by Helene Young
He glanced at the back of Joyce’s head as they drove back down the street from Kristy and Abby’s house, noting the corded muscles in the cop’s neck.
‘Don’t you have something better to be doing, Constable, like sorting out road chaos south of Cooktown?’
Joyce’s narrowed eyes met his in the rear-vision mirror. ‘And how would you know about that?’
‘I was at a party, with Kristy and Abby. Kristy was called back to work and I was tasked with bringing Abby home.’
‘And where might that party have been?’
‘At the McDonalds’ spread. Glenview, I think it’s called?’
‘You know the McDonalds?’
Conor held up two crossed fingers. He thought Joyce was overly ambitious, but not crooked. Didn’t stop him needling him. ‘We’re like that, brothers almost. It was Sienna’s birthday.’
‘Really.’ Joyce drew the syllables out.
‘Yep. Excellent food, chef was from Sydney, I believe. Flew in for the occasion. Surprised you weren’t there as well.’
‘Let’s hope you ate enough,’ Joyce snarled. ‘No caterers in the cells tonight.’
‘You’re arresting me?’ Conor was bemused. This felt like the perfect end to a very strange day.
‘Just taking you in for questioning. I have reason to believe you know more than you’re telling me.’
‘Oh, you can be very sure of that, mate. The question is whether you really need to know what I know or not.’
‘You think you’re so fucking clever. You’re a dumb-arse sailor who’s probably hoping he ends up with a trawler on the cheap. And you won’t. Bill McBride doesn’t deserve the shit that’s happened to him and I’ll make damn sure we get a clean prosecution out of this.’ They pulled up in the parking lot of the police station.
Joyce opened the car door. ‘This way.’
‘Where’s Sergeant Miller?’
‘Got called out for the accident. Why?’
Conor shrugged. ‘I had a chat with him last night. Seemed the investigation was taking a different direction.’
‘Not on my watch, it’s not,’ Joyce snapped.
‘The same people who took pot shots at us the night Bill was bashed also damaged our nets two weeks earlier. I reckon I may know who they are after today’s little shindig.’ He’d asked Sienna what colour her father’s boat was and she’d screwed up her nose and said, ‘Black, gross.’
Joyce stopped outside the rear door of the building. ‘You accusing the McDonalds?’
Conor cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘One and one usually make two. There was a Porsche out there. WAT 855 is its rego. Write it down. I’d bet a grand that it’s the same one I saw leaving Danny Parnell’s place. You want to find out who it belongs to. Might catch his murderer then.’
‘That’s a bloody big call.’
‘Maybe, but you should be investigating that link, not accusing me of being involved in any of this shit. Bill was worth more to me alive than he is in hospital, or worse, dead. Where do you think my income was coming from? And Danny? I’d never met the bloke before.’
‘Doesn’t mean you didn’t have an argument. Bill’s been known to have a temper.’
‘No argument with me. It’s only fools and cops he won’t suffer,’ Conor replied, keeping a straight face.
Joyce made a noise that sounded like someone had hold of his windpipe. He shot another hard glare at Conor before swiping his token across the security lock. Inside the station, he led the way to another interview room. Conor stopped at the door. ‘Unless you’re charging me, this can wait until Monday. I’ll need to have my lawyer with me if you’re asking more questions.’
‘I just want to clarify some of your earlier answers.’
‘Well, here’s the thing. As we both know, you can’t question me without offering me the services of a lawyer. You can’t hold me for more than eight hours – and then you still have to charge me with something. Unless you want to drag a magistrate up from Cairns for an out-of-session hearing?’
Joyce moved in on him and Conor could smell sweat. The cop had clearly been on shift all day, probably already on overtime. ‘Think you know so fuckin’ much about the law, but you don’t know jack shit. I can question you for four hours, no issue.’
‘Sure, and I can keep saying no comment for four hours if you like.’
Conor could see the veins in the cop’s eyes, along with the red irritation of a shaving rash. Joyce’s breathing was heavy in the solid silence of the deserted station. The tick-tock from the big clock on the wall was prophetic.
Conor had had enough, sorry that he’d even allowed Joyce to bring him here. ‘So, here’s the rego.’ He grabbed a pen and paper from a nearby desk and wrote it down. ‘Porsche Cayenne. Not too many of them around. Thanks for the lift. Tell me what time I need to be back tomorrow and I’ll be here. Until then, I need to get back to the boat. I hear there’s a cyclone coming.’
‘Forecasters have no friggin’ idea.’ Joyce stepped sidewards, half blocking the way to the exit. ‘Don’t even think of leaving town. You do, I’ll find you wherever you are.’
‘I’m not sailing out into a cyclone, mate, but I will be moving my boat upstream. You have my mobile number.’ He gestured up the short corridor. ‘Can you let me out?’
For a moment Conor thought Joyce was going to refuse, but then he turned and stalked to the rear door again, swiped and pushed it wide. The heat was like a slap to the chest.
‘You’ll be seeing me,’ Joyce almost spat at him.
Conor grinned. ‘They say that in all the best movies.’
Relief washed through him and he shivered, despite the heat, glad he wasn’t locked up in a cell for the night. He’d spent time there when they’d first pulled him in for questioning after the shooting of his wife and daughter. ‘Protective custody,’ they’d called it.
When he did go home it was to pack a bag before they hustled him to a seedy motel and the world of a protected witness. He’d lived in a lovely home with a talented wife and a beautiful daughter and had lost everything.
He could remember lying on a sagging mattress in a motel on the outskirts of Sydney, wishing he could smell Annabel’s shampoo rather than the stale lump of foam masquerading as a pillow. He’d bawled like a baby, would have given anything to turn back the clock, give Lily back her shot at life, give Annabel the chance to heal more patients, dry more tears.
He’d met Annabel when his footy team did some charity work at one of the big Melbourne hospitals. He and every other bloke on the team had flirted with her. She’d smiled serenely, but shown no favour. Conor had taken a shine to one of the kids in the ward. The lad had spark, fight, but his family was doing it tough. There was treatment that might work, but no money for it.
With no agenda other than to help the kid, Conor sought Annabel out to discuss how the treatment might be funded. They met for coffee and twelve months later he moved in with her. They’d raised the money for the treatment and the lad had gone on to play for Conor’s old club. It always gave him a deep thrill when he saw the kid on TV.
The sky was ominously clear above Cooktown now, the winds light. He sniffed the air. Dust, diesel and salt. He was no weather expert, but he did know cyclones often brought fine weather before them. Maybe Miller was right.
The Veritas’s prow was pointing out to sea as though scenting the air itself. It would be easy to haul anchor and head off again. He’d have enough time to head south, but would it be any safer? He stopped at the top of the track down to the dinghy. He’d always assumed that one day he’d sail out that azure-blue inlet and into the world again and that when he did he wouldn’t be taking any extra baggage with him. But now?
An elderly man was dangling a fishing line over the nearby jetty. Conor waved. ‘Any luck today, mate?’ he called.
‘Nah, you bastards fished them all out.’
Conor chuckled at the familiar exchange. The old fella was a retired trawler man. He had to be eighty-odd, bu
t there was strength still in his curved spine and sunspot-covered hands. Impulsively, Conor veered in his direction. Talking to old people had become something of a mission. It had been three years since he’d seen his own parents. His mum said the old man wasn’t doing so well. He’d be in his sixties now, Conor realised, and life had never been easy. Retirement wasn’t going to hold any great adventures for them. They lived in the new house Conor had paid for, but the money he sent was piling up in the bank account and earning interest. Proceeds of crime, his father called it. Conor knew his mother understood that her son was trying in his own way to right the wrongs. But then, she’d always understood him. To his father he was a disappointment who’d got caught up in his own legend and lost the plot. Albert Stein had adored Annabel and Lily. He was never going to forgive his son.
‘Nice afternoon for it,’ the old fella on the jetty said as Conor approached him. ‘How’s Bill?’
‘Haven’t heard yet, but the doctor thinks they might move him to Brisbane.’
‘Damn, that’s no good. Bloke his age’ll come back from Brisbane in a pinewood box.’
Conor didn’t have a reply. He leant on the railing, watching the line drift away in the current. Something tapped the hook, the lure bobbing. The old man let out another couple of metres then started winding in slowly, steadily. Silver glinted in the water an instant before the rod bent and his mate gave a sharp tug. The muscles in the old fella’s arms tensed as the dancing line came closer. The tide was still receding so it was a fair drop to where the flashes in the water had coalesced into a good-sized mangrove jack. Conor waited, knowing that to intervene would be an insult.
The older man grunted, pushing the rod into his gut, bracing his bandy legs wide. His baggy shorts flapped in the sharp breeze. He took the strain in his thighs and ground the reel around, centimetre by centimetre. He rocked forward and back, giving him purchase, allowing the fish to run. It leapt clear of the water, a shiny rainbow-coloured prize and the man laughed, a short burst of delight. ‘Good one, eh?’ he managed to gasp.
‘A beauty. That’ll feed you for a few days.’
The man grunted again and wound more quickly this time. It had to weigh four or five kilos and was still fighting as he flicked it clear of the water. ‘Grab the net, eh? Be a bugger to lose it now.’
‘It would,’ Conor replied. He took the weight and lifted it onto the jetty. The two men grinned at each other.
‘Some things are worth fighting for.’
‘Yeah, they are.’ Conor left his old mate contentedly filleting the fish. Funny how the universe could deliver a lesson when it was most needed.
But before he could go chasing Kristy Dark he needed to talk to Noah.
21
Kristy turned off the ignition and rubbed her gritty eyes. Exhaustion seeped into her limbs. Adrenaline ran strong in times of crisis, but when exhaustion hit it was deep and unrelenting.
The lights were on inside the house. Hopefully Mary had fed Abby.
The smell of sausages greeted her as she opened the front door. She kicked off her strappy sandals next to the bristled duck shoe scraper and the pile of walking boots then bent and picked them up, dangling them in one hand. Inside the door she dropped the car keys on the polished top of the occasional table.
‘I’m home, hon,’ she called.
‘In the kitchen,’ Abby replied. She sounded like she was eating.
Mary sat at the kitchen table with Abby. She smiled at Kristy and waved at the baking dish. ‘Plenty left. You look dead on your feet.’ She looked tired herself and Kristy felt guilty for asking her to step in at such late notice.
‘You’re a darling, Mary,’ Kristy said with a wan smile. She dropped a kiss on Abby’s head. The kitchen table and four chairs filled the centre of the room. Tonight it was covered in a lace cloth, yellowed and losing the battle against time. But with its rose design and fluted edge, it was Abby’s favourite.
In the corner of the room the two-door stainless-steel fridge with its ice-maker attachment stood like a defiant reminder of the twenty-first century. The plain white lightshade cast a pool of light over everything below head height. Above that the walls and ceiling appeared dusky and blurred.
‘Did you see Conor?’ Abby asked through a mouthful of sausage.
‘No, Abby, I’ve come straight from hospital. I don’t think there’s any need for me to check on Conor at the police station.’
‘But they hauled him away for questioning!’ Abby looked horrified.
‘Physically hauled him?’ Kristy turned from adding sausages and mashed potato to her plate. Comfort food no matter the climate or the temperature.
‘Well, no.’ Abby frowned. ‘He winked at me and said something about having another chat with them.’
‘So did they have handcuffs on him?’
‘Nooo.’ Abby still sounded peeved. ‘But the cop took him in the police car.’
‘So just one policeman?’
‘Yep, that big one who used to coach before Conor came. Everyone said he was useless.’
‘I don’t think he ever coached you.’
Abby ignored the reproof in her mother’s voice. ‘Well, he wears his pants pulled up his bum. And Sissy said he’s always perving at Freya and you.’
Kristy hid her smile. She sincerely hoped Conor wasn’t spending the night in the cells, but neither did she have the energy to try to bail him out. There’d be time in the morning to check.
She chewed her first mouthful. ‘Mary, I have no idea what you do to these sausages, but they’re way nicer than when I cook them.’
Mary smiled. ‘It’s the extra butter I coat them in. I checked your roster on the fridge. Good to go for the three nights this week.’ She gestured with her head towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Kristy took the hint. ‘I’ll see you out. No moon out there.’
‘Ta, love.’ Mary patted Abby’s shoulder as she left. ‘See you later, pet. I’m glad you had a good day at your friend’s place. I’m sure you’ll get your own horse one day.’ Abby sniffed and carried on eating in silence.
‘Abby,’ Kristy prompted.
‘Thanks, Mary. Dinner was cool . . .’ Her voice petered out.
The two women exchanged an eye-roll. Kristy followed Mary out onto the driveway.
‘She’s pretty upset about Conor. You do know she thinks he’d make a good husband for you and a father for her?’
Kristy sighed and looked to the sky, where the stars glowed bright between patches of racing clouds. ‘She’s apparently been doing a sales pitch on my behalf at training. I was mortified when he told me that today.’
Mary’s smile was visible in the dark. ‘Can’t blame her for trying and at least she’s got good taste in men.’
‘You can talk.’
‘Edith and I had forty years together. I can’t be bothered learning how someone else likes their cup of coffee but you’re young and Abby needs a bloke. Even time with your dad’s good for her. Had a ball out there over Christmas.’
‘She did. We’ll be out there for the Easter school holidays. Can’t come quick enough.’
‘I caught her throwing up the other day. Not the first time.’
Kristy hung her head. ‘I thought I’d nipped it in the bud, Mary. I put it down to hormones, or maybe Sissy’s influence. Maybe grief still taking its toll.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s not the best combination. She never used to worry about her clothes. Now she spends more time deciding what goes with what than studying. I figured you’d have noticed, but thought I’d better mention it. It’s why I did sausages tonight. She always wolfs them down and I reckon she probably absorbs a bit even if she chucks them up later. You let me know what you want me to do, eh?’
Kristy nodded, not able to speak. She knew all the things to say and do in theory, but she never thought her bright and beautiful Abby would succumb to an eating disorder.
‘See you, love,’ Mary nodded and ambled off down the drive
, her floral skirt pressed against her knees, her grey hair pale in the light.
‘Needs a bloke in her life!’ Kristy murmured. It wasn’t a good enough reason to jump into bed with Conor again. But Mary was right. She could do worse. He was so settled in his skin. Had the grief he’d experienced tempered him, like a farrier heating a horseshoe to give it strength and shape?
There was a flurry of wings in the heavily laden mango tree behind her. A dark shape rose from the dense foliage, low and slow as it flapped its wings looking for height. She smelt the pungent whiff of bat scat, the sharp tang of mango. The lights were on in Mary’s house. Overhead the lines of clouds were scudding west.
Kristy walked inside. Abby wasn’t at the table any more. She listened for a second, her heart sinking, then made her way to the bathroom. Muffled retching noises filtered through the solid door.
‘You okay, honey?’ she called out, resting her forehead on the cool timber.
‘I’m fine,’ Abby called back, her voice hoarse and croaky.
‘You want a glass of water, a wet flannel?’
‘I’m fine!’ she yelled this time. ‘Leave me alone!’
Kristy slid to the floor outside the bathroom and wrapped her arms around her knees. She had to start somewhere. A visiting psychologist conducted clinics in Cooktown. She’d need to book Abby in to see her. Kristy had tried so hard to soften the impact of Finn and Tyler’s deaths, but it was inevitable that Abby would still be dealing with it.
She leant back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling with its plain cornicing. How the hell did she think adding a man into the mix was going to improve anything? She and Abby would just have to get through it together. She’d talk to Mary tomorrow. And Meg. She hated to burden them with anything. Meg would go into a baking frenzy. And maybe that was part of the answer. Take Abby somewhere filled with unconditional love and no pressures, other than deciding which paddock to check out that day. Maybe take a month over the Easter holidays. In Grade Eight it wasn’t as though they learnt earth-shattering stuff. Far more important to be healthy and happy.
