She started to cry again. He looked helplessly around the kitchen and found a box of tissues on the kitchen dresser. He took a tissue himself and handed the box to Rita. ‘Is your sister still here?’
She wiped her eyes. Cam blew his nose and put the box back on the bench.
‘She’s just popped out to the shops; going back home tomorrow.’
‘Is there anyone else I can call to stay with you?’
At last she looked him in the eye. This is all your fault, her expression seemed to say. You were his friend and you let him down. ‘The Salvation Army will look after me. We look after our own,’ she said.
Cam felt he needed to stop and remove the implied barb from his skin. Unlike some, he thought.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the time Cam left the Pilkington house, the State Emergency volunteers had finished dragging the dam. Cam headed towards it, updating Rod on his mobile phone as he walked. He deeply regretted the way his meeting with Rita had ended on a sour note, her reaction to some of his questions incongruous to his earlier impression of her. As he turned his back on the house, he also got the feeling he’d seen something or heard something important without registering it. He slowed his pace and tried to remember the details, printing them on his mind for easy retrieval at a later date when they might prove significant.
The dam was small compared with most dams in the area, only about a thousand square metres, but deep in the middle. It was located in a dip between the house and the shed, dug from white clay, and had been full of clear water that reflected the unblemished blue of the sky. But Cam suspected the unblemished water was just one of nature’s cruel tricks: a dam this colour often meant the water was so salty it couldn’t even be used for stock.
He put his phone away, shaded his eyes and squinted into the sun. Pete and Leanne were squatting on the dam wall, sifting through an assortment of slime-coated junk. Near them a yellow-bladed windmill grew from the dam wall like a giant sunflower.
The junk became clearer as he got closer. He noticed an old car tyre, rusted beer cans, unbroken bottles opaque with drying mud, a bicycle seat and a Wellington boot.
Leanne looked up when she heard his footsteps and nudged Pete. They climbed to their feet, their faces beaming.
Cam called out as he approached. ‘So, what have you kids been up to? Looking for yabbies?’
‘Good to have you back, Sarge.’ Pete wiped his hand on his overalls and put it out to Cam.
Cam took it, smiling. ‘Yeah, well, your holiday’s over now.’
Constable Pete Dowel had had his place in the sun for a few days, left in charge of the station when Cam was first admitted to hospital. Pete had confided to Jo later that the experience had left him so shattered he’d decided to curtail his ambitions for a few more years, now aiming to make commissioner by thirty-five, not thirty.
Cam put his hands on his hips and nudged the pile of muddy junk with the toe of his boot. ‘Anything of interest?’
‘Only two possible murder weapons.’ Pete grinned, making the dimples in his handsome face deepen. He picked up two evidence bags from the ground and handed them to Cam. ‘The guy died from multiple puncture wounds, right? We reckon either of these could’ve done the job.’
Cam whistled through his teeth and took one of the plastic bags from Pete. It contained a knife. ‘You beauty, good work.’
Pete handed him the other. ‘And this is a bale hook, isn’t it, Sarge?’
‘Yup.’
Leanne smirked at Pete. ‘See, what did I tell you?’
The two prongs of the hook were long, curved and spaced about six centimetres apart. With its short wooden handle, it could have been mistaken for a handheld garden weeder. Cam had no doubt he was looking at the murder weapon.
Leanne said, ‘It can’t have been in the dam for long, there’s hardly any rust on it.’
‘Same goes for this knife,’ Cam added, looking at the knife again and running his finger carefully across the blade through the plastic. The leather handle showed little water damage and the water-resistant substance on the blade had prevented rusting or corrosion. ‘It’s a US Army combat knife,’ he explained. ‘You can get them easily enough through most army disposal stores. Interesting, though: the pathologist didn’t mention any knife wounds on the body. I’ll check again. I’m almost certain these two objects have been in the water the same length of time. God knows why the knife would have been tossed if it wasn’t used.’
‘Maybe it was used on the second body?’ Pete suggested.
‘That’s possible, I guess we’ll have to wait for the autopsy and see.’ Cam handed both bags to Leanne. ‘Take them to the house and show them to Mrs Pilkington, see if she recognises them. Go easy, she seems especially fragile today. She hasn’t asked how he died yet, but you’ll have to tell her when you show her the bale hook.’
Leanne nodded gravely. She’d probably handle Rita a lot better than he had, Cam mused. As she turned to leave he said, ‘Just a minute. Before you go, come and sit down, have a breather. I’ve got more to tell you both, and we may as well talk out of the sun.’
With a tilt of his head he indicated a river gum on the other side of the dam. He glanced at Leanne as she walked by his side. He took in the mud streaks on her cherry-red cheeks, the pouches as large as teabags under her eyes and her limp, mousy hair hanging down one side of her face.
‘I hear you had a traumatic night, Leanne,’ he said as the three of them collapsed on the ground in the shade of the tree.
‘You’re not wrong there,’ she said, pushing the hair from her eyes.
‘And what’s this I hear about a snooping RSPCA inspector?’
‘It was really weird. He just appeared out of nowhere after Sergeant Harris fell into the hole.’
Pete sniggered. Cam shot him a look that stopped it from becoming a full belly laugh.
‘Did he tell you what he was doing there?’ Cam asked Leanne.
‘Not really.’
‘Rita said an RSPCA inspector visited their place before Darren disappeared, making allegations of animal cruelty against Darren,’ Cam said. ‘I imagine it’s the same guy. There couldn’t be more than one operating in this area; they’re even more undermanned than we are. They have similar search and seizure powers to us, but snooping around a crime scene is more than a few steps over the line in my book.’
‘I looked around for him after the ambulance had taken Sergeant Harris away, but he’d gone.’
‘You got his name, I hope?’
‘Yeah, Sarge — here.’ Leanne scrabbled in her top pocket and retrieved her notebook. Her hands were shaking as she flipped through it. She extracted a card and handed it to Cam. He made a mental note to make sure she knocked off early tonight.
‘He’s called David Fielding, and there’s a mobile phone number. It looks like he’s based at the saleyards,’ she said.
‘You keep the card,’ Cam said. ‘I want you to follow him up. Compare notes with Rita and make sure you’re talking about the same guy.’
Pete raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds dodgy, if you ask me, snooping around both before and after the murder.’
Cam agreed. He pulled a small bottle of water from his pocket and handed it to Leanne. ‘Here, have a drink and clean yourself up before you go and see Mrs Pilkington.’
Pete’s mischievous brown eyes took in her appearance. ‘Looks like we just dragged you from the dam.’ He tossed her a ragged Kleenex from his pocket.
Leanne glared at him for a moment before wetting it from the bottle and scrubbing at her face. It was an appealing face, the chubbiness not detracting from the even features and expressive mouth and hair-trigger smile that never failed to reflect in her deep-set hazel eyes. Her lack of social life never ceased to amaze Cam; a girl like this was supposed to have lots of friends and boyfriends. Other than sharing the occasional drink with Jo, she seemed to keep pretty much to herself after hours.
‘And there’s more,’ Cam said while she finishe
d up her toilette. ‘I’ve just had a call from Superintendent Cummings. The print on the bucket is from the vet, as we expected, but the one on the inhaler cap’s been matched to a Mr Jack Ivanovich. Apparently this guy served time for assault and grievous bodily harm — sharing a cell for a while with none other than Darren Pilkington. Ivanovich has only been off probation for a year. His last known address was a boarding house in Glenroyd, near the river in Bottle Tree Lane.’ He turned to Pete. ‘You and I are going to pay him a visit, Pete. I want Derek to come too, I don’t like the sound of this character. Leanne, as soon as you’ve finished with Mrs Pilkington you’ll have to go back and cover the station.’
He held up his finger when she opened up her mouth to protest. ‘You can close up shop at seven and go home. I want you rested and ready for a big day tomorrow, starting at sparrow’s at the saleyards.’
Pete climbed to his feet, eager to get going.
Cam continued, ‘Some of Ivanovich’s prints were also found on the wool-press frame, along with Pilkington’s, plus some of Pilkington’s hairs.’
‘That makes sense,’ Pete said. ‘He obviously murdered Pilkington and stuffed him in the press.’
‘No, nothing’s obvious at this stage,’ Cam cautioned. ‘For the moment all the evidence tells us is that at one time or another, Ivanovich was in the shed. It does not tell us that he actually murdered Pilkington.’ Or whoever else it might be in the wool bale, Cam said silently to himself.
He turned to Leanne. Despite having retied her hair and secured it under her peaked cap, she still looked a mess, flies dotting the white splats of clay on her pants like chocolate chips on ice cream.
‘While you’re at the station . . .’ Cam paused, watching absently as she scraped the clay from her boots with a stick, ‘make some more enquiries about David Fielding. Ring up the RSPCA head office and make sure he’s the real deal. We’ll catch up with him later. Also, see what you can find out about Rita Pilkington.’
‘No worries, I think my mum knows her.’ Leanne tossed the stick and got to her feet. ‘Meanwhile, what do I tell Mungo?’
Cam raised a questioning eyebrow. Having only resumed duties that morning, this was the first he’d heard of any Mungo.
‘Mungo’s been in a bit of trouble with us recently,’ Pete said. ‘Yesterday he was charged with stealing his neighbour’s sheep, then last night I arrested him with an empty jerry can doing a runner from the scene of the bushfire. His real name’s Jerry Nesbitt but for some reason everyone calls him Mungo.’
Pete was too young to have heard of the band Mungo Jerry. Sometimes these kids made Cam feel very old.
Pete said to Leanne, ‘I think he’s being collected by Toorrup later on today.’
‘Has he confessed to the arson?’ Cam asked.
‘No.’ Pete shook his head. ‘And apparently some sheep were stolen from the property next door to the fire. Toorrup got the report and they’re handling it. I haven’t heard back from them yet.’
Cam could see he had a lot of catching up to do at the station. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Hopefully we’ll have time for another chat with Mungo before Toorrup take him. There’s always a chance the two crimes are connected, but for now this murder is our first priority. Come on, Pete, let’s see what Mr Ivanovich has to say for himself.’
***
When Jo returned to her office that afternoon after the final bell, she found Ruby sitting miserably on the visitor’s chair and staring out of the window at the car park. The atmosphere in the car park at this time of day always reminded Jo of the end of a footy match. Girls seemed either on a high or a low and nothing in between. School bags were either dragged or swung, collecting parents greeted with smiles or sulks. Tired, hot kids poked and prodded each other in the bus line, taunting, teasing, sometimes sobbing.
Ruby looked as if her team had been knocked off the ladder altogether.
‘Feeling any better?’ Jo asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
The girl shook her head, wincing at the movement. She’d been in the school sick room for most of the day with a high temperature.
‘I’ll ring your father, tell him you’re coming home with me,’ Jo said. ‘I don’t expect he’ll be home till late tonight.’
Ruby gave no reaction. A few weeks ago, it felt like she would have given anything to go home with Jo after school. She’d take the dog for a walk, do her homework, sometimes concoct an exotic meal for the three of them to share. If she hadn’t seemed so ill, Jo would have put the lack of enthusiasm down to her growing resentment towards the woman she saw as getting between her and her father.
Ruby dragged her school bag, lagging well behind Jo as they wound their way through the throng to Jo’s flower-power seventies VW. A passing group of girls said goodbye and one or two stopped to chat to Ruby. Jo heard one girl ask Ruby if she wanted to go with them to the Dog in a Ute competition next weekend at the Glenroyd Showgrounds: a perfect opportunity to flirt with the boys from the agricultural college. Jo knew Ruby had been looking forward to it for weeks, but now all she seemed capable of was a disinterested ‘Maybe.’
Arriving at the car first, Jo reached for her phone and dialled Cam. After about six rings, he answered the phone with an abrupt ‘Yes.’
The squawk of the two-way in the background told her he was in the police car. His voice softened when he discovered who it was. He listened as she explained about Ruby’s illness, accepting with alacrity her offer to take Ruby home.
‘She used to do this all the time in Sydney,’ he said. ‘She’d stick the thermometer under the hot tap when no one was looking. She’s pissed off about me going back to work — I wouldn’t put it past her.’
With the phone clutched to her ear, Jo opened the driver’s seat door, flinging her book basket on the back seat and leaning across to open the passenger door for Ruby. She stepped away when Ruby approached. Whether the girl was listening or not, she didn’t want to take any chances.
‘Matron Sutcliffe knows all the tricks, she’s been watching her like a hawk all day,’ Jo said into the phone. ‘She thinks Ruby needs to be seen by a doctor. Glandular fever’s been sweeping through the Year Tens. You really can’t take chances with something like this.’
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. ‘Shit.’
Jo said, ‘The medical centre is open tomorrow afternoon. I think she needs to go.’
She could almost hear the cogs of Cam’s brain grinding down the phone. She’d only seen him briefly that morning when he’d dropped Ruby at school. He’d seemed taller than his six foot two; there’d been a spring in his step and an extra charge in his electric-blue eyes that she’d only noticed because of its previous absence.
Being a cop was more than a career to Cam, it was his identity. The fact that he was prepared to give it up for Ruby was a sacrifice she wasn’t sure the girl could appreciate. Ruby saw his job as a threat, in the same way Cam saw Jo’s role in the fire brigade as a threat.
Father and daughter had both been burned in more ways than one.
Jo braced herself, expecting Cam to ask if she could arrange for the school matron to take Ruby to the medical centre tomorrow. Her shoulders sagged with relief when he said, ‘Okay, she can have the day off school tomorrow. I’ll take her to the doctor in the afternoon.’
No mention of being bogged down in a murder case. Well done, Cam.
‘But she’s going to be in big trouble with me if I find she’s been pulling a swifty,’ he added.
‘I don’t think she is. She settled into the school very well, made lots of friends and loved work experience with the vet. She’s set her sights on veterinary science and is well aware how hard she has to work for it. She wouldn’t miss a day at school unless she had to.’
Jo thought she heard Pete Dowel’s voice in the background. ‘Cam?’ She asked quickly, sensing he was about to hang up. ‘What’s happening about the man Pete caught at the fire scene last night?’
‘He’s still being que
stioned in the lock-up.’
Jo said, ‘Look, Cam, about the fire . . .’
‘I’ve got to go,’ Cam cut her off. ‘We’re here.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
About a half a star above a doss house, Riverside Lodge stood in the middle of town on a prime piece of real estate, with a long sloping back lawn stretching down to the banks of the sluggish river. It wasn’t hard to imagine it as having once been the home of a nineteenth-century wool baron or mining magnate, though the rickety fire escape spiralling down one side now betrayed it as a boarding house.
Built in classic Gold Rush style, the mansion’s two storeys were surrounded on all sides by lace-edged balconies on which rested a collection of ropey cane chairs. Its corrugated-iron roof was rusted but looked weatherproof. At the front, a couple of ancient roses twisted their way up trellises, hiding most of the crumbling mortar and peeling paintwork.
Pete headed off to cover the fire escape and back door, while Cam and Derek, who had arrived in a separate vehicle, headed towards the front. At the house end of a small, bituminised car park, an unkempt old man dozed on a bench with a plastic flowerpot for a hat.
Above the door bell a sign said ‘Press and Enter’. Cam and Derek soon found themselves in a dark, high-ceilinged hallway, the air heavy with the smell of boiled cabbage and unwashed clothes. They could hear a baby shrieking behind a door with the word ‘Manager’ scrawled upon it in felt-tipped pen. The door whined open and a heavy-breasted young woman wearing tight denim shorts and a black tank top stood before them. The barbed-wire tattoo encircling her right bicep seemed as much in keeping with her surroundings as the tear-streaked, hiccupping baby on her hip.
‘Christ — what do you want now?’ she said, curling her top lip at them.
Cam regarded her for a moment. ‘Constable Witherspoon and Senior Sergeant Fraser, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for a man called Jack Ivanovich. We were told he lives here.’
Flare-up: a tense, taut mystery (A Cam Fraser mystery) Page 8
