Murder with the Lot (4 page)

I dropped the key into my bag.

I walked around, the dust-laden wind tugging at my dress and hair. I put my hand over my nose and mouth. Thunder rumbled overhead. No tyre tracks visible. So the murderer hadn't driven here. Jesus, the murderer! I glanced around. He could still be here, waiting invisibly in the shade of the native pines. Or behind the piles of rubbish, the cars, anywhere. Dean would be ages, Hustle's at least an hour away, and he's not one to hurry unless he has a reason. Surely he'd consider this a reason?

A twig snapped. I whirled around. Was that a dark shape, among the trees? The hairs on my forearms stood up, all on their own, with no assistance from me.

I started scurrying towards the car but soon realised I'd left my run too late. The storm wall of dust hit me hard. The sun disappeared and the place went dark like someone had snapped off the light. Sand carried from miles away whipped up in stinging slaps against my face, lacing my eyes with grit. I cupped a hand over my eyes, trying to shield them.

My star picket in one hand, I groped around in the rust-coloured fog, blinking painfully. Where was the car? Where was anything? I stubbed my toe on a rock, it rolled over with a shallow-water splash. Water. I was at the lake's edge, so the car must be the other way. I turned and blundered around some more. I tripped, stubbed my toe on another rock. Another splash. Cass, you bloody fool, you're going around in circles. Sour-flavoured panic rose up in my throat. Stay calm, I whispered. Just find some shelter and wait this out. Where? Where? Come on, think.

I knelt on the sand and held my dress up over my face. In different circumstances I'd find it hilarious to be in this position with my dress over my head. Sand scoured my arms and legs, crunched nastily between my teeth. I coughed up a gobbet of grit. My sister Helen used to pull her dress up like this when she was a kid. When any stranger came to visit.

Helen and I used to play cubby house in the old corrugated iron shed out here by the lake. A ruin left over from the mining days. Probably some poor bastard's house, probably raised six kids in it. The shed. Yes. It was by the water. I just needed to follow the edge of the lake.

The mud was deep, black and stinky underneath the pink crust. Still holding my dress up over my face, I waded along the lake's edge, my shoes full of the stinking squelch. At least my feet were protected from the wind, they weren't stinging with sandpaper burn. Finally the shed loomed up on my right. I slipped in through the doorway, let go of my dress and slumped against a wall, panting. The relief from the scouring sand-wind combination was like an instant balm.

The wind blew sand in through the doorway, the broken window and every crack. I stepped away from the wall and hunkered down in the corner furthest from the door. The light was dimmer here, but near my feet I could see a few loose strands of coloured wire, left over from the days when I'd wound them into a bracelet for Helen. The place smelled stale. I wiped my stinging eyes. Ran my tongue over my teeth. I was looking forward to a drink of water and a shower, maybe even a long cool bath.

I stared at Helen's old bracelet wires, the wind buffeting the hut, while I worried about what to do. That snapping twig. Maybe it was just a kangaroo. Surely murderers don't hang around after the event, snapping twigs, waiting to be found.

Dean would be here any minute. Surely. The dust storm would have covered up those footprints, though. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember what they'd looked like. I should have taken a photo on my phone.

Red dust crept in around the doorway. So when had Mona died? Last time I saw her was yesterday morning when I'd come across her and Aurora along the road.

So she must have been killed sometime between Saturday morning and Sunday at—I glanced at my watch—seven-thirty. That would help Dean determine time of death. Homicide would be impressed. It'd be a chance for me to make it up to Dean. Maybe it'd help him get over that stupid business with Ernie.

A moaning sound from outside. I jumped, then peered out through the cracked window, into the moving sea of dust. Endless rust-brown shadows out there, any one of them could be a murderer.

A tapping noise. I whirled around. A man stood in the doorway, rapping at the jamb with a skinny hand. I shrank back into my corner, star picket clutched in a shaky fist.

He stood there, his long white hair and ragged beard whipping around his face, a frayed check shirt flapping against his bony frame. He looked like Burke, or maybe Wills, one of those lost explorers from Australia's past. A gaunt-looking fella on an expedition headed straight for doom. He shambled in and a large black dog followed him.

I eyed him as he sat on the floor opposite me. He set down an esky and made room next to him for the dog. The hut filled with a sour, unwashed smell. The dog had unfriendly eyes and big jaws designed for killing things. It kept its unblinking gaze on my face.

The man shook sand and dust from his hair and rubbed it out of his beard with knobbly fingers. ‘Good morning.' He smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. ‘Invigorating wind.'

No gun that I could see. ‘Yep,' I croaked. ‘She's windy all right.'

He closed his eyes, leaned back against the creaking wall, one arm resting on the esky.

‘Ah, you know you're trespassing?' I said. ‘This is actually private property.' I firmed my grip on the star picket.

He opened his eyes. ‘Oh? I saw the gate was open and…'

‘You didn't open it?'

‘Oh no, no.' He straightened up, smoothed down his shirt. ‘I'm a birdwatcher. This looks like excellent scarlet-chested parrot country. And a good spot for Major Mitchell cockatoos. A pleasant little place, in fact.' He gestured at the dust storm raging outside.

A birdwatcher without binoculars.

‘Why don't we get better acquainted, you and I? I'm Noel. You'll soon find I'm no trouble.'

It sounded more like a threat than an invitation.

‘Where you from?' I said.

‘Oh, I rove,' he waved a hand in a regal way. ‘I'm not into ties. And Bubbles loves to travel.' He looked at the dog. ‘We have a van that we call home.'

The dog made slopping sounds, licking dust from around its mouth. It kept its death-stare fixed on me.

‘So,' I cleared my throat. ‘You stay here last night, Noel?'

He froze. ‘Possibly. I can't recall at the moment.'

‘Just wondering if you heard anything.'

‘What kind of thing?'

‘Gunshots. Screaming, maybe.'

He stared. ‘Gunshots? Do you mean hunters?'

‘There's a dead woman by the lake. Shot in the head. Didn't you see her? I've phoned the police. They're on their way. Be here any minute.'

‘The police?' He glanced around.

‘So, did you? See or hear anything?' I persisted.

‘No, no. Look, this is nothing to do with me.' He stood up. ‘I think I'll take a rain check on those scarlet-chesteds. Shame.'

‘You'd better give me your mobile number. The police might have some questions. Noel…what was the surname?'

‘Ah…I don't have a mobile. I really must get on.' He picked up his esky, cradling it to his chest. He moved to the doorway, his long white hair waving, Medusa-like, around his face. ‘I could do without police harassment, actually. I don't want Bubbles upset. Not in her condition.' Clutching the esky like a new-born baby, he charged off into a whirling blast of dust, the dog thumping along heavily behind him.

Well, anyone could see the bloke was up to something iffy. Who could see a bird in all this? And where the hell was Dean? I pulled out my phone from my handbag. No signal.

I popped my head out of the doorway and looked around. The lake was a pink–brown blur. The wind was dropping, dust hurtling at a slower pace. At some point soon the wind would be running out of dust to blow. I tied my hanky over my nose and mouth, grabbed my handbag and star picket and headed out.

Noel was walking along a track behind the hut, through the native pines. Every now and then he looked behind him. I kept well back, darting into the scrub. He reached a white van parked under a tree. A white HiAce, it looked like, broken side mirror.

Crouching behind a scrappy shrub, I watched him get in. The van started and, with some crunching of gears, turned and headed along the track towards the highway. Before it disappeared, I grabbed a pen from my bag and wrote down his rego on the back of an old docket from Vern's shop. Dean would thank me for that later.

Twenty minutes later, back at the hut, I heard a car engine over the wind. I poked my head out. A police van. It stopped way back along the track I'd driven in on, and the driver got out. Dean at last. I'd never been so pleased to see his neat blue uniform. The wind dropped and the sun suddenly came out now Dean was here, like he'd arranged it all. Evidence of the dust storm lay all around, red streaks over pink sand. I marched towards him.

Dean crunched across the sand. ‘Hi, Mum.' He leaned in and pecked my cheek, like he was calling in for a cuppa on a normal day. ‘Where's this body, then?' He stared at me with those confident brown–black eyes.

‘Listen, there's a whole long history to tell you. There's a weird fella calls himself Noel. A birdwatcher without binoculars. And his awful dog, killer dog I'd say. I took down the bloke's rego for you.'

‘Mum, I'm not in the mood for a mound of drivel. I've got a heap of paperwork waiting at the station. Is there a body, or isn't there?'

‘Course there is.' I rummaged through my handbag. Three used tissues, some sticky-looking Butter Menthols, a creased copy of the
Pocket Guide to Elves and Fairies
for Dean's youngest, must have been in there for years. ‘Where is it?'

‘Hang on,' I said. ‘You'll need this rego, I'm sure of it.' Out fluttered the docket, finally. ‘Here,' I tucked it into Dean's shirt pocket and tapped his chest. ‘You'll need that later. Now. The body. It's over near the lake. Let's go.'

We crunched our way along the gravel track, over the dune, the mallee gums clinging low on the stained pink sand.

I was almost skipping along, now that Dean was here. I started imagining myself on the front page of the
Hustle Post
. I might even be on the telly, once the taskforce arrived. I'd have to nip out quickly and get a new outfit.

‘Want me to call for back up?' I said. ‘I could call Bendigo on your radio. Reckon I can handle a police radio.'

‘No, Mum!' You could have cut an arm off with his tone. ‘
I'm
the police officer. That means
I
handle the policing. All of it.'

We passed my car, covered in red dust, parked where I'd found the body. Only a few hours ago, but it felt like centuries.

‘She's over there.' I pointed to the edge of the lake. Endless pink-tinged brown water, the sand covered with streaks of red dust. Trees to the left. Husking cars and fridges. More trees beyond the rubbish. No ravens.

No body.

What? I looked again. No mounded body-like shape, covered in dust or sand.

Dean looked grim. Piero used to set his jaw like that when I pointed out he was cutting the chips too thick.

‘It's Ernie Jefferson all over again.' Dean's voice was low.

‘Listen. It's not something anyone could misunderstand,' I said. ‘Her eyes were gone. There was no mistaking it. She was dead. Definitely. He must have moved her.'

‘Only Ernie was actually
there
,' Dean continued as if I hadn't spoken. ‘Not dead; but he was there, I'll give you that.'

Dean drilled through me with those black-clay eyes. It's not something I'd admit in public, but Dean's stare can be a touch unnerving.

No one's ever died from a stare, I told myself. ‘Hold on Dean and think. Why would I drive out here and make up this story?' I tried for a firm, unhurt, commanding-mother tone.

‘If this was the first time, Mum, I might believe it. You heard of the boy who cried wolf?'

Well, of course I had, I read it to him when he was a little tacker.

‘Wasting police time is a serious matter.' Dean's voice oozed official-sounding disapproval.

The body must be here somewhere. I walked back and forth, Aboriginal-tracker style, staring at the sand. Surely there'd be marks if she'd been dragged away. She was so small though, anyone could have slung her, like a gold-knit sack, over a shoulder. There'd be footprints. I kept staring at the pink sand until my eyes were blurred. Nothing. The dust storm had fixed all that.

The colour hit my cheeks. How dare this woman get herself shot. And let her body disappear. How bloody careless was that? I kicked uselessly at the sand.

Dean crossed his arms and stared off into the distance, like he needed to be alone, far far away from his parent.

‘I know it looks bad, but you've got to believe me.' It sounded unconvincing, even to me.

He swung away, stomping towards my car and I draggled along behind him like a ticked-off kid.

‘Right.' Dean flung open my car door. ‘Straight home, Mum. And you need to eat something. You know how you get when your blood sugar's low.'

He crunched over to his van and got in, slamming the door. Then he drove away.

Dean's damned lucky I'm not sensitive. And blood sugar? Kids. Why would you have them? You just end up surrounded by people who don't believe you. Still, he'd thank me later when the body turned up. I marched over to the rubbish heap and searched through the dumped cars, all through their torn-up interiors and rusting boots, crawling underneath each one to look.

Zippo. No signs of digging. I opened up every one of the seventeen stinky discarded fridges, in case she'd been shoved inside. Nothing.

Stretching my aching back, I sat down on the sand a minute. The sun was out properly now, dust clouds completely cleared. I would have been willing to shoot someone myself for a strong cup of tea and a couple of Panadol.