by Garry Disher
Adam Flann and boys of Adam’s age and appearance. Wesley shook his head. ‘It was dark, mate. The second one hung back, hoodie on. He was younger, though. I think.’
On the afternoon of Thursday 2 January, Hirsch headed across country to Munduney Hill. Kip wandered out to greet him; Graham Fuller, seated on the veranda picking grass seeds out of his work socks, offered Hirsch a beer.
‘Won’t say no,’ Hirsch said. He could go hours without any kind of refreshment on this job.
‘Inside. Too hot out here.’
Monica joined them in the sitting room. Hirsch realised how alike they were: calm, solid and attentive, seated opposite him on a fraying sofa.
‘Been busy,’ Graham said.
‘I’m here about Wayne Flann, in fact,’ Hirsch said. ‘Did you ever have a run-in with him?’
‘Barely know the bloke.’
‘He never did any tractor driving for you, shed-hand work?’
‘Mate,’ Graham said, ‘I could barely afford to pay myself, let alone Wayne Flann.’
Monica interrupted, in her quiet, careful way, her tough blue eyes fixed on Hirsch. ‘Is there a reason you’re asking about him?’
‘There’s a fairly good chance he’s the one who cut your phone line and stole your shovel,’ Hirsch said, ‘before Kip scared him off.’
She swallowed, crushed the neck of her blouse in one hand. ‘Are you saying he might’ve shot us, too?’
Hirsch rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. ‘I can’t speculate about that. The main thing is, he didn’t, and now he’s locked up.’ He paused. ‘Which brings me to Kip.’
‘You think Wayne took him? Whatever for?’
‘No, not Wayne,’ Hirsch said. ‘Is there anyone else you’ve had a run-in with? Last two or three years?’
Monica was amused, but sad with it. ‘Us?’ She gestured at their slightly-better-than-threadbare existence: outdated furniture, low ceilings, small rooms in need of a new coat of paint.
Hirsch steepled his fingers. He’d have to prod them. ‘Specifically regarding Kip.’
They reached the answer together. ‘Redruth Show,’ Monica said.
‘Two years ago,’ Graham said.
‘Kip won best sheepdog a couple of times prior. That year he won best in show as well.’
‘And the runner-up?’ said Hirsch, anticipation pulsing through him, a little burst of adrenaline.
‘Annette Thorburn.’
Martin Gwynne’s daughter.
Then out to Pandowie Downs, where he found Eleanor Dunner in the office; Rex had gone to the dentist in Clare.
‘About the graffiti.’
‘Yes?’ she said brightly.
He wondered what it was like for her, stuck out here. Any visitor must brighten her days. ‘I’m thinking it wasn’t random.’
‘I don’t think so, either. We had a bit of resentment from the neighbours who didn’t want the extra tourist traffic.’
Hirsch let that go: the nearest house was five kilometres away. ‘Cast your mind back a year or two. Any tiff or argument or full-blown confrontation you can remember?’
She had to think. An argument with the accommodation-block plumber, but that was soon sorted. Some argy-bargy with a council inspector over the position of their roadside noticeboard. She paused: ‘Speaking of which, Martin Gwynne came by one day and said there shouldn’t be an apostrophe in “Demonstrations”. We corrected it but I’m rather afraid I told him to mind his own business.’
Hirsch cocked his head. ‘Told him a little forcefully?’
She smiled lazily. ‘A little.’
Hirsch returned to Tiverton in the dwindling hours of daylight, shadows lengthening over the dusty paddocks, some clarity now to his tangle of thoughts regarding Martin Gwynne. A man who never let go of his grudges. A man you didn’t cross. A man you mightn’t even know you’d offended. Patient. Patiently stewing. Never at peace.
Finally that day he logged on to his SA Police email account. Two messages: the lab had found the selfies on Flann’s mobile, Wayne posed with his victims; and the YouTube clip would be taken down—the IP address of the offending computer having been traced to a library in the Adelaide suburb of Rostrevor. Hirsch was bleakly satisfied: that was where Martin’s daughter lived now.
37
FRIDAY 3 JANUARY and Hirsch was taking the day off—for what that was worth in his line of work. Three things on the agenda: stock up on groceries, swap the loan Toyota for his old one, dinner at the little house on Bitter Wash Road.
He breakfasted in his backyard, flicking through Mrs Keir’s journals again:
A great many of the shearers and hut-keepers are the off-scourings of English prisons, and a more insolent set of scoundrels you could not find. They are much given to spending their money on drink and bad women, but there are a few good men of the labouring classes hereabouts, and, from their long servitude on the Sydney side, they know a good deal about sheep-work.
Thinking that not much ever changed, he walked across to the general store at eight-thirty, nodded hello to Gemma Pitcher and filled a basket with bread, milk, wrinkled apples, wrinkled vegetables, painkillers and frozen meals. He heard glass smash behind him and turned around.
Joyce Gwynne stood gaping at her left hand, a shopping basket in the crook of her right arm, a spill of shards and gherkins and brine at her feet.
A stroke? Swiftly setting his basket on the floor, Hirsch crossed the space separating them and held her upper arms. ‘Joyce? You okay?’
She winced. Pain, but he’d barely touched her. Releasing her, he stepped back. ‘Let’s find you somewhere to sit.’
‘It just slipped out of my hands,’ she said, blinking behind her glasses.
No slurring. He eased the basket from her arm and led her to the front of the shop and around to the seating area at the ‘library’—a plain wooden chair beside a case of books.
Then Gemma was hovering. ‘I’ll get her a drink of water.’
‘Thanks. And a jar broke.’
‘On it,’ she said.
She returned with water in a glass and disappeared again. Presently Hirsch heard sweeping and mopping.
Joyce was trembling. ‘He wanted gherkins for lunch, with his cheese.’
She looked tiny in the creaky old chair. Flushed, wispy grey hair awry. She sipped the water, then took a long swallow. The movements of her little stick-like arms and thin neck shifted the lines of her collar and sleeves so that Hirsch saw bruises on the pale skin.
‘Joyce,’ he said carefully, ‘how did you hurt yourself?’
She shrank as if she wanted to disappear inside her clothing. ‘Oh, I’m such a clumsy thing.’
She closed her eyes, swayed and toppled. Hirsch caught her, set her upright. ‘Let’s get you to the doctor.’
He expected resistance but Joyce Gwynne shuffled out of the shop with him and across the road to Dr Pillai’s Friday clinic. The waiting room was unoccupied; the surgery door open, Dr Pillai at her desk, tapping notes into a laptop.
She rose to her feet. ‘My first customer,’ she said, helping Hirsch settle Joyce onto a narrow bed under a mothercraft poster. The only other furnishings were a sink, a cabinet and a set of steel shelves containing bandages and surgery gloves.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ Pillai said, her hand on Joyce’s forehead.
‘I had a dizzy spell in the shop,’ Joyce said. She looked comfortable on the little bed: eyes closed, limbs loose.
The doctor looked to Hirsch for confirmation. Jerking his head towards the door, he mouthed, ‘Quick word?’
She nodded, said, ‘I’ll be right back, Mrs Gwynne,’ and joined Hirsch in the waiting room.
Keeping his voice to a murmur he said, ‘She dropped a jar on the floor, and I saw her looking at her hand as if she had no control over it. Which may or may not be related to the fact she’s got bruises on her upper arms and under her collar.’
Pillai cocked her head. ‘She falls down a lot? Or she falls down
a lot.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll see if she’ll open up to me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’d like to know, either way?’
‘Yes.’
Hirsch finished his shopping, stowed it away and returned to the clinic. Three people in the waiting room now, a teenage girl with her mother and a windfarm worker holding a bandaged hand upright, face tight with pain.
Hirsch waited. When Joyce emerged, she hurried past him with a shy, frightened, ‘Thank you.’ Then Dr Pillai appeared, spotted Hirsch and beckoned him into her room.
Shutting the door, she said, ‘Mrs Gwynne wasn’t forthcoming. She said some cans fell on top of her when she was cleaning the pantry. I didn’t press it, and when I raised the issue of the DV support options available to her, she shut me down.’
Hirsch nodded. ‘Thanks for trying.’
‘But for what it’s worth, I think someone hit her.’
Hirsch returned to the police station and a short time later Laura Cobb came in. ‘Please, Mrs Flann’s upsetting Mum.’
They trotted along the footpath. ‘What’s she doing at your place?’
‘Apologising.’
‘For what?’
‘Wayne and Adam.’
They reached the house, Hirsch recognising the station wagon at the kerb. It had been repaired with wrecking-yard panels and hammered-out dents.
‘Is she drunk?’
‘I don’t think so. She keeps going on about how it was all her fault her boys turned out bad and got Daryl into trouble.’
They raced down the side yard and in through the back door. The kitchen looked clean and orderly except for the disorder of the women seated at the table. Brenda Flann was pouring her words out, one arm stretched out across the table towards Marie, who was rocking in her chair, hands over her eyes.
Laura went immediately to her mother and embraced her thin shoulders from behind as Brenda said, ‘It’s my fault, it was the drinking, I wasn’t there for them. No surprise they went wild, now they’ve got your boy in trouble, and I’m so, so sorry.’
Brenda looked and smelt clean. Not drunk, just overwrought. And quite oblivious to Hirsch and Laura, and to the distress she was causing. Hirsch said sharply, ‘Brenda.’
She blinked. Dragged her hand back across the table. The words dried up. Then, still blinking, she lifted her still-bruised face to Hirsch. ‘I need to say sorry to you, too.’
‘Let’s do that back at the station—what do you think?’
He eased her out of the chair. Tried to turn her away and through the door but she wriggled free and stood over Marie Cobb and said, ‘I mean it, I’ll make it up to you and—’
Then Marie said the only words Hirsch had ever heard her utter: ‘It’s okay, Brenda. I forgive you.’
A low voice, creaky from disuse. Brenda Flann nodded and let herself be ushered towards the door. Hirsch cast a look over his shoulder: You okay?
Laura shrugged. It didn’t say No. It said: Business as usual.
Outside, the hot sun beating down, Hirsch said, ‘Are you okay to drive, Brenda? It might be best if you went home.’
She looked around dazedly, long nose sniffing, moist sad lips tasting the dusty air. ‘Sorry, what?’
Was she on some kind of medication? ‘Would you like to see the doctor?’
In the next instant she was almost her harsh old self. ‘I’ve had it up to here with doctors and hospitals. I need to make amends, then I can go home.’ She poked his chest. ‘I tried to run you over. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Apology accepted.’
‘I’m not touching another drop.’
‘Good for you.’
‘You don’t believe me I can tell, but it’s the simple truth.’
She wheeled around and crossed the road to the pub. Amusement bubbled up, bringing back some of the old you-have-to-laugh attitude Hirsch thought he’d lost. He watched her disappear through the door to the main bar. Time went by. When she didn’t reappear, he investigated, finding her at the bar, deep in conversation with Kevin Henry, nursing a clear fizzy drink.
‘Lemonade,’ she said, spotting Hirsch. Then: ‘It’s okay, we went to school together.’
Hirsch nodded, returned to the police station, pinned his mobile number to the door and drove the loan HiLux down to Redruth.
Sergeant Brandl was at her desk. She gave him a look. ‘Aren’t you off-duty today?’
‘Swapping vehicles, sarge.’
She grunted. ‘While I’ve got you—Vita Roesch was arrested this morning.’
Hirsch felt the easing of tension he hadn’t been aware of. ‘Where?’
‘Lightning Ridge.’
An outback opal-mining town, a place where people went to hide. Hirsch nodded. ‘See you at the Monday briefing, sergeant.’
‘Wait: where are we on Mrs Washburn’s horses?’
Hirsch knew exactly where he was on Nan Washburn’s horses, but he couldn’t prove anything yet. ‘Still sniffing around, sarge.’
He was approaching Tiverton, the Doors’ version of ‘Light My Fire’ blasting his eardrums, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled over to take the call.
Joyce Gwynne, sounding frantic. ‘It’s Martin and Mrs Flann.’
Shit, bugger, damn. Brenda’s saying sorry to everyone she can think of, Hirsch thought, pulling onto the road again. ‘Two minutes away.’
He found Martin and Brenda scuffling, dragging each other in circles on the footpath. Joyce was trying to intervene, tugging ineffectually on her husband’s arms whenever he came within reach.
Hirsch piled out shouting, ‘Break it up, break it up.’ He barrelled in and strongarmed them apart.
Brenda was weepy, dishevelled. ‘I only wanted to say sorry. He didn’t have to hit me.’
‘Oh, I did no such thing,’ Martin said.
One of his few saving graces was neatness. If he’d been brawling with Brenda, you wouldn’t know it. Shirt tucked in, hair in place, face barely flushed.
Hirsch dropped his arms but stayed where he was, standing between them. ‘You both going to behave?’
‘Behave? I am behaving, more than could be said of this silly cow,’ Gwynne said.
‘Martin.’ Hirsch put some grit in his tone.
‘All I wanted was to say sorry,’ Brenda said. ‘I know I must’ve been rude sometimes, Martin. I’m very sorry.’
‘Rude? Try drunk and disorderly.’
This time Joyce said it, as harshly as Hirsch: ‘Martin.’
He swung around on her. ‘Stay out of it, Joyce.’
‘Not if you’re going to be like this.’
‘I came here…I came here…’ Brenda tailed off as if unable to get the words straight in her head.
Feeling a swift, protective tenderness, imagining her life just past and soon to come, Hirsch wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the Toyota. ‘Sit here for a while. I’ll sort things out with Mr Gwynne, all right?’
‘I never…’ she said.
‘I know.’
Hirsch rejoined Gwynne and looked at him. Gwynne blanched. He said, ‘What, you’re taking her side? The woman’s a menace.’
Hirsch felt toxic in his soul and in his bones. ‘She came to apologise, that’s all. She’s genuine about it, can’t you see that?’
Apparently not. ‘Drunken cow.’
His wife said, ‘That’s unfair, Martin. She’s not drunk. She’s upset, and you didn’t have to hit her.’
A flare in Gwynne’s eyes but he controlled it. With ghastly calm he said, ‘Let me talk to Constable Hirschhausen, Joyce. If you don’t mind?’
‘I’m staying right here.’
‘Is it true, Martin?’ Hirsch said. ‘You hit Brenda?’
‘You do know who she is, don’t you? The mother of a murderer. Two murderers, if truth be known.’
A transformative surge of feeling flowed through Hirsch. All the misery Martin had wreaked, on all of his days on earth. H
is voice a low rumble, Hirsch said, ‘I know who you are, Martin. I know everything.’
Gwynne tried for bewilderment, but there was a fugitive glint behind it. ‘Know what?’
Your imagined grievances, nourished by hate, thought Hirsch. Your vicious little dreams and vendettas. Your nasty churchgoing spitefulness.
He reached out. He patted Martin’s cheek. ‘I know. And I’m patient.’
Brenda was weeping. She was afraid to go home, she said. Home contained memories. Things had gone wrong there that couldn’t be put right.
Hirsch said gently, ‘Adam’s there?’
‘He’s that ashamed,’ she said.
‘He needs you just now,’ Hirsch said, knowing it was a cliché; knowing it was true.
Brenda sniffed. ‘He’s angry with me.’
‘It’ll pass,’ Hirsch said. He paused. ‘Gemma’s his girlfriend, did you know that?’
Brenda went still and Hirsch could see her mind working. There was an unexpected dimension to her son if he had a girl.
Hirsch decided to press the matter. ‘Invite her for dinner.’
A few minutes later he watched her drive off in her old wreck and went inside to check his email.
There was one that mattered: the fingerprint branch had found two sets of prints on the pub bayonet. One set matched a Clifford Edward Palmer of Peterborough, two convictions for assault. The other set were not in the database but did match prints found on the copper-skip crime-scene tape.
Hirsch rocked in dismay.
Ivan Bagshaw had handled the bayonet. Ivan and his brother, likeable ratbags whose job took them all over the countryside in their council vehicles. Seeing and knowing everything. You wouldn’t question their right to be anywhere in the district.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Perhaps he groaned it aloud; a voice said, ‘Sorry?’
Joyce Gwynne, standing in the main doorway, sunlight spilling in around her.
She entered, clutching a big Myer shopping bag to her chest, shut the door and stood at the counter. It wasn’t steel in her spine, exactly, but she held herself with some resolve, without the shy ducking away.
‘I would like,’ she said, ‘to make a statement.’
Hirsch took her to the other side of the counter and settled her in a chair across from his desk. Set out a digital recorder, notepad and pen.
