‘No, I don’t.’
Though her voice was soft, she stated everything with the confidence of a woman who knew her standing in the world and was content with it. Chandler decided to back down. He didn’t need to get into a pointless argument.
‘What’s wrong with Sarah?’
‘Oh yes, Sarah. I think you need to come chat to her. She’s worried about First Confession tomorrow.’
‘What’s she worried about? She just needs to say the words, kneel down, stand up.’
‘She’s ten.’
‘I know what age she is, Mum.’
‘At that age you didn’t like sleeping without the light on.’
Having heard this before Chandler cut in. ‘Can’t you deal with it? Can’t Dad?’
‘We could but I think it would be better coming from her father.’
‘It’s busy in here.’
‘It can’t be that busy.’
‘Just deal with it for now, Mum. I’ll be back later to talk to her. Or get one of her friends to talk to her.’
‘So your advice is to have one ten-year-old counsel another ten-year-old?’ She sounded incredulous at the idea. Chandler didn’t blame her. It wasn’t one of his best, but his mind was drifting to the situation at hand. To Gabriel.
‘I’ve got to go, Mum,’ he said and hung up.
In the momentary silence, Chandler thought of Gabriel. The terrified victim at the station and the calm, silky voice in the car on the way to the hotel. A notion arose that Gabriel had made it all up; crying wolf to get attention. Providing a spark to an otherwise mundane existence. Searching for fame. Or infamy. Like a serial killer might do. But Gabriel had genuinely looked scared. Plus, the blood and bruises were real. As was the chaffed skin around the wrists and the blistered hands. And if Chandler dismissed the idea of it being an act . . . all that was left was the very real possibility that there was a killer out there.
He looked at the phone. There was a chance Mitch might send someone else. It was a faint hope. Like the one he had of never having to work with Mitch again.
6
2002
Even for late November it was a hot day. Chandler was hugging the treeline to steal any shade he could amongst the scattered branches, weaving a zigzag path from trunk to trunk. The others were doing the same, resembling a bunch of uniformed drunks lost in the outback, desperately seeking water and shelter. Salt stung the cut made by his zombie-like 6am shave. A twelve-hour shift trekking the outback wasn’t really what he’d joined the police for, tracking through the middle of this hellhole in search of a lost hiker. But as rookies, he and Mitch were in no position to refuse the detail.
His partner at least had the advantage of long legs on the uneven ground. That and a chin which jutted out from his face like an antenna, guiding him over and around the protruding rocks. Though they were the same age Mitch looked older, gaunt, almost sickly in appearance, his arms and legs too long, as if stretched out and twisted back in an arbitrary fashion. When angry he had the tendency to flap them around like an inflatable sky-dancer outside a car dealership – minus the smile of course. Mitch rarely smiled.
Bundabaroo, the region that included the slopes of Gardner’s Hill, was a wilderness that was particularly inhospitable. Impassable mountains, trees and rocks that either crumbled underfoot and sent you sprawling, or were sharp enough to slice bone. An experiment by God to set the most extreme conditions life could prosper in. A place where the only attendant civilization was Wilbrook, though, as the joke went, if Wilbrook was your last source of civilization you really were in trouble.
Despite it being the 21st century, the region had yet to be fully explored on foot. There were only two ways in: a dirt road that skirted the foot of Gardner’s Hill; or a perilous descent in a helicopter through a thrashing mix of tall trees and wiry scrub on to the unstable surface below.
The reason they were all out here was a lost nineteen-year-old called Martin Taylor. It had been four days since Martin had disappeared and today a dog team had been bussed in from the coast to help, the canines afforded the luxury of a three-hour working day in the summer heat, while the humans toiled for twelve.
With the clack of the chopper overhead and eager barks of the hounds, Chandler concentrated on the noise closest to him: the crash of his boots through the undergrowth. Externally he was searching for Martin and internally for sympathy for the young man’s plight. Another city slicker pursuing the great outdoors despite being completely unprepared for what lay ahead. There was no defined trail out here, nothing for guidance other than eyes, compasses and maps. GPS was a pipedream. This was the earth as it was two and a half billion years ago, entirely undefined, rocks, trees and landscape blending into one, melting the land and sky together in a blur and offering no hint as to the way out.
All the information they had on Martin’s movements came from Eleanor Trebech, the owner of the Gardner’s Palace, the hotel he’d stayed in the night before. Eleanor had conveyed all she knew in her disinterested style, her hair curled in never-ending spirals.
Her responses had been given in both smoke signals and words, her cigarillos never far from her lips. They had got a description and an idea of Martin’s preparedness. Sturdy boots and sunglasses. A lightweight top that glowed a distracting radioactive green as he stood in the dimly lit lobby. A tiny backpack which couldn’t have contained enough for an extended trek. An angry young man, she’d gauged, recently spilt up from his girlfriend. A nasty split she speculated.
Bill Ashcroft shot one further question, delivered in his inimitable gruff style. ‘Did he inform you when he was coming back?’
Eleanor shook her head. Martin had not asked her to hold a room so what business was it of hers. She ended the conversation by returning to the glossy lifestyle magazine on the reception in front of her.
Information gleaned from his family and friends marked Martin as a semi-experienced hiker with a number of weekend-long treks under his belt, but for this excursion Martin had disregarded a couple of the basic tenets: hiking alone and not informing a responsible person of his proposed route and expected time of return. No one would call Eleanor Trebech responsible, certainly not with her three and a half husbands and history of inebriated car crashes. But not providing her with any information on his future plans seemed a wilful act of abandonment.
The only clue as to where he had set off from was the rusty Holden found abandoned in the gash in the trees that constituted the dirt car park partway up Gardner’s Hill. Tests showed that there was nothing but fumes in the Holden’s tank, the suspension held together by prayers more than mechanics. How it survived the treacherous road to get that far was anyone’s guess.
In the car they found a compass, tent pegs and a jacket, a necessity as the temperature could plummet overnight. A small first-aid kit was wedged under the passenger’s seat, where it could be easily forgotten. Maybe on purpose.
At that stage no one had put forward the possibility – out loud at least – that Martin was dead. What was speculated was that he was very much alive and completely oblivious to the search operation now under way. That he had hitch-hiked somewhere else without informing anyone. Maybe even on to the old mining grounds. It wasn’t uncommon. Three times in the past two years they had been called out to incidents where environmental activists had trespassed on to mining land only to stumble into one of the many open pits. Two had escaped with broken bones and a substantial fine, but one had picked the wrong hole to fall down and broken his neck. He’d gone undiscovered for six months. It was the same up here on the Hill, natural pits and hollows hidden in the undergrowth in abundance. If Martin had fallen into one no one would have heard him scream.
7
It was the embittered screech that reached him first, followed by stout indignation. Chandler had been talking to Tanya about amending the KLO4 to include a warning about approaching the suspect, when a strange man limped into the station, his limp exacerbated by the shotgun barrel jammed in
to his lower back. The shotgun was wielded by Ken ‘Kid’ Maloney, fifty-six years old, born and as oft-said, ill-bred here, sporting a beard that was as wild as his eyes. He mumbled something about catching this bastard on his land, the rest was hard to make out in the garbled tongue few understood.
Sneaking a glance at his colleagues, Chandler offered a reassuring nod. A reminder not to react. Not yet. This was the second time Ken had marched someone in at the end of his shotgun this year. The first time it had been a young backpacking couple who he claimed had stolen things from his house. A claim that turned out to be nothing more than a thirsty couple in need of some water and – on Ken’s part – wilful misunderstanding. This time he had a single victim. Chandler drew his eyes from the gun to the shaking hostage to try and calm him. His heart stopped.
The man at the end of the gun exactly fitted the description of Heath.
Around five foot six and, as Gabriel had described, with the stout, low centre of gravity of a farmhand, engineered to lug heavy equipment around. His nut-brown hair was tousled, as if it had evaded a comb for months, the week-old beard a shade darker than the hair. Sweat dripped from it. A small cross dangled underneath a green-checked shirt which was minus a ripped pocket. Accompanied by the three-quarter-length trousers he resembled a lumberjack, at home in the outdoors, at home with keeping someone locked up outdoors before murdering them. The blood staining his clothes lent credence to this hypothesis.
‘Someone gonna come arrest him then?’ said Ken, the gun firmly wedged into the small of the man’s back.
With a flick of his hand, Chandler signalled his colleagues to back away. Ken’s face was a picture of frustration. Dangerous frustration.
‘We’ll take him now, Ken. Just put down your gun.’
Chandler had hoped to convey authority in the command but wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.
‘Why the hell should I put down ma’ gun?’ demanded Ken. ‘Someone’s gotta keep him under control.’
‘Just drop it, Ken,’ said Chandler. He couldn’t help but think that if Ken knew who this man probably was he wouldn’t have dared approach him. Ken was crazy, not stupid.
‘I’m not puttin’ down ma’ gun ’til someone comes arrest him,’ said Ken, his voice trapped by the beard as if the hair had wired his lips shut.
Chandler inched forward to hear him better. A bad move. Ken readjusted his position menacingly.
There was an indecipherable mumble from his hostage now. Begging.
Chandler decided to try and placate Ken. ‘Okay, Ken, what did he do?’ he asked.
‘More like what’a caught him doing.’
Chandler strained his head forward, not daring to move the rest of his body in case it set Ken off.
‘He was trying to steal ma’ car.’
‘He was at your place?’ asked Chandler. If this was Heath, he must have been looking for a car in order to flee. Or pursue his prey.
‘No, I was out near Turtle’s. Hunting some of those bastard rabbits. Was coming back to the car when I caught this bastard trying to start it. A fella’s property is a fella’s property,’ said Ken, wide-eyed and acting as innocent as the rabbits he was supposedly hunting.
Chandler knew full well that the rabbit story was bullshit. If Ken had been around Turtle’s then it was almost certain that he’d been stealing eggs from the chicken coops; but that was a follow-up for another day. Right now he needed Ken to back off and let him take his captive into custody so he could ask more questions and confirm his suspicions.
‘Quite right, Ken, quite right,’ agreed Chandler. ‘Now if you let me have him, I can arrest him.’
‘I wasn’t trying—’ started the man. The barrel shoved into his back stopped him.
‘Ya bloody were, I caught ya,’ said Ken, shouting into the ear of his hostage before diverting his attention back to Chandler. ‘There’ll be handprints . . . fingerprints on the steering wheel. And before you think it, I ain’t got nothing to do with the blood. Ya can’t do me for that. He already had it on him.’
‘I believe you, Ken. Now—’
‘I didn’t lay a finger on him. Tell him.’ Ken prodded the gun into his hostage’s back.
His hostage stuttered, ‘It wasn’t—’
Ken didn’t let him finish. ‘There, ya’see.’
‘I see,’ said Chandler. He directed the conversation to the hostage, who fitted Gabriel’s description of the serial killer. ‘Are you okay?’
There was hurt in the man’s eyes. ‘No, I’m not okay. Do I look okay?’ he said, followed by a wince of pain. Not the barrel this time – something else was causing him discomfort.
Ken jabbed the barrel again, producing a grunt from his hostage. ‘Tell them what you done, boy. Or what you were trying to do when’a stopped ya.’
‘Ken, let us handle this,’ said Chandler.
‘If I get him to admit it you can’t charge me with anything.’
‘I’m not going to charge you with anything, Ken, but you need to put the gun down. Now!’ Chandler realized that he needed to end this. The longer Ken stood there the more twitchy his trigger-finger could become.
Luka interrupted. ‘We can’t take any of this as evidence, Ken, as you have him at gunpoint.’
Chandler turned to glare at his constable. Luka was technically correct but it wasn’t a helpful interjection. He already had a potential serial killer on his hands; he didn’t need a separate murder investigation.
‘Ken! The gun. Now!’ Chandler held his hand out for the shotgun. Though he tried to will it, nothing he could do could stop it from shaking.
‘It’s my gun,’ said Ken.
‘And you’ll get it back.’
‘I’ve a right to have it.’
‘But not a right to point it at people.’
‘Even at bastards stealing ma’ car?’
‘You’ve brought him to us. That’s enough.’
‘He hasn’t admitted it,’ said Ken.
Again his hostage winced, his jaw clenched tight. A defeated aura encompassed him. The serial killer caught by chance, his carefully laid plans foiled by a slow-witted – but dangerous – local.
Seeing that Ken wasn’t about to drop the gun, Chandler turned to the hostage. ‘Did you try and steal the car?’
There was a nod. The confession at gunpoint. ‘Yeah, I tried to steal his car. I had to. I had to get away, there’s—’
His confession was halted by another jab of the gun. ‘Bullshit, boy. There’s no excuses, you city arseholes think you can get away with anything out here.’
‘You’ve got your confession, Ken. You can let him go now,’ said Chandler.
‘But he isn’t sorry.’
‘Ken!’
Ken scowled, removing the gun from his hostage’s back and aimed it at the ceiling. Chandler released the curdled air from his lungs and felt the collective tension ease, the mass of hitched shoulders dropped as one. Tanya and Luka darted forward to part Ken from his hostage. Chandler stepped towards him as Ken resisted Tanya’s attempts to take the shotgun from his hands.
‘The gun’s mine.’
‘Forty-eight hours, Ken,’ said Chandler. ‘To give you a chance to calm down. Next time you spot an intruder, call us.’
‘I want it back. Two days, Sergeant. I need that gun.’ Ken scowled, looking lost without his firearm, eyes wide in hurt as if his only child had been ripped from his grasp.
‘Two days,’ said Chandler, ignoring Tanya’s look of frustration. He knew her opinion. She didn’t condone anyone but the police having guns. It might have been her three kids talking but truth was she had never liked them. Not that she was afraid to aim one to hammer home a point. Chandler nodded at her to usher Ken out of the station. He was, for once, the least dangerous madman present.
With Ken gone, Chandler studied the suspect. His head was lowered to the ground with nothing in the sweaty, chubby cheeks that suggested he was capable of killing fifty-four people. The eyes that looked up as he approached,
however, were narrowed and Chandler detected an undercurrent of malice in them. The man took a deep breath and grunted, teeth bared. Chandler’s hands slid to his gun, grazing the metal, ready to draw.
‘I had to steal the car. I had to,’ he whispered.
Luka paused at the suspect’s shoulder, awaiting further instruction. Chandler flicked his eyes to the side of the room. Message understood, his colleague backed away.
‘Are you Heath?’ asked Chandler, fingers curving around the butt of the gun. The seemingly wounded man slowly raised his head, jaw clamped firmly shut. The look of a man who’d been exposed.
The deep brown eyes stared at Chandler, before glancing at the others. Chandler prepared himself, his fingers tensing. If Heath were going to attempt escape it would be now.
Heath nodded once, confusion now rather than menace in his expression. ‘How did you—?’
‘Is your name Heath?’ repeated Chandler.
‘Yes, it’s Heath. Heath Barwell,’ he said, frowning. The pained expression had disappeared. It had all been an act. Though a very realistic one.
‘You’re from out East?’
‘Yes. Adelaide.’
‘And what brings you here?’ Chandler was starting slowly, easy questions to lull him, like excavating at an archaeological dig, better to use a brush than a bulldozer.
‘Work.’
‘What kinda work?’
‘Any. Farming, fruit-picking, labouring. You name it, I’ve done it.’
‘So you know the place well?’
Heath slowly shook his head. ‘No.’
Chandler noted the suspicion and tentativeness in Heath’s voice as if searching for the safe path through the minefield.
‘Mr Barwell, I’m going to have to arrest you—’
‘I needed to steal the . . . take the car,’ spluttered Heath. ‘I was running from—’
‘We’re not interested in the car,’ interrupted Chandler, easing Heath’s arms behind his back and slipping the cuffs over wrists that were chafed red, the palms of his hands blistered with heat or overwork. ‘We want to talk to you about some murders.’
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