by Emma Viskic
‘Sure. Sometimes I fuck for fun, too.’ She gave him a raking look, but didn’t seem to have her heart in it.
‘Does that usually work as a distraction?’ he asked, genuinely interested.
‘I’m usually better at it. Off my game.’ She sat back, eyeing him through the smoke haze while she decided if she could trust him.
He tried the muffin as he waited – blueberry and sawdust. When would he learn never to buy muffins? Almost be better off with banana bread.
‘I’m a go-between,’ Quinn finally said. ‘Tell the workers what to do and when. Maggie keeps things tight, lots of buffers, airlocks, whatever. There’s no way a client could have known Frankie stole the records.’
Frankie had talked about Maggie’s tight security, too.
‘What do you know about Rhys Delaney?’ he asked.
‘Not much. Maggie just asked me to keep him happy occasionally.’
Keep him happy, not make him happy. According to the solicitor, he’d only met Quinn once. ‘How long has Delaney been working for Maggie?’
‘No idea.’
A very literal take on his questions; he tried again. ‘When did you first sleep with him?’
‘Sleep with him?’ She laughed. ‘Aren’t you friggen adorable? About a year ago, I guess. Maybe more.’
So Delaney had lied. Or Quinn was lying now – a distinct possibility if she was trying to distract him from her ex-lover, Judge Lovelay. There seemed to be real affection there.
‘How well does Delaney know Maggie?’
She waved a hand. ‘Airlocks etcetera, etcetera.’
He smiled, almost felt bad about the next question. ‘What about Lovelay? He knows her pretty well, doesn’t he? Introduced you to her.’
Quinn’s thoughts played across her face as she considered lying, then realised her hesitation had given her away. ‘Yeah, they’re old mates.’
‘I need to speak to him. You know his address?’
‘Angus wouldn’t have taken Tilda. He’s a good bloke.’
‘I’m not saying he did, but Maggie works on introductions, and Lovelay’s a connector. He’ll know more of her customers.’
‘No. Sorry, but I’m not going to drag him into it. He did everything for me. Taught me things, introduced me to the right people. And he lost everything because of it – wife, kids, career. Doesn’t deserve any more shit.’
Caleb doubted anyone in his life except Kat would protect him like that. Still, one person was good, particularly if that person was Kat.
‘I won’t drag him into anything, I just want to ask him some questions.’
She stood and stubbed her cigarette out on the plastic flowers. An acrid smell. ‘I really hope Tilda’s OK, but I’m out.’
‘I’ll find Lovelay,’ he said. ‘But before that I’ll contact the fed who killed Frankie and tell her about your in-depth knowledge of Maggie’s business.’
Her face hardened. ‘Had you wrong. Thought you were one of the good ones, that you felt bad about Frankie threatening me. Turns out you’re a bigger cunt than she is.’
He held her gaze. ‘Now you know.’
35.
Lovelay’s house was a grand two-storey mock-Georgian with a matching mock-Georgian garage, its sweeping lawn adorned by a marble statue of a woman – mock-Grecian. The kind of taste-vacuum that bemused Kat. She used to stop on their evening walks to examine similar places, the air of a doctor trying to understand a patient’s benign but puzzling symptoms.
She’d be halfway to the Bay by now, probably caught up in a lively debate with her sisters. The entire family couldn’t spend ten minutes together without trying to fix the world’s wrongs. Car trips with them were like watching an un-captioned but engaging movie, usually with a healthy snack or two thrown in.
He knocked on Lovelay’s door. Waited. Knocked again, pressed the doorbell for good measure. Nothing. Damn: like hitting a blank wall right after the starter’s pistol.
OK, Delaney’s house was only a fifteen-, twenty-minute drive from here. Speak to the man’s wife, then try Lovelay again, break in if he had to. Caleb might not have Frankie’s lock-picking skills but he knew how to smash a window.
***
No one answered Delaney’s door.
Caleb peered through a gap in the living-room curtains. Scattered toys, old-style TV and lounge suite, a basket of unfolded washing. Nothing to be read from the scene, other than that a family with young children and modest spending habits lived here.
He tried the house opposite, a well-kept cottage with windows overlooking the Delaneys’. No answer. Shit bugger fuck. He turned to check out the neighbouring houses: lights off, no cars. Too tired to keep doing this; he was going to make mistakes. More mistakes. You needed a partner for this kind of sustained work – even better, an assistant. No trust involved, just someone to drive while you napped, and call ahead to make sure people were home. Not cleave you apart, leave you holding the shards.
A tap on his back.
He lurched forward, caught himself before he went headfirst off the porch. In the doorway, an elderly woman was looking at him. Even smaller than the nurse at the hospital, with snappable bones, tiny feet in what had to be kids’ shoes. ‘Goodness, you’re jumpy. You should take something for that.’ Vowels so plummy she could make jam.
‘Yeah. Do you know the Delaneys? I need to speak to a family member.’
‘And you are?’
‘Caleb. Caleb Zelic.’ He handed her a business card, the one giving his title as ‘security consultant’.
She studied it carefully. ‘Couldn’t you come up with a vaguer title?’
‘Sure. I’ve got one that just says “consultant”.’
A dry cough of a laugh. ‘I’m afraid you just missed them. They left for Noosa thirty minutes ago.’
‘Was that sudden?’
‘I believe so.’
An impromptu subtropical holiday. Because Delaney was scared? Or because he was trying to mend his marriage after sleeping with Quinn?
The woman was watching him with bright black eyes, apparently eager for his next question.
‘Do you know the family well?’
‘I suppose that depends on your definition of well. June and I often chat, but we don’t share our sexual exploits. I do hope you’re not going to spoil her holiday. She’s been so glum, but she was smiling away when she asked me to feed the cat. Do you think you could make that stop?’
He replayed her last sentence. ‘Make what stop?’
‘Your phone. It’s chirping in the most annoying manner.’
Shit, he’d forgotten to turn it off after checking the map. ‘Sorry, I don’t know how to turn the sound off. Why has June been down?’
Her eyes went to the business card. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘I’m following up a few things with Mr Delaney’s work.’
‘That’s a very dull way of saying you believe he was on the take.’
That was sharp; maybe she could be his assistant. Or he could be hers.
‘Would you be surprised if he was?’
‘Yes. He’s sulky but not sneaky. Then again, I’m no judge of character. I really don’t understand what June sees in the man, and she adores him.’
‘Has he spent an unusual amount of money lately?’
‘Apart from the holiday, you mean? I really couldn’t say.’ Her hand went to the door. ‘And I’ve probably slandered him enough. Best of luck with your consulting.’ A brisk smile, and she closed the door.
He headed for the car, checked his messages as he got in. Alberto’s daughter.
—Dad’s hurt. Someone beat him up
36.
It wasn’t quite sunset, but Alberto’s house was ablaze with light, a lot of people visible through the net curtains. The place could have been built by Caleb’s fath
er: solid blond brick, all right angles and straight lines. The kind of house where you slept well at night, knowing the roof would stay on and the weather stay out. A much more abundant garden than anything Ivan Zelic would have planted, though – a mini-orchard of olives, lemons and apples, carefully pruned and mulched.
Nick answered the door, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. ‘He’s OK,’ he signed before Caleb had a chance to ask. ‘The doctor said nothing’s broken.’
The nausea receded, but only a little. More than just bones could be broken in an assault.
Nick gestured him into the tiled entrance hall. Its wide double doors opened onto a living room filled with people: Ilaria, staff, customers. Everyone signing and eating, the mood somewhere between a funeral and a party. No Alberto darting among them, making sure everyone was fed and happy.
‘Do you know what happened?’ Caleb asked Nick.
‘We were setting up, around six-thirty. Just me and Grandad.’ Nick’s hands jerked from one sign to the next with none of his usual grace. ‘He went back to the car to get something, took ages. When I finally went to look, he was lying in the alley, kind of curled up.’ The teenager’s lips pressed inwards as he tried not to cry. ‘I was in the kitchen the whole time.’
Ilaria came through the living-room door towards them, eyes on her son. Dressed in her usual dull greys, but an intense focus Caleb had never seen before. She stopped in front of Nick. ‘It would have been much worse for your grandad if you’d been hurt. He’s thankful you weren’t there.’
Tears rolled down the boy’s face. ‘It’s Dad.’
Ilaria glanced back at the living room. ‘It’s not.’
‘It is. Dad –’
‘I’ve watched the security tape. It’s not him.’
‘You sure?’ Caleb asked. It would have been dark at that hour.
A grim smile. ‘I know how Tony moves.’ She touched Nick’s arm. ‘Grab my laptop from the kitchen, will you? The video’s on it.’ She nudged him gently when he hesitated, and he headed down the hall. Ilaria waited until he’d gone, then faced Caleb. ‘Wipe it when you’re done, I don’t want Nick seeing it.’
‘So it might have been his father?’
‘No, it’s definitely not Tony. But Nick’s already seen too much damage. I don’t want him seeing his grandad getting hurt. I can at least do that.’ She lifted her chin, daring him to argue.
He went in to Alberto as soon as Nick returned with the laptop. A cosy room, family photos on the walls, along with a large tapestry of what looked like an Italian village. A portrait of Alberto’s late wife in pride of place on the dresser. Alberto lay on top of the blankets in a fleecy brown tracksuit. He sat up as Caleb came to the bed, carefully propping himself against the headboard. Purpling bruises marred his face, his left eye swollen almost shut.
Old. Frighteningly old. Like Caleb’s grandfather in the last few months, his once mortar-cracked hands soft and trembling. Tears burned in Caleb’s eyes.
‘Don’t you start,’ Alberto told him. ‘The boy and his mother have been going all morning.’ But he gave Caleb’s arm a little rub as he sat on the bed.
‘You see who did it?’
‘No.’ Alberto’s head lowered. ‘Hit me from behind, and I stayed down.’
A white hot rage. How could anyone have made this man feel ashamed? ‘D’you think you’re up to watching the tape? It could help.’
‘The police have already looked. They said it’s too dark for an ID.’
‘Worth a try. You might recognise the way he moves.’
‘Of course. I should have thought of that.’ Alberto levered himself straighter, making a painful show of interest.
The video was set up and ready to go. Alberto’s spry figure walking down the darkened alley, someone running up behind him. A blow to the back of his head; he smacked to the ground. Caleb flinched. Too dark to see the attacker’s face, but his movements were clear as he raised his arm, brought something long and thin down on Alberto’s back. Lashing repeatedly as Alberto curled in a ball, his arms over his head. Eventually the man turned, and walked away, the whip held down by his side.
No, not a whip. Cylindrical, a piece of pliable pipe like a garden hose.
Alberto was ashen. ‘I don’t know him.’
A garden hose. Someone had mentioned an attack with a hose just the other day. A few seconds to retrieve the memory: Tedesco in the park eating a bowl of kale, talking about his latest case, the murder suspect. Jimmy Puttnam, the loan shark. ‘… whipping people with a cut-off garden hose …’
A rancid thought oozed into his brain. Smashed windows and threatened arson were all straight from a loan shark’s playbook; standard methods when a debtor couldn’t pay.
Caleb looked at Alberto. ‘He’s a loan shark.’
‘You know him?’
His tension released at Alberto’s blank expression. Of course the man wasn’t in debt to Jimmy Puttnam. No loan shark would have sabotaged the deliveries and cancelled the electricity account – too time-consuming, too subtle.
But an owner might, to scam money from an insurance company.
‘I upped the insurance, got top cover on everything.’
He stood, mouth dry. Alberto couldn’t have used him as a smokescreen. It’d be unbearable.
Alberto reached towards him, looking alarmed. ‘Are you all right? Sit down, sit beside me.’
Caleb’s arms were almost too heavy to sign. ‘Why couldn’t you have just sold the business if you needed money? Sell the building? Why involve me?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re in debt to Jimmy Puttnam, trying to con the insurance company to get the money.’
Alberto slumped against the bedhead. ‘How could you think so little of me?’
How could Alberto think so little of him?
He left. A glimpse of Nick through the living-room door, the boy’s face filled with anxiety, Ilaria huddled with friends in a corner. Not his job to tell them, they’d find out sooner or later. He kept going, closed the front door behind him.
37.
Judge Lovelay looked like he’d woken from a long nap, his salt-and-pepper hair matted on one side, cheek creased. Early retirement hadn’t suited him. The fit and handsome man from the news reports a few years ago was gone, replaced by someone much older.
He appeared bewildered by Caleb’s request for him to turn on the outside lights, even more bewildered at his business card. ‘Are you looking for work?’ he said, eyes still on the card. A clear tone, with the steady pace of a man used to public speaking.
‘No. I’m here about Maggie Reynolds. About her daughter.’
Surprise crossed Lovelay’s face. ‘I’m not really that close to Maggie. You’d be better off contacting her family.’
Caleb tried to dredge the right words from his mind. Strangely blank, as though he’d just woken from a deep sleep, too. Maybe he had: he’d apparently been walking through his life in a daze. ‘How could you think so little of me?’
Focus. Don’t think about Alberto or Frankie or the thin crust of earth cracking beneath his feet, just concentrate on getting Tilda back.
‘It’s connected to Transis,’ he told Lovelay.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.’
Caleb hesitated: was he mistaken about the judge’s involvement? No wariness to the man’s manner, just faint confusion, an obvious wish to be left alone. Maybe the truth was his best bet. ‘Maggie’s daughter’s been kidnapped. Tilda.’
‘Oh my goodness.’ Lovelay’s face drooped.
‘I’m hoping you can help. Can I come in?’ He stepped onto the threshold without waiting for an answer.
‘Oh. Of course. If you think I can be of some use.’
The judge led him to a large sunroom overlooking the backyard. Spotlights illuminated silver birches
, bare limbs shivering in the wind. The room had an unused quality; no clutter, just a wilting floral arrangement and a bookmarked biography of Churchill on a side table. Only one of the four leather armchairs was softened by use.
Caleb took the one closest to Lovelay’s, waited for the judge to get settled. Whatever the man’s role in Maggie’s affairs, he seemed strangely open to helping. ‘Tilda’s in danger,’ Caleb said. ‘Not just from the kidnappers, but from one of Maggie’s clients. They think she knows something incriminating.’
‘Oh that poor child. Poor Maggie.’ In the light of the sunroom, he looked more than badly aged: rheumy-eyed and shaky, a few bristling patches where he’d missed shaving. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you want from me.’
‘I need Maggie’s client list. I know you’re one of them.’
‘I’ve got no idea about that. Ask Maggie.’ Not denying the connection, but not quite admitting to it.
‘Maggie’s sick, she can’t help. But you’ve introduced her to lots of people. Tell me who they are.’
‘I’m truly sorry, but I don’t know anything that could help.’ The judge’s voice wavered and caught. He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his watering eyes. ‘My apologies. I’m afraid I’m a little weepy these days. The thought of another child –’
Another child. The rotting flower arrangement and bloodshot eyes: the man was in mourning. Slow today; should have put that together straight away.
‘I’m sorry, have you lost someone recently?’
‘My stepson. He wasn’t a child, of course – twenty-three – but still so young.’
The tawny-haired boy with Lovelay in all the pre-Quinn society photos. Another death. A man peripherally connected to Maggie. Caleb sat still. ‘I’m sorry, had he been unwell?’
‘Oh. No. An accident. I’m sure it was an accident. Although I hadn’t seen him much in recent years. Not my choice, you understand – I loved the boy.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘It’s quite unbearable, you know. Having unfinished business with someone you love.’
Caleb asked the question, tried to keep the hope from his voice, from himself. ‘What was his name?’