by Peter Corris
'Your employment is suspended,' Dunlop said. 'Go down there and help your mate. I want to talk to Lucy for a bit. If you behave yourself, I'll let you get back to camera-breaking and that. Where is she?'
Russell bunched a large fist. Dunlop brought the pistol down on it in a hard, whipping motion that split the skin over the knuckles. 'Don't,' he said. 'I'm not in the mood. Where is she?'
Russell looked at the blood seeping from his lacerated knuckles. 'Upstairs, and she'll eat you alive, Dunlop.'
Taking the carpeted stairs three at a time, Dunlop went up to the first-floor landing, where he found Lucy Scanlon leaning over the rail. She wore pink silk lounging pyjamas and white satin slippers. The auburn hair, previously so carefully arranged, hung loosely around her head, but her make-up was immaculate. She held a glass in her hand and was slightly drunk. 'And just what was the point of that brutal display?' she said.
'That was gentle.'
'Oh, I saw what you did at the gate as well. Quite the Rambo, aren't you, Mr Dunlop? When you're not losing people and getting them killed.'
Dunlop studied her closely. On their previous meetings, he had found her self-centred and brittle, but with a calmness to her that suggested a plan or a purpose. Now, she had a lost, embittered look. Perhaps hating Dave and resenting Mirabelle had given her a focus. A thunderclap shook the house and the window above their heads was suddenly lit up by a huge, ragged sheet of lightning ripping across the dark sky. Lucy Scanlon screamed and lurched forward, losing her balance and dropping her glass. Wine spilled over Dunlop's pants as he reached out to prevent her falling. His hands touched the smooth silk and felt the softness of the flesh underneath it. She whimpered and clung to him as the thunder roared again and lightning flared. A gust of wind shook the window and rain hammered against the glass.
Dunlop gently disengaged himself, picked up the glass and kept a hand lightly on the woman's back as they walked from the landing. She was trembling and stumbled once or twice, so that Dunlop had to support her. They went into a large, femininely decorated bedroom with a sunroom and a wall-length set of walk-in closets with mirrored doors. A bottle of white wine sat on a table in the sunroom and she gestured at it. 'I'd like a drink, please. I can't stand these Sydney storms. They really upset me. I remember . . . Please, have a drink yourself, Mr Dunlop. I'm sorry I was so antagonistic. I really don't know what's happening to me, or what's going to happen.'
A bar fridge stood in the corner of the sunroom. Above it was a wine rack and a shelf holding different-sized crystal goblets. Dunlop filled two glasses with wine and handed one to Lucy Scanlon, who was standing by the window watching the rain lash down on the front garden.
'Thank you. You see, I really did have a very good view of your rather remarkable entrance.'
Dunlop realised that he was able to see directly over her head. In the flat-heeled slippers she would have stood barely 160 centimetres tall. Like the dress she had worn the first time he had seen her, the top of her pyjamas was slightly padded at the shoulder, and he became aware of her smallness. The body inside the loose pink silk was tiny. He looked at the top of her head and saw the dark roots of her hair. She turned to look up at him and he saw that what he had taken for elaborate make-up—the thin, arched brows over slanted eyes and the creamy skin—were natural features of her face.
She smiled, her full lips parting to reveal perfect teeth. 'So, you see me for the first time, Mr Dunlop. Your friend David's Chinese bride.'
Dunlop muttered, 'Is that so?' and drank some wine.
'Yes. Australian father, name unknown, and half-Chinese mother. Born in Hong Kong, educated in a convent and a brothel. You can guess in which place I met David, of course.'
'It's no business of mine.'
'Please, sit down. I need to talk. It was impossible with those two, but you, your business is people. You might understand. You came to talk to me, didn't you?'
Dunlop nodded and sat in a padded wicker chair. Lucy Scanlon continued to stand by the window. She drank and put her glass on the table. She wore silver polish on her long, shaped fingernails and several rings on both hands.
'I didn't come to hear the story of your life though,' Dunlop said roughly. 'I wanted to ask you about your relationship with Thomas Kippax. You realise you're partly responsible for Mirabelle's death?'
The hardness was immediately back in Lucy Scanlon's voice and manner. 'You'll have to explain that. I wasn't aware that she was dead.'
'I believe she is. You reported her missing to Kippax or someone close to him from the Sans Souci house on your mobile phone. That information helped two people to locate her. I very much doubt that any trace will ever be found of her.'
'I don't think you could prove any of that.'
'I don't intend to. I just want to know what you think about it. And this—Dave could have died at any time, but what Kippax's people put him through that night was as good as a bullet in the brain. How do you feel about that, Mrs Scanlon?'
'I've no doubt of it. I'm sure I have a different perspective on such things from you. Have you ever been to Hong Kong, Mr Dunlop?'
Dunlop nodded.
'The nicer parts, no doubt. The Peninsula Hotel, perhaps—on a police junket?'
'Not quite that flash, but you're right. I've only been there as a tourist. What's your point?'
'There are much less nice parts of the city, I can tell you, where life is much less pleasant. I spent some time in those places. My mother spent most of her life in them. David promised to bring my mother to Australia when our first child was born. It was a kind of pre-nuptial agreement, if you follow me.'
The storm was passing. There had been only distant rumblings of thunder and the lightning flashes were small and localised. Dunlop finished his wine and wanted more, but he sat quietly. Lucy Scanlon had a story to tell—something wider and more expansive than the narrow canvas of Sydney cop corruption and white-collar crime—and he felt bound to let her tell it. As if able to read his mind, she reached for the bottle and filled his glass, emptying the dregs into her own.
'I told you and Ms Hardy that I'd had a miscarriage. That wasn't exactly true. I had several. David insisted on the terms of the agreement and he continued to hold off on bringing my mother out. I was able to send her money, but not very much. I couldn't leave him. I have no way to earn a living other than the way I was earning it when I met him. I am vain and lazy. I know that. I was taught to be a lady and then I was taught to be a whore. I could no more work in an office or a factory than fly to the moon.'
She held her manicured, be-ringed hands up, not as emblems of affluence or sexual signals, but as symbols of helplessness.
Dunlop was embarrassed. His original intention, of confronting the woman with some of his conclusions and attempting to induce guilt to coerce information or hints or admissions from her, had evaporated. Here was a different story, going in different directions, and would have a different ending. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Scanlon,' he said quietly. 'I didn't know . . .'
'Of course not. No-one knew anything. Each time I became pregnant I hoped . . . and each time I was disappointed. I loved my mother, Mr Dunlop. You cannot imagine what a wonderful woman she was. But I loved David, too. At that time he was, what will I say? Brave and strong will do. Also funny. A good lover, when he was sober. My pregnancies gave me the chance to have absolutely everything I wanted, and each time . . .'
Dunlop forced himself to divert her back to the area of his concerns. 'Mirabelle,' he said.
'A terrible mistake. After I miscarried for the last time it was made clear that I was unable to have children. David undertook to keep his promise to me about my mother if I agreed to our adopting his illegitimate child. But it . . . didn't work out. I disliked the child and she disliked me. We fought continuously. David and I fought. And then my mother died. I came to blame him and to hate him and I stayed to make his life a misery. I admit it. It was ignoble of me, but it became my purpose in life. Just as my purpose now is to get dru
nk. Will you have some more wine?'
Dunlop opened the fridge, took out another bottle and pulled the cork. He poured full glasses, knowing it was a wrong move if Russell was lying in wait for him, but not caring. He was intrigued by the story and believed it. It explained much, but not everything. 'I get the picture,' he said, 'but I don't understand why you threw in with Thomas Kippax against your husband. Unless . . .'
'I am having an affair with him? Yes, of course I am, but what lies behind that is very strange. Perhaps you won't believe it.' She sipped some wine and coughed, struggled for breath and held up a hand to keep Dunlop back as he leaned towards her. 'I'm all right, thank you. I hadn't picked you for a kind man, Mr Dunlop.'
'You shouldn't,' Dunlop said. 'That'd be a mistake. As for believing you, try me. I believe you so far.'
'I wasn't always barren. Just before I met David I had a child, a girl. I didn't know who the father was until she was born, when it became clear. The girl was very dark, almost black. Do you follow me?'
Dunlop nodded.
'Her father was an American diplomat—very intelligent, very respectable, very black. The child was put out for adoption, of course. A year ago I was given some news of her. She is a whore, as I was, as my mother was. But times are different now, and whores are in grave danger. I can't bear to think of what will happen in Hong Kong when the Chinese take over. I want to bring her to this country, but can you imagine me doing so with David's blessing?'
'It's an amazing story,' Dunlop said.
The rain had stopped and sunshine was breaking through as the clouds cleared. Lucy Scanlon opened the window and allowed some of the cool, fresh air in. 'You are only the second person I have ever told it to,' she said.
'Kippax. Do you think you can trust him?'
She shrugged. 'Oh, I gave up trusting men when I was ten years old. Getting a black whore to Australia is a tricky task. Thomas is powerful and very wealthy. I hope I can use him. I know you think I'm hard, but I have to be. Now, thank you for listening so patiently. You said you wanted to talk to me—what was it about?'
Dunlop finished his wine and stood. He had hoped to drive a wedge between the woman and Kippax, perhaps even to question her about where Scanlon might have secreted his evidence, if he had ever had any to hide. But her story had shown him the futility of that approach.
'It doesn't matter,' he said. 'I suppose I wish you luck with your daughter, but . . .'
'You had an affinity with David and you liked Mirabelle. I'm sorry, I didn't. It's a very cruel world, Mr Dunlop.'
19
The Ansett flight touched down at Hobart airport a little after noon. Trish Tillotson and Phillip Krabbe had paid cash for their tickets and used false names. They carried only cabin baggage and went quickly through the procedures to take possession of their pre-booked hire car. Phillip used a driver's licence given him by Trish. He wore a grey business suit with blue shirt and red tie. Over his arm he carried a light poplin raincoat because the weather forecast had predicted showers and a temperature considerably lower than Sydney's. Trish had on black slacks, a white silk shirt and a mannish jacket. She wore medium heels and swung her hips slightly as she walked with long strides. As they left the terminal Phillip caught sight of her image in a plate glass window. The look of her thrilled him and the touch of her hand on his arm seemed to fill him with strength.
The red-and-white uniformed Avis woman indicated their car in the parking bay—a blue Ford Camry—and handed Phillip the key. 'Have a nice stay in Tasmania, Mr Jones.'
'Thank you.' Phillip took the key and opened the car. They kissed as soon as they were inside.
'God,' Trish said. 'Planes are sexy. I wanted to haul you off to the toilet for a grope.'
Phillip's hand brushed against her jacket pocket as he took it away from her breast. 'Yes, I know. What's that in your pocket?'
Trish took out the .38 automatic and put it in her shoulder-bag. 'This is business, darling. Remember?'
'But how did you get it through the metal detectors?'
Trish laughed. 'I didn't. I phoned up someone who works at Mascot. She put it in the toilet on the plane for me. You wouldn't believe the amount of stuff that wanders around inside airports. It's simple if you know how.'
Phillip started the car and drove from the open-air parking lot. He was surprised to see how close the hills were. The light had a soft, benign quality and the air was clear and without haze. 'This is nice,' he said.
Trish was consulting the directory she'd taken from the glove box. 'What?'
Phillip negotiated the turn onto a road that ran south. The traffic was amazingly light and moving smoothly. He took his hands from the wheel and gestured exuberantly.
'This.'
'Keep your hands on the wheel,' Trish snapped. 'It'll be as dirty as anywhere else, once you scratch the surface. Especially with Edgar Georges hanging around.'
After the Saab, the Camry was a little sluggish, and Phillip adjusted his driving style to it. 'You haven't told me much about him.'
'There's not much to tell. He was tough and ruthless and fairly smart until the grog and the money got to him. Now he's slow and stupid. Apparently he's scared as well, which is why he's down here. That's our great advantage. Now let's find this Horse Bay. God, it's so small and quiet. I wouldn't live here if you paid me.'
They drove through several coastal townships with Trish navigating. The beach, twenty kilometres from the city centre, stretched away behind a series of dunes. Horse Bay was a tiny cluster of buildings round a small cove and inlet near the southern end of the long, white sand strip.
'Lot 3,' Trish said. 'There it is.'
They pulled up in front of a timber and glass structure with a long, sea-facing deck, a flat roof and high TV mast and solar power unit. It stood in the middle of a half-acre block. A silver-grey Nissan Patrol was parked near the house and the bow of a powerboat poked from a garage. The nearest house was almost a hundred metres away.
'Bought with a bribe,' Trish said.
'Some bribe,' Phillip said. 'What did he do?'
'It's what he didn't do. He had the goods on some car importer who was ripping off the government, the exporters, his clients, everyone. No prosecution, and Edgar's got a beach house. I remember the stories about the money at the time. This about fits the amount people guessed at. He probably got the Nissan and the boat the same way.'
Phillip switched off the engine. 'Why here? It sounds as if Queensland would have been more his style.'
Trish climbed from the car, looking around at the landscape with distaste. The area was dominated by Norfolk Island pines and casuarinas, giving it a dark, threatening look. The sky had clouded over and the grass on the dunes was greyish and flattened by the fresh breeze coming off the sea. 'Edgar's a nut. He thinks there's going to be a nuclear war. I remember his talking about his fallout shelter one time when he was pissed, but I guess he thinks he'd really be safest in Tasmania. Also he goes after some kind of fish they've got down here. Don't ask me what it is.'
They tramped up the pebble driveway to the wide wooden steps that led to the deck. There was no garden on the block, just the drive, ivy ground cover and some native shrubs and trees. Trish turned the collar of her jacket up against the breeze and approached the front door. An envelope was thumb-tacked to the wood and she took it down and opened it. Inside was a key, a fifty-dollar note and one of Georges' cards. On the back of the card was written: Evelyn: Down at the wharf fishing. Please clean up and take away the bottles. Edgar. 1.30 p.m.
'That's what I hate about the country,' Trish said. 'Everybody knows your fucking business.'
She restored the money and card to the envelope and re-attached it to the door, aware that she was directing the operation too much. She drew a breath and turned to Phillip. 'Should we wait for him here and surprise him? Or go down to the wharf and surprise him? What do you think?'
For his part, Phillip was feeling uncomfortable, out of his element, as he had at the marin
a in Rushcutters Bay. He had to assert himself, somehow.
'Let's go to the wharf,' he said. 'If he's as fat as you say he might worry about being pushed in the water.'
Trish laughed. 'That'd be a sight to see. Maybe the blubber'd keep him afloat. I like it. The wharf it is.'
A rough track, more suited for four-wheel drives than standard vehicles, led to the wharf. The protection offered by the spits of land that formed the bay was enhanced by a small breakwater, and the stone and timber wharf, more properly a jetty, jutted out into the grey waters just inside it. Several boats were tied up beside the jetty but there was no sign of activity. Phillip took the Camry as far down the track as he dared, but had to stop well short of the cement boat ramp that ran alongside the jetty.
'Not exactly a tourist paradise, is it?' Trish said.
Phillip peered down the length of rough planks and white-painted railing. 'I suppose it's the wrong time of year. The boats all look covered up or battened down, or whatever it's called.'
Trish nodded. 'Can't see him. Has to be behind that shack at the end.'
'Would he have walked to here from the house?'
'Edgar? No way. Must've got a lift. That makes at least two people who know he's here, after Evelyn arrives at the house. Means we can't just dump him in the drink. Pity. Still, he's not to know that.'
They walked along the jetty close together, Phillip sheltering Trish from the light spray coming off the water. Trish pointed to a puff of blue smoke rising from behind the shack. 'Edgar's a serious polluter.'
Phillip nodded. They reached the shack, which occupied half of the end section of the jetty. A gate closed off the other half and Trish gestured for Phillip to open it. They went through and Phillip smelled fish and cigar smoke. Trish sniffed at the combination of odours and put a finger to her lips. They rounded the shack and saw a rod leaning against the rail, a hessian bag, a bucket, a plastic bag containing bait, other fishing paraphernalia, but no fisherman.
Edgar Georges stepped from a recess behind the shack. He held a short-barrelled pump-action shotgun in his hands and spoke around a cigar stub clamped between his teeth. 'Keep your hands where I can see them, Trish,' he said. 'And the two of you get over here or I'll blow you both apart.'