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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Caleb Zelic can't hear you. But he can see everything.The thrilling finale of the groundbreaking Caleb Zelic series, from the award-winning author of Resurrection BayA MYSTERIOUS MESSAGEDeaf PI Caleb Zelic has always been an outsider, estranged from family and friends. But when he receives a text that his brother, Anton, is in danger, Caleb sees it as a chance at redemption.A REMOTE ISLANDHe tracks Anton down to an isolated, wind-punished island, where secrets run deep and resentments deeper.A KILLER IN THE SHADOWSWhen a killer starts terrorising the isolated community, the brothers must rely on each other like never before. But trust comes at a deadly price...
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PRAISE FOR THE CALEB ZELIC THRILLERS
‘As compelling and intriguing as ever – Viskic’s best yet. Caleb Zelic is one of the great, flawed heroes of crime fiction’
Chris Hammer, author of Scrublands
‘Outstanding, gripping and violent… a hero who is original and appealing’
Guardian
‘More than lives up to its hype… Fierce, fast-moving, violent… it is as exciting a debut as fellow Australian Jane Harper’s The Dry, and I can think of no higher praise’
Daily Mail
‘Trailing literary prizes in its wake… superbly characterized… well above most contemporary crime fiction’
Financial Times, Books of the Yearii
‘Combines nuanced characters and thoughtful plotting’
Publishers Weekly (starred review)
‘Clever, brilliantly observed… Viskic just keeps getting better. Caleb Zelic is the perfect character to explore Melbourne’s diverse culture and all aspects of its society, high and low, ugly and beautiful’
Adrian McKinty, author of The Chain
‘Tense and atmospheric, a stripped-down crime thriller that delivers twists until the last page’
Garry Disher, author of Peace
‘Has everything you want in a thriller – it’s tight, tense, atmospheric and twisty’
Christian White, author of The Nowhere Child
‘Caleb Zelic lives in a genre of his own: the perfect outsider in an uncaring world. Inventive, loyal, tormented and whip-smart, he stands at the moral centre of a twisting tale of corruption’
Jock Serong, author of The Rules of Backyard Cricket
‘Terrific… Grabs you by the throat and never slackens its hold’
Christos Tsiolkas, author of The Slap
‘Outstanding… Pacy, violent but with a big thundering heart, it looks set to be one of the debuts of the year and marks Emma Viskic out as a serious contender on the crime scene’
Eva Dolan, author of Long Way Home
‘Adds to a bumper year for quality Australian crime fiction… The dialogue is excellent… [it] zooms along’
Sunday Express
‘Emma Viskic is a terrific, gutsy writer with great insight into the murkiness of both criminal and heroic motivations’
Emily Maguire, author of An Isolated Incident
‘Accomplished, original and utterly riveting, so much so that I read it in pretty much one sitting’
Raven Crime Reads
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For Campbell
vii
Those who perish could have been saved, but they did not receive the love of the truth.
2 THESSALONIANS 2:10
CONTENTS
1.
Caleb’s car finally died on the outskirts of Resurrection Bay. After a last shuddering jolt, the Commodore cruised to a stop in the middle of the empty highway, windscreen-wipers at half-mast, headlights dimming.
Shit, not now. He’d broken every road rule and speed limit, but it had still taken three endless hours to get here. Six-twenty a.m. Twenty minutes late already.
He threw open the door. Ran. Down the darkened side street towards the bay, rain misting his face and arms. He’d been asleep on the couch when the text came, TV still on, mind fogged with dreams. Blocked number, no name or greeting.
—Anton in danger. Res bay foreshore 6 am
He’d bolted from his flat before fully awake, typing questions as he went. No reply.
At the Bay Road shops now, chest heaving, the foreshore park opposite. No cars, just Marty McKenzie’s dump truck abandoned as usual near the pub. Caleb sprinted across the road.
The rain had stopped. A pale wash on the horizon, daylight peeling back the shadows. Empty boardwalk and wide-open lawn, mounds of struggling garden beds. Everything still, except the beacon out on Muttonbird Island flashing its warning. No standover men beating Ant with iron bars, no drug dealers demanding payment. Cops couldn’t have scared them off – he’d passed both patrol cars attending a pile-up 2outside town. Ant would be here somewhere, hiding.
Lot of ground to cover, the reserve stretched all the way to the marina in the distance. He zigzagged across the grass, looking behind the pavilion and broad red gums, breath rasping in his throat. His brother had to be here. Couldn’t bear it if he wasn’t. Nearly a month now, desperately clinging to hope.
Through the playground to the orange dump truck, its squat shape glowing faintly in the nearby streetlight. Empty, not even Marty passed out drunk on the front seat.
A flash in the corner of Caleb’s eye as he turned from it. Something moving? He wiped the water dripping from his hair. Scanned the inky landscape. Up near the toilet block, someone was crouched in a garden bed, waving. Dark hoodie pulled up, familiar hunch to his shoulders – Ant. Relief dissolved the bones in Caleb’s legs. Not dead. Not lying blue-lipped in an alleyway, needle still in his arm. But was he high or hiding? Couldn’t have chosen a worse place for it either way, a few straggling bushes in the middle of a sloping lawn. Once the sun was a little higher he’d be exposed like an overgrown garden gnome.
Caleb hesitated; Ant would never forgive him if he ruined a deal. Then again, Ant was never going to forgive him, anyway. He started across the grass.
Ant waved urgently, then switched to Auslan, hands a pale blur as he signed, ‘No! Get out of here. Run!’ Expression hidden, but fear showing in each sharp motion.
Caleb stopped. Checked behind him. ‘Who,’ he signed. ‘Where?’
‘Toilet block. He’s –’
Beside Caleb, a flicker of movement in the truck. He whipped towards it. The window had cracked. Small hole in the pane, as if someone had thrown a stone.
A spray of light. 3
Glass flying. Disintegrating. Window gone, a gaping crater in the passenger seat.
Brain and body frozen.
Gun.
He threw himself to the ground. Jesus, fuck. Exposed out here, keep moving.
On his hands and knees, scrabbling across the muddy grass to the shelter of the truck. Over the kerb and onto the road. Sitting with his back pressed hard against the tray, heart pounding. Had to be a rifle – the toilet block was too far for a handgun. Barrel poking through the lattice-work blocks at the top. Nearly killed him. Had no idea they’d been shooting.
Hearing aids. In his hip pocket where he’d shoved them, running out the door. Didn’t give him much sound, but at least he’d hear a rifle shot. He dug for them, fumbling at his wet jeans, fingers numb with fear and cold. Forget it – couldn’t avoid a bullet once it’d been fired.
Oh God, Ant. Sheltering in that scrappy garden bed.
Caleb shuffled around. Scooted backwards, keeping the dumper tray between him and the toilet block. Ant was still there, peering towards the truck, tensed as though about to run. Eyes black in a stark white face. Easier to see him now, colour bleeding into the grey as the world lightened. He slumped back when he saw Caleb.
‘You hurt?’ Caleb asked. Hands surprisingly steady as he signed.
Ant shook his head.
No point asking if he’d called the cops. OK, think it through. The sniper obviously thought he was Ant, so just stay put until help showed up. Miserable Sunday morning, but a town of three thousand. Someone would eventually come out to walk their dog or wonder if those rifle shots were too close to be from a fox-hunting farmer. 4
Except the sniper wouldn’t be dazzled by the streetlights much longer. Only minutes until daylight separated the shape of Ant’s body from those bushes. Seconds.
Ant was clearly thinking the same thing. He lowered his hands into a runner’s position again, arms trembling. Nothing but open park all around him. Wouldn’t make it.
‘Stop!’ Caleb said it out loud, tried to yell. Ant’s head snapped towards him. ‘Wait,’ Caleb signed. ‘I’ll distract him. With the truck.’ Making it up as he went, anything to stop Ant from dashing into the line of fire. ‘Meet me behind the supermarket. The carpark.’
Before Ant could reply, Caleb was up and running. Hunched low, he reached the driver’s side. Cracked open the door – keys in the ignition like he’d expected, but too bright, the high windscreen capturing the lightening sky. Dog hair and takeaway boxes, a shining layer of glass across the seats. He slid in, head first. Eased himself into a crouch behind the wheel.
The truck shuddered to life as soon as he turned the key. Slow lurch forward, hauling hard right towards the shops. A jolt. Cracks streaked across the windscreen. Bent lower, arms and knees wedged. Come on, come on, turn, you fucker. Percussive thumps, hard pebbles raining down, icy wind in his hair. Windscreen half gone, sagging inwards. There, the top of a wrought-iron veranda. Truck’s nose pointing to the newsagents, arse to the foreshore. He risked sitting up. Into reverse, eyes on the side mirror, the blocky form of the public toilets. Gradually gaining speed. Splintering light – the mirror shattered. And the other one. Just have to guess. Faster now, must be close. Shit, seatbelt. Yanking on it, one hand on the wheel, tugging hard. Clipped. Jarring stop, head smacking against the seat.
Stillness. Metallic taste of blood and fear. Get out, move.
He shoved hard at the door, keys in hand, half fell from the cabin. Scrambled to his feet, muscles braced. 5
The back of the truck had punched into the building, collapsing stall walls. Dust and gushing water, tumbled grey blocks. The acrid smell of stale piss. Iron entrance gate flung wide. No sniper, no gun. OK, breathe. Wouldn’t have to attack an armed man with a couple of keys and a rego tag.
Around to the far side of the truck – bare swathe of lawn to the boardwalk. The garden bed where Ant had hidden only shrubs and silver-green saltbush.
Over. Nearly over. Just had to bring Ant home.
Caleb headed for their meeting point in the carpark, breaking into a jog as he crossed the road, bright crystals of glass showering from him as he ran. Past the shops. Up the pedestrian walkway, out into the asphalt lot. It was empty.
2.
Caleb went to the house on Waratah Street in the faint hope Ant might be waiting there. The family home, only Ant living there these days – at least, he had been until six months ago. A solid two-storey with blunt lines, every brick had been laid by their father, the rest done with help from Caleb and Ant. Up and down ladders for months, wielding saws and hammers. Comforting pride in the end result, despite Ivan Zelic’s never-good-enough standards.
A tussle with the door, the key sticking, finally got it open. Stale air greeted him. No damp footprints on the terracotta tiles. Already knowing it was pointless, he made his way down the hallway. Vacant rooms to either side. Furniture long-gone, sold by Ant in the bad years. Into the small sunroom overlooking the garden; Ant’s favourite place, once their mother’s. Dust motes hung in the air. Blinds still raised on the long wall of windows, letting in the wintery light. Cold. No sign anyone had been here since he’d done his usual check last week. A watery droplet of blood ran down his hand, spattered on the floorboards. Shivering now. Clothes sodden and caked with mud, scratches gouging his arms. He lowered himself to the couch, hugged his body.
At least he knew Ant was alive, that was something. That was a lot. Weeks not knowing, trying every trick and contact he’d developed in his ten years as a fraud investigator. Ant had kept in sporadic contact for the first few months, replying to his 7messages occasionally, to Kat’s more often. Then nothing. Phone untraceable, emails unopened and, most terrifying of all, bank account drained.
Caleb’s fault. After a long sunlit period when Anton had been clean and happy, he’d come along and fucked it all up. Involved Ant in a case, driven him to using again. Driven him to more than that, judging by this morning. What the hell was Ant involved in? A sniper. Could only hope they weren’t an expert, just someone with a grudge and a weapon to hand. Had to be a few guns around, despite Australia’s strict laws – dusty rifles not given up in the ’96 amnesty, or hunters and farmers with permits. But the shooter hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger.
Anton in danger. A fair chance whoever had sent that text was dodgy, but Caleb would deal with anyone right now. He typed a short message.
—Ant gone. Need help finding. Will pay
An almost instant response, but it was Kat, not the informant.
—Koori grapevine says your car’s parked in the middle of the highway??
He smiled. A very Kat-like text, the digital version of a raised eyebrow. Wondering why he was in the Bay given that just last night he’d complained about being stuck working in Melbourne. She’d be in her parents’ kitchen only a few blocks away, drinking Irish Breakfast tea. Four weeks since she’d moved in with them. Not a perfect arrangement, but a temporary one, and for the very best of reasons.
A sudden realisation of exactly how dangerous that stunt with the truck had been. What had he been thinking? Should have smashed into the shops instead, set off the burglar alarms. Got people running.
Some delicacy needed in crafting his reply. Keeping things from Kat had nearly cost him their marriage, but not alarming her was 8a very high priority these days. His priority: Kat tended to get a little shitty when he was over-protective.
—Arranging a tow. Explain everything soon x
He messaged his mechanic to make the words true. Hauled himself to his feet. Go to Kat and wrap his arms around her, hold tight to the happiness. Then get to work, fix what he’d broken.
Kat’s ancient VW Beetle was parked on the road instead of in her parents’ driveway. A danger to all who passed, with an eye-catching mural of entwined bodies one of her friends had painted, every panel covered, no crack untouched. Soon to be replaced by a car with airbags and ABS braking, maybe even a less pervert-attracting artwork. Very soon, if Caleb had anything to do with it – which he didn’t, but it was nice to dream.
The roadside parking was explained as he reached the driveway. Both parents and all three of her sisters were here. Damn, forgotten it was Sunday. Family Day, the whole mob gathered to solve the world’s problems over a pancake breakfast. He liked Kat’s family, even its more terrifying members like her mother, but a crowd was difficult at the best of times. Tired and distracted, he would struggle to lip-read everyone except Kat. A lone, confused gubba in a room full of Kooris who had good reason to doubt him.
He fished his aids from his pocket. They only gave him muffled sound, not enough to make a phone call or hear a footstep, but invaluable in helping fill the gaps that lip-reading left. Quick scan for damage: no cracks on the pale casings, tubes unfogged. Good news for his bank account – the most expensive ones he’d had. Smallest too, almost undetectable beneath his brown hair. He hooked them over his ears, tensed as he inserted the receivers, 9waiting for the tinnitus that had been tormenting him lately. The wail slid into his brain but stayed muted.
Brushing his hair in place, he headed for the back of the house. Blurred noise hit him as he opened the kitchen door. People eating and drinking, flipping pancakes, Kat’s middle sister fishing Lego from one of the twin’s mouth. An overflow of kids into the adjoining living room.
Kat was a point of calmness in the bustle. Drinking tea at the end of the table, dark hair hanging in loose curls, eyes still clouded with sleep, the tattooed eagle’s wing that flowed down her arm resting on the high mound of her stomach. A white-bellied sea eagle, her totem animal.
Warmth spread through him. Five days since he’d seen her, every one of them too long.
She blinked when she noticed him, lowered her mug. The rumble of noise died away as heads turned towards him. Adults first, then the kids. Open mouths and slow, up-and-down looks. And he was suddenly very aware of his muddied clothes and scratched arms, the wet-dog odour rising from his jeans. A wiser son-in-law would have stopped to shower and find clean clothes before fronting up to his wife’s family. Particularly one who’d deservedly come close to being an ex-son-in-law not that long ago.
Kat caught his attention with a wave, touched a finger to her cheek. ‘You’ve got a little something on your face.’
After showering, he retreated to Kat’s room. Some fast footwork needed to dodge his three sisters-in-law, but he arrived uninterrogated. A cosy space, filled with odds and ends from Kat’s old house. She’d set up a makeshift studio for her stay, the 10desk stacked with sketchpads and modelling clay, old tea tins sprouting pencils. Plans for a new sculpture were pinned to the corkboard above it. A self-portrait: Kat standing, head raised to an unseen sky, her stomach rounded. The first time she’d captured this pregnancy. Always a thrill to see her work, but this was cause for celebration. Another big tick for her decision to spend the last few months of her pregnancy under the watchful eye of her doctor mother. A gut-wrench when she’d suggested it – poised to move back in together after their separation – but he couldn’t argue with the results. Excitement lit Kat’s eyes instead of the old terror, even with the looming date of the final ultrasound. But he missed her.
The overhead light switched on and off as he was pulling on clean jeans. Kat was in the doorway. Still in her pyjamas, an oversized T-shirt with an Aboriginal flag on the front, the yellow sun in the middle stretched tight across her stomach. Shorter every time he saw it, a lot of long brown leg showing below the hem.
She crossed to the bed, lobbed him a box of bandaids on the way. ‘Stop you scaring the boorais.’
‘Thanks.’ She’d come to check on him while he’d showered, her gaze a fair bit more medical than he’d hoped for, but understandable – the bathroom mirror had shown the glint of crystals scattered through his dark hair. A lot more blood than seemed reasonable for a few minor scratches.
He slapped on bandaids a few shades too dark for his olive skin, but a perfect match for Kat’s, soon to be a match for their child’s. Only eight weeks to go. Heart-stuttering joy at the thought. Long past the bleak milestones of their first two losses, rushing breathlessly towards their future.
‘Basic first aid amuses you?’ Kat asked. She was cross-legged on the bed, pillow propped at her back. 11
‘I see joy in all things.’
‘It’s what I’ve always loved about you.’ An expression so dry she risked dehydration. Using Auslan now they were alone; a natural signer, with her expressive face and open emotions. She’d learned the language for him, something his parents hadn’t done. Had immediately understood its importance. The daughter of a culture still fighting against the efforts of colonisers to eradicate its language.
He hunted through his overnight bag for a clean top. Down to his last one – two, if he included the T-shirt ‘resting’ on the back of the chair. Constantly between things at the moment: half his time working in the city, the other half here with Kat. But only another week or so till he could shift here and await the birth. Where they’d live afterwards was less certain. His cramped flat sold, the lease on Kat’s place ended, nothing she’d seen online tempting her enough to make the trip up to Melbourne for a walk-through. A good feeling about the shortlist he’d given her last week, though. All three houses inspected by him, their glossy flyers only moderately exaggerating their charms.
When he turned, she was watching him, the tattooed eagle’s wing resting easily on her stomach. No hint of sleepiness in her blue eyes now. Impressive, how clearly she could communicate without moving. Currently saying, ‘Don’t make me drag it out of you.’
He went to sit beside her. ‘It’s Ant. He’s all right,’ he added quickly as she tensed. ‘But something’s happened.’ He gave a clinical rundown of the morning’s events, possibly neglecting to mention how close the bullets had come.
Kat stilled as he went through it, inhaled sharply when he got to the part about the truck.
‘It’s OK,’ he told her. ‘I was careful.’
‘Careful? At what exact point were you careful?’ 12
‘I used the seatbelt.’ Wanting to snatch the signs from the air as soon as he’d formed them.
‘Jesus, Cal. I thought you’d stopped doing that kind of thing.’
He had. He really had. But he’d reverted to past form this morning. Couldn’t blame her for being alarmed; she’d designed those intricate tattooed feathers to cover her scars. His fault. His mistakes.
‘I have,’ he said. ‘Promise. It’s just – I panicked. It’s Ant.’ He’d used Ant’s childhood sign name by accident, instead of the usual simple ‘A’: one hand chasing the other like scurrying insects. Bestowed on Ant by Caleb’s classmates from the School for the Deaf. Reference to his spoken name, but mainly for the way he’d followed them around on their rare visits, asking ceaseless questions. It’d been fucking annoying at the time.
Kat’s face softened. ‘I know.’ Warm fingers pressed his. ‘He is OK, isn’t he?’
‘Well, probably using.’
‘I mean, he’s not hurt?’
The same fear had nestled in his guts, but he’d gone back to wipe his prints from the truck after Ant’s no-show, given the area a thorough search. ‘Don’t think so. I’ll go and see his mates today, he’s probably run off to one of them. Though God knows why when I was right there.’
‘He’s ashamed. He’s looked up to you since he was a kid and he’s stuffed up in a big way. Again.’
‘We’re a long way past those days.’
‘Oh, babe.’ The words slipped from her lips.
‘What?’
She changed to sign. ‘Your relationship’s frozen at the age you were when your mum died.’
So teenagers, then; that couldn’t be good. Possibly something to examine with his therapist when he found the time to make 13another appointment. And when Kat wasn’t within arm’s reach, sleep-tousled and warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon.
‘Very insightful.’ He touched her arm, smooth silk beneath his hand. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Clear blue eyes held his. ‘My insight?’
‘Among other things.’
‘My other things have missed you, too.’ She leaned in for his kiss, their lips just brushing before she broke away, looked at the door. Good idea, should definitely be locking that. But Kat’s head slumped. She called, ‘Hang on,’ to someone on the other side. Turned to him. ‘You’re wanted for questioning.’
A flash of alarm. ‘Cops?’
‘Tiddas. Apparently there’s been a shootout on Bay Road. They’re wondering if their brother-in-law knows anything about it.’ She stood. ‘I’ll distract them while you adjust your, ah, expectations.’ At the door, she turned back. ‘Sorry, I forgot. Mick wants a word. Rang while you were in the shower, said he’d texted but you hadn’t replied.’
Kat’s favourite cousin, barman at the roughest pub in town, easily able to quell trouble between bikies and bar-room brawlers. Mick’s own wild days were long gone, but he was very protective of his family. A chat about ‘responsibility’ had struck terror into Caleb’s seventeen-year-old heart when he and Kat had first started dating, in part because Mick lived right across the road from the Zelic family home. Not impossible he’d observed Caleb’s dishevelled appearance this morning and made the connection to the shooting.
‘An angry word?’
Kat’s smile was serene. ‘Who can tell?’ With a blown kiss, she was gone.
Lucky. Very lucky. They’d come so close to divorce he could still feel its shadow. But somehow she’d forgiven him the pain 14he’d caused, all her years of loneliness. And if sometimes the thought surfaced that she’d be better off without him, he shoved it back down.
He found dry shoes and his grey woollen jacket, headed for the kitchen. Stopped at the bookshelf next to the door. The real estate flyers were lying where he’d left them for Kat last week, untouched.
3.
He arranged to meet Mick at the foreshore shops so he could check out the police response. Unlikely the sniper would have left any clues, but adrenaline could make people do stupid things. Or so he’d been told.
The street ran in a lazy curve along the bay, mismatched buildings with wide verandas. A few bluestone originals among the charmless renos of the past sixty years. Busy for a Sunday. People standing in small groups, clutching fresh bread and takeaway coffees, the word ‘teenagers’ on a lot of lips. Caleb wound his way through them, one eye on the park across the road. The wind had picked up, fluttering the blue-and-white tape stretched between lampposts and trees. Looked like the police didn’t ascribe to the theory about teenagers letting off steam – a uniformed cop blocking access to the boardwalk, another near the shops. The town’s most senior officer, Sergeant Ramsden, was talking to a woman near the toilets, dump truck still wedged into the wall behind him.
Ant’s hiding place in the garden looked even more exposed in full daylight. They’d been lucky, with low visibility and wind on their side. Caleb had spent the past hour researching snipers, now knew far more about calibres and kill rates than was comfortable. Scant relief that it apparently took time to choose a position and adjust the rifle, or that most shooters were hobbyists with a limited range – once in place, a skilled marksman could 16hit a target a kilometre away. Some, much further.
Caleb stopped opposite Sergeant Ramsden, assuming an interested-bystander expression. The cop didn’t have his notebook out, but there was a lot of gesticulating from the woman, someone with a story to tell. Witness to the shooting? God, he hoped not. Even the mildest interaction between Ant and the cops was bound to end badly, a legacy of the dark days after their mother’s death when he’d slid from a heavy grass habit into heroin, financed with a string of clumsy B and Es. An over-the-top response from the cops had ended with him doing a six-month stint. Nineteen years old; sitting hunched in the cafeteria-like visiting room, eyes more sunken every time Caleb visited.
A heavy hand clasped Caleb’s shoulder, then Mick came around to face him. Barrel-chested, with dark brown skin, a touch of grey to his stubbled head. The prison tatt FUCK COPS across his knuckles was on full display as he gripped the legs of his two-year-old daughter perched on his shoulders. Eldest two daughters trailing behind, footy uniforms spattered with mud. Always reassuring to see Mick in parenting action, a man who’d become a great father despite much worse odds than Caleb.
‘Cal, mate. Thanks for meetin’.’ Unrushed words as easy to read as usual. Mick nodded towards the action in the park. ‘Big day for the gunyan. They found a blackfella to blame yet?’
‘Only been at it a few hours.’
‘True. So, you sticken around a few days? Got a job if you’re interested. Standard rates and so on.’
Not a tell-off; couldn’t deny he wasn’t relieved. More work down here would be good, too. His one-man business in Melbourne was booming, finally recovered from all the fuck-ups of his ex-business partner, Frankie, but he needed to be with Kat, not three and a half hours away in Melbourne. 17
‘Yeah, I am. This to do with the pub?’
‘Nah, footy club. Got a tricky problem.’
Talia unwrapped her plump arms from around Mick’s head and held them out to Caleb, the legacy of some bonding time over a bottle of bubble mix on his last visit.
He smiled, went to take her.
Mick swung her down. ‘Sorry to break up the love fest, but you two’ll have to play later.’
A few words between Mick and his older girls, money exchanged, and they whisked their sister off towards the supermarket. Unusual for Mick to send his children away.
‘This job,’ Caleb said, ‘I won’t touch it if it’s dangerous.’
‘Should friggen hope not. But no, just sensitive – someone’s nicked Norm.’
A second to realise Mick wasn’t talking about a person, but Norman Numbat, the local footy club’s mascot. The human-sized suit was supposed to look like the cute marsupial but was halfway between a Tassie devil and a coked-up squirrel. Trust Mick to take a prank like that to heart. Long retired from the team, but still a keen supporter and coach of the under-fourteens.
‘A manky one-eyed numbat suit? You’d be wanting the full force of the law for that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Considered it. Reckon we need something more discreet.’
Across the road, Ramsden had his notebook out, sandy head lowered as he wrote. Not the brightest of men, but not a complete fuckwit. And he knew Ant’s long history, had been party to some of it.
Caleb turned back, found Mick waiting patiently. ‘Why the need for discretion?’
‘Been posting pics of Norm online, made to look like club members. Doin’ drugs and stuff. Right in the middle of the fundraising drive, too. Fudging publicity nightmare.’ 18
Caleb paused. Mick had been on an anti-swearing kick driven by his kids, all of whom had proved willing to throw him on the mercies of their mother, but this took it to a new level. ‘It’s OK, I can handle the big boy words.’
‘What? Oh, yeah. Do it without thinken now.’ The FUCK on Mick’s knuckles wriggled as he scratched his bristled scalp. ‘Goes down a treat at the pub, I can tell ya.’ He swiped through his phone, handed it to Caleb. ‘This sorta thing.’
Three badly framed snaps of a large numbat posing with booze, white power, a blow-up doll. Each with a different person’s face roughly photoshopped onto it. All familiar, including Caleb’s mechanic, Greg Darmon, supposedly smearing a jar of something over an intimate part of his body. Caleb zoomed in. Well, he was never going to look at peanut butter the same way again.
Quick check of the park. Ramsden was striding towards the uniformed cop on the boardwalk. The obvious direction for Ant to have run. Was there CCTV along there now? Hope the hell not.
Mick had stopped talking, dark eyebrows raised.
Could tell him, ask him to be on the lookout for Ant. No fear of Mick talking to the authorities. Father and aunts members of the Stolen Generations; children ripped from their homes in the name of assimilation. Put into care, fostered out, adopted. Broken.
‘Possible Ant connection,’ Caleb said.
‘Bit of a worry. Keep an eye out for ya?’
‘Thanks. That’d be great.’ He returned Mick’s phone. ‘Any messages with the photos? Demands?’
‘Nah, but they’re maken people nervous. Rumours flyen they’re true. And now with young Robbo’s accident, the sugar’s really hit the fan.’
Accident? OK, full attention on Mick now, had to know what he was getting involved in. ‘What accident?’ 19
‘Big smash out on the highway this morning. Young player got hurt. Don’t worry, nothin’ to do with the club. Already spoken to Robbo’s dad – clear-cut accident, according to the cops. So you’ll do it, yeah? Club’s just hanging in there financially. People start leaving, it’ll fold.’
The Numbats were renowned for their ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, but the town took pride in them. A great leveller: lawyers, the unemployed, tradies, business owners, a good third of the team Koori. Even the occasional player who went on to play pro.
‘I dunno, Mick. Isn’t the entire town going to hate me – the black part especially – if I rock up asking about their sex lives and drug habits?’
‘Sure.’ Mick seemed at ease with the prospect. ‘Come on, cuz. Family favour.’
Family, the one F word Mick was still happy to use; no defence against it.
‘Good on ya,’ Mick said before he’d replied. ‘I’ll send you the pics. Jarrah can give you everything else you need.’
Caleb tried to control his grimace. ‘Jarrah?’
‘Team captain.’
Of course he was. Jarrah fucking Davies, Kat’s some-time artistic collaborator and one-time boyfriend. Good-looking, talented, pillar of the Koori community – and definitely still yearning for Kat. Bastard didn’t even have the decency to be unlikeable.
‘Thought you’d be pleased.’ Mick nodded up the hill towards the oval. ‘Trainen starts in ten. You can meet him there.’
‘Great. I’ll –’ Caleb stopped. People were gathering near the esplanade, an ambulance driving slowly across the park towards them, lights flashing. Movement in the bay, a runabout lifting on the swell. Private boat, but a couple of cops on board. Leaning 20over the edge, poles in hand, dragging something limp and heavy through the water. A body.
The air left Caleb’s lungs.
No. Not Ant. Couldn’t be Ant.
He ran.
4.
A thin-necked constable was standing guard near the boardwalk: aggressive stance, scrawny arms folded across his chest. Caleb shoved his way to the front of the crowd near him, got a narrow-eyed stare. The cops in the boat were trying to thread straps under the body as it shifted in the waves. Dark hair? Hoodie? Couldn’t see, had to get closer. The constable flung an arm out to stop him. No time to argue with an aggro baby-cop. A double-back through the onlookers to the far side of the waiting ambulance, almost running as he reached the timber walkway. He stopped. The cops had secured the body, were gradually hauling it up. Lolling head and arms, beige jacket. Middle-aged man.
Not Ant.
Swooping dizziness, unable to catch his breath in the slipstream of fear.
Someone suddenly in front of him, thick-set body, thinning sandy hair – Sergeant Ramsden. Hadn’t even realised the cop was nearby. Already speaking, freckled skin flushed red. ‘…you…here…?’
‘Um, what?’
‘… you … here… this …?’
Get it together, pretend he was a regular citizen, not someone held together by fast unravelling threads. Ramsden knew exactly how well he could lip-read, would realise something was wrong.
‘You’re a bit fast,’ Caleb told him. ‘Can you slow down?’ 22
Ramsden lost some of his bluster. Happy to go the odd biff on a drunk or troublemaker, but his old-school country manners kicked in when he was uncomfortable. Probably a ten-second amnesty, with his temper running this hot.
‘This. Is. A. Crime. Scene,’ the cop said. ‘What are. You doing. Here?’
Crime scene – the cops on the boat had made that call quickly. Had the guy been shot? Natural reaction to look at a body being pulled into a boat, so Caleb let himself. Still not Ant. Just a balding middle-aged man. Face marked by something, maybe a gunshot wound. Caleb looked away, swallowed; two strikes against him if he vomited on Ramsden’s ugly black shoes.
‘Sorry,’ Caleb told him. ‘Didn’t realise. Just wanted to ask you about –’ Shit, what was the injured footy player’s name? Bob, Rob, Robbo. ‘Robbo’s car accident. I’m doing some work for the Numbats.’
Ramsden didn’t bother holding back the sigh. ‘It was an accident, Caleb, nothing more. Oncoming truck blew a tyre. Don’t go stirring up trouble.’
‘No trouble.’ He paused. Had to balance the need for information against drawing attention to Ant. Or to himself; the cops might manage to get his DNA from that biohazard of a truck. Then again, if it came to DNA samples he was in trouble anyway. ‘What happened here?’ he asked Ramsden. ‘The guy shot?’
‘I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.’
Which meant yes: Ramsden didn’t have the city-cop talent for blanket denial. The sniper had killed someone. Might still be after Ant.
Caleb kept his expression neutral. ‘OK, I’ll let you get on with it.’
Ramsden put a hand out to stop him leaving. ‘Do you have any knowledge of this morning’s events, Mr Zelic?’ 23
‘No.’ Back to surnames, never a good sign with Ramsden. Not a close relationship, but they’d developed something approaching trust after Caleb had worked a case in town last year. The one that had sent Ant spiralling.
Ramsden was giving him the cop stare. Good attempt, but no hearie in the world could out-silence him. Nearly thirty years honing that particular skill, ever since the meningitis had destroyed his hearing when he was five.
The sergeant finally spoke. ‘A man matching your description was seen running from here around the time of the shooting.’ His hand brushed towards the path. ‘Care to explain that?’
Ant or the sniper? Heading west towards the marina, going by Ramsden’s involuntary gesture. Shut it down fast – better to risk the cops suspecting his involvement, than them going off to look for the shooter and accidentally finding Ant. Storming in, guns raised.
Subtle glance at the light poles as he pointed along the boardwalk: no CCTV. ‘Running that way? Dark hoodie?’
‘So you admit it was you?’
‘Sure. Went that way for my morning run. Don’t know about the timing, though – didn’t see anything unusual.’
‘You didn’t hear gunfire?’
‘Ah, no.’ Caleb pointed to his ear.
Ramsden’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘Drop by the station later, we’ll be needing a statement. Bring your phone.’
‘Sure.’ Caleb turned, steady pace, the brisk walk of a man at work. In the ambulance’s windscreen a reflection of the policeman standing still, watching him.
Mick was waiting just past the vehicle. No kids, keys in hand, ready to swing into action. Caleb gave a slight headshake as he passed, got a nod in return.
