Chapter 53
Hartwell Entertainment Quarter was buzzing as people arrived for the launch.
Meg and Pete, who had travelled down that morning, looked on from an inconspicuous spot under a large umbrella as visitors from Sydney mixed with local families, who had obviously decided to abandon whatever remaining objections they had to the development in exchange for free food and entertainment.
Even Georgie and Chrissy were there, with Robbie in a wheelchair.
‘He wanted to come,’ Chrissy had said, when Meg had asked her why, ‘and I guess I’m curious to see the place myself.
’ Delta Goodrem would be taking the main stage later that afternoon, after some formalities, including a speech from Mayor Skelton.
People had already started staking their claim to the seats directly in front of the stage.
Meg watched Issy as she welcomed guests, taking their hands and smiling warmly, then moved on seamlessly to the next group, silk skirt shimmering behind her.
They’d been spotting Ashworths, accounting for them one by one.
Hugh Thorburn and Spencer sat at a table to one side of the stage, heads bent towards each other as though they were plotting their next shady deal.
Heather and Malcolm stood with the mayor and a few others, councillors perhaps.
The other brother—Felix?—sat with a pretty, bored-looking woman, both looking at their phones.
Daisy Ashworth and her younger sister were lining up at an ice-cream van on the far side of the square.
‘I think it’s time,’ Meg said.
‘Got the tracker?’ Pete asked.
She nodded, patting her pocket.
He gave her a nod. ‘Text or call if you get in any trouble.’
The factory was deserted. Meg pulled up in the driveway in front of impenetrable steel security gates.
The tall wire fence stretched out on either side.
It was topped with barbed wire, which would tear her to shreds if she attempted to climb over.
Red signs at regular intervals on the fence warned that trespassers would be prosecuted.
She took a deep breath and reached for the wire cutters Pete had bought from Bunnings on his way down that morning.
She’d told him her idea the night before: Once the crowd had gathered for the launch, she would go to the dairy factory.
Whoever was watching the tracker would be alarmed—no one was meant to know Ashworth Property’s plans for the factory, so Meg’s presence there would raise questions—and hopefully they would follow her.
When they arrived at the factory, she would confront them with what she knew and film the interaction on her phone.
It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the only way they could prove what they knew was true, that Hugh Thorburn and Ashworth Property used bribery to do their deals and intimidation to make people too scared to blow the whistle for fear of retribution.
People like Robbie Baxter, Dan James, Joel Hardy and even gutless Adrian Gorecki at the council.
Pete didn’t like it. He’d spent half an hour pointing out everything that could go wrong.
Eventually, they’d agreed to sleep on it.
That morning, she told him she was going ahead with the plan with or without him, so he’d agreed to help.
He’d argued that he should be the one to go to the factory instead of Meg, but she’d objected.
They were tracking Meg, not Pete, so they needed to believe it was her at the factory.
It wouldn’t work if they could look around and see that she was still at the launch.
She left her car in front of the gates—where no one could miss it if they came looking—and got out, patting her pocket again.
Working quickly, she started on the fence, snipping the wire just to the left of where it met the gate pole.
Once she’d made the final cut, she tossed the wire cutters on the grass, pulled out the section of wire to make a large hole and slipped through.
Heart racing, she hurried between towering tanks to a large open space surrounded by warehouses, looking for somewhere to plant the tracker.
Somewhere open enough that she would see anyone who traced her there, but where she could conceal it from view.
It was so sparse, though, just metal walls and concrete underfoot.
A rusty staircase flanked the building opposite.
She checked if she could see under it. No.
Good. She would hide there. But where could she put the tracker?
There was a small metal awning over a door on a building nearby—maybe she could fasten it underneath.
She reached up, but it was too high. And how would she attach it?
She should have got Pete to buy gaffer tape.
She checked the time on her phone. Thirteen minutes had passed since she’d left Hartwell Gaol.
If someone was monitoring the tracker, they would be here any minute.
A hot gust of wind picked up the dust, swirling it around.
A glint of red sunlight bounced off something lying in a corner where two walls met.
A Coke can. That was it! She ran back between the towers, heart pounding as she grabbed the wire cutters.
The street was deserted. Thank God. She hurried back to the Coke can and cut the top, making the hole bigger.
She shoved the tracker inside, slicing her thumb on the razor-sharp aluminium.
Damn it. She sucked the blood, tangy and metallic, as she lay the can back on the ground with the tracker inside, then raced towards the rusty stairs and slipped into the pocket under the lowest steps.