Embers and Echoes

by Daniel De Lorne

  But he knew the answer. If it were him, he wouldn’t have even given Ben the hour. Whoever had done this needed to be stopped before they escalated. Putting his own family’s interests above those of Echo Springs wasn’t on. That guilt sat heavy and wet; even in this heat.

  ‘You need a hand, Toby?’ Adrian called, breaking him out of staring at nothing.

  ‘Can you check the gully by the road? In case they dropped anything.’

  Adrian and Lewis set off while Carl worked at the other end of the paddock, taking measurements and photos of the extent of the damage.

  He needed to concentrate. He could still finish his investigation and get back to town to be there when Ben questioned his dad. As he brushed aside another bit of burnt earth in the hope of finding a match, he couldn’t brush away the worry that his dad might have had something to do with this.

  Which brought him back to what day it was.

  No, he hadn’t brought flowers. Ben had. Ben always did. Even when he’d lived in Sydney for those five years, he’d driven out here and brought flowers. When Toby had driven past—as he always did, driving past without stopping—he’d seen Ben with that guy he’d shacked up with, the one who’d almost ruined him. There he was putting down flowers, sharing that moment with that dickhead when it should have been him, when it should have been the two of them together.

  Well, only if he ignored the fact that it was Toby’s fault they were dead.

  No, he didn’t bring flowers. He didn’t go near the graves if he could help it. Yet here he was, today of all days, and he’d been here with Ben.

  He cast the thought away.

  They finished forty-five minutes later and jumped into the tankers, heading back to town. He was cutting it close to Ben’s deadline. Adrian swung past his house, let him out and drove off. Toby checked his watch.

  Late.

  Two car doors slammed and he turned. Ben had parked a few houses down, and he and Leila were now approaching the house. At six-foot-three-inches tall, Ben didn’t so much walk as stride across the lawn like a giant roaming across the countryside. He filled every inch of the uniform, his thick thighs encased in navy, his light blue shirt barely covering the girth of his biceps. Rather than hiding his broad chest, the load-bearing vest accentuated it, adding more strength to his already formidable frame.

  The only thing that didn’t work was the aviators. They obscured his eucalypt-green eyes and stopped the smile—and the dimple in his right cheek—transforming him from the severe arm of the law to the friendly neighbourhood cop that the town loved.

  I know which one I prefer.

  As they came closer, Toby prepared to thank him for waiting, or at least give him a smile. Speaking felt too great a challenge at the moment.

  ‘Ready?’ Ben said abruptly, killing any notion that his good opinion could be so easily restored.

  Toby’s heart retreated beneath the lash of Ben’s tone. It was no more than he deserved. He’d acted like a dick at the cemetery, but that would have to be another wrong to add to an already long list. He had to get this over with, then they could go back to avoiding each other. Not out of preference but necessity.

  He nodded and led the two officers into the house.

  The TV played down the hall, but that was no guarantee Dad would be there, not lately. His aunt usually came by to check on him but Fridays were tricky for her. ‘Dad? You here?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  At least he responded. Perhaps he’d be coherent enough to answer Ben’s questions. But what if he didn’t like the answers?

  Ben followed close behind him. Even with the smell of ash and burnt grass on his clothes and skin, Ben’s scent of sun-infused leather got inside him and nestled in his gut.

  His dad sat at the table reading the newspaper, a cup of tea beside him. A quick scan of the room showed nothing left running, no sign of blood, no kettle melted black. Not this time. The sooty smear running up the wall by the stove was still there. He should have repaired and painted it already, but other things had gotten in the way. And he expected something like that would happen again.

  Bob didn’t look up from his paper until the three of them got much closer. The movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he lowered the paper as he spotted the two cops.

  He blinked and shook his head as he focused on Ben. ‘Oh, hello, Ben,’ he said, cheering as he recognised him. He rose out of his chair, offering his hand.

  Ben clasped it firmly. ‘How are you, Mr Grimshaw?’

  ‘Mr Grimshaw! I remember when you used to call me Uncle Bob.’

  ‘And you used to call me Beanpole.’

  They laughed. His dad’s laugh wasn’t something he heard often around here but Ben’s laugh…that deep and strong and reassuring sound hummed inside him. One of many reasons he’d kept away from Ben since his return two years earlier.

  ‘And how’s your dad doing?’ Bob asked.

  ‘You know, the same.’

  ‘Hard time of year, for all of us. You give him my best,’ he said in earnest.

  His dad always said he should see more of Bill Fields but he never did. And Bill never showed his face around here either.

  Ben gave a strained smile. ‘I will. Do you mind if we have a chat? It’s important.’

  ‘By all means. As long as it’s not bad news.’ His short laugh gave way to a scraping cough. ‘Toby, put the kettle on. Let’s go in here.’ Dad led them into the family room, lowering the TV’s volume. ‘Have you been watching the cricket lately?’

  Toby filled the electric kettle and strained to hear Ben’s answer but it was lost. He flicked the switch and went into the room, standing back as Ben and Leila did their job. He’d step in if needed but he knew Ben—or had done—and had watched him around town, had listened to every little snippet of information about him. He knew Ben wouldn’t treat his dad badly.

  ‘You’re here on official business, hey?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Ben said. ‘Were you at the cemetery today?’

  Leila sat with a pen ready over her pad.

  ‘Yes, I took some flowers for Mary’s grave.’

  ‘These the shoes you were wearing?’

  Four sets of eyes looked at Bob’s flat-soled, brown slippers.

  ‘Wouldn’t get very far in them, would I?’ he laughed. ‘I wore the white sneakers in the hallway. At least they used to be white. Bit red now. What’s this about?’

  ‘There was a fire at the cemetery today and we found some shoe-prints.’

  Toby’s shoulders bunched, exacerbating the knots that had locked into his back from the morning’s work. Ben had effectively accused his dad of being the arsonist.

  ‘Ahhhh,’ Bob said, leaning back into his armchair and interlocking his fingers across his chest. ‘Well, feel free to take a look.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Grimshaw. We will. What time did you go to the cemetery?’

  Bob didn’t answer. Instead he watched the television and the pause stretched.

  ‘Mr Grimshaw? What time did you go to the cemetery?’ Ben repeated.

  He rubbed his palm with his thumb, thinking, watching, the rubbing becoming more insistent.

  The knots in Toby’s shoulders tightened.

  ‘Dad!’

  His head jerked up. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What time did you go to the cemetery?’ he asked, and for a second it looked like he’d avoided falling into the fog.

  ‘Three o’clock,’ he replied. ‘You remember. You were there.’

  His throat closed; he had to force the words out. ‘No, I wasn’t. You went by yourself.’

  Ben looked at him.

  ‘No, we were all there,’ Dad said. ‘Ben was there too. And Bill.’

  His stomach went into freefall.

  Same place, different decade.

  ‘Dad, we’re talking about this morning. Not the funeral.’

  But it was too late. His dad’s eyes shimmered.

  ‘We’ll give you a minute,’
Ben said. They walked into the other room, leaving him behind to calm his father.

  He sat and took hold of his thinning and weathered hands. ‘It’s okay, Dad.’

  ‘Toby? Where’s your mother?’

  He sighed. ‘She’s gone out, Dad. She’ll be back soon.’

  He hated lying to him and wiping away the tragedy, but there was no point in hurting his dad. Reminding him of what he’d lost was cruel, especially when he’d forget again. He’d listened to his dad cry enough for several lifetimes. Better to keep quiet, keep it in.

  ‘Her birthday’s coming up soon. What should we get her?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ he said. The tears had been held at bay. His dad settled back into his armchair. The television held him transfixed as he watched the cricket.

  ‘I’ll be right back. I’m talking to some visitors.’

  But his dad wasn’t listening. Toby increased the volume and returned to the kitchen.

  Leila had gone but Ben was at the counter making the tea. It would have been such a homey image if he hadn’t been wearing his uniform, that utility vest loaded with a gun, handcuffs and the rest. This wasn’t Ben in his house, this was Constable Benjamin Fields.

  Still, he was making the tea, and there was something right about that.

  Toby sat at the table and waited, torn between wanting Ben here and wanting him gone.

  ‘Here,’ said Ben, putting the brew down in front of him.

  The awkwardness Ben usually displayed around him was hidden behind a mask of formality. Considerate but distant. As Toby sat he watched Ben, the graceful but manly way he moved around the kitchen and took his place opposite. One hand on the table, his thumb tapping, the other hand holding onto the mug’s handle. Long, big thick fingers and hands that matched the rest of him. He was so close.

  ‘How long until I can talk to him again?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ He blew across the surface of the mug. ‘About what he said…’

  ‘About you being at the cemetery?’

  He nodded, putting the mug down. ‘He was referring to the funeral, not to today.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  Ben sipped his tea, his green eyes holding his attention. ‘Where were you this morning, Toby?’

  ‘You think I’m some firebug now?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, but if I go back to the station and haven’t asked the right questions, then what kind of cop would I be?’ Ben’s jaw tightened.

  Toby tongued the back of his canine tooth. Ben was right. As always. ‘I got to the station just before eight. I was there until eleven then we turned out.’

  He wrote in his pad. ‘And you have no idea about your dad’s whereabouts before we arrived?’

  ‘If he went to the cemetery, he went after I left, but he’s not a fire-starter. I didn’t see him or anyone else on the way to the cemetery this morning. You’ll have to look for another suspect.’

  He regretted the defensiveness in his voice. What must he have sounded like?

  Guilty. That’s what.

  He’d always been guilty. That’s why he kept his mouth shut as much as possible. But keeping quiet would not help him or his dad right now.

  Ben took another sip of his tea, his expression dark and serious, then pushed the cup away. He closed the pad and stood up from his chair.

  Ben couldn’t leave thinking his dad had done this.

  ‘Dad was there to visit Mum’s grave. That’s all.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it’s also a coincidence that on this day, where your dad was, there was a fire. Put yourself in my shoes—’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ he said quickly. He couldn’t bear to imagine how Ben saw him.

  Ben flinched. ‘Suit yourself. I’m going to ask around if anyone saw your dad or anything suspicious up at the cemetery. It’s routine. And if he becomes lucid again, call me. I want to talk to him.’

  He poured the rest of the tea down the drain. Toby didn’t move. His hand wrapped around the mug, the heat from the water distracting him from the doubt shooting into the base of his skull. What if it had been Dad?

  Ben headed for the door but stopped before leaving the kitchen. He looked at the marked wall, then to Toby. ‘You sure you two are safe here?’

  ‘It was an accident.’ Was he practising his defence? ‘I’ve disconnected the gas since then.’

  Ben didn’t speak. What was there really to say? But there was a look, not pity but real, heartfelt concern, the way Ben had looked when their mothers had died. Ben had given him so much even then, but there was nothing he could have given in return. He had to escape it.

  He stood and headed to the family room. ‘I’ll let you know when he improves. Show yourself out.’

  And he retreated into the other room and sat with his dad, unnoticed and unrecognised, not moving until long after the front door closed.

  Chapter Three

  Three days after the fire and they were still no closer to finding the arsonist. No tip-offs. No one had seen anything useful. One person remembered seeing Bob heading out that way, but they couldn’t recall if he’d been carrying anything other than flowers. It didn’t sit well with Ben to consider Bob Grimshaw a suspect. Then again, he’d been accused of thinking the best of people before and look how well that had turned out.

  He’d planned on seeing Toby again to ask if Bob remembered anything, but he’d been kept busy attending a domestic dispute and filling in paperwork. Then there were patrols and stopping speeding drivers. Monday vanished and the fire-starter was still no closer to being found.

  When Ben’s shift ended, knowing it was still unsolved agitated him more than the prickly heat of the late summer afternoon. He’d find Toby the next day and see what else he had to say.

  He walked alone to the pub—Leila said she’d catch him up—and he took his time along Main Street to the Cooee Hotel. The sun was still above the horizon; thanks to daylight savings there’d be hours of light left. Even so, twilight couldn’t come fast enough. His favourite part of the day. He enjoyed the way the heat sank into his bones as the stars came out and melted the stress of the working day.

  Most of it anyway.

  Here he had time to think, time to process, a moment to breathe. Not like Sydney. At twenty-five he’d already felt exhausted, going from work to the gym to somewhere out and getting to bed late and getting up early to do it again. Piece by piece he’d been chipped away until there wasn’t much left that he recognised of himself.

  Or of the person he’d been with.

  But that was done now, long past, and he didn’t regret coming back. The career path might not have been the same but Echo Springs was home. If only he had someone to share it with.

  He entered the pub, already busy at six, and greeted people as he headed to the bar to buy a pint. Trading hellos, some jokes and a bit of news, he almost felt like he wasn’t one of the town’s police officers. He was just another member of the Echo Springs community. No one commented on his work or the fact that he was gay—at least not within earshot. Some of them had a problem with one or the other, or both, but they wisely kept their mouths shut around him. And it’s not like he was the only gay guy in Echo Springs.

  Toby’s eyes met his at the same time Ben looked over. Whether it was the atmosphere, the warm feel of belonging or—as was most likely—the effect of seeing Toby, he smiled on reflex.

  Toby blanched, and that was enough to scare away his grin and remind him that things were not all good in Echo Springs. After all, he was investigating Toby’s dad for arson, accidental or otherwise. Bob sat at the table with Toby and his aunt, Narelle. He seemed lucid now, but as Ben came over to talk to them, pint in hand, Toby’s eyes widened.

  Fear? Panic? A plea?

  Ben indicated with his head for Toby to follow him. He could talk to Bob the next day, especially if tonight his mind was functioning, and give the family this time together. Bob was tel
ling his sister a joke, and then another old-timer joined the table and started chatting to him. He hoped for Toby’s sake that Bob continued to enjoy his evening.

  He chose a spot by a window, far enough out of earshot. He put the untasted beer on the table. He’d wait to hear what Toby had to say before drowning the aggravation scratching in his throat. The table they stood at was small, forcing Toby to come close. Being this near to him, the heat radiating off him, the black t-shirt taut across his chest, his curly hair…

  Damn.

  He took a drink anyway.

  ‘Bob’s looking in fine form,’ he said after he’d swallowed.

  ‘Today’s been a good day. Thought it might help to bring him somewhere familiar.’

  ‘Seems to be working out.’

  Toby watched Bob, which gave Ben time to watch Toby. Not staring but glances, studying the hard line of his jaw, the accented curve of his lips, and that perpetual line of worry across his forehead. No mistaking how much of a man he was now, and how distant.

  Time to be Officer Fields and get the hell out of there. He’d see Leila tomorrow.

  ‘I read your report,’ he said. ‘I was going to come see you.’

  ‘Same. I’ve spoken to Dad and he said he was at the cemetery by himself. He went soon after I left for work and then was back by half-past ten. He remembers because he got home to watch the start of the match. The fire began after that and he didn’t see anybody nearby.’

  ‘He’ll repeat this if I ask him?’

  Toby’s eyebrows raised as he dipped his head. ‘You think I’m lying?’

  Ben’s hand tightened on the glass. If it shattered, he doubted he’d feel it. ‘I’m just asking the question. I need to hear it from him too.’

  He sighed. Hard. ‘You can talk to him tomorrow. I’m off-shift so I’ll be there.’

  ‘Fine.’ He drained the glass.

  Toby had already stepped away but he stopped and turned, his top lip pinned in distaste. ‘You really think he had something to do with this, don’t you?’