Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout (17 page)

Its his job, Wyatt said,
frowning. Dont you want to see him?

Raymond said vaguely, Shes jake,
no worries.

Raymond phoned, and Wyatt noticed
that he leapt right in, choking Chaffey off, only letting him suggest somewhere
to meet.

It was the grounds of Montsalvat,
the artists colony in Eltham. Chaffey had a ticket to an afternoon jazz
concert, and met them on a grassy slope above the hall. It was a good place for
a meeting, Wyatt thought, but Raymonds mood had changed again as theyd driven
deeper into the hills, a reversal to his nervy distracted state, as if the
trees and folds and gullies were populated by demons.

But all that mattered was the job,
and Chaffey. Wyatt assessed the big man, noting the unhealthy skin, his
wheezing chest and damp neck and brow, then looked for what the face and eyes
might reveal, some predisposition that told Wyatt he should walk away from
this.

He was startled to find that Chaffey
was returning the intense scrutiny. Heard you were at the centre of a ruckus
in the city the other day.

Wyatt waited a beat, then said, The
police know it was me?

Yes.

Thats all they know?

Yes.

How did you hear about it?

Pal, the big man said, Im a
lawyer. I hear things.

Im here, Wyatt said. Theyre no
closer to finding me.

Glad to hear it, Chaffey said. He
moved decisively, placing a briefcase on the grass between them, patting it. Take
this when you leave here. It contains a list of the works my client wants,
their dimensions, and floor plans of the building.

Your client wants only some of the
paintings?

A big Whiteley, two Tuckers, two
Booths, three Lloyd Rees drawings, a Dobell and four Heysen watercolours.

You say youve got floor plans. I
hope they cant be traced back to you.

Chaffey shook his head. I applied
for them in the name of the firm renovating the building.

Whos your client?

Chaffey laughed. The wife of the
man who put the collection together. According to her, the paintings were a
present, but the husband pissed off overseas with his secretary, owing a few
million to his creditors, so the collection was sold off and the wife got
nothing. Shes understandably upset, wants her paintings back.

What makes you think the cops wont
look closely at her?

They will, but shes no longer
around. The paintings are going straight to New York, where she lives now. You
deliver the paintings to me, you get paid, I crate them up and courier them to
her, thats how it works.

Raymond stretched out in the sun. Hed
shaken off his mood. Youre her lawyer?

No.

How do you know her?

Our kids went to the same school.

If often happened that unimaginable
lives were revealed to Wyatt. They were lives lived parallel to his, defined by
money and respectability, private schools and skiing holidays, Volvo station
wagons and horse-riding teenage daughters, divorces and charity functions. Now
and men his life and theirs veered course sufficiently to intersect. Whose life
was the most honest or the least unrealistic, he couldnt say.

He followed the exchange between
Chaffey and his nephew. Raymond was asking all the right questions. The same
school? So theres no other connection between you? The cops wont come looking
at you?

No.

Good. Because I dont want to sit
on these paintings while the air clears. I need my fifty grand the moment we
hand you the pictures.

Chaffey said nothing while a woman
wheeling a pram passed close behind them. When it was safe, he cocked his head.
Gambling debt, young Raymond?

Business deal, Raymond said, and
Wyatt and Chaffey looked at him, waiting, but Raymond didnt elaborate.

How about things in general?
Chaffey asked. Everything going according to plan, Ray? No hiccups?

There was something about this, some
sort of private communication. Wyatt watched and listened, but all Raymond said
was, No dramas my end, Chafe, no worries.

Glad to hear it, Chaffey said. He
climbed in painful stage-- to his feet. Keep me posted.

Wyatt shook his head. Were
dropping out of sight till this is over.

* * * *

Twenty-four

Back
at Raymonds flat, Wyatt felt himself switching gears, taking in his
surroundings as he retreated mentally from matters of escape routes and the
unknown. He had a few days up his sleeve for planning the job. Right now there
was Raymond and Raymonds flat.

Wyatt didnt feel comfortable.
Unless the apartment was being watched, he was safe enough staying there, but
he hated not having control. Nothing here belonged to him, he liked to have his
feet at ground level, not ten floors above the street, and he had to wear a
public face.

Perhaps thats why he scribbled down
his Tasmanian address for Raymond. Treat it strictly as a way out if youre in
trouble, he said. Somewhere to go if you cant come back here.

Raymond held the slip of notepaper
in both hands, examined it, made to slip it into his wallet. Thanks.

Wyatts fingers clamped on his
wrist. Memorise it, he said.

Raymond sighed raggedly. He looked
bad to Wyatt, the demons still chasing around in his head. Wyatt saw his nephew
mouth the address silently, close his eyes in concentration, blink open again.

Got it. Where the hell is
Flowerdale?

Between Burnie and Stanley on the
north coast.

Yeah, right, lots of cafe society,
nightclubs, Raymond said, screwing the paper scrap into a ball and tossing it
into an ashtray. They both looked at it. Suppose you want me to swallow it
now? he said sourly.

Wyatt said nothing, simply put a match
to the paper and crossed to the window to stare down at the river and the city.

He liked to know that he was close
to water. Water was alive. It meant contradictory things to him: stealth,
power, restlessness, an endless calm.

He heard a groan and turned to see
Raymond clutch himself, his face white. My guts have been playing up.

Food poisoning?

Maybe nerves, Raymond said,
grinning weakly. No, dont worry, nerves of steel.

Theres a chemist downstairs.

Good idea.

Raymond left the flat. Wyatt stood
for some time, staring at the river, seeing the job ahead of them. He became
conscious of the open door to Rays room, and wandered across to the door and
went in. The boy was untidy. Wyatt knew that he employed a cleaning lady, so
presumably there was no incentive for him to be tidy.

The cash box sat in darkness on a
high shelf, under an empty nylon overnight bag. The key was in it. It surprised
Wyatt, seeing Steer there, gazing coldly at the camera. Raymond stood next to
him, grinning. The photograph had been taken at night, near trees. He found
Steer in another photograph, his arms around a short, broad-faced unhappy
woman, the woman close to him as though she wanted to meld herself with him.

Wyatt hunted deeper into the
cashbox. Newspaper clippings, going back several years. He recognised some of
the headlines: Airport Bullion Heist was an old one, one of his own. More
recently there were clippings about the bush bandit, highlighted here and there
with strokes from a yellow pen.

And clippings about Steers escape
from gaol.

When Raymond returned to the flat,
Wyatt forearmed him across the throat, propelling him backwards and pinning him
to the wall. He said, in a low, dangerous rasp: Im going to remove my arm
now. I will ask you some questions. You will answer them.

Raymonds eyes were wide and
aggrieved. He forced a nod.

Wyatt let him go. Good. Did you
help Steer escape?

Me?

Wyatts forearm went back across his
nephews windpipe. He relaxed it again.

Raymond gasped, Yeah, it was me.

The papers say the woman was
involved.

Her and me.

Where is Steer now?

Raymond swallowed. Overseas. That
was the deal. Boat from Lakes Entrance.

The woman too?

Her, too.

Raymond, Steer was seen running
from a roadblock recently.

Well, yeah, then he turned up as
planned where I was minding the girlfriend and I took both of them to the boat.
I swear.

Wyatt stepped back. He took Raymond
into the bedroom and forced his head onto the cashbox, then off again, as if
Raymond were a dog whod fouled the carpet. This is what an amateur does. He
keeps all his little mementos with him, letters from his pals, photos,
clippings, stuff that will tie him to everything hes ever done or come near.
Its stupid, stupid. Itll get you gaol time. Its sentimental and theres no
room for sentiment in this game. Burn this crap.

Fuck you

In a cold rage, Wyatt gathered the
spill and took it into the bathroom. He made a bonfire of it in the bath, and
when it was reduced to ashes he sluiced it all away with the shower nozzle, his
own long career and his nephews shorter one.

He went out to Raymond. Your life
starts over again, he said, as if the past had had nothing to do with
anything.

You bastard.

Ray, youre on your own now. Im
out of this. Youre on your own.

Wyatt said it heatedly, a new
sensation for him, almost as if he hadnt decided on the words but let them pop
out.

Raymond grew passionate in the face
of them. Havent I always been alone? You dumped me and my mum. You dumped
family. I thought Id at least see you when she died, but you couldnt give a
stuff, couldnt even come to the funeral.

Wyatt had been on the run when it
happened. Hed heard the news weeks later. Seeing the fretfulness, frustration
and sore feelings in his nephew now, he allowed his expression to soften. It
was intended to be a look of compassion, but Wyatt was not good at compassion
and somethinghis habitual scepticism, his permanently unimpressed view of the
worldmade itself known to Raymond. Raymond swung away and left the room.

Wyatt followed him. Tell me about
the break-out.

Raymond said, You still here? I
thought you were pissing off on me again.

Wyatt said, I was too hasty. I
apologise. But I dont like surprises. Did Chaffey put the escape together?

Raymond nodded.

You did it for a fee?

Yes.

What do you know about Steer?

Wyatt saw his nephew shrug. Whats
there to know? Chaffeys his lawyer.

You dont know anything of Steers
history? Chaffey didnt tell you anything about that?

No. Why should he? Whats Steer to
you?

An old grievance, thats all,
Wyatt said. Steer was a loose end, like a live power line snaking around on the
ground nearby, but one that could be attended to later. He made for his room
and packed his bag.

So, this is it? Raymond said.

The jobs still on. But we both
need to find somewhere else to stay. Separate places.

You must be joking.

I never joke.

You ought to try it sometime,
Raymond said.

* * * *

Twenty-five

From
the drivers seat of her car, Liz Redding watched Raymond Wyatt stride down the
slope toward her, into the underground residents garage. The location was a
pricey motel in Parkville, and Raymond was whistling, swinging a key ring
around his index finger. He passed right by her. Two days earlier shed
followed him here from his apartment block on the other side of the city, but
this was her first close look at him. A more sullen version of his uncles
hooked face and hooded eyes. The same black hair, only worn longer, so long
that it hung greasily about his face, meaning he was forever clawing it back
with his left hand. The hands: not shapely and nimble. Shorter, thicker. And
while Raymond was built like Wyatttall, sinuous, compact, with a quickness under
the still surfacehe lacked strength and vigour. Liz Redding formed an
impression of unfocused courage and grand, frustrated ambitions.

His Jaguar was in the far corner.
Liz started her car and ploughed up the ramp and onto the street, where she
slowed down, as though looking for an address, one eye on the rear-view mirror.
She wanted to be moving when the Jaguar appeared behind her. If Raymond saw a
parked car turn on its lights and pull in behind him, hed know he was being
tailed and hed try to lose her. Of course he might turn left out of the
driveway, in which case shed switch off her headlights, U-turn, and follow him
for a distance before switching on again, but she doubted that he would turn
left. Twice now shed followed him right, down to Gatehouse Street, then around
by the cemetery to north Carlton, before losing him.

She inched along, whistling
impatiently. A moment later, headlights rose and dipped behind her as the
Jaguar entered the street. The car accelerated, coming up behind her, and Liz
turned on her indicator and steered into the kerb, letting him pass. She saw
his brake lights flare at the corner. He turned right, then was gone from
sight. Liz pulled out again and put her foot down.