Cross Off (7 page)

'After what?'

'The abortion.'

'No way! I'm not having an abortion. We're both Catholics. That's a deadly sin. You're going to have to marry me, Vance.'

Standing in the living room of the Dover Heights flat, in broad daylight, at ten in the morning, Vance experienced something like a nightmare. He saw Ava mocking him when he asked for a divorce, taunting him with the details of their financial entanglement. He saw himself selling property at the bottom of the recession and going broke; business rivals laughing at him, loans being called in, enemies
taking advantage. He saw Ava siding with Sammy Weiss, joining forces with that bastard Harvey Kinsela and even the Chinks . . . He realised for the first time how indissoluble his partnership with Ava was. He couldn't divorce Ava and he needed time to think. He did the only thing he could do.

'All right, love,' he said. 'We'll get married.'

Shelley was all smiles then. She was passionate, too, and with something to occupy her mind, she objected less to Vance's frequent absences. She continued to work in the florist shop and the pregnancy was slow to produce signs. She went constantly to the gynaecologist for advice and reassurance. She was told that she was perfectly healthy and that the baby was developing normally. Vance fretted, had difficulty getting it up on his rare nights with Ava, and was impotent with both women for the few days before and after his bigamous registry office marriage.

Ava laughed and said, 'You must be getting too much elsewhere. Just be sure you gladwrap your dick.'

'Never mind, darling,' Shelley said. 'I'm sure it'll be all right and we'll have to stop soon on account of the baby.'

Vance stared miserably at the ceiling and didn't answer. But Shelley's next remark gave him the first surge of hope he'd experienced in weeks.

'Vance,' Shelley said. 'I'd like to live in the country.'

8

D
unlop spent the evening quietly, eating in his room, drinking a couple of cans of light beer, reading Thomas Harris'
The Silence of the Lambs
. Ava had not reappeared which did not surprise him when he entered her room to wake her at eight a.m. Two empty champagne bottles lay on the floor and the level was well down in a half bottle of Hennessy brandy. He brought her soda water and Panadols and left her to her misery. Twenty minutes later she joined him on his balcony. She wore a silk dressing gown in black and white stripes and dark glasses. She accepted orange juice.

'Where's your woggy girlfriend?'

Dunlop chewed his toast appreciatively. 'If you mean Ms Torrielli, I imagine she's at work. She's a member of the resort security staff. When you made your entrance we were having a professional discussion.'

Ava giggled and winced as the sound bounced around inside her head. 'Ouch. Yeah, I really pick my shots, don't I?'

'Did Kent disappoint you?'

'No, he was fine. I was just in the mood for some more, that's all. I drowned my sorrows instead.'

'So I saw.'

'Hey, she doesn't know who I am, does she?'

'Of course not. Not specifically. She knows you're a VIP.'

Ava groaned. 'I feel like a used wettex.'

'I've booked us on the ferry to Cooktown like you wanted. Are you up to it?'

'How long've I got?'

Dunlop glanced at his watch. 'An hour and a bit.'

'Wait.' Ava disappeared in a swirl of black and white. She came back carrying the brandy bottle. 'Pour me a coffee, Luke baby. I'll be ready when the time comes.'

Dunlop poured. Ava added a solid jolt of the brandy and emptied the cup in a couple of swallows. She gasped, 'Again.'

Dunlop complied. 'You're amazing.'

'Nothing. Know where I learned to drink?'

'Cooktown?'

Ava winked and sipped the second laced cup. 'You guessed it. Out the back of the pub with the Abos.'

Dunlop studied her carefully. Drink was beginning to blur Ava's features, but her bone structure was unmistakably Caucasian. 'You're not an Aborigine.'

'My mum lived with one, though. I've got a couple of boong half-brothers and sisters. One of the reasons I left the bloody place. One of them. It was no fun being treated like an Abo in Cooktown in the early 'sixties, let me tell you.'

'I'm surprised you wanted to come back.'

'So am I. I got raped here, bashed, knocked up, dose of the clap. Everything. But I still wanted to see the old place again. Funny, isn't it? Vance'd never bring me.'

'You talked with him about coming up here?'

'Yeah, a bit. Why?'

Dunlop castigated himself again. 'Nothing, Ava. Nothing. Go and get dressed. And don't forget to bring the hat Kent-baby gave you.'

The Barrier Reef Tours bus picked them up on time and called at a few other hotels on its way to the marina. The ferry was a giant catamaran, equipped with a bar, covered and exposed lounging areas, a small swimming pool and a TV room. Its capacity was seventy people and Dunlop judged that about forty were aboard so far. Japanese tourists, young and old, predominated, but there was a scattering of Europeans, Americans and Australians. Port Douglas harbour glimmered under a bright sun. The water was a deep blue and a light breeze kept the temperature down. Dunlop looked around for a shady spot, intending to settle down with his book. Ava made a beeline for the bar.

Dunlop had read the brochure. 'It doesn't open till we leave.'

'I wanna be ready.' Ava perched on a bar stool and took out a cigarette. She wore loose, knee-length cotton shorts, light blue with white turn-ups. Her scarlet toenails showed through white open-toe sandals. Over a pink halter top which showed a stretch of soft midriff she wore a long white silk shirt, buttoned here and there. She set the straw hat on the bar, dropped her light canvas shoulder bag at her feet and looked around at her travelling companions. A number of men eyed her; one took a stool beside her and offered a light.

Dunlop found a canvas chair in the shade. He took his book from the plastic shopping bag that also contained his swimming trunks, a towel, seasickness
pills, sunburn cream and his gun. The ferry was not due to depart for ten minutes and people were still arriving at the marina and straggling on board. Dunlop planned to do a thorough tour of inspection when they got under way. For now, he settled down to read. He was enjoying the book. Hannibal Lector was a chilling character and, unusually for him with his maverick streak, Dunlop was firmly on the side of Clarice Starling and the FBI.

Tate checked out of the hotel, drove to the marina and joined the last group to board the ferry. He wore large-lensed dark glasses and a long-billed baseball cap that kept his face in shadow. His .22 pistol was in the side pocket of the drill jacket he wore over a dark green T-shirt. The insulin, swabs and two syringes were in the buttoned breast pocket. Jeans and sneakers completed his outfit. His camera was around his neck. He carried his copy of
Car and Driver
and a map of Cooktown in his left hand. A thin-bladed knife was strapped to the inside of his left forearm, concealed by the long-sleeved jacket. He did a quick tour of the boat, noting the location of the toilets, the crew's quarters, possible hiding and stowing places. He saw Ava at the bar and Dunlop sitting reading in a chair not far from her.

The target looked set to spend the whole trip in the one place which would make it impossible to get to her. If she went to the toilet the minder would certainly escort her there and back. It looked like Cooktown would be the place for the job. Tate hoped that disabling Dunlop would be sufficient. There was enough heat on generally without killing
Federal cops, but he'd have to play it by ear. He settled down near the stern with his magazine. He took little pleasure in reading and was easily distracted from the printed page. But the photographs and specifications of the motor cars interested him and he was untroubled by the chatter of the tourists. The rigging up and baiting of the trawling line took his attention briefly, but Tate, a fly-and-lure freshwater fisherman, thought it a pretty crude affair.

He tensed when he saw Dunlop begin his survey of the boat and passengers. There was no reason to be alarmed or for Dunlop to take any special interest in him. No reason to attract attention either. Tate had a trick of appearing to shrink his body. He hunched in his chair. His shoulders seemed to be narrower and his chest pinched. His feet were crossed at the ankles in an ungainly, unathletic fashion. He slightly lowered his head and concentrated on the picture of the Trans-Am. Dunlop barely glanced at him, but Tate noted the strength in Dunlop's arms and shoulders and his balanced walk on the slightly pitching deck. Tate correctly judged Dunlop to be a few years younger than himself and in good condition. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. They'd told him his vision would change. He wasn't aware of it yet but it was hard to be sure. He squinted against the strong sunlight as he looked astern. Although a considerable distance away now, he could still see the marina and the buoys marking the channels. He could see as much as he needed to.

The bar opened and Ava began drinking wine coolers with ice and a twist of lemon. Several men
approached her and she had brief conversations with them without offering any encouragement. She passed the time drinking and chain-smoking low-tar menthol cigarettes, occasionally fanning herself with the straw hat. She displayed no interest in the coral outcrops, islands, dolphins or other advertised attractions of the cruise. A fishing boat out of Cooktown created a wave which fractionally rocked the ferry. Ava swore mildly as she slopped a little of her drink. She beckoned for Dunlop to join her.

'I never figured you for a bookworm.'

Dunlop bought a can of light beer. 'I'm not. It's just something to do. What's the last book you read?'

Ava laughed. '
The Happy Hooker
. Bullshit.'

Sea birds circled over the ferry, crying harshly. A wave of heat came from the land as the boat turned towards the wharf. Dunlop drained his can; Ava sucked on the slice of lemon and lit another cigarette.

'Getting close,' Dunlop said. 'What d'you want to do?'

Ava shrugged. 'Find the old house, if it's still standing. Take a few snaps. Have lunch in the pub. Might be some decent fish on. Siesta till the boat leaves. The simple life.'

'No-one you want to look up?'

'Are you kidding? I left here thirty years ago. The boongs I knew'll be dead for sure, and the whites I wouldn't piss on.'

The ferry docked at the large concrete wharf. There was a hotel and some tourist shops at the end of the wharf and a steep, deeply-rutted road up to the main street of the town. It was hot on the wharf;
a thin stretch of park adjacent to it was dry and bare and the beach baked under the high, hot sun. There was no wind, and the air was heavy and moist with a smell of salt and seaweed. Ava sniffed it deeply as she adjusted her sunglasses.

'Right,' she said. 'Cooktown.'

Some of the passengers went straight into the hotel; others browsed in the shops. Ava and Dunlop joined those who headed for Charlotte Street. For all her cynical comments as they walked down the street, moving from bright sunlight to the shade of the corrugated iron awnings, Dunlop noticed an unusual spring in Ava's step.

'One butcher's gone,' she said, pointing to a boarded-up shopfront. 'Meat was mostly flyblown anyway.'

They passed one of several hotels. Rock music throbbed in the beer garden and the drinkers were already rowdy. Cars passed slowly up and down the street, radios blaring, passengers shouting to people who wandered between the road and the pavement.

'Lively,' Dunlop commented.

'Hah. No-one here's got two bob to rub together.'

A cluster of Aboriginal children outside a milk bar thrust their hands out as Dunlop and Ava approached. They were barefoot and dirty in ragged clothes. Their noses were snot-encrusted. Ava reached into her bag, shook all the coins from her purse and dealt them out at random. Some got several dollars, others twenty cents.

'Give,' Ava said.

Dunlop handed over all the coins in his pockets. They left the children quarrelling—punching, kicking and swearing—over the money. One came
running after them, his bare feet slapping on the bitumen.

'Gotta smoke, lady?'

Ava gave her packet to the ten-year-old, who snatched it and ran back to the mob, crowing.

'You're a soft touch,' Dunlop said.

'Shut up!' Ava eased the weight of the bag on her now rather slumped shoulder and trudged on. They crossed the road and turned right up a narrow street. The houses were small on big blocks, the gardens mostly overgrown. The incline was steep and Dunlop began to sweat. Ava's shirt was sticking to her back when she reached the top of the hill. Two unmade roads straggled away from a fork, apparently into the bush.

Ava pointed. 'Down there.'

'How far?'

'I dunno. It's been so long. Wouldn't be a mile.'

'Jesus, Ava. We should've got a cab.'

'I wanted to walk it. See what's changed. Not much, I have to tell you. I've got to have a breather.'

They sat on the gatepost of a collapsed fence under the shade of a stand of scruffy casuarinas. The little fibro cottage behind them was a ruin, enveloped and invaded by creepers. Ava took a fresh packet of cigarettes from her bag, ripped away the cellophane and lit up. Dunlop found a packet of chewing gum in his pocket and unwrapped a stick. They sat in silence for a while, smoking and chewing. The sound of the ocean on the reef carried to them and the birds and insects were noisy in the bush. Dunlop checked the time. He was surprised to see that almost an hour had elapsed.

'We'd better get a move on.'

Ava stubbed her second cigarette in the mat of needles. 'Right. I've got to have a leak. Be a gentleman, won't you?'

She moved to the left behind a thick bougainvillea hedge. Dunlop stretched, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. The sweat had dried on his shirt, making it stiff and scratchy. Something had bitten him on the upper arm. He scraped at the lump and felt it bleed.

'Ava. Come on!'

No answer—just the surf and the birds and the bush. Dunlop swore as alarm flared inside him like a struck match. He strode to the bougainvillea. There was no sign of Ava. Behind the hedge, grass and scrub grew thick and waist high. No bushman, Dunlop blundered around probing in several directions so that any signs Ava might have left of the direction she'd taken were quickly obliterated. Dunlop cursed her. He pushed through the grass until his feet found a path that led to the house. He followed it but quickly saw that she couldn't have come this way—short of the house, the path was blocked by a dense thicket of lantana.