Will Ryan turned to Scarlett. ‘You caught a glimpse of him?’ Scarlett wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry Jed hadn’t mentioned the tea towel. After all, she had been terrifying.
‘Yes, I glimpsed him. Just a shadow, running to the car.’
He scribbled something in his notebook. ‘And you’re sure it was a man?’
Scarlett hesitated. What had she seen? A shape, that was all. Not in high heels, but who wore high heels around here? ‘I just assumed it was a man,’ she said slowly.
‘So it could have been a woman?’
‘Maybe. But why would a woman be parked down there?’
William Ryan shrugged tiredly. ‘Stranger things happen. Like that pollie’s wife arrested for shoplifting.’
‘Menopausal,’ said Scarlett professionally. Well, halfway to qualifying-ly.
‘I reckon. Women do odd things just as often as blokes.’
‘Did you see the mob of dogs?’
‘No. A dud night on all counts.’ He shut his notebook. ‘Look, how about I kip on your sofa for the next few nights? That way I’ll be sure to nick him if he comes back.’
Jed shook her head. ‘You’re really kind, but . . .’
‘You don’t want a bloke snoring on your sofa?’
She smiled. ‘It isn’t that. Scarlett will still be here tomorrow night and I’ll arrange for a friend to stay for a few days after that. But you’re welcome to sleep on my sofa any time.’
Will Ryan glowed. He’s keen on her, Scarlett realised suddenly. And Jed has no idea.
She suddenly felt deeply sorry for William Ryan. Because him and Jed? No, and no, and no. Even if Sam was not still so much part of Jed’s life . . .
Scarlett mentally frowned at herself. Why did she think Jed and Will Ryan were so wrong for each other?
He was smiling, nicely, back at her now. ‘I don’t think there’s any real need to worry that he’ll come back tonight. Or for the next few nights either. You and Scarlett probably scared him off.’ He didn’t ask how Scarlett had managed that. ‘He’s likely seen the police car heading this way too, and got the message loud and clear. I’ll drive out here at half past two the next few nights anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jed. ‘That’s really kind of you. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate all this. Would you like another cup of tea?’
It was a hint. Will slipped Maxi the last of his biscuit and stood. ‘No, I’ll let you two go to bed. But don’t hesitate to call again if you hear anything.’
‘We won’t,’ promised Jed. She walked him to the door, Maxi, still hoping for more biscuit, at their heels.
Chapter 45
For sale: Toyota Corolla, as new, $1,999.
SCARLETT
Four am, and she couldn’t sleep. She felt elated, worried, triumphant and puzzled, and suddenly needed to share all of those feelings with Alex. The floorboards creaked slightly under her wheels, but she could hear steady breathing from Jed’s room. Good.
She dialled the number of her apartment. The phone rang, over and over. At last a voice answered, ‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice again. Scarlett froze.
‘Hello? Hello? Who’s there?’
Barbara? The voice was too slurred to tell. Could she have dialled the wrong number twice now? Once more Scarlett hung up, then dialled again.
Once more the phone rang endlessly.
‘Hello?’
‘Alex!’
‘Scarlett, what is it?’
She took a deep breath of relief. It had been a wrong number again.
‘Babe, are you okay?’ He sounded truly worried.
‘Yes. I just wanted to hear your voice. It’s been a . . . a weird kind of night, and . . .’
And suddenly she needed the truth. She’d known truth that day when she had felt the ground beneath her feet and known it was the soil of home. She needed truth now too. ‘Alex, why won’t you sleep with me? You know I want it to happen.’
Silence. At last he said, ‘What? Are you serious? Look, Scarlett, I can’t discuss this now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s four am. Because it’s complicated. We’ll talk about it when you get back —’
‘For crying out loud, Alex, get her to call back tomorrow.’ It was the voice from the first phone call.
Barbara.
Of course, of course, of course. Had she known before and not accepted it?
‘Is that why?’ she replied tightly. ‘You’re sleeping with Barbara? You don’t want me?’
‘Scarlett, I love you. And I didn’t sleep with Barbara tonight.’ Even though Barbara must be listening. Which means, thought Scarlett, that he might actually love me. He hadn’t slept with her. And yet . . .
‘But you don’t want to sleep with a cripple.’
‘Scarlett, not now!’
‘Yes, damn you, now!’
‘I . . . I thought it might hurt you. Physically —’
‘Is that what you told yourself? Because if you’re that bad at anatomy, you’re going to make a lousy doctor. Or maybe it’s just a nice excuse — you don’t want me as an actual girlfriend, but you do want my flat and groceries, but you have to tell yourself you’re being noble and self-sacrificing.’
‘I do love you,’ he said again, helplessly. And even though in the shaking heat of rage it was easier, better, to think he had only been using her, her home, her money, she did believe him. Alex loved her. But it was only a certain kind of love.
‘I want you gone by the time I get back.’
‘Scarlett, you don’t understand. I really didn’t sleep with Barbara tonight.’ His voice sounded more distant from the receiver suddenly. ‘Barbara, tell her.’
‘What? Are you crazy? Tell her yourself, Alex Romanov. I’m out of here.’ A door slammed.
‘Have you slept with her?’ asked Scarlett carefully. ‘I don’t just mean years ago. While we’ve been together.’
A pause. She heard honesty when he said, ‘Yes. Only twice.’
Only twice, thought Scarlett. Had she ever truly known Alex Romanov? Had he known her?
‘I was going to sleep with her tonight. But I thought of you and . . . and didn’t.’
‘Why was she still there then?’
‘Because she drank too much.’
‘And you let her go out into the night now, drunk?’
‘She was drunk hours ago and, frankly, I don’t care. Look, we need to go about this properly, face to face. I love you. I truly, deeply love you. I have never met anyone like you and never will. Lots of people have open relationships these days.’
He had almost had her there. But only almost. ‘But we don’t have a relationship to open up. Time to get out, Alex. I mean it: you need to be gone by the time I get back.’
‘What? Scarlett, you’re not serious.’
Scarlett wondered if any woman had ever said no to Alex Romanov. ‘Totally serious. I do not want you in my flat.’
‘Where am I supposed to go?’
She had a sudden image of Rhett Butler talking to the Scarlett O’Hara she had named herself for, back when she’d had almost no physical strength but endless hope and imagination. Was it too corny to give him the famous line? But when else might she use it? She almost smiled as she said, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’
She put down the receiver. Fish, she thought. Uncanny, perceptive Fish. Because on some level Scarlett had known about Alex all along, or at least for the last few months. It had not just been sex that had been lacking, but much more.
My life should feel shredded, she thought, just like Jed’s when she lost Sam. And maybe when the sun came up, the reality would hit and she would cry.
But just then she felt she had lost nothing at all, except an illusion. Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara had never had much time for illusion. She preferred reality and hard work. Anger rose. Alex had probably fed that woman her beef burgundy, carefully made as a gesture of love for him. Or, she was honest enough to adm
it, to carefully prop up her own illusion that she and Alex were a true couple . . .
Thank you, Fish, she thought as Maxi shoved her head onto her lap, offering the comfort of a dog needing her ears rubbed. And maybe she could cry a few tears, because Alex was so very beautiful and the illusion had been too.
But only a very few.
Chapter 46
News Anchor Hopes Solar Eclipse Will Bring Peace to the World
A TV news anchor in the USA has hoped that this week’s total solar eclipse may usher in a period of world peace. President Jimmy Carter was not available for comment.
DETECTIVE SERGEANT RODRIGUES
Breakfast at the Jolly Jumbuck Motel was A-OK: slabs of thick buttered toast, two fried eggs, bacon, sausage, grilled tomato, baked beans, the works. He and the constable grabbed lunch where and when they could. But Detective Rodrigues had taken to having dinner at the Royal. They did a cheap steak and chips there, which was good for the budget, plus you tended to hear things in the bar when you stopped for a beer afterwards.
Like tonight. The pub was like a mob of cockatoos chattering, men in singlets and shorts, moleskins and shirts, jeans and T-shirts, all with beers in one hand, most with a ciggie in the other.
He’d almost finished his beer when the bloke had come up to him, thirty perhaps, already sun leathered, red veined and sweaty, with the indiscriminate friendliness of the half sozzled. Detective Rodrigues suspected that in another drink or two he’d turn belligerent — he knew the type.
‘Hey, I know you. You’re the detective bloke from Sydney. Put it here, mate.’ The hand was hairy, muscular, the nails ingrained with grease. ‘Good to meet you, mate. I’m Ram. Come on, my shout.’
Detective Rodrigues accepted the beer, carefully hid it behind some empty glasses, then bought two more when the other had drained his glass.
‘Good on you, mate,’ said Ram. ‘Yeah, I remember the day of the fire. Who doesn’t?’
‘See any strangers about?’ asked Detective Rodrigues casually.
Ram laughed. ‘You got to be joking! Nothing but strangers. Town Hall filled with people ev . . . evacuating . . .’
Detective Rodrigues nodded, suddenly tired. It was the same story he had heard perhaps fifty times already, the one the young constable kept impressing on him. So many people; so much smoke and ash. Impossible to know if a stranger had driven out on the Drinkwater road. Time for bed . . .
He reached out his hand again. ‘Think I’ll turn in. Good to meet you, Ram.’
‘Yeah, you too, mate. Good luck with finding who killed that bloke. Tell you something though.’
‘What?’ Detective Rodrigues had already worked out the route to take between the drinkers to the door.
‘No one drove along that road all day except people who had to be there.’
The pub clamour ceased for Detective Rodrigues. The world stilled to one moment of utter clarity. This was it. As so often happened in a case, there was one single glorious moment when things turned. ‘How do you know?’ he asked quietly.
‘’Cause I was working at Drinkwater all day, wasn’t I? Jim Thompson came down from Sydney, wanted another firebreak. Me and Timmo was making sure it didn’t flare up again in all that wind. We was near the road almost till the fire front came through.’
‘So who did pass?’
‘Fire truck, police, couple of guys from the fire brigade in their own cars looking for spot fires. But we was close enough to see who was in them. Not a stranger in the lot.’
‘When was that? Morning or afternoon?’
‘Morning,’ said Ram. ‘I remember ’cause Timmo said, “About time those girls went into town,” when we saw Scarlett’s van go through. Hey, you’re not drinking. Want another?’
‘You’re sure no strangers at all went through all day?’
‘Sure as eggs. Cross me heart and all that. Have another, mate?’
‘Timmo’s last name is . . .’
‘Timmo Murphy. Good bloke. Working up in Sydney now for Thompson’s.’
Easy to locate then. Easy to corroborate.
If there truly had been no strangers that day, then Ignatius Mervyn must have been out along that road early, or had even already been there. They’d confirmed he’d checked out of the motel two days before.
What had Ignatius Mervyn been doing? If he’d gone to Dribble before the phones went out, Jed McAlpine would have called the police again, and Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara wouldn’t have left her sister, even to travel into town in separate cars.
And, most importantly, if no strangers had driven along that road that day, then the killer had to have been local, or had come through the back way, on the fire trail — a trail only locals would use, especially on a day like that.
He’d known it. Known what Constable Ryan could never see, because he was too close to it, thought that because he knew these people, he knew their secrets too.
But Detective Rodrigues knew crimes and who committed them. And all his instincts had told him that the answer to this one lay not with a stranger, but close to home. ‘My shout,’ said Detective Rodrigues. He moved to the bar.
It was time to talk to the people at Drinkwater and Overflow again, plus the fire crew too. But he had different questions now.
Chapter 47
Vegie-growing Workshop at Halfway to Eternity
Broccoli Bill Smith will hold an all-day vegie-growing workshop at the Halfway to Eternity commune next Naturday. All welcome. Workshop presenter Broccoli Bill says, ‘Imagine if a meteor fell, or the bomb went off and we had a three-year nuclear winter. You’ll need your own vergies then. Home-grown veg can also save you almost all your food coasts, even on a small block.’
The workshop will cover how to make your own ‘glasshouse’ using plastic sheeting and poly pipe to grow tomatoes and melons despite Gibber’s Creek’s harsh winters; how to use wind-powered ‘grow lights’ so plants can grow all night or without sunlight; and drip irrigation for draughts.
Broccoli Bill has been a Gibber’s Creek identity for years now, since he came to the commune named after the Eternity sign halfway between the commune and Gibber’s Creek.
Directions: Take the Overflow road, then turn off after 5 km where Mackenzie’s hayshed used to be. If you reach Moura, you have gone too far. If you reach Drinkwater homestead, you have gone way too far.
Cost: $10 per person; includes lunch, herbal teas, free zucchini to take home and all the peaches you can eat.
MICHAEL
Michael watched his wife across the kitchen table as she sipped her coffee. She looked bone-deep weary, her hair caught back roughly in a ponytail.
It had been a hard year for all of them — the fire, Andy McAlpine’s death, the loss of River View, Sam’s accident. It had hurt Nancy more than she’d admitted to sell the sheep too, though she’d put a brave face on it. Generations of love and breeding had gone into those sheep and, yes, they’d kept enough to build the stock up again after the drought, but Nancy knew as well as he did that labour costs were getting too high for sheep. He and Nancy were getting older too.
Overflow and Drinkwater had been built on the sheep’s back, just like the nation of Australia. But cattle were not just more profitable; they were less work. No jetting, mulesing, docking, crutching, checking them every few days in mid-summer for fly strike, not to mention less fencing if you no longer had to make those fences lamb proof.
That morning hadn’t helped. Nancy had woken him at four am to tell him dogs were in the house paddock, probably the same pack that had been down near Drinkwater. Thank goodness she’d been up and heard the bleating. The dogs had only pulled two sheep down by the time he ran out with the rifle. Both had their throats ripped out, but one was still alive. He’d had to shoot it. Pity he hadn’t got a good shot at the dogs.
Not dingoes. Aerial baiting had killed off the local dingoes — it had been years since he’d heard them howling. He missed their song, even if he didn’t miss their predation.
&nb
sp; But wild domestic dogs were more dangerous than dingoes. Domestic dogs bred faster and more often, and killed for sport rather than for food, the bigger dogs pulling the sheep down and the smaller breeds going in for the kill. One of the pack this morning had been a toy poodle. A poodle . . .
Michael didn’t like putting out baits — too much chance of the eagles or powerful owls getting them instead — so it would mean keeping watch tonight, taking turns with Nancy, hoping they came back again.
He glanced at Nancy once more. He was tired after the loss of part of a night’s sleep, but she’d had little for weeks. He knew she was worried about the boys too. Tom and Clancy were nine years old now. Were they doing the right thing keeping their sons at Gibber’s Creek Central when they’d have so many more opportunities if they went away to boarding school?
He’d hated boarding school, but things were better now, or so Jim told him. Jim had offered to have the boys stay with him and Irene instead of boarding, which might be an option in high school, if there were subjects the boys couldn’t take here. But either way they would be gone most of the year.
High school, then university in Sydney or agricultural college maybe, and who knew what after that, because it was possible that neither boy would want to farm. Nancy’s home had always been full of kids — a tribe of cousins when she’d been young, as well as her brother, then River View kids every weekend, Scarlett then Jed, and then the boys, with Nancy’s grandmother and mother to help. It was a house built to be lived in by several generations. But soon it might be empty except for the two of them. And Nancy knew it too.
‘What are you looking at me like that for? Have I got a smudge on my face?’
‘Can’t a bloke look at his wife?’
Her expression softened. ‘Don’t see why not.’
‘I’ve had an idea.’
‘Call the Gibbering Gazette!’
‘No, seriously, why don’t we play hooky? Take a couple of hours off and just go for a swim.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’ Nancy picked up the coffee mugs. ‘I’ll make some sandwiches . . . oh, blast.’ She peered out the window. ‘Those blasted police again. I’ll see what they want. You could still have a swim though.’
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