THE GREATEST BETRAYAL: A romantic thriller with a shocking twist, page 12
‘And that’s now?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘With you. Yes.’ He sat down on the spot where it began to slope, drawing her down to sit alongside him. ‘The architect we used on the developments has also designed houses for wealthy clients. Great guy, just the right kind of mind to custom-design something based on our own ideas. We’ll go and introduce you. He’s got an office at Circular Quay, overlooking the harbour. Good for inspiration, he says.’ Raf laughed.
‘So, he doesn’t do things by halves?’ Liz said.
‘Oh no, not our Richard Santini.’ Raf snapped his fingers for effect. ‘He approaches everything like it’s his own personal Hollywood blockbuster.’
Liz’s eyes connected with Raf’s. ‘Sounds like someone else I know,’ she said.
They sat silently for a while, watching the boats on the river below, when Liz thought she heard a car and turned, looking back across the field to the road. There was a car, fading into the distance, rounding the bend in the road. A silver Corolla? From this distance, she couldn’t be certain.
Monica Leeman? Still loitering, stalking? Surely not.
She was going to comment to Raf, but she checked herself. No point in spoiling the moment, based on something she might or might not have seen correctly.
‘Let’s go and meet this Spielberg of a house-builder of yours,’ she said.
FORTY
Liz glanced about at the spacious suite of offices, the wall-length windows affording a glorious view of the harbour, of the Opera House with its famous sail-like structures, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the bustle of people around the foreshores and the ferry terminals.
Richard Santini’s receptionist could have stepped out of a glamour magazine, with her perfectly styled hair, high cheekbones, and Armani outfit. She beamed at them and took them through to the architect’s office, complete with its couches, spectacular view, and an area that displayed model designs and floor plans.
Raf and Santini clasped hands and embraced and there was some easy banter about the last time they’d met – but Liz was only half-listening. The opulence of the decor here, the Paris fashion-type attire, none of it put Liz at ease. Quite the opposite.
This wasn’t a world she’d initially felt was the Vetrani style. It certainly wasn’t the impression from the Saturday barbeques at Bruno’s home. Raf’s North Shore home, his Hawkesbury property, his gravitation to this higher end of town, wasn’t what she’d anticipated.
Her reverie was interrupted. ‘Liz?’ said Raf.
They’d motioned her over to a table where a floor plan was spread.
‘This is the design Richard has created, based on some of my ideas,’ Raf told Liz.
She cast her gaze over the plan.
‘What I want to do now, Liz,’ Santini said, ‘is to start incorporating some of your ideas.’
‘Ideas? Okay…’ She’d been caught up by Raf’s enthusiasm but now she realised she wasn’t really ready for this.
For a moment Liz’s mind was blank.
Then, she thought of the familiar old Fisherman’s Inlet home where her father had raised her. She felt the breeze on her face, felt the heat of the tropical sun at her grandparents’ Cairns property, and heard the chirp of the birds.
Her finger touched the sheet where the back patio, overlooking the river, was depicted. ‘This is great,’ she said, ‘but I’d like to see this extended all the way, a wrap-around veranda with colonial-style wooden posts and a fibreglass covering, garden beds incorporated into the design’ – her finger traced the paper – ‘and here, on the western side, a breezeway that leads to a walk-through aviary.’
‘Young lady,’ Santini said, ‘you missed your calling. You would have made a brilliant architect.’
Outside the building, as they headed for the car, Liz said, ‘What a day. I’m whacked.’
‘Let’s get home and crash,’ Raf said.
‘I need coffee. You can do your barista thing while I log on remotely. I want to check on a couple of things at the office.’
‘Workaholic.’
‘Look who’s talking.’
Half an hour later, Liz kicked off her shoes, changed into T-shirt and sweatpants, and phoned Sally, who brought her up to speed on the creative ideas their team was developing for one of their newest clients. Ending the call, Liz logged on to check her emails. She scrolled through the usual emails and questions from Sally and the freelance creative team they’d been using.
Then she saw the email from Monica Leeman.
You should have listened to me. You should have called the women on that list. You’ve made a big mistake, but there’s still time to walk away.
Her thoughts flashed on Monica’s mention of the list and she recalled the names Monica had attached to the previous email, weeks before. One name had stood out to Liz, but she’d dismissed the whole thing as Monica trying to create suspicion and chaos. Liz had put it out of her mind.
She was about to delete the email when she reconsidered. She should keep the email as evidence she was being harassed by her husband’s ex. She didn’t want to alert Raf. Not yet. And she didn’t want to have to call in the police. Not if she could avoid it. Not if she could convince Monica to leave her alone, to forget about Raf, to let it go. She created a folder and saved the email to it.
She was racing through the remaining emails when her smartphone buzzed. A text message. She checked the screen and saw it was from Monica.
It wasn’t hard to get hold of Liz’s number. Her agency’s website had the office address along with both the office landline and her smartphone so clients could always get in touch. Good for business. Not so good when you have an unwelcome nuisance like this.
Her pulse quickened as she opened the message.
Has he promised to build your dream home yet?
FORTY-ONE
The Indonesian detective was a small, lean man with intense eyes and a manner so dry it gave Mac the impression of disinterest.
‘Can you describe the men who detained and guarded you?’ the detective asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then we will have you sit with our identikit man. What about the house in which you were imprisoned? Could you locate it?’
‘Not sure,’ said Mac. ‘I never actually saw it from the outside. When I fled from there it was dark, I didn’t look back. I went out the front but slipped almost immediately into a side street.’
‘You say you were not far from an area of docklands. Could you identify the spot?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then we will drive you around the harbour, looking for signs you recognise. But first, the identikit. Let’s get started.’
Vickerson was with them when the police drove Mac along the streets that ringed the harbour. Mac’s description led the officers to a stretch outside the main commercial zone, where smaller fishing trawlers and cargo boats operated. The rundown boathouses and wharves along there were difficult to distinguish from one another. Mac couldn’t be sure of the exact location where he’d first reached the shoreline, but the general area seemed right.
They drove the streets that were set further back from the docks. Once again, these streets had a similar appearance; rows of small, dilapidated warehouses, factories interspersed with low-level residential houses and apartment blocks.
‘Anything familiar?’ asked the detective.
‘Nothing specific. No.’
‘Perhaps if we get out and walk some of these streets.’
They walked up and down several roads; there was an incline there, and Mac remembered he had run down a hilly road in the half-light of the dawn. There were dozens and dozens of houses that were pale imitations of one another.
‘We need to knock on every door and look inside,’ Mac said.
‘That would take weeks and a great deal of manpower,’ the detective said. ‘And permission.’
‘I don’t have any other way of finding the right house.’
‘Can you launch a comprehensive search?’ Vickerson asked the Indonesian.
‘That remains to be seen,’ replied the detective. ‘However, we will, of course, make enquiries of known identities in this general area.’
Mac was frustrated. He wished he could be of greater help, but apart from the identikit pics, which were fairly accurate, he’d been of no real assistance.
Back in the motel room Vickerson had rented, Mac asked, ‘What did you make of the detective? He seemed… distracted.’
‘These guys are inundated with cases.’
‘We spent half a day with him and I didn’t get a read on him at all.’
‘He’s not as excitable as some.’
Mac ran his hand through his hair. It had grown much longer than usual. ‘What was your take?’
‘I don’t think he believed you,’ Vickerson said.
‘What? Why?’
‘Look at it from a harried, overworked detective’s viewpoint. You say you were arrested by POLRI, and it wasn’t them. That means a group impersonating both local authorities and embassy diplomats. There’s no evidence. There’s certainly no apparent motive. You can’t locate the place you were held. There’s nothing to suggest to them a crime has actually taken place.’
‘Other than my word?’
‘Other than the word of an Australian, who came here because he received a text from a former lover, who also happens to be a suspected rebel.’
‘So, what do they think? That I’m delusional?’
‘Who knows what they think? Maybe.’
‘Then how do we convince the cops this is for real?’
‘We keep working at it,’ Vickerson said. ‘But I suspect if you want answers, you and I are going to be the ones doing the heavy lifting.’
‘I’ll knock on every door myself and ask the occupants if I can look inside.’
‘Waste of time, Mac.’ Vickerson fixed a couple of Scotches and gave one to Mac. ‘For the nerves. Try to relax a little, okay?’
Mac took the glass. ‘Why is it a waste of time?’ He took a sip and the cold spirit tasted good.
‘Most of the doors would be slammed in your face. Suspicion of a foreigner at the door. Some of those homeowners will have secrets of their own. And besides, whoever did this went to a lot of trouble and expense. They won’t have left the interior of the house looking the same.’
‘They’ll have renovated?’
Vickerson pulled up a seat, took a mouthful of the amber liquid and savoured it. ‘Exactly.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘I’m going to reach out to some of my contacts here, in real estate and local government,’ Vickerson said. ‘We’re looking for any properties in this district that were purchased or rented out in the past twelve months. Someone has planned this in advance, and one of the resources they needed was a suitable house.’
‘Okay.’ Mac wrung his hands and looked closely at Vickerson. ‘Why are you helping me like this?’ he said.
‘Like I said, I believe you. Something very screwy is going on. What’s more, this is one hell of a news story, and just so we’re clear, I intend to report it. So, if you want me out of the picture, Mac, just say so. Your call.’
Mac didn’t respond straight away. He drank the Scotch. Conflicting thoughts ricocheted through his mind. He didn’t like Vickerson. Didn’t trust him. At the same time, Vickerson had extensive Indonesian contacts.
He put the glass down on the adjacent coffee table. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. ‘Seems I’m going to need all the help I can get,’ he said.
FORTY-TWO
Mac woke and glanced at the bedside clock. 4 p.m.
Vickerson had rented a two-bedroom hotel room for a couple of days. He’d pointed out that, in addition to communicating with police, Mac needed plenty of rest. Mac had initially wanted to jump on the phone to Liz, Martin, and TPA but Vickerson had cautioned against that.
‘You need to have a clear head,’ Vickerson had said. ‘At the moment you’re exhausted, you’re rambling, you’re all over the place. And we don’t know what’s happening back home where you’re concerned. It will be a shock to everyone to hear from you suddenly, so let me ease the way, let me make the first calls.’
Mac hadn’t agreed. He wanted to make the calls. Sure, he needed some rest first, but hadn’t expected being dead to the world the rest of that evening, the whole night and most of the next day. He padded out into the living area, groggy and lethargic.
Vickerson had set himself up at the dining table. He was on his phone, talking, facing his laptop, surrounded by notepads and papers. Mac went through to the kitchen, made a coffee and once he joined Vickerson at the table the reporter was off the phone.
‘You described the place you were held,’ Vickerson said, ‘as having a large, paved walled-in garden at the back. Bars on your bedroom window facing onto that garden…’
‘Yes.’
‘A large house with a modern kitchen and tiled floor in the dining area, freshly painted walls, otherwise older-style but most of the rooms closed off to you.’
‘And with a couple of guards at all times,’ Mac said, ‘one of them always positioned at or near the front entrance.’
‘Your interior and garden descriptions don’t fit with the rundown conditions in that part of the town.’ Vickerson was tapping away at the keyboard as he spoke. ‘I was making contact all morning with local builders, landscapers, and renovators. One of those landscapers has a record of paving a courtyard and building a stone wall at a house near the docks there, just over six months ago–’
Mac felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, sweeping away his lethargy. ‘That has to be it.’
‘I was able to get an address from the landscaper,’ Vickerson said, ‘and it was a simple search with local government to identify the sales history of the house.’ He drew away from the laptop screen, his attention now on Mac. ‘It was purchased three years ago by a company called C-Max Imports, and was sold just a few weeks ago to a local investor who plans to lease the property.’
Mac leaned forward. ‘We need to get over there.’
‘And as soon as I’ve been able to contact the investor, I’ll arrange for us to go to the house posing as potential clients.’
‘In the meantime–’
Vickerson cut across him. ‘In the meantime, you need food.’
Mac didn’t think he would settle that night but once again he fell into a deep sleep, this time being woken by Vickerson at 9 a.m.
‘We’ve got an appointment this morning to look at that house.’
On the taxi ride down to the old docks area, Vickerson turned to Mac. ‘When we get back to the hotel, once the time zone for Sydney is right, I’ll make those advance calls so friends and TPA know you’re coming.’
Mac shrugged. ‘Did you find out anything about C-Max Imports?’ he asked Vickerson.
‘Shell company, no records of any actual business being conducted, set up by an Indonesian named Johnny Makawi who has his finger in a few pies.’
‘What else have you discovered about this Makawi?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He doesn’t actually exist,’ Vickerson said.
FORTY-THREE
‘Thank you for coming in,’ the psychologist said to Mac as she ushered him into a room at the police station. ‘The detective inspector is concerned about the psychological impact of your ordeal. I think it is a good idea for the two of us to have a chat. I hope you’re okay with that.’
‘Sure.’
The detective had contacted Mac while he and Vickerson were on their way back from the house Vickerson had located. The house didn’t look the same as when Mac had been there, it had been completely renovated. The detective had asked them to drop by the station and it was there he’d asked Mac to have the counselling session.
‘I don’t need counselling,’ Mac had said in protest.
‘We always advise at least one session when someone has been the victim of a crime like this,’ the detective inspector said.
‘Can’t hurt, Mac,’ Vickerson had said, ‘and while you’re doing that, I’ll bring the inspector up to speed on what we’ve learned about the house.’
The psychologist was a calming personality, as Mac would’ve expected, and she spoke with both compassion and authority.
‘Let me start by asking you if there are any periods of time over the past several months for which you can’t account; for which you have no memory?’
‘No.’
‘No missing days or even just hours, for example?’
‘None. Why would you think that?’
‘We simply want to eliminate any possibility the trauma has affected your memory or your perception of what’s been happening. Memory loss is not uncommon in situations like this.’
‘I didn’t imagine being locked up for over four months. And the reporter, Carl Vickerson, has tracked down the house where I was held.’
The woman smiled encouragingly. ‘That is good. The team will follow through on that. Now, having been held for such a long period of time, the mind can play tricks, particularly if you were unknowingly fed drugs.’
‘I was tested for traces of that when I came in before.’
‘And the inspector will have those results in hand very soon, however, casting your mind back, do you recall any instances where you could have had your perceptions distorted by–’
Mac leaned forward, his voice raised, his eyes burning with frustration. ‘What are you implying here? That I imagined all this?’
‘Nothing,’ the psychologist assured him. ‘Please, Mac, just relax, take a moment. I’m here to help you, and to make certain the inspector and his team can investigate this to the best of everyone’s ability. Part of that is ensuring, after this traumatic ordeal, you’re in the best mental state to assist.’
‘And I am,’ Mac said. ‘Apart from the fact my abductors misled me into believing they were both Indonesian and Australian officials, my memory and my perceptions are one hundred percent crystal clear on everything. I understand there’s no motive for any of this, and I have no hard evidence at this point to back any of it up, but it’s real, and I need to be taken seriously.’
