Eye for an Eye Page 4

  Her eyebrows rose when she entered the cabin with its rows of well-padded seats, Pacific artwork on the walls, and big overhead lockers. She listened attentively to the pre-flight announcement and located the exits nearest to her seat. She stowed her hand baggage beneath the seat in front of her, and fastened her seatbelt well before the flight attendant came to check it.

  Feeling hungry, she reached into her bag and pulled out a thick bundle of sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper. She bit off a good chunk, relishing the slice of farm lamb, nice and pink, with a smidgeon of Vegemite on the bread. Now that was a real meal. The airline orange juice and cup of tea were welcome, but she was horrified by the puny plastic pots of heat-treated milk served with it. Was this any way for a dairy farming country to present itself? She shook her head, and flipped through the airline magazine to pass the rest of the hour’s flight north.

  Auckland airport seemed to go on for ever. She left the domestic terminal and walked across to the international one, preferring the exercise to taking the shuttle bus. Hazy sunshine lit the close-cropped turf beside the walkway, and mynah birds hopped about beneath bright hibiscus bushes. Robyn felt as if she was already in a foreign country.

  The feeling continued as she sat in the departure lounge, where a couple behind her were arguing volubly in an unidentifiable language. Robyn turned to see what the problem was, groaning inwardly when the woman noticed her interest and called to her.

  ‘You can help us please? I have this lovely present for my family, we go visit them, but there is no room in my case. My husband say I should not buy, we cannot take it, but is too late, the shop will not take it back. How can I get this to my dear sweet family? You can take it for us in your suitcase?’ She appealed to Robyn, woman-to-woman, while the husband glowered.

  Robyn looked at the colourfully gift-wrapped package. It would fit into her bag quite easily. She looked back to the couple in time to see them exchanging glances.

  ‘Sure I can help,’ she said. ‘No problem. Let’s have a look at your case, I’m sure we can re-pack it to make room for a little package like this.’ She swiftly popped open the woman’s bag and pulled out a fur jacket. ‘Here you go, why don’t you wear the jacket, then there’ll be plenty of room for your present. No worries, eh?’ She smiled brightly at them and moved to another seat until her flight was called. Just how gullible did they think she was? Even an un-travelled idiot would know not to carry parcels through customs for other people.

  The boarding call was made, and while she walked the long corridor towards the plane, she wondered who she might sit next to for the long flight. Hopefully not some garrulous little old lady who would natter on about her grandchildren. Preferably a tall dark handsome rugby player, on his way to an overseas test match. Or perhaps a blond movie star off to Hollywood after making a name for himself on a TV series? On reflection, she decided that any unattached male between twenty-four and forty would do to liven up the trip.

  She stepped onto the plane, and her jaw dropped. Huge comfy seats, masses of room, curtains - now this was more like it! There were thick fluffy blankets neatly folded on every seat, and soft pillows in pristine linen covers…

  ‘Keep moving, please. This way,’ said the flight attendant. ‘Through here, row 57, seat A.

  Robyn left the luxurious first class section and made her way past rows of seats spaced much closer together, where people were busily stowing their coats and bags in the overhead lockers and settling themselves down. When she found her allotted place there was a handsome man in the seat next to hers. He was dark-haired and well built, with a striking black beard, but unfortunately his long-lashed green eyes were gazing adoringly into his wife’s eyes instead of Robyn’s as the couple held hands and murmured to each other. She apologised for disturbing them as she edged across their legs to reach her seat by the window.

  Once the plane was airborne and the view of mangrove swamps and estuaries had fallen far behind, she poked about with the seat entertainment screen and found a movie to watch which kept her entertained through dinner until she was ready to sleep. With the cabin darkened, she managed to get a few hours of rest, waking blearily with a stiff neck and dry mouth as the cabin crew brought round breakfast. With her body clock groaning that it was really 3am, she adjusted her watch to local time and looked out of the window.

  All the details of Los Angeles were hidden under a light-brown haze – much like the fog in her brain as she went through the airport security checks to get to her next flight. The queues and grumpy officials barely registered, and only the prospect of stretching out flat on the departure lounge floor held any appeal. All too soon she was herded onto another plane for the last leg of her journey.

  The brief nap had revived her though, and as they passed over the Rockies Robyn was spellbound by the unfolding panorama of snow-capped peaks. Low foothills on the far side gave way to the checkerboard strips of the prairies, stretching far into the distance in every direction for hundreds of miles. Hours later the woods and lakes of Ontario came into view, interspersed with stretches of the Great Lakes looking like whole oceans. The plane lost altitude, skirting the shores of Lake Ontario ready to land at Toronto.

  At the sight of the city Robyn’s eyes popped. Toronto was HUGE! It spread for miles inland, and about twice that distance along the lake shore. The streets were all laid out in a grid pattern, and she was surprised to see how many trees there were even in the downtown area. In the central business district a cluster of skyscrapers glinted in the sun, while off to one side the graceful CN tower reached up towards the plane. At its foot was a building that looked like a silvery armadillo, which Robyn realised from her pre-trip reading of a guidebook was the Skydome sports arena.

  Just off-shore a series of low islands curved across to form a natural harbour, and as the plane flew lower, Robyn’s heart sank. There were yacht marinas as far as the eye could see. The city waterfront was lined with them, and there were still more on the islands just offshore. Her search was going to be very much harder than she’d thought.

  Still, the memory of the Colwyn Symons TV interview was very clear in her mind, and she deliberately replayed it to harden her resolve. That bastard had stolen the savings of dozens of pensioners as well as the money her father had lost - people had been forced to sell their family homes and live with relatives – and the misery he had caused would last them a lifetime. She could just imagine him lounging on the deck of his yacht, living it up large and enjoying his stolen money without a care in the world.

  He was down there somewhere, and she was going to find him.

  As the sun glinted off a plane coming in over the city, Colwyn Symons stepped out of his apartment building. He looked up at the tall office blocks around him, straightened his tie and checked his watch. His blond hair gleamed, his suit was immaculate, his stylish shoes were well-polished. An expensive leather briefcase completed the picture of a successful businessman.

  Across the sidewalk a huddled bundle of rags opened an eye briefly at his passing.

  Colwyn checked his reflection in a shop window and ran his hand over his hair. It would need re-styling soon, provided he could find a salon that would do it the way he liked it. He walked up the sunny side of Yonge Street as far as Bloor, then bounded up the steps of a glass tower block. As he disappeared through the revolving doors, a ragged street bum settled himself against a newspaper vending box outside and appeared to sleep.

  Some time later, in the glossy office upstairs, Colwyn gathered the sheaf of papers that were spread across the desk, and capped his fountain pen with a flourish. After shaking hands all round he left the room with a quiet smile, allowing it to widen as the elevator doors hid him from view. Another deal put together and it was still only mid-afternoon. Plenty of time to go to the gym before his dinner meeting, or perhaps he could spend some time on the boat.

  The doors opened to the lobby and he walked out into the sunshine, turning away with a sneer at the sight of a disgusting b
eggar hanging round by the front door.

  ‘What is the purpose of your visit to Canada?’ intoned the bored black female Customs official, glancing at Robyn to compare her face to her passport photo. ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Well I mean business, but I suppose you could say it’ll be a pleasure!’ Robyn burbled, then realised the customs official wasn’t smiling. ‘Sorry, er, pleasure - just a holiday.’

  ‘Have you a return ticket ma’am? May I see it please?’ She took it, checked it carefully, and handed it back. ‘Passport?’ It was stamped and returned without a smile. ‘Have you been on a farm within the last two weeks?’

  ‘Er, yes, I have.’

  ‘Over to that table on the right please. Next!’

  Robyn felt oddly intimidated by the absence of friendly behaviour, and found herself facing the next official with some trepidation. He gave her a quick smile at least, before asking her to place her suitcase on the table and open it for him. His hands flicked deftly through her things, until he reached the lamb docker which he extracted and held up.

  ‘Can you tell me what this is, please?’

  ‘Ah, it’s – well, it’s for…’ invention failed her. ‘It’s a lamb docker, you know, for removing their tails and things.’

  ‘Are you planning to work while in Canada, ma’am? Do you have a work permit?’

  ‘Uh, no. Er, I’m not planning to work, but, um, I’m visiting some relatives who have a farm and I thought I’d show them what we use for the job back home in New Zealand? We lead the world in a lot of agricultural technology.’

  He replaced it and continued searching. His hands delved into the pocket of her pack and she saw his face change. He pulled out a handful of wilted grass and looked at her knowingly.

  ‘And this would be for your personal use, would it ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, that’s just grass! No, I mean real grass, that sheep eat, not marijuana! Honestly, it’s perfectly innocent.’

  He sniffed it carefully, then tasted a piece and spat it out.

  ‘That’s grass!’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was trying to say. Just grass, not drugs - really. I’m sorry, it was a stupid thing to bring but I thought it would remind me of home while I’m here.’

  He sighed and chalked her bag. ‘We’ll have to dispose of it as a bio-hazard. OK, now go through that door over there, please.’

  She stuffed her pack closed and walked cautiously through the green door, wondering what the next trap would be.

  Once she was through, she was relieved to find herself at the airport exit, with all Customs officials behind her and no further barriers between her and the city.

  Outside, the heat and humidity were stifling, and quite a shock to a body tuned to mid-winter. She peeled off her light jacket and stuffed it into her pack, then found a shuttle bus that would take her downtown where she was booked into a cheap hotel not too far from the waterfront. The bus driver piled her bags into the luggage trailer and waved her aboard.

  She was astounded that the trip took almost an hour, despite the driver’s seemingly breakneck speed along a twelve-lane freeway that led to the heart of the city. Huge green exit signs flashed past every few seconds, and she wondered how anybody managed to make sense of it all. It wasn’t until they left the freeway that she suddenly yelped, seeing that the driver was headed for the right-hand side of the road. Then, feeling foolish, she realised that in Canada, traffic drove on the right not the left. Once she managed to make the mental adjustment, she was able to prise her fingers off the grab rail on top of the seat in front.

  The air-conditioned bus took her to the drop-off point downtown at Union Station, where the driver told her to ‘have a nice day.’ Robyn thanked him politely, and shouldered her pack for the walk to her hotel.

  Within two minutes she had broken into a sweat, which soon had her T-shirt feeling wet and uncomfortable. Her feet heated up inside her running shoes until she imagined puffs of steam emerging with every step along the hot sidewalk. Every so often she passed drain gratings, and soon learned to hold her breath against the ripe sulphurous fumes that rose from them. The traffic roared past her in a blaring cacophony of sound formed from engines, horns, sirens, and the throbbing bass beat from a hundred blasting stereo speakers.

  Robyn looked around her and let out a whoop of joy. This was the big city! What a great place!

  The hotel brought her back to earth again. It was a shabby old brick building on a side street, four storeys high in a u-shape with a patchy lawn in the middle, rank with weeds. Robyn’s room was at ground level in the corner of the u, where judging by the paleness of the vegetation struggling outside, the sun never quite reached. The window had wire mesh and bars across it, and wouldn’t open more than two inches. An ancient radiator had left a rusty water stain on the lino, which curled up at the edges in protest. The sagging single bed leaned tiredly against the wall, but at least the sheets seemed clean when Robyn sniffed them suspiciously. She plonked her pack down beside the bed and closed the door, then did a double-take.

  ‘Bloody hell! A door chain? Who do they expect to come breaking into a hotel like this? Someone wanting my diamond tiara?’

  She threw herself down on the bed, kicked off her shoes, and started to relax. Then a quick movement on the wall beside her sent her leaping for a shoe to squash the small brown insect that was heading rapidly towards her pillow. She wiped away the ugly stain with a tissue, and added bug spray to her list of things to buy.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her that it had been a long time since the last meal on the plane. She scrabbled in her bag for a partly-squashed muesli bar and washed it down with lukewarm bottled water, wishing more than anything else in the world for a nice cup of tea.

  Up in his penthouse apartment, Colwyn Symons sat on the balcony overlooking the lake with a chilled glass of Chardonnay in his hand. A light breeze cooled the air, while classical music played softly from his state-of-the-art speakers. He was freshly showered after his workout, and was looking forward to a dinner meeting with a couple of clients that he thought were just about ready to sign the deal. A little sweetening, a good meal at a top restaurant, plenty of calm reassurance, and the money would be his. He sighed with satisfaction.

  On the short walk uptown to the restaurant, he took pains to avoid the places where beggars habitually sat pan-handling, as their filth and poverty quite spoiled his appetite.

  He wined and dined his clients successfully, then took a taxi home, preferring not to walk the city streets after dark. He took the elevator to his cool air-conditioned apartment and enjoyed a peaceful night’s sleep.

  Robyn was woken at 3am by ear-splitting shrieks outside her window. Dazed and stumbling in the unfamiliar room, she turned on the light to check the time and swore quietly. More shouts pierced the night. Robyn forced the window open as far as it would go and looked up, seeing a lit window open three floors up on the opposite wing of the building. Suddenly a vase came sailing through it and crashed onto the grass.

  ‘Ooh you bitch, I gave you that for your birthday!’

  ‘Well I never liked it. The colours were all wrong. You never know what I like.’

  ‘I know what you like, sweetie - but you won’t be getting it from me any more!’

  ‘Good!’ yelled Robyn. ‘Now shut the hell up, will you?’

  She slammed the window shut to cut off their petulant replies, and tried to get back to sleep. She’d told the travel agent that the hotel had to be cheap, but surely there was something better than this?

  She was woken again at 5am by a body clock not yet attuned to local time, but since she felt quite alert she decided to go along with it. Food was urgently required, and she promised herself a proper breakfast as soon as the nearest cafe was open. In the meantime, she searched through her folder of important papers to find the photo she’d taken off the TV, showing Colwyn Symons at the yacht marina. Today was the day she would track the bastard down and start making him wish he’d never
been born. She slipped the photo into her jeans pocket and laced on her running shoes.

  Once outside, she was astonished to find that the city was already bustling with life. Roadside stalls were selling a variety of cheap goods, subway trains could be heard rumbling beneath the ventilator grilles in the sidewalk, and traffic was already beginning to fill the streets. She set off westwards, heading for Yonge Street which she knew would take her right downtown and onto the lakefront.

  After a few moments, the enticing scent of coffee caught her by the nose and drew her into a small cafe serving early breakfasts. She checked the blackboard menu above the counter, looking among the many unfamiliar items for something she could recognise. It was oddly disconcerting to see things that she’d never heard of, when she’d assumed that there would be no language barrier. Ah, at last – something she could pronounce.

  ‘Hi there, could I have fried eggs on toast, and a cup of tea, please?’

  The small Asian lady behind the counter nodded.

  ‘Black or white?’ Robyn looked blank. The lady repeated her question. ‘You want black or white? Tea – black or white?’

  ‘Oh, I see! Er, white please.’

  ‘Bag in, bag out?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Bag in? Or bag out? How you want it?’

  ‘Bag out?’ guessed Robyn, confused.

  The styrofoam cup came filled with hot water and milk, with the tea bag beside it. Robyn dunked the bag until the mixture was deep brown, then drank and sighed happily. There was nothing like a good cup of tea to set you up for the day. The eggs were delicious, although the rich dark bread was a little unusual. She would have liked a whole big pot of tea, but had to settle for buying a second cup (white, bag out) to finish her meal. Once fortified, she continued her walk down to the waterfront with new vigour, striding along with purpose in every line of her tall slim body.

  Across the street, a large building proclaimed itself to be the Eatons Centre, another name she recognised from the guidebook. She figured it would be worth a look, as she might be able to use the shopping mall as a day-time base for her operations downtown instead of walking all the way back to the hotel.