The Great Divide

by L. J. M. Owen

  Uncertain of where he’d located Jamie from this angle, Jake began to search for signs of recent footsteps in the marshy ground. Fifteen minutes of wandering the lanes between the vines and he was no closer to finding where he had been, but he was significantly colder. Perhaps Jamie had imagined a body after all.

  Turning to trudge back to his car, a strangely-shaped lump on the ground one row over caught his eye. He ducked through the vines, twigs scraping at his jacket, leant over the mound and exhaled heavily.

  It looked as though the old woman had been tumbled on to the ground from standing height there were no signs of her being laid out with any care. The dark grey robe wrapped around her was three or four sizes too big, drowning her in rough, abrasive wool. Her bare feet were a crazed map of veins and broken capillaries, her toenails blackened.

  Donning a glove from his jacket pocket, Jake checked for a pulse. Nothing. Her body was cool, not cold, and her limbs pliable. She couldn’t have been dead for more than three or four hours.

  With her blueish lips agape, eyes sunken and sightless, and strands of white hair plastered to the side of her face, no wonder the boy had been spooked. While there was no obvious cause of death, it was clear that the woman had endured significant trauma in the hours surrounding her death.

  Jake lifted one of her hands, the fingertips globules of congealed blood. The fingernails of every digit including the thumb had been ripped from the bed.

  It was the same on her other hand.

  Chapter Two

  Dunton, Tasmania

  Friday, 10.15 a.m.

  Clearing his throat and testing his voice first to ensure it was steady, Jake pulled his phone from his pocket and called in the scene.

  Murphy arrived first. Attending the scene of a suspicious death superseded taking statements from the Taylors, so he had reversed course when he received the dispatch. ‘Boss is on his way,’ he said as he approached, stopping sharply as he spied the corpse.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Tha—that’s Ava O’Brien,’ he stammered. ‘She ran the bad girls’ home.’

  ‘The what?’

  Murphy straightened up. ‘I mean, she was in charge of the home for girls without families.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here …’

  Jake scowled at the constable’s vagueness.

  ‘There’re some buildings on the other side of the manor,’ Murphy said as he pointed. ‘Behind that hedge.’

  ‘What do you know about Ms O’Brien?’

  ‘My parents said she moved here to run the home.’

  ‘Did she have any family in the area?’

  ‘A brother, I think.’

  ‘We’ll have to get hold of him as soon as possible. And why did your parents call it a “bad girls’ home”?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Why were the girls’—Jake drew scare quotes in the air—‘“bad”?’

  ‘Dunno. I mean, I guess …’

  ‘Were any of them at your school?’

  ‘Only after the home closed.’ The constable’s voice trailed off. ‘One of Dad’s cousins adopted one of the girls.’ He fell silent.

  Jake gazed into the distance, deep in thought. The sun had yet to straddle the ridge line on his sixth morning in Dunton and already there was a faint ringing in his ears: the heavy note of death tempered by a hum of anticipation of a new investigation.

  As they waited for the arrival of the ambulance, Jake came to appreciate the readily available resources in his previous post. In Melbourne, the scene would already have been swarming with forensic staff recording every detail. By contrast, the Forensic Science Service Tasmania, or FSST, had only one forensic pathologist in his half of the state, based over an hour away at the same hospital Jamie Taylor had been taken to. And given Dunton’s remoteness, having CSI staff arrive on scene today was not an option.

  Unfortunately, Dunton was apparently also lacking in constables who had paid attention during crime scene forensics at the academy. Jake had to remind his junior officer to glove up before approaching Ava’s body, even if it was only to space out rulers and markers to photograph her from every angle.

  With rain threatening to set in after midday, Jake determined that the most effective way to preserve any biological evidence on Ava O’Brien’s body was to transport her to the morgue.

  Though nothing was obvious to the naked eye, Jake also retrieved samples of the surrounding decaying vegetation and soil. As a precaution, he reminded Murphy not to mention any details of what they had found to anyone outside of official proceedings. A simple lapse in procedure could tip off a perpetrator or invalidate an entire case.

  There were no signs that Ava had walked here on her own nor been dragged. A thorough scan of the boggy ground surrounding her body revealed only four potential sets of footprints—Jake’s, Murphy’s, Jamie Taylor’s, and presumably those of the person who had carried her here. From the size and depth of the boot prints, the person was of a reasonable size and heft, even accounting for Ava’s weight. Jake ensured Murphy photographed and labelled every aspect of the prints.

  Once the paramedics had arrived, Jake instructed them to carefully strap Ms O’Brien to the gurney before they started the arduous journey uphill. Their ambulance awaited at the rusty front gate alongside Jake’s and Murphy’s vehicles.

  As they began their unenviable haul up the slope, leaving a trail of crushed and oozing grass in their wake, Jake noticed Evelyn Kelly marching towards them through the gloom. She somehow managed to block the stretcher’s progress, forcing the struggling paramedics to halt until she had passed. Jake moved to intercept her before she entered the scene proper.

  ‘Ms Kelly …’ Jake began.

  ‘Who’s under the sheet?’

  Where did this woman get off behaving like this? ‘Ms Kelly …’

  ‘Evelyn.’

  ‘Why are you here? I didn’t call for you.’

  ‘Your boss—Senior Sergeant Kelly—did. He told me a body had been found near Mason Campbell’s house and that I might be needed. So, who’s under the sheet? I can see they’re too small to be Mason.’

  Jake glanced at Murphy who shot him a ‘leave me out of this’ look.

  ‘This is a crime scene, Ms Kelly. You’re to go no further into the vineyard.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘It’s far too early for anyone to be calling Victim Services. No contact has been made with the deceased’s family.’

  ‘If it’s not Mason, who is it? Another camper?’

  ‘Ms Kelly’—Jake pointed toward the manor house—‘off my crime scene.’

  He caught sight of Murphy shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. ‘Pack up the forensics kit and meet me at the house,’ he said to the smirking constable.

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Murphy delivered in a mock-American drawl.

  Water splashed Jake’s face. It had started to spit. Perfect.

  He took a deep breath as he strolled up the hill beside Ms Kelly. She was the boss’s daughter, so it wouldn’t be a great idea to get on her bad side in less than a week.

  ‘So, how’d things go with the Taylors?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ she huffed. ‘Why won’t you tell me whose body you found?’

  ‘Did Jamie say anything further about what he saw in the vineyard that made him hide?’

  ‘Detective,’ she said with an edge to her voice, ‘keeping your crime scenes to yourself might be your thing; keeping my client’s confidences is mine.’

  She would learn the identity of the deceased shortly anyway. He turned to face her, gauging the impact of his words. ‘Constable Murphy identified her as Ava O’Brien.’

  Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’.

  ‘Did you know her?’

  Her eyes flicked away. ‘Not really. She ran the gi
rls’ home that used to be over there.’ She pointed toward a two-metre-high hedge on the other side of the manor.

  ‘What was your connection to her?’

  ‘I didn’t have one.’

  Her words rang hollow in Jake’s ears.

  Striding up the hill, Murphy caught up with them as they reached the rear of the manor. ‘Should I stick around, or …?’

  ‘We need to go over the list of people from the campground,’ Jake said. ‘Look at their histories, and check none of them have left Dunton yet.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘And we’ll need to find any security camera footage in the area.’

  ‘Unlikely round here.’

  ‘Check anyway.’

  Murphy continued around the manor to the front gate and back out to his patrol car, a used glove swinging from his back pocket.

  ‘Let’s go and talk to Mason, then,’ Ms Kelly said.

  ‘You’re staying?’

  ‘I can’t see why not.’

  ‘Now you know the identity of the person we found …’

  ‘I’m only doing what was asked of me by the person who signs my pay cheques. Same as you.’

  Jake began to stride through the overgrown gardens of poorly-tended topiary and crumbling brick edges toward the front of the manor. Ms Kelly clutched his arm, ostensibly to steady herself on the slippery terrain. He could feel her fingers digging into his flesh. The moisture in the air worked to intensify her scent, the mingling odours of her perfume and hairspray distinctly artificial.

  ‘What can you tell me about Ava O’Brien?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘When would you have last seen her?’

  ‘Not for, well … Not for years.’

  ‘Look.’ Jake tried a different tack. ‘This is a small town. People gossip. Can you think of anything that might help? Did Ava O’Brien upset anyone? Did she have any enemies?’

  ‘Are you saying someone killed her?’

  ‘You’re a cop’s daughter, you know how this goes.’

  ‘It’s not like people stumble over corpses every day here—it’s not Midsomer.’

  As they walked around the sprawling building they passed between a glass-and-wood conservatory with peeling paint on one side and rusted tools in unkempt garden beds on the other. The slowly crumbling facade—part sandstone and part brick—indicated a number of extensions and scant maintenance over the years. Ms Kelly jumped at a burst of mocking laughter from a riot of kookaburras perched nearby.

  ‘Is there anything you can offer to help?’ Jake pressed.

  ‘Only a word of advice.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You might want to spend a little more time on personal grooming.’

  Red-faced, Jake shook her off his arm as they ap­proached the steps to the front portico. ‘I haven’t had a chance to shave today.’

  As they arrived at the grand stained-glass front door it creaked open, two men emerging from the dark interior. Stark light from a single globe in the cavernous hallway behind them outlined almost identical profiles. It was only as they stepped into the muted daylight that an age difference became apparent. Beside Jake, a barely audible hiss escaped Evelyn Kelly’s lips.

  ‘Mr Mason Campbell?’ Jake stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  The older man, his face a mass of wrinkles, waved Jake’s hand away.

  ’Yes?’

  ‘Detective Jake Hunter. And Ms Evelyn Kelly, who you know?’

  ‘Aiden’s girl. Of course.’

  ‘And you are?’ he asked the younger man, a GQ magazine cover of white teeth, thick blonde hair and sartorial statement. Jake suppressed a rare spurt of envy.

  ‘Max Campbell. Would you like to come through to the kitchen? I’ve just put the kettle on.’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘Are you able to tell us what’s going on?’ the younger Campbell asked as he led them down the ornate hallway, his father bringing up the rear. ‘Apart from some young chap asking us not to leave this morning, no one’s told us anything.’

  He poured tea for four at the deeply scored wooden kitchen table as they took a seat. The room’s flagstone floor seemed to suck the last remaining heat from Jake’s body.

  ‘I’ll get to that in a moment, Mr Campbell. First, do you both live here?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, passing around mismatched cups and saucers. ‘I’m usually in Sydney. Just back to check on Dad.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Campbell senior’s tone was scathing. ‘And you can tell that bloody woman I said so.’

  Max Campbell flashed his guests an apologetic look. ‘Dad, let’s not get into that now.’

  The father stabbed a thumb at his son as he addressed Jake. ‘He left me, you know. Went to the mainland as soon as he finished high school to live with that bloody woman. And now he wants to come back here and kick me out of my own home.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve asked you not to talk about Mum like that.’

  ‘Thinks he can come back whenever it suits him,’ Mason Campbell continued to mutter to himself.

  ‘Does anyone else normally live here?’ Jake pressed on.

  ‘No,’ the younger Campbell answered.

  ‘How about the buildings behind the manor?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Dad?’

  The old man gave a brief shake of his head, sending the wattle of his drooping neck into a rhythmic swing.

  ‘And where were you both, last night and this morning?’

  ‘None of your bloody business.’

  ‘Dad,’ Max Campbell snapped. ‘There’s no mystery here, detective. I flew in last Friday and I’ve been here for a few days. Dad and I had dinner here last night, watched some TV, went to bed around ten.’

  ‘Any chance you remember what you watched?’

  ‘Whatever was on the ABC. It’s the only channel Dad gets. The news, QI, then a documentary on beetles or something. I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention.’

  Jake paused to sip the tea, bitter tannins flooding his tastebuds. ‘Have you had any other visitors in the past twenty-four hours?’

  ‘No. Can you tell us what this is about?’

  ‘What about sounds outside? Did you hear any cars or motorbikes, anyone making noise nearby early this morning?

  ‘No, not until we heard what sounded like a search party a couple of hours ago. Is someone lost? Why won’t you explain what’s going on?’

  Jake watched both men carefully to gauge their reactions to his next words. ‘Earlier this morning the body of an elderly woman was found on your property.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A tentative identification has been made—Ava O’Brien.’

  Max Campbell sat back and grasped the edge of the table with a hand. ‘What a shame. She was always nice to me.’

  ‘Course she was, you’re my boy.’

  ‘Dad, really?’

  ‘Good woman. Hard worker,’ Mason Campbell said, ignoring his son. ‘But not unexpected.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Jake said.

  ‘She was a bit long in the tooth. Perfectly natural.’

  ‘Dad, she was younger than you.’

  The elder Campbell’s flourishing eyebrows met to form one long, grey, shaggy crest. ‘She wasn’t married, not working, not contributing. No real reason to hang around.’

  ‘Dad! You shouldn’t say things like that!’

  ‘I’ll say whatever I want, thank you. My property, my rules.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Max Campbell’s groan indicated he was treading the path of a well-worn argument. ‘It’s a long time since we were all here together, isn’t it?’ He spoke directly to Evelyn Kelly to force the conversation on to a new track.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jake noticed a flush
begin to mottle the side of her neck. ‘You used to come up here?’ he asked.

  She nodded briefly. ‘My parents were friends with … Mr Campbell and his ex-wife.’

  ‘But you stopped coming over when she left,’ the older Mason muttered. ‘Everyone did, the bastards.’

  ‘Dad! Enough.’ Max looked pleadingly at her. ‘I’m sorry.’

  It wasn’t hard to see why anyone would avoid the old man’s company. ‘When you were here when the girls’ home was operating next door—did you spend any time with them?’

  A chorus of shaking heads surrounded him. ‘We heard them through the hedge sometimes, but we never went over there,’ Ms Kelly said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Bad girls,’ Mason Campbell said. ‘Didn’t want our kids mixing with them.’

  ‘I don’t know why everyone said that,’ Max Campbell countered. ‘They lived right next door and we never saw them. Hardly ever heard them. They never caused any trouble.’

  ‘Was it a home for juvenile offenders?’ Jake asked.

  No one answered.

  ‘Dad?’ Max prompted.

  ‘So, O’Brien’s sister came back here to die, did she,’ Mason Campbell said. ‘Back to the girls’ home in the end …’

  ‘Maybe I wasn’t clear,’ Jake interjected, ‘Ms O’Brien was discovered in your vineyard, not in the home.’

  ‘No!’ Campbell senior’s fist slammed the table. ‘She’ll ruin my harvest.’

  His son snorted. ‘For Christ’s sake, not this again. You haven’t harvested those bloody grapes in years.’

  ‘I will, one day. They’re prize-winning vines.’

  ‘Oh, for the love of—’ Max Campbell took a deep breath.

  ‘You’ll never understand how much of myself I’ve put into those vines. They’ll produce gold-medal wine.’ He began to mutter again. ‘I just need to find the right winemaker.’

  Old men and their delusions, Jake mused. ‘If we could get back to—’

  ‘And this is exactly why Mum left.’ Max cut him off. ‘He’s been like this forever. Do you remember?’ The last remark was directed at Evelyn Kelly, who nodded, her expression fixed.

  ‘Mr Campbell—Max—do you have any idea why Ava O’Brien might have come here last night?’ Jake asked.