32.

It was dark by the time Caleb finished giving his statement at the police station. Tedesco was waiting for him in the foyer, perched on a too-small plastic chair but completely at home. An uncomfortable decision to call him as character witness, but the homicide cops had gone in hard once they’d connected Caleb to Jacklin’s and Amon’s murders.

Tedesco stood. Neat slacks and polished shoes, an ironed shirt: date clothes.

‘Sorry,’ Caleb said. ‘I’ve dragged you away from something.’

‘Don’t be a dickhead.’ Tedesco jerked his head towards the door. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

***

The flat was cold. Tedesco switched on all the lights and headed for the kitchen, turning on the heater as he went. Frankie’s bowl was still on the table, soup half-eaten. Dizzy. Standing on a thin crust of earth, deep caverns below. He’d seen a TV show about that as a kid – sinkholes. Must have been young, around Tilda’s age. Haunted by it for months, the idea solid ground could open up to swallow cars, houses, whole lives.

A tap on his shoulder: Tedesco passed him a bottle of Boag’s. Good idea, a toast to the dead. Should have stopped on the way to buy a bottle of Johnnie Red, Frankie’s favourite off-the-wagon drink.

‘Thanks.’ He took the beer to the couch and skolled half it. Beyond tired, sharp blades digging into his skull. Should take some painkillers before it got worse, take the little emergency pills from Henry while he was at it. Guaranteed numbing calmness he’d only surrendered to a couple of times. Better still, he could sit here and feel every fucking thing he deserved to feel.

Tedesco was leaning back in an armchair, nursing a barely touched beer. A sense he was tamping down a very strong urge to find out more than his colleagues had told him.

‘Frankie put Imogen Blain onto me,’ Caleb told him.

Tedesco’s expression didn’t alter, but it took him a good twenty seconds to speak. ‘Why?’

‘She’s in debt.’ He stopped, tried again. ‘Was in debt. She wanted to sell Maggie’s business records, thought Imogen had some missing info.’

A rare fuck-up on Frankie’s part: he’d barely got anything out of the fed. The rest had been well planned, though. Pushing him into panic mode with that witness statement, faking her reluctance to stay. Had she even hesitated before dragging him into it?

Yes. That first night at the motel she’d apologised, maybe even felt remorse. ‘I’m sorry, Cal. I know you’re only in this because of my fuck-ups.’ But she’d done it, anyway.

Tedesco was staring at him, probably waiting for an answer.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Why you?’ Tedesco asked. ‘It’s not like you’re close to Blain.’

‘Guess I had an easy pressure point and a history with Imogen.’

A history with Frankie, too. Deal with it later, just focus on helping Tilda. Couldn’t do it by himself, that much was clear. He looked at Tedesco. ‘I need help.’

The detective lowered his head in acknowledgment. ‘I’ll stick around. You want me to ring Kat? Or Henry Collins?’

No idea how to deflect kindness like that. ‘No. I mean, I’m right. But I need to know who Transis were investigating. Can you –?’

‘Cal, mate. Leave it. I know it was complicated with Frankie, but give yourself a moment to grieve. You were close for years.’

‘It’s not about me, it’s Frankie’s niece, Tilda. Someone’s taken her.’

Tedesco’s face became blank. ‘A child? When?’

‘Yesterday morning. They sent a proof-of-life video last night.’

‘What the hell are you thinking? Report it.’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

Tedesco set his bottle down. ‘I’ll take you to the station right now, help smooth things over if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I don’t give a shit about me. It’s Tilda.’ He sketched the events of the past two days, trying hard to get things in the right order, having to backtrack.

Before he’d finished, Tedesco was shaking his head. ‘I’m not comfortable with this – you have to report it.’ He stood. ‘I’ll go if you won’t.’

Caleb shot to his feet. ‘You can’t! These people have got feelers everywhere. If the cops work out where she is, she’ll be dead before the rescue team’s got their boots on. Just give me one more day. Please. I’ve got leads. Twenty-four hours.’

Tedesco ran a hand over his bristled scalp. ‘I need to think. This isn’t – I need to think.’ He walked out, his undrunk beer on the table.

***

Caleb went to Kat’s. Around the back way and over her neighbour’s fence, into the small courtyard behind her terrace. Pot plants and ferns, a few discarded sculptures; a reflection of all the places they’d shared in their seven years of marriage. Kat was framed by the kitchen window. Sitting at the table with her oldest sister, Georgie, chatting, laughing.

The back steps were pine boards, each of them warped and loose. Easy to slip on the way down, break a leg, a neck, a pelvis. Madness – who’d choose a soft wood for outside stairs? The back door opened, and Kat’s short curls were haloed by the hall light, laughter still trailing from her. She switched on the outside light. ‘It’s safe to come in. I promise I’ll protect you from Georgie.’ Her smile fractured. ‘What’s wrong?’

He raised his hands to tell her. Couldn’t form the signs.

She came down the stairs, stopping on the last one so her face was level with his, her eyes wide. ‘Ant?’

Nothing as terrible as that, thank God. Not his brother, not even a sister, just a woman he’d never known.

‘No. No, everything’s OK.’ His eyes were burning. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Cal.’ She touched his cheek. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Frankie’s dead.’

She put her arms around him and held him while he wept.