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

by T. J. Beach

  “Motocross mostly. We’ve been spotlighting a few times.”

  “Gary!” Austin came out of his office and made straight for them, hands spread.

  The M&M boss jumped after his charge, speaking urgently into his neck mic.

  Utter tossers.

  Austin’s arms closed around Hollins’ chest, knocking him back a step. “Thanks. It’s good to have you back.” He let him go, with a smile .

  “You know Bozza?” Hollins asked.

  Bozza leapt to attention.

  “Of course, how are you going?” Austin offered his hand.

  Bozza grabbed on and pumped. “Fine. I’m really sorry for your loss, Austin.”

  The candidate sighed and patted his volunteer on the shoulder. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

  The gesture jolted Hollins. He’d seen it so many times researching Warrior of God episodes, but he had no time for further consideration of the typecast versus role-playing conundrum.

  “You got here right on cue. We’re off.” Gould handed Hollins a set of keys. “It’s a Prado. Not as nice as the Lexus.” He shuddered. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous. We’re going to Dunsborough.”

  Hollins sucked in a breath. “Same road. We’ll pass the spot. It’s the only direct route.”

  “I know. It brings it all back. Obviously, the sniper won’t be at the same place, but it’s so hard to believe that someone out there is trying to kill me.” He turned to Bozza. “Sorry. D’Arcy Shawcross would be braver, but I’m not him.”

  “Is Glenn coming?” Hollins asked

  “Yes. And Josh.” He indicated the chocolate soldier chief. “Freddo will follow in the M&M car.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DEBBIE JUMPED UP when she heard a car on her driveway. She took her cocoa to the front door and sipped while Gary stopped the engine of his old pickup and got out.

  “Shhh,” she warned, “kids are asleep.”

  Hollins nodded.

  She led him down the hallway and through an obstacle course of discarded toys and colouring books in the lounge to the rear sliding door. “We’ll sit out on the patio. Can I get you a beer?”

  “Any chance of a cuppa?”

  “Long day?”

  “Weird day.”

  He made himself comfortable in the camp chair Matt favoured. It must be a guy thing.

  She shut the sliding door behind them. “What happened?”

  “Nothing much. It was just super strange. Austin hugged me.”

  “I bet Glenn didn’t.”

  “No. He couldn’t wait to tell me that he took in his car to be inspected by the police.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Glenn’s hire car is a white SUV, so he took it in the next morning after the police announced they were checking white cars.”

  “I can’t believe he’s still trying to convince you he’s a straight arrow.”

  “Well, that’s Gloomy Glenn for you. He avoided me after that, acted as though I wasn’t there, which made for an interesting hour in the car.”

  “Austin’s got you driving again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “M&M didn’t try to recruit you to their confectionary business?”

  “No. Tossers.”

  “Because they haven’t realised you’re one of them? Don’t they know the secret handshake? Don’t you know the secret handshake?”

  “They’re just gobshites.”

  “You’re not impressed.”

  Hollins pulled his mug to his chest. “I was, actually. I had to drive the same route I did last time, past the murder scene.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, Austin was a mess, all jitters, but the M&M boss man, Josh, calmed him down. The other guy — can you believe he’s called Freddo?”

  “Err, yes.”

  “A chocolate man called Freddo.” Hollins grinned.

  “I get it. Like a Freddo Frog chocolate bar.”

  “Freddo followed behind in their car. That’s a good move. One man can’t stop two cars at once. We could have done with a vehicle to get Sophia and Austin away. And, at the function, they had a real presence. They could do without all the bollocks — girly earplugs and aviator glasses. They’re good, but they don’t have to go on like they’re Men in Black.”

  “Jeesh, it’s hard to process that there’s a killer on the loose gunning for Austin Gould. Do you think he’ll try again?”

  “If he does, he’ll have his work cut out. For a start, I’m driving a monster of an SUV now with tinted windows. But if someone wants to kill our man, why wouldn’t he try again?”

  “How do you feel about that? I mean, you’re in the firing line.”

  “That’s the strangest bit. I didn’t think about it much until Austin got the shakes. It brings it back, but that’s what I wanted to talk about.”

  “Austin’s trauma? You want me to have a chat?”

  “Hah, no. I don’t want him freaked out. He’s dealing with it in his own way. It’s tough to watch. I meant the sniper and whether he’ll try again.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, it’s not. What if killing Sophia was a terrible accident?”

  “It was. The shooter wanted to kill Austin.”

  “What if they didn’t?”

  “Sophia was the target?”

  “No. What if the plan was to make it look like an assassination attempt? Think about this. Glenn Braithwaite organised the graffiti to get a boost in the polls for Austin, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if he organised the shooting, too?”

  “What the hell? That’s a massive jump. Didn’t you say it would need a skilled target shooter? A trained sniper?”

  “No, I didn’t. Certainly not an expert. It was a top-of-the-line target rifle with a high-quality scope, the sort a sniper would use, but you can buy both online.”

  “So, who made the shot?”

  “How about Chopper Wollinski? Look, I went back to the scene, into the field where the shooter set up. I watched cars go around the bend. Any half-decent shot could have picked out Austin, anyone who’s bagged a deer—”

  “Like Keith. Or a ’roo.”

  “A what?”

  “Australians don’t hunt deer. They go kangaroo shooting. I’m annoyed you still suspect Keith.”

  “I don’t. We know it wasn’t him.”

  “Good.”

  “Alright, anyone who’s shot a kangaroo could have picked out Austin from that spot with that rifle. In fact, just about anyone could have made the shot Glenn wanted because he didn’t mean to kill Austin. The sniper was supposed to put a bullet through the windscreen and set off another round of media coverage. He missed. By a bloody mile. The shooter wasn’t a marksman at all.”

  It had a frightening logic.

  “What’s spotlighting?” Hollins asked.

  “You go out into the bush at night, usually on someone’s farm, in a four-wheel drive, with a torch. You swing the torch around until you see a kangaroo. It freezes in the light, and you shoot it.”

  “Aaah. Bozza — you know, the head goon? — said he goes spotlighting with Chopper.”

  “Shit. It’s starting to make sense. What did Stu Reilly say?”

  “I haven’t told him.”

  “You thought you’d run it by me first?”

  “When we spoke to Chopper, that time at the motocross, did he say anything that would add suspicion?”

  “Or clear him?”

  “That too. Remember we told Chopper we were in on the fake.”

  “Yes, let me think.”

  They fell into a contemplative silence.

  “He said something like ‘haven’t I done enough?’” Debbie said. She didn’t like the way the conversation was going, couldn’t bring herself to latch onto Gary’s daft theory, but she had to admit Chopper’s reaction that day seemed over the top.

  Hollins nodded gravely.

  “He’d probably done something we don’t know about,” Debbie ad
ded.

  “Yep, like taking a shot that killed the candidate’s lover!”

  “No. It was too strong a reaction for daubing paint, but not nearly enough for killing someone. Murder is a humungous step from graffiti. Even shooting out a windscreen. Come on. Chopper’s just a rural redneck.”

  “I know these guys. I’ve dealt with—” Hollins clamped his mouth shut.

  “Oh, yeah. What guys? And how do you know them? What did they do? What did you do?” Debbie stared him in the eye.

  Hollins looked away. “What did he drive?”

  “Who? What?”

  “Did you see Chopper’s car?”

  “I can’t say that I noticed.” But she knew what Gary wanted. “I didn’t see a white SUV. Are you going to spill this to our glorious Detective Sergeant?” She hoped not. It seemed so thin, so desperate on Gary’s part. Perhaps he was as keen to divert the police from Keith Tupaea as she was. That would be a good thing.

  “I’m not ready to share this with the boys in blue just yet,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “We should have a look in Chopper’s house.”

  “I can just see Chopper inviting us in. ‘Do you mind if we search your belongings for evidence of murder while you get the kettle on, Chopper?’” Debbie asked.

  “A guy who buys a three thousand dollar rifle on the internet is not a guy who owns one gun. If Chopper’s our man, he’ll have an arsenal.”

  Debbie shrugged. “Stu could find that out in seconds — firearms must be licenced in this country.”

  “If Chopper had an NULA Model 40 legally, Stu would already have been around there. But you’re Dodgy Utility Girl.”

  “I don’t like that name.”

  “Good.”

  Debbie drew satisfaction from Gary asking for her alter ego’s help. “She needs a name. I think I’ll get ‘Jane’ embroidered over ‘Supervisor’. I’m going to call her Jane Doe.”

  “Jane Duh, more like.” Hollins drank from his mug to cover his smirk.

  “Is this the way to elicit support when you want me to snoop around a gun nut’s house? Gee. Thanks. I have children and a husband. Nothing to lose.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll do it. Sorry I asked. The Dave McManus situation got me thinking about Dodgy Utility Girl, that’s all. I thought you enjoyed that sort of thing. I thought—”

  “Jane Doe would do it better than Gary Hollins?”

  “Maybe.”

  “She totally would.”

  “True. I don’t have Dodgy Utility Girl’s special resources. The overalls wouldn’t fit, and I don’t have a clipboard. I’ll cover your back if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Debbie screwed up her nose. She would do the job better than Gary, and she definitely wouldn’t lend him her snap gun. He could find his own locksmith to sweet talk into selling him one and buy his own detectors. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. By the way, I got a call from McManus. He invited me out for a drink with his other camp counsellors.”

  “You accepted, of course.”

  “Yep. It’s tomorrow night. I might have to ask for leave from Austin, but the chocolate soldiers can cover for me.”

  “Do it.”

  “What have you got from the cameras in his spare bedroom?”

  “What cameras?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Nothing useful yet. How long can the sleazy prick go without looking at his hard drive, do you think? Not long, I reckon.”

  “How about the school?” Hollins asked.

  She paused. “Someone hypothetical could get surveillance in place. I’ve been thinking it through. There are too many people around during the day. It would have to be after dark, and the school has security patrols and such like.”

  “I’m joking.”

  “I’m not. You haven’t seen Lachlan when he goes quiet.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “It’s terrifying.”

  “I bet it is.”

  They stared into the garden shadows for a while.

  “What room would be best at the school? Do you think he has an office at work?” Debbie asked.

  “No.”

  “He wouldn’t do anything in the staffroom.”

  “You’re going to wear out those bloody overalls.” Gary shook his head.

  Dave McManus’s pals met at The Fire Station, one of the snobby bars in the heart of Bell’s Landing where pints came with tasting notes and cost as much as a main course at the Espy.

  Hoses, axes and fireman hats on the walls faced a long bar with a huge blackboard advertising the dozens of ales on offer. Half the booths — hard benches with no cushions — had customers: all yuppies and neatly-trimmed middle-aged couples. Hollins felt uncomfortable enough facing a meeting with McManus’s grubby team without being surrounded by country club rejects. What made people want to pay over the odds to drink booze that tasted of anything but beer in a junk shop open to the weather through a huge hole in the wall at the back?

  Hollins couldn’t see any pedophiles from the door, so he walked to the hole in the wall, which led to a beer garden. Old seats, plywood on metal tube frames like they used to have in the church halls when he was an ankle-biter, sprawled around cable drums turned on their side for tables on an uneven floor of recycled house bricks. The massive profits from the alcohol sales obviously didn’t go into decor.

  McManus jumped up from the table in the corner, wearing his St Kilda cap and sports shorts as usual. Did he own any other clothes?

  “Over here, Gary. Come and meet these useless losers.”

  Hollins fitted on a smile. Into the valley of death …

  “This is Greg. He’s an accountant.” Big smile, bushy beard, what looked like used engine oil in his glass — porter?

  “Tim’s an air conditioning mechanic.” Hair cropped to minimise a bald patch. Firm, dry handshake, drinking something pale and cloudy.

  “Last and definitely least, Craig. He’s in insurance.” He would be. He looked Hollins right in the eye when he shook. His beer was the colour of tea — IPA probably.

  “What are you drinking?” Dave asked.

  “Do they have any lager?”

  “A couple of great Belgian wheat beers.” Tim showed his glass.

  “I think there’s a pilsner,” Craig offered helpfully.

  “Pilsner, then,” Hollins said.

  McManus set off to fill the order.

  “What do you do for a living?” Craig asked.

  “As little as possible.” Hollins put a grin on to avoid offence. Apart from the fact that he’d told the complete truth, he disliked the way people pigeonholed everyone based on their profession.

  McManus paused his journey to the bar. “Gary’s a private detective.”

  “I am not.”

  “He works for Ridenour Investigations.” McManus disappeared through the hole in the wall leaving his three boys’ camp colleagues staring at Hollins, expecting details.

  “What do you do for the detective agency?” Tim asked.

  “Not much. Dave exaggerates. He’s drawing conclusions from …” Hollins decided not to provide any details. “What I do for a crust mostly is caravan park maintenance.”

  “You don’t work for Ridenour’s?” Craig asked.

  “Well, yes, I’ve done work for them. Debbie Haring, who runs the agency, keeps trying to turn me into a model citizen.”

  They chuckled dutifully.

  “So, what’s the last detective job you did?” Craig wouldn’t let it go.

  Hollins jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “I just came from driving Austin Gould to a campaign do.”

  “I suppose he needed a new driver after the last one got his wife killed,” Greg, the accountant, put in.

  “Err, I was driving then, too.” The admission brought the usual flutter of guilt.

  “Oh, wow.” Greg slammed his beer down. “So, the bullet …?”

  Hollins waved his arm over his left shoul
der.

  They whistled and grunted in appreciation of his near-miss.

  “Bloody hell.” Tim paused. “You’re not much good then?”

  “Tim!” the others objected.

  Hollins smiled ruefully. “I told you I wasn’t a private detective.” And nor did he ever wish to be one.

  Tim changed the subject. “So, Austin Gould? What’s he like?”

  “A bit of a mess at the moment.”

  “I can imagine. Losing your wife like that,” Tim said.

  Hollins found Tim’s insistence that Sophia Pendlebury was married to Austin annoying, disrespectful. People should at least pay enough attention to get the basic facts right if they were going to speculate about someone they didn’t know — especially someone Hollins liked.

  “How’d it be to have someone trying to kill you?” Craig took a slug of his beer.

  “And the killer’s still out there.” McManus put a glass in front of Hollins. “Wrap your laughing gear around that, mate.”

  Hollins took the excuse to opt-out of a conversation that had him squirming in his seat. The beer was cold and refreshing — most acceptable.

  “Good, eh?” Craig asked.

  Hollins nodded. It was. He just didn’t see why you would pay twelve bucks for it when you could get Swan Lager for six bucks in happy hour at the Espy and sit in a proper seat that didn’t make your ass sore.

  “How did you get to be a detective?” Tim asked.

  “Bad luck. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I bumped into Debbie, and she nags me into helping out.”

  “Well, as long as you’re not another Sainter.” Craig waved his beer at McManus’s St Kilda cap.

  “No.”

  Craig leaned in. “Which is it then? Eagles or Dockers?”

  Because Western Australians assumed everyone followed one or other of the state’s AFL teams.

  Hollins raised his beer. “Charlton Athletic.”

  “Soccer!”

  “Yep.”

  With the discussion steered to safe male territory — why anyone could follow a pansy sport where players collapsed in agony if a butterfly flapped by when they could watch grown men hurling themselves at each other — the next hour and a second pint put Hollins in a mellow mood. He almost forgot he was supposed to be unmasking pedophiles. The guys were everyday, middle-aged blokes. Easy-going, friendly men with families and mortgages welcoming a newcomer into their circle — everyone except Dave was married with their own kids. Hollins couldn’t see them as anything but what they seemed to be, decent fellows willing to give up a few weekends for kids less fortunate than theirs — local heroes.