After a lifetime of bad decisions, PI Caleb Zelic is finally making good ones. He's in therapy, his business is recovering, and his relationship with his estranged wife Kat, who is pregnant after a devastating history of miscarriages, is on the mend after heading for divorce. However, life has other plans in store for him. Soon Caleb is drawn into the tangled world of his troubled ex-partner Frankie, whose addictions had her working with criminals and endangering Kat - and this time their pairing leads to a confrontation with the cops. When Frankie's niece is kidnapped, she and Caleb must work together against time to save the child's life. But can Caleb trust her after her past betrayals? As the bodies pile up, Caleb must also find who is sabotaging his friend Alberto's catering business and vandalising his Deaf community cafe.
Release date:
March 16, 2021
Publisher:
Pushkin Vertigo
Print pages:
352
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1. A children’s farm was a nice change. Clandestine meetings were usually held in dark pubs, not urban pastures with good sightlines and pleasant views. Half an hour before closing time, a few families were still out wandering the gardens and gazing at cows. Crisp air and deep-blue sky, a lingering warmth to the late afternoon sun. Melbourne autumn at its best. Caleb paid the staggering entrance fee and headed down the path at a brisk pace. The five-block drive from his office had taken twenty minutes thanks to roadworks, and everything about this possible client screamed anxiety – the anonymous email address and lack of phone number, the request they meet immediately. A feeling of lightness despite the rush to get here: the end of a good day, in a good week, in a greatly improved year. Thank God. Caleb reached an enclosed garden with amber-leaved trees. Fluffy chickens were scratching at the ground, their feathers moulting like snow. No self-described stocky man in a charcoal suit. No men at all. Just a mother and her bandy-legged toddler offering grass to the disinterested birds. A glimpse into a possible future: a small hand in his, Kat by his side, an afternoon together in the sun. The mother turned and said something to him. Her words were too fast to catch, but her expression was clear: Go away weird, smiling man. He left. No one was waiting on the other side of the gate, or by the barns. Looked like Martin Amon was a no-show. A bit of a surprise; the man hadn’t come across as flaky in their brief email conversation. No worrying overuse of capital letters or exclamation marks, just a few blunt sentences that gave the impression of someone used to taking charge. Maybe it was just as well. Odds were, Amon was an uptight manager worried about minor fraud, but his urgency could also signal something more ominous. The exact kind of work Caleb avoided these days. He only took safe jobs now – employee checks and embezzlement cases, security advice – nothing that could bring fear and violence back into his life. A lesson finally learned after his brother. After Frankie. He looped around the far side of the garden for a final look. More chickens here, three of them pecking at a darkened patch of grass near a wooden shed. Small lumps of something pale and glistening. A cloying smell, like a butcher’s shop on a summer’s day. He knew that smell, still started from his dreams with it thickening his breath. He stopped walking. A long drag-mark led from the birds into the shed; wet, as though someone had slopped a dirty mop across the grass. Stray tufts of down had stuck to it, stirring gently in the breeze. White feathers, stained red. Bile rose in his throat. Movement to his right, the mother and toddler coming around the corner towards him. The child gave him a gummy smile and offered a fistful of grass. No air to speak; no words. Caleb put up a hand and signed for them to stop. The woman froze, her mouth opening as she noticed the pallid flecks and damp grass, the chickens peck, peck, pecking. She scooped up her child and ran. He should run, too. Should turn and leave and never come back. He skirted carefully around the chickens and followed the long stain to the doorway. No windows, his eyes slow to make sense of the shadows. A peaked wooden ceiling, high stacks of hay against the walls. The man was lying on his side by the door. Charcoal suit, a few extra kilos softening his stocky build, sandy hair matted at the back. No face, just a bloodied pulp of flesh and bone.
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