As she made her way down the staircase, she could see in the hallway the young barman from last night talking with the Scandinavian tourists. Liam, Mark had called him. He indicated something on the map they’d spread out, his easy courtesy and helpfulness drawing warm smiles from the couple. Their conversation finished as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and the couple passed her to go upstairs. Liam greeted her cheerfully and followed her into the bistro, busying himself clearing their table.
She heaped several spoonfuls of coffee grounds into a plunger. ‘I didn’t think Dungirri had anything to offer tourists,’ she commented to Liam. ‘Were you showing them the thirty-second tour, or the way out of town?’
He shook his head good-naturedly. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of potential for eco-tourism here. They’re interested in wildlife, birds in particular, and asked where to camp. I suggested the Ghost Hill campground.’
‘There’s a campground there now?’
‘Yes. Near the river. Birraga Council has just finished it. Water tanks, outdoor kitchen and composting loos.’
‘And mosquitos and deadly snakes,’ she added dryly. And memories. A popular camping spot for the local teenagers – without facilities, back then – she’d camped there numerous times, with Mark and Paula, with Jim’s boys, sometimes with a crowd of local kids. Brief escapes for her and Paula from the depressing, sullen atmosphere of their home, and for Jenn reminders of better times, camping with her parents on their infrequent leave together from her father’s army duties.
But none of those memories was relevant to here and now.
She carried her coffee mug and a bowl of fruit and yoghurt out to the courtyard, and found Gil Gillespie sitting at a table, his laptop in front of him and one hand around a large mug. An old, spreading kurrajong tree cast dappled light and shade over his face, so that she couldn’t read his expression clearly as he watched her approach, but the four-cup coffee plunger beside him was almost empty. Without asking permission she sat on the bench seat opposite him.
If she’d been the easily intimidated type, his scowl would have done it, but she doubted that the lover of the local police sergeant posed any serious threat.
‘I’d say good morning,’ she began, ‘but that’s a debatable statement. Especially for the Russells.’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, taking a long look at her face. ‘You been walking into doors?’
The bruises must be coming up. Great. ‘Not a door. My uncle. For an alcoholic, he has a mean right hook.’
‘Yeah. He does. Seems to be a Barrett speciality.’
‘It’s a deficit in the Y chromosome.’ She bit her tongue as soon as the words left her mouth. He had every reason to mistrust, even hate her family, given his encounter with Mick, Jim and the boys when he’d first returned to town, days before Sean had tied him to a chair and gone at him with a metal pipe. His experiences with the Barretts called for something more than flippancy. ‘Gillespie, I’m not proud of what they did. As for Sean … I can’t comprehend how he …’ With the shock and pain of Mick’s attack still reverberating, the horror of her cousin’s brutal actions constricted her throat and her words faltered. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘You didn’t do it,’ Gillespie interrupted bluntly. ‘You weren’t there. Sean’s crimes are his responsibility, not yours or Paul’s or Jim’s.’
Despite the harshness of his voice, his generosity of spirit, if not forgiveness, surprised her. She pushed the peach slices around in her bowl, searching for the right words.
‘You must regret ever coming back to Dungirri.’
He shrugged. ‘I came back to pay a debt. Found more than I expected.’
The police sergeant. And the dark-haired girl on the back of the bike.
‘The girl – your …’ She still couldn’t get her head around that. ‘Barb’s daughter – is she close to her grandparents?’
‘Megan’s fond of them. She’s made the relationship work, despite difficult circumstances.’
And clearly she had made her father proud. Beneath his hard-edged, taciturn manner she began to suspect a soft heart lurked. Well beneath.
But contemplating Gillespie’s complexities wouldn’t get the answers she needed to the questions raised in the past two days.
‘Doctor Russell’s death – do you think it’s connected to the accident and Mark’s announcement?’
His face closed and he studied the laptop screen, hitting a couple of keys. ‘No comment.’
‘Jesus, Gillespie, I’m not interviewing you.’ Frustration rushed the words. ‘This isn’t about a story. It’s about my cousin’s death. And perhaps Jim’s. You’re the only witness to the accident and I need to know what really happened.’
He considered for a long moment before he answered. ‘I was hitching on the Birraga road. Mark gave me a ride. I’d fought with the old man for the last time and walked out for good, so I wasn’t in any mood to be sociable. Paula had a bottle of something and offered it around, but neither of us had any. I saw nothing to suggest that Mark had been drinking. I was in the back seat with my eyes closed, when all of a sudden Mark swore, the car swerved, Paula screamed, and then we hit the tree. That’s it. That’s what happened.’
Paula screamed. Simple, stark words, and she could see Paula’s face transformed in terror. ‘Did she … was it quick?’
‘Yeah. I don’t know what they told you. A low broken branch came straight through the windscreen. I tried … I hardly knew what I was doing, but I did try. Although I think she was gone the instant the branch hit her.’
There was more information in those few sentences than anyone had ever told her, and tears flooded her eyes. Embarrassed, she dragged the back of her hands against them, and struggled to find her voice.
‘Thank you.’ Not enough, for what he’d tried to do. For the horror he’d faced, young and alone in the night. In the hardened, mature man across from her she could see reminders of the too-wary boy he’d been, a solitary youth who’d had to deal with the shock of death and injury – and the subsequent events that changed his life forever.
She struggled to pull her thoughts together, to pull herself back on track. ‘You said last night that the only crime was what happened after the accident. What did you mean by that?’
‘Off the record?’
‘Yes. You have my word on it.’
‘Falsification of evidence, intimidation of witnesses, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.’ There was nothing soft in the anger glittering in his eyes, and his clipped phrases contrasted with the marginally gentler tone in which he’d described the accident.
‘Intimidation? Is that why you lied? Why you said you were driving?’
‘I didn’t say it. The old sarge assumed that I was driving to start with, then he decided to stick with that.’
‘But you pleaded guilty. Why?’
‘Well, it wasn’t because I wanted to go to prison.’ As dry as a desert, he wasn’t making it easy for her.
‘Were you protecting someone?’ she persisted. ‘Were you protecting Mark?’
‘Mark? No. He’s always been a decent bloke, but I wouldn’t have gone to jail for him.’
‘Then who? Was there someone else in the car?’
‘There was no-one else in the car. Listen, I’m not going into detail now. Let’s just say that I was only a kid, powerless, and I’d made enemies. Threats were made against someone who mattered, and I had good reason to believe they’d be carried out unless I complied. I’ve told Fraser that, and—’ He waved a hand at the laptop. ‘It’s all in the statement I’ve just sent to him.’
The statement he wouldn’t let her see, probably for the same reasons Mark had given her. But she refused to be dismissed. ‘Who made the threats?’ she pushed. ‘The old sergeant?’ She dug in her memory for the name of the arrogant, bigoted cop who’d picked on the easy targets to make himself a big man. ‘Franklin, wasn’t it? Bill Franklin?’
He snorted. ‘If it had only been Franklin, I cou
ld have had him charged for wrongful arrest and police brutality. But he was only ever a tool, way out of his depth.’
‘So, who was behind it?’
She wanted to hear Dan Flanagan’s name, but Gillespie kept his guard up.
‘I’ve got no proof of who was behind it. Or why. Threats were delivered by messengers. Things were insinuated, not stated outright. What I believe and what I can prove are two different things.’
We’ve had our own tangled web of organised crime around here for a long time … Mark’s words from earlier this morning added substance to Gillespie’s near-cryptic comments, and made her wonder what the hell had been going on in the district, what Gillespie had been caught up in, while she’d been absorbed in preparing to escape the place.
‘You said you’d made enemies. Dan Flanagan, right? How?’
‘Back then I collected some information. Used it to … dissuade Flanagan from sending his thugs to collect protection money from Jeanie Menotti’s business. Not anything that would have stood up in court, but enough to damage his business if I’d been able to get it to an uncorrupt cop.’
Jeanie Menotti’s Truck Stop Café, where Gil had worked part-time as a teen. Burned out back in September. She’d bet it was Jeanie he’d been protecting, that he’d gone to jail to keep her safe.
His phone beeped and he glanced at the message, closed his laptop and tipped the thick dregs from his coffee mug on to the adjacent garden.
She had seconds before he walked away and not enough answers. ‘I read that Dan Flanagan’s sons were arrested with Sean and the Sydney mafia guy – Sergio Russo, wasn’t it? But I don’t understand how the Flanagans are connected to organised crime, now or then, or why the Sydney mob came here.’
‘Vanna Flanagan. Dan’s wife. She’s the connection. Her maiden name was Russo.’ He rose to his feet, tucked the laptop under his arm, picked up the coffee mug and plunger. ‘And I pissed off one of the Russos in Sydney. They wanted payback, and the Flanagans were happy to help.’
With no farewell he left her, walking back into the pub through the bistro door.
She swallowed some of her own cooling coffee, her thoughts sprinting to round up scattered recollections. Vanna Flanagan. Tall, elegant, impeccably dressed, the owner of a chain of beauty salons across northern New South Wales – one of them next door to the Birraga Gazette office. Wife of Dan, a Birraga businessman with interests in many areas, and a substantial advertising account with the Gazette. Mother of Brian and Kevin, loud, obnoxious boys a few years older than her, arrested with Sean two months ago after the assault on Gillespie.
A year on the crime desk of a Sydney newspaper early in her career meant she knew of the Russo family. Whispers, shadows, hints and hearsay – but nothing ever definitively connecting prominent property developer Vince Russo or his brother Gianni with the crimes of the day.
It seemed absurd that the small-town Birraga Flanagans could be connected to the Sydney Russos. Laughable, almost. And yet … there had been a few whispers about Dan Flanagan when she’d hung around the Birraga Gazette office as a teenager. Only whispers, nothing concrete, nothing said in front of her. Certainly nothing printed. Not with his advertising dollars keeping the struggling regional paper alive.
But perhaps those whispers held substance. Perhaps there had been a shady underworld back then, capable of framing a young man and getting away with it for years.
She carried her empty dishes into the bistro and went upstairs to her room. She opened her laptop. Research. Go back to the sources, reconstruct events, piece together the connections and the relationships. Her skills and talents, the exact same approaches she took in her work could be applied to this.
But it had never mattered quite so personally before.
SIX
The forensic team from Inverell that had been on its way to Marrayin to investigate the fire stopped first in Dungirri to assess the Russell crime scene. The senior officer, Sandy Cunningham, grilled Mark on every movement he’d made while in the Russells’ garden and house and took his fingerprints and an imprint of his boots, although the footprint in the garden had a very different tread pattern from his.
When they’d finished with him he joined Steve and Kris beside Steve’s car.
Steve was on the phone, but Kris greeted him as he approached. ‘Karl told me what happened. If Jenn’s up to a few questions, I’ll go and see her, since I can’t do anything else here.’
He well understood Kris’s frustration at being kept at arm’s length from the murder investigation, her itch to be doing something constructive. And knowing that she would see Jenn and keep an eye on her injuries would ease at least some of his concern. ‘She said she wouldn’t report it, but maybe if you talk to her she might. She’s at the pub.’
‘Good. Mick’s not usually a problem but he’s been crankier and occasionally unstable lately, since Liam and Deb at the pub clamped down on serving drunks.’
‘He threw a bottle at her and struck her several times because she wouldn’t let him take Jim’s computer. I had to haul him away from her. He’s becoming more than unstable, Kris. He’s downright dangerous.’
‘Shit.’ She bit at her lip. ‘I’ll have to find some way to curb him. An assault charge would help.’ Her face grew darker as they watched the unmarked mortuary van reverse into the Russells’ driveway. ‘I hate the sight of that van,’ she confided. Then she shook her head, as if to shake away the image – or the moment of vulnerability – and it occurred to Mark how many qualities she shared with Jenn. The tough armour covering a caring core. The determination to take charge of her life and do her chosen job with thoroughness and commitment. The independence and resilience.
‘Steve hasn’t eaten and I’m guessing you haven’t, either,’ Kris said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Tell Steve I’ll ask Liam to leave some breakfast out for the two of you. See you up there.’
She headed back along the road to the pub, taking one last glance through the gates towards the doctor’s body as she passed.
Mark didn’t watch them load the body, leaning on the bonnet of Steve’s car instead while the detective finished his call.
‘Did I hear Kris say something about breakfast?’ Steve asked as he pocketed his phone.
‘Up at the pub. Presumably the usual basic breakfast, but anything will be good as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Yeah, well personally I’d prefer a croissant in a Parisian cafe with a gorgeous blonde and a weekend in front of me with no work to do, but that sure isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Let’s go. We can talk as we walk.’ Steve shot him a glance as they set off. ‘You know I’m going to have to ask you about your movements this morning?’
Exactly the first question Mark expected. Underneath Steve’s various masks – charm, informality, off-handedness – lay a thorough detective, more than committed to his job. ‘I left Marrayin a little after sunrise, maybe six-thirty or so. I drove to Dungirri, turned right on to Gearys Road, and saw Esther Russell run out on the road just outside their place.’
‘Did you see anyone else? Any vehicles on the Birraga road?’
‘No. No-one in Dungirri, or on the road. Which leaves me,’ he pointed out, ‘without an alibi.’
Steve acknowledged the fact with a nod. ‘Let’s hope someone saw you. Or the killer. Adam’s checking all the houses nearby now. Did you happen to step on the garden?’
‘No, I didn’t. The footprint isn’t mine. Or Esther’s – her feet are tiny.’
‘Yeah. And I’m no religious scholar, but I haven’t heard of angels leaving footprints.’
They walked the last few metres to the hotel in silence. Mark paused to check on the dogs in the back of the ute – still in the shade, still with plenty of water. Inside the pub, he paid Liam for the buffet breakfast, and after pouring himself coffee and filling a bowl with muesli and fruit, he followed Steve out to a table in the back corner of the deserted courtyard. No sign of Jenn or Kris.
For the first few
minutes they both concentrated on eating, Steve hoeing in to his food as though he hadn’t eaten for days. Mark hadn’t eaten decently for days – a meat pie on the road yesterday didn’t count as decent – but he had no appetite, and ate only for necessity.
After polishing off a bowl of cereal and a thick slice of bread with jam, Steve leaned back in his chair, a coffee mug clasped in his hands, as casually as if they were relaxing at a barbecue. Except there was nothing relaxed in his eyes, and he launched straight back into the business at hand. ‘Both you and Gillespie implied yesterday that Russell might have known the truth about the blood sample.’
Mark could read exactly where Steve was going. ‘That could provide a motive for murder. So, I could be a suspect, if I believed Russell’s evidence might incriminate me. Gil Gillespie could be a suspect, if he was the one who was driving that night and wanted to cover it up. And whoever organised the corruption might want to silence Russell, if he knew part of the truth.’
‘Now you’re playing detective,’ Steve said, the dry humour friendly enough. ‘But Russell’s death could be purely coincidental. Someone else may have a reason to want him dead. Doctors can have angry patients – misdiagnosis, medication allergies or side effects, even an unsympathetic bedside manner can breed resentment.’
‘He wasn’t universally loved,’ Mark agreed. ‘He was very old-fashioned, and he certainly wasn’t known for sensitivity. But other than the blood-alcohol report issue, I’m not aware of any significant questions over his actions. He was living quietly in retirement. And I know that a spouse is often the prime suspect, but Mrs Russell has been with him for close on fifty years, and they loved each other, despite his bad temper. I don’t see her ending his life, even out of mercy. I certainly don’t see her strangling him with a garrotte.’
‘There’ll be an autopsy. Cause of death seems obvious, but I’ve been surprised before. They’ll screen blood samples for drugs, check his organs and such.’
‘You’d better hope they put the right name on the samples this time.’
Darkening Skies Page 9
