by Peter Corris
Kippax allowed the wet silkiness to slide around in his hands, transported by the touch and smell. He followed her towards the bathroom, watching the undulations of her tight buttocks. The bathroom was a huge, pink-tiled expanse with a vast mirror behind a lavishly appointed vanity unit, heated towel racks, modular shower recess, sauna and a nine-metre-square spa bath. Lucy removed her shoes and brassiere and stepped into the spa bath. She spread her legs and beckoned Kippax forward.
He moved like a man in a dream, dropping the wet pants and extending his hands. Lucy placed his pale hands under her crotch, sighed and raised her hands to her small, firm breasts. This part of it's all right, she thought. Almost fun. If I can make it good enough, maybe he'll come and I won't have to shit in his hair. She relaxed the muscles and allowed the urine to flow over his cupped hands. He moaned and leaned against the edge of the spa bath, his erection straining inside his trousers. He unzipped himself, wetting his clothes and releasing his thin, mottled penis.
But I need that extra grip, Lucy thought. She turned around and spread her buttocks, hearing keys and coins jingle in his pockets as he sank to the floor and craned forward. When his hair's full of it and he's spurting, I'll ask him about Dunlop.
21
Dunlop woke at ten a.m. feeling human for the first time in days. He went naked to the bathroom, rinsed his face in cold water and combed his hair. Less skinfold but more lines, more grey, more plaque. He refused to let it bother him. He wrapped a towel around his waist, made scrambled eggs and toast and ate them with some re-heated coffee. He cleaned his teeth. Two teeth-cleanings and two breakfasts in one day—a record. Two more than some days. Maybe he could become fat, happy Lucas Dunlop yet. He set the mobile phone on the kitchen table and pressed the redial button.
'Yes?'
'Krabbe Consultants?'
No response.
Dunlop drew in a breath. 'Mr Phillip Krabbe, please.'
The phone went dead. Dunlop called again. The number rang for half a minute, then the call was accepted and immediately cut off.
'Trouble at the ranch,' Dunlop said. He looked out the dusty window at the emerging day. The sky was overcast, but the cloud was high and there were breaks to the east. A light breeze was stirring the modest Marrickville street trees. He put on a lightweight grey suit, pale blue shirt and burgundy tie. His black shoes were scuffed and he applied liquid polish restoratively. The file on Phillip Krabbe he packed into a briefcase along with the mobile phone. The recently lost weight left him plenty of room inside the suit jacket for a shoulder harness and his .38 pistol. He dumped the dishes in the sink, collected cards, keys and money and went out to the garage. He didn't notice the weeds or smell the cat piss.
Dunlop walked across the paved courtyard, following the sign pointing to Krabbe Consultancy's suite of offices. His feet crunched on fallen leaves and he could smell the chlorine in the complex's swimming pool. Nice work if you could get it. Everything made of wood was oiled and weather-proofed; the glass was tinted and non-reflecting; the metal surfaces were polished. A male and two female smokers indulged their habit furtively in a corner of the courtyard. They looked up defensively as he went past. To the best of Dunlop's knowledge, lung cancer rates had increased since filters were introduced and packets of thirty had counteracted the possible benefits of lower tar and nicotine content. He was tolerant of smokers, as long as they didn't do it near him, and admired their defiance, as long as they didn't whinge when the whip came down.
He entered the door marked KRABBE CONSULTANCY SERVICES, swinging his briefcase. The young woman at the reception desk looked at him as if he were carrying a baseball bat, cocked, ready to swing.
'Yes, yes, sir?'
'I want to see Mr Phillip Krabbe.' Dunlop took his wallet from his breast pocket, perhaps showing the pistol, hard to be sure, and removed a card. It identified him as an officer of the Federal police force. 'Please tell him I'm here.'
'I can't. I mean, I'm afraid you can't see him.'
'Why not? No appointment? This is an important matter. Police business. I insist on seeing him.'
'It's . . . not possible, at this time.'
'All right. I'd like to see his . . . what would it be, manager? The second in charge?'
'There is no such person.'
Dunlop spun around slowly, taking in the thick carpet, pot-plants, the opulent reception desk, open-plan work space behind it with several private offices that appeared to overlook the bay. Only one of the three desks was occupied and the woman sitting at it appeared to be struggling to find anything to do. The office doors were closed and the whole place was alarmingly quiet. A photocopying machine beside the reception desk had not been turned on; all the filing cabinets were closed; even the pot-plants appeared somewhat wilted.
'I don't understand,' Dunlop said. 'Is this a place of business or not?'
The receptionist was clearly too distressed to answer. Dunlop was sympathetic but felt he had to press home the advantage. 'Very well,' he said. 'Could I make an appointment with Mr Krabbe for, say, Friday? At ten-thirty?'
The receptionist flipped open a book. Dunlop saw three days' worth of appointments unfulfilled and uncancelled. The receptionist turned the pages eagerly, clumsily. 'Yes. Yes, that will be fine, Mr . . .' she squinted at the card, 'Dunlap.'
'Dunlop.'
She wrote in the book, relieved to have something concrete to do. 'Mr Lucas Dunlop. Yes.'
'Thank you.'
Dunlop left the office. What was the name of that ship with no captain and no crew? he thought. The Marie Celeste. The receptionist would have made him an appointment for any time from an hour ahead to the end of the century, just to get rid of him. She had no idea of where her boss was or when he'd next turn up.
Dunlop spent the new few hours confirming his impression that Detective Sergeant Patricia Tillotson had not been sighted at work or at her usual haunts for the past three days. He drove to Rose Bay and found Krabbe's Saab parked neatly in its allotted undercover space. His skill with the pick-locks got him into the building, an old red brick block of flats, extensively modernised, and past the substantial security system installed at Krabbe's apartment. Dunlop felt almost as if he were on a training exercise—obstacles thrown up, tricky, but possible to overcome so as not to discourage the learners.
He was on edge again, the result of asking questions, lying and being lied to, opening locked doors. It was late in the afternoon and the food and drink of the morning were a memory. He prowled around in the big flat, noting the expensive hi-fi equipment and VCR and the small stock of CDs and videotapes. The books were mostly on economics and business management theory. A set of Cobra golf clubs looked as if they had never been used, likewise two Emrik tennis rackets. The Nike joggers had been for a few runs though and a football had been frequently handled. Jogging and touch football Dunlop thought. Fit, but fit for what?
The bed had been hastily made up after two people had slept in it. There were two condoms wrapped in face tissues in the bathroom waste bin. The hairbrush held a number of fair hairs and a couple of dark ones, thicker and slightly kinked. Dunlop opened the fridge, took out a stubby of Cooper's light beer and ripped the cap off. He leaned against the sink, drank, and sorted impressions: Krabbe and Tillotson were a team; they'd taken off for parts unknown—not overseas, because Krabbe's passport was still in a desk drawer. Very little disturbance of the clothes, shoes, luggage etc. Travelling light. But travelling where and why? Not running, but not advertising the departure—otherwise, why not take the Saab?
Dunlop finished the beer, placed the bottle and the cap near the door, and did another search of the flat. He worked patiently through the Rolodex but learned little other than that Krabbe had hundreds of business numbers listed—including several for Thomas Kippax, but the same for other prominent media figures—and a scant five or six for what could be friends and acquaintances. Touch footballers, most likely. No women. You were a sitting duck for our Trish, mate, Dunlop thought. The t
elephone rang several times, but Dunlop ignored it, assuming the office was trying to make contact with the boss. He had no suggestions to offer. He took a note of the three numbers for Keith Krabbe and abandoned the Rolodex.
Krabbe's chequebooks were in a drawer; a dry-cleaning slip indicated that he'd had a suit ready for collection a day before. The man had intended to be gone for a day or two at the most. Dunlop found a small key by the telephone, took a chance on objecting neighbours, and unlocked Krabbe's mailbox. Several days' worth of letters had collected. Therefore, no redirection of mail, no intention of a long absence. Back in the flat he cast around desperately for some clue. An empty hanger in a closet, between a tweed overcoat and dark, formal topcoat, suggested that Krabbe had taken a coat of some kind. Dunlop's anger and frustration tempted him to break something in the affluent, fussily organised surroundings. He resisted the impulse, collected up the evidence of his intrusion and left the flat.
'Fears are held for the life of Sydney Detective Sergeant Patricia Tillotson, who has been absent from work and her home for the past three days. A bag containing Detective Tillotson's credit cards and other documents was found washed up on a Tasmanian beach earlier today. Police say they are puzzled by the discovery. Detective Tillotson was not on leave and her current duties as a member of a special unit investigating modern criminal profiling techniques did not require her to travel to Tasmania. Detective Tillotson, who has figured in many arrests of violent criminals, has a reputation as one of the toughest female officers in the New South Wales force. Investigation is continuing . . .'
Thomas Kippax switched off the television set and leaned back in his chair. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he could feel the blood pumping and the pressure building up behind his eyes. A migraine on the way. It had been a stressful day at the office with more than the usual number of difficult decisions to make himself and several others to unmake. Lucy Scanlon's attentions the night before had left him oddly depleted. In the past, the sexual release had fired him up for business activity. Finding a woman of reasonable refinement who understood his needs had been a boon, but on this occasion she had pressed him hard on the difficult and distasteful subject of her mongrel daughter. Added to that had been the implied threat. Dunlop. A formidable figure, evidently. Kippax had begun to think in terms of a massive bribe. And now this!
He made himself a scotch and water. Another bad sign, he thought. Drinking alone. Something he scrupulously avoided. But he knew he would need the drink when the phone rang—which it did, within minutes.
'Yes.'
'You've heard the news,' Edgar Georges said.
'Of course. I can hardly believe you could be so incompetent.'
'One of those things. You can't cover everything. It must've happened after . . . my involvement. Everything was okay at that point, I can assure you.'
'Assure me! What a moronic thing to say. How can you assure me of anything? This could lead in all sorts of directions. She was . . .'
'Watch what you say. There's more and you're not going to like it.'
Kippax sipped his drink, wishing he'd made it stronger. The headache was building and the whisky would make it worse. He looked around the apartment—three Whiteleys on the wall, from a good period, sure to appreciate now that the artist was dead. One hundred thousand dollars' worth of carpet. It all seemed suddenly insubstantial and meaningless. 'Tell me.'
'There was a companion. You know who. He went on the same trip.'
'Jesus.'
'It couldn't be done any other way.'
'Christ.'
'I'm taking a trip myself. Business. I'd advise you to do the same until it blows over. Which it will. Don't worry.'
Kippax's mind seethed. He wanted to ask about the bodies and the chances of their being found. He wanted to talk about Dunlop. He wanted to explain that he couldn't drop everything and leave the country. He had to satisfy Lucy Scanlon and quickly. He had an empire to administer and no-one trustworthy to delegate to. The phone went dead in his hand and he slowly replaced it and became aware again of the glass in his hand. He finished the drink and went in search of his migraine medicine. The pain was mounting, blotting out the problems, blotting out everything.
22
Two days later, Dunlop sat in Keith Krabbe's office on the third floor of the police building in College Street. Krabbe held the rank of Chief Inspector. Many, inside and outside the force, considered it a miracle that he was still a policeman at all, let alone the holder of a senior rank. An enforcer for the most corrupt elements in politics, policing and business in the Askin era and subsequently, Krabbe had been singled out for criticism in several Royal Commissions and other inquiries, suspended, investigated and written about by journalists. Anecdotally, he was a principal in five murders and involved in several more. The reason for his survival was simple—Keith Krabbe had more dirt on others than they had on him. He was sidelined, bypassed, put out to graze to wait for his pension, but still intensely feared. He had aspired to the Commissionership and was a bitterly disappointed man.
Dunlop had refused coffee and cigarettes. Krabbe, a medium-sized man with a compact figure and a full head of dark blond hair despite his age, sat behind his desk and unwrapped a stick of chewing gum. 'I'm not going to pretend I'm busy,' he said. 'But you can get on with whatever you've got to say as soon as you like.'
Dunlop unzipped his briefcase. 'It's about your son, Phillip. When did you last hear from him?'
'I said get on with it.'
Dunlop laid papers on the desk. 'This is the way I see it, Keith. Somehow your boy got into harness with Trish Tillotson doing a job for Thomas Kippax.'
Krabbe chewed vigorously and said nothing.
'I saw them together. They'd taken Dave Scanlon's daughter off his boat and put her in Trish's garage. She was dead. I don't know how or why.'
'Proof?'
'No. This isn't about proof. This is about what happened. You should know the difference. You did things, I've done things, but no-one could ever prove it. You know what I mean.'
Krabbe had heard about how Dunlop had been railroaded out of the police force. He'd also heard about Dunlop and Kerry Loew. 'I'm listening.'
'I think Trish and Phillip went down to Tasmania to see Edgar Georges. He's got a place down there. Near where Trish's bag washed up. I don't know why. Maybe working for Kippax still, maybe working against him. They didn't come back. Edgar's taken off for Vanuatu or some such fucking place and Kippax's lying low. You'll never see your son again, Keith. Your old mate Edgar's fed him to the fishes.'
'Fuck you!' Krabbe said. 'This is all hot air.'
Dunlop shook his head. 'I saw them together. I saw his car in Trish's garage. She spent the night in his flat before they disappeared. They weren't planning to be gone long, but . . .'
Krabbe's rugged face was bleak, his pale eyes behind the rimless spectacles expressionless. 'Can you show me anything to back this up?'
'Not much.' Dunlop took the mobile phone from his bag. 'This was being carried by a couple of characters who were following me. I relieved them of it. It was keyed in to Phillip's office. I've got phone records of calls between Phillip and Kippax . . .'
'Nothing in that,' Krabbe grunted.
'Look, Dave Scanlon had the goods on Kippax and was going to spill. Kippax used Trish, Edgar Georges and Phillip to put the pressure on Dave. That worked.'
'You mean you fucked up. I read the papers.'
'You do more than read the papers, you know what's going on. Dave's dead, his daughter's dead, Trish's dead, Phillip hasn't been sighted by anyone for a week. Edgar's out of reach. I've resigned from the WPU, or you could say I've had the boot. Doesn't make much difference. Who's still standing?'
Krabbe got up and began to pace behind his desk. He scowled out of the window at the city skyline and chewed hard on his gum. 'Suppose you're right, what the fuck do you want me to do about it? I can barely get an order for a packet of paper clips through these days.'
&nbs
p; 'How's your wife handling it?'
'You cunt!'
'Let's stop pissing around, Keith. You know I'm right. You can smell it. As far as I'm concerned, Kippax killed Dave and the girl and got me in the shit. Trish and your boy are out of it. I want Kippax and I don't much care how I get him.'
Krabbe shook his head. 'I don't believe this. You're not talking about . . .'
'No. You're too old for that line of work any more.'
'It feels like I'm too old for everything. How could Phil have got involved with that bitch? I don't understand it. But then, I never understood the boy at all, not from the time he was little. We didn't agree about a single thing, and now . . .'
Dunlop waited, embarrassed, while Krabbe wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He took off his glasses and massaged the indentation they had made on the bridge of his beaked nose. 'Edgar,' he said.
'Not Edgar. He's the messenger boy. Kippax.'
Krabbe shook his head and replaced his glasses. 'Too big.'
Dunlop leaned forward as if to exert physical pressure on the shaken man across the desk. He spoke quietly, telling Krabbe what Scanlon had revealed about his involvement in the death of Kippax's brother. Krabbe held up his hand.
'Before you go on, stand up, take off your shirt and drop your trousers.'
Dunlop did as instructed. 'No wires, Keith. This is just between you and me.'
'Okay. Just between you and me, Dave was probably telling the truth. I heard about it. They fixed the bloke's car. I remember the funeral. Big turnout. But it won't do you any good. The man who did the job's dying of cancer.'
'McCausland?'
Krabbe nodded. 'He may be on the way out, but he's got a hell of a lot to protect. You wouldn't get a squeak from him.'
'He wouldn't do a thing for me anyway, and I wouldn't ask him. He set me up for the trouble that got me off the force. But that's not it. Dave said he had a videotape that proved Kippax was in on the murder of the brother.'