One Sunday (27 page)

‘Decent? You don't know what the word means, you German-loving, shit-mouthed little whore.'

He couldn't remember much after that, just flinging open the truck door, knocking her to the ground with that door. Not meaning to knock her down, but having done it, and seeing that little slut lying in the dirt on her back, knees up…

He got out of the truck and stood over her. ‘Don't want to live like sister and brother? Aching for it, you little whore? There are more ways to kill a cat than choking it with cream, you know.'

He turned the truck motor off later. How much later he didn't know. He walked away from her, left her naked, left her puking and crying in the dirt. So, he'd treated her like the whore she was – she'd driven him to it, and she was his wife, wasn't she? His to do with as he pleased? No more pussyfooting around that little bitch. She'd learn to obey her husband and like it.

Before Nicholas brought her home the following day, Dave moved his own clothes into her wardrobe, pushing aside the few frocks she'd brought with her. He'd hung his trousers, his suit, even his lieutenant's uniform there, and that night he dragged her to that bed and held her down on it, one way or another, his hands taking what pleasure they could in her flesh.

She cringed from him. No more fixed smile, no more clever tongue. She swam home that night and when Nicholas drove her back the next morning, maybe he looked at his son-in-law with a bit of respect.

He got to like overpowering her, got to like slapping her, seeing the daughter of Nicholas Jesus Christ Squire cowering and helpless beneath him. He got to need that rush of red fog that killed pain, killed envy and memory, and he became inventive. There
were
a lot more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream.

Then, one Friday night, Len Larkin came over to talk about buying a headstone for Tige. He brought two bottles with him. She came from their bedroom, barely nodded to Len, then walked quickly out the door. Dave couldn't stop her, couldn't drag her back, not with Len sitting there.

He left around ten and Dave had driven to Squire's to pick her up. She wasn't there, so he came back home, opened the other bottle, walked with it down to this same log he sat on now. He'd drunk beer and watched the Reichenbergs' gate. And he saw the little slut coming out of it, walking with the fat frau, heard her talking to the fat frau. Not drunk, or maybe just drunk enough, he met them at his own gate and called that German cow everything but a lady. She went home faster than she'd come, then he dragged the German-loving little whore down and raped her in the dirt. Wasted the last of his beer on her, and each thrust of that bottle was a bayonet thrust, killing a German parasite.

‘Who won the war, you little bastard? Who won that war?'

A thick corned beef sandwich in his hand, Tom turned as Jeanne Johnson entered the kitchen. Rosie wasn't with her.

‘What have you done with Mrs Thompson, lass?'

‘I put her in the tub.'

‘In cold water?'

‘No, I took the chill off with a kettle of boiling water. I had to do something about her, Mr Thompson. She was starting to smell something awful,' Jeanne replied, picking up the breadknife and helping herself to two thick slices of bread.

‘I'm surprised at her being agreeable.'

‘Oh, you just have to know how to handle them. Old Mrs Squire went childish before she died. I'll wash her hair while I'm about it, and cut a bit off too, make her look presentable for your city visitors.'

‘Speaking of those visitors, I'm going to be needing a lot of help with her tonight. I don't suppose there'd be any chance of you staying overnight?'

Jeanne hacked off a wedge of his corned beef. He tried not to watch, knowing now that he should have put it away. He watched her spreading his butter, and she did like a bit of bread with her butter.

‘Go easy on that butter, lass! Leave me some for my breakfast.'

He'd got the sandwich makings out as soon as he'd finished talking to those blokes from the pub. He should have put his meat away. This girl could eat like a horse.

Most of the blokes had come by, and he'd spoken to two pickers on their way down the hill as he was on his way up. He asked them about a big Pommy with a moustache, but they'd looked at Vern Lowe, cuffed to the handlebar supports, then shaken their heads. They'd seen nothing, heard nothing, known nothing.

Jeanne added a good dollop of Mary Murphy's green tomato pickle, spread it over the meat, then glanced up from her construction and caught him staring.

‘I was going to have dinner with my aunties, then go over to Murphy's for a while. Gwyneth said they've got a new record.'

Not so new to Tom. He'd spoken to three of those record-playing buggers; the rest were out picking or in Willama, searching for those tots. He'd spoken to Chris Reichenberg, spoken to most of the folk living near the railway station. A couple had heard cars going by but hadn't been able to put any definite time to it. One of the Wilson boys told him a carload of blokes had come across from Willama, and hadn't headed back until after 2 am.

This thing was snowballing. Tom had started out this morning near ready to arrest Chris Reichenberg, until Kennedy became his prime suspect. He now had Vern Lowe in his lock-up, and a possible picker with a big mo in his sights. The killer would probably turn out to be some mongrel from Willama. They always drove back via Railway Road, keeping clear of his place. They could have seen Rachael at the station.

And what about the handbag? Kurt said he'd seen it on the road this morning. Chris verified that Rachael had taken Kennedy's savings. She told him she found seventy-odd pounds, and that she had the money with her. He hadn't seen it, but it would have been in her handbag – a big brown bag with a plaited strap.

So the bag was real, known to have money in it, and was missing. Whether Mike Murphy had seen it tossed in the river was another matter. Kids had good imaginations. It could have been a lump of flyblown meat, a worn-out boot swung around by its lace – anything. What Tom needed was a sounding board, another ear to bash his ideas against. What the hell had happened to Morgan and his offsider? They should have been here hours ago.

‘I'll probably have to give up my beds to those Russell Street police – if they ever get here,' he said. Jeanne eyed him. ‘The bed near the window could use clean sheets. I've been sleeping in that one this week.' He drew his eyes away from her sandwich to the floor. ‘This kitchen could use a lick and a promise before those chaps arrive too – if you can find the time, Jeanne.'

‘So I'd get paid for two days' cleaning, as well as sitting with Mrs Thompson?'

‘That's right.'

‘And if I stayed the night, once she's in bed, could I still go to Murphy's?'

‘Once she's settled, the night is your own – as long as you're back indoors by ten. I won't be locking the door before ten.'

‘My brother is supposed to be coming in at nine to walk me home.' She studied him with those small naked eyes. ‘If I stayed here, that would save me walking in again in the morning, wouldn't it?'

‘True enough.'

She'd sleep with Rosie. He'd offered the couch when she stayed over during the bushfires, but those Johnson kids were accustomed to sleeping three or more to a bed, so she'd chosen to crawl in with Rosie, treat herself to the luxury of a single bedmate.

She shrugged, slapped the lid on her sandwich, took a bite, chewed. ‘I'll stay. How much extra would I get, Mr Thompson, if I did a nice breakfast for all of you, served you in the dining room, made the beds up, cooked you a nice evening meal?'

‘We'll probably be eating on the run, lass, but thanks for the offer.'

She nodded, took another bite, eating on her feet like a horse, but watching him, wanting to talk. ‘I'll have to make a telephone call and get Mr Squire to tell Mum to get my brother to bring in my work clothes and night things – though I suppose I shouldn't go troubling the Squires with that telephone today.'

‘How are they handling their loss?' he asked, sort of tossing in his fishing line and hoping for a nibble.

‘Oh, Mr Squire is just his normal self, but he's got the priest staying there in case Helen goes off her head again. She went right off when she heard that Rachael was dead. Mr Squire had to give her a slap across the face to bring her out of it, Mum said. I saw her before I came in for church, and I've never seen her look such a shocking mess. I wouldn't be surprised if she took a brain fever over this.'

‘The sisters were close?'

‘Like this.' She showed crossed fingers. ‘Helen never made a move without Rachael. Their mother is in the clutches of drink, you know. She's useless most of the time.'

‘Is that so?' The fish was nibbling. He left the line slack.

‘She takes to her bed when anything goes wrong, like, the night Rachael and Helen got caught trying to run away, which was just before she married Lieutenant Kennedy, which, by the way, reminds me, Mr Thompson – that girl Doctor Hunter operated on last night – do you know who it is?'

Tom, suddenly aware that he was the fish on the hook and not the fisher, turned away, reached for his tobacco tin and made much of filling his pipe.

‘It's just that I'm pretty certain it's Ruby.'

‘Have you spoken to the Hunters, lass?'

‘I tried – just before lunch. Mrs Hunter and the doctor weren't around and no one could tell me anything, except that Doctor Hunter went around to get Willie before he went over to the church, and he took him down to their private quarters. I'd go around and talk to Willie, except someone would tell Mum and I'd get murdered. We're not allowed to talk to him since he walked off and left Mr Squire in the lurch.'

She bit into her sandwich, chewed, swallowed, her red-rimmed eyes watching him, measuring his reactions. There was too much mouth on this girl, and a calculating head behind it, capable of putting two and two together and coming up with two hundred and two, and not worrying overly about how to fill up that hole in the middle either.

‘Your parents know all about it, lass.'

‘Yeah, but they won't say anything. I put a phone call through to Sarah O'Brien after lunch. She told me the girl looked like Ruby but she'd had a chloroform mask over her face, and she said that someone had driven her to the hospital, and it could have been Mrs Dolan.' The last bite in, she reached for his bread once more. He let her have it, not wanting to interrupt the flow. ‘She didn't say anything to you about it, did she, Mr Thompson? I mean Mrs Dolan – when you were talking to her on the veranda before?'

‘I haven't got enough butter left for another sandwich, lass.'

‘Dripping will do. Anyhow, I heard that a Johnson baby was taken to Willama in the ambulance this morning, so it has to be Ruby.'

‘Who did you hear that from?'

A long pointed tongue ventured out to clean up pickle from her short upper lip, near licking the tip of her beaked nose.

‘Well, it came from Jane Curtin, who works at the Willama hospital –'

‘You've been talking to her too?'

‘Well, no, but someone has. And . . . I know for certain that Ruby is in the family way and that she isn't where she's supposed to be, and hasn't been there for over a week, because Judge Cochran telephoned Mr Squire about her going missing and my brother heard Mr Squire telling Dad.'

‘Where did she go missing from, lass?'

‘Oh.' Another lick at that lip. ‘Well, wherever she was supposed to be, she's not there now, and that's all I can say – and if Mum knew I said that, she'd murder me.'

Tom glanced from her shifting eyes down to what was left of his bread – not much more than the crust. She might as well eat it. His corned beef had shrunk some, and he was going to need the rest of it for his dinner guests. He claimed his beef and his pickles, put the last of his oily butter on the ice, picked up a jar of apricot jam, wondering if he might offer it up in exchange for information, but there was not enough left. He reached for his plum jam, offered it, offered her a bowl of dripping.

‘Who do you suppose might have got your sister into that . . . that sort of situation we're discussing here, lass?'

‘I'd better get Mrs Thompson out of that bath before she drowns, I suppose. They're like kids, aren't they? When they're quiet, that's when you really have to watch them.'

The corrugated iron roof of the lock-up was low, unlined. Two iron cages within, iron bars on the windows, no mattresses, but eight narrow iron bunks, which was too much iron for Vern Lowe's liking, or his comfort. He gulped half a dozen breaths of 115-degree air, considering it cool when Tom walked him across the yard to the side door of his office.

‘Water,' Vern croaked.

Tom left him sitting, his right hand cuffed to the back of a wooden chair, while he filled a mug from the jug. That water must have been at room temperature but Vern made no complaint, just downed it and held his mug out for more.

He sat back after the second mugful, trying hard to appear nonchalant while mentally cursing the two coots who had brought him to this town. He was no fruit picker. They'd had their reasons for getting out of Melbourne; he was thinking of those reasons and wondering if he'd been picked up for those reasons. He should have taken off as soon as he'd found out Thompson was the local law here. That bastard knew too much about him. He hadn't charged him, though, and he couldn't hold him unless he charged him. He'd tossed him into that cell to soften him up. Vern may have been small, but he wasn't soft; he'd be out of here before sundown, and as soon as he got out, he'd go bush, lie low and wait for dark, hop the night train when she came through the bottom crossing, ride it to the end of the line then head for Sydney.

‘As I told you an hour back, that murdered tart was dead when I walked out of that pub, and there's three or four who'll vouch for that. The Hendersons was with me, and that gutter-born, redheaded moll knows what time I left her pub last night. Now I got nothin' more to say.' Vern licked his lips, tapped his foot and began whistling a tune he'd heard on the piano that afternoon.

‘Stop your whistling, Vernon. You're irritating me.'

‘I thought you liked a bit of a tune, Constable. You might remember that I never was much of a singer, but I can whistle a bit of a tune for you.' He flashed a cocky grin, picked at a broken fingernail and found the tune again, his knees crossed, right foot jiggling, keeping the beat.

‘Don't go putting yourself down, now, Vernon. I reckon I'll get a decent song out of you by sundown.'

‘I told you already that I know nothin' about any murder –'

‘And I told you already that you never were the most honest little louse I ever squashed. Now, the way I see it, you were picking at Kennedy's with the Hendersons, you saw the wife around, got to like the look of her, got to like looking at her so much you didn't do a lot of picking, eh? Spent most of your time eyeing her off, or so I hear.'

‘I never did. I never went near her house while I was pickin' out there. Never once. I only sighted her twice, comin' and goin'.'

‘So, last night you see her coming, then you watch her going. You heard her telling her boyfriend that she had seventy quid on her, and you thought all your Christmases had come at once.'

A reflex jerk of his foot, then he sat back, grinned again. ‘You're fishin' with stale bait, you overgrown bastard. I never did nothin', I never saw nothin'. I've broke no law in this town and you got no right to arrest me.'

‘Clarrie Morgan wants you bad enough to come up here and get you. Projected time of arrival…' Tom looked at his watch. ‘Soon.' He'd heard no more from Morgan, and had stopped willing breakdowns. He wanted him here. Vern didn't. The mention of Morgan and Melbourne wiped that grin right off his face.

‘So what time did you leave the pub last night?'

‘I told you I don't know what bloody time it was.'

‘Kurt Reichenberg found that girl around four-thirty. What were you doing around four-thirty this morning, Vernon?'

‘Whatever I was doin', I've got witnesses to prove I was doin' it.'

‘You left the pub at dawn and walked back to the camp, so how come you didn't find that girl?'

‘We cut down through Kennedy's short cut. Any rate, there wasn't enough light.'

‘Plenty of moonlight earlier – when she went walking off to the railway station. Did you take a bit of a stroll in the moonlight, follow her up there, Vernon?'

‘I never did, and my name is bloody Vern.'

‘A forward-thinking woman, your mother, whoever she was. It suits you, bloody Vernon. You weren't too forward thinking, though, were you? I would have thought you'd have been on that train this morning.'

‘I got no reason to leave town. I'm pickin' tomorrow at Kennedy's.'

‘You were supposed to be picking there today too, but of course you couldn't front up there, not after robbing and murdering his little wife.'

‘You hate my guts and always did, you cow-eyed bastard. You bloody hounded me when I was a kid. I didn't touch that girl, and you're not goin' to pin this on me.'

‘Be that as it may, bloody Vernon, and stop interrupting me. So you dragged that girl into the station garden, raped and murdered her, then carried her down to her boyfriend's place. Is that the way it went?'

‘I went to the pub when it got too dark to pick and I didn't leave until Red and that one-armed bastard kicked us out. And you arst her if you don't believe me. And she's sellin' grog down there today too, not passing out cups of tea and stale scones – if you'd like a bit of free information on what goes on in your bloody shit-hole town.'

‘There you go. I knew you had a song or two left in you. So where does she hide the keg?'

‘It's past my eatin' time.'

‘I eat late so you eat later.'

An eerie light filled the office, now that the sun had worked its way around to the rear of the house. Tom walked to the door, lifted the brown blind while Vern examined his filthy fingernails.

‘You would have recognised Kennedy's wife when you saw her down at that pub last night.'

‘I saw some tart standin' outside in the dark, just for a second –'

‘So you did see her?'

‘I said it was dark, that I sighted a young tart standin' outside in the dark. You're the one tellin' me who I saw. And you can't bloody hang a man yet for noticin' a bit of skirt as it sashays past, can you?'

‘Depends on what you did to that bit of skirt later on, Vernon. You've got a bad reputation for roughing up the ladies.'

Again that flinch of the foot. The blue tongue licking, flicking. ‘When I last seen that tart, she was talkin' outside with her boyfriend, then she goes and he stays, and I don't know a bloody thing about where she went to or what happened to her. All I know is, I didn't touch her. I didn't lay one finger on her, so you bloody charge me with whatever you think you got, or get that cuff off me.'

Tom, on the go since four-thirty this morning, had spent most of his day feeling useless. He was feeling good now, feeling like a copper in control as he propped his backside against his desk and studied Vern's swinging shoe. It was a fancy shoe, expensive, a black and white brogue, probably nicked – that little mongrel had never worked an honest day in his life. One bird-boned ankle was visible, and filthy above his sagging sock, but that wasn't the ankle Tom was interested in. Sooner or later those knees would swap over and Tom might get to find out what was causing Vern's limp.

‘I haven't ate since last night and me stomach thinks me throat's been cut.'

‘Feeling the hangman's rope maybe, Vernon. The murdered girl's father is a big wheel, you know. He's got friends in high places – very pally with a city judge. They're up here visiting every month or two. No doubt they'll be up here for the girl's funeral on Tuesday. You picked the wrong girl this time, Vernon.'

Two feet on the floor now as Vern tried out his whistle, then the left knee crossed over the right and the left brogue swung and Tom pounced, caught the ankle and twisted it. No more whistling, and no scream of agony either.

‘No swelling? Amazing what a bit of exercise will do for a sprained ankle.'

‘It's inside, in the sinews.' Vern tried to pull his foot free, and as he did the shoe came off, a filthy toe protruding through a hole in an equally filthy sock. And he was up, coming after his shoe and dragging his chair with him. ‘You can't search me. I know my rights. You haven't charged me so you can't search me. Give me my bloody shoe.'

‘Searching you? Not me. I'm just admiring your shoe.'

At close quarters, Vern smelt rancid, stale sweat mixing with the new, brewed up with the filth of months. His shoe smelt worse. Tom peered into it, gave it a decent shake. No reward. Definitely something foreign in it, though – some sort of inner sole, cut from a wheat bag. Gingerly, his fingers reached into the shoe, and no wonder Vern had been limping.

‘That's a flamin' expensive way to keep your feet out of the muck. It would have been cheaper to buy a new pair of socks, wouldn't it?' Tom commented, unwrapping the piece of wheat bag and exposing four five-pound notes.

Vern looked from the banknotes to his shoe to his big toe, stepped back, stood his chair on its legs and sat on it. ‘You try livin' in a pickers' camp and see where you hide your bankroll.'

‘I'm in the wrong profession, by the bejesus. I ought to be out there picking peaches.' Tom's hand moved up to scratch at his jaw but he remembered in time where it had recently been and changed his mind. Instead, he helped himself to Vern's second shoe, which required some force and left Vern sprawled on his back, legs in the air, the chair on rather than under him.

He was fast on his feet, though, looking shorter without his shoes on, and not so cocky. ‘I don't trust the banks. You arst anyone that knows me.'

‘You've got more in common with Dave Kennedy than his bankroll then, eh. He doesn't trust banks, though I'll bet he's having second thoughts today.' Nothing in the second shoe. Tom picked up the four fivers, waved them in front of Vern's nose. ‘You know what I reckon I've got here, don't you? I reckon I've got close to one-third of Dave's stash, and I reckon you took it from a dead girl's handbag. So who's got the rest? You're an insult to a runt. You didn't murder that girl up at the railway station then carry her down to where she was found. Not by yourself, you didn't. Did you and the big Pommy take turns on her – before you murdered then robbed her?'

That got the little mongrel looking at his toes. ‘You're barkin' up the wrong tree, you bastard.'

‘So the Pommy took the lion's share, did he?'

‘I don't know any Pommy and I don't know nothin' about anyone's stash. That money come with me from the city and I didn't touch that tart – didn't lay one finger on her, so either charge me or let me go.'

Tom wasn't going to get anything out of him. A lot of blokes carried money other than in their wallets. He'd known a bloke once who'd stitched his wad inside his vest's lining, known another who'd tucked it under his hat lining, known a woman who'd stitched a pocket into her corset; however, Morgan had shown interest in Lowe, and Tom had him, and was planning to keep him, even if all he could go him for was abusive language – even if the abusing had only started after Tom had started his arresting.

A car pulled in out the front. ‘That will be Morgan now.' He straightened his shoulders and walked to the door, opened it. It wasn't Morgan.

Vern didn't want to go back to his accommodation; he near wrecked that chair with not wanting to go. Tom ended up charging him with destruction of property, abusive language and resisting arrest. Five or six blowflies weren't to fussy about where they found their shade; they followed Vern in.

‘Watch out they don't blow you, Vernon.' Maybe they liked his stink.

‘Where is my smokes and me water, you fat, cow-eyed bastard?'

‘Morgan will bring them in when he gets here. And by the living Jesus, he'll be pleased to see you.'