The Celibate Mouse (20 page)

CHAPTER 28

The Ovine Monster Mash

The Detectives

Friday: early morning.

D
avid Maguire pulled into the backyard of the Emsburg police station, out of sight of any lurking journalist, and squeezed his car under the shade tree beside that of Senior Sergeant Harris.

His ex-wife’s presence stirred unwelcome sexual feelings which he couldn’t dismiss. He tried to focus on his new lover, but he was getting uncomfortable insight into the truth of the old adage, ‘out of sight out of mind.’ He hadn’t experienced such mixed emotions since his first marriage ended and to cap it off, the investigation was in danger of getting out of his control. Two murders and three attempts, one of them on his ex-wife, and two police officers near death were a subject which his Superintendant had already discussed with him, at length.

‘Where’s the bastard going to strike next?’ Maguire wondered, as he stalked into the Incident Room to glare at the white board, then fill and plug in the electric kettle.

‘Ah, Dave.’ Pete Hansen followed him into the room, swinging a folded newspaper. ‘Front page news again. And the boss’s been on the phone,’ he added, referring to the Superintendant, ‘He’s coming out tomorrow with the Chief Super. Bill’s gone to chase up newspaper archives on the computer and Don’s off interviewing more friends of Edna’s.’ He rolled his eyes; bigwigs putting their stamp on a major investigation were routine, but infuriating.

‘Well, there’s been a bit more excitement since yesterday, Pete.’ Maguire proceeded to bring his partner up to date. Hansen’s eyes widened as he listened to the part concerning the pinholes in the eyes of one of the photographic subjects.

‘So do you reckon we’ve got a murder in 1947? Where is the photo?’ Hansen asked eagerly.

‘Susan took the photo to a meeting with Sir Arthur’s biographer this morning to see if Ms Feldman recognises the subject.’

‘You’re letting Senior Sergeant Prescott help out? You sure that’s wise? Can she–er–handle this right now?’ asked Hansen, cautiously. ‘Shouldn’t we be taking the photo to Penelope Harlow?’

‘
You
try and stop her!’ Maguire moved to the kettle and started pouring coffee. ‘She’s coming along and this’ll be good for her to get her confidence again.’ He narrowed his eyes at his partner. ‘I’d trust Susan with my career anytime, Pete. And I don’t want anyone else to see the photo yet. If anyone in the family knows who the bloke is and what’s going on, they’d cover their tracks and we wouldn’t know the difference.’

‘Right on,’ replied Hansen. He took the steaming cup of coffee which Maguire held out. ‘They got onto the hospital.’ He jerked a thumb toward the front office. ‘Glenwood and Smenton are still unconscious. No worse, but no better either.’

The sound of a commotion at the front office wafted down the passageway to the room at the back of the station. Maguire rolled his eyes; the press were getting restless.

‘The front desk’ll take care of that lot. Right, how about we go and reinterview Penelope Harlow again? She might be more forthcoming about Jack, now a few days have passed. Then we’ll have another talk with Daniella Winslow. Has Nora Glenwood come up with anything new?’

‘Not that I know of. Harris will let us know if she thinks of anything.’

They tried to tiptoe the short distance to the back steps into the car park and scuttled to their unmarked car, where Hansen dived behind the wheel. Grinning conspiratorially, they drove through the side gate and set a round-about course for Harlow’s farm. At the station, the press continued to bellow at the front desk, thwarted somewhat irritably, by Constables Winslow and Loy.

Maguire’s phone rang before they reached the town limits. His heart sank. It was his previous girlfriend in Cairns, announcing her arrival in the nearby city, eager to bounce into his bed and make up for the time lost when he’d transferred south and slunk out of the city. It was all he could do to curb her exuberance; Hansen listened unashamedly.

‘David, I got some leave! When can I see you, you sexy beast?’ she shouted, ‘I can’t wait to get you naked! Do you miss me?’

Oh, God... ‘I told you we were over before I left Cairns, Donna.’ Heat started to rise from somewhere below his navel. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his partner, who grinned from ear to ear.

‘I’m in Ipswich at Jenny’s flat!’ she squealed, naming a rambunctious girlfriend. ‘I can’t wait for you to get here, so I can rip your gear off!’ How could he put her off without causing a major ruckus?
Shit.
What part of “no” didn’t the woman understand? And what about Leanne?

He panicked. ‘I won’t be back tonight. I’m on a job out of town. We’ll talk when the case is over.’

‘What do you mean, when the case is over? You get time off, don’t you?’ she whined.

‘Yes, but–’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll all work out! I know you’re out in Emsberg and I’ve just had an idea,’ she cooed. The phone went dead.

‘We’re out of range,’ said Maguire, snapping the cover shut, as they stopped at the main gates to the farm. Penelope Harlow had been interviewed at her sister’s house previously, so they hadn’t encountered the security set-up at the farm. Frowning, he got out and went to the speaker on the gate to identify them. Moments later, the left gate opened.
What did the Harlow’s have to hide?
It was only a sheep farm, after all.

They drove along the bitumen driveway to the house, where they looked around curiously, as they stepped out of the car. The grass needed mowing; a light breeze ruffled the tail feathers of the chooks pecking in the back yard. At the end of the house-paddock, a few sheep lifted their heads, looked at them scornfully and continued with the busy business of filling their portly stomachs. At the back of the property, amongst a copse of trees, a collection of massive sheds was surrounded by more sheep yards and paddocks meticulously divided by white-washed fences covered in mesh.

A voice hailed them as they were about to knock on the back door. Penelope Harlow was a woman of somewhat splendid proportions. Tall, with tangled, naturally-fair hair hanging over her shoulders, she presented a stalwart and competent figure, as she came toward them through the fruit trees near the house. The ten or so dogs scattered around her, barked as they raced toward the detectives. But for Maguire’s restraining hand, Hansen would have dived back into the car.

‘They’re fine, Pete, just curious.’

‘Bloody wolves,’ his partner muttered, but stood his ground, as the dogs sniffed around his cringing ankles and inspected his crotch. Maguire, who was used to dogs, patted them and skilfully avoided the exuberant overtures.

‘Well, I thought you might want to talk to me again, Inspector,’ Penelope boomed, as she came up to them. ‘Won’t you come in? It’s about coffee time,’ she invited, and then emitted a whistle so ear-splitting that their brains reeled around their skulls. ‘Sorry,’ she said, smiling slightly, as she shucked her boots off. ‘I should have warned you about that!’ The dogs retired to the shade of the trees and the detectives followed her into the kitchen.

‘Sit down. Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea, for me, thanks, Mrs Harlow,’ Maguire said, ‘I’m all “coffee’d” out.’

Hansen agreed and Penelope filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. She whipped cups, bread and butter plates and cake forks out of the cupboard, a cake tin from the kitchen dresser and flicked open a drawer, from which she took a knife. The aroma of freshly baked sponge wafted into their nostrils. ‘Coffee cake?’ she asked, smiling from one to the other. She placed large wedges of light-as-air, heavily frosted cake onto their plates, then poured tea, and waved her hand over the milk jug and sugar bowl, inviting them to help themselves.

‘The weather’s going to change by tomorrow,’ she announced. ‘Not a good day to be buried, I’m afraid.’

They almost choked. She remained unfazed. ‘Well, that’s what you’ve come to talk about, isn’t it? Jack and Edna’s murders?’

They agreed, through mouthfuls of cake, that it was indeed what they’d come for. Black-edged cards, promising the arrival of friends and colleagues for the interment, covered the sideboard. ‘Well, ask away, gentlemen,’ their hostess invited airily, before meeting their astonished glances. She sighed. ‘Surely, after all the things you’ve learned about Jack, you can’t imagine I’m grief-stricken? Because if you do, then don’t. Of course, I got a shock when he was killed. He didn’t deserve to be shot, only flayed with a stockwhip. I’ve stayed with him all these years because of the animals. They’re our children. The farm is–has been–our life’s work.’

Just then, Maguire’s phone rang. With an apologetic word, he stepped out the back door.

‘Listen, lover, I’m coming out to Emsberg now! If the mountain won’t come, etc’ trilled Donna, ‘I’ll book into the motel and be waiting for you tonight. You’ll be walking bow-legged in the morning!’ she promised, coquettishly.

‘I can’t be there. I’m on a case, remember?’ he parried desperately, but she’d rung off. ‘And how the hell am I going to tell her where I’m staying, without her making a scene?’ he muttered, his mind zizzing like a trapped ferret.

‘Now you’ve had time to think about it, have you come up with any reason why someone would want to kill your husband?’ Hansen was asking Penelope, as Maguire sat down again.

‘Look, as I said the last time I talked to you, Jack was a lecher. He didn’t care if whatever woman he chased was someone else’s wife. And before you ask, I didn’t care either. At least it kept him away from me. So, if it turns out a husband or boyfriend did the deed, then I won’t be surprised.’ She folded her lips, frowning.

‘I’m sorry; I do have to ask this. Would Jack chase young girls?’ Pete tried to be diplomatic.

Penelope stayed silent for a long moment. ‘Do you mean little girls, or young women?’

‘Both,’ said Hansen.

‘Not little girls, Senior Sergeant. I believe even Jack drew the line there. Young women, certainly. He was quite good-looking for a man of fifty, but not any great shakes in bed. Mind you, older women loved him. Perhaps he had hidden talents which I’ve been unaware of.’

The two detectives glanced at each other, taken aback by her candour, but then Penelope smiled comfortably and offered them more tea and cake, which they couldn’t resist.

‘You were at Sir Arthur and Lady Ferna’s anniversary party last month. Were you also at the family meeting? The one where Jack and Edna stormed out?’ Maguire chimed in.

‘I was at the party, but not invited to the meeting. It was strictly family only. Blood family, that is.’

Maguire ran his eye down his list. ‘Did Jack tell you why he was so annoyed?’

‘He clammed up. It was a family trait to be secretive. I asked Edna as well, but she fixed me with one of her glares. She could be pretty intimidating, you know.’ Penelope frowned into her tea cup.

‘So, you wouldn’t know about a crime committed possibly in the late ‘40s and which might have taken place on the family farm?’

Penelope looked at him, thoughtfully. ‘Of course, we had accidents on the farm, Inspector. Well ... Jack had a nightmare after the meeting, shrieking that ‘he’ was dead, killed, and the cops’d be out for sure. Then he said something about it was all the fault of that prick. I thought he meant Arthur, but next morning, he reckoned he hadn’t dreamed.’ She paused, staring at nothing as she examined her mind’s eye.

‘I was born and raised in this district, Inspector. I think something did happen years ago at the Robinson farm. Talk would stop when we kids came into the room and the aunts made comments like, ‘Little pitchers have big ears. Funny, I’d forgotten all about that.’

‘So it was more what they
didn’t
say which gave you that impression?’ asked Hansen.

‘Yes, and Jack wouldn’t tell me anything. We didn’t sleep together and he wasn’t in the habit of wandering into my room. I had to go into
his
room to see what he was screaming about that night.’

‘Can you think of anyone in the family who might be prepared to talk about it? Anyone who was at the meeting?’

Penelope stood up, and began clearing the empty plates off the table. ‘No, Inspector. I’m sure you won’t get anyone to discuss what was said there. Robinson mouths are tight as fish’s arses. You’ll get nothing from them. The Historical Society commissioned Arthur’s biography, so I assumed the meeting was about that. No one has said otherwise.’

Maguire and Hansen got to their feet to help her move the last of the crockery to the sink. Hansen surreptitiously ran his finger through some coffee frosting left on his plate, and licked it before he put it on the draining board. As they headed out the back door, followed by the cloud of dogs who appeared to think something exciting might be about to happen, Maguire asked Penelope how many sheep she had.

‘Oh, about fifteen hundred altogether, Inspector.’

‘That doesn’t seem enough to make a living out of, Mrs Harlow,’ he commented curiously.

‘They’re very special sheep, Inspector. Let me show you.’

They followed her down to the nearest huge complex and watched, puzzled, as she opened the door. She stood aside, and smiled as they gaped at what appeared to be hundreds of pens filled with designer-clad sheep. The half-light in the building made the light-coloured coats look like a jumble of moving tombstones. The low sound of munching, as the animals ate, added to the surreal atmosphere.

The dogs followed Penelope into the shed, where she began talking to the sheep in the nearest pen. ‘Bubba, come here darling ... that’s right. Lucy ... here’s a treat from Mum...’ she crooned, and digging into her pockets, began to dispense treats to greedy mouths. As they got closer, Maguire and Hansen saw that the coats were patterned with flowers.

‘Holy cow, it’s like something out of the Rocky Horror Show. Are they going to a fancy dress ball? asked Maguire, dazed.

Penelope laughed. ‘This is a huge enterprise, Inspector! These sheep grow superfine 18 Micron wool for the Japanese, Chinese and European markets. They live in these sheds to keep the sun from burning the wool, so they have to wear coats when they get outside. Jimmy?’ she bellowed.