Kate Pilcher is sitting out on the Rileys’ verandah when Mahoney and I get there. She’s got a scarf and her sunglasses on, puffing like a chimney and drinking a glass of beer. The Rileys aren’t there. She’s stolen a private moment, hitched up her skirt and spread her legs, enjoying the warm sunshine and the cool breeze off the creek.
Not very ladylike, I reckon.
She scowls when she sees us and covers up her legs.
‘What do you want?’ she hisses, taking off her sunglasses and giving me the once-over.
I don’t beat about the bush. ‘I’ve come to talk to you, as it happens.’
‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say to you,’ she replies and turns her head away.
‘Here’s the thing, Mrs Pilcher. Your story doesn’t make sense. It never did.’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Not my fault if you can’t understand what I’ve told you.’
I sit down on the chair next to her and she groans. ‘So, let’s start again from the beginning, and this time you can try telling me the truth.’
‘I’m not saying anything more to you.’
‘Right. Well, I could always bring you in…’
She groans again.
I continue, ‘So, why don’t you tell me all about Tommy Sharman.’
‘Who?’ she asks coolly, but I can tell from her face I’ve unsettled her.
‘You know exactly who. Tommy Sharman came to see you at your place about a week ago. Now, why did he do that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of Tommy… What did you say his name was?’
‘Sharman. Now, that’s odd. He’s certainly heard of you.’
Her eyes narrow and she butts out her cigarette and throws it into the garden. ‘What of it?’
‘I want to know what business you and Maurie have with Tommy Sharman, and why you never mentioned his visit to me.’
‘Why should I? Apparently, you know everything. Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Look. I know Maurie wasn’t stabbed after boxing with an Aboriginal man with a scar on his face. I know Tommy Sharman is a white man with scars on his face, who used to be a boxer. I know that he knows you and Maurie, and that he was seen at your place. I know your story has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. I know you’re protecting somebody. So why don’t you just tell me the truth?’
‘I said,’ she continues, lighting up another cigarette, ‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you. You want to take me in, then do it.’ She puts down the pack. Lucky Strikes.
‘American cigarettes, huh? A gift from a grateful friend.’
Suddenly she turns deathly pale. I’ve hit a nerve. I stand up abruptly. ‘Right, Mrs Pilcher. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
‘You’re leaving?’ She’s confused.
‘You’ve been most helpful. You’ve opened up a new line of investigation.’
She mouths a word I can’t quite make out, and watches me turn away. I can feel her eyes bore into my back as Mahoney and I leave.
‘I don’t get it,’ he says when we get back to the car.
‘I reckon we’ve been barking up the wrong tree. That path we found at the Pilchers’… I want you to follow it. Find out where it leads to.’
Mahoney scowls at me. He’s thinking of the snakes again, no doubt.
‘Take Higgins with you, if you like.’ I explain, ‘I’ve got a hunch.
After that, I decide to go home for lunch; I haven’t done it for a while and the way I figure it, I deserve a proper break every so often.
Mikey’s at school, but Gracie’s happy to see me. ‘I’ve just made tea,’ she says. ‘I don’t know why, I thought you might come by and I brewed a pot.’
‘You’re a queer old girl,’ I reply and I give her a pat on the bum.
Then I slip a parcel into her hand. She looks at me, puzzled, unwraps it and she’s grinning from ear to ear. ‘Where on earth did you find these?’ she asks me. She holds the stockings up to the beam of sunlight coming through the window, and they’re perfect. New. Untouched.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘they’re a gift for you. I might have just mentioned your plight to a certain colonel, and he may have just found them and given them to me to give to you.’
‘But two pairs, Jack! I can hardly believe it.’
‘They’re yours. Just put away the bobby socks and enjoy wearing them.’
She holds them against her cheek. ‘I’ll have to ring and thank him.’
‘No, no, don’t do that,’ I say. ‘Even colonels aren’t above protocol. He’d be very put out if you did. He’d probably have to deny everything. I mean, the American officers are free to give out presents whenever they like and to whomever they like, but I know he wouldn’t want it getting about that you’ve got two pairs, and Mrs Jessop, let’s say, has received none.’
She mulls it over for a while. ‘Alright,’ she replies, putting the stockings aside and fixing me a sandwich.
I smile. Even in the very best-run police stations, evidence can get misplaced from time to time.