The Twisted Knot (12 page)

34

By the time she had settled the dog into her house and found them both something to eat, Faye knew what she wanted to do.

‘I need glasses to find my glasses,' she murmured to herself. She found the missing glasses eventually in her crossword book, nestled between the pages after she'd shut them. Her address book was easier to find, she always put that back in its spot next to the phone. The names were listed alphabetically, by the first name instead of the surname. She was much more likely to remember the first name. She found the number she was looking for.

She held the receiver in her hand, then replaced it again. She steadily rolled another smoke and, once it was lit, she picked up the receiver again. She carefully typed the number in, peering through the thick glass, double-checking she got all the digits right before hitting the call button.

It went to message bank. Faye had expected that. She didn't like talking to a machine and nearly changed her mind, but this was important. She waited for the beep and spoke falteringly.

‘Oh, yes, well. It's Faye here. I really need to talk to you. It's very important. I've made so many mistakes. I want to explain some things. Maybe I can even help somehow. Please call me back. Please . . .' She realised she had nothing else to say so she hung up. She sucked the rollie down to the filter and ground it into the ashtray. She took a deep juddering breath that ended with a cough that shook her frail frame. She hoped the message would be received. She hoped it would be acted on.

35

Sammi took the call from Jeremy from Forensics.

‘Hey, is Terry there?' he asked.

She checked her phone's control panel and saw Terry's extension was lit up.

‘Looks like he might be on the phone.'

‘I wanted to talk to him about that hanger in the shed. I superglued the suicide note we found there. It's so much more effective than dusting. There were a few prints on it. They were all from the same person, obviously whoever wrote it. I ran the prints against Woodford but they weren't his.'

Sammi took a moment to process this information. ‘Peter Woodford didn't write the suicide note?' This might add a new avenue of enquiry. ‘The note that said “Sorry” and nothing else?'

‘You'd need a handwriting comparison by an expert to confirm he didn't write the note. All I can tell you is that I found fingerprints on the note and they weren't his. They were in the right places to belong to the person who wrote the note. A right-handed person will usually hold the paper still with their left hand while they write. The fingerprints were the side of the thumb and the index finger of the left hand on the left-hand side of the paper. Hardly any other smudges that might suggest the paper had been handled by other people. We had Woodford's prints on file. They're not his.'

‘This whole job's got hair on it. Thanks for letting us know. I'll pass it on to Terry,' Sammi said.

She hung up and swung silently in her chair for a moment, digesting the news, until the control panel showed Terry was off the phone.

Sammi headed up the corridor to the CIB office. Terry had his back to her and she could see he was drinking coffee and looking at Facebook on the office computer. The site was blocked for most police but exceptions were made for CIB because social media could be a valuable information-gathering tool.

‘Hey!'

Terry jumped, automatically closing the screen he had been viewing before even looking to see who was behind him. When he realised it was only Sammi, he shot her a dirty look.

‘Shit, Sammi. Scared the bejeezus out of me. Have a look at this.' He clicked open the screen he had closed when she came in. ‘This guy gets absolutely mashed coming off a skateboard going down stairs.'

‘I'm not interested unless he's a suspect,' Sammi said. She reached past him to click the Facebook window shut. ‘Tell me what you are doing about the dead ped.'

‘Still trying to find something to show it's not a suicide?'

‘Evidence is starting to build that his brother's family might be involved,' Sammi said.

Terry leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. He smiled at Sammi.

‘What have you found out?'

Sammi filled Terry in on disappearance of the Woodford family and the fact that Peter might have had access to Barry's young stepdaughter, Nicola. ‘Sound suspicious to you yet?'

‘It's all extremely circumstantial,' Terry remarked.

‘Okay, on top of that, I've got news hot off the press from Forensics. There are fingerprints on the suicide note and they're not Peter's.'

Terry shrugged. ‘Means nothing. Someone else had touched the piece of paper previously and when Peter wrote the note he didn't leave clear prints.'

Sammi took a deep breath to try and calm her rising frustration. ‘That's not the way Jeremy sees it. Tell me there's not some leads for you to follow up there.'

‘Aw, but you're doing such a great job, Sammi.' Terry gave her a broad smile.

‘Come on, Terry.' Sammi didn't try to disguise the exasperation in her voice this time.

‘You really want this to be a suspicious death, don't you?' Terry asked, tilting his head a little.

‘It's not what I want or don't want. There's things that need investigating. I know he's a ped, and killing him may be some sort of a community service, but that doesn't mean the coroner's going to write it off. Don't pretend I didn't tell you all this info when the job goes to shit.'

‘It's not going to go to shit unless you keep going with your conspiracy theories.'

‘Seriously, Terry? I thought you'd be all over this if there was any chance it might be murder. How many murder pinches have you had? Zero, I'm guessing – same as every other plain clothes constable with your length of service.'

‘Do you really think they'd let me investigate a murder?' Terry countered. ‘We do all the work, some detective sergeant looking for promotion cruises in and takes the pinch.'

Sammi shrugged. ‘Just because your boss is away doesn't mean you're on holidays too.'

‘All right, don't wind up. Let's talk it through.' He gestured at the seat opposite him. Sammi leant on the closest desk instead.

‘Let's take it as fact that Woodford was caught out abusing a new victim,' Terry began. ‘That's reason enough to kill yourself. What have we got that supports it was actually murder? His brother and family are missing. It's possible that his niece – should that be step-niece? – was the victim.'

‘It's definitely possible. Most children are abused by people they know. People who they trust, who have the opportunity to groom them, take advantage of them and then compel them to keep it secret.'

Terry waved his hand at her to stop. ‘Yeah, I know. So let's say he's abusing the little girl. There's rumours and unhappiness around town. Peter kills himself. The parents are horrified as to how the girl will be treated by the gossipmongers and they leave town to protect her. Even though his brother's dead, he's also the one that molested their daughter. They don't know how to deal with it, so they run. Ignore everyone and everything till it settles down. Plausible?' Terry asked.

Sammi nodded.

‘Okay. Let's have a look at your version. Barry finds out his brother is molesting his stepdaughter. Barry kills his own brother, rigs it to look like suicide, then takes off anyway. Why would he take off if he's gone to all the trouble of staging a fake suicide? Wouldn't you stay and try to help convince the police it's suicide? You know, tell them how stressed his brother was about the gossip around town, how he had mentioned he wanted to end his miserable life.' Terry paused and looked at her meaningfully. ‘What's more plausible?'

‘Just because something's more plausible doesn't mean it's what actually happened,' Sammi said. ‘What about the fingerprints on the note and his missing phone and wallet?'

‘It's not all neat and tidy, I'll give you that,' Terry replied.

‘Can you make it a priority? I'm happy to keep making enquiries, but it's your job and I think you have to give it some attention.'

‘Fair enough,' Terry said. ‘What further lines of enquiry were you thinking of?'

‘A neighbour of Peter's rang police about the burning scarecrow. I wanted to talk to him, check if he saw or heard anything else. Find out the last time he saw any signs of life at Peter's,' Sammi said.

‘Good idea,' Terry said. ‘Do you want to follow that up, or do you want me to do it?'

Sammi shrugged. ‘I can do that.' She wasn't sure whether she'd do it in person or on the phone, but it was a straightforward enquiry, something she felt she could handle.

‘What else?' Terry quizzed.

‘You're asking me? You want a connie to do all your work?'

‘Don't get cranky, I'll see what else I can dig up. Here, watch this.' He clicked open the Facebook window again. ‘It's a video of an elephant and dog who are best mates. That'll cheer you up.'

Sammi shook her head as she walked out of the CIB office.

36

Sammi had rung in advance, so Michael Wright was expecting her. She didn't hold much hope that he would be able to tell her anything further about Peter Woodford or the burning scarecrow, but it was an enquiry that should be run out.

When she'd made the appointment, Bob had intended on accompanying her, but he'd become tied up taking an assault complaint at the front counter. Rather than miss the appointment, Sammi had driven out to the property by herself.

‘Don't worry, Bob, I can duck out alone. It won't take long.' It had been easy to say, she hadn't considered the words until after they were out of her mouth. Things had been going well as she eased back into shifts on the road with small jobs and Bob a half-step behind her. Was she overestimating her confidence by going out on her own?

She had run Michael Wright through the system and he had no criminal history. Mel reckoned he was an upstanding member of the community. If he had come to the front counter, Sammi would have dealt with him by herself. This should be no different.

Despite this, as Sammi parked the car in his driveway, her hands were slippery with sweat and the keys jiggled in her hand as she removed them from the ignition. She took a deep breath.

‘My confidence is soaring,' she reminded herself as she wiped her palms down her pants and got out of the car.

She looked at the house and hesitated. It was so dilapidated that she wondered if she had stopped at the right place. The front door was open though and as she approached, she could see a figure inside moving towards her.

‘Mr Wright? Hello, I'm Sammi from the police.'

‘Call me, Mick,' he said, extending his hand in her direction. Sammi shook it, hoping her palm was dry enough.

Mick was a farmer, perched on the edge of retirement by Sammi's estimation. He looked slightly less run-down than his house. His saggy blue worker's pants were cinched tight by an old belt and his blue singlet was tucked in, possibly as a mark of respect for his visitor.

He surveyed her, his eyes startling blue in his tanned leathery face. ‘You're that girl who got abducted, aren't you?'

‘Yes. Now, what time did you –'

‘That was a hell of a thing,' he said, nodding slowly.

‘Yes, thanks. If we can get –'

Mick wasn't finished yet. ‘You out here by yourself? No back-up?'

Sammi already felt on edge and Mick's questions were winding her up further. She could feel sweat beading on her forehead. ‘Do I need back-up, Mr Wright?'

He broke into a broad smile that ended with a chuckle. ‘You're safe with me, officer,' he said. ‘Just curious. You're a brave girl whichever way you look at it. Good on you for getting back out to work.'

Sammi wasn't sure if he was being condescending. She didn't know him and couldn't tell if he was laughing at her discomfort, trying to upset her. In the absence of a reply from her, Mick spoke again.

‘Sorry. You came to talk to me about Pete.'

Sammi grabbed onto this. This was work. She knew this. Ask questions, take notes, clarify details. This she could deal with. She drew her notebook out of her pocket. ‘Yes. To do with the night you saw the burning scarecrow on his lawn.'

‘Come up onto the verandah, out of the sun,' Mick said, gesturing to the front of his house. Yes, she could do this. Sit with her back to a wall here, one eye on the door, one eye on the driveway. She took the opportunity to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand.

‘Thanks. Hot today,' she replied.

They sat on a couple of mismatched wooden chairs with paint peeling off them.

‘So about what time did you call police the other night?' Sammi asked, finally finishing her initial question.

‘It was a little after 2 a.m.,' Mick replied. ‘The dog was barking something fierce. He's a good dog, I figured something was really wrong for him to be carrying on like that so I got up.'

Sammi nodded, making note of the time in her notebook.

‘I could see smoke from the direction of Pete's house.' He gestured across to a ridge. ‘I can't see his place, so I jumped in the ute to drive over.'

Sammi observed the driveway, imagining the house and shed, somewhere over the rise.

‘I get over there and see it's not the house on fire, but a scarecrow out the front.' He paused. ‘You've seen it, haven't you?'

She nodded.

‘I don't need to explain it to you then. I've heard the rumours, I know what they call him in town. But as far as neighbour's go, Pete's a pretty good one. Quiet but helps a man out if you need a hand. I've known him all his life. Knew his dad, too. Harsh man, that one. Wasn't so quiet over there when he was around,' he added.

‘What do you mean?' Sammi asked.

‘Shouldn't speak ill of the dead,' he said. ‘A man should be able to raise his family the way he sees fit. But he used to beat them boys. A lot. His wife too. Lots of yelling and screaming. I don't think anyone was real sorry when he passed away.'

‘Oh, that's sad,' Sammi said. ‘Peter took over the family house, didn't he? After his mother moved.'

Mick nodded. ‘Faye bought that little place in town. Pete and Barry divided up the land and Barry sold his share. It's not a good farm anymore. Too small. Pete does only as much as he has to to stop from going under.'

Sammi imagined Mick would generally be the type to keep his opinions to himself.

‘Anyway, Pete's car wasn't there, so I put a hose on the thing before anything else caught fire. Then I went in and used Pete's phone to call the police. Door's never locked. I thought it was something you should know about.'

‘Yes, definitely. Thanks for that,' Sammi said.

‘I heard he hung himself. That he'd been there a few days before you found him.'

‘Yes,' Sammi confirmed without adding any details.

‘So he'd been dead there in the shed for a while when I went around there?'

‘It's likely.'

Mick frowned, and ran his hand across the back of his neck. ‘Well, that doesn't make complete sense to me,' he said.

‘Why's that?'

‘I can't see his house, but I can see part of his driveway, see?' He pointed it out to her through the trees. ‘I sit out the front here a fair bit, it's my favourite spot of an afternoon. So I see who comes and goes sometimes. Well, the cars at least. Eyesight's not what it used to be. I saw Belinda's car go out to Pete's on Friday evening. Then Pete's car left in a hurry. You could see the cloud of dust he was kicking up for a mile. I was out here for a while, but I didn't see any other cars before I turned in. And it was Sunday night that I went over to check the smoke. Pete's car still wasn't there. I could have sworn he hadn't come back.'

‘Belinda was out here on Friday?' Sammi asked, scribbling into her notebook.

‘I can't say for sure. But definitely her car. She and Barry often have dinner with Peter on a Friday, but usually Pete goes over to their house. The car came around about dinner time. I go in at about eight-thirty to watch whatever movie's on the TV. I didn't see her car leave again. But Pete's ute left maybe an hour before I went in.'

‘That's odd. Might have been Barry driving Pete's ute.'

Mick lifted his chin, acknowledging her comment without agreeing with it.

Sammi paused, a thought from the crime scene recurring to her. ‘What sort of ute does Peter drive?'

‘A Ford Courier. Silver.'

Sammi thought back to the old ute she'd seen parked next to Peter's shed. ‘Is it an old beat-up looking thing?'

Mick frowned. ‘No, not really. It's about a 2008 model, usually a bit dusty, but it looks okay.'

Another loose end.

‘Anything else you can remember about that night, or the night with the scarecrow?'

‘That's about it, officer.' He gave her a genuine smile. Sammi realised she had relaxed in his company. The moment she was focused on work, the anxiety dropped away. She returned his smile.

‘Thanks, Mick. You've been very helpful.' She rose to her feet.

‘You know where to find me if there's anything else,' Mick replied.

‘You look after yourself now,' he called as she walked to the police car.