CHAPTER 23

It was late afternoon now. That was enough for day one. I went back home, made a cup of tea and sat out on the verandah, thinking about what I’d learned from the day’s exertions.

Not much.

There were some shady characters out there, some people brutalised by the threshing machine of modern life, but that was hardly news. There were some leads to be followed up, some insights to be fleshed out: why Kursk was looking so defensive, what were the financial arrangements behind Burstill’s business, could Laws possibly be as ineffectual as he seemed?

The sun was going down in flames. After a while I looked up and gazed into an opalescent western sky, the kind that made you feel very small.

My meditations were shattered when something whizzed viciously overhead and slammed into the wall. I dropped to the floor, reaching for a Glock that wasn’t there. I glanced up. There was an arrow – a crossbow bolt – still quivering, buried deep in the wooden boards. I heard a rustle of leaves and a metallic clank in the bushes on the other side of the road.

Just because they missed once didn’t mean they’d do so again. Or that the next one wouldn’t be a bullet.

I leapt for the door, rolled into the house. Then went straight out the back and into the bush. Anger gave me wings. If I could catch this aspirational assassin, maybe I could find out what was going on round here.

I crept away to my left, beginning a semi-circle that I estimated would bring me round to where the arrow had come from. I kept to the animal trails, moving as quietly as I could, as swiftly as I dared.

When I reached the road, I paused, scrutinising the scene in front of me. All seemed quiet. Then I heard a burst of laughter further down Shady Grove Road. I spotted a boy on a bicycle – no, two boys on two bicycles – whizzing across a gap in the bushes. They were belting along the walking track that ran alongside the road to town, their bikes rocking.

I sprinted back home, scrambled into the car and drove down the dirt track behind the house until I reached a spot where I hoped I’d be ahead of them.

I jumped out, ran through the scrub and around a low hill until I came to the road. I concealed myself in the bushes beside it.

I’d been there for all of thirty seconds when they appeared: two boys, twelve, maybe thirteen years old. Slower now, figuring they’d made their escape. Still laughing, the cheeky little buggers. The boy in front had a crossbow slung across his shoulder, the one bringing up the rear had rich red hair and a face full of freckles.

I waited until the archer was almost level with me, then leapt out, dragged him from the bike and pinned him to the ground. This went well until, fooled by his youth, I dropped my guard and he took a piece out of my hand. I flipped him over and ground his head – especially the teeth – into the dirt. The gingernut swerved around us and kept going, without so much as a backward glance. Great friend.

The boy on the ground struggled and yelled: ‘Get off me, you dirty cop! What do you think you’re doing?’

Interesting. He knew who – or at least what – I was. Was that what prompted him to take a shot at me?

‘It’s called making an arrest,’ I said. ‘Something you better get used to if you’re going to run round trying to kill police officers.’

I asked for his name and address. It took some persuading, but eventually I got a single word. ‘Bailey.’ He looked up and around, furious, desperate, then despairing as he realised the trouble he was in.

‘Where do you live, Bailey?’

More protestations of police brutality ensued, but in the end he told me he lived on Buckley’s Track and what his father would do to me when he found out about this assault. I made him load his bike onto the tray of my ute and found the track on my GPS. It was just out of town, a kilometre along the road to Wycliff. I considered my options: straight into Satellite for a rocket from Lance Cunningham or home for a deep and meaningful with his parents?

The latter. I’d have a word with Lance myself, once I’d got a fix on the family situation. Given what I’d seen of the boy thus far, I couldn’t imagine it would be a good one.

Which may have been why, as we approached what Bailey said was his family home, I was surprised to find a capacious, modern homestead, beautifully maintained, on twenty acres of prime pasture. The house was made of chiselled grey blocks, with high gates, a gravel drive and green grass. There was a quartet of horses in winter rugs – two chestnuts, a white and an elegant bay – grazing in a paddock framed by ironbark posts and white rail fences.

‘You really live here?’ I asked as I pulled into the driveway.

‘You think I don’t know my own house?’ The boy was sounding tetchier – or maybe more anxious – with every passing second. His breaths were shallow and fast, his hands were shaking.

I kept a close eye on him as he wheeled his bike up the path, half expecting him to make a run for his real home at the ghetto end of town, but he stayed close to my side as we approached the door. I kept the crossbow in my hands and braced myself for a confrontation, wondering what sort of family would produce a child who ran round taking pot shots at police officers. I was almost relieved when the door was opened by a teenage girl. She was thin, pale with a long dark plait and a quiet, wary demeanour. She was dressed in an ill-fitting dress with a beige woollen jumper. Around her neck was a gold chain with a rose-shaped pendant dangling from it.

She flashed a troubled glance at Bailey and asked how she could help me. I told her I was the police and I needed to speak to his parents. She took a sharp breath and stepped back.

‘They’re not here at the moment.’

‘Can you call them? We need to talk about Bailey. And you are . . .?’

‘His sister. What’s the problem?’

‘He just tried to kill me with his crossbow.’

Her eyes flared defensively. ‘I doubt that. If he really wanted to kill you, you’d probably be dead. He’s a very good shot.’

‘We were just mucking round,’ the boy exclaimed. ‘Trying to put the wind up her.’

‘We? You were with Jake?’ she asked.

He glared at the ground.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ She ran a hand across her cheek and looked towards the distant town. ‘And you fired at the police officer?’

Still no response.

‘You do realise,’ I asked the boy, ‘that it’s illegal for you to own or operate a crossbow?’

He gave me little more than a surly stare and a curled lip. The lock of thick black hair dangling over his forehead only added to his angry expression.

‘When will your parents be home?’ I asked the girl.

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied.

She chewed a nail and rested a hand on the doorknob, subtly suggesting she wanted to go back inside.

‘I can handle this,’ she continued. ‘I’ll lock the weapon away. I’m sorry my brother’s been misbehaving. I can assure you it won’t happen again.’

I told her it wasn’t that simple. This was a serious legal matter and I could only discuss it with a parent. If I couldn’t do that, I’d have to confiscate the bow and take Bailey into the station at Satellite. Once I did that, it would be out of my hands. He’d most likely be charged.

She sighed anxiously but saw I wasn’t going to budge. She glanced down the road from town. ‘All right then. Our father’s at work but he should be home soon.’

It was cold out there on the doorstep. Icy clouds were coming out of my mouth, my feet were going numb. Night was closing in. But the girl clearly had no intention of letting me inside. She folded her arms and squared her feet.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.

‘Lucinda.’

‘Could I have your dad’s name and number, Lucinda? I’ll give him a call.’ I didn’t want to be standing here all night.

‘Please,’ she persisted, ‘I’m sure Bailey will never do anything like this again. It’s not him, it’s this town. The boys he runs around with. They have some very negative attitudes towards the police . . .’

‘Sorry but I definitely need to speak to a parent. Where does your dad work?’

‘In a hospital in Melbourne.’

‘He’s a doctor?’

‘The CEO.’

I took in the swanky house, the manicured lawns. That made sense.

‘I see. And what about your mum?’

The trace of a shadow flew across her face. ‘She’s gone to care for a sick relative in Queensland. She used to be a nurse. But I can sort this out with Dad. I know he’s been worried about Bailey, and when he’s anxious he can get angry. Bailey’s been a bit off the rails lately.’

I frowned. Off the rails? He was off the planet.

A car appeared in the distance, drew closer and indicated a turn into the drive of the house.

Lucinda surprised me by suddenly clutching my hand.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t tell our father what Bailey did. He’s not supposed to be running round with the local boys. Or using the bow. Dad will be furious.’

What was going on here? ‘Are you saying you’re worried about your father? Is he mistreating you? Is he violent?’

The roller door went up and the car – a maroon BMW – cruised in to the garage. Lucinda caught my eye. ‘Please . . .’ she mouthed, desperate now.

I hesitated, sighed and handed the bow to the boy. ‘Put it wherever it lives.’ He looked surprised, slipped inside. The driver emerged from the garage moments later. He was in his late forties, dressed in a smooth blue suit with a light scarf around his neck. He was thin, with auburn hair and a lined face, sharp cheekbones. He strode along the path that led to the door.

I turned and greeted him.

He narrowed his eyes, clearly not happy about a stranger speaking to his kids. I flashed my badge.

‘I’m with the Satellite police. LSC Redpath. Jesse.’

‘Craig,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘Is there a problem?’

Lucinda caught her breath.

‘No, there’s no problem. I’m just checking the roads,’ I lied. ‘We’ve had reports of flood damage to some of the bridges and crossings out this way, after the storm. We need to know the public can get through safely.’

I caught Lucinda’s eye, felt her relief. Bailey reappeared.

‘I’d have thought that was a VicRoads responsibility,’ Craig snapped.

‘The repairs are, but if there’s a risk to life or limb, we need to know about it.’ I smiled. ‘I’m new in town,’ I added by way of additional explanation. ‘Taking the opportunity to do a bit of area familiarisation, meet the locals.’

Craig stepped away and eased off a little. He cast his gaze out towards the road.

‘I see. Well, sure, there’s quite a bit of damage between here and Wycliff – culverts blocked, shoulders washed away, potholes everywhere. Water’s over the road in places – the turn into Dunham Road’s the worst. Up the top end of the valley. Wouldn’t want to hit that in a hurry. It can turn to black ice overnight – lethal, I imagine.’

‘Thanks for that, Craig,’ I said. I stepped back and looked around the property. The horses shuffled in the distance. ‘Nice place you’ve got here. Have you lived in Satellite for long?’

‘Just a year or so.’ A thin smile. ‘Tree-changers, you might say. But we do have family – long-established – in the area.’

While we were talking, Lucinda and Bailey retreated into the house. Craig cast a quick, suspicious glance after them then cut the conversation short.

‘If there’s nothing else . . .’

I took the cue. He wanted me gone. I had no desire to complicate things for the kids, so I thanked him for his time, wished him a good evening and left. As I headed back to town, I found myself puzzling over the encounter. I hoped I’d done the right thing. The father seemed reasonable, but who could tell? He’d given me the bum’s rush at the end there. I felt slightly uncomfortable about the encounter. I like things to balance but something here was off kilter. There was a palpable tension running under the surface of that family.

I dropped into the Satellite Police Station and caught Lance just as he was about to go home. He seemed pleased to see me, joked that he’d finally achieved the officer-in-charge position, even if it was only acting. Lance was more amused than anything else by my situation; he laughed about the incompetence of our superiors, said he was confident I’d done nothing wrong, would be reinstated soon.

We talked a little about the case. He’d been aware of Nash Rankin prior to the Wycliff incident, but had never had cause to be concerned by him. I didn’t tell Lance about my ongoing enquiries, the material from Vince Tehlich. Decent enough bloke as Lance appeared to be, I had no idea of the tribal affiliations at play around this region, and I didn’t want to risk him being seen as a party to my illicit activities. The less he knew about them the better.

Lance was concerned to hear about Bailey and the crossbow. He said something about it never raining but always pouring when I was within cooee. I hadn’t got the surname of the family but when I mentioned that Bailey’s accomplice was a ginger-haired boy named Jake, he said that would probably be Jake Perry, whose older brothers had had numerous run-ins with the law over the years. He knew the house on Buckley’s Track – it had belonged to a retired surgeon who died a couple of years ago – but not the current owners. He said he’d make enquiries, do what he could to find out if there was anything going on with the family.

Bailey’s antagonism towards the police was a concern. I couldn’t help but wonder where that came from. Lucinda had mentioned that her brother wasn’t supposed to be mixing with the locals. The boy must have been running wild while his parents were away. Maybe he’d decided to improve his status in the local pecking order with his crossbow skills. Then again, Lucinda hadn’t exactly been the soul of affability herself, leaving me freezing on the doorstep, refusing to cooperate.

It was well past Lance’s knock-off time. He invited me back to his place for dinner, but I said I needed an early night. I bade him good evening, then stood for a minute on the front steps of the station looking out over the town. A car drove past, its tyres hissing on the wet bitumen. A fox darted across the road ahead, a fleeting red flame in the headlights. Beyond the streetlights was the dark forest, looming over the community, hemming us in. What was going on in those wild, lonely hills? What secrets did they hold? God only knew. It was a strange place, the Satellite district. The mines had gone, the timber was going, but the characters remained, like marine creatures stranded by an ebb tide.

That sounded like a recipe for trouble.