Darkness for Light Page 4

The girls stopped in front of them, Dale’s daughter chatting away, Tilda silent. A checked school uniform and drooping socks, her hair sticking up at the front. The same blue-grey eyes as Frankie. The same fondness for cutting her own hair, too – no way had a professional hairdresser hacked that lopsided fringe.

  Dale was halfway through the introductions before he realised. ‘… Caleb will mind you until Aunty Frankie gets here.’

  Tilda frowned at him.

  He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Hi, Tilda.’

  The line between her fair eyebrows grew deeper.

  Dale flicked off the remaining lights and bustled them outside. ‘Sorry, I feel a bit shit running off, but it’s Bali. A wedding. Let me know –’ She turned away.

  ‘Wait,’ Caleb said, ‘I haven’t got Frankie’s number.’

  ‘It’s an answering service. Tilda’s got it.’ Dale clutched her daughter’s hand and broke into a jog, rushing to catch the pedestrian lights.

  Tilda was looking up at him. Did she ever speak? Blink? OK, he’d babysat Kat’s nieces and nephews often enough to know how to handle a nine-year-old. Tilda might have a little more emotional baggage than he usually dealt with, but he couldn’t damage her in a few hours. He hoped.

  He squatted in front of her. ‘I used to work with Frankie. She ever mention me?’

  Tilda nodded.

  A disturbing thought occurred to him. ‘Did your mum?’

  She thought, then shook her head.

  Thank God for that. ‘How about you give Aunty Frankie a ring, let her know you’re with me?’

  ‘She doesn’t like being called Aunty.’

  So the girl could speak. And very clearly, too. Kids could be hard to read, but Tilda had the crisp consonants of a news anchor.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It makes her feel like she’s wearing floral undies and orthotic shoes.’

  He smiled. ‘So what do you call her?’

  A slow, Frankiesque blink. ‘Frankie.’

  8.

  He took Tilda to his office. His very new office, the ink on the lease only five weeks old. It was the last shop in a forgotten arcade in Collingwood, his neighbouring businesses an accountant and a cat-grooming venture that never seemed to have any customers. He’d chosen the place because it was cheap and a short walk to Kat’s house, four minutes if he ran it. The office was just big enough to contain a desk and three armchairs, a couple of filing cabinets. White walls and a fake Persian rug completed the look, along with a kick-proof door and top-of-the-line deadbolt to keep out the area’s more determined junkies. A strange sense of pride, given the slick city office he used to share with Frankie.

  Tilda stood in the doorway, examining the room. Not scared, but definitely not relaxed – despite her phone call with Frankie, a short conversation involving a lot of ‘yeps’ and ‘nups’, ending when Tilda texted his photo to Frankie. Typical Frankie: always questioning, never assuming.

  His message had come from a payphone ten seconds later.

  —Spoke to librarian. Don’t tell T about M. Be there around 8

  Five-thirty now; a long time for Tilda to hang around his office.

  ‘You need anything?’ he asked.

  Tilda shook her head.

  ‘Something to eat?’

  Another shake.

  ‘Drink?’

  And another.

  They stood looking at each other, then Tilda headed to an armchair and pulled an illustrated book about the Cold War from her backpack. Good call, get a bit of light research done while they waited. He put Maggie’s laptop on the desk and locked the door, threw the bolt for good measure. No real reason to suspect anyone was after him, but he wasn’t willing to risk it, not with Tilda here. Not with the image of her mother’s bloodied head still in his mind. A strong sense some recent event had set things in motion: Imogen and him, Maggie and Martin Amon. All of them buffeted by the same fallout, only him ignorant of its origins. A dangerous position to be in; knowledge wasn’t just power, but also protection.

  At the desk, he pulled Maggie’s phone from his pocket, scrolled through its handful of texts. Dates and times, cryptic messages. One received this morning from someone called D.

  —Rhys Delaney on for today

  Maggie’s reply was a simple ‘OK’.

  On for a meeting with Maggie? A online hunt found a surprising number of Delaneys in Australia, but only one Rhys in Melbourne. The slightly shadier side of the internet uncovered the basics: forty-two, married with two kids, no police record, a solicitor in a mid-sized law firm. Nothing more to be learned without speaking to the man. Or possibly searching Maggie’s laptop. He checked Tilda was still happily reading about mutually assured destruction and tried her name in the password field. Nothing. Damn it. He tried another string of variations, then gave up: he’d have to take it to his friendly computer-whizz, Sammi.

  The overhead lights started flashing: someone ringing the doorbell.

  The spyhole revealed the unexpected sight of Alberto.

  Caleb opened it, smiling. ‘Hi. Come in.’

  Alberto ventured slowly inside. ‘I was in the area, thought I’d drop by on the off-chance.’ He spotted Tilda, who was watching their signing with open-mouthed wonder. His face creased into a wide smile. ‘Well, hello! And who might you be?’

  Tilda blinked at him.

  Alberto turned Caleb, his mouth pulling down. ‘You don’t sign with her?’

  The mystified disappointment of a man who’d been born into a family where deafness was both hereditary and an identity. Where the word ‘Deaf’ was bestowed a capital letter and Deaf children were treasured as a gift instead of a misfortune.

  ‘We’ve only just met,’ Caleb told him. ‘She’s a friend’s niece.’

  ‘Never too early to start.’ Alberto gave Tilda a little wave and turned to examine the room, looking oddly naked without his usual white apron. Oddly formal too, in neat brown slacks and a collared shirt. How Caleb’s grandfather had dressed on his rare visits to the doctor: overalls traded for a suit and tie, nailbrush vigorously applied to cement-roughened hands.

  ‘You going somewhere?’ Caleb asked.

  ‘No. Nice place. Do the floorboards yourself?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the windows? New frames?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Shelves, too?’

  Caleb propped against his desk. ‘What’s up?’

  Alberto faced him properly. ‘I need help. I think someone’s trying to bankrupt me.’

  Bankrupt? Maybe he’d misread the sign. He’d discovered some alarming gaps in his vocabulary since first visiting Alberto’s Place four months ago. Not surprising, given how rarely he’d seen his Deaf friends since leaving school. A distancing he’d have to do a bit of painful self-reflection about one day.

  Caleb spelled the word with his fingers. ‘B.A.N.K.R.U.P.T?’

  ‘Yes. It started with a mis-delivery a few weeks ago. There’s been a string of them since, all worse. We’ve lost two big hotel accounts because of it. Insurance won’t pay, keep saying it’s my fault. I was beginning to think they were right, but then the blackout last night –’ His hands tightened into fists.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone set up an email account in my name and cancelled the electricity. We lost thousands in stock – fucking insurance won’t pay that either.’ Alberto shot an automatic glance at Tilda, seemed reassured by her rapt attention. ‘So, will you help?’

  ‘The police –’

  ‘I’ve been twice. They talk to the interpreters instead of me, think I’m too stupid to run a business.’

  The dismissive looks and pitying smiles, the feeling of sitting at the kiddie table while the grown-ups went about their business.

  ‘I’m too close,’ Caleb said
, ‘but I can recommend someone good.’

  ‘Deaf?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then no. Hearies just talk and think they’re listening.’ Alberto sagged, exhaustion in his face. ‘It’s fifty years next month. We were going to celebrate, have a street party, but I don’t think we’ll make it. Not if we lose another client.’

  Oh shit. The business supported Alberto and his family and staff; all six of them Deaf, all welcoming to someone who’d wandered in four months ago looking for something undefinable.

  ‘I’ll need all the details,’ Caleb told him. ‘Email me everything that’s happened, including a list of anyone who might hold a grudge.’

  The tightness left Alberto’s body. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me until I’ve actually done something. I’ll get someone to secure things for you online, but change all your passwords today. I’ll come around before work tomorrow to set up some CCTV. Just in case it gets physical.’ He paused. ‘Payment on success.’

  Alberto’s chest puffed. ‘I’m not a charity. You fix this, we go back to being a viable business.’

  ‘OK, standard rates. I’ll bring a contract tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, Deaf rates. No need to be greedy.’ Alberto hugged him hard enough to make him wheeze. ‘It’s a relief just to have told you.’ He bowed to Tilda before signing, ‘Goodbye, young lady. Lovely to meet you.’

  She waved back with a solemness worthy of a royal visit.

  Caleb locked the door. A terrible feeling he’d just slipped onto the Bad Decision side of the ledger. Sabotage was notoriously difficult to solve, with no money trail or traceable stolen goods. Unless the saboteur did something stupid, the odds were against them being caught.

  He turned for the desk. Tilda was watching him expectantly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘Not yet. Frankie said you need to look at people when they speak because you don’t hear very well even though you’ve got hearing aids.’ She peered at him. ‘Can I look at them? I can only see the little wires that go in your ears.’

  ‘Um, maybe later.’

  A flash of disappointment, but she rallied quickly. ‘Was that signing you were doing with that man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you teach me some? Frankie won’t show me any because she mainly knows expletives.’ She pronounced the last word carefully, a gymnast executing a difficult manoeuvre on the balance beam. He’d underestimated her conversation level by quite a whack. Her confidence, too. The trick was obviously to get her onto a topic she found interesting.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘How about a word even Frankie won’t use?’

  She leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘What?’

  He made two fists and tapped his outstretched thumbs together.

  Tilda copied him. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Aunty.’

  A slow smile spread across her face, a transforming expression.

  He found himself smiling back. ‘You up for a drive? I need to see a girl about a computer.’

  ‘Does she sign too?’

  ‘No, but she’s pretty good at saying expletives.’

  9.

  Sammi Ng was in her usual lair above an internet cafe. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, dismantling a motherboard, screws and wiring laid out on a Dora the Explorer bedsheet in front of her. Sixteen years old, with a perky smile and ponytail that could con someone into thinking she was sweet – someone who hadn’t handed over a fair chunk of his earnings for her admittedly top-quality computing skills. Her airy workshop was filled with computers, some dismantled, others looking like they could run a space station. Or were supposed to be running one.

  She looked up as he came in, Tilda trailing behind him. ‘Caleb from Trust Works back to give me more money.’ Her eyes went to Tilda. ‘You his new partner?’

  ‘No,’ Tilda said and wandered away to examine a gutted computer.

  ‘Almost as chatty as you,’ Sammi said. ‘Your mini-me?’

  He smiled. ‘Frankie’s niece.’

  ‘Huh. Funny to think of her having a family. So what can I do for you today? Need help logging onto Facebook?’

  He lifted Maggie’s laptop. ‘Almost – I need to get into this without a password.’

  A flash of very white, even teeth. ‘That doesn’t sound like something an upstanding seventeen-year-old would want to be part of.’

  ‘Thought you were sixteen.’

  ‘Time passes, people get older. Your mind’s gunna be blown when I explain the days of the week.’ She rose from the ground in one fluid movement and took the laptop. ‘A hundred bucks.’

  ‘I could nick down to Victoria Street and buy another one for that.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’d be stolen, unlike this one, which you clearly own.’ She hunted through a pile of USB cords then connected the laptop to a computer.

  ‘Seventy,’ he said. ‘And I keep bringing you work.’

  ‘A hundred and I don’t dob you in to the cops.’

  Seemed reasonable.

  She dropped onto a chair, her fingers darting across the keyboard. A smug grin as she sat back. ‘Done.’

  ‘You’re kidding me? A hundred bucks for ten second’s work?

  ‘Ninety-nine bucks for the brain, one for the work. Any other way I can relieve you of your money?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. Run a file search, concentrating on anything hidden or encrypted.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Cool. What are you looking for? Classified documents? Cyber currency?’

  ‘Just a name, Rhys Delaney.’ He thought it through. Might as well do it properly. ‘Search for Imogen Blain, Martin Amon and Transis, too.’ He wrote the names on a scrap of paper.

  ‘Sweet. You want it now? For a premium, of course.’

  A twinge in his eye at the thought of the bill. ‘Yeah. I’m going to send you some info about a security overhaul for a client tonight as well. But go easy on padding that account, he’s a civilian.’

  She saluted.

  Tilda was spinning on an office chair, watching him and Sammi at each revolution. She seemed pretty switched-on; there was a chance she’d know why Maggie had wanted her out of the house today.

  As he walked over, she came to a stop. ‘How do I sign my name?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s a bit tricky because you haven’t got a sign name. You have to spell “Tilda” with your fingers.’

  She imitated his movements as he demonstrated, her fine eyebrows drawing together.

  ‘That’s it. Well done.’ He shifted a monitor from a chair and sat. ‘So, you got to go to the library today. Why was that?’

  ‘Mum had to have a boring work meeting.’

  ‘Boring meetings are the worst. Do you know who it was with?’

  ‘No.’ She slowly spelled her name again, then looked up. ‘What’s your sign name?’

  ‘My initials.’ He showed her the C and Z, and watched while she copied them. ‘Perfect. Your mum’s been working on some tricky stuff lately. Has she been worried about it?’

  The girl’s face shuttered. A definite yes for Maggie being worried and Tilda being troubled by it. Good work, upsetting a kid whose only parent might be dying. One of his prouder moments.

  Sammi was coming towards them, a bounce in her step. She pointed to the door and headed to the stairs. Jesus, what had she found?

  ‘Back in a sec,’ he told Tilda and followed Sammi onto the landing. ‘Got something?’

  ‘Nothing on those people, but some pretty cool shit when I searched for Transis. A Trojan virus started up, and Mike and Cam went live.’

  Context was half the trick of lip-reading. It probably wasn’t Mike and Cam, but mic and cam. Worth checking the translation, though. ‘Searching for Transis set off an alert, and now someone’s c
ontrolling the webcam and microphone?’

  ‘Yep. I’ve got the camera covered, but they’re still getting audio so don’t say anything you don’t want them to hear.’

  ‘Can you trace them?’

  ‘Nah, they’re too smart for that.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Again – too smart. It’s a hacker.’

  A hacker interested in Transis might have unearthed all kinds of information about someone like Imogen Blain. Not a bad safety net for him to have.

  ‘Can I talk to them safely?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, I’ve got firewalls like asbestos.’

  It only took Sammi a few seconds to set up a messageboard, even less to choose a dollar sign as his avatar. He sat at the keyboard while she went to stand behind the monitor. A shiver of nerves, as though he was about to walk onto stage and didn’t know his lines. Or what play he was in.

  —I’m after info on Transis too. Want to share?

  The cursor blinked for a long time, then a stylised Guy Fawkes mask appeared. Interesting choice of avatars: the guy was either a member of the hacktivist collective Anonymous or he had an inflated sense of self-importance – or both. A sentence appeared.

  —uncover cam and talk

  Checking if Caleb was a cop while gathering video evidence. Very smart.

  —I can uncover the camera, but you’ll have to type. I’m deaf, can’t hear you

  The cursor blinked for a few seconds.

  —K go

  Caleb checked there was a blank wall behind him and uncovered the camera.

  —What do you know about Transis?

  —u first

  —It’s a taskforce

  —something i don’t know

  —A cop called Imogen Blain is involved. You know anything about her?

  —what else?

  Caleb paused, his fingers over the keyboard. He had nothing.

  The Guy Fawkes mask disappeared. Fuck.

  Sammi’s face fell. ‘Oh, you scared him away.’ She closed the lid and tapped it. ‘Safe if it’s shut, live if it’s open.’

  ‘The Anonymous icon, that genuine?’

  ‘It’s not like they have membership fees – anyone can be a hacktivist.’