10 a.m.
Queensland Police is stretched, the unexpected flooding causing havoc on roads and in towns across the region. It has taken a series of conversations, with Walker pressing the urgency and horror of the situation and escalating the call to more senior ranks each time, before he finally gets on the phone with the detective superintendent of Queensland’s northern region.
‘I’ll get SOCOs and a detective with you as soon as possible,’ he tells Walker. ‘The roads all round are inundated, so the only way in is by helicopter and they’re few and far between with all this flooding. I’ll get them to call you when they’re on the way and I’ll need you to keep everyone away from the scene until then.’
Walker has already gone back inside the house and turned on the air con in the bedroom to keep it as cool as possible. He made a note of the time – 8.35 a.m. – in case the forensic team need to know. Since he has a while to wait, he decides to do a quick search of the garden, to see if he can find the weapon or any sign of forced entry, blood, footprints. He doesn’t want to disturb the scene inside, but figures he probably won’t do much damage outside.
He goes through the carport and follows a gravel walkway around to the back garden. The grass in the back yard is pale green, a Hills Hoist, no laundry hanging on it, standing in the middle. There are a couple more gum trees at the rear and a chicken-wire fence that separates the yard from an empty block behind it. To the left, the neighbouring house has its blinds down, no car in the driveway, garden unkempt and wild. Looks empty. The house on the right has a neat, well-tended back garden but he can’t see a car in the drive there either.
He checks the Mullinses’ bedroom window. It’s closed, the screen tightly fitted, and hasn’t been disturbed recently. There was no break-in here. He looks at the other windows. They all seem untampered-with. But when he pushes at the screen door that leads into the laundry with his foot, it swings open. Maybe this was the point of entry.
A quick search of the garden for signs of a weapon comes up empty. He can’t see any footprints either but makes a note to himself to ask Blair to have a look; he’s got better eyes for that kind of thing.
Blair’s using the ute so, after his search, Walker takes one of the kitchen chairs and sits on the little veranda, Ginger beside him, sniffing and whining quietly, her nose twitching at the scent of blood and death. The street is utterly still. A flock of galahs sweep out of the gum tree in the front yard and wheel and turn as one, pink against the blue sky. He can hear the coo of a pigeon, the buzz of insects in the grass, the peaceful scene at odds with the horror in the house behind him.
He sits there, his mind working over what has happened – two people viciously murdered by what looks like axe blows. Wondering what Karen Mullins and Mark Bailey are doing in bed together in Karen’s home. Wondering who might have inflicted such violence. Todd Mullins, despite his obvious distress, is the most likely perpetrator: he comes home hopelessly drunk, finds his wife in bed with another bloke and loses it.
As the heat of the morning builds, flies, drawn by the scent of blood and decay, swarm against the screens on the door and windows and land on his face, biting at his eyes and driving him inside. He sits in the hallway, right by the front door, avoiding the carnage in the back room.
When the ute pulls up and Blair gets out, Walker goes out to meet him. ‘Todd’s at the health centre. I told Jason there’d been a bit of an accident, left it at that. Jason gave Todd a sedative – he’s letting him sleep in the consultation room. But someone needs to tell Vero what’s happened …’
Walker nods. ‘Better if we let the Queensland Police do that, more official that way. Did you find Grace?’
‘Nah, couldn’t see her around but I’ll go and have another look if you like.’
‘Thanks, that’d be good,’ says Walker. ‘Who’d do something like this? You reckon Todd Mullins could have done it?’
‘Jesus, I don’t know. I don’t think things were that good with him and Karen. She came to the workshop the other day with a load of bruises on her arm, said she went riding, came off the horse. But Mark was fuming, said Todd knocked her around. Todd and Mark were partners in mining years ago, but they fell out over something and since then they couldn’t stand each other. So if Todd came home full of grog, found Mark here, maybe he coulda lost it …’
‘Were they having a full-on affair, then? Mark and Karen?’
‘Yeah. She came to the workshop pretty regular and she stayed there a couple of times.’
‘Todd knew about it, did he?’
‘I doubt it. He’d have come for Mark if he knew, I reckon.’
Mullins is definitely in the frame for this, thinks Walker.
His phone goes off, a call from an unknown number. ‘Ah yeah, g’day,’ says the caller. ‘This is Detective Senior Sergeant Jim Stones, Longreach CIB. I hear you’ve got a bit of bother down there?’
Walker briefly runs through the story and Stones says, ‘Righto, they’ve got me a couple of SOCOs and a ride on a bird and we’ll be with you in a few minutes. Can you pick us up?’
The helicopter lands on the rugby pitch, a wide-open flat patch that’s nothing but red dirt with the two high goal posts at either end. The rotors stir up a whirlwind of dust and grit and Blair turns his head away. A woman and three blokes, one in uniform, climb out and walk quickly, heads instinctively bent, hands up protecting their eyes from the dust, towards Blair. He’s standing beside Mark’s Land Cruiser. He’d picked it up from outside his own place, where Mark seems to have left it last night – not locked, keys inside as usual – figuring the ute would be too small for however many cops were about to show up.
‘I’m DSS Jim Stones,’ says one of the blokes walking up to him. He’s early forties, not that tall, less than six foot but with big shoulders, a beer gut and short hair. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses, jeans and a shirt. No uniform but you’d pick him for a cop anywhere, anytime. ‘You DS Walker?’
‘No, I’m Blair Mitchell. Lucas asked me to pick you up. He’s waiting for you at the house.’
‘Righto. Let’s go, then,’ says the DSS, opening the passenger-side door and getting in.
The uniform copper nods at Blair and says, ‘G’day.’ He’s in his late twenties with short dark hair, a slim build and pale skin. About the same height as Blair, he has a slightly nervous look to him. The rest of the crew includes another bloke, also in his twenties, wearing skinny jeans, his long hair tied back in a ponytail, and carrying a massive bag; and the woman, late thirties, stressed, lines around her eyes, chewing gum as if her life depends on it. They all climb into the back seat, nodding at him, not saying much beyond ‘G’day.’
Unfriendly mob, thinks Blair as he drives them to the house. Through the rear-view mirror, he can see the helicopter lifting off again, red dust almost obscuring it from view as it rises.
Walker is standing outside waiting for them. The big cop sitting beside Blair opens the door. ‘DS Walker got your number, has he?’ he asks.
‘Ah yeah,’ says Blair.
‘Righto, we’ll call you if we need you.’
Blair shakes his head to himself as the cop gets out and slams the door behind him. Rude as fuck, he thinks, but maybe that’s what working with murderers every day does to you.
As Walker strides forward to welcome the team, he sees Blair turning the car to go. He’s surprised – he wanted to chat with him, ask him to have a look for tracks around the house, maybe take the chance to pick his brains a bit more on who’s who out here and who might have the motive and means to commit this crime. But the Longreach DSS is bearing down on him, a uniform and two SOCOs in tow, so he lets him go.
‘DSS Jim Stones,’ says the detective, hand out. Walker extends his, Stones’s grip bone-crushingly fierce. ‘This is Constable Bruce White,’ says Stones when he lets go, nodding at a young uniformed cop. ‘He’ll be based out here until the local bloke gets back.’
Walker says ‘G’day’ to the young constable, whose handshake is a lot less aggressive. The two SOCO specialists, Gary and Linda, nod at him, focused on suiting up and getting their gear together.
After they don protective gear, he leads Stones and White inside. ‘What a fucking mess,’ says Stones, going up to the bed, looking closely at the scene. White stays at the door, face pale and sweaty. Walker sympathises. The scene is confronting.
‘The female victim has been identified by her husband as Karen Mullins,’ he tells them. ‘I think the male victim is Mark Bailey, the clothes under his side of the bed match what Bailey was wearing last night, but we haven’t had a formal identification.’
‘Looks like they almost chopped her head off and she bled out, and they split his skull. We got any idea when this happened?’ asks Stones.
‘Well, the male victim was at the pub last night until about eight p.m. The husband of the female victim called us when he found them, just before seven thirty this morning. That’s as much as I know.’
Stones is wearing paper shoes but hasn’t fully suited up, and when the SOCOs come in Walker notices the woman stiffen as she sees how close Stones is to the bodies on the bed, but she doesn’t say anything. Stones gives the nod to the technicians, and as the SOCOs go about their work he, White and Walker head into the lounge, where Walker tells them the story of the morning in more detail.
‘Good money’s on the husband,’ says Stones.
‘Yeah, but there’s other blokes carry a grudge too,’ he says, debriefing Stones on last night’s fight and Stewie Charles’s history of violence.
‘Righto, well, sounds like it won’t be rocket science to sort this out. Let’s pull in the husband and this other bloke and see how we go.’
‘I had a bit of a look for the weapon – couldn’t find anything, or any sign of forced entry.’
‘Country people don’t usually lock their doors,’ says Stones. ‘Even if it wasn’t the husband, anyone could’ve walked right in.’ Walker knows that’s true. His grandma’s place was always open, anyone who knew her just calling ‘Yoohoo!’ before coming in to borrow whatever it was they needed.
Stones turns to White. ‘Door-knock the neighbours, find out if anyone heard or saw anything, and pick up any info you can on the victims. Ask about who lives here, what they’re like as neighbours, that kind of thing, but don’t give out any details about what happened.’
‘Understood,’ says White.
‘Meet us back at the station afterwards,’ says Stones. Turning to Walker: ‘Where is the station?’
‘End of the road, turn left, a couple of hundred yards up on the right on the main road.’
‘Righto,’ says White.
They stand, watch White walk over to the neighbour’s place. ‘I need to call the coroner, report the deaths – they’ll want to order an autopsy,’ says Stones. ‘Be good to have the identity of the male victim confirmed first.’
‘You could speak to Vero Bailey, the victim’s wife. As far as I know, she hasn’t been told yet.’
‘Fuck, I hate that kind of shit,’ says Stones. ‘You fancy doing it?’