The Plot – Chapter 9
Where's the Catch?
‘Well?’
Although it was a response that Vince should have anticipated, he didn’t know how to reply.
‘No catch. None at all,’ was the best he could come up with on the spur of the moment. He could see from the look in her eyes that it wasn’t enough.
It was two in the morning and the police were done with them both. For now. He was no night owl, and his sagging eyelids and heavy head warned him that it was long past bedtime. He was too tired to think.
But he had to.
Ducking under the police tape, gripping his bike by the handlebars, he’d seen her standing across the street. Backpack over one shoulder, sleeping bag under the other arm. Looking lost and scared.
The Plot was off limits until the cops had finished investigating the crime scene. Accident scene. Whatever it was. So she was literally out on the street until the blue-and-white tape came down. That could be days.
He was appalled and angry. It was irresponsible to turf a vulnerable young woman out on the street like this. Probably she’d given them some bullshit story as to why she was sleeping there, in that little wooden hut, but they were supposed to be professional investigators, for God’s sake.
Surely there was somewhere, some hostel or shelter they could have taken her to?
He couldn’t let her vanish into the night.
There was nothing for it, he’d have to rip the scab off the old wound. Let this girl, a stranger, into his solitary, shrunken, sorrowful husk of a life. There wasn’t much time to convince her and he mustn’t blow it.
‘The thing is …’
He sighed, took a big breath.
‘I had a daughter. A few years younger than you. That is, I think, suppose. Because of course I don’t know your … Anyway, I … lost her. What I mean is, she … died. I didn’t help her when I could have, I should have.’
‘I’m sorry, but …’
‘You can have her room,’ he blurted. ‘For as long as you like.’
That sounded desperate. He must be weirding her out.
‘I don’t think …’
‘I mean, just until you find something better. More … suitable.’
‘I really don’t …’
‘There’s a lock on the door. You’d have the only key. Your own bathroom. Privacy.’
‘No. Look. Just – no.’
That sounded final and he knew better than to plead any more. He fished in his pockets for a pencil, a scrap of paper. Leaned on his saddle and scribbled hastily under the faint light of the street lamp.
‘Okay. But in case you change your mind, here’s my address and my mobile number. Call me any time, day or night.’
She glanced at the slip of paper, folded it, poked it into the pocket of her jeans. At least she didn’t screw it up and throw it in his face.
‘Thank you.’
‘Take care, Jorja. Really. Be careful. And remember: any time.’
He turned on the lights of his bike, adjusted the straps which held the sprayer to his back, swung his leg over the saddle and set off into the quiet night.
He had gone two blocks, was just about to cross the main road, when the phone in his pocket vibrated against his thigh.
‘Mr Russo? It’s Jorja Smith.’
Sitting in his car outside Westfield Fountain Gate, Ray fished the SD cards from his breast pocket. It had seemed prudent to remove them, after arriving at the Plot to all that incident tape strung across the gates, investigators poking around under the Big Tree, floodlights glaring in the grey dawn.
They’d sealed off the front entrance with their ‘Police. No entry’ signs, but what about the side gate? Probably they didn’t even know there was one. So it was legit for him to enter the Plot that way. He drove on past the main gates, turned down the laneway, past the garages, parked.
No sign, no tape. In we go …
Wearing his work gear – black polo shirt and bomber jacket with SECURITY on the back, black trousers and boots – he could have been just another Crime Scene Group contractor. Look and behave like you belong, that’s the key to blending in.
He’d been able to get to his patch unchallenged, unload the cameras and get out. He’d foregone the usual morning weed and water – no point in pushing his luck. The forecast was for showers and the veggies could take care of themselves for a day or two.
As a result, here he was sitting in the staff car park at seven forty-three. Early for work. What to do? He was torn between going online to get the goss on whatever was going down at the Plot, and checking out the trailcam footage.
The new infrared motion-activated cameras were bloody brilliant. Lovely clear video, and the audio wasn’t bad, either. Most nights all he got was possums and stray cats, the occasional fox. Though there’d been that couple the other week. Highly entertaining: frantic rummaging through underwear, drunken moans and exposed, pallid flesh.
Footage first, then. He could jump on Reddit later. Must be a big deal, to get CSG out. He’d have a word with Bazza, who monitored the police frequencies every night. He’d have the latest – you could depend on it.
Ray put the first of the cards in the reader, plugged it into his iPad. Sipped at his double-shot skinny oatmilk latte.
Nothing, nothing, nothing … that cheeky brushtail again, thieving little sod … nothing, nothing … woah, back up. There.
What the actual fuck?
Next week in The Plot:
Chapter 10: Evidence
DS Hanrahan smells a rat.
Disclaimer: The people, organisations and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people, organisations and events. Some locations are based on real places, however the City of Corymbia and its localities are inventions of the author.