CHAPTER 5

Tuesday 16 March

'And it's back to summer weather for Melbourne, with an expected top of thirty. The high will remain with us until at least the weekend but there's more rain on the outlook. The Bureau warns that this will be the wettest autumn on recent record and -'

Georgie flipped a hand sideways, smacked the radio's snooze button and killed the overly-cheerful voice.

She prised open one eye, then the other. First to admit she wasn't a morning person, Georgie gazed at the ceiling, procrastinating. Eventually she swung to sit up and her stomach heaved. She dropped back to the mattress. Her temples thumped waves of pain and her left eyelid twitched with the incessant beat of a heavy rap.

The music in her head switched from rap to pop. Three lines of the song What You Waiting For? had replayed all night, along with the tick of the oversized clock. She craved more sleep, decent sleep, without those annoying lyrics. Instead, she pushed back the sheet and emerged.

'Aargh!' AJ said with mock fright.

She squinted at the bathroom mirror. Rat's nest hair, mascara-clogged lashes, smudged rings under bloodshot eyeballs, all prominent against pale skin. She resembled a morning-after-binge vision but had actually drunk very little.

Georgie laughed. It'd be a worry if you never laughed at yourself.

'I spoke to Michael, George.'

She sucked in a breath and held it.

'Ruby's doing well.'

The air whooshed out. 'Yes!'

'The doctor's going to check on her this afternoon. Hopefully, she'll be out of intensive care and up to visitors later today.'

'That's so good.' Her legs turned to jelly with relief. 'I was psyching myself up to ring the hospital.'

She tucked her forehead into AJ's mid-back and wrapped his bare torso with her arms. Her headache eased several notches. He reached behind and patted her butt, saying, 'You think too much'; his caress massaged away more tension.

'Probably,' Georgie admitted. People to see, things to do. She pulled away, headed for the shower.

Last night, her brain had certainly been hyperactive. Images of Pam Stewart merged with worst-case-scenarios for both Susan Pentecoste and Ruby Padley. Added to the 3-D flying slideshow were newspaper headlines, disabled women sporting black eyes, an arrogant country cop and Pedantic Percy, the magistrate who'd almost snatched her licence. The imagery pulsated to what she now considered the most irritating pop song ever in the charts.

 

The door banged behind AJ as he left. Georgie dialled two numbers, from memory now, but neither Susan nor Margaret Pentecoste answered. Then she forced herself to sit at the desk and go through the workday motions. Foremost were her computer inbox and phone messages.

David Ruddoch had left several - each with a rising inflection. Texts demanded she phone in relation to the first aid script. His latest voicemail message gave a deadline of twelve o'clock today for her call. Despite the implied threat, she'd finish her message check before she rang him.

The emailed feeler for an editing job failed to entice. Clients driven by the hip pocket often had unrealistic expectations and they preferred talks at arm's length until rates and terms were established. That could wait at least another day. She added a yellow post-it note to the row stuck on the wall.

The next two phone messages were pleasure, not business. The first was Bron, who chased an update on all matters from AJ to Susan Pentecoste. The second, her mum, Livia, who just wanted a chat.

Georgie obliged both, as she stroked the scarred edge of the blackwood desk salvaged from a hard rubbish collection. The desk was the first piece to grace her writer's office and she'd rubbed beeswax over the nicks and initials carved into its top, to capture its history rather than over-restore it. She swivelled in the black chair, a gift from AJ, its fresh-leather aroma more subtle now. Thick planks of oiled jarrah on stacks of red bricks formed a three-tiered bookcase and flanked the desk. Slimline laptop here, antique lamp there, somehow the old and the new fit perfectly.

Next, a virtually maxed out credit card gained grace on various bills. Smug with the results, Georgie picked up the ringing telephone.

'Georgina.'

It was the unmistakable voice of AJ's mother. Her stomach dropped.

Stupid, stupid idiot. Should have let the machine pick up.

She mumbled and waited for the inevitable.

Four, three, two…

'I expected you to be at work,' Jane Gunnerson said.

The woman never let her down.

'I am. I. Work. From. Home.' Georgie's teeth were gritted.

'Oh, well, yes, I suppose you do. Although you ought to have resumed your legal career by now.'

Yeah right. I was a glorified personal assistant, not a lawyer. Highlight of the job: doing your son on the head partner's mahogany desk.

'Look at how well our Adam is doing, Georgina.'

Georgie grunted. She tolerated 'Georgina' from few people and cringed if Livia said it, as it signified trouble. From Jane Gunnerson - too high and mighty to allow her son's girlfriend to call her anything less than Mrs Gunnerson (and thus Georgie called her nothing) - it was torturous.

Besides, the statement didn't deserve a reply. They would replay twists on this conversation to hell and back. No wonder she shied from AJ's marriage proposal. She'd also be hitched to his pomp-arse parents.

'Geoffrey would like Adam to join us for luncheon on Sunday. It is high time for the next step in his career. If he is to make Silk by the age his father did, he must sit for the Bar.'

Georgie tuned out. AJ had to decide for himself. His buddies at Berkowitz Clark Oxford, along with his father's well-connected cronies, were guaranteed to throw him briefs, which would make his transition from solicitor to barrister smoother than most. The rise from Junior to Queen's Counsel - aka a Silk after the silk court gowns these barristers wore - would follow. If he told his folks to stick it because he'd rather build furniture, Georgie would be far more impressed.

'…Adam could arrive at twelve, for twelve-thirty?'

'Huh?' Georgie said.

'For luncheon on Sunday. Oh, and you're welcome to join us. If you wish.'

It would almost be worth accepting the reluctant tacked-on invitation to spite Jane Gunnerson. But Georgie said they'd check their diaries. While AJ's mother spluttered, she hung up with a flourish that rivalled her bewigged perhaps-one-day-father-in-law's best effort.

Two minutes later, she answered her mobile to, 'Have you been terrorising my mother again, George?'

Fortunately, AJ laughed as he said it.

'Didn't take her long.'

'Never does. Not keen on lunch?'

'We could get a better offer.'

'True. We'll think on it, then,' he said. They hung up.

She decided one of the best things about AJ was his acceptance that she and his mother would never be mates.

Mates.

Pam and Ruby.

Invisible threads to Susan.

Georgie shook her head. She turned back to the computer and tried to concentrate.

Fuck.

She wanted to focus on other responsibilities. But Pam Stewart's obvious distress for Susan Pentecoste and Ruby laid up in hospital for the same reason distracted her. The agonist-antagonist contest wouldn't stop for a lame assignment, regardless of David Ruddoch's fury. It pushed her back to Daylesford; to hell with everything else.

 

'Oh, it's you,' Cathy Jones said.

'Were you expecting someone else?' Franklin asked. He anticipated a negative.

She blinked and widened her eyes. Her left one was lazy and sleep encrusted. Tangled hair completed the crazy-just-awake-woman image. 'No,' she mumbled through a yawn.

She flapped the sides of her dressing gown, crossed them snugly and secured the waist tie. He caught a glimpse of a camisole and French knickers set in black cotton with ivory trim. Three months post-partum, she had a great figure; a gently rounded belly and swollen breasts but trim thighs. Donna would have hated her. She'd never recovered her pre-baby shape. Not before she took off.

'Cathy, can I come in?'

Her fingers sought a gold locket under the dressing gown and slid it along the chain.

'I need to talk to you and I don't suppose it's crash hot having a copper on your doorstep at eight in the morning.'

She scanned the street for nosy neighbours and stepped aside. 'You're here now, so I guess you'd better come in.'

'Do you know why I've come?'

The corners of her mouth twitched and her shoulders lifted.

'Want to tell me about it? What you wanted to talk over in the bakery?'

'OK but let me get changed first.' As she padded down the hallway, Cathy called, 'Take a seat.'

He heard pipes shudder as the shower fired, and again when she turned it off. A few minutes later, she re-emerged with wet hair and skin naked of makeup, in a long sundress and sandals and scented with coconut shampoo or moisturiser.

'I'll make coffee.'

A few minutes later he took a sip from his mug, as Cathy curled up with her own in the armchair opposite.

'Tyson sleeping?' Franklin asked.

She nodded and he said conversationally, 'He a good sleeper then?'

His first sergeant had told him: if you want to get a witness to talk or get in their good books, compliment their kids, pets or whatever it is they have a passion for. The oracle guaranteed you could always imply a positive, even if the kids were shitheads or the dog stank.

'Uh-huh.' Her face lit up. 'I've been lucky. He's been a great sleeper ever since I brought him home. Other mums are lucky to get two hours between naps. Want to see my photos?'

They pored over her brag book, so similar to Kat's chronicle at home. Copy of the ultrasound; first cuddle, first bath pics; clipping from the local newspaper; poster-paint imprint of Tyson's miniature hands and feet. All the usual, with one jarring absence but he'd hold that subject until she relaxed more.

Cathy suddenly fixed on him. 'I've had a letter from a crank. Two actually. One straight after Tyson was born and the second letter last week.'

Franklin straightened.

She fetched papers from the hall table. 'Here's the first one.'

He perused it and asked, 'Do you know Tayla Birkley, Lauren Morris and Renee Archer?'

'Vaguely. I've bumped into them at the health centre. We don't socialise.'

He pulled out the other three letters in their baggies and confirmed the wording, overall style and formation of the calligraphic script. 'They have a match for yours.'

Cathy shivered. 'My second one runs along the same line. Except it gets nastier.' She passed it over.

Shit. Already an escalation? How much time do I have before this wacko wants more action than letter writing?

He read it twice.

 

You must lie only with your husband and be tempted not to the door of a stranger, or tempt a stranger to your door. Children should only be borne to Virtuous women, Righteous women, or as bastards be damned to follow their whore-mother's steps down to death. You must beg His forgiveness and atone for your sins. Or your end will be Bitter.

Solomon

 

Franklin considered 'nasty' a bit soft. Unhinged was more like it. He easily arranged the five letters in chronological order, as the author's handwriting declined with his mental state over the three-month period.

'Has Solomon been in touch in other ways?'

'No,' Cathy bit her lower lip. 'Oh, a couple of times the phone's rung but when I've answered it, no one's spoken. After a few seconds, they hang up. And once or twice, I've felt like someone's watching me. That could be my imagination though.'

'Do you know who Solomon is?'

'No, I wish I did.' She suddenly switched from apologetic to angry. 'What right has this person got to send disgusting letters? And make threats? How does he get off judging a stranger, without knowing their situation?'

Cathy's eyes blazed when she looked at him. Then they filled and tears flooded her cheeks.

 

Georgie swerved from the Daylesford off-ramp at the last moment. Instead, she continued along Western Freeway.

Margaret Pentecoste held the key. Pam believed that Susan was with her niece in Ballarat or, if not, the woman would know her whereabouts.

Easy enough to loop back to Hepburn later if necessary.

At Ballarat she patted the Spider's dash. 'Sorry to say this but one day I'll have to cave and get satnav.'

Georgie parked and obtained directions from an estate agency along the main drag.

Margaret lived a short distance away, in the old part of town. Not among the trendiest addresses adjacent to Lake Wendouree but a short stroll from it and Sturt Street's shopping and business district, in Ascot Street South. One peg down from 'location, location, location' and nestled amid period homes.

Georgie stepped through the low picket fence and followed a no-nonsense pathway carving straight through low-maintenance gardens to the verandah. Rendered brick above weatherboards clad the Californian bungalow. Its ivory and tan trims offset butter walls and at least three red brick chimneys topped the galvanised iron roof. On first impressions: immaculate to the point of bloody sterile.

Georgie banged the brass knocker twice and waited. Overcome with déjà vu, she called Margaret's name and rapped on the glazed panel.

After a minute, she pulled out her mobile and dialled.

Rings echoed between her phone and the house.

The call rang out, unanswered by even a machine, and ghosted away.

 

Franklin found a box of tissues and crouched to offer it to Cathy. His knees cracked, thanks to past footy injuries, making her giggle. She alternated between laughter, tears and hiccups for the next few minutes, then wiped her face with the bottom of her dress.

'Are you right to go on?'

'Yeah.'

'I'm wearing my policeman's hat, not being a nosy parker, OK? I need to ask several questions so I can piece this together.'

She bobbed her head.

'Tyson's father? I noticed he doesn't feature in your brag book.'

Franklin had a terrible gut feeling.

'Oh, yeah. Tyson's father. Well, he was a nice guy - or so I thought, until I went out with him. Unfortunately for me, he thought buying a girl dinner gave him prerogative to have his way with her. And he didn't stop at "No". So, he wasn't a nice guy after all… Tyson and me, well we're on our own and likely to stay that way. Not that I'd change it. It just wasn't how I'd planned to have a family.'

Franklin's skin burned in a rush of anger. He was pissed off but not at Cathy.

'You didn't report him?'

'No.' She anticipated his next question. 'And I still won't. We used to work together and everyone knew I had a huge crush on him. So maybe I did ask for it.'

'Cathy -'

'Maybe I sent the wrong signals. Gave him the impression I'm easy and would "put out".' She hooked her fingers.

'You're the victim. He's a criminal. Date rape is as serious as other types of sexual assault. You have to realise that.'

Franklin leaned across and took her hands. She gave a half-smile.

'You've got to report it -'

'No.'

'You need to, if only to protect other women from this predator.'

'I get what you're saying. But it's a small town and everyone would gossip. Plenty of people would point their finger and blame me - and some of them would be my friends. I wouldn't care so much if it affected just me. But Tyson's my number one priority. I won't have him growing up with the stigma… I won't let him think he wasn't wanted!'

Franklin couldn't argue. As a parent, he sympathised. Kids were about the only true innocents and deserved to be protected.

Cathy stonewalled further discussion about the rape, so he reverted to the poison-pen missives.

'So you have no idea who this Solomon is?'

She shook her head.

'You had Tyson at Ballarat Base on December 16th. Did anything odd happen while you were there? Incidents with staff members or other patients? No one strike you as obsessive or judgmental?'

'Nothing.' She sighed.

'Do you belong to a mothers' group?'

'No, I expected there'd be awkwardness over Tyson's dad.'

Next, he jotted down details of her doctor, medical clinic and maternal health centre. He'd map the links between the victims, hoping that not all roads would lead to the hospital, which contained too many possible but not altogether probable suspects. In any event, he still had local angles to investigate.

'The staff at the health centre? Anyone there a potential Solomon?'

She hesitated, then shrugged.

Franklin scrutinised her face while he finally asked, 'Have you ever come across a bloke by the name of Art Hammer? Arthur Hammer.'

Cathy thought for a moment. 'I don't think so.'

'Ever been to one of the local pubs and seen an old man on his soapbox about women?'

She looked perplexed. 'What do you mean?'

'He actually stands on whatever's to hand outside the pub and rants about women taking babies into pubs or breastfeeding in public - or, one of my favourites - condemning them for going to the pub without a suitable male chaperone.' Franklin snorted and Cathy looked stunned. 'He rotates around places here and outside town too.'

'You're kidding.'

'Nope.'

'I'm not keen on pubs and haven't been near one since before I fell pregnant.'

He nodded.

'So you think this Arthur Hammer is Solomon?'

Franklin lifted a palm. 'No, it's just a line of inquiry. Don't read anything into my questions, OK?'

'Sorry.'

A shake of his head meant there was no need to apologise. Franklin rubbed his chin and contemplated other common denominators between the mums and the letters.

He slowly reread Cathy's two letters.

An idea struck. He lifted his eyebrows. 'Are you religious?'

'Nope. Well, I'm Christian but don't go to church. Haven't done since my teens, except for weddings and funerals.' After a small pause, she voiced what he'd thought, 'It sounds straight out of the Bible, doesn't it?'

'It does,' he agreed. 'If you were to label yourself - Catholic, C of E, Uniting - what would it be?'

'Presbyterian.'

'Oh.' Franklin was disappointed. Lauren had considered speaking to a priest. He knew that Roman Catholics had priests, whereas Presbyterians referred to their preachers as ministers. The women didn't even have a mutual lapsed faith.

The hospital's odds shortened.

 

Georgie picked around the house, checked each window. Thick white lace draped all but the fanlight over the back door. She climbed on top of Margaret's wheelie-bin and peered into a spotless kitchen. The younger Pentecoste woman belonged to the 'proud housekeeper league' with her aunt.

Unfortunately, the niece was less naïve than Susan. Both external doors were locked.

Foiled, Georgie scanned the back garden and spied a garage tucked at the bottom. Like their rental in Richmond, vehicular access was a rear laneway. She jogged down and circled the windowless, coloured steel construction. One access door to the garden was padlocked. She let the lock drop against the door.

Did the shed hold Margaret's car? Susan's Landcruiser?

She wished she knew.

So far, the detour had proved to be another time waster. Georgie pushed a note and her business card underneath the front door and backtracked towards the Alfa.

'Yoo-hoo!'

She pivoted.

'Hello there,' a woman with a cherubic face called. She waved a dimpled arm over the paling boundary fence. 'Are you looking for Margaret?'

Georgie managed a 'Yes' before the other woman talked on.

'She's not home.' Aqua eyes shone inquisitively, then flicked towards a honking car. 'Oops, I have to run!'

The chubby woman trotted to the vehicle. As she hopped into the back, Georgie heard a gaggle of excited female voices. They sped towards Sturt Street.

Pained by anticlimax, she counted on the note working when Margaret returned.

Meanwhile, it wouldn't hurt to dig elsewhere.

 

Where the Western Highway had earlier dissected Sunshine to Ballarat in its bland, anonymous motorway manner in around seventy minutes, Midland Highway meandered from the regional gold town to Daylesford in about thirty-five.

Despite it being a weekday, Georgie couldn't shake free a couple of cars. Every time she pulled the Spider away, either the white Nissan Skyline or the black Ford F150 would leapfrog the other and sit on her tail.

At a tiny town called Newlyn, she veered onto the gravel shoulder outside a church-come-antiques store to dig out her ringing phone. The cars passed. No doubt mates having a bit of fun. She checked the mobile's screen as she slid it into the cradle. Then flicked to her watch and swore, 'Fuck. The bloody deadline!'

She thumbed the connect switch. 'David!'

'It's past twelve -'

'Yes, I'm -'

'You need to take this seriously.'

'I am. Just -'

'We need to meet.'

'Oh?' Her stomach dropped.

'Your script needs severe editing and, well, we need to meet. All of us, to get this thing back on track. How are you for tomorrow?'

Georgie hated to admit it but she needed payment for the project to cover her imminent credit card bill and rent share. They agreed to gather at Miller Street at ten the next morning.

She swiped sweat from her brow and shifted on the leather seat. High-twenties already; the sun held a vicious kick. Tempted to stop at Daylesford's ice cream parlour, she instead gravitated towards Abergeldie. It had to hold a clue to Susan's absence.

 

Simultaneous with an empty-stomach growl, Georgie strode into Susan's kitchen. As she did, she experienced something she'd often sensed at Bron's. The house wrapped her into a hug and welcomed her to come and go. She did a quick walk-through.

First disappointment: Oscar didn't materialise, even when she called.

She inhaled stale air. Saw no change since yesterday, right down to the crusty plates piled in the sink.

Bigger let-down: Susan hadn't returned.

Georgie's energy waned. She was sapped by the anticlimactic start, clueless about what to do next and needed to refuel her body. She attacked a packet of chocolate chip biscuits and necked the coke lurking in the back of the fridge. Flat but cold, it hit the spot.

She re-paced the house, searched more thoroughly. Even so, she knew it was time wasted, that second-guessing her instincts and the Patterson-Stewart network would result in the same answer.

Back in the kitchen, she kicked out a chair and slumped onto it, elbows on the table. She munched on a biscuit, brain-strained, still clueless but determined to make a breakthrough. She returned to Susan's bedroom, ran a hand over the bed and under the mattress. Found nothing.

'Where are you, Roly?' Georgie addressed the musty men's clothes in the left wardrobe.

At a glance to the barren pillows, she added, 'Where are you both?'

In the study, she swivelled in the desk chair until the sofa, bookcases and filing cabinets swirled. She grabbed the edge of the desk. Drummed her fingernails. Focused on one bookcase. Narrowed in on the mate to the album she had borrowed on Saturday and reached for it.

Consistent with the one back in Richmond, it contained newspaper clippings. Or rather, photocopies and printouts of archived stories at the beginning, followed by cuttings of more recent articles.

Subject matter for all: John Schlicht.

 

Franklin couldn't throw off his dark mood. And he couldn't say if it related more to Cathy's rape, Solomon's threats or Art Hammer's vanishing act.

OK, that was probably a bit Kat at her Drama Queen best. But while the old man normally turned up like a bad smell and had fairly predictable habits, now when Franklin wanted to find him, he couldn't.

A drag past Art's Mollongghip property and checks with the publicans at Walshs and the Royal Hotel all bombed. Rather than spend the next hour trawling the other nearby pubs to come up with more nothing, he decided on a new tack.

 

'Why the hell would you have a scrapbook on Schlicht?'

Georgie flicked through Susan's book, frequently shaking her head. She remembered stories about Schlicht and his thugs and the notorious 'Honoured Society', Melbourne's so-called Mafia. A curious kid, Georgie had curled at the feet of Grandma Harvey, enraptured, yet also suspicious that the accounts amounted to urban myth.

Susan's articles tracked allegations against Schlicht and his counterparts; that they used the vegetable markets to conceal drug activities and launder the proceeds, while extorting a fortune from other merchants. They produced, imported, transported and distributed cannabis, heroin, cocaine and amphetamines. Sex, drugs, violence. Deadly reprisals from rival gangs. The police impotent or in-the-pocket. All there in the articles, some journalists more gloves-off in their approach than others.

Urban myth or fact, it sold newspapers and generated big bucks for the commercial TV stations currently cashing in on one sleazy underworld show after another.

Her recollection hazy, Georgie knew that Schlicht had somehow lost his stake in the markets and dropped away from the underbelly of organised crime. She hadn't seen his photograph for several years and the bushy grey brows, frigid grey-blue stare on a long, bony face that earned Schlicht the nickname 'the Iceman' spooked her.

Not the type of guy you'd want to meet in a dark alley.

Nor was he an obvious subject for a scrapbook.

Intrigued but time poor, Georgie tossed the album onto the Spider's passenger seat for later and headed away from the homestead.

A white Toyota utility came up the driveway as she drove down. There wasn't enough room to pass and the other driver didn't pull over.

Georgie waited for him to reverse and found herself in a standoff. Two men glowered through their windscreen.

They alighted but didn't approach. Georgie sighed and hopped out. A blue heeler barrelled up and landed heavy paws on her chest. She collapsed onto her butt. She eyeballed the dog, pinned more by his snappy jaw and freaky one-blue-one-brown-eyed glare than his weight.

'Trigger,' one of the men commanded. 'Off.'

The dog snapped again, extracted his paws and retreated to his master's side. The older man shuffled forward and stretched a hand to Georgie. He pulled her upright, squashing her fingers.

Hand still trapped, she scanned up to his face. Tight mouth. Cold stare. Weather-beaten skin, florid and veined. He had a build to match the blue heeler, only very tall, squeezed into khaki overalls and topped with close-cut grey hair.

'Help you?' He belatedly released his grip.

Georgie fed him the story she'd told the Pattersons. The man's expression transformed to a beam.

'Thought you was from the bank.'

Georgie pictured her thongs, jeans and tank and suppressed a grin. This guy's not too sharp.

'Roger.' The older guy pointed a thumb to his chest. 'And this here's me son, Mick.'

Abergeldie's lessees.

They each pumped a handshake, Georgie winced at duplicate hand-crushes, then brushed off her butt. Trigger snoozed in the shade of the Spider and the men lolled against their ute.

'Mrs P took off las' weekend. She told me and me boy, Mick here, that she'd be away a couple a days. Expected her back before now. Snot like her to go off for more than a day or two. She likes it here.' Roger waved a vague hand at the property.

Mick agreed, drawing Georgie's attention to him. She noted an uncanny resemblance between the father and son, including drinker's complexions and strong ocker accents.

'Still, tis up to her,' Roger continued. 'Not for us to say anythink. Pretty lonely for her since Mr P went.'

'Do you know how I can contact Susan's friend, Jack? It's possible she's staying with him - if she's not with Margaret.'

'I dunno which Jack Mrs P would be vistin'. Don't seem proper. She's married to Mr P.' Roger's eyes hardened.

Georgie suggested, 'Perhaps he's a relative?'

Both men shrugged. But the father continued to be the spokesman. 'Don't ring any bells with me.'

Great. Will my next question be a dud too?

'Do you think her being away has anything to do with Roly?'

Suddenly, the men's thick necks retracted.

Dour lines replaced all trace of the farmers' grins. She frowned, confused and intrigued.

'What ya mean?' Roger asked.

'Well, Roly goes missing and then almost to the day five years later Susan takes off. More than coincidence, do you think?'

Roger lifted his shoulders. Mick scratched his scalp with long, jagged fingernails.

Why have they gone shifty?

Her writer's instincts fired, as did her questions.

'What do you think happened to Roly?'

'I dunno,' Roger muttered.

'Do you think he's dead?'

The man yelled, 'Look, I said, I dunno!'

Trigger growled. Mick put a hand on his collar.

Georgie felt a trickle of fear but persisted. 'Why do you think Roly disappeared?'

Mick bent forward, yanking the dog and stuck his nose close. So close that she could smell beer and bad breath. He jabbed a finger into her collarbone. Pounded at the same spot until her eyes smarted and heart thudded.

Show no fear. Don't back down.

'Dad said, he dunno. We can't tell you nothin'. Stop being a nosy bitch and get out of here.'

She battled an impulse to fight back. There were times and places to take on adversaries. This wasn't one of them. The farm was secluded and she was outnumbered by two giants and their mongrel.

To Georgie's relief, Mick stepped back. She moved to the Spider with faux calm. Roger reversed the ute until she had room to pass.

Grateful to leave Abergeldie behind, she wiped damp palms on her jeans and turned onto Howlong Road. When the tyres gripped tarmac, she accelerated and tried to persuade herself that she'd imagined the farmers' violent response.

She failed.

And grew even more convinced that Roly's demise drove Susan's actions.

 

Franklin zipped past the cop shop hoping none of his workmates spotted him. He parked the bike on the low side of Camp Street and well off the road, next to a vintage Suzuki GT750. Each time he saw the glossy teal duco offset by masses of chrome it almost tempted him to trade the Ninja for an old classic.

But he'd never do it.

'Pastor?' Franklin stepped through the arched entrance and into the foyer of the former Baptist Church.

Music, together with the clatter of crockery, drew him through to the kitchen.

A funky song about Jesus played loudly. The pastor sang along even louder and washed coffee cups. Franklin called out again rather than spring a surprise.

'Frankie!' Pastor Danni pivoted to face him. Her cheeks popped out with her broad smile, making the million freckles on her face more prominent. She looked about Kat's age but actually fell closer to his own.

She gave him a hug that squeezed the air from his lungs and brought on an attack of guilt. He and Danni could be good friends if he made an effort. They had plenty in common - from motorbikes to their football team - and didn't have to worry about that traditional male-female impossibility of a platonic friendship.

Danni wasn't just one of the very few female church clergy in the country. She and the other lesbian pastors could probably be counted on one hand.

'Coffee, Frankie?'

'Can I pick your brain too?'

She tilted her head and punched his arm lightly. Then the pastor brightened his day with another 100-watt smile.

 

'Afternoon. Can I get you a cuppa?'

Georgie surveyed Lewis Davis across the desk. Dressed in a cheap suit, he could have passed for a farmer on church day. His manner was effusive and assessing, yet amiable too. The real estate manager possessed an 'X factor' beyond Pam Stewart's character reference and the fact that he was one of Roly Pentecoste's best mates.

Georgie accepted and rested elbows on the desk while she waited. Her head felt heavy with sudden fatigue. So much driving. So much thinking. My brain hurts. Is it all a waste of time?

She watched Davis weave through the overcrowded office, two mugs hooked on one hand, packet of biscuits in the other fist, amazed by the large man's graceful gait.

'Interest you in a bickie?'

He proffered a packet of Tim Tams. Georgie shook her head, appetite depleted by the biscuits from Susan's kitchen and the croissant Pam Stewart had pressed on her as she recapped the morning.

'So you're a friend of Pam's?' Davis asked. Crumbs fell from the side of his mouth and sprinkled his suit with cookie dandruff.

'Kind of. Yes.'

She explained how they'd met and the purpose of her visit now.

Davis's smile stretched his face but no longer reached his eyes. They became dead fish eyes. 'You said yourself that Susan made arrangements with her neighbours and told Mick and Roger she was going away. And that there's every chance she's with her niece.'

'Well, yes.'

'So, what are you really doing here?'

He sounded tired. She didn't know what to say.

'What do you hope to gain by dredging up the past?' His voice took a harsh edge which made his smile creepy.

'I just thought -'

'No,' he said, leaning forward. The façade of a smile dropped. 'That's the problem. I don't think you've thought about this at all.'

'Aren't you worried about Susan?' Georgie asked incredulously.

'Not from what you've told me, no. But if you're going to set things off again and she's going to come back to, well, the whole Roly thing all over again, then yes. And I'll hold you personally responsible.'

Davis stood and snatched her half-full mug. He stalked into the back office.

Georgie felt the curious gaze of the receptionist as she left.

 

'I'm after some scuttlebutt.'

'Well, I knew you weren't here for Bible studies.'

They sipped coffee, chewed biscuits and shared a smile.

Franklin said, 'I'm working a case with a religious element in a series of poison-pen letters - threats, really. The language is old-fashioned and sounds like it's out of a Bible.'

'Maybe you need Bible studies after all?'

He tipped forward on his chair. 'No, what I need is any inside knowledge on religious nutters in our area.'

'You've thought of old Art Hammer, of course?'

'Yep. He's a definite possibility but I can't track him down.'

'I haven't seen him in a while either.' Pastor Danni scratched the side of her mouth. 'Are you going to eat that last bickie?'

'And here I was thinking you were about to break my case.'

'Chocolate helps me think.'

He passed the plate. 'Confidentially, the letters are nut jobs against unmarried mums. I reckon an old bloke's behind them. Someone deeply religious and who thinks women should be kept in their place. It's real old-school stuff, so maybe you've had trouble with him too.'

'Because I'm female, lesbian or a pastor of the Community Church?'

'All three?' Franklin admitted. 'Our fellow's a traditionalist and I can't see him here.' He waved at the coffee urn but broadly meant the progressive religion and Danni's congregation. 'But he might have let you know he doesn't like the way your church does things.'

The pastor nodded. 'I see what you mean.' She stood. The leather of her biker boots creaked. 'And I may be able to help.'

 

It had been a fucked day, so far. No joy with the niece. A bunch of reading material on Victoria's underworld. A whole lot of aggro from Mick and Roger. And now Georgie had upset one of Roly's best mates.

What if he was right? What if Susan returned from a sojourn with her niece to find 'the whole Roly thing', as Davis put it, back on the agenda, along with her own life under scrutiny?

Georgie knocked a cigarette from the packet. She leaned against the shop window and smoked two in succession but it was mechanical rather than enjoyable. She took the last drag and crushed the butt with her heel. Throughout, she'd focused on a two-storey Tudor-style red-brick building opposite The Springs Real Estate.

I'm right. There's plenty to be worried about.

The banking chamber held one customer and three staff members in air-hostess uniforms. The customer and teller joked and chatted. The other two bank officers spoke in hushed tones under the swinging 'Information' sign. Georgie approached and waited.

Goosebumps pricked her skin. The temperature and an ambient odour reminded her of the inside of a fridge.

The staff still ignored her. She cleared her throat and the younger woman glanced over.

'Oh, hello? Sorry, we didn't see you there. How can I help?'

'Douglas Macdougall, please.'

'Do you have an appointment?' the woman asked, rising.

'No, I'm sorry.'

'Oh, I'm sure the manager will see you. Back in a tick.'

It wasn't easy to kill time in a bank. Unlike in a doctor's surgery, there weren't even back issue magazines to flick through. The hairs on Georgie's arms stood to attention from the cold now and she spent a minute in contemplation of those fine strands before she sought other distractions.

She was spinning a brochure carousel when a telephone buzzed.

'Welcome to ANZ Bank, this is Carol,' the woman who had thus far ignored Georgie said. 'Oh, it's you! Hang on, I'll ask. Scuse me, miss. Can I have your name?'

'Georgie Harvey.'

Carol repeated it into the receiver and paused. 'Oh, OK.' She hung up.

Georgie arched a brow but the banker ducked her head.

The other officer returned and regarded Georgie awkwardly. She jiggled on the spot and said, 'I'm sorry, Ms Harvey. Mr Macdougall isn't in the office.'

Bullshit. Georgie frowned.

'If you leave your number, I'm sure he'll give you a call. When, um, when he comes in.'

On the steps outside the building, Georgie decided that Macdougall wouldn't call. She contemplated his avoidance and could only think that his good mate Lewis Davis had seen her head for the bank and warned him.

Why?

What are they hiding?

 

Franklin mounted his motorbike and rode to the top of Wombat Hill. Throughout the short trip he churned over the morning's meeting with Cathy Jones. It couldn't compensate for her rape but he vowed to catch the sadist Solomon before the sicko destroyed her self-esteem.

One step at a time.

He sat at a picnic table with notepad ready. How to handle Pastor Danni's information hadn't solidified yet. He'd chew that over while he made his first call from the mobile.

The registrar cross-referenced staff on the ward while Renee and Cathy were at Ballarat Base with the original list for Tayla and Lauren's stay. There were a handful of common names on the nursing team. The three she'd spoken to yesterday, along with four other midwives - one who'd retired at the end of February and another whose round-the-world long service leave jaunt began in March.

That left two nurses with realistic opportunity.

On top of this he had a list of doctors and aides to the maternity ward.

But what was the motive for any of these?

Forget motive for now, begin with the means.

So the list grew. Unfortunately, just two were rostered on and the registrar's talks with them were in fits and starts around a difficult labour and an anxious mother-to-be with Braxton Hicks contractions. Both seemed to be non-starters.

No further enlightened, Franklin feared subsequent inquiries at the hospital would prove equally time-consuming and fruitless.

Right, time for the new and improved theory.

The next number he dialled was a local one: the Blue family from Goo Goo Road.

His day of frustrations continued when he reached an answering machine. He left a carefully worded message that requested Earl Blue or his parents return his call.

Franklin fingered the photo Pastor Danni had given him.

An unsmiling pasty-faced youth in a wanker gangster hat, unbuttoned collared shirt over t-shirt. This was not the portrait he'd expected of Solomon.

And Danni had said, 'He doesn't fit your profile exactly. He's much younger than what you're thinking, only seventeen. But he could be your poison-pen writer.'

Sceptical, Franklin's eyebrows had risen.

She'd passed the photo and pointed at the kid in the forefront. 'Earl Blue joined us early last year. He came across as wonderful at first - friendly, helpful, kind and we actually thought he'd make a great pastor. But after he ingratiated himself into the church and leadership group, he started to flex his muscles just a little too much in The Rock.'

The Rock was the space under the church used by the youth group.

'How so?'

'He started spouting some Old Testament scripture. His behaviour became more and more zealous. He told the girls to dress less provocatively - and these girls don't show a bra strap or singlet, let alone cleavage. Then he got angry, scary angry, when things didn't go his way or people disagreed with him. By that stage, we realised he'd come into the church to disrupt and maybe destroy it from within.'

So despite his young age, Earl Blue matched most of Franklin's profile. But he'd hit another snag; his two red-hot suspects were both AWOL and he was left in a holding pattern.

 

Franklin arrived at the station with minutes to spare. He was rostered on two-up with Scott Hart, who agreed to kick off their four-to-midnight stint playing catch-up on their respective portfolios. In addition to general duties and handling files for other branches or the Bacchus Marsh detectives, each officer held an area of responsibility to take the strain off Lunny. Franklin looked after Youth Liaison - which included organising community events like Blue Light discos, camps and outings - and the social club. Harty had the Station Portfolio, which roped in bail reports, station cameras and logs, but because he was young and keen, he often worked on the rosters and cleaned the police vehicles as well. 'Vehicles' was a grander term than it deserved - it included their one permanent four-wheel drive, any loaners they were lucky to have from another station, and a fleet of pushbikes. The joys of a sixteen-hour country station.

As Harty checked the bail records in the watch-house, Franklin called Lauren Morris. He detailed developments with Renee Archer and Cathy Jones, except for Cathy's sexual assault.

After reciting Solomon's latest letter, he said, 'It struck Cathy and me that the letters could be quotes from the Bible.'

'For sure. Read the newest back slowly. I want to write it down.'

She considered the script and commented, 'This one's extreme, isn't it?' There was another pause, then she added, 'It's even more old-fashioned than ours. Do you think they're quotes from the Old Testament?'

That tallied with his thoughts. And equally fit both Art Hammer's impromptu sermon style and Earl Blue according to Pastor Danni.

'Why don't Tayla and I see what we can come up with?'

Franklin grinned, happy to shift responsibility. His idea of fun wasn't poring over a Bible. He scrawled notes into the daybook, then noticed the last thing on his 'to-do' list. It made his stomach flip.

'Hoy, Harty,' he called down the short corridor.

His buddy appeared in the doorway seconds later. 'Yo?'

'Let's take a ride out to Abergeldie to check on Susan Pentecoste.'

'Uh-huh. Following up your girlfriend's report, are we?'

Franklin hurled his akubra style police hat.

Harty ducked. 'That's a bit disrespectful, isn't it?' He retrieved the hat and brushed it off.

'They're the stupidest things they've brought out,' Franklin replied, as they jostled down the hallway.

'Just as well they've issued us with caps then. Gotta keep grumpy old farts like you happy.' Harty didn't have a chance to dodge Franklin's backhander to the gut.

Lunny entered the station. 'I could have you on report for that,' he said with mock severity.

'Nice get-up, boss.' Franklin gestured towards the navy tracksuit and white runners.

'Pretend I'm not here,' was the airy reply. 'Couple of matters to clear up…'

'Maeve's sister isn't down again, by chance?' Harty asked.

Lunny's blush confirmed his least favourite sister-in-law was in residence at the station house next door. Luckily, her visits were as brief as they were frequent.

'Hmm. Are we still on for fishing tomorrow, John?'

The sarge's voice held a note of panic. Tempted to stir him by saying he'd swapped his rest day with one of the other blokes, Franklin took pity and nodded.

'I'm driving,' he told Harty, snagging the keys from the board.

 

'Dam's full,' Harty commented as they pulled up the farm's driveway.

'It's strange to have so much rain and see everything green in autumn, isn't it?'

'Yeah but good strange.'

Franklin nodded at the distinction. 'Easter's only a couple of weeks away, yes?'

His mate agreed.

'It's funny, isn't it, that we've got so used to drought and Easters where the fire season's still in force that we've forgotten other years where it rained all long-weekend and was cold enough to freeze your balls off. It's still bloody hot now, though.'

Mick and Roger waved as they drove past. The farmers wore sweat-soaked khaki overalls over bare torsos as they strained fencing wire on the top paddock.

The cops slipped through the white picket fence up at the house and sighed. The shade of the cypress windbreak gave welcome relief.

'These look a bit sick.' On the verandah, Harty crumbled dry soil from a pot plant between his fingers. He touched a rose leaf which crackled before falling off. 'They need a drink.'

'You're not wrong,' Franklin said. It was uncharacteristic of green-thumbed Susan Pentecoste to neglect her plants. Even after Roly's disappearance, she'd overseen the care of all plants on Abergeldie's house block, along with the stock and crops, until she recovered enough to personally tend them. He remembered calling here with his former sergeant, Bill Noonan, after her release from hospital. They'd found her with watering can in hand, fussing over foliage not half as withered as these rose bushes. Surely she'd have arranged for someone to water the plants if she'd planned this holiday? Perhaps she'd left in haste or never expected to stay away so long.

The two men matched strides to the kitchen door and entered, calling, 'Susan?'

No response.

Harty gestured with a head twitch and Franklin nodded; words were unnecessary. They did a swift inspection.

In the study, Harty said, 'Who's been a bit creative here?'

He threw a notepad from the desk to Franklin, who examined the doodles. There were spirals and three-dimensional cubes and grim faces. Among the artwork were random words - several in block letters, others in a thready, rightward-slanted script but all similar enough to belong to one writer.

'Susan? Niece? Roly-Susan link. JACK. Holiday? WHERE,' he read aloud. 'Gotta be the work of that Georgie Harvey bird, don't you think?'

His partner played devil's advocate. 'Not necessarily.'

'Bit cheeky, walking in and making herself at home.'

'What? A bit like us, you mean?'

Franklin grimaced, acknowledging Harty's point. 'Fair enough. I don't suppose she meant to leave this behind.'

'She mightn't have noticed she'd done it. I got into a bad habit at uni and doodle all the time. It's not until later that I realise what I've done.'

'I wouldn't know about that.' Franklin swatted his mate. 'Some of us are ordinary working-class coppers, not brainy upstarts.'

'Hardy, ha, ha. Hey, do you reckon that's weird?'

Harty pointed to the bookcase. Franklin noted the perfect alignment of the books on six of the seven shelves. They were in ascending order according to height, each spine plumb. The bottom shelf held the tallest volumes and replicated the order above until midway along. There, several books collapsed across a gap corresponding to a couple of absent ones.

'Notice a few big books lying around? Yea high.' He spread his hands a foot apart.

'Nothing in here,' Harty said.

'Check the bedrooms. I'll take the other rooms.'

They regrouped minutes later.

'Anything?'

'No, and I wouldn't be surprised if Harvey's taken something from Susan's bedside table. There's not much dust on the surfaces, considering the gravel road and all, but what's there's been stirred up.'

'Harvey's pissing me off,' Franklin complained.

'Hmm. It's one thing letting yourself in to have a quick look-see but filching Susan's gear is pretty rich,' his friend agreed. Then he added, 'It's always possible that Susan took the books with her.'

'I suppose,' Franklin conceded. 'Get Mick and Roger in here for a chat.'

While his partner summoned the farmers, Franklin pulled out his ringing mobile.

'Constable Franklin?'

Senior Constable but he let it go. A couple more words and he'd identify the caller with her very familiar voice.

Don't tell me.

'It's Christina van Hoeckel here.'

Damn. I was so close.

'I'm ringing about the, um, incident with my car the other day.'

'Oh?' Franklin said, intrigued.

'I want to drop it.'

He let the silence sit, then asked, 'Why's that?'

'Oh, it's just kids.' Her attempt at casual fell short. 'Their parents will sort them out. No need to get them in trouble with police.'

'Is that right? Well, it's gone too far now. Even if you were to withdraw your complaint.' It hadn't; he just wanted to gauge her reaction.

'You can't do that,' she shouted. Then added softly, 'Can you?'

'I'm not sure, Christina. I'll have to get back to you.'

He called off, chuckling. Let her sweat for a few days, then he'd pop over and see if she was ready to come clean. He intended to find out why she'd lied.

 

Franklin was still grinning when he greeted Mick and Roger with handshakes and backslaps. Trigger trotted behind them and collapsed with a sigh onto the mat by the stove.

'We was tellin' Scott here' - Roger pointed at Harty - 'that we had a sheila nosin' about today. Didn't we, Mick?'

His son bobbed his head.

'Get her name, did you, Roger?' Franklin asked.

'Georgie somethink.'

'Harvey?'

'Yep.' The older man clicked his fingers. 'Anyhow, she had a cock-and-bull story about Mrs P. But we reckon she was really casin' the joint.'

'How's that?'

Mick puffed out his cheeks but let his dad speak.

'Well, snot like Mrs P to go away for more than a couple a days, like. But it's up to her, isnit? Snot like she's had many holid'ys, specially since Mr P went.'

'Susan told you she was going on a holiday?'

Father and son nodded.

'Where was she going?'

'Dunno.'

'Say when she was coming back?'

'Nup.'

'You worried about her?'

'Nup.'

'This Georgie Harvey - what do you think she was up to?'

'You know, casin' the joint. That's what they call it, isnit? Checkin' it out before they rip the place off.'

Franklin shot a glance at Harty, who raised an eyebrow and gave a slight headshake. He hadn't mentioned the possible theft.

'You'd better have a look then and see if anything's missing. Take your time.'

He rued his words as Mick and Roger took an age to check each room. Their voices became excited in the main bedroom. The officers joined them.

'Mrs P's photos are gone.'

Harty took down details and trailed his partner and the farmers into the study.

'That don't seem right,' Mick said to his father. He pointed to the bottom of the bookcase.

Roger knelt, knees groaning. He thrust away Trigger's snout and pushed up the leaning books. He considered the thickness of the gap; measured it with his thumb and fingers. With a scratch to his chin, he said, 'There's somethink missin'. Mrs P has these special books with real nice leather covers. Thick ones they are. That right, Mick?'

'Um. Ah…'

'C'mon, stop ditherin'. Think!'

'Oh, Dad.'

'By jeez, Mick.' Roger rose. 'Her books are missin'. No doubt about it. She always has 'em on the shelf there or on the desk here. Nowhere else. That sheila's stolen Mrs P's things, hasn't she?'

Harty excused himself and left the room.

Franklin held up a hand to diffuse Roger's anger.

'Leave it with us, we'll check it out. What else did you discuss with Georgie Harvey?'

'Nothin',' the father said quickly.

'Did she give you an idea where she was going after here?'

'Nope,' Mick replied.

'Mate,' Harty interrupted. 'We've got an urgent job.'

 

Franklin was poised to jump into the police truck when his mobile rang again. He threw the keys to his partner and answered the call while buckling into the passenger seat.

Lauren Morris sounded excited.

Hart flicked on strobe lights and siren. He negotiated the gravel driveway. Turned onto Grimwells Road and white-knuckled the steering wheel.

Franklin gritted his teeth as the four-wheel drive bumped over corrugations. He listened to Lauren.

'It depends on which version of the Bible you use. I dug up an old one and found sections in the book of Proverbs that sound a lot like Solomon.

'Chapter five, verses three to four say: "For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."

'Don't you think that's similar to Solomon saying "your end will be Bitter"?'

He agreed and she continued. 'Verse five says: "Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell."

'Remember, Solomon said, "be damned to follow their whore-mother's steps down to death" in the latest letter; and "you and your bastard walk the Road of Death" in the one we got? Verse eight -'

They hit a pothole. Franklin's head bumped the side window. He cursed, righted himself and his daybook. 'Sorry. Go on, Lauren.'

'Eight says: "Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her house."

'Very close to Solomon's "be tempted not to the door of a stranger, or tempt a stranger to your door."

'Then fifteen is: "Drink waters out of thine own cistern, and running waters out of thine own well."

'That makes me think of drinking out of a toilet cistern. Yuck. But it's all sounding a bit familiar, isn't it?'

'We're not far away,' Hart interjected. Despite the blind corner ahead, they could see a plume of smoke.

'Sorry, Lauren. We're on our way to an emergency. Can you give me the rest quickly?'

'OK.' She sped up. 'Eighteen to twenty: "Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love. And why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with a strange woman, and embrace the bosom of a stranger?"

'That ties with "You must lie only with your husband" and the whole stranger reference in Solomon's letter to Cathy.'

Franklin could hear a distant wail, even above their siren, radio and Hart's occasional exclamation. An ambulance or fire truck was on its way to the collision too.

Lauren continued, 'Chapter Six of Proverbs, says: "These six things doth the Lord hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him." One of those being, "To keep thee from the evil woman, from the flattery of the tongue of a strange woman."

'Pretty similar to Solomon's "the LORD hates the ways of evil people"?

'Proverbs goes on and on about adultery and prostitution but I think Solomon's twisting the words to suit his own agenda and roping in whatever he considers being contrary to a righteous or virtuous woman. I mean, all he's got against us is that we're unmarried mums - except Renee, who is married. I don't think any of us are cheating on our partners with another guy, married or not. We wouldn't have the energy, for starters.

'Anyway, I could find dozens of references in Proverbs alone that have strong links to Solomon's letters. These are just a few examples. And there's also a lot of weird capitalisation in the Bible - whole words or the first letter of words that are mid-sentence and don't need a capital.'

'It all ties together,' Franklin agreed.

He felt Hart tense.

He did likewise.

They were a few kilometres from the crash scene but an approaching clearance would give them a glimpse. The person who called in the accident had done so anonymously before fleeing, which meant they were ignorant as to the number of casualties and extent of injuries or fatalities. Merely that it was serious and 'there's blood everywhere'.

'So, basically Solomon seems to be using an oldish version of the Bible as a source for his letters,' Lauren said. 'Or his memory, I guess. He could be a priest, a parishioner or familiar with the Bible, active churchgoer or not. All we know is that he is religious, fanatical even and Christian.' Lauren's excitement diminished. 'I suppose we haven't narrowed it down at all.'

Although her research did only endorse current theories, Franklin reassured her.

 

Franklin viewed the destruction ahead with clenched guts.

A minivan on its side. Engulfed in flames. It had sparked a grassfire that seared a stripe through the adjacent paddock.

Nearby, a sedan with a piano accordion front-end. It must have flipped, judging by its battered bonnet and roof.

Debris skewed in every direction.

No sign of life.

 

Georgie's pulse quickened when the Bumblebee sang. She dug out the mobile but didn't recognise the number. No Ballarat or Daylesford prefix; probably not Margaret Pentecoste or good news on Susan.

'Hello?'

'Georgie?'

It was Michael Padley. His voice sounded strained; there was lots of background noise.

'Michael, is everything OK?'

'No. It's Ruby.'

Georgie sucked in a breath. Felt afraid to ask.

'She's…'

Please, fuck, don't let it be the worst.

'She had another turn.' He sounded a thousand miles away.

Had?

Georgie squeezed her eyes, blinking back pools. A lump jammed her throat.

Death had touched Georgie before. She'd found the body of her first cat. Bloodied and broken; killed by a careless driver. Heartbroken and naïve, she'd believed she'd never recover, nor experience worse.

'Georgie, are you there?'

She couldn't speak, now lost in the time of her grandmother's passing, expected and peaceful yet still painful.

Her memories darkened further. She was holding her dad's hand, overwhelmed when she felt a weak squeeze. She watched him try to speak, then heard the death rattle. A bittersweet moment: at last, release from the tentacles of the brain tumour, while that final goodbye twisted her heart into a corkscrew.

'Can you come, please?' Michael's voice was tiny, bewildered, so sad.

The corkscrew skewered again. Ruby and Michael were quasi-grandparents. Neglected but brimming with unconditional love. Ruby couldn't be dead. Last week she'd been excited about a play her friends were about to open and had dyed her hair Siren Red.

Don't ask me to see Ruby's body. I'll scream - right here, on the main street of Daylesford.

'Are you there?'

'Yes,' she whispered. She verged on puking, exacerbated by a billow of black diesel fumes from a light truck as it passed.

'Can you come straight away?'

'Of course but I'm…' She stopped before naming her location, the trigger for Ruby's heart failure. 'It will take me a while.'

'Oh.' Michael sounded hurt. 'Ruby will -'

'You mean she's -'

'Back in intensive care. I'm so worried. They won't let me see her.'

Georgie nearly laughed. Intensive care meant alive. Not well but still kicking.

She sprinted for the Spider; assuring Michael she'd be there soon. But she cringed at the lie. Her return to Melbourne could take up to two hours if she clashed with commuters.

 

Georgie rummaged for her keys. She upended her bag on the pavement, scattered the contents. Key wedged into ignition, mobile into cradle, she shifted into reverse and noticed a flyer stuffed under her windscreen wiper.

'Damn it.'

She jumped out, pulled the flyer, dumped it on the passenger seat and gunned the engine.

Take two. She pressed a speed-dial number, reversed, almost collided with a car behind.

The call was answered and Georgie announced herself. Fuck, she went into a queue.

'Come on, come on.'

She cursed the operatic on-hold music. Tapped her steering wheel. Floored the car.

'I think Adam's finishing off his call,' his PA said cheerfully. 'Care to hold a little longer, Georgie?'

'Yes.' She ground her teeth.

'George?'

Finally. 'AJ, I might lose you. Reception's not great here.'

She filled him in on Michael's call. 'I can't get there for an hour or so.'

She hit a rut at 130 kph. The steering wheel jolted.

'Where are you?' he yelled over her curses.

'Just out of Daylesford.'

'Again? Why?'

'Not now!'

Three seconds on, she cut his aggrieved silence. 'AJ, save the bullshit for later. Can you take care of Michael until I get there?'

He promised.

She disconnected. Honked a slow-moving tractor. She pulled out and passed, narrowly missing an oncoming station wagon. Rammed the accelerator. Demanded that any god listening keep her safe from cops and radars.

Time stretched.

Her hands ached from death-gripping the wheel. Eyeballs stung. Stomach churned.

Still a long way to go.

She raced to the hospital. Every risk worth it. Every minute a waste.

 

Georgie circled and swooped on a parking space. She dropped her keys while locking the Spider and tripped at the entrance to the Alfred. She located AJ and Michael, her eyes bugging to stop tears.

'No news,' AJ said. He hugged her tight.

'That's something,' she replied as they clung together for a moment.

She sat next to Michael. She clasped his gnarled, shaking hand. AJ perched on an identical hard plastic seat on the old man's other side.

Michael shrank as the minutes ticked. The pain in Georgie's chest ballooned.

Hours passed.

 

At 9.05pm, a white-coated woman approached.

'Mr Padley, I'm Dr Quinter.'

After quick handshakes and introductions all round, the doctor told Michael, 'Your wife will have to undergo more tests but she's stable and out of immediate danger.'

They cheered. Quinter crouched before Michael and took his hands.

'You're not going to be much use to Ruby unless you take care of yourself. Why don't you go home and rest? She'll sleep through the night and you can see her in the morning.'

Michael argued but eventually allowed Georgie and AJ to lead him from the hospital. They tucked him into their sofa bed and saw him fall into an exhausted, uneasy slumber.

Sleep wouldn't come to Georgie. She sat by Michael's bedside until dawn cracked.