by Simon King
“Small town, Jim.”
“Of course. Geez, I knew it would get around, but that fast?”
“You want me to call you a taxi?”
“No, it’s OK. Think I want to walk. Clear my head a bit.” She laughed as we got out.
“Drop by around 10? We can go through our stuff then.” I nodded as I handed her the keys and bid her farewell, walking slowly along her tree-lined street. Thoughts were running crazy inside my head, memories of victims, the smells, the stresses. All the emotions I had forgotten about had returned in a never-ending rush since that first phone call. And now here I was, back in the same place, hunting for another killer. Or maybe even the same one.
9.
After showering, shaving and finishing all the other normal bathroom rituals, I sat on my bed reading over my notes while waiting for the time to reach 7.30. I had been steadily jotting down bits and pieces ever since we left my home a couple of days before, and the small notepad I always kept in my pocket was beginning to fill at a steady pace. There were bits about the people we’ve spoken to; Clancy and George Bester, Lightman himself, and of course Rademeyer. The victims, their addresses, things I noticed at the crime scenes. The times the coroner believed death had occurred, as well as how they died, although that was probably as clear to you as it was to me. I just couldn’t work out how they didn’t struggle. How there were no defensive wounds on any of them as if they simply had extended their hands out to him and allowed themselves to be tied up. Last time, all the victims had been spread out around Cider Hill and Daylesford, as well as a couple in the surrounding areas. This time, so far at least, they had all been in Cider Hill, and all within a couple of miles of each other. Two of the victims worked together in the same school as teachers. I ran the notes through my head and kept returning to the fingers. I just couldn’t work out why. And neither could anyone twenty years ago.
I was still running this through my head when I noticed the time, 7.20. I decided to head down in case she finished early. I grabbed my jacket and headed out, locking the door behind me. There are some things that city folk will never change.
As I stepped out through the door of the pub, my heart fluttered a little as I saw her standing out on the footpath, leaning against the brick wall of the building. She smiled when she saw me, that same infectious grin I remembered. It lit her entire face up, like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Tami, hey,” I said, waving to her.
“Hi Jim.” I bent down and gave her cheek a light kiss and felt relief when she returned one on mine.
“Did you want to have dinner here?” I asked, pointing at the pub, but she shook her head.
“I work here, Jim, and people are already gossiping. The gossip I can’t help, but their prying eyes I can. You know the saying ‘A small town has big eyes and a matching mouth’” And with that, she took my hand, leading me around to a side street running next to the pub. It was a dark lane that had several small flats on either side. Tami stopped in front of one a couple of hundred yards up, opened the iron gate and waved me inside.
“Come on. I can fix us something tasty.”
10.
Her flat turned out to be a one-bedroom shoebox, a single fireplace in the kitchen the only heating available. It saddened me to see her living like this. Her living room, if you could call it that, had an old worn-out 2- seater sofa made from red vinyl. There was a coffee table that needed a good sanding down and very little else. A small bookshelf adorned one wall, photos filling most of the shelves except for half a dozen books on the top one. To my surprise, I found one of them to be mine. I’m still not sure why, but seeing it, gave me a burst of embarrassment. I think I may have even blushed a little.
“Chops OK?” she asked, sticking her head around the corner as I put my book back on the shelf.
“Chops are perfect,” I said, turning and walking into her kitchen. Tami excused herself for a moment and headed out into the hallway. I could hear her tinkering around in the bathroom, then returned, having replaced her work uniform with pants and jumper, as well as Ugg boots on her feet.
“How have you been?” she asked as she began juggling pots and pans, peeling vegetables and throwing food this way and that. She always had a way in the kitchen, one that I could never compete with.
“I’ve been alright. How about you? How is your dad?” I replied, trying to stay out of her way, a task quite difficult, given the size of the room.
“Dad passed away a few years ago now. The cancer got him.”
“Oh Tami, I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” I said, my cheeks flushing with colour again.
“Thank you, but that’s OK,” she said, her smile never wavering, “he chose to smoke three packs a day. I know they say cigarettes aren’t bad for you, but personally, I doubt anything that smells so bad can be good for your lungs.” The sizzle that came from the thick frying pan as she dropped a number of lamb chops into it, sounded both sweet and satisfying, the aroma filling the room almost instantly. There has always been something about the smell of frying meat that I loved. It reminded me of home. I noticed something tickling the back of my mind, trying to let itself be seen, almost like a distant thought that was fighting to come out from the murkiness. I tried to pull it forward, but it wouldn’t come. Was it some memory I had about frying meat? I wasn’t sure and let it go, resisting its pull.
We ate in her living room, sitting on the sofa chairs with our plates in our laps. It was the way we used to eat our meals when we were still seeing each other, a long time ago. The lamb chops were seasoned with a sprinkle of salt, pepper and paprika. There was also a hint of lemon which really set them off. The potatoes were boiled and served with a generous dollop of butter and the vegie portion consisted of peas, corn and sliced carrots. It wasn’t what you would call fine dining, but for what it’s worth, I really enjoyed it. Tami’s cooking always had a way of satisfying my tastebuds.
“How’s your Mum?” she asked as she picked up a chop. That’s something I always found attractive about her. She was never one for elegance. She said it how it was and played it how it played. No glitter or camouflage. She took a bite from the meat then wiped lamb fat from her chin.
“She’s good, thanks. Had a touch of the flu last year but she pulled through. Other than that, all good.”
“Did you ever marry?”
“No, never found the right one,” I said as I shovelled a load of peas in. “Did you?” Her eyes seemed to glimmer for a moment, then she looked into the fire burning in the next room.
“No, marriage was never going to be my thing. Not much of a housewife, I’m afraid.” I put my fork down, then lowered the plate onto my lap.
“What ever happened to us, Tam?” I said and watched her recoil a little. Although we had a slight history, there could have been a lot more. A tear rolled down her cheek, paused, then dropped into her lap.
“The nightmares won’t go away, Jim. They, just seem to change,” she cried. I could see her fighting them but the tears began to fall harder, her words choking in her throat. I set my plate aside and went to her, kneeling on the floor before her. She didn’t resist as I put my arms around her, hugging her tight. After a moment, she returned the hug, holding me so tight that breathing became difficult.
“I’m sorry, Tami. I really am. I wish I had stayed. I hope you can forgive me. I just couldn’t.” When she managed to regain some composure, Tami looked into my eyes for a long time.
“I do understand, Jim. I’m probably the only one that truly does understand why you left, and I don’t blame you.” And then she lowered her head on my shoulder and held me close.
11.
It was a little before 10 by the time I left Tami’s. I felt happy that we managed to talk and finally settle the questions that had been left unanswered for all those years. We talked for a solid two hours, discussing everything we had carried with us for all that time. The why’s, the when’s and most importantly the questions that we wanted answered but were
always too afraid to ask. There was no animosity, no guilt. In the end, we agreed that we would let the past remain where it was and take things one day at a time. When it came time for me to leave, she had walked me to the door and then without warning, had leaned in and kissed me. It was a long and lustful kiss, from both of us. I still found her incredibly attractive and my emotions that had awoken when I first bumped into her were now burning brightly.
“How was it?” Steph asked as she opened the door for me, her grin signalling her desire for gossip.
“It was good to catch up. Any news?” She looked at me a moment longer, then realized I wasn’t about to give her any. Gossip was not one of my strong suits.
“Two crews were door knocking most of the day and didn’t get a single lead. Nothing. No one heard anything nor saw anything.”
“Did you manage to get any more out of the box from the prison?”
“Actually, I did. I found out about Jeremy Winters.”
“Who’s Jeremy Winters?” I asked, the name not registering any sort of recognition.
“Jeremy Winters was a prison officer at Crab Apple in the late 40s.”
“OK?” I said, still unsure of where she was heading.
“Jeremy used to have a sister, Veronica. Veronica met a soldier called Brian Smith when she was 19. They married a year later, Veronica Winters becoming,” she paused, waving a hand back and forth, waiting for me to register the name.
“Holy shit, Veronica Smith?” I finished for her, recognition washing over me, not in a good way but rather like steel wool being dragged over my naked skin. A picture of a dead girl, naked and tied to a tree stump, slammed to the forefront of my brain.
“He worked at Crab Apple?” I asked.
“He sure did. Then, in 1949, he was fired.”
“Does it say why?” But she shook her head.
“No reason given.”
“Do we know where Jeremy Winters is now?” Her face grew a faint smile, her teeth slightly bared, as if happy to reveal a dark secret she just learned herself.
“He’s a barber in Geelong. I dropped by and visited his mother. She still lives in town, volunteering at the local Salvation Army store.”
“Wow, nice job, officer, I’m impressed.”
“So, when do you want to go and pay Mr. Winters a visit?”
Chapter 5: Clues and No Clues
1.
We set out early the next morning in Steph’s Holden. It was agreed that I would start the drive and Steph could catch a few more z’s if she was able to. If we made good time, we would reach the barber shop before it opened for business, hopefully giving us a window of opportunity to talk to the man without interruption. Steph tuned the radio to 3BA, a Ballarat station, and although fuzzy at times, the tunes still sounded alright. The Penguins were mid-way through singing ‘Earth Angel’, when I heard the faint confirmation of sleep as Steph’s snores drifted to me.
I negotiated the twists and turns of the road, quietly steering us towards our destination. The road was almost completely deserted, not seeing another car until we were well into our journey. By the time the first car passed us, the sun had been in the sky for almost forty minutes.
The streets in Geelong proved to be almost as deserted as the roads that led us to it. The Little Barber Shop sat on the corner of Ryrie and Bellarine Streets, although this morning it looked far from the shopping metropolis it would be in an hour or so. I pulled the FX into a parking spot a couple of doors down from the barber shop. I wanted us to give the man a soft welcome instead of a full-frontal assault. I gave Steph a gentle shake and she grunted once, mumbled something then closed her eyes again. I saw a café a few doors down and decided to go in search of a couple of coffees, instead.
I returned a few minutes later, two coffees and two croissants in hand. I tapped on the passenger side window and when Steph opened her eyes, waved my goods in front of her. She smiled her toothy grin, wound her window down and thanked me for breakfast. I walked back around to the driver’s door and sat inside, eating hungrily. I had almost finished the croissant when a burgundy Morris Minor stopped in front of the barber shop and a man wearing a white overcoat climbed out. I nudged Steph who was looking down the other street while sipping her coffee. She looked, winced then nodded her head.
“Looks like our man has arrived,” she said. I nodded as we both got out and walked slowly towards the shop, the man now unlocking the front door. He was about to open it when Steph spoke.
“Mr. Winter?” The man turned, looking surprised.
“Yes?” he said, giving the uniformed police woman the once over.
“Sir, I’m Stephanie Connor from Cider Hill Police Station. I was wondering if you had a few minutes?” He looked a little puzzled but nodded.
“Of course, Officer. May I ask what this is regarding?”
2.
Mr. Winter took us through to the back of his shop where a small kitchenette sat. He made a jug of tea as he invited us to sit at the small table. His face had grown grey and bleak in the space of a couple of minutes, changing as soon as he heard the name of his long dead sister, the memories visibly returning to him instantly. I thought I saw his hand shaking as he filled the jug and placed it on the small gas burner.
“We appreciate your time, Mr. Winters. It’s important we ask you some questions and I do apologize if it brings back painful memories. We need to get to the bottom of these new murders.” Steph spoke with an emphatic voice and I was glad that I had been partnered with a woman. A feminine touch in these situations would always make it so much easier on the person questioned.
“Please, call me Jeremy,” he said, not looking up as he prepared the cups. He looked older than 55, a trait I had noticed with nearly everyone involved in this case throughout the years. “You’re the one who caught him, aren’t you?” he said handing me a cup. It smelled majestic, rich with a hint of lemon.
“Yes, Sir, I was there that night.”
“I remember seeing you during the trial. I was there every single day. And every single day he failed to meet my eyes, always looking down at his hands.”
“Jeremy, is it true that you worked at Crab Apple?” Steph asked as he handed her a cup.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did no one ever question you regarding your relationship to one of Lightman’s victims?”
“They didn’t know I was related. Veronica had taken the surname of Brian and I waited a few of years before applying. By the time I was given access to him, Harry Lightman was well and truly old news.” Steph took a sip then set her cup down as she spoke.
“May I ask why? Why would you want to work there? Close to him?” I didn’t think I needed to hear his answer, knowing what his objective was.
“I wanted to look into his eyes. I wanted to tell him who I was and look into his eyes. I thought that if I could do that, I would know.”
“Know what?” I asked.
“Whether he really killed her, of course.” Jeremy took a packet of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, offered us one, which Steph accepted, then lit both with a match.
“Our parents died years before, our father during the great war, our mother shortly after. I still believe Mum died from a broken heart. They were always close, my parents. When Dad was killed during the Gallipoli landings, my mother took it very hard. She withdrew into a shell no one could break her from. I took care of Veronica. She was four years younger than I was.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, held the smoke within him for an impossibly long time, then expelled it slowly. I took another sip, waiting for him to continue.
“When she died, I vowed revenge, as anyone would, I’m sure. But for me, he had only added to the misery that had followed my family for such a long time. I sometimes think about what her final thoughts must have been. How terrified she must have been.” Tears began to run down his cheeks. He took another drag and regained control of his emotions.
“Take your time, please,” Steph said quietl
y.
“I wanted to wait long enough so that people would forget. They always forget. Give someone enough time and the things that don’t matter to them, simply fall by the wayside. I decided to enlist and went to France to fight the Nazis. I was shot, here in the leg,” he said as he pulled his pant leg up, revealing a dark scar on the side of his calf, “and managed to return early 1945. More than a decade had gone by and I knew Lightman was sitting comfortable up there in Crab Apple. I knew that enough time would have passed, and with my service record, managed to secure a position as a guard. I began working at the prison in early 46. I didn’t make a beeline for him though. Thought better of it. Instead, I worked wherever they stationed me. This unit, that unit. Eventually, in late 48, my prayers were answered. I was asked to transfer to the S-wing. It housed the worst of the worst. Ten cells for 10 prisoners you never wished to meet, and one of them was of course, Harry Lightman.
“Did he recognize you?” I asked, but Jeremy only shook his head.
“Not even close. He began to chat with me, every day, wanted to chat as if we were best mates.”
“About what?” Steph asked, butting her cigarette out.
“Oh, usual crap. The weather, sports. He was a keen Carlton supporter and liked to talk about the previous week’s game. Or the coming game, especially if they played Collingwood or Richmond. I’m South Melbourne myself, never could switch to the Cats, even after moving out here. Think they might go all the way this year, too, the Cats. You?” he asked, turning to me.
“Bombers.”
“Good for you. Anyway, so there we were, chin wagging on a daily basis. And then, about six months after starting in that unit, I told him. I had to work a night shift, and it was me and young Angus McCredie. ‘Course Angus was sound asleep this side of midnight. And, there I was, alone with nothing between me and the killer of my kid sister but a single door. A door to which I had the key.” He took another cigarette out, lit it then continued. “I almost opened it, too. I often pictured just going in there and beating that cunt’s brains out. Oh,” he said, looking at Steph apologetically, “’scuse my language, please.”
