by Candice Fox
I checked the news sites, and Dylan Hogan had already made it up there. At their core, each article professed simply that police were seeking assistance from Hogan in the matter of the missing boy Richie Farrow, but a handful of sites ran a decidedly unflattering picture of Hogan from his addict days, more hollow-cheeked and ragged-looking than I knew him to be. His head was tilted back, the man eyeing the camera across a bonfire.
Violent homeless man wanted for questioning in Farrow abduction.
Dylan Hogan: New name in hunt for Richie’s killer.
Manhunt: Police pursue vicious vagrant.
Superfish had dutifully joined Joanna Fischer outside the caravan park’s reception building. I watched her as she listened to Superfish, her hands on her belt, her eyes flicking towards me now and then. Someone had done a good job on Joanna, that much was clear. Her right eye was surrounded by an ink-blue flower of bruising that faded to purple at the edges, the upper eyelid swollen and the whites of her eye bloodshot. There was also a pattern of lighter brown bruises on her left bicep, four distinct lines like someone had grabbed her too hard, and, though I couldn’t be sure from this distance, I thought I could see a chunk of hair missing from the back of her head. I tried to call Amanda, but she texted that Val was there picking Lillian up and that she’d meet me at the hotel. There was also a message from Laney.
I’ve been thinking of checking out this cool bar in H/Beach, but I’ve had no one to go with.
A date. In public. In Holloways Beach. I was as well known in Holloways Beach as I was in Crimson Lake. In the beginning, when I’d first moved into the area, I’d been able to go there without being hassled by drunks and locals bored and looking for a fight. But a couple of times I’d run into trouble and had since stopped going. Nobody ever put up much of a fuss if I appeared at a bar once or twice, but nowhere wanted to be my local, to be known as a safe harbour for notorious paedophiles. Even as I knew I couldn’t possibly do it, couldn’t endanger Laney by appearing in public with her, I texted back anyway.
Sounds fun! Let me call you tonight and we’ll work it out.
A shadow fell over me, and I stood, towering over Frisp and Gamble, the two idiots who had mistakenly arrested me at my house. Gamble’s long, hairy arms were folded awkwardly, like two coathangers interlocked.
‘Where’s that nasty little parasite you call an offsider?’ Gamble asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Some of the boys want to have words with Amanda,’ Frisp said. ‘She assaulted a police officer. Either her or her mongrel, drug-dealer mates.’
‘Was she too ashamed to show her face?’ Gamble asked. ‘Hiding at home, the filthy murderous bitch.’
‘I really hope you two give this gig up soon for something less mentally challenging.’ I shook my head. ‘You can’t be all this country has to offer in investigative intelligence.’
‘We’re smart enough not to count murderers as our friends,’ Frisp said. ‘Or rock spiders.’
‘But you’re not smart enough to notice Joanna’s bruise is on the right side of her face, and Amanda is right-handed,’ I said. ‘Joanna’s right-handed, too. Why doesn’t Joanna have any defensive bruises on her forearms? Why did she, a trained police officer, allow Amanda to walk up and clock her like that? Something about this doesn’t make sense, boys. You’ve got to admit it.’
They shook their heads, disgusted, but for some reason I pressed on.
‘What’s the bet we’re not going to find a single scratch on Amanda? This wasn’t a fight, and if it was, Joanna would have reported it and had the matter investigated. Instead she’s playing for sympathy. If I had to guess, I’d say Joanna punched herself, and she’s counting on you dickheads lapping up her bullshit and joining her crusade against my partner.’
I gave Frisp and Gamble time to think it over, to look at Joanna and weigh my theory, but they didn’t. The two of them edged me in, trying to back me into the caravan wall.
‘Amanda assaulted one of ours, and she’s dropped another in hot water. She’s got Chief Clark up Detective Ng’s arse with some bullshit about missing cash seized as evidence. She wants to fuck with us, she’s going to get what’s coming to her.’
‘Back off,’ I warned as they stepped closer.
‘Tell Amanda that payback is coming,’ Gamble said.
‘Is that a threat?’ I asked.
‘It’s nothing.’ Frisp kicked Gamble’s boot with his. They turned to go, but I stopped Gamble. He shrugged off my hand like it was red-hot.
‘Don’t do anything,’ I said. ‘I’m telling you, this will get out of hand. And when it does, it’s going to be very messy.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Gamble lunged, shoved me in the chest.
I put my hands up. We had the attention of all the officers nearby, men leaving their conversations and starting to move towards us. I walked off as Frisp dragged his partner away.
I waited for Amanda in the bar at the Clattering Clam, having wandered in there to make myself a coffee. I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder and called Sara, giving her an update on the Dylan Hogan lead. The cafe across the street from the side entrance of the hotel was so packed with journalists when I drove by that a waitress was standing on the corner crying from stress while another consoled her. A man was shouting at the manager, waving his receipt about. It was going to be another hot one, the bar full of fruit flies hovering and whizzing about over the dry beer taps. Someone had left a note on the counter for the manager, scrawled on the back of one of the restaurant’s takeaway menus.
Simmo, when the fuck are we getting back to work? I need shifts! – Gavin
I heard shouting as I stirred sugar into my coffee – press on the steps trying to follow someone in and being stopped at the footpath by patrol officers. Instead of Amanda, Henry Farrow stormed into the bar. I smelled alcohol on him before he even rounded the counter, a sweet smell that mingled with the sweat coming off a thin, cheap shirt. The shirt had obviously been bought at a tourist shop nearby, the tag still hanging under the left armpit. He carried his phone with him, and slammed it on the counter in front of me.
‘Seen this?’ he said. I was too busy looking at him, trying to work out if he was still drunk. His blond stubble was a painful red around his neck, and his eyes were puffy. I took the phone and read the headline of The Everyday Post.
Missing boy’s father parties hard in tourist paradise.
There were several photographs of Henry at the Rattle N Hum bar, a popular spot just off the Esplanade fitted out with heavy eucalyptus-log furniture and corrugated iron artworks. Big television screens lit green with the soccer showered Henry in light as he shot rounds of pool in the crowded bar, laughed and hugged an unknown woman, held his hand up to the bartender, ordering two of something, his pale belly sagging out from under his shirt. I scrolled through the photos and handed the phone back.
‘I want to hire you,’ Henry said. ‘I know you’re working for Sara. But while you’re doing that you can keep these fucking press bastards off my back. I don’t want them within five hundred metres of me.’
‘Mr Farrow, I’m not a bodyguard,’ I said. ‘Frankly, going to the bar last night was like throwing chips to seagulls. They’ll be all over you now. I have no idea what you were thinking.’
‘I was tired.’ He held his hands out. ‘I was sad. I’ve spent the past couple of days sitting in a hotel room listening to child abduction experts and bloody forensics people and police captains talking about what they’re going to do if they find my kid dead. They keep giving me statistics. There’s a fifty per cent chance he’s still alive. Now there’s a thirty per cent chance. Sara won’t speak to me.’
‘She won’t?’
‘She’s completely cut me off. Won’t tell me why. She probably thinks I’ve been ragging on her to the cops, but I haven’t. I tell you what – I certainly could! I’ve got some stories about that woman, about her losing her temper and scaring our kid. She’s a psycho. She throws things.
’ He pointed out the door as though Sara was standing there. ‘She’s thrown stuff at me over the years.’
‘Henry,’ I said.
‘She should be on my side in this,’ Henry shouted. ‘I’m alone and I’m trying to help.’
‘I understand, but –’ I tugged the tag off his shirt. The fabric crinkled against something on his bicep. I paused.
‘I just wanted to blow off some steam last night, you know? Did you read the article? It says I danced with several women in the bar. That we laughed and flirted. That is absolute rubbish. That woman came up and hugged me and said she was sorry for what had happened, and –’
I stuck a finger under the sleeve of Henry’s shirt and tried to lift the fabric. He flinched away from me.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘On your arm. Is that plastic wrap on your arm?’
‘No.’
‘Yes it is,’ I said. ‘Is that a tattoo?’
‘It’s for Richie,’ he said. He lifted his sleeve. Through the plastic wrap and soothing cream I could barely make out a black-and-grey portrait of the missing child, his smiling face and big teeth. Beneath the portrait the words Belle vie had been inked in fine, curling cursive script.
I covered my face with my hands. Drew a deep breath, let it out hard.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘There’s a place over on the north side.’ He waved.
‘So you’re telling me that in the past twenty-four hours you’ve dropped into a bar, shot some pool, hung out with some ladies you don’t know and got yourself some fresh ink?’ I could feel my face flushing with colour. ‘You got a memorial tattoo of your kid? You don’t even know if he’s dead!’
‘It’s not a memorial tattoo!’
‘Does that script read Beautiful life in French or does it not, Mr Farrow?’ I asked.
‘Well, it doesn’t say beautiful death!’ His eyes were blazing. ‘Who the fuck are you to judge me? My kid is missing. I’m traumatised! What am I supposed to do? No one is telling me what to do!’
I turned away from him, walked to the end of the bar and sat down. I thought about how diligently I had listened to my lawyer, Sean, after my arrest, how comforting it had been to have someone simply tell me what to do. Get some sleep. Keep eating. Don’t call anyone. Don’t grant any interviews. Sign here. Transfer this amount. Henry Farrow was drowning, and everyone was standing on the riverbank watching him sink.
‘I haven’t just been hanging around in bars and getting inked,’ Henry reasoned, his voice fallen to a sad murmur. ‘I drove around the whole area yesterday, by myself, looking for any sign of him. I stopped along empty roadsides. I picked through discarded piles of clothes in ditches. I walked through the bush, trying to think of where you might dump a dead child. I was facing another night alone in the hotel room trying not to think about what that guy might have done to him. That maintenance guy. Or the one down south. If either of them is involved …’
I lifted my head. Henry stood scratching at the plastic wrap through his shirt.
‘Henry, you’re just going to have to hang in there,’ I told him. ‘And you’re going to have to do that on your own. Those women in the bar last night were probably journalists or paid by journalists for that shot. Your tattoo artist will give an interview this morning, I guarantee it.’
He didn’t respond.
‘I know you want to drive around looking for Richie but all you’re doing is endangering lives. You’re drunk. Go back to your hotel room. Lock yourself in. If you really do need to talk, just stick to your police liaison officer, and call me or Amanda if you need us. You can trust us, and the police, and that’s about it.’
I walked over and gave him my card. He stared down at it in his hand, his lips pursed and eyes wet. I heard the roar of the journalists again and saw Amanda through the restaurant windows coming up the steps.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked Amanda as she strode into the hotel in ragged, paint-splattered chinos and a white singlet. She didn’t appear bruised in any way, but most of her is covered in tattoos, so it was difficult to tell.
‘Oh, I’m fine. I’m just fine.’ She shrugged stiffly, her jaw locked. ‘I’ve had to take a flamethrower to all my earthly possessions. I probably have the bubonic plague. But otherwise, I’m just peachy. Why?’
I explained the accusation made by Joanna Fischer. Amanda’s eyes narrowed to glowing, menace-filled slits.
‘Are you telling me,’ she said carefully, ‘that I’m going to get the rap for punching that stupid woman without even getting to enjoy doing it?’
‘So you didn’t do it?’
‘No,’ Amanda said. ‘But I’m going to. I’m gonna smack that bitch so hard her grandkid will be born with my handprint on its face.’
‘Were you at her house with a couple of your bikie mates last night?’
‘Of course.’
‘Amanda.’
‘Aman-duh,’ she imitated me. ‘You’re the one who told me I wasn’t angry enough about her pushing my bike over. I don’t get angry, Ted. I just sear my visage deep into my enemy’s brain with the flaming cattle brand of my devilish trickery. Then, in their nightmares, it’s my name they hear whispered on the winds of darkness.’
‘Amanda –’
‘No, it’s more like Amaaandaaaaaa.’ She cupped her hands to her mouth and breathed the word.
I groaned. ‘Did you threaten her?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more of this.’ I walked through the back foyer doors and around the pool. ‘We’ve got to catch Dylan Hogan. We’ve got to find Richie Farrow. I don’t want any bloody winds of darkness carrying anything about your feud with Joanna anywhere near me.’
There was a crowd around Dylan Hogan’s office, which had been set up as a crime scene. The equipment Hogan had bought at Bunnings Warehouse the evening before had been brought to the hotel to compare with anything that might already be in the hotel’s stock. Like me, the officers Clark had assigned to the Hogan discovery wanted to be sure he hadn’t bolted because of a different crime, hadn’t somehow discovered Richie’s Iron Man toy on his own and brought it home innocently. It was a long shot, and it was probably too late. Hogan’s face would be on every news channel in the country. His family, friends, enemies – anyone who had anything to do with him as far back as his childhood – would be fielding calls from press. He was, at that moment, Australia’s most despised man, and I couldn’t deny a small sense of relief that he had taken the title from me.
Hogan’s equipment was laid out on a table in the shade, labelled and sealed in evidence bags. A uniformed officer was milling around the table guarding it as we approached.
Hogan had bought two rolls of silver duct tape, clear plastic drop sheets that you might use while painting, a hacksaw, a small torch and a whole lot of rope. I noticed Amanda’s eyes went straight to the pile of rope at the back of the table, tightly coiled and sealed in one of the largest transparent evidence bags. I reached out and touched the label on the bag, trying to angle it down so that I could read it. The officer stopped simply glaring at us and finally piped up.
‘Hands off the fucking evidence, Conkaffey.’
‘I’m not touching the evidence,’ I noted. ‘I’m touching the evidence bag.’ I smoothed out the label and read the details printed there. ‘Nylon rope, thirteen millimetre. Holy shit, there’s one hundred metres of it.’
‘Why is there so much rope?’ Amanda asked the officer. ‘What’s he need that much rope for? The rope at least must be for the hotel.’
‘It doesn’t match anything on site.’ The officer, a fat guy with glasses and sweat patches under his arms, looked me over with disgust. ‘It’s obvious. He wanted it to tie the kid up.’
‘Why tie the kid up with this thick, slippery rope when you’ve got duct tape?’ Amanda asked. ‘Too much duct tape, at that. One roll would do.’
‘You’d know, huh?’ the officer
sneered.
‘Too much rope, too much duct tape,’ I mused.
‘For a live kid at least,’ Amanda said.
I shifted the rope aside, having spotted something behind it. In another evidence bag there was a large iron hook, the kind one might attach to a boat or car for towing. I picked up the bag with the hook and examined it.
‘Hey!’
‘Calm your tits,’ Amanda told the officer. ‘He’s not going to run off with it.’
‘What’s the hook for?’ I wondered. ‘Is he towing something?’
The officer snatched the bag from my hand.
‘It’s for hooking the kid to a cinder block and dumping him in the river,’ the officer said. ‘I don’t fucking know. You don’t need to touch this stuff to put together a theory.’
‘Why hook the kid to a cinder block?’ I asked. ‘Why not just tie –’
‘That’s it.’ The officer beckoned to a couple of his mates standing at the door to Hogan’s office. ‘You two are out of here.’
‘We’ve got approval from Clark to review the evidence,’ I said.
He was failing to get the attention of his friends, conflicted about leaving the evidence with us, doing an awkward shuffle between the table and a spot halfway across the pool area. I put him out of his misery and wandered away with Amanda. We stood in the painfully bright light reflecting from the pool.
‘What’s Hogan doing?’ I asked.
‘Climbing?’ she said. ‘Nylon’s good for towing and climbing. Doesn’t stretch too much.’
‘Where would he be climbing?’ I asked. ‘And without a harness or a winch?’
‘You see either a harness or a winch at his caravan?’