Tell Me Why

by Sandi Wallace

While she waited, Georgie skolled her neglected wine and chain-smoked.

  A quarter of an hour later, the landline rang. On speakerphone, Georgie updated Pam with Ruby's condition and her unsuccessful attempts to contact Susan and Margaret Pentecoste. She omitted mention of the letter under her wiper but described in detail Susan's second album.

  Pam listened, making shocked noises. At the end, she said, 'I never knew.' She sounded ten years older.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Oh, I read the articles in the newspapers. I even helped Susan write her letter to the paper. But I never knew she'd been collecting those clippings all along. I thought she was coping quite well. Considering.'

  'Outwardly calm but falling apart inside?'

  'It would seem so, dear. Oh no,' she moaned. 'I've let her down all these years.'

  'If she wanted to talk about it, she would have. And you would have listened.'

  'Naturally.'

  'So you can't blame yourself that she bottled it up. Besides, you said she keeps her friends separated. Perhaps someone else is her Roly-counsellor.' Georgie changed tack. 'What about this Schlicht angle? I gather the police were light-on for suspects and at one stage the Iceman was their prime candidate. Then it just fizzled out.'

  'You have that right, dear,' Pam murmured. She sighed, then explained, 'It was a very trying period for everyone. Neighbours pitted against each other; the town divided. But people took sides without thinking it through. Why would Roly want to set fire to his own farm? Why would he try to kill Susan? The idea's absurd. You've never met a couple so devoted.

  'Without doubt, it made more sense for this Schlicht man to have been behind it. He's a thug and drug dealer, after all. But why would he hurt Roly? We never understood. There were all sorts of stories bandying to and fro but they didn't make sense.'

  Georgie cut in, 'Because Sartori killed himself before he made an official statement?'

  'Yes, that and because he was a convicted felon himself. Could anybody trust him?'

  'True. Not the ideal witness.'

  'What we heard about Angelo Sartori was so vague. That he witnessed John Schlicht kill this other chap and was part of the gang that set fire to Abergeldie. He alluded to them killing Roly but then killed himself before he explained everything, including why they had to kill our friend.' Pam broke off. Her sighs stabbed at Georgie, who didn't know what to say.

  Neither spoke for a minute, then Pam said, 'Oh I'm not stupid. I do realise criminals don't have to use logic like the rest of us or play by normal rules. It could have been as daft as Roly looking at the wrong person the wrong way, I guess.'

  'Hmm. Money for nothing, sex without strings and punishment without police or court.'

  'What, dear?'

  'Something I read once. Along the lines that criminals go for instant gratification, with no concern about right and wrong or the things that constrain the rest of us.'

  'What else are you thinking?' Pam asked a moment later.

  'Makes you wonder if Sartori killed himself or if somebody did it for him.'

  Pam sucked in a breath. 'It does, indeed.'

  They contemplated that twist in silence. Georgie didn't know what her friend was mulling over, but she pictured the threatening note left on her car and started to sweat on its sender.

  She turned her focus back to the Pentecostes. 'What else can you tell me?'

  'I don't know.' Pam's voice trilled. 'My memory's not as good as it used to be.'

  'Not so's you'd notice.'

  'If you knew me ten years ago, you'd think differently. I'm not as quick to recall details or think laterally as I was.'

  'OK. I'll give you a specific…' Georgie realised that what she said next would wound.

  Necessary evil.

  'Tell me about the day of the fire.'

  She heard Pam take several juddering breaths and her heartbeat accelerated as she waited. After a long gap, she wondered if Pam would answer at all. She shifted the phone to make room for her notepad on the desk. She heard Pam sigh. She traced random doodles into the margin and stilled her impatience. Certain things can't be rushed, like brewing a good beer. She knew if she pressed Pam too hard, she might push her away.

  Finally, Pam said, 'Well, we had lunch together, the three of us, at Abergeldie. As you know, I don't drive and Roly, as usual, was busy around the farm with Mick and Roger. So, Susan picked me up in her four-wheel drive.'

  'OK. That's good, keep going,' Georgie urged.

  'I remember that Roly's tea went cold because Jenny McGuire from the Advocate arrived.'

  'A journo from the local rag?'

  'Yes. She was writing a story on Roly. He'd gone to the aid of an accident the previous evening. Her idea was to tie this into a piece on his achievements and active involvement in the community, that type of thing. When they finished, we all had afternoon tea. That's right, we baked scones!' Pam laughed, recalling the trivial detail.

  Georgie grounded her. 'And then what happened?'

  'Well, Susan and Roly were going to dinner -'

  'What was the occasion?'

  'None. They were taking up a special at Windows on Vincent.'

  Georgie vaguely remembered the restaurant but couldn't picture it in the context of her recent excursions. 'Is it still there?'

  'It became a pancake place and changed again since. Oh, I am enjoying this detective work!' Pam sobered. Perhaps it struck her that she verged upon the last time Roland Pentecoste was seen alive. 'Oh, that's not appropriate, is it?'

  'It's OK. Better to laugh than cry, usually.'

  'Yes, well. In any event Roly and Susan dropped me home on their way to the restaurant. They had booked an early sitting. It must have been between six and six-thirty.'

  'And then?' Georgie prompted.

  'Well, that's all I know firsthand. From what Susan told me, they had a wonderful evening. It was just as well, as it turned out. One last special night…' Pam cleared her throat and continued, 'They returned home and went to bed after checking all the usual things.'

  'Go on.'

  She sighed deeply. 'In the middle of the night - well, not long past midnight - Roly woke suddenly. He shook Susan awake and they went outside in their pyjamas with jumpers over the top. They found the sheds alight and Roly jumped into fighting the flames while Susan phoned the CFA.'

  Georgie visualised. It morphed into real-time: Shivering in my PJs.

  'She phoned the captain, Phil Isaacs. Then she pulled on a pair of work boots and went back outside. The strong wind that night made matters worse. It made it harder to see through the smoke and stirred up the flames.'

  Dark night sky. Orange aura near the sheds. Horrific noises. Cracking, roaring, snapping.

  'But she made out that the fire had almost taken the hay shed and other buildings were under threat or on fire. She struggled against the noxious smoke. Her eyes watered so much she could barely see.'

  Can't see properly. Fumes burning my lungs. Coughing, gasping.

  'Susan called and called but she couldn't hear a thing above the roar - and the animals going berserk. Her throat hurt from the smoke and from screaming for Roly. She couldn't find him.'

  Georgie teared up.

  'She did what she could with blankets and buckets of water,' Pam continued, 'praying the fire fighters would arrive before the whole place went up. She doesn't recall what happened next. There's a big blank until she woke up in hospital days later.'

  In a high-strung tone, she said, 'They left her for dead. That was the plan: to knock her out and let the fire finish her off. Chances are they hoped to frame Roly for it. Or banked on everyone assuming there were two bodies.'

  Pam sobbed. A prick of pain responded in Georgie. She searched for reassurance, a positive. 'Well, Susan survived their horrible plan. Whoever they were. She must be a very gutsy lady.'

  'Oh, she is. That's why I have to believe she's safe and well.'

  'Yes, you do. There's no point thinking otherwise.'

&nb
sp; 'I pray for her safety.'

  Pray hard to your god, Pam. Pray hard.

  KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF THINGS THAT ARE NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS YOU WILL ONLY GET ONE WARNING!

  Ordinary copy paper. One run-on sentence. Printed in Arial font. In landscape orientation. All uppercase. Approximately 50 point and bold type with the word 'one' underlined.

  Georgie had an enemy.

  Who and why?

  It had to be connected with Susan; she couldn't imagine being warned off the first aid job. That made a nervous laugh pop out.

  At least I've still got my sense of humour.

  Back to business. Who had she pissed off? Who had she stirred up over the past few days?

  Top of the list: Roger and Mick, the farmers from Abergeldie. And she had a bruise to prove it.

  Next: Lewis Davis from The Springs Real Estate. He definitely regretted sharing his Tim Tams with her.

  Lewis's buddy Douglas Macdougall; even though she'd yet to meet him.

  Surely not Susan's neighbours, the Pattersons?

  What about Pam? That lovely old duck could not be behind the threat. Scratch Pam.

  She couldn't forget John Franklin but doubted he'd bother with a note. The sexist local cop would take a direct approach.

  AJ - it was so wrong on so many levels to even add him to the list that she cringed, but he did try to be overprotective. Fortunately, he'd been busy in his office when she called alerting him to Ruby's second heart attack and hadn't even known she'd returned to Daylesford. She crossed him off again.

  Georgie reread the note twice more.

  Nobody but Pam knew she'd stumbled on the Schlicht angle, right?

  She puckered her lips. Make that Pam and Bron. On a long shot, the farmers and the cops might have an inkling too. And with every extra person came the chance of something said, overheard, slipping…

  She gulped a finger of scotch.

  I am not scared and I am not giving up until I've found Susan.

  Interlude

  She felt like one of Enid Blyton's Famous Five on an adventure. You could call it Five Go to Castlemaine or Five Find The Truth, except she didn't have anybody with her. So perhaps it should be One On a Quest.

  She giggled a trifle shrilly.

  Years earlier, a friend had said you reach a point where you don't become older in your mind, even though your body ages. Up until a few years ago, she'd agreed. Her

  mind stayed around mid-twenties: old enough to have some sense, young enough to be optimistic and resilient. Since then, both mind and body started to crack up. But today… Today she took on a mission.

  She donned slacks and sensible shoes and packed a synthetic shopping bag. Food, water, torch, map and directions. She pulled her niece's sunhat over wiry hair. If she'd been at her own home, she would have taken a host of other things.

  Her smile faded. She settled on adding a carving knife from the kitchen drawer and the tyre lever from her toolbox.

  No good pretending this was a Girl's Own escapade.

  CHAPTER 7

  Thursday 18 March

  'That's not your girlfriend's Alfa, is it, mate?'

  Franklin followed Mick Sprague's finger to a black convertible. He ignored the jibe about the wacko Melburnian being his girlfriend.

  Slam went on, 'Course, I didn't meet her the other day. But seeing as we don't get many of the old Alfas around here, I'm guessing…'

  The number plate matched.

  'It's no coincidence. It's Harvey's all right.'

  'Can't wait to meet her. Harty reckons she's hot.'

  'Are you still going on, Slam?' Franklin feigned surprise. He accelerated. The gear spread over his partner's lap spilled everywhere.

  They navigated the Burke Square roundabout while Slam groused.

  'Let's hover near the school crossing and scare 'em into doing forty clicks,' Franklin suggested. 'Lunny's had complaints from the lollipop lady again.'

  His mate cocked his head, so Franklin added, 'We all know the old girl's pretty easy-going, so when she says she's "sick to the eyeballs of hoons" it must be bad.'

  'It's the mums doing the school-drop that are the worst offenders -'

  Franklin nodded. 'Speeding, double parking -'

  Slam clicked his fingers. 'That's it! You wanna do the school patrol so you can pick up a yummy-mummy. You dirty bastard. And what would your girlfriend from Melbourne think?'

  That deserved a backhander.

  Custom was slow. By 9.45am, the partners had cautioned a couple of harried mums and were on their way back to the station. They received an urgent callout to a West Street address familiar to Franklin. Unaware if the offender lurked, they flicked on lights and siren and tore away.

  The police truck screeched to a stop outside the humble brick veneer and the two cops alighted. A woman and baby wailed inside the house. Slam and Franklin exchanged glances. Franklin extracted his baton but held it in his off-hand and close to his thigh. Both rested a hand on holstered weapon.

  A man shouted, also inside the building. The cries halted. Then the child howled louder, while the woman yelled something unintelligible.

  Dread balled in Franklin's gut. He swallowed and bellowed, 'Police! Open up!'

  The baby quietened.

  Wait or force entry? Franklin considered the risks.

  The decision was made for him. Christina van Hoeckel threw open the door.

  She glared. Her face was red, puffy and wet with tears. A pink singlet stretched over her huge bosoms. Yellow slimed her front. Red specks stained the slime.

  'About bloody time,' she bitched before doing a double take of the baton in his hand. She registered their gun-draw stances and snapped, 'You won't need your fucking guns.'

  Franklin slipped the baton onto his duty belt and relaxed. Out of Christina's line of sight, Slam lifted his eyebrows and swivelled his eyes towards her and downwards. At first, Franklin thought his mate was ogling her boobs. Then he noticed her hands.

  The shakes weren't remarkable.

  The fresh nicks were.

  'She's all yours.'

  The speaker dripped sarcasm, added a lip-curl and soft snort.

  Franklin recognised the man from his previous visit and held up a hand. 'Wait here. We'll have some questions.'

  'It's got nothing to do with me.'

  'That right, Christina?'

  Distractedly, she flapped a hand. 'No, he didn't do anything.'

  Franklin let him go for now.

  The bloke pushed past and tossed Christina another contemptuous glance. He strode to a car parked in front of the neighbour's house and slammed the door.

  Franklin wondered if it signified the end to their love affair.

  Christina watched her boyfriend speed away and resumed her wails. When she stamped her feet in a toddler's tantrum, Franklin wanted to shake or slap her. He did neither.

  Sprague cleared his throat.

  Franklin introduced his offsider, then prompted, 'You reported an attack, Christina?'

  Still hysterical, she led them down the short hallway to a bedroom. There, her baby shrieked between hiccups. His face was beet red. Shards of glass lay at the foot of his cot. The ragged curtain over his window fluttered.

  Christina's breaths shuddered. She worked to compose herself.

  'Look at this.' She picked up a large honeycomb rock. Fragments and blood flecked its surface. 'It just missed poor little Bails!'

  Curiously, she didn't go to her child. Franklin lifted him from the cot. Bailey gazed with saucer eyes, then snuffled into the blue shirt. Franklin stroked the boy's back.

  'He doesn't seem to be hurt.'

  'The arsehole just missed him. Poor little Bails.' Christina dropped the rock, missing her toes by centimetres. She wrapped arms across her chest and chafed her hands.

  'You want a coffee, Christina?'

  She nodded a yes to Slam. Then stared at where he'd stood while he clattered nearby.

  In an eerie monotone, she said, 'I was
in the kitchen and heard this big crash. At first, I thought something'd exploded. Then I realised it sounded like glass breaking. Bailey howled and I spilt his food all over me' - she gestured at the goo on her top - 'and a bit went on the floor. I was glued to the spot. Then I snapped out of it and went to go to Bailey's room but I slipped over on the stuff I'd spilt. Dazza came running out of the shower and we got to Bailey's room at the same time. I saw the torn curtain, glass everywhere and a hole in the window. I couldn't look at Bailey's cot. I was so worried what I'd see.'

  She faced Franklin. 'Do you get what I mean?'

  He pictured the recent car and minibus accident. The way he'd switched to autopilot to face the carnage, although it didn't stop him being sickened by what he'd witnessed. 'Yeah, I do.'

  The baby rubbed a fist into his eye. Franklin thought he'd soon be asleep.

  'I screamed and picked up bits of glass with my hands. I got all these cuts and that freaked me out even more, so I flicked the blood off my fingers. It went everywhere. Darren slapped me. And yelled at me to shut up. He told me to shut Bailey up too. I peeked at Bails then. And I saw he wasn't hurt. I nearly wet myself. Relief. You know?'

  She waited for his nod.

  'Coffee's ready,' Slam called.

  Franklin turned to the doorway. Christina's sudden grip startled him. She gestured towards Bailey. She took him and smothered her child's crown in kisses. She sniffed his downy hair and wet it with fresh tears.

  'It's not fair. He could have hurt my baby -'

  'Who, Christina? You know who's responsible, don't you.' He said it as a statement, not query. 'It's not kids, like you said on Tuesday, is it?'

  She tightened her arms around Bailey and brushed past. In the lounge room Slam had arranged mugs and biscuits. Franklin shook his head at his partner's unspoken query. The two men sipped coffee and watched Christina rock her baby.

  She murmured a non-stop mantra. Incoherently.

  Then she fixed on Franklin. 'I'll talk to you but not him.' She pointed at Sprague.

  Franklin tried to reason with her. It was useless. He lifted his palms to Slam, who retreated to the truck.

  'I don't know who did it exactly. All I know is that he calls himself Solomon.'