Burning mountain, p.11
Burning Mountain, page 11
Giles kept looking down at the stopwatch each time they passed a significant landmark and recorded the time on the map. Timing their return had them troubled. Did Oliver run some of the way? How far would he need to go before the others lost sight of him, and would sound travel back to them? The sound of an approaching car on the road? A scream? A door slam? Yet none of the witness statements mentioned hearing such a thing.
At the top, the mountain smouldered. Smoke rose from chimney cracks in the ground, and the heat from the coal seam created a shimmering haze over the area. A few kangaroos, attracted by the warmth, had come to bask in the sun and lie on the warm rock. They took off to the scrub when the three officers appeared at the top of the viewing platform.
‘Christ! To be fifteen again,’ said Bray, rolling his shoulders and arching his back.
‘No thanks,’ said Giles. She turned to Edison. ‘You?’
‘Nup.’
Bray huffed, blowing air out of his nose. ‘A few more years, and you’ll be wishing for the agility of a fifteen-year-old.’
‘Agility, yes. Middle adolescence, nah,’ said Giles. ‘I was a moody fifteen-year-old. It’s a tough age.’
‘You think Oliver and his friends were finding it tough?’
Giles took a moment to answer. She looked out at the surrounding dirt and rocks that were almost bleached white from the heat, and mumbled, ‘I think after that fateful day, they would have found things tough.’
The team went silent and stared down at the vast expanse of white ash and pink stone below the lookout. The clay had cooked and made the area more like a moonscape. But the drop under the viewing platform was hardly treacherous. A few boulders, cooked clay, heat and the smell of sulphur. If Oliver had fallen, he might have cracked a rib at most, been bruised, but died?
Around Giles’s feet, the baked clay was pink and pretty. She swooped down and picked up a piece of broken rock. It was creamy white, rosy in the centre. When she caught Edison’s eye, she asked, ‘Was it what you expected?’
‘Not at all.’ He looked around, then back at Giles, and gave a small smile. ‘Better.’
Giles twisted her lips at him. To Bray she said, ‘If Oliver Lavine fell from the viewing platform, he’d tumble a few metres. If that. It couldn’t have been a fatal fall. There are enough tufts of grass to stop the motion of rolling down the hill. It’s not a great height, nor is there a crevice to disappear down. And if he walked away, his friends would have watched him for some time – a lot of the mountain range has been cleared of trees. Unless he walked back the other way and came down the mountain through the dense forest?’ She stared at Bray and, when he didn’t comment, she tossed the pink rock into the sky as though skimming the stone across the clouds. She watched it sail in the air.
‘I think you’re right,’ Giles said finally. ‘I need to go back and reinterview the four friends. Chat with Mum. Start at the beginning.’
‘Collect a sample of the mother’s DNA,’ added Edison. ‘We can get it from the teeth found in the skull and the denser bones. Send them off to the lab together, and hopefully your mystery will be answered.’
‘A-ha. So, you must almost be done at the site then?’
‘Almost there.’
Giles flashed a smile. Liam and Kelsey had moved quicker at the crime scene than she expected. The case was like a jigsaw puzzle, and now Liam Edison had given her a corner piece.
Bray crouched and rummaged in his backpack, then handed a bottle of water each to Edison and Giles. He asked, ‘Did you get permission to talk to Nestor?’
‘Nope. But maybe if you asked Falkov . . .’ Giles tried to nudge Bray with her elbow, but he stepped backwards and dodged it. He twisted the cap off his bottle, and she watched him scull nearly the whole thing. ‘Perhaps we widen our net, expand our suspect list,’ he added. ‘Stay open. Don’t fixate on just Nestor and Oliver’s friends.’
Giles nodded, disappointed. She turned to face the track they’d walked. ‘I don’t believe Oliver died up here. I can’t imagine four teens getting him back down the mountain, let alone another ten kilometres to Wingen. I think the first sequence of events started at the bottom of the mountain.’ She turned to Edison. ‘You collect your samples, take your time. Bray and I will meet you down there.’ She flicked her hand briefly at the trail, and Edison nodded. Back at Bray, she asked, ‘Are you going to time me?’
‘Yup. I’ll give it fifteen minutes, then I’ll follow behind, see if I can spot you through the trees.’
‘And if you can spot me, then –’
‘Then those four statements, from all those years ago, are a bum steer and full of bullshit.’
‘Yeah. And the net’s the same size, and the suspect list hasn’t changed.’
Giles turned and began to slow jog down the track. Bray hit the starter button on the stopwatch.
22
The road had been blocked for over an hour. Drivers were redirected to take the long detour out to Denman and then back into Muswellbrook. A police officer was stationed at the entry point of the road, stopping vehicles trying to access the route, diverting unhappy drivers, while another uniform helped set up a temporary orange and black detour sign at the t-intersection.
Emergency vehicles called out to the MVA were parked along the shoulder, butted up close to the barbed fence, lights flashing but sirens silent. Edderton Road would be closed for some time, due to the discovery of a rusty white Honda Civic that had left the bitumen and crashed into the trees and scrub below.
It would take time to determine what had occurred. The forensics and photographs collected would help clarify if the accident was a result of negligent or dangerous driving. Considering there were no witnesses, tyre marks, other vehicles involved – along with the dry conditions and a stretch of road easy enough to navigate – the Crash Investigation Unit were left scratching their heads and asking, Swerved at the last minute to miss a kangaroo? Fell asleep? Speed? Distracted? Drunk?
A volunteer catering crew from the Rural Fire Service had also arrived. A small, white-haired lady had made coffee in environmentally friendly cups that burned everyone’s fingers, brewed so hot it burned everyone’s tongues. She offered biscuits to the police and fire brigade, with a promise of sandwiches and zucchini slices to follow.
With coffee and bikkies in hand, Turner and MacCrum both stood tall and lean. In the subtle breeze MacCrum’s blond hair blew wayward, while Turner’s, slicked back with styling paste, stayed defiantly still. They were both looking over the scene as they blew over the top of their instant coffee in the cheap cardboard cups. The car’s registration told them who the victim was. They’d be opening an inquest into the death of Trent Joseph Thicket. Yet still, nobody seemed to move.
The crash scene had been taped off. There had been no talk of vehicle recovery yet, or body removal. Thicket still sat in the driver’s seat, blood-splattered, shards of metal protruding from his neck, possibly puncturing the carotid artery. It would be some hours before the investigation unit would be finished with the scene, and until they were done, the body would stay in the car, bloated, foam leaking out of mouth and nose, attracting the flies with the stench of death.
The unit was still spraying yellow paint on the tar, locating the exact point the car had left the road. Turner was also grappling to understand exactly what had happened. The road was reasonably well maintained, but he couldn’t say the same about the vehicle. He’d never seen tyres that bald. Why hadn’t Thicket been pulled over and slapped with an on-the-spot fine for driving a car in that condition? Why had he ignored the airbag recall? Probably because it was bloody Trent Thicket, that’s why.
MacCrum sipped his coffee, then snapped his Monte Carlo in half, dunked and shoved the biscuit in his mouth. He chewed slowly. After a long pause, he said, ‘Saw Trent yesterday. I’m wondering if it was state of mind that led to the incident.’
‘I’m thinking state of car.’
‘Could have been both. I reckon it was the faulty airbag that killed him, not the drop off the edge of the road.’
Turner dipped his head, agreeing.
‘Farmer found him.’ MacCrum swallowed the biscuit. ‘Scared the crap out of him.’
‘Even dead, Trent Thicket can still scare the crap out of someone.’
A young officer from the Crash Investigation Unit approached them, holding a plastic evidence bag up in the air. ‘You know this bloke?’
They both nodded.
‘Smoker?’
‘Most likely,’ said MacCrum.
‘Smoke packs found scattered all around the cabin.’
‘Cigarettes aren’t illicit drugs,’ said Turner, pointing to the clear bag the officer was holding.
‘Still a drug, innit?’ the constable snapped.
Turner shrugged. ‘If Trent was distracted opening the carton of smokes, then it’s no wonder his driving was chaotic.’
‘Like his fucking life,’ added MacCrum, before sipping on his coffee.
The uniform lowered the bag. ‘He wasn’t the only one in the car at the time of the crash, though.’
Turner and MacCrum glanced at each other. MacCrum took a step forward. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Passenger side has blood smeared around the front window. Down the bonnet. Like someone’s crawled out of the wreckage.’
‘How long are they saying the body’s been deceased?’ asked MacCrum.
The uniform looked impatient. ‘A day. At least.’
MacCrum nodded, flicked his hand at the officer, letting him know he could leave. He looked back at Turner. ‘Thicket’s wife was sitting in the passenger seat yesterday.’
‘Yeah?’ said Turner. ‘Well, she’s not sitting in it today.’
23
In the cool shade of the weeping tree, Belinda Marrone sipped on a glass of Coke, no ice. She kept forgetting to fill up the ice tray and the Coke had only been in the fridge for an hour or so. It tasted bitter, and she wished it was refreshing, but it wasn’t.
On the hard, makeshift rustic bench, she sat. The timber had once been scraped and smoothed, but over the years, with the changing seasons of sun and rain, the wood had cracked and the splits in the timber now pinched her thighs.
Bell clenched her back teeth, yanked at her tiny denim shorts to stop the wood biting into her skin and brushed away the flies landing on her lashes. She tried to settle in, get comfy so she could flick through her magazine, but she was disturbed again when a vehicle she didn’t recognise pulled up in the drive.
Stuff me, bugger off. She frowned at the sedan. Sales guy? Selling religion or solar panels? She didn’t need either of those things in her life. Real estate? Not my crappy love-shack to sell – sweet. She stopped guessing when a woman emerged, tall and beautiful, long dark hair in a ponytail that reached the middle of her back, dressed in an expensive-looking black tailored pants suit.
The sound of the car door slamming scared the birds from the nearby feeder. The corellas took to the sky and Bell suddenly felt alone. She cleared her throat and asked, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Belinda Marrone?’
‘Maybe. Who’s asking?’
‘I’m Detective Senior Constable Rebecca Giles from Muswellbrook Police Station.’ A badge was flashed. It came and disappeared as quickly as the smile. ‘I was wondering if you had a moment to talk.’
‘About?’
‘The department is looking into an old case. I have your name on file, and a witness statement you made.’
Bell yanked at her shorts and covered her legs with the magazine. She had only ever given one witness statement in her lifetime. Still, she asked, ‘What case?’
‘Oliver Lavine.’
The cop’s answer had come too quick, giving Bell no time to wish the visit was related to a different matter. She stuttered, ‘Ol-Oliver?’
Christ, she hadn’t heard his name in years . . . years.
‘I just wanted to ask a few questions. We can do it here and you can sign an affidavit, or come down to the station?’
Bell held up her drink, tossed her magazine to the side, and shook her head. She wasn’t getting changed or going for a ride with the woman, and she didn’t give a shit if the cop pegged her as lazy. It was too hot. Plus, she wanted to distance herself as fast as she could from the events of that day. Bell grumbled, ‘Why? What do you want to know?’
‘May I sit, Belinda?’
Bell reluctantly nodded, patted down her frizzy hair, wishing she’d made the effort to put on some make-up that morning.
As Giles sat at the end of the bench, Bell looked her over. She had caught a whiff of the clean freshness of the police officer, how someone would smell just after a shower. The musky odour of deodorant, hand cream and perfume.
‘Belinda, I was hoping you could –’
‘Bell.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Bell. Nobody calls me Belinda. Just my mum.’
‘Okay . . . Bell . . . I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the events on the sixth of April, the day Oliver Lavine disappeared.’
‘That was about twenty years ago.’
‘Eighteen years.’
Bell swatted away a fly and saw the police officer did the same. ‘How am I expected to remember something that happened almost twenty years ago?’
‘We could try? You never know, Bell, a tiny detail might be helpful.’
‘Helpful for what?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
She watched the cop lick her lips, eye her over. ‘You’ve not listened to the news of late?’
‘Nup.’ Bell shrugged, noticed the detective did the same. It seemed that the officer was trying to match her body behaviour, test her compliance. She leaned forward to confirm her suspicion, tucked her hands between her thighs, and the detective copied. Wary, she asked, ‘What’s this about?’
‘We’ve found skeleton remains near Mount Wingen.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Hopefully nothing.’
The comment sounded slightly abrupt and accusing. Bell’s mouth felt dry, and she took a sip of her warm Coke. It had lost its fizz.
The cop continued, ‘I just want to know a little more about Oliver. What he was like. His last movements.’
‘I already did this, years ago. Eighteen years ago. Read my statement. It’s all in there.’
‘Okay, then what was the argument over?’
‘Argument? Who said we had an argument?’
‘It’s in the file. The group split up, after having heated words. A disagreement then?’
‘It wasn’t an argument or disagreement. We were pranking, daring each other to do dumb shit along the hike. Just being young and dumb, seeing how brave we could be.’
‘Pranks? Like?’
‘It was dumb. We saw a goanna, and Paul was goading Bob to . . .’ Bell winced. Sucked in her bottom lip. ‘It was nothing, nothing to do with Oliver going missing.’
‘What happened with the goanna?’
‘Nothing.’
The detective twisted her lip and Bell was glad when she let it slide. ‘When the four of you arrived at the bottom of the hill –’
‘Four?’
Giles flicked through her notebook. ‘Four: you, Bob, Paul –’
‘Nah, three. Oliver left down the hill first, then Paul followed.’ Bell held up a hand showing two fingers. ‘Bob, Phil and I . . .’ With her other hand she held up three fingers. ‘The three of us arrived after. The other two were already gone.’ She dropped her hands back into her lap.
‘How did Paul get home again?’
‘Paul got picked up by his stepbrother, and Oliver was supposed to be picked up by his mother, but he wasn’t . . . obviously.’
‘Huh. Paul’s stepbrother, what’s his name?’
‘Lucas.’
‘Surname?’
‘Mucus.’ Bell grinned. ‘Lucas-mucus. Because he was always spitting. It was disgusting. He was a pig.’
‘Hmm. Did Oliver and Lucas get on?’
Bell snorted. ‘No-one got on with Lucas. He was older than us. We never hung out with him. We were in Year 9, Lucas was in Year 12 – only he never finished high school. Left halfway through the first term.’
‘Uh-huh.’ There was hardly a breath before the next question. ‘How long after Oliver left the group at the top of the mountain did Paul leave?’
‘Dunno. Ten, fifteen minutes, I suppose.’
‘So not straight away?’
‘Nup.’
‘And after Paul went down the mountain, how long before you decided to return?’
‘Same. Ten, fifteen, I think. It was a long time ago.’ Bell looked down into her glass of Coke warming in the sun, contemplated tipping it out on the grass. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’
A short pause to scribble in a notepad, and then another question. ‘Did Oliver have many friends in school?’
‘Nup. Not a lot of friends. Just us, really.’
‘Was Oliver bullied at school?’
‘Eh?’ Bell felt light-headed.
‘Bullying?’
Bell took a breath. ‘I guess. Yeah. Oliver got picked on. So did I. School wasn’t all that pleasant for us.’
‘Who was your school bully?’
‘I didn’t have one, I had many . . . for a while.’
‘Who was the worst?’
‘Paul Cooper . . . but then they all just stopped.’
‘What made them stop?’
‘Paul Cooper.’
‘I’m not sure I understand. Can you explain that?’
Bell felt a sudden surge of self-distrust. The cop’s questions were coming too swiftly. To stop herself from yammering she took a gulp of the warm bitter drink and said, ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I was just on my way out.’ It was a poor lie, an obvious one. ‘I just remembered I have to be somewhere. Can we do this another time?’
‘Sure.’ Giles handed Bell a card. ‘Think you could come into the station tomorrow?’
