If you can.
—
THE THIRD STAGE in the life of a butterfly is when the caterpillar becomes a chrysalis, a wrapped-up cocoon which hangs under the branch of a tree. It may hang like this for two months, some even hanging for over a year and inside this cocoon, the butterfly is forming. Legs, head, wings.
Her students used to call this the womb-stage but, as she would point out in discussing the majesty of the butterfly and its ascent into life, this is the third stage.
It has already been born. It has already been a caterpillar crawling along twigs and grass.
When she was a little girl, Anthea used to put her head up close next to a chrysalis hanging from twigs or branches and try to hear whatever might be going on inside, perhaps the unfolding of a wing or the growth of a tail. As she imagined her dad did to her, when she was inside her mum’s womb, trying to feel the kicks and listen to the hiccups.
She never could hear inside the chrysalis. Its magic was silent. Most times she would take a step back and stare at the green pupa or chrysalis, in wonderment. But sometimes anger would get the better of her and she would crush it in her hand.
—
JEN WAS LEFT standing in the middle of the road as many of the cops were dispersing as quickly as they had emerged. The laneway was full of light, from two kliegs, at both ends. As the crime scene was carefully examined by my forensics experts, I spoke to Jen.
‘Thanks. You did well. Let’s see how it goes down.’ I couldn’t offer her anything more.
It was unusual for me to be at a crime scene, but I needed to be front and centre, in command and in full control of the arrest of the real Slayer, not the one I helped send down the river twenty years ago. ‘We’ll need a record of interview with you,’ I told Jen. ‘I’ll have some detectives come over in the morning.’ I turned and walked away.
Before I climbed into my car, I texted Billy.
It’s done.
All cops above the rank of Sergeant are politicians. At my rank, I was consummate. Billy, with his age and experience, was the same. Neither of us was going to be embarrassed by the discovery of the real Slayer. My media liaison people had already drafted the press release by five p.m. the previous day, after Jen had sent me the image of the teeth and well before the op went down.
Out of political courtesy, I rang the Police Minister. That it was three-thirty in the morning didn’t matter. If it wasn’t me, it would be Twitter and the mainstream media. The arrest of Anthea White was good for spin. A relentless police department, chasing justice even after twenty years; a sudden halt to the impending and very awkward Cowboy Ray law that was being drafted to go before parliament to put parolee Jen White behind bars for the rest of her life. That another person had been incarcerated for the crimes was gravely unfortunate and, by five a.m., the Premier had drafted a press release offering to compensate Jennifer White if indeed it was found, through the proper channels of the justice system, that another yet-to-be-formally-named person was responsible for the crimes.
That the yet-to-be-formally-named person whose face and bio was all over social media by four a.m. was Jen’s sister made Jen’s arrest and conviction a little less onerous. We just got the wrong sister. So close, almost nailed it. Right house. Wrong girl.
—
I WALKED BACK up the hill as the dawn began to appear. There had been a light rain that might have lasted for three minutes and with the heat of the morning, steam was rising off the black asphalt. It was Sunday. People were sleeping in. Somewhere, off in the distance, I heard the sound of church bells from below, perhaps from the other side of the river and, for a moment, I imagined the congregation, old and young, kids, at the beginning of life, some closing in to the end. Where had they come from and what would happen to them?
The house was silent and the girls asleep when I opened the front door. Lara had told me that Anthea’s house would be impounded for any potential evidence. Meaning the teeth. Like me, Lara was intrigued by the additional two. Neither of us imagined that Anthea had destroyed them; she was too proud for that. They were her trophies.
I picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Hello?’ he said, answering after the third ring.
‘Robbie. It’s Jen. No-one is hurt but you need to come home immediately.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘Put Anthea on.’
I hung up. I didn’t pick up when the landline went off straight after. I went downstairs and into Maxi’s room, then into little Jen’s room.
‘Time to get up, girls.’
—
AND THEN, AFTER being wrapped in the chrysalis, the butterfly emerges. Unfurling its wings, tasting air for the first time since it was a caterpillar, reaching upwards, its wings in motion, perfect grace, it begins its ascent towards the sky.
Acknowledgements
THIS BOOK COULD NOT HAVE BEEN WRITTEN WITHOUT THE invaluable help and guidance from Lucio Rovis on just how the wheels of a Homicide investigation work. Lucio was tireless and generous in his feedback to me and in recounting his days as a rookie cop, working his way up into a long and distinguished career in Victoria Police.
Any errors are mine, not his.
I am blessed to have a brilliant editor, Claire de Medici. She and Rebecca Allen and my wonderful publisher Vanessa Radnidge at Hachette have been awesome in providing feedback on the story and the characters, not to mention the areas where I might go a little wayward. (The grammar stuff.) Again, any errors are mine, not theirs.
I would like to thank my Chinese friends and colleagues who have shared their experiences with me, as living betwixt two worlds, as Australians but with very Chinese parents, especially mums. I first encountered the left-over syndrome some years ago, when teaching some brilliant Chinese young women and this set off my interest in the difference between the two cultures, especially in the world of Millennials in C21. Without their insights, I could never have approached the character of Lara.
I’d also like to thank my mid-80s-year-old ex-gangster friend who grew up in the East End during the war, nicking a telly for his mum at the age of seven, for sharing his childhood experiences with me. Out of these stories came Billy and thanks to the real Bill W for allowing me to use his name. (And that’s all they share.)
Thanks also to Donna Mex for allowing me to use her name. As with Bill, the real deal Donna and the fictional Donna are nothing alike.
Also from the greatest city in Australia (being Ararat) and mentioned in the text are Paul Leigh, being Ranger Paul, Annette, Annice and Jo.
Thanks to Dr Gordon Guymer, Director, Queensland Herbarium, Department of Environment and Science for his advice on the swamp daisy. Thanks to Professor Simon Lewis, Forensic and Analytical Chemistry in the School of Molecular and Life Sciences, Curtin University, for his advice on all things technical when it comes to forensics in an investigation.
I would also like to very much thank an ex-President of a parole board in Australia for sharing insight into how Karin would operate and how, generally, the board operates in some very tricky situations, especially with politicians.
Again, any errors, you know who to blame.
Thanks to Emilie Chetty for all the insight into the Seychelles, some of which ended up on the cutting room floor. Thanks to a circle of extremely talented writers who were terrific sounding-boards, Matt Ford, John Misto, Fleur Ferris, Martine Delaney, Rachael McGuirk, Scott Wilbanks, Louise Lee-Mei; thanks to Laura Franks for the info about how to get a job at Bunnings, Maggie Lamont on where Nils would probably have stayed in Port Moresby, 1990, to Ross Macrae for reading earlier drafts and for his memories of Bald Hills, to the anchors of Dela, Ruby and Scarlett and to Cassandra McGuinness, to whom this is dedicated, for putting up with a partner who exited life on planet earth for way too long while having embarked on this book and, with the best of grace, listened endlessly to the journeys of Lara and Billy, Anthea and Karin. Without her calm and love, I’d still be writing this in 2023.
This i
s my fifth novel. Never imagined I would write one and, with all of them, as I reach the end, I imagine there will be no more. But here we are; as always, I am in your debt, Dear Reader, whoever you are and wherever you may be.
I am honoured to have had the company of you and your precious time.
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Copyright
Published in Australia and New Zealand in 2019
by Hachette Australia
(an imprint of Hachette Australia Pty Limited)
Level 17, 207 Kent Street, Sydney NSW 2000
www.hachette.com.au
Copyright © Tony Cavanaugh 2019
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
978 0 7336 4075 9
Cover design by Luke Causby, Blue Cork
Cover photograph courtesy of Luke Causby, Blue Cork
Author photograph courtesy of Jasin Boland
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