steam.’
Angie didn’t pursue the matter any further. ‘Some crims I don’t mind,’ she said after a few minutes. ‘They do their job. We do ours. But George Fayed’s a real smartarse. He knows how to operate right under our noses and he loves doing that. He and his executives use their mobile phones to move his gear around, and set up the deals. It’s so damn frustrating. Our intelligence tells us he buys direct from the Chinese. But you’ll never see him anywhere near the importers. Except for the times he’s supervising unloading of his imported artefacts and antiquities. Fancies himself as a collector of art. We’ve gone over his consignments and never found anything that shouldn’t be there and all the time he’s laughing at us. He’s got people everywhere. He’s even got a couple of nephews in the job,’ she added, ‘trying to get into the Drug Squad. Now I wonder why they’d want to work there?’ Her cheeky grin lifted Gemma’s spirits. ‘We got one of them suspended, we’re working on the other one. The Drug Squad guys would give their cute little chrome-plated .38s to get Fayed.’ She corrected herself. ‘Don’t know how you’d go about chrome-plating a Glock.’
Gemma smiled. Tough little Angie who liked to beat the boys on both sides of the crime coin at their own games. Like any successful woman officer, she’d learned the hard way how to survive in the brotherhood, but she’d never lost her own individuality, or capitulated to becoming ‘one of the boys’ and, Gemma knew, some of the senior officers would never forgive her for that. Like any military organisation, the police service was hierarchical, power-dominated, favour-driven and on too many occasions, unbelievably inefficient and downright stupid.
Angie’s face suddenly became serious. ‘I’ve heard on the grapevine that Steve’s involved in a joint operation with the Drug Squad and the Plastics,’ said Angie, referring to the nickname of the Federal Police. ‘You tell that gorgeous boyfriend of yours,’ she said, ‘to be real careful. He’s got the cutest bum in the job. I’d hate anything to happen to it.’
‘I’ve tried,’ said Gemma, ‘but you know what Steve’s like.’ She swung around to face her friend. ‘And don’t you dare look at his bum!’
‘Calm down, girl. Only teasing. And you always bite. Fayed’s place is on the way to the lab. Want a look?’
Angie took a right-hand turn and drove up a residential street. ‘I don’t want to park too close,’ she said, ‘but you can see the place from here. It’s that charcoal monster on the corner over there. The whole family lives there now, George and his wife, their sons, George’s old mother and a couple of other male relatives.’
Gemma pulled her binoculars out of her briefcase and studied the Fayed fortress.
‘He’s a real family man,’ Angie was saying. ‘He had the whole building renovated and rebuilt so that the first floor could accommodate his oldest daughter’s wedding—over a thousand people, three priests including an interstate bishop—Fayed’s a good Catholic family man. We heard he spent a million on the reception. Can you believe it?’
What would it be like to be the son or daughter of a drug boss, Gemma wondered, feeling a flash of empathy for Fayed’s children. What do they tell their friends? She studied the building. Three-storeys high, it had been converted from a warehouse or factory and had a sloping driveway that ended in a huge metal roller door suggesting an underground level. The large wedge-shaped building squatted blindly on the corner block, no windows except for narrow incisions of smoky glass, and then only on the upper level, reminding Gemma of an old Martello tower. The only other distinctive feature was a black and white sign embellished with a stylised golden lizard and the words ‘ Oradoro Export Imports ’ on the northern wall. Access from the street appeared to be only by way of the
Angie didn’t pursue the matter any further. ‘Some crims I don’t mind,’ she said after a few minutes. ‘They do their job. We do ours. But George Fayed’s a real smartarse. He knows how to operate right under our noses and he loves doing that. He and his executives use their mobile phones to move his gear around, and set up the deals. It’s so damn frustrating. Our intelligence tells us he buys direct from the Chinese. But you’ll never see him anywhere near the importers. Except for the times he’s supervising unloading of his imported artefacts and antiquities. Fancies himself as a collector of art. We’ve gone over his consignments and never found anything that shouldn’t be there and all the time he’s laughing at us. He’s got people everywhere. He’s even got a couple of nephews in the job,’ she added, ‘trying to get into the Drug Squad. Now I wonder why they’d want to work there?’ Her cheeky grin lifted Gemma’s spirits. ‘We got one of them suspended, we’re working on the other one. The Drug Squad guys would give their cute little chrome-plated .38s to get Fayed.’ She corrected herself. ‘Don’t know how you’d go about chrome-plating a Glock.’
Gemma smiled. Tough little Angie who liked to beat the boys on both sides of the crime coin at their own games. Like any successful woman officer, she’d learned the hard way how to survive in the brotherhood, but she’d never lost her own individuality, or capitulated to becoming ‘one of the boys’ and, Gemma knew, some of the senior officers would never forgive her for that. Like any military organisation, the police service was hierarchical, power-dominated, favour-driven and on too many occasions, unbelievably inefficient and downright stupid.
Angie’s face suddenly became serious. ‘I’ve heard on the grapevine that Steve’s involved in a joint operation with the Drug Squad and the Plastics,’ said Angie, referring to the nickname of the Federal Police. ‘You tell that gorgeous boyfriend of yours,’ she said, ‘to be real careful. He’s got the cutest bum in the job. I’d hate anything to happen to it.’
‘I’ve tried,’ said Gemma, ‘but you know what Steve’s like.’ She swung around to face her friend. ‘And don’t you dare look at his bum!’
‘Calm down, girl. Only teasing. And you always bite. Fayed’s place is on the way to the lab. Want a look?’
Angie took a right-hand turn and drove up a residential street. ‘I don’t want to park too close,’ she said, ‘but you can see the place from here. It’s that charcoal monster on the corner over there. The whole family lives there now, George and his wife, their sons, George’s old mother and a couple of other male relatives.’
Gemma pulled her binoculars out of her briefcase and studied the Fayed fortress.
‘He’s a real family man,’ Angie was saying. ‘He had the whole building renovated and rebuilt so that the first floor could accommodate his oldest daughter’s wedding—over a thousand people, three priests including an interstate bishop—Fayed’s a good Catholic family man. We heard he spent a million on the reception. Can you believe it?’
What would it be like to be the son or daughter of a drug boss, Gemma wondered, feeling a flash of empathy for Fayed’s children. What do they tell their friends? She studied the building. Three-storeys high, it had been converted from a warehouse or factory and had a sloping driveway that ended in a huge metal roller door suggesting an underground level. The large wedge-shaped building squatted blindly on the corner block, no windows except for narrow incisions of smoky glass, and then only on the upper level, reminding Gemma of an old Martello tower. The only other distinctive feature was a black and white sign embellished with a stylised golden lizard and the words ‘ Oradoro Export Imports ’ on the northern wall. Access from the street appeared to be only by way of the
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