26.

Harold fidgeted in the seat as he steered the BMW up the driveway. The gate was already open. Passing Gabe’s cottage, he kept driving, until he reached the end of the gravel road. There was another van beside Theo’s kombi. The reconnaissance mission that Madeleine had ordered to retrieve the Wadani.

Harold killed the ignition and took a breath. He thought of turning the key, starting the car and driving away. It was ludicrous that he’d turned up here again.

He stepped out of the car and quietly closed the door. The air was so much crisper in the country. The sound of cars was far in the distance as a flutter of sparrows skipped between the small gums. He admired how peaceful everything was. Maybe he should have chosen a life like this for himself?

Putting his phone in his pocket, he straightened his jacket and walked up the path to the door.

And knocked.

***

Oliver opened the door. A smidgeon. Enough for Harold to tell that it was him, but barely any more.

‘The phone dropped out,’ Harold began. ‘I tried calling back, but I couldn’t get through.’

Oliver didn’t say anything. Just stood with the door ajar, refusing to make eye contact.

‘Oli, I think that it’s time we had a chat about—’

‘What are you doing here?’ Oliver cut him off. He opened the door and stepped outside and pushed Harold along the verandah. He was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. There was dirt besmirched across his clothes, smeared over his jaw.

‘Why are you so dirty?’

‘I’m a winemaker. Getting dirty is what I do. Not as squeaky clean as famous gallerists.’

Harold didn’t take the bait. ‘Can I come in? There are things I need to tell you. Important things.’ He glanced at the van, then at Oliver. He knew something was wrong with Oliver; he was grimy, rattled, almost panicked. He wondered whether Madeleine’s men were searching the cottage, armed, and Oliver had been told to send Harold away quietly.

‘It’s really not a good time,’ Oliver said, but his eyes were a plea for help. Harold looked across to the van once more. There was a faded sign that said Preston Painting Co. on the side.

‘Whose van is that?’

‘One for work.’

‘Okay. Well,’ Harold said, stepping back, surveying the moun­tains, thinking about what to do next. ‘I’m worried for you. Clare is missing, did you know that? It was on Facebook today. The police shared it.’

Oliver said nothing.

‘Where’s Gabe?’ Harold asked.

‘How should I know?’

‘He wasn’t at his cottage.’

‘He’s lucky to be alive. Did you know he nearly died?’

Harold sighed. ‘I’ll come and see you later.’

‘I don’t know why you decided to come to Mudgee, but I told you before I don’t want anything to do with you.’

‘A cup of coffee later. Please. There are things you need to know.’

Oliver didn’t speak. He just stood there, doing whatever he could to silently communicate his desperation.

‘I’ll come and see you later,’ Harold repeated.

Oliver only nodded and, without another word, shuffled inside and closed the door.

***

Harold headed down the driveway, towards Gabe’s cottage. He took care to park on the sandy area of the drive – around the side, so that his vehicle wasn’t visible from Oliver’s place – and got out of the car as noiselessly as he could manage. Approaching the door, he noticed a greyhound sitting outside the cottage. It stood up and walked towards Harold, who, having never liked dogs, pretended it wasn’t there.

Harold knocked, but he knew there wouldn’t be an answer. The dog barked, once, in acknowledgement. He checked his pocket, making sure his phone was there, and began walking back towards Oliver’s cottage. ‘Stay,’ he told the dog, which looked perplexed, frozen. While he knew Oliver was eccentric, on the fucking spectrum, he’d been reading people long enough to know that something was off with him. Oliver Wingfield was hiding something.

Instead of trying the front door again, he ambled towards the rear verandah. Almost tripped stepping up. Everything was clean: a wooden table and chairs, either handmade or converted from old church furniture. Pot plants. There were French doors leading into the kitchen. Harold had searched under the house for the paintings but hadn’t found anything there before. He moved towards the corner and peered inside. He could see Gabe and Oliver. Could hear the voice of someone else. An ugly laugh. Who would be there with them? He needed to get the painting first. Deliver it to Madeleine. Save his skin, make things right with Oliver.

He thought of knocking, but that approach hadn’t got him too far. He turned the handle to the door, expecting it to be locked, but instead it swung open in front of him. Its speed almost made him jump. Stepping inside, he saw Gabe and Oliver standing between the living room and the kitchen, mouths agape, looking … worried?

Harold went to speak, but another man, older, brandishing a pistol, stepped in front of Oliver. He recognised him immediately: Miles.

Before Harold could even turn around and walk back out the door, before he could register how dire the situation was, Miles pulled the trigger and shot him straight in the chest.