Flare-up: a tense, taut mystery (A Cam Fraser mystery)

by Felicity Young

  Then his mind returned to the dog.

  A light evening breeze had picked up by the time Cam reached Jo’s house, with its wide wraparound veranda and sweeping tin roof. He climbed out of the Commodore and locked it. The cotton palms near her front gate moaned, the colourful hanging baskets on her veranda swayed.

  Jo’s bloodhound bounded across the lawn to greet him, strings of phosphorescent slobber flying from her jowls.

  Dogs. He’d had just about enough of them for one day.

  Pushing Prudence aside, he opened the front door with the key Jo had given him, leaving his shoes in the front hall. His footsteps creaked on the jarrah floorboards as he padded in his socks down the passageway, framed wildlife photographs covering every available space on the rough plaster walls. A tangle of garden herbs in a vase on the living-room coffee table filled the house with a fresh, savoury scent.

  He paused as he came to the spare room. The door was ajar and he could just make out Ruby’s sleeping form on the bed. Even if she were feeling better tomorrow, he resolved, he’d still take her to the doctor in the afternoon. ‘You can never be too careful with kids,’ Elizabeth would have said.

  After a quick shower, he padded into Jo’s bedroom and slipped under the sheet to lie next to her in the double bed. She didn’t stir; her breathing remained soft and regular under the gentle whirr of the ceiling fan. He spooned himself against her back, not wishing to wake her but unable to fight the urge to press his naked skin against hers. He buried his face in the nape of her neck and whispered goodnight, his hand instinctively reaching from behind to cup her breast. ‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he whispered.

  She moaned. ‘I’m having a sexy dream, don’t wake me.’

  ‘I won’t, you just dream on.’ He pulled himself closer.

  ‘But someone’s pushing at my back with a broom handle.’ She paused. ‘Did you check on Ruby?’

  ‘She’s fast asleep.’ He nibbled the back of her neck. ‘She’s been a lot better lately, hasn’t she? Behaviour-wise, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t rest on your laurels, Cam. She hasn’t accepted me yet.’

  ‘Nonsense, of course she has. She loves you. Like I do,’ he whispered. ‘You think she’s having us on about this illness?’

  ‘No, I think her illness is genuine, but what I’m saying is don’t get too complacent. Teenage girls are biologically programmed to give their parents grief. I know, I was one.’

  He smiled; she would have given her parents merry hell. He also smiled because he knew what this conversation was building up to. Bantering seemed to be a part of foreplay for Jo, and to his surprise he had really taken to it. ‘Maybe you’d be more comfortable if you turned around.’

  She turned and was in his arms in an instant, her breasts pressed against his chest. They exchanged kisses. One of her soft hands feathered over his misshapen ear, down the patchwork of scar tissue on his neck and shoulder. There was no tingle, no more than a hint of pressure, but despite the diminished perception of touch, an awareness of a different kind was heightening.

  A sudden crash from the hallway made them both gasp. Jo stiffened. Cam felt the shock run through her body as if running through his own.

  ‘Shit, what was that?’ she asked.

  ‘God knows — I’ll go and see.’

  Feeling as if he’d been doused with cold water, Cam scrambled into his boxers and ran from the bedroom. The cause of the noise was evident as soon as he turned on the hall light. Ruby lying on the floor in the foetal position, covered in soil and broken pottery, having somehow knocked over one of Jo’s plant stands.

  ‘Good God, what happened — are you all right? Did you hit your head?’ He bent over her, running his fingers through her hair, looking for a lump or a gash.

  Jo joined them in the passage, doing up the belt of her light summer dressing gown. He met her worried eyes with his own, his hand caressing his daughter’s damp head. ‘Christ, she’s burning up,’ he said

  ‘I tried to get her to take some Panadol before bed but she refused it, saying her throat was too sore to swallow.’ Jo joined Cam in kneeling next to Ruby.

  ‘Ruby, can you hear me?’ Cam asked.

  Ruby struggled to sit up, her eyes wide and sparkling with fever. ‘I need to saddle Sweet-Face up, get over to the old Rawlins place, need to check the water . . .’ She convulsed into a dry, painful cough and collapsed back onto the floor before rolling onto her side, her eyes still wide open.

  They took an arm each and pulled her up, guiding her back to her bed. Cam sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers over his daughter’s burning forehead. Jo went back out into the passage.

  Ruby opened her eyes again and acknowledged his presence for the first time with a croaky ‘Hi.’ She pulled herself into a sitting position on the bed. ‘Did you see the bank manager?’ she whispered.

  ‘No, not today, love. What happened out there — were you sleepwalking?’

  She nodded and put her hand to her chest, then her head. ‘Hurts.’

  Dressed now in shorts and a T-shirt, Jo returned with a glass of water and some Panadol tablets. Ruby shook her head when Jo tried to hand her the tablets. ‘Throat’s too sore.’

  ‘Just have some water, then.’ Jo handed her the glass and she managed one swallow.

  ‘You have to drink more.’ She pushed the glass towards her again; Ruby shook her head.

  ‘She says her chest and head hurt,’ Cam said.

  ‘God, you don’t think it’s meningitis, do you?’

  Cam swallowed down a sick bubble of fear, rose from the bed and looked at his watch. ‘They have an all-night emergency department at Toorrup Hospital. Whatever this is, it can’t wait for tomorrow afternoon.’

  He slipped out and was back in seconds, dressed in track pants and a T-shirt.

  ‘C’mon, love.’ He stooped and picked Ruby up in his arms, something he hadn’t done for years. Despite her height, there seemed to be no weight to her, her bones as fragile as a bird’s. He pressed his face into her hair and breathed in her sleepy scent as if she were three again.

  Jo grabbed a pillow and ripped a sheet from the bed, and followed him outside to the car.

  Glad he’d decided to bring the Commodore home tonight and not the two-man ute, Cam made Ruby as comfortable as possible across the back seat. ‘With the lights and siren on, I’ll make it to Toorrup within the hour.’ He slid into the driver’s seat of the police car. Jo pulled open the passenger door. Reaching out to touch her arm, he said, ‘You don’t need to come, you have work tomorrow.’

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘Bugger work.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wednesday

  ‘Same as usual, Leanne?’ asked the middle-aged woman with the toast crumbs on her chin.

  ‘No, I’ll have a chicken pie today, please, Norma.’ She’d skip her mid-morning snack – that should compensate for the extra calories. Jesus, who was she kidding?

  The woman moved from behind the counter and pulled a chicken pie from the warming oven. The deli was silent except for the whirring of the fridges and the clicking of the fluorescent bug-zapper on the wall above the door. Leanne selected a carton of chocolate milk from the fridge and looked at her watch, glad to see she still had time to check her mail at the newsagent before setting off for the saleyards.

  Back outside, she put her breakfast on the passenger seat of the Commodore. Cam had phoned first thing, getting her out of the shower, telling her he was at the hospital with Ruby. Should she phone now, find out how Ruby was going? She picked up her phone, then thought better of it. Jo was with him now; he’d call if he needed her.

  Despite the early hour, Main Street bustled as parents dropped their kids off at the primary school and got their shopping done before the heat of the day made outdoor chores unbearable. An old white ute had parked next to the cop car; a sticker on the back window read: ‘A ute without a dog is like a shag without a sheila’.

  In the post office, Lea
nne ducked her way through the assorted mobiles hanging from the ceiling and the stacks of newspaper and stationery items piled against every wall, almost needing a machete to hack her way to the front counter. As she struggled down the aisle, next week’s TV guide caught her eye on the shelf. ‘Neighbours Surprise: Drew Returns from the Dead!’ the cover proclaimed. ‘Home and Away Shock Murder: Who’s the Killer?’ She tucked the mag under her arm and scanned the rows of pigeonholes behind the counter, looking for hers.

  ‘Expecting something, love?’ the postmistress asked.

  ‘Didn’t get the chance to pop in yesterday, Sheryl, thought there might be a few things building up.’ Leanne clattered the money for the magazine onto the glass counter.

  Behind her, she heard the plastic strips of the door clack and the sound of gritty footsteps across the tiled floor. The postmistress took her time sorting through the mail from the pigeonhole. From behind her Leanne heard a man’s impatient sigh and the creaking of well-oiled leather boots.

  ‘Have you heard anything from your dad recently?’ Sheryl asked, handing Leanne a bundle of bills.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Still in Broome, is he?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You must be run off your feet, poor love. Rita’s sister told me all about it yesterday. Poor Darren, poor Rita, couldn’t have happened to nicer people. Are you any closer to catching the murderer?’

  ‘Can’t really discuss it right now.’ Leanne was only half listening, busy riffling through the assorted bills in her hand. No letter from Dad. She wondered, not for the first time, if he’d received her latest, the one with the newspaper clipping about her bravery commendation.

  ‘And I hear that some of your fellas went over to Riverside Lodge to arrest a bloke there in connection with the murder,’ Sheryl went on. ‘Only to find he’d scarpered. I never thought a men’s boarding house in the area was a good idea. It only attracts the wrong type of people — jailbirds, drunks and the like. I mean, we don’t want those sorts in Glenroyd, do we?’

  Leanne said nothing. She was conscious of the man standing behind her. The air shifted as he stooped to take a newspaper from the top of the pile on the floor. She glimpsed a strong brown arm in her peripheral vision, caught a whiff of saddle soap and tobacco.

  She turned, barely giving him a glance, said cheerio to Sheryl and battled her way out of the overcrowded shop. Her pie would be just the right temperature to eat by now.

  She clicked the lock of the police car and was about to climb in when the sound of someone clearing their throat made her stop and turn. It was the man from the post office. Able to have a good look at him this time, she took in the bone-white moleskins and the crisp blue shirt, the sleeves rolled with military precision to his elbows. In his top shirt pocket she saw the protruding stem of a pipe.

  He put out his hand and reached for hers, giving it a bone-crunching shake. ‘Hello, Miss Henry, the name’s Giles, Harry Giles.’

  The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  ‘I’m from Wetherby’s, used to work with Matt at the yards.’

  Of course, Leanne remembered now. Harry Giles. He’d started as a jackaroo and worked his way up through the cattle stations to foreman, then manager, ending up as Raul Wetherby’s right-hand man. Her dad had told her this; Giles used to be his boss at the yards.

  In his hand her bones felt as brittle as matchsticks. When he let go, she moved her hand behind her back and flexed her fingers to return the circulation.

  ‘Everyone at Wetherby’s has been very concerned about him, about you and your mother,’ Giles continued, his slate-green eyes shining with sincerity, holding hers in a steady gaze.

  ‘We had a bit of a whip-round, raised a couple of hundred dollars, and we’d like to hand it over when it’s convenient.’ His voice was pleasant and smooth, which was strange when considering his origins. He had a full head of closely cropped salt and pepper hair and an air of authority that clung to him like the smell of the expensive pipe tobacco on his clothes.

  She flashed him a quick smile. ‘That’s very nice of you, Mr Giles, but Mum and I are doing fine, we don’t need any help. Marriages break up every day.’ She shrugged, hoping the sudden flush of heat to her face wasn’t as obvious to him as it was to her.

  He said, ‘Yes, I know, but this was all so sudden. I mean, to up and leave his job and you and Mavis with no notice to anyone . . .’

  ‘He’s perfectly okay, sent us a postcard from Broome not long ago.’ It was more like six months ago, but to verbally admit the fact would only make it worse. And they couldn’t care too much if they’d only just decided to have a whip-round now, she thought.

  ‘Broome, you say?’ His eyes turned sharp. Now they bored into hers in a manner that made her feel uncomfortable. Still looking at her, he removed the pipe from his shirt pocket and rubbed it against the side of his broad, flat nose.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I have to get to work.’ She took a step back towards her car.

  He nonchalantly inspected the shine of his pipe and polished it on his shirt before putting it back in his pocket. ‘Sure, I’m the one who’s sorry — sorry to hold you up. But listen, if you talk to him, send him my best, will you? I’ll leave you now to get back to your breakfast.’ He gestured towards the car’s passenger seat. ‘Nothing worse than a cold pie, eh?’

  But they were only words; it was obvious he was not ready to let her go just yet. As she reached for the door handle, he touched her arm, keeping his hand there longer than necessary. ‘Oh, there is just one more thing.’

  It was getting harder to keep the polite smile stuck to her face. She didn’t want to be rude, but she had to get going. The early morning was the busiest time at the saleyard, and the time David Fielding, the RSPCA officer, was most likely to be there. She couldn’t waste any more time here. When she took a step to the side, his hand dropped from her arm.

  He said, ‘This is important, it’s about the deaths you’re investigating. I heard the lady in the shop mention that place Riverside Lodge.’

  When Leanne didn’t reply he looked her up and down for a moment as if assessing her capabilities, wondering if she was senior enough to be trusted — though it made Leanne feel more like a horse he was thinking of purchasing.

  ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware of the fact, but several men from Wetherby’s live there,’ he continued. ‘As I know most of them pretty well I was wondering who the police were looking for, because I figure I might be able to help in some way.’ Harry Giles cocked his head to one side like a magpie waiting to pounce on a hidden worm.

  This was getting interesting. Leanne leaned against the back passenger door, pulling the peak of her cap further over her eyes; even at this early hour the sun was dazzling. Giles moved to stand opposite her, thumbs hooked into his belt.

  Leanne scratched her cheek and squinted back at him. ‘Bloke called Jack Ivanovich — know him, do you?’

  He nodded and curled his lip. ‘Well I can’t say that’s a surprise, he’s a nasty piece of work. I recently had him transferred from the abattoir to the feed mill. He was on his last warning.’

  ‘Warning — what do you mean?’

  ‘He has a hot temper. The other workers were scared of him, made complaints. Nothing ever happened, thank God, but he was bad for morale. You can’t have a bloke like that working with knives all day.’

  Leanne winced. ‘Toorrup are sending some officers down to the meat works today, conducting interviews with people who knew Ivanovich.’

  ‘I’m heading that way myself, off to work.’

  ‘Then you’d better look the officers up when you get there, tell them what you just told me.’

  ‘Oh, right, yes of course. But do you know for sure that the body in the wool bale belongs to Darren Pilkington?’

  Leanne made a point of looking at her watch. ‘Nothing’s been confirmed. But look, I really have to go now, sir, thanks for your help.’ She gave him a quick smile, jumpe
d into the car and closed the door.

  He raised his hand in goodbye, but as she drove away, she glimpsed him in the rear-view mirror, mouth twisted with the questions he still wanted to ask.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Eight o’clock in the morning and the humidity had not yet set in. The air was crisp and sharp with the odours of penned sheep and cattle. A cacophony of shouts, roars, clanging gates, whistles, barks and bleats built up the anticipation of the day ahead like the tuning of an orchestra. Gripped with the same sense of excitement she’d felt when coming to the saleyards as a kid, Leanne sprang from her car, eager to see and smell it all again.

  She had once considered applying for a job at Wetherby’s, and although he’d never said it, she knew her father had been disappointed when she took up the police academy’s offer instead. Like many men of his generation and background, he had an inherent distrust of the police, even though, as far as she knew, he had no reason to be wary of them. She wondered if he was still angry about her chosen career. Could that be the reason why he’d never answered her letter or phoned?

  A triple-decker rumbled past her, heading for the unloading pens. The kelpie on the passenger seat hung its head out of the window and greeted the early morning with a string of shrill barks. As the tailgate was lowered, the yard official, wearing a blue ‘Wetherby’s’ T-shirt, stood poised with his clipboard, ready to check the outpouring mob. After being unloaded, they would be drafted, graded and put in smaller pens for the auctions in the centre of the yards.

  The pungent smell of the sheep became stronger with each step Leanne took towards the holding pens. When the man with the clipboard saw her approach, he flicked the gate closed with his knee to dam the flow of sheep.

  ‘G’day,’ Leanne said, giving the man a cheery smile. ‘Don’t suppose you could tell me where I can find the RSPCA officer, David Fielding?’

  The man paused to look her up and down, pushed back his peaked cap and scratched his head. ‘Hang on a minute, love.’