Three Breaths (The Game of Life Novella Series Book 3) Read online

  “Morgan. Where are you?” I say as if she could answer. She can’t. Was she anywhere near a television to see the interview? Does she know we’re searching for her? Does she know how much I love her? I fucked up when I kissed Linda, I did, and I fucked my marriage. If I’d not been so cowardly, and I’d just opened up and been honest with Morgan … explained the innocence of the situation, I believe over time Morgan would have forgiven me. I made a mistake—a drunken mistake. You’re gutless, Reid.

  I hear the en-suite door slide open. I jerk my neck and fling my body around to face that direction. “John,” I say. I'm surprised I had no idea he was in there.

  “Reid, how are you holding up?” He’s wearing his denim coveralls, the ones he dresses in when I help him with maintenance.

  “Why? What? John.”

  He places the small toolbox he has in his hand on the carpet in front of him. “I was using the bathroom before, while you were doing the interview. The downstairs loo door was locked. I noticed the tap over your basin was running, and I thought if you did try to catch a few winks the dripping noise would piss you off. You need to sleep, son.”

  “I can’t sleep.” I drop my head, and keep my eyes fixed on the jacket I’d discarded on the floor when I came up here.

  “For Morgan. You need to sleep for Morgan.”

  “The bastard who stole Morgan called twice this morning.”

  There’s silence until the mattress sinks lower below my arse. I don’t need to look to know John is now sitting beside me.

  “What did he say?” His tone is tender.

  I sigh, squeezing my eyes tightly together. “A bunch of crap.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The phone was successfully tapped, West tells me. The tech team routed it to come through my mobile too.”

  “That’s smart, right?”

  “Yeah,” I breathe. “They haven’t got a trace from what I know. I don’t think he stayed on the line long enough.” I pause. “But that fucker knew I wasn’t at home when the call came in at your house. How did he know I was at yours?”

  “Have those useless coppers looked for bugs?”

  “It’s all clear, they say. No bugs. So how did this man know?”

  “I don’t know, maybe…”

  “Maybe it’s one of the coppers.”

  John doesn’t answer.

  “You’re thinking it, too, aren’t you, John?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m thinking. I can’t understand why anyone would do this to Morgan. She’s sweet, kind, a great mum—”

  “She is. It’s revenge. But revenge for what?”

  “I don’t know, Reid.”

  “Me either.”

  “How about you try and eat something? I can make you a sandwich or even just a cup of coffee. I’d ask Shirley to fetch it for you, but she’s with the kids next door.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Something, Reid. Eat something.” His hand squeezes my bicep. “Come on. Let’s go back downstairs. We’ll eat together.”

  “Just a coffee,” I say, my stomach so raw that it causes acid to burn a path to my throat just thinking about food.

  “Coffee it is.” His weight becomes absent. “Come on.”

  Lifting my head, I witness his dirty aged hand held out awaiting mine. It’s I who should be assisting him. After all, he’s more than double my age.

  “Coffee,” I mumble, pressing my hands into my thighs and using the weight of my arms to push myself up.

  Side by side, we take the stairs. John’s holding the toolbox he used to fix the leaking tap. I wasn’t aware it had been leaking.

  “Where the hell have you been, Stratt?” It’s West’s voice I hear, but I don’t see either of them.

  “I made it, didn’t I? I was leaving for my holiday when Max called. I had to change my flights.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “I’ve had no missed calls.”

  “I thought you were driving.”

  “I am. Once I fly into Melbourne. Why are you so interested in my arrangements, anyway?”

  I round the corner, and there stands West talking to a man in navy board shorts and a T-shirt. I believe it’s Constable Stratt, who attended my call on the night of Morgan’s disappearance. Maloney’s standing to the left of them. He seems to be listening to the situation, more so than being involved in it. They don’t see us, or if they do, they don’t pay any attention to our presence.

  “What’s with this recording?” Stratt seems irritated. He’s shifting from foot to foot. His posture is stiff, rigid.

  “We’ve had the sound techs go over it already in Brisbane, and they've sent confirmation. Our perp was trying to disguise his voice with a Pom accent.”

  “So you don’t need me now?”

  “No, this morning I bloody did. You said you were coming straight in.”

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah. Mate, we have a fucking woman missing. You could have saved me time if you’d come as you said.” West’s tone is laced with disappointment and frustration.

  “Astin, I’m sorry, okay? I had to get shit sorted, and I arrived as quickly as I could.”

  I cough, causing both of them to search for me.

  “Reid, I’m sorry I didn’t see you there,” Stratt says. His green eyes are vacant, lacking any actual sort of apology on contact.

  “You’re dismissed. Enjoy your vacation.” West doesn’t even address me. Instead, he turns his back in my direction. I’m not sure if this is because he’s embarrassed I witnessed them disagreeing, or if it’s because he's blatantly being rude.

  “Alright. Sure.” Stratt's tone is clipped when he rolls his eyes in front of me, and I’m left wondering why they’re arguing in the first place. There’s overt hostility between these two, and you can feel the tension in the room.

  “Max, I need the shitter. Where is it?” Stratt seeks Maloney’s assistance.

  “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

  Stratt nods, flaring his nostrils before they both take to the hallway.

  John seems puzzled when he comes into my line of sight. When he shrugs, I find myself shrugging, too.

  “I’m going to put your toolbox in the office, and then we’ll have that coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  I take refuge on the veranda, swinging on the love seat that banged excessively against the wall on the night of the storm … the night Morgan never came home. For the last few hours, Detective West has been in a pissy mood, biting everyone’s heads off and snapping orders. Detective Gleaton’s copped the brunt of it. Maloney, on the other hand, has steered clear of him, and spent most of his time talking to me about life, his family, and how he became a cop. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were great mates, but we’re not; we’ve only known each other for a such a short period of time. Talking to Max, though, is easy; I could see how under different circumstances we would be great mates.

  Max is leaning against the railing, patting at his pocket. He’s changed since Stratt left. He’s now wearing a grey T-shirt and knee-length black cargo pants. I guess he too had to freshen up. I’m still in the jeans and the white polo T-shirt I wore under my jacket when interviewed earlier.

  “Smoke?” Maloney says when he retrieves the packet from his pocket.

  “Why the hell not?” I say, knowing it will make my stomach queasy, but lessen my tension. I spark the lighter and draw back hard, coughing not once, but twice. Maloney doesn’t partake, but I get the feeling he wants to right now. He’s jittery, and jittery doesn’t suit him.

  “So, what was that disagreement before?” I’m curious as I hand the lighter back to him.

  A ghost of a smile touches his lips when he reaches out his hand and takes it.

  “We don’t have to—”

  “Cops being cops, mate, nothing more. Everyone’s highly strung at the moment.”

  “Morgan?”

  “Yeah, they're getting close to some pretty goo
d leads. It’s the waiting game. Nobody likes the waiting game.”

  “Why are West and Gleaton here and not out doing investigative stuff?” This has crossed my mind numerous times today.

  “Good question. I’ve asked myself the same. But then again, I’m not a detective, and I know almost the entire force is out there searching and collecting information.” Maloney is twirling the lighter between his middle and pointer finger.

  “Something isn’t sitting well with me,” I confess after taking another draw and bringing nicotine to my once clean lungs.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how this prick knew that Gleaton had allowed me to leave the house and go next door to John and Shirley’s. Gleaton says the property has been checked, and there are no bugs, so how did he know? And if he knew there was a tap on the line, why would he call?”

  There’s a long pause, and I’m not sure if Maloney is thinking of a way to divert the conversation, or if he’s deciding what he will share with me. I wait.

  “I’ve wondered this too.” Our eyes connect. “That call came in, what, all of twenty minutes after the tap was in place and the landline routed to ring through your mobile phone?”

  I nod. “Which means Gleaton, yourself, John, Shirley, my father and mother-in-law knew I wasn’t here.”

  “And you.”

  “Obviously, I knew where I was at the time. Why would I do that? I didn’t take Morgan. I’m not responsible.”

  “I believe you, but I’m confident none of the people you’ve mentioned are involved either. Think about it. West and Gleaton have both been here when the calls have come in. I’ve been here with you the entire time. John and Shirley are next door in the neighbouring property, tending to your children's needs, and your in-laws have been beside themselves since they arrived. I think someone is watching this house, but I suspect it’s nobody who's here.” He pauses. “And as for the phone tap, if he knows it’s in place, which I suspect he does, he’s pretty fucking brazen in calling. It takes a bit of time to get a location, but not much. He cut that call short, before we got a location … this tells me that he understands how they work.”

  “That red-headed cop, though … he’s …”

  “Eric.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He left with West and had no idea you went next door. Don’t think I haven’t had a thought once or twice that it could be an inside job. I’ve done the maths, and it doesn’t add up. It can’t be.”

  “But what if—”

  “Reid, you’re barking up the wrong tree. You’re suspecting everybody, and you should be, but I’m eliminating everybody because that’s my job.”

  “Yeah.” I take a drag of the cigarette; now so small it barely peeks between my fingers.

  “You want another one?” Maloney’s eyes turn towards my hand.

  “Nope. They taste like shit.” Just as I flick the butt over the side of the veranda, I spot Linda’s car pulling up to the curb. “Linda,” I murmur.

  A tall, broad man with blond hair and five o’clock shadow, quite muscular, walks beside her down the path. He’s not holding Linda’s hand, but he’s close enough to her that the bottom of the flowy dress she’s wearing blows against his leg. This must be the copper boyfriend she texted me about earlier. What took her so long in getting here? What further information does this man have?

  “Dodger, fancy seeing you here. How’s light-duty going?” Maloney recognises him immediately, and before I even blink, Maloney has taken to the path and is shaking his hand.

  “You know. Being shot in the arse isn’t as bad as desk duty.” Dodger laughs. So does Maloney.

  I stand from the swing and wait at the top of the stairs. Linda walks in front, Maloney and Dodger following behind, muttering among themselves.

  “Where were you?” I mouth to Linda.

  Linda just nods and continues to walk right past me.

  “Hi, mate. Dusty McQuill. Everyone calls me Dodger though. Linda’s told me a lot about you and your wife.” He holds out his hand. I hesitate to take it in mine.

  “So, what are you doing here?” Maloney says as Dusty steps back from the top step to the middle one, letting go of my hand.

  “Unofficial business.” He points to the casual attire he’s wearing—denim knee-length shorts and a surf-branded T-shirt that reads Surf Tide. “Max, this is my latest squeeze, Linda.” He shifts his pointer finger towards Linda. Dusty’s so relaxed and causal in both body language and the way he's socialising; it gives the impression we’re at a staff Christmas party, about to have a few drinks and dinner.

  The front door flies open, and when I twist on my heel, I see West holding a piece of white photographic paper out in front of him. It’s a big piece, A4-sized.

  “Reid, fingerprints have come back from Morgan’s vehicle. They found a print on the busted tyre inside Morgan’s boot. Do you know a Winston Sampson?”

  I think hard and mutter his name, “Winston Sampson? No. I’ve never heard of him.”

  Linda steps forward quickly and begins to pace.

  “Linda, do you know a Winston Sampson? Has Morgan ever mentioned that name to you? Is he a client of the firm?” I’m firing questions at her, but she continues to pace in what I believe is deep thought. Then she stops and turns in my direction. Her face drains of all colour as if she’s seen a ghost.

  “Linda!” I snap, concerned.

  “Not a Winston Sampson, but a Falcon Sampson.” As the words slide from her tongue, my body tingles, and I feel the colour from my own face drain away.

  “Falcon Sampson is Morgan’s ex-boyfriend,” I follow.

  West’s eyes narrow. “When did Morgan date this Falcon?” His brows crease.

  “Right before we hooked up in the first year of university. Morgan broke it off with Falcon after we met, I’m pretty sure. I’ve never met her ex. To be honest, I’ve never even seen a picture of him or the two of them together. Morgan seemed to have no reminders of past boyfriends in her stuff when we moved in together, but I didn’t have any reminders of past girlfriends either. They were high school sweethearts, I believe.” I look towards Linda for confirmation.

  “Yes, that’s true, they were. Dated from year nine until around the time Morgan met Reid.” She pauses. “So, what’s that? Five years or so?”

  “Give or take,” I say.

  “We’ve had a witness who came forward. He claims to have seen the man we believe to be Winston on the highway helping Morgan. When the prints came back and the photograph we have on file matched the description our witness gave, we suspected we’d found the man who helped Morgan in the storm. Have a look at this photo, you two, and tell me if you recognise him.”

  “Sure.” Linda makes the short distance, standing close to me.

  West hands me the photograph, and I hold it out in front of both of us. “It can’t be?” I’m shocked.

  “Do you recognise him, Reid?” West says.

  “I know him.” I pass the photograph to Linda and run my hands through my uncombed hair. “This man is not named Winston, though,” I declare. “It’s Vactrim, from Handy Car Wash and Mechanics. Vactrim details our vehicles.”

  “Reid, this is Winston Sampson, and this is the photograph taken by the Department of Transport, the one on his driver’s licence.” West places his hand firmly on his hip and furrows his eyebrows. He’s confused. Hell, I’m confused.

  “Well, either he has an identical twin brother who looks just like him or he’s masquerading as two people.”

  “Reid, are you sure?” West’s voice is quiet.

  “One hundred per cent. I talk with Vactrim at the end of every month when I get both the cars detailed. I take Morgan’s in on the first day of the last week of each month. And I do mine in the same week, but on the last day of the month. It’s him.”

  “Morgan talks to him as well?” West’s tone is hushed.

  I shake my head in slow motion. “No. She doesn’t. She never takes the cars in
to be cleaned. Only I do.” I stop, taking a moment to really think about whether there has ever been a time when I’ve asked Morgan to do it in my place. There hasn’t. “I don’t believe Morgan has ever met him. I take care of all the servicing and cleaning arrangements with our vehicles.”

  “Do you know him, Linda?” West asks.

  “No.” It’s a prompt reply, but as I turn towards Linda, I can see the word liar written all over her face. Linda’s flushed and glowing red.

  Why did Linda just lie?

  Morgan

  The space is too small to stand, so I hunch and hobble through tunnel after tunnel until they shrink, and I’m forced to continue in a crawl. Spots of sunlight appear through cracks in the structure around me, sunlight I’ve not seen until now. The farther I venture, the more holes appear, which means more light gains entry and I have fresh air to breathe. I must be going in the right direction.

  Every muscle aches. There’s a high-pitched wheeze that follows each breath I take, and even though my jaw shoots sharp pains into my head from how hard I’m clenching my teeth together, I don’t cry out or scream. I stay silent and keep trekking.

  The ground below my knees falls away like sand being pulled out to sea by harsh waves, but it can’t be sand because I see a dark colouration … soil. I’m underground, as I suspected. How did the earth give way as it did? The wolf.

  My head rams into a wall. I’ve reached a dead end. There are no more tunnels to take to the left of me, or the right when I swivel my head. I’ve nowhere to go. I don’t want to go back the way I came; I’m far too exhausted.

  “Help,” I plead.

  A sound reminiscent of an air-conditioning vent whistling has me almost crawling over the top of myself. I stretch my arms and use my toes to push forwards. I need to know where it’s coming from because there’s no air-conditioner I can see around me. This must be a man-made tunnel. The tunnels are two perfectly dug, and placed, to be something nature created.

  As I trek towards the distinctive whistling I see a circular space I missed initially. A stiff breeze rushes through it. I’ll never fit through this hole. I’d be surprised if a teenager could climb through the space.