Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout (12 page)

Fifty minutes later, Chaffey was
taken to an interview room. Steer sat on a plastic chair at a plastic table,
blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.

Chaffey turned to the guard. My
client and I would like some privacy, if you dont mind.

The man flushed. No skin off my
nose.

He left. Chaffey said, Are we okay
in here?

Steer nodded. Cost me fifty
smackers. No-ones listening.

Good, Chaffey said.

He made a rapid assessment of his
client. Steer was watchful, careful, apparently relaxed and self-contained. Keeps
to himself, the report said. The hard men of the yard leave him alone.
Chaffey could see why. You sensed the glittering danger in him, just as you
sensed it in certain dogs.

Ive seen Denise, Chaffey began.

Steer nodded. He tipped back his
throat and huffed three smoke rings at the spitting fluorescent tube.

Chaffey saw his teeth then:
gaol-rotted teeth, full of stumps and black cavities. Were ready to roll, our
end, he said. New Zealand passports and drivers licences, a boat from Lakes
Entrance to a freighter, a guy to drive you.

Who?

His name is Ray Wyatt. The police
dont know him. Good nerve, cautious, he wont let you down. Denise has been
working on your shopping list. The rest is up to you.

Things are jake my end, Steer
said. Back up a bit. This guy, you say his name is Wyatt?

Chaffey nodded, adding a chin to the
chins that hung over the knot of his tie. You know him?

Steer shook his head. Has he got a
father, a nasty piece of work, knocks over payroll vans and that?

Chaffey thought that nasty piece of
work pretty well described Steer. The lads uncle. Is that a problem?

Steer smiled. There was no humour or
good will in it. Just asking.

Now, about your money, Chaffey
said.

Two hundred thousand dollars, in a
fireproof steel floor-safe at his house, cemented into a hole in the corner of
his basement. Steers money, and Steer knew the combination, just in case, but
that two hundred grand still burnt a hole in Chaffeys head. He was not mug
enough to touch it, though. Steer would slice him open and whistle Waltzing
Matilda while he did it.

What about my money? You fucking
lost it at the casino?

Keep your shirt on, Chaffey said. Its
in the basement where its always been. As soon as youre settled somewhere, Ill
wire it to you.

That you will, Steer said,
reaching to stub out his cigarette on the table, just millimetres away from
Chaffeys soft, fat, pink, well-tended hand.

* * * *

Sixteen

Wyatt
always kept an emergency bag packed. Within minutes of killing Frank Jardines
brother, hed left another stage of his life behind him.

A new bolthole. He couldnt stay in
Hobart. There was the mainland, but too many people knew him there, too many
wanted him dead. Hed risk short, hit-and-run visits to the capital cities, but
it would be inviting trouble to base himself in one of them.

And so Wyatt drove north, in a Magna
rented using a false set of papers. He took the Midland Highway. Wind gusts
rocked the car in the high country after Hobart, where the road narrowed and
levelled out for the dreary stretch up through the centre of the state. Traffic
was sparse and slow and inclined to be careless. Wyatt found himself tensing at
the wheel. The long hours and the strain of his life brought sharp aches to his
neck and shoulders.

A new bolthole, and a big score to
build up his cash reserves. That meant working with someone again. Wyatt
thought about his nephews proposition. He counted the advantages again. One,
Raymond was family and seemed to look up to him. Two, Raymond had successfully
planned and pulled a number of armed hold-ups. Three, hed never been caught.
Four, he wasnt a junkie. The boy probably had vices and weaknesses, but they
werent apparent, and they hadnt got in the way of his bank raids.

Something else was prompting Wyatt,
a feeling that lacked clear definition but connected Raymond with the child who
had stepped into the traffic, inviting death. His brothers son. Raymond was
the son of a weak, vicious man, and Wyatt had done nothing to make things
better.

The road wound through valleys and
rich farmland. The headlights flared over roadsigns that portrayed fat sheep
and historic towns. He saw convict-built stonewall fences and imposing gates
that indicated fine homesteads set back amongst English trees. He was in
Tasmanias conservative heartland. The seat of government was in the south but
the old money was in the north and it ruled the upper house of government.

At one oclock he pulled off the
road and slept until dawn. He was no more than thirty minutes from Devonport,
but he knew that hed attract suspicion if he tried to rent a room this early
in the morning.

He drove to the next town, locked
the car and walked to a cafe. Smells of toast and coffee inside; a couple of
bleary farmers and truckies at a corner table. He ate, walked for an hour,
drove on.

Later that morning he rented a
holiday flat in Devonport. It was a depressing place. The window of the main
room overlooked a block of similar flatsthe Astor Apartments, pale yellow
brick, rusting wrought iron, rotted window sillsand leaked a weak grey light
into the place. Low, pebbled ceiling, wiry carpets the consistency of a kitchen
scourer. Aborigines on black velvet in wooden frames on the walls. Frayed,
burnt-orange armchairs and sofa. Parents came here exhausted with their tribes
of children every summer and found little rest. They existed on fish and chips
and videos. Humankind herded together in disappointment and conflict until
death, Wyatt thought. He thought of Liz Redding and wondered at his own fate.

That afternoon he went out for maps,
tourist brochures and real-estate listings. He spent the afternoon poring over
them and making phone calls. He gave himself a week. When he stared out of the
window, early that evening, he saw the running lights of the ferry as it set
out for Melbourne, sliding massively down the channel toward the open sea, its
superstructure dwarfing the little houses and cheap holiday flats.

In the end, he didnt need a week.
Three days later, Wyatt moved to a remote wooden house near Flowerdale on the
north coast, with a view across abrupt small hills to a slice of Bass Strait.
It was a region of orchards, tree nurseries, dairy farms, creeks, gorges and
muddy tracks. No-one was likely to question him in such a place. It was a
rental house and renters had always stayed a while there, working or not
working, maybe bludging on the welfare system, maybe teaching in the local
school for a few terms. Wyatt was just another one of them.

* * * *

Seventeen

Liz
Redding didnt get to Hobart. Her suspension was made official, and she was
obliged to report every day, pending an inquiry. She might have slipped away
regardless of that, but Gosse called her into his office and told her that theyd
had a call from the Tasmania Police.

He drummed his fingers on his desk. The
name Jardine mean anything to you?

Youve read my report, sir.

Indeed I have. Your friend Wyatt
worked with a man called Frank Jardine.

Not my friend, sir.

Gosse ignored her. This Jardine
hasor rather,
had
a brother.

I wouldnt know, sir.

Wouldnt you? Well, the brother has
turned up dead stabbedin a flat in Battery Point, down in Hobart. Needless to
say, being a resident of Melbourne, it wasnt his flat.

So thats what Nettie meant, Liz
thought. Whose flat was it, sir?

Thats the interesting part,
Sergeant. The tenant was a man, no-one knew him, the name probably false,
nothing left to identify him, no prints, wiped clean.

Liz sat stonily watching Gosse.

That photograph we have of Wyatt.
Its not very clear, but the real estate agent who let the flat to this man
positively identifies him.

What did Gosse want from her? He was
playing some kind of game, loading a lot of meaning between the lines. Liz
said, So, hes on the run, sir. I hope you catch him.

Gosse snapped forward across the
empty desk. She smelt toothpaste and coffee. He said, Did you warn him,
Sergeant?

She stared at a point above his
shoulder. Sir, Ive talked to the Association lawyer. If you want to charge
me, charge me. If you want to find evidence against me, go out and find it.
Meanwhile, all Im guilty of is being too dedicated to my job, working outside
of regulations in the interest of bringing a crooked copper to justice. Thats
all Im admitting to, thats all Ive done. Either throw the book at me or sack
me or reinstate me. Until then, Ive said all Im obliged to say.

Gosse rubbed his ring finger
vigorously over his forehead. The movement made him grimace, as though he were
screaming silently. Liz thought of Wyatt, who had probably been the killer.
Self-defence? She hoped so. Wyatt didnt have the empty moral centre of a
thrill killer. Anyway, not the Wyatt shed known on the yacht.

Fuck this, Gosse said. He hunted
in his side drawer, slid a form across the desk toward her. A warrant to
search your house.

Liz let the anger burn coldly. You
wont find anything. Plenty of knickers, in case you want to have a sniff.

You may accompany us. You may even
have the Association rep present if you so desire.

That wont be necessary. But Ill
be watching you, you bastard, every step of the way.

An hour later she was sitting,
seething, in an armchair by the window, as Gosse, two other detectives and two
uniformed constables searched her flat. She knew there was nothing to find.
There was also nothing they could plant, unless Gosse had somehow got hold of
the remaining rings and necklaces from the Asahi Collection, or something that
belonged to Wyatt.

A third constable stayed in the room
with her, standing uncomfortably by the door.

Sit down, Liz said.

He blushed. He was young and
pimpled. Im right, thanks.

Suit yourself.

She watched gloomily as one of the
detectives searched the room. He looked inside the CD cases and magazines,
shook vases, tapped the fireplace tiles with his knuckles. He even took a
screwdriver to the gas heater. It was dusty. He rocked back on his heels,
sneezing.

Where would you hide a fortune in
rings, bracelets, necklaces and tiaras if you were Wyatt and on the run and
needing to travel light? Her thinking brought her by degrees to the yacht.
Where on the yacht had the jewels been hidden in the first place, before Wyatt
ran with them?

She straightened involuntarily,
coughed to mask it, relaxed again. Three oclock. Gosse would want to question
her again at ten the next morning. Plenty of time.

At 3.30 Gosse said, Thats all for
now, Sergeant. Thank you.

Liz said, putting on the sweetness, Find
anything? That earring I lost last year? A ten cent piece down the back of the
sofa? Maybe a letter from my old Gran I forgot to answer?

Tomorrow morning, ten sharp, Gosse
said.

When they were gone, Liz left
through her back door, climbed the fence into the alley, and made her way to a
taxi stand two blocks away. She told the driver to take her to the Budget place
in Elizabeth Street, where she rented a Corolla, and by 5.15 she was on the
foreshore at Hastings.

It looked different. Then again,
everything had been distorted the first timedawn, the aftermath of a storm,
her groggy head.

She found the yacht tied to a berth
amongst a lot of small, flashy weekend yachts. There was a crime-scene tape
around the rail. She looked about her. The place was closing for the day. She
stepped over the tape and climbed down the steps to the area beneath the deck.

The yacht had been baking in the sun
for days. The air below smelt of vinyl and glue, close and stale.

She started with the cabins, and
worked her way along. By the time she got to the galley her hands were dirty,
her fingernails torn.

She found the safe by accident. She
was leaning her weight on the wall oven, resting, thinking, and when she
stepped back she heard the soft click of a spring lock. The oven had moved a
little, the edge jutting out a few millimetres from the wall. Liz hooked her
sore fingers on the lip and pulled.

The oven slid out silently on
well-greased channels, rather like a drawer in a modern kitchen. There was a
space behind it. Liz reached into the wall cavity and the bulky, black felt
bundle she brought into the light fell open and poured a stream of vivid stones
and cool gold settings onto the carpet at her feet. The gold gleamed, the
faceted stones flashed the colours of the spectrum. Oh, she said aloud.

Liz Redding dated the permanent seal
on the shift in her view of the world, and of herself, to this moment. She felt
the tug of the stones. Her head filled with risky impulses. Her heart beat. Her
mouth was dry. She wanted to walk further into the edgy darkness enjoyed by a
man like Wyatt.