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

by T. J. Beach

  Hollins shrugged. He found it hard to think of Debbie as his boss. Annoying sister, maybe. “Can’t you follow the action on the news?”

  “I shouldn’t have to. Anyway, I’ve got a new client. A lady looking for her son.”

  “She lost him?”

  “Very funny. No, it’s a bit emotional. They had a row, and he stormed out. He hasn’t been in contact for a week. They usually speak twice a day. She’s out of her mind with worry.”

  “Seriously? How old is this son?”

  “Twenties. She’s been to the police—”

  “And they’re not interested because he’s free, male, and over eighteen.”

  Debbie frowned. “Mmm. She’s come all the way from New Zealand.”

  “He’s over here for a holiday?”

  “No. She lived in Bell’s Landing for ten years. He just learned he was conceived here. They argued about his plans to track down his father. It’s awful. Poor woman. She’s hardly got two pennies to rub together.”

  “Hang on. How’s she paying Kim Ridenour’s exorbitant rates? You’re giving her a discount, aren’t you?”

  Debbie sniffed. “None of your business. I do the financial stuff.”

  “What does Kim think about that?”

  “He went to the pub as soon as it opened, and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “You are just a great big marshmallow, aren’t you?”

  She glared.

  “I suppose you want me to help find this lost holidaymaker. In my spare time, when I’m not hanging around with a would-be politician.”

  “I thought you could do it at the same time. I’m getting some photographs printed. Maybe you could hand a few around when you’re out and about.”

  “I’m not sure that would go down too well with Gloomy Glenn.”

  “You can keep an eye out for Keith Tupaea at the same time.”

  “I guess so. Austin might go for it. He’s a bigger marshmallow than you.”

  “You like him?”

  “I’m trying hard not to, but I can’t help it.”

  “Have you got his autograph yet?”

  Hollins grunted.

  “You have!”

  “I have not.”

  “How about Sophia Pendlebury? I saw you checking her out.”

  “She’s a very attractive woman, and I’m single.”

  “She’s not single.”

  “Go away, Debbie. You need to pick up your kids from school, and I need to get back to campaign headquarters.”

  “Evening function?”

  Hollins slapped his laptop shut. “Worse. The volunteers have organised a busy bee to paint over the graffiti. It’s going to be bigger than Ben Hur.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A SIGNWRITER ROLLED up her sleeves to take care of the skilled work required to reprint Vote Gould on the window. She also provided drop sheets to protect the footpath against further damage from the volunteer’s cack-handed efforts.

  A dozen helpers had come. They brought their own brushes and ladders.

  Austin, in shorts and a white tee-shirt, and Sophia, with a headscarf and a cotton smock over jeans, marshalled the forces and doled out donated paint, having the time of their lives.

  “I should have brought a brush. Are there any spares?” Hollins asked.

  Glenn grunted. “You’ll be needed in a minute.”

  “Yeah? An attack’s scheduled?”

  “A GWN reporter is doing a live cross to Seven News in Perth. Could you make sure no one stumbles into the shot or photobombs them?”

  “Whatever you want. You’re not going to be painting in that get-up, are you?” Obviously not, given his suit and tie, but Hollins wanted to dig at Glenn for ordering him to make things easier for the media.

  “Do you think I should?”

  “No, you should sort that out.” He pointed Glenn to the reporter and cameraman demanding volunteers move their cars for an uninterrupted backdrop of people power restoring the shopfront. That the press got whatever it wanted did nothing for Hollins’ opinion of journalists.

  The camera lights blazed, and the reporter put on her uber-serious, I-really-am-older-than-I-look face. “Thank you, Indira. Here in Bell’s Landing today, the state election campaign took an unexpected and disturbing turn. Vandals last night daubed South-West Agricultural Region Legislative Council candidate Austin Gould’s headquarters with offensive slogans, an act unprecedented in recent state political memory. Mr Gould? It’s been a huge step from the set of Warrior of God to the election stage. Did you ever imagine such an expression of hatred?”

  “It’s not such a leap, Natasha,” Austin said. “The Australian People’s Party has much the same message as Warrior of God: that everyday Australians are extraordinary and deserve all the support and assistance they can get to do great things ….”

  Glenn nudged Hollins. “He’s so good.”

  Hollins tracked a sports utility with an oversized bullbar. The doors sprung open and it disgorged four brawny youths in mechanic’s boots, dirty jeans and lumberjack shirts open over black tee-shirts. He recognised the type at a glance. “Here we go.” His shoulders tingled with anticipation. He might just be about to earn his keep as a bodyguard.

  Glenn grabbed Hollins’ arm. “It’s okay. They’re with us.”

  Austin lounged in his desk chair, fiddling with the spare, dry paintbrush that had been his prop when he posed for the TV camera.

  Hollins stood at the table with Glenn. The four brawny men hung around the door.

  “Sophia and I discussed this with Austin,” Glenn said. “The situation has escalated. We need extra help. You can’t protect us from hooligans on your own.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Hollins said.

  “Yet we had all that damage last night,” Glenn insisted.

  “You’re not paying me to watch the place overnight.”

  Austin’s examination of the brush hairs paused.

  Hollins winced. What if Austin offered him the work? Refusal might offend. He changed the subject. “Who are these guys?”

  “Hi, I’m Bozza.” The lead numpty wiped his hand on his shirt and offered it to shake.

  Hollins grunted.

  “Gary?” Glenn prompted.

  Hollins sighed but did the deed with Bozza and his good mates, Jeff, Lynny, and Scrubs — all cut from the same burly, overgrown, immature wally template.

  “Where did you get them?” Hollins asked, determined to make his point.

  “We asked around. The same way we found you,” Glenn said.

  “The church social club? Ranger Scouts? Birdwatchers of Bell’s Landing?” Hollins asked.

  “The footy club, wasn’t it, Bozza?” Austin asked.

  The head numpty preened under the gaze of the TV star. “That’s right. I play footy and I do motocross with these losers.”

  The meatheads chuckled together.

  Losers sounded right to Hollins. “What can you contribute, lads?”

  They exchanged glances.

  “Any experience? Any training?” Not that Hollins had much to offer beyond what he learned from Clint Eastwood’s In The Line of Fire role. That and his time with Her Majesty’s 22 Special Air Service Regiment. The regiment drills focussed on its primary roles, evasion and surveillance, but some of the skills Hollins learned had come in handy from time to time.

  “My brother was a bouncer once,” Lynny said. “It’s not that much different, is it?”

  “Your brother?” Hollins gave the sarcasm full bore. He turned to Austin. “Awesome. Let these guys take over, and I can get back to my day job.” Changing fluorescent tubes at Summer Dayz would be a vacation after this.

  “You’ll train them,” Austin said. “Please. Gary, they’re strapping young locals who believe in APP. Right, boys?”

  The numpties’ heads wobbled like bobblehead footballer figurines.

  Hollins groaned. He hadn’t imagined his day could get worse. Perhaps he should show them In the Line of Fire.
>
  Debbie scanned Wendy’s photo of her son, pasted the image into a document, added the words Missing, please help then printed off a couple of dozen flyers.

  She figured Keith wouldn’t be able to afford the resort hotels along the beach west of town or the multitude of wildly expensive B & Bs, so she began her search at the opposite end of the scale, The Bell’s Landing Backpackers Hostel.

  A pair of girls sat on metal chairs at a picnic table on the crumbling verandah tiles, with disposable coffee cups steaming and their eyes fixed on their screens.

  “Excuse me.”

  They looked up. Debbie slid a copy of her homemade poster onto the table. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen this bloke, have you?”

  They looked at each other. “No,” the blonde-streaked one said. “I’d remember. He’s hot.”

  “Can you keep an eye out for him? He’s been missing for a week.”

  “That’s no good. Let me get a photo.” The blonde positioned her mobile.

  The dark one piped up. “Good thinking. We can put it on Insta’.”

  The blonde one snorted. “All your friends are in Maroochydore, Kath. He’s not in Queensland, is he?”

  Debbie shook her head. “If you see Keith, please get him to call his mum. She’s tearing her hair out. Or call that number. It’s mine.”

  “Will do.”

  Debbie let herself in through the bright purple front door to the reception desk. A dreadlocked dude manned the stool, reading a dog-eared copy of Anna Karenina.

  “Hi, have you seen this guy? Has he stayed here? It would be in the last week or so.”

  The dude cocked an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?”

  Debbie flashed her doctored PI identity card.

  “Private eye. Cool.” Dreadlock Dude tapped the poster, then reached for the desk computer. “What’s this feller’s name?”

  “Keith Tupaea.”

  The dude didn’t bother typing. “No. We haven’t had anyone with that name. You can put one of those posters on the noticeboard, if you like.” He showed her to a two-metre square pinboard littered with business cards, photos, postcards and notices.

  Having exhausted most low-end accommodation options without success, Debbie turned to the names Wendy remembered from her former workplace, Jetty Auto Sales.

  The used car yard had ceased operations ten years ago, the site now part of the Woolworth’s car park. Wendy’s boss had been Harry Vickers, and the electoral rolls listed Harold John Vickers at an address a street back from Austin Gould’s place.

  Debbie smoothed her skirt, fixed her warmest I’m-no-threat-at-all smile and rang the bell.

  The woman who came to the door was about her grandma’s age, with grey hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, a yellow tee-shirt and shorts that suggested a familiarity with tennis courts. “We don’t buy anything from unsolicited callers.”

  “Very sensible.” Debbie flashed her card. “I’m looking for the Harry Vickers who owned Jetty Auto Sales twenty years ago. Are you Mrs Vickers?”

  “What do you want with Harry? We’re retired.”

  “Great, and I promise there’s nothing I’m going to ask that will cause any trouble.” Unless Harry fathered Keith. Less said about that, the better. Debbie hadn’t asked for probabilities on the potential sperm donors. Wendy insisted she hadn’t given her son any clues, so Debbie saw no reason to put Keith’s mum through the ignominy of counting out the boys she’d had sex with. “I’m working for a worried mother, Wendy Tupaea. Her son’s missing.”

  “I don’t know any Wendys.”

  “Your husband might. Wendy worked at the car yard.”

  “We won’t give you any money.”

  “I understand. I’m not asking for any. Have you seen this man?” Debbie held up her missing person poster. “Wendy thinks he might call on people she knew in the old days.”

  Mrs Vickers put on the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck and peered at the photo. “I don’t think so.” She turned to the house. “Harry! Do you remember Wendy Tupaea?”

  A sprightly man in a matching tee-shirt and shorts with a tanned bald patch and a military moustache stepped into the hall, a newspaper in his hand. “Should I?”

  “She worked at the car yard twenty years ago,” Mrs Vickers said.

  “Twenty years ago! I don’t think … wait a minute. Yes, I do. The Maori girl. She’d have been about fifteen.”

  “That’s her,” Debbie said. “She’s looking for her son.”

  “Why’d she be looking here? Let the poor lady in, Enid. This sounds interesting.”

  They settled around the dining table with freshly brewed mugs of coffee.

  “Have a biscuit.” Mrs Vickers offered a loaded saucer.

  “Are those Tim Tams?” Debbie asked. “Thank you, but no. One bite, and I’ll eat the whole packet.”

  Mr Vickers snatched two.

  “Harry!”

  He waggled his eyebrows and demolished half a biscuit with one bite.

  “Keith Tupaea came to Bell’s Landing to look into Wendy’s past, but he’s gone missing.”

  “That’s no good. How’s Wendy keeping?” Harry asked. “She only worked for us for a few months, unless I’m mistaken. I think her family went back to New Zealand.”

  “That’s right. She’s been married fifteen years and had four kids, including Keith.”

  “That’s nice.” Mrs Vickers nibbled delicately at a Tim Tam. Harry took another huge bite.

  “Keith took a picture from Wendy’s album. Just one, a team photo taken at Jetty Autos. She says the photographer got up on a ladder to get the sales office and some of the cars in the shot. Do you remember the picture? It’s unlikely, I know, after so long, but if you could tell me what happened to the people who worked for you then, it would be a huge help.”

  Harry’s eyes glittered. He winked at his wife, pushed back his chair and headed into the lounge room.

  Mrs Vickers patted Debbie’s hand. “Now you’ve done it. That picture is his pride and joy. His fifteen minutes of fame, he says. More like fifteen seconds.”

  “This one?” Harry, beaming, came back with a framed, blown-up photograph, the colours smudged in the way of ageing prints. He pushed aside a fruit bowl and the biscuit saucer and laid it on the table. “There she is. That’s Wendy, next to Louise.”

  “Louise ran the office for donkey’s years,” Mrs Vickers said.

  There were only two women in the photo, crouched at the front of the group, a buxom, heavy woman and a slip of a girl with luxurious dark hair. A dozen men spread behind them among the V8 Fords and Holdens on the lot, all of them flush with youth, confident smiles, easy grace, mullets and spectacular facial hair — devilishly handsome, one and all. Harry Vickers stood in the office door, arms crossed. He still had a full head of hair.

  “Yes,” Debbie said. “I think this might be it.”

  “And Wendy’s son took this picture from her album? Just this one?” Mrs Vickers grinned.

  “Did Wendy have a boyfriend?” Debbie asked.

  Harry stiffened. “Umm, not that I remember. Is that important?”

  “Well, yes. Wendy thinks Keith’s father might be in the photo.”

  “His father? But … oh.” Mrs Vickers put her hand to her mouth.

  “Harry?” Debbie asked.

  He went back to his seat with a sigh. “Sheesh. It could be any of them, truth be told.” He gave his wife an apologetic grimace. “It was different then. The car wash girl was always a good-looking, curvy, barely-legal teenager. The sales guys were flashy, cocky, horny — sorry, Enid — blokes with the gift of the gab and too much time on their hands. The car wash girl was fair game.”

  Mrs Vickers let out a horrified squawk.

  “Not me, love.” He appealed to Debbie. “But I turned a blind eye. I let it happen. It was all consensual, so I never … well. One of those lads got Wendy in the family way, eh?”

  Debbie flinched. A group of men took advantage of a teenage g
irl at the bottom of their power structure and Harry shrugged it off with ‘it was different then’, but she couldn’t afford to let her disgust show if she wanted to find Wendy’s son. “Do you know what happened to the salesmen? Are they still in Bell’s Landing? Wendy’s not looking for child payments or anything, but Keith’s trying to find his father, and he’s disappeared. His mum desperately wants to find Keith. Do you have old employment records or something? Wendy couldn’t remember names.”

  Mr and Mrs Vickers exchanged a glance. Harry chuckled. “There’s one I definitely remember, and he’s in Bell’s Landing. Do you recognise him?”

  Debbie studied the faces. Nothing came to her. She shook her head.

  Harry stabbed a finger at the photo. “Come on! Yes, you do! Second from the right. Do you see it now? Austin Gould. He was plain old Joe Singleton then. I suppose they wanted something more memorable on the billboards. It’s my claim to fame. Austin Gould got his first job at Jetty Autos.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT VOTE GOULD headquarters, Glenn opened proceedings. “You know Gary Hollins, Austin’s head of security.”

  Hollins groaned inside. He’d been promoted from lone tosser to head tosser.

  “Gary is responsible for your training, and he’ll coordinate in the field. Gary?”

  Hollins cast his eye over the seven jerks puffing their chests and flexing their biceps in brand new Vote Gould tee-shirts. The volunteer security squad had multiplied overnight.

  “What are you gonna teach us, Gaz?” Bozza asked.

  Hollins gritted his teeth. He liked almost everything about Australia, but not the way locals mangled his chosen Christian name.

  “Gary’s an expert in armed and unarmed combat.”

  He snapped a glare at Glenn. Where the hell did he get that from? Jordan Verdicatti had a lot to answer for. Hollins’ past needed to stay in the past. The more times an idiot like Glenn Braithwaite outed him or an allegedly-retired mob boss blabbed, the greater the chance word might get back to London.

  A big kid with a wispy wannabe-moustache and the beginnings of a paunch raised his hand. “I did karate.”