by Emma Viskic
‘How you feeling?’ she asked.
‘Fine.’ He stopped, made himself try again. ‘Don’t know. Numb. Sorry about the nightmare. Waking you.’
She shook her head. ‘You still having them a lot?’
‘First one in ages.’ He caught her frown and said, ‘Seriously. I’m solid. Well, scaffolded, I guess. I’ll call Henry if I need to.’ He thought through what to say next. Their reconciliation had nearly failed because he’d pushed a case too far; if Kat didn’t want him to keep looking for Tilda, he was going to have a major problem.
She touched his knee to get his attention. ‘You have to talk to Tedesco again.’
‘What?’
‘I know he’s hard to budge, but you need help and you can trust him.’
‘Yeah. I was going to try again this morning. So you’re OK with me looking for Tilda?’
‘God yes, how could you live with yourself? I can’t stop thinking about her. She must be so scared.’ Kat pulled a slip of paper from her pocket, handed it to him.
C West, room 310
‘What’s this?’
‘Maggie’s room number. I rang the hospital, she’s awake.’
His blood congealed. Kat talking to people, Kat getting dragged into things; the horrors of the last time that had happened were written on her skin.
‘Don’t panic,’ she said. ‘I know the drill. Rang from a public phone, didn’t use my name. The nurse said they’re allowing ten-minute visits from family. Sounds like Maggie’s pretty groggy, but it’s worth a try. If she can tell you who’s got Tilda, you’ll be halfway to finding her.’
A churn of emotions, most of which he’d have to deal with later. Concentrate on making sure Kat didn’t get drawn in any further. ‘When are your sisters going back to the Bay?’
‘Soon as they’ve finished hassling you.’
‘It’d be good if you went with them. I’ll be able to help Tilda a lot better if I’m not worried about you. I’ll pick you up Thursday so you can be back for the ultrasound.’ What arguments hadn’t he touched on? ‘It’d save your sisters from making the trip up here. They must be busy.’
‘You can stop laying it on so thick, I’m already going.’
A catch there somewhere, had to be. ‘Really?’
‘I’m working with Jarrah. He’s got a big studio down there.’
Caleb tried to keep the grimace from his face. ‘The plywood bird?’
‘Yeah.’ Her face lifted. ‘Jarrah’s going to do the mechanical stuff. He’s got a degree in engineering.’
Of course he did. A degree in engineering, a happy nature, a shit-eating grin.
Time to have the conversation. ‘What’s the story with you and Jarrah?’
Her eyes were on him, clear blue in the morning light. It took her a few moments to answer. ‘Just colleagues these days.’ So there’d been something, in the long months after their marriage imploded; divorce papers waiting, communication ceased, Kat recovering from two miscarriages and an uncommunicative fuckhead of a husband.
‘Serious?’ he asked. Did some part of him enjoy pain?
‘Couple of months. Then you turned up again.’
Not sure how to take that, except to put it on the steadily growing deal-with-it-later pile. ‘Couldn’t resist my rugged good looks?’
A smile. ‘Plus your modesty.’ She picked up her tea and drank, gazing at the garden. Millimetres from him; too far.
34.
The carpark was a bare asphalt lot bordered by serviced apartments and a lone house ready for the wrecker’s ball. No sign of Tedesco yet. The detective had got in first with a text suggesting they meet this morning. A similar request from Imogen, but with a lot less punctuation.
Caleb parked at the back of the lot. The wind had lifted, worrying at a sheet of loose roofing iron on the abandoned house. He’d showered and changed at his flat but still felt smudged around the edges. He’d gone to collect Frankie’s car, too, checking that the memory card from her camera was still safely tucked in the ashtray. A strange moment, seeing her discarded takeaway cup in the footwell, her gnawed pen on the seat. As though she’d open the door any minute and scowl at him.
He closed his eyes, tried to do the breathing exercises from Henry.
On the pier, she’d begged him to let her get past. ‘I’ll explain everything later.’ There was nothing close to an explanation in any of the notebooks she’d left behind, just a record of her increasingly desperate search for Tilda. Whatever she’d had to tell him was lost. If there really had been anything.
A cold blast as the car door opened. He started upright, fists bunching.
Tedesco was getting settled in the passenger seat. ‘Stand down, soldier.’
‘Fuck.’ Caleb pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Might have to lie down.’
‘Lesson learned, then. Sitting with your eyes closed and doors unlocked. And I thought you were smart.’
‘Don’t know what gave you that idea.’
The detective was in gym gear again, and what looked suspiciously like an exercise tracker on his wrist. With any luck he’d be perky and helpful after his morning work-out.
‘You’ve got info on Transis?’ Caleb asked.
‘No. And I won’t. This can’t go on any longer. Alert the authorities.’
‘I can’t. Even Kat agrees I shouldn’t.’
‘Cal, what you and Kat are going through is rough, but this isn’t the way to handle it.’
He stiffened. ‘It’s not about that. I’m trying to save Tilda.’
‘Jesus Christ, will you snap out of it? We’re talking about a child. They could kill her. They might have already killed her while you were dicking around trying to fix things with Frankie.’
‘You think I don’t know that? It’s all I can fucking think about.’
Neither of them moved. The roofing iron was flapping wildly on the derelict house. A strong gust would send it slicing through the air. Tedesco turned his gaze from it to Caleb. ‘This stops now. I’m reporting it.’
Dread settled over him like a damp cloth. ‘You can’t, Uri. These people are connected. They’ll know if the cops find her. They’ll get to her first.’
‘Right now, you’re her biggest threat.’ The detective got out, didn’t look back as he strode to his car.
***
Caleb arrived at the hospital strangely breathless after the two-block walk, took the lift instead of the stairs to the third floor. Ward C was a brightly lit space, single-bed rooms fanning out from a nurses’ desk. Caleb headed slowly towards room 310. No idea how to tell Maggie about her daughter, about her sister.
A flash of blue as the duty nurse came to stand between him and the doorway. Bird-like, with sparrow-brown hair. The top of her head only came to his chin, but she looked ready to body-slam him onto the well-polished lino. ‘… hear me? I said you can’t go in.’ Neat little mouth and lips, tiny teeth.
‘Ah no, sorry. I’m family. Maggie’s nephew.’
She folded hollow-boned arms across her chest. ‘I’m sorry, but she’s had police and visitors all morning. She needs to rest.’
Police. It couldn’t be about Tilda, not yet. Which meant they’d been here about the assault, and possibly Frankie’s death. There was a chance homicide had managed to track her down. Be good to know exactly how much bad news he had to break.
‘Why were the police here?’ he asked.
‘About the assault, of course. You’ll have to come back tomorrow – she’s exhausted.’
‘I’ve got information about her daughter. She’ll want to know.’
‘Oh.’ Her arms lowered. ‘That’s Tilda? Maggie’s been quite distraught about her. She’s somehow got it into her head the girl’s missing.’
‘Yes.’ He edged around the nurse, towards the room. ‘So I’ll just talk to her quickly
. Set her mind at ease.’ Another step.
‘Two minutes. I’ll be timing you.’
He ducked past before she could change her mind. Maggie’s room smelled of disinfectant, a still quality to the air. She was asleep, lying half-propped in bed, bandages around her head. Glimpses of Tilda in her thin face; of Frankie.
A man was sitting by her side. He stood, weight even in his feet. Alert eyes and short hair, the unsubtle bulge of a gun beneath his jacket: one of Frankie’s hired guards. Probably ex-army, definitely professional.
Caleb ventured a bit closer, hoping Frankie had put his name on the ‘non-threatening’ list – and that Maggie hadn’t removed it. ‘I’m Caleb Zelic, Frankie’s business partner.’
‘Some ID if you don’t mind please, sir.’
Caleb fished his licence from his wallet and passed it to him. The guard’s posture eased slightly as he examined it. ‘And if you could tell me the name of your first pet please, sir?’
A moment to regret both the name of the pet, and that he’d mentioned it to Frankie. ‘Bunnykins.’
The slightest of quirks to the man’s lips. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He returned Caleb’s licence and leaned down to speak to Maggie. Her eyes opened. A hazy focus as she listened to the guard, but she nodded, and he went to wait outside the door. No obvious recognition as Caleb approached her; face open and vulnerable, nothing like the cool-headed criminal who’d once tried to kill him. Good. If she was that doped up, he might get some information out of her. ‘Know you?’ she asked. ‘Feel I should know you.’
A jolt at the familiar rhythm of her speech, so like Frankie’s despite the blurred edges.
‘Yes, I’m Frankie’s – I’m her friend.’
She lurched forward, words tumbling from her lips like in the video. ‘Turnip. Has she got Turnip? … Quinn said … Turnip … Frankie got her?’
So Quinn had been one of Maggie’s visitors. Not a complete surprise – Quinn might have run back home when she was threatened, but she was smart and battle-scarred; she’d know it was safer to understand what she was up against.
‘No,’ he said, then stopped. Honesty wouldn’t help either of them; Maggie was too confused, too distraught. ‘Turnip’s fine. Frankie’s got her.’
‘Oh. Oh good.’ She settled back against the pillows. ‘Loves Turnip. Only thing I can trust her with.’
‘Who hurt you?’
‘Can’t remember, head’s fuzzy.’ She squinted at him, as though looking into a bright light. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m Frankie’s friend. She needs your client list. To keep Turnip safe.’
‘Can’t have it. All her fault. Some dog found out she stole the records. Set the cops onto us.’
A moment thinking he’d misread her, then it clicked – she was talking about Imogen’s informant, Jordan, the man Maggie had probably ordered killed. Better sidestep that part of the story. ‘How did Jordan know Frankie had the records?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t know him.’
‘He didn't work for you?’
‘No.’
Sudden clarity in her eyes. ‘You’re Caleb. Messed things up for my mates last year. You and Frankie working together again?’
Shit. Probably a matter of seconds before she remembered he'd killed her ex-husband.
‘Just for a bit,’ he said. ‘She needs your client list. Where is it?’
‘It’s good you’re working together. You’re good for her. Fond of you.’
Unable to speak; his throat closed shut. He shook his head.
‘True. Hated herself for fucking things up with you. Story of her life. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t care.’ Her eyes were drifting, words thick in her mouth. ‘Raised me, you know. Mum was hopeless. Drunk. Shouldn’t’ve had kids.’
He swallowed. ‘Frankie needs your client list.’
‘Can’t trust her with that. Tell me if she fucks you around again, I’ll pay. Should pay you for killing my ex, anyway. Saved me the hassle.’ Her eyelids fluttered shut.
‘Maggie.’ He touched her arm, waited until she looked at him. ‘What does Turnip know about your clients?’
Movement at his shoulder – the small nurse was there, tapping her watch. ‘Time to leave.’
‘Just a sec.’ He turned to the bed. ‘Maggie. What does Tilda know about your clients?’
Her lips barely moved. ‘Nothing. Just a game.’
The nurse gestured to the door. The guard was there, sharp eyes on him.
Caleb got a little way past the nurses’ desk before stopping. An entire conversation with Maggie, and all he’d discovered was that Jordan hadn’t worked for her. No point hanging around waiting for her to wake up: even drugged and confused, she hadn’t let anything important slip.
The small nurse was in front of him again. ‘… down?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You’re a bit pale. Do you need to sit down? Or speak to someone? Visits like this can be upsetting for loved ones.’ Not volunteering for the job, just going through a checklist.
‘I’m fine. You mentioned before that Maggie had a lot of visitors this morning. Did you get any names? It’d be good to know who I still need to contact.’
A faint blush touched her cheeks. ‘I may have overstated it somewhat, but the police were here a long time.’
‘Of course. Anyone else?’
‘Just her sister.’
A swooping sensation before he realised she couldn’t be talking about Frankie. ‘Quinn?’ he asked.
‘Yes. You must have just missed her.’
Quinn was a smoker; odds were she’d stop for a quick durrie after a stressful visit. If he could find her, he could question her about Lovelay. ‘Which way did she go?’
‘I think towards the back entr–’
He took off, waving his thanks over his shoulder.
***
Quinn was sheltering in an alcove a few metres from the taxi rank, handbag slung across her chest. Onto her second cigarette, by the looks of it. Jeans and a navy hoodie, dark hair scraped into a loose bun. When she saw him, she stepped from the alcove, cigarette in front of her, ready to jab. A practised move. ‘You following me?’
‘I’m here for Maggie. Tilda’s still missing.’
Her gaze darted to the hospital doors. Searching for someone?
‘Frankie’s not here,’ he said.
‘Yeah? You seemed pretty bloody tight the other day. You didn’t tell me it was her fault all this happened. Maggie’s going to kill her.’
‘She’s dead.’ Much easier to say this time; just needed a bit of practice.
‘What? When?’ Her eyes were wide.
‘Yesterday. A cop shot her.’
‘Jesus. The pigs are involved?’ She was tensed, getting ready to run.
‘Federal cops. I think Rhys Delaney’s gone, too. He didn’t turn up to work.’ He let her imagination fill in the missing pieces. ‘There’s a café inside. How about we tell each other what we know over coffee? Help each other out?’ He did an obvious scan of the street. ‘We’re pretty exposed out here.’
She considered his words, flicked her cigarette onto the footpath. ‘You’ll have to buy. I’m skint.’
He bypassed the main cafeteria, leading her to the small café off the lobby, a low-ceilinged place with plastic tables and chairs. Quinn headed for the attached courtyard to light up, while he bought them coffee, added a couple of muffins; Quinn looked like she could use the carbs even more than him.
The plastic theme continued outside, with synthetic lawn and vases of fake flowers. No other customers – possibly scared away by the environmental toxins and Quinn’s cigarette. She’d chosen the exact chair he would have: her back to the wall, an unimpeded view of the hospital foyer and café. Which meant her face was in shadow.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘could y
ou move to the other side? It’s too dark there.’
Her words were unreadable, but her expression clearly said ‘piss off’.
‘I’m deaf. I need to see your mouth to lip-read.’
She laughed. Not the first time he’d had that reaction, but for some reason he hadn’t expected it from Quinn. Always worse when he wasn’t prepared for it.
She stood and moved into the light. ‘Shit, and here I was thinking you fancied me, the way you kept staring at my mouth.’ She plonked herself in a different seat. ‘Never get the cute ones, always the slobs.’ Turning up the charm again. Difficult to work out where performance began and ended with her.
He passed her the coffee as he sat. ‘Thought you’d be halfway to Darwin by now.’
‘Me, too. Then I remembered I don’t have any money, skills or protection. I need Maggie to sort this out or I’m fucked.’ She took a deep drag. ‘So I guess I’m fucked.’
‘You didn’t get anything out of her?’
‘Just about Frankie doing the dirty. Then I went and mentioned Tilda, and she flipped. Didn’t realise she didn’t know, or I would’ve kept my mouth shut. How’d she take the news about Frankie?’
‘Wimped it. Didn’t tell her.’
‘Jesus, an honest man. Careful, or they’ll kick you out of the club.’ She blew a long stream of smoke at the No Smoking sign. Looked relaxing; maybe he should take it up. Something to do with his hands other than punching a wall.
‘Right now, you’re her biggest threat.’ Tedesco would have made his statement by now, cops on the way to Maggie’s bedside. Hard to see how the two of them could get past this. A friendship only a year old; ridiculous for its loss to make him feel this sick.
‘You know who took Tilda yet?’ Quinn asked. ‘Was it that big bloke?’
‘No, but he’s after her. Probably working for one of Maggie’s customers. Do you know where her client list is?’
‘You kidding? I’m just the hired help. Not even that – I fuck the hired help.’ Quinn was a lot sharper than she let on, a useful shield in her business, and one Maggie would have used.
‘You do more than that,’ he said.