Chapter 15

MANOLIS CHARGED a disgruntled Sparrow with the task of chasing down Molly’s phone records and supposed suitor, Joe Shrewsbury. Her workplace, home, computer and the morgue would all come later. The school was closed for a second day anyway, the children having been offered counselling for the loss of their teacher. In the meantime, Manolis would accompany Kerr to meet with seventy-six-year-old Ida Jones before her gin took effect.

Before Manolis left, he offered Sparrow an olive branch in the form of a cigarette. It was freshly rolled, thick and straight, one of his finest. He was genuinely disappointed to give it away but thoroughly wanted the young constable to have it. Sparrow stared at it for a long time before snatching his cap and trudging off. Manolis watched Sparrow walk away, the unwanted gift still hanging from his fingers.

‘Ida’s actually a friend of my mum,’ Kerr told Manolis as they prepared to leave.

‘They’re of the same vintage?’

‘Roughly. Same level of intolerance.’

‘Were you looking after her yesterday?’

She exhaled, exposing her heavy heart. ‘It’s not easy.’

‘You live with her?’ Manolis was careful not to mention Kerr’s fiancé.

‘She lives with me.’

As they locked the doors, a four-wheel drive skidded into position outside the station, engulfing Manolis and Kerr in a thick cloud of dry dust. Hacking away the outback spores, Manolis saw the car door fling open and the elusive Sergeant Bill Fyfe fall to the earth with a cold thud. Manolis and Kerr ran over and helped the senior policeman to his feet, before carefully walking him inside, arm in arm. They laid him on the tearoom sofa, which shunted on impact then bowed in the middle.

‘City mouse!’ Fyfe sputtered. ‘Good to see ya.’

‘He’s been on a bender since Saturday,’ Kerr said. ‘Stupidly driving around town half-cut. Haven’t ya, ya dumb bastard?’

‘Shaddup,’ Fyfe spat. ‘Bring us some water, would ya, sweetheart?’

The lines on Kerr’s face appeared darkly. She went to fetch a clean mug while Manolis stood over Fyfe, watching him groan and struggle to breathe. A small bird whacked into the cop station window, making the glass rattle and shake. Fyfe didn’t budge.

Manolis was unsure where to begin, or if this was even the right moment to ask. But there never seemed to be a good time, and there was still a killer at large, which was something only he seemed to acknowledge.

‘So… how goes it?’ Fyfe spoke with his eyes closed.

Manolis eyed him guardedly. ‘Um, good. We’re just off to interview Ida now.’

Fyfe chortled. ‘Ida, eh. Well good luck with that.’

‘She found the body, right?’

‘She poured the petrol onto the fucking fire, yeah.’

Kerr returned with a full mug and thrust it into Fyfe’s waiting hand. She told Manolis she’d wait in the car, stomping away in a grim huff. Remaining in his horizontal position, Fyfe downed the water in two gulps without spilling a drop.

‘You settlin’ in alright? Like your quarters?’

Manolis placed his hands on his hips. ‘Yes, thank you. Constable Smith… Sparrow, said it was your idea.’

‘Vera and Rexy will look after you. They’re good people.’

‘Hmm.’

‘My heart goes out to ’em. Two kids, and now a kid-in-law, dead. Can you imagine?’

‘Tragic. Rex said he remembers my father.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Dad owned a milk bar in town. We lived out the back.’

Fyfe’s head rocked from side to side. He appeared to be concentrating hard on keeping the water down, the sudden lack of alcohol proving a shock to the system.

‘I saw the evidence you collected from the crime scene,’ said Manolis. ‘And then the scene itself.’

Fyfe snapped his eyes open. ‘You did?’

‘Sparrow showed me.’

‘What’d ya reckon? Any ideas?’

‘I reckon you should’ve locked the evidence and secured the scene.’

Fyfe chuckled. His languid gaze dropped to the floor.

‘Protocol, eh,’ he slurred. ‘Good one, city mouse. Look, son, no one gives a toss about protocol in a one-horse town.’

‘Well you should. We’ve now got Buckley’s if this ever goes before a judge or jury.’

‘Thass not gonna happen.’

No one said anything for a while. Manolis watched Fyfe, all gentle-eyed and useless. Having caught his breath, the local sergeant looked down at his hands, inspecting them as if surprised to find them there. Finally, Manolis extended his arm, offering a refill.

‘Ta,’ said Fyfe, passing the empty mug. Manolis topped it up from the dripping tap and handed it back. One gulp this time.

‘Cruel way to die,’ Fyfe breathed. ‘Being stoned. Imagine it.’

‘I tried. I can’t.’

‘Ever seen anything like this before?’

‘A stoning? No.’

‘Might be a first then, eh? For Australia, I mean.’

Manolis folded his arms. ‘I don’t think that’s anything to be proud of.’

‘Really?’ said Fyfe. ‘I do.’

Outside, an outlaw bikie gang thundered past, all exhaust pipes and attitudes. The window shuddered in its wooden frame. Manolis momentarily lost his train of thought.

‘I thought there’d be more of a bloodstain,’ he said.

‘Huh?’

‘At the crime scene. More blood.’

Fyfe’s forehead creased with confusion. ‘You said this was your first stoning. How would you know otherwise?’

Manolis was about to reply when Fyfe held up his hand to stop him. He then cocked an elbow and extended his arm as if throwing a dart. ‘I hear the Aboriginal fellas spear each other in the leg for payback. Like this. It’s usually done in the thigh, sometimes calf.’

Manolis paused, thinking. ‘But isn’t spearing in that part of the body really dangerous?’

‘Hell yes it’s dangerous. Spear goes in wrong and you cut the main artery, the femoral one, and bleed to death.’

Manolis thought he’d test the water. ‘Ever heard of a bloke named Jimmy Dingo?’

Fyfe smiled hyena teeth. ‘Course I have. Everyone has. And I know why you’re askin’. Don’t even bother. That story’s bullshit, a myth, it all happened years ago. It’s got nuthin’ to do with Molly Abbott.’

His words were firm. Manolis expected it, and eased off.

‘Anyway, thass what the Aboriginals do, they chuck spears,’ Fyfe continued. ‘I don’t think they chuck rocks. I’m pretty sure thass just the carpet kissers.’

‘Up at the detention centre?’

‘Thass right.’

‘Is that why you were there yesterday?’

Swinging his legs onto the floor, Fyfe sat up steadily. ‘Yesterday?’ he asked quizzically. ‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’

‘You weren’t at the detention centre yesterday afternoon?’

Fyfe looked at him for an extended period of time. ‘I was home all day yesterday,’ he finally replied. ‘In bed, sick, hungover. It was a hangover a hundred times worse than any stoning.’

Manolis wondered why Fyfe would lie. Probably the same reason he hadn’t stopped the previous day – he was hiding something. Or was Manolis mistaken? He was almost certain he wasn’t. Almost.

‘Oh,’ Manolis said, ‘I thought I saw you.’

‘Not me, mate. So you went up there?’

‘I went to check it out, yes.’

‘You catch the murderer?’

Manolis looked away. ‘Did Molly have anything to do with the detainees?’

‘Dunno.’

‘I thought you said you were close.’

‘More with her dad. Graham was an alderman, a war hero and mate. I promised him I’d take care of his little girl. Now, the bastard’s gonna bloody kill me when he sees her up in heaven before me.’

Manolis found a chair. ‘I hear there’s a drug problem in town. Methamphetamines.’

Fyfe raised a caterpillar eyebrow. ‘No way,’ he said, fake smile. ‘We’re a good little community.’

Manolis looked to the ceiling, frustration curling his top lip into a sneer. He looked back. ‘What about the theory that Molly might’ve been killed by a raging meth head?’

‘Thass a theory, sure,’ said Fyfe. ‘But it’d be wrong.’

‘Oh?’

He bared his yellow incisors a second time. ‘We’re a good little community.’

‘Who’s in charge at the detention centre?’

‘The devil incarnate.’

‘He got a name?’

Fyfe produced a tobacco tin, shoved a brown blob in between his lower lip and gum. Manolis watched with some disgust.

‘Yeah,’ Fyfe replied. ‘Onions is his name. Francis Onions. Frankie Fucken Onions. Prick from the city. Like you.’

A sudden clamour of loud voices sounded on the street outside, wolf-whistles, swearing, anger, an argument. Before Manolis could investigate, the ruckus died down, concluding with a horn blaring and a car revving into the distance.

‘Best you not keep the little lady waitin’.’ Fyfe smiled. ‘She tends to get stroppy, and especially at this time o’ the month. We’ll talk again.’

Manolis stood to go, before turning back. ‘One last thing, have you spoken to the media yet?’

Fyfe folded fat fingers into each other. ‘Media? What, you mean, like newspaper reporters?’

‘Yes.’

‘You assumin’ they made contact?’

‘A beautiful blonde woman has been stoned to death in an outback town…? I imagine they would.’

‘Well, now you mention it, there’s been a coupla calls from nosey city journos sniffin’ about. But we’ve dodged ’em so far.’

‘Doesn’t the whole town know?’

‘Prob’ly. But that means shit, son. We don’t give a toss about the city or anyone from it in the same way they don’t give a rat’s arse about us. No one really knows we exist outside the detention centre. We’re like a pimple on an ugly arse.’

This unexpectedly good news made Manolis feel lighter. Immigration detention was often in the headlines, a political hot potato. Perhaps people high up in the government had threatened lawsuits if the media printed anything substantial on the case so early on. Still, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out. And Manolis loathed reporters. He often saw city journalists loitering around the station, notepads and recorders at the ready, or after something off the record. They were getting younger and pushier by the day.

‘Anyway, good luck, city mouse. Let me know how you get on. I’ll start making a few enquiries of my own.’

‘Who’ll you be speaking to?’

Fyfe smiled. ‘I got some folks in mind. Tell you more later.’

MANOLIS FOUND KERR leaning against the bonnet of an old Holden ute. Its doors and windows were open to allow for airflow. She was biting her nails and wore a scowl.

‘Get in,’ she said gruffly. ‘Ain’t got all day.’

She proceeded to execute a befuddling combination of pedal pumps and choke pulls until the engine whirred to life. She reversed without looking in her rear-view mirror, then floored it. They drove in silence for a while, heading east, past entire streets where houses had windows made of bricks. The ute’s tray rattled with its collection of unsecured items. Kerr drove as recklessly as Sparrow had; getting to Ida in time was a desperate race against inebriation.

In the brilliant midmorning light, Manolis stole glances of Kerr from the corner of his eye.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Never better,’ she replied.

‘Is it far to go?’

‘No. Ida’s house is one of the oldest in town, handed down through the generations. Shame it’ll end with her.’

‘No kids, then.’

‘You don’t remember her?’

‘No.’

‘She never married either.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘An old maid.’

Kerr thrust her chin at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Fuck you.’

Manolis snapped his neck right. ‘Steady on, Constable. What was that for?’

‘What do you reckon it was for?’ Kerr blinked slowly and deliberately. ‘When you see the animals in this town, is it any wonder she never married?’

Manolis looked out the window, thought a moment, then gently but directly asked what had happened before they left the station. At first Kerr denied it was anything, before finally loosening her tongue after Manolis stayed silent. He was an outsider and this was her confessional.

‘I’m sick of it,’ she said. ‘Just bloody sick of it.’