Tropic of Death Page 12

  As well as the Sorbonne, of course. But I mustn’t interrupt you two ladies. You have important things to discuss.’

  Eve reached over to a battered leather handbag and got out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  ‘Mind if we talk out here?’ she asked Rita. ‘They won’t let me smoke upstairs.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  As Ronsard collected his camera gear, said his goodbyes and made his way through the back of the shop, Eve lit up and puffed out a stream of smoke with a sigh.

  ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ she said. ‘Julien can be a bit demanding.’

  Rita thought she caught a double meaning, but simply asked,

  ‘What aspect of the war on terror was he talking about?’

  ‘The military madness of the allies. It’s no secret they’re developing new battlefield technology at Whitley Sands. Weapons that spread dangerous levels of radiation. Rachel had the proof.’

  ‘What proof?’

  ‘A printout. Damning evidence - enough to shut down the base.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘About fifty pages of technical stuff. Layouts, diagrams. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘I wish you could,’ said Eve, flicking ash at the ground. ‘She showed it to me the day before she was killed. Next day it was gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was in Rachel’s locked filing cabinet. When I got back from the demo I went through her files. I looked everywhere. Nothing.

  The evidence had been lifted.’

  ‘Did you tell police about the printout?’

  ‘Yeah, three times over. They didn’t believe me or didn’t want to.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘The local plods, the Homicide bunch, then the federal heavies.’

  ‘Federal? The AFP’s not involved in this investigation.’

  ‘Well, they wore dark suits and flashed badges and called themselves federal police. If not, who were they? Spooks?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Rita uneasily. ‘How did they react when you mentioned the printout?’

  ‘Like inquisitors. Where did it come from? How did she get it? Who gave it to her? They weren’t interested in who’d nicked it. When I couldn’t tell them anything they dismissed it as insignificant.

  Rachel was the victim of a hoax. Or I was making the whole thing up.’

  ‘But you do know something?’

  Eve didn’t answer. She just went on smoking, cigarette in one hand, cupping her elbow in the other.

  ‘The reason I need to talk to you,’ Rita went on, ‘is to find out as much as I can about Rachel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To help profile the killer.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re here under false pretences.’ Eve gave Rita a searching look. ‘Bringing in a profiler is another way of diverting attention. Making out there’s a serial killer while the real murderers get away with it.’

  ‘And who are they?’

  ‘Faceless people. Those behind the cover-up. They silenced Rachel and stole the printout.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘What makes you doubt it?’ replied Eve. ‘Nothing personal, but you’re either part of the con or one of the conned.’ She let Rita digest that thought. ‘So are we going to waste our time, or do you want to talk about what’s really going on?’

  Although the question was delivered in an offhand way, it was something of an ultimatum. It took Rita by surprise.

  ‘I see your point,’ she said. ‘Let me think a minute.’

  Eve exhaled a leisurely stream of smoke. ‘Take your time.’

  Rita had to make a decision and it was a dangerous one. It was as if her career had reached a fork in the road. One way led to a promising future as a fully qualified criminal profiler with the prospect of promotion, a return to the FBI Academy, fieldwork in the States, possibly even a PhD. The other way led to a confrontation with national security authorities that could spell the end of her career, or worse. The rational choice was to play it safe and do what she was told by Maddox and Bryce. She’d been seconded to profile a serial killer, it was what she’d been trained to do and what she was expected to do. There was one problem: her instincts told her she was being asked to accept a big lie.

  She had little doubt that Eve’s assessment was close to the truth.

  It was consistent with Steinberg’s and pointed to a motive for both his murder and Rachel’s. When added to her own treatment by the security unit and the hostility of Maddox, there was enough to lead the investigation in one direction: Whitley Sands. Rita had attempted to tread a middle course but that was being challenged by Eve and she was right. Rita couldn’t serve pretence and justice at the same time, and already she knew which way she was heading.

  The risk was daunting but the price of conformity was too high

  - the loss of self-respect.

  As she made her decision, the enormity of the danger became clear. As a precaution, it meant accepting the accuracy of Steinberg’s comment on total surveillance, something Maddox had effectively confirmed. It also meant taking on board the warning not to trust local police. Rita recalled the way Jarrett had bridled at her suggestion of sanctioned murders. Was he involved too, was he simply obeying instructions, or was Steinberg’s paranoia-inducing vision colouring her own? The nagging doubts underlined the invidious position she was placing herself in.

  ‘Made up your mind?’ asked Eve.

  Somehow it seemed ironic that Rita’s personal and professional crisis had been provoked by the woman who stood beside her, smoking idly, a lazy smile on her face. There was something too laidback about Eve, almost overly calm. She seemed to be a woman who was supremely relaxed in her body, essentially physical, unconcerned by the frightening allegations she’d just made. Even her voice, soft and unhurried, contained no hint of the angst associated with the protest movement. In many ways she seemed to be the opposite of Rita - casual, unassuming, un-intellectual.

  ‘One thing first,’ said Rita. ‘How did you get involved with the protest group here?’

  ‘I came here as a temp.’ Eve laughed. ‘They needed a professional secretary to sort out the mess of their paperwork. They took me on permanently and because of my background they asked me to be their land rights spokesperson too. Even offered me the flat upstairs, rent free. I said okay. I like it here. We do important work. And I’m not treated like a bimbo.’

  ‘What about political activism?’

  ‘I do what I can,’ she answered evenly. ‘And I try to do what’s right. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I want to get to the truth.’ Rita gave her a meaningful look. ‘I think we should continue our talk somewhere else.’

  Eve looked confused.

  ‘Somewhere noisy,’ Rita added, mindful of Steinberg’s caution.

  ‘Somewhere public.’

  It took Eve a moment to realise what was being implied. Then understanding dawned. She took a last drag on her cigarette, flicked it into a cactus tub and nodded. ‘I know just the place.’

  They were sitting at a trestle table in Mangrove Joe’s, an open-air bar in the atrium of a two-tier arcade. Giant flat-screen TVs were suspended overhead, tuned to sports channels. The arcade, which also housed swimwear shops, food outlets and hair salons, looked across the main street towards a swimming lagoon. The bar was doing a busy lunchtime trade - backpackers, men in shorts, women in sundresses - with a lot of rowdy background noise, which was what Rita wanted. She sipped a double espresso while Eve drank from a bottle of Mexican lager, her nonchalance apparently the default mode of her personality.

  ‘So why are we here?’ she asked.

  ‘Because of what you said back there,’ answered Rita. ‘And because of other things I’ve been told. I’ve got to assume your campaign office is under surveillance.’

  ‘By the spooks?’


  ‘By whoever. We couldn’t talk frankly there.’ Rita looked around carefully. ‘Now tell me what you know about the printout.’

  ‘You might be an outsider but you’re still with the police,’ said Eve. ‘I can’t put others at risk.’

  ‘I’m sticking my neck out just talking to you in this way,’ replied Rita. ‘I’ve already been warned not to widen the investigation.’

  ‘You’re asking me to trust you?’

  ‘Yes. And I need to know I can trust you too. No one else can hear about this conversation, okay?’

  Eve nodded, raising the beer bottle to her lips.

  ‘Right,’ said Rita. ‘You’re the one who wanted to discuss what’s really going on. Now’s your chance. The printout - where did it come from?’

  Eve took a slow swig from the bottle before putting it down on the table.

  ‘Rachel told me it came from inside the base, from someone who worked there. She didn’t know who.’

  ‘How did she get hold of it?’

  ‘It was handed to her by one of the guys who set up our computer system and website.’

  ‘Rachel’s boyfriend, Freddy?’

  ‘No, a mate of his,’ answered Eve. ‘A good bloke.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘We only know him as Stonefish.’

  ‘And the printout was given to him by someone from the base?’

  ‘Not the printout, no. It was a disk. Stonefish printed out a hard copy for Rachel.’

  ‘That fits in with other things I’ve found out,’ said Rita. ‘Does this Stonefish still have the disk?’

  ‘As far as I know, but no one’s seen him since Rachel’s death.’

  Eve shrugged. ‘I’m beginning to think the disk is more trouble than it’s worth, though Rachel said it was priceless. She also thought it was a great joke.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She called it gold-something, or something-gold.’

  ‘It might be important. Can you remember?’

  ‘I’ve tried.’

  ‘Maybe she called it “fool’s gold”?’

  ‘No. It was more like “fine gold” or “wine gold”. I don’t know.

  It meant nothing to me.’

  Rita thought for a moment before it hit her. ‘Oh, my God -

  not “Rheingold”?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it. What’s it mean?’

  ‘It means I could kick myself.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s the title of an opera,’ explained Rita. ‘A scientist at the base compiled a damning report. He put it on disk and disguised it as one of Wagner’s operas, Das Rheingold. That’s what this is all about. It could be why three people are dead.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rita finished her espresso and frowned. ‘And if it’s still out there, if it hasn’t been retrieved and destroyed, then this isn’t over. More people could die.’

  22

  Stonefish and his disappearing act were beginning to bug Freddy. There was no sign of him at his usual haunts and his latest mobile number went straight to voicemail, on which Freddy left a series of messages to return his call. He needed to replace a stack of burnt-out computer decks and incinerated software, the sophisticated sort of gear that Stonefish could supply within minutes, if only Freddy could find him. Like some of their previous deals it would have to be on credit because, financially, Freddy was back to square one. The $100,000 he’d lifted during his cyberflight was now inaccessible. The only record was on the computer zapped into oblivion by Audrey. He’d neglected to keep any hard copy of his coded online accounts.

  He left his van in the foreshore car park and continued on foot as he checked out market stalls and the lower end of seafront bars. When Freddy’s mobile finally rang, it wasn’t Stonefish at all, but the type of call he could do without.

  ‘Get your arse down to the Diamond!’ It was the voice of ex-boxer and underworld heavyweight Billy ‘The Beast’ Bowers.

  ‘I want to see you here, now!’

  Freddy sighed and changed direction. Other concerns had to wait. He’d been summoned to the Rough Diamond Club.

  The sky over the seafront was grey and glaring, like an electronic migraine, as he headed past burger joints and amusement arcades towards the docks. A sudden change in the weather was sweeping in from the south bringing leaden skies and a plunge in temperature unusual for the tropical coast. To counter the chill, Freddy had pulled on a black leather jacket to match his Versace shirt and jeans. He looked cool and he knew it, with his hair brushed back and gelled and an endorphin analogue melding with the receptors in his brain. Designer clothes and designer drugs. It made him feel upbeat and confident enough to face the aggression characteristic of Bowers.

  Only for a moment did Freddy’s mood dip. As he approached the club, down the cobbled alleyway, he reached the spot where Rachel’s decapitated body had been found. There was no sign of her now, of course. Her blood had all washed away - the wet weather had seen to that. Gone were the chalk outlines etched by the detectives. Gone too was the crime-scene tape. There was only one reminder that this was where a young woman’s life had been violently taken, that Freddy’s lover had been slaughtered here.

  It was propped, with a note of remembrance, in a boarded-up doorway that had once led to a bait and tackle shop - a bunch of wilted flowers.

  Freddy bowed his head, trying to choke back a surge of grief rising in his throat, wishing he’d been more attentive, missing her exasperating presence more than he could have guessed. It came back to him with a bittersweet intensity - the way she’d lecture him, scold him for his political apathy then make love to him with an urgent need that took him by surprise. At the time he failed to realise how special it was. Now that it was gone forever, he knew it was love.

  But he couldn’t let regret take hold again. He straightened up, took a deep breath and strode on down to the neon entrance of the club. With the drug’s positive charge helping to buoy his mood once more, Freddy nodded to the muscle-bound bouncer and climbed the stairs to Billy’s first-floor office. He knocked. The door opened and another of Billy’s henchmen waved him through.

  Billy was pacing around the room, a mobile phone to his ear.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve heard all the excuses.

  If you don’t finish by Friday you’ll be swimming in your own cement. Comprendo?’

  He tossed the phone onto his polished teak desk, where it landed with a damaging thud.

  ‘Fucking builders!’ Billy shouted. ‘Nothing but cowboys.’

  ‘Conmen and chisellers,’ Freddy agreed with a sympathetic nod.

  ‘So how are you making out as a property developer?’

  Billy looked at him suspiciously. ‘You wouldn’t be taking the piss, would you, Freddy?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then shut up about things that don’t concern you!’

  ‘Of course, Billy.’

  ‘Sit down!’

  Freddy did as he was told, sinking into a big swivel chair upholstered in soft nappa leather. Billy came and stood over him, raising himself to his full height, one hundred and ninety-eight centimetres in his expensive Italian shoes.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been playing hard to get.’

  ‘I’ve been unwell.’

  ‘Oh, unwell is it? Bullshit. Your mobile was switched off for more than a week. Where were you?’

  ‘I paid a visit to La-la-land.’

  ‘Don’t give me crap.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Freddy insisted. ‘You get there via E and acid, washed down with vodka. Works a treat. I’ve only just surfaced.’

  ‘I don’t pay for you to go AWOL, chemically or otherwise.

  When I want your services I expect to get them. I don’t want to lose business because you’d rather fry your brains.’

  ‘It wasn’t through choice, it was necessity. I needed to blow myself away for a while. But I’m okay now.�
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  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Billy irritably, then realised.

  ‘Ah, Rachel. I can see that might come as a shock, having your girlfriend butchered.’ He backed off a little, folding his arms and resting his buttocks on the edge of the desk, his legs stretched out in front of him. No matter what his pose, there was always something menacing in his manner. With his ginger hair, freckled, intimidating face and powerful build, he always seemed ready to throw a combination of punches your way. Even in a business suit - a lightweight Armani grey - Billy looked like trouble. The red silk shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a gold medallion, completed the image.

  The office decor also reflected Billy’s pedigree. Along with the polished wood and leather furnishings, there were weights, boxing gloves and a punching bag. Shelves displayed a series of trophies, while framed posters from his biggest fights decorated the walls.

  There were also dozens of ringside photos preserving the highlights of his professional career, all the way to a world championship.

  The title belt was mounted in pride of place behind his desk. Not so prominent was a photo from the bout in Melbourne where he lost the title with a tenth-round TKO that ended his sporting career. The referee had stopped the fight as blood gushed from Billy’s split eyebrows. The scar tissue was still visible.

  The injury had evoked the sympathy of gangland figures and opened up a new career for which Billy was both physically and psychologically qualified: clubland celebrity and part-time enforcer. It was a role he relished and excelled at. Eventually he had moved north to the Queensland coast, establishing his own regime and branching out from drugs, vice and black-market deals into showbiz promotions and property development. Billy ‘The Beast’ Bowers, who’d come from a bush town and started out as a cheap teenage brawler in prize-fighting tents, was now wealthy, connected and able to assert power over others. All he wanted was more.

  ‘I’ll let you off the hook this time,’ he told Freddy. ‘I’m sure we’re all sorry about what happened to Rachel and so on. I’m especially sorry it happened on my doorstep. But I suppose we can’t expect a serial killer to be considerate, can we?’