She reminded him of the small things he’d been missing after Benita died. The feminine touches in his life that a woman did effortlessly but a man, at least a man like him, never thought of. Things like flowers in the house and knick-knacks on shelves. Eating a couple of meals together had been comfortable and familiar and something he could get very used to very quickly.
Was that loneliness talking? Partly, probably, but he suspected there was more there, more he’d like to explore. Slowly. To make sure.
On the drive out of town the rain eased, turning to misty drizzle then mist rising through the trees with shafts of sunlight breaking through as he turned at the corner where Abbie had been waiting, panicked by that silver car. Never did figure that one out. It sounded like the bloke who’d come into Laurie’s store asking about her art. If what Abbie’s dealer had said about someone asking her about a watercolour of the area and he was originally a local, all matched up in that man, then putting her groceries away made sense. A local would do that. Not hearing the engine noise or Abbie call out? Could have been up the paddock or in the toilet. Or just plain old deaf.
The urge was strong to drive past Rita’s overgrown track and see if Abbie had left yet but he resisted. He had work to do. Identifying the possum shooter was a priority. Despite what the Wagga sergeant had said, Rupe wasn’t happy with that development. He doubted Rita would do something stealthy and underhand. Her approach was upfront and confrontational but she could have disposed of the gun, loaned it to someone or had it stolen.
The track was slippery now and the potholes had filled with muddy water. Rupe drove slowly, skirting the worst of them by going off road, not that the track could be classed as a road. Her house lay still and closed up but the shed doors, which had previously been shut and locked, now stood open. The blue ute was in its usual place under the lean-to carport.
Rupe parked and strode up the front steps. He knocked and waited. No reply. Knocked again.
‘Rita?’
He stepped back into the yard and looked up at the chimney. No smoke. Frowning, with a stir of unease in his belly, he walked around to the back door. It was open but the interior was gloomy when he peered in. The weak morning sun hadn’t penetrated the trees shading the rear of the house yet. Water dripped from the gutters and the untrimmed bushes by the door.
‘Rita? Are you there?’
No answer. He pulled the screen door open and went inside. The stove was cold with no residual warmth whatsoever. She hadn’t cooked breakfast or boiled the aged kettle sitting on the hotplate. For the big old metal cooker to be this cold meant she hadn’t cooked dinner last night either.
‘Rita? It’s Rupe. Are you all right?’
He stood for a moment, looking about the kitchen. Dirty dishes lay on the large family-sized wooden table and on the draining board. On closer examination, the remains of food were dried hard. Days old.
She was in trouble.
‘Rita?’
He hurried into the hallway and into the first room on the right. A storeroom filled with junk. Next door to that was the bathroom and separate toilet then another empty room, this one with a single bed, a chest of drawers, a large wardrobe and a dressing table. Across the corridor at the front of the house was the living room. Dark and unused with an ancient, heavy, cracked brown leather couch and two matching armchairs. The curtains were drawn, adding to the claustrophobic atmosphere. Rupe shuddered and walked across behind the couch to pull the cord and let in some light.
At his feet lay Rita, a small, fragile figure with eyes closed, a nasty black bruise discolouring her swollen face and blood dry on her forehead and cheek. Rupe knelt and felt for a pulse. Faint but there. ‘Rita, can you hear me?’ He bent close, listened for breathing. Her chest rose and fell feebly. ‘Rita?’ A quick, gentle check revealed her teeth were worn and stained but hers, so no dentures to obstruct her breathing
He squeezed her shoulder gently. No response. Better not move her in case she had neck or spinal injuries. Better call for help.
Rupe ran for the front door, bounded down the couple of steps and flung the cruiser door open. Emergency call made, he took the first-aid kit inside and covered Rita with the silver space blanket.
Sitting with her waiting for the ambulance, he had plenty of time to think. This was no ordinary, accidental fall. She hadn’t banged her head on the furniture, there were no marks or blood on the couch and anyway, the injury was all wrong.
The couch was padded and buttoned, rounded leather with no sharp edges. The curtains were thick, and because they’d been drawn the wall and window frame were covered, padded as well, in effect. There was nothing close enough to where she lay to cause the bruising and the wound on her head. He’d seen enough bashings and beatings and punch-ups to know an attack when he saw it. Someone had come into her home, hit her in the face and then struck her on the head with a sharp object.
The prowler? Why? A different intruder? Whoever it was had been in the house, not at the door. Had Rita invited them in? That was hard to believe. Rita never invited anyone in, not even the people she’d known for years. Had whoever it was moved her to this room?
This looked like someone who didn’t take kindly to her undoubted rudeness and most likely her insistence they leave her alone and get off her property. Had she confronted those trespassers she’d been complaining about? But that was days ago and they were up near the park. Hikers were generally peaceful types who didn’t bother anyone, let alone viciously attack an elderly woman in her own home.
The state of the kitchen implied someone had been visiting. Again, an unlikely scenario. Had someone camped out in the house? How long ago had the attack taken place? A couple of days?
What the hell was going on here?
And where was the ambulance. He checked the time. They’d said twenty-five minutes, they’d had twenty-one. If it was the one from Willoughby, it’d be one responder and he’d have to drive the ambulance. He hurried back to the kitchen, locked the back door and grabbed the old black leather handbag lying on the dresser, checking it had her wallet inside. It did, with surprisingly inside that, her driver’s licence and thirty dollars. Not a robbery gone wrong.
She’d be furious but he nipped into her bedroom and found two clean nightgowns in a drawer, worn tartan slippers and a robe hanging behind the door. In the bathroom, he found a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste, all of which he stuffed into a shopping bag.
Ten minutes later he opened the front door and ushered in the paramedic, Fiona, giving her a brief rundown of Rita’s condition.
She knelt and began her examination.
‘This is nasty,’ she said, indicating Rita’s head.
When Rupe looked more closely, the matted, blood-soaked hair covered a wound he hadn’t realised was there, hidden as it was by her position.
This was no accident; Rita had been viciously attacked and left to die.
Within minutes Fiona had run through her checks, placed a collar around Rita’s neck and sent Rupe outside to collect the backboard.
‘When did this happen?’ she asked when he returned.
‘I don’t know. Could be a few days. She’s a bit of a recluse. I was here on Sunday and she said she was sick—through the door—she told me to go away.’
‘Is she on any medication?’
‘No idea. You’d have to ask the doc, although I doubt she’d go to a doctor. She told Abbie next door she never gets sick.’
‘Well she’s one sick lady now. What’s her name?’
‘Rita Freeman. She’s seventy-nine. I have no idea about next of kin. I’ll ask around.’ He’d found some basic details on the gun licence.
With fast, efficient ease, Fiona, with Rupe’s help, carefully lifted Rita onto the stretcher and secured her.
‘Will she be all right?’ he asked as they carried her outside.
‘Hard to say. She’s very dehydrated for starters, and her pulse is weak. The bruising on her face looks worse than it is, with any
luck. I don’t think her nose is broken but there could be fractures to her cheekbone or jaw. Depends a bit on the state of her bones at her age. That head wound is very nasty and she’ll be concussed. She’ll need an X-ray.’
‘Will she be able to talk, tell me what happened?’
‘Not for a while. We have to go, Rupe. Can you drive?’
‘Yep. I’ll grab her bags and shut the front door.’
Fiona nodded and climbed in with Rita.
***
He’d have to go back to the hospital later in the afternoon, according to the nurse Rupe spoke to after Rita disappeared into the emergency department.
‘She came to in the ambulance briefly, but she’s barely conscious and won’t be up to answering any questions for some time,’ she said. ‘The doctor needs to assess that head wound and we’ll need to do an X-ray. Call at lunchtime. She could be confused or even have loss of memory.’
On her way back to base in Willoughby, Fiona kindly dropped him at Rita’s to collect the police car.
Nothing had changed there in—he glanced at his watch, nine forty-one am—the ninety minutes he’d been away. Rupe shut the shed doors then walked around to the rear of the house. The cloud cover had closed in with the sun a brighter ball in the grey sky. Might rain again.
Rita had chooks and a cow. He’d better check on them. A dog was barking in the distance. Jet, over at Abbie’s? Probably. She didn’t sound too insistent. Abbie would have left for Wagga by now. The dog probably didn’t like being left alone.
At the henhouse, the inmates clucked and scrabbled in the deep litter of their yard. He filled the water trough and found a bag of feed in a small storehouse attached to the back of their shed. After topping up the food troughs he collected eighteen eggs, which could be a couple of days’ worth, placing them in a plastic dish he assumed was there for the purpose. Leaving it on the grass under a tree, he continued on to the cow paddock. The cow was across the far side of the paddock and seemed happy enough. Maybe Rita wasn’t milking her at the moment. He hadn’t milked a cow for years but doubted he’d forgotten how. Luckily he didn’t have to put his skills to the test. She lifted her head and stared at him curiously for a minute or two then resumed eating. Her water trough was deep and full, replenished by the rain.
Satisfied the livestock was secure and well, Rupe retraced his steps and picked up the eggs. He might as well take them home, Rita wouldn’t be back for some time and when, if ever, she did return, she’d need someone with her to help her at first. The hospital wouldn’t release her without supervision at home, which she’d hate.
He’d have to find a relative. She’d be cross about the further invasion of her privacy, but he’d have to look through her things and try to find a contact number, a name, something. Failing that, he’d ask Dot and Laurie or even Hannah who’d done the town history.
In the meantime, he could ask Abbie to drop over and check on the chooks and collect the eggs. With the recent rain the vegetables would fend for themselves.
He’d tape up the house. This was a crime scene and the Wagga squad would be in charge. He’d put in the call to them from the hospital. If poor Rita died … this home invasion and assault would become a murder investigation. No, she was tough and she was feisty, she wouldn’t die. But she was also seventy-nine. The image of her lying silent and bloodied on the floor would be difficult to shift from his mind. She wasn’t tough and resilient then, she was fragile and old. Broken. Defenceless. And all alone.
He was damned if the assailant or assailants were getting away with this. Taylor’s Bend was his town, he was here to protect these people. He went back to the car and pulled latex gloves from his bag, along with crime scene tape for the doors.
Rita’s battered old handbag in the kitchen had revealed nothing he didn’t already know. He’d had time while waiting to have a thorough look inside. The license gave her age and address. Along with that were a couple of worn but clean hankies, a half-eaten roll of mints, her keys, with the coins and a pen rattling about loose. Was that normal? Probably. No credit cards in the wallet with the thirty dollars. He’d have to check with the bank in town. In the main bedroom he discovered a couple of photos and old letters stuffed into a shoebox in the bottom of the wardrobe.
Rita was in one picture holding a baby with a girl of about four standing by her side. It looked warm, they were both in short sleeves. Where were they now? Were they her children, relatives or friends? Rita looked to be in her twenties so these children would now be roughly in their fifties. He turned the photo over but could barely decipher the faded writing.
Rita, Betty and Joanne, 1964.
Not much use. Boys would be easier to track unless these girls had never married. Was Freeman Rita’s married name? He had a lot of work to do.
The other photos weren’t very helpful. One was of a young man laughing at the camera, sitting astride a bike with one foot on the ground and the other on a pedal, ready to take off. Nothing on the back. The other was of a grey horse. ‘Fury’ was just legible on the back.
The letters yielded more information. A woman called Patricia Penn had written to tell Rita of the death of her father in Bendigo. She was from a nursing home and from the opening lines it appeared the old fellow had given Rita’s name and address as his next of kin. That letter was dated June, 1981.
The next one he read, feeling guilty but compelled by the circumstances, was from Joanne, postmarked June, 1992, telling Rita she was getting married. It was curt and brief with a whether you like it or not air about it. There was no invitation attached and no expectation that Rita would attend. It was signed Joanne but began baldly with the single word ‘Mum’ … Joanne didn’t say who she was marrying.
Rupe put the letter aside with a sigh. All that sadness locked away in a shoebox at the bottom of a cupboard. No wonder Rita was cranky and bitter. She was lonely and probably filled with regret for what might have been. What had gone wrong between the early photo with the baby and the letter from Joanne? What goes wrong with people’s lives? Anything could.
At least now he had something to start the search for a next of kin. Joanne would have begun life as Joanne Freeman and her sister as Betty or Elizabeth Freeman. One of them would have been born in 1964 or possibly late 1963.
Rupe finished his search and checked the house for her two guns. Neither were there that he could see. She wouldn’t leave them in a shed or the truck. He closed windows, turned off power points and relocked the doors with the nagging dread that whoever had done this was now armed.
He attached the crime scene tape to both front and back doors. That dog had stopped barking. On the way to his car he checked the blue ute. It had the usual bits of rope and tools lying on the floor but neither gun. He locked it and headed back to town.
Chapter 14
Rupe needed sustenance by the time he drove down the main street, so he went to Hannah’s cafe before going home to write up his reports. He’d drop in on Laurie and Dot too.
Luckily the place was almost empty and he was able to ask Hannah what she knew about Rita when she brought his coffee and chunk of apple cake. He indicated she should sit down then gave her a brief rundown.
When she’d finished expressing her concern, he said, ‘I have to find a relative. Do you know anything about her family? Is she from here originally?’
‘That place she lives on was her husband’s. Charlie, his name was. He bought the place a couple of years before they were married, from a fellow called Bill Brown. The Freeman family came from somewhere near Albury and she was from Tumbarumba.’
She’d obviously done her research well.
‘What happened to Charlie and the children?’
‘They had two girls.’ She frowned. ‘I was at school with them. Betty is my age. Charlie died when she was a baby. He got sick, liver cancer, I think, and died very quickly. It must have been terrible for Rita.’ She paused and sighed.
‘Awful. Do you know where either of the girls is?�
�
‘No. They left as soon as they were old enough and never came back. I wasn’t really friends with Betty. She was quiet and didn’t join in much. I heard Joanne got married and last I knew she lived in Sydney.’
‘Do you have her married name?’
‘Um, I can ask around.’
Rupe ate the last of the cake. ‘Okay. Thanks Hannah, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll see if Laurie knows anything.’
‘Will Rita be all right?’
‘I hope so. She was in a bad way though. The hospital said to wait until after lunch to call.’
Laurie and Dot knew more than Hannah about Rita and Charlie Freeman. Charlie had plans to grow vegetables, establish a market garden and supply shops in the area but those plans died with him. Dot did remember that she heard Betty had trained as a schoolteacher and as far as she knew, never married. Joanne’s married name was Ballard. After Charlie died Rita had become very depressed but kept to herself on the farm. The girls went to school but their mother made them work before and after school hours to keep the place going so they never went anywhere with the other kids.
‘Money would have been tight until her old father died when they were teenagers. She inherited everything but it was a constant struggle and she never accepted any help from anyone,’ said Dot. ‘She ended up all alone. The girls escaped and never came back. Joanne fell in love with a young chap once but Rita wouldn’t allow it. She was terribly hard on them. It’s no wonder they ran as soon as they could.’
Rupe nodded as he made notes. ‘Thank you very much.’
He left them exchanging shocked exclamations about the attack and walked the half block to the bank, to emerge a short time later with the information that Rita had no credit cards, not surprisingly, and lived off the old age pension. She spent very little, resulting in a balance of eleven thousand and fifteen dollars in her savings account but had withdrawn two hundred dollars the previous week to do her grocery shopping and buy petrol. Martin, the manager, said this was quite usual for her. She also had a sum of twenty-five thousand in an investment account, which she never touched.
The Secrets that Lie Within (Taylor's Bend, #1) Page 18