by Bob Goodwin
Chapter 5
The Ruins
It was a challenging start to the day after a little too much Johnnie Walker the previous evening, but Simon had somehow found his way, as planned, to his property. Now, here he was, surrounded by the charred remains of a once beautiful home.
He lowered his head, sighed heavily, and tried desperately to hold back another emotional outburst. The attempt caused a choking ache in the back of his throat and a stabbing pain over the bridge of his nose. He pushed his thumb and forefinger hard into the corner of each eye to suppress the feeling. It may have been better to allow his grief, anger, and confusion to run full rein and discharge itself completely. However, this trauma would demand a long passage of time, and would not simply be satisfied by one massive catharsis. Besides, there were reasons why he needed some control. He couldn’t get swallowed up by this; not yet.
Past and recent events weighed heavily on his mind. Things that he had long forgotten now welled up like an eerie fountain of muddled happenings. The sensation pushed back against his fingers. A knot at the base of his sternum grew tight. He wanted control, discipline, and reasoning; later the grief.
‘Later, please later,’ he pleaded, as he pressed harder with his fingers. He kicked a small piece of charcoal and forced himself to raise his head and survey the burnt-out shell that was once his home. His breathing was forced in short, controlled grunts. It seemed to help. As best he could, and to prevent a total meltdown, he tried to focus on his property and on the surrounding landscape of low rolling hills.
He looked across the Samford Valley. It was a cool and cloudless winter morning. A few houses could be seen in the distance, with any closer locals being well hidden behind native tress and gullies. It was a picture fit for an artist’s brush and one that belied the tragedy that had occurred only 32 hours earlier.
Simon’s home had been a stand-out in the local community, with five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a study, sunken lounge with adjoining bar and entertainment area, and of course, his pride and joy, the library. It was only twenty kilometres from Brisbane City, where he had spent the previous five years. But from a lifestyle point of view it had seemed so much further. Now, after his dream’s destruction, he failed to comprehend both his feelings and commitment towards its completion in the first place.
Simon stepped gingerly through the soggy black mush and angled himself carefully under some flimsy charcoal framework that somehow had remained standing. The recliner rocker was more or less in an upright position, with the mesh of exposed springs supported by the remains of the burnt wooden frame. Hundreds of books were spread amongst the rubble; some of the larger ones he recognised as long-standing favourites. All, however, both large and small, were damaged beyond any hope of repair.
For Simon, the library had occupied many of his recreational hours. He could picture the room. Two of the library walls had been exclusively devoted for exhibition of his family photographs. The old brown and white print he had painstakingly restored depicted the stern, bearded face of his grandfather, and was the first in the family tree series that staggered across one wall. The lower-most image was of his son, Robbie; a fine shot indeed, which captured the innocent, excited gleam in his eyes and that unforgettable cheeky smile which always preceded a high-pitched chuckle. The picture had sprung to life, and Simon could see his son toddling towards him. There was the smile, soon followed by the chuckle. Quickly the volume and intensity of the laughter gathered an unusual, disturbing dimension. Louder and louder it became. Something was wrong. The chuckle had altered. It was no longer a chuckle. His son was now screaming. The flames gathered behind the child as if in anticipation. They sprang forward and enveloped him. In a flash, Robbie was gone.
Simon opened his eyes, then closed them as tightly as he possibly could, moisture oozed between his lashes. The tortured image of his son wanted to return, but he somehow found the strength to suppress it.
Crouched and nestled amongst burnt, water-soaked books and broken glass, Simon shook his head slowly and ventured another look. He attempted to identify some of his possessions. Why he even wanted to, he was not sure. It was something to do, and having something to do seemed to help, if only for a few seconds at a time. To his left, he noticed a large pile of burnt paper. The top pieces disintegrated as he pushed at them with his fountain pen. He carefully slid the pen into the middle of the stack and tipped it to one side. A small, undamaged section of a photograph revealed itself. It showed the face of Alison. She was wearing a blue, floppy towelling hat. Simon recognised the picture instantly. She had just thrown some manure his way after he had surprised her with the camera as she tended the roses. Tears welled in his eyes, and two drops fell in quick succession onto a charred piece of wood and disappeared like water into a sponge. Another terrifying image was forming in his mind.
‘Hey, Stacey!’ came a commanding shout. Simon welcomed it at first. ‘I told you not to disturb anything.’ It was the policeman guarding the scene of the tragedy. The two had argued only minutes earlier, with Simon finally being permitted a few minutes to look through the ruins. Forensic investigators had spent all day yesterday examining the scene and taking evidence. The area was still surrounded with blue and white police crime scene tape.
‘Just a small bit of a photo. No harm done.’
‘If you touch anything else you’ll have to leave. Looking only! Is that clear? The forensic guys will be back here later. They will kick my arse.’
‘Okay, okay. I get the message, all right!’ snapped Simon, catching himself by surprise with his sudden change into irritability.
He stood and meandered through the rubble, coming to another halt in the remains of the lounge. He moved slowly toward the fireplace. With images of Alison dancing through his mind, he cupped his face in his hands. A warm stream of tears now flowed uncontrollably down his cheeks. Simon was wearing a grey, pin-striped suit which he had intentionally left at Adrian’s flat. It was possibly not the best thing to wear given the state of the area in which he now stood, but there was little other choice, with pretty much everything else having gone up in smoke. He sat down on the cracked brick surround of the fireplace. Simon always prided himself on his appearance, no matter what the occasion. It was his trademark, a sign of confidence and success.
He tried to focus his vision and attention on a winding trail of ants that had carefully plotted a dry course through the black sludge. In ant terms this must have been like Hiroshima, thought Simon, yet here they are organised and already going about their business of cleaning up and starting afresh. Lucky ants.
Startled by the sound of a car pulling up sharply on some loose pebbles in the circular driveway, Simon quickly rose to his feet and reached for his handkerchief. He wiped his face, not realising that his right hand was partly covered with the black ash that coated the brickwork where he had been sitting.
‘Mr Stacey!’ a voice shouted, as a car door opened. Simon hesitated. The voice was very familiar, and one he knew he should recognise immediately, but the name somehow eluded him.
‘Yes, I’m in here,’ his voice wavered. ‘Just a moment.’ Looking down at his red silk tie, he cursed as he noticed that, not only was it wet from his tears, it also bore a large, sooty smudge.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit,’ Simon muttered as he removed the tie and stuffed it in his hip pocket. Proceeding through what used to be a set of sliding glass doors, his eyes met those of Inspector John Cochran. How could he not have recognised that husky sergeant major voice? ‘Yes, Inspector. I’m guessing you have some more questions for me?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Stacey, just a couple. And if you could remove yourself from the crime scene it would be greatly appreciated.’ The inspector glanced over at the policeman on guard duty and shook his head. Simon took a few careful steps forward and lifted the tape over his head. ‘Thank you. Look, I know this must be difficult for you,’ continued the inspector. ‘But it would be a great help to our investigations if we could have a chat.�
��
Simon was surprised by Cochran’s manner. He had actually addressed him as mister and used the word sorry in the same sentence. The fat man’s sensitivity was verging on the impressive.
‘What’s puzzling you, Inspector? You’re unusually restrained and oddly polite this morning.’ Stacey was demanding self-control. He and Cochran had some history and they did not get on. Seize the moment, he told himself. Such directive self-talk seemed foreign; his responses normally flowed freely. His brain was struggling for sharp, cutting responses. ‘Hey, I know, you old devil,’ continued Simon. ‘I’ll bet you got lucky last night. And I’m guessing it must have been with your elocution teacher? Good score.’ It was a slightly provocative remark, but wasn’t terribly impressive. Simon knew he could have done better, but given the present circumstances it was the best he could muster. Still, it would irritate the crap out of lard arse, and once again it was something to be doing, and provided a brief respite from the torment.
The policeman had clenched his fists. He pressed his lips and teeth tightly together, then made a concerted effort to relax them before responding.
‘Stacey, now I accept that you’re very upset, but we both want answers don’t we? I know you’ve already been very helpful and that you’ve spent several hours at the station, but there are a few things that have come to light that quite honestly leave me a little perplexed.’ There was a firmer tone in his voice, but the air of concern and the attempt at empathy still prevailed.
Simon now stood directly in front of Cochran, trying hard to look into the fat man’s eyes. Direct eye contact had served him well in his dealings with difficult acquaintances in the past. With Cochran, it was different. His podgy face made it seem you were staring at his eyelids rather than his eyes. Simon pondered for a moment on the close resemblance to a walrus; just a few long whiskers under that flattened nose, and SeaWorld would be signing him up.
‘Dropped the mister already, have we? Shame. It wasn’t really you though, was it?’ The man was a hopeless case, thought Stacey, couldn’t even hold a pretence together for five minutes. ‘So, you’d like to know what’s going on.’ Simon paused. That knot in his gut tightened. His temples pulsed in pain. Any sense of control was plummeting headlong into the ground. ‘Well let me tell you, Inspector. This is my house, my new house. This is my life’s achievement. You know what I really created here, don’t you? I created an elaborate coffin. A crematorium. Notice how I’ve cleverly installed open skylights throughout the building and developed a wonderful, charred, rustic appearance, so authentic you can even smell it. Quite novel, don’t you think? I must say though, the carpets are a bitter disappointment. Scotch-guarded to the max, and the damned water has got into them like a fucking sponge. And what about —’
‘Stacey!’ bellowed the six-foot policeman. ‘Shut up!’
‘Please, please let me continue, Inspector. My family. Alison, my wife, and my son, Robbie; my little boy; only a little boy, Inspector; nearly two. Nearly two years old…’ Simon’s speech faltered and stopped. The tight knot spread quickly to his stomach and like a wave into his throat. His mouth watered uncontrollably. He dropped to his knees, vomited at Cochran’s feet, then sobbed loudly for what seemed like an eternity for both men. Reaching into his pocket, he removed what he thought was his handkerchief and began loudly blowing his nose into his red tie.
‘Fuck, look at me. What a mess. If you ever run out of hankies, Cochran, let me know. I’ll lend you a silk tie.’ Stacey continued wiping his face regardless. He thought for a moment of wiping the regurgitated specks from Cochran’s shoes, but then changed his mind.
Simon slowly forced himself into an upright position and exchanged his tie for his handkerchief.
‘Sorry, Inspector,’ he said, wiping his face roughly and spreading more soot across his nose. His own words caught him by surprise. Now both men had used that word. He forgave himself the indiscretion.
‘You have no need to apologise, Stacey,’ replied Cochran. ‘We do need to talk again, and you need to clean yourself up. Be at the Alderley Police Station by 1.00 p.m.’ Not waiting for a response, he pushed his bulky frame through the open car door and dropped heavily onto the seat. The suspension groaned as if to complain at the insult of the one hundred and thirty kilograms. The engine sparked into a throaty rhythm and jerked as the gear stick found its notch. ‘Be there, Stacey!’ he said firmly. ‘And don’t tamper with anything around here.’
The white Ford Falcon XF sedan looped around the driveway and was quickly out of view. Simon thought about the gun and the jerry can, both covered with his fingerprints. If they had found either, Cochran would have just taken him in immediately. It seemed that someone had done him a favour. But who? And why?
He looked to the side of his private roadway, at the large rectangular plot of carefully turned soil. Several rather bare-looking sticks protruded from the earth. Alison had a passion for roses. She had spent much of last weekend tending her garden. Many other plots had been planned, and she had meticulously marked them all with sticks, string, and coloured ribbon. To the right of the garden was the oval-shaped swimming pool and spa, both covered in a fine, black-and-grey speckled film. Simon stared at the coated water, imagining it to be a thick, oily quagmire. A place where you would slowly descend into the murky depths and be captured and tortured for eternity. A soft, cool breeze reached his cheeks. A chill penetrated his spine and goose pimples spread from his neck to his limbs. On the pool, a slow wave ran under the carpet of mire.
The garden beyond the swimming enclosure was a picture, with two pergolas and some strategically placed garden furniture. A cobblestone path wound its way through the thick grass carpet, finishing at a large, aluminium garden shed that was carefully tucked away behind a cluster of native trees and shrubs. The goose pimples were receding. Robbie had been so fascinated with the garden, spending so much time running, playing, and rolling on the cool grass. Hide and seek had taken on a whole new dimension since moving from the city. The goose bumps were gone.
With the stale smell of wet charcoal lingering in his nostrils, Simon hung his head, turned, and slowly made his way along the driveway to the entrance where the solitary policeman stood on guard.
Chapter 6
Second Interview
After thirty minutes of driving he arrived back at Adrian’s Narangba flat. Simon pondered for a moment on how he had arrived at his trusty friend’s dwelling in what only seemed to be a matter of minutes. He thought back and had no memory of passing the Samford Valley Dairy, had completely missed the deserted sawmill at Eaton’s Crossing, and surprisingly had not the slightest recollection of even turning onto the highway.
Back inside the flat there was still no sign of Adrian. Simon placed a call to his Bodytone Club. He spoke to Wendy, the receptionist, and enquired about Angela, one of the personal trainers.
‘She has called in quite ill, Simon. She said she would be away for a few days,’ recalled Wendy.
‘Can you give me her phone number please?’ Simon wrote down the number as she spoke. ‘Thanks for that, Wendy. Now I need to ask you, have you heard about the fire and the deaths out at Samford?’
‘I heard about that on the news. They didn’t give out any names. I hope it wasn’t anybody you knew.’
‘Are you sitting down?’ Simon proceeded to give her the details and asked her to inform Charlie Madden, and also let him know that he would be dropping around in the late afternoon.
At the kitchen table, he picked up the newspaper clipping with the list of phone numbers. He checked them off against Angela’s number that Wendy had just given him. There it was, on the list, third from the top.
‘Fuck me!’ He dialled the number and waited. It rang out. ‘Shit, Adrian. What the hell is going on? I need you.’
The two men had shared so much and had always been there for one another when the chips were down. The bond they had formed from school days was still as strong as ever. Simon could recall numerous occasions when
he and Adrian had teamed up to do battle against some of the school’s hardheads and overlords. They had certainly copped some hidings, especially in the beginning, but their track record of memorable victories had improved markedly when they realised their strength lay with their guile and cunning rather than their modest physical attributes.
Simon glanced at his watch: 11.45 a.m. He sat motionless for a few seconds then checked his watch again, having already forgotten the time. He went to pour himself a drink but changed his mind.
‘Move your arse, Stacey. Inspector Cochran awaits,’ he muttered to himself as he moved to the bathroom. After noticing his charcoal-smeared appearance in the mirror, he was pleased to feel the steady stream of soothing, warm water running over his face. The old, thinning towel was only sufficient to render him half-dry. On entering the bedroom, a further dilemma — no clothes. His legacy from the fire was one suit now in need of dry cleaning, and yesterday’s dirty clothes. He threw the towel to the floor and marched to the second bedroom. Simon rummaged through Adrian’s drawers and removed a creased and faded pair of blue denim jeans. Turning to the plastic laundry basket, precariously balanced on a chair near the end of the bed, Simon delved amongst the assortment of items. After rejecting two T-shirts he found a pink floral blouse.
