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He went to bed that night surrounded by packing boxes and the distinct impression this wasn’t a systems screw up, but a screw up all the same. In the morning he phoned Melanie. He was no longer worried about saying the wrong thing.
“I’m trying to contact Jacinta Wentworth.”
“Who did you say was calling?”
“I didn’t.”
She sighed, because yes that was a dick thing to say. “If you tell me what you need I can make sure your enquiry gets to the right person.”
“The right person is Jacinta.”
Melanie’s next sigh was weary. It sounded wet on the line. “I’m afraid she’s not available. She’s no longer with the company. I’m sure someone else will be able to help you.”
Not a glitch, but still a screw up. “Since when? No they can’t. Where did she go?” Jungle vines wrapped around his throat and made him speak sharply.
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s confidential.”
“What’s confidential about it?” He slapped a hand over his eyes. He was antagonising the only person who could help him.
“I’m sorry sir, it’s company—”
“Policy. Yeah, well that sucks.”
Melanie laughed and then tried to apologise for it. He cut her off again. “I’m an old friend and I have no other way of contacting Jacinta.”
“An old friend?”
The woman was all the way across the city and she could see through him. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. You could be anyone. I can’t help you.”
“Shit.”
Melanie laughed again. “I’m really sorry, sir.”
“My name is Mace Lauder, how do I find her?”
“Are you really an old friend? Because I’ve worked for Jacinta a long time and I know who her friends are.”
“I’m a new friend. I used to work at Wentworth.”
“How long ago?”
He laughed. “Last week. I quit.”
“It’s going around.”
“She quit too?”
“Don’t you read the papers?”
He’d been so tied up in Buster’s death, in his own work drama and in getting the house ready to sell he’d hardly looked further than his own nose. “I’ve been...busy.”
“Where did you work?”
