39.

Flinders Street Station was crowded. Shoppers and families going home, couples heading into the city for a late-night dinner. No sign of Imogen yet. Caleb kept a tight grip on Frankie’s camera as he went through the turnstiles; all he needed now was a snatch-and-run. He’d bought a memory card on the way and uploaded a single page of Maggie’s docs, hopefully enough to tempt Imogen to help. If it wasn’t, he was out of ideas.

He stopped around the corner, his back to the toilet wall. Not much ambience but a good view of the concourse. Overhead, a giant television was flashing the day’s news; footage of people standing on the roof of their car, muddy water swirling around them. A strong feeling of kinship.

So far he’d only discovered the basics about Fawkes – the name Zack Billington and a former address – but possibly enough to track down his hideout. Just a little luck needed: a speed camera or toll road, a friend’s holiday house. If Imogen turned up.

He checked the time on the TV. The image had changed to a news anchor, a man with trustworthy features, the photo of a young girl behind him. Tilda. An old school photo, her hair brushed into unnatural neatness. Words appeared at the bottom of the screen: Mum’s Tragedy.

Blood drained from his head, his heart. No. Please God, no.

He blocked a businessman heading for the turnstiles. ‘Can you hear the TV? I need to –’ The man moved around him. Next person, young woman texting. ‘I can’t hear. Can you –?’ She kept walking, not looking up.

Fuck. Fuck. Breathless, pain shearing his chest. His phone was in the car. Borrow someone’s, steal it.

Imogen appeared in front of him, talking rapidly.

‘Did you hear it?’ he said. ‘What’d it say?’

‘Calm down. People are looking.’ She pulled him to the wall, fingers tight on his arm. ‘I caught the full bulletin in the car. The idiots are appealing for information, playing the sympathy card about Maggie’s injuries. That picture’s everywhere.’

He slumped against the wall. Not dead. But not safe. Not with that photo beaming out across the country. A helpful citizen seeing Tilda’s photo, realising they’d seen her and that nice young man in the car, the petrol station, the flat next door. Their hotline message going straight to Hollywood and his mates.

Imogen was speaking again. ‘… police?’

‘What?’

‘Why the hell did you go to the police? She’ll be dead by morning.’

He pushed down the rising panic. ‘I need your help. I know who took her.’

‘It’s not my concern.’

‘It is. She can help ID Maggie’s clients.’ He explained about Lovelay and Fawkes, handed her the camera. ‘Maggie’s records.’

She examined the screen. Her hair was limp today, dark smudges under her eyes. Strange to be with her instead of Frankie; only yesterday the three of them had stood on that pier.

Imogen lowered the camera. ‘Where’s the rest?’

Under the sole of his shoe, one useful thing Frankie had taught him. ‘You’ll get it when we get Tilda. Along with whatever she knows.’

Imogen scanned the crowd as she contemplated his words, more open in her stance than usual, arms uncrossed, chin lowered. ‘You speak to Billington’s family?’ she finally said. ‘They got a holiday house? Could be there if he snatched her without planning.’

‘Not yet, but he went to Melbourne Grammar with Jordan. Call –’

She was already dialling.

Had the kidnapping been spur of the moment? Fawkes might not have known Tilda was Maggie’s weak link, but he’d known from the video someone was – he would have been prepared. He wouldn’t be in a squat or family home, but a rental property. A house with no near neighbours.

The real estate brochures in Jordan’s house – not an investment, but a hideout.

‘I’ve got it,’ he said, then stopped. A point of stillness in the moving crowd, the blurred reflection of a large man on the TV screen. Waiting just around the corner by the turnstiles. Hollywood. How? No one had followed him, no one knew he was here.

Except Imogen.

She was working with Hollywood. On the take, or the actual ring leader? Work it out later, just get away as quickly as possible.

She was looking at him, impatience in the set of her mouth, as though she’d waited too long for a reply. ‘Where?’ she said.

He spoke the first lie that came into his head. ‘Lovelay’s holiday house. Ring and ask where it is, I need to piss.’ He headed towards the toilets. Walking steadily, easy swing of his arms. Into the stream of people flowing around the corner for the trains. Down the escalator and along the platform to the Elizabeth Street exit. Didn’t look back.