The Great Divide

by L. J. M. Owen

  ‘Yes, Murphy said. I’ve brought Evelyn to go with you.’

  Jake failed to hide his displeasure.

  ‘Look. We don’t want any accusations of inappropriate behaviour …’

  Jake drew breath to protest.

  Kelly held up a hand. ‘Not that there would be any, but this way, there can’t be. Have a woman in the room—especially with the touchy ones—and everyone’s covered.’

  Jake saw no benefit in challenging the erroneous assumptions in that statement. ‘Are you saying that Amelia MacDonald is likely to make a complaint?’

  Kelly locked eyes with Jake. ‘The girl was disturbed when they first took her in. Upset MacDonald no end, caused all kinds of trouble for his wife. When she’s stirred up it’s hard on the family. Go easy on the girl, if you can, and report back to me as soon as you’ve spoken to her.’

  ‘Yes sir. And the same for Charlotte Murphy this afternoon?’

  ‘She’s no trouble. Take Murphy for that one.’

  ‘Isn’t there a conflict of interest? Him being family?’

  Kelly snorted. ‘Everyone’s related to everyone in this town, Hunter. If we followed that rule, we wouldn’t be able to interview anyone.’

  With that, Jake’s superior officer withdrew to the front office, leaving the door open behind him.

  Evelyn appeared in the doorway, a large cardboard cake box balancing on one palm. ‘Ready?’

  With her hair pulled back crisply into a bun at the nape of her neck, plunging V-neck jacket and immaculate black kitten heels, Evelyn would have been at home striding between glass-plated high-rise buildings in Manhattan.

  ‘Just going to shave,’ Jake said.

  *

  ‘Mrs MacDonald?’ he asked the raw-boned woman in a blue velour tracksuit who answered the door.

  ‘It’s Mary. You must be the new detective and …’

  ‘Detective Jake Hunter,’ he said as he shook her hand.

  Mary hesitated. ‘Oh. Evelyn.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs MacDonald. It’s nice to see you again.’ She held out the cake box.

  Mary MacDonald ignored the gesture. ‘You’ve both come to see Amelia? I’m not sure that’s …’ She waved one hand vaguely over a shoulder. ‘Well, all right. She’s in her studio.’

  Trailing the small, neat woman through a labyrinthine home of cheap, wood-panelled walls and worn, scrupulously clean furniture, they arrived at an incongruous door covered in posters of TV soap stars. Jake only vaguely recognised the shows, but he couldn’t have put a name to any of the actors or their characters.

  As Mary MacDonald opened the door, Jake was hit by an overwhelming impression of pink. Rose-coloured walls, hot-pink cushions, and large, fake flowers with oversized cerise petals in clear glass bottles. The saccharine notes of a daytime series theme tune played on the television.

  ‘Amelia?’ she called, her voice noticeably higher than before.

  A small white barrel of a dog launched itself across the room, yapping madly.

  ‘Scottie, down! Amelia?’

  ‘I’m in the bathroom, Mum. I said I’d come out after my show finishes.’

  ‘The detective is here now, Amelia. You’ll have to watch it later.’

  ‘All right!’

  The woman that emerged from the bathroom—who Jake knew to be twenty-four years of age—was dressed in a form-fitting, pink Lycra crop top and hot-pink leggings, her white-blonde hair arranged in pigtails above her ears.

  ‘Amelia,’ her mother repeated. ‘Turn the TV off, put Scottie out, and come to the lounge room. Now, please.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, glancing at Jake, then Evelyn behind him. The jarring effect of an outfit more commonly seen on a six-year-old was augmented by Amelia’s mask of make-up, her eyes barely visible beneath thick layers of eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara.

  She frowned heavily as she bent to call the little dog to her.

  Jake followed Mary to the lounge room and sat on the threadbare cushion of an armchair, watching as Amelia MacDonald took a seat on the lounge next to her mother. Although she had flicked her eyes in his direction twice since entering the room, she had yet to look at Evelyn who had placed her apparently unwanted dessert box on the coffee table.

  Jake pulled out his phone, set it to record and con­spicuously placed it next to the cake. ‘I’ll be recording the conservation, if that’s okay?’

  ‘So, you’re here to ask me about Ms O’Brien.’

  Amelia’s assertiveness was unexpected. ‘Yes,’ Jake answered. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘I knew you’d ask me that.’

  Mary MacDonald patted the side of her daughter’s thigh. ‘Just answer the question.’

  Amelia waved away her mother’s hand. ‘Not for years. I mean, I’ve seen her in town, but I’ve never spoken to her since I came to live with Mum.’

  Another maternal pat on the thigh. ‘And Dad, and Andrew.’

  Amelia twitched one shoulder forward. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Could you be more specific please, Amelia?’ Jake asked. ‘When was the last time you saw Ava O’Brien?’

  ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but maybe last year in the supermarket?’

  ‘And when was the last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘The day I came to live here.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Three days before my fourteenth birthday, so ten years ago.’

  Jake leaned forward. ‘Where were you on Thursday night?’

  ‘I’m always here.’

  ‘She never goes out,’ Mary MacDonald added.

  ‘Do you have a car?’ Jake asked Amelia.

  ‘I don’t drive.’

  ‘You don’t have a licence, or you can’t drive?’

  ‘Can’t. I’ve never even tried.’

  As she talked Amelia waved her arms in large, looping gestures. Jake noticed that her long pink nails were press-ons, angled up strangely toward the front. She noticed Jake looking at her hands and promptly sat on them.

  ‘Are you aware that Ms O’Brien was found near the girls’ home yesterday?’

  ‘Mum told me.’

  Mary MacDonald looked surprised to suddenly be the centre of attention. ‘Well, I heard it from a couple of people down at the RSL when I went to get the takeaway last night.’

  ‘What did they say?’ Jake said.

  ‘That Ava O’Brien had been found murdered up at the old girls’ home.’

  ‘When was the last time you were there, Amelia?’

  ‘I haven’t been back since the day Mum came to get me. I never want to go back.’

  And there it was. The first real suggestion that Ava O’Brien may have been in conflict with someone in Dunton.

  ‘And why is that?’ Jake asked.

  ‘It was horrible, that’s all.’

  ‘In what way was it horrible?’

  ‘It was freezing. And we were never allowed to go anywhere or see anyone.’ Tears began to well in Amelia’s eyes. ‘I just didn’t like it, okay?’

  ‘Surely you had friends while you lived there?’

  ‘I had a friend from there.’

  ‘Oh no, not another fight sweetheart?’ Mary smoothed one of Amelia’s pigtails.

  ‘I’m sure whoever it was, she’s still your friend.’ Evelyn decided to join the conversation.

  ‘Is that what Charlotte told you?’ Amelia almost spat at Evelyn. ‘I know she tells you everything.’

  ‘Amelia.’ Her mother admonished.

  ‘Charlotte Murphy?’ Jake asked.

  ‘They were the only two girls at the home at the end,’ Mary MacDonald answered for her daughter.

  ‘Can we take a step back, please? Amelia’—Jake paused until she met his eyes—‘you’re saying you haven’t spoken to Ava O’Brien in
over ten years, but that you have kept in contact with Charlotte Murphy?’

  ‘Yes. I want to take a step back too.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘I get that you’re a cop so you’re here to talk to me about Ms O’Brien to work out if I was the one who killed her. Which I’m not, by the way.’ Amelia pointed at Evelyn. ‘But why’s she here?’

  ‘Ms Kelly is a counsellor accompanying me to interviews, to provide support if necessary.’

  ‘I know counsellors like her.’ Amelia seemed to expand somehow, becoming more solid as anger filled her eyes. ‘They’ve never been interested in helping me. They just like poking around in my brain for their own amusement.’

  Evelyn opened her mouth to reply, but Jake held up a cautionary finger.

  ‘I have more questions for you, Amelia. You are an adult. You don’t have to answer them here—you can come down to the station and answer them there in a formal setting if you’d prefer.’

  Amelia whumped back against the lounge. ‘Yes, Charlotte was my friend from the home. And yes, sometimes we talked about Ms O’Brien.’ She glared at Evelyn. ‘Happy?’

  Jake could see why Kelly wanted him to tread cautiously in this interview. ‘Do you keep in contact with anyone else from the home?’

  ‘There were only the two of us at the end, like Mum said.’

  ‘Do you remember anyone else who lived there?’

  ‘There were lots of us when I was little, but for the last couple of years there was only me, Matilda and Charlotte.’

  ‘Matilda?’

  ‘She left about a year before Mum came to get me.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘Ms O’Brien said she got adopted. But I don’t know who would have adopted her.’ Amelia screwed up her face. ‘She was defective.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Evelyn asked.

  Amelia laughed hoarsely. ‘See?’ she said to Jake.

  Unfortunately, he did. ‘Can you tell us what you mean about Matilda?’ he said gently.

  ‘She had different coloured eyes—one blue, one brown. Defective. See? Plus’ —here she looked at her mother— ‘parents don’t want girls anyway.’

  Mary MacDonald put an arm around Amelia and gave her a squeeze. ’How can you say that? I want you.’

  ‘Dad doesn’t. I heard him say so.’ Amelia’s voice become a low growl. ‘He said you already had a boy so you didn’t need another kid anyway. ’Specially not a fucked-up girl like me.’

  ‘When did you hear him say that?’ Mrs MacDonald’s voice was as icy as Jake’s cottage.

  In her chair, Evelyn was reaching toward the cake box. ‘I’m certain your father didn’t mean that, Amelia,’ she said as she held it out to Mary MacDonald. ‘Perhaps we can take a breather?’

  Mary stood up, clearly grateful for the distraction. ‘Good idea. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Jake looked back at Amelia. ‘Are you okay to talk while your mother’s not here?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ Evelyn urged. Jake shot her a ‘you’re not helping’ look.

  ‘You were saying, Amelia, that a year before the home closed there was a third girl, Matilda?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And how old was she?’

  ‘A couple of years older than me. We always pretended to be sisters.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her since she left the home?’

  Mary MacDonald returned. ‘Here we are, plates and a knife.’ She opened the cake box, made slicing movements, then began laying triangles of Victoria sponge in front of each of them; the neat yellow layers of cake were thick with oozing strawberry conserve and sprinkled icing sugar. ‘It’s a lovely cake, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Evelyn smiled tightly.

  Jake looked at the sponge with suspicion, certain he would wear a dusting of the icing sugar if he dared to attempt a bite. ‘Yes, thanks Evelyn. Now, Amelia. Have you spoken with Matilda since she left the girls’ home?

  Amelia sat woodenly in her seat, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Amelia?’

  ‘Amelia, answer the detective.’ Mary MacDonald patted Amelia’s leg. ‘You’re being ru— oh dear.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jake asked.

  ‘This happens sometimes, I’m afraid,’ she said, rear­ranging her daughter’s limbs so she could fit comfortably on the couch beside her. ‘Sometimes Amelia just … stops. It’s why she can’t drive or hold down a job.’

  ‘Can she hear us?’ Evelyn asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs MacDonald looked sternly at the counsellor. ‘And she remembers everything.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Evelyn said. ‘I’ve read about this.’

  Jake could see Mary MacDonald believed Amelia was in some kind of fugue state. He had no way of judging for himself if it was genuine or an act. ‘Do we need to do anything for her?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Please act as though everything’s normal—it’s the only way for her to get through this. In a while she’ll get up and go to her room. We’ll find out how bad it is later on.’

  ‘Are you certain she’s okay?’

  Mary reached over to squeeze Jake’s forearm. ‘As well as she can be.’

  On that dismaying note, he stood up. ‘I’ve asked the questions I needed to for today,’ he said. ‘But once Amelia is recovered I may have more.’

  ‘I’m happy to drive her down to the station if that’s easier for you.’

  As they paused at the front door, a lanky teenager swooped out of the living room, heading along the corridor.

  ‘Andrew!’ Mary called over her shoulder. ‘What have you got there?

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’ He paused and glanced towards them, then moved off again, the cake box clutched in both hands.

  ‘Get back here!’ she demanded of her swiftly retreating son. She returned her attention to Jake and Evelyn. ‘What can I say? Boys’ appetites.’

  *

  ‘She’s such a little drama queen,’ Evelyn said the moment they were in the car.

  Jake switched on the engine and ensured the heating was set to full bore. ‘Is that an official diagnosis?’

  Evelyn rolled her eyes. ‘You know what I mean.’

  He decided to change the subject. Pulling away from the curb he asked, ‘What’s it like inside the girls’ home buildings?’

  ‘You were there yesterday.’

  ‘I didn’t have a chance to go in. What’s it like?’

  ‘I haven’t been inside either.’

  Focused on the road ahead, Jake couldn’t see Evelyn’s expression. Even so, he had the distinct impression she was lying.

  Realising he would likely have to work with her frequently over the next two years, Jake decided to back off until he could learn more about Evelyn Kelly and her official role in the Dunton police service.

  ‘Where should I drop you?’ he said.

  Evelyn directed Jake along a street he hadn’t yet driven down. Two-storey, red-brick federation homesteads on acre blocks peaked through stands of enormous oak trees. Evelyn had her car door open before he had finished pulling up alongside the most uniformly cut grass Jake had ever seen.

  ‘Father said to tell you to come straight back after you interview Charlotte Murphy.’

  Evelyn Kelly still lived at home?

  ‘He wants you to come to dinner.’

  At least one of Jake’s assumptions about country living was proven true. In ten years at Internal Affairs, Jake hadn’t once been invited to his boss’s house for a meal. Here, it had taken less than a week.

  He wasn’t due to pick Murphy up for the interview for a couple of hours. Time to see the girls’ home with his own eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Dunton, Tasmania

  Saturday, 11.09 a.m.


  Crunching his way up the gravel drive toward the manor, Jake studied the dejected state of the Campbell property trying to imagine what it might have looked like in its prime. A waft, the merest hint of rotting cow manure, tainted the air.

  Max Campbell must have heard his approach. He emerged from the side of the building, waving a garden fork. Jake was struck again by the man’s sheer physical presence. After years of struggling to come to terms with his own mediocre form, Jake had eventually decided his average height and spare frame were actually an advantage—when it came to climbing, at any rate. The dull ginger hair, nondescript hazel eyes and splotchy freckled skin he could have done without.

  Max seemed anxious to see him. ‘It occurred to me last night,’ he said, sans greetings, ‘that my returning the same week a woman was found dead in the backyard might look suspicious.’

  Jake responded with a non-committal nod.

  ‘So I want to help you eliminate me from your enquiries as quickly as possible.’

  Someone had been watching their police dramas. ‘What exactly are you offering?’

  ‘Access. To anything you want.’

  Jake decided to play with him a little. ‘Mr Campbell, is this an attempt to bribe me in some way?’

  ‘No! That’s not what I meant at all!’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I’ll find something suspicious in your background and you want the chance to explain it before I find it?’

  ‘No.’ Max Campbell suddenly looked like a man teetering on the edge.

  That was unexpected. ‘Max?’

  ‘My wife is dying. I need to get back to her.’

  Jake kicked himself for toying with the man. ‘I‘m very sorry to hear that. May I ask …?’

  ‘Pancreatic cancer. Incurable.’

  Jake poured as much sympathy into his voice as he could. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Look. My father’s an arsehole. But I’m responsible for him and he’s pretty frail. I need to get him into care so I can leave here with a clear conscience and get back to my wife.’

  Jake reminded himself to remain dispassionate. ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘The last thing I need is to get caught up in some police matter and be away even longer.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘If I’m under suspicion in any way, investigate me now. Fingerprints, DNA, whatever you want … go through all my personal files, records, computer, I don’t care.’ He began to choke up. ‘I need to get home once I’ve gotten my father sorted out.’