It was late. Vince slumped on the timber floor of the cottage’s porch, a half empty bottle of scotch in one hand and an empty glass in the other. He stared into the dark. Little stirred in the cold but in the distance, the mournful howl of a lonely dog periodically echoed.
In the couple of hours he’d sat here there’d been a handful of cars go by and each time, he’d jumped. Except there was no more bad news to be had. Melanie was safe and recovering. Her physical injures would heal. And in hospital she’d come to no harm. He’d wanted to stay all night but was ushered out by nurses who rightly told him Melanie would need him in the morning as the drugs wore off.
He’d identified Susie and David’s bodies after leaving the police station. Then spoken to the funeral home.
And he’d kept his head. Not shown as much as a bit of emotion, because he felt none.
Until he got home tonight.
Another sound drifted on the still air. The whinny of a pony.
Did I put her rug on? Did I feed her?
With a groan, he rolled onto his knees and used the wall to push himself upright. He was fine. Nothing that another drink wouldn’t fix. He gripped the neck of the bottle. The steps were slippery, and he grabbed the rail, letting go just as fast. It was like an icicle.
‘No need for ice for my drink.’
He chuckled at his clever comment.
Another whinny.
‘On my way.’
He opened the gate and went through, careful to close it. Not that Apple would stray. She was at his pockets, nuzzling them for treats. Her rug was on. Maybe he forgot to take it off this morning. No matter in the cold weather. She had fresh hay. Lyndall must have checked on her.
‘Wanna drink, old girl?’
Vince took a long swig and belched, wiping his hand across his mouth.
‘’Scuse me.’
He offered the pony the open end of the bottle, and she mouthed it, almost immediately snorting her displeasure and releasing it.
‘No? No matter… nobody drinks with me anyway.’
There was a tree stump, and he sank onto it.
‘You know we’re both past it? At least people love you.’
The pony wandered off and he gazed up at the sky. It had the perfect clarity of mid-winter nights complete with clusters of brilliant stars. Somewhere up there was a star with Susie’s name on it. Too soon. Taken long before her time.
She’s gone. My baby is gone.
He got to his feet and pointed at the brightest star, jabbing in time with his words.
‘You. Fucking. Bastard.’
Someone had to pay for this. Someone should have stopped this happening.
‘Happy now?’ He screamed at the sky. ‘Fucking bastard!’
The earth rolled and rose and he fell onto his knees. The bottle spun away and he pounded the freezing ground with his fists until pain shot through his arms. With a cry, Vince fell onto his side and pulled his legs up, arms around them.
He closed his eyes and whispered, ‘You should have protected her. Fucking bastard.’
Nobody heard him. Nobody cared.
There was nothing more Liz could do tonight around the Hardy case. She’d just dropped Pete back at the station so he could grab his own car and go home and now she wished she’d gone inside to do paperwork. Taking those couple of hours late this morning to sleep had reduced her level of tiredness but wrecked any chance of settling down this early.
Her car clock taunted her. After ten. Not so early.
One more hour and then I’ll go home.
The hunt for Malcolm Hardy had shifted from an all-out, all-cop search of the general area he’d last been seen. Although there wasn’t an officer in the state who wasn’t going to look twice at every fifty-something, thickset man they passed, there simply weren’t enough police to continue at the level they’d begun with, particularly as the criminal had vanished so easily. Now it was about focusing on his contacts. Pete thrived on that kind of policing and hadn’t really cared he’d been sent to the most unlikely people in Hardy’s old suburb of Footscray. Not that he’d found much yet, but he was like a bloodhound when something got his interest.
She wanted to see Vince. Sit with him. Let him talk if he wanted. Odds on though, he was at the hospital or sleeping and driving all the way out there again would probably be a waste of a trip. Instead, Liz turned onto the road to Laverton.
At this time of night the suburb was relatively quiet. A couple of freight forwarding companies were as busy as in daytime, trucks being unloaded and workers shouting to each other. Most businesses were closed and kept normal business hours. One of them was Bradley Pickering and David Weaver’s warehouse.
It occupied a narrow block part way along a dead-end street. Surrounded by similar buildings, its office was a few steps from the pavement with the rest of the building behind it. Two gates—locked together with a heavy chain and padlock—stretched from the side of the office to the fence of the next building, just wide enough for a semi-trailer to back down.
She drove past at a crawl. Nothing moved and the place was in darkness as she parked a little further down the road. The only street light working was up near the corner, and few of the buildings had exterior lighting. She knew the area well. The proximity of the suburb to Melbourne’s docks made it popular for freight forwarding and associated businesses and she’d worked cases here more than once.
Flashlight on, she wandered to the front of the warehouse. The light picked up the name of the business above the office door.
PickerPack Holdings Pty Ltd.
‘Cute. Bet you loved sliding your name in there.’
She’d never been inside but she knew Bradley from way back. Judging from his house at the time, and his tailored suits and expensive car, she’d expected his business was booming and would be housed in a more impressive property.
Instead, there was a dreary frontage with no passing traffic. What exactly went on in here?
Cobwebs covered the single window beside the front door, and it was so grimy the flashlight made almost no inroads. The door itself was unused and had a sign telling people to go around the side. Nobody was around. She checked, glancing each way along the road before holding the flashlight hard against the glass. Her nose almost touched the window.
Eyes stared back at her.
Liz stumbled backwards as her heart pounded.
Had it been a face? Or a trick of the light?
She unholstered her gun.
Back at the window she moved the flashlight around but if anyone were there a moment ago, they’d gone.
This wasn’t an office anymore but a makeshift staff room with chairs, tables, sink, and fridge. Beyond was an archway leading to the darkened warehouse. Shadows of shipping containers loomed at the back.
She tried the door. Locked.
Something felt off. The hair was raised on the back of her neck.
At the gate, she rattled the chain. The padlock was heavy and wouldn’t give. The outline of a delivery van was at the very end of the driveway but there were no other vehicles in sight. She took out her phone and although the detail was poor thanks to the distance and lack of light, she spent a few minutes taking photographs then returned to the window and did the same.
Back in the car she locked the doors and exhaled slowly.