28.

Caleb drove to his flat, the need for a warm place and clothes overriding the faint worry someone might be waiting there. A small, boxy place with aluminium windows and sheet concrete walls. Charmless, but looking a lot better than when Frankie had helped him move after his split with Kat. He’d finally got rid of the last tenants’ garish colour scheme a few months ago, replaced it with off-white walls and flat-pack furniture. Solid and liveable, but instantly disposable if Kat didn’t want any of it in their new home.

A singed smell rose in the air as he turned on the heater; the dust of a long summer burning away. Frankie was clutching her backpack to her chest on an armchair, an unnatural stillness to her now the manic energy was gone. Her lack of sleep was showing in her dull skin and puffy eyes. His own eyes were aching, pain radiating from the bruise on his forehead, compressing his skull.

Neither of them had mentioned Jacklin’s murder on the way here; no need to put fears into words.

The police had taken a while to release them – just forms and questions, not suspicion. A hastily constructed story of wanting to ask Jacklin about a mutual friend had smoothed over any queries. But it wouldn’t take long for their names to flash alarms somewhere, to someone.

‘Have a nap while I change,’ he told Frankie. ‘Couch isn’t bad.’

She nodded, but didn’t move.

He washed down a handful of painkillers in the bathroom, then showered and changed into jeans and a warm jacket, didn’t bother shaving. A few minutes to clean his aids and put in new batteries. They weren’t beeping their low-power warning yet, but the bluetooth chewed through the batteries and he couldn’t risk them going dead in a tense moment. Better not to imagine what that tense moment might involve. Who it might involve.

Twenty-six hours now, the weight of each minute crushing his thoughts.

Frankie was at the dining-room table when he finally joined her, belongings spread across it, including the black-market laptop and Tupperware-enclosed gun. Strange to think his life once didn’t include things like that.

She started talking before she’d looked up. ‘… works for Maggie.’

Years since he’d had to tell her not to do that. ‘Say that again.’

‘Maggie only works on recommendations. There’ll probably be a link between Jacklin and the killer somewhere – a business one.’

‘You think Jacklin worked with Hollywood’s boss?’

She paused. ‘Hollywood? That’s really what you’re calling him?’

‘If the name fits, Spiky.’

The slightest of smiles. If we search Jacklin’s work history we’ll find Hollywood’s boss. ‘We can narrow it down to people with serious connections. Discreet, though, so we can ignore anyone who flashes their cash.’ She faltered. ‘What do you think?’

That it was a very weak thread to pull. ‘Great idea.’

He worked solidly for half an hour, getting bare-bones information on a handful of Jacklin’s business partners, before realising the pain in his stomach was hunger. A quick forage in the kitchen unearthed some of Alberto’s minestrone; a few days old but with enough garlic to fight any food-borne pathogens. He poured it into two bowls and chucked them in the microwave for a few minutes, checked his phone while he waited.

A text from Imogen.

—CALL IMMEDIATELY

Damn. The bank had only been open a few hours; he’d hoped chasing the safety deposit box would occupy her all day. She’d either worked out the documents had been taken, or run into Hollywood. An interesting meeting to imagine. He rewrapped the phone without answering.

The microwave darkened. He checked the result: cold soup, hot bowls. How was that possible? He shoved them back in.

There had to be a quicker way of sifting through Jacklin’s associates. The list already ran to an entire page, and Caleb hadn’t started the man’s largest project, the Connoy Hotel. The seed of an idea: Jacklin’s morgue aesthetic didn’t run to knick-knacks, but he’d kept the shovel from the Connoy’s ground-breaking. Was he particularly proud of the project, or was there something more to it? A souvenir of his entry into the shiny world of money laundering? Jacklin was a bit of a show pony; it’d be in character to display something he wanted to talk about but couldn’t.

The microwave darkened again: somewhat warmer soup, much hotter bowls. His hands in tea towels, he carried the bowls to the dining room. Frankie nodded her thanks and kept working, typing one-handed as she spooned in the occasional mouthful. Caleb skimmed a newspaper article on the Connoy while he ate. Not much detail, but a few photos: parquetry floors and columns of smoked black glass, gold-leaf fittings. Familiar. The ballroom where the moist solicitor Delaney had fallen for the honeytrap charms of Quinn. A man goes to a fundraising party in a hotel: not exactly a smoking gun. And Delaney wasn’t the kind of well-connected person they were looking for. But he might be a link to one.

‘I might have something,’ he told Frankie.

Hope lit her face. ‘What?’

‘There’s a chance Jacklin and Rhys Delaney knew each other.’ Her expression dampened as he explained about the hotel. ‘I know Delaney’s not exactly influential, but he could be connected to the boss.’

‘Yeah.’ Frankie visibly rallied and turned to the keyboard.

He went to sit beside her as she searched. Jacklin and Delaney didn’t appear in any photos together and weren’t connected on social media. No common schools or clubs or universities; no mention of them attending the same conferences.

Frankie sat back, shoulders slumped. ‘Could be a coincidence. The Connoy’s big, half of Melbourne’s probably been through its doors.’

True. And a building the size of the Connoy had to have involved a lot of lawyers.

‘Try the legal angle,’ he said. ‘Delaney’s a business lawyer. “Conveyancing” was one of the first words out of his mouth.’

She typed quickly, turned to him, grinning. Delaney had done the conveyancing for the Connoy. At last, a tiny fingerhold to start climbing.

‘Ring first?’ he asked. ‘He might be with clients.’

‘Fuck no, we need to catch him by surprise.’ She slid the gun from the container and tucked it into her backpack, headed for the door.

***

The kitten-loving office manager was coming up the street as they reached Delaney’s office, a tray of sandwiches in her arms. Lunchtime. Hadn’t thought of that; it’d be hard keeping Frankie calmly occupied if Delaney had nipped out for a bite.

Mrs Gillis bypassed the severe look and went straight to a broad smile when she saw him. A gusting wind was coming from the bay, but her blunt grey fringe didn’t move. ‘Caleb, isn’t it?’

‘Good memory.’

‘You’re hard to forget. I’ve been telling everyone about you.’

For fuck’s sake.

Mrs Gillis turned to Frankie. ‘Isn’t he clever? It must be so wonderful working with him.’

‘Constantly have to pinch myself.’ Frankie’s eyes went to the sandwiches. ‘D’you know if Delaney’s out for lunch?’

‘Oh, I’m afraid he’s not in today.’

An unexpected blow that left them both speechless. He recovered first. ‘Was that sudden? We were supposed to see him.’

‘Well yes. I think it’s his wife.’ Her mouth snapped shut as she realised she’d crossed the line into gossip. ‘Do come in if you’d like me to reschedule.’ She hurried up the steps.

Frankie waited until she’d gone and said, ‘Dead or skipped town?’ Fury at either prospect.

‘Or a genuinely sick wife.’

She flicked her hand. ‘We need a list of his top clients. He can’t have too many, he’s mid-level at best.’

‘You want to talk to his wife?’

‘Yeah, but not for this. I’ll bet Mrs Gillis can magic up that kind of info in seconds.’

‘Good idea.’

She made a hurry-up motion. ‘So go on then, ask her.’

And get pity-slimed again? ‘No way. You do it.’

‘She’s not going to tell me. You’re the one she’s mooning over. Lay it on thick, too – she won’t give it up easily.’

Fuck. Just seriously fuck. ‘Wait here, will you? I don’t want any witnesses.’

She smirked. ‘Should I be organising a clean-up team?’

He went inside.

Mrs Gillis beamed like a grandmother receiving a macaroni necklace. ‘You’d like to reschedule?’

‘Not yet. I’m hoping you can help me with something else first.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s a bit delicate, but I’m supposed to be helping Delaney on a job, some work he’s putting my way. Would you be able to give me a list of his five major clients?’

‘Oh.’ She sat back. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Do it do it do it. He took a breath. ‘I’ve got all the company info, of course, it’s just the personal contacts I need. He told me yesterday, but Frankie was on a call instead of taking notes, so …’ An urge to claw out his tongue and set it on fire.

‘Oh.’ Her face crumpled. ‘You couldn’t understand him, you poor thing. I’m sure my boss will be across it all.’ She reached for the phone.

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘It doesn’t really instill confidence. Not everyone’s as understanding as you. If you could just, um …’ He looked at the computer.

She shot a glance at the corner office and turned to her keyboard. A flurry of fast typing, then a page spat from the printer by her desk. She quickly folded it, handed it to him. ‘I hope it helps.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Really appreciate it.’

‘No, thank you. You really are an inspiration.’

He gave her something like a smile and fled.

Outside, the air was cool against his cheeks. Frankie was in the middle of the footpath, feet wide as though ready to stride into battle. ‘Got it?’

‘What I could.’ He unfolded the page. Mrs Gillis had dragged the contact information from different sources and dumped them all in one document. A mess of names and phone numbers in different fonts – but a familiar organisation among them all: the charity, Game Goers. Host of the ball at the Connoy Hotel and recipient of Delaney’s boasted pro bono work.

Frankie tapped the paper. ‘A charity would be a great way to launder money. Maybe Delaney’s dirtier than we thought.’

Game Goers certainly had a lot of influential people as patrons, all conveniently listed by Mrs Gillis. A dozen or so names printed in tiny letters. He ran his finger along them, stopped on the third one: Judge Angus Lovelay.

Lovelay, the man who’d once been involved in a sex scandal with Quinn. Suspected of dismissing a court case in return for sexual favours.