Dark Country (Dungirri)

by Parry, Bronwyn

  FOUR

  The late afternoon sunlight shafted in through the office window. Kris checked her watch, then the times logged in the custody records. Time of arrest, time of arrival in Birraga, time of Kent Marshall’s arrival.

  It had been after noon before the detectives had begun interviewing their suspect. They’d had a few sessions with him – unsatisfying, it seemed, judging by the brief comments they’d made when they’d come out for breaks – but now it was getting close to five o’clock. With the time-outs allowed in the regulations, that made the four-hour questioning limit almost up.

  She would have handed custody responsibilities over if there’d been someone else qualified to handle it. She’d bent the rules when she’d spoken with Gillespie earlier on. She bent rules sometimes – out here in the bush, there was often no choice – but she didn’t bend her principles. She’d assured him the conversation was off-the-record, and she’d meant it. She’d kept right out of things since then, but now her responsibilities as custody manager had to kick in.

  She found Joe Petric helping himself to coffee in the station’s break room. Steve Fraser, the local detective liaising with them, was on the phone in his office, and Macklin had gone out a while back and not returned as far as she knew.

  ‘You’ve now got less than half an hour before you have to either charge Gillespie or release him,’ Kris reminded Petric.

  ‘Yes, his lawyer has already pointed that out.’ He yawned, and added a second spoonful of coffee powder to his mug. They must have left Sydney sometime around midnight, and driven through the dark hours, so she almost felt some sympathy for him. Almost.

  They might have progressed to first name terms during the course of the day, but she kept catching that whiff of a superior air under the professional courtesy and cooperation, the unspoken assumption that a uniformed country cop couldn’t match a city homicide detective.

  ‘Have you got any basis for charging him?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got a witness who swears he saw Gillespie and another man carry a body out of the back of the victim’s apartment and put it in his car.’

  On the mental list of evidence she added a tick in the ‘Guilty’ column. ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About three o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

  She didn’t need more than a moment to work out the significance of the timing.

  ‘He couldn’t have driven from Sydney to here in less than five hours. No way, especially with the direct road closed, no matter what speed he might have been doing.’

  ‘Yes, I figured that.’ Joe filled his mug with boiling water, before casting her a careful glance. ‘Are you sure about those times last night, Kris? You couldn’t have been mistaken about when he arrived?’

  She bit back a sharp retort. ‘Check the records, if you like. I logged a report of the accident when I called Adam back on duty, just before we went to get the vehicle. Then there was the call-out to attend the fight at the pub. That can all be verified.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ He leaned casually against the bench, taking a slow mouthful of coffee. ‘Gillespie has a timed and dated credit card receipt from filling up with fuel at Mudgee, and will probably be recorded on video, too. Which means my witness must be mistaken about who he saw.’

  She silently filed that under the ‘Not Guilty’ column.

  ‘Mistaken? Or lying?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Why would someone lie about that?’

  ‘Oh, I could think of any number of reasons.’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘To frame Gillespie. To send you off on a wild goose chase. To protect whoever did murder her. Or maybe even to be so obviously a lie, that you’d think him innocent.’

  ‘You don’t think he is?’

  ‘Hey, I’m just giving you a range of possible reasons. And it probably is logistically possible for a man to arrange someone else to do the dirty work, and then travel seven hundred kilometres to put the body in his vehicle, so he could dispose of it out here.’

  ‘Getting the local cop as an alibi could be a clever move.’ His eyes narrowed, thoughtful.

  This time, she didn’t hold back the retort. ‘Oh, yes, and he would have known that I was going to be so tired that I’d play dodge ’em with a ’roo and prang the car and be ready and waiting to check his empty boot and give him a nice handy alibi.’

  Joe grimaced at her heavy handed sarcasm. Point made, she dropped it for a more even tone. ‘Look, even if logistically it was possible, logically it doesn’t make any sense. There’s a thousand places within an hour of Sydney to dump a body where no-one will find it. So why would anyone bother to come all the way out here to do it? Let alone arrange two vehicles, and do a body transfer in the middle of town at night?’

  As she made the argument, the common sense of it lifted a weight of anxiety, and the relief almost made her light-headed.

  Joe rubbed the back of his neck and stifled another yawn. ‘We can’t entirely rule him out, but you’re right, it seems unlikely at this point. He knows more than he’s saying, though. He’s a cold bastard, never gives much away.’

  A cold bastard? She’d figured him for a loner with a thick layer of reserve, rather than cold – but then, there was a hell of a lot she didn’t know about Gillespie.

  ‘You’ve dealt with him before?’

  ‘Yes, a few times. General enquiries, mostly. Last year I informed him of his father’s death, and all he said was he hoped he’d rot in hell.’

  ‘If that makes a person a suspect, then you’d have to arrest at least half of Dungirri, including me. Des Gillespie deserved to rot in hell.’

  ‘Like father, like son.’

  She wasn’t sure if Joe meant it as a question, a statement, or a challenge. She thought of Des, foul-mouthed, too-ready to swing his fists at anyone who angered him or to shoot a straying dog the moment it touched his land, and she remembered Gil last night, offering her his car, using only defensive moves against the Barretts, refusing to press charges, making her dinner.

  There might be a lot she didn’t know about Gillespie, but each of those actions spoke volumes.

  ‘No,’ she told Joe. ‘They’re not alike at all.’

  They’d left him alone for a while. Gil sat in the rigid chair in the stark room, and mentally replayed the day, searching for any hint in the detectives’ questions and comments that might help him work out what was going on.

  He’d answered their questions as briefly as he could. Where he’d been, what he’d done, and when he’d last seen Marci. They’d tried to trip him up, but he’d stuck with the facts, coolly repeating his statements as many times as they’d asked the questions.

  He didn’t know enough about Petric or Macklin to even consider trusting them. Marci’s threats gave him a good reason to be cautious, and the detectives’ arrival in Dungirri was way too convenient for his comfort.

  Had the crack and the booze fucked with Marci’s brain so much that she’d really thought she could get away with selling him out to her dealer and his associates? Gil had warned her she’d be putting her own neck in a tight noose if she admitted to them that she’d told him about her cop clients. But it was a possibility that fitted this outcome.

  Of course, there was a chance a client had just gone over the edge with her. She’d been desperate enough lately to get into kink, and there were some sadistic bastards in the BDSM prostitution scene. Or perhaps her crack-dealing, pimping boyfriend had got fed up with her.

  But neither of those scenarios explained the presence of her body in his car, or the arrival of the police. His thoughts circled back again to Tony Russo. Tony had motive; with Vince out of the way he probably had opportunity; he had a network of connections he could lean on for information; and he usually had at least a few cops in his pocket.

  Elbows on the table, Gil dropped his head forward and rubbed the tight muscles of his neck with both hands. If he could get out of here, he might be able to find some answers. But if they charged him with murde
r, he wouldn’t get bailed, and he’d be shipped off tonight or tomorrow to the nearest remand centre. Dubbo, maybe, or Tamworth.

  He knew the ropes now, and was tough enough and bastard enough to hold his own in a remand centre. In maximum security, if he couldn’t clear his name, it would be a different story. Violent lifers with vengeance on their minds and no parole to look forward to could make a mess of a man, painfully and slowly. He’d just have to damned well make sure he never made it that far.

  The door handle that definitely needed oiling squeaked its warning. He leaned back in the chair, readying himself for another round with Petric and Macklin.

  Instead, it was the sergeant. Gil credited the small improvement in his mood to the fact that she was carrying a large paper cup, and knew he was kidding himself. He’d scarcely seen her since she’d processed him in the morning.

  Expecting the same tasteless gunk that Macklin had brought in for him earlier, the heart-pumping aroma of real coffee that wafted under his nose as she passed the cup to him upped his mood a little further.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Can’t have an addict getting the jitters,’ she said.

  The light reference to his comment that morning was the closest thing to ‘friendly’ he’d heard since he’d walked out of Jeanie’s. He dragged in a deep breath of the coffee, then a taste. The liquid hit the back of his throat, and he looked forward to the jolt of caffeine kicking in, re-invigorating his brain.

  ‘Your coffee is better than Macklin’s.’

  ‘My fault.’ She shrugged carelessly. ‘I forgot to tell him where the good stuff is stashed. My apologies. The instant is so vile it probably constitutes torture to give it to a detained person.’

  It would be stupid to read anything into the dark humour of her comment, or into the fact that she’d brought him the decent stuff.

  She sat on the end of the table. ‘So, how are you doing?’

  She might just be following custody rules in monitoring his wellbeing, but the genuine question invited an honest answer. Gil could imagine a distressed or agitated prisoner pouring out their woes, giving her the opportunity to assess their risk level. Which was her job, of course.

  He kept his answer brief and to the point. ‘I’m not going to harm myself or anyone else, Sergeant.’

  ‘Good. Still no after-effects from last night? Headache? Dizziness?’

  ‘None to worry about.’

  She nodded, all business. ‘Anything else I should be aware of? Medications due? Other health issues?’

  ‘You asked those questions when I arrived.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But being arrested can be stressful, and sometimes people don’t think of things at the time that can later be important.’

  He had to respect her professionalism in ensuring the wellbeing of those she held responsibility for, the way she’d left it open, easy for him to raise issues if he’d needed to, without losing face.

  ‘You can rest easy, Sergeant. As I told you, I have no allergies, drug addictions, medications or health problems.’

  Obviously satisfied, she stood and walked towards the door. ‘Detective Petric will be in to talk with you again in a few minutes. He’s just taking a phone call. Kent is on his way back over.’

  ‘Any idea whether I’ll be released or charged?’

  Her relative ease with him gave him hope for the first time that day – he couldn’t imagine her being even slightly friendly to anyone she believed a murderer – but her questions about medications suggested he might be in for the long haul.

  She paused in the doorway. ‘It’s not my investigation, Gillespie. That’s up to the detectives to decide.’

  He hadn’t really expected anything different. She might take a little pleasure in scoring a minor point against an arsehole detective over coffee, but where police work was concerned, he doubted she’d play games.

  He didn’t have to wait long before Kent Marshall returned, with Petric not far behind him. The Birraga detective, Fraser, came in too, but it was clearly Petric running the show, and Gil figured Fraser was only there as a concession to the locals.

  He swallowed another mouthful of coffee as they sat, and Petric turned the recorder on and completed the formalities.

  Petric leaned back in his chair, pretending casualness. ‘Where were you the night before last, between seven pm and midnight?’

  Immediately wary of the change of tack in both manner and questions, Gil answered briefly, ‘Behind the bar at the pub, working.’

  ‘You have witnesses to confirm that?’

  ‘Yes. It was a busy night. The new owner and a couple of his staff were there, learning the ropes. There was also a fair few regulars and two-hundred-plus other customers, in the bar and the brasserie.’

  Petric nodded, appeared satisfied, and in that same easy manner, asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Vince Russo?’

  Shit, were they going to try to pin Vince’s shooting on him, too? Gil kept his face neutral, his gaze steady on Petric. ‘I’ve seen Vince Russo only twice in the past five years or so. The last time was on Wednesday morning.’

  ‘Why? What was your business with him?’

  He’d give them the truth, or at least the important parts of it. If Petric was one of the cops Vince had in his pocket, chances were he knew the answer to the question, anyway. And if he wasn’t … well, he’d been investigating organised crime for a while, probably knew more than he was letting on.

  ‘Marci was in debt to one of his son’s associates. I gave Vince the money to clear the debt.’

  ‘Why give it to him?’ Petric asked. ‘Why not to whoever she owed it to?’

  ‘If Marci learned that I’d paid her debts, she’d have just racked up more.’

  ‘How much did she owe?’

  ‘Twenty thousand dollars.’

  Fraser whistled low under his breath.

  Petric didn’t seem surprised. ‘So, you give Vince twenty grand, that night somebody shoots him, and then Marci turns up dead.’

  Wondering where the insinuation might be going, Gil replied coolly, ‘We both know that twenty grand is small change for Vince.’

  ‘And small change for you, too, these days.’

  Gil deflected the veiled question with a shrug. ‘I won’t starve without it.’

  ‘I heard you got over fifteen million for the pub. That would be more than enough to pay for a few … “favours”.’

  Kent Marshall paused in his detailed note-taking and raised his pen in protest. ‘If you wish to examine my client’s financial records, you will need to obtain a warrant, Detective. And may I remind you that you have only ten minutes remaining before your time is up.’

  Petric tapped his fingers a couple of times on the table before he pushed back his chair and rose with a cordial smile. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Gillespie. You’re free to go. Sergeant Matthews will sign you out and return your belongings.’

  As suddenly as that, it was over. This round, at least.

  Gil exhaled a long breath. Petric mustn’t have enough to charge him, but Gil doubted the man would drop him from his investigation. And whoever had tried to set him up wouldn’t give up easily. But for now, walking out the door of that interview room as a free man felt like a victory.

  Marshall gave him a few more words of general advice, shook his hand, and hurried away to another appoinment.

  In the custody office, the sergeant passed the plastic bag containing Gil’s personal effects across the counter to him, with a faint smile that might have had a tinge of relief.

  ‘Check that everything is there, and then sign here that you’ve received them.’

  A cursory flick through the contents of his wallet was all he gave before he scanned the document and signed his name. He slid his wallet into his jeans, picked up his phone and switched it on.

  ‘What will you do now?’ Kris asked.

  He hadn’t yet thought much beyond getting outside, into space and air. His car and the gear in i
t had been seized for examination, and it would be ages – weeks perhaps, maybe longer – before he got anything back. The forensic people would go through his clothes, looking for blood or any signs of his involvement in the murder. They’d probably even go through his laptop, check his emails and other web activity.

  In the meantime, he was stranded here, with only what he had on him. He was lucky they’d left him with the clothes he was wearing; although one of the forensic mob had looked him over during the afternoon.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s an express bus for Sydney tonight?’ he asked.

  The corner of her mouth twisted in a sympathetic grimace. ‘Sorry, next bus is Monday morning. Bus to Dubbo, then train to Sydney. Not exactly “express”.’

  He swore silently. Monday. And today was only Friday. He ran through his options. Take his chances hitching out of town, find a hotel in Birraga and ask Liam to drive up and get him tomorrow, or hang around another three nights, and take the bus. None of them appealed.

  ‘Jeanie’s phoned a few times, worried about you. She said that if you need a place to stay, you’re welcome to use the cabin out the back of her place.’ With a faint trace of hesitancy, she added, ‘I’ll be leaving here around six, if you want a ride back to Dungirri.’

  He could only think that Jeanie’s trust and offer of accommodation had reassured Kris of his character. Another reason to be grateful to Jeanie. He’d seen her by the road, when they’d arrested him this morning, her obvious worry for him painful beneath his anger. The girl had been there, too. He still had to do something about her.

  He added Jeanie’s offer – and the sergeant’s – to his list of options, and quickly dismissed the others. Dungirri wouldn’t want to see more of him, but as well as seeing Jeanie, he had a couple of things he could do there before he left for good, like trying to find out for himself if anyone had seen anything last night, and making some financial arrangement with Jeanie for the girl. He could get Liam to drive up tomorrow, and they could be out of Dungirri in twenty-four hours.