We found him, Mack Stolle said, and then Im afraid we lost him again.
He put the receiver to his other ear, reached for a pen and doodled on the pad in front of him. Hed been working on the Battle of Waterloo: Nelson, Hornblower, belching cannons, torn rigging above sailors with cutlasses in their teeth.
Thats what I said, and I stand by it, Stolle said. Eighty-seven per cent success rate in tracking missing persons.
He drew a splintered hole above the waterline in a French frigate. Thats right, near Mt Gambier. Hes on the run. You sure you want this bloke found? He beat up my operatives and got away from them.
Stolle looked up then, at the man in the chair across from him. No, I certainly will not be putting the same men on this case again. In fact, Ill be doing it myself.
Mostyn, bruised and sorry-looking, stirred in the office chair.
No. Yes. Thank you, Stolle said. Bye for now.
He replaced the handset. No guesses who that was.
She pissed off with us?
Stolle stuck his forefinger in his ear and agitated it. You could say that.
Im sorry, boss, Mostyn said.
Youre sorry. Im the one thats sorry. If you two pricks hadnt fucked up Id have delivered him to Brisbane by now. Id be on the Gold Coast, happy as a pig in shit, squandering our hard-earned fee at the roulette table in the Monte Carlo. He looked at Mostyn sharply. What went wrong anyway? Wheres young Whitney?
Forget him, he cleared out, Mostyn said. Look, we tracked Wyatt to Adelaide, lost him, found him up the bush somewhere, eventually followed him to some place near the border.
Stolles voice took on a lashing quality. The way I heard it, he was up the bush snatching a payroll. Id say you two dickheads tried to relieve him of it.
No way. He didnt have the money on him.
So you did try it on. Arsehole.
Boss, we had him, okay? We were in the actual room with him, needle primed ready to go. Naturally we searched his gear.
And you let him escape. I thought you were meant to be crash-hot with your hands and feet?
Mostyns gaze slid away from Stolles face. Well, yeah, I mean, hes a powerful bastard.
And you woke up on the back of a semi in Port Adelaide.
Mostyn nodded tightly.
Jesus Christ, Stolle said. So what happened to Whitney?
Got scared, did a bunk, buggered if I know.
Got scared with his pockets full of the blokes money, Stolle said.
No, boss. It wasnt
Just shut up, okay? Whitneys long gone. You he pointed, you want a chance to redeem yourself?
Some of the gloom left Mostyns face. You mean youre not giving me the sack?
Better the devil you know, right? Ive got three jobs for you. The main one is the picket line at Plastico. I want you to slip in and stir them up a bit, get the cops called if possible. Take your camera along. If some bastard takes a swing at someone or chucks a rock through a windscreen, the client will pay a bonus.
Wont I stand out?
Theres a whole heap of outside stirrers there. You wont be noticed.
Whos the client?
Lets just say hes a Minister of our fair state.
Mostyn knew how it worked. His family companys got shares in Plastico, plus he wants to bash the unions.
But you and me, we dont know that, all right, Chuckles?
Sure. What else?
Stolle grinned. He had a tight-skinned face and the grin seemed to stretch and split it. How does a 3 am wake-up call sound?
I can handle it.
Stolle pushed a folder across his desk. Tony Baggio, greengrocer, lives in Cheltenham.
Fuck no. Let one of the others take it.
Mostyn, you owe me, okay? Youll pick him up at three-thirty tomorrow morning. Hell have about seven grand on him, so take a gun with you. See that old Tony plus dough get to the market safely.
Jesus, boss, the Mafias doing these blokes over left, right and centre.
So shoot first and ask questions after.
Yeah, yeah. What else?
Stolle pushed another file across his desk. No hurry with this one. The client is Ameribank. They need information about the names on this list, deep background stuff if possible. Use our regular contacts in Social Security, the Lands Department, Motor Vehicles, Tax Office, Securities Commission. Tell them to fax it to mefrom a newsagent, not the officeand Ill pay cash on delivery.
Stolle watched Mostyn collect the files and leave the office. Despite his name, despite his failure to bring in Wyatt, Mostyn was good valuequick with his hands, a sure instinct for outguessing people. The failure to bring in Wyatt probably owed more to Wyatts skills than to Mostyns sticky fingers.
Stolle tolerated a certain level of dishonesty in his people. He could hardly do otherwise. Seven years ago hed gone by the name Securicor. On the surface hed been in the business of installing burglar alarms, video scanners and electric eyes, but mostly what he did was rob small companies. Theyd see Securicor in the yellow pages, call for a quote, and Stolle would wander around with a polaroid camera, a frown and a clipboard, noting doors and windows, distances and angles, making little sketches to show the proprietor, constructing models with the polaroid snaps.
What he didnt write down, but filed away in his head, were lock size and type, window height, alley layout, traffic direction on the one-way streets, who the neighbours were, whether or not there was space to back in a small truck, how close the nearest cop shop was. Then hed type up a report, quote a figure guaranteed to scare the proprietor off the idea, and wait a few weeks. If another firm had fitted security to the place in the meantime, fine, Stolle simply pulled a long face and carried on, as his mother used to say. But more often than not the proprietor would hold off for a while and Stolle would hit the premises one night and clean it out.
That came unstuck the night he got clubbed by a nightwatchman. He got away, but the headache lasted six months.
Then two years ago he was SecureSafe. It was a sweet operation, more or less legitimate. Hed show the customer only top of the line security devices, but install look-alikes made in some Bangkok sweatshop. The cheap gear worked just as well as the expensive stuff.
More or less.
Most of the time.
There was the occasional pissed-off letter, the odd rave on his answering machine, but if he ignored them they went away after a while.
Until Inquiry File got wind of it and investigative reporters started to poke around with microphones and video cameras, camping on his front lawn, hanging outside his workshop, peering through the glass doors into his office, some bitch screaming questions at him three days in a row. He had rounded on her finally, shoving her to one side, clamping his hand over the lens of the camera. Dont touch the equipment, she squawked. Dont touch me or Ill have you up for assault.
Stolle had never felt such huge, useless rage. Hed been unable to get his words out. Hed wanted to smash the camera to dust, flatten the fairy cameraman, tear the clothes off the bitch with her questions, questions, questions.
So now he was Stolle Investigations. He didnt advertise. He ran a discreet business, installing security gear for cocaine kings, tax dodgers, bent union bosses and bikie gangs, finding missing persons, supplying bodyguards, anything for a buck. He even had a TAFE College diploma.
The main problem was that he ran a large staff of part-timers and a couple of full-timers, and they all cost money. Hed bleed his customers where he could, spin the job out over three days when it could have been done in two, charge for travel and faxes he hadnt made, but what he needed more of were clients like this Brisbane woman. He could smell more work there if he played his cards right. The fee didnt bother her, forty-five bucks an hour plus expenses, plus she was offering ten thousand bucks bonus if he could deliver Wyatt to her before the end of October. He looked at the calendar. He had three weeks.
The door to the outer office opened and closed. Stolle leaned back and waited. His secretary was out on a job, store detective at a mink show in the city. He heard a knock.
Its open.
The man who came in had the appearance and manner of a minor executivedark suit, plain white shirt, silk tie. He was about forty, thin, a hollow look to his face and not an ounce of humour in his bones. He said, Is your name Stolle?
What can I do for you?
I said are you Stolle?
If this was going to go anywhere Stolle had to admit to being Stolle. He nodded, and repeated, What can I do for you?
The words tumbled out. I heard you were the best person for what Ive got in mind.
Oh? Whats that?
The man sat uninvited and folded his arms as though to rein in powerful emotions. Theres this matter, this person, that needs fixing, if you know what I mean.
Stolle pulled his chair toward his desk, using the movement to press a switch with his knee. The switch was connected to a voice-activated tape recorder in his top drawer. The microphone was the tip of a pen in a jumble of pens and pencils in a jar next to his in-tray.
Go ahead.
Ill pay ten thousand.
To do what?
The man waited for a while. She has to go. I dont care how long it takes. Five thousand now, five on delivery.
Youre not making yourself very clear.
My wife. The property division has all but ruined me.
I still dont understand.
You want me to spell it out? Kill the bitch for me, okay? I dont care how long it takes, just do it. I heard you were the one to do it.
Stolle reached for his pad. Name and address?
Jesus, youre not keeping a file on this?
I cant start until I know who and where, now can I?
Stolle said it sarcastically. The man seemed to shut down in the face of it. Eventually he muttered his name and address and the name and address of his ex-wife. Stolle made a show of writing these on the pad and putting the paper into his pocket.
Now, he said, I want you to listen to something.
He opened the drawer, pressed rewind, pressed play, and their voices swelled from concealed speakers, filling the tiny office. The mans face suffused with anger. As he came out of his chair, Stolle waved an automatic pistol at him. To reinforce the point, Stolle drew back the slide, jacking a round into the chamber. It was an oily click, sharp and nasty. Sit down. Youre also on camera.
You bastard.
Youre the one who wants to kill his wife, Sunshine. Give us your wallet.
The man tossed a fraying wallet across the desk. As Stolle guessed, there was big money in it. Not the five thousand upfront fee the man had mentioned, but seven hundred and fifty dollars good-faith money. He pocketed it, tossed back the wallet.
This is as far as it goes, he said. I keep the audio tape, the videotape, insurance in case you do anything stupid. I also know where you live. Take my advice about the wifegrin and bear it. I did.
You bastard.
Only the one payment, and youve already made it. Im not greedy.
The man got up. He looked paler, weaker. Maybe hell get his courage back and try knocking her himself, Stolle thought. He could warn her. Then again, it was nothing to do with him.
The man stopped in the doorway. He looked compressed and dark again. Was that bullshit, what I heard, that you get rid of people for a fee?
Stolle rocked back in his chair, grinned, laced his fingers behind his head. Youll never know.