Cam blew out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He wondered if Jo knew that her former boyfriend had been in jail.
He nodded to Rod and got to his feet. ‘I’ll question the vet again, but first I’ll pop in and see Rita, check the dog out too. Did Harris find anything when he searched the house?’
Rod shook his head. ‘Nothing he thought pertinent to the investigation. But he forgot to collect Pilkington’s business records, which is hardly surprising considering the condition he was in. Collect them when you see Mrs Pilkington. I’ll delegate the task of sorting them to one of my guys. I’ve already got someone on the Pilkington phone records.’
‘Mobile phone?’
‘Neither of them has one,’ Rod said. ‘No need to come back tomorrow, we’ll fax you the results of the second autopsy and any other relevant information that comes through.’
‘And what about the test results?’ Cam asked McManus.
‘The report on the bloodstain on the shed floor should be back soon. I sent an urgent priority out with the DNA and tissue samples but it’ll still be a few days before we get the results.’
‘The bloodstain is puzzling. Given the injuries sustained, shouldn’t there have been more blood on the floor?’ Cam queried.
‘Perhaps the actual killing occurred elsewhere and the blood got onto the shed floor when the body was moved to the wool press?’ McManus suggested.
Cam nodded, deep in thought. He was heading for the door when Rod’s voice made him turn. ‘How do you think Ruby’s going to feel about you coming back to work?’
Cam feigned surprise at the question. ‘Ruby? She’ll be fine.’
Rod glanced at McManus; the caterpillars wriggled back.
‘Yeah, right, pull the other one, mate,’ Rod said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Pilkingtons’ farmhouse was situated on lower ground, about fifty metres from the shearing shed. A faded advertising logo was stretched across the pitched tin of the roof, only visible from the hill on which the shed stood. As Cam walked the sloping fenced race towards the house he read the words ‘Bovril is good for you.’
The flooding river had washed the original homestead away and the house built to replace it shared none of the old shed’s charm. Judging by the hotch-potch of second-grade materials, Cam dated it as circa Second World War. Neither of the two front windows matched. One was a blistering wood-framed sash, the other made of blue sliding aluminium and probably nicked from a building site. The walls were fibro, like those of Cam’s rented police cottage, but unlike his, they were patched with crooked rectangles of nailed tin.
Pizzle’s rusting, snout-nosed truck was parked at a careless angle next to the house. It hadn’t been cleaned for a while and stank of cattle. On the other side of the house stood a rickety lean-to, probably once an improvised garage, now an improvised workshop and exposed to the elements from both ends. An assortment of rusting tools lay on the floor, hung from the beams or stuck up out of old drums and paint pots. Cam wondered if Pizzle had planned on passing them off as settlers’ relics for his tearoom.
Next to the workshop was parked a white Datsun Stanza, their other car. A pair of wellies covered in a brown crust of dried mud stood to attention outside the front door.
Rita opened the door before Cam had a chance to knock and smiled weakly, showing the tips of tic-tac teeth. Bella, tall as pony, stood at her side. About to put his hand out to pat the dog’s head, Cam flashed back to the grisly autopsy photos and withdrew it quickly, glancing at Rita as he did so.
Did she have any idea what her dog was capable of?
Her dark fibrous hair was pulled back tight and secured with a thick rubber band. Instead of the baggy jeans of yesterday she wore the kind of faded cotton ‘frock’ favoured by most of the town’s grandmothers, though she must have been no more than thirty-five.
‘Looks like you’re stuck with me, Rita,’ he said.
She bit her bottom lip. Her eyes were red and moist from recent crying. ‘Poor Sergeant Harris,’ she said with a quaver. ‘I saw them hauling him from the hole — he was a right mess. I feel bad about what’s happened to him, but I can’t say it’s not good to have you back. Come into the kitchen and have a cuppa.’
Cam had never been into the house before and was pleased to see that the shambles of the outside were not reflected on the inside, which was no doubt Rita’s sphere of influence. He took in as much as he could as they walked through the small lounge room, heading towards the kitchen at the back. He saw a cheap pine suite consisting of a two-seater and two armchairs with colourful printed cushions, and not a speck of dust in sight. Above the gas fireplace he noticed a print of a resting bush woodcutter and wondered if that was Pizzle’s influence. On the shelf next to the TV was a collection of religious reading material and Bibles, and next to these an incongruous pile of modern crime fiction. Cam took a fleeting glance at the authors’ names as he passed. Gerritsen, Reichs, Slaughter, Cornwell: strange choices for someone as intensely religious as Rita, but they had to be hers. As far Cam could remember, Pizzle was barely literate.
He stopped to pick up a framed picture of Pizzle from the veneered mantelpiece. Pizzle was wearing his usual floppy towelling hat, a blue sash and an embarrassed smile. A large pumpkin lay cradled in his arms like a baby.
Rita saw him examining the picture. ‘That was at the Glenroyd Show last year. He was so proud of that pumpkin; he’d never won anything before. He got his name engraved on a trophy too.’
Cam followed her into the kitchen, where she opened a cupboard door. A pumpkin took up half of the top shelf, its skin grey-green and wrinkled as an elephant’s, its middle sagging with decay. The draught of the closing pantry door brought with it the odour of rotting vegetation.
‘He wouldn’t let me throw it away.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Or even dry it.’
Cam couldn’t reply.
She fixed them a mug of tea each and they sat down in the kitchen, on the kind of moulded outdoor chairs you can sometimes pick up for ten dollars when there’s a sale on. The kitchen bench and cupboards looked reasonably new, assembled from a DIY kit and Pizzle’s handiwork, Cam guessed. The white laminated bench top sloped like a draining board, and one of the kitchen cupboard doors was lopsided, the knob already gone, the screw hole an ugly blemish on the fresh paintwork
Rita kept her eyes fixed on her tea. ‘I was expecting to be called to the hospital to identify the . . . umm . . . Darren.’
‘It’s something you don’t need to see.’ Cam snapped his eyes closed for a moment, trying to dispel the image of the rotting corpse. ‘We often do IDs through dental records, but apparently Darren didn’t believe in dentists.’
Rita shook her head. ‘Doesn’t trust them.’
‘That’s OK. The hairbrush and toothbrush will provide DNA for a comparison. He can be identified that way.’
‘Thank God.’ Her watery brown eyes met his own. ‘All night I was dreading it.’
‘It’s not how you would want to remember Darren.’
Cam nudged her untouched tea towards her. She let out a wobbly breath and took a sip.
He gave her a moment to compose herself. Outside the kitchen window the summer had burned all colour from the landscape, but within days of the first autumn rains it would be as green as he had always imagined Ireland to be, the ground covered with germinating seedlings like scattered grains of green rice.
Up the slope towards the shed he saw the SOCO guys packing up their gear. Nothing of any significance had been found in the haystack, or in the rubbish pit where the second body was found. It looked like Pizzle had finally got his pit excavated, though; they’d found old bricks, plastic milk bottles, empty cat-food tins and beer bottles, circa 1995.
Constable Pete Dowel was still supervising the dragging of the nearby dam with State Emergency Service volunteers. The occasional flash of their orange overalls against the backdrop of dry sepia paddocks stood out like a burst of colour in a black and
white movie.
Cam reached into the top pocket of his shirt and showed Rita the Ventolin cap. ‘This was found in the pile of wool that you and I swept up from the shed floor. Have you any idea who it might have belonged to?’
She looked at it for a moment then shook her head. ‘It’s from one of those puffer things, isn’t it? I’ve no idea — neither of us has asthma. Darren was epileptic, but he never had asthma.’
So, another unknown party in the shed had used a Ventolin inhaler. As for Pizzle’s being an epileptic, this was the first he’d heard of it; it must have developed later on in life.
‘The epilepsy was well controlled by drugs,’ she said when he questioned her further. ‘He hasn’t had a fit for ages.’
‘Has anyone else been in the shed recently, other than you, Darren and the vet?’ Cam asked.
‘No, no one — except for you, of course.’ She attempted a smile.
‘So what’s Darren been up to lately? Keeping his nose clean?’
The smile fell from her face. There was an ominous pause. Cam realised his mistake and wished he could push a button to erase the flippant tone from his words.
‘What do you mean? What kind of a question is that?’ she asked with an icy hush in her voice.
‘He has spent time in jail, and a man can meet with all kinds of bad company in jail.’ Cam spoke slowly this time, keeping his tone gentle, as if to a child.
But it did nothing to repair the damage already done. Her reply was harsh and snappy. ‘Friends don’t ask things like that. Friends see the good, not the bad. Darren’s put that side of his life behind him, you don’t need to dredge all that up again.’
She tightened her lips, clenched her jaw, her expression now set as if a change in the wind had left it that way. It was hard to believe this was the same meek, polite woman Cam had helped in the shearing shed. He saw in her face a sense of grim conviction of which he had been previously unaware.
Was this the kind of inner strength required by the type of women he and Sergeant Harris had discussed earlier? A woman who would marry a prisoner only for the sake of the social-security benefits, then drive him back to crime on his release, for the cycle to begin again?
Or was this her way of reacting to the shocking death of her husband? Everyone reacted differently to grief — old wounds were opened; hidden splinters of guilt were drawn to the surface. Perhaps Pizzle’s past was still a sensitive issue.
For the moment he would give her the benefit of the doubt.
‘Rita, I’m a policeman investigating your husband’s death,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry, you are going to find some of my questions uncomfortable, but it’s important that you answer me as best you can.’
She sniffed, began playing with the neckline of her summer frock. It wasn’t as stretched as yesterday’s T-shirt, but getting that way.
‘There’s no way of glossing over this, Rita,’ Cam continued. ‘Someone murdered Darren, and it was more than likely someone who knew him. As soon as you can, I’d like you to give me a list of Darren’s friends and business associates.’
Rita stared at him for a moment. When she spoke again, her tone was less hostile and more resigned. Cam doubted he could undo the damage he’d done, but maybe she now understood the need for cooperation. ‘There was someone in the shed. About a week before Darren disappeared.’
She took a packet of cigarettes from the table, lit one with trembling fingers. He’d noticed them on the table earlier, assuming them to belong to her sister who was visiting; he’d never expected Rita to be a smoker. He thought of the crime books next to the religious texts and wondered what else she might surprise him with.
‘Yes?’ Cam prompted.
‘He said he was an RSPCA inspector, said someone had made an allegation that Darren was cruel to the sheep he trucked, or some such rubbish.’
‘Did this RSPCA inspector tell you his name?’
‘I can’t remember. Only saw him briefly.’
‘Did Darren talk to him?’
She nodded. ‘Darren was angry, said he was talking bullshit.’
Now, there was a word Cam would never have expected to hear from Rita.
‘Darren told him to go, but the RSPCA man said that was all well and good for now, but legally he could come around any time he wanted for a random inspection.’
Rod Cummings had mentioned that Leanne had caught someone snooping about the crime scene. Cam wondered if it was the same man. ‘Anyone else?’ he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders in a grudging manner, sniffed and swiped her eyes.
Cam repeated his question.
‘The vet, I told you about him before. He called round that evening, just after I’d left for the Guild meeting.’
Then a thought occurred to Cam: the vet, a man once associated with an extreme animal liberation organisation; an RSPCA inspector investigating allegations of animal cruelty. Could they be linked? Was this some kind of crazy conspiracy — two lunatics dishing out a punishment to fit the crime? Ridiculous, he knew, but like a yabby on a piece of raw meat, he couldn’t seem to shake the vet in particular from his mind.
‘And the vet treated the dog in the shed, right?’
Rita shrugged.
Cam leaned back in the flimsy kitchen chair and said, ‘Tell me about Darren’s friends.’
‘He didn’t have many friends. You were about it. He was that excited when he heard you’d come back to Glenroyd.’ She took a long drag from her cigarette and stared across the table at him.
The sweat on his forehead turned cold. Pizzle had certainly overplayed the friendship angle with Rita. He put his pen down, the temptation to snap it in his hands too great. ‘Business associates, then. How was he making his money?’ He dodged the stream of smoke she jetted towards the open kitchen window.
She waved her hand at the window. ‘In that old truck parked out the front. He carted hay, hauled stock, did odd jobs. But you know all about that, I don’t know why you’re asking.’ She pushed the cigarette packet across the table towards him.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘That’s not what I heard. Darren said you and he used to bolt off to a secret hidey-hole and smoke when you were kids.’
Her accusing tone puzzled him. Was he supposed to have been the one who led Pizzle astray, was that it? And this wasn’t quite the story Cam remembered. He’d known about the hidey-hole, but had only visited it once out of curiosity; he’d always been more interested in playing footy than smoking. Pizzle had never been permitted near the hallowed sanctuary. Cam recalled hearing once that some of the guys had beaten him up for following them there.
Perhaps it was safer to change the subject. ‘Do you have a computer?’ he asked.
‘Not hardly, Darren wouldn’t even know how to turn one on.’
‘His account books, then. I’ll need to take them away to be examined.’
Rita scraped back her chair, smoothed down her dress and walked to the kitchen dresser. From one of the drawers she produced a well-organised file, obviously her responsibility, and put it on the table in front of Cam.
‘Thanks. I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.’
Cam looked at the dog stretched out on the kitchen floor, dreading what he had to say next. ‘There is one more thing.’
Rita narrowed her eyes into slits and regarded him through a curtain of cigarette smoke.
‘Has Bella ever bitten or attacked anyone?’
The muscles in her jaw clenched. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I’m afraid the doctor found a dog’s tooth in one of Darren’s wounds.’
It occurred to him then that Rita had not yet asked what had killed Darren. He braced himself, waiting for the question, relieved but surprised all the same when it never came.
‘I need to have a look at Bella’s teeth,’ he added. ‘Can you peel back her lips for me?’
Her face crumpled in on itself. She dropped her head to her che
st and jammed her balled fists into her eyes. ‘I’ve lost Darren and now you want to take my Bella away from me too?’
‘I’m really sorry about all this, Rita, but I won’t know until I look in her mouth.’
‘Bella wouldn’t hurt anyone.’ She didn’t look up.
‘Well, let’s just see, shall we?’
Cam crouched on the floor next to Bella, mumbling endearments while she thumped her tail in response to his soothing words. Gradually he worked his hand up to her mouth and pulled back her lower lip. When he’d finished the examination he wiped his hand across the leg of his pants and rocked back on his haunches.
‘Do you know she’s missing a lower canine?’
Rita dropped her hands from her face, but she was still unable to look at him. Her eyes darted this way and that as she searched for the lie. ‘Oh, that? Yes. She lost it chewing on a bone a few days ago. I found the tooth lying on the ground.’
‘Did you keep it?’
‘No, I threw it away.’
‘Rita,’ Cam said patiently, ‘it won’t take long for a scientist to match the tooth. The local vet could probably even do it. Here, look.’
He removed the small plastic jar from his top pocket, pulled back the dog’s lip again and held the jar with the tooth alongside the empty socket. She’d have to be blind not to see it was a perfect fit — blind, or desperate.
‘I know my rights.’ Her pale skin flushed pink. ‘You can’t take my dog without a warrant. I let them search the house without a warrant, but I’m not going to let you take my dog.’
She stubbed her cigarette into the flat chrome ashtray and stood up with a scrape of her plastic chair, holding her arms tight as a mummy’s across her chest.
Cam’s knees cracked as he climbed to his feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he exhaled. ‘If that’s the way you want it, someone will come and collect the dog as soon as I can get the warrant.’
Flare-up: a tense, taut mystery (A Cam Fraser mystery) Page 7
