Black Ice (17 page)

'It's gotta be pretty hard out there, huh?' said Gabriel.

'There's so much screaming,' she said. 'You wouldn't believe the shouting at night. Never fail, there's a major domestic every single night.'

'Yeah? You getting tired of it?'

'Well, I was tired of it the first day,' she said. 'But I'm not ready to stop yet, if that's what you mean. It doesn't feel right to.'

There was silence for a few beats. Jill let her hand drop, and absentmindedly stroked Ten, who punched her whiskery cheeks into her ankles, tail held high.

'You know,' said Gabriel, watching his cat headbutting Jill's hand, 'I worked for a while with a guy who got posted to East Timor. Good bloke. But he came back from deployment and couldn't settle down to things again in Australia. Told me he felt guilty just living life over here while people were suffering back there. In the end, he dropped out of everything. Quit the feds. Went back.'

Ten did some yoga poses on the carpet, angling for a tummy rub. Jill tickled her with a toe. She didn't speak.

'So what's with the drinking?' Gabriel said.

'With the what?'

'You and the wine. That's new.'

'A bottle of wine with dinner. Well, half a bottle. You drank the rest. What's with
your
drinking?'

'Why are you so defensive?'

'Why are you asking me these questions?'

'Just saying what I see. You're the one getting upset about it.'

'I'm not upset!' she said, standing and moving towards the balcony. When she slid open the door the night blasted in with a flurry of wind, billowing the curtains around her. The leaves of the huge tree outside churned and spun; the sound like a thousand rattlesnakes. The draught blew right through her and she hugged her arms around her waist. She slid the door closed, and turned to face Gabriel. 'I have to drink with them,' she said. 'A lot.'

He waited.

'I try to keep the amount down, but now I find myself looking for it.'

'How much?' he said.

'How much do I look for it, or how much am I drinking?'

'Whichever.'

'Well, I guess it's not that much, really,' she said. 'A couple of glasses a night, I guess. I try to go a day a week without any. It's just that I hate to be out of control with anything. I had a problem with alcohol when I was a teenager. I stopped completely, so I worry that even a bit is excessive.'

'Sounds like you're doing great,' he said after a pause.

'Why's that?' She lifted her head, looked him in the eye.

'Well, you are deeply embedded in a prime operational position, and you're doing excellent work, according to your boss,' he said. 'You are definitely out of your comfort zone, and you haven't gone crazy. Nothing terrible has happened.'

Gabriel was one of the very few people who knew that Jill had been kidnapped. She exhaled hard, realising she had been holding her breath.

'Thanks, Gabe,' she said.

'I made vodka affogato for dessert,' he said. 'But I probably shouldn't serve it to a pisspot like you.'

Who'd have thought it? An entire outfit for eighty dollars. Seren didn't imagine that many would consider a single blouse an entire outfit. She didn't either, really. But Christian would not be complaining.

The blouse had been on sale. Back at the unit, she shook it from its tissue-wrap and draped it across her bed. She stood back, arms folded and stared. Did she dare?

It was A-line, pale blue chiffon. The bodice was opaque, the long sleeves cuffed at the wrists, full and sheer. It fell to just past her bottom. It would look amazing with her black pants.

Seren slipped into her outfit for the evening. Underwear. The Blouse. The Shoes. Perfume.

Not a stitch else.

Thank God Marco was staying at Angel's tonight, where there was a DVD player and the biggest movie collection he'd ever seen. Seren wasn't sure that even a ten-year-old could believe a waitress would wear
this
to work.

'So what's your objective with the search?' Gabriel sat at one terminal, waiting for her answer. Jill perched in front of another. The overhead light was not switched on in Gabriel's computer room, but the space glowed regardless. Grey-green monitors waited, thinking quietly; deep-blue LED lights were spattered across every surface, as though flicked from a luminous paintbrush; winking red eyes oversaw everything.

Jill began typing on the keyboard in front of her. 'General fishing expedition,' she said. 'If you could gather up the stuff you guys have already collected on Nader, I'll go wide, find whatever else I can.'

'Sounds like a plan,' he said.

They worked quietly for a while, scanning the databases. Jill had learned on a previous case that she could gain access to more information in Gabriel's workstation than from the standard copshop computers. He had open access to records and systems that were off-limits to even detectives in the regular police force; at least without filing a crapload of paperwork first.

'Don't bother with his sheet,' said Gabriel after a ten-minute silence, other than the quiet clicking of their keyboards. 'I've just sent a condensed version to you. He's a great guy. We've got abduction, extortion, assault, standover charges. Zero for drugs. And in the past two years, it looks like nothing's stuck. There's not anything big pending, either.'

'Let's see if we can change that for him, shall we?' Jill said. She scrolled further through a site in front of her, and then called up another, highlighting text every now and then. 'You know what's interesting?' she said, her eyes still on the screen.

'What?' Gabriel asked.

'Well, I've just been looking at passports. Mr Nader was telling me the truth when he said that his parents are overseas at the moment. Lebanon. Been there once or even twice a year for the past ten, as far as I can see.'

'So?'

'Well, it seems Kasem's not so interested in his relatives.'

'Neither am I.'

'Yeah, but Kasem doesn't mind travelling, generally. It's just that he prefers other destinations.' Jill finally turned away from the screen, swivelled to face Gabriel, who watched her, waiting. 'Our boy's been taking
island
holidays,' she said. 'Papua New Guinea. Short stops, up to a week or so: five times last year, four already this year.'

'Shopping for real estate?' said Gabriel.

'Or a business,' said Jill.

Tuesday 9 April, night

Oh fuck. Fuck! Not a great way to begin.

The intruder balled the bleeding hand into a fist and wrapped it in the tea towel – the fabric that was supposed to protect it when punching out the window to Seren's flat.

The right hand, too. Useless now.

Fucken bitch. Another fucken thing to hate her for. Stuck up, pretty little slut.

The intruder stalked through Seren's shadowy unit.

Tuesday 9 April, night

Seren scrunched as far into the corner of the cab as possible, her bag covering as much of her bare legs as she could manage. Although she closed her eyes, she could still feel the cabbie gawking at her through his rear-vision mirror. She felt stretched, tissue-paper thin, as though one more set of hungry eyes would stab right through her skin, make her bleed. The attention tonight had been excruciating; feigning indifference to it, exhausting.

But it had worked. Christian had been enthralled the whole night. Her wallet was now full of cab vouchers – I don't ever want you on a bus again, he'd said. And she was to meet him in the city when she finished work tomorrow. Shopping. She'd just come out and told him: it'll be clubbing tomorrow night, and I need some new things. You don't mind, do you, darling?

She leaned her head against the headrest. So tired. She'd catch maybe four hours sleep before getting up for work again. A single tear made it out through her squeezed-shut eyes. She hadn't imagined how hard this would be. Smiling at him, kissing him, his hands on her. She'd once loved him. Now she hated him. She felt like a whore.

But one thing was certain. Seren snapped open her eyes and shot the driver a gaol-house stare that put his eyes back on the road. Cab vouchers and pretty clothes wouldn't buy her. Cocaine, lavish dinners, not even love would do it.

She would sell what she had to offer, but it would cost Christian a million dollars.

Wednesday 10 April, 2.30 pm

'Please, keep your voice down, Ms Templeton,' said the real estate agent.

Seren's eyes darted around the small office; people turned their heads away quickly, pretending they hadn't been watching the encounter. She hadn't realised that her voice had carried.

'I'm sorry.' Seren dropped into the chair in front of the woman's desk. 'It's just that this is a nightmare; I haven't had any sleep. I had to report the robbery when I got home and then I had to go to work.' She ran a hand through her hair. 'Look, I promise, if you could just give me another week . . .'

'Well, look,' said the woman behind the desk, 'you know that I'm supposed to report any delay in your rent payment to probation and parole, but if you could get me a copy of your police report, I'm sure I can persuade the owner to give you another week.'

'Thank you so much,' said Seren, struggling not to give in to the tears tightening her throat. 'I'm trying so hard. I can't believe someone would do this to another person.'

The woman averted her eyes for just a moment. Seren realised that the agent was probably thinking that she had a hide: she'd only been out of prison a couple of weeks and here she was complaining about thieves. She stood to leave. At least she now had a little more time to make up the money that had been stolen; support and understanding was not going to happen. That was fine by her. She was used to it.

She hurried back to the unit, reminding herself that she would need to go back to the police station after work tomorrow to request a copy of her statement.

The robbery was just more proof that she had to get her son out of this life. She hadn't wanted to ask Christian for any cash this early in the game, but she was going to have to now. She wouldn't be able to meet two rent payments with next week's wages, and she could not allow probation and parole to hear that she had fallen behind in her rent. She couldn't believe that they would throw her back in gaol for that, but an image of Maria Thomasetti pointing at her release conditions caused her to lengthen her stride.

Tonight Christian would take her to System; the club in which she'd previously seen him doing deals. It would be her first chance to get something recorded – something that would get her out of here forever.

Wednesday 10 April, 2.30 pm

'Here, have another one,' said Gabriel.

'No thanks,' Jill said. 'I'm stuffed. Why'd you bring so much?'

Gabriel, in the passenger seat of Jill's Magna, raised his eyebrows in answer. His mouth was full of one of the salad sandwiches he'd made before they left his apartment that morning. He'd seemed to just assume he'd come with her to stake out the Station Hotel. Mondays and Wednesdays, Skye and CK had told her, were the days that their dealers, Agassi and Urgill, did business at the Station. And Monday she'd seen them arrive at the hotel in a black, three-series BMW to do business with Nader. Would Nader show up again today?

She shook her head at Gabriel, who again offered her more food. 'Cashews?' he said.

'I don't want any,' she said, grabbing a handful.

Their car sat behind a van, parked adjacent to the cemetery. Jill noted that the van had been here Monday too; it didn't look as though it had moved. Someone's probably living in it, she thought. The impossible housing prices in Sydney meant that some people lived wherever they could. She'd heard there was quite a demand for shipping containers: dropped onto someone's vacant land for a little rent each week, they could each house a small family.

The afternoon was murky and miserable. The hotel's trade – just a dribble of people in the couple of hours they'd been here – didn't appear to be picking up. A young man leaned against the wall near the entrance to the pub. Jill watched him zip his hoodie a little higher, the wind whipping his wispy blonde fringe into his eyes. The trees in the graveyard next to them rattled and moaned, skeletons shaking.

'Well, lookie here,' said Gabriel. 'Aren't they your boys?'

'That's them,' she said, recognising the BMW.

Gabriel smiled happily, popping cashews into his mouth and munching; he looked like he was at the movies.

The two men stepped out of the car. Agassi, Jill knew from his sheet, was the overweight, balding bloke in the suit pants and brown leather jacket. Urgill was probably around the same age, and would've weighed even more, but his weight was all in his chest and arms. He carried himself like a weightlifter, too, or maybe a boxer.

'Action,' said Gabriel.

Jill wasn't sure what Gabriel meant by that, but she also sensed something was about to happen. Maybe it was the way that Agassi dropped his cigarette, not even half finished. Or it could have been the set of Urgill's jaw, the tense carriage of his shoulders.

They approached the younger, blonde man and some animated conversation looked to be taking place. Agassi was doing the talking; Urgill kept his mouth shut and his fists clenched.

'Is this some kind of shakedown?' said Jill.

Gabriel unwrapped another sandwich, smiling, eyes on the show.

The youth waved his arms a little and vehemently shook his head. Finally, he threw his hands in the air and turned to walk away. Urgill exploded into movement. He grabbed the kid's hand and wrenched it up behind his back, swivelling him around in one action. Nice move, thought Jill. Single-handedly Urgill propelled the kid in the direction of the BMW. They could hear him yelling now, until Agassi stepped in front of him, momentarily blocking their view. The next thing they saw was Agassi aiding the kid to stand upright.

Agassi's eyes swept the street, spotted them, paused. Jill had her head in the map book; Gabriel took another bite of his sandwich, grinned at her.

'Couldn't you put your head down or something?' she hissed.

'Don't worry, he'd be expecting us to be watching; they're putting on a show. They never made us. It's cool.'

The gorillas shoved the young man into the back of the car. Agassi went in after him. Urgill folded himself in behind the wheel.

Jill started the Magna. Although there was clearly a crime in progress, she decided it was not of sufficient urgency to risk blowing her cover. Yet. The blonde boy in the BMW would likely have disagreed with her, but today was not his lucky day.

She waited until the target vehicle was a block ahead before she pulled out to follow them. The black car stayed just under the speed limit. Three cars behind, Jill indicated right to turn with them off Marsden onto the Great Western Highway. A minute later they signalled left.

'Hey,' she exclaimed, 'they're going to –'

'Merrylands,' said Gabriel. 'Told you it's the place to be.'

'This house ever come up on any of your radars?' asked Jill.

'Nope,' said Gabriel. 'Not any that come to mind, anyway.'

The Merrylands street was working class, a poster child for the multicultural melting pot that made up Australia. Jill saw a woman in a hijab bumping a stroller down the front steps of her home. The woman waved hello to her neighbour, an Asian woman wearing a conical sunhat, even on this drizzly afternoon. Jill spotted the Aboriginal flag displayed as a sticker in the front window of the house in front of which she'd stopped; and, cracking and billowing in the wind, on a flagpole in front of the fibro home across the road, was a one-and-a-half-metre-wide Australian flag.

'Who lives here, then?' she wondered aloud.

'The bloke they abducted,' said Gabriel.

'What makes you say that?'

He didn't respond to the question; said instead, 'Interesting that we're in
this
street in Merrylands, don't you think?'

She grunted in reply. She'd been here before: the Nader family home was a few doors down. Was Kasem connected to this kid?

They sat silently for a little while. Jill grew increasingly tense. The young man they'd seen forced into the car was clearly a dolphin. She believed in the saying that the world was divided into dolphins and sharks. This afternoon she had watched two sharks take down a dolphin, and she felt uncomfortable sitting here doing nothing. The fact that she wasn't in there helping him, that she was pretty much using him as bait, made her wonder which species she most resembled. It was a question she'd asked herself many times before.

'Here he comes,' said Gabriel. 'Nader.'

He was right. Jill had told her partner that Kasem had driven her and Jelly to his parents' house in a late-model silver Porsche 911. It purred around the corner and pulled up out the front of the dolphin's house. Jill was aware that the ride probably cost more than the house itself, maybe even more than it and the one next door combined. She would bet her own apartment that the Porsche had been paid for in cash.

Nader got out of the car. Jill held her lower lip between her teeth, watching him uncurl himself from the driver's seat and step into the street.

Gabriel watched her. 'Well, this is fun,' he said.

'We gonna leave this guy in there with the three of them?'

'Your call.'

Jill screwed up her nose. Trust Gabriel not to go all Rambo and decide to storm the house, rescue the victim. She'd have to make the decision, live with the results. She thought through Kasem's record. No murders she knew of.

Blondie, you're on your own for the moment. 'We'll wait,' she said.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Damien couldn't stop thinking it, over and over. He'd actually tried praying to Jehovah, but he couldn't get his thoughts straight, and had ended up just mindlessly repeating the mantra.

His gut ached. Even with all the bullying he'd copped at school, he didn't think he'd ever actually been punched. He'd definitely
never
been punched like that. Who were these guys? What did they call themselves? He forced himself to try to think what the fat one had said outside the pub. It was a tennis player's name – Agassi, that was it. The other one, who knew? Damien just wanted to stay away from his fists.

From the chair into which they'd pushed him, his eyes shot around his lounge room. Oh shit. They were moving over to the chemicals. Don't touch that, you idiot, he thought, trying not to panic.

He tried to find his voice. 'Ah . . .' Nothing. A beaker clattered to the floor. Oh my God. He tried again. 'Um?'

'WHAT?'

Shit. Agassi. Coming over.

Agassi stood over him, his bulbous gut at eye height. Damien focused on the man's shirt: black with red hibiscus. It seriously did not match the brown leather jacket and grey suit pants. Concentrate, you dickhead, he told himself. He forced himself to look up at the unshaven jowls above him. Agassi exhaled; a waft of sewer air buffeted Damien's face. He coughed, dropped his eyes back to the hibiscus and spoke.

'Ah, the anhydrous ammonia is really unstable at this stage,' he said. 'The reactivity point is pretty low.'

'What?'

'Um, the chemicals,' he tried, 'that your friend is fucking around with. They're pretty volatile.' He looked up. Agassi gave him a watery, red-rimmed stare. 'They could blow the house up.'

Agassi bawled, 'Urgill! You dumb fuck. Stop touching shit!' He turned back to Damien. 'Good little set-up you got here,' he said, and smiled. Some sort of cheese coated his lower teeth.

'You can have it,' said Damien.

'Why would you want to walk away from all this?' Agassi asked. 'Anyway, much as I'd like to, I can't take anything off your hands. You're going to need all your stuff.'

'Look,' said Damien, 'I don't understand what you want from me. If it's cash, I already told you, I can get it for you. If you want E, I've got a hundred tabs you can have right now. There's no ice cooked yet, so I can't help you with that.'

'You know,' Agassi said, looking around the room, 'even though you got all this shit in here, you got no fucking security. Anyone could get in here, man! I've never seen a shop like it. Damn, usually you got at least a couple of motherfuckers with guns on the door. I mean,
look
at your fucken door. You're going to have to get something that can take a bit of hammering. This is a dangerous business you're in, Damien.'

'I have to go to the toilet,' said Damien.

Agassi gave him a sidelong look. 'I'm trying to give you some business advice here, Damo, and all you can tell me is you gotta take a piss?'

'Number two, actually.'

'Yeah? See, here's the thing. I don't believe you. You're gonna try and run or maybe become a hero all of a sudden and bring some kind of weapon out here.'

Damien spoke in a small voice, to his lap, 'I always have to go when I get nervous.'

Urgill crossed the floor. 'Don't know what you're nervous for, son. We haven't done anything to you, yet,' he said.

Damien put his head in his hands. How the hell had he ended up here? He'd skipped a lecture to meet Byron at that pub. Fucking Byron! What was going on? Had he set him up? Damien should be studying. His half-yearly exams would be on him soon. He'd never failed an exam in his life. He was certain that he couldn't feel any more dejected.

And then his front door opened and Kasem Nader walked in.

Damien had been neighbours with this man all his life but they had never spoken. The schoolyard anxiety he'd experienced every time Nader or one of his brothers was nearby was magnified a hundred times. He thought he might cry.

Nader beamed at him and stretched out a hand. 'Stand up, Damien. I don't think we've properly met.'

Damien struggled to his feet. He had to reach out a hand to steady himself when his legs didn't quite agree with the standing up idea. 'Hello,' he said.

Nader looked around the room, taking in the cooking equipment in the corner. 'You know what's great?' he said. 'To see a local boy come good. You're doing real well, I'm told, Damien.'