Tropic of Death Page 14

  The victim, ‘the man in the mud’, had represented a danger that needed to be eliminated. The person was disposed of and the immediate threat was removed - QED.

  With the second nail-gun murder, the problem escalated further.

  A pattern was emerging and it posed the perennial question: did the end justify the means? At what point, Audrey began to query, did the process become irrational? Not yet, seemed to be the answer. Logically, of course, there was a patent contradiction because the solution was barbaric. However, Audrey observed, such a tactic had enjoyed a long tradition in human affairs, spanning the entire evolution of the species, and would doubtless persist for centuries to come. Therefore intervention served no purpose. Constrained by security restrictions, her position in the base structure, moral ambiguities and the momentum of history, Audrey was compelled to do nothing. She would simply continue to keep watch.

  26

  After zapping the pain with morphine and dropping a double dose of sleepers, Freddy passed out for the night, enduring vivid dreams about freewheeling circles of data and electric women and giants wielding shears. He woke in the morning to a throbbing ache in his groin and a fuzzy brain. That meant more painkillers and an upper for breakfast. He washed them down with bottled water. He couldn’t face food. He sat at his breakfast bar, looking out at islands in a storm-tossed sea. The shipping passage was ribbed with breakers and the sky was full of low clouds and rain. The day was dismal.

  So were the rooms around him, plastered with souvenirs of a dead relationship - ban-the-bomb emblems, rainforest panoramas and dolphin decorations, lots of them. Rachel had been big on the dolphin theme. But there was a lack of personal photos, the result of hectic lives. The only shot of Rachel and Freddy together was a memento from their holiday on Hamilton Island, a colour photo mounted on cardboard with Freddy nursing a koala. He gazed at Rachel’s beaming face regretfully, lost in a morass of self-reproach, until the upper kicked in and his mind clicked sharply back to the present and the predicament he found himself in.

  His unwelcome visitors of the night before weren’t the type to go away. They hadn’t told him who they were but they didn’t have to. He’d encountered their sort before, back when he’d been interrogated about the Edge of Chaos virus - anonymous men in suits, with an official authenticity to their threats and a brisk brutality in their methods. But the man who really scared him was the American, Kurt. He was a practised killer, Freddy had no doubt, because he’d met more of the same among Billy’s circle of acquaintances. It was the way they checked you out, the coldness in their eyes, and that hair-trigger vibe that could switch their mood from calm to violent in a second. But Kurt was even worse.

  If he had government agencies behind him, as Freddy suspected, he could kill with impunity.

  It was time for Freddy to follow Stonefish’s lead and lie low. But where? The police knew about the various places he used as crash pads, including the flat above the cyber cafe, so they were out, and his warehouse loft was no longer safe since the confrontation with Audrey. His standby option made sense. He’d live out of the back of his Land Rover for the time being, moving between suitably obscure locations. In the meantime, there was only one obvious course of action - he needed to get Billy Bowers onside.

  For a start, Billy had to be told about the men in suits and their pursuit of Stonefish. With any luck, Billy could provide Freddy with some real protection.

  Then he could get to work on figuring out how to reach Stonefish without anyone finding out.

  Still moving gingerly, Freddy walked to his van, got in and, after a careful look around, drove out of the crescent and down the hill into the town, checking constantly that he wasn’t being tailed. When he got to the docks, he turned into the cobbled alley and followed it down to the bottom, parking in a fork of the dead-end T-junction beside the Rough Diamond Club.

  When he went inside the bouncer blocked his way to the stairs.

  ‘Billy ain’t here.’

  ‘When’ll he be back?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘Maybe sooner, maybe later,’ shrugged the bouncer.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Why don’t you wait in the bar? You look like you need a drink.’

  ‘I need more than that,’ growled Freddy. ‘But I might as well start with a vodka.’

  27

  The wind was still gusting but there was a break in the rain as Rita walked down the alley. The area was ripe for redevelopment, with most of the shopfronts and buildings boarded up. Apart from the club, the only other businesses still operating were an all-day breakfast cafe and a fishing shop called the Rod ‘n’ Reel. She checked out the dead-end laneways right and left; on one side was a fenced-off demolition site, on the other was a narrow footpath sloping down to a stretch of quayside lined with bollards. This part of the docks was deserted. The sea frothed and thumped against empty berths, hurling spray into the air. The wharf, on a spur from the basin of the harbour, was disused and in need of repair. A tangle of seaweed rode the foam, meshed with litter and driftwood. The nearest vessel was a freighter tied up at the coal terminal several hundred metres away. The only other presence was a row of towering wind turbines embedded in a concrete breakwater. The machines stood like white metal giants fanning the sky, their blades wheeling busily high overhead. Rita wiped a film of damp from her face as she took in the padlocked cargo sheds and loading cranes that backed onto the club. The mood of the day didn’t help but the place felt uninviting - the sort of bleak backwater where death came unobserved.

  She returned to the alley and walked up the slope to the spot where Rachel’s body had been found. A bouquet of dead flowers hung forlornly in the doorway where the killer probably stood while waiting for his victim. Rita lifted a folder of crime-scene photos from her shoulder bag and, after studying them, bent down to peer at the alleyway surface. There, cut in the cobbles, three grooves were visible. They told her that the attacker was focused and efficient, requiring just three accurate blows to remove the head and hands. He was also tall and physically strong - he had to be to restrain Rachel while raising a cumbersome nail gun to the back of her head and firing downwards almost vertically. And he was familiar with the location. It was the perfect place for an ambush, with poor lighting, narrow access and limited parking space at the bottom of the alley. Rachel had told the taxi driver of an arranged meeting at the club. It meant she’d been lured to her death in a public place, where the crime was carried out with speed and discipline, rather than in a psychotic frenzy.

  Rita was becoming more convinced that only one scenario remained consistent with the facts. The murder was professional.

  The nail gun was an oddity, yet that too could be explained. It was an unwieldy choice for a hitman, unless it had been opportunistic in the first killing and diversionary in the second. If so, it had certainly diverted the police. The same applied to dismembering the body. It provided detectives with an obvious crime signature, but to Rita’s profiling mind the signature was a fake. She refused to read into it the signs of pathological fantasy. All she could see were the hallmarks of calculation and misdirection.

  She stood up, put the photos away and sighed. A moral dilemma confronted her with increasing clarity, together with a more practical problem: how to work the case. Simply compiling a profile of the killer was fraught with hazard. It would be safe enough to describe him as tall, powerfully built, intelligent, calculating, socially competent, ruthless and highly disciplined. But could she add: a skilful and accomplished killer or hired assassin, with a gangland, military or elite police background ? Of course not. It would turn the investigation on its head, bringing the wrath of Inspector Bryce, Captain Maddox and others in authority down upon her.

  The only honest way forward was blocked. It was unacceptable and unresolvable at the same time.

  Rita didn’t know what to do.

  Damn it, she thought, and wandered towards the club. The place might be worth checking out, or it might not. If nothing else, sh
e could do with a drink. As she walked under the neon sign at the entrance, the door slid open for her, a bouncer holding it ajar and greeting her with a suggestive smile.

  ‘New ladies always welcome,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said dubiously.

  As the door closed behind her, Rita found herself entering the sort of twilight haunt she was used to dealing with as a sex crimes detective: a furtive pick-up joint open for business around the clock. These places were all the same. Whatever nocturnal appeal they possessed, during the day everything looked stale and tacky.

  A few male drinkers were propped on stools at the counter, a barmaid chatting idly to one of them, the others transfixed by a rugby match on TV. In the middle of the bar two youths were playing pool - teenagers with shaved heads and tattooed arms -

  the clack of the balls sounding against the whirr and jangle of poker machines in an adjoining room. In a side booth a pair of women with hard faces and low-cut tops bent towards each other, talking behind their hands as they looked Rita up and down. Two booths along a young man drank alone. At a corner table sat an old woman cradling a bottle of stout and coughing between puffs on a cigarette, her wrinkled face expressionless, her eyes gazing into the middle distance.

  The place was a combination dance venue, gambling saloon and sports bar. On the walls between metallic light fittings hung the iconic images of boxing champions past and present. It was like a gallery of testosterone, their muscled torsos, biceps and triceps glistening. Beyond the bar, steps led down to a dance floor with mirrored ceilings and Gothic tracery.

  So this was the intended destination of Rachel Macarthur as she headed for a rendezvous that was never supposed to happen.

  The thought was depressing, as was the interior of the club itself.

  Equally gloomy was the official roadblock on the investigation.

  Rita was beginning to regret accepting the invitation to join it. The case didn’t need a profiler. It needed a commission of inquiry.

  With nothing better to do, Rita sauntered up to the bar. Her movement caught the leery eye of the nearest drinker until her hostile stare warned him off. She was in no mood for presumptuous fools. She looked at her watch - just past midday. A little early, but what the hell. She ordered a Scotch and ice and moved to a table away from the counter.

  The first mouthful tasted remarkably good. The soothing mellow flush of the alcohol was what she needed to clear her thoughts and chill out. Sometimes that was the only way to shrug off a problem - dissolve it in a smooth glass of single malt whisky. As she sat there quietly, scanning the customers again, she suddenly recognised one of them - the young man drinking alone. His photo was in the case file. It was Rachel’s boyfriend, Freddy Hopper.

  An idea struck Rita - one that came out of that grey area where detectives and informers operate under the radar. Crossing paths with Freddy could be a happy coincidence, an opportunity for some lateral digging. The more she thought about it, the more it offered a potential detour around the barrier facing her.

  It would require Freddy’s cooperation, but he already operated outside the law so she could apply some pressure to that end.

  While she observed him, the gambit grew on her. He was young and fresh-faced but far from innocent-looking and, although rather downcast, his expression was alert and streetwise as he kept watch on his surroundings. As a hacker who’d chalked up a cyber-crime conviction and jail time, he’d know how to keep his mouth shut.

  She decided it was worth a try so, after studying him for a few minutes, Rita got up and carried her drink over to the booth.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked.

  Freddy looked up sharply from his vodka and Red Bull. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Rita Van Hassel.’

  ‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘But it will.’

  Understanding dawned in Freddy’s eyes. ‘You’re a cop.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s going to catch Rachel’s killer.’ Rita slid onto the seat opposite. ‘If you’re willing to help me.’

  Freddy’s reluctance was obvious. ‘It’s not what I do.’ He glanced around uncomfortably. ‘Cops and me - we don’t get on.’

  ‘I’m the exception,’ smiled Rita. ‘You’re going to get on just fine with me.’

  Freddy looked at her suspiciously. ‘I’ve got a lousy feeling that translates into harassment.’

  ‘Call it mutual self-interest. You talk to me off the record, and I’ll protect your back from any police action.’

  ‘The cops are the least of my worries.’ He grunted. ‘Anyway, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Apart from bringing Rachel’s killer to justice?’ Rita sipped her Scotch. ‘No comebacks. And my promise of an advance warning if I see problems coming your way.’

  ‘Does that include government shit?’

  ‘Any shit.’

  Freddy gave Rita a hard stare. It was obvious he wasn’t used to this type of approach from a police officer.

  ‘I’ve never seen you before,’ he said. ‘You’re not local.’

  ‘I’m a criminal profiler,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Drafted in from Melbourne to track down a serial killer who doesn’t exist.

  You see, Rachel wasn’t simply murdered, she was executed. Just telling you that could get me into deep trouble. You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Freddy swallowed another mouthful of vodka before tipping more Red Bull into his glass. ‘First up, I’m not agreeing to anything till I’ve got an idea of what I might be getting myself into.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Rita conceded. ‘All I want from you is information.

  It won’t be logged, filed, recorded or even written down. It’ll stay between you and me. I’m not interested in your hacking or petty criminal activities - only what bears on Rachel’s death. I’m prepared to cross a line here, break the rules.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve been ordered not to by senior officers.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because I won’t stand by while Rachel’s death goes unpunished.’

  Rita was looking directly into Freddy’s eyes. It got the reaction she wanted. He blushed.

  ‘I’ve already been questioned by cops twice over,’ he said defensively. ‘I don’t know anything. I wasn’t even here when she was killed.’

  ‘There’s one thing in particular I need to know about. A Whitley Sands printout given to Rachel.’

  Freddy raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Fuck!’ He sat back heavily.

  ‘I bloody knew the Sands was out to get her.’

  ‘And the rest,’ she said, and drank more Scotch while she watched him fuming.

  ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘If that’s what this is about, I’ll help, as long as what I say goes no further.’

  ‘Deal.’

  Freddy hunched forward, dropping his voice. ‘I took a look at the printout. It was full of technical details and cross-sections

  - blueprints, that sort of stuff - about an R&D project using electromagnetic emitters, accelerators and scanners. Not my area of expertise. Besides, the data was incomplete and only partly referred to the computer system that drives it, which is what would turn me on. They call it the Panopticon Project, which sounds like a bullshit label to me. There wasn’t enough for me to make sense of it, but it came with a rambling introduction saying the system produced life-threatening levels of radiation.

  Rachel was ecstatic.’

  ‘When did she get it?’

  ‘A couple of weeks before the big demo. She was saving it up for that. Big announcement in front of TV cameras.’ Freddy bowed his head. ‘And you’re saying that’s why she was stopped.

  Shit. And the printout?’

  ‘Gone. Vanished when she was killed.’

  ‘So it was important after all.’ He sagged forward on his elbows.

  ‘The gold dust she was looking for.’

  ‘ Das Rheingol
d, actually. It’s an extract from a report burnt onto a disk disguised as an opera DVD. Which brings me to your pal, Stonefish.’

  ‘If he’s to blame for Rachel’s death -‘

  ‘No. He’s just a go-between. What’s his real name?’

  ‘That’s just it. He hasn’t told anyone. All we know is he’s a Kiwi who can get his hands on any sort of software, including a military code-breaker. That takes some doing. He’s also an acid bore and a beer snob.’

  ‘Well I need to speak to him.’

  Freddy’s fist slammed the table. ‘We’re all looking for that arsehole!’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Yeah, and now I know why.’

  ‘Freddy, who else is after him?’

  ‘Me, for a start. I need a completely new rig since a bitch called Audrey firebombed my loft!’

  ‘Slow down. Firebombed?’

  ‘She triggered a power surge that blew my decks.’

  ‘Are you saying you’ve met Audrey Zillman?’

  ‘If that’s her name, yes. An online face-to-face in the middle of a virtual hack. Got all the way to the core data at the Sands before she zapped me.’

  Rita was genuinely impressed. ‘Amazing. Is she after Stonefish?’

  ‘She told me she wasn’t, but she might be the one who sent in some American psycho called Kurt. He paid me a visit last night with another pair of muggers in suits. Kurt damn near castrated me and said he’d finish the job if I didn’t deliver Stonefish. I’m in deep shit either way. If I don’t track him down I lose my balls, but if I do find him I think we’re both stuffed anyway. We’ll end up as floaters over the reef.’

  Rita was trying to digest all the information she’d just heard when her mobile rang. It was Jarrett calling.

  She gave Freddy a warning look as she answered. ‘Hello, Detective Sergeant Jarrett.’