Chapter Sixty-two

Jack was woken by a bladder the size of a small planet. He dragged himself to the bathroom. How long had he been asleep? He checked his watch – four in the afternoon. Then he remembered he was a prisoner in his own house. He stormed to the bedroom door and threw it open, ready to have it out with the security guard, but the chair was empty. Not a Bruce in sight. Bathroom break? Shift change? Jack didn’t care.

He flew quickly and quietly along the hall and down the stairs, avoiding the kitchen in case Bruce had gone for food or a glass of water to swallow his roids, then threaded his way through the house to the back door. He was, as far as he could tell, unseen. He sprinted across the expansive lawn, then cut through the forest until he intersected with the narrow track leading down to the old house. He stopped and listened. Apart from the frenzied buzzing of the cicadas, all was quiet. Then he heard the rustling of dried leaves. He spun around, ready for combat. A bush turkey stared back quizzically, then resumed scraping leaves onto its nest mound.

Jack pushed through the forest, then stayed under the cover of the trees when he reached the old house. Nothing appeared amiss.

He needed a plan. First, he should make sure there was nobody in the old house so that he wasn’t caught by surprise. Then he’d search the house for signs that the crew who murdered Patrick had been staying in the house. If that drew a blank, he’d check the grounds.

The lock box near the front door surrendered the key to the same old code. Jack silently opened the door. The house felt empty. He moved cautiously from room to room. Nobody. He started over, this time with a meticulous search. There was no evidence of the previous occupants – not a toothbrush, not an errant hair in a drain. The house had never been so clean.

The search outside was equally unproductive. No sign of a boat or van. No tyre tracks on the gravel. The garden shed held only Tony’s tools, along with Jack’s tiny childhood footprints pressed into the concrete slab of the floor, preserved for eternity. The garage, too, was cleaner than he could ever remember – not even a grease mark on the floor. They’d been good. Or they hadn’t been here at all.

Jack couldn’t suppress his feeling of frustration. He was sure he was right – somebody would only be this meticulous tidying up if they had tracks to cover. But it was hardly something that could be used in court for a conviction. Your honour, the house was much cleaner than usual. This had been a complete waste of time.

He stood in the middle of the lawn and took a last look around, willing something to appear. And then he saw a strip of freshly turned earth where the grass met the rear wall of the garage. Jack scooped away soft, moist soil until his fingers felt something firm. He dug more urgently, and a small square of plastic came into view. Black plastic. When his excavations were complete, he kneeled and stared at a two-metre-wide roll of thick plastic, knowing this would be a match for the black plastic shroud that had wrapped Patrick’s amputated leg. Got you, thought Jack. Their first mistake. They should have taken it with them. Although perhaps they didn’t want to risk being caught with something that would clearly tie them to the murder.

Jack used his keys to hack off a sample of the plastic, then re-buried the roll so that if Fidel reappeared, he wouldn’t know it had been discovered.

He reached for his phone to call Begley before remembering the Bruces had smashed it. Tony would have one. He set off towards Tony’s lodgings next to the big house.

As Jack crept through the bush beside Tony’s cottage, a whipbird let rip one of its pistol-shot calls, causing Jack to jump. He tried to calm himself with deep breaths. He emerged from cover and ran quickly down the side of Tony’s. He rounded the corner towards the front door and was brought to an abrupt halt by a collision into the very beefy Bruce Two.

‘Jesus,’ said Jack, in both fright and pain, his ribs sore from the bruising impact.

Bruce Two stared at him impassively.

Jack turned to flee, but Bruce One had materialised close behind him.

Bruce Two said, ‘Put your arms up slowly, and keep still.’

Bruce One patted him down. Jack felt a huge hand slide into his pocket and pull out the black plastic. Jack put down his arms.

Bruce Two said, ‘Mr Harris, is there anything at all I can get for you? A cup of tea?’

‘What the hell?’ said Jack, totally confused.

Bruce Two smiled. ‘Have I told you what I’m going to do with that tiny girlfriend of yours when I get hold of her? First, I’m going to pin her down and then I’m going to—’

Before he could even think, Jack lashed out at Bruce Two with a left–right to the stomach, then put his head down and charged into the guard’s midriff. Bruce Two wasn’t quick enough to brace and tumbled backwards with Jack on top of him. Jack rolled away as Bruce One’s hands clutched at his shirt.

There were angry shouts behind Jack as he ran away, but he was confident he could outrun such big men, their bodies built for strength not speed. Yet when he reached the driveway, the sound of pursuing footsteps remained alarmingly close. Jack gave a burst of maximum speed and, by the time he reached the front gate, his stitches were tearing painfully at his thigh and he was gasping for breath. He risked a glance over his shoulder, the Bruces were ten metres away and closing.

He launched himself out onto the road. Jack hadn’t heard the car, and looked up as it hurtled towards him. The driver hit the brakes and the car skidded to a halt, almost touching Jack’s knees. He stood transfixed with shock as a cloud of dust enveloped him. One of the Bruces yelled at him, breaking the spell, and Jack sprinted around the car to the passenger door. He scrabbled at the door handle. It was locked. He knocked hard on the window and, when the driver released the door, threw himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door closed.

‘Jacko, what’s happening?’

Jack knew that voice.

Ricky Martinelli smiled at him, then floored the accelerator as the Bruces started pounding on the door. With stones scattering everywhere, the car lurched forward and away.

Jack was breathless and incredulous at the same time. He grinned wildly and slapped Ricky on the shoulder. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I was overdue for a holiday.’

Jack laughed between gasps of air. Ricky never did holidays. Ricky never left Melbourne. ‘How did you know?’

Having left the pursuers well behind, Ricky slowed the car to a safer speed. ‘You’ve called four times in two weeks, you’re trying to hack into someone’s data, your father turfed you out of your job, and you’re not answering your phone. I thought you might need reinforcements.’

Jack patted him on the shoulder again, so grateful to see his old friend.

Ricky looked at him. ‘So, why weren’t you picking up?’

‘Every time I get a new phone somebody smashes it.’

‘Do you want a burner?’ Ricky pointed to the glove compartment.

Jack opened it and half a dozen phones spilled out.

‘Why,’ asked Ricky, ‘were those two brick shithouses chasing you?’

As Ricky wound through the forest back towards town, Jack told him what he knew about Patrick’s disappearance, and what he didn’t, like who had murdered him. When he finished, he said, ‘I’m hoping the answer is on the memory stick. If we can find the password.’

‘I’ll try a dictionary attack using Hashcat. We might get lucky.’

‘Patrick provided a clue, if that helps.’ Jack told him about Caitlin and Zoe.

‘Then we won’t need Hashcat,’ said Ricky.

When they got back on the bitumen, Jack called the police station with one of the burner phones. Constable Anderson answered.

‘It’s Jack Harris. I need to speak with Inspector Begley.’

‘He’s on gardening leave.’

‘It’s urgent.’

‘I still can’t put you through. He said if I called him at home he would break my balls.’

Jack couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Did he say anything about text messages?’

There was a pause. ‘No.’

‘Then message him to call me.’ Jack could almost feel the policeman’s relief at having his dilemma solved, gonads intact.

‘Okay,’ said Anderson.

Jack ended the call and turned to look at his friend, happy that he was there. ‘Nice rental,’ said Jack.

‘I had a choice of a Beamer or a Barina.’

As evening settled over the town, Ricky put his foot down, expertly evading the potholes. Not to mention the potheads cycling towards him, without helmets, on the wrong side of the road.