longer be under our protection.'
Dunlop looked at Burton. 'Officially speaking, that's right.'
Burton sighed. 'I'm afraid this will have to be very unofficial, very unofficial indeed.'
'Good,' Dunlop said.
Peters said, 'Do I sense a degree of personal involvement, Lucas?'
'You do. He raped her brutally, sliced her up, probably enjoyed it. He's a professional killer. I'd like to put him out of business.'
'You're not a vigilante, remember,' Peters murmured. 'Not even a policeman any longer.'
'What am I?' Dunlop said.
Burton was tapping his papers into a pile, reaching for his briefcase. He looked at Peters. 'You'd better start talking to the CCA people. I'm afraid the
nil prosecutam
faction will have to prevail for the time being.'
'That will make me popular with some, unpopular with others,' Peters said. 'The story of my life.'
Burton clicked the locks on his briefcase. 'One of the problems, as I see it, is assigning people to this . . . affair. Mr Dunlop will participate, of course, but I'm reluctant to expand this circle of
cognoscenti
However, we will need two teams of three, including a woman.'
'I know someone,' Dunlop said.
Tate felt his luck had changed when he picked up the package in Newtown. Fifteen grand in used fifties and hundreds. Very satisfactory. The Rankin business concluded. Pressure exerted, response forthcoming. Military thinking. Another thirty due for Mrs Belfante, although the principals were only thinking of another ten at the moment. They'd have to pay in full when the job was done to
his
satisfaction. His sugar level returned to normal as he got back into his routines—diet, exercise, insulin and regular testing. He had his eyes checked and was told his vision was still excellent. No need for correction.
The money went into his safety deposit box with the rest of his savings. Tate, indifferent to politics, admired Paul Keating's style, his head-kicking attitude. However, he bitterly resented Keating's introduction of the tax file number system and the monitoring of large financial transactions, which had forced him to store cash and forgo interest. He wasn't surprised that Keating had got the top job; he recognised another ruthless achiever when he saw one. He was confident that he could make the cashtalk the right language in Tasmania when the time came.
The job now was to find the woman. He recognised that on the last occasion he had got lucky, that this would be harder. He put the baits out in the same way but, as he expected, got no bites. He found a public phone and rang Reuben, and enjoyed hearing the nervousness in the lawyer's voice.
'You'll be paid. We were just . . .'
'You were waiting on results,' Tate said. 'That wasn't part of the deal.'
'Yeah, well, the results are in, or almost.'
'Meaning?'
'You did a good job. It looks like she's retracting. That's the word I'm getting.'
'Good.' Tate gave Reuben details on how the money was to be paid and hung up. His luck definitely had changed. Everyone knew what happened when protected witnesses backed out. They ceased to be protected. Tate read through his material on Ava again, noting the addresses of the flat, Belfante's club, her usual haunts. He paid particular attention to one piece of information—the name and address of the female doctor Ava had gone to for years. One thing was for sure—the way he'd left her she was going to need some doctoring now and for some time to come. There was also the question of Dunlop. But, first things first. He'd come running once, maybe he would again.
'What d'you mean, soon?' Vance Belfante gave Grant Reuben what he thought of as his hard look—jaw firm, slight sneer, unblinking eyes. The lawyertouched his hair knot, turned his signet ring three times. He was losing weight through worry. The ring turned more easily than it used to.
'I'm getting whispers, nothing solid,' he said. 'The word is that Ava's not going to roll over, then she's thinking about it, or she's changed her mind
Dunlop looked at Burton. 'Officially speaking, that's right.'
Burton sighed. 'I'm afraid this will have to be very unofficial, very unofficial indeed.'
'Good,' Dunlop said.
Peters said, 'Do I sense a degree of personal involvement, Lucas?'
'You do. He raped her brutally, sliced her up, probably enjoyed it. He's a professional killer. I'd like to put him out of business.'
'You're not a vigilante, remember,' Peters murmured. 'Not even a policeman any longer.'
'What am I?' Dunlop said.
Burton was tapping his papers into a pile, reaching for his briefcase. He looked at Peters. 'You'd better start talking to the CCA people. I'm afraid the
nil prosecutam
faction will have to prevail for the time being.'
'That will make me popular with some, unpopular with others,' Peters said. 'The story of my life.'
Burton clicked the locks on his briefcase. 'One of the problems, as I see it, is assigning people to this . . . affair. Mr Dunlop will participate, of course, but I'm reluctant to expand this circle of
cognoscenti
However, we will need two teams of three, including a woman.'
'I know someone,' Dunlop said.
Tate felt his luck had changed when he picked up the package in Newtown. Fifteen grand in used fifties and hundreds. Very satisfactory. The Rankin business concluded. Pressure exerted, response forthcoming. Military thinking. Another thirty due for Mrs Belfante, although the principals were only thinking of another ten at the moment. They'd have to pay in full when the job was done to
his
satisfaction. His sugar level returned to normal as he got back into his routines—diet, exercise, insulin and regular testing. He had his eyes checked and was told his vision was still excellent. No need for correction.
The money went into his safety deposit box with the rest of his savings. Tate, indifferent to politics, admired Paul Keating's style, his head-kicking attitude. However, he bitterly resented Keating's introduction of the tax file number system and the monitoring of large financial transactions, which had forced him to store cash and forgo interest. He wasn't surprised that Keating had got the top job; he recognised another ruthless achiever when he saw one. He was confident that he could make the cashtalk the right language in Tasmania when the time came.
The job now was to find the woman. He recognised that on the last occasion he had got lucky, that this would be harder. He put the baits out in the same way but, as he expected, got no bites. He found a public phone and rang Reuben, and enjoyed hearing the nervousness in the lawyer's voice.
'You'll be paid. We were just . . .'
'You were waiting on results,' Tate said. 'That wasn't part of the deal.'
'Yeah, well, the results are in, or almost.'
'Meaning?'
'You did a good job. It looks like she's retracting. That's the word I'm getting.'
'Good.' Tate gave Reuben details on how the money was to be paid and hung up. His luck definitely had changed. Everyone knew what happened when protected witnesses backed out. They ceased to be protected. Tate read through his material on Ava again, noting the addresses of the flat, Belfante's club, her usual haunts. He paid particular attention to one piece of information—the name and address of the female doctor Ava had gone to for years. One thing was for sure—the way he'd left her she was going to need some doctoring now and for some time to come. There was also the question of Dunlop. But, first things first. He'd come running once, maybe he would again.
'What d'you mean, soon?' Vance Belfante gave Grant Reuben what he thought of as his hard look—jaw firm, slight sneer, unblinking eyes. The lawyertouched his hair knot, turned his signet ring three times. He was losing weight through worry. The ring turned more easily than it used to.
'I'm getting whispers, nothing solid,' he said. 'The word is that Ava's not going to roll over, then she's thinking about it, or she's changed her mind
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