Glory Hunter: He'll win the votes, if he lives long enough ... (Hollins & Haring Book 2)

by T. J. Beach

  “Hey!”

  “And you and I have a contract.” She pointed a finger at his nose. “You will do whatever I want, whenever I want.”

  “Come on. I made that promise under duress. It doesn’t count.”

  “We’re taking the job. Don’t argue.”

  “We?”

  “You don’t think I’m letting you go on your own, do you? God knows what you’d get up to.”

  “That’s blasphemy,” Jenny said.

  “Shut up,” her mother replied.

  “You just want to check out the movie star,” Hollins said.

  A vertical crease appeared between Debbie’s eyebrows. The one that arrived a moment before smoke came out of her ears.

  Hollins sipped his beer to cover a grin. “Has Austin Gould been threatened?”

  “I don’t think so. The APP lady didn’t say anything.”

  “What’s the rush then?”

  “Rush?”

  “Why couldn’t it wait until tomorrow? I mean, I’m always happy to buy dinner, but—”

  “I asked you over for dinner at our house.”

  Hollins shrugged. “It’s my turn. I can only offer sausages on the barbie at home, so here we are.”

  “I like sausages,” Lachlan said.

  Hollins nodded to acknowledge the rare contribution from Debbie’s youngest. “We can probably get you some tonight, mate. No problem. With chips. But Debbie, why did you call me on a Saturday? When do they want to start?”

  “Tomorrow at their campaign headquarters, but I could have phoned you for that. It’s something else I need to talk to you about.” She took a deep breath. “I’m in trouble.”

  Hollins leaned in closer. This should be good.

  “I need you to tell me everything you know about cricket.”

  Hollins coughed a mouthful of beer back into his glass.

  “Don’t be like that. Tell me about cricket. I really need to know.”

  “It’s a boring game played by people who aren’t good enough at sport to play football. What the hell? Why? Can’t Matt tell you? What about the internet?”

  “I looked it up. It didn’t make sense.”

  “That’s because cricket makes no sense.”

  “Matt can’t help. He’s South African.”

  “They play cricket.”

  She blew out a breath. “Matt played rugby. Look, I’m Lachlan’s new cricket coach and their first session’s tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  DEBBIE TOOK THE kids home early to get Lachlan to bed.

  Hollins wandered onto the patio to finish his beer. Devon and his friend were at the same table with another guy. Devon nodded. Hollins raised a hand.

  The last third of his pint stared at him reproachfully — getting warmer by the minute. He didn’t really want it, and a sea breeze that came up as the sun went down had him rubbing his bare arms for warmth, but he wasn’t quite ready to go home.

  Next morning, he’d be minder to a celebrity parliamentary candidate, and it already had him grinding his teeth. No one liked politicians. Or could it be the celebrity thing that troubled him? The whole point of Hollins’ existence in Australia was to keep his head down. Hanging around the caravan park doing the odd maintenance job suited him fine. Hardly anyone knew his name. He liked it that way. Every time he raised his head above the parapet, the ‘Gary Hollins’ circle widened, and the risk of stumbling into someone’s sights rose a notch. A film star standing for election would draw cameras like bugs to a flame, and you could be sure Austin Gould would push his way in front of every lens.

  He’d made his promise to do everything Debbie asked in a moment of weakness. If he broke his word, she’d make his life hell. She believed he needed money, and he wasn’t about to fill her in on his Cayman Islands bank accounts. In truth, as much as it made him want to spit, she was right. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life scratching his bum in his one-bedroom on-site chalet. One of the many lessons he learned from the awful consequences when police sniffed around after his girlfriend disappeared was that flying too far under the radar could be suspicious in itself.

  A man with a job would be less conspicuous than a beach bum with no visible means of support.

  Anyway, the Gary Hollins identity had scraped past police inspection so far. No alarms sounded with his former employers in the UK. No South London hard men turned up on his doorstep with sawn-off shotguns.

  He’d be okay if he took the job.

  He’d hang in the background where the minder should be.

  Hollins abandoned his warm beer, drove along the beach to Summer Dayz Caravan Park, opened the boom gate with his pass and cruised to the single bedroom, self-contained studio cabin he called home. Settled on the couch with a mug of tea, he opened his laptop, engaged his Virtual Private Network and browser — DuckDuckGo, because Google kept tabs on everything — and searched Austin Gould.

  Half a dozen film roles hardly made him what Hollins would call a movie star, but a bit part as a missionary priest hiding Z-Force agents in World War Two Papua New Guinea had raised Gould from obscurity. The role spun off into a hugely popular Australian TV series, Warrior of God.

  It didn’t make Netflix, but Hollins tracked down episodes on the local equivalent, Stan, and signed up for a thirty-day free trial subscription.

  Austin Gould — a ridiculously handsome, ripped six-footer — played a humble priest, D’Arcy Shawcross, dedicated to selfless community work. The good pastor somehow found himself every week mowing down bad guys and fending off gorgeous nymphettes intent on breaking his vow of chastity. The filmmakers pulled the pin on the exotic wartime jungle settings for season two and moved Pastor Shawcross to a post-war outback farming town. The bad guys switched from Jap invaders and shonky Yanks to an unlikely parade of thieves and murderers. Utter rubbish, if you stopped to analyse, but Hollins liked it despite his best efforts to remain sceptical. Gould’s charisma blazed over the plot holes, cheesy dialogue and low-budget production.

  He couldn’t possibly be as captivating in real life.

  On Sunday, Debbie collected him in her Toyota and drove to campaign headquarters.

  “You can’t roll up for your first day in a clapped-out 1986 Holden ute,” Debbie said.

  “Why not? My car’s a classic.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s decrepit.”

  “If they don’t like the car I drive, they’re welcome to find someone else.” Hollins dreaded the next few hours. Liars, hypocrites and arrogant wankers were at the top of his loathe list, and who else would get involved in politics? “You just want to meet the actor.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Debbie tugged at her earring. She never usually wore jewellery. “I’m being professional.”

  Hollins snorted.

  Debbie gave him the glare that singed eyebrows. “Put a smile on your dial. We’re nearly there.”

  “Bodyguards don’t smile.”

  “Then you’ll fit right in. Here we are.”

  In a row of showrooms on a backstreet between the West Bell’s Landing Shopping Centre and the bypass, Austin Gould’s campaign headquarters was a shop front flanked by a tile distributor and a discount furniture warehouse.

  A man in a suit stood at the door with an oversized notebook under his arm. He looked up as Debbie turned in, a finger poised over his cellphone mid-text, mouth slightly open and eyes wide as if a car parking surprised him.

  “You’re the security?” he asked as they got out of the vehicle. “You found us then?”

  “A bit hard to miss.” Hollins nodded to ‘Gould For Vasse’ painted slantwise across the display window.

  Their host grinned uncertainly. He took in Hollins’ best jeans and polo shirt. “Casual dress. I suppose discreet will work on a Sunday.”

  It would have to work for weekdays as well. Hollins didn’t own a suit or a business shirt.

  “I’m Glenn Braithwaite. Campaign manager. I’ll take you through.”

  The reason for t
he slightly odd placement of the front window artwork became clear inside. It covered the words ‘For Lease!’ and a phone number painted backwards on the inside of the window. Folding tables stacked with boxes were scattered around the space. A couple of teenagers unpacked pamphlets.

  Austin Gould’s face grinned at them from every angle. Hollins blinked at the glare from two dozen pairs of perfect teeth.

  “Mr Gould’s making some calls. I’ll introduce you.” Glenn led them towards an office divided from the sales area by floor-to-ceiling glass panels. Yet more beaming Austin Goulds had been taped to the window as a privacy screen.

  Debbie picked up a pamphlet as they squeezed past a counter loaded down with merchandise.

  “Shall I get him to sign it for you?” Hollins murmured.

  She bared her teeth.

  The candidate hunched over a desk against the wall.

  Their guide stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.

  Austin Gould spun his typing chair, the phone against his ear, smiling.

  Debbie quivered from head to foot like a shiver went down her spine. Hollins couldn’t blame her.

  The flesh-and-blood Austin Gould was even more handsome than his photos with a tan so perfect Hollins suspected makeup, ash-blond hair swept back to his collar, chiselled features and startling brown eyes flecked with green. His Wikipedia profile said he was past fifty, but Gould gave off such youthful energy Hollins would have sworn they were the same age.

  The would-be member of parliament held up a finger while he finished his call. “Thank you so much. I’m looking forward to meeting you. Splendid.” He hung up. “Now, who’s this, Glenn? Our security man? And who’s this?”

  Debbie smoothed her dress and offered her hand. “I’m Debbie Haring, representing Ridenour Investigations.”

  “I see you’ve got one of our flyers already.”

  Gould’s smile broadened as she clumsily shifted the pamphlet to her other hand. He looked into her eyes as they shook. “Call me Austin, please. Wonderful to meet you, Debbie. Glad you can help us out.”

  He turned to Hollins. “Hi, I’m Austin.”

  “Gary Hollins.”

  “The muscle.” Gould grinned.

  “Something like that.”

  The actor’s handshake was cool and firm. He clapped Hollins’ shoulder as if they were old friends. “Will you both be keeping an eye on us?”

  Glenn cleared his throat. “The budget. I don’t think …”

  “That’s a pity. I’ll have to make do with Gary. Have we got any coffee, Glenn?”

  “Err, no.”

  “Then let’s get the kettle on.”

  Gould swept up a Ryobi Tools mug from the desk and led the way. “Fancy a coffee?” he called to the teenage workers. “I’m making.”

  “Thanks, Austin. White and one for me.”

  “I’m good.”

  Gould chatted as he filled a jug with water for the coffee maker and pulled open the cupboard under the sink. “Where are the mugs? Oh, there they are. It’s usually much busier here. We’ve recruited dozens of volunteers, mostly women of a certain age. Not exactly APP’s usual demographic, but it’s much the same at our events.” He shrugged to Hollins. “I get called D’Arcy and Pastor a lot, but as long as they put their mark in the right box on election day, eh? Have you done a lot of personal security work, Gary?”

  “No.”

  Debbie kicked him in the ankle. She expected him to lie?

  “I believe someone recommended Gary,” she said.

  “That’s right,” Glenn confirmed.

  “It’s all good.” Austin went back into the cupboard and came out with coffee capsules. “I doubt there’ll be much for you to do except look stern.”

  “Then why —”

  Glenn cut off Hollins’ question. “It’s funded from head office. Austin’s the highest-profile candidate the Australian People’s Party has ever put into the field.”

  “People don’t like your message?” Hollins asked.

  “Elites don’t,” Austin said. “From the right or the left. We stand for ordinary Australian working families. None of the big parties listen to them anymore. The Liberals are for big business. Labor and the Greens are all Chardonnay socialists from the beach suburbs who want to tell everyone else how to live while they shut down mines and forests that create jobs.”

  “We’re a threat to their cosy status quo,” Glenn said.

  “Working people pay all the taxes, the politicians share it out among themselves in fat salaries, jobs for the boys and grants to their mates. The Australian People’s Party will take it all back and give it to families — better schools, better health care, more police. How do you take your coffee, Debbie?”

  “Thank you, but I can’t. I ought to be going. I have to get to my son’s cricket practice.”

  “Debbie’s the coach,” Hollins said.

  “Good on you!” Austin brandished a mug. “Putting back into the community. Well done. Gary?”

  “None for me, either. I’m fine.”

  “And put yours in a travel mug, Austin,” Glenn said. “We have to get a wriggle on.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “MUMMY, YOU’RE HURTING me.”

  “Sorry, Lachlan.” Debbie let go of his hand. “I’m a bit nervous.”

  Jennifer ran off to her friends. “There’s Annie and Suzie. Hey, Annie!” After half a dozen strides, she swept into a series of cartwheels. Her ponytail swished over the tiger-striped Kanga Cricket shirt with her name across the back.

  Debbie would never have to worry about Jennifer making friends.

  Lachlan clung to her jeans.

  Poor sweet guy.

  Someone had torn the life out of her little man. When she found out who it was, they’d die a horrible death.

  He’d never been as precocious as Jennifer. Self-contained, like his dad, but Lachlan had always cheerfully carried on with life, quietly hung out with his friends in the corner of the playground, done fine in his lessons. Not the class brainiac and lead role in class assembly like his older sister, but solid achievement.

  His teacher, Miss Bryant, swore she had no idea why he’d slumped to the bottom of the class. Or why Lachlan had withdrawn into his shell — well, further into his shell. He refused to talk to anyone he didn’t know, even the headmistress when Debbie went in to demand an explanation.

  The way he clung to his mum made her want to cry.

  And she knew what was going on.

  Someone was bullying Lachlan.

  Any idiot could see it if they opened their eyes. Not Miss Bryant, a space cadet straight out of uni. Debbie doubted the useless waste of oxygen would wake up if her whiteboard exploded.

  “Hey, Debbie. Paul said you’re the coach.”

  Paul’s mum — what was her name? Pauline? No, it couldn’t be that — had her arms crossed and her brow furrowed.

  Surely it wasn’t that weird that Debbie volunteered. “Yep. I’m the coach. I love cricket.” Debbie plastered on a grin.

  “Righto. Great. Good to see a woman stepping up. I mean, women play cricket — Elysse Perry, Meg Lanning. It’s good for the girls to have a role model. Did you play a lot?”

  “A bit.” A couple of times in the back garden with her brother. “There’s Mr McManus.” The man in charge. “I’d better get my coaching things.” She smiled at ... Whatshername … hoping it didn’t look as much like a grimace as it felt, and marched off to the guy wearing the St Kilda Saints cap, wraparound sunglasses and running shorts, whose arms were loaded with clipboards.

  Fortunately, others headed the same way, so it wasn’t too obvious that she’d ducked off to avoid further interrogation, and Lachlan sidled over happily enough to stand next to Paul. He wasn’t the bully then, thank goodness. Debbie rather liked Paul and Whatshername — Yvette, that was it.

  Mr McManus addressed the gathered adults. “You must be the coaches? Hi, I’m Dave. Thank you all for volunteering.”

  A dad pushe
d forward. “No, thank you. Not many sports teachers would give up their weekends for yet more children’s activities.”

  Dave shifted his clipboards under one elbow to shake the man’s hand. “I dunno, Gordon. Goes with the territory in country towns. No problem.” He shifted to take in the rest of the group. “I think most of you know Gordon — the club president.”

  Debbie wasn’t surprised. Gordon wore his shorts and tee-shirt like a business suit.

  Three of the male coaches nodded. They all wore Bell’s Landing Bulldogs caps or shirts — cricket club members, no doubt. The other two guys in their group looked scarily competent too, fit and comfortable in well-worn trainers. At least there was one other woman.

  “I think you’re all returning sufferers except for one. Terry, good to have you back, mate. Vanessa. Fifth in the Perth triathlon, I saw. Good job.”

  Debbie’s heart fell. The other female coach was a super-athlete.

  Dave handed out clipboards as he chatted. “Off to your stations. Your teams will find you there from the lists on the whiteboard. Change stations when I blow the whistle. Have fun, and don’t forget the three-dollar sausage sizzle — all proceeds to the club. You can buy soft drinks at the kiosk. There’s sunscreen there, too, if anyone needs a top-up.”

  The others headed off, leaving Debbie alone with Dave. Stations? Teams? They had teams? Jennifer said they worked in groups of half a dozen at Lachlan’s age.

  “You must be Debbie Haring,” Dave said.

  She nodded.

  “First time coaching?”

  “First time I’ve been here. My daughter came with her friend last year.”

  “Oh, I know Jenny. She’s a star, better than most of the boys.”

  “My son’s swimming lessons clashed with cricket last year,” Debbie added quickly in case Dave judged her as a drop-off mum. Why on earth had no one mentioned Jenny was good at cricket? She probably knew more about the game than Gary, who had been hopeless. “My husband is away most weekends working FIFO.”

  “It’s surprising how many people work fly-in fly-out from Bell’s Landing. I’ve seen you at sports day, haven’t I? It’s great that Lachlan’s joined us this summer. He’s a terrific lad. You’re a completely fresh victim?”