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  CB: I have to tell you that what you say may be given in evidence. You understand that, don't you?

  AB: Of course I understand it. That's the point, isn't it?

  CB: Tell me in your own words what you saw and heard on the . . . Thursday night, was it?

  AB: You know bloody well it was Wednesday night.

  CB: All right.

  AB: That little twerp Rankin had been at the club in the afternoon bothering Vance. Vance was fed up with it and he was worried that Rankin was onto some stuff. I don't know what. Well, we were cleaning up after the storm and Vance said something like, 'Pity that little fucker didn't get swept away down a stormwater drain.' It was a hell of a storm, some people were swept away.

  CB: Yes.

  AB: George laughs and says, 'You're right' or something like that. Then they had a talk and another drink or two. We were all a bit pissed

  CB: Belfante and Frost were drunk?

  AB: Did I say that? No, they weren't drunk. Just a bit . . . you know. Aren't you a drinking man, Col?

  CB: Go on.

  AB: Well, they went off. I was annoyed because they left me to do the cleaning up.

  CB: At what time was this?

  AB: 'Bout ten o'clock, around then.

  CB: And when did you see them again?

  AB: I didn't see George again and I don't want to. Vance came in about seven-thirty in the morning. I was pissed off because I thought he'd been with some woman. But he was real jumpy and starts telling me that him and George was at the club until after midnight. I said, 'Be buggered you were' and that's when he hit me. I sort of went sideways and grabbed something to throw at him. A glass. He whacked me again and somehow the glass broke and I got cut on the arm Here.

  CB: Um, was anything said about David Rankin? You have to answer, Mrs Belfante, not just shake your head

  AB: Isn't this going on video?

  CB: We need the response.

  AB: No, Rankin wasn't mentioned Not that I recall

  CB: What happened then?

  AB: We had a screaming match, of course. Vance walked out. I was fed up. I had a few drinks. I'm not sure what happened the rest of the day.

  CB: You didn't get medical attention for the cut?

  AB: It wasn't that bad

  CB: Then what?

  AB: That night I heard on the news that they'd found Rankin's body. I got scared. It was a real bad row me and Vance had. He threatened to kill me if I didn't say what he told me to. I was scared of him and anyone 'd be scared of Frost. I shot through to a motel and thought it over. I didn't want to tell lies to the cops for that bastard Not any more. Not about murder. So I . . . got in touch.

  Sections of the transcript were marked with a pink highlighter pen and 'to be retracted' was written opposite these in the margin.

  Tate was more than intrigued. He would be interested to hear the woman's explanation for her testimony, but his client, apparently, had no such interest.

  'She needs to be frightened,' the intermediary had said. 'Very badly frightened, so that anything else she might be worried about becomes less important. Follow?'

  'And if she's not the frightened type?'

  'She disappears, or if she doesn't disappear she dies by accident or natural causes.'

  Tate stipulated a fee of ten thousand for the milder option, thirty thousand for the hit. The terms were acceptable. A strict adherer to contracts, he resolved to attempt persuasion initially as specified. But it would be a matter for his judgement to determine whether or not persuasion had worked. With a sizeable amount of cash in a safety deposit box, plus what he was owed for the Rankin job and the maximum return on Ava Belfante, Tate calculated that he would have enough to buy his retreat on the Apple Isle. It was a pleasing prospect. The money would have to be earned, though. He'd have to exert some pressure to get the Rankin contract concluded successfully and he'd never before gone after someone under the wing of the Federal WPU. Two challenges. Tate injected himself, prepared his midday meal of salad, wholemeal bread, fruit and diet cola and settled down to eat, think and plan.

  5

  Ava slept until eight p.m. By the time she had a shower and dressed another hour had passed and Dunlop's visible impatience was edged with hunger.

  Ava was amused. 'Are you a day or a night person?'

  'Day.'

  'Just as well you don't fancy me then. We wouldn't get along. I'm a night owl. How d'you like my feathers?'

  This self-analysis did not surprise Dunlop who had already seen her watching late-night movies on TV, playing cards and drinking and smoking until the early hours. Nor did the vanity. He surveyed her critically. Ava's skirts were usually very short and tight. The skirt on this black dress was full and fell a little below her knees. The top, however, was scooped out to just above her nipples. Dunlop concluded that her bra must be a masterpiece of uplift engineering. Her red mane shone; she wore gold earrings, neck chain and bracelets and her make-up was restrained and expert.

  'You look like a white Tina Turner,' Dunlop said.

  'Fuck you. She's a grandmother.'

  'It was a compliment.'

  'I'm not even a mother.'

  'Let's go, Ava. I'm starving.'

  The dining room was still half-full and Ava's spirits, which seemed to have dipped lower than Dunlop had previously seen them after his misinterpreted remark, visibly rose when she drew admiring glances from the men and careful appraisal from the women. She drank a fast gin and tonic and polished off an avocado stuffed with prawns. She consumed a rainbow trout with gusto and drank most of the bottle of riesling. She ate several small bread rolls, two-thirds of the salad and a chocolate mousse.

  'Coffee?' Dunlop asked.

  Ava shook her head. 'What for? Cognac.'

  'Are you going to eat and drink like this for the whole ten days?'

  'Why not? Have you got a gun?'

  Dunlop's .38 Terrier was in a holster under his left armpit. 'Why?'

  Ava finished her brandy and stood. 'I don't like the look of some of the men in here. I can hear music. I want to dance.'

  The Continental Cabaret Room was dark and smoky. The band consisted of a piano and a synthesiser. Ava seemed to glow in the murky atmosphere. In between items from a song-and-dance man and a threesome of black girls who did impersonations of the Supremes, Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson, Ava danced and drank. She danced several times with Dunlop whose skills were minimal and with other men who cut in or approached their table to request the pleasure. Eventually Ava's choice settled on a tall, lean American who could rumba. She picked up her Benson & Hedges and lighter from the table where Dunlop was sitting morosely with a light beer.

  'He's the one,' Ava said. 'His name's Kent and he's in Room 21 of the Malibu wing.'

  'Did you remember your name?'

  'Sure.'

  'Take him to your room, but give me twenty minutes. What did you tell him about me?'

  'I told him you were my brother.'

  Dunlop picked locks better than he danced. He entered Room 21 and did a quick search through the possessions of Kenworthy Bushmill of Santa Monica, California. Bushmill was thirty-six, a vice-president of Big Cats Pty Ltd, a firm that manufactured giant catamarans. He was in Australia to consult with the receivers of three tourist operators who had gone broke, owing Big Cats several million dollars. He was married to Sandra and they had two children, Kenworthy II and Louella. There were three missing from a packet of ten Silver Bullet lubricated condoms.

  'Fancies himself,' Dunlop said.

  He stood in the shadows and watched Bushmill leave the cabaret with Ava. His hand caressed her bare shoulders. Dunlop noticed that he did not wear a wedding ring. He couldn't remember whether Ava did or not and made a mental note to check. He followed them at a discreet distance down the covered walkway leading to the paths that ran around the 'lagoons'. They came to the point where Malibu was in one direction and Caribbean in another. Bushmill turned in the direction of his room but Ava hauled him ba
ck. She kissed him and put her hand between his legs. They headed for the Caribbean wing. Dunlop saw them inside Ava's room and went to his own. He listened at the adjoining door long enough to determine that things were taking the expected course.

  'I hope three's enough,' he said.

  He showered to get the smell of smoke out of his hair and off his skin, brushed his teeth, set his watch alarm for six a.m. and went to bed.

  Vance Belfante considered that he had come up the hard way and had had more than his share of bad luck.

  'Wogs for parents,' he used to say. 'Real peasants. And when I was playing pro soccer there was no fuckin' money in it.'

  Neither of these claims was true. His father was from the north of Italy and his mother from a town which had passed from Italian to Yugoslav control after the Second World War. Mario Belfante was a pastrycook and a good one. His skills were in demand in Australia and after several years of long, hard work for others he opened his own business and prospered. Renata Belfante had been a champion schoolgirl athlete before the war disrupted her life. Her ability was passed on to all four of her children, but most notably to Vance who was an outstanding sprinter and soccer player at St Patrick's College in Strathfield.

  Vance completed four years at St Patrick's with reasonable academic success, but dropped out when the serious work for the Leaving Certificate proved too much for him. He played several seasons with Leichhardt, sometimes in first division but more often in the second. While it was true that big money had not yet arrived in Australian soccer, this was not the reason for Vance's failure to win fame and fortune. The reasons were booze, women and gambling. The booze sapped his skills and fitness, caused him to miss training and slide down the club list. His job in a city sports store went when he was dropped from the club. Women had attracted a lot of his attention and, along with cards and punting, consumed most of his money. Vance drifted into the late-night, early-morning world of gambling clubs, drug pushing and prostitution. He worked as a standover man and debt collector and served brief terms of imprisonment for possession of marijuana and receiving stolen goods. A big win on a fixed horse race gave him a sizeable stake which he doubled by investing in a major cocaine buy. He bought an interest in several sex shops, a pornographic video distribution network and the Bayswater Road strip club. In the big-spending 'eighties he became the sole owner of the club which he redecorated and named 'Renata's' as a slap in the eye to his respectable parents who had long since virtually disowned him.

  In 1985 he met Ava Reed, who was working as a call girl.

  'Call woman, actually,' she had said to Vance. 'I'm thirty-five.'

  Vance was already unbuckling his belt. Big, blonde women were his meat. 'So am I.'

  Ava was lying. Vance was telling the truth. It didn't matter. Their wants and needs corresponded exactly. They were married a month later. Thinking back, Vance could never pinpoint when things had gone wrong or why. Ava had got a bit fat, but then, so had he. She drank too much and was a slob around the flat, but he was the same. Perhaps it was when he found out that she was two years older than him and, as a result of multiple abortions, could not have children. He'd been disappointed, but the subject of children hadn't ever loomed large until he met Shelley.

  Vance was thinking about Shelley when he phoned Grant Reuben, responding to a request to call, two days after the solicitor's visit. As a remand prisoner, he had unlimited telephone access to his lawyer.

  'Vance? I need a bit more information.'

  Belfante had rationed the Camels. He lit the last one. 'Yeah, what about?'

  'The person we were discussing. Understand?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Birthplace.'

  'Queensland.'

  'Where in Queensland?'

  'Right up the fuckin' top. What's it called . . . Capetown?'

  'Cooktown?'

  'That's it. Why?'

  'Did the person ever express a wish to go anywhere particularly?'

  'I don't get you.'

  'Come on, Vance. Hassle you to take a trip, a holiday. "Take me to Bali, take me to Byron Bay." That sort of thing.'

  Belfante drew deeply on the cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. He coughed and almost choked as he fought for breath. Jesus, he thought, these have got stronger or my lungs are packing up.

  'Vance? Vance? You all right?'

  'Yeah,' Belfante said. 'A resort up that way. Port Douglas.'

  It wasn't the way Dennis Tate liked to do business—approaching principals, putting pressure on them, even. But he had no choice. This Federal witness protection outfit was obviously good. They'd wrapped Ava Belfante up tight and squirrelled her away somewhere very safe. He'd done a careful recce of the likely places—around Renata's in the Cross, the Bellevue Hill flat where the Belfantes lived and the clubs and pubs they frequented. He clocked up a lot of kilometres on his Subaru sportswagon. Nothing. She was gone. A contact at a radio taxi base gave no joy and the money he outlaid at Ava's hairdresser and florist yielded no return. Then he got a whisper of a possible sighting in Balmain. Nothing definite, different hair colour, but maybe.

  'Where?'

  The voice on the phone was hesitant, trying to please but unsure. 'Jeez, I dunno. Comin' out of a travel place.'

  'Which one?'

  'Dunno. Darling Street.'

  Tate controlled his anger. 'Not blonde?'

  'Nah. Reddish. Looked like Ava, but I'm not real sure.'

  'Thanks. I'll see you right.'

  It was enough. It hadn't been hard to work out who his client was, given the circumstances, and the style of the commission had pointed straight to the lawyer—Reuben. The telephone interview had been uncomfortable on both sides, but necessary. Reuben's information from Belfante put Tate well on the track. A little doctoring of the photograph he had of Ava, use of a phoney police ID card and a lot of shoe leather had confirmed that a tall, good-looking redheaded woman had selected brochures for the Oasis Resort at Port Douglas and seemed confident that she'd take the trip soon.

  The travel agent enjoyed the experience. 'I think the hair was dyed,' he said.

  Tate nodded and made a note. 'Did she come back and book with you?'

  'Unfortunately, no.'

  'Thank you. You've been a big help.'

  'Remember us when your holidays come up.'

  'What holidays?' Tate said.

  He booked an afternoon Ansett flight to Cairns and then made a phone call.

  The man he called said, 'I'm just a messenger boy.'

  'Meet me in an hour. I want to send a message.'

  Tate was living in Randwick. The meeting took place in Centennial Park. As instructed, the man Tate was to meet faced the pond and did not turn around when Tate spoke to him.

  'Keep looking at the water,' Tate said.

  'Listen, I . . .'

  'No, you listen. Your people owe me fifteen grand.'

  'They're not happy.'

  'Eyes front, I said.'

  'There's complications.'

  'The complications are going away. The money's where it's supposed to be in two days' time. Understand?'

  The man nodded.

  'Remember that whore who finished up here?'

  'Jesus, was that you?'

  'No, but it's not a bad idea. I know how to find you and I'm good at getting answers to questions. Now, you just watch the ducks for five minutes and then trot off and deliver the message.'

  Tate strolled away towards the riding track. The man stood rigidly for ten minutes, eyes to the front.

  6

  A thing that had been nagging Dunlop rose to the surface while he slept and was clear in his mind when the alarm woke him. Ava had been born in Cooktown. He had registered the fact when working through her file but forgotten it. In general, it was a bad policy to allow a client to come back to his or her roots. Dunlop kicked himself for his carelessness, then tried to rationalise the mistake away. He recalled that Ava had left north Queensland when she was thirteen. Thirty years w
as a long time, especially in this part of the world where so much had changed. Back then, Port Douglas must have been a fishing village, a speck on the map, and Cairns would have been a hick sugar town, surrounded by mangroves. Still, it was slack work on his part.

  His breakfast, ordered for six-thirty, arrived on time and he ate it on the balcony overlooking his lagoon. The bus driver had been right—the day had dawned fine and clear. There were light clouds out over the sea and the palm trees were moving in a slight breeze. It looked like Port Douglas was going to deliver what the tourists paid for. Dunlop read the Cairns Post from cover to cover while he waited for Ava and Bushmill to stir. The American had jogging gear in his baggage, but Dunlop doubted he'd be jogging this morning.

  Activity began in the room next-door at nine-thirty and ten minutes later Ava came through the door. Her hair was a wild tangle and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She wore a white silk and lace nightdress that revealed much of her generous figure, but emphasised the paleness of her face. She spotted Dunlop's coffee pot and signalled for him to pour her a cup.

  'It'll be cold.'

  'I don't care. Anything liquid with a bit of a kick in it.'

  'You look terrible.'

  Ava's hand trembled when she lifted the coffee cup. 'We punished the mini-bar a bit.'

  'Jesus, on top of the load you had on already.'

  'Well, you're only young once. He was a pretty good fuck—I think. Anyway, no bruises.' She inspected her upper arms and shoulders. One full breast fell out of the nightdress and she didn't bother to cover it. The cup rattled as she replaced it on the saucer.

  'Safe sex?' Dunlop said.

  Ava moved her head suddenly to look at him. A shaft of light hit her face and she winced. 'Christ. Where are my sunglasses? Yes, now you come to mention it. Yes it was. And it's all coming back to me now. He was pretty nice. Not a bad guy at all. And I did something good for you, sweetie. God help me.'