by N. R. Walker
August looked at Porter then and studied his face. His kind dark eyes, his always-smiling lips, those damn freckles. “I like that. How you said it’s their dream, not yours.” He took a sip of his drink. “Your mum seems lovely, by the way.”
“What about you?” Porter asked. “You got family?”
August almost flinched at the question. He hadn’t been expecting Porter to ask anything remotely personal, despite him being privy to the conversation about Christopher, and August had met his mother, so maybe it was a natural conversational progression. Maybe August was just really out of practice. “Uh, not really. They didn’t really approve of my non-religious, non-academia, non-hetero lifestyle.”
Porter’s face fell. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He reached over and gave August’s hand a squeeze and kept his hand there, which was completely unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. “I’m sorry they treated you that way.”
“Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the gay thing. Maybe having an atheist cop for a son was the final straw,” August joked. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Though I’m pretty sure it was the fact my old man caught me on my knees in front of the plumber who was supposed to be fixing the pipes.”
Porter laughed. “Holy shit. I hope there wasn’t a call-out fee.”
Now it was August who burst out laughing, just as Mrs Porter brought out two home-baked pies. He pulled his hand away and reached for his drink, embarrassed. August ignored the curious look she gave her son, and she thankfully rescued the awkwardness. “The Porters’ famous beef and Guinness potpie.” She looked between the two of them, clearly trying to gauge what she’d missed. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Porter said, giving her a smile, but his eyes said thanks, but you can leave now.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said, standing there for a beat too long before walking back to the bar.
Porter pointed his fork to the plates. “My dad’s special recipe. He’s won awards for this pie. Two years in a row.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s just the Tallowwood Annual Fete Day, so it’s no big food critic magazine or anything.”
“The Tallowwood Annual Fete Day,” August repeated. “That’s not the same event as the cake brawl between the two octogenarians, was it?”
Porter chuckled. “No. We have two different annual events here.” Then he put his fork in his pie and lifted the lid so steam could billow out. He’d obviously done this before. “The top of the pie is a potato thing with cheese, but Dad makes it thin so it’s crispy. And given the morning you’ve had, I figured some comfort food was in order.”
“Comfort food?” August asked, lifting the lid of the pie as Porter had done.
Jacob took a mouthful and smiled as he chewed, but there was a glazed look of bliss in his eyes. “Oh yeah. Comfort, definitely.”
The inside of the pie was a rich, meaty mixture that smelt really good. August took a small mouthful, and yeah, it was everything Porter said it would be. And August didn’t know how hungry he was until he was halfway through and realised he hadn’t even drawn a breath. He made himself put his fork down and take a sip of his drink.
“How is it?” Porter asked.
“Amazing.”
He grinned and dabbed his mouth with his serviette. “Glad you like it.”
“And your dad made it?”
“Yeah. Dad’s the cook. He’s always cooked. Mum was never great at it,” he said, looking over toward the bar. “Christ, don’t tell her I said that.”
August smiled. “Thank you. This morning was rough. I lost my shit at Nina and Bartlett, which I’m sorry you had to witness. And it’s cold and miserable outside. This pie is just what I needed.”
“You’re welcome.” He sipped his Diet Coke. “So, tell me. What’s our plan of attack for this afternoon?”
“Well.” August took out his notepad and read through the list he’d written in the car. “We need to track down the two friends Perry Ahern was with the night he died. I want to see his missing person’s report. I want to go back to the reserve where the bodies were found. And I want to look at the dam you mentioned. If it’s more popular with campers during summer, it could be worth a look.”
“You think the killer holidayed here?”
“Maybe. It was summer.”
He took his phone out and frowned at it. “I was hoping I’d have heard about the second body by now.”
August took another mouthful and grimaced. “Well, after my little outburst earlier and you agreeing with me, there’s a good chance all information might go through your office instead of directly to you.”
Porter frowned. “Would Nina do that?”
“Probably not. But Bartlett would.”
Porter stabbed a chunk of meat and shoved it in his mouth as he pressed a number in his Recents and put his phone to his ear. “Yeah, hi, Deans, it’s me. Anything come into the office for me today? Any reports on forensics or evidence?” He listened to whatever Constable Deans said. “Where’s Hirsch? . . . Yeah, thanks. We’re gonna head back out to the scene but we’ll call back in after, around two or three. . . . Need us to bring you something to eat first? . . . Sure? Okay, we’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Nothing?” August asked as Porter slid his phone onto the table.
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
August took another bite of his lunch. It wasn’t finished, but he was. “I was serious when I said I wanted you to look at the other cases,” he said. “I know you said I could shove Sydney, or kindly shove it, I believe were your exact words. But we need to be there if we’re going to go over these cases and see what evidence samples we can track down and have re-examined. I want to go over everything now we have more information, to see if there’s anything that stands out. Maybe you could see something I’ve missed.”
Porter smiled. “Do you really think that’s possible? You’re the Detective August Shaw.”
“You found the remains of a body by spotting a tree in a forest,” August said. “The Detective August Shaw would never have seen that.”
Porter smiled and threw his serviette into his almost-finished lunch and pushed the plate away. “I’ll have to run it past Hirsch first. How long do you reckon it’ll take?”
“Not sure. We’ll have access to the bigger labs and more tech down there, so it should be faster. A few days at least.”
“Do you need to run it past your boss?” he asked.
August sighed. “Probably. I’ll put a call in this afternoon and report in. But I kind of keep to myself and everyone lets me do my thing. If I hadn’t told him I was coming here, he probably wouldn’t have even known.”
Porter snorted. “God. That sounds like a vacation. I have Hirsch on my back every second. I’m surprised he hasn’t been calling me all day.”
“Did Constable Deans say where he was?”
“He went back out to the crime scene. Apparently to snoopervise all the other cops in his jurisdiction.”
August chuckled. “He’s not a fan, is he?”
“He’s not a fan of much.” Then he sighed. “Actually, he’s not that bad. He’s been pretty good to me over the years. He just doesn’t like it when people get murdered in his town.”
“Fair enough,” August conceded. “Suppose we should get back out there. But thanks for lunch. You were right. It was just what I needed.”
Just then, a man came to the table. He was an Aboriginal man, wearing a chef’s uniform with a black apron and tea towel sticking out of his back pocket. He was tall and of a stocky build, with a wide smile, and there was a splatter of freckles across his nose. He was an exact replica of Porter, just older. He put his hand on Porter’s shoulder. “So, Son, was this a work lunch or a lunch date? You bring him here to impress him with my cooking?”
Jacob Porter gawped, then blushed a rich pink. “Dad!”
The man laughed. “Just kidding. Your mother already told me it was work; I was just taking the piss.”
>
August laughed and stood. He extended his hand. “Mr Porter, I take it. August Shaw, and yes, work lunch. Which I’m told we have you to thank for. It was delicious, thank you.”
He shook August’s hand, his grip strong and warm. “Nice to meet you. But please, call me Rick.”
Porter slowly got to his feet. “Sorry, my dad’s other job is a stand-up comedian. Well, it would be, but his jokes are never funny.”
Rick collected the plates and was still chuckling as he walked off to another table to chat with customers. “I’m sorry about that,” Porter said.
August looked to Porter, to the still-pink flush on his cheeks and to the freckles across the bridge of his nose, and August forgot what he was about to say. He could almost imagine running his thumb across those heated cheeks . . .
“Yeah,” Porter added, clearly uncomfortable. “That was embarrassing and unprofessional, and my dad doesn’t really have a filter, so . . .”
“No, it’s fine,” August answered. “It was kind of funny. Well, maybe not the joke, but your reaction was.”
He laughed, and his blush deepened a little. “Bloody dad jokes. Should be a federal offence.”
“I dunno,” August mused, staring at him. “I like it.” Then he realised what he’d just said. Fuck! Now it was him who blushed. “Liked it, the joke, I mean. And the fact that your dad jokes with you about dating guys. That’s a good thing, right?”
Porter studied August for a long second. “Yeah, I guess.” Then he took his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged into it. “Well, we can head up to the dam now if you want, and I should probably track down Hirsch and ask him if I can get some approved time.”
August put on his coat and paid for lunch, and as they walked out, Mrs Porter called out from behind the bar. “Jake?” She came out with a brown paper bag and shoved it into his hands. “For later, if you don’t get time for tea. Oh, will you be at footy training tonight? I can tell Davo when he comes in.”
“I’ll try,” he replied. “Not sure though. He’ll understand. Thanks for this.” He looked into the paper bag. “Does Dad know you took these?”
“Oh shush,” she said, shoving him toward the door. “Be safe, love.”
“Thanks, Mum.” Porter held the door open for August, who was smiling as he walked out. He was still smiling as they got into the Patrol. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” August replied, but he was still smirking. “Just the whole small-town thing. Your parents own the pub, your mum gives you food to take home, everyone knows who you are, a man called Davo needs to be informed about training attendance, and an old guy named Bluey has a dog that digs up his neighbours’ tomatoes.”
Porter handed the brown paper bag to August, started the engine, and shook his head. “You’re totally taking the piss.”
August shook his head, still smiling. The funny thing was, he wasn’t. As much as August thought he’d have hated every second of small-town life, there was something personal about it that intrigued him, like the pulling of a loose thread. It was something that shouldn’t have appealed to him at all, being on a first-name basis with everyone, knowing everyone else’s business and having them know yours, but it felt nice to August. It was almost kind, and after he’d spent so long avoiding every single thing small-town life provided, he had to wonder what he’d deprived himself of.
There was a joy in the simplicity.
He looked in the paper bag Porter’s mum had given him to find what looked like small, homemade bread rolls. They smelt good, but knowing Porter’s mum had taken them to ensure her son looked after himself gave August a pang of loss. August’s mother couldn’t have cared less if August was hungry or not. It seemed to August that Porter had everything he didn’t.
As they drove out of town and further up into the forested mountain, surrounded by greenery and silence, he said, “If I told you I wasn’t taking the piss at all, would you believe me?”
Porter looked over at him and seemed to consider his answer for a second. “What? A city bloke like you? Nope. Not a chance.”
Chapter Ten
August Shaw was a difficult man to read. He was grumpy, his resting bitch face was on fucking point, and when he’d yelled at Bartlett and pointed his finger at him earlier that day, Jake thought August was about to rip Bartlett limb from limb. He was gruff, he grumbled under his breath a lot, and he had a stare that could cut glass.
But then he was kind and compassionate with Mrs Ahern, he’d smiled all polite-like with Jacob’s mum, and he’d laughed at Jacob’s dad’s terrible joke. His smile, with which he didn’t grace the world too often, transformed his whole face. He became younger, like he didn’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, like he hadn’t seen one too many murders to come back from.
And August’s laugh?
It was a deep, rumbly sound, but it was also a little quirky, and it told Jake there had once been a different August Shaw to the man he was now. Perhaps he’d once been carefree, and maybe he used to laugh a lot. It was the kind of laugh that would have made other people laugh and smile, just like it made Jake smile. And it stirred something in his chest, which was ridiculous and something he was totally unprepared for.
But there was also something profoundly sad about August. As if something was broken and he didn’t know how to fix himself. Jacob had never been the ‘let me fix you’ type of guy, but he wouldn’t mind giving it a shot with August. Which made no sense, given Jake didn’t even really know August. Plus, he lived seven hundred kilometres away. He was a city cop, a tough detective who had a reputation for being prickly or just a straight up prick. And Jake had always turned his eye to the younger, outdoorsy types, good for a laugh, good for sex.
If Jake had met August in a bar somewhere, sure he would have found him attractive—Jake wasn’t blind—but maybe he wouldn’t have been too interested. Now, after spending two days with him, he found himself very interested. He wanted to know more.
August was only twelve years older than Jake, but those twelve years, whatever had happened to him, felt like twenty-five. August seemed to have lived two lifetimes, all that wear and tear and emotional erosion had worn him down. Jake wanted to know what it was, what had happened. What had dulled the light in August’s eyes?
Bartlett had said a name that struck a nerve with August. The name was Christopher. It was like a stone striking flint. One word and August’s anger and defensiveness ignited. But then August had said Christopher didn’t kill himself. He’d said something like ‘they didn’t commit suicide. Neither did Christopher’ and his voice had broken with emotion. Was Christopher one of the cold cases? Why did August feel so strongly about that case in particular?
Jake was intrigued and curious, yes. But he wasn’t stupid or brave enough to ask outright though.
He was looking forward to going to Sydney with him. Another few more days and he might get a tiny insight into what made the man tick. Well, only if Hirsch gave him the green light to go. That wasn’t looking too likely, Jake had to admit. All he could do was ask and hope his boss agreed.
There was a cop standing by a police vehicle at the driveway entrance to the reserve, and Jake slowed the Patrol down and pressed his window button. He recognised the officer, a constable from Coffs. “Hey, McNeill,” Porter said. “Much traffic?”
“Hey, Jake. Nah, not much traffic at all,” he replied. “They put it over the radio that they were doing powerline work or something. Cold weather keeps most folks away. The sane ones, anyway.”
Jake smiled, but then he nodded down the dirt road to the crime scene. “Many still here?”
“A few teams,” he replied. “Some have gone, but they’re still combing the vicinity around the other two graves. That forest is pretty unforgiving.”
Jake gave a nod. “Sure is.” Then he asked, “Hirsch and Kenny still here?”
“No, they left about an hour ago. Commander Kenny said I had to stay here until the last team leaves and lock
the gate behind me. Said they were heading back to HQ.” He shrugged. “Figured it was lunch time.”
Jake took the paper bag from August and handed McNeill a bread roll. “My dad baked it fresh this morning.”
“Oh, thanks!” The younger cop smiled as though his whole day had been made.
Jake waved him off as he let the Patrol roll through the driveway. He wound his window up and slowly drove down the road toward the site where the bodies had been found. As they rounded the corner, there were a few vans and marked police vehicles, but Hirsch’s and Commander Kenny’s cars were definitely not there.
“Dunno why Hirsch didn’t tell Deans he was headed into Coffs,” Porter noted. He slowed down to a crawl, waved to another cop, and wound his window down again. “Hey, Vulic,” he said by way of greeting. “Anyone find anything new this morning?”
“Hey, Porter. No,” she answered. “Nothing. Heard you discovered a body by identifying a type of tree. Impressive.”
Jacob grinned but played it down. “Yeah. Tree spotting is a pastime of mine. Hey, did Commander Kenny and Hirsch say when they’d be back?”
She eyed August for a second, then looked back to Jacob. She was clearly weighing up whether to say something or not. “What is it?” Jacob prompted.
“Well,” she began, her lips twitching into a smile. “Hirsch yelled at Commander Kenny before they left. Most of us heard it. It was . . . weird.”
Jacob couldn’t hide his surprise. “He yelled at him?”
She nodded, smiling. “Made everyone stop and look, that’s for sure.”
“What did he say?”
“Didn’t hear the whole conversation. Just what Hirsch yelled. It was something about the media. ‘You want every news channel up here?’” she imitated Hirsch’s voice. “I thought the Commander was gonna lose it, but he kept calm enough. He said it was a conversation they could continue in his office in town.”
“Holy shit,” Jacob said.
“Yeah, so you might want to avoid your boss for the rest of the day. I’d say he’s getting himself ripped a new one right about now.”
