I did know that. It was part of why I wanted to meet her today. I hold the silence, willing her to keep going.
She gives me a sideways look. “As far as Rhys’s accounts go… if I wanted to, I could theoretically do a proper forensic sweep. Recover deleted messages. Trace logins and IP trails andtheoreticallypass the info on to you.”
“Well,theoretically, that would be amazing,” I say, lightheaded with relief. “If you get anything serious, I’m a step closer to doing something for Rhys that isn’t just screwing with idiots at a party.”
“Cool. Well, is there anything else?”
Excitement explodes in the pit of my stomach. If Betty has the skill set she’s claiming, she’s not just a potential ally; she’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.
“Actually…” I say, my voice quivering. “I might have something else.”
“What?”
All my instincts are screaming to stay quiet. To not yap about something I’m not even close to proving. But I can’t look into what’s happening at Thompson Farms any deeper on my own, and it feels like Betty Muldoon and I have clocked fifteen years of trust in ten minutes.
“Does your mum still work for Thompson Farms?”
Betty’s face closes like a book. “You need to be careful. That place is?—”
“Big bucks for Pukekohe?” I say, quoting Thrasher.
She nods.
“I know,” I say, leaning forward. “And you can tell me to go fuck myself, but there’s dirtthere. Piles of it. And if I’m right, Thrasher Thompson’s in serious shit. Him and God knows how many pricks who work for him. Including Jenny’s ex-husband?—”
“Will Sharpe.” Betty’s eyes blaze like struck matches. “I know him. Him and Thrasher used to… Look, what have you got?”
I cast a glance at Cece, who’s thankfully deep in conversation with a customer. The last thing I need is her knowing I suspect her precious Will’s involved in a criminal conspiracy.
“Thrasher came in here and took a work call in front of me,” I tell Betty. “It sounds like he treats his fruit pickers like shit. Off-the-books wages, unpaid overtime and fuck knows what else. I’d bet every dollar I have that he’s got them here illegally. Confiscating passports, like those Tauranga wine growers. Problem is, I don’t have any proof. Maybe you or your mum could…?”
Our eyes lock. We both know what I’m asking her.
“I should go,” Betty says, getting to her feet.
“Wait,” I blurt. “That’s not all. I’ve found… pictures.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Pictures?”
“Nothing disgusting, I promise,” I say, grabbing my phone. “But they might lead to something disgusting. Can I show you?”
She sits, poised on the edge of the seat as though about to run. “Fine.”
I open the image folder and hand her my phone. “Swipe through. There’s seven altogether.”
The pictures all show the same thing: my ex-classmates and current Thompson Farm employees, drinking and smoking in a barn. And they’re not alone. In every shot, there are female employees wearing the same yellow vests and navy workpants as the guys. But unlike the guys, who are all whiter than mayonnaise, the girls appear to be Filipino, Fijian and Balinese.
Betty scrolls, her expression darkening. “How old are these girls?”
“My question exactly,” I say through my teeth. “My second question would be, ‘What’s their immigration status?’ The third question I’d ask is, ‘How optional is their attendance at these parties?’”
Betty puts down my phone. The screen shows Thrasher with hisarms draped over two dark-haired girls holding Woodstock cans. Both of them look like they could be in high school.
“See how there’s a mirror on the table in front?” I say, pointing to it. “Nothing on it, but something tells me Thrasher doesn’t use to it to check his hair. And these parties happen every last Friday of the month. ‘Push out Parties’ he calls them. POP’s for short. Threw me off when I first saw the acronym. I had no idea what he was on about.”
Betty’s eyes become slits. “Where did you get these pictures?”
“Private Facebook group. ‘Tommo’s Top Farm Lads.’”
