Blood Junction (5 page)

“Good afternoon.” His voice was deep, his accent crisp, not quite Australian. “I’m Detective Jeremy Whitelaw.”

“Hi.” She was surprised. He looked more like a lawyer.

“How long have you been here?”

She made a parody of looking at a watch that wasn’t there and shrugged.

“Do you need the Ladies’?”

She shook her head.

“Would you like a coffee?”

“White with two sugars would be nice,” she said.

He withdrew his head and a few seconds later, in the distance, she heard his deep voice saying something she couldn’t distinguish,
and then another man and Donna joined in, their voices raised in protest. A door slammed. Then silence. Footsteps hammered
along the linoleum and the door was flung open.

“We’ve got two lawyers in town,” Whitelaw said as he placed a foam cup on the table in front of her. “The one who drinks is
Coscarelli and the one who doesn’t is Jerome Trumler. Coscarelli comes free thanks to the State of New South Wales but Jerome
is usually on time when needed. Who do you want?”

She was pleased that her tone sounded amused, not distressed. “I think I can take the hint.”

“Jerome it is. Wise choice.”

He went out once more, leaving India sipping her coffee and feeling bemused, but a lot more cheerful now that someone seemed
to see her as human.

About half an hour later Whitelaw returned. “Look, I’m sorry, but Jerome’s in court and can’t get here until later. We’ll
have to wait. Can I get you some lunch?”

“A sandwich or something would be great. Maybe a soft drink.”

The sandwich was corned beef with pickles, the drink a cold Fanta. She didn’t have an appetite but made herself eat every
crumb. She mightn’t be fed again.

A little later Donna came and took the debris away, allowed India to use the Ladies’, then locked her back in the interview
room. She came back after a while with another Fanta that India thought might indicate it was teatime, put some magazines
on the table and left. India flicked through an old copy of
Gourmet
but didn’t take in any of it. She could feel the afternoon slowly ticking away. Found herself longing for a cigarette. She
pushed the magazine back onto the table.
Please let Jerome get here soon
, she thought.
Get me out of here.

Finally, Whitelaw ushered the lawyer inside. His appearance did not inspire confidence. He was six inches shorter than she
was and seemed flustered.

Within ten minutes India became horribly aware of the financial trouble she was in. The lawyer’s retainer was $3,000, his
ongoing fee $175 an hour. India felt as though her stomach was full of eels as she tried to work out how to raise that amount
of cash.

“How much will my bail be?”

“Anything up to two hundred thousand dollars.”

Her palms became slippery with sweat.

“It depends who we see,” Jerome added. “If it’s Judge Deacon we’re in deep trouble. He might not even allow bail.”

The black detective was standing outside and she could feel his eyes on her face.

“Perhaps I should have Coscarelli,” she said.

Jerome gave her a piercing look. “You still can. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“It’s not your money,” she snapped.

“True. But it’s not my freedom that’s at stake either.”

She covered her eyes by spreading her fingers against her forehead and tried to stem the desire to scream.

“Shall we proceed?” asked Jerome briskly. “Detective Whitelaw’s got a lot of questions for you.” When she nodded, he waved
in the detective. Whitelaw was followed by Donna carrying a chair, which she put in one corner then sat down on.

Whitelaw took his seat and flipped open a pad. He uncapped his Biro and placed it on top. “Miss Kane, we want to interview
you electronically. Do you agree?”

She glanced at Jerome, who gave her a nod.

“Yes.”

Whitelaw popped three tapes in the recorder. He pressed Record and checked the red light was on, the tapes running, and leaned
back in his chair, hands resting on his lap, relaxed, at ease.

“Detective Whitelaw, Jerome Trumler, Sergeant Hemmel and India Kane are present on Monday, twelfth December, nineteen-ninety-nine,”
Whitelaw began. “Miss Kane, do you agree the time is six-thirty-three
P.M.
?”

Jerome held his watch so she could see. Whitelaw did the same. She flicked a glance at Donna but the desk sergeant was absorbed
in turning her wedding ring around her finger.

“Yes.”

“There will be three audio and one videotape made of all interviews. You will be given one audio tape, one will be sealed
in your presence, one will be kept with the interviewing officer. The video remains at the station. We can use these recordings
in court.” He read her her rights again. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Let’s start with your name, address and date of birth.”

She repeated what she’d told Donna earlier.

“You sound English.”

“I’ve lived in London since I was twelve.”

He made a note. “Miss Kane”—he paused—“tell me exactly what happened.”

“You tell me. One minute I’m having breakfast, the next I’m a murderer. Would you mind filling me in?”

Silence. Whitelaw looked at her steadily.

“Would you mind filling me in?” she asked him again.

He stroked his chin slowly, as if contemplating whether to answer her or not.

“Look, I don’t know what in hell’s going on here, but I’d really appreciate a bit of slack being cut.” India was glad she
sounded calm, collected. “Fill me in, will you?”

The seconds ticked past. He was going to wait her out, make her speak first. Well, fine by her.

“Can I smoke?” she said. “It might help me pass the time while we play this game.”

Whitelaw didn’t respond.

“I
really
, really need a cigarette,” she said. Hearing the slightly plaintive note in her voice, she was instantly reminded of Polly.
“Please.”

He flared his nostrils a little, pushed back his chair with a tortuous squeal and went outside. Jerome wouldn’t meet her eye.
He was puckering his mouth in a peculiar way, as if sucking something sour, and it made his lips elongate like a baboon’s.

Whitelaw came back with a pack of Benson & Hedges, cellophane already unwrapped, matches in hand.

India dragged the smoke deep into her lungs. Her head spiralled and for a brief fantastic moment she was displaced, disconnected,
as though she were dreaming, but then she was slammed back into the neutral cream-and-brown colors of the interview room,
Jerome at her side, the unknown quantity that was Whitelaw opposite.

She exhaled a stream of blue smoke and said, “I won’t be saying anything else until you make it a two-way street.”

More silence while India smoked and Jerome sucked on his peculiar long lips.

The ashtray had two cigarette stubs in it before Whitelaw finally spoke up.

“All right,” he said, nodding a little. “For the record, it’s a double homicide—”

“
Double!
You’re not telling me I’m up for
two murders?
”

She thought she saw a flash of recognition at the back of his eyes, but it was gone so fast she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined
it.

“Yes. A policeman, off duty, was shot near Nindathana Bilabong last night at close range.”

Her mouth went dry as sand. “Tiger.”

“Also known as Terence Dunn.”

“Tiger,” she whispered, “He’s a cop.”

“A woman’s body was found too. Same treatment.”

For a second, India’s mind seemed to jam solid. A chill started at the top of her head, her scalp, and spread through her
as she stared at the detective. Lauren had gone to meet a man last night. Lauren, who was up here working. Lauren, who met
with detectives and cops and lawyers all the time.

Lauren.

The chill had spread downwards, towards her heart.

Please, God, not Lauren.

“Both victims were shot twice in the head. Time of death is currently estimated between eight and ten
P.M.
Pete Davies, Ken Willis and Billy Bryant have signed a statement saying they saw you with Terence Dunn in his car, in the
area of the murders, at eight-forty
P.M.
”

Lauren’s my family. My mother, my sister, my only true friend. The only person who knows me in the whole world. Please don’t
let her be dead. Please, please, please.

“Why were you in Terence Dunn’s car last night, Miss Kane?”

She took a shaky breath. And another. Tried not to show she was trembling. Concentrated on breathing steadily, in and out.
In and out.

“Miss Kane?”

She covered her eyes with her right hand and sat there, her mind still unable to function. She heard Whitelaw cross his legs,
the creak of his chair. Then silence. Another shuffle of soft cloth. More silence. Eventually she raised her head.

“Who was the woman?”

Whitelaw fixed her with his steady gaze. “Her purse identifies her as Lauren Kennedy, but we’ll need an official ID from her
family. Her face isn’t recognizable.”

India had never fainted before, and didn’t now, but somehow her body folded in on itself, her bones and muscles liquified,
and the next second she was sprawled on the floor.

Whitelaw was barking commands and she could hear Jerome’s flustered response. Then Whitelaw was holding her hands, talking
to her gently. After a while, it was only a minute or so but felt much longer, India scrambled to her feet and stood there,
clutching the edge of the table.

“Lauren’s just turned thirty,” she said.

Whitelaw wouldn’t look at her. Donna was staring at the floor.

India thought of Lauren’s vitality, her mischievousness, her immense love of life, and closed her eyes.

Nobody said anything.

“Can I see her? I have to know it’s her for sure. Can you understand that? I have to know.”

T
HE MORTUARY WAS ON THE SAME SIDE OF THE STREET AS
the courthouse and police station, but five doors down. No pansies here. Just tough-stubbled buffalo grass edging the concrete
path. Inside it smelled of oranges, but beneath the cloying sweet smell India could detect the faint aroma of chemicals. A
tall, unsmiling man told Whitelaw to give him five minutes to prepare the anteroom, and clattered off down a corridor lit
with overhead fluorescent strips.

India stood by the window, vacantly watching a magpie hop across the stubbly lawn and back. A hand landed gently on her shoulder,
and she allowed Whitelaw to usher her into a harshly lit room with no windows. The tiles were white and cracked with age and
the pale blue linoleum floor had worn to gray in the center. Slowly, India approached the chrome trolley, looked down at her
friend’s body.

They’d covered Lauren with a stiff gray sheet but her arms lay bare at her sides. Lauren’s skin was a peculiar color. It wasn’t
caramel-colored any longer, more of a dull duckweed green. It was this change in Lauren that upset India more than the fact
her friend’s face had apparently been blown away; Lauren had always been so proud of her ability to tan.

I always start with factor 20 at the beginning of summer and keep dropping it down until I’m on coconut oil. I do love having
a tan; I always look so damned healthy.

On the tender underside of Lauren’s wrist were some hastily scribbled initials: CTW/GN1, in purple ink. India gave a twisted
smile; Lauren always used her arm and never a piece of paper.

You can lose a piece of paper, darl, but not your arm.

“Is this your friend Lauren Kennedy?” asked Whitelaw gently.

India traced the three small moon-shaped scars on Lauren’s upper arm where a dog had bitten her when they were children. It
was enough.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

India remembered kicking that dog so hard in the mouth it had howled and fled with its tail right between its legs. She loved
animals, but Lauren came first, always had.

“Shall I leave you?”

“Thank you.”

“Just come out when you’re ready.”

She heard the rubber seal on the door snick shut behind him.

Her best friend Lauren. India could see over the sheet that she’d had her hair cut short. It suited her personality, this
new spikily cropped hair like a boy’s.

Thanks, hon. I quite like it too. You should try it. Keeps your nape cool and it’s really easy to care for.

India reached out and touched Lauren’s hand. It felt greasy and cold, but she cupped her palm in Lauren’s and held it tight.

Sorry I can’t come to bail you out of trouble again, Indi.

India closed her eyes.

I mean, I always used to look out for you, right? Even in the face of the enemy. God, weren’t your mum and dad a mess? We
could have opened a recycling unit from the bottles they got through.

I’d rather not remember, said India.

What, you’re not going back to Dee Why for a trip down good old memory lane?

No way.

Come on, girl. We had some good times too. What about the beach and all those gorgeous surfies?

What about Dad getting fired for taking bribes?

He was a cop, for heaven’s sakes. What do you expect?

Some restraint, India snapped. Especially towards his own family.

Just because little Toby—

Dad had no right to do what he did. It wasn’t Mum’s fault Toby died. My little brother.

Sure, that was a bad day, darl. A very bad one, I’m the first to admit, but every cloud has a silver—

You call my being shunted to England a silver lining?

Well, you got a good education. A better one than I did, that’s for sure. And Aunt Sarah was okay in her own weird way. She
paid for my first trip to the UK, remember? I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for the old bat, and besides, she always
had a good supply of cigarettes. Given up yet?

No.

Me neither.

India bowed her head over Lauren’s chilled hand.