Forty
Wyatt heard her say softly, I didnt cross you.
I know.
She was sitting opposite him, a high flush to her cheeks, a shine to her eyes. Her whole face was alight, as though he were food and water to a dying woman.
Stolle?
Yes.
You know for sure?
Wyatt told her about Mostyn. Stolle got away.
The cops have photographs of us. Stolle must have been watching us the whole time and saw a way to intercept the changeover and dob us in.
Wyatt felt himself stiffen. Photographs. What photographs?
He saw Anna check for curious ears in the visiting room. A dozen small tables and chairs, some armchairs, posters of rainforests on the walls. A couple of custodial officers joking with visitors and inmates nearby. Chairs scraping, laughter, kids running around. He was the only man but he was a priest so no-one looked twice at him. No-one was listening.
Anna touched his sleeve. Dont worry. They dont know who you are, and the pictures of you are blurred. You interest the cops, though. They know Phelps and Riding couldnt have put this together.
Wyatt stared at her hand. He remembered her bare skin, its colour and pliancy. Then he looked up. She wore an oversized T-shirt that concealed and flattened her body. It was torn here and there, a washed-out shade of black. Loose, worn, faded tracksuit pants hid the rest of her. Shed done something to her hairor had it done to her. A brush cut on top, shaved close to the scalp on either side, woven tendrils reaching down between her shoulder blades. It was a tough jailhouse outfit and she looked coldly sexual in it.
What did you tell them?
Frown lines appeared between her eyes and she pulled away. Nothing. I resent it that youd think I would tell them anything. Thats why you came back, isnt it? Not for me. You wanted to know how much they knew about you. You thought I might be a liability, might swing a deal with them or something.
Wyatt didnt answer. He said, I want to get you out. Are you okay for the time being?
Ive got friends.
His stare was flat so she elaborated. Im not prison pussy, if thats what youre thinking. All this she plucked at her T-shirt and touched her hairmakes sense in here, thats all. And I kind of like it.
Wyatt said nothing. He changed the subject. What did the cops tell you about the character who tried to jump us at the bank?
They asked, did I do coke? Did I smoke the dreaded weed? His name was Ian Lovell and he was a dealer.
Stolle wouldnt have sent him into the bank, not when he intended to grab everything at the university.
Some kind of wild card?
Wyatt played back the fiasco at the bank. He remembered the pointed way in which Nurse had emptied the banks revolver into Lovell, as if something very, very personal was going on. I guess so. It doesnt matter.
Wyatt, Im sorry.
Wyatt gave a short head jerk of irritation. You didnt apologise for stuff-ups you hadnt caused. And the stuff- ups you did cause should always have good reasons behind them. He said, We have to get you out.
Again that frown, looking for his motives. I hope this isnt just so you can silence me for good.
You want to stay in here?
Dejection showed in her face. He realised that she was losing her natural colour, gaining a prison greyness. Her voice soul-sick and low, she said, Ill wither up and die in here. Its privately-run, but that doesnt mean much. Ive got friends but I cant watch my back all the time. She looked fully at him. I cant bear it, Wyatt.
Careful. Father Kennedy.
They both glanced around the room. No-one was paying them any attention. It brought back her humour. Some priest.
Wyatt looked too weather-beaten and rough around the edges to be a scholarly priest or an ambitious one or an ingrate in a wealthy diocese. The effect he had aimed at was prison visitor, a long-faced, stoop-shouldered man who probably grew vegetables and devoted his time to the kind of heartache cases that no-one else would touch. There had been priests like that around in his childhood.
Just then Wyatt became aware of a shift in the rooms atmosphere. He looked across at a table by the door. A woman was talking to the people there, an inmate and her mother, and it was clear that they resented her but could not tell her to shove off. It was a curious tableau, almost like a pimp touching base with whores.
Anna confirmed it. Oh God, not her.
Who is she?
She works here. She put the hard word on me the moment I came inside. Shes convinced I know where the money is and will want to channel some of it her way. You know, in case I want extra cigarettes, a Walkman, silk knickers, an office job instead of peeling vegies, uppers, downers, some marijuana to sprinkle in my roll-your-own tobacco.
Wyatt watched the woman. She wore a mauve suit, the jacket gathered tight at the waist, the skirt slit at the back. A filmy scarf frothed at her throat and she wore big tinted glasses with fussy, angular, gold-speckled frames. Her hair was dark, permed into a cloud around her head. Somewhere under all the frills there was a calculating heart.
What did you say to her?
I said fuck off and the result was Ive been peeling vegies ever since and some inmates tried to heavy me.
The woman looked up, saw Anna, saw the priest with her, and smiled.
Brace yourself.
Wyatt watched as the woman threaded her way among the tables. The inmates and their visitors kept their eyes lowered and stopped talking, relaxing only when it was clear the woman had someone else in her sights.
Anna, how are things with you today?
Anna said stonily, Go away.
Arent you going to introduce me?
Father Kennedy, Anna said.
The woman gushed over Wyatt. An enamelled name-plate on her lapel read Lesley Van Fleet. There was lipstick on her teeth, cracks in her make-up.
Annas settling in very well here, Father. She knows that if I can help her, I will. Anything at all, she only has to ask.
Van Fleet was watching Wyatt but it was all aimed at Anna. He could see the womans love of manipulation and imagined her house, a life surrounded by pampering luxuries paid for with inmates money.
Youre very kind, he said.
When Van Fleet drifted off to another table, he said, Theres your ticket out.
Forty-one
At eight oclock that evening, Van Fleet said immediately, Its not enough.
Wyatt regarded her calmly. Apparently she cast off the veneer when she went home at the end of the day. Her face was free of make-up, giving it a diminished, unprotected look, reinforced by the puffball slippers on her feet and a pair of pink silk pyjamas. She had been smoking when Wyatt found her. Hed picked her back door lock,
