Blood Junction (12 page)

She extended her hand, flicked her fingers against the glass just once, very sharply.

Instantly, the twigs withdrew into the grass.

India stared at the twigs, the multitude of tactile hairs that could deteced the slightest vibration. The tiny claws at the
end of each leg … No, they weren’t claws, she remembered, but a dense brush of hairs to give adhesion on vertical surfaces.

“Good morning,” said Whitelaw from just behind her and she leaped into the air.

“You …” India found herself ridiculously short of breath.

“Oh, dear,” he said, and glanced at the fish tank, then back at her. “I suppose I should have warned you, but last night I
didn’t think you’d want to hear—”

“That you keep tarantulas as pets.”

“Tarantula,” he corrected stiffly. “I’ve just the one.”

“A Mexican red-knee.”

Whitelaw instantly looked enchanted. “How did you—”

“I wrote a profile of a soldier who had three,” she said quickly. “Sorry, but I can’t stand them. All those creepy hairy legs.”
She shuddered, managed a smile. “Hope you’re not insulted that I don’t like your pet?”

Whitelaw shook his head. “Your reaction’s not unusual. Most people are terrified of spiders.”

She sent him a nervous look. “You don’t let it out, do you? Take it for walks on a string or anything?”

“The South Americans do exactly that, I’ve seen it on the TV. But they hate it. The spiders, I mean. I made a mistake getting
this one.” His expression was sad. “I had no idea how much they loathe being handled. They’re much better off in the wild
and are truly miserable having anything to do with us.”

India glanced at the hairy twigs poised for action and tried vainly to rustle up some sympathy for a miserably trapped wild
creature.

“Want some of this coffee you made?” Whitelaw offered gloomily, obviously depressed by his pet’s fate.

“Thanks.” She crossed the kitchen to sit on the squishy divan beneath the farthest window from the Mexican red-knee, and lit
a cigarette. She proceeded to scan an old copy of
The Australian
while surreptitiously watching Whitelaw pour coffee. He was in gray trousers and a white shirt and looked taller than she
remembered, and very black. In the soft morning sun, with a snowy-white shirt against his throat, he was so dark he almost
seemed to absorb the light and diffuse it.

India turned a page, and was convinced she saw the hairy legs in the fish tank stiffen at her movement.

“Did you manage to get some sleep?” Whitelaw asked, bringing over her coffee.

“Yes, thanks.”

He switched on the portable stereo, flipped in a CD. The kitchen was filled with light jazz. “Would you like breakfast?”

“Coffee’s fine. I never have much of an appetite before ten.”

The detective liked his orange freshly squeezed. He had a bowl of Special K, followed by three slices of Vogel toast with
a scrape of butter and Vegemite. Every so often, he looked across at her and half-smiled. India supposed it was meant to put
her at ease but she shifted uneasily on the divan and tried to concentrate on her paper without looking at Whitelaw or the
hairy monster in the fish tank. Here she was in the detective’s house, drinking his coffee, listening to his music, and it
felt as weird as if she’d stayed with Count Dracula. She ground out her cigarette on her saucer.

“What am I doing here, Detective?”

“Keeping out of trouble.”

Carefully, India said, “Would I be compromising your position?”

“That’s my problem, not yours,” said Whitelaw simply.

After he’d eaten, he put his dishes in the dishwasher, replaced the butter in the fridge and wiped down each surface with
a damp cloth. The kitchen was as neat and orderly as the other cop’s bedroom was messy. It was painfully obvious who did the
housecleaning.

The divan made a small twanging sound when he came and sat next to her. He slowly sipped his second mug of coffee, and she
could tell he had something on his mind by the way he would glance outside, then back at her.

“Something wrong, Detective?”

“Call me Jeremy. And no, nothing’s wrong, yet.”

“What do you mean yet’?”

He looked at her. “Listen, India—and I’m going to call you India whether you like it or not, whether you call me by my given
name or not—I don’t want you staying anywhere but here until we can clear this mess up.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Am I under some sort of unofficial house arrest?”

“You’ve somewhere else to stay?”

India got up and poured some more coffee and stood opposite the Mexican red-knee’s tank, sipping slowly. She had a problem
with kindness, she knew, and she tried to work out why she felt so suspicious. Was it because he was a cop, like her father?
Or something more simple:
could she trust him?
She hadn’t trusted anyone since she was a kid, so there seemed no point in changing her spots just because someone was being
nice.

“I’ll find a place,” she said. He opened his mouth to protest and she added, “Any luck with finding Frank Goodman?”

Whitelaw ducked his head. “The only report we’ve had was from a ranger who thought he might have seen Frank’s party at the
Yourambulla Caves. They’ve moved on. Could be anywhere.”

India rolled her eyes. “Jesus. Give the police an award for efficiency.”

“The Flinders Ranges aren’t Centennial Park,” he snapped. “They run north from the top of Gulf Saint Vincent for eight hundred
Ks, It’s wild, rugged country, and we’ve about the same chance of finding a needle in there as Frank and his buddies.”

India cursed several times, lit another cigarette.

“He’s bound to turn up at a sanctuary or park site shortly,” Whitelaw reassured her. “We’ve sent posters to the national parks
office, and they’ve assured us he won’t miss them.”

“Great,” said India. “And what happens if he falls down a gorge and breaks his neck? I guess I’ll have to find my own defense
then, huh?”

Whitelaw cleared his throat, which she took for assent.

“Anyway. As I was saying,” he said. “I want you to stay away from town, and well away from the Royal Hotel, and Ken and the
rest of the mob.”

“I can’t stay away from town,” she said reasonably. “I’ve got to ask questions, find out what’s going on. You of all people
should know the procedure: one, establish movements of victim until their death; two, pin down the last positive sighting
of the victim; three”—she smiled bitterly at this—“look for someone who knew the victim.”

He took a breath and let it out. “Done a lot of police work before?”

“I’ve snooped a fair bit. Us journos get to know how things work. I’d like to know why Tiger and Lauren were at Nindathana.”

Whitelaw reached out to the windowsill, neatened the row of cookery books with a finger. “You’re going to write about it,
aren’t you?”

She looked away. She wanted the story, that was true. But it was much more than a story; it was about her and her past. Her
and Lauren.

“I’m not sure if I want myself in the papers,” he said.

“You won’t be,” she assured him.

“Like hell I won’t. When a reporter’s got a story, everyone gets hauled into the light: cops, witnesses, children. Don’t tell
me you can keep me out of it.”

There were some postcards leaning against the cookery books. The top one had a row of naked women lying on their fronts on
the sand. “Bottoms up,” it read.

“Writing about it will help me,” she said, “help me understand. What happened, why it happened.”

He looked into space, and smiled. “I’ll copy some relevant stuff for you, but on one condition.”

India frowned, knowing from his smile she wouldn’t like what was coming next.

“That you base yourself here.”

Her lips formed a protest but his palm was raised, like a traffic cop’s. “We’ve already established the only place you’re
welcome is at Polly’s. All that bunch of yobbos have to do is drive out there and pick you up. The Abos over there don’t have
guns—or a lot of guts,” he added quietly.

She felt his eyes study her face.

“Look,” he said, “I managed to get a message to Lauren’s husband late last night. He’s back in Sydney.” Whitelaw inclined
his head towards the phone on the wall, and took his coffee outside. “Why don’t you call him? He might help you come to a
decision.”

S
COTTO, HOW ARE YOU BEARING UP?
”

“India?”

“Yes.”

Just hearing his voice filled her mind with him. Scott Lewis Kennedy, tall and lean and narrow-waisted, his curly brown hair
bleached by years of sailing. Blue eyes, kind eyes.

“I can’t go to work.” He sounded as if he might start to cry. “I think I might break into pieces if I do.”

“Then you’re doing the right thing,” she assured him. “Stay at home and take it easy for a while. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

The
Sydney Morning Herald
would be able to cover for him, she thought. Loads of editors there to shoulder the extra workload for a while.

“It’s not
fair
.”

“No.”

“We were going to move. We’d found a house in Balgowlah, overlooking the harbor …” She could hear him rummaging around, presumably
for tissues, and she wondered why she wasn’t crying too. Perhaps Lauren was right, perhaps her heart was rusted shut.

Scotto blew his nose. “Are you okay?” His voice was muffled.

“Much better now that I’m out of jail. And, Scotto, thanks for stumping up my bail. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, I
promise.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My bail.”

“I never paid any bail.”

“You must have.”

“Your solicitor told me it had already been paid,” he said. “I didn’t get back into town ’til late yesterday. I assumed you’d
sorted it.”

“Do you know anyone called Arthur Knight?”

“No, sorry.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t suppose it could have been Lauren’s mum?”

There was a small pause. “I’m sorry, Indi.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sylvia’s in shock …” He trailed off.

India felt her stomach lurch. “She thinks I killed Lauren?”

“Give her some time. She’ll come around soon.”

“Shall I ring her? Explain the situation?”

“I wouldn’t, no.”

She tried to swallow the ball of tears rising in her throat.
Don’t lose it
, she told herself.
Hold yourself tight like you used to and don’t let it get to you
.

“Indi? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Honestly. Look, could you do me a favor, when you feel up to it?”

“Sure, anything.”

“Could you find out what exactly Lauren was working on? It sounded like it was something pretty heavy. Maybe she got too close,
and someone …” she hesitated “… wanted her out of the way.”

A long silence, during which she hoped Scotto wasn’t sitting there stricken but was thinking about her question.

“Scotto?”

“She went up there to talk to a man called Mullett. Bertie Mullett.”

“What about, do you know?”

“It’s to do with someone called Geraldine Child. Hang on a sec.” She heard the phone clunking down, some classical music in
the background, then he came back and relayed a Sydney phone number. “Geraldine’s a doctor. Retired, I think.”

“A GP, or another sort of doctor?”

“No idea.”

“What was the theme of Lauren’s story, can you remember?”

Scotto remained silent.

India took a sudden wild guess. Could the name Mullett be Aboriginal? “Was it to do with the stolen generation?”

“Yeah, that could have been it.” He suddenly sounded very tired. “You ought to meet Geraldine too, I guess. Talk to her one
to one.

India rubbed her forehead with her hand. “I can’t leave town. Not while I’m on the wanted list.”

“Yeah. The detective mentioned that. Shall I come to Cooinda? Can I help?”

“No, you stay there.” She found herself staring at the receiver on the wall, at the telephone number there. She thought briefly,
then gave it to Scotto.

“When you feel up to it, maybe you can call in at Lauren’s office? No pressure. Just have a look, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll do it tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to get through this, but I will, she’d want me to.” His voice cracked. “I’ve gotta go, Indi. Take
care.

He hung up. India gazed out into the bright sunlight with a mixture of sadness and relief. Sadness over Sylvia, and relief
that Scotto accepted her simply as she was: innocent. And without a single question. She had a friend. Thank God. She closed
her eyes and sent him a blessing, a mental kiss on the cheek, then walked back to the breakfast bar. Whitelaw came and joined
her. “You okay to take the sofa tonight? My friend will probably want his bed back.”

“The sofa’s fine.”

He picked up his car keys. “I’m going to work now. I’d like you to leave with me and come back at six o’clock, which is when
I get home. I don’t usually lock up, but you’ll find a key in the gutter above the back door.”

A question stood in her eyes at the mixed message: I don’t trust you alone in the house but you know where the key is.

But Whitelaw didn’t seem to realize what he’d said. “You don’t get many people who want to rob a policeman’s house out here,”
was all he added.

It was already hot outside, the sky blue, the yard a dusty green. A couple of cars rumbled past—Cooinda’s rush hour—but otherwise
all was quiet and still. Whitelaw’s was the second to last house on the Biloella road northeast of Cooinda and peaceful, aside
from the view next door. India could see bed springs, a butane stove, two prams, a sink and a stack of engine parts including
a twisted exhaust pipe.

“Can I get a cab back from town?” she asked. To her astonishment, he gave her a set of keys to a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle
parked at the side of the house.

“I’d rather you use it than have to deliver your body to the morgue,” he said perfunctorily. “This way it saves me some trouble.”

She said thank you faintly, and watched him climb into his Land Cruiser.