by Peter Corris
'Jesus,' Trish said. 'I think you're right. You're brilliant! Where's Dave Scanlon's boat moored? What's it called?'
Phillip was trembling with excitement. He almost elbowed Trish aside to get at the keyboard. 'Ah, let's see. The Mirabelle. God, it's obvious. It's moored at Rushcutters Bay.'
'That's where we'll find her,' Trish said. She pushed her chair back and stood. She was only centimetres away from him now, half a head shorter. She looked up to see his expression and found his face coming down to meet hers. She felt his arms going around her body and she gripped him fiercely. She tilted her head up and their mouths met clumsily, sliding away. They adjusted and kissed passionately. Her lips opened and her teeth pressed forward, bruising him. He returned the pressure and their mouths locked together, tongues thrusting until they had to break to draw breath.
'My God,' Trish gasped.
His hands had moved around from her back and were pressing hard against her breasts. He was breathing heavily and moaning as he felt her moving against him, her flat, hard stomach and pelvic bone grinding into him. Her eyes were bright with triumph. She had him now, without a question of a doubt. She became quite still and eased herself back.
Phillip almost lost balance as the contact was broken. 'What's wrong?'
Trish ignored the blood pounding in her head and the dampness between her legs. She gave him a cool, quick kiss. A mere peck, but her lower lip had split and he tasted wet saltiness. Her tongue darted out and licked the blood away. 'Nothing's wrong, Phillip. Nothing at all. But let's go and get the girl first.'
Phillip's Saab took them to Rushcutters Bay and Trish's police card got them past the security guard at the yacht club. The guard told them where the Mirabelle was moored and gave them a description of the boat that meant little or nothing to them. 'She's a thirty-foot ketch.'
'What does that mean?' Trish asked.
'Two-master. You can't miss her.'
'Is there anyone aboard just now?'
'I can't say. I only came on duty an hour ago. I can phone her from here if you like. Save you the walk.'
'That's quite all right,' Phillip said. 'Don't bother. The sea air will do us good.'
The guard shrugged. Sea air, he thought. This is no sailor. He watched the pair stroll down the jetty and take the correct set of steps towards the mooring. Then he forgot them as one yacht owner arrived to show some visitors over his vessel and another complained of a poorly tied-up boat threatening to collide with his. The guard loved boats but hated boat-owners. This sort of trouble could go on into the early hours.
Trish and Phillip stepped over ropes and avoided obstacles along the dimly lit jetty. Lights were showing in some of the boats and they could see people moving around on them. A small party was going on aboard one of the bigger vessels and drunken laughter rang out over the sound of slapping waves, creaking timbers and ropes and the hum of the marina's generator. Phillip took Trish's arm to help her down a set of steps. Despite her heels, she moved easily and confidently and didn't need help. But she let him touch her, feeling his need and responding to it. She hoped this little bitch didn't give them any trouble. Park her somewhere safe, call Thomas, take Phillip home and fuck his brains out. It was going to be a good night.
To Phillip's inexpert eye, the Mirabelle was just a medium-sized boat, showing signs of wear and tear. There was a light gleaming from somewhere on board and heavy rock music playing.
Trish nodded. 'She's here.'
'How do we handle this? I suppose she's entitled to be here. It's her father's boat and she hasn't committed any crimes that I know of.'
'She's a missing person and I'm a police officer. You're a lawyer, aren't you? Didn't I see LLB in that string of letters after your name on your letterhead?'
'Yes.'
'That's all we need. More than enough. Let's get down there.'
Trish hitched her skirt up slightly, went down the ladder and stepped onto the almost stationary boat. Phillip followed, conscious of her athleticism and not wanting to look clumsy. Nevertheless, he misjudged the step slightly and his shoes landed heavily on the planking.
Trish hissed at him to be quiet.
'Who's there?'
The girl's head appeared halfway up the steps leading to the cabin below deck. She was wearing only a bra and pants. She lurched, clutched the rail and the words came out slurred this time, louder and more alarmed. 'Who's there?'
'She's drunk,' Phillip said.
Trish stepped forward and held up her card. 'Are you Mirabelle Scanlon?'
'What about it? Who the fuck are you?'
'I'm a police officer. I want you to come with me. Your parents're very worried about you.'
'That's a fuckin' lie. That bitch isn't worried about me, or Dad. Only fuckin' worries about her fuckin' figure and her fuckin' self.'
'That's enough,' Trish snapped. 'You're in no condition to discuss anything. Now . . .'
'You're lying. I know you're lying. You're out to get Dad, you fuckin' bastards.'
She ducked out of sight and Phillip could hear a rattling inside the cabin below his feet. 'What's she doing?'
'I don't know. Mirabelle! Mirabelle! Come back here! I don't want to arrest you, but I will if I have to.'
The girl charged from the cabin, swarming up the steps. She had a long carving knife in each hand and she slashed at Trish, working the blades crisscross, forehand and backhand. She was very drunk and unsteady but the slashes were desperate and powerful. Trish felt a knife rip the sleeve of her jacket and she backed away, all thought of Phillip forgotten, thrown straight back to her days on the beat in the Cross and Redfern.
'You crazy little cunt! Stop that!'
'I'll kill you!'
Trish retreated until Mirabelle was at the top of the steps, still slashing. She judged her moment and darted forward, swinging her shoulder-bag into the girl's contorted face and landing a kick below her right kneecap. Mirabelle yelled as the bag, heavily weighted with a police pistol, caught her on the jaw and her knee gave way. She tumbled down the stairs, swearing, flailing for balance, not finding it, tripping and screaming as she missed the last steps and fell heavily. Trish followed her down quickly, ready to fend off a knife and deliver another blow if she had to. The girl lay in a crumpled heap with half her body across the bulkhead to the galley-cum-sleeping area.
Trish bent over her. 'Mirabelle. Mirabelle! Oh, no. Jesus Christ.'
'What?' Phillip called from the deck. 'What's happened?'
Trish looked at Mirabelle's open eyes, crazily tilted, and didn't speak. She heard him coming down the steps but her mind had gone blank. A good night had turned bad, very bad. She straightened up and moved away from the body as Phillip reached her.
'Knocked herself out, has she? I'm not surprised. She sounded so drunk. Was that a knife she was waving about?'
'Yes,' Trish said. 'Two knives in fact. Stupid little bitch. And now she's gone and stuck one of them right through her leg, see.'
Phillip almost gagged as he saw the steel protruding through the girl's right calf. There was a lot of blood but it was seeping, not pumping. 'Yes, I see. We've got to get her to hospital, but it's not too serious. Why's she lying like that?'
'Because she's broken her fucking neck.'
10
'I'll call you a taxi,' Dunlop said.
'Luke, you can't!' Maddy stepped between Lucy Scanlon and Dunlop like a referee separating two fighters. 'You can't just let her walk away.'
'Why the hell not?' Dunlop said. 'This woman's no use to us nor to anyone else, I suspect. Her husband wouldn't cross the road for her and I can't say I blame him.'
Lucy rose from her chair with deportment-school grace. 'The New South Wales police force,' she said, 'should be awarded some kind of medal for turning out the most boorish men in Australia, and that's saying something.'
'Get out, you bitch,' Dunlop said.
Maddy shook her head and watched Lucy stalk from the room. She was about to speak when she saw Dunlo
p's expression. Far from having lost control, he seemed grimly calculating. 'Call her a cab,' he said, 'and make sure one of the people here follows it. I want to know where she goes.'
'You don't think it was an act? That she'll go to the girl?'
'She's the greatest actress born if it was. No, I just want to keep tabs on her. The kid might have gone to her father's place. I'd better check.'
He telephoned the Randwick house and spoke to one of the minders, who said there had been no sign of Mirabelle.
'How's Dave holding up?' Dunlop asked.
'He's not. He's getting pissed. I think he's going to pieces.'
Dunlop retrieved his shoes from the car, showered and changed. Scanlon was due to give evidence the following day and it sounded as if he might not be in a condition to do it. They could probably stay proceedings for a day or so, give them time to locate the girl. But Scanlon was likely to unravel further the longer she was missing. The operation was falling apart and he felt responsible for not maintaining better security at the safe house. He drank coffee and began to go through the missing persons routine, familiar from his police days—phone the taxi companies, phone the school friends, put the word out discreetly to the police in Randwick and adjacent areas, send a policewoman to Mirabelle's grandmother's flat in Coogee.
The initial responses were all negative.
Maddy said, 'What if she wanted to get in touch with her real mother? I wonder if she knows who she is.'
'Jesus,' Dunlop said, 'that's a beauty. That's a complication we don't need.'
'Just a thought.'
'Yeah. Me, I'm all out of them. I'll need some help with that. There's some sort of adoption register, isn't there? And lists of people wanting to make contact with their kids?'
'That's right. And lists of those who don't want to make contact.'
'What a world.' Dunlop made numerous phone calls without result.
The officer who had followed Lucy Scanlon's taxi reported that she had returned and was back in her room. Dunlop was too tired to be surprised. 'How come? Did she spot you?'
'Don't think so,' the officer said. 'Plenty of traffic to hide in. Off she went, drove around for a while and then she came back. She says she's afraid, but she doesn't say what of. She doesn't look scared.'
'Okay,' Dunlop said. 'Probably doesn't matter anyway. She was probably just going to check into the Wentworth.'
'I wouldn't say so. Headed for the North Shore.'
Dunlop made a note. The phone rang. Mirabelle's grandmother was alone in her flat. Dunlop was on the point of calling his superiors to brief them and admit his frustration when Tadros, who had joined the Randwick minders, rang through.
'Luke? Sammy. I've been talking with Dave, if you'd call it talking. He got pissed and passed out, but he was going on about the girl. What's her name again?'
'Mirabelle.'
'Yeah, that's the funny thing. He said the name over and over but he said "the Mirabelle", like a boat or something. Make any sense?'
Dunlop's fatigue evaporated. 'You bet it means something. Thanks, Sammy.'
He rang off and was scrabbling through a wad of papers when Maddy came in with coffee. 'What's up?'
'You've read the file. What's the name of Dave's boat?'
'The Mirabelle.'
'Yeah,' Dunlop snatched at a printout sheet. 'Moored at Rushcutters Bay. You'd better come with me, Maddy. This might need a woman's touch.'
The guard at the marina scratched his head when he saw Dunlop's Federal police card. 'The bloody Mirabelle, eh? Popular boat tonight, but if you're looking for the kid you're too late.'
'Come again.'
'A policewoman and another bloke came a while ago and fetched her away. Said she was sick. Looked pretty crook and all. They had to carry her.'
Maddy said, 'Who was the policewoman?'
'Well, I can't say. She showed me her ID, but I didn't take the name in. Sorry.'
'Description,' Dunlop snapped. 'Her and the man.'
'Shit, I dunno. Taller than the lady here and thinner. Dark. That's about all. I was busy at the time—lot of things going on.'
Dunlop looked down the deserted jetty. 'Busy? Here?'
'That's right. There was a bloke complaining about his power supply and another one pissed off about something or other, and I'm here on my own so . . .'
'Okay. When was this?'
'They left about five minutes ago. What's up? I thought it was all right, her being from the police.'
Dunlop swore. 'What about the man?'
'Biggish bloke. Fair-haired, pretty fit. Could've been a sailor to look at him, but he wasn't. Talked about the sea air—here, sea air. I ask you.'
Maddy said, 'Did you see their car?'
The guard nodded. 'Just a glimpse. Dark, foreign job. I don't know much about cars—I'm a boats man. Must've been parked around the corner there. Took off pretty smartish. Are you going to tell me what's going on?'
'No,' Dunlop said. 'Stay here and keep your mouth shut. Where's the boat?'
They followed the guard's directions, trotting along the planks. Dunlop bumped his knee on a bollard and swore violently. Maddy got ahead of him and took the steps and ladders with more grace. 'There it is,' she said, pointing.
They could hear music coming from below decks and see a light at the bottom of a set of steps. Maddy went first and slipped as her foot touched the deck. She teetered and would have fallen except that Dunlop had come down behind her. Her foot slipped again as he steadied her.
'Something wet here,' she said. 'Luke . . .'
Dunlop crouched and touched a fingertip to the boards. 'Blood. Fair bit of it. What're you doing?'
'I've sailed on these things. Should be a deck light switch around here. Yes.'
A thin light washed over the deck, showing the dark spots that led from the steps to the dock ladder. Dunlop peered down into the cabin and saw more blood and something metallic gleaming on the floor of the galley.
'She was here,' Maddy said. 'That's her kind of music. What's that?'
'A knife.' Dunlop went down to the galley and saw the pool of blood and the marks of feet that had stood in it. The carving knife had no blood on it and was lying as if it had been dropped or thrown.
'What the hell can have happened here?' Maddy pushed past Dunlop into the living area. The music was coming from a Sony portable CD player. A half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort with the top off sat between the CD player and a sticky glass being investigated by a cockroach.
Dunlop was looking at the footprints. The man and woman had been here and someone barefooted, presumably Mirabelle. Someone was wounded, also presumably Mirabelle, but not with that knife. There was no smell, so not by gunshot. Another knife.
Maddy produced the remains of a towel with a torn edge. 'They bandaged her up and carried her away.'
Dunlop grimaced. 'Shut off that bloody music and see if you can find a torch.'
Maddy hit a button on the player and rummaged around in the galley and beside the bunk. She found a rubber-encased torch and switched it on. The strong beam played on the bloody footprints. 'There's not really a lot of blood,' Maddy said. 'Maybe it wasn't too serious.'
'Maybe.' Dunlop took the torch and examined the steps leading to the deck, then the deck itself and the ladder and the dock above the boat. His face was grim when he returned.
'What?' Maddy said.
'You might be right. Just a flesh wound that they fixed up. But there's another possibility. The blood up there looks as if it could have dripped from clothing, and then there's no more. None at all.'
'Tourniquet. A good bandage.'
'Either that or she's dead.'
'There's not nearly enough blood. There's no reason to think that.'
'Right. Except that every damn thing seems to be going wrong. I'm sorry, Maddy, but you're going to have to handle things here and it's going to be a bitch. You'll have to get it treated as a Federal police case to override the . . .'
'I kn
ow the drill. I've done it before. Where are you going to be?'
Dunlop was poking around in the galley. He found a mobile phone and put it on a shelf beside Maddy, who was scribbling in a notebook. Had Mirabelle called her father? Or anyone else? He resisted the impulse to get Maddy to check. She would. He discovered Mirabelle's wallet lying under the sweaty Guns 'n Roses T-shirt. He opened it and saw the cash and credit cards. A packet of Winfield filters and a disposable lighter were on the bunk together with a flip-top box of tampons. Inside the box were three expertly rolled marijuana cigarettes. Dunlop slipped the box into his pocket. 'I'm going over to Dave's place.'
'What are you going to tell him?'
'I'm fucked if I know,' Dunlop said. 'Any suggestions?'
'Only for you, Luke. You'd better get a grip on yourself or you're going to screw this one up completely.'
Dunlop tossed the phone into her lap and went quickly up the steps onto the deck. 'Check on her calls,' he said.
11
'This is dreadful,' Phillip Krabbe said. He was driving erratically, obeying directions from Trish Tillotson. The blanket-wrapped body of Mirabelle Scanlon was lying on the back seat. 'What are we going to do?'
'Think,' Trish said. 'There's a garage at my place that's never used. We can put her in there and think. Just watch your driving, we don't want to be pulled over for crossing double lines.'
Despite himself, Phillip felt a kind of excitement, almost overriding the fear. Nothing in his life or plans had prepared him for this, but he was close to being exhilarated. After all, they hadn't murdered the girl and his companion was a member of the police force. That had to count for something. And he was still excited by her, especially now. So much had happened so quickly, as in a dream. Everything felt slightly unreal. 'God, you're cool,' he said.
Trish's hand moved to his thigh and stroked upwards. 'Did you think it'd be easy, working for Thomas? It's not like running an ad campaign, or doing a consultancy for a government department.'