55

by James Delargy

  With his hand on the door, Chandler stopped the rotund man, touching the damp, sleeveless shirt. ‘No, none of those. And watch yourself in here.’

  The lack of amusement in Chandler’s voice succeeded in tempering the doctor’s spirits. At least momentarily.

  ‘Who have you got in here? They must be dangerous.’

  ‘They are,’ said Chandler. ‘They might be.’

  Since Heath was the one complaining, he was first up. As Harlan checked him over Chandler stood close, ready to intervene. As loud and irritating as he was Harlan was good at his job. He set to work cleaning up Heath’s face with a myriad of gauze and swabs, explaining to both his patient and bodyguard that there was nothing major to worry about, a few abrasions and a cut lip, a clean-up job only, no stitches required.

  Then Harlan commenced the small talk.

  ‘So how d’you find yourself in here?’ he asked, as he swabbed a graze on Heath’s cheek that had turned black with dust.

  ‘Harlan . . .’ warned Chandler.

  ‘They think—’ Heath began.

  ‘Mr Barwell, you too,’ said Chandler, interrupting.

  ‘Any chatter and I take the doc away.’

  ‘Just watch yourself son,’ said Harlan with a mischievous grin. ‘Don’t go ending up like Skinny Bishop. Skinny didn’t think he was guilty either. But after a while in here, it turned out that, despite all the evidence – or lack of – he was!’

  ‘Harlan, I’ll take you outside right now,’ said Chandler, even though he was aware that, by ordering the doctor to shut up, he lent credence to the myth and that a similar stitch-up might befall Heath.

  ‘Who’s Skinny?’ asked Heath, his ruddy face looking a little panicked.

  Shaking his head and chuckling away to himself, the doctor’s expert hands moved to Heath’s ribs, prodding them gently. Heath jerked backwards, his hands coming up as if to ward off the doctor. Chandler stepped in to subdue him, but Heath lowered them again as the doctor removed his fingers.

  Only when Harlan stepped back and rubbed his smooth chin did Chandler realize that his heart was pounding in his chest.

  ‘Bruised. Possibly broken,’ said Harlan.

  ‘They feel broken,’ said Heath, adjusting his position and wincing.

  ‘You’ll need to uncuff him,’ said Harlan.

  ‘Why?’ asked Chandler, glancing at Heath, searching for any reason to deny the request.

  ‘I need to check his range of movement. Make sure it isn’t something more serious.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’ asked Chandler.

  Harlan leaned in close. ‘Unless you want him to twist some way and accidentally puncture a lung.’

  Chandler looked at Heath.

  ‘Okay, get up and face the wall, Mr Barwell.’

  Heath didn’t need to be asked twice and stood, staring at the wall, as Chandler removed the cuffs.

  Chandler turned him around. Heath’s face was beaded in sweat, pain and fear. ‘Now no sudden movement, or you’ll be back in these, broken ribs or not.’

  Heath nodded so Chandler helped him back to a seated position. This time he stayed within arm’s reach of his suspect, Harlan squeezing in between them to perform his diagnosis.

  Grabbing Heath’s forearms Harlan raised them.

  ‘Hold there, son.’

  Heath did as ordered, looking first at the doctor, then at Chandler. Chandler felt an unease rise within him, exposed as Harlan nudged him out of the way as he made Heath twist to the side.

  ‘Well?’ asked Chandler, wanting the cuffs back on his prisoner as soon as possible.

  Heath opened his mouth. Chandler waited for him to emit a gasp of pain.

  Instead he rose in a flash, shoving the rotund physician into Chandler.

  ‘Don’t move!’ cried Chandler as he stepped back to try and avoid the collapsing doctor. He fumbled for his gun but an uncoordinated Harlan got his legs tangled, knocking them both off balance to the hard concrete floor like a pair of unwieldy dominoes.

  Heath didn’t wait and bound for the door just as Nick arrived to help.

  ‘Nick, watch—’

  Heath reacted first, lowering his shoulder and barging the young constable out of the way like a rugby player gunning for the line.

  He didn’t count on the second wave of defence though. Mitch had appeared and, using a strength that belied his skinny frame, grabbed hold of the off-balance Heath, buckling his legs and sending him into a sprawled heap against the far wall outside of the cell. Heath’s cry of anguish seemed genuine this time but Mitch didn’t stop, landing on top of the suspect in an instant, pinning him down, bending his arms behind his back and causing yet more angry declarations of pain.

  ‘Why the fuck is Mr Barwell not cuffed?’ roared Mitch, aiming his question at Chandler.

  Chandler got to his feet, leaving the doctor to get up himself. He felt like there was a spotlight on him, the stabbing beam raising the temperature in the sweltering cell through the roof.

  ‘Harlan had to check—’

  ‘Are you determined to lose them both? Bring ’em in, tag ’em and release ’em like they’re some bloody endangered species?’

  ‘He was complaining of chest pains. We were check— ’

  ‘It hurts,’ gasped Heath, pinned underneath Mitch’s well-placed knee in the back.

  Mitch ignored the plea. ‘Get him cuffed and in the cell, Sergeant.’

  ‘Please, sir . . . chief,’ spluttered Heath, ‘they’re working with Gabriel to frame me. Or kill me. I know what these hicks are like. You have to help me.’

  ‘Why did you not inform me immediately that you had Gabriel?’ asked Mitch before turning to Nick who visibly cowered from the question.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Nick. It was my call,’ said Chandler.

  ‘I know it was, Sergeant. I was just wondering if your stupidity was infectious.’

  Though locked up once again, Heath continued spouting a mixture of complaints and wild conspiracy theories. ‘Inspector, your sergeant and Gabriel are working together, trying to pin the blame on me.’

  Mitch responded. ‘Keep the noise down in there, Mr Barwell.’

  ‘I’m not going to go down quietly,’ shouted Heath.

  Mitch ignored the statement and swung towards Harlan who was resting on the bare wooden bench opposite the cells, composing himself. ‘Any chance you could sedate him?’ asked Mitch.

  As Harlan was about to reply Mitch cut him off, ‘No, scrap that. I want to question him again. But first I want Gabriel.’

  Flicking open the slat in the cell door, the inspector addressed Gabriel, his tone pleasant once again, the rage quenched for now. ‘How are we in there?’

  As Mitch fished for initial rapport with the suspect, Chandler could see that while Gabriel remained prone on the bed he had turned to face them. His expression was still one of shock but despite this his body was perfectly still, like a snake waiting to pounce. Chandler tried to shake the comparison from his head. It was nothing more than the previous encounter with Heath playing on his mind; how easily he had been tricked. Mitch had saved him from letting another suspect escape. It left him with an oppressive feeling of debt and a sour gratitude he despised having.

  ‘Get him out of there, Sergeant,’ ordered Mitch.

  Chandler did, wary of any sudden movements, raised hands or attempts to disarm him. There was no need. Gabriel was compliant, merely shooting a nervous glance in the direction of Heath’s cell as he was led out and into the interview room.

  Sitting him in the chair and undoing the cuffs, Chandler asked Gabriel if he needed medical attention. Mitch butted in.

  ‘No one’s seeing the doctor until I’ve had the chance to interview them.’

  There was no protest from Gabriel, but for a brief second his eyes flashed something else other than fear: coldness, either acceptance that he would be in pain for a while, or regret at voluntarily surrendering. This would be his third interview today. This time Chandler
wouldn’t be attending.

  ‘You can leave, Sergeant,’ said Mitch as Chandler tucked the silver cuffs into his belt.

  ‘But I know his story. Same as with Heath.’

  Mitch glared at him with little sympathy. ‘I’ll use my own men. It’s time for fresh ears, Sergeant.’

  Chandler turned to leave. He’d watch from the booth instead. Not ideal but better than darkness.

  As he reached the door Mitch called to him. ‘There are a few reporters hanging around outside. As you know, like zombies, when one shows up thinking that there might be something to feed on, they’ll all show up. Let me make this clear, Sergeant,’ he said, raising his voice,

  ‘I’m the only person to speak to them, okay? Tell your people that. I’ve already given a statement that we have no comment to make as inquiries are ongoing and I don’t want you fucking it up by saying the wrong thing. Or saying anything, for that matter.’

  Luka and Jim were back. Tanya too had returned and was in the recording room prepping the equipment to capture every word and action, twisting, nudging and adjusting buttons, headphones cast off one ear like a DJ in the world’s smallest, dreariest club. The tune currently on deck was Mitch’s abrasive whine, talking informally to his two sidekicks Sun and MacKenzie, ignoring Gabriel at the desk. His voice came through clear, the ebb and flow of his speech pattern captured, the microphones ready to record everything from the most insubstantial detail to the last moments of someone’s life. The confessional was ready.

  After a few minutes, Mitch faced Gabriel and started the interview. Gabriel’s story remained unchanged, Mitch digging but finding nothing but rock at every juncture.

  ‘What farms have you been working?’ he asked, his voice fluttering through the speakers like an echo from the distant past.

  ‘Some down around Murray River, then up to Carnarvon and Exmouth. Tomato picking, fruit picking, anything, everything. There isn’t a patch of this country I haven’t worked, or so it feels.’

  ‘Can anyone verify you being at any of those places?’

  Gabriel shrugged. ‘You can try but it was cash in hand.’ He paused. ‘Before you say it, I know it’s not legal but if taking a bit of swag is the difference between getting a job and not then I’m going for it.’

  ‘The lack of an alibi seems rather convenient,’ said Mitch as if he were offering counsel rather than leading an interrogation.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ replied Gabriel. ‘I don’t care how convenient it is.’

  Mitch went on to question him about his parents and family. From his overhead angle Chandler watched Gabriel’s calmness alter somewhat. As if a nerve had been touched. The same way it had in the car on the way to the hotel.

  Gabriel explained that both his parents were dead. His brother as well. An uncle and aunt too.

  ‘Death seems to follow you around,’ said Mitch. Though his back was to the camera, Chandler imagined a grin worming on to Mitch’s face, a low blow, an attempt to shatter the ice from Gabriel’s veins.

  After letting it linger Mitch continued, ‘How did they die?’

  Gabriel said nothing. His body remained still, but his eyes were fixed. Even from afar the look unnerved Chandler.

  ‘They died in a car crash,’ said Gabriel.

  Mitch’s nod lacked any empathy, treating it as just another piece to the puzzle. ‘And since then?’

  ‘Since then I’ve been wandering, Inspector. Blowing around on the wind.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ said Mitch, not hiding his sarcasm.

  ‘No. Just very true,’ said Gabriel, now irritated.

  Mitch had succeeded. He had hooked the suspect and was now reeling him in through the dark, muddy waters towards the shore.

  But they still had no idea what they’d caught.

  20

  Gabriel sat back, his story relayed for the third time. Mitch immediately insisted on a repeat.

  That was enough for Chandler. The same story four times in one day was something he could do without so he exited the booth to the belly of the station. Mitch’s team was working without respite, displaying an impressive work ethic but a distinct lack of individualism, clones of their erstwhile leader.

  Chandler found himself drawn to his own team: Jim, Luka and Nick milling around the front desk watching on, Tanya locked in the booth, likely to be there for another hour at least listening to the rerun.

  ‘Is this police work?’ asked Jim, looking at Mitch’s team scurry around. As ever it was hard to tell if he were being serious or exercising his dry sense of humour.

  ‘Serious police work,’ replied Luka.

  ‘Do we get involved?’ asked Jim.

  Chandler responded. ‘If you want to. You might have to force your way in, though.’

  ‘I’ve always liked a challenge,’ said Luka.

  Chandler thought that if anyone were going to worm his way in, it would be Luka. He was the most opportunistic amongst them.

  Behind them Nick removed his headphones. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Yeah, Nick, you can try too.’

  ‘No, it’s not that, Sarge. Ken’s called in. Says there’s something burning up in the woods behind Turtle’s.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘He says, and I quote: “Far enough that I’m not fucking checking it out.” ’

  Chandler wondered if it was the place they were looking for.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Chandler.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ volunteered Nick.

  ‘No, you stay here.’

  The young officer slumped back into his chair.

  ‘Luka, Jim, who wants to go?’ asked Chandler.

  Jim raised one eyebrow and glanced at Luka, his expression suggesting that he had no desire to trek through Gardner’s Hill in the height of summer.

  ‘Looks like I’m up,’ said Luka, grinning.

  Disappearing from the station was easy with everyone occupied. With Luka driving, they sped out of town towards the Hill. Leaning forward to peer out the front window, Chandler couldn’t spot any smoke on the hillside and hoped this wasn’t Ken getting petty revenge for earlier. He wouldn’t put it past the wiry old bastard.

  As he continued his search for a trace of smoke, Luka spoke up.

  ‘I know you don’t think so, but I think he’s done a good job.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The inspector. He’s come in, taken charge, got shit done.’

  ‘And pissed off a lot of people.’

  ‘Mainly you, Sarge.’

  Chandler ignored the comment.

  ‘Sometimes you’re a bit too soft,’ continued Luka.

  ‘You want me to treat you like robots?’

  ‘Sometimes the law has to be tough. People respect that. They need that.’

  Chandler glanced over at his young colleague. ‘What self-help management shit did you steal that from?’

  ‘It’s true. Sometimes people have to see us use some force.’

  Chandler was left disappointed that another of his crew had been impressed by Mitch but in Luka’s case Chandler could see the appeal, the same naked ruthlessness in both to get ahead. There was no doubt Luka was a good officer, eager to learn, eager to do, but he also exhibited a recklessness that seeped into his private life. He had already gone through most of the eligible women in the town like a particularly virulent flu. Each of his crew fostered a clique they mined for information: Tanya, the eager tongues of the mothers’ circle; Jim, the wet, blue-collar tongues down in the Black Stump and Luka with his female twenty-something brigade, which he was slowly alienating by dating then dumping. Chandler got the impression that Luka thought he could walk on water.

  They were a kilometre south of Turtle’s when Chandler spotted it, smoke rising into the sky deep in the scrub forest, the grey hand of a drowning victim waving for help above the surface of the trees. Anticipation rose in his chest. He tried to still it, reminding himself that it could be nothing and directed Luka a further ten kilometres down the road to the hidd
en entrance to Bluff’s Bluff – a joke name from a former mayor who refused to let a dirt track be named after him.

  They wound uphill, the car struggling on the rough, hairpin bends, increasing altitude, with the thin line of smoke passing in and out of view.

  Chandler ordered Luka to park short of the car park. Getting out he prepared to hike into the scrubland his two suspects claimed to have scrambled through. He hauled on a backpack filled with water and other essentials. He didn’t expect to be up here overnight but he wasn’t going to get caught out.

  Donning his own pack, Luka asked him, ‘So which one do you believe?’

  ‘We’ve been through this, Luka. First we get some evidence and then—’

  ‘Your gut feeling, Sarge,’ interrupted Luka. ‘We all have a gut feeling. I’m picking Heath. He came in at gunpoint, was caught trying to steal the car, attacked you and the doc. It all points to a certain cunning, an ability to plan and the temper necessary to murder.’

  Chandler drew the straps of his backpack tight. He was trying to ignore Luka but the young officer had some valid points. He had experienced first hand the menace Heath offered but despite all of the arrows pointing to Heath, he couldn’t rule out Gabriel. His varied demeanour from bag of nerves to icy calm nagged at him.

  As he considered this Luka got the jump on him, bounding into the woods like a bloodhound on the trail, the impatient Sydney boy coming to the fore, the city he had grown up in before his artist parents moved out West for peace, quiet and inspiration. Luka had told him more than once that he was impatient to return to the city – or somewhere that boasted more than one nightclub anyway – and had been applying for jobs to get out. As he stepped to the side of the road, Chandler couldn’t help but think that it was another reminder of Mitch, another reminder of the last time he was here.

  They set off into the woods to look for whatever was on fire.

  It proved difficult, the outback offering no reference points, leaving them to follow the wisps of rising smoke, barely visible at this angle above the trees.

  On they went, fighting the waning daylight, struggling over rocks, boulders and fallen trees, discovering no recently dug graves nor ridges over which to tumble.