Run Beautiful Run, page 21
‘So really, you’re like on a working holiday, huh?’ Greg had the same lopsided grin he shared with his father and big brother.
‘You could say that.’ Even if it was all completely unplanned. Strangely, she hadn’t thought about her life in Melbourne or her godmother in Sydney. She’d been so consumed by her research, and with Joe, who’d demand her attention at the end of each working day.
‘So how often do you do that?’ Earl dabbed at his greying beard with the napkin.
What? Run for her life? ‘Do what?’
‘Do this writing thing you do?’
‘I’m a freelance journalist,’ replied Maddison with a shrug.
‘What’s that?’ Glenda sipped from her delicate floral teacup that matched the saucer, while the rest had chunky coffee mugs.
‘If I come across something of interest that inspires me, I’ll write it up and send it in to get published. I aim for a magazine piece once a month.’ Please don’t ask the name.
‘Which one, dear?’
Seriously! Maddison took a big bite out of her muffin, hoping to avoid the answer.
But the table remained quiet, waiting for her response, except for the scrape of cutlery across their plates and the other sounds of an eating family.
‘I, um, send them in to this publishing company that manages an assortment of magazines and newspapers all under the one roof.’
‘Such as?’ Glenda brushed down the crumbs on her yellow apron with white daisies. They were two of Glenda’s favourite things, the colour yellow and daisies, she also had a fondness for talk-back radio, and none of them had any form of social media.
‘Fishing ones, cars, fashion magazines, that kind of thing.’ Maddison needed to change this conversation. ‘May I ask who these guests are, arriving today?’
‘We have two young men joining us this week.’
Maddison flinched, a sip of coffee going down the wrong way. She fumbled and spilled the coffee on the table and all over her dress, coughing loudly while gasping for air.
Joe was quick to react and patted her back. ‘Hey, are you okay?’
She nodded, as that all-too-familiar flutter of fear flared in her chest, while Glenda grabbed a cloth and started cleaning the table. ‘I’m so sorry, Glenda.’ She reached out to help, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Calm down. Maybe it’s not related at all.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Joe grabbed her hands.
‘I’m fine. Sorry, it went down the wrong way, that’s all. Excuse me, I’ll go clean up.’ She practically fled the kitchen, remembering not to slam her bedroom door and dashed to the bathroom.
At the basin, she forced herself to take deep breaths, staring at her reflection in the mirror. It was that same panic filled terror in her eyes, like the first time she’d fled her apartment.
Turning on the tap, she started to clean the coffee spilled across her dress.
There was a quick tap on her open bathroom door.
‘Are you all right, Maddison?’ Joe asked, leaning his broad shoulder against the doorframe.
‘Yeah, fine. Clumsy, that’s all.’ She couldn’t look at him, concentrating on calming herself down, while dabbing away at her dress.
‘You’re not clumsy. You look scared.’
She faced the mirror where Joe’s reflection stared back. How could he read her so easily after only a week? ‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s the same look you wore when you had that lizard in your bag, or when you nearly fell into that termite hole.’ He took a step closer, the sheer size of him filled the room, with his blue-eyed stare pinning her to the spot. ‘What’s going on?’
She hesitated. Unable to lie to Joe, she’d been careful with the little she shared about herself—which was normal in her old world.
‘You’re shaking.’ Gently, he grabbed her hands. ‘Why are you reacting like this over Mum mentioning the new guests arriving?’
Again, that spike of fear made her tremble. She bit her lip, scared she’d draw blood.
‘Are you in some kind of trouble? You’ve been okay this past week.’
‘This week has been amazing.’ She pulled her hands free to cover her face, taking a deep breath, desperate to calm down.
‘I’m not moving until you tell me.’ He pulled her hands free from her face, forcing her to look at him. ‘I want to help.’
‘Find out who those two men are. That’d help.’
‘Not until you tell me why.’ Standing tall, he narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You’re on the run, aren’t you?’
She gasped, trying to step away from him, but he only held her in place.
‘Come on, Maddison, let me in. I only want to help you.’
‘Okay …’ She took a deep breath, preparing to go against her better judgement. ‘I’ll tell you everything, but I doubt you’ll believe me.’
‘Finally.’ Joe led her by the hand to the end of her bed and made her sit beside him. ‘You have this habit of only sharing snippets about yourself, so I’m keen to know your story.’
‘Fine. You asked for it.’
He gave her an encouraging nod. ‘I’m listening.’
She was helpless to deny him, and so she began …
‘About three weeks ago, my Uncle Bob was murdered in Melbourne. Shot three times in the chest. He died in front of me. But before he did, he made me promise to find his journal and finish the piece he’d been working on.’
‘You made a deathbed promise?’
She nodded. ‘My uncle made me swear to trust no one and say nothing.’ Was she breaking her promise now?
‘Go on,’ urged Joe.
‘The detectives investigating the murder told me that my uncle died for a thirty-thousand-dollar gambling debt.’
‘Was your uncle a gambler?’
She nodded. ‘And an alcoholic. But he was a really nice guy, the last of my family.’
‘Hey, it’s okay. I’m not judging,’ he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders.
‘Anyway, a week later, on the day of my uncle’s funeral, I go back to my apartment to discover someone had broken in. They’d destroyed everything, as if they were looking for something.’ Did her godmother, Nancy, get her assistant to clean up the place?
‘What were they searching for?’
‘My uncle’s notes. But they didn’t find them.’
‘Where were they?’
‘At his favourite place, Flemington Racetrack. It’s where I won that money.’ From under her bed, she dragged out her big red bag. The leather was worn, and the strap was tied with a big knot. It was ruined.
Maddison pulled out a receipt along with the black plastic waterproof pouch. She’d kept them close ever since the police had left. ‘This is what I won that day—what you accused me of robbing from a bank.’
‘I only meant that as a joke.’ Joe read the receipt. ‘Damn. You’re carrying twenty grand in cash! How?’
‘I got lucky on a couple of long shots.’ She gave a meek shrug.
‘The only time I bet on a horserace is if it’s Melbourne Cup day and we’re near a pub. But you?’
‘Since I was six years old my Uncle Bob taught me all about the world of racing, from the signs of a good horse, racing conditions and more, while babysitting me at various race tracks.’ She tenderly patted the bulky pouch containing Bob’s journal. ‘Uncle Bob wasn’t a bad man, and he certainly didn’t deserve to die the way he did.’
‘From gambling debts?’
‘So the cops told me. Until I met Quid and Reggie, at the track. They told me my uncle only owed six thousand, which isn’t enough debt to even get your thumbs broken.’
‘So, he wasn’t killed over a gambling debt?’
‘My uncle may have been a gambler and an alcoholic, but he was also a good investigative journalist. In the week before his death, Bob didn’t drink. And the only reason he’d visited the racetrack, on the day before he died, was to hide this.’ She held up the cursed black plastic pouch.
Joe wiped a palm over his face to hide the disappointment and confusion in his eyes. ‘Do you mean, this entire time the research you’ve been doing isn’t about your uncle’s memoirs?’
‘No.’ And now she felt like a big fat liar. ‘When I arrived, I hadn’t had a chance to read this cursed thing.’ She dropped the black pouch onto the floor and glared at it for all the trouble it’d caused. And it still wasn’t over. ‘The day I collected this pouch at the racetrack, I had originally planned to catch a plane to Sydney to stay with my godmother. But it all changed quickly when Reggie spotted the goons following me.’
‘The who?’
‘The goons. Here …’ She unclipped the waterproof pouch and pulled out a bunch of printed images. ‘That short one with the Elvis hair, that’s Goon One.’
‘Elvis hair, huh?’ Joe’s eyes narrowed at the images. ‘It fits.’
‘His offsider, the tall guy with the bald head, that’s Goon Two.’
‘Who are they?’ Joe studied the images.
‘I have no idea what their names are. I can’t even tell you how long they’d been following me before they were spotted at the racetrack.’
‘Did you tell the police all this?’
‘That’s the thing, my uncle made me swear to not tell the police. Then Reggie warned me that the cops were lying about the reason for Bob’s murder.’
Joe’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And you believe him?’
‘It’s a lot to swallow, but here …’ She passed Joe another photo of four men. ‘This photo was with my uncle’s journal. The two men with the goons are Senior Detective Mick Hetter and his junior partner, Paul. They’re the detectives in charge of my uncle’s murder case. In that photo they’re exchanging keys and cash.’ She tapped on the image. ‘That’s my uncle’s missing car keys.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘I recognised the good luck charm hanging off it. I gave that to my uncle when I gave him the spare key to my apartment.’ She glowered at the photo. ‘Those detectives knew all about the break in. I can’t believe I trusted them.’
‘Hey, I believe you and you know you can trust me.’
Oh, she wanted to.
‘Remember, I’ve had my own run-in with questionable cops,’ said Joe. ‘How did you end up here?’
She gazed up at the ruggedly handsome cattleman beside her and filled him in on her chase from Flemington, through the streets of Adelaide, to her crash landing.
‘Why did you pick this place to stay?’ Joe asked, having listened intently.
‘I’d overheard these women talking about stations in the airport toilets. One of them gave me their tourist magazine to do a search. Elleron Downs had a flight leaving the same day, and you advertised internet and PC access available to guests. I figured no one would ever find me here.’
‘What did you find from your uncle’s notes?’
‘The reason they murdered him.’
‘No way?’ He hissed through his teeth, as if to keep his composure, but his grip tightened around her shoulders as if to comfort them both.
Maddison pulled out another photo, but hesitated. She was risking his life if she went any further.
‘Babe …’ With his hand covering hers, he made her show him the photo. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Antonio Cottillard.’ She frowned at the man with dark olive skin and cold black eyes.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s a businessman who turns old warehouses into high-rise accommodation. He also owns an import shipping company that includes a stash of warehouses that sit along Melbourne’s docks.’
‘He’s a property developer?’
‘And a people smuggler. He uses them for slave labour,’ she said coldly, showing the photos her uncle had taken. All in fabulous grainy colour. ‘Those illegal immigrants become his building labourers, to work off their debt to him for coming to this country. While this guy sells those sea-view apartments—making millions.’
‘No way,’ muttered Joe.
‘They arrive by boat, landing on the far north coastline, where they get transferred into sea containers that are then shipped down the east coast to Melbourne. There they’re kept in large warehouses before they’re shipped off to whorehouses, sweatshops and work camps to pay off their debt for freedom. He’s making a fortune out of these people’s misfortune. Do you realise we’ve had over one hundred illegal boats caught in Darwin harbour alone in the past three months, with more coming every week only for those people to become slaves?’
‘No offence, but if you’ve found out about all of this from out here, how come the government has done nothing to stop this?’
‘The immigrants won’t say anything, they’re illegally smuggled into this country with Cottillard promising them a set of immigration papers to stay.’
‘How much is that costing them?’
‘Two years’ manual labour, working fourteen hours a day, wage-free. They get two meals a day, and sleep on a factory floor. That’s just the men.’
She passed another photo to Joe. ‘Cottillard owns everyone.’ She tapped on the photo showing four men standing on a golf course. ‘That’s the same two detectives handing the same envelopes they been given by the goons to these two men. The one on the left is a Police Superintendent and the guy on the right is about to be promoted to Deputy Commissioner.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Oh, it gets better…’ She pulled out another photo. This one had Antonio Cottillard talking with another man. Her uncle must have been hanging off some fire escape to take that photo, but it was the money shot with both men staring straight into the lens. Busted. ‘The man talking to Cottillard is our country’s Federal Minister for Immigration.’
‘He’s obviously getting a payoff if his office is doing nothing.’
‘Correct. The Minister is being paid to clog up the federal investigations with red tape, while also supplying unlimited working visas to Cottillard’s company, that I’m assuming he’s using as bait to keep these people working for him.’
Joe glanced over the images. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but to me, these photos show a few blokes getting money as if they were having a wager over a golf game.’
She sighed. ‘I agree. Thank you for your honesty.’ Seriously, were there any faults to this man?
‘But you’ve found more, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah. A tonne of trouble, all on video.’ She dragged out her uncle’s old phone.
‘I’m guessing this is the reason they murdered your uncle?’
‘You should back out now. You can’t unsee—’
‘Hey, I’m with you all the way, babe.’
‘Babe?’
‘Meh.’ He shrugged with shoulders that were as heavy as hers. ‘Go on.’
‘Okay then.’ Not that he was giving her a choice.
Activating the phone, she scrolled to the video image. ‘This is a recorded conversation between Antonio Cottillard, the Police Superintendent, and the Federal Minister. They’re talking about a combined Federal Police and Customs investigation that is about to raid the sheds where the illegal immigrants are kept.’
‘Did they bust them?’
‘No. Because on this recording they’re tipping off Cottillard about the raid. Cottillard gets angry over the costs to his smuggling business and does this huge dummy spit over diverting ships, missing collections, and finding places to hide these people.’
‘All on this?’ Joe tapped on the phone screen frozen on Cottillard’s portrait.
‘Yeah. It’s not the best image, but the voices are crystal clear,’ she said. ‘The man heading up the Federal Police side of the operation has been causing serious problems for Cottillard. On this tape, Cottillard demands information on this Federal Police Officer, saying he’s going to kill him personally. The guy even describes how he’s going to do it!’
‘Where did your uncle discover this?’
‘He taped it down at the wharves one night. It all happened right in front of my uncle. The three men, having this little conversation, must have thought my uncle’s heap of crap was a deserted vehicle. I recognised it from the dashboard you can see at the bottom of the screen.’
‘That’s what got your uncle killed?’
‘I believe so, and his money shot where Cottillard’s staring straight at the lens. Because five days after this taped meeting, the Federal Police Officer was found shot dead, exactly how Antonio had described it. And that’s the day my uncle sobered up, knocked on my door asking to crash on my couch and to soak up my wi-fi.’ Maddison turned on the phone and played the video for Joe.
‘Damn …’ Joe wiped his hands over his face when the video finished. ‘Have you made copies?’
‘Yes, I used a few of your brother’s memory sticks and there’s also a copy in the cloud.’ She stared at the paperwork in front of her. ‘You’re the only one I’ve spoken to about this, and it may sound stupid, but I’m glad I could talk this through with someone.’ If only she could dump the burden pressing heavily against her chest. ‘Do you believe me?’
‘Yes …’ He gave a slow nod, staring at the paperwork spread across the floor.
‘Have you got questions?’
He gave another heavy nod. ‘Have you been carrying this load all on your own?’
She shrugged, unsure how to answer that one. ‘I can’t put anyone else in danger.’
‘What are you planning to do now?’
‘No idea. My only reason for coming here was to hide out while I worked on these notes.’
Joe frowned hard at the photos on the floor. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Um, ask me my name?’ She winced as guilt screwed a hole into her stomach. She wanted to be sick.
***
Joe raised his eyebrow at her. Had she been lying to him this entire time? Including the story she’d just told?
‘M-M-Maddison is my actual name.’ She dragged out some ID from her purse. ‘The motor registry made a mistake with my licence when I renewed it. I never bothered to get it corrected, and I’d forgotten about it. This is my name, I’m Maddison Janice Farley.’ She showed him her scuba diving licence and credit cards.
