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

by T. J. Beach

  “You know who he is?”

  “Jordan? He’s a donor. Suave customer.” Sophia extended her stride and pulled ahead. “Don’t hold back because I’m a girl. Let’s do some work.”

  Hollins struggled to match Sophia’s pace, much faster than his normal clip. “You’re fit,” he said, between ragged breaths.

  “Sorry. Too fast?” She eased up. “I’ve been a dancer all my life. I started in the chorus line of Hello Dolly at the Brisbane Empire. I’ve still got the legs.”

  He sneaked another peek, just to check. She certainly did.

  Two hours later, Hollins arrived at Gould headquarters, rushing anxiously, hoping the text message he just received from Glenn Braithwaite might be a wind-up.

  It wasn’t.

  The signwriting on the display window now read Fascist Scum for Vasse thanks to red capitals painted over the word Gould.

  Asylum Seekers Are Real People, Let Them In, and Arbit Mac Frie had also been added to the window artwork.

  Austin and Sophia stood with arms around each other, surveying the damage. She’d found time to style her hair, unlike Hollins, though his crop needed less work.

  He parked his rusted Holden next to Austin’s rented Lexus and swore. He hated vandalism at any time, but least of all on his watch, especially as this happened while he slept and went for a run with Austin’s partner — not an ideal start to the day.

  Glenn broke away from his discussion with a man in paint-stained overalls and stomped to meet him. “This is terrible.”

  “I got your text and came straight here.”

  Glenn tossed an arm at the graffiti. “Who’d do such a thing? How did it happen?”

  A dumb question deserved a dumb answer. “I think the vandals brought a ladder.”

  “What?” Glenn’s eyes flared.

  Hollins nodded to the words Fuck Off APP Pigs scrawled on the wall above the window. The F dripped streaks of crimson onto the footpath. “He’d have to be nine feet tall to paint that. Maybe they stood on each other’s shoulders.”

  “You’re saying there was more than one.”

  “That would explain why there are two brushes.” The vandals had generously left their tools in a puddle of paint beside a half-empty paint tin.

  “I want to know who did this.” Glenn wore his indignation like a secondhand fur coat — as senseless as the messages daubed on the windows.

  Hollins took a breath instead of lashing back because he understood the frustration. He’d rather Glenn saved it for someone that deserved it, but for the moment, the gloomy sod had chosen him. “Me too.”

  “You’re the local. The security expert.”

  That stung a little. “The people who did it can’t spell,” Hollins suggested.

  “What? You think I’m joking?”

  “Nope. Look: either the graffiti artists are fans of the chips from a fast food store called ‘Arbit’, or they can’t spell.”

  Glenn blinked a couple of times.

  “My guess is they wanted to write ‘Arbit makes fries’ or, more likely, arbeit macht frei,” Hollins explained.

  “The Hitler thing?”

  “You got it. Work sets you free. A favourite neo-Nazi tattoo.”

  The way Glenn’s nose wrinkled suggested he smelled something bad. “You’re an expert on the far right?”

  More than Hollins would ever share. He spent six months of a previous life breaking bread with some of the worst.

  “You’re saying neo-Nazis did this?” Glenn said. “That’s—”

  “Daft. I know. Stay with me. No white supremacist would be seen dead writing ‘let them in’. I suspect the graffiti writers were building on their ‘Austin Gould’s a fascist’ theme, suggesting your office is Auschwitz.”

  “Because arbeit macht frei is the sign over the Auschwitz concentration camp entrance.”

  “You got it. I’ve never quite understood how neo-Nazis can insist the Holocaust never happened then get the Auschwitz motto inked on their biceps, but that’s white supremacist logic for you.”

  “What should we do about it?” Glenn asked.

  “White supremacist logic?”

  Glenn let out an exasperated sigh.

  No sense of humour. “I can help paint over it if that bloke in the overalls lends me a brush.” Glenn’s sad-sack intensity tried Hollins’ patience. “Why would anyone write that about Austin anyway? The stuff about asylum seekers?”

  “Ignorance,” Glenn said. “The APP’s in favour of caps on immigration. Migrants take Australian jobs and illegal entrants—“

  “Shall I call the police?” Hollins wasn’t in the mood for a political lecture.

  “I already did.”

  A non-descript blue Ford sedan pulled up.

  “Bingo,” Hollins said.

  “What?”

  “Here they are.”

  Detective Sergeant Stu Reilly, hair immaculately combed to highlight his square face and piercing blue eyes, let himself out of the passenger side. A younger man in a leather jacket and jeans emerged from the driver’s side.

  The senior detective took in the scene, shook his head and started for Austin, then he frowned and turned towards Hollins.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Good morning, Stu. How’re you going?”

  “All the worse for seeing you.”

  “This is Glenn Braithwaite,” Hollins said. “He’s Austin Gould’s campaign manager. Glenn, this is Detective Sergeant Stu Reilly, the head of the South-West CIB and the bane of my life.”

  “What brought you here?” Stu asked Hollins.

  “A text from Glenn.”

  “You’re mates?”

  “I’m doing security for Austin’s campaign.”

  Stu made a second slow study of the graffiti. “You’re doing a great job.”

  “I’m personal protection for the candidate, not the bloody night watchman.” A point he’d like to get across to Glenn as much as Stu.

  The detective turned to the campaign manager. “Best of luck with that. Wherever I find Gary Hollins, there’s trouble.”

  Glenn turned a worried frown to Hollins.

  “I can’t argue with that assessment,” he said. “I always seem to run into Stu at bad moments.”

  “Well, Mr Braithwaite, what can you tell me about this?” Stu asked.

  The second detective pulled out a notebook as Glenn told his story.

  “I found it this morning when I arrived at eight, and the graffiti artists can’t spell.”

  “Oh, yeah. I see. I thought immigration activists were supposed to be the intelligentsia.” Stu drew Glenn towards Austin and Sophia.

  He let them go. Real work had arrived in the form of an SUV sporting GWN News logos. He hurried to cut off the media vultures, a class of creature he despised almost as much as graffiti artists and neo-Nazis.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE NEW CUSTOMER — a woman tracing her missing son — arrived early. Ridenour Investigation’s front door edged open. She poked her head through the gap and looked left and right as if not sure she’d be allowed in.

  “Wendy Tupaea?” Debbie asked.

  “That’s me.” A stout woman, middle-aged, with broad Maori features and a worried frown. “Am I early?”

  “That’s fine. Come in. I’m Debbie Haring. We spoke on the phone.” The poor woman searching for her son set off Debbie’s maternal urge. Most clients didn’t appreciate physical contact, but the usual customer was a business owner or an indignant spouse, not a worried mother. “Would you like coffee? It’s only instant, but I make a mean cup.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Debbie showed Mrs Tupaea the visitor chairs while she fiddled with the kettle on the filing cabinet behind her desk, collected her notebook and took the second brown leather chair. “Tell me about your son.”

  Wendy opened her mouth to speak and burst into tears.

  Kim Ridenour stepped into the corridor doing up his belt. Hi
s crimson nose, bloodshot eyes and unshaven jowls suggested he’d slept off another binge on the office couch. “What the bloody hell? What’s going on?”

  Debbie got up to head him off. “Never mind, Kim. It’s a client. Well, potential client.”

  “Oh. Should I talk to her?” He whispered.

  Debbie recoiled at a burst of stale alcohol breath. “I’ve got it. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Okay. I was having a nap.” Kim ran his fingers up the side of his head to flip hair over his bald patch.

  “I can see. Did you look at the email from Tollgate Winery about the suspected pilfering?”

  “Errr, not yet.”

  Debbie strongly suspected Kim hadn’t booted up his computer for at least a week. Just the way she liked it. What he didn’t know didn’t get in the way of her career development. “I think you should read that email. The job looks complex.”

  Kim let out a sigh. “Why don’t they go to the police? It’s stealing.”

  “I guess they don’t want publicity. Will you have a look?”

  “Yeah, all right. You don’t need me out front?”

  “No.”

  “Is there any coffee going?” A grin flashed on his lips and disappeared.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Usually, she’d remind him to make his own damn coffee because she was his administration manager, not his maid, but the sly sod knew Debbie didn’t want him in the foyer. Every so often, he let slip a hint that he hadn’t completely lost his instincts.

  “All right then. I’ll get to that email. Westgate Winery?” he asked over his shoulder as he made for the bathroom.

  “Tollgate Winery.”

  Debbie turned back to the part of the building she controlled.

  Wendy sniffled and wiped at her cheeks with a tissue. “Sorry.”

  “It’s no problem at all.” Debbie heaped two spoons of Nescafe into Kim’s cup, hoping it might sober him up a little. She took it to his office and made coffee for Wendy and herself.

  “Who was that?” Wendy peered down the hall.

  “No one.”

  “Is it Kim Ridenour? You called him Kim?”

  “Mmm, let me get some details about your son.”

  “Keith.”

  Debbie made a note. “What’s happened?”

  “We had a row. A huge row. It’s my fault.“

  Debbie leaned forward. “Oh, that’s terrible.” She bit her lip, Wendy needed more than empty platitudes.

  “I never told him about his father. If Keith asked, I changed the subject. Now one of his friends needs a kidney. It got Keith thinking. He demanded to know his family medical history, in case there’s anything he should worry about, you know, hereditary things, and I had to tell him.” She turned away.

  “Tell him what?” To find her son, Debbie needed a few clues on where to look.

  Wendy’s bottom lip quivered.

  Debbie reached for the tissues.

  “No.” Wendy stopped her with a wave, raised her eyes to the ceiling and took a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t know who his father is.”

  “Aaah.” Yep, that would be an embarrassing conversation.

  “Keith got really angry. He shouted at me. Called me a …well … I don’t want to—”

  “No. No, of course not. Then he left?”

  “Packed his bag, booked a flight and went to the airport that night.”

  “A flight? You said you just arrived in Bell’s Landing?”

  “We’re from Clendon, South Auckland.”

  “Oh. I guessed you were a Kiwi from your accent, so why Bell’s Landing? You think Keith came here?”

  “This is where his dad and I …”

  Debbie searched her vocabulary for a euphemism. “You lived here when your son was conceived?”

  “Yup, that’s a good way of putting it. I was so young. We went back to Auckland. My dad’s job wound up, and we went home. I found out I had a wee bun in the oven a few weeks later.”

  “Oh. That must have been hard.”

  “I got through it. I made do, and Keith’s always been a good kid. I got married a couple of years later. He gets on great with his dad — stepdad, I suppose — and he’s fabulous with his brother and sister. Keith’s always helped me out, done his bit. There hasn’t been a day since Keith was born that I haven’t spoken to him, until last week. It’s seven days now. I’m so worried about what he’ll do. I’ve got to find him. He was furious and, well, he’s got a temper. I think he might get himself into trouble.”

  “When you knew you were carrying Keith, did you try to find out …?” She ran out of words. How did you ask nicely ‘which of the boys you’d been boinking fathered your child?’

  “No. We were so far away. I didn’t want to face it to be honest.” She scanned the ceiling. “I liked boys. I suppose I was … what Keith called me.”

  Debbie patted her hand, a little overcome. What a horrible mess.

  Wendy shook her head. “I had a hard pregnancy. There was little Keith. Then I met Manu. My husband. I suppose we should have tried to find the father, but it wasn’t as easy twenty years ago. The fanu’s got no money. We got lots of help with Keith from the marae, but not for that sort of thing.”

  “That’s the Maori community?”

  “Sorry. Yes. Fanu means family. The marae is our local group.”

  “Thanks. You’re sure Keith came to Bell’s Landing?” Debbie asked.

  “Yup. Well, not certain.”

  “Mmm. So, he took his passport and went to the airport. He definitely flew to Australia?”

  “He booked the ticket on our computer and printed it out. I sneaked a look — Auckland to Perth via Sydney — and there’s a photo missing from my album. One I showed him years ago. It’s a picture of me and my … mates from work when we lived here.”

  “Okay, tell me everything you can remember about Bell’s Landing, and especially about that photo. If Keith is using the picture to find his father, we can track him down by following his trail.”

  “Do you think so? Can you help?”

  “No promises, Wendy, but we’ll give it a damned good try.”

  Hollins nipped home late in the afternoon to change into his best clothes before an evening political function.

  He grabbed his laptop to check on the state election vandalism coverage, but he’d barely reached the dinner table in the combined kitchen-living area when the screen door rattled.

  Debbie let herself in with a cheerful “Hooroo.”

  “One day, you’re going to catch me stark naked,” Hollins said.

  Debbie shuddered. “Yuk. Thanks for spoiling my dinner.”

  “How do you get in here, anyway? There’s a gate to stop unwanted visitors.”

  “I wave. Tommy lets me in.”

  Tommy Yarran and his wife, Silvie, the park managers should know better than to let in every maniac who showed up. “I’ll have a word with him about that. What’s up?”

  “I saw the graffiti on the news.”

  “I haven’t yet.”

  Debbie took a seat opposite Hollins and dropped her bag on the table. “How’s Austin taking it? Is he blaming us?”

  “No, but Stu Reilly did. In front of Glenn Braithwaite.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Glenn told me to sleep in the shop.”

  Debbie raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? What did you say?”

  “No.”

  “Very professional.”

  “I told him to get volunteers because it’s pointless anyway. Austin took the graffiti to heart, wounded disbelief, but the outpouring from his fans lifted his spirits. We’ve had reporters following us all day.”

  “I bet you loved that.”

  “It gave me something to do until Glenn had a go at me for getting in the way of free publicity.”

  “Is he a bit of a jerk?”

  “Not really. He’s just so gloomy.”

  “He struck me that way. No sense of humour.”

  “Y
ou’re an observant woman. He’s right about the publicity, bugger him. Everyone’s on Austin’s side.” Hollins put his hand on his heart and whined, “‘How could they do this to you? You’ve never hurt anyone, Austin. You poor, poor baby’. Made me want to throw up.”

  “The graffiti backfired, then.”

  “A massive own goal.” He furrowed his brow. “I had a thought I wanted to run past you, by the way. What about cameras? Austin’s got CCTV at his home. It’s what gave me the idea. Could we put up some cameras to cover the shop?”

  “Sure. Motion-activated, like the ones in the Ridenour office that send an alert to my laptop.”

  “Don’t remind me.” They’d met because Hollins failed to detect the security system when he broke into the office.

  “I’m surprised the unit hasn’t got security cameras already.”

  “Not at the front. There are a couple behind the row of shops. Bad guys don’t usually go in from the front, I suppose. None of the rear cameras cover the campaign office, anyway. I think you could sell the idea of video surveillance to Glenn. It would be a lot cheaper and more effective than paying someone to stay overnight. We can record the camera output, can’t we?”

  “Good idea.” Debbie rubbed her hands together. “More revenue for Ridenour Investigations. You’re getting the hang of this private detective thing.”

  Hollins took that as an accusation. He studiously avoided all attempts to employ him. The thought of being a professional Peeping Tom made his skin crawl. He responded to Debbie’s demands for assistance only because he couldn’t bear the aggro she’d pour on him if he refused. Not the slightest bit because he liked her and respected her efforts to make a private investigator career for herself out of a desk job. No way. He missed the days when he had nothing to do but decide what to have for dinner and see if Tommy needed a hand with any caravan park maintenance.

  “I’ll write up a quote when I get a minute and call Glenn,” Debbie said.

  “When you get a minute? Busy, are you?”

  “I am, as a matter of fact. It’s why I popped around, apart from the fact that you haven’t reported in. It would be nice to let your employer know what’s happening, maybe once a day. Confirm you’re alive.”