Wyatt
thought about his nephews proposition. He counted the advantages again. One,
Raymond was family and seemed to look up to him. Two, Raymond had successfully
planned and pulled a number of armed hold-ups. Three, hed never been caught.
Four, he wasnt a junkie. The boy probably had vices and weaknesses, but they
werent apparent, and they hadnt got in the way of his bank raids.
Something else was prompting Wyatt,
a feeling that lacked clear definition but connected Raymond with the child who
had stepped into the traffic, inviting death. His brothers son. Raymond was
the son of a weak, vicious man, and Wyatt had done nothing to make things
better.
The road wound through valleys and
rich farmland. The headlights flared over roadsigns that portrayed fat sheep
and historic towns. He saw convict-built stonewall fences and imposing gates
that indicated fine homesteads set back amongst English trees. He was in
Tasmanias conservative heartland. The seat of government was in the south but
the old money was in the north and it ruled the upper house of government.
At one oclock he pulled off the
road and slept until dawn. He was no more than thirty minutes from Devonport,
but he knew that hed attract suspicion if he tried to rent a room this early
in the morning.
He drove to the next town, locked
the car and walked to a cafe. Smells of toast and coffee inside; a couple of
bleary farmers and truckies at a corner table. He ate, walked for an hour,
drove on.
Later that morning he rented a
holiday flat in Devonport. It was a depressing place. The window of the main
room overlooked a block of similar flatsthe Astor Apartments, pale yellow
brick, rusting wrought iron, rotted window sillsand leaked a weak grey light
into the place. Low, pebbled ceiling, wiry carpets the consistency of a kitchen
scourer. Aborigines on black velvet in wooden frames on the walls. Frayed,
burnt-orange armchairs and sofa. Parents came here exhausted with their tribes
of children every summer and found little rest. They existed on fish and chips
and videos. Humankind herded together in disappointment and conflict until
death, Wyatt thought. He thought of Liz Redding and wondered at his own fate.
That afternoon he went out for maps,
tourist brochures and real-estate listings. He spent the afternoon poring over
them and making phone calls. He gave himself a week. When he stared out of the
window, early that evening, he saw the running lights of the ferry as it set
out for Melbourne, sliding massively down the channel toward the open sea, its
superstructure dwarfing the little houses and cheap holiday flats.
In the end, he didnt need a week.
Three days later, Wyatt moved to a remote wooden house near Flowerdale on the
north coast, with a view across abrupt small hills to a slice of Bass Strait.
It was a region of orchards, tree nurseries, dairy farms, creeks, gorges and
muddy tracks. No-one was likely to question him in such a place. It was a
rental house and renters had always stayed a while there, working or not
working, maybe bludging on the welfare system, maybe teaching in the local
school for a few terms. Wyatt was just another one of them.
* * * *
Seventeen
Liz
Redding didnt get to Hobart. Her suspension was made official, and she was
obliged to report every day, pending an inquiry. She might have slipped away
regardless of that, but Gosse called her into his office and told her that theyd
had a call from the Tasmania Police.
He drummed his fingers on his desk. The
name Jardine mean anything to you?
Youve read my report, sir.
Indeed I have. Your friend Wyatt
worked with a man called Frank Jardine.
Not my friend, sir.
Gosse ignored her. This Jardine
hasor rather, had a brother.
I wouldnt know, sir.
Wouldnt you? Well, the brother has
turned up dead stabbedin a flat in Battery Point, down in Hobart. Needless to
say, being a resident of Melbourne, it wasnt his flat.
So thats what Nettie meant, Liz
thought. Whose flat was it,
thought about his nephews proposition. He counted the advantages again. One,
Raymond was family and seemed to look up to him. Two, Raymond had successfully
planned and pulled a number of armed hold-ups. Three, hed never been caught.
Four, he wasnt a junkie. The boy probably had vices and weaknesses, but they
werent apparent, and they hadnt got in the way of his bank raids.
Something else was prompting Wyatt,
a feeling that lacked clear definition but connected Raymond with the child who
had stepped into the traffic, inviting death. His brothers son. Raymond was
the son of a weak, vicious man, and Wyatt had done nothing to make things
better.
The road wound through valleys and
rich farmland. The headlights flared over roadsigns that portrayed fat sheep
and historic towns. He saw convict-built stonewall fences and imposing gates
that indicated fine homesteads set back amongst English trees. He was in
Tasmanias conservative heartland. The seat of government was in the south but
the old money was in the north and it ruled the upper house of government.
At one oclock he pulled off the
road and slept until dawn. He was no more than thirty minutes from Devonport,
but he knew that hed attract suspicion if he tried to rent a room this early
in the morning.
He drove to the next town, locked
the car and walked to a cafe. Smells of toast and coffee inside; a couple of
bleary farmers and truckies at a corner table. He ate, walked for an hour,
drove on.
Later that morning he rented a
holiday flat in Devonport. It was a depressing place. The window of the main
room overlooked a block of similar flatsthe Astor Apartments, pale yellow
brick, rusting wrought iron, rotted window sillsand leaked a weak grey light
into the place. Low, pebbled ceiling, wiry carpets the consistency of a kitchen
scourer. Aborigines on black velvet in wooden frames on the walls. Frayed,
burnt-orange armchairs and sofa. Parents came here exhausted with their tribes
of children every summer and found little rest. They existed on fish and chips
and videos. Humankind herded together in disappointment and conflict until
death, Wyatt thought. He thought of Liz Redding and wondered at his own fate.
That afternoon he went out for maps,
tourist brochures and real-estate listings. He spent the afternoon poring over
them and making phone calls. He gave himself a week. When he stared out of the
window, early that evening, he saw the running lights of the ferry as it set
out for Melbourne, sliding massively down the channel toward the open sea, its
superstructure dwarfing the little houses and cheap holiday flats.
In the end, he didnt need a week.
Three days later, Wyatt moved to a remote wooden house near Flowerdale on the
north coast, with a view across abrupt small hills to a slice of Bass Strait.
It was a region of orchards, tree nurseries, dairy farms, creeks, gorges and
muddy tracks. No-one was likely to question him in such a place. It was a
rental house and renters had always stayed a while there, working or not
working, maybe bludging on the welfare system, maybe teaching in the local
school for a few terms. Wyatt was just another one of them.
* * * *
Seventeen
Liz
Redding didnt get to Hobart. Her suspension was made official, and she was
obliged to report every day, pending an inquiry. She might have slipped away
regardless of that, but Gosse called her into his office and told her that theyd
had a call from the Tasmania Police.
He drummed his fingers on his desk. The
name Jardine mean anything to you?
Youve read my report, sir.
Indeed I have. Your friend Wyatt
worked with a man called Frank Jardine.
Not my friend, sir.
Gosse ignored her. This Jardine
hasor rather, had a brother.
I wouldnt know, sir.
Wouldnt you? Well, the brother has
turned up dead stabbedin a flat in Battery Point, down in Hobart. Needless to
say, being a resident of Melbourne, it wasnt his flat.
So thats what Nettie meant, Liz
thought. Whose flat was it,
Similar Books
