The light had faded, and the sunset was just a lingering purple tinge to the horizon out over the black ocean. Ellie shivered before heading inside to examine the photos again.
So far Jason was the only name she had. Googling the Afghani man would be simple enough since she already knew his family connection, but who was the Asian guy? And what about the other Westerners? More Australian Army personnel?
She turned on the scanner. Time to let technology give her a hand. She could email them through to Alex in case he recognised them. Meanwhile she would try to match faces to images in her own database from previous shoots in Afghanistan. Maybe she already had the answer within her reach.
28
The sunset had died a slow death by the time Nick slouched back to his hotel room. Noise from the downstairs bar made it through the door, a cheerful clink of glasses and bursts of laughter. Rain pelted down again outside, rattling against the window like pebbles when the wind howled through in prolonged gusts.
He felt like a beer or three, or a whisky, but he wasn’t in the mood for the inevitable debate if he ventured into the thick of it. He was also nursing the beginnings of a tension headache. The endless dealings with the mayor were starting to try even his patience. The man was an idiot. Nick knew damn well this development would be shot down in flames. O’Sullivan hadn’t even abided by the council’s own Planning Act. The bureaucrats in charge of the department all looked ready to turn informers themselves and the money trail to the developer was barely hidden from plain sight. How the hell did O’Sullivan think he’d get away with it? Even a fool would see the writing on the wall.
Once he’d changed into low-slung jeans and a loose T-shirt Nick opened his laptop and logged on through his secure satellite phone. Nothing at the work address, so he checked his private account. Several emails popped up on screen and he scanned through them. Nothing pressing. A couple of joke emails from his sister that managed to raise a smile. There was an invite to his high-school reunion later in the year. Hard to believe it had been twenty years since he’d swapped his school uniform for the khakis of the army. He added it to his electronic diary. It would be good to catch up with his classmates, some of whom he saw on a semi-regular basis at touch footy or social functions in Sydney.
There was a long message from Dave Miller who was currently in Indonesia as part of an anti-people-smuggling task force. The two men had forged a solid friendship over three tours of duty. Dave’s career may have survived Afghanistan better than Nick’s, but that hadn’t affected the bond between them.
Fellow soldiers became brothers. Put them together after ten, twenty years apart and blokes would pick up where they’d left off. It was that mateship, that camaraderie that kept them sane when the world had turned into a raging firestorm around them.
It was impossible for friends and families, safe in suburban Australia, to understand what they endured. Nick knew many of his friends never told their loved ones what it was really like, how the boredom of waiting interspersed with moments of sheer terror could keep a soldier awake at night, rendering him fatigued and punch-drunk in the morning. How images of horrible deaths could flash up at any time, leaving him gasping for air, searching for solid ground. How adrenalin made you a junkie, hooked on its highs and sick to the stomach from its lows.
For some people it was an adventure. For some it was a chance to make a difference, serve their country with pride. For some it was an escape from an everyday life that held nothing but disappointment. Nick lay somewhere in the middle, a foot in each camp. He could share anything with his regimental brothers, not so his own flesh and blood.
He stared into the middle distance for a moment. Who did Ellie share the horror of war with now Nina was gone? Other war correspondents? Other foreign correspondents she met in those soul-destroying places? Alex, maybe? It might explain some of their closeness.
Nick looked back at the screen. None of his bloody business, anyway. The lady was entitled to have a boyfriend or whatever Alex was in her life. Not his place to have an opinion.
But he did.
Sighing, he finished reading Dave’s news and searched through his music library. He needed something to distract him. Finally he clicked on an album by the John Butler Trio. It only took a minute to realise he’d made the wrong choice. He wanted soul music, not rock. With the gravelly sounds of James Brown filling the sparse hotel room, he started to write up the day’s report.
He ignored the chime of an incoming email until he finished, then wished he hadn’t.
‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. The latest one was from the boss. They were having trouble receiving from the listening device in O’Sullivan’s office. Could he please check it out asap? Since the mayor was being cagey about using his phone, that was the only source of information on his conversations. O’Sullivan had recently changed mobiles and so far they didn’t have a tap on that number. It was twenty-four hours away at the earliest.
He shook his head in exasperation. Why didn’t ICAC just call instead of sending him an email? He could have attended to it when he was there. Paranoia about security at its most convoluted. ‘We’ve all gone mad,’ he grumbled.
He turned the music off and shrugged his jacket back on, searching for a plausible excuse to revisit the mayor at the council chambers. He’d think of something on the way back to Garrison.
The drive up the highway took longer than usual. Standing water reduced sections of the road to two very narrow lanes. The white lines disappeared in the reflection of his lights. One saving grace was the lack of traffic. Any sane person was home or tucked up somewhere dry.
The car park was almost deserted when he arrived. Two thirds of it was under water and it made Nick realise just how much rain had fallen in the last couple of days. Great, he thought, the bloody place will end up flooded and the whole operation will be washed out anyway.
He zipped his jacket up to his chin, pulled the hood low on his forehead and made a run for the building. The staff entrance around the side opened when he tugged at it. His jeans were soaked from mid-thigh down, his running shoes squelched, but he strode through the corridors. He knew better than to appear guilty or uncertain. The duck principle applied – serene on the surface and paddling like hell underneath. The light was on in O’Sullivan’s office and Nicholas sighed. Out with the story, then. He was going to have to manoeuvre his way into fiddling with the desk lamp to give the bug on the base a quick tap.
He froze with his hand in the air, mid-knock. O’Sullivan’s voice came clear through the door.
‘Big white fence with a “No Trespassers” sign bolted to the gates . . . Yeah, that’s the one. Out along Blue Pool Road.’
Nick pushed open the door, his expression disinterested, but his heart stuttering.
‘Yep, just enough to scare her off. Yep . . . No, no I don’t care about the mutt and get rid of that bloody car you’ve been driving around.’ O’Sullivan swung around, sensing Nick in the room. ‘Yes, sure, that’ll be fine. Get back to me in the morning.’ He avoided meeting Nicholas’s eyes as he hung up the phone.
‘Sorry to intrude so late, Lord Mayor.’
‘Yep, no problem. Just a private matter.’ O’Sullivan came around from behind his desk and patted Nicholas on the shoulder. ‘I think we should have some progress soon with our main opposition.’
‘Sorry?’ Nick hoped he looked puzzled.
‘Young Ellie might be withdrawing her opposition soon.’
‘Really? How’d you manage that?’
‘Obliging friends. Just leave her to me. Got to run now. I should be at dinner. Was it something important you wanted to see me about?’
‘It was, but nothing we can’t talk about tomorrow,’ answered Nick, his mind racing. ‘I happened to be in the area and saw your car. Phone reception is appalling at the moment. I was only going to see if you’d had an update on the vessel’s location. Weather bureau’s forecasting a nasty blow, but I’ll check in the m
orning.’
‘Yeah, do that.’ O’Sullivan shuffled papers on his desk. ‘I haven’t heard it’s been delayed any further, but the weather’s pretty shithouse, so it’s possible.’
‘Right. Leave you to it.’ Nick tipped his fingers in a half salute. He managed not to run until he was in the car park, but he was cursing as he slammed his car door.
The LandCruiser was pushed to its limits as he floored the accelerator, savagely changing gears. Forget the fucking bug or the drugs. Ellie was in danger. Think, man, he cautioned himself. You can’t go blundering in there without a plan of attack. That’s how old pros get injured in retirement. Two against one were odds that needed to be evened up. But he had no idea how long he had.
The main street of Half Moon Bay was eerily empty with a lull in the rain. As he turned right at the pub he could see there weren’t many stragglers left there either. His foot lifted off the accelerator for an instant. Should he go and round up the local police?
His instincts screamed danger but he had nothing concrete. He cruised past Ellie’s front gate and was relieved that her car was the only one in the yard. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he carried on driving. Maybe he should just knock on her door? What was the worst she could do?
He checked the rear-vision mirror, getting ready to do a U-turn when he spotted an empty white Commodore in one of the lay-bys ahead. A cursory check found the damage to the front left-hand bumper.
‘Arseholes,’ he swore, ‘filthy frickin’ arseholes.’ A blast of cold air lifted his damp hair. First things first, disable the car, then get Ellie out of there. Several minutes later, with his lights off, he parked the car as close to Ellie’s house as he dared. Fat drops of rain were building momentum for another cloudburst.
The lights of her house glimmered through the trees as he crept down the drive, gun in hand. The rain was pelting down now and he squinted against the sting of it. With the black night and heavy rain it was hard to see. He crouched low and angled across to her car. Something snagged his feet and he went down in a heap. It was only when he heard the whimper he guessed what it was.
‘Shadow? Shit.’ The Doberman lay motionless and Nick wasted critical seconds checking on him. No obvious sign of a bullet hole, but he couldn’t be sure. ‘Hang in there. I’ll come back.’ The dog started to arch and gag with a strangled moan. ‘Poison. No!’ Nick hissed then whirled and headed for the back door. Please God, let Ellie be safe.
29
Alex disconnected the call and tossed the phone on the couch. There. He’d done it. He’d finally reported Teisha missing to the police. He figured the way he’d described it they’d assume it was a lovers’ tiff. He propped his feet on the coffee table. What was his next move?
He tipped his head back against the soft leather and checked his watch. A couple of hours until wine o’clock. If Teisha didn’t show up in the next few days, the police would come asking questions. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle that. He had a watertight alibi, but that was only part of it. Was he really convinced Teisha was missing? What if he’d been set up? Seemed like an elaborate honey trap, but maybe the events of two years ago were finally catching up with him. Had he really believed they wouldn’t?
‘Fuck it,’ he cursed into the stillness of his townhouse.
His phone rang. Blocked number.
‘G’day.’
‘Alex.’ It was Lachlan. Alex’s palms started to sweat.
‘Yes.’ He wished he sounded more dominant, more in control.
‘Teisha wants a word.’
Alex waited, drumming his fingers on the couch.
‘Alex? For God’s sake, just give him what he wants!’ She was sobbing, her words hard to understand.
‘Teisha? Where are you?’
‘You can’t . . . You shouldn’t . . . Don’t talk to the police again. They’ll kill me. Alex!’ Her last word was a wail.
Alex’s fingers were hurting from gripping the phone. ‘Teisha, tell me where you are?’
‘Noooo! Noooo!’
The phone went dead. Alex was shaking and bile burnt the back of his throat. He hadn’t realised he’d stood up. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ He swung a foot at his shoes, sending them flying across the room. ‘Fuck it.’ Was this real? Don’t go to the police again? So they had a trace on his phone? Anything was possible in the digital era.
He strode to the office. The mess was a sucker punch to his gut again. Had they taken his stash of old mobile phones? He rooted around and found an aging Nokia under a pile of books. A large boot had finished that one off. Scrabbling amongst the scattered contents of a drawer, he found another. This one looked intact. Five minutes later he had a charger for it. He breathed a sigh of relief when it beeped as he flicked the power on. He’d need to top up the account, but it looked promising.
‘Teisha.’ He circled back to the kitchen. She’d sounded terrified, in pain and genuinely distressed. He may not love her, but she didn’t deserve this. He felt like throwing up. Should he go to the newspaper security division? They could be discreet, especially if they thought there was a story in it. But then it would open that can of worms which now seemed to be filled with circling piranhas, deadly rather than slippery. He’d have to explain his part in Nina’s death. He may even have to turn over her laptop that he’d taken from the Wildings’ home during the confusion after her funeral. They might uncover Nina’s bank account and security deposit box that Ellie had clearly forgotten about. It was his insurance policy, just in case the investigation ever came back to haunt him. Maybe it was time to use that information, turn informer. He’d need protection, though . . .
His stomach was still churning and he could feel damp patches in his armpits and groin. He sniffed. Fear had its own peculiar odour. Suddenly he was desperate for a shower. Some sort of Pontius Pilate moment of ritual cleansing. He’d been raised an only child by devotedly Christian parents, but rarely thought of religion these days. God hadn’t been much use when a B-double road train crossed the white lines and smashed into the minibus bearing his parents and their Sunday School group on a day trip from the Aboriginal mission to a church concert in Alice Springs. If his mother had survived the impact she would have said it was ‘God’s will’.
Eight dead, three seriously injured and a truckload of cattle strewn across the highway had been too much for Alex’s tenuous faith. At a pub, after the funeral in an overflowing church, Tom Wilding had listened and let him rail against a faith that had taken his parents from him long before the accident. ‘Maureen and Neil and their faith will always be with you, Alex,’ he’d said as they downed another beer. ‘You know I have no time for organised religion, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the principles. If you need it, then that faith will still be there. It’s in your DNA.’
Standing under the shower, the intensity of the spray stinging his skin, Alex started to pray. He finally understood Tom’s words. In the hour of need God would be there. The cynical part of him knew full well he was covering all bases. When the water started to cool he reluctantly turned it off. He’d go to the newspaper’s security chief first. If there was a God, and he chipped in some assistance as well, then that would be a bonus.
In fresh clothes he headed downstairs again. The phone was almost fully charged now. He scrolled through his newer smart phone and set about transferring important contacts to his standby phone. In the middle of it there was a knock on the door. His blood turned cold, his heart pounded. He tiptoed towards the door and stood well back from the window as the knock came again. There was a courier van parked in his drive with its engine still running.
He backed up a few steps. ‘Coming,’ he called out.
‘Yeah, right.’
The young bloke on the doorstep was wearing a fluoro green safety shirt and a company cap. In one hand was a small package, in the other a palm device for recording the delivery.
‘Alex Creighton?’
‘Yep, that’s me.’
‘Put y
our mark here, mate,’ the younger man said, holding out a stylus.
‘Thanks.’ He took the package and forced a smile. Since he wasn’t expecting anything, the sense of foreboding was increasing with every second.
‘Have a good day, eh. Knock-off time for me now.’
‘Thanks.’ Alex closed the door, not waiting to see the van leave. He felt vulnerable, exposed on his front steps.
He placed the package in the middle of the kitchen bench. It had a typed label from the delivery company. The sender wasn’t a company name he knew. For five minutes he examined the package, trying to decide whether to open it. It was too light to be an explosive and he figured he was letting his imagination get the better of him.
Finally he pulled on his cleaner’s pink gloves, picked up a sharp knife and slit the sticky tape. A styrofoam box was inside. He split the tape on that too and gently prised the lid off.
‘Oh, fuck!’ He gagged and dropped it on the bench, retching into the kitchen sink, vomit shooting out his nose. ‘A fucking finger!’ he muttered, his eyes drawn to the pale, bloodless digit with glittery nail polish. He knew that design too well. Leaning over the sink, he threw up again, though this time his tears also dripped off his chin. How much worse could it get?
‘Teisha, what have they done? What have I done?’ Resting his forehead against the cool marble, he tried to think clearly. It didn’t work. The finger was accusing him. He jammed the lid back on with hands that shook, then stripped the gloves off. He grabbed a tea towel and blew his nose.
‘I have no choice,’ he whispered. He had to go to the police again.
His smart phone rang and he skidded around the bench to grab it. Blocked number.
‘Hello?’ he almost yelled into the phone.
‘You like your present?’
‘You areshole, you absolute fucking prick! What have you done to her?’
The laugh was gentle, cajoling. ‘Your little blond friend Ellie is stirring things up. I asked you politely to stop her, but you haven’t. If she continues investigating I will hold you responsible. Teisha stays with us until such time as you fix this problem. If there’s so much as a whisper of this in the news, then Teisha’s brutal murder will be your problem. We have plenty of your DNA.’
Half Moon Bay Page 19