She sat back on the bed, propped on her elbows so she wouldn’t have to lean against the sticky wall. She took refuge in those moments. Just get through one more day. That was her philosophy. And then get through the next one. Then the next one.
She had her shoe-full of wine and was determined to enjoy it. She lifted it up to the speckled roof in cheers. It would be some time before the wine dried and the dyed-red pattern began to tell her another story.
But for now, happy hour.
SEPTEMBER
YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
Alexis’s second phone was face-up on the coffee table. Jack, Lauren and Curtis had settled in around it. Lauren and Jack were together, scooted forward on the ravenous couch. Curtis had taken a chair opposite. The hunting rifle was propped against the chair’s arm, with the stock on the floor, the barrel pointed to the roof. Someone had plugged the phone back into the charger, as the sliver of battery waned, but Jack couldn’t remember who. It wouldn’t have been Curtis, who treated it like a hot coal, refusing to touch it.
‘Hush.’ Lauren rolled it around her mouth like a lolly.
‘Asian name,’ Curtis muttered. ‘Must be.’
‘It’s not a name, Curtis,’ Lauren said. ‘It’s an adjective.’
‘Each letter stands for something?’
‘That’s an acronym,’ Jack said.
‘Don’t talk down to me.’ Curtis ground his jaw.
‘One of my friends’ – Lauren’s calm, even voice tempered the room – ‘changed the name of her ex-boyfriend in her phone to Do Not Call Him. So it doesn’t mean anything, Curtis, except that she didn’t want to put her boyfriend’s name in her phone.’
‘Why not?’ Curtis asked, still figuring it out.
‘Don’t know,’ said Jack. ‘Why wouldn’t she want to put her boyfriend’s name in her secret phone?’
‘Stop being a smart-arse,’ said Lauren.
‘Devil’s advocate,’ said Jack. He saw a flicker of a smile.
‘It’s weird to us because she’s dead,’ Lauren said, scrolling through the messages again. ‘But to her maybe it wasn’t so suspect. There’s no passcode. Then again, there must have been some reason for keeping her relationship discreet. He’s the only one in there. And his messages only go back to June.’
June. Just before the retrial.
‘She told me it was her second phone. Just until her other one stopped blowing up.’
‘Okay,’ said Lauren, thinking. ‘That could be why she never bothered with a password. If it was only meant to be temporary.’
‘If the killer planted this,’ Curtis said, ‘they’d have deleted anything incriminating. Agreed?’ Everyone nodded. ‘So that means they left Hush in there on purpose. Why plant a phone with your details in it? Why hasn’t her boyfriend gone to the police? They’re trying to guide us to him. Right? I never thought I’d say this, but we should go to the police.’
‘You think you’re being set up as part of a set-up now?’ Jack said, talking Curtis down for his own benefit. Jack couldn’t go to the police. They’d tear apart his house. They’d find the shoe. Potential jail time aside, that was a career-ender.
‘You could hand this in. But if the killer even gets a whiff that you’re colluding they will find a way to plant that axe on you,’ Lauren said. ‘It won’t matter that he’s in the phone, all he’ll have to do is admit to sleeping with her. You’ll still be hit with this. Point is’ – she blithely dismissed Curtis’ concerns – ‘she’s used a little smiley picture. That’s not real secrecy, that’s cute, more than anything. See?’
Curtis recoiled as if she’d thrust a snake at him.
‘I’m not fucking touching that.’
‘It’s still a secret,’ said Jack, ‘otherwise she would have used his name.’
‘Unless it’s an aneurism,’ said Curtis.
‘Acronym,’ said Lauren and Jack together.
‘Whatever.’
‘He’s got a point,’ said Lauren. ‘Hush hush.’ She held a finger to her lips. ‘This was, at the very least, someone she wanted to keep under wraps.’
‘Someone married?’ suggested Curtis.
‘Someone she knew she shouldn’t be seeing.’ Jack tapped a finger on his chin.
He must have been unconsciously sizing up Curtis, because Curtis flung both hands upwards: ‘Seriously?’
‘I didn’t even —’
‘Jack, lay off,’ said Lauren.
‘Someone she shouldn’t be seeing,’ Curtis repeated smugly. ‘I’d say that’s everyone in this fucking town. Even you.’
Jack took a moment to appreciate the absurdity of them all sitting in Curtis’s lounge room throwing theories at a dart board. Their own little crime-solving trio. Winter would have a stroke.
‘You’re right.’ Jack tried to look sincere. ‘Sorry.’
Lauren looked over to Curtis, as if to encourage him to play nice, and he acknowledged her with a grunt. Her skywards eye-roll back to Jack was clear – that’s as good as it gets.
‘That explains why he wouldn’t go to the police. If it was an affair, or whatever. The secrecy must be more important to him than finding her killer,’ said Jack.
Jack was aware both Curtis and Lauren were examining him as if they knew he’d played the truth fast and loose during his own interactions with the police. Of course they did. Curtis had guessed that whatever evidence he had had been planted. Even Lauren had asked him numerous times: Are you telling me everything, and not a single time had she looked like she believed him when he’d said he had. Good radar on her.
‘So what do we know?’ Jack said. ‘Someone wanted Alexis dead. And they realised the easy way out was to frame it on Curtis. So they come here, take the axe, drive back to Sydney and —’ He clicked his tongue. Enough said.
Everyone stayed in silence considering this. The only sound was the slow synthetic clicking as Lauren scrolled back through the text messages. It was too coincidental to not involve Curtis Wade at all. Jack again realised he only thought this because he wanted the crimes to be related. Curtis couldn’t have sent the text message; his hands had been steadying a rifle. Jack wondered if the irony of it escaped Curtis. That he was innocent of murder only because he was busy preparing to kill someone else.
‘Nothing else in here,’ Lauren said, putting the phone down at last. ‘Though they do stop texting each other . . . hmm . . . a few weeks before she died. Their texts are all discreet, it’s like business meetings. Dates and times and places. That’s it. They don’t talk about their day at all. There’s some photos. Only close-ups though, and mostly her. He’s white, by the way.’
‘Can I have a look?’ said Jack. Lauren passed it to him. He scrolled through. There weren’t a lot of messages, so it didn’t take long. Lauren was right. Everything was organisation and perfunctory: 7 p.m., Frankie’s Café. If it dried up a few weeks before she died, did this indicate a break-up? Or was Curtis right, and whoever had planted this had cleared just the right amount of information to make it look that way?
‘He’s not Jewish,’ Jack said, ‘If that helps.’
‘What’s the number?’ asked Curtis. ‘We should write it down.’
The shared look between them said, In case the police take it. The mutual understanding, that they would keep this evidence to themselves, hung in the room. They wore their motives clear on their faces. Curtis, who knew it would make him look guilty. Lauren, wanting to stick up for her brother. And Jack, here for himself.
Lauren read out the number. Jack keyed it into his phone and saved it under HUSH. Curtis jotted it down on a piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Curtis was the most animated Jack had seen him, motivated by something other than hurt or anger. Curtis wanted to solve this murder as much as Jack did. Clear his name.
‘We should call it,’ said Curtis.
‘We called it already,’ said Jack.
‘On our own phones,’ said Curtis. ‘Of course they won’t pick up when a dead woman calls.�
�
‘I don’t know if I want a murderer to have my phone number,’ Jack said, simply because he didn’t want to admit it was actually a pretty good idea.
‘Man up.’
‘You do it, then.’
‘I can’t. My number in a murderer’s call logs? That’ll play badly with the cops. And on TV.’ Curtis added the last two words with acidity, a raised eyebrow.
‘Block the number,’ said Lauren to Jack. ‘You can hide behind that.’
‘I’m not hiding.’
‘Then call them,’ said Curtis. ‘We know the phone’s on.’
‘Why don’t we text them back?’
‘And say what?’ said Lauren.
‘Dunno.’ Jack thought a second. ‘Who is this?’
‘Of course,’ said Curtis, smacking his forehead. He tapped an imaginary phone with his thumbs, speaking stilted as if typing each word. ‘Thanks for asking. My name is Gary Murderson and I live at 123 Confession Street.’
‘Well, fuck, he’s not going to tell us who he is on the phone either, is he?’
‘But we’ll hear his voice. We might know him,’ Lauren said.
‘Shit,’ Jack said. ‘How do I block my number?’
When Lauren had masked his phone, Jack hit call, and put it on speaker. Again, the tinny hum thrummed from the small speakers. Again, there was no reciprocal noise in the house. They all clustered forward, waiting. Each pause between rings was near interminable. Implausibly, it seemed each pause was a fraction longer, as if someone had picked up. But then the burr would return, and they’d wait again. The phone rang out with a click. No voicemail.
‘Well,’ Jack said, pocketing his phone, ‘Gary Murderson lives on in secrecy.’
‘Maybe he’s not picking up a blocked number,’ said Curtis.
‘I’m not giving him my real number, Curtis.’
‘Lauren?’ Curtis looked over to her.
‘I’m your sister. The call logs would be just as incriminating.’
And Jack finally realised why Curtis had let him on their property at all. Jack was Curtis’s alibi. Curtis was letting him stick his fingers in places Curtis couldn’t, at risk of incriminating himself. Jack’s fingerprints were on the phone. He’d underestimated Curtis again.
‘Fine,’ said Jack.
‘Fine?’
‘Fucking fine, Curtis.’
Lauren showed Jack how to unmask his number. Again, he placed the phone in the centre of the table, put it on speaker. Again, they hunched forward. Burr. Burr. Click. No voicemail.
No one had to say anything, all three of them making their own summations. Personally, Jack thought they’d called in too close proximity and Hush knew something was off.
Of course something was off; it’s not every day your dead girlfriend rings you.
Perhaps it didn’t even matter who Hush was, Jack thought. There was something larger than just a boyfriend hovering behind all of this. If Hush was her murderer, why give them the phone at all? Perhaps hiding in plain sight was the plan. Curtis such a plum suspect that he’s behind bars before anyone takes a closer look. Evidence overgrown with time.
After all, the last time, a closer look had taken four years.
No one seemed to have any more ideas. Curtis went to the kitchen and came back with a stubby. He didn’t sit, just stood there sipping at it. Jack took the initiative and rose.
‘I should keep this,’ he said, pointing at the phone. No one objected. He slid it into his jacket pocket, looking at Curtis for an objection that didn’t come. He defended anyway: ‘You can trust me.’
‘We can’t.’ Curtis took a sip. ‘But okay.’
‘Thank you, Jack,’ said Lauren. She lay on the couch, wrist on her forehead. Spent.
‘Walk you out,’ offered Curtis.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Walk you out,’ he said again. He was already following Jack into the hall.
Outside the sun was just down. The sky was a translucent navy rather than black, the colour still siphoning from it, the chromatography between night and day. Jack had thought it would be later. He stepped off the deck without saying goodbye to Curtis. He heard crunching behind him. Curtis was following him, a few steps behind.
‘Jack,’ Curtis said, and Jack turned. ‘You never told me what it was you found.’
To their left, the Freemans’ silos turned from glittering steel beacons to shadows stretched across the fields.
‘I didn’t,’ Jack said.
‘So?’
‘You said it was planted,’ Jack reminded him.
‘Yes. Someone planted it.’
‘It doesn’t matter, then.’
‘So.’
‘So?’
‘What was it?’
Jack consistently failed to give Curtis enough credit. He’d obviously figured out that now the investigation was suggesting a copycat, Eliza’s real killer remained open to scrutiny. That he remained open to scrutiny. Sitting in the circle, in anticipation of the ringing phone, Curtis must have been frantically spinning through the evidence in his head – how this could support his being framed not once but twice. Eliza still lay alone, stark naked, in the middle of his own vineyard. Two dead women and Curtis Wade the only thread between them. Double jeopardy was his ally, but it was a fragile one. Especially if Jack had some unknown evidence. Another reason to keep him around: Curtis wanted to know what Jack had on him.
Jack stayed silent. If he had any advantage over Curtis, this was it. Curtis blinked twice quickly, a muscle in his cheek jumped. There was a violence lingering under his skin, something crawling.
‘Does Lauren know?’ Curtis said eventually.
‘No.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Yes.’
Curtis sighed, took a pull on his beer. ‘That’ll have to do for now,’ he said.
Jack looked over and up the hill to the Freeman place. He imagined again that bleeding hill.
‘Tell me something,’ Jack said, ‘why’d you do it?’
‘Fuck you, Jack.’
‘Not the murder.’ He pointed to the silos. ‘That.’
‘Oh.’
Curtis looked up as well. Remembering. ‘We didn’t fit in here, you know that. You’re either born here or you’re fucked. Like spurting out of a rich ballsack counts as skill, but try telling them that. Grapecism, Lauren coined it.’ He laughed. ‘They smashed our windows, yeah, there was that. But it wasn’t really one single thing. It’s just the general attitude here. You felt it?’
Jack thought about Brett Dawson’s mockery at the pub. Mary-Anne’s five-star breakfast. Alan Sanders’ overpriced meals.
‘The town’s got a vibe, yeah.’
‘Well.’ Curtis shrugged as if that settled the matter. ‘That’s it then.’
‘What’s it?’
‘The vibe. That’s why I did it. Besides, I didn’t know it would be so’ – he searched for the word – ‘dramatic.’
‘That’s not much of a reason to soak a town in wine.’
‘This ain’t a town, mate,’ Curtis said. ‘It’s Andrew Freeman’s winery and a cluster of brown-noses at the bottom, bending over and opening their mouths for the money to run downhill. His wine’s fucking awful, too. I’ll tell you how it went; I don’t care if you believe me or not.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘I was up there, you see, and I turned on one tap. Just enough to piss them off, you know?’ Curtis raised his eyebrows in expectation, as if pissing off the Freemans should be an everyday activity. ‘I didn’t plan anything else. And then I saw the view, looking down on this rubble of buildings that calls itself a town. And I looked at the dribble of wine, which was starting to run down the hill. And I thought about all the uptight pricks below. And it just came over me.’
‘What did?’
‘I thought to myself, fuck it, someone needs to buy this town a drink.’
When buzzing woke him, Jack was convinced it was the murderer calling him back.
&nb
sp; ‘Jack.’
A familiar voice. Jack opened his eyes. He popped his ears by grinding his jaw. Light rimmed the border of the disconnected door over by the window. He pulled his phone away from his ear to check the time. Morning. Just.
‘Ian.’
‘Sorry to wake you. Question for ya.’ McCarthy was abrupt, as curt as Jack had ever heard him. It also sounded like he was driving; there was a hum underneath everything. Jack’s first thought was grim. Ian knows about Alexis’s phone.
‘Okay. Shoot.’ Play it cool.
‘At the funeral.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You take something?’ Not the phone. This was worse.
‘From the funeral?’
‘From my truck.’
‘Jesus, Ian.’
Jack shook himself properly awake. He’d watched enough interrogations to know he needed to buy himself some time. He needed to give noncommittal answers. Let Ian lead. The fatal flaw in most criminals: patience.
‘I know,’ Ian continued, ‘and I’m sorry to ask you, mate. But listen. I lost something, I need it back. If you took it, and you just give it back, no harm done, okay?’
Jack had already read the files. He could copy them, return the originals. McCarthy was his final ally. Even now, while accusing Jack of a serious crime, he was offering an out. But what if it got back to Winter?
Jack sighed. The lie formed on his lips. Truth, edited.
‘I wish I could help you, Ian.’ You’re a piece of shit, Jack told himself. ‘But I made a fast exit before Ted doubled the church bookings with my own coffin.’
‘All right.’ Ian spoke on an exhale. Was Jack imagining the disappointment? ‘Sorry to ask. Had to, you know? I gotta go. You still out this way? Drink soon?’
‘Yeah. I’m out here. Sure.’
There was silence then. Nothing but the road purring under McCarthy’s tyres. Something broken between them. McCarthy hung up.
Jack’s mornings were becoming ritualised. Stuck in the cycles of this town. Dress. Shower. Step over black banana in the doorway. Out to the street.
He walked into the centre of town, out of nothing but an abstract gravity, stood at the single traffic light. It was too early to go back to the Wades. Besides, he had nothing new to tell them. He’d scrolled through the phone last night and nothing more had revealed itself. It was too early for anything really; there was a layer of mist still on the ground. It was cloudy, too. The town’s buildings were shadows behind grey, slowly coming into focus with proximity, sharp features materialising bit by bit, as if buffering into existence. It wasn’t raining; that would come later. His face was damp, the moisture in the air pervasive.
Greenlight Page 20
