4 p.m.
Walker drives past the house where Mark and Karen were murdered, police tape still fluttering in the breeze, and pulls up next door. Number 11 is a low Queenslander with a patch of pale-green grass out front and a surprisingly clean silver Nissan X-Trail SUV parked on the driveway.
The front door is open. Through the screen door Walker can see a hallway leading to a bright sunny room at the back. He knocks on the doorjamb, calls ‘Hello’ and hears McGregor’s distinctive voice call ‘Coming!’ A moment later he’s visible in the hallway, wearing a lemon-yellow shirt with the well-pressed pants this time.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I remember you! Policeman, right?’
‘That’s right,’ says Walker. ‘We spoke at the station a couple of days ago, when you came in to give your statement.’
‘Right, yes. How can I help you today?’
‘I wanted to ask you again about the man you saw walking the morning Karen and Mark died.’
‘Oh yes? Well, you’d better come in, then,’ says McGregor, standing aside and opening the door. He leads Walker to the room at the rear of the house – a living space with big windows overlooking the back yard. There’s a dark-grey L-shaped sofa to the left and an easel in the centre of the room, a partly completed painting propped on it. To its right is an old wooden table covered in art supplies – a mess of paints, brushes standing in jars, pieces of cardboard and paper. Various canvases are leaning against the walls around the room. Walker casts a quick eye over them. Paintings of the landscape in vivid colours. Not true to life but striking all the same.
McGregor sits on the short end of the L-shaped sofa and crosses his legs. ‘Have a seat,’ he says.
Walker sits and faces him. ‘Could you talk me through it again, the route you took, the man you saw?’ he says.
‘I’ve already put all that in my statement,’ says McGregor.
‘Yes, I know. But some other information has come to light, so I need to double-check everything.’
‘Yes, OK. Well, it was barely dawn and I was driving, so naturally I can’t give you as many details as I might otherwise, but it was definitely a man that I saw walking. It was on this street, just down from Karen’s house. He was slim, wearing dark jeans and a dark-coloured sweatshirt with a hood. He had his shoulders hunched against the cold, so I only caught a glimpse of his face, but I’m certain it was the man I saw the next morning. Blair.’
‘How tall would you estimate the man to be?’ asks Walker. Blair, at six-one, is almost Walker’s height, quite a lot taller than McGregor, who is probably five-nine. Stewie is shorter by half a head or more, closer to McGregor’s height, maybe a bit less.
‘Hmm, good question. Not all that tall, I suppose. Not as tall as you.’
‘Taller than you are?’ he asks.
McGregor thinks again, his eyes looking up, remembering. ‘No, I’d say probably around my height, but definitely thinner,’ he says, patting his stomach and smiling. McGregor isn’t heavy but has the protruding belly that inaction and age can cause.
‘And did you see his hair?’ asks Walker. Blair’s hair, like his own, is curly, Stewie’s much shorter and straight.
‘No. As I say, his hood was up.’
Walker takes out his phone, pulls up the photos he’d sent to Phil in Canberra: Dean Wilson, Brett, Stewie and Harris – and one of Blair.
‘Could any of these men be the man you saw?’ he asks McGregor.
McGregor swipes through, past Dean, past Brett, pauses at Stewie, swipes on past Harris to Blair. Looks at Blair, swipes back to Stewie.
‘Hmm. Well, I mean, I don’t know this fellow,’ he says, pointing at Stewie, ‘so I’d have to see him walking, see him in the flesh, so to speak, but I suppose it could be him. He has a similar build.’
‘What made you pick out Blair Mitchell when you saw him at the river?’ asks Walker.
‘Ah, yes, well, it was the jeans and the jumper, you see – they were exactly the same.’
‘What about his height? He’s quite a lot taller than you are, almost my height.’
‘Is he really? Well, there you go. As I say, I was driving, just glanced at him, and it’s difficult to gauge all of that in a flash.’
Walker doesn’t press any further. He’s almost certain it was Stewie Charles that McGregor saw. Whether he can convince Stones of that is another matter. He’ll need more than McGregor’s vague concession to do that.
He needs to talk to Stones again but first he needs to check on Grace. He parks outside the pub, no sign of Vero or Grace there, so he walks down to the little cabin, distracted and thinking about Stewie Charles, about what he can do to convince Stones of Blair’s innocence. He’s almost on top of them before he sees that Grace is sitting at the picnic table outside, laughing and talking with Brett fucking Charles.
‘Alright?’ he says as he walks up, smiling at Grace. ‘You OK?’
‘Hey, Lucas,’ she says. ‘Yeah, I’m good. I ran into Brett when I was walking with Ginger. He’s going to show me their opal mine when the water goes down, maybe we can even go tomorrow.’
‘Mmm. Reckon we’ll be heading home soon as the road opens,’ he says. Over his dead body is she going out bush with one of the Charles brothers. He turns to Brett. ‘Time to go, ay? And tell your brother I’m looking for him. I need to talk to him about the night Mark was murdered.’
Brett Charles meets his eyes, his face stony. ‘That’s got nothing to do with him.’
‘That right? Well, in that case he won’t mind telling me what he saw on his midnight walk.’
‘Lucas!’ Grace stands, hand on his arm. She smiles at Brett. ‘Sorry about my brother. Once a cop, always a cop.’
Brett manages a half-smile at her, but his face closes again as he stands. ‘See you round,’ he says.
‘We’re having dinner with Vero in the pub later if you want to join us,’ says Grace.
Brett gives a bark of a laugh. ‘Reckon I won’t, but thanks.’
Grace watches him leave, then turns to Walker. ‘What was all that about?’
‘They’re not good people, Grace,’ he says. ‘His brother has served ten years in prison. He murdered a bloke.’
She pauses. ‘Brett told me that. And he told me how it happened, which obviously you don’t know. Someone attacked them, he was trying to defend a friend, it was an accident …’
Walker scoffs.
‘Well, whatever,’ she says. ‘Brett hasn’t done anything. You can’t judge him by what his brother’s done.’
‘Do me a favour, Grace, please.’ He softens his tone. ‘Three people are dead and whatever you think of Brett, he hangs around with some very bad people, and I’m not just talking about his brother. There’s a good chance at least one of them is involved in all this. I know you like him but please, for me, stay clear of him. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’