CHAPTER 24

Time stood still for the briefest of seconds. An involuntary whimper escaped from Clem’s mouth as everything inside her turned ice cold.

She spun around and made for the steps leading down into the garden but Doncaster was already moving. He caught her as she ran along the pool deck. She screamed, stumbled, and fell into the pool, taking him with her. In the tangle of legs and arms she slipped out of his grasp, kicked out for the side of the pool. Gripping the paving stones around the edge, she heaved herself up and out of the water. Halfway out, swinging one leg up, she felt his fingers wrap around her ankle, jerking her back, and then she was going down, the inside of her arm and her face scraping the edge of the pavers on the way.

She held her breath, trying to push him away, hitting out at his arms. She wasn’t strong enough; he had her wrist now—she writhed and tugged, her lungs burning, pushed her head up to the surface, sucked in a desperate gulp of air. He shoved her to the steps and up, his vice-like grip locked onto her arm. Dripping and wet, he pushed her across the deck. Blood trickled from her arm and dropped onto the tiles.

He shoved Clementine over to the intercom and onto the ground, forcing her to lie on her stomach, put his sodden shoe on the back of her head and jammed her face into the deck as he pressed the button.

‘Are you there?’ said Doncaster, panting, the water streaming from his clothes and forming a puddle at his feet. No response. ‘Fuck!’ He pressed the intercom again. Nothing. ‘The dickhead’s pissed off. For fuck’s sake!’ he yelled, thumping his open palm into the wall, his foot stomping on her head, grinding it into the timber, sending shooting pains through her scalp.

It was all on the recording device. The bloody waterproof, non-transmitting recording device—useless unless she survived to tell someone where to find it.

He puffed a couple more breaths, one hand leaning on the wall. Then he stood, his foot still on Clementine’s head. She could see from the corner of her eye he was removing the belt from his shorts, one of those ratchet-style ones, no tongue or holes. Then he leaned down, grabbed one of her wrists, twisted it behind her back and took his foot off her head.

‘Right. Get onto your knees. Keep your face to the wall. Don’t try anything.’

She pushed herself up onto her knees with her free hand. He wrapped the belt around her neck, tightened it, the ratchet clicking over like a child’s toy. She was on all fours, leashed like a dog.

‘Is this really necessary?’

‘Shut up,’ he said, jerking her upwards. One hand holding her wrist, the other keeping tension on the belt.

Come on, Jones, think of something.

‘You know your mate, Jerry’s mate, shot a cop just before he came here?’ she said.

‘You must be fucking insane if you think I’d believe anything you say.’ He shoved her down onto a heavy wooden seat and began to strap the belt through the slats at the back, tightening it again against her neck.

‘I was there, at the helicopter hangar. Pretty sure Sergeant Wiseman is dead. This place will be crawling with cops the minute Maggie tells them I’m here.’

Maggie didn’t know to call the police but the rest of it was true.

‘You expect me to believe any of this? The police have got nothing connecting me with Helen’s death. If they had, why haven’t they been here already?’ he scowled. ‘No, all that’s happened is you and your friend have made some wild allegations. And if they ever get published or broadcast, there’ll be a defamation case slapped on you both before you can blink. So what if you were here? We had a meeting about the fucking turtle. You won’t be killed here. This guy’ll take you somewhere else for that.’

‘This is a bad move, Doncaster. My blood is all over your deck. Didn’t you notice? They’ll pin my death on you as well as Helen’s.’ ‘So you tripped over and there was some blood. It means nothing.’

He didn’t know about the recording, of course. But even if the police had a search warrant, would they think to look under the table? She could almost see it from where she sat. About five metres away. If she could get to it. If she could stick it in her pocket…she gulped…at least they’d find it on her dead body.

He came back around in front of her then, backing away a step to pick up his phone. Her arms were free, she could undo the belt and run, but the moment she moved an inch he’d be onto her.

He typed in a number. Clem could hear it ringing as he held it to his ear.

‘Jerry?…Yes…Tell your man the package is ready for collection.’

They’d been waiting there barely a minute, her neck still strapped to the back of the seat, Doncaster pacing nervously in front of her, when she first heard the sound. She could only just make it out—faint, rhythmic, human. She looked across at Doncaster for his reaction. He didn’t break stride.

I must be hearing things.

She had an acid burn in her stomach and her face throbbed. She wanted to scream at the humiliation—Doncaster scowling at her as she sat, wet through and tethered like an animal, waiting for the butcher to arrive. She wiped some blood from her face into the chair. Let them find my blood here. If Doncaster didn’t get done for Helen, then at least he might go down for her.

She was numb, her throat dry. She tried to force the chaotic mash of her thoughts into some sort of logical thread. Would the police know to come here? If they spoke to Maggie, she would tell them she was here. But why would they call Maggie? And Clem hadn’t told her anything about Jackson anyway. Would the police conclude, on their own, that Jackson might have followed Clem here to Doncaster’s? They must see now that Jackson shot Wiseman because Clem had connected him with the helicopter outfit? They would see they needed to follow her to get Jackson, even though they had nothing on Doncaster…wouldn’t they?

But they didn’t know she was here, no one knew she was here except Jackson.

The thought of Wiseman was like a punch in the guts. The crimson blossoming on her crisp, blue shirt. The look of surprise on her face, the awful crack of her head on the concrete floor, and the bounce…her police cap falling, rolling away. Clem felt a physical pain inside her chest.

Jackson hadn’t bothered with a second shot. Dead? Or… perhaps…it was possible…conceivable…just badly injured and no longer a threat. Jackson might have baulked at finishing off a cop in cold blood…rather than self-defence. Clem was convincing herself. Perhaps she was alive? Please let her be alive.

She heard the noise from the direction of the road again, strained to catch the sound when the intercom buzzed and she jumped. Doncaster let out a ha! of relief and rushed to the control unit near the door. Clem could scarcely breathe as she watched him hold the button down and speak into it.

‘Yes. Hello.’

Clem closed her eyes, sent out a silent prayer. The tick of static then a voice…No. Not Jackson’s voice. And in the background—chanting, definitely chanting.

‘Good morning, Mr Doncaster.’ A hoarse smoker’s voice.

Brady!

‘This is Brady Gallagher of the Wildlife Association of the Great Sandy Straits. We’re staging a protest today to demand the wildlife sanctuary at Turtle Shores be preserved, and to oppose any form of development on that land.’

Oh, praise be! Brady, you angel!

Doncaster’s face fell. In the background, the chanting was loud and clear, ‘Save the sanc-choo-ary. Save the sanc-choo-ary.’ There were a lot of voices. As many as she’d heard at any previous protest—maybe thirty of them? They were supposed to be at the working bee. Brady had rallied them here instead. That must be why Jackson had disappeared. He saw them rolling up, the whole convoy of them, and decided to clear out.

‘What the fuck is this?’ Doncaster shouted into the intercom. ‘I didn’t authorise this. Fuck the hell off!’

‘Yeah, guess you can shove that one. Public road, mate,’ said Brady. She could have cheered. ‘We got media out here, a camera crew. We’d like to invite you to come out and discuss the issue.’

If there really was a reporter he would have named the organisation. And the camera crew—that was probably Gaylene’s smartphone. Bloody idiot, Brady. What the hell was the point without media? But, oh Brady, you bloody beauty!

‘There won’t be any discussion. You can send a letter. I’m asking you to leave now.’

Clem’s thoughts were beginning to arrange themselves again after the tsunami of relief. Jackson had cleared out as soon as the protesters had arrived. He wouldn’t be coming back as long as there were thirty-odd witnesses out there. She reached around to the back of her neck and began undoing the belt.

‘Hey, leave that!’ shouted Doncaster, leaping away from the intercom and lunging at her.

Clem thrust out her foot and kicked hard into his groin. He let out a high-pitched yelp, doubled over, dropped to his knees. She had the belt off in a second. Doncaster was struggling to move but he grabbed at her foot as she sprung up onto the seat, his nails raking across her ankle. Clem ran to the table as he wobbled to his feet, groaning. She had her fingers underneath the listening device and it came loose as he stumbled towards her, one hand on his crotch, the other grabbing at the back of her shirt. Clem spun around, crashed her arm down hard on his forearm and pushed past him, running for the door. She swung it closed in his face and ran across the foyer, flinging open the heavy wooden front door and pelting up the wooden walkway, shouting with all the air in her lungs.

‘Brady! Help!’

She heard Brady shushing the crowd, the chanting subsiding as she reached the fence, hitting her palm on the button and the great, rumbling gate began its slow slide along the track.

‘Clementine! What are you doing in there?’ said Brady, his face appearing at the gate. Ariel beside him, mouth agape.

Clem couldn’t speak and as soon as the opening was wide enough, squeezed herself through. She was still wet from the pool, a strand of hair across her face, her face and arm bloodied.

‘Give me your phone, quick!’

Constable Griffin was first on the scene at Doncaster’s, leading another car with a contingent of cops who’d finally arrived from Brisbane. He exploded out of the vehicle without waiting for the city blokes, pale and bristling, every inch of his height enraged and shocked by the discovery of Sergeant Wiseman lying in a pool of her own blood.

Clem found out later that Mike the helicopter guy had tried to resuscitate her. Griffin had taken over the chest pumps as soon as he got there but when the paramedics arrived, it didn’t take them long to call it. Sergeant Wiseman had lost her grip on life moments after being shot.

They brought Doncaster out in handcuffs. Brady and the protesters gave him merry hell, jeering and chanting, banging angry tambourines in his face and Brady, going one step too far as usual, crowding in close and swiping his finger across his neck, yelling:

‘It’ll be your white throat that’s extinct now ya bastard!’

Clementine sat on the ground in front of Doncaster’s house, Sarge by her side. He kept nuzzling her face, going for a lick here and there whenever the opportunity presented. When she couldn’t resist a second longer, she buried her head in his shoulder, her arm around his neck and let out a long, exhausted sob.