A Certain Malice (17 page)

“Vince? Surely you don’t think…”

“Just get on over there, Leanne, I don’t know what to think.”

He sounded harsh; he knew it. The pause at the other end of the phone told him she thought so too.

“OK,” she said, then took a deep breath. “Uh, what exactly should we say to him?”

“Tell him something’s happened at the school and we need his advice. Tell him it’s delicate, that I’m coming over to explain. Just keep him there and stop him from doing a runner.”

Cam replaced his phone just as Mrs Smithson reappeared with a bottle of water. After drinking half of it he poured the remainder over his head, scrubbing at his hair and face, grateful for the cool relief.

Jeffrey moved over to his wife and put his arm around her waist. “How’s Cecelia?” Cam heard him ask her.

“I think she’ll be all right. Ruth’s going to take her to the doctor.”

“Thank heavens for that,” her husband said.

Cam drank down the last drop of water then wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. He gestured to them with the empty bottle. “You can go back home now. There’s not much more we can do until morning,”

“I hope that’s not meant to be an order, Sergeant. I intend staying here until the last flame is extinguished,” Smithson said.

Cam could not stop himself from raising his eyes skyward. “Suit yourself.”

Anne Smithson gave her husband’s arm a squeeze. “There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s just leave it to the experts, Jeffrey.”

She pressed her mouth into a thin line and indicated with her eyes that it was time to go. He made a huffing sound and smoothed down his moustache. Finally conceding to his wife’s common sense, he nodded a curt goodbye to Cam and turned his back.

The couple moved off, arm in arm. As Cam watched their blurred silhouettes pass under the spotlight’s beam, some of the mystery, at least, became clear.

20

Leanne negotiated her way down the dark gravel driveway to Pete’s rented farm cottage. She could see him silhouetted in the doorway, tucking in his uniform shirt. He waved and walked over to the passenger side, filling the police Commodore with the odours of cigarette smoke and pine scented shower gel.

He grinned as he fastened his seat belt. “You didn’t have the siren on, did you, Leanne?”

“Siren? Don’t be a dumb-arse, Pete.” Leanne had let her neighbour’s kid give the siren a quick blast just before she’d left home. She’d figured the wondrous expression on the small boy’s face was worth the flak she’d get from Pete if he found out.

“I thought I heard it in the distance.”

“This is hardly an emergency.”

“That’s what I thought. Why does the old man want us to check up on Vince anyway?”

“Because of the fire at the school. He thinks Vince might have done it to get rid of the photos that proved he moved the body at the crime scene.”

Pete gave a snort of disbelief. “Vince wouldn’t do anything that dumb.”

“Best to cover all options, I guess.”

“Jeez, you’re even beginning to sound like him.”

Leanne aimed for a pothole and savoured the snapping sound of his teeth. After orchestrating some more jarring bumps she turned back on to the bitumen.

“I hate the way you call him the old man. It really bugs me.”

Pete rubbed his jaw. “Why? Because you have a crush on him? Because me calling him old man reminds you that he’s old enough to be your father?”

Leanne screwed up her face and hissed her annoyance at him.

“It’s obvious, Leanne. Don’t deny it.”

“Shut up.” In a softer voice she added, “What would you know anyway?”

“Only that you look at him just like the girls at school used to look at me. You follow him around with your tongue on the ground, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.”

She caught his smirk in her peripheral vision and went in for the kill. “Yeah,
used to
look at you. Doesn’t happen much these days, does it? Failure’s kind of a dampener to the old love life, eh, Pete?”

She regretted the words as soon as they’d left her mouth. Pete had been a star WAFL player and was really going places until he did his cruciate in. He’d been chewing himself up over it for the last two years, and here she was, rubbing in the salt. God, she was a bitch sometimes.

“Sorry Pete, I didn’t mean that.” She took her eyes from the road and risked a quick glance at him. “You’re not a failure, you just had some bad luck, that’s all.” Her face broke into a grin. “You’re such a cocky bastard; someone has to put you down every now and then.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Leanne.” He smiled back. “Anyway, I know something about your hero that I’ll bet you don’t know. I’ll tell you if you’re nice to me.”

Leanne risked him another glance. “Go on, tell me. I’ll be nice.”

“I was having a drink in Toorrup the other week, catching up with a mate who’d spent some time over east. He’d heard of our Sergeant Fraser, seems he was a detective in Sydney.”

“Yeah, I heard that too. His wife and kid were killed instead of him, yada yada yada, that’s old news.”

“Maybe, but when he sprung the bikie gang, he was undercover. They don’t usually like cops with families to go under cover. Sometimes they have to go under for months.”

“So, what are you getting at?”

“He was undercover because he volunteered, that’s why. He begged for the job apparently.”

“Shit.” After some thought she added, “Kind of puts things in perspective doesn’t it?”

“You mean stop whinging and get on with things?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said softly. “I just believe that when one door closes, another opens. I mean now you can’t play footy any more, you’ve taken up all that reading and studying and you’re doing really well - you’ll probably be commissioner one day. You’d get a lot more out of that than kicking a bag of air around an oval.”

“You’re a brick, Leanne.” He sounded like he meant it.

Leanne pulled up outside Vince’s street. As they got out of the car, a dog barked from a garden several houses down; otherwise the neighbourhood was quiet. Vince’s old Falcon was parked on the road outside his house. Leanne leaned a hand on the bonnet as she passed by.

“Cold?” Pete asked.

“Yeah.”

They walked the concrete slabs to Vince’s front door. The fly screen was closed but the door open. Silver flickers and muted sounds of the TV came from the living room.

Pete rapped on the flimsy frame of the fly screen. “Hey, Vince,” he called, “It’s Pete and Leanne. We need to have a talk with you.”

There was no answer, only the computerised roar of a TV audience.

“Maybe he’s in the shower,” said Leanne, stepping back from the porch to view the front of the house. “There’s a light on in the bedroom.” The curtains were drawn. She tapped on the window.

“He might be asleep. I don’t fancy the idea of waking him up,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

“Wow, I feel so safe now.”

Pete pushed the flyscreen and it closed behind them with a crack. He reached for the light switch and called out again but there was still no answer. Any minute now Leanne expected a drunken Vince to come charging out at them, draped in a towel, or worse, nothing.

They glanced around the empty living room then walked towards the closed bedroom door. Leanne gave it a gentle tap and gingerly turned the knob. She saw a bare mattress and some discarded clothes on the floor. Pete stretched over her and pushed the door fully open, then walked with a John Wayne swagger to the only other thing in the room, a small freestanding wardrobe. He pointed to the closed wardrobe door and placed a finger to his lips.

Leanne giggled, whispering, “He’d hardly be in there, moron.”

He scowled. “We’ve got to be thorough,” he said as if he wanted to hear her laugh again. He made his hand like a gun and pointed to the wardrobe. “We know you’re in there, Vince. Come out with your hands up.”

With a melodramatic flourish he flung the door wide, and the hinges made a splintering sound. He looked at Leanne and pulled a face. Her hand went to her mouth when he tried without success to jam the lopsided cupboard door back.

“Vince is going to kill you for that, Pete.”

He shrugged.“He’s not to know we were even here. He’s probably just walked to the pub to drown his sorrows. We ’ll have one more look around, go there next.”

They searched the remainder of the house and the tiny backyard: no sign of Vince. Pete took out his phone to report back.

“Wait on a minute, Pete. We haven’t checked the garage,” Leanne said, moving towards a door off the lounge room. Pete gave an impatient sigh and followed.

The smell hit her as soon as she opened the door. She took a step back.

“Yuck. He must have some burst pipes, either that or his septics…”

Pete gripped Leanne by her shoulders and swung her away from the open door.

“It’s not the pipes,” he said softly, reaching for the light switch. He drew in a sharp breath. “Oh sweet Jesus.”

21

The fire unit arrived, lights flashing and siren wailing. The sight and sound bored into Cam’s aching head like a dental drill. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and watched with alarm as the four-wheel drive mounted the curb and charged across the lush lawn, churning up turf like a deranged lawnmower until it came to a halt several metres from where Cam was standing.

The cavalry had arrived.

Cliff turned off the noise. He and Angelo jumped from the vehicle before Cam could close the distance between them.

“Wait on a minute, guys,” Cam said, indicating for them to slow down. “No need to go charging off like a bull at a gate.”

Cliff stopped and turned. “I don’t need some city cop telling me how to do my job.” The spotlight shone at an angle across his face, casting one side in shadow.

Cam shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Cliff leaned into the fire vehicle and snatched his yellow helmet from the dash. He was wearing his heavy fireman’s boots; his Uggs lay on the floor on the passenger side next to a water bottle and a six-pack of beer.

“Be prepared,” Cam said, not hiding his sarcasm. Angelo turned away and smiled.

Cam tried to tell Cliff what had happened, trotting to keep up with the big man’s giant steps. But as they approached the smouldering ruins, he was forced to hold back as renewed contact with the poisonous fumes irritated his already sensitive lungs. As he doubled over into a fit of coughing he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sergeant Fraser, are you OK?” Angelo asked.

“Yes, I’m fine now.” He felt as if he’d just coughed up a lung. “I think that’s the last of it.”

He straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pointed to the bear-like figure at the ruins. “I was trying to tell Cliff to be careful. There could still be explosive substances in there. Even a small flame could set them off.” He shrugged, letting out a painful breath.“Well, he’s supposed to be a fireman, I guess he knows what he’s doing.”

“He gets excited sometimes. When he’s wired up like this he thinks he can take on the world. It’s just about impossible to tell him anything.” The boy’s hand unconsciously moved to his face where his fingers probed his bruised eye.

“We’d better go and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid then,” Cam said.

They picked their way over the pieces of smouldering chipboard, floorboards, glass and mangled metal. The floor of the prefab was still more or less intact except for the area to the far left where the chemicals had been stored and where the explosion had originated. Here, it was no more than a jagged crater with branches of twisted steel joists rising from its epicentre. Pieces of floorboards, still shimmering orange with the heat, radiated from the hole like the glowing petals of a flower.

Cam didn’t venture closer, though Cliff and Angelo in their protective gear were bolder. They kicked at the debris, assessing the danger: carefully, Cam hoped. The remaining flames seemed benign enough, but it wouldn’t take much of a breeze for them to rekindle and threaten the other school buildings.

Cam walked back to the fire unit with Cliff, who radioed base to say no backup was required. The big man’s initial excitement had eased now he realised it was only a mop-up job. The scowl on his face suggested all he wanted to do now was get the job done and go home to bed.

Overcome with a sudden weariness himself, Cam shuffled over to a nearby tree and sank to the ground. The moon was full, the stars no more than pale pinpricks. He leaned back against the tree, feeling the damp of a light evening dew seep through the seat of his jeans. The gentle fingers of a breeze ruffled his hair and provided a welcome cool to his face, helping him fight the desire to close his eyes. He followed the actions of the fire team as they carried out the same well-practised ritual they’d performed at Sunday’s bushfire.

As Cliff unwound the hose, he yelled to Angelo to turn the pump on. His orange overalls were unbuttoned to the waist and his muscles rippled under the artificial light. His yellow helmet glowed, the visor reflecting a star of light under which his black beard bristled. He adjusted the nozzle of the hose and yelled again at Angelo, who was still looking at the ruins. He made no move towards the pump, but shouted something back at Cliff.

Cliff threw the hose down and stalked towards his spiky-haired apprentice. Cam hauled himself to his feet and followed. The dynamics of the fire team had become interesting.

He watched the big man approach Angelo.

“Are you deaf or something? What the hell is your problem, boy? You trying to be a smart-arse again?” Cliff bawled.

“Cliff, it’s different this time, this is really dangerous,” Angelo said.

Angelo spotted Cam walking up behind his boss. Their eyes briefly met. When he turned back to Cliff his voice was less hesitant.

“There’s all sorts of dangerous stuff in that mess,” Angelo said. “Electrical cables, too. We’ve got to turn the mains off before we spray or we’ll be fried.”

Cliff ripped off his helmet, threw it to the ground and stepped closer. Cam moved to stand by the young man’s side.

“I guess you don’t get too many residential fires way out here. Probably never even had one. It’s an easy enough thing to forget,” Cam said.