28

IT HAD already gone four, and Brash still hadn’t arrived. I decided to leave the International and find something to distract me from the ache in my heart. If the so-called syndicate’s latest hired killer was on their way, I had most of the day to walk around in relative safety before they showed.

The air smelled of smoke, distant sirens sounded as I walked along Firebrace Street. A window display of handbags in the shape of different citrus fruit caught my eye. The grapefruit one was open and showed its many zips and interior pockets. A good choice for someone who carried lots of things that needed to be concealed. Taser, Jericho, etc. There was even a place for my speed-dealer sunglasses. The thing was the size of a basketball, however, and somewhat unwieldy. I turned away and went along McLachlan Street, where I faced a public library building.

The long empty afternoon stretched out ahead of me. What to do before it was time to meet Loretta? Obeying an impulse, I went in, acquired yet another library card, and logged onto a computer.

I concocted a complicated search for ‘racehorse’ and ‘owners’ and ‘syndicate’ and ‘Pugh’ and ‘Coleman’, not expecting much. After a bit of eyestrain, and pointless scrolling of dead-end hits, I found a media piece on a three-year-old filly named Sister Smug. She was a middle-distance galloper with a mixed record. On this occasion she’d won the Wodonga Cup, and there was a picture of the owners. The caption read: Marcus Pugh, Allyson Coleman, and the others in the syndicate celebrate Sister Smug’s hard-fought win in Wodonga. I recognised Pugh. The tall blonde woman in an expensive-looking powder-blue frock with matching hat I assumed was Coleman. Nunzio was there, hiding behind dark sunglasses and a straw boater. And one other man was celebrating with them. He was holding up a champagne flute and seemed overjoyed. He had a freckled complexion and thinning red hair.

Pugh, Nunzio, and Coleman. And a man who matched Colin Slade’s description of his contact, the man he called Paul.

Pugh had asked me to find an employee who seemed to be making money on the side. The syndicate was looking for an infiltrator, someone who had made a sloppy attempt at blackmail, someone on the inside who knew about the recording. Velvet Stone had said that someone had called her to set up the initial meeting with Joe Phelan at the market. Joe had needed an insider to make that contact for him.

Nell Tuffnell liked cruises and paid cash for a new car. Not on a prison officer’s salary, she didn’t. Where was the money coming from?

She wasn’t in the photo. Was she in the syndicate? Slade had used her car. Perhaps it was a request from Nunzio, Lend us your car, we’ll pay you. She may have been an unwitting associate of the syndicate.

What I needed, what would finally convince Bunny to take it further, was those invoices in Nunzio’s office. How hard would it be to break into a prison?

I still had time before I was due to meet Loretta, so I did a few idle searches on the live-cattle trade. Export numbers out of Australia were dizzying. Destinations were as far flung as Libya and Vietnam, Kazakhstan and Japan, but the majority were shipped to Indonesia. Most of the ten million head of cattle currently grazing in Queensland would be exported, already slaughtered as pre-packaged meat or alive. Ditto the two-point-two million that roamed the Northern Territory.

There were several organisations that facilitated the smooth delivery of live cattle from farm to overseas abattoir. Some were privately run, some were membership-based not-for-profit organisations. They all claimed to work with stakeholders. They all expressed concern with animal wellbeing. They all offered support with supply-chain efficiency and access to key markets. Some offered technical support, and had a hand in research and development. I picked one at random, jotted down a name and number, and logged off.

I went outside and rang the number.

‘Livestock Solutions, this is Amber.’

‘Good morning. This is an English Kazak interpreter service. Please hold for your incoming translated message.’

‘Oh, okay,’ Amber said.

‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘Hello, I am Medina, from Kazakhstan. Can I speak to Mr Julian Fortuna?’

‘One moment.’

Electronic ‘Greensleeves’.

‘Julian Fortuna speaking.’

‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘Hello Mr Julian. I am Medina. My boss has an interest in live cattle importation to Kazakhstan.’

‘Certainly, how may I help you?’

Pause. ‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘My boss is a former army man and has great wealth. He wants to start a new business to import live Australian cattle.’

‘Your boss sounds like a wise man.’

Pause. ‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘Yes. His question is, can the cattle be mixed up on the ship?’

‘We use tamper-proof RFID tags and traceability software we developed in-house. I can assure you the standard of tracking is excellent. From pasture, to loading, to destination port.’

Pause. ‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘No untracked cattle can get on the ship?’

A deep, hearty laugh. ‘Not a chance in hell.’

Pause. ‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘My boss has a contact in Australia with excellent cattle for sale. Their eartags are missing. They can still get on the ship?’

A short pause. ‘Look, Medina, I’d like to help your boss, but it’s just not possible. There’s Australian quarantine inspections, Australian standards, international standards. There’s just too many regulations, and they are enforced to the letter. If I step out of line, the federal government would take my export licence.’

Pause. ‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘There is a lot of money involved.’

‘I’m sorry, lady. But that’s the law. Exporters and service providers must comply with all relevant legislation of state, territory, and local governments.’

Pause. ‘Translating …’ Pause. ‘That is a shame. I will report this information to my boss.’

‘Yeah, you do that. Now, remind me, what’s the capital of Kazakhstan?’

‘The, um, the capital of glorious nation of Kazakhstan is a very beautiful city.’

‘You forgot to say translating. Who are you working for? PAWPAC? RSPCA? PETA?’

‘I’m sorry, this connection is bad. I can’t hear you.’

‘You heard.’ His voice rose. ‘You want to catch me out? Try harder next time, you hippy fuck. That little performance was a joke. I know your kind. Animal-rights terrorists.’

My ear was raw and vibrating. I put down my phone.

With half an hour to go, I wandered into an opportunity shop. Twenty bucks later, wearing a natty black leather jacket, a silk blouse, and a pair of linen pants, I strutted up to the bar of the Baa of the Horsham International Hotel. Loretta was waiting beside her trolley. ‘You look nice. Where’s your other clothes?’

‘In the bin. Where’s Nigel?’

‘Back at the church.’

‘What church?’

She shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’

I ordered a lemon squash for Loretta and another beer for me. The first one, with Colin, had helped settle my nerves, or blunted my senses to give an illusion of safety — either way, I’d been happy with the result. As I watched the barman fill my glass, I felt a vibration in my handbag.

A text from Percy Brash: Been held up, I’ll be there soon.

I replied with a thumbs-up emoji and delivered the drinks to our table. I’d be happy if Brash didn’t show up at all, but that was too much to hope for. Loretta raised her head from her phone screen and looked me up and down.

‘You okay, Stella?’ she asked. ‘You seem distracted.’

Could I trust her? She already knew a lot. I recounted some highlights of my day so far.

‘Astana,’ she said.

‘You know your capitals.’

‘Geography was my favourite subject in school.’

When I finished the whole story, her reaction was rather subdued. It would seem it took more than conspiracy and murder to shock Loretta.

The mood in the place was lively. It was reassuring to see the CFA volunteers, farmers, council workers, people of all kinds letting off steam on a Friday night. It was so normal, so regular, so reassuring. I drank the beer and realised I hadn’t eaten anything since the vanilla slice.

I convinced Loretta to at least try a curry. We finished our drinks and walked the trolley down the road to an Indian place. We ordered four different vegetable curries, rice, naan, raita, as well as more lemon squash and more beer. Then I sent Brash a text with our whereabouts.

‘Where was I?’ I asked Loretta.

‘Kazakhstan.’

‘Right. So then he accused me of being with PAWPAC or the RSPCA or PETA.’

‘I’ve heard of the other two, but what’s PAWPAC?’

I shrugged. Loretta looked it up and handed me her phone.

‘Promote Animal Welfare, Prevent Animal Cruelty’. There was a page of high-profile ‘patrons’: a former high court judge, a soap actress, a celebrity V8 Supercar driver, a former fast bowler with the Australian cricket team, a Western Australian billionaire activist. Next, a list of ‘ambassadors’ who were more actively involved. Verity Savage, journalist with The Australian Financial Chronicle, was on the list. I still had the copy of the paper I’d bought at the servo in my bag — the one with her tax avoidance article in it.

If Bunny Slipper wouldn’t take up the investigation without so-called proof, maybe another journalist would. One with an interest in animal welfare. Verity’s email address was at the end of the article.

‘I’ll email her,’ I said. ‘See what she makes of it all.’

My thumbs were too slow for Loretta. She used her own phone and told me to dictate. I recited a message similar to the one I’d sent to Bunny. A bit of background, potential scoops, and my contact details. I watched Loretta’s lightning thumbs fly, feeling gratified to have her help. She wasn’t a bad person, and on more than one occasion already she’d actually saved the day. Like when she’d given Colin Slade her old phone. It hadn’t been by design, but the result was excellent nonetheless, because it meant I still had Joe’s phone, and the recording.

We were raising our glasses to a job well done, when a large figure filled the restaurant entrance. Percy Brash stood holding a sixpack, a gust of stale smoke and body odour in his wake. His clothes were smeared with orange mud, and there were smudges of what looked like blood on his hands.

‘Here you fucking are,’ he bellowed.

He ripped a can out of the pack and snapped his fingers. A young woman brought him a plate and took the rest of the beers and put them in a fridge near the counter.

Loretta looked him over and said, ‘What’ve you been doing? Riding broncos in a rodeo?’

‘Yeah, lassoing a runaway calf.’

She laughed. I didn’t.

The curries arrived, and Brash filled his plate and waved his empty can at the waitress. Loretta ate a tentative spoonful of rice and announced she was going to the toilet.

When she’d gone, Percy Brash leaned towards me. ‘You did good with getting info from that bloke they sent after you.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

How did he know? And what did he care? Brash only cared about one thing: the identity of the person who pulled the trigger on the nail gun that ended Joe Phelan’s life. Whatever else came to light, the cattle-tag hacking or whatever, that was none of his business.

Brash tipped beer down his throat, swallowing, working the massive muscles in his neck.

‘Percy, what are you on about? How do you know what happened?’

He rubbed the knuckles on his right hand with his left. ‘He told me.’

Oh God, he’d bashed Slade. ‘You didn’t need to do that. Slade told me everything without the need for …’ I pointed at his knuckles. ‘Is he still alive?’

He shrugged. I felt sick.

‘That was a stupid thing to do. He doesn’t know who killed Joe. They don’t know who it was. It wasn’t them. And now you’ve murdered someone, a British tourist. When they find his body, the cops will ask questions. The whole thing will come to light. We can’t afford that kind of attention right now.’

I couldn’t believe I was talking to him like that. It must have been the beer. To my amazement, Brash made a grudging sniff of agreement. He moved his jaw and looked at the ceiling, at a dangling cobweb, thinking.

‘Someone at Athol Goldwater was working with Joe,’ I said. ‘They found out about this cattle-tag hacking scheme and were planning to blackmail them. But then they somehow got a recording of Pugh, and that changed everything. At first, they tried to blackmail Pugh with it, but then they got scared and tried to call the cops. Joe’s last message to Velvet Stone was to call the cops. They must have been shit-scared. I don’t know what happened, maybe Joe’s partner panicked and killed him to protect themselves. Maybe they had a fight over strategy. I don’t know. But that is the person you’re looking for.’

He coughed. ‘That could be right.’

Loretta returned from the ladies’ and looked from Brash to me, trying to gauge the tone of the conversation.

‘Try the Mushroom Jalfrezi,’ Brash said to her. ‘Get it in you. Look like a skeleton.’

She looked at the curry, horrified, and nibbled on a pappadum.

Brash pointed a stubby finger at me. ‘He told me one thing you didn’t know. Pugh’s political mate in Mildura reckons you’ve been in there, asking questions. It got back to Pugh. He’s sure you know about the recording now, and he’s not happy.’

Damn Kelton McHugh, the blabbermouth. ‘I don’t really care if Pugh is happy or not.’

He shovelled curry into his mouth. ‘You’re a big fat fucking target, Hardy, and I need you still breathing.’

‘Fat?’

Brash laughed, showing the contents of his full mouth. I felt ill, like I was drowning in mud, sucked down into a black moral vacuum. What had he done to Slade? Torture? Murder? I’d sort of come to like him. And the taint of it was also on me. ‘I need me still breathing, too,’ I said, pathetically.

This amused him; his eyes shone. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Better hurry up. Deadline’s tomorrow. Tick tock.’

‘Oh for the love of … Stop with the fucking ticking clock!’

He grinned, and pushed his chair back. ‘Night, all.’ He went and grabbed the rest of his sixpack out of the fridge.

I followed him outside. ‘Percy, wait. Take this.’

In the shadow of the street, I handed him Slade’s handgun. ‘It was his. It’s a Jericho.’ I was cognisant of the fact that if Slade had still had his gun, his encounter with Brash might have turned out very differently.

The gangster’s eyebrows rose. ‘Keep it. You might need it.’

‘No.’ I hated having it near me.

‘Whatever you reckon.’ He rubbed his hands on his pants and took the weapon, felt the weight in his hand. ‘Nice.’

‘Listen, Percy, tomorrow is a bit unrealistic, don’t you think?’

He scratched his chin.

‘I’m making progress, just give me more time.’

He burped, and I caught a whiff of curry and beer. ‘Rightio. Monday then.’

Labour Day? That was hardly any better. But I had to go along with him. ‘Fine. And promise me that once I find out who killed Joe, our business together is concluded. We go our separate ways, and I never see or hear from you again.’

He shoved the Jericho into the waistband of his pants. ‘Hardy, you’ve done good. Better than I thought — said that to Mrs Phelan, too. I really thought you’d be dead by now,’ he said with a laugh. ‘So yeah, once I get that name, you’ll never hear from me again.’

He held out a paw, the one he’d probably used to beat up Colin Slade.

The temptation to shove him away was fierce. I wanted to shout in his big stupid face: I don’t want your praise and your condescension. I wish I’d never heard of you. You and I are nothing alike. I want to be as far away from you as possible. Self-preservation won out. I gripped his hand and squeezed it.

The truth was, I was no closer to finding Joe’s killer. But if I could get another look at Enrique Nunzio’s files in his office at the Athol Goldwater prison, I might get a proper smoking gun. Maybe even the identity of every member of the syndicate. It was remote, but it was my only idea. And it was feeding a new strategy. Colin Slade was dead because of me, and it made me ill to think of it. How could I give Brash a name and get someone else killed?

Maybe I could avoid giving him a name by going straight to the cops. I’d tell them Brash was blackmailing me. If I gave the police the evidence of the syndicate, including Slade’s contact — the man named Paul — and if I exposed the whole cattle-stealing conspiracy, then maybe, maybe, I’d receive some leniency. Anyway, it might assuage my guilt about my role in the death of Colin Slade.

I’d give up the gangster money in my storage locker. I’d admit I took it from the scene of the bikie theft, they wouldn’t need hairs to compare. And I’d be in a lot of trouble, but at least I wouldn’t have to fulfil the appalling deal I’d made with Percy Brash.