30.

‘Right pocket,’ he told Frankie. ‘Something heavy, maybe a gun.’

Frankie stiffened. ‘Shouldn’t have one. Not if she’s on leave.’

She shouldn’t be carrying it in her pocket instead of a holster, either. Imogen might be happy to break rules, but a gun would be awkward to reach there and hard to draw; only someone who wanted an element of surprise would carry a weapon like that.

Frankie let her backpack drop to her wrist, holding it partly behind her. ‘Gun’s in the front pocket. Move beside me and pull it out.’

The fed was thirty or forty steps away, couldn’t miss him pulling out a gun.

‘She’ll shoot.’ Any cop would, let alone one who was primed and ready to go.

Frankie spoke evenly, eyes on Imogen. ‘Come on. If she’s come to kill us we’re dead without it, and so is Tilda.’

Twenty steps away.

He shifted, blocking Frankie’s right arm from the fed’s view. Hand behind him, feeling for the pocket. He peeled open the zip and slipped his hand inside. Cold metal: the barrel of the gun. He gripped it.

Ten.

‘You alone?’ he called to Imogen as he eased it from the backpack.

‘Yes.’

Eight.

Too close, had to distract her. ‘That guy in the park isn’t with you?’

She didn’t turn. ‘No.’

Six.

Frankie swung the backpack out and dropped it at her feet, Imogen’s eyes following the movement. Caleb shoved the gun down the back of Frankie’s jeans. Heart thumping, trying to breathe slowly.

Imogen stopped a few arm-lengths away, eyes on him. ‘A word with you alone.’ Separate and conquer – how stupid did she think he was?

‘I don’t think so. We’ve got a possible name for the guy behind the murders.’

She stilled. ‘Who?’

If she was bent, she’d go for the gun. He shifted onto the balls of his feet. A good chance he could tackle her before she fired.

‘A judge,’ he said. ‘Help us, and I’ll tell you his name.’

No movement, no tensing of her fingers. He risked looking at her face and caught the end of her sentence. ‘… evidence?’

‘There will be. He’s linked to a charity we think Maggie’s been laundering money through.’

Was that disappointment in her eyes, or relief? ‘We need to speak alone,’ she said again.

‘Here’s good.’

She widened her stance, glancing from Frankie to him. ‘Frankie set you up. She put me onto you.’

Clever: finding the crack in their relationship, prying it open. But why?

Beside him, Frankie was speaking quickly.

He kept his focus on Imogen. ‘Really? She kidnap her own niece, too?’

‘No. I don’t know what happened there, but she’s trying to sell Maggie’s records. She dragged you into this because she thought you could get intel from me.’ Imogen’s hand moved towards her pocket.

He went to run, but Frankie had the gun out. Wide stance, aiming at the fed’s chest. Imogen was motionless.

By the retaining wall, the fisherman was scrambling away, abandoning rod and bucket. Shit. The police station was just around the corner; the cops would be here in minutes.

Frankie was gesturing for Imogen to kneel, but the fed stayed standing. ‘Think about it, Caleb. I’m a fed, I don’t know anything about local homicides. Someone sent me an email saying you knew where Frankie was. Gave me everything I needed to pressure you into contacting her – Petronin’s name, photos, dates, witness statement.’

His chest eased. For all her faults, Frankie wouldn’t have risked ruining his life on the off-chance the cop would feed him information.

‘Kneel,’ he told Imogen. ‘Slowly.’

‘I traced the email, Caleb. It was sent from Mallacoota. The same town where I found the supposed witness. He said Frankie paid him to make the statement.’

Mallacoota. The town where Frankie had been hiding out. ‘Like being back in Mallacoota. If that shop assistant comes at me with the tarot cards, I’m out of here.’

A slam of sound, splinters flying as a bullet notched the boards. Imogen dropped to her knees.

‘Coat off!’ Frankie yelled. ‘Now.’

Imogen hesitantly obeyed, threw the coat to one side. It skidded across the boards and caught on the end of a plank.

Frankie waved at him, her eyes and gun trained on Imogen. ‘… fucking with your head, Cal. We mustn’t have wrapped the phone properly. She was listening, heard me say I’d been in Mallacoota.’

Yes. Yes, that made sense.

Except Frankie had told him about Mallacoota in the crystal shop. His phone had been locked in the car.

Caught between falling and impact. ‘I didn’t have my phone then.’

Frankie’s face was bloodless. She was shaking her head, but not in denial.

God, it was true. He’d never forgive her, never forgive himself. He moved backwards until he was standing next to Imogen, blocking Frankie’s way. ‘You really set me up? For money?’

‘No, I just –’ Frankie’s expression broke. ‘I needed your help, couldn’t risk you saying no. I owe money, Cal. A lot of money.’

‘And Tilda? Did you let them take her?’

‘No! I don’t know who’s got her. So let me get past so I can find her. I’ll explain everything later, I promise.’

‘Explain it now.’

Her gaze darted over his shoulder. ‘The cops are coming. Let me go, let me help Tilda. Please.’

He didn’t move.

She swung the gun towards him, hand trembling. ‘Cal, please. I don’t want to hurt you.’

Frankie aiming a gun at him, finger on the trigger.

Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. ‘Please don’t make me hurt you, Cal. Please.’

Enough. He stepped towards her. Frankie’s finger whitened on the trigger.

He threw himself sideways.

A thud, heat plucking his arm.

Up against the edge of the pier, on one knee. Jesus, she’d shot at him. She’d really done it.

She started towards the shore, then skidded to a stop. Sprinted back the other way, down the stairs to the outcropped arm of the pier. Imogen scrambled for her jacket on the jetty’s edge.

He got to his feet, slowly walked to the top of the steps.

Frankie was at the end of the boards, looking at the sheer drop into the water. In the corner of his eye, a flash of red and blue lights. ‘It’s over,’ he said.

She spun around, her back to the water, gun low by her side. Face stark, panic in her eyes. The wind was snatching at her hair, sending it into wild spikes. Her gaze shifted to something behind him. Imogen, trying to get past, to pull him away.

Frankie raised her gun. Aiming it at the fed. At him.

Too close to miss; the width of a room, a lifetime, a lie.

Imogen stopped pulling and raised her arms, gun gripped in both hands. An awkward lean as she aimed around him.

He stepped aside.

A bang.

Frankie jolted then staggered, red blossoming on her chest. She crumpled, the gun dropping from her hand into the water.

Motionless.

Frankie lay sprawled. The smell of seaweed and salt, the sharp tang of blood.

Imogen was still aiming the gun, chest heaving. A glimpse of uniformed men on the pier beyond her. She bent to put her weapon down and turned cautiously towards the cops, hands raised.

Frankie hadn’t moved.

Down the stairs towards her. One foot, then the other, along the pier to her side. She was looking at him, eyes already dulling. Palms open to the wind-ripped sky, her blood seeping into the greying boards. Broken. Dying.

Not a friend, an enemy.

One last stuttering breath, and the light left her eyes.

He turned away.