said, ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Leah.’ A gorgeous lethal dart there in the driver’s seat.
Leah’s fingers whitened on the wheel. ‘Concentrate. You get a gun, you shoot Gavin Wurlitzer, you hide his body.’
‘Really quite simple when you think about it,’ said Trask.
She sat tightly. Voice pitched close to a scream. ‘He has to go, Alan. You know that. The police get onto him, we’re history.’
Trask sighed. They’d had a nice thing going, Leah identifying unoccupied houses, Trask providing police intel, Wurlitzer breaking and entering. A nice little sideline earner, and no need for Minto to know anything about it. The prick treated them like hired hands anyway.
‘And no handing it off to your bikie mates,’ Leah added.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Trask said. His first thought had been getting one of the guys at the gym to whack Wurlitzer. Scary how Leah could read his mind.
She drove on, eyeing every mirror. Trask settled back in his seat. For a short while—about two seconds—he checked out the shorts and bikini tops, but sexual jealousy was fine-tuned in Leah, so he closed his eyes, settled his head against the door and zoned out for a while.
The Lexus whispered over the bridge and along the Parade briefly and then left into the side street that took them to the Iluka Islet bridge. A narrow ring road on the other side, very few parking spots, costly houses jammed together. Finally there was Thomas Ormerod’s house, the driveway empty. Leah shot in, got out of the car and had the key fob aimed while Trask was still fiddling with his seatbelt.
‘Count to ten,’ he told her.
She bared her sharp little teeth and headed for Ormerod’s door. Rapped it with her knuckles. As Trask joined her, a face appeared between the door and the frame.
Leah immediately morphed from witch to angel, a smile that lit up the world. ‘Mr Ormerod?’
Ormerod seemed to think about it, rheumy features looking for a trap. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes?’
‘ Home Flair magazine. We had an appointment?’
Clearly Ormerod had forgotten. He blinked, glanced back along the corridor to the interior of his ugly house as if ticking items on a mental checklist. Maybe he’d left a joint smouldering in an ashtray, thought Trask, a line of coke on a coffee table, a naked woman asleep on the rug.
Ormerod swung his head back to them and tried to smile. ‘Of course, come in. I didn’t sleep well, and…’
His voice trailed away as he stepped back to extend an arm in welcome, revealing one of those skinny, narrow-shouldered, pot-bellied bodies shaped by years of drinking. Slicked hair, lots of aftershave, about sixty. Tan cotton pants, a yellow polo shirt
and deck shoes. He didn’t look like a multi-millionaire. Maybe that was the point: if you were a millionaire you could afford not to look like one.
As if picking up on Trask’s thoughts, Ormerod said, ‘I’d prefer not to appear in any of the photographs.’
‘Not a problem, Mr Ormerod,’ gushed Leah.
Relieved, Ormerod led them down the hallway to the main living room at the rear, overlooking the water. The place was immaculate, but Trask wasn’t interested in the decor, he was interested in the child perched on one of the armchairs. Aged about ten, in a swimsuit, a hint of makeup on her face.
‘My granddaughter,’ said Ormerod tightly. ‘Go upstairs and play, dear, I won’t be long.’
She smiled and ran off and Trask thought: you sick bastard.
Meanwhile there was the painting, on the wall above the fireplace. Not huge, a metre by a metre, suffused with an inner radiance, with two peasants at the centre, bending to a chore in a field. Lit by harvest light. An antidote to the sick air of Thomas Ormerod’s house. Before he could stop himself, Trask said, ‘This is beautiful.’
Ormerod blinked. ‘What? Yeah. Family heirloom.’
Ignoring Leah’s gimlet gaze, Trask glanced around at the other paintings: community art fair gumtrees and op-shop horsemen
Leah’s fingers whitened on the wheel. ‘Concentrate. You get a gun, you shoot Gavin Wurlitzer, you hide his body.’
‘Really quite simple when you think about it,’ said Trask.
She sat tightly. Voice pitched close to a scream. ‘He has to go, Alan. You know that. The police get onto him, we’re history.’
Trask sighed. They’d had a nice thing going, Leah identifying unoccupied houses, Trask providing police intel, Wurlitzer breaking and entering. A nice little sideline earner, and no need for Minto to know anything about it. The prick treated them like hired hands anyway.
‘And no handing it off to your bikie mates,’ Leah added.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Trask said. His first thought had been getting one of the guys at the gym to whack Wurlitzer. Scary how Leah could read his mind.
She drove on, eyeing every mirror. Trask settled back in his seat. For a short while—about two seconds—he checked out the shorts and bikini tops, but sexual jealousy was fine-tuned in Leah, so he closed his eyes, settled his head against the door and zoned out for a while.
The Lexus whispered over the bridge and along the Parade briefly and then left into the side street that took them to the Iluka Islet bridge. A narrow ring road on the other side, very few parking spots, costly houses jammed together. Finally there was Thomas Ormerod’s house, the driveway empty. Leah shot in, got out of the car and had the key fob aimed while Trask was still fiddling with his seatbelt.
‘Count to ten,’ he told her.
She bared her sharp little teeth and headed for Ormerod’s door. Rapped it with her knuckles. As Trask joined her, a face appeared between the door and the frame.
Leah immediately morphed from witch to angel, a smile that lit up the world. ‘Mr Ormerod?’
Ormerod seemed to think about it, rheumy features looking for a trap. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes?’
‘ Home Flair magazine. We had an appointment?’
Clearly Ormerod had forgotten. He blinked, glanced back along the corridor to the interior of his ugly house as if ticking items on a mental checklist. Maybe he’d left a joint smouldering in an ashtray, thought Trask, a line of coke on a coffee table, a naked woman asleep on the rug.
Ormerod swung his head back to them and tried to smile. ‘Of course, come in. I didn’t sleep well, and…’
His voice trailed away as he stepped back to extend an arm in welcome, revealing one of those skinny, narrow-shouldered, pot-bellied bodies shaped by years of drinking. Slicked hair, lots of aftershave, about sixty. Tan cotton pants, a yellow polo shirt
and deck shoes. He didn’t look like a multi-millionaire. Maybe that was the point: if you were a millionaire you could afford not to look like one.
As if picking up on Trask’s thoughts, Ormerod said, ‘I’d prefer not to appear in any of the photographs.’
‘Not a problem, Mr Ormerod,’ gushed Leah.
Relieved, Ormerod led them down the hallway to the main living room at the rear, overlooking the water. The place was immaculate, but Trask wasn’t interested in the decor, he was interested in the child perched on one of the armchairs. Aged about ten, in a swimsuit, a hint of makeup on her face.
‘My granddaughter,’ said Ormerod tightly. ‘Go upstairs and play, dear, I won’t be long.’
She smiled and ran off and Trask thought: you sick bastard.
Meanwhile there was the painting, on the wall above the fireplace. Not huge, a metre by a metre, suffused with an inner radiance, with two peasants at the centre, bending to a chore in a field. Lit by harvest light. An antidote to the sick air of Thomas Ormerod’s house. Before he could stop himself, Trask said, ‘This is beautiful.’
Ormerod blinked. ‘What? Yeah. Family heirloom.’
Ignoring Leah’s gimlet gaze, Trask glanced around at the other paintings: community art fair gumtrees and op-shop horsemen
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