Assassin (20 page)

‘I’m truly sorry, Andy.’

She hung up.

Detective Inspector Hunt stepped off the escalator at Chinatown’s Golden Century restaurant and looked around anxiously. He got himself a table at the back — white tablecloth, soy sauce and chilli in the centre — and ordered a Tsingtao. It was past midnight, but several tables were still being served. After perhaps ten minutes Robert White slid into the chair opposite, smooth as water. Hunt had only seen him in person once before. If asked to describe him, he could only say he was a Caucasian male with an American accent and neatly trimmed grey hair. Somehow, Robert White seemed completely without any other defining characteristics.

They ate prawn dumplings and sang choy bow and once the chilli crab arrived White said, ‘The problem we spoke about before has resurfaced. In Sydney.’

Makedde Vanderwall. Hunt had been keeping an eye on customs and immigration, but nothing had come up. She must have come in on false ID.

‘She set up a meeting with a journalist.’

‘Tell me where and when,’ Hunt said eagerly.

White gave him the details of the planned rendezvous.

‘The journalist?’

‘Taken care of for now.’

A young, startlingly thin Chinese waiter approached holding a plastic bag containing a bright coral trout. The fish stared gape-mouthed at Hunt, with round, frightened eyes. The American nodded and the waiter took it away to butcher.

‘She’ll have her own account of things. That account can’t come to light,’ The American explained. ‘You understand?’

Vanderwall had clearly survived an attempt on her life in Paris and that was very bad news for Jack Cavanagh. She could not be allowed to meet with the journalist and she could not be brought into custody. That left only one other option.

‘I understand,’ Hunt said. His heart quickened. There would be a big reward for this, if it went over well. A big reward.

‘It’s vital that things are taken care of at the scene, cleanly. It has to hold up to scrutiny. My client cannot be pulled in.’

The trout arrived. Hunt was not comfortable with his chopsticks. He gave up on them and tucked in with a knife and fork.

‘I would suggest she may be armed,’ The American remarked quietly, one leg folded gracefully over the other. He took a bite of fish and placed his chopsticks neatly on the corner of his plate. When he finished chewing he said, ‘She is perhaps dangerous. It would be advantageous if you could bring someone expendable. Can that be arranged?’

Hunt raised an eyebrow.

Expendable?

He had just the right person for the job.

Under the tinted visor of a full-face motorcycle helmet and the armour of stiff new leathers, Mak Vanderwall prowled a maze of residential streets in Sydney’s Northern Beaches. Rested after her night in a luxurious hotel bed, she now sat astride a new, satisfyingly powerful, purring Triumph Speed Triple, slipping between cars and exploring back roads.

Second, third, fourth …

She had become more comfortable spending Luther’s blood money, she reflected as her recent purchase gleamed beneath her, unscratched and straight off the lot.
Could I be corrupted by money, as Jack Cavanagh clearly has?
she wondered. She had to admit it had felt awfully good to see the bike in the window and just walk in and lay down the cash. She’d paid half on the generous Ms Blackman’s credit card only to avoid suspicion. Drug dealers paid with a lot of paper. Drug dealers and women on the run. The torque took some getting used to and she’d spent the past few hours doing precisely that, enjoying the increased anonymity and freedom of her new transportation.

What a place
, she thought as she passed a line of luxury homes in one of the more exclusive streets of Palm Beach.
What a place.
A Mercedes-Benz S-Class parked in a driveway. A dark Aston Martin DB9. Yachts bobbed up and down lazily, sunlight reflecting on calm waters. It was a moneyed view. A view to die for, some would say. She couldn’t enjoy it in the least. This was Jack Cavanagh’s view. His Palm Beach house was elegantly understated. Probably designed by some famous architect. It was much smaller and less protected than his ostentatious Point Piper home. Open plan. Bedrooms on the second level. Nice stretch of beach outside. Jack wasn’t there, but it was interesting to see he had recently taken on some muscle. A bodyguard or security type of some sort was milling around. A big man. Pretty young. She wondered how long he’d been on the scene.

After one last spin past, Mak took her time riding back into Sydney. After the open air of the Northern Beaches the congested traffic on the Harbour Bridge was not a welcome change. She sat in first gear, caught between bumpers, scowling as exhaust filled her nose. Lane-splitting was illegal and there were cameras everywhere. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Sweat-soaked under her leathers, she eventually crossed into the city and rode towards Pyrmont, making her way up Harris Street, which was busy with the lunchtime crowd. She picked up a sandwich and rode on, gearing down as she reached the end of Distillery Drive. She turned down a smaller, unmarked road, gradually coming to a halt behind a concrete barrier at the back of a large construction lot, on which work had apparently been suspended for several months. Her mind was clear and calm. The meditations of the road always had that effect on her.

There were few people here. This was the raw, partially developed end of Pyrmont. Once a purely industrial area, it now featured dozens of new apartment blocks, and though Harris Street and the precincts closest to the old piers and casino were fast becoming gentrified, here, under the shadow of the M4 freeway, the gentrification factor was still absent. These streets felt all but empty of cars, let alone people. Which was perfect for her purposes.

Mak flicked out the kickstand on her new bike and set it to rest next to the concrete barrier, which hid the bike from view without impeding the path back to the road. She pulled her helmet off and walked onto the construction site, kicking up dust with her motorcycle boots. Debris had floated into the structure itself, leaves gathering in the corners of the ground-floor entry door. One presumed the global financial crisis played a role. At the front entry, Mak passed scaffolding and blue plastic tarpaulins weighed down by bricks, leaving boot prints in her wake. She had noticed the building from the raised freeway and inspected it before calling the
Tribune
journalist Mr Staples to arrange the details of this clandestine meeting. Now that their proposed meeting time was only an hour away, Mak was at the site and pleased with her choice. The privacy of the cavernous concrete structure made it a good spot to meet someone unobserved and, though she didn’t anticipate trouble, the windows and doors had not been fitted, leaving plenty of entries and exits. This was to be a grand apartment building, if it ever found funding again. There was a workman’s elevator in place and a staircase without railings, and it was these stairs that she used to make her way up to the unfinished mezzanine, where her view of the apartment building’s future lobby was total.

Now, where to put these?

She flipped the backpack off and pulled out a leather handbag she’d cut into and fitted with a discreet pinhole camera and directional microphone. Pete Don, her former tutor at the Australian Security Academy, had shown her how to do it. The materials were available in any common ‘spy’ shop. Inside the handbag was a second camera, linked to her iPhone and set in a malleable lump of Plasticine, made up to be roughly the colour of concrete. She pulled out the Plasticine, unwrapped it from the cling wrap she’d stored it in, and held it up to the wall. It didn’t quite match the unfinished surface of the building, she noticed, but it still blended fairly well. She left the purse in her spot on the mezzanine and, after some consideration, placed the hidden camera in the Plasticine at the base of the stairs, the lens pointing at the front entry. Her conversation with Staples on the mezzanine would be recorded; and as a security measure, she should be able to see him approach with the other camera. If he wasn’t alone, she could escape unseen from the far window of the mezzanine. Or use Luther’s Glock, which was tucked into the waist of her leather pants.

Confident she had the angles covered, Mak sat on an empty crate, tore into her backpack and tucked into her sandwich.

‘Flynn.’ It was Inspector Kelley.

‘Inspector.’

There was a pause, and immediately Andy Flynn sensed that this call would not bring good news. The warrant had been rejected. He’d guessed it would.

‘The warrant was rejected. The surveillance team will be pulled off as of tomorrow. They’ve been put onto another job.’

Andy sat forwards with his elbows on his desk, his eyes shut tightly.
No.
Though Kelley had foreshadowed this as a possibility, the words were a blow.

‘Is there another suspect? A stronger one?’ he asked.

‘No.’

That was little relief. If the Dayle lead proved incorrect, it would reflect badly on him and on the unit. But if Dayle was the one, the thought of him walking freely around Sydney was unthinkable. He was a ticking bomb.

‘I believe you are right about him, if that’s any consolation.’

Kelley could be dogged in getting what he wanted. He would push for Dayle and he would keep pushing.

‘But they did it, anyway,’ Andy said. He shook his head.

‘The team has been pulled off for a job the commander considers to be a more imminent threat.’ There was a pause. ‘Truthfully, I think his hand was forced. It’s a matter of resources. I talked with him about it today. There’s nothing more I can do about it at this stage. I’ll continue to push the issue from here, but I thought I should let you know.’

Andy felt his temper rise, frustration coming out of his pores and spreading through the room like a toxic vapour. This office in Canberra was not where he could do the most good, he decided. He’d made a grave error in pinning his career on criminal profiling just as the tide turned against it. And even when he could help on a case, when he was sure they had fingered the right guy, not even Inspector Kelley’s support could get his recommendations carried out. Andy was truly powerless.

He held his breath for a moment, absorbed the disappointment, exhaled. ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ he said placidly.

Kelley knew full well what this meant. The risk didn’t bear mentioning. They both agreed that Dayle was the prime suspect, and that whoever murdered Victoria Hempsey was sure to do it again. It was only a matter of time. But when? Next week? Next year? Police resources were finite. This sort of thing happened, especially since the global financial crisis and all the cutbacks that came with it. Police, nurses and teachers were always the first to have funding cut. Some surveillance operations brought results in only days, some in months, and some operations simply didn’t get results at all. It was expensive work. Perhaps Kelley could push to get the STIB in soon to plant a device. That could prove useful. It was something.

‘Thanks for your assistance with the investigation. You did some good work,’ Kelley said.

Andy thanked him again for the update and hung up. His office felt claustrophobic suddenly, and he opened the door with one outstretched hand.

The DNA matched the boyfriend, not the previous rapes. That was what had killed the case for surveillance. Yet if Strike Force Pawn showed their hand and brought Dayle in for questioning, there were a thousand ways he could weasel his way out again, with the knowledge they were onto him. He would have to really screw up to further incriminate himself. He’d have to confess to someone. Or hurt someone else …

There was a knock on the open door.

‘Yup,’ he said brusquely.

It was Agent Dana Harrison, standing in the hall outside his doorway, holding a file folder. She was looking over a ten-year-old cold case from Queensland.

‘Excuse me,’ she offered. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Sure.’

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it.

‘I just wanted to be sure that … we’re cool,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I hope I didn’t say anything to, um —’

‘We’re cool, Harrison.’

Yes, he’d been attracted to Dana on some level, though now that he’d seen Mak there was no denying he still loved her, had never stopped hoping they’d be together again. If Dana had been interested in Andy, it was most likely because he was her mentor. He was older and experienced. Perhaps she saw in him someone she wanted to emulate, not someone she wanted to be with, and perhaps on some level she’d mixed up that admiration with something else. Harrison was a smart, talented
young woman. She didn’t need an affair with her superior to hang over her reputation. She was better than that. They both were. She probably would have worked it out herself, but he was glad she wouldn’t have to.

‘You impressed me in Sydney. I’ll be recommending you in my report,’ he told her honestly, but her eyes continued to search him.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

‘Do I not seem okay?’

She narrowed her warm brown eyes at him. Tilted her head. ‘Not that it’s any of my business, but no.’

Andy looked away and leaned back in his chair.

Mak is alive. But I can’t reach her.

And Dayle …

‘Sorry. You’re right. I just heard that the surveillance has been pulled off John Dayle, so …’

‘What?’ She straightened suddenly and gripped the folder until it creased.

‘Dayle is still the prime suspect, however the surveillance team was needed elsewhere,’ he told her. He cast his gaze over his desk and finding nothing there to comfort him, he said, ‘And the warrant was knocked back.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand.’

Andy took a deep breath. ‘Welcome to policing, Agent Harrison. We don’t always get what we want.’

Harrison flinched, apparently taken aback. ‘But Dayle is dangerous. He’s the guy. You said so yourself,’ she argued, her brow pinched sharply and those chocolate eyes blazing. She was usually so measured, so cerebral about the work. He hadn’t seen her angry like this before.

‘Well, yes, I do believe he is guilty,’ he explained. ‘But the
bottom line is we have yet to prove it …
They
have yet to prove it.’

Andy had to stop thinking in terms of ‘we’, he reminded himself. He and his team had consulted for the NSW homicide squad, and now their involvement was over. When Andy had agreed to leave state homicide to start this unit, he’d known he would no longer be closing cases and making arrests. The Hempsey case wasn’t his case any more. And it wasn’t Harrison’s either.

‘How can we prove it if there is no one watching him?’

‘Perhaps forensics can come up with something,’ he muttered.

‘But he hasn’t submitted to a DNA test. He hasn’t been fingerprinted,’ she complained.

‘Dayle has never been charged with anything and the request for a search warrant was knocked back, as we worried it would be. This sort of thing is slow going.’

‘But it can’t be slow going. Not if he’s out there, looking for fresh victims.’

Harrison had been with the ACT police for barely three years before being nabbed by the AFP for this project. She wasn’t experienced enough to have seen first hand how justice could sometimes go wrong, how officers could have their hands tied by a well-intentioned system built on the protection of important civil liberties. This was not the first time something like this had happened, nor would it be the last.

‘Harrison, you have to let it go. It’s out of our hands.’

She stared at him, fuming.

‘Don’t you have a couple days off coming up?’ he asked her. She’d been doing long hours.

‘Yeah, from tomorrow,’ she said quietly.

‘Good. You’ve done some excellent work. Come back after the weekend with fresh eyes. There are plenty of other cases we are needed on.’

‘Do you promise you’ll let me know if there are any developments with Dayle?’

He sighed. ‘There won’t be, Harrison.’

‘But if there are?’

‘I’ve got your mobile. Of course I’ll let you know. See you next week,’ he said and leaned forwards on his desk again.

She turned and he watched her walk away, feeling deeply uneasy about the situation with Dayle, with Mak, with the Cavanaghs.