Drainland (Tunnel Island Book 1) (9 page)

T
he sea water
around them looked like black ink. The wind came up and Dev wrapped his hands around his mug. He sat on the edge of the boat and glared at the floor in front of him.

“Fucking Don,” he said.

Harris agreed. The wind had an ugly cold edge to it and Don Marr’s boat was full of unsealed cracks and holes. The old bastard swam all year round and had no concept of the cold.

After a time, lights appeared in the distance.

“Here she comes,” said Harris.

The sound of O’Shea’s motor arrived first, followed by the wake of the Inspector’s sleek hardtop yacht. As it pulled alongside, O’Shea stepped out of the cabin and waved. “Jesus H, if it isn’t Jimmy Harris in the flesh, before my eyes,” he shouted. “Oh, my, and you have Mister Karim with ya. This is an event, lads. Ya better come over for a drink then.”

O’Shea’s had two men with him, one Harris recognised—O’Shea’s oldest son, a big man in his thirties, already on his way to bald—and the other a stranger, a short heavy bloke in a knitted vest and spectacles. O’Shea’s son rigged the boats together, and Harris and Dev scrambled onto the yacht’s lower deck.

As soon as they were onboard, Dev said, “You mind?” and squatted down beside a small tarpaulin-covered mound on the deck’s floor. “Su reckons he was a brick short last week.”

“The gooks reckon they’re short most weeks,” said O’Shea.

“It’s all there,” said the man with the glasses.

Dev stared at the man, shielding his eyes from the spotlight above.

“Hah, that’s right” said O’Shea. “Ya two haven’t met. Dev Karim, this is
my
accountant. Simpson, this is the bloke I was telling ya about, looks after the books on Tunnel.”

The other man got down beside Dev and together they started looking through the shipment.

“Let’s leave them to it,” said O’Shea, patting Harris on the back. They went down into the yacht’s cabin. It looked more like a hotel suite than a boat to Harris, a subdued yellow glow covering the whole room. “Old Dev is looking more and more like a bloody hippie every time I see him,” said O’Shea, opening the fridge. “But it’s been a while, I guess. He doesn’t look like a fookin’ accountant, that’s for sure.” He took a beer for himself and handed Jim a can of Coke. “It’s all I’ve got. How’s things?”

“Been better. You?”

“Good, until this business with Don’s lass. The good senator has a short memory. Bachelard has his hand up the superintendent’s ass like a wee puppet and I can’t talk him round. Says the kid was raped? That he might
not
have shot himself after all? Funny. He didn’t give a fook when his kid was off the rails over here but…ah, I dunno.”

So O’Shea didn’t know. For a police Inspector, O’Shea showed a remarkable disinterest in actual policing. He’d been like this since he joined the management class.

“That’s how it looks,” said Harris. “The kid
was
making waves, fancied himself as some sort of private detective. He was looking into people that like to keep a low profile over here.”

“The family?”

“Yeah. And Drainland. The Marrs have links to the Riders as well.”

“Jesus. It’s a fookin miracle he lasted as long as he did. Pity we couldn’t warn her off.”

“I tried,” said Harris. “We tried, remember.”

“I know, I know. Who do ya reckon bumped him?”

“Someone sloppy, but I don’t know who,” said Harris. “I’m still not one hundred percent sure he didn’t top himself. The crime scene is a botch job. And this rape stuff…”

“He wouldn’t be the first to pay someone for that sort of thing, would he, Jimmy?”

Harris sighed. “You heard from Don and Mary?”

“Yeah. Don called me. Mary is taking it pretty bad, as bloody expected, both her kiddies in the ground now. They’re spreading the ashes in some fookin river tomorrow. I think they’ve had enough. Don’s saying she’s talking about never coming back. Says she’s leaving him if he won’t move over to the mainland. We might need a new runner if this all goes the way it looks to be going.”

“I double-checked the pathologist’s report. It wasn’t our stuff that killed her.”

“Ah, that’s good at least. This has the bloody Riders all over it. They’re getting a wee bit out of hand lately. That garbage hillbilly smack of theirs is supposed to stay down their way, and I’ve told those cunts a hundred times but they never listen. I don’t know why they’re trying to expand anyhow. What are they spendin’ their
super
-profits on anyhow? Another shitty estate in that shit-hole suburb of theirs?”

“I don’t know. I’m staying out of it,” said Harris. “But there was a lot of gear in her blood. It might have been spiked with something. There are a few irregularities—hard to spot and, again, it could be nothing.”

“Did drunk wee Ms Marple see any of this using her expert policing skills?”

Harris shook his head. “No, she missed that, but she’s a lot better than they said. She might dig it out. We’re gonna have to watch her.”

“What do ya mean?”

“She’s got a nose for it, mate. She’s not really how they said. I’m keeping an eye on her but…I think we may have to bring her in a little further. I think she’s going to be like the new Bill. I think we’re already headed that way. She likes to cause a fuss. Vic Police fucked you on this, I reckon.”

“Goddamnit,” said O’Shea. He lifted his upper lip and scratched at his teeth with a fingernail. “She was supposed to be a bloody wash-out,
halfway to a fookin early grave
, they said. And the fookin favour for Freer never eventuated either. It’s a fookin nightmare. There’s no way to square her away is there?”

“No. She’s smart enough to realise this thing with Bachelard is an opportunity.”

“What does she want, then?”

“To work this case, apparently.”

“What do ya reckon?”

The boat started to rock gently. The two of them stood there thinking. It had been a year already.

“I don’t like her,” said Harris. “But if she wants in on this, I can handle it. Dev and I have nutted it out. Plus you need someone. You need a new Bill. Bill was an asset for a long time, remember? ”

O’Shea put his beer down and placed both hands on Harris’s face, either side of his eyes. “And then he fucking wasn’t, Jim. Bill was a fookin time bomb. I have no interest in building another one of those, especially not some wee drunken woman. Ya do whatever ya think is prudent, but if this goes the wrong way, I’ll have to do something permanent about her.”

“Okay.”

“Aye, at least she looks halfway decent in a swimsuit,” he said. “Better than bloody Bill did, anyways.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Harris.

They went up. O’Shea’s men had loaded over the cargo. Dev was satisfied. He stood there draped in a blanket.

“Bit nippy for September isn’t it Devy?” said O’Shea with a big laugh.

They unrigged the boats. As Harris pushed off, he said, “I’ll keep you in the loop. You do the same, aye?”

“An intelligent hell is always better than a stupid paradise, boys,” bellowed O’Shea, laughing again as the yacht’s motor caught.

Dev and Harris watched him go.

“What’d he have to say for himself?” asked Dev.

“The usual. Was that really his accountant?”

“Seems so. He wanted to try night fishing. Nice bloke.”

“Is it just me, or is O’Shea getting a bit loose?”

“I don’t know. You brought your accountant, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Harris. “I suppose I did.”

He went to the console and started the boat forward. As he steered into the headwind, spray lifted off the bow. It
was
cold, and Harris admitted to himself he missed brandy on nights like this.

R
omano arrived
at the station at dawn. She read the Bachelard kid’s notebook and dragged on a cigarette. Smoking in her office was definitely a perk.

Bachelard looked like a mess on paper. His scrawl screamed
anxiety, addiction, madness.
In the early pages, he switched interchangeably between an Asian dialect and English—sentences started in English and turned, lists included both—but later, there were long, more orderly sections purely in the foreign language. Romano couldn’t read a word of it.

Her gut told her:

Letters.

Memos.

Prose.

She made her own notes. At the back of Bachelard’s book was the list Harris mentioned, the phone directory.

As soon as nine o’clock hit, she started running the numbers. To a person, they connected to the media. Someone from the Courier Mail answered one number, an editor from The Australian Magazine answered another. An intern from a news desk picked up, then a fact-checker for a politico website, then a freelancer, an editor, a proof-reader. None of them had heard of Thomas Bachelard. One of the numbers looked a little different—not a phone number but something else. She searched around. Same digits and arrangement as an Australian business number. The tax office had a directory for those and she looked it up. The rest tumbled out.

Bachelard was a sole trader, registered three years back under the business name
David Marshall
. Romano tried the pen name online and there he was: David Marshall, freelance poker writer. Marshall/Bachelard travelled all over the world writing about gambling. The kid worked extensively in Macau, China. He was smarter than he looked. A lot smarter.

R
omano told
Harris on the drive over to the Gold Point Hotel.

“He wasn’t
that
smart. He’s still dead,” said Harris, winding up the passenger window. The day had turned cool. “Anything else?”

“Not yet,” said Romano. “You know anyone who can translate the rest?”

“I’ve got a friend who can get us started. You bring it with you?”

“Yeah,” she said. Romano slowed the police cruiser as they entered the hotel grounds. Halfway along the short road into the complex, Harris directed her down a narrow service entry to a track blocked by a boom gate. A small keypad sat mounted to a pole by the gate.

“Eight, Nine, Four, Seven,” he said.

Romano punched the numbers and the boom rose. Down further, the road opened up to a small car park abutting a rectangular concrete building. The building looked brutalist and cold, just slabs of cement stood together. This thing was set back from the hotel, hidden away in the gardens.

“They call this The Bunker,” said Harris. “We’re going to see the boss.”

“Bruno something?” said Romano.

“Jeff Bruno,” said Harris. “The one and only.”

He walked over to a nondescript steel door and pressed a button. “It’s Jim,” he said.

The door opened.

A young woman waited for them inside. She wore a short white uniform, almost like tennis attire, and introduced herself as Sarah. “Come through,” she said, already walking into the building’s subdivided interior. It was open plan on the ground floor, a collection of cubicles each containing a desk and monitor. The workers all wore the same crisp white uniform. Their screens showed security footage.

Sarah walked out through an open hatch in the bunker’s far wall and into a small gravel bay filled with parked golf carts. She selected one of the carts and took them at a practised speed through a winding path in the vegetation. Despite the cloudy sky, it was humid under the canopy and the cart’s motor roared; Romano felt her stomach tighten around last night’s drinks. Her sense of direction evaporated. She searched the skyline for the hotel and found herself even more nauseous.

“Here we are,” said Sarah, grinding the cart to a skidded halt. She parked by a small timber cabin.

“Jesus,” said Romano, still reeling. “Hold on. I need a smoke.” She stood up slowly and tapped a cigarette from her pack.

Sarah quickly darted around the cart. “I’m sorry, but Mr Bruno doesn’t allow smoking on the staff grounds.”

“What?” mumbled Romano, the cigarette already between her lips.

Harris smiled.

“You can’t smoke here,” said Sarah.

“Okay,” said Romano. “Whatever you say. You can do anything else here, apparently, but—”

“Rules are rules, Constable,” said a voice behind them. A man in a black suit stood in the cabin doorway. “Jim knows the rules, don’t you Jim?”

Sarah stepped forward. “Will that be all Mr Bruno?” she said.

“Yes, yes, I think I can take it from here.” Jeff Bruno walked back inside, leaving the door open behind him.

“Mind your mouth in here,” whispered Harris.

The interior of the cabin was lined with polished wood and steel. An entire wall was glass and it faced out into wild greenery. At one end of the room, a long desk divided the space. Jeff Bruno sat closer, in an alcove of leather couches.

“Sit,” he said. “We spoke on the phone, Constable, didn’t we?”

“That’s right,” said Romano. “You were fairly unhelpful, if I remember correctly.”

“That’s right.” Bruno took a slim cigarette from a silver case and lit it. A power play. “What can I do for you today, then?”

“We’re here about the dead people found in your hotel,” said Romano.

“Has something changed?”

“Nope. They’re still dead. And your staff still won’t give me what I need to do my job.”

Harris moved forward in his seat. “One of them was a senator’s kid, a bigwig from Canberra. O’Shea wants us to have a closer look.”

“Oh does he now? And
us
? That’s interesting,” said Bruno. He turned to Romano. “Constable, we don’t work with the police. Never have, never will. Bad for business. But the Inspector has his merits.” He waved a cloud of smoke away. “What
exactly
do you want?”

“I want all the camera footage you can give us,” she said, and paused as Bruno smiled. “And the cooperation of your security staff, their
full
cooperation this time, and whatever records you have from Bachelard and Marr’s stay.”

Bruno studied her, then turned to the window. Rain began to pepper the glass. He watched it. “Well, then,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the windows.

“Did Sophie Marr live at the Gold Point?” said Harris.

Bruno exhaled. “I believe so, for a time.”

“Was that her room?” said Harris.

“It was.”

“So can I have what I need?” said Romano.

Bruno laughed. “Oh, God no.”

“Do you know anything that can help us?” said Harris.

“Look,” he said, pointing two fingers at Harris, “we all knew Sophie. She was great…but she was never going to live forever. This rich kid from down south, I don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he knew a bit about poker. And that he liked to pester people in the VIP room. There was an
incident
where a member of staff had to have a word with him, but other than that he gave us no trouble, at all.”

“So you knew he was a writer?” said Romano.

“I knew he was nosey. That’s all,” said Bruno. His phone began to buzz on the glass coffee table between them. He let it ring. “Is there anything else, Jim?”

Romano turned to Harris. “Yeah, what
is
this?”

“Now you’re in trouble,” said Bruno.

“You wanted to meet the boss. This is the boss,” said Harris.

“He’s right,” said Bruno. “And you can tell the senator he can kiss my ass if you’re speaking with him.” He stood up. “Now that, I’m afraid, is all I have time for. Sarah will take you back up to the office now. Constable, if you ever have any problems with me and my staff, call the Inspector. I don’t want you swanning around the hotel grounds.”

“Well, you know, that’s the thing,” said Romano. “The sooner this is sorted out, the sooner I’m out of your business.”

“Oh, I think not. Good luck with your investigation,” he said, his eyes fixed on his phone. He did not lift them as they walked out.

Sarah drove them back to the bunker. As Romano and Harris walked back across the lot to the cruiser, Romano noticed a man loitering around the building’s edge. He stood in the shade and he was out of uniform, dressed in something approaching gym wear. He looked familiar. As she unlocked the car door, she placed him.

“That guy over there was at the scene. I can’t remember his name. It’s in my notes.”

Harris scanned around. “Okay.”

The man put his finger to his temple and tapped lightly. It looked like a sign. Romano glanced at Harris. He drew the seatbelt down as she started the engine.

O
ut on the road
, she said, “How’d I do in there?”

“Lousy.”

“What should I have asked for, then?”

“You don’t ask people like him for anything, but I figured you had to see for yourself.”

“At least we know Marr lived there now. Or did you already know that?”

“I’d heard talk.”

“And he answered your questions.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what a couple of favours buys you with the Agriolis,” he said. “Scraps.”

“Who?”

“The family. Brisbane mafia. They own the hotel. They own half the island.” He reached over and turned the radio on, then checked his watch. After a time, he said, “Drop me off up here. You got Bachelard’s notebook?”

“On that seat there. Where’re you headed?”

He shook his head. As soon as she pulled off the road, he grabbed the notebook and got out.