Dark Country (Dungirri)

by Parry, Bronwyn

  She dropped to a crouch at the end of the stack. ‘Someone’s been down on hands and knees here, to see under the stack. I guess they thought you could tuck some photos and tapes in the spaces.’

  ‘But I didn’t.’ He’d considered it briefly at the time, but deemed it too obvious, with not much point, since he’d expected the timber to be moved.

  ‘Well, they obviously didn’t feel like moving the lot of it to check.’

  ‘If that’s what they’re after. And if it is, they’ve taken their time coming to look for it.’ It still didn’t make sense to him.

  She rose to her feet. ‘Yes, but a lot’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, Gil. Perhaps they didn’t think you were a threat when you were in Sydney, but now you are. Or they might be worried that with Jeanie’s place gone, she won’t feel there’s any reason to stay silent. Could be a lot of reasons. And we’re only guessing until we find out for sure who “they” are.’ She scanned the rest of the shed. ‘So, where did you hide it? In here somewhere?’

  ‘No. Outside. I’ll show you.’

  On the edge of the clearing, he found the tree stump he was looking for – a giant of an ironbark gum, most of it felled generations ago, leaving only a metre-high stump of iron-hard wood. Picking up a small branch, he scraped away the few tough grasses growing near the base, and the thin layer of soil, to get to the rocks and stones he’d used to cover the hole he’d dug.

  It had been night when he’d buried it, a dark night with only a sliver of moon, the wind in the trees on the ridge sounding ominously like distant vehicles, keeping him on edge as he worked quickly to avoid discovery. Now the sun was hot on his back, and Kris crouched beside him, taking stones from him as he levered them out. Yet despite the different circumstances, uneasiness wrapped around his spine as it had all those years ago.

  His fingers scraped on fabric, and it wasn’t long before he lifted the oil-cloth wrapped bundle out of the hole. He handed it to Kris without unwrapping it, and began to push the stones back in the hole again.

  ‘See if it’s still any good. Water might have got in, ruined everything.’

  He’d done the best job he could at the time, wrapping up the large plastic lunch box in plastic and then oil cloth, fastening the wrappings well with electrical tape. He finished filling in the hole while she unwrapped the layers.

  He sat beside her on the ground, resting his arms on his knees, letting his gaze wander over the scene in front of him while she carefully took each plastic-wrapped packet out of the box. He knew what was in them, could still recall each photo, each map, and the cassette with its green label, dated with three dates in Jeanie’s neat handwriting.

  A swallow flew through a hole in the roof at the back of the shed, and he idly tried to remember whether he’d seen its nest inside, while out of the corner of his eye he saw Kris open the photo bag.

  ‘Looks like the colours on the photos have faded, but the images are still clear enough,’ she commented, as she drew them out.

  ‘Sorry. Archival-quality materials weren’t to hand.’

  She flipped through a couple, then whistled low and long. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  He glanced at it to confirm which one it was. ‘Shipping containers being buried. For underground hydroponic marijuana crops. There’s a pile of pipes there,’ he reached over to point, ‘for the watering system.’

  ‘Shit.’ She shook her head, still not quite believing. ‘Where is this? In this region?’

  ‘North of here, on the river. It’s marked on the map. Each photo has a date and code on the back.’

  ‘You ever consider espionage as a career, Gillespie?’ she asked dryly.

  He tilted his head so he could see her face. ‘Jeanie took that photo.’

  She stared at him for a moment, then broke into a laugh that held no humour. ‘I don’t think I wanted to know that. You’re one thing, but Jeanie …’ She stopped abruptly, dragged her hair back behind her ear. ‘Part of me’s having trouble believing that she knew all this, but never told me. But on another level, I can believe it’s all true.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Blue. Long before you came here. Flanagan left her alone after this, and unless she had more recent information, then there was nothing to tell you.’

  He gave her a little time to think that through, knowing her perceptions and beliefs had taken a battering with his revelations.

  The swallow flew out of the shed again, followed by another. He frowned, tried to picture the roof of the shed from inside. The walls were timber but the roof was corrugated iron, on wooden rafters. There’d been no nest in the rafters, he was sure of it. No fresh bird shit on the floor. No birds swooping them when they went in.

  He couldn’t recall any sign of birds anywhere. He stared at the shed, recreating the interior in his head, the unlined walls and bare studs, the locations of the shelves and cupboards, the position of the windows, the way the sunlight had fallen across the floor, near the cupboards at the back.

  Near the cupboards at the back …

  It hit him then, what he’d never seen before. As a youth, he’d spent as little time as possible here. It was the old man’s domain, and Gil had kept far away from him whenever possible. He’d stacked the timber at night, after a long day cutting it, hauling it from the truck out front to the shed by the light of a kero lamp, plank by plank.

  But now in daylight, looking from the side, and with the years of renovations and rebuilding the pub sharpening his eye for proportions, he saw the inconsistency.

  ‘The dimensions are wrong.’ He scrambled to his feet.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The shed. It’s longer on the outside than on the inside. Not much – a metre at most. I’m going to check.’

  Kris started stuffing things back into their bags, but he didn’t wait for her, jogging across the clearing.

  He went straight to the back of the shed, outside. The tank that had once collected water from the roof was on a low stand near the corner, but the guttering on the shed and the pipe connecting it to the tank had long ago broken off. Brown marks on the wall, and a damp, grassy area below, showed where the water ran when it rained. Some of the wall boards had warped, been pulled out of place, riddled with damp and rot.

  He broke one of them with his bare hands, but couldn’t prise the whole board off far enough. There were a few pieces of rusting junk on the tank stand – he found a solid-looking piece of metal, and used it to lever the board out.

  Definitely a cavity. He cursed himself. How he’d never known about it, for all those years … but back then, other than stacking wood, he hadn’t spent much time in the shed, and he’d had other things on his mind. And it was big, so a metre or so didn’t stand out as obvious.

  Kris joined him as he levered off another board below the first one. He needed a bigger opening, enough light to see inside. The nails in the third board gave way, and Kris helped him tear it off.

  And then he froze.

  The floor level was visible, a few inches below. There were bones in the narrow cavity – human bones, a skeleton, only slightly scattered. And just below the dented skull, a plastic necklace strung with coloured beads looped behind the neck vertebrae.

  He couldn’t drag his eyes away. He heard Kris speak, had no clue what she said. There was only the bones, and the necklace, and his pulse pounding in his head and the anger rising and boiling until he felt as though his head might burst with the pressure.

  She hadn’t left … She’d never left.

  ‘He killed her.’ He heard the words, didn’t recognise the ragged voice as his own. ‘He said she left, but the fucking bastard killed her.’

  THIRTEEN

  Gil wrenched away from her hand on his arm, flung the piece of metal with all his strength into the bush, and strode away to the edge of the clearing, standing there, facing the trees, hands clenched stiff at his sides.

  She didn’t follow him immediately. She’d seen the remains, the ch
ildish necklace that only a mother would wear. She couldn’t imagine the shock for him, after a childhood of cruelty, to discover this truth. A man as independent and proud as Gil would need a few minutes alone after this blow.

  She brushed her eyes with the heel of her hand, and moved into duty-mode. Further into the cavity, she could make out a couple of bags beyond the skeleton, and what seemed, in the shadows, to be a stack of plastic boxes. The false wall obviously extended the full width of the shed, but in this part, at least, there appeared to be only the one lot of human remains.

  Despite the dryness of the bones and the likelihood of the identity of them, it would take some time for an official confirmation, and she knew that the discovery of another body, connected to Gil, would only feed speculation and gossip.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and reported the discovery of the remains to the duty officer, and then phoned Steve’s number and asked him to come out. Sandy from forensics was next. Already on his way back to Inverell, he grumbled that maybe he should move the office to Dungirri, before promising to be back within an hour or two.

  With the official notifications made, she phoned Delphi again. If the vehicles had travelled that way, they’d have gone past her by now.

  ‘No sign of the Land Rover,’ Delphi said.

  The spark of hope she’d been holding on to sputtered and died. A dead end on that one, then. ‘And the ute?’

  ‘A blue ute did drive past, and I got the number.’

  Kris didn’t have a pen, or anything to write on. She picked up a stick and wrote in the dust as Delphi recited the letters and numbers to her.

  ‘Thanks, Delphi. I appreciate your help.’ A thought occurred to her, and she asked, ‘On another matter, Delphi – did you know Des Gillespie’s wife?’

  ‘Gave her and the kid a lift now and then. She used to walk into town with him. Long time back, now.’

  ‘Do you remember when she left?’

  She blew out a breath, as though she was thinking. ‘Must have been ’bout the same time Ruth died, bit before. Ruth taught the boy at school. I remember she was worried about him. But I didn’t see him much after his mum left.’

  Ruth. Bella’s mother, Delphi’s sister-in-law. Kris knew she’d died of a snake bite, when Bella was in kindergarten, around thirty years ago. And Gil was the same age as Bella.

  ‘That’s a great help, Delphi. Thanks.’

  Never one for unnecessary words or social chat, Delphi gave an indecipherable grunt, and hung up.

  Kris phoned the Birraga station and requested a registration check on the ute’s rego number. The constable only took a few minutes to look it up.

  ‘Registered to a guy at Jerran Creek, Sarge, but he reported it stolen yesterday. He left the keys in the ute when he carried some cases of beer inside, and came out and it was gone.’

  ‘Damn.’ Kris kicked at a clod of dirt. ‘Any leads on who stole it?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Put an alert out for the vehicle, then,’ she instructed. ‘Let’s hope they’re stupid enough to keep driving it.’

  With the patrol car due to arrive at any moment, and Steve on his way, Kris crossed the clearing to Gil.

  He stood still, staring out, his hands now thrust in his pockets, his spine rigid. He heard her approach, acknowledged her presence with a glance.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Gil.’ It seemed such an inadequate thing to say under the circumstances.

  He didn’t respond immediately. She stayed beside him, looking out on to the dry bush, wishing she had something better to offer, wishing she could read what he was thinking and feeling, behind his stone-set features.

  Birds sang among the trees, and the dappled sunlight danced on the ground as leaves moved in the breeze, the peaceful scene an unsettling contrast to the violence and trauma occupying their thoughts.

  She knew little about his mother. In the time she’d been in Dungirri, people had only discussed Des Gillespie occasionally, and his wife had hardly rated a mention – other than someone commenting that she’d had the sense to leave him.

  ‘I have to ask some questions, Gil. We need to investigate formally, confirm her identity, try to establish the time and cause of death.’

  He nodded, not looking at her.

  ‘You believe the remains are your mother’s? When did you last see her?’

  ‘It’s her.’ He spoke flatly, but with certainty. ‘The necklace … I made it for her. Mrs O’Connell, the kindergarten teacher, helped me. She, my mother, put it on straight away.’

  She found it hard to imagine him as a small child. Dark-eyed and serious, perhaps scowling as he worked to thread the beads, a solemn smile when she put the necklace on. The image made her eyes sting.

  She asked, through her clogged throat, ‘Can you remember when she disappeared?’

  ‘Maybe that day, the next. I would have been about five.’

  So young. Too young to be left alone with a man like Des. That matched what Delphi had said, but Kris still had to make him dredge up memories, get more facts.

  ‘Can you remember her going?’

  ‘Kind of.’ He sucked a slow breath in through his teeth, let it huff out. ‘She said we were going on a holiday, that we’d leave after dark. He wasn’t there. It seemed to stay light for ages. She was wearing the necklace. I watched her put my jeans and pyjamas and the three books I had in my school bag. But I must have fallen asleep. In the morning, she was gone, and so was my school bag, and he just said she’d buggered off in the night.’

  He paused, gave a small shake of his head. ‘I believed him. Everybody believed him. I hated her for leaving.’

  Mentally, she cursed Des Gillespie to Hades, and everyone else ready to believe the worst of a woman, instead of asking questions.

  ‘You were five years old, Gil. There’s no way you could have known otherwise.’

  But that couldn’t make it any easier for Gil. She’d worked enough domestic violence cases to know that a child would still blame himself and, now as a man – no matter how strong – he would still carry the scars, buried deep. Yet despite everything he’d been through, he’d made himself a man she respected.

  ‘Do you remember much about her?’

  He finally turned to face her. ‘No. I didn’t want to remember.’ His brow creased as he thought back. ‘There’s only a few bits and pieces, snippets of scenes. He belted her. She taught me to read.’ His mouth twisted up slightly. ‘She took me to Birraga once, to the library. I was amazed at all the books.’ He paused, frowning again. ‘But I can’t remember what she looked like.’

  That he trusted Kris enough to share a memory or two from a time when he was so young and vulnerable, both surprised and touched her. She’d expected the stone wall, a grudging response to her questions, or rage against his father. The anger was there, no doubt about it, but constrained, simmering along with grief and guilt.

  ‘Without photos, most people wouldn’t recall a face after all this time,’ she said gently. ‘Especially not from childhood.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Her name … do you know it?’

  ‘Jeanie and Aldo called her Anne. I don’t have a clue whether they were legally married or not.’

  ‘Any relatives that you can remember?’

  ‘No.’

  A woman named Anne, who might or might not have the surname Gillespie, who disappeared thirty years ago … Kris hoped there’d be a good DNA match with Gil, because otherwise they’d have a hell of a time confirming her identity.

  The rumble of a car engine sounded in the distance.

  ‘That’s probably the backup arriving. Steve’s on his way, too.’

  The patrol car appeared around the bend and parked beside the shed, and she left Gil and went over to greet the two constables. Gil needed some time to himself, and she had work to do – again.

  There were more questions, of course. Gil sat on a stump in the shade, watching the investigation b
egin, and let them come to him with their questions. Fraser asked most of them, in his off-hand, careless way. When the forensic guys arrived, one of them asked a few more, his manner more serious and formal.

  But after all the questions and the waiting, watching Kris and her colleagues at work, it was a relief when she told him there was little reason for him to stay any longer.

  The ride back to town didn’t so much clear his mind as numb it. The anger settled to a dull pounding and the words he uselessly imagined beating into the old man stopped going around and around in his mind. Useless, because the old man was dead, and there was nothing left to curse except memories.

  He walked into the kitchen at the pub to find a whirlwind of activity, Liam and the girl, Megan, effectively filling in as kitchen hands for Deb.

  ‘You’re back,’ Deb greeted him with a quick grin, her hands in a large bowl of pastry. She nodded over to the sink. ‘The dishwasher’s broken. You’re it.’

  The routine work of scrubbing dishes occupied his hands, and gave his mind space to roam. Yet, instead of searching for solutions to the current threats, or going over the implications of his mother’s death, he found his attention constantly drifting to the conversation of the others. Angie flitted between the bar and the kitchen, juggling serving customers with dessert preparation, grateful for the assistance. Deb gave orders, keeping track of multiple tasks being performed at once, allocating jobs to the others, providing guidance and answering questions. Liam had often helped out in the pub kitchen, and was accustomed to Deb’s style of work. Megan’s experience working for Jeanie stood her in good stead. She asked a lot of questions, intelligent ones, and she learned quickly.

  Gil’s efforts to take little notice of her failed, as they had earlier in the day. She’d chatted comfortably while they were cleaning the kitchen this morning, off and on, and he’d learned more of her story. He’d even – much to his own surprise – asked a question or two. She’d mentioned going off the rails and running away, living on the streets for a while after the death of her adoptive parents. But she’d pulled herself together well, and was trying hard to make the new relationship with her biological grandparents work, despite the differences between their old-fashioned, conservative ways and her experiences. He’d been impressed by her maturity and intelligence.