On The Job

by Sandi Wallace

  Barb checked on Silk. The fight had gone out of him. If it weren’t for his heaving chest, he’d pass for dead. He’d keep for a moment. Yet she angled her body and stayed alert, while she inched towards the child.

  ‘Hiya, little fella. Well done for being very brave.’ She gently shook the boy’s tiny hand. ‘I’m Barb. What’s your name?’

  He slipped his thumb out just enough to mumble, ‘Oliver.’

  ‘Hiya, Oliver.’ Barb maintained eye contact with the little boy, but directed her next question to his mother. ‘Are you both okay for now, Juliet?’

  Juliet screamed in the instant that Barb sensed movement behind her. She sidestepped and pivoted a second too late. Silk punched her jaw. Her head snapped back. Her brain rattled as she reeled onto the sand.

  She gasped. The bastard had to be stopped.

  In a beat, she’d regained her footing, although her eyesight fuzzed. She shook off the sensation but her reactions were sluggish. She had no hope of stopping Silk from pushing his wife. Juliet flew back and crashed into the shallows of the greedy whitecaps.

  Barb was torn. Assist Juliet or protect Oliver and apprehend the husband?

  Peripherally, she saw the woman stir, thrash and crawl to safety. At the same time, Silk grabbed for his son. Oliver’s squeal stabbed at Barb’s heart. She saw him duck and writhe to avoid his father.

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Let him go!’

  The two women screamed at Silk. His face split into an ugly smirk but his eyes were more chilling. Black pits of spite highlighted by the moon. He snagged Oliver by the collar, although the child struggled.

  Juliet sprang from the sand and wrapped her arms around Silk’s neck. He flicked her off. Oliver squealed again. Barb launched at Silk but Juliet somehow beat her and connected a fist into her husband’s nose.

  ‘Bitch.’

  Silk sliced a hand backwards at Juliet. A sickening snap cut through the sound of the surf. He kicked Barb squarely in the chest and her breath whooshed. She bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood, then hit the ground, winded again. She took a mouthful of sand, coughed and spat. Grains crunched between her teeth as she lurched to her feet.

  What she saw merged fear into fury.

  Silk had sprinted up the beach, making for the ramp to the car park. He held Oliver’s hands in one of his own and dragged him. The boy’s body bounced and swung. He cried out, a sound of pure terror.

  Juliet hauled herself up. She cradled her jaw and swayed, in no shape to pursue her long-legged husband.

  Silk had a massive head start and Barb knew she couldn’t run him down before he reached his Audi and rammed one or both of the other vehicles. He’d escape with poor Oliver and God knows what he’d do to the child in a fit of malice.

  ‘Stop him. Please.’

  But Barb was already in action. She ripped off one steel-cap and staggered in an uneven gait. She blocked the terrible sight of Oliver rebounding behind his father. Extracting the Maglite, she centred it on the back of Silk’s head and focused her mind and eye.

  ‘One, two, three…’

  The boot flew. She held her breath and followed its sweep. A millisecond after it struck Silk’s skull, his knees buckled and he slumped head first into the sand.

  Oliver sprawled next to his father, too frightened—or hurt?—to move.

  Barb surged onwards. Wet clothes, ten kilograms of equipment belt and one bootless foot made the distance of forty metres a marathon.

  Ten metres away, Silk appeared motionless.

  Two metres from his body, Barb spotted what resembled the muscle spasms of road kill. But she went on high alert. Silk wouldn’t get the better of her again.

  She landed with a knee to his lumbar. Air burst from his lungs. Barb snapped handcuffs on his wrists, then checked Silk’s vitals and rolled him into the recovery position. Still watchful, she hunched and panted.

  Thin arms fastened onto her mid-wheeze. She froze, then inhaled carefully. When that didn’t frighten Oliver, she stroked his hands in rhythm with her breathing. With each stroke, his trembling reduced, finally stopping when his mother joined their huddle.

  ‘And that’s why you’re the reigning gumboot-throwing champion.’

  ‘Steve?’

  Her hubby pulled her into a hug. She dug her fingers into his back and inhaled his musky scent.

  Then over his shoulder, Barb saw a contingent of townsfolk traipse down the sandy ramp. Wrinkly Ralph, a fisherman who virtually lived on the beach and probably instigated a phone tree, with his mate Len, followed by a motley crew of those born and bred in Loch Sport, alongside sea changers and greenies. Although just a tad slow to arrive, the sight of her weird and wonderful neighbours moistened Barb’s eyes. She chuckled and locked lips with Steve.

  The Job VI

  Almost time to hang up the blue monkey suit, trade my Freddy—police badge to you—for a Senior’s Card

  Don’t mind really – it’s been a good life, mostly

  Shame my wife isn’t here though. Still miss her every day

  We’d planned the grey nomad thing, a caravan behind the four-wheel drive and a never-ending trip around the country

  Not sure we would’ve done it, though—upped sticks and left the place—not even with a new face, a young bud and his wife, living in the stationhouse instead of us

  Can’t now, because my girl is long gone. Never thought she’d drop off first. Lucky the job’s kept me busy, my mates and cat filled some of the hole she left

  You know, I might see if Morrie could do with a hand behind the bar – kill three birds: pull some beers, sort out the rowdy buggers, keep me busy

  Life after the job could grow on me

  But before I take to chewing off the nearest ears with tales from the job, I have to finish The One

  Every copper has one. A case that strikes at the defences, feels personal, gnaws away for as long as it stays unsolved

  I’ve seen what happens when The One drags on, seen the effects of guilt and failure in mates, worse with every month, every year, their obsession wrecking their marriages…or their livers

  Not going to happen to me. I will nail the bugger, non-negotiable

  Just—somehow—have to beat the clock

  Who Killed Carly Telford?

  At 1.05pm on Thursday 17 November, six adults and a toddler heard a bang that stopped them in their tracks. Only the infant didn’t recognise the noise, yet he whimpered, possibly responding to his mother’s reaction. And afterwards, the adults all had clear recall of what they’d been doing.

  The young mother was cajoling her son to eat mashed banana, which landed on the floor when she abruptly unbent from the highchair. A couple were tending their vegie patch and shock made the hubby cut himself with his trowel. The owner of the general store jumped and her hand slipped, drawing a line across the ‘specials’ board. And nearby, the publican heard it as he stacked an empty keg, while his best customer paused with sausage speared on his fork.

  Bowles rubbed a hand over his bald head and muttered, ‘Hiding in plain sight?’ Any copper worth his salt was as suspicious of vivid recall as claims to have heard and seen nothing.

  He shrugged, launching from the chair, while Malika shadowed him across the room. A shotgun going off some hundred-odd metres from the pub was extraordinary enough to stick in people’s minds.

  Stopping at the far wall, Bowles wiggled a finger in his ear as he stared at the photo of the one witness who couldn’t speak for herself. She smiled back at him, cheeks popping like shiny pink apples as a calico kitten chewed on her long brown hair. So vibrant, with so much to look forward to.

  ‘We’ve missed something, Carly. But I’ll get the bugger before I retire.’ He groaned. ‘If only I’d been in Willa that day.’

  An ache in his chest reminded him that even if he’d been on the spot, Carly would still be dead. And that, like it or not, the Homicide D from Melbourne was right. He’d asked for suspects and Bowles had retorted, ‘Has to
be an outsider.’ His town wasn’t squeaky clean, but murder was a far cry from stock theft, drunken aggro and trespass.

  The man in the suit had given the main street a pointed look. ‘You’ve been around on the job, haven’t you?’ Bowles had nodded. ‘So you know people are capable of anything, even in one-horse towns. You’re our man on the ground as the local copper. They’re all suspects at this stage, but who should we focus on?’

  After a few weeks, Carly’s case had been pushed to the backburner by new deaths on Homicide’s books. It suited Bowles. He’d been hasty to doubt the detective and to trust his community.

  But now it was five weeks on and every day that passed without a significant lead lengthened the odds for cracking the case let alone getting a successful prosecution. And it left him only fourteen days until he hung up the uniform to make it right.

  ‘All we want for Christmas is answers for Carly, hey, Malika?’

  It wouldn’t feel like Christmas if he didn’t uncover the truth and put away her murderer. He’d yet to set up a tree with only a few days to go. The only time he’d missed doing it on the first day of December, a tradition he’d kept going after his wife passed.

  He skimmed over the photos he’d tacked to the left, from the mum to the wrinkled pensioner. ‘My gut says you’re clean and we’ve dug up nothing at odds with that.’

  His gaze shifted to the images of Carly’s nearest and dearest. Her shattered parents, Tom and Pam Telford, were people he called friends. He also knew her best girlfriend Christina Halliday, along with the principal of the tiny local school, Johan Petrus. The latter had dated Carly for six months, but that was before her first post in nearby Koura.

  Bowles hadn’t wanted any of these four to be Carly’s killer, but he’d helped to investigate and interrogate them. Her parents were at a doctor’s appointment in the city. Colleagues had vouched for both the friend and the old flame. These four had independently agreed that Carly wasn’t seeing anyone, Christina adding, ‘Carly’d say, “Time for love later.”’

  She’d been robbed of that, leaving Bowles hungry to nail the person responsible.

  ‘Thank Christ it didn’t happen during the folk festival, Carly. One week later and I’d have had twenty-five times more suspects.’

  As it was, Bowles had eight – the only adults in Willa that he was unwilling to rule out, each alleging not to have heard the gunshot. Yet, at least one of these had: the shooter.

  Bowles bent stiffly to scoop up his cat, grimacing at the pain in his old joints. Her whiskers tickled his chin and he chuckled, but the sound died when his throat clenched. Seven years ago, Carly had brought him that spotted kitten in the photo, insisting that he needed the little orphan as much as it needed him. Apparently, missing his wife was admirable but he didn’t need to be lonely with it. He had admitted defeat and gave his friend naming rights. She’d come up with Malika. The kitten had grown to a cat that adored Bowles and Carly equally. And now, his constant companion was also a constant reminder of their mutual loss.

  She nestled against his chest as he studied the suspects’ photos.

  First, the neighbour supposedly in bed with the same flu that caused Carly to call in sick. He’d claimed to be feverish, to have heard and seen nothing. Sceptical, Bowles decided the dole bludger wasn’t off the hook just because he lacked priors for violence.

  Next was a threesome elevated on his list when the wife retracted her alibi, telling Bowles, ‘I’m not covering for that SOB.’ This led him to link her hubby with another of his suspects, both admitting to fooling around that afternoon. But they’d lied initially, which made them unreliable witnesses. And with the wife’s movements now uncorroborated, she couldn’t be discounted either.

  Malika squirmed out of his tightening grasp. ‘Sorry, girl.’

  Looking at his remaining possibilities, fatigue crushed Bowles. All the suspects knew Carly—everyone in town did—and although none of the eight owned a registered firearm, he couldn’t eliminate them.

  ‘But why would they kill her?’

  Carly’s house was mortgaged and furnished tastefully but inexpensively, and her best friend and parents verified nothing had been stolen when she’d been killed by a single gunshot. She didn’t gamble or do drugs and she drank sensibly. By all accounts, she was young, kind, popular, pretty and smart…

  Bowles glanced at the cat by his feet. ‘Maybe that’s the answer.’

  Malika purred.

  Maybe poor Carly’s only sins were the virtues her killer envied. Scrutinising the photos again, Bowles muttered, ‘Which of you is a green-eyed monster?’

  Realisation struck a blow to his solar plexus and his gasp was echoed by an anxious meow.

  ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  Bowles patted the cat before locking up. He ran through his theory as he covered the short distance in the marked car. He wouldn’t return without the person who had shot Carly.

  Jodi Rice opened the door.

  It wasn’t the first time that the old copper considered her resemblance to her murdered friend a dubious legacy.

  He said, ‘Thought you’d like an update.’

  Her face registered surprise, wariness, then fell into a grave mask as she nodded. She led him to the kitchen and took out two mugs.

  Bowles strolled around the room, waiting until she carried the kettle to the sink before saying, ‘Your place is a lot like Carly’s, isn’t it?’

  Jodi’s hand hovered over the tap. Then she turned on the water and mumbled, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Replace the cladding outside with weatherboards and they’d match.’

  She flicked the kettle switch and shrugged. ‘I’m only renting though.’

  Bowles mentally logged Carly one-upping Jodi by buying her home. He let silence stretch between them as the water heated and he contemplated what pushed Jodi from coveting Carly’s life to taking it.

  His certainty escalated as she reached for a coffee canister. Storing the ammunition, he moved to a row of snapshots, an eyebrow raising at Jodi with Willa’s school principal, their body language revealing a one-sided attraction. Rejection by Carly’s cast-off had to hurt.

  Bowles leaned against the fridge and eyed the crest on a folded sheet pinned by magnets. As soon as Jodi turned away, he snatched it and read the section scored by a red-inked cross.

  When he lifted his gaze, she was watching him. He had to play this carefully.

  ‘You missed out on the teacher’s job at our local next year.’

  She gave a sharp nod.

  ‘Carly got it. Hard luck.’ Bowles faked sympathy, inwardly cursing the principal who’d said Carly was the only applicant when Johan had obviously meant the only worthy one.

  ‘Yes.’ Jodi sighed. It rumbled with deep weariness.

  He pointed to the snapshots. ‘Like she got the man you wanted, but dumped him later.’

  ‘What did she have that I don’t?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Bowles lied. ‘Yet everyone liked her. She got everything handed to her.’

  Jodi didn’t speak as she replaced the canister, taking a moment to align it with the others on the shelf.

  He said, ‘Nice set.’

  ‘Yeah. We—Christina, Carly and I—went into Koura together in the last school holidays, and Carly and I bought a set each.’ She smiled softly at the memory.

  ‘Shame about Carly’s.’

  ‘Yeah, I nearly cried when they broke.’

  ‘All four of them smashed by the buckshot,’ Bowles commiserated, letting the trap snap.

  ‘There were three.’ She shook her head, only partly present in the conversation. ‘Pity though.’

  ‘I guess in the heat of the moment, you don’t think about things like that.’

  ‘No, but she told me she got the job and I –’ Jodi froze.

  Their eyes met. Her fear as patent as the dots of sweat on her lip.

  He prompted her. ‘You were so upset and…’

  She sighed again, even longer and heavier than
before. Silence followed for a few minutes. Bowles watched her almost speak, then change her mind.

  ‘You’re tired of all this. Aren’t you, Jodi?’

  She nodded, but remained mute.

  ‘Lie upon lie takes a toll, doesn’t it?’

  Her chin moved slightly.

  Bowles shifted his weight, considering what to say next. He thought he knew what had driven Jodi to kill her long-time friend, but how would he get her to admit it?

  ‘You really did care about Carly, I know that.’

  Once again, she acknowledged the statement with a tiny nod.

  ‘You just wanted to be more like her…and then that got out of hand.’

  He paused and was only faintly surprised when she spoke.

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill her.’

  Bowles let the sentence hang for several beats. He had some sympathy for Jodi, wouldn’t be surprised if she had a mental health problem, but she’d killed Carly, taking away her future. He wanted her to own that.

  ‘But you took a loaded gun with you.’

  Her head drooped.

  ‘You disposed of the evidence. Lied to detectives…to me.’

  Her shoulders sagged.

  ‘And you looked her parents in the eye, telling them how sorry you were for their loss and that you hoped the police would find her murderer.’

  Jodi’s chin jerked up. Her blue eyes were bright with a film of tears. When she sighed this time, the sound hissed with the release of pent-up tension.

  ‘Yes. And now you have.’

  Bowles clasped her wrist, and his free hand extracted his handcuffs for possibly the final time, as he stated, ‘Jodi Rice, I am arresting you for the murder of Carly Telford…’

  Tell Me Why - Preview

  ‘There is no right way to deal with tragedy, no blueprint to grief. Some people find talking a cathartic experience. Some…want to share their feelings in a prime-time, multi-channel wake.’