Yesterday's Dust (13 page)

For two hours they kept her there, and for those two hours Ellie Burton repeated the same story, convinced she'd spend the night in a cell because of the insurance money.

‘Everyone
is talking about that insurance money. As if I paid the premiums on Jack's policy just so I could get money if he died. As
if I was like that. It was like a bank account for our old age, that's all. We would have got what we paid in plus bonuses when Jack turned seventy. I don't want him to be de . . . to die. I wouldn't want to gain by his death. What do I need that much money for anyway?'

Her mouth was working and she didn't know how to stop it. Knowledge of police stations far removed from her small sphere of experience, she feared the scent of bricks and mortar, of aged male sweat, of stale cigarettes and mould. Fear, fatigue and cold feet loosened her tongue.

‘He – Someone else will tell you this anyway, so it might as well come from me. He . . . he goes with other women.' The
words, spoken in a rush, created a silence, and she hated those words hanging there in that silence, growing, accusing her of disloyalty, so she attempted to bury them beneath nervous babble. ‘He's not responsible when he gets on the whisky, and he'd been on the whisky that night. That's why Jeff drove him home, because he'd been drinking with Vera Owen and then her husband Charlie – ' Her tattered
handkerchief dabbed at a tear, wiped at her nose. ‘Her husband, Charlie, is a truck driver. He's away a lot and Vera is . . . is . . . I mean everyone knows what she is!'

‘Would it have been possible for your daughter to have returned to the house that night, Mrs Burton?'

‘What?'

‘Your daughter, Mrs Taylor, would it have been possible for her to have returned to the house that night?'

‘I told
you she didn't come back. We waited until after twelve for her.'

‘You were in bed by twelve?'

‘It was around twelve-thirty by the time we'd made up the beds.'

‘Would you have heard her if she'd returned after you went to bed?'

‘I didn't sleep very well. I kept listening for Jack and worrying that Johnny might hear him first. And little Liza, she was on my mind that night too. And Benjie. He'd
gone off somewhere in his
ute. I hardly closed my eyes that night, then I was out of bed by five-thirty for the cows.'

‘But it would have been possible for Mrs Taylor to have returned to the house, between those hours, woken her brother, then returned to her vehicle.'

‘She said she was bogged out past the ten-mile. It was a terrible night. No one would have been wandering around in that weather.
She said she had to wait until daylight so she could see to get some timber to put under her wheels, to get the car out.'

‘But she may have returned without your knowledge.'

‘No. I would have heard her come back, for sure. I knew every noise in the old place. I would have thought it was Jack coming back and I would have been out of my bed like a shot.'

Shot was a bad word, and she wished she
hadn't said it. Poor Jack.

‘It isn't him that you've found. You're wrong,' she said, but her tears didn't know it. They were trickling silently now, large green eyes like overflowing pools let the water flow.

They brought her another glass of water and again showed her the underpants and sock.

‘You are not able to identify the clothing, Mrs Burton?'

‘No. No, it's not him you've found, officers.'
Her nose was running. She sniffed.

‘Can you say with certainty that the items do not belong to your husband?'

‘No! I can't say that! How can I say that? They're Bonds.' The last word was a howl.

The detectives glanced at each other, and she wished she hadn't said that. Her tongue, like her eyes, was out of control, and these men weren't giving her time to think of what she should be saying.

‘And you have been unable to recall the name of your husband's dentist?'

‘He went to some place in Melbourne.'

The taller man shook his head and looked at his colleagues.

‘Would you recall if he had root canal work done on the left eye tooth, Mrs Burton?'

‘What treatment?'

‘Root canal.'

She felt her own eyeteeth with her tongue. ‘He had a lot of work done on one of his eyeteeth. He'd had
a terrible toothache for weeks and he wouldn't go to my dentist.' She wiped her nose, her mouth. ‘I think they had to drill the nerve out.'

The city men had enough, and as much as they were going to get from Ellie Burton. They had verification of root canal treatment to one of the eyeteeth, a tentative identification of the garments found at the scene, and three possible suspects. They released
Ellie to sob in Bessy's arms.

‘It's not him. Why would anyone kill him, then bury him in his underpants and one sock, Bessy?'

Bessy had her own ideas on just who might have done that, but she wasn't saying anything. Not to Ellie. She'd had a few words with the young girl cop, though. She'd filled her in on some old gossip about Jack and Vera Owen and a tyre lever-toting truckie husband who had
sworn to get Jack Burton if it was the last thing he ever did.

Tuesday 12 August

Tuesday awoke grey. Better that it had remained in bed. Soaking rain had begun falling at midnight and by three-thirty, the town mud was deep and red as blood. It stuck. Old umbrellas were found behind doors on Tuesday, dusty umbrellas; the women who carried them to town had little experience with the things that caught
the wind and tried to fly. But the women's shoes, weighted with Mallawindy mud, held them to the earth. This town clung to its few inhabitants. It wouldn't let them get away.

Granny Bourke had got away near dawn; she'd slipped over on her way to the outdoor lavatory. There was a ladies and gents behind the bar, but for eighty-odd years Granny had used that old lavatory, and as she frequently
sat there for an hour, it was a convenient aberration. That morning she'd slipped in the mud and snapped one of her sparrow ankles. Unconscious, wet and frozen to the bone when found by her grandson, he'd called Jeff Rowan and they'd dropped her off at the Daree hospital. The news was all bad, though it barely caused a ripple in the bar.

‘She's had a good life. She went out the way she would
have wanted to go. Independent old bugger,' Mick said. ‘Oh, by the way, I seen the cops all over Charlie Owen's place when I was driving back.'

‘At the house or where they found Jack?'

‘At the house. The place was swarming with cop cars.'

‘Poor old Charlie. Why did the crazy bastard bury him right at
his own doorstep? That's what I'd like to know.'

‘Because he's a crazy bastard. When's your
gran's funeral, Mick?'

‘She was still alive when we left her there, but they don't reckon she'll live through the day. Frozen to the bone, she was. Wet as a shag. Christ knows how long she'd been out there.' Mick Bourke's tone didn't echo his words. He pulled two beers and pocketed the cash.

Wet days were boom days at the Central. There was little work that could be done in the rain. By mid-afternoon
the bar was full but the conversation hadn't altered.

‘You know, whoever done Jack in, Charlie or not, he done it with a pistol or a small-bore rifle. It went in through the back of his skull and come out through the front of his head. The Sydney cops reckon they must have had him on his knees praying.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Jeff. He told me this morning, on the way back from dropping her off.'

‘Dropping who off?'

‘Old Gran.'

‘What happened to her?'

‘Broke her leg. It will be the end of her, they say.'

‘Poor old bugger. Ah well, look on the bright side, Mick – she's had a good life. Not many of us make the century.'

‘Hey, did you hear about Charlie?'

And others entered with more current news. ‘How about that crazy bastard? I hear they've took him in. We've had a bloody hit man
living in town and didn't know it. It was a real execution-like hit. Pow, right through the back of the skull.'

Malcolm Fletcher stood in Jack's old corner, sipping his double brandy, listening as the growing group rehashed the news.

‘So when are you paying up, Mick?' Joe Willis asked.

‘What for?'

‘Jack.'

‘When they identify his corpse, Joe.' Mick Bourke turned to old Robbie West who had
entered to get out of the rain. ‘Did you hear about poor old Charlie?'

‘Charged him with Jack's murder, eh?' Robbie sneezed, wiped at his nose, then grudgingly passed his coins over with the same hand. Mick scooped them into his till before setting to washing glasses, and his hands.

‘I didn't know that they'd charged him yet. When?'

Malcolm listened again.

‘That's what I heard, but.'

‘Shit!
They don't muck around, do they?'

‘They was waiting for him when he got back with his truck. Took three of them to take him, so Vera was tellin' young Bob. He gived one of them a black eye, dislocated the other copper's shoulder and half killed the little bloke – so Vera was saying.'

‘Got poor old Jack begging on his knees then
phitt
, a bullet in the back of the head. That's how they do it on
television.'

‘Charlie might be a moron but he's not bloody mad. If he done it, he would have tossed the body on his truck and dumped it in Perth. He wouldn't of put him so close to home.' A third voice bought into the conversation.

And a fourth. ‘That brainless bastard? It's just what he would do. Everyone in the bar heard him say he was gunna do it one day.'

‘If you're planning to kill some
bastard, then you don't spread it around, do you?'

‘I wonder who dobbed him.'

‘Christ knows.' Many eyes looked at neighbours, accused neighbours. Heads turned to scan corners, to glower at Malcolm.

‘They got a mob still out there, going over his truck with a fine-tooth comb.'

‘He come from Sydney, you know. Both of them did. They reckon Vera was on the game in Kings Cross.'

‘She's still on
the bloody game, just that no one pays their bills.'

Laughter. Raucous. Beer swilled down as conversations
overlapped, interlocked. Voices merged, then hushed as new fuel was added, fresh from the street.

‘His truck was full of drugs. The cops found a bloody pile of them.'

‘Probably moonlighting for the Mafia, drug running. Probably got one of their hit men to do poor old Jack in. They import
them, you know. Fly 'em in from some place to do the hit and fly 'em out before anyone knows it's been done. I guarantee that Charlie has got a watertight alibi. I bet the bastard's log book will have him in Perth the night it was done.'

‘They don't know the night it was done, do they? How the bloody hell can they tell to the day when he was done in? They can't. Oh, I hear your old gran carked
it, Mick?'

‘Broke her ankle and spent half the night out in the rain. Hypothermia and probably pneumonia.'

‘Wouldn't do her much good.'

‘No. She had a good life, but.'

Malcolm left them to it. He waited beneath the other small shelter of the verandah with King Billy and his dogs while the rain slanted down, but the dogs scratched and King Billy cursed him, and every whitey who had ever walked.
Malcolm left him cursing and his dogs scratching and he walked into the rain, playing chicken with a Falcon that wasn't obeying the speed signs. Wheels skidded and the Falcon thunked into a deep open drain. Malcolm proceeded forward, blinded by the rain on his glasses.

‘G'day,' Ben Burton called from his rear counter as Malcolm cleared his vision with a white handkerchief.

‘Little good about
it, Burton. Any more news?'

‘They've circulated his X-rays to every dentist in Melbourne. They'll check his DNA, but that takes time. I've got to give them some blood – me or Johnny.' Ben continued, counting notes to pay into the post office cum bank agency.

‘I hear they've arrested Charlie Owen.'

‘Yeah. They reckon they found a kilo of amphetamines in his
truck. He always looks half zapped
out of his brain.'

‘They have him down as the local hit man at the Central,' Malcolm added.

‘I'd like to know who set them onto him.'

‘The body was discovered near his property. A logical assumption, perhaps.'

Ben shrugged. ‘It's getting to Mum. She keeps on denying that it's him to everyone, but I think she knows he's dead. She'd be better off facing it and getting over it, I reckon.'

‘There
appears to be little doubt in the minds of our Sydney friends.'

‘Mum recognised the sock and stuff found out there, and they're going on his left eyetooth. He got it root-filled back in the eighties. I remember when he had it done.' Ben slipped a rubber band around his notes. ‘It's got to be him. And the fact that he hasn't touched his money since he left. He's not the type to live on air. And
he couldn't be on a pension or they would have found him – unless he's using somebody else's name.'

‘A possibility.'

‘I can't see it. He was Jack Burton, and proud of it. He wouldn't scrounge around on a pension using another name when he's got thousands in the bank. He wouldn't do it. It's got to be him,' Ben repeated. ‘Jeff reckons it is. Reckons it's just a formality – getting him identified.'

‘Our young lawman has become a law unto himself, Burton. He confiscated my car keys and licence last evening.'

‘I hear you took on Willis's bus.'

‘Which is still on the road, I note.'

‘Jeff's gone power crazy lately. He caught Bron speeding one night. She did her licence for six months.' Ben walked off to serve a paying customer. Malcolm turned to the bookshelves.

Chef-Marlet's latest had
disappeared. He looked back to Ben as the customer left. ‘They say the demised has been that way for some considerable time.'

‘At least five years, they reckon. It's not the way I thought he'd go. I mean, this sounds like one of those execution murders.'

‘Perhaps he became involved with some drug baron's moll, Burton.' He watched the notes slide into the calico bag. ‘Have you spoken to your
sister recently?'

‘She rang me on Sunday morning.'

Malcolm nodded. ‘I have some items in her care and no longer the means to retrieve them.' He had little interest in the items; his question was only bait, tossed randomly in the hope it might net him information on Ann.

‘I'll run you down on Sunday, if you like. I usually drop in on Sundays.'

‘I may have my keys back by then. Young Fogarty
was kind enough to collect me this morning and will see me home.'

Ben glanced up, interested. He liked the no-nonsense infant mistress he'd driven home from the wedding. ‘You're back at the school again.'

‘O'Rouke is incapacitated. A pathetic fool of a man, that one.'

‘Funny how his wife hasn't turned up anywhere. Mum said she saw her walking down the road with her handbag that day. She seemed
normal enough – what I saw of her. She didn't stick around long enough for anyone to get to know her.'

‘Three months in Mallawindy is more than enough for most, Burton.'

But not for everyone. They turned, smiled as Kerrie Fogarty walked through the door. Tall, lean, her blonde hair trimmed to within an inch of her head, she had a grin for everyone, and there were few males in town who could
deny her a smile in reply.

‘G'day Ben. Ready to roll, Fletch?' she said.

Malcolm picked up his loaded string bag and rolled. The young teacher and the old were at the door when Johnny Burton limped through, shedding water.

‘Mr Fletcher. Miss Fogarty.' He swung by them, leaving a three-legged trail of mud and water to Ben's back room, where he
helped himself to the key ring and its many keys.
‘I need to borrow your ute, Ben.'

‘What's wrong with the old man's car?'

‘Mum's got the keys.'

‘What's she going to do with them?'

‘Toss them in the river, the last I heard.' John attempted to go around his brother but Ben stood his ground.

‘What's going on?'

‘You're not involved.'

‘I am if you're taking my ute. It's a manual. You can't drive it with that foot, and anyway, I've got to lock
up in an hour and my shop keys are on the key ring.' But Johnny was out the door.

Two women entered. Ben, who had inherited Ellie's preference for keeping family secrets in the family, walked back to his calico bag, pushing it deep beneath the counter. He wasted fifteen minutes trying to sell them a thirty-dollar dinner set, and ended up with a sixty-cent sale of chewing gum. It was almost five
before he got to the telephone and dialled home, and he waited long for the phone to be lifted.

‘Mum? Are you there?' He heard a sniff, a stifled sob. ‘It's me. What's going on with you and Johnny?'

‘Bessy told him that they've locked up Charlie Owen for your dad's murder,' Ellie wailed.

‘They haven't got him for murder. They've got him on assault and possession of amphetamines. And what's
it got to do with Johnny? He's taken my ute and shop keys and it's Dooley's day off. Can you bring my spare shop keys up? They're hanging behind my bedroom door.'

Ellie howled in his ear.

He'd heard her scream often enough and he'd seen her weep in silence, but never like this. ‘Mum. Mum! Stop your howling and tell me what's got into Johnny.'

‘He said Charlie didn't kill your dad that night.
He said he was going to Daree to tell the police how he knows that Charlie didn't
kill him that night.' Her words silenced Ben, and the cold wet Tuesday crept up his spine to his head. ‘He knows something, love. And I don't want it to be – '

‘Stop howling, and tell me what he said.'

‘The police keep hinting about him and Annie, as if they think they've done something.' She wailed again and Ben
waited. ‘They kept asking me if Annie came back that night, and could she have woken Johnny without me hearing.'