‘You worried about pregnancy or disease?’ said Ford.
‘You really don’t have any patter, do you?’
‘It’s just that I had the snip,’ he said, ‘so you don’t need to worry about that.’
‘Vasectomy?’
‘Diane’s idea.’
‘She took your house, your daughter and even your balls,’ she said. ‘She didn’t leave you with much.’
‘She let me keep my scooter.’
‘That old Vespa? Where is it?’
‘Still in Perth,’ he said. ‘That air-cooled motor can’t cope with the heat up here. And have you ever sat on a vinyl seat that’s been in the sun all day?’
‘I ride a motorcycle,’ she said, ‘and I live in Kalgoorlie. It gets plenty hot enough there.’
‘Easier for you. You have no balls to burn.’
‘Neither do you,’ she said.
‘Can we change the subject?’ said Ford. ‘It’s doing nothing for my mood.’
‘I can feel that,’ said Kavanagh, and kissed him again. Longer this time, tender. She stood up, picked up her glass of water from the table, and held out her hand for him. He took it and she pulled him out of the chair and led him down the corridor to the bedroom.
The room was dark except for the light that spilled in from the hallway, and he stood in the open doorway watching her as she pulled the gun from her shorts and placed it next to the glass of water on the table beside the bed. She pushed down her shorts, pulled her singlet over her head and dropped it to the floor, then slid naked under the sheet.
Ford sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, looking into her face clean of make-up. He had thought of her as much younger than him, but looking at her now he noticed her age for the first time. He wondered whether she had been through the same sort of pain he had, whether it showed in her eyes. In that moment he recognised her pain and he wanted to reach out and touch her hair, to give her solace and hope. She looked back at him, waiting, waiting for him to move in. He stood up and undressed quickly, pulling back the sheet and lying next to her.
They made love as soon as their bodies touched. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him into her, her eyes closed, her head thrown back on the pillow, showing him her neck. He wanted the feeling of her to take him away, stop him thinking of the men outside in the street, maybe watching the house now. He wanted her to open her eyes and look at him, join him so they could be carried away together.
They were quiet, both thinking about Grace in the next room, and the crowded bar across the breezeway, the sound of music and voices mingling with the rattle of the air-conditioner.
It was far more tender than he had ever imagined it, a slow embrace, neither daring to speak and break the unspoken pact of silence. When she came she bit into his shoulder, stifling a moan, and afterwards they lay clinging to each other, the sheet damp with sweat around them, their chests pressed together until their hearts slowed and their breathing eased.
They released each other and lay apart, the sheet thrown off, her head on his shoulder, feeling the cold blast of the air-con across their bare skin. Ford felt relief. He had known one way or another they were going to reach this point, and now it wasn’t something he had to think about any longer. It was done.
Kavanagh lifted her head from his shoulder, rolled onto her belly and put her face close to his. ‘You’re quiet,’ she whispered.
‘When am I noisy?’ he said.
‘It’s good to get all that out of the way,’ she said. ‘The next one, that’s the fun.’
She ran a hand through his hair, stared into his eyes. ‘You have such long lashes,’ she said. ‘Grace has the same big eyes as you. Very soulful. I look at her and I can see what you must have looked like as a boy.’
Her hand moved across his shoulder, her fingers finding the teeth marks where she had bitten him. Her fingers walked across his skin until she found where he had been shot, the rosette of puckered scar tissue from the bullet that had passed clean through his shoulder.
‘Chicks dig scars,’ said Ford, his voice sleepy.
‘Does it still give you pain?’
‘Not often,’ he said, ‘but every now and then it reminds me it’s there.’
He stroked her back, moving his hand up until he found the scratch marks down her shoulder blade, feeling the raised skin. ‘And what’s this?’ he said. ‘It looks like you’ve been mauled by a cat.’
‘It’s the yant ha taew,’ she said.
It meant nothing to him. He waited for her to explain.
‘It’s Thai scripture,’ she said. ‘The Five Sacred Lines, a Buddhist prayer. I had it done when I was travelling in Thailand, at a temple, the Wat Bang Phra. It’s a special place. You can feel it when you go there. The prayer protects me from danger.’
‘Has it worked?’ said Ford.
‘This from the man who got shot three times in a weekend?’ she said.
He could feel her chest moving against him as she laughed silently. He shrugged her off and sat up, reaching for the glass of water on the table. His fingers found the cold steel of the gun and he snatched his hand away. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘when I fantasise about making love to a beautiful woman, she’s not normally packing a gun.’
‘What boring fantasies you must have,’ she said, and pulled him back down onto the bed. She straddled him, grabbed his wrists and pinned him to the bed. ‘You told me you felt your wife was a living ghost, haunting you,’ she said. ‘Consider this an exorcism.’
She kissed him and for a while it didn’t matter who might be outside. They were together and there wasn’t anything else.
SIXTEEN
Ford woke up on his face. It took him a few moments to work out whether it was still dark, but with sustained effort he managed to open his eyes. The room was shaded, but there was enough light leaking around the storm shutter to let him know it was morning. He had slept on his arms, and they refused to move. He rolled onto his side and curled up, waited for the sense of vertigo to cease and for the feeling to return to his limbs. He felt a breeze across his backside, a cool draught from the air-conditioner, and was disturbed to discover he was naked. He poked around with his toe until he found the sheet bundled up at the foot of the bed. He pulled it over himself and curled up tighter into a foetal position. As he lay there he became aware that he could map the exact dimensions of his liver, and it felt as swollen as his tongue. He opened his eyes again to look at the person beside him. He recognised the cloud of blonde hair, but there was something wrong with the scale, a trick of perspective or maybe a failing of perception. He squinted until his eyes came into focus and he realised it was Grace lying beside him.
He sat up and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out Kavanagh silhouetted against the outline of the window. She was sitting on a plain wooden chair, her back straight and her head level. She had a blanket spread across her legs, and her hands were hidden beneath it. Ford couldn’t tell if she was sleeping or meditating, until she spoke.
‘Good morning,’ she whispered.
Ford dropped his head back onto the pillow and groaned. ‘What time is it?’
‘After seven,’ said Kavanagh, putting her hands high above her head to stretch.
‘What time did Grace come in?’
‘A couple of hours ago. She had her eyes closed, walking in the dark. I was already up. She didn’t see me.’
‘You’ve been in that chair all night?’
‘Most of it. I heard noises outside, got up to check it out and couldn’t get back to sleep.’
‘I could have helped with that.’
‘You were dead to the world.’ She stood up and the blanket fell away, and he saw she had been cradling Reynard’s shotgun in her lap.
Ford swung his legs off the bed, looking around on the floor for where he’d cast off his clothes. As he pushed his head through the neck of his shirt he caught the half-smile on Kavanagh’s face. He put his right foot into the leg of his pants an
d pulled them to his knee, then snagged his left heel in the waistband, lost his balance and sat down heavily on the bed. Kavanagh stifled a laugh, stepped around him and opened the bedroom door.
‘Any sign of our friends?’ asked Ford.
She stopped in the doorway and thought for a moment before she spoke. ‘They’re out there somewhere. We’ll need to make a move pretty quickly.’
‘You have some sort of plan?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Breakfast.’
Ford went to the bathroom and showered, and when he returned to the bedroom Grace stirred, her shirt riding up to expose her belly. She scratched it and rolled over, then lifted her head from the pillow to look at him, her eyes sleepy and confused. He carried her to the bathroom and sat her on the toilet, and when she had finished she looked up at him and said, ‘What day is it today?’
‘Sunday.’
She thought for a moment, then her face lit up. ‘Can we have pancakes for breakfast?’
Ford picked her up, stood her in front of the basin and put her toothbrush in her hand. She held it steady while he squeezed toothpaste on it and turned on the tap. She stretched up onto her toes to put the brush under the running water.
‘I’ll have to see what’s in the fridge,’ said Ford as she brushed her teeth. He picked up his own brush and started to clean his teeth, and they stood side by side, looking at each other in the mirror. He held her up so she could spit in the basin and then carried her into the kitchen and sat her in a chair at the table. Kavanagh was leaning against the fridge, a phone to her ear. The shotgun lay on the counter, wrapped in the blanket.
‘Is that my phone?’ asked Ford.
‘I’ve been trying her number at fifteen-minute intervals since the sun came up. No reply.’
Ford nodded towards the gun. ‘How did you get that off Reynard?’
She showed him her teeth and pushed her chest out at him.
Ford went to the fridge. There were three eggs in the carton and half a litre of milk. He carried them to the counter and pushed the shotgun aside to make room. In the cupboard he found some flour and sugar and a crusty tin of golden syrup. He discovered a bowl and a rusted hand whisk under the sink and put some flour in the bowl and broke the eggs into it. He put the bowl under his arm and started to whisk it, all the while watching Kavanagh.
‘So what have you been doing all night?’ he said.
‘Thinking.’
‘And did you reach any conclusions?’
‘If Diane didn’t arrive here yesterday, she won’t get here.’ She was keeping her back to Grace, her voice a whisper. ‘We can’t sit here another day waiting. We need to get out there and search for her.’
Ford watched the lumps rise in the batter, trying to break them up with the whisk. ‘Where do you reckon we should start?’
‘If the gold is around here, then it must be because McCann has some link to this place. We’ll go talk to the local uniform and see what they know.’
She put his phone on the counter. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’
‘You want a pancake?’ said Ford.
She looked at the lumpy batter in the bowl and scrunched up her nose, then kissed him lightly on the cheek and turned towards the bathroom.
Ford put a cast-iron frying pan on the stove and thought about his wife as he made pancakes. The batter spat, mingling with the hiss of the shower from down the hall. He stacked the pancakes on a pair of plates and remembered the lemon tree in the yard. He turned off the cooker and stepped outside into the bright sunshine. Stacey was walking across the yard from her donga carrying a plastic bucket full of cleaning products. She waved to him and he waved back. He picked a large lemon off the tree and put it to his nose. When he returned to the kitchen, Grace was looking at him and frowning. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Ford. ‘Look what I made you.’ He put the plates on the table, sprinkled sugar on the pancakes and squeezed the lemon over them. They sat in silence, eating and watching each other across the table.
By the time Ford had finished washing up, Kavanagh had come back dressed in her jeans and boots, the cowboy hat pushed far back on her head. She picked up the gun, still wrapped in the blanket, and put it under her arm, then swung her backpack over her shoulder. She leaned against the back door and watched Ford pull on his work boots and dress Grace. She opened the door to let them out, then followed them to the car.
‘Where are we going?’ said Grace.
‘To meet a friend of Rose’s,’ said Ford. ‘Another police officer.’
He drove out into the street and stopped to let Kavanagh close the gates behind them. He looked up the street and checked his mirrors, but the town seemed deserted. Rising in front of him was a hill, red dirt sparsely covered with parched yellow grass. A white building stood alone on the crest, a simple rectangular hall of weatherboard planks with a high-pitched roof of corrugated iron and boarded-up windows. There was a tall arched door at the front, and above it, on the ridge of the roof, was a small wooden cross. A man was standing in the shadow that the church cast across the hillside, and as Ford watched he stepped into the sunshine. It was Wu, and Ford could see the small plume of smoke rising from the cigarette in his hand.
‘Got a good view of the town from up there,’ said Kavanagh as she sat down next to Ford. If she was unnerved by Wu’s presence she didn’t show it. Ford drove off, turned right into the main street, and pointed to the police station on the low rise ahead of them, a marked police ute parked outside. The digital sign in the street registered thirty-eight degrees.
Ford parked next to the blue checkerboard sign. There was a single white panelled door, the last one in the long façade, shaded by a low roof that cut between the tall gables. The police ute was parked in front of a humble white house, which seemed to cower beside the imposing stonework of the station. A radio mast stood in the narrow front garden of the house, rising high above both buildings.
Kavanagh stepped down from the car and waited for Ford while he unstrapped Grace and lifted her down, then held her hand as they walked up the stone steps to the door. Grace looked up at the blue sign and her lips moved as she silently read each letter to herself and formed the word in her mind. ‘Is this where Rose works?’ she asked. Ford looked at Kavanagh and she shrugged and nodded. She took Grace’s free hand, the three of them walking together through the broad doorway and into the cool corridor beyond.
There was no obvious front desk; a series of doors led off either side of the corridor, and the first open door revealed a small office with two desks, one either side of a carved timber mantelpiece above a blocked hearth. A young officer in a blue uniform was sitting at a desk staring at a computer screen. Kavanagh stepped into the doorway and coughed; he looked over his shoulder at them and waited for them to speak. He was slender, his fine brown hair hanging straight on his forehead, an alert pair of eyes above a narrow nose and sunken cheeks. His nametag read ‘Saxon’.
Kavanagh took off her hat and held it by the brim, turning it slowly in her hands. ‘My name is DC Rose Kavanagh,’ she said. ‘Gold Stealing Detection Unit.’
He spun on his chair to face them, his hands flat on his knees, and looked Kavanagh up and down before staring past her to where Ford and Grace were standing in the corridor. His expression remained blank. ‘All the way from Kalgoorlie?’ he said, his voice a flat monotone.
Kavanagh shifted uneasily, leaning on one side of the doorframe then the other. Saxon’s expression didn’t change. ‘What can we do for the Gold Squad?’ he asked, picking up his phone and notebook from the table. He slowly undid the button on his shirt pocket and slid them inside.
‘I’m looking for two men, persons of interest connected to the recent homicide in Newman,’ Kavanagh said.
‘You got identification?’ asked Saxon.
Kavanagh took out her wallet and showed Saxon her badge, and he studied it for a few seconds before glancing at Ford. ‘What about your partner?’ he said.
&n
bsp; Kavanagh shook her head. ‘He’s a witness. Helping with enquiries.’
Saxon frowned. ‘Why are the Gold Squad interested in a homicide?’
‘It’s linked to something else we’re working on,’ said Kavanagh.
Saxon waited for her to elaborate. She stared straight back at him, daring him to challenge her. He wore her stare for a few seconds before Grace stuck her head around the side of Kavanagh’s legs and broke his concentration. Saxon leaned forward on his chair to get his face closer to Grace’s, but she took a step back, pushing herself into her father’s legs. ‘Hello,’ he said, his manner changing instantly, friendly now. He wrinkled his nose. ‘My name’s Matthew. What’s yours?’
Grace hesitated, and then looked up at her father. Ford smiled at her and nodded so she turned to the policeman, lifted her chin and said slowly and precisely, ‘My name is Grace.’
Saxon smiled. ‘My wife is baking some biscuits in our kitchen next door. Would you like to help her?’ He looked up at Ford and Kavanagh and waited for them to nod their acceptance, both realising it would be better for her not to hear what they wanted to say. Grace nodded shyly and Saxon held out a hand to her. When she took it he stood up, stepping between Kavanagh and Ford. ‘Is this your daddy?’ he asked softly. She nodded, the smallest movement.
Ford held out his hand. ‘Gareth Ford,’ he said, and when Saxon took it, the pressure was firm and the eye contact direct.
Saxon led the little girl down the corridor and back out into the sun with Ford and Kavanagh following. As she stepped outside she looked over her shoulder at her father and was happy to see him behind her. They walked up the street to the house next door. It was low and white, weatherboard and corrugated iron, the windows shuttered against the heat. They walked through the small neat front garden dotted with yucca and frangipani, and in through the front door. ‘Only me,’ called Saxon in a sing-song voice. A young woman stepped into the corridor at the far end. She was as small and neat as the house, dark hair pulled back and pinned in a bun, her face as pinched and lean as her husband’s. She held her hands out from her sides, her fingers coated white, and she wore a black apron dusted with flour. The apron was pushed out by the curve of her pregnant belly and Ford guessed that she only had a couple of months to go.
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