Charlotte Pass

by Lee Christine

  Lew sighed. ‘He’s right. We don’t always know why. That’s the most frustrating part.’

  Vanessa stared at the swirling vines on the carpet. To think that Bruno, a serial killer, had walked among them, slept in the same building, and hovered outside her door. She shivered despite the central heating. It was almost too horrific to comprehend.

  ‘Listen to me.’

  She started as Ryder sat on the sofa beside her, his eyes dark with concern. ‘We’ll get whoever did this. In the meantime, you need to stay here, with Lew. I’ve arranged for someone in the kitchen to bring your meals and any necessities you both might need. Do not go outside this room, okay?’

  Vanessa nodded. ‘Of course. But if Bruno’s no longer in the village, doesn’t that mean he’s more of a threat to you? You need to take care as well.’

  ‘Never argue with a woman’s logic, Ryder,’ came Lewicki’s droll response.

  Ryder’s mouth curved in a smile, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her. But right then his phone buzzed from inside his overcoat.

  He sighed and fished the device from his pocket. ‘Yes, Flowers?’ There was a pause as he listened. ‘Right, then I guess we’re all set.’

  The sound of the helicopter was deafening now, as though it were hovering directly over the inn.

  Ryder killed the call and stood up, fixing his eyes on hers. ‘Okay, I’m out of here.’

  Twenty-five

  The helicopter rose above Charlotte Pass village, sending the top layer of snow billowing into the air and cutting off the visibility of those on board. Slowly, the chopper cleared the white cloud and the village fell away below them. From this height, the historic Charlotte Mountain Inn sat among the lesser buildings like a proud, bejewelled matriarch.

  Ryder sat beside the pilot, Flowers in the rear seat.

  ‘Look over there.’ Ryder spoke through the headset and pointed towards Mount Stillwell. ‘On the crest of the mountain. You can see one of the pylons from the old chairlift.’

  Flowers shifted closer to the window, searching for the spot. He nodded as he caught sight of it. ‘I see it. It’s like one of those abandoned places you see on the internet, where nature has taken it back.’

  ‘I’ll show you a better example of that a bit further along,’ said Ryder, his eye on the dark clouds gathering to the south. ‘What’s the forecast?’ he asked, turning to the pilot. The last thing they needed was the weather coming in and cutting off access to the village by air.

  ‘We’re expecting snow, but not for a few days yet.’

  Ryder leaned back in his seat and stared at the snow-covered road leading into Perisher, the same eight-kilometre stretch Bruno travelled hours earlier. The road twisted and turned, the bright orange poles standing on either side marking the snow depth at intervals. Normally, at this time, the oversnow transport vehicles would be coming and going, carrying guests and day trippers into Charlotte’s. And there were always a few cross-country skiers, chook footers as they were known, travelling the road under their own steam. But, today, it was deserted.

  ‘How’s the food situation up there?’ the pilot asked.

  Flowers’ voice came through the headset. ‘The lodges have freezer rooms. The owners stock them up at the beginning of the season. The only thing they sometimes need is fresh fruit and vegetables. Right now, food isn’t an issue.’

  A blur of colour in a highly wooded area caught Ryder’s attention. A skier in a bright yellow jacket was streaking through the trees. ‘Down there, Flowers. Someone’s skiing out of bounds.’

  ‘We’re coming into Perisher,’ the pilot said. ‘There’s an old T-bar straight ahead. It’s right on the edge of the resort.’

  And then the wooded area they’d been flying over gave way to the groomed runs of Perisher Valley, and Ryder could see the skier was heading for the loading area at the bottom of the hill. He sat back, relieved he’d made the decision to close off the lifts at Charlotte Pass. The eight kilometres separating the two resorts was doable in one day. If the perp managed to ski out, they’d soon be lost among the throng of people skiing and boarding at Perisher Valley.

  ‘Check out the carpark,’ the pilot said.

  They approached a cluster of buildings, a smattering of small chalets, the ski-tube terminal and the day lodge. In the carpark people were huddled in groups, arms folded across their bodies while they stamped their boots on the asphalt to keep warm. Journos, judging by the number of vans with satellite dishes fixed to their roofs. Further along the road, the uniformed boys from Jindabyne had set up a roadblock.

  Ryder leaned back in his seat again, certain Bruno was long gone.

  They flew on towards Cooma, the pilot giving Flowers a running commentary of the landscape. He pointed out Blue Cow and Smiggin Holes, and further on Sponars Chalet with the fountain shooting freezing water into the air. From there they crossed the National Park until they reached the township of Jindabyne, which hugged the shores of a glistening man-made lake.

  ‘They flooded the old town,’ Ryder spoke over his shoulder. ‘It’s submerged somewhere out there beneath the water.’

  ‘No shit? Why’d they do that?’ asked Flowers.

  ‘It was part of the plan when they built the Snowy Hydro. Sometimes, when the water level’s low, you can see the steeple of the old Catholic church.’

  ‘Can you dive it?’

  ‘Have you done much diving?’ the pilot asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, in Sydney,’ said Flowers.

  ‘You can definitely do it, but altitude diving is a lot different to diving at sea level. You’d need special training.’

  ‘It’d be an awesome thing to do, though.’

  Ryder adjusted his headset. ‘As long as I don’t lose you to the mountains, Flowers,’ he said, suddenly realising how much his junior partner had grown on him, despite being a member of the Harry Potter generation.

  ‘Ha-ha. Not a chance, Sarge.’

  Ryder smiled. For the past week they’d been eating and sleeping the Delaney case. It felt good to be talking about something normal.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Flowers asked. ‘I didn’t learn about it in school.’

  ‘Were you even paying attention?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘My father told me. He learned about the Snowy Mountains Scheme in primary school, I think. And Lew’s a Cooma local, of course.’

  ‘Bruno, too,’ Flowers said with a sudden frown. ‘Jesus. I wonder where he is.’

  The pilot was speaking into his mouthpiece, relaying their position to someone on the ground. ‘We’ll be approaching Cooma in approximately fifteen minutes … setting down on the local oval rather than the airport. The oval is closer to the house …’

  Ryder closed his eyes. He’d hardly slept last night, but he wasn’t complaining. What sane man would sleep, with a woman like Vanessa in his bed?

  You’re the kind of man I’d make room for in my life.

  Don’t forget me.

  He’d thought she would run a mile when he told her about Scarlett, but she’d surprised him. No more than he’d surprised himself. He’d seen something different in her, and it had been enough for him to open up. And it worried him that, even with the potential risk to her safety, he hadn’t encouraged her to leave Charlotte Pass.

  Why?

  It’s as plain as the nose on your face, his father would have said, but unpacking his feelings for Vanessa would have to wait until after he’d caught Libby’s murderer.

  ‘We’re coming into Cooma now,’ the pilot’s voice crackled through the headset.

  Ryder opened his eyes. Below them lay a sports oval surrounded by a low, white fence. A squad car was parked in the shadow of a quaint wooden grandstand. The pilot lowered the chopper into the middle of the oval, the airflow from its rotor wash scattering dried leaves in every direction. A couple of bumps later, and the aircraft settled on its landing skids.

  Ryder and Flowers removed t
heir headsets.

  The pilot turned and gave them a casual salute. ‘Watch your heads on the way out, boys.’

  Bruno Lombardi lived in a 1950s weatherboard-and-iron house on a quiet suburban street. The low, wrought-iron gate opened with a squeak, and a narrow garden path led to a small front porch. Ryder nodded towards the driveway, then watched as Flowers cut across the front lawn and disappeared down the side of the house.

  Ryder gave him a minute to reach the back door, then with a final look up and down the quiet street, he drew his firearm and rapped on the wood-panelled door.

  Nothing.

  The second time, he knocked louder with the side of his fist. ‘Police! Open up!’

  Seconds ticked by.

  He spun away and went around the back.

  A fenced-in yard.

  A single carport.

  An overgrown vegetable garden.

  ‘Any luck?’ he said, joining Flowers at the back door.

  ‘Nope, it’s locked. I’ve checked under the pots and door mat, but I can’t find a key.’

  ‘Unlucky. Country people rarely lock their doors.’

  ‘It’s inward opening,’ Flowers said, stepping back and giving Ryder the space he needed.

  Holstering his firearm, Ryder faced the door square on. Aiming at the area beside the lock, he drove the heel of his boot into the door with a forward momentum. A loud crack and the wood splintered. A second kick compounded the damage. A third left a gaping hole big enough for Ryder to slip his hand between the broken shards of wood. He groped around until his fingers closed around a key. One turn and the lock clicked open.

  Drawing his firearm again, Ryder stepped into a tidy kitchen boasting seventies décor. Frilly curtains dressed up the lone window while the benchtops were covered in a sunflower yellow Laminex. In the centre of the room, a sturdy wooden dining table was protected by a plastic tablecloth, its red-and-white checked pattern reminiscent of a thousand old-school Italian restaurants.

  Leaving Flowers to rifle through the kitchen, he moved into the hallway and did a quick scan of the rooms for signs of life. The home was compact: two bedrooms, a lounge room and bathroom, and at the front a sunroom had been converted into an office. Ryder started with the bedrooms. The first was sparsely furnished with a double bed and a dressing table with a tarnished mirror. Ryder opened the old-fashioned built-in robe. Apart from some lavender sachets, the wardrobe was empty. The dressing-table drawers held nothing but dust bunnies. Lifting a corner of the patchwork quilt, he peered at the mattress covered only by an electric blanket. He heard Burt Crofts’ voice in his head. He’s only there between seasons, and the odd holiday maybe.

  Ryder let the quilt fall back in place and went to check the second bedroom. A brown doona with a geometric design covered a bed made up with blankets and sheets. This time, the electric blanket was plugged into a wall socket. In the wardrobe, several items of men’s clothing dangled from misshapen wire hangers.

  ‘Bedrooms clear,’ he called, crossing the hallway in two strides then standing with his back to the architrave. He scanned the lounge room, grimacing at the mildewy odour. Floral lounge suite. Flat-screen TV. Pine coffee table with a scarred surface. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a squat kerosene heater that looked like it belonged in an antique shop.

  ‘Lounge room clear,’ he called, heading for the bathroom. He froze in the doorway, levelling his pistol at an indistinct shadow crouching behind the faded, yellow shower curtain. ‘Come out slowly,’ he said evenly. ‘With your hands up.’

  Not a sound.

  Not a breath of air.

  Only Ryder’s blood pulsing through his temples, and the metronomic drip of water as it fell from the showerhead and splashed on the tiles.

  Conscious of Flowers moving through the house as back-up, Ryder lunged and swept aside the mouldy curtain. A plastic shower chair with wheels, brakes and a footrest sat in the middle of the shower stall. Sturdy steel grab bars had been screwed onto both walls.

  ‘Must have been for Bruno’s mother,’ Ryder said, holstering his pistol as Flowers appeared in the doorway. ‘The house is clear. Keep going with the kitchen. I’ll tackle the sunroom.’

  He began with a battered two-drawer filing cabinet. It was jammed with faded manila folders full of out-of-date rate notices, land valuations and appliance guarantees. Another folder held all of Bruno’s group certificates from Charlotte Pass, as well as a stack of taxation returns going back twenty years. Dust irritated Ryder’s nose and he sneezed. Obviously, the Lombardis were the kind of people who held onto everything. The bloody place needed a broom put through it.

  Further back in the drawer he found two dog-eared folders, their edges torn from the constant opening and closing of the cabinet. Ryder thumbed through the contents. Report cards and certificates of merit from Cooma Public School. A proud collection of mementos belonging to Bruno and his sister, Angela.

  A wash of sorrow choked Ryder up more than the dust. He closed the files and stuffed them back in the drawer, an image of the brightly coloured box he kept in his Sydney apartment coming to mind. Inside was a piece of material with Scarlett’s two-year-old handprints on it, funny stick drawings of him and Tania, and pages of colouring-in she hadn’t quite managed to keep inside the lines. Precious mementos they split between them, along with everything else they had owned.

  ‘Sarge, take a look at this photo.’

  Ryder turned, glad of the distraction. Flowers was holding a photo frame with a picture of Bruno and a woman dressed in a colourful sarong sitting side by side on a beach.

  ‘Didn’t he say he went to Thailand occasionally?’ asked Flowers. ‘I wonder who she is.’

  Ryder gazed down at the photograph. ‘Maybe someone special. Take a shot with your phone.’

  They resumed their search of the property. Ten minutes later, Ryder slid the filing-cabinet door closed and made a start on the desk. Pens, paperclips, sticky notes and rubbers rolled around freely in the top drawer. The second drawer contained larger items, a stapler, a hole punch, a roll of sticky labels and a pencil sharpener. The third drawer held an old-fashioned scrapbook.

  Taking a seat at the desk, he opened the cover and blinked in surprise as Aidan Smythe smiled up at him. Goggles pushed into his thick, fair hair, Smythe was holding a silver trophy aloft. Ryder turned the pages, brittle from age and the dried glue that had been used to paste in the clippings. The first part of the book was crammed with action shots of Smythe at the height of his career. Then further on, the articles turned glossy—double-page features of him with his wife at their home north of Vancouver. And, later, business articles analysing the chain of sports-apparel stores he owned in Canada.

  ‘Flowers! Take a look at this.’

  Footsteps in the hallway, then Flowers was leaning over his shoulder. He gave a low whistle as Ryder slowly turned the pages. ‘Is this Bruno’s?’

  ‘There’s no name on it. Could belong to his sister.’

  ‘Angela? He said she was a cook in Berridale.’

  Ryder nodded. ‘Get in touch with Berridale police. I need to know if Angela has seen her brother in the last twenty-four hours. And I want to know who this book belongs to.’

  Flowers left to make the calls, and Ryder skimmed through the sports reports from early on in Smythe’s career. Many focused on the skier’s natural speed and ability. They analysed his times in comparison to his northern-hemisphere rivals. Some doubted he could handle the altitude, the difference in snow quality and the steeper terrain.

  ‘The Berridale boys are on it,’ Flowers said, coming back into the room. He peered at the scrapbook again. ‘I can’t work out if they’re a fan, or obsessed.’

  ‘It can be a fine line. And it’s not that surprising to find something like this here. Bruno has spent a lifetime involved with the sport.’ Ryder leaned back in the chair. ‘In Newcastle, where I lived for a while, there are hundreds, maybe thousands of surfers who are fans of Mark Richards. Even now, when
he surfs the big break off Merewether he draws hundreds to the beach. He’s a local boy—a living legend.’

  Flowers nodded. ‘Should we take it with us?’

  ‘Yep.’ Ryder closed the scrapbook and waved away the dust. ‘Write it on the Occupier’s Notice so they’ll know we’ve taken it.’

  ‘Should I pin the notice to the front door?’

  Ryder shook his head. ‘It won’t last twenty-four hours out there in this weather. Leave it on the kitchen table.’ He followed Flowers out into the hallway. ‘Find anything in the kitchen?’

  ‘Zilch. I still have a couple of cupboards to go through.’

  In the kitchen, Ryder started on the last two cupboards while Flowers filled out the Occupier’s Notice. Grimacing at the accumulated dust and cockroach droppings, he lifted out a collection of Women’s Weekly recipe books and piled them on the bench. ‘Burt Crofts said Bruno only gets back here a few times a year. I’d say he’s right.’ Ryder checked his watch. Almost 2 pm. ‘Speaking of Crofts, we need to check if he found anything on the old slides he was going to look at. He was hoping to catch the first oversnow in, but I’d shut down the resort by then.’

  ‘Does he have your number?’

  ‘He has my card but you can ring Benson and ask him to get Crofts’ contact details from Di Gordon.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  Ryder began absently flicking through the first three cookbooks. Nothing interesting here except a few handwritten recipes stuck between the pages. Next in the pile were a bunch of operating manuals. One for the stove, the fridge and the microwave. Eager to be on his way, Ryder shook them open then quickly cast them aside. He’d bet no one had touched these since before Mrs Lombardi’s death.

  He grabbed the next cookbook, and a vice clamped around his heart. Memories flooded back as he stared at The Women’s Weekly Birthday Cookbook, the one with the famous train on the front.

  But I want the train cake, Mummy.

  Trains are for boys. Let’s make this pretty one with the doll instead.