19.

Frankie backed out of the driveway in a spray of gravel, startling the birds so they bashed around their metal cages. She straightened the car and headed towards the town centre, going too fast for the dirt road. The vehicle had a lot more grunt than Frankie should be in charge of right now – or any time. She glanced at him. ‘Talk.’

No, she was going to ask questions if he spoke now. Trying to lip-read Frankie while she drove was a white-knuckle ride at the best of times; in her current mood it’d be terrifying.

‘Wait until you park,’ he said.

She turned to him; a bend coming up, large red gums lining the road. ‘Now.’

He clutched the edge of his seat. ‘OK. Just, look at the road, will you.’ He waited until she was facing forward and went through the conversation, trying to remove Quinn’s fear from the retelling. He’d left his number with her, but why would she use it? Even if she decided she knew more, Quinn had no reason to trust him.

‘Cleaning house?’ Frankie said when he’d finished, eyes bleak.

‘The muscle man’s a good link,’ he said quickly. ‘The party was black-tie, so there’ll be photos. If you spot him we can do a reverse image search.’

‘I can’t ID him.’

‘You probably remember more than you think. When you see –’

‘It was dark, all I got was his shape, then he started shooting.’

Damn. They just couldn’t catch a break.

She took the corner into Burton’s main street without slowing down, scattering a flock of pigeons. A pockmarked sign declared the place a Tidy Town finalist, population 520. Both statements seemed historic. Ten or twelve weatherboard shops, a two-storey pub, a few parked cars. The only people out were three teenage boys lounging by a milk bar that advertised smokes, cup-of-cinos and internet. Frankie pulled abruptly into the kerb beside them.

Caleb eased his grip on the seat. ‘Coffee?’

‘Phone. Service keeps dropping out.’ She climbed from the car, the boys watching with bland interest as she headed for a weathered public phone.

Caleb’s eye went to the newspaper banners on the shopfront. A photo of a slickly dressed young man in handcuffs, the headline ‘Jacklin Pleads Innocent’. John Jacklin, the almost-definitely guilty property developer Tilda and Frankie had been watching on the news. The stirrings of an idea: a small-business owner standing in the way of a major development would irritate a lot of people. Be interesting to see if anyone had recently bought out Alberto’s neighbours.

Caleb sat up as Frankie slammed down the phone and strode towards the shop. The boys moved from her path as though repelled. He slid quickly from the car and caught up to her inside the door. A large space with a few rows of badly stocked shelves, and a bain-marie with sweating chips and pies. Down the back, a hulking grey computer sat next to the plastic-covered magazines.

Frankie headed straight for the counter. The shop owner was watching TV with the kind of focus that suggested he had a lot riding on the three o’clock at Caulfield. An impressive brow and gut, thin lips. He glanced at her and returned to the races. ‘Food’s what you see. You want soy milk or vegan crap, you’re outta luck.’

‘Picked us for tourists,’ Frankie said. ‘Smart man. Your pay­phone’s dead.’

‘Not mine.’

‘Good to clear that up. Your computer work? Got internet?’

He didn’t look at her. ‘Whaddaya reckon? Be a bit of a dickhead havin’ it if it didn’t.’

She tilted her head. ‘So does it?’

Caleb stepped in front of her. ‘We’ll take an hour.’

Frankie went straight to her emails: a handful of unread messages, including audio files from her answering service; nothing with Tilda’s name in the subject line. She listened to each one for a few seconds before moving on. When she’d gone through them all she turned to him, the tendons in her neck tight cords. ‘Something’s wrong. They should have contacted me by now.’

Five hours. Was this how it was going to be? Never knowing what had happened, just hoping a little less each day, heart shrivelling in his chest?

‘There’s no rule book.’ He nodded towards the computer. ‘Check the party photos. We can make a shortlist of anyone who fits muscle man’s description, show them to Quinn. What’d Delaney say the name of the charity was?’

‘Game Goers. Football players for mental health.’

No wonder the solicitor had been keen to go. He’d probably spent the entire night flitting between the footy players, Quinn, and the WAGs.

Frankie found the charity’s website and clicked through the photos: a lot of white teeth and fake tan, a lot of blond men who looked like weightlifters. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Like one of those nightmares where everyone looks the same.’

‘Check for Quinn, see if he’s in the background.’

The ball had been held in a large room with columns of smoked black glass and gold fittings. People in sequinned dresses and sleek tuxedos smiled for the camera. Delaney and Quinn appeared a few times in the background, but the photographers had been focused on the celebrities, not damp-looking solicitors.

Frankie sat back. ‘It’s pointless. He’s just muscle, anyway. We need to find out who Imogen was investigating with Transis.’

‘Got any mates in the feds?’

‘No, but we need the stuff that’s left out of official reports, anyway. Who they bribed and who they let go, informants.’ She screwed up her face. ‘You need to meet with Imogen.’

‘We can’t trust her.’

‘No. We’ll text when we’re nearly there, give her short notice. A shopping centre, maybe. Highpoint’s on the way back.’

‘I mean, we can’t trust her answers. We’ve got no idea what she’s involved in.’

‘We can judge the quality of the information once we’ve got it.’ She stood. ‘I’ll get coffees.’

‘Make sure he doesn’t spit in them.’ Caleb did a quick check of his messages. Returned emails confirming the three staff members’ alibis. And a redirected text from Kat, the usual heart flutter of fear/happiness as he opened it.

—Hope you’re OK after all the stress. Working on something interesting. Might show you Fri xx

Kat on a creative roll was something special. She’d been on a pretty sustained one for the past few months, despite her fears. Or maybe because of them. Before he’d met her, he hadn’t known it was possible to turn pain into beauty. He hesitated: tell her about Tilda? No, not yet. Let her be unburdened by his troubles for a while. He sent a quick reply and stood.

Frankie was already coming towards him with the coffees. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper’s face was flushed dark red. Frankie shoved a cup into Caleb’s hand, was halfway out the door before he’d moved.

He caught up to her outside. ‘What’d you do?’

‘Asked for almond milk.’

***

On the way back he kept to the speed limit, mindful of the gun tucked in Frankie’s backpack, the very deep need not to end up in police custody today. She was checking messages every fifteen minutes now, a twist of tension every time she unwrapped the phone, never releasing. As he stopped at the shopping centre turn-off, she turned to him, the last rays of the sun casting an orange glow across her face. ‘I’m coming in.’

‘That’s a bad idea – Imogen’ll want the docs if she sees you.’

‘I’ll leave the gun in the car.’

Jesus; she’d considered taking it? ‘What if she whips out the taser? Tries to arrest you?’

‘I run, you hit her.’

A feeling she wasn’t joking.

She was still looking at him, some involved thought process going on behind her furrowed brow. ‘If I happen to go under a bus at some stage, the bank’s around the corner from Maggie’s. Box number’s on the key.’

Unearned trust, unwarranted. No idea how to respond to it.

She pointed out the window. ‘Lights.’

He accelerated and took the turn into the underground carpark, left behind a sky the colour of tarnished brass.