The Undertow Read online

I made a mental note of Speciality Travel’s phone number and webpage address and went back to the car to jot them down. I was settled with notebook and pen in hand when I felt the cold bite of metal at the base of my skull.

  ‘Drop the stuff in your hands and put them on the wheel. High up—five to one.’

  The instruction came with a sharp jab and then an easing of the pressure. Someone who knew what he was doing.

  I dropped the pen and notebook and did as I’d been told. I glanced at the rear vision mirror but it had been moved so that it showed nothing immediately behind me. A true professional.

  ‘You don’t have to look, you just have to listen,’ the voice said. ‘This is a sawn-off pump action shotgun with a heavy load. If you don’t do what I say, exactly what I say, your head disappears.’

  The sweat broke out immediately—on my body, on my face, on my hands—the voice and the threat had that much conviction. My throat was suddenly too dry to let me speak. I coughed and cleared it.

  ‘Sawtell?’

  Another quick jab and then something was hanging from my right ear.

  ‘Plastic restraint,’ he said. ‘Right hand up and fasten it to your right wrist and the steering wheel.’

  ‘I might need two hands for that.’

  ‘Use them while you’ve got them.’

  His calm was unnerving. I could only just hear him breathing, nothing heavy or out of rhythm. I adjusted the restraint, but left the clasp loose.

  ‘Give it a tug.’

  He had me. I closed the clasp and tugged.

  ‘Okay. Marks for a good try. Now I think we can relax a bit. Or at least I can.’

  ‘You can’t ever relax, not to the end of your days.’

  ‘True. For now, I mean. I knew you’d turn up here sooner or later, Hardy. How’d you do it? Did bright boy Willy let you see his car?’

  ‘Figure it out.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I was told you knew your business and I had a man keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Like Rex Wain?’

  ‘Better, a bit better at least. Not hard.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll be expendable too.’

  The shotgun barrel rapped sharply against my ear, drawing blood.

  ‘This isn’t a debating society. I’m going to tell you what you’re going to do.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or everything ends for you right here.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. You’re talking too much, Sawtell. You want something. You want it badly and you need me to get it for you. So spell it out and we’ll see where it takes us. But you’re not going to blow my head off until you’re sure you can’t use me. So, as I say, fuck you.’

  ‘You’ve got guts, I’ll say that for you.’

  The sweat was dripping from me and I’d played him as hard as I was ever going to be able to. It was time to ease up if I wanted to stay alive. He’d killed men before, some in hot blood, some in cold. He was as dangerous as a shark in bloody water.

  ‘Tell me a few things,’ I said. ‘Indulge me professionally. Let’s see where we get to.’

  ‘You’re a piece of work.’

  That struck a false note—maybe he’d been watching too much television, had too much time on his hands. I was tempted to tell him so but I resisted, thinking I’d probably pushed him far enough. I kept quiet, forcing him to speak again.

  ‘So what d’you want to know?’

  ‘Did you frame Gregory Heysen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No comment. Anything else?’

  ‘My guess is you ran into William Heysen somewhere in South-East Asia. Let’s say Indonesia.’

  ‘Close. Singapore.’

  ‘You encouraged him to go into what he calls immigration facilitation, better known as people-smuggling.’

  ‘He was willing.’

  ‘Again, why?’

  ‘Same answer. That’s enough, but in case you’re wondering, you won’t find him across the street there. He’s somewhere else.’

  ‘Forced restraint’s a serious charge.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. I’ve got two murder counts on the sheet.’

  ‘Plus Wain.’

  ‘Shut up and listen. You get me what I want or I’ll send the little smartarse to you in pieces. Don’t think I don’t mean it.’

  It had to be something to do with Dr Gregory Heysen again. Some retribution. I considered telling him Heysen wasn’t William’s father, but I couldn’t see what good it would do at that moment. Maybe later.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I want to see Catherine.’

  So it was all circling back towards her. I knew there was no point in asking him why. There was only one sensible thing to ask.

  ‘How? You had her shot. She’s still recovering and very well protected.’

  ‘I know that. It’s something for you to figure out.

  You’ve worked a lot of stuff out so far, let’s see how smart you really are.’

  He opened the door and I felt a surge of alarm. ‘You can’t just—’ ‘Shook you then, didn’t I? Tell me your mobile number.

  Don’t think, just do it.’

  I rattled the number off.

  ‘Right. I’ll be in touch. Sit tight and don’t turn round.

  If I see you move I’ll blast the back of the car and let you take your chances with glass and the petrol tank.’

  Opening the door had turned on the interior light. I was a big, well-lit target. I heard him slide out and I didn’t move a muscle.

  23

  I’d been overconfident, or let’s call it what it was—slack again. Hank Bachelor hadn’t been immediately available to watch my back and I’d let that precaution slip. I was sure I hadn’t been followed all the way from where Catherine Heysen was staying, but I’d been picked up there by someone communicating with Sawtell and once I was on the highway to the Southern Highlands that would be all he needed. A good tail is hard to spot in suburban traffic, much easier on the freeways.

  I sat in the car feeling diminished and furious with myself. Pointless, and the game wasn’t over yet by a long shot. Sawtell had expressed a need, always a weakness. And I knew at least one or two things he didn’t know. I scrabbled in my jacket pocket for my Swiss army knife, got it open and sawed through the plastic restraint where it circled my wrist. I left it hanging on the steering wheel as a reminder of the mistake I’d made.

  It wasn’t late and I found an open motel in Bowral. Didn’t make the same mistake twice; I was sure I hadn’t been followed. I checked in and parked myself at the desk with a scotch and a packet of nuts from the mini-bar and jotted down all I could remember of what was said in the confrontation with Sawtell. Wrong word. I hadn’t seen him. He’d taken steps to avoid that. I noted the fact and added a large question mark. I finished the scotch and opened another of the miniature bottles, adding soda this time. I cracked open the packet of crisps and ate them as I continued making notes. When I scrunched up the packet to drop it into the bin I was surprised to see that they were salt and vinegar flavoured. I hadn’t even tasted them. Good sign that I was concentrating on the problems at hand.

  There were enough. Sawtell implied he had William Heysen under control. A good bargaining chip in his wish to see Catherine Heysen. I was evidently to be the go-between, not a comfortable role. It all raised the question of whether and when to bring Frank in. The hostage was his son and he felt responsible for him although they’d never met. Or had they? Had Frank interviewed Catherine when her husband was being investigated? Had he seen the baby? Did it matter?

  I decided that my tired brain was scrambling things and that it was time to give it a rest. I finished the drink, cleaned my teeth and crawled naked into bed. Before I went to sleep I had a mildly comforting thought: hostage-takers might seem to have the right of way, but they don’t succeed all that often. They’re actually in a two-way street. And there was absolutely no way
to predict how Catherine Heysen would react.

  I’m not one of those people who can only sleep in his own bed. For me a bed’s a bed, and if I’m tired enough I can sleep in it. The encounter with Sawtell had been tiring in the sense that giving a lecture is or getting up to sing a few songs—not much physical effort and doesn’t take long, but it’s draining. I slept soundly and if I dreamed I didn’t remember any of them when I woke up.

  I started the day with a cup of the motel’s instant coffee—two sachets plus whitener. I shaved and showered and decided yesterday’s shirt would do again. I lazed around until business hours and then drove to Shetland Street. The bread shop was trading, the accountant had his sign out and there was activity inside Lucia’s, the beauty parlour. Speciality Travel was shut up tight.

  I went into Lucia’s and asked the young woman arranging things under a five metre long mirror if she knew what time the travel agency opened. She flicked back the sleeve of her pink smock and looked at her watch.

  ‘Should be open by now. Hey, Karen, what time does Will open?’

  Another woman, also young and perfectly turned out with the hair, the smock, the nails, poked her head through a curtain.

  ‘Nine thirty,’ she said, ‘but I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. Must be sick.’

  The woman I’d spoken to first shrugged. ‘I’m part-time.’ ‘You know him though.’

  ‘Well. . .’ She stopped what she was doing to take a proper look at me. I was presentable, I thought, just, but people’s standards vary. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Good question. I gave her a card that said who I was and what I did.

  ‘Ooh, is Will in trouble?’

  ‘Not from me. Maybe from someone else. I’m working for his mother. I can give you her number if you want to check that.’

  She did a nice line in shrugs. ‘No. There’s nothing much I can tell you. I cut his hair last week. Trimmed it, really.’

  ‘I didn’t think this was a unisex place.’

  ‘The world is a unisex place.’

  I laughed and she smiled. ‘I saw that on TV. You gave me the opening.’

  ‘You did it well. So he hasn’t been around for a few days?’

  ‘So Karen says. She’d know.’

  ‘How was he when you saw him?’

  ‘Sweet but, you know, a bit up himself.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  Karen came out from behind the curtain, apparently keen not to miss anything. ‘Something wrong, Trish?’

  Trish showed her my card. She wasn’t impressed— maybe it was my hair. I asked when she’d last seen William and she said four days ago. I asked if his business seemed to be going well.

  ‘Hard to say,’ Karen said. ‘People come and go— foreigners, you know, like Asians and Arabs and that.’

  ‘No Caucasians?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘White people.’

  ‘Not many. There was this one guy . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  She put her perfectly manicured hand up to her smooth cheek. ‘I called him Scarface. Real ugly, a real mess. Should’ve seen a plastic surgeon. He drove a cool black Beemer so he must have the money. Trish, get busy, Mrs Turnbull’s due any minute.’

  ‘Does he live here, this bloke with the scarred face? Have you ever seen him around the town?’

  Karen shook her head. ‘No.’

  That was all I was going to get. I thanked them and left.

  I enquired at the accountant’s office and got nothing at all—professional discretion. I stared longingly at Speciality Travel’s locked door and the apartments above and behind, but there was no way of broaching them.

  As I moved back to my car, a man wearing a turban approached the travel agency door. I went across to him non-threateningly, and spoke as politely as I could.

  ‘Excuse me, are you here to see Mr Heysen?’

  He didn’t like the look of me one bit. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said and hurried off, almost tripping on the gutter.

  I couldn’t see what else there was to be done in Bowral. Maybe Sawtell was holed up here, maybe not. I didn’t fancy asking around for Scarface and his Beemer. The day had dawned grey all around, and the wind was keen. Southern Highlands after all, have to expect that. The only thing to do was head back to the city: Catherine Heysen was the key to the next moves and it was definitely time to bring Frank in—to disturb his peace of mind. After experiencing the hard-line resourcefulness of Sawtell, I felt the need for backup such as Frank and Hank Bachelor could provide. Still, I did a run up and down the main street and a few cross streets and out to a couple of housing estates and the business park, looking for a cool black BMW. Waste of effort.

  Conference time. When I got back to the city I phoned Hank and brought him up to date on the essentials. He said the earliest he could make a meeting was five o’clock. Frank wasn’t at home. I phoned Lily and got her to pull some strings. A couple of hours later the fax, not used that much these days, sparked up and copies of news clippings from the Sydney Morning Herald, the National Times and the Sun began to come through. The cuttings covered the trial, conviction and escape of Matthew Henry Sawtell.

  He was born in Balmain, had just enough education to make it into the Police Academy, and was considered an outstanding recruit. Tall, strongly built and athletic, he impressed all the right people, did well in uniform with a couple of citations for bravery, and rose quickly as a detective. After his fall investigative journalists working on the story discovered family connections to the Painters and Dockers and signs that Sawtell had never seen the police force as anything other than a means of personal enrichment. He wore the livid scar on his face as a badge of honour. There were several photographs of him, mostly wearing a hat. Grainy and blotchy though the faxes were, his strong, almost handsome features were apparent. In one photo taken when he was a young man, before he got the scar, Herb Elliot’s arm was around his shoulders. Catherine Heysen’s kind of guy.

  I got through to Frank in the mid-afternoon, told him most of what was going on, and he agreed to the five o’clock meeting in my office. I sat and waited for them with my mobile on the desk. I dislike the things, the fiddly little buttons, the dopey ring-tones, the expectation they’ve set up that unless you have one you’re not a serious player at anything from shopping to international diplomacy. No choice now—it was the only connection to Mad Matt ‘Scarface’ Sawtell. He didn’t need to have anyone keeping tabs on me now. From his point of view he had me where he wanted me. The trick would be to turn that around.

  Hank got there first. He settled in a chair and surprised me by lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Stress,’ he said.

  I nodded. I got an ashtray from the desk drawer, produced my emergency ration scotch and poured him a drink in a paper cup. He took it and nursed it gratefully. The chair I’d set out for Frank was one I’d found in an empty office in the building—I don’t do much conferencing.

  Frank arrived looking anxious. He accepted a drink before glancing around the office. It was his first time there.

  ‘Shit, Cliff, can’t you afford something better than this?’

  ‘Low overhead. Money spent on essentials.’

  ‘Yeah, like a good car.’

  ‘What’s got up your nose?’

  ‘Sorry. Personal stuff. Let’s get on with it. I admit I’m pissed off about you going after William without telling me. What did you plan to say to him?’

  I shrugged. ‘I was going to play it by ear. Find out if he was hooked up with Sawtell and try to talk him out of it.’

  Hank said, ‘That doesn’t matter now. What d’we do when he makes contact and expects you to set up a meeting with Mrs Heysen?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Can’t let that happen.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ I said. ‘Give it to the police?’

  I could almost see Frank’s brain cells working. Playing by the book, he shouldn’t have any involvement in this given his relationship to one of th
e pawns in the game, or two of them—three if you counted Sawtell. Too close to too much. But the police record in hostage bargaining situations is 50/50 at best and there were other considerations. Sawtell was an experienced shooter facing a never-to-be-released label if caught. With nothing to lose he’d kill if pushed into a corner and take as many with him as he felt like.

  ‘No,’ Frank said. ‘He expressed his hatred for the police at his trial and I don’t imagine he’s changed.’

  ‘Cassidy and Wain are out of the picture,’ I said, ‘but some of the people who helped him escape could still be around and wouldn’t want him talking. Remember our feelings along those lines when I got pulled by those two Ds? It only takes a spark to set off a hostage situation.’

  ‘What?’ Hank said.

  I opened my hands. ‘Sorry, mate. Wheels within wheels. There’re probably cops and others who don’t want him around.’

  Hank didn’t take offence, one of his strengths. ‘Okay, we know he’s got some helpers,’ Hank said. ‘What I can’t understand is why he wants to see Mrs Heysen. Why he’s back here at all.’

  ‘They were lovers,’ I said.

  Hank took his cigarette pack out, glanced at Frank and put it away. ‘So? Ancient history.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel that ancient,’ Frank said.

  I’d hardly touched my drink. Now I took a sip. ‘At least we can be sure Heysen did the operation on Sawtell and botched it. Sawtell got away but he was a good-looking guy whose face was ruined. He took revenge on Heysen. But Hank’s question remains.’

  We sat there with no answers. Then my mobile rang.

  24

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ Frank said.

  Hank stared at him.

  ‘String him along for a bit. Don’t give him the high ground.’

  The phone rang for a while, then stopped. Hank nodded. ‘Guess you’ve been in this kind of situation before.

  First time for me.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Frank said, ‘but there are certain principles, right, Cliff?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘The trouble is they change with the circumstances.’

  Hank shook his head. ‘That means they’re not principles. Let’s say a principle is we don’t let Sawtell meet with Mrs Heysen. Will that hold for all circumstances?’