He was reminded of that now, as she worked in the team with Deb and Liam, sliding easily into their rhythms and ways of working, joining in the friendly teasing and insults as if she’d known them for years.
He still couldn’t think of her as connected to him. His intellect knew it must be so, but his mind skirted the issue, avoiding the words, refusing to acknowledge it. He had too much else to deal with. Far easier to just put her in the same mental box as Deb and Liam – people he’d first met as teenagers, kids who’d had a damn raw deal, but had come up fighting for their dreams.
But then he reached around for more pans and caught the grin she shared with Liam – an innocent, friendly grin, with just a hint of lingering, of wondering – and the sudden jolt of worry for the girl, the instant protectiveness caught him like a thunderbolt.
He slid the pans into the water, drizzled on fresh detergent and started scrubbing again. Hard.
While Sandy and his team completed the examination of the shack and shed, Kris found Steve outside, putting the box Gil had hidden into his car.
‘What did you think of the contents?’ she asked.
He leaned against the car. ‘We have to send it to Petric.’
‘To Joe?’ She didn’t bother hiding her displeasure. ‘Shouldn’t you be handling it?’
‘He’s in the specialist Organised Crime Unit for the state, Kris. If Gillespie’s claim that Flanagan is connected with the Sydney mob is true, then it’s already Petric’s case.’
If Gillespie’s claim is true. The implied doubt irritated her.
‘So you’re not going to do anything about it?’
Unperturbed by her irritation, he shrugged carelessly. ‘I didn’t say that. I’ll make a few enquiries. But the fact is, Kris, this stuff is all twenty years or so old, and there’s not proof of anything here. It’s not even enough for a search warrant. Our few resources are better spent on higher priority cases than hunting for witnesses to lesser crimes that occurred two decades ago, that we’ll probably never be able to prove.’
‘Cultivation of a cannabis crop and extortion aren’t exactly insignificant,’ Kris pointed out, although she accepted she’d already lost the argument.
‘No, but they’re not murder, arson, rape or child abuse, either. And we’ve got all that on our plate at the moment, and more. I’ll make a few enquiries, as I said, Kris. But given the drought, and the fact the river’s scarcely flowing these days, I doubt anyone’s trying to grow marijuana around here any more, hydroponically or otherwise. Most of the production’s apparently moved to coastal areas in the last twenty years.’
Oh, how she hated it when he was right.
‘And what about Anne Gillespie? I spoke with Delphi earlier, and she confirmed what Gil said about the time his mother disappeared.’
‘I guess that gives us a date, assuming we can rely on Delphi’s memory. I’ll interview a few of the older people, see if their recollections coincide, and we’ll check bank records and such to see if there was any activity after that, but it looks fairly straight forward. The skull had a significant blow. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy report, and there’ll be a coronial inquest, of course, but my guess is the guy found out she was leaving, and slammed her on the head with a heavy object.’
‘Poor woman.’
‘Yep. Some women sure pick ’em.’
She saw Sandy strolling down the track from the shed, and they walked across to meet him halfway, the apricot-tinged light from the low-hanging sun mellowing the dusty colours of the landscape around them, beautiful despite the ugly history of the place.
‘We’re just about done,’ Sandy told them. ‘A few interesting things you’ll want to know about, though. First up, we found a door into the cavity space – behind that big cupboard in the corner. Sealed up a long time ago, though. Second, those plastic boxes, they’re full of food. Tinned stuff, mostly, but there are some grains. Or were, before the weevils got into them.’
‘Any idea of dates?’ Kris asked.
‘Before compulsory use-by and packaging dates. One of the tins of peaches has a price label of twenty-three cents, so at a wild guess I’d say early to mid-seventies.’
‘How much food is there?’ Steve asked. ‘Are we talking stuff that fell off the back of a truck, or a stockpile?’
‘A small stockpile. Maybe a couple of weeks’ worth. Tinned meat, tinned fruit, tinned vegies. A fairly reasonable diet, to be honest.’
‘If you’re going to stockpile food in case of some disaster, it makes sense to have a secret place to hide it, I guess,’ Kris mused. ‘Did you find anything else of interest?’
‘A small suitcase with women’s clothes,’ Sandy answered. ‘A kid’s backpack with a few clothes and a couple of books. I’m guessing that he might have built the false wall to hide the food – some people had odd ideas about the Chinese or Indonesians invading, back then – but once the woman’s body was there, he sealed it off. However, the really interesting thing …’ He took a small plastic evidence bag out of the envelope he carried, ‘was this.’
Kris turned the bag over to see its contents better. The remnants of a ribbon, with faded blue, red and yellow stripes. A round, tarnished medal. ‘A military medal?’
Sandy nodded. ‘Have to clean it up a bit more to check, but it looks like a Vietnam Medal, awarded to Australian service personnel who went to Vietnam. My uncle had one, which is why I recognised it. But it reminded me of something I noticed in the autopsy report on Des Gillespie last year. There was evidence of an old head injury, and a couple of tiny pieces of shrapnel still there.’
Kris couldn’t recall seeing the report; but then, things had been fairly hectic around that time. ‘You think Des was injured in Vietnam?’
‘The medal suggests it’s a possibility. Gil could do some research if he wants, find out if the medal was his father’s and, if so, get hold of his service record.’
If he wants … Kris didn’t think that would be particularly likely. But maybe she’d make an enquiry or two herself. War service, a head wound … perhaps there might be an explanation for Des’s violent instability.
‘Well, I’d better get packed up,’ Sandy said.
‘I’ll wait until you’re done,’ Steve volunteered. ‘Because Cinderella here has to go and get beautiful for the ball.’
The ball. She hadn’t given it a single thought for hours. She glanced at her watch and groaned. She had less than an hour to retrieve her car, get home, get showered, dressed and made-up, and be ready to stand beside Mark Strelitz and the organising committee to greet people. And, somewhere along the way, she needed to dredge up some enthusiasm for the event.
The town was quiet as she drove in – everybody else would be getting their glad-rags on, too, she supposed. As she got out of her car, a few bars of guitar music came from the hall, and a voice: ‘Testing, testing … is that working?’ Someone must have assured him that it was, for it fell silent again.
Despite her lateness, she took the luxury of at least ten minutes for her shower, letting the hot water flow over aching muscles, giving her hair a wash. It would have to make do with a quick blow-dry and natural waves. She carefully lifted the plastic cover off the dress, but hesitated before putting it on.
Enthusiasm. She needed to find it from somewhere. Jeanie would want her to be cheerful about the evening. Most of the town would be there. Mark would be a pleasant partner. Ryan and Beth were having their first night out together in almost a year.
She slipped the dark blue silk off the hanger, drew it down over her head, and twisted to zip up the back.
But when she stood before the mirror, the thin straps and the fitted, low-cut bodice did nothing to hide the bruises and scratches on her shoulders and arms, colouring up nicely after last night’s incident, despite Beth’s ointment.
She bit her lip in frustration. Why a ball, of all things? A picnic would have been so much easier. She could more easily have been enthusiastic about a picnic. She could have joine
d in the egg and spoon races, bobbed for apples, even been the target in a dunking machine. The locals would have paid up big to send her into the water, and it would have all been fun. She could have worn jeans, for heaven’s sake, instead of this nightmare of an evening dress that was just not her, despite the earnest assurances of the salesgirl at the Birraga boutique.
She’d faced down riots and hardened criminals without flinching, but she’d never felt more like chickening out of something than she did right now. Sergeant’s stripes and ten years of policing were kindergarten stuff compared with the horror of being on the official table of a small-town ball.
Music began to float in earnest from the Memorial Hall. She was almost out of time. Maybe if she just wore the sheer wrap that came with the dress and kept it on all night, no-one would notice the scratches and bruises.
She pulled back the skirt to buckle up her sandals and saw the indents on her ankles from the elasticised socks she’d been wearing all today.
‘The height of feminine elegance,’ she muttered to herself. Just as well she hadn’t gone for the dress with the side slits. The long, draping skirt of this one would keep her sock-marked legs artfully concealed. She quickly applied some basic make-up, then grabbed the gold evening purse the boutique girl had convinced her complemented the dress, yanked the paper stuffing out of it, and stowed her key, her phone and some cash in it.
A knock sounded on the seldom-used front door.
‘Coming,’ she called, adding under her breath, ‘ready or not.’
Mark waited for her, effortlessly handsome in a well-cut black dinner suit, and he smiled, eyes sparkling, as he saw her.
‘Gorgeous, Kris. Stunning.’ He kissed her on the cheek, and drew her arm through his.
Outside, dusk had deepened to night, the warmth still lingering from the sunny day. A half-dozen or so cars were already parked on the road in front of the hall, and here and there along the road couples and individuals who lived in town walked to the event.
Kris saw the hall itself, and gasped.
‘It’s … it’s beautiful.’
Hundreds of fairy lights, strung in lace patterns, draped down from the eaves of the old building, the new paint shining a soft white in the glow. The few large gum trees around the building were decorated with jewel-coloured lanterns hanging from low branches, illuminating outdoor tables and chairs; more of the fairy lights laced around the edges of the marquee behind the hall, two of its sides open to show the bar and the white, flower-decorated tables where supper would be set out.
For the last year or two, she’d hated looking at the place, with the constant, lurking reminder of its use as the police operations base through two long, traumatic investigations.
Now the transformation from a tired, old wooden building to somewhere picturesque and inviting seemed to hold out a promise, and for the first time in a long, long time she felt lighter, hopeful. Enthusiasm began to fill her, natural and unforced.
‘They’ve done a fantastic job, haven’t they?’ Mark said, and although compliments were part of his politician’s way, his pride surpassed mere politeness. ‘Just wait until you see inside.’
They walked to the hall, arm in arm, and Frank Williams, chair of the organising committee, stood by the door and welcomed them with a smile that beamed so brightly it could have lit the room by itself.
Around every window, white organza draped gracefully; flower arrangements decorated tables set among the chairs around the edges, and the wooden floor, sanded and polished to a rich shine, invited dancing.
But it was the people who made Kris’s breath catch again. Although still early, the organising committee and their partners had arrived, their usual casual working clothes replaced by formal outfits. The men stood inches taller in dinner suits and here and there a colourful brocade waistcoat. And the women … Beth, defying her childhood nickname, looked beautiful in a deep, rich red gown, Ryan holding onto her hand and bursting with masculine pride. Eleni Pappas, her gold jacket embroidered with shimmering beads. Dainty Joy Dawson, elegant – and proud – in a dress from her native Philippines, the shaped organza sleeves a perfect frame for her face and her intricate hairstyle.
And – Kris almost didn’t recognise her – Delphi O’Connell … in a dress. Kris couldn’t remember ever seeing her in anything but patched work clothes, but there she was, in a simply cut but surprisingly elegant black dress, a string of pearls at her throat.
Keeping her arm through his, Mark drew Kris further into the room, and as they greeted people it struck her that all of them, like Frank, were smiling. Beaming. Joyful.
Kris hadn’t seen so many smiles in … forever, it seemed. There had been too much sorrow, and confusion, and guilt to allow for joy to bloom.
‘Jeanie should be here to see this,’ she said quietly to Mark.
‘I’ll call her during the evening,’ he replied. ‘And I’ll send some photos to Nancy’s phone, so she can show her.’
She nodded, unsurprised by his thoughtfulness. It was just the kind of thing he did.
From the stage, Adam waved to her as he picked up his guitar, and within moments the band eased into a lilting folk tune, gentle but uplifting.
As Kris took her place beside Mark in the welcoming group, and guests started to arrive, she could almost begin to believe that the ball might really make a positive difference to the struggling community.
FOURTEEN
Through the open door and windows of the pub kitchen, they could hear the music at the hall. Two bands, Gil noted, alternating sets. One an old-time dance band, with squeeze-box, keyboard, guitar and drums, the other a more contemporary folk band, putting their own harmonic twist on bush-dance classics.
Liam and Megan had taken the first batch of trays – the cold finger food – up to the hall earlier, on Megan’s way to the Wilsons’ to babysit for them for the evening. Liam hadn’t objected at all when Gil had told him to take her there before coming back, and not let her walk alone.
Angie had her hands full in the bar with a couple of carloads of German tourists, as well as a few locals not attending the ball, so Deb had taken over the remainder of the cooking.
Now there was only the hot food to finish, some things already cooked and keeping warm, and a couple of final dishes to cook and serve fresh from the oven.
He hadn’t told Deb and Liam much about the afternoon’s developments. There had been little opportunity with Megan and Angie there, and now he decided to wait until later, when they’d finished for the evening.
While Deb rolled small spiced meatballs, Gil and Liam worked on either side of the centre bench to spoon filling into six dozen mini-quiches.
‘The pub’s for sale,’ Liam commented, with a casual innocence Gil saw straight through.
‘No,’ Gil said flatly.
Liam grinned, and pretended he hadn’t heard. ‘Angie and her brother came back to town to run it until it’s sold, but their temporary licence expires soon, and they’ve both got other jobs to go to. If they don’t get a buyer this month, it’ll close.’
Gil kept filling quiches and refused to comment. Liam had boundless imagination and optimism, and saw potential behind every ‘For Sale’ sign – especially when attached to old buildings.
‘A place like this could be developed into a sound business, with some planning and investment,’ he said, true to form. ‘Eco-tourism could be a drawcard, done well.’
‘I’m not going to buy the pub, Liam,’ he growled.
‘It will be a huge blow for the town if it closes. But if someone with business sense invested in it, renovated it, it could be a solid success.’
Some days, Gil admired Liam’s cheerful and tenacious pursuit of his goals, despite the obstacles. Today wasn’t one of those days.
He put down his spoon, laid his hands flat on the bench, and looked directly at the guy. ‘Liam, half of Dungirri is afraid I’m a murderer. The other half is convinced of it. That’s not a good business basis for a community
facility like a pub. And, as for minor renovations, the building needs gutting. The only bathrooms are shared, probably haven’t been touched for forty years, and new plumbing’s bloody expensive to put in, especially in a hundred-year-old building. The whole place needs rewiring. Electrics are probably a fire hazard, and there’s no phone or internet in the rooms.’
‘You did all that and more in Sydney,’ Liam pointed out calmly.
‘Yes, I did.’ And he’d worked damned hard, doing as much himself as possible to keep costs down. ‘But potential returns on the investment were much greater than anything you could possibly get here. This is way too far from Sydney to appeal to the weekend crowd. Most of the people who come out this way are either camping or caravanning, sticking to a budget. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for margins that can earn a living and repay an investment.’
Liam had the sense to shut up, but he didn’t look at all defeated.
‘Now you’ve done it, Gil,’ Deb commented. ‘Liam’ll probably come up with a business plan within a week.’
‘Then he can find somebody else to finance it. It’s not the type of business we agreed we were looking for.’ He didn’t mean it to sound harsh, but he had too much on his mind to indulge in flights of fancy. They were used to his blunt ways, though, and neither of them pursued the topic as they finished up the cooking.
When everything was ready, Liam loaded his car with warm, foil-covered trays and left to drive up to the hall. After Gil washed the last few dishes, Deb brought a couple of schooners of beer from the bar, and they went into the courtyard to drink them.
They sat in companionable silence, as they’d done many times before. It had been their habit to meet over coffee in the morning, in the small courtyard behind the pub in Sydney, Gil letting the first kick of caffeine jumpstart his brain while Deb worked on the day’s menus. She’d always let him wake up properly, get accustomed to the daylight, before she raised any issues they needed to go over before the day’s trading began.
Dark Country (Dungirri) Page 19