CHAPTER 7

Thursday 18 March

'That's not your girlfriend's Alfa, is it, mate?'

Franklin followed Mick Sprague's finger to a black convertible. He ignored the jibe about the wacko Melburnian being his girlfriend.

Slam went on, 'Course, I didn't meet her the other day. But seeing as we don't get many of the old Alfas around here, I'm guessing…'

The number plate matched.

'It's no coincidence. It's Harvey's all right.'

'Can't wait to meet her. Harty reckons she's hot.'

'Are you still going on, Slam?' Franklin feigned surprise. He accelerated. The gear spread over his partner's lap spilled everywhere.

They navigated the Burke Square roundabout while Slam groused.

'Let's hover near the school crossing and scare 'em into doing forty clicks,' Franklin suggested. 'Lunny's had complaints from the lollipop lady again.'

His mate cocked his head, so Franklin added, 'We all know the old girl's pretty easy-going, so when she says she's "sick to the eyeballs of hoons" it must be bad.'

'It's the mums doing the school-drop that are the worst offenders -'

Franklin nodded. 'Speeding, double parking -'

Slam clicked his fingers. 'That's it! You wanna do the school patrol so you can pick up a yummy-mummy. You dirty bastard. And what would your girlfriend from Melbourne think?'

That deserved a backhander.

Custom was slow. By 9.45am, the partners had cautioned a couple of harried mums and were on their way back to the station. They received an urgent callout to a West Street address familiar to Franklin. Unaware if the offender lurked, they flicked on lights and siren and tore away.

 

The police truck screeched to a stop outside the humble brick veneer and the two cops alighted. A woman and baby wailed inside the house. Slam and Franklin exchanged glances. Franklin extracted his baton but held it in his off-hand and close to his thigh. Both rested a hand on holstered weapon.

A man shouted, also inside the building. The cries halted. Then the child howled louder, while the woman yelled something unintelligible.

Dread balled in Franklin's gut. He swallowed and bellowed, 'Police! Open up!'

The baby quietened.

Wait or force entry? Franklin considered the risks.

The decision was made for him. Christina van Hoeckel threw open the door.

She glared. Her face was red, puffy and wet with tears. A pink singlet stretched over her huge bosoms. Yellow slimed her front. Red specks stained the slime.

'About bloody time,' she bitched before doing a double take of the baton in his hand. She registered their gun-draw stances and snapped, 'You won't need your fucking guns.'

Franklin slipped the baton onto his duty belt and relaxed. Out of Christina's line of sight, Slam lifted his eyebrows and swivelled his eyes towards her and downwards. At first, Franklin thought his mate was ogling her boobs. Then he noticed her hands.

The shakes weren't remarkable.

The fresh nicks were.

'She's all yours.'

The speaker dripped sarcasm, added a lip-curl and soft snort.

Franklin recognised the man from his previous visit and held up a hand. 'Wait here. We'll have some questions.'

'It's got nothing to do with me.'

'That right, Christina?'

Distractedly, she flapped a hand. 'No, he didn't do anything.'

Franklin let him go for now.

The bloke pushed past and tossed Christina another contemptuous glance. He strode to a car parked in front of the neighbour's house and slammed the door.

Franklin wondered if it signified the end to their love affair.

Christina watched her boyfriend speed away and resumed her wails. When she stamped her feet in a toddler's tantrum, Franklin wanted to shake or slap her. He did neither.

Sprague cleared his throat.

Franklin introduced his offsider, then prompted, 'You reported an attack, Christina?'

Still hysterical, she led them down the short hallway to a bedroom. There, her baby shrieked between hiccups. His face was beet red. Shards of glass lay at the foot of his cot. The ragged curtain over his window fluttered.

Christina's breaths shuddered. She worked to compose herself.

'Look at this.' She picked up a large honeycomb rock. Fragments and blood flecked its surface. 'It just missed poor little Bails!'

Curiously, she didn't go to her child. Franklin lifted him from the cot. Bailey gazed with saucer eyes, then snuffled into the blue shirt. Franklin stroked the boy's back.

'He doesn't seem to be hurt.'

'The arsehole just missed him. Poor little Bails.' Christina dropped the rock, missing her toes by centimetres. She wrapped arms across her chest and chafed her hands.

'You want a coffee, Christina?'

She nodded a yes to Slam. Then stared at where he'd stood while he clattered nearby.

In an eerie monotone, she said, 'I was in the kitchen and heard this big crash. At first, I thought something'd exploded. Then I realised it sounded like glass breaking. Bailey howled and I spilt his food all over me' - she gestured at the goo on her top - 'and a bit went on the floor. I was glued to the spot. Then I snapped out of it and went to go to Bailey's room but I slipped over on the stuff I'd spilt. Dazza came running out of the shower and we got to Bailey's room at the same time. I saw the torn curtain, glass everywhere and a hole in the window. I couldn't look at Bailey's cot. I was so worried what I'd see.'

She faced Franklin. 'Do you get what I mean?'

He pictured the recent car and minibus accident. The way he'd switched to autopilot to face the carnage, although it didn't stop him being sickened by what he'd witnessed. 'Yeah, I do.'

The baby rubbed a fist into his eye. Franklin thought he'd soon be asleep.

'I screamed and picked up bits of glass with my hands. I got all these cuts and that freaked me out even more, so I flicked the blood off my fingers. It went everywhere. Darren slapped me. And yelled at me to shut up. He told me to shut Bailey up too. I peeked at Bails then. And I saw he wasn't hurt. I nearly wet myself. Relief. You know?'

She waited for his nod.

'Coffee's ready,' Slam called.

Franklin turned to the doorway. Christina's sudden grip startled him. She gestured towards Bailey. She took him and smothered her child's crown in kisses. She sniffed his downy hair and wet it with fresh tears.

'It's not fair. He could have hurt my baby -'

'Who, Christina? You know who's responsible, don't you.' He said it as a statement, not query. 'It's not kids, like you said on Tuesday, is it?'

She tightened her arms around Bailey and brushed past. In the lounge room Slam had arranged mugs and biscuits. Franklin shook his head at his partner's unspoken query. The two men sipped coffee and watched Christina rock her baby.

She murmured a non-stop mantra. Incoherently.

Then she fixed on Franklin. 'I'll talk to you but not him.' She pointed at Sprague.

Franklin tried to reason with her. It was useless. He lifted his palms to Slam, who retreated to the truck.

'I don't know who did it exactly. All I know is that he calls himself Solomon.'

Franklin choked on biscuit crumbs.

'I've had letters from this creep. He wrapped one around the rock today too.'

Christina placed Bailey on his play mat and disappeared. She returned with a bundle of crumpled notes, the topmost dirt- and blood-stained and more wrinkled than the rest.

Before Franklin read the letter, she said, 'I wanted to tell you on Saturday. When he wrote on my car bonnet "Atone Whore" with lipstick and then broke all the windows. And he wrecked Bailey's capsule. Why would he do that?'

She waited for Franklin's reply. He shrugged, for lack of a good answer.

'But then I got scared and all mixed up,' she continued. 'What if going to the cops made him even angrier and he did something worse? So I rang to tell you to back off. But at the same time, I kinda didn't want you to listen. I wanted you to keep going and catch the creep. But I didn't think he'd go further than smashing up my car. I never expected he'd do this. You know, actually attack me or Bailey. Dazza's jack of it. He reckons I'm too much of a liability with a sicko stalking me and Bails.'

She broke off, crying. Franklin scanned the letter.

 

Whore, you are evil. You sicken good Christians, are a home-wrecker and besmirch our Society. You are not a clean or worthy woman and you do not live virtuously. Every day you live is in Sin. I am ANGRY that you have not responded to my letters. You have not changed your ways. I told you to Atone, Whore, but you have ignored me. Adulterous women shall be punished. You will pay for your Sins. You and your bastard.

Solomon

 

'Some Christian.' Christina sniffed. 'This guy must live in the dark ages.'

'How's that?'

'I'm only doing what most women would.'

Franklin forced his brows not to rise.

'So I like men -'

'And don't mind if they're married.'

'So? Dazza's wife doesn't satisfy him and I can. No strings.'

'Perfect relationship,' Franklin said dryly. Even as he said it, he acknowledged he had no right to judge Christina. Not for being an unwed mother, promiscuous or sleeping with a married man. Not for anything at all, unless she broke the law.

Pity Solomon's worldview was so skewed that he didn't realise the same thing. As such a devout Christian, why didn't he leave it to God to sort Christina out? Why target the baby? And, more importantly, did the rock miss Bailey's cot by luck or design?

Solomon had raised the stakes. Why? What had pushed him beyond his nasty little letters? And how close was he to the edge of the abyss?

What would he do next? Would he kill?

Worries and pieces of the riddle preoccupied Franklin after he and Slam left the van Hoeckel residence, even while they interviewed the few neighbours who were home.

'Well, are you going to tell me what else is going on?' Slam asked.

'Huh?'

'Don't act the innocent, mate. There's more to this story than a random rock through the window, isn't there?'

'Hmm.' Franklin dodged with, 'Bloody typical that nobody saw or heard a thing. It always amazes me.'

'Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak to no cops, except about what's common knowledge.'

'Oh well, that means less to write up.'

'Yeah, that's true.' Slam brightened, then reverted to his earlier train of thought. 'What were you scribbling in that daybook of yours?'

Franklin ignored his buddy. He tuned out the police radio. Trees flicked by, their leaves browning and dropping. He thought they were symbolic.

 

He had too many questions and too few answers; meanwhile Solomon's actions had taken an ominous twist.

Franklin had hoped for a break in the case. A tie between the women other than the Ballarat Base Hospital and that they were single mums in Daylesford. As yet to run it by three of the mums, he only had a fifty per cent strike rate on Art Hammer so far. Cathy had never met the bloke; Christina had been harassed by him at various pubs but thought he was all talk and no action. As to Earl Blue and his odd-bod behaviour at the Daylesford Community Church, Christina didn't recognise him from the photo and she had no connection with the church. The bugger hadn't phoned him back either. He needed to follow up with Blue and check back with the other mums on both local wackos soon.

OK, so what did he have right now?

Bailey van Hoeckel: aged five months, born at the Trentham Bush Nursing Hospital.

Significance: Solomon's games dated back to at least October and the hospital link was demoted to tenuous at best, unless a staffer worked at both Ballarat and Trentham. The person could be an agency nurse or aide.

Shit, that could mean more hospitals and more victims.

Franklin jotted a reminder to check the agency angle.

The letter-wrapped rock was the work of a psycho who'd scrutinised Christina subsequent to sending his initial letters. Who'd witnessed her relationship with a married father of two, along with, as the latest gossip had it, another couple of local blokes. That someone apparently blended in so well that no one on West Street noticed him that morning, either before or after hurling the rock.

Presumably a local, could even be a neighbour. Franklin added the idea to his book and rechecked his interview notes.

Christina negated correlation to a mothers' group or specific medical clinic, whereas the maternal health centre and a number of local businesses were solid connectors between the women.

But what if Solomon lacked official association with any of these? How would Franklin narrow in on him?

And what if Solomon was a woman? Not much would surprise him in this perplexing case.

He debated whether it was time to get the suits involved or share his inquiries with the Daylesford team. Franklin was loath to do either. Christina begged him not to divulge the Solomon-stalker aspect of the case. Brazen she may be but she didn't fancy being dubbed 'the whore who copped a rock through the window' particularly as she hoped to talk Darren back into her bed.

Franklin ticked off a mental list to justify keeping quiet. He couldn't care less about Christina and even wasn't too concerned about Tayla and Lauren but he'd protect Cathy Jones's privacy wherever possible. Besides, the CI boys were perpetually busy and under-resourced, so they would handball it back to the local uniforms. This would mean more meaningless paperwork and delays as they battled interdepartmental, bureaucratic bullshit. What could the detectives or his workmates do that he wasn't already onto? It wasn't serious enough - yet - to necessitate upscaling the investigation. He and Sprague went through the usual motions in a criminal damage case. They hadn't done any less than required due to Franklin's omission. And he still had Blue and Hammer to chase.

On a personal level, the case was big and exciting. Chilling. But exciting. Franklin resolved to hang onto it a little longer and see if he could crack it. Then he'd establish if he possessed aptitude for CIU work. And if he did, what then? Well, it might not be too late to apply for the suits in his forties, when Kat grew more independent or left home.

The certainties in life were death and taxes. And change. You always needed to be ready for change. Donna taught him that one early on. Maybe he should give her a call and thank her. One day.

 

Jenny McGuire resembled a horse. She wore a chestnut ponytail drawn back from a long face. Her laugh was a bray crossed with a neigh and seemed more to do with a nervous disposition than a happy one. She'd pulled up outside the Hepburn Shire Advocate in an older model Ford Telstar sedan, its gold-brown duco faded and patchy. That Georgie had waited outside her office at 9.00am had visibly thrown the journalist; she'd probably anticipated an uneventful Thursday morning in sleepy Daylesford.

Georgie considered Daylesford anything but sleepy and uneventful. She didn't personally know people in Melbourne with underworld connections, yet they were behind every fence post here.

'You want to see our archives?' McGuire repeated, incredulous.

'Aren't they computerised?'

The journo's mouth twitched. 'Depends. These days, yes. A few years back, not so much. What period are you looking at?'

'Five years ago.'

McGuire gave a shrug.

'Paper archives then.' Georgie added, 'Unless you have a copy of the "local hero" article you wrote on Roland Pentecoste handy?'

A blush spread over McGuire's face and neck in ugly blotches. It resembled red ink diffusing on tissue and fascinated Georgie.

But when she didn't answer, Georgie acted off-handed. 'Doesn't matter. I'll have a peek at the copy around that time and find it. I guess the Pentecostes cropped up in the paper a lot back then.'

'What do you expect to find?'

Georgie blew a raspberry. 'I'll know when I see it.'

'What's it to you? Are you doing a story on it?' McGuire fingered Georgie's business card. She reread: freelance writer and editor.

'Not sure.' Georgie again replied candidly. There could be a story in it. Perhaps she'd toss out the novel-in-progress taking up her bottom drawer and adapt this real-life drama.

Resigned, McGuire grabbed a set of keys and jerked her thumb. Georgie tracked behind down a corridor and into a dungeon-like room that smelled musty despite the newness of the Advocate building. McGuire indicated the approximate starting point and stomped away.

Georgie faced an array of boxes and sighed. Then she set to work. Several of the boxes were incompletely labelled, which made a tedious task torturous. But she eventually located the relevant carton and carried it to the tiny laminate-topped desk on metal legs flanked by a low-backed, hard plastic chair.

Rather than jumping to D-day, Georgie selected a pile of papers within a three-month period - from one month before the fire at Abergeldie - in order to picture the township. No mean feat as she had to arrange the papers chronologically first.

Finally, the newspapers were organised, yet she procrastinated. She considered McGuire's question. She asked herself what she expected to find. Her honest answer was nothing. Stuff all. But she needed to go through the motions and hoped to stumble across a clue that would piece the jigsaw together. It appeared that stumbling on information could be her forte.

For a non-local, the contents ranged between unremarkable to laughable with a few in the 'totally cringeworthy' category. A substantial percentage of each weekly edition comprised real estate adverts and trade classifieds. Tourism matters rated of crucial importance and often covered opening pages. A host of local organisations advised on events, issues and projects. The police reported crime statistics, prevention and other community topics. Hot news tended to be the wins of local identities - from record sales at the stockyards to a debutante making good at the trots. The local births, deaths and marriages section contained unflattering photographs, humdrum stories and complex pedigrees. Free legal advice, a television guide and gardening column were regulars towards the back. Public notices outnumbered the negligible employment opportunities. Predominantly male sport commandeered the rear spread.

The personal ads engrossed her the most. Seeking same sex, swingers and a Sagittarius. Whatever turns you on.

Among the drivel, Georgie discovered various mentions of the Pentecostes in context to their farming and community involvement. No hint of entanglement in scandal, controversy or legal dispute.

She reached for the edition around the date of Roly Pentecoste's disappearance and coincidently his interview with McGuire. Her temples ached and she massaged them. Maybe her eyesight was affected because she had to scan the paper thrice.

 

Franklin beat a tattoo with his fingers. Each ring made him more certain he'd be unlucky yet again. But as he was about to hang up, he heard, 'Blue residence. Hello?'

He identified himself and asked for Earl Blue.

The woman hesitated. 'What's this in relation to?'

'I'd like to speak with Earl - he's your son, yes?'

'Yes.' She sounded even cagier now.

'So I'd like to speak with your son about some incidents in town -'

'Have those radicals from the Community Church stirred up new trouble for him?'

'This is not in relation to the Community Church. Why would you think it might be?'

'They caused him trouble last year.'

Other way around, as Pastor Danni told it. And he knew who he trusted.

'But whatever they're saying about him now, it isn't true.'

'How can you be certain until you know what it's about?' He felt baffled.

'Has this got anything to do with White Lake, Wisconsin?'

What the fuck is she on about? 'Wisconsin in America?'

Franklin didn't have control of this conversation. And he reckoned that Earl Blue inherited his nutter genes from his mother.

Mrs Blue laughed; a brittle, high chortle. 'My Earl is at a Christian camp in Wisconsin in the good ol' US of A. And before that, he was at a conference retreat in Ohio and before that he was doing some schooling over there.'

Is she setting up her son's alibi here?

Casually, he asked, 'When was he at home last?'

He crossed his fingers, kind of wanted Earl Blue to be his crook at this stage.

'Just after that pastor' - she spat the word - 'from the so-called Community Church kicked him out.' She paused, then added, 'End of September last year.'

Franklin screwed up his mouth. If Mrs Blue's claims were corroborated, Earl Blue could not be Solomon.

He could not have tossed the rock through Christina van Hoeckel's window or trashed her car from America and the letters were postmarked locally, so he couldn't have sent them either.

Earl Blue might be off the hook. But at least he still had his prime suspect: Art Hammer.

 

Three checks confirmed her eyesight wasn't faulty.

Although the Advocate went to print on Mondays, the team had managed a considerable reshuffle to feature the fire at Abergeldie on page one. An image of frantic efforts to contain the blaze covered three quarters of the page, while the editor's text embellished the scanty details available.

Ironically, a short article on page three reported the huge success of a Rotary Club meeting and dinner on the Saturday night before the fire. An accompanying photograph depicted Roland Pentecoste, his arms slung around the shoulders of Lewis Davis and a Bill Noonan. Doug Macdougall linked to the human chain via his mate Davis.

Georgie noticed the 'second and final week' dinner package at Windows on Vincent that Susan and Roly took up on the fateful Sunday evening.

What was omitted interested her more. McGuire's local hero piece on Roly had presumably been postponed in the reshuffle.

One other article caught her attention. It had McGuire's byline.

 

LOCAL MAN KILLED IN HIT AND RUN

A young local man died on his way to hospital on Saturday evening following a hit and run incident on lower Raglan Street, Daylesford.

The pedestrian was struck by a vehicle at approximately 9.40pm on Saturday.

A male witness attended to the victim while waiting for the ambulance; however, the 28-year-old man lost his life before reaching hospital.

Police are appealing to the driver to come forward or for anyone with information to contact officers at the Daylesford station or telephone Crime Stoppers.

Callers can remain anonymous.

The man who arrived at the scene shortly after the accident is not currently available for further questioning.

 

Georgie heard an echo of Pam Stewart's words: that Roly had 'gone to the aid of an accident' the evening before the fire. She supposed he was the unnamed witness.

Vexed at time wasted on reading instead of action, she flipped through the successive editions. She found articles Susan had clipped; and a follow-up piece on the hit and run that named the victim as Joseph Bigagli of no fixed address, whose mother lived in nearby Creswick.

After re-filing the papers, she exited the dungeon. A surly youth with numerous piercings manned the reception desk. Georgie interpreted through hand signals and shoulder shrugs that McGuire was on a mission, probably avoiding the question: Why did the Advocate dump her feature on Roly Pentecoste? Such a story would have been timely while debate about the local personality thrived.

But more urgent questions screwed Georgie's brain. Why the journalist didn't name the accident witness. What she knew about Joseph Bigagli. Whether the culpable driver was ever arrested. And what she thought of the allegations against John Schlicht, aka the Iceman, in particular about his part in Roly's supposed murder.

She planned to interrogate McGuire face-to-face. Her fiery blush and body language were liable to reveal more than she articulated.

 

Georgie leaned against the Advocate's exterior and noticed a police wagon whiz past.

She speed-dialled a number and lit a cigarette.

First, they exchanged greetings. Next, she put her request to Matt Gunnerson. 'Matty, I need a favour.'

'Burst my bubble, why don't you? I thought you longed to hear my sexy voice.'

She visualised his eyebrow wiggle.

'Oh, if I didn't live with your brother. Anyway, much as it's always fun to talk to you, this is serious.'

'Fire away, Gee. What you got?'

'Something right up the alley of an intrepid crime reporter.'

Georgie gave details of the hit and run. Although it could prove irrelevant, the timing and vagueness of the Advocate's report intrigued her.

She could almost hear Matty's back crack as he sat taller, hooked. He promised to research the tabloids.

'What else can I do?'

Down, boy. Just a little too eager there. It would be a race to see who wrote the story first at this rate.

After thinking on it, Georgie also solicited whatever he could rake up on Jenny McGuire. The local journo made her antennae twitch.

 

'Fucking hell. What's she up to now?'

Franklin pulled a U-turn at the roundabout and headed to the Coles car park. He zoomed into an empty space near the Advocate and slammed his door before Sprague closed his folder.

'Hoy, Harvey. I've got a bone to pick with you.'

The writer dropped her cigarette and ground it with a sandalled heel. Her eyes bored into Franklin's. They were deep brown pools that may as well have been steel shutters. He couldn't fathom her thoughts.

'Yeah? I planned to drop by today. You saved me the trouble.'

Cocky bitch. 'You could face charges for your little efforts at Abergeldie the other day, Ms Harvey.'

'What?'

'Break and enter. Unlawful entry. Theft -'

'You've got to be kidding -' She looked shifty saying it.

'C'mon, guys,' Slam murmured. 'Calm down, will you?'

'So, what have you done about Susan?' Harvey demanded. 'Found her yet?'

'There's no reason whatsoever to be concerned for Susan Pentecoste.' The moment he said it, Franklin felt a tad hypocritical. Only yesterday he'd told Lunny things weren't kosher at Abergeldie. Incensed though, he couldn't backtrack.

'Thought as much. Done nothing. Right?' She dropped her voice but not the exasperated tone and proceeded to update her so-called investigation.

Franklin shook his head. He caught a glimpse of Slam watching them both with a grin. He'd no doubt be on the blower to Harty as soon as this was over.

'So,' Harvey challenged, 'am I the only one that realises Susan's behaviour is connected to her husband's murder?'

'What?' He repeated Georgie's earlier exclamation.

She spouted her far-fetched theories, then asked from left field, 'How can I get in touch with Bill Noonan?'

'Why, so you can harass him too?' Franklin exploded. 'What's my old boss got to do with your crack-pot ideas?'

'Crack-pot ideas, my-'

'Calm down, you two.' Slam tried to pull Franklin away. 'Everyone's watching you make dickheads of yourselves.'

Franklin scanned the area and saw he wasn't exaggerating. Blood rushed to his face. He swallowed his retort and signalled a truce. 'Agree to disagree?' he suggested.

She fixed him with those sphinx-like eyes. Without severing scrutiny, she tapped a cigarette from its packet, lifted it to her lips and cupped one hand as she flicked her lighter. Her pupils reflected the flame. She drew back, the tip of her tongue pointed between her teeth. Puckered lips blew a stream of smoke in his direction.

She'd no doubt intended to be insolent. Yet for some strange reason, Franklin found the gesture immeasurably sexy.

And that made Georgie-bloody-Harvey even more infuriating.

 

Even if she hadn't recognised Douglas Macdougall from the Advocate's photograph of the four middle-aged Rotarians, Georgie would have been tipped off by his prominent Scottish brogue. She accosted him in the banking chamber as he conferred with Banker Two. Cornered, he agreed to an interview.

Though a reluctant host, he was a gracious one. Of course, that could simply be the country way. And would account for the thicker waistlines on country folk than their city opposites sported. In any event, Macdougall plied his visitor with coffee and jam tarts before they got serious.

Lewis Davis may have warned his pal about Georgie but that didn't mean Macdougall was prepared for her questions.

'Can you describe the last time you saw Roly?'

The banker's nose turned pulse red. Oh fuck. He started to bawl. Men weren't supposed to bawl; Georgie would have coped better with anger. She averted her gaze.

'He's dead. It's not fair. The bastards. They murdered him.' His accent grew stronger and harder to decipher.

Georgie passed a box of tissues from his desk and wriggled her toes as a distraction while the Scotsman recovered.

Eventually he took a hiccupping breath and lifted his head.

'Who murdered him?' She scanned his reactions. 'Schlicht and his gang?'

Macdougall's face blanched, then flushed. He exploded into another bout of sobs. 'I don't know,' he replied.

He seemed sincere; there were no evasive or guilty 'tells' that Georgie could distinguish, so she steered him back to the day before Roly disappeared.

'If I'd known. Ach, we had a grand night. Lewis, Billy, Roly-boy and me. We had our meeting; the Rotary meeting. And later on, we went to the pub and downed a few ales. It were about nine o'clock when we got there. We spent the next hour or so together and Roly left about, och, ten or a wee bit earlier.'

'You're certain of the times?'

He squirmed and confessed, 'As best I can be sure. We have our usual habits and I cannot recall it being different, so I think it's a fair estimate.'

'Douglas, do you know what Roly did after he left the pub?'

'Aye. He had to park on the lower end of Raglan because the street were packed when we got there for the meeting. On his way back, he came across a man who'd been run over.'

Georgie's spine tingled. 'Joey Bigagli?'

Macdougall considered the name and nodded. 'Aye.'

She urged him on.

He explained that Roly had stayed with the inert Bigagli until the ambulance arrived. Bill Noonan was the Daylesford police sergeant back then and a friend of the Pentecostes, plus a fellow Rotarian. Roly called him directly after reporting the accident and Bill rushed to the scene. Later, Roly went home to Susan and bed.

'Do you think this accident involving Bigagli sparked what occurred at Abergeldie the next night?'

Macdougall raised his palms, then dropped them on the desk.

Georgie tested an alternative motive. 'Can you think of anything controversial involving Roly - or even Susan - at that stage? Say, anyone they were feuding with?'

'No. He were well respected. Everyone liked them both.'

'Did you see him on the Sunday? The day he went missing.'

'No. We had a wee talk on the phone, chewing over this poor Joey Bigagli fellow. Mind, everyone were talking about it in town. We woulda caught up on Wednesday, like usual. We always met at my place on a Wednesday to play a few hands of cards and for a wee drop of single malt.' He smiled at the memory of a happier era. Then the corners of his mouth drooped. 'What's the relevance?'

'Not sure yet,' Georgie admitted. 'But things are beginning to click. There has to be a connection between this hit and run, what happened to Roly and whatever Susan is up to.'

Macdougall reacted by bursting into tears again.

Georgie mumbled that Susan was bound to be fine and left.

Fortunately for Macdougall the vertical blinds afforded privacy to his office.

On the down side, the man's breakdown prevented her questioning Lewis Davis's hostility. And why Douglas Macdougall had avoided her previous visit.

 

Heat whacked Georgie's face as she left the frigid bank; it had to be the hottest day in ages. Something else whacked her: she'd not asked Macdougall how to contact Bill Noonan. She'd made yet another bloody stupid mistake. Should she return to find out? Georgie winced and climbed inside the Spider, determined to find an easier way to locate the retired policeman.

No more man-tears today, please.

A loop past the Advocate confirmed McGuire remained AWOL, so she took a pit stop.

'Any news, dear?'

Georgie slipped through the cottage's entrance with a headshake. She fumbled inside her handbag, to dodge the changes in Pam Stewart.

Susan's friend was as immaculately dressed and coiffed as usual. She still moved with the elegance of a dancer. But she seemed smaller and fragile. She'd dropped weight or shrunk.

'Nothing your end, then?'

The older woman answered with a grimace.

As she loaded Georgie with food, Pam bombarded her with questions. Georgie began her update and soon lost her appetite. She pushed the club sandwich aside.

Throughout the account, Pam's expressions oscillated between wide-eyed disbelief, laughing delight and tearful despair. It exhausted Georgie to watch. Clearly her report had been information overload for the older woman.

Or that was how she justified her omission of the threat left on the Spider's windscreen.

'Bill Noonan? The ex-policeman? I wish I could help.' Pam tugged at her elegant blouse. Its sequinned waistband skewed to the other side. 'Really, Bill and I and his wife, Gabby, we've little more than a passing acquaintanceship. I can't recall whether they live here in Daylesford or nearby. I have never needed to phone them myself. Bill and Roly, on the other hand, they were like this.' She held up crossed fore- and mid-fingers.

Soon, they digressed, as they generally did.

'You and Adam, dear. How are things at home?'

'Confusing. Good. Better, overall. I guess I haven't told him much regarding this Schlicht angle, yet.'

'Much?'

'Nothing,' Georgie confessed. 'He wasn't too happy about my run-in with Roger and Mick. He'd spit it at a whiff of organised crime and might try something stupid like telling me to leave it alone. And that could be the snapping point in our relationship.'

Pam patted her hand and clucked.

Why do we tell strangers things we scarcely admit to ourselves?

Georgie tore off a crust and chewed without tasting.

Screw that, Pam's not a stranger.

She rose. 'Things to do, people to see.'

She refused a bed for the night. She preferred the anonymity of a motel where her irregular comings and goings wouldn't disturb anyone. Besides, she couldn't function without nicotine, the single vice they differed on to date.

'Blast Margaret,' Pam exclaimed as they walked towards Georgie's car. 'If only she'd pick up the phone. She must have seen your note.'

'You'd think so. And that one phone call could solve this whole thing.'

'I wish Susan had told me what she planned to do.'

'Or kept in touch while she's away.'

'We must keep trying them both, dear. Let's ring them at every chance. We'll strike it lucky sooner or later. Look at the progress you've made already.'

Hell, yeah, great progress. One step forward, two steps back. Damn shame it wasn't the other way round.

 

Franklin ducked out when Slam was busy. He'd logged a phone call to the camp where Earl Blue supposedly lodged but at around 11pm last night in Wisconsin time, he didn't expect progress on that for a while.

Something about Mrs Blue's eagerness to supply itinerary and relevant contact details for her son convinced him she was telling the truth, but he'd go through the motions to exhaust the line of inquiry.

Right now though, he visited Roz at the Farmers Arms.

'Beer, Franklin?'

'Nah, thanks. Still on duty.'

She leaned across the counter and brushed strands of her auburn bob behind her ear. 'What can I do you for, then?'

'Art Hammer.'

Her facial expression changed but he couldn't interpret it.

'Seen him lately? Some of the other local publicans haven't.'

'You don't know?' Roz pivoted her head to check the patrons. All were happy for now.

'Know what?' He didn't like where this conversation seemed headed.

'Poor Art died.'

'You're kidding?'

'Heart attack while he was giving them heaps at the Radio Springs.'

'Shit, poor bugger.'

Roz nodded. The man may have been a pest but she clearly had sympathy for him. 'They took him to hospital but he didn't make it.'

Franklin's mind jumped. 'He rode out as far as Lyonville on his pushbike?'

'Apparently so.' Roz straightened. She crossed her arms under her boobs. 'The man got about.'

'Shit,' Franklin repeated, still stunned. 'When did this happen?'

How did I miss it?

'About three or four weeks ago.'

A punter called for a drink. Roz turned to serve him.

Meanwhile, Franklin calculated back three or four weeks. It tallied with Kat's suspension at school. He'd obviously taken his ear off the ground while preoccupied on the home front.

If he'd kept his mind on the job better, he wouldn't have wasted all that effort trying to find a dead man.

And he may have nabbed the real Solomon by now.

 

Cow dung, sweet hay and sweaty armpits - despite standing a good three metres from Mick and Roger, the combined odours were heady. She had seen the men notice her car draw up the gravel driveway and likewise caught their glance as she entered the paddock via a large gate that squealed on its hinges. Yet, now they ignored her. It pissed Georgie off.

Mind you, she reckoned it was a cumulative bad mood, chiefly caused by her earlier clash with Senior Dickhead John Franklin and the man-tears encounter with Douglas Macdougall. Or had she turned anti-male? Nope. Matty had lightened her day and promised to fax his finds to the awful but cheap motel where she would again kip for the night, plus ring with more information that evening. So she wasn't about to spurn anyone based on what swung between their legs.

'Hey, Mick, Roger. Could we have another chat?'

At the sound of her voice, Trigger lifted his head and stared. Mick scowled and muttered. Roger removed his battered akubra and scratched his scalp. Neither of the men looked her way.

'Susan hasn't shown up, has she?' Georgie persisted.

'Nup,' was Roger's sparse reply. He fiddled with the windmill parts strewn over the ground.

OK, time for Plan B. Georgie retrieved a bag from the Spider's passenger seat and returned.

'Look, I've got nice cold cokes here. Why don't we call a truce and I shout you for info?'

Roger and Mick ogled the cans and traded glances before nodding. They sat on the open tailgate of the ute and sipped the soft drinks. Father and son appeared relaxed but Georgie positioned herself ready for a quick getaway and furthest from the vigilant blue heeler.

'What can you tell me about Roly?'

Too open-ended, her question dangled. She tried again.

'I gather he was a nice guy and everyone got on well with him - as they do with Susan?' Georgie cringed at her reference to Roly in past tense. She hoped for once to be wrong.

'Yeah, Mr P was a great bloke,' said Roger.

'A great bloke,' Mick echoed.

Those few words suggested that they (added to her, Pam and Macdougall) thought of Roly in past tense. Already more information than she'd gleaned from the farmers two days ago.

Unsure if they would remain cooperative, Georgie repeated the question causative of a fifty-cent sized bruise over her collarbone. 'What do you think happened to him?'

'Dunno.'

'Did he have dealings with John Schlicht?'

She thought Mick flinched but couldn't be definite.

'Can you think of a reason why this so-called Mr Big from Melbourne might have harmed Roly?'

'Nup.'

Frustrated, Georgie tried a wild card. 'Was Roly mixed up in something even a little bit dodgy?'

Roger pulled his mouth into a straight line and scraped the toe of his right boot into the dry ground. He dug a small hollow.

His son wiped a bead of sweat off his nose.

Georgie swore silently and persevered. 'Was he involved in a business deal at the time of the fire?'

The veneer of cooperation dropped. Roger bristled and Mick glared at his father, as if to say, 'I told you so.' Georgie brushed aside the question with a sweep of her hand, yet vowed to tack back later.

She gave them an easy one to calm the strained atmosphere. 'I know that Roly went to the Rotary dinner on Saturday night and on his way home he came across Joey Bigagli, who'd been in a car accident. Right?'

Roger's shoulders loosened. 'Yep.'

As he felt the tension leave his master, Trigger's chin dropped onto outstretched paws.

'OK, so what did Roly get up to on the Sunday? Anything out of the ordinary?'

'Nuh, don't think so. I think we all did the usual round here. Don't ya reckon, Mick?'

His son signalled agreement.

The dog sighed. Georgie's peripheral vision caught his eyelids drooping.

'So, you guys were working the farm back then?' She knew this but wanted the men to stay chilled.

'Yeah but then we was labourin' for the Ps. Mr P did all the work with us, but. These days we run the place, kinda.'

Georgie pressed on. 'You took over with a leasehold a few years after the fire. Had you planned this with Roly? I mean, did he plan to hand over the run of the place when he and Susan retired?'

Mick nodded emphatically. Trigger groaned in his sleep.

Roger hesitated and said, 'Not exactly.'

'Dad!'

'Son, 'twas bound to come out. Thought it would've been before now.'

Cool it, girl. Georgie frowned to conceal her excitement. She sifted her previous questions and the farmers' reactions.

She hazarded, 'Were you working on a business deal with Roly?'

'Sort of.'

Mick drained his can and squeezed it into an aluminium wad.

Not a happy chappie.

'What was the deal?'

Roger scratched his scalp again, examined his fingernails and flicked gunk from under them. He faced Georgie. She was intrigued to literally see his forehead smooth. With relief?

'My old lady cleaned us out when she left and our little farm was all we had. 'Twas small but it had a little house - nothin' fancy but it did us. And the bank was gunna fore…forec…you know.'

'Foreclose?'

'That's it.'

Georgie guessed, 'So Roly helped you out with a loan or gift that would get the bank off your back?'

'Yup. He gave us twenty grand. That kept the bank sweet and we got to keep our place. We'd still help here, but. We'd never not want to work here.' He gazed at the emerald landscape fondly. 'We hadn't worked out how we'd repay Mr P. He said he didn't care. Then the fire happened and…'

Georgie tried to understand their motive. 'And you haven't mentioned the loan, or gift, or whatever you want to call it, because the police might've treated you as suspects in what happened to Roly? Or were you worried that Susan would ask you to repay it?'

After a long pause, Roger said, 'I dunno. We couldn't pay it back and didn't wanna talk about it, I s'pose. 'Twas embarrassin' havin' to take Mr P's money coz we got in trouble on the gee-gees.'

'You nearly lost your farm because of horse gambling?'

Maybe her voiced pitched, because Mick interjected, 'We don't take a bet much anymore.'

Yeah right, mate. Lying to me is going to make it true?

Mick's deep flush matched his father's, whether because of the fib or their secret.

Georgie shrugged. Everyone has their demons. Hell, she didn't expect a nomination for sainthood in this lifetime.

'We felt bad when Mrs P asked us to take over the farm. It's a bit like double-dippin'. We had nothin' to buy in with so we lease it. She don't want much rent, just a cut of whatever we pull in. And we've never told her about the twenty-G.'

Roger hunched, ashamed.

'OK, that's all out in the open.' Georgie brushed her hands together. 'Done and dusted for now. But…you owe me. What happened to Roly and what Susan's up to - I think they're connected.'

She scrutinised their faces.

'Are you still holding back something that might shed light on all this?'

'Nup. But if we did know somethink, we'd tell ya.'

From Mick, this was a breakthrough.

'And the hit and run? Is there a link, do you reckon?'

Unfortunately, Georgie struck out.

'Can't see how,' replied Roger.

'Can't see how,' echoed his son.

 

The motel manager matched negativity with obesity. He wore filthy clothes that didn't flatter his bulk and grunted with the effort of rising from his chair. When he had to refill the paper in the fax machine, he moaned. Then he blatantly read her message as it slowly printed and held it for ransom.

'Four bucks a page.'

A rip-off but she needed that information.

They exchanged cash for the crumpled sheets that'd absorbed his skin oils. He slapped the key to unit ten on the counter.

'You have to get your breakfast menu back here by six-thirty tonight.'

A whole sixteen minutes and crap choices. She'd skip brekkie or go into town.

The thought of food tempted her to the Farmers, to down a hearty steak and few beers. Instead, she kicked off her sandals and sprawled on the bed. Its shiny purple eiderdown, complete with stains and holes, rivalled its burnt orange counterpart in unit six. She smoothed out the wrinkles and rued the oil patches but managed to read Matty's fax.

It was an extract from the Herald Sun.

 

POLICE WARN DRUGS, FATIGUE AND SPEED ARE TAKING TOLL

It has been a horror start to the weekend on Victoria's roads.

In two separate incidents, two lives were lost and three teenagers remain in critical condition.

A dangerous joy ride in Frankston resulted in a fatal collision involving a freeway overpass last night.

The unlicensed driver, aged 16, was not wearing a seat belt at the time of the accident and died instantly.

His three young female companions, aged between 14 and 16, sustained grave injuries and are in critical condition at Alfred Hospital.

Police are also investigating the death of 28-year-old pedestrian, Mr Joseph Bigagli of Creswick, who was struck by a vehicle in Daylesford at 9.40pm yesterday.

According to Mr Roland Pentecoste of Hepburn, who was a witness to Mr Bigagli's accident, the victim lost consciousness when emergency service personnel arrived.

Mr Bigagli died before reaching hospital.

Anyone with information in relation to the Daylesford incident should contact police immediately.

The road toll now stands at 71, 11 more than the same time last year.

A police spokesperson has expressed alarm at this increasing trend and urged Victorians to reduce their speed, not drive if under the influence of drugs or alcohol or when fatigued, and warned against using mobile telephones while operating vehicles.

It is probable that one or more of these factors contributed to yesterday's tragic fatalities.

 

'Very interesting.'

The Herald Sun published more information about a fatality in Daylesford on the morning following the incident than the local rag managed by Monday.

That seemed significant. It all did. She just didn't know how it fit together yet.

With more questions than answers plaguing her mind, Georgie quit the motel.

 

Much later, she awoke. Disorientated. Confused as to what roused her. It took a moment to recall where she was.

Back at the crummy motel.

Georgie sat upright on the double bed. She strained to listen and see. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light penetrating the flimsy curtains and the clock radio which glowed 11.59pm.

A bad dream? What if it wasn't?

Goosebumps pricked her skin.

Although situated on one of the main drags into town, the motel had minimal passing traffic at night and the units were set back. It was doubtful that road noise had stirred her.

As far as she knew, only hers, the manager's residence and one other unit were occupied. She pulled back the curtain. Unit one, non-smoking section: in darkness. Ditto the fat manager's house and the rooms between. The car park contained her Spider and a Volvo outside the first unit. If the manager had a carport or garage, it must be attached to the other side of his place.

Georgie dropped the curtain.

It's nothing. Go back to bed.

She snuggled under the bedcovers and squeezed her eyes, willing sleep.

Fuck. There was something out there. Or someone.

Footsteps?

She lay rigid as her pulse thudded in her ears.

She told herself to calm down. Blamed a stray dog for the crunch of gravel and forced life into her frozen limbs. She tiptoed to the front door but each step sounded too loud.

Georgie slipped the security chain in place. The snick of the chain resounded through the unit. Her breaths turned shallow and fast and audible.

She checked the button on the front door. Locked.

She couldn't remember if the bathroom window was shut. It was even darker in there, so she crept with hands outstretched. She misjudged the layout, bashed her shin against the toilet and stifled a curse. She eased down the lid, stood on it, reached for the window. As she wound it in, she heard a new noise.

Her hand stuck to the window winder.

Georgie snapped her mouth closed and cranked faster until the window shut firm, then snuck to the bedroom. She pushed the sole armchair against the door. It was a slow, terrifying manoeuvre. The heavy chair grazed the industrial carpet. The scrapes were a shrill beacon that announced her location to the intruder.

Georgie reached for her phone.

The front awning rattled.

She fumbled the mobile and it fell to the floor. 'Shit,' she whispered, as she dropped to her knees to grope for it.

More footsteps in the gravel. A pause. Then a metallic scrape. A key - or pick - inserted the throat of the door lock, wiggled and withdrew.

Her fingers struck and then wrapped around the mobile.

Another key twisted in the lock.

She remembered with horror. Matty rang after she'd returned from the pub. The phone beeped and disconnected. She'd stupidly let her battery go flat and come to Daylesford without the charger.

She dropped the useless handset.

Georgie heard a muffled cuss and the jangle of keys.

She cursed choosing a motel so cheap that the unit didn't have a landline. Not that it made much difference. The part-time cop shop on Camp Street would be as empty as the room next door. When help arrived from Ballarat or Castlemaine or wherever, she would be dead or have dealt with it alone.

Well, I opt for the latter, thanks.

Despite her brave internal dialogue, with each of the intruder's moves, Georgie grew more scared. She grabbed the home brand fly spray and Bible. Motel room trusties; practical weapons.

She heard a rough male voice. Her nerves screamed. She held her breath again until her lips numbed.

Breathe. Be quiet.

Another man replied. She strained. Did she recognise the speakers? Impossible to tell.

They seemed to be arguing outside her window but quietly, so not to rouse the occupant: her. She couldn't decipher what they said.

The men's voices became fainter. There was a cuss and scuffle in the gravel.

And shortly after… the distant sound of an engine.

Then, quietness. Blissful fucking silence. Except for the pounding in Georgie's veins. She sank onto the floor and hugged knees to her chest. Her entire body jittered.

You will only get one warning.

Was she on borrowed time?

Eventually, her eyes fluttered. She jolted upright, sucked in a breath and listened. Her smokes lay on the bedside table. A short distance away but two attempts to work her jelly legs failed. She gave up.

Soon, her chin dropped. She vowed to stay awake. Then caught herself coming out of the next doze.