by Jay Darby
He looked up into her pleading eyes. “All the joys of being, my children and grandchildren, I’ve had because he saved me that day. I’m forever in his debt, and I’d do anything he asked of me.”
“You’re serious?”
His jaw clenched, he nodded. “Anything...”
THIRTY TWO
Porter parked the Landcruiser in front of the Carinya residence at 5.30pm on Friday. As the sun sank into the horizon it caste a peach colored hue over the house. He and Lionel strolled towards the veranda and exchanged banter about the upcoming NRL game they planned to watch on TV. His team, the Dragons, were up against Lionel’s Rabbitohs.
Porter stopped, blinked rapidly in the fading light and tried to focus. Were his eyes playing tricks? Did Fred Klose really stand on the veranda near a pool of blood? Holding a…?
Porter ran up the stairs. “Bloody hell, what happened?”
Lionel shouted from behind, then stopped alongside him on the veranda.
Klose grinned. “Glad you guys returned from Broken Hill safe and sound, look what I came home to…” He held a severed cow’s head aloft in one hand. Flies clung to its’ glazed eyes. Black blood trickled from its’ tongue and splattered on timber.
Porter read the message that’d been written in blood on the front door. “City dogs – leave now, or die…Good to see the locals have finally welcomed us…” He sniffed the air. Smoke? “What time did you find this?”
“I stayed here all morning doing paperwork, then went out after lunch to look for Tommy,” Klose said. He tossed the cow’s head onto the gravel driveway. It rolled then stopped. “Lyn called me, around 2pm…?” His voice quivered. “She told me about Rhodesy, and that Tommy was at the mission. I was in town and dropped in here on the way out there. Lucky the fire hadn’t taken hold, and I got it under control. Pricks must’ve left minutes before I arrived...”
Lionel pushed the front door open. “Fire?” He ran inside.
Porter and Klose followed him down the hallway, into the kitchen. Porter inhaled smoke and coughed.
Lionel stopped with hands on head. He stared towards the fire-damaged office and staggered sideways into the kitchen table. He closed his eyes and pulled his hair.
Porter stepped into the office, towards the charred filing cabinet that had stored Carinya’s paperwork, careful not to fall through damaged floorboards. Piles of ash fell from each drawer as he opened them. “They targeted your files, Lio.”
“Can’t believe this...Evidence collected over five years…Gone.” Lionel kicked a chair out from under the table and dropped onto it. “You okay?” he asked Klose. “Didn’t burn yourself?”
Klose’s white t-shirt was covered in smoke stains, his sneakers were black with soot. He sat next to Lionel. “I’m all good, bud.”
Porter pushed a burnt desk into the corner of the office, used a sofa to cover a hole in the timber floor, then joined them at the table.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be alright,” Klose said to Lionel. “Bit of blood and fire won’t scare us off…You’ve made copies of your reports, right?”
Lionel’s chest deflated. “Never had time. They were the originals…” He cupped his forehead in two hands and stared at the floor. After a minute he raised his head, eyes wide, as though a revelation had slapped his face. “It’s fate, the wise men sending a sign that those reports were a waste of time. We must pursue the information regarding corrupt practices of the AWB and Crooked River police during the ’60s. That’s the path we’ll follow, and trust to lead us to success.”
Porter rubbed his chin. “I thought that after speaking to Ferguson we’d already agreed on that?”
“Yes, we did, but any doubts regarding putting all of our efforts into it, have been…” Lionel smirked as he glanced at the blackened office, “extinguished…”
Porter groaned. “Don’t give up your day job…”
Klose frowned. “I know you’ve already spoken to Lyn about Rhodesy, but did she tell you why she’d been at the mission?”
Lionel shook his head.
“Uncle Simpson’s dead. Drowned...”
“What? No?” Lionel’s forehead wrinkled, his face almost turned white. “Another one?”
Porter ground his teeth. Simpson hadn’t drowned on his own, he never went in the water. But who had motive to kill him? The same blokes who’d burned Lionel’s files and left the death threat in cow’s blood? Tommy Davis? Or others, who didn’t want him giving more information to John Rhodes?
“Tomorrow, after lunch, the three of us should head up Bunyip Hill and take a look around,” Porter said.
Lionel nodded. “Was thinking the same…What did Uncle Simpson tell John? What was he looking for up there?”
“Dunno, but he was murdered to stop him from getting to it,” Porter said. He turned to Klose. “You reckon you would’ve just missed the blokes who broke in…Were any cars going the other way as you came from town?”
“No, I’d say they went south when they left here, towards the mission.”
“Why didn’t they take the files and destroy ‘em elsewhere? Or just throw ‘em in our fireplace? These blokes are fair dinkum, no half measures…”
“Yep, the whole house could’ve burned down.”
Lionel faced Klose. “This fire needs to be investigated. Have you notified Inspector Barrett?”
“Barrett’s a moron…Said his crime scene staff aren’t here and he can’t call them back. Lyn said she’ll come out tomorrow and make a report. She’s not a happy camper right now…”
“Don’t blame her…” Porter said. “She told us Jim Thompson’s treating Rhodes’ death as an accident.” He flicked a hand towards the fire-damaged room. “Reckon he’ll call this one too…”
“Lyn will keep fighting, she’s tenacious,” Lionel said. “She’s demanding the Feds do a proper investigation into John’s death.”
“She’s already tried and failed,” Klose said. “Our boss promised her that he’d send a forensics crew over tonight. Not long after, Lyn got a call from Commissioner Watkins himself. Told her he supports Barrett’s decision and considers the case closed…”
Porter’s guts churned. A fellow cop had died in suspicious circumstances, and not one boss gave a flying fuck. “Unbelievable…”
Lionel tut-tutted. “Fred, we got juicy information out of Alec Ferguson today... And what’s very clear, after several deaths, this fire, and the not so subtle warning, is that we’re all in great danger…Dan wants to stay here with Carinya and is obviously not too concerned because he’s allowing his girls to visit, but you should consi--”
“That is bold, letting the girls come out here,” Klose said to Porter. “When?”
Porter sighed. “Haven’t told Jane the full extent of what’s going on, but did say it’s too risky…In typical fashion, she dismissed it and accused me of making excuses.” A vision of Jane entered his mind. She prodded his chest, her words echoed. “Stop me from coming to Crooked River, she said, and I’ll kill you myself.” He laughed. “They arrive next Friday arvo, for the weekend…That woman terrifies me more than these thugs ever will...”
The others laughed with him.
When the laughter stopped, Lionel frowned at Klose. “Dan and I can handle the investigation from this point on. It’s okay, if you want to leave?”
Klose scoffed. “You fucking serious? Local cops don’t give a fuck about finding the pricks who killed Rhodesy, but I do, and I’m staying on. Christ, Lio, why’d you even ask?”
“Sorry…Never doubted it, but had to give you a choice.”
Porter chuckled as he stood. “Alright you blokes, that’s enough man love for one day...Help us clean this office. Let’s open windows and get the smell out, we’ve gotta sleep in this house tonight.”
“Shit, forgot to tell you…” Klose said.
Lionel’s mouth gaped. “What now?”
“Broken Hill detectives called on the landline just before you got back…”
“And?
”
“You said Ferguson gave you good info. Well, it must’ve really got to him after you left...”
“How’s that?”
“His wife came home and found half his head blown off…Did himself in.”
Porter shook his head. “Nah, wasn’t suicide…This ‘organization’ he spoke of have left us in no doubt…They’re still active, powerful, and very deadly.”
THIRTY THREE
Bill Thompson drove his Range Rover towards Crooked River township on a straight, flat road. A half-moon hung in the star-speckled sky and shone an opaque light on the endless highway. His phone’s ringtone sounded through the car’s speakers, the Eagle’s played Hotel California. He slowed to 60km/h, glanced to the visual display on the dashboard, then pressed a button on the steering wheel to answer the incoming call.
“Hello, Kathleen,” he said. “I should be home by nine...Miss me, love?”
“You fucking pig of a man!” Kathleen’s high-pitched squeal blared through the speakers and reverberated throughout the car. “I know all about you…Got tired of your pathetic secrets and went searching for them.” She hiccupped. “I found your hidey hole, you sick, sick bastard!”
Bill winced and hesitated. “Kath, what the hell are you talking about? Pissed on Penfolds again, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you,” she screeched. “Fuck your family name and its’ history…What history? Where you manipulate others for your own good? I’ll destroy you, the way you’ve crushed me.”
He stopped on the side of the road. “Darling, calm down...We’ll discuss what’s bothering you when I get home.”
Her frantic gasps crackled through the speakers. “I’m calling Paul Burdett, to tell him what’s in your secret little room, about your fraud of a life. You can read his story in The Tribune…And don’t bother coming home. I hate you, Bill Thompson,” she slurred, “hate you...”
“You don’t mean that, love. Be home soon, we’ll talk then.”
He closed his eyes when she hung up, and took a deep breath. He opened them, searched his phone and selected the contact. The call connected.
“Where are you?” a male said.
Bill stopped shaking his head. “Forty-five minutes from home.”
“Been trying to reach you. Got some bad news today...”
“What, son?”
“Lionel Roberts and his team have made progress. Elders at the mission talked, and Carinya’s going after historical evidence. Might find enough for a Royal Commission…”
“You’re pulling my leg?” Bill raised his voice. “Christ, son, Carinya being here’s bad enough, but a royal fucking Commission. It would send us all broke…And we could say goodbye to investment in the new resort...”
“That would be a disaster, the town needs the money and jobs…Carinya might interview all of us? Even you?”
Bill grunted. “They can’t, son, I’m the fucking Mayor...Those boys are gamer than Ned Kelly, but getting too big for their boots. Porter’s a treacherous dog, and Roberts is just a cocky black kid who doesn’t know his place. I’ll take care of Carinya…Now listen, you once said you’d do anything to protect my reputation. Did you mean it?”
“I did.”
“Good, son, ‘cos I’ve got a job for you. Listen up…”
THIRTY FOUR
Most single women in Crooked River headed to the pub on Friday night to fight off brazen advances from horny jackaroos and drunken shearers. But Detective Lyn Foster sat at home watching ‘Pretty Woman’ for the hundredth time when Inspector George Barrett called. He told her to meet him at the Thompson homestead immediately, and didn’t say why.
As she drove there, she recalled seeing Kathleen Thompson in the bakery a fortnight ago. Kathleen’s over-sized sunglasses had failed to hide the yellow bruises around her eyes. Had Bill punched her too hard this time, and killed her?
At 10.05pm Lyn parked under the Thompson’s carport, next to Barrett’s car. Why was the crime scene unit’s van parked nearby? And why was Jim Thompson’s red ute there? A uniformed police officer guarded the front door and told her to enter at the rear of the house. She walked to the back, ducked under yellow crime scene tape, and climbed timber stairs to the screened veranda.
She found Barrett sitting on a recliner in the adjoining rumpus room. Her two girlfriends from the crime scene unit sat on a sofa and watched TV. She acknowledged them with a smile. Barrett stood and ushered her to the far side of the room. His hands trembled, his voice quivered. Kathleen Thompson was dead. He relayed what he’d been told.
Bill had arrived home from Sydney close to 9pm and had last spoken to Kathleen about an hour before that. She’d seemed tipsy on the phone, but okay. He came in via the rear veranda as he always did, and saw the screen security door had been cut and left ajar. He found Kathleen lying near the front door with severe head injuries, already gone. He’d called Barrett first, who’d rushed to the scene from home.
Barrett said he’d never seen Bill so distraught. Paramedics had treated him for shock, and he was now settled by the fire in the family room with Jim Thompson. The police chaplain consoled them.
Lyn followed Barrett to the entry foyer. Kathleen’s naked body lay in a shallow pool of blood. Her hair was tangled, as though it had been wet when she died. There was a towel on the floor next to her.
Barrett said the bloody footprints leading away from her were most likely Bill’s. Her depressed skull suggested she’d been struck several times with a blunt object. No murder weapon had been found, but the dog squad and others were still out searching the yard and surrounding paddocks.
He led her down a hallway. At the end, he pointed to a locked door, told her Bill’s darkroom was beyond it, then hurried into the master bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room and pointed to Kathleen’s empty jewelry box on the floor. Bill had told him she kept family heirlooms and other expensive pieces inside it. Four bottles of whiskey and cash from bedside drawers had also been stolen.
“I’ve no doubt theft was the motive,” Barrett said softly. “Tragically, Kath got in the way.”
Lyn watched a tear well in the corner of his eye. He and Kathleen Thompson had been close friends for many years, and according to police station gossip, might’ve once been lovers. She wanted to hate him, because he’d dismissed John Rhodes’ death as an accident and blocked Federal police from investigating it. But as she watched him crumble, she didn’t see an arrogant Inspector in his freshly pressed uniform and shiny shoes. She saw a shattered old man, who’d lost a loved one and needed to grieve.
“It’s okay, boss.” She rubbed the side of this shoulder. “Why don’t you take off? I’ve got this…”
He rubbed a bloodshot eye, his face flushed beetroot. “Tell anyone you saw me like this and you’ll be transferred to Timbuktu tomorrow.”
She smirked. “Timbuktu sounds nice compared to this place. If I’d known it’s that easy to escape, I would’ve spread nasty rumors months ago.”
“I’ll leave when I know how the search for the suspect’s panned out...”
“There’s a suspect?”
“A homeless Koori chap’s been coming here. Kath gave him whiskey and food.” He sighed. “Silly old girl, I warned her, but too stubborn to listen…He’s burgled a few homesteads, but this is his first use of force.”
“How did you learn about him?”
“I visited Kath this afternoon, saw him walking towards Bunyip Hill, and asked her who he was. Hopefully, the dogs will track him, and he’ll be locked up tonight.”
“Sounds promising…” She pictured John Rhodes winking at her, shuddered, then spoke her mind. “You’re using a lot of resources here. Noticed the crime scene girls have been called back to town...A shame you didn’t do the same for John Rhodes.”
Barrett scowled. “I’ll ignore your tone, Constable. Once. Because I like you, you’re a good worker.” His face relaxed. “Know your upset about Rhodes, but Jim’s my senior detective, and I have to trust his instincts.”
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“Instincts? I tend to favor a more scientific approach to homicide…Resources were available that could’ve proved the cause of death. Why’d you allowed Jim to write it off on a hunch?”
“The crime scene girls only got back an hour ago...And as I’ve already explained, won’t waste time and money on such an obvious accident.” His voice grew louder. “This tragic incident, however, is a definite homicide. And yes, I’ll utilize everything at my disposal to find Kathleen’s killer.”
She shook her head. “Thought you old-school cops prided yourselves on looking after your own? Why is John Rhodes different?”
Disgust filled his glare. “That matter is finalized, Constable. Understood?”
She bit her lower lip and avoided his eyes. “Sir. Understood...”
“Good…I’ll leave you to get on with it and have crime scene start their examinations. Anything else?”
“When can I take a statement from Bill? And won’t he, his shoes, and the clothes he was wearing need to be examined? I’d also like to check his phone’s call activity…”
“Oh...” Barrett’s forehead wrinkled. “Best I take care of all that later tonight or in the morning when he’s feeling up to it.” Before she could ask why, he said. “Bill’s hostile towards female officers. He’s always said they shouldn’t be in the job…”
She exaggerated her raised eyebrows, stepped past him into the hallway, and stopped in front of the darkroom. “What’s in here exactly, and where’s the key? We’ll need to look inside...”
“Bill said it’s always locked.” He dawdled down the hallway. “The intruder didn’t open it.”
“But Sir,” she called after him, “every room must be searched.”
He turned to face her. “Not that one…Now get to work Constable, and stop being such a pain in my arse.”
She waited until he was out of view, scoffed at his audacity to call Kathleen stubborn, then tried the door handle. Definitely locked. Could she force her way in without anyone knowing? Doubtful, and what would an intruder want with a darkroom anyway? Nothing of value to steal…