4 p.m.
DSS Stones has had a frustrating afternoon. He and White had tried the pub, but there was no sign of Mullins, no sign of anyone other than the publican. ‘Nah, Todd hasn’t been in since last night,’ she’d said.
They’ve driven round to Mullins’s home, in case he’s wandered back here, but it’s still a crime scene, taped up and secure, and there’s no sign of him.
‘He can’t have gone far. We’ll find him later,’ says Stones, to himself as much as to White. ‘Let’s talk to this Stewie Charles.’
The Charles brothers’ address turns out to be a house on the next street and, as he and White walk up to the door, they can hear music blaring from inside, loud voices and laughter.
‘Sounds like they’re having a party,’ says White.
‘What do you reckon they’re celebrating?’ says Stones as he bangs on the door, three loud thumps. The music and voices continue uninterrupted.
‘Don’t think they can hear us,’ says White. ‘Or they’re pretending not to.’
Stones bangs again. ‘Open up, police,’ he shouts. Still no response. ‘Fuck this,’ he says, turns the handle; the door swings open and the volume of the music jumps further.
‘Police!’ shouts Stones. ‘Looking for Stewie Charles.’
Four blokes are sitting in the living room and the place is a mess. A dozen empty cans of Jack Daniel’s and Coke, maybe more, are scattered across the floor, and standing on the coffee table between them is an ashtray overflowing with butts. Two of the men are lounging on a fake-leather black sofa, one young, the other an ageing bikie. A third, chest bare, wearing only jeans, his arms and neck covered in prison tatts, is on an armchair opposite. The fourth, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt, is perched on a kitchen chair to the left. Stones picks out Stewie Charles by his tatts, and from Walker’s description he thinks the sweaty bloke in the shirt might be Dean Wilson.
‘Police!’ shouts Stones again. ‘Turn the music down.’
The youngest bloke leans forward, grabs a remote, and a second later the silence is reverberating in their ears.
Stewie Charles glares. ‘Turn it back on,’ he says to the young bloke. Then, turning to Stones, ‘This is private property – piss off unless you got a warrant.’
‘You Stewie Charles?’ asks Stones.
‘What’s it to ya?’
‘Just want to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all.’
‘No fucking comment,’ says Stewie.
‘I heard there was a fight in the pub, between you and Mark Bailey, and that you made some serious threats …?’
‘No comment,’ says Stewie, picking up his can of JD and taking a long swig.
‘Bailey’s dead so it’s in your interests to talk to us.’
‘You wanna arrest me,’ says Stewie, ‘go ahead. You got a search warrant, go ahead. Otherwise get the fuck off my property.’ He turns away. ‘Put the music back on, Brett,’ he says to the young bloke, identifying him to Stones. Brett Charles does as he’s told, presses the button on the remote, and as the living room swells with sound, Stewie stands and swaggers over towards the door. ‘Guess you’re leaving,’ he says.
Stones stays where he is, his bulk filling the doorway, his hands clenched to fists at his sides. He’s itching to punch someone, to find a reason to pull these arseholes in. ‘You’re messing with the wrong copper, sonny,’ he says to Stewie, pushing him in the chest and away from the door. ‘You’ll regret this.’ When he turns, White is standing a good three feet behind him on the path. Not much help he’ll be in a spot of trouble. ‘Let’s go – we’ll get a warrant and come back,’ he says.
He hears the door slam behind him, laughter and music following them back down the path to the cruiser.
White climbs into the driver’s seat, and Stones slams the passenger door as he gets in, the cruiser rattling with the force of it. ‘We’re getting nowhere,’ he says. ‘Let’s track down Mullins, it can’t be impossible to find him in this shitty little one-horse town. If he’s pissed he can sober up in the lock-up …’
They drive up and down the town’s few streets, slowly, but there’s no sign of Mullins. The roadhouse is closed, the little park beside it empty, the pub too. Stones doesn’t think to check the park’s public toilets, where Mullins, waking after an uncomfortable sleep on the bench, is relieving himself before heading down to the pub.
‘Maybe he’s fallen into the river and drowned,’ says White.
Most likely he’s sleeping off his drunkenness somewhere, thinks Stones, directing White back to the station. Could even be that he’s at the Charles brothers’ house. He wishes he had a warrant for that place.
He’s standing at the board seething at their lack of suspects and lack of information when the AFP detective, Walker, comes in. ‘I talked to the publican. She’s given me the name of another bloke who had beef with Mark Bailey,’ says Walker, ‘Scott Hemmings—’
‘We can add the name of every man in town if we’re looking at blokes who’ve fallen out in the pub,’ says Stones. ‘I need more than that …’
‘Hemmings had it in for both the victims,’ says Walker. ‘He’s Karen Mullins’s ex and was jealous of Bailey. He’s worth considering at least.’
Stones shakes his head. He taps Blair’s name instead and turns to look at Walker. ‘How well do you know this cousin of yours?’ he asks. ‘I reckon he’s hiding something.’
‘He’s like a brother to me,’ says Walker. ‘He would never do something like this.’
‘I’m not saying he did it, but I reckon he knows something. Talk to him. See if you can find out what he isn’t telling us.’
Walker pauses. Stones can tell that he doesn’t want to involve his cousin but that Walker had noticed the bloke’s moment of hesitation too. ‘Righto,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ll chat with him.’
Walker is about to leave when they hear a tentative knock on the front door. With White gone for the day, Stones has to answer it himself, Walker following in his wake. He opens the front door to a slight man, pink-skinned, slim, dressed in pale slacks and an apricot-coloured short-sleeved shirt, thinning grey hair neatly combed across his balding pate.
‘Ah, yes, good afternoon,’ says the bloke. ‘I’m David McGregor, and I have some information that might be pertinent to your inquiry into the terrible murder of Mrs Mullins …’ The bloke’s accent marks him out as not from round here.
‘You do, do you,’ says Stones. ‘Well, let’s hear it.’
He stands aside and the bloke comes in and closes the door behind himself. They’re all three crowded into the little reception area, Stones leaning against the counter, Walker by the window and the bloke between them, his back to the door.
‘Well, I live next door to Karen Mullins – I’m at number eleven, she’s at number nine. She’s a lovely lady, one of the few out here with a cultured mind.’
‘We knocked on all the neighbours’ doors yesterday,’ says Stones. ‘Why didn’t you talk to the constable then?’
‘Ah, yes, I was probably at the river,’ says McGregor. ‘Painting. I’m an artist, you see. Landscapes of the outback, portraits of its people. Perhaps you’ve seen my work?’
‘Nah, not really into art appreciation,’ says Stones.
‘Yes, well, anyway, I’m here in Kanpara for a couple of months, painting the countryside. It’s particularly distinctive out this way—’
‘What’s all this got to do with our inquiry?’ Stones is impatient and fed up.
‘Right, of course. So, well, I usually leave home early in the morning, the hour around sunrise, golden hour, a beautiful time of day, the light, you know …’ He pauses, looks at Stones, loses his thread. ‘Anyway, yesterday, the morning of the flood, I left home as usual, just after five a.m., and I noticed there was a car on the street outside Karen’s house. That’s not normal. I’m quite observant. Being an artist, you need to notice details. And there’s not usually a car parked on the street – all the houses here have a driveway and a carport or garage.’
‘Right,’ says Stones. ‘What car was it?’
‘Oh,’ says McGregor. ‘Well, I’m not exactly sure of the make, it was one of those big four-by-fours that everyone out here drives. Dirty too, not washed.’
Stones glances at Walker, rolling his eyes. This bloke is useless.
‘The thing is,’ adds McGregor, ‘there was someone asleep in the passenger side. It was still quite dark so I can’t be a hundred per cent certain, but I’m pretty sure it was her husband, Todd.’
‘He was asleep in the passenger seat?’ says Walker. Stones is curious too. Mullins had told them he’d driven home. It’s a bit odd that he would be in the passenger seat.
‘Yes, that’s right, on the side furthest away, that’s why I can’t be completely certain it was him. But what I really wanted to tell you was that I saw another man on the street too. Walking. Just down from the Mullinses’ house. If I was at home in Noosa I wouldn’t have paid any attention, everyone is always out walking in the morning, getting their exercise and so on. But it’s something you really don’t see out bush. They don’t seem to walk anywhere here, they’re always in their cars, even for the shortest journey. I suppose it’s the heat …’
‘Who was it that you saw walking?’ says Stones, feeling the anticipation that comes when you know you’re about to make a breakthrough. Finally, a witness. Someone who’s seen something.
‘Well, I didn’t recognise him. I don’t know all that many of the locals here, most of them are quite basic, not cultured at all. But then I was at the river, taking pictures of the flood … Wasn’t that a surprise? Such a wonderful opportunity to paint the outback in a way in which it’s not usually captured.’ He looks at Stones and catches himself again. ‘Yes, well, as I was saying, I was at the river and I saw him there. He was standing with you’ – he nods and smiles at Walker. ‘I asked one of the locals who he was. They told me his name was Blair Mitchell,’ he finishes proudly.
The AFP cop registers surprise. ‘You’re sure that’s the man you saw?’ he says, jumping in before Stones can say anything.
‘Well, yes, quite certain. It wasn’t completely light, and he had his shoulders up against the cold, but as I said I’m very good with details.’
Walker turns towards Stones. ‘I don’t think it was Blair. I picked him up at his place before five thirty that morning.’
Stones looks at Walker, evaluating him. Walker meets his gaze but Stones thinks he looks a tad defensive. Could he know something about his cousin that he’s not sharing? He’s been pretty keen to get other names on the board and to put Stewie Charles in the frame for this. Could be he’s hiding something. After a second, Stones says to McGregor, ‘You’d better come in and give me a full statement.’ As he turns away, he says to Walker: ‘You were on your way, weren’t you, DS. I won’t keep you.’