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

by T. J. Beach

  “We did. Debbie?”

  She cleared her throat. “I rang this morning and spoke to a rather rude man who told me he’s the state secretary.”

  “George Ivers,” Glenn said.

  “That’s him. He confirmed there was a meeting.”

  “There. You see?”

  “Only…”

  “Here we go.” Glenn rolled his eyes.

  “This state secretary bloke said Glenn called the meeting. No one else could see the point when it was so obvious the campaign had to be suspended, but Glenn insisted. George said the meeting was a complete waste of time, over in five minutes.”

  Hollins took over. “The meeting was the excuse to drive to Perth. A five minute chat left Glenn all the time in the world to take his hire car back to the rental company and change it.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Where did you hire the car from, Glenn? Perth airport?”

  “This is …” Glenn choked on the words. “I can prove I didn’t change the car. I’ve got the hire contract.” He stood up. “It’s in my briefcase.”

  Josh blocked his path to the door.

  “Let him through. I want to see this,” Hollins said. “But go with him, Josh. He might leg it.”

  Glenn huffed out into the commercial space, got the papers and stormed back. Josh shadowed him all the way.

  Glenn tossed the sheets onto the coffee table. “There, the hire contract. Look at the dates.”

  Debbie pulled it over and examined the details. “It’s an open-ended hire from September fifteenth.”

  “You see,” Glenn said triumphantly. “That’s the day I arrived in Perth, and it’s the same car sitting outside.”

  “Mmm,” Debbie said, “maybe.” She showed Hollins the contract. “The hire car registration number is sort of blurry. It’s been smeared.” She paused. “Accidentally, I’m sure.”

  “She’s right.” Hollins took the contract and passed it to Austin. “What’s the betting, when we check at Perth airport, that the car Glenn hired on September fifteenth is back in their pool, and he’s driving another one — the SUV he got checked by the police.”

  Glenn gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white.

  Hollins went on with studied indifference. “The rental company will have washed the one you hired the first time thoroughly, but the police might find some Yallingup dirt in the wheel wells.”

  Glenn scoffed.

  “They’ll have cleaned inside, as well.” Hollins leaned over the table, holding Glenn’s gaze for maximum effect. “But no more than a quick vacuum. There’ll be DNA, fibres, something that puts Keith Tupaea in the vehicle. The CSI guys will find it and — bingo! — you’re going down.”

  Glenn sucked in a breath and held it, biting his lips, his eyes flashing like a cornered animal. He leapt to his feet and pulled a pistol out of the belt at the small of his back. “No one move!” He swung the barrel from Hollins to Debbie and Josh.

  Austin cowered away.

  Hollins stood up, hands raised. “Don’t do this, Glenn. There’s no point. You won’t get away.”

  “I don’t intend to.” Glenn grinned. “Austin. Everything comes so easily to you, doesn’t it? The golden boy. You do nothing, but you get everything. I worked harder, I was more talented, but you got it all. I was going to ride on your back this time. I loved it. Then you ruined it for me again by banging some car yard slut.”

  Austin opened his mouth to object, and the pistol lurched his way.

  “What a tragic scene this is. Gary Hollins went berserk, shot everyone in the room, then killed himself. Probably some horrifying throwback to his murky past — yes, Jordan Verdicatti told us all about you. I’ll have a nasty leg wound, but I’ll survive. Stay there, Josh! I can see you.”

  Hollins flicked a glance over his shoulder. The chocolate man had taken half a step towards the murderer.

  Debbie shouted at Hollins. “Fuckin’ hell, Gary!”

  The barrel of Glenn’s pistol swung to her.

  “Where’s your gun?” she yelled.

  Hollins blinked. What the hell?

  She fixed him with a glare. “Well? Where is it?”

  Glenn’s pistol wavered towards Hollins.

  Debbie, with an almost imperceptible nod, reached for the backpack beside her chair that held the laptop.

  Hollins got it then. He spluttered. “Shit, Deb. You know I don’t carry my gun.”

  Glenn jabbed the pistol at Hollins’ chest.

  Debbie exploded out of her chair swinging the bag over her shoulder to slam down on Glenn’s gun arm.

  He cried out, grabbed his wrist, but clung onto the pistol.

  Debbie swung again. The bag crashed into Glenn’s jaw and shoulder with a distinct pop.

  Hollins bashed the table out of the way with his hip and drove his shoulder into Glenn’s chest.

  The gunman ricocheted off the office window, and Hollins shoved him back, kneed him in the stomach and jammed him face down into the carpet, one knee on Glenn’s neck, the other on his back.

  The gobshite roared with rage and writhed, the pistol windmilling.

  “Get the gun!” Hollins yelled.

  Josh stamped on Glenn’s injured wrist, crouched and wrestled for the pistol.

  Glenn thrashed his legs and fought to free his chest.

  Josh dropped his butt onto Glenn’s thighs, both hands still around the murderer’s wrist so the gun pointed at the ceiling.

  Hollins, face to the wall, struggling to keep Glenn’s snarling mouth in the carpet, appealed to Deb, “Do something!”

  “Austin,” she said, “give me your belt.”

  The actor shook himself out of traumatised immobility and hurried to comply.

  “Shit,” Hollins protested. “You can’t strangle him, Debbie!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Idiot! I’m going to tie his hands.”

  “And, Austin?” Hollins asked.

  “Yes?”

  “While she’s doing that, could you ring Stu Reilly?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE HEADLINE READ:

  Gould campaign manager charged with South-West murders

  Even in Glenn’s five seconds of fame, Austin still got his name first — the prime billing. It would eat Gloomy Glenn’s gut, and no one deserved it more.

  Or rather, on Hollins’ screen, the headline said:

  Gould campaign manager ch d with South-West murders.

  Hollins thumped the side of his laptop. It didn’t help. The blurred diagonal slash a couple of centimetres wide stayed where it was. The damage had been done for a good cause, at least. He might be dead if Deb hadn’t belted Glenn with it. That tosser wouldn’t be pulling a gun on anyone else soon.

  Hollins saluted the screen with his tea mug. A job well done.

  His phone rang. Debbie, of course. No one else rang him.

  “You broke my laptop,” he said. “The screen’s cactus.”

  “Sorry. Next time, I’ll take it out before I use my bag to disable a crazed gunman.”

  “That’s the last time you’ll ever face a guy with a gun if I have anything to do with it.”

  “Oooh, Gary, my saviour! Stop whinging. It got damaged at work. The new one will be a tax deduction.”

  “If I ever earn enough to pay tax.”

  “You will if I have anything to do with it. Can you come in today? I want to talk to you about that Bunbury warehouse assignment.”

  “Debbie, you are not going to make me a private detective.”

  “Sherlock Holmes couldn’t make you a private detective. I’m going to make you a respectable, useful citizen.”

  “Not today. I promised to help Tommy put up new monkey bars in the children’s playground. You should bring Jenny and Lachy around to test them out.”

  Debbie snorted. “If you help put them up, I wouldn’t dare risk my children’s lives on them.”

  “Thanks, by the way.”

  “What for?”


  “I think you saved our lives yesterday. Glenn was serious.”

  “I don’t know about that. I had help … from your laptop. But it does make you beholden to me. As your first step towards repayment, you will help us with the Bunbury warehouse.”

  Hollins sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s the good news.”

  “There’s bad news?”

  “Dave McManus got his hard drive out last night.”

  “Did he delete stuff?”

  “No. He browsed.”

  “Shit. We can’t wait for the police. What can we do?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Hollins looked forward to clipping on the Summer Dayz Caravan Park tool belt.

  Back to normal, the life he craved: low key, low stress, low expectations.

  With two of them on the tools, he and Tommy remodelled the playground easily enough. The hardest bit was getting the rusty old climbing frame down. The new one went up like a shot.

  It took a couple of hours.

  They could have done it in an hour without the chat.

  Tommy was in fine form, shooting the breeze on every subject dear to the male heart from sport to … sport.

  Hollins gave it half an ear, relieved his park manager and friend didn’t want the inside story on murderous campaign managers.

  The beauty of life on a caravan park resort was that it was an oasis where the nasty old world ended at the boom gate, except that the Yarrans kept letting in busy-body private detective agency administration managers and detective sergeants. He should talk to them about that.

  The fulfilment wasn’t quite there. Not like the old days when a bit of park maintenance gave Hollins relevance and satisfaction. A couple of hours barely breaking a sweat, and he’d be back in his cabin reading his library books and wondering what he could find on the telly.

  He almost missed putting on a collared shirt and leather shoes.

  Almost.

  They retreated to the garden furniture on the deck outside the park office for restorative cans of Pepsi Max. Hollins dropped his cap on the plastic table alongside Tommy’s faded West Coast Eagles hat — boys and their grown-up rituals. Tribal affiliations for the modern age. Where would they be without rival teams to denigrate?

  He picked up Tommy’s beloved headgear and rubbed his thumb over the battered brim. “This has just about had it,” he teased.

  “My oh-six premiership cap? A triumph for the ages. Last kick of the game, over the Swans. It’ll do for a few more years yet. I’ve got the twenty-eighteen premiership cap maturing on my sideboard.”

  Hollins flicked it back beside his sweaty Summer Dayz cap. “Hey, Tommy, you know a bit about AFL.”

  “A bit. What do you want to know?”

  “What’s a number that means a lot to St Kilda fans? A four-digit number.”

  “Too easy. For Sainters? There’s only one — nineteen-sixty-six.”

  “When England won the World Cup?”

  “Did they? St Kilda only won the premiership once in their entire history.”

  “Nineteen sixty-six?”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks for the drink, mate.”

  “Anytime. You off?”

  “Yeah. There’s something I need to check on my computer.”

  Hollins punched the button. A bell rang in the house.

  Footsteps clumped in the hallway, and the door opened the length of a security chain to reveal half of Dave McManus. “Gary?”

  “Hi, mate. How ya doin’?”

  “Good. Is there something—”

  “Nothing much. I was in the area. I wondered if you wanted a drink.” Hollins held up a brown paper bag with the bottle-o logo where Dave could see it. “I wanted a chat about the camps.”

  “Okay.”

  “You going to let me in?”

  Dave hesitated, frowned, but released the chain and unlocked the security door.

  Hollins stepped in, but a second person pushed in before the screen door could close behind him.

  “Hey, what the—”

  “Oh.” Hollins blocked the door open. “Didn’t I mention I had company? You know Debbie Haring.”

  “Err, yeah, sure. Nice to see you, Debbie.”

  She shut the door, applied the deadlock and gave Dave the look that could kill the unsuspecting.

  He staggered back a step. “What’s happening?”

  Hollins pushed on down the corridor. “This one?” He pointed at the second door.

  Debbie nodded.

  Hollins went in.

  “Hey!” Dave crashed after him, but Hollins got to the desk in the man cave first, sat down, opened the bottom drawer and picked out the hard drive with his thumb and forefinger like the filthy piece of garbage it was, placed it carefully on the desk and plugged it into the laptop.

  The homeowner lunged for the hard drive. “You can’t do that!”

  Debbie grabbed his collar and hauled him back. “He just did.” She pushed McManus down on a lounge chair.

  “It’s trespass. You can’t just barge into my house and go through my things. That’s private!”

  “You let us in, dipshit,” Debbie said.

  “We just want a look at your hard drive,” Hollins said.

  A sneer spread to the pedophile’s lips. “Best of luck with that.”

  “Shit, Deb, there’s a password,” Hollins said. “Do you want to share it with us, Dave?”

  “Not a chance. I want you to leave.”

  “Okay, I’ll have a go myself.” Hollins shrugged. “What do I get, three shots?”

  Dave glared.

  Hollins tapped the keyboard. Middle row left, middle row right, then two more in the middle, calling out the letters as he typed, “S-K-F-C.”

  “Shit!” Dave bunched his fists.

  Hollins stared Lachlan’s tormenter in the eye, then went to the numbers line. “One—nine—six-six. Bingo.”

  Dave let out an anguished groan.

  Debbie slapped him hard on the side of the head.

  “Ow! Don’t do that!” He flinched a hand over his ear. “You can’t hit me!”

  “Watch out if she goes for her belt,” Hollins said.

  Dave’s eyebrows went up.

  She rolled her eyes.

  Hollins pushed back in his chair, both hands on the edge of the desk, slimy under his sweaty fingertips. One more step — if he could bring himself. He filled his chest and held his breath while his hand crawled to the mouse and clicked.

  The folder opened with row upon row of picture tiles, too small to make out.

  Hollins let out his breath as he clicked again and gagged. “Shit. This doesn’t get any easier.”

  A very small boy with round wounded eyes.

  Naked on a park bench.

  Hollins closed the screen window closed.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” McManus said. “It’s private. You broke into my house.”

  Debbie clouted him again. “You’re going to jail, you sick prick. For the rest of your disgusting life. You’re going to be bashed every day, pissed on in your bed, and I hope you live a long, long time.”

  “She’s upset,” Hollins said.

  Dave looked from one to the other.

  “You should not have messed with Lachlan,” Hollins added. “Now, before we take you to the police, you’re going to give us a list of everyone in your network — names, contacts, the lot — and every kid you’ve ever abused on your weekends away or anywhere else.”

  “No chance!” He crossed his arms and raised his chin in pathetic defiance. “It’s not abuse. Never. I love those boys.”

  Hot bile rose in Hollins’ throat. He shoved a pad across the desk and threw a pen at Dave. “Get writing.”

  “No. You can’t make me.”

  Debbie kicked him in the ankle. When he looked up, she snarled. “Would you like to bet on that? You can write.” She pointed at the pad. “And go to perverted rock spider ja
il, or Gary will shoot you in the head. He’s got his gun.” She glared at Hollins. “This time.”

  Dave jolted towards Hollins, who nodded and reached around behind his back where the gun would be.

  “You wouldn’t,” Dave said uncertainly.

  “He totally would.” Debbie made her fingers into a gun. “I’ve seen him do it — blam, blam — no hesitation, no remorse. He’s scary as shit with a gun in his hand.”

  “Only first, before I blow your head off, Debbie will get the bluntest knife in your kitchen drawer and cut your balls off.”

  “Bullshit.” It came out as a whimper.

  Debbie undid the buckle of her belt. “Hold him still, Gary.”

  Hollins rose and reached behind his back.

  “I’ll write.” Dave put up his hands in surrender.

  Hollins let his jacket fall back into place. There wasn’t a pistol in his belt.

  Dave picked up the pad. “It won’t be any use to you. I’ll get the hard drive thrown out as evidence. No way a judge will admit it. You stole it!”

  Hollins used the tips of his fingers to ease the data storage with its repulsive stock of images further out of reach.

  “Then I’ll have you two arrested. This isn’t over.” McManus scribbled a few names and email addresses and tossed the pad on the desk. “It’s just started, and you’ve got nothing on me that’ll stand up in court.”

  Debbie picked up the pad and shoved it back into his lap. “Five names? Not enough. There are always hundreds of you scum feeding off each other. Keep writing.”

  He crossed his arms.

  Debbie looked at Hollins. He sighed and reached to the small of his back again.

  Debbie pulled her belt out of the loops at the waist of her jeans.

  “Okay.” Dave wrote furiously for five minutes, then slid the pad onto the desk, put the pen on top and slumped into the armchair. “That’s it. It’s everything.”

  Debbie leaned over, scanned the first page, lifted it and pointed to the third name on the next page. “I told you,” she said to Hollins.

  He looked. “Sod it. Greg from the Fire Station?” His hand went behind his back again.

  Dave choked.

  Hollins pulled out his wallet, extracted a fifty dollar note and handed it to Debbie in settlement of their wager.