At mid-afternoon, when Wyatt wandered around South Bank with Anna Reid, Stolle and Mostyn had watched and taken photographs from a spot on the opposite bank.
What do you think?
Mostyn lowered the Nikon. What do you mean?
What Ive been teaching you: signs, body language.
Oh. That. Well, the guys been screwing her.
What else?
This doesnt look like your average stroll in the sun. As if theyre working out something heavy-duty and hes laying down the ground rules.
Good boy.
They watched a while longer, then Stolle gave Mostyn the keys to the Falcon. Take it back, rent something smaller.
Mostyn had returned with a Mazda. That evening they followed Wyatt to a motel out on the Ipswich Road. They saw him stake out the place first, then go in. A while later a man came out, looking bewildered. Then the Reid woman came out. She seemed to apologise to him and pressed money into his hands. Then she went back inside and the man wandered away, scratching his head.
Acting on a hunch, Stolle started the car. Lets talk to him.
He pulled in several metres past the man. Mostyn got out. He crossed the footpath to a car showroom window and peered in. When the man came adjacent to the car, Stolle opened the back door and Mostyn, moving fast, had closed in with his pistol. Inside, he hissed.
Jesus Christ, the man said.
They had driven him to a dark corner of a hotel carpark. Five minutes and one hundred dollars later, Stolle and Mostyn had known for certain that Wyatt and the Reid woman had a job ready to go. After that it was a matter of watching and waiting.
They had watched and waited for a week. Little happened in the early days. The three men met twice for short periods. Anna Reid did not appear again but, curiously, Wyatt staked out her house a couple of times. Other than that he stayed low, moving hotels every couple of days. Then, on the Wednesday and again on the Friday, Wyatt had staked out a house in East Brisbane and followed the man who lived there to the bank. The manager, Stolle discovered later.
On Saturday, Stolle saw the three men go shopping. When they stole the cars on Sunday, he knew they were getting ready to strike.
It was time to stop leaving a paper trail. Using cash and fake papers, Stolle had rented a Range Rover mounted with a bullbar. Hed need something with muscle for what he had in mind.
This morning, early, Wyatt and the others had moved. When Stolle saw them go straight to the managers house, he knew at once how they planned to get into the bank. When they left in the silver Volvo, he followed, leaving Mostyn to deal with the hostage taker. Mostyn with his clever hands.
Now it was three hours later, and the money was all his.
On his way out of the city, hed paid for courier delivery of a package. It hadnt far to go. Police HQ. Call it insurance, call it payback.
Next stop, the International Room at the Flamingo. Where your big-money boys like to play.
Stolle was grave for a moment. A shame about Mostyn.
Then he whooped and giggled and slapped his knee again.
Thirty-eight
If it had been anything elsecomputer fraud, stealing from a trust accountshe might have got bail, but this was armed robbery and the police argued that there was an unacceptable degree of risk that she would abscond. So it was remand in a new, privately-owned womens prison complex in Inala, and Anna wondered if Wyatt would get to her eventually, revenge for the grief shed caused him in the past, the grief he was blaming her for now.
At least she knew now that he was alive. For a while, shed thought he was dead. Shed heard a couple of news flashes on the tiny radio shed taken to work, and tried to piece it together. There had been a gun battle at the bank: two men dead, a third escaped with a limited amount of money from the vault, and then news that a man was dead in a separate but related incident at the university.
She had felt her control slipping away. She was partnered to three men and there had been three bodies. No names, no indication of what had gone wrong. One of those men could have been Wyatt, and in the minutes before the lift door opened she had allowed herself a prayer or two, a tribute.
She had not believed in forever with him, not even in the afterglow of the kind of lovemaking that told her sex could be more than just a quick loss of joy. But she had believed in six months, a year. And, a long time ago, three months ago in Melbourne, he had said they could work together, that he had jobs lined up where a woman would be needed. Three months, in which there hadnt been a day when she didnt want to taste again his bitterness, watchfulness and buried humour.
She remembered what it had been like, seeing him again at the bus station lockers after Stolle had delivered him to her. His angular face showing too many lines of strain and exhaustion around the eyes; the hard quickness of his body, poised ready to escape or fight. Clearly hed had a hard time of it on the run, held together by fortitude and nothing else, dancing on thin ice for so long that he was almost through to the chilling black water underneath.
Later, at the bistro in the mall, it had been hard work. There had been something unrelenting and final about the way hed watched her, quite still, eyes dark and hooded. If shed been hiding anything from him she would not have been able to withstand his scrutiny at all. If hed sensed the smell of something wrong in her story, in her head, he would have killed her, shed been certain of it.
And he still might, one day. He would never forgive or forget and the damage was irreversible.
He hadnt touched her at the bistro. He hadnt even touched her for some minutes when he came to her house. But when he did, a hand on each flank, hands flat and wide and highly charged, the jolt had gone straight to the base of her stomach, and shed watched the layers of caution peel away, letting the man inside surface.
Shed wanted a future with Wyattsix months, a year. She was never one to tie herself to men whose steps were small and delicate, one after the other.
And now shed lost it and it hadnt been her fault.
The questions had started almost immediately. Detectives from the armed robbery squad questioned her in relays, first at the City Watchhouse, then at the prison. They wouldnt tell her what had happened; they wouldnt tell her how they knew she was involved.
They had photographs.
Shed been stripped of her corporate outfitstockings, skirt, silk shirtdecked out in a prison issue tracksuit and cheap canvas runners, and taken to an interview room where a dozen glossy black and whites were fanned out over the table.
Carafe of water. Three glasses. Ashtray. Three chairs around the table: one that she was pushed into, one for the man who sat opposite her, one for the female detective who preferred to stand behind her, leaning her cheaply perfumed head close to Annas from time to time.
A second woman waited at the door.
The man was called Vincent, the woman Clyne. Lets start again, Vincent said.
Clynes warm, stale breath stirred the hair at Annas neck. Some names.
One by one, Vincent spun several photographs around with the tips of his fingers. Two grainy, long-distance shots of Riding and Phelps in the motel carpark; a couple more of them in a car outside a shop; two sharp close-ups of men shed never seen before, both lying dead in pools of their own blood, one on a carpet in a building, one on gravel somewhere.
Whoever took those night shots knew what he was doing, Vincent said. Telephoto, infra-red, the works.
I dont know who these people are. Ive never seen them before.
Oh please, said Vincent wearily. The detective was small and buttoned-down and clerkish; they both were.
