Flashpoint

by Felicity Young

  Ruth turned to her. ‘I suppose I’d better be going now. Cam’s come to ask you some questions.’ The whites of her eyes flashed as she rolled them upwards.

  Jo hugged the taller woman and thanked her for staying. Cam watched and marvelled. Physically, the women were diametric opposites. Like opposing colours on a paint chart, each seemed to highlight the other’s attributes. One was tall and curvaceous with wavy blonde hair and the other was small and dark haired, like a wood nymph. One left him cold, the other provoked feelings he thought he’d forgotten.

  Jo gave her departing friend one last wave, then turned back to Cam. He wondered if she was feeling awkward, as he was. He took off his cap and gestured with it to her front door. ‘May I come in? I need to ask you some questions.’

  She ushered him into the cool dark hallway and through to the lounge. He took in what he could of the house as he walked, noticing the jarrah floorboards and rough plaster walls covered with framed photographs. The unusual mixture of furniture in the lounge, far from a hotch-potch, was a palette of complementary colours and bold design. The red fabric of the overstuffed armchair highlighted the colours in the tartan couch that in turn seemed to have no problem with the geometric design of the rug upon which it rested. The wooden furniture was of all types: pine, jarrah and oak. Almost every surface was covered with teetering piles of books and bizarre knick-knacks: misshapen blobs of clay and papier-mache ornaments. Gifts from pupils perhaps?

  Jo smiled. ‘If the look on your face is anything to go by, this is not what you expected.’

  Cam swept his arms around the room. ‘Where’s the purple satin and the candles? The crystals and the tarot cards?’

  Jo laughed. ‘You obviously think I’m some kind of New Age crazy.’

  ‘Magic happens.’

  She raised a finger. ‘Ah, the music from the office,’ she said as if that explained everything. ‘Actually, that was Mrs Godfrey’s. I only turned it on out of curiosity. I prefer something with a bit more of a beat.’

  There was a scrabbling sound across the floorboards. He turned to see a slobbering, doggy dynamo sliding towards him at great speed, riding the hall runner like a surfboard.

  ‘Prudence!’ Jo chastised as the big dog slid to a stop, hefting its paws onto Cam’s chest. ‘Get down!’

  Any awkwardness Cam might have felt earlier was laughed off as he battled with the playful brute. Jo eventually got the dog under control and pushed her out of the front door. Cam was still grinning when she sat him down next to a wooden coffee table, piled high with yellow National Geographic magazines arranged in the shape of an Aztec pyramid.

  She threw him a damp cloth from the kitchen and he started to mop the foaming streaks of dog slobber from his uniform. He worked down his trouser leg and paused at a bleach stain he hadn’t noticed before, looking up when he heard the chinking of ice cubes. She responded to his unintentional frown with an apology.

  ‘Sorry about that. It will come out in the wash,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not the dog slobber that’s worrying me. I’m a country boy – this is mother’s milk to me.’

  ‘When shit on the shoe was just a fact of life.’

  ‘Ah yes, those were the days.’ He looked down at the stain on his trousers again, stretching out the faded fabric so she could see the light peppering of holes.

  She quirked an eyebrow at the offending stain. ‘Someone obviously failed washing 101.’

  ‘I failed home economics too,’ he said, but he’d lost interest in their banter. The stain on his trousers had triggered a memory that at the time was so insignificant he’d stored it at the very back of his mind: a skip of builder’s rubbish, containers, a coffee filter. He realised that the irritating rash on his leg had been bothering him since then. He could see now how it corresponded exactly with the cloth-eating stain on his trousers.

  Jo leaned towards him and rattled the ice cubes in the glass again.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said with a smile, ‘I was miles away.’

  She handed him a glass of lemonade. He noticed her small hands and long fingers. They were the kind you expected artists to have.

  ‘It’s homemade. I hope it’s sweet enough.’

  He took a sip and smacked his lips. ‘Delicious,’ he said, and it was. He watched her as she settled into the couch opposite, drawing her shapely bare legs under herself. She was only wearing an oversized T-shirt but there was no self-consciousness or embarrassment in the movement. His gaze travelled up her slender neck to her face, noticing the shadows, like thumb prints, under her eyes.

  ‘Ruth said you had a rough night,’ he said.

  She lost her playful façade and looked away, somewhere beyond the view from the window, past the hanging baskets that swayed on the back veranda, past the garden that was the colour of mown hay and out to the tepid pools of the drying river.

  She nodded her head and turned back to him. ‘Will I ever be able to forget it?’

  ‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘You won’t. But the nightmares will stop. Eventually.’

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, then said, ‘Do you think someone tried to kill us?’

  He had a sudden urge to share his doubts, his fears, his suspicions and speculations; but what he wanted and what the responsibilities of the job demanded were, as usual, at odds. He took a sip of lemonade and put the glass on the table.

  ‘I don’t think anyone was trying to kill you, Jo, but I have to ask anyway, for the record. Do you know of anyone who might have wished you harm?’

  Jo took a deep breath. ‘You can’t expect to pass through life without upsetting anyone,’ she said, ‘but I can’t think of anyone I’ve antagonised enough to want to kill me.’

  ‘How do you get along with the Smithsons?’

  ‘When Anne and I aren’t battling over school policies or my propensity for being late to staff meetings, we get on well.’

  ‘She seems quite a nervous type.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be if you were married to Jeffrey?’ He smiled. Jo continued, ‘No, actually. She’s not that bad. You have to be tough to be a school principal. She’s just been a bit off since the underwear theft, that’s all.’

  ‘And what about Jeffrey?’

  She shrugged and a sleeve slipped from her shoulder. Cam looked away and busied himself picking at a callus on his hand.

  ‘Ruth seems to think he’s jealous of me. I’m deputy principal and he’s not. He’s only had about a year’s teaching experience and even he can see that the School Board would never accept him.’

  ‘But he is the power behind the throne.’

  ‘Oh absolutely, but I doubt he resents me enough to try and kill me.’

  ‘What about Vince Petrowski?’

  She pulled thoughtfully at her bottom lip. ‘I’ve had some run-ins with him. He seems to think he’s God’s gift to women, that we should all be swooning at his feet. He got quite aggro with me the last time. It was before you arrived, when he was Acting Sergeant. He charged me with dangerous driving then offered me a way out of it. I told him where he could stick his way out and he became abusive.’

  Cam nodded. It wasn’t hard to imagine the kind of way out a man like Vince would have offered.

  ‘But not violent?’

  ‘No, just foul-mouthed. He sent me a written apology a few days later, which I accepted. I guess he knew you were on your way and was worried I might report him.’

  Cam blew out his breath. ‘You won’t be having to worry about Vince again, Jo.’

  ‘I heard he’d been suspended.’

  He looked at her for a moment before answering. The ceiling fan rotated above them, making a soft flapping sound. ‘No, not because of the suspension. He committed suicide last night.’ He hesitated. ‘Or so it seems. The matter has still to be investigated further.’

  She covered her mouth with her hand. The flapping of the fan now seemed unbearably loud in the heavy silence. She unfolded herself from the
couch and walked to the wall to turn it off. When she turned to face him, her arms were folded across her stomach.

  ‘I never liked him, you know that, but suicide? It makes me wonder what he must have been going through. I feel –’

  ‘Guilty?’

  She nodded. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. The story of Vince was never destined to have a happy ending. Suicide is a coward’s way out.’

  She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. Eventually she looked him in the eye and said, ‘You surprise me, Cam. I didn’t think you were a hard man.’

  He shrugged. ‘In this job you have to be.’

  He rose to his feet and guided her back to the couch. His hand rested on the small of her back, lingering there longer than necessary. He withdrew when he realised what he was doing. The fire was last night’s history; now they were in the present. He was a cop and she was a witness and that’s all there was to it.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to upset you with all this, but I still have some more questions,’ he said.

  She settled back down and drew her knees up.

  ‘Can you think of any enemies you might have? A distraught boyfriend perhaps?’

  She gave a start and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I was still thinking about Vince. Do you think he burned the building to destroy the photos I was developing for you?’

  ‘It can’t be discounted.’ He tried again. ‘Are you involved with anyone, Jo?’

  ‘No, I’ve been unattached since my divorce.’

  ‘Ex-husband?’

  ‘A poisoned hatpin might be Garry’s style, but certainly not a bomb.’

  Cam raised his eyebrows. He was pleased to see that some of her humour had returned.

  ‘I’m only joking. Our divorce was messy, but the marriage ended over two years ago. I haven’t seen him since. Last I heard he was busy setting up house with his new boyfriend; they were about to open a wine bar in the city.’

  Her gaze dropped to her toes and a flush blossomed up her neck. She leaned against the armrest of the couch and put her chin in her hand, half covering her mouth.

  ‘I’d like you to think back to the fire. When I found you, it seemed as if you’d been knocked out. Can you remember anything?’

  Jo rubbed the lump on the back of her head and focused inward. Cam waited for her to speak.

  ‘I was standing on a stool, reaching up to get some glue from the shelf,’ she said. ‘Then I remember a sudden crash and I fell. I guess I must have hit my head. The next thing I remember is the smoke and you crawling towards me.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone that you were going to be working at the photo lab that night?’

  She shook her head.

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling, steepling his fingers. ‘I didn’t notice your car anywhere near.’

  ‘I parked it round the front. I had some things I wanted to leave for the secretary. It was easier to carry them in from there.’

  ‘Where would you usually park?’

  ‘There’s a small car park near the photo lab. I usually park there.’ Her eyes widened. ‘You think the person who did this didn’t know I was there?’

  Cam shook his head. ‘I don’t think you were the target, Jo.’

  ‘You think they were after you?’

  He shrugged and raked his hand through his hair, then reached for his lemonade and swallowed down a large mouthful, trying to get rid of the sudden taste of bile and soot. Now he was certain he could eliminate Jo as the target, he had no doubt who the victim was meant to be.

  She broke the silence and gave him a puzzled look. ‘Who would want to kill you?’

  Vince, to save his career? Still a possibility.

  The killer of Herbert Bell? More likely if he sensed Cam was getting close.

  The Razorbacks? The thought made the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

  ‘I’m a cop. Cops always have enemies,’ he said.

  He looked back down at the stain on his trousers, scratched at the itch and said, ‘The photos in the drying cabinet, the ones of the renovations, do you have any copies?’

  ‘I was going to give them to the secretary to print up for the school magazine.’ She caught her breath. ‘No, wait a minute. I do have a couple of copies here at home. I put them in an envelope to post off to my mother. Hang on, I’ll get them.’

  In a couple of minutes she returned and handed Cam an envelope containing the photos. He thanked her and buttoned them in his top pocket.

  It was time to pick up Leanne from the station and visit the Blayney property.

  But at that moment a tickle in his chest turned into a spasm and before he knew it, he was in the throes of a violent coughing fit. He stumbled into the hall and coughed himself dry. Wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and gasping for breath, he turned, finding her standing behind him.

  ‘Did you get checked out by the doctor?’ she asked, with a frown of concern. ‘They gave me oxygen at the medical centre. It made quite a difference. You should have gone too.’

  He shook his head and took a deep breath.

  ‘You should have, you have smoke inhalation. It’s when the cilia . . .’ she paused and noticed again the scars mottling his arm and the side of his neck. ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you about that.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  Sun streamed in from the leadlight above the door, filling the hall with coloured patterns. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. Cam arched his brow, holding her stare. His eyes drifted to her soft smile and her parted lips. He could imagine the kiss, how it would taste. He drew back.

  She let go of his hand. He reached for the hat he’d left on the hall table and turned back to her.

  Her smile washed over him. It felt like absolution. ‘You got me out, Cam,’ she said.

  28

  It was late afternoon, but even under the shade of the large jarrah the day still sweltered. Gay Cronin’s grey hair fell across her face in strings and her T-shirt was dark with sweat. Splattered with yellow paint, her legs looked like co-joined fence strainers jammed into an unforgiving pair of lycra shorts. When she sank back into the faded deckchair, the nylon bulges shimmied in the filtered sunlight.

  A country song bounced from a tinny tape recorder by her side. Leanne turned it off, the better for Gay to absorb the sombre news. After a few seconds of silence the old woman opened her mouth and began to wail, revealing a disconcerting cave of bad teeth.

  ‘Herb, my Herbie, what am I going to do without you? Where am I going to go?’

  Leanne put her arm around her shoulders. ‘There, there, Gay. You just let it out. Have a good cry then maybe you’ll feel a bit better.’

  She turned to Cam who was hovering in the background. ‘How about you put the kettle on, Sarge? Gay, do you mind if the sergeant goes into your caravan and makes us a cuppa?’

  Gay wiped at her face with her T-shirt and nodded her head, knocking her leather bush hat to the ground. She picked it up and began to twist the rim around with her fingers. After sucking in a breath she let out a wobbly sigh. When she sniffed, a phlegmy sound rasped at the back of her throat.

  ‘Grab some tissues while you’re at it, Sarge,’ Leanne suggested.

  Grateful to escape, Cam walked over to the caravan. A freshly poured concrete slab upon which someone had scrawled the words Herb loves Gay 4 ever fronted it.

  He pushed open the door. Hot and airless, it had the unique old caravan smell of flypaper and mould, though it was a lot more orderly than he’d expected. The double bed in the end alcove was made with fresh clean linen, a vase of flowers sat on the pullout table, clean dishes dried on a rack near the miniature sink.

  When he opened the kitchen drawer for a teaspoon, he noticed all the utensils were engraved with Herb’s initials, HCB. The plates were named in permanent marker, so was the radio by the sink and the tiny television near the bed; every possession, it seemed, was marked by its owner. It takes one to know one, Cam thought with a cyn
ical smile.

  While waiting for the kettle to boil, he wandered back outside. A red cloud kelpie, as old as time, looked up from the marron claw it was munching and stared at him through misty eyes. It wagged its tail when Cam bent to give it a pat, its coat as rich and red as earth, glossy with health. People who looked after their animals well can’t be all bad, he thought, until he saw the evil-jawed rabbit and fox traps hanging from hooks off the caravan wall.

  Drop nets and scoop nets leaned against the back of the van. A strong fishy smell alerted him to a pile of marron remains nearby, on the fringe of a small wood. A marron poacher: funny how that was no surprise – the succulent freshwater lobster was going for about twenty-five dollars a kilo in the markets at the moment. Stacks of neatly piled beer bottles reinforced the exterior rear caravan wall. Clean and without labels, they looked as if they were ready for a major home brew bottling operation. His assumption proved correct: the bottles lining the other wall were already full.

  The car was parked around the other side of the caravan. She’d carefully covered the windows with newspaper and had been slapping on the yellow exterior flat when they’d pulled up earlier. Then he’d wanted to laugh; now he looked at the industry of her day and felt depressed. He gingerly touched the new paintwork. It was almost dry and spotted with the bodies of trapped flies.

  She seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him, because of his authority or his sex, he wasn’t sure which. When he handed her a mug of tea, she thanked him with a sharp nod. Leanne occupied the only other chair so he squatted on his haunches next to the old woman. He scooped up a gumnut, breathed in its medicinal scent and waited for one of them to say something.

  Leanne was the first to speak. ‘Sarge, Gay says she last saw Herb here on Saturday evening.’

  Cam looked from the gumnut to Leanne then to Gay, expecting some elaboration. When none was forthcoming, he said, ‘Gay, it’s really important for us to trace Herb’s final movements so we can find out what happened to him. Did Leanne mention that the evidence so far suggests he was murdered?’