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0830hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Royal Perth Hospital, Perth, Western Australia |
From Malvin’s semi-upright position in the hospital bed, the first face he saw was the red ant’s. She had woken only a minute or so before him and was stretching, yawning and blinking herself awake. She’d been looking at Malvin in the exact moment he opened his groggy eyes. The cardiograph on the heart rate monitor signalled a brief rise. He sucked air, flickered his eyelids and matched eye contact directly with Renee. Mackay hadn’t stirred. He had dozed deep into purgatory where he didn’t have to think about what was coming. But if Malvin was awake, then Mackay should be too, so Cross grabbed his upper arm and shook it gently. She felt its shape and form. Honed, hardened muscle from years of rugby and gym. Countless hours spent pushing away defenders, lifting things up, then putting them down.
Mackay came to life and rubbed his hands over his face. Massaging blood back into his cheeks and forehead. He looked at Malvin, who was staring at Cross, then tracked his eyes away from the red ant and lined them up with his younger brother. His face changed. Evolving from grey loss to the softened red of family familiarity. The edges of his cornea sharpened. His lower lip straightening from slack to horizontal. Even his chest rose and fell a little deeper. His hardened anguish was still there, battling behind recovery, but Malvin was intact. Alive. He wasn’t down for the count yet.
Mackay’s heart quickened. He shuffled his chair forward and placed a hand over Malvin’s. Over the pulse-meter clipped to his fingertip. A big part of Mackay wanted to cry seeing him like that, but he couldn’t. He needed to know things before his mind and body allowed him to shed any tears. That could come later.
‘You’re here,’ Malvin whispered.
‘I’m here,’ said Mackay.
‘Thank God.’
Mackay stood, leaned over his brother and touched his forehead with his own, then kissed it. Up close he could hear his lungs wheezing through the tubes. The sound unnatural and disturbed.
‘Mackay,’ began Malvin. ‘Things have changed. Everything is different now.’
Mackay sat back down and pulled his chair in closer.
‘I’m going to talk, Mackay,’ Malvin said. ‘It might take some time, but whatever happens, all I need from you are two things. Find Lincoln, and fix them.’
Malvin was a man of God. A steward of the holy cloth. It wasn’t like him to talk about fixing something. But Mackay had a good idea as to what he meant. Plenty of corporals and sergeants who had run platoons and units had used the exact same words. Some during training. Some prior to going onto the battlefield.
Mackay spoke slowly.
‘What do you mean by fix, Malvin?’
Malvin took a ragged breath, then looked Mackay straight in the face. Man to man. Brother to brother. An honest exchange.
‘What do you mean, Malvin?’ Mackay asked again.
‘I need you to promise me you’ll stop whatever they are doing. Because whatever it is, it is not acceptable. It is not of this world. It is not of God.’
‘Who are they, Malvin?’
Malvin wasn’t listening. He had his story to tell and needed to get it all out.
‘I saw her body drop, Mackay,’ he said. ‘She died right in front of me. Her back burst open with two patches of red, then she just… dropped. Onto her knees, onto her face. She didn’t move after that. I tried to grab her arm, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move either. I fell over seconds after her. She was standing, then there were two loud shots, then she leaned forward and was gone. When I was hit, I prayed I would go too, but then I saw a man. He was shaking Angus, but Angus was still and floppy. I tried calling his name, but I couldn’t.’
Tears pooled into the hollow of skin on Malvin’s neck. He dry-retched and coughed, leaning forward as his body contracted into a fit. Mackay watched as the monitor opposite fluttered and bounced. The thin line hit a peak and quickened. Malvin stared up at the ceiling as he settled, his face in total loss.
‘Lincoln was screaming,’ he continued. ‘It’s all we could hear. Scream after scream. We rushed outside and followed his voice. Then we saw him and the blond man.’
‘Where did this happen, Malvin?’
Malvin swallowed. He coughed again, five, six times. A flick of blood hit the white sheet at the end of the bed.
‘You have to find them, Mackay,’ he said. ‘Promise me. Sometimes things need to be done. Sometimes we need to do what we don’t like. When there’s a greater good to be served.’
Mackay sat there, numb. His anger building.
Malvin looked deep into Mackay’s eyes, then with whatever raw strength he had left, grabbed Mackay, and pulled him in close.
‘Do what needs to be done, Mackay. For me, for Neve, for the boys, and may God be on your side. Whoever these men are. Find them. And whatever they’re doing, stop it.’
‘Where, Malvin? Where do I need to go?’
‘Frans and Hoek Winery. Margaret River. Not too far from here. Something is wrong there, Mackay. There are people who want to try and cover it all up. So, I need to tell you as much as I can while I can. Do not trust the police. They won’t do anything.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Ever get a sense of knowing, Mackay? Like someone or something is trying to tell you something? Maybe you felt it when you were out on deployment. Like something wasn’t right. A sense from part of your consciousness, your spirit from within helping you put two and two together.’
Mackay was not a Godly man, but he took Malvin’s words with humility. His brother had been a pastor for the best part of twenty years. Mackay knew what he meant.
Mackay said, ‘I wish I could say yes, Malvin, but you know I’ve never believed the same way. The last time something went wrong in the desert, it came as a big surprise. I couldn’t put two and two together then.’
Mackay looked over his shoulder at Cross. Listening. Taking it in.
‘Malvin, be straight with me,’ said Mackay. ‘What do you mean by fix them? I want to hear you say it.’
‘If God can make changes,’ Malvin said, ‘it’s going to be through you. Fixing them is an act of kindness. It’s best they don’t live to be those kinds of people.’
Malvin painfully inched himself onto his side, as if to whisper a secret. Maybe something profane, out of character, or blasphemous. Something he’d never thought he’d say when standing and preaching at the altar.
‘Jesus died for your sins,’ Malvin said. ‘And now, they have to die for theirs. Find them, Mackay and kill them. Kill them all.’
Mackay sat back and closed his eyes. Cross spoke next, taking over the heavy atmosphere.
‘My name’s Renee. I’m a friend of your brother.’
‘Friends are special gifts,’ said Malvin. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Could you see what these men were doing?’ asked Cross. ‘Before you were shot? Did you get a good look?’
Malvin rolled himself back, collapsing flat across the stretcher. His eyes went back to the ceiling. His chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths. Like a child’s.
‘We were wine-tasting inside when we heard the screaming. Angus could never scream like that, but Lincoln could. He’s autistic. Lincoln screamed a lot when he was younger. You got used to the type of sound. Each scream for a certain situation with a certain tone. We hadn’t heard him scream like this before. It was more than just being scared. It was absolute fear and panic. He didn’t stop. Neve and I ran out from the gallery following the sound. The blond one had hold of him, dragging him back inside a large building behind the main gallery. A modern-looking shed. I think where they press the wine.’
Mackay said, ‘Can you think of any reason why they might have wanted Angus and Lincoln specifically?’
Malvin shook the picture of the incident away from his mind.
‘I’ve been trying to figure that out, but I can’t,’ he said. ‘Why would they want to take our two boys? It couldn’t have been personal, I know that much. We’d never seen them before and I don’t have any enemies. Not to my knowledge. The Protestants I knew from Belfast wouldn’t do anything like this. This was a random act. But it seemed organised, like they’d done it all before. Like they were ready. They even approached us and asked if they could show them the wine press facility. Like it was part of a tour. The boys were so excited. Angus looked proud, like he knew his job was to look after his little brother. We were too trusting.’
‘Any distinguishing features aside from the blond?’ asked Cross.
‘The man holding Angus had long hair. Brown and straight in a ponytail. There was also a rag, or some kind of cloth on the floor next to him. It looked wet, like it was saturated with a chemical. But there was no colour to it so it could have been anything. The other guy, the blond, was shaking Lincoln. Like a rag doll, trying to make him stop screaming. He had a syringe. The needle was long. Who knows what they were injecting them with, or why.’
Mackay shook his head, trying to make sense of it. Grasping the magnitude. He knew Malvin’s information was credible. Didn’t doubt him for a second. Didn’t have to question it or check twice. His word was solid.
‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’ asked Cross.
Malvin shook his head.
‘I couldn’t let myself,’ he said. ‘I made a point of it to wait. For you, Mackay. For good reason. The same two cops I’ve seen here in the hospital were the same two first on the scene in the wine press. Which wasn’t right. They arrived too early, before the paramedics. So, I kept my mouth shut and waited till I had the chance to request a phone and call you first.’
‘What did these cops look like?’ asked Mackay. The building tension and wrath was making him feel less jet-lagged and more alert. Like part of him had broken off and left him, giving way for a new sensation. A moving current of electricity.
‘One of them was English-white. Heavier type with a buzz cut. Typical lawman. The other was European. Maybe Greek or Italian.’
‘Big nose?’ asked Mackay.
‘Yes.’
‘Like a Roman soldier?’
‘Yes. He was kneeling down next to me, not long before the paramedics arrived, smoking a cigarette. He seemed calm, like it didn’t faze him. He didn’t do anything to help. Just squatted over me and watched. Like he was waiting for me to die in front of him.’
Mackay’s stomach lurched, spitting a cocktail of adrenalin and bile into the back of his throat. His head suffocated as he recalled the same two men from earlier. Standing in the hall as they first walked through the ward. The same two who debated with the nurse whether he should be allowed inside to visit his dying brother. The numbness and apprehension he initially felt when walking in had subsided. Replaced by a quiet storm.
‘Tell me more about Lincoln,’ said Mackay.
Malvin knew the enormity of what he was asking his brother. He knew that being emotionally invested was the only way to fix this problem. He could see Mackay’s rational sense of justification. He had already cut off his sense of duty and reverence for the cloth and had let go of the concept that every human being is precious. Because the lives of those men who took his wife and son were not precious at all. They weren’t human beings. They did not deserve forgiveness. As a man of God, he was supposed to forgive, but there was a flipside to that ideal. For the forthcoming retribution he was requesting, he believed in a greater plan. One God would place into the hands of his brother. He was as sure of it as Mackay was blood. He knew, because while he was writhing on that hospital bed thinking he was about to die, God had given him the opportunity to call home. To call Mackay. And Mackay had listened.
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0930hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Royal Perth Hospital, Perth, Western Australia |
‘I saw Lincoln run,’ said Malvin. ‘I was on the ground, I couldn’t move, but I saw him run outside. The blond one couldn’t hold him. The screaming must’ve been too much. He let him go to stop the noise. He could be anywhere.’
Malvin closed his eyes.
‘Your nephew needs you,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one who can find him now.’
Mackay pictured the small boy alone. Hiding. Whether he was in the woods or holed up somewhere in the confines of the winery, the image of his six-year-old nephew roughing it alone put a dirty red fire in his belly.
‘I’ll find him,’ said Mackay. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘It was me who was supposed to look after him at the winery,’ said Malvin. ‘But I didn’t. And I left him. He was frightened and scared and I couldn’t help him. Like I couldn’t help Angus.’
‘You didn’t know,’ said Mackay. ‘How could you? It’s not your fault.’
‘But it is my fault, Mackay.’
Malvin opened his eyes and turned to his brother.
‘We brought him into this world, and I wasn’t there for him,’ he said. ‘I will own that to the grave. There’s nothing you can say or do to take that from me. If you ever have your own children, you will be so taken by their innocence you would do anything to protect them. If you fail that, no moral reasoning is enough to be at peace with that failure. Their whole world is bonded in your trust. That trust was lost.’
Malvin couldn’t hold back the tears. He was tough enough. Where it counted. As a father. A family man. He contracted into another coughing fit, rocking back and forth. Mackay hated the sound. The phlegm. The struggle. Watching his older brother break down was a real kick in the guts. He could tell there wasn’t much left in him. He’d seen it in other men back on deployment. Coming in from the desert covered in blood. Doing their best to hang on but ultimately losing the battle.
The ward went quiet. Malvin’s wheezing and the quiet hive of electricity within the walls were all that could be heard. Occasionally a soft beep from the breathing machine next to them let the trio know it was still there, working, keeping Malvin alive.
‘He can be strange sometimes,’ said Malvin. ‘The autism is obvious, but at the same time he sparks with bursts of brilliance. He doesn’t always understand social cues or sarcasm, not even sympathy and compassion, which is awkward at first, but you get used to it. He is very literal. If he has a thought or opinion, he’ll always give it to you in its literal sense every time.’
‘The last time I saw him,’ said Mackay, ‘was after my first tour. We all met at your place down near Crawley. I remember how much he loved Mary Poppins. Didn’t move from that couch. We had lunch, drank some, then had dinner. He watched it on a loop three times through. The whole afternoon.’
Cross smiled. Malvin’s lips and the corners of his eyes tapered in. The slightest change. Like the beginnings of a smile, only it never quite made it through.
‘He knows that film inside out,’ Malvin said. ‘Word for word. We all did, Angus too. That film was Lincoln’s world for weeks.’
Malvin paused for breath. Let his feelings calm and his mind slow.
‘There’s a change in me, Mackay,’ he said. ‘I’m not the person I was. Not the pastor you used to know. Not anymore. I need you to find them, Mackay. I don’t care how it’s done. Will you fix this?’
Mackay didn’t need to pause and think, or to contemplate. He didn’t need to be asked twice.
‘I will,’ he said.
As a corporal, and with three tours under his belt, he already knew what it felt like to kill a man. Another human being. A few of them, actually.
Mackay said, ‘From a pastor’s perspective, is this murder, or revenge?’
‘Neither, Mackay. This is killing, pure and simple. Call it a cleansing. There’s a difference between killing and murder. Exodus twenty-three verse seven. God said, “Do not kill the innocent and righteous, for I will not acquit the wicked.” These are bad people. They aren’t innocent or righteous. You are a servant of God now. An avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer. Roman’s thirteen.’
‘Do you want me to hurt them?’ asked Mackay.
Malvin paused, then drew a long, broken breath of oxygen from the tubes.
‘No. I can draw the line there.’
Still a man of the cloth.
‘No need to make them suffer,’ he said. ‘Just deliver them from their own evil. Don’t stop to think about it. Hesitation could get you killed. Just get it done. The authorities aren’t looking into this. The police will likely have their own agenda to make it go away. Leave your anxieties and worries here. I’ll take the burden with me when I go.’
Mackay leaned over, placed his head on Malvin’s chest and held him firm and long. Malvin whispered into his brother’s ear, ‘I’m drowning, Mackay.’
‘I know,’ said Mackay. ‘I can hear it.’
‘They’ll try operating on me again tomorrow. Today was a rest day, but they didn’t seem hopeful. Said my lungs keep filling up with blood. Said the exit wound from the bullet was wide enough for a grown man’s thumb. Even if I do make it, I was a witness to the whole mess. People may come for me, I want you to expect that. But please, promise me, find Lincoln first.’
Mackay pulled himself away. ‘I promise,’ he said.
He stood and took in Malvin’s face, absorbing its features. Then he looked over the rest of him. Weak form and all. Bird’s eye view. Head to toe. Memorising what would likely be the last time he would ever see him.
‘Those people are bad news,’ Malvin said. ‘And bad news doesn’t get better with age. Who knows what they’ll do next, or how far they’ll go. Take care of Lincoln. He is all I have left as a memory of me. Tell me you understand.’
Mackay swallowed hard. ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘You are his safe place now.’
Mackay struggled for words. He focused on his breathing and looked deep into Malvin’s face. His expression, his colour. Which was when he knew. After this encounter, he was sure he would never see his brother alive again.
‘Whatever it takes,’ said Mackay.
Nurse Moffat entered the room and drew back the curtains. With her was a table with juice, water, jelly, mashed fruit and pills. The two git cops stood at the entrance to the ward. Watching, leaning, holding up the foundations. The coffee cups were gone. Their hands rested casually inside their shady pockets. The bottom cut of their jackets were edged back, revealing their shiny authority, clipped front and centre for the world to see.
‘You should go,’ Malvin said. Then, ‘May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back, and may the sun shine warm upon your face.’
Mackay held him there. Took in everything Malvin ever was to him, then pushed it all down and let his final words beam an everlasting light inside him.
‘How are you travelling, Malvin?’ asked Moffat. ‘You need to eat and rest before your surgery tomorrow. Your visitors will need to take a break now.’ Then to Mackay and Cross, ‘You’ll be able to sign back in tomorrow.’ Moffat had her nurse’s hat on. And her nurse’s voice. It was time for the pair to leave. She eyed them both politely and professionally. Her shoulders angled like a compass pointing away to the exit. No questions, queries or doubtful points permitted.
‘What do those two want?’ Cross said, jerking her head towards the entrance.
‘The two detectives?’ said Moffat. ‘If I were to guess, I’d say they’re hanging around to clarify more questions. Don’t worry, I won’t let them stay long. They can ask their questions later anyway, after he’s rested. It’s poor timing on their behalf. They were here for hours already this morning, as well two days ago when they initially brought him in.’
‘Were they first on the scene?’ Mackay asked.
‘As far as I know. The persistent buggers won’t leave. If you have any questions, by all means ask them. I could use the time to feed and administer Malvin’s meds in peace.’
Mackay stood tall and threw Malvin a hard salute. Forty-five at the elbow. Fingers straight. Feet square. Backing up his final image of his brother. Malvin nodded once in return. As if to say it was okay. That there was work to be done, and they would meet again someday. On the other side. Wherever that may be.
Mackay waited a final second, then about-faced and walked away. Cross reeled and followed. As they reached the two detectives, Mackay slowed to a halt. One metre’s distance from nose to nose. Close and confronting. One in front of two. Centred. A narrow triangulation. A ruler and pen would have made a perfectly neat geometrical configuration. Mackay absorbed their heights, their thicknesses, their posture. Memorised features and expressions. Filing it all away. He stood at ease. Tall in the torso, relaxed in the shoulders. Doing his best to hide the emotions in his face. Compressing it with a stiff jaw. Both the Italian and the Buzz Cut adjusted their stances. The proximity of a total stranger was too close. They both took one step back, feet square, clear of the wall with their hands out of their pockets. Just in case quick reactions and space was required. The Italian smiled. For a second it seemed genuine. A token show of professionalism. First impressions count on the force. Or perhaps it was a knowing smile. Ready for misleading answers to difficult questions. Arrogant responses to whatever information had been gathered from the wounded Englishman.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the heavier one. Buzz Cut. His chin was raised, but his cheeks and eyes were flat and tired. The coffee mustn’t have helped.
Cross bit her tongue. She could feel Mackay’s face stewing. Could see his thoughts racing. She tugged on Mackay’s pants, then curled her hand over his bunched fist bulging from the inside of his pocket. A gentle leave it be, let’s go. There’ll be time for this later. Mackay swallowed the fire in his throat. He stared daggers, eyeballing the Italian. Eyeballing Buzz Cut. He gave it a three-count. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. Then let it be. He had all the information he needed. The lines and colour in their faces, the dishonesty in their eyes, the corruptness in their body language.
‘No, sir, I’m all good. Thank you.’ Mackay rotated on his heels and angled for the exit. Cross followed as the two manoeuvred between the detectives and left the ward. Mackay didn’t look back.
Before exiting the ground floor, they passed another two men in suits. Walking through the corridor in Santa costumes, leading a couple of therapy dogs. In one hand was the dog leash, the other held a bucket of candy canes. There to help make a patient’s day that little less miserable. At least these two in suits were doing something good in the world.
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1000hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Royal Perth Hospital, Western Australia |
Mackay and the red ant needed time to plan. Since Cross had made it to Sergeant, being one rank above Mackay at Corporal, she was used to planning. It came naturally. And between walking out of the hospital and figuring out which hotel they would sleep in, her mind was firing. It wasn’t about having a completely buttoned-down strategy because that was implausible. People and circumstance always got in the way. She instead sought out a few basic steps with a best-outcome scenario. All of which involved breaking each step down to its simplest form: get from A to B first, then B to C, then C to D. Or wherever it might end.
Phase one’s plan was basic. Book a nearby hotel or bed and breakfast, pay with cash. Buy a couple of pre-paid burner phones, pay with cash. Make a phone call, which was the first thing Cross would do the following morning. Mackay didn’t ask too many questions about who Cross needed to call or why. He had complete trust in her. Like he did with his team back in the sandbox on tour. So, he left his questions to be answered in due course. He had his assumptions, but he followed the red ant’s lead regardless. Sleep was also a priority, part of phase one’s planning. Without sleep, decisions were skewed, and outcomes ended up FUBAR. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
Following that would come phase two – pending on how said phone call would go. Phase two involved getting down south to Margaret River to scope out the winery, then deciding what they would do when they got there. Which at this point was a standard reconnaissance mission. How they got there also leaned on the phone call, which was still some hours away.
With sleep being first on the itinerary, they needed information for a good hotel. Ideally nearby, ideally with an above average rating. Nothing too expensive, or cheap and tacky. This was no holiday, and they weren’t backpacking either. The best information for city sights, bars, restaurants, and accommodation usually came from cab drivers. And as luck would have it, one was arriving as soon as they exited the hospital. A cab turned into the drop-off zone at the forecourt as soon as they stepped out the doors. A maxi. Perfect timing and a total coincidence. The driver was dropping off an old couple. The bunch of flowers in the old man’s hands seemed expensive. A select mix of seasonal reds, purples and whites encased in red cellophane and a light-blue ribbon. A beautiful choice for whoever was receiving them. The woman, presumably the man’s wife, was exiting from the hydraulic lift in the rear, seated in a wheelchair. Mackay waited while the driver escorted the wife alongside her frail but upright husband.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Mackay to the driver. ‘Wondering if I might ask you about nearby hotels. Something you might recommend in the blue-collar ballpark that isn’t too expensive. I figured you might have some recommendations for me and my… friend, partner here.’
Cross raised a brow. Half impressed he’d used the word friend and partner in the same sentence. If only he’d connected them together in a more proper manner, she thought. Or even in a more intimate way.
‘No problem, mate,’ said the driver. ‘Most of what’s nearby would be in the white-collar ballpark though. Ritzy city hotels. There are plenty decent areas not too far from here. Just a stone’s throw.’
‘Perfect,’ said Mackay.
‘I know a few places. Nothing fancy. Quiet. Three stars. Some four. Not entirely el-cheapo though.’
‘Sounds like our cup of tea,’ said Cross. ‘We don’t want el-cheapo. If you’re not booked for another immediate fare, would you be able to take us there? We need somewhere to wind down from the jetlag.’
‘I assumed that all along, boss,’ the driver said brightly.
It was good timing for both. An instant job for the cabbie and a quick ride out of the CBD for them. Easy come easy go. The driver, in his late forties, was basically a walking toad. Skinny legs with a keg laid on top. Obviously taking in the beers a little more eager than most, but he was still a long way off from needing a ratchet strap.
Cross wheeled herself over to the rear of the cab while the driver lowered the lift back to ground level. She let him take over as Mackay sat in the rear passenger seat. It was fast, efficient service done well.
‘Victoria Park is just over the river,’ said the driver. ‘Five, ten minutes from the city, pending traffic. Good spot for food, coffee ’n’ all that. Not too loud or busy either so you should be able to dust off the jetlag no problem.’
‘Thanks for this, been a big couple of days,’ Cross said.
‘Not a worry. Don’t mind helping you lot out. Got family in old England myself, in Sheffield. Though I haven’t been to Ireland.’
‘Nice to know you can decipher an accent,’ said Mackay.
‘I watched a lot of Father Ted.’
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1000hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Busselton, Margaret River, Western Australia |
The first time news broke of the missing Perth art dealer eighteen months ago, Lydia Ferreira frothed over the pulpy juice like WD-40. Penetrating every facet. As a Margaret River local, no other story had ever been as big. Now, a second story was breaking within the same region, tied back to the same winery. This story, however, was tied to an international family: two dead, one missing, and one with gunshot wounds laying in ICU at Royal Perth Hospital. Lydia’s fingers slammed down on her keyboard like hail. Her ears were hot and sweaty from the dozens of phone calls she’d been making between St John’s ambulance, the coroner, the airline the family had flown in with, the state police department, neighbouring farmers and winemakers, even competing journalists. Some were helpful, some gave back nothing.
The five foot nothing, mocha brown thirty-year-old was a blunt piece of work. Her highly strung nature was outright annoying to some, inquisitive and fearless to others. She was both loved and loathed with her reputation for sticking her button nose in stories that preferred staying quiet. But nobody could say she didn’t do a good job finding detail. Almost always she went above and beyond for the sake of a story, it was just a matter of how much detail came out in the wash which ruffled feathers. For her, detail was the job.
Lydia had a story she knew had merit. Knew had weight. Not because it would elevate her status as a journalist, but because it would expose the truth. She was a simple girl with traditional values: truth above all and expose injustice. Her story was propelled by her will to expose that same truth from eighteen months earlier. All of which was owed to the public. Not buried and forgotten under state corruption where government associations paid people off. Often leaving the families of the deceased in the dark. Left in the big ethereal world of questioning why. No rhyme, no reason. Keep things quiet, because quiet is good.
Not for Lydia.
Quiet meant something was wrong, and she was prepared to go to any length to shake it up nice and loud. Lydia’s article, once published, would cement the same facts she’d presented months earlier, but with more gravitas. The internet had come, and for the future of her journalism, it had paved a wide road for truth. Her truth. Lydia’s news was personal. She demanded front-line reporting, personal accounts, first-hand accounts. On all platforms: blogs, features, prime-time television. With two fatal incidences connected to the one and only Nicus Van Breeman, it would have to make the federal court stand and listen. They’d have no choice but to spread their investigations into the state’s corruption. It couldn’t go any other way. Some of her facts were loose, but through trusted sources, some of those loose facts were bona fide. She took every quote and statements on the missing Perth art dealer from eighteen months earlier and piled every new piece of knowledge of the family shooting on top of it. She matched every facet of information to the new case, and although the most recent details were a little open-ended, the coincidence of another incident in the same location with the same snakehead was too great. The parallels insurmountable. In half an hour, her report would be sent to her editor at the Margaret River local, as well as uploaded onto her personal blog in cyberspace.
At a quarter past ten, Lydia was done. No more online searches, no more phone calls. She didn’t have everything fully fleshed out, but she had enough to raise plenty of eyebrows: an international family was gunned down, screams were heard, a medical evacuation chopper was phoned in. The two cops on the scene were also the same two cops involved with the Carice Hackforth case. And once again, all of it centred around the Frans & Hoek winery. Owned by infamous Perth millionaire, Nicus Van Breeman.
Lydia closed her laptop and finished her cream cheese and smoked salmon toasted bagel. She again phoned her immediate boss, also holed up in the main office, and gave her a rundown of the facts she’d ascertained. She was given the okay to send her story to her editor, which basically meant go for your life and open up a can of worms. She then rang her cameraman and told him to pick her up in ten minutes with all his gear. She washed her face, combed her hair, then brightened her complexion with various products. She walked outside to the gate at the front of her unit and waited. Her day was going to be a two-parter. First, a spot-news live report at Frans and Hoek winery. Second, a three-hour drive up north to check on the wounded victim at Royal Perth Hospital.
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1015hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Victoria Park, Bed and Breakfast, Perth, Western Australia |
The driver pulled into a bed and breakfast. A lodge rated at four stars, not three, on the driver’s recommendation. Away from major roads, businesses and noisy traffic flow. A reputation he assured was reasonably priced, clean, with friendly service and a quietness not found unless they ventured into the hills. The driver seemed genuine with his recommendation, and there was no I do for you, you do for me deal. He didn’t prompt for a tip and didn’t raise the cost of the fare. For a first option, it was solid. Mackay went inside while Cross and the driver waited for the approval.
Inside, the reception quarter imitated an open-plan art gallery bounded with sand-lime brick. The design flourishes were a mix of canvas paintings and panoramic photographs; ocean landscapes, coral paintings, and numerous aerial shots of dolphins and whales. A large-scale aquarium was built into the far wall behind the reception desk and a token bookshelf with tourist pamphlets ran adjacent to the entryway. The vibe was relaxed. Lounge jazz played from speakers in the corners while soft vanilla and lavender circulated the room. Compared to the hospital, the flight and the two cab rides, this was the place to be. Mackay stepped back outside and gave the cabbie the thumbs up. The driver nodded once, got out and lowered Cross from the rear lift while Mackay removed their bags and walked them up to reception.
The price was reasonable like the driver said. Free Wi-Fi, room service until ten, and housekeeping on request. Cross opted for the queen bed in a single room, which was cheaper than two singles in two separate rooms. Mackay didn’t object. They were early for regular check-in, but the room was ready, and the chirpy receptionist took into account their travel time and jetlag. She booked them in for an initial starter of three nights, which Cross thought was ideal considering there was no surcharge to extend if they wanted. Happy days. Cash was paid.
They were shown to their room by the receptionist herself, a trim older lady in a fitted jacket with a never-ending smile. She moved like a dancer and spoke like she was the owner. Or at least part owner, obviously proud of the business she was providing. Mackay figured her closer to seventy but ballparked her in the sixties just to be safe. She had a conservative layer of red lipstick, of which some had made it to the front of her teeth, but it wasn’t terribly visible, so neither Mackay nor Cross said anything. She cheerfully unlocked number twelve, handed over the keys and left them to it.
Inside the room, Cross opted to shower first. She rolled her chair to the corner of the room, locked the brake, leaned down and climbed out using her arms like stilts.
‘Looks weird doesn’t it,’ said Cross.
‘From an able-bodied point of view, it does. Only because I’m seeing it for the first time.’
‘First time I had to try it, it felt stupid. For months. Now it’s what I do. Breakfast routine, bedtime routine. You’re the first normal person to ever see me do it.’
‘Normal?’
‘Aside from my parents and the rehab team back in Aldershot. You’re still a weird-looking fucker, don’t worry.’
‘I feel privileged.’
‘You should.’
Cross sashayed herself to the foot of the bed, reached up and took her carry-on backpack off the mattress. Mackay watched.
‘I’m not sure what I should do to help you,’ he said.
‘Don’t.’
The red ant dug into her backpack and collected an old toothbrush, an oversized T-shirt, a pair of shorts with a drawstring and a can of deodorant. All Mackay’s old gear he’d left behind in Guildford. She picked them up and held the pile out to Mackay.
‘You can take these into the bathroom and put them on the floor in the middle,’ she said. ‘Put a towel next to them and the bathmat where it normally goes.’
Mackay obliged while Cross hand-walked onto the bathroom tiles then turned and waited for Mackay to leave.
‘You’re sure?’ Mackay asked, opting to be a gentleman one last time. ‘I could get the hot water ready?’
‘I’m an amputee, not a paraplegic. See.’ Cross raised herself onto the ends of her limbs, reached up and grabbed the door handle on the inside.
‘Impressive, not stupid,’ said Mackay.
Cross flashed a brief smile and closed the door.
Mackay walked to the kitchenette, found a glass in one of the random cupboards, poured some water from the tap and took his daily hit of drugs. First the immunosuppressants, then the synthetic marrow stabiliser. Maintenance meds. He laid down on the queen bed and switched the television on. The mattress was a little springy in his opinion, for a four-star establishment. But it didn’t sag and at least the springiness was evenly distributed. He’d slept on plenty worse.
There was not much happening in terms of news. It was too early for the evening broadcast, so instead he left it on some reality programme and tried to switch his brain off. A loud Greek-Australian family were bickering about who cooked the best moussaka, which version was best, and which of those versions would be served to their guests. After five minutes of nonsense, a news report cut in. A ten-thirty bulletin. It wasn’t a national broadcast with a veteran anchor and a cityscape background, rather, a smaller, local channel. Still, the text that rolled across the screen noted an exclusive update. The reporter stood roadside in front of a long extravagant building with a tiled roof. Behind her was an extended wooden fence running left to right up to a gate alongside a huge signpost. In the far background were rows of grapevines. Mackay couldn’t really make out the name on the signpost, as the focus was tight on the reporter.
The reporter, a short brunette with naturally tanned skin, began mentioning a few recently familiar names which made Mackay sit tall and lean forward. He turned the volume up with the bedside remote. She spoke directly about Malvin’s incident. She mentioned three names specifically that, in the last few hours, were the exact reason why he and Cross had flown halfway across the world. The first name was Margaret River, where an ongoing police investigation was taking place. The second name was Frans and Hoek Winery, which was when the reporter moved, allowing the camera to focus on the signpost beyond her shoulder. It had the winery’s name written on it in sharp blue and bronze font. The font was inscribed above a caricature of a half-eaten fish with prickly bones riding a stallion. The third name mentioned was Van Breeman. The same name their first cab driver from India had mentioned. The educated one with the Kufi cap. Fortunately, the reporter expanded that name to its fullest. Nicus Van Breeman. The reporter specifically stated that within a two-year period, this was the second, serious criminal investigation directly linked to the Perth millionaire. A forty-one-year-old South African native who’d made it big in the Perth social scene. The first investigation being Van Breeman’s connection to his missing lover: art dealer and socialite, Carice Hackforth. Now a cold case wrapped under suspicious circumstances.
Along with these three names, the reporter mentioned the shooting of a woman, as well as suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of an eight-year-old boy which was apparently brought on by an asthma attack. She said it was unknown at the time whether the boy was the woman’s son. She then stated that a man in his early forties had been flown to Royal Perth Hospital and was now recovering in ICU from a gunshot wound. Again, unknown whether the man was linked as the husband or father. She didn’t mention the family was from the United Kingdom, or that there was, in fact, another boy missing. She’d obviously done her best with what limited information she could gather, but she did throw caution to the wind, saying this had the makings of another potential cover-up. The reporter finished her segment stating it was another serious blow to Margaret River’s wine and tourism industry, and that a national inquiry to the truth behind both incidences would be paramount, and in the state’s best interest.
‘Someone has some good contacts,’ said Cross, swaying out of the bathroom. She looked odd dressed in Malvin’s baggy clothes, and although the men’s deodorant didn’t particularly suit, she looked brilliantly fresh, her skin radiating with post-shower warmth. She clinched one hand into the top sheet of the bed while the other hand grasped the bedhead. She pronged onto her limbs then hauled and twisted herself onto the bed. Like a horizontal pirouette. Her wet hair tickling his arm as she scuffled in next to him.
‘We’ve got a bigger slice of the whole pie now,’ said Mackay. ‘We have names and a visual for the location.’
‘Pie? I could easily murder a slice. I’m starving. I can’t think.’
Mackay looked over at the digital clock on the bedside table next to the phone. ‘How about ordering pizza?’ he said. ‘Surely there’s a Domino’s open at this hour getting ready for the lunch rush.’
‘I’ll call and order. Go shower.’
‘Do you even know the number for Domino’s here?’
‘No, but the lovely old bird at reception might.’
Mackay took himself into the bathroom while Cross got on the phone. He turned the shower to hot. Hot as he could stand. The water pressure was excellent. He undressed, dunked his head under the jets and dragged his fingernails down his scalp. Hard. Left side, middle, right side. Front to back. Back to front. Opening the tiny blood vessels beneath the skin’s surface. Releasing the tension, helping him feel that little more at ease. His own personal therapy. Near enough to what Swabinski had suggested, only at a physical level rather than mental. Short-term relief rather than long-term closure. He stayed under the scalding water for ten whole minutes. Probably the longest shower he’d ever had in his life.
Mackay walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his midsection. Cheese-grater skin in full view. Cross was sitting upright in the bed watching a train travel across eastern Europe on the television. Inside the train, an older man with a British accent spoke about the iconic Zagreb cathedral. A structure devastated by the Tartars in the mid-1200s in Croatia. Cross turned to look at him. Taking in his physique. Wide-capped shoulders, knotted abdominals, disfigured ribcage. Mackay wasn’t sure whether to ask her to look away while he got changed or go back into the bathroom. He was also unsure if it was too early in their friendship to be sleeping next to each other. Thankfully, Cross spoke for him.
‘Stop thinking about it,’ she said. ‘Close the curtains if you’re that self-conscious.’
Mackay obliged and closed them, shutting out most of the daylight. Typical human nature in front of the opposite species. At least for a man who hadn’t been seen by a woman for over a year. What light remained filled the room to a low amber, which was dark enough to sleep in considering the time of the day. Under the dancing luminosity of the television, he dropped his towel, picked out his shorts from his dive bag and put them on. Then came a knock at the door.
‘Domino’s,’ stated a young voice. Mackay couldn’t tell if it was male or female. If it was female, he figured she’d be somewhere in her mid-to-late twenties judging by the seasoned announcement. Maybe a university student, or maybe it was her full-time career, enjoying every minute of it. If it was male, he was most probably younger. Late teens, still growing into his adult self. Mackay opened the door. A female. Mid-twenties. Small and wiry. He paid the girl with enough of a tip for a couple of large coffees. Or a jug of premium beer. The girl smiled like someone had just done her tax return. He closed the door then sat down in bed next to Cross.
‘She seemed excited,’ said Mackay.
‘They don’t tip in Australia,’ said Cross. ‘Not customary. You made her day.’
They shared a large ham and pineapple, and a supreme, eating from the boxes on the bed while the man on the train exited Zagreb. He then travelled west into Slovenia and spoke about the proximity of Ljubljana, and how the Slovene language differed to Serbo-Croatian. Namely by its unique grammar, vocabulary and pronunciation.
Cross turned to look at Mackay. The flickering colours of the television drew spangled tones across his face, sketching the wrought outline of his jaw. She could see the muscles at the sides flexing. He was biting down, grinding his teeth. She sensed an unease. Whether it was because he was in bed with her, or because Malvin was lying in hospital with his life sapping away, she couldn’t be sure. She traced the bristling hairs of stubble with her eyes and noted his subtle overbite. She noted how the tops of his ears were slightly blunted. Not in a bad way, they were still curved like normal only with a rounded edge. Like it’d been filed down or pinched inward like the crust of a pie. A result from all the knocks and scrums playing rugby.
Mackay turned to see her looking at him. In the there and then. He held her there. He liked the closeness. In that moment, he envied her. For a loudmouth extrovert, she looked totally serene. She had managed to get through her rage and inner turmoil since her own traumatic incident, and it emanated beautifully. Exuding a state of mind where Mackay wished he could be. At the same time, she made him feel calmer than he’d felt in a long time. He could feel his jaw start to loosen as Cross ran a hand down his ribcage. Feeling his uneven skin. The scar tissue, the abrasions, the rubbery texture. She caressed his side top to bottom. Hip to collarbone. Up and down, and back again. He let her feel his disfigurement. Mackay reached a hand around to Cross’s own ribcage. It felt normal. Taught. Toned from years of boxing, her dimensions as good as perfect. He held her waist and pulled her closer, lifting her on top of him the gentlest way he knew. Up close she glowed. Her skin smooth as silk, bristling with measured restraint. With her free hand, Cross found the television remote from the bedside table and turned it off. She closed her mouth over his and curled into him, then onto him. Another physical release, this time mental as well.
|
1230hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Frans and Hoek Winery, Margaret River, Western Australia |
Nicus Van Breeman walked into the admin room of the main gallery to find Bryson, Kimbala and Wynand seated at a table, watching a news update on a small flat-screen television.
‘Have you seen this, boss?’ said Bryson.
Bryson had his feet up on the table, ankles crossed, leaning back. He was sipping coffee from a tall stainless-steel Thermos.
‘Seen what?’ said Van Breeman, pausing deliberately to look at Bryson’s feet. Bryson didn’t twig. Didn’t take notice, or simply didn’t see where Van Breeman was looking.
‘Nice to see you making yourself at home,’ Van Breeman said.
‘What’s that?’ said Bryson.
‘The retarded part of your brain seems to think you’re in your lounge room.’
Bryson frowned with an I don’t understand face.
Kimbala said, ‘It’s that same woman from last time. The reporter. Nosy bitch. The news has been running it since ten-thirty this morning. They’re repeating it every half hour. With this amount of exposure, it’s going to get bad. Twice as bad as last time. Or worse.’
Van Breeman exploded, ‘Get your feet off the goddamn fucking table!’ He grabbed Bryson’s boots, heaved them up and kicked the chair’s legs, knocking Bryson backwards onto the floor. He picked up the Thermos and threw it against the wall. Exploding the hot brown liquid like a Pollock painting. Bryson was taller than Van Breeman by a whole foot. Under any normal circumstances on the street, Bryson would have ripped Van Breeman’s head off. It was only under employment obligations and monetary factors he stayed down, sprawled on his back.
Wynand and Kimbala stood. Van Breeman faced them.
‘Have either of you found the boy?’
Neither spoke. Wynand stared at the floor. The television tweeted in the background. Spilt coffee filled the air. Van Breeman looked from Wynand to Kimbala, then back again. Bryson cautiously made it to his feet.
‘I’ll be another man down if I have to repeat that question,’ said Van Breeman.
‘No, sir,’ said Kimbala. ‘The boy’s still missing.’
‘Then why the fuck are you all in here watching television? And how is it nobody saw this bitch making a news report right in front of our establishment? Right in front of my brand? Where is my money going after it goes into your pocket?’
Nobody spoke. Van Breeman wasn’t finished. ‘She was right there on the front driveway. My own security, getting paid a bomb but can’t even secure the premises. Tell me, who needs some fucking retraining here?’ Van Breeman’s eyes darted between his three men.
‘To be fair, sir,’ started Bryson, ‘that report was made while we were out searching for the boy. Sometime between ten and ten-thirty. We’d been out searching on rotation since seven o’clock, and have only just come back in. And by the camera angle, she wasn’t on our property. Even if we had seen her, why would we risk being filmed?’
Van Breeman stepped forward and grabbed the front of Bryson’s collar with two hands. Bryson breathed and chewed thoughts. Slow thoughts at that. He considered his current reality, then calculated his options with realistic outcomes. He decided to stay still. The only person bigger than Bryson was Kimbala, who could easily have been a sideshow freak in a circus act. Still, if Bryson was on boil, he was plenty intimidating. His dopey-eyed stare and gentle giant appearance worked in his favour when taking children down to the wine press. But otherwise, he was an amalgamation of dense and psychotic. Which for the most part was why Van Breeman had him on the books.
‘You don’t ask me questions, Kefa,’ Van Breeman said. ‘You answer mine. Are we clear?’
After a long, drawn-out moment, Bryson nodded. ‘We’re clear, boss.’
Van Breeman let go.
‘That reporter can do what she wants,’ Van Breeman said. ‘I don’t care about her status as a journalist anymore. Women in front of cameras think they’re invincible. She’s our next target. She needs to go. Now get the fuck out of here and go look for the boy.’
Wynand, Bryson and Kimbala left. Then Van Breeman’s phone rang. It was Taylor.
‘Some good news I hope,’ said Van Breeman.
‘Not yet,’ said Taylor. ‘He’s supposed to be admitted for surgery tomorrow, but it’ll be done before then. We’ll give the security guys a break.’
‘Then he’s out of the picture?’
‘Easy done. One hundred per cent.’
*
Inside the hospital, on the same floor where Malvin lay drowning in his blood, Taylor and Derek waited. Waited on the clock. They were good at waiting. Part of their bread and butter. Biding their time for the right moment. They needed a quiet few minutes where security was lax. A time where back and forth texting was key to instigate a clean elimination of the British witness.
Taylor used his police powers and talked his way into gaining access inside the security control room. He needed to rewind some footage. The control room accessed all the CCTV footage and fed it back to the wall of screens. It picked up the halls, wards, and car parks in and around the hospital. Taylor had the rank, the badge, and the gun, all of which helped persuade the two familiar security personnel to let him inside. He told them he needed to revisit the morning’s recordings from the ICU ward. Back to when a broad athletic man and a female in a wheelchair had arrived. A British couple who might have more information to help the shooting investigation. At least that’s the story he went with and nobody questioned it. Rank, badge, gun. What he really wanted to do though, was completely different.
While Derek sat in the ICU’s waiting room flicking through a year-old real estate magazine, Taylor sat in the security control room rewinding and scrolling. Wasting time, pretending to look busy.
‘You guys been in here a while? Long shift?’ asked Taylor.
‘All morning. Nine hours and counting,’ said one operator. Harrison. Written on his name badge.
‘You guys must need a break,’ said Taylor. ‘Go grab a coffee. On me. Real coffee I mean, from the café on the ground floor.’
Taylor filtered through his wallet and peeled a twenty. He dropped the note on the bench and slid it across within easy reach of the guards. Neither of the two men responded. At first. Then Harrison raised an interested brow.
‘I don’t know about you, Steve,’ Harrison said, ‘but I was always taught never to refuse good hospitality.’
The second guy smiled and nodded. Steve. Written on his name badge. Obviously keen for a break. Maybe a trip to the bathroom as well to freshen up a little.
Harrison picked up the twenty. ‘You want anything, Detective?’ he said.
‘No thanks, mate,’ said Taylor. ‘I got this to search through. Take your time. Finding the potential suspects involved in this breach might take a while. Hard to distinguish one person from another in the footage.’
‘True, true,’ said Harrison. ‘Zoom in, zoom out, pause, play, repeat. We’ll be back in five minutes. You all good here?’
‘I’ll be fine, cheers.’
Harrison and Steve left the control room with Taylor’s twenty. Taylor pulled out his cell phone and texted Derek. CLEAR NOW. 5 MINUTES.
Derek felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked the text then made his way over to the duty nurse on the ICU floor. Nurse Moffat. Derek went through the motions, like a good detective. He sought out her permission to see if he could go and see Malvin and clarify a few final questions. Taking the advantage. Poor Moffat had no idea of his agenda, so she wasn’t to blame. As a show of good faith, Derek and Taylor had stayed clear of Malvin for most of the day. Intentionally. All part of the plan. It wasn’t up to Moffat to refuse either, really. There’d been a serious incident. People had been shot. People had been killed. Questions needed to be asked and answered, which could only be done while Malvin was conscious and coherent.
‘I’ll give you your five minutes,’ said Moffat. ‘But no more. He needs to rest for his surgery tomorrow.’
‘That’s all I need, ma’am,’ replied Derek.
Moffat escorted Derek into Malvin’s ward. She pulled back his curtain and raised his bed with the controller hooked to the side of the bedframe. She pulled the sheets away from his chin and began rubbing his arms and hands, waking him gently. Malvin’s eyes slowly began to open.
‘I’ll leave you two alone for a spell,’ said Moffat. ‘The detective here would like to ask you a few questions. It’s his last chance before your surgery tomorrow. Then it’s more rest. Okay?’
Moffat left. Derek pulled the curtain closed.
‘You’ve come,’ Malvin rasped slowly. Breathlessly. ‘Do what you need to do.’
Derek paused momentarily. The weight of Malvin’s words were almost enlightening. Nobody he’d ever killed had ever expected or anticipated their death quiet like the man lying in front of him. It was strangely difficult to absorb.
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘As am I. You’ll see.’
Derek looked over Malvin’s face and body. Malvin didn’t move. Didn’t scream or yell. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. He didn’t make any notion to react or retaliate at all. He simply looked his murderer in the face – watching as the detective switched off the monitor from the wall and unplugged his breathing support. No beeps, no alarming digital noises. Derek pulled the pillow from underneath Malvin’s head and placed it over his face, pressing down on it with the bulk of his weight. Smothering him. Again, Malvin didn’t move. Not at first anyway. Not until his brain began to shut down from a lack of oxygen and his body began twitching impulsively. Rocking and shuddering. Human evolution fighting back instinctively. Soon, the rocking slowed, the shuddering tapered out. Malvin’s body relaxed and never moved again. Derek placed the pillow back underneath Malvin’s head. He noticed Malvin’s mouth and jaw were stretched wide open. Shock-blasted with the agony of suffocation. His eyes, however, were shut. Derek pressed the eyelids hard against the bottom of the sockets to make sure they stayed that way, then pushed Malvin’s jaw closed. A strained, pleading expression fighting to live still there. Locked beneath the surface of the skin. Inside the muscles, lines, and contours of his face.
Derek turned the monitor and breathing apparatus back on. He opened the curtain and stepped out, leaving it drawn. Less suspicious that way. Then he left to go find Taylor in the security control room. He didn’t see Moffat on the way out, which for him was a good thing. The less contact he had with her the better. She could have been anywhere. Checking other patients, running administration errands, speaking with other staff. Who knew? Even if Moffat was back within her five-minute time frame, she would have been none the wiser to the silence. Malvin simply looked sound asleep. Moffat’s first alarm signal for any patient was sound – beeps and blaring emitting from the monitors. Her second signal was movement – the patient’s body convulsing. Neither was going to happen. Her third was the flatline on the screen. Derek had taken out two out of three. Whether Moffat took a look at the monitor immediately on her return was a chance Derek had to take. Part of the risks of the job. Prerequisites under Van Breeman’s salary. If any fingers started pointing at him after the fact, he’d cross that bridge if and when it came.
On the way to the control room, Derek rang the head of the snake. Van Breeman picked up after the first ring.
‘It’s done,’ said Derek.
‘Good. Take the night off,’ said Van Breeman. ‘Have some time with the family. Tomorrow, I want you to collect the knobkerry and tucker telephone from my apartment, then drive back here. The others are kidnapping the reporter in the morning, so I need you back here by midday with the two implements.’
‘Reporter? Hackforth?’
‘Hackforth.’
‘Okay.’
‘We’ve still got a child to find as well. And bagging a reporter without witnesses is a tricky affair. It’s going to be a big day.’
|
0430hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Victoria Park, Bed and Breakfast, Perth, Western Australia |
Mackay slept long and deep. Close to twelve hours. He woke to a long-forgotten sensation; a woman was in bed with him curled up against his shoulder. Cross was breathing deep and heavy. She was toasty warm and still very much asleep. A faint scent of motel shampoo still lingered in her hair. He liked it. He stretched his arm out slowly, rolled away from her, and stepped out of bed. He looked back at the red ant. Silent. Deep, heavy breaths. No change. He walked to the bathroom, closed the door and started the shower. He tried not to think on the night just gone. The sensations. The heaving of her breasts. The velvety skin. Her damp hair sticking to her chest and back. The lack of completeness in her limbs making her feel weightless on top of him.
Mackay turned the heat to normal. Not as hot as before, he didn’t feel it necessary. He felt okay. Better than he had in a long time. Namely because of the sensual passing. The sex had taken a lot of the edge off. Worry and restlessness disappearing into the nether amidst the heated physical contact. But it wasn’t all gone. He still had plenty of worries circulating. Deep and unnerving. The type where fingernails through the scalp, or drugs and alcohol, could only release so much. If Cross wasn’t with him, if he were still sulking in his bedroom back in Guildford staring at walls, who knew what hole he would travel down. But time had passed. The sun had risen, and developments had surfaced. Malvin was lying in a hospital bed, dying. Possibly dead already. Mackay already had a sister-in-law and one nephew dead, with one other nephew missing. He was hurting, but he’d made a promise, and he had every intention of fulfilling it.
Sometime that morning, two phone calls would need to be made. Since Mackay was up first, the timing suggested his call should be first. Cross’s contact, whoever that was, could come later. Mackay needed to phone the hospital. To clear the ticking bomb in his head. But it couldn’t be done in the room. He needed to get out. The raw inkling of Malvin’s fate kept poking him with a sharp stick. He needed to know whether his inkling was right or wrong, but he didn’t want to bother Cross. She was deep asleep, and he wanted to leave her be. Let her catch up in her own time. Besides, he really wanted this next phone call to be private. No one but him and the voice at the end of the line. He slipped on a shirt, shorts, and shoes, and stepped outside.
The sun hadn’t risen, but reception was fortunately open. Even though the sign on the front stated the office hours were 6am–10pm, there was a light on inside and the door was open. The same trim, older lady they’d met the previous day was behind the desk. She looked fresh as a daisy, now in a black and white top, matching skirt, this time with a darker shade of lipstick. Mackay thought she looked ready for a photoshoot for some corporate magazine. She was working at a computer. Probably part of her morning email routine. Sending, replying, filing, organising.
‘You’re up early,’ she said. ‘I just started my day. How can I help you?’
‘Morning, ma’am, I know I have a phone in my room, but we have no directory. I was wondering if you had one in the reception here. Maybe a pen and spare paper? I was hoping to make a private call.’
‘Certainly. We have a phone and a yellow pages directory over there in the corner. Underneath the Brett Whitely on the wall. Your pen and paper are free of charge.’ She smiled. Wide and happy. Lipstick and teeth. Mackay looked to where she was pointing.
‘Brett Whitely?’ he said. Numerous artworks adorned the wall, none of which Mackay knew in any kind of artistic sense, only that the colours were vivid and mostly ocean related.
‘Big Blue Lavender Bay. With the palm trees and long jetty. It’s only a framed copy, not worth more than the frame itself but I just think it fills the space beautifully. I will have to charge the phone call to your room though if that’s okay. Is it going to be international? I just assumed it might because of your accent. If it’s a local call, it will only cost around fifty cents.’
‘No, ma’am. By private I mean I’d just like the phone number, write it down then use a payphone outside.’
‘Are you sure? I could leave the office if you like. No skin off my nose. I haven’t had my coffee yet so it would give me an early break.’
‘That’s very kind of you, ma’am. But yes, I’m sure. I’ll use a payphone.’
‘Don’t mean to push, but I have the internet open here, I can just search for the number on Google. If I’m being too nosy you just let me know.’
Mackay thought about it. Thought about the necessity of remaining totally anonymous if he were to fulfil Malvin’s wishes. It wouldn’t hurt if she simply got the number of the hospital for him. But then again, there was news breaking of a British man who had been shot, lying in intensive care in the city hospital. Mackay was British via Ireland, which would work in his favour, but Cross wasn’t, and the lady seemed pretty switched on. Could easily put two and two together if people started asking questions. She could end up linked to a line of questioning down the track, which, for obvious reasons would follow straight back to them.
‘That’s fine, ma’am, really,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be a bother. I appreciate it all the same. I’ll just take a look at the directory. And the pen and paper if that’s still on the cards.’
‘Of course. So polite, calling me “ma’am”. Don’t get to hear that too often. So refreshing. All I get is Mum, Nana, Lorinda, Mrs Hull.’
‘Purely habit,’ he said.
The lady handed Mackay a single sheet of paper and a pen and moved it across the reception desk. ‘The closest payphone is less than a five-minute walk away,’ she said. ‘As you exit the driveway, turn left and follow the path. You’ll pass a car dealership, then a line of restaurants and cafés. Stay on the left and it should appear opposite a Thai restaurant, close to a zebra crossing.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Mackay moved to the corner wall where a thick phone directory sat on a small shelf underneath the Brett Whitely painting. Next to it was a touch phone, and below that was a wooden stool with hand-woven Danish cord. Thick and sturdy to the touch. Mackay sat and flicked the phone directory to H, then ran through the pages. He’d called the Royal Perth Hospital only once before, back in Guildford. But he didn’t have a cell phone and never copied the number down. Besides, remembering a sixteen-digit international number was near impossible. He needed the local version. There was one number. It would have to do. Even if he had to jump through the hoops again to get to Malvin’s ward. Mackay wrote the number down, got off the stool and bid Lorinda a good day. Two minutes later, he was on a quiet sidewalk with minimal traffic.
The birth of the sun’s rays had only just started peeping. He passed the car dealership with new-model banners, passed a closed pub, a waking independent café, a closed restaurant, and a closed franchise café. He spotted the phone booth with its aluminium frame sticking out from behind a telegraph post. It stood opposite a Thai restaurant, near an intersection with a zebra crossing. Mackay stepped in, inserted some coins, flattened out the paper with the number on it, dialled and waited. The line clicked and connected faster than he expected. He was put on hold by a female voice, but it wasn’t Nurse Moffat. Different tone. Older. Harsher. A voice he’d heard plenty times before, in Afghanistan. Usually retained by old female sergeants and corporals stuck doing menial admin tasks. Living like they were two seconds shy of totally losing it.
The voice returned. ‘Thanks for waiting, how can I help?’
‘I’m calling regarding any updates on the state of my brother in ICU. Gunshot wound to the chest. My name is Mackay Connolly, I’m the immediate next of kin. My details should be on file. I attended yesterday with Nurse Moffat. My brother’s name is…’
‘Malvin Connolly,’ finished the nurse. ‘We all know the patient. We were looking at how to contact you but there was no number registered. Are you available to come to the ward in person, sir?’ Her tone was flat. Bleak and cheerless. Mackay knew the tone. Heard it plenty times before, also in Afghanistan. When the doctors spoke about fallen soldiers. He knew what it meant.
‘Is he gone?’ he said.
‘I think it best if you come in. The doctor will explain.’
‘Please, ma’am. I would really like to know that information now if you don’t mind. The sooner the better. If he’s gone, I can deal with some of that initial grief now rather than making a scene and breaking down in the ward. Never a pleasant sight. Not for you nurses, not for visitors. I can also begin letting our family know back in England and start the funeral arrangements, which will be quite a drawn-out process as I’m sure you understand.’
The nurse didn’t reply.
‘Is he gone?’ Mackay said again.
‘Yes. I am sorry,’ said the voice. ‘He was taken down to the morgue last night.’
The line was quiet for a spell. Nothing but hollow silence at each end.
‘How late?’ asked Mackay, bringing the conversation back.
‘Pardon?’
‘What time was he taken down to the morgue?’
‘I’m not sure exactly.’
‘Rough ballpark?’
‘Well, I had just started my shift. Maybe half an hour in, so approximately eight-thirty. Why is that?’
Mackay hung up. He clenched his jaw and swallowed the pain. Did his best to stop himself from crying but the tears rose and spilled anyway. He stayed in the booth. One minute. Two minutes. He took a breath, then let his assumptions rise. Played the scenario over in his head. An undetectable lethal injection? Removal of his breathing apparatus? A knife? Suffocation? Switching off life support? All of the above? None of the above? Two detectives with badges inside a hospital didn’t need to be supervised. They were trusted citizens. They could play the waiting game, find a moment, and do whatever necessary to silence a witness. It’s what he would do, if he was a dirty cop. Walk in, walk out. No questions asked. Mackay needed a shower.
|
0515hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Victoria Park Bed and Breakfast, Perth, Western Australia |
Cross woke to the sound of water streaming from behind the bathroom door. She too tried not to think too much about the evening past. Her movements, entwined together with him, in a foreign country, had said everything she had wanted to say. Made things easier in the short term at least. Meant she didn’t have to bring up feelings with words. Which were a nuisance at the best of times. Using real emotive words in a sincere manner wasn’t her strong suit. Things were hopefully less awkward now. For the both of them. In the heat of the moment, she was certain she had felt Mackay relax. He seemed calmer. Looser. On all accounts, since coming to know him she’d felt a certain security with him she hadn’t felt in a long time. Or maybe had never felt at all. There was an ease. Like she could just be herself. Loudmouth, stump legs, red hair, and all. And he accepted her. But she couldn’t let emotions get in the way. Not now. Not yet. Maybe their evening affair would work in phase one’s favour. Or maybe it would create tension. It was too soon to tell. Though it had felt right in the moment, and she had no regrets, they had work to do.
She quickly banked these thoughts to a reserved folder to ponder another time and instead retrieved a dormant phone number from a different memory file. A time preserved from a different life. As different as it could come. Before an IED had taken her legs and almost took her life. Before she learned to use a wheelchair or train soldiers at the boxing gym. Cross reached over to the bedside table with the in-room telephone. She located the dormant number in her head, hit zero to dial out of the hotel line, then pressed a series of buttons.
Mackay walked out of the bathroom, towel around the waist. The grisly skin glistening against the light streaming in from the bathroom window. He looked tense again. The muscles in his face a mix of lead and iron. His shoulders were raised, his eyes were narrowed. Like the weight which was removed the previous night had returned. Cross was sitting up in the bed, phone to her ear, speaking into the receiver with a slew of recurring answers: copy, wilco, understood. Mackay’s initial reaction was apprehension and unease. Why was Cross calling from the room’s phone? But from the tone of her voice and her responses, it was clear it was all business. This was her contact. No searching phone directories or asking Lorinda at reception for assistance. Anonymity maintained.
‘Yes, he’s here now,’ said Cross into the phone. ‘Tell him everything you just told me.’
Cross handed Mackay the receiver. As unexpected as it was, Mackay sat down next to her and went with it. There were no good mornings, how did you sleep, want to order breakfast? There was no fussing about. Mackay liked that about her. Work first, play later.
‘Hello,’ said Mackay.
‘Hello. You don’t know me, and I won’t give my name over the phone, but I know your friend, Renee Cross.’
Mackay turned to Cross sitting next to him. She nodded. All business. Mackay placed one hand over the receiver and said, ‘SAS.’ Cross nodded again. All dots now connected. Cross had only briefly spoken about her time in Perth once, at the coffee shop, back at Madam’s Apprentice Café next to the lake. She’d conducted pre-deployment training there before heading to Afghanistan to clear roads and minefields. She’d trained with Australia’s best. Easily some of the world’s best. The Special Air Service Regiment. Their main base was located in Perth, somewhere just outside the city. A beachside suburb. A strong part of him assumed he was speaking with an old flame of hers. Someone she’d spent time with. A month is a good amount of time to get to know somebody. Part of natural progression. Training environments often make way for blossoming relationships. Fit redhead, fit elite soldier. He tossed any emotional thoughts aside. The red ant’s face looked positive. Like the source and the information was invaluable.
‘I’m listening,’ said Mackay.
‘I’ll keep it short and simple. We normally wouldn’t allow this, and once the operation has been completed, it never happened. I don’t know you, I don’t trust you. But I trust your friend. So, you can consider me a friend of a friend.’
The male voice was casual, but to the point. Fluent and direct. The SAS in a nutshell. It sounded educated. Above average intelligence even for military standards.
‘Because of your situation and circumstances in relation to the ex-sergeant, I’ve been informed you are moving in for a reconnaissance operation. So, I will make an exception here. For you, because of her. She’s a blast from the past as they’d say. So, listen to her and look out for her. Being who she is and what she’s gone through means I owe her a favour. A solid. It’s the only reason I’m allowing this to go ahead. Copy?’
‘Copy. What do we need to do?’
‘Have you done any parachute jumping? Have you done a paratrooper’s course?’
‘Yes.’
‘You comfortable with jumping?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. At nineteen hundred hours tonight, there will be a C-17 Globemaster leaving RAAF Base Pearce. Bullsbrook. You’ll want to be on it, so be there at eighteen fifteen. Once you arrive at the security gate, get out. I will meet you there and transport you through to supply stores. Acknowledge.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘On arrival at supplies we’ll fit you out in night operational gear. Full tactical, including a GPS, altimeter, Kevlar vest and a night-vision headset. You’ll also get ration packs and water. Ideally, you’ll want to pack light. I don’t know how long you’ll be out for, so whatever rations you do pack, you’ll just need to make it last. Acknowledge.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘The supply stores won’t have this, but I will give you a bayonet, knuckle dusters, and a seal pup knife. Can’t do any higher-grade gear than that. No ammunition, no handguns. That’s out of my hands. Everything we have is accounted for. But if you acquire them yourself, then good for you. I won’t ask, I won’t tell. And Cross obviously won’t be going with you, so no comms radio of any kind. You’ll be too far away. She’ll stay back on base. I recommend you buy a mobile phone for communication. Preferably a burner. Texting only. Acknowledge.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘Over and out.’
And that was it. The voice on the line went silent.
Mackay turned to Cross.
‘What did you say to him?’
‘That we had a recon situation. That close family had been killed. Women and children. A likely cover-up from corrupt police, and a possible underground child kidnapping business. Or worse. And that we weren’t taking a taxi or hiring a car that far down south. And that he owes me.’
Mackay was stunned. And impressed.
‘Malvin is dead,’ he said.
Cross stayed quiet for a long moment, giving the gravity of the statement due respect.
‘You looked different when you walked out of the bathroom,’ she said.
‘Different to what?’
‘To last night.’
‘Last night was nice.’
‘It was,’ said Cross. She went quiet again. Then, ‘I’m sorry about Malvin.’
‘I knew it was coming,’ said Mackay. ‘Even before we left the hospital. Malvin was prepared for it. Gives me more motivation to take care of all of this.’
‘It still hurts when it comes. I’m here for you, okay?’ Cross kissed him on the back of the shoulder. Mackay stared out to nowhere. Past the television, somewhere beyond the inner wall. A minute went by.
Mackay said, ‘The guy on the phone. The soldier. You two were a thing when you came here for pre-deployment training.’
‘Initially yes,’ Cross said, being honest. ‘To a degree. But it didn’t last. Couldn’t. Different lives and careers.’
‘Why does he owe you? Taking a C-17 to do a parachute drop for a recon is a big favour.’
Cross didn’t reply.
‘You saved his life.’
Again silence, then, ‘No.’
‘Helped him out of rehab?’
‘No. No more on the topic, okay?’
‘You saved his dog.’
‘Good guess. He had a dog, but no. He was a dog handler. That’s enough for now, let it go. You have other things to focus on. We need get moving.’
Mackay let it go. Cross wasn’t going to give. Not now. Possible bad memory. Possible complex relationship. Mackay didn’t want to push. Besides, he had his own bad memories to deal with. Maybe he’d ask her about it later. Time and place.
The red ant flicked the covers off and got out of the bed. Mackay watched her bend from the hip and reach the floor with her hands. She shuffled over to her carry-bag and collected some clothes. Mackay’s old gear. Baggy, but still fresh and folded. Shorts and a T-shirt. Comfort for the West Australian summer. Mackay watched her put the previous day’s bra and pants on. She went without underwear. And fair enough. They’d left in a hurry and Mackay didn’t own any female clothes, let alone female underwear. Mackay watched the lean contours of Cross’s back as she did her thing on the floor and got dressed. Her spine flexed. The muscles flickered. He took in the outline of her glutes. The honed edges of her boxer’s shoulders. He would have been happy to pick her up and move her back to the bed.
Cross said, ‘We need to go to a shopping centre. First thing’s first, I need underwear.’
‘Roger,’ said Mackay.
He collected a fresh assortment of clothes from his own bag and got dressed. Shirt, shorts, shoes. Loose and comfortable. Then he called reception and requested a maxi-cab.
|
0800hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Westfield Shopping Mall, Perth, Western Australia |
First stop before making their way to RAAF Base Pearce, was the mall. The red ant’s needs needed to be met. Underwear was a basic human necessity. Start the day right. Nothing fancy. Cotton. A pack of three would do. On top of that basic-needs list was breakfast. It took around ten minutes for their taxi driver to collect them, then another ten to pull into a growing nest of traffic in the parking lot of the shopping mall. A Westfield. The driver parked at the rear of a short fleet of taxis then began sorting Cross onto the hydraulic platform. Mackay prepared the man a crisp twenty-dollar bill then bid him a good day.
They moved through a wide set of glass sliding doors into a blast of cool, air-conditioned goodness. The entrance opened immediately to a bountiful selection of retail outlets – eye-catching shopfronts first, then the rest. Spreading outward like a gigantic human body in wake-up mode. All the various moving parts at various states of readiness. Some parts good to go, others still limbering up for the day ahead.
Past the strip of retail outlets, the mall opened to a large food court. The massive semi-circle of shop space was flooded with commercial cafés, fast food, sandwich delicatessen’s and Asian street food. Mackay and Cross aimed for one of the breakfast cafés and checked the menu. The options were listed on a board above a clear-glass cabinet: muffins, croissants, savoury quiches and bacon and egg wraps. Mackay ordered a chocolate chip muffin and a ham and cheese croissant. Cross ordered a spinach and asparagus quiche. Both ordered coffee. They found an empty table in the seating area and polished it all off.
At nine o’clock when all the retail outlets were opening, they checked in at the nearest information desk. Cross needed underwear, and direct advice on where to go was better than browsing around on the fly without a clue. A thin service consultant greeted them in a sharp suit – immaculately dressed and groomed. His name badge read Thomas underneath the mall’s logo. He had a soft voice and a long fringe tucked neatly behind one ear. His booth was marked ‘Concierge’ and after their query for underwear, he pleasantly directed them to four options: a smaller clothing outlet on the ground floor, two larger department stores on level one, and a lingerie outlet on the second floor. The first outlet had what Cross needed just fine. BONDS. Iconic Australian cotton. No need to waste time seeking more options. The store specialised in men’s, women’s and children’s underwear and apparel. Cross bought a three pack of cotton panties. Assorted colours. She paid cash. The next item on the list were burner phones. They went back and checked in with the same service consultant at the same booth. Thomas directed them to five options. Three of them on the ground floor, two on level one. Two were smaller, independent electronics stores, and three were big-name service providers. All with modern shopfronts run by trendy youths with lanyards.
They went with one of the independent stores and bought two phones. One each. They figured a big-name telecommunications provider would require personal details to sign up. Which meant a credit card, a license, a passport. They couldn’t take the risk. Burner phones didn’t require red-tape details and could be sold over the counter. Cash for goods. Nice and simple. There were three options for the burners. The cheapest and most basic, a mid-range with internet accessibility, and an expensive one with higher resolution, hotspot tethering, and an upgraded camera with night mode. They went with the most expensive. Mackay thought about the bigger picture. The end result at the winery could sway in their favour if Mackay took photos. Deliver a wider crackdown on police corruption or whatever was going on down there. Maybe stop a child paedophile ring. If there was evidence to be found, photos were ideal. Snap whatever evil was going on and hopefully make the world a better place.
*
With phase one complete and phase two prepped thanks to Cross’s contact at the RAAF base, they had the capability to get to Margaret River. They just needed to discuss what was going to go down once Mackay landed. And there was still time enough for that. Time to massage phase two’s development. The hour was moving close to ten in the morning, which meant they had about seven hours to kill before needing to leave, with at least an hour of travel time getting from the city to the Air Force base. Which Cross recalled was only about forty minutes – when she’d first flown into the country for clearance training back in the day. Travel times in cities always change, and they needed breathing space to allow for any potential traffic issues. A full hour was a better time frame. Being late was not an option.
They decided to find another café, order another coffee, sit down and make plans. Flesh out a running order of actions. Break down the details. Mackay and the red ant circled the ground floor, slow and causal. People watching. Window shopping. Perusing the modern warfare of contemporary retail. Gauging a sense of the West Australian materialistic culture. Beards, tattoos, plastic. Similar to the UK only less clothing and more skin thanks to the summer heat.
Before selecting a café, they passed a shoe shop. A sports footwear store. Runners and cross trainers. Mackay decided he required a pair. A personal necessity. His war experience combined with a primal gut feeling directed him to initiate the decision. If he was jumping out of a C-17 aircraft with a parachute, likely landing in a topography of earthy forest next to a winery, he was going to need appropriate footwear.
He passed on entering the sports footwear store. Most of it was garbage. He didn’t need anything stylised or fashionable. He didn’t need anything commercially made by poor young labourers in third-world countries. He needed something robust. Something with grip and toe protection. They went back to the same, long fringed service consultant at the same information booth. Thomas directed them to one option. Ground floor at the complete opposite end to where they were standing. For the third time, they set out in search of their given directive. The store specialised in hiking apparel, camping gear and trail running. Mackay spent fifteen minutes with an experienced staff member. He tried on four different pairs of shoes. Two were made for hiking, two were made for trail running. All four felt excellent. He didn’t care about the looks, all were mostly black anyway. He went with a trail runner. The grip was exceptional. It had a Gore-Tex outer membrane to stay dry and breathable, and a protective rubber toecap. He paid cash.
Once at the café – a franchise establishment with about half the inside seats full – Mackay and Cross ordered, then sat and got busy with details. Phase two had some layers. Aside from straight-up reconnaissance and intel gathering, it was also about actions dependant on what situations would arise. That said, it could also potentially unfold into extreme scenarios. Essentially, Mackay was going in to eliminate targets from the list of names revealed by Malvin. There was no intent of capture and kill. It was kill only. But assessing that information was crucial. Figuring who was inside the corrupt chain of operations that needed removing was the main question. That was the recon. Mackay wasn’t there to remove everyone. Maybe the winery had innocent members. Staff employed as part of the day-to-day duties. Cleaning house, gardening and maintenance, face-to-face customer sales at the front of house. Mackay realised he was down on odds for a preferred combat strategy; a three-to-one fighting capability. Normally, British forces would take out targets at an optimal fighting force of three-to-one. Three times the number of soldiers moving in on the enemy. That way victory was more likely. For Mackay, he was at the polar end of the odds. The inferior side of the ratio. The possibility of being captured, tortured and killed for Mackay was high – if the standing numbers from Malvin were anything to go by.
Priority one in phase two’s objectives was to find Lincoln. Priority two was to take out the underground operations. Which included any attached personnel in the chain. Anyone part and parcel to the body of the snake. To what degree he would dismantle this, didn’t really matter. Fix it, said Malvin. And Mackay would do his absolute best to oblige. Priority three was to eliminate Van Breeman. The head of the snake. The top dog headlining the corruption. The ultimate objective, however, was Lincoln. And if any of the planned measures in phase two were deemed inaccessible or impossible, with impending risk to Lincoln or to Mackay himself, they were to be aborted.
Communication of movements back to Cross were also crucial. Which would need to be established from the point of departure to the point of return once the mission was complete. Mackay had the point of departure, not the point of return. How he was going to get back to the base was the weakest link. A distance of over two hundred kilometres. They didn’t have a time frame of how long Mackay might stay out in the field either, but what they did have was a burner phone. They could call and discuss those bridges when they came to them. Lincoln first. Everything else was secondary.
‘We’ll need a map of the area first,’ said Mackay. ‘Which means we need to find an internet café and a printer.’
‘Most internet cafés should have printers,’ said Cross. ‘That’ll be our next stop. Back to our friend at the service counter.’
Mackay ran his fingers behind his ears. Cross nodded.
‘Phase two is a little complex,’ she said. ‘It will all depend on the actions in response to what might happen out there. Effectively, you jump, touch down, enter the winery and go into hiding.’
Their coffees arrived. A small biscuit was placed on the edge of each saucer. Cross took her biscuit from hers and placed it on Mackay’s. They drank. Mackay ate both biscuits. They walked back to the service counter. Thomas with the soft voice and long fringe was still there, scribbling away with a pen in a diary or record book. Diligently doing his thing, like the good concierge he was. Or maybe he was just doodling, wasting time looking busy for the passing crowd. He looked up as Mackay and Cross approached.
‘Welcome back,’ he said.
‘We were hoping to find an internet café,’ said Mackay. ‘One with a printer. What are the options here?’
Thomas bit his lip, turned his head in thought and tapped the pen on his chin.
‘They’re a niche commodity these days. I don’t think the mall has one. Not inside anyway. If you venture back towards the city, Hay Street has a couple I believe. But that would be at least an hour’s walk. What specifically do you need printed?’
Cross changed tact. ‘We’re actually planning on doing a Margaret River wine tour,’ she said. ‘I was wondering whether the mall might have maps of the region. Or if a travel agency like that might have them?’
Mackay turned to where Cross was pointing. Diagonally across the gallery from the service desk was a modern store with a line of desks and monitors. Staff wore headsets with little mics near their mouths. It reminded Mackay of the personal radios they would use while on convoy missions. He wondered why they hadn’t thought of that earlier.
‘Of course,’ said Thomas. ‘No need to find a printer for maps and waste your precious time. Most of the travel agencies here would have dozens, if not hundreds. Margaret River is our bread and butter for tourism. Perth is okay, but Margaret River gets all the praise.’
He pointed across the hall to the same agency Cross alluded to.
‘We have Star Traveller over there, Flight Book near the main entrance, then Holiday Choice and Travel World on the second floor. There might even be one more on the third floor, but the name escapes me.’
Cross said, ‘Anything specific to Margaret River would work fine.’
‘Holiday Choice then, best one in my opinion. It’s more oriented to interstate travellers too. I would start there.’
Thomas typed something on his keyboard and hit enter. ‘Holiday Choice is on the second floor but in the opposite direction to where we are.’ He motioned to a nearby set of lifts between a bookstore and a jeweller. ‘If you take those lifts, it should pop you out near the cinemas, then keep walking down and it should be next to an R.M. Williams.’
Mackay looked confused.
Cross said, ‘It’s a leather store. Boots, belts, hats, jackets.’
*
Holiday Choice had pamphlets, magazines and maps for days. All lined across the inside wall. Cross put on the tourist vibe and asked for two detailed maps of Margaret River’s wine region. She also asked for one which included the Frans & Hoek winery. Which they had, with a basic aerial view. The topography showed a clean enough layout of the roads coming in and out. It also showed a large parking yard in front of what was assumed as the wine-tasting gallery, and a large structure behind it which they assumed was the wine press. More buildings scattered the area in a wide arcing perimeter. All bordered with a fence line adjoining a large national park called the Jarrahwood State Forest. They were also handed a bunch of other maps and pamphlets detailing routes to a chocolatier, a cheese factory, local eateries and world-class restaurants. Some with chef-hat ratings. Cross happily took them all, maintaining fake interest as a wine enthusiast. Everything was free. No printing. Happy days. They left, dumped all the tourist advertising except for the Frans & Hoek aerial map and headed outside to wait for a maxi.
‘Once you jump,’ said Cross, scanning the aerial map, ‘by grid reference it should put you at the north-eastern end of the forest. You can then make your way into the winery grounds from the forest edge. If you need to fuck off quickly, nip back in the forest and go to ground there. From the fence line perimeter, look for any possible security personnel or CCTV cameras first. The night vision may or may not pick them up. Depends how far away you are.’
Mackay said, ‘Disarming the cameras will be pointless. As good as shouting a big hello. I’ll make note of them and steer clear, then start searching the grounds for Lincoln.’
Cross said, ‘Any photos you take, send them through to me. I’ll store copies and keep as evidence. Keep the flash off the camera but try to get the best light source you can otherwise. Communication will be key. I’m going to want your location and status on the hour, every hour. Comms will have to be by text. Saves credit, plus it’s quiet.’
Mackay said, ‘No need for chatter if I don’t have to. Sound carries in large spaces and vineyards have acres on acres. Water and food shouldn’t be too much of a problem either. So said your contact. Said he’ll have rations for me at the supply store.’
‘Good. Same place as you’ll get your parachute and tactical gear. Once you jump, I’ll be notified from my guy. From there I’ll give it ten minutes before I hear from you.’
‘My descent won’t take longer than five. Including another five to pack my shit and find a small clearing to get organised. After I land, I’ll give you a sit-rep and loc-stat with a grid reference.’
Cross nodded. ‘I don’t know how good those burner phones are for GPS, I wouldn’t even bother. Just use the military-grade one you’ll get from the supply store.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Mackay.
‘My contact?’
Mackay nodded.
‘John. But even I don’t know if that’s legit. Whether it’s his real name or not.’
‘Special Forces are like that.’
‘Once the sun starts to rise, you need to be tucked away. If you end up being tucked away inside one of the buildings, stay out of sight. At the same time, do your best to gather intel. Find out who is who, and who is doing what in the chain. You might have to filter out the innocent employees from the unsavoury.’
‘Then take out the snake.’
‘Head to tail.’
|
1030hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Margaret River, Western Australia |
They were all gathered inside the admin room. Van Breeman checked his watch. It was mid-morning. His pawns had been out doing the rounds for most of the night and most of the morning: the winery grounds, the state forest. No sign of the boy. They’d come back empty and annoyed. How could five adult men miss a six-year-old boy on their own turf? The boss wasn’t happy. It had been forty-eight hours since the kid had run off. Forty-eight hours with no sign of life. Shameful.
‘Wherever that kid is, he isn’t doing too well,’ said Kimbala. ‘It’s been two days since he vanished. A kid that age, the dingos and snakes would have a field day. I wouldn’t be worried.’
Van Breeman didn’t look convinced. He didn’t look good at all. He was unshaven and unslept. A reduced representation of his normally groomed self. He sat in the admin room with the local newspaper open on a story and a close-up of Lydia Ferreira’s face. The title read Frans and Hoax. Even if Kimbala was right and the kid met his maker with forest wildlife, there had been no body found. No body still meant the possibility of life.
‘We’ll leave it for now. Forget the kid. Let’s move on to that reporter.’ Van Breeman tapped his finger on Lydia’s picture. ‘Find out where she lives and bag her tonight. You three know what to do.’ He lifted his eyes to meet Kimbala, Bryson, then Wynand, one by one. ‘Now everyone fuck off. Kimbala, you stay.’
Bryson and Wynand left the room.
‘Call Taylor and Derek. Tell them to go to my apartment and bring me the two black cases from the ivory trunk in the wardrobe. I want the tucker telephone and the rungu club.’
‘The magneto and the knobkerry?’
‘Yes. But we’re not going to kill her. She just needs to be taught a lesson. Shake her up a bit.’
‘Very old school, boss. A bit of homeland flavour.’
‘I can’t have any more disappearances connected to me. The magneto and knobkerry will shut her up. I’ve got a transaction this afternoon in Busselton. Inform me when Taylor and Derek arrive, and when you three have the reporter. I want her tied up in your hotbox.’
Kimbala stepped forward to leave, then paused and turned around.
‘Wouldn’t hand-cranking the electrical current through the phone kill a woman of her size?’
Van Breeman chewed on it. ‘Only if it’s maintained for extended periods. She seems like a tough bitch. I’m sure she can handle a few watts. Either way, if it does kill her, we’ll deal with it.’
‘And the club?’
‘Heads, shoulders, knees and toes.’
|
1500hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Victoria Park Bed and Breakfast, Perth, Western Australia |
Back at the bed and breakfast, time elapsed slowly. They still had three hours to kill before required at the RAAF base gates. Mackay’s head was swimming. Going through with the recon wasn’t the problem. Killing those responsible for wiping out Malvin and his family wasn’t the problem either. He felt there was a gap in their movements that needed to be secured. To stay ahead in their own game. Information that needed to be acquired.
‘I need to know where Van Breeman’s office is,’ said Mackay. ‘The driver from the airport, our first taxi, he mentioned Breeman was well known in this city. Said he probably lived or worked somewhere in the CBD. One of the main city streets.’
‘Hay Street and Adelaide Terrace,’ said Cross.
‘It will enhance our chances of taking out the top dog if we find where he works. At least if he isn’t at the winery in Margaret River.’
‘Now we do need an internet café. Otherwise, it’s a needle in a haystack. Dozens of buildings with thousands of apartments.’
‘We’ll have to go back to where Thomas suggested.’
‘Thomas?’
‘The mall concierge.’
Mackay sat on the edge of the bed lost in thought.
‘I know you would like to see your brother,’ said Cross. ‘Say goodbye. You will, soon. Once this is done.’ She wheeled herself over next to him. Grabbed his face and leaned in, kissing him against the side of the mouth.
‘I’m okay,’ said Mackay. ‘My mind’s occupied on taking out whatever fucked-up operation they’ve got going on down there.’
Cross turned Mackay’s head with her hands, making him look at her.
‘I won’t ask this again, but are you ready to go through with this?’
Mackay nodded. No hesitation. ‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘Needs to be done. If not for Malvin, then for a wider benefit. They used kids. That’s a no-go. For some reason I don’t even feel scared, I just feel numb.’
‘That’s likely the grief kicking in. It’ll come and go in waves. Once this is all over, let it wash over you. Now though, this mission is your backbone. Plus, you have an advantage.’
She ran her hands down his side. Over his ribs.
‘Just don’t become overconfident,’ she said. ‘Use the skills you know. Don’t take on what you know you can’t. Don’t get into a situation you haven’t trained for.’
‘Quiet, slow, smooth. I’ll be okay. There’s a first time for everything.’
‘I just don’t want your first time to also be your last. Push through the shit, but at least for Malvin’s sake, come out alive.’
Both didn’t speak for a while. Minutes passed. Cross cut the silence.
‘We should move,’ she said. ‘Grab those new shoes and pack your spare clothes. I’ll order a taxi.’
Before exiting the cab on Hay Street, Cross queried the driver for the nearest internet café. The driver, a stout female, dropped them off in the best proximity of two she knew of. They paid cash and headed in what felt like a northerly direction. Cross’s bearings were a little rusty to the way she remembered, but familiar sights kept popping up which kept her quietly confident.
Mackay stepped out in quick strides beside Cross as they worked their way through an open-air shopping mall. The lunchtime crowd was settling down. Most of the suits were gone, back in their office apartments trading shares, investing real estate, filing through complaints and grievances. That left the ground-floor crowd. Preened men and women reserved for the retail game, heading back into their designated shoeboxes.
After a set of lights near a T-junction they passed a row of stores with glass windows. Jewellery, apparel, specialty cakes, some were hole-in-the-wall cafés, some were sushi takeaways. The glass windows became tiled walls, the tile became brick, the brick became a combination of roller-doors and iron shutters. They were leaving the main hustle and bustle into an undefined boundary where the outskirts were a little quieter.
The cash-only internet café was sandwiched between a sushi takeaway and a Swedish coffee house where staff wore tiny aprons and headdresses. At the front desk, Mackay checked in with a tubby Asian guy with a poof of hair set in a man-bun. There were various options of payment for various time limits. They chose the half-hour option and handed over a five-dollar note. The guy punched a few keys and reserved them a computer in the back. They made their way to a row of desks lined with monitors, each made private with office partitions. Their monitor had a small black box in the top right corner with a numerical counter that read 29m:58s. Their time had started, the numbers decreasing by the second. A Google page was open as part of the default home screen. Mackay typed VAN BREEMAN PERTH OFFICE, then hit enter. The cyber channels processed the request and within seconds displayed a page with a multitude of options. Good broadband. Decent speed. They could have sat there a week and still not scrolled through every option. It took fifteen minutes into browsing before they found what they were looking for. It was a familiar story. The content basically the in-depth version of what their Indian driver had brushed over on their drive from the airport. A lengthy article written by a female journalist from Margaret River. Lydia Ferreira. Her headshot looked like the reporter Mackay had seen on the television in their hotel room. The one who stood roadside in front of Frans and Hoek winery. Her article was a conspiracy piece about the missing body of a Perth socialite romantically connected to Perth millionaire and wine producer, Nicus Van Breeman. The article went into elaborate detail of a potential murder and cover-up, connecting facts and figures, times, and dates. It exposed layers of evidence that was never admitted into court, expanding into corrupt Perth-based law enforcement connected to a wider body of organised crime.
The missing socialite was also an art dealer. Carice Hackforth. Her and Van Breeman had been the toast of the town at numerous charity events, balls, theatre productions and gallery openings. The article went on to mention how they launched the opening of a corporate high-rise building where they owned an apartment together. The Swan Quay Tower. A steel behemoth overlooking the Swan River. Once construction for the tower was finished, the couple hosted a red-carpet showcase. A huge event for pretentious couples in frocks and gowns. A real who’s who in the zoo. Celebrities and athletes from across the country were invited, as well as barristers, the police commissioner, even a couple of A-List Hollywood stars were flown in. The party took up the whole of the tiered lobby on the ground floor. Then, a few weeks later, Carice was gone.
From the Google images, the Swan Quay Tower was mostly glass. The tinting navy-blue against the sky behind it. The rest of the exterior, including the lower foyer and tiered balconies, were white and silver. Evenly patterned. The building’s name was in tall silver lettering above the ground floor’s massive concourse. Two ornamental statues presided over the entrance leading to a huge revolving glass door. One of planet Earth with a wedge sliced out of it, the other a Greek goddess in a toga holding a smaller Earth above her head. Like a female Atlas. Maybe his wife. The sidewalk in front had long sections of pruned hedges and three flagpoles: Australian, Aboriginal, and what Mackay presumed to be the West Australian state flag.
The rest of their five-dollar internet time was used to search for Van Breeman’s specific apartment inside the building. They had no luck. They couldn’t even find a floor. Nothing concrete had been reported on or written about. The clock ran down to zero and they ended their session. At least now they had the full name of the head of the snake, a visual of where he lived, and a map of the winery.
On their way out, Cross stopped for some question-answer time with tubby man-bun guy. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Direction-wise, which way is the Swan Quay Tower on Adelaide Terrace?’
The guy hit the space bar on his keyboard then looked away from his monitor at Cross. He had a mouthful of half-chewed sushi. Most likely bought and delivered from next door. The guy chewed faster but Cross got bored and channelled her question a little more precisely.
‘Is it towards the big park on the hill, or back this way towards the open mall on Hay Street? Or is it further back towards Victoria Park?’
Man-bun swallowed and motioned with his hand behind Cross’s left shoulder. Fingers straight, palm flat, like he was chopping into the air.
‘More towards the park side,’ the guy said. ‘King’s Park. Directly behind the mall entrance on Adelaide terrace. Maybe, two hundred metres up.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cross as Mackay wheeled her out.
Walking along Perth’s main street after lunch was more or less a hassle-free affair. It wasn’t too busy. Nothing like London. At any time, day or night, London’s CBD was crammed up. Everyone on their toes looking forward for space and access. Perth’s main strip allowed for an open street view. Front to back. Left to right. No dodging or weaving necessary, even during rush hour. The buildings were modern, gutters were clean, the pavement smooth. People moved along briskly and still gave plenty of room for Cross in her chair.
Mackay walked on Cross’s right, closest to the stream of cars. His head and eyes were focused high, looking for silver lettering in tall bold font on a high-rise built with plenty of glass. His eyes dipped occasionally as they caught flashes of glare, reminding him both of Cross’s misfortune and his own IED blast in the desert. He did his best to push them aside, but the fourth time he dipped his eyes away, he saw two familiar sights. Familiar figures getting out of what looked like an unmarked police car. Parked in a permit zone for special vehicles only. A four-door sedan with two big antennae installed – one on the bonnet, one on the boot. He’d seen the same two men before in the hospital while visiting Malvin. One, a hefty man with a buzz cut, the other a thinner man with a prominent nose. Both exuded police presence from a mile away. Both wore suits and aviator sunglasses. Detectives. Corrupt. They moved with purpose fifty yards ahead, walking in the same direction as Mackay and Cross. Cross slowed and looked up at Mackay.
‘We’re following,’ Mackay said.
Cross stopped rolling, locked her brakes, and grabbed Mackay’s hand.
‘What are you doing?’ said Mackay. ‘We need to follow these two right now.’
‘I can see that, I’m thinking ahead. Shut up and listen.’ Cross’s eyes darted between Mackay and something else ahead of them. ‘There’s a guy coming with a hat. A cap. Get your wallet out. You’re going to offer him fifty dollars for it. I’ll keep an eye on where those two are going. Cities have cameras everywhere, and you need to stay as anonymous as possible. If a hat is the only thing that can conceal your head and eyes, then it’s better than nothing. Say whatever needs to be said.’
Mackay didn’t question it. Good soldiers take orders from good soldiers. A younger guy of average height was walking towards them. Casually. Stepping slow, taking in the sights like he had no place to be and in no kind of hurry. He had a backpack slung behind both shoulders, earphones stuck in his head underneath a black and red sports cap. The emblem on the front like a big ocean wave.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Mackay, waving the guy down. Cross went rolling on ahead, maintaining distance with the two suits as best she could. The guy noticed Mackay, slowed down and moved one headphone to the side of his head.
‘Hey, dude,’ said the guy, waking himself out of whatever musical zone he was in. He stopped three feet in front of Mackay who simultaneously pinched a crisp fifty out of his wallet.
‘That hat you’re wearing, I can’t seem to find one anywhere in town. It’s the exact thing I’m looking for. I would love to buy it from you as a gift for my son. Would you take fifty for it? Right here and now?’
On closer inspection, the guy’s eyes were round, lazy and red. Ready to pop out of his face.
‘Shit, dude, you’re Irish, man. That’s so cool.’
‘Aye, thanks.’
‘Aye. That’s cool as.’
‘So, your hat for the fifty?’
‘Dude this hat, man, is like, two years old.’
Mackay held out the note, inching it higher. ‘I’m heading back to the UK today. Flight leaves soon. I’ll be miffed if I go back without one. My son too.’
The guy brimmed with disbelief, finally realising Mackay had cash in hand.
‘Shit, dude. I won’t say no to that. You serious, man?’
‘Like a shrimp on the barbie.’
The guy couldn’t believe his luck.
‘Sure thing, man. No strings?’
‘No strings. Like I said, I’m off to catch my flight. A one-time opportunity. And I have nothing smaller to offer.’
‘Damn. Well, your business is my pleasure. Happy to help my brother. Fifty bucks goes a long way in my world, man.’ The guy took off his hat, handed it to Mackay and exchanged it for the flat yellowy-green.
Mackay moved on, picking up pace to catch up with Cross. Midway he adjusted the cap to fit and slipped it on his head. He could make out Cross’s rolling shape a hundred yards ahead. Fifty yards beyond her were the two suits. Walking brisk with purpose, making Cross work to maintain speed and proximity. The suits suddenly turned left and were lost to sight, which was when Mackay lifted his eyes and saw the tinted glass edges of a high-rise. He also made out three flagpoles and a wide silver-grey concourse. He extended his stride and pushed faster. On closer approach, a white Greek goddess holding the Earth came into view, then he saw the enormous planet Earth with a big wedge removed. Cross slowed and waited for him next to the front hedge.
‘Follow them in,’ said Cross. ‘Do what you can. Find out what they’re doing or where they’re going. Anything is good info.’
‘Stay nearby,’ said Mackay. He adjusted his new hat, pulling the brim slightly over his eyes for cover, then turned left. He walked past the flagpoles, the goddess, then past a wide driveway leading down to what Mackay assumed was basement parking, or a loading dock for delivery access. Or both. He then stepped onto a wide platform leading to a set of revolving doors and into a spacious lobby.
|
1630hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Swan Quay Tower, Perth, Western Australia |
Inside the lobby, Mackay briefly caught a side view of the two suits entering an elevator down a tiled corridor with remarkably high ceilings. He moved quick, but not too quick. Didn’t want to be seen as rushing excessively so as to draw unwanted attention. Just fast enough to look appropriately busy. Give the impression he was late for a meeting after a rush-hour lunch. He moved swiftly between an assortment of office workers, a couple of delivery personnel and the ground-floor security. The elevators were just beyond a winding staircase leading to a tiered balcony jutting out above. Mackay reached the elevators late. They’d already closed, the yellow digits above the doors indicating the elevator was moving up. Fast. Mackay took a step back and watched the numbers flicker through increasing levels. He stayed put and watched the numbers rise as another five, six, seven corporate-looking employees wearing access tags milled around for the next available lift.
The floor numbers moved past ten, then twenty, then thirty. It slowed briefly and stopped at forty-seven. Mackay played it safe and left. Getting in the lift was not an option. He too would need an access card to get anywhere and didn’t want to be the dumb loser stepping inside without a pass. He didn’t have time to start breaking company protocol and be harassed and questioned by security in the process. As casual as he looked in his T-shirt, shorts, and surfer cap, he already stood out as a red flag. Instead, Mackay went in search of a stairwell. Every building had one.
Except this one. Not on the lobby floor at least, and he didn’t want to hang about any longer raising corporate eyebrows. Mackay exited the revolving doors and headed back outside, where Cross was doing her best tourist impression admiring the statues.
‘The elevator they stepped in stopped at forty-seven,’ said Mackay. ‘I’m going to head down to the basement and try and work my way up from there.’ Mackay motioned to the wide driveway access to the far right of the building. ‘I’m guessing that’s all basement parking and delivery access.’
Mackay helped roll Cross down a steep driveway around the side of the tower. Down past the pruned hedges and flagpoles to a wider, curving section of concrete below the ground floor. A yellow boom gate with a swipe access was fixed in the middle of the path for vehicles but didn’t entirely limit anyone from walking around it. The gap was plenty big enough for Cross in her chair, so they continued to circle the path and descend behind the building. As the driveway flattened at the bottom, they faced a huge concrete wall on their right, and the opening of the basement parking on their left. Like a bunker.
They kept moving into the basement following endless lines of parked cars. The cement flooring descended again, going even deeper underground into what felt like the central axis of the tower above. They stayed left along a row of reserved parking bays. Staff bays for various corporate bodies upstairs. Most of them filled with expensive vehicles. Most of them dark in colour and German in origin. They followed the reserved line looking for signage to a stairwell. A minute later, Mackay picked up a noise behind them. A van. The gurgling diesel bouncing its dirty exhaust tone off the basement walls. It slowed, stopped, idled, then began moving again – the driver obviously stopping momentarily to swipe an access card before continuing past the boom gate. The vehicle passed by on their right. A plumbing and gas van according to the signage. There was nothing Mackay and Cross could do to hide, so they simply kept moving forward, owning their space. Like they’d done it a hundred times before. What would the driver say anyway? He probably had an urgent job to attend to. If they were asked, either they were looking for their car, meeting a friend, or getting picked up. Plenty of options. They kept their pace steady and calm. No awkward movements or attempts to hide. Cross wouldn’t be able to anyway. Their business was just as important as anyone else’s.
The basement tapered out to level, then opened into a massive space the size of a football field. All one low ceiling filled with coloured columns designating more bays for more corporate bodies. The same as what would be found in a run-of-the-mill shopping mall: spaces for hundreds of yards across every direction. After a random right turn with an empty row of bays, Cross caught sight of a bright green sign hanging from the ceiling. It read, ELEVATORS B1, with an illuminated arrow underneath. They followed the arrow’s direction around three sets of coloured columns to a triple set of lifts built into a far wall. Idling in a loading zone next to the elevators was the plumbing and gas van. Pumping out fumes. Smothering the oxygen. As Mackay and Cross got closer, they noticed two guys working together, pulling out hoses, gas tanks and random trade equipment from the rear doors. One was inside the van passing out gear to the other, who then stacked it into crates on a wide dolly in front of the lifts. Nothing in the entire vicinity of the basement stood out like a stairwell door leading into the tower.
‘I got this,’ said Cross, tapping Mackay’s arm. She rolled forward, closing the gap between the workers and the elevators.
‘Afternoon, gents,’ said Cross.
They didn’t seem too surprised. Likely because they’d already passed them on their drive down.
‘G’day,’ said the guy putting the gear on the dolly. He stood up, arched his back, and made the obligatory eye contact. ‘You guys all right?’
‘We parked our car near the stairwell, but forgot which corner, or coloured section, of the building it’s near. All I remember is it’s near the stairwell.’
The one who arched his back said nothing. He stared back blankly at Cross, then looked over at his co-worker.
‘Yea that’s easy, mate,’ said the one inside the van. He stepped out and took five paces to his left towards a grey BMW sedan parked next to a green column.
‘It’s the other corner of the tower over there,’ he said, pointing away, diagonally, above the BMW. ‘The section with the sky-blue columns. You can pretty much make out the stairwell door from here. Should have no troubles.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Cross. ‘Sky-blue, that’s right, now I remember. You feel so stupid forgetting something that is put there for that exact purpose, right?’
‘Don’t stress, mate,’ the guy said. ‘Has happened to me more than once. Some days you just need to get on with your day. You forget the coloured markers even exist.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Cross. ‘Definitely the way it went for us today.’
Mackay stepped over to where the guy had indicated, purposefully looking out across the layout of the basement. Like the query was genuine. The conversation had reached its end. It was time to go.
‘Thank you, gentlemen, much appreciated,’ said Mackay.
‘Yes, thanks, guys,’ said Cross. ‘Have a good day.’
‘Too easy. You too.’
The workers went straight back to it while Mackay and Cross beelined for the far corner. The stairwell was marginally concealed by the body of a big SUV. A black Toyota Landcruiser, which stood out from the rest of the mostly German vehicles. They were now at least two hundred yards from the workers at the lifts with no one else in sight. No security guards, no tradies, nobody collecting their vehicles. They were as good as tucked away and left to their own devices.
Mackay tested the stairwell’s door handle. It gave, opening to a wide concrete chute. Zigzagging flights of stairs stacked over and over each other, shooting infinitely upwards into a never-ending abyss.
‘Stay here,’ said Mackay. ‘I’ll head up and check forty-seven, and if there’s nothing there, I’ll meet you back here. Give me twenty minutes. If I’m longer than that, get out of here and make your way to the Air Force base. I’ll meet you there.’
‘Fuck that, I’m staying here,’ said Cross. ‘In this basement. Who else is going to roll me back up that spiralling access ramp? I’ll wait it out. I’m good at waiting. Basic military doctrine.’
Mackay breathed. He took her response and swallowed it. His level of care for her was growing, but at the same time he knew she wouldn’t budge. She was a stubborn soul for her own independence – one of the first things he recognised about her. One of the first things he liked about her.
‘What about a compromise?’ said Mackay. ‘Wait thirty minutes. If I’m not back by then, use the burner to call off your SAS contact. Tell him I won’t make the C-17 in time. Make up an excuse. Then come find me.’
Cross thought on it. ‘That’s fair, but I’ll compromise you one more.’ Cross looked at her watch. ‘You be back down here within twenty, then we leave for the airfield and get the rest of this plan rolling.’
Mackay nodded and checked his own watch. The time read three-forty in the afternoon.
‘Twenty minutes. See you at sixteen hundred.’
Mackay paused and thought whether he should kiss her goodbye or not. Cross made the decision for him.
‘Fuck off already,’ she said. ‘Get up there.’
No kiss.
Mackay turned into the stairwell and closed the door behind him. Metal and wood clanged shut, echoing up into the ether. He took the stairs all the way to forty-seven. One floor at a time, counted by the numbers on the back of every floor’s emergency exit. Mackay tested forty-seven’s door handle. It gave. He checked his fifty-dollar surf cap, making sure the brim covered his eyes. He opened the door slowly, stepped through and closed it behind him. No alarms, no employees wandering about. Just a long, empty corridor with plush carpet.
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1650hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Swan Quay Tower, Perth, Western Australia |
Of all the apartments on the forty-seventh floor, Van Breeman’s suite was the most spacious. The cream of the crop. As it should be, considering the amount he’d paid for it. It overlooked the Swan River, and King’s Park – Perth’s most famous landmark. Formed alongside the Swan River, its views overlooked the entire landscape of the city’s infrastructure.
Taylor and Derek entered suite number twelve with orders passed down the chain to retrieve two items from an ivory trunk inside. The trunk was a priceless antique box formed entirely of elephant ivory, made sometime during the turn of the nineteenth century in South Africa. It was kept in Van Breeman’s wardrobe, sitting pretty on the carpet below his collection of suits. Inside were two black cases. One rectangular and boxy like a first aid kit. The other long and light, as if made for an instrument or sporting goods. A perfect fit for a bat or trombone. The rectangular one held the tucker telephone, also known as a magneto. The long one had the rungu club, also known as a knobkerry. The magneto was a straight-up torture device. A weighty implement designed with parts from an old-fashioned crank telephone, mostly used in American prisons during the 1960s. With an electric generator, the telephone was wired to two dry-cell batteries and, when cranked, the hot wires would be used to administer electric shocks. Often to the genitals. The knobkerry on the other hand was a wooden throwing club. Culturally significant to East African tribes. Traditionally used by Maasai men for warfare and hunting. Nowadays its popularity mostly circled around tourist souvenir stores. For Van Breeman, he preferred it in its traditional sense, warfare and hunting, and had it made with authenticity by a true Massai elder.
Taylor and Derek got on with the job, collecting the cases as instructed from Kimbala. Following that they were to drive the three hours back to the winery. Of the boss’s last three directives, they’d completed two; they had the torture devices and had eliminated the British tourist from the ICU ward. The last witness to the messy debacle two days prior was now out of the picture. Things were looking up. Still, there were two matters that lay unresolved. Complications that continued to gnaw at the edge of Van Breeman’s balance: the missing boy and one inconvenient reporter. The boy was as good as dead anyway. A six-year-old alone in the wilderness after forty-eight hours was basically a non-issue. And the reporter was about to get bagged.