Darkening Skies

by Parry, Bronwyn

  Mark handed the phone to Gil. ‘Yes, I know who that is.’

  Gil glanced at the image and nodded.

  ‘Please, wait here for just a moment,’ Kris said to the tourist couple. ‘I’ll take you through to the station shortly to get the details from you.’

  She half-shut the door and the five of them gathered in the kitchen, all eyes on Mark and Gil.

  ‘Okay, so who is it?’ Steve asked.

  ‘It’s Bill Franklin,’ Mark said. ‘The old sergeant.’ The man who’d framed Gil and written a false accident report. At the very least.

  Gil said nothing, his dark eyes narrowed.

  ‘The Northern Territory coppers thought he was dead,’ Steve said.

  Mark thrust his hands into his jeans pocket and leaned on the kitchen table. ‘He is now. He had a lot to lose with the reopened investigation. That might be why he was here. But the big question is: who killed him?’

  After the abrupt awakening the morning crawled by in uncertainty and restlessness, waiting for news. There was no chance to find a few minutes alone with Mark; the tourists had to be calmed and were invited for breakfast, and then Leah Haddad arrived with her team in quick response to Steve’s call, and the small station overflowed with police and forensic officers.

  Jenn had to admire the detective’s focus. Leah held a quick briefing with Steve and Kris and despatched them to the scene, then interviewed the young couple, called Mark in for some questions and background information and within a very short time was ready to head out to the campground. Before she left she joined Jenn in the kitchen, a young constable behind her.

  ‘I’ve asked Mark to come with us, because he knows that area well,’ she said. ‘So, Constable Riordan will stay with you for now.’ She paused for a second, hesitation that might have been uncertainty. ‘I have a favour to ask you, Jenn. Our media team is flat-out with something else, and the regional media officer has appendicitis – and I need to get a media statement out covering yesterday and this morning. You’d know the kind of thing well – could you possibly draft something up if you have the time? I’d be very grateful.’

  Jenn had the time. She had hours to fill, stuck in the cottage with the young probationary constable, who took her duties so seriously that she followed Jenn from room to room. The media statement – how many thousands of these had she read during her career? – took only a short time, bland facts and standard declarations of resources allocated to the continuing investigations and the Crime Stoppers contact number for anyone with information.

  She collected the page from the printer in the bedroom and handed it to the constable, Tenita, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Tell me what you think,’ she said, not because she needed any reassurance herself, but because the young woman seemed as bored and restless as she was.

  Jenn then sat back down at her computer and opened a new document. She should write something. Something other than a bland media statement. She was a journalist in the middle of a series of crimes in a town she’d once known and she should record …

  Record what? Events? She’d done that, in the single page Tenita was reading. Distant, objective statements of fact, circumstance and intentions. Easy.

  She rested her fingers on the keyboard. Could she stand back enough from herself to observe realities and impacts? She had no plans to report anything for now – in fact, avoiding the media was her preference – but maybe there could be a feature article down the track. The effect on a small community. The experience of being caught up in crime after crime. Someone she cared about threatened.

  Any number of potential angles came to her. But the page remained empty.

  Steve returned several hours later.

  ‘I dropped Mark at Ward’s store,’ he said, propping against the kitchen bench, more relaxed than he’d been earlier. ‘He’s getting some supplies for Marrayin. He’s worried about things being neglected out there and wants to get back.’

  ‘But—’ Jenn glanced at Tenita. ‘Is there someone with him?’

  ‘Nope. Good news is, the vic’s definitely Franklin. Our Danish friends said he was already camping out there when they arrived yesterday morning. And the portable scanner confirmed that his fingerprints are a match to the ones on Mark’s gate on Friday, and yesterday’s explosives tape.’

  Jenn pushed aside her laptop as relief and worry battled for dominance. ‘Franklin tried to kill him?’

  ‘That’s what the evidence says. Oh, and the man’s a fool. Any cop – hell, any crim – worth their salt knows that if you’re going to stand on a damp garden in boots with a distinctive print while garrotting a man, you should toss those boots and get a new pair.’

  A fool? Or a man panicking? ‘So, he tried to get the report on Friday and failed, silenced Doc Russell on Saturday, and since Mark was away from home on Saturday night he wired his car?’

  ‘That all fits. There’s nothing yet to connect him with the attack in Birraga, but I’m still not convinced that was a murder attempt.’ Steve grabbed a glass from the drainer and filled it with water. ‘Anyway, Mark’s prepared to take the risk and wants to look after things at his place.’

  ‘Do you know yet who shot Franklin?’ He couldn’t. Not so soon. So, there was still a murderer out there.

  ‘It wasn’t Dan Flanagan. He was in Birraga hospital all night with angina, so he’s in the clear. Again.’ He gulped a few mouthfuls of water. ‘Look, I know what you’re thinking. But I can tell you that Franklin – his death was execution-style. His prints may well be linked to a drug seizure a while back. He has to have been living off the grid, so to speak, and drug running would make sense. But if you piss off the wrong people in that game, there’s no need for a pension fund.’

  ‘So, you don’t think it’s connected?’

  His mouth curved into a small grin. ‘Oh, all things are connected, Grasshopper, in one way or another. And I may be spectacularly wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. I can still argue a case for protection for you. That’s up to you.’

  Another day holed up inside? ‘No. Thank you. There are some things I need to do.’

  He smiled, and this time it wasn’t a cheeky grin but a warm smile of friendship. ‘Mark said to ask you if you could give him and the dogs a lift to Marrayin. If you want to. Otherwise he’ll call Karl and hitch a ride with him.’

  If she wanted to? She had plenty of unanswered questions, but that wasn’t one of them. Although the answer frightened her. She and Mark were a team, she reasoned, actively searching for the truth, and when they found it she could leave Dungirri with her heart intact. Mostly.

  The sun hot on her skin, she walked the block down the main street to Ward’s Rural Supplies, the first in the row of century-old shops, the rest of them empty. She pushed the door open, an electric buzzer sounding instead of the jingle of bells she expected. That had changed. Little else seemed to have altered. Tools, stock tags, marking rings, ropes and other supplies on the first few shelves; drenches, weed killers and other chemicals beyond, and deeper into the store stacks of dog food, rolls of wire, fence strainers and star posts.

  There was less stock now than there used to be, and instead of Joe Ward, a young woman rang up the stack of items on the counter.

  ‘On the account, Mark?’ she asked, casting a quick, curious smile at Jenn.

  Mark’s smile lasted a good second longer but he gave his attention back to the woman and answered, ‘Yes, thanks, Mel. Do you remember Jenn Barrett?’

  Mel. She had to be Melinda Ward. Not six years old anymore. Tall and capable in jeans and a cotton drill shirt, with strong hands that had probably hefted many a twenty-kilo bag of feed.

  ‘Hi, Mel,’ she greeted her politely. But reluctant to get bogged in conversation with the woman when she’d scarcely remembered the child, she turned to Mark. ‘I’ll go and get the car from the pub. Won’t be long.’

  The empty shopfronts she walked past each evoked memories. The bakery and milk bar. The barber’s shop. The b
utcher’s shop. All gone, and only George and Eleni’s corner store across from the pub providing groceries now.

  If Dungirri lost the pub, the town would die.

  She left her gear in her room, and was upstairs for only a few minutes, but when she came down she found the local police constable, out of uniform, standing near her car. She’d seen him at the Russells’ on Saturday morning and out at Wolfgang’s yesterday. A young Indigenous man with a serious attitude and an easy manner with his colleagues. Adam, she’d heard him called.

  ‘Hi. Steve just phoned, asked me to check your car before you drive it. Can’t see any signs of interference around or under it but let’s be sure, hey? You wanna pop the bonnet?’

  Checking her car – she hadn’t given it a thought. Grateful to Steve and to Adam, she unlocked the door and leaned in to pull the bonnet lever. Adam propped it open and spent long moments examining the engine and surrounds.

  ‘You seem to know what you’re doing,’ she commented.

  ‘Yeah. I was a mechanic for a few years.’ He dropped the bonnet and pressed it down closed. ‘She’s clear of any surprises. Explosive ones, anyway.’

  She thanked him, and he sauntered off down the road. Although he’d assured her the car was all right, she still hesitated when she put the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life, and she exhaled a long breath.

  Mark waited out the front of Ward’s, a couple of sacks of dog food at his feet, and a few tarps and ropes. Once loaded, they collected the dogs from the police cottage, and with the three animals lying on the back seat she reversed out the driveway and turned the car towards Marrayin.

  So far their conversation had been practical, about tarps and dogs and Melinda running the store after her father’s death. Nothing about their discussion in the night or the connection between them that refused to be ignored. She kept her eyes on the road and the conversation away from that particular emotional minefield.

  ‘You’re confident you’re safe at home?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Pretty much. Franklin’s dead, and his prints are sound evidence he was the one out there. He was out there, and he had motivation.’

  She gripped the steering wheel tightly, the black ribbon of road blurring slightly in front of her. ‘So, he killed Jim.’

  ‘We might never know exactly what happened, Jenn. But he left him unconscious in a burning room. That’s close enough to attempted murder.’

  And for that, she hated the former police sergeant. But hate was destructive and she made herself consider reason and motivation instead. ‘I just don’t understand why he would have come back. If he’d faked his death and has been living anonymously for the past few years, why did he risk it?’

  ‘Could be any number of reasons, I guess. He’d been in the police service for his entire career. Maybe he wanted to reappear and claim his superannuation pension.’

  ‘If the truth about his role in the corruption came out, he wouldn’t be able to.’

  ‘Yes. That’s purely conjecture, of course. And we don’t know for sure what he was searching for at Marrayin. He probably knew I had the police report, but perhaps he also knew there were photos in existence. Or if my mother had gathered information to hold over Flanagan, he might have been looking for that.’

  She turned into the driveway and drove up between the long avenue of trees. The damaged homestead was quiet but for the flapping of the police tape in the breeze and the sounds of cattle in the distance.

  Although the kitchen and the east wing had escaped mostly unscathed, sections of the roof were damaged and open to the elements. Not that the weather – huge blue skies and harsh sunlight – threatened more damage yet, but Jenn remembered how quickly a summer storm could come up in the evenings.

  It took more than an hour to drag the tarpaulins over the roofline on each side and secure them to the veranda posts, Mark up the ladder and clambering on the roof, Jenn below holding ropes and hoping every moment that the beams were still strong enough to hold.

  He’d lent her a hat but by the time it was done they were both hot, sunburned and sweaty. Mark splashed water over his head at the tank stand and she followed suit, drinking long from cupped hands to quench her thirst.

  With water dripping on to his damp shirt, Mark slid his hat back on. ‘I had to put some cattle in the scrub paddock the other day but they need moving to better water. Ground’s rough there and they’ll need rounding up, so I’ll ride. How’s the foot?’ Despite the years and the worries, his grin took her right back to their teens. ‘Do you want to saddle up and join me?’

  On horseback through the bush with Mark? Oh, she was tempted. Memories of times she’d loved, felt alive, caught her imagination. But reality intruded and doused the short flight of fancy with practicality. ‘It’s better, but not that much better. I haven’t ridden for years. Give me something I can do in the car or on a quad bike, though, and I’ll do it.’

  He didn’t tell her to rest and take it easy, or doubt her abilities despite the years she’d been away from this place. ‘Could you check the dam in the creek paddock? I was out there a few days ago and it’s getting low.’

  When she nodded he added, ‘Take Dash with you, if you like. She’s only just started, not ready yet for serious work.’

  The quad bike was a smoother ride than the old one she remembered and although she took it slowly, re-acquainting herself to the controls and the feel of a quad, most of it came flooding back quickly and her nerves evaporated.

  The creek had only a trickle of water in it but the small dam still held enough for the stock, and enough for Dash to burn some energy swimming to the sticks she threw into the centre of it.

  How many times had she been here with Mark? Sitting beside him in the shade of this old eucalypt at the end of a long day, while he threw sticks for his dog, Sammy. Quiet, peaceful, his contentment both a salve and an abrasion on her own restless, unhappy spirit. She loved this land, Mark’s land, but she didn’t understand it as he did; as steward and guardian, attuned to the rhythms, the ebb and flow of water, the wind, the heat and soil, the complex web of plants, animals, insects and weather.

  Dash bounded back and dropped the stick at her feet, shaking herself vigorously and showering her with water and mud. Jenn signalled her up on to the back of the quad and they headed towards the homestead. Closing a gate behind her, she paused and watched from the rise on the far side of the wool-shed paddock the mob of cattle moving out of the scrub, the single horseman guiding them along. For years she’d ridden those paddocks with him, and she knew exactly how he and a horse worked together. Perfectly.

  He’d excelled as a member of parliament, representing his electorate with energy and dedication, but this, here – man and horse and the land and beasts to nurture and keep – this was where he belonged. He’d managed Marrayin and the other properties sustainably for more than a decade, respecting the land and its needs, taking a leadership role in the farming community even before his election.

  As she left the quad bike in the shed, she heard the canter of a horse, its whinny as the rider dismounted, and Mark was there, sweaty, dusty, those rich brown eyes lit with energy and joy, the mare nuzzling him, dogs at his feet. At home. Lean and muscled and so damned attractive that the rush of desire caught her by surprise and she only barely stopped herself from gaping.

  Fingers gripped around her heart and squeezed and she muttered something about seeing him up at the house and walked away, unable to think clearly.

  When he returned from releasing the mare into her paddock, Jenn took a jug of tank water out on the terrace, and they sat together, their backs to the house, the paddocks rolling down to the river in front of them, the dogs flopping to relax in the shade, tongues lolling out.

  Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping the glass. ‘I remembered something last night,’ he said. ‘I remembered that when I came out of hospital after the accident, I went down to the shearers’ quarters and my old room there.’<
br />
  She stilled.

  He tilted his head around to look at her. ‘Apparently, in those days that have been erased from my memory, a girl lost a hair scrunchie on the bed down there. And it’s pretty unsettling to have no recollection of how, although I can guess. And it’s worrying not to know … not to know if what happened hurt her in some way. I assumed it was Paula, because I was told she and I got together. But that in itself puzzled me until the other day. And now I’m more concerned that it wasn’t Paula. That it was you, and that I may have hurt you – and that perhaps that’s why you left.’

  Her face heated – a blush for heaven’s sake – and she didn’t know what to say, words scattering in her thoughts, elusive. How could she respond? How could she hide, protect herself?

  The light breeze skimmed her face. Dash snapped at a fly and missed. The late-afternoon sunlight made long shadows of the trees lining the paddocks and the rivers.

  And he waited silently.

  Protect herself? From Mark?

  All the careful words and phrases she might gather as emotional armour were meaningless, inadequate. Mark deserved nothing but honesty, and for the first time in a long, long time she spoke without vetting the words, without caution, silencing her intellect and laying her emotions bare.

  ‘Paula and I were planning to leave for Melbourne that week. I had a great-aunt there, batty as all heck, but she had a big house and was happy for us to live with her. It was all arranged. But I wanted … I wanted to be with you before I left. So that I’d have that to remember you by. So, yes, it was me. And you. The first time for both of us. Gentle and sweet and more beautiful than I ever dreamed.’ She met his gaze steadily. ‘And then I told you I was leaving. I’m the one who did the hurting, Mark. Not you.’

  He reached over, brushed a thumb against her cheek, a fleeting, so-soft touch. ‘I loved you, Jenn. But I always knew you’d leave. I’m glad I had the courage to show you that before you went. I just wish I had a memory of it.’