On one side of a low sandstone wall was a slate path, on the other a long drop down an Angophora-clustered hillside to the bay where the pleased-with-itself rowing shed sat admiring look-at-me pleasure craft moored at an adjacent marina jetty.
He’d parked outside on a curving road, imagining curtain-twitching neighbours mistaking his ageing car for one belonging to house cleaners. High above the Harbour waters, a breeze kept the late afternoon temperature down. The wind had made the effort to cross the 4.5kms between Shark Beach, Vaucluse, and Mosman Bay bringing with it a cool edge and the delicate fragrance of self-satisfaction. The Eastern Suburbs were, after all, ever so superior to the lower north shore and the capitalisation of the first letters was important.
The path led past beds of lavender backgrounded by espaliered olive and lemon trees: Provence, packaged up and plopped right here. Before his finger could press the bell, the front door opened with an audible swoosh as though the house was desperate to suck in the real world. No such luck. A short, stocky man in a white silk Mandarin-collared shirt looked Kent up and then didn’t bother to look him down. The man had seen enough.
Kent extended his hand while stretching his lips into a facsimile of a smile. “Clive Bagnole?”
“Don’t be silly. Mr Bagnole doesn’t answer his own front door.” The man stared at Kent’s hand as if a leper was offering to high five him. “You’re late.”
“Well, I …”
“This way and try to keep up.” Silk Top swung 90 degrees before scampering across an entrance hall and down a wide corridor lined with artworks. More corridors followed with more art. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland following the white rabbit, Kent tried to memorise the warren in case he needed to show himself out in a hurry.
A final set of French doors framed a flagstone terrace. A tall man in a Panama hat sat in a plantation-style wicker chair unleashing arrows at a target 20 metres away. He lowered his bow as the last two arrows missed the target and sailed high over the cliff edge towards the foreshore below. “There’s something satisfying about knowing an entry level Merc or Beemer parked down there might be pincushioned,” the man said, reaching for a highball glass. “Tom Collins?”
“No, I’m the P.I …”
“Tom Collins is a gin and soda,” snapped Silk Top before hopping over to a wrought iron drinks trolley.
“I’m Bagnole,” said the man, apparently to clear up any misunderstanding that he’d popped in from next door to snaffle some Bombay Sapphire. He nodded towards another chair.
Holding the chilled glass that’d been thrust at him, Kent sat, sipped and tried for Smile #2. Bagnole didn’t return it. Instead he flicked a plain envelope into Kent’s lap. Inside was an A4 sheet of paper pasted with individual letters cut out of a newspaper.
Bagnole leaned forward. “I’m told they’re from the Daily Telegraph so obviously nobody from Mosman sent it. And before you ask, I’ve no idea who these three sisters are.”
“Not who, where. I’d say it’s the drop off spot. Katoomba.”
Bagnole shrugged. “Wherever.” Gesturing at his manservant, he added: “Ralph will deliver the ransom, you’re to ride shotgun. Are you armed?”
“I didn’t realise this suburb was so dangerous.”
“I’m not paying for facetious remarks. I was told you’re discreet and not averse to rough stuff.”
“That sounds like a Grinder profile. If you want me to tag along with Ralph I’ll take half my fee in advance. Cash. Any clues on who kidnapped your wife?”
“If I knew who’d snatched that bitch Chloe, I wouldn’t need you.”
The drive to the Blue Mountains the following evening was long and silent. Ralph, now in a black silk shirt, held the steering wheel of the Bentley Continental GT convertible with his hands at ten-to-two. Kent, in a suit, occasionally checked the side mirror to see if they were being tailed. At 8.50, the car slid to a gentle stop outside the Echo Point parking area. It was shut. Having ignored the “closed” sign, five minutes later the men stood side-by-side at the safety railing feigning interest in the rock formations branded The Three Sisters. A canvas duffel bag lay at Ralph’s feet.
Wind from the valley carried the sound of waving tree branches and a low buzzing. At 9pm, a small, dark shape outlined by pinpoints of light rose on the other side of the railing. The drone hovered for a moment before circling over their heads. A crackle. “You,” said an electronic voice from the drone. “You in the suit. Take your coat off.” Kent slipped out of the jacket and raised his arms to show he wasn’t tooled up. Fortunately, he wasn’t ordered to lift his right trouser leg. A compact pistol in an ankle holster was strapped uncomfortably against his sock.
“Suit guy,” came the Dalek-like voice again. “Take the bag and drive to the address that’s under the windscreen wiper of your car.”
“Mr Bagnole’s car,” Ralph corrected the voice. “And what about me? I have my orders.”
“Then order an Uber back to Sydney,” replied the voice.
A 45-minute drive. Again, it could’ve been worse. Kent might’ve stepped around the lonely wooden gate that had no fence on either side, walked up the rocky, overgrown pathway to the dour two-storey house with a single light in a window, handed over the ransom money and then been killed by the kidnappers to tie up any loose ends. Instead, he stood in a copse of trees that rose to the right of the building, the duffle bag slung over his shoulder and the gun in his hand. He could see the bright window with a desk lamp pointing downwards and what appeared to be the outline of a person near a curtain. A person who didn’t move. Fortunately, the person sharing the copse and standing 10 metres in front of him was moving slowly as they concentrated on a device in their hands. More buzzing. Another drone or perhaps the same one from Echo Point, rose and turned in a wide sweep of the area. Then, sentry-like, it halted above the house’s front door, presumably waiting to give the arriving bagman further orders.
Kent stepped up behind the drone controller. “Special delivery,” he whispered into their ear.
A female voice swore.
The pair climbed the stairs to the house’s upper floor. A shop window mannequin propped up by a curtain created the illusion of a guard. It wore an unconvincing wig, matching Kent’s unconvincing smile. The woman still appeared concerned. I must keep practicing, Kent told himself. Holding up a photo Bagnole had given him of the missing Chloe, he studied the woman. No doubt about it, she’d kidnapped herself.
The story came out in a rush. Bagnole had twice threatened to kill her if she left him. Kent didn’t ask why she’d want to leave. He’d met the man. She’d recorded the second threat but was too frightened to go to the police. Over the past weeks she’d refined the kidnap plans knowing Bagnole would pay up purely out of pride, not out of love. Now she presumed Kent was taking her back.
What he took was her phone with the recorded threat on it. There was no use playing it to Bagnole in an attempt to stop him going after Chloe. Bagnole would probably agree then, within hours, send someone else to hunt down his runaway bride. Kent planned to present the recording as evidence to two female detectives who he knew wouldn’t brush off the threat. Bagnole needed to be wearing his brown underwear when they came a’knocking.
“And this?” asked Chloe, her toe cap kicking the duffle bag lying on the floor.
Kent bent down. “I don’t want to appear unsentimental but I’m taking the other half of my fee. I imagine your no-doubt-soon-to-be-ex-husband won’t honour his debt.”
“The rest?”
He stood up slowly. “You’ll need walking-around money. Mosman can be expensive.”
# # #
Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN
No comments:
Post a Comment