29.

They went to a brightly festooned ice-cream parlour opposite the foreshore park. A bit too close to the local police station for comfort, but it had free wi-fi and a waitress happy to leave them alone. The cold change had kept most of the tourists away, and the shop was empty apart from a middle-aged woman with badly dyed hair and a baggy tracksuit. She’d been here when they’d arrived and was watching them work as she slowly ate an ice-cream, calling out the occasional question about their research. If she asked too many more, there was a good chance Frankie would brain her with the laptop.

None of their contacts had found a current address for Lovelay, and Quinn and her mother weren't answering the phone. Their own research had proved a dead end, too. There were a lot of older photos of the judge at society events, usually with his tawny-haired wife and son by his side, but those appearances had stopped after the scandal. Lovelay had quietly divorced and retired, his ex-wife dying of a stroke two months later. From everything to nothing in an instant; how did a man survive that? No career, no family, no reputation, just looking at yourself every morning in the mirror, knowing it was all your fault.

‘No one’s that invisible without trying,’ Frankie said. ‘Particularly someone who used to be a social darling. Lovelay has to –’ She looked behind him, scowling.

The ice-cream eater must be back at the questions.

‘Focus,’ he said. ‘Lovelay has to be what?’

‘Hollywood’s boss.’

A huge assumption, but Lovelay did fit the description: a well-connected person with ties to Maggie. Odds were, if he wasn’t the boss, he’d know who was.

‘OK,’ Caleb said, ‘let’s say he is. What are we going to do if we track him down? He’s hardly going to confess.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

He blinked, then realised her anger was directed at ice-cream woman, not him. The coffee had been a mistake; Frankie was wound so tight it was making his teeth ache. ‘Do we need to move shops?’ he asked. ‘Because the whole split-attention thing is kind of unsettling.’

She placed her hands flat on the tabletop, made an obvious attempt to focus. Her leg was jiggling the table. ‘What do you suggest we do, then?’

‘Take everything to Imogen. She might be on leave, but there’s a chance she knows a back way into a few databases.’

‘Yeah.’ Frankie nodded, kept nodding, possibly unaware of it. ‘OK, let’s do it.’ She heaved her backpack onto the table and handed him the phone.

As he unwrapped it, the woman appeared at their table. ‘What are youse guys doin’?’

Frankie’s eyes were thin slits. ‘Planning a murder.’

Believable. Completely believable.

The woman backed away to her table and Frankie turned her attention to him again. ‘Come on, text. Thirty minutes, same place as last time.’

Frankie hyped up, in an enclosed space with Imogen. No, they needed somewhere outside with good sightlines and no chance of getting jumped. The foreshore park, maybe. Or even better, the pier.

‘How about a nice walk on the pier instead?’

***

The yachts in the marina were lifting on a choppy swell, their masts ticking a presto beat. Across the bay, the city towers glinted against a leaden sky. Nobody on the foreshore now, just a lone man fishing from the retaining wall, rainproof jacket zipped to the neck. No threat – he’d been here the past hour. Caleb glanced in his bucket as they passed: two small fish gaped desperately, their eyes dull silver coins.

Frankie came to a halt halfway down the wooden pier, where a stubby arm branched out towards the nearby dock. Caleb stood next to her, eyeing the gap across the water to the dock, the sheer drop at the other side. He’d had a vague thought it might be possible to jump or swim the distance, but it was too far, the water too rough. If they were wrong about Imogen and she turned up with Hollywood, he’d have to run interference. Give Frankie the best chance of getting away; give Tilda the best chance.

‘If Hollywood shows, you run,’ he said.

Understanding in her eyes; gratitude. ‘Thanks.’

On the far side of the park, Imogen’s black sedan was coming past the shops.

He nodded towards it. ‘She’s here.’

Imogen turned into the street that led to the pier and parked illegally at the end. Only her visible in the car. No other vehicles slowing on the main street; no one loitering in the park. Relief rinsed some of the tightness from his muscles. Imogen gave the area a slow scan as she headed down the path towards them. The same business attire as yesterday, with a long black coat; a woman who paid attention to the weather forecast.

Frankie hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder. ‘Maybe you should lead.’

‘OK.’

They’d spent the past half-hour discussing strategies, Frankie getting more indecisive as the minutes passed.

Imogen was on the pier now, limping slightly as though her shoes were rubbing. No, not her shoes – a weight in her coat pocket, banging against her leg with each step. A handbag slung across her shoulder, so probably not her purse. Unease stirred.

Frankie tapped his arm.

‘Hang on,’ he said.

Impossible to make out the shape, but too heavy for her taser or phone. The wind plastered the coat against her leg, revealing a hard edge.

A gun.