by Peter Corris
'This one'll sort you out, son,' Scanlon said. 'You've got the honour.'
The hole was a par three, 167 metres to a large green, bunkered at the front and back. A substantial target, but only to be reached by a shot carrying across at least a hundred metres of water. The land fell away dramatically almost in front of the tee down into a deep chasm where the Pacific Ocean churned and boiled. The rocky ledge on the other side of the gulf, about thirty metres in front of the green, offered no comfort to a short hit—a ball striking it could fly back, left or right, but was unlikely to go towards the pin. Gulls swirled overhead, riding the currents of turbulent air above the water.
'I saw Kel Nagle top his ball into the drink here in a Pro-Am,' Scanlon said. 'Mind you, he put his next shot an inch or two from the hole and still made bogey. Go for your life.'
Dunlop teed up and took out his four iron, put it back and selected a three. The light breeze was blowing to the left to judge from the flag but it could be doing almost anything in the air over the water. The mistake, he knew, was to worry about loft. The green was lower than the tee—the secret would be penetration and accuracy. Ordinarily, hitting over water troubled him, but he was deflected from that by Scanlon's attitude. He took two practice swings, addressed his ball, aimed slightly right, and hit it. The shot carried straight and true across the chasm and was then checked by the wind which seemed to have veered slightly to blow back towards the tee. The ball landed on the fringe, checked and rolled onto the green to finish three metres from the cup.
'Fuck me,' Scanlon said. 'Great shot. What did you do about the wind?'
Dunlop grinned. 'Play your shot, Dave.'
Scanlon teed up and took a four iron. His practice swing was jerky and he hit the ball high and short. It caught the ledge and ricocheted into the ocean. Scanlon thumped the ground with his club. 'Shit. It's fucking years since I did that here.'
As he bent to tee another ball a shout came from behind them. Dunlop turned to see Sammy Tadros running towards the tee. He was waving his mobile phone and sprinting, head down.
'Tell that fucker to shut up,' Scanlon growled. 'I'm trying to line up this shot.' He went through his routine more deliberately and smoothly and hit the ball onto the green. He turned triumphantly, waving his club. Dunlop was listening intently to Tadros. 'Did you see that? I could still get a half.'
Dunlop's face was stern as he walked back onto the tee and picked up his clubs. 'Forget it, Dave. More important things to do. Mirabelle's gone missing.'
7
Detective Sergeant Tillotson's place of work was the new police administration building in Darlinghurst. She had been assigned to a senior post in a unit investigating the potential of 'profiling' as an investigative technique. The method, devised in the United States, involved the careful examination of all evidence found at the scene of a crime with a view to building up a picture of the perpetrator. Tillotson had trained as a nurse prior to joining the police force, and she was reckoned to have the qualifications to assess the usefulness of 'profiling'. She suspected that the appointment had been designed to take her off operational police duties, a move she resented, but she found the work interesting and enjoyed having a number of men as her subordinates.
On the day following her meeting with Kippax and Georges she received a phone call and took an afternoon tea break. She walked along Oxford Street to Taylor Square and was picked up outside the court building by a white, chauffeur-driven limousine. The car sped on towards Centennial Park and Tillotson settled back in the deep leather seat. The glass panel between herself and her companion and the driver was closed.
'Just you and me, Thomas?' she said. 'But there'd hardly be room for Edgar, would there? Even in a flash car like this.'
Kippax nodded. He wore dark glasses even though the limousine's windows were tinted. 'Edgar has his uses. Impossible to deny that, but he is a shrinking asset, if you'll pardon the expression, Trish.'
Tillotson smiled. 'I know you don't think much of my sense of humour, Thomas. It's not my strongest point, I'm aware, but you don't need to tell me when you've made a joke.'
'Of course not. A small vanity. I don't make many and I was merely drawing attention to it. No matter. Something important has come up which I hope you can handle. How much free time do your present duties allow you?'
'Too much. Office hours, more or less. And flexible at that. I'm used to more activity. I go to a gym, but it's not quite the same.'
Kippax had only the vaguest idea of what going to the gym might mean, and he had absolutely no desire to learn more. 'I imagine not. To business. Scanlon's daughter is missing.'
'Missing from where?'
'From a safe house in Sans Souci.' Kippax glanced at his wristwatch. 'Since early this afternoon. Say, two hours or so.'
'How d'you know this?'
The limousine was cruising along Martin Road with the park on the left. Kippax gazed out at the deep gardens and ornate houses. 'The Witness Protection Unit is not quite as secure as you seem to imagine. I have a source. The information is good, believe me.'
'As information, it's pretty thin. What d'you want me to do about it?'
'Find her and keep her somewhere safe.'
'Abduct her?'
'Hardly. She's missing, possibly confused and upset. You're an officer of the law. Surely it wouldn't be a problem to keep her incommunicado for a short time.'
'How short?'
'I should think twenty-four hours at the most.'
'I get it. Long enough for you to put some pressure on Dave Scanlon. You must be really concerned about what he has to say, Thomas.'
Kippax stopped looking out the window and turned his head slightly to fix his gaze on Tillotson. 'Trish,' he said and swallowed, 'that is no concern of yours. Scanlon is only one of the items on my agenda, I can assure you. Don't waste your time trying to assess its priority.'
You're lying, Tillotson thought, but she nodded compliantly. 'I can look at Dave's file and pick up some of the stuff I'd need, but there'd have to be a photograph of the girl, a description of her clothes and so on. I take it there won't be a public bulletin put out on her?'
'Not immediately, at least. I'll arrange to get those details to you.' Kippax leaned forward and knocked on the glass partition. The driver's head bobbed and he increased speed slightly. 'This is urgent. Don't draw any conclusions. I may have to go away for a few days. I have a man you can liaise with.'
The car turned back in the direction of the city and Kippax resumed staring at the houses, cars and people as if critical of all this activity over which he had no control.
'And who's that?'
'His name is Phillip Krabbe.'
'Any relation to Keith?'
'His son.'
'And he works for you?'
'Not exactly. He'll be in touch with you, Trish. Ah, I think we can drop you here. It looks like rain but you should get back before it starts.'
In fact the first drops fell as Tillotson stepped out of the car. She thought she caught Kippax looking at her legs, but she wasn't sure. She knew he was unmarried and had always thought of him as sexless. Maybe not. She closed the door firmly and watched the limousine pull away. Automatically, she committed the number plate to memory. I know what you're doing, Thomas, she thought. You're putting some distance between yourself and this Scanlon thing. It must be a big deal She walked quickly along Oxford Street, contending with other pedestrians for the shelter of the shop awnings. She was often amazed at how transparent supposedly clever men were. Hard to understand, she reflected, how he's riding in a limo while I'm walking in the bloody rain.
Phillip Arnold Krabbe was thirty years of age, tall and blond, a little fleshy. He had been told that he looked like William Hurt, the actor, and meant to see one of Hurt's movies but had never got around to doing so. He wasn't very interested in movies. His father, paying for his education at Newington College and the University of New South Wales, had automatically assumed that Phillip would join the polic
e force. He had never seriously discussed this with his son, and was astonished when the young man, after his graduation with an LLB degree, announced his intention of going to Harvard to study for an MBA.
'What the fuck is it?' Keith Krabbe had asked.
'A Master of Business Administration.'
'I'm not paying for that crap.'
'I've got a scholarship.'
'How'll you live? Bloody expensive place, New York.'
Phillip did not bother to enlighten his father as to the location of the university. 'I've got some money saved and I'll teach rugby. I've lined up a job at a country club.'
'They don't play bloody rugby in America.'
'They do at this place. Apparently it's very fashionable in New England and the money is good. Also, I'll get the use of the club facilities, which cost the members a bundle. It's a good deal.'
Krabbe grunted. He was becoming confused. New England meant to him the north of New South Wales, and the idea of Americans playing rugby appealed to him as little as Pakistanis playing cricket. Despite his misgivings, he was impressed by his son's plan of action.
'So, when're you going to join the force?'
Phillip had observed his father's career from an early age and overheard many a muted barbecue conference, swimming-pool consultation and late-night telephone call. He was aware that Keith Krabbe was an employee of the state and a functionary for powerful private interests. It was only the latter group that interested him. 'I'm not, Dad. I'm sorry, but I don't want to be a policeman. I want to go into business.'
'Shit. What kind of business?'
'Consulting. Problem-solving.'
'Wanking.'
Relations between father and son improved somewhat when Phillip returned from America with his degree, some money he had acquired by playing the US sharemarket, and abundant self-confidence. Keith Krabbe's stocks, in the meantime, had fallen. The influence of the Roman Catholic clique within the force to which Krabbe had belonged had declined, and it had not taken long for Phillip to see that his father had been sidelined and abandoned by the masters he had served. He set up Krabbe Consulting Pty Ltd and used his father's attenuated name and reputation to make connections with Sydney's business sector. His American gloss, energy and enthusiasm commanded respect. Essentially, he hired talent to deal with problems legal, financial and personal, and charged hefty fees for the results he achieved. He provided a cut-out point between the operatives and the client. His discretion was absolute and his own profile was extremely low.
Getting a commission from Thomas Kippax was his greatest coup to date, and Phillip had decided to deal with it 'hands on'. The element of illegality likely to be involved did not worry him. His heroes were the likes of John Wren, Joseph Kennedy and, until things had come unstuck for him, Robert 'Captain Bob' Maxwell. Like many of the left-wingers he had known at university, Phillip believed that it was impossible to make a fortune honestly. He was prompted, however, to very different courses of action by this belief from those taken by his socialist acquaintances.
He had set himself a goal—by the age of thirty-three, he intended to have amassed ten million dollars and to have it deposited in offshore accounts safe from tax and auditors. The scheme had seemed feasible in the heady, entrepreneurial eighties, but had proved difficult of realisation. After almost three years of operation, although prosperous, he was a long way from his objective. The right association with Kippax could put him over the line in a couple of moves—and inside his time frame. He wasn't going to hang back out of scruples or fear of complications.
Now, he swivelled on his chair in the Brougham Street office, and looked out over Woolloomooloo Bay. A rainstorm had swept in from the east and darkened the sky, but it was passing and the late afternoon sun was turning the flat surface of the water a silvery green. Phillip was surrounded by the symbols of success—the computerised, carpeted office, the view, the swimming pool shared by the complex of business suites, the courtyard behind the security gate—but he was still the Mick, the copper's son, the reliable half-back, the conscientious but not brilliant student. And he was still hungry.
He switched on his computer and reviewed the data he had been given by Kippax—full description, shoe size and medical records for the missing girl, several photographs (headshots—front and profile, medium and full-length), dental chart, school record, lists of names of friends, hobbies, banking information, credit card purchases over the past six months, library and video borrowings. He had an audio cassette recording of Mirabelle's voice and a short videotape of her walking in the street outside her Randwick home. The availability of this mass of material was unsurprising to Phillip. He would have been disappointed if Kippax had come up with anything less.
He made a telephone call to Detective Sergeant Tillotson and arranged an appointment for her in one hour's time. At the time when most business executives of his standing were looking forward to their first evening drink, Phillip Krabbe changed into swimming trunks and did thirty laps of the short pool. He showered, slicked back his hair and put on a fresh shirt. His beard was light, and when he returned to the office he looked as fresh as if he had just walked in at his customary starting time of eight a.m. He greeted several of his departing employees amiably but with no particular warmth. He found friendship difficult and, so far, love impossible. His Catholic upbringing and his Protestant education, his mother's piety and his father's lubricity had left him confused and inhibited. A non-smoker and light drinker, he kept himself in good physical condition and planned to undertake extensive sexual education after he had made his pile.
Trish Tillotson gave her name to the security guard and entered the courtyard. A discreetly illuminated signpost pointed the way to Krabbe Consulting and she followed it, taking in the plush surroundings, the evidence of money having been spent. Hence, parking space, good security, high rents. She was impressed. As a country girl who had grown up with collapsed fences, rickety star stakes, cars lacking starter motors, she was admiring of city solidity and permanence. She owned a flat in Bellevue Hill, lived modestly and only indulged herself when on holiday because she could not risk demonstrating her growing affluence. This irked her and she liked to see signs of people being able to show what they could afford. It was something to look forward to.
The door to the Krabbe Consulting suite stood open and she walked in, glancing at the desks in the open plan office with their computer terminals, modular filing cabinets and pot-plants. A tall man appeared at a doorway and stood expectantly. He looked young. Interested, she held herself straight and quickened her step. Trish Tillotson had no time for old men. When holidaying in Queensland or the Pacific Islands, she selected young, virile companions and rewarded them well. Young and successful she thought. That's a change.
'Detective Tillotson.'
'Mr Krabbe. This's ridiculous,' Trish Tillotson said. 'Trish.'
'Phillip.'
They shook hands. Phillip felt an odd sensation as their fingers met. He wanted to pull his hand back and only just managed to stop himself from doing so. Something about her dry, hard touch disturbed him. It made him feel strangely young and . . . unmanned. The reason for this came to him in a rush of understanding. Trish Tillotson reminded him of his mother—the same dark, angular features, so unlike his own, and the same burning intensity in her eyes. But this was a woman not significantly older than himself and wearing make-up, a tight skirt, a silk blouse and high-heeled shoes. He was not unmanned, rather the reverse. He felt a throbbing in his groin.
'Is there anything wrong, Phillip?'
'No, no, nothing. Please come in. We have a good deal to talk about.'
She walked past him into his office, smelling shampoo and soap, a touch of chlorine, perhaps. As she entered the office she saw the light reflected off the surface of the swimming pool and she understood the chlorine tang. Jesus, she thought, a working body, not like the slobs I'm usually fending off. She was picking up vibes with every movement she made. She sat in a chai
r, let her skirt ride up and let him see her legs if he was interested. He was.
Phillip's throat dried as he sat behind his desk and looked at the woman. Her mouth was a narrow, dark red slash in an olive-skinned face. The sharpness was arresting, exotic. With that colouring you expected thick, heavy features. Phillip was astonished to find himself making these judgements. His practice, on meeting a person of either sex with whom he was to do business, was to assess first brains, then energy, then resourcefulness. What was he doing looking at legs, a mouth, hooded dark eyes, and wondering about the shape of the small breasts under the shimmering blouse and the severe jacket?
Trish Tillotson let her purse drop to the floor and crossed her legs. She could read the signs. This boy-wonder with the million-dollar office was hot for her. Thomas Kippax might have taken a sly look at her legs but Phillip Krabbe was ready to lick them. She felt herself become excited. Male excitement in whatever form it took aroused her. She wrenched her mind away from the possibilities and put her hands on the desk, letting him see her ringless fingers. 'Thomas Kippax,' she said, 'seems to think we can work together to locate this girl. I know how to look, you know exactly what we're looking for. Right?'