‘I have to head back to Coopers Creek,’ Chris said reluctantly as they lay in bed the next morning listening to the chorus of wildlife outside the window. They’d barely ventured further than the verandah since he’d arrived Friday afternoon. It was now Sunday and their little bubble of bliss was about to be burst by the sharp point of reality.
Pip wanted to tell him not to go, but she couldn’t bring herself to sound needy. She had been trying not to think about what this thing was between them all weekend. It was very un-Pip-like to jump into bed with an almost stranger and then spend the entire weekend with them. She still wasn’t sure how it had happened. Yet here they were, and up until now she had been content to ignore the inevitable end of this unexpected weekend sex fest.
It was more than that, though, Pip had to confess to herself. Sure, the sex was amazing, but they’d done a lot more talking than well, sexing, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent so many hours getting to know a man the way she’d got to know this one in a single weekend.
‘Have I outstayed my welcome?’ he asked hesitantly, and Pip turned to look up at him quickly.
‘No. Of course not.’
‘You just didn’t say anything,’ he said, sounding anything but his normal confident self.
‘To be honest, I don’t really know what to say.’ She slid her hand into his and played with his fingers idly as she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. ‘I wasn’t expecting any of this.’
‘I wasn’t either.’
‘You could have just phoned the other day instead of coming all the way over here,’ she pointed out, this time not letting him off the hook. ‘Why did you?’
She saw him flash a quick grin, the one she was becoming increasingly addicted to. ‘I guess I was after any excuse to see you again. You made quite an impression on me the first time.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you ever since. I’d find myself thinking up reasons to call you or come back here.’
‘Me too.’
‘You’ve been thinking about me?’ His voice held a note of cockiness.
‘Yes, Mr Big Head,’ she said, pushing at his hand. ‘I don’t know why. Detectives are not usually my go-to choice for a date.’
‘How come?’ he said, sounding a little miffed.
‘I dunno, I guess it’s like mixing work with pleasure. Not that I’ve actually gone out with anyone in a while.’
‘Interesting,’ he said, threading his wide fingers through her smaller ones thoughtfully.
‘Pathetic, more like it,’ she scoffed.
‘Hardly. A woman like you—beautiful, smart, funny,’ he said. ‘You can have your pick of dates, but obviously you don’t choose to.’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. I guess I’ve just been too busy with work, and then the Knight case kind of had me a little … preoccupied.’
‘I get it. I’m a bit the same way once I’m invested in a case—I tend to go all the way and everything else has to wait. Not great for a relationship.’
‘You’ve had experience, I take it?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I have an ex-wife who will tell you how shit my job is and blame it for our disaster of a marriage.’
‘Oh.’ She had no idea why discovering he’d been married was such a surprise—it wasn’t as though a guy in his thirties wouldn’t have his own history.
‘We were married pretty young. I’d just come out of the police academy and I was trying to work my way up to detective. Then we had a kid, and I was young and stupid—too wrapped up in myself to realise I had bigger responsibilities. I should have spent more time at home and less time proving myself at work,’ he said, his voice tinged with regret. ‘I’d told her so many times about my dream of making detective, and we agreed to wait to start a family, then when she told me she was pregnant … well.’ He stopped and frowned. ‘There wasn’t much we could do about it. But I had this resentment, I guess, and I decided I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of reaching my goals. She hated being a copper’s wife, and we fought more and more. She started taking drugs and … it was pretty shit there for a while.’
Pip could feel the sadness in his voice.
‘Anyway, she took off with our daughter for a bit—went to live with her mother and eventually went to rehab. She’s okay now. Actually, better than okay. I’m really proud of her. She managed to get herself together; she’s a counsellor and a great mum. We realised we were too young when we got married and wanted different things, so the spilt was fairly amicable.’
‘How old’s your daughter?’ Pip asked.
‘Sixteen,’ he said with a gentle smile. He leaned back to take his phone out of his pocket and opened his photo gallery to bring up an image of a pretty girl with long dark hair and big brown eyes. ‘Her name’s Sian.’
‘Oh, she’s gorgeous,’ Pip said, taking in the wide smile and recognising the mischievous grin, so much like the one the man before her often wore. ‘Do you get to see her often?’
‘Yeah, pretty often. It was one of the reasons I moved out here. I get to spend weekends with her. When she’s not busy with her social life, that is,’ he added with a twist of his lips.
‘I’m really glad it all worked out in the end.’
‘Yeah, it did. But I guess ever since that, I’ve made a point of never really getting too involved with anyone. I know what pressures my job can put on a relationship and I don’t want to hurt anyone like that again.’
‘So that’s your subtle way of telling me this was a weekend fling, then,’ she said.
‘Nope. I was just explaining how out of character it is for me to act on a feeling I haven’t had before.’
‘Oh,’ was all she could say.
‘Knowing my track record for shitty relationships, I probably shouldn’t have come here hoping to find out if this attraction was something more than just that—an attraction.’
‘And? What did you find?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I found you,’ he said softly. ‘I haven’t told anyone else half the stuff I’ve told you this weekend,’ he admitted, rubbing his chin against the top of her head. ‘I’ve never felt as though I’ve known someone all my life after just a few days.’
His confession momentarily stunned her, and she wanted to tell him that she felt exactly the same way, but how could she when she was the one who’d always scoffed at romantic clichés? The fact that it didn’t feel so clichéd now made her nervous. ‘So … what happens now?’
‘I don’t know. What do you want to do?’
What a question. What did she want to do? What would she do with a full-time boyfriend? She had no idea—what did you feed it? How often do you have to take it for a walk?
‘Maybe we could just take it slow and see where it goes?’ she suggested. The truth was, she really liked this guy. And even though she didn’t know if she was capable of fitting a man into her life, he had definitely given her a reason to want to at least see if it were a possibility.
‘Okay. Slow it is,’ he agreed. ‘So what were you thinking, maybe catch up next week?’
‘Next week? Are you crazy? I said slow, not dead.’
‘Thank Christ for that, I wasn’t sure how I was going to last a whole week,’ he said, letting out a relieved sigh and sliding his hand across her belly.
‘I can come over to Coopers Creek tomorrow night for dinner? If you want?’
‘I definitely want,’ he said as his eyes took on that sexy, slumberous look that made her knees go weak all over again.
Pip needed a distraction. There was still nothing from Warlock about cracking the encryption, and she was at a point in her manuscript where she needed to know if what was in that file was going to be worth including. Without anything to go on there, her mind was free to wander.
Once Chris had left and she could think straight again, doubts began to creep in. Try as she might, there was only so long she could manage to ignore the little voice of common sense in her head that had been repeatedly trying to tap her on the shoulder all weekend. What was she doing?
Having fun, a different voice piped up. Remember that? She had to admit, it had been a long time since she’d thrown caution to the wind that way. In fact, she really couldn’t even remember the last time she had.
And for good reason—it’s called self-preservation, a little know-all voice announced pompously.
If she were being completely honest with herself, she was hard-pressed not to feel a little bit of smug pride at such rebellious, wanton behaviour. It felt good to be spontaneous and forget everything that had been going on lately—the deadlines, writer’s block, jumping at every tiny thing. She felt empowered. Brave even. But that was then. Today it was back to business. Time to refocus.
She dragged the bigger box of Bert’s belongings out from under the table, the one she hadn’t had a chance to go through yet. Unlike the other box, this one didn’t have any photo albums or letters but contained clothing.
On top was a battered slouch hat that had definitely seen better days and a heavy woollen khaki coat. She lifted them out and found a stack of newspaper pages neatly folded. She carefully unfolded them to find front page after front page capturing vital last moments of the war.
The top one was dated 8 May 1945 and screamed WAR ENDS IN EUROPE in large bold type. Another from the Sun dated 8 August 1945: BOMB DEVASTATES JAP CITY, and the story on the back page BORNEO – THE FINAL ASSAULT. There were others that mentioned the horrors of Burma and Tarakan.
She noted with interest that the front page always dealt with events in Europe and Japan and the back page shared news from New Guinea and articles relating to the Australian war effort and POW camps. She could imagine Bert reading through the papers while recovering in hospital towards the end of the war and saving them as keepsakes.
Maybe there was a museum that might be interested in Bert’s mementoes—this record was far too important to leave in a box to be eaten away by moths and time.
As she picked up the clothing to put back in the box, she knocked the stack of newspapers and gave an annoyed click of her tongue as she bent to pick it all up. After she gathered it all together, she discovered a folded piece of writing paper that had slipped out of one of the newspapers. Pip unfolded it, instantly recognising Bert’s handwriting.
Dear Moll,
I don’t think I can bring myself to send this to you, but if you were here right now, I know you’d be able to tell me what I should do. I can always depend on you for your sage advice, and God knows I need it now, but this will never reach you in time. Maybe if I write it down I’ll work out what you’d say to me.
I have to testify tomorrow. They called me up and I have no choice but to go in front of a tribunal.
A local villager came forward and made accusations against Frank regarding his young grandson. There was an almighty fuss made at the garrison gate before the General gave orders to let the man in to see him. And not before the old fella and half the village had made sure everyone heard what had happened.
You see, I was there. What Frank did … well, that just weren’t right. I close my eyes and I see it replay over and over in my head.
The worst thing is, I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t. I was in shock, I think, I just stood there as Frank got up. The kid took off—and we just stood there. Staring at each other until he just turned and walked away.
I wish to Christ I had never walked around that corner and stumbled upon the things I saw that day. I would rather have lived in blind ignorance than have to acknowledge the evil truth about a man I called a mate.
I know what I saw. I know what he did. And now that I have to testify it makes me sick to the guts. The whole company’s in shock and outrage. They’re all saying, ‘There’s no way Frank could have done that. Frank’s been stitched up.’ Probably what I would be saying too if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I can’t look at him. I can’t unsee the things I saw.
I know what I should do. Keep my mouth shut. Lie. Deny it all. But I keep seeing that young boy’s face. The tears. The fear in his eyes. The screaming and begging for help. And all the time, all I could think of was the young Stanley boy who was found drowned in the creek a few years back. They tried that old swaggy they found camped a few miles away—locked him away in that asylum in Melbourne and threw away the key. He always swore he didn’t do it. Now I look at Frank and I remember I didn’t see him at the dance that night where we were all called out to go searching for the kid when they realised he was missing.
I remember a lot of things now that the blinkers have been ripped from my eyes.
I remember little Arthur Maguire. His own cousin! I remember how he used to hide when we were there. I remember Frank joking that he’d had to give him a hiding for talking back and that’s why he always ran when he saw him. But now I know.
He did more than give the kid a hiding, I’m willing to bet. The knowledge sickens me.
One time we laughed when the kid wet himself when Frank took him by the collar and dragged him out from his hiding spot. Now I know.
I don’t know what to do, Moll. I don’t know if I can live with myself if I don’t tell them the truth tomorrow at the tribunal. I keep seeing that young kid’s face.
But I know if I testify against one of our own, I’ll lose the respect of the rest of the men here who can’t bring themselves to believe a word of it. But what worries me even more than that is, if the truth of this thing comes out—that a Maguire was charged with something like this—our life won’t be worth living in Midgiburra once I get back home. I’ll be the bastard who testified against his best mate and ruined the whole Maguire reputation.
On the other hand, there’s no doubt old man Maguire will somehow manage to cover it up, so telling the truth will probably be all for nothing.
I wish you were here right now, Moll. More than I’ve ever wished before—and that’s saying a lot because I’ve missed you more than I could ever imagine since this bloody war started.
Well, I thought by the end of this letter I’d know what I should do. Turns out, I still have no idea.
There was no date on the letter, but the torment in Bert’s words almost jumped off the page. Pip recalled the name Frank on some of Bert’s other correspondence, but now she wanted to know who this man was. The implications of what he’d done filled her with horror, and clearly Bert had shared that feeling and been placed in a tough position.
Maguire. She went back to the start of the letter and re-read it. Frank had to be connected to the local Maguires—there were too many of them around here for it to be a coincidence. She tried a quick search of archival records and managed to pull up a number of articles relating to Frank Maguire. There was a local newspaper headline PROUD VICTORIAN PREMIER SENDS GRANDSON OFF TO WAR, which seemed to be a publicity piece mixed with a recruiting ad encouraging Australians to join up and do their bit. Pip tossed this information about in her head. Frank’s grandfather was the state premier.
There was also a welcome-home ball given in honour of local serving men and women, among whom Frank was listed. Pip checked the date: November 1941. Just prior to the invasion. Had this been when the alleged incident had happened? It fitted in with Bert’s letters and was around the time they suddenly changed in tone. So why had Frank been suddenly shipped home if he’d been cleared of any charges? There was a sad kind of irony that Frank had made it out of the war unscathed because of committing a horrendous crime while good men like Bert had ended up in POW camps—hell on earth.
She was beginning to understand Bert’s concerns. It looked very likely that Frank’s grandfather, Edward, had perhaps used his influence to extricate his grandson from serious trouble.
Pip continued scrolling through and saw that before the war, Frank had been involved in local football and cricket clubs and was mentioned in various society events. Then further on she found a write-up of his funeral, which had attracted a huge crowd, befitting one of the largest families in the area. Frank Edward Maguire was found on his family property ‘Milton’ late this afternoon, deceased. The coroner’s report that featured a few days later ascertained that the cause of death had been a gunshot wound and was deemed accidental. The report went on to speculate that Frank had been out shooting kangaroos when he’d tripped, causing his rifle to discharge, killing him instantly.
Pip eased back in her chair studying the screen thoughtfully as she tried to piece it all together. Frank Maguire was the son of a politician, a returned soldier and popular member of local society. He was also Bert’s best mate, until, apparently, the tribunal at which Bert was called to testify—against Frank. She hadn’t found any mention of a tribunal, only the official war crimes commission from the end of the war. Why had there been no mention of this one anywhere in Frank’s service record?
She went back to the letter and then typed in ‘Stanley’ with the key words ‘drowning’ and ‘Midgiburra’. A list of hits came up immediately. She pulled up the first link and saw the newspaper headline: LOCAL BOY FOUND DEAD. ‘The battered body of Terrance Stanley, aged seven, was found in the early hours of the morning after an extensive search when the alarm was raised by his parents that the child had not returned home. On inspection it was revealed that the boy had suffered heinous injuries that suggested interference most foul. A vagrant camped nearby, Ebenezer Cindric, was questioned, and after the discovery of an item of clothing belonging to the boy in Cindric’s possession, he was remanded in custody awaiting trial for the murder of Terrance Stanley.’
Pip stopped reading and frowned. Tragically, everything in Bert’s letter seemed to check out. A dead child, a convenient suspect and a potential child rapist on the loose in Midgiburra. Her gaze settled on the wide, brown land before her as she tried to get her head around what had gone on here all those years ago.