Fayed’s preferred punishments. He abducts people who’ve offended him and injects them until they’re addicted. Then he chucks them back onto the street when they’re hopeless addicts and no further threat to him.’
‘Sounds like an urban myth to me,’ said Gemma .
‘I’m just passing on street talk,’ said Angie. ‘Otherwise he uses a lethal dose.’
Gemma thought of Steve and her blood ran cold. ‘What do you think he would do to someone like Steve?’ she asked, ‘if he discovered his real identity?’
Angie threw her a glance. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. But then she leaned over and patted Gemma’s knee. ‘C’mon, Gemster. Steve’ll be fine. He’s a good cop. He knows how to survive. Hell, girl, he’s survived for years!’
It’s true, Gemma thought, but it’s time he stopped and came home. Came in from the madness. She rooted through her briefcase looking for a tissue and finally found one hiding right at the bottom, under her Filofax, notebooks, diary and Swiss Army knife.
Angie noticed it and laughed. ‘You’re such a boy scout,’ she said. With one hand she lifted the console between them and brought out a silver pen. ‘Look at this,’ she said, pressing the side of the pen. A wicked narrow blade sprang out. Angie laughed. ‘Now that’s what I call a knife.’
•
Gemma waited in the car park of the laboratory while Angie took the package up. She took the switch-blade pen out of the console and examined it, finding its pressure point, wondering what had become of the hoodlum Angie must have downed to acquire it. By the time she’d put it back again, her friend was striding across the parking area, trim and athletic in her navy suit, jacket blowing back to reveal the white polo neck jumper sleek around her upper body, red hair clipped back into a chignon.
‘They’re flat out in there,’ Angie said, jumping back in and slamming the door. ‘Never enough staff, always too much work. Just like us. Whinge, whinge.’ She belted up and drove out of the grounds, and was back onto the highway within minutes. ‘What do you think Steve’s doing with Fayed?’ she asked, keeping her eyes on the road.
‘I’m still working it out,’ Gemma said hesitantly. ‘I had to ask myself how come the widow of an old crim like Terry Litchfield would agree to work with the cops. So I thought Lorraine Litchfield must believe . . .’ She paused, to refine her interpretation. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s got to be stronger than that. I reckon the police have shown her proof that George Fayed was responsible for her husband’s death.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Angie. ‘Terry Litchfield wasthe Man around Sydney for years. He’d be an obstacle for someone like Fayed. They hated each other’s guts. You should have a talk to the Major Crime people.’
As they drove, the messages on the police radio, almost incomprehensible unless the listener was conversant with police codes and acronyms, provided a constant reminder of Sydney’s simmering underside. The business of crime was just another part of the city’s activities—break and enters, assaults, motor vehicle accidents, reported shootings. The passionless voice allocated work, accepted bids to attend, updated the record and occasionally cracked a joke so deadpan as to make the listener wonder whether it had been intentional or not.
‘So if Fayed killed Lorraine’s husband so that he can be Sultan, that makes him her enemy now. Just like the police always have been, and—’ Gemma paused and Angie flashed her a look—‘do you know that old Arab proverb?’
‘“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”’ Angie quoted.
‘Right,’ said Gemma. ‘So she agrees to team up with Steve and together they cook up a way to get at Fayed.’
‘That’s good,’ said Angie. ‘That’s how I’d do it if I were working in with Lorraine. I’d suggest that she put the word out to Fayed that she’s interested in
‘Sounds like an urban myth to me,’ said Gemma .
‘I’m just passing on street talk,’ said Angie. ‘Otherwise he uses a lethal dose.’
Gemma thought of Steve and her blood ran cold. ‘What do you think he would do to someone like Steve?’ she asked, ‘if he discovered his real identity?’
Angie threw her a glance. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. But then she leaned over and patted Gemma’s knee. ‘C’mon, Gemster. Steve’ll be fine. He’s a good cop. He knows how to survive. Hell, girl, he’s survived for years!’
It’s true, Gemma thought, but it’s time he stopped and came home. Came in from the madness. She rooted through her briefcase looking for a tissue and finally found one hiding right at the bottom, under her Filofax, notebooks, diary and Swiss Army knife.
Angie noticed it and laughed. ‘You’re such a boy scout,’ she said. With one hand she lifted the console between them and brought out a silver pen. ‘Look at this,’ she said, pressing the side of the pen. A wicked narrow blade sprang out. Angie laughed. ‘Now that’s what I call a knife.’
•
Gemma waited in the car park of the laboratory while Angie took the package up. She took the switch-blade pen out of the console and examined it, finding its pressure point, wondering what had become of the hoodlum Angie must have downed to acquire it. By the time she’d put it back again, her friend was striding across the parking area, trim and athletic in her navy suit, jacket blowing back to reveal the white polo neck jumper sleek around her upper body, red hair clipped back into a chignon.
‘They’re flat out in there,’ Angie said, jumping back in and slamming the door. ‘Never enough staff, always too much work. Just like us. Whinge, whinge.’ She belted up and drove out of the grounds, and was back onto the highway within minutes. ‘What do you think Steve’s doing with Fayed?’ she asked, keeping her eyes on the road.
‘I’m still working it out,’ Gemma said hesitantly. ‘I had to ask myself how come the widow of an old crim like Terry Litchfield would agree to work with the cops. So I thought Lorraine Litchfield must believe . . .’ She paused, to refine her interpretation. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s got to be stronger than that. I reckon the police have shown her proof that George Fayed was responsible for her husband’s death.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Angie. ‘Terry Litchfield wasthe Man around Sydney for years. He’d be an obstacle for someone like Fayed. They hated each other’s guts. You should have a talk to the Major Crime people.’
As they drove, the messages on the police radio, almost incomprehensible unless the listener was conversant with police codes and acronyms, provided a constant reminder of Sydney’s simmering underside. The business of crime was just another part of the city’s activities—break and enters, assaults, motor vehicle accidents, reported shootings. The passionless voice allocated work, accepted bids to attend, updated the record and occasionally cracked a joke so deadpan as to make the listener wonder whether it had been intentional or not.
‘So if Fayed killed Lorraine’s husband so that he can be Sultan, that makes him her enemy now. Just like the police always have been, and—’ Gemma paused and Angie flashed her a look—‘do you know that old Arab proverb?’
‘“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”’ Angie quoted.
‘Right,’ said Gemma. ‘So she agrees to team up with Steve and together they cook up a way to get at Fayed.’
‘That’s good,’ said Angie. ‘That’s how I’d do it if I were working in with Lorraine. I’d suggest that she put the word out to Fayed that she’s interested in
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