The Celibate Mouse (6 page)

When I finish talking, he absorbs the information in silence for a few minutes. ‘A family secret and Jack Harlow is related to her,’ he muses, sucking the end of his pen. I can see the wheels turning rapidly and probably accurately.

‘Yes, and I was there when
he
was shot as well.’

His eyes widen. ‘What? If I didn’t know you better, I’d wonder about you, Susan. You could help us because you know who’s who at the zoo. Untangling these country family relationships is a bloody nightmare.’

‘David, I don’t know anything more than you do. We’ve only been here two days, after all.’

‘But you’re friends with Daniella Winslow.’ The implication is that I will go undercover for the occasion.
No, no I can’t do this.

I take the opportunity to study him as he writes notes. The young, incredibly handsome youth I’d married is gone, leaving a beautiful, mature and, heaven help me, sexy man. His physique, I note, remains trim with broad shoulders and chest, and slim hips. He was always fit as a buck rat and age hasn’t changed anything. He’s as slick as a gravy sandwich. I look for a wedding ring, but there is none and unlike my own ring finger, no white mark to proclaim to the world, ‘discarded spouse.’

‘Like what you see?’ He’s obviously amused and gratified by my scrutiny. A blush starts at my waist, travelling up to suffuse my neck and cheeks.

‘For the record, I’m not currently married, Susan. I married for a second time a few years ago, but it only lasted six months. Seems I’m not much chop as a husband because I didn’t do any better than when we were together.’ His eyes darken with something which looks remarkably like regret, but is then replaced by professional determination. ‘We’re going to get this bastard for both the murders. My gut feeling tells me he’s responsible for both killings.’

He stands up, pushes the chair into the table and takes me by the shoulders. I feel the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of my shirt; warm twitters curl in my stomach. I feign nonchalance.

‘Susan, I meant what I said. I want to spend time with the girls. When’s Brittany coming back to Queens-land?’

‘I don’t know. Brit always makes the most of her grudges.’

My eldest daughter has decided I am to blame for her stepfather’s desertion. ‘It’s all your fault!’ she’d screeched. ‘If you weren’t so obsessed by that bloody job, dad wouldn’t have found someone else!’ I know she’s right. I’ve berated myself many times for my failings since Brittany and Harry left. That is, when I’m not breaking my heart and crawling with guilt over young Danny Grey’s death. I’ve been absolved from responsibility for the fiasco. His widow and my colleagues don’t blame me, but in my heart I should have been more vigilant and kept a tighter rein on my team. David releases me, pats my shoulder and then heads for the hall.

The Winslow women are wiping their eyes and preparing to leave. They thank me for my hospitality, Carissa exchanges mobile numbers with Marli, who stands beside me, as the BMW drives away. Adam Winslow, with a red-hot glance at Marli, intercepted suspiciously by her father, slips behind the wheel of the patrol car. With a wave, they’re gone.

The silence is absolute. A chill wind has picked up, causing the heads of the dahlias to strain away from their stakes. The cows standing near the fence, watching the proceedings with great interest, start to wander off, their coats rippling as air currents ruffle their long, shaggy hair. In a couple of minutes, the patrol car is a speck in the distance. My daughter marches into the house, straight-backed and boot-faced. I follow slowly, bracing myself for what I am well aware is going to be a somewhat lively “mother-daughter” discussion.

I am furious with myself, a thirty-eight year old experienced detective senior sergeant, recently Acting Inspector, allowing myself to be completely thrown by the presence of my ex-husband, father of my twin daughters.

CHAPTER 8

The Face in the Crowd

The Policeman

Monday: late morning.

P
art of Senior Constable John Glenwood wanted to be at the incident room, set up in the conference room of the town police station, but the rest of him yearned to stay in bed with the covers over his head until the detectives solved the whole ghastly case or Edna and Jack sprang back to life–whichever came first.

His wife had been dressed and ready to go out when he arrived home from the hospital. When he told her about Edna’s demise, she hadn’t wanted to know anything about it. ‘I didn’t like the woman when she was alive and I’m not going to change my mind now she’s gone and got herself murdered. And that Harlow was a disgusting reptile.’ She slapped his dinner plate down in front of him and snatched up her handbag. ‘You’ve been up all night, so you’d best get to bed as soon as you’ve finished this.’

‘Nola, you can’t
get yourself
murdered,’ he protested wearily.

‘Well, mark my words; this’ll be a family thing.’

‘Yes, Miss Marple,’ he replied, as she disappeared into the garage, jumped into her car and headed off to the shops.

The lamb roast, which had looked and smelled so appetising minutes before, turned his stomach. He covered the plate with foil, put it in the refrigerator and poured his cup of tea into the sink, after which he plodded into the bedroom where he wasted no time in showering, getting into his pyjamas and climbing into bed. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, but Edna’s blue-white waxy face kept appearing inside his tightly closed eyelids. He tried to transfer his thoughts to the identity of the face in the crowd, but still couldn’t remember who it was. Perspiration prickled his whole body, turning his fresh, crisply ironed pyjamas into sodden, rumpled cotton rag.

Determined to get the better of his wayward thoughts, he focused on the caravan trip Nola and he planned to take as soon as he retired. Coober Pedy, the opal mine capitol of the world would be their first stop, where many people lived underground in order to escape the intense heat on the surface. The township even boasted an underground motel and church.

He was looking forward to making the trip a late-in-life honeymoon. Dreaming, particularly of sex, made him feel like a sad wanker, hoping Nora might accommodate him sometime, but Edna’s waxy, dead face kept looming into his mind, no matter how hard he tried to dispel it. The harder he tried to remember the face in the crowd, the more frustrated he became. He needed to focus on something else, but Nola’s dry comment – ‘this’ll be a family thing’– kept recurring. Finally giving sleep away as a bad job, he threw the twisted, perspiration-soaked sheets aside, arose and made coffee which he took into the lounge room.

John let his mind drift to memories of growing up on the small farm which adjoined the much larger Robinson property. He had mingled with the kids in the primary school playground, and joined them in “yabbying” in the creek which ran through both family properties. John smiled as his mind fast-forwarded to the early 1960s, when winter turned to spring and the all-important country dance season started. Hormonal tension vibrated in unison with bees’ wings in the rising temperature.

A few days before the first event of the season, a committee of ladies descended on the bush hall, organised their men to chop wood, chase the mice out of the slow-combustion stove in the kitchen and top up the refrigerator with kerosene. John smiled wistfully as he remembered being co-opted to clean the outhouses– the dunnies–along with the Robinson cousins, Jack Harlow and George “Slimeball” Murphy, now a well known developer. The women on the committee, which included their mothers, would set them to clear the outside dunnies of possum excreta–and possums. The dance committees always hustled to bag the travelling piano tuner after he’d finished the church piano. The priest had the largest congregation and therefore first “dibs.”

It was the happiest time of his life. From trawling for yabbies in the creek with the Robinson girls, John and his cronies progressed to chasing them, and any others they could get, during the dances, where an advanced form of ‘doctors’ was frequently played in the back seats of cars parked amongst the trees. Oh yes, he knew the Robinson tribe very well.

The murder of Jack Harlow frightened him. The man had always been inclined toward the ladies and had an unsavoury reputation, but John couldn’t visualise any boyfriends or husbands actually
shooting
him for it. ‘More likely they’ve have bashed him to a pulp behind the pub,’ he mused.

The shooting was no accident. The shooter concealed himself–or herself, because they couldn’t rule out a markswoman–somewhere in the vicinity of the grandstand and found Jack’s heart with deadly accuracy. The weapon, according to preliminary reports, had been a rural favourite, the Enfield SMLE bolt-action rifle. The few registered in the district were accounted for, so would that indicate that the killer was an outsider? Possibly. Jack’s appetites had been distributed without fear or favour.

John arrived at the arena as pandemonium began to erupt. His first job had been to ring for an ambulance, advise City Despatch of what had occurred and call for backup. His next action was to peel Jack’s dog, Stephen, off his body and surrender it to shocked friends along with Penelope, Jack’s long-suffering wife. The hardest task involved keeping the over-excited bystanders away and retaining as many spectators on the grounds as possible. He was aware some had left, but was gratified to know that by the time his colleagues arrived, he had rounded up plenty of eyewitnesses.

In all his years as a police officer, he’d not once had to control a murder scene, so it was a shock to his system to have not one, but two murders within forty-eight hours of each other. Why Edna? What could an old woman possibly do to deserve being murdered? Two members of the same family a coincidence? He could understand someone wanting to shoot Jack. A thought wisped through his consciousness, but he couldn’t quite grasp it ... his gaze homed onto the bookcase containing the photograph albums which he and Nola had lovingly put together and maintained since their marriage. Something or someone he should remember.

He got up, took the oldest off the shelf and sat back to study the images, smiling as he ran his finger down the pages. There they were, John and Nola, glowingly bridal on the front page, on honeymoon looking silly and happy whale watching at Hervey Bay. He turned a page. Their first home, dog–and Nora vastly pregnant, standing under the Hills Hoist, rubbing her tummy and rolling her eyes. The baby, now twenty-five, a squashed insect at her christening then first day at school–
wait a moment
– the christening.

He peered intently at the gathering. One of the children’s faces seemed familiar, not the same name, but one of them for all that. He thought the person he’d seen at the sheepdog trials was him, though he’d only seen a back view for a split second. The more his mind squirreled around the memory but he needed to check his facts before reporting to CIB. He’d only met DI Maguire briefly, but he realised that the man would not suffer fools gladly. However, there was one person whom he could ask about the long-forgotten figure in the photo.

He set the album back on the shelf and returned to bed, confident now he would be able to sleep. ‘I’ll catch him later this arvo,’ he promised himself, as he sank gratefully into bed.

CHAPTER 9

Home Truths

Susan

Monday: late morning.

‘S
o, you’re telling me you could not only keep dad, but you and our real father could barely get it together either?’ Marli bites the words like a wolf tearing hunks of flesh out of a carcase–mine. ‘The great Detective Senior Sergeant–oh, I beg your pardon–Acting-Inspector Prescott–who never puts a foot wrong, stuffed up
two
marriages?’

‘First of all, I’m no longer an Acting Inspector, I’m a Senior Sergeant. Harry and I lasted thirteen years and I was nineteen when I married David.’

Accusations fly thick and fast, as Marli spouts reasons why I am to blame for losing her ‘real’ father, everything from being ‘like, wack’ and not understanding him, to being obsessed with my job. ‘You were never home, Mum.’ Her harsh tone and set face shock me. I can’t believe what’s happening to my calm, unflappable daughter, the one who’s always been my rock.

I start to draw a deep breath, but there is no oxygen available. I have no answer, for her accusations send me spiralling into guilt. Tears well into my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I dash them away, forcing back nausea. How could I have been so
stupid
and made such bad choices in my life?

Marli’s vengeful demeanour cracks. She throws her arms around me and we sob for our losses, Marli for the loss of the only father she has known and for the years she hadn’t known David, I for every mistake I’ve made. After a while, we calm down and just hold each other. The familiar warm, cinnamon scent she is wearing fills my nostrils; I can find her in the dark by smell alone, like a sheep at lambing time.

‘Okay, Mum. We won’t talk about dad for now, but I want to hear about the other stuff, David and you.’

‘Yes, I will tell you about it, but I need to emphasise that there were a lot of pressures on us. We were both to blame for the breakup.’
Thank you God, I can focus on this. Even though I’m about to lay myself bare to her scorn.

‘Well, you owe me and Brit an explanation. If he hadn’t come here today, how long would it have been before you told us about him?’

I move over to the window, trying to decide how much I can reveal. Little has changed outside. The wind is still getting up speed, the cattle have moved down to the creek and are standing up to their bellies in water. The hens, tail feathers fluttering in a stiff breeze, are propelled along like yachts. The air smells clean and fresh out here–a mock orange tree at the back door sends it heavy, almost licentious aroma through the window. A normal day outside, but inside the house–inside
me
–life has turned upside down.

Marli takes the initiative again. ‘Mum, sit down. I’m seventeen and leaving school for good at the end of this year. Don’t you think it’s time you told me all about how you met–Da–David–and got married and everything? Just start from how you came to join the force and when you met him.’

My daughter swivels herself around in the armchair, leaning back against one armrest, her legs flopping over the other and waits. I wonder how to tackle this, then decide to recount it like the story of someone else’s disastrous life.

‘I’d always been a ‘good’ girl, the one your grandmother and my aunts said they could always depend on. This meant I got to mind my cousins while the adults played bridge or partied, and my friends and older cousins yahooed their way around the neighbourhood having fun. My bedroom was perfection. Even my dolls were well-behaved.’
My God, you were a sanctimonious little shit, Susan.

‘I bet Aunt Melanie wasn’t perfect,’ Marli cut in, grinning. My younger sister is a great favourite with my daughters.

‘Definitely not. Her dolls were thieves and harlots.’

Marli smiled, sending relief coursing through me.

‘But I made up for lost time when I became a teenager and I thought I knew what I was missing. Everyone else was having a fabulous time clubbing and chasing boys. Well, men. And I got sick of being goody-two shoes. How much to tell? Good Girl became Party Girl, became Bad Girl. Booze–boys, bands, all the hot stuff. Your grandfather, who was nursing at the time, usually worked night shift. He changed to ‘days’ so he could track
me
after dark.’

‘You mean you were a wild girl, Mum?’ Marli’s eyes are as big as an owls.’

My face glows hot. ‘Hm. Yes. I–er–got in with a rather fast crowd who lived on the edge. In spite of my best efforts, I came eyeball to eyeball with a number of juvenile police officers in the course of my short-lived career of mad abandon. One of them, who took a lot of trouble to find me a job, encouraged me to finish my schooling. I had an enormous crush on him for awhile. Fortunately, the dear man was honourable. I’d never actually been convicted of any crime, so when I was eighteen I joined the force.’

‘And started on your climb to break through the ‘glass ceiling’.’ Marli is triumphant on my behalf.

‘More like bounced off the tea urn; women still didn’t get many chances to shine. Making tea, counter duties, typing, licences and lost property, which included children. They were the female officer’s job. A lot of the men got a stunned-mullet look in their eyes and disappeared into the woodwork if a child was found wandering the street.’

Marli laughed. I sigh, remembering the times my contributions had been overlooked, and the slights, crude jokes and ‘put downs’ I suffered at the hands of my male colleagues.

‘How did you get together with him? David?’

‘I partnered David on street patrol. He was an absolute hunk, always had teenage girls vying for his lordly attention which of course he lapped up.’

‘So, did he know you fancied him?’ Marli asks, grinning.

‘I doubt it. Too busy glittering. Of course, every time he came near me, I had a meltdown, but I had plenty of opportunity to make sure he knew I remained unfazed by his godlike presence.’

‘I’ve always known you to be so cool and collected, Mum. I can’t imagine you when you were young!’

‘Thanks a lot.’ In the latter stages of our marriage, I’d been a screaming, hysterical wreck, totally out of control. I’m grateful she is willing to listen. Perhaps she will understand after all.

‘So how did you get together?’

‘My aloofness intrigued him. He finally realised I wasn’t grovelling at his God-like feet. He started hanging around–casually, of course–while I worked at the front counter in the station, and then began parking his car close to mine. He’d poke around under the bonnet of his car until I came out and allowed him to engage me in conversation.’
It’s so easy to remember the good bits.

‘My girlfriends kept telling me he’d lose interest if I didn’t sleep with him and find somebody else, but for once, I stood by my mother’s advice. ‘If he swans off just because you’re not ‘easy,’ he’s no use to you anyway, my girl. He’s just as likely to go off after somebody else at the drop of a hat, and more fool them.’

Marli’s eyes are like an owls. I’ve never spoken so candidly about my teenage years, but she’s old enough now to know her mother is a human being. I wonder if David remembers the first time we went to bed together, something no one else needs to know about.
Don’t go there, you sex-starved crone...

‘So where did you get married?’

‘We married in the registry office on a sunny autumn day and had our reception in a local Chinese restaurant. Our honeymoon consisted of two days on Tangalooma Island.’ I don’t allow myself to remember that time.

‘Mum? Earth to muuuuuuum!’

‘Er–’

‘Mum, you’re actually smiling. You don’t do that much now.’

Stunned, I realise she’s right. Our wedding photos are in storage. I would have to take them out to show the girls. It was debatable whether Brit would want to see them.

‘We were happy when you came,’ I tell Marli.
Oh, you liar, Susan.
But how can I explain how we really felt about my pregnancy? My memories threaten to overwhelm me.

‘So, when did you realise we were twins? ...
Mum?’
Marli thumps my arm to keep me on track.

‘What? Oh, not for quite awhile. We lived in a one-bedroom furnished flat at the time. All we had were our clothes, linen, pots, pans, that sort of stuff, and a cat. So we needed to find a child-friendly landlord. The cat was more welcome in those days!’

‘So? Come on, what happened next?’

She tucks her legs up under her and stares eagerly into my face. My heart sinks. David finally managed to settle down and accept that our plans to travel and have fun were side-tracked. He was coming around to the idea of fatherhood when the bombshell hit. Having to tell David we were expecting two babies took a lot of courage.
‘How are we going to cope with this?’
he’d yowled, white-faced. The news and birth of the twins was the beginning of the end of my marriage.

‘What do you want me to do? Have an abortion? Give one away? Cut one out of my stomach?’ I’d shrieked.

‘So, what happened after you told him we were twins?’ asks Marli.

We didn’t speak for twenty-four hours.
We’d been so careful not to touch each other. It’s not easy to hold a six-month pregnant ‘twin’ stomach in when you’re trying to squeeze past each other in a doorway. Lying at the edge of the mattress was difficult. Every time I went to the loo I had to roll out of bed. David always helped me, but he made no attempt that night. The standoff lasted until he left for work that day, after which I cried myself sick.

‘Oh well, we managed.’ In fact, an almighty row broke out over the cost of buying two of everything. David slammed out to storm up and down the nearby beach. I sat on the cover of the septic tank in the backyard clutching the cat and bawling my eyes out. Not so easy remembering the bad bits.

In the event, our family and friends rallied around. David’s parents bought a double pram, my parents (grumbling) the cot and friends organised a huge baby shower which generated a cascade of nappies, bottles, clothes and goodies.

I admit something of our difficulty, because Marli is no fool. ‘We were scared silly. All of a sudden ‘playing house’ was over. Even while we thought we were expecting one baby, it was like playing dolls. For me that is, but I don’t think it was quite like that for your father.’
Too right it wasn’t.

He arrived home the following day and announced with quiet anger, that he’d found us a house where we were able to not only keep the cat, but they were “kid friendly.” And he’d take on extra work to keep the roof over our heads and save for our own house which we realised we’d have to buy. We were overwhelmed by the double pregnancy and so worried about money, we’d forgotten to love each other.

I need to choose my words carefully and not infer that we destroyed our marriage because we were too immature to cope with two babies. ‘Your father worked every shift he could cope with because we needed the money. I stayed at work as long as I could. My male colleagues jittered, as they watched my stomach expand, like a thousand kilo watermelon was waiting to explode.’

We laugh. ‘I was hidden away in the bowels of the station checking on licences, criminal records and doing paperwork. They had to send to the uniform stores to find XXXL shirts which would cover my stomach.

‘So what happened when we were born, Mum?’ My daughter isn’t about to let me close down now that she’s got me talking. Strangely, this has never really come up before.

‘As the doctor predicted, you came early. I was issuing a driver’s licence renewal when my water broke. The men were horrified. Someone called the female cleaner to hold my hand and mop, not necessarily in that order. I was whisked off to hospital and your father arrived in time to see the pair of you in your humidicrib.’

‘Was he pleased about us
then?’

‘Yes, he was thrilled.’

It wasn’t long before he changed his mind: ‘Susan, can’t you keep them from screaming? I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m working tonight, can’t you do something? How long is this going to go on for?’
Well, sort of forever, David.

‘How did you cope with us?’ asks Marli, brow wrinkled with anxiety.

‘Most of the time I took you out for long walks while your father slept.’

I wince, remembering my nipples cracking and bleeding, and the babies only sleeping for minutes at a time. Finally, the clinic sister discovered I didn’t have enough milk and put them both on the bottle. At first we were ecstatic, but then they got colic. All I seemed to do was cry and screech at David who tried to be sympathetic. When he was in ‘help’ mode, we would sit up half the night covered in regurgitated milk and poo, half-asleep, each rocking a baby. The house remained knee-deep in nappies and baby clothes. I couldn’t keep up with the washing, which piled up behind the bathroom door. I stayed in my dressing gown for the day and had to rush like a maniac to get dressed before David got home.

We grew haggard and snapped at each other. We got no relief from the pressure of newborns who were afflicted with colic. David’s mother and sisters always had something more important to do; my mother and father were overseas on a long-planned trip. My sister studied at an interstate university, and my girlfriends were working, only able to help out here and there on weekends.

Marli’s voice snaps me back to the present. ‘Mum? You can’t stop now.’

‘Okay. My friends came over as often as they could, washed all the dirty clothes, cleaned the house and even ironed your father’s uniforms. I was so grateful.’

But finally the shit hit the fan well and truly. After yet another argument, David didn’t come home one night. Unfortunately for him, a ‘good’ friend couldn’t wait to ring and tell me that he’d been at a party with his mates and gone off with a skinny blond named Cherie. The fury with which I greeted him when he got home had to be seen to be believed.

I dragged a bag from the cupboard and started stuffing his clothes into it willy-nilly, not caring whether they were clean or dirty, and pelted him with his own shoes as he stormed around the room. I raced into the bathroom, swept up his toothbrush, toothpaste and shaving gear and hurled them at his head. He ducked and they bounced off the wall. To the accompaniment of a screaming wife, and of course babies, who joined in with their usual enthusiasm, he charged out of the house, threw a bag into the car and fishtailed up the driveway.