25.

Miles was standing a few metres away: pistol in one hand, wine bottle in the other. He’d cut the phone line, obviously. Oliver heard Harold’s voice before it dropped into a mid-word abyss. A minute later, his father was standing in his cottage.

‘Hey, mate,’ Miles said, still the same inflections in his voice, as though he’d only been with him in Terrigal a short time ago.

Gabe started to sputter on the ground. Grabbing the kitchen bench, he attempted to stand up. Immediately, Oliver extended his hand, helping to pull him to his feet.

‘Who are you?’ Gabe said, now fully upright.

‘Who am I?’ Miles mocked, a slight grin at the edges of his lips.

‘I thought I dreamed you were standing above me this morning,’ Oliver said. ‘But you really were there.’

‘Someone found my hiding place,’ Miles said, reaffirming his grip on the gun. ‘Changed my plans.’

‘What’s going on?’ Gabe asked.

‘Shut the fuck up.’ The tone was icy.

The three men stood in silence. Nobody moved.

‘Stand very still for me,’ Miles said.

Oliver was strangely calm. His father hadn’t changed much in nearly two decades. Slightly skinnier, grey hair now white. Same thick moustache. Oliver and Theo had inherited his nose. Luckily, the rest of their features were more like Julia’s.

‘The paintings aren’t here,’ Gabe said. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘The fuck?’ Miles said. ‘I’m not here for artwork.’

‘Let Gabe leave,’ Oliver said. ‘He won’t involve the police. We’ll work this out between us.’

Miles snorted; ugly, uneven bursts of laughter.

‘What’s that, mate, you’re ashamed of your old man?’ he said, stepping closer. ‘Now, Gabe, make yourself useful and grab two of those nice crystal wineglasses from up there.’ He pointed the gun at the cupboards. ‘Place them down on the bench right there in front of you. If you try anything stupid I’ll shoot your thick head that many times no one will be able to identify your body.’

***

Miles shuffled towards the kitchen bench. He unscrewed the lid from the bottle and poured a glass. Oliver could tell, just from looking at the liquid, that it was his own southern block cabernet. The wine had a particular purple hue he’d observed hundreds of times before.

‘I really don’t understand how this shit sells for so much money. In saying that, I remember hearing inside that these days people pay an exorbitant amount of money to drink coffee that’s been shat out of a monkey.’

Miles walked to the small wine rack Oliver had beside the kitchen bench and pulled another bottle of the cabernet and cracked it in front of them. He held the neck of the bottle above the other glass for a moment, before tipping his wrist and letting the wine pour. Oliver’s red wine from the old vines outside. Nothing more than fermented grape juice. A few drops splashed and slid down the outside of the glass, pooling on the table.

Miles grasped the base of the glasses and sent them screeching across the bench: one towards Gabe, the other to Oliver.

‘The world’s gone fucking mad,’ Miles said.

‘You’re fucking mad,’ Gabe retorted, but Miles only moved his eyes; offered a look of contempt.

‘Both of you. Close your eyes. And no peeking.’

They did as they were told. Oliver couldn’t sense a whole lot of movement; he only heard the base of the glasses shifting on the marble bench before them.

‘I’ve been wanting to play a little Russian roulette with you both for a while now.’ Miles moved back towards the dining table, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. ‘My initial plan was to kill you in front of Oliver. And then make it look like Oliver killed himself. You know, feeling bad for killing his brother and his business partners.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Oliver.

‘When you’re in jail for nearly twenty years, you have a lot of time to think. What’s the old saying? You either get better or you get bitter? I suppose when you’re already bitter, you’re only going to get worse.’

‘So, it’s been you? All of it?’

‘Well,’ Miles said. ‘I was released a month ago. Early. Good behaviour. Finished parole. Only problem is, you don’t leave jail with much money. Although, it’s pretty easy to find an old pub in the bush and walk behind the counter, take some money from the pokies till and not look back.’

He straightened up and kneaded his nose with his palm. ‘Then I bolted to Mudgee. Found the abandoned shed. Watched the winery and everything that was going on. Didn’t hear a peep from anyone in that shed next door. I brewed some poison and stole some wine. You really should lock your cellar more carefully, you know. No one in Mudgee locks anything. Anyone can just walk in there in the middle of the night and grab whatever they need …’

‘You drove the Jaguar back here to Theo the night he died?’ Oliver already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from his father.

Miles smiled. ‘That was another improvisation. Theo had enough poison to very slowly kill him. He should have still been alive when you returned in the morning, but there was a commotion. Cars leaving the vineyard. So, I came across and found him dead. I didn’t want to waste the opportunity to pin it on you, just like you didn’t waste any time throwing me to the dogs all those years ago—’

‘You killed Julia,’ Oliver said. ‘We just—’

‘I didn’t fucking kill her!’ Miles yelled. He smiled, composed himself, then shook his head. ‘I beat the shit out of Harold because I was angry. When I came home, she was already dead. She must have fallen. You know how weak she was, when … well.’

‘Why didn’t you just leave her there?’

‘For you or Theo to find? I moved her because … it wasn’t fucking right that she died like that. I panicked. Took her to the ocean. Harold saw her last, and I wanted answers. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘So, Theo cut his own throat as well? All very convenient.’

Miles grunted. ‘Believe what you want to believe, Oliver. Why the fuck would I lie to you now, with a gun in my hand?’

Oliver blenched. The pain was so bad that Theo had cut his own throat?

‘The body in the ditch,’ Gabe said, as if following Oliver’s train of thought.

‘Your business partner. Probably should have been your half-brother, but he’s holidaying in Croatia, by all reports.’ Miles frowned, looking Oliver in the eyes. ‘You all abandoned me, and I did nothing wrong.’

‘And the man I saw on camera, that clearly wasn’t you. The one sneaking around my wine shed? Someone working with you?’ Oliver asked.

Miles seemed confused. ‘Not sure who else you’ve got snooping around out there, but I’m too old and broken to trust anyone else with my work. No one knows where I am, as far as I know. Haven’t yet connected the dots: a killer on the loose, one they made a free man on the assumption that he was rehabilitated.’

They stood in silence. Oliver heard it first: the sound of tyres on gravel. A car coming up the driveway. Was it Everson, arriving to check Oliver was adhering to his parole? He hoped it was. Or was it Penny, coming to apologise for leaving yesterday? Or to berate him for being a lying bastard all this time?

Oliver looked at Gabe. Having worked with him for so many years, he could read his mind.

Please don’t let it be Penny.

***

‘Follow me. Try anything stupid and I’ll put a bullet through your temple.’

Oliver and Gabe did as Miles instructed. They moved slowly towards the front door in the living room. A moment later, as if on cue, there was a thunderous knock. The sound of the handle jerking. It wasn’t Penny, for she had a key. Unless she’d driven over on the spur of the moment and had left it behind. Miles, keeping the gun pointed at Oliver, moved to the door and twisted the lock. Whoever was there waited a moment before turning the handle.

The door opened and two men stood there. Oliver recognised one immediately: long curly hair, the tattoo creeping onto his neck. The mugshots from his first meeting with Everson. He was obviously in charge of the attempted break-in, reaching out his arm to stop his bald-headed companion from moving further into the room.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Miles said, pointing the gun at the art thieves, who continued to stand, stupefied, like they’d walked into a room and witnessed something they shouldn’t have. Oliver checked the kitchen, wondering whether he’d be able to limp over and get the shotgun. And do what? He’d have to kill his father. He could talk the two men down; let them know he had the artwork.

‘We’ve got your woman, mate,’ the bald man said to Oliver. ‘She’s with the boss and we’re not letting her go until we get the Wadani.’ Then, instinctively, he moved his hand towards his jeans.

But Miles was too fast. With one click of his finger, a bullet left the pistol’s chamber and entered the man’s forehead – he jerked and fell into the other intruder’s arms. Using the dead man as a shield, the tattooed thief shuffled backwards, towards the van they’d arrived in, but Miles walked a few steps closer and fired the gun again. Only one more shot. Oliver closed his eyes and heard the sound of two bodies collapsing onto the ground outside his front door.

***

Keeping the gun by his side, Miles turned to Oliver.

‘Who are they?’ he demanded.

Inhaling deeply, Oliver tried to steady his breathing. He felt a prickle of heat slide across his skin. ‘I don’t know who they are. Art thieves, drug dealers. They worked with Theo.’

Miles laughed. ‘No one’s going to be making a big song and dance about two thugs, eh?’

Penny. They had Penny.

But why wouldn’t she tell them where the paintings were? What was the Wadani? She knew Oliver didn’t hold too much sentimental value for the unfinished paintings; he already had his mother’s art on the wall, and if it was going to put lives in peril, it wasn’t worth it. Perhaps it was a bluff? After all, Penny wasn’t at home earlier. Unless she’d arrived home to pack and they’d pounced? Tied her up and waited for the call to say that Oliver had paid the henchmen with the paintings before they’d consider releasing her? He remembered Everson’s face when she had first showed him the black-and-white photographs of these people. Could still remember the clicking of the woman’s high heels in Harold’s house, the coldness of the gun’s barrel against his skin.

Miles muttered something to himself and walked towards them. Oliver needed to find a way to slip into the kitchen and grab the shotgun; his father hadn’t noticed it there.

‘Right. You’re going to help me lift these two bastards,’ Miles said, pointing the gun at Gabe. ‘We’ll put them into their van. I’ll take it somewhere later and burn it.’

Gabe didn’t say anything. Only put his chin down towards his chest and followed Miles to the door. Oliver gazed at the kitchen, but his father’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Oliver, walk with us. Or hobble. Whatever it is you have to do.’

While Miles and Gabe moved the bodies, Oliver kept hoping for the moment when he’d be able to return to the kitchen. He felt a steely bravery move through him. If he got the gun, he would have no hesitation when he pointed it at Miles’s head.

As Miles slid the van door closed, he said, ‘Oliver, there’s someone coming up the driveway.’

He pushed the butt of the gun into Gabe’s spine, and they all moved inside. There was a small splash of blood still on the footpath outside, but Miles didn’t see it.

Don’t be Madeleine holding Penny hostage, Oliver silently prayed.

Miles shot him a look. ‘You’re going to tell whoever this is to leave, quick smart. Or they’ll be joining your friends in the van.’