White Throat Read online

  Jackson took a step closer and fired. A single shot, straight between the eyes, Membrey’s head slumped on his chest. Another straight down through the top of his head just to be sure. Then Jackson bent down, ripped the blood-spattered note off the wall and stuck it into his pocket.

  CHAPTER 19

  Clementine looked back at the shanty as they sped away, the roar of the outboard and the pounding of the dinghy across the waves was deafening. A figure appeared on the back verandah. Jackson. Was Membrey dead? They’d as good as killed him. A blast of spray pummelled her back, soaking through her T-shirt and sending a shudder through her body.

  Torrens sat beside her as the bow bashed up and down on the chop. He was clutching a tea towel against his shoulder and grimacing.

  In the stern, Ralph Bennett gripped the outboard tiller, his face wet with spray and his eyes shining. The crusty old bugger seemed to be enjoying himself, squinting at the sea, his wiry hair standing straight on his head in the wind. He’d been surprised when she rang. Then he registered the terror in her voice and hadn’t asked questions. Just said he’d get the boat in the water straight away.

  With the tide so high he’d been able to bring the tinny in close, almost to the backyard, and they were safely aboard and already twenty metres from shore when she heard the two gunshots.

  Well clear now, she asked Ralph to slow up so she could hear herself speak, called an ambulance then tapped in the number for Sergeant Wiseman.

  ‘An intruder…yes…Then another man. We heard gunshots… No, we’re on Ralph Bennett’s boat. We managed to get out…’

  She hung up. Wiseman was on her way to the shanty but it was a thirty-minute drive from Barnforth.

  Ralph opened the throttle again. The bow reared high in the air then eased down again as they picked up speed. More bone-shuddering thumps across the chop. She gripped the gunwale to brace herself. A southerly was tearing up the channel, battering the angry waves, crumbling the peaks to fuming white froth. Her back was wet through. The wind was warm but she felt cold with shock, shivering. She thought about Pocket and Sarge. They had taken the safest option by locking them in the laundry. If they couldn’t get to Jackson, he would have no reason to hurt them. She hoped. Surely he’d have the sense to leave the door shut.

  She looked at Torrens sitting next to her, his hair wet and dripping, the salt water washing pink streams of blood down his arm. He wouldn’t let her tend to the wound, told her to stop fussing. Ralph was taking them to the marina in Barnforth. From there they could get a cab to the hospital—Torrens was already refusing an ambulance.

  What if Jackson was there, waiting for them? He would know they were in the boat, perhaps he’d guess they would head to the marina. She tried to force her brain to think of alternative options. Everything was foggy, slow. She couldn’t project beyond the current plan.

  Ralph was gesturing to her, pointing over her right shoulder. She swivelled on the seat, turning her face, feeling the punch of the wind on her cheeks. Someone waving at them from a large yacht, white hull. It was anchored to the south of the point that stretched out from Piama towards K’gari. Ralph leaned forward towards Clem, his hand cupped in front of his mouth.

  ‘Doncaster,’ he yelled over the sound of the outboard.

  She looked over at the yacht again. Yes—Andrew Doncaster. And he seemed to be beckoning them over. What the hell would he want?

  Ralph leaned forward again. ‘Still twenty minutes to the marina. Let’s get the big fella onto the yacht. They’ll have a first-aid kit at any rate,’ he yelled.

  She looked across at Torrens, his face was pale and he hadn’t said a word for a while. He looked smaller, as if the pain had diminished him. Perhaps he would be better off on the big boat. She tried to get her brain thinking straight but everything was muddled.

  Ralph swung to port heading for Doncaster’s yacht. As they came inside the lee of the point, the wind disappeared and the sea was calm. She felt relieved, safer somehow without the pounding, as they sped across the sheltered bay to Doncaster’s boat.

  ‘What are we doing?’ yelled Torrens.

  ‘Gunna get you on the big boat, get you bandaged up,’ yelled Clem.

  ‘Nah, fuck that. Just keep going,’ he said. Then he spoke into Clementine’s ear so Ralph couldn’t hear, ‘The less people know about me and why I have a fucking gunshot wound the better.’

  ‘You look bad. You’re losing blood,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said, insistent. ‘Just keep going,’ he yelled at Ralph. But Ralph, waving him away, was having none of it. Ralph Bennett, President of the Piama Progress Association, was in command of this vessel.

  Torrens spoke to Clementine again, ‘I’m fine, I’m going to the hospital and I’m not getting on that boat.’

  Ralph slowed as they approached the stern. Torrens grabbed a dirty old towel from the bottom of the boat, threw it over his shoulder, covering the wound, wincing through his teeth as the salty fabric touched raw flesh.

  ‘Ahoy there,’ yelled Doncaster, smiling from the cockpit. He was dressed in white shorts and a navy polo shirt, his eyes concealed behind mirrored aviators. His pale face was covered in zinc cream.

  ‘Hello,’ she called as the wake overtook the dinghy, shunting the stern up and forward towards his boat in a last sigh of momentum. ‘What’s up?’

  She recognised the yacht now. It was the Hermes—the one that had been moored behind Fullerton’s boat in the marina.

  ‘Saw you out there, got some good news for you. Come aboard, have a drink,’ he said, grinning and beckoning. He couldn’t see Torrens’ arm under the towel.

  Torrens still looked bad. But it was her that Jackson was after, she thought—not Torrens. He would actually make it to the hospital better without her tagging along like a moving target.

  She swivelled back around on her seat, facing Ralph, ‘You go on, get him in,’ she said, nodding at Torrens. ‘I’ll make my own way back.’

  Doncaster heard her. ‘We’re heading back in ourselves in a moment, we can give you a lift then,’ said Doncaster.

  ‘No worries, Clem. We’ll catch you later,’ said Torrens, before Ralph could comment.

  Ralph manoeuvred the boat alongside and she took hold of Doncaster’s outstretched hand as she stepped across onto the duckboard. A businessman’s hand—dry and warm. After the tinny, it didn’t feel like being on a boat; so big it was hardly even rocking. She watched Ralph and Torrens speeding off towards the point, towards Barnforth and suddenly felt very alone as the shock of the morning’s events washed over her.

  ‘Geez, you’re all wet,’ said Doncaster. ‘Looks like a rough trip.’ He ushered her towards the cabin, past a man in bare feet and cargo shorts standing on the deck. Thirties, thinning sun-bleached hair and the tanned, leathery look of a sailor or a fisherman.

  ‘This is Damien, my skipper.’

  ‘G’day,’ said Damien reaching across to shake her hand and opening the door into the cabin for her.

  ‘I’ll get you a towel,’ said Doncaster and went below.

  She stood next to the expansive cream leather lounge inside the cabin, not wanting to sit down in her wet shorts. The air conditioning was blasting. She heard Doncaster’s voice downstairs. Was there someone else on board? No, it sounded more like a phone call. Finally he came back up with the towels.

  ‘Sorry about that, got a transaction happening in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a beer on the go but there’s a chardy in the fridge… or would you prefer something hot?’ He handed her the towels.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll have a cup of tea.’

  She spread a towel on the lounge and sat down, hugging the other around her shoulders while Doncaster switched the kettle on and found a mug.

  Everything about being here felt wrong. A man was probably lying dead in her kitchen, shot by Helen’s murderer. He had been there, the killer, looking for Clementine—there inside the shanty. She shivered. The police would not have arrived yet and Jackson would
be long gone by the time they got there. She wanted to be with Torrens, make sure he got to the hospital. She needed to speak to Wiseman again.

  ‘So, how’s it going with the turtle campaign?’ asked Doncaster.

  The campaign seemed like something she’d done in another life. ‘Yeah, um, things are going well,’ she said, trying to focus.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said, taking a swig on his Peroni. ‘That’s why I called you over, actually,’ he poured her tea and brought it over with the milk, sat down opposite her. ‘It seems to me we need a burst of activity before the department makes its decision. So I’ve decided to make another donation. Fifty thousand.’

  Clementine nearly dropped her mug of tea. ‘Fifty thousand?’

  He nodded, but she struggled to process the information. It was crazy—here on this luxurious boat talking about a turtle while Torrens bled and Membrey lay dead in her kitchen. But fifty thousand. Shit.

  ‘That’s just…so generous…my goodness…I mean, thank you,’ she mumbled.

  Doncaster smiled and his dimples appeared. She tried to concentrate—such a large sum of money; how encouraging it would be for the WAGSS stalwarts; what she could achieve with the funds—but her thoughts kept wandering. Why was he doing this? She just wanted to get off this boat, talk to Wiseman, check on Torrens.

  ‘Might take me a few days to get it organised and into the WAGSS account but I’ll get my accountant onto it first thing tomorrow,’ he said.

  He was chattier than normal, and something about his manner was odd. She couldn’t work it out. What was it?

  ‘Yeah,’ he continued, ‘I’ve thought a lot about it since we last spoke’—he blinked twice. She felt her uneasiness growing—‘and, you know, I kept thinking how much it meant to Helen.’

  It was then that it came to her…this huge donation, this sudden generosity—it was as if it had only just occurred to Doncaster, just at that moment as he’d seen her in Ralph’s boat.

  She sat, her mind lurching, not really hearing what Doncaster was saying. She needed some space, time to think.

  ‘Um…excuse me…bathroom?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Damien, show Clementine where it is would you?’

  Damien took her below. The space: it was like the Tardis—bigger than Fullerton’s whole boat. He showed her down a corridor towards the bow and opened a door to the left. She stepped inside, thanking him, and latched the door closed.

  It was hot and stuffy in the toilet, no air conditioning. Shower, vanity unit, everything white and pristine apart from the timber trim. She sat, elbows on knees, the warmth welcome on her back, forcing herself to think.

  It was too early to ring Torrens, too soon to try Wiseman again, but at least she could just breathe for a few minutes, collect her thoughts. What the hell was up with Doncaster?

  She heard the engines start—a low, pulsing chug from the stern. Then a loud rumbling noise, a chain grinding. Was it the anchor coming up? Doncaster had said they would be heading back to Barnforth soon. Good.

  She pulled out her phone, unlocked the screen, checking to make sure it was still on silent. A couple of texts, both from Hamish Doncaster.

  You made an impact on the old man. Intrigued to hear we’d met. And! You’ll never guess…found out the randy old bugger was seeing your friend Helen! Ha!

  Clem felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She rushed on to the second text.

  Btw, spoke with a mate who’s still inside the business. Big Red’s resort plans: not Whitsundays, Turtle Shores! Thinks he can bust the covenant. Call me.

  She read the messages a second time. The truth of it all, what it meant—it formed a solid mass behind her eyes. Doncaster had a relationship with Helen. He’d bought Helen’s home to develop—level the trees, pour concrete over the river banks. He believed he could contest the covenant or buy his way out of it, or something. Beautiful Turtle Shores, prime waterfront, spread across three acres. The realisation was taking her down like steel boots, she felt sick, her hands began to shake.

  Her thoughts were racing now, lining up in sequence: Doncaster had tried to win Helen over, groomed her with sex and whatever else—probably made an offer for Turtle Shores. Helen would’ve refused the offer, ended the relationship. Then she must have instructed her lawyers to set up the covenant. Even changed her will to include that silly stat dec—easily circumvented, but specifically designed for Doncaster, an attempt to keep him away from the auction.

  And unbidden, from within Clem’s sorrow, came frustration and rage. Helen! Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I could have helped…we could have dealt with it together. So stupid. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a long breath.

  No. Not stupid. Embarrassed. Mortified. Ashamed. Alone. And just as fast as it had ignited, the rage was snuffed out.

  She sat there on Andrew Doncaster’s toilet and forced herself to read the texts a third time. She recalled the conversation as she sat at his kitchen bench, drinking his wine, eating his prawn salad, telling him how she thought Helen had been murdered. He was probably already contemplating getting rid of her right then—as soon as she’d opened her big mouth. And now he knew she’d met Hamish. Whatever plan he’d already hatched would have been accelerated, so he’d be rid of her before she heard about the resort.

  Her heart began to pound. She tried Hamish’s number. No answer. Her mind was filling with fear. The phone call Doncaster had made earlier—was it to Jackson’s handler? Jackson could be coming here, to the boat, already on his way. It would be easier to kill her if she was on board, captive—they could dump her body at sea.

  Her hands were trembling as each piece fell into place. Her throat felt swollen, she couldn’t swallow.

  Get off the boat. Get off the boat before Jackson gets here.

  She heard someone calling. Doncaster.

  ‘You all right down there?’

  ‘Yes, all good thanks,’ she called, her voice thready and feeble.

  ‘Okay. We’re going to head for the marina,’ he yelled. Then movement in the corridor. Was he listening outside the toilet? She couldn’t risk a phone call. She sent a text message to Sergeant Wiseman:

  Doncaster hired Helen’s killer. He’s going to kill me. I’m on board his boat in the bay near the point. Hurry!

  It sounded ridiculous. She could imagine Wiseman rolling her eyes. She copied the text to Torrens and Hamish.

  She was sweating profusely in the cubicle. She stood up, turned on the tap, splashed some water over her face, glared at the face in the mirror. It didn’t look like her: taut-skinned and panicky. Pull yourself together. Think!

  The boat was already moving. On its way out to sea, she assumed. Jackson was probably stealing a boat from the marina now. Torrens’ phone was probably on silent or he hadn’t heard the text over the outboard. Who the hell knew what Hamish was up to. And even if Wiseman took her seriously, would she send someone? She had a single constable, and a town to police.

  Clem had to assume Jackson was on his way out to the Hermes and no one would make it in time. She could rush upstairs and dive into the sea. They would chase her, pull her back on board. What if Doncaster had a gun? Would he shoot her dead in the water? He’s waiting for Jackson though, isn’t he? Perhaps he doesn’t have one—men like Doncaster don’t have guns do they? Damien might, but not on board, surely?

  She looked above her. There was a perspex hatch opening out onto the foredeck. She could climb out, but she’d be in full view of Damien seated at the helm in the pilot house. She crouched down, looked through the vent at the base of the door. No sign of any movement in the corridor. Her hands were trembling as she unlatched the door, opened it a crack. No one there. She slipped out and up into the master cabin in the bow, closed the door behind her, looked around, hoping for a hatch that opened to somewhere discreet. There were two small ones above the bed but they would open directly onto the deck in front of Damien.

  She opened the door, moved quickly down the corridor, checking the
other two cabins. Neither had hatches opening anywhere other than in full view of Damien.

  A droplet of sweat trickled down the side of her face. She was conscious of the seconds ticking by. Doncaster would wonder what she was doing down here. She peeked out into the corridor, noticed a small, low door leading aft. She crept towards it, edging sideways around the far side of the stairs that led up to the saloon, the noise of the engine building as she got closer. She levered up the arm on the door and pushed it open. A deafening noise and before her a huge engine, in fact an entire engine room. She stepped over the raised threshold and stooped under the doorway, closing the door behind her.

  The space was about the size of a small home office with a walkway all the way around the engine, which sat squarely in the centre. To her left was a storage area with a big open box of tools, a scuba tank in a frame affixed to the wall and a wetsuit hanging above a plastic crate full of goggles and flippers. In the corner was a broom and a boat hook or something, partly obscured by the wetsuit.

  Her thoughts were coming fast now. She should disable the engine so they couldn’t come after her, then make a dash for it. But how? She knew nothing about engines. She looked around the room, staring at pipes and metal bits—no idea what function any of them performed. Was there an off-switch? But that wouldn’t stop them following her—they’d just switch it back on. She needed to do the kind of damage that would stop the bastard in its tracks. She did a full circle around the engine and found herself staring at two glass cylinders filled with a yellowy-green fluid, swirling inside. Fuel? Perhaps she could stop the supply to the engine. She had to try something.

  She went to the toolbox, grabbed a spanner the length of her forearm and steadied herself in front of the closest of the cylinders. Feeling the rock of the waves and picking her moment, Clem took an almighty swing, smashing with all her might. There was a low thwack but the cylinder remained intact. She swung again, losing her balance with the tilt of the boat into a wave, the spanner slipping ineffectually off the rounded surface. She steadied and swung again. The edge of the spanner crunched into the glass—a tiny crack opened up. Another blow, grunting with the effort. The crack opened wider and fluid began spraying out in fine jets. It smelled like fuel but there was no change to the rhythm of the engine—thundering on relentlessly. She swung hard into the second cylinder as the stream of fuel from the first one collected on the floor, smashing at it again, and again, swinging like a woman possessed. Another crack appeared, one more full-bodied blow and fuel was squirting from the second cylinder…everywhere, all over her clothing, running down her legs—but the engine still roared on. What the hell?