'So, we chose a policeman.'
Their story told, both women fixed on Franklin.
Lauren's expression seemed to say: Right, your problem now, fix it.
He read Tayla's as: This is fun.
'I'll try to keep it quiet,' Franklin said, massaging the crick in his neck. Who'd have thought interviewing could be a spectator sport? 'No guarantees, though. Now, what can you tell me about this Solomon?'
'Nothing,' Tayla said. As he sighed inwardly, she added, 'That's why we've come to you.'
After twenty further minutes, Franklin had their background but little more and they departed. He placed the letters in evidence bags although he had two chances of the budget stretching to forensics or fingerprinting: Buckley's and none. What's more, he assessed the stock to be ordinary mid-range copy paper that could be picked up from any supermarket. Plus, the fingerprints of Tayla, Lauren and himself would probably obscure the perpetrator's dabs. Moreover, although the letters were handwritten, the calligraphic script could be contrived, concealing more than it revealed of the offender.
He jotted details in his battered daybook, his private log on matters that might never come to anything or that he wanted to explore in his own time and deal with in his own way. There would be no mention of Solomon on the day's running sheet and not even Harty or Sprague would hear about it.
Franklin ran over Solomon's words and fought rising excitement. This was the case where he could step up, where he could score big points against Wells - the sweetest incentive of all.
The only dampener was whether the wacko stalker presented a harmless or serious threat.
Georgie slipped through the gate. Her sinuses filled with the cypress pine scent trapped between hedge and weatherboard homestead. It was foreign enough to the city-slicker for her to pause.
The well-worn tessellated tiles chinked underfoot as she stepped into the shade of the verandah towards the entrance.
There was green wicker furniture in front of one of the two box-bay windows, and green planters on either side of the door. Everything appeared cared for. Except that the foliage on the standardised rose bushes curled. Dehydrated; alive but suffering.
'What the?' she said, startled by her mobile. She glanced at the screen and shrugged. The caller would leave a message.
The heavy brass doorknocker gave a resounding bang. Her second bang was louder. The echo faded and again all was quiet but for the murmur of sheep and drone of a distant tractor.
Her phone beeped. She listened to the message: David Ruddoch, chasing a first aid script. He could wait until later. Susan Pentecoste was her more immediate obligation.
Georgie followed the chequered paving around the old house, peered in and tested each window. Although the front door and windows were secure, the door at the rear opened at a twist of the knob.
Until that moment she'd wondered if it were fact or fallacy that country folk left their homes unlocked.
As Lunny entered the muster room, Franklin secreted his daybook under a pile of paperwork.
'How'd you go with Kat?'
'We had breakfast together. It was quiet.'
'Ah.'
'She's not talking to me because I grounded her - again. She thinks it's so unfair.'
Lunny chuckled. His children's adolescence deep in the past, he'd more than once admitted that he and Maeve enjoyed spoiling their grandkids when it suited and handing them back once they were sick of the monsters. 'She'll come round.'
'Yeah, I hope so. I miss hearing her chat away, even if every second thing is gay, stupid or too hard. We'd planned to take a ride after knock-off.' Kat had inherited her father's passion for tinkering with the Kawasaki Ninja and loved riding pillion on road trips. 'But that's not going to happen now.'
He didn't have long to dwell on personal problems. After a telephone call, he grabbed folder, daybook and keys to the police four-wheel drive. Wells arrived with the lunches and held up one finger, meaning: 'Wait. I'll be free in a minute.' Franklin waved and drove away.
Franklin 30, Wells love.
The callout was to a plain cream brick veneer on West Street. A woman stood on the forlorn nature strip. She balanced a baby on her hip and signalled Franklin to stop.
He immediately noted her puffy face and the blotched flush of recent tears. Her hand shook as she brushed away strands of black hair. The infant in his tiny sky-blue windcheater and denim jeans whimpered, affected by the atmosphere.
Franklin spotted the early model Corolla hatch before Christina van Hoeckel gestured towards it. Surprised that she hadn't exaggerated - all of the small car's windows had been smashed - he considered the determined effort and type of weapon needed to destroy automobile glass as he picked through chips on the driveway. The interior hadn't fared well either. Among the debris, the baby capsule in the rear was a mess of broken plastic, shredded fabric and shards of glass.
The child screamed and screwed his beetroot face into an alien mask.
'Bailey! You stop that.'
He bellowed again. Christina jiggled him. Her paunch and boobs shook in concert.
'Was he upset by the noise?' Franklin asked.
'What? Oh, no. We weren't here. I stayed at a…a friend's place last night. We found it when we got home. A little while ago. Then I rang you.'
Bailey took a fistful of his mother's hair and tugged.
'Ow! Stop it!'
'None of your neighbours let you know?'
'No.'
Franklin inspected the bonnet; in particular, the red smears over the white duco. He wiped a small area, rubbed the glaze between his fingers and sniffed. Synthetic, with a slight smell he couldn't quite recognise. Not blood, thankfully.
'Any idea what this is, Christina?'
'What?' she said. 'Uh, no. No idea. Look, I think Bailey needs a nappy change. I'll be inside.'
He narrowed his eyes as she scurried into the house. What's your hurry?
Franklin examined the red smears again. Then he reinspected the whole vehicle. No sign of the weapon or other tangible evidence. Very little to note, yet he'd still have to complete a mountain of reports for some public servant in Melbourne to later plug into LEAP (the central database for the multitude of crap they accumulated every shift). From there, it would come down to witnesses, motives or a drunken braggart to get a body into court and a brand of justice for Christina. Otherwise the case would stagnate. Many did.
'Hello,' he called at the locked security door.
'What?'
She opened the screen but blocked his entrance.
Over her shoulder, he could see a small living room; clean but scented with the baby smells of milk, spew and talc, and littered with toys in bright, primary colours. The beige walls, swirly tan and cream cut-and-loop carpet and a wall furnace announced a renter's house, as much as the mismatch of hand-me-downs. A modern velour lounge suite and large plasma television were out of place.
'Can I come in?'
'Oh. I suppose.' She moved aside.
He correctly guessed that a cuppa wouldn't be offered. He watched, amused, as she sank onto the couch, then pulled herself upright on its edge. Seconds later, she jumped up and paced the floor, snatched Bailey from his colourful play mat and nestled him into her chest as she perched on the other armchair. She was definitely edgy but it had been a violent attack.
Franklin extracted the basics and next inquired if anything had been stolen.
'Oh, no! No, it was nothing like…' Christina stopped. 'No, nothing was taken.'
She rubbed her free hand compulsively over her thigh. Bailey cooed and grabbed another handful of hair.
'What were your movements in the past twenty-four hours?'
'OK. Well, we went shopping in the morning… Don't do that Bailey, it hurts. Yeah, after shopping, I went over to a friend's place…'
'The same person you were with later?'
'No. We had tea at home - Bails, don't - and I took Bailey over to my mum's - she lives in Hepburn Springs - and
came back here for a bit. It would've been nineish, maybe, when my friend picked me up. I remember that the party across the road was cranking up. The Barker boys play their music really loud and finish late. Well, morning…you know. I think it must've happened while the party was on. Otherwise one of the neighbours would've noticed and called me.'
'And it couldn't have occurred before you were picked up?'
'No, I would've spotted it, for sure. I haven't had the car long and always check it before I go out.'
'Who was the friend you were with last night?'
She waved and avoided his stare. 'It's not important.'
'Do you live alone?'
'No! I live with my five-month-old,' she retorted.
'Only the two of you?' Franklin was undeterred. He needed a picture of the van Hoeckel family.
'If it's any of your business, I'm on my own. OK? I don't live with Bailey's dad. OK? Is that all right with you?'
He moved on. 'Have you had other recent trouble? Vandalism. Threats. Relationship issues. Something that this attack might relate to?'
'Hmm.' She rose and walked to the unlit wall heater, as if seeking comfort. 'Not that I can think of. It's just kids, isn't it?'
'Oh, have there been issues with youths in the neighbourhood lately?' Although nothing had reached the police station and it generally didn't take long for word to get around in this small town, the community could be dealing with strife internally.
'No. Not that I can think of.'
'Do you know who's responsible, Christina?' he probed.
She moved from the heater to the window overlooking the driveway and thus the damaged hatch. 'No. Of course not.' But the back of her neck flushed and her voice sounded strained.
'You have no idea who or why?' Franklin pressed.
She shook her head.
'What about the red substance on the bonnet? Was it there beforehand?'
'Oh, it could have been. I'm not sure,' she replied.
She'd just contradicted her earlier statement that she habitually checked her recently acquired Corolla.
'What do you think it is?'
'That's your job,' she spat.
'Is the car insured?' Insurance fraud was a possible motive. But if Christina was an innocent victim, he hoped she had the means to get the car back on the road.
'I could only afford third party, fire and theft. What's that got to do with it? Why don't you get on with your job? I have to put my baby down.'
Franklin clamped his lips, considering her mood swing from rattled to defensive. She was either pre-menstrual or concealing something.
Expelled from the van Hoeckel home, Franklin did a door-to-door of the neighbours. He made notes.
Christina hadn't told him everything she knew.
What's she hiding?
'Leaving the door unlocked is an invitation,' Georgie murmured.
In fact, she'd been invited by Ruby, so she slipped into the kitchen with a tentative, 'Hello! Mrs Pentecoste?'
She hovered in the doorway, admiring the room's homeliness. It was large and well-equipped but simple with its laminate benches and painted two-by-one frame cupboards. The array of canisters and spice jars and the freestanding double oven suggested its owner loved to bake.
'Susan!' She raised her voice. 'Anyone?'
She scratched her arm. What harm in taking a peek? There was no one to see it, unless Susan lay in bed in her sensible white cotton nightie. Georgie couldn't go home and tell the Padleys she'd given up at the first hurdle. And in order to get this obligation off her back she had to locate the farm woman sooner rather than later.
Georgie heard a clock tick. The ceiling creaked as timbers expanded in the heat. She sensed being watched.
She did a quick 360-degree turn. Another 'Hello!' went unanswered and she shook off the prickly feeling as her overactive imagination.
Apart from a small batch of clean dishes on the draining board, everything in the kitchen seemed in its place. There was no sign of life - or death. No indication a person had left in a hurry or under duress. Only a carton of soy milk past its use-by date stuck out.
In the walk-in pantry, Georgie spotted a packet of paracetamol. She hesitated, then swallowed three to assuage her thudding temples and tossing stomach. She reasoned it wasn't theft; Susan would've offered them.
Grandma Harvey would have said, 'In for a penny, in for a pound.' Or perhaps, 'A stitch in time saves nine.'
So stop bullshitting, Harvey. Maybe Susan had left a handy note beside the phone. Or knocked herself out in the shower, left helpless on the floor. She'd come this far and so would search every nook of this house if that's what it took.
Besides, she was getting more curious about Susan as she went along.
Adjacent to the kitchen were the laundry, toilet and sunroom. In the latter, a folded newspaper dated 6 March - seven days ago - sat atop a coffee table, along with a set of glasses. They were bulky, Clark Kent style.
Georgie tested them. The prescription lenses distorted her vision. She knew her dad couldn't have survived without his reading specs. If Susan Pentecoste was on a trip, why did she leave hers at home? 'Spare pair?' Georgie wondered aloud.
The bathroom next door was tidy, the basin and shower both dry.
Her phone beeped. She read the text. Rosie from the occupational health and safety committee had written: 'DAVIDS ON WAR PATH'. Her overuse of capitals and lack of punctuation irritated Georgie, who punched delete.
A bedroom opposite the bathroom was small and non-personal, unlike the next room. Here there were knickknacks on the dressing table, underwear (very sensible bone-coloured knickers and bras); and, in the wardrobe, a few equally conservative garments for an older woman with poor taste. The single bed was made up. Fluffy pillows cloaked in pure white embroidered slips matched the quilt. The linen still held fold marks. A regular female visitor, not a permanent occupant, used this room. She moved on.
'Ow!' She'd bashed her hip on the corner of a hall table. In a grab to steady the piece, she knocked the telephone handset. Georgie lifted it to her ear and heard normal dial tone.
'Let's see…' She dialled.
The Bumblebee tune went off inside her handbag. And with it, the defective phone theory as explanation for Susan's silence.
She swore. There was no handy note by the phone either.
Then she heard scratching.
Georgie froze.
What the hell was that?
She strained. Considered abandoning the search and told herself not to be a wuss.
Eventually, she dismissed it as creepy rodents and entered the next bedroom.
An initial scan here revealed no body - asleep, unconscious or otherwise - in bed or on the floor.
That established, she noted details. The mid-sized room was dominated by a suite of double bed, twin wardrobes and dressing table. The recently buffed veneer pieces were 'as new' but Georgie knew they dated from the 1940s and would've been second-hand when acquired by the Pentecostes because her Grandma Harvey had had a similar set when she was alive.
Georgie leaned over the dressing table. A muffled thump on the bed made the bedsprings rattle and robe doors vibrate. She jumped.
'Bloody hell! You gave me a fright.'
A fat tabby gazed at her with crinkled eyes, as if amused to have caused such a stir. Georgie approached, extending a downward facing hand and let the cat sniff it, before she rubbed its glossy coat and tickled its chin.
She gently sat next to the cat and checked the small brass love heart on its collar. 'Hiya, Oscar. Where's your mum?'
The cat meowed. He rubbed his head against Georgie's side and climbed into her lap.
'Careful there, mate.' Georgie extracted one of his claws from her thigh. She petted his head. 'You don't seem hungry. Just lonely.'
Oscar shook his head, spittle flying. His pupils dilated simultaneously with a wail.
'Shush, Oscar. She'll be home soon.'
He purred. Georgie placed him on the
floral eiderdown and resumed her inspection. The first wardrobe contained men's clothing, musty with disuse and mothballs. The second revealed well-ordered women's attire.
'Susan can't have taken much with her,' she told the cat. 'A few empty hangers. Couple of spaces for shoes…'
Georgie lifted the lid on the sole shoebox, finding a stash of letters. 'This'd be worth a closer look, don't you think?'
She put the box aside, as Oscar jumped off the bed and head-butted her right calf.
'This your mum?'
The sepia photo she lifted from a group of three on a bedside table showed a young bride ducking through a confetti snowstorm, as her new husband pulled her towards a Buick. She glowed with happiness and, by the way he tugged at his wife, Georgie imagined he itched for the wedding night. Among the cheery crowd was a minister with clasped hands and euphoric expression.
The second, similarly framed portrait was of the groom: slightly older, still dashing and with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
He was one of the subjects in the third photo, now middle-aged, wearing a charcoal shirt under a navy cardigan, hair and moustache silver-grey. A crease encircled his chin up to flushed cheeks in a second smile and his pale grey irises were offset by the deep laughter trenches that surrounded them.
Georgie peered at the second subject in that photo. 'So you're Ruby's mate, Susan, all grown up.'
Susan had not aged as gracefully as her husband, Roly. She wore square, silver-framed glasses and a plain crucifix at the neck of her pinstriped, black skirt suit. Her mouse-brown hair was streaked with grey. Her upper lip had little puckers and her chin a frosting of bristles. But Susan's eyes shone as sincerely as Roly's and girlish dimples imprinted her cheeks. The couple held hands at an open-air function.
Oscar swatted Georgie's ankles as she moved to one of the front rooms. It was a formal drawing room and brimmed with antique furniture, tapestries and prissy floor rugs. The cat stopped at the doorway. Georgie gathered no one went in there. He bobbed his chin as she abandoned it for the study.
Presented with a large desk, row of filing cabinets and wall-to-wall bookcases, the tabby yawned, exposing a set of sharp teeth and a black freckle centre of his pink tongue. He settled on the desk, in prime position to supervise Georgie.
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