October

by Gabrielle Lord

It was clear. I dropped to my knees and squeezed through the weeds under the front verandah, crawling beneath the house just like Boges and I had done months ago. The hole in the floorboards was still there although someone had nailed a couple of planks across it. I lay back on the ground, with my legs up, and kicked at the boards until they dislodged and came off. I hauled myself up into the familiar room.

  Slivers of streetlight peeked through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Someone had cleaned inside, swept the floors and ceilings clear of cobwebs, and removed all the rubbish and rotting furniture. The crumbling staircase had vanished entirely and in its place was a narrow ladder. I tested its sturdiness and carefully climbed up.

  When my head was at the second-floor level, I peered around. The floorboards up there looked shaky, but the space was clear. There used to be a gaping hole in the roof where some tiles had broken and fallen away, but now it was covered with a blue-green plastic tarpaulin.

  Back down the ladder, I checked the bathroom. The broken sink was gone although the tap fittings and toilet were still there. Someone had gone to quite a bit of effort to clean up the place as best they could, yet it looked like no-one had been inside for quite a while. What had happened to the developers? Maybe they’d gone broke.

  I decided to stay, for now, and remain on guard.

  85 days to go …

  We talked over our plans to coordinate the surveillance operation on Sheldrake Rathbone, dividing shifts between us, to cover both his house and his office. The small table was strewn with notes and piles of toast. In the corner, the TV flickered again with the sound off.

  I picked up another piece of toast and smothered it in crunchy peanut butter. Boges nodded to me, indicating that he wanted one too.

  Winter put down her toast and licked a drop of raspberry jam from her finger. ‘Cal, if we’re right about Rathbone—if he really is a crim—he could have some big secrets. Sligo-sized secrets. Look!’ she said, suddenly distracted by the TV. ‘Speaking of crims, look who’s just appeared!’ She hurdled over the couch to grab the TV remote, and turned the volume right up.

  Oriana de la Force’s unforgettable face filled the screen. She was almost as red with fury as her towering hair.

  Winter put a finger to her lips.

  ‘Police received an anonymous tip off,’ said the newsreader, ‘and are currently interviewing members of Ms de la Force’s staff. Ms de la Force vigorously denies the charges.’

  ‘This is outrageous!’ screeched Oriana to the mob of microphones that circled her. ‘I had nothing to do with the kidnapping of that Ormond child,’ she spluttered. ‘These ludicrous charges have been brought against me by a spiteful ex-employee. I am already mounting a counter-case against him for malicious prosecution and defamation. The child was kidnapped by her criminal brother, the infamous Callum Ormond. In fact, the police will most certainly be charging him with that offence as soon as he is brought back into custody.’

  ‘Spiteful ex-employee?’ asked Boges.

  ‘Kelvin’s dobbed her in,’ said Winter. ‘What’s wrong with him? Does he want to lose his head? Look at her! Now she’s so furious, she’s turning purple! Her lipstick almost matches her face!’

  ‘Kelvin?’ I said. ‘Could he be that mad with her? That bent on revenge?’

  ‘Hate to break up the party,’ said Boges, ‘but I have to go. I’ll organise a digital camera for you, Cal, and I’ll catch up with you outside Rathbone’s office building after school.’

  ‘Cool, thanks. I’d better head out, too. Start the surveillance.’

  Winter went to one of the drawers in her dressing table and took out a small camera. ‘Cal, for now you’d better take mine.’

  I’d been watching Rathbone’s office building all morning, even though I was uneasy hanging around the city. I’d worked on my hair and clothes quite a bit and was counting on that being enough to escape detection. I’d also brought along a clipboard and a small parcel, hoping I could pass as a courier and get into the office.

  Rathbone had entered the building around eight thirty, and he hadn’t stepped back out yet.

  Just as I moved in closer to the foyer of the building, Rathbone appeared out of the lift. I quickly turned my head and pretended to look at the listing of business suites on the wall. ‘Rathbone and Associates’ was listed as being located in suite two, on level five. After a moment I turned around and saw my subject walking into a small sandwich bar and café next door.

  From back outside I watched as Rathbone eventually re-entered the building and vanished into the lift, clutching a paper bag. Clearly he was taking his lunch up to his office.

  I was stoked to see Boges arrive on his bike.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked, pulling his helmet off.

  ‘Boring,’ I said. ‘Undercover work is not very exciting.’

  ‘I can take over from here. You should get out of here before five o’clock. The less you’re seen, the better. I know what Rathbone looks like and I know he drives a red Audi. I’ll wait for him to leave and try and follow him home. I’ll send you the address as soon as I can.’

  ‘And then you’d better get back to perfecting Oriana’s fingerprint.’

  ‘Yes, boss!’

  r’s address: 87 chesterfield ave, seaview heights. going home now.

  Winter convinced me to grab a cab with her to Rathbone’s. I had a bit of ‘gold’ money that I was happy enough to part with, so after about twenty minutes in front of the mirror—with Winter fiddling with my hair—we hopped in one from the closest rank and headed off.

  The cabbie dropped us off a few blocks away from our destination and we made the rest of the way on foot.

  The grey and white house was surrounded by lush lawns and gardens. A low hedge, trimmed meticulously, formed the front fence. A path led up to the entrance of the house, and a long driveway led to a triple garage. Beside the garage was a paved pathway to the backyard.

  All was quiet.

  We carefully crept up and peered down the side of the house. The edge of a paved terrace peeked out—a bit like the one at the back of Rafe’s place. It also looked like he might have had a bit of a vegetable patch or something growing deep in the rear of the yard.

  The house was shrouded in darkness. Not a single glimmer of light seemed to show from inside. It looked like whoever was inside was in bed and asleep. No point sticking around tonight.

  After Winter and I walked all the way back to her house, I decided to continue walking to St Johns Street. She told me Sligo had mentioned something about ‘spending quality time’ with her on the weekend, so I couldn’t risk staying at her place, waiting for him to pop his nasty head through her door and find me on her couch.

  And so I was back in the St Johns Street dump, feeling a great sense of déjà vu. Restless and trying to fall asleep on the creaking floorboards, my mind was skimming over everything that had happened to me since running into the crazy guy on New Year’s Eve last year. The 365-day countdown was ticking away so fast. I’d come so far, but I still had so much to do.

  I was thinking about some of the people who had helped me along the way—Jennifer Smith, Melba Snipe, Nelson Sharkey… and I was thinking about some of the people I hoped would help me in the future—Eric Blair, and the Keeper of Rare Books, Dr Theophilus Brinsley.

  And then, of course, I was thinking about the guy who had my face. Ryan Spencer.

  82 days to go …

  Boges, Winter and I had shared surveillance of Rathbone’s house over the weekend, but none of us had uncovered anything worthy of blackmail—unless you count footage of Rathbone, when he thought no-one was watching, wandering out to collect the morning paper in his undies.

  I was hoping this week would give us the breakthrough we needed, but today had been no better. I’d spent the day sitting outside Pacific Tower, watching the entrance while mindlessly scratching a thin layer of black colour off my mobile phone casing.

  Now I was back at Chesterfield Avenue, hiding my
self and Boges’s bike in the bushes. The red Audi was parked in the driveway and a light was on upstairs.

  I peered in the direction of the street when I heard footsteps walking up the path nearby.

  I knew that silhouette anywhere. Winter.

  ‘Hi,’ she whispered, crouching down beside me. ‘I know it’s not my shift, but I needed a break from studying and thought you could do with some company—’

  Winter suddenly stopped talking and pointed to the front door with her eyes.

  It was Rathbone emerging, still in his suit and carrying a black briefcase. He fumbled with his keys before locking the door and heading for the driveway. The red Audi beeped, unlocked, and Rathbone climbed in and started the ignition.

  ‘Quick,’ I said. ‘On the bike!’

  We looked through the vine-covered windows of the expensive city restaurant. Rathbone was sitting at a table in the corner with another man in a dark suit.

  ‘That’s not his usual briefcase,’ whispered Winter.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, peering at the black bag at his feet. ‘I’ve never seen that one before.’

  We looked at each other for a moment before Winter spoke again. ‘Something different from the usual,’ she said. ‘It could mean something.’

  I pulled out the camera Boges had given me on the weekend. I made sure the flash was switched off, pressed the lens to the glass and, when no-one was paying any attention, I took a picture.

  I checked the image on the camera’s screen. It wasn’t a very clear shot, as the foreground was partially occupied by a couple near the window. But in the distance it showed Sheldrake Rathbone and his companion, and the black briefcase beneath the table.

  ‘Look,’ I said, noticing something else under the table as I zoomed in on the image. I turned the screen to Winter. ‘The other guy has an almost identical bag at his feet.’

  ‘So he does,’ she said. I looked into Winter’s dark, almond-shaped eyes. She suddenly squinted and grabbed the camera from me. ‘Hey, wasn’t that bag the one Rathbone went in with?’

  ‘What?’ I said, taking the camera back and looking at the image again. ‘You think they’ve done a switch?’

  ‘I swear he came out of his house with the bag that’s now at the other guy’s feet. It’s more squarish than a typical briefcase. I could be wrong…’

  ‘I think you’re right!’ I said.

  Rathbone climbed out of his car, lugged the briefcase out after him, and returned to his house. Around us, the night was still and quiet, apart from a possum or two scurrying along the trees that lined the street.

  ‘What should we do now?’ I asked Winter. ‘The briefcase is no use to us unless we find out what’s inside it.’

  ‘You want to break into his house?’

  Before I could answer, Rathbone appeared at the front door carrying a small kerosene lamp in one hand and a shovel in the other. His eyes darted around the yard, a clear sign he was up to no good. He leaned the shovel against the wall and disappeared inside once more.

  Winter and I grinned at each other, anxious to witness whatever was about to unfold.

  A few minutes later he was back, this time with the black bag by his side. He reached for the shovel, turned on the lamp, and started for the backyard.

  ‘You wanted dirt,’ said Winter, ‘and now it looks like you’re gonna get it!’

  We carefully followed Rathbone down the side of the house. He went straight for the vegetable patch down the back. There seemed to be a few cabbages or something leafy growing in three neat lines, and beside that was a low mound of soil.

  Rathbone stopped at the mound of dirt and placed the lamp on the ground. A small circle of light surrounded him. He pulled up his sleeves, took the shovel with both hands and began digging.

  We huddled down behind a birdbath water feature that was flowing in the corner of the yard.

  ‘He might be burying someone,’ I quietly joked, as the sounds of the spade hitting dirt continued. Winter gave me a strange look, as if to say my words weren’t that far-fetched. I shuddered, remembering my own burial at the hands of this shady guy we were watching.

  The sound of digging became louder and then suddenly stopped. Had Rathbone sensed our presence? We squatted like statues, not daring to move.

  After a moment I peered around the birdbath.

  Rathbone was flat on his stomach, reaching into the hole he’d just dug. He grunted as if he were lifting something heavy.

  He struggled, but finally squirmed backwards, pulling a wooden chest out of the earth. Rathbone knelt over it—it was about the size of a picnic esky—and wrenched the lid open.

  Buried treasure?

  Winter and I stared on, riveted. I was barely breathing as I watched him shuffle on his knees to the black briefcase. He looked at his left palm before running his thumbs over the twin number locks that clasped the bag shut. He must have written the code on his hand. The bag opened and he began lifting its contents out and transferring them to the chest.

  ‘Cash!’ Winter whispered. ‘Wads of cash! Thousands and thousands of dollars!’

  ‘Why would he bury money in his backyard?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. He doesn’t want the bank or the taxman to know about it, and he doesn’t want anyone knowing how he got it!’

  Silently I drew out my camera. Winter reached into her embroidered shoulder bag and pulled out her camera, too.

  ‘Don’t forget to switch off the flash,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Cal, we’re gonna need it,’ she said, as she squinted through the viewfinder.

  She was right. It was too dark.

  ‘OK, let’s both take photos on the count of three, then run for our lives. Cool?’

  ‘Let’s do it!’

  I zoomed in as far as possible.

  ‘One,’ I counted. In the tiny window, the figure of Sheldrake Rathbone, solicitor, stooped as he transferred the last of the wads of cash from the briefcase into the chest. ‘Two … three!’

  The night lit up with two camera flashes, one slightly later than the other, and then we were off, racing and tripping through the garden. I wrenched Boges’s bike out from behind the bush and jumped on. Winter ran around in front and hitched herself up on the handlebars.

  ‘Let’s go!’ she urged.

  I pedalled like crazy, the bike flying down the footpath, carrying both of us. Winter’s hair flapped wildly in front of me. She gripped the handlebars and risked an awkward twist around to give me a victorious grin.

  81 days to go …

  we busted rathbone big time! at winter’s now.

  Safely back at Winter’s place we checked what we’d caught on camera. In my shot, Rathbone was stooped over in the act of putting something into the chest, but when I enlarged the picture, it was clear what he had in his hand—a very fat wad of fifty-dollar notes. Winter’s shot, a second later than mine, had caught Rathbone’s white face as he looked up, shocked and drained in the sudden flash of brilliant light.

  When Winter enlarged her shot, it was clear that the dirt-covered wooden chest he’d unearthed already had a lot of cash packed in it.

  ‘We got him! We got him!’ we yelled, hugging each other and jigging around the tiny kitchen. We bumped into the couch and fell over backwards. Winter fell on top of me, but quickly jumped up.

  She kissed her camera. We both knew that these photos meant we’d have the Piers Ormond will in our hands in no time.

  u caught him doing what?! can’t wait to find out! i’ll call in on my way 2 school.

  ‘Man, these are awesome! You have him red-handed. Where do you think he got all that cash?’

  ‘Probably fleecing some poor old lady’s trust fund,’ I said, picturing a kind, elderly client of his, someone like Melba Snipe. ‘All that matters,’ I added, ‘is that he’s hiding money in a chest in his garden. It’s gotta be dirty money. Honest people don’t bank like that.’

  ‘Dirty money,’ Boges laughed. He pull
ed out his laptop. ‘So let’s send him one of them already—I think the one that shows his face will freak him out the most. I’ll use one of my anonymous email addresses. We still have his email address from when he made contact on your blog ages ago. Do you have the camera cord for this?’ he asked, picking up Winter’s camera.

  Winter fumbled through her desk drawer. ‘Here it is,’ she said, passing it to Boges.

  ‘Just keep it anonymous for now,’ I said. ‘Let’s make him nice and paranoid. I don’t think he has a clue who was behind his birdbath last night. He’ll be freaking out already.’

  Boges transferred the photo from the camera to his laptop, then attached it to a blank email addressed to Rathbone. He nodded to us as he hit ‘send’.

  ‘All you have to do now,’ said Boges, ‘is wait. And then call him.’

  ‘Awesome,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow. Let him stew for a day.’

  80 days to go …

  ‘Sheldrake Rathbone,’ he said, when he answered my call.

  I deepened my voice, trying to sound tough like Nelson Sharkey. ‘I believe you received an incriminating photo,’ I said.

  He was silent for a moment, and then I heard something like a door slamming. He was probably shutting his office door—he definitely wouldn’t want anyone overhearing this conversation.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he growled into the phone. He was trying to sound threatening but I could hear the fear in his voice.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about who I am—what you need to worry about is that photo, or another one just like it, being handed over to the Law Society, the police or the press. Everyone will be wondering where Sheldrake Rathbone—a leading solicitor—got that briefcase full of money, and why he’s burying the stash in his backyard?’