by Emma Viskic
He stood. ‘Yeah.’
There was no sign of Ferret outside, but Frankie led the way towards a bulky black Ford Territory, ducking her head against the wind.
Caleb gestured to her plastic container. ‘Ferret give you lunch?’
It took her a long time to answer. ‘A gun.’
He stopped walking. Frankie never carried a gun; hated them. ‘What the fuck?’
She faced him. ‘I know how to handle one.’
‘That’s not my problem, and you know it. If you go waving a gun around, people are going to start shooting.’
‘Feel free to bail.’ She stood still, a glimpse of Tilda in the set of her mouth. Behind her, the long line of the West Gate Freeway was feeding trucks into the city.
Make Good Decisions.
Tilda had been gone two and a half hours. One hundred and fifty minutes.
He held his hand out for the keys. ‘I’m driving.’
18.
He parked behind a battered ute and got out. A bare dirt yard and greying weatherboard, a musty tinge to the air. Two rows of metal cages ran down the driveway, head height and filled with birds – turkeys, geese, ducks, chickens – the concrete floors layered with shit and matted straw. The house next to them was sagging, its veranda supported on one side by a broom propped on three bricks. Smoke leaked from the chimney’s crumbling mortar.
‘Christ,’ Frankie said. ‘A long way from drinking champagne and rooting judges to here.’
‘A lot further from here to champagne and judges.’
She gave him a look. ‘Quite the philosopher, aren’t you?’
She’d fidgeted the entire journey, adjusting the air vents and winding down her window, unwrapping the phone every half-hour to check messages. He’d stopped telling her it was too early to hear from the kidnappers.
A woman opened the door to Frankie’s knock. Somewhere between forty and seventy, no hint of Quinn in her sunken cheeks and eyes. The odours of the house seeped out: damp walls and green firewood, ancient meals. The kind of poverty that ran through families like a dominant gene. His father used to speak of houses like this as a warning: work hard, or all my toil will have come to nothing.
‘Mrs Renbarger?’ Caleb said.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘We’re not journos.’ He held out a business card.
She didn’t look at it. ‘Didn’t ask what you weren’t.’
‘We’re looking for Quinn. We’re friends of her employer.’
May Renbarger went to close the door, and Frankie stuck out her foot. A short impasse, then they both looked at something behind him.
Quinn was coming from the cages towards them, shovel in hand, dark hair tied in a loose bun. No other car on the property: she’d either got a lift or hitchhiked. She called something, and May retreated inside, shutting the door.
Frankie moved down the steps, setting herself up to lead the questioning. That wasn’t going to work – Frankie could make people reveal secrets they’d hidden from themselves, but she was too on edge to interview anyone.
He joined her in the yard. ‘I’ll lead.’
‘I’ll fill you in later if you’re too tired to follow both of us.’
‘I’m fine, you’re not. Let me do it.’
A look of jaw-clenched mutiny. ‘She’s my niece, not yours.’
‘Exactly.’
Frankie held his stare, then took a half-step back.
Quinn stopped just out of reach, hand tight on the shovel. The ethereal good looks from Delaney’s photos but none of the welcoming expression; dark eyes narrowed, head thrust slightly forward. A silk shirt showed beneath her ancient oilskin, a long streak of bird shit down her tailored black pants. She flushed as she caught his glance, raised her chin. ‘What do you want?’ Even speech, despite her obvious tension.
‘We’re here about Maggie. I’m Caleb. This is Maggie’s sister, Frankie.’
‘Never heard her mention a sister.’ She laughed at Frankie’s scowl and loosened her grip on the shovel. ‘Oh yeah, I can see it now.’
Caleb tried unsuccessfully not to smile. ‘What are you doing here, Quinn?’
‘Reckon that’s my question.’
Fair point, circle back. ‘Someone kidnapped Maggie’s daughter this morning. We’re trying to find her.’
Her mouth hung open. ‘Tilda? You’re kidding.’
‘You know Tilda?’
‘Sure, everyone does. Weird kid. Sweet, though. Who took her?’
Everyone. His hopes of narrowing the pool of suspects vanished. Beside him, Frankie’s head lowered.
‘We don’t know. We’re hoping you can help.’
‘Fuck, I don’t know anything about it. I’ve been here since last night. Ask Mum.’
Which meant she’d left Melbourne only hours after Maggie was attacked. No change of clothes, no car, no phone. To a house she’d obviously worked very hard to get away from.
‘You heard Maggie was hurt?’ Caleb asked.
‘Yeah. Rang her house and a cop picked up. And I don’t know anything about that either.’
Frankie shifted, but he kept his eyes on Quinn. ‘Why’d you cancel your date with Rhys Delaney?’
‘Who?’
‘Your honeytrap. The man who took quite a few photos of you at a party last week.’
Quinn’s breathing hitched. She covered it with a cough, gave him a heavy-lidded smile. ‘I know a lot of men, some of them like taking photos. Sorry I can’t help. You can see yourselves off.’ She was turning away.
He caught Frankie’s eye and signed, ‘Do it, then go.’
‘You’d better go fix your makeup,’ Frankie told Quinn. ‘I’ll be ringing my good mate Bobby James from The Daily Dirt when we leave. He’ll make out you’ve spilled secrets on all of Maggie’s clients, whether you’ve fucked them or not. It’ll make great TV.’
Quinn had frozen in place, fear hollowing her face.
‘Let’s go,’ Frankie told him and strode towards the car.
He went to follow.
Quinn dropped the shovel and grabbed his arm. ‘You can’t let her. Please. They’ll kill me.’
‘It’s her niece. She’s desperate.’
Car exhaust blew towards him, mingling with the rank scent of the birds. Frankie had timed it perfectly to send Quinn into panic.
‘Jesus, all right.’ Quinn released him. ‘Just tell her to stop gunning the engine, will you? It’ll freak Mum out.’
He gestured at Frankie, who turned off the engine.
Quinn reached into her back pocket for a packet of cigarettes. Her hand wasn’t shaking, but it took her a few attempts to get one going. ‘Two years off the damn things and I’m sucking them down like I never stopped.’ She took a long drag and blew the smoke away from him. Still oscillating between trying to brash it out and charm him. Did she ever relax her guard?
‘Who are you scared of?’ he asked. ‘Delaney?’
‘That mope? He’d only be dangerous if you had a sweat allergy.’
‘Then what happened at the party?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Quinn, you jumped when I mentioned it.’
‘Well yeah, that’d be the big bloke who was following me there.’ She spoke quickly, as though desperate to get all the words out now she’d decided to talk. ‘Thought he was just a standard creep, then yesterday, Maggie rang. Must’ve been just before she was hurt. She was scared, never heard her like that before, said someone was cleaning house and I should get out of town.’
He stood still. There was a chance that didn’t mean what he thought it did. ‘What did she mean by “cleaning house”?’
‘That someone’s getting rid of evidence – and people. I was in the city when she called, so I went home to get my stuff. My flat’s right on the tramline, you know, ju
st before the stop. And as we’re going past I see the same guy from the party. He’s in my place, coming out of the dunny. Needless to say I shat myself. I stayed on the tram and jumped on the bus here.’ She looked at the cages, her mouth creasing as though she’d tasted something bitter. ‘Dunno what I was thinking.’
‘What’d he look like?’
‘Blond, I think. Big, like muscly big. Bit taller than you, maybe six three.’
Possibly Frankie’s shooter again. Good to know, but it didn’t get them very far.
‘Does Maggie know someone called Kirner? Or a name like it.’
‘Dunno, Maggie’s not much of a sharer.’ She looked towards their car. ‘Must be nice working with the friendly sister.’
Fuck. No names, no leads, just a two-hour drive to find out someone had been after Maggie and her employees.
‘What else can you tell me?’
‘That’s it. The full friggen extent of my knowledge.’ A hard suck on the cigarette, cheeks drawing in. ‘Do you think Tilda’ll be OK? Did that big bloke take her?’
‘Most are dead within hours.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jesus. Tell me when you know something, yeah? I might sleep again. You reckon he’ll come here? How’d you find me?’
‘I’m good with faces, recognised you from Delaney’s photos.’
‘Recognised me? How?’
‘The sex scandal with Lovelay.’
She flinched as though struck. A glimpse of unguarded emotion, no bravado or charm, just pain. ‘Don’t call it that. It was a relationship, not a scandal.’
‘Sorry, didn’t realise.’
‘You and everyone else. Angus was the best thing that ever happened to me, a real sweetheart. But the world took one look at me and decided it had to be dirty.’ Her gaze travelled across the yard and came to rest on the listless house. ‘Should’ve known better – the past bloody sticks to you, doesn’t it?’
19.
Frankie backed out of the driveway in a spray of gravel, startling the birds so they bashed around their metal cages. She straightened the car and headed towards the town centre, going too fast for the dirt road. The vehicle had a lot more grunt than Frankie should be in charge of right now – or any time. She glanced at him. ‘Talk.’
No, she was going to ask questions if he spoke now. Trying to lip-read Frankie while she drove was a white-knuckle ride at the best of times; in her current mood it’d be terrifying.
‘Wait until you park,’ he said.
She turned to him; a bend coming up, large red gums lining the road. ‘Now.’
He clutched the edge of his seat. ‘OK. Just, look at the road, will you.’ He waited until she was facing forward and went through the conversation, trying to remove Quinn’s fear from the retelling. He’d left his number with her, but why would she use it? Even if she decided she knew more, Quinn had no reason to trust him.
‘Cleaning house?’ Frankie said when he’d finished, eyes bleak.
‘The muscle man’s a good link,’ he said quickly. ‘The party was black-tie, so there’ll be photos. If you spot him we can do a reverse image search.’
‘I can’t ID him.’
‘You probably remember more than you think. When you see –’
‘It was dark, all I got was his shape, then he started shooting.’
Damn. They just couldn’t catch a break.
She took the corner into Burton’s main street without slowing down, scattering a flock of pigeons. A pockmarked sign declared the place a Tidy Town finalist, population 520. Both statements seemed historic. Ten or twelve weatherboard shops, a two-storey pub, a few parked cars. The only people out were three teenage boys lounging by a milk bar that advertised smokes, cup-of-cinos and internet. Frankie pulled abruptly into the kerb beside them.
Caleb eased his grip on the seat. ‘Coffee?’
‘Phone. Service keeps dropping out.’ She climbed from the car, the boys watching with bland interest as she headed for a weathered public phone.
Caleb’s eye went to the newspaper banners on the shopfront. A photo of a slickly dressed young man in handcuffs, the headline ‘Jacklin Pleads Innocent’. John Jacklin, the almost-definitely guilty property developer Tilda and Frankie had been watching on the news. The stirrings of an idea: a small-business owner standing in the way of a major development would irritate a lot of people. Be interesting to see if anyone had recently bought out Alberto’s neighbours.
Caleb sat up as Frankie slammed down the phone and strode towards the shop. The boys moved from her path as though repelled. He slid quickly from the car and caught up to her inside the door. A large space with a few rows of badly stocked shelves, and a bain-marie with sweating chips and pies. Down the back, a hulking grey computer sat next to the plastic-covered magazines.
Frankie headed straight for the counter. The shop owner was watching TV with the kind of focus that suggested he had a lot riding on the three o’clock at Caulfield. An impressive brow and gut, thin lips. He glanced at her and returned to the races. ‘Food’s what you see. You want soy milk or vegan crap, you’re outta luck.’
‘Picked us for tourists,’ Frankie said. ‘Smart man. Your payphone’s dead.’
‘Not mine.’
‘Good to clear that up. Your computer work? Got internet?’
He didn’t look at her. ‘Whaddaya reckon? Be a bit of a dickhead havin’ it if it didn’t.’
She tilted her head. ‘So does it?’
Caleb stepped in front of her. ‘We’ll take an hour.’
Frankie went straight to her emails: a handful of unread messages, including audio files from her answering service; nothing with Tilda’s name in the subject line. She listened to each one for a few seconds before moving on. When she’d gone through them all she turned to him, the tendons in her neck tight cords. ‘Something’s wrong. They should have contacted me by now.’
Five hours. Was this how it was going to be? Never knowing what had happened, just hoping a little less each day, heart shrivelling in his chest?
‘There’s no rule book.’ He nodded towards the computer. ‘Check the party photos. We can make a shortlist of anyone who fits muscle man’s description, show them to Quinn. What’d Delaney say the name of the charity was?’
‘Game Goers. Football players for mental health.’
No wonder the solicitor had been keen to go. He’d probably spent the entire night flitting between the footy players, Quinn, and the WAGs.
Frankie found the charity’s website and clicked through the photos: a lot of white teeth and fake tan, a lot of blond men who looked like weightlifters. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Like one of those nightmares where everyone looks the same.’
‘Check for Quinn, see if he’s in the background.’
The ball had been held in a large room with columns of smoked black glass and gold fittings. People in sequinned dresses and sleek tuxedos smiled for the camera. Delaney and Quinn appeared a few times in the background, but the photographers had been focused on the celebrities, not damp-looking solicitors.
Frankie sat back. ‘It’s pointless. He’s just muscle, anyway. We need to find out who Imogen was investigating with Transis.’
‘Got any mates in the feds?’
‘No, but we need the stuff that’s left out of official reports, anyway. Who they bribed and who they let go, informants.’ She screwed up her face. ‘You need to meet with Imogen.’
‘We can’t trust her.’
‘No. We’ll text when we’re nearly there, give her short notice. A shopping centre, maybe. Highpoint’s on the way back.’
‘I mean, we can’t trust her answers. We’ve got no idea what she’s involved in.’
‘We can judge the quality of the information once we’ve got it.’ She stood. ‘I’ll get coffees.’
‘Ma
ke sure he doesn’t spit in them.’ Caleb did a quick check of his messages. Returned emails confirming the three staff members’ alibis. And a redirected text from Kat, the usual heart flutter of fear/happiness as he opened it.
—Hope you’re OK after all the stress. Working on something interesting. Might show you Fri xx
Kat on a creative roll was something special. She’d been on a pretty sustained one for the past few months, despite her fears. Or maybe because of them. Before he’d met her, he hadn’t known it was possible to turn pain into beauty. He hesitated: tell her about Tilda? No, not yet. Let her be unburdened by his troubles for a while. He sent a quick reply and stood.
Frankie was already coming towards him with the coffees. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper’s face was flushed dark red. Frankie shoved a cup into Caleb’s hand, was halfway out the door before he’d moved.
He caught up to her outside. ‘What’d you do?’
‘Asked for almond milk.’
***
On the way back he kept to the speed limit, mindful of the gun tucked in Frankie’s backpack, the very deep need not to end up in police custody today. She was checking messages every fifteen minutes now, a twist of tension every time she unwrapped the phone, never releasing. As he stopped at the shopping centre turn-off, she turned to him, the last rays of the sun casting an orange glow across her face. ‘I’m coming in.’
‘That’s a bad idea – Imogen’ll want the docs if she sees you.’
‘I’ll leave the gun in the car.’
Jesus; she’d considered taking it? ‘What if she whips out the taser? Tries to arrest you?’
‘I run, you hit her.’
A feeling she wasn’t joking.
She was still looking at him, some involved thought process going on behind her furrowed brow. ‘If I happen to go under a bus at some stage, the bank’s around the corner from Maggie’s. Box number’s on the key.’
Unearned trust, unwarranted. No idea how to respond to it.
She pointed out the window. ‘Lights.’
He accelerated and took the turn into the underground carpark, left behind a sky the colour of tarnished brass.