23.

Caleb fetched Alberto’s ladder and moved one of the cameras to cover the side fence. Rearranging lifeboats. Anyone determined to burn down the building would do it whether or not there were cameras. The only hope was that the arsonist really had changed their mind.

Frankie came outside as he was packing everything away. She held up the phone. ‘There’s an email from Fawkes.’

A short message containing a lot of information.

—harold holt pool in 45. just you. do laps in slow lane get head wet

‘What d’you reckon?’ Frankie asked. ‘Conspiracy nut?’

Good question. Holt’s death in 1967 was a favourite of the conspiracy theorists. The then prime minister had gone for a swim in rough seas off Portsea and never returned. Most people accepted he’d drowned, but some held out he’d been taken by a foreign government. Everyone agreed that naming a pool after him was in very dark humour.

‘Probably just careful,’ Caleb said. ‘Bad acoustics for a directional mic, and I can’t wear a wire.’ Or hearing aids. Which meant trying to follow an unfamiliar speaker with no intonation to guide him. An accent or lisp could stop him, a mumbler or fast-talker.

Frankie was frowning, apparently coming to the same conclusions. ‘I’ll go.’

‘No, it’ll spook him. I’ll change the location.’ He typed a quick reply.

—Can’t do pool. Need hearing aids

The message came instantly.

—39 mins

***

They made it with three minutes to spare. Caleb bought bathers and changed in record time, headed out to the large undercover pool. A soaring glass ceiling reflected the rippling water against the night sky. Nearly closing time, but the under-fifteen squad were still ploughing up and down the pool, teammates cheering them on; audible even without his aids. More than 110 decibels, then – he’d have to tell Tilda. Hopefully tonight; please God tonight. The kidnappers couldn’t want to keep her till tomorrow, surely. To guard and feed an upset nine-year-old, risk Frankie going to the police, an inquisitive neighbour. There’d be another video any minute now, the handover soon after. Had to be.

He dove in and got going in a steady freestyle, pausing at each end. Five laps, six, seven; increasingly worried Frankie would lose patience and come in. It had taken most of the journey to convince her not to act as back-up, and he wasn’t sure his arguments had stuck.

A shadow moved across the bottom of the pool as someone slipped into the lane ahead of him. He swam to the end, caught hold of the ledge. A man in his early twenties, with shaded goggles and a black swimming cap pulled low on his forehead. Long face and nose, thin limbs twitching with energy. Kat would sketch him in sharp vertical lines.

‘I’m Caleb.’

‘No shit. Why are you interested in Transis?’

No accent or chewing gum, just the rounded vowels of a private school boy. A prayer of thanks to the gods of lip-reading. Now to speak without auditory feedback; it’d be a short conversation if he accidentally started yelling.

‘I’m looking for a child who’s been kidnapped,’ he told Fawkes. ‘I think it’s connected to the taskforce.’

‘What kid?’

‘Maggie Reynolds’ daughter.’

Fawkes grabbed the edge of the pool, hauling himself out.

Caleb caught his arm. ‘I’m not working for Maggie, I’m just looking for her daughter. Her name’s Tilda. She’s nine.’

The young man glanced at a passing lifeguard and dropped into the water.

Caleb kept hold of his wrist. ‘Tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what Maggie’s saying on the video. Start with Imogen Blain. What do you know about her?’

‘Never heard of her.’

His arm had relaxed slightly in Caleb’s grip, but his gaze was darting around the pool, from the walls to the swim squad at the far end of the room.

‘It’s a pool,’ Caleb said. ‘Can’t be bugged.’

‘Everything can be bugged.’

‘Then mouth the words, I can’t hear you anyway.’

Fawkes frowned. ‘Like. This?’

‘Yes. Tell me about Maggie – what’s your interest in her?’

‘Staying alive.’

‘She threatened you?’

‘Not her – her clients. I did some work for the feds a few months back. For Transis. To, you know, get myself out of some trouble. I was … and … I … they …’

‘Slow down. What kind of work was it?’

‘Hunting down dirty money. A thread traced back to Maggie. Nothing major, but interesting, so I told them. And then … he … they …’

‘Slower.’

Fawkes’ mouth folded petulantly. ‘It’s really. Hard. Talking. Like. This.’

An urge to laugh. ‘Yeah, must be difficult. What happened when you told them about Maggie?’

‘They shut Transis down. Then this big bloke came to my house and told me to hand over my hard drives and forget everything … smashed up … scared … my mum … Bastard.’ Spit flecked the corners of his mouth, the fear fresh even months later. Outrage, too, as though hurt his good work hadn’t been appreciated.

‘If that all happened months ago, why are you worried now?’

‘Because some informant went and got one of Maggie’s clients arrested last week. Another one found out and decided they didn’t want to be next. Killed the informant and most of fucking Transis.’ Fawkes wrenched his arm from Caleb’s grasp. ‘Now tell me about the video or I’m out of here.’

Fawkes had timed his move for the lifeguard’s return patrol, apparently deciding the woman’s attention could play in his favour.

When she’d gone, Caleb said, ‘I’m missing the name, but Maggie’s saying, “It’s safe. I’m the only one who knows. No. Don’t tell anyone about blank. Please.” The name’s something like Turner or Kirner.’

‘You don’t know?’ Fawkes was tightening his grip on the ledge.

Reveal he had access to Maggie’s records, or let a possible ally leave? The young man was heaving himself up.

‘I’ve seen Maggie records,’ Caleb said quickly. ‘She IDs clients by a string of numbers. If I get you a copy, could you work out their names?’

Fawkes edged closer. ‘What sort of strings? Sequential? Different lengths?’

‘Random, all nine digits.’

‘Won’t be a code, then. She’s probably just written the names in the back of a book.’ He paused, head bobbing. ‘Maggie’s no genius – I’d be able to trace her clients through the transactions.’

She might not be a genius, but she was smart enough to have protected herself from hackers, Frankie and the feds.

‘How? They’ll all be run through intermediaries.’

‘I’m fucking good, I’d work it out. You got the records here? Can you give them to me now?’

No, Fawkes was too keen – the all-consuming focus of a zealot showed in his thrusting head. A vision of him posting the names online, the kidnappers panicking and killing Tilda. Slow it down, but keep the channels open. ‘Not yet. I’ll contact you. What’s the best way?’

The hacker’s face slackened with disappointment. ‘Reply to that email, I guess. Be good for another twenty-four hours.’ Apparently holding out little hope of Caleb’s success.

‘Better than that,’ Caleb said. ‘A phone number, a name.’

‘Mate, with all the questions you’re asking, I reckon they’ll be coming for you next. I don’t want my name, number or DNA anywhere near you.’ He pulled himself from the pool.

‘Wait. Maggie’s client, the one who got arrested – what’s his name?’

Fawkes looked back with a shrug. ‘Think he’s a builder. That’s what Maggie called him.’ He walked quickly away, his thin back hunched as he disappeared into the change rooms.