Get Even

by Peter Corris

  Phillip nodded and switched on his computer. 'It's all here.'

  'That's good. Before we start, do you know why Thomas wants her found?'

  'No, and I have no intention of asking him.'

  'What if I was to tell you?'

  'Why would you do that?'

  Tillotson saw that she had a version of an innocent on her hands. She was slightly disappointed but still stimulated. Innocence needed to be eroded rather than assaulted. 'Good question,' she said. 'Let's see what you've got there, Phillip.'

  8

  'If you think I'm going to just sit at home while my kid's missing you're crazy,' Scanlon said. 'I'm going to help find her.'

  'You'll do as you're bloody-well told,' Dunlop replied. 'This might have nothing to do with your business. If it does, it could be a ruse to flush you out. If it's something else, you'll hear soon enough.'

  'You cold-hearted cunt. This's my daughter we're talking about.'

  The two men were standing in the driveway of Scanlon's house after rushing from the golf course. It had taken physical action from Dunlop to prevent Scanlon leaping into a car and taking off on his own, and the argument had been going on ever since.

  Scanlon's concern was totally genuine, showing in the anxiety with which he chain-smoked and plucked at the blemishes on his skin. Dunlop could not simply drive away and leave him in his agony. 'We don't know enough yet, Dave. Maybe you can help when we've got all the facts. Tell you what I can do, I'll send your wife over and . . .'

  Scanlon shook his head, dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out under the heel of his golf shoe. The spikes gouged the gravel. 'No, no point in that. Me and Lucy haven't got much to say to each other these days. A thing like this, she'd just blame me and I'd blame her.'

  'Maybe that's what the kid was running away from.'

  Scanlon lit another cigarette. He had gone without for almost twenty-four hours, but had begged a packet from one of the minders after getting the news about Mirabelle. 'That's a great help,' he said bitterly. 'You blaming both of us.'

  'I'm sorry,' Dunlop said. 'I know it's lousy for you. But use your head, Dave. You must've worked on missing kid cases. Did you ever see one where a parent was any use?'

  Scanlon straightened his shoulders which had sagged noticeably, reducing his height. He no longer stood his full four inches taller than Dunlop. 'I'll give you a couple of hours. Then I'm going to get to work on it myself and Christ help anyone who tries to stop me.'

  It was the old bravado, Dunlop recognised. All the favours due to him had been called in long ago. But in a way, Dunlop was relieved to see fantasy taking over. He had constrained Scanlon easily when he had made his rush for the car and was surprised at the big man's lack of strength. Something had eaten David Scanlon away physically and emotionally, and Dunlop had begun to form a clearer picture of what it was. He lifted the expensive clubs and buggy from the boot of the car and waited for Scanlon to take them. The minders were moving into place around and inside the house.

  He attempted a soothing, collaborative tone. 'Soon as I know anything, you'll hear, Dave. And vice-versa. Right?'

  Scanlon steadied the golf bag for a moment, then let it fall clattering to the ground. He kicked the buggy so that it careered away into a flowerbed. 'Fuck it,' he said. 'Fuck everything. Fuck you, Carter.'

  Dunlop drove to Sans Souci on the speed limit with his golf clubs rattling in the boot. The sound reproached him. Should he have imposed greater security at the safe house? Had it been frivolous to go golfing with the client? Had his pleasure in making contact with Maddy again distorted his judgement? Dunlop was not a reflective man and was not given to self-criticism. He shrugged the questions away and concentrated on what to do next. Obvious. Find the girl. Protect the client. Minimise the damage.

  Maddy was waiting for him outside the house. He drew a deep breath and resolved not to get into recriminations, aware that the responsibility was mostly his.

  'How's Mum taking it?' he asked. He touched Maddy's hand briefly, hoping she would understand what the slight contact meant.

  'Coolly, I'd have to say. She says Mirabelle's taken off before. Scorn for our security would be the main thrust of her comments so far.'

  Dunlop kept his voice neutral. 'How did she get away?'

  'Easily.'

  'Come on, Maddy. You know what I mean.'

  'Piecing it together, it looks like she went down to the boat dock fully dressed. Stripped off, put her gear in a garbag and went into the water. She's an excellent swimmer, apparently. We found the garbag with a damp pair of knickers in it over by the point. Nearly a kilometre away. Pretty good swim.'

  'And no-one noticed she was gone?'

  'Early on, in the morning, before you saw her, she sat in the motor launch for a while and read. The boat can't be started and there's no dinghy. She went down there again with the book later. The water's uninviting. No-one thought about it. It was a mistake, I'm sorry.'

  'Not blaming you. I was slack last night. I should have looked the set-up over more closely.'

  'Maybe that's my fault?'

  'Knock it off, Maddy. Did she take anything apart from her clothes?'

  'Nothing, except the book—David Eddings, Pawn of Prophecy, if you want to know. Oh, and money. Probably a hundred or so. She wasn't kept short, according to her mother.'

  She sounded bitter and Dunlop wanted to comfort her but couldn't. 'Does her mother have any ideas about where she might have gone?'

  'No. She's barely interested. What about the father?'

  'He was too distraught to ask, but I'll get on to that. She didn't say anything, do anything out of the ordinary?'

  'Fuck it, Luke. She was here about twenty hours all up. Who's to say what's normal with her? She seemed much the same to me—bolshy.'

  'Right. Look, her father said he got a phone call from her this morning. I suppose someone was listening in on that. Is there a tape? She might have said something useful.'

  'Do we have to stand here?'

  'No, course not. Let's have a look at the boat. There might be something.'

  'There isn't. We've been over it, but you can get some idea of . . . I've just remembered, she took a towel. She thought it out pretty good.'

  'And wore her knickers,' Dunlop said. 'Modest, that's a comfort. What about the phone call?'

  They walked around the house and down the bricked path to the boat dock. Maddy wore jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt. Dunlop was suddenly aware of his golf spikes clacking on the path. He felt ridiculous, untied the laces and kicked the shoes off.

  'We have a fuck-up,' Maddy said. 'Turns out Lady Muck had a mobile phone in her handbag and nobody spotted it. Mirabelle must've called on that. Lucy says she made a couple of calls as well, but she won't say who to. Got coy when asked. Shit, I just didn't think of it! I'm too fucking working-class to anticipate people having mobile phones.'

  'How did you find out?'

  'One of the blokes picked it up on a scanner when she made a call. Just the static, she couldn't get through. She handed it over meek as a lamb. Didn't seem troubled. Nothing worries our Lucy except wearing the same clothes two days in a row.'

  They were close to the short wooden pier and Dunlop noticed that the cyclone fence ended a couple of metres before the water. Maddy saw where he was looking. 'Sensors installed in there,' she said. 'There's no sneaking out that way.'

  Dunlop nodded and stepped onto the boards. The sock on his right foot snagged on a splinter and he swore. He moved gingerly to the edge of the planks and looked down at the water. It was murky with a slight oil slick and bits of plastic floating on the surface. 'You're right,' he said. 'I wouldn't fancy swimming in that.'

  'I'd like to toss the mother in.'

  'She's really getting to you, isn't she?'

  'She's not my type, that's for sure. But it's more than that. I get the feeling she knows something I don't. It's giving me the shits.'

  'Funny. I've got the same feeling about Dave. He's h
olding something back.'

  'Must've been fabulous fun for the kid, hanging out with two adults who hate each other and whose hobby is keeping secrets.'

  Dunlop reached the end of the dock and surveyed the short distance from the ladder to the launch. He jumped and landed lightly on the salt-stained deck. The vessel rocked slightly and he steadied himself by gripping the top of the cabin. A folding chair stood between the cabin and the rail, mostly concealed from anyone looking down from the house or yard. 'Where'd she swim to?'

  Maddy pointed to a heavily wooded spit of land sticking out into the water a considerable distance away. The river was calm but he could see the swirl of a current. The water was dark where overhanging trees blotted out the sun. All in all not an inviting prospect, and it would have taken some determination to make the swim. The launch rocked again as Maddy jumped. She joined him by the rail. 'As far as we know, she'd never been in this part of the world before, but she picked the right place to swim to.' She pointed to a muddy bank, not far from the mooring. 'If she'd gone in there she'd have got nowhere. There's some impenetrable privet and crap further up.'

  'The kid can handle herself, it seems,' Dunlop said. 'I'm not sure if that's good or bad.'

  'Good, surely.'

  Dunlop shrugged. 'The longer she's on the loose the more time for the screws to be turned on Dave. I don't suppose she left a note or anything.' He caught Maddy's look of reproach. 'Sorry. I'm clutching at straws. Well, I suppose I'd better go and talk to Lucy. Pity it wasn't her who did the flit. I don't think he would have given two hoots. And you say the feeling's mutual?'

  Dunlop hauled on the mooring rope until the launch bumped against the pylons. He gripped the ladder and followed Maddy back up onto the deck.

  'I don't think she hates him,' Maddy said. 'She's more like vaguely hostile. No, that's not it—uninterested, indifferent.'

  'D'you think she's interested in anyone else?'

  'Apart from herself? Now that's a good question.'

  Lucy Scanlon lifted one sculptured eyebrow as Dunlop, carrying his golf shoes, and Maddy entered the sitting room. She was elegantly arranged in a chair, reading a magazine and wearing the dress she had worn the day before but somehow managing to make it look fresh and new. Her slender legs were neatly arranged to advantage, her high-heeled shoes complementing her shapely ankles and her short skirt riding up to mid-thigh.

  'Well, we're a little late on the scene, aren't we, Mr Dunlop? Have a good innings or set or whatever it's called?'

  'Round,' Dunlop said. 'No, not really. Your husband's a very distressed man, Mrs Scanlon.'

  'I can imagine.'

  Dunlop sat down in a chair opposite Lucy while Maddy moved restlessly across to stand near the window. 'Can you? What I can't imagine is why you're taking this all so calmly. You know that your lives are in danger and . . .'

  'We knew that when a petrol bomb exploded in our beach house,' Lucy said crisply. 'I lost some irreplaceable things in that little incident.'

  Dunlop's temper snapped. 'Things!' he shouted. 'Who the hell cares about things? We're talking about people here—your husband and your daughter. Have you no feelings at all?'

  'I'll thank you not to shout. I've had fourteen years of a shouting man and that's more than enough.'

  Dunlop was about to shout again when he caught the meaning of her words. 'Mirabelle's sixteen, isn't she?'

  'Ah, the man has a brain after all.' Lucy turned her head to look at Maddy, who had stopped fidgeting with a curtain and was looking at Dunlop. 'Got it too, have you, dear?'

  Maddy lowered herself slowly into a padded armchair. An ashtray containing several filtered butts teetered and she steadied it.

  'Mirabelle's,' Lucy said. 'Do you honestly think I'd allow a daughter of mine to take up that disgusting, mindless habit?'

  'She's not your daughter,' Dunlop said.

  'Give the man a prize. Of course she's not, not in looks, not in brains, not in manners. She's David's child by some little scrubber he rubbed up against somewhere. I lost my child, miscarried, and in a weak moment I agreed to our adopting David's by-blow. I have never ceased to regret it.'

  'But you brought her up,' Maddy said. 'You must care for her in some way.'

  Lucy shrugged. 'Not a jot. Nor she for me. You must have seen that.'

  Dunlop struggled to absorb her information and its implications. 'Does she know you're not her mother?'

  'She found out a year or so ago.'

  'How?' Maddy said.

  'David told her after we'd had an argument. If there had ever been any chance of our having an amicable relationship that ended it. Not that there was much chance.'

  Dunlop leaned forward in his chair, feeling ridiculous in his stockinged feet. 'All that aside, do you have any idea where she might have gone?'

  The elegant shrug again. 'Not the slightest. Nor do I care, and I have to tell you this, Mr Dunlop and Ms Hardy, that I wish to leave this place at once.'

  'I can't permit that,' Dunlop said.

  Lucy's small, even white teeth glittered as she smiled. 'You can't prevent it. I have some very influential friends.'

  9

  Trish Tillotson quickly reviewed the information Phillip Krabbe had on Mirabelle Scanlon and her disappearance.

  'Sounds like a pretty resourceful kid, doesn't she?' Phillip said.

  'You fancy her looks?'

  'Come on, she's a child.'

  Trish found this remark comforting. It had been some time since she'd had any satisfactory sex, let alone an agreeable affair. The big, clean-smelling young man sitting beside her in front of the computer screen was shaping as an ideal candidate.

  'Whoever it is inside the WPU giving Thomas this information must be very close to the action. See this detail—cash in hand, credit cards. I don't suppose you know who it is?'

  Phillip shook his head. He found proximity to this woman, almost physical contact, exciting. She had taken off her jacket and shaken out her hair so that it fell over her narrow, straight shoulders. He wanted to move the hair and slide his hands down from the back of her neck inside her blouse. He felt himself blushing at the thought of doing this. Gross, he thought. Totally unprofessional and offensive. He forced himself to concentrate on the question. 'No. No idea. Does it matter, Trish?'

  'It could. When you work for people like Thomas you find that they only tell you as much as they think you need to know. It might be enough, it might not. Have you worked for him for long?'

  Phillip shook his head. 'This is the first time. How have you found him?'

  'Like a snake, ready to shed his skin or bite off his own tail. He's a very dangerous man. Pardon me for asking, but you seem to be doing pretty well here, Phillip. Why would you want to have anything to do with this dirty business?'

  'I wasn't aware that it was particularly dirty. All business is dirty to some degree, anyway.'

  'Not like this.'

  'I want the money.'

  Fair enough, Trish thought. Your eyes are open and you 're fair game. 'Have you got anything to drink around here?'

  'Yes, of course. Whatever you like.'

  'Gin and tonic then. You?'

  Health-conscious Phillip hadn't drunk alcohol on an empty stomach since his university days, when two cans of beer after a football game would put him on his ear. Now he drank socially and for business reasons only, always carefully. But the slanted dark eyes and the sharp nose and the pointed shapes under the silk blouse blew caution away. 'Yes, why not?'

  He got up and went into the service room. He found that he was nervous and clumsy, but he managed to prepare the drinks, even to remember to slice a lemon and drop a piece into each glass. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on the task. What was he supposed to be doing here? Providing the policewoman with whatever information she required and reporting progress back to Thomas Kippax. He carried the drinks back and adopted a forceful, businesslike manner. 'Cheers. Now, what else are you going to need? I can get someo
ne to watch those friends' houses. I've got contacts in two of the taxi companies. Maybe she was picked up close to Sans Souci. I could get a scanner to work the area near Scanlon's house in Randwick—see if she makes contact. What do you think?'

  Trish Tillotson sipped her drink and sucked on an ice cube. She was thinking that she'd like to unbuckle his belt and take a mouthful of him. She could sense his own interest, but was impressed by his attention to the matter at hand. She knew she'd have to play him carefully. 'Good suggestions, but that'd all take time, Phillip, and we don't have much. What this needs is imagination, an intuitive leap. Are you any good at those?'

  Phillip shook his head. 'Afraid not. I'm pretty much a data analysis man myself. Sorry.'

  'Willing to try?'

  She couldn't keep the double entendre edge out of the question and Phillip hadn't failed to notice it. Imagination might not be his strongest point but he was trained to pick up hints. His mouth dried and he cleared his throat, realising that he sounded like a nervous schoolboy. 'Of course.'

  Trish felt she was on her mettle. She scrolled through the data, tapping the keys expertly with her long, thin fingers, hoping for inspiration. 'You have to look for a theme,' she said. 'A pattern, a series of things that add up and give you a clue.'

  'What do you mean?' Phillip felt the gin working on him, he moved closer and put his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  'I found a missing kid once who'd gone without a trace, apparently. But there were hints in his room. Pictures of lions and, you won't believe this, I got onto it because of a rickety chair.' She turned and favoured him with one of her witch smiles—the dark slash of a mouth opened over slightly spaced, slightly protuberant teeth.

  'I don't get it.'

  'The back of the chair creaked, the struts were loose. He wanted to be a lion-tamer. He must've messed about with that chair for years and in the end he'd run off to join a circus.'

  Phillip laughed. 'Seriously?'

  'Seriously.'

  He bent down so that their heads were close together and watched the screen images dissolve and re-form as she touched the keys. 'Stop,' he said. 'Go back to her interests. Uh huh. Go on to those credit card purchases. Right. Water and boats. That's the theme. She was last seen on a boat. She swims away. She bought deck shoes and a waterproof stopwatch. Boats.'