droving sheep. Ormerod’s preferred taste?
‘How do you want to do this?’ Ormerod asked, ignoring Trask as Leah’s legs and cleavage brought him out of his stupor.
‘I thought you and I could sit here,’ she said warmly, gesturing at the nest of armchairs and sofa, ‘and my assistant will take a series of photographs.’
Ormerod addressed the tops of her breasts. ‘It’s for a story entitled “Water Views”, correct?’
Leah flashed teeth and eyes. ‘Yes!’
There was something else on Ormerod’s mind. ‘So there’s no need to view upstairs?’
Trask stepped in stoutly. ‘Of course not, Mr Ormerod.’
‘Good, good,’ Ormerod said, following Leah to the sofa, Leah sitting pertly, knees together, her gleaming upper thighs inclined towards him.
‘Now, how can I help you?’ Ormerod began, as Trask wandered around, taking in the windows and sliding doors with their strips of security tape, and glancing at the ceiling for cameras, all the while fiddling with lenses from the camera bag, twisting them on and off. He aimed the camera, fired a few shots at the doors and windows, the painting. Put his hand on a sliding door and said, ‘May I?’ stepping out onto the deck when Ormerod said, ‘Of course.’
Trask strolled up and down out there, shooting the slope of lawn to the little dock and the water, the bridge and Lions Park and the buildings on Hastings Street in the distance. Then a few shots of the house from the lawn. Not an attractive house. A cold arrangement of cubes set with glass, plonked down in a jungle of tropical greenery and a single jacaranda tree. In a perfect world, thought Trask, money would coincide with taste. Conclusion: the world wasn’t perfect.
Back into the house. Off the corridor and also facing the water was a smaller room. He stood in the doorway: desk, computer, printer, filing cabinet, shelved books. He wandered deeper into the house, glancing into the sitting room to see that Ormerod was still engrossed in Leah’s thighs.
He found the security keypad by the front door, photographed it. Then, checking the image stored in the camera, Trask headed for the kitchen. It faced a stretch of shrubbery at the side of the house, set with a screen door. And the door was fitted with a pet flap.
Huge pet flap. Was Wyatt a little guy or a big guy?
Trask returned to the main room and fired off a few more photographs, listening in on Leah as she massaged the millionaire’s ego.
Then she was trilling goodbye, Mr Ormerod, thank you so much, Mr Ormerod, reverting to full snarling mode once she was in the Lexus with Trask: ‘You know the drill, I want good-sized prints of the better photos.’
‘Leah, he had a kid in there.’
‘Not our concern,’ Leah said. ‘But if it’s any consolation, he deserves to be robbed.’
8
After Ormerod, after Leah, Trask was relieved to go home, print off and deliver the photographs, and ride his Kawasaki to the gym.
Parked, dismounted, walked past a rank of Harleys and into the foyer, where he paused awhile, looking through the glass. The place was a heaving mass of desperate bodies toiling at exercise machines, punching bags, weights and aerobics classes, their grunts and groans at a counter-rhythm to the music, if you could call it music.
He shook his head and climbed the stairs to Cherub’s office on the mezzanine level. Cherub, the Mongrels’ sergeant-at-arms, was also part-owner of the place and kept business hours. His business being, apart from the gym, extortion, arson, armed robbery, brothel-keeping and human trafficking.
Trask knocked, went in, saying, ‘My man,’ and reached out for fist-to-fist contact above Cherub’s desk.
Cherub did respond, but only barely. Knows I used to be a cop, thought Trask. Hates me on principle. But Trask had no doubts that he was useful to Cherub. He supplied the Mongrels with crucial intelligence about police methods, put them in touch with other useful people, sold them information. He also
‘How do you want to do this?’ Ormerod asked, ignoring Trask as Leah’s legs and cleavage brought him out of his stupor.
‘I thought you and I could sit here,’ she said warmly, gesturing at the nest of armchairs and sofa, ‘and my assistant will take a series of photographs.’
Ormerod addressed the tops of her breasts. ‘It’s for a story entitled “Water Views”, correct?’
Leah flashed teeth and eyes. ‘Yes!’
There was something else on Ormerod’s mind. ‘So there’s no need to view upstairs?’
Trask stepped in stoutly. ‘Of course not, Mr Ormerod.’
‘Good, good,’ Ormerod said, following Leah to the sofa, Leah sitting pertly, knees together, her gleaming upper thighs inclined towards him.
‘Now, how can I help you?’ Ormerod began, as Trask wandered around, taking in the windows and sliding doors with their strips of security tape, and glancing at the ceiling for cameras, all the while fiddling with lenses from the camera bag, twisting them on and off. He aimed the camera, fired a few shots at the doors and windows, the painting. Put his hand on a sliding door and said, ‘May I?’ stepping out onto the deck when Ormerod said, ‘Of course.’
Trask strolled up and down out there, shooting the slope of lawn to the little dock and the water, the bridge and Lions Park and the buildings on Hastings Street in the distance. Then a few shots of the house from the lawn. Not an attractive house. A cold arrangement of cubes set with glass, plonked down in a jungle of tropical greenery and a single jacaranda tree. In a perfect world, thought Trask, money would coincide with taste. Conclusion: the world wasn’t perfect.
Back into the house. Off the corridor and also facing the water was a smaller room. He stood in the doorway: desk, computer, printer, filing cabinet, shelved books. He wandered deeper into the house, glancing into the sitting room to see that Ormerod was still engrossed in Leah’s thighs.
He found the security keypad by the front door, photographed it. Then, checking the image stored in the camera, Trask headed for the kitchen. It faced a stretch of shrubbery at the side of the house, set with a screen door. And the door was fitted with a pet flap.
Huge pet flap. Was Wyatt a little guy or a big guy?
Trask returned to the main room and fired off a few more photographs, listening in on Leah as she massaged the millionaire’s ego.
Then she was trilling goodbye, Mr Ormerod, thank you so much, Mr Ormerod, reverting to full snarling mode once she was in the Lexus with Trask: ‘You know the drill, I want good-sized prints of the better photos.’
‘Leah, he had a kid in there.’
‘Not our concern,’ Leah said. ‘But if it’s any consolation, he deserves to be robbed.’
8
After Ormerod, after Leah, Trask was relieved to go home, print off and deliver the photographs, and ride his Kawasaki to the gym.
Parked, dismounted, walked past a rank of Harleys and into the foyer, where he paused awhile, looking through the glass. The place was a heaving mass of desperate bodies toiling at exercise machines, punching bags, weights and aerobics classes, their grunts and groans at a counter-rhythm to the music, if you could call it music.
He shook his head and climbed the stairs to Cherub’s office on the mezzanine level. Cherub, the Mongrels’ sergeant-at-arms, was also part-owner of the place and kept business hours. His business being, apart from the gym, extortion, arson, armed robbery, brothel-keeping and human trafficking.
Trask knocked, went in, saying, ‘My man,’ and reached out for fist-to-fist contact above Cherub’s desk.
Cherub did respond, but only barely. Knows I used to be a cop, thought Trask. Hates me on principle. But Trask had no doubts that he was useful to Cherub. He supplied the Mongrels with crucial intelligence about police methods, put them in touch with other useful people, sold them information. He also
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