The Heat (6 page)

If Ormerod was in possession of a stolen painting, thought Wyatt, he'd hardly raise a public stink if it was stolen from him. But some wealthy thieves surrounded themselves with hard men. He returned to the notes. According to Minto's niece, Ormerod was a football fanatic, a committee member and former president of the Brisbane Lions Football Club, and this year the Lions were within a game of making it to the grand final. But even if they didn't, Ormerod would fly down to Melbourne for the big game. He hadn't missed one in twenty years. His house would be unoccupied from Friday 27
to Monday 30 September. Eight days from now.

Wyatt's only interest in sport was that he'd once lifted the gate takings at the MCG. He stared flatly at Minto. ‘You're sure of his movements?'

‘Mate,' said Minto, giving Wyatt a look.

Wyatt nodded. He understood: Minto had contacts in the police, in unions and on local councils, so why not in travel agencies and airlines?

He leaned forward to re-examine one of the grainy blow-ups. It showed a set of broad glass sliding doors, curtains open, enough sunlight penetrating to illuminate a slice of a sitting room. Minto, reaching across to tap with a clean, polished fingernail, said, ‘You can just glimpse the painting.'

Disliking Minto's proximity, Wyatt concentrated on the photograph. Blurry, but clear enough: a smallish painting, peasants in a field, hanging above a fireplace. He gestured at the paintings on the adjacent wall. A small gumtree, a smaller drover and sheep. ‘And these?'

‘Art show crap.'

If they weren't, Wyatt would take them for himself.

Minto leaned back in his chair. ‘So we know the painting's definitely there.'

Wyatt stared at Minto, eyes flat and grey as stones. ‘You mean it was there when that photograph was taken. Have you or your niece ever met Thomas Ormerod?'

‘No,' Minto said, shifting in his chair. ‘Look, tell me now, are you good for this?'

Wyatt was irritated by the question. ‘I won't know until I check it out. I'd need to know more about Ormerod, and the house.'

‘Head up there, that's all I ask,' Minto said. ‘Make contact with Leah. She should have floor plans and more photographs for you, and she'll be your backup.'

Wyatt would believe it when he saw it. He tapped the paperwork into a neat pile and slid it into the folder, his mind starting the tasks of sifting, ordering, planning.

‘Keep me informed of your progress anyway,' Minto said.

Wyatt stared flatly at the man. ‘No.'

Minto shrugged. ‘Anything else?'

‘I need an untraceable smartphone. Sturdy; good-sized screen.'

‘Leah will have one for you. Is that all?'

‘I need a gun.'

Minto winced. ‘No can do. The guy I use went to the States on a buying trip and got himself arrested. But you won't need a gun. Empty house, in and out in five minutes.'

Wyatt said nothing, just stared.

Minto faltered, then rallied. ‘Well, Leah's up in Noosa, awaiting your call.'

7

Leah Quarrell was up in Noosa, plotting to kill a man.

Swivelling in her office chair, she held a pawnshop Nokia with a ten-dollar prepaid SIM to her ear, waiting for Gavin Wurlitzer to answer. His voice when it came was wary, hesitant, not recognising the number.

‘Gavin, it's me,' she said.

‘Yeah?' Wurlitzer said.

‘I've got a good one for you.'

Wurlitzer was a burglar, always needy, and his voice quickened. ‘Yeah?'

‘Big house in Sunshine Beach overlooking the ocean. Belongs to a single woman, works as an underwear model. Semi-secluded, you don't have to worry about the neighbours. High-end electrical gear, silverware, jewellery, maybe some cash…'

‘She got a dog?'

‘No.'

Then Wurlitzer asked the crucial question.

‘She's an underwear model?'

Leah could picture the nasty little creep salivating there in his shithole. Pretending she didn't know he'd raped one of her clients last week, she said, ‘Yeah, but you don't have to worry. She won't be there, she's in the process of moving into her new place in Brisbane.'

But she'd sown the seed. Wurlitzer would picture a young woman alone in a house he intended to burgle. He'd hope to strike lucky again.

‘Security?' he said.

‘Alarm on the front door, that's all.'

Wurlitzer was silent. He said, ‘You positive about all this?'

‘Gavin,' said Leah thrillingly, ‘have Alan and I ever given you a bad tip?'

‘Guess not.'

‘Has to be tonight, Gavin.'

‘Doesn't give me much time,' grumbled the burglar.

‘She's about to put everything in storage,' Leah said. ‘The removalists are coming in tomorrow.'

‘Yeah, okay,' Wurlitzer said. Leah gave him the address.

Her last task for the day was to scope out Thomas Ormerod's house. Before she could leave the office, her uncle called.

Her stomach curdled, hearing his oily voice in her ear. ‘It's all set. You can expect Wyatt sometime tomorrow.'

‘Saturdays are busy for me, Uncle David.'

He ignored her. ‘He'll want a place to stay. And he wants a clean phone, something tough. Decent screen.'

‘Whatever.' What she wanted to say was, why couldn't she have been in on the meeting, too?

‘Anything he wants, within reason, okay?'

Pimping her out. He'd been doing it since she was thirteen.

‘Fine.'

‘When are you going to Ormerod's?'

‘I was about to leave when you called.'

‘I don't want you or Trask doing anything that'll spook him.'

‘We won't.'

‘A rough floor plan of the house, snaps of doors, windows, alarms, cameras.'

Leah knew that. She'd been told that. She cut the call, slipped into a cute little miniskirt, grabbed her purse and keys and went to collect Alan Trask.

Trask had spent the morning photographing a Noosa Junction woman, bedridden with a workplace injury but miraculously able to fetch heavy shopping in from the car when she thought no one was looking, and now he was outside Massimo's on Hastings Street, licking a coconut and raspberry ice-cream, waiting for Leah Quarrell to pick him up. She'd be on time, she was OCD about time.

He wore pants and a jacket with lots of pockets. Cameras, lenses, a tripod and camera bags hung around his neck, equipment rehabilitated from an evidence locker back when he was a policeman. A glorious day for standing around with an ice-cream, teenagers dressed in scraps of material streaming to and from the beach and the bikini and T-shirt boutiques.

A horn brapped, and Leah pulled in to the kerb, driving the Lexus she'd rented at the airport. She was in full sexy lifestyle-reporter mode, a wisp of sultriness dressed in a little black skirt, a tight top, scarlet nail polish, red lipstick, stylish tinted glasses. Trask climbed in, leaned over to kiss her.

She flinched.

‘Anything wrong?'

‘I'm a feature writer,' she snarled, ‘you're the photographer, that's who we are, that's who we were when we got up this morning.'

‘But we're not even at the guy's house yet.'

‘Stick to the script, Alan.'

‘No kissing the hired help.'

‘Exactly.' She looked him over.

‘Will I do?'

She shrugged, started the car. Her eyes danced from mirror to mirror before she pulled away from the kerb and headed for the bridge. Trask had never met anyone as paranoid as Minto's niece. ‘We being followed?'

Her eyes on the road, parked cars, rear-view mirror, she said, ‘I phoned Gavin, it's all set for tonight.'

Trask winced. Wurlitzer was a liability, he had to go. But guess who'd be doing the dirty work. Needing not to think about that, he said, ‘You're a sight for sore eyes, Leah.' A gorgeous lethal dart there in the driver's seat.

Leah's fingers whitened on the wheel. ‘Concentrate. You get a gun, you shoot Gavin Wurlitzer, you hide his body.'

‘Really quite simple when you think about it,' said Trask.

She sat tightly. Voice pitched close to a scream. ‘He has to go, Alan. You know that. The police get onto him, we're history.'

Trask sighed. They'd had a nice thing going, Leah identifying unoccupied houses, Trask providing police intel, Wurlitzer breaking and entering. A nice little sideline earner, and no need for Minto to know anything about it. The prick treated them like hired hands anyway.

‘And no handing it off to your bikie mates,' Leah added.

‘Yeah, yeah,' Trask said. His first thought had been getting one of the guys at the gym to whack Wurlitzer. Scary how Leah could read his mind.

She drove on, eyeing every mirror. Trask settled back in his seat. For a short while—about two seconds—he checked out the shorts and bikini tops, but sexual jealousy was fine-tuned in Leah, so he closed his eyes, settled his head against the door and zoned out for a while.

The Lexus whispered over the bridge and along the Parade briefly and then left into the side street that took them to the Iluka Islet bridge. A narrow ring road on the other side, very few parking spots, costly houses jammed together. Finally there was Thomas Ormerod's house, the driveway empty. Leah shot in, got out of the car and had the key fob aimed while Trask was still fiddling with his seatbelt.

‘Count to ten,' he told her.

She bared her sharp little teeth and headed for Ormerod's door. Rapped it with her knuckles. As Trask joined her, a face appeared between the door and the frame.

Leah immediately morphed from witch to angel, a smile that lit up the world. ‘Mr Ormerod?'

Ormerod seemed to think about it, rheumy features looking for a trap. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes?'

‘
Home Flair
magazine. We had an appointment?'

Clearly Ormerod had forgotten. He blinked, glanced back along the corridor to the interior of his ugly house as if ticking items on a mental checklist. Maybe he'd left a joint smouldering in an ashtray, thought Trask, a line of coke on a coffee table, a naked woman asleep on the rug.

Ormerod swung his head back to them and tried to smile. ‘Of course, come in. I didn't sleep well, and…'

His voice trailed away as he stepped back to extend an arm in welcome, revealing one of those skinny, narrow-shouldered, pot-bellied bodies shaped by years of drinking. Slicked hair, lots of aftershave, about sixty. Tan cotton pants, a yellow polo shirt
and deck shoes. He didn't look like a multi-millionaire. Maybe that was the point: if you were a millionaire you could afford not to look like one.

As if picking up on Trask's thoughts, Ormerod said, ‘I'd prefer not to appear in any of the photographs.'

‘Not a problem, Mr Ormerod,' gushed Leah.

Relieved, Ormerod led them down the hallway to the main living room at the rear, overlooking the water. The place was immaculate, but Trask wasn't interested in the decor, he was interested in the child perched on one of the armchairs. Aged about ten, in a swimsuit, a hint of makeup on her face.

‘My granddaughter,' said Ormerod tightly. ‘Go upstairs and play, dear, I won't be long.'

She smiled and ran off and Trask thought: you sick bastard.

Meanwhile there was the painting, on the wall above the fireplace. Not huge, a metre by a metre, suffused with an inner radiance, with two peasants at the centre, bending to a chore in a field. Lit by harvest light. An antidote to the sick air of Thomas Ormerod's house. Before he could stop himself, Trask said, ‘This is beautiful.'

Ormerod blinked. ‘What? Yeah. Family heirloom.'

Ignoring Leah's gimlet gaze, Trask glanced around at the other paintings: community art fair gumtrees and op-shop horsemen droving sheep. Ormerod's preferred taste?

‘How do you want to do this?' Ormerod asked, ignoring Trask as Leah's legs and cleavage brought him out of his stupor.

‘I thought you and I could sit here,' she said warmly, gesturing at the nest of armchairs and sofa, ‘and my assistant will take a series of photographs.'

Ormerod addressed the tops of her breasts. ‘It's for a story entitled “Water Views”, correct?'

Leah flashed teeth and eyes. ‘Yes!'

There was something else on Ormerod's mind. ‘So there's no need to view upstairs?'

Trask stepped in stoutly. ‘Of course not, Mr Ormerod.'

‘Good, good,' Ormerod said, following Leah to the sofa, Leah sitting pertly, knees together, her gleaming upper thighs inclined towards him.

‘Now, how can I help you?' Ormerod began, as Trask wandered around, taking in the windows and sliding doors with their strips of security tape, and glancing at the ceiling for cameras, all the while fiddling with lenses from the camera bag, twisting them on and off. He aimed the camera, fired a few shots at the doors and windows, the painting. Put his hand on a sliding door and said, ‘May I?' stepping out onto the deck when Ormerod said, ‘Of course.'

Trask strolled up and down out there, shooting the slope of lawn to the little dock and the water, the bridge and Lions Park and the buildings on Hastings Street in the distance. Then a few shots of the house from the lawn. Not an attractive house. A cold arrangement of cubes set with glass, plonked down in a jungle of tropical greenery and a single jacaranda tree. In a perfect world, thought Trask, money would coincide with taste. Conclusion: the world wasn't perfect.

Back into the house. Off the corridor and also facing the water was a smaller room. He stood in the doorway: desk, computer, printer, filing cabinet, shelved books. He wandered deeper into the house, glancing into the sitting room to see that Ormerod was still engrossed in Leah's thighs.

He found the security keypad by the front door, photographed it. Then, checking the image stored in the camera, Trask headed for the kitchen. It faced a stretch of shrubbery at the side of the house, set with a screen door. And the door was fitted with a pet flap.