‘Show me.’
She held it up so that it caught the light. I could see a clear male image against a light background. ‘Okay. What about twenty for you for the photo and the name and you walk away from these pricks here and now?’
I heard Montefiore gasp and Penny give a low, emphysemic chuckle.
Fay dropped her cigarette and stood on it. ‘No.’
‘Fair enough. Fifteen for the photo and twenty-five for the name and the other info in Sydney’
‘What’s this?’ Penny said.
‘Shut up.’ Fay slid the Polaroid across the bonnet and I did the same with the bundles of notes. She scooped them up and handed them to Montefiore.
‘We’re almost there,’ I said, putting the photo in my shirt pocket. ‘Got the boat ready, Reg?’
Penny nodded.
I gestured for them to move away and they obeyed, even though they knew I wouldn’t use the gun. Guns are like that.
It was airless and warm down there in the port, and with the activity around the marina diminishing, our cluster would soon look noticeable. I was tired and stressed and sweating and wouldn’t be able to keep this level of concentration up much longer. Also, I didn’t know how close Sione might be to regaining consciousness.
I opened the driver’s door and made sure Fay hadn’t palmed the ignition keys. Sione hadn’t moved. I nodded to Fay.
Best I could do. Dry-mouthed I said, ‘See you in Sydney.’
‘The gun,’ Montefiore said.
I opened the cylinder, spilled the shells into my hand and tossed them to Penny. I flipped the pistol towards Montefiore and didn’t care whether either of them made catches or not. I started the engine and drove slowly away.
There really wasn’t much to think about. I drove to the hotel, parked as close to reception as I could and brought one of the flunkeys out to attend to Sione. While they were moving him and fussing about, I shifted the car. I raced up to my room, phoned the airport and was able to get on a plane leaving for Fiji in an hour and a half. I packed and quit the place with my bag slung over my shoulder, using the side steps, keeping out of sight. I figured Pascal Rivages could shout me a couple of breakfasts and a dinner.
The run to the airport was smooth at that time of night and I made it in forty-five minutes. I explained that I had to get to Fiji quickly and that my travel insurance would take care of the forfeited Noumea-Sydney flight. They looked me over fairly carefully and I sweated a bit, wondering how far Rivages’ influence ran. Not far enough evidently, or he hadn’t been put in the picture yet, because I caught the plane with a couple of minutes to spare.
The plane was half full and I had an empty seat next to me. My shirt was a damp rag and my feet hurt. The money belt itched. I took it off and stuffed it in my bag. I took my shoes off and spread myself, trying to relax after the high-adrenaline couple of hours I’d been through. I didn’t think about Lorraine or Stewart Master, just about getting myself levelled out. It was a no-frills flight, no free French plonk this time. I made do with a couple of furtive, nerve-calming nips from the scotch in my cabin luggage.
I got out the Maugham stories and settled into a couple of my favourites-’Red’ and ‘The Fall of Edward Barnard’. Below me the mighty Pacific ocean was a blank stretch of nothing and when I’d calmed down I wondered how Jay and Fay and Reg were getting along out there on the good ship You Beaut.
13
With air fares, accommodation, expenses, my daily rates and what I’d paid Reg Penny and Jarrod Montefiore in Pacific francs, Lorraine Master had already shelled out a good deal in her husband’s cause. I wanted to give her a full accounting by email plus an online copy of the photograph supplied by Fay Lewis, and a report on what I’d learned so far. All very cyber savvy, but the intrusive message on my computer suggested this would be very unsafe. Instead I phoned and stressed security. She was appreciative and issued an invitation to a business meeting over dinner at her home. Tomorrow night, which would make it two nights since I got home. Where were Jarrod and Fay? I wondered. Still at sea? I had no idea how long it’d take to sail from Noumea to Vila or even if that’s where they’d gone. How good were Penny’s engines and equipment now? How had Fay played her cards, and what about that. 38?
Somehow, I had a feeling that before too long I’d meet up with Fay, at least, but how, where and when were anybody’s guess. I made up for my misses at the Sunrise Surf’s fitness gym by putting in two hard sessions at the Redgum. Even Wesley Scott commented on my dedication as I was leaving.
‘You going to get serious, Cliff?’
‘Semi-serious.’
‘No such thing.’
‘I know. Peter Lo been in?’
‘Of course. Now there’s serious.’
‘He’s young. I’ve had so many injuries over the years, a lot of places tweak and squawk.’
‘Excuses, man, just excuses.’ He glanced at the Air Calin bag I’d dumped my gym stuff in. ‘Enjoy it over there? I guess not. No tan to speak of.’
‘Work.’
He said something in rapid French. Maybe it was to do with Jacques and work and play but it was too quick for me to catch. That’s Wesley. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear him discussing Nietzsche in German.
Double Bay houses with water views probably start at around three million. Lorraine Master’s place wasn’t Paradis sur Mer, but it didn’t seem to lack anything you might need. It was white, two-storey with a two-car garage, swimming pool, manicured garden and a view out over Seven Shillings Beach only partially interrupted by foliage and other buildings.
The wide driveway was closed by a high iron gate with a smaller entrance gate next to it. I parked in the street and buzzed.
‘Cliff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Push.’
I did and the gate swung in. Cliff? I thought as I walked up a paved path to the front of the house. The garden beds were covered with some kind of straw and the trees and shrubs all looked healthy. Between the beds and under the trees was a low maintenance ground cover. I reflected that my front garden could look like this on a much smaller scale if I had a few grand to spend on it.
I went up a set of steps onto a tiled porch and got the button-pressing finger to work again. Butler? I thought. Filipina maid?
Lorraine Master opened the heavy interior door and released the catch on the solid security screen. She beckoned me in and then used the spare hand to invite me to shake. She was wearing a plain dress with a high neck and loose sleeves. Light blue. Suited her colouring. She had a small amount of jewellery about-neck chain, earrings-but it was unobtrusive and therefore probably cost a bomb. Her hand was dry and warm and I was reluctant to let it go. We went down a hallway, skirted a staircase and entered a room that murmured taste, money and comfort-things that don’t always go together. Chairs upholstered in blue, pale grey carpet, well-filled bookshelves, track lighting and a drinks trolley.
‘I’m going to have a g’n t,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘The same. Thanks.’
‘Sit down. What’s that you’ve got?’
I was holding a manilla folder with all the dope I hadn’t been prepared to send online. I put in on the arm of the chair and settled down beside it. ‘It’s what you’ve paid for, so far. There’s more to come.’
The level of Bombay gin rose to a commendable height in the glass. She dropped in a slice of lemon, two ice cubes and held up the tonic inquiringly. I put my thumb and forefinger the right distance apart and she poured.
‘More information or more money?’
‘Both.’
‘Okay.’ She held out the glass and I had to reach to take it. I liked her style-classy and considerate, but not too considerate.
‘Where’re the kids?’
We did a quick silent toast. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Do you like kids?’
‘I don’t know many. Like some, not others.’
She sat and took a solid swig of a drink that looked to be about half the strength of mine. ‘Ours are okay. They’re upstairs. We’ve got an au pair. Why don’t you drink your drink and let me read the report? I can’t cook so I sent out for some food. Nothing special. We can discuss the details and whatever there is to discuss while we eat.’