by Sue Williams
‘Shut up and keep walking.’ Ernie kept his voice dark and low.
Grantley’s face turned grey. ‘Look, I don’t have any money, mate.’
‘Keep quiet, and you’ll live. We’re walking to that nice park ahead. At a normal pace. Smiling.’
I marched on the other side of Grantley, hemming him in. Oblivious Christmas shoppers parted like the Red Sea around us. Grantley’s face glistened.
The park was the huge, green kind that attracts the relaxed family visitor. I guided our little group towards an old Telecom shed, away from any happy families.
‘Face the wall,’ I growled. Not a tone of voice I’d used before. I sounded like Clint Eastwood. Vern held Grantley’s arms up against the wall.
‘Don’t kill me.’ Grantley’s voice was shaky.
‘Tell us what you’ve done with Bradley,’ I said, ‘and you won’t get hurt.’
‘Who’s Bradley?’
‘You bloody well know who Bradley is. Where is he?’
He swallowed. ‘I know that voice. You’re that woman who came to my office. Who are you?’
‘You don’t need to know. What have you done to my son?’
‘Me?’ His voice was a squeak. ‘I haven’t done anything to anyone.’
‘Decent people stand up to hooligans, Grantley. Now, a woman has been murdered. That’s not acceptable. And three people are missing. Including my son. And it all comes back to you. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly.’ Grantley started crying.
I wasn’t going to let some blubbing get to me. Conniving, murderous bastard.
‘I’ll report you to the police. This is harassment.’
‘Maybe he really doesn’t know,’ whispered Vern.
I shot Vern a warning look. ‘You know something, Grantley, even if you don’t know—you know. So spill it.’
He stood there, head slumped against the wall.
Maybe I needed to be more specific. ‘Brad’s locked up somewhere. Hanging.’ My voice choked up.
‘God, you must be worried,’ said Grantley.
A silence while I digested that. This was one crafty masterminding murderous type, offering sympathy like that.
‘I am,’ I said, snappy. ‘Now, what’s the Pocket Money bank account about?’
‘The what?’
Vern twisted his arm.
‘I don’t know! Honest, I’d tell you if I did.’
Vern twisted harder.
Grantley cried out. ‘All I know is…Kev wouldn’t let me near it. Or anything.’
‘Go on. You have my interest.’
‘Junior partner, supposedly, but I knew nothing about the stupid business. It was a nightmare after he died. Took me ages to unravel things. Still haven’t managed to.’
‘Get to the point.’ Ernie jabbed his fingers harder into Grantley’s back.
Grantley cringed against the wall. ‘Kev never took a holiday. Couldn’t be out of the office, he had to control every little detail. Then last year he got the flu and couldn’t get out of bed. I had to run the place on my own. Someone rang, asking about the Pocket Money account. I’d never heard of it. I went round, woke up Kev and asked him. “I’ll deal with it,” he said. Stared at me with big eyes. “You stay right out of it,” he told me. Kev didn’t trust me to do anything.’
‘Get to the point,’ I said.
‘Christ, I’m telling you, OK? I was offended, naturally. I stamped off. Perhaps I should have asked him all about it. If I’d known I’d be held at gunpoint later on, obviously I would have.’ He squealed as Vern twisted his arm another notch.
‘Pitterlines never think, they’re all the same,’ muttered Ernie.
‘What does Clarence have to do with the account?’ I said.
‘Clarence? Nothing.’ He paused. ‘Although he seemed to know all about it, that day he left. Strange. I’d never mentioned it.’
‘So why did you kill Mona Hocking-Lee?’ I said.
‘What? I wouldn’t…I couldn’t…Look, you’ve got the wrong person. Honest.’
‘Well, who is the right bloody person?’ I snapped.
‘I’m telling you, I don’t know.’ His shoulders shook.
‘Reckon he might be telling the truth, Cass,’ whispered Vern.
All of a sudden there was the sound of clapping. I whirled around. A huge crowd had gathered behind us. Christ, there must have been half of Muddy Soak out here on the street.
‘Bravo,’ a man shouted.
‘Really professional,’ called a woman. ‘You must come back for next year’s festival.’
Shaking off our adoring fans, we climbed into Vern’s ute and charged back to Rusty Bore. I watched the telephone poles flash past, worrying. Stressing over Brad. The moon was a white disc rising over the Dooboobetic Hills.
Vern looked grim. Ernie was the only one in an upbeat mood, pleased with the newly discovered power of his fingers. We weren’t any closer to locating Brad. Was Grantley, nerdy mastermind, just putting on a brilliant show to deceive us? He’d told us he’d need trauma counselling, as we left. ‘And I’ll be sending you the invoice,’ he shouted, hoarse-voiced, crowd still clapping.
Maybe Kev had been blackmailing people around the Soak. And someone had got sick of it. ‘We should talk to some of the people on the Pocket Money list,’ I said.
‘Dangerous lot there, Cass Tuplin. Reckon we’ll need Dean along,’ said Vern.
Ernie set off on another rant about Hugo Pitterline, so I didn’t bother asking him.
I dialled Dean’s station. ‘You found Bradley yet?’
Silence at the other end.
‘Dean?’
‘Sergeant Monaghan speaking. How can I help you?’
‘Where’s Dean?’
‘Who is this, please?’
‘Dean’s mother, Cass Tuplin.’ That man knew my voice, he just wanted to annoy me. ‘Shouldn’t you be out helping look for Bradley?’
‘Calm down, Mrs Tuplin. Senior Constable Tuplin is following up a lead near Bendigo. We’re doing everything we can to locate your son.’
‘Bendigo? What’s he doing there? What about those footprints? I’ll call him now and get him organised.’
‘Mrs Tuplin!’ His voice was tight and hard. ‘This station is now under my jurisdiction, and I don’t permit interference.’ He paused. ‘Where are you? We don’t want you in danger.’
None of his business. ‘Visiting relatives.’
‘Good. Stay indoors. Remain calm. And I must ask you not to bother the senior constable. I’m sure you don’t want to have any further negative influence on his career. We’ll call you once we have any information.’
I considered interrupting to tell him about the Pocket Money account, but somehow I wasn’t in the mood. And he’d hung up.
‘I bet he’s sent Dean off on some wild bloody irrelevancy,’ I told Vern. ‘Getting him out of the way, so Monaghan can hog all the admiration for those footprints. It was Dean who found them.’
‘That Sarge Monaghan knows what he’s doing,’ said Vern. ‘Got a whole swag of awards, that bloke. He’ll find Brad.’
I stared out the window, hoping Vern was right, that Monaghan would find Brad.
I called Dean’s mobile. No answer. Probably out of range. There’s a lot of black spots en route to Bendigo.
Vern insisted we crash the night at his place. It was too late to take Ernie back to the home and I didn’t fancy camping out in Dean’s cell, especially with Monaghan around.
Vern rustled up a deeply vegetarian pasta dish, and more green tea. We sat and brooded around his kitchen table.
‘So what was on those ripped-out pages in your notebook, Vern?’
He scratched his thigh. ‘Main event that day was the woman who bought the bag.’
‘You reckon she ran Donald off the road? Got him drunk? After tempting him with her charms?’ I said.
‘Not a woman with surplus charms. Definitely not a looker, poor bloody woman.’
‘Don
ald must have known something. What could he have known?’
None of us had answers.
Once again I dodged Vern’s offer to share his bed and set myself up on the couch. He ended up with Ernie in his bed. Vern didn’t look too pleased about that but, as I pointed out, we couldn’t expect Ernie to sleep on a couch at his time of life.
I lay there under Vern’s spare blanket, worrying. Ernie and Vern snored in the room next door, out of sync. I closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep. I just kept seeing footprints. Footprints in the orange sand around Brad’s car, footprints in the pink sand at Perry Lake, around Mona’s body.
There’d been heaps of footprints around her body. Those ravens had been hopping all around them, looking for grisly bits of her to peck. Footprints that broke through the surface crust of pale pink, to the deeper orange-pink, and then black mud, below. There was something about those footprints.
I closed my eyes, drifting in and out of sleep. Dreams of footprints, left and right. Rows and rows of footprints in the sand. Shallow, deep, shallow, deep.
I jerked awake. The footprints around Mona’s body: they’d been like that. Alternating deep and shallow imprints.
No point phoning Dean, neck-deep in irrelevancies in Bendigo. I called Monaghan.
‘You’d better sit down, Sergeant Monaghan. I’ve got surprising news for you.’ I may have sounded a little satisfied, no one’s perfect after all.
‘Mrs Tuplin? You do realise it’s two o’clock in the morning?’
‘Listen, your brother’s involved in Mona’s murder. His footprints were around her body.’
Silence.
‘His limping footprints. All over the place.’
‘Look, Mrs Tuplin, I know how you, ah, imagine things.’
‘I didn’t imagine those footprints. I saw them. I’ll bet you Terry’s involved in the Pocket Money account. He’s got some protection racket going.’ I remembered Terry had told me he did a bit of this and that.
‘The what account?’
I explained about the memory stick.
‘Well, no one should ever underestimate your tenacity.’
Tenacity. I didn’t mind that.
‘This is a serious allegation, Mrs Tuplin. Listen, I know it’s late, but can you meet me? We can’t afford to delay, this may be why your son has disappeared. Bring the memory stick, we’ll need that.’ His voice was different. At last, a bit of respect.
‘Where?’
He paused. ‘Meet me at the silos. We’ll go to Mr Jefferson’s shack and re-examine the footprints around Bradley’s car.’
I tiptoed out of Vern’s, the back door creaking as I opened it. I froze, but the snoring symphony carried on.
I should have known all along it was Terry. I’d allowed myself to get distracted for too long by that Donald. Terry had been on the spot, at Ernie’s shack, that morning we’d found Mona. And he’d nicked the briefcase from my house. The roadside was grey in the moonlight, the silos tall black shadows against the sky. I marched along the road. And to think I’d slept with Terry! Allowed myself to imagine a little takeaway-wood-carving future by the sea together. What self-respecting person sleeps with a killer? Probably the same one who drifted through all those trusting, gullible years of marriage to an adulterous, cheating bloody bastard. My cheeks burned hot. Definitely no need to involve Vern and Ernie. Or anyone from Rusty Bore.
I slogged along the road. A mopoke let out a hooting call. Really, Monaghan was the one to blame, if you thought about it. So obsessed with correct procedure and his stupid multiple awards. Muddy Soak: crime free since 1988. Yeah, right. He should have been misusing some police resources himself to investigate his family. You need to pay careful attention to your relatives.
I turned onto the track towards the silos. Car headlights flicked on. Monaghan was already here and waiting, then. He was efficient when he got motivated, I’d give him that. He wouldn’t be real happy either with this turn of events. It wouldn’t help his career when it came out he had a murderer for a brother. He’d need his own transfer, pronto. And how many towns would welcome a new cop with a serial killer in the family? Vic Police would have to boot him out, more than probably.
Poor bloody Monaghan. He’d be flicked off to some far-flung roadhouse. If he didn’t shoot himself. I felt an annoying spark of sympathy. Maybe I’d have to offer some last-minute counselling to prevent his desperate suicide.
My feet crunched on the gravel. From here, the silos blotted out the sky. There’d be a policing gap in Muddy Soak, once Monaghan shot himself. Could be a Dean-sized gap. If they didn’t promote him straight up into Homicide. I cheered up a bit.
The moon moved behind a cloud. I made my way through the bits of broken glass and discarded wrappers, towards the headlights. We’d have to find that woman, the one who bought the wool bag. No doubt some naive and unsuspecting female, one of Terry’s assorted women from around the state. Maybe even poor old Mona was a love interest. Yep, if I’d been fooled (only momentarily, of course, I always knew there was something not quite right about Terry), there’d be plenty of other sharp-witted women taken in as well.
There’d be some poor old thing he’d convinced to buy the bag. The old bag. Hang on, that text. Got the old bag. Now what am I supposed to do? I stopped, dazzled in the headlights. Why had Terry asked Monaghan that?
The headlights clicked off.
A whack to my stomach. I staggered forward, winded. A push from behind and I pitched face first onto the gravel. Snatching a breath, I surged up from the ground. A torch blinded me. I kicked towards the light, hit something soft. A muffled shriek of pain. I started running, but then tripped. Hands grabbed my shoulders. Three cracks across my face with something hard. Warm liquid running down my cheek.
My arms were yanked, held tight as someone tied my hands behind my back. I tried screaming but all that came out was a winded gasp. He flipped me over like a chicken on a chopping board. Roughly taped my mouth.
Something pointy jabbed against my head. A cold, metallic kind of pointy. Definitely not a finger.
‘I’ll have the memory stick, thank you.’ Monaghan’s voice, short of breath. The light was above his face like a miner’s torch. Searching my pockets with one hand, gun against my head, he took out the memory stick. ‘Good.’ He started dragging me across the gravel.
I stood, wobbling. Aimed another kick.
A deafening gunshot roar. He shoved me onto my knees, jabbed the gun against my forehead. ‘You want me to shoot you?’
I shook my head. I felt dizzy.
He dragged me across the gravel.
‘You’re disappointed,’ he said. ‘Of course. But you won’t be for long. And you’ll be relieved to hear I know where Bradley is.’
My breath came in quick pants.
We were heading towards the silos, denser black ahead. ‘Bradley was just as nosy as you. I don’t like people nosing around in my financial dealings.’
Was? My knees liquefied.
‘So many accidents in silos, aren’t there? Young people looking for adventure…so many tragic deaths. And a woman your age should really know better than to climb inside a silo. Looking for your son, we’ll all suppose. She always was mentally unstable.’
I gagged against the tape.
‘Such a shame to have you silenced, Mrs Tuplin, I will miss all your witty conversation.’
Sarcastic bastard. The anger pumped the blood back into my legs.
‘But you’d be a screamer, I can tell. Kev was a screamer. You know, I’m a modest man, with modest needs. I don’t ask much. Just a small levy from those who break the law. No town is actually crime free, of course. But it’s not that hard to keep things in order. All it takes is a little entrepreneurial spirit. And a decent accountant to keep track of things.’
The Pocket Money account was Monaghan’s?
‘I do prefer things organised.’
Grantley’s parrot. Organised, Kev, I need things bloody organised.
‘A
nd I don’t need some complete dickhead thinking he’ll write a book about it. Well, he’s been dealt with. Shame his nanna got in the way. There’s only you left now, since you survived the fire.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘You won’t survive this.’
We were at the middle silo. Middle…lo, Brad had said. Hanging.
‘We’re going to climb.’
A cold wave surged in my stomach.
Monaghan untied my hands with one hand, keeping the gun pressed against my head. Our feet clanked on the metal rungs, his breathing below, a step away.
In one swift movement, I tried stamping on his fingers. Another gunshot ripped the air.
‘Next bullet is for you. No more warnings.’
I kept climbing, my ears buzzing.
At the top, the wind tugged my dress. The moon came out. We were high above the railway line. I clung to the metal bar while the world swirled below.
‘Open it,’ he waved his gun at the hatch.
I shook my head.
He pressed the gun against my head. ‘Open it or I’ll shoot you.’
I stayed put, clinging to the metal bar. A dull thudding in my head. Monaghan wouldn’t shoot me. He needed my death to seem like an accident.
He gave an impatient little sigh.
‘Plan A, Mrs Tuplin, is your tragic fall into the silo. But don’t worry, I’ve got my Plan B organised.’ He pushed the gun harder against my head. ‘Plan B involves a bullet. And a burial. A private one. Just you and me.’
The hatch door was cold and heavy, my hands slippery with blood. I was too slow. When he whacked my face with the gun, my lip split but it didn’t make me any faster. I wiped my hands on my dress and pulled at the door with a muffled grunt. Finally it opened with a metal-on-metal clang and a gust of too-warm air. I peered inside, holding onto the bar. Dark air filled with dust. A gut-wrenching stench of something dead. I gagged.
I ripped the tape from my mouth, screamed, turned towards him, kicked out. Monaghan smashed the gun underneath my chin, knocking me off-balance. I scrabbled to stay upright and grabbed at his long coat. He toppled towards me. I snatched at the rail, but with a twosome-wild-wail, we fell through the opening, into the dusty void of putrid air.
