Chasing Can Be Murder (21 page)

Instantly my sleuthing antenna went all twitchy. That is until I realized the owner of the car was probably Dan’s pub-mate, George, the guy Dan had sent to pick up Erin.

Still, a clue is a clue.

If we could believe Tattoo Girl, who may have been hallucinating on a bad batch of grass at the time, George was carrying something under his arm when he left Tanya’s house. I asked the girl if it could have been Erin. She hesitated, thought a bit, and then said,
nah, too square
. I wasn’t sure if she meant the kid he was carrying was too square to be a cool dude like Erin, or that George was carrying a box.

We seemed to have hit a dead end with Tattoo Girl so, with nothing else to go on, Ben and I decided maybe it was time to hunt down this George and have a bit of a chat.

So we set off on a pub-crawl.

Three pubs later we caught up with our quarry. He was at the Billabong, a small white-washed pub in the heart of Virginia. And it didn’t take a degree in Investigative Science to figure out George was inside. A grey Holden sedan was parked out the front; its bright yellow driver’s side door a dead giveaway.

It must have been happy hour at the Billabong because the pub was rocking. When Ben and I pushed through the swing doors into the front bar, the noise hit me like a physical blast.

Several curious eyes swiveled in our direction. A drunk, his clothes reeking of cheap booze, begged me for five dollars. Swore he hadn’t eaten in three weeks. Instead of feeling sorry for the guy, which would have been my normal reaction, I returned his smile, pretended I couldn’t hear him over the noise, and just kept on walking.

Mother would have been proud of me!

While scanning the room for George I suddenly realized I didn’t know what he looked like. “How do we recognize this guy?” I whispered in Ben’s ear, resisting the urge to stroke the baby-soft hairs on the back of his neck with the tip of my tongue.

“Just leave it to me, mate.”

I pulled away from him, a snarling tiger. One of these days when he called me
mate
, I’d shove his words so far down his throat he’d be sitting on them.

Ben’s cousin, Clappers, who was propping up one end of the bar, gestured to the empty space beside him. We muscled our way over. While Ben made subtle enquiries about which beer-swilling customer was George, I ordered two beers—a light, and a full strength—and then nodded towards my
mate
. Hey, I’d paid the bigger percentage of Matt’s account—Ben could fork out for the booze.

Two beers, topped by white froth, slid easily across the grainy bar towards us. Never had a drink been more welcomed. In case you’ve never spent time searching for an eleven-year-old who is determined not to be found, let me tell you, on a fun level, it’s up there with jumping out of a plane without a parachute. To say I was pissed off with Erin was putting it mildly.

My hand reached for the beer. A quick upward motion and the cold glass met my parched lips.
Oooh bliss…
As the amber liquid ran slowly and deliciously down my throat, I watched Ben scull his beer in one and bang the empty glass back down on the bar.

“There’s our man,” he said, leaning closer and nodding towards the eight-ball table at the far end of the room. “George is the guy in the baggy khaki overalls doing a con job on the Dale brothers.” He shook his head and snorted in disgust. “Fair dinkum, those two nitwits wouldn’t know a shark if it swam up and bit ’em on the bum. The way George is suckering them in, they’ll be fleeced of their dole money quicker than the time it took to collect it.”

So…that was George. Chubby face. Long greasy yellow hair. Overweight. I frowned. He seemed vaguely familiar. Couldn’t quite put my finger on where I’d seen him before…but I was working on it.

While Ben ordered another round of drinks, I threaded my way through a clutch of noisy punters, all intent on watching shiny-coated horses gallop across the large screen set on the bar wall. At last I reached the eight-ball table and stood behind the guy in the khaki overalls. Up close I could see rolls of fat circling his waist line and the beginning of a bald patch skulking on the crown of his head. I waited. Timed my first question to coincide with the exact moment he pulled back his cue-arm and took a shot at the small white ball lined up with a larger striped ball.

“Hey, you Dan’s mate, George?”

The cue stick missed the white ball and ran along the green baize. Mister Overweight and Flabby swung around, his reddish-purple face twisted in fury.

“Now look what you’ve done, bitch! You’ve made me miss a turn!”

“Are you George?” I repeated, outwardly cool like a professional P I, inwardly trembling like barely set jelly.

His pudgy fingers tightened and his knuckles turned white. “What’s it to you if I am?”

The nasty glint in George’s eye indicated how close he was to taking off my head with his cue stick. Oh crap! Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Involuntarily I lifted one arm to protect my face but was saved the ignominy of running up the white flag and beating a hasty retreat by the arrival of my good mate, Ben, who muscled his way in front of me. Ha…take that George! After whooshing out a sigh of relief, I gave the cue-wielder an infantile,
so-there,
cocky grin, just stopping short of poking out my tongue.

When Ben spoke, his voice was soft but it had that lovely hint of steel behind it. Oh, yum. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, George.” Casually, as though the tension in the air wasn’t as electric as a Dick Smith store, Ben handed me a glass of beer and placed his own glass on the side of the pool table, right beside a stack of twenties. Arms crossed, he gave George an up and down visual. “This lady is with me,” he told him, in that orgasmic better-not-mess-with-me voice that had me crossing my legs and biting my lips.

“So?” George’s knuckles remained white as he clutched his cue stick. Violence seeped out of him like a life force. I could so see this guy ramming a knife into poor defenseless Matt Turner.

“So…Dan Ashton’s daughter Erin has gone missing,” Ben said. “And my friend here would like to ask you a few questions about the situation. Okay?”

George’s body gradually relaxed until he looked like a normal person again. “Sorry about that,” he said and threw a rueful little boy grin in my direction. I pretended to miss it. “I was caught up in the game and you put me off. Of course I’ll help. If I can.”

“Fair enough, mate.” Ben firmly extricated the cue stick from George’s reluctant fingers and peered along its length. “Playing for a sheep station, are we?”

George shrugged. “You might say a bit of money’s on the line.”

“Mmm…I’ll bear that in mind.”

“What do you mean?”

Ben picked up the chalk. “While you and Kat have your little chat, I’ll keep the fires burning here for you.” George opened his mouth to object but before he could get a word out, Ben beat him to it. “Hey, don’t worry, mate. Your cue stick is in top hands with me. I won the Billabong Tavern Cup three years in a row.” He turned to the Dale brothers, Bluey and Joe, and I saw him wink. “That right, boys?”

Joe jerked his head up, blinked rapidly and then went back to chalking the end of his cue stick. Bluey nodded vigorously.

Yes, Ben
had
won the Billabong Tavern Cup three years in a row—for sculling twenty schooners in the fastest time. Actually, I reckoned he knew less about the game of eight-ball than I did. And all I knew was if you sink your black ball into the corner hole before your colored balls, you’re in deep doo-doo.

Evidently satisfied with Ben’s credentials, George followed me to a less congested corner of the bar, where, over the sharp tang of disinfectant, I could still detect the common pub odder of sour sweat, spilt beer and stale cigarette smoke. I set my glass of light beer on a table covered with a plastic cloth the color of sliced watermelon, bagged a chair and sat down.

The legs on George’s chair made a scritching sound as he dragged it to the opposite side of the table. “Can I get you another drink?”

“I’m covered, thanks.”

“Well, let’s start over again, shall we?” He leaned across the table, one pudgy hand outstretched. “I’m George Summers.”

“Kat McKinley,” I answered, touching the proffered soft flesh as briefly as politeness would allow.

“Kat McKinley? The greyhound trainer?”

“One and the same.”

The little-boy grin touched his thick lips yet again. “How’s the classical music going? Keeping those dogs of yours quiet?”

“Of course! You’re
that
George. I thought you looked familiar. You’re the guy who fitted the gadget beside the stairs for me. One press and instant Tchaikovsky in the kennel-house.”

“Guilty as charged.” His smile grew larger. Seeing all those predatory teeth made me think of Ben’s earlier analogy. George Summers was a shark. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you before,” he went on. “But as I recall, our dealings all took place over the phone.”

“That’s right, and the day you came to set the gadget up, I was heading off to the trial track with a trailer-load of dogs. Couldn’t stop, so I told you where to find the key and let you get on with it.”

“And the key was in the—” He stopped, examined his bitten fingernails and cleared his throat before continuing. “Anyway, I’m glad it all worked out for you. I’ve had heaps of satisfied customers but if you could recommend me to your friends, I’d be obliged.” He shot a quick look across the room, squinting as he tried to see what was taking place beside the pool table. “Now, how can I help you today?”

I took a sip of my beer before answering. It gave me time to think. Why didn’t George say where I kept my spare key? A sudden chill spread through my limbs making me slop my beer before I could set it back on the table.

Don’t be silly. This man can’t hurt you. We’re in a public place. And Ben’s within yelling distance. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. “I wanted to ask you about Dan’s daughter, Erin. She’s gone missing.”

“Little blighter done a runner, has she?”

“Has she?” I sent him a narrow-eyed frown, searching for signs of guilt.

All wide-eyed innocence, he shook his head. “The note I found when I went to collect Dan’s kid said she was staying with you. If she’s not—I guess she’s run away from home.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, isn’t that what most kids do when they get their little noses put out of joint? Hell, when I was a kid I was always running away.” He laughed, showing those predatory shark’s teeth again. “Tell you what though, I always came home the next day with my tail between my legs. Too bloody cold out on the streets and I never could figure out how to eat once my pocket money ran out.”

“I hope you’re right, George.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. The kid’s probably at home as we speak.”

“Dan would ring if Erin showed up.” I leaned back in my chair and studied this blustering guy who proclaimed to have found no sign of Erin when he went to pick her up, yet was seen running from the house with something tucked under his arm. Funny how the little-boy grin didn’t reach his shifty eyes, how the overloaded charm—when he wasn’t fizzing on a short fuse—struck me as fake.

“By the way,” I said as once again he craned his head to check out the happenings at the eight-ball table on the far side of the room. “Where exactly did Erin leave that note?”

He reluctantly brought his attention back to me. “Where? Um…in the middle of her bed.”

The creep!
“What the hell were you doing in Erin’s bedroom?”

“Hey, I was trying to find her, wasn’t I?” he answered, his voice getting shrill at my veiled allegations. “Go talk to Dan. He was the one who begged me to collect his snotty-nosed kid and bring her to the pub.” He seemed to forcibly control himself, straighten both fisted hands, before continuing. “Okay, here’s what happened. I drove to the house, knocked on the door and when there was no answer I thought, hey, the kid’s playing hide-go-seek, so getting a bit uppity about wasting my time, I opened the door, went inside and yelled for her to get her grubby sneakers out here. Now. Told her I was in a hurry like. Anyway, when she didn’t show herself I went from room to room looking for her. And that’s when I found that note in the middle of her bed next to some mangy old teddy bear.”

A mangy old teddy bear?

Stop right there. Something didn’t add up. As tough as Erin was, she’d never leave home without Casper. Since the day Tanya brought her home from the hospital, a wrinkled, ugly red prune of a baby with lungs that could shatter lightbulbs, Casper had spent every night in Erin’s bed.

“Think hard, George,” I said. “This is important. Did the bear have one eye, no ears and a black finger mark in the middle of its stomach?”

He ran an agitated hand through his lank hair. “God, I don’t know. I just saw this crappy bear on the bed next to the note.”

“What did the note say?”

“Dad, I’m staying with Kat until Mum comes home
.
”

“Okay, what did you do then?”

If this lowlife rummaged around in Erin’s underwear drawer, drooling over her little girl knickers, I’d emasculate him with a pair of rusty pruning shears.

As though able to read my mind, George’s eyes turned chilly and his frown deepened. “What did I do? I drove back to the pub and told Dan his kid was with you.”

“And what did you take from Tanya’s house?”

“Come again?”

“You heard me. I have a witness that swears you were carrying something under your arm when you left the house. Sure it wasn’t a drugged eleven-year-old kid?”

“What? I don’t have to answer this shit!” He stood up so quickly the chair toppled over backwards and skidded across the floor. “I just finished telling you, I didn’t see Dan’s daughter. I don’t know where she is. And I don’t like where this conversation is heading.”

“You still haven’t told me—what was under your arm?”

He snarled and gave the upended chair a kick that sent it spinning into the nearest wall. “I have a game of eight-ball to win. So…as from now…our chat is officially over.”

I stood up slowly and gave him an
I’m-not-finished-with-you-yet-scumbag
, glare. “Thanks for your time, George. But as they say in cop shows…don’t leave town.”