Jill Jackson - 04 - Watch the World Burn (14 page)

‘Don’t forget, today’s the last day I can drop you round here, Luce,’ said Troy, as they pulled up in front of the grey house on Tramway Street. ‘And while I’m at work, I want you home, okay? It’s bad enough I have to worry where Chris is all the time – I’m not going to be stressing about you all night too.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Lucy.

‘So if Mona can’t come and study with you at our flat, you’ll just have to go it alone.’

‘I get it, Troy. Sheesh. You act like you’re my big brother or something.’ She punched him in the arm. ‘Look – your best friend’s leaving for work.’

Troy turned and watched the garage door rising. A Toyota Liteace backed out. Fuck. Caine. He rolled his car a little further forward so he wasn’t blocking the driveway. Please, let the prick just keep going. Troy didn’t know how he was going to speak to this guy with the suspicions he had.

The van pulled over at the curb behind him, and from his rear-view mirror Troy saw the driver’s door open. Caine stepped out, smiling.

Lucy watched her brother’s face and laughed. ‘Oh my God, he can’t be that bad, can he?’ she said.

Well, that’s what I’d like to know, Lucy.

She got out of the car as Caine walked towards his window.

‘Call me when you’re done,’ he said to his sister. He watched her walk through the gate, then buzzed his window down.

‘She’s a good kid, isn’t she?’ said Caine, bending to speak through the window, one hand on the car, the other shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun.

‘Very,’ said Troy.

‘It’s a comfort to know she’s in there with Mona at this time. Poor kid’s still so upset.’

‘You’re back to work then?’ said Troy. ‘I guess you have to get on with things at some stage after something like this.’

‘Yeah. I went back on Monday. My mother wouldn’t have wanted me lying around doing nothing.’

‘Mmm. I’m back tomorrow. The crime scene is done, over at the restaurant.’

‘They’ve had it shut down this long?’ asked Caine. ‘It’s a week tomorrow. Bloody Australian police. Bet they’re the slowest investigators in the world. Oh, sorry, mate. Forgot you were a cop.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Troy. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether you’re right about these guys.’

‘Told you they’d come up with nothing,’ said Caine. ‘Sometimes things just aren’t explainable. Terrible accidents can happen. My mother probably spilled something on herself before we left for dinner. I’ve got all sorts of solvents in there, and you could see she’s a clean freak. She must have got too close to a naked flame, and boom. A terrible accident. Not everything is a bloody conspiracy, is it, Troy?’

‘Not everything,’ said Troy.

‘Idiots came over the other day trying to tell me my mother’s death was related to the detective’s, Hutchinson’s.’

‘Yeah, I heard.’

Caine snorted. ‘Anyway,’ he said, thumping once on the door, ‘I’d better get moving. Make some money.’

‘Righto,’ said Troy. ‘Have a good one.’

He waited for Caine to drive past him, gave him a wave, and then pulled a U-turn across the street. He drove back down Tramway Street, and turned left on Botany Road towards the Mascot shops. Rather than stay on Botany Road, however, he pulled into a side street and waited ten minutes, watching the traffic, then he got out of his car. He went into a milk bar and bought a carton of vanilla milk and a packet of Twisties. He took them back to the car and ate them. When half an hour had gone by, he pulled back onto Botany Road, and made his way back towards Tramway Street. He drove straight past Caine’s road and took the next left. He parked the car near a walk-through alley and got out.

Troy took the alley back to Tramway Street. Nothing moved on the dispirited road. Even the few trees were still, exhausted in their attempts to cheer the lifeless region. He crossed the road to the little grey house, stepped over the fence and knocked on the front door.

Mona cracked the door and stared at him from black-rimmed eyes.

‘Mona, hi. Sorry, I’ve been a dick. Can I come in?’ he said.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘I ... uh ... I locked myself out of my car. Over at Mascot. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind me having a look for something that’ll get me back into the car.’

‘We don’t have anything like that.’

Troy gave a quick laugh. ‘You’d be surprised. I know just what I need – something flat and thin, a piece of packing strap would do, or a wire coathanger.’

‘Who is it, Mona?’ Troy heard Lucy from behind the door.

‘Your brother,’ said Mona, swinging the door open.

‘Hey, Troy. What’s up?’ said Lucy.

‘Locked the keys in the car,’ he said.

‘What? Where?’ asked Lucy.

‘Mascot shops. Look, girls, is it okay if I come in and try to find something to get me in the car?’

Lucy and Mona stepped aside.

‘He’ll find something quickly; don’t worry about it, Mona,’ said Lucy. ‘I remember about five years ago we had an even crappier car than we have now. I could never get into it without waiting for Troy to unlock it from his side.’

‘The passenger lock was broken,’ said Troy.

‘Shit car,’ said Lucy. ‘Anyway, one day I left my schoolbag on the front seat, even though Troy had always told me not to, and someone broke in to get it.’

‘Wrecked the driver’s lock too,’ said Troy.

‘So for about six months, we had to break into the car every day just to get into it. Troy taught me how to do it and I’d be in after about thirty seconds. I was faster than Chris.’

‘There’s a sweet spot,’ said Troy.

Mona rolled her eyes and turned away.

Troy bent his head to whisper to his sister, ‘Friendly girl.’

Lucy gave a crooked smile. ‘Why didn’t you call for road service, anyway?’ she said.

Mona glanced back over her shoulder.

‘I did,’ he said. ‘They told me it’d be an hour wait. It was a five-minute walk back here, so I figured I’m better off this way.’

Mona waited in the kitchen, arms folded. Troy walked to the kitchen drawers, opened each and searched through.

‘Nothing here,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you girls get back to work, and I’ll give you a call when I’ve found something.’ ‘Come on, Mona,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m going back to it. After these summaries, I’ve got an assignment to finish.’ Lucy walked down the hall.

Mona didn’t move. ‘What did you say you’re looking for?’ she asked.

‘Just something flat and flexible,’ said Troy. ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’

‘I’ll have a look around,’ said Mona. ‘You stay here.’

Mona left the room and Troy quietly opened the back door. He’d spotted the shed from the kitchen window the last time he was here. He crossed the scrap of back lawn quickly, but even from here he could see the padlock on the door. Huge. He rattled it anyway in frustration. He didn’t know what he hoped to find on Caine, but he knew that he wanted to get a better look into his life.

The shed was a two-by-three-metre Colorbond box. Troy moved around its perimeter towards the back fence. The corridor between fence and shed was striped with shadow. He sidled through, and there it was – a window. But it was installed too high up in the wall to see into the shed. Troy whipped his head around, searching for something to stand on. There – a milk crate near the clothesline. He dashed across the yard, picked the crate up and ran back; then he used it to step up high enough to see through the sliding double-window. But with the last of the daylight quickly evacuating the space between the fence and the shed, details of the interior were hidden from him. Troy could make out boxes and shapes, but nothing clearly. He grunted in frustration and tried to wipe the dusty window. It moved.

Without another thought, Troy slid the window open and boosted himself up into the space. On his belly on the windowsill, his legs in the yard, his head and chest in the shed, he wondered what the fuck to do next. The drop was too high to fall hands-first. He’d break his neck. He rocked in the window a moment, and then eyed the boxes to his left. He inched his way forwards, scraping his belly over the edge of the sill, trying to balance like a fulcrum with his hands against the shed wall. When he was in up to the hips, he swung his legs hard to the right, propelling the top half of his body to the left. His arms splayed against the wall, he tried to regain balance, but he was leaning too far forwards. He felt himself sliding. Troy scrabbled with his hands down the wall as he fell. Through his jeans, the windowsill carved into his knees and shins, and he stifled a cry. The floor coming up at him, Troy hooked his ankles at the last moment against the windowsill, slowing his momentum, and managed to swing himself to the left. He came down on the edge of a box, hard on his shoulder, feeling something give.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he muttered, rolling over to sit on the floor. He clasped his hands behind his neck and pulled his elbows into his head. ‘Fucking
ow,’
he said into his lap. He stretched his neck carefully, grimacing, and peered to his left. The corner of the cardboard box he’d landed on was crumpled, but it had stayed upright. There was definitely something harder than him in there. Gingerly, he rolled over onto his knees and pulled at the top flap of the box. He lifted a heavy plastic container from the box, and with the last of the light in the shed, he read the label: CH
₃
OH. Methyl alcohol. Huh.

Troy let the bottle slip back into the box. He stayed on his knees and felt about in the near dark. More boxes, more bottles, other shapes in the corners of the shed.

Suddenly, he dropped to his stomach. The clank of the padlock at the door. With the sound for cover, he pulled himself forward on his belly, into deeper shadow. He rolled over to watch the door opening, his blood rushing in his ears. Could it be Caine?

It was Mona. She stood peering in, silhouetted in the late afternoon light. From here he could see her black boots, tights, tartan miniskirt and the bottom of her black T-shirt. He could not see her face. Could she see him? Should he stand? What would he say? If she’d spotted him from the house, walking around the shed, she might have wondered where he’d got to. He was pretty certain she wouldn’t have imagined he’d climbed in here – only a lunatic would do that. But if he stood up now, he’d scare the hell out of her, and she’d tell her father. He stayed where he was. If he was caught, he was caught, on his feet or on his arse.

Mona stepped further into the shed. Troy held his breath. After a few shuffling movements, however, the space became fully dark as Mona left, pulling the door closed behind her. Troy heard the key turning in the heavy padlock.

He felt a moment of claustrophobia. Locked in, in the dark.

It’s the same shed it was a moment ago, you idiot, he told himself. And there’s a window open behind you. Troy reached up to the window with both hands. There was no point being in here a minute longer – Lucy and Mona would be wondering where the hell he was, and he couldn’t see anything in here, anyway.

Fortunately, getting out was a lot easier than getting in. He pulled himself up onto the windowsill and used the back fence to negotiate his way back into the backyard. He dashed across the yard to the back door.

Lucy opened it, arms folded. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Looking for something to break into the car,’ he said. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’

‘I think you’re running across the backyard like you’re in a spy movie. Are you hearing voices?’

Even with his heart still hammering, Troy had to smile. ‘You’re an idiot, Lucy.’

Mona walked into the kitchen holding a blue nylon packing strap. ‘Is this what you mean?’ she asked.

‘Perfect,’ said Troy. ‘Where’d you find it?’

‘The garage,’ said Mona. ‘But I thought there might have been something in the shed.’

Troy met her eyes. She held the stare. Finally, he dropped his eyes to the strap in her hand, reached out and took it.

‘Well, anyway. Thanks, girls,’ he said. ‘Sorry to have been such a pain in the arse. Give me a call when you’re ready to come home, Luce.’

He left the kitchen and made his way out of David Caine’s house.

‘Jill. It’s for you,’ said Layla. ‘Gabriel someone.’

Jill rocketed up from her bed, crossed the bedroom in a bound and took the phone from Layla. She covered the mouthpiece.

‘Layla, is it all right if–’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Layla. ‘You want me to bring you back a Coke?’

Jill shook her head, and walked with the handset towards the window at the back of the room. She uncovered the mouthpiece.

‘So, what’s happening?’ she said.

‘Hi, Jill,’ said Gabriel.

‘Hi.’ she waited.

‘Well, I’m concentrating on forensics. We’re testing the chemical components of the firebomb.’

‘How’s that going?’

‘Ongoing.’

‘Any link to Incendie yet?’ she asked.

‘Not conclusive.’

Jill sighed. ‘Gabe. What does that mean? Please. Are we looking for one killer or two?’

‘Look, Jill. I think there could be a link between the crime scenes. The preliminary tests indicate that at least one of the substances used is the same in each case.’

‘There you go then. So the person who killed Scotty was at Incendie. And we know everyone who was at Incendie. It’s a matter of time. What are you doing about interviewing the staff and diners?’

‘Well, firstly, I think your conclusion is precipitous.’

‘Precipitous.’

‘Yeah, you know. Rash, impetuous.’

‘I know what you mean, Delahunt. And what are you, a thesaurus now? Is there a link between the crimes or not?’

‘Probably. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not trying to be a pain in the arse here, Jill. It’s just that I get a different vibe from each scene.’

‘Well, you explore the vibe. What are the others doing about the Incendie people?’

‘We’ve reviewed all the statements. Emma and Elvis have reinterviewed Caine, and Elvis and I have been out to see Berrigan, the manager, again. It looks like he’s the one who did it.’

‘What! What did you just say?’

‘I said that it looks like Troy Berrigan killed Scotty and Miriam Caine.’ He paused. ‘But I don’t think he did.’

Jill’s heart scudded. Fuck you, Gabriel. ‘Why do you always speak in riddles?’

‘The whole thing is still very fluid, Jill. You want answers now. So do I. Believe me, we all do. We’ll know more tomorrow. I know how frustrated you must be. But listen, if we haven’t caught the fucker by the time you come home, you’ll be a part of every aspect of the investigation, so I need you to get well.’

Jill tried to catch her breath.

‘How you going with that part, Jackson?’

‘Okay.’

‘Have you heard any more voices?’

‘No.’

‘Drums?’

‘No.’

‘Rain?’

‘Fuck off.’

She felt him smile through the phone.

‘It’s a complicated grief reaction,’ she said. ‘So they tell me. Apparently, I have chronic and complex posttraumatic stress disorder.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

She grimaced. ‘So, with my complex PTSD, the death of my lover apparently triggered a brief psychotic break,’ she said. She’d memorised the terms.

‘So he
was
your lover,’ said Gabriel quietly.

They breathed together for a few beats. ‘I’m so sorry, Jill,’ he said finally.

The blackness of the forest outside was liquid ink through her tears. She could find no voice. No words.

‘You’re coming home Sunday, Jill,’ said Gabriel. ‘Get better, honey.’