Jack Heath

PROLOGUE

‘I think we got off on the wrong foot,’ the woman says.

Elise keeps her voice even. ‘Right.’

‘Are you hungry?’ The woman’s hair is steely grey, her arms muscled from years of labour, her right shoulder bruised from the butt of a rifle. But she sounds gentle, like someone’s aunt. The illusion is completed by a sleeveless linen shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, and the plate of homemade biscuits she’s put on the antique coffee table.

‘I’m fine,’ Elise says.

The woman slides the plate towards her anyway. The biscuits are topped with raspberry jam and sprinkled with coconut, but their sweetness might be hiding a more dangerous ingredient. Elise grips the arms of the recliner, her fingertips gouging the overstuffed fabric, so she won’t be tempted to take one.

‘You poor thing.’ The woman is looking at the puncture wounds on Elise’s hands.

‘They don’t hurt,’ she lies.

‘Here.’ The woman crosses the living room and opens a lacquered pine cupboard. Her back is turned. Should Elise run? But she’s still weak from the tranquilliser—and it’s already too late. The woman is coming back, taking Betadine and bandages from a plastic box.

‘Really, I’m okay.’ Elise needs antibiotics, not antiseptic. The woman ignores her, kneeling and dabbing the stinging fluid on the scratches, then winding stretchy bandages around her knuckles and wrists. The woman’s fingers are cold, talon-like. Elise can smell Lady Grey tea on her breath.

Soon Elise’s knuckles are trussed up. She looks like a kickboxer about to step into the ring.

‘There. All better?’ The woman sounds as though she’s talking to a toddler.

Elise nods.

‘I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,’ the woman presses. ‘No more than is necessary.’

‘Thanks.’

The woman puts the first-aid box back in the cupboard and settles into the couch opposite. ‘So,’ she says, ‘we have a problem. I hope we can solve it together.’

Elise doesn’t trust herself to speak.

The woman continues: ‘There’s an American term: beef. It means to take issue with something someone has done. Or something someone else has done—a “beef” can be inherited. You’ve heard of that?’

‘I guess so,’ Elise says cautiously. It’s almost funny. She’s on a sheep farm, but the sheep are long gone, and the farmer is explaining the concept of having a beef.

‘Have we met before?’ the woman asks suddenly, frowning.

Elise’s pulse goes into overdrive. ‘I, uh, saw you following me. I wouldn’t say we met.’

‘But before that?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

The woman gives Elise a thoughtful look. Elise has dyed her hair red and cut it short, and there’s a phoenix tattoo on her neck—has she changed enough?

Finally the woman leans back against the couch. ‘Hmm. Just a moment of déjà vu.’

Elise holds her gaze. ‘Must be.’

‘Anyway, I have no problem with you. My beef is with him.’ The woman jerks her head towards the back of the house.

‘What did he do to you?’ Elise tries to sound as though she doesn’t care one way or the other.

‘To me? Nothing at all.’ The woman clears her throat. ‘The point is, I can’t let you go. Because you know he’s here.’

Elise licks her lips. ‘I won’t tell anyone about—’

‘Don’t insult me,’ the woman snaps. For a second, the friendly aunt disappears, replaced by something hard and sharp. Her deep-set eyes darken in her leathery face. Then the warmth is back. ‘So I find myself in a pickle—that’s a good expression, too.’

A grandfather clock ticks softly in the corner.

‘When I captured him, I made sure no one would come looking, or I thought I had.’ The woman gives Elise a grudging nod. ‘But I made no such preparations with you. People must be wondering where you are.’

Elise doubts this. She’s unemployed. She has no friends left. Anyone who notices her disappearance will be pleased about it. No help is coming.

‘I think I have a solution.’ The woman stands up again. There’s a little cardboard box on the mantel. The woman opens it, and produces a knife.

Elise tries to leap out of the armchair. The woman lunges at the same moment. Elise makes it only halfway up before the woman shoves her back down and pins her against the upholstery, crushing her shoulder. She’s terrifyingly strong. Elise has no hope of overpowering her. Not with the sedative still swimming through her veins.

The knife trembles in the woman’s grip. It’s a short blade, just big enough to slice an apple. Through clenched teeth, she says, ‘Hear me out.’

Elise swallows, her heart thumping in her ears. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’

The woman releases her. Puts the knife on the coffee table next to the biscuits, raises her open palms. ‘Here’s my proposal. I’ll let you go. And you won’t tell the police where you’ve been.’

‘Deal,’ Elise says quickly.

‘I’m not finished.’ The woman picks up a biscuit. ‘You won’t tell anyone—because if you do, you’ll be arrested for murder.’

Sickly dread fills up Elise’s guts. ‘Murder?’

‘That’s right. I promise I’ll set you free.’ The woman takes a bite, chews, swallows, and brushes some coconut off her lip. ‘All you have to do,’ she says, ‘is kill him.’

CHAPTER ONE

The studio looks like a mechanic’s office—white-painted brick, an unmarked metal door, murky stains on the driveway. It’s tucked between a takeaway shop and a tile display showroom in the industrial outskirts of Canberra. Given the prices Aiden Deere charges for his paintings, Elise had expected something a bit fancier. A fountain, maybe. A sign, at least.

Despite the wintry morning breeze, she unzips her puffer jacket. Tugs her tank top down. She’s not above showing some cleavage, if that’s what it takes. She breathes in and out, rehearsing the line in her head. Raps her knuckles against the door. Waits.

No one comes.

After a minute, Elise’s composure slips. He hasn’t even opened the door yet, and already things aren’t going to plan. She’s screwed up somehow, like always. She knocks again, louder. When she presses her ear to the door, she hears the whirring of an extractor fan. There’s a small window to the right. Darkness inside. Elise makes binoculars out of her hands and presses them against the dirty glass.

The studio is cavernous, with stacks of wooden frames in one corner and cans of paint in another. A huge orange canvas is veined with abstract smears of white and yellow. On a battered desk, a laptop is glowing.

Elise looks around. The only visible car is a white Holden Barina, parked forty or fifty metres away. A popular model: the third one she’s seen today. The driver is facing the feed store on the other side of the street. Satisfied that she’s not being observed, Elise feels her way around the window frame. The hinges are visible, so it must open outwards. But there’s nothing to grab. No way to pull it. She rummages in her bag for something she can use to lever it open.

Something moves behind the glass, and she stifles a yelp. Someone has been standing in front of the canvas this whole time, camouflaged by his paint-splattered overalls. A straight razor drips in one gloved hand. Goggles and an air filter cover his face. He’s looking right at her.

Heart pounding, Elise knocks on the glass, like she wasn’t trying to break in. The man seems to get bigger as he approaches. The studio floor is elevated above the ground, but even so, he’s at least two metres tall and as wide as a removalist or a wrestler.

He fiddles with a hidden latch, then pushes the window open a crack. ‘Yes?’

‘No one answered the door,’ Elise says.

‘I’m working.’ The man gestures at his canvas with the razor, flicking some paint off the blade.

Elise is no art critic. In high school, her visual arts teacher gently asked her if she was colour blind—twice. But to her, the painting doesn’t look great. Just smudges in various shades of orange. Maybe it’s not going well. Maybe that’s why the painter looks pissed off.

‘Can I come in?’ she asks, waiting to see if he recognises her from the news.

‘Who are you?’

She exhales, relieved. ‘My name’s Tina Thatcher—I’m a private investigator.’ The lie sounds natural. The two-hour drive from Warrigal gave her plenty of time to practise. She opens her wallet. An image search showed her what a real private investigator’s licence looked like, but after she inserted her own photo, her printer didn’t replicate the colours properly. Her red hair came out pink, and the frames of her glasses look grey instead of black. At least the painter is observing the fake licence through dirty glass.

‘“Commercial and private enquiry agent”,’ he reads. ‘What do you want?’

‘You’re not in any trouble,’ she says, as though she’s in a position to make some. ‘I just wanted to ask some questions about one of your clients.’

‘My clients?’ The artist looks wary.

‘The people who buy your paintings. They’re all commissioned, right? I could have waited until my business partner was back in town, but I thought it might be simpler to just drop in for a quick chat.’

He stares at her for a long moment, his eyes inscrutable behind the goggles. She tries to look impatient rather than nervous.

‘Come in,’ the artist says finally, and shuts the window.

A moment later, the metal door opens. The artist has removed his mask and goggles. He’s about forty, with a heavy brow and a shaved skull. Meaty forearms. One ear crumpled from a long-ago punch. She had pictured a moustache, a beret, a smock, a palette. Not this overalled neanderthal who would look more at home onstage with Midnight Oil than in an art studio.

‘That’s quite a door,’ Elise says, as she walks through. It’s tall and thick, with an impressive deadbolt on the inside.

‘Can’t be too careful.’ He gives her a pointed look. ‘Paint is expensive.’

Strange that he cited the cost of his supplies rather than the value of his art. His pieces sell for thousands of dollars, sometimes tens of thousands. A thief could make a handsome profit listing them on the dark web, alongside drugs, guns and other unsavoury things.

‘I’m Tina, by the way.’

‘You already said that.’

She’ll have to be more direct. ‘You’re Aiden Deere, right?’

His grunt could be a yes or a no.

The studio isn’t as dark as it looked through the window. Downlights illuminate certain spots on certain walls, though no finished paintings are on display. Acrylic fumes fill the air. The floor is sealed concrete, speckled with a rainbow of old droplets, like a cake covered in hundreds and thousands.

‘Drink?’ he asks. Generous, since he just caught her trying to break in. The etiquette would be to accept, but not anything that costs money or takes effort to prepare. She should ask for a glass of water.

‘I’ll have a beer,’ Elise says instead. It’s eleven o’clock on a Monday, and she can feel him judging her. But he takes a bottle of Hahn Light out of a minifridge under a workbench. He cracks it and hands it to her. The glass isn’t cold—Elise doesn’t think the fridge is running. She sips anyway, lets the bubbles fizz on her tongue.

How long has it been? She couldn’t drink while she was training, or while she was on call. And after she lost her job, she couldn’t afford it.

The artist doesn’t take anything out of the fridge for himself. He tosses a cigarette into his mouth instead, then flicks open a gold lighter with a crossed swords logo. His eyes gleam in the flame, watching her.

Avoiding his gaze, Elise turns to the canvas. The seething mess of orange. ‘This is good.’

‘You like it?’ Deere—or the man she assumes is Deere—doesn’t sound convinced.

‘Yeah. It’s got so much …’ She waves a hand around. ‘… you know, texture. What is it?’

‘It’s an old woman in a wheelchair. Can’t you see her?’

Elise studies the swirls and splats. To her it resembles a roaring fire, though if she tilts her head, she thinks she can see a person in the flames. But when she looks back at Deere, he smirks. He’s messing with her.

‘Who’s it for?’ she asks.

‘Can’t tell you. The buyer may choose to announce it when she takes possession, or she may not. I can’t compromise the privacy of my customers. So, whoever you’re here to ask me about—’

‘A high school PE teacher from Warrigal. Callum Glyk. G-L-Y-K.’ Elise can’t tell if Deere recognises the name. ‘It might be pronounced Gleek, or Glike.’

She’s laying it on a little thick, but Deere doesn’t look suspicious. ‘I can’t tell you anything.’ He blows some smoke from the corner of his mouth.

‘You must remember him. The painting he bought from you was light grey, with green splodgy bits.’ She found the canvas leaning against the wall in Callum’s garage, still bubble-wrapped, the torn box not far away. As though something had happened to him before he’d had the chance to hang it.

‘“Green splodgy bits”,’ Deere repeats drily. He’s not taking her seriously.

She injects some more authority into her voice. ‘I’m investigating his death.’

‘He’s dead?’ Deere looks surprised.

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I don’t keep track of buyers after the transaction is completed.’

‘So he was a client.’ Elise takes a victory sip from the bottle. ‘Tell me how you met him.’

‘I didn’t. I hardly ever meet the buyers.’

‘Callum never showed any interest in art. You expect me to believe he paid thousands of dollars to commission something like this—’ she gestures at the half-finished nonsense painting ‘—from someone he’d never met?’

‘I work through an agent.’

‘Yeah, that’s what it says on your website. But your agent doesn’t appear to represent any other artists.’

Deere says nothing. Tension fills the air, crowding out the paint fumes.

‘It’s a good strategy,’ Elise continues. ‘People don’t try to screw you if you have an agent. And customers trust you to deliver, if they think the agent won’t release the funds until you do. On the phone, I’m guessing your agent sounds a lot like you.’

Deere’s right eye twitches. ‘You said Callum didn’t care about art. According to who?’

‘People that knew him,’ Elise says cautiously. ‘Friends, family.’

‘The family hired you?’ She can see the cogs turning. ‘Because the police don’t think his death is suspicious.’

Elise opens her mouth, then shuts it.

‘Let me guess.’ Deere rubs the back of his stubbly head. ‘He was found hanging from the rafters, or with a gut full of pills, and the family doesn’t want to believe that he—’

‘It’s not like that. He just vanished.’

‘Vanished?’

‘He left work one day, told his colleagues he’d see them tomorrow, then never came back. When the police searched his house, his stuff was there, but he wasn’t.’

‘What makes you think he’s dead? He might have just abandoned his job and gone on a holiday.’

‘He hasn’t touched any of his accounts. He hasn’t contacted his father, or his sister.’ It’s this last part that makes her so certain. Callum used to text Elise all the time. ‘One of the last things he did before he disappeared was transfer seven thousand dollars to your account.’

That’s a lie. Callum paid the money in February, almost four months before he vanished. But Elise has run down every other lead. This is her last hope.

‘You think I somehow conned him into buying a painting,’ Deere says slowly, ‘and then what? Slit his throat?’ He holds up the razor.

Elise is suddenly conscious of the space between them, and how quiet the studio is. The walls are thick, the windows double-glazed. If she screamed, would anyone hear her? Probably not.

Deere takes a step towards her. He’s huge, like a golem. She reaches into the back pocket of her jeans with one hand, gripping the can of pepper spray. She bought it years ago and has never used it. Will it work? What if there’s an extra tab she needs to pull to activate it?

But Deere comes at her with something she can’t fight: pity. ‘I wish I could help you.’ He takes a business card out of his pocket. He looks tired. ‘But I’m just a guy who makes paintings. I never met the man you’re looking for. And, as you correctly guessed, that means my agent never met him either.’

‘You must know something.’ Elise wishes it didn’t sound like a plea.

Deere gives her the card. ‘For if you turn up any other clues.’

He’s trying to get rid of her. The card is black on both sides, but when Elise tilts it, an embossed phone number shines in the light.

‘Is there a number I can contact you on?’ he asks.

‘No.’ She keeps her phone switched off. No matter how many times she changes her number, people always find the new one.

There’s no table. Elise puts the bottle on the concrete floor so she won’t be tempted to finish it. The last thing she needs is a drink driving charge.

‘Thanks for your time,’ she says.

‘No worries,’ Deere replies.

She can feel his gaze on her back as she walks out.