Franklin flicked his wrist to check the time, although he'd already decided to push back his meeting with McGuire if it came to it. 'Sure, Slam. Stay in the loop.'
It was premature to feel elated based on a vague and unsubstantiated sighting of Susan Pentecoste. The report could be the fallacy of a well-meaning local or a deception designed to mislead and misappropriate police resources for any number of reasons. The grimmest scenario: Susan's abductor covering his tracks.
Although he recognised this, Franklin felt excited as he retrieved his car from the garage. He sensed a resolution to the poison-pen case and that they'd see Susan home by sundown. If he were a betting man, he'd back it on the nose.
This could be the best day in a piss-poor week.
He tensed at the wheel of his Commodore and scanned the landscape while flat-footing the accelerator. Time distorted; on one hand he seemed to arrive at Abergeldie quickly, on the other, it took too long.
Out of the car, silence struck Franklin. His earlier optimism shrank to a marble in his throat. The farm exuded emptiness and melancholy. Dread stroked his nape.
His mobile provided a timely diversion.
'Yeah,' he answered Slam's call.
'Anything out your way?'
Franklin's stomach hollowed with disappointment. 'Not yet, I just got here though. I take it you've had no luck?'
'Bugger it, no. We're going to keep zigzagging through town. I'll let you know if we find her. Speak later.'
After a moment, Franklin reached through the Commodore's window. He sounded the horn for two minutes.
A mob of white cockatoos took flight, their raspy screams abrasive. The sheep bleated and bolted along the fence line.
But there were no human reactions.
He yelled, 'Susan! You here?'
His words fragmented with a gust of wind and burst of rain. It didn't matter. As he verified via a short sharp search, there was no one at Abergeldie to hear him. On the bright side, he found nothing to justify his earlier fear either.
Minuscule consolation.
This sleepy town in Gippsland had once cost Georgie a speeding ticket and few precious demerit points, so as she entered Trafalgar, she slowed and scanned for coppers.
Georgie considered the options and decided on Shirley's Hair - For Men & Women. Everybody knows hairdressers are a fount of fact and gossip in any place. And this salon held a captive audience of blue-rinse seventy-plus ladies, along with Shirley herself, who modelled a kaleidoscopic pompom hairdo, garish makeup and much-weathered skin.
The ladies let Georgie go through her spiel, including the scanty description she had from Bill Noonan, then Blue-Rinse1 said, 'Oh, yes, we know who you mean.'
B-R2 nodded. 'You're talking about that gangster's wife.'
B-R3 said she thought Watkowska lived out near Willow Grove or Vesper and the others agreed.
Georgie held her suspicions they knew exactly where the woman lived but couldn't get more information from them.
'May your news be good news' had been the catchphrase of one of Victoria's iconic newsreaders. The newsman had perished with his wife during the previous year's horrific bushfires, yet Franklin repeated it for luck as he drove into Daylesford.
He'd turned the music off in case Sprague called. In the unusual quietness, the soft squeak of the brake pedal and springs mocked him. Nothing's going to happen. You're not going to find her. It was a shonky report, they chanted.
'No news is good news,' he insisted, shaking away the pessimistic voices.
He pulled up outside the Advocate and caught a weird look from Jennifer McGuire. She'd seen him talking to himself.
Franklin grimaced. 'Let's get on with this.' It sounded more abrupt than he'd intended.
'Fine.' Huffy, she led him to the office. 'We won't worry about niceties then, like coffee.'
He'd deserved that. Franklin laughed. 'Sorry. You go ahead if you want, Jen. But I'm keen to get underway.'
McGuire dropped onto a chair. 'I have to admit, you've got me curious.' She'd thawed already. 'Can't you tell me what this is about?'
'Not yet.'
'Will you give me an exclusive then, when you can?' McGuire blushed, as if scoops were outside her journalistic realm.
Franklin covered his arse. 'If I can.'
She sighed and passed him a page. 'Here's what you wanted. I've listed everyone directly linked to the paper's production. I haven't gone into distribution at this stage…'
Franklin scanned the names and job descriptions. No one jumped off the page as a would-be Solomon, reputed for aggressive behaviour.
'Harry Notman, dogsbody?'
'A hundred years old, as crooked as a builder's level and no more dangerous than mashed potato.'
Franklin chuckled. 'Rebekka Kirk, then? Classifieds/receptionist.'
'I don't know her too well. Bek's been with us for yonks but keeps to herself a bit. Friendly, though. Well liked. I can't imagine her doing something untoward. Unless it involved splurging on the pokies.'
Introvert, responsible for the classifieds and a gambler; Franklin gave Kirk a mental question mark.
Franklin ran his fingertip to the next name. 'Valerie Blyte, photographer.'
'Nuh. I can't see Valerie, well, cutting loose enough to get in trouble.'
'How's that?'
'She's a bit uptight, that's all.'
Although Solomon was dangerously fanatical rather than uptight, he gave Blyte a question mark too, then moved on. 'Your boss, Mike Jones?'
'You know Mike, John. You've known him for years.'
'I know most of the people in this town.'
'But you know Mike. If it meant a juicy story, he'd potentially cross the line but otherwise he's pretty straight.'
'Pretty straight?'
'Well, OK. If he found a hundred bucks on the street, he wouldn't rush to the police station to hand it in. But he's kept me and the others in a job, the paper running and done heaps for the community. He can't be your man.'
She sat back and crossed her arms.
'Never say can't,' Franklin cautioned. 'Who does typesetting, copy editing, that type of thing?'
She laughed. 'You've got no idea about newspapers, have you? Mike does all the editing, I do most of the writing, with him doing the occasional piece, and we outsource the printing and distribution these days.'
'So this is it?' He flicked the page.
'Pretty much,' McGuire said. 'There's Mike's youngest, Brodie, who helps out. Though, help is being generous. And leading up to a special edition, everyone pitches in -'
'But nobody else is a regular?'
'A few others do columns or feed us sports updates and so on but they write their rough draft and email it to Mike, who polishes it. They generally don't come into the office.'
Franklin pondered. He reckoned Solomon met each of the victims, at least briefly. It had to be one of the Advocate's core workers. Unless his theory sucked, which'd mean he'd be back to square one: the medical angle.
'I'll need addresses and phone numbers for Harry, Rebekka and Valerie.'
As McGuire scrawled the details, Franklin examined her handwriting. He couldn't imagine anything more poles apart with Solomon's calligraphic compositions. Where the poison-pen writer left a large margin around his rigid words, the journalist covered all available space in a scrawling script littered with crossings-out, i's without dots and t-bars that drifted to the right.
Just as he'd thought, she wasn't the crook.
Thus, it was what she wrote, not how, that made him jump from his chair, saying, 'Thanks, Jen. You've been a help.'
He left her spluttering.
Because of the immediate dividends at Shirley's Hair, Georgie cursed herself for not heading straight to Trafalgar that morning, instead of plugging useless searches into her computer. Then she drove until she found a pub several kilometres before Willow Grove. Plonked in no-man's land, with a bunch of sad looking vehicles outside, it was surrounded by large landholdings with
no visible housing. But Georgie backed herself. The second-best source of inside information in country towns, after the hairdresser, was always the pub.
She plumped her cleavage and courage and entered the building.
She walked into a thick fug of body odour and alcohol fumes. Georgie ignored the pong and bawdy comments and propped herself at the bar.
It wasn't hard to catch the bartender's attention; he was drooling along with his patrons. Guess they don't get too many women here. Not with all their teeth, anyway.
'Corona, thanks,' she said with her best coy smile.
From there, the publican melted to putty. She launched into her inquiry, he clueless to being played. He knew Helena Watkowska and Georgie wheedled the address and directions from him. Admittedly, she'd insinuated she'd revisit for a drink. He'd get over the disappointment.
The bloody mobile rang. Franklin fumbled for it without slowing his stride.
It was Heddo from Ballarat's CIU. 'Got a tick? You want an update on this Pentecoste thing?'
Raindrops fell thick and heavy in a fresh downpour. The temperature had plummeted. Franklin eased into the Commodore and cranked the engine and wipers.
'Hang on, mate,' Heddo said.
There were muffled sounds as his buddy covered the mouthpiece. While Franklin waited, he noticed that the inclement weather caught out tourists in short sleeves and flimsy pants or skirts. They scurried for shelter shooting livid glances skyward. He chuckled.
'First sign of madness, Franklin.'
'Huh?'
'Talking to yourself; or laughing at your own jokes.' Heddo barked a laugh. 'Righty oh. Let's keep this fair. What're you offering in exchange for my info?'
'I don't have time to play games,' Franklin complained.
'Who does?' Heddo retorted. 'C'mon, I'll give you an update, if you tell me what the go is with this Georgie sheila?'
'I really don't have time,' Franklin said. 'We'll keep that for a beer soon, OK?'
The detective sighed. 'I suppose.'
He sounded like Kat. Drama Queen.
'Mate.' Heddo's tone was serious now. 'We've had these Hommies in our face for days. It's driving us barmy. They don't tell us plebs much at all, you know how it is. What I do have as fact is that one Tony Scott and his pal Les Broadbent left their dabs all over Margaret's house.'
'Holy shit.' Franklin squeezed his eyes against an instant headache. Fingerprints don't get inside a person's home by themselves.
'Recognise the names?'
'I'll say. Cronies of Schlicht.'
'Got it in one. Besides that, it's bare bones stuff. Margaret's death is estimated at midnight, give or take four hours.'
'So, even as early as eight on Wednesday night?'
'Yep, although everything's leaning more towards midnight or so. Cause of death was as guessed: strangulation with heavy-duty picture wire or similar. Nasty way to go and right up the alley of Scott and Broadbent. It looks like they picked the lock on the back door and took Margaret by surprise. She didn't put up much of a struggle but then these guys would've easily overpowered her. The Hommies're hoping for more forensics to seal the deal against Schlicht's buddies but reckon they'll piece it together either way. Of course, the perps aren't to be seen.'
Heddo flicked through a notebook or file, then continued, 'Oh, one of the other neighbours confirmed Megan Frawley's report of a vehicle outside Margaret's home sometime around midnight to one-ish and although she was equally vague, it will help make our case. Broadbent drives a F150, which tallies with reports of a "big ute rumbling like a truck". Apart from all that, there's not much else for you.'
'Any headway on Susan at your end?'
'Nope. I heard there've been a couple of possible sightings that've turned out to be nothing. I guess you know the hot shots from Melbourne have taken that over too? Yep, well, I'll keep my eyes and ears peeled and give you a buzz if I hear something around the traps. Okey-dokey?'
'Sure. I owe you a beer.'
'Nuh. You owe me two,' his mate said and laughed.
Georgie took a left at 'the really big tree', a quick right at a bunch of roadside mailboxes, the best being the arse of a pink pig. After a hairpin bend, she steered to the right of the road's Y and travelled 'for about two minutes' but wondered whether to base it on her speed or Driving Miss Daisy's. Similar cryptic instructions brought her to a substantial but plain brick home bordered by three-foot-deep garden beds. Amazingly, it matched the bartender's description.
Franklin stared out the windscreen. Heddo's news rocked him. Broadbent and Scott's connection to Margaret's murder scared him shitless for Susan's welfare. It seemed that her obsessive pursuit for truth about her husband had somehow triggered her niece's demise. Worse, Susan could go the same way as Roly and Margaret. He rejected the addendum, if she hasn't already and substituted, if I don't find her first.
As the rain ceased, a second wind brushed his skin. He drove the few short blocks to Camp Street and past the police station. On the same stretch was the manse belonging to the declining Presbyterian Church. The original manse, that is; it had been converted into a swanky 'boutique hotel' when Daylesford became Victoria's short stay capital. When the novelty of running the B&B wore off and real estate skyrocketed, the owners split the grand building into expensive apartments and on-sold.
Within a stroll of that and the church was the 'new manse', a humble miner's cottage notable for a garden that provided a riot of colour and fragrance year round. Out the front, Franklin yanked on the handbrake and jumped from his car.
As Georgie hit the doorbell, Franklin's warning echoed. She was empty-handed at the door of the Iceman's estranged wife.
She had left her bag, including her mobile phone, in the Spider, and told no one her destination or expected return time. Worse still, so concentrated on finding Watkowska, Georgie hadn't prepared a script.
The thrill of adventure shifted to angst.
The doorbell drew no response; likewise Franklin's bangs on the front door.
Exasperated, he fought his way through a dense garden bed and had to extract rose thorns from his jeans. He peered through the living room window and bombed out. The front bedroom window yielded nothing too. He rapped on the rear door and tried its handle, then swore in immense frustration.
Every time he made progress, something got in the way.
Georgie focused on Pam Stewart, Ruby Padley and Susan Pentecoste. Three warm, extraordinary women, all very different - she owed it to them to persevere.
A swipe of clammy palms on jeans, then she wrapped arms across her chest against the sudden autumn chill and the more invasive one inside.
She inhaled.
Right, I'm ready. Bring it on.
Franklin jogged to the church, up the steep, curved steps and into the shadows of the gothic building. The heavy timber door sat ajar. He squeezed through it, suddenly doubting the intelligence of his bull-in-a-china-shop approach.
He scanned the empty pews, the choir stalls, the mute organ. Rich timberwork glowed with beeswax. Pungent blooms filled old-fashioned vases. A book lay open on the altar.
'You're either a little too late or much too early.'
The voice startled him. He glanced towards the pulpit and saw a smiling bloke with a shiny billiard ball crown.
'I'm sorry if I gave you a scare.' The fellow descended the small stairway.
Franklin took in the dog collar and ebony smock over pants of a similar hue. 'Not at all, sir, ah, Reverend.'
'Malcolm will do fine,' the minister said and reached out to shake hands.
In his civvies, unsure whether to make this official, he merely said, 'John Franklin.'
'So, John, did you miss this morning's service or are you early for next Sunday's? Hmm, perhaps you've come for private counsel?'
'None of the above,' Franklin admitted, a tad sheepish. 'Are you on your own here?'
'Yes, there's just me at present. I rather enjoy this time alone on a Sunday. Just me and the Big M
an.'
'Sorry for the intrusion, sir…Malcolm.'
'No, don't misunderstand. As the old saying goes, "my door is always open". If it weren't for my parishioners and the community, I wouldn't have my role to play and this beautiful church would go the way of many and be sold for redevelopment.'
'Like the old manse?'
'Yes,' Malcolm agreed. A frown tugged his brow. 'So, you haven't yet told me how I can be of help.'
'Well, I hoped to find your housekeeper here.'
'Why?' His tone was sharp. 'No trouble I trust.'
'Why would you say that?' Adrenaline flooded through Franklin. Yes, I'm on the right track!
When he'd scanned McGuire's list and spotted Valerie Blyte's address as the manse, the jump seemed obvious. They sought a religious nut, where better to find one? He could well have proved Lunny right that 'to assume was to make an ass of u and me'. But instead of humiliating himself, he seemed to have hit pay dirt after all.
The minister cut across his thoughts. 'You are a policeman aren't you, John?'
'How'd you know that?'
Malcolm tapped his right nostril and smiled. 'Experience, intuition; and I've seen you in the newspaper and about town in your uniform often enough over the past years. Even here for the odd wedding and funeral.'
The men laughed, then the minister sobered. 'Can you tell me what the trouble is?'
'Not at this stage, sir. Any idea of where to look?'
'You've tried the manse and garden, I take it? Well, then, no such luck, I'm afraid. Valerie and I generally come together for early tea but the time after service is our own.'
The minister took a few steps, tidied a stack of flyers and said, 'I'm done for the present. I'll see you out.'
They walked to the front door.
A brief slash of lightning illuminated the granite horizon. Lost in thought, Franklin flinched when Malcolm gripped his forearm.
'Have you any news on Susan, John?'
So, the town knew that Susan Pentecoste was officially missing. Surely too, then, they were aware of her niece's murder.
Tell Me Why Page 24