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

by T. J. Beach

  Which showed how much film stars knew.

  “I don’t,” Austin went on. “I have many, many acquaintances, a wide circle of pleasant, entertaining social contacts keen to catch up, but few of them are friends. It’s an occupational hazard. I chose the most insecure business on the planet. It’s all about the next show. ‘Did you make the auditions for the doctor in that serial?’ ‘Have they picked the director for that special?’ Friends are very important to me. Those I do have are all back in Victoria and New South Wales.”

  “Sophia and Glenn?”

  “Soph, of course. Glenn? Soph’s pal, definitely. They went way back to college. Did you know he was an actor?”

  “She said something about that.”

  “I didn’t know him then, but Soph said he was the best of the lot of them, the star of every college production, man most likely to succeed. The other students were in awe of him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He didn’t make it. Talent is handy, but the main factor is luck. First, there’s the gene pool lottery. The camera likes some faces and doesn’t like others. Some people don’t have the body shape that fits the roles. Some have the gift for talking their way into opportunities. Glenn’s had terrible luck. He was never in the right place at the right time. He was understudy to Howard Dickens in a huge Sydney production of Billy Liar. Howie went off on one of his benders. Glenn was lined up for a glorious debut in the lead role, but he tripped on the theatre stairs, cracked a tooth and his jaw swelled so much he could barely speak. Ambrose Heinsen was next in line.”

  “The guy out of the Rejuvenator movies?” Even Hollins knew him. “He’s Australian?”

  “Yes. Ambrose was spotted playing Billy, and the rest is history. Glenn tried writing. He was okay, but not brilliant. Then he got into the production side.”

  Hollins saw it in terms he could understand — a brilliant footballer who broke his leg and never played again or a swimmer who would have won Olympic gold in any other era but came up against an all-time great. “Is he bitter?” It would explain a lot.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever seen that. Glenn’s never been out of work so far as I know. Not many in our industry can say that.”

  “You went into politics to help him out?” Hollins remembered something about Glenn being the driving force.

  “Soph put it together. The producers aren’t exactly kicking the door down for a typecast TV priest. I’ve always been interested in current affairs. It seemed like a great idea for us both, but the job’s harder than I thought. I knew I’d have to wear my shoes out knocking on doors, but …”

  “The politics?” Hollins asked.

  Austin snorted. “Precisely, who’d have thought there’d be so much politics in politics? Everyone knows it’s a dirty game, but ….”

  “You didn’t realise how dirty?”

  Austin found something interesting in the vineyards sliding past.

  Too good an opportunity to let pass. “Was that what the row was about this morning?”

  Austin flashed him a look.

  “I got the feeling some of the things Glenn said to Stu took you by surprise.”

  Austin grunted.

  “About Keith and ….”

  “A misunderstanding. Our memories of the conversations with Soph didn’t quite align. We sorted it out.”

  “Did you know about the graffiti? That Glenn set it all up as a publicity stunt?”

  Austin glanced over his shoulder at Josh, who stared straight ahead as if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. “That’s …” Austin shook his head. “It’s too late now. It’s done. We’re in too deep.”

  Hollins waited, hoping silence would draw an admission of some sort. Nothing came. “Will it happen again?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Good.”

  Hollins let Austin shake his head in silent contemplation while he concentrated on a series of curves, then tested the last of his three lines of inquiry. “What if Keith was yours? Have you thought about that?”

  “Heavens, yes. Then I’d have another son. I’d have liked that.”

  “How do you think your other son and daughter would feel about that?”

  Austin smiled. “Thrilled. They’re great kids.”

  “A twenty-something, gay, Maori brother.”

  “What are you saying? You don’t know Candace and John.”

  “I was thinking more about APP policy.”

  “We’re not anti-gay or racist.”

  Hollins could have argued that, based on the media coverage. His reaction must have shown.

  “Our immigration policy gets attacked by the politically correct, cancel culture media, and within this car.” Austin checked the back seat for spies. “I’m not a hundred per cent on some of the detail myself, but it is not race-based. It’s a matter of numbers. When Australians can’t find work, it’s plain common sense that the economy can’t absorb tens of thousands of migrants every year whether they come from India or Indianapolis.”

  “We should keep the Yanks out,” Hollins said.

  Austin grinned. “What about poms?”

  “We’ve got enough of them, too.”

  Even Josh snorted at that one. He was awake, after all.

  “And,” Austin wagged a finger. “If the APP were homophobic, I would not have joined.”

  “Fair enough, but if it came out that Keith was your son, it would cause problems for your campaign — even if it came out now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe. I prefer to think that my fans would expect Pastor D’Arcy to come clean and embrace the son he didn’t know he had. You realise half of them think I really am a post-war country cleric who solves crime between sermons?”

  “I do,” Hollins said.

  Austin stared off into the passing scenery again. “I don’t care. If Keith was mine, then I’ve missed a huge chance to get to know my son and make up for twenty years absent.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  DEBBIE GOT TO cricket early because Jennifer had a crucial meeting with her friend Annie about a birthday party on the weekend.

  Gary was already at the first practice station, checking the exercise instructions against the equipment. “Hi, Lachlan. Hello, ladies. Good to see you in your Charlton Athletic gear.”

  Jennifer pulled at her red tee-shirt. “Go the attics! Ooh, Annie. Annie!” She ran off.

  “It’s the Addicks,” Gary hollered after her. “Add-icks. Never mind. I know what to get Lachy and Jen for Christmas, anyway. Charlton Athletic scarves.”

  “Yeah, because every kid needs knitted goods to warm their neck at Christmas in Australia.”

  “Caps? Training shirts?”

  Debbie shook her head. “I’ll check with Matt if it’s okay to poison his son’s mind with soccer.” Under no circumstances would she let Gary Hollins know that planning to buy her children presents warmed her heart a little.

  Lachlan took off to chat with his friend Paul, giving Debbie an opportunity to catch up. “Did you find out what Austin and Glenn argued about?”

  “Not really. Austin says it was all a misunderstanding. Slightly different recollections of the discussion they had with Sophia about Keith.”

  “Glenn lied then.”

  “That’s about how I read it. We ended up having a bit of a heart-to-heart. He really wanted to meet Keith. He was hoping that Keith was his son.” He hesitated, frowning. “What does that look mean?”

  “It means I’m calling bullshit. No way!”

  “It would have been terrible for the campaign, sure, but he wanted another son.”

  “Maybe he did, but no way did he want a black son.”

  “Well, I believed him—”

  “Because you’re an idiot. Austin Gould is a racist.”

  “Where are you getting that from? He says—”

  “Remember when Jennifer was sprouting Noongar at everybody?”

  “Yeah, it was brilliant. Boonjah budjip, whatever it was.”


  Debbie winced. “Well, she said something like that in front of the great man, and he went into a rant about stone age savages — seriously racist.”

  Hollins shrugged. “Shit. I remember that, but then why would he say he wanted a Maori kid as his son?”

  “Because he won’t get elected when everyone finds out he’s racist.”

  “We were on our own in the car — except Josh. Austin had just finished telling me how much he wanted me to be his friend.”

  “Seriously? He must be desperate.”

  “Apparently, show business people are all false and out for what they can get.”

  “That’s a shock. You need to remember Austin Gould is an actor.”

  “The question is what role he’s playing.”

  “That’s deep. The Great Gatsby? Heathcliff? Sabrina the teenage witch?”

  “An election candidate, D’Arcy Shawcross or the real Austin Gould.”

  “You’re sure there is one?”

  “I am when I’m with him. By the time he’d finished, I felt quite sorry for the poor man. He’s just lost his partner.”

  “He’s an actor.”

  “Easy for you to say. You weren’t there. Glenn Braithwaite’s an actor as well. Did you know that? And a writer, before he got into the production side.”

  “He couldn’t get enough make-believe in soap operas, so he got into politics.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, pardon me for being unimpressed. I’m thinking about Wendy Tupaea.”

  Gary dropped his chin, nodded.

  “I tried to ring her today. No answer, which was probably a good thing because I had no idea what to say.”

  “She’d have appreciated it, whatever you said.”

  “Sheesh, imagine losing a child.”

  They shook heads together.

  Then Gary’s eyebrows rose. “Heads up. Incoming.” He plastered on a grin. “G’day, Dave.”

  “G’day, Gary, Debbie.”

  She nodded, unable to speak while her skin crawled with revulsion at the disgusting little man with his stupid St Kilda hat.

  “I enjoyed the drinks,” Gary said, gushing as if he’d had the time of his life. “Tim, Craig and Greg are good company.” He smiled at the guy. How on earth did you do that to a pervert hellbent on destroying the lives of Bell’s Landing boys? Gary was a better actor than Austin bloody Gould.

  “Great. They’re a good bunch. We’ll do it again soon.”

  ”Awesome.”

  McManus checked his watch. “Oops. Time to let the hordes loose.” He blew his whistle to start the first exercise but hung around while Gary called together the boys and Joanne to get the first session started — fielding. Lachlan hung at the back of the group, farthest from his school sports teacher, staring warily.

  Debbie edged away, willing the pedophile to go and stink up another part of the field, preferably another town. One without children.

  McManus sidled after her.

  “He’s got a natural touch with the children.” McManus nodded towards Gary. “Was he a teacher in a past life?”

  “Not that I know of,” Debbie replied through teeth clenched against the urge to spit on him.

  “Gary works with you at the detective agency, right?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s he like at work?”

  “A dickhead.” Why wouldn’t he piss off? She so wanted to knee the rotten skunk in the groin and stamp on his chest.

  “Sorry, I know it’s not necessary now Gary’s got his Working With Children, but if anyone asks, I want to be able to tell people I did due diligence before we accepted him onto the camp team. You can’t be too careful.”

  Tell me about it.

  “So, at work?”

  Grumpy, but reliable. She’d trust him with her life. In fact, she did every time she left him alone with Lachlan or Jennifer. She stopped herself saying it out loud just in time. McManus needed to hear Gary was as slimy as he was. “Gary’s fine when he turns up. I don’t really know him. He’s quite secretive, especially about what he did before he came to Australia.”

  “Oh?”

  Nothing like telling the truth to sound convincing.

  “Why do you think that is?” McManus asked.

  “No idea. I think he was in the army, saw action, maybe it’s PTSD.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah. Gary doesn’t talk about it.”

  “But you think young children will be safe on a camp with him?” He put on a clownish, toothy grin as if the whole conversation was a joke.

  Debbie wasn’t fooled.

  The boys would be a million times safer with Gary Hollins than with you and your pedo’ mates. She made herself shrug. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Good. Thanks for talking to me. I’d better be getting on.”

  The sleazy prick turned on his heel and went back to do whatever he did at the admin desk. He should keep walking, right back to his smelly St Kilda man cave.

  A light bulb went on in her head.

  Some nights getting the kids through the shower into their PJs felt like pulling out her own teeth. Okay, most nights. Itching to test her theory made it ten times worse, but she didn’t snap at them once. Saint Debbie.

  Gary rang in the middle of it. “What was that all about, with McManus?” he asked. “What did he want? I didn’t like to ask in front of the kids.”

  “So, you ring me while I’m reading Lachlan his story?”

  “Oh. G’day, Lachy.”

  The little monkey wriggled to get his cheek next to hers. “Hi, Gary.” She feasted on the woolly fragrance of soap and warm boy.

  “I should say, goodnight Lachy.”

  “G’night, Gary.” He slipped back under his covers.

  Debbie kissed the top of Lachlan’s head before she dealt with Gary. “Call you back in about twenty minutes?”

  “Fair enough.”

  While she completed the melodic tale of Bushranger Bill the koala and his misfit band of marsupials, Lachlan sucked his thumb. Her little man had fallen back to old habits he’d grown out of, and Debbie couldn’t bring herself to challenge him. Anything that made her son feel secure.

  She tucked him in, closed his bedroom door, paused for a moment in front of Jennifer’s, then threw it open to a flurry of blankets and pillow as her eldest pretended to be asleep.

  “Jennifer!”

  She made a snuffling snore sound.

  Hiding a grin, Debbie strode to the bed, slipped her hand under the duvet and came out with the latest addition to the adventures of Geronimo Stilton — mouse detective. If they didn’t police it, Jennifer would read all night, but there were a lot worse ways to defy your parents than ruining your eyes reading in the dark.

  “It was just a few pages, Mum.”

  Debbie huffed and put the book out of reach among the dolls on Jennifer’s kid-height table. She pivoted back to kiss her daughter on the cheek, then slipped out and shut the door.

  She waited in the hallway until swelling love and despair resolved and she could breathe again. How could anyone prey on such innocence?

  Re-set from mum to Debbie, the Detective of Doom who rained vengeance on all her enemies, she marched to her laptop on the dining table, and with fingers tingling with horrified anticipation, called up the disgusting images from the McManus man cave. She watched until he’d entered the password, jabbed the pause button before he got to his nauseating pictures, then rewound and mirrored his tapping on the keyboard.

  She did it twice more, then grabbed up her phone and dialled Gary.

  “I’ve got it,” she said as soon as he answered the phone.

  “Is it catching? It sounds terrible,” Gary replied.

  “His password. It’s s-k-f-c.”

  “What the—”

  “It came to me at Lachlan’s cricket. Men and their football teams.”

  “Aah, got it, St Kilda Football Club — s-k-f-c. And the numbers? It’s s
-k-f-c and four digits.”

  “I haven’t worked that out yet, but we’re damned close now.” Debbie could feel it in her sternum.

  “Awesome.”

  “Once we’ve got the numbers, we have the capacity to open his hard drive for the police.”

  “I was going to come to that. We can get it anytime, but how do we tell the police we got it?”

  Always the problems from Gary Hollins — such a male. “We’ll work that out. We could say we stumbled across the hard drive discarded in his rubbish bin.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  She held her phone away and stared at the screen. Yes, Gary had just complimented her.

  “What happened with Dave tonight?” he asked.

  “Don’t call him ‘Dave’. He’s not your friend.”

  “Okay … what do I call him?”

  “The sleazy prick.”

  “What happened with the sleazy prick? What did you talk about?”

  “He wanted a reference for you to join his pedophile camping club. ‘How is he at work? Can he be trusted with children?’ That sort of thing.”

  A stunned pause. “What did you say?”

  “I figured I shouldn’t make you sound too respectable. He mentioned the agency way more than necessary. I think he’s caught on that you’re a private detective.”

  “I am not a private detective.”

  “True, but you know what I mean. I think he’s suspicious.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you’re not bad for a beginner, but you’ve got secrets, and I thought you were suffering from PTSD after bad experiences in the British military.”

  She listened to Hollins breathing for a second or two. “I got close, didn’t I? You were in the SAS, weren’t you?”

  “How did he react?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And you didn’t answer mine. How did D … the sleazy prick react?”

  “All ‘aren’t-I-a-jolly-community-legend’. I think he’ll invite you back for the next rock spider reunion. It’s making me sick. We are surrounded by frigging actors at the moment.”