‘Cooperman.’
He froze, registering the plea, the need, the pain and grief all wrapped up into that softly uttered word. Everything but sorry. He should know never to expect sorry from her, and yet disappointment jabbed at his heart. ‘Don’t call me that.’
‘You called me Miss Chief.’
‘That was mistake. It won’t happen again.’
‘What can I call you?’
‘Detective Senior Constable Cooper is fine.’
‘That’s a bit of a mouthful. How about Harts?’
The muscles in his face twitched. Nobody except his mother had ever called him Harts, and after she died he never wanted anyone to call him by that name. Everyone, including his father, called him Coops, but then Erika had come along and refused to call him anything but Harts. Or Cooperman. For some reason, he’d liked hearing both names on her lips. His heart clenched. ‘Detective is fine.’
‘Harts.’
He shook his head. But not in denial. It was that shake of ‘why should I be so surprised you’re still arguing with me’ or the ‘I give up’ shake that had been a common part of their friendship. Erika would do what she would do and there was no arguing against it. He wasn’t sure why he was even trying. ‘Call me whatever you want.’
She nodded, smiled, an apologetic smile. Then, before he could compute what that apologetic smile might mean, she said, ‘I want to see the crime-scene photos.’
‘As I said, you know I can’t show you those.’
‘No, I don’t know that. As I’ve told you, I work for the coroner and the police. This is my job.’
‘In Melbourne.’
‘Well, if you’re going to make it into a cross-jurisdictional issue, then I can simply call my boss and ask him to call the NSW Police Commissioner—he owes my boss favours because of help I’ve given them, so I know he’ll let me see the files. Of course, that will involve plenty of paperwork neither of us needs, so we could bypass all that and you just give me the files.’
‘Blackmail, Erika? That’s not like you.’
She frowned as if confused. ‘No. I’m just stating the obvious.’
Of course she was.
She crossed her arms. ‘So, for me to help, I’ll need to see a copy of the report as well as a copy of the post-mortem report that’s been done on Peter.’
‘There hasn’t been an autopsy done.’
She couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d tried. ‘Why not? Oh, of course. The forensic pathologist probably only works office hours in this godforsaken town.’
‘That’s not the reason. There’s no proof of foul play.’
‘You have two bodies found in an explosion at a meth lab. That should be enough by any state law to ensure a post-mortem is done by the coronial office at least. You don’t need to shield me from the report or photos. I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies before.’
‘None of those were your brother’s body.’
‘Yes. But two of them were my parents’.’
‘That was different.’
‘I want to see the post-mortem report when it’s done.’
‘Then you’re going to have to wait a while.’ Her brows rose and he could see she was going to argue with him some more, so this time he raised his hand. ‘Dr Metler has retired and we haven’t been able to employ a new forensic pathologist—apparently there’s a sparsity of them.’
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘Then what are you doing for post-mortems?’
‘The bodies are going into cold storage until someone can come up from Sydney to do them.’
‘But…doesn’t that severely hinder you closing your case files?’
‘This isn’t the big city. We don’t have many murders up here. Or even suspicious deaths.’ Most sudden deaths were caused by vehicular accidents, but he wasn’t about to mention that to her.
‘So, you’re admitting Peter’s death could be murder.’
He blinked rapidly. ‘No. I didn’t say that. What I was trying to say is that given there is no true case here that suggests foul play…’ She went to open her mouth, but he held up his hand again. ‘Nobody in Sydney will be in a rush to get up here to do an autopsy on a case that virtually closes itself.’
Her mouth moved as if she was chewing the inside of her lip. ‘Then put me to use while I’m here.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll do the post-mortem on Peter and Tyler.’
‘But…what? You can’t do that. He’s your brother.’ And he wasn’t a very pretty sight. She didn’t need that to be her final memory of him.
Her chin lifted. ‘Are you saying you don’t think I can remain professional because of my relationship with the victim?’
‘Yes. You’d have to be a robot not to be affected.’
She stiffened even more. ‘I’ve been called worse.’
Shit. People had always accused her of being unfeeling because of her intelligence and the way she processed information and was a bit socially awkward, but he knew better and hadn’t meant to bring up those bad memories with his careless words. ‘Erika. I’m sorry…’
She shook her head. ‘Let me do it.’
‘You’re not registered in New South Wales. I can’t just let you do it.’
‘Exemptions are made in justifiable circumstances. As you said, there is a sparsity of forensic pathologists, particularly ones with my excellent level of skill and range of degrees. My office has lent out my services to other states—including the New South Wales coroner and police. This would be no different, especially as you have nobody else. As I said, it would be a simple matter of making a call to my boss.’
‘But he’s your brother.’ They wouldn’t let her work on her brother.
‘I don’t see why that should matter. I know how Peter must look. I’ve done post-mortems on fire victims before. Believe me, my imagination is far worse than reality could ever be.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true in this case.’
Her gaze snapped to his. ‘This isn’t about what you think is true. It’s about Peter. About discovering the facts of his death. That’s more important to me than anything. Do you understand?’
Her gaze was piercing again and he knew she wasn’t going to give up. Wasn’t going to stop getting in his face about it as long as she was here. ‘Fine. You can do your autopsy. But then, when you prove it was an accident, you have to go.’
‘Done.’ She held out her hand.
And fool that he was, he took it.
Chapter Four
Erika pulled her car up on the edge of the Echo Ridge Lookout. The spur of rock was the southern tip of the plateau that came to an abrupt stop in a crescent-shaped ridge that ran from the springs that gave Echo Springs its name, around the west of town and up to the north to peter out around Bulls’ Run station. She’d always loved the view here, the empty spread of land before her that made her feel like she could be somewhere as distant as Mars. She’d never minded that sense of endless space and emptiness; it had always been kind of soothing.
Thankfully, nobody else was here. It was too early in the day for sightseers or for the teenagers who came at dusk to play tonsil-hockey with each other. She was alone, the way she preferred. Especially now. There was too much to think about and process. Too much anger to push down before she could show her face back in town again.
It seemed that when Hartley said ‘done,’ he hadn’t quite meant it. He didn’t have the authority to give her permission to do the post-mortem on her brother and Tyler—he had to ask his superintendent. He’d told her to go home and get settled in and he’d call her later.
The only problem was, she didn’t have a home to go to. Hanson House was now owned by Mrs Patterson. Mabel was in Coolabah Nursing Home according to Hartley, so she couldn’t go stay with her even if she wanted to. She supposed that left only one place—the Echo Springs Hotel. Daphne and Pip might be happy to see her. They’d helped her out all those years ago, numerous times. Had given her Jenny’s details in Melb
ourne and money to get there. But she hadn’t spoken to them for years. Would it be strange for her to drop in on them now? She simply wasn’t sure. Peter would know, but he wasn’t here to ask.
She sucked in a sob, fingers itching to start up the car again and keep driving right down the Mitchell, all the way to Sydney, and hop back on a plane to Melbourne. But she couldn’t do that. Fighting the urge to flee helped shove aside the clawing squeeze of her grief for a blessed moment. Only a moment. ‘Peter,’ she whispered.
What the hell had been going on here? Could Peter have been involved with drugs?
No.
Impossible.
She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have done something like that, especially given the rumours about the car accident that killed their parents being caused by her mother taking drugs. It had affected him more than her—she’d caught him crying about it when he was bullied at school and it had confused her a bit because they knew the rumours weren’t true. But it had upset him that people thought so badly of their mother. So there was no way he’d get involved in drugs. None. No, it was more likely he’d been trying to talk Tyler out of doing something stupid and been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes, that was more in character. Her brother was good man. Caring. Empathetic. He liked people and people liked him. It was something they’d never had in common, but she’d always admired it in him. And been a little jealous of it, in a proud kind of way. He was a good brother, and a better person than she ever could be. He’d probably been trying to save his friend right up until the end.
Tears stung her eyes as grief rose up and dried her throat. She wanted to let the tears pour out of her, to sob until there was nothing left inside. But she couldn’t. Not when she had to go back to town soon. She also couldn’t take the chance it would lead to a panic attack, or worse, an emotional fugue that could lead to a dissociative episode. The panic attacks were difficult enough, but the fugues were worse and not something she wanted to live through again.
But it was so difficult, now she was alone, to hold back these overwhelming sensations. She wanted to wail at the sky, to rail at whatever force was responsible for this—a god or fate or just simple dumb bad luck. She had never associated in any way with the concept of faith or belief or karma. She’d never been able to understand her mother’s faith in her Jewish heritage and religion, especially given she was a scientist, a doctor. She, and nobody else, shaped her life. And yet, right now, she wanted to blame someone. Something. Peter was dead and it made no sense.
She slammed her hand against the steering wheel and screamed out ‘Fuck!’ It felt good.
She slammed her hand against the steering wheel and swore again. Harder. Louder. Again. Again. She slammed both hands against the steering wheel, stamping her feet on the floor of the car and screamed out every swear word she could think of and some she made up. She slammed and stomped and screamed until her palms stung and her throat was dry and sore. Then she sat there, panting, the ache in her chest somewhat lessened, the need to cry a small prickle in her eyes, and stared out through the windshield of her car, over the valley below, at the wide expanse of craggy red and purple rock and sand and the pale greenish-grey of the scrub scattered across the landscape.
Dry. Endless. Echoing. Empty.
No. Not empty. Something scuttled out from the brush down below—a desert mouse with a lizard hot on its tail. ‘Run. Run,’ she whispered to the mouse, watching, fingers curled around the steering wheel. Breath caught in her throat as the lizard leapt, pounced—it was going to have its dinner—but then the little mouse dodged left and disappeared into the earth where the lizard was too big to follow.
Erika took in a shuddering breath. She didn’t know why it was so important that the little mouse lived—it was the circle of life, hunter and prey—but it was. It made her feel like…feel like…like she wasn’t the only one always on the run from the thing behind her.
A little burst of laughter exploded out of her. She was being ridiculous. She wasn’t on the run. She never had been. Moving to Melbourne, living with Jenny, it had been the sensible thing to do and it had changed her life. She had a home and job she loved, had the respect and friendship of her colleagues. She wanted nothing more than to get back there and forget all this.
But she couldn’t. She had to find out what had happened to Peter. Sitting around waiting for permission wasn’t going to get that done.
She picked up her phone and made a call. Five minutes later, she hung up the phone, took a deep breath, then started up the car and backed out. Mentally wishing luck to the little mouse, she drove back up the Mitchell toward Echo Springs and the Echo Springs Hotel.
Twenty minutes later she turned down Main Street and then onto Echo Parade. And there it was. Sitting on the corner where it had always sat. It looked the same, maybe a little worn, as did many of these Federation-style buildings in many country towns. But it was familiar, with its red bricks and the lacework on the wraparound veranda, the tower on the far right corner a beacon for the thirsty and weary. She’d always thought the sandstone trim around the front windows and the doorway made them look like eyes and a mouth, smiling at her, and even now, as an adult, she couldn’t help but feel they were welcoming her as she drove past and pulled up in the car park.
She hopped out, trying not to cough from the red dust kicked up by her car. It was dry out here. Dryer than she’d remembered. Heat wrapped around her as she grabbed her bag from the boot, despite the fact that it was still early in the day. She’d forgotten how hot it could be here.
As she began to walk toward the front door, nerves danced in her stomach, a fine film of perspiration prickling her skin. She tightened her grip on her bag and marched up the stone front steps and across the black-and-white chequered tiles of the veranda. One of the wood and stained-glass doors stood open, and she edged through it and into the cooler, darker depths within.
‘Erika Julietta Hanson! What a delightful surprise. Come here and give me a hug.’ She was enveloped in warm arms—a little more fleshy than she remembered—and the familiar homey smell of baking scones and the slight sour smell of beer.
‘Daphne!’ For some strange reason, she felt like crying again.
‘Pip. Pip. Come and see who is here.’
She was released from the hug, but not from the gaze of the slightly rounded red-head—red-head?—who was vibrating with excitement beside her.
A grey-haired, slightly more crinkled version of the strapping man she remembered came out of the storeroom from behind the bar. ‘What’s all the excitement?’ His suntanned face creased improbably further into a wide smile as his eyes lit on Erika. ‘EJ! Are you a sight for these old eyes.’ She was enveloped in another bearish hug, the smell of ginger and dust swirling around her making her eyes prick again and a lump wedge in her throat.
Before she could manage to speak around the lump, she was held back from him, his endless sky-blue eyes glowing in the dark of the bar as his gaze roamed over her. ‘You turned out just the way I thought you would.’
‘And how is that?’
‘As pretty and smart as your mother.’
Damn it. She was going to cry. She blinked hard, pulling away from him. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Well I do. I’m sure Daph agrees.’ He gestured to his wife, who was standing there staring at her, eyes a little bit weepy, sniffling into the apron she’d gathered up and was holding to her nose.
She nodded, her inplausibly red hair bobbing around her still pretty face. ‘Wait until Peter sees you. He’ll…’
Pip made a gesture and Daphne’s eyes widened and she said, ‘oh.’
Erika’s gaze skirted between the two of them. She knew news travelled fast in this town, but this was taking things to a new level. Peter’s body had only been found late the night before and it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning. ‘You’ve heard already?’
‘That Peter was missing? Mac’s a policeman now. He told u
s he was going to register a missing person’s report so he could start to investigate Peter’s disappearance officially.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes. Nobody has seen him for the last few days and all of his stuff is still here, so we know he didn’t go away suddenly and forgot to tell us.’ Daphne tipped her head on the side. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Nobody’s seen him for a few days?’ Oh god. They hadn’t heard. ‘Perhaps we should sit down.’
‘Of course,’ Pip said, gesturing to the booth behind them. ‘What is it, luv?’
She didn’t know how to say it. She never knew how to say it—which was why she was a forensic pathologist and not a doctor. So she just said it the only way she knew how. ‘I’ve been at the police station this morning. They told me Peter is dead.’
Daphne gasped again, pressing the scrunched apron harder against her mouth, her eyes wider than before.
‘Dead?’ Pip’s deep voice vibrated through the air. ‘Are you sure, EJ?’
‘Yes. There was a fire or an explosion.’
‘That must have been what all the commotion was late last night.’ He looked over at Daphne. ‘There were sirens from all the services going west out along Main Street and toward the Mitchell.’
‘Yes. I was told it was an explosion at a meth lab. Police, firefighters and ambulance would have been sent as a matter of course.’
‘But it couldn’t be Peter. He wouldn’t be involved in that kind of thing. Not after those horrible, untrue rumours about your mum.’
She slapped her hand down on the table, making Daphne jump. ‘That’s just what I said. Hartley was certain, though. They found identification at the scene and his car was there.’
‘Hartley Cooper?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s a good lad. And a good copper. Better than his dad, I reckon.’ Daphne and Pip shared a look, the kind of look that always left Erika feeling like she was in the dark about something essential. ‘If he says it was Peter, it must be.’
Dangerous Echoes Page 3
