Vanished, James Delargy [i like reading books txt] 📗

For the briefest moment, she interrupted her scan of the outback to look her latest cowardly bastard of a partner dead in the eyes. ‘I want to find Dylan.’

120

Lorcan

He found Dylan at the entrance to the tunnel. Staring into the dark abyss. Even when he grabbed his shoulders, the boy didn’t flinch.

‘Are you okay, son?’ he asked. ‘Why did you leave the house? Why are you here?’

‘The tunnel is silent, Daddy. No arguments.’

‘Did you see an argument?’ he asked, nervous of what his son might say. If he had witnessed his father murder someone, then what? How do you silence your son?

‘I heard it. And I heard shots.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘I saw Mummy leaving with Ian.’

‘And nothing else?’

Dylan shook his head.

‘Good. We have to go, son.’

‘Where?’

‘Away. For a while,’ he said as he led Dylan outside, bumping into the door frame and stifling a grunt. As they made it into the fading sun, he looked around. There were no vehicles on the horizon, no dust clouds. He had no idea how much time they had. Or how much time he had wasted searching for Dylan. Naiyana and Ian could be back at any time.

He started to jog, pulling Dylan along, his breathing constricted with the panic and the heat.

‘Why are we going, Daddy?’

‘We have to leave, Dylan. Before they come back. We’ll go to town. Quick!’

He stepped up the pace. The sooner they were out of Kallayee the better.

‘Where’s Mummy?’ asked Dylan, fear in his voice.

‘She’s gone,’ he replied, looking back at his son and stumbling over the collapsed fence by the coal shed, his eyes drawn to the pool of blood in the sand.

In five minutes they were at the edge of town. He gazed at the bush and distant, rolling sand dunes. Making Hurton was doable but slower and more dangerous with the child in tow. Especially as Dylan was reluctant to go any further. Lorcan showed him his favourite dragon-patterned backpack of some cartoon character he had watched on endless repeat. Dak or Zak or something like that.

‘We are going on a camping adventure,’ he said, trying to sell it to his son. ‘We might even camp out,’ he added but hoped to get to Hurton by nightfall. Nee – and more worryingly Ian – would be on their tail as soon as they realized they were gone.

Hand in hand, father and son took their first steps into the unknown.

As he helped his son along, Lorcan kept glancing back at Kallayee. It very, very slowly began to disappear into the distance, like he was escaping from a monster in some sort of panicked fever dream. The town was to be their dream. How wrong they had been.

121

Emmaline

With information needed quickly it was all hands to the pump. Including Emmaline. She had never been to Alice Springs before and found it to be surprisingly green, like an oasis in the desert, Anzac Hill dominating the town, the buildings glowing white in the hot sun. In the distance lay the MacDonnell Ranges, red and flat-topped like a giant fence encompassing the south of the town, broken only by Heavitree Gap, all roads and rail south funnelled towards it.

The dealer she found herself at had a view of the Gap. With Cooper putting together the off-the-book list, they were checking out one of the registered dealers, his services luridly advertised on the picket sign hammered into his well-tended garden. He was welcoming as she introduced herself, a twinkle in his eye that suggested a certain admiration of her looks. Possibly in the expectation that there was not much behind them. A sadly typical reaction that she enjoyed shredding to pieces.

She showed him the photos of Ian and Naiyana.

‘Seen them in here?’

The dealer was in his fifties, with neatly parted hair she supposed was meant to read as ‘refined’ but just came across as ‘staid’. He tore his eyes away from her face and gazed over the top of his spectacles at the photos.

‘I recognize him. He had a lot of gold on his hands. Nuggets, shavings, dust. Too much for me. He refused to provide a name or ID either. I’m no fool, miss.’

‘Detective,’ said Emmaline. ‘And her?’

He shook his head. ‘I would remember her. Not often I get two pretty women in my humble shop.’

‘Usually you’d have to pay them,’ she replied, unable to hold back.

The man’s eyes darted towards Oily who stood in the background.

‘Don’t expect any help from me,’ said Oily. ‘You dug your own grave.’

‘How much was he trying to sell?’ asked Emmaline, refocusing the dealer’s attention.

‘Just under an ounce.’

‘And how much would that get?’

‘Fourteen hundred,’ said the dealer, stuttering a little.

‘And are you sure you didn’t buy any?’ asked Emmaline, her eyes boring into the washed-up letch’s face.

‘None. I wasn’t buying.’

‘But I bet you sent him to someone who was. I bet I could find them on that computer of yours,’ said Emmaline, nodding at it.

‘That’s private property.’

‘And this man may be involved in a series of brutal murders. So, give me a name.’

The name they got was for a guy who worked out of a pub on Feldman’s. Cooper warned them that the place was rough, frequented by bikers, hoods, anyone who was looking for action or trouble. Emmaline decided to test that.

Being late afternoon, it looked quiet, just a few bikes and cars dotted around outside.

Eyes turned to them as they entered. She asked the ham-faced barman to point her in the direction of Jeremiah Tung. The barman shook his head. As Emmaline tried to figure out if it was an outright refusal to help or that Jeremiah Tung wasn’t in the building, Oily tapped her shoulder and directed her to a heavy-set man in a denim jacket with the initials JT stitched onto the back.

She and her undersized and slightly intimidated posse approached.

‘Jeremiah Tung?’

The man in the denim jacket turned, eyebrow raised. His age was hard to determine, his face