Vodka Doesn't Freeze (23 page)

'How do I know if I know this man? Do you know the names of every bastard you have ever met? Maybe I did see him somewhere. I don't know.'

She also made sure to mention Alejandro Sebastian whenever she could. It was too late to prevent Sebastian knowing they were watching him. Harris and Jardine were approaching him right now. If they were going to come down, she wanted it heavy. She disagreed with Jardine that they should play it safe with Sebastian – if they caught him by surprise, he could make a mistake. Of course, it was possible, although unlikely, that he could panic and maybe take out another member of his special club, a witness perhaps. What a shame if it was this man, she thought, wanting to slap Mahmoud's eyes away from her chest. She was relieved when the interview ended; she felt like she needed a bath.

Out in the carpark, Jamal's eyes felt too hot to close, like the lids would stick to his eyeballs if he did not stare straight ahead. A molar silently fractured as he bit down on the anger at the back of his throat.

He started his van and pulled away from the Central police station.

N
ATHAN
S
ANDERS PUSHED
his mouth further into his pillow, trying to suffocate his sobs. He couldn't bear his mother coming to comfort him, only to end up trying to calm her again when she crumpled to his bedroom floor. Jerome had been missing for six days, and Nathan wished that he could be as staunch as his father, driving the streets relentlessly looking for his son, returning only for food and brief naps in his chair before heading out again.

Nathan replayed for the hundredth time the words he'd said to Jerome on the last night he saw him. He whispered a prayer, and told God that he could never forgive himself or his father if his brother did not come home alive.

Into his wet pillow, he offered God more promises and threats.

No-one else at his school had these sneakers yet. Vans, skaters' shoes; his dad got them from America at Christmas. Not even Scott Emery in Year 8 had 'em, and he always got everything first. Jerome found that focusing hard on his clothes, stuff from home, helped him to not cry so much. His throat hurt from crying and he needed to stop.

But they'd all been pretty nice to him, actually. Well, except for
kidnapping
him. Jerome gave himself a mental head slap.

When he realised the big man was not going to call his mum, and they were going to keep him, Jerome's mind had filled with every horror he'd heard about in his twelve years. And that was a lot. Like the time he'd had nightmares for a week after the party at Logan's house. Assam Ravinder, whose dad was a cop, had snuck over this police magazine. There was a picture of this guy in there who'd tied a rope to the trunk of a tree, got in his car, tied the rope around his neck, and driven forward. They showed the head next to the body, really close up. Braydon had been sick in his sleeping bag and had to go home.

But, except for that guy who said his name was Tadpole putting his hand on Jerome's back and leg a couple of times, no-one here had touched him. And they'd even been pretty nice to him. He could help himself to anything in the fridge, they'd told him, and he'd had a few of cans of Coke, some cake and sandwiches, but mostly he didn't like to move. Tadpole had brought pizza down a couple of times, but it had those anchovy things on it, and he hadn't been able to make himself eat much. He had no idea how long he'd been here, but he thought it had to be more than four nights. He could hear nothing from the outside. When the white van had left, the big room seemed more like a lounge room than a garage; there was a big TV on one wall, some chairs and stuff, a kitchen and a bathroom. Feeling like he was going to have a heart attack, he'd tried once to open a door at the end of the room, but he couldn't make it move. It was the same story with the door they drove the van through.

Sometimes he'd forget anything was wrong. He even fell asleep a few times. Mostly, though, there was this bad feeling, like when Nathan would jump out from the hallway in the dark, except the feeling just went on and on.

At least Big Nose hadn't been back. They called him Jamaal. Jerome had seen him opening and closing his hands like he wanted to choke something. He did it mostly when the big one was talking. Once when he saw Jerome watching him, Jamaal had smiled and Jerome had nearly gone to the toilet in his pants.

Until today, he hadn't left the underground room, but maybe half an hour earlier, after Tadpole had found him crying again, he'd told Jerome he'd take him to see the ocean if he promised not to say a word. With a tea towel wrapped around his eyes, he'd climbed some stairs with Tadpole behind him. He'd smelled the outside air, but then Jamaal's voice made him freeze. Tadpole had shoved and sort of carried him back down the stairs, back to the big room. Tadpole had been giggling, with his hands over his mouth, but Jerome didn't think it was funny. He wanted to be at home, but down here was much better than up there with Jamaal.

He wondered what time it was. What his mum and dad were doing. He hoped they were still looking for him. Maybe Assam Ravinder's father would be trying to find him too. How long do people keep looking for you when you've been kidnapped? Is there a time when they decide you're not coming back and they stop looking?

Jerome rubbed his eyes, and focused hard on his sneakers.

A
LTHOUGH SHE WAS
fully alert before she picked up the phone that woke her, Jill still couldn't make out the identity of the caller. She sat upright in her bed, telephone receiver in hand; it sounded as though the speaker was trying to disguise their voice. She flicked the switch on her bedside lamp and wondered how this person had got her number.

'I'm there right now,' the voice sounded muffled. Jill struggled to determine whether it was male or female. 'I can't make it all stop, but tonight I'm going to try.'

'Would you please tell me who this is?' Jill's eyes were grainy; her body urged her back to her pillow, the warm quilt. The red numbers on the clock next to her registered 12.18 a.m.

'I'm on Kensington Drive, Hunters Hill. I'm in my car out the front of Sebastian's house. I know you know who he is. The Owner.'

'How did you get this number?'

'Is that really all you've got to say? I thought you, if no-one else, would want to put a stop to what these men are doing.'

'What are they doing?'

'Why, they fuck children, Jill. But you already know that, don't you?'

The voice sounded like the person was speaking through cloth.

Jill got up and walked with the phone now, pacing through her living room.

'Jill, they have a child there tonight.' Jill gripped the phone in her hand. 'I think it's a boy called Jerome Sanders; he was snatched last week. There's a party going on right now. Some Japanese high rollers have come here to celebrate, and Jerome is the party favour.'

Jill stood very still. 'How do you know all this?' she asked.

'I've been watching. I know you got my photo.'

'What is that address again?' Jill scribbled it down on a notepad in the kitchen; she tasted acid at the back of her throat. 'I'll be there within half an hour. Whoever you are, do not enter that house. If there is a child in there you cannot risk him being hurt.'

'Jill, there is a child in there. I told you. And it's probably a little too late to hope that there's just a risk of him being hurt. You know what kind of men these are.'

Jill unlocked her door; a jacket over her tracksuit would have to do. She slipped her firearm into the pocket of her windcheater. She'd telephone Scotty from her mobile, in transit.

Scotty confirmed what she already knew. The kidnapping of Jerome Sanders had been in the news and on their bulletin boards for a week. Scotty promised he'd meet her at Hunters Hill within half an hour.

'Jill, you don't know what this is. Do not get out of the car until I get there. Are we clear?'

'Yep. Just get there fast, and bring the cavalry.'

She knew neither of them could get there in less than forty minutes, and because Scotty would need to find Andreessen and arrange for back-up, he'd probably be considerably longer.

Jill stayed not more than twenty over the speed limit, overriding the instincts that were urging her to floor it. Jerome Sanders was with them right now. She blinked her eyes rapidly to stop images forming of what could be happening to him, what had happened to her.

She did not have to look to know that the girl with the white eyes sat in the passenger seat next to her, staring fixedly ahead, on her way to help Jerome. Somewhere Jill was faintly disturbed that this girl from the basement, who since then had lived only in her nightmares, was taking this ride with her.

She tried to ignore the girl's burning presence as she drove into the night.

Jill had rarely used the portable navigation system her father had bought her for Christmas a few years ago. Being told where to go by the British nanny voice irritated her. Tonight, however, she obeyed the voice, and at 12.50 a.m. she pulled into the sleeping wealth of Kensington Drive, Hunters Hill. Crawling forward with her headlights off, she saw Mercy Merris's red Mercedes parked with a group of its newer, more expensive cousins. She felt no surprise. She rolled past the car, lights still off, and glanced inside. Empty.

She drove to the next street and turned left, parked a few houses down. Hands in her pockets, one cradling her gun, Jill jogged back towards the Mercedes, sticking to pools of darkness. She could see no-one. The homes in this street were set well back from the road. The night was still, the air cool on her face.

She reached Mercy's car, parked close to the house with the street number she'd been given. She assumed the caller had been Mercy. So Mercy had sent the photo. What was she doing?

Next to the Mercedes, a long sandstone wall protected a high, perfectly maintained hedge; the hedge protected a million-dollar view from those too poor to see it from their own homes. There was still no movement on the street.

Jill felt the girl with the white eyes jump over the wall before her. Shit. She waited a beat and followed her over, then she pushed her way through the hedge, the fragrant twigs pulling at her hair, clawing her clothing, trying to trap her within. When she finally broke through, the white-eyed girl was running down a hill towards the house. 'Wait for Scotty,' she wanted to yell after herself. Instead, she moved cautiously down velvety lawns towards the dark house.

She was halfway to the back of the huge home when the floodlights flared, turning night to day. Jill threw herself into a bush at the side of the gravel drive and lay there, her heart in her mouth, watching. The girl with the white eyes lay next to her, breathing evenly, waiting for Jill to get up and do something.

I should wait for Scotty, she told herself, even as she moved from her stomach to a crouch, readying to move. The lights had not brought anybody to the yard, and there was no noticeable movement in the house. Jill could see all of the grounds now, a wave of dark green flowing down to the inky harbour fifty metres away. The owners were perhaps used to large water birds triggering the sensor lights. In any event, they had not bothered to come and check why they'd been activated.

Jill made her way along the edge of the driveway, creeping through the shrubbery to avoid the crunch of the gravel on one side and the well-lit lawn on the other. When she drew parallel with the back of the house, she saw huge windows filled with light, and movement inside. She froze again. Should she try to get closer to the house? Scotty would be on the way, but she knew it would have taken him some time to wake the inspector, explain the situation and coordinate a plan of approach. The boss would probably want a search warrant before anyone came near the place. He'd have started out, but she knew he'd be a while yet.

Swaying slightly on her feet from the mental tug-of-war, Jill suddenly swore under her breath. The white-eyed girl was running down the lawn towards the ocean. Jill noticed a boatshed at the bottom of the grounds. It was a better place to wait than here, exposed. She followed her down to the water's edge.

It wasn't until Mr Sebastian told Jerome that he wouldn't be able to stop Jamaal from hurting him that Jerome managed to stop himself crying.

'He doesn't have a lot of patience, I'm afraid, Jerome,' said the big man, smiling down at him kindly. 'He particularly dislikes crying, you see. He once told me that his father would punish him when he used to cry, and now it seems that the sound of it triggers something quite ferocious in him.'

Jerome swallowed hard. Jamaal was looking at him as though he were food.

Jerome thought it was maybe an hour since the big man, Tadpole and Jamaal had entered through a heavy door into the garage. The big man had spoken first.

'Jerome, I realised only this afternoon that I have not properly introduced myself to you. My name is Mr Sebastian, and I hope that we can be firm friends.' His eyes crinkled in a friendly fashion. 'I know you've met Tadpole here' – Tadpole positively beamed – 'and this is Jamaal, who brought you to us, of course.'

Although he was ashamed of it, Jerome could not stop some hot tears falling.

'I-I want to go home.'

'Of course you do, but not before the party, young man!' Mr Sebastian continued. 'Jamaal has some clothes for you to wear, and I'm afraid you'll have to have a shower now.' He leaned forward and stage-whispered conspiratorially, 'You're starting to smell!'

Tadpole giggled.

'I . . . d-don't want to go to a party,' Jerome cried in earnest now. He felt like someone had punched him in the throat.

'Oh, but of course you do. There will be balloons and cake, lollies and chips, and you're the guest of honour, young man. Some very important men have come here to meet you. We've told them all about you. You wouldn't want them to be sad, would you?'

'N-no.'

'Of course not.'

'And then can I go home?'

'Well, that will be then, and this is now, is it not? And you've a shower to take, and a party to attend.'

It was around then that Mr Sebastian had told Jerome about Jamaal's aversion to crying.

The floodlights didn't reach the water's edge, and Jill approached the boatshed by padding quietly across the thick lawn. Boats clanked gently, rocking in the calm water where the property ended. The harbour smelt like life and death.

The white-eyed girl stood on her toes at the boatshed, peering into a rind of light around a window. Jill crept up to join her, the grass giving way to sand beneath her sneakers. The boatshed sat at the very edge of the water, a single-room wooden structure that could have been sold for twice what Jill's flat was worth. Silent, she stepped up on a rock upon which the shed was built, and peered in through a crack in some sort of window covering.

A small gasp of surprise from the white-eyed girl made Jill want to scream. Dr Mercy Merris lay on the floor of the boatshed staring unseeingly at the window through which Jill peered. Blood pooled on a white concrete floor lit by a single overhead bulb. Probably she's been knocked out, probably she's going to be okay, she tried to reassure the white-eyed girl.

Jill determinedly ignored the cabbage-sized hole of an exit wound in the middle of Mercy's chest.

There's definitely going to be a problem with her brother, thought Jamaal. The father he could talk around – Allah knew the father could manage his own women – but his wife's brother was going to be difficult. The last time his wife had got out of control, her brother had promised Jamaal he would kill him if he ever saw her bruised that way again. This time she was in Westmead Hospital with a fractured jaw. And his brother-in-law was no softcock. He'd done infantry training in Lebanon, he'd been shot twice in Sydney, and he had a lot of friends, inside and out of gaol. The brother was going to be a problem.

Jamaal knew where the blame lay, and he intended to make the bitch pay. His wife's questioning about why the cops had come to his home had been too much to bear after the interrogation that morning. He had a hard-on for Sergeant Jillian Jackson that would not go away until she was bleeding.

Now in the basement, Jamaal chewed on an antacid tablet and stared at Jerome. Just give me a fuckin' reason, his eyes told the boy. The kid didn't, showering and dressing in the small bathroom off the garage without saying another word.

Tadpole danced through the basement room, whipping himself up for the special party. He stopped mid-pirouette in the kitchen when he caught the look in Jamaal's eye.

'Coffee, Jamaal?' asked Tadpole uneasily.

Jamaal just chewed the tablet; the burning in his diaphragm remained.

'Mr Japan is going to love our little friend in there,' Tadpole continued. 'Let's just hope he doesn't love him too long 'cause Sebastian's promised me seconds.' There was a pause. 'Unless, of course, you wanted to play first, Jamaal? You found him, after all. Fair's fair.' He smiled ingratiatingly.

His face full of the acid in his gut, Jamaal left the room. I'll cut that fuckin' poofter's throat if I have to listen to any more, he thought. He'd take what he wanted when he was ready. Using the hidden stairwell, he made his way up to the house.