‘That’s a joke, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Nathan continued. ‘You’re not eating that, are you?’
Arbor had given up on the lasagne, had hardly touched it.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No, I can’t say I blame you,’ said Nathan. ‘Mandy kicked me out without my tea and there’s no way I’d touch it either.’
THURSDAY
The detectives’ Commodore was parked outside the station when he arrived. Forewarned at least, he supposed. He entered cautiously, keen to take stock before he was noticed. But he may as well have been invisible. O’Reilly was watching the cricket and the two detectives were poring over what looked like Rashid’s computer, chatting between themselves. Both were about thirty, Arbor figured. The man was tall and lanky and wore a dark ill-fitting suit. He had a spectral, almost vapid, air about him. The woman seemed tougher. Dressed in blue pin-stripes, she was stocky, muscular and, Arbor decided, singularly unattractive. He had an inkling that it was she who had the clout. She might be a force to be reckoned with. Her hearty laugh set him back.
‘She wouldn’t cough where her brother was,’ she said. ‘So I twisted her arm so far up her back that her eyes spun and coins came pouring out her arse.’
The man joined in her laughter. Arbor blushed.
‘G’day,’ he said. ‘How are you? Danny Arbor …’
He offered his hand.
‘I’m Danny,’ he said again.
‘Yeah, we heard you,’ said the woman, hardly looking up.
The man, at least, offered eye contact.
‘How am I? How am I?’ he said. ‘How the fuck do you think I am, Danny? It’s two days after Christmas and I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. Did you take these pics?’
Shit. Please yourself, thought Arbor. Welcome to Chatton. Have a nice day.
‘Yeah. I guess I did,’ he said.
‘They’re crap. They tell us nothing.’
‘They were the best I could manage. It was hot.’
The detective lost interest. The woman turned to O’Reilly.
‘Where did you say the body was?’
‘At the butcher’s,’ said O’Reilly. ‘I’ll ring Doc Phillips. He said he’d look at it this morning.’
‘Honestly,’ said the woman. ‘Is this a one-horse fucking town or what?’
Arbor could see the displeasure on O’Reilly’s face.
‘Are you the Arbor that played for the Eagles?’ the woman continued, offering him the barest of glances.
‘Yeah. You could say that,’ he said. All of four games, he thought. Until the snap of a cruciate ligament put paid to it. In the end, he had barely managed the police physical.
‘Yeah, I saw you. Took a good grab against Franklin one time. A bit of a screamer.’
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ said Arbor. It was his one claim to fame.
‘Doc Phillips has been busy,’ said O’Reilly, hanging up. ‘He’s already organised to have the body moved to the clinic. He’ll start the autopsy in about an hour. Arbor, take these dingoes—’
‘I’m Sergeant Burke. He’s Constable Cole,’ said the woman.
‘Burke and Hare. Whatever. Take them around to Doc Phillips.’
‘No. It’s okay,’ said Burke. ‘We’ll find our own way. I’m sure you have a lot to do, Constable.’
She drew closer to Arbor, looking up. She smiled, something both scornful and lewd.
‘Out of my way, big fella,’ she said. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
Terrific, thought Arbor. Barely two minutes and she’s already got my balls.
The door closed and O’Reilly laughed.
‘Shit. They’d be wankers, wouldn’t they?’ he said.
‘Eh?’ Arbor replied.
‘There’s no need to be precious, son,’ said O’Reilly. ‘I could tell what you were thinking. They’re all the same, these city Ds. They think they’ve got it all sussed the minute they hit the ground. Arseholes. It could have been me, you know. Easy as. I did all my exams and then some. I just didn’t want to leave the bush. You get to know people in the bush. You know what I mean?’
Your arse gets to know the chair, thought Arbor.
‘Yeah, I get you, Sarge,’ he said. ‘Is there something we should do? Shouldn’t we do something?’
‘Nah. Fuck them. If they want to find their own way, let them. It’s no skin off my nose. They’ll be quick to claim the credit, any which way. Let them do the work. Get back to your filing.’
Paper, thought Arbor. Give me a day without paper. Better still, give me a day without O’Reilly.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
‘Are you getting that?’
It was a sign. If O’Reilly let the phone ring three times, it meant that he couldn’t be bothered and it was up to Arbor to handle whatever disruption lay on the other end of the line.
‘Chatton Station,’ he said. ‘Constable Danny Arbor speaking.’
The reply came in a woman’s voice, faint but clear.
‘Yeah, hi. My name’s Martin. Jenny Martin. I own a small property out on the Melton road.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I was checking my fences this morning. I heard a lot of traffic, you know, hoons, over the break. Anyway, Melton Creek runs along the north side of the property. I just found a burnt-out car in it.’
‘Uh-huh. Just a sec. Sarge, have there been any reports of stolen vehicles? There’s a burnt-out car out Melton way.’
‘No one’s said anything. Not to me, anyway.’
‘You weren’t able to read the plates, were you?’ Arbor asked the woman. ‘What sort of car is it?’
‘It looks like a Subaru. One of the new ones. I think I got the plate. It was pretty badly burnt.’
‘Let’s have it.’
‘C …T … 1 … 9 …7 … and I think it’s a three.’
Arbor tapped on his keyboard.
‘Sarge.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Rashid’s. It’s the newsagent’s car.’
‘Shit.’
‘Should I call the Ds?’
‘Nah. Let them wonder.’
‘Do you want to take a trip out there? Have a gander?’
‘Nah. If it’s burnt out, there’ll be fuck all to see. You go. Take a few more pics for your detective friends. Have a sniff around. See what you can see.’
‘Yeah, all right … Mrs Martin? Sorry, Miss … Jenny. Yeah, I’ll be out there shortly. Don’t touch anything, okay? Where is your place, exactly?’
Arbor scribbled down directions, hung up the phone and grabbed his cap. It was beginning to make a little sense, he thought. No wonder the shop was clean. Salim Rashid had been waylaid on the road somewhere.
On the case again, he mused. It really didn’t take much to make him feel like a real cop. But, typically, O’Reilly found a way to soil the moment.
‘You be careful out there,’ he smirked. ‘And don’t get up to any funny business, you hear me? I’ve heard that Miss Martin is a pretty good sort.’
Honestly. Did the man have no boundaries? Apparently not.
The notion that country roads were treacherous was a myth, thought Arbor. Sure, there were a few black spots, a few spots where, if you hit the corner at the wrong speed or at just the wrong angle, you might find yourself upside down on the shoulder, or, worse still, greeting St Peter at the pearlies, but the road to Melton was not one of them. It was one of the best, he decided, a joy to drive on, long, straight and not a pothole in sight. He wound down the window and let the cool breeze wash over him. It was a welcome change from the dry heat of the day before.
He had come a long way in six weeks, he figured – in the six weeks since the Academy, since the study, the drills, the marching and the obligatory cap toss. He’d had to. Sergeant O’Reilly had left him to fend for himself. But he was in some way thankful. He had been a quick learner, and had appreciated the sense of achievement and satisfaction that all the
new responsibilities had given him.
Of course, police work had never been his first choice. That had been football. It had always been football. Ever since he was a nipper. And after being picked up in the draft, he had thought that all of his dreams had come true. But dreams can die quickly, he had learned. His had died when the club doctor told him that his knee would never again withstand the pressures of the top flight. And he could risk permanent injury, suggested the doctor, even in the lesser leagues. His football career was finished at twenty-one.
So, on a whim and on the advice of his old man, he had become a cop. His Uncle John had been a cop, until he had quit to become a gold prospector up in the Murchison. He had never seen Uncle John again.
When he had told her, his mum had been as pleased as punch. But, then, Mum would have been pleased no matter what he did. And, on the day he graduated, Dad had bought him a new watch. It was strange, given that he had a watch and still had a bucketload of money as a payout from the Eagles. But it came engraved, and it clearly meant something to Dad, so he had retired the Rolex and now wore the Seiko with pride.
They had just begun the harvest down this way, he noticed. In the fields adjoining the road, mad spirals of cereal dust filled the air. He could see three combines, two bottle-green, one bright red, inching their way through the wheat, leaving long snail trails of straw. And everywhere he looked, the land was rich and golden.
The Martin place was just where she had described it, nestled in the clump of trees just beyond Melton Creek Bridge. A lovely little spot, he thought. To his surprise, the woman was waiting out front for him. As O’Reilly had said, he hated to admit, she was quite a sight – tall, dark-haired, with a bronzed country body and just enough curves to make her interesting. A billowing floral dress completed the picture. But she was well into her thirties, thought Arbor, maybe closer to forty. Out of his age range. Probably. Besides, this was work.
‘Miss Martin?’ he said.
‘Jenny will do.’
‘Sorry. Do you want to hop in? Show me this car?’
‘Oh, we won’t get there in that,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to take the quads.’
Magic, thought Arbor. I don’t fancy that.
He got out of the paddy wagon and, although there was little point, locked the doors.
‘Is it far?’ he asked. ‘I’m Danny, by the way.’
‘Yeah. You said on the phone. No. It’s not far. Five minutes. Have you ridden one of these before?’
‘Once, I think. Maybe. I was, what, ten?’
She thought for a moment.
‘Best get on mine, then,’ she said, tossing him a helmet. ‘We shouldn’t, but we don’t want you to roll it or something, do we? Mind, it’s not as though the cops will be bothered, will they? Get on behind me … That’s it. Now hold onto my waist. Tight. I’ll go slow, but it’ll still be a bumpy ride.’
Arbor did as he was told. Nervously. She started the engine and a gentle vibration ran through his body. Fuck, he thought. Two women in one day. And, with this one, he had his hands full. His cock was pressed hard against her arse and, despite his best intentions, he was getting hard. And it wasn’t even lunchtime.
He couldn’t help but wonder – if the Subaru had reached the creek bed, then surely the paddy wagon might have managed it, too. But when he surveyed the scene, he realised his error. The trail of steel and chrome told him that the Subaru had been driven down the creek bed for some distance.
He circled the car for a few moments, looking for something. He didn’t quite know what. But all he learned was that the beast was dead and the carcass was cold. It had clearly been that way for several days. But the fact that the doors were hanging open and the boot was closed gave him a sickly feeling. He gave the boot lid a tug, and then eyed the quad.
‘That thing doesn’t come with a tool kit or anything, does it?’ he said.
‘I’ve got a few things here,’ said Jenny. ‘What do you need?’
‘A screwdriver,’ said Arbor. ‘A flat one. The biggest you’ve got.’
Jenny passed him the tool. He jammed it between the boot lid and the body proper.
‘Stand back,’ he said. ‘And don’t look. This might be ugly.’
Jenny stepped back. Arbor hit the screwdriver with all his force and the boot popped open.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s empty.’
‘What were you expecting?’
‘Don’t ask,’ said Arbor. ‘Anyway, finding nothing is good news, I think. What’s up the creek a bit?’
‘Not much,’ said Jenny. ‘The bridge one way. A couple of old sheds the other.’
‘Yours?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve never used them, if they are.’
‘They might be worth a look, if you’ve got time. Do you mind?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Can we get there on this?’ he asked.
‘We can get just about anywhere,’ she said. ‘Just, whatever you do, don’t let go.’
The jolting had become just about bearable when Jenny took the quad out of the creek bed and approached the sheds. Baked brown by years of sun and rain, they seemed to Arbor ages old. They were positioned at the bottom of a hill, in an otherwise empty field. A well-used dirt track ran north, towards Chatton.
‘Whose property is that?’ he asked, indicating the other side of the fence. ‘It’s not yours, is it?’
‘No,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s the Blairs’. And I always figured the sheds belonged to them, too.’
‘These Blairs. Do you know much about them?’
‘I’ve lived next door to them just about all my life,’ said Jenny. ‘But I feel like I hardly know them at all. Just a little bit. They’re feral, the lot of them. And I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate us going onto their land.’
‘That’s too bad,’ said Arbor. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’
A rusted padlock was hanging on the door to the larger shed, but it had recently been broken. Arbor removed it, opened the door and let the sunlight in.
‘Christ.’
The light had revealed something, something Arbor had not expected.
‘What is it?’ said Jenny.
‘You’d better not look,’ he said.
But she did. A solitary chair sat at the rear of the shed. But what drew their eyes were the flies around it. They were swarming, feasting on the large mass of dark, treacle-like liquid that still soaked the chair and had pooled on the surrounding earth.
‘Oh, God,’ said Jenny, clutching Arbor’s arm. ‘Is that …?’
‘Yeah, I reckon it is,’ he said.
‘So what do we do?’
‘We close it up and call the experts,’ said Arbor. ‘I’d be dead meat if I touched this.’
He called the station.
‘Yep?’ came O’Reilly’s voice.
‘Sarge, it’s me,’ said Arbor. ‘I think we’ve found the murder scene.’
He made eye contact with Jenny. She was expressing just the right amount of concern.
‘Yeah, all right,’ said O’Reilly, sounding gruff and displeased. ‘Tell me more.’
‘It’s a barn bordering the Martin and Blair properties,’ said Arbor. ‘Up past Melton Creek Bridge.’
‘I’ll send your friends out as soon as they get back,’ said O’Reilly. ‘They can meet you at the farmhouse. You don’t mind waiting, do you?’
Arbor’s eyes followed Jenny. She had walked away. For a moment, he thought she was going to retch, but, no, she was just looking into the scrub, getting some air.
‘No, Sarge. I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet them there, then. Okay?’
But O’Reilly was gone. Arbor took the few steps towards Jenny.
‘The sarge says he’ll let the Ds know,’ he said. ‘And I expect they won’t muck around getting out here. He told me to wait.’
‘What, here?’
‘No. At the house. I mean, I guess I’m supposed to stay here, chain of evid
ence and all that, but … Well, they’d never find us, would they? What are you looking at?’
‘This. It’s not one of mine. Strange there’s only one. Stuck out here. And it’s just about brand new.’
Arbor looked. On the other side of the fence, nestled in the grass, lay a woman’s shoe.
Like a duck to water, thought Arbor. A couple of spins around the house and he had the quad down pat. Or so he hoped. They would need both to get back to the scene, and he felt sure that neither detective would show any competence. So it was up to him. He pulled to a halt with a small skid, just for show.
‘No posing like that when you’ve got a passenger,’ said Jenny, emerging from the house, wielding two mugs. ‘You’ll lose them, for sure.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Arbor, accepting his mug. But his mind held the image of Sergeant Burke landing head first in the dirt. Or, better still, on her arse.
‘I’ve no idea how long they’ll be,’ he said.
‘That’s all right,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m not busy.’
‘You don’t run this place all by yourself, do you?’ asked Arbor.
‘No, I’ve an arrangement,’ said Jenny. ‘Bob Anderson. He has the spread just west of here. He does all my seeding and harvesting for me. He takes a percentage of the crop. Follow me?’
Arbor nodded.
‘It saves me a lot of grief,’ said Jenny. ‘And I don’t need that much to get by.’
‘Yeah, I get it,’ said Arbor. ‘It sounds ideal.’
‘It is.’
‘So, how long have you been here?’ Arbor asked.
‘Me?’ said Jenny. ‘I was practically born here. It was Mum and Dad’s place. They died a few years back.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well. It happens. I came back from the city to nurse Dad. I was down there teaching. Primary.’
‘And there’s no … You’re single?’
‘Yeah, I’m single. Suits me fine, too. Sorry, do you want a biscuit or something?’
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