cooperation,” she said.
They rang off.
Romano flicked her lit cigarette over the balcony into the greenery below.
The radio crackled. Denny. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Send Rosie home. Tell her not to leave the island. I’ll swing by her place tomorrow.” Romano walked as she spoke. She went back to the bed and looked at the carnage. “Denny, do we have an evidence kit back at the station?”
He replied much as she expected.
He said he didn’t know.
A man from Arthurton came at dusk and took the bodies. He was a big guy with thick unkempt hair and a beard. He handed over his card and assured her that they’d be on the mainland by tomorrow afternoon. “The lab reports probably won’t be more than a fortnight or so. It’s been quiet lately,” he said. He stood over the bodies and added, “They’re young aren’t they?”
Romano spent the rest of her time in the suite swabbing, printing, and writing. She bagged what looked like soil and sand around the bed, found hair and fragments of adhesive tape in the carpet, blood every which way. The couple had a giant oversized suitcase in the bedroom. Romano dragged it out, gently packed their belongings, checking each garment.
That was how the car keys turned up.
The car was down in the hotel’s spiralling basement. A black Jaguar sedan. Romano noted the plates and popped the hood, taking the VIN off the engine. A search of the inside of the car revealed a street directory and rubbish. The windows had a film of dust on them. It had been parked for a couple of weeks, at least. To finish, she popped the trunk: empty. Out of instinct, or dumb tired luck, she padded around in the trunk’s lining and found a bump. Under the carpet lay something wrapped in a tea towel. She took it out into the light and opened it.
A handgun.
“You almost done for the day?”
The voice rang out in the concrete. Romano scanned around.
Down further, Barry Nash stood by a dark green Range Rover. He had a suitcase in his hand. When she didn’t answer, he started towards her. Romano covered the gun over and placed it on the hood of the car.
“You almost done?” he repeated.
“I couldn’t say.”
He nodded to himself. “I see you found his ride. We can tow that for you tomorrow, if you like.”
“As far as I can see, you’re going to do what you’re going to do, irrelevant of what I want.”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I don’t know if I will, Barry.”
“Everybody does, Constable. Everybody does,” he said. He waited a beat, then kept moving. When he was further down in the car park, he called back to her, his voice trailing off with a booming echo. “We all live on the same island, you know.”
That was enough for Romano. She called a cab. Denny was long gone. Back in her house, she poured herself a drink, lit herself a smoke, and fell asleep at the kitchen table.
12
Saturday, September 4 to Sunday, September 5, 2004
R omano ran the licence plates of the car in the Gold Point basement. The system came back with a name: Ron Bachelard. She found the rest online. Senator Ron Bachelard, member for the National Party of Australia, born in Brisbane in ’31, a fossil, the father. Ron was married to Donna Bachelard. Ron and Donna had two sons: Brian and Thomas. She searched for photographs. Brian was the oldest. He worked for the State Government and had his father’s disagreeable nose and mouth. The other one, Thomas, was younger and good-looking. He was her guy. He was victim number one.
Romano found a number for the Bachelards and called. She reached some sort of assistant.
“I need to speak to the senator or”—Romano checked her notes—“Donna Bachelard about a police matter. It’s personal. It concerns their son Thomas.”
The assistant wouldn’t budge. “You need to be more specific.”
Romano tossed it up and decided the protocol was already fucked. “I suspect Thomas has passed. I need someone from the family to identify the
They rang off.
Romano flicked her lit cigarette over the balcony into the greenery below.
The radio crackled. Denny. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Send Rosie home. Tell her not to leave the island. I’ll swing by her place tomorrow.” Romano walked as she spoke. She went back to the bed and looked at the carnage. “Denny, do we have an evidence kit back at the station?”
He replied much as she expected.
He said he didn’t know.
A man from Arthurton came at dusk and took the bodies. He was a big guy with thick unkempt hair and a beard. He handed over his card and assured her that they’d be on the mainland by tomorrow afternoon. “The lab reports probably won’t be more than a fortnight or so. It’s been quiet lately,” he said. He stood over the bodies and added, “They’re young aren’t they?”
Romano spent the rest of her time in the suite swabbing, printing, and writing. She bagged what looked like soil and sand around the bed, found hair and fragments of adhesive tape in the carpet, blood every which way. The couple had a giant oversized suitcase in the bedroom. Romano dragged it out, gently packed their belongings, checking each garment.
That was how the car keys turned up.
The car was down in the hotel’s spiralling basement. A black Jaguar sedan. Romano noted the plates and popped the hood, taking the VIN off the engine. A search of the inside of the car revealed a street directory and rubbish. The windows had a film of dust on them. It had been parked for a couple of weeks, at least. To finish, she popped the trunk: empty. Out of instinct, or dumb tired luck, she padded around in the trunk’s lining and found a bump. Under the carpet lay something wrapped in a tea towel. She took it out into the light and opened it.
A handgun.
“You almost done for the day?”
The voice rang out in the concrete. Romano scanned around.
Down further, Barry Nash stood by a dark green Range Rover. He had a suitcase in his hand. When she didn’t answer, he started towards her. Romano covered the gun over and placed it on the hood of the car.
“You almost done?” he repeated.
“I couldn’t say.”
He nodded to himself. “I see you found his ride. We can tow that for you tomorrow, if you like.”
“As far as I can see, you’re going to do what you’re going to do, irrelevant of what I want.”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I don’t know if I will, Barry.”
“Everybody does, Constable. Everybody does,” he said. He waited a beat, then kept moving. When he was further down in the car park, he called back to her, his voice trailing off with a booming echo. “We all live on the same island, you know.”
That was enough for Romano. She called a cab. Denny was long gone. Back in her house, she poured herself a drink, lit herself a smoke, and fell asleep at the kitchen table.
12
Saturday, September 4 to Sunday, September 5, 2004
R omano ran the licence plates of the car in the Gold Point basement. The system came back with a name: Ron Bachelard. She found the rest online. Senator Ron Bachelard, member for the National Party of Australia, born in Brisbane in ’31, a fossil, the father. Ron was married to Donna Bachelard. Ron and Donna had two sons: Brian and Thomas. She searched for photographs. Brian was the oldest. He worked for the State Government and had his father’s disagreeable nose and mouth. The other one, Thomas, was younger and good-looking. He was her guy. He was victim number one.
Romano found a number for the Bachelards and called. She reached some sort of assistant.
“I need to speak to the senator or”—Romano checked her notes—“Donna Bachelard about a police matter. It’s personal. It concerns their son Thomas.”
The assistant wouldn’t budge. “You need to be more specific.”
Romano tossed it up and decided the protocol was already fucked. “I suspect Thomas has passed. I need someone from the family to identify the
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