Bright was ablaze – reds, pinks, oranges, crimsons,
browns, purples, greens, you name it – as the town’s myriad English trees
approached the time when their glorious canopies would float earthwards to form
a continuous carpet underfoot. All very
beautiful, and a tribute to the original town planners trying to re-create
Surrey in the Australian high country.
But I didn’t have time
for admiration. I drove on a couple of
clicks, then turned south, following the meandering Morse’s Creek, until I
passed through the tiny hamlet of Wandiligong.
I had to be careful now. My
information had Sandra’s house a couple of clicks up an easily-missed road just
south of here. I didn’t miss it. I immediately found myself climbing steeply
through a gloomy tunnel of box gums, their branches interlocking and turning
downwards, as if seeking to deny me passage.
I put the car in second and, hoping to God no-one was coming the other
way, forged on. Two clicks later, I
broke into the sunshine.
Admiration was forced on
me. In all directions as far as I
could see, there was forest, huge tracts of stringybark and peppermint gums
interspersed with silver wattles and she-oaks.
These tracts, which I reckoned were forests in their own right, were
separated by the occasional sparse area where each tree was distinguishable
from its neighbours and by sudden upthrusts of granite cliffs, their faces
standing impassive guard over plunging gullies. The dominant colour was green-grey, melding
into the distant deeper green of the high mountain timber. The dominant smell was eucalyptus. Twenty kilometres to my right, Mount Buffalo
pushed its rocky horn heavenwards.
Ahead of me and sweeping in a great arc to the east, were the peaks of
the Great Dividing Range – Sugarloaf, Hotham, Feathertop, Niggertop, Bogong and
all the others, awaiting the return of the winter snows. The overall impression was of space, of
freedom, of serenity, of peace. This,
I thought, was God’s own country. If
ever He needed to get away from it all, this is where He would come.
Sandra’s house was a
hundred metres off the road, tucked against the crown of a gentle hill to my
left. It was classical pre-federation
Australian – large, square and with generous verandahs on all sides. It even had the traditional water tank at
the right rear. But there was no
weatherboard and corrugated iron here.
It was made of brick - a deep grey - with a mid-green slate roof and
brown woodwork. It looked like it had
been born here. Even the double carport
to the right of the main building seemed part of the environment. The only jar to nature’s sensibilities was
the satellite dish atop a small tower behind the carport.
The extent of the real
estate was, at a rough guess, enough to accommodate a city block. There were no fences - that would have been
vandalism - but a line of young cedars marked the boundaries. There was no front gate either, a cattle
grid doing that duty. Opposite the
grid, on the other side of the road, the land fell away steeply, disappearing
into one of the impenetrable gullies that crevassed the entire forest.
It occurred to me that if
Sandra were watching, a stranger gazing at her house could be construed as a
menace. I whipped out the mobile,
intending to put her mind at ease.
I began to dial, but
stopped. What the hell was I going to
say? For all I knew, she might already
consider me the enemy, that smooth-talking swine who’d inveigled his way into
her house to spy out the lie of the land to make it easier for Heckle. If so, I’d wasted a three-hour drive. And if I could re-establish my bona fides
only by departing the scene and doing nothing, that was tantamount to handing
her over to McDowell’s minions. There
was nothing for it but to turn on the old Mason charm - and then some.
I dialled her regular
phone, working on the theory that she was too smart to have her mobile on. I’d emphasised that even having it on, let
alone making a call, was enough for certain people to get a rough idea of where
she was.
The phone rang out. I redialled, for the same result. Ditto the third time.
I never doubted my
detective work; she was either not in the house or too scared to answer the
phone. If the latter, I couldn’t blame
her. Either way, it made my course
clear.
I drove up to the house, stopped
in front of the verandah steps and waited.
Nothing. Not a movement. I scanned the windows, but if anyone was giving
me the once-over, I couldn’t spot them.
But they were in there.
I could tell by the pink and white rag doll lying on the uppermost
step. The last time I’d seen that, I
was saying prayers with Angela. Then
it occurred to muggins me that I was probably unrecognizable, what with
Elliott’s jacket and sunnies. I flung
the sunnies and got out.
The effect was
immediate. The front door opened and
a diminutive gorgeous vision clad in a sky-blue tracksuit rocketed out. She stopped at the top step just long enough
to throw me a dazzling smile.
“Mr Mark!”
She hurtled down the
steps at breakneck velocity and threw herself at me, obliging me to grab her
out of sheer self-preservation. I flung
her into the air.
“Hullo, Miss
Moppet.” I placed her on one hip and
looked into her excited blue eyes.
“What are you doing? Hiding from
me?”
“Oh nooooo.” She smiled again, this time shyly, and put
her mouth to my ear. “Have you made up
your mind yet?”
Another offer of instant
paternity. The little mite wasn’t going
to let up. “Hey, you don’t give a man
much time, do you?” I protested.
“And I’ve been soooo busy. Can
I have a few more days, d’you reckon?”
She nodded happily, as if
my ultimate decision was going to be a lay-down misère in her favour. “OK.”
And then hugged me.
“Mark?”
It was Sandra. Dressed in a matching tracksuit, she’d
appeared at the stairs. But where her
daughter was animated, she was pale-faced and anxious, her eyes dark with
worry. Nevertheless, my heart
lurched. I gave her what I hoped was
an encouraging grin and got a tentative smile in return. She came down and hung on to my free hand.
“I was hoping it would be
you.” Her voice was husky and her eyes close to
tears. “That man I hit.....did I?...I
mean....is he alright?”
I squeezed her hand. “He’s fine. Bit of a dent in his head, bigger one in his
ego. Not to worry.”
“Thank God,” she
breathed, and the tension that drained out of her was almost palpable. “I was so worried. I thought I might’ve.......” Even with my reprieve, she couldn’t bring
herself to name the foul crime her imagination had been accusing her of.
I nodded at the
carport. “I’ll just put this car out of
sight.” To Angela, I said, “Why don’t
you rescue Pinky up there. Then we’ll
all have afternoon tea.”
Which we did, Pinky
included. Half an hour and some
outrageous bribes later, we had Angela down for a nap, leaving us clear to make
some decisions.
While Sandra took the tea
things to the kitchen, I reflected on the house. As I’d suspected, it was more than a cut
above the ‘roughing it’ dwelling.
First class fittings, top of the range appliances, first rate
furnishings. It was truly a home away
from home. With the exception of
things like McCubbin originals, Venetian vases and English silverware, it
pampered Sandra every bit as much as her city home, plus it had that superb
view.
But there would be a down
side, I reckoned. Anyone owning a house
like this would be a nervous wreck, forever waiting for news that it’d been
robbed blind or trashed. The contents
insurance would be horrific. Then
again, I thought, anyone seriously rich enough to own a house like this
wouldn’t worry over the loss of a Moran lounge suite and F&P double door
fridges. Just claim on the insurance
and replace ‘em. I felt myself turning
green with envy.
We took our coffees out
on to the back verandah, where the view of the rising high country was only
marginally less spectacular than the vista out front. I recounted my meeting with Neilsen and
explained how I’d tracked her down.
She explained how she had heard Heckle picking the lock on her laundry
door and how, armed with a fire iron, she had confronted him.
“Pretty silly,” I
observed, but still glad she’d laid out
the lying bastard.
“To be honest, it was so
soon after you left that I thought if might’ve been you,” she said. “I thought perhaps it’d been all soft soap
- a ploy to see inside my house. I was
furious. As soon as he got inside...”
I was disappointed. It must have showed because she had the
decency to lower her eyes and colour.
It made her even more desirable.
“I’m sorry, Mark.”
I dismissed her
contriteness with a wave. “Under the
circs, I would’ve thought exactly the same.”
I grinned. “I can see the
headline now...’Ice Lady Loses Cool...Constable Kayoed’. It bordered on the fatuous, and the pain in
Sandra’s eyes emphasised my tastelessness.
I quickly changed tack. “Is
that why you came up here instead of going to the Nine studios? You thought you might’ve killed him?”
“I had nowhere else.”
“OK, you got here. What were you planning to do?”
“Wait for you to find
me.”
Her frankness disarmed
me. So did her faith in my ability to
locate her in advance of the main posse.
Mind you, it had been well-placed.
“You didn’t call?”
“Knowing what you said
about using the phones...” She smiled, not unlike the one Angela had
favoured me with on arrival. “If you
hadn’t come today, I was going to go down to the village and call from
there.” Then her face clouded with
anxiety. “What do you think I should
do?”
Good question. For the better part of an hour and half,
while the afternoon shadows stretched themselves and the blue haze over the
high country began to darken, we put our minds to it.
Neilsen and his so-called
coterie intrigued Sandra. Twice she
asked me to recount the circumstances of our meeting, and twice she had me
repeat the conversation word for word, or as close to it as I could
recall. At the end of it, she was
silent and reflective, gazing into the far distance but seeing nothing. Eventually she looked back at me.
“It’s crap!”
It was said quietly, but
all the more vehement for that. I was
pleased at the fire in her eyes, even if I was a little behind her. “Pardon?”
“Neilsen and his
reasoning. I don’t buy it. Do you think he really believes all that
rubbish about the police force going into self-destruct?” Before I could answer, she went on. “It
doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t. I
don’t.” Her battle fire was beginning
to blaze. “But he was right - there’ll
be a royal commission all right. No
doubt of it.”
So there it was. She was going to air the tape. Put the cat among the pigeons and God help
those who couldn’t fly.
“Scalps will be taken,” I
opined.
“Among which,” she added,
“will be the one of whoever killed Connie.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Just
as long as we find him.”
I offered her my handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes, then handed it
back. Almost without thinking, I caught
her hand and squeezed it, trying to ease her pain. I think she believed I was feeling pain
too, because she squeezed back. We
were still consoling each other when Angela and Pinky appeared, demanding
dinner.
Dinner was T-bones and
steamed vegetables, courtesy of Sandra’s deep freeze and culinary skill,
followed by one of those upside-down pudding things. Before Angela got her pudding, she was
required to eat her pumpkin, at which she baulked. In one of those infuriating bursts of female
logic, Sandra deputed me to demonstrate how good it was.
“See? Mr Mark eats his pumpkin. He knows how good it is for
him.” I duly demonstrated, and Angela
eventually followed suit. I felt sorry
for her. I loathe pumpkin.
After dinner it was
Angela time. While her mother did
domestic things, Angela and I played chasey around the back garden, which was a
couple of acres of native shrubs and a small grove of apple trees. Her bath followed, an event that revealed
either a precocious modesty or an obedience to parental stricture. ”You can’t come in, Mr Mark.” I was far from being insulted. You don’t spend a couple of years in the Sexual
Offences Squad without realising how poorly some girls are prepared for the
sordid things that can happen to them.
After that, it was into the family room for reading. She sat her sweet-smelling self on my lap,
clutched Pinky to herself and listened avidly while I gave a dramatic rendering
of how Brer Rabbit fell into the clutches of Brer Fox and looked likely to end
up in Foxy’s stewing pot. And I thought
I had troubles...! Then,
reluctantly, she went to bed, but not before another joint prayer and a mutual
hug.
Again, Sandra and I took
our coffees on the back verandah. The
mid-autumn evening were darkening quickly and the first stars were making their
appearance. I marvelled at how much
larger and brighter they were with no city smog to dim their beauty.
“That’s one delightful
daughter you have there,” I told Sandra.
She smiled. “She really has taken a shine to you,
too.” The smile became a grin. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Hey! Nearly all kids like me. And I do know why.”
“Oh?’
“Two reasons. One - they know I genuinely like them. Two - they realise I haven’t got the powers
of their parents.”
“So you’ll spoil
them.” She grinned again. “Soft Touch Mark. Putty in their hands.”
“Human playdough,” I
admitted. “I’d probably make a terrible
father.”
She shook her head. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
She was right. I didn’t.
I reckoned I’d make an OK dad, come the time. But it wasn’t something I thought all that
much about, and now was hardly the time, either. I reverted to the subject at hand.
“We’re agreed that the
tape goes to Channel Nine. That leaves
the question. How?”
“Your car?”
I thought not. The people who’d bugged my own car would
know by now they’d been well and truly had.
“It’ll be hot.” I exercised the
neurones furiously. “What we’ll do is,
we’ll fly out of here.”
She was following my
logic. “Helicopter. Channel Nine’s?”
“Right. Your editor - chief of staff - whatever he’s
called - you can call him in the morning.
Get him to hotfoot it up here and lift us out. With any luck, we’ll be back in town before
the hounds are awake-up.”
She thought about
it. “There’s no other way, is there?”
“Nope. Agreed then?”
“Agreed.”
We fell silent, as people
often do after a major decision has been reached. Sort of like giving the metaphorical ink
time to dry. It was a bit unnerving,
although I supposed I could blame some of my discomfort on the profound quiet
of the bush, now looking impenetrably black and sinister. Added to that, I had the feeling I was being
assessed. It was the same feeing I’d
had when Sandra was watching me read to Angela.
“Mark,” she suddenly
said, “tell me about Lenny Glover.”
The inevitable
request. The one that had dominated my
life over the past months. The one that
made me sorry - almost - that I’d ever run into Lenny Glover. The one I was sick and tired of answering.
“It was in all the
papers.”
She was undeterred. “I was
on leave when it happened. I’ve read
all the news articles, seen all the TV clips.
Do you think the Coroner will recommend you should be prosecuted?”
“Depends who he
believes.”
“It must be tough, waiting
all these weeks?”
Tough? It was tough all right. But more than that, it was....
“And lonely, I imagine.”
Perspicacious woman. I think I started. Might have grimaced, too. Whatever, she put a deliciously warm hand
over mine.
“I’m sorry, Mark. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. And now...”
She made an all-inclusive gesture.
“...all this.”
“No big deal,” I
lied. And then, in the sympathetic
glow of those luminous eyes, I felt a compulsion to unburden myself.
I told her all about Glover, about the tip-off we’d
got, how we’d planned the reception and how it all went hunky-dory until the
stupid bastard made his fatal mistake.
I told her I hadn’t been shocked, sick to my stomach, full of
self-loathing or any of that stuff. In
retrospect, I said, it would’ve been better if I had, because some of my
colleagues mistook my equanimity for cold-bloodedness. They, McDowell and Elliott among them,
believed I’d murdered him.
From that moment, my life
was not my own. As usual when the
police kill someone, Homicide weighed in, investigating on behalf of the
Coroner to determine if any criminality was involved. A couple of humourless bastards from
Internal Affairs looked over their shoulders, probing hard to see if I’d
breached any regulations or standing orders.
McDowell looked over their shoulders. This meant a few heavy inquisitions. They didn’t exactly bring out the rubber
hoses, but the questioning was searching and ruthless, the sort that major
crims get. I was also expected to front
the police psychologist for a few bouts of trauma debriefing, but I gave him a
miss. Didn’t feel the need for it. To some people, this was more evidence of
my ruthless personality.
In the meantime, I was
hung out to dry. Commissioner Evans
did it personally. I almost didn’t
blame him. He’d been copping an earful
from civil rights groups decrying “the culture of the gun” within the
Force. Worse, the media was generally
on their side. He summoned me to give
me the news to my face. Then he held a
press conference to announce that “if the current investigations uncover any
infractions, either of the criminal code or police regulations, there will be
the most serious ramifications”. The Police
Association didn’t know what to think, but at least they insisted on fair
play. Evans backed off slightly,
cancelling my suspension in favour of ‘alternative
duties’. It didn’t make him like me any the more. Or me dislike him any the less.
“So there you have it,” I
concluded. I drained my cup – it had
been a three-cup tale – and shrugged.
“No more promotion for yours truly.”
Sandra’s gaze was
non-committal. “Given the same
circumstances, would you do the same again?”
Lying to her would be
futile. And I didn’t want to lie. “I suppose I could’ve waited. Just a fraction. Let him show the gun. That’d have been doing it by the book. Would’ve kept the purists happy, I reckon.”
She gave me one of those
“Why didn’t you?” looks, and I felt the blood pressure rise.
“Because it’s my policy
to look out for number one first and foremost.
And muggins me never dreamed that any of my so-called mates would give a
stuff about a turd like Glover getting what he deserved.” She blinked at my temporary loss of cool, so
I grinned. “You aren’t related to St Peter, are you?”
She blinked again, and I
related my recurring dream of inquisition.
“What do you make of that?” I queried.
Sandra, bless her, didn’t
take it seriously. She smiled. “Sounds like a good, old-fashioned Catholic
invitation to confession.” She leaned
forward. “If it helps, I think
you did the right thing.”
That was kind of her.
Trouble was, I didn’t know if I agreed.
“What will you do if the
Coroner finds against you?”
“Fight it.”
“And if you lose?”
That was a possibility
I’d been considering The range of
prospects was not great. “Well, I know
of at least one job in the security industry that’ll be up for grabs soon.”
She looked at me askance,
and I apologised – I’m not usually into the morbid irony stuff. On the other hand, there was an awful
lot of crap going on in my life.
Sandra looked
sympathetic. “It wouldn’t be the same,
would it?”
I agreed. I’d been a policeman all my adult life. It’s what I’d become and what I wanted to
stay. I’d reckoned I could make it to
inspector, maybe even chief inspector, before they pensioned me off, and that’s
when I’d consider a second career – perhaps even having a crack at the writing
caper. But the fates were stuffing me
around, and then some. I looked
skywards and silently cursed them.
“For an old Catholic boy
like you,” Sandra said. “You must
sometimes doubt He’s there.”
Her assessment was
wrong. On any cloudless night, I
could look into the heavens and know by their unfathomable complexity, their
infinite enormity, that the Maker existed.
I had never doubted it, even when
Kathy had been taken from me. Whether
He was for me or agin me was another matter.
I’d long held the view that prayer and free will were at mutual odds and
therefore one or other of them must be an illusion. I’d plumped for a non-interventionist God.
Sandra didn’t stamp the
word ‘heretic’ across my forehead. She
was genuinely interested in my views and wanted to know how I’d come by
them. Always uncomfortable with abstract
concepts, I explained as best I could, and was relieved when she proved an
attentive listener. After a while, she
began sharing her own views. We
finished up agreeing there was a Heaven but that there was no earthly use in
contemplating the nature of it. We’d
find out soon enough, if we got there.
“I should be so lucky,”
she said. She stood and stretched, an
accompanying yawn indicating that our tēte-a-tēte was at an end. I stood too, to find my hands in hers and
her face gazing earnestly up at me. My
heart leapt again.
“Mark...for all your
concern....thank you.” And she put her
hands on my shoulders, stretched up, and put her red lips against mine.
I’m only human. I kissed her back – hungrily. For a couple of moments, she responded, her
arms going around my neck and her tongue searching for mine. Then her hands were on my chest.
“No,” she breathed. “No.”
Even in the near-darkness I could sense her embarrassment. “I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have done that.”
Being a gentleman, I
protested that it was my fault.
To lessen her discomfort, I made a joke out of it, saying it must have
been due to all this good clean mountain air.
As usual, my attempt at humour pancaked. All I got was a wan smile and a promise to
be wakened next morning at seven. A
few minutes later, I was alone in the guest bedroom.
Lying alone in that
unfamiliar bed, reflecting, sleep didn’t come easily. That grateful kiss had been a catalyst, the
act that coalesced all my unresolved feelings into one undeniable emotion; I
was very fond of Sandra. Very fond
indeed. Sure I felt protective, but it
was more than that. If I was honest,
it had been more than that from the moment I laid eyes on her. And now, on the strength of the kiss, I
dared to think that she might harbour similar feelings for me. So I lay there, regretting that the touch of
her lips hadn’t led to subsequent discoveries and wondering if she was thinking
likewise.
Which was when the door
opened.
Her tracksuit had gone,
replaced by a flowing cream nightgown.
The contre-jour illumination of the hall lamp made a golden halo around
her hair, now falling around her shoulders, and outlined to perfection a slim
figure and glorious legs. She flowed
towards me, out of the lamplight and into the silver moonlight filtering
through the curtains. It was a magical
transformation, made sublime when she untied the sash at her waist and gave a
small shrug, allowing the gown to whisper over her slim shoulders and flawless
breasts on its way to the floor. Dry-mouthed,
I stared at her, my blood suddenly pounding in my ears. She stared back, her moist lips slightly
parted and her luminous eyes larger than ever and full of promise.
As I said, sleep didn’t
come easily.
We were wakened next
morning by the moppet. Entirely
unconcerned with finding her mother and me naked together, all she wanted was
breakfast and can we go on a picnic today please? Sandra took her to the kitchen while I
staggered into the shower. Fortunately,
the ensuite’s appointments included an electric razor so, by the time I
emerged, I’d scrubbed up reasonably well.
Breakfast was bacon and
eggs, well done. Not my usual fare,
but I gather they like that high-cholesterol stuff in the high country. While I was scoffing it and Sandra and
Angela were getting dressed, I discovered I could pick up Magic 693 on Sandra’s
kitchen radio. I was in luck. Don Cornell was singing ‘It Isn’t Fair’,
circa 1950. I turned it up for
Sandra’s benefit.
“Must you?” she yelled
from her bedroom, although I fancied there was a smile behind her voice. I turned Don down, just in time to catch
Sandra’s plea to her daughter. “Hurry up,
Angela or you’ll be left behind.”
Alarm bells rang. I stood, just as Sandra returned. “Come again?” I queried.
She smiled. “Oh!
I forgot to tell you. I called
Ted Miller while you were in the shower.
You know - the chief of staff?
Anyway, he’s sending the chopper.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Should be here in about five minutes.”
Her smile reverted to a frown as she noticed my face reflecting the
sudden cold in my gut.
I grabbed the phone and
listened. Dead. “You called him on this?”
“You said we’d be back in
Melbourne before the police could do a thing.”
That I had. I should have added, “...provided we don’t tip them off by going
through Channel Nine’s switchboard.”
I wasn’t in panic
mode. Not yet. There was one more question. “Please tell me you called his mobile?”
She paled, realising the
significance of the question, which suddenly became superfluous.
I flung her my keys. “Go and open my car.” She opened her mouth to say who knows what
but I beat her to it. “Now!” I didn’t wait to see if she obeyed; I dashed
for Angela’s room, almost skittling her as she emerged, Pinky with her. I swept her up.
“Moppet,” I said.
“We have to leave right now. I
want you and mummy to get in my car and do exactly what I tell you. OK?”
Bless her wide-eyed
innocence, she nodded. I reckon she
knew something was up and that I didn’t have time to explain it. Whatever, I was grateful for her
trust.
We raced back to the
kitchen, where Roger Whittaker was mournfully intoning ‘The Last
Farewell’. I grabbed my jacket. Then we dashed through the front door, down
the steps and into the carport, where Sandra had my rear doors open. We put Angela inside and struggled
feverishly to adjust the safety belt to her tiny frame. Then I headed for the driver’s seat. I was about to slide behind the wheel when
Sandra froze.
“What?”
A sudden relief washed
over her face. “It’s here!”
Her ears were better than mine; it took me a few more
seconds to pick up the sound. It was
the whine of a twin-turbine Dauphine.
“Get in,” I snapped, and
when she hesitated, I yelled, “Get in!”
Just as I screeched, the
chopper roared into sight, swooping in front of the house like some giant
primaeval mosquito thirsting for blood.
Its white and blue paintwork shone dully in the weak autumn
sunlight. On its flank, one word stood
out.
‘Police’.