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  He supposed he could be found again by the wrong people, but it would be through bad luck, not family or friends or lovers or habits or interests. These didn’t define him. If Wyatt were found, it would be through something he couldn’t plan for—his face among bystanders in a newspaper photo; an old acquaintance happening to spot him on the street.

  He mused on events in Sydney. It was possible someone who knew his face had spotted him leaving or entering the Coogee apartment one day, and sent word along a chain. But it was more likely he’d been found through the connection with the Kramer women. He’d have to find another way to pass them their dribs and drabs of Sam’s money.

  HE’D HEARD NOTHING FROM Phoebe Kramer until a day in late April, when the coastal towns were trying to decide that cooler weather was coming. Sam had another job for him. The Rocks, the email drop said. It gave a day and a time, and Wyatt had got himself a mountain bike and some cycling gear and walked through the area until he’d found Sam and other day-release prisoners scraping poster scraps from a wall. He fussed with the chain until Sam drew near. Listened; asked a couple of questions when Sam told him where he could find a pair of uncirculated 1967 five-dollar notes. Normally such a banknote was not worth much, but the final zero on the serial number of these notes had been hand-numbered, ensuring their combined worth was about a hundred thousand. He’d stolen them that night.

  Handy for him, the best fence for the notes was a man named Barry Hartzer, in Wollongong, which was on his way home. Hartzer, thinning hair, jockey-sized, was as taciturn as Axel Blackstock, except for a remark he made as Wyatt was leaving: ‘Until next time, Mr Warner.’

  Normally Wyatt didn’t know when he’d next see any of the men and women who fenced the items he stole. It depended on Kramer having a job for him, it depended on the type of haul. But he’d known at once there would not be a next time with Barry Hartzer. ‘Warner’ was one of Wyatt’s old names, last used fifteen years ago. It was Barry’s way of sending a warning. Maybe their encounter was being recorded, video and audio, or the police or someone from his past had been by: questions, pressure, too much curiosity. Wyatt was uneasy. People were looking for him. After checking for a tracking device, he’d taken two days to get home, detouring into the middle of the state, doubling back, then down into Victoria and up the coast road. It was enough to shake a tail loose, but if they were shadowing him from in front, they’d be harder to spot.

  AND TODAY, ANOTHER EMAIL: Centennial Park, time and date.

  To the casual observer Wyatt was a public servant. Paperwork secured to a clipboard, Sun Safe hat, high-vis jacket with Sydney City Council on the breast pocket. A man like that, like a man driving a taxi or walking along a street in a grey suit and swinging a briefcase, is largely invisible. And for the duration of this visit to the park, Wyatt was a council worker with a clipboard: he wasn’t playacting. He eyed the paths and garden beds in Centennial Park, crouched to take sightlines, made notations, so full of purpose that no one questioned or interrupted him.

  Presently he drew closer to three gardeners wearing jeans, cotton jackets, boots and work gloves, and two bored-looking guards on a nearby bench. There was nothing to mark the former out as day-release prisoners. One man was in his twenties, shy, intent, sweet-faced, forking in the rich loam around clumps of flowering kangaroo paw. The second man was in his mid-thirties, stocky, with a shaved head, stubbled cheeks and a small barcode tattooed beneath one ear. His hands moved busily, expertly, so no one could complain about his work ethic, but his expression was snide. Gardening, clearly, was beneath him.

  They were some distance away. The closest man to Wyatt was Sam Kramer: sixty-something, with glasses slipping down his nose, clean, neat, fastidious. A man who might conceivably have spent his life marking university essays instead of swindling investors or passing heist information on to men like Wyatt.

  Time passed. After a while Kramer came closer to where Wyatt crouched, looking along a garden border. He leaned in to pluck at some weeds. ‘Mate,’ he murmured. ‘Appreciate your help with the family.’

  Wyatt’s face showed nothing, but he was surprised. He’d given his word. Why wouldn’t he do what he’d said he’d do? Anyway, that wasn’t why he was here. ‘What’s the job?’ he said, his mouth barely moving.

  ‘Jack Tremayne,’ Kramer said, knowing Wyatt would remember the name and do his research.

  Wyatt got to his feet. Flicked through his clipboard sheets, a busy man. Kramer continued to pluck weeds. Apart from the guards and other day-release prisoners, there were occasional tourists in this area of the park, office workers enjoying the sun. Coins of sunlight speckling the ground; damp earthen odours and the snicker of lawn sprinklers.

  ‘Tremayne’s facing jail time for a Ponzi scheme,’ said Kramer softly. ‘His partner is already inside. Kyle Roden.’

  Wyatt understood at once. ‘Roden told you something.’

  ‘Got it,’ Kramer said. He might not have been conversing with anyone. He brushed the soil from his gloves and fished in a pocket for a handkerchief. A man with a mild sniffle.

  Wyatt waited. Kramer would tell him without prompting anything he needed to know. He moved a metre to his left. His eyes were restless without appearing so, his face immobile, a man alone with his thoughts. But he’d already isolated the main exit points and was preternaturally aware of the guards and any other men or women in uniform, or with the covert bulge of a weapon under their clothing. The morning was crisp and peaceful. The other day-release men continued to dig and fork and scrape.

  ‘When things went pear-shaped for Tremayne and Roden, they started stashing money away. Roden’s went on fines and legal costs, but he reckons Tremayne’s salted away close to a million in liquid assets. He intends to skip the country when things get too hot.’

  That was the job. Relieve Tremayne of his million. Wyatt said nothing, his broad hands and sinewy forearms holding the clipboard as he walked a short distance, crouched to sight along a path between garden beds, got to his feet again and contrived to come closer to Sam Kramer.

  Then he murmured, ‘A million. Bulky.’

  ‘A mix of cash and jewellery or bearer bonds, probably. He can’t risk paper or electronic records. The police are looking at him; failed investors, the SIPC.’

  The Securities and Investments Probity Commission. Pretty much a toothless tiger, but sometimes it chased blatant Ponzi-scheme chancers like Tremayne and Roden through the courts. Wyatt said, ‘Does Roden know where Tremayne’s got the money?’ ‘No. Tremayne’s been raided a couple of times, files seized, that kind of thing, no mention of money, so I’d say it’s with a friend or in a lockup somewhere. He’s smart, mate. Slippery. So far, he’s run rings around anyone who’s tried to bring him down.’

  ‘Married?’

  Kramer nodded. ‘They would have looked at her with a fine-tooth comb, too.’

  ‘Friends? Family?’

  ‘Same treatment, what’s left of them. He’s a bit on the nose.’

  Wyatt began a familiar process, imagining himself inside the skin of someone else. Tremayne would have known he’d be raided, that he was vulnerable to search warrants, that his phone calls were monitored, his movements shadowed, his receipts double-checked.

  Was there someone he trusted?

  One aspect of the story Wyatt didn’t like: that Sam’s source was Tremayne’s business partner. He’d gone to jail; Tremayne hadn’t. He’d be resentful. He’d want to fuck up Tremayne’s plans. So who else had he told?

  ‘Roden,’ Wyatt said.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Kramer said. ‘I think he’s reliable. I’ve been protecting him, mate. Taken him under my wing. He’s a sad fuck, doesn’t mix with anyone else.’

  Wyatt glanced covertly at the other day-release prisoners. The young guy was still beavering away with a trowel. The stocky man stretched the kinks in his spine. ‘Why do you think he told you about Tremayne’s money?’

  ‘Good question. Idle chat, partly. But I thin
k he kind of hopes I’ll act on the information. He’s convinced Tremayne’s slippery enough to get off scot free.’

  It was then that the guards cast Wyatt more than the occasional look. He said nothing more but, giving the appearance of finishing with the current aspect of his clipboard job, moved away. Behind him, Sam Kramer muttered, ‘Tight window, mate. Tremayne’s likely to face a committal hearing sometime soon.’

  AGAIN CHECKING FOR GLANCES that seemed to avoid him, or lingered too long, Wyatt headed along a side path to a toilet block. No one in the men’s stalls or at the urinals. He stripped off the jacket and shoved it and the clipboard into a trash bin; dampened half-a-dozen paper handtowels and stuffed them on top. Then, pulling a khaki towelling hat over his skull, he slipped on a pair of sunnies and headed for the exit.

  A prison guard and the sweet-faced day-release prisoner were in his way. There was a little dance of precedence before Wyatt stepped aside to let them in. As he walked away one man was saying, ‘Make it snappy.’

  The other replied, ‘Prison food, mate. Fucks up your guts.’

  9

  CARL AYLIFFE—SIX MONTHS FOR minor but repeat possession and distribution offences—kept his eyes closed, head resting on the window. The Correctional Services people-mover crawling back through the western suburbs’ peak-hour traffic. His limbs ached. He was deeply fatigued: the tiredness of physical labour and watching Sam Kramer constantly without attracting attention to himself. What Kramer said and did. His interactions with clipboard guy. A close shave, encountering clipboard guy in the toilet block. Curious, too: he’d completely changed his appearance. Something to tell Brad when he got back.

  The people-mover hit a speed bump hard, the driver getting his kicks. Ayliffe’s head thumped the glass. Kramer, seated one row ahead, turned around and locked eyes with him. Ayliffe shrugged, a way of saying, ‘Yeah, the guy’s a prick but what can you do?’ He closed his eyes again, heart beating a little faster. He didn’t want Kramer to give him another thought, didn’t want Kramer thinking back on his day of weed pulling and deciding his tete-a-tete with clipboard guy had been noticed.

  A guy with a clipboard; a cyclist adjusting his bike chain in The Rocks earlier in the month. Ayliffe was pretty sure it was the same man: tall, contained, but a sense of coiled energy under the stillness. And the same choreography of approach, retreat, approach, retreat, as if he and Kramer merely happened to share the same general space for a short while and otherwise had no connection with each other. Ayliffe was certain they’d talked today—not that he’d heard voices, only noticed an ear inclined here, a jaw working there. Kramer the soft, greying, white-collar crim, clipboard guy a slab of lean muscle; the eyes, what could be seen of them, fathomless.

  As soon as he got off the bus, Ayliffe showered, changed into grub-time jeans and a T-shirt, and headed for the library.

  Brad Salter was there. He’d cleared the room and fronted up to Ayliffe with his bulky chest and jaw wanting answers.

  ‘Well?’

  Ayliffe described the day.

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘I couldn’t hear. And they might not’ve talked.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  Ayliffe described the man, the clipboard outfit, the costume change, and saw Brad chew his bottom lip, an oddly defenceless tic on a guy you’d want on your side if you were a soft kid incarcerated with hard men.

  AFTER TELLING AYLIFFE TO get lost, Bradley Salter took out the iPhone and installed the sim card, checked that the phone was on silent, and texted Nick Lazar: call.

  Did some thinking as he waited. To his knowledge, no man fitting the description given by Carl had ever visited Kramer in jail. Probably wary of appearing on CCTV or showing ID. But Kramer was a crook. He was up to something. Not a prison break—he was low security, due for release at the end of the year. Planning a job? Which Nick’s going to hijack?

  The phone vibrated. ‘Yo,’ Salter said.

  ‘What’s up?’ Lazar sounded put out.

  ‘What do you mean, what’s up? Obviously I want to know if you managed to tail the guy today.’

  A long silence, then Lazar said, ‘Look, you did what I asked, time and date and place. The rest needn’t concern you.’

  Salter ground his teeth. But that was a tone he’d read in Lazar’s voice. He relaxed his jaw. ‘Didn’t pan out, did it? What, you slept in? Got a puncture?’

  Another silence.

  Salter said, ‘He gave you the slip.’

  Silence. Then: ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did he spot you there? When he was leaving?’

  ‘Don’t think so. He just seemed to disappear.’

  This was good—keep him talking, learn something. ‘I’d say he’s a pro. Evasion tactics.’

  Lazar grunted.

  ‘Who is he? Who is he to Kramer?’

  ‘Look, just keep me informed, okay?’

  ‘There might not be any more information, Laz.’

  Lazar spat back: ‘And there might not be the balance of your five grand.’

  For the next couple of minutes, they went back and forth like a baseline rally in a game of tennis, until Salter knew a little more—a name, Wyatt, and what Wyatt was doing for Kramer—and he’d extracted promise of more dough. Just as he was concealing the phone again, the six-thirty bell sounded. He sauntered through to the dining room. Almost sat with Sam Kramer. Told himself not to be a dickhead.

  CARL AYLIFFE WANDERED through to the rec room after dinner, watched the news, took a chess lesson from an old guy in for embezzlement. Now that Brad Salter had his back, he could do what he liked.

  Then there was a shift in the atmosphere, the hubbub fading into expectant silence. He looked up. A cockatoo near the rec room entrance was waving his arm and hissing a warning: screws on way. A moment later they were there, zeroing in on Ayliffe.

  He stared down at the chessboard like a kid trying to be invisible. It didn’t work: the screws loomed, and one of them said, ‘Visitor, Carl. Important visitor.’

  That’s right, shout it out to the world. He looked up. ‘Me, boss?’

  ‘On your feet.’

  One on each side of him, escorting him across the rec room and into the corridor that led to the admin block. The word ‘dog’ floated in the air behind him.

  He was shown into an interview room, empty but for a chair on either side of a small table and a man, middle-aged, wearing a creased Peter Jackson suit over a wrinkled shirt. The man stood, stuck out his hand, said his name was Detective Sergeant Greg Muecke. Polite, grave. Not respectful, of course; but not aggressive or contemptuous, either, which was how Ayliffe was normally treated by the cops.

  ‘Water? Juice?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Please sit.’

  And when they were looking at each other across the table, Muecke said with an empty smile, ‘You’re a freshie here, right, Carl?’

  Where was this going? ‘Yes, boss.’

  Muecke glanced at a file. ‘Due for release by the end of the year?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘They treating you all right?’

  Was this about Brad Salter taking him under his wing? ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Comfortable? Your slot okay?’

  Ayliffe shrugged. ‘A cell’s a cell, boss.’ At least he wasn’t sharing. ‘No offence, boss, but am I in trouble?’

  Muecke shook his head. ‘Perish the thought.’

  That did nothing to ease Ayliffe’s mind. ‘I never did nothing.’

  Muecke kept his neutral face on. ‘Sam Kramer.’

  Now Ayliffe was frightened. ‘Who?’

  Muecke’s fingers clamped around Ayliffe’s forearm. ‘Carl, do us both a favour. I don’t want “no comment”, I don’t want “don’t know the name”, I don’t want “can’t remember what happened today”.’

  ‘Today…?’

  ‘Today.’ Muecke remained composed but for a faint tightening of his face. ‘Today you were in Centennial
Park, pulling up weeds. I need you to tell me everything that happened. Who was there, what was said, what was done. In particular, I want to know about the man Mr Kramer was talking to.’

  Ayliffe went colder still. ‘You were there?’

  Muecke ignored that. ‘What do you remember? Anything at all. Anything that was said to, or by, Mr Kramer.’

  ‘I wasn’t the only one pulling weeds. And there were like these screws there, I mean, correctional officers.’

  ‘I’ll speak to them in due course. It’s your input I want at the moment.’

  So Ayliffe told Muecke about the man with the clipboard, the impression that he’d listened to Sam Kramer and maybe asked a couple of questions, and how he’d altered his appearance afterwards.

  Muecke asked questions, casting them in different ways, for another thirty minutes before Ayliffe was escorted back to the rec room. The atmosphere was hushed, prickly and dangerous, no one meeting his gaze. He hurried to his slot to read a book and go back to being invisible.

  Just before lights out, Sam Kramer filled his doorway, a couple of hard men behind him. The corridor silent, no sign of any screws. Kramer saying expansively, ‘Mate!’ Not meaning it.

  10

  AFTER THE PRISON INTERVIEW, Muecke returned to the Property Crimes squad room at police HQ in Parramatta. Sam Henderson, from Robbery, was waiting for him. He wasn’t surprised. Property detectives often liaised with Robbery and Serious Crime, both squads coming under the umbrella of Serious Crime Command.

  Henderson barely gave Muecke time to enter the room. ‘Kid give you anything?’

  ‘Not to speak of,’ Muecke said. He draped his jacket over the back of his chair.

  Henderson shook his head. ‘Balls-up from beginning to end.’

  He was a fast-track hotshot, a science graduate in a flash suit with expensively clipped blond hair and a sense of entitlement. Along with that went impatience and barely veiled contempt for old-schoolers like Muecke, his senior in rank.