Blood Junction (29 page)

“Okay, okay. I’ll get them. Give me an hour and I’ll meet you at Saint Leonard’s station.”

Mikey’s mind flicked to India, who would be waiting for him at the same time. He said, “See you in an hour.”

Mikey arrived at St. Leonard’s and stood at the Pacific Highway entrance half reading his newspaper, half watching pedestrians
and streams of traffic pouring in both directions.

An ambulance, lights whirling and siren blaring, joined the highway from opposite him and raced past. He watched it, not thinking
anything of it; the Royal North Shore Hospital was just down the road. The ambulance roared to the next traffic lights and
swung left.

Then his stomach lurched.

The AMA’s offices were just around the corner.

Mikey dropped his paper and belted after the ambulance.

He rounded the corner into Christie Street. A crowd stood around the ambulance. Two paramedics were hunched beside a figure
sprawled on the pavement. Mikey pushed his way through the onlookers. Stared at the man the paramedics were trying to resuscitate.

His heart stopped for a second. He felt very unsteady.

Oh, God. Rodney.

Mikey swayed slightly. He heard a woman say, “Are you all right?”

His poor wife
, thought Mikey.
His two kids
.

“You know him?” the woman asked.

“What happened?” Mikey said.

“I think he got mugged. That man over there saw it. He’s the one who called the ambulance. He’s got a mobile.”

Mikey took in the man the woman had pointed out and went over to him. “What happened?”

“Jesus,” the man said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. In broad daylight—”

“What happened?” Mikey repeated.

“It happened so fast. I still can’t believe it. I was behind him, heading for the station. He was just walking along with
his briefcase when two blokes coming in the opposite direction jumped him. They snatched his case and he fell to the ground.”
The man paused. “I thought he’d get up, I really did, but he didn’t. He just lay there. I got down to ask him if he was okay,
but he didn’t move. Then I saw he’d been shot. His shirt…” The man gulped. “All bloody. I called triple zero straight off.”

“Where did the men go?”

“They were running for the highway. I’d have gone after them but he … he needed help.”

“You did good.”

“Thanks.”

In the distance, Mikey heard the mournful wail of a siren and knew the police were on their way. He saw the paramedics rise
to their feet. They were shaking their heads. Dully, Mikey walked away. His legs felt as though they’d been filled with wet
sand.

“Shit,” said India when he told her how Rodney had died. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her face had paled but she wasn’t panicking.
She had a lot of guts, this woman. She’d been waiting for him outside the school gates when he returned and didn’t mention
he was an hour late, just said, “You look awful. What’s happened?”

Now he said, “It looks like it’s down to your friend Scotto to deliver.”

He watched her buckle her seat belt. They’d agreed that she should drive again while he map read. “That’s not until tomorrow,”
she said. “I tried to ring him, to see if we couldn’t make it tonight, but apparently the sod’s gone sailing.” She tossed
the Gregory’s Street Directory at him, and turned the ignition. “Where next?”

“North Sydney. I’ve some cop friends there. I want to see if any of them has an ear to the ground and might have heard something
useful to us.”

India pushed the stick into drive. They cruised out of the school gates and turned right up the hill, towards Military Road.

“I’ll drop you off before I head for Cremorne,” she said. “I’ve heaps of time. I’m not due to see Dr. Child until four and
I—”

“Remind me,” he said.

“Lauren saw her before she went to Cooinda. Scotto says she’s important.”

“What sort of doctor?”

“I don’t know. But I think she’s tied into the stolen generation thing.” He listened as she filled him in on Catherine Buchanan-Atkins’
story. “Lauren was searching for Bertie Mullett, but Catherine only had a record of a Louis Mullett, no fixed address. I know
where his girlfriend is though. If we manage to track him or Bertie down we might find some answers.”

“According to that printout I nicked, they could still be at the Research Institute.”

India turned left onto Military Road and accelerated hard into the second lane between a red Honda and a silver Mack truck,
to avoid a braking taxi in the bus lane. In the wing mirror Mikey saw the Mack flash its lights. India stuck her arm out of
the window and waved with her thumb up.
Sensible girl
, he thought. You don’t want to mess with those monsters. He smiled when the Mack gave her a short blast of its air horn and
dropped back.

The car thumped steadily on the seams in the road. He saw a queue of cars outside a car wash and twin rows of awnings announcing
food, videos and florists.

“Mikey?” India’s tone was cautious. “Why aren’t you in the police anymore?”

“I didn’t like the uniform.”

“Seriously, what was it? A complaint from the public? Being caught taking a bribe?”

He opted for silence.

“Too many unpaid parking tickets? Perjury?” she prodded.

He looked across, saw the determination in her face. “You won’t give up, will you?”

“Never.” India braked smoothly for a red light. She turned her head and fixed him with her deep brown eyes. He felt something
shift in him as their eyes met, as though something dark inside him was being pulled into the light. He looked at her mouth,
the fullness of her lips, the way they were curved in a slight smile, then back at her eyes.

The Mack tapped its horn. India turned her head and pushed her foot on the accelerator. The car surged forward and within
a few seconds they had caught up with the red Honda. They cruised through Cremorne and Neutral Bay, with its palm trees dotting
the pavements. India remained silent, but she kept flicking her eyes his way.

“All right,” he said. “If you really want to know I was convicted of strangling a man in custody, late at night, no witnesses.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he felt faintly surprised when the car didn’t falter. She drove steadily on, glancing
in the rearview mirror, concentrating on keeping her distance from the Honda in front. She said nothing. Simply waited for
him to continue.

“The man, Harris, was an ex-employee of Karamyde Cosmetics, suing them for wrongful dismissal. One minute he’s taking Karamyde
to court, and the next the poor sod’s in jail for killing a little girl, his niece. He yelled his innocence, but we didn’t
listen. Not just me, but everyone in the station reckoned he’d been abusing the child and was guilty of murder.”

He turned his head aside. The carriageway dipping to the Harbour Bridge slid across his eyes like a flattened worm.

“Then someone strangled him. Not me. But I took the rap. I was suspended, which meant the investigation into Karamyde Cosmetics
was suspended too. They removed me without killing me to avert the entire police department landing on their doorstep. And
they killed an innocent man and a little girl under the noses of Cooinda PD.” He shook his head wearily.

“Bastards,” was all she said, after a moment’s silence.

“They’ll pay,” he said tightly.

When India dropped him off her face was troubled. “Take care, okay?”

“You too,” he said. “Call me on my mobile later. I don’t want to miss out on the oyster festival.” He was glad when her expression
brightened.

Dr. Geraldine Child was very old, amazingly tall—taller than India—wizened with age and appeared constantly alert. Her gaze
was hard, blue and bright, her body lean, and she looked exactly how India wanted to look at her age. The room she ushered
India into was small and immaculate, crammed to the ceiling with shelves packed with books and journals of various sizes.
Each publication and book was, India saw, in alphabetical order by author.

Dr. Child sat on an upright chair behind her desk and smiled warmly at India. “I’m so pleased you came,” she said. “Lauren
told me all about you.”

India found her nerves bristling, her insecurity rising at the woman’s intimate tone.

Dr. Child gestured India to sit opposite her.

“How is Lauren? I haven’t seen her or heard from her since she left for …” The woman paused, studied India’s face. “She didn’t
tell you about me, did she?”

“No. Her husband suggested I come.”

“Yes, I’ve met Scotto.” Dr. Child didn’t say any more. As she sat there, waiting for India to break the silence, she seemed
less open, almost guarded. A truck rumbled past outside and India could hear a baby crying. The smell of freesias—there were
a dozen, tallstemmed, in a vase on the windowsill—fought with a deeper odor of furniture polish.

India took a deep breath. “Lauren’s dead. She was murdered nearly three weeks ago. I’m trying to find out why.”

“Murdered?” repeated Dr. Child faintly.

“Yes. She was shot.”

Dr. Child closed her eyes. Her tall body seemed to shrink. She brought a hand to her eyes. Her lips trembled.

India rigidly suppressed her own urge to cry. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you more gently. I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Dr. Child wiped her eyes. “We were quite close, Lauren and I.”

“I’m sorry,” said India again.

“Me too. I liked her enormously.”

They sat in silence for a minute or so, then Dr. Child, more composed, studied India at length. She nodded to herself. “Lauren
was a reporter,” she said. “Do you think she was killed in the course of an investigation? For
Disclosure
perhaps?”

Surprised, India said, “Yes. I don’t suppose you happen to know what she was working on?”

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Child. “She never mentioned her work, but I know how important it was to her.”

“How did you know Lauren?”

“We met at a party in Rushcutter’s Bay. I’m a genealogist, retired but bored. She wanted a family tree done. We did it together.
I enjoyed it immensely. Lauren had an inquiring mind and a wicked sense of humor. She made it great fun. I shall miss her.”