The Boundary
Page 15
Witnesses are thin on the ground. It’s not as though the police have not been contacted by members of the public. In fact, they have received several hundred calls since Brosnan’s death just over two weeks ago. But many are ‘psychics’, the mentally disturbed or both. Higgins takes a seat and from his laptop projects three faces under the title ‘Taskforce Themis’.
He looks up and is met with sallow faces, bodies that crave sleep. He focuses on Harrison McPherson.
‘Okay. We’ve got a very rough estimate for the time of death – we’re looking at between six and eleven pm.
‘Henly, you’ve checked Sherene Payne’s alibi?’
‘Boss, she’s been holed up at the family’s property in Woodford for the last two days. Apparently, the press has been relentless. Her mother and father are staying with her, as well as her publicist.’
‘Publicist?’
‘Sign of the times,’ Jason says, wryly.
Higgins points to the photograph of McPherson. ‘The MO appears to be the same. What’s new is the link to paedophilia. In all, there were three boys on the tapes. The tapes appear to have been made at the house. There was no means of identifying the children. I want to keep a lid on the tapes. At least for now. Lacey, I understand you’ve located Emma McPherson?’
‘Yes, boss. She lives in the Northern Territory. They divorced fifteen years ago, haven’t stayed in touch.’
‘Watkins, what can you tell me about the footprint?’
‘We’re looking for a child, between eight and twelve years of age.’
Higgins pauses, rummaging through his thoughts. The further he delves into the briefing, the more agitated he’s becoming. He wipes the sweat from his brow, expels a frustrated sigh.
‘McPherson was found by his housekeeper, Vera Stanley, at nine o’clock in the morning. She was obviously very shaken yesterday. We’ll be speaking with her again as soon as we can. She worked for McPherson for twelve years. She has to know more than she’s letting on.’
Higgins stares down at his right hand, eyes wide. Jason sees it too, the shaking like an alarm clock. How much did Higgins drink last night? The DSS glares into their faces, faces shocked to see the fear in his.
‘This is the most bizarre investigation I have ever worked on. The media are having a grand old time at our expense and the Police Commissioner is breathing down our throats. Welcome to the most fucked job on the planet.’
Higgins stops, sits down. Closes his weary eyes and rubs his forehead slowly. An uncomfortable silence seizes the room.
They’ve all faced unimaginable barbarity over the years: women beaten beyond recognition by men who had professed to love them. Blue faces of infants, sucked of life by adult hands, adults who had promised to keep them safe.
Mental fatigue is the unsophisticated lover who creeps into each one’s bed at night, too shameful to ever reveal to family and friends. No one openly confesses to losing it, but Higgins is on the cusp. Jason grasps the reins of the briefing.
‘As of now the only thing that links these three men is the Corrowa native title litigation. Lacey, tell us what you know about the note in Payne’s mouth.’
‘Sarge, it’s possible that QUD61 is a reference to the Federal Court’s number for the Corrowa’s native title application. But it’s missing the final two numbers – 83.’
‘Okay. For the moment let’s assume that the note is a reference to the Corrowa’s native title claim. Why did the killer leave it under Payne’s tongue? What’s the killer telling us?’
Higgins drifts back to the conversation, his face wears a jaded grin. ‘Revenge.’
Jason’s pacing the carpet. ‘All crime scenes had red feathers. Lacey tells us the feathers come from the Paradise Parrot. Let’s put aside the fact that it’s presumed extinct.’ Jason turns to Lacey. ‘Speak to Doctor Bernes again. We need to find out if there’s any relationship between the Corrowa and the Paradise Parrot.’
Their faces are anxious for direction. He shrugs.
‘Maybe it’s their totem . . . whatever that is. Look, the killer might be a Corrowa or a student of Corrowa tradition. Given that there were no signs of forced entry, this person was presumably known by all three victims. So we’re looking for someone who played a role in the litigation. Henly, I want you to go to the Native Title Tribunal. Find out everything you can about the Corrowa and the main players in the claim.’
He turns to Higgins. ‘Boss, we’ve also got some news about the glass sample from Brosnan’s kitchen. It’s ochre. Its shiny appearance comes from Cinnabar or free mercury. Because of its compounds, it’s possible it came from the Parachilna mine in the Flinders Ranges.’
‘So we’re looking for someone who has a link to South Australia?’
‘Not necessarily. You can buy ochre over the internet these days.’
Higgins smiles at him across the table.
‘What?’ Jason smiles back. ‘So I like to surf the net at home!’
She reminds Jason of the grandmothers on Palm Island. Her face glows with resilience. He knows the gentle façade hides a razor tongue.
‘Miss Cobb?’
She examines him cautiously through the screen door. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Jason Matthews.’
‘What do you want Detective Matthews?’
His name rolls off her tongue like a bird’s-eye chilli.
‘I’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Your native title case.’
‘There were a number of people involved in that case. Why are you talking to me?’
‘I’ve been told you’re an elder.’
Her hands go to her hips, lips arch into a pout. ‘Is that so?’
‘Miss Cobb, three people have been murdered.’
‘I tell you what. I’ll call my lawyer and we’ll take it from there.’
He watches her disappear down the hallway and return a few minutes later.
‘My lawyer will be here in ten,’ she says, and points to the wooden table and chairs. ‘Take a seat. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
The woman is in her late thirties. Long blond hair tied up in a pigtail. Silver bands in her ears. Body hugged by black jeans. Eyes are glass marbles of peacock blue. They radiate the loathing he knows.
‘Miranda Eversely, Miss Cobb’s solicitor.’
On the phone she had the voice of a foghorn and kept stuttering.
Miranda reads the shock on his face and a blush spreads across her cheeks.
‘Miranda . . . we’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Jason Matthews.’
‘What’s this about, detective?’
‘Taskforce Themis.’
‘Themis? Didn’t she have something to do with the law?’
‘That’s right,’ he says.
Her lips are red on the edges, as though she’s wearing lipstick. They’re curved into a half-smile.
‘We’re investigating the recent deaths of members of the legal profession.’
‘Yes, Bruce Brosnan, Dick Payne.’
‘And, as of yesterday, Harrison McPherson. All three were involved in the Corrowa litigation.’
‘All three were involved in a number of native title matters.’
Jason responds with silence. He’s not here to engage in an academic discussion.
‘What do you want with my aunt?’
‘I’d like to ask her what happened that day in Court and the community meeting afterwards. Perhaps she saw or heard something. In my experience such conversations can be very useful.’
‘My aunt is exercising her right to decline your invitation.’
Jason places his card on the table between them. ‘Here’s my number if she changes her mind.’
‘Did you know that fella, Miranda?’
‘No, why do you ask?’
‘He said you’d spoken on the phone.’
‘I speak to police all the time. He was probably a Crown witness in one of my cases.’ She lifts a white plastic bag to Ethel’s face. ‘Look what I brought.’
‘Tim Tams! Oh, bub, you’re a bad influence on me.’
Miranda winks. ‘Everyone has the occasional slip.’
‘I won’t tell Charlie if you don’t.’
‘Deal,’ Miranda says with a grin.
Ethel disappears into the kitchen to make tea, leaving Miranda in the living room. A black and white photograph of a football team hangs on the wall above the aged couch. The players are all young Aboriginal men and their long hair and headbands suggest the 1970s. She’s seen this photograph so many times, but even now, there are things she hasn’t noticed before. Miranda’s struck by the ease behind Charlie’s smile.
The door to the study is open. Miranda steps inside, peers at her old desk. It’s the same size that it’s always been. But now, the desk looks so tiny and battered.
‘Have you been working on the computer, Aunt?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been doing stuff to our website.’
‘Whose website?’
‘Oh, that Charlie likes to think it’s his exclusive project, but where would he be without me?’
The home page promises a detailed history of the Corrowa, interviews with leaders from the Bjelke-Petersen era, archival footage. Miranda’s intrigued by the feathers.
‘Miri, are you right?’
‘Of course, Auntie.’
‘Well, hurry up. Where’s those biscuits? I wanna have some before Charlie gets home.’
‘I’m surprised he’s not here.’
‘Oh, he’s at a board meeting for the Legal Service. Apparently the coppers have been giving our park mob a hard time. It’s gotten worse since the murders.’
‘He never told me.’
‘That’s probably because he’s been busy organising the march.’
‘But I could help. I’m a lawyer, after all.’
‘Bub, I think you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment.’
As she polishes off her second biscuit, Miranda promises herself that she will have no more. And she mustn’t leave the packet here, or Ethel will eat them all in the one night.
‘So tell me, bub. What’s troubling you?’
Miranda has said nothing, but Ethel’s intuition is sharp.
‘Auntie, are you afraid? You know, with everything that’s been going on.’
Miranda doesn’t want to speak the names of the dead. Somehow, it would be like inviting tragedy into their home.
‘Now don’t get me wrong. I have sympathy for the families of those three, especially Dick Payne’s family. It’s sad that his kid will grow up without a dad. But bub, Payne had been doing terrible things to our mob for a very long time.’
‘I didn’t grieve for any of them.’
Ethel shakes her head and places her hands on Miranda’s shoulders. ‘Bub, what happened to those three was blackfella business. None of us has any control over that.’
They sit in quiet reflection, silence broken only by the rustling of the quickly depleting packet of Tim Tams.
‘I’ve got some good news, Auntie.’
Ethel looks at her, eyes pleading.
‘I’ve found an AA group in West End. Going to my first meeting tomorrow night.’
‘Oh Miri, I’m so proud of you.’
Ethel grasps her fourth biscuit. Miranda guesses the rationale – she now has something to celebrate.
‘It’s nice having you here. It reminds me of when you were little.’
‘I’ve never really thanked you for everything you did for us back then.’
Miranda feels a lump in her throat. It seems that tears are always just beneath the surface these days.
‘Bub, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. After my baby died, I promised myself there would never be any others.’
‘I didn’t know . . .’
‘He was stillborn.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Auntie.’
Ethel smiles wistfully. ‘He was perfect.’
Miranda wants to hug Ethel, but the old woman seems determined to finish what she has to say.
‘Yes, it was very painful. Still is, every day.’
Ethel’s voice is quivering. Miranda’s face is hot, tears are not far.
‘But then you came along, and I could smile again.’
Miranda wonders if this is the first time Ethel has spoken to anyone about her son. She can’t imagine what it would be like to carry around such heartache for so long, without any support. Why hasn’t Ethel told them before?
‘He’s with the old people now. He’s grown to be a big fella. I got a new message from him, just the other day.’
Miranda marvels at Ethel. In spite of her pain, she still clings to her beliefs.
‘And I’m learning more about our mob every day . . . You know I thought I had it tough. But no, Mum and Dad had it a lot tougher. Dad was taken to Palm. You know what for?’
Miranda smiles nervously.
‘My dad told the protector that he wanted to see the money he’d been earning by working on a farm in Kingaroy. The bloody protector had been pocketing the money himself and he didn’t want anyone to find out. So he shipped Dad off to Palm Island. Dad died a year later from typhoid.’
Ethel stares solemnly into space. ‘Poor Mum. She left me with this couple she was working for. They promised to look after me, while she was trying to find out what had happened to Dad.’ Ethel nurses her face with her palms. ‘Can’t even say what happened to Mum. It’s too painful.’
Miranda holds her aunt while nursing her own confusion. All through the trial, Ethel had insisted she knew nothing of her life before the dormitory. Not even who her parents were.
‘It’s alright, love. Mum and Dad are looking after my boy. Everything’s alright.’
‘Aunt, who told you about your mum and dad?’
Ethel seems to freeze, and Miranda sees the glazed eyes. Auntie, are you even here?
‘Bub, your father and I grew you up properly, not like that Dick Payne. That’s why he won’t come after you. Mind you, he follows you all the time. But he’d never hurt you. He promised me.’
‘Auntie, who are you talking about?’
‘You know . . . clever man.’
When she was a child, Ethel would allow Miranda to climb into her bed at night. Ethel would tell her stories about the clever men, sorcerers who exercised power over the weather, flew to ochre mines and guarded the narcotic, pituri. During the trial, Ethel had referred to them, but Harrison McPherson made her look like a fool who believed in fables. Afterwards, Miranda had been angry with herself for indulging Ethel. She’d always assumed that, like the boundary, the clever men lived only in past.
‘My girl, we talk every day. That’s how –’
‘Where is he now?’
‘If only you knew.’
‘Auntie Ethel, if you know something about the murders, then we should tell the police.’
‘I saw him last night.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside.’
The two of them walk out the back door and onto the verandah.
‘Can you show me where he was? Auntie?’
Ethel points towards the roof. ‘He was flying.’
FIFTEEN
The harsh sun of midday has yet to burst. Miranda sits on the grass beneath a tree, reflecting on the demonstrations of her childhood. The fe
eling of aunties sitting around her, Dad’s voice booming from a microphone. It strikes her as odd that their march is starting here today, a park full of tributes to empire.
Metallic Queen Victoria stares down from her throne of sandstone. To her left is a trophy in the shape of a gun, an offering to the people of Queensland from King George V. The gun is aimed at George Street, warning colonials to stay away from hallowed ground. Across the street, dominoes etched in walls stand above pedestrians. Most saunter the footpath. They care little for monarchy, less for past.
The casino stands directly in front of the Queen’s domain; with her stern face she silently admonishes those inside. The yellow and red sign ‘Treasury Casino’ sits above sandstone that bears the words ‘Registrar General’, two incarnations of the one body. Underneath Victoria’s kingdom is the casino car park, its neon lights flashing like the gills of tropical fish.
At the base of Victoria’s throne, a group of young men operate on the limbs of a PA system. Charlie stands above them, laughing. Miranda watches her father as he pauses to survey the crowd. There might be three hundred altogether. She guesses at least half of them are Corrowa, the rest belong to the Socialist Alliance, a few from the Greens. A small handful of the ALP rank and file sit on the grass, faith trampled by their Premier, but still breathing.
The Queen’s palace is the old Land Administration Building, now a hotel. A man emerges from the glass door, like a soldier crab peering out from its shell. The long sleeves of his uniform are out of place in the heat. Television news vans are parked on the grass, indifferent to royal protocol. Journalists with perfect hair play elaborate games with microphones. Police stand at all four corners – foot soldiers sizing up prisoners of war.
Not all who enter the Queensland Police Service are racist. But racism invariably touches their souls. Like the residue of a discharged firearm. Miranda wonders who really gains from the war. Surely some cops thrive on power. But most spend their days just mopping up spilt humanity. Humanity that carries no political worth, holds no dollar signs.