First, she shuttled Michael to Ruby's bedside at the Alfred and paid another visit herself.
Georgie was relieved to see colour in Ruby's cheeks and the easy banter between the old couple. It boded well for an imminent release according to the coronary specialist.
After she'd flicked her eyes to the clock once too often, Ruby caught the tension and told her to go wherever it was she needed to be.
Georgie nodded. But she lingered to clasp Ruby's hand and kiss her. She pressed her cheek to the older woman's softer one for a long moment in silent apology for treating Susan as a wild-goose chase when Ruby had been right to worry.
Then Georgie left.
The place was naturally Daylesford. The time: mid-morning due to the mercy mission at the hospital en route. The person: Jennifer McGuire.
The Advocate reporter stood behind the reception desk. She faced Georgie, her discomfort palpable.
'Did you pull the human interest story on Roly Pentecoste because of links to the Bigagli hit and run?' Georgie repeated.
McGuire's skin did the ink on litmus paper thing, flushing from neck to cheeks in seconds.
Fascinated, Georgie said, 'You're going red.'
McGuire's skin blazed brighter. 'Golly, thanks. I wouldn't have realised if you hadn't pointed that out.'
'You also haven't answered my question.'
The journo thrust hands into her pockets and stared mutely.
'Did you pull the story because you were threatened? Or because you made the connection and shied away so you didn't draw attention to yourself?'
Flat-line mouth and cold eyes were McGuire's reply.
Georgie wanted to shake her.
'Come on. Give me something here.'
She forced her lips shut and waited for twenty beats. Frustrated by the reporter's non-response, she pressed harder. 'Did you make a connection between Schlicht and Bigagli, then Roly's so-called disappearance?'
McGuire said nothing. She lifted her shoulders, pivoted and left the room.
Georgie pondered her reaction as she drove the short distance to Bridport Street.
Pam Stewart wore a silver tracksuit with sequinned rose motif on the breast. The top was unzipped, revealing a red swimsuit.
'You caught me on my way to aqua aerobics, my dear.' She opened the door wide. 'But your company is infinitely more enjoyable. A drink?'
Georgie declined. She was working against the clock but owed Pam a personal update, not another phone call. As she filled in recent events, Pam worried a chunky diamond ring on her right hand. She blanched and her face blended into its frame of white hair. Her left leg, crossed over its partner, twitched.
At the end of Georgie's explanation, silence filled Rose Cottage. Without the customary big band backing and Pam's cheerful chatter, the tense hush was even more tangible than McGuire's uneasiness.
Pam reached for Georgie's hand and gripped it. She asked, 'Will the police find Susan soon?'
Georgie shrugged unhappily.
'Do you know where she is?'
'No but I have an idea of where she's been. Maybe I'll get inspiration from that. I'm clueless what else to do…'
'Bring her back, Georgie.'
A tear dripped. It stained Pam's silver pant leg. 'I miss her so badly.' Her voice trembled. 'At my age, people drop off all too often. But I'm too young yet to lose my best friend.'
The word 'lose' pained Georgie as much as it did Pam. It constricted her chest. She rose and hugged the sweet lady and left the cottage charged with a heavier burden than when she'd arrived.
'Why'd she freak out?' Scott Hart asked.
Franklin steered past a blue-metal truck and automatically assessed its load. It looked about right. He glanced at his mate and replied, 'I think Cathy hit the nail on the head when she commented on Valerie having been a widow as long as she'd been a wife.'
'That pushed her from writing the sicko Solomon letters to throwing rocks at Christina's place and abducting Tyson?'
'Not in itself. It seems to have been a combination of things.' Franklin lifted one finger for each point. 'She's still mourning for her hubby and not having her own kid. She felt the single mums had ignored her warnings to change, which signalled horrific doom for society in her eyes. And she especially lost it because Christina hadn't stopped tarting around; it's not just one married bloke she's screwing.'
'Did Blyte really go on about Christina's tits?' Harty cupped two imaginary basketballs to his chest.
'Yep,' Franklin chuckled. He turned left towards Castlemaine and cruised under the speed limit. They'd patrol the highway for another ten or so kilometres before returning to town.
'How are Cathy and the bub?' his mate asked, too casually.
'Got a bit of a crush there, Harty?' Franklin observed his partner's flush and laughed. 'They're fine.'
They were quiet for a few moments, then the constable spoke. 'Did you freak out when she attacked Blyte? I mean, I get the idea of doing whatever it takes to snatch Tyson but then Cathy continued beating up Blyte, didn't she?'
'It was freaky but happened so fast. Cathy reckons she flipped. She only intended to disable Blyte and grab Tyson. But then, when she'd got the first strike in, she remembered all the stuff she'd learnt in a self-defence course. All the stuff she should've done during her rape.'
The men fell silent, reminded of the sexual assault on which the Daylesford team had been necessarily briefed. Franklin fancied his buddy reflected on the implications for future suitors. In his peripheral vision he saw a flash of emotion replaced by a grimace. Most likely Harty had reminded himself of his attached status.
Franklin forgot his mate as he recalled the young mother's broken voice. Her vulnerability as she revealed the rape to Blyte. Her pain at the older woman's scathing blame. With that type of prejudice in the community, Cathy's refusal to press charges made some kind of sense. Public scrutiny and cross-examination by a ruthless defence lawyer would be her 'second rape'.
He continued the conversation. 'With Blyte misjudging her, it cemented her idea that a lot of people hereabouts are gossiping about or even condemning her. It made her lash out. Mind you, Cathy was devastated when she found out she'd broken Blyte's front tooth and nose.'
'After what Blyte did to Tyson?'
Franklin nodded, his eyes fixed on the car ahead. He planted his foot, maintained twenty metres from its tail and clocked it at eleven clicks above the limit.
He flicked strobes and gave the siren a short yelp. The driver ignored him for sixty metres, then drifted to the verge.
Franklin approached the driver's side, face set. 'Are you aware that you were exceeding the speed limit?'
'Was I?' Georgie Harvey appeared surprised.
Franklin noted that preoccupation topped her usual cockiness but said, 'You know it. Licence?'
He held out his palm, received and checked her plastic card. 'Any reason for your excessive speed?'
She gave a slight shrug.
'Have you been caught speeding before?'
She looked up. A smile twitched her lips but didn't reach her eyes. 'I shouldn't tell you this. Yes, several times.'
'Why should I let you off, then?'
'Well, I've maxed out my demerit points and would lose my licence, which'd be a pain in the arse. But I don't have kids or an invalid mum to cart around. All I can say is, sorry. I really didn't realise I was speeding, didn't mean to and although I can't swear I won't ever reoffend, I'll try not to.'
Her frank response surprised him; his chuckle involuntary. While he chewed over his options, he switched track. 'Did you see Helena Watkowska yesterday?'
'Yeah.'
'You didn't call.'
She became edgy. 'Sorry, I need to go. I'll give you a bell later and fill you in. OK?'
'Where're you off to in such a hurry?'
'Sch -' She broke off. 'Castlemaine.'
He propped his elbows on the open window and eyed her sternly.
'All right. You go to Castlemaine and call me later
. I won't give you a ticket, this time. But if anybody on the Daylesford team catches you again, look out.'
Georgie touched his forearm. It shocked his senses. 'Thanks.'
'Whatever. Just be careful. Too many people think, "It can't happen to me" and I end up having to knock on their family's door to give them the worst possible news. Unless you've got a death wish, don't speed.'
'Yessir,' Georgie mocked.
'I mean it. You've got to think of the consequences of everything you do -'
'But you've got to live, don't you? Not as if you expect to die young, right?' she asked seriously.
'Everything OK here?' Harty interrupted as he approached the convertible.
'Yep,' Franklin replied, then said to Georgie: 'Take care, OK?'
She nodded, indicated and pulled away. Quickly but not excessively.
The cops watched her Alfa recede.
'What's she up to now?'
Franklin brooded. 'That's what I need to know.'
'You wanna follow her?'
'It'd piss her off and get us nowhere.'
'She must be in the area for a specific reason.'
A car whizzed by, filling the lapse.
Franklin contemplated Georgie's question on mortality and said, 'Yep. But what?'
Even another encounter with John Franklin barely registered in Georgie's psyche minutes later. Her focus was absolute, resolute.
It took her to a property with dirt roads on two sides: Rampage Road and One Mile Track. The neighbouring land was bare, raped by farmers or gold prospectors and a direct contrast with her destination. A large, secluded bush block, difficult to judge in size but upwards of twenty acres certainly.
Schlicht's driveway terminated at Rampage Road. Georgie looped past and parked at a lay-by adjacent to a creek about a ten-minute walk away.
Suddenly superstitious, she patted the Spider's hot bonnet and whispered, 'See you later, safe and sound.'
After she'd abandoned the car, Georgie felt conspicuous and vulnerable in the deserted countryside. A fluorescent hot-air balloon floating across the horizon wouldn't have stood out more.
She strode faster.
A section of Schlicht's barbed wire fence leaned towards One Mile Track. Georgie threw her bag on top to weigh it down and climbed over. Spikes dragged the skin under her jeans. She swore, then dashed for the nearest clump of trees.
She skidded on damp undergrowth. Legs split. Hands thrust forward to break the fall. Mouthful of dirt, skinned chin. Bruised pride, no major damage. She dusted herself and listened. Isolated birdcalls, occasional animal mutterings, nothing else. Not even a distant engine.
Georgie straightened. Was she mirroring Susan's movements? Of how long ago? Four, five days?
'What did you find, Susan? And where are you?' Her hushed words pierced the quiet.
She strained to scan the landscape.
Georgie approximated the direction of Schlicht's driveway and house. She trudged through scrub, blackberries, rocks and fallen tree limbs. Clouds and the gumtree canopy diffused the sunlight to a spooky gloom. As she extracted a pair of antique binoculars, she recalled with a brief twinge her dad handling them. The glimmer of a metallic object, perhaps a water tank or rooftop, caught her eye and she tramped another few hundred metres.
The next scan revealed a clearing. Georgie peered down on a four- or six-car garage, which obscured a house and twin water tanks. She dropped to her belly and slithered to a better vantage point.
Natural bush ended at the tall cast iron fence that circled the house block. Inside the compound, the grass was high and clumpy and gravel driveway potholed. White pillars and a sweeping external staircase adorned the faux-Georgian rendered brick residence - all it lacked were stone lions. The garage sat right-angled to the main building. The place looked deserted or at least neglected.
Drizzle fell.
Georgie's eyelids closed.
She deliberated the next move.
A dog - no, more than one - erupted into barks. She jerked alert. Car doors slammed. She centred the binoculars. Saw a great dane and white pig dog straining against tethers attached to the house. The dogs leaned for the four-wheel drive utility at the entrance.
Georgie ran the sights over the ute. A Ford F150.
Battered. Black.
She adjusted the focus.
Familiar.
Her stomach knotted. She'd seen that ute last week. After her first visit to Margaret Pentecoste's home, it'd played leapfrog with a Skyline between Ballarat and Daylesford. Only now, it was obvious they'd tailed the Spider.
She gulped. Acid burned her guts.
The ute had also tailgated her yesterday as she'd returned from Helena Watkowska's. Had Schlicht's henchmen stalked her on other occasions? Seen every place she'd been? Followed her home?
She flinched as her mind fired.
Helena may have conspired with the F150 driver. Or, on the flipside, she'd been forced to explain Georgie's visit and faced consequences for helping her.
She shook her head. No, they wouldn't dare rough up the boss's wife, especially with his release imminent.
A gruff bellow silenced the dogs. They dropped to their haunches.
Two men exited the house. The first guy was a rotund baldy. His buddy was scrawny but otherwise nondescript. Both Caucasian.
She'd definitely seen the first one before. Behind the ute's wheel. Anywhere else?
They departed with a skid of gravel.
Georgie evaluated her choices.
Leave. Contact Franklin and suggest he get a warrant to check Schlicht's place. To find what, though? On what grounds? That Susan might have been there.
Option two: complete a tour of Schlicht's property, retrace Susan's steps and hope for a clue to her current location.
The thugs would be out a while.
'No brainer.' Georgie stamped out cramps in legs and butt and scrambled down to the clearing.
The dogs exploded into intruder-bark. She ignored them; easier done than shaking the guttural voice inside her. Get out, get out, get out. The chant swelled with each step.
Close now, she muttered, 'While the cat's away, huh?'
The Iceman would be irritated by neglect to the lawn and the weeds that choked the driveway. But he'd be ropable over his boys' slipshod security. They'd left the gates wide open, rendering useless the high fence intended to deter intruders.
She tried to channel that into a good omen but grew more pensive with each step.
The front door provided little resistance to a twist and push. Georgie froze. Would there be an active alarm system?
She risked it.
The living room with its once-posh furniture stank. Bags of putrid rubbish spilled over. Feet or fists had perforated the plaster walls. She saw pizza cartons growing fur, smoke discolouration to paintwork and carpet stains; even a dog's turd in the corner. Georgie gagged, pinched her nostrils and did a rapid search of the rest of the house.
Schlicht's opulent home would need major work before his release, thanks to his pals. On the upside, there was no sign of Susan or Roly Pentecoste.
Outside, Georgie gulped fresh air. She killed a few moments, then skirted the great dane and headed for the garage.
She edged open the side door and crept through.
Wall one: a selection of tools, oils and fluids; a couple of jerrycans alongside a messy bench.
She scanned clockwise. Took in a pearl-white XJ6 Jag-Daimler - the means of Bigagli's murder.
Her gaze flicked over a Corvette shell and one empty berth. She halted at the other occupied car space. Large shape, shrouded in a dust cover.
Georgie held her breath. She grasped the front-centre of the cover. Inched it upwards. Speed-read the number plate.
'Ah. Fuck.'
Her hips swayed and her legs began to shake. She needed to be sure. She tugged off the cover; double-checked the make and model.
Susan's Landcruiser.
She tried the handle: locked. Afraid
, she peered inside. Empty.
Clumsy hands retrieved her mobile and dialled a number.
The phone pipped and cut out.
Zero service. Zero help.
Her breaths shallow, she couldn't fill her lungs.
Pam Stewart's earlier plea resonated. Bring her back, Georgie.
A tear streaked Georgie's cheek.
I'm too young yet to lose my best friend, Pam had said.
I'm so bloody sorry, Pam. This doesn't look good.
Georgie's body quaked. Her blood turned glacial. Teeth chattered. Feet embedded into the ground.
'Mate, you're driving me insane.'
Franklin glanced at Scott Hart. He followed his glare to the steering wheel. Noted his fingernails drumming it and grimaced an apology.
'If you're so worried about Georgie, why don't we go to Castlemaine? We're nearly halfway.'
'And look where, Harty? She's had a huge head start and could be anywhere.'
A tension headache pulsed and Franklin rubbed his temples. His eyes tracked a car as it snaked the highway. It was silver, the new white for cars, and merged with the gunmetal sky. The bleak outlook amplified the clenching in his guts.
'It's gotta be better than doing nothing,' Harty insisted.
Franklin planted his foot. With a glimpse forward, then in the rear-view mirror, he overtook a motorcyclist.
'You're right. Something tells me we've got to find her. Now.'
Sensation finally returned to her legs. Fear of discovery overrode all else. Survival instinct kicked in.
Georgie faltered outside Schlicht's garage. The most direct route was the driveway. But if the thugs turned up she'd be dead. It seemed sensible to retrace her steps through the bush. Sensible but protracted. She looked in the opposite direction and caught a glimpse of metal. If it was the neighbour's roof, it presented the safest exit.
If. If. Too many ifs.
She pushed through the undergrowth. Stumbled, hauled herself upright and levelled with broken tips on a shrub.
Here, there, she spied torn foliage. She crept forward, followed a corridor of damage. The wounds in the brush were clean, bright, recent. How recent? Today? Yesterday?
Tell Me Why Page 27