Good Money (26 page)

I was sceptical. ‘It has to be completely anonymous.'

She held up a hand and crossed her bare cleavage with the other. She never used to show cleavage. ‘Trust me.'

‘Detective material, you know that?' I said. ‘I hope they appreciate you in Testosterone Central.'

Phuong tipped an oyster down her throat, finished her champagne. ‘Some do.'

I left my oyster in its shell and my half-empty glass on the bar. A metaphor for my day. Outside, the rain had stopped. Phuong pressed a button on her keys and her car's lights flashed. I buckled up, thinking here I was, about to break into a meth lab, once operated by Gaetano Cesarelli; I'd come a long way. On the Tullamarine Interchange, as we flew past the ‘red straws' and the cantilevered ‘cheese stick' roadside sculpture, I remembered another matter of business. ‘You know a Vince McKechnie?' I asked Phuong. ‘He's a journalist?'

‘Journalist?' She made a face of distaste at the word. ‘Nope.'

‘You sure? Finance reporter — likes to hold a blowtorch to the feet of tax-avoiding corporate fiends. He's old, one lung, half-dead?'

Phuong shook her head, and took the Calder turn-off. Peak hour was over — the road was almost uninhabited. ‘What about him?'

‘He came to see me, asking about Tania. Nina. Whichever.'

‘I didn't think she was involved in the family business.'

‘I didn't think so either but he said Tania had been in touch with him. They had arranged a meeting but she didn't show up.'

Phuong lifted her chin slightly as she drove — I had her full attention now. ‘Why would she speak to a journalist?'

‘I don't know,' I said, feigning bafflement. The report had become my number one theory. She was going to show McKechnie the mineral report for Mount Percy Sutton, but then for whatever reason, she had changed her mind.

Phuong glanced at me, across the dark interior of her silly little car. Her eyes called me a damn liar.

‘I didn't tell him anything,' I said. ‘About the case.'

‘Okay,' she said slowly. ‘And you're telling me this because —?'

‘McKechnie phoned me this morning. A car was found in the desert: outback, Western Australia. A deceased male corpse inside.'

The news caused her brow to crinkle. ‘McKechnie told you that? Why?'

‘The area is leased by a mining company owned by Tania's father.'

‘Why tell
you
, is what I'm asking.'

‘He likes me.'

She guffawed.

‘He came around to check out her flat, and a neighbour told him we were friends. He's under the impression I know all about her. But I haven't told him anything much.'

Phuong sniffed. ‘I'll get the uniforms to talk to WA. I'm guessing burnt-out cars
litter
the outback.'

I pursed my lips and looked out the window. ‘How's the investigation going?' I said to the blackness. ‘What angles are they working?'

‘They don't tell me anything,' Phuong said.

If I told her about the report, she'd want me to hand it in — she'd insist on it. I was pretty sure Tania did not want that to happen. ‘I don't think Brodtmann has been completely forthcoming with your colleagues.'

We were approaching the Diggers Rest turn off. Phuong changed lanes and slowed to the speed limit. ‘What makes you say that?'

I shrugged. ‘I think he feels responsible for Tania's disappearance; he seems guilt-ridden, to me.'

She let that idea float around for a while, and then said. ‘So, how are you?'

I hadn't mentioned Brophy — my almost-boyfriend, now dumped — thus avoiding the need now for a humiliating status update: Single. Again. ‘Awesome.'

As she took the exit, I gave directions. We turned at the football oval and stopped in the shadows of a brick building. In the dim light, a faded sign read:
Home of the mighty Burras
.

‘You're parking here?'

‘It's not far.'

‘I don't mind the
exercise
; I'm questioning your judgement. We will be completely exposed, walking from here.'

‘I know what I'm doing.'

‘One does not simply walk into Mordor,' I said, more to myself.

‘Relax, will you? I thought this was your idea.' She unzipped her dress, slipped out of it, and took off her boots. Soon she was clothed in dark trackpants and black T-shirt.

‘I can't imagine why you'd think that. I'm a very law-abiding person. I conform, I obey, I acquiesce to my betters — my political and social overlords.'

Phuong pulled the hood of her black jacket over her head, tied the laces on a pair of black Free Runs, and retrieved a sports bag from the boot. She unzipped it and let me see the police-issue Glock, two torches, bolt-cutters, and a couple of smaller tools that appeared to be of differing but specific purposes. ‘Let's go.'

28

WE LEFT
the township, heading out into a flat, open landscape. The road was dark, and the only light was from a thin moon that kept disappearing behind the clouds. Cold wind swept over us and hummed in the power lines; the only other sound was the crunch of our shoes on the gravel shoulder. After about forty minutes of brisk walking, a dirt road crossed our path. My nerves started doing burnouts. I checked my note from Mrs Chol. ‘This fits.'

We went left on the rutted dirt track. There were fenced paddocks on both sides, and I heard a horse whinny in the dark. I could just make out a trotting track.

I was numb from cold when we came to the house. A rectangular kit-home, homestead-style, with a long, bull-nose veranda, sat on an angle about fifty metres from the road.

I nodded at Phuong and we stepped through a gap in the fence into the adjacent paddock. I prayed there wasn't a steer lurking in the blackness, quietly snorting and stamping and lining us up. The grass was damp underfoot. A tall cyclone fence measured the perimeter of the block, and we walked around it to the back boundary. Some of the posts had floodlights and CCTV cameras mounted on them — but our movements failed to trigger the lights. We inspected the fence until we found a padlocked gate, leading from the paddock to a yard at the rear of the building. Phuong pulled out a couple of pairs of latex gloves and the torches from her bag. Once we were gloved, I held a torch as she inserted a small tool into the lock and it released.

The back of the property was taken up on one side by a large shed. The other end was cleared and the ground was covered in small screenings, and not a blade of grass in sight. It probably served as a car park, but it was empty now. We walked between the shed and the fence. It was dark and quiet; no security lights came on. We reached the house and peered in a couple of windows, there were no lights on inside that I could see. We walked around, and halfway along there was a doorway with a wire door. It creaked loudly as Phuong opened it. The timber door behind it was locked. I pointed to the two deadlocks along its frame. Phuong tracked along the wall to an aluminium-framed sliding window. She unlatched the flywire screen with a screwdriver, and then started playing with the lock. It gave and she pushed the window mechanism, which moved about twenty centimetres and stopped. She threw her bag in, and with a smooth lift and sideways tumble manoeuvre she disappeared inside. Given the size of the gap, there was no point attempting to follow her, so I turned off my torch and waited.

A car travelled at speed on a distant road. I held my breath, but it kept going, heading towards Sunbury.

I could see the muted light of her torch moving through the rooms. ‘Phuong,' I hissed into the window. ‘Hurry up. Open the door.'

She was back. ‘Hold this.' She handed me her torch through the window.

‘The door's deadlocked from inside.'

‘See anything?'

She eased her way out. ‘Stinks. Filthy. Crap everywhere. No equipment though. I don't think this is it.'

‘The shed?'

She nodded.

The handles of the double doors were threaded with a padlocked chain. Phuong tried the small tool in the lock again, but it was jammed and wouldn't budge. She pulled out the bolt cutters and snapped a link. The chain fell and we stepped inside, flashing our torches.

It was an office, of sorts: desk, office chair; a couple of low, metal filing cabinets; and all around us, stacks of plastic crates. There were doors on either side, a sliding door on the right and a regular door on the left. I pushed the sliding door open and Phuong shone the torch through. It was a larger space, set up like a factory. A long, industrial-looking bench was in the centre of the room, and shelves lined the walls. A couple of free-standing industrial heaters attached to gas bottles stood in the far corner, near a table and three colonial-style dining chairs. A large freezer was chained and padlocked.

I left Phuong, who was shining her torch in the corners of the factory, and went back to the office for a proper look around. I opened the filing cabinet drawers but they were empty — ditto the desk drawers, except for an empty packet of cigarettes, a disposable lighter, and a bunch of keys. It had been completely cleaned out. Everything not nailed down had been stolen. I wondered if Mabor had plundered any decent spoils. I tried the door on the left. It was deadlocked, but there was a small dusty window above the door.

I dragged the office chair over to the door and tested it with my foot. It liked turning around. I put the torch between my teeth, steadied myself by holding the doorjamb, and with both feet on the seat, stood up on the chair. I shone the torch in the window and tried to see, but as I leaned forward the chair turned, pulling me with it. I let go of the door and slid to the floor.

I sat on the stupid chair and swivelled in the manner of a bored child. Like Marigold, in fact. What a life that kid led — a childhood effectively over by ten. But it wasn't exactly her fault. She had a weariness that implied she'd seen and heard some pretty nasty adult stuff in her time. My conventional Catholic upbringing in rural Victoria seemed idyllic in comparison. I folded my arms on the table and put my head down. It was likely that, in similar circumstances, I would have turned out like a Marigold — a know-all, cynical child, set on poisoning her father's relationships. I was woozy from swivelling when I thought of the keys.

Some genius had installed the deadlock at the top of the door. I had to stand on my tiptoes to reach it. There were three keys. The first was a long silver key that didn't make it past the opening. The next was small, probably a window key; I didn't try it. The last was brass, pretty standard-looking, and I slotted it. The lock released and the door swung open. The place stank of stale body odour and a rank rubbish-bin smell, same as when we found a rats' nest in a shed in Woolburn — sickening. I held my breath and, waving my torch, ventured inside. It was a storeroom, converted to a miserable little bedroom. No windows, save the one above the door. There was a mattress against one wall, a wooden chair lying on its side, a pile of blankets, a row of metallic shelving, and some big plastic containers on the floor and stacked in the back corner, where a small table had been placed at a ridiculous angle. Clearly these people had no appreciation for
feng shui
.

Phuong was back in the office and slid the factory door shut behind her. I came out to join her, glad to get away from the pong.

‘This operation was massive,' Phuong said. ‘You can see it's been dismantled. Only odd bits of equipment left. But the amount of storage — the output must have been ridiculous. Be good to get prints.'

‘Just as long as you don't say how you found the place. And can you please not shine that in my face?'

‘Wait. Look.'

Phuong was pointing at something on the table. ‘There. Look at that.' She trained the light where her finger was tapping the tabletop. I looked at a long smear of dried goo across the surface of the table. ‘Gross.'

Phuong met my eyes. ‘He leaves a snot scrap wherever he goes. Like a calling card.'

‘Clacker was here,' I squawked. We laughed hard, the tears streaming, trying to make no sound. I thought I might wet myself.

Phuong recovered first. ‘Anything?' She nodded at the filing cabinet.

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.'

‘And what's that? A storeroom?'

I was about to say, when she held up a hand for silence. Outside, we heard the crunch of tyres rolling slowly over the stones and a large engine throbbing at low revs. Car doors slammed. Boots on the gravel. Voices. ‘… fuckin backwater.' A male voice, loud, not afraid of being overheard. ‘Inbred cunts and hobbits, innit?'

‘Not
inbred
.' The reply was higher pitched, with traces of indignation. ‘Some of em don't know what day it is, but.' An untreated New Zealand accent.

‘Sheep keep youse busy?'

‘Give the sheep a rest, bro.'

‘You're the one fuckin em.' The first voice was full-throttle alpha male, the one in charge: ‘Can't see shit. Hey, fush'n'chups, put the headlights back on.'