by T. J. Beach
“I’m talking about racist homophobes pretending to be greenies to boost your party in the polls.”
“For goodness sake, Gary. I don’t understand. Where did you get the idea—”
“From the horse’s mouth. Chopper Wollinski. No wonder you were so shocked when Austin told you we had video of Chopper and his mates. You didn’t factor that into your plan, did you?”
Glenn shook his head. “Who’s Chopper?”
“He knows you.”
“Is that what he says?” The campaign manager frowned. “You should be careful what you say.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, spreading lies is defamation.”
“I don’t need to spread anything. Chopper had a long conversation with Detective Sergeant Reilly today. I believe DS Reilly will be coming to see you.”
“Look, I don’t know what this — what did you call him? Chopper? — I don’t know what he may have got into his head, but APP does not condone false flags. Our policies speak for us, proudly. This is awful on top of everything else.” He blinked as if tears welled in his eyes.
Hollins wasn’t fooled. “By God, you’re full of shit. To think I felt sorry for you.”
Glenn lifted a printout off Austin’s desk. “Did you see? We’re up four points in the polls.”
“I’m so glad Sophia’s death did some good.”
“They took the poll before she died. Austin’s ratings will go up even more now.” He slid the sheet back onto the desk with a sad half-smile. “Politics is a game for cynics. You don’t get it. You’re a political virgin, bless your heart. I thought you might have picked up a thing or two in your time with us.”
“Not a thing. Thank goodness.”
“Rule one: Never apologise. Never admit you’re wrong.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell Stu Reilly?”
“I will assure the detective he is misinformed, which he is. If our supporters have so misjudged our intentions that they’ve gone off on an ill-advised skylark, I’m disappointed.” Glenn held Hollins with his wide-eyed, innocent look. “We are co-operating in every way possible with the police investigation. We loved Sophia. We want her murderer to face justice.”
Gary shook his head. Glenn appeared to think that made up for faking vandalism.
“I’m wasting my time with you, aren’t I?” Glenn sighed. “I’ve never sacked anyone in my life, but I think we should let you go.”
“Thank you.” Hollins gave it as much savage pleasure as he could muster, but his efforts bounced off Glenn’s gloomy hide.
“These accusations you’ve made about the graffiti are inaccurate and defamatory. When Austin comes back,” he said, “we will use a professional protective service recommended by the police.”
“Ouch.”
Hollins left it at that. The Austin Gould campaign could do what it liked.
Hollins broke his boycott of news bulletins to watch coverage of Sophia Pendlebury’s funeral four days later.
Austin had his arms around the shoulders of two distraught kids — a girl and a boy. They stared ahead. He slumped, a picture of despair.
It put Hollins in a contemplative mood when he arrived at Lachlan’s cricket session.
“You came,” Debbie said. “I thought you might have died.”
“Did you see Sophia’s funeral on the news?”
“Austin with his kids.” Debbie let out a breath.
“Got me that way, too.”
“They said the police are following up on leads and calling for more witnesses.”
“Which means Stu’s got nothing, I guess.”
“Sounds like it. Would we have heard if the police found Keith Tupaea?” she asked.
“No.”
“I suppose not. I might call his mum again.”
“To tell her the police think her son killed Sophia Pendlebury?”
“I might fudge on that. I’ll ask Wendy how she’s going, how she and Keith are getting on.”
“Subtle. Glenn sacked me, by the way, for calling him names.”
“How unreasonable. Was he ashamed at being caught?”
“Not in the slightest. He looked hurt and denied everything, the lying gobshite.”
“How unusual in a political operative. I sent the APP a very large bill.”
“That’ll teach them.”
“And pay some of Ridenour Investigations’ expenses. Cricket, Gary. Focus.”
“G’day kids.” He practiced a grin.
“Bloody hell. They’ll run for their lives.”
“Pity. I’ve spent the last week alone in my kitchen designing innovative and effective training strategies.”
“Good to know you used your time wisely. I’m going to circulate tonight. I’ll watch Jennifer’s game and keep an eye on the other beginner groups.”
“You think the bully might lurk there?”
“I don’t think it’s Dan in Lachlan’s team. I wish it was. I’d love to slap down that kid and his asshole dad, but he ignores Lachlan and all the other littl’uns in your team.”
“Okay. I’ll keep my eye out, too.”
Halfway through the session, while pairs of children hurled balls at a cricket stump between them, Dave McManus engaged Yvette and Hanif’s mum in cheerful conversation.
While Hollins was distracted, Joanne lost control of a throw that went like a rocket straight into Lachlan’s jaw. Debbie’s son dropped to his knees, his hands over his face.
Yvette’s son Paul chased after the rebound.
“He’s got it, Dan,” Hollins warned as the overweight troublemaker lined up a shoulder barge to smash the smaller boy out of the way. He kept half an eye on developments while he rushed over to Lachlan.
“What happened, mate? Did you forget to duck?” He eased Debbie’s son upright and looked into his eyes for tears and signs of concussion.
“Sorry.” Lachlan looked at the ground.
“It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. You just missed a catch. We all do that. How’s your head?”
Lachlan shrugged.
Hollins bit his lip. The kid looked as if all the world’s troubles were on his shoulders, miserable. Flattened, just because he made a tiny mistake in front of his friends.
“Hanif,” his mum called. “Come with me. Mr McManus wants to talk to you in the change rooms.”
Lachlan went rigid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“IT’S DAVE.”
“What’s Dave?” Debbie asked.
“Lachy. The bullying. It’s Dave McManus.”
“I don’t understand. You think Dave is bullying Lachlan?”
Hollins swallowed a lump in his throat. “I hope it’s just bullying.”
The colour drained from Debbie’s face. “You think …?”
“Look, it’s just a suspicion.” A horridly strong suspicion bordering on certainty that made it impossible to even look in the direction of the man.
Debbie blinked a few times, her eyes round, distant.
“Lachlan is terrified of him. He’s a teacher at the primary school, right?” Hollins asked.
“Yes, but how can he be …. Christ.”
Hollins took a breath. “I get it. We really need to be sure before—”
“We?”
“Okay. I need to be completely sure. Here’s the thing. Dave’s around all the time at cricket. Have you noticed Lachy disappears when Dave comes by? Dave came to our group and took Hanif and some other kids for a private chat in the change rooms. If you’d seen the look on Lachlan’s face … He was petrified.”
“I can’t process this.” Debbie looked away, a hand to her chest.
“Breathe.”
“But Dave McManus won some award for community service, the camps—”
“A classic pattern. Priests and scout leaders—”
“That’s a sketch show stereotype—”
“It’s a stereotype because it’s true. They get themselves into positions that give th
em access.”
“They being pedophiles,” Debbie said. “Oh, my God. He takes Lachlan for sport.”
“And loads of other kids. We’ve been watching for three weeks. Have you seen any sign that Lachy has any problems with any other kids? Even Dan. But as soon as Dave McManus comes into view, Lachy turns into an automaton. We’ve got to check it out. I mean, I’ve got to check it out.”
Deb shoved the back of her hand into her mouth, closed her eyes. “This is a nightmare. We have to follow it up.”
When she got the kids home, Debbie sent Lachlan to the shower first.
Jennifer made it easy by lingering at the breakfast bar for a chat.
Debbie’s heart hammered at her ribs. If a pedophile had got his filthy mitts on her baby, she didn’t know if she could handle it. “How.” She gulped down a lump that stopped her from forcing the words out and threatened to choke her. She had to be so careful not to traumatise Jennifer. She had to sound calm whatever dire fears were churning in her guts. “Darling.” Better. Not bad, only a little shrill. “How was cricket tonight?”
“Good. Anne nearly hit a four.”
“That’s terrific. Mr McManus says you’re super good at cricket.”
Jennifer shrugged.
“Better than the boys.”
“Nick’s pretty good. He hit a six once, and he bowls really fast.”
“Awesome.” Debbie hung onto the kitchen bench to keep her hand from shaking while she struggled for a way to turn the conversation to Dave McManus without making it obvious. “How’s school?”
“All right. We’re doing equations.”
“You like maths?” That must come from Matt’s side.
“Yeah, and social science.”
But not what she needed to know, so she must ask the question that might destroy their family. “Sport?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s your sports teacher? Mr McManus?”
“He does all the sport.”
Her heart thudded up a notch. “I just thought, if you’re doing well at cricket …”
“Can I do gymnastics? Lynnette Spalding does gymnastics. It’s awesome. They learn backflips and everything.”
“No.” Yee Gods. First, Gary raised the prospect that Lachlan might have been abused. Now Jennifer wanted to switch to the sport world-famous for athlete abuse.
“How about Acro Dancing?” Jennifer asked. “Lynnette does that, too. They do flips as well.”
“I’ll have a look at it.” Dancing had to be better. “How much does it cost?”
“I don’t know.”
A bucketload, Debbie guessed. Everything for kids cost a fortune, but if it steered her daughter away from gymnastics …
She took a couple of soothing breaths, which lowered her pulse from imminent heart attack to near panic. “Do you like Mr McManus?”
Jennifer shrugged.
Very helpful. But better than it might have been.
The shower shut off.
Debbie had a couple more minutes tops before Lachlan came out dripping wet dragging his towel behind him.
“How is Mr McManus with the other kids? Have you ever seen him do anything … odd?”
“No.”
Strike one.
She tucked Lachlan into his sheets with his homework reading book.
He still loved to read.
Thank goodness that hadn’t been ruined by whatever demons had consumed her cheerful baby. Debbie lay down next to him, hanging half off the bed.
He shuffled to make room for her and let his mum slip her arm under his neck.
“What are we reading tonight, mate?” She basked in the warmth of a boy in pyjamas who smelt of children’s shampoo.
“Book seven.”
“Excellent. How’s it going? Did you like cricket tonight?”
“Yes.”
He flicked through the pages to his assigned chapter.
Okay. That didn’t work.
She switched to plan B, which worked so well with Jennifer. “How’s school?”
“Good.”
“What lessons do you like?”
“Err, painting?”
“How about sport?”
He stiffened.
A chill rose in Debbie’s chest. “How about Mr McManus?”
Lachlan’s shoulders hunched, his little fingers bit into the pages.
“Mate, has Mr McManus ever—”
“No.”
Way too fast.
Debbie bit her lip to stop herself screaming. What had the skunk done to her baby?
“Mummy.” He wriggled off her arm.
“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
No answer.
“Lachlan. You can tell me. Please tell me. You haven’t done anything wrong. Ever. I love you. Has Mr McManus done anything you didn’t like?”
“Can we read the book?” A plaintive appeal.
“Has he ever done anything with another boy? Or a girl?”
“Please?” He pulled the book up close to his nose. “Bon-ny has a … sss, st, ick, stick. He likes it when Sue … throws the stick.”
“Lachlan?”
He sniffled.
“What if I gave you a note to be excused from sport? Do any of your friends have notes like that? When the rest of the class goes for sport, you’d stay in the classroom with Miss Bryant. Would that be okay?”
He kept his face in his book, but nodded, and in a very small voice said, “Yes please, Mummy.”
Stu Reilly came around to Ridenour Investigations at Debbie’s request.
She asked Hollins to come, too.
It didn’t seem quite right to sit at her desk, but there weren’t any other options with the two men in the only visitors’ chairs. It felt weird asking Stu Reilly for help, after the way she’d treated him over the last twelve months.
“How’s the murder investigation going?” Hollins asked.
Stu grunted. “We’re about to start a check on every white vehicle in Bell’s Landing.”
“That bad?”
“Nearly. We’re chasing some leads. Possible suspects, but it’s thin.”
“Keith Tupaea?” Debbie asked.
“Still in the wind. He’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“Still a suspect, then?” Hollins put in.
“A person of interest. Is Kim joining us?” Stu asked.
“No.” Debbie glanced involuntarily towards Kim’s empty office. She needed to get her nerves under control. “This is personal and I thought, given the subject, the fewer people involved, the better.”
Stu shifted uncomfortably. “Oh. What did you want to tell me?”
Debbie ran through it.
Telling should have been cathartic. Sharing her fears should make them easier to face, but it didn’t. The words got harder to force out of her chest the more she said. Her head started to swim.
“Jeezus,” Stu said when she’d choked out the last of the story. “Your son?”
She nodded.
“Jeezus. You must be at the end of your tether.”
Debbie exhaled sharply, relieved, struck by a strange feeling she’d never felt for Stu Reilly before. It might have been respect. “That’s it, pretty much. Matt, too.”
“Dave McManus?” Stu confirmed.
“Yes. He’s sports specialist at the primary school.”
“The guy who runs the camps? Didn’t he win some award?”
“He was nominated for W.A. Australian of the Year in the community services category.”
“Bloody hell.”
“I know,” Gary said. “But isn’t it a classic child abuse scenario?”
“Yep,” Stu said.
Gary jumped in. “I know what we’re accusing him of. I’m scared stiff to touch the kids myself in case someone thinks I’m a rock spider. The first time he talked to me, I thought, ‘he thinks I’m a pedo’. Then he got all chummy, asking me to help him out at these camps. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but maybe he does
think I’m a pedo’ — single guy, volunteering to coach.”
“Okay,” Stu said. “I get it. You think maybe he was offering an invitation.”
“Could be. It didn’t strike me at the time, but then I noticed how Lachlan reacts whenever Dave comes into view. The poor kid is terrified of him. He goes all blank.”
Stu turned back to Debbie. “You’ve talked to Lachlan?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Nothing. He didn’t say a thing, but that’s the point. He wouldn’t discuss it, wouldn’t answer my questions.”
“And your husband?”
“He doesn’t get back until tonight. He works FIFO. Dave McManus must have told Lachlan to keep quiet. It’s what they do, isn’t it? ‘Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell your mum or you’ll get into trouble’.”
“Yes. They do. But … please don’t take this the wrong way, Deb. How did you ask the questions? Could you have scared him?”
“No. Not a chance.” She remembered Lachlan jumping off her arm, but she wasn’t going to tell Stu that.
The detective rubbed at his chin. “I’ll have a word with the people in Perth. I guess they’ll have experts who know how to interview kids about this stuff.”
“Christ,” Hollins said, “what a job.”
“Would you let one of those guys talk to Lachlan?” Stu asked Debbie.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“See what you can do? You’ll question McManus, won’t you? Look at his computer?”
Stu shifted again. “Here’s the thing. I’m with you, Debbie. I believe everything you’ve told me, but it’s not proof. I’m a parent. If this were my Sarah or Katie, I’d be tearing the walls down, like you are, but in this seat, I’m a sworn officer, and I have to consider the possibility that you might be wrong. I can’t go blundering in and destroy a guy’s life without at least an actual complaint.”
“I’m complaining!”
“That a teacher scares your son? That you think he’s a pedophile? Has Dave McManus made inappropriate contact with a child in Lachlan’s class?”
“Christ, I hope not!”
“Have you seen him taking pictures or hanging around playgrounds any more than’s required for his job? He’s never been convicted of anything. I can tell you that without even looking because to teach, he has to have a Working With Children Certificate.”
