Blood Ties

by JD Nixon

“That’s tough,” I sympathised. We’d evidently shared a similar upbringing and my heart warmed to her even more. “We’ll head off now, first to your house and then to Big Town. See you in a couple of hours, Miss G.”

  “Bye, Officer Tess.”

  “Oh, Miss G?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Please don’t be distressed when we meet. The Bycrafts were very rough with me.”

  She paused for a moment and her voice was full of warm kindness when she continued. “I’m so sorry, Tess, dear. You don’t deserve that.”

  “I don’t think so either, but thanks for saying that, Miss G. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have people on my side in Little Town.”

  Chapter 20

  In the car on our way to Miss G’s house, the Sarge made me go over my conversation with her again.

  “So maybe the intruder was actually searching for Miss Greville’s diaries?” he mused as he drove.

  “Someone who didn’t want her looking over her own records of the property sales?” I thought out loud. “But that means it has to be someone who knows she keeps a diary. That rules out a casual thief.”

  He nodded in agreement. “And where does the hundred grand come into it though? If it’s related, that is.”

  “I don’t know. The land it was found on is government land and I don’t know how it ties into the Grevilles, but I get the feeling that it does. I think we’re going to be visiting Mr Murchison again after we’ve seen Miss G.”

  “Definitely. He needs to start answering some questions for us.”

  He bumped up Miss G’s driveway and parked the car. At least it didn’t look as though there had been any further break-ins at the house and we quickly located the hidden diaries. There were about fifteen volumes, five years to a volume, all overflowing with Miss G’s tiny, spidery handwriting. I couldn’t be bothered sorting them out, so grabbed all of them, shoving them into a canvas bag I found in Miss G’s cupboard. I figured that if she wrote in her diary every day, she’d have her current volume with her in Big Town. The Sarge carried the bag to the car for me and placed it in the boot, and we headed off to Big Town.

  When we pulled up outside Bessie’s daughter’s house, Miss G and Bessie were sitting on the verandah waiting for us. The two elderly women jumped sprightly to their feet as we walked up the front path and rushed down the stairs to crowd me, fussing and tutting over my injuries, before ushering us up the stairs. The Sarge carried the bag of diaries into the house and dutifully delivered them to the bedroom Miss G was using during her stay.

  Before Miss G would let us talk to her, we were forced into the stuffy ‘parlour’ to have some morning tea with them. The three women had clearly gone to a lot of trouble for the occasion, the coffee table beautifully set with Bessie’s best china. We were both poured tea and had a variety of homemade goods pressed on us – small iced cakes, smoked salmon finger sandwiches and petite biscuits. I tucked in with eagerness and conversed happily with the women, but could sense the Sarge becoming fidgety after a while, furtively checking his watch as time ticked by. He refused a top-up on his tea and then declined another cake, another biscuit and another sandwich as the three ladies took turns in urging him to have more.

  Eventually though, we ran out of tea and had polished off most of the goodies, and the Sarge was able to persuade Miss G to focus on the matter at hand while Bessie and her daughter cleared up around us. She pulled out the computer printout that we’d left for her and peered down her glasses at the notes she’d written beside each transaction. There were two that she’d marked with a yellow highlighter pen.

  “Now, it’s these two that I’m having difficulty recalling. The most recent,” she advised, her mouth pursed in concentration as she stabbed the paper with her gnarled index finger. I pulled the sheet around for the Sarge and me to read.

  The first property she’d highlighted was a large tract of land on the south side of Little Town, adjacent to the mental health clinic. It had been sold two years ago to a company called Traumleben Pty Ltd for $10.

  “That can’t be right,” I exclaimed in surprise, glancing at the Sarge. “Ten dollars? I know that bit of land and it would be worth a lot more than ten dollars. Any sized block of land around Little Town would be worth more than that!”

  The second property was an equally large plot adjacent to the prison where Jake worked. It had been sold to Traumleben Pty Ltd also for $10 four years ago. It must have been on-sold to the government since then though, because construction had already commenced on an extension to the prison on that particular piece of land.

  “Miss Greville, you don’t recall signing any papers relating to these two sales?” clarified the Sarge.

  She shook her head, “No, I don’t. That’s why I was so surprised to see them on the list. And I certainly don’t have any recollection of dealing with a company called . . . What was its name again, dear?”

  “Traumleben Pty Ltd,” I told her, and spelled it for her.

  She shook her head again. “It just doesn’t sound familiar at all, but I’ll go through my diaries for two and four years ago and see if I’d jotted down anything about those sales.” She gave us a rueful smile. “I certainly hope I haven’t forgotten them. I’ve always prided myself on my good memory.”

  We both stood up. “Let us know when you’ve had a chance to do that, could you please, Miss Greville?” requested the Sarge and she walked us out, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm.

  She gave me a peck on my cheek at the door and patted my arm, tutting over my poor face again.

  “Sergeant Maguire, I hope you’re going to look after Officer Tess better in the future,” she scolded gently. “She’s the best police officer we’ve ever had in Little Town and I should know. I’ve seen more than my fair share of them. And I don’t mind telling you that most of them were complete fools. Tess is definitely not a fool and the townsfolk are going to be very upset when they see what’s happened to her.”

  “Miss G . . .” I began to remonstrate that, while I appreciated the sentiment, I didn’t need anyone looking after me. Especially the Sarge.

  He didn’t seem to agree though. “I’ll certainly do everything in my power to make sure nothing like this ever happens to Tess again,” he responded gravely, carefully avoiding eye contact with me. She smiled up at him in satisfaction, squeezed my arm again and let us go.

  We drove in silence for a while. “That was a big promise you made to Miss G back there, Sarge,” I remarked neutrally. “How do you plan on keeping me safe? Make me quit?”

  He smiled brilliantly for a moment, his face lighting up attractively. “If that’s what it takes.”

  I looked away. “I’m not really trained for another profession.”

  “You could marry your boyfriend and become a housewife.” He laughed. “Mrs Tess Bycraft.”

  I pulled a face at him. “No thanks! Dad would kill me if I married a Bycraft. Anyway I couldn’t marry Jake, even if I wanted to. He’s already married.”

  “Is he?” There was a disapproving silence. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d have a relationship with a married man.”

  “Don’t be judgemental, Sarge,” I reprimanded him mildly. “I’m not that kind of woman, but Jake’s married status is no secret. Everybody knows about it. We’re not sneaking around behind anyone’s back. He married when he was very young and it only lasted a couple of years. He’s been permanently separated from Chantelle for over six years now, well before we started our relationship. He just hasn’t got around to getting a divorce. She well and truly moved on after him too, believe me. She lives here in Big Town with her many children. None of them are Jake’s, but they all belong to his brothers.”

  I didn’t know why I felt the need to explain my situation to him, but I suppose I didn’t want him thinking that I was some kind of home-wrecking tart.

  “So he’s uncle to his own wife’s kids?” I nodded. “Strange family.”

  I laughed fo
r a second. “Not to mention that her kids’ fathers are uncles to their kids’ half-siblings.”

  “God, what a genealogical mess.” He thought on that for a moment, then asked, naturally inquisitive, “Why doesn’t Jake get a divorce? He’s obviously not planning on reconciling with his wife.”

  “Not a chance,” I laughed, thinking of Chantelle and her semi-wild brood, but avoiding his question.

  “But that means that you two can’t get married,” he pointed out.

  I shrugged and smiled. “Can you imagine Lola Bycraft as my mother-in-law?” I joked light-heartedly, avoiding answering again. “The Christmas lunches would be hell on earth. If I survived them!”

  He cut me a look that let me know that he was well aware of my evasive tactics, but I didn’t see why he thought he could third-degree me about my personal life, but expect his own to remain strictly private.

  We pulled into the carpark of the Big Town police station. I glanced over at him, screwing up my nose. “More record searching?”

  “Afraid so.”

  We approached the station. Three detectives were chatting near the entrance, each clutching a coffee. They stared at me, openly curious, as we walked towards them.

  “Tess,” they greeted, nodding, eyes assessing my injuries.

  I nodded generally to them in return, but didn’t stop to chat. “Guys.” I could feel their eyes on me as we walked through the doorway.

  “Well, well, Tessie Fuller. You’re looking real pretty today. I love what you’ve done with your makeup,” yelled Phil from the counter, ensuring that everyone in the near vicinity turned to glance at me. There were a variety of expressions on their faces as they did, ranging from shock to pity.

  “Cram it, Phil,” I suggested with irritation. I wasn’t seeking any more attention.

  “Come to visit your in-laws, have you? Though they’re more like outlaws, I reckon,” he said and laughed raucously at his own lame joke.

  “They’re no relatives of mine,” I insisted firmly.

  “Might as well be, you’ve been going out with that Jake Bycraft for so long.”

  I ignored him. “We need to use a computer again, please.”

  He opened the door to the counter area and let us use the same computer we had used last time. It still had the same cobweb stretched across it, so obviously nobody had touched it since Sunday. I plonked down in the seat and the Sarge sat on the desk again, his foot resting casually on the seat of my chair, his boot poking painfully into my thigh. I shifted over – it was one of my bruised bits.

  “You distract them while I smuggle the computer out under my shirt,” he said in a low voice, leaning down to me. Unfortunately I gave a loud giggle at that which drew everyone’s notice to us. “Tess,” he reproached.

  “Sorry, Sarge. Spoiled your plan,” I said sheepishly and called up the log in screen. Without any instructions from him, I went back onto the land title database and looked up all transactions relating to Traumleben Pty Ltd.

  There were two extremely interesting sales in the last two years concerning that company.

  “Sarge, look at this,” I said, pointing at the screen. “Traumleben Pty Ltd sold the block of land next to the prison it bought from Miss Greville to the government two years ago for $250,000. And then it also sold the land next to the mental health clinic to the government for $330,500 one year ago. That’s quite a profit margin from two ten dollar investments, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It sure is. Can you go on to the ASIC website to see who’s behind Traumleben Pty Ltd?”

  “No worries.” I printed off the property report and tapped on the keyboard again, calling up the ASIC director database, interrogating it about Traumleben Pty Ltd. It told us that the sole director of the company was Mr Lionel Mundy of 5 Acacia Court, Wattling Bay.

  “A local man. This gets more interesting every second,” he said, running his fingers over his well-shaven chin in thought. “Will we go visit Mr Lionel Mundy of 5 Acacia Court? Or should we visit Stanley Murchison first?”

  I leaned back in the chair and looked up at him. “Let’s go meet Lionel, Sarge. I’m a junkie for excitement.”

  “Okay then, let’s go meet Lionel.” He stood up, waiting patiently while I printed off the director report as well. We clutched our printouts and walked out of the station back to the car, keeping our heads down, trying not to attract any more attention. It worked, all the other cops distracted by an hysterical woman who burst into the station crying and shouting that she had accidently locked her baby in her car at the supermarket across the road and could someone please, for the love of God, help her! Uniforms were mobilising left, right and centre to assist, and we managed to escape without any further smart-arsed comments.

  The Sarge drove to Acacia Court as I directed him. I looked out the window for a minute, spotting Jake’s wife, Chantelle, herself, on the footpath outside a fast food franchise. I pointed her out to the Sarge, so he’d know what she looked like.

  She was slurping a gargantuan cup of cola and greedily stuffing supersized french fries into her mouth, only stopping long enough to slap one of her small children hard on its bottom. It joined in with the other three who were already crying, including the little red-faced baby in the tattered pram. My heart broke for those poor kids. What possible chance did they have in life with an ignorant and negligent mother who didn’t have the skills or money to look after them properly, multiple fathers who didn’t care at all, and a community services department that was too overwhelmed to deal with anything except the direst emergencies? She was even larger than normal and I wondered if she was pregnant again, and who to, if she was? It was probably one of the Bycrafts, knowing her.

  There’s a secret saying in Little Town, just among the women, that once you’ve had Bycraft, you wanted Bycraft forever. I hated to say it, but most of the girls and women who sampled from the Bycraft tasting plate did want more Bycraft afterwards. My greatest fear was that if Jake and I broke up for whatever reason, I would want to start a relationship with another Bycraft, addicted to the passionate and magnificent lovemaking I’d been getting from Jake.

  My best friend since our first day of kindy together, Marianne, assured me that all the Bycrafts she had known intimately at one time or another growing up in Little Town – Rick, Denny and my Jake – were all well-endowed and good in bed. Of course, that was well before she moved to the city, married a decent man and started her family. She’d also confessed that Jake was unanimously considered by all the girls in town to be the best of the bunch because he was more respectful and not as rough as the others could be. I was quietly confident that I’d be the one who would disprove that old Little Town saying though, because there wasn’t another Bycraft besides him that I wanted within twenty metres of me. An involuntary shudder at the thought of Denny Bycraft or Red Bycraft in my bed with me pushed out goosebumps over my arms. And not the pleasant anticipatory kind of goosebumps either. I was determined that Jake would be the beginning and end of my Bycraft experiment.

  The Sarge shot me a curious glance as I rubbed my arms and I realised he’d been speaking to me.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, we’re here,” he repeated patiently. “You okay?”

  “Yep,” I assured, not saying another word. There was no way I was explaining to him what I’d been thinking about. We pulled up in front of 5 Acacia Court. The nondescript cavity brick and tile house appeared uncared for and unoccupied, junk mail spilling out of the letterbox and the lawn calf-high. We stepped out of the car and walked to the front door. There was no bell, so the Sarge banged hard on the door. We waited a minute. Nothing.

  I automatically went around the back, noting the overgrown and weed-ridden side garden as I did. I banged on the back door. Nothing. I banged again. Still nothing. Suddenly I remembered I had my radio, so contacted the Sarge.

  “Nobody here, Sarge.”

  It squawked, “No response for me either, Tess. Come back.”

  “On my
way.”

  We met each other back on the front porch. “No Lionel,” noted the Sarge unhappily.

  My eyes roamed the unkempt property. “No Lionel for quite a while, it seems.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a nosy neighbour poking his head over the tall, straggly hedge that separated the two houses. It appeared he was desperately trying to hear what we said and take photos of us with his phone. But he was too elderly to successfully manage both the technology and the hedge. I sneaked over to the hedge and the second he poked his head up again, I jumped up too, frightening him with my scary face. He shrieked in fear as I grasped him firmly by his collar.

  “Sarge!” I shouted. The Sarge rushed around to the neighbouring property to help me subdue what turned out to be a quite fragile, but extremely wriggly, senior citizen. I jogged over to join him quickly.

  “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!” he yelled with fear as the Sarge gently held one arm.

  “I’m not hurting you,” the Sarge pointed out, letting go of him. “Who are you and what are you doing?”

  The man stood in front of us, smoothing his hair and brushing down his clothes with old-fashioned dignity. He had an ugly, wizened face and with his round balding head and large ears, looked like a grumpy goblin. Or maybe Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

  “I’m Vince Macostic and I’ve lived in this house here for fifty-seven years. I noticed you creeping around the Mundy place and was checking you out. I’ll have you know that this is a Neighbourhood Watch area,” he said proudly in an accented voice, then muttered, “even though the young ones around here don’t seem to give two figs for keeping the neighbourhood safe.” He glared at us young ones accusingly. “Only three people turned up to the last meeting of the Watch, you know.” We didn’t know – how could we? “Three people! If this keeps up, next year I might as well just book the phone booth instead of the school hall for our meetings.”

  Not knowing how to respond to that, the Sarge merely introduced the both of us. Mr Macostic insisted on seeing our identification, because obviously the uniforms, weapons and the patrol car weren’t evidence enough for him that we were bona fide police officers.