Two-Way Cut

chapter 9

She was in a land of four-wheel drives, big dusty farmers and tradesmens vehicles, so there was nothing novel about seeing a Range Rover in the shopping-centre carpark, but Leah, with her nerves finely tuned, recognised this Range Rover. She noted the dented front bumper, lack of country road dust, and the two men just now stepping out of it, last seen at the crash barrier above the burning Monaro.

How had they found their way to Leighton Wells so quickly? She stopped just outside the sliding doors, clamped her fingers around Tess’s arm and edged Tess to one side until a concrete support column concealed them. We’ve got company, she murmured.

Tess froze, began to look around wildly, so Leah strengthened her grip. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Turn you eyes to the right. See the Range Rover on the other side of that row of charity bins?

Oh God.

Tess, look at me. Are they your brothers?

Not exactly.

What do you mean, not exactly? Either they are, or they aren’t.

I mean, my father must have hired a private detective to find me, like you said.

Leah shook her head in exasperation. No time to deal with Tess’s evasions now. She grabbed an empty trolley and dumped her jacket and shopping-bags in it. Were going to casually wheel this trolley to the car as if were close friends or sisters having a natter and helping each other with the shopping, okay?

Tess bit her lip, nodded, seemed as tightly wound as a spring. Her knuckles on the ubiquitous leather day-pack were white as Leah guided her by the elbow out of the alcove in front of the sliding doors. Leah watched the two men from the corners of her eyes. Both wore jeans, T-shirts and trainers, and had shaved heads. It was like a uniform. But one man sported a bushy moustache and the other a tattoo on his forearm. That was sufficient for Leah to recognise them in any crowd. She saw them split up, Moustache heading toward the main entrance, Tatts toward the side of the building, presumably to another entrance. Leah supposed there was also a back way out, leading to loading bays and rubbish skips, and she considered re-entering the shopping-centre. But that would attract attention, and the rear of the building offered only one way out, so she kept walking, Tess close beside her, gripping the handle of the trolley.

Talk to me, she ordered.

Tess was flustered. What about?

Anything, so long as we look natural.

They walked on. Sometimes they bumped hips. Their progress and their attempts at conversation were stiff and clumsy. And then Tess glanced toward the men. That was enough to betray them, for Leah heard a shout and the slap of running feet.

Go! she yelled, sending the trolley toward Moustache, grabbing Tess by the hand and streaking toward the car. Behind them Moustache cursed and there was a metallic clang and a meaty thud, as though he’d fallen to the ground. He called out to Tatts, who was closing in fast on their right, Forget about me, get the sheila.

But which sheila? Leah wondered. A couple of seconds, thats all she wanted. She reached the panel van with Tess, bundled her in through the drivers door, slid in after her. She ground the starter, crashed the gears and reversed out of the parking bay as Tatts reached Tess’s door. Tess yelped. Tatts had her door open now. Leah braked, accelerated, braked again, throwing him off, then headed for the exit. She checked the mirror. A Magna festooned with aerials was entering the carpark, braking suddenly to avoid running over Moustache, who’d knocked the shopping trolley to the ground and was groggily getting to his feet, angrily booting Leah’s new sleeping-bag out of his way. Leah saw the driver of the Magna open his door as if to offer help, but the exit was coming up fast and she switched her attention to the traffic on the highway. When the road was clear, she pushed her foot to the floor, the old car protesting around her.

You okay?

Tess had the daypack in her lap, both arms around it protectively, her face pale and aggrieved, as if to say, Its not fair. Leah glanced at the road ahead, the rearview mirror, the daypack again.

Some pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

Private detectives? Maybe. Books and movies glamorise the private eye. He (it was usually a he) was tough, smart, streetwise, ultimately successful where the police were incompetent or corrupt. He operated on the margins of what was legal and respectable, but that was okay, for he did what he had to do to cut through the bullshit and get at the truth.

Leah knew that it wasn’t like that for real private eyes. They were bound by strict regulations and faced a daily grind of lies, evasions, wasted time, belligerent or violent witnesses, wrongly transcribed phone numbers and non-existent addresses.

Like the police, Leah thought.

But there were cowboys in the profession, not averse to theft, industrial espionage, offering bribes, passing prosecution secrets to defence lawyers, even hiring themselves out as hitmen.

Was that who these guys were?