by T. J. Beach
“Sorry. I promised him a beer if he signed the contract for his Prado today. It stretched to a few. A ninety thousand dollar four wheel drive deserves a bit of gratitude.”
“No problem.”
“I should thank you. He might have kept me here all night if you hadn’t turned up.”
“My pleasure.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“It’s about Devon. Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“I don’t think we were introduced. I’m Damian Conti.” He produced a card from his jacket.
Hollins held it up to the light. “New cars. Skipworth Motors.”
“Yes. Do you need a new motor?”
“More than you could possibly imagine, but that’s not why I butted in. I work with Ridenour Investigations.” He flinched as he said it. “We’re looking for Devon.”
“Is he lost?” Damian grinned, but his eyes narrowed.
“There’s nothing for Devon to worry about. Or you. It’s his mum that’s worried. She hasn’t heard from him for a while.”
“Oh. But don’t you know him? You and your daughter were with Devon on Saturday.”
“Pure coincidence.”
Damian snapped his fingers. “That’s right. He said you put yourself between him and those would-be gay-bashers.”
“How do you know Devon? As far as we’re aware, he’s never been to Bell’s Landing before.”
“I don’t really. A friend of a friend put him on to me. People know people.” He hesitated. “In our community. A network.”
While Hollins debated whether to seek confirmation he meant an LGBTQI network, Damian went on. “I got a call asking if I’d help out a friend. I said yes and suggested here as neutral ground. It’s my local.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
Damian inclined his head in agreement.
“Ah, I get it. You’re a car salesman,” Hollins said.
“I don’t follow.”
“Devon wanted to find the people in a photo he had of a car yard, so why not ask a car salesman.”
Damian nodded, pulled out his phone. “That’s right. This picture. I took a copy and showed it around at work. One of the old blokes remembered quite a few of them. Did you know Austin Gould worked there?”
“Yeah, I heard that. You gave the names to Devon?”
“Emailed them to him.”
“Devon stayed in Bell’s Landing?”
“You seem like a decent bloke, but there’s no way I’m going to tell you where to find Devon.”
“You know where he is?”
“No.”
Hollins couldn’t fault the guy for discretion and good on him for being protective. “How about if you tried to get a message to Devon?”
“What sort?”
“To call his mum. That she’s here and really worried about him. She has private detectives tracking him down. He might well know that already. My boss is handing out photos of Devon. It’s costing Wendy Tupaea a fortune, which I don’t think she can afford.”
“I’ll send an email. Why’s she worried? Devon’s an adult. Is he in danger?”
Hollins hesitated. “Probably not physical peril.”
“You had to think about it.”
“Hmm. He struck me as the sort who might attract trouble.”
Damian straightened. “Oh yeah? Because we ask for it? He couldn’t possibly look after himself, being gay.”
Hollins needed to get some tips on how to avoid offence. “No, he just struck me as the type that assholes pick on — they sense vulnerability, and Devon’s search is likely to bring up things those people want to forget. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
Damian glared at him. “Not all gays collect wildflowers for their needlepoint, you know.”
Hollins rubbed at his neck. It was hot all of a sudden. “Look, Devon will know why his mum’s worried, but it’s not for me to say.”
“Fair enough. I’ll ask around and pass on the message. Have you got a card?”
“No. Sorry. Can you give me another of yours? I’ll write my number on the back.”
“Are you sure you’re a private detective?”
Hollins grinned. “I’m bloody sure I’m not. I don’t want to be. I help out at Ridenour Investigations because … You don’t want to know all that. I tell you what. Wendy Tupaea is staying at the RestaNite Motel. You can call her there. Or call Ridenour Investigations and ask for Debbie Haring. She’s my boss, and it’s her case. I only got involved because Debbie’s daughter — the girl I was with on Saturday — recognised Devon.”
“Good for her, eh?” Damian wrote the hotel details in a pocket-sized notebook.
“Jenny’s a bullet. Can you give me any more hints about this network of yours? If we had an idea who Devon has contacted, we might be able to trace someone who knows where Devon’s staying.”
Damian shook his head. “Not much. Like I said, a friend of a friend in Perth rang my partner because we live in Bell’s Landing. He asked me to help because of the car yard connection. I met Devon that once. I take it you’ve got his phone number?”
“His mum has. He’s not answering. Could your partner get the network looking for Devon?”
Damian smiled. “The jungle drums will hum. Devon seemed like a nice kid. He should talk to his mum.”
“Good. Would you mind telling me the names you gave Devon so we can follow up with them?”
Damian thought for a moment. “All right. They were all salesmen. I never met a shy one. I doubt they’ll mind.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DEBBIE MANAGED TO shoehorn the collapsible stepladder into Matt’s LandCruiser with the back seats laid flat while he snoozed on. Handy that he was off shift to mind the babies. She tossed in his cordless Ryobi, just in case. She wouldn’t drill unless she had to, the owners of Austin Gould’s rented headquarters might not be happy about new holes in the facade.
The parking spaces were all empty at seven a.m., which disappointed her. She liked to practice her reversing skills in Matt’s big car.
Hollins rolled up when she was halfway through attaching the second camera.
He wandered to the back of the LandCruiser and picked up the drill. “Nice.”
“Real men like Matt have a shed full of power tools. What have you got in your trailer?”
Hollins snorted. “I borrow Tommy’s tools for jobs around the park. Does that count?”
“No. Real men own their tools.” Debbie positioned the camera, pulled the plastic tag to uncover the sticky pad and pressed it onto the wall. “Stay there.” She eased her fingers away, ready to catch it if it fell. “There. I didn’t need the drill anyway.”
“Pity. I wouldn’t have minded putting this baby through its paces.”
“I back trucks, climb ladders and operate power tools. Women can do all sorts of things these days. Do you find that intimidating?”
“You intimidate the hell out of me. Do you need Matt at all?” He jabbed the drill at imaginary walls and planks.
“Put that bloody thing down. If you break it, you bought it.” Debbie descended the ladder. “Matt’s taking the kids to school today, for one thing. He pretties up the place. I’ll hang on to him for a bit longer.” Debbie opened her laptop. “Which is the campaign office wi-fi? I’m picking up half a dozen.”
Hollins read the details of the network and password off his phone.
“That works. Here we go.” Debbie navigated to the camera software. “Move, Gary.” She flicked her hand.
“Do what?”
“Walk about. It’s motion-activated.”
Hollins took a few paces and waved his arms above his head.
Debbie’s phone and laptop pinged. “Gotcha. I can see an idiot doing callisthenics in front of the store. Oh, it’s you. Look.” She replayed the recording. “It stores the pictures on an SD card in the camera.”
“So your phone’s going to ping every five seconds all day.”
“No. I’ll tu
rn the alarm off during business hours and turn it back on when the office is empty. When do they shut up shop here?”
“The volunteers knock off about half-past four. Depends with Austin. I can text you.”
“Works for me. When do they open? I thought there’d be activity now.”
“Most days there would be, I think. Today there’s a strategy breakfast at Austin’s.”
“Ooh, sounds important.”
“Austin’s door-knocking today. He couldn’t be bothered coming here first, I reckon. Or Glenn wanted Sophia to fry him bacon.”
“I never imagined her at the stove. Do actresses cook?”
Hollins chuckled. “You’re probably right. Austin’s slaving in the kitchen while Sophia sips champagne in her dressing gown.”
“I’m not interested in your perverted fantasies.”
“Busy with your own? Austin in a little apron and nothing—”
“Shut up. I need to get around to Wendy’s. Tell me about this guy at the pub.”
“You tracked down this salesman guy already, and he can get in touch with Keith? Good.” Wendy sat at a table in a worn fleece robe, sipping instant coffee, not champagne, with half-eaten Vegemite toast on her plate — no half-naked sex symbol labouring over the frying pan. Damn Gary for putting the image in her head.
Poor Wendy had shrunk since the weekend. She chewed her bottom lip, staring at the copy of the Jetty Autos photo on Debbie’s phone.
“I don’t know if Damian Conti can contact Keith,” Debbie said, “but he knows people who might, and he’s going to try.”
“Good on him. Keith always had friends. People warm to him. Joe Singleton is Austin Gould, you say? Sheesh.”
“You didn’t know?’
“Nah. I don’t watch Warrior of God. Not my cup of tea. I like the soapies. Shortland Street. Do you get that over here? Joe was a hell of a good-looking feller. Still is. Austin Gould, eh? And you spoke to Harry Vickers?”
“Yes. He was very helpful.”
“Old Harry, eh? You haven’t asked—”
“And I won’t. All that matters is what Keith thinks.”
“Okay. Times were different then.”
“Not so much, I don’t think. Men are still bastards.”
“And girls are still girls. Maybe you’re right.”
“Damian, the guy we found, gave us a couple more names — Tony Hoffman and Derek Loughnan.”
“Dirty Derek, that’s right. And Tony.” She pointed to the photo. “That one. He was a nice kid. Useless salesman. I bet they’ve all got beer guts now.”
“Except Austin Gould.”
“Yeah, except him.”
“What were these guys like?”
“Boofheads, full of themselves, cocky as.” Wendy shrugged.
“How do you think they’ll react if Keith finds them and starts asking awkward questions?” Gary’s comment on the subject had worried Debbie, and she felt Wendy had a right to know. “I don’t want to give you any more concern than you already have, but I’m wondering if we shouldn’t go to the police again and give them some more information.”
“No. I’m not talking to those dickheads any more. I just want to see Keith before he finds his dad. He’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure? Gary, my colleague, said Keith seemed …” How could she put it?
“Gay? He’s gay, but he can look after himself. He went through a period in school. Denial, I guess. He played rugby until the stomping in the ruck got to be a bit much — it’s not a game for small blokes. Then he did Tae Kwon Do, shot guns, even hunted deer with his dad. He’s gay, but he’s not a pansy.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean …”
Wendy waved it off. “No problem. You’re doing your job. I can’t believe how well you’ve done already. Thanks so much. I could never have done all that. Getting the photo, finding this Damian. It’s incredible.”
“It’s not much.” Stuff all, really. Much as she wanted to hug Wendy and make everything better Debbie would not let on that Gary’s big breakthrough had been a total fluke facilitated by her seven-year-old daughter. “I’ll follow up with some more of these guys today and keep giving out the posters.”
“Can I have a few?”
“Of course.”
“I went for a walk yesterday,” Wendy said. “I can’t get very far without a car, but everywhere I looked, I thought I saw Keith. It was horrible. I showed a few people Keith’s picture, the one on the poster, but they looked at me like I was a dero’ after beer money. I don’t know how you do it all the time, but I’m so worried about Keith. This is such a mess.”
Debbie went to Dirty Derek Loughnan’s workplace next. He’d moved on from selling cars. His financial planning business had a swish office with indoor plants and a teenage receptionist on Queen Street in the heart of Bell’s Landing.
Car salesman turned financial planner didn’t say much about the ethics or qualification requirements of the investment industry. Debbie already had an opinion about as low as a snake’s belly when it came to glib advisers chasing fat commissions. She had a special place earmarked in hell for the charlatan who led Matt into a franchise deal that sucked up all their savings and left them still struggling to pay off the debts years later. Matt had to go back on the mines to make ends meet while the piece of scum who told him everything would be fine had a two-storey holiday home at Yallingup.
“Mr Loughnan will see you now.” The receptionist flashed a million-dollar smile, big blue eyes and way too much cleavage.
Debbie forced her lips into a smile. Wendy needed her. Time to put aside her prejudices and woman up.
Loughnan had slicked-back hair, full lips, heavy gold rings on his fingers and one too many shirt buttons undone. He came around his desk to grasp Debbie’s hand and look right into her eyes. “Mrs Haring. I’m Derek. So glad you’ve come to me.”
She withdrew her hand as quickly as she could and wiped her palm on her thigh as she took the seat offered on the couch.
Derek retrieved a book of forms from his desk, took the easy chair next to the couch and leaned in towards her, knees spread wide.
Fortunately, the book in his lap obscured the worst of the manspread.
“How can we help you?” he asked.
Debbie extracted a copy of the Keith missing poster from her bag and slid it onto Derek’s pad.
It wiped the smile off his face. “What the hell?”
“I’m with Ridenour Investigations.” She flashed the ID card. “Mrs Wendy Tupaea has engaged us to find her son. That’s him.” She swiped her phone. “You’re in a photo—”
“I know who he is.”
“Someone called you?”
“No. He came here yesterday.”
Astonishment spiked Debbie to the seat — a zap of adrenaline straight down the spine. “Did he give you any indication of where he’s staying? Where we might reach him?”
“I told him to piss off.” He picked up the poster in both hands, smirking. “I remember that Wendy. Quite a ride.”
Debbie sat bolt upright.
“I told the kid. They were all tarts. No one forced them, love. They were all gagging for it.”
“You realise you could be Keith’s father.”
The creepy goat laughed out loud. “Yeah, whatever.” He pointed at Keith’s image. “That could be my chin, but I tell you what, he’s got Harry’s nose!”
“Harry? Harry Vickers?”
“Yeah. Harry Vickers.”
“But, he said …” Debbie’s mind raced. The retired car yard owner had painted himself as an innocent bystander, but he would in front of his wife, wouldn’t he?
“He’s a lying tosser. Always was. Harry had first dibs. He did the interviews in his office. None of those girls got the job without being tried out on Harry’s sofa.”
Debbie glanced involuntarily at a dark blob on the sofa fabric near her hand and shuddered.
Debbie stumbled out of the office a few seconds later, desperate for a
shower to wash off the filth of Loughnan’s personality, hardly able to believe she could be so sickened in such a short time.
The teenage girl jumped up from her desk. “That was quick. Can I book another appointment?”
Debbie met her eyes, images whirling of stained couches and old men abusing positions of power. The poor girl. “I can see why they call him Dirty Derek.”
The girl blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Debbie drove to the candidate’s beachside house at five p.m. to take over bodyguard duties from Gary.
She found him in a lounger on the patio, sipping a long fizzy drink.
“Started on the cocktails already?” she asked.
He tipped the drink at her. “A well-earned reward.”
“Hard day, was it?” She rolled her eyes.
“Tough … to stay awake. You have no idea how hard it is to stand around all day with nothing to do but watch for non-existent threats. My back’s killing me.”
“Huh! I worked a till in Coles all day Saturdays when I was fifteen. Don’t talk to me about backache!”
“How was your day?”
She sat on the other lounger. “Harry Vickers is a liar.”
“Yeah?”
“According to Loughnan, Harry was the worst offender for exploitation. No one got a job at Jetty Autos without having sex with him.”
“Including the salesmen?”
“Probably. I wouldn’t put it past him. I don’t like being lied to.”
“Harry has confirmed this?”
“No. Derek Loughnan told me. I’m fuming.”
“I can tell. You believe this Derek?”
“I thought I’d met some sleazebags, but, bloody hell. He’s proud of screwing Wendy. Joked about Keith being his son.” She paused. “Keith has been to see him.”
Hollins stirred.
“It doesn’t get us any closer to Keith. Dirty Derek gave him the flick,” Debbie said.
“It proves … something. Devon’s still around. If he visited Dirty Derek, he probably—”
“Called on Harry Vickers, too. I know. Why did the dirty old skunk lie to me?”