14

I had completed the Fletcher paperwork but I’d forgotten to put it in the despatch bag and send it up with the mail coach. I raced over to Kev, who was suited up and ready for the funeral. He signed for it. Then I snatched it back. What was I doing? Corcoran and Martin were in town for the funeral and the meeting this afternoon – they could take it themselves.

I raced back to the station, locked the paperwork up, changed out of the suit and into old pair of work trousers and a shirt, saddled Felix and set off towards Inveraray Station, riding over the flat, stony plains to a low rise to the north of the station, where a tumbledown stone shepherd’s hut stood.

It was the best vantage point for a view of the funeral. Jimmy had once brought me to this rise, and we’d looked down on the station and beyond to the Paroo River while he talked of tanks and bores, fences and feed. I looked for the best terrain on which to engage the enemy and the best route for retreat, like I always did.

A scattering of bleached bones covered the ground beside the hut. I tethered Felix to a tree, took my binoculars out and clambered up the hut, hoping like hell that it wouldn’t give way. I scanned the flat plain until I located the station and the crowd of mourners outside the homestead.

There were dozens of buggies and carts, and mourners in black milling around. As the coffins were carried out of the house and along the trail to the family graveyard, the troopers, mounted on their freshly groomed horses, saluted. Mrs Kirkbride, wearing a gossamer black veil, could barely walk and was supported by her two sisters, followed by Flora in a similar veil, a train of staff and friends behind her. Tom Fletcher, home on bail, walking behind Nessie’s coffin, was obviously struggling. He’d courted Nessie so devotedly, and now he was trying to put one foot in front of the other as he walked his girl to her grave.

When I found their bodies, I’d done what my training said I must. But they’d been my friends, my neighbours, and as I watched them being laid to rest in the distance, tears filled my eyes. I climbed down from the stone wall and sat in the dirt, resting my head against my knees, the memory of the pitiful sight of their bodies, arms flung out, heads bowed or facedown in the suffocating mud, the icy rain trickling down my back beneath my shirt, the memory of it unrelenting.

Wiping tears away, I tried to farewell them on my own as the congregation sang ‘Abide With Me’ at the graveside, their voices carrying on the dry air. Nessie used to sing it – and I’d never heard anything as lovely as Nessie singing ‘Londonderry Air’. Not an easy song, but she was pitch perfect and never resorted to fancy trills. Nessie was always happiest with a piano and a songbook and was known around the district for her beautiful voice. At picnics and dances she was always called on to sing, and she’d lead with ‘The Keel Row’, old people patting their knees keeping time, men tapping their feet, and by the third chorus we’d all be singing. Then Grace would be up dancing with the little kids and Flora would be laughing, her lovely face alive with happiness.

I had never realised how much fun girls could be, and following afternoons of hilarity with them I often thought of my two sisters, who both died as they were being born and now lay in the graveyard beside our mother.

Gangly Grace, all elbows and knees, was not a singer, but in her element with parlour games. Grace knew all the rules and enforced them with firmness and charm. She liked charades most of all, and without exception picked my charade. She could see clearly into my simple mind and felled me almost immediately, much to the others’ amusement.

She loved to go for walks along the river, and she’d chatter away with her sisters, Jimmy and me. I taught her how to skim stones, and once, on one of these walks, she took my hand when we heard shots fired in the distance. Gunshot was pretty standard out there but scary all the same if you are only twelve years old. She took my hand, trusting I’d protect her, but nobody had protected Grace from what lurched through the gloom towards her.

I shook off the memories, clambered back up the stone wall and raised the binoculars to my eyes. Like most station graveyards, the three graves would be planted with rambling roses. Headstones would be raised and those left behind would visit, or not, depending on how much pain they could bear. But today I could pick out three wreathes of eucalypt entwined with pink mulla mulla, which had blossomed in response to the rain.

Once the last handful of dirt had been thrown onto the coffins, people returned to the house, where no doubt a spread of sandwiches and scones would be laid out for the mourners, with tea, or whisky for the men. Maybe some brave soul would make a speech. The whole town would know I did not attend, the whole district – my district, which I policed so diligently. Except for one hour when I hadn’t.

~

I galloped back to the station, took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves and checked the blade on my axe. It glinted in the sunlight as if agreeing with me – yes, heads do need to roll. I stored firewood under a rough corrugated-iron shelter beside the water tank. I’d been impressed with the exactitude and symmetry of the Dutch woodheaps in South Africa. Calling them heaps was slander – they were precision constructions, with every stick of blackwattle split as evenly as matches in a box. My woodheap was homage to theirs. Redgum mostly, but whatever was around I dragged back to be chopped and stacked.

You see, chopping wood is medicinal. The Chinese bloke, the same one as sold me the face ointment, told me to chop wood whenever I could, as it would keep the scars from contracting, break up the tissue and keep everything hot and in balance. Chopping would also soak up the rage and bring harmony, or so he said, and he was right.

I often thought of the Boer who injured me when I chopped. If he’d been properly trained, he would have stuck the bayonet in my stomach. Much more efficient. Nobody survived a stomach wound. But it was personal for him, to repel the hated invader in a blind frenzy. So he went for the face.

I placed a log of redgum on my stump and brought the axe down hard. Creating two from one. I placed the half on the stump, considered where best to make the cut and slammed the blade down again. Raising the axe hurt like a bastard, taking the breath from my lungs. I knew I had to keep at it and the reward would come. In a couple of minutes, I had eight from one and found another short log, set it up, panting, squinting in the harsh light, the stable cats sitting on the iron roof of the heap staring at me with contempt.

It would have been more efficient to shoot all three Kirkbride siblings, so why hadn’t they? The frenzied attack on Nessie spoke of rage. But not so Jimmy’s wounds. Although brutal, the attacker had stopped once the job was done.

‘Hey, Gus.’

I brought the axe down with a grunt, then looked around, panting from the pleasure and pain.

‘Dr Pryor,’ I said, wiping the sweat from my eyes. ‘How was it?’

There were black shadows beneath his eyes, strain written all over his face. I drank from my waterbag, spilled half of it down my shirt.

‘Awful,’ he said, lighting up a cigarette and sitting on the old wooden chair that lived in the yard. ‘Why didn’t you go? Everyone was asking me.’

‘Kirkbride didn’t want me there.’ I positioned a half, noted where to make the cut, picked up my axe and slammed it down with a grunt.

‘Why?’

‘Because I let his children die.’

‘Ridiculous. I’ll talk to him again. Nobody can get an accurate time of death unless they see the death take place. I told him that before. They probably died before you even left Larne.’

I took a quarter, placed it on the stump and examined it. Quarters were tricky. To get that beautiful symmetry in your woodheap, you had to pay attention – force required, angle of attack, likely resistance. I raised the axe.

‘It’s the look of the thing, not the facts,’ I said, grunting as I brought the axe down. ‘It looks like, and it was, a gross dereliction of duty.’

‘I haven’t heard anyone suggest this is your fault.’

‘I have. Maybe you aren’t gossiping with the right people.’ I fetched another round, placed it on the stump and raised the axe.

‘Yes, I mean, it was bad luck you went whoring when—’

‘Kitty is not a whore,’ I said, slamming the axe down and watching the two halves tumble aside. ‘But she’s dropped me in it by telling the dicks I was never there.’

‘What do you expect from a woman like that? You know what they say about dogs and fleas.’

I shot him a glance. Joe had a puritanical streak in him, despite his fondness for the bottle. ‘I need a beer,’ I said. ‘Fancy one?’

‘Indeed I do.’

I wrapped the axe blade in an oilcloth and put it under the shelter, then took a couple of beers from the outside meat safe and we went inside. I peeled off my sweaty shirt, opened the bottles, handed him one and then raised mine and drank deeply. Nothing like a beer after chopping wood. Like a cigarette after sex. Pure satisfaction.

From outside in the street came the rumble of carts and the chatter of people as they streamed away from the funeral, sturdy workers, crammed into tight mourning suits and dresses, hurrying home to put on something more comfortable and get back to work. Few could afford a full day to mourn the Kirkbrides. I fetched a clean shirt and put it on.

‘How was Flora?’

‘I didn’t see her after the interment. I suspect she went to her room. Mrs Kirkbride had to be led away to her room too, not long into the wake. I don’t think anybody wanted to be there. It wasn’t like a funeral for an elderly person. Maybe Kirkbride did you a favour.’

‘Yeah, I can see that. Kirkbride decides he must spare Gus Hawkins the pain of his children’s funeral, so forbids me to attend.’ I lit a cigarette and we both drank deeply from our bottles.

‘Gus—’

‘What?’

‘I heard you were found roaming around the Kirkbride property in the early hours a few days ago.’

I took a pull on my beer, eyed him suspiciously. ‘Who told you that?’

‘McIntosh. Said you and Kirkbride had a shouting match while Flora screamed from the homestead.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘If the murders are stirring up memories of the war … maybe you should take some leave, get away from the investigation.’

‘No. I am fit for active duty. I will not be drummed out of the force for madness.’

‘Not saying you’re mad, nobody is.’

I drained my beer and sighed, held the empty bottle up and raised my eyebrows. Joe nodded. I fetched two more bottles and opened them, sliding his across the table.

‘Anyone ever tell you that you look like an undertaker in that black suit?’ I said. ‘Keeper of the dead house, mate, a bloody black goanna.’

He looked down at the vest with the watch chain tight over his softening belly. ‘Plenty of black suits at the funeral and nobody mistook me for the undertaker.’

‘That’s a relief. Don’t want to be pouring pills down a dead man’s throat and getting nothing for your troubles.’

Joe tipped his beer down his throat with barely a swallow, wiped his mouth and laughed. ‘Bloody smart-arse.’

Lonergan came through from the station, saw me all deshabille and empty beer bottles on the table. ‘Wilson and Frosty are back, sir.’

~

The station kept spare horses for Frosty and Wilson but they mostly worked on foot, and I knew they’d have covered some serious ground in the last ten days. Wilson, in his fifties, looked knackered.

‘You been home yet?’ I asked him.

‘No, need to speak to you first, boss,’ he said. ‘I sent Frosty home. I’ll show you on the map where we been.’

‘Leave that – come around the back and have a cup of tea first.’ The detectives, Corcoran and Martin were due at two, so we had time.

I went into the living quarters and put the kettle on the fire, instructed Lonergan to make some mugs of tea and then joined Wilson in the yard, where he was perched on the chopping block, wiping his face with his neckerchief. ‘You find anything useful?’

‘Yeah, tracks of three men,’ Wilson said.

‘You found their tracks at the crime scene and followed them? A clear connection?’ I said, pulling up one of the old chairs.

‘Yes, we found tracks leading north-east, towards Tindaree Station, one man moving fast, he stumble then keep going for two mile, then he turn and zigzag all the way back, stopping maybe half-mile up from the crime scene.’

‘Panicked, maybe?’ Lonergan said, joining us with the mugs of tea.

‘Yeah, he run like scared emu. He didn’t try to cover his tracks or nuthin’, not like a blackfella would.’

‘And the other two?’

‘Two more fellas on foot, heading towards the south and then stop at the river. They moving fast but they go straight to river. They must have crossed.’

‘Did you go across and see if you could pick up their tracks?’

‘Yeah, that’s why we been so long. But all three fellas’ tracks stop at the river. We go up to Kerrigundi and south to Nellyambo but no signs they go cross. But yeah, lotta sheep moving for crutching, ground all cut up.’

I fetched the tin full of Mrs Schreiber’s oatmeal biscuits, shook them onto a plate and took it outside. Each was about the circumference of a cartwheel – she didn’t muck about when she cooked. We slurped and crunched and speculated on the three suspects, but the fact that Wilson had clearly identified them as having been at the site and leaving it meant we had a hell of a lot more than we’d had before.

It wasn’t long before Martin and Corcoran returned from the funeral aftermath, and I sent Lonergan to fetch the detectives from the Royal. When he was out of earshot, I asked Wilson if he thought the culprits were locals or blow-ins who’d shot through.

He looked into the middle distance, then at me. ‘These two fellas, they know where they goin’,’ he said, then paused and shrugged. ‘Hard to tell if they local.’

~

Denning, Baines, Corcoran, Martin, Lonergan, Wilson and I huddled around the map on the station counter, and Wilson pointed to where they’d followed the tracks. Denning nodded, looked down at the map, plainly ill at ease beside Wilson. I’d have expected better from a big-city detective, but as Baines said, Denning wasn’t a star. We’d been through all the known blacks’ camps in the district, asking questions, sorting out who was who and where they worked or didn’t, which was a time-consuming job. Denning hung back, looking around with barely concealed contempt. Typical Pom.

‘Covered a lot of ground,’ Denning said. ‘But slower than I’d hoped.’

‘Tracking is an art, Inspector, and must be done in a painstaking manner,’ Corcoran said, a glint of steel in his eye.

‘No trace of these men once they hit the river?’ Denning asked.

‘Nothing, sir,’ Wilson said.

‘Just our luck,’ Baines said gloomily. ‘What’s west of here?’

‘The Paroo, then nothing. Or not for a while. There’s White Cliffs to the south-west, a small opal-mining town,’ I said. ‘Or they could have gone north towards Wanaaring then on to the Queensland border. Or east, towards Cobar.’

‘Coulda,’ Wilson said, nodding. ‘Or they could circle back and recross the river further upstream and come back here.’

‘Where were their horses?’ Denning said. ‘You say they were on foot?’

‘Yeah, they on foot and not leading horses neither.’

‘So they couldn’t have gone far,’ Corcoran said. ‘Most of the men who come to the district for work don’t have horses, they ride bicycles.’

After more speculation, Corcoran dismissed Wilson, who looked thrilled to be out of there. They continued to examine the map and talk softly among themselves. Wilson’s suggestion that the killers could have come back here was ignored. I lost interest, fading in and out, lost in a post-bender reverie of bad sleep, too many dreams and a falling sensation that had plagued me on and off for years.

‘Right, this is what we know,’ Denning said eventually. ‘James and his sisters left their homestead at four-thirty and were expected to arrive in Cobar six hours later – they told the staff that was where they were headed. Miss Grace was said to be unwell, hence the delay in leaving. Normally she would have travelled with her parents and the older siblings would come in the cart. But Miss Flora travelled with her parents instead. The siblings took with them a bag containing two ball gowns, a dinner suit, a sapphire necklace and toiletries. James had his fob watch and wallet, and Miss Grace wore a garnet ring. These are all missing.

‘Nobody sees them again until James is spotted at the dance in Larne at approximately ten pm. He was seen by many people, dancing, drinking a beer, chatting and so on, but his sisters were not seen.

‘The last sighting of James was at eleven, when he was seen leaving the hall and walking away along the main street in a southerly direction. Nobody saw them after that – no sightings on the punts or the road, no reported gunshot or screams.’

I jolted out of my apathy at the mention of eleven pm. I’d been through all the statements and I was sure nobody had said the last sighting of James had been at eleven pm. I would have remembered that.

‘It would have taken them about two hours to get to where they were killed,’ Denning went on. ‘Let’s say they leave Larne at maybe eleven-thirty and get to where they were killed at maybe one-thirty, and then the crime is committed.’

Denning glanced at me. If they had been killed at one-thirty, there was a chance I could have saved them, had I not, et cetera, et cetera.

‘Next we have Trooper Hawkins coming across their bodies, he claims, at around three am. Autopsies say the approximate time of death was between ten and three. We can’t get a fix on who died first, but it was probably Miss Grace.

‘As we can see, the trackers have found three sets of tracks leading away from the crime scene, which fits with my belief that it was a premeditated act, but not well planned. My gut tells me the killers were the men dismissed by Inveraray at the start of the crutching season for agitating over labour conditions.

‘Industrial unrest, there is your motive. Many of these men are from the criminal classes and therefore capable of committing such an outrage. These men were seen off the property only days before the murders and were set to cycle up to Bourke and return to their homes by train, as no other property in the district would hire them. They camped by the river – and there is a constantly shifting population of vagrants and blacks along the river – and were watching the Kirkbride homestead. They saw the youngsters leave and waited for them to return, knowing that as they went up the western road, there was no way back but the western road.’

‘There’s the eastern road, sir,’ Lonergan said, clearly puzzled.

‘We have their names and addresses, but I doubt they would return home after committing such a crime,’ Denning said. ‘They’ll hang for this and my experience tells me they’ll be on the run. North, to the Queensland border.’

‘Nobody goes on the run out here on foot without maps and water,’ Corcoran said. ‘It isn’t possible to survive. One miscalculation, you overshoot a bore or a tank, and that’s it. The horse the Kirkbride siblings used on the night has not been seen since. Two horses from a property by the name of –’ he checked his papers – ‘Ellerslie are missing, and have been missing since the coronation weekend. I have no doubt the culprits are headed north and are camped in the bush around Toorale, and from there they’ll go up to Queensland, where we can’t go.’

It sounded like utter rubbish to me, but maybe Denning’s long Geordie vowels, or that British ramrod-up-the-arseness of the man, was interfering with my judgement.

After half an hour of speculation, it was decided to send a manhunt. It was decided I’d lead it. We would head north along the western bank river to Toorale and Wanaaring, and then onto the border, stopping at stations on the way for provisions and to question everyone we met for possible sightings, then we’d work our way back down the eastern side of the river. Lonergan was to stay in Calpa on escort duty.

‘I thought I was confined to the station, sir,’ I said to Corcoran when I got him alone.

‘Do you have a problem, Hawkins?’

Yes, I did. I was being got rid of. Sent on a useless expedition in the hope that I’d fuck up – or, even better, die.

‘No, sir … Yes, sir, I do. Denning just about accused me of killing the Kirkbrides, and now I’m leading a manhunt for the killers?’

‘Just follow orders and shut the hell up.’