Bay of Martyrs Page 12

  The car pulled up a short distance away from hers and turned its lights off. She peered into the moonlit night, but couldn’t make out anything inside the car. The light of the night reflected off the roof of the car and its tinted windows.

  Jacinta waited for the signal, staring at her phone, willing it to come through, wishing for this job to be over. ‘Just think of the money,’ she told herself. ‘Just think of the money.’

  A loud ting and the bright flash of her phone’s screen indicated a text had arrived – it made Jacinta jump. There it was: the signal. A simple text from a blocked number. No words, just a thumbs up emoji. Jacinta swallowed nervously. She’d noticed her body producing an involuntary shiver whenever she saw that emoticon now, even if it was being sent by friends in a harmless conversation.

  Jacinta dropped her phone into her handbag and heard it clink against something hard and metallic in there. That was probably the gun, she thought. Although it could have been a vibrator. Or the handcuffs. It will be just my luck, she thought, that when I dig in there for the gun, when I need it most, I’ll end up pulling out a dildo.

  She laughed to herself at the thought and felt her body relax. She grabbed her bag and stepped out of the car into the night. The evening was still warm; for once her short skirt and skimpy top matched the weather.

  Jacinta locked the car, dropped the keys into her enormous handbag and began tottering towards the rich guy’s BMW on shiny six-inch heels. Her new boots – a purchase made thanks to the recent pay she’d earnt from her new wealthy client – had almost made her forget the horrible incident that had led her to this place. Don’t think about that now, she reminded herself, just do the job, and then get more money out of this scumbag.

  As per routine, she walked around the car and climbed into the passenger seat. The door closed behind her. ‘So what’s it gonna be this time, handsome?’ she said, searching her bag for lubricant and a condom.

  The internal locking mechanism of the doors made a click that startled her. Jacinta looked across to the driver’s seat; the rich guy wasn’t there. In his place was a thuggish, ugly man, with a round bald head.

  She was suddenly aware of a presence in the seat behind her and turned her head. In the dull moonlight coming through the sunroof and the windows, she could make out the figure of a broad-shouldered man, with slick dark hair and a hawkish nose. The smell of cigarette smoke filled the car.

  ‘Who are—’ Jacinta began, but she never finished. Hands were around her throat and beginning to squeeze. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. The man with the round bald head stared at Jacinta, watching her with a curious look on his face as the man behind her clenched his hands tighter around her neck.

  Jacinta’s own hands scrabbled at the strangler’s, but she realised that was a lost cause. He was too strong.

  The gun. Her eyes widened at the realisation and she fumbled in her bag, searching for the unfamiliar shape of the weapon. Deeper her hands dove, seeking with desperation.

  The grip on her neck grew tighter. Oxygen had long stopped getting through – she could feel things cracking inside her neck. Tears ran down her face. The pain was unlike anything she’d felt before and she could feel the world slipping from her grasp.

  With a burst of recognition her fingers fell upon the cold steel of the pistol and she pulled it out with a wild sweep of her hand, squeezing down on the trigger at the same time. The resulting gunshot was deafening inside the confines of the car. It almost drowned out the shattering of the driver’s side window and replaced the sound of rushing blood in Jacinta’s ears with a high-pitched whine that eradicated all other noise.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ She could make out the muffled yell of one of the men over the tinnitus frequency, and suddenly another set of hands were upon her, this time grappling with her own hands in an effort to extricate the gun from her control.

  The gunshot had made the hands around her neck release their grasp and she gasped, sucking air into her lungs like a drowning woman. Incredible burning pain racked her throat as the priceless oxygen slid down her damaged windpipe.

  As she breathed that precious air, and tried to ignore the blazing ache in her oesophagus and numbing scream in her ears, Jacinta lost her grip on the gun. The weapon was now in the hands of the bald man sitting next to her.

  ‘No, no, no, no—’ she screamed, her broken voice racked by sobs and heaving breaths.

  There was one more gunshot and Thunder Point was silent once more, but for the sound of the waves crashing against the limestone cliff below.

  Chapter 22

  Clay dared to open one eye. He could see wall. Painted wall, light green bordering on grey, like you might see in a hospital. His bedroom wall. He was in his own apartment, in his own bed. That’s a good start, he thought. He tried to recall how he’d ended up back there, but drew a blank. Let’s see… Clay rolled his mind back through the previous day’s events. The pub crawl, that’s right. Drinking with Al. Joints with Al. The Loft. Gabby. Oh, yeah.

  Clay rolled over and there she was, a sleeping mess of snores, her dyed-red hair splayed across her face and the pillow. The doona was somewhere at the foot of the bed. It must have been a warm night and Clay noticed there was no morning chill in the air. Was it still morning?

  Gabby was naked. That sight triggered a bunch of memories, vague, hazy grabs of recollection, but recollections nonetheless. Clay was naked, too. He sat up in bed and reached for his watch: 9.30 a.m. I could really use more sleep, he thought. But the heat of the day was already starting to increase the temperature in his room to a level he realised would make sleeping impossible. That, and the sure-and-steady rise of a hangover. More slumber was not an option.

  There was a low buzz from his bedside table and Clay remembered something had awoken him. His phone, vibrating away like a dying blowfly. Who the hell would call me at such an undignified hour on a Sunday?

  He grabbed the mobile. ‘BEC – WORK’ said the screen. He pushed the answer button.

  ‘Surely you know better than to call me at this hour of—’

  ‘Don’t start, Clay,’ said Bec, all business. ‘We need you to come into the office.’

  ‘I’m not rostered on today.’

  ‘I know. But Tudor told me to call you. The Sunday reporter’s called in sick and we’ve got some serious stuff going down.’

  Clay tried to rub the hangover out of his eyes as Gabby stirred in her sleep. This was more punishment from Tudor. He could have asked Bec to call any other journo on a Sunday morning. ‘This better be good.’

  ‘Oh, it’s good. And by good, I mean bad. We’ve got a burnt-out car with a body inside. Somewhere called Thunder Point.’

  A switch flicked in his mind. ‘OK, OK, give me fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be there to pick you up in ten.’

  Clay rolled out of bed and stood up in a cautious manner. The hangover wasn’t as bad as he expected, which either meant he was still a little bit drunk or he had dodged a bullet. He had definitely imbibed enough to warrant queasiness and a killer headache. Maybe I’m a little too match-fit at the moment, he thought.

  Clay was in and out of the shower in record time. He pulled on last night’s jeans, picked up from the corner of the bedroom floor, and found a clean shirt in the drawer. He was lacing up a pair of Converse when he heard the knock at the door.

  Throwing open the door revealed a level of sunlight Clay didn’t feel equipped to handle, and Bec holding two coffees.

  ‘Holy crap,’ said Clay. ‘Gimme a sec to find some sunnies.’

  ‘You’ve got thirty seconds,’ said Bec.

  Clay walked back to the bedroom, where Gabby was now sitting up in bed, the doona wrapped around her naked body. He spotted his sunglasses on a desk in one corner of the room and grabbed them.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ said Gabby.

  ‘Work. Dead body in a burnt-out car at Thunder Point.’

  ‘And I suppose you’ll be hitting me up for a leake
d autopsy report in the near future?’

  ‘You are so much more than just a pretty face,’ Clay said, laying on the charm. He leant over and kissed her quickly. ‘Make yourself at home and just pull the door closed when you go. I’ll call ya.’

  ‘Oh, you better, mister.’

  Clay was back at the door, sunglasses in position and pulling it closed behind him, in less than thirty seconds. He went to grab one of the coffees from Bec, but she moved her hand away at the last moment, teasing him.

  ‘Who were you talking to in there?’ she asked, a mischievous grin on her face.

  ‘My priest. I was taking confession.’ He reached for the coffee again, but Bec pulled it away again.

  ‘Uh-uh. That was a woman’s voice I heard.’

  ‘The Vatican made some changes recently.’ In trying to take the coffee from her, Clay was now well inside Bec’s personal space. He could smell her perfume, a subtle flowery number that made him think of a long lost summer spent in Queensland. He was even close enough to see two rogue grey hairs snaking amid the brunette strands over her ear and flowing down to her shoulder. For some reason, that sight intrigued him.

  ‘Funnily enough, I don’t believe you,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’

  Bec narrowed her eyes. She handed Clay the coffee. ‘Sadly, you’re right.’ She headed down the wooden stairs into the car park below where the office Subaru waited.

  ‘For the record, it was Gabby,’ he said, as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  ‘The coffee thrower?’

  ‘Yes, the coffee thrower.’

  ‘Ha!’ Bec slapped the steering wheel. She started the car and slapped the steering wheel again, letting out another chuckle. ‘You’re a sucker for punishment, aren’t you?’

  Clay didn’t respond as Bec backed out of the car park and sped off towards the street. ‘Take it easy on the corners there, Bec, I’m not exactly feeling a million dollars today.’

  ‘Are you hungover again?’

  ‘What’s with all the questions?’

  ‘Clay, I think you might have a problem.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve plenty of those.’

  ‘I mean one you haven’t considered – a drink problem.’

  Clay heard a serious edge to her tone that he had no time for. ‘Bec, I’m not an alcoholic. I’m Australian.’ He sipped on his coffee. It was blood-warm and strong, with half a sugar. Just how he liked it. ‘And besides, you’ve caught me on my day off. And it’s Sunday morning. I’m allowed to be hungover. And I’m pretty sure you were out at the pub last night with a certain senior constable, so don’t pretend you’re all Little Miss Innocent.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I have spies everywhere,’ Clay said with a sly smile. ‘It pays to remember that Warrnambool is a very, very small town. It may look like a city, and technically it is a city, but at its heart it’s a country town dressed up in city clothes. And in country towns, everyone knows everything about everyone.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  The jovial mood and warm coffee lifted Clay’s spirits. His hangover lost some of its edge, but the sight awaiting them at Thunder Point brought new grief.

  The police had blocked off an area of the car park with their cars, angling them around the centrepiece of the scene – a Ford Laser reduced to ash and warped metal.

  Bec stopped the car a short distance away from the police blockade and the pair stepped out. Clay smelt the carbon in the air and a faint hint of burnt rubber, merged with the salty sea air of the coastal reserve. The car park, located as it was at the edge of a short cliff and the start of a number of walking trails, would usually be full of tourists seeing the sights and locals walking their dogs. That had been replaced by half a dozen police cars.

  Clay and Bec were still fifty metres from the husk of the Laser. At least ten cops stood between them and the remains of the car. Clay knew right away they weren’t going to get very close. He’d also noticed another problem: standing next to the ashen hatchback was the corpulent shape of Detective Sergeant Frank Anderson. He had his back to Clay as he motioned to uniformed officers that scampered around him like trained dogs. When he turned and caught sight of Clay, his eyes were as black as the burnt-out car.

  Clay nodded at Bec to start snapping and turned his attention to the nearest cop. He was an older officer, well into his fifties, with a sweep of thick white hair and the features of a kindly grandfather. Clay recognised him and breathed a sigh of relief that it was an officer he knew well enough and who was one of the older brigade who was more likely to talk to a journo rather than follow the new protocols of the police media department.

  ‘Senior Constable Hawker – long time, no see,’ said Clay.

  ‘Hello, Clay,’ said the officer, offering a small smile. ‘Nice morning.’

  ‘Except for that.’ Clay gestured at the burnt-out car with his notepad, before tapping it with his pen and giving the policeman a nod. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nineties model Ford Laser, discovered by a couple of joggers,’ said Hawker. ‘Called in about half an hour ago. One deceased female on board.’ He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and shooed away a blowfly. ‘What a way to go.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Clay without looking up from his notes. ‘Know who she is?’

  ‘We have our suspicions.’

  ‘I’m not after a name.’

  ‘Female. Caucasian. Twenty-eight years of age. From Warrnambool.’

  ‘What the hell was she doing up here?’

  ‘She was known to police, let’s put it that way.’

  Clay thought for a second. ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Bit of that. But mostly we brought her in for doing things in public one should probably do in the privacy of one’s own home. Or in her case, a hotel room.’ He offered Clay a quaint wink that made Clay wince in recognition.

  ‘A lady of the night, eh?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  Clay looked at Hawker; he was staring at Detective Sergeant Anderson, who was leaning over the wreckage. ‘He doesn’t look too happy,’ said Clay.

  ‘Bloody oath. Been like a bear with a sore head for weeks.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Hawker returned Clay’s gaze, changed tone. ‘Ah, just busy, y’know how it is.’

  The remark rankled with Clay. Anderson certainly wasn’t busy on the Kerry Collins case, which had already been shoved in the back of a drawer. And with hired goons walking the streets, dispensing their own brand of justice, the place didn’t seem like the peaceful coastal idyll it once was.

  ‘Is that a line, mate? Is there something going down I should know about?’

  Hawker’s expression tamed, his jaw looked set in steel. ‘No, Clay. It isn’t. The city’s expanding and with it our workload, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘What about Frank’s…?’

  The senior constable cut the air with his hand. ‘You’ve got all you’re getting. Now bugger off before you’re in my bad books, too.’

  Chapter 23

  ‘So what do you want to hear about first? The dead hooker, the hired goons, or the girl who washed up at the Bay of Martyrs?’

  It was Monday afternoon, the day after the burnt-out car had been found at Thunder Point, and Senior Constable Eddie Boulton had asked Bec and Clay to meet him at Fishtails Café after work. The colourful restaurant, located only a few shops down from the one Clay lived above, seemed to be in the midst of a post-5 p.m. coffee blitz, which meant every table inside was full. This suited Clay just fine – they would have to sit in the small courtyard out the back, where smoking was allowed.

  Clay had noticed the light peck on the lips Eddie and Bec had exchanged on arrival and it irked him more than he cared to admit, but he played it cool, or at least he hoped he gave the appearance of playing it cool. He sipped on a Corona that helped to take the heat out of the late afternoon. The brickwork that fenced in the narr
ow courtyard was retaining a fair bit of heat, but large umbrellas at each table were taking the edge out of the sun and mid-twenties air.

  ‘Tell me about the escort first,’ said Clay, as he lit a cigarette.

  Eddie pulled out a notepad. ‘Jacinta Porter, twenty-eight, of Warrnambool. She’s got priors, a nice mix of stuff. Bit of possession, used cannabis and speed, some driving infringements, a few charges that I can only presume relate to getting busted in the middle of servicing a client. Certainly nothing major on her rap sheet.’

  ‘And why did she burst into flames?’ asked Clay.

  ‘The prevailing theory is she fell asleep with a cigarette and accidentally caught fire.’

  Clay looked at Bec, who was sipping on a cider. ‘What do you think?’

  Bec shrugged. ‘Seems like a reasonable hypothesis. Is there any reason to suspect foul play?’

  ‘Not at this stage,’ said Eddie. ‘Can’t say the boys at the station are looking real hard at this one.’

  ‘What about the other cases they’re not looking real hard at? Like Kerry Collins?’ Clay hadn’t meant for the edge to creep into his voice, but he knew it was there and he couldn’t hide it.

  ‘They’re still not looking at that one,’ said Eddie, the reluctant sound of defeat sneaking into his own tone, ‘and I think you may have been right about it.’

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘The bit about them deliberately avoiding the case. Like they’re covering something up. I spoke to some of my friends in the criminal investigation unit, low-level fellas, and told them what you told me about Kerry getting a private job off a rich-looking dude in a suit. They went off and came back real sheepish. Warned off it, they said. Dismissed. One of them said to me he was told the matter was under control. I hate to say it, but someone’s hiding something about that one.’

  Clay dragged hard on his cigarette and stared up at the clear blue sky. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed being right, but not this time. He said nothing, but he could feel Eddie and Bec watching him.