It was a couple of minutes after 5 a.m. when he worked out that the $50 000 would mean $2000 per photocopied page of the 25-page report. It was the very difference, before tax, of the salary package between inspector and deputy commissioner. At that very moment he had his first erection in almost three months. The sensation he experienced at being a complete man again excited him beyond control. He tapped his sleeping wife on the shoulder. Midway through the most driven love-making session they had had for years, just before his orgasm, he stopped to tell the now breathless and elated Dorothy of his willingness to stand by the photocopy machine.
Like the pigeon pair they were always thought to be, Dorothy seized on the plan. The ker-ching of cash registers drowned out the hum of the sadness she had been carrying. Their love-making intensified, taking Mack to a place he hadn’t been since he was a young constable. The days when, after emptying the pockets of junkies, Mack would come home late at night to his first wife to make excitable love till the wee hours of the morning. At last, he thought, he now had a second chance at love … and the lovely.
Inspector Mack had learnt much from his youthful days. He was known as a survivor, a very cautious individual, not tempted by silly half-baked scams. Each involvement with Donny was well thought out. Researched over and over to ensure that the risk level was as close to zero as possible.
It was almost time to start taking French lessons. He figured he was only one smart move away from cashing in his chips. One more clever, well-planned scam and he and his beloved Dorothy would be in Provence. The only problem was that the deal required the execution of an undercover cop.
Yet for $200 000, less 20 per cent for Donny’s brokerage fee, the scam was tempting—tempting enough to give an old Godfather the nod, tempting enough to set a dangerous train in motion.
And Mack accepted the killing of this detective. It had taken him very little time to come to terms with, given who was to be bumped off.
Goodwin he had despised for too long, with his smart-arse ways, excessive achievement and his annoying little manner. Like the time he dropped a piece of paper with Mack’s name and home phone number on his desk, and then, without a word, walked out of Mack’s office, as if he had delivered some great and powerful message. Yes, he would be glad to see Cole Goodwin disappear.
Who the hell did Goodwin think he was, anyway? Inspector Mack thought. Who?
Mack also knew that there were others who would enjoy the end of Cole. The Calabrian faction of the Mafia, for instance, still reeling from the global embarrassment that came from being so magnificently stung. A clever bit of work by old Cole, he grudgingly admitted.
Cole’s removal would solve two substantial problems: restore faith with Italy for the N’Drangheta arm in Australia and speed up his retirement aspirations.
The medieval village of Beaucaire was where his and Dorothy’s apartment was located. Nestled above an attractive bistro sporting dainty wrought-iron tables and cane chairs and complete with sun-faded red-and-white candy-stripe awning—his and Dorothy’s perfect daily luncheon location on their annual visit to Provence. Not a soul knew of the love nest. All his work colleagues, even his daughters and ex-wife believed that they were staying in a cheap and cheery two-star hotel. They didn’t mind playing out the thrifty traveller story, whining about cheap airfares, tiny aircraft seats and shared meals in cafés to stay within the budget. The sort of stories that would appease work colleagues and put a stop to any rumour of an otherwise opulent lifestyle. They did, of course, suffer the economy airfares, but once they landed in Paris, out came the lovely, fistfuls of cash they would take on each trip to ensure a few nights at the Ritz before a very fast train to their gorgeous pied-à-terre in Beaucaire. Here Mack and Dorothy lovingly sanded and repainted their splendid French windows, potted geraniums and wisteria to drape their ornate twin balconies and basked in the view of the village as they fussed over a list of antiques to complete the furnishing. They relished their daily handy work, their preparation for early retirement, often to the sounds of Edith Piaf in the background. Such heavenly culture, they thought, until 2.30 each afternoon when they downed tools and washed up the paint brushes to enjoy the grandest long lunches downstairs. Complemented by choice bottles of Bordeaux and followed by playful love-making before a traditional European siesta.
Yes, they loved their second chance at life, and worked hard at keeping Dorothy’s past in the past.
Just then Mack found himself standing next to Spud’s small office. The door was locked. As he adjusted to the now, he felt certain of the taste of sour cherry lingering on his palate from the 1994 Chateau de Seguin Bordeaux Supérieur, but his annual holiday was still a few months away.
He was sure he could hear voices on the other side of the opaque glass panelling. Was that Spud’s voice? He looked around to check that he was alone and pressed his ear to the wall.
Cramped closely together around Spud’s tiny desk sat Leigh, Cole, Sandra and Spud himself, chairing the meeting. The light was out and each of the participants whispered.
‘He’s a piece of work, this punk,’ said Spud.
‘What does your mate at the Anti-Mafia unit in Naples say in his report?’
‘Commissario D’Alfonso is his name, Leigh. He’s the “Liaison Agent” and a trusted associate.’
‘What a magnificent name and title, champer.’
‘Yeah, anyway, he reckons there’s a history of kidnapping, suspected of being involved in murdering a judge, you name it.’ Spud read from a confidential email received an hour earlier about Massimo Cattiloco.
‘Where’s the arse-wipe now?’ asked Sandra.
‘The Statesman took him straight to Griffith two days ago, and he’s holed up at the old boy’s house,’ said Spud.
‘Stuffing pasta in his face?’ said Sandra.
‘Getting his orders, more like it,’ said Spud.
Cole didn’t say a word. He was acutely aware that everything being discussed had a hell of a lot to do with him, and he really had nothing to offer other than nervous bewilderment.
Jude pressed the save button on the PC. She eased her numb backside from her poor excuse for an ergonomic chair and headed for the tearoom, weaving between neighbouring desks. As she often did, she took the long way around, just in case Cole was up for a chat. Or better still, a few flirtatious lines. She was a little disappointed to see that his desk was empty, as were his team’s chairs, as she marched towards the kitchen.
It was then that she saw Inspector Mack leaning against Spud’s office. She was certain his ear was pressed firmly against the glass wall. A pregnant pause hung in the corridor between the two as Mack turned and feigned a silly false cough. And Jude threw out a smile just as silly.
‘Boss,’ she murmured, with her head down, as if she were trying to say ‘I didn’t see you’.
‘Judith,’ came the response, as Inspector Mack continued his spell of coughing, at the same time striding purposefully back towards his own office.
As the two of them reached opposite ends of the corridor, they simultaneously glanced back, and shot each other a weak grin before disappearing, Jude to the tea urn, and Mack to the next corridor.
26th April
The music of Pino Danielle played at the perfect background level inside the apartment. The track changed to ‘Amici come prima’, Cole’s favourite song. Jude topped up both wine glasses from a bottle of 2000 Antinori Sangiovese, before she resumed her main course, a plate of home-made pappardelle with a prawn, white wine and garlic sauce and a side offering of sautéed spinaci. Cole slowly worked on his meal, despite the fact that he was a little preoccupied.
‘So, out with it—what’s ticking away in your head?’ asked Jude.
‘What makes you think anything would be ticking?’
‘Something’s on. I can tell,’ Jude persisted as she took another mouthful of wine, savouring its quality before she swallowed. She eased her glass onto the table. ‘You invite me around for dinner, you show
off cooking my favourite meal, you open a big Italian red, and you don’t reckon something’s ticking?’
‘There’s nothing,’ Cole replied.
‘You put on your favourite music, you lay a great table, and you invite me into your beautiful apartment, something you never do. What’s cooking?’
‘Nothing’s cooking.’
‘It’s as if you re-created a scene where we used to wine and dine with our Mafia mates. So come on, Cole. What … is … cooking?’
Cole ignored Jude, electing instead to get up from his chair and start clearing the table.
‘Mack’s up your nose, isn’t he?’
‘Actually, I don’t know what Mack’s up to,’ Cole said.
‘And that’s what’s worrying you?’
‘I have no control over stuff, Jude. Don’t you see? I don’t know what’s going on.’
‘What do you make of Mack’s snooping around Spud’s office?’
‘Just being himself.’
‘Are you sure he couldn’t have overheard anything?’ asked Jude, a worried tone creeping into her voice.
‘I hope not. I don’t know any more … It all confuses me,’ said Cole.
They gave up on questions and answers, knowing that neither would get very far. Instead they settled in to play the happy couple. Jude washed the dishes and Cole dried. And every now and then as Cole stacked the dishes in the cupboards, he took the opportunity to brush closely against Jude. But Cole was cautious. Despite their obvious affection Cole knew that in an hour or so Jude would be on her way home to the house she shared with her fiancé. While the issue remained unresolved, it would be, tonight, a case of two workmates catching up. One other thing, however, was eating away at Cole. Something that he needed to say to Jude, something that Jude would find confusing. The way things were stacking up inside Cole’s head, it had to be said.
He found a suitable pause in their conversation as they sat down on the sofa with an after-dinner vin santo.
‘You know I think the world of Sandra, don’t you?’ Cole began.
‘As do I. She’s your best detective, right?’ Jude replied.
‘I trust her, you can lean on her when you want,’ he said, watching her inquisitive look as she placed her finger in her glass, dangling it temptingly in her vin santo before sucking it.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Jude pulled the finger from her mouth.
‘Nothing yet, I can’t answer that tonight. Save it up for a rainy day.’
Satisfied with his answer, she leant over to Cole and, brushing his hair away from the side of his face, kissed him on the mouth. Cole responded, enjoying the kiss, then broke free, leaving Jude to look at him confusedly again.
Spud slept soundly in his bed alongside his lumpy and grumpy wife. His two kids rested peacefully in their corner of the average three-bedroom home in Yarraville. One cat, one dog and a four-door station wagon completed his version of domestic harmony. Unlike the detectives, Spud’s work was very much office-bound, tapping away on keyboards, reading flowcharts and linking names to addresses to bank accounts to dodgy investments. On and on it went, until he’d amassed enough information to hand across to the detectives. But he loved his work. Great analysts weren’t trained, he believed, they were born. Spud was born for the ACA.
The best thing about being an analyst was that you never had to worry about death threats, paybacks or vendettas instigated by criminals. They never saw you. It was the detectives who kicked in the doors or threw telephone books around interview rooms, instilling hatred and plots of revenge. The analyst goes home each night and tucks himself in bed until the 7 a.m. alarm breaks his slumber and points him towards the office again.
So it was with shock that at 3.50 a.m. this day, Spud sat bolt upright from his sleep, as if jolted by a cattle prod. The telephone had rung. He reached for the handset as his wife raced to the children, who had started to cry on the second ring. It was another five seconds before he worked out which part of the handset to place to his ear, and with a rough attempt at a ‘Hello’ he listened. What he heard roused him instantly. It was his trusted contact in the phone tapping unit, who had removed his headphones long enough to make a quick call.
‘Twenty-four hours,’ his contact said.
‘And that’s it? Nothing else?’ asked Spud.
‘That’s all that was said. Just twenty-four hours.’
‘What was the phone number?’
‘B115637486KL’
‘What the fuck is that phone number?’
‘A public payphone in Griffith. Out the front of the Café Azzurra.’
‘What did our guy say?’
‘Not a single word. He just hung up.’
‘Clever bastard,’ said Spud, as the howling from the kids’ room became overpowering.
Twenty-four hours later, the streets of East Melbourne were completely silent and as dark as a nun’s habit. Leigh and Sandra peeped through a crack in the weathered, locked garage door large enough for them to spy on the driveway and entrance to Cole’s apartment. Their view also allowed them to see the windows of the top-floor apartment that had been left deliberately open, with a night light on. To tempt anybody with ill intent.
The detectives had been holed up in their observation post for hours, waiting for the punk to arrive. Leigh’s trusted shotgun was one of a number of weapons that leant against the boot of Cole’s car. Sandra had no doubt of the ruthless efficiency with which Leigh would tackle the punk, should he rock up. Just in case, she wore an ill-fitting kevlar vest that made her look like the Michelin man. As silly as she looked, she was worried senseless about Cole’s safety.
They heard footsteps in the distance. Three, maybe four houses away. Leigh reached over to grab his shotgun, winking at Sandra. The footsteps moved closer to the apartment building, eventually crossing the driveway, allowing Leigh a glimpse at a male silhouetted figure. Sandra took a peek, but the lone figure moved on down the street, and was no longer in sight.
‘Fuck,’ she whispered.
‘Shhh … shhhh … champer,’ said Leigh.
The footsteps stopped. They both listened until their concentration almost hurt, hoping for more steps. An eternity seemed to go by, or at least a full minute. And then another. To Leigh’s surprise, a full-sized image of a male appeared a metre away from him on the other side of the crack in the garage door. Leigh’s left hand reached to cover Sandra’s mouth; she nodded understanding. It was obvious that the punk had crept down the side of the neighbouring property to arrive at the rear of the apartment block.
Massimo walked stealthily the dozen paces to the sewerage pipe that ran up the wall to Cole’s bathroom. He shimmied up the two levels with extraordinary speed. Once at the sill he made easy work of the open window. The hairs on the back of Leigh’s neck rose when he realised that the manoeuvre had all been done in complete silence.
Sandra and Leigh watched Massimo’s shadow move from room to room. They could just make out the image of a pistol in the assassin’s hand. It took Massimo less than a minute to fully appreciate that the apartment was empty and to memorise the internal layout. No doubt for a return visit. With more confidence than Muhammad Ali, he opened the front door and disappeared, gently closing it behind him. He walked down the flight of stairs to the street, without so much as a glance in any direction. Leigh listened to the steps return the way they had come until they faded away.
Cole stood impatiently outside the front door of the Crumpler designer bag shop in Gertrude Street, Fitzroy. He couldn’t stop pacing, sweating on 9 a.m. As he waited, an odd breed of workers and locals hustled by. A mix of Goths, tattooed lesbians, early-morning drunks, funky stick figures and other types that were too cool for real. The passing parade helped take his mind off what had happened six hours earlier at his apartment. Nerves were getting the better of him.
The Mafia game is on, he thought. He looked across to the opposite side of the street where Sandra, seated in her car, didn’t h
elp matters by tapping on her watch.
With great relief he heard the front door open and the shop manager stepped aside to welcome him. She had seen his impatience from inside as she went about turning on the lights and preparing the till. Yet she chose to wait till the exact millisecond of 9 a.m. to end her client’s anxiety. Cole took it on the chin; he knew that they made fabulously good bags and he also knew that they were in Fitzroy, a suburb full of attitude.
‘You’re early,’ the quirky 20-something said.
‘Sorry. I said I’d be back again this morning,’ Cole replied.
‘Awesome,’ was all the girl offered, displaying her tattooed arms and the range of cheap silver rings on each of her fingers. She reached behind her counter to grab the shoulder bag. She did her finest shop-assistant demonstration of the features of the bag, showing off the secret internal pocket of the Bees-Knees, the biggest bag they made. The pocket was at the bottom of the bag, which he hoped would not be located on any cursory baggage search.
‘Good to go,’ said Cole as he inspected the custom work.
Once they’d sorted out the payment, and Cole got over the desperate need to take the nose ring from the girl’s nostril, he jogged across to the waiting car, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder.
‘It’s like being on planet Mars,’ Sandra said as a seriously drug-affected Goth drifted past the windscreen.
‘You get used to it. I lived around here once. It’s an acquired taste.’
‘You won’t make it,’ said Sandra, looking at her watch.
‘Is your driving that bad?’ said Cole, trying to break the mood. Sandra launched the car into the traffic, playing dodgem cars in an attempt to meet their schedule. All Cole could do was hold on with white knuckles.
On the Run Page 5