8.

He took Tilda to his office. His very new office, the ink on the lease only five weeks old. It was the last shop in a forgotten arcade in Collingwood, his neighbouring businesses an accountant and a cat-grooming venture that never seemed to have any customers. He’d chosen the place because it was cheap and a short walk to Kat’s house, four minutes if he ran it. The office was just big enough to contain a desk and three armchairs, a couple of filing cabinets. White walls and a fake Persian rug completed the look, along with a kick-proof door and top-of-the-line deadbolt to keep out the area’s more determined junkies. A strange sense of pride, given the slick city office he used to share with Frankie.

Tilda stood in the doorway, examining the room. Not scared, but definitely not relaxed – despite her phone call with Frankie, a short conversation involving a lot of ‘yeps’ and ‘nups’, ending when Tilda texted his photo to Frankie. Typical Frankie: always questioning, never assuming.

His message had come from a payphone ten seconds later.

—Spoke to librarian. Don’t tell T about M. Be there around 8

Five-thirty now; a long time for Tilda to hang around his office.

‘You need anything?’ he asked.

Tilda shook her head.

‘Something to eat?’

Another shake.

‘Drink?’

And another.

They stood looking at each other, then Tilda headed to an armchair and pulled an illustrated book about the Cold War from her backpack. Good call, get a bit of light research done while they waited. He put Maggie’s laptop on the desk and locked the door, threw the bolt for good measure. No real reason to suspect anyone was after him, but he wasn’t willing to risk it, not with Tilda here. Not with the image of her mother’s bloodied head still in his mind. A strong sense some recent event had set things in motion: Imogen and him, Maggie and Martin Amon. All of them buffeted by the same fallout, only him ignorant of its origins. A dangerous position to be in; knowledge wasn’t just power, but also protection.

At the desk, he pulled Maggie’s phone from his pocket, scrolled through its handful of texts. Dates and times, cryptic messages. One received this morning from someone called D.

—Rhys Delaney on for today

Maggie’s reply was a simple ‘OK’.

On for a meeting with Maggie? A online hunt found a surprising number of Delaneys in Australia, but only one Rhys in Melbourne. The slightly shadier side of the internet uncovered the basics: forty-two, married with two kids, no police record, a solicitor in a mid-sized law firm. Nothing more to be learned without speaking to the man. Or possibly searching Maggie’s laptop. He checked Tilda was still happily reading about mutually assured destruction and tried her name in the password field. Nothing. Damn it. He tried another string of variations, then gave up: he’d have to take it to his friendly computer-whizz, Sammi.

The overhead lights started flashing: someone ringing the doorbell.

The spyhole revealed the unexpected sight of Alberto.

Caleb opened it, smiling. ‘Hi. Come in.’

Alberto ventured slowly inside. ‘I was in the area, thought I’d drop by on the off-chance.’ He spotted Tilda, who was watching their signing with open-mouthed wonder. His face creased into a wide smile. ‘Well, hello! And who might you be?’

Tilda blinked at him.

Alberto turned Caleb, his mouth pulling down. ‘You don’t sign with her?’

The mystified disappointment of a man who’d been born into a family where deafness was both hereditary and an identity. Where the word ‘Deaf’ was bestowed a capital letter and Deaf children were treasured as a gift instead of a misfortune.

‘We’ve only just met,’ Caleb told him. ‘She’s a friend’s niece.’

‘Never too early to start.’ Alberto gave Tilda a little wave and turned to examine the room, looking oddly naked without his usual white apron. Oddly formal too, in neat brown slacks and a collared shirt. How Caleb’s grandfather had dressed on his rare visits to the doctor: overalls traded for a suit and tie, nailbrush vigorously applied to cement-roughened hands.

‘You going somewhere?’ Caleb asked.

‘No. Nice place. Do the floorboards yourself?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the windows? New frames?’

‘Yep.’

‘Shelves, too?’

Caleb propped against his desk. ‘What’s up?’

Alberto faced him properly. ‘I need help. I think someone’s trying to bankrupt me.’

Bankrupt? Maybe he’d misread the sign. He’d discovered some alarming gaps in his vocabulary since first visiting Alberto’s Place four months ago. Not surprising, given how rarely he’d seen his Deaf friends since leaving school. A distancing he’d have to do a bit of painful self-reflection about one day.

Caleb spelled the word with his fingers. ‘B.A.N.K.R.U.P.T?’

‘Yes. It started with a mis-delivery a few weeks ago. There’s been a string of them since, all worse. We’ve lost two big hotel accounts because of it. Insurance won’t pay, keep saying it’s my fault. I was beginning to think they were right, but then the blackout last night –’ His hands tightened into fists.

‘What happened?’

‘Someone set up an email account in my name and cancelled the electricity. We lost thousands in stock – fucking insurance won’t pay that either.’ Alberto shot an automatic glance at Tilda, seemed reassured by her rapt attention. ‘So, will you help?’

‘The police –’

‘I’ve been twice. They talk to the interpreters instead of me, think I’m too stupid to run a business.’

The dismissive looks and pitying smiles, the feeling of sitting at the kiddie table while the grown-ups went about their business.

‘I’m too close,’ Caleb said, ‘but I can recommend someone good.’

‘Deaf?’

‘No.’

‘Then no. Hearies just talk and think they’re listening.’ Alberto sagged, exhaustion in his face. ‘It’s fifty years next month. We were going to celebrate, have a street party, but I don’t think we’ll make it. Not if we lose another client.’

Oh shit. The business supported Alberto and his family and staff; all six of them Deaf, all welcoming to someone who’d wandered in four months ago looking for something undefinable.

‘I’ll need all the details,’ Caleb told him. ‘Email me everything that’s happened, including a list of anyone who might hold a grudge.’

The tightness left Alberto’s body. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me until I’ve actually done something. I’ll get someone to secure things for you online, but change all your passwords today. I’ll come around before work tomorrow to set up some CCTV. Just in case it gets physical.’ He paused. ‘Payment on success.’

Alberto’s chest puffed. ‘I’m not a charity. You fix this, we go back to being a viable business.’

‘OK, standard rates. I’ll bring a contract tomorrow.’

‘Well, Deaf rates. No need to be greedy.’ Alberto hugged him hard enough to make him wheeze. ‘It’s a relief just to have told you.’ He bowed to Tilda before signing, ‘Goodbye, young lady. Lovely to meet you.’

She waved back with a solemness worthy of a royal visit.

Caleb locked the door. A terrible feeling he’d just slipped onto the Bad Decision side of the ledger. Sabotage was notoriously difficult to solve, with no money trail or traceable stolen goods. Unless the saboteur did something stupid, the odds were against them being caught.

He turned for the desk. Tilda was watching him expectantly.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Did you say something?’

‘Not yet. Frankie said you need to look at people when they speak because you don’t hear very well even though you’ve got hearing aids.’ She peered at him. ‘Can I look at them? I can only see the little wires that go in your ears.’

‘Um, maybe later.’

A flash of disappointment, but she rallied quickly. ‘Was that signing you were doing with that man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you teach me some? Frankie won’t show me any because she mainly knows expletives.’ She pronounced the last word carefully, a gymnast executing a difficult manoeuvre on the balance beam. He’d underestimated her conversation level by quite a whack. Her confidence, too. The trick was obviously to get her onto a topic she found interesting.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘How about a word even Frankie won’t use?’

She leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘What?’

He made two fists and tapped his outstretched thumbs together.

Tilda copied him. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Aunty.’

A slow smile spread across her face, a transforming expression.

He found himself smiling back. ‘You up for a drive? I need to see a girl about a computer.’

‘Does she sign too?’

‘No, but she’s pretty good at saying expletives.’