Dead Heat, page 33
She dropped something heavy and metallic in Georgia’s palm.
It was his Tag Heuer watch.
Forty-two
Emotions jammed down, watch shoved halfway up her arm – the steel-brushed bracelet would have to be altered by a jeweller – Georgia splashed Lee’s Mitsubishi across Cassowary Creek. No raging torrent to combat this time, just a trickle of clear water over soft mud and rocks. Almost two weeks had passed since she had driven from Tom’s funeral to SunAir. Two weeks during which she had learned that when someone is shot they don’t fly backwards like in the movies, they simply crumple to the ground, that when a bullet flies past you there’s no whistling sound but a crack like a bullwhip.
She’d learned to lie, to fire a gun, to kill a man, and how far she would go to honour her loyalty.
I went a long way for loyalty, she thought, accelerating down the graded road. I lied through my teeth to protect my mother and Lee. And I’d do the same all over again if I had to.
She was nearing the aerodrome when Lee’s mobile rang and she nearly drove off the road in her haste to answer it.
‘Lee?’ she said, almost breathless.
‘Sweet, it’s me.’
Shocked at the strength of her disappointment, she said, ‘Oh. Hi, Mum.’
‘Is everything all right?’
Jinking right to avoid a pothole, she said, ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘So why do you sound sad?’
‘I’m not sad! It’s just . . . um . . .’ She couldn’t put it into words, her intense feeling of loss. Perhaps she’d always feel like that about the man who’d hacked her free from a burning plane, taken it upon himself to find her mother, got shot for his trouble, then kissed the palm of her hand before walking out of hospital without saying goodbye.
There was a small tapping noise, which Georgia took to be her mother’s earrings swinging against the receiver. ‘Are you still going to Dutch’s tonight?’
‘Yup. I’ll be back tomorrow. Say late afternoon. I fancy trying my hand at some fishing myself. Maybe I’ll come back with a barramundi for you.’
‘Sweet, that would be lovely! I haven’t had barra for ages.’
They arranged to meet at the National the following evening and catch up on news then, maybe decide when they would head south.
Hanging up, Georgia swung the car down SunAir’s drive and parked, then climbed outside. After the sterile air-conditioning of Lee’s car the air felt thick and hot as burning lava, and for a second she doubted there was any oxygen to breathe. Pausing for a moment, she rested her hand on the scalding flank of the car, concentrating on the smells of aviation fuel and cut grass. Christ, it was so hot.
Straightening up, she made her way across the car park for the SunAir offices. She could see a neat row of light aircraft parked on the nearside of the runway. A pilot was leaning inside the cockpit of a Piper, studying a map spread on the seat. Another Piper was preparing to take off, and when the engine note rose and the plane began its lurching, bounding gait along the runway, she had a violent sensation of déjà vu and her bowels abruptly turned to water. She rushed to the Ladies, catching a brief sight of Becky’s alarmed face watching her through the office window, and when she came out, Becky was on the steps.
‘You all right, darl’?’
Becky didn’t look much better than when she’d last seen her and her blue overalls hung from her like an elephant’s baggy skin.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Georgia replied. What was a sudden attack of diarrhoea compared to losing your husband?
‘You flying anywhere?’
Georgia climbed the steps. ‘I just wanted to check something, about the day of the crash, that’s all.’
Becky led the way inside. ‘Check what?’
‘Records of the day. Who was flying when and where.’
Becky paused halfway across the office. A beam of sunlight hit the side of her face, making the shadows beneath her eyes deeper, even more hollowed. She said, ‘You still looking for the bugger who killed my Bri?’
‘You bet.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Um . . . Did you tell the insurance company you thought it was sabotage?’
Becky looked away. ‘Darl’, I’m sorry.’
Georgia sighed. No wonder the insurance company hadn’t been poking about the wreckage. They didn’t know about the sabotage theory. They’d have taken the initial police report of pilot error at face value.
‘I just thought . . .’ Becky was twisting her hands. ‘That if you came up with something, well, then I’d know Bri was in the right, and we could tell the kids together . . .’
And still get the insurance money, Georgia thought. She couldn’t blame Becky, not really, for wanting both: Bri unofficially absolved for her and her kids, and a new airplane.
‘It’s okay, Becky. I understand.’
Becky gave her a mixed look of shame and relief.
‘But should I find the saboteur and they’re arrested . . .’
‘You do it, love. I shouldn’t have tried to play both sides.’
‘Okay. I’d like to see the records for the second of March. The day of the crash.’
‘Sure thing,’ Becky replied. The phone started to ring and before she answered it, Becky pointed at the old booking-out sheets stacked neatly on the bench beneath the window.
Georgia flipped through the sheets to Saturday.
VH CAT Piper PA28. Pilot: Matt Hayes. Passengers: Ronnie Chen, Suzie Wilson, Lee Denham. Estimated departure: 2 p.m. for Cairns. Returning date, 3 March, estimated time, 3 p.m.
VH DAM Cheetah. Pilot: Sergeant Daniel Carter. Passengers: Sergeant Riggs, Constable Cassell. Estimated arrival: 12.30 p.m.
Becky was taking what sounded like a complicated itinerary from someone in Mackay when Georgia flipped to the previous page.
VH DAM Cessna 150. Pilot: Peter York. Passengers: Christina and John Palmer, Marc Wheeler. Estimated arrival: 1 p.m. from Brisbane. Intended landings: Townsville, Rockhampton.
Georgia went cold inside. Her scalp felt tight, her breathing unsteady. Marc Wheeler. The man who now owned Quantum Research and who used Suzie’s address.
On the right-hand side of the page were the pilot’s initials and Becky’s, confirming the paperwork and the Cessna’s arrival time of 12.50 p.m. Marc Wheeler had flown into the Nulgarra Aerodrome an hour before Bri had flown out.
She waited until Becky finished her call and said, ‘Who’s Marc Wheeler?’
Becky stopped making a note in a big diary in front of her and looked up. ‘Marc who?’
‘Marc Wheeler. He’s a passenger who flew in that day, with’ – she checked the pilot’s name – ‘Peter York.’
Becky frowned. ‘I know Pete, but not Marc Wheeler. Probably some tourist.’
‘But it’s not the tourist season . . . Did the police check up on Marc Wheeler at all, do you know?’
‘No idea.’ Becky was still frowning. ‘First time I’ve taken the bloke’s name in, to be honest. You think he had something to do with Bri’s plane?’
Georgia walked across to Becky, leaned her palms on her desk. ‘Yes, I do. Please, can you remember anything about that particular flight?’
Becky squinted at the ceiling, thinking hard. Then she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, darl’. All I know is that the Cessna came in pretty much when it was supposed to. Why don’t you try Pete? He might know something.’
Becky flipped through a Rolodex and Georgia pulled out Lee’s mobile. As Becky read out Pete’s number, Georgia dialled to be met with the usual woman’s monotone: ‘The mobile you have tried may be switched off. Please try again later.’
‘Is there anyone else who might have seen Pete land? What about Matt? The guy who was supposed to fly our plane. Is he around?’
‘Sure, he’s in the hangar.’ Becky gave her a tired smile. ‘Go for it.’
*
Inside, the hangar smelled of engine oil and coffee. There was a Cessna with an engine cowling raised and various tools spread on a greasy mat below. Two men in their early thirties were sitting on a couple of deckchairs set to one side, drinking from a thermos. One wore a red shirt hanging over his shorts, the other a pair of overalls.
As she approached, she realised she had seen the man dressed in overalls before. It was Rog, the barman at the National.
‘Hi,’ she said.
Rog gave a nod but didn’t meet her eyes.
‘We’d offer you some, but we’re all out of cups,’ Red Shirt said, looking regretful.
‘That’s okay. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. About the day the plane crashed.’
Both men’s faces immediately became guarded.
‘I’m Georgia Parish. I was—’
‘Hey,’ said Red Shirt. ‘You was on the plane, wasn’t you? With Bri.’
‘Yes.’
‘We didn’t have anything to do with it,’ said Rog, suddenly looking aggressive. ‘We didn’t do nothing.’
‘I know you didn’t,’ Georgia said soothingly. ‘I just wanted to ask why the pilot on the booking-out sheet didn’t fly that day. Why Matt Hayes was on the flight plan but Bri wasn’t.’
Red Shirt bit his lip. ‘Look, I was going to fly to Cairns but Bri decided he wanted to instead. He’s the boss, I let him. Simple.’
‘You’re Matt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you see anyone that morning? Anyone—’
‘It was just us here,’ Matt said. ‘We didn’t see nobody.’
‘Surely you would have seen Becks and Bri that morning?’
‘Course we saw fucking Becks and Bri. I meant nobody else.’
Georgia wanted to turn around and walk away, but she mentally gritted her teeth and persisted. ‘Maybe you saw someone who didn’t appear out of place? A delivery guy, perhaps, dropping off an engine part or something? A passenger in the wrong place?’
Rog got to his feet, went and picked up a spanner off the floor by the Cessna. ‘We didn’t see nobody, okay? If you don’t mind, we’ve work to do.’
Matt glanced at his watch, surprised, and Georgia realised Rog had just cut short their coffee break.
‘Jesus, when’s the baby due, Rog?’ said Matt, but Rog already had his head under the engine cowling.
‘Matt. Give me a hand, would you, mate?’
Ignoring Rog, Matt poured himself another coffee, grumbling about workaholics under his breath while Georgia walked over to Rog and stood close.
‘Are you hiding something from me?’
Rog was tightening a screw on a pipe that looked to her as if it didn’t need tightening. He didn’t look up.
Steadily, she said, ‘Bri’s Piper was sabotaged.’
‘Load of old cobblers,’ muttered Rog. ‘Bri’s well known for flying close to the edge, time to time. It’s Becky, ain’t it, putting you up to this?’
‘No. It was the co-pilot. He saw the fuel pipe had been loosened. Deliberately loosened.’
Rog twisted round, dropped the spanner to the ground and picked up another, smaller, spanner. Went to work on another bolt.
‘You saw something, didn’t you?’ she insisted. ‘What was it? Someone fiddling with our Piper before we took off? Did you see them? Who was it?’
Rog spun round, spanner clenched in his hand. For the first time, he looked at her straight. Something was crawling at the back of his eyes. Fear, she thought with a little shock. Despite his aggressive stance, the mechanic was scared stiff.
‘Just bugger off, would you?’
‘Marc Wheeler,’ she said. ‘Has he threatened you? Threatened you not to tell anyone what you saw?’
He licked his lips. ‘If you don’t fuck off right now, I’m going to call the . . .’ She thought he was going to say cops, but he amended it to, ‘Harassment board. For stopping me doing my job. So get out of my face, and don’t come back.’
‘You heard the man.’ Matt was behind her. ‘Time you moved your pretty ass out of here.’
Georgia walked away from Rog and Matt, then paused, turned around. ‘You’d better get yourselves ready, guys. Because this is just the start. I’m going to be getting the Air Accident Investigators in tomorrow, and nothing’s going to stop them bringing you in and interrogating you until you crack. If you continue lying, you’ll get sent to jail for obstructing a murder inquiry.’
As she stepped outside she heard the clang of metal against concrete, then Rog say wearily, ‘Oh, fuck.’
Forty-three
Georgia left the aerodrome jittery with excitement. She couldn’t wait to speak to Chris Cheung, get him to question Rog, find out what he saw. Marc Wheeler, maybe, tampering with the Piper.
Bri’s voice in her head. Find ’em for me. Swear it.
Becky. Go catch the bloody bugger.
Suzie. I don’t want to die. Not yet.
With one hand on the steering wheel, she pressed ‘Redial’ on her mobile. This time a message machine kicked in. ‘Please leave a message,’ said a man’s voice. ‘I’ll call you back.’
Georgia left her name and number for the pilot, Peter York, then tucked the mobile under her left thigh and down-shifted into third for the approaching bend, accelerating just after the apex. The breeze was hot and moist on her skin, the heavy smell of rotting leaves all-pervasive. She’d left the Mitsubishi’s windows open for the return trip, wanting to avoid the numbing dead weight of heat that had almost poleaxed her when she’d arrived at the aerodrome. It was all very well having air-conditioning, but when the body has suddenly to adjust to a fifteen-degree hike, it saps the energy.
Cruising for the north-west of Nulgarra, she reached across and pressed on the radio, expecting a hail of modern rock or news, to be met with a small click, then the smooth husky tones of a woman singing a cross of jazz and country and pop. Melodious, warm as honey, the woman’s voice sounded like the rainforest might sing. Sultry, melting, full of darkness and seductive promise.
It was a CD, she realised. Lee’s. Hot air tugging her hair, she didn’t pop the CD to see who was singing. She simply drove his car, leather hugging her body, and listened to the words.
Feeling tired
In the sunset
The long day is over . . .
But you’ll be on my mind
For ever.
Jesus. Had he left the CD ready to play on purpose? Was this his way of saying goodbye?
If it was, it sucked.
*
Mid-afternoon and she was pulling Lee’s Mitsubishi into the Lotus Healing Centre’s car park and looking around, praying she wouldn’t bump into Yumuru. She felt ashamed for stealing his syringe, and even more ashamed she was still checking up on him.
Trotting quickly up the steps, she peered cautiously into reception. No Yumuru. Great.
‘Is Tilly still around?’ she asked the receptionist.
‘She goes home tomorrow, but right now she’s in the communal living room. She’ll be glad to see you. It’ll give her a break.’
Georgia walked along the corridor with its tatami mats to find Tilly right where the receptionist said she’d be, tapping on a keyboard in front of a laptop computer. When she entered, Tilly glanced over her shoulder and said, ‘Hi, Georgia.’
‘Hi.’
‘What’s another word for pain?’ she asked, turning back to her gleaming blue screen. ‘I’ve already used agony, torment, suffering and ache.’
‘Um . . . torture?’
‘Ooh, yes. That’ll do nicely.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Writing an article about my experience. I’m getting five hundred bucks.’ She sounded proud.
‘Well done, you.’
‘Take a pew.’ Tilly waved a hand at the sofa beneath a tall window, which overlooked the fig tree being strangled by a vine, tapped seven letters on the keyboard, and swung round.
In fourteen days, Tilly was a changed woman. From an exhausted skeleton reeking of dead flesh, she had full colour in her skin and her hair was freshly washed, luxuriant and flowing around her shoulders. Energy sparkled in her eyes.
‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ she said.
‘That is seriously great.’
‘The kids are holding a party. Big banner and all. Seafood barbie, lots of beer and cake. Even my in-laws are going to be there, all the way from Dismal Creek. Can’t wait, but.’
‘I’m glad for you.’ Georgia’s tone was sincere. ‘Really I am.’
‘So what’re you doing here? Checking up on my progress?’
‘Yes. I guess so.’
Tilly was grinning, almost wriggling in her chair, like a kid who couldn’t suppress a secret. She said, ‘You swiped ’Muru’s syringe, didn’t you?’
Pause. Beat.
‘Yes,’ Georgia admitted.
‘What’d you find?’ She was almost bubbling with glee.
‘Vitamins.’
‘Yeah. Vitamins.’ Tilly looked smug.
‘But he has been using an antibiotic on you,’ Georgia said.
The smug look vanished. ‘You saying he didn’t heal me?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, you’re wrong.’ Her jaw was stuck out aggressively.
Georgia had just decided to tackle her head-on, when her mobile rang. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
Tilly shrugged, turning back to her computer like a sulky child.
‘Hello?’
‘Pete here. Pete York. Returning your call.’
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot.’ Georgia got to her feet and walked to the far end of the living area, looked through the window at a vista with no washing strung between the palms, no chicken sheds or flowering plants, no guitars strumming out of key or people chattering. Just five-star pristine rainforest all the way. ‘Look, it’s about the day Bri Hutchison’s plane crashed.’ She quickly filled the pilot in that she’d been on the aircraft, and was looking to find the saboteur.
‘Yeah. I’ve heard the rumours. Poor old Becks has been doing her nut. It’s bloody awful. Anything I can do to help?’
‘I just wanted to know about a passenger on your flight. A Marc Wheeler. Whether you knew him or not.’
‘Nope. Didn’t know none of them.’
‘Um . . . I’m sorry if this sounds like a strange question, but what did Marc Wheeler look like?’
