Vanished, James Delargy [i like reading books txt] 📗

adjusted, gloves pulled tight to fists. Breathing controlled. Waiting. After what seemed like an age the order was given. The three vans sped into the industrial park, down a double row of small garages and skidded to a halt outside one with a red door and ‘41’ graffitied on the front.

The forward team stalked up to the shutters before assuming defensive positions. Two members of the second team sprinted up to the lock with a drill, spearing through it in seconds. They then retreated and the officers poised at either side raised the door with a horrific, grinding squeak.

A call went up for those inside to come out with their hands up.

Emmaline peered into the darkness, looking for movement, looking for the barrel of a rifle to appear. Maybe even Naiyana’s dead body sprawled on the floor.

But there was nothing, no movement aside from the newly disturbed dust. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she could see that the garage was filled with scrap, old bikes and furniture, paint cans and general bric-a-brac. She watched as armed officers combed the inside but it was obvious no one was here.

After merely twenty seconds the cry of ‘All clear’ erupted. Emmaline and Oily joined Inspector Liang in entering. Her first impression was that the garage definitely hadn’t been lived in, the air musty with inaction and lacking telltale remnants of scant meals or improvised sleeping arrangements. The floor and shelves were full of scrap she guessed was too busted for even Ian Kinch to fence. The only things of worth were stacked neatly in the corner. A pair of kayaks. Emmaline ran her hand across the fibreglass. A thin layer of dust but no scratches, suggesting they were prized possessions. Keeping them in the garage was probably more of a necessity than a desire, being too large to store in his small apartment. Behind the kayaks were a set of paddles and some rubber equipment she assumed was kayak related. This included a pair of helmets plastered with stickers. The same stickers covered the sides of the kayaks. For an adventure place in Cape Tribulation. A couple of hours’ drive up the coast. A place she had only seen on television. A rainforest that backed onto beaches overlooked by the wonderfully named Mount Sorrow. It seemed the appropriate place for desperate runaways to flee to.

126

Emmaline

Cape Tribulation was much like Emmaline had seen on television. Only prettier. And hotter. The blue of the sky interrupted only by the dark clouds of mosquitoes that seemed to bite her en masse. Now she understood why Ian Kinch had purchased the repellent. She would sell a kidney for some right now.

On leaving the lock-up garage she had requisitioned a computer in District HQ and searched the adventure company stickered on the kayaks and helmets. Daintree Kayaks was based in Cape Tribulation and focused on sea kayaking around the coast, exploring the beaches, reefs and mangroves, offering ‘great times’ and ‘wild, but safe tours for even the most inexperienced adventurers’.

Noticeably left out was the river itself. Even the bravest didn’t kayak Daintree River for fear of meeting the giant saltwater crocodiles, or ‘salties’ as they were known.

What Daintree Kayaks did provide was training on proficiency badges. On a hunch, she checked them out.

Ian was listed as having a Sea Rescue endorsement, a Coastal Skills award and had last year begun a Sea Instructor badge, which would allow him to train individuals and groups to kayak at sea in moderate conditions. This was the other side to Ian Kinch. Even murderers needed hobbies. It also showed that he was serious about the sport. Minus any other leads on his whereabouts, this was the place to try.

Chaperoned by Cooper and Inspector Liang, who was taking great pleasure in conducting such a major operation, they first checked out her hunch that the pair would try and get out of Australia.

The docks were checked. Any boat that was going to Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea or to the Torres Strait Islands and then on to PNG. Passenger logs of boats that had departed in the last week were reviewed. Nothing was found to indicate that Ian, Naiyana or Dylan had been on them.

But that was only the official charters. They delved deeper. Skippers that needed no documents and asked no questions. Every one they quizzed returned the same answer. That they didn’t go as far as PNG and that hopping from Thursday Island on to PNG was illegal. Unless you were a Torres Strait Islander. The official party line. The line that kept them out of trouble. A line that was almost too well rehearsed.

They had nearly run out of dock when Emmaline approached a guy who was polishing his boat, his hands a web of tendons as he scrubbed hard, the small vessel his livelihood, his prized possession.

He trotted out the same line. Didn’t go there. Too far. Illegal.

‘Has anyone asked?’

The guy stopped scrubbing and looked at her. ‘People ask.’

‘Any in the last few days?’

The guy paused, adjusting his stance to stand straight. A wince of pain. Back trouble from long days hunched over. ‘Yeah. Someone asked. Friday, it was.’ Four days ago.

‘Did he look like this?’ asked Emmaline, showing him the picture of Ian Kinch on her phone.

‘Looks like the guy,’ he said, returning to scrubbing as he talked, not wanting to waste any time. ‘Fella was pretty nervous, looking around as if he expected to be jumped.’

‘Why did he try you?’

The scrubber looked up. His hands continued to work as he nonchalantly shrugged. ‘Must have thought I looked friendly.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘You couldn’t pay me to go that far.’

‘But he tried?’

‘Said he had big bickies to make it worthwhile.’

‘For one person?’

The guy shrugged, again almost nonchalantly. ‘I guess so. Never mentioned anyone else and I never asked.’

Emmaline wondered what that meant for Naiyana and Dylan. Had she succumbed to her injuries? Dylan too? His blood was at the scene of his father’s death