He walked around to the back of the house, into a back yard that was as sparse and parched as the front, a single Cocos palm leaning against the chain-link fence that separated the yard from the neighbour’s. The screen door was standing wide open and the back door was ajar, the air-conditioner beside it sending out a steady whine as it tried to cope, a stream of condensed water snaking across the cracked concrete patio and pooling under the plastic table. Three moulded green chairs made up the full complement of furniture in the yard, their arms pitted and melted where cigarettes had been stubbed out. Ford caught the smell of cigarette smoke and looked in the can of sand near the leg of the nearest chair. There were a couple of butts of his brand in there, but they were old and dried out. He followed his nose through the back door, thinking how Harding didn’t smoke and knew he didn’t allow smoking indoors around Grace, angry that the door was open and the air-con was struggling.
He stepped inside and the kitchen was dark and airless. He flipped on the light and saw the cigarette on the edge of the table. It had burnt down to the filter, leaving a scorched black stripe across the Formica top. He walked through into the living room and felt something crunch under his boot. He leaned over and picked a shard of broken glass out of the rubber tread, saw the light spilling through the kitchen door reflecting off fragments of glass strewn across the floor, among scattered books and the splintered remnants of the coffee table. He peered through the gloom and saw a man slumped on the sofa, one leg propped up on the arm, his face just discernible in the weak light leaking around the edge of the window blind. Ford stepped closer and saw that it was Harding. His eyes were closed and there was the sweet smell of sweat and bourbon coming off him. Ford kicked Harding’s foot off the arm of the sofa and punched him lightly on the shoulder.
‘Get up, you useless bastard. I need this place cleaned up before I get back with Grace.’
He found the light switch and flipped it. The room was trashed, the bookcase tipped over, and the TV destroyed. Harding’s face was bruised and blood trailed down his chin from his split and swollen lip. His skin looked pale and dull. Ford stepped across and put two fingers to Harding’s neck. It was cold and there was no pulse.
TWO
Ford knelt in front of Harding and wondered how long he had been lying there. He leaned in close to check for signs of injury. The only blood was the trail from his cut lip. It occurred to him that he knew next to nothing about his lodger, and he tried to think of the number of times they had spoken in the two weeks since he had moved in. His face seemed younger in death than it had in life; there was a certain boyishness that Ford had not noticed before, maybe due to the dark fringe of hair falling loose across his forehead rather than slicked back as usual.
Harding was not in his work clothes; he wore jeans and a white short-sleeved cotton shirt, the creases still sharp along the sleeves. Several buttons were missing from the front and the seams of the right shoulder were torn. His right hand lay casually across his chest, and the knuckles were grazed and swollen. There were bruises up his forearm.
Ford was surprised that he felt no emotion. Before last September the only deaths he had experienced had been those of his parents. He counted the number of dead people he had seen in the last year and concluded that Harding was the sixth; maybe that was the number beyond which you became immune. He had not allowed himself to feel responsible for the other five, even the one he had shot in the face, but somehow he felt he was responsible for Harding’s death, and that he should be more alert to the danger this implied.
Ford stood up and listened, but the house was silent except for the whine of the air-conditioner outside. He stepped into the hallway, holding his breath. He opened the door to Harding’s room. It was neat, the covers on the single bed pulled straight, the small desk tidy, with only a laptop on it. There was a set of free weights stacked neatly on a rack by the wardrobe, and a barbell resting on a frame above an inclined bench, a fresh towel stretched across it. He moved down the corridor to his own room. The bed was unmade and there were clothes strewn across the floor, but it did not look disturbed.
Grace’s bedroom door was ajar. Her room was in the same state as it had been when he dressed her the previous evening, the pink floral doona pulled tight across the bed, her stuffed toys lined up along the pillow, her plastic ponies facing him in a line on the dresser, arranged in a particular order that was as important to his daughter as it was meaningless to him. He picked up her ragdoll and put it to his nose instinctively.
He found his phone and pulled a number from the memory. Suzi answered on the first ring.
‘Hi, it’s Gareth. How’s my girl?’
‘Sorry, Gareth. I’ve only been up, like, ten minutes.’ Her voice sounded husky and sleepy.
‘Everything alright?’ he asked.
She hesitated, hearing the tension in his voice.‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t it be? I just looked in on the girls and they’re both still sleeping. I’m going to make some coffee for me and, once I’ve jump-started my heart, I’ll get breakfast for them.’
‘How was your evening?’
‘Great. She really is no trouble. You should relax. Lauren loves having her here. They were lying awake chattering even after I’d turned the lights out, but that’s girls for you.’
Ford walked back through the living room and stood before Harding. ‘Is Brad there?’ he asked.
‘You missed him. He’d have been starting his shift just as you finished yours.You didn’t see him?’
‘No, I snuck out early.’
She paused again, waiting for him to continue. Her patience didn’t last long. ‘What’s wrong, Gareth? You’re doing that English thing of yours, that quiet reserve. Stop being such a Pom. Spit it out.’
‘Something’s happened. I need another favour. Can you take Grace to school today?’
‘Sure. Did they spring a double shift on you? I thought the maintenance shutdown was over.’
‘It is. It’s not that.’
He heard a car outside and went to the window. Parting the blinds he saw the police wagon pull up in the driveway behind Harding’s ute. The lights on the cab were flashing but there was no siren. Two uniforms climbed out.
‘You still there?’ said Suzi.
‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll have to go. I’ll call you later.’
‘You’re making me worried now.’
‘It’s the police. They’re here. I have to go talk to them.’
The back door was still open and Ford turned off the light and moved quickly through the kitchen to close it. As he reached for the handle he saw the lock had been jimmied and the wood was split. He left the door open and was leaning against the door frame as the two cops came around the back of the house. They stopped when they saw him.
‘Good morning, officers,’ he said, trying to control the pitch of his voice. The policeman in front was older and shorter, heavy around the middle, short hair and a broad moustache greying at the edges. His gaze was steady, taking in the work clothes and dusty boots, then he was looking over Ford’s shoulder into the kitchen. Ford noticed the three stripes on his sleeve.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Can I ask you if you live at this address?’
‘Yes, it’s my house. Well, the company’s house, but I’m the tenant.’
‘Could you give me your name, sir?’
‘Is there a problem?’
The younger cop yawned, then fidgeted nervously with the equipment on his belt. Ford guessed he was in his early twenties, probably in his first country posting.
‘I asked you your name, sir.’
‘Gareth Ford.’
‘English, are you?’
Ford tried to smile. ‘Is the accent still that strong?’
‘And who else lives here?’
‘My daughter,’ said Ford, ‘and there’s a guy lodging with us.’
‘Is he home? There are two cars in the driveway.’
‘He is. What’s the problem?�
��
‘We had a report of a disturbance.’
‘I just got home from my night shift.’
The cop looked at the company logo embroidered above the pocket on Ford’s shirt. ‘Where do you work?’ he said.
‘Ore Body 42. Operations.’
The sergeant nodded to his partner, who took out his notebook and started writing. ‘Then we’ll need to talk to the other guy.’
Ford hesitated. Both cops had taken a step closer. The young one wore an expression of bored confusion, the older one a practised look of efficient concern. Ford could read their name badges now. The sergeant was Eley, the young one Kopke. Eley rested his hand gently on the butt of the gun holstered at his hip. Ford stared at the gun, and at the taser, handcuffs and pepper spray arranged across the cop’s belt. He sighed. ‘You’d better come in. You’ll find him on the couch.’
He stepped back and let Eley pass him into the kitchen. Kopke waved Ford in, stepping in behind him to close the door. He noticed the damage and bent over to examine the splintered wood. Eley had already turned on the living-room light and was standing in front of the couch, bent over with his hands on his knees in front of Harding.
‘He’s dead,’ said Ford.
Eley pulled himself upright, turned to Ford and looked him in the eye. He held the stare for a few moments then glanced at his partner, braced against the kitchen doorway.
Eley returned to the corpse and checked the neck for a pulse. He pulled down one of Harding’s eyelids and a glazed bloodshot eye stared back at him. He stood upright, put his hands on his hips, thinking. ‘He’s fucking dead alright,’ he said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Josh Harding.’
‘What a shitty start to the day.’
‘For you or for him?’ said Ford.
‘I don’t think he cares that much,’ said Eley, ‘but for me, it’s going to be a long fucking day.’
He gave a wave to his partner and Kopke went into the hallway to check the rest of the house. The sergeant stared at Ford.
‘You say you just got back from work?’
Ford nodded. ‘Ten minutes ago. He was like this when I came in.’
‘Have you touched him? Moved him at all?’
‘Only to check his pulse, same way you did. That was all.’
‘Show me your hands.’
Ford held out his hands palms upwards and Eley took hold of them, turning them over to examine the knuckles, then letting them drop.
‘So what was all the noise about?’
‘I didn’t hear anything. The house was quiet when I got home.’
‘Bit of a party, was it?’
‘As I said, I wasn’t here.’
‘This man reeks of drink.’
Ford shrugged. Kopke came back in and shook his head. Ford looked from one to the other. ‘So now what?’
Eley smiled. ‘What we do now is get you out of this house so you don’t fuck up the crime scene any more. Why don’t you come down to the station with me and we’ll have a chat.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
Eley laughed now. ‘Would you like to be?’
‘I don’t see there’s any need for that.’
‘I agree. Let’s say you’re helping us with our enquiries, making a statement.’
Eley guided Ford by the elbow through the kitchen and out the back door. Kopke stood in the doorway waiting for instructions.
‘Secure the scene,’ said Eley. ‘I’ll send someone out when we get to the station.’
‘Do you want me to call it in?’ asked Kopke, fidgeting with his phone.
‘We’re four blocks away. We’ll be there by the time anyone picks up.’ Eley still had a firm grip on Ford’s elbow as he pushed him around the corner of the house to the police wagon. It was a four-door HiLux ute with a fibreglass Varley pod fixed to the cargo tray for prisoner transport. Eley unlocked the door to the pod and waved Ford towards the moulded plastic seat inside.
Ford shook his head. ‘I didn’t think I was under arrest.’
‘I ride up front, you ride in the back. That’s the way this works.’
‘Do I look like I’m going to run?’
‘Do I look like I give a shit? We can do the handcuffs if you want.’
‘I need to make a phone call,’ said Ford.
‘You can do it at the station. You got a phone on you?’ He held out his hand.
Ford took it from his pocket and slapped it in Eley’s palm. Eley scrolled through the screen.
‘You made a call just a few minutes ago. Who’d you ring?’
‘My daughter. Well, a neighbour. My daughter was having a sleepover while I did the night shift.’
‘You find a dead guy in your house, you didn’t think to call us first?’
‘Did I need to? I was on the phone when you arrived.’
‘So who do you want to call now?’
‘I thought I should ask someone’s advice before I speak to you.’
‘You think you need a lawyer?’
Ford shook his head.
‘It’s not a good look, mate,’ said Eley. ‘You start lawyering up, we start thinking you got something to be worried about. You worried? You look nervous.’
Ford stood with his hand out, his head tilted, waiting to see what Eley would do. The cop thought for a moment, then handed back the phone.
Ford leaned against the wagon, trying to find a patch of shade. The sun was higher now and he could feel the sweat trickling down his back. He shielded the screen with one hand while he thumbed through his contacts with the other to find the number he wanted. She answered on the third ring.
‘Detective Constable Rose Kavanagh.’
Ford paused. He hadn’t spoken to her since the last day of the inquest into the Gwardar robbery.
‘Kavanagh. It’s Gareth Ford.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Ford,’ she said. He thought he heard her yawn. ‘It’s early. I’m still in bed.’
Ford tried not to picture her. He had never seen where she lived, and didn’t want to think about whether she was alone.
‘You still there?’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Call me psychic. You’re not one for social calls, especially before breakfast.’
‘I’m in trouble. I need your help.’
‘That much I guessed. Where are you?’
‘Newman. I’ve got a police officer standing next to me.’
‘Are you under arrest?’
‘Not yet, but it’s possible. There’s a dead man in my house.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Josh Harding. A young tradie billeted at our house.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘How can you ask me a question like that?’ said Ford.
‘Reasonable question. Did you?’
‘No. Looks like he was in a fight. Broken furniture, bruises.’
‘Any obvious cause of death?’ she asked.
‘Nothing visible.’
‘No gunshot or knife wounds? No head trauma?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Was he a drug user?’
‘No idea.’
‘So what are uniform doing with you?’
‘Taking me to the station, getting a statement while they secure the scene.’
‘Sounds straightforward enough. What do you need me for?’
Ford looked at Eley. ‘Don’t be coy,’ he said.
Kavanagh yawned again. ‘You said there was a fight. Could’ve been an accident. Wouldn’t be the first one-punch death in a drunken fight in a mining town.’
‘But why does this happen in my house? Why is it happening to me?’
‘You’re getting paranoid. Where’s your daughter?’
‘She’s with friends.’
‘So she’s safe.What you need to do is let the local uniform handle this.You got a lawyer?’
‘No. Wouldn’t know where to dig one up in town at t
his hour.’
‘Ford,’ she said, ‘listen to me. Go with the police to the station. Give a full and cooperative statement. What’s the name of the attending officer?’
Ford looked at Eley, who had turned away towards the cars in the driveway. He was writing the licence numbers in his notebook, still within earshot. ‘Eley,’ said Ford.
‘Senior Sergeant Jack Eley,’ said Eley. ‘Make sure your lawyer writes it down.’
‘She’s not my lawyer.’
‘I got that,’ said Kavanagh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ With that she cut the connection.
Eley held out his hand and took the phone, then glanced at the screen. He nodded towards Harding’s bright green ute. ‘I’m assuming this garbage wagon belonged to the dead man?’
It was a Commodore SS utility, a big V8 with an air scoop on the hood and chrome wheels, the suspension sitting low on fat tyres. It had recently been polished to a showroom shine.
Eley put his hands on his hips. ‘The more money these guys get, the worse their taste,’ he said. ‘Why would you buy a shit-hot ride like this in a putrid colour like that?’
‘Harding told me it’s called Atomic Green.’
‘That’d be right. Drive around in something the colour of a radioactive frog. I thought he was fly-in fly-out?’
‘No, he was on short-term contract, here for the maintenance shutdown. He couldn’t bear to be parted from his car so he drove it up here. Nine hours’ drive flat out. He showed me the speeding ticket he got outside of Meekatharra. A hundred and sixty it said. He was very proud.’
‘They teach us not to judge people by their appearances,’ said Eley, ‘but I reckon this here Holden tells me all I need to know about young Mr Harding.’
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