The screen door squealed as she opened it and Archie stalked into the narrow hallway, turning to check she was following. She snatched up the discarded newspapers and let the screen slam behind her as she entered the cool, dark interior and made her way to the kitchen at the back of the house. Built squarely, and despite the additions she’d made, the timber homestead retained much of its character from when it was first built almost a century before. Only now there was a proper bathroom and a new generator. This generator gave her electricity, but her hot water came straight from the bore and she still cooked on the Aga she’d had sent out from England all those years before.
She stuffed the newspaper into the furnace and watched the flames devour the print; how easy it was, how quickly it turned to ashes. The heat from this Aga chased away the draughts which whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls during the winter, but in the summer, as now, it turned the little kitchen into a furnace.
Catriona wrestled with the can-opener and fed Archie who set about his dinner with alacrity. Leaning against the rail in front of the range, she watched him gobble down the food, and not for the first time wished he’d show the same enthusiasm for catching the rats and mice that plagued Belvedere. As station cat he had a duty to keep it free from vermin – but unlike the feral moggies which roamed the barns and outbuildings, Archie was fat and smug and far too lazy to do more than sleep his days away, and for that, Catriona could only blame herself. Archie had been spoilt.
She shrugged and made a cup of tea, struggling somewhat with the heavy black kettle that always stood on the range before taking a seat at the table. Making a space for her cup and saucer, she eyed the clutter. She had always despised housework – preferring to be out with the children, or being involved in her work or her music – and for most of her adult life she’d lived in hotels or apartments where someone else did the cleaning. Now the children had grown up and fled the nest, there was no one to judge her housekeeping skills, and she saw little point in keeping the place tidy. The dust always came back, anyway, so what was the point?
Sipping her tea, she looked around the room and felt comforted by the clutter. Newspapers and catalogues were piled on every flat surface. Boots, shoes and coats were heaped in corners and the table was covered with books and sheet music and letters which had to be answered. Fly papers hung from the ceiling, black with their victims, and cobwebs drifted in the corners and from the ceiling fan which creaked with age as it stirred the stifling air with little effect on the temperature.
She pulled a face and decided perhaps she’d let things get out of hand. The girls would be coming soon and they would be shocked at how she’d let the place go. She found some rubber gloves and an apron and set to work, finding a strange sort of release in the physical effort it took to scrub and wash and clear away the accumulated mess, for it didn’t allow her to think. The cobwebs proved difficult to deal with, but she finally managed to clear them away, sweep the floor and bundle most of the boots and jackets into a cupboard.
Once the kitchen had taken on some semblance of order, she changed the bed linen and loaded the washing machine before making a sandwich of cold mutton and damper bread, which had come from the oven that morning, and took her early supper into the sitting room. There was still a great deal to be done, she realised, but it could wait for a while. There was only so much housework she could do in a day, and by the looks of it, the place needed a complete spring clean. Making a mental note to get hold of Billy Birdsong’s wife in the morning, she closed the door behind her and set down her supper on a low table.
She liked this room, she decided. It wasn’t very big, but the windows were shaded from the sun by the vast pepper tree at the side of the house, and through the fronds she could just make out the corrals and the bunkhouse. The couch was comfortable and settled around her with a sort of reassurance that nothing bad would happen here. Cabinets of china and glass took up most of one wall, and the roll-top desk still spewed diaries, correspondence, programmes and play-bills. Two shelves of books sagged beneath the front window, and the baby grand, covered in silver-framed photographs and a fringed shawl, needed tuning. The man was due to call in a few days, and she hoped he’d keep the appointment and not let her down again. She missed not being able to play, and wanted it tuned and ready for her party.
She walked over to the stone fireplace and stared at the portraits on the wall above it. Her parents made a handsome couple, with their dark Irish hair and she could see her likeness to them in her own portrait. Staring at the painting, she was made even more aware of the passing years. She had been in her prime then, beautiful, talented and much sought after. There was no hint of the darkness that shadowed her, no clue as to what had gone before in those clear violet eyes. She’d proved to be a consummate actress.
The evening gown was red velvet, draped becomingly from slender shoulders to reveal a creamy décolletage. Ruby earrings and a diamond necklace reflected the fire of youth in her eyes. Her black hair was artfully pinned behind one ear by a corsage of perfect orchids, and the slender neck was arched seductively, giving a hint to the passions that lurked so close to the surface of this elegant young woman. The artist had been handsome, she remembered, his love-making exciting, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if he was still alive, if he remembered that passionate month in Paris when they’d barely left the chaise-longue in his studio. ‘I doubt it,’ she muttered, turning her back on the painting. ‘Lovers come and lovers go. I should know, I had enough of them in my time.’
She grinned as she sat down and picked up her sandwich. How Clemmie had loved to hear about the men she’d met on her tours. How they’d laughed about Hank the Yank, and Jean Paul with his handlebar moustache that had tickled more than her fancy. She giggled. Those were the days.
Having eaten her sandwich, she poured a large gin and tonic, turned on the stereo and relaxed into the soft cushions as the Puccini aria drifted into the room. She closed her eyes, but the thought of what the future might hold made her restless. It wouldn’t be pleasant, she was sure of that, but then she’d been no stranger to the darker side of life, and would deal with it when it could no longer be ignored.
The gin and the soft music began to take effect as she thought of her long-lost daughter. She no longer wrote to her; there was no point, for there had been no reply, no acknowledgement. But, oh, how she wished things could have been different. Her thoughts drifted effortlessly to Rosa, Connor and Harriet and she smiled. There had been wonderful compensations, though, invaluable gifts with which she had been blessed.
*
It was way past dawn by the time Connor and the others arrived back at Belvedere. They had been gone for three weeks, and were ready for a proper wash and some decent tucker. Connor swung from the saddle and stretched. His back was aching, the old injury in his knee reminding him that sixteen hours a day in the saddle, in temperatures way over a hundred, was not good for a man of thirty-two.
The grit and dust from over a thousand head of cattle clung to his skin, and the dried sweat on his clothes made him itch. Yet, despite the heat, the flies and the dust, Connor knew he would have it no other way. As he saw to his horse and set it free in the corral, he silently acknowledged that the three weeks drove was a necessary part of living out here, and if he was totally honest with himself, he loved the freedom it offered. There was nothing like riding behind a mob of cattle across the vast, empty plains of Queensland to give a man an appetite for life and the traditions of his heritage.
‘Tucker’s up, mate,’ said the drover. ‘Reckon I could eat a horse.’
Connor grinned and wiped away the sweat from his face before settling the Akubra back on his head. ‘I’d stick to beef, mate,’ he said. ‘Tastes better.’
The drover cupped his hands around the match as he lit a roll-up. ‘Reckon the missus is up and about,’ he muttered. ‘Lights are on.’
Connor looked over at the homestead and nodded. ‘Better go and report in,’ he said wearil
y. ‘Catch ya later.’ He hitched up the moleskins and tucked in his shirt as he walked across the yard. He would have preferred to wash first, and his belly was rumbling at the thought of bacon and eggs and a heap of mashed potato, but knowing Ma, she would be waiting for him.
He tapped on the screen door, and getting no reply, stepped into the hall. Maybe she’d fallen asleep before turning out the lights, in which case, he’d come back later. Yet there was always the fear that one day he would come home to find her dead, just as he had with his grandmother. Ma was getting on a bit, though she wouldn’t admit it, and despite her keen mind and her vigour, Connor dreaded leaving her on her own for too long. He accepted that his fear stemmed from his own insecurities, and that Ma would have been horrified if she could read his thoughts. But he couldn’t help the way he was.
He stepped into the sitting room, guided by the sound of music. It was one of Ma’s favourite songs, and she’d obviously nodded off. He took off his hat and looked down at her, the affection for this feisty, loving woman, soft in his face. She’d hit the gin by the looks of it. Good on her. Yet, in sleep she appeared so vulnerable, so very tiny in the depths of those great cushions, and he felt a wave of protectiveness come over him.
Connor glanced around the room. It was glowing with the yellow of a new day, the dust motes dancing, the shadows deep in the corners. He stepped away from the couch and headed on tiptoe for the door. He’d come back after breakfast. Ma wouldn’t appreciate being caught asleep.
‘Who’s there?’ The greying head lifted from the pillow, the eyes blinking owlishly with the remnants of sleep.
‘Only me, Ma,’ replied Connor from the doorway. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘What’s the time?’
Connor looked at the clock on the mantel, remembered it had stood at half-past three for ten years and squinted out of the window. ‘Sun-up,’ he said. ‘About five.’
She wrestled with the cushions and dug herself out of the sofa. Running her hands through her hair, she tried to bring some order to her appearance. ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that, Connor,’ she said chided softly. ‘Fair gave me a fright.’
He was used to her ways after all these years and the mild rebuke washed over him. ‘Saw your light on,’ he said. ‘Thought you was up.’
She glared at him for a moment, but couldn’t remain stern for long. ‘I am now,’ she retorted with a grin. ‘So, come on then. How did the drove go?’
Connor nodded. ‘Good. Reckon the mob could smell the good grass, no worries getting them up there.’ He rammed his hands into his pockets and eased from one foot to the other. His knee was still playing up. ‘The paddocks up there are good, and there’s still plenty of water in the creeks. Some of the fences need seeing to, so I’ll send a couple of blokes up later to sort them out.’
‘And Billy’s grandson? How’d he go?’
Connor thought of the young Aborigine and smiled. Johnny Two Toes had been riding since he could sit on a horse. He’d lived on Belvedere all his life and his family were so much a part of the place it would seem very odd indeed if they weren’t around. ‘No worries,’ he replied. ‘Born to it, just like Billy Birdsong.’
She smiled back at him. ‘Ridiculous name for the poor kid,’ she muttered. ‘He can’t help having two small toes on one foot.’ She pulled a face. ‘Doesn’t seem to stop him getting into mischief though. Cookie told me he’s short of a tin of biscuits.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘Any ideas on that, Connor?’
Connor grinned and looked down at his boots. ‘Reckon we all enjoyed the biscuits, Ma. No worries.’
Catriona raised an eyebrow, but she couldn’t quite hold the stern expression and broke into a smile. ‘Good. Makes a change from bush tucker anyways,’ she murmured.
‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll get some breakfast,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come over? Been a while since you ate with us.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ she said flatly. ‘Sweaty men, a bad-tempered cook and over-done steak are not my idea of a pleasant breakfast. I’ll eat here as usual.’
Connor eyed her with affection. Ma had often eaten in the cookhouse during his first years on Belvedere, but she was aware of how awkward it made the men feel, and was astute enough to realise she was better off out of it. ‘No worries,’ he murmured.
‘Wait.’ Catriona tugged at his sleeve. ‘I need you to do something for me first.’
He looked down at her and grinned. ‘What’s so urgent it can’t wait for me to wash and eat?’
‘Mind your own damn business,’ she retorted with a soft nudge in his ribs. ‘Come on.’
Connor towered over her as he followed her out of the room and into the hall. She pointed up to the hatch in the ceiling. ‘I need you to get the big tin trunk down,’ she said. ‘And mind how you handle it. It’s full of precious things.’
Connor fetched the ladder from the back porch and climbed up into the narrow roof space which smelled of dust and animal droppings. The heat was stifling despite the fact it was barely past sun-up, and the trunk was perched across the rafters in a far corner. He wriggled across the rafters and dragged it towards him, pulling it through the hatch and depositing it on the floor. It was battered and heavy and covered in cobwebs and possum shit.
‘Can you bring it into the lounge-room?’ Catriona was hovering beside the ladder.
Connor’s knee was a ball of fire, and his belly was squirming with hunger, but he did as he was ordered. He cleaned the mess off the tin trunk, re-acquainting himself with the fascinating labels that were stuck all over it and which had intrigued him as a boy. He’d heard the stories about her life before Belvedere, and although he’d seen the trunk many times before, he’d never really explored the contents as thoroughly as his sister. He lugged it into the lounge and left it against the wall out of the way. ‘What do you want this old thing for, Ma?’ he asked. The bloody thing weighed a ton, God only knew what she kept in there.
‘There are things I want to look at,’ she said, a far-off expression on her face. ‘Go and have your tucker, son. And thanks.’
He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. There was something strange in her expression, and there were shadows in her eyes he’d never seen before. ‘You right, Ma?’ he asked with concern.
‘Of course,’ she replied, her chin high, eyes defiant, daring him to question her motives.
‘Fair enough,’ he muttered before squashing his hat back on and limping into the hall. Ma was up to something, but no doubt she would tell him what it was in her own good time.
*
DI Tom Bradley stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Smearing the condensation from the bathroom mirror, he stared short-sightedly at his reflection and began to lather his face. At thirty-three, he was getting too old for the job, he decided as the fresh blade rasped through the stubble. The late nights, the heavy work-load and the sickening violence that was so much a part of his work were beginning to tell, and after almost sixteen years in the force he’d had enough. He could see the shadows below his eyes, the stress in the lines on his face and in the first grey hairs that glinted in the brown, shaggy mop he’d never been able to tame.
The force had changed since his father’s day, even more so since his grandfather had been the local copper up in Atherton. There was more violence, more drugs and corruption – less time to deal with it all – more paperwork clogging up the system and fewer coppers to do the leg-work. Perhaps it was time to jack it in and find something else to do? He was sick of murder, of the darker side of humanity he had to deal with day after day. It had cost him his marriage, his home and his kids – surely nothing was worth that?
Splashing cold water over his face, he dried off and wrestled with the contact lenses. The damn things were necessary, but he still couldn’t quite come to terms with deliberately poking something in his eyes every morning. He blinked, wiped away the tears and padded naked into his bedroom. The suit would do for an
other few days and the shirt was one of a batch that had just been returned from the cleaners, pristine in a polythene wrapping. He tied his tie, shoved on his shoes and gathered up the loose change on the bedside table.
The photograph stood there by the phone. It reminded him he hadn’t spoken to his sons for a couple of weeks – hastily scribbled letters and cards just didn’t give him the satisfaction of a one-to-one conversation – even if that did involve the usual teenage grunts and monosyllabic replies to any questions. He checked the time – they would be in school by now, he realised. Western Australia was in a different time zone. With a sigh he shoved his wallet into his jacket pocket, picked up the faded folder and left the apartment. Perhaps he could find time later in the day to ring them?
Brisbane shimmered in the early morning heat, the glass towers reflecting the river and the passing traffic that streamed along the fly-overs and bridges that ran beside the river and over to the southern side of the city. As he waited in yet another queue at traffic-lights, he switched on the tape recorder and let the hauntingly beautiful aria wash over him. Puccini was his favourite composer and Catriona Summers’ voice had captured the very essence of the tragedy of Madame Butterfly.
Relaxing back in the icy air-conditioning he stared out of the window at the passing cavalcade of tourists, shoppers and business people who poured over the crossing. He liked living in the city – he enjoyed the buzz it gave him, yet he was all too familiar with the evil that lay so close beneath that veneer of modernity and success – but sometimes, like this morning, he wished he didn’t.
As Catriona’s voice filled the car, he looked down at the folder on the seat beside him. His father had kept it, and Tom remembered sitting on his grandfather’s knee as the old man told him about the Russian, the Englishman and the missing silver. When the body had been found, his father had contacted him immediately. A quick visit to collect the file at the weekend, and the advances in modern technology meant that Tom had finally managed to trace Velda and her daughter; of Yvchenkov there was nothing; it was as if he’d simply disappeared into thin air.
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