Darkening Skies

by Parry, Bronwyn

  ‘Listen, Jenn, I haven’t had time to tell you the latest development. I had Larry Dolan from the Gazette on my list of people to talk to but I haven’t been able to get on to him. But the Inverell cops contacted us this morning. A man walked into their station yesterday with a box of photos. He said they were evidence the police needed and he had more in the car. He didn’t come back in and a while later the cop wandered out and found a vintage sports car stacked with boxes of photographs.’

  ‘Larry?’

  ‘His car. No sign of him, though. Turns out he cleared out his bank accounts before he went to the police station.’

  ‘He’s disappeared?’

  ‘So far. After making sure the police would get the photographs. We’ll put out an alert for him.’

  ‘The photographs?’

  ‘From the few they scanned and sent, I’d say it might be the original prints of the Bohème pictures. But there’re thousands of them, apparently. We went out to Dolan’s place early this afternoon. Found the storeroom where they’d been kept. But we also found hard drives full of images of a nastier sort. We’ve given them straight over to the Feds.’

  Nasty images that the Feds investigated – there was only one likely interpretation of that. ‘Child pornography?’

  ‘Yeah. We don’t know for sure it’s Larry’s, though. And we didn’t see any production equipment or kiddy things in the house. Some guys just consume it, don’t create it.’

  Certainty settled in the pit of her stomach, along with the sorrow of disillusionment. All the cheek, the showy car, the boyish charm – all hiding a dark and terrible addiction.

  ‘If someone found out about the porn they could have held it over him.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. Dan Flanagan’s place has been searched several times since his sons were arrested, all his records seized for examination. The slippery bastard doesn’t keep anything incriminating near him. I’m wondering how many other caches of evidence we’d find if we searched the whole town.’

  ‘Wolfgang worked part-time for the Gazette. I wouldn’t have said he and Larry were friends, though. But he must have got the photos from Larry, somehow.’

  ‘Yep. Although whether or not Larry knew is anyone’s guess.’ Steve picked up a pen from his desk and rotated it in his fingers. ‘Interesting thing about your mate Wolfgang, though. We’re trying to track down his next of kin, and we’re not having much luck so far. Other than a local bank account connected to his photographic website and paying his household bills, there’s astonishingly little evidence that Mr Schmidt existed.’

  Schmidt. Smith. Pick a common name, one shared with thousands of others, and travel to the other side of the world. There would be a story there, behind the man. Her journalistic curiosity already picked at a few threads … no. Maybe one day, but not now.

  They both started at the sound of a door opening down the corridor. Male voices.

  ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Strelitz. Thank you for your cooperation.’

  She was on her feet and out the door in seconds. Mark walked towards her down the corridor. Exhaustion dragged at his shoulders but he smiled at her. Uncaring who watched, she walked into his arms and held him tightly, and she wasn’t sure if she gave strength or took it or if they created it, together.

  ‘There’s no problems, Jenn. They just have to go by the book and ask every question. You know, in case those pesky journalists ask awkward questions.’

  She understood, respected the process, even if she and Mark had been the focus of it tonight. But she also knew how easily prejudice or corruption or even incompetence could twist things, obscure the truth, damage lives, and she’d been afraid.

  Steve pulled his door shut, jingling car keys. ‘I’m going home to my well-deserved bed,’ he announced behind them. ‘You two are welcome to cras—’ He caught the word and corrected it, ‘Stay in my spare room if you like.’

  Mark let Jenn answer. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But I need to go to the hospital first.’ Mark nodded, and she continued, ‘Can you drop us off there?’

  ‘Not a prob. My place is just opposite. Probably the closest parking anyway, with all the crowd tonight.’ He twisted a key off the key ring and tossed it to her. ‘I won’t wait up. Just let yourselves in when you’re ready.’

  At Birraga hospital the whole community had swung into action, and Mark could see that despite the scope of the crisis immediate needs were being met. He had the count in his head: two seriously injured adults and two children airlifted to Sydney or Newcastle; nine children with fractures and other injuries sent by ambulance to other towns, including two to Tamworth. Which left twenty children and two adults to be assessed and treated at Birraga – a small hospital with fourteen beds and an aged-care wing with ten.

  The small parking area overflowed, and cars were parked all along the adjacent street. In the sporting oval across the road the lights lit it to daylight, and an ambulance waited while the rescue helicopter, rotors loud, came in to land.

  Not a good sign. It meant another child with serious injuries, another family who’d have to travel, find accommodation, juggle jobs and kids and commitments for days or weeks.

  The emergency department overflowed into the foyer and the garden, with parents, children, high-school siblings, grandparents and others filling the few tables and garden seats, some sitting on the grass, some standing. On the wide lawn beyond, council staff had almost finished erecting a marquee, the hospital auxiliary had an urn going and Rotary members unloaded chairs from a truck.

  The Birraga mayor hurried through the throng to the admin block, where the boardroom lights were on. If a crisis meeting wasn’t already in progress, it should be.

  Mark touched Jenn on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to the boardroom. There’s federal services they can access, federal funds.’

  For a moment, confusion registered in her eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘There isn’t anyone else yet and I can get to the right people, fast. Go and find Chloe and the kids. I’ll find you in a little while.’

  He bent and kissed her lips, a brief touch but one she returned, a caress he needed and maybe she needed to maintain their strength.

  Then he left her and strode towards the boardroom to gatecrash a meeting that four days ago he would have been invited to. It didn’t matter that he no longer held the role. He had knowledge and skills to help. And this scene – the crowd of families and traumatised and injured kids and teachers being treated for injuries – was only the beginning of a long road to recovery.

  The media were there. Not a huge scrum, yet – not all the outlets had choppers on hand to fly people into a town with no airport – but there were enough.

  She’d come in with Mark across the lawn, avoiding the front entrance of the hospital because of the cameras and microphones. They hadn’t seen her yet. Two men, one with a camera on his shoulder, made their way into the garden from the back, past the marquee, into the groups of families. The guy without the camera thrust a microphone into George Pappas’s face as he stood in the queue for coffee.

  No. Not while she could do something about it.

  She marched over to him and took the microphone out of his hands even as George tried to stutter an answer. George, who had two injured grandkids here and Cody on his way to Tamworth with broken ribs and possibly other internal injuries.

  ‘Have some damned respect.’ She would have snapped the words but the camera swung to her. ‘These people have injured children.’

  The older guy’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘Jesus. Jennifer Barrett.’ His quick glance took in her blood-smeared clothes and the mess of her hair. ‘You were involved in this?’

  With the camera already on her, the cameraman focused closer.

  ‘Yes. This is my old home town. Go back out the front. In ten minutes I will be out there to give a statement to the media and answer questions. I’m sure the mayor, who’s in a crisis meeting in the boardroom now, will have another statement for you not l
ong afterwards. There’ll be plenty to report.’ Yes, she’d dumped the mayor in it, but if he had any sense he should already be jotting notes for a media statement. ‘Now, leave these people alone. This is not good journalism. If I see you back around here I’ll have the local police remove you.’

  She watched to make sure they left, then she took out her phone and opened the social-media feed she hadn’t looked at for days. Yes, there was already a Birraga hashtag. She thumbed a quick message, added the tag and pressed send. Out the front, they’d be watching the stream for any snippets to enliven reports. Her message would be well spread and they’d all be waiting within minutes.

  Basic rule of journalism: avoid becoming the news. Okay, she’d just broken that. But her eyewitness account – even a careful one, kept to generalities – would provide good filler for the news-hungry media feeding a twenty-four-hour cycle and maybe keep the pressure off the shocked and worried Dungirri families, at least for tonight. Praise for emergency services, some non-specific information about injuries and the shock to the community, and some Dungirri background; there’d be plenty of sound bites in that.

  Somewhere around midnight the sense of urgency and shock started to fade. Some children were allowed home, grandparents and friends took away siblings, the children who remained were settling, some of them asleep, all of them assessed and treated as required.

  Jenn sat in an armchair in a darkened room with Chloe and her family, but it was Alicia, the school teacher’s daughter, who slept on her lap. Alicia’s father had yet to arrive from the gas fields up north in Queensland, but he’d be there soon. Jenn didn’t envy him the long drive to his daughter, knowing that his wife was in Sydney undergoing surgery, another nine hours’ drive away.

  Mark returned, walking softly and dropping to kneel at Jenn’s side. ‘It’s arranged. Harry from Birraga Air Charter can fly Alicia and her father to Bankstown first thing in the morning. They’ll get there before he could make it if he drove.’

  Just one more thing he’d taken care of, using his local knowledge and contacts, finding solutions and reducing the impossible stresses. Jenn could see he was as exhausted as she was.

  A figure loomed in the doorway, hesitating until his eyes focused in the dimness; a big man in work clothes, hands clenching at his sides until he saw Alicia on Jenn’s lap. He cried silently as he took his daughter carefully from her, a tear dropping to her cheek as he kissed it. Alicia stirred. ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, sweetie, I’m here. Daddy’s here.’

  Mark signalled with a tilt of his head to the door and Jenn nodded. She’d done all she could for now. With whispered farewells to Chloe, they left the room and walked along the hushed corridor.

  Passing through the emergency reception area to the night exit they met Rhonda from the emergency department.

  ‘Are you heading home now?’ Rhonda asked, reaching for her bag and hooking it on her shoulder. ‘I’ll walk out with you. I need to get my other shoes from the car. My feet aren’t what they used to be.’

  ‘It’s been a long night,’ Mark said. ‘Your team deserves medals for their work.’

  Her brain fuzzy with exhaustion, Jenn barely listened to the polite conversation between Mark and Rhonda as she walked between them out of the hospital. Rhonda’s car must have been parked a fair way down the street, because they were almost at the corner across from Steve’s house when Rhonda stopped and reached into her bag.

  Three men walking towards them came near and Rhonda’s face caught the light from the streetlamp as she smiled. Smiling, but with nothing warm or kind in it.

  Mark tried to pull Jenn aside as she saw the guns, but the men instantly closed in, pressing a weapon into her chest.

  ‘You’ve been working too hard, Jenn and Mark, with all your investigating,’ Rhonda said, and she took a syringe from her bag as one of the men grabbed Jenn’s arm and tugged it out straight. ‘I’ll give you a little something to help you sleep. And my friends will take you to a nice, quiet place where you can rest undisturbed.’

  ‘Bitch,’ Jenn said as the needle went into her arm. ‘They’ll find you. It’s all unravelling and you’ll be …’ But it was her mind that was unravelling, as the drug took effect, taking her words and her thoughts. She sagged against Mark, and he caught her, holding her against him.

  ‘Let her go,’ she heard him say loudly. ‘You’ve got me. I’m who you want. But leave her here.’

  No, she tried to say.

  ‘No,’ someone else said. ‘She wants both of you. She’s got jobs for both of you.’

  SEVENTEEN

  He couldn’t hold Jenn’s dead weight and fight. With a gun at her back and two on him he didn’t dare struggle. His brain raced for options.

  She wants both of you, one of the men had said. She. Rhonda had always had beautiful skin, perfect make-up, short but manicured fingernails despite her nursing work. She was a Birraga local, and he’d often seen her around town, aware of her face and name and nodding a greeting in passing in the way of small communities. But now a faint memory surfaced. When her children were still young, before she’d returned to nursing full-time, she’d worked for Vanna Flanagan. ‘Oh, hello, Mark. This is Rhonda from Vanna’s salon. Could you let your mother know that her appointment for the Bohème treatment is on Monday at nine?’

  Anger burning in his gut, he watched Rhonda’s eyes. ‘Jenn’s right. The police know about Vanna and are planning raids. It’s all about to collapse. If you leave now, you might have a chance of escaping.’

  A tiny hint of doubt or fear flickered in her eyes. But not enough. She took another syringe from her bag and he couldn’t drop Jenn to struggle and avoid the man’s grip on his arm, pushing up his shirt sleeve.

  ‘You can tell Vanna all about the raids when you wake up,’ Rhonda said, and he felt the sting as the needle slid in.

  Jenn crawled to consciousness, her head pounding and the light too bright on her eyes when she forced them open. She screwed them shut again. Her arms were uncomfortable and she tried to move them but bands tightened around her wrists.

  A rush of fear jerked her wide awake.

  A small, sparse room, painted white. Sunlight slanting in through a narrow window, covered by a simple curtain. She could see the outline of a security grille shadowed through it.

  She was curled up on a narrow bed and her hands were cuffed to the metal frame. Panic surged and the nausea bubbled again as the Bohème images flashed through her mind. But no, she wasn’t blindfolded, she still wore her clothes and her booted feet were free. She breathed just a fraction more easily.

  Her head spun as she struggled to sit up, twisting her body uncomfortably, the movement of her hands limited by the cuffs. She had to huddle awkwardly in the corner, but at least from this angle she could see the room better. Small. Just the bed with its musty mattress, a narrow cupboard, and an old wooden chair against the wall beside it. Cobwebs draped from the corners of the dusty walls. No pictures, no old calendars, just a single nail on the wall. One old-style wooden door, shut. A lock on it that was much more modern. She leaned over to see the floor. Bare wood. The bedframe was old but shiny bolts, much newer, bolted it to the floor.

  Hopelessness sucking her strength, she let her head fall back against the wall, her thoughts racing …

  Convent.

  A small, sparsely furnished room. A nail where a crucifix might have hung. A convent.

  ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,’ she murmured.

  She slowed her breathing, enough to listen for sounds. Nothing but some birdsong outside. No traffic, no voices – definitely not the convent beside Saint Joseph’s school in the middle of Birraga.

  The faint tap of footsteps grew louder than the birdsong, until they stopped outside the door. A key slid into the lock with a faint metallic rasp and it clicked open. A man she recognised as one of her kidnappers stepped in, and in a soft swish of fabric and the click of high heels a woman followed him.

  Jenn doubted that it was mere
ly skin-care products that had ensured Vanna Flanagan scarcely looked any older despite the years since she’d seen her. She had to be well into her sixties, probably older, but her sculpted, smooth face was a convincing advertisement for her business.

  ‘Good morning, Jennifer,’ she said briskly. ‘I hope you’ve found the accommodation … contemplative.’

  Vanna’s smooth face betrayed no expression, and Jenn didn’t plan on showing her own fear. ‘Very contemplative, Mrs Flanagan. Thank you.’

  The man placed the chair in the centre of the room and Vanna sat, just out of reach. ‘Are you right-handed or left-handed, Jennifer?’

  Vanna held a spiral-bound notebook and pen in her hand. Jenn went with the truth. ‘Right-handed.’

  Vanna nodded to the man and he released Jenn’s right hand from the cuffs, leaving her left hand trapped, checking it was secure before he stepped back.

  Vanna handed her the notebook and pen.

  ‘You’re going to write a feature article, Jennifer. One of your strong, well-evidenced accounts of corruption and vice. This one will be about a politician who has led a double life. Mark’s been very good at that, hasn’t he? Who’d have guessed the extent of his corruption and manipulation? You could throw in something personal there – those drugs he experimented with at eighteen. Maybe that’s why you refused to go to Birraga with him and your cousin that tragic night.’

  An article damning Mark. Nausea threatened again but she kept her voice steady. ‘You want me to destroy Mark’s reputation?’

  ‘Yes. You’re good, Jennifer, and a trusted source. You’ll make it headline news across the country.’

  ‘And if I don’t write it?’

  ‘That would be rather stupid. And you’re not. You understand perfectly well that you have to be useful to me to stay alive.’