Vanished James Delargy (digital book reader .txt) 📖

they had barged in and shat on his Sunday lunch.

She left it to Rispoli to explain that they were not investigating anything he might have done wrong. It didn’t ease the dealer’s suspicions.

‘We’re looking for anyone new who might have been here in the last few months. Maybe a one-off. Probably selling a sizeable amount,’ said Emmaline.

The dealer kept his eyes on them as he unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out a notebook.

‘No computer?’ asked Rispoli.

‘I’m hardly the bloody Mint, am I?’

‘Mind if we take a look?’ asked Emmaline.

‘If you think you can read it,’ said the dealer, grinning as he handed the notebook over. It was lined with figures and squiggles that were impossible to read never mind decipher.

She passed it back. The dealer ran his finger down the page. Then flipped back one. Then another, his digit scanning as if reading Braille.

He tapped the page. ‘Here,’ he said, flipping it round to show them. ‘Fifteenth of December. One point five eleven troy.’

‘Troy?’

‘Troy ounces,’ said the dealer with a haughtiness of knowledge. ‘From fifteenth century England. It differs from the standard avoirdupois ounce—’

Emmaline cut him off. ‘In terms we understand, please.’ The ‘please’ grated on her tongue.

‘It means forty-seven grams of twenty-one carat gold. Dust and small nuggets. I paid out two thousand. Made over seven hundred on the deal.’

Emmaline pointed at a symbol scrawled in the side panel. She knew what it looked like but wondered why it was there.

The dealer sneered. ‘It’s a cock, surely you’ve seen one before?’

Rispoli stepped forward as if to defend her, but she put her hand up.

‘Is that something you have to clarify to many women?’ said Emmaline, arrowing her head towards his crotch. ‘Misshapen or just tiny?’

The dealer sneered at her.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Rispoli.

‘It means that they were cocky.’

‘In what way?’

‘See the blank space before the WA on the page? West Australia was all he gave when I asked him where the gold came from.’

‘And you didn’t push it?’

‘Not for seven hundred bucks.’

‘Does that happen much?’

‘Occasionally. Some people are secretive. Some have rings or heirlooms to sell. I don’t want their life story.’

‘Name?’ asked Emmaline.

The dealer looked closely at the page. ‘Ian King. He provided an ID.’

Rispoli started to work through his notepad for matches as Emmaline asked for a description.

‘Tall, bearded. Wore a beanie hat that covered his hair.’

‘In this heat?’

‘I trade gold, not fashion advice.’

‘Here!’ said Rispoli, holding out his notepad to her. ‘The name Ian King has come up before. Twice at other buyers. Selling significant amounts.’

Returning to the car they asked Zhao to run the name through the system. As they waited for a response, they got in touch with Barker and Anand for an update.

‘Have you come across any deals made by an Ian King?’ asked Rispoli.

There was a rustle of pages across the line before Barker responded. ‘Yeah. One off Hoffmann, two near Remington. Decent amounts according to the dealers.’

‘Did you get a description?’

‘Tall with a beard.’

‘And a beanie?’

‘You got it.’

‘Thanks,’ said Emmaline. ‘Keep on it.’

‘Will do,’ said Anand, from the background as Barker rung off.

‘It’s as if he was going from dealer to dealer to stay somewhat anonymous,’ said Emmaline.

‘Or looking for the best price.’

Zhao called. ‘Ian King doesn’t match with anything we have.’

‘Shit,’ said Emmaline.

‘But there was an Ian Kinch who did a couple of stints for theft, including minor assault.’

‘And how do they link?’

‘Ian Kinch is a Queensland native. Born in Cairns. Did time in Capricornia Correctional Centre in Rockhampton. Mainly petty stuff but the assault he got done for took place around Miles. The Surat Basin.’

‘In the same area where Mike Andrews and Stevie Amaranga worked for Skyline,’ said Emmaline.

‘Exactly,’ said Zhao.

‘Do we have a photo and a description?’

Before she finished the sentence there was a ping on her phone. A photo and description of Ian Kinch. In the picture there was no beard. His face was striking, angled and chiselled, his blue eyes piercing even in the police photo, his jaw held firm, unamused but certainly not scared. A solid nine. Six-one and a hundred and seventy pounds. Without a beanie his brown hair was tousled perfectly, as if it had been styled for the mugshot.

It wasn’t conclusive proof that Ian Kinch was working with Mike Andrews and Stevie Amaranga but considering that gold was being traded without Mike’s and Stevie’s presence it meant there had to be a third party. And Ian Kinch fitted that bill. He was the face and the muscle. They were the brains.

73

Mike Andrews

It was a bagful of crocodile shit idea. The problem was he didn’t have an alternative. Ian was still convinced that they should try and live alongside the family. Mike stuck by his remark that they were parasites. Lorcan begging for money had proved that. It would only get worse now the house had collapsed. If he found out the true amount they were bringing in then he would demand a piece of the action. And they had worked hard for it. They were the ones who stole and studied the readings, who came all the way out here, who put their savings into buying the machines, who dug out two tunnels before this one, who camped down them. They were the ones putting themselves at risk from the law. Or the collapse of a hundred-year-old tunnel. Lorcan had taken no risks.

‘Aside from poking his nose in our business,’ said Stevie, as they gulped down water, wishing it was beer.

‘A poked nose can soon be bloodied,’ said Mike, allowing the undercurrent of menace to drift freely in the afternoon air, the penknife blade worked under his nails.

‘We don’t antagonize them,’ said Ian.

‘But they can antagonize us?’

‘They’re loose cannons,’ said Stevie.

‘Parasites and loose cannons. Nothing about this is good for us. If I had wanted a screaming, bawling family tagging along…’

‘We can use them as cover if we need to,’ said Ian.

‘Why?’ said Mike, instantly suspicious. ‘What are you expecting?’

‘Everything,’ said Ian. ‘I’ve been inside.