Burning mountain, p.13
Burning Mountain, page 13
‘Sorry, Dad, what?’
‘Jacob Colton. If you can’t speak with Bernard Nestor, then get in touch with him instead.’
‘Think he’ll talk to me?’
‘You won’t know unless you give it a burl . . . something worth taking a run at.’
The phone went dead, and Giles looked down at her sneakers and grinned.
The sound of the river below drew her attention. In the moonlight, she cut across the nature strip and picked her way through the tall grass and scrub. At the water’s edge, she sat on a sandstone boulder, figuring she’d catch her breath first and then sprint home.
By her feet, the clay edges at the river had cracked into a mosaic pattern, looking oddly beautiful with a miscellany of shapes, colours and sizes. Giles gazed at the water and a memory popped into her head of Bernard Nestor. One afternoon, when she was ten, maybe eleven, she had ventured into his paddock. Nestor had surprised her, like he’d been waiting for her by the peach trees. He offered her one of his chooks.
‘Heard you lost your hen.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Come down to the coop and pick one of mine. Have a look and see which one you’d like.’ She felt she couldn’t be rude to the man who had gifted her small dolls made of horsehair, and the recent loss of her beloved hen still ached in her chest.
At Nestor’s chicken coop, through the extended wire, she had looked at the birds nesting in shallow metal drums, in nests made of torn magazines, of clothing catalogues for young children, faded junk mail, images of the innocent in confusing and confronting poses.
Nestor had stood by the door of the chicken enclosure. ‘Go on in,’ he’d said. ‘Pick one. There’s nine to choose from. All good stock.’
But a young Giles had stood on the outside, looking at the entrance, knowing that if she stepped inside the chicken coop, she’d have to brush past Nestor first, make contact with him, and was worried her clothes would snag on his big, buckled belt. She worried she’d smell his sweat, be too close that she couldn’t block out the sound of his raspy breathing. The coop looked more like a cage, and Nestor stood at the only exit. She politely declined his offer and ran home.
Giles shivered. Sprang to her feet. Oh, God. The memory disturbed her. She stepped away from the river’s edge and dusted the dirt off her hands. Then she turned and began sprinting back towards home.
26
Bob’s shirt was half-arsed ironed. The collar didn’t sit right and irritated his neck. One sleeve was more wrinkled than the other – it was hardly worth switching on the iron.
At the bar, he sat on the high stool with a goofy grin as the drinks and potato crisps were thumped down on the hardwood in front of him. Salt and vinegar chips, two perfectly poured schooners, and a bourbon and Coke for Bell. Bob measured the frothy head of the beer with his thumb and nodded, then he and Dill snatched up the drinks, chinked glasses and sculled. He was thirsty and now felt bloated as he tried to sneak a burp from the corner of his mouth.
Bell saw it and gave him a gentle slap on the arm. ‘Manners.’
‘Excuse me.’ Bob grinned and rubbed his chest.
Sitting between his best mate and his soul mate, in his favourite establishment, Bob felt like a shift was taking place. As though life was whisking him in a new direction, whoosh. Soon enough he’d marry the girl at his side, knot themselves together and make a go of things. Everything felt right. He no longer felt like he was rearranging deckchairs on the fucking Titanic. Instead, he was confidently putting all his eggs in one basket, and they all seemed to come out frying sunny side up.
That was until Bell said, ‘Couple of cops called around the house today.’
‘What?’ Bob spat out his beer. ‘Fuckin’ what?’
Bell frowned, failing to understand why Bob and Dill suddenly looked scared. ‘Police. Detectives. D’s. Dropped by. Today.’
‘What for?’ The muscles in Bob’s arms flexed like he was about to crush the schooner in his hand.
‘One was asking about next door. Where the little boy lives.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno. The other D was asking about Oliver.’
‘Who?’
Bell squeezed out the name through her teeth, ‘Oliver . . . Oliver Lavine.’
Bob snatched up a napkin. He could hardly meet Bell’s eyes as he wiped beer from his legs. He stuttered, ‘What? Oliver? Lavine? Why?’
‘Haven’t you heard? Apparently it’s all over the news, gossip around town. Cops have found human remains. Everyone reckons it’s Oliver.’
Dill, slow to catch up, asked, ‘Oliver? From school?’
Bob ignored him – he had too many questions. ‘Is that what the cop reckons? That it’s Oliver Lavine?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Then what did he say?’
‘He? Nah, it was a she.’
Bob was losing patience. ‘What did she say?’
‘Not much.’ Bell’s eyes narrowed on Bob. ‘Just asked about the day Oliver went missing. They’re looking into the case again.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Geez, Bell. When were you gonna tell me about this?’
A shrug.
‘Bell!’
‘I’m telling you now! Crikey, what’s got into you?’ Her face darkened. ‘They’ll probably want to talk to you too.’
‘What about?’
Through her teeth she hissed again, ‘Oliver. About the day he went missing. The cop asked if I’d pop into the police station. Maybe to reread my statement. If she’s poking around in the case again, she’ll probably want to speak to the both of you.’
‘What’s the neighbour got to do with Oliver?’
‘Nothing. Two detectives popped around at two different times.’
‘Twice in a day?’
‘I know. Crazy, huh!’
‘Fuck, shit.’ Bob avoided looking at Dill. Instead, he busied himself with the napkin and scrubbed at his leg.
Bell glared at the two men. ‘You two know nothing. Have the both of you been walking around with your head in the sand? Don’t you listen to the radio?’
‘Yeah, I heard,’ Bob lied. ‘I just didn’t realise it was Oliver from school.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Either way, you better start remembering the story you told them all those years ago. Okay?’
‘Okay. Okay!’ Bob slid off the stool. ‘Gotta use the loo.’ Bob tilted his head for Dill to follow.
In the coolest corner of the pub, where the breeze swirled down the side of the building, sliding through the leaves of the jacaranda tree and making its way through the double hung windows, the miners sat in leather armchairs.
Paul Cooper had gone home and slept a few hours after work, then revisited the pub that evening for a meal and the meat raffle. He returned to the group with a tray and the next round of beers. He slid the tray on the table and plonked in the leather barrel chair, sitting back like he was lying on a banana lounge. His legs outstretched, taking up most of the floor space and obstructing the passageway. Purposeful in his posture. He liked to niggle people and get on their nerves.
His t-shirt was tight and showed his bulky arms. He was the type of bloke you’d never drop your head and run at. He may have used his muscles like a weapon, but he used his skin like a shield. Down the length of both arms were tattooed sleeves. A mix of styles forming intricate black-ink etchings, elaborate dot-work sketches and a Japanese koi fish that looped around one elbow. What money Paul didn’t spend on his car, he spent on his arms.
Paul twisted his lip in thought, sat up. ‘Gotta take a piss,’ he said. He was up and out of the chair before the team replied. The group of men were secretly happy to see him leave. No-one could understand the reason for the excessive hair gel and cologne, just for a beer at the pub with the shift crew.
As Paul ambled past Bell perched up on the bar stool, he kicked the wooden leg, making her swing her head around. He knew she was watching him; he wanted to let her know he was there. She’d be wondering if it was an accident, or if he’d meant to annoy her. The thought of this made him smile.
27
Amy Thicket had stayed hidden and waited until dark to return home. She was bruised and bloody, her shirt torn from where she had climbed out of the car’s shattered front windscreen. The nicks on her fingers stung like she had grabbed a fistful of stinging nettles. She looked as if she’d just survived an accident – which she had.
Yesterday, Amy had sat in the wreckage. Her stomach cramped and she was sure she’d cracked a rib. With every breath, a sharp pain seemed to pinch her hip and spine. Her husband was by her side, pale faced, unconscious. The blood still oozing from his neck with each pulse of his slowing heart. His head cocked, his fat tongue resting on his bottom lip, like he wanted to say something. She didn’t try to stop the bleeding or find her phone to call for assistance. She wanted no ambulance, no rescue. Instead, in a daze, she watched as her husband slipped away. She neither cried nor smiled, felt no sorrow or relief. His floppy hand, unresponsive, lay close to her thigh. She lifted it, still warm, and could feel his knuckles roll under his skin. She placed it in his lap. It was hard for her to imagine that the same hand had once . . . Amy let the thought go as fast as it arrived.
When she finally had the strength, she crawled from her seat through the window onto the bonnet, then slid off and away from the car. She had walked as far as she could into the bushlands, and when her legs could carry her no more, and the pain in her side was too strong, she sank to the ground and curled up amongst a clump of tussock, resting her head on the tufts. She had slept in the itchy grass all night, clutching her stomach, hoping the pain was only bruising or a cracked rib, praying it was nothing more serious. Her right ear ached from the explosion of the airbag. It felt wet and sticky inside. The natural sounds of the bush were muffled. She was sure she had perforated her eardrum.
During the day, she had baked in the sun, dry-mouthed and sunburned, until she clambered her way to Quarry Creek. Under the shade of the trees, she had drunk the dank water. Her stomach was sore, but her chest ached more for worry about her son. He had often got himself ready and off to school before. Times when she couldn’t leave her bed because her body was still tender from the wallop inflicted during the night. She knew he wouldn’t call for help, turn to a neighbour, or a teacher. But she had never left him alone all night . . . so her certainty and confidence that he was okay ebbed as the day wore on. As night began to fall again, she was rested and felt stronger. In the cover of darkness, she had the strength to follow the edge of Edderton Road back out to familiar territory and found her way home.
Amy knocked on her bedroom window. She had no keys to get in and guessed if her son was in the house alone, he would be burrowed deep in the blankets of her bed.
She knocked on the window once more. ‘Joe? Are you in there?’
The bedspread fell away, and a head popped up like a rabbit in the dark sensing a predator lurking. His eyes were wide and frightened.
‘Joe, it’s Mum. Let me in.’
Joe Thicket scrambled to unlock the front door. The moment she was inside, he flung himself at her, his face buried deep into her shirt. She winced but allowed the embrace. She could smell the earth and dried blood in her clothes.
‘Shh. There, there.’ Amy’s bruised hand smoothed the top of his hair. Her voice sounded loud in her head. Her right ear was still ringing. Although having her son in her arms was healing enough. ‘I’m home now. I’m going to take a shower and change. Dress my wounds. You sit here on the bed. Dad isn’t coming home, son. You’ll be okay.’
She let her words sink in. His father wasn’t returning home. She wondered if, just like her, he felt nothing. No relief or sorrow. She wanted to explain to him that it was like having a family dog put down after it had bitten. While you wished things were different, what had to be done had to be done. Dogs bite, and parents can hurt.
Her son’s reaction wasn’t what she expected. Instead, he licked his finger and tried to wipe away the dry blood on her cheek. Amy fought not to fold in on herself as she gently reassured the boy everything would be okay. She whispered words of comfort as she left his side mid-sentence and paced lightly through the house, switching off the lights. When the house was dark, back in the bedroom she left only the side lamp on. The police would come again. Questions would be asked. What happened in the car? Why did you leave the crash site? Do you know it’s against the law to leave a fatal accident? Amy didn’t feel ready to answer any of them.
She needed time to think. Time to get her story straight.
28
Bob unzipped his pants, then looked down at the infected blister on his hand. He grunted, and the echo bounced off the stainless-steel wall. He struggled to pee, and had to take a few deep breaths to relax, let his bladder release. Finally, he heard the stream hit the silver wall. When he was done at the trough, he stood by the wash basin and glanced at his reflection in the lopsided mirror that was water stained and graffitied in black sharpie pen. For what he could see of himself, he looked rattled. And he bloody was.
‘Are you smoking weed in there, Dill?’
‘Yup.’
‘Give us a hit.’ He walked to the end of the row of cubicles, heaved open the warped door straining to hang onto its hinges, and hoped the bastard thing wouldn’t come off in his hand.
In the last cubicle, the disabled toilet, Dill had lit up a joint and was blowing the smoke up high so it could escape out of the top window. Dill leaned against the wall and handed the joint to Bob who took it and sucked so hard it burned his lips and made him cough. Bob hadn’t smoked weed since he was a teenager, but now he felt like he needed it. He needed to mellow, to calm the fuck down.
‘What’s this shit about cops and Oliver?’ asked Dill.
‘Yeah, fuck. I know.’
Dill pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped and scrolled, his phone almost touching his nose as he scanned the screen. After a moment he shoved the phone in Bob’s face. ‘It’s bloody there. Look.’
Bob waved the phone from his face. ‘Cop was only asking about Oliver. Nothing about the fish and chip shop.’
‘They’re not going to ask Bell, “Hey, is your better half thinking of robbing the fishmonger?”, are they? Crikey, Bob. I’ve got a bad feeling. I don’t think we should be doing this. Not with cops sniffing around. Fucking two detectives in one day. When does that ever happen? It’s a sign, I’m telling you, a fucking sign.’
‘Calm down, Dill.’
‘Calm down? Calm down? You have no idea how much I’ve got the jitters now, Bob.’
Bob shrugged, annoyed. ‘Nah, come on. It’s nothing. We stick to our original story about Oliver, okay.’
Dill put out his hand for Bob to return his joint.
‘And don’t worry about Oliver,’ Bob said, taking one last drag. ‘The cops were clueless then, they’ll be clueless now.’
Dill twitched. Shook his head. ‘What do I tell them?’
‘Nothing. You tell them nothing. Say you can’t remember. It was almost twenty years ago. Say fucking nothing, you hear me? Zip.’
‘Alright, alright.’ Dill sucked back on the last of the joint. Tossed the browned end into the toilet bowl and flushed.
Bob waved his hand in the air towards the window, trying to clear the lavatory of smoke. ‘Still good?’
‘So, we’re doing it?’
‘Yup.’
‘Even with the D’s sniffing around, I can’t talk you out of it?’
‘Nup. Fuck ’em. I need this, Dill.’
‘Okay. Got a plan?’
‘Yup. I’ve given it more thought.’
When Paul Cooper walked into the men’s bathroom, he’d intended to bail Bob and Dill up about the radio report of the skeleton found at Mount Wingen. He wanted to know if the two dickheads thought it was Oliver Lavine. Or if he was getting antsy about nothing. Yet if it was Oliver, he wanted to make sure they were all still sticking to the same story. Instead, when he entered the room, he found it empty.
He could hear voices carrying down the tiled room and got more than a reassurance that no-one was going to talk about that day on the mountain with Oliver Lavine. In fact, he got even more than he’d hoped for. He’d always thought Bob was a gutless wonder and was impressed by the ballsy idea of mugging the fishmonger. He smiled at the simplicity, but also the brilliance of it. After listening to Bob lay out his plan, Paul quietly stepped away, and slipped out of the restroom. He had heard all of it.
As Paul meandered through patrons lined up at the bar, he was still nodding to himself as he pondered, If you rob someone, then get robbed yourself, you’re not going to go to the police. Nah. That would be dumb. And that would be Bob’s problem. And my fuckin’ windfall.
DAY 4
29
On her way into Muswellbrook Police Station, Giles had stopped at the home of Phillip O’Dell. She stood at the warping front door and rang the doorbell. Two simple notes: ding dong. On the umpteenth ring, when nobody answered, she wasn’t surprised. She didn’t peg Phillip O’Dell as being particularly productive until midday.
Now at the station, the blinds to the meeting room were drawn – purely by habit to reduce the risk of a suspect, or an acquaintance of a suspect, walking past and seeing the images on the crazy board. Except the crime evidence board in front of Giles paled in comparison to previous homicide investigations. The wall displayed only a few photographs of the gravesite and skull, along with the first of the skeletal remains collected from the crime scene and laid out on a stainless-steel table. There were no pictures of a possible victim or suspect, no murder mapped, and none of the gathered information from the old file had been added either. The crazy board looked sparce and empty.
