by J. M. Peace
‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ Sammi said. ‘Peter has died.’ She avoided any euphemisms which might be open to interpretation.
With a sharp intake of breath, Faye gave a little cry and clutched at her chest.
Shit, thought Sammi. She’s going to have a heart attack. She reached over and caught Faye’s hand in hers.
‘Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?’
Faye shut her eyes and breathed in and out deeply. She was composed again when she opened them.
‘No, dear. I’m okay. It’s just a shock.’ Her voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away. She reached out and took Sammi’s other hand in hers, seeking the human contact as if steadying herself against Sammi even though they were both sitting down.
‘How? What happened?’ she asked.
‘It looks like he has committed suicide.’ Sammi squeezed the old lady’s hands gently.
Faye closed her eyes and moaned softly. ‘I always thought this day may come,’ she said. ‘I knew he was . . .’ she paused, as if mentally groping for the right word, ‘. . . damaged,’ she said. She let go of Sammi’s hands in order to reach for a pack of tobacco on a side table. She rolled herself a cigarette – the paper, filter and tobacco coming together slowly but cleanly. She brought it up to her lips, licking the paper to seal the edge shut. Finally, she lit it up with a pink plastic lighter and inhaled, the lines around her lips deepening as she drew back.
Then the tears came. But there were no sobs or cries. Only silent tears following the lines of her wrinkles as they ran down her face. She still managed to take drags on her rollie as she cried.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Sammi murmured. Bob shifted slightly in his chair, but seemed quite happy to be ignored.
‘I hope he’s at peace now,’ Faye said. ‘Finally at peace.’
Sammi and Bob exchanged glances. They had discussed this in the car on the way over. How much should they tell Peter’s mum? He had a right to privacy, even though he was now dead. But his death was part of a much bigger story, one which Faye had a right to know, to put into context the things that would now arise. She lived in this community. There would be no avoiding it.
Faye puffed steadily, staring straight ahead. She didn’t pause, didn’t even look when the rollie was finished. Her fingers knew what to do, her eyes were not required as she rolled another smoke.
‘Did he leave a note?’ she asked.
‘He did leave a note. It says “Sorry”. Nothing else,’ Sammi said. She hesitated. ‘There have been some rumours around town,’ she said, watching Faye’s face closely to see how she would process this news.
Faye stared at Sammi, the words clearly burrowing through the wall of her grief. Then she put both of her hands over her face and started to wail, a loud primal sound at odds with the quiet old woman sitting before them. Sammi was shocked this news seemed to upset Faye more than finding out her son had killed himself.
‘He’s done it again, hasn’t he?’ she asked between gasps.
Sammi grasped for an answer. ‘We . . . ah . . . can’t say too much . . .’ She remembered Faye had been babysitting when Janey had been molested, wondered what sort of lasting impact that had left on her.
Faye took a deep breath, as if drawing her pain back inside. ‘It’s okay,’ she said with half a hiccough. ‘It’s okay . . .’ She tapered off, breathing deeply, clamping a lid down on her grief. ‘Have you told Barry?’ Faye asked.
‘No,’ Sammi answered. ‘We spoke with Belinda, but Barry’s out at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be over to see you as soon as he gets back.’
Faye nodded and Sammi watched her carefully. The old woman’s reaction to her son’s death confused Sammi, especially her lack of questions. Sammi wasn’t sure what assumptions Faye had made, what inferences she had drawn when Sammi had mentioned the rumours. But the old woman seemed certain she had correctly filled in the blanks. It was possible that Faye already knew about the alleged abuse, or at least had some sort of suspicion. Sammi couldn’t rule that out, but now was not the time to ask.
Instead, Sammi mentally went through the paperwork that was required for a dead body. There was one more thing she had to canvas. ‘Faye, in situations like this where a person has died suddenly, generally the coroner orders an autopsy to be done to determine the cause of death. Do you have any objections to an autopsy being performed on Peter?’
Faye looked blankly at her. ‘Autopsy? Objection?’
‘Some people have religious or personal objections to an autopsy being performed. Do you need me to explain what’s involved in an autopsy?’ Sammi queried, as gently as she could.
Faye still looked blank but shook her head. ‘They should do what they need to do. I have no objections.’
‘Okay. Is there someone we can call for you?’ Sammi asked. ‘To come and be with you. We will need to go shortly, and I really don’t want to leave you alone here.’
Faye shook her head. ‘I’m all right, dear. You’ve done your job here.’
‘One other thing,’ Sammi ventured. She didn’t like to ask but couldn’t ignore the miserable animal. ‘Peter’s dog. The poor thing’s alone at his house. Could you maybe look after it?’
Faye stared at her. ‘Roxy?’
Sammi nodded.
‘No . . .’ Faye said eventually.
Sammi sighed. ‘We’ll have to call the pound. We can’t leave it out there all by itself.’
‘That would be a shame. She’s a nice little dog.’ Faye hesitated. ‘Maybe I can take her in the short term. Try to find a good home for her.’
Sammi didn’t give her the chance to re-think it. ‘That would be great,’ she said, animating her voice. ‘I’ll leave that with you then.’
Although Sammi no longer felt like the old woman was going to collapse, she still felt uncomfortable about leaving her alone with the burden of her son’s death. Pedophile allegations aside, Peter was still this woman’s child.
‘We’d really rather not leave you alone,’ Sammi said more firmly this time. ‘Who can we call in for you?’
28
The police had been insistent that they find her a support person. There were two people Faye normally would have turned to in this situation. Now one was dead and one was away.
She realised she didn’t have any friends to call and in the end she nominated her next-door neighbour. She and Cath sometimes chatted over the front fence if they both happened to go to the letterbox at the same time. The police had gone next door and pulled Cath away from her daytime television shows. After Cath had made her a cuppa and found her a new box of tissues, they’d then spent a few minutes sitting in uncomfortable silence. Faye felt relieved when Cath made her excuses and quietly let herself out of the house.
Once she was alone, Faye drew her sorrow around her like a cold, wet blanket. It made her feel heavy, with a chill that reached into her chest. She could not say how long she sat on the couch like that, her eyes drawn shut by grief. She wasn’t thinking so much as remembering. Old jagged memories. Although their sharp edges had been worn smoother by the years, they could still cut and pierce. Faye submitted to the memories and the tears flowed.
She cried for herself and for her son, who she both loved and hated. She had helped to form him. Hating him was like hating a part of herself.
And she did. Her life was full of regrets and now the consequences had landed squarely in her lap. She wanted to know all the details of his death, of the rumours, but couldn’t bear to know them, to have her failures as a mother laid bare. She could understand suicide, how death may beckon when your life felt worthless.
When her sobs subsided, she noticed she was sitting in the half-light of dusk and she was hungry. She had smoked a full pouch of tobacco. She emptied the ashtray and pulled another pouch of tobacco out of the drawer next to the cutlery. But instead of rolling another
cigarette, she turned on some lights and set about making her dinner. The simple act of being busy, her hands moving with a sense of purpose, calmed her mind more than the chain smoking.
She was too old now to do anything useful. Too old to do anything except watch the tatters of her life flapping in the breeze.
29
After the death knock, Sammi and Bob returned to Peter’s house. There was something about Faye’s reaction that sat uneasily with Sammi. She knew people dealt with death and the grief which followed in different ways. They had learnt about the stages of grief at the academy, how people could cycle through anger, denial, depression or any other combination of emotions. Faye was certainly grieving, but there was little of the shock that an unexpected death usually brought. Had she expected the news? Maybe known something they didn’t? If this was a case of foul play, maybe Faye knew more than she was letting on? These questions tumbled through Sammi’s head as they walked back towards the shed.
The government undertaker was on scene, which meant that Forensics were finished. By now the undertakers would have cut down the body, and would be bagging it up, probably in double bags to try to keep the maggots contained.
Terry was walking out of the shed towards them. ‘The undertakers are earning their money today,’ he said. ‘And people think cops have a bad job.’
‘Not helping wrangle the maggots, Terry?’ Bob asked.
‘Get fucked. I don’t get paid enough for that shit,’ Terry said with a half-smile. ‘How’d you go?’
Sammi told him about the visits to Belinda and Faye. ‘Peter’s mother took it . . . better than I expected,’ Sammi said, not sure how to explain her reservations to Terry.
‘Good. ’Cos we need an ID.’ Terry fixed his eyes on her, as if to gauge her response.
‘No!’ Sammi replied immediately.
Every body had to be positively identified. While often done at the scene, if the next of kin found the deceased, it could be done at the morgue, where there was a viewing room. The deceased would be arranged on a trolley with a blanket and pillow in the futile hope they would look as if they were sleeping.
Sammi had seen Peter’s body. There was no way she would ask Faye to look at the bloated mess that remained of her son. She gave Terry an incredulous look.
‘Come on, the morgue staff will clean him up,’ Terry said. ‘It’ll be okay. You said she handled the news well. She’s lived on a farm, she probably butchered animals, seen worse.’
‘Terry,’ Sammi began, in her best police-officer-means-business voice, ‘there is no way you can ask that poor old lady to identify her son. For one, how could she positively identify him? He’s all puffed up and changed colour. And two – just no. Every time she thinks of her son, that’s what she’ll see. That’s the last image she’ll have of him. No. It’s not fair. You can’t.’
Terry glanced at Bob, who shook his head slightly.
‘So, I’ve got to do fingerprints?’ Terry asked.
‘Good luck getting fingerprints off that body,’ Bob replied. ‘The fingers will be mush. Grab Forensics now while he’s here and ask.’ He gestured to Jeremy Haskins who had walked out of the shed, camera hanging around his neck, peeling off his gloves.
Jeremy saw them looking and came over. ‘I’m going straight home for a shower,’ he said by way of a greeting.
‘Hey, any chance of getting fingerprints off old mate?’ Terry asked.
Jeremy snorted. ‘Nup. If you need an ID you’ll have to do DNA. Or dental records.’
Terry pulled a face. ‘That’s a lot of fucking around for nothing,’ he said. ‘Really, who else is it going to be? Not sure it’s a straight-up suicide, I’ll give you that, but it’s going to be the pedophile, isn’t it?’
‘You’re the D, mate,’ Bob said. ‘You’re telling the story.’
‘Okay,’ Terry said. ‘So the next of kin has been notified. Are you going to do the Form One for me, Sammi?’
Sammi shrugged. Paperwork didn’t bother her. She was a fast typist. The Form One, reporting the details of the death for the coroner, was a straightforward tick-the-boxes form. She had all the details she needed. She could knock it over in half an hour. She glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, Bob. We’ll head back to the station. You finish up and I’ll do the Form One and the log.’
As Sammi tapped away at the computer back at the station, she made a mental inventory of the events of her shift. She glanced at the clock. Three fifteen. In forty-five minutes her shift would be finished. And she’d done it. She’d spent a shift back out on active duties. She’d located a dead body and completed two death knocks. Successfully. At no point during the shift did she think she couldn’t cope or feel like running back to the safety of the station. So much for a quiet Monday. But it was a victory.
30
It had been years since Faye had set foot in the old house. As she climbed the front steps of the Queenslander, it was as if she was stepping back in time. She paused at the door. It was open. There was no need to knock. But stepping over the threshold was significant. Acknowledging what had been ignored for so long.
She had put coming out here off for as long as she could. Every part of her wanted to avoid this place. But the thought of Peter’s kelpie cowering alone in the dark prodded her into action. Roxy was a friendly dog. She shouldn’t be left alone on the farm to turn wild. This small act, claiming the dog and taking her in – this was something Faye felt capable of.
She heard the clatter of toenails on the wooden floor and took a step inside to greet Roxy. The kelpie wriggled with excitement. Her whole body wagged, not only her tail. She accompanied it with a yowling whine, as if trying to speak to Faye, to tell her she’d been waiting for her. Faye tried to pat her, but the dog kept wiggling and licking, so obviously pleased to see her. It was enough to make her start crying again.
She leant her back against the door frame. This was the family home. The place where she had raised her sons and waited till her husband died. She had moved out almost immediately after his death and passed the house on to the boys. Peter had eventually taken charge. He seemed happy running the farm. Granted, he had never done much with it but he’d been content to keep things ticking over, paying the bills and filling the hours.
Peter had visited her regularly. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to come out to the farm. He usually brought the dog. Roxy was a sweet little thing, but the way she tucked her tail and cowered when Peter raised his voice spoke volumes about how she was treated. They’d always had dogs on the farm – they had been working animals though and were never shown much kindness.
The little dog had settled enough to let Faye rub behind her ears. It left her fingers greasy. Roxy needed a good bath. That would be the first thing they’d do when they got home. And then find an old blanket to make her a bed.
Faye straightened up with a little groan. As she stretched out her back, she looked around the mess that Peter had called home. Her eyes fell on an old photo, in pride of place on the cabinet next to the TV. It was their family. Faye felt her scalp prickle. She stepped across the shoes and jacket on the floor and took the gilt edge frame in her hand. The boys looked so young. She guessed their ages by what they were wearing, and their haircuts. They weren’t even teenagers yet, two grinning peas in a pod. They had been born almost exactly a year apart, both inheriting their father’s brown eyes and dark hair. They were sitting at the bottom of the steps she had just walked up. Their father was standing, leaning against the railing, casually in charge. She was sitting higher up the stairs, too high to look as if she was part of the family group. It seemed to her now that she was observing her family rather than taking part in it. Her mouth was smiling but her eyes weren’t. She wondered what it was about this photo that had made Peter keep it on display. It was so long ago.
Faye noticed she had been squeezing the frame so hard her fingers had gone numb. She didn’t w
ant to be here anymore. She carefully returned the photo to the exact place she’d found it, as if she could deny she’d ever touched it. The dog followed her closely as she went to the front door.
She stopped on the top stair, waiting until she had crossed the threshold before pulling out a smoke and lighter. From here, Faye could see the shed. Although the sun glinted off the tin roof, it was a dark place to her. As she marched down the stairs as fast as her hip allowed, she considered if she’d still remember how to use the tractor. Destroying the shed would give her a lot of satisfaction, maybe even make her feel like she’d achieved something.
She guessed why her son had killed himself and the weight of that knowledge dragged her down with him. He hadn’t ever said it, but she had failed him. And if there was nothing she could do to set it right, or to at least balance it out a fraction, then she might as well join him.
31
Sammi was making a mental list of the things they still needed to ask Barry as they pulled into his driveway. They’d only been here the day before, completing the death knock.
‘We need to find out when’s the last time he spoke with Peter, what his frame of mind was at the time. Should I ask about the pedophile angle?’
‘Probably wait and see if Barry brings it up. He would have heard all the rumours. It might even be the topic of the last conversation he had with his brother,’ Bob replied. ‘Just play it by ear. Terry can take a statement later if need be.’
Sammi nodded. ‘Terry’s not showing much interest in this job at the moment.’
‘He’s still trying to pretend it’s a straight-out suicide. But it has to be treated as a suspicious death until it’s been proven otherwise. Even if Peter was a pedophile and everyone’s quite happy he’s dead. If Terry thinks the coroner’s going to sign off on a body and a one-word note, he’s got another thing coming. I hope you listed him as the investigating officer on the Form One so it gets bounced back to him, not you,’ Bob said.