at shadows, imagined watchers and interceptors in the terminals. When his luggage came off without a hitch he felt the tension in his stomach ease a little. This was bad for him. His sugar level, tested on the plane to Brisbane, at the terminal there and again on the flight to Sydney, was jumping around. Worrying. He went into the toilet and assembled his pistol. He washed his hands and face and tried to get a grip on things. The scratches were raw and itchy. Those thorns must have carried some kind of poison. His kidneys still ached.
He took a taxi to his flat and unpacked. Everything he'd touched at the resort he'd either wiped clean or put in a plastic bag and taken away—an inflexible rule. He went through the stuff now and noticed that one of the used syringes was missing a cap. He swore. The cap was unlikely to provide a print but you couldn't be sure. And it was a signpost of a kind, pointing in his direction. Sloppy work, again. He tested the blood sugar again. Still high. The airline food hadn't helped. It was hard to judge thecarbohydrate content. He was still passing blood in his urine. He went for a long walk through Randwick and Kensington, ending up near the Prince of Wales Hospital.
The big pub across the intersection beckoned. When young, Tate had been a binge drinker, getting thoroughly drunk half a dozen times a year and scarcely touching alcohol otherwise. He'd seen the soldierly skills leached away by booze too many times. The result was always fatal. Alcohol was counter-indicated for diabetics and the restriction hadn't worried him, but now he felt in need of some comfort. A drink or a woman? His balls still hurt. Maybe he wouldn't be able to perform. He crossed the road and went into the pub. The sugar was all buggered up anyway. Tonight he'd get drunk. Tomorrow he'd put his metabolism back on the rails. Then he'd get in touch with Grant Reuben.
Vance was getting very edgy. He rang Reuben several times a day and swore when he got what he was sure was the run-around. He began to think of ways of putting pressure on the lawyer. He had plenty of dirt on him, but Long Bay Gaol was no place from which to exert leverage. And it came down to a question of who had the most dirt on who. And that came down to a question of balls. Vance was aware that his confidence had slipped a notch or two since he'd been inside. Women. Why were they always the problem? First his mother with her preaching and praying. Then the birds with their greedy demands for time and things and money. Then Ava, then Shelley. He hadn't shown a lot of balls in either case.
He rang Reuben again and got him.
'Contact has been made,' the lawyer said.
'And?'
'A reason has been stated.'
'Don't piss me around. What reason?'
'Revenge. Something to do with a child.'
'Shit!'
'The fee is requested, the lesser fee.'
Vance closed his eyes. Not dead. Okay. Probably better. But scared, she'd better be good and scared. 'Pay it,' he said.
'We'll just have to await developments.'
Vance hung up and signalled to the guard that he was finished. He turned and saw George Frost walking towards him. He lit a cigarette and stood his ground.
'So?' Frost said.
Vance shrugged. 'We have to wait and see.'
'I thought that's what we've been doing.'
PART II
12
'T ricky,' Burton said. 'Very tricky indeed.'
Peters nodded. 'Unprecedented, I should say.'
Dunlop was exasperated. He was sitting in a room of the office in Redfern occupied by the State's Counter Corruption Authority, one of the many organisations with which the NBCI was associated. He had been recruited after an interview in this building following his dismissal from the New South Wales police force. Peters, now sitting opposite him and exchanging observations with Burton, a senior NBCI functionary from Canberra, had done the recruiting. Dunlop never knew whether to feel gratitude or resentment. He enjoyed some aspects of the work—the intricacies of new identities and relocation, the travel,
He took a taxi to his flat and unpacked. Everything he'd touched at the resort he'd either wiped clean or put in a plastic bag and taken away—an inflexible rule. He went through the stuff now and noticed that one of the used syringes was missing a cap. He swore. The cap was unlikely to provide a print but you couldn't be sure. And it was a signpost of a kind, pointing in his direction. Sloppy work, again. He tested the blood sugar again. Still high. The airline food hadn't helped. It was hard to judge thecarbohydrate content. He was still passing blood in his urine. He went for a long walk through Randwick and Kensington, ending up near the Prince of Wales Hospital.
The big pub across the intersection beckoned. When young, Tate had been a binge drinker, getting thoroughly drunk half a dozen times a year and scarcely touching alcohol otherwise. He'd seen the soldierly skills leached away by booze too many times. The result was always fatal. Alcohol was counter-indicated for diabetics and the restriction hadn't worried him, but now he felt in need of some comfort. A drink or a woman? His balls still hurt. Maybe he wouldn't be able to perform. He crossed the road and went into the pub. The sugar was all buggered up anyway. Tonight he'd get drunk. Tomorrow he'd put his metabolism back on the rails. Then he'd get in touch with Grant Reuben.
Vance was getting very edgy. He rang Reuben several times a day and swore when he got what he was sure was the run-around. He began to think of ways of putting pressure on the lawyer. He had plenty of dirt on him, but Long Bay Gaol was no place from which to exert leverage. And it came down to a question of who had the most dirt on who. And that came down to a question of balls. Vance was aware that his confidence had slipped a notch or two since he'd been inside. Women. Why were they always the problem? First his mother with her preaching and praying. Then the birds with their greedy demands for time and things and money. Then Ava, then Shelley. He hadn't shown a lot of balls in either case.
He rang Reuben again and got him.
'Contact has been made,' the lawyer said.
'And?'
'A reason has been stated.'
'Don't piss me around. What reason?'
'Revenge. Something to do with a child.'
'Shit!'
'The fee is requested, the lesser fee.'
Vance closed his eyes. Not dead. Okay. Probably better. But scared, she'd better be good and scared. 'Pay it,' he said.
'We'll just have to await developments.'
Vance hung up and signalled to the guard that he was finished. He turned and saw George Frost walking towards him. He lit a cigarette and stood his ground.
'So?' Frost said.
Vance shrugged. 'We have to wait and see.'
'I thought that's what we've been doing.'
PART II
12
'T ricky,' Burton said. 'Very tricky indeed.'
Peters nodded. 'Unprecedented, I should say.'
Dunlop was exasperated. He was sitting in a room of the office in Redfern occupied by the State's Counter Corruption Authority, one of the many organisations with which the NBCI was associated. He had been recruited after an interview in this building following his dismissal from the New South Wales police force. Peters, now sitting opposite him and exchanging observations with Burton, a senior NBCI functionary from Canberra, had done the recruiting. Dunlop never knew whether to feel gratitude or resentment. He enjoyed some aspects of the work—the intricacies of new identities and relocation, the travel,
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