Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout Read online

  Wyatt had almost been able to imagine a life with her. In the end, though, she was a cop, and Wyatt was a hold-up man with a long history that would not withstand close scrutiny, and so he was on the run again.

  The meeting place was an undercover car park on Lonsdale Street. He went in, climbing to the third level, where he prowled among the shadows. The ceiling felt very low, the air sluggish, fumy and full of hard-to-place noises. The simplest sound was flat, hollow, booming.

  He waited behind a concrete pillar. Heneker had described himself as tall, a bit on the thin side, wearing a blue suit, carrying a Time magazine. When the insurance man finally appeared, Wyatt observed him for a couple of minutes. Heneker looked uneasy, the magazine held against his chest as though to ward off arrows. Wyatt supposed that hed be nervous if he were in Henekers shoes, and he stepped out into the weak light. Mr Heneker.

  Heneker turned to him with relief. Thought you werent coming. He coughed. What have you got for me?

  Wordlessly, Wyatt handed him the necklace. Heneker took it, wiped his sleeve across his face, and said, A fake.

  Wyatt faltered, just for a second. Maybe the lights not bright enough for you.

  Heneker looked around nervously, then said, his voice low and complicitous: You dont understand. Its a copy. Theyre all copies, the entire collection.

  Wyatt said nothing. He went onto his toes, ready to slip into the darkness.

  Good copies, mind you, Heneker said, getting back some of his nerve. Youd need to be an expert. I mean, the settings are real enough, the white gold itself is worth a few bob, but the stones are all high-class fakes. He shrugged in the gloom. The Asahi management got cold feet. Didnt want to pay the insurance premium for the real stones so we worked out a special deal for display copies. The collection toured right through New Zealand and Australia with no-one the wiser.

  So why didnt you tell me to piss off on the phone?

  Heneker waved the necklace in the air. These arent cheap copies. Cost twenty grand to have them made up. We still want them back.

  How much?

  Heneker thought about it, swinging the necklace on his forefinger. Im authorised to offer five.

  Wyatt smiled, like a shark, then laughed, a harsh bark in the slice of poisoned air between the concrete floors. Five? Is that hundred or thousand?

  Thousand, Heneker said, pocketing the necklace.

  Jesus Christ.

  Wyatt turned away and began to merge with the shadows.

  Youd turn your back on five thousand bucks?

  No response. Wyatt continued to walk away. Heneker said, a little desperately now, playing for time: Ive got the five grand, here in my pocket.

  Wyatt paused, came back and said, with deadly calm, The deal is this: you give me the five, I tell you where the other pieces are.

  Heneker shook his head. Pal, you must be desperate. First you bring me the entire Asahi Collection, then you get your five thousand.

  The sounds when they came consisted of tyre squeals on the up-ramp and the snap of shoe leather. At once Wyatt dropped to one knee and kicked out, hard into Henekers groin and then into the shins of the man who had run in screaming: Police! On the ground! Police! On the ground!

  Both men went down. Wyatt tackled the next cop. He heard a bone snap, heard a prolonged scream. And then in the noise and confusion, he ran.

  * * * *

  Three

  Raymond thought that if these people had any idea, any idea, that he was the bush bandit, theyd piss in their pants, spill their drinks, lose their hairpieces, tremble so hard theyd knock over their roulette chips. They talked hard and toughmergers, windfall profits, takeovers, injunctions, lawsuits, union bashingbut it was all hot air, the men pink and soft, the women wasted by sunlamps and starvation diets to the consistency of old bootleather. Sometimes Raymond was tempted to pull a stunt with his sawn-off shotgun, risk gaol for the pleasure of wiping the greed and satisfaction from their faces.

  They werent all like that. Raymond played at a big-stakes roulette table in the far left corner of one of the upper-level salons. It was a table that attracted your vulgarians, sure, but it also attracted the occasional cool, unblinking Asian gambler, whod make and lose a fortune without feeling that he had to advertise it to the world, the occasional professional from Europe or the States, and the occasional middle-aged business type whod looked after his health and didnt make a fuss about how big he was.

  This particular roulette wheel brought luck to Raymond. Or rather, he knew it would be unlucky to switch to one of the other tables. On average, he was aheadwin twelve grand one night, lose eight or nine the next. A week ago hed won twenty-five. Two nights later he was down thirty. It all meant that he lived a good life but there wasnt much hard cash in his pocket. Tonight he was behind, most of the cash from the bank raid gone down the drain.

  It was a relative term, losing. Raymond never had a sense of falling behind, not when he could simply go out and pull another job to top up his reserves. And there were the other positives: the women, the covetous glances, the contacts like Chaffey, whom hed met playing craps, and the intoxicating dreamland of tuxedos, crisp white cotton, strapless dresses, his own lean jaw and sensitive hands in the muted 24-hours-a-day light.

  A number of regulars played this table. Others liked to watch. Raymond was on nodding terms with all of them but in the past couple of weeks hed found himself drawn to the company of a man called Brian Vallance and Vallances girlfriend, Allie Roden.

  He watched them now as he stacked his chips. Vallance was quick and compact looking, with olive skin and a closely trimmed grey beard on his neat chin. He had a healthy outdoors look, but Raymond wasnt sure that he liked Vallance. There was a sulkiness close to the surface, the mouth was too mean, Vallances body language too buttoned-down. Vallance was about fifty, and that put him about twenty-five years older than the girlfriend.

  Now there was a sight for sore eyes. Allie Roden had thick auburn hair like flames around a finely boned face, a kind of slow deep consuming fire in her green eyes, white skin, a beautiful shape, a readiness to toss back her head and laugh aloud. When she did that, Raymond wanted to bite her throat.

  She came around the table while the croupier was making ready for the next spin of the wheel. Raymond felt her hand touch his wrist briefly, smelt hera hint of plain soap and talcas her lips brushed his ear and she murmured, Lets have a drink when youre ready.

  Raymond didnt take his eyes away from the croupiers hands. He nodded, sensed Allie step back, her fingers brushing his shoulder. When next he looked, she was standing behind Vallance. They both looked keenly at him and Vallance flashed a grin.

  Raymond played on, losing, winning, pushing chips onto the board, pulling them toward him. Then he won five grand on one play and that was his signal to stop and have a drink with Vallance and Vallances woman. He raised an eyebrow, inclined his head, and left the table.

  That was a daring play, Allie said, coming around the table and winding her slim hand into the crook of his arm.

  He liked the bouncy quality of her affection and generosity. No-one minded, least of all Vallance. Vallance wasnt possessive or jealous. Raymond couldnt see what she saw in him, though. There was the age factor, the hint of weakness in the man, her own energy and enthusiasm. She deserved better.

  You win some, you lose some, Raymond said.

  Vallance, at his other elbow as they walked to a secluded table in the lounge, said, You win more often than you lose, Ray. Ive been watching. Its a real education. Youre careful. Youre not a man to throw his money away.

  Raymond played that coolly. He wasnt about to tell Vallance that hed borrowed ten grand from his fence, the lawyer Chaffey, meaning that the five grand hed just won was no longer his. With any luck, Chaffey would allow him a further five for the travellers cheques and wipe out the debt completely.

  They sat down, ordered champagne to celebrate. The talk circled around money and expert and inexpert gambling play. It emerged that Ra
ymond was independently wealthy, from a good family, and gambled because he liked it. I can take it or leave it, though, he said. He was no mug. Nothing desperate or pathetic about Raymond Wyatt.

  They talked, they ordered a bottle next time, Dom Perignon, Raymond forking out the best part of two hundred bucks for it. And then, unmistakably, Allies shoeless foot scratched his ankle and he felt the hot press of her thigh as she reached across him for the bottle. For the first time, Raymond thought that with a bit of skilful manoeuvring on his part he could extricate her from Vallance.

  They relaxed, and into the warm glow of the endless nightit could have been a bright spring day outside for all Raymond knew or caredVallance slid a tin of shoe polish across the table. Take a gander inside that, young Raymond.

  The tin felt hefty in Raymonds hand. If it was shoe polish, it was very dense. He shook the tin and something shifted within it, a sense of heaviness and solidity transmitting itself to his fingers.

  Go on, it wont blow up on you.

  Raymond pressed where it said press and the lid popped open. He lifted it off, stared in and saw what accounted for the heaviness and the bulk.

  Gold guinea, dated 1799, Vallance said. Silver florin, too worn by saltwater corrosion to establish the date but roughly the same vintage. Spanish silver dollar, dated 1810, and the one with the hole in it is a holey dollar, scarce as hens teeth.

  He paused. Ive got an airlines bag full of similar stuff at home. Whats more, Im the only man alive who knows where the rest is buried.

  Something stirred in Raymond, a kind of hunger, a hazy dream of adventure on the high seas, flintlock pistols and treasure chests. He looked up at Vallance uncomprehendingly.

  Why are you showing me?

  You strike me as a man who knows how to keep his trap shut.

  Maybe.

  I wont bullshit youyoure in a position to help me and Allie.

  Youre the one with the story to tell, Raymond said patiently.

  He felt Allies foot again. At the same time, she leaned over and slid an arm around Vallance. Raymond watched the man melt a little and rub his jaw over her skull. She said, Brian used to chart wrecks for a living.

  Vallance said defiantly, Until a year ago, Ray, I worked for the Maritime Heritage Unit. Our job was to locate wrecks from old documents, chart and excavate known wrecks, and safeguard others from scavengers. We even had a cop assigned to us full-time. Part of her job was checking Sothebys and Christies on the lookout for looted artefacts.

  Raymond waited.

  A flush of anger filled Vallances lined face. I was accused of stealing artefacts that hadnt yet been catalogued. Accused of selling to a private buyer. It was all bullshit. They couldnt prove anything, but Id had enough so I quit rather than work for those bastards again.

  Sure you did, Raymond thought. You fucked up and almost got caught. It pleased him oddly to be listening to this desperados story, almost as if Vallance could only be trusted because he was crooked.

  He saw Allie pat Vallances arm. In the dim light her features were soft and attentive. Raymond felt himself burning for her. He absently touched a finger to the coin with the hole in it.

  Tell you what, Ray, Vallance said. That Spanish dollar is yours, whether you help us out or not. Its rated very fine, worth around a hundred and seventy-five bucks. All I want you to do at this stage is listen, no obligation to invest.

  Invest?

  Fifty grand could get you five million, Vallance said.

  * * * *

  Four

  The lawyer called Chaffey eased forward in his chair, the heat of effort rising on his broad, soft, clean, unhealthy face. He placed both hands on his desk and push-straightened his legs. Now he towered giddily against the window and, as he buttoned the vast folds of his suit coat together and prepared to show Denise Meickle out of his office, he glanced down upon the plane trees and tram tracks of St Kilda Road, the flashing chrome and foreshortened pedestrians, the park benches and rollerblading kids, trying to muster unfelt confidence into his voice.

  Leave it with me.

  The Meickle woman was a sorry-looking creature, small, mousy, belligerent. She was in love with a client of Chaffeys, a hold-up man and killer called Tony Steer, who was being held in the city watchhouse. He was about to be transferred to somewhere more permanent and Denise Meickle wanted Chaffeys help in springing him from gaol.

  First, she said, reluctant to leave, though shed been with him for an hour now and gone over everything a dozen times, youll have to make sure hes transferred to the remand centre in Sunshine. Sometimes theyre remanded in Pentridge, but well never spring him from there.

  Chaffey had doubts that Steer could be sprung from the remand centre, let alone Pentridge. Leave it with me, he said again.

  Meickle had been a prison psychologist attached to the gaol in Ararat when she first befriended Steer. Given the complex nature of a gaol environment, in which prison staff have to offer both welfare and custodial roles, it wasnt hard for someone like Meickle to blur or confuse these roles. It was especially hard for custodial staff who might find themselves comforting a bereaved prisoner one minute and strip-searching him the next. As a psychologist, Meickle hadnt had that kind of relationship with Steer, but the intimacy and role-confusion were no less compelling. Well get your man out, Chaffey said.

  She didnt want to go. She numbered her fingers, so that Chaffey would get it straight. So this is the deal. New Zealand passports for both of us, a boat out of the country, and someone to help me spring Tony. For that we pay you fifty thousand dollars. Find someone good, someone who can drive and keep his nerve. Pay him out of your cut. She poked Chaffeys huge midriff. Dont rip us off. Well find you if you do.

  Chaffey nodded his massive head. He was Tony Steers lawyer and minded Steers money for him. He had more sense than to rob the man. Steer was bad news, a hard, fit man of flashing confidence and intelligence. Chaffey thought of the legions of women who befriended male prisoners. Lonely women, many of them, fired by good works, God or pity. Some of them married killers, waited for them to get out, and got killed for their pains. Maybe thats what awaited Denise Meickle.

  He ushered her to the door. Ill get onto it straight away. The passports, the boat, no drama there. Finding a good man will require a bit of thought.

  No junkies. No mugs. No-one with form.

  Like I said, Ill get straight onto it.

  He goes to trial in two weeks time. We havent got much time.

  When Meickle was gone, Chaffey ran through a mental checklist of names. None looked promising: dead, in gaol, feeding a habit or too narrow in their fields of expertise.

  The phone rang.

  Chafe? Raymond here. How are you placed today?

  Here was someone he hadnt thought of. Raymond, old son. Chaffey checked his watch. Meet you in thirty?

  Usual place. Ive got some paper for you.

  That could mean anything: bonds, numbered sequences of bills, cheques. See you then, Chaffey said, cutting Raymond off before he compromised both of them on the line.

  In the outer office he said, Back in an hour.

  But youve got appointments.

  Back in ninety minutes, Chaffey said.

  He put one foot after the other down the corridor. The lift gulped and clanked, dropping seven storeys with Chaffey braced, legs apart, at the midpoint of the floor, as though he were riding it to the ground. It hit the bottom, recovered, and Chaffey shouldered through the foyer to the street.

  The usual place was a booth in Bourke Street Mall that dispensed cheap theatre and concert tickets. Cursing, for there were no taxis in sight, Chaffey propelled himself toward the nearest tram stop.

  Five minutes later he was strap-hanging in a draughty rattletrap along Swanston Street. It claimed to have the University as its destination, but that didnt mean it wouldnt reverse direction shortly or veer into Victoria Street. The seats looked minute and insupportable to Chaffey. He didnt trust them, or the conductor, or the other pass
engers. The students among them flashed their white teeth and clawed great arcs of gleaming hair away from their eyes as they spoke loudly, sub-literately, to one another. Otherwise there were pensioners, stunned and dazed, and women in suits with flying shoulders, snapping gum in their jaws.

  Chaffey stood with his feet apart and tried to brace his solid legs in a counter-rhythm to the tram. His reflection in the glass revealed his bulk, a button nose, red lips, long pale lashes, damp acres of pink skin. It didnt reveal his vicious glee, for he was dreaming, of Raymond Wyatt saying that he would help Denise Meickle spring Tony Steer out of remand.