Death Deal

Thirty-eight

If it had been anything elsecomputer fraud, stealing from a trust accountshe might have got bail, but this was armed robbery and the police argued that there was an unacceptable degree of risk that she would abscond. So it was remand in a new, privately-owned womens prison complex in Inala, and Anna wondered if Wyatt would get to her eventually, revenge for the grief shed caused him in the past, the grief he was blaming her for now.

At least she knew now that he was alive. For a while, shed thought he was dead. Shed heard a couple of news flashes on the tiny radio shed taken to work, and tried to piece it together. There had been a gun battle at the bank: two men dead, a third escaped with a limited amount of money from the vault, and then news that a man was dead in a separate but related incident at the university.

She had felt her control slipping away. She was partnered to three men and there had been three bodies. No names, no indication of what had gone wrong. One of those men could have been Wyatt, and in the minutes before the lift door opened she had allowed herself a prayer or two, a tribute.

She had not believed in forever with him, not even in the afterglow of the kind of lovemaking that told her sex could be more than just a quick loss of joy. But she had believed in six months, a year. And, a long time ago, three months ago in Melbourne, he had said they could work together, that he had jobs lined up where a woman would be needed. Three months, in which there hadnt been a day when she didnt want to taste again his bitterness, watchfulness and buried humour.

She remembered what it had been like, seeing him again at the bus station lockers after Stolle had delivered him to her. His angular face showing too many lines of strain and exhaustion around the eyes; the hard quickness of his body, poised ready to escape or fight. Clearly hed had a hard time of it on the run, held together by fortitude and nothing else, dancing on thin ice for so long that he was almost through to the chilling black water underneath.

Later, at the bistro in the mall, it had been hard work. There had been something unrelenting and final about the way hed watched her, quite still, eyes dark and hooded. If shed been hiding anything from him she would not have been able to withstand his scrutiny at all. If hed sensed the smell of something wrong in her story, in her head, he would have killed her, shed been certain of it.

And he still might, one day. He would never forgive or forget and the damage was irreversible.

He hadnt touched her at the bistro. He hadnt even touched her for some minutes when he came to her house. But when he did, a hand on each flank, hands flat and wide and highly charged, the jolt had gone straight to the base of her stomach, and shed watched the layers of caution peel away, letting the man inside surface.

Shed wanted a future with Wyattsix months, a year. She was never one to tie herself to men whose steps were small and delicate, one after the other.

And now shed lost it and it hadnt been her fault.

The questions had started almost immediately. Detectives from the armed robbery squad questioned her in relays, first at the City Watchhouse, then at the prison. They wouldnt tell her what had happened; they wouldnt tell her how they knew she was involved.

They had photographs.

Shed been stripped of her corporate outfitstockings, skirt, silk shirtdecked out in a prison issue tracksuit and cheap canvas runners, and taken to an interview room where a dozen glossy black and whites were fanned out over the table.

Carafe of water. Three glasses. Ashtray. Three chairs around the table: one that she was pushed into, one for the man who sat opposite her, one for the female detective who preferred to stand behind her, leaning her cheaply perfumed head close to Annas from time to time.

A second woman waited at the door.

The man was called Vincent, the woman Clyne. Lets start again, Vincent said.

Clynes warm, stale breath stirred the hair at Annas neck. Some names.

One by one, Vincent spun several photographs around with the tips of his fingers. Two grainy, long-distance shots of Riding and Phelps in the motel carpark; a couple more of them in a car outside a shop; two sharp close-ups of men shed never seen before, both lying dead in pools of their own blood, one on a carpet in a building, one on gravel somewhere.

Whoever took those night shots knew what he was doing, Vincent said. Telephoto, infra-red, the works.

I dont know who these people are. Ive never seen them before.

Oh please, said Vincent wearily. The detective was small and buttoned-down and clerkish; they both were.

Never seen them.

Silently Vincent spun a further two photographs toward Anna. She saw herself at the door of the motel, letting Riding in, letting Phelps in.

I can meet friends if I want to.

Clyne leaned over her shoulder and stabbed a bitten-down forefinger on the men at the motel. This man was found shot dead at the bank. We know who he is, Jeffrey Riding. This man she indicated Phelps is also known to us: Brian Phelps. Were currently looking for him.

Vincent pointed to the photographs of the dead men. This man was also killed at the bank, and this one was found dead at the university. We dont know who they are.

He paused. Two further photographs lay face down in front of him and now he turned one of them over. But the man were most interested in is this one.

Wyatt leaving the motela grainy, blurred shot, not helped by the automatic caution that governed everything he did, for he had his collar up, a cap over his, brow, dark-rimmed glasses on his face.

Anna chanced a question. So you knew about this all along? Youve been watching?

Vincent looked around her shoulder at Clyne. A signal passed between them and the woman breathed on Annas neck again: Looks like youve got some enemies out there, Anna. We got this lot by courier just a couple of hours ago. An anonymous note with it.

Vincent leaned forward. Anna felt herself cringing. They both had her hemmed in with their body heat. A citizen doing his duty? Vincent asked. A rival gang? You tell us.

In a way its no skin off our nose, Clyne said behind her. Weve got enough here to make a case stick against you. Well find a way to explain the incidental bodies

They all belong to your gang, for example, Vincent said. You all had a falling out. and case closed, Clyne concluded. Once we find Phelps and this other character.

Phelps will be easy.

Its this other man, Clyne said. Him were really interested in. Interests you as well, eh, Anna? Something going on there?

Anna drew her neck into her shoulders to escape the woman behind her. I havent had my phone call. Im entitled to a lawyer.

Not if we have good reason to believe youll tip off your accomplices, Vincent said.

He turned the other photograph over. Wyatt was still indistinct but clearly holding her shoulders on the South Bank on that Sunday afternoon a week ago. Stolle, Anna thought. Who else apart from the police had the know-how to run a surveillance like that? He saw what we were up to and got curious and greedy.

Is he good, Anna? Clyne breathed, reaching over to tap Wyatts face. Give you a good time, does he?

Vincent leaned back, folded his arms. Hold onto your memories, sweetheart. Hes the last bit of dick youll have for a long, long time.

Attractive woman like you, Clyne said, all that lovely hair, unmarked skin, good education, nice manners, proper way of speakingyou know how long someone like you will last in here?

Anna said nothing. Shed been wondering exactly that but she said nothing.

Dont talk, dont trust, dont feel, thats what its going to be like from now on. But that wont save you. Theres an element in here that hates what you represent. The merest hint that youre waving your tits or arse around, theyll shaft you.

Or maybe theyll pussy-tame you. You might even get to like it, Vincent said.

Shed be better off not flaunting it, though, dont you think?

Oh, absolutely.

Anna tried to let the words run off her back and sink into the hard floor. It was cruelty and gutter talk from a couple of people who looked like adherents to a fundamentalist church and she would not let it get to her. She closed her mouth in a thin line and did not speak again.

Clyne said, Come on, Anna. Who is he?

Are you scared? Maybe we could arrange something, some protection, Vincent said. What do you think, Lesley?

The woman at the door wore the nastiest suit Anna had ever seen. It was electric blue, a vampish 1950s film star outfit in polyester. She came and sat near Anna and smiled a smile of hard falsity at her.

Vincent stood up, stashing the photographs in a vinyl briefcase. DC Clyne and I are going now. Youll be seeing us again.

They left the room. After a while, Anna forced herself to look at the woman in the blue suit. The name on the ID pinned to her lapel was Lesley Van Fleet. She wasnt government: she was employed by the corporation that ran the prison. What happens now?

You and I have a little talk.

Why should I talk to you? Youre not a cop.

Dont make it hard on yourself, Van Fleet said. Talk to me. She leaned close. Start with the money.