55

by James Delargy

  From this angle it appeared the old beige armchair was talking, ink marks from thumbing the newspaper staining the side. Most wives might have been angry at the mess but Chandler knew his mum was glad to see them, for if Peter was planted in the seat he could get up to no mischief. In the past she had tried to scrub the ink marks off but as soon as she did another set would magically appear, more pronounced, the artist creating a new picture over the shadow of the last.

  Using the arms as support his dad stood up. Now in his late sixties, whatever hair he had was disappearing, his face lined like a relief map, a pointed nose dominating his features. It offered the impression that he was a harsh man but nothing could have been further from the truth. He was a puppy, as excited and curious about life as he had been sixty years ago.

  ‘They were angry because of the First Confession thing—’ began his dad.

  ‘Mass,’ corrected his mum.

  ‘Mass has been cancelled. The other kids are blaming you cause you’re in charge.’

  ‘Not with Mitch around,’ muttered Chandler.

  ‘And how is young Mitchell Andrews?’ asked his mum.

  The last thing Chandler wanted to talk about was Mitch, so he shrugged and pretended he didn’t know.

  ‘If he’s come to town something major’s taking place,’ she added.

  ‘I’ll sleep here, if that’s okay,’ said Chandler, changing the subject. Though both suspects were locked up tight and it would have taken just two minutes to return home, he wanted to sleep under the same roof as his kids tonight.

  His mum’s inquisitive expression broke into a beaming smile. ‘Do you want some food?’

  ‘No, it’s okay.’

  ‘I’ll make you something,’ she said, pushing him towards the kitchen.

  Chandler made for the marshmallowy sofa that swallowed him up into its brushed-white goodness. Unable to sleep he reviewed the evidence behind his eyelids. He had two suspects who were pretty much mirror opposites: a scared Gabriel Johnson, the tremor in his voice implying nerves but also possessing an unnerving silky quality, a voice that could no doubt persuade an eager hitch-hiker into a car. But if he were the kidnapper and killer, why had he escaped only to come back and let himself get captured? More likely he wanted to be the Good Samaritan and stop Heath from killing again. A Heath who was loud and vehement and violent, denying everything apart from stealing a car and protesting even being under the same roof as Gabriel. If his was an act it was very convincing, again the kind of acting that might persuade a nervous hiker to get into a car with them. Though Gabriel had in effect surrendered twice, Heath hadn’t voluntarily done anything.

  They were physical opposites as well, Gabriel tall and reedy, Heath short and stocky. Both sported the unmistakable tan associated with working outdoors. Both were parentless with negligible contact to any remaining siblings; through choice in Heath’s case, through death in Gabriel’s. Chandler didn’t have enough to favour either as a main suspect so both had to be. And if both were, then there was the possibility that they had been working as a partnership until another, as yet undefined, event caused them to break ranks. Was that why they were so scared of each other? Because each knew what the other was capable of?

  The shack also bothered him. The evidence found so far pointed to it being the place where the murders took place, or at least where the victims were kept chained, but how had it caught fire? An accident? The sun’s rays magnified on to a stack of paper? Maybe when they were in pursuit of each other a gas heater had been knocked over and turned the shack into an inferno. But why would there be a need for a gas heater to be on in this heat? That left the theory that the killer had purposely set the fire. Possibly an incendiary device set by timer to go off if he/they didn’t return by a certain time? And if so, when? Heath – in the time between Gabriel entering the station and being led in at the end of Ken’s shotgun? Or Gabriel – after sneaking out of the hotel and trekking back up the Hill to destroy the evidence? But how could Gabriel make it there? And why return and give himself up at the station? Why not set it ablaze and then run?

  The gaps in time and motive were frying Chandler’s already addled brain but it wasn’t about to let him stop. A final thought nudged its way in. What if they weren’t working with each other but had a third partner helping them with their crimes?

  That opened up a whole new avenue. Chandler needed something to narrow the possibilities down. He’d always preferred working within set parameters. That was why he’d stayed in Wilbrook. The town and his kids were like his sun, their gravitational pull meaning that he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, stray too far from them.

  Though it was 3am, one of his suns wandered into the kitchen. Sarah, in her nightgown, poked her head in the fridge without spotting him. She was growing fast, almost the same height as her mother already, with the same high cheekbones and narrow face. Those she could have as long as she didn’t inherit her mother’s disposition.

  She didn’t even try to be quiet as she pulled the milk out, the fridge door slamming and the glass rattling on the counter. She was hindered as ever by her insistence on using her phone at the same time as she was trying to do something else.

  ‘You can’t be texting someone at this hour?’ he said.

  She gasped, the milk that was until now finding the glass making a break for freedom.

  ‘Shi—’ started Sarah then stopped.

  ‘You’ll have to confess that,’ said Chandler.

  His daughter resumed pouring.

  ‘Will I? Is it going ahead?’ She looked back down and the tapping on the phone recommenced.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Who are you texting at this time?’ he asked, curious and a little concerned.

  ‘No one. I’m pre-texting.’

  ‘Pre—?’

  ‘For tomorrow,’ said Sarah. ‘Wait . . .’

  She held the phone at arm’s length and took a selfie. Of her holding a glass of milk. Chandler didn’t understand why. Maybe he wasn’t meant to. Maybe this was what passed for entertainment these days. And that was okay, he supposed. His notion of entertainment was probably just as foreign to her. A bottle of beer and some sport on the TV after the kids had gone to bed: cricket, golf, AFL, he didn’t care. Sometimes he could watch a whole game and not know the score at the end, his mind cleared and his gut that little bit larger.

  Sarah finished taking the selfie and was studying the results.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ asked Chandler.

  The pause suggested that she was.

  ‘Naw,’ she said, her jet black hair washing around her face.

  ‘Sarah?’

  Escaping the sofa’s clutches he met her in the kitchen where she had sped her way through half the glass.

  ‘I know you’re disappointed.’

  She tossed her head from side to side as if her brain were a Magic 8-Ball and she was calling on it for an answer. ‘They think that it’s your fault. That you stopped Confession from happening.’

  ‘We had to stop it.’

  ‘Why?’ she said. He could hear a trace of bitterness in her voice.

  ‘There was a chance I wouldn’t be there.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘And only you wouldn’t be there? You always told us not to be selfish.’

  Chandler smiled. Put that way it did sound selfish, postponing the entire event because he had other plans.

  ‘It is selfish, but I’m not going to miss something as big as your First Confession because I’ve got an investigation.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘We’re not sure. He hasn’t confessed his sins. We haven’t made him confess his sins. But we will,’ he added, determined, as if trying to convince his daughter that he was capable. ‘And even if the Mass doesn’t happen on Sunday, it’ll happen another time.’

  ‘Part of God’s plan then?’

  ‘Only God can tell you that.’

  A smile returne
d to her face so, with the glass of milk empty, he gently nudged her in the direction of her bedroom. Within seconds she was back on her phone, thumbs tracing crazy patterns on the touchscreen, updating her status in as few words as possible. It was easy to see her being seduced by the wonders of the big, bad world outside this hole in the hedge. It worried him. Worried him that the chance to go and live in Port Hedland with her mother would appeal to her. If that was the case he was unsure if he could – or even wanted to – stop her.

  24

  Morning arrived with the typical regret over lack of sleep. Crawling off the sofa Chandler was gone before the house stirred.

  Entering the station, Jim was wedged behind the front desk, looking awkward as he always did out front, one finger bashing loudly on the keyboard. As Chandler nodded his welcome Jim pointed towards the back office. Bathed in fluorescent light, was Mitch, his head down and paying little attention to his arrival.

  Chandler approached the office. He doubted that Mitch would brief him on what he had missed, but he had a duty to ask. As he stepped closer, what had looked to be deep study of the files in front of him was in fact Mitch talking quietly into the iPhone. Chandler sidled up to the door hoping to eavesdrop on the case.

  ‘It’s going,’ said Mitch, before pausing. Chandler realized that rather than dictating, he was having a conversation. ‘No, I haven’t seen them yet, why would I? I’m here to work.’

  Chandler’s conscience told him to step away from the door but whoever was on the other end was giving Mitch shit and this was too good to pass up.

  ‘No . . . Yes, I’m fine with the kids being ready made.’

  An odd statement. Mitch must have thought so too, glancing up after he said it and finding Chandler lurking outside his door. For the first time since he had returned, Mitch looked nervous, his limbs jerking, reverting back to the nervy, gangly teenager Chandler remembered. The one with some empathy and compassion.

  There was an audible and insistent hiss from the other end of the phone, the caller still on the line. He waited for Mitch to acknowledge his presence and then return to his call but he did neither, frozen, the dull electronic squawk from the other end growing louder.

  Finally Mitch spoke.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he mumbled into the phone and hung up. Now off the phone the authoritativeness quickly returned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Morning,’ said Chandler.

  ‘Is it?’ said Mitch with a scowl, rubbing his face in his palms, emphasizing the fact that he had been up throughout the night.

  ‘Find anything last night at the site?’

  His wry smile suggested success. But a subtle response wasn’t going to be enough for Mitch. Undertaking a quick scan of the cluttered desk, he presented an evidence bag.

  ‘Take a look.’

  It was a scrap of paper like the couple Chandler had found floating amongst the ash, but this section seemed to be particularly well preserved, containing what he made out as a list of hand-scribbled words marked ‘named at the Beginning’ at the top.

  ‘From the crime scene,’ said Mitch, stating the obvious. ‘We’re trying to find out if it’s a list of the people he’s killed.’

  ‘Are they all listed as missing persons?’

  Mitch’s smile dipped momentarily. ‘Some. We’re checking.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘So it could be a list of anything.’ Chandler was getting used to throwing water on fires.

  ‘We just haven’t found the connection yet, Sergeant. The potentials are from different parts of the country.’

  ‘You should have called me in,’ said Chandler.

  The response was sharp. ‘Now you know how that feels.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t being petty.’

  ‘We aren’t, but you need to spend time with that family of yours.’

  ‘How is that your business?’ asked Chandler.

  Mitch closed his eyes. ‘It just seems like you spend the bulk of your time in here babysitting this lot.’

  ‘They’re a good bunch.’

  Mitch screwed his face up. ‘There may be hope for Luka, but Tanya’s too old, Jim’s too dim, and Nick . . . well he doesn’t stop rabbiting on like he’s got to get everything in his head out.’

  ‘He’ll make a good officer.’

  ‘Maybe, if he’d shut up and let his brain do the thinking.’

  With that Mitch tucked his mobile into his pocket and turned to his laptop.

  ‘So what’s happening today?’ asked Chandler.

  ‘I’m going to put the discovery of the list to our two suspects. See what we can stir up. Someone set that blaze on purpose. We found a bottle of camping gas with a wire leading to a now destroyed battery. Deliberate and premeditated, not particularly smart but certainly effective.’

  Chandler watched from the recording booth as Mitch read out the list to each suspect in turn. Names, ages, places of birth of the three they had linked to the missing person’s database. It drew a blank reaction from both. Next, he tried descriptions but again received nothing. With each non-reaction Mitch probed deeper, divulging names of parents and siblings, loved ones, dangling the hook to make them comprehend what they’d done. He crowded their space, leaning in so close that Chandler was wary that they might attack but every time he got up to leave the booth, Mitch would back off, almost as if he were toying with Chandler rather than the suspect.

  Despite the pressure tactics Mitch came up empty, both suspects sticking to their story, professing their innocence. Neither had heard of these people and just wanted to be freed.

  After spending an hour with each man, Mitch stormed out, frustration etched on his face.

  ‘Nothing new?’ asked Chandler as Tanya began to shut down the equipment. All that was left was to review the evidence again, trek up to the shack, or track down a witness who might be able to place Heath or Gabriel at the scene of a disappearance.

  ‘Do you think he’s robbing them?’ asked Tanya, as they left the booth.

  Chandler turned to her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Kidnapping them, torturing them to reveal their details and then stripping their accounts?’

  ‘Nothing we’ve seen points to a financial motive. It’s obvious that neither have access to great means, given how they were dressed.’

  ‘So if it’s not money, what is it? Revenge? Bloodlust?’

  ‘Maybe just plain lust,’ said Chandler. ‘A sex game gone wrong?’

  Stalking around the office as if spoiling for a fight, Mitch shot Chandler down immediately. ‘There’s no evidence from either suspect of anything like that taking place. We didn’t find any implements or devices of that nature in the wreckage either.’

  ‘Nothing except the stick up your arse,’ replied Chandler.

  A hush fell over the office.

  Mitch finally broke the silence, turning to the office. ‘What we have here is a partnership,’ he announced, ‘or a former partnership. Each is now trying to frame the other.’

  ‘I’ve already considered that,’ interrupted Chandler. ‘There’s nothing to connect them—’

  ‘Other than the crime scene and their matching stories?’ said Mitch. ‘No, there was a partnership and there was a falling-out. It caused a disagreement and each blamed the other. It explains why their stories are so similar.’

  ‘I don’t see them working together. They’re scared of—’ started Chandler but Mitch had already moved on and was lecturing one of his team, MacKenzie, a young man who looked barely old enough to shave. Or maybe he had been cowed enough by his boss to regress back to being childlike. Mitch was instructing him to organize a press conference with the vultures outside.

  What Chandler had been about to say had been playing on his mind for a while but the discussion with Tanya had brought it to the fore. If Gabriel and Heath were in fact working together as some sort of dual killing machine and then had a falling-out, each would have a different
story of how they got to the woods, stories conjured up independently of each other. Mitch might have thought himself smart but Mitch was wrong. He was being driven by the story rather than the evidence. One of them, and only one of them was the true victim and the killer was piggy-backing their story. There was no other explanation.

  25

  The press conference began, Mitch on the steps of the police station, flanked by his cronies, his suit freshly brushed, staring the reporters down.

  It was surreal to watch Mitch parade in front of what Chandler had come to think of as his station, even though he was nothing more than a cog in the machine. A bigger cog had taken his place.

  As he spoke, cameras flashed and reporters jostled for prime microphone position, each trying to grab the perfect sound bite from the circus that had rolled into town, fuelled by social media rumours and the roadblocks put up.

  Mitch answered the questions fired at him, focusing on each interrogator, a born politician. He was all smiles and nods, his hands moving decisively to try and instil a sense of assuredness into the proceedings. He was good at talking without saying anything.

  ‘As I’m sure you can appreciate, I cannot give too many details at this stage – ’

  Because you don’t know too many, thought Chandler.

  ‘– because it is too early to discuss certain aspects of an ongoing investigation. All I can tell you is that we are currently detaining a pair of individuals who are assisting us with our inquiries.’

  Cameras and microphones jostled back and forth in front of Mitch like seaweed on a heavy tide.

  ‘Inquiries into what?’ shot a question from the mass.

  The question elicited another winning smile. ‘When the time comes you can be sure I will inform you of the details.’

  One difficult question batted away. The next one was bowled.

  ‘Is it true that one of the suspects escaped, and was that why you set up the roadblocks? Did you in fact have a suspect on the loose, Inspector, and did you fail to inform the local population of that fact?’