By the time he reached the turn-off to the airport Clement had learned that Peter Bourke was not listed as a passenger on the morning coach. That did not mean definitively he had not been on the coach. Nor did the absence of his name from any car-rental lists mean he had not hired a car under another name. Hell, he may even have had a second car he’d organised earlier standing by. The first big splotches of rain slapped his windscreen. He buzzed Earle who had a slight lead on him.
‘Why don’t you take the charters, just in case?’
‘Copy that.’
Earle peeled off at forty-five degrees down a feeder road to a pair of hangars. The rain began to drum faster on the bodywork. Clement pulled up out front of the terminal which looked near deserted. He struggled out and the wind drove him like a rugby pack towards the building. As he reached the door a deep grinding roar snapped Clement up. His first thought was it was the cyclone hitting early, pulling guttering or the roof apart but what he saw was a silver Rav4 powering out from behind the building and up a service road. He only caught a glimpse of the driver but it was enough. Clement fought the wind for his door and got back inside. He fired up his engine, reversed into the kerb behind then turned his wheel hard right and drove up and over a narrow strip of bark chips before slamming down hard again on bitumen. He hammered fifteen metres the wrong way down a one-way strip to the service exit Bourke had taken moments earlier.
The storm hit with a sudden fury. Whatever light there had been was vacuumed out, rain smashing down in a dark blitzkrieg. The rutted service road ran about four hundred metres before dead-ending on Broome Road. He grabbed the two-way and yelled for Earle. No answer. Visibility was almost zero, rain was sheeting and he could not see whether the Rav4 had gone north or south, but south led down to the end of the peninsula so he turned north, hammering as he fumbled for his phone. The phone jumped out of his hands and landed somewhere on the floor. Shit. A car passed on the other side, a blur in the darkness. He hit the headlights. Visibility improved to a few metres. He pushed his foot hard to the floor.
He tried the two-way again. This time Earle answered. Clement spoke fast and loud.
‘I just saw Bourke driving out the airport in a silver Rav4. I’m following north. It’s stolen or a hire. See if you can get details and call Risely.’
‘Copy that.’
Clement hit the Gubinge Road intersection as there was a momentary easing in the rain, and visibility tripled, which took it to miserable. To the left Clement spied a distant fantail of water. Bourke must be heading west, either to double back down towards the Mimosa or give him the slip through the western suburbs. The rain dumped heavier than ever. Clement gave chase, closing rapidly on barely visible tail-lights.
Too rapidly.
His brain was just figuring Bourke wouldn’t be driving this slow as he caught a glimpse of the vehicle ahead, a small truck. Shit. On impulse he threw his car into a skidding U-turn. It was a stupid thing to do. Had a vehicle been coming the other way it would have crushed him. Luckily there was none. His back wheels were skating, in this wind he could easily flip. A three-sixty seemed inevitable but the Subaru snapped out at two hundred, he straightened and powered back to Broome Road having lost too much time. The wind was pushing the car across the road. Impossible as it seemed, the downpour intensified. He drove blind. If anything blew across the road there would be no chance to avoid it. Earle came back on the two-way.
‘He rented a car. I’ve texted Risely the details. Be careful.’
‘I will,’ said Clement but he knew there was no way of being careful at this speed in these conditions. He kept his foot to the floor, headlights were useless. He was Jonah in the pit of the whale.