by T. J. Beach
Hollins skirted the Lexus, jumped the fence and took a deep breath. Time to earn his seventy bucks an hour. “I’ve got him! There he is!” he shouted and charged in the general direction he’d calculated, roaring at the top of his voice.
The rifle cracked again. Way to his right, but he saw the muzzle flash. “Bingo!”
The barrel swung his way.
Hollins dived behind the nearest tree, rolling over exposed roots. A bullet zipped by his shoulder. A close shave, but he had the sniper’s attention. He gathered his legs under him, picked out a tree ten metres away at an angle which would turn the rifleman further from Austin and Sophia and darted across the gut-wrenching gap.
The rifle cracked.
With his heart thumping in his chest, Hollins slithered into the dubious cover of a tree trunk about the width of his thigh. Bark spattered his hair as a shot nicked the tree. He jammed his face into the roots, took a breath and raised his eyes cautiously to reorientate. He couldn’t pick out the rifle barrel, but he had a pretty good idea where the marksman had positioned himself. Close enough for the rattle and crunch as the gunman levered another round to confirm he’d concealed himself in what looked like a lawn depression closer to the spa. Jesus, thirty metres was no distance for a bullet, miles for a man to run.
Should I stay, or should I go? The Clash didn’t know, either.
Adrenaline and the burning desire to get his hands around the gobshite’s scrawny neck trumped caution.
Sod it. Go.
Hollins drove out left and immediately switched right, sprinted half a dozen paces, zigged and caught a fleeting shadow rolling over a fence fifty paces beyond the firing position.
The shooter legging it.
Hollins hurled himself through the trees, levered off a fence post to vault the wire and plunged down a slope, skidding to a halt where natural scrub began — dense low trees, and bushes pushing up between rocks. The shooter could have gone anywhere.
And he had a rifle.
Best not to follow. He’d cleared the shooter from the area.
Sophia.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BELL’S LANDING POLICE Station Interview Room One hadn’t changed since Hollins’ last visit. Same stark, pale yellow walls. Was yellow supposed to be calming? Same scarred table. Same frustrated sense of inadequacy in the face of senseless bloodshed.
Detective Sergent Stu Reilly brought coffee in styrofoam cups and tossed bags of sugar onto the table. “I don’t know how you take it.”
“As tea.” Hollins eyed the steaming cup.
“Sorry.” Stu left his coffee on the table and fiddled with recording equipment controls on the wall. “I can get the constable to make tea, but you probably won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Hollins sipped. Hot liquid that tasted vaguely of cardboard. It soothed nonetheless. “This’ll pass, thanks. Any news on Sophia?” His heart rate ticked up a few beats in forlorn hope for good news.
Stu settled into his chair with a sigh. “She didn’t make it. Died in the ambulance.”
Hollins slumped, his head in his hands. Dry emptiness spread through his chest even though he’d tried to prepare for the worst. He’d seen the concern in the eyes of the paramedics as they lifted her onto the gurney. Seen Austin sitting in the gravel with a blanket over his bare shoulders like a lost schoolboy, staring at blood on his hands and trousers, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“How’s Austin holding up?” Hollins asked.
“He’s a mess. They kept him in hospital overnight. In shock, the doctor says. Look, thanks for coming in. I really appreciate it. I’ve been out to the scene. I’ve looked over the notes the local lads took last night. I wanted to hear it for myself and get your thoughts.”
Hollins held the cop’s gaze through the steam rising off his so-called coffee. He heard what Stu didn’t say and appreciated that the CIB head for South-West Region WA Police didn’t put it into words. Stu had seen evidence of Hollins’ secret past. Stu Reilly’s wife once told Hollins that her husband liked him. If that was why the policeman chose to let sleeping dogs lie, all the better.
“I’ve had blokes searching the woods the killer ran into,” Stu said. “They found nothing.”
Hollins nodded.
“So, Gary, tell me how it went down.”
Hollins straightened in his chair, recalling the impromptu car party, Sophia and Austin holding hands and belting out rock songs as they slowed into the curve. Did she die happy? “You’ve seen the corner — a right-angle curve. The shooter was in those trees at the spa. I got on the brakes, cruising into the turn, and he had a clear shot as the car turned across his line of fire from — have you measured it? Fifty metres?”
“Yep. Who knew you’d be on that road at that time?”
“Half the state. Everyone at the function. Anyone who looked at Austin’s campaign schedule online. The only direct route from Bell’s Landing to Yallingup is through Dunsborough, and there’s only one road from Dunsborough to Yallingup. It wouldn’t take Einstein to work out when we’d pass within half an hour or so.”
Stu made a note, nodded. “What about the set-up, the hide? What about the shooter?”
Hollins rubbed at his ribs where an invisible belt tightened. “I reckon he parked his car somewhere in that bush he ran off into.”
“There are a couple of fire breaks and a side road that runs along the far side of that block,” Stu offered.
“So, he got there early and picked the spot with the best view. I think he chose that tree because it has a branch at a nice height to rest his barrel as well as the view to the curve.”
Stu raised an eyebrow.
Hollins stood up and demonstrated with an imaginary rifle. “I thought about it. The lawns there are roughly a metre higher than the road. If he lay down, he couldn’t see much more than the radiator and the tops of heads. If he stood, he had a clear line on the passengers. He fired three shots from that spot.” Hollins mentally ticked off the three cartridge cases he’d found when he put himself in the gunman’s shoes. “One into the car, two to keep our heads down. Then he moved to the second spot where he left the gun. Smart move, that.”
“Leaving the gun? I guess it was, in the sense that we can’t find the gun in his bedroom since he left it at the scene.”
“I don’t suppose it’s traceable.”
“The registration number’s filed off.”
“Naturally.”
“There aren’t many of that model in circulation. He could have ordered it off the internet or bought it overseas.”
“What was it? A target rifle, obviously.” Bolt action, so the shooter loaded each cartridge manually.
Stu flicked back a couple of pages in his notebook and read. “New Ultra Light Arms Model 40. They advertise it as the ultimate American rifle. Four grand, US dollars, if you want one.”
“Hunter’s gun.” It made sense. “A fancy sight, too.”
Stu nodded. “So?”
“Sniper. He used a heavy round. Sophia bled out so fast.”
“Meaning?”
“He banked on one shot.” Hollins closed his eyes, but the image of glamorous, lovely Sophia Pendlebury, slab-white, eyes blank and staring, would not go away. “The pros go for the body mass and use a bullet that expands on impact so anyone they hit will bleed to death.”
“Is that right? You know the strangest things.” Stu twirled his pen in his fingers, inviting explanation.
Hollins shrugged. “I read a lot. Ask the army. They’ll have someone who knows more than me.”
“Any particular branch?” Stu teased, but shook away the distraction quickly. “An assassination attempt. Christ. In bloody Yallingup.” He slapped his pen down. “But the gobshite missed and got one of Australia’s favourite actresses instead.”
“Yeah, I thought about that, too.” As he’d stared at his bedroom ceiling the night before, praying for sleep, praying the doctors had saved Sophia. “The gunman expected Austin to be in the
front passenger seat. He rides there when it’s just us or when it’s us and Glenn Braithwaite because Austin likes to chat. When Soph’s in the car, he sits with her in the back. He sat behind me.” Hollins sketched the angles with his palms. “So, the killer had to shoot between the front seats, around the headrests.”
“And your scone.” Stu pointed at Hollins’ forehead.
“Austin and Soph were bopping around.” Hollins demonstrated by lifting his arms and twerking on his seat.
“They what?”
“We had the radio turned up, singing along. Sophia was dancing in her seat.” The memory tightened the rope around Hollins’ chest, almost beyond bearing. “There’d been a bit of tension in the campaign.”
“Over the graffiti?”
“Not so much. Austin wanted to make an announcement, Glenn Braithwaite and Sophia disagreed, but they sorted it out and, I don’t know, it was kind of like they were making up.” Just in time to die.
“Ms Pendlebury got in the way.” Stu swayed side to side in his seat. “Wrong move at the wrong time.”
“Could be. I had my eyes on the road.” And his mind on Clash lyrics. He’d never be able to listen to the song again.
“Did he plan to leave the gun, do you think?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ll bet it didn’t have any prints.”
Stu nodded.
“Then he could have disposed of it anywhere. Maybe it was easiest to drop it where he was. You can’t run as fast with your hands full.”
“But you can shoot down the crazy man chasing you if you’ve got a gun,” the policeman pointed out. “Why not keep it to shoot you?”
Hollins grunted. “He could try.”
“You’re Superman? Faster than a speeding bullet? More powerful than a steam train?”
“Maybe he panicked. He’d already tried to get me. It’s not as easy as you think to hit a dodging target at short range with a long gun.” He swung his hands right and left to demonstrate the effort involved in bringing a lengthy barrel to bear.
“Where did you read that?” Stu asked.
“Women’s Weekly. A pistol’s better for close up work.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
“For a start, a pistol gives you more than one shot without reloading.”
“One shot? How do you work that out?”
“Bolt action rifle.” Hollins went through the motions with an imaginary weapon. “Aim. Shoot. Eject the cartridge. Load the next round. Aim. By that time, I’m kicking the shit out of him.”
“I get the idea. Thanks. This all helps. I don’t know how yet, but it fills in the picture.”
Hollins shrugged. “Anyone from the armed forces could have told you. Don’t the cops have SWAT teams?”
“The army?”
Hollins took that as another query about his background. “Or read Women’s Weekly. Debbie might have some back copies somewhere. Maybe the sniper ran out of ammunition. He took half a dozen shots. Why would he bring even that much brass? He can’t have expected to need that many at fifty metres.”
“Which brings us back to the crucial point. Who wanted Austin Gould dead, Gary?”
“No one I know. Everybody loves him. Shit, the last thing I wanted to do was play nursemaid to some politician.”
“Debbie Haring made you, right?”
Hollins snorted. “That’s about it, but I like him. I can’t help it.”
“You said there was tension between Austin, Sophia Pendlebury and the campaign manager.”
“It was sorted. Over.”
“I’m not sure you understand exactly how big this is. It’s not just a murder investigation. It’s an attempt to assassinate a political candidate, who just happens to be Australia’s favourite pretend priest. It goes tits up and another film star’s dead. Politicians don’t get shot in Australia, more’s the pity, but, mate, ‘it’s all sorted’ doesn’t cut it.”
Hollins made the detective wait another few seconds while the sense of Stu’s argument overcame his pride. “All right. Have you seen the flyers Debbie’s plastered all over Bell’s Landing?”
By the time he’d finished the story, Stu was slumped back in his chair, shaking his head.
“There’s a Maori kid in Bell’s Landing looking for his dad, which might be Austin Gould or Harry Vickers from Jetty Autos?”
“Or a couple of other sleazy assholes who worked for Harry.”
“We need to find this Maori lad. Has Debbie got the photo and the mum’s contacts?”
“Yeah.”
“If you see her before I do, we need those straight away.”
“The sniper is not Devon, or Keith, or whatever he’s calling himself.”
Stu gave him a sideways glance.
“I met him.”
“If you met him, how come he’s missing?”
“It was before his mum turned up.”
That story brought back the memory that Keith Tupaea had hunted with his stepfather, which he chose not to share with Stu. There was no way Keith was the killer.
When Hollins had finished his explanation, Stu shook his head again. “A gay Maori kid looking for his dad. I’m beginning to understand the tension in the Gould election campaign.”
“We tracked down the guy Keith met at the pub. It’s another car salesman, from Skipworth Motors—”
“Brilliant. I swear you’re trying to ruin my life.”
Stu Reilly’s father-in-law owned Skipworth Motors and a hefty slice of the rest of Bell’s Landing.
“I can’t remember his name, but Debbie’s got all that, too.”
Stu hollered at the door. “Hugh?”
His offsider popped his head in.
“Get Debbie Haring in here right now. You’ll get her through Ridenour Investigations.”
“Righto, boss.”
“I’ve got her card somewhere,” Hollins offered.
Stu waved it away. “They’ve probably got it here somewhere, too. They’ll find her soon enough.”
“So, what about the guys who painted Austin’s office?” Hollins asked.
“People who shoot to kill don’t usually go in for graffiti.”
“But vandals who paint walls don’t like the people whose walls they paint. They are a lead that might point towards the man who shoots to kill.”
“More wisdom from the pages of Women’s Weekly?” Stu asked.
“A gut feeling.”
“Given your experience of cold-blooded killers?”
Hollins chose silence.
“You’re right,” Stu conceded. “We’re on it.” He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“The irony. WA Police maintains intelligence on potential political violence.”
“There you go then.”
“But the focus is all on the other side — white supremacists.”
“What’s that got to do with the Australian People’s Party?” Hollins asked.
“The APP has similar views to the white supremacists. Anti-immigration for a start.”
“Lefties don’t do violence?”
“Sure they do — the IRA, Palestine Liberation Army, animal rights activists storming puppy farms, tree huggers leaving man traps for loggers — just nothing on the WAPOL radar right now.”
“I haven’t got anything else for you. Get the gobshite who killed Sophia.”
“You liked her, too?”
“Yes, I did.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HOLLINS TEXTED DEBBIE.
Stu wants to talk to you
She answered immediately.
I’m on my way in. What’s it about?
Hollins sent a single word.
Keith
She phoned. The Camry engine hummed in the background. “Keith? What the hell?”
“He’s a suspect.”
“What! They think he shot Sophia Pendlebury. Are they insane?”
“Murdered Sophia Pendlebury.”
“Oh, my God! She’s dead?”
>
“Yes. Look, Stu’s just being thorough. Keith wanted to find his dad. It might be Austin. Maybe the killer will go after more car salesmen.”
“Bullshit.”
“They’ve only got my word that Keith’s a gentle soul. No one else met him. They want your photo and the contacts you made.”
“I’ll call in at the office to get my posters out of the bin. Perhaps the police can use them.”
Silence lengthened.
“Shit!’ Debbie said.
“What is it?”
“It can’t be Keith.”
Which Hollins took to mean that, like him, she knew everyone had murder in them given the wrong circumstances, but she didn’t want to believe it was Keith any more than he did. “Look at it from their point of view. He knows a bit about guns and how to use them.”
“You told the police he’s a hunter?”
“No. But they’ll find out. If Keith ever got a deer, he could have made that shot. He had motive, means and the campaign schedule provided ample opportunity.”
“No way. Not Keith.” Debbie didn’t sound convinced. “How are you this morning?”
“I’m fine. Look, go easy on Stu—”
“Never!”
“He’s under the pump, he’s doing his job, and he’s our best chance of getting the bastard who shot Sophia.”
“Fair enough.”
“The sooner they find Keith—”
“I know. The sooner they eliminate him as a suspect and get on with finding the real killer. I’ve got it. How’s Austin?”
“I don’t know. They kept him in hospital.”
“Shit. Was he hit too? You didn’t say.”
“No. Shock. Probably depression. I’m going around to the hospital now.”
“All right. Tell him we’re thinking of him.”
Hollins tossed up waiting for Debbie to make sure she did the right thing at the police station, but he suspected Austin might need him more.
The scene at the hospital confirmed his suspicions.
Reporters and camera operators clustered opposite the hospital entrance, dozens of them, held back at the insistence of two uniformed policemen, but poised to surge across the patient drop-off lane at the first sight of anyone newsworthy. All four television companies had remote broadcast units filling parking spaces meant for hospital visitors. Their satellite dishes pointed to the heavens. The logos indicated Seven and Nine had two cameras — current affairs shows as well as the news?
