Blood Junction (22 page)

He started on the shelves, running his hand along the dusty wood. Then the cupboards, and the debris scattered in each room.
It took him two hours to search the house, top to bottom, beneath carpets and rugs, behind skirting boards and window shutters,
fridges and freezers. All the time his eyes were tuned for a slim square of plastic.

It was well after midnight when Mikey gave up. He left empty-handed, without a single computer disc.

Walking the same trail she had raced along the previous week, panicky and breathless, India found it hard to believe she hadn’t
been hiding for a month. An extraordinary calm flowed through her veins and, as she walked, she hummed a repetitive chant
she’d picked up from the old man.

The sun bleached the sky hard white. She heard a repeated double whistle,
pee-yaa
, from a wedge-tailed eagle circling nearby. Its wing tips lazily stroked the rising thermals. She reached the top of the
ridge that overlooked Cooinda and sat for a while to rest her bruised and heavily scabbed feet, enjoying the view. The town
was a gray-brown smudge in the distance, barely distinguishable in daylight. At night it twinkled like a galaxy.

She pushed the sleeves of her shirt above her elbows. Milangga had presented her with the vast man’s shirt the morning he’d
decided she should leave. “White fellers don’t respect a woman’s bare skin,” he’d said as he handed it to her.

“Where did you get it?”

“From someone that don’t need it as much as you.”

It was freshly laundered but unironed, and India had pictured an irate housewife going to her washing line to find it gone,
and laughed. She chuckled to herself now as she slipped from the ridge and moved down the folded ribbons of the hills and
across the dry landscape. The shirt felt constricting and heavy after walking naked for nearly a week, and India longed to
throw it off; her chest and back were soaked with sweat.

The tail end of Biolella Road, as usual, was a ghost town late morning. Silently, she approached the rear of Whitelaw’s house,
watchful of his neighbor. She was hoping to grab her backpack, get properly dressed and hitch a lift out of town to Sydney
to regroup with Scotto. Through the back screen door she could see that the kitchen was empty, and she paused, listening.
Insects buzzed and clicked in the heat. All was still.

She slipped silently into the house. It was cool inside and smelled of toast and fried bacon. She froze when she heard water
splash.
Someone was in the bathroom
. Softly, India crept into the kitchen, checking that her weight on the floorboards didn’t make them creak. Fortunately the
bathroom was on the way to the front door, and she could grab her backpack and leave without passing it.

She crossed the kitchen. Her backpack had been beside the divan, but it wasn’t there now. Water splashed again, and she heard
a man’s grunt. Mikey, no doubt, trying to wash away another hangover. She searched the kitchen, checked beneath the sink,
inside the broom cupboard … nothing. Laundry … second loo … amenity room … no. She padded into the living room, checked the
cupboards next to the stereo. Piles of cassettes, LPs and CDs, but no backpack. Sod it! Quickly, she tiptoed into the front
corridor. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. The water was no longer splashing; no sound to cover her movements.

Holding her breath, India quietly opened Mikey’s bedroom door and peered inside. Sheets were tangled in the middle of the
bed, a pile of laundry sat in one corner. No backpack. She was easing back into the corridor, skirting two tennis rackets
and a tool kit, when the bathroom door flew open.

“India!”

She whirled around.

Whitelaw looked stunned. Freshly shaven and smelling of Armani, he wore red-and-blue tartan boxer shorts and red socks. There
was a smudge of foam just below his right ear.

India exhaled. “Hey, cool shorts,” she managed.

Whitelaw’s expression remained stunned. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be gone for good.”

“I just came to get my backpack,” she said. “Then I’ll be off.” It was only then she suddenly saw how tired he looked, how
bruised and sleepless his face. “What’s happened?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you want the bad or the good news first?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No. I don’t suppose it does.” He gave another sigh. “The good news is that the charges against you have been dropped.”

For a moment she was too astonished to take it in. “I’m innocent?” she said. “It’s been proved that I’m innocent?”

He nodded. “Frank Goodman came back on Wednesday and made a statement. You’ve an alibi set in stone.”

India felt her face crack into a grin as broad as the Murray River. “That is great news! God, that’s great!” She started to
laugh, a slightly hysterical mixture of relief and elation, but another thought made her pause. “What about Elizabeth Ross’s
murder? Aren’t I still up for that?”

“No. They’ve found someone else to take that particular rap, along with the others.”

India punched the air with a fist, shouting, “YES!” and did a little dance of delight.

Whitelaw remained motionless, watching her. He didn’t smile.

India stopped her dancing. “Sorry.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “Okay, so what’s the bad news?”

The muscles in his jaw were jumping and twitching. Now she saw how tense he was and regretted her outburst of glee. “God!
What is it?”

“Someone’s fitted me up.” He blurted out the words. “The gun that killed Tiger and Lauren was found Monday. The day after
you legged it. Its got my fingerprints all over it.” He looked at the floor, speaking in a murmur. “I’m a suspect.”

India Felt a ripple of shock trickle unpleasantly down her spine. “What do you mean?”

He looked up. His burning stare was intense. “I mean, I’ve been framed. The hearing is tomorrow.”

“Who’d frame you? I don’t get it … How come your fingerprints …” She trailed off as the information finally permeated her
brain. She took an unsteady step backwards. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Surely, you didn’t …”

“No. I did not kill them.”

“But you … just said … your fingerprints were on the gun …”

“That doesn’t make me the killer.”

“Then how did they get there? By magic?”

An angry flare lit at the back of his eyes and she muttered, “Sorry.” She wanted to remain reasonable, but she’d been in too
many courtrooms to accept his word just like that.

“It’s the shock, I know.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I still can’t quite believe it either.”

“So where did your fingerprints come from?”

“I obviously handled the gun at some point. The question is,
whose
gun? It happened after Elizabeth Ross was killed because I’m up for that one as well.”

“Elizabeth?” Her voice was faint.

“I did not kill Elizabeth either.”

“But
who
do you think framed you? You must have
some
idea!”

“Could have been a cop, or maybe someone at the manhunt.”

“Well, that narrows it down a lot.”

She was finding it increasingly hard to believe him. She owed him that, after his kindness to her, but one thought blocked
out all others:
Had he known from the start she wasn’t the killer, because he was?

“India, let’s stay steady here and think a minute—”

“But why pin it on
you
, when I was already in the picture? It doesn’t make any sense!”

He reached a hand towards her and she jerked away.

“Did you make me stay with you so you could keep an eye on me? Make sure I didn’t find out too much about who killed my friend?”

“No!”

The next second Mikey appeared.

India and Whitelaw stood facing each other, breathing hard, faces flushed.

Mikey’s eyes flicked from one of them to the other, as though measuring the tension in the atmosphere. “What’s happening,
Jed?” he said levelly. “She being rude about your shreddies?”

Whitelaw’s furious brown eyes didn’t move from hers.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was,” Mikey continued, “because tartan is for Scots and by no stretch of the imagination are
you a Scot. Scots wear tartan and eat porridge. Abos wear paint and eat insects.” He made a
tsk
ing sound and shook his head. “You really should know that by now.”

“Suspicious cow,” Whitelaw said.

Mikey’s gaze travelled over her. “Bloody hell,” he said. “What on earth have you been doing, woman?”

Vaguely she became aware of her grime, the countless scratches on her legs and arms. Her hair had tangled into a fierce mass
and her skin was sunburnt. She must look like a madwoman.

He said, more gently, “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not,” she snapped. “I thought he was going to hit me—”

“Serve you right if I had,” snarled Whitelaw. He turned to Mikey. “She thinks
I’m
the killer.”

“Ah,” said Mikey, and looked from one of them to the other. “Why is that?”

“Because she won’t listen.”

“Very good,” India said acidly. “Award-winning, I’d say—”

“India! Go outside. Leave us for a minute.”

Somehow India made it to the kitchen. She felt herself to be in a strange place between disbelief and horror. Disbelief because
she liked Whitelaw, and horror because she knew it was all possible. Like a sleepwalker she filled the kettle. She spooned
coffee into a mug, and poured water from the kettle onto it, not realizing she hadn’t plugged it in. As she stared at the
grains of coffee floating on the cold water she thought: surely not
Whitelaw
.

She’d started a headache when Mikey joined her five minutes later. “He’s gone.”

“Good,” she said.

Mikey studied her grimy face, then her slashed ankles and calves. “Where have you been?”

“Walkabout.” She sank onto a chair and massaged her aching temples. “Do you have any aspirin or some codeine? My head’s killing
me.”

Mikey disappeared briefly, and returned with a packet of Disprin. “Take three,” he advised. “Two’s never enough.”

India washed them down with water, leaned back in her chair. “Where’s my backpack?”

“Under the house. I’ll get it for you.”

He returned a few minutes later, put it beside her. He peered into her mug, threw the contents out and turned on the kettle.
“You can’t blame him, you know. You’re mates, or supposed to be. He thought you’d be on his side. He expected you to believe
he’s been set up. He expected you to believe in him, full stop.”

Her agitation showed in the way her hands were clenching and unclenching.

“Come on, India. Surely you can’t believe he killed Tiger and Lauren? And Elizabeth Ross?”

“People are capable of doing anything,” she said, struggling to her feet. “Anything. I’ve faced the sweetest and kindest of
men and women who’ve protested their innocence. One woman even killed her baby daughter for the insurance payout.”

Mikey spoke evenly. “Jed’s not one of your murderers.”

“And you really believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Even though his fingerprints are all over the gun that killed …” India took a deep breath. “Three people.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze levelled with his, then, on unsteady legs, she made her way out of the kitchen and headed for the shower.

“You can’t leave,” said Mikey. He plucked the backpack off her shoulder and dumped it on the verandah.

“Just try and stop me,” she said icily. “I’ve had enough of this place.”

He felt his gaze drawn to her. Her hair was still wet from her shower and her skin had darkened in the sun and gleamed as
though it had been polished. She reminded him of a cheetah as she stood there, poised, all legs and grace. He had never seen
a woman look more desirable. He looked away.

“Whitelaw did a run on the Beemer’s plate,” he said.

She glanced at him.

“It belongs to a company registered in Panama.”

“Very helpful,” she remarked, and made to pick up her backpack.

“It’s Christmas Day tomorrow,” he said, and saw her start of surprise. “You’ll be lucky to get a lift over the next few days,
and you can’t fly abroad, not until you get your passport, clear things with Stan. How about you stay here over the holiday,
free of charge of course, until you’ve sorted out what you’re going to do next?”