The new Bees-Knees was stuffed full of clothes, hastily packed on the drive to the airport. Even so, it sat comfortably on Cole’s shoulder as he stood under the departure board. It was the four red lights flashing on the Auckland flight that had his and Sandra’s attention; otherwise there had been far too much silence since they had parked the car.
‘You’ve got twenty minutes, hon. You’d better go,’ Sandra said.
‘I guess so,’ was all Cole could counter. A lump had come into his throat. He pulled out his mobile phone and handed it to Sandra.
‘They’ll only trace it,’ he said, also handing over his driver’s licence and police ID.
‘Emails?’ Sandra asked.
‘Traceable again. No gadgets, just old-fashioned travel.’
‘They’ll come looking for you once they realise you’re missing.’
‘That’s why I don’t need gadgets pointing out where I am.’
‘You don’t have to go. We could take what we’ve got to the Toe Cutters,’ Sandra made a last-ditch effort to change the mind of a man who was far too set in his ways.
Cole reached over and placed a hand on each of Sandra’s shoulders very gently before he said, ‘Think about it. We’ve got a fat lot of zip. One illegal phone tap, entry into an organiser without warrant, a punk who came and went in the night, and we can’t even prove that, and a wild hunch by paranoid investigators. We’d be lucky if the Toeys didn’t lock us up.’
Sandra nodded as tears welled up and she bit into her bottom lip.
‘Make sure Spud doesn’t let the boss get into his computer.’
‘Yep.’
‘You have to hold the team together,’ he said, as she nodded with tears now streaming down her cheeks.
‘You know I trust you more than anyone,’ Cole said solemnly.
‘Of course … thanks,’ said Sandra.
‘I have no idea when or if I’ll be back. I’ll sneak back into the country when I feel it’s right. I want you to remember one thing, though.’
Sandra stood firm and listened intently, sniffling.
‘Don’t ask for explanations. Just remember—Ingrid Rossellini. Got that?’
‘Yes … but … what?’
‘Keep it to yourself, girl, it’ll make sense later.’
She shook her head from side to side, bewildered by his comments, then changed the subject.
‘Have you got enough of the lovely?’
‘Stop playing mother. And I don’t need a cut lunch either. I’ll contact you when I can.’ Cole smiled, dropping both hands away from her shoulders as he glanced at the departure board. He headed for the customs departure hall and disappeared behind the partition, flicking a wave goodbye.
He was on the run.
27th April
The noisy ping that came from the safety-belt warning sign of the aircraft led to a chain reaction of straightening seats and clicking seat-belts. Turbulence was causing an uncomfortable flight. The hostess walked up to the toilet cubicle, gave the door a quick tap and called to its occupant, ‘Return to your seat please. Return to your seat please,’ before moving on to dispatch a drinks trolley to the rear of the aircraft.
On the other side of the door, Cole braced himself as he tried valiantly to shave. He was beginning to resemble a startled walrus with a moustache full of shaving cream and a miniature hand-basin full of whiskers. He clipped away the end of many years’ growth. It would take all of his last three Gillette razors to chop through the defiant stubble and expose skin that hadn’t seen sunshine for a decade. What he thought would be short work took ages. He was conscious he’d occupied the toilet too long and figured he’d be unpopular once he flung the door open, despite his fresh new look.
Back in his seat, when the turbulence had abated and two glasses of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc had taken effect, he delighted in the feel of his naked upper lip. All smooth and shiny, like a baby’s bottom. The upside was, he reckoned he looked five years younger. So why the bloody hell did he keep the damn thing on for so long?
Cole ambled down the main street of Auckland with the first sense of relief he had felt in almost a week. While he adored New Zealand, he wasn’t too sure if he was far enough away from the strife that lay in Melbourne for his complete comfort. Perhaps well enough away to allow the return of a sleep pattern.
He needed time out. A chance to review all that had gone before him since Antonio had stared him down at the Supreme Court. He couldn’t help but wonder what Antonio would be up to now, having heard of last night’s failed attempt at revenge. Would he be pacing his ten-square-metre concrete cell? Calling the old Godfather for more plotting and planning, or would he just dismiss last night as a night when Cole wasn’t home?
Cole figured the latter proposition was probably more realistic. He also figured he had three or four more nights in front of him before the punk from Calabria reported him missing. He only hoped those same three or four nights’ grace would come from Inspector Mack, who tomorrow would get a doctor’s certificate claiming a bout of influenza from Detective Sergeant Cole Goodwin in absentia.
It was late in the afternoon when he got to the bottom of the street. He spied a hairdressing salon, the one his hotel concierge had told him about. He stepped inside. Just as the closed sign was turned to face the street, Cole walked out into his new world, with a new haircut, leaving most of his shoulder-length mane on the salon floor.
It was an appealing little town, Russell, on the east coast of the north island of New Zealand, a three-hour bus trip from Auckland. In fact, it could be said to be the perfect fishing village. Not that its throng of yearly visitors would necessarily venture to this neck of the woods just to catch marlin or yellow-finned tuna. It was mostly its natural beauty that attracted. Being the main commercial hub of the Bay of Islands, this little button town was well considered on the tourist trail. And it was just about far enough away from Griffith to allow a man a good night’s sleep.
When Cole had jumped off the old wooden-hulled ferry at the tiny pier a week earlier, he had spent a good hour taking in the glossy painted weatherboard buildings and shopfronts on the foreshore. He stopped for a coffee to gather his thoughts. It was during this break that Cole realised that New Zealanders had no idea how to make coffee, serving up flat whites in cups the size of cereal bowls, and suggesting they were caffe lattes. He also had a strange sensation that someone was watching him. At the foothill immediately above the village, he saw an open black umbrella in the garden that belonged to a quaint little white house. A tiny ‘B&B’ sign swung off a post. An older looking man was walking the gardens, a speck in the distance. In less than ten minutes Cole and his Bees-Knees had hiked up the rocky zigzag path that led to the B&B, and he had taken a room.
Inn the Black B&B was run by the elderly yet sprightly and charming retired New York stockbroker, Cary Peterson, and his American wife, Lynette. Best of all, they were running a cash business. He paid for an indefinite stay.
Another thing about Inn the Black was its magnificent view onto Russell, and across the Bay of Islands. It was the most perfect observation post, as well as one of the finest views he had ever seen. He also enjoyed the New Yorker and his wife, ridiculously suntanned, fit and healthy, and full of great anecdotes and stories. Yarns that he would share under the black umbrella overlooking the township every afternoon with a glass or three of Cary’s regional pinot noir. The only thing he didn’t care too much for was the sombre mood created by the splashes of black throughout the two-room guest house. Lynette had gone overboard: black towels, linen, serviettes, and just about everything else you could buy at the local gift shop that was a darker shade of grey.
Cole shook Cary’s hand, using the surname McLaren, a guy he’d once met some years earlier. When the small talk swung to Cole’s work, he had no problem in running the art dealer line he had used so successfully with the Mafia. He knew much about art, it was his great hobby, and he could easily bluff his way through even the most in-depth convers
ation. He soon fell into a routine that very much involved Cary and Lynette. He’d start his morning with a run on the back beach along the beautiful sands gracing the open ocean. Then he’d relax and laze around Lynette’s delightful terrace garden enjoying Cary’s company with a glass of wine, before the three of them would take an evening stroll around town and dine in one of the many restaurants. He felt completely safe in his new world with his new appearance, and with being seen around town as one of three people.
‘What’s with the boss? He won’t let up,’ grumbled Katherine, the administration officer for the ACA. Katherine had one of the dullest jobs in the city of Melbourne, reconciling sick leave notices, annual holidays and pay scales for the fifty-plus staff. She was holding a leave application form in the name of ‘Cole Goodwin’, for four weeks’ leave dated a week earlier, which she had authorised herself, once submitted by Sandra.
‘I authorised Cole’s leave, but ever since then the boss has been hounding me to find out when he’s coming back. What is it? What’s Cole done wrong?’
‘Beats me,’ said Sandra, realising the need to be as cagey as possible. ‘All I know is that Cole rang me at the tail end of his flu, asking me to put in a leave form, saying he needed more time off. So I did and you ticked it. What’s the big deal?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Katherine. ‘Inspector Mack seems to have something up his arse over it.’
‘Wasn’t it you, Katherine, who urged him just last month to take some of the leave he has owing? He’s got months, hasn’t he?’
Katherine began rifling through Cole’s personnel file and quickly assessed that he was indeed owed ten weeks’ leave, most of which he had accumulated during his undercover work on the Griffith job.
‘Sure, he’s owed heaps of time. He can have this current four weeks, and another four if he wants it, and I don’t give a shit! I just wish Mack would leave me alone.’
Inspector Mack sat heavily on a bentwood chair at the back table of a now familiar empty Italian restaurant in Lygon Street. His idyllic world in Provence had been taken from his mind. He was looking haggard. Alongside him sat his partner in crime, Donny.
‘He’ll surface soon,’ stated Donny, with a look that would have trouble convincing the most naïve.
Silence hung as Donny and Mack swapped glances. They were lost, on a small table. Mack straightened his tie and attempted to sit a little taller in his chair. The old Godfather, a master with generations of listening to nervous bullshit, knew exactly how to play the conversation. He kept his arms folded, his body still and his eyes fixed on Mack. Not a word uttered.
Mack, an equal master of his own game, was starting to regret ever listening to Donny’s first proposition, despite his new-found wealth. He was in a game without any dice and he knew there was absolutely no way of ever turning back the clock.
‘I think we just have to wait and flush him out. Tell your visitor to wait.’
‘And what he fuckin’ do, Commissario? Pick fruit?’ said the old Godfather.
‘The second we find him, we’ll let you know,’ the Inspector offered unconvincingly.
The old Godfather turned to Donny with a look as hot as Calabrese salami. ‘We give you $40 000, Donny, start workin’.’
Leigh stood at the light switches putting on his overcoat and scarf as he closed down the ACA office for the night. It was well after 9 p.m.
‘Hang on!’ came a yell from a desk on the opposite side of the office.
Leigh, a little on edge these days, was initially startled as he turned to the direction of the voice. He immediately relaxed as he saw Jude tapping away on her PC in the near dark.
‘Sorry, champer,’ he called out. ‘I didn’t know anyone else was still here.’
He wandered over to Jude’s desk and stared at a girl he had seen become more depressed with each passing day.
‘So, what are you still doin’ here?’
‘What does it look like?’ she snapped.
‘Sorry just askin’, I’ll turn the lights back on,’ he offered.
‘No, stuff it, don’t worry. I’ll go home, too.’
Jude closed down her computer and pulled her coat and scarf off the rack beside the group of desks.
‘You’re not handling it well, are you?’ asked Leigh, genuinely concerned. He watched Jude struggle with even the most menial task of putting on her scarf and gloves. She gave up on the gloves and threw them angrily on the desktop before kicking her chair a couple of metres away from the desk. She was clearly frustrated.
‘Why don’t you guys tell me what’s going on?’
Leigh ignored the question.
‘I mean, youse guys know, don’t you … what’s happened to Cole?’ she demanded. ‘I mean, the last time I saw him, there was this bullshit with a fancy meal, and all that weird shit he said about leaning on Sandra. Then he ups and disappears. What the fuck has happened, Leigh?’
Leigh didn’t want to lie so he tried to change the subject instead.
‘How’s the fiancé?’
Jude looked hard at Leigh for a few seconds before angrily collecting her gloves from the desktop and saying in too loud a voice, ‘Finished. I moved out last week. But that’s not what we’re talking about, Detective.’
Leigh kept a stony silence on the subject as he watched Jude storm towards the main security door.
‘And how do you know he isn’t dead?’ she yelled as she walked out into the evening.
The miserable drizzle of rain hadn’t put a dampener on the day. Cole, Cary and Lynette wandered onto the jetty. Cole thought the hospitality of the two old codgers so perfect, especially over the past month. It had been a month of peace and quiet, a month to think things through and let sleeping dogs lie. Now it was time to reward his hosts. The least Cole could do was shout them a spot of marlin fishing. All before returning home the following week. He had it all sketched out: he’d fly into Queensland and test the water from there, give his office a quick call—surely the threat would now be dormant. In the interim, it was time to dust off Cary’s tackle box.
Cary hadn’t stopped talking about getting out into the Pacific blue for a day, swapping the strike chair in the hope of catching a big one. Although he and Lynette had lived the life of Riley for half-a-dozen years on the Bay of Islands, rarely had he been able to venture out. Lynette was very much the homebody and Cary was always by her side. He knew most of the boat owners and had suggested to Cole that he book the craft Catcher in the Rye, owned by a good acquaintance who promised mate’s rates.
They had the most perfect day, as the Captain took them to his secret reefs and holes, just off Zane Grey Bay. Renowned as the onetime home of the legendary American author, a raconteur who trawled for the open water fish with Hollywood stars, Zane Grey Bay was an idyllic fishing destination.
By 6 p.m. the sun had well and truly gone, as had the energy of the Inn the Black crew. Two of the three said goodbye to their Captain, and struggled along the jetty with a 56-pound yellow-finned tuna in tow. Then it was off to the fishmongers, who would take their prize, ensure it was smoked overnight, and hand it back in convenient freezer-size packs.
Cole let Lynette and Cary take the lead with the fish. He knew that they would enjoy the attention and accolades of the local crowd gathered along the pier to watch the day’s boats come home. And he smiled at Cary’s proud face, watching him puff out his chest as he strolled along. Cole stood back to settle with the Captain for the day’s fun. He pulled out his wallet. To his amazement, the surly Captain informed him the cost was $2000, and that was with a 50 per cent discount.
How to pay the Captain the $2000 with only half the cash on hand? The rest of his money was squirrelled away in the ceiling of the guests’ bathroom. He needed more of the lovely but not without his hosts becoming aware. The Captain was on charter for the next ten days with wealthy Yanks, and wanted payment on the spot. Finally, Cole reached for his MasterCard, tucked away neatly in the back of his wallet. Wh
y not, he thought; he was returning home next week.
A pair of well-worn Nike runners sat propped on top of a desk in a busy drug unit office. Both runners were attached to a pair of feet owned by the lazy detective Donny, who had found himself time for a quiet snooze while his workmates busied themselves around him. On a neighbouring desk a fax machine kicked into life, and spat out a single page. It failed to capture Donny’s attention. A pretty young female detective walked past, grabbed the fax and took a quick look. Realising it was not for her, she placed it like a blanket over the docile Donny. He didn’t stir.
When he did, he picked up the fax and read the contents. Sent from his dodgy contact, a less-than-honest security officer of the Internal Investigation Unit of the National Bank, the contents were brief, and focused on the movements of an alerted MasterCard.
25th May. Cole Goodwin MasterCard
$2000 ‘Catcher in the Rye’ Fishing Tours,
Russell, New Zealand.
He raced towards the lift with the fax clutched tightly in hand.
Lynette was on her way out to the garden to catch the last of the sun. She had just prepared her second plate of canapés, mostly consisting of smoked tuna with her delicious home-made relish on water crackers, part of their staple diet since their successful outing. Her two boys were busy recounting exaggerated fishing stories while giving a good nudge to a bottle of Cloudy Bay chardonnay.
During the four weeks, Cole’s firmness of body had returned. His complexion showed signs of an easier life. He enjoyed the daily repartee that flowed between himself and Cary, whom he saw as a surrogate father figure.
Cole’s mind would often drift back to life as it was in Melbourne. He’d lost both his own parents in recent years. His father had died at a far too early age with cancer, and his mother soon after, as is often the way with couples married so long, not surviving a quadruple bypass. Almost weekly, the three of them had sat together discussing everything from artworks by the great masters to the trivial goings on of the neighbourhood. In the five years since their passing, he’d missed their talks, the cosy familiarity of their company, and the sometimes hilarious arguments that would ensue. Of all the acquaintances who had drifted through his life since then, none was more similar to his father than Cary. The two old men would have had a great old time together, he thought, as he sat listening to the warm timbre of Cary’s voice.
On the Run Page 6