‘Amira Rashid.’
The woman gasped.
‘No … Oh, God, no …’ she said. ‘She’s not an Aborigine, is she? … I mean, it’s not that I mind. Really. But Henry. I don’t know what Henry would say. He’s a bit … Oh, God. She’s not, is she?’
‘No,’ said Arbor. ‘She’s Pakistani.’ As if it mattered. He could see the woman thinking.
‘There we go,’ she said, feeling the teapot. ‘That should be ready.’
He watched as she poured the tea, noticing how the little finger of her left hand balanced delicately, with surprising grace, on the lid of the pot.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ she asked. ‘A local?’
‘No, I’m—’
‘From the city,’ said Dotty. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. You’ve just got that air about you.’
He blushed. It seemed she was a better detective than he was.
‘Do you fancy some cake?’ she said. ‘I did a nice sponge for Christmas. There’s some left.’
She opened the fridge and pulled out a tray.
‘I did in all those runts, Dotty,’ Arbor heard as the screen door slammed. ‘I’ve chopped them up for chook feed.’
‘That’s nice, dear,’ said the woman. Arbor listened to the sound of the man washing his hands. He watched as the woman collected a beer can from the fridge, opened it and placed it on the table.
‘Nothing like a bit of bacon to go with your eggs, is there?’ the farmer said as he entered. He settled into his chair and took a long, slow gulp of his beer. He followed it with a burb. For show, Arbor thought.
‘Has she got your life story yet?’ he continued.
‘Yeah, just about,’ Arbor replied.
‘She’s like that, our Dotty,’ said Hogg. ‘She wants to know everything about everyone. Me, I keep myself to myself. Things run a bit smoother that way.’
‘Yeah, I get you,’ said Arbor. He didn’t want to say much himself. The last thing he needed was to get bogged down in this man’s mire.
‘Lovely cake, Mrs Hogg,’ he continued.
‘I told you, Danny. Call me Dotty.’
‘Okay, Dotty.’
‘Dotty by name, dotty by nature,’ said the farmer without expression. Arbor could feel the man’s humourless eyes upon him. He felt a little more respect for Dotty, for her ability to rise above what was obviously a common barb.
‘I might wait in the wagon,’ he said, rising. ‘It’s about time I let the sarge know where I’m at. I’ve been out most of the morning.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Hogg. ‘But it’s a bad day in hell out there. Mind you, the boy shouldn’t be too much longer. It’s certain he’ll be in for his lunch. Eats like a horse, he does.’
‘Could you call him for me?’ asked Arbor. ‘Let him know I’m waiting?’
‘I already have.’
Arbor offered the meekest of smiles to the farmer’s wife.
‘Thanks again for the cake, Dotty,’ he said.
‘You’re very welcome, Danny,’ came the reply. ‘Would you like a slice to go?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t be a nuisance, woman,’ said the farmer.
Arbor made a beeline for the door, for an escape from cake, Dotty and the rising ire of her lord and master.
Nearly an hour had passed before he saw the farm utility approaching in his rear-view mirror. He got out and watched as Hoggy pulled up and greeted the heelers. They bounded around him like urchins seeking alms.
‘Get down, you crazy pricks,’ he said. They did. ‘Hey, cunstable,’ he continued, in a way meant to insult. ‘The old man called me. He said you wanted to see me.’
Yeah, and you made me wait, too, didn’t you, you little shit, Arbor thought to himself. And Hoggy was little. He wasn’t much younger than Arbor, maybe eighteen or twenty, but barely half his size.
‘Did your old man tell you what’s happened?’ said Arbor. ‘Have you seen Amira Rashid?’
‘He told me about the old Paki,’ said the boy. ‘That’s a bummer, eh. But Amira? No. I haven’t seen her since last week. I’ve been out harvesting.’
‘But you left her some messages.’
‘Yeah, well. That was last weekend. We were meant to catch up. It didn’t happen.’
The boy adjusted his crotch, seemingly without shame.
‘I thought I was in there, too,’ he said. ‘If you know what I mean. I thought I’d finally conned her into it.’
‘But you haven’t …? You don’t know anyone who might want to harm her, do you? Or her father?’
‘Nah, I wouldn’t have a clue.’
Pushing the boy further was pointless, thought Arbor. Hoggy was either playing dumb or plain stupid. He couldn’t tell, but he leaned towards the latter.
‘Look, if you do hear from her, you’ll let me know, all right?’ he said, offering his card once again, feeling like he was running around in circles.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Hoggy. He gave the card no more than a glance. ‘Ditto … Danny. Tell her she owes me one.’
He laughed, something base and just a little cruel.
‘Where did you two hang out?’ said Arbor.
‘The pub,’ said Hoggy. ‘Mostly the pub. Amira wasn’t … isn’t a drinker, but she loves to karaoke. And me? I love to drink.’
‘What, there’s you, that Jacinta chick, who else?’
‘Johnno, Nobby. The usual mob.’
‘Any of them worth talking to? Worth looking at? Anyone with an interest in the Rashids?’
‘Nah. Unlikely.’
‘How about in Amira in particular?’
‘Only me,’ said the boy. ‘I’m the only one that likes their meat dark. If you get me?’
‘Yeah, I get you,’ said Arbor, wishing he didn’t. ‘So you’ll call me, then?’ he added, heading for the paddy wagon.
‘Sure thing,’ said Hoggy, slipping Arbor’s card into the back pocket of his jeans.
It would stay there, Arbor considered, until Dotty’s next laundry day.
He was keen to see the back of the Hoggs, so the moment he hit the tar, he put his foot down. That was one of the perks of being a cop. He could floor it and be free and easy about it. If anything got in the way or came at him from the other end, he could flick on the lights and music and fly on by. He was back in town and alongside the station no time.
O’Reilly looked like he hadn’t moved, but, gathering from the number of cans in the bin, he must have pissed Niagara. Several times.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ the sergeant said.
‘Out visiting the Hoggs,’ said Arbor. ‘Young Hoggy … He left some messages on the Rashids’ answering machine.’
‘Uh-huh. And what in God’s name do you call this?’
‘A pie and chips. It’s what you wanted isn’t it?’
‘That was hours ago. And they’re fucking cold. And soggy.’
Arbor threw them into the microwave and gave them a minute.
‘So, what’ve you learned?’ O’Reilly asked.
‘Not much,’ Arbor replied. ‘I thought the Hogg kid might’ve given us something, but it was like talking to a fence post. Thick as shit, he is.’
‘Don’t let the act fool you,’ said O’Reilly. ‘They’re a crafty bunch, the Hoggs. How’s Dotty?’
‘Dotty? Yeah, she’s fine, I guess.’
‘Good root, that one … What? Did you think I was past it?’
If God only, thought Arbor. He’d rather not know. But O’Reilly insisted.
‘Yeah, I’ve had her. Manys a time. A few years go,’ he said. ‘She’d drop into the station while Henry was at his meetings.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Arbor. ‘And what meeting were they?’
‘You know,’ said O’Reilly. ‘The funny ones. Oaths, rituals, regalia, silly handshakes. All that shit. But they wouldn’t let me join, would they? Bastards. Too much Irish in me, I reckon.’
Arbor laugh
ed to himself, imagining O’Reilly done up in all his finery.
‘So, what do we do now?’ he asked, dropping O’Reilly’s meal on a plate. ‘I’m sort of new to this game, remember?’
‘Not much we can do,’ said O’Reilly. ‘I spoke to Doc Phillips. He’ll look at the body tomorrow. And I’ve phoned the city. There’s a couple of Ds coming up. In the meantime, I’m running dry. Nip next door and get me a dozen cans.’
Arbor did as he was told. All in the name of keeping the peace.
The lounge bar was dead. Dead as. Which was lucky. Given the uniform, Arbor didn’t like being seen buying grog. Especially in the middle of the day. He felt sure that the local barflies would be full of judgement, ready to convince themselves that he, the fresh-faced kid from the city, and not O’Reilly, was the one with the drinking problem.
‘A dozen cans. VB,’ he said, as Rusty Piper entered. The man was every bit the publican, Arbor thought. Named Rusty not for his surname, apparently, but rather for his ruddy complexion, Piper was a big man in his forties, with a beer gut that matched anything in town, even O’Reilly’s. He headed for the refrigerator.
‘Bad news about Rashid,’ he said. ‘Have you caught the bugger yet?’
‘Steady on,’ said Arbor. ‘It might take us a day or two. It’s just me doing the work, you know.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it is. Make it an even sixty.’
Christ. Now I’m paying for the old prick’s beer as well, thought Arbor. And at bush prices.
‘Hey, Danny!’ he heard through the doorway at the end of the bar. In the dim light of the back bar, he could just see several men laughing amongst themselves. One was waving to him. It was Nathan Webb. They were neighbours of sorts, in the cluster of public housing on the east side of town.
‘You lot keep it down in there,’ shouted Piper.
‘No, why bother them?’ said Arbor. ‘It’s no skin off my nose.’
‘Please yourself.’
‘In fact …’ Arbor handed Piper another twenty. ‘Stand them one on me,’ he said.
Piper scowled. But Arbor didn’t care. He liked Nathan and felt a small Christmas gesture was not out of place. And Nathan and his friends seemed to appreciate having a friend in uniform. So Rusty Piper be damned.
One thing was for sure. He would have to find something to take himself away from the blaring telly and the shouting Irishman. So he put in his earplugs, chose some music and opened the folder of crime scene photos. O’Reilly didn’t seem to mind. The Indians were settling in for a big knock and, in the heat of the day, their supporters’ song had become just a little calmer and more melodious.
Arbor remembered the crime scene. Neither body nor pavement had shown any sign of blood. The concrete had been hot and grey and the body seemingly milked dry. Given these obvious clues and the lack of any other worthwhile evidence, Arbor made the safe assumption that Rashid’s end had come somewhere else. But why, he wondered, did the killer or killers bother to move his body back to the front of his shop? And what was with the brutal, barbaric method of dispatch? It seemed a strange way of doing things. Almost ritualistic. Was it a sign? Maybe some kind of halal slaughtering technique? If it was, that might offer a connection to other Muslims in the area. But that was unlikely, he thought. There were no other Muslims within cooee of Chatton. Salim Rashid and his daughter were the only ones.
The truth of the matter was, he had absolutely nothing to go on.
He considered the physical evidence, examining closely the pieces of straw he had bagged earlier. It was a common enough find, he thought, in just about any local paddock. It told him little.
‘Did you see his face?’ said O’Reilly. His voice startled Arbor. He was sure the sergeant had no interest. He removed an earphone.
‘How do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Look at the bruises coming up. A sure sign someone bashed the shit out of him. Just before they did him in, I’d reckon.’
Experience counts for something, thought Arbor. He sat back and looked again at the image on the PC. Was it racism? Some elaborate hate crime? Maybe. But perpetrated by someone with more than just an axe to grind. He felt his frustration brewing. In the vacant space that was O’Reilly’s authority, it had happened on his own watch. And, truthfully, he hadn’t a clue.
Arbor had made no more headway by the time O’Reilly told him to pull up stumps and close the station. He did so willingly. It had been a long and exhausting day. But, as he had envisaged, O’Reilly announced that the paddy wagon needed washing and cleaning before morning. So he took it home and, parking it in front of the house, he gave it the once-over with a bucket of suds and then a quick spray with the hose. He left it to dry, hoping that with the bite gone from the afternoon sun, he might avoid any excessive wiping down with the chamois.
There was nothing in the fridge but for a couple of ciders, a few slices of stale bread and a jar of chutney well past its use-by date. The cost of a poorly stocked co-op and of country living in general. Dinner, it seemed, would be the last of the frozen lasagnes he had kept for emergencies. He stabbed the plastic sleeve several times with a fork, gave it five minutes in the microwave, and then helped himself to one of the ciders. Time to ring Mum, he thought, while he waited for the meal. He stepped outside again and sat on the front step, opened his cider and took in the view, an unappealing stretch of bushland and the weathered fibro house that was the home of Nathan Webb and his wife. He could hear loud voices. Nathan, it seemed, had been on the grog all day. He tapped his mother’s number.
‘Hey, love,’ came the answer.
‘Hey, Mum. So, how did it go yesterday?’
‘Oh, it was fabulous. It was a shame you missed it. Your dad did his Bad Santa thing again for the kids. He had them all in stitches.’
‘I’ll bet he did.’
Arbor took a breath, thinking.
‘What’s wrong, love? You sound miserable.’
‘Ah, nothing … Ah, I’ve had a shit of a day, Mum We’ve had a murder.’
‘Oh, you poor thing. Was it …? It wasn’t someone you knew?’
‘No. Not really. Well, sort of, I guess. To say hello to.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. But I suppose it’s all part of the job, love,’ said Mum. ‘I guess it’s something you’ll have to get used to.’
‘Yeah, I guess it is.’
‘Your dad played golf today. The Boxing Day bash at the club. He shot an 84.’
‘That’s good. Now ask him what his real score was.’
There was a pause.
‘He says an 82.’
Arbor laughed.
‘Yeah, that’d be right,’ he said. ‘Tell him I’ll give him some lessons next time I’m down.’
‘And when will that be? We miss you, love.’
‘Yeah … I don’t know. But it’s just the two of us, Mum. And the sarge is such a slack arse. It’s hard to get away.’
‘I understand. Are you eating all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not drinking too much?’
‘No. You know me, Mum.’
‘Yeah, and you know me. I can’t help worrying. Ring me again at New Year, okay? Oh, and thanks for the flowers.’
‘Oh, you got them, then? I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t know what else—’
‘No, they’re lovely. Orchids and everything.’
‘Only the best.’
‘We didn’t know what you wanted. What to get you. So we just got you some smelly. We thought we’d wait and double up on your birthday. Get you something nicer then.’
‘That’s cool.’
‘You’re not twenty-one anymore, son.’
‘No. Don’t remind me. I’m going grey up here, I reckon. And quick. I’ll see you then, Mum. I’ll speak to you later.’
He dragged himself away just as the microwave chimed. He got up and went inside, took out the lasagne and peeled back the sleeve. The food looked disgusting, not unlike a pool of vomit that might litter Palm Street on a Sunday
morning, but at least it would fill a hole. He grabbed the last of the ciders and returned to the step.
Suddenly, a door slammed. Across the street, Nathan Webb was backing down the steps. His wife had thrown him out of the house.
‘Yeah, fuck you, too!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll go to Sean’s!’
He started walking, across their front lawn and down the street. Arbor hesitated, not sure he should say anything. But it didn’t matter. Nathan had noticed him and was walking his way.
‘Hey, again, Nathan,’ Arbor said. ‘Had one too many?’
‘No such thing, Danny,’ said Nathan. ‘Ah, she’s got a short fuse at the best of times. I forgot some family were coming over. Say, you wouldn’t have another one of those, would you?’
Arbor shook his head.
‘No, this is my last.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Nathan continued, sitting. ‘Never mind, I probably have had my fill. What is it you’re drinking, anyway? Ah, Christ. You’re joking, aren’t you? That’s worse than cat piss, that stuff. Hey, I heard about Salim. That was rough.’
Interesting, thought Arbor. It was about the first time he’d heard the man’s first name all day.
‘Yeah, it’s a weird one,’ he said.
He looked at Nathan. He had a thought. It was the kind of thought that was bound to insult. But he had to ask. There was too much at stake not to.
‘Say, Nathan,’ he said. ‘You don’t …?’
‘Don’t what?’ said Nathan.
‘Well, it’s Amira,’ said Arbor. ‘Salim’s daughter. I reckon she might be missing. Lost somewhere. Possibly somewhere outside of town. And I reckon I might need someone to … I mean … Do you …? Hell, Nathan. What I’m saying is … Are you any good at tracking?’
Nathan laughed.
‘Oh, fuck me, Danny,’ he said. ‘And why do you ask that? … Christ, talk about assumptions.’
‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ said Arbor. ‘I know I shouldn’t have. But if it wasn’t for Amira.’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said Nathan.
Arbor felt himself reproached. He waited as the man deliberated.
‘But, hey, look,’ Nathan offered at last. ‘I guess, if you’re desperate, then, yeah. I suppose I might be able to help you. I’m not hopeless. I’ve lived in Chatton since I was little. I know the area pretty well. I know the songlines.’
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