Good Money (27 page)

My heart laboured like a two-stroke lawnmower. Phoung put her bag over her shoulder, turned the torch off and grabbed for my hand. To my horror, she was leading me into the stink chamber. Phuong closed the door behind us and the deadlock clicked. In the back of my mind, my one functioning brain cell noted that the door was the only way out. She kept moving, pulling me with her, easing her way along the side of the room. I followed, my back flat to the wall, terrified of bumping something. We came to the table and crouched behind it.

Feet stomped back and forth over the stones. Voices closer now. ‘My uncles live there, bro. Fuckin lonely as, ay.'

‘Mate, shut the fuck up for one second. Look at this.'

‘What?'

‘He's come back. The African cunt.'

They'd seen the chain and padlock, lying in a useless pile by the door. ‘Blacks,' the Kiwi bloke was saying. ‘They can surprise you, ay.'

The stench in the little room churned my stomach, and squatting under the table was taking its toll on my knees. I leaned backward, one hand on the wall, trying to keep steady. Electric waves shot through my back, the ache in my legs was becoming brutal.

The light in the office came on, shining through the grubby window and casting shadows across the storeroom. I could see Phuong's face. She looked more annoyed than frightened. They were walking around in the office now, both of them. ‘Come out, muddy,' the loud one yelled. ‘Come on, mate. The money's here. Got your share if you want it.'

If they thought Mabor had come back, that he'd been and gone, we might —
might
— survive this. I heard them slide the door to the main shed, there was a faint click and then the buzz of fluorescent tubes. Their footsteps echoed in the empty factory. The loud one calling out: ‘Muddy? Come on, muddy.'

The ache in my knee was getting worse. I needed to find something to support my weight. I pulled myself up and moved to the blankets about half a metre away. Up close, it was actually a small heap of Hessian sacks. I reached the mound and tested it with a hand. It was hard and lumpy. I lowered my bum and eased the muscles in my thighs. Outside, the wind picked up, showering the shed's tin roof with leaves and twigs.

They were back. ‘Waste of fucking time. Cunt's gone, bro.'

I got off the sacks and picked up a plastic container and carefully put it upside-down beside the door. It held my weight, and I could just see out the window into the office.

Despite his girlish voice he was a big boy, this one — a Maori with broad shoulders, in an oversized, yellow hooded jacket and dark beanie.

‘Yeah. But why'd he come back for?' Alpha was big, too; he had a shaved block head with a high forehead.

‘Who fucking cares? Let's get this over with. Get home for a choof.'

‘Mate, shut up while I think.'

‘You keep telling me to shut up, bro — see where it gets ya.'

Alpha ignored him. He sat on the swivel chair and frowned. ‘Someone's been in here.'

‘Forget it. They're gone now. We should just get it and bury it and go home. Like when I stay with my uncles — go fishing, ay. Have a choof, sleep all afternoon, drink all night.'

‘One more fuckin uncle story, I'm gonna deck ya.'

‘Deck
me
, bro?' He asked, with a creepy giggle. ‘Not if you're fuckin dead.'

‘Yeah, right.' Alpha kicked the desk and got to his feet. ‘Fuck it. Okay. Go get her.'

‘In here?'

‘Yeah.'

The Kiwi came over to the door I was standing behind. He rattled the doorknob. I lurched and lost my balance, wheeled my arms, and stepped back off the tub.

‘It's locked, ay.'

They hadn't heard me. I breathed again. Phuong gave me a small apologetic smile. I don't know why she felt the need to say sorry. We might be about to die, sure, but it wasn't her fault. Poking around a known murderer's ice factory had been my stupid idea — up there with the dumbest. But the situation hadn't gone completely south. Besides the Glock, there was something else on our side. I held up the keys and wiggled them at her.

‘I know, dickhead. Look for the key. Try the drawer.'

I heard both desk drawers open and close. ‘Not here.'

‘Shit.'

I tiptoed over to Phuong and sat on the pile of sacks beside her.

‘There's a second set in the house. Go get it.'

‘You go get it, ay.'

‘Fuck you, you piece of —'

There was a deafening gunshot in the office, followed by a loud grunt and harsh rapid breathing. I heard a match strike, then footsteps, then the swivel chair squeaked.

‘That's for the Kiwi bashin, ay.' A deep, sucking inhale; a pause, and a long exhale. ‘All you Aussies are fuckin racist.'

‘Dickhead.' Alpha's voice was hoarse now.

‘
Dickhead
? Me? I'm not the one lying on the ground pissing out blood.' More giggling.

‘No … That's right. You're a big man … A great big fuckin Kiwi dickhead.'

I wondered at the wisdom of Alpha using his final moments to be antagonistic — but each to their own. There was a hard
thump
, not unlike a booted foot meeting human flesh. ‘And that's for Trevor Chappell. We don't forget shit like that, bro. Aussies are bad fuckin sports.'

A grunt. A cough. ‘Still angry about losing … are we?'

Another sickening, ringing blow. ‘One all, bro. Series ended in a tie.'

‘Time you moved on.' Alpha was breathing more slowly. ‘Happened before you were born.'

‘Time
you
moved on.'

I braced for another gunshot, but it didn't come. The sound was of struggling — the chair being knocked over, muffled grunts. Then quiet. He had a gun and he hated Australians. We had a gun and we were in a locked room. But what if he went for the keys? If he found us, it wouldn't help matters to explain my shame about bowling underarm, or to tell him how much I enjoyed Jane Campion movies.

He was moving around again. The chair scraped across the floor, heavy boots clomped around the office and went outside, and then footsteps tramped on the screenings.

Phuong had the gun in her hand. She cocked her head in the direction of the door. ‘Open it,' she whispered.

He would be coming back, coming in here. My hands shook as I pulled out the keys. I rose and the top sack moved with me. Phuong looked down, then at me, her eyes wide. I looked back. An arm stuck out from under the bags. A long slender human arm — blue-grey, with the hand bent, fingers curled, so I could see glossy, red nails. And one bruised, enlarged knuckle. Tania.

Now I moved fast. I scrambled away as far as I could, to the opposite side of the room. I tried to suppress it, but an anguished howl escaped me.

‘Stella, calm down. He's in the house. Let's go. Open the door,' Phuong said.

I stood on tiptoe, found the brass key, and put it in the lock. Then I froze. He was back. Keys jingled. He was humming the riff from ‘A Slice of Heaven'.

I could see Phuong under the table. She shook her head at me, a signal I took to mean
change of plan
. She flashed the gun.

He was coming in and I needed a place to hide. I moved behind the door, squatting, ready to catch the door before it hit me.

The deadlock turned and the door swung open, nearly smacking me in the face. But my fingers were under it, holding it still by my fingernails.

The single fluorescent tube flickered, washing out the room with glare. He walked straight to Tania's body and, in one effortless scoop, picked her up, sacks and all. He lifted her to his shoulder, turned, and walked straight out. Through the crack in the door, I watched him go. A stubby troll with bison shoulders in a yellow hoodie.

I'd seen him loitering in my street.

After a moment his feet were stomping across the stones, and the car door opened. I tiptoed out from behind the door. Phuong was standing, gun in hand, and she nodded to me. I nodded back. We crept out into the office. There was a lot of blood on the floor, but no body. The external door was open and was swinging loose in the wind. I poked my head around it. The car was parked beside the shed, rear to the back fence, its headlights lighting the yard down to the road about a hundred metres away. The shed door was in shadow, on his blindside.

In the cool fresh air, Phuong behind me, we made directly for the side fence, not running, walking. The space between the shed and the fence was dark, and we stopped and waited.

The hooded troll was busy walking around, opening the car's rear hatch, slamming it shut. He was muttering to himself. I heard the gate at the back of the yard — the one we'd first come through — swing open. Another minute passed and nothing happened. A cold breeze was at our backs. The wind carried the distant shoving and scraping sounds of a spade striking the ground.

I looked at Phuong. Time to go. Staying in the shadows of the perimeter, we picked our way around to the back of the house. We were standing on the compacted dirt that was the path between the fence and the house. Phuong ran now, holding the bag to her chest so the tools inside didn't make a sound. I did my best to keep up. We stopped at the corner of the house. The front yard was dead grass, bisected by a gravel driveway leading from the gates at the front to the car park at the back: a fifty-metre dash to the open gates. I wanted to run but Phuong held me back. With the headlights shining, we were exposed — better to stay hidden until he was gone. Phuong dropped her bag. ‘Back in a tick,' she said, and ran back towards the shed.

I paced in the dark, waiting anxiously for her return. I'd become hardened to the suffering of others. People crushed by life, bad luck, or one too many setbacks — struggling families dealt one more bitter blow. I'd been the detached observer, making stark observations about life's unfairness. Tonight, everything had changed. Tania's death was on me, stuck to me — and it would likely stay there. Gaetano and his gang of morons had taken Tania and kept her locked up here. That part was the most difficult to accept. These drug dealers were idiots, yet they had been able to learn that Tania came from a wealthy family, find out where she lived, and then pull off a brazen kidnapping. Until the plan went wrong and one of them killed her — just left her body there — and days later sent two imbeciles to clean up the mess.

Phuong was back, panting. ‘SUV. A Nissan. Got the rego.'

‘He's the guy, the one who tried to break into my flat,' I said. ‘I recognise him, the same hoodie.'

The car started. Hoodie
gunned the engine, then roared through the gates, sending the gravel flying as he careened down the dirt track.

I watched the tail-lights disappear into the night. At last I could breathe. I felt giddy and light. Phuong started laughing. I chortled. Then we were both hooting and screeching, in the thrill and wonder of still being alive. And then we were running through the gates and onto the road. I was still laughing, but now I was shaking as well. We slowed our pace. Phuong walked in the centre of the road and I trotted along the verge. The clouds thinned and a thread of moon appeared. I looked back at the house. It was a compound, designed for security-conscious, paranoid criminals to cook crank, make pills, hide cash, deal, torture and murder in. It was a place where no one would hear the cries of a woman held against her will.

29

MY RADIO
alarm woke me with the seven o'clock news bulletin and I hit the off button before there could be any mention of Tania's murder. I put my laptop in my bag, not wanting to let it out of my sight, and headed to Buffy's for my usual. The sun had the sky to itself, the air fresh but not cold. I avoided the pile of newspapers and stared at the walls while I waited for my coffee. My phone sounded in my bag as Lucas handed over a takeaway cup. It was work. I headed for the tram stop as I answered.

‘They've increased our funding by twenty per cent,' said Boss. I could hear the joy in his voice.

‘That's great,' I said, and meant it.

‘So all the redundancies are off the table, no one's getting retrenched.'

‘That's great,' I said, and did not mean it, not one bit.

At my desk I read a few emails, made a few calls. The JUNKIE project was in full swing and the Flemington cops were keen to be onboard. Raewyn Ross had arranged a meeting with me, and was waiting in our staff room on the dot of eleven. But when I sat down with two mugs of International Roast and a plate of Milk Arrowroot — left over from yesterday, the most unloved of all biscuits — she didn't want to discuss the project.

‘They call me “the Khaleesi”,' she said.

‘Really?' I acted shocked. ‘Maybe they mean it in a nice way; as in, she's as awesome as …'

‘No.' She dunked her biscuit despondently; the end broke off and sank. ‘They mean it in a mean way.'

‘Can you speak to your senior sergeant about it?'

‘Yeah,' she sighed. ‘But then everyone'd know it bothers me.'