by Emma Viskic
A text from Imogen.
—CALL IMMEDIATELY
Damn. The bank had only been open a few hours; he’d hoped chasing the safety deposit box would occupy her all day. She’d either worked out the documents had been taken, or run into Hollywood. An interesting meeting to imagine. He rewrapped the phone without answering.
The microwave darkened. He checked the result: cold soup, hot bowls. How was that possible? He shoved them back in.
There had to be a quicker way of sifting through Jacklin’s associates. The list already ran to an entire page, and Caleb hadn’t started the man’s largest project, the Connoy Hotel. The seed of an idea: Jacklin’s morgue aesthetic didn’t run to knick-knacks, but he’d kept the shovel from the Connoy’s ground-breaking. Was he particularly proud of the project, or was there something more to it? A souvenir of his entry into the shiny world of money laundering? Jacklin was a bit of a show pony; it’d be in character to display something he wanted to talk about but couldn’t.
The microwave darkened again: somewhat warmer soup, much hotter bowls. His hands in tea towels, he carried the bowls to the dining room. Frankie nodded her thanks and kept working, typing one-handed as she spooned in the occasional mouthful. Caleb skimmed a newspaper article on the Connoy while he ate. Not much detail, but a few photos: parquetry floors and columns of smoked black glass, gold-leaf fittings. Familiar. The ballroom where the moist solicitor Delaney had fallen for the honeytrap charms of Quinn. A man goes to a fundraising party in a hotel: not exactly a smoking gun. And Delaney wasn’t the kind of well-connected person they were looking for. But he might be a link to one.
‘I might have something,’ he told Frankie.
Hope lit her face. ‘What?’
‘There’s a chance Jacklin and Rhys Delaney knew each other.’ Her expression dampened as he explained about the hotel. ‘I know Delaney’s not exactly influential, but he could be connected to the boss.’
‘Yeah.’ Frankie visibly rallied and turned to the keyboard.
He went to sit beside her as she searched. Jacklin and Delaney didn’t appear in any photos together and weren’t connected on social media. No common schools or clubs or universities; no mention of them attending the same conferences.
Frankie sat back, shoulders slumped. ‘Could be a coincidence. The Connoy’s big, half of Melbourne’s probably been through its doors.’
True. And a building the size of the Connoy had to have involved a lot of lawyers.
‘Try the legal angle,’ he said. ‘Delaney’s a business lawyer. “Conveyancing” was one of the first words out of his mouth.’
She typed quickly, turned to him, grinning. Delaney had done the conveyancing for the Connoy. At last, a tiny fingerhold to start climbing.
‘Ring first?’ he asked. ‘He might be with clients.’
‘Fuck no, we need to catch him by surprise.’ She slid the gun from the container and tucked it into her backpack, headed for the door.
***
The kitten-loving office manager was coming up the street as they reached Delaney’s office, a tray of sandwiches in her arms. Lunchtime. Hadn’t thought of that; it’d be hard keeping Frankie calmly occupied if Delaney had nipped out for a bite.
Mrs Gillis bypassed the severe look and went straight to a broad smile when she saw him. A gusting wind was coming from the bay, but her blunt grey fringe didn’t move. ‘Caleb, isn’t it?’
‘Good memory.’
‘You’re hard to forget. I’ve been telling everyone about you.’
For fuck’s sake.
Mrs Gillis turned to Frankie. ‘Isn’t he clever? It must be so wonderful working with him.’
‘Constantly have to pinch myself.’ Frankie’s eyes went to the sandwiches. ‘D’you know if Delaney’s out for lunch?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid he’s not in today.’
An unexpected blow that left them both speechless. He recovered first. ‘Was that sudden? We were supposed to see him.’
‘Well yes. I think it’s his wife.’ Her mouth snapped shut as she realised she’d crossed the line into gossip. ‘Do come in if you’d like me to reschedule.’ She hurried up the steps.
Frankie waited until she’d gone and said, ‘Dead or skipped town?’ Fury at either prospect.
‘Or a genuinely sick wife.’
She flicked her hand. ‘We need a list of his top clients. He can’t have too many, he’s mid-level at best.’
‘You want to talk to his wife?’
‘Yeah, but not for this. I’ll bet Mrs Gillis can magic up that kind of info in seconds.’
‘Good idea.’
She made a hurry-up motion. ‘So go on then, ask her.’
And get pity-slimed again? ‘No way. You do it.’
‘She’s not going to tell me. You’re the one she’s mooning over. Lay it on thick, too – she won’t give it up easily.’
Fuck. Just seriously fuck. ‘Wait here, will you? I don’t want any witnesses.’
She smirked. ‘Should I be organising a clean-up team?’
He went inside.
Mrs Gillis beamed like a grandmother receiving a macaroni necklace. ‘You’d like to reschedule?’
‘Not yet. I’m hoping you can help me with something else first.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s a bit delicate, but I’m supposed to be helping Delaney on a job, some work he’s putting my way. Would you be able to give me a list of his five major clients?’
‘Oh.’ She sat back. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Do it do it do it. He took a breath. ‘I’ve got all the company info, of course, it’s just the personal contacts I need. He told me yesterday, but Frankie was on a call instead of taking notes, so …’ An urge to claw out his tongue and set it on fire.
‘Oh.’ Her face crumpled. ‘You couldn’t understand him, you poor thing. I’m sure my boss will be across it all.’ She reached for the phone.
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘It doesn’t really instill confidence. Not everyone’s as understanding as you. If you could just, um …’ He looked at the computer.
She shot a glance at the corner office and turned to her keyboard. A flurry of fast typing, then a page spat from the printer by her desk. She quickly folded it, handed it to him. ‘I hope it helps.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Really appreciate it.’
‘No, thank you. You really are an inspiration.’
He gave her something like a smile and fled.
Outside, the air was cool against his cheeks. Frankie was in the middle of the footpath, feet wide as though ready to stride into battle. ‘Got it?’
‘What I could.’ He unfolded the page. Mrs Gillis had dragged the contact information from different sources and dumped them all in one document. A mess of names and phone numbers in different fonts – but a familiar organisation among them all: the charity, Game Goers. Host of the ball at the Connoy Hotel and recipient of Delaney’s boasted pro bono work.
Frankie tapped the paper. ‘A charity would be a great way to launder money. Maybe Delaney’s dirtier than we thought.’
Game Goers certainly had a lot of influential people as patrons, all conveniently listed by Mrs Gillis. A dozen or so names printed in tiny letters. He ran his finger along them, stopped on the third one: Judge Angus Lovelay.
Lovelay, the man who’d once been involved in a sex scandal with Quinn. Suspected of dismissing a court case in return for sexual favours.
29.
They went to a brightly festooned ice-cream parlour opposite the foreshore park. A bit too close to the local police station for comfort, but it had free wi-fi and a waitress happy to leave them alone. The cold change had kept most of the tourists away, and the shop was empty apart from a middle-aged woman with badly dyed hair and a baggy tracksuit. She’d been here when they’d arriv
ed and was watching them work as she slowly ate an ice-cream, calling out the occasional question about their research. If she asked too many more, there was a good chance Frankie would brain her with the laptop.
None of their contacts had found a current address for Lovelay, and Quinn and her mother weren't answering the phone. Their own research had proved a dead end, too. There were a lot of older photos of the judge at society events, usually with his tawny-haired wife and son by his side, but those appearances had stopped after the scandal. Lovelay had quietly divorced and retired, his ex-wife dying of a stroke two months later. From everything to nothing in an instant; how did a man survive that? No career, no family, no reputation, just looking at yourself every morning in the mirror, knowing it was all your fault.
‘No one’s that invisible without trying,’ Frankie said. ‘Particularly someone who used to be a social darling. Lovelay has to –’ She looked behind him, scowling.
The ice-cream eater must be back at the questions.
‘Focus,’ he said. ‘Lovelay has to be what?’
‘Hollywood’s boss.’
A huge assumption, but Lovelay did fit the description: a well-connected person with ties to Maggie. Odds were, if he wasn’t the boss, he’d know who was.
‘OK,’ Caleb said, ‘let’s say he is. What are we going to do if we track him down? He’s hardly going to confess.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
He blinked, then realised her anger was directed at ice-cream woman, not him. The coffee had been a mistake; Frankie was wound so tight it was making his teeth ache. ‘Do we need to move shops?’ he asked. ‘Because the whole split-attention thing is kind of unsettling.’
She placed her hands flat on the tabletop, made an obvious attempt to focus. Her leg was jiggling the table. ‘What do you suggest we do, then?’
‘Take everything to Imogen. She might be on leave, but there’s a chance she knows a back way into a few databases.’
‘Yeah.’ Frankie nodded, kept nodding, possibly unaware of it. ‘OK, let’s do it.’ She heaved her backpack onto the table and handed him the phone.
As he unwrapped it, the woman appeared at their table. ‘What are youse guys doin’?’
Frankie’s eyes were thin slits. ‘Planning a murder.’
Believable. Completely believable.
The woman backed away to her table and Frankie turned her attention to him again. ‘Come on, text. Thirty minutes, same place as last time.’
Frankie hyped up, in an enclosed space with Imogen. No, they needed somewhere outside with good sightlines and no chance of getting jumped. The foreshore park, maybe. Or even better, the pier.
‘How about a nice walk on the pier instead?’
***
The yachts in the marina were lifting on a choppy swell, their masts ticking a presto beat. Across the bay, the city towers glinted against a leaden sky. Nobody on the foreshore now, just a lone man fishing from the retaining wall, rainproof jacket zipped to the neck. No threat – he’d been here the past hour. Caleb glanced in his bucket as they passed: two small fish gaped desperately, their eyes dull silver coins.
Frankie came to a halt halfway down the wooden pier, where a stubby arm branched out towards the nearby dock. Caleb stood next to her, eyeing the gap across the water to the dock, the sheer drop at the other side. He’d had a vague thought it might be possible to jump or swim the distance, but it was too far, the water too rough. If they were wrong about Imogen and she turned up with Hollywood, he’d have to run interference. Give Frankie the best chance of getting away; give Tilda the best chance.
‘If Hollywood shows, you run,’ he said.
Understanding in her eyes; gratitude. ‘Thanks.’
On the far side of the park, Imogen’s black sedan was coming past the shops.
He nodded towards it. ‘She’s here.’
Imogen turned into the street that led to the pier and parked illegally at the end. Only her visible in the car. No other vehicles slowing on the main street; no one loitering in the park. Relief rinsed some of the tightness from his muscles. Imogen gave the area a slow scan as she headed down the path towards them. The same business attire as yesterday, with a long black coat; a woman who paid attention to the weather forecast.
Frankie hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder. ‘Maybe you should lead.’
‘OK.’
They’d spent the past half-hour discussing strategies, Frankie getting more indecisive as the minutes passed.
Imogen was on the pier now, limping slightly as though her shoes were rubbing. No, not her shoes – a weight in her coat pocket, banging against her leg with each step. A handbag slung across her shoulder, so probably not her purse. Unease stirred.
Frankie tapped his arm.
‘Hang on,’ he said.
Impossible to make out the shape, but too heavy for her taser or phone. The wind plastered the coat against her leg, revealing a hard edge.
A gun.
30.
‘Right pocket,’ he told Frankie. ‘Something heavy, maybe a gun.’
Frankie stiffened. ‘Shouldn’t have one. Not if she’s on leave.’
She shouldn’t be carrying it in her pocket instead of a holster, either. Imogen might be happy to break rules, but a gun would be awkward to reach there and hard to draw; only someone who wanted an element of surprise would carry a weapon like that.
Frankie let her backpack drop to her wrist, holding it partly behind her. ‘Gun’s in the front pocket. Move beside me and pull it out.’
The fed was thirty or forty steps away, couldn’t miss him pulling out a gun.
‘She’ll shoot.’ Any cop would, let alone one who was primed and ready to go.
Frankie spoke evenly, eyes on Imogen. ‘Come on. If she’s come to kill us we’re dead without it, and so is Tilda.’
Twenty steps away.
He shifted, blocking Frankie’s right arm from the fed’s view. Hand behind him, feeling for the pocket. He peeled open the zip and slipped his hand inside. Cold metal: the barrel of the gun. He gripped it.
Ten.
‘You alone?’ he called to Imogen as he eased it from the backpack.
‘Yes.’
Eight.
Too close, had to distract her. ‘That guy in the park isn’t with you?’
She didn’t turn. ‘No.’
Six.
Frankie swung the backpack out and dropped it at her feet, Imogen’s eyes following the movement. Caleb shoved the gun down the back of Frankie’s jeans. Heart thumping, trying to breathe slowly.
Imogen stopped a few arm-lengths away, eyes on him. ‘A word with you alone.’ Separate and conquer – how stupid did she think he was?
‘I don’t think so. We’ve got a possible name for the guy behind the murders.’
She stilled. ‘Who?’
If she was bent, she’d go for the gun. He shifted onto the balls of his feet. A good chance he could tackle her before she fired.
‘A judge,’ he said. ‘Help us, and I’ll tell you his name.’
No movement, no tensing of her fingers. He risked looking at her face and caught the end of her sentence. ‘… evidence?’
‘There will be. He’s linked to a charity we think Maggie’s been laundering money through.’
Was that disappointment in her eyes, or relief? ‘We need to speak alone,’ she said again.
‘Here’s good.’
She widened her stance, glancing from Frankie to him. ‘Frankie set you up. She put me onto you.’
Clever: finding the crack in their relationship, prying it open. But why?
Beside him, Frankie was speaking quickly.
He kept his focus on Imogen. ‘Really? She kidnap her own niece, too?’
‘No. I don’t know what happened there, but she’s trying to se
ll Maggie’s records. She dragged you into this because she thought you could get intel from me.’ Imogen’s hand moved towards her pocket.
He went to run, but Frankie had the gun out. Wide stance, aiming at the fed’s chest. Imogen was motionless.
By the retaining wall, the fisherman was scrambling away, abandoning rod and bucket. Shit. The police station was just around the corner; the cops would be here in minutes.
Frankie was gesturing for Imogen to kneel, but the fed stayed standing. ‘Think about it, Caleb. I’m a fed, I don’t know anything about local homicides. Someone sent me an email saying you knew where Frankie was. Gave me everything I needed to pressure you into contacting her – Petronin’s name, photos, dates, witness statement.’
His chest eased. For all her faults, Frankie wouldn’t have risked ruining his life on the off-chance the cop would feed him information.
‘Kneel,’ he told Imogen. ‘Slowly.’
‘I traced the email, Caleb. It was sent from Mallacoota. The same town where I found the supposed witness. He said Frankie paid him to make the statement.’
Mallacoota. The town where Frankie had been hiding out. ‘Like being back in Mallacoota. If that shop assistant comes at me with the tarot cards, I’m out of here.’
A slam of sound, splinters flying as a bullet notched the boards. Imogen dropped to her knees.
‘Coat off!’ Frankie yelled. ‘Now.’
Imogen hesitantly obeyed, threw the coat to one side. It skidded across the boards and caught on the end of a plank.
Frankie waved at him, her eyes and gun trained on Imogen. ‘… fucking with your head, Cal. We mustn’t have wrapped the phone properly. She was listening, heard me say I’d been in Mallacoota.’
Yes. Yes, that made sense.
Except Frankie had told him about Mallacoota in the crystal shop. His phone had been locked in the car.
Caught between falling and impact. ‘I didn’t have my phone then.’
Frankie’s face was bloodless. She was shaking her head, but not in denial.
God, it was true. He’d never forgive her, never forgive himself. He moved backwards until he was standing next to Imogen, blocking Frankie’s way. ‘You really set me up? For money?’