The Big Run-Off (Holden Burke #1)

Eight

I went back downstairs but couldn't see the narrow black shape of Darcy among the crowd. He and Sheyenne were both gone. I left my glass and went outside. It was dark now. I went back up the hill, through the dead university grounds, across the car park and into my Mazda, all the while tossing about in my head the thought that Darcy and Sheyenne knew more about Anthony Ramsey than they were willing to share. At best, there was a thread between them and his disappearance; what it had to do with Quinto, if anything at all, was still a mystery, but one that was shaping up kind of pleasantly. I was even looking forward to finding out more. I took my phone out.

Dave didn't answer on the first series of rings. Instead of leaving a message, I rang again. His voice broke through after five or six vibrations: 'Hello, yes, Holden? This isn't really—'

His voice faded away for a moment; there were thin mumbles through the line that sounded as if he was being talked to and let go by someone at his side.

'Are you still there?' I said. 'I wanted to know if you had the name of the victim yet.'

His voice was short and a little breathless when it came back. 'Huh? Oh—that. Listen, Holden, I can't really talk right now.'

'Are you working? What's going on over there, a new world war?'

'A what? There's a lot that's going on right now, Holden...'

Then there was another voice through the line—not Dave's, something darker and rougher and angrier. It roared from behind him: '...you should let that little bastard get what's coming to him!—He's already got a damn sight of my money, he's not getting any more of it!—'

I heard Dave sigh. I hung up. I turned the car on and backed out. It was about an hour back across town to the Roselake Hills estates, but I wanted to make it in about forty.

There were police cars set along the front drive, some with their lights still on and casting blue and red shadows across the nightfallen facade of the house. I parked on the street and walked up.

A couple of officers stationed outside the front door stopped me as I came up the porch. I told them that I was fielding a survey on low-level cogs in the policing industry and would they be available to answer a few questions about the periphery of law and order. They didn't look amused.

Thankfully, Dave heard the pointless commotion I was making and put his head through a crack in the front door. 'It's okay, he's a licensed investigator doing...reconnaissance work, I guess. Let him through.'

Dave didn't look or sound pleased. His tie was loose and his shirt was ruffled, looking as if he had been stuck in it for a good many hours. He rubbed his eyes and lead me through the hall. 'I told you not to come, Holden.' There was exhaustion in his voice.

'But it sounded like there was so much fun I was missing out on. You know how I hate when everyone is having hanging out without me.'

He stopped me at the archway to the parlour. I peeked inside: there were a lot more police set across the room at makeshift desks, listening into equipment, writing reports, making notes, drinking copious amounts of coffee.

Ramsey was at the back on the room in his shirtsleeves, another empty glass in his hand and his face set simmering in sweaty anger.

'I didn't want you to know about any of this,' Dave said to me. 'Listen, it doesn't concern you, okay?'

'Okay,' I said, with friendliness. 'But I'd still like to know what's going on. Wouldn't you?'

Dave shook his head. 'There was a ransom, okay? A call earlier today: disguised voice, no trace, said that they have Ramsey's kid and they're letting him go for half a million. Naturally, Mr Ramsey isn't very pleased about the whole thing.'