‘Hey, I topped my class in equine studies. Interned at Dalgety Flats Stables six months last year. Just saying … there’s more than one Cody in town now.’
‘Dalgety Flats? The Frasers?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Heard they had had a winner in the Golden Slipper last year.’
‘You heard right. Three-year-old colt named Gondwana.’
The bus depot loomed ahead, an ugly squat building that was a tribute to shoddy council development approvals in the eighties. Jane plodded along beside him, her huffs sending a cloud of mist into the night air.
Beth had been right about the cold. Even now, in spring, the nights could turn bitter. And Poppy wasn’t dressed for mountain weather.
He stumbled at the thought of Poppy shivering somewhere in the dark. No … he couldn’t think that. He kept up the horse chatter to drive the image from his head. ‘You interested in racing stock out there at the Ironbark Station? Or are you breeding working horses?’
‘Quarter horses mainly, but I’ve a few special horses in the mix. You’ll have to come out and see my mare, Buttercup. I just paid a fortune for her. She’s in foal, a bit early in the season, but there was an opportunity to match her with a good bloodline. She’s a thoroughbred, built for racing, or was, until injury ended her career. I think she’s going to foal me a winner.’
‘A Triple Crown winner?’
‘Why not? A bloke can dream, right?’
A bloke sure could dream. Hadn’t he dreamed his whole life of being a vet in a large animal practice?
The arrival of Poppy into his world had changed things—he’d not taken up that scholarship. He’d had bills to pay, cots to buy, nappies, mashed up carrots and kindergarten fees to provide. But he’d never lost his dream, not in ten years of labouring on high-rise construction sites in downtown Sydney.
‘Yeah,’ he muttered. He paused in front of the closed ticket window at the depot. ‘Hang on to Jane Doe, will you, Tom? I’ll go find someone inside.’
‘No worries.’
He pushed his way through the heavy glass door. Bored-looking travellers sprawled across vinyl seats, but Poppy wasn’t one of them. He approached the desk and grilled the young man at the only open counter.
‘I’m looking for my daughter. Fifteen, grungy clothes, hair dyed black. Here’s a picture.’
He pulled up the photo files on his phone. He had hundreds of photos on there, thousands perhaps, and ninety-nine per cent of them were of Poppy. He showed the guy his screen.
‘She been in? Sometime after one? She’d have been looking for a bus to Cooma, and then train to Sydney.’
‘Sorry. I’ve been here since noon. Haven’t seen her.’
Bloody hell. Where could she be? He headed back outside, and Tom must have seen the despair on his face.
‘I know the local police officer. Her name’s Meg King, and she’s one of the best. Let’s get her involved. I can call the old crew. Jacko—remember him? He’s driving again now so if we can prise him away from Tracy, we take a quarter of town each; we search until dawn if we have to.’
There was a sob in Josh’s chest, bucking just under the surface wanting to pound its way free. He choked it down, nodded.
‘Okay, yes, okay. I promised Beth I’d let her know if Poppy wasn’t at the depot. Let’s head back to the clinic and we can get your police friend to meet us there.’ Josh turned to the man he’d grown up with but hadn’t bothered to keep in contact with for the last decade and a half. More fool him. ‘Thanks, Tom. I mean it.’
Tom just nodded. ‘Here, take your girlfriend. I was warming to her, but then she tried to pee on my new boots. She’s all yours.’
‘Let’s walk down the other side of the street. There’s a few service alleys we should check.’
‘You got it.’
They crossed the street, the light from Josh’s torch flickering silver lines across the pavement. Maybe Beth had heard something by now. He dug around in his pocket for his phone.
‘Well, well, what do we have here?’
‘Hmm?’ Josh frowned down at his screen. Beth’s message was another dead end; none of Poppy’s friends had heard from her. No selfies adorned Instagram with a convenient sign in the background letting him know where she could be found.