Though the Iceman was behind bars, his 'associates' loomed large.
'Cathy!' Franklin thumped the front door.
He tested the handle. Locked.
Drapes covered the windows. Franklin pressed his ear to the glass. He couldn't discern sound or movement.
He ran next door and raised his fist to bang the metal screen. It immediately opened to a white-haired woman, as short as she was plump.
'Yes, John?' she said.
Franklin recognised the lollipop lady who regulated traffic at the primary school crossing.
'Marnie, do you know if Cathy Jones is home?'
'Why, you've missed her by a few moments -'
'Was she alone?'
'With Tyson, of course. She wouldn't -'
Franklin interrupted. 'Anyone else with them?'
'Yes, as a matter of fact. Valerie - you know, Valerie Blyte from the op shop and Presy Church? She was carrying young Tyson. He must have a terrible cold, the poor mite -'
'Why's that?' Franklin frowned.
'Well, he was bundled up in layer upon layer of bunny rugs but I caught a glimpse of his face. Crying his poor little lungs out and turning more beetroot by the second.'
He felt chilled. 'What was Cathy doing?'
'She followed Valerie to her car, talking very…' She gesticulated in lieu of finishing the sentence. 'I don't think they were arguing. Valerie seemed to be ignoring Cathy, focusing everything on the little tacker. Oh, I shouldn't tell you this, being a policeman and all, I wouldn't want Valerie to get in trouble -'
She's potentially done that herself.
'Go on.'
'She made Cathy drive. Valerie got in the back with the baby - behind Cathy.'
'And?' he pressed.
'You see. I don't think they put their seatbelts on. And Valerie doesn't have a baby seat in her car, so Tyson wasn't restrained properly.'
Almost laughable. If failure to restrain a child was Valerie Blyte's worst offence, he'd be a happy man.
'Which way'd they go, Marnie?'
She chewed her thumbnail. 'I'm not sure. Towards the church?'
Not for the first time, Franklin silently cursed the public's ineptitude for observation.
He turned to leave but Marnie was saying, 'Well, she wouldn't have a car seat. She's been on her own for ages. Longer than me. Hold on, in actual fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she does have a kiddie seat. I think she keeps all her old baby things in Mr Malcolm's shed.'
His gut reacted with a flip. Baby things. In the minister's shed. 'Have her children left home?'
'What? Oh, no. She never had a child of her own. Wanted one desperately but she and Edward were never blessed - if blessed is the right word for youngsters these days.'
Oh shit. One of his theories fit: Solomon couldn't have a child.
'When you said "on her own" -'
'I meant "on her own" as in widowed. Edward passed away well over ten years ago.'
Married woman desperate for a kid. Since widowed and too old to have one. Sees unmarried women having what she craves. And a religious nut on top of all that.
Marnie leaned in. Her face crinkled. She loved to gossip. 'Do you remember Edward?'
He gave a headshake as his mind raced.
Jealousy and conviction: motive. Position with the Advocate: opportunity.
'He killed himself.' She straightened theatrically. 'Well, rumour has it that he did. He drowned in the Hepburn Dam.'
Now Franklin recalled the case. Edward's death was ruled an accidental drowning but many held their suspicions, among them, Bill Noonan who'd handled the local end. Edward had been an introspective man and suffered mild anxiety but wasn't on suicide watch, according to his doctor. His wife, Valerie, contested allegations of suicide and the Coroner agreed - or lacked sufficient evidence to find otherwise.
'She never remarried?' Franklin asked Marnie, anxious to leave but morbidly fascinated by the way things clicked together.
'No and never will. She's as good as a nun these days. If she didn't need the income she wouldn't take happy snaps for the Advocate. She'd rather spend all her life wrapped in the cotton wool of the church. She hasn't glanced at another man since Edward's passing. Not in that way.'
'And they were desperate for kids?'
'More fool them but yes,' Marnie said good-naturedly; it was public knowledge that she didn't operate the school crossing for pocket money alone and was the proud matriarch of a substantial clan.
No time to waste. 'What does Valerie drive?'
'A white compact. I'm not sure what type.'
'I've gotta fly but you've been a great help,' Franklin yelled, sprinting.
'Will you let me -'
The growl of the Commodore as Franklin floored it for Camp Street drowned the rest of Marnie's sentence.
Georgie drove with her mind preoccupied by calculations.
It was fifteen days since Susan Pentecoste aborted her telephone conversation with Ruby Padley and about as long since she spoke to Bill and Gabby Noonan and the Pattersons next door.
Only nine days had elapsed from the moment Georgie, reluctantly at first, answered Ruby's cry for help. It seemed much longer. With each minute, Georgie became more like a pressure cooker.
Franklin registered a small white Toyota parked outside the church.
Valerie Blyte's.
Empty.
He jogged to the front door. His hand unconsciously dropped hip-side to the phantom gun holster. AWOL along with his capsicum spray and baton and so he was about to enter the worst type of incident - a volatile situation involving an infant - unarmed and without backup. Foolhardy.
But every second could save a life. Or lose one.
'…my baby,' Franklin heard Cathy say.
He crouched and eased the door until it was wide enough to squeeze through.
'You don't deserve a child,' another female said; presumably Valerie Blyte. 'People like you' - she dripped disdain - 'don't deserve children.'
Franklin held his breath. Counted to five and moved through the doorway. He dropped behind the last pew on the left.
'Please, give me my baby,' Cathy said, speaking low.
Franklin realised she'd instinctively modulated her tone to decelerate Blyte's aggression.
He peered down the aisle, towards the altar. The book had been moved but it was otherwise as he'd last seen it.
He ducked.
At Trafalgar, Georgie nosed the Spider towards Melbourne. A ute trailed too closely. She tapped the brakes, forcing him to pull away, and turned her thoughts back to Susan.
Last Monday, Georgie reported Susan's disappearance to John Franklin, the arrogant cop at Daylesford. On that same day, Helena Watkowska farewelled her new friend, who was ostensibly about to return to Margaret's home in Ballarat.
Two days later, Megan Frawley had sherry with Susan. That made her the last living person to see Susan before she vanished - that Georgie knew of.
Before Susan was abducted? Murdered?
'No! What makes you think you deserve this child? You aren't virtuous, a righteous woman. You're a slut, a whore. You had this child out of wedlock, you suck the community dry -'
'It's not like that. I'm not like that. You've got it wrong. Why are you doing this to us?'
Franklin heard footsteps while Cathy talked and her voice changed direction. He peeked over the top of the pew and stooped again. He'd seen enough. Cathy stood next to the pulpit and looked up at Valerie. Blyte held the howling baby over the lectern. Not as Franklin expected her to hold a fragile life but as though she would catapult Tyson at any moment.
She also brandished a knife.
He needed to get closer. The pews were open-base style, he could tunnel under them. It was imperative not to alert Blyte to his approach. Whatever pushed her to this point, she still hovered between words and actions.
His presence could push her into the abyss and cost Tyson's life.
'Vanished, abducted, murdered'; the words stun
g Georgie. She drove numbly until she checked her rear-view mirror.
'Get off my tail, you moron.'
The ute continued to tailgate, a mere foot or so from the Spider's bumper.
Georgie was pissed off - partly because the radical driver aped yesterday's logging truck episode but more so through anxiety for Susan.
A prematurely dark sky threatened. Drizzle would soon intensify into another storm.
The driver behind flicked on his headlights. High beam or set wrong? White spheres blinded Georgie and she could no longer make out his vehicle.
She looked away, fixed her eyes forward and her mind on Susan's plans and whereabouts. As to the four-day gap that followed Megan's last meeting with Susan, her best mate Pam Stewart was clueless, her niece Margaret's lips were sealed and new acquaintance Helena either didn't know or pretended not to.
'Please, tell me why you're like this.'
Dead air.
Cathy altered tack. 'What's your real name - it's obviously not Solomon.'
Good girl, Cathy. Keep her talking. Keep her calm.
'Mrs Edward Blyte.'
'What's your name, Mrs Blyte? Not your husband's.'
Franklin fancied Cathy had edged forward but dared not check.
'That's what's wrong with you people. You don't respect marriage today. I respect my husband and my marriage.'
'How long have you and Edward been married?' Cathy's higher-than-normal pitch revealed her strain.
'We would have been married twenty-four years this September. But I lost my Edward twelve years ago.'
'I'm so sorry, Mrs Blyte.' After a pause, Cathy said, 'You've been a widow as long as you were a wife. That must be very difficult for you and your family. Your children -'
'Hah, that's what you know. We couldn't have children. Not like you people. You procreate like mice, yet Christians like Edward and I, who could give children a good home, were not blessed.'
'Tyson has a good home with me, Mrs Blyte. I'm not promiscuous, I do believe in marriage and kids having role models -'
'Then why aren't you married?' Blyte demanded.
Franklin halted, struck by Cathy's pain.
At length, she said, 'I've only told one other person in this town, Mrs Blyte. I was date-raped.'
'That's simply a fancy word for leading a man on and changing your mind -'
'No!' Cathy's one word held so much emotion. 'No, it's not like that.' Her tone dropped. She pleaded, 'I'm a good mum. Tyson's happy.'
'…not fair.'
Blyte's muffled reply barely reached Franklin as he burrowed through the pews. Could her hands be over her face? Or one hand, as she gripped the baby with the other?
He wondered about the knife.
'What's not fair, Mrs Blyte?'
'I was a good wife, a good Christian. I've done everything right. You don't see me cavorting with other men. I still love my husband - almost equally to God.'
Her words hung, then Blyte continued, 'I wanted children very much. I used to picture them with Edward and me, us all holding hands on our way to service. It was so real. I could feel their cuddles…and so much love. But then I was punished. First by taking my children, then my Edward. And I don't understand why.'
'Do you blame God?'
'No. I don't know. I'm confused. Stop talking. What's that?'
Franklin froze. He'd knocked a hymn-book to the floor.
Georgie couldn't shake off doubt about Helena's reliability. Their meeting felt too easy; Helena answered her questions with little resistance.
It troubled Georgie that she lived as an ostrich, with her head stuck in the sand about her criminal husband. How far would her loyalty go? Would she lie for him? Would she kill for him? Had she killed Susan and lied to Georgie from go to whoa?
'Mrs Blyte, please put it down! Point it away from Tyson. Please.'
Franklin's heart thudded. Should he break cover?
Then, Cathy spoke again, more calmly. 'You took a photo of us in hospital, didn't you? Have you always enjoyed photography?'
'My husband gave me a camera as a wedding present. It was my hobby. When he died, I had to go to work. I'd never worked outside the home before. My job had been to provide a good home for my husband and then suddenly I needed an income. Apart from cleaning and photography, what else could I do?
'I clean the manse and church for the minister in exchange for my room and board. These days, I don't take photographs for pleasure. My photography pays for my essentials and fits in around working at the opportunity shop and helping with meals on wheels…'
'If your religion means so much to you, why are you doing this then? Why are you persecuting single mums? Me and Tyson?'
'Because you people won't listen.' Blyte's voice rose. 'I warned you all but you haven't changed your ways. That Christina is a rat, having sex willy-nilly.'
'But that's Christina, not me, or the rest of us,' Cathy corrected gently.
Franklin reached the third row from the front. He approached from the opposite side of Cathy and hoped she locked Valerie's attention.
'I warned her. Then the next thing, she is seeing yet another man and strutting with her breasts on display like a prostitute. She's fooling with married men. She's a home-wrecker.'
'So, what were you doing when you threw a rock through her window?'
'How do you -'
'Were you symbolically stoning the adulterous woman?' Cathy overrode Blyte. 'I don't get it… How can you justify what you've done?'
Cathy, back off. Don't make her angry again.
In the ominous silence Franklin hunkered at the front row. Before him stood a three-foot high wall of panelling. He must break cover in order to reach the pulpit. If Blyte turned away from Cathy, she would see him.
'Fucking hell.' Georgie belted the Spider's dashboard. 'Who can I trust? What the hell's going on? Where is Susan?'
Tight hands gripped the steering wheel. And Georgie drove oblivious to the cars around her, the landscape that whizzed past, even the hail which pelted the soft-top and windscreen.
'No!' Cathy yelled.
Franklin was drenched in sweat. It sounded as though Blyte had upped the ante. If he showed himself, it could push her into the murderous chasm. On the other hand, the longer he delayed, the longer it left Tyson at incalculable risk.
'Please. Give me my baby. No matter what you think of me, Tyson hasn't done anything wrong.'
'He's on the road to death, as are the rest of the bastards.'
'No, he's not. Give…him…to…me,' Cathy commanded.
Franklin rose, vaulted the panel. He saw Cathy snatch Tyson. She kicked Blyte, her eyes fixed on her antagonist's.
'Police,' Franklin yelled. 'Valerie Blyte, stop! Cathy, move away.'
Blyte hunched, dropped the knife, clasped her groin with both hands.
She turned to Franklin; didn't see Cathy heave her knee.
The woman's nose smashed with a crack and spray of vivid blood.
Cathy clutched Tyson to her left side and slammed her heel into the bridge of Blyte's foot. Once, twice…
Franklin kicked away the weapon and restrained Cathy. She struggled, while he watched Blyte writhe. Tyson had been stunned into silence but now roared. Cathy hushed him and slumped into Franklin. He held her and dialled for help.
Blyte cupped her hands to the flow from her nose. She gazed at them, pleading.
Franklin snorted, revolted. This so-called good Christian may well have lost her husband under sad circumstances and been devastated by her barrenness but it was impossible to empathise. She'd intended to inflict grievous harm upon young Tyson - if not murder him. To take out life's disappointments on babies was depraved. As unchristian as you could get.
He heard a police siren and wrapped Cathy and Tyson into his chest. This wasn't how he'd envisaged the arrest going down.
Nevertheless, they'd got the right result.
CHAPTER 11
Monday 22 March
Their tongues met. He thr
ust harder and Georgie arched, riding the synchronised sensations of pleasure and pain. He caressed her pointy nipples. She almost orgasmed.
Almost but not quite.
Body on the brink of exquisite release, her brain took a lateral leap. She pictured Pam Stewart in the arms of her dance partner, then she shrivelled into an image of doubt and worry - for Susan.
'George,' AJ panted. 'Are you nearly there?'
She bit his earlobe, trailed her tongue along his jaw, nipped his chin. Warm excitement rebuilt as their bodies meshed.
Susan Pentecoste flashed into Georgie's consciousness. She was trying to tell her something. What?
Georgie gripped AJ's shoulder. They flipped over, him on top and deeper. His breathing ragged, he contained his orgasm.
She squeezed her eyes and willed herself to come. Imprinted on the inside of her eyelids was Margaret Pentecoste with jagged bruises around her neck. Georgie saw herself lean in and touch the semi-rigid body.
'Don't wait, AJ,' she urged, concealing her disappointment.
Moments later, he shuddered and sighed. They lay with sweat sandwiched between them until the clock radio sounded. AJ hit the off-switch and made to move.
Georgie tugged him back. Centimetres apart, still joined by his flaccid cock, she said, 'You know I love you, AJ?'
He replied, 'Same, babe.' Laid-back, yet his puzzlement showed.
'I'm close,' she whispered. 'Real close.'
Baffled, AJ frowned.
Even quieter, she said, 'To saying what you want to hear.'
He laughed. 'Aw, George. What's the big difference anyway? We already live together.' He stroked her nose and whispered, 'You don't have to become Mrs Gunnerson. It wouldn't bother me being married to Ms Harvey - I just want us to be married.'
Georgie rolled from under him. She'd said what had smouldered for days. Now there were people to see and places to go in order to regain her sanity - and sex life.
Tell Me Why Page 26