by Chris Else
Pigskill runs back into the hills, towards the west, for two or three kilometres. A shallow valley. Farmland. To the south, a rough-cut jumble of broken slopes, eroded, crossed by little water courses. Grazing for sheep but not much else. No roads. To the north and west, the ground rises steeply. Ridge Road winds its way up there, crossing the range towards the main highway. There are walking tracks from the valley up to the crest of the ridge but nothing that a vehicle could manage. Even a trail bike would find it hard going. Any car that drives into Pigskill either comes out the way it went in or it stays there.
The house stood on a knoll with a curving drive leading up to it. North facing, to catch the sun. It was two-storeyed with white walls. It had a roof of dark brown plastic tiles and an elaborate TV aerial that looked like a node in a satellite navigation system. There were flower beds on either side of the door with pansies, early morning bright.
Tom rang the bell, a musical chime. A dog began to bark, around the back somewhere. A pause. A click. The door opened. A woman dressed in jeans and a dark green sweatshirt. She had mousy-coloured hair, and spectacles with round lenses and wire frames.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘My name’s Tom Marino. This is an odd sort of inquiry but you may be able to help me. I’m looking for a car. A yellow car. Probably a sports car. I think it came down here or is owned by someone who lives in the valley. Do you know it?’
‘No.’
The woman moved back just a fraction, her hand gripping the edge of the door. Ready to slam it, he thought. Beside her left knee a face appeared, a round face with rosy cheeks and curly blond hair.
‘Hello,’ he said, smiling at it. ‘What’s your name?’
The child stared at him. The woman placed a warning, protective hand on its head.
‘It would have been a while ago. Six months,’ Tom said, looking back at her. ‘You might not have seen it for six months.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, pulling a helpless kind of face. ‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, thanks anyway.’ He turned away.
The door closed.
Moving back to the ute, wondering just what kind of place this was. A farm house? There were no buildings, no machinery. Just a house in the middle of nowhere at the end of a long drive.
He looked up at the sky, a breath of something there. Rain on its way? Or the nor’wester?
Keep going. Don’t stop. I can find it.
And, of course, there was Imogen to think of. And work. The daily round. The habit of living when you didn’t have a reason. Except that Imogen and work, too, to a lesser extent, were a reason. And if motherhood, at the moment, was a fraught business, full of doubts and uncertainties, then recording the life of Durry and the sundry goings-on of its citizens was comfortingly dull. There were ructions in the council about the condition of High Street. There was a production of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas in rehearsal at the theatre. A Durry College fifth-former had won a scholarship to London to study violin. Everything as it should be. Almost.
Tracey standing beside her desk. ‘There’s a bloke here to see you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Won’t give his name. He looks like Worzel Gummidge. In reception.’
Max Hosche. Sitting there, looking uncomfortable, arms folded, the floppy hat squeezed tight in his right hand.
‘Hello, Max.’
‘Ah.’ Standing up.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Cuppa tea would be nice.’
‘How do you like it?’
‘Black. Three sugars.’
She showed him into the interview room and went and got him a tea.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ Reaching out with hands in fingerless gloves, thin hands. The winter would be cold in his caravan. How long could he go on living there? she wondered.
Sipping. Lips pushed out into a suction kiss. ‘Ah!’
‘Enough sugar?’
‘It’ll do,’ he said. Looking at her, enjoying her curiosity. He would not, of course, apologise for calling her a slut. She did not want him to.
‘I’ve got a story for you,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘Only I’m not going to give it to you unless you write it up.’
‘That won’t work. I can’t make any promises. You know that.’
‘Hm.’ Another long sip of the tea. Then he smacked his lips, looked at her. ‘Yellow car,’ he said.
‘What?’ Just a phrase, a pair of words, but the shock of them was like cold water.
‘You had a story in your paper about a yellow car.’
‘Yes, yes. That’s right.’
‘A sporty kind of car, would it be?’
‘It could be. Yes. Very likely. Do you know of one?’
‘I did. Only saw it a couple of times. Then it disappeared.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last year. November.’
‘Who was the driver? Do you know?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Another sip at the tea. ‘It was her.’
Her? ‘Laura Kerrington?’
‘Ah, now. This is a story, right? You’ll print this one.’
A weatherboard house, a paint-peeling grey. An iron roof, once blue, now streaked with rust. There was an old rusting ute with four flat tyres in a paddock out front. Slack-wire fences, rutted driveway. He stopped, got out. Picked his way through the puddles to the front door. Windows all covered, whitewashed over on the inside. He mounted the concrete step. Knocked. No answer. To his right a movement. A chicken had come round the corner of the house and was pecking in the mud. He stepped down to its level and moved towards it, followed it as first it walked and then ran zigzag ahead of him.
Round the back was a yard, empty except for three forty-four-gallon drums, rusty and painted red and white. A big shed or a barn, or maybe it was a double garage from which the doors had been removed. An old Bedford truck in the left-hand side and, in the right, something else, covered in a blue tarpaulin. He walked towards it. Into the dark beneath the tin roof.
It was a car all right, judging by the shape, and the tarp was tied securely to the bumper at the front. He took a few steps along the side of the vehicle, bent down, lifted the edge of the blue material. Hard to see in the gloom. But it wasn’t yellow.
‘You looking for something?’
He stood up, turned. A man there, jeans and a blue checked shirt, his hair wispy, brown. There was stubble round his chin. In his right fist he held a long-handled shovel.
‘Hi,’ Tom said, moving towards him. ‘I didn’t think there was anyone here.’
‘You’re trespassing.’
‘Sorry about that. I was looking for something, actually. A yellow car.’
‘No yellow car here.’
Tom turned, flicked his head towards the tarp-shrouded shape. ‘I guess that was never yellow, was it?’
‘Nope.’
A pause. The man stared at him.
‘You know of anyone round here who owns a yellow car, then?’
‘Nope.’
‘Have you seen one on the road? A few months ago. November, last year.’
‘I got better things to do than watch the road.’
Another pause.
‘Why don’t you bugger off?’ the man said, taking a step backwards, opening up the way towards the driveway.
‘Well, thanks for your help.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘No,’ Dart said. ‘Nothing. According to Frank, the LTSA database has a grey Mercedes and a dark green Rover registered to the Kerringtons. Both of them in the husband’s name.’
‘What about previously? Last year?’
‘Nothing. Another Mercedes, a Ford Mondeo. Nothing sporty. Nothing yellow.’
‘She borrowed it? Hired it?’
‘How reliable is this source of yours?’ Dart said.
Lisa looked at him, saw his suspicion, felt angry for a second that he would doubt her judg
ement. ‘He’s an oddball,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think he makes things up.’ But, of course, that mightn’t be true.
‘Maybe you should just give it to the cops.’
‘There’s no story if we do that. They’ll keep the lid on it until the investigation’s done.’
‘I’m not sure it’s our story anyway.’
Why not? But before she could follow that thought too far, it was overtaken by another, a flash of an idea.
‘She changed her name! She married Kerrington and they moved here. The car’s in her maiden name. How do we check that? Can we get at the Births, Deaths and Marriages Register?’
‘Maybe.’ Dart reached for the phone.
The end of the road. A turning circle. A gate made of metal tubing and wire mesh above a concrete cattle-stop. He got out into the sunlight, silence. Green swathe of grass beyond the wire fences. Hills around him, covered in pine trees. Sky above was blue, white puffs of cloud. A chain and padlock on the gate. Beyond it a dirt road in a graceful curve around a stand of poplars and off towards the head of the valley. Turn back? Give up? It’s here somewhere. I can find it.
He moved to the fence, swung his leg through between the top two strands of wire.
‘No,’ Dart said. ‘No record of them ever being married. He married somebody called Jocelyn Munrow in December ’86. They were divorced in ’91. That’s it.’
‘She’s just using his name, then.’
‘What about the electoral roll? She’d have to use her legal name on that,’ Tracey said. Everybody on to it now. Everybody listening, paying attention.
‘We’d never find her. It’s alphabetical.’
‘Isn’t there an online version?’ Tracey asked.
‘Must be,’ Stevie said. ‘The council would have one.’
‘They could do a search. For the address.’
‘Clisserford. Yes.’
‘And what about the real-estate database,’ Lisa said. ‘Who owns the house?’
The road in lazy loops, like a river. Nothing here but trees and grass and sky. The hills drawing closer, gradually, as he walked. A strange place, like a park almost. Except the grass was uncut. Waist high in places. No one came here, not even cows or sheep. Somewhere a bird was singing. European bird. A thrush, maybe. No other sound except his feet on the gravel. The winding road. Then there was a sudden gust of wind, a whoosh of leaves and bending grasses, and ahead of him, appearing in the widening angle around a stand of young pinus radiata, was a building.
It was a barn, with a red rusted roof and sides, corrugated iron. Standing there in the middle of nowhere.
‘No, no database. No way they can do a search in reverse.’
‘And the house is in his name. That’s it then.’
No! She wouldn’t have that. There must be a way.
All of them looking at her in a suspended moment, waiting for the time to stretch into a decision. Give up?
Sylvia!
She grabbed the phone, dialled the library.
‘Syl, it’s Lisa. I want some information. About Laura Kerrington.’
‘Yes?’ Sylvia uncertain, doubtful. Caught in the rush of Lisa’s words.
‘It’s important, Syl. I want to know if that’s the name she’s registered under. Her legal name.’
‘Hang on.’
Silence, a long silence. Although perhaps not. Just a little drift of voices in the distance. She strained her ears after the sounds. Dart and Steve and Tracey were watching her. Dart at his desk. Steve at his workstation. Tracey standing with a cup of coffee.
‘Here it is,’ Sylvia said suddenly. ‘I’ve got it on the computer. “Laura Jean Camble, Stylist, Clisserford, Cox’s Line, Durry.” That’s C-A-M-B-L-E.’
‘Thanks, Syl. That’s fantastic.’
‘What’s a stylist, do you suppose?’ Sylvia asked.
The double doors were closed with a hasp and padlock. Nothing to see when he peered through the gap. Something in there? He stepped back, pulled at the door, trying to get it open. Movement on the hinges, back and forth a few inches, but it held. Feeling in his pocket for his knife. A strong blade, a screwdriver. Screws could be rusted in or rotten. Leaning on the door, pressing it steady with his shoulder. First screw. Twisting, and then a quick jerk. Yes.
‘A 2001 model Mazda MX 9, daffodil yellow, registered to Laura Jean Camble,’ Dart said.
‘Yes!’ Lisa’s fist clenched. Tracey and Stevie, both grinning.
‘Reported stolen on 22 November last year.’
‘Fuck!’ No, wait a minute. The twenty-second? That was the day Carla died. ‘She did it.’
‘Hey, now. Wait a minute!’ Dart with his hand up, pushing away the idea.
‘She did it, the bitch! Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be careful. I’ll be very careful.’
Second screw. Coming away, falling into his palm. He folded the knife, put it (and the two screws) into his pocket, gripped the edge of the left hand door, swung it back. A wall of light fell inwards. A car, parked with its rear towards him. A sports car with its top up. Covered in dust. It was yellow, though, underneath. He moved down towards the bonnet, squeezing between the car and the side of the barn. The pop-up headlights were half open, the one on the driver’s side more than the other. The flap was twisted, bent back on itself. Dents to the wing too. Then he saw the windscreen, cracks like a spider web, the point of impact high up in the corner. Leaning on the back wall, creak of iron, looking at it. The lens of the headlight broken.
He was afraid of it. Afraid of the certainty. There were dark marks around the headlight. Streaks along the top edge of the wing. His hands were trembling. He lifted them to his face and pressed them against his eyes, to steady them, but the quivering ran down his arms and into his shoulders. Pain there from the stab wound.
What do I do now? He looked again at the car. Let himself see it and realise what it was. Her last moment. Her last thought. Here.
‘Good morning. This is Laura Kerrington.’ The voice.
‘Oh, hello. I was wanting to speak to Laura Camble. Is she there?’
A pause. A long moment of doubt. ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m doing a survey on stolen vehicles and was wanting to talk to Ms Camble, who …’
‘You’re that reporter, aren’t you?’
Shit!
The line went dead.
Well, she thought, only one thing left. Call the cops. Call Stan.
On his way back down Pigskill Road, he passed the Bedford truck just emerging from the driveway that led to the house with the car under the tarpaulin. He drove past, not thinking, and then, about fifty metres further on, he came to a narrow bridge, a culvert across a stream. Had an idea. Braked, backed up so that he was in the middle of the bridge, blocking the road. Stopped, opened the door, got out.
The truck was pulling up behind him.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ the driver said as he approached. It was the same bloke. The one with the brown hair, blue checked shirt.
‘I need some information.’
‘You’ll get nothing out of me.’
‘Then you’re not going anywhere.’
‘Move it! I ain’t got all day.’
‘Well, I have. All day. For ever.’
‘Fuck!’
‘All I want to know is who owns the property at the end of the road.’
‘How would I know?’
‘Of course you know. They’re your neighbours.’
‘Nobody lives there.’
‘I didn’t say who lives there. I said who owns it.’
‘A bloke called Kerrington.’
‘Kerrington?’
‘Yes. Fat cat from the city.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Course, I’m fuckin’ sure. Now move your arse.’
56.
THE WIND WAS UP. It had come out of nowhere as it sometimes did, a burst of energy from the north-west that sent the clouds running for cover. Sylvia, as always, wanted to be out in it and to
day, for once, she followed the impulse. It didn’t matter that the kids would soon be home from school and that she had to cook dinner. She needed space today. She needed out.
A pair of jeans, her walking shoes, a waterproof jacket over her woollen jersey. She set off up Acacia Drive while the trees hissed in the gardens and the wind pushed the cold into her right ear. There were reasons to go, reasons to get away. She had been restless all day and the call from Lisa about Laura Kerrington hadn’t helped. Lisa’s voice had been tense with eagerness and she had barely paused to say thank you before she was gone. Sylvia was not inquisitive but she could get caught up in other people’s excitement, wanting to be active, on the move, darting here and there for no particular reason. Although today she had a reason, of her own.
From Acacia Drive she turned into Aspen Close, a cul-de-sac, steeply curving round the side of the hill. Here, for now, she was sheltered from the wind. No noise, no movement, but a kind of expectation in the air, a shift in pressure maybe, that made the world seem bright and fragile like fine-blown glass. She leaned into the slope and started to climb. She had to hurry. There was only one place to go on a day like this, and it was over an hour’s walk there and back. She had not much more than that before it started to get dark.
Five minutes to the top of the street. Between numbers 27 and 29 was a narrow path leading off behind the houses into the Reserve, the bush-covered slope on the south-west of Dogwatch Hill. Under the trees now, darker, with the threat of the wind like a whisper all around her.
She thought of Larry, her reason. She had been thinking of him all day, on and off, since he had called her midmorning. Strange for him to do that and she had felt a moment’s panic, thinking that something had happened.