The Big Run-Off (Holden Burke #1)

Five

Dave offered to drive me through the gates of the Ramsey estate, but I stopped him at the curb outside the gatehouse of a neighbour's faux-Japanese gardens. 

'You'll get my car out of impound?' 

'I'll see what I can do, Holden. I'll flash a badge and make everything alright, like I always do. Except for one thing: you're still the only witness of a murder. There's nothing I can do to change that.' 

'I wouldn't expect you to. And do your best to follow a license number 419-MOS in the meantime, too. A black town car, probably a VW—I saw it pull away from the crime scene last night after the shit went down. I owe you too much, Dave. Next time you bail me out, I'll be sure to get you two beers.' 

He waved me off with a play of irritation. I shut his door and he turned his car back down the empty Roselake streets. 

I walked up the drive of the estate. It was much the same as it had been the previous afternoon, except for the fact that it had no rained, the light was paler and cooler, and there was no housekeeper at the door. To my surprise, it was Mitchell Ramsey himself that opened at my knock and hurriedly drew me inside. 

'The maid finally work herself to death?' I said. 

Ramsey wasn't looking at me. He was marching himself across the foyer and into the adjoining parlour. 'I gave her the week off,' he called back. 'I don't want any of this getting out before it has to.' 

He was at the bar against the wall, making himself a fast whiskey sour. I put my hands in my pockets and lowered my head as I wandered inside. 'You've heard, then,' I said. 

'Course I've bloody heard.' He threw back his head with a clean sweep. Suddenly the contents of his glass had disappeared. 'It's a damn shame that that idiot could have gone and done something as stupid as this. I can't believe I underestimated him.' 

'What are you going to do about it?' He looked at me heavily. 'Nothing,' he said, with a firmness that I could almost feel digging itself into the floorboards. 'Absolutely nothing. Let him deal with the ridiculous bullshit of his actions. The bloody queer.' 

I gave him a strange look. 'Did the police get in touch with you already?' 

'No, and they're not going to know. Nobody's going to know. I shouldn't even be telling you.' 

I walked to the bar. Ramsey was refilling his glass and drinking down the remains of his frustration. 'What are we talking about here, Mr Ramsey—exactly?' 

He shook his head at me. 'We're talking about my son, the moron. Anthony.' 

'Anthony,' I repeated slowly. 

'He's gone.' 

'Gone?' 

'Are you deaf? He ran out of here last night. I only found out half an hour ago.' 

I was nodding my head slowly, my eyes painting a blank gaze of peculiarity. 'Your son,' I said to myself. 'Anthony.' 

'What did you think I was talking about?' 

I let as much air into my lungs as I could. 'I'd ask you to have a drink, but you've already got that base covered. The Quinto Energies building, the one at the shipyard at Sutherland Head. Last night there was a murder there.' 

'A murder?' 

'Someone was shot on the ground floor about midnight. I don't know who, and I don't know who did it.' 

The aged lines in Ramsey's deep face bunched in a flash of anger, before he shut his eyes and closed his free hand over his forehead. He let out what sounded like the rumble of the ages before he dulled it with the rest of his whiskey.