21.
He watched the video while Frankie drove, cupping the screen to shade it from the passing streetlights. A strong suspicion her eyes were on him more than the road. ‘Jordan’ slotted neatly into the gap between Maggie’s words, but didn’t quite feel right. Some tiny synching problem that snagged like a fine thread. Or he could just be tired after the pepper spray and lip-reading strangers, the ratcheting tightness as each hour passed.
He closed the laptop and said, ‘Maybe.’
Frankie switched on the internal light. ‘How likely?’
‘Maybe.’ He peered past his reflection at the road: a freeway, almost in the city. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To ask Tedesco to look into Jordan. The cops’ deaths, too.’ She glanced at the road; not quite long enough. ‘You’d better text, we’re almost at his house.’
‘How do you know where Tedesco lives?’
Her eyes slid to him. ‘I know everything.’
Sometimes that was very easy to believe. He pulled the phone from the glove box. Tedesco probably wouldn’t be able to – or want to – help, but it was worth a try. Whoever Jordan was, his death was at the centre of things.
‘We should talk to Fawkes in person, too,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘The hacker.’
‘He won’t want to meet.’
Caleb went to speak but stopped. The computer wasn’t connected to wi-fi, and Sammi had seemed pretty sure closing the lid would make it safe – still, smarter not to risk it. He switched to sign. ‘I’m hoping his paranoia will help.’
‘His what?’
He fingerspelled the word, Frankie glancing between the road and his hands, mouthing each letter, but getting them all wrong.
Her face wrinkled in doubt. ‘Banana?’
One of these days he’d teach her how to fingerspell properly, but not while doing a hundred on a freeway.
‘Paranoia,’ he said out loud.
He texted Tedesco, then set up a hotspot and opened the messageboard on the laptop.
—Need to meet in person. Got news
He only had to wait a few seconds for the reply.
—?
—About the video
—?
—In person. Someone might be monitoring email
A long wait, then a new message appeared.
—show yourself + drivers licence
Did he really want to offer up his ID to a man connected with a hacktivist collective?
Frankie was craning to see the screen, the car drifting towards the semitrailer in the next lane. ‘Eyes front,’ he said, pulling out his licence. ‘He wants me to ID myself.’
‘Don’t. He won’t meet you – he’s just playing games.’
Caleb uncovered the camera, gave the hacker a good look at him, then his licence. A message appeared.
—check back 90 mins for address
Interesting Fawkes hadn’t asked his location. Not at all concerned that Caleb might be in a different state or country.
—Email. I’m dumping the computer
No need to give his contact details; the hacker was probably trawling through his life as they spoke.
He turned off the laptop and lifted it. ‘Bit of noise,’ he told Frankie, and smashed it against the dashboard. A fair bit of hammering before it cracked open. He tore out its guts, dropped the pieces in the footwell. No reason at all to be thinking of the words ‘barn’ and ‘door’.
Frankie shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you just doxed yourself. You do know how Anonymous works? That they dump information online for kicks?’
‘With a political agenda.’ He thought about it. ‘Usually.’
***
They parked on a side street opposite Tedesco’s suggested meeting place, a 7-Eleven a few kays from the detective’s house. While waiting, they risked using the phone to look into the cops’ deaths. It didn’t take long to find the news reports. Both men had been killed the day after Martin Amon: Beardless in Melbourne, Rabbit-face in Canberra. No mention of their names or the fact they were police officers, no link drawn between them and Amon.
‘You think the journos were warned off?’ he asked.
‘More likely they don’t know. The brass’ll be shitting themselves, trying to work out what happened. Or trying to cover it up.’ She thought for a moment. ‘What’s your take on Imogen – bent, or just scared?’
‘Hard to tell.’
‘Come on. You’ve got a little meter running the entire time you talk to someone, assessing their every blink and twitch. Give me the readout.’
‘She’s genuinely scared and has a very low threshold for breaking rules. Further analysis will require more input.’
A figure rounded the corner of the 7-Eleven: Tedesco, wearing gym clothes and jogging slowly, cheeks puffing as though cooling down after a hard run. The kale diet was pretty standard, but exercise was new.
Frankie turned to Caleb. ‘Maybe you should talk to him alone.’
He nodded. It hadn’t occurred to him she’d come. Tedesco had only seen the aftermath of her betrayal, not the years of friendship or the risks she’d taken for him. Putting the pair of them together would be like connecting two live wires.
Frankie grabbed his arm as he went to leave. ‘Don’t mention Tilda.’
‘It’s our best shot. He won’t endanger her.’
‘Not intentionally, but can you guarantee he won’t involve the cops?’
The only thing Caleb could guarantee was that the detective would do what he thought right.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep her out of it.’
Tedesco was waiting under a streetlight, bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs. He straightened as Caleb approached, trying to pretend he wasn’t gasping; flushed despite the cool evening, his face slicked with sweat. No recent birthdays or health scares, months on from any possible New Year resolutions. Which left only one likely scenario.
‘Dating someone new?’ Caleb asked.
A full three seconds before Tedesco answered. ‘The exact nature of the relationship is yet to be determined.’
Caleb hesitated. He was almost certain they were discussing a he, not a she, but the subject hadn’t been broached in the twelve months they’d known each other. Plenty of reasons why a homicide cop might want to keep that side of his life private. Particularly one who’d got off to a rocky start by killing a bent cop.
‘Does the person of interest have a name?’ Caleb asked.
‘Several.’ Tedesco wiped his forehead on his sleeve. ‘So, what’s the emergency? Need me to look into another cop? Assistant commissioner, maybe?’
‘Not quite – some murders.’
The detective’s faint smile evaporated as Caleb told him what he needed. ‘Jesus, Cal. Dead cops. Does it involve Imogen Blain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you should probably know she’s been on stress leave since last week. Was asked to take it, if I’m reading it correctly.’
Which meant Imogen wouldn’t have access to all her usual sources. Shit.
‘OK, thanks. Can you help? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘I’ll try,’ Tedesco said slowly. ‘But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. My mate’s not in the same department as Transis, I doubt he’ll be able to find anything. Or that he’d tell me if he did.’
Caleb had known it was a long shot; its probable failure shouldn’t leave him feeling this sick. ‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’
Tedesco was studying him. ‘Looking a bit rough around the edges. You sleeping?’ He still did this every now and then: a little assessment carried out with the efficiency of the farm boy he’d once been, scrutinising the stock for soundness of body and brain. Excruciating, but oddly comforting.
‘Yeah, just a stressful couple of days.’
‘No flashbacks?’
‘No.’
‘Panic attacks?’
OK, now it was just excruciating. ‘You want a report from the shrink?’
‘Nah, I get the group email.’ Tedesco gave what looked like a back-cracking stretch. ‘I’ll let you know about the feds.’ He went to go, then turned back, an unusually awkward bob of his head. ‘The person of interest is generally known as Luke.’
Caleb returned to the car, a positive expression plastered on his face. Frankie was clutching the phone, her skin stripped of colour. An email open on the screen, the message, NO POLICE. A video link at the bottom.
The air left his lungs. Proof Tilda was alive, or proof she was dead.
Frankie’s lips barely moved. ‘I can’t look.’
‘Wait here.’ He slipped the phone from her grasp and walked a little way down the road, out of her line of sight. A few slow inhalations before pressing play.
Tilda crossed-legged on a couch, eyes huge in a wan face, hair wild. She spoke directly to the camera, looked up as though at the person holding it. The picture went black.
Tilda alive.
Alive and unharmed, not locked in a cellar, not buried in a shallow bush grave. A weight lifted from his chest, allowing him to breathe properly for the first time all day. Not safe, not by a long way, but a proof-of-life video meant the kidnappers were serious about an exchange.
He jogged back to the car.
‘It’s OK,’ he said as soon as he opened the door. ‘She’s all right.’
After Frankie watched the video, she sat with her eyes closed, shivering. He turned on the heating. An urge to talk to Kat. To be with her and hold her and tell her all his fears and terrors. She’d probably be working late on her new sculpture. Loose-limbed and happy, thinking only about the task at hand. He’d have to tell her about Tilda tomorrow, whatever the news.
He checked the video: nothing distinguishing in the background, just Tilda confused on a brown couch, a wood-panelled wall behind her. The email drew a blank too. Sent through one of the major servers; no way of pinpointing its origin. He forwarded it to Sammi, asking her look into it, but didn’t hold out much hope.
Frankie opened her eyes. ‘They didn’t make any demands.’
No, they were softening her up, giving her a glimpse of what could be, letting her imagine what might. The next message would come soon, and it’d be threatening.
‘They’re getting organised. Took her without any planning. What did she say?’
‘Time and date. Filmed it about an hour ago.’
The phone vibrated: Sammi.
—No info. $50 added to your bill
She was fast, at least.
He explained the message to Frankie, who scrubbed a hand through her hair, making it as untamed as Tilda’s. She was still shaking. ‘Fuck. What do we do now?’
‘Wait for Fawkes’ email.’ He kept talking as she shook her head. ‘Nothing else we can do.’ No leads, no ideas. Just waiting for the kidnappers to contact them. Trying not to think about slaughtered policemen and a dead man called Jordan, the risk each minute brought.
‘Yeah, OK,’ Frankie said. ‘But we can’t sit here with the phone on. We need an internet café – somewhere with coffee.’
She needed food, not coffee, something with lots of calming carbohydrates. Both of them did, probably: neither of them had eaten all day.
‘I know somewhere close.’