Covet (22 page)

Andy stood up and pushed the transcript away. ‘Come on, we’re going back to Long Bay.’

Mahoney looked surprised. ‘What is it?’

‘We’ve got a “we”.’

He had a familiar feeling of excitement, like he did when he was on to something. When he got that feeling, he was like a dog on a scent. He didn’t know what the scent was exactly, but he wasn’t going to let
it go. What if Ed’s odd hours had something to do with this woman? This woman who used ‘we’ when referring to a dangerous inmate? Not ‘I spoke to the prisoner a few times,’ or ‘I spoke to him,’ but ‘
We
kept odd hours.’

At this point, a simple pronoun was the most promising thing he had to go on.

Irving Milgrom closed his shop at 5.34 in the evening. He flipped the sign over on the door and walked back towards his cash register to balance the till. It had been a slow day, mostly bird feed, a few goldfish and a cat scratching post. The music was still playing in the shop, and as he walked past the portable CD player he turned the volume a touch higher. It was a bit of Vivaldi that he liked, and he hummed along to the music. Congo Congo, his best talking parrot, hummed back at him.

‘Shhh, Congo! You’re ruining it! This is the best part.’

‘Congo, Congo!’ it squawked back.

Congo Congo, Irving’s Congo African Grey, had a habit of repeating himself. He was a prized bird with a good vocabulary, and yet no one wanted to buy him. It seemed that customers couldn’t look past the $1950 price tag. They didn’t know value when they saw it. Exotic birds were Irving’s specialty and he was practically an expert, but everyone these days wanted a ‘cute bird’, something low maintenance and predictable that their kids could point at over Christmas and then shove in a cage somewhere.

A knock came on the door.

What, a customer now?

Irving went to shoo them away, but recognised the visitor as one of his regular clients. He walked to the door, unlocked it and opened it a fraction.

‘Suzie, how are you?’

‘Oh, are you closed?’ she said.

Obviously I’m closed.

Suzie Harpin was a good client, but she had always made Irving uneasy. It was the eyes, perhaps. They were round and impossibly dark, and she seemed to hold them open a touch too wide so you could see the whites all the way around. Crazy-person eyes, some would say. He’d heard that she worked in some kind of institution. Perhaps it was a mental ward and some of it had rubbed off.

She had the shoebox with her that she had left the shop with a few days earlier.
Don’t tell me she’s done something to it?

‘What’s this? Is there a problem with the peachface?’

‘No, well…yes. I am not satisfied,’ she said.

He opened the door reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to tell her to come back the next day. But he couldn’t do that. She bought her lovebirds from him year after year, sometimes as often as a few months apart. And the ones she liked were not inexpensive. He needed her business.

‘Please come in. You’ll excuse the music.’

Suzie and her shoebox came in, and Irving closed the door behind her.

‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘I’m just not satisfied,’ she said again.

That was a first. Suzie had purchased the red and green peachface lovebird just a few days before. It had been in perfectly good health when she had bought it.

‘Does it not get on with the others?’ he asked.

‘What?’ She seemed confused. ‘What others?’

‘With your other lovebirds?’ She must have a fair few by now.

‘Oh, no. Well, yes. That’s the problem. She doesn’t fit in.’

Irving frowned. She was a strange woman.

‘So you would like to exchange it for another? I have a lovely Dutch Blue coming in that I think you might like.’

‘No, I just want to return it.’ She handed him the receipt and the box. He felt movement inside. There was a flutter as it changed hands.

‘I see,’ he said.

I should have just closed the shop.

Irving opened the till and returned her money to her.

‘Thanks,’ she said distractedly as she left.

The door rattled as it shut. He locked it behind her and watched through the glass as the strange woman went to her car.

There goes the day’s profits
, he thought bitterly.

‘
Squawk!
What? What others?
Squawk!
’

‘Oh, shut up, Congo.’

‘Shut up Congo, shut up,’ the bird replied.

The model agency, Wang Models Hong Kong, had placed Makedde in a sparsely furnished three-bedroom apartment in a towering high rise that looked out over the city through huge panes of glass. It was built in the sixties, Mak guessed. Some of the fixtures were worse for wear, and the once-groovy elevator was tiny. A frail Cantonese-speaking concierge who sat behind a metal desk at the entrance had given her the keys and pointed the way up.

Two other girls from the same agency were already sharing the same place: a sweet-looking American girl named Jen and an English model named Gabrielle whom Mak had not yet met. Mak had not had the chance to speak with the American model for more than a few minutes, but she seemed nice, and very young with incredibly pale porcelain skin, as if she never left the house without a parasol to shield her face from the sun. Jen had directed Mak to put her things in the far bedroom, and when Mak dragged her suitcases inside she found a small space with a low window that came right to the head of a short, unmade bed. On the floor and
inside the closet were dozens of mangled wire hangers, but there were no bed sheets. The lights worked, however. And the room was spotlessly clean. A relief. On her first trip to New York she had arrived alone off her flight at midnight to a room with no sheets, no light bulbs and a box of maggot-infested Chinese food under the bed. By comparison, this was luxury.

Mak wandered around the apartment in her stockinged feet, taking in her new surroundings. One near-empty fridge housing some organic low-fat yoghurt, a carton of low-fat soymilk, a peach, two oranges and two bottles of champagne. Clean cupboards with a few mismatched dishes. A Post-it Note on the countertop saying that the cleaners would be coming the next day. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke, not quite disguised by spearmint freshener. A small bathroom crowded with cosmetics. Hmmm, three women in one bathroom—never really a good thing. A Pokémon shower curtain. Loofah sponges. Nail polish remover. Fake tan. Clearly Jen wasn’t the one using it. The living room looked comfortable, with a couple of sprawling couches with embroidered silk scatter cushions and a big coffee table covered in fashion magazines. By the door there was row upon row of shoes, most of which looked to be designer labels. A logo-covered Gucci hat sat on the arm of a chair. A logo-printed Bottega Veneta bag. Someone here was making good money.

The place was neat and clean, the view spectacular, and she didn’t have a couple of police
officers hanging around in the background every time she moved. This would be Makedde’s life for the next several days, and that was just fine by her.

She got dressed and went in search of some full-fat groceries.

Andy arrived with Senior Constable Karen Mahoney at Long Bay only hours after Karen had left there with the other officers. Despite the added disruption, the warden made an effort to accommodate their needs. Andy was keen to interview Pete Stevens as soon as possible. Waiting until he was free from his shift at midnight was not an option. Ed could be anywhere, doing anything. If there was even a remote possibility that Stevens knew something valuable it might be a turning point for the investigation. At this rate, it might be the only fresh information they had.

Suzie Harpin could not be reached since she had finished her shift on Sunday. Monday was her day off. She was not answering her phone, and when Andy sent Hunt around to her apartment she was not home.

The warden explained the layout to Andy while they waited. It was nothing he hadn’t heard and seen before. This and the high-tech Supermax facility at Goulburn were where the most serious, violent offenders came to stay. There were more than a few men at Long Bay who would not soon forget the detective who had put them there.

Stevens didn’t keep them waiting long.

One look at him, and it was clear why he was a prison guard. For someone like Pete Stevens, life as a guard, soldier, firefighter or bouncer was perhaps inevitable. He was almost two metres tall, and at least fifty kilos heavier than Andy, with thick, hairy arms and a shaved head. He wouldn’t have to do much to scare the crap out of someone, no doubt a useful attribute in his chosen occupation.

‘Thanks for speaking with us again today,’ Andy began. ‘Now, you told my colleagues that the prisoner Ed Brown slept odd hours. What were odd hours?’

‘Like, five in the afternoon or so until midnight.’

‘Can you tell us anything else about that? Any impressions?’ Mahoney said, mimicking Andy’s own style of questioning, and trying not to lead him too much about the night-shift guard, Harpin. ‘Why do you think he did that?’

‘I don’t know. I barely spoke to him at all myself, but he was definitely odd, even compared with the others. And not just the sleeping.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, he talks funny, I guess you already know that,’ Stevens said.

Andy nodded. ‘What about his habits? Anything else that stands out?’

Stevens scratched the stubble on his head with one mighty hand. Andy noticed scars on his knuckles. ‘Well, he is a clean freak. Really afraid of germs. He was always very, very clean,
obsessively
clean, which you don’t see a whole lot of in here.
There’re always guys defecating on the floors and spitting, smearing stuff on the walls. But Ed kept his cell real nice. Oh, and he, ah…’ Stevens laughed. ‘He watches soap operas.’

Andy was stunned.

‘
Soap operas?
’

‘Yeah,
The Bold And The Beautiful.
He watched it religiously, the last six months or so.’

‘It can be addictive,’ Mahoney murmured.

‘Brown was always courteous, and never caused me any trouble. Maybe it made my job easier that he was asleep. Ms Harpin seemed to know him better.’

‘What do you mean by “She seemed to know him better”?’ Andy pressed.

‘I don’t mean anything by it, it’s just that I know she spoke to him on occasion and I certainly didn’t.’ Stevens seemed on guard suddenly. ‘I don’t mean to say there is anything to it. I’m not going to rubbish Suzie.’

‘We understand.’ Andy shifted in his chair. He was definitely on to something. He’d hit a nerve.

‘Look, Ms Harpin has been here for as long as I can remember,’ Stevens went on, visibly uncomfortable. ‘She is a solid worker, tough and professional. Practically part of the walls.’

He seemed reluctant to suggest anything negative about his colleague. Andy respected that, but dirt was what they wanted, not teamwork. If there was something suspicious about Harpin, he would have sensed it.

‘But you were concerned…’ Andy coaxed.

‘I had never seen her chat with one of the prisoners like that before. It struck me as odd, that’s the only reason I mentioned it,’ he said. ‘But he slept all day, and there was no one much up at night so they might have been talkative because of that.’

‘So, most of his waking time would have been on Ms Harpin’s shift,’ Mahoney jumped in.

He nodded.

‘And how long have you known Ms Harpin?’

‘What on earth are you eating?’

Mak sat cross-legged on a sofa cushion on the living-room floor in the early evening, watching the bright lights of Hong Kong through the tall windows. She had her dinner in a bowl in one hand and a copy of Sandra Lee’s
Beyond Bad
in her lap. She looked up to see a tall, dramatically thin brunette with arched eyebrows standing in the doorway. She spoke in a Cockney accent.

‘I’m eating soup. I think,’ Mak replied.

Finding a good grocery store within walking distance had proved a challenge, but Mak had stumbled across a tiny, hole-in-the-wall kiosk and bought some packages of noodles with Chinese writing all over them from the fantastically wrinkled old lady who smiled kindly at her from behind the counter. Mak had just cooked up a bowl of the stuff and it actually tasted pretty good, though salty, a bit like ichiban.

‘Yuck, carbs,’ the woman said.

‘You are Gabrielle, I presume?’

‘Gabby, yeah. Who are you?’

‘Makedde Vanderwall. It’s nice to meet you.’ She stood up.

‘Don’t go in the first bedroom. That’s mine,’ Gabby said flatly.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘And don’t touch my towels. They’re the white ones hanging over the towel rack.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m off. Meeting some friends at the Felix.’

‘Ah, I love Philippe Starck’s designs. I’ve heard it’s fabulous,’ Mak said, still trying to be friendly.

‘What?’

Mak had seen magazine stories on the Felix bar and restaurant. It was a marvel of design with sloping walls and a circular bar with illuminated floors. Apparently, there were faces of some of the designer’s friends sculpted into the walls.

Gabby looked blank.

Mak forced a smile. ‘Um…well, have fun,’ she said.

Gabby was already jogging to forbidden bedroom number one as Mak resumed her solitary position by the window.

The shower went on in the bathroom, and then off again. Mak heard bare feet and then the click of shoes, the sound of closets opening and closing. In less than fifteen minutes Gabby was gone.

Her first night in Hong Kong, and Mak had plenty of time to ruminate on the events of the previous week. What was happening in Sydney?
Were they any closer to catching Ed?
God, I hope he hasn’t hurt anyone else.
It was tough to fathom his escape.

The thought of him walking free disturbed her right to the core of her being.

The immigration officer looked them over. He was a short Chinese man in quasi-military dress, and he held their two passports in white-gloved hands. Shrewd black eyes looked carefully at the passport photos and back to them, back to the passport photos, back to them. Looking, looking.

Suzie Harpin.

Ben Harpin.

They didn’t look much like brother and sister. They did, however, look like they could be husband and wife. Ed Brown wore a gold band on his ring finger. It had belonged to Ben Harpin, the Prison Lady’s dismembered brother, and she had happily thawed the frozen hand that was wearing it and removed it for Ed’s purpose before they left. It was a plain wedding ring, much like the one Ed had worn in the past to help lull his ‘girls’ into a false sense of security. The band was a bit big for Ed’s thin fingers, but he was careful to keep it in place. The Prison Lady wore a cheap costume jewellery ring on her left hand. The glass stone could have been a diamond, if you didn’t look very hard. But it was enough. It was enough to make
them look like Mr and Mrs Harpin, coming to visit lovely Hong Kong on holidays.

Ed noticed with a touch of uneasiness that there were a number of heavily armed guards at Hong Kong airport, dressed in pressed and polished military uniform. The Red Army, he supposed, although they weren’t dressed in red. The security at Sydney airport hadn’t been toting submachine guns like these men. None of the guards were looking at him, he didn’t think. Not yet. Their weapons hung from their necks on long straps, their fingers held close to the trigger. Ed had never been to an airport before boarding this flight to Hong Kong. He had never flown before. The thought of being in the air made him nervous, but the security and immigration officers gave him much more concern. And the guns. He didn’t like the guns he saw now, especially after experiencing the destructive impact of a bullet from Detective Flynn’s Glock pistol.

‘Well, I just can’t wait to see Hong Kong,’ the Prison Lady gushed. ‘We’ve always wanted to come.’

The immigration officer did not respond.

Shut up, woman.

The black eyes narrowed, looked them over again, looked at the photo of Ben Harpin…

Ed had dyed his hair dark brown to match it, with a messy dye that had stained the porcelain sink in the big suburban house, but he was much thinner in the face than Ben appeared to have been. He was also shorter, and his nose was
different too. The tenuous resemblance was probably enough for a glance. Enough for a glance, but for this? He had wanted to discard the Prison Lady, especially after she had proved that she was not useful as a source of money, having only withdrawn a measly $200 from her account. She’d said that was all she could access; most of her money was tied up, apparently. But the game had changed once he he found out where Makedde had gone. Ed knew well that the authorities would be looking for him at every port. A man travelling alone would stand out as suspicious, but a man and his wife? The relief at slipping through Sydney airport had been enormous. He was good at keeping his cool, but he knew perfectly well that he never would have made it through without his ‘wife’ and his changed appearance. He was not home free, though. Not yet.

Black eyes examining, squinting…

Come on, wave us through.

The officer was stalling. Other people were being waved through, but not them. Ed could feel himself begin to sweat. Did he look nervous? Did those black eyes sense that something was wrong?

He waited to hear, ‘Would you come this way, please?’ or more likely a fast string of Chinese words that would bring the armed guards down upon them to haul them away to prison. At Sydney airport, he had been nervous when he’d had to take off his shoes and belt going through a big metal detector, but the security man on the other side had smiled and sent him and the
Prison Lady on their way to the gate without incident. As it turned out, no one was interested in an innocuous looking brown-haired man and his plain wife. That’s exactly what Ed had counted on. But what if the police had caught up with them? Perhaps they had cottoned on to the Prison Lady’s involvement.

‘Thank you,’ the man said, unsmiling, and waved them over to another officer.

Ed’s stomach dropped.

The other officer looked the same to Ed—same uniform, same black eyes taking in their every move. He led them over to a large machine that Ed did not recognise, and made motions to see their passports. They handed them over, Ed’s heart pounding.

‘Australian?’ they were asked in a heavy accent.

They nodded.

The officer examined their passports.

Behind the strange machine a woman with a surgical mask pointed some kind of sensor at them and peered intently at a computer screen. Ed could not see the screen display. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple.

‘Thank you, yes,’ the officer said, and handed their passports back with some documentation.

Relief.

It was a brochure on SARS. The nurse behind the computer had been checking their body temperature for flu symptoms. They were free to go.

Ed smiled.

He and the Prison Lady collected their luggage, walked past more armed guards and finally emerged through sliding doors into the sweltering cacophony of a Hong Kong morning.

They’d made it through.

Ed Brown was in Hong Kong.

And there was no Andy Flynn this time.