Glory Hunter: He'll win the votes, if he lives long enough ... (Hollins & Haring Book 2)

by T. J. Beach

  “Completely. What’s a station? Are there trains?” She grinned to show she was joking.

  Dave chuckled. “See the stakes with numbers on? They’re the stations.” He tapped a clipboard. “There’s a sheet for each one. Your lot are the Blue Wave, and you start at Station Two.”

  She wasn’t sure about his hand on her shoulder as he explained the clipboard. Dave seemed a pleasant man — quite good-looking in a round-faced, cheeky chappy sort of way, easy-going, empathetic. A primary school sports teacher would need the patience of a saint. If that extended to bumbling parents, good for him, but the physical contact might signal her incompetence to the parents. They’d all gravitated to the different sets of cones — the stations — with their kids. The Station Two parents were looking her way, waiting for Dave’s whistle.

  The older kids had started their eleven-a-side games on the far side of the recreation ground. Jenny and Annie cartwheeled to their fielding positions.

  “The sheet explains the exercise.”

  It did? How? A load of weird crosses and dotted lines. What the hell?

  “You start with bowling. The players pair off on the cones, one ball between two and bowl to each other.”

  “Oh.” Now that Dave mentioned it, it did say that in a paragraph at the top of the sheet.

  “When I blow the whistle to end the session, move that sheet to the back on your clipboard and take your team to the next station.” He flipped the top sheet to show the one below, for batting at Station Three. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye, but you won’t need any help. It’s all about participation at Lachlan’s age. Herding cats. Just make sure everyone gets a turn, and they all enjoy themselves. Look at what the other coaches do and copy it. I’ll bet you have a couple of dads who’ll help out.”

  Good. While the men kept the cricket going, she could study the boys in the other groups and narrow down her list of bullying suspects. All the boys in Lachlan’s year did cricket.

  Dave blew the starting whistle before she got to Station Two. The other teams got straight into their activities.

  Yvette waited by the Station Two sign holding a sheet of paper. “Paul and Lachy are on the same team.”

  “Awesome.” At least she’d have one supporter.

  Yvette thrust a sheet of paper at her. “I thought you might like to call the roll, make sure everyone’s here. Get to know the names.”

  Then again, if Yvette planned to stick her nose in ... The children had their names on their shirts. How hard could it be? Five of them. A girl and four boys.

  “Our coach is a mum!” A boy yelled it, sneering — an overweight kid a head taller than Lachlan and Paul.

  Lachlan took a step away, frowning. Could the rude kid be the bully?

  “Is there a problem with a woman coach? Do you have an issue with female authority figures?” Debbie added a smile to her question to show she was joking. “What’s your name?”

  “Perhaps you should call the roll?” Yvette asked a little desperately.

  Debbie took the sheet with a huff. She glared at the rude kid to be sure he knew who was boss but switched on a smile to be fun for the other players. “I bet I can guess which one’s Joanne.”

  The little girl, whose shirt hung down to her knees, gave a little wave and an engaging gap-toothed grin.

  “I know Lachlan and Paul. Hi, Paul. So Hanif would be …”

  A small, dark-skinned woman in a hijab pushed forward a cute, curly-haired boy.

  “Hi, Hanif. Which means you are—”

  “Dan,” the rude kid said. “Are we going to bowl? Everyone else has started.”

  A thickset guy wearing a cricket club cap and a surly, thin-lipped scowl stepped up behind Dan. He had a paunch just like the boy’s. The father, then. Great! Debbie had two mums and an asshole to help her out.

  “Right, we’ll have one at each cone, one ball between two. Where are the balls?”

  “We’ve got five kids,” Dan’s dad said.

  Debbie gritted her teeth. “So we have. Perhaps we could have two players at one cone?”

  The asshole rolled his eyes.

  “Or perhaps you could bowl with Dan? You look like you know what you’re doing.”

  He snorted but grabbed one of the rubber cricket balls.

  Paul and Lachlan paired off and waited for instructions. Joanne started without being told. She hurled a ball high over Hanif’s head.

  “Wow, great stuff, Joanne. Good power. Err, can someone …?”

  Hanif’s mum scurried after the errant ball.

  “Did you see Joanne?” Debbie asked Lachlan. “Bowl your ball, only send it to Paul, okay?”

  Lachlan screwed his face into a grimace of concentration and threw his ball. It bounced three times before it got to Paul.

  “Great bowling, Lachlan.” Debbie breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard. She’d get more time to look for bullies when they got settled.

  “That’s not a bowl. He bent his arm. That’s a chuck!”

  Bloody Dan again. Such a little shit. Definitely top of the bully suspect list, but Debbie mustn’t show her suspicions. “Thanks, Dan. Perhaps you can show everyone.”

  “He chucked it.”

  “So you said, Dan.” What the hell did the kid mean? Of course, Lachlan bent his arm. How else did you throw?

  Dan’s dad sighed. “It’s supposed to be windmills.” He held both hands above his head, dropped one arm and whirled both like propeller blades. “You keep your arm straight. Do you know anything?”

  Yvette gasped. Hanif’s mum put her hand to her mouth.

  Debbie’s jaw dropped. What a total jerk! How dare he? She fought down a surge of rage. “I don’t know a lot, actually, but I’m the one who volunteered as the coach, and I’m doing my best, okay?”

  Dan’s dad muttered something under his breath, folded his arms, and looked away. Dan folded his arms just the same way and shook his head.

  “What do you want?” Debbie stepped towards them, ducked as Hanif’s bowl missed her by millimetres, and threw her arms wide. “Eh? What do you want? If you’re so bloody clever, why didn’t you volunteer? Or do you just want to be a smartass and throw out snide comments? Eh?”

  “Dad is a coach,” Dan said.

  “What?”

  “He coaches the Bell’s Landing Youth Country Week team.”

  “Well, good for him!”

  Dave, the school teacher, blowing hard on his whistle, came crashing through packs of parents frowning at the confrontation, on his way to break up the fight before fists were thrown.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HOLLINS FOLLOWED GLENN and Austin out the back door of the campaign HQ. A Lexus SUV, with Vote Gould signs pasted on the sides and rear, was parked in the alleyway behind the shops. The first hint of luxury-car-film-star ego came as a relief. On principle, Hollins would much prefer to dislike the candidate.

  “Everything okay?” Gould asked. “Is there a problem with the car?”

  “Not that I can see,” Hollins said.

  “Should we get something faster or more manoeuvrable?” Gould had thought about it a lot more than Hollins. “We can change it. This one is a loaner from a supporter.”

  Hollins patted the bonnet.“Do they make these in Australia?”

  “That’s a good point. Check into it, Glenn.”

  “I don’t think any cars are made in Australia anymore,” Glenn said.

  “Even better point.” Austin winked at Hollins. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

  “We’re late.” Glenn set off for the driver’s side.

  Hollins reached for a rear door.

  “Err, Glenn, should Gary drive? I mean, nothing’s going to happen, but if it did, shouldn’t Gary …?”

  Sure, because Hollins knew so much about emergency driving. His scepticism must have shown because Gould apologised.

  “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to be in the back seat like one of the kids or something.”

  “No
t a problem.” Hollins waved it away. “It makes sense. You guys can drink your coffee and do political stuff. I don’t mind driving a Lexus.”

  Gould chuckled. “What’s your usual ride?”

  “A 1986 Holden rust bucket.”

  “There you go. I knew you’d fit in around here.”

  Glenn rolled his eyes.

  Hollins took the keys. “Where are we headed?”

  The Vote Gould Lexus drew a crowd. As Hollins parked in the far corner of the central Bell’s Landing Coles supermarket car park, a dozen middle-aged women in teal APP tee-shirts hurried to meet the candidate.

  Gould kissed cheeks and hugged. “Hi, Julia! Good to see you again, Lily. Hi, I don’t know you. I’m Austin Gould. You’ve joined our team?”

  The new volunteer had a Sharpie. “Can I have your autograph? You could sign my tee-shirt.” She ran her fingers over her left breast.

  Gould laughed. “Why not?” He signed across her stomach. “Has Soph filled you in on the plan?” The candidate looked up at a gorgeous woman in the act of hugging Glenn around the box of pamphlets he’d just taken from her.

  Hollins kicked himself for being distracted by the volunteer horde. He should be scouring the car park for threats. If he had, he’d have reached the beautiful woman first, and he might be the one in her hug.

  Soph stood about five-ten in strappy yellow heels. A brightly flowered sundress showed off million-dollar legs, but Hollins couldn’t take his eyes off her face — full-lipped, heart-shaped perfection framed by waves of auburn hair floating over her shoulders. Artful makeup made her deep blue eyes glow.

  She let go of Glenn — who took the attention as his due, the smarmy sod — and waved to Gould. “Everyone’s briefed.”

  “Then let’s get to work. This election won’t win itself.” The candidate led the way to Queen Street, the main Bell’s Landing shopping area, busy even on a Sunday. He shook hands, high-fived, signed autographs, bantered with everyone he passed. The volunteers ranged ahead and behind like a cavalry screen, handing out pamphlets and herding constituents towards the star.

  Hollins dropped back, doing his impression of Clint Eastwood as a secret service man in In the Line of Fire, looking at faces, watching for suspicious movements in the crowd, trying not to stare at Soph. He groaned at the way her skirt swirled around her behind.

  She draped her arm casually over Glenn’s shoulder and spoke close to his ear. Glenn nodded and whispered back. Their conversation delayed them when Gould crossed the road. Hollins nipped between two cars to catch up with the candidate.

  Gould shook hands with a harried middle-aged woman. “Hi, I’m Austin Gould.”

  “Oh. The actor.”

  “The state election candidate for South West Agricultural Region,” he corrected. “I hope you’re going to vote APP.”

  “You couldn’t be worse than the other lot.”

  “You’ve got some issues with the present government?”

  “Yes, a few.”

  “Well, tell me about them.”

  The lady flushed and waved her hands. “You don’t have time to listen to me.”

  Gould held her eyes and angled his chin to tell her otherwise.

  The constituent looked away, then back to the candidate and began to talk.

  Hollins understood her reaction. Gould had a way of looking into people’s eyes as if he had all the time in the world and nothing interested him more.

  “It’s my son. My eldest. He’s on the autism spectrum, but he falls through the cracks. My Peter needs a teacher’s aide to cope with school, but he scored a couple of points too high on their stupid tests. I’ve filled in hundreds of forms, but no one can help. The local member of parliament was useless.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all this.”

  “But I do.” Gould took her by the arm and led her to a bench. “Let’s sit down and talk about it. Can you get Glenn, Gary? He needs to hear this.”

  Hollins’ mobile rang. The screen displayed Housewife Hitwoman. “G’day, Debbie.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “What’s Austin got you doing?”

  “Right now? I’m buying clothes.”

  “You’re buying clothes for Austin Gould?”

  “No. For me. There’s a reception tonight.” Hollins ran his fingers down the silky arm of an eight hundred dollar suit jacket. Just like Glenn’s. Would Soph throw her arms around him if he wore a nice suit? “Hello? You still there?”

  “Yeah. I’m shocked to silence. When did you get all cooperative and, you know, professional? What happened?”

  “Nothing. It’s boring. He does his thing, and I stand around. Bingo at the old people’s home was the highlight of my day.”

  “Did they let you have a card?”

  “No chance. I didn’t like the way some of those old duffers looked at me.”

  “They were probably offended by your shabby jeans and tee-shirt.”

  “Something like that.” He let the suit go with a sigh and patted the selections hanging over his arm. Grey chinos and a white cotton shirt would do fine. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a brothel bouncer.

  “I should come and help you out,” Debbie said. “Guys are hopeless at clothes shopping. You should see what Matt brings home if I don’t supervise. You need a woman.”

  Which sent his mind straight to sundresses rippling over luscious thighs. Don’t I just. “How was cricket training?” That would get her mind off interfering in his life.

  Debbie sighed. “I need to talk to you about that.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight.”

  “Tonight? It might be late. I don’t know when I’ll get away from the reception.”

  “I’ll talk to you there. I got an invite. Well, Kim did, and I’m going. My mum’s minding the kids.”

  “You want to ogle Austin Gould.”

  “Shut up, Gaz.” Debbie hung up.

  Hollins sniggered. She always called him Gaz when he pissed her off.

  He changed into his new purchases in the shopping centre restroom and drove the Lexus back to the house where he’d dropped off Austin.

  It was on the Bell’s Landing seafront between the one-point-eight kilometre jetty and the marina, one of the most sought-after local addresses. The place was nineteen-fifties vintage but far from embarrassed by the multi-million dollar steel and glass mansions on either side. Painted pale blue with a flat roof, it had a spacious second-floor balcony as well as the requisite ground level cafe concertina doors and terrace overlooking a lawn that swept down to the road and the beach.

  He parked next to a catering van and negotiated young men and women laying out cloths and cutlery. The caterers had pulled back the bi-fold doors to open up a vast living area stripped of furniture for the event.

  Austin Gould stood chatting with an older man in a chef’s coat. He broke away when he saw Hollins in his chinos. “Nice threads. Are they new?”

  “About time I updated.”

  “I’m impressed.” He gestured to the work crew. “These guys are doing a great job, aren’t they?”

  “They are. Nice house,” Hollins said. “Lovely view. Another loan from a supporter?”

  “No, this is my parents’ house, my childhood home. I grew up in Bell’s Landing.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Mum and Dad retired to Queensland to be nearer my sister and the grandchildren. Fortunately for me, they kept this place and let the tenants’ lease expire when I nominated for the election. It’s given me a local address I can genuinely call home, which is very important when you’re standing for election. People don’t like outsiders.”

  “I’ll check the locks and such if you don’t mind.” Hollins had no more idea what to look for than the next man, but he felt Clint Eastwood would ask. He’d take notes and ask Debbie. She knew about those things.

  “I’ll show you the alarm system, but then I need to go and make mysel
f presentable for the guests. They’ll start arriving soon. Grab yourself a drink.” He pointed Hollins to coolers packed with bottles and ice.

  The house filled rapidly with couples in their Sunday best, and the gathering spilled onto the lawn as dusk seeped in. Hollins leaned on the Lexus in the driveway with a glass of lemonade and a handful of canapés. The last thing he wanted to do was risk small talk with political wannabes. If anyone asked, he’d claim to be watching for protesters or major party infiltrators.

  He saw Debbie’s Toyota flash past, and when she’d added hers to the end of the queue of parked cars on the road verge, he went to meet her at the end of the driveway. Perhaps he should play traffic manager after he finished his snack.

  Debbie had her hair up, heels on, a figure-hugging knee-length sleeveless red dress with a low neckline, and gold at her throat and wrists.

  Hollins blew a quiet wolf whistle. “Look at you.”

  She fiddled with her necklace. “I wasn’t sure what people would wear. Is it too much? That would be worse than being under-dressed.” She scanned the crowd and let out a breath, reassured. “Well done you, too. I’m not sure about the pants.”

  “What? I should have gone for white?”

  “It’s more the cut. Never mind. At least you look tidy. The shirt’s nice. Where is he?”

  “Working the room. He’s very good at it.”

  They watched Austin Gould leave a couple smiling and turn to the next.

  “You can’t miss him, can you?” Debbie said.

  True, though Hollins couldn’t put his finger on why. Gould’s country club chic matched all the other wealthy males. Dozens of other tall, confident men dotted the crowd, but his eye went unerringly to the star of the show even though Hollins knew his attention should be anywhere and everywhere else. Something lifted Gould out of the ordinary.

  Bloody hell, was he getting sucked in?

  Debbie shifted her necklace again.

  “Should I call Matt?” Hollins asked.