Blood Junction (4 page)

Polly followed him while India hunched behind the counter, adrenaline pumping. She heard Albert’s footsteps, the sound of
the fly screen being opened. She heard Albert say brightly, “Hey, Stan, how’s it going?”

“Where’d she go, Albert?” The voice was deep and weighted with menace.

There were some shuffling sounds, then Albert said, “Dunno.”

“Why are you fucking lying, Albert?”

Another silence. Then Polly’s voice, defensive. “She’s nice. She’s going to buy me my brekkie.”

There was a thud, the sound of a struggle, then a high-pitched squeal. India flinched. Her heart was pounding so hard she
wondered it didn’t explode.

“Polly,” the man said in a warning tone, “tell me where she went.”

“Stan, c’mon, let Polly—”

“Shut the fuck up! This is police business.”

Polly started to yelp, little gasping sounds of panic and distress. India forced herself to move. On her hands and knees she
crept to the corner of the counter and peered slowly around. Her wrist caught by the policeman, Polly was trying to free herself.
The policeman had raised his arm so her toes barely scraped the ground. She flapped and kicked like a small fish on a line.
Her panic-stricken eyes latched on to India.
Help me.

India ducked back. Her hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking. Jesus. What the hell was going on? Had Tiger really
been murdered? If so, why were they after
her?
Would Albert and Polly keep quiet? The policeman wouldn’t really hurt Polly, would he? Then she could sneak out, grab a lift
and get the hell out of here, head for her little apartment in Melbourne and safety.

“Tell me, Polly, or I’ll give you a belting. A real one with my belt, like I did last year. Remember?”

Polly gave out a single piercing shriek, like a train whistle. That did it. India jumped to her feet, came to the front of
the counter and stood there on legs that felt like cotton wool. “No need for that, officer. I’m here.” She was amazed how
calm her voice sounded. The policeman appeared amazed too, because his jaw dropped. India made a tiny movement, a precursor
to stepping forward. In a split second the policeman had shoved Polly aside and was in a crouch, pointing his gun two-handed.
Right between India’s eyes.

“FREEZE!” he yelled. “DON’T FUCKING MOVE!”

India’s hands shot into the air. “Okay, okay, it’s okay.” Her breathing was uneven, her voice jerky. “It’s okay, I’m not armed,
I’m—”

“TURN AROUND!” he screamed. “HANDS ON THE COUNTER!”

She turned, put her hands on the counter. Felt a barrel of cold steel pressed hard against her neck.

“One move and I blow your head off, okay?”

“Okay,” she managed.

He started to pat her down. Shoulders, arms, armpits, flanks. He exhaled noisily several times. Perhaps as a way of collecting
himself, regaining some calm. She felt his boot kick her legs wide. More pats. “I do like a pair of pretty legs spread just
so,” he murmured when he had finished. “Now, hands behind your back.”

She flinched when she felt the cold metal against her skin. He imprisoned her right wrist first, but as he grabbed her left
she jerked it free, a bubble of panic forming in her breast. “It’s too tight,” she gasped.

“They’re new.” He gave a rasping chuckle. “They’ll stretch some after a little wear.”

He grabbed her left wrist and still she struggled. India tried to breathe deeply, to halt the panic, but she couldn’t allow
herself to be handcuffed, she couldn’t…

Click.

She went quite still. Fear sat in her stomach like a big black bat.

“You’re just like a mare I’ve got,” he remarked. “All fidgety at taking the bit. She settles down after a couple of minutes
though.”

He gave her a little tug. She turned around, looked at him straight. He had eyes the color of dirty ice and a face like boiled
beetroot. His nose looked as though it had been broken a few times and his hands were ridged with scars. She found herself
staring at his shirt, and a piece of what looked like egg yolk smeared there.

“Name?” he demanded.

“India.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “India Kane.” She took a breath, firmed her voice. “And yours?”

He seemed to hesitate, gave a mental shrug, then said, “Senior Sergeant Bacon.”

“Stan,” Polly interjected. “He’s called Stan.”

“Sergeant Bacon to you,” he growled and swung around to glare at Polly. The girl flushed and hung her head.

“Nice to meet you, Stan,” said India, and was rewarded with a nervous giggle from Polly.

Sergeant Bacon reached into his breast pocket for a battered white card. He read: “Miz Kane, you are under arrest. You do
not have to do or say anything unless you wish to do so. Anything you say or do may be used in evidence in court at a later
date.” He put the card away. “Do you understand?”

She swallowed drily. She knew the blood had left her face and that she was deathly pale. “No,” she said.

He looked at her as though she was being obtuse. “What don’t you understand?”

“Why I’m under arrest.”

“For Terence Dunn’s murder. And we’re …” He paused and checked his battered card again. “Miz Kane, you are going to be conveyed
to Cooinda Police Station, where further enquiries will be made in relation to this matter. Do you understand this?”

India didn’t respond.

“Do you understand?”

She looked at him as steadily as she could, hoping he couldn’t see that her teeth were clenched. She would wait until she
had a solicitor before she opened her mouth to Stan. Whatever she said now he would try to use against her.

He gave an explosive snort, said, “Shit, not again. I try my damn best to drum up some kind of cooperation but everyone’s
so into this silence-is-your-right crap I may as well forget it. Let’s go.” One of his hands was in the small of her back,
propelling her forwards. He had her left elbow in the other, gripping it hard as if she might bolt at any second.

Albert and Polly were standing at the front door. Polly was crying silently. Tears tracked through the dirt on her face and
were collecting at the corners of her mouth.

“Can’t I do something?” Albert’s brown eyes were round and worried.

India unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “You could call my friend Lauren Kennedy at the Goodmans’ for me. Tell
her what’s happened.”

Albert nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“Thanks.”

The policeman gave her a shove that sent her stumbling through the door. A crowd was waiting in the street, hushed and expectant.

“This woman,” Stan said with satisfaction, “is under arrest for Tiger’s murder.”

The crowd, which had swelled and now contained a number of women, gave a muted cheer.

India drew herself up to her full height and stared at them slowly, one by one. Many of them looked away, but some returned
her look with hostility, others curiosity. When she spoke, her voice was clear and firm. “I haven’t murdered anyone. I’m innocent.”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

She glanced over the lawman’s shoulder to see a handful of women watching her from the door of the Royal Hotel. All of them
seemed to be smoking. Their sunglasses flashed blindly at her.

India felt sick and shivery and knew it was the result of shock. The police car smelled of greasy food and disinfectant. She
felt strangely grateful that Stan hadn’t thrown her in the back of the paddy wagon like a dog, but had allowed her to sit
on the rear seat.

They were speeding down the main street, past the supermarket, the clock tower and rows of fibro houses. They flashed past
a road on the left signed to Biloella, then what looked like a small courthouse. Three doors farther on Stan braked sharply
and pulled up outside a long low brick building, painted white.

A large black-and-white sign was stuck in the lawn in front of the entrance:
COOINDA POLICE STATION
. Someone had planted purple and pink pansies around it and they were drooping in the heat.

Stan got out and opened India’s door. “Let’s go,” he said.

In a single movement she pivoted, twisted out of the car and stood up.

Stan blinked. “You’re nothing if not supple. Most folk flap about like beached whales before they get upright.”

India didn’t respond. She was concentrating on silence. She walked up the concrete path. She could hear a magpie’s screech
and dogs barking at the end of chains. The sun hammered on her head, and the wind had risen and was blowing hot and hard from
the north.

Inside everything was beige and brown, with scuffed linoleum on the floor. A female desk sergeant, framed by two plastic Christmas
trees, stood behind a long wooden reception counter. A white plastic clock set on the wall stated it was two minutes past
twelve. The desk sergeant stared at India as she was marched down a corridor and into a room labelled
CUSTODY ROOM
. It had two filing cabinets, a table with a phone and computer and one plastic chair.

Stan uncuffed her, then stuck his head outside and yelled, “Donna!” The female desk sergeant entered the room at a trot. She
put a book on the desk and switched on the computer, then proceeded to empty each of India’s pockets into a large black bag.
A handful of coins, receipts, passport, a notebook and pencil. Stan took the notebook and passport.

“Shit,” he said, surprised. “You’re an Aussie.”

India remained silent.

“I thought you were a bloody Pom.” He sounded indignant. “And here you are, a bloody Aussie. Bugger me.”

“No handbag?” Donna asked India. When she didn’t reply, the policewoman glanced at India’s watch then across at Stan, who
nodded.

“Looks like it’s expensive,” he said.

She wanted to say:
Looks like you dropped half your egg on your shirt, Stan,
but she held her tongue.

India gave her watch to Donna. The desk sergeant took her photograph. Next, she inked India’s fingers, pressed them onto a
stiff white card labelled with the number eight, and smiled apologetically as she passed her a tissue. Donna pulled out the
chair and sat down. She opened the book and made some notes. She turned to the computer and tapped quickly, looking up at
India. “I need your name, address, and date of birth.”

“India Rose Kane. Thirty-two Keppel Close, Saint Kilda, Melbourne.” She added her date of birth.

“So, that makes you—”

“Twenty-nine.”

It didn’t take long to complete the custody details and Donna finally pressed Save and printed off a form. Stan gripped India’s
arm and marched her two doors down and into a room labelled
INTERVIEW ROOM
. It was also decorated in beige, and had one table, three plastic chairs and no windows except for the small one in the door.
A camera was positioned in one corner of the ceiling. On the table was a cassette recorder and a cheap tin ashtray with ash
smeared in its center.

Stan told her to sit her ass down, then left the room. The sound of the lock clicking into place made her flinch. She stared
blankly at the wall. She guessed they’d leave her isolated for a couple of hours, to make sure she had an urge to talk when
someone eventually returned. She’d learned that from her time at
The Courier
in London, when she’d started covering murder stories. She’d been thrilled at her promotion. No more interviewing pet owners
or slimmers and self-help junkies, instead she was faced with hard-eyed policemen, solicitors, courts and felons. She had
celebrated her first murder story with a bottle of Krug.

And now here she was, sitting in a remote outback jail accused of murder. What an irony that was! She wondered whether Cooinda
harbored any half-decent lawyers. She couldn’t see any wanting to work out here, in the middle of nowhere.

For the first time since India had left London, she wished she hadn’t. She wished she’d never resigned from her post at
The Courier
. Wished she’d overcome her impulse to return to her home country. Wished she’d never taken up Lauren’s challenge to find
her roots. Above all, she couldn’t believe the incongruous fact that Cooinda, translated, means “happy place.”

India closed her eyes and told herself she wasn’t really in trouble, that there had been a hideous mistake that would soon
be rectified and then she would be released. She had to believe that or she wouldn’t stand a chance. Especially since the
whole town was against her. She crossed her legs, then re-crossed them, feeling vulnerable and inadequate and oddly guilty,
even though she hadn’t committed a crime. A feeling of powerlessness had seeped into her since her arrival and drowned her
self-confidence.

She knew Stan was hoping to make her sweat by leaving her here. Well, she wouldn’t crack easily, she’d stay cool, act innocent—hell,
she
was
innocent—and stick to her story no matter what. Even if they found a gun with her fingerprints on it she’d stick to the same
story.

India jumped when she heard the lock rattle and the door open. A tall black guy was peering inside. Late thirties, maybe forty,
he was dressed in immaculately pressed dark gray trousers and jacket. India stared. She hadn’t seen an Aborigine in a suit
before.