To Snatch a Thief

CHAPTER THIRTEEN



Skye woke with a start, her skin damp with sweat; the mood of the dream leaving her shaky, muddled. She ordered light, needing to prove she was there in her room, in the present; that, by some terrible twist of fate, she hadn’t been beamed back to the past.

Calmer, she pressed the palm of a hand to her eyes and drew a deep breath. Too rattled to stay in bed she threw back the covers, swung her legs to the floor then stood carefully, shivering in the dark.

Wrapping herself in a dressing gown, she walked barefoot to the window, disengaged the shield and looked over the rooftops to the city. She’d been twelve years old in the dream, clinging terrified and helpless as her father coughed his life away, begging him not to leave them alone. He’d left anyway, and she learned a lesson. Never rely on anyone but yourself. Survive or die, it was down to you. So she’d taken control of her life, and sworn never to be that helpless girl again.

She stood, deep in thought, until she heard Lexie stir in the room across the hall. They’d never had much, she reflected, she hadn’t been greedy - just enough to get by, but she’d kept them together. And then Hunter had chosen her and turned her world on its head once again. She was going to be a snatcher and already had her own case to solve.

Would she let that text threat beat her? she wondered. Surely Willow deserved better than that. No, she decided, her mind made up. I’ll be damned if I’ll give up now.

As lunch-time approached the incident room emptied: some leaving-do in Forensics had claimed half the building, but as Skye didn’t know the person involved, she hadn’t been included.

Her shift ended in half an hour anyway – she’d the whole afternoon off. In the meantime… With a quick glance towards the door, she opened Corporal Blake’s notes once again. The flags on Jonathan Powter’s file jumped out at her. Well hell. She’d been so engrossed with Willow, she hadn’t given him much thought. Bring me something more than imagination, Hunter had said. Okay. Watch me.

Blake had interviewed his workmates twice… She was going to find out why. Blocking visual she punched numbers into her klip.

‘Good morning. This is Royalty Trading. How can I help you?’

She took three, deep steadying breaths. ‘I’d like to speak with Robyn McCourt in Nutritional Science.’

‘Certainly. Who shall I say is calling?’

This was the tricky part. ‘Um, he doesn’t know me personally, but we have a mutual friend.’

‘Please wait while I see if he’s free.’

She drummed her fingers on the desk, bouncing in her seat much like Violet had. The receptionist was taking forever. At last a male voice answered. ‘Hi. Rob speaking.’

‘Hi. Look, you don’t know me, but I was wondering if we could meet somewhere to talk about Jonathan – Jonathan Powter.’

‘Jon’s dead. Are you a reporter?’

‘No. Look, it’s complicated. If we could arrange a place… meet for lunch or something, I’ll explain. You choose the place. Please. It is important.’

The silence on the other end went on so long she was tempted to engage visual to see if he’d disconnected, but finally he said, ‘Okay. Why not? But if you turn out to be a journalist, I’ll sue the crap out of your paper. Jon’s family have been through enough. There’s a wine bar not far from here, Cassagrain. I’ll meet you there in an hour.’

Filled with office types in collars and ties, the wine bar, with its potted palms and secluded alcoves, was more up-market than she was used to. She bought a coke at the bar and perched on a shiny black stool at a glass-topped table in a quiet corner where she could watch the door. Experimentally, she tapped the tracker under her skin. One, two, testing. Skye smiled, feeling sure Hunter would be safely scoffing canapés at the party.

She tagged Robyn, from his ID shot in the file, as soon as he walked in: short, kind of geeky, with round owlish eyes and a mop of mousey hair. Raising a hand she waved him over. ‘Hi. Thanks for coming.’

He didn’t order a drink. He didn’t sit down. ‘Who are you? What’s this about?’

‘My name’s Skye Forrester. I’m not a snatcher, not yet, but I’m training to be one. I’m studying cold cases. Jonathan’s just one of them.’ She showed him her cadet ID card.

Robyn drew out a stool, slid in beside her. ‘I’ve been interviewed about Jon twice,’ he said. ‘What else is there to say? He was a good bloke, now he’s gone.’ Picking up a beer mat, he spun it between his fingers, studying the movement. ‘He was a good mate.’

‘Did you go around together outside work?’

Robyn shook his head. ‘We used to. He and Susie’d make up a foursome with me and my girlfriend. But towards the end we stopped. Just saw each other at work.’

‘Why was that?’ She watched him run a hand through his floppy hair and take a nervous glance around.

‘Jon started getting some weird ideas. He’d always banged on about saving this, that and the other. Joined every green group on the planet; went on every protest rally, and to begin with it was funny – just Jon being Jon. But then he changed.’

Pushing her coke to one side, Skye leant forward. ‘In what way?’

‘He got weirder.’ Robyn lowered his voice as a couple took the table next to them. ‘He stopped coming out with us; wouldn’t tell us where he went, or what he was doing. Just kept saying he’d joined a group who had the answer to the world’s problems. He even blocked Susie out; wouldn’t tell us anything except they were going to save the planet. Um, could I have a sip of that?’

When she passed him her coke, he drained the glass. ‘Thanks. Talking about this brings it all back.’ Staring into the empty glass, he ran his fingers around the rim. After a couple of minutes he looked up and started talking again. ‘Jon started working late, disappeared for days at a time,’ he explained. ‘When I asked him where he’d been he got all defensive and said he was into something bigger than all of us.’

‘And you don’t know who this group were? Who he was involved with?’

Now Robyn flicked his eyes to the door. ‘No, and I didn’t want to. Frankly he scared the shit out of me. Some of those fringe groups are bad, bad news.’

‘Okay. One other thing. Did he ever mention a girl? Willow Frobisher. She was found drowned around the same time as Jonathan.’

‘Bloody hell! No, he and Susie were tight.’ Resting his elbows on the table, he put his head in his hands. ‘I can’t stop thinking I should have listened to him. Maybe I could have…’ Rob closed his eyes, let out a long, slow breath. ‘A couple of nights before he died, he arrived at my flat unexpected. I thought he was zoned: crying, ranting, jumpy. Kept saying his ideals didn’t live up to the reality or some such shit. I pushed him out, told him to go home and sleep it off. He was in trouble wasn’t he? Scared for real.’

Skye nodded. ‘Yeah, I think he was.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a group come into the bar. Everything about them smelt like money, lots of it. The minute they pushed open the door, a waiter, looking like a King penguin on uppers, rushed over, then guided them to a table.

There were two men and a woman: both men wore grey business suits. The younger stared around the room with the slightly bored look of the upper crust, horse-faced, salon tan, not a blond hair out of place. Skye was surprised to recognise his companion as Dr Cahill. It had never really struck her before that he might have a life outside the sordid surroundings of Ivy Street Charity Clinic, even though as a child she’d heard the talk that he came from money. But, for the moment, the woman interested her most - a sophisticated brunette in a pencil thin, navy skirt with matching jacket and to-die-for black, stiletto-heeled knee boots. As she passed their table she smoothed a hand over the perfect twist of glossy hair at the nape of her neck. Skye sighed, feeling daggy and plain. As if she felt Skye staring, the woman’s languid eyes flicked over her, hesitating a second before she swept them away. She took her seat with the others, leaving a trail of perfume behind.

Skye grabbed Robyn’s arm. Of course! She was older, but nobody could forget that face. ‘Hey, isn’t that Narelle Keating? Fancy her being in here.’

‘You don’t know?’ Robyn huffed out a laugh which didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I thought everyone did. The other two are Professor Webber and Dr Cahill; they’re all on the Board of Royalty Trading. I suppose you could call this their local. In effect they’re my bosses.’

Something in the way he’d spoken made her ask. ‘You don’t like them?’

He frowned, staring down at the glass again. ‘Dr Cahill’s okay. Don’t have much to do with the others – a lowly technician like me doesn’t rate their lofty attention.’

She looked over again. Narelle was leaning towards the men, her lips moving as she spoke. As if her words had aroused their interest they both turned, just for a brief moment, to scan Skye and her companion before turning back. Their faces showed nothing but a mild curiosity.

‘It’ll be your uniform.’ Rob suggested, in response to Skye’s frown. ‘It’s not quite what they’re used to in here.’

‘Yeah, that figures.’ She’d got all she could out of Rob for the moment, but he’d given her food for thought. Willow didn’t sound the sort to join some crazy cult, but it was worth checking out. ‘Thanks,’ Skye said. ‘For talking to me.’

‘I’ve got to get back to work.’ He pushed up from the table. ‘Let me know if you find anything …It’s like… I feel I’ve let Jon down.’ He started to walk away, hesitated. ‘Anything at all, okay? Just give me a call.’

‘Skye. Hello again. We seem to keep bumping into each other lately.’ Dr Cahill stood at her elbow. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt while your friend was with you.’ His gaze skimmed over her. ‘My colleagues and I were intrigued by your uniform. We couldn’t quite place it, so I decided to come over and quiz you.’

‘Oh. Um, it’s kind of unique,’ Skye said, faintly embarrassed. ‘It’s a new scheme. I’m a trainee cadet. I’m going to be a snatcher.’ Over the doctor’s shoulder she noticed Narelle drumming her fingers on the table.

‘Goodness. I’m impressed; how interesting.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘And well done you. Do you work out of HQ? That must be very exciting.’

‘Yes, under Lieutenant Hunter.’ She lifted one shoulder, grinned. ‘He got lumbered with me.’

‘I know him. He’s a good man.’ The mild eyes turned thoughtful. ‘But I wonder what my female colleague over there will feel about the Lieutenant having such a pretty girl placed under his nose.’

Skye snorted. ‘Why? I wouldn’t think she’d lose any sleep over me.’

‘Why indeed.’ Although he smiled, Dr. Cahill’s expression remained troubled. ‘The Keating family and mine have been friends for two generations,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’ve known Narelle all her life. In fact she is one of my clinic’s major sponsors. Her donations have enabled us to improve the quality of care we offer beyond my wildest dreams. However,’ and here, he sighed. ‘I’m not blind to her flaws. Narelle can be staunch friend, but she’s possessive of those friendships. I wouldn’t want her as my enemy. Watch your step where she’s concerned, Skye. And now…’ He winked before turning away. ‘I’m starving, so I’ll leave you in peace and go and enjoy, a very rare, extended lunch.’

Alone at the table, Skye scrubbed her hands over her face; told herself to put this new concern aside for now, and focus on her immediate problem. Blowing out a breath that lifted the hair from her forehead, she used her klip to access Willow’s file from her home computer, programming her last known digs into its satnav. She stared at the directions for a minute before coming to a decision. Okay, I’ll do it, and to hell with threats.

The building was decrepit enough to have graffiti sprawled on its walls and security bars on the windows, but someone had bothered to put a fresh coat of black paint on the door leading to Willow’s second floor flop. Built over a bookie and a take-away chippie, and with a dubious pub on the corner, Skye decided she’d lived in worse places. Just now all three businesses were busy.

Ignoring the cat calls from a gang of yobos leaning against the wall outside the bookie, she chose the chippie first. She stepped around three young boys who were scrabbling for chips spilled from a drunk’s dinner as he staggered back to the pub, and opened the door. From the smell that immediately hit her, she’d bet the oil in the fryer hadn’t been changed for a month. A hot fug of greasy steam had condensation running down the yellow painted walls and narrow shop window. Six plastic chairs, all occupied, were lined up in a row like a doctor’s waiting room. With a shrug Skye ordered a bag of chips - food was food after all, and she’d missed lunch - and stood back from the counter to wait.

‘My friend lives up there,’ she mentioned to the sweating woman in a greasy hairnet, currently throwing fish, scooped from the end of a dripping conveyor belt, into a stack of go-foil containers. Skye jerked a thumb to the ceiling. ‘She said your chips were the best.’

The woman ran a damp arm over her crimson forehead. There was dried batter on her apron and splashes on her cheek. When she turned to slap more fish on the conveyor belt, Skye saw her blouse was plastered to her back. Skye watched the yellow shapes, which she doubted had ever swum in the sea, slide under the black oil on their five minute journey to cooked perfection. ‘Yeah?’ The woman shrugged. ‘Takes all sorts. You want sodium?’

She spoke to the woman sitting on the nearest chair then, without waiting for an answer, threw a handful of small packets on top of the fish. ‘Cash or scan?’

‘Cash.’ The woman stood. ‘Ta, see ya.’

Yanking out a bubbling wire basket to drain, she yelled over her shoulder to the next customer. ‘Battered sav ‘n chips up! Cash or scan?’

‘Been banging on my friend’s door, but there’s no answer,’ Skye said, conversationally. ‘Do you know if anyone’s in upstairs? She’s blonde, attracts the blokes. Name’s Willow.’

‘Wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t tell you if I did. You look like the fuzz.’

‘Me? God, no. I don’t talk to them either. Picked this gear up in New Carnaby Street. Actually, I’m fresh out of Juvie – four months for nicking.’

‘Well, don’t nick anything in here. Two crab sticks and a coke up!’

With some amusement, Skye watched a couple more transactions. Micro-chip scans, she noticed, were processed in the legitimate way – had to be - there was no getting around it, but every second cash payment went straight in the server’s pocket.

‘Chips up! Cash or scan?’

Skye stepped forward. ‘Cash. Thanks.’ The woman shovelled drooping chips into a cardboard bucket. ‘That’s a good racket you got going,’ Skye smiled as the woman’s eyes went on alert. ‘All that black money. No way the tax man’s gonna know exactly what you take. Solar.’

‘Wot’s it to you? You can’t prove I don’t declare it. The till drawer’s full, that’s all.’

Skye plucked a chip from the bucket, threw it in her mouth. ‘Absolutely. Mmm, they’re good. Has my friend been in lately? With me doing time, we’ve lost touch.’

‘Look, I want you out. I’ve a queue waiting. I haven’t seen her in months, okay? Fly by night that’s what she was. Talk to Joanie, they went around together a bit.’

‘Where can I find her?’

‘This time of day? She’ll be sleeping, but soon as it gets dark she’ll be down at the Palace. That’s when the punters come out, that’s where the deals go down.’

‘What does she look like?’

Now the woman grimaced, sighed, tipped the cooling chip basket and its contents back into the burnt oil. ‘Skinny, pale, like she’s not long for this world, dresses in white, shaved head. You can’t miss her. That’s all I got for you, now buzz off. Next!’

There you go boys.’ On her way out Skye took pity on the starving waifs, handing them the whole bucket of chips.

She didn’t have to wait long. By three thirty it was dark. Back at the Palace, Skye stood at the ferry stop with other commuters, hands in her pockets, collar up, pretending to wait for a boat. The Palace itself stood, as it had for centuries, behind its railings, a black mass with a hundred lights showing behind its unshielded windows. In the busy floodlit despatch area, queues of trams lined up at the loading bays, while others sped off to destinations all over the city. Automatic food orders from private dispensers – same day guaranteed delivery, she remembered, for those that could pay. Outside Royalty’s grounds, in dark, shadowed corners on the edges of the floodlight glare, a sub-culture was doing equally brisk business.

Already, in the short time she’d been watching, Skye had witnessed several small packets slipped into pockets, money changing hands. Males and females of all ages, trolling the docks for partners, disappeared into waiting vehicles or back alleys to do private dealings of their own.

She saw Joanie appear like a ghost out of the shadows. Skye blinked. The fish woman hadn’t been kidding. Thin to the point of anorexic, gaunt, pale, hugging her cream, pretend leather coat around her as if chilled to the bone. Stick legs in white, skinny-fit jeans. Her bottle-grey hair shaved almost to the scalp was impossible to miss. Skye waited as Joanie stopped, briefly spoke to a hooded youth, and then as he loped off, stepped away from the landing stage to meet her. ‘Hi. I’ve been waiting to see you. My name’s Skye.’

‘What d’ya want?’ Haunted eyes narrowed to slits. Bloodless lips tightened. ‘I don’t know you. What’s your game?’

‘Just to talk. My ferry’s due in a minute. It won’t take long.’

‘You drug squad?’ Her hand shot protectively into her pocket.

‘No, I dress funny. I’m Willow Frobisher’s cousin.’

Joanie’s sunken eyes widened. ‘Never mentioned she had a cousin. But then, what’d I know?’

‘Look, I need to ask. Do you know what happened to her?’

Shivering, Joanie hugged herself tighter. ‘You sure you’re not a cop?’

‘Do I look like one?’ Skye fluffed at her hair which was flowing down her back like a demented mermaid’s.

‘Can’t say you do, and I’ve got a nose for them. Didn’t tell ‘em squat when they came nosing around before. You got a smoke?’

‘Sorry.’

Joanie’s hand, rings on every finger including her thumb, shook as she ran it over her scalp. She sniffed, running the back of her hand under her nose. ‘A cousin you say?’

‘Yeah. Do you know if Willow was seeing someone? Someone who might have hurt her?’

‘All I know is some black dude tried to rip her off – wouldn’t pay what he owed her, so she told him to stick it. Came down here looking for some action.’

Not quite Vincent’s story, but close enough. ‘Did she find it?’

‘Daft bitch reckoned she’d hooked some sugar daddy who was gonna supply her regular so she wouldn’t have to work to score.’ Joannie shook her head. ‘Wasn’t going to happen, but we all got dreams, right? Did he hurt her? I dunno, never saw him.’

‘This person. Did she say if he was mixed up in some sort of crazy club?’

‘Sex club?’

‘No, more like saving the world stuff.’

‘Willow?’ Joannie’s dry laugh turned into a hacking cough which wracked her frail body and had Skye instinctively moving back. Recovering, she smirked. ‘Look after number one that was Willow. Wouldn’t give you the scrapings off her shoe. Surprised you don’t know that, being her cousin.’ Suddenly, she looked scared. ‘You ‘aint though, are you? Who are you really?’ she demanded.

‘Somebody who wants to find out what happened to her.’

Joannie backed away. ‘I ‘aint talking to you no more. You didn’t see me, right? I wasn’t even here.’

By end of shift the following day, Skye was still alive. No report of her recent death from stomach churning means had reached the obituary column of the local paper and no further death threats had been sent to her klip. She hadn’t found a way to get to Technology without explaining the message and why it was there, but she had begun to recognise the patrol cars which seemed to dog their journeys to and from Maxine’s and/or school.

‘Hi, Demetri.’ As they reached the front door, she waved to the snatchers currently cruising by on the other side of the road. The driver had a round, creased face framed by thinning blond hair which he wore in a knot on the top of his head. A Maori tattoo over the whole of one cheek gave him a warrior look.

He slid his window down, leaned out as he passed; the cold air making his breath puff out like illegal cigarette smoke. His crooked-toothed smile lit up his face. ‘How’re you doing, Skye. Lexie?’

Despite the cold evening, a warm feeling spread through her. For the first time in a lot of years someone was looking out for them. Someone cared enough to send over-worked patrol officers to check they were safe. How strange, she mused, that it should be snatchers of all people who gave her a sense of family again, that sense of belonging. If a niggling doubt about the reasons behind that someone’s concern flitted around in the back of her head, she told herself it was Dawson’s ridiculous suggestion that had put it there.

‘Good. Thanks,’ she called, and waved again.

The patrol car rounded the corner and disappeared into the night.