They get in the car and head back towards the inner city to find the couple’s home, one of a row of fibro houses in Mayfield. There are lights on in the windows, a white ute standing outside. When they ring the front doorbell they hear the click of heels approaching inside. The door opens a few centimetres and a set of long scarlet fingernails appear. Through the narrow gap they make out blonde curls and a single eye, dark with mascara and eye shadow.
Ross checks the address again and says, ‘Good evening, madam. We’re police officers. We’d like to speak to Mr Logan McGilvray. Is he at home?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ A soft, husky voice. ‘They’re both out. I don’t know where.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Loretta, Loretta Smith. I’m a friend.’
‘I see. And you’ve no idea where he might be?’
‘No, sorry.’ The door closes.
As they walk away, Harry says, ‘Did you notice the size of that woman’s hands?’
Ross stops dead. ‘Yeah. And the voice.’ They stare at each other for a moment, then turn and head back to the front door. Ross presses the bell again. They wait, nothing happens. Ross gives the door a shove and it swings open.
‘Hello? Mrs Smith?’ Silence. ‘It’s the police again. Are you there?’
Harry says, ‘Round the back,’ and sets off at a run.
The backyard is deserted, no one clambering over the Colorbond fence. Harry strides over to a pair of sliding glass doors overlooking a small deck and peers into the room inside. The light is off, and it takes him a moment to make out the motionless figure of Loretta Smith pressed against the far wall just inside the open doorway leading into the hall. She looks oddly proportioned, bulky torso and shoulders, thick legs in dark stockings perched on a pair of high heels. One muscular arm is raised above her blonde head, the hand gripping a very large kitchen knife.
Harry reaches for the handles of the sliding doors. Locked. Through the hall doorway he can see Ross moving forward towards the opening where Loretta waits. He shouts but it’s clear neither of them can hear him. He reaches into his jacket for his gun, then notices a small Weber standing nearby on the deck. He grabs it and swings it hard at the glass door, which shatters just as Ross comes parallel with Loretta. Her arm is beginning its downward arc, the exploding door makes Ross jump back as the knife comes down and Harry barrels into the room, throws himself at the guttural roaring figure in the frock.
When they finally subdue the writhing man and the handcuffs are on, the two cops slump back against the wall, gasping for breath. Harry sees blood pouring from Ross’s hand. ‘You okay, mate?’
Ross pulls out a handkerchief and wraps it around the cut. ‘Prick was gonna kill me, wasn’t he?’
‘Looked that way.’
‘Well…thanks.’ It obviously takes an effort to say the word. ‘Yeah, thanks.’
Harry rolls their captive over to get a better look at the face. The blonde wig has gone, exposing a shaved skull covered in tatts and a sullen male face. Saliva dribbles from between the scarlet lips. The man attempts to spit at him.
Harry gets to his feet and looks through a bedroom door at the shirt and trousers spread on the bed. There are also several packets of white crystals on a dressing table. Lipsticks, bits of make-up. He finds a wallet and checks the drivers licence. Same surly face. He returns and tells Logan McGilvray that he’s under arrest for attempted murder.
When they arrive at the station the custody sergeant looks up briefly from his screen, then blinks and stares again at the bowed figure standing between the two detectives.
‘Who have we got here then?’
‘Mr Logan McGilvray, aka Ms Loretta Smith.’
‘Oh yes, I heard. There’s a crime scene team gone over there.’ He peers at the man, taking in the whole ensemble. ‘Jeez, Ross,’ he says at last, ‘you’re a real chick magnet, aren’t you?’
Ross breaks into a broad grin. ‘Old bloke’s still got it, mate.’
It’s the first time Harry’s seen him smile.
‘But it was Harry made the arrest,’ Ross adds. ‘That dickhead was going to kill me with this…’ He thumps a plastic bag with the knife wrapped inside onto the counter. ‘Harry saved me bacon.’
‘Did he now?’ The custody sergeant looks at Harry, nods, then goes back to his computer. ‘So is that Loretta with one T or two, Mr McGilvray?’
Later, after a doctor has stitched the gash in Ross’s hand, they go to an interview room where McGilvray is sitting hunched at the table. He is wearing a T-shirt and shorts now, but the make-up remains, and the painted nails. Harry sees that he is as thickly covered in tattoos—arms, legs, neck—as his injured wife.
They sit down and Ross presses the ERISP recording switch. ‘Interview conducted by Detective Sergeants Ross Bramley and Harry Belltree…’
On the other side of the table McGilvray abruptly raises his head and stares at Harry. There is an odd expression on his face, startled. As Ross continues he goes on staring, his mouth twisted into something ugly that could be a smile. He ignores Ross, making not a sound as the questions drag on and finally come to a stop. All the time he has his eyes locked on Harry.
Afterwards Ross says to Harry, ‘What was that all about, the death stare? You ever seen him before?’
Harry shakes his head. ‘Never.’
‘Must be the drugs then.’
By the time they’ve finished typing up their reports it’s the end of their shift, and Ross says, ‘Well, haven’t had so much fun in years, Harry. Fancy a drink?’
This is a breakthrough. They cross the road and walk past the terrace of lawyers’ rooms to the Grand, opposite the old courthouse. Above them at the top of the hill looms the tower of Christ Church Cathedral. Ross buys a couple of beers and they go to a quiet corner and try to find some common ground. Ross takes the lead, telling old stories of catching people in embarrassing situations—the naked man locked out by his angry wife, the robber found pinned to the floor by the Coke machine he’d tried to break into. He’s a good storyteller and Harry laughs along, not saying much. Something about Ross’s manner reminds him of Bob Marshall. Same generation, same attitudes, and when Ross gets back from buying another beer Harry tells him one of Marshall’s tales, then asks him if he’s ever come across his old boss. Ross nods, suddenly careful.
‘Sure, I knew him well once. We started out about the same time, served in Darlinghurst together for a fair while.’ He hesitates. ‘Both lost our wives to cancer the same year, too.’
That was about eight years ago, Harry thinks. Ross and Marshall have kept in touch. ‘I’m sorry. Are you on your own now?’
‘Sure. Suits me.’
Harry wonders if that’s true. ‘What are you doing for dinner? Want to come back with me?’
‘Oh, your wife’ll have something fixed up for you.’
But he doesn’t sound adamant, so Harry says, ‘Not a problem. I’ll give her a call.’
He does so, and when he’s finished, Ross says, ‘Jenny, right? Your wife.’
Harry looks at him in surprise. As far as he knows none of the Newcastle cops have met her or asked about her.
Ross goes on, ‘I saw her, when she was up here with your folks, three years ago. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To check up on us?’
‘What?’
‘See if we messed up the investigation into the accident.’
Harry shakes his head. ‘Ross, I had no say in the matter. They wanted me out of Sydney. Bob Marshall fixed it all up, told me I was being sent up here.’
Ross frowns doubtfully. ‘Bob told me you still don’t believe it was an accident.’
Harry is angry now. What was Marshall playing at? ‘I know it wasn’t an accident. I found the bloke that ran them off the road and followed the wreck down the hill with a baseball bat to make sure they were good and dead. Jenny was lucky that she was on the floor in the back and he didn’t see her.’
Ross looks shocked, his mouth op
en.
Harry goes on. ‘Does everybody think that’s why I’m here?’
‘No, no. Bob contacted me, told me to keep it to myself.’
‘But he told you I was coming to check on you all?’
‘Well…no, not exactly. That was my take on it, I guess. He just asked me to look out for you, as a favour to him. He didn’t mention anything about someone running them off the road. So where’s this bloke now?’
‘He’s dead. A bikie shooting.’
‘Jeez.’ Ross shakes his head. ‘But why’d he want to kill them?’
‘That I don’t know. Probably a court case my father was involved with.’ Harry checks himself. He’s said too much, more than he told Marshall. ‘Ross, you’ve got to keep this to yourself, okay? It’s an ongoing investigation, and what I’ve just told you is confidential. I really don’t want you discussing it with anyone, not even Bob. Will you do that?’
Ross looks away for a moment, then says, ‘You just saved my arse, Harry. I guess I can do that.’
‘Thanks. So why do the others turn away when I come into a room?’
‘They’ve been asking what a Sydney homicide cop’s doing up here. Wondering if you’re damaged goods.’
‘Great.’
‘You do have that look sometimes, mate,’ Ross says.
‘What look?’
‘You know, wearing the mask.’
They reach for their drinks, silent. Then Harry says, ‘Jenny’s never recognised your name when I’ve mentioned you. She’s lost her memory of the days before and after the crash. You talking to her might help. You know she lost her sight?’
‘Yes, I heard.’
They finish their beers and drive over to Carrington, where Harry and Jenny are renting. The inner-city neighbourhood grew up around the docks; its streets once teemed with sailors from the colliers and clippers that thronged the harbour. Now the streets are quiet and tree-lined, the old pubs and houses becoming gentrified, but beyond the rooftops the big grain silos and coal-loading gantries still loom, crowding the nearby mechanised wharfs.
Harry stops outside a small weatherboard cottage built up on brick piers on a narrow plot. They go up the veranda steps to the front door and there’s a sound of barking from inside.
‘You’ve got a dog?’
‘Guide dog for Jenny, Felecia.’
He opens the door and calls out to Jenny while a blonde Labrador circles around them thrashing her tail. Jenny comes out from the kitchen and takes Ross’s hand. As he talks she frowns suddenly and says, ‘I know your voice, don’t I, Ross? Have we met before?’
‘Three years ago. I showed you and your in-laws around when you were in Newcastle.’
Over dinner he tells them about that visit. ‘It was a Monday, right? You drove up from Sydney and arrived at your hotel by the beach about noon.’
Ross stares at Jenny’s face as he speaks, at the sightless eyes, as if willing her to remember. ‘It was a bright sunny winter’s day, kids in wetsuits out in the surf. You’d have seen them from your hotel window.’
Jenny’s brow creases in concentration. She says nothing.
‘I met you in reception and we took my car to one of the restaurants along the harbour. Seafood—the judge wanted seafood. A big bulk carrier came in, the tugs brought it right past in front of us and away to the coal loaders on the far side of the basin. The ship was from Japan I remember, and the judge was interested. He asked lots of questions about the mines and the ships. He seemed to be quite knowledgeable.’
Jenny shakes her head. ‘No, I can’t remember.’
‘After lunch I left you and Mrs Belltree to have a look around town. You went to the museum and the art gallery, did some shopping. I took the judge to the courthouse where he was meeting some of his colleagues, then later back to your hotel. In the evening I picked you all up again and took you to the Newcastle Club, up on the Hill next to the cathedral. The Law Society had put on a dinner in the judge’s honour. He told me you’d get a cab back, but the next day he mentioned that you’d walked—it wasn’t far.
‘So, Tuesday morning. I came to the hotel about eight. There had been some doubt about whether you’d spend one night or two here, but the judge had finished his business and decided to leave straight away for Armidale. The scenic road across country on Thunderbolt’s Way. We talked about the best route to Gloucester, and you all set off.’
‘But hang on,’ Harry says. ‘The crash happened on Wednesday, didn’t it?’
‘That’s right. We assume they decided to stop overnight in Gloucester, then set off early the next morning. There were patches of fog on the road, and it was wet, it rained during the night—that always makes the bends tricky.’
Harry thinks back to that time, the first news coming in and the shock that left him numb and unthinking—despite all his years dealing with sudden catastrophes in the police, and before that the army. Later he went to the scene and talked to the investigating team; he never questioned the timeline, or that extra day.
‘Do we know what they did in Gloucester? Where they stayed?’
‘Well, there were inquiries, but I don’t think we ever found out. Didn’t seem like an issue. The point was they were on the road by seven the next morning and crashed some time between seven-twenty and seven-thirty.’
‘We should go back there, take another look,’ Harry says. He feels the pressure of Jenny’s fingers on his hand. That word look. ‘I mean, if you can recognise Ross’s voice now, maybe other things will come back to you.’
‘It is changed a bit,’ Ross says. ‘They resurfaced some sections of the road, built crash barriers on the bends like the coroner recommended.’
They move on to other subjects. Ross has become relaxed and open, a different person from the one Harry has been working with. He lives out at Kotara, he tells them, in the house where he brought up a family, too big for him now, alone.
When it’s time to leave, Harry shows Ross to the door. He turns and whispers, ‘Is she pregnant, Harry?’
‘Yes. Four months.’
‘Your first?’
Harry nods.
‘Magic,’ Ross says, wistful. ‘You look after her, son.’
4
When Ross has gone and the house is quiet, Jenny lies awake for a while, Harry in the bed on one side of her, Felecia on the floor on the other.
The dog has been a revelation. Jenny wonders now if she could have managed the change without her. Felecia is two distinct characters. At home she is a happy puppy, playful, teasing, a friend. But when Jenny picks up her harness she instantly focuses and becomes a responsible adult. She puts her head into the loop, waits for Jenny to fasten it, then goes to work. Aided by an audio sat nav, they have together explored every corner of this new world, from the Fishermen’s Co-op on Throsby Basin to the rail yards of Port Waratah. They’ve trodden and memorised the layout of every lane and shop and open space. They know each corner’s distinctive combination of smells—salt water, coffee, diesel, frangipani blossom, beer, pizza—and its sounds, from the rumble of the coal trains to music coming through the open window of a pub. And they have met the people, including their neighbours, a young newlywed couple on one side and an old ex-steelworker on the other.
Already Jenny has grown fond of this place, and finding her way around somewhere she has never seen has given her confidence. She feels for the first time that she has come to terms with her new self, no longer opening her eyes each morning hoping to see light. And while she knows that Harry feels they have been banished here and sent into limbo, she is grateful that it has taken him away from the turmoil in Sydney. The problem is that it has brought them closer to the scene of the disaster of three years ago, when their lives changed forever. And ever since they arrived here she has been dreading what finally occurred tonight. From the moment she heard Ross’s voice the past came back to her in an overwhelming wave. The whole time he was talking she felt nausea and dread, as if she could hear the shuffle of something terrib
le coming closer.
5
‘You were a hotshot homicide star, weren’t you, Belltree?’ Fogarty barks.
‘Boss.’
‘Well, here’s your chance to shine. Get hold of Ross and go out to Ash Island. Somebody’s found a body.’
They drive out of the city towards Hexham and turn off at the McDonald’s onto a narrow concrete bridge across the south arm of the river. On the far side they pass through a belt of mangroves growing along the mudflats of the river’s edge and emerge into the sudden empty silence of Ash Island. The sat nav goes blank, a white line twisting across empty space. Ross flicks open a battered old Gregory’s and gives directions.
They pass signs for the Kooragang Wetland Rehabilitation Project and an area of new boardwalks and visitor information panels. Then these indications of recent activity vanish and the metalled road ends. Now the road is a dirt causeway across the salt marsh, barely higher than the still dark waters on either side. They pass through a belt of trees, casuarinas and paperbarks, with mangroves beyond in the salty margins, then back out into bleak open marshland.
Eventually they catch distant views across a wide black lagoon to the yellow and orange superstructures of the giant loaders working on the coal stockpiles over at the port. Ahead of them is another copse of sparse trees, and two uniforms next to a police truck, unrolling tape to establish a crime scene perimeter.
They park and walk over to them. Ross says, ‘What ya got?’
One of the GDs points to the grass at the edge of the lake. From among the tufts and muddy clumps a dirty white hand sticks up into the air. ‘Looks like a body, sarge.’
‘Certainly does. Who called it in?’
The officer points to a solitary figure standing beside a four-wheel-drive at the end of the track, a young man in green boots, his sleeves rolled up. As they walk over to him they see black mud on his arms and boots, a long-handled shovel leaning against the side of his 4WD.
Ash Island Page 2
