36

MONDAY, THE Labour Day holiday. And where was I? In bed, entwined with Brophy? No, I was up early and ready for work. Inspired by Verity Savage, with her smooth pony tail, I’d pinned and sprayed my hair into submission.

I bought coffee from Buffy’s, as usual — Lucas never closed. Took the tram to work, as usual, though there was no crush of city workers, no cloud of overpowering cologne and perfume. Just me and a couple of random strangers. They stared at their phones, while I read the actual paper newspaper. What a dinosaur I was.

A text message jangled my phone. Percy Brash: HURRY UP.

I replied: new phone, who dis?

Brash: Lol! But seriously. A name thank you. Or your mush and bone.

I replied: *You’re*

I’d give him a bloody name. A lot of names. If it hadn’t been for Pugh and the rest of the syndicate, Joe Phelan would still be alive. Why not give him all of them?

Because I couldn’t live with myself. Even Pugh, whom I loathed. I couldn’t be a party to his murder. I had to find a way to get out of this thing with Brash with my life intact.

At the WORMS offices, I used my key, something I had rarely done before, since I was rarely first to arrive. I had the place to myself, and it felt good; I would get a lot of work done. Being on time, looking professional, these were unfamiliar experiences for me, and I liked the feeling of control it gave me. I might be genuinely productive today. Maybe even work on that presentation for Fatima.

My mobile rang as I was logging on.

Phuong: ‘Stella, I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop them.’

‘Stop what? Slow down.’

‘A task force has been formed to trace drug money, starting with the missing motorcycle gang money.’

‘But you destroyed the hair.’

‘They have multiple samples from the scene. I had no idea. As someone known to have been at the house, it’s only a matter of time before they pay you a visit.’

‘But a hair, what does that prove? That I was there.’

‘That you were in the hidden space under the floor where the money was hidden. It’s sufficient to get a warrant, search your flat, look into your banking records.’

A hollow feeling stretched out inside me. Even if the cash wasn’t in my flat, my transaction history would lead them to the locker. Fate had finally caught up with me.

‘What will you do?’ Phuong was saying.

I didn’t know. Tears blurred my vision. I reached for a tissue, and then I saw Fatima. I wondered how long she’d been standing there with her arms folded, wearing that frown.

‘Talk to you later,’ I said to Phuong and dropped the phone back in my uninteresting, conventional black handbag.

Fatima pulled up a spare chair and sat.

‘Is anything wrong?’ I asked.

‘Stella, do you have medical certificates for Thursday and Friday?’

‘Um.’

‘I’m sorry, Stella. But I have to let you go.’

‘Let me go? What does that mean?’

‘It means I want you to clear out your desk.’

‘But … but … what did I do?’

She exhaled, and there was an aura of exhaustion about her. It struck me that, lately, she was in an almost permanent state of deep disappointment. I understood I was not the only one under pressure. My indifferent attitude to work probably hadn’t helped. In fact, it was highly possible that I was solely responsible for the dark circles under her eyes.

‘In accordance with WORMS dismissal policy, you’ve had several written warnings.’

Had I? I remember getting one or two. But several? ‘What for?’

‘For underperformance, for failure to follow directions, for arriving late, for failing to turn up to work and not providing adequate certificates. You treat your role here like a hobby rather than a job.’

That did sound like me.

‘I need you to leave, Stella. Pack up your things and go.’

‘Oh. Right. I see.’

She got up, went to her office, and shut the door.

In a daze, I opened the drawers at my desk. One USB, one nail file, one Twisties packet with one stale Twistie remaining. Next drawer down, a highlighter and a pen that didn’t work. Next drawer down, the purple folder I’d put together ten million years ago. The Pugh/Prisons folder. I’d printed the organisational structure of Corrections Victoria, as well as the results of my searches on Pugh, Enrique Nunzio, and Mark Lacy, the read-haired contract manager for Corrections Victoria and the man I believed to be Colin Slade’s contact, ‘Paul’.

I stuffed it all into my handbag. Then I took my lanyard with its ID pass and my WORMS key and left them on the table in the staff room. I couldn’t bear to hand them directly to Fatima, to face her and see the disillusionment in her eyes again.

I took the tram home, went upstairs, sat on my sofa, and stared at the wall.

I’d had a good run. Not an Allyson Coleman run, not boom and bust, not scam and new scam. But a good run. Now, however, it felt like I was finally being called to account for every wrong thing I’d done. And there were some doozies.

What was I going to do? Single and unemployed. I was probably going to jail for stealing the gangster money. And I was out of time with Brash.

This was the time to go to the cops and tell them the whole story. Admit everything. It was better than being killed by Brash or some faceless BlackTack operative.

If I fessed up, I could expect no special treatment. Hardy name did not carry any weight. Not like the name Coleman, which, much to my vexation, counted for a lot, even in Australia, even now. Old money and dynasties of land-grabbing rent-seekers were respected above all by certain quarters in Melbourne and Sydney. School ties and shared holidays on a mate’s yacht.

I was a Hardy. No international wheeler-dealers would do major property-purchasing deals with me. No one would lend me a few million dollars to buy a couple of ships. Fucking ships.

Ships that leave from a port. A convenient port that she’d drive to in her Karmann Ghia.

I’d bet my bikie loot all those newly stolen cattle were being transported to pre-export holding lots near the port of Darwin right now. Verity Savage’s words echoed in my head, Find the cattle … provide the GPS collars. That’s a smoking gun.

I sprang to my feet and reached for my phone. I hit Bunny’s number, got her voicemail, and left a long message. Minutes later, I was in a taxi, driving to the self-storage facility in West Footscray. While the taxi waited, I removed the bag with the money and handed the key in at the desk. Then I asked the driver to take me back to Ascot Vale via a series of detours. I kept looking through the back window for any suspicious-looking cars, but could see none.

The taxi dropped me in front of a travel agent on Union Road. I paid cash for a one-way direct flight to Darwin, leaving around eight in the evening, arriving in the Top End around midnight, Australian Central Standard Time. Then I walked all the way Puckle Street and started looking in the windows, trying to use the reflection to spot anyone watching me. I saw no one. It would be pretty obvious if someone was watching me, I thought, because there weren’t many people about and some shops were closed for the public holiday. At a sandwich place, I bought a salad roll. I bought a red-and-white striped wheeled suitcase with copious compartments at a luggage shop and took a cab back to Ascot Vale. I asked the driver to wait, and carried the bag upstairs.

Into the new suitcase’s various sections, I arranged shoes and toiletries. All my summer clothes, I threw on the bed. I divided all the cash into small bundles and wrapped each bundle in an item of clothing. Then I spread the clothes throughout the suitcase, filling the various pockets and sections.

The airport was full of Australian Federal Police, armed Border Force Neanderthals, and a gazillion security guards. Surely, I’d be safe there. No one would try anything untoward with that much heat in screaming distance. My plan was to spend the day hiding out in an airport bar until I boarded my flight and left my troubles behind.

I emptied the fridge and the pantry and took everything downstairs to the foyer with a note that said free food.

Percy Brash sent a text: Time’s up I’m coming over

I blocked his number.

Adrenalin kicked in. In a fit of self-preservation, I flung open drawers in a frantic search for my passport. Escape, flight, running away: words to live by. I dropped it in my handbag, pulled the door shut, and carried the red-and-white striped suitcase down three flights of stairs. Rushing onto the street, I looked about me everywhere for the bloody taxi.

The taxi had left.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

In its place was Nell Tuffnell’s silver Nissan Navara ST-X. Slouched against it, eating an onion, was Tuffnell herself. A warm midday light washed over her, and she was all angles: cheeks, nose, teeth, even the lapels on her blazer.

I started to walk off down the street, pulling the suitcase behind me.

‘Stella Hardy! Where are you off to?’

I kept walking.

‘Let me give you a lift.’

I broke into a run, the stupid suitcase rocking and bouncing around behind me.

‘Don’t be like that.’

There was fifty metres to go to the corner. Once I made it to Union Road, I’d flag a passing taxi, pay cash, leave no trace, and disappear. A man appeared out of nowhere, grey sweatshirt and track pants. He stood in my way, arms akimbo. I stepped to the side, he stepped, too. Then he put out two hands and pushed me hard on the shoulders. I floated upward, saw clear blue sky, and fell on my back.

Get up, I roared at myself. Go, just go. I rolled, trying to scramble to my feet, but was meeting some kind of resistance.

His boot was on my chest. Nell Tuffnell pulled up beside us in the Navara. The man grabbed one arm and Tuffnell gripped the other and they wrenched me upright.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t go with you. I’m expected somewhere else.’

‘Not anymore,’ she said. They hauled me into the back seat. The floor was littered with McDonald’s litter.

‘What about my case?’

‘This ugly thing?’ The man kicked my fancy new suitcase. ‘Leave it for the garbage collector, man,’ he said in a Spanish accent. I took a better look at him. Enrique Nunzio. But this time up close.

‘Put it in the back,’ Tuffnell said. ‘We’ll dispose of it later.’

He threw it in the rear tray and climbed in beside me. Tuffnell drove, the top of her blonde do visible above the headrest.

‘Door on your side’s locked, Hardy,’ she said. ‘In case you were planning to escape.’

Nunzio laughed. He took a handgun out from under his sweatshirt, checked the clip, and snapped it back in place. He raised his eyebrows as he pointed it at my stomach.

‘What’s an IT hacker doing with a Jericho?’ I asked. ‘Hacking’s not serious, but murder? You’re looking at twenty years, then they’ll deport you.’

‘Shut up.’

Tuffnell turned onto the Western Highway and headed out of the city.

This was it. I was a steer on a cattle truck bound for an abattoir. And I’d made it so easy for them. The police would look at my flat and conclude I’d gone away voluntarily, and not investigate my disappearance as an abduction and murder.

Tuffnell turned off the highway near Bacchus Marsh and followed a narrow back road cut through green pastoral country. Contented cows grazed on gentle slopes. The dams were full. Birds flew in synchronised flocks. The road morphed into an unsealed track, potted with holes and corrugation. The car lurched in and out of craters in the road. I was nauseous and put my head in my hands as I rocked violently around next to Nunzio in the back seat. Objects in the cabin bounced around. Something hit my foot. I opened my fingers slightly and looked down. Colin Slade’s Swiss Army pocketknife, the one he’d used to cut me free of Velvet Stone’s tape.

I glanced left. Enrique was looking out the window. Slowly, I lowered my right hand and scooped it up. It was thick with functions. Keeping the pocketknife hidden between my right leg and the door, I tried to pull out a blade and managed to open the corkscrew. No good. The car slowed. I looked up. We’d rounded a rise and were coming to a house, concealed from the road by hills on three sides.

I checked Enrique, he seemed bored, still staring out the window to his left. I glanced down, pulled out another slice of metal. Scissors. Quickly, I tried again. Screwdriver. Damn. I knew they could do damage, but I wanted the blade.

Tuffnell turned the car and drove it down a narrow driveway towards the house.

I tried another function. A five-centimetre blade locked into position.

She stopped the car and turned off the engine. ‘Everyone out.’

I gripped the knife in my fist, keeping it low. Nunzio opened the door, and then leaned over to grab me. I jabbed the blade into his ribs.

‘Hey!’ he called out, more surprised than hurt.

He brought the gun up. I dropped the knife and made a grab for it. I knocked it just before it went off, shattering the rear window. Tuffnell was frantically trying to undo her seatbelt.

Nunzio and I both had a hand on the gun, pulling it so it waved wildly around, pointing in all directions. His other hand was pushing at my face. My other hand clawed around the headrest in front of me and caught a hank of Tuffnell’s hair.

‘Shoot her!’ Tuffnell shouted.

I let go of the gun and the hair, twisted and heaved my bodyweight against Nunzio, pushing him off balance. He let go of my face and fumbled the gun. I spotted the knife on the seat next to me. I grabbed it, two hands on the handle, shoved it hard into Nunzio’s abdomen, and jerked it sideways. He screamed and clutched his belly. Blood leaked in spurts from between his fingers.

I picked up the Jericho. Tuffnell watched me warily. I pulled back the slide, put both hands around it, straightened my arms, finger on the trigger. It was aimed directly at Shanelle Tuffnell’s face. ‘You move, you’re dead.’

I kept the gun on her face and said to Nunzio, ‘Get out.’

He looked ashen and weakly backed out of the car and slumped to his knees, holding his stomach. I slid over and got out behind him. ‘Now you,’ I said to Tuffnell, keeping the gun aimed at her. ‘Out.’ She did as I said. ‘Call an ambulance.’

She baulked. ‘No way.’

I lifted the pistol and fired into the air, then levelled it at her again and pulled back the slide. She took her phone out of her back pocket and hit the screen. A man had been stabbed. Urgent medical attention required. She gave the address.

‘Throw the phone on the ground.’

She dropped it near Nunzio, who was whimpering as he applied pressure with both hands on his bleeding wound. Keeping the gun aimed at Tuffnell’s head, I got into the front passenger seat.

‘Get in now and drive.’

She glanced at Nunzio, then got back into the car.

‘Where to?’

‘Turn the car around.’

She did a laborious three-point turn and headed out. Soon, we came to the highway.

‘Right,’ I said.

‘Back to the city?’

‘The airport.’

As we turned on to the highway, an ambulance passed us at a roaring clip, sirens screaming, lights flashing.

Tuffnell drove on, heading back towards the city. She kept glancing across at me and the gun, and seemed to be calculating her chances of disarming me while driving at a hundred kilometres an hour on the Western Highway. Evidently she gave up on that idea and tried making conversation instead.

‘I didn’t think you had it in you, Hardy. Your brother’s such a fuck-up. But you’re not like him, are you?’

I said nothing, though I was secretly rather pleased.

‘Slick move with the knife. Where’d you learn that?’

‘Girl Guides,’ I said.

My childhood growing up on a sheep farm was none of her business. And I wasn’t about to tell her that Colin Slade, one of their hired goons, had shown me how to use the handgun.

After that, Tuffnell drove in silence. My arms were beginning to ache, but I kept the Jericho pointed at her. Mainly, I was trying to figure out what her role was, and where she fitted into the syndicate. I was struggling to believe that someone like Pugh saw her as an equal. Slade had used her car, so she was a party to the scheme somehow. Was Tuffnell really one of them, with her tacky nails and chicken nuggets?

‘That rubbish in the back from your takeaway meals or was it Colin Slade?’

She scowled. ‘Slade’s. I haven’t had a chance to clean it out. Man was a pig.’

‘Why lend him your car?’

She pursed her lips. ‘No choice. They said he just needed it to get from A to B, get around in the city. Then the bloke used it when he killed Velvet Stone. They didn’t care.’

‘Who didn’t care?’

‘Lacy and them. They throw people like me under the bus. Cop rang me about it. Lucky I wasn’t charged.’

‘Why are you still working for them?’ I asked. ‘I presume you and Nunzio picked me up on their orders.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘They pay me for odd jobs.’ She shrugged. ‘Girl’s gotta pay the bills. Pugh and Lacy were getting more.’

I heard the bitterness in her voice. ‘You worked for them sometimes. So you knew what they were doing?’

‘Some of it.’

‘But not all. So you told Joe Phelan, for some reason. Why? What was he to you? … Oh my God … were you lovers?’

She laughed. ‘Gawd no. We fucked a few times in AGP Shed 6. That’s not lovers.’

‘You and Joe were curious about what Nunzio was working on. You knew it had to do with hacking. So you got Velvet Stone to meet with Joe at the market and figure out the hack.’

‘Curious. That’s a cute word.’

‘Well, you wanted to blackmail the syndicate.’

‘Of course we did. You have any idea how much money they stand to make?’

I knew. ‘You must be some kind of cold if you shot a nail into Joe Phelan’s skull.’

She sniffed, a little bit pleased with herself.

‘But why kill Joe?’

‘He was a fool. I was the one who made the Pugh recording on his fucking phone. The idiot didn’t understand a word of it. All he knew was that Marcus Pugh would pay us. He didn’t know who Al Coleman was, or Pugh’s daughter. It was me who knew Pugh was making visits to Nunzio. Then Pugh asks me for an empty office to make a private phone call. I was in the next cubicle recording it. Of course, I had to have an intermediary to make the demands.’

‘Of course, so you involved Joe.’

‘And he got greedy and careless. He gave me no choice.’

Tuffnell kept her eyes on the road. I watched her, but said no more. She had no idea that a massive creep, a ruthless, murdering member of a criminal gang, would gladly send her out the way she had sent out Joe. Percy Brash would execute Nell Tuffnell without a second thought, if I told him what she’d just told me.

But I wasn’t going to tell him.

We drove the rest of the way to the airport in silence.