Blood Junction (15 page)

“Lauren,” she said out loud.

Nothing.

“Lauren?” she said again.

India buried her face in the pillow. After two or three minutes, no more, she felt herself drifting asleep.

When she awoke it was late afternoon. Beyond the window the bush was still lit by the hard unforgiving midsummer light. She
lay without moving, her mind and limbs filled with a langorous lethargy. The house was very quiet. All she could hear was
a raven’s long-drawn cawing outside. She closed her eyes, succumbing to the seduction of sleep, drifting, warm and boneless,
her whole body relaxed. Suddenly a board creaked.

Her eyes snapped open.

She sensed someone in the room.

She sat up.

Her heart kicked in her chest. A broad figure was standing in the doorway. It was Mikey the Knife. His hair was untied and
flowed thickly around his neck, making him look as if he had a mane.

She pulled the sheet tight to her chest.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mikey demanded. He was taller and broader and more hostile than she remembered.

“I would have thought it was obvious,” she said, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice. His big hands flexed menacingly,
so she quickly added, “Whitelaw said I could stay.”

If she had grown horns and a tail, he couldn’t have looked more astonished.

“You’re kidding me, right? I thought he said he was going to find you accommodation?”

“This is it,” she said stiffly.

He strode forward towards the bed. “I want you out of this house in two minutes.”

“Oh,” said India, as it suddenly occurred to her. “
You’re
Jeremy’s tenant.”

Mikey’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s Jeremy now, is it? You certainly suck up to the right people, don’t you? Well, I’m sorry I’m
not impressed, but as a resident of this house I stand by my right to get rid of undesirables. So I suggest you get your bitch
ass out of here.” Without another word he turned and left the bedroom, crashing the door shut behind him.

Trembling a little, India clambered out of Mikey’s bed and hastily pulled on her jeans and boots. She packed her backpack
and took it outside, onto the rear balcony. She could hear Mikey bellowing in the kitchen, and assumed he was giving Whitelaw
an earful. For a moment all she could do was stare over the backyard and watch the dry grass blowing in the hot breeze.
I want to sleep
, she thought,
I feel so tired and drained, why couldn’t he have come home later?

But he was home now. So India left her backpack where it was and went for a walk, thinking to find a bed of soft sand beneath
the shade of a tree and sleep some more. She climbed the fence at the end of the garden and headed for the sloping hills in
the distance; there was a tree line at their base. She didn’t care that she was trespassing. She couldn’t imagine an irate
farmer being upset at her footsteps crunching on nothing but burnt brown grasses and their soft seeds. Raising her face to
the sun, she felt something inside her shift, and a little peace trickled through her veins. Ever since she could remember
she’d loved heading off like this, preferably on her own. Lauren had found it amusing, but no man she’d met had understood
it. They had, in fact, resented it.

Her legs started to stretch out into their ground-eating stride. Soon she was in the low mound of hills, smelling dust and
heat in the company of no one but lizards and brown-bellied snakes.

“He’s not happy, your friend Mikey,” India said to Whitelaw later, over a bottle of wine, a jug of lemonade and a plate of
dips and crisps. The wine was for India, the lemonade for Whitelaw. A buff-colored file sat on one side of the table.

“It’s all sorted. Don’t worry about him.”

They were sitting on the front verandah. Whitelaw’s Land Cruiser glowed orange, as though lit by a bonfire. The jacaranda
flamed red. The sun was a huge bloodred orb lowering into the horizon, and bats flicked past them, snicking midge and mosquitos
on the wing.

“Help yourself.” He gestured at the dips.

India contemplated the pink and brown goos and lit a cigarette. Whitelaw looked at her closely. “I think you’re exhausted,”
he remarked.

“I am a little tired,” she admitted. She exhaled some smoke sideways. “I don’t suppose you’ve any news on who paid my bail?
I haven’t gotten around to ringing Jerome yet.”

Whitelaw smothered a crisp with pink goo and ate it. “Jerome confirms it was paid by Arthur Knight. Knight is based in Geelong,
ACT, apparently.” He brushed his hands together and fished in his front pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and passed
it to her.

India scanned the address.

“I still don’t know him!” She leaned forward, her cigarette dangerously close to her shirt. “The only people I know in Australia
are Scotto and Lauren’s family—who certainly wouldn’t help me at the moment—and some so-called friends in Melbourne who haven’t
returned my calls.”

Whitelaw pointed out her shirt was nearly on fire. She leaned back.

“All that matters is you’re out.”

“Come on, Whitelaw. Isn’t there anything else you know about this guy?”

“Just that for a person to pay anyone’s bail they have to be pretty upstanding. Provide supporting documentation as to where
the cash has come from, no laundering dodgy money via the police.”

“Okay, so Arthur’s an upstanding citizen. Albeit a rich one.”

“He’s also a fed.”

She took a drag on her cigarette. Her fingers were trembling. “I don’t understand.”

“Look, why don’t you contact the guy and get him to fill you in? I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”

“But I want—”

“We’ve more important things, okay?” Whitelaw glanced up and down the street, back at her and away.

“What is it?”

He took a few seconds before speaking, and when he did his voice was low and troubled. “Tiger’s the second policeman to be
murdered around here.”

India barely registered that shock when he delivered the next. “Along with an official from the Australian Medical Association
called Alex Thread.”

“Jesus.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “I don’t believe this.
Four murders?
Who was the first?”

“Sergeant Brian Patterson.”

“Are the murders connected in any way?”

“There’s no evidence we can find, but Mikey’s sure it’s to do with the Karamyde Cosmetics Research—”

“Karamyde?”

Whitelaw raised his eyebrows.

India recounted the story of her beer at the Royal Hotel, her meeting Debs, Roxy and Kerry and hearing how they were fired
because Debs had spoken to a reporter.

“Your friend was obviously following the same trail as we are,” said Whitelaw. “Although how she came to know about it is
anyone’s guess.”

“Perhaps one of the testers rang her. She’s …
was
pretty well known.”

They both looked up as a door slammed. Mikey appeared with a bottle of beer and stood cradling it in front of his chest, hips
against the balustrade, watching them.

They both ignored him.

“According to the record book,” Whitelaw said, “Tiger got a call from a reporter, which we take to be your friend, asking
him to meet her; apparently she had something vital to share with the police regarding the two murders.”

“Why didn’t she meet him at the police station?”

Whitelaw took a gulp of lemonade. “Apparently she didn’t trust everyone there.”

“Good heavens,” Mikey mocked. “You’re not suggesting she didn’t trust our homegrown incorruptible Abo?”

Whitelaw’s fingers tapped on his knee but he didn’t look at Mikey.

“Someone else obviously knew about this meeting,” said India. “But who, and how?”

“The last entry in the book was made the day before Tiger died,” said Whitelaw. “Tenth December.”

“Could be a cop then,” she said, and took in Whitelaw’s sick expression. “So
that’s
why you wouldn’t talk to me in the police station.”

He gave a brief nod.

“Jesus Christ.” She ran a hand over her face. “Didn’t it cross Tiger’s mind that Lauren was right? There might be a bent copper
watching his every move? Was he a total idiot?”

Mikey appeared at the corner of her vision. “He was a bloody good officer,” he said tightly.

“So bloody good he got himself and my friend killed,” she snapped.

Hurriedly Whitelaw said, “Anyone recognize this?” He showed them a scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. “Found hidden
beneath the insole of your friend’s shoe just this afternoon by yours truly.”

It must be important
, India thought,
if Lauren hadn’t trusted her wrist with it: she couldn’t have wanted anyone to see it
.

“Don’t tell me,” Mikey drawled, “that it’s also unbagged and untagged?”

“Dead right,” said Whitelaw with a grin.

Mikey refused to relent and continued to keep his expression stony.

“Whose number is it?” India asked.

“No idea as yet, I haven’t even contacted directory inquiries.” Whitelaw turned a querying look on India. “Perhaps you might
like to give it a try.” He gestured at Mikey, who reluctantly passed her his mobile.

India dialled.

“Hello?” A woman, broad Australian, answered on the sixth ring.

“Hi,” India said, sounding brisk. “I’m from the AMPS, the Australian Mail Preference Service. Our concern is about the privacy
of all Australians. Would you mind answering a couple of questions for me—”

“Sorry, but—”

“I’m doing a survey. It won’t take a minute and it would help us enormously … Do you receive much junk mail?”

“God, yes. Swamped with the stuff.”

“Are you happy with the situation as it stands, or would you prefer not to receive any junk mail?”

“I’d kill to find my mailbox empty of all that bloody rubbish,” was the robust response.

“Well, AMPS is working for limits to be put on the scope and extent of junk mail for all Australians. What we do is insert
a computer code on your behalf that then prevents any company accessing your address for the purpose of junk mail. Would you
be interested in this facility?”

“You’d better believe it.”

“If it could be guaranteed that from tomorrow you would never receive any junk mail again, would you be happy for me to arrange
it for you? Or would you prefer to wait—”

“Sign me up, Scottie!” said the woman cheerfully.

India laughed, then dropped her voice. “I’m not supposed to do this, but perhaps just this once I could do you a favor since
you’ve been so straight with me. All I need is your address, and I’ll punch it in tonight.”

“Jesus, that’d be bloody great. I’m at Waratah, Jangala Vale … hang on a tic. Does it matter that I’m not on my own phone?
It’s just that I’m helping Elizabeth out for a bit. Her husband died a few days back. Got bitten by a bloody snake in one
of the sheds. They’ve got antivenom in the house but he never made it. Weak heart, they reckon.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, it’s a right bugger.” The woman gave a sigh.

“I’ll flag your address for you anyway. Jangala Vale …”

The woman rattled off the postal code.

“Shall I do your friend Elizabeth’s too?”

Short pause. “Why not? Save the poor cow from wading through all that shit every day. She’s two properties up, Janga Yonggar—”

“Could you spell that for me?”

“Everyone says that. Drives me insane.” She spelled it out.

“Her surname?”

“Ross. Elizabeth Ross.”

“And yours?”

“Gask. John and Joan.”

India thanked her, pressed the clear button and passed the phone back to Mikey.

“Sly as a snake,” he remarked.

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled prettily at him, which made him glower.

“How about I go and see this Elizabeth Ross,” she said to Whitelaw, “and do some snooping?”

“Okay. I’ll leave these for you to read.” He tapped the file.

Mikey looked appalled. “You’re going to let her read your stuff?”

“If she’s not up to speed, how can she help us?”

“Hell, Jed, we don’t really know if she’s clean—”

“She’s clean as a whistle,” snapped Whitelaw.

“You call a man lost in the Flinders Ranges an alibi?”

“Who’d have thought it?” Whitelaw’s tone was biting. “Mike Johnson, acting like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie and choosing
to believe what suits him rather than the evidence. You’ve lost your touch, Mikey, admit it. That famous cop’s instinct of
yours has failed you after all these years. Did it get pickled in bourbon?”

Mikey stared at him.

“Ah,” said India into the taut silence. “He’s an
ex
-cop?” She looked at Mikey. “What happened? They boot you out for boozing? Taking bribes? Or was it simply a bit of gratuitous
violence?”

He took a step towards her. Instinctively India shrank back in her chair.

“I wouldn’t have thought a reporter could afford to prejudge,” he ground out, “but you took one look at me in jail and stuck
me in a convenient pigeonhole—”

“Which fits you perfectly, if I might say, and you’re one to talk considering you branded me a killer the instant—”