18.

He parked behind a battered ute and got out. A bare dirt yard and greying weatherboard, a musty tinge to the air. Two rows of metal cages ran down the driveway, head height and filled with birds – turkeys, geese, ducks, chickens – the concrete floors layered with shit and matted straw. The house next to them was sagging, its veranda supported on one side by a broom propped on three bricks. Smoke leaked from the chimney’s crumbling mortar.

‘Christ,’ Frankie said. ‘A long way from drinking champagne and rooting judges to here.’

‘A lot further from here to champagne and judges.’

She gave him a look. ‘Quite the philosopher, aren’t you?’

She’d fidgeted the entire journey, adjusting the air vents and winding down her window, unwrapping the phone every half-hour to check messages. He’d stopped telling her it was too early to hear from the kidnappers.

A woman opened the door to Frankie’s knock. Somewhere between forty and seventy, no hint of Quinn in her sunken cheeks and eyes. The odours of the house seeped out: damp walls and green firewood, ancient meals. The kind of poverty that ran through families like a dominant gene. His father used to speak of houses like this as a warning: work hard, or all my toil will have come to nothing.

‘Mrs Renbarger?’ Caleb said.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘We’re not journos.’ He held out a business card.

She didn’t look at it. ‘Didn’t ask what you weren’t.’

‘We’re looking for Quinn. We’re friends of her employer.’

May Renbarger went to close the door, and Frankie stuck out her foot. A short impasse, then they both looked at something behind him.

Quinn was coming from the cages towards them, shovel in hand, dark hair tied in a loose bun. No other car on the property: she’d either got a lift or hitchhiked. She called something, and May retreated inside, shutting the door.

Frankie moved down the steps, setting herself up to lead the questioning. That wasn’t going to work – Frankie could make people reveal secrets they’d hidden from themselves, but she was too on edge to interview anyone.

He joined her in the yard. ‘I’ll lead.’

‘I’ll fill you in later if you’re too tired to follow both of us.’

‘I’m fine, you’re not. Let me do it.’

A look of jaw-clenched mutiny. ‘She’s my niece, not yours.’

‘Exactly.’

Frankie held his stare, then took a half-step back.

Quinn stopped just out of reach, hand tight on the shovel. The ethereal good looks from Delaney’s photos but none of the welcoming expression; dark eyes narrowed, head thrust slightly forward. A silk shirt showed beneath her ancient oilskin, a long streak of bird shit down her tailored black pants. She flushed as she caught his glance, raised her chin. ‘What do you want?’ Even speech, despite her obvious tension.

‘We’re here about Maggie. I’m Caleb. This is Maggie’s sister, Frankie.’

‘Never heard her mention a sister.’ She laughed at Frankie’s scowl and loosened her grip on the shovel. ‘Oh yeah, I can see it now.’

Caleb tried unsuccessfully not to smile. ‘What are you doing here, Quinn?’

‘Reckon that’s my question.’

Fair point, circle back. ‘Someone kidnapped Maggie’s daughter this morning. We’re trying to find her.’

Her mouth hung open. ‘Tilda? You’re kidding.’

‘You know Tilda?’

‘Sure, everyone does. Weird kid. Sweet, though. Who took her?’

Everyone. His hopes of narrowing the pool of suspects vanished. Beside him, Frankie’s head lowered.

‘We don’t know. We’re hoping you can help.’

‘Fuck, I don’t know anything about it. I’ve been here since last night. Ask Mum.’

Which meant she’d left Melbourne only hours after Maggie was attacked. No change of clothes, no car, no phone. To a house she’d obviously worked very hard to get away from.

‘You heard Maggie was hurt?’ Caleb asked.

‘Yeah. Rang her house and a cop picked up. And I don’t know anything about that either.’

Frankie shifted, but he kept his eyes on Quinn. ‘Why’d you cancel your date with Rhys Delaney?’

‘Who?’

‘Your honeytrap. The man who took quite a few photos of you at a party last week.’

Quinn’s breathing hitched. She covered it with a cough, gave him a heavy-lidded smile. ‘I know a lot of men, some of them like taking photos. Sorry I can’t help. You can see yourselves off.’ She was turning away.

He caught Frankie’s eye and signed, ‘Do it, then go.’

‘You’d better go fix your makeup,’ Frankie told Quinn. ‘I’ll be ringing my good mate Bobby James from The Daily Dirt when we leave. He’ll make out you’ve spilled secrets on all of Maggie’s clients, whether you’ve fucked them or not. It’ll make great TV.’

Quinn had frozen in place, fear hollowing her face.

‘Let’s go,’ Frankie told him and strode towards the car.

He went to follow.

Quinn dropped the shovel and grabbed his arm. ‘You can’t let her. Please. They’ll kill me.’

‘It’s her niece. She’s desperate.’

Car exhaust blew towards him, mingling with the rank scent of the birds. Frankie had timed it perfectly to send Quinn into panic.

‘Jesus, all right.’ Quinn released him. ‘Just tell her to stop gunning the engine, will you? It’ll freak Mum out.’

He gestured at Frankie, who turned off the engine.

Quinn reached into her back pocket for a packet of cigarettes. Her hand wasn’t shaking, but it took her a few attempts to get one going. ‘Two years off the damn things and I’m sucking them down like I never stopped.’ She took a long drag and blew the smoke away from him. Still oscillating between trying to brash it out and charm him. Did she ever relax her guard?

‘Who are you scared of?’ he asked. ‘Delaney?’

‘That mope? He’d only be dangerous if you had a sweat allergy.’

‘Then what happened at the party?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Quinn, you jumped when I mentioned it.’

‘Well yeah, that’d be the big bloke who was following me there.’ She spoke quickly, as though desperate to get all the words out now she’d decided to talk. ‘Thought he was just a standard creep, then yesterday, Maggie rang. Must’ve been just before she was hurt. She was scared, never heard her like that before, said someone was cleaning house and I should get out of town.’

He stood still. There was a chance that didn’t mean what he thought it did. ‘What did she mean by “cleaning house”?’

‘That someone’s getting rid of evidence – and people. I was in the city when she called, so I went home to get my stuff. My flat’s right on the tramline, you know, just before the stop. And as we’re going past I see the same guy from the party. He’s in my place, coming out of the dunny. Needless to say I shat myself. I stayed on the tram and jumped on the bus here.’ She looked at the cages, her mouth creasing as though she’d tasted something bitter. ‘Dunno what I was thinking.’

‘What’d he look like?’

‘Blond, I think. Big, like muscly big. Bit taller than you, maybe six three.’

Possibly Frankie’s shooter again. Good to know, but it didn’t get them very far.

‘Does Maggie know someone called Kirner? Or a name like it.’

‘Dunno, Maggie’s not much of a sharer.’ She looked towards their car. ‘Must be nice working with the friendly sister.’

Fuck. No names, no leads, just a two-hour drive to find out someone had been after Maggie and her employees.

‘What else can you tell me?’

‘That’s it. The full friggen extent of my knowledge.’ A hard suck on the cigarette, cheeks drawing in. ‘Do you think Tilda’ll be OK? Did that big bloke take her?’

‘Most are dead within hours.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Jesus. Tell me when you know something, yeah? I might sleep again. You reckon he’ll come here? How’d you find me?’

‘I’m good with faces, recognised you from Delaney’s photos.’

‘Recognised me? How?’

‘The sex scandal with Lovelay.’

She flinched as though struck. A glimpse of unguarded emotion, no bravado or charm, just pain. ‘Don’t call it that. It was a relationship, not a scandal.’

‘Sorry, didn’t realise.’

‘You and everyone else. Angus was the best thing that ever happened to me, a real sweetheart. But the world took one look at me and decided it had to be dirty.’ Her gaze travelled across the yard and came to rest on the listless house. ‘Should’ve known better – the past bloody sticks to you, doesn’t it?’