The locked entrance. Georgie tapped on the screen, then the side window. She checked her watch.
It's four-thirty in the bloody afternoon - there should be a cop about.
She skirted the building, couldn't see alternative access and returned to the front. There she knocked louder. Still no response. She cursed.
There's always a cop lurking if you're a bit over the speed limit but not when you need one.
'Who's the babe?' Harty asked, as they pulled into the station's driveway.
With barely a glance at the woman on the stairs, Franklin shrugged. 'She's probably lost her keys. You can handle it. I'll secure this.' He indicated the confiscated shotgun.
'Oh, I think that will be my pleasure, mate,' Harty replied, rubbing his hands.
Franklin laughed and brushed past the visitor. He locked the gun in the storeroom and headed for the kitchen, intent on a cuppa in lieu of lunch. If Harty's babe kept him busy long enough he'd make some calls on the poison-pen case.
Jar of Nescafé in hand, he suddenly craved Lunny's espresso and snuck into the sarge's office. In the boss's chair, he riffled through the desk drawers and jumped when the telephone rang.
'John Franklin, Daylesford Police.'
'Ah, Detective Franklin, I was hoping to reach you. My name's Renee Archer…'
She ran out of steam, so Franklin explained, 'We don't have detectives at the station here, Renee, just uniforms. My rank's Senior Constable but John will do.' Maybe highlighting this would put her at ease.
As Renee sniggered, he prompted, 'Tell me, how can I help?'
He swivelled towards the window between Lunny's office and the watch-house. Through the striped one-way glass, Hart's visitor couldn't see him but he enjoyed a clear view.
'Um, could I come and see you?' Renee said.
'Of course. Unless it's something I can help with over the phone?' he suggested. Chances were it was a trivial matter.
The younger cop towered over Georgie's five-foot-seven, taller even than AJ who checked in at six foot. His long neck jutted forward in turtle fashion and thick black hair and sideburns framed his square face.
'Scott Hart, ma'am,' he said with a smile. They shook as Georgie introduced herself.
She scanned the station, unsure how to start. The interior matched the outside, tired and unremarkable. The front room was compact but neat, with brochures aligned on the counter, posters relatively plumb on the walls, things in their place. It was less austere than the cop shops she'd unfortunately encountered before. The lingering aroma of hot dogs and male bodies wafted with warm air and a police radio squawked. An unseen male with a sexy bass tone talked in another room. Testosterone saturated the place.
She spotted Hart's rank on his badge. He looked at least late-twenties, mature for a constable. She guessed he was one of the university graduates favoured by the more PC and corporate style of today's police. She hoped he'd improve upon the chauvinist pigs she'd clashed with before.
'Ah, I'd like to report a missing person,' she blurted out.
Hart's grin dropped. He pulled a form from the filing cabinet and plucked a pen from his top pocket.
As Renee wavered on the phone, Franklin heard the bird in the watch-house say to Hart, 'I'd like to report a missing person.'
He straightened in Lunny's chair.
'No, I can't do this over the phone,' Renee finally said. 'I need to speak to you face-to-face.'
'No problem,' Franklin replied, while he strained to hear Hart's conversation. 'We'll be out and about later, so soon would be good.'
His caller hesitated. He heard Harty ask preliminary questions and wondered how the woman was 'possibly' missing since Saturday 6th of March. Either she was or wasn't. Then, to top that off, the woman in the watch-house admitted she didn't even know the missing person.
'Renee?' Franklin prompted his caller, while he thought Harty's babe was making a false report to get attention.
'OK,' Renee agreed. 'I'll be there in a quarter of an hour.'
'She's my neighbour's friend,' the crank explained to Harty. 'The two women were chatting Saturday week ago and the one who's gone missing disconnected suddenly. She was supposed to ring back and hasn't -'
Franklin approached the counter. 'Are you telling me that you're making a missing person's report on the basis of a forgotten telephone call?'
'Well, yes -'
'On the basis of what your neighbour said?'
'Yes, but -'
Franklin thought it seemed a bit far-fetched.
She glared at him.
It's a fair question. He asked, 'And you're from Melbourne, I take it? A tourist?' He didn't peg her as one of the real locals. She was either a day-tripper or one of the Melbourne capitalists who acquired property for their investment portfolio.
'Yes, I'm from Melbourne. But no, I'm not a tourist,' she snapped. 'I'm here to report a missing person.'
'All right, Harty. I'll take over this one.'
The constable motioned and retreated.
'Your name?' Franklin tapped his pen on the counter. 'Address? Occupation?'
She told him, then fired back, 'Your name, address, rank?'
Surprised, he said, 'Senior Constable John Franklin. My address is none of your business.'
They glowered at each other.
'Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot,' he admitted, but the woman seemed intent on rubbing him up the wrong way because she answered, 'You think?'
He held the gaze of her unnerving brown eyes. It bugged him that she seemed familiar. From where, though? Doing what? Ah, I remember you. You're that bird from the Farmers. He assessed her head-to-toe. Definitely the same pool ace that perked up the pub with her sultry looks and throaty laugh.
He snapped back to the present, raised his eyebrows and said, 'Writer, eh? Is that your interest in this MISPER?'
Harvey said, 'No, I told you what my interest is.'
He ignored her. 'Can't stand journalists. You lot beat up a story. Twist things. It's all sensationalism and ratings. You and scumbag lawyers are as bad as each other. If you've come from Melbourne to stir up trouble and concoct a story -'
'I'm not here as a writer.' She waved a hand. 'Can I please make this report and go?'
He leaned forward to rest an elbow on the counter. Then he narrowed his eyes, straightened and asked the necessary questions. What's the welfare concern? The victim's state of mind? Has she taken drugs? Got reason to be away, money troubles, been arguing with anyone? Has she done it before? Are there obligations - apart from this supposed telephone call - that she's missed? What was she wearing, driving? Is she on medication? Has she been in contact with family? Is she suicidal?
Lastly, he backtracked to a blank at the top. 'Victim's name?'
'Susan Pentecoste. From Abergeldie on Grimwells Road, Hepburn.'
Franklin's stomach tightened. He pictured a stalwart of the local community. Susan Pentecoste from Abergeldie. Warm and generous, stoical and deeply religious, all of which had been tested in the wake of her husband's disappearance. Had the strain ultimately pushed her over the edge?
No way. She'd survived the fire, media frenzy and public speculation. She wouldn't suicide now.
He mentally thumped his forehead. This wacko from Melbourne had him overreacting. Susan was on holiday.
He completed the balance of the report, gave Harvey the duplicate copy and said, 'It's quite clear that Mrs Pentecoste made arrangements with her neighbours to collect her mail and feed her pet after planning a holiday. There's absolutely no reason to be afraid for her welfare, Ms Writer.'
She blushed.
Franklin concealed his amusement. 'Look, keep in touch. If she's away for an extended period, we may upscale it.'
'Can't you make your inquiries now?'
'On the basis of what? A writer's overactive imagination?'
'Whatever. You just sit on your hands then and I'll find her,' she said sarcastically and left the station.
At the same
time as Harvey slammed the front door, Franklin had the last word: 'Go back to Melbourne, Ms Writer. There's no need to worry your pretty little head.'
Harty joined him at the window and they watched her climb into her swanky convertible. He said, 'Bit of a stunner, isn't she?'
Franklin gave him a quizzical glance. 'Not my type of woman.'
His mate slapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Sure there?'
He dodged Franklin's backhander and retreated to the muster room.
'That went well. Not,' Georgie said inside the Spider. The cops were useless, so she'd have to keep bumbling away until the pieces of the puzzle dropped into place. Then she'd make Franklin eat humble pie.
'Shit!' Georgie realised that she'd monumentally fucked up.
She'd overlooked a potential lead.
She immediately checked the online White Pages via her mobile for a Margaret Pentecoste in Ballarat. From her conversation with the Pattersons, she knew spinster Margaret had to be on Roly's side of the family, considering the said resemblance to her uncle. That being the case, she must have a silent telephone number because there were no M Pentecostes - in fact, zero Pentecostes - listed for Ballarat.
Fortunately, Georgie enjoyed better success with a second search and minutes later arrived at Rose Cottage on Bridport Street.
She pulled the Spider onto a gravel embankment and paused to admire the garden. Lavender and old-fashioned rose bushes were in abundance and a rambling variety entwined the picket fence and curled up the posts of the miner's cottage. At the front door, she heard strains of Louis Armstrong's gravelly Hello Dolly and inhaled the floral scents.
The woman who opened the three-panelled door was slim, tall and dressed in an outfit more suited to a night on the town than a Monday afternoon at home: a black short-sleeved sweater with beaded red roses, teamed with a pleated black skirt. Bluebell coloured irises glittered at Georgie, accentuated by fluffy white hair and sparkly black daisy-shaped earrings.
After introductions and reference to the Pattersons, Pam Stewart invited her in, swishing her skirt in an unconscious pirouette. The silk pleats flared and Georgie glimpsed burnished red stilettos.
That's My Desire replaced Hello Dolly. Georgie adjusted her stride to the slant of the floors and ducked the doorways, copying Pam in her perfumed wake of sandalwood, jasmine and musk. They travelled through two tiny living areas and passed two bedrooms to the left. They entered a large room with a carved honey-coloured pine overmantel topping the fireplace. Furniture pressed against the walls and framed a dance square in the middle.
The tubby gentleman aged in his mid-to-late seventies, whom Pam simply introduced as Harry, wore a black dinner suit, bow tie in the exact shade of Pam's beaded roses, and polished leather shoes. He seized Pam's hand. As they twirled, fingernails trailed up and down Georgie's spine with every nuance of Armstrong's voice and every lift and swell of the band. They separated. Harry bent in a deep bow. Perspiration glimmered on his brow, yet Pam appeared as fresh as her daisy earrings. She flicked off the compact disc player and her man left.
'My dear,' Pam said in a melodious tone. 'Sit. I'll be back in a jiffy.'
She re-emerged with tall glasses of orange juice. After a gulp, Georgie was smacked with a generous tequila shot. She instantly admired this energetic and unpredictable Pam Stewart. And began to see why the staid Mrs Patterson would label her a floozy. Envy. On the basis that choice of friends gave a good indication of character, her estimate of Susan Pentecoste rose.
Georgie launched with the phone call owed from Susan to Ruby. Pam's questions and comments helped the story unfold, albeit convolutedly, while her face reflected a collage of emotions. They digressed into Ruby's hospitalisation, Georgie's promise to Michael and all manner of things in between. She stammered to a halt. Beguiled by the quirky warmth of the older woman, she'd revealed too much of herself and AJ.
Pam clucked, then plied her with another spiked drink.
Georgie took a few mouthfuls and a relaxed fuzz settled over her. She sighed. Then the fuzzy feeling reminded her of a nickname used for police when she was a kid, 'the fuzz' and in turn, the missing part of her story.
Pam giggled during Georgie's recount of her visit to the police station. 'Oh, John Franklin's a teddy bear once you get to know him. He's rather protective of our little community, which can give the wrong impression.'
Teddy bear? Georgie snorted. 'He made writer and tourist sound worse than leprosy.'
Pam's lips quivered.
'There I was thinking, "it's cops like you that deserve to be called pigs" when I realised I'd seen him at the Farmers Arms a few nights ago. And, can you believe, I considered spending time with the arsehole.'
Over Pam's laughter, Georgie added, 'He made me feel like an idiot. But I know something's seriously wrong.'
'Perhaps he went in a bit heavy. But I tend to agree with him. Although it's a bit peculiar that Susan took off in such a hurry, it does seem that she planned to be away -'
'Yeah, for a few days -'
'I'm sure there isn't cause for alarm.'
All well and good, except for the tremor in Pam's hands which Georgie couldn't help but stare at.
She roused herself and asked, 'Did you know she was going away?'
She sat out the pause.
At length, Pam conceded, 'No and I was surprised that I couldn't reach her by the end of last week but we're grown women.'
'The Pattersons said Susan doesn't go away very often.'
'Well, no. She prefers to stay at home. In all the years I've known her, the longest time she's been away - except for when she was in hospital after the fire at the farm - was a week. And then, that was with Margaret. Aside from that, we go on the odd short trip through the Community Centre or church. My money's on Margaret.'
Pam withdrew and brought back an address book, which she thrust at Georgie, tapping an entry with a cerise fingernail. Georgie obligingly dialled Margaret Pentecoste's number. She rolled her eyes as it rang out.
Story of my bloody life.
She saved Margaret's number and address on her mobile.
'Susan's always said she'll only leave in a wooden box,' Pam mused.
Georgie almost laughed. That's what Grandma Harvey used to say and she lived in the family home right up to the end. Stubborn biddies.
'That won't be for a long time,' Pam went on, 'because she's strong as an ox. Oh, handling the farm on her own got too much, so she let Roger and Mick have most of it. But she'll never willingly leave her and Roly's home.'
'Do you think her trip connects to Roly?'
'I don't see how. He's been missing for so long.' Big blue eyes turned on Georgie. 'She believes he was murdered, you realise?'
Espresso poised for first sip, its aroma flaring his nostrils, the front door buzzed. Franklin peered sideways. Hart was on the telephone. He sighed, hitched the service belt above the bony points of his hips and steeled for a potential rerun with the crackpot from Melbourne.
It wasn't the writer but another bloody female. In the past few days, the balance of Franklin's male to female customers tipped towards the latter. In her early thirties, this one wore strawberry-blonde hair that coiled in spirals to her narrow shoulders, red-framed glasses and a black t-shirt under a rainbow-coloured body-hugging dress in turn worn over faded blue jeans. An infant snuggled her chest. It sported a tri-coloured beanie, purple jumper with white teddy bears at the waist, and blue track pants.
As he thawed in the wake of another paternal surge, the woman said, 'John Franklin?' and, at his nod, added, 'I'm Renee Archer.'
'And what's his name?' Franklin asked.
Renee tilted her chin high and laughed huskily, like a blues singer. 'Her name is Alex. But thank you.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'I'm trying to avoid the pink, girlie stuff. I don't want Alex pigeonholed into the subservient little girl, playing with Barbie and makeup. Not unless she wants to, of course. But if she'd rather play with mud pies, cl
imb trees and become a dan in karate, well great!'
'Even if she breaks a leg?'
'Especially if she does.'
'What does your hubby think?'
In tandem with his question, Franklin noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding band and groaned.
She wiggled her bare left ring finger and laughed again. 'Oh, I am married, although I don't wear a ring and kept my surname. I don't approve of the whole chattel thing. You know, being branded a "married woman". Carl's fine with it, he's used to me being independent. He's so preoccupied with changing the world anyway.' Her tone was neither resentful nor regretful. In fact, she acted poles apart from the hesitant caller earlier.
Renee seemed to perceive his thoughts. She explained, 'Sorry about before - on the phone. I nearly backed out. If Carl knew I was coming here…' After a beat, she added, 'But now that we've met and with what Tayla and Lauren said -'
Georgie's heartbeat quickened. She raised an eyerow. Murdered?
'Believes he was murdered? They still don't know what happened to him?'
'Oh, there are plenty of theories but I don't think we'll ever be certain. Not after this long.'
Pam suddenly looked very sad, frail even. She clamped her mouth and refused to elaborate.
Eventually Georgie stopped flogging that point.
'Do you have contacts for Susan's other family and friends?'
'Oh, a few.' Pam picked up the address book. 'She's a little funny like that. She has loads of friends but keeps us… I don't know how else to put it but compartmentalised from each other. Her friends from here, from Melbourne, Nhill, Wychitella and so on, we're all separate groups.'
'Do you think that's because a lot of people turned on Roly after the fire?'
'Possibly, dear.' Pam drummed her fingernails as she said, 'I can help you with local friends, although I doubt that would do you much good. There's no one closer to Susan than me.'
Out of ideas, Georgie finally confessed she'd poked around at Abergeldie and Pam chuckled over the encounters with feline Oscar.
'The kitchen was pristine for my first visit but filthy when I went back. Do you think -'
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