by T. J. Beach
“Bullshit. There are a lot of the caps from the video.”
Hollins stiffened, alert.
“What is it?” Debbie asked.
“That’s him.”
“Which one?”
“Big shoulders, crew cut, in a black singlet.”
The object of his attention stood by the ropes near the start, his arms crossed, and motocross leathers rolled down to his waist to better show off bulging biceps. Two admirers aped his stance and laughed at whatever dribbled out of his mouth.
“He’s the right shape,” Debbie said. “Nasty-looking too, but he’s not even wearing the hat."
“It’s him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Now I know why he caught my eye. He was in the Espy when I met Keith, half-pissed, leading the abuse.”
“Okay. That would make him a thug, but I don’t see a connection to vandalism.”
“I’m bloody sure he’s the guy in the video. The head vandal.”
“The one who painted graffiti that accused Austin Gould of being a racist neo-Nazi?”
“What?” It hit Hollins then. “Crap.” A motocross enthusiasts of any sort would hardly be the sort to paint left-wing propoganda on the APP wall, least of all Crew Cut and his gay-bashing pals.
“He’s got the cap. He had it on at the Espy.”
Debbie shook her head. “So what? He’s the meathead from the pub, I’ll give you that. I wasn’t there. He’s the right size and shape for the guy on the video, but I’m not buying him as the slogan painter.”
“It was him.” Hollins clung to his conclusion, but he couldn’t argue with Debbie’s logic. A redneck who spent his weekends tearing up the earth when he wasn’t taunting people for their sexual orientation would hardly be likely to write left wing grafitti. No self-respecting Antifa or Greenpeace recruiter would waste a second trying to sign up Crew Cut. DC Connolly’s disinterest in the cap angle made sense. Only a fool would suspect the motocross crowd of vandalism which, ironically, produced the opposite of the desired effect.
Or did it?
A realisation stung Hollins. They’d been played. He’d fallen for a slimy politician’s trick. “Shit!”
“I know what you mean. I’d love to find something to make life hell for a lowlife gay-basher, but—”
“No. I’ve had it all wrong. Think about it. Bozza’s a club member. The party went up in the polls after the first lot of vandalism.”
Debbie shrugged.
“It was a set-up,” he said. “They organised the graffiti themselves.”
“Who did?”
“The APP. Glenn. He got some local fellow travellers to daub slogans on the window as a publicity stunt to get sympathy for Austin.”
“That’s pretty wild.”
“I’m going to prove it. Watch this. No, better yet, come with me. A witness would be handy.”
Hollins made straight for Crew Cut, wracking his memory for the redneck’s name. Did he hear it at the pub? Nothing came to him.
He inserted himself between Crew Cut’s fans, smiling. “Hey … mate. Can I have a word?” He glanced from one sidekick to the other. “Give us a minute, eh?”
Crew Cut nodded to them, and they shuffled off, reluctantly, to scoff at the antics of the junior competitors just completing their first lap.
Debbie sneaked up at Hollins’ shoulder.
Crew Cut puffed out his chest. “Whaddya want?”
“Hi. I’m Gary. This is Deb.”
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Sure. I’m head of security for the campaign. Glenn Braithwaite asked us to get in touch discreetly.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Debbie crossed her arms, bit her lip and raised an eyebrow to Hollins.
He implored with his eyes. Don’t say anything.
She didn’t, so he continued, “There’s a lot of pressure on Glenn. People are watching him with all that’s been happening, so he sent me — us.” Hollins nodded to Debbie.
Crew Cut’s brow furrowed.
Hollins went for the entrapment jugular. “Look,” he glanced over both shoulders to make sure no one but Debbie and Crew Cut could overhear. “Glenn wants something else. The shooting has got heaps of attention, lots of sympathy — of course, it’s a bloody tragedy — but it’s diverted attention from the campaign. We need another smear to take us over the top, polls-wise. You know what I mean?”
“No.” Crew Cut’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Not the brightest pup in the litter.
And not the response Hollins hoped for. He prayed he could nudge the dumbshit’s tiny brain beyond simple ideas. “The graffiti was brilliant. Fantastic job. Thanks for that, by the way. But after the shooting—”
“Yeah,” Debbie said.
Hollins winced, she was supposed to listen, not talk.
She blathered on. “The tree-huggers would look so bad piling on when Austin’s suffering. Do you see?”
Hollins nodded. “With Austin in Victoria, the campaign needs a little boost to, I don’t know, maintain the rage.”
Crew Cut nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get it.”
“Can you help us again?” Debbie asked.
Good stuff. Hollins shouldn’t have doubted her.
“Maybe I can. More painting?”
Hollins leaned in. “Graffiti would be okay, but it might get a bit old. I hoped you’d have some suggestions.”
Crew Cut scratched a spot behind his ear.
He probably hadn’t had an idea since primary school, if then.
Debbie chipped in again, bless her. “How about defacing Austin’s posters?”
“Defacing?”
Hollins almost felt sorry for him. Ants had higher IQs. “Damage them. Tear them.”
“Daub stuff on them,” Debbie added. “‘Loser’ maybe. ‘She deserved it’.”
Crew Cut puzzled over that. “Look. I don’t know. It seems like I’ve put myself out there. That … last thing didn’t go well. It wasn’t what we planned. I don’t know if Glenn …” Crew Cut looked around, his eyes narrowed.
Hollins pumped his fist behind his back, willing Crew Cut to go one more step and confirm, explicitly, that he’d held the paintbrush.
“You want me to do more? I dunno, I’d want a big lift in the coin, for the risk, like.”
Bingo. Close enough. “Perfectly fair,” Hollins said. “I’m sure we can organise whatever you need.”
“Hey, Chopper.” Bozza from the Goon Squad materialised at exactly the wrong moment. “Gary? Mrs Haring? I didn’t take you guys for motocross fans.”
“No,” Hollins said. “We were just having a word with Chopper.” He willed Bozza to get the message and naff off. He failed.
“Yeah?” Bozza said.
“Thanks, Chopper.” Debbie pulled Hollins’ sleeve. “We’ll be in touch, eh?” She winked.
“Err?” Crew Cut frowned.
She tapped her nose like a conspirator and nudged her head at Bozza. “Shouldn’t say any more.”
“Oh. Yeah. All right.”
Chopper and Bozza watched them go, then broke into an animated conversation.
“They’re talking about us,” Hollins said. “Why did you pull me out? We had him.”
“Yes. That comment about cash, Chopper’s the one. Either way, I don’t think he’ll say anything in front of Bozza.”
“Why not? Bozza’s probably the connection. How many other motorcycle club guys are APP volunteers?” Hollins looked back again, but Debbie pulled on his arm to keep him headed for the clubrooms.
“Bozza wasn’t one of the painters. We’d have recognised him straight away, even with his hoodie pulled over his face,” she said.
“I guess.”
“And if he was the contact, he’d go through Glenn, so how’d he react if you suddenly knew all the details?”
Stu Reilly blocked their path. “Crap! What are you two doing here?” He turned to his companion, Detective Connolly, in his distinctive leather jacket. “Get an announcement
over the PA. Clear the area. Hollins and Haring are in the house. There’ll probably be a riot. These two cause more trouble than Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Why are you here?” Debbie snapped back.
“Following up on Gary’s club cap lead, if it’s anything to do with you.”
Debbie swung around and sidled up beside the Detective Sergeant. “See the hoon with the singlet next to Bozza from Austin Gould’s Goon Squad? Chopper. He’s glowering at us.” Debbie waved. “Chopper’s your man. He made admissions to us, which I am more than happy to repeat in court. He did the graffiti and was paid for it. Gary heard him as well.”
Stu gritted his teeth. “Butt out of police work. I’ve told you before.”
“It’s okay,” Debbie said. “No need to get all gushy when we do your job for you … again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
STU TOOK THEIR statement in the all-too-familiar Bell’s Landing cop shop interview room.
“Have you charged Chopper?” Debbie asked.
The head of the South-West CIB cocked his chin. “With what?”
“Duh. Vandalism.”
“There’s the issue. If painting a shopfront at the request of the tenant is a crime, sign painters have a problem.”
Debbie wasn’t having that. “What about the owners? How did they like having their walls messed up?”
“If they have a complaint, it’s with their tenant. There’s nowhere to go on this.”
“Hate speech?”
“Has to be directed at a racial or ethnic group. You can hate politicians as much as you like.”
“That’s good to know,” Hollins said.
“Before you get on your high horses,” Stu went on. “I’ve spoken to the crown prosecutor, because I am royally pissed off at being used by the campaign to get publicity. She’s the one who passed on those pearls of wisdom about the legal position.”
“Hah.” Debbie raised a finger. “What about wasting police time? Making a false report?”
“Thank you, Debbie. Great idea. I would love to arrest the troublemaker who reported the painting at APP campaign headquarters.”
“Well, do it then. How hard is it? You’re a policeman, do your job!”
“Thank you, God.” Stu stared at the ceiling for a moment of blissful repose. “Debbie Haring, you are under arrest—“
“What did I do?”
“You made a false report,” Stu said.
Hollins enjoyed the rare sight of Debbie Haring struck dumb almost as much as Stu Reilly.
“It was you who called us. Therefore the waste of police time came directly from your mouth.”
“Back off a minute. That’s not fair. I made that report in good faith. I saw—”
“I’m messing with you. Settle down.”
Debbie’s mouth opened and shut a few times before she regathered her snark and went back into battle.“They’ll get off scot-free?”
Stu sighed. “I shall have a very stern word with Glenn Braithwaite.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s all my superintendent will allow. After discussions with the police commissioner himself, who was not best pleased about his golf game being interrupted.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“I agree. No one should have their phone turned on at the ninth tee. And political parties should not stage crimes to generate publicity, as I will explain to Austin Gould’s campaign manager. His wrist will sting from the slap I give it, but that’s all Commissioner Roberts will sanction in the current climate.”
“What current climate?” Debbie asked.
“Sophia Pendlebury’s funeral on Wednesday amid overwhelming public sympathy for the grieving South-West Agricultural Region candidate. This is modern policing. Sworn officers face a significant restraint.”
Debbie rolled her eyes. “Politics.”
“That and this other little biddy thing we call the law of the land. It’s a pain. You wouldn’t believe how often the law stops us putting the cuffs on someone who thoroughly deserves a timeout behind bars. By the way, if I catch you so much as sliding your toenail over the line, I won’t hesitate to lock you up.”
“That’s a nice thing to say when we just solved a crime for you.”
“For which I am grateful. Good pick up on the motocross cap. You damn nearly stuffed it up with that dog and pony show this morning. Fortunately, our friend Edward ‘Chopper’ Wollinski has the intelligence of a pea. He coughed to everything. I suspect he might be proud to have assisted the Gould campaign.” Stu fixed both Hollins and Haring with his steeliest glare. “Do not interfere with police investigations. You bring us the evidence and let us do the fun stuff. Got it? Are your wrists stinging?”
Hollins shook his palm. “A bit.”
“Look, I know you’ll pay about as much respect to me ordering you to stay out of police business as Chopper did for his right to remain silent, but I can honestly inform my super that I issued a reprimand. Again. Okay?”
“You love us, really,” Debbie said.
“I’d love you both to move, preferably to north Queensland. Don’t you know absence makes the heart grow fonder? By the way, you do realise you dobbed in your employer when you outed Glenn Braithwaite for the vandalism?”
“We do what’s right,” Debbie said.
Stu snorted. “Can I come and watch when Gary fronts up for work at APP HQ on Monday?”
“We don’t like being taken for a ride any more than you do,” Debbie added.
“I doubt the APP will renew our contract,” Hollins put in.
“You reckon?” Stu asked.
“Because if Austin comes back—”
“He’s going to stay over east?”
“He indicated that was a distinct possibility, but if and when he returns, Glenn will make sure Austin gets a police escort, so he won’t need me. Thank goodness. I shall be having a stern word of my own, in any case.”
“Good on you. You’re right. With the shooter on the loose, Austin’ll get a police detail.”
“Have you made any progress? Apart from getting the vandalism off your plate.”
“We’ve checked out the usual suspects among the greenies and animal liberationists but haven’t found anything to follow up — which makes sense seeing as they were innocent for the paint job. Keith Tupaea remains our number one suspect.”
Debbie grunted and fidgeted in her seat.
“Your contacts were good, to be fair. That salesman from Skipworth’s, Damian Conti, put us on the right track. Keith bunked with a guy in Capel.”
Debbie flared. “But on the TV they said—”
“He left that guy’s place, abruptly, after he got a phone call. He was excited, told his mate he’d found what he was looking for.”
“Shit,” Debbie said.
“Yes. That was exactly my reaction, but the publicity about Keith Tupaea brought us a report of a car turning off a bush track that might have been the killer making his getaway.”
“That’s a good lead,” Hollins said.
Stu shook his head. “A white car, described as ‘big’ by the witness. Possibly a Hyundai or a Toyota or a Ford.”
“Not a Holden then.”
“There is that. I think every other brand is a possibility, and you know the percentage of Australian cars that are white.”
“A shitload?” Hollins asked.
Stu nodded sagely. “Our witness was squinting into the setting sun, is seventy-five not out and half-blind, but we found where this car parked.”
“You’ve got footprints and tyre prints, then,” Debbie said.
“And the crushed remains of an endangered parrot found only in a five-kilometre radius around the spa where Gary scared off the marksman. When we find a turquoise feather embedded in the wheel well of the perpetrator’s white … whatever … do you watch a lot of NCIS, Debbie? Me neither.”
“I can’t believe they still suspect Keith Tupaea,” Debbie said as they left the police station.
> “He has motive, means and opportunity, plus he’s disappeared again. Why would Keith run off if he’s innocent?”
She snorted.
“He’s an obvious suspect,” Hollins said.
“Bullshit. How did Keith get the gun? Where did he get the white car? There’d be a heap of records. Get real.”
Hollins shook his head. If Debbie Haring refused to be persuaded, there was nothing he could say to change her mind.
“I notice you didn’t mention Sophia going into the office. Did you tell them she was there?”
“She’s dead.”
That shut Debbie up.
“I’m going to see Glenn Braithwaite,” Hollins said.
“Then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you going to do once you’ve told Glenn what you think of him?”
“Go home.”
“What a great life plan. Sit in a doublewide and watch TV. Best of luck with that.”
“Are you coming?” Hollins asked.
“To see, Glenn? No thanks. I’m going to have a long shower and get on with something less disgusting.”
“Cheating husbands and light-fingered staff?”
“That’ll do for a start.”
Reminders of the so-called graffiti lingered on the shopfront, lighter patches painted over the abuse. Vote Gould on the window read Vot uld because the sign-writing hadn’t been repaired. Hollins wondered if the shop owner regretted getting involved with the Australian People’s Party campaign as much as he did.
Inside, the usually throbbing election hub was as forlorn as the exterior, deserted. Piles of election material gathered dust on the trestle tables.
Hollins went straight to the office.
Glenn, seated at Austin’s desk, hung up on a phone call. “Gary. Sorry I didn’t call. I’ve been busy cancelling stuff and fending off well-wishers. We don’t really have anything for you until Austin gets back.”
“He’ll be back?”
“Yes. Austin has to grieve. We all have to mourn, but this is a mission. We owe it to Sophia to see it through.”
“To Sophia? Did you owe it to Sophia to line up your pals to paint slogans on the windows?”
Glenn slid back on his seat. “What are you talking about?”
