Burning mountain, p.17
Burning Mountain, page 17
‘Why are you whispering?’ Bray’s voice was loud and booming. Far too intense for the early morning hour.
Giles tucked the phone under her chin, wiggled her toes and looked at her socked feet – her shoes were still missing. Edison must have slipped them off, but where the bloody hell did he put them? She searched the floor. ‘Eh? Whispering? Nah, just being respectfully quiet.’ She was impressed with her lie as she slid off the bed and found one shoe behind a chair. She slipped it under her arm.
‘Hang on . . .’ said Bray. ‘Give me a sec.’
‘Righto.’
There was muffled talk on the phone, urgent talk. Giles scratched her head. It felt like a knotty mess. Standing in the middle of Edison’s motel room, lying to Bray didn’t sit comfortably with her. Giles collected her other shoe by the front door, stuffed a muesli bar she’d seen on the kitchen bench into her pocket, and, before leaving, found Edison fast asleep on the carpet between the bed and the wall of the adjoining bathroom – a bath towel for a pillow, spare blanket as a mattress, and his jacket draped over his shoulder to keep warm. She winced at the empty beer and wine bottles stacked on the small table, cringed at the frivolity of their all-night conversation that was only intermittently broken by the topping up of wine, then turned away, and quietly left the room to her own next door.
Outside, the balmy morning hinted that the day would get sticky and hot. Giles searched for which pocket held her own room key while she waited for Bray to come back on the line.
Bray again. ‘Bob Bradbury has agreed to come into the station for an interview.’
‘Brilliant!’
‘Tomorrow morning. That’s why I need you back here tonight.’
‘I can do that.’
‘That’s not all, Giles. Jacob Colton has also agreed to an interview. Did you reach out to him?’
Giles frowned. Jacob? ‘Jacob Colton?’
‘The kid whose mother put in a complaint about Bernard Nestor. Only he’s not a child anymore.’
Shit. Bloody Dad. ‘What did Colton say?’
‘He’ll meet with you. Only not at the station. I’ll text the details. Look, Giles, he didn’t seem overly willing, so tread carefully when chatting to him. He’ll be a reluctant witness by the sounds of it.’
Crikey, how did Dad manage to pull that off?
Giles grinned. ‘Reluctant, but still willing,’ she said, then ended the call with a satisfying tap of her thumb.
Bob Bradbury was also woken by a muffled ringtone of a mobile phone. Only no-one wanted to speak to him – it was just that his alarm was set on repeat.
By his side, Bell slept with both pillows tucked under her head, leaving him with none. They had gone to bed frosty with each other, but he’d try to make it up to her. And eventually, he knew he’d win her over when she realised he was just a guy doing his best to buy his girl a ring.
Bob rolled onto his side, kinked his arm, and rested his head on his shoulder. He loved Bell. Was grateful that she’d come into his life. The irony of it, though – meeting her because of Paul Cooper. Of all bloody people.
Bob swallowed and thought back to his schooldays. In the Year 9 corridor by the lockers, when Paul Cooper was still his mate. Paul had sat on the edge of a dented galvanised garbage bin and said, ‘Why don’t we piss that loser off? Three’s a crowd and all that.’
‘Eh?’
‘The ginger. Let’s get rid of him. Just you and me. The A-Team.’
Bob had wavered by the locker door, then shook his head. But it wasn’t because Dill was his best mate, and he didn’t want to do the dirty on him; it was because Bob was terrified of being alone with Paul. Paul had a way of asserting absolute control over him. He could make him do things he was too afraid of saying no to. Dill was a buffer. A lifejacket in the unusual friendship of three. So, Bob had answered, ‘Nah. Can’t. He’s my mate.’ Then Bob had mumbled, to push the boundary further between him and Paul, ‘Dill’s my best mate.’
Bob would later realise Dill had overheard the conversation as he was coming out of the classroom and sworn to Bob his returned loyalty and gratitude.
Soon after, Bob and Dill had found their talent. On the footy field. Bob’s brawn, and Dill’s lanky long legs, made them hotshots on the oval. They spent the school term immersing themselves in weekend footy games and afternoon training, because it was the one place Paul Cooper never showed up at.
Slowly they befriended Oliver Lavine, the kid who had Buckley’s chance of getting in a full game. They’d pitied him sitting out the matches on the bench. Recognised themselves in him. Then Oliver introduced them to Bell, and Bob watched his friendship group swell, and the space between him and Paul Cooper widened.
His safety net had grown, and Cooper was losing his footing in the group. Bob realised that the more people he could pull around him, the more he felt protected from Cooper’s coaxing him into being an arsehole at school. The stronghold was slowly dissolving. Life was finally taking a turn. The unusual friendship of four had decided that, on the first weekend of the holidays, they’d do a hike up to the top of Burning Mountain. They’d been excited. That was until, at the last minute, word got back to Paul Cooper – and he invited himself to tag along.
40
The early-morning bus ride from Muswellbrook to Denman was less than twenty-five minutes. Amy and Joe had hopped on the single-decker at Brooks Street, both fighting back second thoughts of venturing out. However, Amy straightened her backbone, lifted her chin, and motioned for her son to do the same.
Joe only squirmed a little in the seat. The entire journey he had been mute while watching farmlands whiz by from the side window. He pointed to cattle and horses, silos that stood tall like silver rocket ships, at grape trestles, work utes and quad bikes with cattle dogs riding on the back. Some paddocks they passed had crops of barley that grew thick. He was mesmerised by the fields, which were lush, green and inviting, all watered by an expensive pivot irrigation machine dragged around the paddock by a tractor. His mother had nodded at each discovery, a touch of sadness on her face. Joe Thicket had never ventured far from town before, and by the time the bus arrived at Palace Street in Denman, their nervousness had only inched a little towards excitement.
Amy rummaged through her handbag for a sheet of paper with a name and address scribbled down. A pencilled mud map was drawn beneath. She twisted the page, so her sketch matched the cross-section of the streets, then she pointed down the road and said, ‘This way, Joe.’
They walked one behind the other – Amy in front, Joe behind and at half the pace – until they reached the gravel road where the homes looked either rundown or abandoned. At the end of the street, they saw the grey and ugly house with the number that matched the one scribbled on the paper in Amy’s hand.
‘Do we open the gate?’ she asked.
Joe looked up at his mother, frowning into the sun, and shook his head.
‘Okay, we’ll wait.’
Together, they stood behind the rusty metal gate that cut them off and kept them out of the front yard. Amy eyed a cobweb spun between the railing and corner post of the hardwood fence, which a spider had long ago abandoned. She reached out with a finger and broke through the silk, making sure the critter couldn’t return. The mooring threads floated in the air, failing to find an anchor.
You have to start again, little one. We all do.
Amy fought the urge to turn and leave. After she’d decided to give it a few more minutes before heading back, two horses, one dark bay and the other dapple grey, stepped out from behind the rusted corrugated shed, brushed and saddled and ready to be ridden. The horses strolled up to the gate and stood in front of Amy and Joe. The beasts’ ears twitched, and they snorted at Joe’s outstretched hand, inquisitive. Slowly the horses stepped closer. Skittish to the touch at first, they soon relaxed and allowed Joe to stroke and pat their muzzles.
No longer needing to hoard money for her escape, Amy had decided to spend some of it on riding lessons. After all Joe had been through, she wanted to nurture his love of the animals. Only now, the horses looked huge – and dangerous. She wondered if she should have started with something smaller. Safer.
‘I see you’ve met.’
Joe and Amy looked around for the voice. They stilled the moment they saw Bernard Nestor appear at the entryway of the machinery shed. ‘Mrs Thicket?’
Amy watched the man hobble out of the doorway of the galvanised shack. ‘Mr Nestor?’
Bernard Nestor nodded and limped towards them. And when he flashed Amy a smile, she couldn’t help thinking his teeth resembled those of his retired horses.
Nestor flopped his arms on the railing between them like a wet towel. His shoulders dropped. The skin on his neck was taut, as if there was no longer muscle or bone structure to hold him up. When she searched his face for reassurance, he stretched out his hand over the fence and shook hers.
‘You ready for a ride, young man?’
Joe stared at Nestor.
‘He’s a little shy, but he’ll warm up. Once you get him chatting, he won’t stop.’ Amy looked down at her son. ‘Isn’t that right, mate?’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Joe?’
Joe didn’t respond.
Bernard Nestor looked the boy up and down, then back at the horses. ‘You got a favourite? I’m partial to the dapple. Its name is Iceberg.’
For the first time, Joe’s face softened. ‘Why?’
‘Horse’s coat looks like dirty snow. But if you can think of a better name while we ride, I’ll listen to it.’
And then Joe Thicket smiled. A horse named Iceberg had broken the ice.
Amy imagined the two of them riding side by side. And fleetingly felt concern for the old man. She was sure if he fell off his horse, his thin-tissue skin would tear, and a bone would drop out of his body like garbage spilling from a ripped bin liner.
‘First time you’ve ridden?’
Joe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Nestor unhooked the gate, letting the boy inside the enclosure, and closed it again on Amy. ‘Then today will be a day you’ll always remember.’ To Amy, he said, ‘This young man and I will ride up through the creek and along the banks. I’ll show the boy where the Hunter and Goulburn rivers meet. Go get yourself a coffee on Ogilvy Street. Come back in an hour.’
Before Amy could reply, Nestor turned his back and asked Joe, ‘You decided which one?’
Joe eagerly pointed to the grey horse. ‘I like this one. I like its name. Don’t change it – it’s nice.’
It was the most Amy had ever heard topple from her son’s mouth with a stranger. And because he didn’t flinch, or hide, or look panicked by stepping out of his comfort zone, she took it as a sign to leave.
‘An hour?’ asked Amy.
‘That’s what you’re paying for.’ Nestor reached into his pocket and handed Joe a small pioneer doll made of straw. ‘Feed this to your dapple. Get acquainted.’
Before she turned to leave, Amy watched her son step lightly towards the horse, palm flat, outstretched, the pale straw doll in his hand. The horse sniffed at the offering, then its soft lip twitched, scooping up the treat.
41
In the main street of Crookwell, while Giles waited for the barista to make coffees and toast banana bread, she poked around in the local arts, wine and craft shops, eyeing off jams and chutneys, knitted scarves and woolly socks. The homemade marmalades reminded her of her childhood. The pantry was always stocked with preserved fruit, jams and pickles.
Benjamin Giles had been handsome in the years before falling ill – perhaps even more handsome when promoted to district superintendent. But he didn’t have the desire, nor the time, to pursue a relationship, and Giles felt it was more because his love for her mother was still strong thirty years after her death. Still, he had his fair share of admirers over the years. Women in town trying to win him over with Tupperware containers of shortbread biscuits, pecan pie, bottled nectarines, pickles and chutneys, and loads of mixed berry jams. As a child, Giles never understood the motive for these women’s generosity towards her widowed, single father. But the gifts of food were appreciated. If it wasn’t for the offerings, Giles might have gone a little hungrier as a kid.
Edison opened the door of his motel room, squinted into the light, and found Giles standing in the morning sunshine. She had showered and changed. Her long hair was pulled back into a tight braid. Her face was fresh with a touch of make-up, and she wore a tailored suit that, like all the others she owned, spelled boring. Her smile felt more forced than natural.
‘Mornin’.’ She held out a tray with two coffees, toasted banana bread and a blueberry muffin. Giles had figured that, before the mood between them could shift to awkward apologies, she’d set the tone of the conversation, hoping to skip a discussion of the previous night.
Edison, slightly perplexed, blinked into the light and at the tray held out before him. He looked back up at Giles and at the beanie pulled snug on her head. It was wool, knitted in pinks and blues, with ears and a face crocheted on it.
‘What’s that?’ asked Edison.
‘A choice. I popped into town and grabbed us some breakfast. You can have either the banana bread or the muffin.’
‘No, that. On your head.’
‘Oh! They were selling them down in the arts centre in the main street. It’s a wombat beanie.’
‘It’s going to reach thirty degrees today. I don’t think you’ll be needing a beanie.’
‘But it’s a wombat beanie.’ Giles pulled the woollen hat off her head, and held it up towards Edison for him to see the cartoonish face of the animal in bright knitted colours.
‘I’ve never seen a pink and blue wombat before.’ Edison grinned. He pulled a coffee from the tray and selected the banana bread. The amity between them was back in balance.
Janet Lavine sipped black tea from a pottery coffee mug glazed in earthy greens and browns. If you could compact all the wretchedness of life into a small box and tie it up with deteriorating string, Janet Lavine would be that box. Her lips were colourless, her skin sallow, like a layer of dust had settled on her and never been polished off. With each sip of her tea, her steel-framed glasses misted and hid her pale blue eyes.
Giles’s tea was served in a porcelain cup with cracks in the floral glazing. Every time she took a sip, she feared the handle would snap, or the cup would disintegrate and crumble in her hand.
‘I have to admit, I was surprised the case was reopened.’ Janet Lavine’s voice lacked strength. It was soft and hollow. To Giles, it seemed that although she mightn’t have withdrawn all hope of finding her son, it was more that the enthusiasm and optimism had been worn away.
There’s always hope, Mrs Lavine. Giles swallowed. Please, don’t ever lose it.
Although perhaps after eighteen years, Mrs Lavine was reluctant to pin her hopes on an outcome that could be another letdown. She jiggled her teabag, then struggled to swiftly remove it from her mug. It dribbled across the tablecloth leaving behind a trail of brown liquid, before it landed on the side of a bread-and-butter plate.
Giles left her teabag in the mug, afraid of making the same mess. She cleared her throat. ‘The case is classified as “long-term missing person”. But that doesn’t mean the AFP had given up on Oliver. His case file was taken over by the National Missing Persons Coordination Centre. Oliver’s profile information still remains on the Australian Public Register, but not once, I assure you, has the police ever forgotten about him.’
Janet only nodded, her eyes on the tea stain across the cloth. After a moment she said, ‘What does this mean now?’
Giles had to tread carefully. No promises. No false hope. The woman has endured enough. ‘Well, nowadays, it’s standard police procedure to ask for a forensic sample, DNA from the family. Almost twenty years ago, it wasn’t common practice. These days, if the police come across unidentified human remains, the family’s DNA is already in the system to be matched with the profiles of the missing person.’
Edison had been quietly sitting at the other end of the table. He had politely declined the offer of tea, and now seemed to feel the need to jump in. ‘Mrs Lavine, with your DNA, we can determine if there is a genetic relationship when the profiles are matched. Once we compare the STR markers –’
Mrs Lavine blinked. ‘STR?’
‘Short tandem repeats. Repetitive sections of DNA. Genetic code.’
Giles gave a quick dismissive glance at Edison, before jumping back in. Liam Edison was a scientist, not a detective, and Janet Lavine needed short, clean answers to her questions. Not scientific ones. ‘Mrs Lavine –’
‘Janet. Call me Janet.’
Giles placed her teacup gently down on the table. It was too bloody hot to drink tea, and Janet Lavine’s house didn’t have air-conditioning, only an old electric fan on a pedestal that blasted Giles every few seconds. Giles waited for the next short respite of cool air before speaking. ‘Janet, I don’t want to instil false hope. What we’ve found may or may not be Oliver. It is, to be blunt, a process of elimination. We’ll be sending samples from the remains to be tested, along with your swab. But I need you to know that DNA doesn’t always survive in certain conditions, and can degrade in hot weather and in certain soils over time. We have our fingers crossed, and as soon as I receive any results, I promise you’ll be the first person I call.’
Janet didn’t respond. Her face didn’t carry the same enthusiasm as Giles’s or Edison’s. Instead, she sipped her tea. After a moment she said, ‘I worry that I don’t have the strength to get back on that rollercoaster, detective. Torture myself with the belief Oliver will be found. You know, for the first few years after he went missing, I’d return to search for him. Only the landscape looked different each time. The trees seemed taller, undergrowth denser, it was never the same as . . . that day. Then, after ten years, the Missing Persons Unit said they could do a sketch of how Oliver would look at age twenty-five. I said, “If you do, I don’t want to see it.” I couldn’t bring myself to see him in any other way than the one I’d last remembered.’
