Tropic of Death (33 page)

satellite tracking station dominated the plateau. Even in daylight it had an eerie presence, its facilities glowing like great white bulbs under the midday sun. From there the road climbed into the dense greenery beneath the canopy of the rainforest.

When she swung onto The Ridgeway - this time taking in the views on a clear, sunny day - she realised why Billy’s resort would have seemed a sure-fire winner. It combined the forest setting with a magnificent prospect over cliffs, gorges and river valleys winding to the coast. Beyond the ribbon of beaches, the Whitsunday Islands dotted the seascape stretching to the Great Barrier Reef on the horizon.

She pulled up beside the tourist development in time to observe an ugly mood among people milling around the gates.

Council inspectors were there, having served the order that revoked planning permission, effective immediately. They were herding builders from the site, witnessed by a band of environmental protesters a couple of dozen strong. Verbal abuse was being freely exchanged.

Rita got out of the car and showed her ID to the inspectors.

They let her enter through the chain-link gates, which were pulled shut behind her when the last of the builders was escorted out.

As she walked towards the rising steel structures across an expanse of mud and landscaped concrete, she had the Whitley Ridgeway site to herself.

Any chance of finding evidence of murder was extremely slim.

The construction zone was extensive and cluttered with work in progress. As well as being trampled over by scores of builders in recent weeks it had been thoroughly doused by rain. But as a profiler she needed to take a look anyway, even if there was only a remote chance of catching a hint of insight, a vibe.

The clamour at the gates subsided, with the protesters dispersing and the builders leaning on their vehicles, grumbling to each other, smoking. The noise receded the further she went. Instead a hush descended on the site, pierced by the shrill cries of rainforest birds. Around her the cement mixers had ground to a halt, the cranes towered motionless, and the bulldozers and trucks stood abandoned against the gash clawed in the mountainside.

Rita walked around the tiled rims of empty swimming pools, past builders’ cabins, discarded pneumatic drills and terraces of flattened earth. Further on were the unfinished hulks of apartment buildings, seven of them, partly clad, with their upper storeys nothing more than exposed metal beams and struts. She strolled the length of them, peering inside the frameworks and the shells of rooms, without finding anything that resonated with her, nothing that helped with the investigation.

She returned to the main courtyard and was about to leave when she noticed a sealed road curving behind the central high-rise block. She followed it and found it ended in a broad ramp that led under the building. The tap of her heels echoed from the concrete walls as she headed down the slope. It was the entrance to a basement garage that was structurally complete and was obviously being used as the site workshop. Just a couple of bare light bulbs were glowing in the dim interior among stacks of wooden beams, rolls of wire, crates of glass and tiles, and rows of work benches.

Smells of paint and sawdust were heavy in the air. As she moved through the clutter a feeling crept over her, a tingling down her spine, and a moment later she knew why.

She stopped when she came to a long wooden table, surrounded by folding chairs, that must have served as a canteen. The surface, chipped and notched from overuse, bore a scattering of coffee mugs and takeaway food containers. Next to it was a tool bench with a rack of power tools. They included drills, saws and a collection of nail guns, some with electrical leads, some cordless. Beside the bench were shelves lined with bags of cement. Rita bent down and ran her fingertips over the floor, then rubbed them together.

They were coated with powder - cement powder. The floor was covered with it.

She was convinced that she’d found a crime scene. This was where the man in the mud must have been murdered, shot through the head with a nail gun then dismembered. It was an impromptu killing, the weapon grabbed from among the items at hand. Yet the killer, or killers, had chosen the location well.

Remote from habitation and deserted, as it was now, this was a perfect place to carry out the worst acts - intimidation, torture, execution - without being discovered.

Rita had wanted the vibe and now she felt it with all its vivid possibilities, one scenario after another flashing through her mind.

But why had the victim come here? Perhaps he’d been forced? If not, was he stupid or desperate? Maybe overconfident? Or had he simply been tricked? With his identity a blank, there was no way of guessing.

As she crouched there, a shadow passed in front of one of the lights and a voice said, ‘I thought the cop must be you.’

She looked up to find Billy Bowers standing over her.

With a gasp, she stood up and moved back against the shelves of cement, her hand reaching to the holster on her hip, unclipping it.

Billy sneered. ‘So you’re packing?’

‘Don’t come any closer,’ she warned him, her fingers gripping the handle of the gun. ‘And don’t try anything.’

‘Why? Would you shoot me?’

‘Yes,’ she answered unhesitatingly.

‘I believe you,’ he said, holding up the flats of his huge hands and taking a step closer. ‘But I’m completely unarmed.’

‘Don’t let that encourage you,’ she told him, whipping out the Glock 22, flipping the safety catch and pointing it at his chest with an outstretched double grip. ‘I’ll shoot you anyway.’

Billy stopped there, barely three metres away, a fighter’s concentration in his eyes. He was big, but agile, his reflexes very fast, and she could see he was calculating whether he could get to her before she pulled the trigger.

‘I promise you, Bowers. Take one more step and I’ll fire. It’s all the excuse I need.’

‘So you’d shoot me in cold blood?’

‘There’d be nothing cold about it.’

‘Taking out a national icon? You’d never live it down.’

‘You’re no icon. You’re a headline away from public disgrace.

Now back off!’

He seemed to decide she had the edge, as well as the determination. ‘Okay.’

With a lugubrious shrug, he eased himself sideways to the tool bench, his hand resting among the nail guns.

‘I’ve heard you’re a bit of a vixen with a gun in your hand,’

he said. ‘But stick around long enough and I’ll get a chance to tame you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I’ll put you on a leash with my German shepherds.’

‘The same old fantasy. Ever think about your screwed-up childhood these days?’

‘Ever wonder what it’s like to be screwed for real in doggy fashion?’

Rita shook her head. ‘Don’t bother with threats. You’re going down in flames and you know it.’

Billy thumped the bench with his fist, making the tools rattle.

‘What sort of crazy bitch are you, gate-crashing Barrano’s wedding? And I’ve still got a bone to pick with you over what you said to the reporter.’

‘Guess what, Bowers. It wasn’t me.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Think what you like. But which one of us here is the pathological liar?’

Billy breathed heavily through his nose, then conceded the point with a grunt. ‘So what the fuck are you up to? I come up here to deal with pissed-off builders and council morons only to find you snooping around. What do you think you’re looking for?’

‘A few tell-tale signs of murder.’

‘Here? Is there something I should know?’

‘You already do.’

‘Sometimes, Van Hassel, I think you’re a dangerous cop on a mission, then I realise you’re just another dingbat with a badge.

What fucking murder?!’ He seemed genuinely baffled. Or was he trying to outmanoeuvre her again? She couldn’t tell. Billy was too manipulative to be read at face value. ‘If you’re trying to fit me with a frame my lawyers will eat you for breakfast.’

‘I’m just following the evidence. I don’t make false allegations and I don’t leak case material to the media.’

‘If I accept that, do you want to lower the gun?’

‘No. I’m comfortable with it aimed at your ribcage.’

‘Whatever. But if you didn’t grass me to the newspaper, that leaves one candidate, and it explains everything. Only
he
could’ve fed the reporter both angles. Thanks, Van Hassel, you’ve fingered the bastard.’

‘Don’t thank me - ever! What are you talking about?’

‘A process of elimination, if you get my drift.’ He grinned maliciously. ‘Only one person was present both times - when I had my stand-off with the protest bitch and when anecdotes about Melbourne were being told. He’s a dead man walking, thanks to you.’

‘Who?’

‘You’ll catch it on the news.’ Billy turned to go. ‘See you around. Next time I’ll make sure I’m packing too.’

With that he strode out of the basement.

Once he’d disappeared up the ramp, Rita blew out a sigh and lowered the gun. When she’d holstered it and calmed her nerves she squatted down again to look for any indication of the crime she was sure had happened close by. Nothing was obvious and the lighting was too dim.

She stood up and pulled out her mobile - no signal - so she made her way from the basement and around to the central courtyard. A couple of hundred metres ahead of her, down by the entrance, Billy was gesturing at the council inspectors as he stormed through the gates. He was wasting his anger, of course.

Short of a seismic reversal of fortune, his money was gone, the green lobby had won and the rainforest would reclaim the massive skeleton of his resort, smothering it at birth. A good result all around. It seemed like natural justice.

As soon as a signal registered Rita phoned Sutcliffe.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘A potential crime scene,’ she answered. ‘If you can get some of your detectives to the Ridgeway site with their science kit, I’ll tell you where they should look.’

‘Let me guess - you think you’ve found where the man in the mud bit the dust.’

‘If my guess is right, yes. And cement dust at that.’

Rita had just rejoined the Bruce Highway above the outskirts of the town when she got a panicked call from Freddy. He was yabbering incoherently.

‘Hang on a minute!’ she shouted into the mobile. Then, when she’d pulled over onto the verge, she said, ‘Okay, take a breath, and say that again, slowly.’

‘You promised to protect my back!’ he yelled. ‘Well, I’m calling in your promise. Now!’

‘What’s happening, Freddy?’

‘I’m being chased by gangsters - from both sides of the law -

and it’s a toss-up who’s gonna kill or maim me first!’

‘Where are you?’

‘In a shed.’

‘That’s a great help. Tell me somewhere we can meet up.’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll park in the street behind Mangrove Joe’s. Do you know it?’

‘Yes. What are you driving?’

‘A Land Rover Discovery.’

‘What colour?’

‘Silver,’ said Freddy. ‘And rust.’

‘Stay put. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

Rita accelerated back into the highway traffic.

True to her word, she pulled up behind Freddy’s car a few minutes later at the rear of the arcade bar. His description of the vehicle’s colour scheme was accurate. The silver bodywork bore the scars of misuse, with dents and scrapes etched in rust. He was clearly a punishing driver.

She parked the Falcon, got out and looked around for suspicious characters, gangsters or otherwise. All she saw was a quiet backstreet with a couple of elderly shoppers strolling lazily in the sun. As she walked towards the Land Rover she could see Freddy watching her approach in his wing mirror. She opened the kerbside door, climbed in and sat in the passenger seat beside him.

‘Right,’ said Rita. ‘You’ve got my undivided attention.’

‘I need more than that,’ said Freddy. ‘Have you got a gun?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Because you’re not much of a bodyguard without one.’

‘I’m taking on the role of your private minder, am I?’

‘Bloody oath, yeah.’ His hands were on the wheel as he scanned the surroundings nervously. ‘Until I get clear of Whitley.’

‘Where to?’

‘A place just up the coast. A safe haven.’

‘Why do you need me?’

‘Because Billy Bowers has got his bouncers prowling the roads out of town on the lookout for me. They’re in red Porsche Turbos, so if you spot one, tell me.’

‘They’re on Freddy patrol, huh?’

‘This isn’t funny! Billy thinks I stuffed him with the cops.

He’ll fucking kill me!’

‘Were you there when he threatened Rachel?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’re not his Most Wanted. Someone else is.’

‘That hardly cheers me up. Anyway, I’ve just been grabbed by that American psycho again - dragged into the back of a van, debagged and damn near deballed!’

‘Kurt Demchak?’

‘Who’s he?’

‘An official at the base.’

‘Official, my arse! Kurt’s the sort of military hood who blows people away. He makes Billy’s goons look like cowboys.’

‘I’m yet to meet him.’

‘I wish I could say the same. He makes you realise we’ve got our own brand of state-sponsored terror.’ Freddy froze, his eyes locked on the rear-vision mirror. ‘Oh, fuck!’

‘What’s up?’

‘Don’t turn around. A red Porsche is coming through the crossroads behind us, slowing down.’ There was a screech of tyres.

‘Shit! They’re onto us!’

As the Porsche jerked into reverse, Freddy hit the ignition, the engine growling into life. With Billy’s men turning for pursuit, Freddy revved up the power. He held back a moment, timing it, then stamped on the accelerator. He swung the big car wildly into the middle of the road as the Porsche roared up, forcing it to swerve aside violently and go thumping over the opposite gutter, its engine stalling.

Freddy, with Rita frowning beside him, was away, the Land Rover’s wheels kicking up a shriek of rubber.