She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘I don’t have time for all this bullshit again. His stuff’s upstairs, help yourself.’ She turned as if to go back into her flat.
Cam put out his hand to stop her. ‘Wait a minute, please, ma’am.’
‘Look,’ she said with an angry frown, ‘some of us have got things to do.’
Cam quickly stepped between her and the door of her flat. ‘You just said “again” — what do you mean by that?’
She hitched the baby higher on her hip. ‘I mean, don’t you guys ever talk to each other? Like I told the other bloke, he’s gone, scarpered, done a bunk owing two weeks’ rent, and the owner’s chucking a hissy over it.’
As if to mimic the owner, the baby opened his mouth and emitted an ear-piercing scream.
Cam glanced at Derek, who seemed as mystified as he was. ‘Which other bloke was this, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘The plain-clothes guy who was here earlier.’
‘A detective was here earlier? Did you get his name?’
‘Nah.’
Raising his voice above the baby’s din, Cam said to Derek, ‘Call Toorrup — let’s make sure no one’s got their wires crossed — then grab Pete and check out the room.’
The girl jiggled the baby on her hip and made some soothing noises. Cam decided the stud on the side of her nose resembled a silver wart. He’d been preparing himself for the day when Ruby came home with one of these things, suspecting it was only a matter of time.
A moment later Derek confirmed that Toorrup hadn’t sent any of their detectives to Riverside Lodge that day. As Derek and Pete started thumping up the stairs to Ivanovich’s room, the girl yelled out: ‘Up the stairs, second on the left, number five. It’s open. You may as well rummage around the other rooms while you’re at it. Jeez.’ She rolled her eyes at Cam.
‘I’m sorry about this intrusion, but it is important, Mrs — ?’
‘Mzzzz,’ she said like an angry bee. ‘Copley, Pauline Copley.’
As Cam hadn’t been invited into the girl’s flat, he suggested they go outside to talk, hoping that might distract the baby enough to keep him quiet for a few minutes. They headed over to the bench near the parked cars. The old man sitting on the bench stood up to greet Pauline and tipped his flowerpot at her with the air of an elderly artful dodger. He shuffled off when she told him the urn was on.
The baby stopped wailing and Cam switched his gaze from the old man back to Pauline. She’d taken the old man’s place on the bench and clamped the baby to one of her full breasts. The exposed flesh was white and veined like marble. He wondered if her intention was to make him feel uncomfortable. If it was, it didn’t work.
He sat down next to her, pausing for a moment to take in the contented sucking sounds, well aware that he would have to take advantage of the peace while it lasted.
‘Tell me about the detective from this morning,’ he said.
‘Not much to tell — he was rude and arrogant, same as most men.’ Not looking at Cam, she gazed down at the baby’s head, running her free hand through the fine threads of his sweat-plastered hair.
‘Well, for a start you can tell me what he looked like.’
‘Young for a detective, very blond hair, dyed I’d say, and stiff with gel. Bad skin.’
Cam noticed a subtle change in her tone, softer now, the vibes less hostile. His wife, Elizabeth, had always enjoyed feeding their children. She’d said it promoted a feeling of calm, no matter how hectic things were around her.
He realised then that the wrench of pain that usually accompanied such memories had dulled to a sweet lingering ache. Was he finally ready to move on?
He forced his mind back to the case. ‘What did this detective say to you?’
‘He said Jack had disappeared, that he needed to search his room because he was wanted for questioning over something. I’d already packed Jack’s stuff into boxes ready to chuck out, and there wasn’t much in them except some money I’d already put in the safe for the landlord. I told him he could go for it.’
Cam paused for a moment. ‘Pauline, the man you spoke to wasn’t a detective.’
She lifted her head from the baby and met his eyes, frowning. ‘You winding me up or something? He showed me his ID and everything.’
‘No, I’m not winding you up. Did you go up with him to the room?’
‘Nah — if you can’t trust the cops who can you trust?’ An ironic twinkle appeared in her eye and Cam found himself warming to her. ‘Who was he, then?’
He couldn’t answer that. ‘Did he take anything?’ he asked.
‘Dunno, he could have, I wasn’t around when he left. Come on, tell me — who was he?’
The sound of thumping boots shook the house behind them, and Derek and Pete appeared through the front door, each carrying a banana box packed with Ivanovich’s gear.
‘Put them in the back of the ute,’ Cam called out.
About to answer, Derek’s gaze settled on the breast-feeding mother. He did a double-take and stumbled, and a magazine from the box he was carrying fluttered to the ground.
Cam shot the constable a glare that had him scurrying to the ute. He followed him there, picking up the dropped Farm Weekly magazine as he walked. This edition featured articles on rural property sales, he noticed, with an opulent homestead with palm trees pictured on the front cover. He put the magazine back in the box. It might be worth picking a copy up from the newsagent to see if there was anything out there better suited to his budget than the old Rawlins place.
‘There wasn’t much in his room,’ Pete said. ‘Looks like it’s been recently cleaned.’
‘I cleaned it, that’s why,’ Pauline called from the bench. ‘I was all ready to toss his stuff out, like I said.’
‘Take it back to the station and start going through it,’ Cam told Pete. ‘I’ll join you when I finish up here.’
Cam lowered his voice and said to Derek, ‘A bit more discretion next time, Constable. I don’t want you alienating a witness I’ve only just got on side. You don’t need to go popping your boxers over a breast-feeding mother.’
Derek shuffled his feet in the dust. ‘Sorry, Sarge, it was just unexpected. Gave me a shock.’
Pete broke in, ‘Sarge, a call just came in from Leanne. Mungo’s kicking up a fuss and she doesn’t know what to tell him.’
‘Does he know he’s going to be sent to Toorrup?’
‘I told him we didn’t have the facilities to keep him at Glenroyd when I charged him with the arson, but it obviously didn’t sink in.’
‘Did you tell him when they were coming to collect him?’
‘No.’
‘Good, delay the guys from Toorrup if you can, let him sweat it out in our cells for a bit longer.’
‘It shits me the way he won’t admit to it, it’s so bloody obvious it was him who lit the fire,’ Pete said.
‘Par for the course.’ Cam sucked on his back molar and gave the matter some more thought. ‘Tell you what: have another word with him, this time with Leanne present.’
‘Leanne?’ Pete sounded surprised and more than a little scornful.
‘Yes. Leanne.’
Pauline was still feeding her child when Cam returned to the bench. They sat in silence for a moment, Cam with his forearms resting on his parted knees, dwelling on the diversities of human relationships. The bitumen beneath his feet was scattered with cigarette butts. He toed at one, splitting open the filter to expose the nicotine-yellowed fluff. His thoughts drifted to Rita Pilkington, the smoking and the surprising street sense he’d glimpsed behind the shutters of her grief.
‘Dirty old sod.’ Pauline broke into his musings.
‘What?’
‘Flowerpot Man, leaving his butts all over the place.’
Cam smiled, forced his mind off Rita and leaned back on the bench. ‘How long had Jack Ivanovich been boarding here?’ he asked.
‘About two years, on and off, stays here when he’s in town doing casual
work at the abattoir. At other times he goes north to work on the stations.’
‘Is there any chance that’s where he is now?’
She waved a fly away from her baby’s face. ‘Nah, he knows the rules. They’re all single men here, mostly casual workers. They know if they want me to hold their rooms for them they have to tell me if they’re going away. That I flog off their stuff if they don’t.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
Pauline’s brow puckered into a frown and she pushed a tuft of sweaty hair from her suckling child’s forehead. ‘Last Monday, I think.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I remember, because they get snaggers for tea on Monday, and he hates them. Always kicks up a fuss — ungrateful arsehole. He threw his plate clear across the room that night — once he’d eaten everything on it, of course.’
Cam took out his notebook and wrote down the date. He saw her staring at his scarred hand, at the awkward way he held his pen. Her gaze travelled to the side of his neck and lingered on the scars there.
‘Does it still hurt?’ she asked softly.
‘No.’ He shot her a brief smile. ‘So, Monday last he had his tea, then went out?’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to stare.’ She smiled back. ‘Yeah, he nearly always did. Went to the pub, I reckon. Haven’t seen him since.’
‘Did you notice anything different about him that evening?’
She thought for a moment, shrugged. ‘He was pretty grumpy — well, even more grumpy than usual. Said he had a cold and felt like shit.’
‘What was he wearing?’
As she searched for the picture in her mind, she looked towards a towering flame tree on the neighbour’s side of the car park.
‘Jack hated that tree, hated the way it dropped its flowers on the cars. I mean, shit, it’s not like he even had a car. Said one day he’d get a chainsaw and chop it down. He meant it, too, had a real mean look in his eye whenever he complained about it. I wouldn’t have put it past him.’
‘What was he wearing when you saw him last?’ Cam urged her back on track, not that what she’d said wasn’t useful. Cam had studied the mug shot of Ivanovich, had his image etched into his mind: the high Slavic forehead and spatulate cheekbones, the prominent chin and coarse grey hair. But it was still just an image. This girl was bringing the image to life for him, and the more colour she added, the more unpleasant the picture was becoming.
‘He was wearing a nylon short-sleeved shirt, pale yellow, I think, with a red thread through it.’
Cam was impressed. ‘You have a good memory.’
‘Well, I wash his clothes, don’t I? Blue trousers — King Gee work pants, I think, he wore them most of the time. Never saw him in shorts, thank God.’
‘You said he didn’t have a car. Did someone collect him when he went out?
‘That or he walked. He caught the bus to work, sometimes got a lift. Quite a few of the blokes here work at Wetherby’s.’
The sprawling, privately owned conglomerate consisted of saleyards, meat works and stock-feed mills. He reached into his top pocket and showed her a picture of Darren Pilkington wearing his trademark towelling hat with its floppy brim, as ragged as an old cabbage leaf.
‘Ever seen this man?’
She looked at the picture closely. ‘Gross teeth — looks like a little ferret, don’t he? Yeah, I seen him before, I think he’s a mate of Jack’s. He’s picked him up from here once or twice, drives an old white Datsun. Don’t know his name, but.’
‘His name’s Darren Pilkington. We’re investigating his murder.’
Pauline broke the baby’s suction with a pop. Her eyes widened as she looked at Cam. ‘Shittin’ hell! So that’s what this is all about. You think Jack done it?’
‘Let’s just say we’re hoping he can help us with our enquiries.’
Shaking her head, she transferred the baby from one breast to the other.
‘Have you ever seen Ivanovich with anyone else?’ Cam asked.
‘There was another bloke he used to go drinking with, tried to chat me up once. Said his name was Shane.’
‘Last name?’
‘Sorry, never said.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘In his forties, tallish — well taller than Jack, anyway. I’m afraid that’s all I remember, I didn’t really take him in.’
‘That’s okay.’ So Ivanovich was a small man, Cam thought, like Pizzle. He shook his head and dwelled upon this fact. There was still an element of doubt about the body’s identity as far as he was concerned. Expecting DNA results was not unlike expecting results from a cancer test: you can’t wait for them to come through, even though you know you might end up wishing they never had. ‘Did Ivanovich have any lady friends that you know of?’
‘The blokes aren’t allowed to have women in their rooms. There’s a common room downstairs where they can do their entertaining, but I never saw him with anyone.’ She shivered despite the humid thirty-five degrees. ‘I reckon I’d warn them off if he did, he was a creep.’ Her sentence trailed off as she lost herself in an unpleasant memory
‘Go on,’ Cam encouraged.
Pauline took a breath and stared once more at the flame tree. She disconnected the baby from her breast, and after she’d tucked herself back in she started to burp him over her shoulder, rubbing on his back in soft circles.
‘Not long after my old man walked out — say, you won’t tell the boss that Jasper’s gone, will you? They’d never let me stay on here if they knew I was alone. Besides, I reckon Jasper will be back any day . . .’
‘Pauline . . .’
‘Sorry.’ She dashed him a nervous smile. ‘Anyway, Robbie was having a crying fit and I just couldn’t get him to shut up. Jack marched down to my room to complain. I put Robbie back in his cot to answer the door and listened to Jack’s ranting for a bit. Then, before I knew it, he’d pushed past me over to the cot and picked up Robbie.’ She brought a knuckled fist to her mouth, her teary eyes breaking contact with Cam’s. ‘He took out this big knife, and . . .’
Cam straightened on the bench.
‘Held Robbie upside down by his ankles, said he’d rip him from his liver to his lights unless I, unless . . .’
‘Go on,’ Cam said gently.
In a soft, faltering voice she told him about the rape. And then the baby threw up down her back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The interview room at Glenroyd Police Station was ideally serving its purpose: to intimidate. Mungo twisted knotted fingers as he sat at the table bolted down in the middle of the windowless room. Every now and then as Pete questioned him, he would cross and recross his bare legs and shift uncomfortably in his seat. After shooting several agitated glances at Leanne, standing with her arms folded like a statue in the corner, he asked her, ‘Any chance of a toilet break, Angel?’
‘Out of order — told you that, mate,’ Pete said. ‘How ‘bout another coffee?’
‘I’ve had so much coffee I’ll soon be swimming away.’
‘When’s the plumber going to be finished?’ Pete looked towards Leanne.
‘Could be a while yet,’ she said. She turned to the prisoner. ‘Sorry, Mungo.’
‘Christ almighty, this isn’t right.’ Mungo looked back down at his hands, at the smudged tattoos running along each of his knuckles like a bruise. ‘This questioning is going on forever. What do you reckon — should I get a lawyer, Leanne?’
Leanne knew how the brain of a man like Mungo worked. She shrugged. ‘Up to you. I think Jenny Gregson from Legal Aid might be fairly easy to get hold of.’
‘A woman?’ Mungo looked at her for a moment, his sun-washed eyes big and round. He dropped his gaze back to his hand. Licking his finger, he began to ferociously rub the smudged letter ‘H’ on one knuckle. ‘I told you a million times I didn’t light the fire. Innocent men don’t need lawyers.’
‘Sure, you’re as snowy-white as a rubbish-tip seagull,’ Pete said.
‘And innocent men shouldn’t have to stay here and listen to your insults.’
‘But I’m afraid you do, mate. You see, you’re under arrest. You’ve been charged with arson. I can sit here all day and insult you if I want. Not that I really want to piss around with you and your petty crimes when we’re in the middle of a murder investigation — I have plenty of better things to do.’
Mungo looked pleadingly at Leanne, took a deep breath and recrossed his legs. With a click of his tongue, his false teeth popped out, then he sucked them back in again. He parted his thick lips into a painful smile and looked at Leanne again. ‘How’s your dad? Last I heard he was in Broome.’
‘We’re the ones asking the questions,’ Pete said.
‘Dad’s fine. I spoke to him on the phone only this morning. He asked after you.’
‘He always was a real gentleman. Aren’t many real gents left,’ Mungo said, shooting Pete a murderous look.
Leanne had trouble keeping a straight face. ‘Dad asked if you were staying out of trouble,’ she said. ‘I told him no, told him we caught you with some stolen sheep yesterday. He said you’d do anything for an easy buck.’
‘Now that’s not fair, not fair at all, Leanne,’ Mungo said, his face creasing with hurt. ‘You shouldn’t go telling him about my personal business.’
Pete began to pour himself some water from the plastic jug on the table. He held the jug high so the water trickled into the cup with the sound of a mountain stream.
‘But he never said anything about you being an arsonist,’ Leanne added.
‘Because I’m not. Arsonists are fruit loops, they light fires for kicks.’ One of Mungo’s hands disappeared under the table to squeeze the tip of his penis through his thin cotton shorts.
‘Then maybe you didn’t do it for kicks, maybe you did it for money,’ Pete said. ‘Some valuable stock was stolen from the property next to the fire. We think someone paid you to light a fire, to make a diversion so they could move in while everyone was preoccupied. One of their trucks got bogged. They set fire to it, but we still got the plates. It was stolen three weeks ago.’
Flare-up: a tense, taut mystery (A Cam Fraser mystery) Page 9
