by Emma Viskic
He turned to Frankie, still lying with her eyes closed, Doc Martens propped on the arm of the couch.
‘You awake?’
She sat up, bleary-eyed. ‘Not really.’
He told her what he had, and what he didn’t have.
‘A name?’ She winced. ‘The one thing you’re truly shit at.’
A bit harsh: he was shit at other things, too. ‘It starts with a vowel or open consonant. Something like Shona. Maggie ever mention a name like that?’
‘No, but she wouldn’t. She doesn’t trust me enough.’ A grimace. ‘Always was the smart one.’ She sat back and went to kick off her boots, turned the action into an unconvincing stretch. The second time she’d done that
Her boots.
The only clothing she hadn’t ditched in her Earth Mother makeover. Safe and unremarkable: the perfect place to hide a safety deposit key.
An easing in his chest. A way out. No jail, no gunman, just give Imogen the key and get on with his life. It’d take a bit of managing with Tilda here, but her presence would make things safer, too. If he brought Imogen to the motel, Frankie would hand over the key without a fight: she wouldn’t risk the girl being hurt or alarmed. But he’d better confiscate Imogen’s taser, just in case.
He stood. ‘I’ll try again tomorrow. When are you leaving? It’d be good to run any possible names by you.’
‘Late check-out’s twelve. I’ll give you till then.’ She came to lock the door behind him, paused before closing it, some emotion clouding her eyes. A moment to recognise it as sorrow. ‘I’m sorry, Cal. I know you’re only in this because of my fuck-ups.’
He stood motionless as she closed the door. Fuck.
***
A brisk walk around the corner to his car, but no large men were lurking in the shadows. He’d parked outside a busy convenience store: good cover for his presence if Imogen really was tracking his phone. He wasn’t going to give her anything until she’d agreed to a few demands. Doors locked, he unwrapped the phone from its foil envelope and put it in the dash holder. Kat first – catch her before bed. She crashed early these days.
The video icon flashed for a long time. He was about to give up when Kat appeared, the image wobbling as she propped the phone on the coffee table and curled up on the couch; in her slop-around-home clothes of leggings and an oversized T-shirt, the dark blue one she’d pinched from him years ago, a little faded now. A deep, deep need to be there beside her.
He flicked on the light so she could see his hands. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘At nine-thirty? Please. I don’t go to bed until at least nine-forty.’ She peered at the screen, her smile dipping. ‘Why are you in your car? Has something happened?’
‘Yeah, I found Frankie. It’s over.’
She briefly closed her eyes. ‘God, what a relief. How’d you find her?’
‘Long story.’ Their hiatus meant they’d been avoiding evening visits, but it didn’t have to stay that way. He could be on that couch in fifteen minutes, in her bed, in her arms. ‘I could come over, if you like. Tell you in person.’
‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’ She hesitated. ‘But I should warn you, I’ve got company.’
Probably one of her older sisters. Kat’s family had always been frequent visitors, but since the pregnancy her sisters had been on a roster. Always wise to know what he was getting into. He liked all three women, but his status as potential not-ex-husband for Kat was currently under very vocal review. ‘Multiple sisters, or just one?’
‘Just Georgie.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Plus Jarrah.’
Aware his smile had turned into a grimace, but unable to control it. Jarrah sitting across the table from Kat, being relaxed and charming and definitely thinking about the heat of her soft body. Disturbingly easy to imagine them as a couple: the shared passions and backgrounds, the joys of a relationship unburdened by sorrow. If Caleb asked, Kat would tell him about her feelings for the man. Which he must never, never do.
‘You’ve got a full house,’ he said. ‘How about Friday? I’ll cook.’
‘You’re on.’ She crossed her arms over her chest as though holding him to her: I love you. A kick to his heart every time; years thinking he’d never see her sign it again.
‘Love you, too.’
He ended the call and stayed sitting, not quite able to take the next step. He owed Frankie nothing. She was a lying, manipulative criminal who’d hurt Kat to save herself.
Who’d risked everything to save him.
Had held him up in his lowest moment and coaxed him from his pain.
He banged his head against the seat, each thump a little harder. Do it. He grabbed the phone and typed.
—Docs are in a deposit box. Know where key is. Written confirmation you’ll leave Frankie and me alone when you’ve got it
Imogen’s reply came so quickly, she must have been holding her phone.
—Where?
—Confirmation we’re out. Make it good in case I have to show it to the media or your bosses
The next text took a long time to arrive.
—I, Senior Constable Imogen Blain of the Australian Federal Police, confirm that Caleb Zelic and Francesca Reynolds will have no further questions to answer from me upon receipt of the safety deposit key.
The phone vibrated again.
–Address
—Have to take you there. Logistics involved
—I’m not in Melb. Stop stalling or I’ll talk to homicide
How the hell could she not be in Melbourne? In the middle of some dodgy case, her colleague’s face shot off, and she’d popped out of town. God, he just wanted this to be over.
—Not stalling, there’s a child involved. Threats won’t make me change my mind
Another long wait and the phone buzzed again.
—Back early am. Will txt. DO NOT FUCK ME AROUND
He turned off the phone. The delay was hard, but worked in his favour. Frankie probably wouldn’t even argue with him and Imogen if Tilda was awake; a protectiveness to her with the girl he’d never seen before. And he was the arsehole who was going to use it against her.
12.
He kept his appointment at Alberto’s, arriving gritty-eyed and shivering before dawn, regretting his choice of a light cotton jacket and jeans. Sleep had been slow to come despite the long run he’d done after leaving Frankie. He’d gone for another this morning. Slipping into old habits – have to watch that.
He grabbed the box of CCTV cameras from the back seat and headed through the grey light to the kitchen. He’d put his restless night to good use by looking through everything Alberto had sent about the sabotage: four misdelivered catering orders and the cancelled electricity account. Small acts that had packed a hefty financial punch, all done in the past month via Alberto’s security-free computer system. As far as suspects went, it was anyone in the world with internet.
The kitchen was ablaze with light. Alberto and his grandson, Nick, were hard at work cooking arancini. A matched pair with their lean builds and darting movements, the only difference Nick’s full head of wavy brown hair instead of Alberto’s gleaming scalp. They signed as they dropped rice balls into the oil, eighteen-year-old Nick holding forth on his footy playing and likely promotion to the A-team, Alberto offering encouragement.
Caleb shifted the box under one arm and went in. The room was warm and smelled like deep-fried happiness. Nick gave him the usual smile and wave, but Alberto’s genial expression dropped to reveal relief. Caleb dumped the box on the counter to free his hands. ‘Another bad delivery?’ Hard to see how: Sammi had already emailed to say she’d locked the system up tight.
‘Nothing like that – the café. Go and see. My cousin’s going to fix it today, but I can’t bear looking it.’
That explained the closed kitchen hatch. The catering side of the
business brought in the money, but the café was Alberto’s pride and joy: a hub for the Deaf community and a place for friends and family to gather. An attack on it would be a blow to his heart.
Caleb went down the short corridor and switched on the lights. Age-softened bricks and a high arched ceiling, a casual array of armchairs, sofas and tables. The two large windows facing the street were a cobweb of crystals, their panes sagging into the room. Laminated glass. Breaking that had taken some force, smashing at it over and over until the film gave way and the glass split and fractured. Unease lapped his spine. Alberto was right, this was nothing like the previous events – this was an act of violence. The first act was rarely the last, rarely the worst.
He smoothed his expression and returned to the kitchen. Nick and Alberto were scooping arancini from the oil and laying them on wire coolers.
‘Anyone see anything?’ Caleb asked.
Alberto set down his ladle. ‘No. The alarm went off around midnight, but no one was here when I arrived. The cops say they’ll do a doorknock today, so maybe they’re taking the sabotage seriously now.’ His face showed no hope.
‘You got that list for me?’ Caleb asked. ‘People with a possible grudge?’
‘There’s no one.’
Nick’s head lifted sharply.
Caleb kept his eyes on Alberto. ‘Keep thinking. I’ll need to talk to your staff, too. When are they in?’
‘Soon, but it won’t be any of them.’
‘Just to rule them out.’
‘I’m not kidding myself. This place goes under, everyone’s out of work. You know how hard it is for us in the job market.’
Not just the market, but often the jobs themselves. Caleb had hated every minute working at the insurance companies where he’d begun his investigative career. Constant battles about phones and group meetings, co-workers’ irritated sighs. Agreeing to go into business with Frankie had been one of the easiest decisions of his life.
‘Keep thinking,’ he told Alberto, and went to set up the CCTV.
It was reasonably quick work, even stopping along the way to talk to the non-family staff members as they arrived. All three looked stunned at the vandalism. They gave alibis he’d be checking, but he couldn’t see any of them being behind the incidents.
By the time he’d finished, the kitchen was busy with cooking and outraged conversation, Alberto making a good show of looking unconcerned. Nick was on clean-up duty, emptying the bins. Caleb said his goodbyes and gratefully took the bag of arancini Alberto handed him. He devoured them in the alley while he waited for Nick to appear with the rubbish. There was an earnestness to the teenager that reminded him of Ant – or what Ant used to be like.
Ant had been just north of Sydney when he’d last made a withdrawal from his rapidly dwindling bank account. A faint possibility he was heading for Queensland, the place of their one interstate holiday as kids. A great couple of weeks. Ant had befriended a stray dog on the first day and smuggled it into their shared tent against their father’s orders; they’d spent the rest of the holiday denying everything as they clawed at their fleabites.
The kitchen door opened and Nick appeared, lugging three plastic bags. A little start as he saw Caleb, then he heaved rubbish into the bin and wiped his hands on his pants. ‘Hey. You need something?’
‘Information. Who are you worried about?’
‘What? No one.’
‘I’ll get it from the Deaf grapevine, so why don’t you get in first with your version? Who’s got a grudge against Alberto?’
Nick’s eyes lowered. ‘Dad.’
A man no one at Alberto’s had ever mentioned. Which was unusual enough he should have noticed. Most topics were enthusiastically discussed by staff and customers alike: divorce, bad dates, bad haircuts.
‘Why?’ Caleb asked.
‘Grandad thumped him in the cafe, told him to piss off.’
Caleb took that in. Despite Alberto’s boxing background, he’d never given any hint of underlying violence. Then again, people could show very different masks when it suited them.
‘What happened?’
‘Dad was – He hit Mum sometimes. Grandad found out.’
‘When was this?’
A shrug. ‘About a year ago, I guess.’ Affecting nonchalance, but the ache of the memory was held in his hunched shoulders.
‘You got an address or phone number?’
‘No.’
Which meant asking Alberto’s daughter, Ilaria, a painfully shy woman who’d only recently started making direct eye contact with Caleb. Confronting enough to have that kind of conversation in spoken language, but sign stripped you bare; every thought and emotion exposed, with no chance of a discreetly averted gaze.
‘Your mum’s here afternoons, isn’t she?’
‘Don’t talk to her about Dad!’
‘I’ll go easy. I promise.’
Nick gave him a look of undisguised misery and went quickly back inside, head bent.
Caleb headed for his car. Would a man wait a year to take revenge on someone? Revenge that would hurt his own family? People did far worse things to those they claimed to love, sometimes intentionally, sometimes out of sheer stupidity.
His phone buzzed as he was getting in the car: Imogen with her usual light touch.
—Flinders st station 11. DO NOT FUCK WTH ME
Three hours away. Frankie would be awake by now, probably scowling over her cereal while Tilda caught up on the latest financial news.
A strong impulse to go for another run to shake the heavy feeling in his chest. Possibly a cue to ring Henry Collins, his therapist. Definitely a cue. And one he would heed because he was a man who took responsibility for his mental wellbeing no matter how uncomfortable the process. Yep. Absolutely. No doubt about it at all.
He texted before he could reconsider.
—any chance of an extra session? Not urgent
The reply came almost immediately.
—Vic Market in 20
***
The high, arching sheds of the Queen Victoria Market weren’t too crowded yet – the restaurateurs finished with their shopping, tourists yet to come. Long rows of stalls were heaped with jewel-coloured fruit and vegetables; the mingled scents of pawpaw, mango, tomatoes. Henry Collins was sorting through a stack of rockmelons, lifting each one to his face and inhaling deeply before discarding it.
The Vic Market was a first, but he and Caleb had been meeting outdoors since their first stilted appointments in Henry’s office four months ago. It worked surprisingly well despite the choreography needed to keep the communication flowing.
A melon appeared to have passed the sniff test. Henry placed it in his wicker basket and looked at Caleb. ‘Tell me about the girl.’
‘Is this professional behaviour, groping fruit while I reveal my angst?’
‘As you’re paying me a great deal of money for my professional services, I’d say by definition, yes. Tell me about the girl.’
‘She’s nine, seems bright. But it’s got nothing to do with her, it’s Frankie I’m feeling bad about.’
Henry pressed his nose to another rockmelon. The man had clearly been a labrador in a previous life: the same floppy gold hair and outward geniality, same ability to grip his prey in unyielding jaws. Caleb usually went home from their sessions feeling like his brain had been gently shaken loose. They’d been at it twenty minutes now and he already had a low-grade headache.
Henry rejected the rockmelon and headed for the tomatoes. A wash of warm colours from yellow to deep purple, each variety identified by a small wooden stake: Green Zebra, Black Krim, Shirley. That last one had to be named for somebody – ‘Happy birthday, Shirley, this reminded me of you.’
Shirley. He tested the shape in his mouth, pictured Maggie saying it. ‘No! Don’t tell anyone about Shirley. Please.’
> Henry was waiting with the basket slung over his arm. He’d gone for the Black Krims.
‘Can you say “Shirley”?’ Caleb asked him.
‘Shirley.’
No, but maybe something like it. Shirner, Kirner, Turner?
‘Say, “Don’t tell anyone about Turner. Please.”’
Henry obliged without comment, then turned to pay for his shopping. Almost, but not quite. Not that it mattered: Caleb had made his choice.
Henry faced him, smiling amiably. ‘Finished with the intrigue? OK, tell me more about the girl.’
Not this again. ‘There’s nothing more to tell. I barely know her.’
‘And yet you’ve spent the past twenty minutes avoiding saying her name and reverted to the combative behaviour you displayed in our early sessions.’
‘So this is a session? Because it feels more like a grocery expedition.’
Henry stood with the loose-limbed patience of a teacher waiting for the Year Nine sex ed class to settle. Tedesco had promised the man was unshockable, and Henry had proved it by merely nodding when Caleb had finally revealed that he’d both killed a man and covered it up.
‘Her name’s Tilda,’ Caleb said, ‘I’ve been trying to pretend she doesn’t exist, but she does and she’s a sweet oddball. And seeing as her mother might be dying, I’m feeling like a bit of a prick for depriving her of her other parent.’
‘There’s a lot to un–’
‘Please don’t say unpack.’
‘– unpack in that statement. Do you blame Tilda for her father’s actions?’
‘Of course not. It’s not her fault he tried to kill me.’
‘But somehow it’s yours?’
So much pain because of him: brother lost, best mate murdered, Kat injured. A phrase slid into his head: ‘He destroys both the blameless and the wicked.’ Maybe a quote, maybe his brain presenting him with an inconvenient truth-bomb.
Henry’s focus had shifted to something behind Caleb. ‘Is it possible someone’s following you?’
A few seconds to comprehend the words – fucking Imogen, she just couldn’t wait. He didn’t turn. ‘Woman, mid-thirties?’