Port Vila Blues

Thirty-three

The initial search had failed to find him, and so had a more thorough sweep of the building. Liz had felt time slipping through their hands. Springett had got out somehow, had got himself onto the street and away unobserved. She’d sent a divisional van to his house, waited impatiently for them to call back. ‘Not here,’ they said. “The place is shut up.’

She shrugged. It had been a long shot. She went home. Nothing more she could do.

The next morning she gathered all the paperwork there was on Springett and read it in Montgomery’s office, drumming her fingers on his desk as she read. Montgomery came in at nine, sporting a bandage and a black eye. ‘Make yourself at home, Ms Redding.’

Said with a half smile. She blushed, gathered her files together. ‘I think we’ve lost him, sir.’

Montgomery eased himself into his chair. ‘If you were him, where would you go?’

‘I wouldn’t stay in Australia.’

‘You’ve alerted the airlines?’

‘For what good it will do. Rudimentary disguise, false passport, what’s to stop him? He’ll have an indirect route mapped out as well. France via New Zealand, for example.’

Montgomery nodded for a long time. ‘I shouldn’t have doubted you.’

‘Boss, I want to search his house.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Montgomery said, enlivened suddenly.

Thirty minutes later, they stood looking around at the walls and furniture in Springett’s Glen Iris house. ‘No obvious signs that he’s bent,’ Montgomery said. ‘No Merc in the carport, nothing funny inside.’

Liz ignored him. She didn’t want Montgomery here with her. It was as though he wanted to atone somehow, be supportive, but he was ineffectual and he was in her way. She sat on the carpet and began to sort through paper scraps from Springett’s rubbish bin and documents from drawers in his study, kitchen and sitting room.

His telephone bills seemed to be worth a closer look, several monthly bills from Optus, a quarterly from Telecom. Why the separate Optus account? As far as she could tell, it listed only a handful of interstate numbers. The same numbers cropped up on each bill, except for the most recent, which listed a new number. Liz went to the Touchfone on Springett’s desk, called the most frequently called number. A recorded message told her that she had reached the residence of Vincent De Lisle and that he wasn’t in right now. She was offered the choice of leaving a message or trying him at the North Sydney Magistrates’ Court.

She tried the other number. A harsh, clipped, recorded voice said: ‘Niekirk. Leave a message.’

So she had the names of the people Springett was dealing with but not where he was hiding himself. She sighed, glanced around the room. There was something about the floorboards behind Springett’s desk chair. One of them was a poor fit.

Then Montgomery broke in upon her thoughts. A heavy smoker, he was fidgeting. ‘I’ll see you back at the car.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Liz stood for a moment. Then, on an impulse, she pressed the redial key and, as Niekirk’s cruel voice unwound, pressed the #1 key. If Niekirk’s answering machine had a remote access function, one of the keys would activate the messages his callers had recorded. She went through the numbers and it was the #6 key that switched the machine over. There were a couple of hangups, then this: ‘It’s all falling apart here, better make yourself scarce. I’m going after De Lisle in Vila, collect what’s owing, if you want to meet me there.’

Liz grinned to herself. She didn’t leave immediately but probed experimentally around the edge of the offending floorboard.