'Redial' on the landline connected to the local betting agency. Georgie sat at Susan's desk, fiddled reflexively and contemplated. After a while, she admitted that she'd run out of ideas at the house. She checked the outbuildings on the way back to Grimwells Road. No sign of Susan or her Landcruiser. Despite her initial excitement over the disorderly kitchen, Georgie questioned whether Susan would leave it in such a mess. Added to a lonely feline, she guessed the older woman hadn't returned - although someone had.
Georgie babied the Spider along the rough surface of Grimwells Road and turned into the next property. Minutes later, she faced a woman on a tired verandah, both with a stoop that belied gravity. The old woman dried her hands on a floral apron with bright pink flounce. Her eyes creased against the sun. She glimpsed Georgie's outstretched hand and wiped her apron again.
Georgie dropped her hand and thought fast. The woman struck her as chary of strangers and doubtless would be more so of writers. It called for a family-friendly tack.
She explained that Ruby and Michael Padley were pals of Susan Pentecoste and they'd asked her to visit. So far the truth. The white lie was that the Padleys were her grandparents.
'Oh, well, Georgina -'
'Call me Georgie. Or George.' She softened the correction with a smile, while wondering how the woman made the jump from Georgie to her full name, when she could just as easily have assumed Georgia. She figured it was because Georgina was a name from the woman's generation.
'I'm Mrs Patterson. You'd better come in, Georgina.'
Georgie bit her tongue. The woman could call her what she liked if it meant her cooperation.
Mrs Patterson offered a cuppa while she chopped green tomatoes for chutney, but all through the introductions and beverage making her husband gawped at their visitor. He frowned when Georgie's grateful smile turned to a grimace after the first mouthful of coffee came with a syrupy hit. So much for 'black with none'. She quickly planted on a smile.
'And how do your folks know Mrs Pentecoste?'
'Ruby, ah, Grandma and Susan grew up together. Grandma's been worried about her because Susan promised to call last Sunday and apparently hasn't been home since.'
She couldn't raise the dirty dishes in the homestead's kitchen without revealing her intrusions but expected Mrs Patterson would tell her if Susan had been home.
Mr Patterson pushed his battered hat high up a forehead beaded with sweat on a map of wrinkles. He clicked his false teeth decisively. 'Well, jeez,' he drawled. 'She did go away awful sudden-like. She asked you to collect her mail, didn't she?' he checked with his wife.
'Yes, that's right.'
Mr Patterson added, 'And she asked you to feed that cat o' hers. Said she was goin' away. For a couple a days. When would that have been, Mum?'
Georgie cringed. Pet hate: men who called their wives missus, mum or the old lady. Also impatient with slow thinkers, she sipped the awful coffee while Mrs Patterson dithered.
'Well, I guess. Hmm. It couldn't have been Satd'y, because we always have the children here. We have five children, thirteen grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.'
She stopped, brandished the vegetable knife in mid-air and beamed at Georgie, who obliged with, 'You both must be very proud.'
Mrs Patterson bobbed her head and continued to dice and talk. 'It might have been Sund'y. Let's think.' She sucked her teeth. 'Must have been.'
The couple nodded in unison perfected over decades of marriage.
'Yes, Sund'y; around dinner time. You know, Mrs Pentecoste doesn't often get away. And not usually out of the blue. But I guess she can.' Mrs Patterson looked doubtful, then thought it through. 'Yes, I suppose what with young Roger and his son, Mick, running the farm these days, other than the mail and feeding the cat, everything else cares for itself.'
'Roger and Mick manage the place now?' Georgie pretended to know the father and son.
'Yes, that's right. They laboured on Abergeldie for years and years. And then, was it two or three years after Roly went?'
The husband shrugged and Georgie mulled over the way his wife referred to Susan formally but didn't for others. She supposed even she had quirks.
The wife went on, 'Well, there or thereabouts, Mrs Pentecoste handed over the reins via one of them leaseholds. She stayed on in the house, though.'
Georgie backtracked. 'So, she told you she'd be away a few days. Did she say where or why or who she'd be with?'
'Now that I come to think of it, Georgina, and correct me if I'm wrong, love' - Mrs Patterson glanced at her husband - 'but I don't actually think she said where. I assumed she was going to stay with her niece Margaret, in Ballarat. Or that she and Pam Stewart' - she said the latter with a sour-taste contortion - 'might have been doing one of those little trips with the Community Centre. Oh, that Margaret is so good. She looks a lot like Roly too. She comes down to stay with Mrs Pentecoste at least one weekend every month, she does.'
So, Margaret-the-niece occupied the other bedroom. 'And Pam is?'
'Oh, I'm s'prised you don't know - what with your grandparents being such good friends of Mrs Pentecoste.' She narrowed her gaze but explained, 'Pam Stewart is Mrs Pentecoste's closest friend. Though I don't know why. She's a floozy! And Mrs Pentecoste is such a respectable lady.'
'Mum,' Mr Patterson cut in. 'That's enough.'
'Well, she is a floozy. She lives on her own in Daylesford. Always has a bevy of men sniffing around. Another cuppa, dear?'
Over a second cup of coffee - this one without sugar - Georgie tried her last questions.
'So Susan doesn't get away much?'
The husband answered. 'Well, jeez, we reckon she stays close in case there's news on Roly.'
That was the perfect opportunity to coax more about Roly. Georgie discovered that they'd been initially drawn with the pendulum of public opinion over the violence at Abergeldie. But these days the old couple asserted that Roland Pentecoste was a 'great bloke' and wouldn't hurt his wife physically or by voluntarily vanishing.
After all this talk, Georgie still had little to go on. She bummed out on her next two questions also; the Pattersons were clueless about Susan's state of mind the previous week and had no relevant phone numbers.
Just my bloody luck.
Georgie's ideas dried up shortly after and she made moves to leave. But halfway down the rickety front steps, a final query struck her. 'Do you know how to contact Susan's buddy, Jack?'
'Jack who?'
That's the million-dollar question! 'I'm not sure.'
'Oh dear. Georgina, there's so many Jacks. Not to mention Johns, who're often known as Jack. There's Jack Rowe, Jack Greenwood -'
'Never mind.' Georgie held up her hand. 'If you think of a special "Jack", please give me a call.'
The Pattersons nodded. They'd exchanged telephone numbers in case of news.
Georgie escaped with a headache and few useful facts.
Franklin fired up the Ninja and rode to West Street, the trip too short for the fury of the motorbike. Christina's damaged Corolla was conspicuous in its absence from the driveway, the glass also purged. The mother grudgingly admitted Franklin to her living room.
Bailey gurgled from the play mat as he performed frenzied pre-crawling break-dance movements. A man lounged in one of the blue velour armchairs. Expression unreadable, he massaged his chin using a pistol grip. Christina perched on the other chair and rubbed her arms. She didn't introduce the bloke, who left the room.
Franklin remained standing. He drilled his eyeballs into her and coerced eye contact.
'Christina, about your property damage.'
She swallowed but held his stare.
'Do you have further information?'
Her headshake was unconvincing.
'What about the lipstick on your bonnet?'
Her mouth slackened. She didn't speak.
'It was lipstick, wasn't it?' he pressed.
Christina said, 'How would I know? I just found… I just saw what you saw. Some dirty
marks. Could've been lipstick, I guess.'
'Your friend in there.' Franklin jerked his head to the closed door. 'He the one you were with Saturday night?'
'No!' Her denial was shrill. 'And he's got nothing to do with what happened anyway.'
'Car at the repairer's?'
'Yes. A friend's helping out with the cost.' Her eyes slid to the doorway.
Must be some friend to foot the bill of all that glass replacement. Franklin also wondered if the wife knew; he'd spotted a gold wedding band as the man rubbed his chin.
He persevered further, obstructed all the way. He left Christina's home muttering, 'Can't help those who won't help themselves.'
Even so, Franklin planned to identify the boyfriend and check whether his wife had retaliated against the affair. He'd also investigate Christina's ex-lovers.
In yesterday's door-to-door, a neighbour had named the man suspected of being Bailey's father. The fellow was of interest to police but only had form for theft. Unless spite was his motive, Franklin found it hard to fit him in the frame. Still, a lead is a lead.
The neighbours opposite Abergeldie weren't home and after she knocked on the flywire door of the house on the other boundary, Georgie heard clicks and buzzes.
The crude sign on the front gate saying 'Keep Out!' hadn't deterred her. But it unsettled her to be forced to converse through the heavy mesh on the screen door. She squinted and just made out an attractive woman in an electric wheelchair, with a young boy perched on her knees.
'Haven't talked to them from over there in years' amounted to the extent of the neighbour's cooperation. Meanwhile, her little boy didn't speak or move.
His mother said, 'Got nothing more to say.'
As she manoeuvred the chair around the door to shut it, Georgie saw a painful shiner in a rainbow of black, blue and yellow. The woman silenced her with bloodshot eyes and slammed the door.
Some people have their own secrets and demons to battle.
Before Franklin wasted more energy on Christina van Hoeckel's half-arsed call for help, he would throw himself into the poison-pen case.
While the letters reeked of an unhinged religious element, he couldn't ignore the obvious common denominator for the young mothers: Ballarat Base Hospital. He rang the hospital registrar and after a few minutes on hold ran through the preliminaries with the woman. Her astute questions gave him a positive first impression.
He broadened the inquiry period to three months, noted details for the core maternity team and received a promise from the registrar to email the rota along with a list of admissions for that timeframe. Although the Birkley and Morris babies were four weeks old, a wider picture might reveal something pertinent.
The sister provided names of the medical staff on the ward when Tayla and Lauren went into labour but hastened to add, 'Of course, you can't forget the volunteers, cleaners and personnel that move between the wards. We're a public hospital - we don't have the luxury of St John's. My staff has to multi-task, doing quite a bit outside the official job description.'
Franklin mentally tacked on paramedics, specialists, administrators, catering crew and orderlies. In all, he faced an extensive suspect base from this line of inquiry alone.
Added to his pet theory, and if he also considered family and friends of the two women, he would be resource-challenged, yet a thrill tickled his spine.
That's what I'm talking about!
He panged with guilt. Lauren and Tayla's privacy had been violated and they'd been intimidated. More than that, Solomon's letters arguably constituted threats to kill. It was vital that he narrow the list of suspects, then apprehend the perpetrator before those threats escalated into actuality.
Franklin wrapped up with questions for the registrar to put to her midwifery team.
'I'll do my best to get back to you soon but it'll depend on how busy the mums keep us!'
He had to be content with that for now.
Luckily, that was just Franklin's warm-up.
Next he caught a few envious looks as the blue-over-white Kawasaki chewed the Midland Highway. He hugged the curves of the bushed area on Daylesford's outskirts and full-throttled through the open plains of the spud and crop country that followed. He smirked as he always did when he passed the Swiss Mountain Hotel in Blampied. Whoever named it must've had a great imagination. The humble weatherboard pub with its one ute parked outside couldn't be further from a chalet hotel on a lofty mountain.
Not far past the pub, he hooked left onto the Blampied-Mollongghip Road. After the long straight and three more left turns, he reached Dingley Dell Road. Then, his destination: a bush block and its rutted single track in lieu of a driveway.
On arrival, he reflected wryly that the upside to his slow battle with hair loss was no worries about helmet-hair. He ruffled the fuzz on top and approached the weatherboard cottage.
Cottage? Franklin corrected himself to house. That ugly square box without eaves or verandahs and in constant darkness from the thicket of trees that overhung it couldn't be called a cottage or a home.
At this point, he realised his brain had gone into overdrive.
He admitted to the keyed up sensation he got when in pursuit of a strong lead.
The hospital angle was necessary to check and could only be eliminated once he'd exhausted it - unless Solomon was just metres away, inside that bleak house.
Franklin was so tense he jumped when his mobile rang. 'Shit.' He fumbled through the pockets of his leather jacket.
When he answered, the hospital registrar leapt straight in. 'I managed to speak to three of the girls who had contact with both your mums and none are aware of threats to patients or staff, then or now. Or nasty letters…'
'And did they recall anything unusual on or about the ninth of February?' He'd asked her to question her staff specifically about the day of Tayla and Lauren's births. 'Odd or upset visitors? Commotion between the mums?'
'No, nothing.'
'Did they remember Tayla Birkley and Lauren Morris?'
'Oh, yes, especially Tayla. The girls said she was a rowdy one! She added a few words to their vocabulary that day and that's hard to do in our job.' The sister laughed, then seemed to hold the receiver closer to her mouth. 'Can you tell me more about the case?'
'I'm sorry, not at this stage.'
He heard her sigh. She must have enjoyed something out of the ordinary.
'I'll talk to other staff - confidentially - and get back to you if we come up with anything. And I'll email that info you asked for later today.'
He thanked her and pocketed his phone as he rapped on the flywire door. Flakes of paint dropped off with the vibration and fluttered to the ground.
Franklin banged again. A kookaburra laughed, mocking him but the place was otherwise hushed.
The front door had opaque glass panels and the house was raised on brick footings with just a few miserly windows up high, so he couldn't see inside.
Just the same, instincts told him that Arthur Hammer wasn't home.
He moved to the back door, the one sunny part of the property.
The fetid smell of a corpse hit him and he recoiled.
How could he forget?
Art had two pot plants, one each side of the doorstep. Two fucking ugly cacti with flowers the colour of the rotten meat they smelled like.
He blocked his nose, knocked but knew it would go unanswered.
Art's bicycle was also absent from its hanger outside the back door, so he might be in town for supplies or on one of his regular rounds of nearby pubs, preaching to the unconverted.
Franklin lost track of time as he traversed the local area. He checked the obvious places; no sign of Art or his ancient racer. His last loop past the man's Mollongghip property meant he had to push the Ninja to make it back for change of shift at four. Fortunately he hadn't passed a radar. That would've taken a fancy tap-dance. Or he would've copped a hefty fine, demerit points and a stern lecture about setting an example for the rest of the community
: 'Speed kills', even police officers.
'Don't get too comfortable,' Scott Hart said.
One foot inside the station, Franklin replied wryly, 'Hi honey, I missed you too.'
'We're going to Meeshan's farm. The wife wants to hand in hubby's unlicensed Winchester. She's sick of him waving it around when he's pissed - although she's more worried he'll shoot himself in the foot than anything. At any rate, she wants it out of the house while he's in Shepp today.'
'Keys,' Franklin said and thrust out his hand.
Through her commercial litigation past life, Georgie had discovered it paid to approach inquiries with a veneer of pleasantness and core of persistence. Generally that opened the vault of data; some useless, some priceless. And so with relative ease she obtained information from the local and Ballarat-based hospitals and medical centres. Good news-bad news: Susan Pentecoste had not been hospitalised or recently under the care of her doctor, who was Dr Ibrahams in Daylesford.
Similarly, the local shopkeepers knew Mrs Pentecoste from Hepburn but hadn't seen her since at least the weekend before last, which corresponded with Ruby's aborted telephone conversation with her old friend and the Pattersons' story.
Georgie took a break in Daylesford to digest information gathered so far. Mid-afternoon on a Monday; back to sleepy-mode in the town. Most of the cars and people she picked as locals. There was abundant parking and a relaxed pace, even down at the lake.
Yet, as she sat on the deck of the Boathouse café and looked over the sparkling water, she almost ached with frustration and angst. In her legal job she'd skip traced, coaxed information, negotiated deals and even bullied the other side. That experience had been a debatable asset in court three days ago and she felt out of her depth now. Face it, commercial litigation revolved around deals gone wrong with money at the hub, not a woman's safety.
Much to her chagrin, it'd come time to enlist the help of professional investigators, so she located the local cop shop in Camp Street.
Big mistake.
It was a plain brick veneer building situated high above the road. Garage on the ground floor; concrete steps to the entrance.
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