canberra; they’d had some great times together and they’d been good mates.
‘You’ll need it to kill the taste of that instant coffee. Black and Gold? Where did your gourmet tastes go?’
‘Same place my income went. Speaking of which, you might like to take a look at this.’ His voice was serious. ‘A very organised lady, this Drusilla Porter.’
Connor pulled the plastic chair closer to the screen. Greg had a spreadsheet open.
‘Four accounts.’ Greg highlighted part of the document and made the font larger so it was easier to see. ‘The original one that she appears to pay her bills from. And an investment account with the same building society.’
‘Fifteen thousand dollars balance. Not a huge investment.’ Disappointment laced Connor’s voice as he read off the figures.
‘There’s more.’ The screen scrolled down. ‘An account in Dubai with forty thousand dirham in it.’
‘Now you’re getting somewhere.’
‘No, that’s only about fifteen thousand Aussie dollars too. But look here.’