Blood Junction (6 page)

Lauren?

I know. I’m sorry too.

I should have come to Sydney—

You said you never wanted to set foot in the place again. I never should have insisted. Can’t believe I acted like some psychologist
or something, saying it would do you good. I’m sorry as hell for being such a pain in the ass. I should have come to sodding
Melbourne.

I wish you had.

“When did you last see Lauren Kennedy?” Whitelaw asked.

They’d been in the interview room for ten minutes, cassette recorder running, Jerome to one side, Donna in the corner.

“Miss Kane?” Whitelaw prompted.

India thought of Lauren’s green skin, the way the blood had dried black and flaky on her neck and shoulders.

Whitelaw coughed, scratched the underside of his throat with his fingers. “Before you saw her in the mortuary, that is.”

“Twelve months ago.”

He flipped through some papers. “You said previously you were close to your friend and spoke every week, if not more. That
you used to be neighbors as children. That Lauren Kennedy came to visit you in London just about every year. You sound pretty
inseparable.”

India wanted to rid herself of her memory of Lauren’s dead body, but it remained stubbornly in her mind. She could see every
detail: the mole near her elbow, the pale strap where her watch had been, a fresh cut on her right knuckle.

“How come you didn’t see each other for so long? You’ve been living in Australia for six months.”

“I wouldn’t go to Sydney,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

“I hate Sydney.”

Silence. A shuffle of paper, the soft brush of cloth as legs were uncrossed and crossed again.

“Why is that?” said Whitelaw,

India reached for a cigarette, lit it, and watched the blue smoke spiral. “It has nothing to do with what’s happened.”

“Still, I’d like to know.”

She put a finger on her tongue, removed an imaginary piece of tobacco and flicked it aside. “Okay. I had a bad experience
when I was young. It has tainted my view of Sydney ever since.”

“What happened?”

“I ran away from home.”

“For how long?”

“Just a night.”

Whitelaw frowned. “Why the big deal?”

“No big deal,” she lied smoothly, and rolled the tip of her cigarette against the ashtray. “But because I refused to go to
Sydney, Lauren then refused to come to Melbourne. Hence arranging a holiday in the middle, so to speak.”

He made a note, moved right on. “What job did she do?”

“She’s a journalist, like me. But more high-powered. She did investigative stuff, exposés.”

“How come she chose Cooinda. You too?”

“I’ve no idea really,” she lied. It was just too complicated to start trying to explain her own bleak family history as well
as the fact that she knew Lauren too had another reason for coming to Cooinda. Something about a story she’d been working
on—medical ethics or another save-the-world subject. Lauren had always veered towards the crusading side of journalism. Unlike
India, who had chosen the easier and more crowd-pleasing route.

“We were all set to go horse-trekking in the Snowy Mountains until five days ago. Then she suggested we trek here instead,”
was all India volunteered.

“You were happy with the sudden change of plan?”

India tapped a length of ash into the tray and thought about explaining the Grandfather Tremain business, but decided not
to bother. She said, “I was in Broken Hill. It’s not that far from Cooinda.”

“What were you doing in Broken Hill?”

“Hunting down Floyd Harrison.”

She felt more than saw Jerome’s start of surprise.

“You’re the reporter who …” Whitelaw trailed off.

“Yes.”

She could see he was struggling with his curiosity. “I had a source who knew a man called McCarthy,” she added. “McCarthy
used to be into currency fraud during the eighties. These guys always seem to know each other. McCarthy gave me the tip-off.”

Her thrill at nailing the British fraudster felt unreal now. It had taken her three months to track down Harrison, and when
she’d found him hiding out in Broken Hill last week, she’d finally bagged him. Put him in jail. Exposed the slime for defrauding
more than a dozen Australian companies out of eight million dollars, and managed to initiate extradition procedures. It had
been her first big break since she’d arrived in Melbourne.

Whitelaw gave his head a little shake, studied her in silence for a while.

“What do the initials CTW and GNl mean to you?”

“Nothing. Apart from the fact they were on Lauren’s wrist.”

“Are they people’s initials?”

“I don’t know.”

India crushed her cigarette out.

“Perhaps they’re a code?” he suggested.

“Perhaps they are. But you’re asking the wrong person. Why don’t you track down the driver of the white 4 x 41 told you about
and ask them?”

She gazed at the ashtray, thinking about her vow to give up smoking for New Year, wondering if she now cared enough to do
so.

Whitelaw sat back, leaned his chin in his hand.

“Tell me about Frank Goodman again.”

She gave a long sigh. They’d been over her alibi what felt like a hundred times. “Frank was there when Tiger dropped me off,
around nine
P.M.
His parents were away for the night, at some barbecue in Milparinka. Frank and I had a beer, then we heard the single gunshot,
then he went into town to meet some friends, at about nine-thirty. I went to bed at eleven. Got up at eight
A.M.
He gave me a lift into town around nine.”

“Frank Goodman’s friends say he was with them at nine. That he couldn’t have seen Tiger drop you off.”

“They’re lying.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because of Red-cap and …” She couldn’t remember their proper names. “A man wearing dungarees.”

“Ken Willis and Pete Davies?”

She gave a shrug. “Whoever.”

“And where did you say Frank Goodman went?”

“He said he was going bush walking in the Flinders Ranges with some friends.” India paused. “And until he returns, I’m in
the shit, right?” she added.

Whitelaw started to nod, stopped himself. “We’re doing everything we can to locate him.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Her tone was tight. “How come I heard just one shot that night, if Tiger and Lauren took two bullets
each?”

“The assailant used a silencer. The single shot you heard was the one Tiger loosed off.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

He raised one shoulder, dropped it. “Okay. Let’s start from when your car—” He broke off at the sound of a commotion outside.
As footsteps clattered up the corridor, all three of them looked towards the door. It burst open and banged against the wall.

Senior Sergeant Bacon strode inside, face puce with fury. He switched off the recorder.

“I can’t believe this shit,” he said. “Turn my back for a second and you’re at it again. Get out, Detective Whitelaw, and
let me do my job.”

Whitelaw stiffened but his expression remained perfectly cool, as though nothing untoward had occurred.

“She was on Time Out, Detective. Extended Time Out, meaning she was meant to sit here undisturbed. Make her think about her
predicament. And all the while I’ve been working on finding her weapon, you’ve been cuddling up to her, taking her on field
trips outside …” Bacon stood rigid as a fighting dog facing an opponent. “As the Senior Sergeant of this police department,
I’m ordering you out of here.”

A long silence. Whitelaw pushed back his chair, got to his feet. He gave a curt nod to Jerome, then loped outside without
a backward glance.

“Sergeant,” Stan said to Donna, “call the magistrate and get a detention warrant for an additional eight hours.”

Donna said, “Certainly, sir,” and left the room.

“Out,” Stan growled to Jerome. Jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door.

The lawyer lingered.

Stan swung around fast, like a snake disturbed. “The interview with your client is over, get it? So get the fuck outta here.”
And to India’s horror, Jerome did just that.

Oh my God
, she thought. She found herself shrinking on the chair to appear smaller. Her legs wanted to cross themselves, her arms to
wrap themselves around her. She wanted to turn into a protective ball and roll out of there. She willed her legs not to move,
and slid her hands over her thighs, fingers outspread, relaxed and confident.

Stan came over and put his mouth near her ear. His lips were so close she could feel the hairs on her cheek stiffen as he
spoke. “Now, Miz Kane, let’s talk. I’m the boss here, and you’re a murdering bitch. You’ve come into my town and killed one
of my officers. So now you’re going to make a full confession.”

She registered that his breath smelled of onions and stale beer.

“As a journalist, you know what us cops say about homicide. That ninety-nine percent of murders are committed by people the
victim knew. And here we are, with one attractive young man dead between two attractive young women. Sounds like an open and
shut case of jealousy to me.”

He reared back to stare down at her, waiting for a response.

India kept her gaze on a scar in the linoleum, shaped like a lion’s head. It had been planned, she realized. Stan the bully.
Whitelaw the nice guy. Between them, they would work their hardest to crack her into making a confession for something she
hadn’t done.

Stan pushed his beetroot face next to hers once more. “You’re going to jail,” he said. “For life. A life of fear and degradation
you don’t even know exists. Wardens will hire you out, touting your pretty tanned ass to anyone who can pay. You’ll have broom
brushes jammed up your fanny, your ass, until your eyes pop clear outta your head.”

Because she didn’t know what else to do, India continued staring at the floor.

“So,” said Stan, “tell me how it happened.”

India kept her gaze fixed downwards. She didn’t want to antagonize him further. He was already in full flow.

“Tell me how it happened,” he said again.

She didn’t move a centimeter.

Stan’s fist seemed to come from nowhere. One second she was sitting on the chair, the next she was sprawled on the floor,
her jaw pounding with pain.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, bitch,” Stan said. He came and stood over her.

India felt a hot flame of rage ignite inside her. She hadn’t thought she’d feel anything after seeing Lauren dead, but she’d
been wrong. She was alive. And she was angry. She welcomed that, at least.

“Stubborn cow,” he hissed.

She ran her tongue around her teeth. All intact, but her tongue was bleeding and the left side of her face already felt hot
and swollen.
You’ve got to take this, and don’t even think of fighting back
. If she hit a policeman, she’d be in even bigger trouble. So she lay there, the taste of blood in her mouth, while Stan loomed
over her, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“But you won’t be so stubborn in a couple of hours. Because you’re going to the cells tonight, and you’re going to have company.
We’ve only got six cells here, and funnily enough five are currently being redecorated, so you’ve got to share. His name’s
Mike Johnson, otherwise known as Mikey the Knife. I’ll let you think about why he’s called that. He’s chilling out after a
bit of a bloodbath in town so I wouldn’t make too much of a noise. He’s got a temper.”

India traced the heat along her jawbone. She scrambled to her feet, put her shoulders back, tried not to allow a tremor to
show in her voice. “I will not be intimidated into confessing to something I didn’t do.”

Stan grinned. “Mikey’s gonna love you, sweet cakes.”

India’s tongue seemed to have glued itself to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t confess, she might end up in jail for life.
But a night with Mikey might be even worse. She stared at Stan, transfixed with indecision.

He shook his head as though helpless against the turn of events. “We may as well go down then. But when you’ve had enough
of old Mikey—I’ve heard he’s hung like a horse—just give us a yell and we’ll get you outta there.”

Stan took India down the corridor to the cell block, which was divided into six separate holding pens with vertical bars.
Every square inch of each cell was visible from outside, and was carpeted with caramel-colored linoleum. Metal bunks were
fixed to each wall, along with a stainless steel basin and a toilet with no lid. There was a pervasive smell of urine, cigarette
smoke and stale sweat. Stan stopped outside the first cell on the right and unlocked the gate section.

“Your executive suite, madam,” he mocked.

Mikey the Knife was sprawled on the bunk. He lay face up, mouth agape, with one foot and hand resting on the floor as if to
anchor himself. A thick brown ponytail with sun-bleached split ends nestled like a pet snake in the nape of his muscular neck.
Dwarfing the bunk with his beefiness, he looked like a bouncer who had been in an all-night brawl: his T-shirt was torn in
several places, and his jeans were dark with dirt and bloodstains.