Dark Country (27 page)

She nodded, unsurprised by his thoughtfulness. It was just the kind of thing he did.

From the stage, Adam waved to her as he picked up his guitar, and within moments the band eased into a lilting folk tune,
gentle but uplifting.

As Kris took her place beside Mark in the welcoming group, and guests started to arrive, she could almost begin to believe
that the ball might really make a positive difference to the struggling community.

Through the open door and windows of the pub kitchen, they could hear the music at the hall. Two bands, Gil noted, alternating
sets. One an old-time dance band, with squeeze-box, keyboard, guitar and drums, the other a more contemporary folk band, putting
their own harmonic twist on bush-dance classics.

Liam and Megan had taken the first batch of trays – the cold finger food – up to the hall earlier, on Megan’s way to the Wilsons’
to babysit for them for the evening. Liam hadn’t objected at all when Gil had told him to take her there before coming back,
and not let her walk alone.

Angie had her hands full in the bar with a couple of carloads of German tourists, as well as a few locals not attending the
ball, so Deb had taken over the remainder of the cooking.

Now there was only the hot food to finish, some things already cooked and keeping warm, and a couple of final dishes to cook
and serve fresh from the oven.

He hadn’t told Deb and Liam much about the afternoon’s developments. There had been little opportunity with Megan and Angie
there, and now he decided to wait until later, when they’d finished for the evening.

While Deb rolled small spiced meatballs, Gil and Liam worked on either side of the centre bench to spoon filling into six
dozen mini-quiches.

‘The pub’s for sale,’ Liam commented, with a casual innocence Gil saw straight through.

‘No,’ Gil said flatly.

Liam grinned, and pretended he hadn’t heard. ‘Angie and her brother came back to town to run it until it’s sold, but their
temporary licence expires soon, and they’ve both got other jobs to go to. If they don’t get a buyer this month, it’ll close.’

Gil kept filling quiches and refused to comment. Liam had boundless imagination and optimism, and saw potential behind every
‘For Sale’ sign – especially when attached to old buildings.

‘A place like this could be developed into a sound business, with some planning and investment,’ he said, true to form. ‘Eco-tourism
could be a drawcard, done well.’

‘I’m not going to buy the pub, Liam,’ he growled.

‘It will be a huge blow for the town if it closes. But if someone with business sense invested in it, renovated it, it could
be a solid success.’

Some days, Gil admired Liam’s cheerful and tenacious pursuit of his goals, despite the obstacles. Today wasn’t one of those
days.

He put down his spoon, laid his hands flat on the bench, and looked directly at the guy. ‘Liam, half of Dungirri is afraid
I’m a murderer. The other half is convinced of it. That’s not a good business basis for a community facility like a pub. And,
as for minor renovations, the building needs gutting. The only bathrooms are shared, probably haven’t been touched for forty
years, and new plumbing’s bloody expensive to put in, especially in a hundred-year-old building. The whole place needs rewiring.
Electrics are probably a fire hazard, and there’s no phone or internet in the rooms.’

‘You did all that and more in Sydney,’ Liam pointed out calmly.

‘Yes, I did.’ And he’d worked damned hard, doing as much himself as possible to keep costs down. ‘But potential returns on
the investment were much greater than anything you could possibly get here. This is way too far from Sydney to appeal to the
weekend crowd. Most of the people who come out this way are either camping or caravanning, sticking to a budget. That doesn’t
leave a lot of room for margins that can earn a living and repay an investment.’

Liam had the sense to shut up, but he didn’t look at all defeated.

‘Now you’ve done it, Gil,’ Deb commented. ‘Liam’ll probably come up with a business plan within a week.’

‘Then he can find somebody else to finance it. It’s not the type of business we agreed we were looking for.’ He didn’t mean
it to sound harsh, but he had too much on his mind to indulge in flights of fancy. They were used to his blunt ways, though,
and neither of them pursued the topic as they finished up the cooking.

When everything was ready, Liam loaded his car with warm, foil-covered trays and left to drive up to the hall. After Gil
washed the last few dishes, Deb brought a couple of schooners of beer from the bar, and they went into the courtyard to drink
them.

They sat in companionable silence, as they’d done many times before. It had been their habit to meet over coffee in the morning,
in the small courtyard behind the pub in Sydney, Gil letting the first kick of caffeine jumpstart his brain while Deb worked
on the day’s menus. She’d always let him wake up properly, get accustomed to the daylight, before she raised any issues they
needed to go over before the day’s trading began.

Gil took a sip of his beer, then stretched out his legs, and leaned back in the wooden seat, closing his eyes. He let his
body relax, tired muscles appreciating the cessation of activity, his mind slowing down enough after the bustle of the evening
to begin unravelling the multiple strands of worry that were still unresolved. One action was clear – when Liam returned,
he’d tell both of them they were leaving in the morning.

He could hear Deb shifting in her chair, the muted clunk of her glass on the table each time she took a mouthful and set it
down again. Still on the post-cooking buzz, she didn’t slow down easily, either her hands or her mind.

Another swallow of beer, another clunk of the glass, before she broke the silence. ‘The police sergeant seems okay.’

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. ‘She’s not your type.’

‘Oh, jeez, I know that. She’s as straight as they come. But she’s smart, attractive, and has the sense to know you’re no murderer.’

‘Deb?’

‘Yes?’

He only needed to open one eye to give her a warning look. ‘Do not even
think
it.’

Instead of shutting up, she laughed. ‘You need to get yourself a life, Gil. Or a woman. Or both.’

‘I have a life.’

She snorted. ‘A life? Until three days ago, you worked eighteen or twenty hours a day, seven days a week, for years. That’s
not what I call a life.’

Only three days ago? Yeah, that was all, despite everything that had happened since then. And facing down the current threats
wasn’t what he’d call a life, either.

‘When was the last time you slept with a woman?’ She looked at him over her glass, her grin daring him to answer.

He could have told her to mind her own business, but they’d known each other for enough years that she probably could hazard
a good guess at the answer, anyway.

‘Not that long ago.’ A few weeks. A month or two. Maybe more. He couldn’t really remember when. Some brazen, brunette lawyer
who’d come on to him at the bar, hot and strong, and hung around till after closing and so he’d taken what she’d offered,
hard and fast against his office door.

‘The verb in that sentence was “slept”,’ Deb retorted, as if she’d read his mind. ‘Not “screwed”. Tangled limbs, under the
covers, nice, slow, waking up together in the morning … that sort of thing, you know?’

Did he know? He dug around in his memory, came up with nothing. Sex, oh, yeah, he knew that. Healthy, uncomplicated, uncommitted
sex. Anything else …

He reached for his beer, the liquid sliding down his throat smoothly. ‘Anyone ever tell you that grilling the boss about his
sex life is usually a sackable offence?’

‘You’re not my boss any more.’

‘No, I guess not. Just your future business partner. The one with the money.’

She grinned cheekily. ‘And a truckload of empty threats.’

Liam came out of the pub, a soft drink in his hand, and joined them at the table.

Gil straightened up, leaned his elbows on the table, hands clasping the schooner.

‘Speaking of threats,’ he said, ‘I need to tell you about this afternoon. And first thing tomorrow morning, both of you are
leaving here.’

They objected, of course. They objected, and argued, and discussed, in low tones, that it had to be Tony responsible and how
he might be exposed, and insisted that if Gil stayed, they should too.

‘Listen, you two,’ he said finally, ‘Tony Russo isn’t the only person with a vendetta.’ He rubbed some condensation off the
glass with his thumb, and then told them the worst. ‘Last January, I informed a senior police officer about two bent detectives
working with Kevin Jones. That info led directly to the arrest of the coppers and most of the Jones mob. The only person who
knew it could have been me was Marci, and it’s likely she leaked that before she died. If she did, then my life expectancy
is now pretty darned short.’

‘Jesus, Gil,’ Deb said, ‘you informed on
Kevin Jones
? Shouldn’t they be putting you in a safe house or something?’

‘No. Going into protection means too many police would know, and it only takes one bent copper to leak that information. If
I’m here, in the open, then they’ll target me directly, and not use others to get to me.’

For once, there was no sign of a smile on Liam’s face. Despite his upbeat nature, he knew, even more so than Deb, the brutal
realities of organised crime and the punishment for informing. As a boy he’d been forced to witness the execution of his mother
and sister, a bloody message for his brother, caught between rival Vietnamese drug lords.

‘That’s why you want us out of the way.’ Liam spoke flatly.

‘Yes. I’d prefer you left tonight, but you both look ready to crash, so first thing in the morning gives you a chance to get
some sleep, and be more alert.’

‘There must be something we can do,’ Deb insisted. ‘Not just leave you in this shit by yourself. We’re not
useless.’

‘Disappearing for a few days will help me. Head out east in the morning, withdraw as much cash as you can from the first ATM
you see, and keep your phones switched off. If they do look for you, they’ll think you’re heading back to Sydney. Go north
or south instead, and only use cash.’

Reluctantly they agreed, and after a few minutes arranging methods of contact, he left them to discuss which direction to
travel.

Some people might think it strange how well the three of them got along, with no blood relationship and no romance. Confident
now in her career and herself, Deb was hardly recognisable as the bashed-up, runaway teenager he’d found on the pub’s back
doorstep, ten years ago. And ever since Liam
had shown up five years back, offering to work in exchange for a meal, Deb had been one of his champions. Liam had returned
the friendship with loyalty, and plenty of brotherly cheek. So, they’d look out for each other, those two, Gil had no doubt
about it.

Which left him to look out for the other two people at risk through association with him. Convincing Kris to go would likely
be impossible, and as for Megan … he had to hope that if no-one knew their connection, she’d be safe.

He left the pub through the side gate, avoiding the bar. Through the windows he could see Sean Barrett and a couple of mates
at the pool table, a formal ball with the old folk obviously not their style. Although he could imagine them raising hell
and getting smashed at a Bachelors and Spinsters ball.

He needed to stretch his legs, get some air and find some space to think. He could have taken the Birraga road, or turned
on to Showground Road and headed out of town on one of the tracks into the scrub, but the music floated from the hall, and
without consciously making a decision, he turned towards it.

Through the open door, Kris glimpsed a shadow moving among the trees on the bank of the creek beyond her place. The dark shape
of a man, dropping down into a relaxed, comfortable bushman’s crouch, watching from a distance.

Gil Gillespie. The one man in town who could never walk into this ball as if he belonged.

The hall suddenly seemed too crowded, too stuffy, and the cool night air beckoned. Kris murmured an excuse to the people
she’d been talking to and slipped out the open side door, the skirt of her long dress brushing her legs as she crossed the
rough grass between them.

‘Quite the belle of the ball, aren’t you?’ That laconic tone of his drifted through the darkness as she approached.

‘Give me a pair of jeans and a T-shirt any day,’ she retorted, although, just now, she did for the first time actually feel
good
in the unaccustomed sensuality of the evening dress, with the light breeze brushing skin not usually exposed. And she wasn’t
planning on examining that feeling too closely.

She couldn’t see his face clearly. With a nod towards the hall, he asked, ‘So, are you and Strelitz an item?’

‘Me and Mark?’ She laughed out loud. ‘A politician and a cop? Not a good combination for anything other than friendship, believe
me. Diplomacy isn’t my thing. And I’d want to arrest half his colleagues.’