Flashpoint

by Felicity Young

  He slapped his hands on his thighs, lost for words. ‘I am pleased,’ he said. ‘I just wish you’d told me earlier.’

  ‘I thought you had police photographers for that. I didn’t think mine would make much difference.’

  ‘We do, but when they took their photos, the body was not in its original position.’

  ‘Of course, that’s right; mine show him on his side. Well, at least they’ll prove to you that I was telling the truth.’

  Cam smiled, and not only because this woman seemed to have that effect on him; the photos would be invaluable to the case he was building against Vince. ‘I didn’t doubt you for a moment,’ he said.

  ‘So – tonight, is that OK?’

  ‘Tonight will be fine.’ He took a sip of his coffee. It was hot and strong, just how he liked it.

  ‘Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions, Ms Bowman?’

  ‘Not at all, as long as you call me Jo. What cap are you putting on, cop or father?’

  ‘Cop.’ Cam chuckled. ‘It fits better.’

  His gaze drifted around the photo lab. Something had caught his eye earlier and he wanted clarification. He stood up and moved towards a glass-doored cabinet, squinting at the photos pegged across a line of string, like clothes on a washing line.

  ‘That’s the drying cabinet,’ Jo said.

  Cam nodded and gestured to the glass door. ‘Do you mind if I take a closer look?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ She got up to join him.

  He reached inside the cabinet and removed a photograph depicting the newly renovated area he and Leanne had explored the previous morning.

  ‘Those on the line are the before and during photos. I’m going to take the afters when the mess is cleared away, then have them published in the school magazine,’ Jo said.

  The skips were in the same place, though not as full as when he’d been rummaging around in them, and the scaffolding was still standing. Cam put on his reading glasses and tried to make out a pile of indistinct shapes on the ground near the back door. ‘What’s all that?’ he said, careful not to touch beyond the edge of the wet photo.

  She took the photo from him and stepped closer to look at it, bending her head. Her neck was arched and graceful as a willow branch. He didn’t mean to breathe in just then, but he did, catching her scent: fresh, like rainwater on rose petals.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think they’re boxes of supplies for the labs. The plastic containers are for chemicals. I have similar chemicals in here.’ His interest seemed to puzzle her. ‘Do you want to have a look at them?’

  He looked at the photo for a moment longer and shook his head, partly to signify no thank you, partly to shake away a longing he did not wish to remember. She clipped the picture back onto the line in the drying cabinet and they returned to their coffee.

  Cam took a sip. ‘How well did you know Mr Bell?’ he asked.

  ‘Hardly at all. Lucky for me our paths didn’t cross much.’

  ‘You didn’t like him, then?’

  ‘I have to know someone well to be able to come to a conclusion like that and I had no desire to even get that far. He was a sleazy old drunk who worked in the school grounds. Why Jeffrey even hired him in the first place beats me. I suppose he was cheap.’

  ‘You say sleazy. Can you add to that?’

  ‘It used to worry me how he looked at the girls. Luckily they all got the vibes and kept their distance. He never did them any harm – in fact I think they’ll miss him; he was good entertainment value and provided them with a constant source of gossip. They used to call him fruit and veg. You see he wore these really short shorts and when . . .’ She decided to go no further and hid her smile with her hand.

  Cam nodded, battling to keep a straight face. ‘What do you know about the circumstances of his sacking?’

  Jo put her cup down and looked at Cam for a moment. The smile that had been playing at the corners of her mouth turned into a broad grin.

  ‘I thought you knew all about that. Jeffrey said it was like the Spanish Inquisition in Anne’s office yesterday.’

  ‘It’s always handy having more than one version.’ Cam hesitated, wondering about her loyalties to Jeffrey Smithson. ‘Do you think Mr Smithson could have hit Mr Bell?’

  ‘I don’t have to think, Cam, I know he did. I was there. Why the puzzled look – I thought you knew that? I don’t blame him really. I would have done the same.’

  ‘You would have hit him because he was drunk?’

  Jo let go with a full laugh. ‘Oh my goodness, is that what Jeffrey told you? Poor Jeffrey, he would have been mortified by all this.’

  ‘I’m lost. Enlighten me.’

  Jo took a deep breath. ‘Jeffrey hit Bell in the potting shed because he was caught stealing Anne’s underwear from her washing line. I know this because I’m the one who caught him, red-handed. I reported it to Anne and she got quite upset. Then I told Jeffrey and we confronted Bell in the shed together. Jeffrey was so mad I thought he was going to kill him.’ Her hands flew to her mouth when she realised what she had said. ‘Oh my God.’

  18

  ‘Let’s go pick up Smithson now,’ Leanne said, leaning a buttock against the side of Cam’s desk, as casual as if she were in a school common room.

  Cam shook his head. ‘Slow is fast, remember, Leanne? It’s early days yet. We’d never be able to build a case against him with what we have. He’s not going anywhere. He hit him, but it doesn’t mean he killed him.’

  ‘You said Mrs Smithson acted all weird when she introduced you to Jo. Maybe that’s why. Maybe it suddenly dawned on her that Jo might tell you what really happened in that potting shed.’

  Cam nodded, thinking. ‘I think you might have something there. We know Smithson hit Bell, but it’s the only fact we have. That he murdered Bell is pure speculation.’

  He took off his glasses and rocked back in his chair. Absently scratching at an itch on his leg, he started to think out loud. ‘Another fact we have is that Bell was drowned; we know that from the autopsy. After he was drowned his body was moved to the bush and set alight. He was drowned at around 11 pm on the Sunday night, but his body wasn’t torched until the next morning.’

  ‘Maybe it was dumped in the bush straight after the drowning? The killer had second thoughts about just leaving it like that and returned the next day with a can of petrol to burn it.’

  Cam nodded. Arching the fingers of his hands together he tapped his fingernails against his teeth. ‘Alternatively, the body could have been stored somewhere overnight. It could have been brought to the bush the next morning, then set alight. There were wool fibres between the toes, so maybe he was wrapped in a wool blanket.’

  ‘But the pathologist thought the fibres looked untreated.’

  Cam sighed, wondering when the lab results would come through.

  Leanne said, ‘It’s hard to imagine Smithson capable of drowning anyone. Motive or not, he would never have been able to hold Bell’s head under water on his own – unless Mrs Smithson helped, of course.’

  Cam raised a dubious eyebrow. ‘Hardly. Anyway, they can both account for their whereabouts on the night he was killed, and for Sunday’s bushfire.’

  Leanne began to kick her foot against his desk, as if the rhythm helped her thought processes. After a while she said, ‘I spoke to Super Tech in Adelaide. Apparently when Smithson left he was still their golden boy. He wasn’t sacked, just resigned for personal reasons.’

  ‘Did he get much money out of the company?’

  ‘He sold his shares, also got a big payout – a couple of mill in all. It seems he put a lot of his own money into remodelling the school.’

  Cam tapped his pen against his teeth. ‘That’s a lot, but still not enough to cover all those renovations. Enough for a good loan though. Stop kicking my desk. You’re giving me a headache.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ She paused to get her thoughts back on track. ‘Yeah, but some of the money came from that old biddy’s endowme
nt. Remember, they were going to name the new boarding house after her?’

  ‘Yes, I remember, Jane Featherstone,’ Cam said. ‘It might be worth looking into the affairs of this generous benefactor.’

  ‘She used to live in a big old mansion down Tannery Road. She was supposed to be the richest person in the district. Her father made his money in mining after the First World War.’

  Cam thought about this while Leanne continued. ‘Anyway, Smithson sold all his shares in the company then moved to WA when his wife got the principal’s position at GLC. He spent a year getting his Dip Ed, though as far as I can tell he hasn’t done much teaching.’

  ‘Yeah, he seems to be more the power behind the throne. What about her?’

  ‘She was deputy head at some posh girls’ school in Adelaide. Resigned during long service leave, then got the job at GLC.’

  ‘I was speaking to Ms Bowman about her. She says she’s a terrific head but has been acting strangely since the underwear theft.’

  Leanne giggled, and Cam gave her a sharp look. ‘It’s no laughing matter, Leanne. Many serial sex offenders start off as snowdroppers. They get like alcoholics. Why stop at a sip when you can have the whole bottle?’

  Leanne hung her head for a full two seconds, but looked up when Pete Dowel knocked and entered the office. Pete had spent his day organising the search for the primary crime scene and was still wearing his mud-splattered black overalls. Cam knew the search had not gone well, even before the scowl the handsome young constable shot Leanne’s way. Cam shooed her off his desk as if she were an annoying child.

  ‘Still no luck?’ Cam asked.

  ‘Nothing but heatstroke, mozzie bites and wet socks. I had to send one of the SES blokes home, thought he was about to have a heart attack. We were one vehicle short for the rest of the afternoon.’

  ‘Send them out again tomorrow.’

  Pete constricted his expressive mouth, a dimple deepened on each cheek.

  ‘Nothing from SOCO either, Sarge,’ he said, ‘but the finance guys in Toorrup wanted me to pass on a message to you. They said Toby Bell recently withdrew ten thousand dollars from one of his accounts.’

  Cam arched an eyebrow.

  ‘What do you reckon, Sarge?’ Pete continued. ‘He could’ve paid someone to do his brother in for him.’

  ‘But why would Toby kill his brother? What has he got to gain?’ said Leanne.

  ‘At this stage of the game, the killer is the only one who knows the whys,’ Cam said.

  ‘Who knows what’s in a man’s heart?’ said Pete. It sounded like a quote though Cam couldn’t place it.

  ‘Show off,’ Leanne muttered under her breath.

  Cam asked Pete, ‘Have the money boys and girls questioned him about it?’

  ‘No, they want us to do that,’ Pete said.

  ‘Christ, I feel like I’ve just about worn a path over to Toorrup over the last few days.’ Cam flung his glasses to his desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Well, how ’bout I go and talk to him, then?’ Pete said, obviously hoping to get out of tomorrow’s continued search.

  Cam regarded the young man’s sweat-streaked face. ‘OK. Go see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Pete slapped his hands together. ‘Sure thing, Sarge.’

  ‘How did you go with the stolen tanker case?’ Cam asked.

  ‘I found out the company name, name of the driver and where it was going but nothing else. What about you? Any luck with Vince yet?’

  ‘I called by on my way back from the autopsy but he wasn’t home. I’ll try again tomorrow. Did you find out what the tanker was carrying?’

  Pete pulled a face. ‘Liquid fertiliser, for what it’s worth.’ He met Leanne’s eyes and shrugged.

  Leanne grinned. ‘Liquid fertiliser? Jeez, someone must be getting into their veggie patch in a big way.’

  Pete threw her a scathing look. ‘Maybe the contents were irrelevant. Maybe it was the parts they were after. There’s good money in truck parts. It happened nearly ten weeks ago. It’s probably in bits all over the country by now.’

  Cam agreed, glancing at the clock on his office wall. ‘I guess it’s almost knock-off time for you two then?’

  ‘Word, Sarge,’ Leanne said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Cam frowned.

  Pete said, ‘It’s Afro-American slang, meaning enthusiastic agreement. She gets it from the internet chat rooms she’s always hanging about in.’

  Cam stared at Pete blankly. These kids were losing him.

  ‘I’m not always hanging about in chat rooms,’ Leanne said, her hand edging towards her mouth.

  ‘Hey, keep your hair on. Anyone would think I was accusing you of not having a life or anything.’

  ‘I have a lot more of a life than you do. At least I don’t sit around the house all my days off, reading law books. At least I . . .’

  Cam put his hands up like a traffic cop. ‘Children, shut the hell up.’

  Pete pushed a raven’s wing of hair out of his eyes, refusing to look at Leanne whose lips had stretched into a thin white line.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Cam. He still hadn’t worked out the relationship between these two. Most of the time they behaved like competitive brother and sister, but there had been at least one instance when he’d caught Pete looking at her in a most non-brotherly way. She, though, always seemed oblivious.

  ‘Oh, Sarge,’ Leanne said, ‘I traced down Lou Blayney. He’s an absentee landlord from the city. He told me where the key to his gate is kept and says we can help ourselves to Bell’s caravan whenever we want.’

  ‘What did he say about Bell?’

  ‘He said something like how he didn’t like to speak ill of the dead, but that he was a good for nothing old so-and-so and he was going to give him the boot when he saw him next.’

  ‘What about the woman, Gay?’

  ‘Yes, she was there when he last visited.’

  ‘Good, we’ll tackle her tomorrow, too. You’re on call tonight, remember, Leanne. Off you go then.’

  19

  Cam dug his vegetable patch until the sun had all but dipped below the ridgeline of the western hills, leaving a floss of pink in its wake. The ground had baked hard over summer and he’d had to crack through it with a pickaxe before he could even attempt to shovel it into the mounds for the vegetable beds. He threw down the garden tools only when his hands were puffy with blisters, his shirt soaked with sweat.

  A quick shower left him feeling tired but loose, and with just enough time to knock up an omelette for dinner.

  ‘What’s with the shirt, Dad?’ Ruby asked while he was cooking.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Cam said, glancing down at his checked shirt, looking for a tear or a smudge of grease.

  Ruby sniggered. ‘I mean you must be planning a hot date tonight. You’re in your dress flannel.’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny.’ She squealed when he flicked the tea towel at her.

  It was the first meal Cam had enjoyed with Ruby since moving to Glenroyd. There was little conversation, but the silence didn’t hang with the usual tension, only the lingering smell of frying mushrooms, bacon and onions.

  He did the washing up while Ruby sat at the table, head bowed over a photography magazine Jo had lent her. Mrs Smithson was right: Jo did have a way with young girls. She’d made quite a connection with Ruby already.

  Ruby was still reading the magazine when Cam left for his appointment.

  Now his headlights punched through the darkness of the dirt road leading to the school. He turned off the radio and rolled down the window to breathe in the sweet dusty scent of the bottlebrush and feel the whip of the breeze in his hair.

  The spectral shape of a frog-mouthed owl watched from his perch on a wooden fence post, blinked and turned his head almost 360 degrees to follow the car as it came to a stop at the school.

  It was dark in the deserted car park; no lights shone from any of the school buildings. Cam stood
still for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. A cloud unveiled the full moon, making the path to the photographic lab shine.

  He walked on, until the sound of shattering glass made him stop mid-stride. Somewhere ahead he heard the thud of soft-soled footsteps. Then he caught the smell on the breeze: scorched wood, carbonised plastic, oxidised metal.

  Riveted to the spot, he tried to control the sudden panic that threatened to paralyse his limbs. A sharp breath caught in his throat and his gut tightened; it was what he needed to get himself moving.

  The smell grew stronger as he jogged towards the prefab. One of its windows was broken and shining with a flickering light. He stopped dead, his eyes fixed on a group of small dancing flames. A trickle of fear, a slow moving terror, began to wash through him. For a moment he wasn’t looking at a burning blackout blind, but at floral curtains billowing from a broken kitchen window. The small flames ignited with a whoosh.

  Now he could hear their screams. He had to get them out.

  Oh God, not again. He fought the panic that threatened to overcome his reason. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and brushed the door handle with his fingertips.

  Still cold.

  He flung the door open and dropped to his knees. The room was alive with dancing light and flickering shadows. On the far window one of the blackout blinds writhed and flapped in the flames. Near the adjacent window, he made out Jo’s still form. And then that blind went up too, turning the front of the prefab into a wall of fire.

  She began to stir, then moaned and lifted her head. ‘Elizabeth!’ he cried, ‘stay down!’

  As he crawled towards her, another whoosh set the side wall alight, sending greedy tongues of flame ever closer to the shelves of photographic chemicals. And then the door banged shut and the room filled with choking clouds of smoke.

  Cam scrabbled forward, coughing as the noxious fumes seared his lungs and bit into his eyes. On her hands and knees now, Jo looked at him through a shroud of smoke.

  She must have seen him though her face remained blank, her body still and trance-like. He grabbed her by both shoulders and gave her a shake. She responded with a sharp intake of breath then lurched into a fit of coughing that was drowned in the fire’s roar. On hands and knees he guided her towards the closed door, reached for the handle and twisted the knob.