Harum Scarum (10 page)

‘Where are my clothes?’ he demanded.

‘Where you left them.’

‘In your wardrobe, but they’re not there now. I’ve never seen such a mess, I’m surprised you can ever find anything in it—talk about the bloody black hole of Calcutta.’

Stevie tasted some soup from the wooden spoon. ‘Then they must be at your place. Or in your car.’

‘This is crazy, this whole situation is fucked.’

She slid the saucepan off the hotplate and turned to face him. ‘Then maybe you should go home. We can try for a rerun tomorrow night.’

Monty stared at her for a moment, then his shoulders suddenly dropped. ‘I’m hungry. And that smells good.’

She gave him a nonchalant shrug, kept her smile to herself.

He moved over to the soup pot and took a sample from the spoon. Then another. ‘It is good,’ he said, ‘but it needs more salt.’

‘Then hand me the salt and grab us both a beer while you’re at it.’

Monty’s mood improved as they ate. She told him about the new babysitter, Emma Breightling, and what a hit she’d been with Izzy. He even laughed when she described how the girl looked. ‘Sounds like a female version of Harry Potter,’ he said.

‘Harriet Potter aged thirteen, going on fifty.’

He was as good as he was likely to get, she decided; it was time to broach the topic. ‘Mrs Kusak rang me a couple of hours ago. She wants to make an official complaint about Tash.’ She lowered her voice half hoping he wouldn’t hear her. ‘She was in quite a state, almost hysterical.’

Monty clattered his spoon into his empty bowl and jumped to his feet. It didn’t take much of a change in the wind to turn a controlled burn into a raging inferno. ‘So now Natasha’s gone AWOL. That’s just bloody marvellous!’

May as well cut to the chase now, Stevie thought, things couldn’t get any worse. She took a breath. ‘Mrs Kusak said Tash was intimidating, that she threatened her with violence if she found she was holding things back about her husband. Apparently she even showed her Bianca’s autopsy pictures, made her physically sick.’

‘Christ—would she really have done that?’ Monty pressed the heel of his palm into his eye.

‘I don’t know. She was a bit heavy handed with the guy we caught in the park the other day, I had to warn her off him.’ She gave him an airbrushed summary of the incident at the DNA tower.

‘You’ll have to have a talk with Mrs K,’ Monty muttered, already calming down. ‘See if you can persuade her to drop the complaint, or at least find out exactly what happened. And find Natasha and talk to her first. They’ll be two sides to this, there always are,’ he said.

‘I will. I’ll call on her at home again if I have to. And I’ve arranged to see Mrs Kusak in Mundaring tomorrow afternoon; I’m bound to have caught up with Tash by then.’

They cleared the table and did the washing up and made the fifty-year old kitchen as clean as it ever would be, though Stevie could still smell mouse in the cupboard under the sink.

She’d been planning on doing the house up ever since she’d bought the ‘renovator’s dream,’ but had become so used to the place now, the torn lino, the sagging floor and the rattling water pipes, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted a new house any more.

Monty picked up his keys from where he’d left them near the phone.

‘I’d better go,’ he said as he kissed her.

‘Really?’ She put her hand up the inside of his shirt.

‘I have no clean clothes for tomorrow and I have a meeting with the commissioner first thing.’

She felt goose bumps on his skin. ‘But you don’t need clothes now.’ The only thing she enjoyed about their rows was the make up afterwards.

Friday

Friday Terry answered the door of the Inglewood townhouse.

‘Stevie!’ he said, grabbing her and pulling her into a bear hug that almost squeezed the breath out of her body. He had no idea of his strength.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, so sorry,’ he said as she attempted to push him off. He let her go, blushed and stared at his feet. ‘I’m just happy to see you, that’s all.’

Stevie laughed, she’d only seen him the night before, but you’d think it had been years ago. He was looking 1950s smart in a nylon shirt tucked into high waisted trousers, his vinyl trainers with the Velcro tabs perfectly matched. He clung to the doorframe for balance and hefted up a foot. ‘New shoes,’ he said as the hot easterly wind lifted his thinning hair. He was five years older than his sister. ‘Tash bought me them.’

Stevie stooped to inspect. When she’d finished admiring them she said, ‘Off to work, Terry?’ She knew he loved the sheltered workshop he attended and never missed a day if he could help it.

He looked sad and shook his head. ‘Tash is sick. I have to stay home.’

‘That’s too bad. What’s the matter with her?’ Stevie asked.

Terry slapped himself on the head with a blow that could have knocked a lesser man down. ‘Mee-grain.’

‘Migraine?’ Stevie queried. ‘She hasn’t had one of those in ages.’ She gently pushed past his bulk. ‘Is she in bed?’ Without waiting for an answer she made her way down the short passageway and knocked on Tash’s bedroom door.

‘No visitors, no noise, no light,’ Terry said as he lumbered after her, his enormous hands twisting with anxiety.

Stevie turned and placed a hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right; I know what she’s like when she has a migraine. I won’t stay long. I just need a quick word. Has she got plenty of water?’

Terry scratched his head.

‘Well, you go and get her a jug of water—from the tap, no ice, and a glass. And better grab a warm flannel for her head.’

It took a while for her instructions to sink in. Terry was a sensitive soul, easily upset and she knew they couldn’t talk shop in front of him. She hoped the task would keep him occupied long enough for her to have a private word with his sister.

The curtains in the room were closed, but enough light leaked through the cracks to produce a dim visibility. The small mound on the bed stirred as she approached.

‘I’m sorry Stevie, I should have rung, but this is a bad one,’ Tash gingerly rolled over, in obvious pain.

Stevie could barely hear her, and sat close on the edge of the bed.

‘I was sick as a dog last night. Vision like an out of tune TV—the works,’ Tash continued. ‘I tried to get Terry to call you, but you know what he’s like with phones.’

‘Have you had your pills?’

‘I have now.’ Tash indicated to the prescription medication on her bedside table with a limp hand. ‘But I didn’t have my pills when it started yesterday. If I’d taken them when it began on my way to see Mrs Kusak, I could’ve nipped this thing in the bud.’

Stevie thought for a moment. Should the shit hit the fan, the migraine might work in Tash’s defence. She would attempt to discover the facts from Mrs K then hopefully smooth over the offence caused. It made sense that the migraine attack would account for irritability and, with any luck, memory loss too.

The room was hot and airless. ‘Do you want me to put the air conditioner on? It’s going to be a stinker of a day.’

Tash shook her head as if it was only held onto her neck by a thread. ‘Too noisy.’

It was pointless trying to question her now. The stress of Mrs Kusak’s accusation would only increase her headache. ‘Just take whatever time you need. Ring me when you’re ready to come back,’ Stevie said.

A smile flickered at Tash’s mouth. ‘Don’t worry, Terry will look after me.’ She managed to raise the volume of her voice. ‘Just make sure you get that prick of a child killer, okay?’

The sound of shattering glass at the doorway made them both jump. Tash groaned and put her hand to her head. ‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Stevie said, ‘I’ll deal with it, but I’ll have to put the light on so cover your eyes.’

Stevie flicked the switch and Tash groaned again. Terry had already dropped to his knees and was scrabbling through the broken glass and water in a futile attempt to clean up. He cried out to Stevie and held up a finger dripping with blood.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll clean it up,’ Stevie said, trying to pull him to his feet, away from the mess.

‘My shoes,’ he moaned. She looked at his feet. One of the trainers was splashed with scarlet, as if it had been dipped in a can of red paint.

With her softly-softly approach to Mrs Kusak clearly thought out, and a plausible explanation for Tash’s behaviour, Stevie’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel and she began to enjoy the drive to the hills. She turned the volume of the police radio down and the golden oldies station up. Leaving the last of the traffic lights behind in Midland, the road took on a more countrified appearance. She passed a bloated kangaroo lying on the gravel shoulder, shredded truck tyres next to it, curling in the sun. The external temperature recorded on the dash was 41 degrees. She turned up the air conditioning.

Properties became larger, gardens browner except in those where windmills marked the locations of dams or bores and where the owners allowed themselves the luxury of a small patch of green. At Mundaring townsite she turned off the highway; Mrs Kusak lived somewhere along Weir Road.

A throaty Eartha Kitt song came on the radio and she increased the volume.

Most of the houses Stevie passed were small but the blocks large, many with cottage gardens and even the occasional white picket fence. She could picture herself living up here. It wasn’t the kind of country she grew up in, but she wasn’t ready to give up proximity to the city yet. They’d have chooks, a vegie patch; Izzy could have a pony and a dog.

Stevie began to warble along with the song—an old fashioned house and an old fashioned fence didn’t sound too bad at all.

But it was a bit far from the beach.

The crackle of static from the police radio intruded into her fantasy. She turned off Eartha and strained to hear. The male voice sounded young, inexperienced and panicky as he struggled to report the discovery at Mundaring Weir of a dumped four-wheel drive matching the description of Kusak’s.

Through the gabble she caught the code three-thirty-eight—sudden death, repeated several times. She was less than five minutes from the location, so she radioed in to tell the patrolman to stay where he was and wait for her arrival.

The blue and white police car was parked at the lookout next to an overflowing rubbish bin with a halo of flies. The heat wriggled up from the bitumen car park; it was the hottest time of day. She twisted behind to the back seat and reached for her peaked cap and heavy police vest and reluctantly put them on, then started to make her way down.

The track beyond the busted ‘No Vehicular Access’ sign was rough, but wide enough to take a vehicle—indeed, fresh tyre tracks made it clear she was at the right spot. Loose gravel and gumnuts rolled under her feet like ball bearings as she made her way down. The dirt between the bare-knuckle rocks was red from iron oxide, as if the earth had bled into it, the air still and weighted with the scent of eucalypt. It didn’t take long for the sweat to gather into cooling circles under her armpits. The heat sucked at her breath and soon all she could hear was her own laboured breathing.

A rustle from somewhere to her right.

She skidded to a stop.

Pebbles rolled and the humidity pressed.

A twig snapped.

She peered into the surrounding bush, saw nothing, not even the tremble of leaves. Whatever had made the snap was too big for a snake or a goanna. A country girl, Stevie knew the variety of noises the bush could make.

She took another step, slid a foot or two on the loose gravel and was forced to cling to a sapling for support else risk slithering the rest of the way down on her backside.

A scrap of blue and red fabric hanging from a prickle bush at the side of the track caught her attention. It could only have come from a checked shirt, and the bright colour told her it hadn’t been there long. A lucky find? Maybe it was. She teased it into a paper evidence bag and tucked it into one of her vest pockets.

Another sound, this time from the opposite side of the track. She whirled in time to catch the dying shiver of a nearby bush. Just a roo, she told herself as she rubbed the back of her neck, sticky with sweat and dust. Uneasy now, she continued down the track, spinning into sharp turns every now and then to surprise her phantom stalker.

With a sense of relief she rounded the curve at the bottom of the hill and found herself within a few metres of the four-wheel drive. The front end of the vehicle was concertinaed into a tree near the shoreline. The peaceful waters of the weir lapped at the fringe of rocks and sand. To her right she saw the old pumping station standing above the water on concrete pylons. Long abandoned, its small windows were boarded up with planks, though a new padlock glinted on its heavy wooden door.

There was no preamble from the tall, beet-faced constable who rushed over to her. ‘Oh Christ, Jesus,’ he spluttered. ‘Thank God you’re here, ma’am, the last ten minutes seemed like ten hours. Assistance is on its way, but I’m just glad you were so close.’

‘You shouldn’t have radioed in the three-thirty-eight, you use your phone for sudden death, remember?’

‘Shit, I’m sorry, wasn’t thinking.’

The fact that the probationer was alone in the patrol car in the first place was something else his superiors would no doubt be taking up with him. But Stevie had more than police procedure on her mind.

She gave him the barest nod and hurried over to the vehicle. It was an older model Toyota four-wheel drive, a ‘troop carrier’ with bench seats in the back to seat up to ten people. MDG 76X—this was it. Even from where she stood it was obvious to Stevie that the man in the driver’s seat was very dead.

‘You didn’t touch anything?’ she asked the constable.

‘You said to wait. I could see he was dead, nothing I could do. I only quickly checked the back to make sure there was no one else in it.’ The officer ran his palms down his pants and stuttered. ‘Look, you’re going to think I’m crazy, but...’

‘But what?’ she squinted at his nametag, ‘Constable Nagel.’ He looked hardly more than twenty.