'Oh, so your idea of sharing was a one-sided deal. I'd tell you everything, you'd tell me as little as possible, then I'd crawl back to Melbourne, huh? Fat chance.'
'This isn't a game, a chance for you to mount your feminist high horse… Butt out and leave it to the experts.' Franklin stalked outside, slamming the door.
'I'm involved, whether I like it or not,' Georgie said under her breath. She refocused on Bill. 'You sure you only rehashed old stuff?'
He thought back. The creases in his face rumpled more.
'Well, for the most part. You'd have come across Schlicht's girlfriend, Ariane Marques, in Susan's scrapbook? Young, mad, French and crazy for him. She has a list of form yea-long' - he gestured - 'but all small-scale stuff going way back. Streetwalking, possession, that sort of thing. Years ago, she was in the frame for a vicious attack on an old bird. Snatch and grab with a bit extra. But the victim couldn't ID her, so Marques got away with it. Then, once she hooked up with Schlicht, she got cannier and inherited his protection. Mind, there won't be much of an empire left for the Iceman when he gets out. One crim goes to the slammer, another steps up. He'll have to claw back his piece of the pie.'
Bill frowned, as if trying to remember the point. He bobbed his head and said, 'Anyway, Schlicht and Marques were shacked up together, living between their millionaire's palace in Melbourne and Schlicht's Castlemaine "country house". Whenever Schlicht got pulled in for an interview, Marques came along. Whoever she buttonholed copped an earful. Must be the frog in her. Look, I've digressed. The point is, that I did mention something that caught Susan's attention.'
Georgie jerked straight. 'Yeah?'
'Schlicht has an estranged wife, Helena. Many moons ago she reverted to her maiden name Watkowska and moved with their son to a place near Trafalgar but they've never divorced. He mentioned her in a couple of interviews. I got the impression that it was a half-arsed split; certainly not acrimonious his end. And I don't think the girlfriend knew about the wife. Not back then.'
'That's it?' Georgie deflated, perplexed as to the significance of Schlicht's wife.
Bill sighed and they dropped into silence.
After a gap, she asked, 'Going back to your investigation into Roly's disappearance-slash-murder. Why did you suspect Schlicht?'
'Because we knew that he did it. We even knew why and how. But we couldn't prove a bloody thing!'
Gabby placed a hand on Bill's arm.
'How's that?' Georgie demanded.
'Schlicht was the driver in a hit-run fatality the night before the fire. The victim was Joey Bigagli, the son of one of his closest associates. Schlicht trusted Bigagli - or Little Joey, as they called him in the trade. He treated him as his own kin. At any rate, Bigagli set up in competition and the daft bastard even tried to recruit a few of his boss's henchmen.'
'What an idiot.'
'Yep. So Schlicht decided to make an example of Bigagli's disloyalty.'
Confused, Georgie said, 'But how does that link to Roly?'
'Roly arrived first on the scene of Bigagli's accident,' Bill explained. 'Bigagli didn't die immediately and Schlicht had broken the golden rule by dealing with it personally.'
'I don't get you.'
'Roly was a risk, you see. Bigagli might have told him what'd happened or Roly could have seen the hit-run. Schlicht owned a XJ6 Jag-Daimler with pearl-white paint. Jags are a rarity hereabouts and that one stuck out like dog's balls. If Roly saw it, he would have described it to a T.'
Georgie's eyes narrowed. 'So Schlicht removed Roly as insurance?'
'Yep. And the fire at Abergeldie was supposed to obscure everything. Hopefully, we'd think Roly'd incinerated or, if that failed, that he was the perp. All the better if Susan died in the fire because of the chance Roly had given her information implicating Schlicht. But by miracle, she survived.'
Gabby made a strange noise.
Bill rubbed his wife's knee and said, 'Angelo Sartori confessed everything. Off the record. Apparently, Schlicht's gang - Sartori being one of them - set fire to the place, knocked out Susan and scooted the moment they heard sirens.'
Georgie murmured, 'And Roly -'
'They took him back to Schlicht's Castlemaine property, interrogated him repeatedly and finally satisfied that he knew jack shit about Bigagli's murder snapped his neck.'
Sickened, Georgie said, 'You had everything. Why couldn't you nail him?'
'Why?' Bill eye-rolled. 'Because, before Sartori made it official, he topped himself. Or persons unknown did it for him. And our detectives are out at Bacchus Marsh: they aren't local, they're overworked, lazy or crooked, take your pick. Maybe they were under pressure to let things lie. Maybe they'd been offered a transfer too.'
'To Fish Creek or another fucked place?'
Bill grunted. 'Whatever the reason, I had nothing to back me up. All I needed was a bloody warrant for Schlicht's car and his property but the commissioner personally knocked me back. Whether he was on the take…' He lifted his palms. 'With our star witness dead and some of our evidence having mysteriously vanished, he reckoned I didn't have probable cause.'
'That sucks.'
'It sure does,' Gabby agreed.
'Worse still, the hierarchy accused me of having a breakdown or at least a warped perspective because Roly's a close mate. Even when the press picked up the scent, my crew couldn't get the help we needed. Nobody would touch it with a ten-foot pole. Once I'd been offered the transfer, everyone became too shit-scared to openly pursue it. Even John and my other mates stepped back.'
'So, have you come to your senses and decided to back off?'
Georgie swivelled, startled by Franklin's voice. He'd slipped into the room and propped against the wall behind her seat.
He rubbed his temple and added, 'Or do you reckon you can solve it alone now?'
His tone lacked the earlier sting and she didn't bother answering - mainly because she was clueless what to say. Her mind reeled with too much information, the reverse of a few days ago. The dilemma was where it all fitted.
What was Susan up to and where was she?
Why had Margaret been killed and by whom?
Was the aborted break-in at the motel connected? And was that and the written threat linked? If not, then Georgie had more than one foe.
'You'll be staying overnight.' Gabby broke into her thoughts. She stood. 'You can't go back to the motel. Whoever it was last night may well return.'
Georgie couldn't face another sleepless night in the motel or driving back to Melbourne in the pitch black of the country. She didn't even fake a protest.
She followed Gabby to a spare bedroom filled with toys, posters and general grandkid-clutter and found herself with a cordless telephone and her host's blessing to call whoever she needed. She ticked off a mental list - Pam Stewart, Bron, AJ and the Pattersons - and heard Franklin's car fire.
She dismissed the resulting mix of relief and disappointment and dialled.
Interlude
It was cold and dark. At first, she'd thought it was quiet too. But there were many sounds when she grew accustomed to her solitude. Birds, frogs, crickets - all soothing and listening to them helped pass time. Rodents, possums and feral dogs made frightening noises and she tried to block them.
She couldn't read her watch in the blackness or see day turn to night. But she sensed it was the Day. Coincidence or fate? It didn't matter but it was fitting. Perhaps God would grant her wish in a roundabout way.
She sighed. It turned to a gasp. Pain gripped her chest, shoulder and temple. She drifted in and out of consciousness, had bleak dreams and another turn.
She awoke, fought the urge to urinate, then gave in. The first time had been the worst. Now, she knew there was no alternative and decorum flooded to the heavens.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday 20 March
No offence to the Noonans, but Georgie couldn't wait to escape Daylesford. Bigots and criminals, secrets and innuendo, the air here was oppressive. Thick with odious
matters she shouldn't have become embroiled in.
So, as she watched her hosts shrink in the rear-view mirror, her breathing eased.
Nightmares had seen her sleep-deprived for the second night running, worse for unrelieved sexual tension. Not to mention she felt damn lost without her mobile and emails. It all made for a hell of a cranky Georgie; a jack-in-the-box ready to explode.
She cleared the intimidating avenue of giant cypress trees and glimpsed pastures through tall gums. These would open to paddocks, like some clichéd Australian landscape painting, then she'd reach the highway on-ramp and be Melbourne-bound.
The car ahead braked inexplicably. She almost rear-ended it. She blasted her horn and gunned past. Fuck the solid white line. She grinned into the mirror and left the other driver for dead.
Bad word choice.
The Spider suddenly vibrated. She freaked.
Had a tyre blown? The gearbox packed up? The judders continued. She jerked to the right. The ride smoothed. Georgie spotted corrugations on the verge, designed to alert dozy drivers.
She laughed. Yet her fingers clenched the steering wheel.
After some minutes, her grip relaxed but tension knotted her shoulders.
Music sometimes helped; singing loudly and badly, even more so.
She fiddled with the radio. Still out of range for her favourite station. She killed the static and heard a truck gear down.
'What the hell?' She glared into the rear-view mirror at a massive chrome-toothed grill.
She watched it pull back.
Then the truck accelerated. Backed off at the last moment.
Fear, fury and pigheadedness kicked in simultaneously.
'If you arseholes think you scare me off,' Georgie yelled, 'think again.'
The driver increased the gap between her convertible and his truck. A bizarre pursuit vehicle, if that's what it was.
She crushed the accelerator. The Alfa shot forward. The truck followed. It nosed to within inches from her bumper.
Her heart pounded. Cold sweat pooled her armpits.
Outrun or outwit?
Think. Quickly.
The Spider handled to around 175 kph but not on this mediocre road. Georgie yanked the wheel and hit the gravel edge without braking. The little car fishtailed. She righted it. The logging truck roared past with a blast of air-horns.
'Oh, that'd be right,' she protested. 'Just a truckie in a hurry.'
She cursed until she laughed; laughed until she hiccupped. Then pulled back onto the road, in front of the car she'd overtaken earlier.
Her stomach ached from the fit of laughter. Soon the hysteria gave way to blinding pain in her temple.
Georgie stopped at the next lay-by, switched off the engine and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. She groped in the glovebox, struck a packet of paracetamol, the one swiped from Abergeldie. She dry-swallowed three tablets with her eyes squeezed shut.
She lifted her head, gazed at her reflection in the mirror and thumbed away smudged mascara. She hadn't intended to doze on the roadside and felt no better for the kip.
'Harden up, Harvey.'
Georgie turned over the ignition and listened to the Spider's purr.
'Home, baby,' she said, slipping onto the roadway.
Home. AJ. Responsibilities other than the Pentecostes. It sounded good.
Fortunately, the rest of the trip was uneventful. The headache retreated as the distance between her and Daylesford expanded.
Back in her Richmond study, Georgie checked her emails, the answering machine, the small pile of snail mail AJ had placed beside the keyboard. She put her mobile on charge, impatient to check its messages. And then opened the OH&S document David Ruddoch wanted yesterday.
Georgie stared at the screen. The words jumbled.
This time yesterday, she and Megan Frawley hadn't discovered Margaret Pentecoste's body. She'd virtually written off the motel disturbance and its implied threat; ditto for the windscreen note. She was yet to meet the Noonans and ignorant of Schlicht's motive for Roly's disposal. And she hadn't seen another side to Franklin, merely to have her original (low) opinion reinstated.
And this time yesterday she was only half as fearful for Susan.
Georgie swallowed bile. She tapped out a string of words, deleted a block of text and undid the deletion. The ringing landline made a welcome distraction.
'Ms Harvey?'
'Yes,' Georgie confirmed guardedly.
'Detective Kyriakos, Homicide Squad,' the caller rattled machine-gun style. Before Georgie could reply, Kyriakos continued, 'My team's investigating Margaret Pentecoste's murder.'
Georgie managed, 'Oh?'
'Unfortunately, we didn't get to see you in Ballarat yesterday. However, I understand the local CIU boys interviewed you. In fact' - Georgie heard paper shuffling - 'I have a copy of your statement right in front of me.'
Georgie's heart thudded. She felt guilty of something.
'We'd appreciate you coming in this morning to resolve one or two discrepancies, if you would.'
It was a polite command.
Georgie had anticipated a breather from the Pentecoste mess but that was already kaput. Her headache not fully gone and she was up to her nostrils in crap again. Kyriakos's summons amounted to 'helping the police with their inquiries'. Did that mean they considered her a suspect? And what discrepancies?
Oddly, the detective's call spurred an adrenaline rush. Shortly afterwards, Georgie dispatched her redrafted OH&S script to Ruddoch and flicked on her mobile, juiced enough to check her messages. She always joked that her mobile was an appendage but the backlog after a day and a bit off-air astounded her. Georgie retrieved several text and voice messages from Matty Gunnerson and one 'important but not urgent, please call' request from John Franklin date-stamped earlier today.
Stroppy Franklin could wait, unlike Matty's belated update. She dialled him from the car and they agreed to catch-up at the Royce, a hotel opposite the Homicide building. If Matty could trace his AWOL brother, AJ would join them.
Georgie's energy waned. As she approached the St Kilda Road Police Complex, she wished for a traffic jam - hell, anything - that would delay the unavoidable. No joy. She even found a four-hour parking space immediately.
'Here goes nothing,' she murmured, dragging her feet towards the base of Victoria's murder squad.
The dirty-mushroom rendered walls with tinted windows towered ahead. She gazed up and wondered which floor Kyriakos occupied.
'Whoops,' a man said as they collided. He juggled his pie.
Georgie apologised; he grinned before taking off. She noted the piece bulging under his jacket. Cop.
Three guys chuffed on fags in the smokers' nook. She guessed they were coppers too because they openly examined her. One was a honey, which distracted Georgie from official matters for a minute.
Who'd want to get involved with a cop? No way.
A classy silver motorbike parked on the grassed nature strip turned her head.
But I could handle that hot and throbbing between my legs.
Her smirk faltered at the murky-beige steps before the automatic doors. She aimed at blasé but blew it wiping sweaty palms on her jeans.
She obeyed the sign directing all non-official personnel to reception but the uniformed officer there ignored her. Her eyes bore into his shaved skull while he yakked on the phone; tried to force his attention. He whinged about lack of parking near the courts for over five minutes, during which she shifted her weight, sighed and drummed fingers on the counter. He hung up, then took two calls in succession.
'Ahh, PSO,' she said, as if struck by a revelation.
Receiver glued to his ear, he looked at her. Georgie glanced at the emblem on his blue uniform and thought he caught the implication: Protective Services Officer - not a real cop.
Screw manners. She interrupted. 'Georgie Harvey, to see Detective Kyriakos in Homicide.'
The PSO shoved across a clip-on Homicide visitor's pass bearing
her name and pointed to a black vinyl bench. She perched in front of a display case and faced a menacing balaclava-clad skull. And there waited for another five minutes while road noise and wind pummelled the glazed wall behind her.
A young female in civilian dress beckoned. She swiped an ID card at the elevators. The talking lift announced the ninth floor in a tinny voice. Georgie trailed her guide to the ante-room of another secure zone. She sat on a bright blue sofa and checked out an honours board. The buzz of voices and frequent trill of telephones reassured her that people were on the other side of the partition.
As she waited again, impatience battled apprehension. She disguised the trembles in her hand by drumming her fingernails on the sofa arm. Soon, she forgot both emotions.
AJ filled her imagination. He'd left home before she returned, leaving the animals to be her welcoming committee and source of much-needed hugs. She drifted into picturing him naked to the waist, muscles pumped.
'Ms Harvey?' startled her out of the daydream.
Kyriakos in the flesh matched Georgie's mental image. Late-thirties, medium-sized, she wore wedged court shoes and a black suit. The outfit too heavy for Indian summer, it screamed efficiency and authority. Likewise the blunt hairdo framing carob irises implied intelligence and a no-nonsense demeanour.
The detective motioned Georgie to follow. They weaved around girls at their desks who typed furiously and talked on the phone at equal rate. Then they passed a cabinet of busts and other exhibits.
Kyriakos reached a room a few metres square and waved her inside. Large windows fronted a cityscape shrouded in sunlight despite looming black clouds. Five maroon desk chairs clashed with the predominantly beige, black and blue décor of the police complex. A workstation and computer dominated dead centre of the room (both beige, of course). The artwork consisted of a small Monet print hung too high to appreciate.
We're here to concentrate seemed to hum from the computer.
Although the room wasn't as officious as she'd expected, Kyriakos was. Georgie sat where pointed to and tried not to fidget.
The detective shuffled papers without eye contact. The air-conditioning recycled the 'warm computer, stuffy room and tinge of perspiration' smell peculiar to sealed offices. Despite the balmy atmosphere, Georgie shivered and clenched her jaw to stop her teeth chattering.
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