Tropic of Death (30 page)

‘I’m not here as a police officer, I’m here as a wedding guest,’

said Rita. ‘By the way, Mr Barrano - congratulations.’

‘Empty her bag,’ he told one of his men, who promptly spilt the contents onto the desk. ‘And frisk her. I don’t want her pulling a gun on me.’

Bowers moved towards her but Barrano held up his hand.

‘Not you, Billy.’

The other bodyguard patted her down and shook his head.

Barrano picked up the police ID from the scattered items on his desk, looked at it closely and breathed out heavily through his nostrils. ‘Okay, Van Hassel, what’s this about?’

‘Check your guest list,’ she persisted, ‘and you’ll see I’m on it.’

‘And how did you manage that?’

‘My best friend is doing the magazine exclusive. I’m here to help her. That’s all.’

‘She’s lying,’ said Bowers.

Barrano shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at her steadily.

There was an unusual air of authority and composure about him.

He was older than she’d thought, pushing fifty, but looking good on it. Tall, slender, with delicate hands, olive-skinned and just a trace of grey in his black hair, neatly trimmed. He didn’t blink as he studied her face, probing the level of her deceit. That in itself was intimidating, never mind his gangland pedigree.

‘Billy reckons you’ve got the hots for him,’ he said. ‘Is that what this is about?’

‘Billy has mental problems,’ she answered. ‘Which must be obvious, even to you.’

‘Let me slap some respect into her, Vic,’ said Bowers.

‘Tired of punching your girlfriend?’ she retorted.

Barrano looked at him sharply. ‘Maria?’

Billy gritted his teeth. ‘Just keeping her in line.’

But Barrano seemed unimpressed.

‘Billy’s using her as a punching bag,’ Rita went on, ‘because the Queensland force is onto him and he’s sweating.’

‘That’s bullshit.’

‘It’s worse than you thought,’ she told him. ‘You should switch on your mobile.’

‘That’d be a good trick,’ he said, ‘seeing it’s at the bottom of the Coral Sea.’ He gave Barrano a grin. ‘It went overboard during the bucks night fun.’

‘Is there something I need to know?’ Barrano asked him.

‘No big deal. Nothing I can’t handle.’

Barrano turned back to Rita. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time. I’ve got a honeymoon to look forward to and I’m still in a reasonably good mood. So tell me why you’re really here and there’ll be no comebacks.’

Rita took a deep breath, weighed the alternatives, and shrugged.

‘I’m not saying anything while I’m being stood over.’

‘My boys make you nervous?’

‘No, but how about you? Too nervous to talk to me alone?

Scared I’ll beat you up?’

He gave a short laugh and nodded to his bodyguards. As they left the room Barrano added, ‘You too, Billy.’

Billy’s jaw muscles stiffened but he did as he was told, closing the door firmly behind him.

‘Maybe it’s Billy who’s got the hots for you,’ suggested Barrano.

‘In his own pathological way, I’m sure he has,’ she agreed. ‘You know he’s a homicidal sociopath?’

He frowned. ‘What kind of police officer are you?’

‘A criminal profiler.’

‘Ah, one of those. I’ve always thought the use of psychology was more a matter of instinct than training.’

‘But a disciplined framework helps.’

‘For example,’ he continued, ‘I can always tell when someone is lying to me.’

‘Then you must realise Billy is lying. He’s on the edge and he’s about to go over.’

Barrano said nothing, his eyes unwavering.

Rita returned the gaze.

At last he gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

‘Sit down, Van Hassel,’ he said, easing back into his chair.

‘Whatever you’ve heard about me, I’ve got no issues with the police.’

She sat in one of the leather chairs. ‘That could change.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He adjusted a gold cufflink. ‘So why are you here?’

‘The serial killer in Whitley - Billy’s the prime suspect.’

Barrano sat forward, clasping his hands. ‘Sounds like harassment to me.’

‘Only if your loyalties are outside the law. Either way, a taskforce is executing warrants on his properties and business dealings - all of them.’

‘Why would that be a problem for me?’

‘Because the cocaine he supplied is being distributed in your villa.’

‘I’m a club owner, not a drug peddler,’ he protested. ‘Whatever’s here is for recreational use.’

‘On an Olympic scale.’

‘Look, the police have no grievance with me. So don’t try to use muscle you haven’t got. But I’ll grant you Billy’s not the champion he used to be. He has some eccentricities.’

‘With drug dealing on the side.’

‘And what the hell do you think you can do about it?’

‘There are officers on standby at your front gate. Unless I tell them otherwise, they’re coming in. Is that how you want your wedding night remembered?’

‘Don’t try to threaten me,’ he warned. ‘You’re out of your depth.’

‘What’s the time?’ she asked calmly.

Barrano glanced at his gold Rolex. ‘Ten twenty-four.’

‘You’ve got six minutes. Then it’ll be official. Should make some interesting headlines for your bride.’

Despite his cool, the worry lines appeared. ‘What do you want?’

‘A deal.’

‘I’m always open to offers.’

‘All I want is a piece of information,’ said Rita. ‘Billy’s drug supply - the Whitley connection. Give me a location, a name -

something.’

‘You don’t ask for much.’

‘He’s about to become a liability.’

‘And you’ll call off the raid?’

‘You have my word,’ she promised.

‘I’m not going to do your work for you. On the other hand, Billy’s not family.’ Barrano looked at his watch again. ‘Okay, make the call. And put it on speaker-phone. I want to hear both ends of the conversation.’

‘And do I have
your
word?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Van Hassel,’ he said evenly. ‘I’ll give you a name.’

She got up, lifted her mobile from the desk, switched on the speaker and called the uniformed officers.

‘Hello, ma’am,’ a voice answered. ‘Are we on? Do we bust the bastards?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Stand down. The raid’s off. Have you got that?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘I’ll be with you shortly. Wait for me at the gates.’

She ended the call and gave Barrano an expectant look.

He breathed out slowly, and relaxed. Rita didn’t like the implication of his smile.

‘For a woman, you’ve got a lot of balls,’ he said.

‘You said you’d give me a name.’

‘In fact I’m going to be generous - not one, but two.’ He seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘If you want to get to the bottom of the Whitley connection, I’ll tell you who to ask: Mike Tyson and Cassius Clay. How are those for names?’

‘Is that some kind of joke?’

‘The Whitley connection is a joke. But our deal stands. And just to make sure, I’ll file complaints about an illegal search, trespass and whatever else my lawyers can think of. A couple of them are down in the marquee enjoying themselves at the reception among a lot of other important people.’

‘
Reception!
Last time I looked it was turning into a Roman orgy.’

‘You might see an orgy, but I see something else.’

‘What?’

‘Influence.’

After Barrano’s bodyguards escorted her from the grounds and the uniformed officers left the scene, Rita took a buggy ride to a beachside bar and tried to swallow her frustration with one large Scotch, then another. The whisky chilled her enough to phone Sutcliffe. It was coming up to midnight, a gusty wind thrashing the coconut fronds overhead as she walked back to her palm bungalow, mobile in hand, explaining how things had gone wrong.

‘At least you’ve got the message across,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘Bowers will be back here in the morning to try and fend off the warrants.

This time he’ll get a much less friendly interrogation.’

Rita sighed. ‘Barrano confirmed Billy’s got a coke supply coming through Whitley, but I thought for a moment he was going to tell me more.’

‘Under threat of a drug bust? Worth a shot. What did he say exactly?’

‘He told me to ask Mike Tyson and Cassius Clay.’

‘Ah, well. That just shows he’s better at bluffing than you are.

Forget about it.’

‘So what about me?’ she asked. ‘When do you want me back?’

‘You’ve done enough for now. Take a day off. I’ll see you on Monday.’

39
Rita was sitting alone under a white patio umbrella outside the Toucan Tango restaurant, gazing dreamily across the idyllic blue of Catseye Bay to the slopes of Whitsunday Island. Catamarans zigzagged across the water. Parents and toddlers splashed along the shoreline. Sunbathers soaked up the warmth and cockatoos squawked among the palm fronds. Rita was following Sutcliffe’s advice, taking the day off and putting the Whitley murders out of her mind. She was working her way through her third coffee in an attempt to neutralise a dull headache with caffeine. On the table in front of her was a Sunday newspaper, and in her lap was the journal of nineteenth-century mass murderer, Sergeant Logan.

Lola hadn’t surfaced yet. No surprise there. Rita had got a drunken call at around five a.m. asking her
where the fuck
she was.

Lola was leaving the party after rolling around under the ferns with Lachlan. He was apparently besotted with the nubile Latin American journalist who was about to give his career a big break.

That’s how Lola told it anyway, though not very coherently.

Rita propped her legs across an empty chair and resumed reading the journal.

During the hottest part of the day, shortly before noon, my men and I cornered six natives on the edge of a cliff, which is approximately ten miles upriver in the coastal ranges. A female carrying an infant hurled herself from the brink, which meant certain death for herself and the child, rather than surrender to our authority. The remaining four males were duly hanged from the branches of ironbarks that grow in that region. These executions bring the monthly total of savages despatched to two score and nine, although Squatter Brodie calculates that this number is far from an adequate reprisal for the massacre of white settlers. The Squatter congratulated me on a productive session of hunting, and invited me to share afternoon tea with him in his mansion. He is convinced that this day has seen the cause of civilization advanced. His wife served cake and refreshments in the parlour. Before partaking, we knelt in prayer to give thanks for the blessings of Providence, and to beseech the Almighty that our continuing endeavours will ultimately prevail in the war on savages.

Rita slapped the book shut and put on her sunglasses against the glare. She didn’t want to read any more. She looked at her watch and decided to give Lola another hour before rousing her for the flight to Whitehaven.

‘You seem to have a penchant for fashion industry workers,’ Rita commented, ‘of either sex.’

‘Don’t breathe a word of what happened to Morgan,’ said Lola. ‘She’d go ape.’

Rita chuckled quietly and gazed from the window of the seaplane as it swooped towards the gleaming arc of Whitehaven beach stretching between a ridge of protected wilderness and the liquid turquoise of the sea. Lola, wearing a straw hat and almost impenetrable sunglasses, was sitting beside the pilot. Rita was in the back seat.

‘This has been voted the best beach in the world,’ the pilot told them, levelling the plane’s approach. ‘The sand is so fine, you can polish diamonds in it.’

‘Pity I left them at home,’ muttered Lola.

The seaplane bounced heavily over the waves before settling on the water and taxiing in to shore. Rita, carrying her sandals, followed Lola, clambering over the aircraft’s float and wading onto the smooth white sand. They’d arrived a short distance from where the photo shoot was underway. A section of the beach was effectively cordoned off, patrolled by security men in jungle-green shirts and shorts, heavy boots and dark glasses. Their job was to shoo away sightseers and safeguard the secrecy of the project.

One of them approached.

‘Welcome, ladies, you’re expected,’ he said. ‘If you’d like to make your way to the tent, you can enjoy the champagne picnic.’

‘Another marquee, another piss-up,’ said Lola.

They greeted the Italian car company executives before making themselves comfortable in deckchairs under the canvas flap of the tent. A waitress handed out chilled glasses of Perrier-Jouet and laid a silver tray between them with caviar and pate.

‘What - no cocaine?’ asked Lola, and the waitress looked at her askance.

‘Seems we’re among the early guests,’ said Rita.

‘Good, I need a head start to blitz my hangover.’

Rita’s curiosity was aroused as she watched the photographer in action. The focus of attention wasn’t the fashion models, but a sleek sky-blue car that had been helicoptered in. Its design was streamlined and sexy, with a long, low bonnet and shimmering alloy wheels. The models had obviously taken it in turns to drape themselves over the vehicle, but as the sun climbed higher, the shoot ended.

‘What exactly is the car doing here?’ asked Rita.

‘That’s what the commercial secrecy’s about,’ answered Lola.

‘A limited edition, high-performance sports car. It’s revolutionary because it’s a hybrid. Set to change the face of motoring and horny with it. Big green credentials, and all that. Good pollution and greenhouse ratings.’

‘Rachel Macarthur would’ve approved,’ mumbled Rita.

‘They’re spending millions to promote it. That’s what this is all about. The unveiling is a couple of weeks away. Anyway, looks like Morgan’s finished for the day.’

The models withdrew to their trailer and the security men strolled around the car, keeping guard, as the photographer packed up her camera cases and headed towards the tent.

She smiled as she joined them.

‘Hi, babe,’ she said to Lola. ‘Glad you could make it.’

Lola gestured with alternate waves of the hand. ‘Morgan Lee, fashion photographer, meet Rita Van Hassel, criminal profiler. And you two had better get on with each other. No cat fights.’