Wozza shook his head and put the last bit of his hamburger back in the bag. ‘One way to find out.’ He picked up his phone and called Forensics to check.

CHAPTER 11: THE GIRL ON THE ROAD

CHAPTER 11

THE GIRL ON THE ROAD

It was midday when Wozza and I left the office. Our first stop was Lachie Murtog’s flat to see if he was home yet. He wasn’t, but the elderly man next door came out when he heard us knocking.

‘You won’t find him home,’ he told us in a quavering voice. ‘I heard him come in late last night and I saw him this morning packing his car up again. Said he was heading off on a surfing trip.’

‘Did he say how long he’d be gone?’ Wozza asked.

The old man shook his head. ‘It varies. Sometimes he goes for a couple of days. Sometimes, it’s a week.’

‘Bugger,’ Wozza said to me in a low voice.

We headed back into town. Being used to the fumes and pollution of the city, it surprised me to register the smell of eucalyptus and wood smoke in the air; the rain had stopped, but it was still cold enough for locals to light their fires.

Driving down the main stretch, we got a call from D24; one of the local shop owners had caught a kid spray-painting graffiti in the lane behind the shops. It was a job for the uniforms, but since we were right there I radioed in that we would take it. Wozza swung the car down a side street and pulled into the laneway. A little way down, the laneway opened up into a parking area behind the shops. An angry man held a struggling teen by the scruff of his neck.

Wozza pulled the car over quite close to the pair and turned to me. ‘Wanna take the lead?’

‘Sure. And that reminds me: you still owe me five bucks for getting Crystal to talk.’ I climbed out of the unmarked car and pulled my badge from my back pocket.

Wozza grinned. ‘Next coffee’s on me.’

We both turned our attention to the boy, who appeared spooked by the arrival of the police.

As long as the kid was scared, might as well enhance the effect. ‘Police,’ I said, flicking my badge open and holding it in front of his face. He looked about fifteen. I took in the furious countenance of the business owner—a solicitor I’d seen around town called Frank Forester—and marvelled at how some graffiti artists survived to adulthood.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ I said to Forester.

Forester let the boy go. ‘Look what he did!’ he spat, jerking his head towards the back wall of his office.

I looked at the bright red swirls that took up half the brick wall. The huge word RAPPER was shiny and wet.