All of the lights are on at the farmhouse, and I can hear Valmay Riley shouting at Joe, even before we stop the ute. I’ve never been here in an official capacity, only to buy their oranges. Best you’ll ever taste.
He’s out of the house and running towards us, still dressed in his pyjamas. Apart from Joe and his wife, one or two labourers live at the farm, but only when they’re needed. I’m wondering if the murder might involve one of them.
‘Quick!’ he shouts as he opens my door.
I swing my legs out. ‘House or workers’ quarters?’
Higgins is already out of the ute, but doesn’t move.
‘No, the Pilchers’ place.’ Joe’s tripping over himself in his eagerness to get the words out. ‘Kate Pilcher ran over here for help. She said there was an intruder in her house. She said the intruder killed her husband, but she got away. We rang you first and then the ambulance.’ He must have caught the confusion on my face. ‘The poor bugger,’ he adds, ‘just got home on leave.’
I ask, ‘Where is Mrs Pilcher now?’
‘She’s inside with Valmay.’
‘Good. Keep her here.’ I yell over to Higgins. ‘Get in! We’re going over to the Pilcher place, now. Keep your eyes peeled. There may be an intruder.’ I turn to Joe. ‘We’ll be back soon.’
The ambulance has arrived there ahead of us. I haven’t seen the Pilcher place in a long time and its appearance shocks me. Some of the weatherboards are cracked and others hang off the rotting studs by a nail. In the front, there’s a smashed window and part of the verandah is missing. The garden’s pretty much a dustbowl.
I remember when it was an orchard owned by the Steinbocks. It was well cared for then. They were hounded out of Wangamba during the First World War, and the house was deserted until the Pilchers picked it up for a song not too long ago. They probably had nothing left to spend on it. I would have pulled it down.
Higgins is walking around the house holding a .303 rifle in one hand and a hurricane lamp in the other.
‘Anything?’ I ask.
‘Can’t really see anything much out here in the dark,’ he replies. ‘There’s plenty to see inside.’
The ambulance men are standing at the front door having a smoke. One of them says, ‘We’re just waiting for you before we take the body away. There’s one for the morgue in the kitchen. Just watch where you step, there’s blood everywhere: floor, walls, even the ceiling. It’s like a slaughterhouse.’
I squeeze past them and Higgins follows close behind, treading carefully towards the kitchen doorway. The light’s on.
‘Imagine that: the Huns don’t get you, but some bloke breaks into your house and does you in,’ Higgins remarks. ‘Unlucky bastard.’
The blood sticks to our boots; the sickly-sweet smell of it clings to everything. We’ll have to wash it off before we leave. In the middle of the floor next to the table, Maurie Pilcher is lying face up with a butcher’s knife sticking halfway out of his chest. His eyes are wide open. He’s dressed in a Jackie Howe singlet and Y-fronts. His army dog tag’s covered in blood.
‘Stuck it right into his heart,’ I remark as I crouch down to take a closer look. ‘All I can say is, it would have been quick. He would have been dead when he hit the ground.’
Higgins bends down. ‘Looks frightened to me,’ he observes. ‘I’d be pretty scared too if I saw it coming.’
I look again. I don’t see fear. ‘I reckon he’s more surprised than frightened. As if his last words were, “Why are you doing this?” ’
I lean over and shut his eyes. I stand up and look around. It’s all a bit sad and empty. There are three old wooden chairs and a bare kitchen table; one of the chairs is splintered, a second is on its side and the third chair is standing next to the wall. There’s some corned beef and a piece of cheese on a platter on the dresser. There are plates and cups in the sink. Everything else seems tidy enough, squared-up and shut away. The back door is locked.
I say to Higgins, ‘No one locks their houses out here.’
‘Maybe Mrs Pilcher was worried about someone breaking in,’ he replies.
‘Possibly.’
I make some notes about what I’ve seen, and encourage Higgins to do the same. He scribbles for a few frantic seconds and then he slips the notepad back into his pocket. There’s more to write than that. I doubt he has the makings of a detective. With the war on, we’re short-staffed. Everyone has to take on more responsibility: a police sergeant’s not just a police sergeant these days, and a constable has to be more than the sum of his parts.
I sketch the location of the body, the shape of the blood pool, the stain on the wall and everything else in the room, and then I send Higgins out to get the camera. By now, there’s a creeping light outside, and an early dawn seeps across the horizon. I take as many photographs as I can, and then I let the ambulance officers take Maurie away.
Back at the Riley farm, we leave our hosed-down shoes to dry by the back door, and step into the kitchen in our socks. Valmay’s brewing up a pot of tea.
‘Now that’s a welcome sight,’ I say to her. ‘A nice cuppa’ll hit the spot.’
She smiles and pours me one.
‘So,’ I continue, splashing in some milk out of a bottle, ‘did Kate Pilcher speak to you? When she got here?’
She replies, ‘Oh, she was pretty stirred up, knocking on the door. I’d gone to bed early, so Joe answered. She said something like, help me, he’s stabbed him… I wasn’t sure if she said her husband was dead. I can’t remember exactly: I was all in a tizz, you see. Horrible what’s happened.’
‘Did she say who stabbed him?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘No matter, we’ll work that one out. Could you pour me a second cup of tea please, Mrs Riley?’ I ask. ‘For Kate Pilcher?’
She hands me another cup, and I take both into the lounge room. I don’t know a lot about the Pilchers, except that they’re a young couple who moved from down south, so Maurie could work at the railways. He joined up a year ago. Last I heard, he was posted overseas. Kate is huddled on a settee with a blanket around her knees. She’s pale as a sheet and her hands tremble. She still has blood in her hair and her cheek’s swollen. Her eyes flit about, as if she’s searching for something, yet finding nothing. I’ve seen other people do that before: she’s in a bad state, the poor girl. I sit next to her and pass her her tea.
‘Kate, can you tell me what happened?’
She looks at the tea and puts it down, stretching out her legs. She bends over, unlaces her shoes and slips them off. ‘I need a smoke,’ she says.
Joe Riley reaches into his top shirt pocket and hands her a packet of Woodbines. He’s already smoked most of the cigarettes, so the empty part of the packet’s crumpled, and the filter of the next cigarette pokes out through a hole in the top. She fumbles for it but she just can’t seem to pull it out. He takes the packet from her hand and slips the cigarette between her lips. Then he lights it for her with a match.
She takes a few drags and settles. ‘We had just gone to bed when I heard a window opening,’ she begins. There’s a sob in her voice. ‘Maurie got up to see what was going on and…’ She places her cigarette on the ashtray, takes out a handkerchief and presses it to her eyes. ‘Some…someone…’
‘Yes, Kate?’
‘I came in just as he stabbed Maurie!’ She begins to howl. ‘He stabbed him just like that! A blackfella. I saw his face. He must’ve took a knife out of the drawer.’
‘Did he say anything? The intruder, I mean.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Did you recognise him? Can you tell me his name?’
‘No, no. There’s been a lot of blackfellas hanging around here.’ She folds up her hankie and sips her tea. ‘They’ve been hanging around like a bad smell. Stealing stuff out of the shed, peeping in the windows. Been worse since Maurie joined up.’
Joe’s nodding. ‘They steal oranges off us.’
‘Who?’
‘Those blacks at the camp.’
‘It was one of the young blokes,’ she cries. ‘He must have come in through the kitchen window. There was a fight; I heard it, and I come into the kitchen. Then the black so-and-so put one of the butcher’s knives in my poor husband’s chest! My poor, dear husband! Goes through the war only to be murdered in his own home!’ She screams, lets the cup drop from her hand and collapses on the floor.
Joe and I help her back up.
‘Tell me you’ll get him,’ she pleads. ‘Justice for my poor Maurie!’
I pull out my pencil and thumb through the pad to a blank page. ‘Can you identify him?’
‘Yes, about twenty, solid, not too tall. He has a…scar on his face.’ She lifts her hand. ‘About here. You asked me if I know his name. Why would I know his name? I seen him around town though. I…I…tried to fight off the blackfella when he was attacking Maurie. The bloke hit me and then he pushed me to the ground. For a moment, I thought he’d do me in also or…you know…rape me. Then he ran off.’
‘That’s enough for the moment. I’ll ask you to come down to the station later.’
‘All right,’ she replies. ‘I want the so-and-so caught and hung.’
‘Of course you do.’ Back in the kitchen, Higgins has finished his tea. ‘Have a think about this.’ I show him my notes. ‘Anyone you know?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not straightaway.’ He sighs. ‘It’s going to be a long night, hey Sergeant?’ He’s weary and it shows in his eyes.
‘Afraid so. There’ll be plenty of time for sleep when this is done and dusted. Get Mahoney out of bed. We need everyone on duty.’