Grk Undercover (29 page)

Tim was impatient to start searching for Grk, but he could see that there was no point arguing. He stood beside his mother, staring at the luggage carousel, waiting for their bags to emerge.

When the official had hauled each of their suitcases from the carousel and placed them on a trolley, he led them to the exit. They walked through a passage marked NOTHING TO DECLARE and emerged in the arrivals lounge. There they were greeted by thirty cameras and a barrage of shouting journalists.

“Mrs. Malt! Mrs. Malt! Over here!”

“Tim! Tim! Smile, please!”

“Can you answer a question for the readers of the
Morning Herald
? Where did you get Grk?”

“What’s his favorite food?”

“When did you first realize your dog had criminal tendencies?”

“Does he steal stuff at home?”

“Are you going to punish him?”

“How do you say his name?”

Mrs. Malt was bewildered by the attention, but she quite enjoyed it too. She’d never been bombarded by questions like this before. She turned from journalist to journalist, answering
their questions with what she hoped was a polite smile and a neat turn of phrase.

Tim didn’t smile. Nor did he answer any of the stupid questions that he was asked. In fact, he wished he was somewhere else. He didn’t want to be interviewed or photographed or featured on news bulletins. He just wanted to find Grk.

When the journalists and photographers had got what they wanted, the official led Tim and Mrs. Malt to a large black car. They drove from the airport to the center of Sydney, where the police had arranged for them to stay in adjoining rooms at one of the very smartest hotels in the city.

A car would pick them up at half-past two and drive them to their appointment with Chief Inspector Somerville. He would tell them everything about the current state of the police investigation. His officers would also want to ask all sorts of questions about Grk’s character, habits and appearance. They
wanted to know if Grk might be able to help them in any way in their search for Red Jelly and his four hostages.

Until then, Tim and Mrs. Malt were free to spend their time however they wished. They could have a swim in the hotel’s pool, order any number of delicacies from room service, wander round the city or just sleep.

Mrs. Malt was exhausted and jet-lagged from the long flight and she wanted to be alert for their meeting that afternoon with Chief Inspector Somerville, so she decided to have a snooze. She went to her room, climbed into bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Tim was tired too, but he hadn’t traveled halfway round the world to curl up under a sheet. Now that he was here in Sydney, he wanted to find Grk.

He didn’t know where to look. But he knew someone who might.

There was a phone beside the bed.

He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and dialed the number written on the paper.

“Hello?” said a voice.

“Is that Shane?”

“Hello, mate! Where are you?”

“In Sydney,” said Tim.

“Welcome to Aus, mate! How do you like it here?”

“I don’t know,” said Tim. “I haven’t seen anything except the airport and the hotel, and they just look like airports and hotels.”

“You’ve got to get out more, mate. See some of Sydney. You’ve come to the most beautiful city on the planet! You can’t just sit in your hotel room.”

“Actually,” said Tim, “I don’t want to see more of the city. I just want to find Grk.”

“Then you’d better come with me.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not yet, mate, but I’m going to find him.”

“How?”

“With the tracker, mate.”

“Which tracker?”

“The one in Red Jelly’s helicopter.”

“Are you serious? There’s a tracker in Red Jelly’s helicopter?”

“That’s right, mate.”

“But I talked to a policeman. He said it was too dangerous to try and track the helicopter. He said the chief inspector had decided not to even try.”

“That’s what Chief Inspector Somerville might have decided,” said Shane. “But someone else had a different idea.”

“Who?”

“This guy I know. We drink in the same pub. His name’s Tony Pecorino. He’s a good bloke, for a cop, if you know what I’m saying. Anyway, he called me up. He said he needs my help. He’s put a tracker on that chopper and he needs someone to follow it. A pilot. So he thought of me.”

“I don’t understand,” said Tim. “If he’s a policeman, why did he put a tracker on the helicopter? I thought the police had decided not to.”

“He designed this tracker himself,” said Shane. “He wants to prove it works. He wants to show the whole world that he can track down the Red Jelly Gang.”

“Won’t he get in trouble?”

“Maybe he will, mate, but that’s his problem. Unless you’re worried about the cops?”

“I just want to find Grk,” said Tim.

“Me too, mate. That’s why I’m going to grab a plane and follow the signal from Tony’s tracker. Do you want to come with me?”

“Of course I do,” said Tim. For the first time in hours—no, the first time in days—he felt happy. He was finally, properly, on Grk’s trail. “When are you leaving?”

“As soon as you get here.”

“Where are you?”

“Do you know the airport?”

“I’ve just been there.”

“You’d better come back again. Take a cab. Ask them to drop you at Botany Bay Air Taxis. They’ll know where it is. You’ll find me here. But hurry, mate, we don’t want to waste too much time.”

“I’ll leave now,” said Tim. Then he thought of something. “There’s just one problem,” he said. “I don’t have any Australian money.”

“No worries. I’ll pay the driver when you get here.”

Tim said goodbye to Shane and put the phone down. He looked around the room, wondering if he needed to take anything with him. A change of clothes? A bottle of water? His passport? No, there was only one thing that he needed. A spare leash and a spare collar for Grk. He’d stuffed them in his bag before they left home. Now he grabbed them, put them in his pocket and headed for the door. Then he remembered his mum. Should he tell her what he was doing? Of course not. She’d
never let him leave the hotel and go to find Shane. Should he leave her a note? No, that could wait. If she woke up, she’d just think he’d gone for a walk round the hotel. He could text her later and tell her what he was really doing. He tiptoed out of the room, closed the door behind him and hurried along the corridor.

Downstairs, Tim walked out of the air-conditioned hotel and into the heat of the day. A hotel porter nodded to him.

“Taxi, sir?”

“Yes, please,” said Tim.

The porter gestured to a waiting taxi. It purred forward and drew to a halt beside them. The porter opened the back door for Tim. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Thanks,” said Tim. He clambered into the cab and waited for the porter to close the door. He didn’t want to leave any clues for anyone who tried to discover where he had gone. Then he said. “The airport, please.”

Tim and Shane hurried across the tarmac to a small twin-propeller aircraft with BBAT printed in large green letters on its side. Botany Bay Air Taxis owned several small planes as well as helicopters. A mechanic was tinkering with the engine. Shane nodded to him. “Hello, mate. Is she ready to go?”

“Just about,” said the mechanic.

“Fuel full?”

“To the brim.”

“Excellent.” Shane opened the door and helped Tim aboard.

The mechanic consulted a sheet of paper. “What are you doing, Shane? You’re not on the schedule.”

“There’s been a change of plan,” said Shane. “I’ve got to give this kid a lift home. Talk to Tilly in the office, she’ll tell you all about it.”

“No worries,” said the mechanic. He stepped backward and waved. “Fly safe!”

“Thanks, mate. See you later.”

The mechanic wandered back to the hangar to work on another plane. He knew Shane and trusted him, so he didn’t bother asking any more questions.

Usually, Shane would personally check any small plane before taking off. He didn’t like to put his life in anyone else’s hands. Today was different. There was no time to waste. He’d just have to trust the mechanic. He started the engine. The propellers spun.

Shane handed Tim a pair of headphones, then put on a pair himself. They would protect their ears from the noise and allow them to talk to one another without yelling.

Shane spoke to the control tower, asking for permission to take off.

Five minutes later, they were airborne.

They flew out of Kingsford Smith Airport and over La Perouse. Through the windows, they could see the spindly skyscrapers in the heart of the city and, beyond them, the
glorious curves of the bay. Water glistened in the sunlight, silhouetting tiny beaches, harbors and islands.

“Pretty good, huh?”

Tim nodded. “It looks nice.”

“It’s more than nice,” said Shane. “It’s beautiful.”

“I suppose it is.”

“You know, mate, I must have visited half the cities on the planet. San Francisco, Rio de Janeiro, Paris, Rome, Marrakech, Kyoto, Budapest, Venice, Dubrovnik, New York … I’ve seen them all. Most of them were pretty good. Some were great. But not one matched Sydney. I’ve got to tell you, mate, this is the most beautiful city in the world.”

Shane pointed out the Harbor Bridge and the Opera House, its curved white roofs gleaming in the sunlight. On a clear day like this, he said, they could almost see the windows of his own apartment in Surry Hills.

Shane angled the plane away from the city and toward the mountains, following the signal sent by the tracker in Red Jelly’s chopper.

Below them, the city dropped away. The busy streets, densely populated with houses and cars and people, were replaced by an emptier landscape of gentle hills and dense woodland, punctuated by a few roads and houses.

Tim borrowed Shane’s phone and sent a text to his mum.

He thought about ringing Max and Natascha, but decided to leave them in peace. He didn’t want to raise their hopes. Not yet, anyway. Later, when he’d found Grk, he would tell them everything.

Shane took the phone back and switched it off. He didn’t want the police to find its signal and follow them.

They settled in their seats and prepared for the long flight ahead.

Mrs. Malt liked Sydney.

She hadn’t seen much of the city, of course. Actually, she hadn’t even left the hotel yet. But it was a very good hotel. Her room had a comfortable bed and a luxurious shower and a large terrace with a glorious view of the Harbor Bridge. She had slept well. Her shower had been hot and invigorating. She was dressed in clean clothes. Now she was ready to meet Chief Inspector Sam Somerville and hear all about the progress of the investigation. She went to fetch Tim, who was sleeping in the adjoining room.

She knocked on his door.

There was no answer.

She knocked again.

Still no answer.

She opened the door.

The room appeared to be empty.

Mrs. Malt felt a sudden lurch of panic. She hurried into the bathroom, checked the terrace and even looked under the bed.

The room
was
empty.

Tim might have been anywhere. He could have gone for a swim in the hotel pool, for instance. Or he might have wandered downstairs to see the rest of the hotel. It was quite possible that he was sitting in the restaurant, sampling the local cuisine, trying a few Aussie specialties.

But Mrs. Malt knew her son better than that. If he had disappeared from his room, he must have gone to find Grk.

She pulled out her phone to call her husband and tell him what had happened. It was the middle of the night in London, but he wouldn’t mind being woken up. Looking at the display, she noticed that she had been sent a text message. It had come from an unfamiliar number. She read it.

Hi mum gone 2 look 4 Grk back soon please don’t

worry please don’t follow me love from tim

Mrs. Malt sighed.

“Oh, Tim,” she whispered to herself.

She read the message again and then she sighed once more.

She loved her son. Of course she did. There was no one in the world who she loved more. Not her husband, or even herself.

But why did he have to run away? Why couldn’t he just tell her where he was going? And why did he have to do it here in Australia?

She knew there was no point asking these questions. Only one person could answer them, and he had disappeared.

A thousand miles from Sydney, Grk lay on the ground, very full, very happy and fast asleep.

He had dragged half a steak and five sausages through the dust to keep him company, but he couldn’t eat another mouthful. He used them as a pillow instead. He’d have them for breakfast when he woke up.

Around him, the party got louder and wilder, but he didn’t notice.

He slept through it all, dreaming about squirrels and rabbits and wombats and kangaroos and the biggest steak on the planet.

He didn’t hear the shouts or the laughter. He wasn’t disturbed by the stamping feet or the clapping hands or the singing. Every now and then, he opened an eye and glanced at his surroundings, checking that nothing had changed. Then he closed his eye again and went back to sleep.

As he dozed, twenty men were drinking beers and eating sausages and singing and laughing and talking and slapping one another on the back.

One of the men had twelve silver wristwatches tied to his arm. Another was wearing a necklace of two hundred tiny pearls. A third had six diamond rings on each of his little fingers.

The Red Jelly Gang were celebrating their victory.

They had taken possession of a small town in the middle of the outback and made their camp in its main street.

The town was called Dead Dog Creek. Many years ago it had been full of people, but no one had lived here for a long time. The Red Jelly Gang had the whole place to themselves.

While the rest of the gang were robbing the Sydney Opera House, one of Red Jelly’s men drove to Dead Dog Creek in a ute laden with enough food and drink to feed
twenty hungry men for a couple of days. (A ute, by the way, is the Australian name for a pickup truck.) When the four helicopters landed, he had been waiting for them with a crate of cold beers. He handed them round and demanded to know every detail of the robbery. He wished he could have been there too, but one member of the gang had to drive the truck, and he’d picked the short straw.