There’s an ink blot on my notepad and I spread it with my pen nib, until it has a head, a body, two arms and two legs. A final stroke, and it’s Maurie Pilcher with a knife through the heart.
I’m thinking of heading over to the Negro base today.
The base is remote, and set on the driest, scrubbiest land in the area. You couldn’t grow weeds on this land. It’s surrounded by a high wire fence, and there are two armed MPs posted out front. They start to grill me about why I’m here, but I mention Colonel Reynolds before they get too far along. I’m glad to see he’s done his bit, and my name’s listed at the gatehouse. They let me in. As I pass through, I get the impression that it’s a prison camp, rather than a vehicle maintenance depot and logistics support base. There are igloo hangars dotted all around me, sitting under clouds of dust.
The Negroes are dressed in khaki fatigues. They’re dashing about the camp like worker bees in a hive, busy with their business, not looking left or right. They all have work to do, and there are white officers at every turn to make sure they do it right.
I’m allowed into the post commander’s office, once I satisfy the MP at his front door that I have the authority to be there. It’s a neat affair—desk, three chairs, drawers, a fan—too hot, too orderly, too boring.
I introduce myself.
Lieutenant Rollins looks like he doesn’t want to be here and he quickly tells me that he has applied for a combat role. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a desk jockey say he wants to go into combat: this Yank would have to be the first. I get the lieutenant up to speed, and then I ask if any of his men has been caught absconding from the camp. He looks worried, probably because he doesn’t like the fact that one of his men might have murdered a local soldier under his watch. It won’t read well on his service record. Not good for his future career, I’d say. I worry that he may not want to cooperate, but he thinks it through for a while and then he orders a lance corporal to bring a private up from the stockade.
Not long after, the lance corporal leads Private Haynes into the office. He’s flanked by two MPs, holding shotguns. They aren’t taking any chances. If Rusty Turner is right, this bloke doesn’t fit the description. Haynes is short and stocky. I don’t think he could run like Jesse Owens, even with a tailwind. By the state of his face, the poor bugger looks like someone’s worked him over a few times.
They push Haynes up to the lieutenant. He draws himself to his full height, leans forward and eyeballs him. Haynes looks down, but Rollins keeps staring.
‘So, boy,’ he says at last, ‘I hear tell you murdered an Australian soldier in his home. You confess it now, and we’ll get the hanging over and done with. Because I’m a God-fearing Christian man, I wouldn’t want you to suffer too much.’ He sniggers, but Haynes just looks scared out his mind. He tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
‘What you say? Speak up, boy,’ Rollins hollers into his ear.
One of the MPs plants the stock of his shotgun into Haynes’s back. When Haynes yelps and buckles, the other MP pulls him to his feet.
‘Please,’ Haynes splutters, ‘don’t hang me, sir. I…I…ain’t killed no soldier. No, sir, I just stole a few oranges from the orchard, that’s all.’
‘I don’t believe you, boy!’ Rollins shouts back. ‘And you know why I don’t? Because niggers are compulsive liars, rapists and killers, that’s why. Isn’t that right?’
‘I swear, sir. I swear on the Bible. I swear on my mother, I ain’t killed no soldier.’
‘How dare you swear on the Bible. I believe you’re lying to me. Are you a liar, boy?’ barks Rollins.
The MP hits him again, and he whimpers and doubles up in pain.
I know I sometimes go in hard when I’m questioning a suspect, but this is too much. I’ve had enough. I interrupt. ‘This isn’t the man I’m looking for. I have a description: the man I’m looking for is tall and thin, and he can run fast. And it is very likely that he has a shotgun wound.’
Rollins looks aghast. I’ve clearly spoiled his plans for a lynching. ‘Are you sure, Sergeant Furey?’ he asks.
‘Of course I’m bloody sure. I have a murder to solve. Why would I give you the run-around?’
‘Private,’ Rollins says to one of the MPs, ‘check him for shotgun wounds.’
He does. ‘None, sir.’
‘Are you certain it was one of our niggers and not yours, Sergeant Furey?’
‘The man was wearing one of your uniforms. He snagged it when he was leaving the scene.’ I add, ‘Look, if the man I’m looking for has been wounded, he’s going to have to seek medical assistance, isn’t he? Gunshot wounds get infected, and he’s going to be in considerable pain.’
He nods. He looks over at Haynes with disgust. ‘I don’t want this nigger stinking up my office any longer. Get him out of here,’ he orders.
While I’ve been out at the camp, the constables have been out by the creek doing a line search. I told them to get as many of the local men as they could find to help them. They’re still away when I get back to the station, so I make myself a cup of tea and sit at my desk. I pull open the drawer and take out a small bottle of brandy that has been sitting there for years. It’s a hip flask, with only a mouthful taken out of it. It reminds of another time, before I joined the police force, before I met Gracie, the time after the war, when my mind wasn’t right. I could have easily got on the grog. If I had, I wouldn’t have what I have now. I didn’t want to end up like so many veterans, drinking myself to a lonely death.
I put the flask back in the drawer and lock it. Then I drive out to the search area.
There’s a half dozen or so men across the creek from the Pilchers’ place, sitting around a campfire. The flames dance around a blackened billy, and they’re all staring at it with intent. It’s clear, even from a distance, that they’re tired.
I walk over to them ‘Did you find anything?’ I ask Higgins.
‘Just this. Nothing important.’
He hands me a silver necklace with a small locket hanging off it.
‘Where did this come from?’ I ask.
‘One of the men checked over the spot where we found the dead baby. I think he found it there.’ He points to a man handing out cups of tea.
I have a quick word with him, and he confirms the find. I return to Higgins. ‘Anything else?’
He shakes his head. ‘Kate Pilcher’s not around. She must be still at the Riley place,’ he replies. ‘What about you, Sergeant Furey? You find out anything?’
‘Not sure yet,’ I reply.