Blood Secret

by Jaye Ford

  All he felt was the hope that she’d finally left like she always said she would.

  23

  Detective Duncan nursed his coffee cup and answered Rennie’s question with a shake of his head. ‘No, no news, sorry. I’m here following up on those names you gave me yesterday.’ He raised the paper bag in his hand. ‘And stopped to pick up breakfast.’

  Rennie put her hands on her hips – easier to recover her breath, better than clenching her fists. ‘Have you found the kid in the four-wheel drive?’

  He cocked his head at a picnic table. ‘Why don’t we pull up a seat? I can have my breakfast while we talk.’

  She followed him over and perched on the edge of the bench. Detective Duncan squared up to the table and laid out his paper bag and coffee cup like it was dinner. She propped an elbow on the timber top and waited while he tore his package down the middle, releasing cheesy, toasty smells into the air between them.

  ‘So did you find the kid?’ she prompted but he’d filled his mouth with a huge bite of sandwich. She hoped Pav had spread the bread with a thick smear of urgency.

  He finally wiped his lips with a napkin. ‘You said you didn’t know the driver of the car that tailgated you on Saturday night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Max?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He said that?’

  She frowned. ‘Not specifically. I mean he didn’t say either way but there was no recognition from either of them. Why?’

  ‘Do you know the name Dellacourt?’

  ‘No. Is that the kid’s name?’

  He lifted the sipping lid off his cup, took a moment to test the temperature with his lips before drinking through the foam on top. ‘We traced the registration number you gave me yesterday. It belongs to a silver four-wheel drive Subaru owned by a Mrs Helen Dellacourt of Adamstown.’

  Adamstown was a suburb of Newcastle, a long way from Haven Bay. ‘It was stolen?’

  ‘No. Her son was driving it. We’ve spoken to him and he says he was at a party out this way until three am.’

  ‘Convenient. Did he admit to the road rage?’

  ‘He claimed a vehicle had cut him off in a roundabout, that he’d continued on to the shops and when he saw the driver in the car park, he stopped and exchanged words about the incident.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘I checked his story about the party and the parents at the house are vouching for him until two-thirty. The rest of it is pretty lame but, at this point, I only need to establish him as the driver of the four-wheel drive you reported and his version of what happened does that. His presence at the party also puts him out of the picture for coming back to the car park when Max was there at around ten pm.’

  Rennie looked away from him, swallowing hard. The kid in the four-wheel drive was the easy answer.

  ‘I did some checking back at the station last night,’ the detective said. ‘You didn’t mention Max had a record for assault.’

  She swung her head back. ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘Seven years ago, he was charged after a pub brawl in Toronto.’

  The skin on her bare arms prickled as though an icy breeze had blown up and circled her. Detective Duncan kept his clear, blue eyes on her face, his sandwich cooling in his hand as she tried to make sense of it.

  ‘So he was one of a bunch charged after a fight in a pub. He probably threw a few punches to defend himself.’

  ‘Not according to the report. Only two were charged. The other guy got a hundred and twenty stitches after Max threw him through a plate glass window.’

  Something pitched in her gut and her chest heaved as though it was two minutes since she’d stopped running, instead of ten.

  ‘How’s Max’s temper these days?’ Detective Duncan asked.

  Rennie stood up and put a couple of steps between herself and the cop.

  ‘We got the results back on the blood in the car park, by the way. It was type A. Thirty-eight per cent of the population. So it could be Max’s or it could be someone else’s. It might have nothing to do with him. On the other hand, he might have caused it.’

  ‘What difference does it make? He’s missing.’

  ‘I’m just saying there’s more than one possibility for how it got there.’

  Rennie’s father had spilled plenty of blood. Should she tell him? If he knew about Anthony Hendelsen, would he start a ground search for Max? And what if it turned out Anthony was still in prison and he did some checking on Katrina Hendelsen? ‘But it’s not just the blood. Our car was searched yesterday.’

  A small line appeared between his brows. ‘Someone broke into your car?’

  ‘I don’t know how they got in. I thought I locked it when I came home in the afternoon. When I went out to it last night, the driver’s door wasn’t closed properly and I realised someone had gone through the glove box.’

  ‘The glove box?’

  ‘Yes. The contents had been shoved about.’

  ‘Anything else shoved about?’

  ‘No, but the automatic internal light had been switched off. I’m assuming whoever did it turned the light off so they wouldn’t be seen.’

  ‘Was the car in a garage?’

  ‘No, a carport.’

  He nodded as he took a bite of toastie and pushed the food to one side of his mouth. ‘So someone broke into your car and you only thought to tell me this now?’ he said through his food.

  ‘Well, yeah.’ She heard the irritation in her voice. ‘I didn’t discover it until late last night.’

  ‘We’ve been talking here for a while.’

  ‘And you’ve been eating breakfast while you took the long way around to tell me you don’t think the kid went back for Max.’

  He took a sip of coffee, nodded his head, like maybe she had a point, maybe she didn’t. ‘You said Max had his keys with him when he went out to the car park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it’s possible he used his keys to open the car so he could get something from the glove box?’

  Why would he sneak around his own house? It made no sense, but she hesitated before answering. ‘If someone assaulted him, they’d have his keys.’ When he said nothing, she added, ‘There’s no reason for Max to do that.’

  Detective Duncan drained his coffee cup, folded the paper over the second half of his sandwich and stepped over the bench seat. ‘In my job, Renée, we see all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons.’

  *

  Rennie ran home, her stride out of rhythm, her breath uneven – like her brain as she tried to digest the detective’s words. He didn’t think Max was missing, he thought he was hiding. James had told him about the missing money and Detective Phil Duncan thought he’d figured Max out.

  Christ, she’d lived with Max for four years, had been sleeping with him for almost five, and she thought she knew him. And now she wasn’t sure what she knew. He’d been charged with assault? He’d thrown a man through a window in a brawl?

  Rennie had worked in bars, she’d seen all-in fights. There was no finesse about them. They were out-of-control groups of men, testosterone and alcohol fuelled and, depending on the participants, exceedingly dangerous. Max could’ve been caught up in one. He drank with mates, they got rowdy at times; that was usually how trouble started. Was he physically capable of throwing someone through a window? Seven years ago, when he was fit from working in the mines and sailing and soccer, sure. Probably even now, despite the permanent damage to his hip from the cave-in – he was still strong. Would he have the aggression it took? Before he disappeared, she would have said no. She would have said it was ridiculous, that his dislike of all things antagonistic was one of the reasons she’d stayed.

  But Detective Duncan was a cop. It wasn’t rumour or suggestion. He’d looked up the file, he knew the gory details.
A man needed a hundred and twenty stitches and Max was the cause.

  Something edgy and uneasy stirred inside her. If she’d known about an assault charge five years ago, she never would have stepped out of the cafe with him, would have served him coffee and given him a wide berth. She’d wanted nothing to do with violence or volatility or the threat of it.

  If she’d found out later, would she have met him again? Would she have slept with him? Would she have stayed?

  She sprinted the short cut behind the houses in her street, sweat trickling down her back, anger spurring her on. Had she been so desperate for something else, something better, that she’d latched onto the first man who was gentle with her? And all this time, there was violence in his soul. Like her father.

  She stopped beyond the back fence, breathing hard. She’d always known he was hurt inside, never imagined he could be hurtful. When she’d met him, Max had sat in Skiffs every day like a man who’d had the life sucked out of him and was waiting for a refill. She’d heard about the mine accident and his friend dying and his wife leaving, figured the damage had been done to him not the other way around. He talked about never letting the sun go down on an argument, he tended the garden like a lover, he could be gentle and funny. But a man needed a lot of stitches because of Max. He’d left his wife and child to worry about his safety while he screwed other women.

  He also had black spells. Nights when he woke with a gasp and wandered restlessly, angrily for hours. When Leanne berated him on the phone, he’d retreat to the back deck in tense silence, arms folded and fists clenched. Some days he’d dig in the garden until he was exhausted, heaving a pick or driving a shovel into the earth as though it was a beast that needed slaying.

  Rennie thought about the blood in the car park and Detective Duncan’s words and wondered if whatever Max tried to hold back had finally escaped. She stalked to the water, watched the still, glassy surface of the lake, she asked herself, Who the hell was Max Tully?

  24

  Rennie ran to the back door, wanting to keep going all the way through the house and out the other side. In all the years before Haven Bay, moving on had been her fallback position, her automatic plan B, her comfort zone. She’d never intended to stay, had been here longer than she should have. Years longer.

  The backpack was where she’d left it by the bedroom door and as she picked it up, the weight of the Glock and the memory of other guns pulled her up.

  Of all people, she had no right to a flinching, kneejerk reaction to Max’s assault charge. She’d shot her own father, would have killed him if she’d had the chance, and she’d terrified a man who’d made the mistake of hitting her.

  The ‘episode’. She was in Falls Creek on the Victorian ski slopes working two jobs: a cafe during the day, a bar at night. He was a rich businessman, liked the après-ski more than the outdoor kind. She slept with him twice. The third time she went to his apartment he’d had too much alcohol and something you don’t buy over a counter. There was a nasty conversation; she told him he was an arsehole. The backhander sent her sprawling. It cut her lip, made her nose bleed and opened a door on the fury inside her. Not calm and full of vengeance that time. It was as if an angry, injured wild animal had been let off its leash.

  She remembered roaring so hard it hurt her throat and lashing out at whatever was in reach: chairs, glassware, kitchen appliances, lamps. She’d found her pack and the gun and shot out a light fitting when he told her she wouldn’t use it, backing him into a corner and onto the floor until he cowered at her feet. It went on long enough for the cops to turn up and bash on the door. She threw the gun across the room and raised her hands over her head as they came through.

  The rental was trashed, the guy was a blubbering mess and she was taken away in handcuffs, unable to speak. It was the only time her father did anything to help her – his record and her past were enough for a judge to order counselling instead of gaol time. That had changed everything, given her a chance to become Rennie, someone closer to the person she used to dream about. But it didn’t remove what was inside her. DNA couldn’t be talked around. Or cut out.

  Would Max have taken her to Garrigurrang that first time if he’d known all that? Would he have offered her the flat if he knew what was in her backpack and what she was capable of? Would he have slept with her? Would he have let her go the day she tried to leave if she’d told him what was in the bag he’d carried inside?

  She didn’t know how he’d respond if she did, only knew it was part of the reason she never had. And if he did find out, she’d want a chance to explain that her actions were consequences, that it wasn’t who she tried to be.

  Of all people, she should give him a chance to explain. And if he wasn’t here . . .

  She threw open his side of the wardrobe again, looking for clues – and not just to where he’d gone.

  She sifted through the sheaf of papers on the shelf again, opened drawers, reached behind the underwear and socks she’d tidied earlier. At the back, under it all, was an envelope. Sliding it out, lifting the flap, she found two photos. Old ones of her. In the first, she was standing beside a huge canvas that had taken months to finish; in the second, she was bundled in scarf and coat standing on the jetty at the point. She’d seen both of them before as digital shots on the computer but didn’t know he’d printed them out. Was it a sign of endearment that he’d kept them or indifference that they’d been left in the back of the wardrobe?

  In the bottom drawer, among old jumpers, she found a half-empty packet of cigarettes. How long had it been there? Max had given up smoking before she met him. Had he started again and kept it secret?

  On the upper shelves, there were odd socks, a blond wig he’d worn to a fancy-dress party, winter gloves and the holey remains of his old school rep soccer jersey. Stuff he’d kept, stuff he’d treasured, stuff he hadn’t bothered to throw away.

  She closed the doors, checked Hayden was still in his room and asleep, then stood in the study and scanned the shelves. She’d been looking for notes before, now she paid attention to the myriad photos. Some were in frames, most were propped against books and folders and taped to the edges of the shelves. Hayden, Brenda and Mike, group shots from Christmases and birthdays, old ones from his sailing and soccer days. And Rennie – with him, with others, on her own. If he’d stopped loving her, he hadn’t bothered to remove the evidence. He hadn’t thrown out his odd socks, either.

  She pushed fingers through her hair in frustration. She’d hoped to find some kind of evidence that would explain him but his study, like his wardrobe, only said he was disorganised, messy and busy. Maybe it said he was happy, too. Or lazy. She wasn’t sure.

  Wasn’t sure of a lot of things she been certain of two days ago.

  What the hell was taking Evan so long?

  She paced the living room, watching the time, questions and dread roaring around her head like a car on a track. She needed to move. She took both mobiles and the landline handset to the bathroom and showered. Then dressed. Then put on washing, made coffee, de-crumbed the toaster, wiped out the fridge, glad Hayden was sleeping through her agitation. She wanted to leave, wanted to stay, wanted to know what the hell was going on. Finally she carried all three phones out to the flat, set up a new canvas, lined up colour and brushes but couldn’t start, couldn’t concentrate. Running was easy; it took no thought at all.

  Then a phone rang. The mobile from the backpack.

  ‘Evan, where is he?’

  ‘Kat, take it easy. It’s not that simple.’

  ‘How hard can it be? He’s either in a cell or he’s not.’

  She listened impatiently as Evan took a breath. ‘I made a few calls. I’ve got some details but not everything. It’s going to take some time.’

  ‘Well, is he at Goulburn or not?’

  ‘Your father was moved out of maximum security there a year ago.’

  �
��Where to?’

  ‘A minimum security centre outside Sydney.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. He escaped.’

  ‘No. He was released five months ago.’

  25

  Rennie said nothing, her fingers tight on the phone, her other hand curled into a fist.

  ‘I’m trying to get hold of a parole officer to find out where he’s living,’ Evan told her.

  Anywhere outside prison walls was bad. ‘Oh, Christ. Oh, fuck. Why weren’t we told? Why weren’t we told?’

  ‘I don’t have an answer for that yet. You’re not the easiest person to find. I can only assume that had something to do with it.’

  No, this wasn’t her doing. She wasn’t stupid enough not to plan for this. Prisoner release notification was meant to be sent to her and Jo’s solicitor. He knew how to contact them; they both checked for correspondence. Had he forgotten the urgency? Forgotten them? Anger rose like bile from her gut. She wanted to shout and rant and yell obscenities. At the system, at the world, at her fucking life. Experience reminded her it was a waste of time and energy – and that her life had always been screwed. ‘I have to warn Jo.’

  ‘It might not be what you think. He’s been in prison a long time.’

  ‘Long enough to nurture his fucking obsession.’ And this time he had gunshot scars to keep him warm at night.

  ‘I’m going to put in a call to the detective investigating your case. He might be able to speed things up.’

  She thought about Detective Duncan and his breakfast. ‘I’m not sure speed is a priority for him.’

  ‘You know you can come here, Kat.’

  ‘You think I should leave?’

  ‘I don’t know what you should do. We don’t know where he is yet. I only know what you’re like.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘The kind of person who wished her father would rot and die.’