Andrew Rule & John Silvester
‘Lady’s Day’ from On Murder 2
PRELUDE
In her dream, she was still plain and plumpish, her hair streaked with grey. Beyond that, though, everything seemed off-kilter. The first thing she noticed was that she floated above herself as she stood in a paddock. She was without her obligatory glasses and wore a floral housedress not overalls. The images in her dream distorted and reshaped and became even more unreal. Huge sunflowers covered what would really be their well-trampled top paddock.
These flowers grew so abnormally bright that they glowed like miniature suns and she had to shield her eyes with a hand. The brightness became hot, so hot that she moved a forearm over her face.
Then the cat growled; a long, guttural note that sounded a warning. He nipped her finger and roused her from the dream. More asleep than awake, she soothed him. What had upset the amiable puss?
Her husband shook her. She sat up in bed, puzzled. As she donned her glasses, she saw that he’d pulled on work boots and a woollen jumper over his long pyjamas.
‘Quick!’ he yelled, shutting their bedroom window.
They reached the front verandah but couldn’t see anything for the hedge around the house, except an orange flush in the night sky. They could feel the intense heat and hear the sinister sound of uncontrolled flames.
From the picket fence they saw billows of smoke. Several sheds were alight. Her husband sprinted for the hose; she for the telephone, to call the local fire captain.
Panic clutched at her chest while she filled buckets of water. Her knees nearly buckled as she dashed towards the outbuildings.
Which first?
The hay shed was fully involved; a lost cause.
The barn or machinery shed?
No animals in the barn tonight.
The latter, then, as it held the combustibles and expensive equipment.
She dumped the water. It did nothing but sizzle. She ran back to the house, detoured to the water trough and returned with soaked woollen blankets. She crashed into a wall of heat; so fierce it scorched her eyes.
As the hay shed erupted, it sent embers in every direction. She protected her face from those missiles of fire with an arm, mimicking her dream persona.
Wind fanned the roaring tongues, adding to the crescendo.
She coughed as smoke filled her lungs. Fire merged the sweet odours of hay and timber with acrid fumes of fuel, pesticides and rubber. Her eyes watered.
‘Where are you?’ she cried out to her husband. ‘Are you safe?’
She fought the flames harder. She would never give up – on him or the farm.
Above the bellow of the fire and rupturing structures and terrified shrieks of sheep and cattle, she couldn’t hear a thing. Throat blistered with heat, smoke and yelling for her husband, she couldn’t tell if she managed to make a sound or if the screams were only in her head.
Then, a hand clasped her shoulder and something struck her temple. She crumpled to the ground.
Chapter 1: Friday 12 March
Senior Constable John Franklin had been cooped up with Paul Wells for hours. Too long without a smoke or coffee because the constable was driving and fast-track-Wells didn’t pay much attention to those who wore fewer than three stripes on their epaulette.
But that wasn’t why Franklin wanted to throttle him. It was because Wells measured time, distance, temperature, power poles and countless other things. Plus he was a rigid perfectionist with as much personality as a dead carp. Franklin’s workmates rated the bloke’s neurotic traits with fingernails scratching down a blackboard. His two consecutive rest days relegated to distant memories by the OCD freak, he ruled it much worse.
‘Four and a half minutes,’ Wells said. He tapped his watch.
Franklin groaned. So today’s general patrol took five minutes longer than the previous trip. Big deal.
‘Should not have stopped for Charlie Banks…’
And that’s the difference between a copper from the country and a cockhead from the big smoke. Franklin tuned out.
A lonely bugger, poor Charlie often wanted to chew their ears. On this occasion, about his dog’s arthritis but it was just an excuse for company. Yet Wells evidently thought the schedule more important than a quick chat with the old codger.
Franklin scrutinised the intense constable as he unclipped his seatbelt. The bloke was third generation cop with dad, uncles and grandfather all among the brass. Odds-on he’d be promoted and back to the city before most coppers learned to scratch themselves. They wouldn’t improve him, so somehow they’d have to bide time until he moved on.
Granted, the real problem today wasn’t Wells. It came from him. Because he was the single parent of a hormonal teenager with attitude and because after sixteen years in the same country town he still wore a uniform. He chatted to lonely folk, changed light globes, chopped wood and mowed lawns for elderly widows, pointed the radar for hours on end and sorted out the same drunks, the same domestics. Those were the good days. One of his blackest days had seen him as pallbearer at the funeral of a road victim who was also a mate from the footy club. All a far cry from where he’d planned to be by his mid-thirties.
Some days start badly and end up your worst nightmare. She should have seen the ladder in her new pantihose when she pulled them on this morning—hell, the need to wear a bloody skirt and heels itself—as a damn omen. A sign that she’d end up here, two beers down, stomach clenched while she cursed Narkin.
‘Bastard.’
The bartender shot her a glare, not the first for that afternoon. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud and grimaced. She resumed pushing the penne pasta around her plate.
The Flight of the Bumblebee pealed. She fished through her bag and frowned at the mobile screen. Number withheld. She thumbed the call switch to answer.
‘Georgie Harvey.’
‘It’s Ruby here.’
Georgie cringed. She had avoided the older woman since yesterday but was caught now.
‘Michael and I are hoping you’ll look up Susan…’
What was her name? Susan Petticoat, Prenticast? Ruby’s supposedly missing friend. Whatever; Georgie wasn’t inclined to drive to Hicksville on a wild-goose chase.
She was saved by Ruby’s cry of ‘You silly duffer! What’ve you done?’
The phone clunked. Georgie necked some beer and considered hanging up. She couldn’t.
‘I’ll have to ring back, love.’
The call topped off a crap day. Now she felt guilty about her neighbours to boot.
Disgruntled, Georgie scanned the room. It ought to have been a wood-panelled bar with punters using the pool table, old-timers arguing companionably over the footy, the call of a horse race on the radio; cheerful, noisy and as comfortable as worn slippers. Not this stark, trendy joint, with its white paint, stainless steel counter, blond-wood seats, piped music and ultra-slick patrons. Even the barman’s hair had encountered an oil spill. But this was the closest pub to the courts and a beer was what she’d needed after her run-in with Narkin.
She speared a mouthful of pasta. It was cold and tasted like spicy cardboard. She pushed the bowl aside.
‘Can’t smoke in here,’ the bartender said.
Georgie glanced at the unlit ciggie between her fingers. She hadn’t realised she’d reached for it. She wouldn’t have lit up; it was just that beer and smokes fit together perfectly. Pity smoking in pubs had been outlawed. What’d be next, inside people’s homes or Melbourne’s entire central business district? And was it really a health agenda or simply political?
She flicked her black lighter.
‘I wouldn’t.’ The voice came from behind.
She grinned as Matt Gunnerson slipped onto a stool and held up two fingers with a nod and smile.
‘How’s crime this week, Matt?’ The barman had shot daggers at Georgie since her arrival, yet beamed as he greeted Matty.
‘It’s keeping me out of the dole queue.’
They chinked bottles and swallowed in unison.
Matty commented, ‘Didn’t go well then, Gee?’
‘Have I got “loser” plastered here?’ She slashed a line across her forehead.
‘Which magistrate did you get?’
‘Narkin.’
‘Ah.’ Matty’s sigh summed up fronting Pedantic Percy, as he was dubbed within the legal circle. By reputation he found against self-represented defendants. Murphy’s Law, she drew him.
‘Ah,’ she mimicked. She tapped the file before her and said, ‘Laird–’
‘Laird’s your ex-cop?’
‘Yeah. He argued that Pascoe Vale Road’s notorious for metallic reflection distorting radar readings. But their expert rebutted.’
‘And Pedantic Percy agreed with theirs?’ When she grimaced, he added, ‘So you lost. No surprise. You are a lead foot –’
‘I’m not that bad.’
‘Sure…’
‘Well, maybe I am,’ she conceded. ‘Anyway, I copped a fine, plus legals, though I just saved my licence.’
‘Have you spoken to AJ yet?’
Georgie froze. Adam James Gunnerson, her live-in lover, also happened to be his brother. And he currently ranked high on her taboo list.
She was never happier to hear the Bumblebee tune.
While Georgie rooted for her phone, she noticed the sky had clouded over. In the tradition of Melbourne’s contrary weather, the beautiful autumn day gyrated to bleak. Pedestrians on William Street scurried for shelter from the downpour or sprinted towards the train station. Except for one woman; she walked on in measured strides, stare fixed on the horizon of skyscrapers, bitumen and traffic lights. It was something Georgie would do.
‘It’s me again. Ruby.’
Damn. I should’ve known.
‘Michael and I were wondering… Well, will you go to Daylesford for us?’
‘I’m sorry, Ruby. Can’t talk.’
‘What was that about?’ Matty asked after she disconnected.
‘Nothing.’
Georgie squirmed. She couldn’t avoid her neighbours forever. But it was easier to avoid the conversation than turn them down flat.
Just as it was easier to run from AJ’s kicked-dog eyes.
Georgie evaded Matty’s inquisition by heading for the cigarette vending machine in the tiny passageway to the toilets. It was one of those days when she’d need more than her ten (or so) Benson & Hedges allowance. She fed the machine a fistful of gold coins and pushed the button.
In the ladies’ room, she pulled a brush through her hair, changed her mind and messed it up. She smoothed on lipgloss and examined her reflection in the mirror. She tried a smile, then tweaked her silky black top.
Georgie leaned forward and held up thumb and index finger to make an L on her forehead. Then realised it was backwards.
She couldn’t even get that right.
Definite loser.
‘Um, John. Got a tick?’ Tim Lunny said, crooking his finger.
Franklin’s stomach flipped. Was he in trouble again? Or worse: about to be permanently rostered on with Wells? Fuck no, anything but being stuck with that wanker. He followed Lunny into his office and dropped onto the single visitor’s chair clear of paperwork, discarded uniform or fishing tackle.
The sergeant aligned and re-aligned a stack of files. Finally, he said, ‘Well, you see. Oh hell, mate. Kat’s –’
‘What’s wrong with Kat?’ Franklin straightened, alarmed.
‘It’s nothing like that. She’s in a bit of strife –’
‘Shit. What is it this time?’
‘She and her two cronies took a five-finger discount at Coles.’
Franklin groaned, raking his sandy-coloured hair. The trio had received a day’s suspension for smoking in the school toilets three weeks ago and he’d grounded his daughter for a month. He’d given her time off for good behaviour and here she was, caught shoplifting days later.
‘She’s in Vinnie’s office,’ Lunny added, patting him awkwardly.
Franklin clamped his jaw, squashed on his cap and plucked keys for the marked four-wheel drive from the board.
The ninety-second drive felt protracted. And so did the walk of fucking humiliation from the truck through the car park to the innards of the supermarket. Never before had he been as conscious of the downside of living and working in such an intimate community. He knew scores of Daylesford’s permanent residents after so long in town.
Tight-chested, Franklin pushed through the two-way door to the labyrinth of offices and storerooms.
He and Vinnie shook hands, then the store owner cut to the chase. ‘Frankie, we don’t need to take this further for a handful of Mars Bars.’
Franklin lifted his palms and let them drop.
‘C’mon, the girls are pretty upset,’ Vinnie coaxed, then frowned. ‘Except Narelle King. If it was her alone,’ he mimed spitting, ‘I’d tell you to throw the book.’
‘I don’t know –’
‘Frankie, Frankie! Put the fear of God in them and then let it be. Go!’
Still undecided, Franklin thrust open Vinnie’s door. He saw Kat flanked by her partners in crime on the sofa. While she glared, Lisa turned grey-white and Narelle reclined, blasé.
‘You two.’ Franklin jerked his head at Lisa and Narelle. ‘Out.’
When they’d gone, he used his daughter’s formal name. ‘Katrina. What happened?’
She scowled harder.
He waited.
Kat clasped a hunk of her long hair. She twirled crimped blonde strands in front of her face, looking through him with clones of his own eyes. While biased and blind to their many similarities, Franklin considered her a stunner. But she was ugly with insolence now.
He faced away and leaned on Vinnie’s desk. He counted to ten, then twenty. When he turned, his daughter hadn’t budged.
‘What am I doing wrong?’
Parents had to shoulder some blame. It ate him up to realise he’d failed her somehow.
She eye-rolled.
‘Smoking, now this. What next?’
Franklin hated to see Kat make mistakes. Her next rebellious act could end in heartbreak.
She sniffed.
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ The utter disappointment in his voice made her flinch. Finally, a reaction.
Franklin pulled open the door. Narelle stumbled, caught eavesdropping.
‘We’re going to the station.’
The instant Kat brought Narelle King home he’d identified her as a brazen troublemaker. It wasn’t her bottle-blonde hair, bazooka boobs or that she carried a street-savvy sophistication from living in Melbourne until she was thirteen. Pure and simple, she’d failed Franklin’s attitude test then and perpetually since. Even so, he recognised the futility of forbidding Kat’s friendship with King. You don’t give your teenage daughter yet another reason for defiance.
He seized the scruff of King’s neck and pushed her forward. Lisa Cantrell snuffled as she trudged in the rear. Franklin sympathised with her. Studious and timid, she was an odd fit with the other two.
Franklin shepherded the girls to the truck, feeling as miserable as Lisa. His aim was to let them imagine the worst possible outcome, while he tried not to think about local gossipmongers. He hid behind dark sunglasses and the peak of his police cap and zipped through the roundabout and two blocks to the station.
Slumped on the stool next to Matty, Georgie chomped peanuts and surveyed her companion in the mirror. His face was animated. Everyone else in this bar appeared happy too. It only made her crappy mood spiral further.
Outside was the same story. The brief shower had ceased. The road steamed warm air. A
fter five on a Friday afternoon the working week surrendered to the weekend. Men ripped off ties and undid top buttons. Women greeted friends as if they hadn’t seen them for a month.
There was saccharine sweetness all around but for her.
She slugged beer. Then the brew curdled.
Flight or fight?
Why not both?
Take time out from my messed up life while I do a favour for Ruby. That works for me.
‘I’m outta here.’ Georgie slammed down her Corona, spilling it onto the stainless top.
‘Need a lift, Gee?’
‘Nuh, ta, I’ve got the Spider. Besides, you’re not going anywhere near where I’m headed.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Daylesford.’
Before he could ask why, she hoisted handbag and court file, pecked his cheek and threaded her way to the exit.
‘Gee!’
Surprised, she spun around. Half the pub froze.
‘Should you be driving?’ Matty pointed to the abandoned beer.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ Georgie said, then mustered what dignity she could and merged into the commuter exodus on William Street.
* * *
I hope you enjoyed the opening of my novel Tell Me Why and would like to continue reading.
Next is a preview of the second instalment in the Harvey and Franklin series, Dead Again.
Dead Again - Preview
CHAPTER 1
I never imagined knowing a killer, let alone becoming one.
He lay on the floor facing the light streaming through the broken window. Not that the moon kept him awake, even if it had been pitch black falling asleep would be a struggle. And he’d soon be woken by nightmares.
I hate myself.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. The metallic warmth of blood on his tongue didn’t still the gnawing; a manifestation of self-loathing.
The voices in the other room grew rowdier. A bottle smashed. Somebody swore and laughed.
Same shit, different day.
On The Job Page 10