by Emma Viskic
A surge of hope. ‘They called?’
‘No, I’m going to look for her.’ She pushed past him and walked outside.
He ran after her, following as she strode around the corner towards her car. ‘Let me help,’ he said. ‘We work well together, you know that. We’ll have more chance of finding her if we do it together.’
She was pulling out her keys, walking to the driver’s side.
‘You can trust me,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t live with myself if she – I don’t care about Imogen, or going to jail. Just let me help get Tilda back. Please.’
Frankie opened the door and looked at him, her face hard. This was it. She was going to tell him to piss off, then get in her car and drive away.
‘You’re fuck-all use to me if you get arrested,’ she said. ‘Spin Imogen some story to keep her away.’
***
He retrieved his phone from his car and brought it back to Frankie’s, along with the discarded silver foil and Maggie’s laptop. As he climbed in, Frankie’s eyes went to the computer. ‘What’s that for?’
‘We’ll need it to contact Guy Fawkes if I work out the video.’ He shook his head as she went to protest. ‘It’s not about getting Imogen off my back, it’s about information.’
He texted Imogen, saying Frankie had left but he was on her tail. It wouldn’t win the cop over, but it should put her on hold for a few hours at least.
‘OK to keep the phone?’ he asked Frankie, not quite holding his breath.
‘Despite your fuckhead behaviour with it, yes. It’d be good to have it. Just keep it wrapped and only use it on the move.’
His breathing eased. Gone were the days he’d go hours without checking messages. Texts were forwarded to his email now, and his phone always near him. At night, he hooked it up to his vibrating alarm so Kat’s texts would wake him.
Frankie grabbed her bag from the back seat. Being active seemed to have calmed her a little, but her movements still had a jerky quality; fumbling with the zips on the backpack, fingers slipping. She eventually tugged a camera from an inside pocket and shoved it at him. An expensive piece of equipment, with multiple settings and a large touchscreen to view photos.
‘What’s this for?’ he asked.
‘Maggie’s records. Didn’t want to upload them.’ She pulled a packet of chewing gum from the ashtray and fished out a small memory card.
He inserted the card and swiped through a few photos, then went back to the beginning and zoomed in on each one. A show of trust, letting him see them. Pages of spreadsheets. No names, but a row of recurring digits down the left-hand side that had to be client numbers. Around thirty of them. Transactions showed dates and amounts: money going in and money going out. Lots of zeros after the dollar signs. He did some quick mental calculations, stopped when he got to ten million.
He looked at Frankie. ‘This would make a lot of people very nervous.’
‘Yeah, so don’t go spreading it around you’ve seen it. Tilda’s safer if no one on that list knows we’ve got it. So are we. We hand the originals to the kidnappers and pretend none of it ever happened, OK?’
No argument from him; the thought of thirty well-connected criminals knowing he’d seen their dirty laundry wasn’t a comfortable one.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘What now?’
‘Odds are, the same people behind the kidnapping sent the shooter after me. Killed Amon. And if they know about these records, it’s either a client on that list or someone connected to them. But I’ve got no idea how to ID anyone.’ She paused. ‘Any bright ideas welcome.’
He examined the first page. She was right – those account numbers couldn’t be turned into names without more information. Smart move on Maggie’s part. And an explanation as to why she’d risked entrusting Frankie with the key.
‘Any chance of us finding a master list?’
‘No. It’s probably in another damn vault.’
So approach it from a different angle. Laundering that much money would involve a lot of employees. People to pass cash through casinos and small businesses; bookkeepers to create false invoices; lawyers to fudge records.
Lawyers.
The Rhys Delaney mentioned in Maggie’s texts was a lawyer.
—Rhys Delaney on for today
A man with no police record who might have been meeting with Maggie the day she was attacked.
Frankie was watching him, not moving. ‘You’ve got something?’
‘Possible employee.’
16.
Rhys Delany’s office was a couple of blocks back from the bay in Williamstown. A bit of whimsy in the brick turrets and porthole-like windows, but everything else was businesslike. The doors opened directly on to a reception area carpeted in reassuring grey, a hallway of offices tucked to either side, discreet open-plan desks to the rear. The receptionist nodded hello from behind a high timber counter and continued her phone conversation: a serious exchange that involved a lot of frowning and consulting of her computer. Frankie gave it ten seconds, then went to the far end of the waiting area and unwrapped the phone; the second time she’d checked messages in the past twenty minutes.
The receptionist hung up and faced him. According to the plaque on the desk she was Mrs Marion Gillis: Office Manager. A fierce-looking woman around Frankie’s age, with a blunt fringe and heavy-rimmed glasses. The wall calendar featuring a basket of ribboned kittens had to belong to a coworker. She gave Caleb a smile with no trace of warmth. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so. My name’s Caleb Zelic. My partner and I are after Rhys Delaney.’
‘Do you want …?’ Her words were lost as she turned to the computer.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Do you want…?’ And back to the screen.
Did he want what? A coffee? A unicorn? People who looked at him when they spoke?
‘Sorry, could you look at me when you speak? I’m deaf. I’m lip-reading.’
She spun back to him, mouth open. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. You poor thing, how terrible.’
Shit, a mourner. A very loud mourner. Her lamentations had drawn the attention of everyone in the room, including Frankie. His fault: he’d let himself be fooled by a stern facade, instead of taking into account the much greater significance of the kittens. He spoke softly in an effort to lower her volume. ‘We’re hoping to see Delaney now. Is he in?’
‘You speak very well, you know. A little quietly, but just like a normal person.’
A meteor, a weapon, something to end this now. ‘Is Delaney free?’
‘I’ll ask.’ She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. ‘It must be so hard for you. Do you know about cochlear implants? My neighbour’s cousin’s son got –’
Caleb looked away until she’d lowered the receiver.
‘You’re in luck,’ she said. ‘Down the hallway to the last office. Do you need help?’ She glanced at Frankie, who was coming towards them. ‘Or is that your carer?’
He headed off at a semi-jog. Frankie caught up to him outside Delaney’s office and went in without comment. Could always rely on her lack of sympathy, thank God.
Delaney was a damp-looking man with a bland face and a shirt two or three shades away from its original white. His handshake proved his sogginess. ‘Please do sit. How can I help?’ An easy read except for that sweaty upper lip. A temptation to grab a tissue and blot it.
Frankie shifted her chair so Caleb could see them both clearly. ‘We’re after information.’
She handed Delaney a business card. One of their old ones, their names on the front, along with the words ‘fraud investigations’. Also with the word ‘partners’. She’d been carrying that around a long time.
‘Fraud?’ Delaney swallowed. ‘I don’t understand. Are you police officers?’
‘We work closely with the police,’ Frankie pulled
a notebook from her pocket and flipped to a new page. ‘Tell me about Maggie Reynolds. How do you know her?’
Delaney’s shoulders loosened, as though he’d been bracing himself for a different question. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that name. Can I help you with something else? Conveyancing? A contract?’
‘Mr Delaney.’ Frankie waited until the man’s eyes met hers. ‘We know.’
Delaney’s gaze flicked to a timber-framed photo on his desk, angled to display a wife and young family. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘Explain what “nothing” means,’ Caleb said. ‘And maybe we won’t have to talk to your boss.’ He nodded at the photo. ‘Or your wife.’
‘Nothing. Really. Just, a woman approached me at a party last week. We talked, that’s all.’
Maggie?
‘What was her name?’
‘Kw … vo.’
Zero chance Caleb was going to get that. Frankie wrote something and tilted the pad for him to see: Quinn Devereaux.
‘Describe her,’ he told Delaney.
‘Beautiful, really beautiful, with long black hair. Petite.’
Not a great description, but definitely not Maggie: she had the same rangy build as Frankie.
‘Tell us everything,’ Caleb said. ‘What, when, where.’
‘It was a fundraising ball for a charity. Game Goers. I do pro bono work for them.’ He paused to see if he’d impressed them, went on quickly. ‘Quinn just came up, started talking. After a while she suggested we go to her room for a drink. It wasn’t until we were there that I realised she was a, you know.’
‘Prostitute,’ Frankie said.
Delaney looked hurt. ‘Criminal. She wanted to know if I could set up shell companies to, um, filter money through.’
‘Filter?’ Frankie said. ‘Is that a polite term for launder?’
‘I didn’t do it. I left once I realised what she was after. Never saw her again.’
—Rhys Delaney on for today
The message had been sent by someone with the initial D. Could be Devereaux.
Caleb leaned forward. ‘We’ve seen the phone records. We know you met with Quinn yesterday.’
‘No.’ Delaney’s tongue touched his moist upper lip, a darting movement like a small pink lizard. ‘I mean, yes, we were meant to meet, but she rang and cancelled at the last minute.’
‘Show me the call log.’
Delaney scrolled through his phone and thrust it at Caleb. Only one call between the pair, from Quinn to Delaney at noon yesterday. The lawyer had included Quinn’s profile photo: a woman in her early thirties, with elvish features and long dark hair. Familiar in a distant way. The TV news, some scandal involving a public figure, the suggestion of favours traded for sex. A taint to the memory: a face Caleb associated with bad news.
He sent himself her number then looked through Delaney’s photos. A man who used a profile picture for a woman he’d only just met had definitely kept the original shot. More than one, in this case: five clear photos of Quinn wearing a slinky midnight-blue dress, champagne glass in hand. Definitely familiar.
And the memory slotted into place – the hospital waiting room and the looping repeats of a news channel. It had been the second miscarriage; the dragging loss, the fear that this was their future.
Frankie was staring at him, obviously wondering why he was taking so long to check a few calls. He passed her the phone.
‘Is Quinn OK?’ Delaney asked as Frankie flicked through the photos. ‘She’s not hurt or anything, is she?’
A deviation from the expected script.
‘Why do you ask?’ Caleb said.
‘She sounded sort of scared. And her phone keeps ringing out.’ Delaney kept talking without waiting for an answer. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? My wife’s just had a baby. I mean, I didn’t actually do anything but this could kill my career.’
A strange desire to stomp on the man. Without answering him, Caleb stood and followed Frankie to the door, turned back as he reached it. ‘Does the name Kirner mean anything to you? Or something similar?’
Delaney’s face grew even damper as he tried to come up with an answer that would make them leave. ‘I don’t think so.’
Frankie waited until they were a few steps away before speaking. ‘Just a mark. Quinn’s the one we need. Did I notice a glimmer of recognition when you saw her?’
‘Yeah, she was involved in a sex scandal a few years ago. A politician or judge. Someone with a great name, Lovecock maybe. Remember that?’
‘No, but bless your somewhat creepy memory for faces. I don’t suppose you can remember her surname, too? I’m betting it’s not Devereaux.’
‘No.’ He looked around the corner into the reception area: Mrs Gillis was on the phone again. He speed-walked past her, pretended he couldn’t see her waving.
17.
Outside, the sky was still clear, but a brisk wind was coming up from the bay, bringing with it the sting of salt and the smell of fish and chips. A few pedestrians were heading down the hill towards the beach-side shopping strip, chins tucked into their collars, foreheads leading.
Frankie tried Quinn’s number as they got in the car and shook her head. ‘Ringing out. We’ll have to get her name from the news reports and track down her address.’
He checked messages as he rewrapped the phone. Nothing from Kat, three from Imogen.
—What’s happening?
—What’s happening?
—What’s happening?
She was nothing if not consistent.
He texted back.
—Driving. Got a lead. Might be a while
A thought rose to the surface as Frankie started the engine. She wouldn’t have registered the car in her name, but Imogen could use other ways to find it.
‘You give the motel your car rego?’ he asked.
‘Jesus. How’d I not think of that?’ Her forefinger tapped a rapid beat on the wheel. ‘OK, I’ve got a mate near here who can help. We’ll be able to use his computer, too.’ She pulled onto the road without looking, and a horn sounded, loud enough for him to hear. A jolt as she slammed on the brakes. ‘Any other basic safety measures I’ve forgotten?’ she asked, waiting for a large red truck to pass.
He gave his seatbelt a surreptitious tug. ‘No.’
Frankie managed a U-turn without T-boning anyone and headed away from the water, tapped his arm after a couple of blocks. ‘Who’s the person you asked Delaney about? Kirner?’
‘Maggie’s video. I’m trying out names.’
‘How the hell d’you get from Shona to Kirner? They don't sound anything alike.’
‘Look, not sound.’
She touched a hand to her lips, tried the words. ‘Jesus, no wonder you’re so shit at names. Is that why you kept calling me Spiky when we first met?’
He looked at her. ‘No.’
***
Frankie’s mate ran a used-car dealership in an industrial estate on the city’s edge. A small, rubbish-strewn lot hunkered in the shadow of the West Gate Bridge. There was a heaviness to the high curving span from this vantage point, the claustrophobic sensation of tonnes of concrete and steel pressing down. Impossible not to think of the bridge’s history, the half-built structure’s sudden collapse, the thirty-five workers crushed to death beneath its weight. Frankie glanced up at it and shivered as they headed into the yard. The vehicles were all three or four years old, with the suspiciously glossy hue of recent paint jobs.
A man appeared from the prefab office and stood on its step: stringy hair, body, tie. He sighed heavily when he saw Frankie.
‘Close friend?’ Caleb asked.
‘Nicked him a few times.’ She thought about it. ‘Didn’t nick him a few times. He’ll lend us something without any paperwork.’
Caleb had missed Franki
e’s loyal network of ex-coppers and ex-cons, bored public servants and IT workers. His band of go-to people was growing steadily but would never rival hers.
The dealer watched them approach, probing his gums with a forefinger. Frankie stopped a little further from him than Caleb usually liked. He went to move closer, stepped quickly back as he caught a whiff of stale breath and body.
‘Ferret, my man,’ Frankie said. ‘This is a mate of mine, now a mate of yours. He’d like to use your computer while I decide which of your completely legal cars you’d like to lend us.’
Ferret investigated his mouth a bit more, then removed his hand. ‘Yeahorright.’
Caleb left Frankie to kick tyres and braved Ferret’s office. The man wasn’t a hoarder, at least; only a desk and computer, along with a dozen mouldering takeaway containers. Caleb blew the crumbs from the keyboard and typed using as few fingers as possible. New reports on the sex scandal referred to Quinn as ‘high class escort, Quinn Renbarger’. A slight disappointment that the judge’s name was Lovelay not Lovecock. No charges had been laid, but the judge had been photographed going into a hotel with Quinn soon after he’d dismissed charges against an illegal-brothel owner. An attractive, if disparate, couple: Quinn with her fine good looks and forthright stare, Angus Lovelay twenty years older but fit and tanned, turning a besotted gaze towards her.
None of the usual sites came up with contact information for either Quinn Renbarger or Quinn Devereaux, but a May Renbarger lived outside Burton, a small town two hours north-west of Melbourne. On the electoral roll there for the past thirty-two years. Likely a relative, with that unusual surname, but also an unknown quantity. If he and Frankie drove out there, they risked wasting valuable time. If they rang May, they risked alerting Quinn.
The office lights flashed. Frankie, clutching an off-brand Tupperware container and jiggling a set of keys. ‘Got her?’
‘No, but a possible rel, right age for her mum. Two-hour drive.’
‘Shit.’ The keys jiggled faster. ‘Guess we should go?’ An upwards inflection instead of her usual even tone – had he ever caught indecision in her voice before?