The Heat (19 page)

Then back across the street to a flight of steps leading to a door marked, ‘Medical and Hospital Supplies Hire or Buy'. Wyatt limped in and bought a pair of lightweight crutches, gauze pads and bandaging.

‘Hurt my leg surfing,' he said.

The girl at the register chewed her gum and nodded. She didn't care. Saturday afternoon, bored shitless and counting the minutes until she knocked off. Dickhead tourists who came to Noosa and talked down to you because you worked in a shop, did something active for the first time all year and hurt themselves. She saw it all the time. Chewed her gum and slid the guy's change over the counter, $5.60.

She looked up at Wyatt then, and something flickered inside her, as her gaze went beyond the neat shirt, the ugly glasses. It was covert, instinctive and contradictory, desire and fear in one hit. She swallowed.

Wyatt saw it and read it. The pharmacy glasses hadn't worked with this young woman. He mustered a disarming smile onto his granite features, hoping she'd remember the desire, not the fear, and returned to the hotel. Down to the laundry room, to replace the shirt and trousers, into a new shirt and trousers, then up to his room.

Taking the stairs to seven, he eased open the door, checked the corridor. It was a dim, faintly humming tunnel, with a durable carpet and a dozen clever little alcoves and mirrors along its length—but no cops or hotel guests or staff. He'd rarely seen or encountered anyone, anywhere, in this hotel. Where they all were, where they went, he had no idea.

He entered his room at a crouch. It was empty.

He sat on the bed and tugged upwards on the right trouser leg. His calf was slender, knotted with tendons and muscle, healthy-looking. He needed to fix that. He wrapped it in the gauze thickly, then cut the trouser leg along the seam from ankle to mid-calf, enabling it to fall over the padding. He stood experimentally, the crutches under his arms. He walked around the room, taking the weight on the crutches and his left leg. He hoped to Christ he wouldn't have far to go or for long over the next couple of days, and hoped no one would look at his size, the hint of power in his frame and the forbidding face, but at his injured leg.

After that he hobbled down to the surf club, where he knew there was still a public phone bolted to the wall. Standing with his back to the building, watching for anyone who didn't look right—too intent, moving too quickly, eyes sliding away from his—he called David Minto.

‘Yes?'

The voice was guarded, Minto waiting for news—good or bad. But news from whom? Wyatt said, ‘It seems I was too late, the property has already gone and I found the Constable family in residence.'

A pause while Minto read between the lines. He sounded strained: ‘I'm not in the office at present. Call me there in thirty minutes.'

This was the fallback routine: Minto would drive to the shopping centre over the rise from his house and take Wyatt's call on a payphone. Meanwhile, reluctant to use the surf club phone again, Wyatt limped to the bus interchange. Police were eyeing passengers so he hailed a cab. Getting out at Noosa Junction, he found a 7-Eleven with a public phone and at the thirty-minute mark called Minto.

‘Yes?'

Wyatt could hear muzak and kids' voices in the background. ‘Police were waiting for me,' he said, ‘and there was no painting on the wall.'

A long silence. ‘I didn't cross you.'

‘Have you talked to your niece?'

‘She's not answering.'

‘Her boyfriend?'

‘What boyfriend?'

‘Big, steroid freak, rides a Kawasaki,' said Wyatt.

Another pause. ‘Sounds like Alan Trask, the investigator I told you about. Why do you say he's Leah's boyfriend?'

‘I followed her home one afternoon. He called in, stayed a few hours.'

‘Shit, shit, shit.'

‘If you put her up to this…' Wyatt said.

‘I know, I know, you'll put a bullet in each of our heads. Do you think someone saw you enter the house and called the police?'

Wyatt said, ‘No, not possible. They were waiting for me and they had backup nearby. This was organised.'

‘And the painting wasn't there?'

Wyatt didn't answer. He'd already told Minto that.

Minto said, ‘I swear, I have no idea what happened. Maybe Ormerod put the painting in a safe or a bank vault, and he'll rehang it when he gets back on Monday. Somehow he got wind of things and called the police. Except…'

‘Except what?'

‘My guy in Melbourne followed him to the airport. He boarded a flight to Thailand.'

‘Pre-booked?'

‘Don't know.'

‘Find out,' Wyatt said. He couldn't make sense of it. If Ormerod had his passport with him on a simple interstate trip to watch a game of football, it meant he was ready to run. ‘You have police on the payroll, yes?'

‘So?'

‘Make some calls. Do they have the painting, do they have your niece in custody, do they have the boyfriend in custody, et cetera. I'll contact you again in an hour.'

28

Leah Quarrell asked for protection. ‘I could be in danger,' she said, standing to peer out at the backyard.

‘Sit down, Ms Quarrell,' Snyder said.

‘Tell your boss I'm making a formal request for witness protection.'

‘Oh,
witness
protection, is it? Witness to what?'

‘I know things.'

‘I'm sure you do.
Protection
from what?'

‘People who want me dead,' Leah said.

‘Sit down, Ms Quarrell.'

‘
I'm scared
,' Leah said.

The woman joined Leah at the window. They stared through the glass at the car park, the bin and back fence, the stretch of asphalt. Paper scraps caught here and there in dark corners.

‘Please, I need protection.'

‘There's no one out there. I'm here with you and there is an armed constable in the corridor.'

‘I'd feel better if he was stationed out the back.'

‘Sit down, Ms Quarrell. I won't say it again.'

Leah returned to the hard-backed chair, glumly watching the plain woman seated behind her desk. She badly wanted to call Rafi. Couldn't even risk calling him pretending she was contacting her lawyer. No one must know about him.

But as time went by and she made no contact, what would he think? She burned with questions and doubt.

Then Batten returned. Still neatly combed and ironed in his dull suit but looking irate.

He swapped places with the dyke, ignoring Leah. ‘Anything?'

‘Miss Quarrell has asked for witness protection, boss.'

‘I'll bet she has.'

‘Boss?' Snyder asked.

Batten was staring at Leah. ‘We've got shots fired, traffic chaos, one constable shot, another assaulted and an armed man on the run.'

Leah stared back, her mind racing. Wyatt would come after her for sure. ‘I could be in danger.'

Batten steepled his fingers under his sharp chin. Narrow, buttoned down. Leah was betting he'd have no imagination and give no leeway. He'd be one of those retributive Christians, she thought. Repressed about sex, for sure—he'd want it but feel guilty about it.

Leah gave him a winning smile. Maybe she could—

‘Not going to work, Ms Quarrell. Now, for the sake of argument, let's pretend I think you're about to tell the truth at last, and let's pretend I care about your health and welfare. Who do you need protection from?'

‘Where do I start? I—'

‘Start with the man who broke into Thomas Ormerod's house. Is he a danger?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Who is he?'

‘His name is Wyatt. He's a killer. A thief.'

‘And your business with him?'

‘I don't have business with him. My uncle has business with him.'

‘To steal a painting? A painting Trask says
you
stole? It's not at your home, it doesn't seem to be here, but was there a painting? We're trying to contact Mr Ormerod to see if in fact a painting has been stolen, but haven't been able to get hold of him.'

‘I didn't steal a painting! Wyatt was hired to steal it. Look, I'm not giving you anything until you promise me protection.'

‘I'm not convinced you need it.'

‘Wyatt's a killer. So is my uncle,' Leah said. She paused. ‘I'm correct in assuming you're not one of his tame cops?'

Batten curled his lip, as if he could strangle her.

Leah said, ‘Please. You
know
he has policemen in his pocket. If you put me in the system one of them will find me and I'll have a nasty accident.'

‘I've yet to hear any useful evidence against this Wyatt or your uncle,' said Batten amusedly, as if about one per cent of anything Leah said was worth a pinch of salt.

Leah folded her arms, set her jaw. ‘I'm not saying another thing. Get me a lawyer.'

‘But you're not under arrest.'

‘I get it. You let me go, you follow me. Maybe I lead you to one of the others, maybe one or all of them try to kill me. Doesn't matter, I'm expendable.'

Batten ignored that. ‘Have you any idea where he'd go? Wyatt?'

‘No. I don't even know where he's from.'

‘At least we know where your uncle is.'

Leah, feeling she was getting nowhere, said, ‘What am I looking at?'

‘I don't know, Leah. What are you looking at?'

‘All my life I've been bullied by my uncle.'

‘Not your fault then. You're not a free agent. You're innocent, in fact,' Batten said.

‘Fuck you,' Leah said. ‘I need protection.'

‘Why would anyone hurt you? Revenge?'

‘Do they need a reason? Crazed killers…'

Batten snorted. ‘So Trask was crazed when he shot Gavin Wurlitzer?'

‘What? Who?'

‘He said you ordered it, Leah.'

Leah felt cornered. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about. As for Alan Trask, he's a wannabe bikie with a steroid habit.'

‘He said you ordered the hit on Wurlitzer, Wurlitzer being a liability, and told him to dump the body.'

‘That's insane, I've never…Who is this Wurlitzer?'

Batten shook his head. ‘Wurlitzer was talking to us, Leah.'

Rafi, the painting, thought Leah despairingly. ‘I don't even know who he is.'

‘You went to a house on Iluka Islet this morning and stole a painting. Where is it?'

Leah, dizzied by the changes in subject, wanted to rise from the chair and circle the room. She forced herself to count to ten. ‘You don't know what it's like, working for my uncle, and Trask watching everything I do and reporting back.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘They're both ruthless. I'm dispensable. I've been frightened for
years
.'

The smile came from the deepest corner of the Arctic Circle. ‘Ms Quarrell, Alan Trask said that you and he are lovers, that his head was turned by you, he was led astray. He told us you'd do this, pretend to be a frightened little thing. He says you're a monster, in fact.'

‘No. I've been scared for years!'

‘Tell me more about this Wyatt fellow.'

‘I don't know anything!'

‘Your uncle kept you in the dark, I suppose?'

‘Yes.'

‘So when we ask him, he'll confirm your story.'

Leah said with unfeigned bitterness, ‘He's Teflon, my uncle. Nothing sticks to him.'

‘If we were to look at your movements, bank records, phone records, business records, put it all together with what we know about Trask and your uncle and the activities and death of Gavin Wurlitzer, you'll come out squeaky clean?'

‘Yes!'

‘Or viewed another way, that same material could see you facing multiple charges and several years in jail. All you're doing is dancing with me, Leah. Back and forth and round and round and up and down and sideways, getting nowhere.' He leaned forward, spitting the words: ‘Give me something.'

There was a spot on the wall beside the window. Spy camera? No, just a fly. ‘I didn't want Wurlitzer killed. I was scared of him, too, but a man like that is a coward so when Alan said he was going to deal with him I assumed he meant he'd just bash him up, the kind of thing a man like that would understand. Instead…'

‘Humane of you,' Batten said, ‘but you're still complicit.'

‘I want a deal. I'll tell you where Wyatt's staying. I'll give you Trask and my uncle. Written records, the whole deal. But you have to accept that everything I did was under duress, I was living in fear the whole time.'

‘There's something angelic about you, Leah. A kind of holy aura.'

Leah flushed. ‘Do you want my help or not?'

‘What were you doing in Thomas Ormerod's house?'

‘I was never there!'

‘And this mysterious Wyatt?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘Trask said he was supposed to kill Wyatt.'

‘Nothing to do with me. It's something Alan and Uncle David or Wyatt and Uncle David worked out.'

‘The theft of a painting and the murder of the man hired to steal it.'

‘Maybe. I don't know.'

‘But you do know where Wyatt is staying?'

‘Chapter and verse when I get a deal.'

‘I'm afraid in the meantime you'll be charged and bailed while we sort it out.'

Leah was on her feet, frightened. ‘Are you insane? I need protection. You need to put me in a safe house.'

Batten was amused. ‘I dunno. Costly. And all you've given me is a promise.'

So Leah told him of her uncle's involvement with a Sunshine Beach developer and a missing shire environment protection official. ‘He's buried under a concrete slab,'
Leah said.

Batten said, ‘Well, it's a start.'

‘I need to go home and pack.'

Batten laughed. ‘I thought you were going to be targeted by a dozen crazed killers? No deal, Leah. For your own safety, it's best if you go straight to one of our safe houses. Someone will collect your things in the next day or two.'