Chapter 25
Ada
It’s one in the morning, and we’re still kissing, still touching like we can’t get enough. But other matters are pressing in on me, matters Jake doesn’t seem all too keen to take seriously.
“Can you tell me what happened on the farm now?” I beg for the umpteenth time. “Without you going down on me?”
“Seems pointless.”
I roll my eyes. “Just tell me.”
“I already did. We got even more than we expected, and now it’s with Betty. She’s popped an extra Ritalin, and said she should have something we can use by morning.”
“Yes,” I say testily. “But what happened, Jake? Start to finish, what happened?”
He sighs heavily. “You know, if you were really grateful to have me back inside you, you’d just take my word for it.”
I whack him on the shoulder. “I’m not. I’m nervous and underinformed. Now. Tell me. What. Happened.”
Jake props himself against the headboard, his hair all mussed from what we’ve been doing. “Fine, but I’ll do you one better.” He picks up his phone and starts thumbing through it, his Playboy grin infuriatingly wide. “Wanna see?”
I hold my breath as he offers me his phone. The sound of an engine roars through the speakers, and Jake’s face fills the frame, grinning like he’s hosting some trashy reality TV show.
“Hey there,” he says, leaning back in the passenger seat of Davis’s car. “Name’s Jake Graves-Holland. In the car with me, we’ve got Mrs. Muldoon—”
He tips the camera toward the backseat, and Betty’s mum waves awkwardly.
“—and Colin Wintergreen.”
Colin throws up two fingers then ducks his head, looking bashful.
“Mrs. Muldoon and Colin are both current employees of Thompson Farms,” Jake says. “And they are legally able to sign visitors onto the premises as long as they accompany them inside and supervise them while they’re there.”
He tilts the camera back to Colin and Mrs Muldoon, who nod.
“Great. Oh, I almost forgot our driver-slash-emergency-sniper over here, Davis Sanderson.”
The lens swings to Davis, who’s hunched over the wheel, his eyes on the road.
“You’re having way too much fun with this,” I mutter to Jake.
“Ah, you sound like Davis. Can’t either of you just let a man enjoy a secret spy mission?”
The camera swerves back to Jake’s face. “For the record, we’re attempting to gain footage of illegal activity taking place at Thompson Farms. If you’re watching this and I’ve been killed in action—”
“Christ,” Davis cuts in. “Quit showing off for Ada.”
Jake turns the phone back to himself and winks. “Love you, babe. This is all for you. Alright, Operation Kiwifruit Freedom starts… now.”
The image cuts to black. I give him an exasperated look and a quick kiss on the cheek before the screen lights up again.
The shaky footage shows Colin Wintergreen’s broad back, and Mrs. Muldoon striding ahead in her floral blouse, swinging a ring of keys big enough to unlock all of Pukekohe.
Colin presses a palm to the pad beside the double glass door. It flashes green, and the panes flick open.
“Bit intense for a fruit farm,” Video Jake mutters.
“Recent development,” Colin says, and Mrs. Muldoon nods.
They step into the main foyer, where an empty reception desk sits under buzzing fluorescents.
“This way.” Colin leads them down a corridor and into a narrow hallway.
From off-camera, Jake’s voice is warm and easy. “Feels weird walking into this place again. Last time I was here, I was still getting my head bashed in at high school scrum practice.”
They pass a couple of workers in high-vis vests, who look up, do a double-take, and grin.
“Oi! Is that Jake bloody Graves-Holland, or what?”
Jake laughs. “My biggest fans. Still following my every move, ay?”
“Course we do. Can’t miss you knocking on in front of the whole country,” one yells, and the pair of them cackle.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jake chortles. “Must’ve been hard to see with all that dust in your eyes from not making the team, Hallsy. How come you’re not at the cocktail party thing?”
Hallsy grins. “Time and a half for a Friday night shift, bro. Be at the big show tomorrow, though. See you there?”
“Thought we already established you can’t see shit, mate.”
Mrs. Muldoon shakes her head as they keep moving. The camera tilts as they’re intercepted by a man in a blue uniform, who’s got all the hallmarks of a security guard. He plants himself in their path, arms crossed.
“Where are you lot heading?” he says, gaze flicking from Jake to Colin to Mrs Muldoon.
“Just here to see Thrasher,” Jake says breezily. “Thompson Farms is putting up a ten-grand scholarship, and I’m s’posed to present it at the reunion tomorrow night.”
The guard’s eyes narrow. “Thrasher’s not here.”
“I know,” Jake says without missing a beat. “But he needs me to bring this back, signed tonight.”
He holds up the fake contract Betty printed off, and the guard’s face relaxes.
“Alright,” he says, looking from Colin to Betty’s mum. “But we don’t need both of you with him, do we?”
“Thrasher said I could show him around,” Colin says with convincing whininess. “I haven’t seen JGH in ages.”
“And I want to keep them in line,” Mrs. Muldoon says with admirable exasperation. “Besides, I’ve got pay sheets to process.”
The security guard doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe you should all come back tomorrow morning, ay?”
My heart bangs against my ribs, but Colin jumps in again. “Ah, it’s fine, Marty. We’ll only be five. Anyway, you should see the kid they wanna give the farm money to. He’s from my old club. Everyone reckons he’s the next Ardie Savea. Best shot we’ve got at the All Blacks since Jakey, here.”
The guard studies the point just above the camera, then his face breaks into a full-on smile. “It is you then, ay? Graves-Holland?”
“That’s me,” Jake says. “Follow the sport?”
“Fuck yeah. Just re-watched you lot smashing South Africa. Good on you, boys.”
“Thanks, bro.”
The security guard waves them forward. “Go on then. Just be quick about it.”
“Cheers,” Video Jake says as the man beside me cackles.
“Holy fuck,” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s it? No ID check? No further questions? Just one of the lads on a casual late-night visit to a farm for extremely vague reasons?”
Jake smirks. “No one ever suspects the lads.”
Onscreen, Mrs. Muldoon leads them through a small maze of white walls and fluorescent strip lights.
It looks like every boring office that’s ever existed.
I can practically smell the coffee-abused microwave smell seeping from the white-yellow walls.
Video Jake turns, and the camera shows a wall covered in photos of Thrasher next to men in suits, shaking their hands or offering them baskets of kiwifruit.
The images are all united under giant gold lettering bearing the legend:
THOMPSON FARMS: THE PRIDE OF PUKEKOHE.
“My hole it is,” I mutter as the on-camera crew reaches the end of the hall where a polished wooden door is covered in more brassy bold letters.
DANIEL THOMPSON. CEO AND MANAGER.
“What is it with needle-dick dweebs and gold?” I ask everyone and no one.
Jake shushes me. “We’re about to get to the good part, Renaldo.”
I watch as Mrs. Muldoon punches a code into the metallic box over the door. The lock clicks, and she glances over her shoulder. “Hurry up.”
The camera sweeps inside Thrasher’s office, and I squint, unsure if I’m seeing right.
It’s a total pigsty. There are empty take-away bags all over the floor, besides towers of folders, a golf bag filled with dirt-encrusted clubs, and a coat rack bulging with stained hi-vis vests and oilskin jackets.
“Urgh,” Video Colin and I say at the same time.
“What a shithole,” Video Jake mutters, rotating to show a huge desk with a massive computer monitor surrounded by loose chips and takeaway coffee cups. Colin swears, and Jake jolts around to reveal that Colin stepped on a slice of pizza. “Jesus.”
“Fuckin’ grot,” Colin grunts, trying to kick it off.
“Why am I not surprised this is what Thrasher’s personal space looks like?” I say, eyes glued to the screen.
“Because you’re a bright one,” Jake says. “Look, we’re about to see the safe.”
Sure enough, the camera turns to the window where a grey-metal vault, almost as big as I am, is parked in the corner like an unexploded bomb.
“God, I wanna look in there,” Video Jake mutters. “Mrs. Muldoon?”
She must shake her head because he lets out a frustrated huff and heads for the desk.
The camera pans, and Video Jake lets out a laugh. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me...”
The camera zooms in on Thrasher’s crumb-coated keyboard. Taped above it is a yellow Post-It note.
Login: DanThompson1
Password: BigDickInCharge
Back shed: 2007
Front shed: 2008
Safe: 2009
“2009,” Video Jake chortles. “Real master at work, ain'tcha, Big Dick? Where’s the back shed, Col? And the front shed?”
“Never mind those.” Mrs. Muldoon heads to the safe and punches in 2009.
The door squeaks open, and the camera lurches forward.
I clap my hand to my mouth. The bottom shelves are packed with binders and what looks like wads of cash, presumably to pay the illegal workers, but the top two shelves are stuffed with passports.
Dozens of them, all stacked in rubber-banded bundles.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, barely able to believe my eyes.
“Jesus,” Video Jake says, all humour gone from his voice. “These aren’t…? There’s so fucking many…”
Colin leans closer. “Mate…”
“They’re from the workers,” Mrs. Muldoon says flatly. “They wouldn’t be able to leave this place without ’em.”
In the video, Jake grabs a stack of passports and unbundles it. The top one is stamped with the gold crest of Fiji. Jake flips it open with careful fingers. The camera focuses on the photo of a young woman, her name and the identifying passport number.
“That’s enough for Betty,” Mrs. Muldoon hisses. “Let’s—”