Fiona laughed and took a break, leaning up against the side of the ute. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say, and yeah, I do!’
‘Poor Charlie. You know, I always make my clients mark their dry ewes now. I don’t know why we never thought of it beforehand. But it certainly makes a difference when all you have to do is draft up the sheep when they get boxed up, not scan the whole lot again!’
‘Thank God for alcohol that night. I’m sure it made us all feel better. I know my arms were sore the next day from pushing the sheep up for you!’
Jo reappeared from the side of the house and motioned to Fiona. ‘I gotta go. There’s a problem at a farm on the other side of town.’
Fiona squinted at her, sure she was lying. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, I’ll give you a ring a bit later on.’
Fiona tried to work out what to say. ‘Be safe.’ She reached out to give her friend a hug and watched her go.
Rob came and stood beside her. ‘Right, finished that job. Should we get on with the locks?’
‘You’ll be in the good books with Mum if you do,’ she answered, leading the way into the house.
‘Why is it farm houses don’t have locks?’ Rob asked, inspecting the door.
‘I don’t know any of the old ones that do. Never used to have to lock up.’
‘I’m with your mum. I think doing this is a good thing. I’ll just grab my tools.’
Chapter 10
Dave stared at the pages in front of him, unable to believe his eyes. The crime-scene photos he was looking at should have been in focus and well lit. Instead, they were dark, and some were even blurry. He made a note on his pad: Photos—who took them?
He’d glanced at them when he’d first opened the file, but hadn’t realised how bad they were, being more interested in reading the report.
He took a magnifying glass out of his drawer and tried to make sense of what he was seeing in one of them. The scene had shifted slightly from where the accident had first taken place and Dave could understand that—after all, the three men had panicked as they’d tried to save their friend. They dragged him away from the ute, grabbing what they could to press against his chest. It looked like the guns had been thrown clear because they were scattered haphazardly across the ground. A toolbox was lying near the side of the ute, as was a shovel and some other odds and ends. Obviously all had been in the tray earlier in the evening. He could see the glint of broken glass in the flash of the camera—on closer inspection it was thick and he thought it could be from the spotlight.
The ute was on its side—Dave could imagine the wheels turning helplessly, unable to find traction while in the air. Then the impact of it hitting the ground, the tools scraping, shattering glass, the echo of the shotgun, the silence before the screams.
Even though Eddie wasn’t in the pictures—he’d been taken to hospital by ambulance—the rags that had been used to stem the flow of blood were lying next to where he must’ve have laid.
Next, Dave turned his attention to the autopsy report, although it was obvious that a shot to the chest had killed him. Nothing unusual there … Except his hands and head hadn’t been bagged, soil analysis had not been handed in and there were no fingerprints.
Dave frowned and chewed the inside of his cheek, before checking his watch and picking up the phone. He waited for Leigh Bounter to pick up. No answer. Damn. He crashed the phone back into its cradle. Was there time to drive the seventy kilometres, do an interview and get back before Andy and Jack returned to the station? Probably not.
Instead, he picked up the phone again and rang Geoff. He seemed to be the silent one in all this. He was the driver, but he was also the one who had dropped out of sight since it had all happened. Trauma, Dave guessed, but maybe he would be the easiest one to talk to.
The mobile rang out and he left a short message, asking Geoff to call back. He’d just put down the phone when it rang and Dave recognised the number as the one he had just dialled.
‘Detective Burrows,’ he answered, reaching for his pen and new notepad.
Geoff’s tone was subdued as he introduced himself.
‘Thanks for calling me back, Geoff,’ Dave softened his tone. ‘Busy on the farm?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ he replied.
‘Must be just about time to peel off some wool in your neck of the woods, huh?’ Dave was relying on the TEDS system to get the man talking. Tell me, Explain to me, Describe to me, Show me. It was tried and tested. He’d seen inexperienced coppers go in and ask direct questions and the interviewee shut down. There had been one incident back in WA when twenty-five tonnes of superphosphate fertiliser had been stolen and the young cop had just gone in and said, ‘What do you know about the fertiliser being stolen?’ Dave had wanted to put his head in his hands, because the younger man had just alienated a witness. The neighbour had fired up, asking what they thought he had to do with it, when at the time, the police hadn’t thought anything … they had just wanted to talk and gather information.
‘I finished shearing last week,’ Geoff responded. ‘Two weeks’ worth.’
Dave let out a low whistle. ‘Timed it just right, the prices are pretty good at the moment.’
‘They’re not bad,’ Geoff agreed. ‘Helps keep the wolf from the door. What with lamb prices on the rise and crops looking good, it’d be nice to think I could make some money this year.’
Dave jotted down a note. Financial pressure??
‘Good results with the shearing?’
‘Pretty happy with the wool quality. They cut about six kilos per sheep and averaged between eighteen and twenty-three microns. Should go up for sale at the end of next week.’ Geoff offered the information without Dave having to dig too hard. ‘Do you know much about sheep, Detective?’
‘I used to work in the Rural Crime Squad in WA,’ Dave said as he made a note of when the money would be coming through. ‘Had a lot of experience with sheep and cattle. I’m actually the third son of a farmer, but there was never room for me at home, so I chose to be involved in agriculture in a different way. Loved working with sheep though. Prime lambs were great fun, but of course, back when I was a boy, they weren’t “prime”, they were “fat” lambs.’
‘Yes, people don’t want to buy “fat” now, do they?’ There was a pause and then Geoff asked, ‘You’re not farming now, obviously. You’re a copper.’
‘Yep, a copper, but I spent a lot of time in the Stock Squad. The government, in its wisdom, gave it over to the Department of Agriculture about nine years ago.’
‘Got no idea, the bloody government,’ Geoff said slowly, his disgust loud and clear.
Dave wasn’t going to enter into that side of things, so he changed the subject. ‘Your place must be pretty good stock country to be able to get that type of cut per sheep. Whereabouts is your place exactly?’
‘About ten k’s from Booleroo Centre. Towards Morchard.’
‘Ah, you’re pretty close to Fiona Forrest then?’
‘On the other side of town, compared to where she is. If you go up the hill on their place, you can almost see mine on a clear day.’
Dave rubbed his eye, and pushed his coffee cup around, waiting to see if Geoff added anything. He didn’t, but in the background, Dave could hear the bleat of sheep and the barking of a dog.
‘Out and about now, are you?’ he finally asked.
‘Got a few mobs to shift down the road and back into their paddocks.’ There was another pause. ‘Look, Detective, is there something I can help you with? I have things I need to do.’
‘Geoff, I’m sorry to have to do this to you, but we’re looking into the death of Eddie McDougall.’
There was a pause a heartbeat long, then: ‘Why?’
‘It’s nothing really, but the investigating officer didn’t get all the information needed. I wanted to run a few questions past you. Perhaps get you to come out to the scene with me.’
Again, all Dave could hear was the backgrou
nd noise of the sheep yards.
Finally, Geoff said yes and they organised a time.
Interesting, Dave thought, as he hung up the phone. He was expecting some type of pushback—that was usually what happened when he conducted an investigative review. Witnesses and other people who’d been affected didn’t want to have to relive it all. Geoff just agreed. But the way he’d volunteered the information about shearing … maybe he was desperate to talk. Perhaps he didn’t have anyone who would listen. Dave was happy to be a listening ear—that was when he heard the best information.
He heard Andy and Jack return to the station and took a deep breath. Opening the door, he called Andy into his office.
‘Take a seat.’ He pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Can you tell me how you went about investigating this suspicious death?’ he started without preamble as soon as Andy had sat down.
‘There was nothing suspicious about it,’ Andy said. ‘It was an unmistakable accident.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’ Dave kept his voice patient and level. ‘I asked how you went about investigating a scene you’d been called to, with a suspicious death involved. How did you do your best to be accountable to, and get answers for, the family of Eddie McDougall?’ He fixed Andy with a hard stare and watched as a red stain appeared on his cheeks.
‘I did what I was supposed to do.’ There was defensiveness in his tone. ‘I locked down the scene, restricted access.’
Dave nodded. ‘Good,’ he said lightly. ‘Sounds like an excellent way to start.’ He saw Andy relax and the hint of cockiness return. ‘What else did you do?’
‘Took photos of the scene, spoke to the people who were also there at the time. I got the ambulances in, although there wasn’t much point. It was pretty clear he wasn’t going to survive. But we needed them to treat the others for shock as well as do what they could to help the victim.’
Dave wanted to shake the man for his nonchalance. He was dealing with someone’s loved one. Instead he nodded. ‘Tell me what else you could have done.’
Andy narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you saying I didn’t investigate this properly? Or are you giving me hints for the detective course I’m about to do?’
Dave leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. ‘Why don’t you have a think about that and see what you come up with?’
That stumped Andy, who opened his mouth and closed it again, his jaw tightening.
Dave pushed the file across the table. ‘If you were handed this, as a detective, would you think this file was complete?’ He had purposely put the shoddy photos on top of the file.
Andy flicked through them, then quickly looked at the reports, his eyes scanning them, before he cleared his throat.
‘The photos are a bit dark and hard to see,’ he admitted.
Dave waited him out.
‘The interviews with the other victims could have been a bit more in-depth.’ He turned over a page, ready to make more comments, but his frustration got the better of him. Andy threw the report down on the table. ‘Hang on. I said before. It was obviously an accident. Why would you bother with all that other stuff, when it’s a fox shoot gone wrong? Look, that’s exactly what Leigh Bounter says here.’ He pointed to a line: ‘Oh my God, what a terrible accident. How are we going to tell his mother? And here: Geoff says, I couldn’t stop the ute from sliding. One minute everything was okay—Charlie had just shot a fox and we were going over to make sure it was dead, then the next, I hit something, with the front tyre. The noise … like ripping. I remember it hurt my ears, then the ute just rocked over. I couldn’t do anything.’ Andy sat back and looked at Dave. ‘See? Just an accident.’
‘But how do you know?’ Dave persisted.
‘Because they told me!’ Andy almost shouted. He half rose from his seat before he sat back down again.
Dave could feel Andy’s anger, aimed at him, but took his time to respond. Let him wait. After all, Eddie’s family would be waiting for the proper answers, since the young man had so readily accepted what he was told.
‘Sure, Andy, you’re right. That’s exactly what you were told. But did you ask if there was any bad blood between the victim and any of the men on board? Did the victim owe money, or was there some type of motive that could have indicated he was killed and that it was made to look like an accident?’
There was an uncomfortable quiet in the room before Andy blustered: ‘Get real! This is Booleroo Centre we’re talking about. Nothing ever happens there. Of course it was a bloody accident.’
Dave stood up and put his hands on the table, leaning across to get in Andy’s face. ‘Like the stock stealing that was around here in the early two thousands, like the rodeo theft a couple of years ago and the poaching of wildlife from the Flinders Ranges last year? Yep, you’re right, nothing happens around here.’ He pulled back and paced the room. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn before you make it as a good detective, Denning.’ He stopped and turned back to the young man. ‘The first rule of detective work is to never, ever make assumptions. And why, for God’s sake, didn’t you take fingerprints from all the men there that night? One of the men is dead! How are we supposed to get his prints now? He’s been buried.’
Andy kept his seat, staring straight ahead. Dave wanted to feel sympathy for him. After all, it wasn’t long ago he’d probably had the exact same look on his face while Toe-cutter grilled him. The difference was Denning had brought this on himself by second-rate work. His own reprimand was brought on by disobeying orders.
‘I’ve been asked to go back and reinvestigate this case,’ Dave finally said, sinking down in his chair. ‘Is there anything you want to bring me up to speed on? Anything that isn’t documented in here?’
Andy shook his head, his eyes still forward and avoiding Dave’s.
‘Right, then. I’d like you on board with this—to watch and learn only—but I guess that’s impossible since you’re leaving at the end of this week. You asked for some help with the detective course. The best piece of advice I can give you, Constable Denning, is that investigating is all about gathering information and then proving the conclusion without a doubt. It’s not about jumping to conclusions and substandard, not-thought-through and chaotic work. It’s about being methodical, working through things slowly. Asking the right questions. Your work here wouldn’t stand up in a courtroom. But mine will.’
Chapter 11
Darkness had fallen across the streets of Adelaide. The soft glow of streetlamps cast small circles of light that didn’t reach the darkest corners.
He sat in his car, waiting for the one. He would know her when he saw her. And he was patient. He would wait until the early hours of the morning if he had to.
He watched as people walked the street. There were couples laughing, walking hand in hand—they were the ones who made him sick. It will never last, he wanted to scream at them.
There were the groups of men, tumbling, inebriated, out of bar doors, arms around each other, singing Cold Chisel and other iconic eighties music, their voices loud. He wanted to yell at them, too, but he restrained himself, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention.
Then there were the families, the parents hustling their youngsters along the footpath, protective hands on their arms, making them walk quickly so they didn’t see too much of the seedier side of town.
Tonight there were two women haunting one corner—perhaps they were offering two for the price of one. That tickled his fancy, but he would hold off.
He had something particular in mind for tonight. A celebration.
He thought about the incident that had changed everything, and started to feel angry again. Like he had to assert himself. It wasn’t an uncommon story, he realised. A young boy in a change room, left alone with a man he trusted. Told he had talent and asked to stay behind after practice.
The man had stroked his ego, before stroking his leg. The actual act, he couldn’t remember. He’d blocked it out, but he remembered the pain, guilt a
nd shame. He knew it was wrong and that he should report the man. But the threats and promises he’d made had been too confusing. And now? Well, that man was gone. He’d made sure of that. But he still needed to release his rage from time to time.
Getting out of the car, he pulled his hat down low, thinking he’d stretch his legs. At a street stall, he bought a couple of chicken kebabs. Walking on, he smelled Asian food coming from a restaurant and realised that not only was he still hungry, but a drink would go down a treat, too. Only one, for he had to drive and keep his wits about him.
Settling himself at a table, he ordered food and a beer. He looked around, just in case there was someone here who suited his need tonight.
In the dim light, there were many couples sitting at tables, but there didn’t seem to be anyone by themselves. He let out a breath through his nose—partly in disgust and partly in resignation. He had known it wasn’t going to be that easy because she had to be perfect. Fit exactly what he liked.
He thanked the waiter who brought his beer over, and took a sip before casting around from under the brim of his hat again.
Oh, but hang on … in the corner … There was a woman sitting by herself.
Narrowing his eyes, he looked her over carefully. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones, and she was deeply tanned. Her dark wavy hair fell over her arm to her waist. Her head rested on her hand and she was reading a book. A clear indication she wasn’t waiting for anyone.
He watched her for a while, admiring her full mouth, her graceful hands as they used chopsticks, and the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. He felt the familiar ache of desire.
Beckoning to the waiter, he asked him to send her a glass of whatever she was drinking.
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