55

by James Delargy

  Mitch snorted. ‘Nothing as sinister as that. The person we were seeking at that stage had no means of contacting us, and so it was decided that a series of roadblocks was the only suitable option to secure contact with him. So, nothing sinister. I don’t need the press spreading fear and rumours around town.’

  As much as he despised Mitch, Chandler had to admit there was real skill in the way he handled the crowd.

  Thanking them all for coming, Mitch reminded the reporters to respect the job that the police now had to do. He signed off by wishing them all luck in finding places to stay for the night, joking with one blonde, Port Hedland-based reporter in particular, that she might have to sleep in her news van. He’s making friends, thought Chandler, friends in all the right places.

  But Mitch wasn’t entirely finished.

  ‘As a final note can I just point out that all future enquiries should be directed to Sergeant Chandler Jenkins over there,’ said Mitch, pointing to Chandler, ‘who, of course we all know is the head of this local branch.’

  With that Mitch walked off, leaving Chandler as the designated – and reluctant – post box.

  26

  2002

  Sixteen days in and the police involvement had been scaled back once again. From six, now Chandler and Mitch were left with a base support of two, Sylvia and Arthur tearing strips off them and the force in general for giving up on their son, that they paid their taxes for this miserable effort.

  By now the distance covered every day had decreased and it wasn’t just the fault of the rough terrain. The disease of false leads had struck, hope spotted in every disturbed rock or patch of soil, any fragment of civilization treated as evidence that Martin passed by recently.

  Though he understood the desire to find their son, Chandler didn’t really comprehend the desperation, how it clawed at the family and gouged out any remaining logic from Arthur, an intelligent man who had spent his life perched behind a desk but was now thrown into the outback in the middle of summer, on what was turning into a fruitless hunt for his child. Though Chandler had grown close to the old man, he tried to distance himself emotionally, which was easier said than done with the kid hanging around, needing constant supervision, wandering off without care and only returning to the fold when barked at. This remained an adventure for him, better than school could ever be. His enthusiasm should have been infectious but those days were long gone. Logic dictated that the boy be left behind in town where it was safe, but logic was in short supply.

  ‘He’s doing nothing other than get in the way,’ Chandler admitted to Mitch.

  ‘What do you suggest then? Tie him to a tree and pick him up later?’

  Chandler shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe. Shit, I am turning into you!’

  ‘I’m proud you’ve seen sense,’ said Mitch.

  ‘But not quite you.’

  ‘Not quite. I’d have shot the little bastard in the leg so we’d have left him behind already.’

  Mitch followed this with a piercing laugh, just unbalanced enough to make it difficult to tell if he were joking or not. Chandler decided he didn’t want to know.

  They came across a creek that wound through the dusty rocks, raising its silvery tail occasionally to make a brief appearance on earth before slithering back to cooler depths.

  The small group crowded around it, staring at it in wonder. It was the first hint of running water they had seen in three days. They’d lost another three volunteers when they had returned to town last time, people who had lives and work to return to. Life carried on, Chandler reflected, with or without Martin.

  ‘Should we fill up the bottles?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘I’d be wary of drinking it,’ said Chandler.

  ‘Why?’ asked the boy, waving the toe of his dusty trainer over the surface of the water.

  ‘Never know what’s leached into it. Might have picked up some mercury from the rocks and that’s very bad for you.’

  The boy stared blankly at him.

  ‘It could have kept Martin going . . .’ said Arthur. ‘If he got this far’ went unsaid.

  After a swift glance around, Arthur turned on his heels to continue onwards, as if afraid that if he stood still for any length of time someone might persuade him to stop.

  As he went, the others followed, a sad group of wanderers following Moses across a vicious wasteland, Arthur’s heavy steps crushing the scorched earth beneath him as if he were punishing it for taking his son, trying to torture the rock into giving up its secrets. He won all the minor battles, the dry, crusted dirt disintegrating beneath the tread of his boots, but the war was gradually being lost.

  A cry went up. A scream really. Chandler felt hope and fear. Hope that it was over, that they had found Martin even if it were only his desiccated corpse. He could call in the choppers and transport them all out of here inside a couple of hours.

  Scrabbling through some shrubs he found the source of the cries, the Murray River teenager, with his fresh face and lack of fear, the kid who wanted to be a bushman in the future. When Chandler had warned him that work as a bushman was rare, and for those of vast experience, the young man had waved it off with the revelation that he had learned to track people in school, following a different person every day, learning to follow from a distance. He had never been caught. Chandler didn’t have the heart to explain to him that what he was describing were the skills of a stalker rather than a bushman.

  As Chandler arrived on the scene the teenager was dancing around wildly, hands ripping at the white stuff glued to his body. It was immediately obvious to Chandler what had happened. He had blindly walked into a massive undisturbed spider’s web and was trying to rip it away before whoever spun it exacted revenge.

  ‘Get it off me,’ he screamed, countering the efforts to help by dancing away from the hands that tried to pull the sticky silk from him.

  ‘Stand still,’ said Chandler, pulling a wad of tacky web from him.

  ‘Is it on me?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be a bushman,’ said Chandler. ‘Calm down.’

  Chandler informed the teenager that he was in no danger. It was a huntsman’s web, a big, hairy but harmless spider that would flee at the first sign of trouble. With this declared, more people stepped in to help, including Arthur’s kid. Chandler watched the boy laugh as he shook his hands furiously to remove the sticky web and scolded himself for getting caught up in the yearning to find Martin’s dead body to further his own selfish desire to get back home.

  27

  Chandler quickly discovered that the press was desperate for information. They wanted to know who the people of interest were, what they were suspected of, background and beliefs, anything and everything about them, seeking the tiniest crack to edge into and take root.

  As he finished his latest briefing, Erin and Roper had returned and were updating Mitch, Luka floating around the outside, a new planet orbiting the sun. A few minutes later Mitch addressed the station, failing to hide his disappointment. Mostly at them.

  ‘So far we’ve had no luck in identifying a gravesite near the shack, so I’m making this our number one priority. Without graves, without bodies, we do not have a murder, we do not have a serial killer, just two men who are accusing each other of such. If – when – we locate the graves, then we can pressure one of them into giving up the other. They’ll fold like a house of cards.’

  ‘Assuming they are working together,’ said Chandler. Mitch shot him an angry glare but Chandler continued. ‘And if they were and had a falling-out then they’d have created differing stories of how they got to the woods. There would be no reason for them to match.’

  ‘That could be their plan. To put us off the scent. And it’s succeeding,’ said Mitch.

  ‘No,’ said Chandler. ‘If they have the same story that means the killer is using it to piggy-back. That means only one—’

  Mitch fought back. ‘Both admit to having seen the graves.’

  In full flow now, Chandler
wasn’t going to be stopped. ‘Explain to me why they would admit seeing the graves if they were trying to get away with it, or trying to pin the blame on the other. That would make no sense. It only gets them into deeper trouble.’

  ‘They may not be too smart, Sergeant.’

  ‘Smart enough to have us running in circles.’

  ‘Ever-decreasing circles,’ said Mitch. ‘We’ll get them soon. What I want now is a positive attitude.’ He turned to the group, but continued staring at Chandler. ‘I need teams on the Hill searching for the graves. I’ll be coordinating.’ Pointing at pairs he continued, ‘Erin and Roper you’re up again. Yohan and Suze. MacKenzie and Sun.’ His eyes scanned the room, straight past Chandler. ‘Luka, you can pair with Flo. Jim and Tanya, you too.’

  Tanya interrupted.

  ‘You should take Chandler,’ she said. ‘Give him a team.’

  Mitch tried to ignore her. ‘Everyone ready in ten minutes.’

  Tanya continued regardless. ‘He knows the region. You both do. You want to find those graves, don’t you? Then you have to bring him.’

  It was an impassioned speech from a loyal colleague. Pride shot through Chandler.

  Mitch paused, licking lips the colour of the evening sky. ‘You are right, Senior Constable. Any personal differences Chandler and I may have will be put aside.’ Mitch looked at them all. ‘Let’s solve this case.’

  Chandler was back in the inner circle.

  ‘If we do go searching for the graves,’ Chandler said, ‘we can’t go by what they stated in the interviews.’

  ‘And why’s that, Sergeant?’ asked Mitch.

  ‘Because their info is vague. Maybe even misremembered.’

  ‘It’s the only information we have,’ Mitch reminded him.

  ‘I know. That’s why I think our only option is to drag one – or both of them – up there to guide us. We need their eyes.’

  ‘That’s—’ started Mitch.

  ‘– a risky strategy,’ interrupted Chandler. ‘I know. But it’s the only one we have.’

  He expected immediate disagreement but Mitch seemed to have been thrown off-track. There was no dissent from the others either, all waiting to take their cue from Mitch. It seemed like an age before anyone spoke.

  ‘Which one do we take?’ asked Luka in an unusually reserved tone, staring at Mitch rather than Chandler.

  The question allowed Mitch to find his voice. ‘We take Mr Johnson,’ he stated. ‘Mr Barwell cannot be trusted. He’s already tried to escape custody.’

  ‘So has Mr Johnson,’ reminded Chandler.

  ‘But Mr Johnson is calm.’

  ‘Too calm.’

  ‘Tired, I reckon,’ said Mitch.

  ‘Or displaying the unruffled temperament of a killer.’

  Mitch straightened his lapels. ‘Or, Sergeant, he’s a guy who has accepted that he has been caught. If you are so worried about letting him escape again, we could do it over video link. Use the new body cameras.’

  Chandler had received the memo that Port Hedland were pioneering the cameras, the images downloadable and available as evidence. And Mitch’s plan was sound apart from one – major – flaw, which he explained.

  ‘You won’t get any signal for a link-up there.’

  Mitch stuck his chin forward. ‘Then in that case we have no choice. We take Mr Johnson. I’m not having both out at once. And we move now. Five minutes.’

  But in those five minutes another hitch occurred. A pair of court-appointed lawyers landed into the station, flown in from Newman on a chopper. Both were respectable practitioners who were delighted to be involved in such a tasty case. As such, both entered the station in much the manner Mitch had: demanding to see their clients, demanding to know what they were being charged with and finally demanding that they be released. They received nothing other than time in the interview room to brief their clients and, Chandler assumed, record their clients’ numerous grievances.

  Chandler considered his options – Mitch’s options, really. They needed the men to take them to the graves, but there was no way the lawyers would permit that. And without charging them with anything, they couldn’t keep them in the station much longer. Mitch was going to have to come up with something, anything, in order to keep them nearby. Probably the lesser charges of stealing a car and threatening a police officer. Mitch wasn’t going to like that. Chandler certainly didn’t.

  ‘My client would like to help you find those graves.’

  The voice took him by surprise. Chandler looked up. The blonde lawyer who had been appointed as Gabriel’s counsel was standing at his desk.

  ‘He would?’

  ‘Against my advice, yes,’ she sighed.

  As if he been waiting to pounce, Mitch came charging out of his office. ‘Excellent! Let’s get to work!’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.

  With no similar proposal from Heath or his lawyer, Chandler offered to fetch Gabriel from the cells. As the door opened the slender figure didn’t move from the bed. Chandler couldn’t help but recall an article he’d read about criminals having the best night’s sleep after being caught, the anxiety of being constantly on the lookout finally gone.

  Gabriel roused himself as Chandler was putting on the handcuffs.

  ‘Do we need those? I’ve agreed to help.’ His voice was weary.

  ‘Standard operating procedure.’

  ‘But I’m cooperating.’

  ‘For which we are grateful.’

  Gabriel leaned in close to Chandler, as if he didn’t want anyone, especially Heath, to overhear. His voice turned to silk, regaining that elusive, mesmerizing quality Chandler had first noticed about him. ‘Have you – have they – not realized yet that he’s lying?’

  Chandler studied the man who stooped forward slightly, his back bent as if he’d aged greatly after his night in the cells. He looked for all intents and purposes, beaten.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You still think that I . . . ?’ he trailed off.

  ‘Neither of you can be ruled out, even now.’

  Gabriel looked a little shocked by the answer. Chandler led him from the cells. Mitch addressed the suspect as his lawyer watched.

  ‘I hope the sergeant has explained what we are requesting you do.’ Gabriel nodded. ‘Just so you are fully aware, you are under no obligation to help. But we hope that you will.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ said Gabriel, making for the door with Chandler guiding him.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’

  Gabriel stopped immediately. So did Chandler. Heath’s disembodied voice rattled from the cell. Gabriel turned towards the voice. And the face. The narrow slat in the door had been left down to help air flow in and out. The suspects stared at each other. Chandler kept his hand on the cuffs but didn’t pull Gabriel away, curious to see how the scenario played out.

  The two suspects held the stare, both silent. Gabriel didn’t move, a vein popping from his sweaty temple. Inside the cell, Heath’s face twitched, his eyes blinking irregularly. He looked scared.

  Heath broke first.

  ‘He’s a lying bastard,’ he screamed, striking his fists hopelessly against the steel door. ‘Admit it, you bastard! Admit that you picked me up, took me to that place and tried to kill me. This lot might be too dumb to realize it but I know.’

  Gabriel turned his head away at this, eyes closed as if trying to compose himself. Drawing a long breath he looked first at Chandler and then Mitch. ‘I’m not . . . He’s . . .’ There was another deep inhalation. ‘Can we please go? Now? I’ll help you find those graves, those people.’

  It was another hot day in hard country. Chandler sat in the back, guarding Gabriel, and Mitch rode up front with Roper. After putting up a fight, Gabriel’s lawyer had remained in town. Behind them trailed four police cars with a convoy of news vans closely behind them. The terrain was especially challenging for the vans but each made it up the forest track, their vehicles obviously as dogged as the reporters inside.


  Chandler watched as the tiny car park, cut into the trees and rock, appeared in front of them. Like everything up here, it hadn’t changed in years. He peered into the front seat to gauge Mitch’s reaction. There was no flicker of recognition.

  Pulling up, Chandler kept Gabriel hidden from view as the reporters were corralled into the far half of the car park. A hurried press conference was arranged, Mitch shouting over the murmur, explaining to the crowd of microphones that they were taking one of the people of interest back to the scene to gain a better understanding of the timeline and events.

  ‘What events?’ asked a sharp reporter.

  ‘To say anything at this time would be premature,’ said Mitch, bringing disgruntled mumbles from the crowd.

  ‘You haven’t said anything yet,’ noted an anonymous voice.

  Another spoke up. ‘Are you in a position to charge anyone? And if so, for what crime?’

  They were valid questions, thought Chandler, and questions they’d have to deal with soon now the lawyers were involved. They would have to charge one man – or both if Mitch had his way – soon. It was either that or let both go. He studied Gabriel’s reaction to the clamour that he had caused and was being shielded from. There was nothing, passive, as if he were purely background, a minor player rather than lead actor. Like Mitch, he seemed to be able to mask his feelings. Or had erected a shield to what he had experienced. And survived.

  ‘I’m afraid this is as far as you lot go,’ said Mitch to an audible groan of disappointment from the reporters. ‘I know, I know, we’re all disappointed but we have a possible crime scene that I don’t want disturbed.’ Pointing, he continued, ‘Roper here, and Big Jim, will stay behind to prevent any of you good folk from attempting to follow us. I don’t want you getting lost out here. I know what can happen.’

  Mitch’s mask fell, briefly. Chandler couldn’t see it but the tremor in his former friend’s voice said it all. Mitch remembered.

  Handcuffed and under watch, Gabriel led the trek to the burned-out cabin, Erin and Yohan charged with sticking close by him in case he attempted to escape.