White Throat

by Sarah Thornton

  He probably didn’t donate personally, he’d have used a company. She made a note to check the WAGSS books for donations anyway. The Doncaster donors. She couldn’t shake the feeling that one of them was lying.

  The smooth white curve of the windowsill in Fullerton’s office seemed to accentuate the knife-edge in her stomach. All she’d achieved thus far was to confirm her suspicion that Helen was murdered. She’d eliminated Ralph but added Hamish. It was time to corner Blair the Mayor.

  She would play her cards carefully. She held the ace, two aces in fact, but she was aware that the chance of forcing a favourable outcome was still low.

  The executive assistant with the bouffant ushered her in with the same shark-like smile as the first meeting and proceeded to make a self-important show of placing glasses of water on the coffee table. Fullerton nodded obsequiously to the old dragon—some sort of weird power inversion going on that Clem could only guess at. With the assistant safely out of the room, the small talk ended. Clementine sat with her hands palm down in her lap, her feet planted firmly in the cushioned burgundy carpet.

  ‘Well, Ms Jones, let’s get down to it, shall we? I’m interested to hear where you’re at with the concept of a compromise.’

  ‘Yes, well it’s only hypothetical at this stage but I’ve tested the idea with key stakeholders’—she hadn’t—‘and it seems there’s a fairly solid consensus on what might work. All on a theoretical basis of course: if we were to consider an offer, what might we be prepared to request?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So, in broad terms, we spoke about a ten-year commitment. During that period, the mine would fund a monitoring program across the three known white-throat habitats throughout the state to get clear visibility of the total population, Piama being the largest of these. Combined with that would be a significant commitment to fox and feral cat eradication in turtle habitats across Queensland. In addition, there would need to be an amount allocated for research. And we’re thinking the Galimore Foundation could administer this fund and select the research that will have the greatest impact.’ She was mildly surprised—the string of hastily made-up rubbish coming from her mouth sounded almost feasible.

  ‘Good, good, I see,’ he said, nodding solemnly. ‘And do you have any kind of budget for these measures. Ballpark numbers?’

  Even though this was all her own creation, without any authority or input from the Foundation or WAGSS, the fact remained that this was where the campaign might end up in any event—failing in the bid to stop the port and desperately trying to get money to save the turtle.

  If minister Williams managed to shepherd the proposal through the department it all came down to the WAGSS legal challenge, the outcome of which would always be a coin toss. A deal might be the best option. Time to shoot for the stars.

  ‘Five million per annum for the ten-year period,’ she said confidently.

  The mayor’s face turned a delicate shade of peach. The number was clearly well beyond anything he and the company had anticipated.

  ‘That’s…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well…let’s call that a starting point…the parties would of course need to meet somewhere in the middle, one suspects.’

  She was warming to the task as his discomfort grew. Despite his concern about the number, on the audio recording the mayor had openly shown his enthusiasm for a deal and she could sense, sitting in front of him, how valuable to his public image it might be: honest broker, grand poobah deal-maker, saviour of the port and the community’s only hope for economic deliverance. Time to go harder.

  ‘Oh, and I should have mentioned an additional two million per annum if numbers in the Piama region drop below current levels. As you would expect, it will be situation critical if that happens and the need for funding will be acute.’

  ‘Oh, Ms Jones, we should keep this in perspective, you speak as if this is a bottomless pit—’

  ‘Fifty million is less than 0.5% of one year’s revenues for the syndicate members. If anything, we should be asking for more.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s quite right.’

  ‘Oh, I think it is. On a global basis, syndicate members turned over a combined total of more than two billion last financial year and before you say it, I know profit and cashflows would be a better measure than revenue but you can’t tell me those numbers aren’t healthy.’

  ‘Well, perhaps, but the mine’s profits are likely to be negligible for the first two years of operation at Piama, not to mention the three years of construction activity before that. And I think the concept of a penalty for a drop in turtle numbers might need to be reconsidered—it suggests the syndicate is somehow underwriting the turtle population regardless of other factors.’

  ‘But councillor,’ she remonstrated, palms uplifted, ‘that’s pretty much what the company’s EPBC Act submission said: The EIS demonstrates no substantial reduction in turtle population.’

  But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at her hands, fixated, his face darkening. She glanced down and stifled a gasp. The jagged cuts from her first failed mission to the Success were healing but the raised scabs stood out like black-red strings across her palms. He knew. She dropped her hands back on her lap instantly, pretended nothing had happened. His eyes locked on hers, blanketed with cold.

  It dawned on her: the latex surgical gloves. They were transparent, he’d managed to make out the wounds from the security-camera footage.

  ‘Your hands look very sore, Ms Jones.’ The tone was clipped, icy.

  ‘Hah, yes. I had a fall walking the dogs. Nothing to worry about.’

  He nodded, his gaze searching, creeping under her skin. And in his reaction, in the chill of his stare…she could see the possibility: this man, his ambition, his attachment to power—he could want something enough to kill. Forget being arrested for burglary. She had just become his next target.

  ‘Well, this is an interesting conundrum. I’m unsure what to make of you.’ He grinned, a lip-curling kind of sneer. ‘You come here offering what sounds like a compromise—an expensive compromise, but still, something to start the conversation—and meanwhile, you’ve been breaking and entering.’

  Was there any point denying it? She had to give it a shot. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, it’s perfectly clear, Ms Jones. I have video footage of someone trespassing on my boat wearing surgical gloves which, on a second viewing and in the torchlight were quite transparent.’ Why hadn’t she thought of this? ‘And a large amount of my wife’s jewellery missing.’

  What a snake. Denying the jewellery would be tantamount to an admission that she’d been there.

  Her mind was scrambling to collect itself, her heart racing. It felt like she was slipping, falling off the knife edge she’d set up for herself by coming here.

  Get a grip, Clementine.

  She gave a half-smile and clasped her hands together. A demonstration of strength—they may be cut and bruised, but I still hold the aces and he knows it.

  ‘Well, Mr Mayor, I’m glad you enjoyed the show. The home video must have been fun to watch. I didn’t get any visuals, of course, but I certainly enjoyed the audio.’

  ‘So tell me, why shouldn’t I call the police and turn you in? Break and enter, theft…should be enough to see you locked up again, I expect.’

  He wouldn’t go to the police anyway, he’d made that clear onboard the Success. She needed to stick a knife in. ‘We both know that’s not going to happen. And I don’t think your wife will be pleased if you suddenly decide to lift her jewellery from home just to make a point. No, what we should be talking about,’ said Clem, easing the blade against his throat, ‘is the joyous sounds of the master cabin. Now that was a show!’

  Ace number one had been played. A vein was pulsing in his neck, a rope-like thing stretching down to his shirt collar.

  ‘Ms Jones, whatever you have has been obtained illegally,’ he said. She could see the nerves flutter in the corner of his lip
. ‘It can’t be used against me. And you’ll be going to prison regardless.’

  Her heart thudded against her ribs but her anger, her rage at what she thought this man had done to Helen, was taking over the fear. She wanted to jab something sharp into his face.

  She shook her head and let out a long, disapproving sigh as if she was disappointed in his lack of intelligence.

  ‘Oh come on man, don’t pretend you don’t understand the impact of this. The media don’t care if the information is illegal. You know the damage will be done and your career will be over, at least for the foreseeable future. No doubt your marriage too.’

  His teeth began grinding, the strain rippling across his jaw. Time to strike hard. For Helen.

  ‘Councillor. I also know about the other thing,’ she whispered as if it was a secret between them. ‘The bribes, Blair. The bribes you’ve been receiving from the syndicate, from your mate Slippery Scottie the Meatco man. And it seems you’re branching out as a bagman too, distributing the largesse in Canberra via your brother-in-law.’

  She let the words sink in: stones falling through his concrete eyes, down through his spine.

  ‘And let’s face it, Blair, you’re not going to the police. Like you said, and I hope you don’t mind me quoting you: Not a word, not a single syllable to anyone about this. Ring a bell, does it?’ Christ, it felt good to mimic him. Like throwing an egg and seeing the yolk run down his cheek.

  He was twitching, then suddenly lunged forward in his seat. She tensed, rocked back, anticipating his hands around her throat, but he stood up and stormed to the window, gripping the back of his neck as he looked out.

  She quietly eased her way up out of the chair, keeping her eyes on him and found the house keys in her bag, held them firmly, longest key out. If he was going to do something crazy, she would do what she’d been longing to do for the last two minutes and fork out his eyeball.

  He swung around, his hands in tight fists by his side, spoke through his teeth. ‘What is it you want exactly, Ms Jones? I mean what is this bizarre little performance all about? Is it the turtle or is there something else going on here?’

  She breathed, a long slow breath in through her nostrils, the first decent air since she’d stupidly let him get a look at her hands. She wanted the inconceivable, of course. She wanted him to confess to Helen’s murder.

  But in fact, here she was, no closer to nailing Fullerton than she’d been when she walked in—absent a confession, which was highly unlikely. Why would he confess?

  It was the weak part of her strategy. Now her cards were on the table and the two of them, herself and Fullerton, were locked in an impasse. She’d suspected this was where they would end up; hoped she was wrong.

  ‘What I want, Mr Fullerton, is for you to tell me who it was that killed Helen Westley.’

  His mouth dropped open in disbelief.

  ‘I know you were involved.’ She didn’t, but at this point he seemed the most likely candidate. Or, alternatively, he was the Hyphen’s accomplice, and she fancied the odds there. Especially if she could divide and conquer, split him away from Stanton-Green. She was pretty sure he’d drop his boating buddy like a stone if it might save himself.

  ‘I suppose there would have been a paid killer hired to do the actual deed. You can tell me who that person was,’ she said, taking a step towards him, ‘and, you can tell me who did the hiring.’

  ‘You are insane. Certifiably insane. Ms Westley died of…she killed herself.’

  ‘Oh come on, Blair. Let’s not play games. Let’s do a deal together. You and me,’ she gave him a fully charged false smile. ‘I know it’s not the one you originally had in mind but it’s going to be good for you: you give up whoever killed Helen and I let you off the hook. But I must hear from you by tomorrow or else I’m going to share your little boat show—broadcast it as far and wide as I can.’

  She had no intention of letting him off the hook, of course. It wouldn’t be her choice anyway. Once she had a name, the police would finally do their job.

  His lips drew down in a thin curve, pinched above and below. In his eyes was a slow ticking. He was making his assessment, forming his strategy as she watched.

  She ran through the possibilities: if it wasn’t him but he knew who it was, he might agree to tell her everything. Or he might tip off the killer, who would probably contract the hitman again to get rid of her. If he didn’t know who’d done it then he was in deep shit anyway, exposed to public release of the audio from the Success. If shit didn’t stick, then nothing did. In this scenario he might even accuse someone, anyone, just to silence her.

  If it was him, of course, he would probably just have her killed.

  Two out of the four possibilities ended with Clementine’s death. She’d played her aces. She still didn’t know who had killed Helen, and she now had a fifty-fifty chance of being murdered herself. Maybe she should have folded early.

  The man watched a grey Chrysler 300C—a beast of a thing, huge front grille—ease out from the corner behind her as she pulled away from the council chambers. He slipped his BMW in behind.

  Moving slow, this Chrysler joker—a gap opening between him and the Commodore. Another car, a white hatchback, pulled out from the cross street and slipped in front of the Chrysler. Something not right. It was the speed—deliberately slow. As if the Chrysler driver was making sure the hatchback got between him and the Commodore.

  He followed, keeping his eye on both the Chrysler and the target, backing right off. If this guy was some sort of pro, he’d pick a tail easily.

  He closed the gap as they approached Piama along the hundred-kilometre per hour straight stretch and overtook, glancing left as he passed. Tinted windows, couldn’t see a thing.

  He took the first right in Piama instead of the route to the target’s home. He knew these streets well by now. Then he took a left and parked in the cross street closest to the target’s home, jumped out of the car pulling a baseball cap down hard and low on his head, walking quickly, eyes scanning left and right underneath dark sunglasses.

  As he got closer, he kept himself obscured behind one of three gigantic fig trees on the corner. He watched as two hundred metres up the street, the Commodore turned into the driveway. She got out and opened the gate, drove through and closed it. As the target’s Commodore disappeared behind the shack, the Chrysler approached the driveway, a long way behind, slowing momentarily then continuing on down the street.

  Completely hidden behind the fig tree, he waited for the car to go by, memorising the plates. 1ZH607. Victorian.

  CHAPTER 15

  Torrens’ Patrol was parked on an angle in the driveway like he’d rushed in or just couldn’t be bothered straightening up. She drove down past it into the backyard, rolling carefully over the rain-softened ground and turned in behind the shed so the Commodore would not be visible from the road. She’d driven in a state of high tension all the way, nervously checking in her rear-view mirror, but seeing nothing unusual. There was a white hatchback with an old man at the wheel, and a big charcoal grey sedan on the main road out of Barnforth but she lost sight of it once they hit Piama.

  The dogs bounded up to her as she opened the car door, Pocket poking his nose in then backing up to let her out, his tail wagging at top speed. She gave his ears a tousle and he reached around to get a few reciprocating licks in. Sarge, so polite, stood back, waiting for the crumbs and grinning with black rubbery lips. She went over to him, stroked the muscles through his neck and down to his shoulders, her hand tracing his size and power. She’d thrown a dangerous ultimatum at Fullerton; now she felt a thimbleful of her fear ebb away.

  Helen didn’t have a dog. What if she had? Would things have been different?

  She looked around the corner of the shed—no sign of anyone on the road. She knocked on the door, making it clang and wobble in the frame, heard movement from within.

  ‘Torrens. It’s me.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Hang on.’

  Th
e door squeaked open. Torrens hardly looked at her, turning his back and walking inside. She followed him in. He’d shaved off his beard and looked five years younger. Inside he had a camp stretcher, a fold-out table with a gas stove and a pot, an esky, his duffel bag on a chair in the corner, a pair of shorts folded on top. There was a football lying under a bench. Otherwise, the shed was clean and tidy.

  ‘I’m heading out tomorrow. Get out of your hair,’ he said, leaning against the wall near the cobweb-cloaked window.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘I was kind of hoping you might stay for a bit longer.’

  ‘Gotta get going, things to do.’

  ‘Back to work?’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Nah, I quit the job. Don’t need it now.’

  He’d been so pleased with that job. More than pleased—proud, determined. She remembered how he’d bought her dinner and a beer to celebrate his first pay, the only honest money he’d earnt in his entire life to that point.

  ‘So what’ve you got on the go then?’

  He shrugged his shoulders, bent down, rummaged around in the esky, pulled out a bottle of water and slowly unscrewed the cap, avoiding her eyes as he took a gulp.

  This was not good, not good at all.

  ‘Got anything stronger in that esky?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, knocked off the last beer earlier on.’

  She nodded, nudged her toe at the corner of a rubber mat on the floor, looked up. ‘Come up to the house?’

  ‘Nah. Reckon I’ll head up to the pub shortly.’

  This was all her fault. This cold lack of interest, this miserable void. She had collapsed whatever it was they had, a beautiful friendship, into this hollow, airless cave.