‘Get lost.’
Blake followed her. ‘He’s a killer. You need to be careful.’
She swung at him, glared. ‘How dare you. He never killed that girl. Tom Clarke did.’
‘You don’t believe that. Listen, for your own good, go to the police.’
‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’
‘You’re playing with fire. He killed Val Stokes, burned his clothes in the incinerator at the car yard.’
‘There’s no way he killed that slut.’
‘And you’re sure.’
‘I am. He was with me, all night. Now scram like the bug you are.’
Blake watched her stride back to the chemist shop. He didn’t believe her for an instant. She’d finished the night of the dance contest on bad terms with Henley, roaring out of the carpark. She didn’t seem to care he might have butchered Val Stokes. She was a girl who had planned the engagement and wedding in her head, everything from the bridesmaids’ dresses to the waltz. She’d decided where they would own their first home and how many children they would have. She’d probably worked out their names. No stupid Yank was going to upset that dream.
But without Brenda Holsch onside, he did not have enough to take to Nalder. Nalder was swanning around town playing the big man. He was not going to be prepared to alienate town royalty and his new Homicide friends unless he had a lot more than a hunch. Andy’s ID was qualified and now Blake had managed to give Henley an alibi. He cursed himself. He’d broken his own rules, jumped in without planning, didn’t even have an exit route. He could have played it way smarter, got Doreen to befriend the girl, win her confidence. This was a disaster. First thing Brenda would do would be to tell Henley, prepare him. He had to move fast.
The rat-tat-tat of sprinklers over bowling green lawns, the morning sun glinting off the chrome of new cars: the Heights. Blake cruised past the Henley household, an architect-designed angular house in the most exclusive circle of the suburb. The Heights wasn’t the kind of place you could just park your car and wait, somebody would come and investigate. So starting at eleven a.m., he had begun cruising. Mrs Henley drove a Chrysler station wagon. It was still in the garage forty minutes later, but then a little after midday as he was about to turn into the street, he saw a trim woman with dark brown hair emerge from the house and head to the twin garage. He watched her drive off, then he cruised away, parked two streets on by a park where tall gums stood like armed guards. He put on the hat that somebody had left one night at the Shack. It went well with the dark suit he’d bought first thing that morning from Campbell Menswear. The sample briefcase had set him back ten pounds but he figured it was worth it because now he looked like your typical door-to-door salesman.
He walked briskly down the street, worried somebody might actually ask him what he sold. Maybe he could bullshit about insurance. On reflection, he should have grabbed some glasses from the Shack for his sample case, said he sold glassware. Too late now. According to Doreen, Todd had a younger sister. Blake was presuming the girl was at school but when he reached the neat path that led to the Henley front door he realised he couldn’t take that for granted. There could also be a cleaning lady, something like that. He rang the bell of the neatly varnished front door and waited, breathed a sigh of relief when there was no response. He retraced his steps and took a path along the side of the house that was conveniently hemmed in by oleander bushes and some other plants he didn’t know the names of. A locked, barred gate and fence blocked his way. He threw over the sample bag and scaled the gate easily. He moved quickly, pulling on washing-up gloves he’d kept in his breast pocket, searching the windows, pushing them, got lucky. One wasn’t snug. It looked like a simple swing clasp locked the window on the inside. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a strip of thin but strong cardboard and worked it into the gap between the window and fed it up until it reached the bottom of the clasp. Two pushes and the clasp was off, the window open. He scaled quickly, found himself in what must have been the girl’s room: dolls on a shelf, snow domes, pink frills. Next door he struck gold, Todd’s bedroom, preserved: sporting trophies and medals on a shelf, a rugby ball. He grabbed the ball, and one of the medals and exited the way he came. At the gate he put the ball and the medal in the sample bag and tossed it back over the fence. He followed, grabbed the bag and was at his car in five minutes.
Pretty much as soon as he had dusted the swimming medal Saunders had brought in, he knew the prints were a match to those in Stokes’ car. Which was a shit because you didn’t take on Richard Henley. He was on the board of the golf club and most other things in Coral Shoals. Henley could destroy a local cop like him.
He asked where Saunders had got the medal and was told it ‘fell off the back of a truck’.
He didn’t like people’s houses being broken into but conceded it was the quickest way to get evidence, so in that sense he didn’t bake the Yank like he might have. The pin in the incinerator had cleaned up well and almost certainly showed the high-school crest. It added weight to Saunders’ theory but would be hard to prove beyond doubt it was Henley’s. Approaching the girl had been reckless. She’d probably already warned Todd Henley. And all the prints proved was that Henley had been in Stokes’ car, especially now Brenda Holsch had given Saunders an alibi.
‘She’s lying,’ Saunders had protested, and likely she was but it was still an alibi so before he contacted Vernon or did anything else, he’d paid Brenda Holsch a visit himself, playing the dumb local cop who had been forced to ask these unpleasant things.
‘I’m sure you understand?’
The girl had told him what she’d told Saunders. Like Saunders he didn’t believe her.
With a lot of embarrassment she had told him how she and Todd had been ‘together’ till the early hours.
‘At your place?’
‘No, I live with my parents.’
‘At his parents’ place?’
‘No, down at the lagoon in his car.’
‘This was from …’
‘About eleven at night till two the next morning.’
Covering the important hours like that. It might have ended there, except that when he got back to the station he was able to check the log of the diligent Constable Denham, part of whose duties included patrolling lover’s lane down by the lagoon and recording the numberplates of the vehicles. This was only partly police work. In fact it was Nalder’s own insurance scheme should any people of importance ever attempt to move against him. ‘Tell me, Bob, what you were doing down at the lagoon at three a.m.?’ Coral Shoals was a small place. There weren’t many places people could slip away for a liaison. Constable Denham’s log showed no number plate of either the girl’s car or Todd Henley’s. They weren’t there. Now he was on firmer ground. He could destroy the kid’s alibi. There was still the matter of how he approached Homicide though. It couldn’t look like he was a smart-arse. In the end he had decided to go with the tried and true. He’d called Vernon, said he’d had an anonymous call claiming a young local man, Todd Henley, had been in the car with Stokes just hours before she was murdered. He mentioned that Henley’s girlfriend had likely seen them together but when questioned had denied it and instead provided an alibi which he had since discredited.
‘Just two nights later this same kid was involved in what might have amounted to a sexual assault had the girlfriend not turned up.’
Vernon was as annoyed as he was grateful. ‘Where is this Henley now?’
‘Brisbane. University. I’m thinking the Brisbane cops could likely find something with his prints on and you could check to see if they match those in the car.’
He was told that was exactly what Vernon was thinking, and thanked for his time.
Vernon had called back twenty-four hours later, confirming the match.
That’s when Nalder expanded his theory to the incineration of the murder clothes at the car yard where Henley had worked over summer washing cars.
‘I found a pin that could be
an athletics pin. Won’t stand up as clear evidence probably but it might help.’
‘We’ve made some inquiries. The kid is coming back home for the weekend.’
Vernon and Apollonia arrived on the Friday night. He’d made reservations for them at Mrs Lawson’s guest house. She cooked them steak and vegetables and they ate in the parlour on a fine rosewood table polished with the dedication of a widow.
‘The kid is at the parents’ house, now. We’ll go in first thing tomorrow.’
‘What’s for dessert?’ asked Apollonia.
‘Stewed apples and ice cream, I believe.’
Blake arrived to find Nalder sitting at a picnic table with a large bottle of beer opened. It was close to six p.m. and the place was deserted except for litter left by earlier picnickers who were now home running hot baths for tired kids. He had a gig to play with the new drummer but there was plenty of time.
‘Help yourself.’ Nalder offered the beer bottle.
Word had already spread around town that Todd Henley had been arrested but details were sketchy. It was the first time they’d shared a drink. Blake took a slug.
‘How did it go?’
‘We turned up at six in the morning. They were prepared. Obviously Brenda Holsch had tipped them off. They had a lawyer waiting on the phone instructing them to say nothing. Todd did what he was told, said nothing except he was with Brenda Holsch at the lagoon. Vernon and Apollonia have driven him to Sydney for questioning.’
‘Has he been charged?’
‘Not yet. But if the kid isn’t going to crack, there’s no point holding off.’
‘What about Thomas Clarke?’
‘He’s still sitting in remand. Vernon has no doubt it is Henley. Maybe Clarke or somebody else will remember seeing Henley’s car near the motel. That’s all they really need. When the girl realises she could go to jail if she keeps lying, she’ll change her tune. You did alright, Saunders.’
They each swigged again. Blake thought he would feel something, a sense of triumph, satisfaction, but he was a void. He had murdered people in cold blood, which maybe was worse than what Henley had done. Henley was just a fucked-up psycho. What was he — a hired killer, a fucking amoeba. A few weeks ago he’d been prepared to kill again, silence an innocent woman to keep his secret. He craved absolution but knew he did not deserve it.
He said, ‘You were right. The bookie sent somebody else.’
Nalder moaned. ‘I’m sorry. I’d like to help you but …’
He could fill in the missing words. If Nalder helped him where did it stop? Like the first time you pick up a gun with darkness in your heart. If only he could go back, hand the gun back to Jimmy, say, ‘No, let’s find another way.’ He could have got a job, loading trucks or hanging curtains. Something that had not let the darkness in. He put the bottle down.
‘I’ve gotta go play some music.’
17. I Wanna Hold Your Hand
It was a Sunday, that hour when the sun has been rolled flat and televisions like glow-worms start to appear as families settle in for The Flintstones with a dinner of rissoles or fish and chips. She felt a pang just thinking about it, family, blocked it out, tried to concentrate on Blake across the way. No TV for him. He was in his lounge room sitting on a kitchen chair, hunched over playing guitar. Last night with the new drummer, he’d been sensational. She wondered what was on his mind right now. Probably music, or perhaps the end of the Stokes case. Todd Henley was going to get his just deserts. It made her angry just thinking about him and what he had done, or tried to do, to Kitty. Thank God the jealous Barbie doll had got involved. Imagine if Kitty had wound up like Val Stokes. She shuddered involuntarily.
Thinking about Kitty made her feel empty, guilty. She’d imagined herself as a big sister, was able to convince herself for a while there that all the mistakes she’d made in her past weren’t wasted because she could impart wisdom to her. What a fucking disaster in the end.
Something pricked her brain, something about Kitty that made her suddenly … uneasy. But then, what didn’t? You find out you’ve screwed the father of somebody you are trying to mentor, that’s a first-class Titanic disaster right there. Of course Kitty was going to resent her. However, she wasn’t sure that was the buried insight her detector had just buzzed deep in her brain. It wasn’t something personal, or at least she didn’t feel that it was, but it did involve Kitty. It was a bit like when you drop a shilling, you hear it bounce but you’re not sure exactly where to look: Kitty and Todd … Brenda. Oh well, it was no use, it wouldn’t come and it wasn’t important.
Now she was shivering for real. It was cool with that sea breeze, no cardigan, no sun. Earlier today she had tried to finish the month’s bookkeeping but given up, deciding to take a break. She’d go back to the Surf Shack now, knock it on the head, give herself two full days off. Blake was still practising something over and over.
Blake’s fingers strolled through The Shadows and The Ventures. He imagined Jimmy sitting opposite him sipping a beer while he brought Jimmy up to speed.
‘We were really good last night. The new guy is actually better than Duck but you know the ironical thing? It doesn’t matter now, we’re stuck out in the backwater and all the action is ahead of us. There’s a new sound and it’s not my sound. No tremolo guitars, tom-toms, none of that, more R’n’B. And vocals. The surf sound is dead, Jimmy. Like you.’
Jimmy laughed at that, raised the beer bottle in a salute. Life was a wild bull you could never corral. It just kicked in the walls like they were matchsticks. Blake had explained to himself his determination to find Stokes’ killer as a desire to protect his patch, but maybe it was even simpler.
If the killer was still out there, they might harm Doreen. Last night they’d been together like they always were after the last person left the Surf Shack, like they were the only two people in the world. He’d snatched glimpses of her crinkles around her eyes when she laughed, imagined they were on a desert island, just the two of them under a big white moon with waves crashing on the sand where they slept. He imagined pressing his body next to hers as they lay on the beach, their hearts pumping so he could hear the beat from hers travel back up through the sand. The two of them, one pulse. Because it was just the two of them, no bad things could ever happen. Nobody could turn up demanding you pay them. Nobody could step out of the shadows to harm you, and there would be no choice but to be together because there would be nowhere else to go, no guitar to play, no record to listen to, no excuse. There would be nothing except her heartbeat, the stars above their heads and the hush of waves.
It was while looking for the ledgers that she came across the solicitor Harvey’s file about the Stokes case again. She flicked through it, her mind brushing against the fragility of life, the horror of murder, the loneliness of death. With a false step here or there, she could have been Val Stokes. She looked at the typed list of personal belongings, feeling compassionate … pulled herself up. No, that didn’t make sense. There were two pairs of shoes listed, both high heels. Come on, she’d been away nearly a week. Were there tights? Yes. Then she had to have slip-ons of some sort. Or sandshoes. But they weren’t mentioned. Maybe the cops made a mistake? She checked up the rest of the clothes. Two evening dresses, one pair of tights, one blouse but no casual top. No woman packed like that. An idea roared out of the mist like a train.
What if somebody had taken them?
And now her head was spinning, she couldn’t believe what she was thinking but it all fitted. The notion she’d sensed before with Kitty, about there being something hidden, now revealed itself. She rummaged through Blake’s desk looking for the pin he’d found in the incinerator but it wasn’t there. Must have given it to Nalder. She went to the next drawer down, pulled out the photos of the dance competition Blake had made her find for Andy, skimmed fast, the prints spilling on the floor till she found one she wanted. She grabbed the phone, dialled a number she hadn’t forgotten yet. A woman’s voice answered.
‘
Ferguson residence.’
‘May I speak to Kitty, please.’
‘Just one moment. Kitty!’
The phone was placed on a cradle that played a mechanical tune: ‘Fascination’. The music gave way to Kitty’s voice.
‘Hello.’
‘Kitty it’s me.’
The receiver slammed in her ear.
Blake put the guitar down. He wasn’t that hungry but he figured he could scramble some eggs. He was toying with the idea that he should go visit Doreen anyway. That’s who he really wanted to hang out with. He reached into the tray under the stove for the heavy frypan. It would be nice, just the two of them. He was taking out two eggs and some butter from the fridge when his doorbell rang. It was funny but he immediately thought maybe it’s Doreen thinking the same thing? He was only wearing shorts and a striped shirt but she wouldn’t expect much different. He opened the door and was surprised.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you.’ Brenda Holsch stood there in black tights, short dress and a sweater, her hair in a ponytail.
He wasn’t too sure how to respond, only managed to come out with, ‘No.’
She took that as an invitation and stepped into the room.
He said, ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘A Coke?’
He had a small one in the fridge, popped the top, found a clean glass in the overhead cupboard.
‘Please have a seat. Sorry about the mess.’
Of course he wasn’t sorry, this was his place but he guessed that’s what you were supposed to say.
‘You need a woman here.’
She said it brightly, sat neatly on one of the kitchen chairs, her hands folded across her lap. She was a good-looking young woman. He handed her the glass, leaned back against the kitchen bench.
She said, ‘I owe you an apology. I was being stupid. I just couldn’t believe that Todd …’ She shook her head and sipped her Coke.
Blake said, ‘It’s hard to believe. Have you got people around you?’
River of Salt Page 27
