Nina opened her eyes, instantly awake. Normally it took her a few moments to place herself in the new day, but not this morning. Today was the day of reckoning – auction day.
Lockie had arrived last night, and they’d eaten sauce and sausages in rolled-up bread out on the back porch. They’d drunk cider and talked about the remarkable heatwave that had marched unabated into autumn. They’d argued about the tricks and traps of making bids and trawled endlessly over the events of the past few weeks.
Almost a month now since Max disappeared, and the Drover’s community was divided into two camps. Those who believed in her father’s innocence – mainly dry-land farmers and their families and friends. And those who swore he was guilty of murder – mainly irrigators and their supporters. Dad had gone to school with a lot of these people, played football with them, regarded them as mates. He’d known them all his life. But that wasn’t enough to protect him from the grinding rumour mill.
There was no doubting Lockie’s loyalty though. It felt good to have someone so unequivocally on her side. And Nina had missed their talks. A few ciders in, and she’d tackled him on that long-ago schoolyard lie.
‘It was just a joke.’ Lockie’s expression had belied his words. A muscle twitched in his cheek and he couldn’t meet her eyes.
‘So you knew about me and Ric back then. You’ve known all this time.’ Lockie swallowed hard. ‘You should have told me.’ He slid further down in his chair. ‘Your ears have gone red,’ she said.
‘Is it too late to say I’m sorry?’
Nina had let him squirm for a bit. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to be judged for every stupid thing I did at sixteen.’ But a wave of regret had washed over her. Regret for what might have been. She’d traced the wood grain in the tabletop with her finger. His hand had crept over hers and she hadn’t pulled away.
Nina yawned and stretched. Her mind had forgotten how to sleep properly, leaving her body in a constant state of fatigue. She pushed Jinx from the bed, sat up and shook her head to clear it. Today was so important. She needed to focus on the auction, on buying Billabong. On something other than bloody Max and his disappearance, and how it had ruined everything.
The police had been back. They’d interviewed her, along with half of the town. She’d tried to explain that they were wrong to suspect Dad. That he was the one who’d been hurt by Max, not the other way around. That while they were wasting time on this dead-end theory they could have been investigating what really happened. But the detectives had just nodded and exchanged serious, knowing glances, as if her attempts to persuade them were further confirmation of Dad’s guilt.
On the advice of their family solicitor, Mum and Dad had made an appointment with Frank Trumble, a Moree lawyer specialising in criminal cases. Nina had gone along to their first meeting for moral support, and because she didn’t trust her parents to faithfully relay the conversation. Frank Trumble was a hawk-like man, with a thin swooping nose, sharp intelligent eyes and bony fingers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he’d said. ‘We’re a long way yet from any formal investigation.’ He’d cocked his head at them. ‘Missing-body murders are notoriously hard to prove.’
‘But not impossible?’ Mum asked.
‘No, not impossible. But the prosecution has the unenviable task of convincing a jury that someone is, in fact, dead. That they won’t show up alive and well, months after a conviction has been returned.’
‘And exactly how does the prosecution go about doing that?’ asked Nina.
The lawyer shifted his gaze to her. ‘First they must prove that the victim’s normal behaviour has ceased, abruptly and completely. No bank transactions, no phone calls, no contact with friends or relatives, no appointments kept.’
Nina swallowed. That wouldn’t be difficult. As far as she knew, nobody had seen or heard of Max since that last awful afternoon. The lawyer’s casual references to murders and victims had thrown her. ‘Then what?’
‘Then they must present a compelling brief of circumstantial evidence. Motive, for example. They’d have a fair chance with that one.’ Frank’s keen eyes did not miss the glances exchanged between her parents. ‘There is a history of hostility between you and the missing man, Jim, is there not? And you told me that he’d just been discovered stealing water. An unforgiveable crime, wouldn’t you say, considering this dreadful drought?’ Dad shifted in his chair and stayed silent. Frank had pressed his lips together in a thin smile. ‘That sort of thing all goes to motive. Essentially it comes down to means, motive and opportunity. If a suspect satisfies all of these circumstances, the police may take it further.’
Frank Trumble’s words played over and over in Nina’s head as she pulled on a singlet and jeans. She collapsed back on the bed. Means, motive and opportunity. Dad had all three. They’d left the lawyer’s office more worried than when they’d walked in.
Up until now, they’d all been so desperate to find Max. Of course they had, but what if he really was lying dead somewhere out in the wild unforgiving marshlands? Circumstances so far had conspired to make her father look guilty, but finding a body might make things far worse. Maybe it would be best if they never found Max. A sudden shaft of shame prickled her scalp. Best for Dad perhaps. Not best for little Sophie. Not best for Ric, waiting for news back at Donnalee, half mad with grief and worry.
Nina looked in the sock drawer. Empty. She pulled on the socks from yesterday. More and more, her interests and Ric’s were shifting apart. What did they really have in common anyway? Nothing. Nothing except some ancient history and an irrational attraction that wouldn’t put them down or let them go.
A knock came at the door, making her jump. ‘Nine? I’ve got you a cup of tea.’
‘Come in.’ The mug was reassuringly warm and solid in her hand. Lockie rubbed his back. ‘You’re a cruel woman, making me sleep in the spare room. That bed’s got no springs left.’
‘Sook.’
‘Want breakfast?’ he asked. ‘Thought I’d whip up some eggs.’
‘You go ahead. I don’t have the stomach for it.’ She trailed down the hall after him, taking tiny sips of the scalding tea.
Lockie buttered the pan and took a carton of eggs from the fridge. ‘Any sausages left?’ She shook her head and slumped down in a chair. He broke six eggs into a bowl and whisked them with the practised, even strokes of a man at home in the kitchen.
‘I said I didn’t want any.’
He grinned. ‘Who said any of this is for you?’
How could he be so cheerful or so hungry? But it was nice to have him there. She realised, with a strange twinge in her chest, that she was spending more time with Lockie now they’d broken up.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’ He poured the eggs into the pan. ‘Stay in the car while the auction’s going on. Then rub it in James Langley’s face when they knock the place down to me.’
‘No.’ She heaved a deep, disappointed breath. ‘It’s safer if I stay here, in case James sees me beforehand.’
‘Righto.’ He sat down to breakfast and wolfed it down with astonishing speed. ‘Any last-minute instructions, boss?’
‘No, you know what you’re doing. We’ve gone over it a hundred times.’ She looked around her kitchen, took in all the things that were so dear to her, Lockie included. ‘Thanks, Lockie. Really. I’m very grateful. Oh, and that figure I told you? That’s my absolute limit. Don’t get carried away and raise it, no matter what. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ He wiped his hands on the tea towel, drained his tea and stood up. ‘But I’m not the impulsive one around here. Hate to think what’d happen if you got into a bidding war with a cotton farmer. I reckon that absolute limit would fly out the window.’
‘If it was me, I’d probably risk losing Billabong and Red Gums. Definitely best I’m not there. But just the same, the sitting around waiting’s going to kill me.’
Lockie bent towards her, as if for a kiss, then paused and straightened back up. ‘See you.’ He put on his hat. ‘Stay busy. It’ll help.’
The interminable morning wore on. Stay busy. She didn’t really have a choice. So much had been left undone lately. Nina collected a shovel and mattock from the tool shed, loaded them onto the bike and headed to the main pumphouse. When it rained, the floor always flooded. She’d been meaning to dig a drainage ditch to divert the run-off, but the idea of rain had seemed farfetched for so long . . . Still, even this mother of a drought couldn’t last forever and when it broke, she intended to be ready. Nina squinted into the light, looking across the sluggish, shallow water to the north side of the river. The shadow of a movement caught her eye. Ric? No, just a steer sliding down the broken bank for a drink. But the idea of Ric wouldn’t go away, like he’d set up camp in her head.
Nina grabbed the mattock, weighing the comforting heft of it, running her thumb down the smooth handle before going to work. It was hard yakka. The ground was bone dry, and the ditch needed to be a long one. After an hour of digging in full sun, raising the mattock high above her shoulder and sending it crashing down to break the earth, her back ached and she could taste dirt in her mouth and nose. Dust mixed with sweat to sting her eyes and itch her cheeks. It worked its way beneath her nails, down her T-shirt and into her pants. It got down her boots, into her socks and ground between her toes.
But Nina barely noticed how sore and filthy and tired she was because she wasn’t really there any more. She was daydreaming of the evening river, of herself naked in the dim circle of light. Thought and feeling converged into one single stream of memory – down on the cool sand with Ric, his skin pressed against her, his heart within reach.
Nina hurled the mattock away. It was no good; she couldn’t concentrate. Maybe she’d finish this later, inspect the olive trees instead. Leaving the tools where they lay, Nina took the bike back to the house and saddled Monty. She trotted along the rows, noting with satisfaction the healthy silver foliage and heavy crop almost ripe for harvest.
The big grey wouldn’t settle, fussing and tossing his head, setting his jaw against the bit. ‘You bugger,’ she said, losing her hat as he cantered sideways like a crab. Impossible to check the crop like this. She swore and gave him his head. Monty straightened, accelerating into a gallop, head low and ears back. The sensation of speed, the wind whipping her cheeks, the raw equine energy surging through her legs, her seat, her entire body – everything combined to wipe out the worries of the previous few weeks. Who cared about Max, or Ric, or even Billabong? All that mattered was this moment, the adrenaline pumping through her body, and the flesh-and-blood animal racing madly beneath her.
The horse veered through the trees, forcing her to duck branches. She flattened her body along Monty’s neck and spine, merging into his straining body, becoming one with her mount. Out onto the airstrip now, and Nina shut her eyes against the sun glare and urged him on. They tore blindly down the runway, still accelerating until she was sure they would take off and soar skywards. The world was nothing but a raw, moving blur of pounding hooves and straining lungs, smelling of leather and sweat. Nina whooped out loud with the sheer joy of it.
She sensed the swerve before it came. Felt it in his bunching muscles and gathering bones, saw it in the angle of his ears. Hell, she could just about read his mind. When Monty lunged sideways Nina was ready. She gripped hard with her legs, moved with him in perfect balance, steadied his hammering heart with a reassuring hand on the reins. Her horse came to a shuddering stop, forelegs spread, sides heaving, neck lathered with sweat. A mob of grey kangaroos ahead of them bounded for cover. So that’s what had made him shy. Nina let the reins go loose and leaned forward, hugging his damp neck. ‘You finished?’ He snorted and she took that for a yes. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘And thank you, Monty. I needed that.’
It was getting on to noon before the phone finally rang. She took it from her pocket and stared at it, hardly daring to answer. Lockie. ‘Hello?’
‘No go,’ he said. ‘The bids went over your limit.’
Her stomach lurched and she blinked stupidly at the phone, unable to process what she was hearing.
‘Nina, are you there?’
‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘I’m here.’
‘It was a bugger of a thing to happen.’
‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Who bought it?’
‘Two blokes went head to head, had themselves a bit of a bidding war. I dropped out early. If you ask me, it went for more than it was worth.’
‘Who?’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’
An interminable pause. Why couldn’t he just spit it out?
‘Ric Bonelli,’ Lockie said at last. ‘Ric Bonelli bought Billabong Bend.’
The news took a while to sink in. ‘That’s wonderful news,’ she said. ‘The place is safe then.’
‘Hate to burst your bubble, Nine,’ he said. ‘But seems to me you’re taking a lot for granted. Billabong’s prime cotton country.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Nina. ‘Ric would never do anything to harm the wetlands.’ She was sure of it.