White Throat Page 13

  ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘It’s not the fact you’re not coming home…It’s actually the lie that’s hardest to take.’

  Then he turned and stormed out of the room, through the front door, slamming it behind him. She heard the sound of his Nissan Patrol roaring to life, wheels spinning in the dirt. There was a flash of metal as it rocketed up the drive.

  It wasn’t until later that evening that she got the call. Queensland Police had arrested Matthew Torrens in Barnforth. Drunk and disorderly. Trying to kick a bottle of rum through the pub-door goals, he fell over and passed out in the middle of the road. He resisted arrest when they tried to move him, and was in the lock-up now, about to be charged.

  CHAPTER 11

  The package arrived the next morning. She went out to get it, casting furtive glances towards Torrens’ shed as she slunk back to the shanty.

  He hadn’t surfaced; or maybe he had and was avoiding her. He had a camp stove in there and a tap just outside the shed. She’d put a loaf of bread and some leftover sausages in his esky yesterday evening after she ushered him into bed. Thought he would want something to soak up the alcohol.

  Jesus, he was a wreck.

  She had made him a wreck.

  The charges were enough to send him back inside, given his record. His whole body crumpled when the cops read them out to him as he sat there, on the bench in the cell, mountainous shoulders shuddering. Then he cried, in his drunkenness and his regret, saliva and tears in his beard, sobs interspersed with great gulps of shame.

  She wanted to give him a hug, take him home, tuck him into bed. A big-sister kind of feeling, side by side with the sense that it was all, quite clearly, her fault. She stayed away, giving him space as she signed a form and got him bailed. They drove back to the shanty in silence, his gaze averted, watching out the window or eyes closed, head resting on the door frame.

  He was close to going back to prison. Very close. Hanging by a thread. With the grinding monotony of his job at the abattoir, football had held him together, solidified his desire to go straight, given him joy and victory and friendship and respect and hope that this new kind of life might just work out.

  She had brought all of that crashing down with her despicable lie.

  Rowan rang again. He’d been doing some reading about the turtle.

  ‘Smaller than I thought,’ he said. ‘And the breathing thing—it sucks water up its bum, draws the oxygen out through blood vessels.’ He was excited about the discovery and clearly had planned to tell Clem all about it. ‘They can stay under for days, foraging. Apparently they eat algae and decaying stuff—keeps the river clean for all the other critters.’

  He was making an effort, acquainting himself with the turtle, attempting to understand more of her world. It confirmed for her the sense that this was more than a game for Rowan—there was an intention underneath, modest in ambition, unforced, yet serious.

  She had to tell him the truth. Secrets, half-truths, dissembling… none of it was fair, all of it was harmful.

  So she told him all of it—the Melbourne job, her desire to take up her professional career again, her lie to Torrens, his response when he found out, how close he was to going back to jail.

  He said nothing, the wind taken completely from his sails.

  ‘I just…I thought you should know,’ she said, forlorn, expecting the worst.

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was a long pause and it was loaded with his disappointment, with his shock. She waited for him to echo Torrens: tell her why she must move back to Katinga, fulfil her coaching duties…come back to him, for Christ’s sake. She prepared herself.

  Nothing. After a silence, she said, ‘So, what do you think?’

  Rowan let out a long exhale. ‘Not gonna lie, I want you back’—so gentle, an ache inside her chest—‘The whole town wants you back.’

  He sighed and she recognised, in the sound, the memory of his own sorrow—his late wife Kate, weakening, slipping, thinning to nothing. The light in his life dimming with her.

  ‘But I dunno what you should do. I dunno what the hell anyone should or shouldn’t do. I mean…’

  Another long pause.

  ‘I’ve known times…times when there’s nothing else you can do but go…anywhere, somewhere. Just go.’

  It was harder to take than if he’d come right out and told her to come home to Katinga. She could operate in contrarian mode, pushing back, pushing away, rejecting advice, objecting to suggestions—such a familiar pattern, like the ticking of a clock.

  But this? She was upended, torn by his selflessness. It was too much.

  A raw cord of longing wound tight through the length of her body—longing to know what to do, which way to jump. Longing for Rowan’s comfort and longing to avoid him.

  They didn’t say much after that and the call fizzled out. As for Katinga, she didn’t want to think about it. Melbourne was an anonymous substitute, a blanket she could throw over her future and shunt it from her mind.

  Clem sat down, aimlessly cruising the internet, an assault of targeted ads for new cars and Melbourne apartment rentals flashing on the screen. She shut the lid and stared at the kitchen table in front of her, getting lost in the scatter of white flecks on the worn-out red laminate.

  Rowan was not going to fight her. He could see the similarities—sorrow that you couldn’t shake, that simply refused to allow you to just return to normal life.

  Clem wanted Helen’s killer exposed, wanted to paint his name in blood across the sky, that was number one. And combat on that battleground was about to step up. Before her on the table was the cardboard box. She’d opened it earlier. The two waterproof devices hadn’t arrived—delayed until Monday. But the five replacements she’d checked and tested, ready for tonight.

  From behind a banksia at the other end of the street, he watched the Commodore wagon turn right out of the driveway. Female driver. No other passengers. Had to be her. What would she be up to this time of the night out here in nowhereville?

  The left indicator light came on about two hundred metres up the street. He eased the black BMW out from behind the tree and began to follow, slowing as he passed her driveway, swinging his eyes right. High metal fence, patchy lawn. And she’d shut the gate behind her—likely to be dogs.

  An outside light was on in the corner of the house. The driveway was just two tracks, grass growing between, muddy from the rain, extending all the way down the side of the tiny yellow shack. A shed to the right-hand side and next to it, another vehicle, Nissan Patrol. Perhaps a visitor, one she trusts to leave in the house while she’s out.

  He kept his distance. It was an easy tail. She followed the main road to Barnforth then turned into the marina and parked, swiped herself in. Very strange. He rolled in, lights out, waited, watched for ten minutes until the clock hit 10.30 p.m. Then another vehicle came into the marina carpark. A man—long, skinny legs, boardshorts. He loaded a number of shopping bags and a backpack into one of the trolleys, wheeled it to the gate and swiped himself in. He was wearing a white long-sleeved T-shirt with ‘Success’ emblazoned across the back.

  He waited another half hour. Was she meeting this guy? If it was a regular thing, a weekly rendezvous or something, it might present a good opportunity. He’d have to check the security camera locations in advance.

  After another fifteen minutes he called it a night. If it was sex with the Success bloke, on his boat, she wouldn’t leave till the morning. He might as well get some sleep.

  The BMW rolled out of the carpark and headed to the Barnforth Best Western.

  CHAPTER 12

  Getting on board was a cinch this time. In better weather the Success was as docile as a sea slug. It was a simple matter of stepping across to the duckboard, over the transom and across the deck to the sliding door. She was in her black outfit with the Vegemite face paint and latex gloves. She used the key she’d cut from the set Brady had lent her.

  The door was heavy, screeching along the tracks. Th
e marina was lit up like a carnival and she hunched down, reaching for the control panel to the left, exactly as Candles had described it to Brady. She punched in the code he’d provided. A red light blinked three times then faded to nothing, alarm deactivated. She waited long enough for someone to walk the length of the pontoon.

  Nothing.

  Then she heaved the sliding door closed and waited again—all quiet. She flicked on her torch.

  The saloon featured a C-shaped sofa curving around a long table. Overhead was a television on an adjustable arm and in the corner a double sink and a slab of granite benchtop, shining chrome rails around the edge. The Success was pretty much a penthouse on water.

  She took the container from her pocket and picked out one of the devices, no bigger than a ten-cent piece. The first one she stuck behind a light fitting above the table in the saloon, peeling off the backing tape and pressing it on for ten seconds. The second, near a huge barbeque in the rear outdoor lounge area.

  Then she went below, down the narrow winding staircase and stuck the third bug on the side of a drinks cabinet at the bottom of the stairs. Two left. One for the master cabin—if she could catch one of them in some sort of philandering it could be useful leverage. She stepped inside to find a king-sized bed with a stylish amount of pillows, mirrored ceiling above. She stuck the device behind the door.

  She was in the downstairs dining and lounge area, peeling the plastic off the adhesive strip on the fifth device, when she felt a brief rocking motion. It had been a perfectly calm night, the water as thick as oil in the moonlight, the boat completely still. The wave registered against the hull then faded—probably another boat going by. She placed the tiny device on the underside of the table, counting to ten as she pressed. At five she heard something—a scratching noise…A key, the sliding door above screeching open. Oh God! She flicked off her torch, slinking away backwards towards the bow, further from the stairs, soft footfalls like a cat on a cloud.

  A light flicked on upstairs. Shit, the alarm. It’s off. They’ll notice. She was in the master cabin again, lush carpet under her feet. To her left a wardrobe and a set of drawers; to her right an ensuite. She opened the wardrobe. Big enough to hide a six-year-old. Just. She closed it, gently clicking it shut. No other option but the ensuite.

  Above, in the main living area, footsteps, the clink of a glass, a tap running. Who was it? The mayor? Another break-in? That would be just her luck. But what burglar casually pours themselves a glass of water? The stand-in skipper? She let out a silent groan. If it was, he might be here all night, up early to prepare the boat. He wouldn’t sleep in this cabin would he? The master cabin?

  She heard thuds, the clink of bottles, the soft click of a fridge door. Unpacking groceries? Then footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, male footsteps. Her mouth dried to a powder. She heard a cupboard opening in the downstairs dining area. More stacking. Her breath so shallow it was barely enough, her legs tingling like a hundred ants crawling across her bare skin.

  The master cabin light flicked on. Through the crack in the ensuite door she saw a hand place two fluffy towels on the bed, aqua, folded tight into a pillow shape. A body moving across—male, his back to her. Boardshorts and bare feet, hairy legs, long skinny calves—Longshanks. Captain Longshanks come to prepare the boat for the guests. She held her breath, knowing what would come next, squished herself flatter against the wall.

  He moved closer to the bathroom, then flicked the light switch on, bathing the ensuite in light. He was right there, on the other side of the door. She could only see the gleaming white tiles of the shower cubicle to her right. She felt her own hot breath against the back of the door, breathed in the shallowest of breaths, held it.

  The sound of something thrown onto the floor—a mat. She caught a glimpse of the edge of it—fluffy and white—then a tanned bare foot smoothing the wrinkles out. The squeak of the toilet lid. A second passed, then the unmistakeable sound and smell. As he flushed she was able to gulp in a big breath, exhale and take another before the noise trickled away. The light switched off. Cabin light off. Footsteps fading up the passageway.

  She closed her eyes. Thank God. Now please, send Captain Longshanks home to his own bed.

  She was sitting on the closed toilet seat, elbows on knees, when the TV above decks finally went quiet. She got up, and stood behind the door again, she heard his footsteps on the stairs, then a toilet flushing in the main bathroom down the other end of the boat.

  Had he gone to another cabin? Was he coming here to sleep? Would he leave?

  She had tested the app when he had the TV going in the saloon. She could hear Tom Cruise’s voice on Mission Impossible loud and clear. She’d wanted to listen in, kill the boredom, but it wasn’t safe—Longshanks might hear the echo. She’d spent the next half-hour alternating between sitting on the toilet, standing in front of the mirror, going through the contents of the wardrobe and searching for better hiding places.

  She heard his steps. A door opened further up the corridor, then there was a rustling noise, then silence. Just the slow sway and creak of the ropes on the pontoon. Ten minutes went by. She was conscious of how loud her own breathing seemed.

  And then snoring. Longshanks was sleeping in another cabin. She crept out from behind the door and poked her head into the passageway. A door was open at the other end. She stepped out of the master cabin and tiptoed closer. She could see his feet on the bed in the moonlight. She moved to the companionway and slowly placed one foot on the first tread. If he woke he would see her, right there. She took a step. The floor creaked. Another, and another, quickly, out of view now, into the saloon. No sound from Longshanks. The alarm looked to be off as she passed the control panel, but the sliding door would wake him. Was there another way out?

  She looked around, not daring to turn on her torch, but the moon was higher now, just enough light to see. A bottle of something on the table. Spirits? Suddenly she needed it. She unscrewed the top, took a swig and felt the whisky trace a scalding path down her throat.

  Stupid. Why did you do that? Just get out, you idiot!

  She clambered up on the leather couch, grimacing with the squeak of the leather, and up onto the ledge in front of the huge windows facing forward onto the deck. She unlocked four catches, opened one of the windows outwards, stepped through outside onto the foredeck. She wouldn’t be able to latch it closed. Too bad. She was wearing her latex gloves, nothing to connect her if they did notice anything.

  She gently closed the hatch and tiptoed around the side of the boat to the duckboard, then stepped across to the pontoon and got the hell out of there.

  It was late afternoon and, judging by the clouds, the tropics would be letting loose any moment. She’d been lying still on the creaking old bed for only ten minutes since emerging from a cold shower and sweat had already formed in every crease, beneath every fold.

  Looking back, thinking through each decision she’d made, each step she’d taken over the last few days up to the moment she broke into Fullerton’s boat, and her spell behind the door while Longshanks took a piss, she considered that it had to be one of the most foolhardy capers she’d ever embarked upon in her entire life. Not the most foolhardy, but this…This was right up there.

  Caper. What a word. It suggested high-school pranks. She realised she’d rationalised it beyond stupidity—innocuous information-gathering, no harm to any property or person—when in fact it was a flagrant criminal break and enter. Not only that, from the moment she turned on the app to listen in and record, she’d be breaking a whole sheaf of state laws. Enough to get her struck off, probably.

  It was surprising to consider how far she’d departed from the blameless existence she once led. A pristine life, a shining career in corporate law, an officer of the court, no less. A momentary lapse in judgement had been all it took to bring her down. ‘Reckless disregard’ the judge had called it. A ‘rash and deeply culpable error’. Nine months in jail among thieves and burglars, and now look at her�
��she was one of them.

  Well, it was done now, and no matter how she might recoil from it, there was a sliver of satisfaction in it. She had done something—something audacious—for Helen. And it would move her closer to exposing the killer.

  She wondered how the boating party was going. She’d read on a forum that these listening devices didn’t transmit well in real time, but each device would record up to five hours of sound. She’d been waiting all day for a chance to hear what got loaded onto the app.

  She checked her watch. Four-thirty. Checked the rain radar—dark, thick animated bands closing in on the coast from the west. Another afternoon thunderstorm. They would have come back to the marina by now to avoid it, surely. She picked up her phone from next to the pillow and tapped the app, got up, closed the door and sat on the bed.

  The devices were sound-activated so the recording only played when people were speaking or moving about. Device number one, in the light fitting above the saloon table, yielded nothing of interest—clinking plates, compliments about the catering, long silences when it seemed everyone was outside. She could make out four voices though, two of them female. Right towards the end of the recording, the time stamp showing three-fifty in the afternoon, there was a thud followed by scratching noises. Something wrong with the device? Then Blair Fullerton’s voice: ‘What the hell is this?’

  It was so loud she jumped. She could hear breathing. The bug was in front of his face. He must be holding it.

  ‘Not a camera. Maybe a listening device?’ he said, talking to someone near him. ‘Martin,’ he called. ‘Did you see anything strange when you came aboard last night?’

  Longshanks, Martin, said no, he hadn’t seen anything strange.

  ‘Everything locked up, alarm working?’ asked Fullerton.