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

by T. J. Beach

  A mark against him. Debbie made it a point to dislike anyone who didn’t like her kids, even if they shouldn’t be there.

  Jennifer and Lachlan spent a bit of time at Ridenour Investigations out of necessity. Even given Kim’s flexibility, or disinterest, in her working arrangements, there were inevitably times, with Matt on site eight days out of fourteen, when she had urgent work outside school hours. But Debbie had never before taken them along on a field visit. She rationalised that delivering the quote was administration, not investigation, and the search for Keith couldn’t wait. If nothing else, Keith’s mum’s money for professional hours would run out fast.

  Debbie looked around Glenn’s shoulder to the candidate’s office. “I wanted to see Austin about some ideas for additional security. He’s in there?”

  Glenn shuffled sideways to block her path. “No need to bother him. He’s too busy. Security is my department. I can see you in a minute. Gary, there’ve been a couple of changes to the schedule.”

  Austin Gould emerged from his office beaming. “Have we got visitors? Lovely to see you, Debbie. Are these your young ones?”

  Debbie steered her children around Glenn. “Lachlan, Jennifer, this is Mr Gould.”

  “Well, hi, Lachlan.” He crouched to her son’s level and offered his hand, which Lachlan shook with a solemn nod.

  “And Jennifer.”

  “Hi, Mr Gould. Mummy said you’re on the telly, but she wouldn’t let us watch your show.”

  “Jennifer!” Bloody kids, they repeated everything you said.

  Austin laughed. “Quite right too. It’s not a kid’s show.”

  “Is it great being on TV?”

  “Don’t bother Mr Gould.”

  “It’s hard work sometimes, but yes, it’s pretty great. I’ve got a daughter about your age.”

  “Does she go to Bell’s Landing Primary?” Jennifer asked.

  “Oh, no, Annette’s not here with me. She’s in New South Wales with her mother. I’ve got a son as well, but he’s quite a bit older than you, Lachlan.” He turned to Debbie. “Your kids are gorgeous.”

  “They take after their dad,” Gary said, under his breath.

  Debbie made a mental note to kick his ass. “Have you got a moment, Austin? There are a couple of things I need to run by you.”

  “Sure.”

  Glenn huffed. “We’re due at the Rotary Club in ten minutes. We mustn’t be late.”

  “Good oh. Come into the office, Debbie. We’ll leave Gary and Glenn to their thing.”

  “Gaz?” She waved her hand over her children’s heads.

  Hollins nodded.

  “Wait here, kids.”

  “No, bring them with you,” Austin insisted. “They’ll be fine. I don’t spend enough time with children.”

  “Okay.” She could kick them out if the conversation about Keith Tupaea shifted above a PG rating.

  “I think I’ve got some biscuits. Do you like biscuits?” Austin asked.

  Lachlan nodded eagerly. As if the little rat needed more sugar, but what the hell.

  Austin pulled his desk chair to his meeting table and gave each of the kids a chocolate digestive biscuit from a packet in his desk drawer. Lachlan went at his like he hadn’t eaten for a week with worried looks at his mum. Debbie and Matt rationed chocolate at home — massive dental bills were the last thing they needed.

  Debbie spread security camera advertising on the desk. “First, I think you can beef up your coverage of this office. For a couple of hundred dollars, we can buy cameras like these and fit them outside. They’re motion-activated. If we can link them to your office wi-fi, they’ll send an alarm message to my laptop and Gary’s every time anything comes into range — a car, a stray dog, or vandals writing graffiti on your window. It all gets recorded.”

  “Excellent. If the vandals come back, we’ll catch them at it. It’s a couple of hundred dollars to fit them, you say?”

  “Two hundred and twelve dollars twenty-two, including GST.” Debbie laid the quote alongside the camera advertisements.

  “How much for the monitoring?”

  “No charge. There’s nothing to do unless we get an alarm when the building’s not occupied. We’ll report anything to the police and come out ourselves if it seems warranted, which we’d charge at our protection rate. We have these arrangements with a few of our clients. They work really well.”

  “Do it. Great idea.”

  Debbie tidied up the papers, moved them aside and set up her phone in their place. “The second thing I wanted to show you is this. I saw a picture today that I thought you might find interesting.”

  He glanced at the phone, then stared and lifted it for a closer look, grinning. “Jetty Autos. Never! My first job out of high school. Those shoes cost me forty bucks. I had them for years. This is incredible. Where did you find it? Jetty Autos closed years ago!”

  “Harry Vickers.”

  “That old rogue? Is he still around?”

  “He lives about two streets from your house.”

  “I’ll have to call in. Do you think he’d let me get a copy?”

  “I think it would make his day.”

  “Harry Vickers, eh? And the one with the Dennis Lillee moustache there, Gannis Karagounis, he was a character.”

  “Do you remember the girl at the front?”

  “Louise? Ruled the office with an iron fist.”

  “Next to her.”

  Austin cupped his chin, considering. “I think I do. Lovely girl.” He tipped his head. “They all were. She wasn’t there long. Mary? Maria? Something Biblical?”

  “Wendy.”

  “That’s right, Wendy.”

  “This is her son.” Debbie slid one of the flyers across the table.

  “He’s missing?”

  “Yes, and he had a copy of the Jetty Auto’s picture. We think he might try to contact the men in it. Has he been here?”

  Austin put down the phone and picked up the poster. “I haven’t seen him. Shall I keep a copy of this? Is that Wendy’s phone number?”

  “Please keep it and let everyone know to look out for him. That’s my number, not Wendy’s. If you talk to Keith — his name’s Keith — please ask him to call his mum. She’s very worried.”

  “I will. I will.” He stared at Keith’s image. “Why does he want to meet the people in the photo?”

  There it was, the sixty-thousand dollar question. Debbie glanced at the kids, Lachlan rapt, Jennifer nibbling the last corner of her biscuit. “He’s looking for his father.”

  “Ah.” Austin frowned and placed the flyer on the table. “Has Wendy …?”

  “We’ve been hired to find Keith, to reassure Wendy that he’s okay. Getting mum and son back together is our only interest.”

  “Right. I see.” The way Austin bit his lip suggested he’d got the message.

  Glenn stuck his head in the door. “It’s time, Austin. We need to roll.”

  The screen star pushed back his chair. “Sorry, Debbie, duty calls. Nice to meet you, kids.”

  “Get your djen boodja koorliny,” Jennifer said.

  “Sorry?” Austin asked.

  “It’s Noongar. Get your feet on the ground walking. Mrs Ugle’s teaching us at school.”

  “Okay.” He shook his head at Debbie.

  “Something wrong?” Debbie asked.

  “No. No. I can’t believe what they teach kids in school these days. I’m all for culture, but do they teach them something useful like French or German? No, a dead language. Mangled vowels savages used in the Iron Age. Never mind, get those cameras, Debbie, and email me Harry’s phone number. I want a copy of that photo!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHILE AUSTIN RAN through his standard stump speech in a nondescript function room off the main bar of The Ship pub, the Bell’s Landing Rotary Club tucked into their main courses, and Hollins stood at the back, grinding his teeth.

  At the main table, Jordan Verdicatti broke bread with the club’s office bear
ers. Western Australia’s most notorious, never-prosecuted alleged crime figure didn’t wear a Rotary name badge. If he had, in his suit and tie, he’d be indistinguishable from the legitimate business owners and professionals.

  Austin fielded a few soft questions and turned down an offer to join the club members for a drink citing his other commitments, but still took five minutes to clear the hall as every Rotarian laid down his or her knife and fork to shake the candidate’s hand.

  Verdicatti picked out Hollins and sauntered over. “Enjoying the bodyguard lark? Easy money for a guy like you. Pity about that graffiti.” The old villain chuckled. “I’m surprised they let you in without a tie.”

  “You were invited. Their standards must be rock bottom.”

  “Don’t be like that, Gary. I’m the president’s guest.”

  “Forget your badge, did you, or won’t they have you as a member?” Hollins indicated the empty spot on Verdicatti’s lapel.

  “They keep asking me. I’m always good for a donation to their causes. It pays to keep in with the local do-gooders, but these dinners aren’t my thing. I only came to hear Austin. Anyway, they only allow one member for each business type, and they’ve already got members for entertainment and licenced bars.”

  “I’m amazed they don’t have categories for your other businesses. What are they again? Loan sharking, protection rackets, prostitution, drug trafficking?”

  Verdicatti’s eyes hardened. “Now, now. Those are slanderous rumours spread by bent coppers. I’m very anti-drugs.”

  “G’day, Jordan.” Austin grabbed his hand. “Good to see you again. And thanks for your latest contribution. Glenn filled me in.”

  “No problem. Always happy to help.” He winked at Hollins.

  It made him feel as though he’d bathed in slime.

  “What’s Verdicatti doing here?” Hollins asked as they hurried to the Lexus, behind schedule for their next engagement in Dunsborough.

  “The president says he’s their biggest donor. Why? Is there a problem? Jordan recommended you. I thought you must be friends.”

  “No.”

  “He seems to like you. Anyway, I think he’s wonderful. He pointed you our way, and without his support, we’d be struggling.”

  “He gives money to Labor and the Liberals as well.”

  Austin clapped Hollins on the shoulder. “Don’t be so cynical.”

  “You know his reputation.”

  “Colourful, I’m told. Don’t believe everything you hear. There’s a lot of jealous people around.”

  Hollins took that to mean that Austin had his ears closed to any criticism of his party’s sugar daddy.

  He kept the Lexus five kilometres per hour under the speed limit driving to Dunsborough, declining to overtake slow-moving vehicles in the single-lane section. Speeding tickets didn’t fit well with his below-the-radar personal strategy. He also liked the idea of Glenn pacing up and down at their destination, cursing, scowling at his watch.

  If the lack of urgency bothered Austin, it wasn’t enough to distract him from making a stream of calls on his mobile phone.

  They met the Vote Gould entourage in the Dunsborough pub car park. Some old-school knitting circle volunteers had joined Glenn, Sophia and the Goon Squad.

  While Glenn filled in Austin on whatever extraordinary developments there might have been while he’d been incommunicado at the Rotary dinner, Hollins gave the new extended protection team a pep talk. “You know the drill. You are eyes and ears, that’s all. I want you spread out at least three metres from Austin. He’s here to press the flesh, so you stay out of the way unless you detect signs of a threat, in which case you call me, and I’ll decide what to do.”

  Bozza raised his hand. “What if someone charges at Austin with a baseball bat?”

  “Then you have my permission to put your body in their path, but you may not raise your hands.”

  “It’s like shepherding then, in footy,” Lynny said.

  “I have no idea,” Hollins said.

  They stared at him.

  “I assume you’re talking about Australian Rules Football. I’ve never seen a game.”

  “You’re kidding!” Lynny said. “Bloody poms.”

  “Actually, it’s more like basketball,” Martin offered. “You can’t use your hands to block in basketball.”

  “Yes, you can,” Bozza said. “But you can’t touch—”

  “Anyway.” Hollins raised his voice. “I’ll tell you what it’s like. Security guys at the cricket. They sit with their back to the action and watch the crowd. Do they have them at footy games?”

  Martin wagged a finger. “Yes, but if there’s a streaker, they chase them down and tackle them.”

  “Martin,” Hollins said.

  “Yes, Gary?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Austin’s moving. Glenn’s waving at you,” Bozza said.

  Hollins threw his hands up. “Go.”

  Austin wandered among the evening crowd in the streets off the main city block. Couples wandered to and from shops and bars or took a meal at al fresco tables.

  The Goon Squad lost concentration within minutes.

  Hollins huffed and growled, telling Bozza and Lynny to stop chatting with each other, Martin to watch the crowd instead of Austin, and generally feeling and acting like a grumpy pensioner. He told himself to be thankful they weren’t shoving grandmas against shop windows and kicking puppies out of the candidate’s path.

  In between snarling at the new recruits, he tried not to notice how many times Sophia touched Glenn’s arms and shoulders. Hollins’ skin fizzed wherever her lovely fingers pressed the other man as if Glenn were some kind of weird reverse Gary Hollins voodoo doll.

  The campaign manager lapped up Sophia’s proximity like a cat with a bowl of Devonshire cream.

  Hollins studiously avoided watching Austin work the passersby in case Bozza or Martin caught him breaking his own made-up, movie-inspired rules. An occasional glimpse of the appreciation that hummed around the candidate told him all he needed to know. Austin was doing his thing, giving people his attention, making each one feel like the most important person in the world, tolerating selfies, signing receipts or anything else his admirers could produce. Austin cheerfully debated election issues with the obstinate few who dared to spoil the festival atmosphere and even left them smiling.

  The guy had a gift. How could anyone who met Austin Gould vote for anyone else?

  By about half-past eight, the footpath traffic had thinned to the point that election volunteers outnumbered potential voters, and Glenn called a halt.

  Hollins needed a beer after jousting with Verdicatti and ninety minutes of fuming at goons.

  When he’d dropped off Sophia and Austin at the actor’s house, he swapped from the Lexus to his Holden and pointed it at the Esplanade Hotel. The perfect choice — on his way home, cheap beer and the excuse of looking for the friend who met Keith-who-called-himself-Devon.

  Quiz night had drawn a crowd to the Espy.

  Hollins took one of the high stools at the bar and ordered a pint of Swan Lager while he scanned for Keith Tupaea and his friend among the tables of four-to-six drinkers waiting for the next round of questions.

  A school-masterly type in a collared shirt and jeans stepped onto the stage and picked up the microphone. “Everyone ready for round four? Bad luck if you’re not because the Espy Quiz waits for no man. Anyone who touches their mobile phone now will be disqualified. The Bowls Buddies on table eight are three points ahead but don’t despair. There are six more rounds to reel them in.”

  A group of grey-hairs whooped.

  The other tables returned playful boos.

  “Don’t forget the town name anagrams sheet has to be in by the end of round five and the famous faces sheet by the end of round seven. Has anyone got all the faces yet?”

  Groans from all sides.

  The quizmaster chuckled. “I told you it would be hard. Alright, I’ll raise the bonus to t
wo bottles of Hanging Tree Semillon Sauvignon Blanc for anyone who gets all ten faces.”

  He paused, looked around the hall and ploughed on. “Round four. Question one. ‘Hell is empty, and the devils are here’ is a quote from which Shakespeare play?” The quizmaster flicked a laptop, and a slide appeared on the screen with the question and four choices. “Is it (a) As You Like It, (b) Macbeth, (c) The Tempest or (d) Romeo and Juliet?”

  Hollins let out a breath. He loved the chumminess of pub quizzes, but compulsory English at Billericay Secondary Modern skimmed over Shakespeare. Why couldn’t they ask something a few more pub patrons might get, like who won the FA Cup in 1961? In Australia, they’d ask who won the AFL premiership? A depressing thought. It might be years before he answered another quiz night question correctly.

  Hollins took his disappointment to the beer garden, empty but for a single pair seated at the table where he’d met Keith-who-called-himself-Devon a few nights before.

  The taller of the two drinkers leaned back to laugh, instantly recognisable in the light from the bar as the man who’d come to meet Devon.

  Hollins stopped dead in shock. He never had that sort of luck.

  The two men looked up at Hollins trying to balance his beer, so he grasped the opportunity to renew acquaintances. “Hi, remember me? Gary.” He extended his hand.

  Devon’s friend bunched his eyebrows as they shook hands. “I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “We met last Saturday, at this very table. I was with Devon.”

  “Oh, yeah, I do remember. Did you want something? Sorry to be abrupt, I’m with a customer here.” He grinned at his companion.

  “Yes, if you’ve got a second later, I’d like a word.”

  “It could be a while.”

  “I’ll wait. I’ll take a seat over here.” Hollins smiled and picked a stool far enough away for discretion but in the path to the exit.

  Ten minutes later, the customer, a middle-aged man whose collared shirt suggested he’d come from an office, drained his pint and left with a curious glance at Hollins as he passed.

  Devon’s friend looked up, and Hollins went to his table.