Burning mountain, p.3
Burning Mountain, page 3
‘Shit!’
He’d forgotten to put the sun shield across the windscreen in the morning; now he could hardly grasp the steering wheel, it was so bloody hot. Inside the cabin, it felt like a hundred degrees. He cranked the window and turned over the engine. The SLR 5000 rumbled. The engine had a slight misfire, but nothing that a tune-up couldn’t fix – once he had some spare cash.
He flicked his better half a text, telling her, ‘leaving work – home soon – stopping at pub for a quick frothy.’ Then he filled the next two lines with ‘x’s. The text sent, within a few minutes the Torana rumbled down the main road. The only thing that had improved the value and appearance of the car since the day it had been purchased was a wash. When he first bought the car, which had spent years rusting away in a farm shed neglected, his head was full of ‘round-to-its’ and ‘gonna-do’s’. The old cockie wanted the space and the car gone, so Bob paid a tuppence to clear it out of his shed. There was so much dirt in the boot he wondered if he could grow wheat in it. But the car polished up nice and the credit card paid for a tow and a new set of tyres. It had potential. He had big dreams for it, and he was proud of it.
Bob was all smiles as he thought, A little bit of cash. And I might give the car a tune-up, and finally get that ring on the hand.
At last, he felt like his life was getting on track.
. . . A ring. That’s it. I’m doin’ it. I’m popping the question. Both brows raised at the thought. Bloody hell!
It was something he felt he could finally achieve. A purpose and a direction. A fucking goal. Something that a garbage bag full of cash could help make happen.
The houses were set back on large blocks, concealed by the streetscape of trees. Oaks, wattles and jacarandas obscured the view from the residents’ windows.
Bob had no intention of stopping at the pub. That was a lie – but the kisses were honest. Instead, he parked his noisy car at the end of the road under a jacaranda. The trees were in full bloom, and bursts of purple dotted the township and fragranced the air. The blue-purple tubular flowers had littered lawns, footpaths and – after a few gusts of wind – Bob’s car roof and bonnet.
The town loved their jacaranda trees, apart from the council street sweeper, who constantly called the local radio station to complain that the litter of buds made the roads and footpaths dangerously slippery when wet. You’ll be chopping the bastard things down the moment someone has a bloomin’ accident! But the trees still stood and merrily painted the town in shades of violet and blue.
Bob figured that the canopy of the tree, with its cluster of flowers, was a reasonable spot to hide his Torana. And from the back end of the alleyway, it would be easy to make a quick return to the vehicle.
On foot, Bob ambled down the path towards the laneway between the fish shop and the library, to see if his idea was plausible. He wanted to step it out. A walk-through of his plan. Count the steps from the dumpster in the laneway back to the car. Maybe even run and time it.
His vision was simple. Snatch. Run. Drive.
Can’t be that easy? Can it?
Bob shook his hand, shaking off the dull throb in his palm, annoyed by the distraction. He needed to think through his scheme. Perhaps enact how his plan would play out.
At the dumpster, he raised the lid and peered inside, his stomach jolting from the smell. The lid felt greasy and slippery in his hand. He let it go and listened to it clang shut and echo. Then he sniffed his palm, balked at the stench, and wiped it across his chest. Bob turned and looked for places to hide, then walked back down the laneway.
Snatch and run. Just grab the bag. And don’t look the fishmonger in the eyes. That’s all you’ve gotta do.
He lifted his wrist, tapped the starter button on his cheap digital watch to count the seconds, then ran as fast as he could back towards his car.
5
Bray tapped his phone, ending the call with Inspector Falkov, as Giles slinked under the police tape. ‘Forensic anthropologist and a forensic archaeologist are being sent. They’re on their way up from Sydney. ETA is anyone’s guess. I wouldn’t expect them to land here for at least another couple of hours.’
‘Two?’
Bray shrugged. ‘Anthropologist for the body, archaeologist for the excavation.’
‘We don’t have a body, just a skull.’
‘That’s why they’re coming.’
The gravity of what had been found was starting to sink in. A discomfort had settled over them, the pending wretchedness ahead of the investigation. If it wasn’t death by misadventure, it was the burden of unravelling the wickedness that would have taken place, uncovering the events that had cost a life and left a skull behind for a dog to find.
Giles shuffled her feet, nudged the tufts of grass with the tip of her boot. The only thing that brought her comfort was that somewhere a family member or friend might finally be able to lay a loved one to rest. Giles sniffed and could feel the dust up her nose. ‘Do you want to call in the local patrols or the State Emergency Service volunteers to search the area? See if we can find anything?’
‘Nah,’ said Bray. ‘I want to keep it contained for the moment, undisturbed until our experts arrive. I’d rather give them a clean slate to work with, not one we’ve trampled all over thinking we could be helpful, but instead made their job harder. They’ll know what they’re looking for. Then, if they need the troops, we’ll call them in.’
‘Hmm. Do you know them, the forensic team?’
‘Nup. This is the first time I’ve come across a skeleton, Giles. You?’
Giles shook her head. ‘Decayed bodies, yes, skeleton, nah.’
‘Most deceased I’ve dealt with have been in the early stages,’ said Bray. ‘With that pink-white appearance, skin slippage and some hair loss. A couple of times advanced decomposition. You know, purging of decompositional fluids out of their eyes, ears, nose and mouth.’ Oblivious to Giles’s discomfort, he elaborated, ‘Bloating, skin leathery and dark. Still smell the scenes when I think of them. Then there was that girl you found in the cattle trough . . .’
‘Okay . . . okay!’ said Giles.
She winced, rolled out the tension in her shoulders, and pushed away the images of her last case. ‘Guess it’s a good thing we’ve got authorities joining our team.’ She knew the consequence of incorrect procedures. It could mean not finding justice for the victim, and she felt some assurance knowing experts were on their way.
Bray frowned. ‘We haven’t met them yet. Let’s wait until they arrive and then make up our minds. They’ll want to assess the area, then get started first thing in the morning.’
Giles looked out across the bushland at the presumed radius of where a gravesite could be. ‘It looks so peaceful. Beautiful.’
‘Peaceful now, but if they find the site, this area will be a mess once the dig is underway.’
There was a musty tang in the air. Giles breathed in the faint smell of mulched leaves, of dry wood and the earthy soil. She listened to the hum of flies, crickets and other insects she couldn’t identify. There was the sound of rustling leaves in the canopy above as the subtle wind drifted through the branches. She noticed the melodic calls of birds. Took note of the bright yellow buttons and the grey twists and ribbons of fallen bark, accepting that it would all look, smell and sound different within a day.
‘I’ve placed the uniforms to secure the site until our forensic experts arrive. Don’t want another animal picking up the skull. Detective Callahan is about ten minutes away – he’ll keep the media calm if any turn up. Personally, I’d like to get a headstart before the technicians. A jump.’ Bray finally smiled. ‘You hungry?’
‘A bit.’
‘If I don’t take the opportunity to grab a bite to eat now, I have a feeling it’ll be hours before I get another chance. Callahan can tag in while we grab a meal, keep the site secure until the team from Sydney arrives. Let’s go out to Denman and have a steak.’
‘Denman? Long way for a steak.’
‘Turner can pick me up from there later, bring me back.’
‘I’m not coming back to the scene?’
‘Nup.’ Bray’s smile fell. ‘Come back in the morning. After dinner, you can visit your father.’
‘You want me to ask him for help?’
‘No.’ Bray poked his finger into Giles’s shoulder. ‘You want to ask him for help.’
Aside from the odd Thai takeaway and visit to the drive-thru bottle-o, Giles hadn’t ventured out much since moving to Muswellbrook more than a year ago. She had kept to herself, socialising mostly with her team; and even then, that was sporadic.
The pull to return to Sydney still felt strong. She had fought against feeling settled in the country town, not wanting to get too acquainted and comfortable in its surroundings. She didn’t want to start calling Muswellbrook home. She had returned only to spend time with her father – the change of pace and outlook was a bonus, but it wasn’t a lifestyle change. Not a permanent change. As pitiful as it felt, she knew she would only be in the Hunter Valley for the length of time it took for her father to succumb to his illness.
Still, Giles missed her city life. Late nights jogging over the Harbour Bridge. She loved the subtle tremor and vibrations under her feet as the bridge rattled from trains and eight lanes of cars. The bridge she now jogged across after dark was one lane over the Hunter River. Bondi Beach was replaced with the Hunter Beach, sandstone blocks instead of sand dunes down by the meandering stream. Country kids didn’t look out for rips or dumping waves, but turtles and snakes. And replacing the brilliant city nightscape, she had the open-cut mine, its twinkling lights and moving beams from the front-end loaders and excavators that loaded up coal twenty-four-seven to be transported and processed.
After Bray had talked her into a steak – A girl’s gotta eat – she entered the pub in Denman with a feeling of trepidation. It was another place she’d tried to avoid, to stop herself sinking deeper into country life and a return to her roots.
Bray paused and said, ‘Now, Giles, you might think it’s the chicken parmigiana or the rack of ribs you should go for, but I’m telling you, steak. It’s perfectly chargrilled over hot coals and full of iron. It’ll help build up those muscles of yours. This is my treat – you just pick your choice of gravy, and I’ll sort the rest.’
‘Mushroom.’
Bray gave her a look of scorn. He loosened his tie, undoing the top button and said, ‘Peppercorn’s better.’
‘No, it isn’t. I’ll grab the beers.’
Bray made a beeline for the back of the pub where the bistro was situated. Giles headed towards the bar, quickly swallowed up in the muffled chatter and bursts of laughter bouncing off the rustic brick walls and wooden floor. She weaved her way through the pool tables where a couple of tradies were playing a robust game of pool. Balls clicked, and cheers were followed with dirty banter and backslaps.
The two types of men in the pub were obvious. Fluoro sticks and jackaroos. The reflective strips on the tradies’ and miners’ work shirts weren’t needed. Giles had already spotted them, and the farm boys’ R.M. Williams boots and belts were what separated them. Giles took note of the pocketknives in leather pouches that sat on the farm boys’ hips, worn like a badge: stock knives with blades for hoof paring and another to castrate cows, or gut rabbits from rib cage to pelvis.
The tradies’ arms were honey sun-kissed in colour, where the farm boys’ were butter pecan and brown sugar. Giles liked their bare arms and calf muscles; maybe she should visit the pub more often.
Keep your toes in your shoes and socks, girl, she told herself, then dropped her head and grinned at the floor.
At the other end of the pub, she stood at the bar, hot and thirsty, and could almost taste the schooner of beer before she had it in her hand.
Behind the wooden benchtop, the barmaid looked Giles up and down. There was a hint of recognition on both faces. A sense of familiarity. Flashes of forgotten memories.
Giles was the first to acknowledge it. ‘Hey, Carol.’
‘Geez, well, I’ll be stuffed! It’s Benjamin Giles’s kid, right? Rebecca? Is that you? All grown up?’
Giles smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s me.’
‘Well, give us a twirl. Let me see how much you’ve grown.’
Giles stepped away from the counter and did a fancy princess spin, a half-curtsey, head cocked to the side. All she could think was, Carol. Bloody Carol. All these years and she’s still pulling beers for the boys.
She remembered Carol Raleigh from when she was a kid, sitting in the Ford, waiting for her father to finish a few beers inside the pub; slumped in the back seat sweating, thirsty. She’d be thinking, Dad’ll bring me a lemonade soon, surely. He’s been in the pub forever. It’s hot out here. Come on, just a lemonade, Dad, please, please.
Then good old Carol would spot Giles in the car and yell to her old man, ‘Either go home or give that kid a bloody drink, you lousy bastard!’
Giles would get a glass of cold lemonade, and her father would get another hour in the pub.
Yep, good old Carol. Her cheeks were now round and rippled like two fat mandarins. She’d changed – her hair was greyer, and she was a little plumper – but her smile was the same.
‘God damn, kid, I think it’s been almost twenty years since I last saw you.’
‘Yeah, about that.’
‘Where have you been?’
Giles felt herself shrink a little. After her six senior years of private boarding school in Sydney, she’d obtained her UCWE at uni, entered Goulburn academy, graduated, and spent the last ten years policing in the city.
She cleared her throat. ‘Sydney. Put in for a transfer and came back home a little over a year ago. I’m at Muswellbrook Police Station now.’
‘Yep, knew that. Followed your last case. Was in all the newspapers.’
Giles was aware of the reputation she’d gained from that case. Did Carol think she was a reckless cop who pulled her gun and just kept shooting until the job was done, or the hero who caught a killer?
‘Yeah . . . well . . . here I am.’ Giles slapped her palms on the bar top.
‘The bush will always pull you back, honey. You might have changed your leaves, sprouted fresh blossoms, but your roots are still here.’
Giles only grinned. She didn’t have the heart to tell Carol she hadn’t returned to her roots by desire. But Carol was still looking her over, and Giles shifted a little, uncomfortable at the stare.
‘Damn me.’ Carol smiled. ‘You’re the spitting image of your mother.’
The grin on Giles’s face froze. Shit. Of course Carol would have known her mother. Carol was born in Denman, never left. Still owned and ran the pub.
Carol, catching the flash of pain in Giles’s eyes, said, ‘Sorry, love. Thirty years feels like yesterday to an old chook like me.’ Then she switched topic. ‘How’s your father?’
‘Good, still in Merton Court, because of his . . . you know.’
‘Yep, I know.’ Carol picked up an empty schooner glass – it was chilled and frosted. ‘What will it be?’
‘Surprise me. Make it two. My partner’s ordering some meals.’
‘Take a seat. I’ll bring it over. On the house, as a welcome home gift.’
Nodding gratefully, Giles stepped away from the bar and found a quiet table for two in the corner by the window. She took a seat with her back to the rest of the establishment.
As she waited for Bray to return, she looked at her reflection in the large window. She recalled her mother’s features from the few old photographs she had stared at a million times. Giles had her mouth, heart-shaped, full and round with a cupid’s-bow top lip. She also had her mother’s thick dark hair and dark brown eyes. She was only a few months old when her mother died, and she had no real idea what sort of person her mum had been, aside from the much-loved wife of Superintendent Benjamin Giles.
And while the loss of her mother had left a feeling of emptiness, it was the thought of losing her father that now sat heavy in her stomach.
It was a little after six and the pub was starting to fill with miners and contractors looking for a meal. It had been almost three hours since the skull had been found and while the uniforms and Detective Senior Constable Callahan were keeping the scene secure until the forensic anthropologist and archaeologist arrived, Giles knew it would be days of collecting evidence for the team to analyse; weeks, possibly months before there would be a positive identification of the skeletal remains. So a steak at the pub didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She and Bray could use the time to debrief and agree on what steps they’d need to take next.
Bray returned to the table, his hands full. He dropped a set of forks and steak knives with a clank, along with a scrunched-up bunch of serviettes and salt and pepper shakers.
Giles immediately began to rearrange the utensils and condiments neatly. As she refolded the napkins, she asked, ‘So, what have we got?’
‘T-bone.’
‘No, the case.’
‘Oh, Turner’s at the station running missing persons – going back the last twenty to thirty years around the area.’
‘The skull still had its top teeth.’
Giles knew that different teeth formed at various points during childhood, and certain bones in the skeleton remodelled at different rates, but that was the extent of her knowledge, and she wasn’t sure if any of it was useful. They desperately needed the forensic team from Sydney to match the teeth with dental records to help determine the age, and possibly the identity.
‘So, you agree that the skull is a youth?’
‘Yeah, I do.’ Giles nodded. ‘Early teens.’
‘I think it’s a fair guess it’s an adolescent, however I told Turner to start his search from aged eight up. Don’t want to miss anything.’
‘There was a crack in the skull, close to the eye socket.’
‘Skull could have been damaged by a wild animal, resulted from scavenging, or cracked from a tree root while in the ground?’
