16.

Rhys Delany’s office was a couple of blocks back from the bay in Williamstown. A bit of whimsy in the brick turrets and porthole-like windows, but everything else was businesslike. The doors opened directly on to a reception area carpeted in reassuring grey, a hallway of offices tucked to either side, discreet open-plan desks to the rear. The receptionist nodded hello from behind a high timber counter and continued her phone conversation: a serious exchange that involved a lot of frowning and consulting of her computer. Frankie gave it ten seconds, then went to the far end of the waiting area and unwrapped the phone; the second time she’d checked messages in the past twenty minutes.

The receptionist hung up and faced him. According to the plaque on the desk she was Mrs Marion Gillis: Office Manager. A fierce-looking woman around Frankie’s age, with a blunt fringe and heavy-rimmed glasses. The wall calendar featuring a basket of ribboned kittens had to belong to a coworker. She gave Caleb a smile with no trace of warmth. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so. My name’s Caleb Zelic. My partner and I are after Rhys Delaney.’

‘Do you want …?’ Her words were lost as she turned to the computer.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Do you want…?’ And back to the screen.

Did he want what? A coffee? A unicorn? People who looked at him when they spoke?

‘Sorry, could you look at me when you speak? I’m deaf. I’m lip-reading.’

She spun back to him, mouth open. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. You poor thing, how terrible.’

Shit, a mourner. A very loud mourner. Her lamentations had drawn the attention of everyone in the room, including Frankie. His fault: he’d let himself be fooled by a stern facade, instead of taking into account the much greater significance of the kittens. He spoke softly in an effort to lower her volume. ‘We’re hoping to see Delaney now. Is he in?’

‘You speak very well, you know. A little quietly, but just like a normal person.’

A meteor, a weapon, something to end this now. ‘Is Delaney free?’

‘I’ll ask.’ She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. ‘It must be so hard for you. Do you know about cochlear implants? My neighbour’s cousin’s son got –’

Caleb looked away until she’d lowered the receiver.

‘You’re in luck,’ she said. ‘Down the hallway to the last office. Do you need help?’ She glanced at Frankie, who was coming towards them. ‘Or is that your carer?’

He headed off at a semi-jog. Frankie caught up to him outside Delaney’s office and went in without comment. Could always rely on her lack of sympathy, thank God.

Delaney was a damp-looking man with a bland face and a shirt two or three shades away from its original white. His handshake proved his sogginess. ‘Please do sit. How can I help?’ An easy read except for that sweaty upper lip. A temptation to grab a tissue and blot it.

Frankie shifted her chair so Caleb could see them both clearly. ‘We’re after information.’

She handed Delaney a business card. One of their old ones, their names on the front, along with the words ‘fraud investigations’. Also with the word ‘partners’. She’d been carrying that around a long time.

‘Fraud?’ Delaney swallowed. ‘I don’t understand. Are you police officers?’

‘We work closely with the police,’ Frankie pulled a notebook from her pocket and flipped to a new page. ‘Tell me about Maggie Reynolds. How do you know her?’

Delaney’s shoulders loosened, as though he’d been bracing himself for a different question. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that name. Can I help you with something else? Conveyancing? A contract?’

‘Mr Delaney.’ Frankie waited until the man’s eyes met hers. ‘We know.’

Delaney’s gaze flicked to a timber-framed photo on his desk, angled to display a wife and young family. ‘Nothing happened.’

‘Explain what “nothing” means,’ Caleb said. ‘And maybe we won’t have to talk to your boss.’ He nodded at the photo. ‘Or your wife.’

‘Nothing. Really. Just, a woman approached me at a party last week. We talked, that’s all.’

Maggie?

‘What was her name?’

‘Kw … vo.’

Zero chance Caleb was going to get that. Frankie wrote something and tilted the pad for him to see: Quinn Devereaux.

‘Describe her,’ he told Delaney.

‘Beautiful, really beautiful, with long black hair. Petite.’

Not a great description, but definitely not Maggie: she had the same rangy build as Frankie.

‘Tell us everything,’ Caleb said. ‘What, when, where.’

‘It was a fundraising ball for a charity. Game Goers. I do pro bono work for them.’ He paused to see if he’d impressed them, went on quickly. ‘Quinn just came up, started talking. After a while she suggested we go to her room for a drink. It wasn’t until we were there that I realised she was a, you know.’

‘Prostitute,’ Frankie said.

Delaney looked hurt. ‘Criminal. She wanted to know if I could set up shell companies to, um, filter money through.’

‘Filter?’ Frankie said. ‘Is that a polite term for launder?’

‘I didn’t do it. I left once I realised what she was after. Never saw her again.’

—Rhys Delaney on for today

The message had been sent by someone with the initial D. Could be Devereaux.

Caleb leaned forward. ‘We’ve seen the phone records. We know you met with Quinn yesterday.’

‘No.’ Delaney’s tongue touched his moist upper lip, a darting movement like a small pink lizard. ‘I mean, yes, we were meant to meet, but she rang and cancelled at the last minute.’

‘Show me the call log.’

Delaney scrolled through his phone and thrust it at Caleb. Only one call between the pair, from Quinn to Delaney at noon yesterday. The lawyer had included Quinn’s profile photo: a woman in her early thirties, with elvish features and long dark hair. Familiar in a distant way. The TV news, some scandal involving a public figure, the suggestion of favours traded for sex. A taint to the memory: a face Caleb associated with bad news.

He sent himself her number then looked through Delaney’s photos. A man who used a profile picture for a woman he’d only just met had definitely kept the original shot. More than one, in this case: five clear photos of Quinn wearing a slinky midnight-blue dress, champagne glass in hand. Definitely familiar.

And the memory slotted into place – the hospital waiting room and the looping repeats of a news channel. It had been the second miscarriage; the dragging loss, the fear that this was their future.

Frankie was staring at him, obviously wondering why he was taking so long to check a few calls. He passed her the phone.

‘Is Quinn OK?’ Delaney asked as Frankie flicked through the photos. ‘She’s not hurt or anything, is she?’

A deviation from the expected script.

‘Why do you ask?’ Caleb said.

‘She sounded sort of scared. And her phone keeps ringing out.’ Delaney kept talking without waiting for an answer. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? My wife’s just had a baby. I mean, I didn’t actually do anything but this could kill my career.’

A strange desire to stomp on the man. Without answering him, Caleb stood and followed Frankie to the door, turned back as he reached it. ‘Does the name Kirner mean anything to you? Or something similar?’

Delaney’s face grew even damper as he tried to come up with an answer that would make them leave. ‘I don’t think so.’

Frankie waited until they were a few steps away before speaking. ‘Just a mark. Quinn’s the one we need. Did I notice a glimmer of recognition when you saw her?’

‘Yeah, she was involved in a sex scandal a few years ago. A politician or judge. Someone with a great name, Lovecock maybe. Remember that?’

‘No, but bless your somewhat creepy memory for faces. I don’t suppose you can remember her surname, too? I’m betting it’s not Devereaux.’

‘No.’ He looked around the corner into the reception area: Mrs Gillis was on the phone again. He speed-walked past her, pretended he couldn’t see her waving.