The Undertow (19 page)

As I drove I wondered whether I still had a client. Catherine Heysen had bared her soul. More than anything else she'd been man-hunting. I had to assume she still cared for her son but, given her egocentricity, that was a slender thread and my rudeness to her might have been enough to snap it. Possibly, but probably not. As for Frank, whose money I still hadn't worked through, he'd be pissed off at this independent action. But I could always mend bridges with him. That led to the thought that my objective here, for both parties, was to get William Heysen clear of the shit.

It was after 9 pm when I reached Bowral but the town hadn't closed down. Several pubs were busy and there were restaurants doing fair to good business along the main street. The days when all you'd find in a town like this was a Greek cafe, maybe a Chinese, were long gone. Good thing.

I was low on petrol and energy and I pulled in at a servo with a fast food outfall, as Andrew Denton had once styled them. I topped up, bought a street map of the town, coffee, and the least toxic-looking sandwich I could see in the display case. I sat in the far corner of the sparsely populated eating area, concealed the action behind the map, and spiked the coffee with cut-price scotch. Maybe it was just my hunger, or the alcohol lift or my hyped-up state, but the sandwich tasted surprisingly good and I bought another.

No problem locating Shetland Street; it ran off the main drag, not far from where I was. A short cul-de-sac. I wouldn't have expected William to locate himself in the foothills. I ate the second sandwich, drank the coffee and speculated about the town. All the signs were that it was keeping pace with the times: the restaurants and cafes, the craft shops—all with advertised websites—bricked footpaths and judiciously spaced and nicely staked trees. It undoubtedly had computer service companies and broadband. Many of the houses I'd seen on the way in had sprouted pay-TV satellite dishes. A good place to set up William's probably dodgy operation—good communications, close enough, but not too close rent-wise to Sydney and Canberra. A good place for ‘Mad Matt' Sawtell to ply whatever trade he was pursuing?

The payphone in the service station cafe had a phone book and I looked up William. No listing. Without any particular plan in mind, I drove to Shetland Street. William's flat was in a new and pretty up-market block above a collection of four shops. The street was well lit and I could see that the complex had high security—an electronically controlled gate to get to the parking area and something similar at the foot entrance.

I got out of the car and crossed the street for a closer inspection. There were four apartments. You had to buzz to get past the gate and there were no names posted. I buzzed all four: two didn't answer and the two that responded did so with female voices. A girlfriend? Didn't seem likely. Neither voice sounded young. Presumably our boy was out somewhere. Well, I could wait.

I took a look at the shops: a Vietnamese bakery, an accountant, a hair and beauty pit stop, and a travel agency—Speciality Travel. A sign in the smoked glass window read: ‘passport photographs, visas arranged, online bookings, video conferencing'. No way to be sure, but it looked as if William could be cutting down the time and distance between home and work.

I made a mental note of Speciality Travel's phone number and webpage address and went back to the car to jot them down. I was settled with notebook and pen in hand when I felt the cold bite of metal at the base of my skull.

‘Drop the stuff in your hands and put them on the wheel. High up—five to one.'

The instruction came with a sharp jab and then an easing of the pressure. Someone who knew what he was doing.

I dropped the pen and notebook and did as I'd been told. I glanced at the rear vision mirror but it had been moved so that it showed nothing immediately behind me. A true professional.

‘You don't have to look, you just have to listen,' the voice said. ‘This is a sawn-off pump action shotgun with a heavy load. If you don't do what I say, exactly what I say, your head disappears.'

The sweat broke out immediately—on my body, on my face, on my hands—the voice and the threat had that much conviction. My throat was suddenly too dry to let me speak. I coughed and cleared it.

‘Sawtell?'

Another quick jab and then something was hanging from my right ear.

‘Plastic restraint,' he said. ‘Right hand up and fasten it to your right wrist and the steering wheel.'

‘I might need two hands for that.'

‘Use them while you've got them.'

His calm was unnerving. I could only just hear him breathing, nothing heavy or out of rhythm. I adjusted the restraint, but left the clasp loose.

‘Give it a tug.'

He had me. I closed the clasp and tugged.

‘Okay. Marks for a good try. Now I think we can relax a bit. Or at least I can.'

‘You can't ever relax, not to the end of your days.'

‘True. For now, I mean. I knew you'd turn up here sooner or later, Hardy. How'd you do it? Did bright boy Willy let you see his car?'

‘Figure it out.'

‘Doesn't matter. I was told you knew your business and I had a man keep an eye on you.'

‘Like Rex Wain?'

‘Better, a bit better at least. Not hard.'

‘I suppose they'll be expendable too.'

The shotgun barrel rapped sharply against my ear, drawing blood.

‘This isn't a debating society. I'm going to tell you what you're going to do.'

‘Or?'

‘Or everything ends for you right here.'

‘Fuck you!'

‘What?'

‘You heard me. You're talking too much, Sawtell. You want something. You want it badly and you need me to get it for you. So spell it out and we'll see where it takes us. But you're not going to blow my head off until you're sure you can't use me. So, as I say, fuck you.'

‘You've got guts, I'll say that for you.'

The sweat was dripping from me and I'd played him as hard as I was ever going to be able to. It was time to ease up if I wanted to stay alive. He'd killed men before, some in hot blood, some in cold. He was as dangerous as a shark in bloody water.

‘Tell me a few things,' I said. ‘Indulge me professionally. Let's see where we get to.'

‘You're a piece of work.'

That struck a false note—maybe he'd been watching too much television, had too much time on his hands. I was tempted to tell him so but I resisted, thinking I'd probably pushed him far enough. I kept quiet, forcing him to speak again.

‘So what d'you want to know?'

‘Did you frame Gregory Heysen?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘No comment. Anything else?'

‘My guess is you ran into William Heysen somewhere in South-East Asia. Let's say Indonesia.'

‘Close. Singapore.'

‘You encouraged him to go into what he calls immigration facilitation, better known as people-smuggling.'

‘He was willing.'

‘Again, why?'

‘Same answer. That's enough, but in case you're wondering, you won't find him across the street there. He's somewhere else.'

‘Forced restraint's a serious charge.'

‘Don't make me laugh. I've got two murder counts on the sheet.'

‘Plus Wain.'

‘Shut up and listen. You get me what I want or I'll send the little smartarse to you in pieces. Don't think I don't mean it.'

It had to be something to do with Dr Gregory Heysen again. Some retribution. I considered telling him Heysen wasn't William's father, but I couldn't see what good it would do at that moment. Maybe later.

‘I'm listening.'

‘I want to see Catherine.'

So it was all circling back towards her. I knew there was no point in asking him why. There was only one sensible thing to ask.

‘How? You had her shot. She's still recovering and very well protected.'

‘I know that. It's something for you to figure out.

You've worked a lot of stuff out so far, let's see how smart you really are.'

He opened the door and I felt a surge of alarm. ‘You can't just—' ‘Shook you then, didn't I? Tell me your mobile number.

Don't think, just do it.'

I rattled the number off.

‘Right. I'll be in touch. Sit tight and don't turn round.

If I see you move I'll blast the back of the car and let you take your chances with glass and the petrol tank.'

Opening the door had turned on the interior light. I was a big, well-lit target. I heard him slide out and I didn't move a muscle.

23

I
'd been overconfident, or let's call it what it was—slack again. Hank Bachelor hadn't been immediately available to watch my back and I'd let that precaution slip. I was sure I hadn't been followed all the way from where Catherine Heysen was staying, but I'd been picked up there by someone communicating with Sawtell and once I was on the highway to the Southern Highlands that would be all he needed. A good tail is hard to spot in suburban traffic, much easier on the freeways.

I sat in the car feeling diminished and furious with myself. Pointless, and the game wasn't over yet by a long shot. Sawtell had expressed a need, always a weakness. And I knew at least one or two things he didn't know. I scrabbled in my jacket pocket for my Swiss army knife, got it open and sawed through the plastic restraint where it circled my wrist. I left it hanging on the steering wheel as a reminder of the mistake I'd made.

It wasn't late and I found an open motel in Bowral. Didn't make the same mistake twice; I was sure I hadn't been followed. I checked in and parked myself at the desk with a scotch and a packet of nuts from the mini-bar and jotted down all I could remember of what was said in the confrontation with Sawtell. Wrong word. I hadn't seen him. He'd taken steps to avoid that. I noted the fact and added a large question mark. I finished the scotch and opened another of the miniature bottles, adding soda this time. I cracked open the packet of crisps and ate them as I continued making notes. When I scrunched up the packet to drop it into the bin I was surprised to see that they were salt and vinegar flavoured. I hadn't even tasted them. Good sign that I was concentrating on the problems at hand.

There were enough. Sawtell implied he had William Heysen under control. A good bargaining chip in his wish to see Catherine Heysen. I was evidently to be the go-between, not a comfortable role. It all raised the question of whether and when to bring Frank in. The hostage was his son and he felt responsible for him although they'd never met. Or had they? Had Frank interviewed Catherine when her husband was being investigated? Had he seen the baby? Did it matter?

I decided that my tired brain was scrambling things and that it was time to give it a rest. I finished the drink, cleaned my teeth and crawled naked into bed. Before I went to sleep I had a mildly comforting thought: hostage-takers might seem to have the right of way, but they don't succeed all that often. They're actually in a two-way street. And there was absolutely no way to predict how Catherine Heysen would react.

I'm not one of those people who can only sleep in his own bed. For me a bed's a bed, and if I'm tired enough I can sleep in it. The encounter with Sawtell had been tiring in the sense that giving a lecture is or getting up to sing a few songs—not much physical effort and doesn't take long, but it's draining. I slept soundly and if I dreamed I didn't remember any of them when I woke up.

I started the day with a cup of the motel's instant coffee—two sachets plus whitener. I shaved and showered and decided yesterday's shirt would do again. I lazed around until business hours and then drove to Shetland Street. The bread shop was trading, the accountant had his sign out and there was activity inside Lucia's, the beauty parlour. Speciality Travel was shut up tight.

I went into Lucia's and asked the young woman arranging things under a five metre long mirror if she knew what time the travel agency opened. She flicked back the sleeve of her pink smock and looked at her watch.

‘Should be open by now. Hey, Karen, what time does Will open?'

Another woman, also young and perfectly turned out with the hair, the smock, the nails, poked her head through a curtain.

‘Nine thirty,' she said, ‘but I haven't seen him for a couple of days. Must be sick.'

The woman I'd spoken to first shrugged. ‘I'm part-time.' ‘You know him though.'

‘Well. . .' She stopped what she was doing to take a proper look at me. I was presentable, I thought, just, but people's standards vary. ‘Why do you ask?'

Good question. I gave her a card that said who I was and what I did.

‘Ooh, is Will in trouble?'

‘Not from me. Maybe from someone else. I'm working for his mother. I can give you her number if you want to check that.'

She did a nice line in shrugs. ‘No. There's nothing much I can tell you. I cut his hair last week. Trimmed it, really.'

‘I didn't think this was a unisex place.'

‘The world is a unisex place.'

I laughed and she smiled. ‘I saw that on TV. You gave me the opening.'

‘You did it well. So he hasn't been around for a few days?'

‘So Karen says. She'd know.'

‘How was he when you saw him?'

‘Sweet but, you know, a bit up himself.'

‘That's him.'

Karen came out from behind the curtain, apparently keen not to miss anything. ‘Something wrong, Trish?'

Trish showed her my card. She wasn't impressed— maybe it was my hair. I asked when she'd last seen William and she said four days ago. I asked if his business seemed to be going well.

‘Hard to say,' Karen said. ‘People come and go— foreigners, you know, like Asians and Arabs and that.'

‘No Caucasians?'