He left her with a gentle kiss on her forehead. She told him to go away and let her sleep.
As he went back into the living room, he saw that his parents were engrossed in some TV game show, all flashing lights and overexcited contestants, whatever his mum’s latest fad was. Everyone was home and everything was normal. Until the knock on the door.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Chandler before his mum could wrestle herself from the sofa. He was glad he did.
Answering the door he was presented with a bedraggled-looking Mitch crowding the doorstep, today’s suit tilted off his shoulders like the scales of justice gone askew, the shirt creased, as he leaned on the buttress of the porch.
‘What are you doing here, Mitch?’
‘Yes, Mitch,’ said Mitch, holding up a half-empty bottle of brown liquid, probably bourbon. From the wide bottom and thick glass it looked like an expensive bottle. ‘Not “Inspector” tonight, eh?’
‘What do you want?’ asked Chandler.
‘A drink. A truce.’
Mitch’s voice was loud. He was bordering on drunk and barely managing to disguise it.
‘A truce?’ What should have felt like old times – him and Mitch hanging around on the porch – felt more sinister. A souring of a memory.
‘We got off on the wrong foot I think.’
Chandler sighed. ‘Look, Mitch, I appreciate it, but it’s late and I’m trying to spend time with my kids. You, drunk, on my porch is the last thing I need.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ said Mitch, raising his voice.
Chandler went to shut the door. ‘Look, you have to go. We – I – have to get things back to normal tomorrow. The kids have school, Sarah has First Confession in a few days. I have to prepare for my ex-wife trying to steal my kids.’ Not a subtle blow but it felt good.
Mitch threw his hands in the air. ‘Ah, come on. It’s nothing personal.’
‘Nothing personal?’ spluttered Chandler, glancing over his shoulder in case his mum was prowling. ‘How . . . when . . . did you two decide to drag the kids – my kids— into this?’
Mitch shook his head, his upper torso following suit a second later in a long, inebriated swing. ‘She had the idea a long time before we got together.’
‘Just leave, Mitch. You’re drunk.’
Mitch fought back. ‘You want to know why? ’Cause there’s nothing else to do ’round here. Those kids’ll do the same – have nothing to do but become a bogan like you.’
Chandler glared at Mitch. ‘Call me what you want. At least I’m not just out for the publicity like some media whore.’
‘Christ, Chandler, join this century. Publicity’s everywhere. PR is king. Quotas and press releases. Charts for charges and charges for column inches. I have to fight for a budget and to get it, things have to either work well, or have gone to complete shit. I prefer the former.’ He narrowed his eyes, clinging to the buttress for support.
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Jealous?’
‘Yeah, that I’m with Teri. Maybe you haven’t moved on. Pickings might be slim around here but surely there’s someone desperate enough.’
Mitch chuckled at his joke but Chandler had had enough and stepped out the door to confront him.
‘Get out of here Mitch, before—’
‘Before what?’ said Mitch, pushing himself away from the pillar and finding the world a little rocky without the support.
‘Before something happens we both regret,’ said Chandler.
Deciding he’d had enough, Mitch stepped off the porch on to the dry, scorched garden.
‘I regret coming down to deal with this shit,’ he said, ‘but I will deal with it.’ Turning quickly, he stumbled on down the lawn and into the darkness.
Yet another dangerous character loose in town.
33
2002
Eighteen days in the search was shut down, forced upon them with the forecast worsening for the next few weeks, the temperature gauge cranking into the mid-to-high forties. Weather that made it unsafe to be out there with a limited supply of fresh water. So Bill and the heads from Perth took the decision from Chandler’s hands.
On hearing the news, Sylvia’s shoulders slumped, her body language suggesting that all remaining hope had been lost. Arthur’s resolve, however, held firm. Fronting a hastily arranged press conference he stated his intention to continue the search, informing the reporters that the police might have abandoned Martin but that he and God wouldn’t and that he was going out again, with his own plan of attack this time.
This revelation worried everyone involved, but there was little the police or anyone could do to stop him, thwarted as they were by a combination of public land and free will. So Bill dragged Chandler and Mitch aside and asked them to stay on, to ensure nothing else went wrong and to try and persuade Arthur to stop. To prevent the family from jumping down the mineshaft to save Martin, only to succumb themselves.
But Arthur wouldn’t be entirely alone in his search, the stipend of a hundred and fifty dollars persuading some of the remaining ‘volunteers’ to carry on. Those that were fit, able and had the guts to continue. This brought out the weird and the wonderful, some there for the adventure, some there for the money, but all definitely some form of crazy. So Chandler and Mitch, the two rookie cops, were left with this burden, babysitting a gang of unstable mercenaries and a slowly imploding family in the midst of forty-five degree heat.
Huddled in the shade of some eucalyptus trees, Mitch ran through the instructions to the group. There were only nine in total now, five being paid for the privilege, seven if he and Chandler were included. Seven mercenaries, an old man and a child to search for one lost boy. The orders, relayed by Mitch, were to stick close together, and included the warning that he would call back the chopper and airlift everyone out by force if he was disobeyed.
The threat was immediately ignored by the more experienced bushmen who believed they knew better than some rookie cops. This was their land and they would lead Arthur to his son by their own means, no matter how disparate or vague. Privately, Chandler warned them against that kind of over-optimistic dialogue but up here he understood he really had little authority over anyone. Up here, nothing was respected more than the ability to survive, the rule of law an unwelcome obstacle this deep in the outback. They had the uniform but no clout. They were bodyguards with shiny badges, nannying the family and the others, their own search taking a back seat to maintaining a watchful eye on their charges.
Straight away the group scattered across the land, frayed strands of a single piece of fabric, exploring by instinct rather than design, a strategy encouraged by their spiritual leader, Arthur. The old man believed that the way to find his eldest son was not by order, like they had been doing for the last eighteen days, but by a form of chaos. But this chaos meant that overall progress slowed and instead of ten kilometres a day they barely managed half that, the direction of travel random, guided by one cop who didn’t want to be there and another who cared little for the emotional well-being of the group but more for making a name for himself.
Chandler did what he could, sticking close to Arthur and his son but regularly losing them, the boy scampering off on his own and slipping behind some rocks, or disappearing over the edge of a ridge causing Chandler to frantically scramble after him – only to find him engrossed by a shiny black insect in the dirt or tearing at the bark of a tree as if in his own backyard.
But the child was merely impetuous. It was Arthur who worried Chandler more. The old man’s mind was disintegrating. Chandler was left with trying to distract him from the search, discussing everything from the vastness of space to the latest football scores, doing his best to keep the awful truth from entering and consuming the old man’s brain.
34
The day began with the publication of the preliminary forensic report. It confirmed what Chandler already knew: all six victims had been strangled with rope. Not the same rope, which was unfortunate for the inves
tigators. There wasn’t much else to note in it other than his delicate retrieval of the manacles had proved a bust, any DNA or fingerprint evidence destroyed in the blaze. He had been hoping it would at least confirm which one of them had been chained up. The report included confirmation that the perp was right-handed. Both Gabriel and Heath were right-handed so it didn’t add anything. Traces of blood found on some of the less-damaged tools matched DNA with a couple of the buried victims, but again nothing regarding the suspects, the plastic handles melted into unrecognizable shapes like the death masks of the victims forensics were currently trying to piece together to aid identification.
What could be determined given the deterioration of the corpses was that the most recent victim – a male in his early thirties of slight build – had been dead three to four weeks. Bones in both legs had been broken but had since healed, childhood injuries rather than ones inflicted by his killer. Other than that, there were no signs of torture or mutilation, offering Chandler some relief that their killer might not have been quite as sadistic as believed. Deranged enough, however, to send at least six people to their maker.
John Doe was recent, the others weren’t. The oldest victims were judged to be between two or three years old, nothing but bone and fragments of clothing left. There was hope that they could be matched to the list of missing persons via dental records, but that would be a lengthier, administrative process. The final line of the report confirmed what Chandler already knew: that the shirt found around the axe handle did indeed match Heath’s.
Why would Heath be stupid enough to leave such a crucial piece of evidence there to be found? Of course he couldn’t have known that the graves would be discovered but how could it happen? Had Heath been rushed into burying the John Doe while another victim – Gabriel – waited in the shed, like a conveyor belt of murder? But the body in the grave had been dead a few weeks. Why keep John Doe that long without burying him? His corpse would have stunk the cabin out in no time in this heat. And why keep it and then rush to bury him? There were no signs of interference post-mortem, sexual or otherwise. There was a chance that he was giving Heath too much credit for intelligence but there seemed only one feasible solution.
Against his better judgement Chandler sought out Mitch. As ever, he was stowed away in his sequestered office, the blinds shut tight, staring at a map of the town and the Hill projected on the wall, pretending not to be dealing with a hangover.
Chandler abandoned any attempted greeting and came right out with it, loud enough to make Mitch cringe.
‘I have a theory.’
Mitch closed his eyes but didn’t respond.
‘About the piece of shirt we found—’
‘Before you go on – about last night,’ interrupted Mitch. Chandler didn’t want to discuss it. There was nothing to discuss. ‘This isn’t about last night.’
The hot, still air deadened the room. Mitch spoke first.
‘Okay, go ahead.’
‘I think Heath’s being set up. By Gabriel.’
Mitch didn’t react so Chandler continued.
‘To make it look like Heath was responsible for the murders. We found the piece of Heath’s shirt around the pickaxe, placing him at the scene. But by now you’ve seen the prelim report from forensics stating that the most recent victim had been dead three to four weeks.’
Mitch nodded slowly. ‘Yes, and—?’
‘Well, the soil around the body had been disturbed a lot more recently than that. There was still some moisture in it, so, either the victim was buried a few weeks after death – and you know in this heat the stink of a dead body would have made the cabin unbearable, so it doesn’t seem likely the killer would have kept it around – or the soil was disturbed more recently. And there would be only one reason to do that. To plant evidence.’
Chandler expected at least a moment of quiet deliberation of his theory but Mitch shot back immediately. ‘But Gabriel was caught first wasn’t he? In fact, he handed himself in. Twice.’
‘True, but as Heath has stated, he had no way to get here quicker. That’s why he tried to steal the car.’
‘But we have no guarantee that after stealing the car he was going to come to the station, only his word that he was, and that means nothing to me. The evidence we have, Sergeant, points to Heath. But while we put together something concrete, we’ll keep them both here.’
‘You’re reading it wrong,’ said Chandler. ‘It’s not Heath.’
‘And you’re clutching at straws, Sergeant.’
‘But them working together makes no sense.’
Mitch interrupted, not raising his voice but insistence creeping through each word.
‘Sergeant, we’re charging both Mr Barwell and Mr Johnson.’
Ironically, given that under normal circumstances his daughter’s First Confession would have been under way right now, Chandler headed to the church where the magistrate’s court had been hastily convened in its hall. People with graver sins than his daughter would be offering their confessions.
To preside over the hearing, Eleanor White had been flown in. Eleanor had been the local magistrate for twenty-five years but even the tight bun that strangled her silver hair couldn’t contain her excitement. Nothing in her long years of serving came close to this. Indeed, the case had brought the town to life for the first time in years, drawing to the surface a morbid fascination with death amongst its population that no amount of funfairs or amusement rides could hope to match.
Chandler’s involvement was purely as a spectator, Mitch ordering his team to prep and move the suspects under close watch from their lawyers, the alert level raised to extreme, guiding them with excessive caution from the cells to the cars, one suspect in the back seat of each, flanked by a pair of Mitch’s officers. Until the last second. Spying his chance, Chandler jumped in the back seat of Gabriel’s transport ahead of Yohan. The squat officer shot daggers at Chandler but was outranked and minus the support of his boss who had left in the lead car with Heath, who had to be physically forced into it when told where he was going. As Chandler squashed up alongside Gabriel he gauged his reaction but got nothing that indicated that Gabriel was excessively worried, the suspect merely shifting around as if discomforted by the slick leather seats. Otherwise, he was placid.
The journey was unremarkable and at the hall, Chandler escorted his suspect from the car to the cramped lobby without issue. With the assortment of cops and officials there was little space to breathe and tensions were high. The suspects were watched over like hawks, and they, in turn, stared at each other from opposite sides of the lobby waiting for their name to be called. Chandler was confident that this was merely a formality. Both had indicated they would plead not guilty and neither would make, nor could afford, bail given the flight risk.
Heath was up first. Chandler accompanied him and his tired-looking lawyer inside.
The hall had been laid out in the manner of one of Sarah’s terrible school plays, rows of seats thrown into casual alignment by the caretaker, to cater for the increased police and press presence. Even so, there were nowhere near enough places, the press muttering as they filed along the back and sides of the hall, notebooks and pencils at the ready to record the events. To lend the proceedings an air of authority the reverend’s solid mahogany writing desk had been dragged from next door to the front of the stage where the Honourable Justice White sat looking very stately but very lonely, only the neatly stacked sheaves of evidence to keep her company. Convening the court, all her nervous excitement seemed to have disappeared. She was clear and deliberate in her speech as she read to Heath the charge of murder – a count of six. Heath whined that it wasn’t him, loud enough for most to hear, the press eagerly noting the witness’s intransigence and jittery body language. When the time came to enter his plea he did: Not Guilty. Delivered firmly, if emotionally. Chandler stared at the man he believed was innocent, unable to do anything to halt the process. He would just have to work on proving Heath’s innocence.
After some more formalities, bail applied for by his lawyer and refused, Heath was led out and directed to the worn pews that lined the lobby, his chest rising and falling in long breaths.
Gabriel was up next. He was perched not on the pews but curled up in a ball on the thick stone windowsill, rocking back and forth, looking almost foetal, the stained-glass window bathing him in a gentle blue light. His calm veneer had cracked. Mitch approached Gabriel’s shoulder, and rested his hand on it, a cue to stand. Gabriel didn’t move. Chandler got to his feet to help just as Gabriel finally unfurled himself and stood, head raised, focused not on Mitch, not on the wide double-door to the temporary court beyond, but on Heath.
The party began to move. As Mitch ushered onlookers out of the way Gabriel’s attitude reminded Chandler of a dead man walking, taking his last steps before meeting his executioner, the grave silence broken only by the shuffled steps of the condemned. Chandler took up position as the suspects passed each other, barely six feet between them, closer than they had been since falling off the ridge together.
In a flash, Gabriel was free. With a dip of his shoulder he evaded Mitch’s grasp, the cuffs that had been attached to his wrists sliding to the floor as he moved towards Heath who was propped rigidly on the pew.
The speed of the move took everyone by surprise. Chandler stood stunned as if he’d witnessed a magic trick unfold in front of his eyes, Gabriel’s hands free of the chains, the escape artist wowing his audience into momentary inertia. Gabriel threw himself at the other man and wrestled Heath to the floor, trying to jam the serrated edge of a set of keys into his throat. Heath’s screams wrenched Chandler from his stupor. Shoving Gabriel’s lawyer out of the way, he launched himself at her client.
The tackle was good, forcing Gabriel off his prey and knocking both Gabriel and Chandler into an out-of-control roll, sweeping bystanders off their feet and causing him to lose hold of Gabriel, who slipped from his grasp.
55 Page 20
