Angels of Vengeance: The Disappearance Novel 3 (27 page)

‘Birendra, tell the police officers we shall meet them at four o’clock. Have my lawyer attend as well. And make sure he knows that my other lawyer will be coming with us.’

‘Your other lawyer, sir?’

Shah smiled like a grey nurse shark. ‘Miss Julianne has a classical education, Birendra. A shower, some clean clothes and an empty briefcase, and I’m sure no one will question her presence at this interview.’

‘What about your actual lawyer?’ asked Jules, not at all sure this was a good idea.

‘He will probably bill me for your time,’ the old Gurkha replied with another wide grin. ‘And of course I will pay him. He is most understanding when his bills are paid promptly.’

Shah stood up and rubbed his hands, like a man contemplating a long-awaited lunch. He looked over at his faithful number two. ‘Birendra, summon my daughter. She can show Miss Julianne through to the ladies’ wash facilities and provide her with some clean clothes. They are about the same size, and I know Ashmi keeps outfits hidden from me so that she might sneak out with her friends when she thinks my attention is elsewhere.’

Julianne found herself hustled out of the office in Birendra’s wake. She wanted to object but was swept along by the two men. And in spite of her misgivings, she admitted it was possible that Shah was right. They had not had time to compare notes in the few hours since she’d first contacted him this morning. She was unknown to the authorities in Darwin. She might well pass unnoticed in the meeting, and if the police did wish to discuss either of the bomb attacks with Shah, she might well pick up on something that meant nothing to him.

‘And Birendra,’ said Shah, ‘find Mr Pappas if he is in the city. We may need to consult him as well.’

‘Yes sir.’

Jules tried to imagine herself in the role of Narayan Shah’s lawyer. She had considered studying law once. Her father had encouraged her with all his might and main. For a man who had never worked hard at anything but cards and calumny, Lord Balwyn’s enthusiasm for placing one of his own deep within the corpus of the justice system was unsettling. In fact, it was all the warning she needed. After a brief flirtation with the idea of donning lawyer’s robes, Jules had decided to study the classics instead. When she went up to Trinity, she took honours in drinking, with a double major in shopping and fucking.

*

The Bagot Road Police Station, like the suburb it serviced, was painfully new. That wasn’t just a metaphor. The lowering sun blazed down with restrained ferocity in the late afternoon, throwing intense sunbursts off the steel and glass façade of the building. Jules caught a flash in one eye and flinched. The after-image burned a streak across her retina and for a moment she feared a migraine might be coming on. She’d only ever had one, and that had been caused by an inopportune flash of light off a chrome benchtop.

She fumbled in the pockets of the military-cut green silk shirt she had borrowed from Shah’s daughter, before remembering that her sunglasses were perched on top of her head. With the imitation D&G shades in place – another item on loan from Ashmi – Jules no longer had to squint into the harsh glare.

The station was just west of the airport, only a few minutes’ drive from the compound. A hunched, brutalist structure, it squatted on the busy road opposite a small golf course, a nine-hole eccentricity owned and operated by the Royal Australian Air Force. The airport runway ended in a concrete apron maybe half a mile or so away, over an empty field on the far side of the golf links. A fat-bellied military transport plane roared in to land, directly over her head. The shadow flitted across the golf course like a giant, awkward bird of prey. Julianne assumed the unusual arrangement was a leftover from the city’s pre-Wave frontier history. There wasn’t much else left over from that time in this small area of northern Darwin.

‘This was all a waste ground when I arrived,’ Shah remarked, sweeping his hand in a graceful arc. ‘You cannot see it now, but the ocean is only a few minutes’ walk away.’

Jules tried to catch a glimpse of the striking jade-green waters she’d flown over on arrival, but the suburb across the road from the RAAF’s beautifully maintained lawns had been so densely developed, it presented as a solid wall of concrete, fibrous cement, tinted glass, steel and aluminium. Small commercial set-ups and government enterprises, among them the police station and an office of the Free Port Development Authority, faced onto Bagot Road. Shah had told her that the streets tucked in behind these had been built up with expensive townhouses right down to the water’s edge. One of them was his family home, which explained why the Bagot Road detectives had taken charge of investigating the attempted bombing of his house.

‘It is mostly new people around here,’ said Shah. ‘Business people like me, who have set up in the last few years. A few Americans, but mostly from the region. Many Indonesians, many, many Chinese. The FPDA controls the building regulations, not the city council . . . so there are no regulations.’

He stopped and laughed at his own joke; a rich, stentorian laugh that teased a smile from Jules in return. Still, she wondered why the hell Shah was giving her the tour-guide spiel while they stood around roasting in the tropical heat.

‘But it is very expensive to buy in here,’ he went on, seemingly oblivious. ‘That is what regulates development. Not law. My own home was built in less than four months. The labourers worked night and day. It is a lovely space, Miss Julianne, but it was very, very expensive to build. You must come around to dinner tonight. The rest of my family will want to meet you. They call you “the Deliverer”, you know.’

‘That’s lovely,’ replied Jules, who had felt her skin starting to burn after just a minute in this sun. ‘But –’

‘Ah, he is here.’

A white Bentley pulled into the car park of the police station and manoeuvred into the slot next to Shah’s Land Rover. A tall, thin grey-haired man stepped out, wearing a lightweight, cream-coloured linen suit. He retrieved a briefcase and a Panama hat from the rear seat before locking up and greeting his client.

Shah’s lawyer had arrived.

‘Hello, hello, everyone. You must be Ms Balwyn. I understand you will be acting as my junior, today. Sitting in on conference. Very good, very good. You can take notes. I imagine I’ll do all the talking, but if there is something you desperately need to ask of our city’s finest, feel free to whisper in my shell-like and we’ll see what we can shake loose from Mr Plod.’

‘Oh, okay then,’ said Jules.

‘Excellent. Home Counties girl, I judge, by your lovely accent. Better and better. Piers Downing, by the way . . .’ He launched a hand across to seal the deal. ‘Wouldn’t do to have our little charade come a cropper because you didn’t know me from Arthur or Martha, would it? And
hello
, Mr Shah. Hello, hello. Dreadful business, all this. I can only hope Plod has some news for us about these villains who blew themselves up on your lawn, but probably not. Your man Birendra brought me up to speed with this morning’s shenanigans. I understand they touched on your interests somewhat tangentially. Doubtless that’s why we are all here sweltering in this wretched bloody heat. Shall we away?’

‘So you’re not from around here then, Mr Downing?’ Jules asked, stating the obvious, as they made their way up the concrete steps of the station.

The entrance was sheltered by massive sails of shadecloth, artfully arranged to provide maximum cover during the hottest part of the day. Julianne felt the temperature ease off just a few degrees as they passed underneath them. The heat was still pulsing, however. At least until they pushed through a revolving door and the ubiquitous, super-chilled air-con washed over her in a merciful release.

‘No, not from these parts, no,’ said Downing on the other side. ‘Falkland Islands, actually, if you can believe it. Long way from home and all, but everyone is these days. Especially in this benighted city. Took my degree back in old Blighty and practised in the City for twelve years. I was out here for a holiday in ’03 – well, a working holiday, tax write-offs and all that. Didn’t fancy heading back home after everything turned to custard, either to the Falklands or to London, as you can imagine. Prospects in both places a bit too bleak for me, thank you. And you, Ms Balwyn – made it back home at all?’

‘No,’ replied Jules, deciding she didn’t trust the lawyer very much. His hail-fellow-well-met routine reminded her an awful lot of her father, just before he cheated someone out of a drink, a meal or their retirement savings. Shah, she noted, had said nothing since Downing’s arrival, and was sporting one of his enigmatic smiles as the three of them approached the reception desk.

‘Piers Downing!’ the dapper Brit bellowed to the brown-shirted duty officer, startling Jules in the process. ‘Of Downing, Street and Kemp. Here with my client Mr Shah to see Detectives Palmer and Dennis.’

Julianne gave Shah a curious sidelong glance at the name of the law firm, but his smile remained in place. The man behind the desk, a sergeant whose shirt was straining at the buttons from a few too many years off the beat, stifled a groan as he pulled out an appointments book.

‘Always a pleasure, Mr Downing,’ he grunted in a way to ensure that everyone understood it was not. ‘I’ll just call up and see if the detectives are in.’

‘They’d want to be,’ replied the lawyer. ‘They’re the ones who insisted Mr Shah attend this afternoon. We’ll just head up now, shall we?’

Downing made as if to pass behind the counter but the old cop slammed down a swing-top section, cutting him off. Otherwise, the sergeant ignored the three visitors. He reached somebody on the phone, enquired as to whether they were available, and then hung up.

‘You can take a seat over there. Detective Palmer will be through in a moment,’ he said, before pointedly turning away to busy himself at a computer and switching on a small radio at his desk. Johnny Cash jumped down into a burnin’ ring of fire as Downing led the group over to the small waiting area.

The fit-out took Jules by surprise. A three-piece lounge setting arranged around a glass-top coffee table scattered with fresh magazines and today’s newspaper. The mags held her interest – local versions of now defunct American titles like
Rolling Stone
and
People
– while the paper had obviously been published some hours before the bomb blast down at the marina. Its front page trumpeted the arrival of the Combined Fleet and the money it would pour into the coffers of the city’s traders.

She sank into one of the leather lounge chairs. This was all a bit luxe compared to the police stations she’d visited so often as a young lady, to bail out her father. But she supposed they didn’t let any old riffraff swan about here in the foyer at Bagot Road. The villains were most probably bundled into cells via some sort of receiving dock around the back. And if this station serviced an enclave of rich émigré business exiles, as her Nepalese friend had implied, perhaps they felt the need to put their best face forward.

‘It’s all a bit swish, isn’t it?’ Jules spoke the words in a stage whisper.

Shah said nothing, content to gaze around the reception area as if it was his first time here. Downing leaned forward and rubbed the tips of his fingers together.

‘
Baksheesh
,’ he explained, rolling the word around in his mouth like a particularly fine sweet. Without bothering to lower his voice, he went on. ‘I happen to know this lounge setting was a gift from one of the local notables, a furniture importer from China, who had a spot of bother with Customs a while back. Some eager young thing holding up consignments of stock by insisting on searching for contraband in the containers. Outrageous imposition on the free flow of commerce. All sorted now, of course, thanks to some back-door lobbying by interested parties not a million miles removed from this fine police station. Our boys in brown think if they put these things out on public display, it’s like declaring their pecuniary interests. Take a look at some of the top-shelf gear they’ve got behind closed doors . . . You strike me as a woman of refined tastes, Ms Balwyn. I’d be interested to see what you make of it all.’

Julianne crossed her legs and tried to admire the cut of the black dress pants she had borrowed. They flared slightly at the cuffs in a style she’d always liked, matching the medium-heeled boots she had worn when leaving her hotel this morning. One of Shah’s assistants had polished them to a high, military sheen while she’d showered and changed back at the compound. She was hoping the lawyer might tone it down if she didn’t respond, but he carried on regardless, in his best courtroom voice. Shah seemed happy to ignore his tales of official malfeasance, but they made Jules increasingly uncomfortable. Daddy had always taught her to keep her mouth shut around the authorities.

When Downing finally paused to draw breath, she leaned towards him, shaking her head. ‘But I don’t see how any of this can be so,’ she said. ‘The police aren’t allowed to accept gifts, are they? This isn’t South America.’

He smiled as though she’d walked into a trap. ‘Ah. But it is not their place to say yay or nay to largesse. Not in this form anyway. Mr Shah probably told you on the way over that this station is a recent addition to our good city. As is the very pleasant little community over which it stands watch. And I can make that judgment without fear of contradiction because many of my clients hail from The Palms. A delightful community, one that pays its bills promptly.’

He fanned himself with his Panama hat, even though Jules was beginning to shiver in the chill of the arctic air-conditioning.

‘This station,’ he continued, waving the hat around, ‘indeed, all of the new police stations built in Darwin since it was given free-port status by the federal government – seven of them, in total – they were all built and funded, and
remain
funded, by the FPDA. The Free Port Development Authority. The lawful chain of command runs back to the minister in Parliament, but the FPDA controls the purse strings, and with them the parameters within which the officers in this station must operate. The Free Port Development Authority, of course, although established by an Act of Parliament, is a self-funded corporatised entity. That funding is levied from the commercial sector of the city.’