‘Don’t worry about that. We can sort something out if you’re interested. What do you think?’ I thought she was a tramp.
The tyres were good and the interior wasn’t too ripped up. It was a bit over the top for what I needed, but it would be fast, and comfortable enough to use for surveillance. She sat in the passenger side and patted the driver’s seat. ‘Come and give it a roll, see how you like it.’
‘I like it just fine at three thousand cash.’ Her seductive smile fell away and I saw the cold, hard face behind it.
She recovered quickly. ‘Come on,’ she said, stroking the driver’s seat, ‘we can talk about price as you drive.’
I got in, drove off the lot and merged with the heavy traffic. She gave me directions as we went, soon turning off onto quieter roads. It felt good. A short pump of gas caused it to lurch forward with a satisfying roar.
‘She goes, eh?’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
She seemed surprised by the question, but wriggled in her seat again and said, ‘Bunty. What’s yours?’
‘Look, Bunty, I only need this car for a week or two. How about I give you 3500, and then you buy it back for 2500 in two weeks’ time? You’ll make a grand for nothing.’
‘Just on holiday, are you?’
‘That’s right. So thirty-five?’
‘I dunno. I’d have to ask Andy. I’ve never done anything like that before.’
‘Okay. Four thou. 3800 on paper, and 200 in your hand. If you can’t do that, I’ll find something else.’ I hated wasting time, but after buying the car, I’d be down to 17,000. Not much, when you’re trying to track somebody down and still have enough left to bolt if it all goes wrong.
She looked tired and in need of a drink. ‘All right, as long as it’s cash. And there’s no warranty.’
We rolled back to the lot where she filled in paperwork. I didn’t have an Aussie licence, but she took the UK licence and copied that. The only thing she was interested in was her commission and the backhander I was giving her.
78 Turnbuckle was a modest, semi-detached place set amongst a small commercial unit and a row of terrace houses. There was a wine bar across the road, and a kebab shop a few doors down. It was neither flash, nor a complete dump. I had nothing to lose, so parked and banged on the door. No answer. No name card by the door and the blinds were closed.
I went back to my room to wait for nightfall.
It was two-thirty a.m. Meagan had gone home after our usual drinks and a smoke. I’d just locked the takings in the safe. I came out of the cellar and locked the door. There was a crunching sound on the back of my head and everything went black.
When I came round, I was slumped across the bar. I recognised Fish and his mate. Beside them, staring down at me was a feral-looking thug with crude tattoos. Before I had a chance to move or say anything, he pulled a pistol from his belt and laid the muzzle against my temple.
‘You stole something of mine and I want it back.’
I guessed who he was—Kurt Reed, Fish’s boss, the club owner out west. What the fuck was going on? First I had Mitchell on me, now this clown. I didn’t know what to think... whether they were on the same side, or if they both wanted it for different reasons. How he knew that I did it was another mystery Lenny could explain.
‘You’re Reed, aren’t you?’
He pushed the muzzle harder against my head. ‘You don’t need to worry about who I am. Just get it back if you want to stay alive.’
‘I’ve nicked a lot of stuff, what is it I can help you with?’
Fish snickered. A look from Reed silenced him.
‘I want that Makarov—and I want it intact. Capisce?’
The jerk had obviously been watching The Godfather and thought he was a wise-guy.
‘Yeah, capisce,’ I said, imitating him, but he was too dumb to understand. ‘Is it okay if I sit up?’
He gave my head one more nudge, then stepped away. I pushed myself up, sat on a stool, and rubbed the back of my head.
‘You’re new around here. You need to learn the rules.’
‘I’ll do that, Mr Reed.’
‘One week, or I’ll set these two dogs on you.’
Fish made a loud barking noise just behind my head. I wished I had an ice pick.
They wandered out, Reed leading the way, Fish trailing astern, giving me killer looks, and shooting me with a pretend gun. He was a twat. I wanted to kill him on principle.
I had no idea what was going on and there was only one person I could ask.
I returned to Turnbuckle with my bag. I didn’t know if the place was alarmed or not, so cut the lines anyway. The house was dark, as was the adjoining one. There was a back door with a single lock: no problem.
I carried the 9mm from room to room, making sure I was alone. It was her place; I recognised that perfume. I sat on the bed, breathed it in, and looked around trying to get a handle on who she really was. One thing that was immediately obvious was that she was organised and tidy. The place was clean and cared for: pictures hung straight on the wall, cosmetics and hairbrush placed neatly to one side on the dressing table. There was a book and a bottle of mineral water on the nightstand. I picked the book up and flicked through it: Wild Swans, how appropriate.
I was about to put it back when the bookmark fell out. It was a receipt from a parking lot in Mosman dated eight days ago. I wondered why she hadn’t taken the book with her if she’d bolted. It seemed unlikely she would hang around here at the same time as blackmailing the head of the Sydney underworld, but who knows? I laid the book back and slid the ticket in my pocket.
I was hoping to find some kind of journal or diary, something personal that might hold clues to where she would hide out. The drawers and wardrobe didn’t hold anything of interest. I found the office in a spare bedroom. The desk had a file drawer. I spent the next ten minutes going through receipts and invoices. As I went through each folder, I placed documents to one side to take with me. I could study them later. There was one marked personal: a bunch of hand-written letters. I took the whole file.
There was a portrait photograph of Carol on the wall in the lounge, those full, glossy red lips stretched in a wide smile. I smashed the frame against my knee, put the picture in the bag and dropped the rest. A few other photographs looked like family: parents, maybe an older sister who looked vaguely familiar. She looked like Carol. I took the picture of the sister, in case I managed to track her down in my hunt for Carol—Carol Todd, as I’d just learned from the receipts in the office.
The kitchen was clean and orderly like the rest of the house. The fridge was almost empty, the date on the milk expired by two days. I emptied the bin onto the table, flicked through the contents. Nothing significant other than a shopping receipt dated the day of the robbery.
I wanted to trash the place, rip her furniture and clothes, and take a shit on the dining table, but that would do nothing for me other than vent the rising anger I was feeling. There was no point in waiting for her to return. She’d blown town and wouldn’t be back until all this was long forgotten, if at all.
Finding Carol
By the time I got to the boat, it was almost dawn. While the coffee was brewing, I started sorting through the papers I’d lifted from her house. Much of it was worthless, but there was a phone bill for a different number than the one she’d given me.
I taped her portrait on the bulkhead in front of me, poured coffee, and settled down to read the letters. I scanned each one looking for phone numbers or addresses: nothing. Most of them were from her parents, a couple from an old school friend, and one from a Heather, perhaps the Heather that Lenny had referred to. Most had dates, so I piled them in chronological order and started with the oldest.
I made notes as I read, jotting down any references to places, people or events. Two hours later, I was getting to know her a little better.
She was obviously close to her parents, or at least they felt close to her. They mentioned ‘the mountain’ several ti
mes, clearly referring to their home in their scratchy, ink-scrawl writing. It didn’t help much, but it was something. There was little chance she would be with them, but I had to start somewhere, and maybe they would know where she was.
There were other clues. The surrounding area was hot, as they referred to returning home to the mountain where it was ten degrees cooler—so possibly Queensland or Northern Territory. They also referred to taking day trips to the coast, so they were probably within a few hour’s drive of the sea. It was too vague to be useful. There could be a thousand places that fitted.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought about what I knew. When I awoke, the sun was streaming into the cabin and I was soaked in sweat. My head was thick and I needed to eat.
After a quick, cool shower, I continued reading where I’d left off. Half an hour later, I found it. The letter was from her mother, and she spoke of a mutual friend buying a house ‘just round the corner on Bateke Road’. There couldn’t be many Bateke Roads located on a mountain close to the coast.
It was Saturday; the library was only open until midday. I bolted breakfast, swallowed some cold tea, and left.
When I told the librarian I wanted to find a road, and all I had was a name, not even a state, she looked at me sideways, but then led me to a tome that listed every street, road, and lane in Australia, with a reference to the appropriate map book or street atlas. There were two Bateke roads, one in Perth, the other in Mount Tamborine—the mountain. I put the book back and fetched the telephone directory and street atlas for that area. Bingo! There was an M & G Todd listed in Siganto Street, just around the corner from Bateke. I wrote the address and phone number down and left.
Back in the falcon, I dialled the number. An elderly male answered. I hung up. I’d only called on the long shot that Carol would answer, confirming she was there. An English accent asking if she was there would be a dead giveaway and she’d bolt.
As I cleared the northern outskirts of Sydney, I pulled into a petrol station to refill the hungry Valiant, and buy a map. The guy on the register advised that I take the New England Highway. ‘Much less traffic and fewer cops,’ he said. I took his advice, branching left 120 clicks further on.
It was the first time I’d been outside Sydney into rural Australia. The hot blacktop stretched into the distance below a shimmering heat haze. Mount Tamborine was just under a thousand kilometres away.
The low rumble of the V8 was hypnotic as I fought to keep awake at the five hundred-kilometre mark. I pulled off at a roadhouse, ate a stale pie, and drank some offensive coffee. The people were friendly and wanted to know where I was going. I think I came across as a dumb tourist. I filled with fuel again and kept rolling. Three hundred clicks further on, just past Tenterfield, I pulled into a truck stop and slept for a few hours.
The squealing and hissing of a truck’s air brakes woke me at two-thirty. I figured I still had another five hours driving, so I pulled back onto the road and floored the gas pedal. It was still around 25 degrees. I drove with the windows down and the radio loud.
At around eight, I cruised into the small country town of Beaudesert and stopped for breakfast. As I ate and drank, I thought about what I was going to do. Mount Tamborine was just a half-hour away and I needed to form some kind of plan, other than rock up and ask them where their daughter was because I wanted to kill the bitch. Staking out their house wasn’t an option, and from what I’d seen on the map, it would be impossible anyway. It was a small rural community and I would stand out like dog’s balls, especially in the Valiant. Across the road from the café, I could see a clothing store. It was time for a change of image. Fitted out with blue jeans, a khaki shirt and a pair of boots, I looked more like the locals and felt more like a dork.
I wound my way up a snaking mountain road. The narrow road plateaued after a series of tight bends. The view to the west was staggering and the houses had been built to take full advantage of the vista that stretched for what looked like a hundred kilometres.
Siganto was a right turn. I drove slowly along the tree-lined road, taking a long look into the residence of M & G Todd. I had hoped, beyond reason, that I might just see her there, but that didn’t happen. The house was a single-storey weatherboard, the garden well cared for. Two cars were parked in the yard but I didn’t have time to take it all in. There was no traffic. A hundred metres further on, I did a U-turn and drove slowly back. Driving from that direction, the house was obscured by a hedge, so I still couldn’t see much. Ahead and to the left was a corner store with a car park.
When I got out of the car, the smell of cooking and coffee attacked me. It was only an hour since breakfast, but from the small veranda I could see the Todd’s house, and who came and went.
Before I sat down, I walked back along the road, taking a good look in the yard. One of the cars was a hire car, a white Corolla. Maybe I was in luck. Part of me wanted to storm the door right then, but the sensible side said sit and wait. If it is her, you can follow and ... but I couldn’t just kill her. I had to secure that bloody Makarov .38 and get it to Mitchell before Ray started to dismember Meagan. What if she didn’t have it with her? If she wouldn’t cough up the gun, I would deliver her to Mitchell and Ray instead. It might be enough to get Meagan off the butcher block.
Back at the café, I ordered a BLT and mineral water. The owner was English and seemed to know most of the local gossip. When I pretended to be interested in real estate, he was happy to regale me with the prices of recent local sales, and a fair amount of gossip, but nothing about the Todds. An hour passed that way. I was getting antsy. I needed to push things.
I thanked the café owner and asked if I could leave the car there while I walked and checked out a couple of properties. He said it was fine, and to come in again for a free coffee. I wandered along the road with the black rucksack over one shoulder, having no clue what I was about to do.
The two cars were still there: no sign of people. The map showed there was a small street running parallel to Siganto. I walked to it, hoping to get a look in from the other direction. There were fences and hedges blocking the view. That left the direct approach.
I knocked on the pale blue door. A cat rubbed against my leg. I waited. A key turned and the door opened.
She was elegant, well dressed, an older version of Carol. She had a kindly face and smiled as she asked, ‘Are you lost?’
‘Sorry?’
She nodded towards the map I was still holding open. ‘I saw the map; I thought you might be lost.’
‘Yes ... yes, that’s right. I’m looking for Ron and Sue McIntyre. I just can’t recall their house. I’m sorry to trouble you.’ I turned as if to leave.
‘Wait a minute; I’ll ask my husband. McIntyre, did you say?’
‘Thanks, that’s kind of you. Yes, Ron and Sue McIntyre.’
She turned, stopped, and said, ‘Come in out of the heat. Would you like some water?’
‘Thanks. That would be great. It’s easy to dehydrate walking around here.’
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Just out here looking up a few friends.’
I followed her through to the living room. Like Carol’s, it was neat and tidy, but this one was filled with a lifetime’s collection of bits and pieces from all around the world. She handed me a tall glass of water, then called out to her husband.
‘Murray? Murray, are you about?’
A man in his late sixties came in through the back door. He had an easy smile and walked towards me, hand extended.
‘Murray Todd,’ he said with a firm handshake. ‘And I see you’ve already met my wife Gilda.’
‘Nice to meet you, Murray, Gilda.’
‘He’s looking for a Ron & Sue McIntyre: thought this might have been their house.’
‘It’s a long time since I was last here,’ I said apologetically. ‘Sorry to trouble you on a Sunday.’
‘It’s no trouble, lad, but I can’t say I know any McIntyres, or a Ron an
d Sue. Are you sure they live on this road?’
‘That’s the problem. I lost their address and phone number some time ago. It was just on the off chance that I’m up here, and I thought why not try and find them.’
Gilda Todd touched my arm and offered me a seat. Murray looked on kindly, rubbing his chin with his right hand, looking upward for inspiration to help find the fictitious McIntyres.
When I sat on the sofa, Gilda sat beside me. Murray took an armchair opposite. There we were, like a happy family group, when Carol walked in through the back door.
‘This is our daughter Carol,’ Murray said. ‘She’s up from Sydney for a few days, aren’t you, love.’
He indicated my presence to Carol with an outstretched arm. ‘I’m sorry, lad, I didn’t get your name.’
I thought she was going to shit. She was as white as a ghost, her jaw clenched. I looked at her, smiled, and nodded. ‘Nice to meet you, Carol. My name’s Micky. I was just explaining to your lovely parents that I’m up here looking for someone, but seem to have the wrong house.’
‘You don’t know a Ron and Sue McIntyre, do you, Carol?’
She turned away and said, ‘No,’ as she walked to the kitchen where she poured and drank a glass of water, then leaned against the sink in a state of shock.
‘Are you all right, Carol?’ her mother asked.
‘Yes, just a bit hot.’
I stood and said, ‘Well, I won’t waste any more of your time. Sorry to have intruded.’
‘No problem, Micky,’ Murray said. ‘I hope you find your friends.’
‘Oh, I will.’
‘Take care,’ Gilda said.
Carol was still standing in the kitchen doorway, her arms knotted across her chest, her cheeks flushed. When Murray walked past me to the door, I made a pistol with two fingers and my thumb cocked up, looked at Carol, and ‘shot’ him. Her wide eyes told me she got the message.
‘What’s that café like, the one on the corner?’ I asked.
‘It’s not bad,’ Murray said. ‘They do a good burger and chips, if it’s brunch that you’re after.’
Flank Street Page 6