Talk to me, she ordered.
Tess was flustered. What about?
Anything, so long as we look natural.
They walked on. Sometimes they bumped hips. Their progress and their attempts at conversation were stiff and clumsy. And then Tess glanced toward the men. That was enough to betray them, for Leah heard a shout and the slap of running feet.
Go! she yelled, sending the trolley toward Moustache, grabbing Tess by the hand and streaking toward the car. Behind them Moustache cursed and there was a metallic clang and a meaty thud, as though he’d fallen to the ground. He called out to Tatts, who was closing in fast on their right, Forget about me, get the sheila.
But which sheila? Leah wondered. A couple of seconds, thats all she wanted. She reached the panel van with Tess, bundled her in through the drivers door, slid in after her. She ground the starter, crashed the gears and reversed out of the parking bay as Tatts reached Tess’s door. Tess yelped. Tatts had her door open now. Leah braked, accelerated, braked again, throwing him off, then headed for the exit. She checked the mirror. A Magna festooned with aerials was entering the carpark, braking suddenly to avoid running over Moustache, who’d knocked the shopping trolley to the ground and was groggily getting to his feet, angrily booting Leah’s new sleeping-bag out of his way. Leah saw the driver of the Magna open his door as if to offer help, but the exit was coming up fast and she switched her attention to the traffic on the highway. When the road was clear, she pushed her foot to the floor, the old car protesting around her.
You okay?
Tess had the daypack in her lap, both arms around it protectively, her face pale and aggrieved, as if to say, Its not fair. Leah glanced at the road ahead, the rearview mirror, the daypack again.
Some pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
Private detectives? Maybe. Books and movies glamorise the private eye. He (it was usually a he) was tough, smart, streetwise, ultimately successful where the police were incompetent or corrupt. He operated on the margins of what was legal and respectable, but that was okay, for he did what he had to do to cut through the bullshit and get at the truth.
Leah knew that it wasn’t like that for real private eyes. They were bound by strict regulations and faced a daily grind of lies, evasions, wasted time, belligerent or violent witnesses, wrongly transcribed phone numbers and non-existent addresses.
Like the police, Leah thought.
But there were cowboys in the profession, not averse to theft, industrial espionage, offering bribes, passing prosecution secrets to defence lawyers, even hiring themselves out as hitmen.
Was that who these guys were?
chapter 10
Van Wyk chose a big Yamaha for the hunt, the bike giving him speed and flexibility. He wore leathers and carried a small pack with a tent and sleeping-mat, and the clients first message had taken him to the town of Prospect, way out in the west of the state. When van Wyk was finished there he coasted to a stop on the forecourt of a service station, propped the bike on its stand and went in and called his message service again, idly watching a couple of young guys who were eyeing the Yamaha. The road west stretched empty across a red dirt plain. Good, there was a message: Call your client. Van Wyk dialed the guys fixed phone, not his mobile and said, What have you got for me?
Ive just had word, the client said, and went on to tell van Wyk that the target had been located—except he almost said the targets name before he could stop himself. Sometimes van Wyk wanted to sit his clients down and slap them about the face and demand to know how serious they were. Emotions don’t come into it when the decisions been made, he wanted to say. Names are personal things, they denote feelings. My job is impersonal. I hit targets.
Plus, the wrong people might be listening in.
When and where?
Ten minutes ago, a Coles Supermarket carpark in Leighton Wells.
Is she still there?
No. Shes with another woman, they’re driving a white 1970s Holden panel van, heading west along the Borung Highway.
Did your man make contact?
Not exactly.
What do you mean, not exactly?
Theres another player involved.
Don’t stuff around. Spit it out.
Two other players, to be exact. They tried to jump the target and her friend in the carpark but they got away.
Your man saw it?
Yes.
Who are they?
Don’t know. They headed after the panel van in a black Range Rover. My guy ran the plates: they belong to a Volvo station wagon.
Are you sure they’re not after the other woman? Do we know anything about her?
Nothing.
Wheres your man now?
Somewhere behind them.
Keep me informed, van Wyk said, breaking the connection.
He bought muesli bars for the hunt. Outside he agreed with the young guys that yeah, it was a cool bike.
chapter 11
Fifteen minutes on the other side of Leighton Wells, Leah and Tess came to a sign bolted to a fencepost: Ingleside Bed and Breakfast 5km, and a bold red arrow. Leah turned off and they found themselves on a well-maintained side road that led toward the foothills of a small, grassy range blotted here and there with lonely stone reefs and the ashen tree trunks left by some long-ago bushfire. A few minutes later, they came to a dam, a barn and a signposted track: Ingleside 1 km. The track wound along a cypress avenue, opening onto a shrubbery, a sloping lawn and a stone cottage with a bright red door, flower boxes, curtains, a TV antenna, a satellite dish. Leah drove on, following arrows past sheds, stockyards and a dense stand of fruit trees, coming eventually to a large stone farmhouse. As she pulled up between a sundial and a set of concrete steps to the main house, a man in khaki work clothes stepped out onto the verandah. Leah called through her open window, Do you have a vacancy?
He had a wry, weather-beaten face. We do.
I’m sorry we didn’t phone you first. We just happened to see the sign and thought a bed-and-breakfast would make a nice change from a motel.
Traveling around, are you?
Thats right.
He nodded, smiling pleasantly, tiredly. Theres only one problem. Normally a gourmet dinner is part of the deal, but the wife and I have to go out tonight, and its too late in the day for her to start cooking. We wont be back till after midnight.
Leah smiled at him. Thats okay.
But Ill check with the chief cook-and-bottle washer. She could have something in the freezer that you can heat up.
That would be fine.
Ill have to ask for payment now, you understand.
Of course. Leah paid, and again found herself giving a false name and address.
The farmer scribbled her a receipt, noted the registration number of the panel van, and handed her a key. Here you go. Settle yourselves in. Ill be along directly.
Leah parked next to the cottage and they got out. It was late afternoon now, the air crisp and scented by gumtrees, dusty grasses, diesel fuel, horses in a nearby yard.
Tess stopped for a moment to look out over the valley and the lengthening shadows. A good place to chill out, she said.