Darkness for Light Page 3

  The twenty-week ultrasound. They’d almost made it that far the last pregnancy. And the one before that. This was the fourth time Kat had checked with him about the rescheduled appointment.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  She hugged him a little tighter than usual, a quick, fierce grasp. After she’d closed the door he stood still, the sun a faint warmth on his back.

  Twenty years.

  A lifetime.

  6.

  Cooper Reserve had once been an illegal dumping ground, but the local council had recently wrestled it into parkland. A surprisingly successful conversion, with well-used playgrounds and bike paths. Tedesco was standing by a food van, eating what looked like a bowl of grass. A large man with close-cropped hair; hunched over his food, he looked like one of the boulders artistically scattered throughout the park. Caleb headed towards him, checking his phone as it buzzed. The usual cold trickle of fear, but the text was from Imogen, not Kat. He shoved it back in his pocket without reading it: her threats could wait.

  Up close, Tedesco’s food still looked like a bowl of grass. The truck was called The Gourmet Gut and seemed to serve a kale-based menu. Trust Tedesco to find the only healthy fast food in Melbourne.

  ‘Late lunch?’ Caleb asked.

  ‘Breakfast.’ Tedesco thought about it. ‘Maybe dinner. Caught a strange one.’

  What would constitute a strange case for a homicide cop?

  ‘Am I going to regret asking?’

  ‘Nothing gruesome – guy found asphyxiated with a billiard ball in his mouth.’

  OK, now he had to know. ‘How’d it fit?’

  ‘That was an early line of enquiry. Bloke had a hyperextended jaw, liked to do a little party act for his mates.’

  ‘So it was an accident?’

  ‘Nah, bad debt with a loan shark called Jimmy Puttnam. Jimmy usually sticks to whipping people with a cut-off garden hose, but he popped by when the vic was doing his act and decided to improvise. Pinched the guy’s nose shut. Allegedly. Thirty people and no one saw a thing.’

  ‘That was a fun story, thank you.’

  ‘All part of the service.’ Tedesco jerked his head towards a picnic table and walked over to it, Caleb following.

  The detective could have discovered Imogen was a cannibal and his face wouldn’t show it. Not a man who shared easily, possibly why they got on so well. Strange to think they’d only known each other a year, a friendship forged when Tedesco had investigated the murder of Caleb’s best mate. Events that had brought them both pain, but about which they rarely spoke.

  Tedesco pulled out his phone when they were seated, and showed Caleb the screen. A po-faced Imogen stared back at him; a plain background, like a passport photo. ‘This Imogen Blain?’

  So it was Imm-o-gen: short I, soft G. Good call not to say it in front of her.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She is a fed. Done a bit of undercover work.’

  Caleb had prepared himself for it, but it was still a body-blow. He composed his face, trying to work out what to ask next. He’d given the detective as little information as possible about his enounter with Imogen. Tedesco almost certainly knew about Caleb’s part in Petronin’s death, but it was on the long list of things they didn’t, shouldn’t, talk about. ‘What’s the word on her?’

  ‘Smart, cuts corners, definitely someone to steer clear of. Which you already knew, given your last run-in with her.’

  ‘Where’s she assigned?’

  Tedesco lowered his fork. ‘Cal. What are you doing?’ In his expression, echoes of a conversation they’d had four months ago. Caleb had been at his lowest point: sleepless, desperate, Petronin’s death playing on repeat in his head. The detective had arrived with a six-pack of Boag’s and the contact details of Henry Collins, the world’s most unflappable counsellor, a specialist in PTSD. More words said in that short visit than their entire friendship.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Caleb said. ‘I’m good. Really good. But Imogen threatened me – I need to know who I’m up against.’

  ‘Threatened you how?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Tedesco ate a forkful of kale while he processed the information. ‘Then why? Frankie’s long gone.’

  Imogen’s line about wanting documents felt true. Caleb had found a key in Frankie’s belongings back in January, the kind that could fit a secure cabinet or safety deposit box. A few days later, she’d hiked through a bushfire to retrieve it from him. Smoke choking his lungs, injured and desperate, and Frankie had appeared out of the ember-touched air. He’d thought for a moment she’d come just to help him.

  ‘Frankie’s got evidence she wants. Documents.’

  ‘Blain shouldn’t be hunting for evidence – she’s a desk jockey these days.’

  These days. Phrasing that could only mean Tedesco had more information.

  ‘What was she doing before that?’

  Tedesco took a few seconds to answer. ‘Working in a federal taskforce called Transis. People went very quiet, very quickly when I asked about it. Feels like something bad went down.’

  Caleb had come across the name Transis when he’d brushed up against Imogen last time, but he hadn’t been able to find anything except a cryptic reference on a now-defunct hacking forum. The hacking side of things could be worth pursuing.

  ‘What was Transis investigating?’

  ‘Crime.’

  Very helpful. Tedesco’s personal ethics were so solid, they had their own gravitational pull. If he went in too hard the detective would clam up; if he didn’t push hard enough, they’d both sit there in silence until one of them died.

  ‘Cybercrime?’ Caleb asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gangs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Drugs? Intelligence? Sex-trafficking?’

  Tedesco sighed. ‘Financial. White-collar stuff.’

  ‘Thank you. Any more details I can painfully extract from you?’

  ‘I have no further information, extractable or otherwise.’

  ‘Could you hunt down some files?’

  ‘No. Feds don’t like sharing with state cops at the best of times, and this is definitely not the best of times. Whatever Transis got caught up in, you need to stay away. Remember the new motto – Make Good Decisions.’ He delivered the words deadpan.

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you that.’

  ‘And yet you did.’ Tedesco forked in a few more antioxidants and stood. ‘Right, home to sleep.’

  Discussion over, not to be reopened.

  ‘Thanks for your help. Appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ A request, not a platitude. The detective strode towards the carpark, carefully placing his bowl and fork in the recycling bin as he went.

  Caleb sat, fighting back the rising panic. Imogen wasn’t just any cop, but one who’d worked undercover and didn’t hesitate to use intimidation and illegal weapons. He had to find Frankie.

  As he headed for the car, he checked Imogen’s text.

  —36 hours

  ***

  Frankie’s sister lived in a money-kissed suburb to the east of the city. Victorian mansions and gleaming cars, dress stores containing three items of clothing, all grey. Even the library was tastefully discreet, with iron lacework and a polished brass sign. Maggie’s house was a modern glass and timber creation that seemed to float in its lush garden. Good news in the presence of a black Audi parked in the driveway, even better news in the hip-height front fence; an intercom was always a stumbling block, but it would stop this visit in its tracks.

  Caleb parked a few houses away, his ancient grey Commodore blending perfectly with the cars of all the cleaners, nannies and dog walkers. He turned off the engine but didn’t get out. Maggie was a connector and broker, with more than a f
ew ties to the underworld. She was also Petronin’s ex-wife. The divorce had been ugly, but that probably wasn’t going to buy Caleb much slack. When he’d tangled with some of Maggie’s mates last year, she’d tried to kill him. God knows what she’d do for dead ex-husband. He sat for another minute and still couldn’t come up with anything better than ‘wing it’.

  No one answered his knock. He pressed the doorbell and knocked again, the door rattling with each blow. It had dropped on its hinges, leaving the lock only partly engaged. Incredible how many people left these things unfixed. Like Kat and her landlord. Just took an hour to rehang a door; two, if you first had to convince Kat to let you do it. He rang the bell again – nothing.

  There’d be laptops and phones inside, probably in clear sight. He checked over his shoulder, then gave the door a hard shove. It swung open to reveal a light-filled hallway. ‘Hello? Maggie?’

  He pressed a palm to the floor: no beat of footsteps or music. A brief wait for any dogs to appear, then inside and quickly down the hall, checking each room as he passed. Soft carpet and filmy curtains, all in creams and greys. Maggie had come a long way from the childhood two-bedroom fibro Frankie had once described in a rare moment of sharing.

  A landline in the kitchen, but no mobile phone. Through to the rear of the house, a large room with ash floorboards and furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, the eye drawn to a photo display on the internal wall. A mix of portraits and group shots, a lot of them featuring a young girl. Maggie’s daughter. Petronin’s daughter. About the same age as Kat’s eldest niece, so around nine, with a solemn gaze and fine features, honey-brown hair. Not a single fake grin for the camera. A large photo of her and Petronin was hung eye-height for a nine-year-old; father and daughter wearing bright red clown noses, arms around each other – laughing. A weight dropped into Caleb’s chest. He stood staring, then turned away.

  A quick hunt around the room unearthed a mobile phone: plastic, with large square buttons, factory film still on the screen. Unlocked. His spurt of excitement evaporated as he scrolled through it – just a burner, with no contacts and only a handful of sent and received texts, none of them looking as though they were to or from Frankie. He pocketed it just in case and headed for an open door. A book-lined study with a plush couch and white-tiled fireplace, an open laptop on a desk by the window.

  He was two steps into the room when the smell hit him: the same iron stench from the Children’s Farm. From his dreams.

  He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to look.

  He walked slowly to the end of the couch, heartbeat spiking.

  Blood.

  A woman slumped on the floor by the hearth, her eyes closed, unmoving.

  Maggie.

  7.

  He should leave – couldn’t risk Maggie’s mates or the cops blaming him. But he crossed to her. The same thin face and honey-brown hair as her daughter, a hint of grey at the roots. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Blood had pooled on the tiles beneath her head, a gelatinous skin forming like overheated milk. He swallowed and knelt by her side, feeling beneath her matted hair for a pulse. Sticky, skin still warm.

  Was that a beat? Hard to tell, hand not quite steady. In the corner of his eye, a small movement, the faint rise of her chest.

  He ran for the landline.

  ***

  The ambulance arrived as he turned out of the street, a cop car visible in the rear-view mirror as he drove away. He’d rung emergency services and left the line open without speaking, spent precious minutes grabbing the laptop and wiping down surfaces, scrubbing at the blood that stuck to his skin and nails. Had to be his imagination he could still smell it.

  He drove a few blocks and pulled over. An urge to go for a run to burn off the adrenaline, but he was already at the weekly maximum he’d agreed to with his therapist.

  The house had been undisturbed, nothing out of place, nothing broken. Maggie had probably known her attacker, invited them in. A botched murder or an argument gone wrong? More likely her assailant hadn’t cared whether she lived or died. It had to be related to Amon’s death and Imogen’s hunt for Frankie. Couldn’t be a coincidence. Jesus, what had the cop dragged him into?

  He pulled Maggie’s laptop from the passenger seat and opened it. A quick search of her pockets hadn’t unearthed another phone, but there was a good chance he’d find Frankie’s contact details in the computer. If he could guess the password. He tried some of the more obvious ones: MAGGIE, MARGARET, PASSWORD, 12345. What else? Most people stuck to pets and kids. Kids. He didn’t know her daughter’s name. Had gone out of his way not to know it. Not her name, or her age, or any details about her. What would happen to her now? Father dead, mother possibly dying.

  He started as the burner phone vibrated in his pocket. Someone named Dale ringing. Very keen to reach Maggie – five voice calls and a string of texts in the past couple of hours.

  —Call me

  —CALL ME

  —Have to go. Library closing soon

  The library could be the elegant building he’d passed on the way to Maggie’s. Not a bad place to discuss a criminal conspiracy: public, but with private areas; no CCTV. If Dale knew Maggie well enough to have her burner number, he might know Frankie, too. Might also have scary friends and a tendency towards violence.

  Caution was definitely needed – so, stop and think. Ignore the feeling things were spiralling out of control, that an entire day had almost passed. That Imogen wouldn’t be open to giving extensions.

  The phone vibrated.

  —Ten mins then I’m going to police

  Caleb dropped the phone on the passenger seat and started the car.

  ***

  A sign outside the library said it should have closed an hour ago, but the lights were on, and the door opened automatically. The place had the air of a freshly scrubbed manor, with wooden architraves and discreet modern lighting. Empty apart from a librarian at the returns desk and a couple of schoolkids sprawled on beanbags up the back, heads buried in books. A moment to indulge the fantasy: picking the kids up after work and going home to Kat. The three, four, five of them sitting around the dinner table discussing the day.

  And time to shut that down.

  The librarian turned as he approached, her shoulders slumping. Strange – it usually took months before women displayed that level of disappointment in him. She was younger than he’d realised, late twenties, with blue-black hair and multiple piercings, including one in her plump lower lip. Her name tag read Library Services Manager, Dale Little. So Maggie’s irate caller was a librarian. A librarian-come-criminal? Unlikely. He’d never met a stupid librarian, and you’d have to be pretty thick to discuss illegal activities in your workplace.

  She shot him an irritated look and lifted a phone to her ear. ‘… closed.’

  Maggie’s mobile vibrated in his back pocket. He pulled it out. ‘This is Maggie’s phone. My name’s Caleb, I’m –’

  ‘Finally. She should have been here hours ago.’

  A tricky read with that plump lower lip, but doable, thank God. Always easier to go with the flow than get into a half-hour discussion about a neighbour’s cousin’s deaf friend. That, and the wide variety of strangely inappropriate reactions.

  ‘Why were you expecting Maggie?’ he asked.

  ‘To pick up Tilda, of course.’ She turned to yell something to the girls at the back of the room, and one of them lifted her head: the child from Maggie’s photos. Twig arms and legs, hair escaping its ponytail. She got to her feet, frowning.

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not here to get her.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a flight to catch.’ Dale called something else to the girls, who began packing their bags, Tilda moving a lot slower than her friend. ‘… the hell is Maggie, anyway?’

  ‘She’s in hospital. Someone attacked her.’

  Her hand flew to her
chest. Bitten nails, painted black. ‘Oh … right?’ He translated from her expression: Is she all right?

  ‘Not great. A head injury. I’m trying to trace her movements. Do you know if she was meeting anyone this afternoon?’

  ‘No, but I wasn’t supposed to have Tilda today. Maggie just texted asking me to pick her up from school, said she’d get her in half an hour. Oh.’ Her hand went to her chest again. ‘Imagine … Tilda … my God.’

  ‘Did Maggie mention anything about her work the last time you spoke?’

  She hesitated, her head ducking in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. Could you say that again? I’m finding your accent a bit tricky. I mean, it’s lovely. Is it Scandinavian?’

  Heat rose up his face. Fuck: cottonwool voice. Years of speech therapy meant he rarely slipped into it, but tiredness and stress thickened his tongue if he wasn’t careful.

  He repeated the question, enunciating so clearly his jaw probably looked unhinged. Or his brain.

  ‘Oh no,’ Dale said. ‘Maggie never talks about work.’ She grabbed a leather jacket from the desk, glancing at the girls, who were walking towards them. ‘Don’t tell Tilda about Maggie until you know more. She’ll worry.’

  The full horror of her words took a moment to sink in.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘you’re not really leaving her with me, are you? I could be an axe murderer.’

  She froze with one arm in her jacket. ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, she doesn’t know me. I’m just a friend of her aunt’s.’

  ‘You know Frankie? Oh good. I should have said – she’s on her way.’

  He stared at her. ‘You know Frankie?’

  ‘Of course. She’s Tilda’s emergency contact. Useless now she’s moved so far away. She won’t be here for hours.’

  He’d stumbled into an alternate reality. Half of Melbourne looking for Frankie, and the local librarian had her on speed dial. All right, an unexpected turn of events but a good one: Frankie would come to him and it would all be over. A small price to have to babysit the child of the man he’d killed. Tiny. Barely worth thinking about.