Hit (25 page)

Amy frowned. ‘Um, Thursdays I think. Doesn’t everyone get paid on Thursdays? I dunno. Something like that. Yeah, Thursdays.’

‘So he came over every second Thursday,’ Mak confirmed.

‘Right.’

Meaghan had been killed on a Thursday night, and Tobias had been there. Had one of their usual meetings gone horribly, violently wrong for some reason? Or did someone who had known he would be there set him up?

‘How about any other times? Do you know if she saw much of him?’

‘I don’t think so. It was like he only ever came for the money and she knew it, but didn’t care. I think she believed he would change,’ Amy said.

The thought made Mak sad. Here was this young woman who had a soft spot for a cousin she used to play with as a kid. Enough of a soft spot to let him into her house every fortnight and give him money out of her own pay cheque. If Tobias really had killed her, it made the act even more heartless and terrible.

If?
Mak herself had obviously grown sceptical about his guilt.

‘Why do you believe Tobias didn’t kill her?’

Amy’s demeanour changed. She sat upright and squinted into the distance, thinking hard. She was struggling with something internally, some decision. Mak thought that the girl seemed so unstable that she was afraid to say anything further to her, in case it set her off. So she just waited until Amy eventually pulled a crinkled piece of newspaper out of her leather purse. It was the front page of the Melbourne
Herald Sun.
She unfolded it.

‘Him,’ Amy said, pointing to a young man in the newsprint photo, posing in a suit with several other business-suited men. ‘He’s the guy.’ She wiped under one eye, only succeeding in smudging her make-up even more.

Mak examined the piece of newspaper with curiosity. The headline read
DEALMAKERS SHAKE ON BULLET TRAIN PLANS
.

A group of men in business suits was pictured shaking hands. Mak squinted at the face of the man Amy was pointing at. He was young, perhaps in his early thirties. She didn’t recognise him.

‘He’s
what
guy?’ Mak asked.

‘He is the reason Megs is dead,’ Amy said, her emotions finally giving way to fresh tears that rolled down her cheeks silently. She bowed her head and stared down at her glass of water, hiding her face. She wiped her cheeks.

Mak was trying to come to grips with her statement. What could the connection possibly be between the death of the young woman in Sydney and this Melbourne news article about a group of businessmen and politicians? She looked to the names in the caption: New South Wales Premier John Grant, Victorian Premier Michael Yep and businessmen Jack Cavanagh and Damien Cavanagh. Apart from the Victorian and New South Wales premiers, none of the names rang any bells to Mak. She supposed her Canadian heritage did not always serve her well in matters of Australian current affairs.

‘Amy, why do you think this man has something to do with Meaghan’s death? What do you know about him?’

Amy raised her head and pushed her hair back. Her mascara was smudged into dark circles and her bare skin was flushed.

‘All the girls had heard about him. When I was working the clubs in Sydney he was practically all they talked about.’

‘About Damien Cavanagh?’ Mak asked, reading the name off the caption to be clear about who Amy was referring to.

Amy winced a little at the sound of his name. ‘Yes,’ she whispered and looked around. ‘I can’t be heard mentioning his name. You shouldn’t either. Trust me.’ She folded the newspaper over to hide the article and continued in a low voice.
Mak was concerned that perhaps this young woman’s theory was less than real.

‘Everyone knows he’s one of the richest heirs in Australia,’ Amy said. ‘He would buy girls the best champagne there was, and he gave the most amazing tips, especially to the little Asian girls. Everyone knew he loved Asian. He used to have these wild parties and invite some of the girls over. I was always hoping to meet him and go to one of his parties, but I never did. Probably wasn’t his type. He was the one we always hoped would come in, though. He was free with the tips…lots of tips for everyone.’

Mak imagined the fuss a group of exotic dancers would make over a rich man like that in a strip joint. He’d make the Peacock Man with his crinkly fifty-dollar notes pale by comparison. Around Damien Cavanagh it would be a free-for-all battle of toned flesh and murmured compliments.

Mak waited to hear more.

‘Then, after a few months, he stopped coming to the club. Just like that. We heard that he started getting into those other girls—the Asians who get brought in…you know, illegal.’

Mak paused. ‘Illegal? Do you mean trafficked women?’

‘You know, the girls brought from Asia to be hookers. They’re everywhere in Sydney these days. Word was that he had an inside track on the new arrivals and was breaking them in.’

Breaking them in.

Mak felt sick to her stomach. She knew that the Government had introduced legislation against trafficking into sexual servitude in 1999, but that the first arrests hadn’t taken place until 2003, at which time there had been a couple of small news articles on the first cases going to court. At the time, Mak had read reports that there were up to 1000 trafficked women in Australia, most from poverty-stricken villages in Thailand or the Philippines. Because they were in the country illegally, many of the women were put straight into immigration detention when discovered, and then deported before they got around to testifying against those who had entrapped them. Mak didn’t know much about the cases or how the women found themselves working in Australian brothels, but it seemed to be a horrible fate. Whether they were trafficked sex slaves or the more sanitised-sounding ‘migrant sex workers’, as some described them, it seemed cruel and unjust to force anyone to have to service over 500 men before being free of the debt contracts that had brought them into the country.

Why would a rich boy want to be one of those 500 clients?

‘Where did you hear about this?’ Mak asked breathlessly.

Amy averted her eyes. ‘You know…word was going around,’ she said, avoiding a straight answer. Amy still did not meet Mak’s gaze, and
Mak became sure that she was keeping something important from her.

But what does all this have to do with Meaghan?

Amy placed her fingers against her forehead as if plugging the hole in a dam of information that wanted to spill out. For a while she didn’t respond, still clearly assembling the rest of her response.

‘I know Tobias,’ Amy finally said. ‘He’s a junkie but he’s no killer. He could never kill someone, let alone Megs. She was the only one who believed in him. She supported him and she was probably the only one in the world who loved him and never gave up on him.’

Mak waited. She could sense that Amy was still not telling her everything.

‘Amy, what does this man—’ she pointed to the newspaper article—‘have to do with what happened to Meaghan?’

‘I saw it. I know why she was killed. Megs was killed because she saw too much. She sent it to me and she got killed.’

‘Saw what? What did you see? Tell me, please. Tobias might be in jail for the rest of his life if you don’t come forward.’

‘I can’t. You don’t understand.’ The crying started again, this time heavier tears and loud sobs.

‘You have to. Come on, talk to me,’ Mak pressed. ‘I can get you police protection. I know a lot of officers. They will take care of you. You will be okay.’

Amy was shaking her head. She looked increasingly distressed. In a flash she darted up from the table and started for the door. Mak grabbed her arm.

‘You know you can trust me. This is important—Tobias may be sentenced to life.’

But Amy pulled her arm away violently. ‘Sorry…I’m so sorry…I can’t…’ she mumbled through tears, and fled the restaurant. Mak’s heart sank as she watched the girl go. She didn’t know what she could do. She couldn’t keep her there, and following her out would only upset her more.

Outside the glass doors, Larry Moon sat bolt upright as Amy took him by the arm. She dragged him off, pulling him up the street away from Mak.

Fuck!

For thirty minutes Mak sat bewildered and not much better informed, looking at the crinkled newspaper article Amy had left behind and hoping that she would come back.

She didn’t.

Shit
, Mak thought.
I was so close. I blew it.

‘We got a match on the print that doesn’t fit,’ Detective Karen Mahoney declared triumphantly to Detective Cassimatis, her red Irish curls springing. The young detective had rushed up the elevator after hearing the news.

‘On ya, girl,’ Jimmy said tenderly. He seemed a little down, and more unhealthy than ever.

Mahoney knew that Detective Jimmy Cassimatis had a soft spot for her, mostly because she was good at cursing. She also knew that like her friend Mak, Jimmy would be missing Andy already. Nor did he particularly like working with her boss, Sergeant Hunt.

‘The Wallace case?’ he asked.

She nodded enthusiastically. A print that had been found at Meaghan Wallace’s apartment matched that of a convicted criminal. This was a breakthrough.

Wasting no time, Mahoney strode through the office and made her way to Hunt’s desk, declaring the news, but Hunt looked up from his
paperwork with mere impatience. ‘I was told.’ He looked down again, ignoring her.

‘Well…’ she said excitedly, waiting for her superior to spring into action, but he didn’t move a muscle.

‘Well, it’s Sunday, and I have more important things to deal with right now. We’ll get to it.’

She frowned.
More important than murder?

Like what
, Karen wanted to say, but she had only just made detective not so long ago. She had worked so hard for it, and she feared it could be taken away from her.

‘He has a record. I think it’s worth checking out. Can I…?’

‘Can you what?’

‘Can Matt and I go and ask him some questions?’

Hunt frowned. Karen couldn’t imagine why he would be frowning. ‘Now?’ he asked, as if she was a nuisance. ‘You do realise that we’ve already made an arrest?’

She nodded again. ‘Yup.’

‘And he was caught red-handed with his prints on the murder weapon?’

She nodded once more. ‘Sir, I think we should just rule out all other possibilities.’

Hunt raised his eyebrows and looked at her sternly, clearly unhappy about the prospect of any of his team giving him more work.

‘I didn’t mean…it’s just that it will maybe make the case more solid…’ she stuttered.

‘Okay, go.’ He said it flippantly. ‘But no bringing anyone in for questioning, and no arrests.’

A least that was better than a no.

‘Questions only,’ she assured him.

Mahoney was used to being treated as second-rate by her superior; it was something that she just assumed came with the role of being the rookie detective. But she was surprised at the new level of disdain he was showing her. She wasn’t sure what she was doing so wrong.

‘I don’t need you making things complicated when we have a perfectly good arrest.’

Complicating things?

Puzzled, she left him and in minutes she had rounded up Detective Matt Parker and headed back to the elevator.

‘See ya, Jimmy,’ she called out. ‘Have fun at those tattoo parlours.’ He’d spent much of his day quizzing tattoo artists on a particular design found on the dumpster victim’s back.

‘Yeah,’ he fake-sneered. ‘Go get ’em.’

Mahoney wanted to ask Warwick O’Connor how he knew Meaghan Wallace, and exactly why his fingerprint was found in her apartment.

‘Just shut up, woman!’ Warwick O’Connor cried. ‘I’m trying to think.’

Warwick was on edge. He was at a crossroads: either about to get the biggest windfall of his life,
or about to find his way back into the slammer…for a long time this time around.

His wife, Madeline, paced around the kitchen in her well-worn pink bathrobe, cigarette dangling from her lip. She was a chain-smoker, and the kitchen table was adorned with a heart-shaped tin ashtray with VEGAS written on it, a souvenir from their one and only trip overseas, their honeymoon. The ashtray was overflowing with butts.

Madeline paced, face puckered and grim, her eyes wild. She was used to such verbal abuse from her husband, and she was deft at handing it out as well.

‘Oh, you’re trying to think, heh? Well, I won’t hold my breath for anything to happen!’ she retorted.

‘I’ll give you one, woman, I will!’ Warwick said, standing up from the kitchen table and raising his hand.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she replied coolly, and puffed on her cigarette.

Warwick and Madeline had been married for seven years. As he saw it, she was a pain in the arse, but she was still a good egg. She’d stuck by him when he’d had to do two at Long Bay Correctional Centre for assault, and that couldn’t be overlooked.

‘Mads, I’m tellin’ ya, I’m tryin’ to think here,’ he said more gently.

‘What did he say when you called him?’ she persisted, and dragged on her cigarette again.

She meant Jack Cavanagh.

Warwick had given Jack twenty-four hours to think about the deal, and when he’d called back, Jack had hung up. He’d actually hung up. Since Saturday afternoon Warwick had been thinking hard about what to do. What threat could he make? Could he still get a few quid off Simon Aston and then call it at that?

‘Well…’ she said, giving him that hard gaze he despised.

‘He…hung up,’ Warwick admitted.

‘Well, he’s not taking you seriously, hon. Nail ’em. Just—’

‘I told you, I’M TRYING TO THINK.’

‘Well why don’t you take—’

‘Shut up!’

She ignored him and went on. ‘Why don’t you take the video and—’

‘I don’t have it,’ he said in a low voice, staring at the checked tablecloth.

‘What? You said—’

‘I DON’T HAVE IT,’ he said, exasperated. ‘I was bluffing.’

Mads stopped. ‘Oh.’

Warwick took a deep breath. He’d thought he could fool Jack Cavanagh. But things weren’t going as planned. And now he didn’t know what to do next.

There was a noise—a car pulling up.

Madeline and Warwick both sensed it at the same time. They froze for only a moment. Madeline
nodded, having looked out the window. Cops. Warwick leaped to his feet and, without saying a word, scrambled to the staircase and ran upstairs.

A few seconds later the doorbell rang. Madeline O’Connor answered the door in her robe, cool as ever.

‘Detective Mahoney,’ the young redhead said, flashing her badge. ‘This is Detective Parker. We have a few questions for your husband, Warwick.’

‘Is something wrong?’ Madeline asked innocently and took a puff.

‘Just routine. We have a few routine questions.’

‘He ain’t here,’ she told them.

There was a noise overhead.

‘What was that?’ the young detective with the red curls asked.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

That was close.

I knew I was getting myself in too deep.

Warwick crawled out the bedroom window on the top floor, banging his knee on the windowsill as he made his clumsy exit. He crept across the rooftops, keeping down to avoid being seen. The sun was low in the sky but there was enough light for him to be spotted. He had an escape route planned and a stash of $30 000 in cash hidden away in a large toolbox in his friend’s shed. He could live on that for a while. And he’d have to.
He might have to lie low for longer than usual. Now that he’d been dobbed into the cops there would be heat for a while. Who knew how long? He would have to be careful. He didn’t want to end up back inside. He would have to be cautious about contacting Madeline.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Simon Aston had called the damned cops on him.
That bastard!
Warwick never thought he’d do it. Simon had as much to hide as anyone, so why had he squealed? Jack Cavanagh must have leaned him on. Maybe that was it?

Dammit!

Warwick shinned down the drainpipe of his neighbour’s, as he had done many times before. He moved quickly, heart racing. His car was parked in the alley behind the row of houses. He kept a spare key under the wheel rim for emergencies.

There it is.

His car was waiting for him just as he’d left it. He ran to it, felt around for the key, unlocked it and jumped in. He detected the faint smell of petrol. A leak? He put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

Warwick O’Connor was already a block away before he realised he wasn’t alone.

There was a man in the back seat.

Someone had been waiting for him.