by Maggie Groff
As we walked across the disused railway crossing, Dave stopped for a while to rest his painful right hip. He tells me that he’s staving off a hip replacement, hoping to wake up one morning and find the pain gone.
‘How did you convince Ben to leave the cult?’ I asked.
‘When people join a cult, they’re shielded from the outside world, so there are no reality checks. Much as it devastated us at the time, Ben’s reality check was his mother’s diagnosis of breast cancer. I flew to Adelaide, hired a car and drove to where Ben’s girlfriend, Bijoux, said the cult had a property. It looked like those film clips you see of Greenham Common in England—high fences and security cameras. I camped in my car outside the gate, figuring that Ben would have to leave at some point to buy cigarettes. I was there four days before he came out. He was shocked to see me, and I like to think that was the start of bringing him back to reality.’
My mouth had fallen open. I closed it and put my hand on Dave’s arm.
‘I had no idea, Dave.’ I couldn’t believe they hadn’t told me.
‘No, we kept it quiet. Daisy was already suffering from too much sympathy over her breast cancer. You know how she is. Hates pity and fuss.’
I nodded and waited for Dave to continue.
‘Ben tried to ignore me, but I thrust the letter his mother had written to him into his hand. He dropped it at first, then turned back and picked it up. There was nothing more I could do, so I flew home. I left it in the lap of the gods.’
‘Good grief, Dave,’ I said.
We started walking again.
‘The gods were smiling on us. Two days later, Ben arrived home, albeit insisting he would return to Adelaide. He never did go back and turned out to be a real trooper. He took care of the house, the farm and drove Daisy to John Flynn Hospital in Queensland for her treatments.’
‘Did Ben go through any deprogramming or exit counselling?’ I asked.
Dave shook his head. ‘No. Doc Smithers gave me a referral for Ben to see a psychiatrist, but he never went. We—the family, including Ben—read books written by ex-cult members and discussed them and had heated arguments. As time went by, Ben slowly regained his thought processes and started to question the cult’s doctrine. Daisy and I knew that he had to think it through himself. There’s no point telling them it’s a load of bunkum, they have to work it out for themselves. Ben talks about it freely. You know, he’s a Buddhist now. Kids!’
We exchanged a look of resigned amusement.
‘Are either of yours religious?’ he asked.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Ben’s home this weekend. Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow evening and you can talk to him? You can bring Tildy’s mother with you, too, if that’d be helpful.’
‘Thanks, I’d love to. I’ll let you know about Tildy’s mother. Her name’s Marcia.’
We walked in silence for the rest of the way. By the time we arrived at the police station my mouth was dry and I was sweating profusely. An innocent woman going to the gallows.
Chapter 16
The police station at Byron Bay is an attractive cream wooden building with a covered front verandah and a gabled roof, similar to an old Australian schoolhouse. I half-expected to hear the theme tune from A Country Practice as I walked up the steps.
The place hadn’t changed much in the five years since I was last here, which had been to collect my eldest nephew, Max, who had run foul of the law while celebrating schoolies week in Byron. Max was one of three boys caught hanging a large banner that said, DESIGNATED DONUT SHOP along the charming white picket fence that fronts the police station. Although Max was given a stern warning, the officer who showed us out was smiling and, when I looked back, he’d crossed the road and was taking a photo of the banner and laughing with a passer-by.
Once inside the station Dave removed his hat and produced a business card, which he handed to the young police officer behind the front counter. I stood quietly next to him, trying not to look guilty. Constable Sarah Walters, a friend and occasional tennis partner, was working on a computer at a desk in the corner and we made finger-waggle waves at each other. Sarah didn’t look surprised to see me and I wondered if Rafe had filled her in on the reason for my visit.
‘Ms Davis has an appointment at two o’clock,’ Dave informed the desk officer.
I looked around for Rafe, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Rather alarmingly, I realised that I’d been looking forward to seeing him.
Dave and I were shown into an interview room, told to take a seat and advised that the detectives would be with us in due course. I’d never been in an interview room at a police station before and I have to say that a bit of Laura Ashley fabric wouldn’t have gone astray.
‘No big phone books, that’s a good sign,’ Dave commented as we both sat down at one side of the table. His jovial attitude did little to quell my nerves, but I nodded in appreciation of his sentiments.
Two plain-clothes officers, one male and one female, entered the room. The female was carrying a cardboard box, which she placed on the floor, out of sight. Both officers sat down opposite Dave and me. We shook hands and made introductions, just grown-ups chewing the fat. Dave handed both officers his business card; twenty years ago he would have been offering them cigarettes.
Things didn’t stay amicable for long.
Detective Senior Sergeant Andrea Wenborne was a big girl in her thirties, dressed in dark green pants and a shirt the colour of grape flesh. Her facial features were prominent and devoid of makeup and her dark hair was swept into a tight French roll. She reminded me of that famous television nanny, and I waited for her to clap her hands and tell me my behaviour ‘was not asseptable’. Still, I was one to talk. Dave and I, both dressed in black and white, looked like a couple of department store sales assistants.
‘It was lucky you reported the car missing or you’d be in real trouble,’ Detective Wenborne began, pursing her mouth as if I was something unsavoury.
My hackles rose—I don’t respond well to bullies. I opened my mouth to advise her of this very fact, but Dave beat me to the draw. He placed his hand on my arm and squeezed as he spoke.
‘Luck has nothing to do with it, Detective Wenborne. Ms Davis’s car was stolen and she reported it missing.’ Dave patted my arm and then took his hand away.
Next, it was Detective Sergeant John Salvatore’s turn. In appearance Salvatore was the quintessential middle-aged police officer, slightly overweight, receding hairline, grey moustache and an off-white shirt with armpit stains. I could smell his body odour, and it made me wonder if anyone could smell mine. I was sweating like a pig, no pun intended.
‘We have details of the report you gave yesterday to Senior Sergeant Kelly,’ Salvatore said. ‘If I could just confirm with you the list of items that you stated were in your vehicle at the time it went missing.’ Salvatore sighed as if he regretted having to ask me.
I waited for Dave to speak. When he didn’t, I muttered, ‘Okay.’
Salvatore ran through the list and I said yes to all the items I’d mentioned to Rafe. The room was incredibly hot and stuffy; if the station had airconditioning, it certainly wasn’t filtering through to us. It was probably a ploy to make me uncomfortable, and it was working. Any moment now I’d admit to being Lord Lucan.
Detective Wenborne suddenly leaned over and rummaged in the cardboard box on the floor beside her chair. Sitting back up, she tossed a large clear zip-lock bag containing a bunch of green leaves onto the table. It looked to me like marijuana, but I wasn’t certain. It could have been a common houseplant for all I knew about gardening.
‘Why didn’t you mention this was in the car?’ Detective Wenborne demanded. Her expression was fierce.
Dave jumped in. ‘Because it wasn’t,’ he told her sharply. ‘My client has never seen that bag or the contents before.’
‘Really?’ Detective Wenborne was clearly making an attempt at sarcasm.
Manufacturing an artificial smile
, I thought how wonderful it would be to push her off her chair. Instead, I bit my tongue and sat on my hands, pressing my fingers into the chair until they hurt. Dave, I was pleased to see, was glowering at Wenborne.
‘And I suppose these don’t belong to your client either?’ Detective Wenborne produced another clear plastic bag from the cardboard box, this one containing about half-a-dozen syringes and needles. She slammed the bag down on the table in front of me, making me flinch.
‘On the contrary,’ Dave said, stroking his beard, ‘the contents of that bag may belong to my client.’
Wenborne and Salvatore looked stunned by Dave’s unexpected response. Slowly, a self-satisfied smirk formed on Wenborne’s face.
‘So, you’re admitting these items belong to you?’ she said, holding up the bag of syringes and needles. ‘But not this,’ she added, picking up the bag of green leaves.
I took the bag of syringes and needles and inspected the contents closely. They were identical to the diabetic syringes and needles I keep all over the place—in my car, at Harper’s, in the bathroom, on the back verandah, in every handbag and briefcase.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think so.’
Detective Wenborne sat back in her chair and looked mighty pleased with herself.
‘Are you a registered addict?’ she asked.
Dave gave me a nod, indicating I could answer.
‘No, I’m definitely not a registered addict.’
Wenborne raised an eyebrow, an attempt to look sceptical.
‘We can organise a search of your home if you don’t cooperate. See what we find there,’ she threatened.
Salvatore looked uncomfortable.
Dave cleared his throat.
I wanted to use the bathroom.
‘You have no right to threaten my client. Ms Davis has done nothing wrong and has no knowledge of this bag of greenery. It’s time you stopped your bully-boy games and advised us why we are here and what exactly you found in the car.’
Wenborne settled back in her chair, an amused look on her face.
‘Your client knows exactly what we found in her car, Fanshaw.’ She looked at me accusingly.
‘That’s enough,’ Dave said. ‘Unless you charge my client, and you certainly don’t have evidence to do that, she won’t be answering any further questions. My client came here in good faith to assist you in ascertaining who had stolen her vehicle, and from the moment you came into the room you’ve made accusations and cast aspersions towards Ms Davis.’
Go Dave!
Unfortunately, Dave must have thought the same, as he stood up to leave. He put his hat on and turned around.
Oh no! Dave, don’t walk out. What was Dave doing? These goons were about to throw me in the slammer for something I hadn’t done. My throat felt tight, as though it was constricting.
‘We need to settle down,’ Detective Salvatore said, shooting Wenborne an angry look. ‘A number of mature marijuana plants were found in your car, Ms Davis. Do you have any idea how they got there?’
Dave sat down again, removed his hat and placed it on the table.
‘No,’ I said. I hoped that I looked as shocked as I felt.
‘Do you take illegal drugs?’ Detective Salvatore asked me. He spoke quickly and I surmised that he wanted this over, too.
‘No,’ I said, trying to look indignant.
‘Following your phone call with Senior Sergeant Kelly, whereby you gave permission for your vehicle to be fingerprinted, we undertook fingerprinting of the recovered vehicle. It would be of great benefit to us if you could agree to providing your fingerprints for elimination purposes,’ Salvatore said.
I was about to agree, to get this over and done with, but Dave had other ideas. Putting his fist firmly on the table, he said, ‘No, my client doesn’t agree to providing her fingerprints. When may Ms Davis have her car returned?’
‘As soon as we’ve finished with it,’ Salvatore said.
‘And when will that be?’ Dave pressed.
Detective Salvatore shrugged.
Wenborne picked up the bag of syringes and needles. Holding it by the corner, she began swinging it in front of my face.
‘You haven’t explained these,’ she said.
‘My client is a diabetic,’ Dave said. ‘Ms Davis uses syringes and needles to administer her medication.’
‘Ha, like we haven’t heard that one before,’ Wenborne scoffed. ‘You’ll have to come up with something better than that. Ms Davis doesn’t even look overweight.’ She looked at me with distaste. ‘And for your future information,’ she went on, ‘most diabetics use delivery pens to inject their insulin. Hardly anyone still uses syringes and needles.’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’m an old-fashioned gal.’
Wenborne glowered at me.
I groaned. I was shaking with fury and perilously close to exploding. Once again, Dave put his hand on my arm. One of the biggest challenges I face is learning to curb my temper when people assume that all diabetes is self-inflicted, caused by being overweight. Some have even advised me that if I ate properly and improved my lifestyle it would go away.
I needn’t have worried. Dave was right on it.
‘It’s a common misconception, particularly amongst the poorly educated,’ Dave advised, staring straight at Detective Wenborne, ‘that diabetes is the fault of the person with the illness, diabetes occurring through poor diet, obesity and a number of other lifestyle factors. You should be aware that my client was born with type one diabetes, for which there is no precipitating factor, other than her body does not produce insulin. There is no cure for type one diabetes. My client must inject herself with insulin, using a needle and syringe, two or three times a day, every day of her life.’
Detective Wenborne turned red as a baboon’s bottom and I wriggled in my seat. It was absolutely brilliant. I glanced at Salvatore, who was displaying that strange look of pity I’m so used to.
‘My diabetes doesn’t define who I am,’ I said to him, my tone sharp. ‘It just makes everyday life a little more challenging.’
‘I apologise, Ms Davis,’ Salvatore said. ‘Thank you for coming in. We’ll notify you as soon as we’ve finished with your vehicle. It shouldn’t be long. An officer will be in to take your statement shortly.’
Detective Wenborne sat and seethed. She stood up, sneered at me and said, ‘Do you have anything else you need to tell us before we go, because if you do I suggest you tell us now.’
‘I do,’ I said politely.
Detective Wenborne sat down again.
‘What?’ she said impatiently.
I smiled sweetly and said, ‘Thank you for finding my car.’
Chapter 17
I staved off a desire to run from the police station with my arms out, shouting, ‘I’m free, I’m free.’
Once we were out of earshot, Dave advised me that the police would have already run the fingerprints from my car, and that after excluding the most prolific prints, which they would assume to be mine, they probably had a known villain in the frame.
‘That was just a muscle-flexing exercise,’ Dave pointed out. ‘Wenborne was hoping to nab you, as well as whoever stole your car. Don’t worry, you’ll only hear from her again when they’ve finished with your car.’
‘She was a real piece of work,’ I said.
‘Yeah, they need to cut down on her raw meat,’ Dave replied, laughing.
‘Why didn’t you want them to take my fingerprints?’
‘This from the woman who recently advised me that she may shortly be aiding and abetting a kidnapping.’ Dave looked at me in mock horror.
‘Oh!’
‘Oh, indeed,’ Dave said. ‘Anyway, I know as well as you do that you’re going to cosy up to that cult. Heaven only knows what you’ll be dipping your fingers in.’
‘I’m going to do no such thing,’ I told him.
‘Yeah, right,’ Dave said, ‘and you’re not an investigative journalist.’
Ouch! Dave had touch
ed a nerve. The idea of infiltrating the cult had been safely tethered somewhere in the back of my head. Unfortunately, now unleashed, it had zoomed forwards and was flashing like a poker machine: Try me, try me!
As we walked over the railway crossing back into town a dark grey police car slowed and pulled over beside Dave and me. Rafe was at the wheel. What now?
He buzzed down the passenger window and called Dave over. Assuming it was a private matter I politely stood back, but I gave Rafe my ten-megawatt smile, which he completely ignored. Then, without even acknowledging me, he drove off. I have to say, I was a trifle miffed.
‘Am I invisible?’ I asked Dave. ‘And while we’re at it, why didn’t that bastard tell those other two bastards that I was a diabetic? Save me all this grief.’ I kicked a shell that had somehow worked its way into town and it hit the tyre of a passing car. I acted casual—it wasn’t me.
‘Ah,’ Dave said, ‘don’t go into a tailspin. Rafe was relieved to see that I was with you and he just wanted to know you were okay. He told me that Wenborne is a recent transfer and her bad attitude is driving them all nuts. Apparently she was in a slaver over your syringes and needles. He purposely didn’t tell her about your diabetes to teach her a lesson. Actually, it worked a treat, didn’t it?’
‘Oh,’ I said, momentarily confused. I didn’t know whether to be pleased that Rafe had been concerned about me, or angry that I may have been used to bring Wenborne down a peg or two.
‘Between you and me, I think Rafe is sweet on you, Scout,’ Dave said.
The blush rose and within seconds I looked like an overripe tomato. I didn’t dare glance sideways in case Dave was looking at me.
At the corner of Jonson and Lawson streets Dave told me that he had a meeting at the Beach Hotel—a euphemism, I believed, for drinking a mojito and belting out a few more paragraphs of the great Australian novel. Ever the gentleman, he offered to walk me home, but I declined, thanked and hugged him. Then I set off, not for home but towards my intended destination in Marvell Street.
