5

I was fully awake before dawn, dressed, found a lantern, turned the wick up, lit it and blew out the candle. I worked the woodstove, bringing the coals back to life, fed it some more kindling, then went through to the station, re-read my report and added some details I considered useful. Until Wilson got back it was hard to know what to do or where to look, but time was slipping away.

I looked out the window as if that would magically make Wilson and Frosty appear, then remembered the order that came through last night, snatched it up and read. An inmate at the Kenmore Lunatic Asylum in Goulburn had hidden from his nurse and done a runner. He’d been seen in Cobar, gave troopers the slip and was last seen heading west on foot. His parents, the Jongs, owned a run near Curranyalpa. It wasn’t known if they still lived there but that was where he was likely headed.

A routine job. These poor blokes made a beeline for the empty spaces, where they just let it rip. He was probably carrying no water, and if he was on foot between here and Cobar he may never be seen again. Heat, thirst or death by misadventure, usually at the hands of some sadistic prick who enjoyed baiting the mad, getting a few laughs from their distress.

I checked my watch, tucked it in my tunic pocket, saddled up and cantered up the western road to Gowrie Station, the second-largest station in the district, which shared a border with Inveraray. Because of the brilliance of the stars, it was never really dark in the open out here, and the soil, the scrub, the river, all were bathed in an icy, ethereal light. I rode up the long drive to the homestead, passing the laundries where white sheets hung on lines like ghosts who’d finished for the night. The lights were on in the stockmen’s quarters and the homestead, the smell of frying bacon thick in the air.

I tethered my horse, went up the steps to the homestead and knocked. Will Fletcher came to the door. He was as big as his son, with a hard set to his mouth, a reserved and stoic man from a past era, a bit like my father. Firm believers in progress, empire and the sanctity of grazing.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Fletcher.’

‘Have you come to arrest him?’

‘For what?’

He nodded at my eye.

‘No, just to see how he is.’

Mr Fletcher relaxed slightly, stepped out onto the verandah, closing the door behind him, and gathered himself. He shook his head, compressing his mouth until it disappeared.

‘He’s with his mother.’ He paused for a long moment, staring at the dark shadows under the peppercorn tree. ‘She gives him some comfort.’

‘Detectives will be here soon, coming from Sydney. The investigation isn’t going to be easy for anyone, but let me emphasise that striking a detective or a trooper, regardless of the situation, won’t be tolerated. Stay with him when he’s questioned, if you can.’

He nodded. ‘Any news yet?’

‘No, but you might want to call in your boundary riders and doggers.’

‘I’ll not be calling off the doggers just before lambing.’

‘Fair enough, I know how busy the district is right now.’

He nodded. ‘How are the Kirkbrides managing?’

Kirkbride grey-faced, Mrs Kirkbride wailing, Flora floating in the river, arms outstretched, dead leaves swirling around her slender body, giving herself up to oblivion as her wet skirts dragged her down.

Fletcher nodded at my wordless answer and disappeared back into the gloom of the homestead. I couldn’t picture Tom with his mother as I had never met Mrs Fletcher. She was an invalid who rarely left her room, let alone the homestead. And as I’d never known my own mother, I was unfamiliar with the sort of comfort mothers could provide. But if ever there was a man in need of comfort, it was Tom Fletcher.

~

On my return to the police station I felt a stab of irritation at the sight of Lonergan, his black hair parted in the middle of his round skull, his hairy black brows like caterpillars. I shook some coffee beans into the small wooden grinder and turned the handle, the sound of the grinding beans drowning out some stupid question of his. Found the coffee pot, spooned the ground coffee into the funnel, filled the base with water, replaced the funnel, screwed the top on and placed it on the stovetop. Lonergan watched the entire time. When I was finished, he handed me an unopened order, which I tore open and read aloud.

‘Attend Bourke Station, stay overnight, then escort the detectives and equipment back to Calpa.’

Lonergan nodded. ‘That’s you, right, sir? Not me?’

I placed the sugar bowl and a cup on the table. What was I to do with this gormless trooper?

‘As it’s addressed to me, I think we’ll assume it’s for me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Log it immediately, so it’s not misplaced. While I’m in Bourke, you keep an eye and an ear out for this escapee from Kenmore Asylum—’

‘What escapee, sir?’ he said, eyes widening in alarm.

‘Check the order logbook, see if it’s been actioned, follow up if it hasn’t, note your movements, note dates, times, when you had a drink of water, what you had for dinner, when you had a piss … Are you listening, Trooper?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do your rounds, but make sure you’re armed and alert at all times. Ask Wally at the Royal if you need assistance. And write it all up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And get it right,’ I added with a scowl. Couldn’t help myself. My incident book was a thing of beauty, and to have some coal cracker scrawling his half-formed thoughts on its clean white expanse pained me.

~

It was a six-hour ride upriver to Bourke. In summer it was a bastard of a ride, one I preferred to do at night if I had a choice. The thing to do was carry a tin of Josephson’s Australian Ointment. Buckskin breeches were made so you didn’t chafe, but six or more hours in the saddle on a hot day and everything chafed, from balls to brain. The glare was blinding but our official hat was a jaunty pillbox affair, which would be just the thing for a Parisian gendarme but was ridiculous out here. I shoved it in a saddlebag and wore a cabbage-tree hat like every other man in the bush.

The sun was on its way across a vast blue sky, a westerly wind blowing. I noticed a shape ahead in the distance, moving slowly. Dancer stopped at the sight of it. He didn’t like things that moved, nor did he like things that didn’t move. So there we were, his ears pricked forward, completely still, every muscle tensed and ready to flee.

‘How’d you get into the police force, mate?’ I said, stroking his neck. ‘Bribed someone, eh?’

I urged him forward, but horses often sense things long before humans and I thought of the Kenmore escapee. But it was a rabbit shooter, dragging a heavily laden cart with racks and racks of dead rabbits hanging in the breeze. The stench from his load turned my stomach.

I stopped and he stopped, leaves and dust skittering around us. ‘Headed back to Bourke?’

‘Yeah, been on Booroondara Downs,’ he said.

‘Go to the dance in Larne on Saturday night?’

‘Nope, nothing to wear. All me ball gowns are dirty.’

‘Seen anything or anyone odd around?’

His weathered face split in a smile. ‘Nah, mate, no more than usual. Who you looking for?’

I debated telling him, but men like this one, who got around the district, drank here and there, roamed the scrub, saw things.

‘Three people murdered on the western Larne to Calpa road Saturday night. Two women and a man, siblings.’

His eyes widened. ‘Who? They from around here?’

‘Three of Robert Kirkbride’s children. Keep your eyes and ears peeled for anything at all that strikes you as odd.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he murmured. ‘My wife and kids, we’re on the edge of town.’

‘Tell ’em to keep an eye out, keep their wits about them. Superintendent Corcoran will be issuing a statement later today.’

‘A statement, yeah, that’ll protect them,’ he said, then flicked his reins. ‘Gotta get back. Thanks for the tip, Officer.’

I took out my notebook, noted down the time of the encounter and the nature of his business, tucked it away again and rode on. Inexplicably, my eyes filled with tears, which slipped down my cheeks, then vanished like rain in a waterhole.

On reflection, it was probably the smell of death that got to me. Dead rabbits drying in the sun. They shouldn’t have been here. Everyone knew that, except the nong who thought shooting rabbits would be amusing. An Englishman, of course. Now, we Australians thought of ourselves as English, but the English didn’t think of us like that. I learned that one quickly when I arrived in Cape Town. We were colonials, the Queen’s Colonial Forces, and we’d do as we were told by our betters.

Back in 1899, when the call went around Australia for soldiers to fight the Boer War, what they wanted were bushmen, men who could ride and shoot. Because of the rabbit plague there were men like that in spades in Australia, including me, as I’d spent my school holidays galloping about shooting rabbits with mates, pretending we were picking off Mahdists for General Gordon.

I knew the British officers in South Africa thought Australians were good fighters, but when the uncomfortable questions were asked back in England, we were just a pack of troublemaking, knuckle-dragging ruffians good for executing. That we were good fighters was down to the rabbit plague, or that was my theory. Were we ruffians? That depended on the orders from our betters.

~

Hot, dusty, dry and hot, Bourke started as a fort and evolved into a transport town. Paddle-steamers, camel trains, bullockies, stock routes and the railroad all came to Bourke and fanned out from there. Hence there were a lot of thirsty men, the requisite pubs to service them and the troopers to watch over them. It had a couple of fine buildings, but the police station wasn’t one of them.

Bourke was a posting men tried to get away from as soon as they arrived. But some liked it out here – Sergeant Martin for one. He was in the hallway when I arrived and pulled me aside.

‘Hawkins, if you ever show insubordination again, I will have you dismissed, do you understand? And then you can fuck off back to wherever you came from.’

I stared at him for a moment, uncertain as to which moment of insubordination he was referring to.

‘Don’t come all wide-eyed and innocent with me,’ he hissed. ‘I give orders, you follow them. I am a sergeant, you are not.’

‘Sir.’

‘And get a haircut.’

Maybe Martin was referring to the crime scene, although it could have been just about any time we set eyes on each other. I didn’t care much either way. I followed him into the briefing room, where our boss, Superintendent Jim Corcoran, stood in front of a gang of troopers. My mind snapped to attention as I took a place at the back.

‘The detectives are arriving tomorrow morning,’ Corcoran said. ‘They’ll be leading the investigation, not us, and they have asked that nobody give any details of the crime to anyone. Everyone got that? Not your mother or your mate or the man who cuts your hair. Complete silence on the matter. Senior Constable Hawkins will escort the detectives wherever they need to go but everyone has their part to play. Wait for orders, do your patrols carefully and thoroughly, and be on the lookout. I’ve issued a statement for the local papers, just to get them out of my hair. Do we speak to journalists?’

His question hung in the air. We dared not answer.

‘No, we do not,’ he continued. ‘If you find them in a mess, get them out of it, but keep your mouth shut. Be on the alert at all times. If anything strikes you as odd, unfamiliar, let Bourke know and we’ll pass it on to the detectives. Right, dismissed.’

Dismissal couldn’t come soon enough for me. The room was crammed with troopers, all reeking of that distinctive soldier odour, unwashed body encased in wool and finished with a good helping of dust, dirt, grease and poor teeth. In confined spaces, it sent me spinning back to South Africa, the mission briefings, the ice in my stomach, the fear that there was a bunch of treacherous japie commandoes crouched behind the superintendent’s desk.

I turned to follow the other troopers out but Corcoran called me back.

Jim Corcoran was in his fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, sporting an impressive moustache like a factory broom. He’d lost half an ear to a bushranger’s bullet back in the day, and like a massive old fighting dog he commanded respect. He’d been a legendary shot, known for his relentless pursuit of bushrangers. If Big Jim Corcoran was on your tail, you might as well give up. Now he ran the district, scrabbling for funds and resources. That his population was the smallest in the state meant he had stiff competition. He kept a goldfish in a bowl on his desk, liked to stare at it. Word was he named the fish after his dead wife, and could be heard singing to it late in the afternoons. That sort of bullshit thrived out here.

‘How the hell did you get that black eye?’ he said.

‘Thomas Fletcher. I confirmed to him that Miss Nessie Kirkbride was dead. He was upset. I’ve warned him not to do it again, but I see no useful purpose in charging him, sir.’

He grunted. ‘If he punches a detective, he’ll be sorry.’

‘He knows.’

He sat back and lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and said, ‘Parry reckons you left Larne after the hall was locked up at midnight, but according to your report you didn’t get to the scene of the crime until three. Should have taken you two hours at most. What were you doing?’

I knew this would come up. Nothing Corcoran could say would make me feel worse than I already did.

‘I visited a friend and left Larne an hour later.’

‘You visited a friend for an hour while on duty?’

A clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily. Out in the street, wagons and carts rolled by, the clatter echoing off the buildings. Corcoran ashed his cigarette, glared at his goldfish.

‘I’d like to offer my resignation, sir.’

‘I won’t accept it. Or not yet. We need every man right now. But it has been noted.’

Corcoran picked up his pen again, paused then slammed it down, pulled out a bottle of whisky, splashed some in a couple of tumblers and handed one to me.

‘Sit down,’ he sighed. ‘These bastards in Sydney know bugger-all of the conditions out here. They may as well send a ballet company.’

‘Two detectives are going to be flat out questioning everyone,’ I said. ‘District’s full of crutching teams too.’

He downed his whisky and poured more. ‘I know. But it’s the usual story, do more with less and make the government look good while we’re at it. And Robert Kirkbride has friends in high places, which makes it difficult for everyone. I’ve secured six more troopers, but God knows where I’ll billet them. Calpa can barely support the population it’s got.’

‘Tents, that’ll do for a while. Meals and wash up at the Royal, horses can stay in the station paddock, if they send blankets and decent fodder. No grazing out there.’

‘Good, you can be in charge of that,’ he said with a grateful sigh. ‘Now, before these dicks get here, I want to make it clear that you are escorting them, not directing their investigation or influencing them in any way.’

‘But I found the bodies and have good overall knowledge of the district.’

‘That’s why you’re escorting them. But this is one for the detectives. We assist, not influence.’

‘Why would I try to influence them?’

‘Because you’re a damn know-it-all, Hawkins. And don’t let your sympathies stop you doing your job. The blacks have hundreds of reasons to want to smash our faces in and rape our women. Countermanding Martin’s order to disarm the trackers was wrong.’

‘You send a black tracker, or any trooper, out unarmed to catch a murderer and he’s not going to do his job properly, and why the hell should he? You’ve just made it clear his life is not important.’

‘Martin gave you an order,’ Corcoran said. ‘Nobody’s forgotten Jimmy Governor was a black tracker. People see trackers with weapons, they’ll be terrified. I will query Sydney, and until I hear otherwise you will disarm them.’

‘Wilson Garnet said they were terrified and not letting the women out without—’

‘Garnets are station blacks, not all of them are.’

I said nothing. Wilson and Frosty were out there now and I wasn’t going to track them down and take back their guns just because the brass in Sydney said so. I know, obeying orders without question is the God all soldiers worship, heads bowed, hands on hearts. It took moral discipline to do so, and if the order was stupid or dangerous or both, the greater the call on discipline. But I wasn’t a soldier anymore.

Corcoran gave me a dark look. ‘I’ll find out. Don’t think I won’t.’

‘Sir.’

‘See the quartermaster in the morning before we go to meet the detectives. Get supplies for the six troopers sorted.’

‘Charge it to Mounted Police or Detective Branch?’

‘To us,’ he said with a weary look. ‘The bare minimum, understand? They can shoot a roo if they need more food.’

I wandered off to find a room for the night, puzzling over how Corcoran and Martin knew I’d armed the trackers contrary to orders.