by T. J. Beach
Hollins parked his ute as far away as he could and took a roundabout route to the main door with his head down. He didn’t want to be recognised by news folk, especially any who’d been in Bell’s Landing a few months before.
It would be mayhem when they saw Austin. He’d need to go out the back way. There’d have to be a rear maintenance entrance. The reporters probably had someone keeping an eye on alternative exits, but it would give Austin some chance for privacy. They’d need a car as well. The police had taken the Lexus away on a truck. How would Austin like a ride in the ute? He’d probably love it.
The media pack stirred as Hollins reached the door. The reporters called out:
“Glenn!”
“Mr Braithwaite!”
“Who wanted to kill Austin Gould?”
The campaign manager baulked, halfway across the drop-off lane, heading the same way as Hollins.
The policemen threw their arms wide, but young men and women armed with microphones dodged around and swamped their victim.
With a glance at the cameras homing in and an internal sigh, Hollins loped to the rescue.
He grabbed a reporter by the shoulder and pulled him back.
“Oi!” Hollins ignored the newsman’s protest, but a woman was the next obstacle between him and Glenn Braithwaite. “Excuse me.” He tried to ease around but she angled her hips to block his path and jabbed an elbow into his wrists.
“Get back!” Hollins yelled. “All of you. Have some decency. Give the man some space.” Hollins stepped around the female newshound’s leg and reached Glenn’s arm to pull him clear.
“It’s okay,” Glenn told the reporters. “Just, please, give me some room. Could you?”
“You heard him.” Hollins pulled Glenn behind him and spread his arms. “Step back.”
Glenn gave him a worried nod of thanks. The reporters jockeyed into a half-circle dictated by the length of the arms thrusting microphones and telephones. A camera lens poked over every shoulder.
Hollins stepped aside.
Glenn hesitated.
A siren blared, making everyone jump, a double blip before the ambulance driver gave up and reversed to find another way to admit the patient.
The reporters yelled questions over each other — a formless blast of noise.
Glenn raised his hands. “Please.”
The din subsided, perhaps cowed by Gloomy Glenn’s obvious distress, perhaps by the certainty that they’d get the sound bites they wanted.
“I don’t have a prepared statement. I’m …” He looked up for a moment, gathering strength. “We’re all deep in terrible grief and shock. I can’t believe that Sophia’s gone. She was beautiful in every way. I … I don’t know any more about Austin’s condition than you do, but, but, I’m sorry.”
“What about the campaign? Will Austin fight on?”
Glenn shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s too soon for decisions like that. This is a horrible day.”
“When will Austin decide?”
“Why would someone try to kill Austin?”
“Have the police offered protection?”
Glenn swayed under the onslaught of questions.
“That’s enough.” Hollins pushed his way into the forest of recording devices, blinded by camera flashes and TV lights. “You’ve got what you need.” He took Glenn by the shoulders and turned for the hospital, groaned in the face of another media fence line but, thankfully, they parted to let him ease the campaign manager into the sanctuary of the foyer. “Wait a minute. I’ll find out what room Austin’s in.”
“Just a sec’.” Glenn bent at the waist and took long breaths. “Thanks, by the way. That was feral. I never imagined.”
“They’re vultures,” Hollins said.
“Just doing their jobs. And thanks for last night. I hear you chased off the sniper. God knows what might have happened otherwise.”
“Never mind that.”
“What’s been happening? How’s Austin?” The corners of Glenn’s mouth dropped to new depths of gloom.
“I was about to ask you the same. I thought you were here.”
“No, I’ve been in Perth. The APP called a crisis meeting. I just got back.”
“And I was at the police station giving a statement. Let’s see what we can find out.”
The policeman at Austin’s door, Constable Blair, stood aside when Glenn identified himself.
The candidate lay on a hospital bed, staring at the window. He rolled over as he registered their presence and sat up, spreading his arms to Glenn. “Oh, my God.”
They hugged, Austin’s famous features twisted in anguish. “What have we done, Glenn? What have we done?”
“She’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry. I dragged her here. I dragged Soph into this.” He sobbed into his friend’s neck.
Glenn squeezed Austin’s arm. “It’s not your fault.”
“But it is. I killed her as if I pulled the trigger myself.”
“No. No, Sophia wanted you to stand for South-West Agricultural.”
“Did she? Did she, really? She did it for me. Oh, God, we were singing stupid songs. Then, then …”
“I know. She was happy, Austin.”
Hollins slipped out into the corridor, humbled by their sorrow.
A doctor came, checked Austin, wrote him a prescription and told him he could go.
Nurses herded Glenn out to join Hollins while the patient got dressed.
Austin emerged, bent over like an old man, clutching at the door frame. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“No problem,” Hollins said. “I’ll get my car. We can get you out through the loading bay. It’s all organised.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the effort, but I’ll go out through the front.”
“The media—” Hollins began.
“I’ll give them their pound of flesh.” Austin glanced at Glenn, who nodded. “They’ll get what they need if they promise to let us mourn for twenty-four hours.”
“Only one day,” Hollins protested. Austin needed more than that to deal with his trauma.
“We’ll be lucky to get that long,” Glenn said.
Hollins shook his head. “But you’re—”
“It’s not about me today,” Austin said. “It’s about Soph.”
“I’ll set things up with the reporters.” Glenn gave Hollins a set of keys. “My hire car’s parked a few bays from your ute.” “The licence number’s on the tag. It’s a white Nissan Patrol.”
An SUV that would be indistinguishable from half the other vehicles in the parking lot.
The media went for Glenn, giving Hollins a clear run to the cars. He found the SUV, adjusted the seats and mirrors and edged the car around to the hospital entrance in first gear.
Glenn and the policemen had got the media carrion-feeders into a semi-respectful huddle on the far side of the awning that sheltered visitors and the walking wounded.
Hollins stopped in front of the doors, but Glenn waved him on.
Austin came out then, Constable Blair at his elbow, where Hollins should have been, looking right and left for threats.
The candidate and screen star drew himself up, fixed a vestige of a sad half-smile and stepped into the fray.
“Austin!”
“How does it feel to be an assassination target?”
“Have the police got any leads?”
He ignored the machine gun barrage of questions. “Sophia Pendlebury.” He paused until the hubbub stilled. “Sophia Pendlebury died last night. My life partner. My love. One of Australia’s finest actresses. The most wonderful person I’ve known. I can’t tell you the anguish we’re suffering, everyone who knew Soph. Snatched from us far too soon. I can’t imagine what her mum and dad, Patricia and Ned, are going through, her son Graham, and her sisters. Don’t talk about what happened to me, please. Remember Soph’s family at this awful time.”
Frenzied demands, rising to shrieks, followed him into the getaway car
.
Glenn took the backseat with Austin.
Constable Blair climbed in beside Hollins. He turned to the backseat. “Do you have a blanket you can put over your head or a—”
“He’s not a bloody criminal,” Glenn said.
“Sorry, I have to—”
Austin raised a palm. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Where to?” Hollins asked.
“Home,” said Austin.
“The office,” Glenn said.
They looked at each other.
“Home it is then.” Hollins got the SUV into gear and eased forward, parting a phalanx of camera people.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GAWKERS MILLED IN the road hoping for a glance of a grieving star. They’d parked their cars all along the beach and on Austin’s neighbours’ lawns.
Vultures came in many forms.
Constable Blair earned his money. He leapt out of the car and hurried to ward off the camera-toting thrill-seekers. While Glenn got Austin into the house, Hollins went to help the constable. He wasn’t needed.
The uniformed officer marched up and down the lawn yelling, “Back, the lot of you. Step over that kerb, and I’ll arrest you for trespass. I mean it.”
“That told them,” Hollins said when Blair came to join him.
“Yeah, well.” The constable rolled his shoulders.
“Shit. Here’s the next wave.”
The Channel Seven mobile unit chugged past, the driver looking for somewhere to park, the reporter staring at the house.
“The rest will be right behind. How will we go stopping that lot?” Hollins asked.
“We should be okay.” Blair tipped back his hat. “Sergeant Radford said the media know the rules. They’ll stay off the property.”
“Good to know. It didn’t work too well at the hospital.”
“They left when we told them. The hospital is private property. The car park’s public property.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So, what are you going to do if one of these clowns comes at us with a rifle?” Hollins gestured to the bystanders enjoying the parade of media vehicles.
“What do you mean?”
“What if one of them is the killer and decides to have a second go?”
“Then I’ll shit myself.”
“Good thinking. It pays to have a plan.”
“I won’t run.” Blair’s brow furrowed.
“Good on ya.”
“From what I hear, you know a hell of a lot more than me about this stuff.”
“Don’t believe everything you’re told. I didn’t stop the giobshite getting Sophia. Not much you can do against a guy with a rifle.”
Blair shifted uncomfortably. “The sarge is onto the SWAT guys in Perth about getting proper protection. A couple more officers are coming from the station to cover the back.”
“Great. The more, the merrier. You and me until then, eh? Ready to throw yourself in front of a bullet?”
“Thanks for that.”
Debbie turned up five minutes later, walking along the roadside.
Constable Blair stepped out to stop her. “Off the lawn, please or—”
“She’s with us. Debbie Haring, Constable Blair.”
“I remember, from the graffiti.” They exchanged nods.
Debbie pulled Hollins away to the deck. “Bloody hell, Gary. I gave all my posters and stuff to Stu Reilly. Are you okay?”
“As well as can be expected. Austin’s a mess. Glenn’s not much better.”
“I can imagine. I’m in semi-shock myself, and I only met her twice. What’s Austin going to do? I mean, with the campaign and all.”
“Everyone’s asking.”
“Austin has a police guard now?” She nodded to Blair.
“For what it’s worth. They’ve got reinforcements coming.”
“Good, good. Only …” She bit her lip.
“Only what?”
“It’s cricket training tonight.”
Hollins gave her his best dead-eyed stare.
Debbie backed off a step. “Only—”
“You’re saying ‘only’ a lot.”
“Yeah, well, look, it’s okay. I’ll do it.” She winced. “Or we’ll cancel it, but Matt flew out this morning.”
“I should get a copy of his roster so I know when he’s here.”
“Good idea.”
“I was joking.”
“It’s fine. We’ll sort it. Only Lachlan’s been looking forward to training. He’s mentioned cricket a couple of times. Asked me if you’d be coach again. He’s been happier, and … Look, I’m sorry.”
Hollins groaned. He didn’t want to disappoint the little guy, but how could he spend an hour herding primary school kids when … When what? There’d be a wall of police muscle around the house. They’d probably kick him out. Hollins couldn’t let Austin down, but Lachlan needed every bit of reassurance he could get. Which would it be? It should be an easy choice: a recently bereaved assassination target paying him for protection or a kids’ sports session?
With Debbie and Matt’s son.
Who asked for him.
Debbie sniffed and turned away. “Sorry. We’ll sort it.”
“Stop saying sorry.”
“Sorry.”
Constable Blair advanced across the lawn, arms waving. “Hey, you there!”
“Shit, come on.” Hollins dashed after him.
A bunch of about twenty bore down on them. Every one wore a Vote Gould tee-shirt. Bozza led them, Martin at his shoulder. The rest of the Goon Squad followed with a cross-section of the lady helpers.
“Oh, crap,” Hollins said.
“You know these guys?” Blair asked.
“They’re campaign volunteers.”
“They’re okay, too?”
“No.” Hollins went to meet them. “Don’t do this, Bozza.”
“Don’t do what?” He lifted the brim of his sweat-stained blue motocross club cap.
Hollins wanted badly to knock it off. “We do not need the Goon Squad lined up on the lawn like a private army.”
“Yeah? We can stop a bullet as well as anyone. Can’t we, guys?”
One of the lady volunteers gulped.
“Exactly,” Hollins said. “Someone took a shot at Austin last night and killed Sophia Pendlebury. The sniper could be out there right now waiting for a second chance.”
The Goon Squad stepped forward.
One of the lady volunteers hollered, “I’m prepared to die for Austin.”
Bozza’s meatheads weren’t the only idiots.
“It’s none of your business anyway,” Bozza put in. “Glenn Braithwaite called us. He told us to come.”
“That’s right,” the noisy lady added. “Austin wants to talk to us.”
Glenn burst out of the house as if summoned by Bozza’s claim. “Come in, all of you. Austin’s waiting.”
“Not you lot!” Blair advanced into the road to cut off a stream of rubberneckers and media taking up the invitation.
“Just the volunteers,” Glenn confirmed.
They crowded into the lounge. Austin came downstairs when everyone had settled. “Thank you for coming around at such short notice, and thank you all for your messages. It’s a heartbreaking day. I know you loved Sophia as much as I did, and I’m so grateful for the work you do. I wanted you to hear from me that I have suspended my campaign for the South-West Agricultural Legislative Council seat.”
“No.” A chorus of dissent from the ladies on the sofa.
Austin raised his hand for quiet. “In respect for Sophia, all campaigning will cease, now, please. I’m going to see Sophia’s parents. I’ll organise the funeral and spend some time with my children.”
“And after that?” Bozza demanded.
The question upset Hollins almost as much as the fact that the tone-deaf cretin didn’t have the courtesy to take off his stupid, dirty cap when he came in.
Austin stared at the Goon Squad leader as if he hadn’t heard —
a sad, confused look.
“You’re letting them win,” Bozza said. “They tried to kill you to keep you out of parliament. You’re handing them the result they wanted.”
“They killed Sophia,” Austin said.
Bozza at least had the grace to look at his shoes.
“That was all I wanted to say.” Austin raised his hands. “I’m so sorry. The police are sending a car, and I’ll leave as soon as it gets here. Thank you, everyone, for everything.”
“What about the office and the posters and the events?” a lady volunteer asked.
Glenn touched Austin’s arm and answered for him. “It’s going to be difficult, but I’ll deal with that. I’ll let you know if I need any help.”
Austin shook his head sadly, sighed and made for the stairs.
An old lady jumped up and crushed him in a hug. A queue formed.
Hollins turned to Debbie. “It looks like I can make cricket training.”
Twilight at the cricket ground had the orange-gold hue of another planet. One where families bustled around in cheerful chaos as if nothing had happened.
Life goes on, eh?
Almost exactly twenty-four hours since he’d watched Sophia Pendlebury bleed out and he stood like a fool in shorts and a tee-shirt about to put primary school children through pointless sports drills.
No, not pointless. Lachy’s tormenter must be unmasked. Not exactly a murder investigation, but damned important.
“There you are.” Debbie turned up at his elbow with a clipboard. “I brought my stuff in case you forgot.”
Hollins waved his own set.
“Good. I looked at the board. We start at Station Two today.”
“Gary. Gary.” Jenny bounced up with her two best friends. They all wore red tee-shirts with their kanga cricket shorts and caps. “We’re Charlton Athletic fans like you!”
