The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ George faltered. ‘I did not mean to sound petulant. It’s just that I so much wanted to serve my country and to be denied the opportunity to do so has been a great disappointment.’

  Joshua eased back in his chair and smiled. ‘You look and sound like you come from a bit of money,’ he said.

  George glanced at the obviously battle experienced soldier whose perceptiveness was surprising. He himself had summed up the captain as a man from a working class background who had risen to a commissioned rank. Captain Joshua Larkin had the open, ruggedly honest face of a man one could trust although it was etched with the lines that bespoke of too many days exposed to moments of sheer terror. This was particularly apparent when one looked into the grey eyes; there was unspoken horror there.

  ‘I suppose you could consider me as having had a fortunate life, thanks to my heritage,’ George answered the captain in a bemused tone. ‘My family owns a substantial amount of property in Australia and I know my father will be pleased to see me return to eventually assume the reins of power. He was against me enlisting in the first place. And when I insisted he ensured that I was given a commission. Only right that the son of Harold Littleton be an officer and a gentleman.’

  ‘Wise bloke, your old man,’ Joshua said, raising his tumbler in a mock salute. ‘The only thing he did wrong was letting you have a commission as an infantry officer. Your life expectancy would have been very short over there. But that is all a moot point now that the war is over.’

  ‘I suppose that you are looking forward to returning home, sir,’ George said. ‘Do you have a family waiting for you?’

  Joshua Larkin bowed his head and seemed to stare into his glass. George sensed that he had touched a raw nerve with the officer and regretted his question.

  ‘Nothing to go home to,’ Joshua finally replied. ‘I have been in it since Fromelles and that seems a lifetime ago. I worked as a clerk in Sydney before the war.’ Joshua did not elaborate and the young, well-educated officer guessed that in his last statement the man beside him had said it all. The war had provided this man with something he could not have found as a clerk working in a dreary civilian job.

  ‘No, I won’t be going home,’ the captain continued, swigging his drink. ‘Tomorrow I swap my uniform for a Pommy uniform in the Royal Fusiliers. It seems the English have another war going and have been recruiting men around London who’d been discharged to go home.’

  ‘Another war?’ George queried, his interest suddenly apparent at the Australian captain’s statement.

  ‘Surprised that you haven’t been approached already,’ Joshua answered. ‘The English, along with the Yanks, French, Czechs, Japanese and Canadians have an expeditionary force campaigning in Russia against the Bolsheviks. Mr Churchill and his mob feel that the Bolshies have to be taught a lesson and they are putting together another force to reinforce those already there.’

  In his excitement, leaning forward toward the captain, Second Lieutenant George Littleton almost spilled his drink. ‘I presume the regimental orderly room would have the information I require to volunteer,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a fool, Mr Littleton,’ Joshua said. ‘You should call it quits and go home to your life back in Sydney. Believe me, I was once like you and just as stupid to volunteer. If I knew then what I now know I would have stayed at home.’

  ‘But you have proved yourself,’ George countered. ‘You would be welcomed home as a hero.’ He was suddenly aware of a dark, angry expression in the captain’s grey eyes.

  ‘I know enough to tell you that now the war is over hardly any civilian is going to give a damn about returning soldiers, let alone a government,’ Joshua retorted bitterly. ‘Every man over there was a hero to just survive so we are as common a commodity as the bloody rabbits in the country. No, there will be a parade or two then we have to try and get jobs back that are now occupied by the blokes who chose to stay at home, rather than volunteer to join us. Oh, sure, they will slap us on the back and say what a courageous thing we did and even buy us a beer but when it comes to giving us any compensation that will be a different story. But at the end of any war the treatment of soldiers is to praise them – and then forget them. It has always been the same. At least I know soldiering and if another war is there to be fought it may as well be blokes like me who have no reason to go home straightaway.’

  George was taken aback. The captain’s reply had shattered his notion that people would always respect men returning from war. He could see an opportunity to prove himself in battle and was counting the hours until the orderly room was open to hand out applications for this expeditionary force destined for Russia. He was no longer feeling despondent and his drink suddenly had a taste rather than being simply a liquid to drown his regrets.

  ONE

  Valley View

  The Central Highlands, west of Sydney

  Present day

  A gentle fall of snow during the night had settled to become a blinding sheet of white under the clear skies of the following morning. From where Senior Constable Morgan McLean stood on the verandah of the 19th-century police station, steaming mug of tea in hand, he could see the sweeping panorama of the slopes marching up to the timbered hills to the north of his rural domain.

  Valley View township was the home of around 700 people but gradually growing with the influx of the tree-changers from Sydney seeking affordable housing in a rural setting. The town had been cut off from the steady flow of traffic between Sydney and Melbourne for at least a hundred years and had retained a feeling of belonging to the past. With its old, sandstone buildings and well-established willow trees proliferating along the gently flowing creek behind the town it was clear that time had well and truly left Valley View in its wake.

  Nestled in the hills above the snowline, it enjoyed a claim to little crime other than the usual disputes over fences, a few dog complaints and the occasional domestic violence offence. Occasionally, Senior Constable McLean was called to one of the two local hotels to settle an argument over the use of the pool tables or evict a drunken patron. Most of the calls for law enforcement were settled on the spot, ruling out the need for the half-hour trip to the small city on the Hume Highway where any offenders could be processed and bailed to appear before the magistrates’ court.

  Morgan McLean had experienced enough excitement in his days to warrant the peaceful life of his current posting. Recently divorced, he was now forty-two years of age. Eighteen years earlier he had served with the Special Air Services Regiment in the Gulf War. At twenty-five the SAS trooper realised he was reaching a point where he would have to either remain with the army in a non special forces posting – or seek another career. As each birthday came and went his body told him that the rigorous standards required by the regiment made it harder for him. He had always had an interest in policing and chose to enter the NSW Police Force.

  Standing on the old wooden verandah looking out at the serenity of the snow-covered pastures he had no regrets about not remaining in the army. Here, he had a small sense of belonging; the normally suspicious and conservative rural community had come to accept him after a couple of years’ policing the district. Morgan was a man who had the knack of commanding respect. Just above average height he could not be called handsome, but he had a strong face and the build of a heavyweight boxer in his prime – a legacy of his days with the regiment and its emphasis on physical and mental toughness.

  The tea consumed, Morgan turned to walk back inside to the warmth of the cramped office that also served as the main reception area for visitors to the police station. Today he would have a chance to fill in the backlog of returns. He was considering another mug of tea when the telephone rang.

  ‘Senior Constable McLean, Valley View police,’ Morgan answered, slumping into a chair behind his desk.

  ‘Constable McLean,’ a worried female voice said at the other end. ‘You have to come out to our place. My partner has found a body … Well, at least a skeleton.’


  ‘Ms Dawson, is that you?’ Morgan asked, recognising the voice of Monique Dawson. He had met the attractive young woman when she had visited the police station a month earlier to update her car licence and in idle conversation Morgan had learned that she and her partner, David Greer had moved from Sydney to renovate an old sandstone house outside of town. Monique had also informed Morgan that she was a professional artist while her partner was involved in some kind of financial service. Most of his work could be done via the internet, she had explained, and they had always desired a plot of land with a lot of trees. They had hired a team of workers to rebuild the house and its outbuildings.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I think you know where we live, out on the old valley road.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Morgan said, quickly glancing at his wristwatch, a habit developed by experienced police for noting the time in future reports on any incident. ‘I will be straight out. Just don’t touch anything, okay? We need to preserve the scene as much as possible.’

  ‘I have seen those shows on cable TV,’ Monique replied with just a hint of amusement. ‘But I don’t have any of that police tape to seal off the scene.’

  Morgan smiled. The young lady had a sense of humour. He remembered that she had also mentioned that she had once been a registered nurse before finding that she could use her artistic talent to make good money.

  ‘I will be straight out,’ Morgan repeated, placing the phone in its cradle and grabbing his leather jacket from the hatstand. Probably not much in it, he thought as he lifted the keys to the police four-wheel drive from inside the drawer of his desk. Old settled areas could produce the occasional skeleton of some pioneer who’d been simply buried in a paddock. The discovery would probably be of more interest to archaeologists than law enforcement after a coroner’s report.

  A cold wind whipped the air around the three people standing beside the partially excavated hole where the skull and chest bones could be clearly seen.

  ‘I thought that I might take advantage of the break in the weather to clear the ground here for a future footpath,’ David Greer explained.

  Morgan had already summed up the man as a product of an exclusive private school. He just had that look and sound about him. Tall, with sandy, curly hair and the fine features of an aristocrat, he exuded the lazy arrogance of one used to getting whatever he went after and Morgan had no doubt that the man looked down upon those he considered tradesmen.

  ‘You can imagine the shock I got when I scraped away the ground to reveal the skull,’ David concluded in his cultured voice.

  To lessen any chance of further contamination Morgan had ensured that he did not handle the partially exposed skeleton wrapped in what remained of a pile of rotted clothes. The wonder science of DNA analysis required this. Instead, he stared at what was obviously a bullet hole in the centre of the forehead. ‘Has anyone else beside your self handled the remains?’ he asked, glancing up at David.

  ‘You didn’t go near the body, did you, Monique?’ David asked.

  ‘Good God! No,’ she replied.

  Morgan could see a slight shudder ripple through her body at the suggestion. She had a pretty, oval face framed by lustrous red hair that was being blown about by the wind. Her green eyes were a feature noticeable to any man, as was the shapely outline under the pleated skirt and jumper she wore. ‘I don’t want whoever this is to haunt us.’

  Morgan stood. ‘I am going to lay out an inner and outer perimeter around the body,’ he explained. ‘That means that we keep away from the remains until the experts arrive to do their job. I hope it will not inconvenience you too much.’

  ‘I have seen enough of those cable shows to know that the hole in the head was probably caused by a bullet,’ Monique said quietly. ‘Does that mean the man – or woman – was murdered?’ she asked.

  Morgan frowned. ‘A good guess,’ he said. ‘But the coroner will make a decision on that matter.’

  Morgan turned and walked away a short distance to make a call on his mobile phone. His first call was to the detectives whose office was located in the rural city a half hour away, and his next to the chief inspector’s office to inform him of the find. Now, it was only a matter of waiting until the detectives and the forensic people arrived to take over. He laid out his tape around the yard, connecting it to small trees and garden posts. His work was done simply reporting the matter and protecting the scene.

  ‘Could I make you a cup of coffee or tea?’ Monique asked when Morgan returned to join the couple standing a distance from the partially excavated grave.

  ‘That would be nice,’ Morgan beamed. ‘I can’t see why we have to stand out here when I have a good view of the scene from your kitchen. I can get your statements about the discovery a little more comfortably out of the cold.’

  It did not take long for the local detectives led by the detective senior sergeant to arrive. Morgan briefed them as to the circumstances of the discovery, adding that he had taken statements from the house’s occupants.

  Detective Senior Sergeant Ken Barber was a big, burly man who was from the old school of policing. He was facing retirement but this had not diminished his love for the job. ‘You don’t think they have any involvement?’ he growled in Morgan’s ear, eyeing the young couple standing in the doorway of their kitchen that opened into the backyard.

  ‘No way, Ken,’ Morgan answered. ‘They have only been here a few months and it is obvious to even a garden variety copper like myself that the body has been buried for a fairly long time.’

  Barber nodded. From experience he trusted the knowledge of the local police. ‘Not a bad looking sort,’ he said, eyeing Monique.

  ‘A bit old for you, Ken,’ Morgan snorted. ‘She is at least thirty years old.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ the detective senior sergeant sighed. ‘I prefer them around twenty.’

  Morgan smiled at the retort. Ken was currently being investigated for a complaint of yelling at a young policewoman who had been seriously derelict in her duties. The issue had not been that she had almost cost the life of a colleague but that he had caused her trauma in his dressing down. He was, after all, a policeman from the old school.

  ‘I’ve got onto the forensics people from Sydney to get down here,’ he said. ‘They can figure this out.’

  ‘I don’t have any reports of missing people,’ Morgan added. ‘From what I can see the body seems to have been in the ground a fair while.’

  ‘My thoughts also,’ Ken mused. ‘Maybe we have to go back in the records a bit to see if we have any missing persons in the district. I don’t know why but I figure this one is worth a bit more of a look at. I might get one of those ground-penetrating radars here to poke around the house. In the meantime I will send the boys back to your station and set up a command post. Hope you have a good supply of coffee and bikkies on hand. How are the counter meals at your local?’

  ‘The bottom pub does a good meal,’ Morgan said. ‘Body discoveries are certainly good for the town’s economy.’

  ‘Need to get a PR officer to look at a press release,’ Ken continued as he ticked off a mental checklist in his head. ‘But not much in this until we get something back from forensics. It could be an old suicide.’

  ‘Yeah, but who buried the body?’ Morgan asked.

  The burly detective senior sergeant glanced at Morgan from the corner of his eye. ‘That, my son, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question.’

  His role finished at the scene, Morgan gazed up at the foothills behind the sandstone double-storey house. His eyes settled on the ground floor and then on Monique who was still standing in the doorway of the kitchen. For a moment their eyes locked and Morgan felt that she was appraising him in some way. He smiled, and his smile was returned. He turned and walked back to his vehicle. The lady was certainly as interesting as she was beautiful, he thought idly.

  For a couple of days the team of local detectives used Morgan’s tiny station as a command post until the crime sce
ne police carefully removed the skeletal remains and the earth around the body for transport to their laboratories in Sydney for forensic analysis. Morgan had little to do with the investigation as it was prepared for the coroner – other than his initial witness statements and his own search through the records for missing persons. Once all those he uncovered for the past twenty years had proved to be accounted for, he would join the local detectives down at the pub for a good meal, a cold beer and a catch-up on police gossip from Hume City.

  The discovery stirred intense interest among the local community and when Morgan attended a meeting of his Returned Services League sub-branch at the community hall he was beset by curious veterans – from World War Two to the latest members from conflicts in the Middle East.

  ‘Can’t say much,’ Morgan would reply. ‘It’s a coroner’s matter now.’ He was not trying to avoid any sensitive matters; his answer was truthful. Nothing would be known until the forensics had been done. Not even the local media had shown much interest in the discovery. It had featured only as a headline in the local papers, and only rated a paragraph in the national media. All that was about to change as Morgan was returning to the police station and a call came in on his mobile phone.

  ‘Young Morgan?’ Ken Barber asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Our case has kind of hotted up,’ the detective said. ‘The radar turned up another body late this afternoon, not far from the first one. This one also has apparent trauma injuries. You might have a case of the Valley View serial killer on your hands. And if it was a serial killer, the case looks like being almost ninety years old. I’ve got a feeling that the second one is going to cause a bit of a stir in the papers.’

  Morgan’s face registered little surprise. Even he had deduced the bones had lain under the earth for a long time. What secrets did this little town virtually isolated from the rest of the world hold? He prepared for another onslaught of coffee-swigging detectives at his police station and knew that the media would not be far behind them.