Текст книги "Harum Scarum"

Friday

Friday Terry answered the door of the Inglewood townhouse.

‘Stevie!’ he said, grabbing her and pulling her into a bear hug that almost squeezed the breath out of her body. He had no idea of his strength.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, so sorry,’ he said as she attempted to push him off. He let her go, blushed and stared at his feet. ‘I’m just happy to see you, that’s all.’

Stevie laughed, she’d only seen him the night before, but you’d think it had been years ago. He was looking 1950s smart in a nylon shirt tucked into high waisted trousers, his vinyl trainers with the Velcro tabs perfectly matched. He clung to the doorframe for balance and hefted up a foot. ‘New shoes,’ he said as the hot easterly wind lifted his thinning hair. He was five years older than his sister. ‘Tash bought me them.’

Stevie stooped to inspect. When she’d finished admiring them she said, ‘Off to work, Terry?’ She knew he loved the sheltered workshop he attended and never missed a day if he could help it.

He looked sad and shook his head. ‘Tash is sick. I have to stay home.’

‘That’s too bad. What’s the matter with her?’ Stevie asked.

Terry slapped himself on the head with a blow that could have knocked a lesser man down. ‘Mee-grain.’

‘Migraine?’ Stevie queried. ‘She hasn’t had one of those in ages.’ She gently pushed past his bulk. ‘Is she in bed?’ Without waiting for an answer she made her way down the short passageway and knocked on Tash’s bedroom door.

‘No visitors, no noise, no light,’ Terry said as he lumbered after her, his enormous hands twisting with anxiety.

Stevie turned and placed a hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right; I know what she’s like when she has a migraine. I won’t stay long. I just need a quick word. Has she got plenty of water?’

Terry scratched his head.

‘Well, you go and get her a jug of water—from the tap, no ice, and a glass. And better grab a warm flannel for her head.’

It took a while for her instructions to sink in. Terry was a sensitive soul, easily upset and she knew they couldn’t talk shop in front of him. She hoped the task would keep him occupied long enough for her to have a private word with his sister.

The curtains in the room were closed, but enough light leaked through the cracks to produce a dim visibility. The small mound on the bed stirred as she approached.

‘I’m sorry Stevie, I should have rung, but this is a bad one,’ Tash gingerly rolled over, in obvious pain.

Stevie could barely hear her, and sat close on the edge of the bed.

‘I was sick as a dog last night. Vision like an out of tune TV—the works,’ Tash continued. ‘I tried to get Terry to call you, but you know what he’s like with phones.’

‘Have you had your pills?’

‘I have now.’ Tash indicated to the prescription medication on her bedside table with a limp hand. ‘But I didn’t have my pills when it started yesterday. If I’d taken them when it began on my way to see Mrs Kusak, I could’ve nipped this thing in the bud.’

Stevie thought for a moment. Should the shit hit the fan, the migraine might work in Tash’s defence. She would attempt to discover the facts from Mrs K then hopefully smooth over the offence caused. It made sense that the migraine attack would account for irritability and, with any luck, memory loss too.

The room was hot and airless. ‘Do you want me to put the air conditioner on? It’s going to be a stinker of a day.’

Tash shook her head as if it was only held onto her neck by a thread. ‘Too noisy.’

It was pointless trying to question her now. The stress of Mrs Kusak’s accusation would only increase her headache. ‘Just take whatever time you need. Ring me when you’re ready to come back,’ Stevie said.

A smile flickered at Tash’s mouth. ‘Don’t worry, Terry will look after me.’ She managed to raise the volume of her voice. ‘Just make sure you get that prick of a child killer, okay?’

The sound of shattering glass at the doorway made them both jump. Tash groaned and put her hand to her head. ‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Stevie said, ‘I’ll deal with it, but I’ll have to put the light on so cover your eyes.’

Stevie flicked the switch and Tash groaned again. Terry had already dropped to his knees and was scrabbling through the broken glass and water in a futile attempt to clean up. He cried out to Stevie and held up a finger dripping with blood.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll clean it up,’ Stevie said, trying to pull him to his feet, away from the mess.

‘My shoes,’ he moaned. She looked at his feet. One of the trainers was splashed with scarlet, as if it had been dipped in a can of red paint.

With her softly-softly approach to Mrs Kusak clearly thought out, and a plausible explanation for Tash’s behaviour, Stevie’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel and she began to enjoy the drive to the hills. She turned the volume of the police radio down and the golden oldies station up. Leaving the last of the traffic lights behind in Midland, the road took on a more countrified appearance. She passed a bloated kangaroo lying on the gravel shoulder, shredded truck tyres next to it, curling in the sun. The external temperature recorded on the dash was 41 degrees. She turned up the air conditioning.

Properties became larger, gardens browner except in those where windmills marked the locations of dams or bores and where the owners allowed themselves the luxury of a small patch of green. At Mundaring townsite she turned off the highway; Mrs Kusak lived somewhere along Weir Road.

A throaty Eartha Kitt song came on the radio and she increased the volume.

Most of the houses Stevie passed were small but the blocks large, many with cottage gardens and even the occasional white picket fence. She could picture herself living up here. It wasn’t the kind of country she grew up in, but she wasn’t ready to give up proximity to the city yet. They’d have chooks, a vegie patch; Izzy could have a pony and a dog.

Stevie began to warble along with the song—an old fashioned house and an old fashioned fence didn’t sound too bad at all.

But it was a bit far from the beach.

The crackle of static from the police radio intruded into her fantasy. She turned off Eartha and strained to hear. The male voice sounded young, inexperienced and panicky as he struggled to report the discovery at Mundaring Weir of a dumped four-wheel drive matching the description of Kusak’s.

Through the gabble she caught the code three-thirty-eight—sudden death, repeated several times. She was less than five minutes from the location, so she radioed in to tell the patrolman to stay where he was and wait for her arrival.

The blue and white police car was parked at the lookout next to an overflowing rubbish bin with a halo of flies. The heat wriggled up from the bitumen car park; it was the hottest time of day. She twisted behind to the back seat and reached for her peaked cap and heavy police vest and reluctantly put them on, then started to make her way down.

The track beyond the busted ‘No Vehicular Access’ sign was rough, but wide enough to take a vehicle—indeed, fresh tyre tracks made it clear she was at the right spot. Loose gravel and gumnuts rolled under her feet like ball bearings as she made her way down. The dirt between the bare-knuckle rocks was red from iron oxide, as if the earth had bled into it, the air still and weighted with the scent of eucalypt. It didn’t take long for the sweat to gather into cooling circles under her armpits. The heat sucked at her breath and soon all she could hear was her own laboured breathing.

A rustle from somewhere to her right.

She skidded to a stop.

Pebbles rolled and the humidity pressed.

A twig snapped.

She peered into the surrounding bush, saw nothing, not even the tremble of leaves. Whatever had made the snap was too big for a snake or a goanna. A country girl, Stevie knew the variety of noises the bush could make.

She took another step, slid a foot or two on the loose gravel and was forced to cling to a sapling for support else risk slithering the rest of the way down on her backside.

A scrap of blue and red fabric hanging from a prickle bush at the side of the track caught her attention. It could only have come from a checked shirt, and the bright colour told her it hadn’t been there long. A lucky find? Maybe it was. She teased it into a paper evidence bag and tucked it into one of her vest pockets.

Another sound, this time from the opposite side of the track. She whirled in time to catch the dying shiver of a nearby bush. Just a roo, she told herself as she rubbed the back of her neck, sticky with sweat and dust. Uneasy now, she continued down the track, spinning into sharp turns every now and then to surprise her phantom stalker.

With a sense of relief she rounded the curve at the bottom of the hill and found herself within a few metres of the four-wheel drive. The front end of the vehicle was concertinaed into a tree near the shoreline. The peaceful waters of the weir lapped at the fringe of rocks and sand. To her right she saw the old pumping station standing above the water on concrete pylons. Long abandoned, its small windows were boarded up with planks, though a new padlock glinted on its heavy wooden door.

There was no preamble from the tall, beet-faced constable who rushed over to her. ‘Oh Christ, Jesus,’ he spluttered. ‘Thank God you’re here, ma’am, the last ten minutes seemed like ten hours. Assistance is on its way, but I’m just glad you were so close.’

‘You shouldn’t have radioed in the three-thirty-eight, you use your phone for sudden death, remember?’

‘Shit, I’m sorry, wasn’t thinking.’

The fact that the probationer was alone in the patrol car in the first place was something else his superiors would no doubt be taking up with him. But Stevie had more than police procedure on her mind.

She gave him the barest nod and hurried over to the vehicle. It was an older model Toyota four-wheel drive, a ‘troop carrier’ with bench seats in the back to seat up to ten people. MDG 76X—this was it. Even from where she stood it was obvious to Stevie that the man in the driver’s seat was very dead.

‘You didn’t touch anything?’ she asked the constable.

‘You said to wait. I could see he was dead, nothing I could do. I only quickly checked the back to make sure there was no one else in it.’ The officer ran his palms down his pants and stuttered. ‘Look, you’re going to think I’m crazy, but...’

‘But what?’ she squinted at his nametag, ‘Constable Nagel.’ He looked hardly more than twenty.

‘Well, while I was waiting down here, I got the strangest feeling I was being watched, y’know?’ He gestured to the surrounding bush. ‘And I was wondering,’ he lowered his voice, ‘if this is the guy who dumped the kid’s body, then maybe the other guy is hanging around.’

‘The other guy, meaning the second guy the security guard saw in the vehicle?’

The young man nodded. His shiver spread to her like a yawn and she felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. She decided not to tell him about the strange noises she’d heard on her way down. There was no need to get him even more anxious than he was now.

He pointed to the star-shaped hole in the driver’s side window, the brown misting on the glass and what appeared to be flakes of dry tissue clinging to the jagged edges. Keeping his voice low as if someone might be trying to listen, he said, ‘Looks like a bullet hole. I reckon they had a fight in the Toyota, the other guy shot Kusak—if it is Kusak that is...’ He trailed off and looked nervously around with one hand resting on his Glock, the safety clip of his holster already unfastened. ‘And he’s still hanging around.’

Controlling her voice to hide her own concern, Stevie said, ‘I suppose it’s a possibility, Constable, but a long shot all the same. This might even be a simple suicide, he just couldn’t live with what he’d done—hardly surprising, really.’ She nodded to the body in the Toyota and pulled a face. ‘By the looks of him he’s been in there all day at least.’

Nagel cleared his throat as if to rid it of bile, and affected a smile. ‘Yeah, err, slowly cooking.’

In a few years he’d be a master of the black joke, Stevie thought, but he needed more practice on the delivery if he ever aspired to being the stereotypical, fat-bellied, the-job’s-fucked kind of sergeant.

‘Anyway, why would his murderer hang around that long unless he was hurt?’ she said. ‘And if he was badly hurt, he won’t be much of a threat to us, would he?’

Stevie scanned the ground as if they might be lucky enough to spot the bullet or shell casing twinkling in the sun. She saw no sign of it of course; this wasn’t a TV cop show. In her head she worked out the perimeter they would need to tape and search.

She circled the Toyota, taking in the damage. The impact from the tree didn’t seem as bad as it had first looked; and was probably not violent enough to have caused the death of the seat-belted man in the driver’s seat—if he hadn’t been shot dead already. She tried to look through the back windows, but could see little through the grime. Upon opening the back door, she noticed that the rear bench seats had been removed to make room for a mattress and boxes of supplies. She saw no sign of another occupant. A thorough search would be undertaken when the scene of crime officers arrived.

‘How did you find him all the way down here?’ Stevie asked.

‘I stopped at the lookout to take a leak, noticed the smashed barrier and fresh tyre tracks and thought I’d check it out.’

‘When was that?’

The constable looked at his watch, ‘No more than twenty minutes ago. You reckon this really is that Miro Kusak guy?’

‘Who knows, but it’s his vehicle all right. And there’s only one way to find out if it’s him for sure, isn’t there, Nagel?’

Beet red turned turnip white. ‘I was worried you were gonna say that.’

‘Have you got gloves?’

‘In the car.’ He looked helplessly back up the rocky track.

She rolled her eyes and reached into her jeans pocket for a pair of latex gloves. ‘These are too small for you, must be your lucky day,’ she said, snapping them on.

She wiped her brow with the back of her arm and moved over to the passenger side of the Toyota. ‘Stand back.’ She took a breath, knowing what to expect but still not prepared for the initial shock, the feeling of pebbles in the face as the blowies vacated the car in an angry cloud.

And the smell.

Holding her breath for as long as she could, she leaned across the empty passenger seat and patted the pockets of the dead man. She extracted his wallet and swiftly drew back to fill her lungs. The driver’s licence was visible through a plastic window inside the wallet and she steeled herself for a look at his face, comparing it with the picture. As bloated as the roo she’d passed on the road, he looked barely human, though the greying curly hair did resemble the man’s in the photo, as did the bulbous nose and broad forehead. ‘Miro Kusak, 41 Weir Road Mundaring, DOB 23/10/54,’ she read aloud for the constable’s benefit.

The left side of Kusak’s head was plastered with congealed blood, originating from a two-centimetre entrance hole above his ear. His left hand was empty and there was no sign of a gun on the floor or among the folds of the dirty blanket bunched upon the passenger seat—this was no simple suicide, this was murder.

Her mouth dried as she recalled the fear she’d felt when scrambling down the slope. She turned and peered into the back of the truck to have a closer look at the supplies she’d glimpsed before: a rolled up swag, camping equipment, boxes of food and bottled water. Miro Kusak had presumably been planning on lying low until the search for him had scaled down. The countryside around the weir was dense with forest, one park leading into another. With local knowledge and adequate resources a man could lose himself for months in a place like this.

She took a few short breaths. Even with the door open, the smell in the Toyota was overpowering and she was forced to vacate and gulp long drafts of fresh air. The search would have to be continued by police with breathing masks.

The constable handed her a fistful of tissues and she used them to wipe the body fluids from the outside of the wallet before riffling more thoroughly through the contents. As she searched she told the constable about the camping equipment she’d seen in the back of the van, shaking her head as she talked to clear the air of the hovering flies. Her fingers felt the outline of something solid in one of the wallet’s compartments and she found a newish key. ‘To the pump station you think?’ she said.

When the constable didn’t answer she looked up to find him nowhere in sight, she’d been talking to herself. Frowning, she turned slowly, shaded her eyes from the glare and scanned the surrounding bush.

‘Constable Nagel?’ Only the gentle waters of the weir lapping against the shore answered her call. Flies buzzed, a parrot squawked, but other than that, silence.

Then from the nearby scrub, the painful sound of retching.

Seconds later, the retching morphed into a scream of terror.

Stevie slapped her hip. No gun, shit. A stout stick lay across the track. She picked it up and charged through the bush to a burnt clearing where rubbish had been dumped. She found the constable on the ground beside a pile of empty bottles, one arm thrown protectively over his face and the paws of a giant dog resting on his chest.

‘Oh God, oh God, get it off me,’ he moaned.

Stevie approached cautiously. The dog turned from his busy licking of the constable’s arm, fixed her with spooky yellow eyes and wagged its tail.

Stevie swore, partly from relief and partly from amusement. She grabbed the dog by its collar and hefted it off the stricken man.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked him.

‘Oh, yeah, jeez ma’am, I’m sorry,’ Nagel gasped, ‘the dog came from nowhere, gave me one helluva a shock.’ He struggled to his feet and began to dust himself down.

She took off her belt and threaded it through the dog’s collar, holding him back a lot more successfully than she could her smile. Nagel smiled back sheepishly. ‘He seems quite friendly, but,’ he said.

Stevie ran her hand down the pinky-brown fur, feeling the prickling highway of hair scratching at her palm. ‘Looks like a Rhodesian Ridgeback,’ she said.

‘Must be a stray, lucky he’s not vicious. Wonder where he comes from?’

Stevie thought for a moment. ‘Try the front seat of the car. There was a dirty old blanket on it, covered with dog hair.’ She paused to pat the dog. ‘Constable Nagel, this just might be Miro Kusak’s mysterious passenger.’ She bent to examine the disc on the dog’s collar. ‘Meet Bonza. 41 Weir Rd Mundaring.’