Ash Island Page 16

  ‘What about his father?’

  ‘Dunno. Some bloke she met in Europe, apparently.’

  ‘Not Luke Santini, then?’

  ‘Luke? Not as far as I know. Lotta questions, mate.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s a great place she has there.’

  ‘Yeah. You got a stud or something?’

  ‘Stud?’

  ‘Horses. Thought you might be buying horses. Didn’t reckon you as a farmer.’

  ‘Oh, no. Just a social trip. I’m new to the area. Amber wanted to give me an overview.’

  ‘Right, well, this is the way to do it, sure enough.’

  When they get to the Newcastle terminal Harry goes back to his car and drives out to the John Hunter hospital. He shows his badge at the information desk and checks their records. Craig Schaefer was admitted at 2:43 p.m. on Sunday the twenty-fourth and underwent an emergency operation that evening. The following morning he discharged himself against the advice of his doctors, and has not been in contact since.

  ‘Monday morning,’ Harry repeats. ‘Three days ago.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  48

  1:28 a.m. Harry waits in the hire car parked on the street between his hotel and the Throsby Creek bridge. He sees the headlight of a motorbike turn the corner at the far end of the street and come towards him, slowing to a stop outside the hotel. The bike’s light and engine go off and the rider crosses the street into the shadows beside his Corolla. Harry waits for several minutes, then he sees the figure return to the bike. It moves out into the street and as it rumbles past Harry ducks down. Checks its numberplate as it continues on over the bridge. He starts the hire car and catches sight of the bike coming off the roundabout up ahead. Follows it onto the Industrial Highway then off, towards the coal facilities on Kooragang. Through the floodlit landscape of gantries and conveyors, between the dark steel hulls of ships on one side and the darker mountains of coal on the other, and finally to the bike’s destination in the car park of NRL. There are a dozen other vehicles there in front of the brightly lit building. Harry parks in the shadows at the perimeter and watches through the chain-link fence as the biker emerges into the light, taking off his helmet, and walks in through the front doors. A black leather jacket, a glimpse of a face, Anglo, dark hair.

  Harry turns around; goes back to the pub to check his car. There’s no sign of tampering, but what was the guy doing? Harry drives away, out onto the link road to the motorway to Sydney. When he reaches their home in Surry Hills he grabs a few hours’ sleep. He rises at dawn, goes out for a long run, showers, has breakfast and checks the number of the bike. Vince Scully. An address in Wallsend, Newcastle.

  Harry is packing a few things that Jenny has asked for when the phone rings.

  Deb Velasco.

  ‘Harry, you in Sydney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. We’ve been invited to meet with Capp again, you and I, together with his lawyer, Horn. They’ve come up with a deal.’

  He’s surprised. ‘They asked for me?’

  ‘They did. You’re free, are you?’

  He says yes, and they arrange a time to meet at Long Bay.

  He phones Jenny and tells her he’ll be delayed. She says not to worry, but he hears the disappointment in her voice. Maybe Aunt Meri and her menagerie are getting stale.

  They’ve obviously been conferring for some time when Harry and Deb arrive. There’s a mess of butts in Capp’s ashtray and several pages of scribbled notes in front of Nathaniel Horn. Capp seems cheerful, Horn’s hooded eyes giving nothing away. They get down to business.

  ‘My client has decided to take advantage of your offer to drop charges in exchange for information,’ Horn intones.

  ‘That wasn’t what we offered,’ Deb objects, and there is an opening skirmish, two wrestlers circling at the start of a bout. Harry and Capp sit back and watch, arms folded.

  When some kind of preliminary understanding has been reached they move on to specifics. Capp claims to have information about the Ash Island murders. Divulging this will inevitably result in police actions that will place him in jeopardy if he remains in prison. He therefore requires a guarantee that he will be released and all charges against him dropped.

  Deb lights a cigarette and explains that it’s impossible to give such a guarantee without testing whether the information is correct. In any case Capp can be held in secure confinement in jail for his safety.

  Capp rams his cigarette into the ashtray and snarls, ‘Waste a fuckin’ time, Nat. Told ya. Cunt’s fuckin’ useless. Get someone else—the commissioner.’

  Horn, in his usual grinding monotone, suggests a break while he confers with his client, during which Inspector Velasco might discuss the offer with her colleagues.

  Harry and Deb retire to a vacant interview room, where she phones her contact at the prosecutor’s office. He tells her the DPP has pretty much made up its mind to drop the Capp case, so anything she can get will be a bonus.

  She rings off, irritated. ‘What can he tell us, Harry?’

  ‘Well, it won’t be the truth, which is that he ordered all three of them to be killed.’

  ‘You reckon he did?’

  He nods.

  ‘Okay,’ she sighs. ‘Let’s see what he has to say.’

  They return. Horn is sipping at a glass of water. ‘Well?’ he says.

  ‘I am authorised to tell you that if Mr Capp provides us with information that leads to a significant breakthrough in the Ash Island murder investigations, leading to arrests and charges being laid, then Mr Capp will be released on bail and the charges against him reassessed with a view to having them dropped.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Horn shakes his head. ‘That won’t do. I can tell you now that my client’s information will lead to such a breakthrough and arrests, but he must first have a clear commitment to drop the charges against him—a guarantee, binding, in writing.’

  They haggle, first about the guarantee, then about the sequence of events. Will Capp be released before the police actions or after? Will the charges be dropped as soon as the first arrest is made, or after a murder charge is brought?

  Deb digs her heels in, but after a while Harry can see that Horn knows he’s going to get his way. It’s only a matter of time.

  Finally an agreement is hammered out, a form of words agreed, and the two police leave the room again for Deb to obtain a written document signed by an officer of the DPP. They return with it, hand it over to Horn, who nods and makes what passes for a smile.

  Finally, Capp gets to tell his story.

  ‘Marco Ganis, Tony Gemmell, the Chinaman—Cheung. That’s your three bodies.’

  ‘That’s been in the papers,’ Deb snaps.

  ‘In that order,’ Capp insists. ‘That’s the order they were killed and put in the swamp.’

  That hasn’t been released. Deb says nothing.

  ‘And there’s a fourth.’

  ‘A fourth body? Who?’

  ‘Don’t know the name. Just what I’ve been told, a fourth.’

  He isn’t the greatest storyteller, but he has an attentive audience. After resigning from the Crows, he says, Tony Gemmell, their former president, went off and did a deal with another, much larger, Sydney gang to run drugs for them up to Newcastle, where he had contacts. The gang agreed to give him a try, and he recruited Marco Ganis to help him.

  ‘What gang?’ Deb demands.

  ‘Couldn’t tell you, boss,’ Capp says blandly. ‘Let’s just say they have several Sydney chapters—west, south-west and south—and in other cities.’

  At some stage, he goes on, they discovered that Ganis and Gemmell were skimming. They were duly chastised and their bodies dumped up in Newcastle. The gang then dealt directly with their distributors up there and continue to run a flourishing business. The Chinaman was just a dumb punter. He bought drugs from one of the suppliers in Newcastle and paid in US dollar bills which turned out to be phoney, and so he was dealt with.

 
‘It’s just a story,’ Deb says. ‘Nothing we can use.’

  ‘I can give you the address they take the drugs to, the main distributor. There’ll be evidence there for sure—names, quantities. They keep records, see. You’ll be able to find out from them who did the killing.’

  Deb grumbles. It’s thin. Not a single name.

  ‘You have nothing to lose, inspector,’ Horn reminds her. ‘No arrests, no deal.’

  They wind it up.

  As they get to the door, Horn says, ‘Sergeant, a word with you please.’

  Deb looks at Horn, then at Harry, raises an eyebrow and says, ‘See you outside.’ She’s wearing more make-up than usual, Harry notices. He wonders if she’s got a new boyfriend.

  When Capp has been taken away, Horn says, ‘I was astonished to see you at Kramfors Homestead the other day. Ms Nordlund was extremely upset by your visit. I insist on knowing what you were doing there. What was this personal business you spoke of?’

  ‘Amber knew my parents, Mr Horn. I was interested in her recollections. I’m thinking of writing a biography.’

  ‘You?’ Horn shakes his head. ‘Your father had a way with words. I wasn’t aware that talent had been passed down to you.’

  Harry makes to leave and Horn slides in between him and the door.

  ‘I’m warning you, Belltree,’ he hisses. ‘Amber Nordlund is a fragile woman with a history of psychological disturbance. On behalf of her family I insist that you leave her alone.’

  ‘You’re doing a lot of insisting, Mr Horn. I wonder why.’ He reaches for the doorhandle and swings the door, pushing Horn aside.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Deb is waiting for him in the visitors’ foyer.

  ‘I think he wanted to see if we swallowed Capp’s crap. I didn’t say one way or the other.’

  ‘But you think it is crap.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out. I’ll get on to Newcastle to set things in motion. I take it you want to be there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  Another call to Jenny; he probably won’t make it tonight. He gives her a few more names to follow up, including Scully, the bike rider.

  49

  You was…we both…fuckin scattered, yeah?

  Too right, bro. Off me head.

  Yeah. We feel remorse though. Right, brother?

  Dead set. Anyway…fuckin threatened us, but.

  Shouldn’t have killed him, course not. But bashin a dealer’s doin society a favour.

  Fat cop said they couldn’t even get dental records [laughs].

  Like a smashed pumpkin, bro!

  Lotsa remorse though.

  You reckon they’re recordin this?

  Kelly yawns. They were recording this, and now she has to listen to it, along with a full courtroom. They are pleading not guilty.

  She has done exactly as Catherine instructed, written notes to the Ozdevco pair so sickeningly apologetic they might have been composed by Dakoda herself, then gone upstairs and grovelled to the marketing director and to Malcolm in property. She looked over Hannah’s shoulder as she put together their ‘joint’ piece entitled ‘Phoenix Square to lead south-west renaissance’, which is about as nauseatingly bland as it could be. She even went to the psychiatrist. She talked about the nightmares, the sleeping difficulties and the struggle to come to terms with what happened, but also the feeling that the worst was over and that she could see light at the end of the tunnel.

  Then she saw Catherine again and begged to be allowed to work, and Catherine relented and told her to cover this miserable bloody trial. It drags on, and Kelly’s mind turns to the Pandanus Trust. Matthew, who is proving very diligent, came up with the name just before Ozdevco was declared a no-go zone. Along with Nordlund Investments, Pandanus Trust is the other major investor in Ozdevco. Together they own sixty per cent of Mansur’s company. It is described as a charity investment fund, and registered in Vanuatu. This caught Kelly’s attention, for the Pacific archipelago has cropped up before in relation to Crucifixion Creek: Derryn Oldfield was Australian high commissioner out there before becoming a member of the New South Wales upper house; he met up with Alexander Kristich there; the raid on the Crows clubhouse turned up invoices from a Chinese company in Vanuatu; and most recently, Mansur’s yacht Rashida was sighted in Port Vila.

  However, that’s as far as Matthew has been able to go. When the judge calls a break for lunch, Kelly looks up the number on her phone of a contact she has in Vanuatu.

  Brad, an Australian expat, runs a hamburger joint on Port Vila harbour, and Kelly can hear the sizzle of frying meat in the background, or maybe it’s the buzz of flies. After she’s explained what she wants he asks her who’s paying. She says she is, a private job, and adds hopefully, ‘Mates’ rates?’ He laughs and says he’ll get back to her.

  50

  It takes him a while to work out where they’re about to go. He didn’t get it from the plans and the aerial shot, and it’s only when Colquhoun shows them the image of the front of the place that Harry realises Frank Capp has fingered Dee-Dee Perry’s Tattoo Studio in Islington. He groans to himself, certain now that they’re being sold a pup. But given his current status he keeps quiet. They can find out for themselves.

  It’s late afternoon when they set off, the unmarked cars and white vans. Dee-Dee will have customers getting a little work done on their way home. Some vehicles peel off to go round to the service road at the rear. Harry is with Ross, the atmosphere still cool. They follow Colquhoun and his Strike Force Colyton in through the front door, and sure enough there are three men in work gear sitting reading magazines while Dee-Dee operates on a fourth. They all look stunned as Colquhoun brandishes the search warrant and announces the raid. The customers are identified, searched, found to be clean and dismissed, one with a half-formed octopus tentacle crawling up his neck. By now Dee-Dee is protesting loudly.

  Harry goes through to the back and lets the other crew in. The front of the premises is a brick-built single-storey former shop, the rear an attached fibro storeroom lined with racks of shelving. Behind it is a small yard in which Dee-Dee’s little Pulsar is parked, embellished with her signature tattoo decal.

  They get to work, searching drawers, boxes, shelves. Harry listens to Dee-Dee arguing with Colquhoun. A detective is working his way along one of her shelves, pulling her pretty little pot plants out of their tubs one by one, and Dee-Dee squeals as if he’s pulling out her hair.

  ‘It’s a common hiding place for drugs,’ Colquhoun calmly explains.

  She yells, ‘Not in my place it’s not,’ just as the officer tips a flowerpot upside down and three bags of white powder tumble to the floor.

  Dee-Dee stares at them, dumbfounded. ‘That’s not right,’ she splutters. ‘That’s just not right.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Colquhoun says gravely. ‘Do you have a safe, Ms Perry?’

  It’s in the corner, hidden behind a batik curtain. She taps in the combination and the door swings open and more plastic bags spill out. Her mouth drops open, but this time no sound emerges.

  An officer comes in from the back shed, wanting keys for the car and a steel cabinet. Colquhoun opens Dee-Dee’s handbag and hands them over. A few minutes later the officer returns. ‘Boss!’

  Harry follows them through to the shed, where several men are clustered around the cabinet. Inside they’ve found scales, empty plastic bags, spoons. At the foot of the cabinet is a steel toolbox, which they drag out into the light. Inside, beneath a top tray heavy with tools, is a metal cashbox. They lift it out and open the lid. Inside is a wad of banknotes, which they remove. Then they become very still.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Yes? What’ve you got?’ Colquhoun ambles over, stares down and mutters, ‘Shit.’

  Harry moves closer and gets a view of what they’ve found at the bottom of the box. Four yellowed human fingers.

  Colquhoun calls for a crime-scene team and orders everyone out. As they go
Harry sees Dee-Dee standing between two policewomen in a corner of her studio. She is looking dazed. Her eyes register Harry and she stares at him as he passes, as if to say, Did you do this?

  51

  Fogarty’s Strike Force Ipswich takes over, their room on the third floor of the police station becoming the clearing house for information coming in from the raid.

  A mobile phone has been found in Dee-Dee’s safe, with the names and phone numbers of several known small-time drug dealers. Teams have been sent out to bring them in.

  As the evening wears on, fingerprint evidence filters in: Dee-Dee’s prints on the cash box and on a couple of the banknotes inside. They also have fingerprint ID on the four fingers. They belong to Logan McGilvray.

  Towards eleven Fogarty calls the team together. An initial interview session with Dee-Dee has yielded nothing, but the physical evidence is overwhelming. Tomorrow a new search of the Ash Island marshes will try to find the body of McGilvray. But in the meantime Fogarty, with Colquhoun nodding by his side, is grimly pleased. He puts everyone in the picture with an outline of Frank Capp’s version of events that led up to the raid. ‘I don’t know what Deb Velasco and…’ reluctantly, ‘…Belltree used to get hold of this information, but it sure paid off.’ There are murmurs of approval. Deb isn’t there, called to a meeting in Sydney this afternoon, and Harry ducks his head in acknowledgement, feeling embarrassed.

  They break up for the night. Ross Bramley comes over to Harry, grinning. ‘Hero of the hour, mate. Even Fogarty loves you. And you owe me a hundred bucks.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Sammy Lee! I was right, wasn’t I? You got it all arse about face. Sydney was sending drugs to Newcastle, not the other way around.’ He laughs.

  ‘Dee-Dee’s been set up, Ross.’

  ‘What! Never give up, do you, Harry? Nobody likes a bad loser.’

  Harry hands over two fifties and Ross says, ‘Where’re you staying now?’

  ‘Hotel; Marine.’

  ‘Decent sort of pub? Come on, I’ll buy us a nightcap.’