‘I’ve no idea whether her husband was a brain surgeon or a toilet cleaner, and there probably won’t be anyone with the name Fenning on their books anyway, assuming Donna’s name was false. It was just a thought.’
Kelly trawls the shops at the Westfield while Wendy keeps her appointment. She’s having coffee when Wendy rings to say she’s finished. She drives back to the hospital and picks up her flatmate at the entrance. Wendy hands her a sheet of paper.
‘What’s this?’
‘My cousin works here in admin. There’s no Fennings, but you were kidnapped on the twentieth of July, and rescued on the twenty-second, which would have been when Donna bolted, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, an electrician in the maintenance department called Craig Schaefer quit suddenly on the twenty-second. Home address eleven Mortimer Street.’
‘My God, Wendy, that’s brilliant.’ She scans the sheet. ‘Next of kin, wife. Karen Schaefer.’ She looks at Wendy and feels tears well up in her eyes.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Only you’re smiling. It’s the first time I’ve seen you smiling in four months.’
When she returns to the office, Kelly gets to work on the dozens of databases the newspaper has access to. Eventually she discovers the details of the marriage of Craig Schaefer to Karen Suskind, fifteen years ago at Wyong on the Central Coast, ninety kilometres north of Sydney. Karen’s date of birth is given as 1964. This is followed by a birth certificate for Karen Suskind, in the Mater Hospital in Newcastle, seventy kilometres further north again. Parents David and Donna Suskind of Adamstown in Newcastle. Donna, Kelly thinks, she borrowed her mother’s first name.
Now Kelly does a search for David and Donna Suskind, and finds that Donna died five years ago, also in the Newcastle Mater. They still lived in Adamstown.
She finds some snippets of information about Craig Schaefer, but little on Karen. He has a trade course certificate as an electrical mechanic, and with Karen has occupied a number of rental addresses on the Central Coast and in Sydney. Apart from this job at the hospital, however, dating back twelve months, there is no information on either of them for the past ten years. They appear to have no children.
Kelly relates all this to Wendy when she returns to their flat.
Wendy says, ‘Have you told the cops?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘They weren’t much help before. This time I want to find out as much as I can before anyone goes blundering in.’
‘No,’ Wendy says. ‘You’re enjoying this. You don’t want them to take over.’
It’s true, Kelly thinks. She hasn’t felt this motivated since those terrible days in July.
11
They set off after breakfast the next morning, the three of them, Felecia sitting up in the back seat. Out along the Pacific Highway until they reach the sign for the Bucketts Way to Gloucester. Not much traffic now, and the road hemmed in by bush with glimpses of rural properties scattered among the trees. Finally the landscape opens out and Harry sees the shape of the Bucketts, the range of hills that forms a western wall to the town. He tries to describe their strange humps to Jenny, like a line of craggy dinosaurs silhouetted against the pale blue sky.
They park in the main street of the country town and go for a walk, Harry commenting on things Jenny might remember. A butcher selling local beef, a café with fresh baked pastries, a health food store, a travel agent and bookstore, three pubs. They come to the visitors’ information centre, where a volunteer, a retired man, tells them of the history of goldmining in the area and gives them pamphlets. Local walking trails, B&Bs and other accommodation.
Harry reads their names to Jenny; none of them sounds familiar. When they sit down at a café she shakes her head. ‘It’s no good, Harry. I can’t picture it.’
‘That’s okay,’ he says, trying to sound positive. ‘Don’t try too hard. We just need to be open to the possibility that something will click.’
They set off again, out of town across the Gloucester River and onto Thunderbolt’s Way, named after the bushranger who once roamed the mountains up ahead. The road reaches a tight bend with a sign for a side road to Cackleberry Valley. Harry laughs. ‘Sounds like something out of a kid’s story, Cackleberry Valley.’
‘I’ve been there,’ Jenny says.
He slows and pulls in to the side. ‘You sure?’
‘There’s an egg.’
‘An egg?’
‘A mountain shaped like an egg. Cackleberry Mountain.’
Harry looks out over the fields to the surrounding hills, but can see nothing like that. ‘Well, let’s take a look.’
He turns the car back to the sign and sets off along a narrow twisting branch road across wide paddocks of grazing cattle towards a wooded ridge. Tall trees close in around them. The light of open country dims into the gloom of an ancient forest. Harry slows and winds down the windows. They smell the cool forest air and hear the zip and crack of a whip bird. Jenny has an intent look of concentration on her face, but says nothing.
Ahead of them the tree canopy begins to thin and they rattle across a cattle grid and emerge into open paddocks once again. They pass a sign, Private Property. And there, on the far side of the valley, rising out of a mat of grey-green forest, is the grey dome of a mountain shaped like an egg. Harry pulls over.
‘There it is, Jenny, your Cackleberry Mountain, just as you said.’
‘Can you…can you see horses?’
He looks out across the fields and sees only cattle. ‘Not yet.’
There has been no other traffic on the road. He is about to pull out again, barely glancing at his side mirror, when he catches sight of a car bearing down on them at speed. A yellow sports car, open topped, hurtles past them. Their Corolla rocks in its wake.
‘What was that?’ Jenny says.
‘Sports car, doing at least a hundred.’ He thinks how out of place it looks, diminishing down the road into this silent landscape. ‘Woman in a baseball cap and dark glasses.’
They follow the yellow car deeper into the valley, past stands of eucalypt. Felecia gives a low growl at a mob of kangaroos loping away across a field to their right. Then up ahead Harry notices something red nestled in a copse. As the road curves towards it he makes out the dark verandas of a two-storey homestead crowned by a red iron roof. Beyond it are the white fences of paddocks in which a dozen horses trot. He describes all this to Jenny, who nods. He notices that she’s clutching her fists, breathing a little faster.
As they draw closer to the house Harry sees the yellow convertible parked outside. He pulls up behind it and gets out onto the gravel drive. Looks up at the house, a classic Australian homestead but much larger than he’d imagined from the road. As they stand there a figure comes out of the front doors onto the veranda and emerges into the sunlight. A young woman, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Shirt, jeans and boots; carrying a saddle and a riding helmet.
‘Hello.’ She walks down the steps and comes towards them. ‘Can I help you?’ Her tone is clipped, even abrupt, as if they’re in the wrong place. As she speaks Harry feels Jenny’s fingers squeeze into his arm.
‘Her voice,’ she whispers.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘We’re just exploring. I’ve never been down this way before.’
‘The road ends here. This is private property. Didn’t you see the sign?’
‘Impressive place,’ Harry says. ‘What’s it called?’
The woman straightens her back, hefting the saddle impatiently. ‘Kramfors Homestead. Now, if you don’t mind…’
‘Only my wife has been here before. I think you’ve met her—Jenny Belltree.’
The woman freezes in mid-step and turns to stare at Jenny, at her eyes.
‘You remember her, yes?’
‘I…I don’t think so.’
‘Three and a half years ago. She came here with my parents, Danny and Mary Belltree. When they left here the
y went up onto Thunderbolt’s Way and their car crashed. They were killed, and Jenny lost her sight. You must remember.’
The woman seems at a loss, mouth open, looking from one to the other. Then another woman’s voice, strident, calls from the house, ‘Amber! Hurry up! They’ll be here soon.’
The woman starts. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you. We’ve never met before.’ She turns and hurries away towards the horses’ paddock.
Harry takes a picture of the retreating figure with his phone and another of Kramfors Homestead and the other woman standing at the balcony rail glaring down at them.
When they get back in the car Jenny says, ‘She knew me, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did she deny it? Her voice was so familiar, but in my mind it was…welcoming. Not like today. We were here, Harry. I remember the name, Kramfors. And I don’t think it was just a chance visit.’
‘Okay, we can find out more. Did you recognise the other woman’s voice? She must be about eighty, silver hair, slight build.’
Jenny shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
As they turn back along the road the car is filled suddenly with the loud throb of rotors as a helicopter passes low above them, heading to a landing strip in the field behind the house, where a Land Rover is waiting. Harry pulls in and watches as a figure gets out of the Land Rover and runs across to open the door of the helicopter. Harry takes photos as two men in dark suits emerge, too far away to identify their features.
They return to Thunderbolt’s Way and continue up into the hills of the Great Dividing Range. When they come to the place, Harry almost misses where his parents’ car went off the road. There’s a heavy metal barrier there now, to guard against the steep drop. A little further along the winding route they stop at a layby and get out. But there is nothing in the sighing wind or the growl of traffic or the sight of an eagle wheeling far overhead to awaken any memories. They return to the car and drive on as far as Carson’s Lookout, with its panorama across the broad valley to the hills of the Barrington Tops. Then they turn back.
At Gloucester they return to the visitors’ centre and speak again to the volunteer.
‘Back again? How did it go?’
Harry says, ‘We went into the Cackleberry Valley, saw the homestead out there.’
‘Kramfors? Oh yes. The Nordlunds’ place.’
‘Nordlund? The coalmining people?’
‘That and other things. We’ve got something…’ He begins searching through the racks of pamphlets and finally finds what he’s looking for. ‘This is it.’ He shows them a sketch of the homestead. ‘The Nordlunds have been big pastoralists in this area for four generations. The patriarch was Axel Nordlund. Came over to Western Australia from Sweden as a young man to try his luck in the Kalgoorlie gold rush of the 1890s. Made his fortune there, then heard of new gold finds over here in the Barrington Tops. They never amounted to anything like out west, but Axel bought land in the Cackleberry Valley, turned to farming and built the homestead. His son was Carl, one of the old breed of pastoralists. World War II hero.’
‘We met a young woman, drives a yellow sports.’
‘That would be Amber, Carl’s granddaughter. She runs the estate now.’
Harry thanks him and takes the leaflet, Cattle Kings of Gloucester Shire.
As she pulls on her seat belt, Jenny says, ‘So why did she deny having met me?’
‘Yes, why would she do that?’ He is thinking of the timing. The crash happened at around seven-thirty that morning, and the men who caused it had come up from Sydney. How were they able to ambush them at that time? How did they know where they were? Unless someone from wherever the Belltrees stayed overnight tipped them off the night before, and told them they’d be leaving early the following morning.
‘I think we should check out the hotels and B&Bs anyway,’ he says. ‘You never know. You might recognise another voice.’
So they make a start on the accommodation list that the visitors’ centre provided. None of the staff they speak to in the hotels and motels were working there three years ago, but two of them have records dating back that far, which reveal nothing. None of the B&Bs has changed hands since then, and all of the people they speak to remember the fatal crash on Thunderbolt’s Way. They are all adamant that they would have heard if the victims had stayed in Gloucester the previous night.
When they get home Harry downloads the photos he took and enlarges the picture of the two men in suits emerging from the chopper. The image isn’t clear, but one of them seems familiar. The hair—black, slicked back—reminds him of Nathaniel Horn, the Sydney lawyer of celebrity clients—rich, sporting and criminal. But he could be wrong.
12
Two days later Harry, back at work, goes to see Fogarty.
‘Boss, I wondered if there’s any progress with McGilvray’s complaint against me.’
‘That’s out of our hands, Belltree. I’m sure they’ll let you know when they’re ready. Just be thankful you haven’t been suspended.’ He bends back to his paperwork. ‘Yet.’
‘Only I’ve come across information that he’s involved with a ring extorting money and services from tattoo salons and using them to sell drugs to customers.’
Fogarty looks up slowly. ‘What ring?’
‘I don’t have the names of the others involved. Yet.’
‘How did you come by this information?’
‘I spoke to the owner of the salon where he and his wife are regular customers. They have an arrangement where she gives them five hours’ free work per month, worth a thousand dollars, as protection.’
‘You have this on record, do you?’
‘No, she won’t do that.’
‘Has Ross Bramley been involved in this?’
‘No, just me.’
Fogarty sits back in his big office chair, elbows on the arms, fingers steepled, and contemplates Harry. ‘If you’d been here more than five minutes you’d know that Detective Inspector Colquhoun here commands Strike Force Colyton, tasked specifically with investigating the involvement of outlaw motorcycle gangs and other organised criminal groups in tattoo parlours in our region, and I have no doubt they already know of any such ring, if it exists. More to the point, I’m wondering why an apparently rational officer such as yourself would be carrying out a private investigation into a member of the public who has made a complaint against you. Is it just bloody-mindedness and stupidity? Or are you deliberately trying to bring this command and this office into disrepute?’
‘No, boss.’
‘I shall make a file note of this conversation, Belltree, and record that I have given you a formal warning. Now get out.’
As he leaves Fogarty’s office Harry bumps into Ross, who sees the look on his face.
‘Foggy? Yeah, he’s been in a foul mood. Prof Timson put a strong recommendation in his report on the Chinese sailor, more extensive search of the crime scene, blah blah. They’re sending up specialist forensics from Sydney.’
‘Ah. How about Cheung? Any progress?’
‘Not much. Foggy’s dragging his feet till we confirm the ID. We’ve got CCTV from Marketown. I’ll show you.’
They go to Ross’s desk, where he calls up a video clip of the mall. He points to a group in the crowd. ‘These are the Chinese.’ He zooms in and Harry makes out an orange beanie on one of the heads.
‘That’s him.’
‘Reckon so.’
He skips to another sequence, at the entrance to the centre. The group is examining racks of clothes, but the man in the beanie has moved apart, standing in the doorway of a shop with his right hand to his head.
‘Headache?’
‘Or a phone. There’s nothing after that. The group seems to break up. Some go back inside, some go off across the car park. No more sightings of the beanie.’
When he gets back to his computer, Harry looks up the information recorded on Logan McGilvray’s charge sheet. It provides a landline phone numbe
r, which he notes.
13
Jenny raises her head from the computer and removes her headphones, listening. Felecia has risen from her side and padded out to the hallway, and Jenny can hear the thump of her tail against the wall as the front door creaks open. As Harry makes a fuss of the dog she smells takeaway Chinese from Sammy Lee’s. It’s a relief that he’s home and she can put aside the thing she’s been working on.
She gets to her feet and hugs him and they go together into the kitchen, each trying to sense the other’s mood—what kind of day has it been? As she hears him open the wine and set out two glasses she senses his has been as unsatisfactory as her own.
‘Not for me, thanks.’ She’d love a glass of wine, but hasn’t touched it since she learned she was pregnant.
‘Sorry. Not thinking. Do you mind if I…?’
‘Course not. How was your day?’ she asks.
‘Oh, fine. Nothing much. You?’
She tells him about her computer searches for the Nordlund family.
‘You don’t look happy. Not much to go on?’
‘The opposite—too much. The various Nordlunds have been involved in so many businesses, charities and family complications you could write a book. In fact I wonder why nobody has. But nothing seems to relate to us. Their companies have been involved in litigation from time to time, in the Land and Environment Court, for instance, but nothing that I could find relating to your dad’s cases. Did you ever hear your parents mention their name?’
‘No, never.’
‘But there was that one reference to NRL that we found on Kristich’s hard drive, remember? We thought it must be code for some rugby league player. I looked it up again, an email from Kristich to Nathaniel Horn. Just four words, Chocky will invoice NRL.’
Harry says, ‘Chocky. That was their name for the property developer, wasn’t it? Maram Mansur. So maybe he got some kind of service from NRL. A loan, perhaps.’
‘The Nordlunds have many companies, Nordlund Pastoral, Nordlund Investments and so on. But NRL is mining. What would they have to do with Mansur?’
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