by Peter Corris
The engine noise intensified as the plane swooped low over the house. It was painted white and just visible against the clouds. Then it climbed up towards the darkness and began a series of high, slow-seeming circuits above the property. It maintained or increased the height with each circuit and showed no signs of making an approach to the runway. With the light almost gone, it was doubtful that the pilot would be able to see the landing strip, and the ground to either side of it was rough and uneven.
Suddenly the engine noise changed into a sputtering whine that carried down to me on the breeze. I knew I was about to witness the death of another young person, the end of a life scarcely begun, and the realisation was like a heavy weight on my shoulders.
The light appeared to hang in the air for a second and then it went out. I lost sight of the plane and then picked it up again as it fell, turning end over end like a bird shot on the wing. The plane landed on the roof of the shed with a shattering sound as the skylight broke. Then there was an explosion and a sheet of flame as the shed burst apart at the seams.
I was too close and the blast knocked me flat as I heard Chloe’s scream.
I rolled away from the blast and the heat and heard several more explosions. When I got to my feet I saw the skeleton of the place glowing red hot. The wooden parts of the shed were burning fiercely and the paperbarks were burning like torches.
I staggered back to the house and sat on the steps. Chloe appeared beside me. I moved to give her room and put my arm around her shoulders. She wasn’t crying.
‘He really did it,’ she said.
‘Yes. You were right not to go with him.’
She sighed and when she spoke her voice sounded older than before. ‘I suppose so. Look, I need a smoke. I’ve got some dope in my car. You won’t stop me, will you?’
‘No, but better be quick. That fire’s going to attract a lot of attention.’
She went to her car, treading gingerly barefoot on the rough ground. She opened it, reached into the glove box and rolled a very big joint. She held it up inquiringly. I shook my head. She lit up and stood, smoking and watching the fire. She finished the joint and came back to tuck the stash under the steps. We sat there while the wood smouldered and the trees burned and shot sparks into the sky until we heard the sirens.
She rubbed at a fresh-looking tattoo on her right forearm. ‘What will I say?’
‘Tell them the truth.’
‘That I helped Jason kill Bobby Forrest.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘I did, you know,’ she said and she went back into the house. I followed her but she’d gone upstairs. The sirens were close now and I thought I should be on the spot. I looked longingly at the drinks tray but thought better of it. I put the Glock on the sideboard and went out to meet them.
The police, an ambulance and the fire brigade arrived. I talked to them at the scene and several times later, along with someone from the Department of Civil Aviation. I was permitted to drive myself back to the city, but Chloe went in the ambulance. She was sobbing again, almost hysterical. Maybe she had acting talent after all.
What took place at police headquarters subsequently they called debriefing. It felt more like the kind of spray football coaches direct at poorly performing players. The Glock had fired the bullet that killed Bobby Forrest and the paint on the Commodore’s bumper bar matched that on the Alfa Romeo.
I told Sean Rockwell he should be pleased the case was closed.
‘You should’ve come to us.’
‘With what? I had nothing solid.’
‘I’d have listened to your suspicions and your reasoning.’
‘Would you? I’ll bear that in mind next time. Face it, Inspector, you’re a busy man with a lot of things on your plate. This was all I had to think about and that’s the difference.’
He gave me a weary smile. He wasn’t a bad bloke. ‘I bet you didn’t even get the Falcon fixed,’ he said.
The media gave it a big splash but such things have a brief time in the sun and it wasn’t long before the story was displaced by others. I resisted all the offers and approaches for interviews. I didn’t follow the coverage closely, but I didn’t see any mention of the Newtown acting school, so Kylie March would be happy. Or maybe not. I remembered what she’d said about the value of managed notoriety.
I could certainly do without it and I took a short holiday in the Illawarra. I stayed in the Thirroul motel where Brett Whiteley had died but I scarcely spent any time there. I met Sarah on the evening I arrived and we ate and drank and walked on the beach and made love on a mattress on the deck of her house with the waves just audible when we stopped panting and laughing. We body-surfed at Thirroul beach, ate in the cafés and pubs that provide good food and service that help to keep the area going now that the coal mines have closed and the heavy industry has mostly shut down. We watched the hang-gliders who took off from Stanwell Tops and drifted and swooped far out to sea. The sight of them reawakened a query that had lodged somewhere in my mind but in the heat of our reunion I couldn’t bring it into focus. She sang; I loved her voice. We swapped stories; it was all good, but she was Illawarra and I was Sydney. They weren’t so far apart and we thought we could see a kind of future for us.
When I got back I set up a meeting with Ray Frost and Jane Devereaux. It was sad, but it went well. We said we’d stay in touch but we haven’t. At Jane’s invitation I went to the launch of Harry Tickener’s book, The Whole Truth. There were a lot of media people there but not Michael Tennyson. The tape I had was insurance for Jane and for me and I wondered how long I should keep it and what I should do with it eventually. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
I haven’t heard anything since about Chloe Monkhurst but I keep expecting to. There were no proceedings against her but I couldn’t help wondering what she’d meant when she said: ‘I did, you know.’ She was stoned when she said it but not totally stoned.
The questions the hang-gliders, men and women, had prompted me to ask myself as they soared above the Tasman Sea were these: how disabled was Jason Clement? How competent or otherwise was he with firearms? He had had misadventures with guns before. Had Chloe really been in the car with him or was she as deluded and obsessed about Jason as he was about Bobby Forrest? I didn’t know, and although it niggled at me, I didn’t want to know.
Table of Contents
Cover
Half title
About the Author
Title
Imprint
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24