Fresh Blood

by Calder Garret

  ‘Hey, get your hands off him. That’s my job.’

  Behind him, the tired and rusting Mercedes 380 of Doc Phillips had pulled to a halt.

  ‘Where’s O’Reilly?’ the doctor said. ‘Watching the box, I suppose? The man doesn’t change from one year to the next.’

  He opened his boot, pulling out what appeared to be a body bag. He gave the bag a ruffle as he crossed the street.

  ‘Aren’t you going to examine him?’ said Arbor.

  ‘What, here?’ said the doctor. ‘In this heat? No bloody way. Besides, he’s dead, isn’t he? That’s not going to change. No, we need to get him iced up. As quick as. And I’ve got the grandkids up from Perth. I’m not spoiling their holiday for some useless wog. I’ll get to him tomorrow. See if Butch has some room in his cool room for him.’

  ‘You what? Ah, you’re joking, aren’t you? You can’t leave him there.’

  ‘Where else are we going to put him? I’ve got nowhere at the clinic. And knowing O’Reilly, every fridge at the station is chock full of beer. Am I wrong? So go and see Butch. Better still, get him to come and give us a hand. I don’t fancy having a stroke trying to carry the bugger.’

  Arbor considered for a moment, thinking of a better option. But there wasn’t one. He picked up the aprons and entered the butcher’s.

  ‘We won’t be needing these,’ he said. ‘But Doc Phillips was hoping … He was hoping you might have some room in your fridge. Just until tomorrow, eh?’

  The butcher laughed.

  ‘Say what?’ he said. ‘Don’t come the … Danny … Do you want to scare away all my customers? What’s that, Mrs Lloyd? A dozen snaggers and a pound of Paki? Yeah, I can manage that. Just fresh in. Ah, Jesus wept, Danny … Ah, yeah. Whatever. Bring him in.’

  ‘Yeah, about that. Could you give us a hand? It’s the doctor. He’s not the fittest, is he?’

  The butcher donned an apron and threw another to Arbor.

  ‘Here, you don’t want to mess up that lovely new uniform of yours, do you?’ he said. ‘Oh, and, by the way, I hope I’m getting paid for this. Inconvenience money or something.’

  ‘I’ll ask the sarge,’ said Arbor.

  They walked out on Palm Street, which apart from Arbor, the butcher and the doctor, was now a soulless street.

  ‘Where’s my pie?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I sent you for a pie.’

  ‘There’s been a murder, Sarge.’

  ‘Yes, so I heard. Who was it?’

  ‘Rashid. The newsagent.’

  The silence spoke.

  ‘How’s the cricket?’ asked Arbor.

  ‘Not so good,’ said the sergeant. ‘But the Indians are dragging their arses. How’s the daughter?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The daughter. Amira, isn’t it? Lovely little thing, she is. Pretty cut up by now, I’d reckon.’

  Shit. The girl had been nowhere.

  ‘I plain forgot,’ said Arbor.

  ‘Well, you’d better get back down there, hadn’t you?’ said O’Reilly. ‘And have a good look for her. Did you take any happy snaps?’

  ‘Yeah. On my phone.’

  ‘Good boy. Send them to me and I’ll have a gander during the lunch break. Oh, and Arbor …’

  ‘What’s that, Sarge?’

  ‘Take the wagon this time.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  ‘Oh, and Arbor …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t forget my pie.’

  The newsagent’s door was a cluttered mess of notices – ‘Wanted’ ads, ‘For Sale’ ads, notices from the local sports teams seeking players, and the latest bright posters offering the Woman’s Day and the Women’s Weekly. Arbor had to peer between the TV Week and New Idea posters to see in. But the place was in darkness and he could see nothing. He briefly considered breaking the glass, but thought better of it. An open or unsecured door or window might be found around back, out of view of Palm Street. So he squeezed his way past a pair of wheelie bins into the narrow passageway between Rashid’s and the butcher’s.

  As he rounded the corner into the back alley, Arbor could see that the butcher’s door was open. He could hear the old man singing inside, what seemed to be a Waylon Jennings song. But, although he knew his country music, Arbor really wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, Butch was doing it some damage.

  The door to the newsagent’s was solid and deadlocked, seemingly sound, with just a small set of louvre windows above it. Arbor pressed several times. The door didn’t move. Then he looked about for a hiding place for a spare key. No luck. He gave the door a kick. It remained strong. He spied the window. Perhaps, he thought, if he could remove the plates of glass, he might just manage to slide through.

  Both bins were missing wheels, but he managed to drag the fullest and heaviest and push it hard against the door. It wouldn’t be too much trouble, he thought, if he was careful and watched his gammy knee, to get it balanced and use it as a launch pad. Football, he laughed. He could have been a star. He shook the bin several times. It was sturdy enough, he decided. It was going nowhere. Using his arms as levers, he lifted himself onto the lid. Then he climbed slowly, gingerly, to his feet, clutching the brickwork as he rose. Finally, he jumped up and down. Certain the bin was going nowhere, he turned his attention to the louvres.

  ‘Are you having fun up there, Danny?’

  The butcher was taking out some rubbish.

  ‘I’ve got to get in there, Butch,’ Arbor said. ‘There’s no sign of Amira.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ said the butcher. ‘Get down, you stupid bugger. Rashid gave me a set of keys. A while back. He had a memory like a sieve and hated going back home to get them. Hold on. I’ll grab them for you.’

  Paterson dumped his rubbish and returned to his shop.

  Getting up here was easy enough, thought Arbor, but he dreaded the long trip down.

  The storeroom was a dog’s breakfast of boxes, newspapers, magazines, stationery and, of all things, layers of brightly-coloured socks and slippers. Arbor assumed that the socks and slippers had been a winter enterprise for Rashid. It had clearly been an unsuccessful one. He fought his way past the boxes and through the otherwise darkened space towards the strings of beads that marked the entry into the shop proper.

  Part of him, although he prayed against it, expected to find the girl. In what state he didn’t know, but surely dead like her father. He circled the room, peering behind the counter and weaving between the magazine racks to make sure. But he was alone and, as best he could tell, the shop seemed completely undisturbed. There was no sign of the girl and no sign that Rashid’s killer had ever entered the shop. What that told him, he didn’t know. He would stew on it. In the meantime, the glistening cover of a magazine caught his eye. The latest Sports Illustrated. He had been meaning to buy it. He picked it up and flicked through a few pages.

  Too late for Rashid to mind, he thought. But, still, he handled it like stolen porn, furtively, rolling it up tightly and slipping it into his trousers. He would read it later, when this God-awful day was over.

  ‘Amira!’ he called, but all he could see was the changing pattern of the dust in the air. He slipped behind the counter. The computer, he decided, he would leave to someone more qualified. He checked the phone instead. The answering machine was flashing brightly. Four messages. He hit the button.

  Beep.

  ‘Hey, Amira. Where are you? I’m sitting here waiting for you. I’ve been pinging your mobile. I tried calling you, too. But I just got voicemail. So call me, eh? Call me when you get this.’

  Beep.

  ‘Amira, it’s me again. Hoggy? Remember me? Yeah, I’m still waiting. Come on. A promise is a promise. If you think I’m going to sit here for the rest of the day, you’re wrong. Look, call me … Shit, I might as well have not bothered.’

  Beep.

  ‘What the hell is it? Is it your old man? Tell him you’re living in Australia, for shit’s sake. Tell him things are different
here. He should know that by now. Just tell him that, or I’ll sort him out myself.’

  Beep.

  ‘Yeah, Rashid. I’m not sure Amira’s even getting these messages. You’ve probably got her stuck out back or somewhere. But just so’s you know, you can’t keep her locked up forever. Ask her what it is that she wants, you miserable old prick. Or don’t you give a shit, you …?’

  The message trailed off. Just as well, thought Arbor. He hoped that neither Rashid nor his daughter had heard it. If this was the girl’s boyfriend, then God help her. Was he a suspect? Arbor didn’t know. But he had somewhere to start. He didn’t know any Hoggy, but he was sure O’Reilly would. O’Reilly knew everyone.

  A rapping. Arbor could feel eyes on him. More rapping. A girl, no more than sixteen, had her face pressed hard against the glass and was peering in. Arbor ignored her. Probably another nosey schoolkid with too much time on her hands. She rapped again, more urgently. Arbor opened the door.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘What? Yeah, it’s true. Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Jacinta Wallis,’ the girl said. ‘I’m a friend of Amira’s. Is she okay?’

  She was older than Arbor’s first impression, probably eighteen or nineteen, but, still, he didn’t want to frighten her. The truth was, he didn’t know. The Rashid girl might just be on a sleepover, or visiting relatives for the holidays.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure she’s fine,’ said Arbor. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Saturday,’ said Jacinta. ‘We went shopping in Ashby. Is she okay?’

  ‘Yeah, look, I’m sure she is. Listen, this Hoggy bloke, whoever he is. Tell me about him. Are they a thing, are they?’

  Jacinta laughed.

  ‘He wishes. As far as he’s concerned they are. But Amira just tolerates him, I reckon. She knows he’s got something going with one of the Noongar chicks as well. Anyway, she’s got some arranged thing going on with a cousin in Pakistan.’

  ‘And she’s happy with that?’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to mind.’

  Arbor made a mental note. The cousin might also be someone to give some thought to, when he had the time.

  ‘And Hoggy?’ he said. ‘Where’s he at?’

  ‘That’s not his real name,’ said Jacinta. ‘It’s Harry. Harry Hogg. His dad runs a piggery. Can you believe it? Hogg? Pig? Just off the Whitney road. Near that old colonial homestead.’

  ‘Ah, yeah. I know it,’ said Arbor. ‘And what? He lives out there, does he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jacinta. ‘He works there, too.’

  Arbor could see by the way Jacinta was chewing at her thumbnail that the conversation had done little to relieve her anxiety.

  ‘Look, I’m sure Amira’s fine,’ he said. ‘I haven’t found any sign that she’s in any sort of trouble. She’s probably with some rellies or something. But, look. Do me a favour, will you? Can you keep calling her? And if you get through to her, let me know. Better still, get her to call me. Okay?’

  He gave the girl his card.

  ‘You could give me your number as well, if you like,’ he added. ‘Just in case.’

  He passed her a pen and another card. ‘Just write it on the back. Good on you. Look, I’m sure you’ll hear from her. And if you don’t … Well, I’m sure you will.’

  Handled like a pro, thought Arbor. The girl wandered off, her eyes on his card. Arbor pulled the shop door closed and headed for the paddy wagon. He thought twice about calling O’Reilly. No, stuff it, he concluded. The lazy bastard could whistle.

  He stepped into Jack and Jill’s, grabbed a pie and chips for the sergeant and a drink for the road and then pointed the wagon towards the Whitney road.

  Arbor could smell the pig shit a mile away. It was nothing dramatic. It wasn’t some sudden stench that hit him out of the blue. But rather, it was a slowly growing sense that he was up to his nostrils in something, and that something wasn’t nice. He pulled up momentarily and made a rough job of masking his face with a handkerchief. But he knew there was little point. Before long his eyes would be watering. And the flies – the flies would be everywhere. In his ears. Up his nose. And in other places, too.

  Ten minutes out of town he took a left onto the dry scratchy stretch of dirt road that led to the Hogg place. He scowled as the paddy wagon raised a cloud of dust. It was a sure sign. O’Reilly would have him washing it again before morning.

  He let himself through the gate and drove slowly past the house, looking for life. It seemed hardly a house at all, he mused. It was just a tangled mess of fibro and corrugated iron, the type of place where you couldn’t tell where the original structure ended and the extensions began. A chook pen sat to one side and several of the birds ran free. Always in front of the vehicle, thought Arbor. He could see several more seeking shade under the house’s verandah. But there was no sign of human life. He kept driving towards what was clearly the piggery, a large, glistening, and seemingly new edifice a few hundred metres away.

  Closer, as the road became mud, the main pathway for the piggery’s stinking discharge, Arbor could feel the wagon begin to slide. He nursed it alongside the only person in sight, a slouch-hatted, flannel-shirted man. Arbor guessed him to be somewhere in his fifties. He was hard at work on an automatic feeder. Three heelers, two blue, one red, lay at his feet, two asleep, one frantically snapping at flies. Arbor expected some barking, or at least growling, as he approached, but the dogs didn’t move. They were either too hot or too old.

  ‘What’s the little shit done this time?’ said the man as Arbor pulled to a stop. He deliberated before alighting.

  ‘What makes you think he’s done something?’ he said. ‘Mr Hogg, is it?’

  He offered his hand. The man declined, his own hand covered in … something.

  ‘That’s right. Henry,’ said Hogg. ‘I assume you’re after the young bloke? Me and the missus, we hardly ever leave the property.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have heard about Salim Rashid, then?’ said Arbor.

  ‘The Paki?’ said Hogg. ‘No, why? What’s he done?’

  Arbor hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. It might come to Hogg as an unwanted Christmas present.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he said, surprising himself. ‘Murdered. Left gutted like a lamb outside his shop.’

  Hogg didn’t stop working.

  ‘The girl. His daughter, Amira,’ Arbor continued. ‘She can’t be found. We thought Harry might have seen her. We heard he’s been seeing a bit of her.’

  ‘The right bits, I hope,’ Hogg said. ‘Yeah, well. I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask him for yourself.’

  ‘And is he around?’

  Hogg looked up for a moment and offered an Aussie salute.

  ‘You might say that,’ he said. ‘He’s up finishing off the top paddocks. You can wait for him if you like. He shouldn’t be long. But don’t sweat it. You don’t have to hang around here. Go down and see the missus. Tell her to put the kettle on. Tell her to lay out the Victoria sponge. I’ll be in shortly.’

  A golden orb spider had made its home at one end of the verandah, its fine mesh snare stretching across beams, supports and the full height of the house. It was clearly the Hoggs’ answer, an environmentally sound one at that, to the plague of flies. A large, fat, ginger moggy, no smaller than a pit bull, sat on the threadbare couch. It eyeballed Arbor for a moment, full of disdain, then resumed licking its paws. This, Arbor surmised, was the solution to a plague of a different kind.

  He knocked on the screen door. He wondered why they bothered with it. It was full of holes.

  He didn’t wait long. Mrs Hogg, a plump, jolly-faced woman a few years younger than her husband, came out of the shadows. At a glance, Arbor could sense her warmth, a welcome change to her husband.

  ‘Come in, love,’ she said. ‘Henry rang and told me you were coming. I’ve put the kettle on. Come on. Come into the kitchen. It’s a bit cooler in here. It’s been a hell of a
Christmas, hasn’t it? It’s hot enough to … How’s your day been? It must be a nightmare out there, eh?’

  Arbor opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘No, that’s Henry’s. He’s peculiar that way. How do you take it? White and two, I’ll bet. Or are you a coffee man? I can never tell.’

  ‘No, tea’s fine,’ said Arbor.

  He watched as she poured and then slowly turned the pot. He laughed.

  ‘You’re really old school, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I know all the tricks,’ she said. ‘I had a cup earlier that told me a stranger was coming. So, what’s your name, love? We can’t be strangers forever, can we? What are you? A detective?’

  ‘No, I’m uniform, Mrs Hogg. Can’t you see? Just a constable. Arbor. Danny Arbor.’

  ‘Well, nice to meet you, Danny Arbor. Call me Dotty. Everybody does. So what’s your business here, Danny? Here to see Hoggy, are you?’

  ‘You call him that too, do you?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He only gets Harry from his dad. Out on the combine, is he?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what Mr Hogg said. He said he’d be in soon.’

  The woman laughed.

  ‘You might be lucky,’ she said. ‘If he’s nearly finished, he might just keep going.’

  ‘So, what’s he like, then?’ said Arbor. ‘This boy of yours?’

  He felt he could take the chance.

  ‘Hoggy?’ said Dotty. ‘Oh, he’s our darling. He’s a real softy. Especially when it comes to his old mum.’

  ‘And, so, you’ll have met his girlfriend, then?’ said Arbor. ‘Amira? Amira Rashid?’

  The woman seemed perplexed.

  ‘I can’t say I’ve even heard of her,’ she said. ‘Let alone met her. What’s her name?’