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In Northam Library, microfilm loaded up, I find what I’m looking for.
‘WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN AVON RIVER AFTER STORM’
‘Bingo.’ A prickle electrifies my skin.
‘A woman’s body has been found in the Avon River in Western Australia’s Wheatbelt Region near Northam. The body has been identified as Dora Del Saur, 36 of Northam Caravan Park. She was last seen leaving the caravan she shared with her husband Edward Del Saur, about five pm on September 2nd. Mr. Del Saur reported her missing the next morning.
I read the next line twice. ‘Mrs. Del Saur is survived by her husband, Edward Del Saur, and six-month-old baby, Joseph.’
There was a baby. It belonged to the victim, Dora. This makes me feel jumpy. Blossom had made Lorrelai look like the baby’s mother. In the sketches, she looks so natural with him. Yet she murdered the baby’s mother.
The next is a short article which states that a nineteen-year-old woman from Northam has been taken in for questioning. This is followed by a longer article.
‘NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD WOMAN ACCUSED OF MURDERING DORA DEL SAUR’
‘Lorrelai McAllister 19, of Northam Caravan Park, stands accused of the murder of Dora Del Saur 36, whose body was found in the Avon River September 3rd this year. The victim, also of Northam Caravan Park, was reported missing by her husband, Edward Del Saur after leaving the caravan where she lived, at five pm the previous day.
Miss McAllister is accused of strangling and then drowning the victim off the caravan park’s bridge around midnight, September 2nd during a storm. Miss McAllister is a previous employee of the Del Saur family.’
A date is set for the hearing.
‘WOMAN CHARGED WITH DROWNING MURDER’
‘PERTH - The Crown would allege that Dora Margaret Del Saur drowned after being strangled and thrown into the Avon River during a storm at Northam Caravan Park, the Western Australian Supreme Court was told yesterday. The prosecutor, Mr. Liam Harper, QC, said the Crown would allege during the murder trial that Lorrelai Anne McAllister 19, followed the victim to the bridge on September 2nd with the intention of murdering the victim after her position as Del Saur family help was terminated and her relationship with Mr. Del Saur ended. The Crown prosecutor, Mr. Liam Harper, QC, said the case presented by the Crown would be based on eyewitness accounts and compelling circumstantial evidence.
Mr. Harper then detailed eyewitness accounts from four long-term Northam Caravan Park residents. The jury heard that Miss McAllister had been seen kissing Mr. Del Saur and had moved into the Del Saur’s caravan with the victim. Miss McAllister had also assumed full time care of the victim’s infant, Joseph, and the running of the Del Saur household.
Mr. Harper then presented a witness who heard an altercation between the accused, Miss McAllister and Mr. Del Saur shortly after he returned from hospital where he was supporting his wife, Dora. The victim Mrs. Del Saur had suffered ongoing health issues but was physically well the night she died.
Mr. Harper said on the night of the murder, Miss McAllister was seen leaving the caravan she shared with Pierre Dupont after the breakdown of relations with the Del Saur family, and then running towards the bridge where the victim was murdered. Miss McAllister previously denied leaving the caravan that night. An eyewitness confirms a scream was heard from the direction of the bridge about midnight.
Mr. Harper presented an autopsy report of the victim which proved she died by drowning and that there was also bruising around her neck consistent with strangulation. The bruising indicated an attacker with small hands, such as a woman. A map of the park was presented, indicating the short distance between Miss McAllister’s place of residence, and the bridge where the victim was murdered, and the site where the victim’s last known attire, a white night dress was discovered.
Mr. Harper also presented the victims’ wedding rings which the accused was found wearing on her left hand the morning after the murder.
There’s a few more details and then:
Miss Lorrelai Anne McAllister was then charged with having murdered Dora Margaret Del Saur at the Northam Caravan Park Bridge at Northam, Western Australia on September 2nd 1971. She replied in a small voice: “Not guilty, your honour.”
The accused lived with a local postman in a riverside caravan after losing her job of three years at the Lion Inn, York. She was raised in the Saint Gertrude Orphanage. She was sentenced to twenty years for the murder of Dora Del Saur with a non-parole period of fifteen years.’
There’s a sketch of a woman with eyes downcast, her hair scraped into a low ponytail. Dark smudges are visible beneath her eyes, and she’s wearing a round-neck T-shirt that makes her look like an inmate.
I try to picture Lorrelai: nineteen, jobless, living in a caravan park. It’s not a place you choose to live. You’re either born in one or you’re down and out. Then she had an affair with a married man. Maybe she already knew him. But there’s a problem: the wife. Then there’s a storm. The wife is eliminated.
A little gooseflesh prickles the backs of my arms.
A picture below the article shows a man with a child and a woman in a hospital bed. The woman has long black hair and stares blankly at the camera. The man has dark hair and a beard and is gazing at the child. It stops my breath for a second because it’s him, the man from the sketches. If he was in his mid-thirties in the picture, he’d be seventy now.
They might have planned it, Lorrelai and Ned del Saur. The wife was in the way, after all.
My heart is drumming like crazy. Is that why Blossom did that second last sketch of the big man running after his wife? Where was Lorrelai then?
Perhaps Blossom witnessed something that wasn’t in the reports. She just wasn’t the sort of person to go to all that trouble to hide sketches if they were fantasy. But why leave them to me? She could have taken her concerns to authorities years ago. When she was alive. When something could be done about it.
Unless she was scared.
I glance around. Did someone else know about the sketches? Know what they’d lead the observer to believe? A sensation creeps over my skin, like somebody has whispered near me.
I look over my shoulder. Two female staff are putting books away and another is on the computer. A man wearing glasses is examining books with his head tilted back, the fluorescent lighting making his eyes two small pinpricks.
What if Blossom was right? What if someone else caused Dora’s death? What if Ned Del Saur killed her?
On the computer beside me, so I don’t lose the articles, I type in the name Ned Del Saur.
The first articles that come up are about the murder. I keep scrolling. Nathan Del Saur shows a professional profile and headshot. I type Joseph Del Saur. Then I try Jo Del Saur, and Edward Del Saur and Ned Del Saur. Then I type Jo and Ned.
There’s a picture of a group of people on a football field. The children, mostly boys, wear solemn expressions and matching uniforms. Central in the picture is a dark-haired man holding a football in one hand and a framed photograph in the other.
‘DWELLINGUP TIGERS TRIBUTE MATCH FOR JO AND NED’
‘Jo Berry loved his weekend footy and his mates. When he developed a limp, he and his teammates joked about it. “We didn’t think anything of it at first,” said Jo’s father, Ned. “The boys were always getting knocks during the game, and Jo was pretty stoic.” After the limp worsened, doctors confirmed the worst. Joseph had bone cancer. “Jo fought this bloody disease for two years,” said Ned, breaking down. “It was cruel, but he was brave, my boy.” The Northam Tigers organised a tribute game in Jo’s honour after he passed away earlier this year, aged just fourteen. The team wore a black band on their arms and held a sausage sizzle after the game. “All funds will go to bone cancer research,” insisted the Tigers coach. Rest in Peace, Jo.’
‘Hello?’ An older woman with a friendly smile cuddles books to her chest like teddy bears. ‘Sorry, love, the library is closing in five minutes,’ she whispers.
‘But it’s not two o clock yet.’
‘Yes, dear, but it’s Friday. Early close. Sorry. You’ll have to come back on Monday.’ Her name badge says Lynn Lee. Lisa Lee’s mother. The breath catches in my throat. How must she feel after another sex attack like the one on Lisa?
She waits calmly, as if she knows what I’m thinking, her wavy grey hair in a neat ponytail. I wonder if she was once blonde like Lisa. A clock ticks.
‘Do you want to print anything before you leave?’
I nod, reading quickly. ‘Yes, this page please.’ Then I look at the football one. It’s a long shot, but not impossible. I indicate the second computer. ‘And this one.’
Mrs. Lee presses buttons, and the photocopier whirrs. A page sails out and she hands it to me and then several more come out. I slide them all into my backpack. She touches a switch, and the screen goes blank.
‘Thanks very much, Mrs. Lee. Sorry.’
She smiles, a kind, weary smile that makes me feel guilty. Her family must have been through hell. I should say something meaningful, but the enormity of it leaves me speechless.
* * *
Lisa didn’t go to her school social dance. No one saw her for ages, and we weren’t surprised. It was an uncomfortable thing we eventually got used to. Then, four years later, the attacker struck again, and another young woman’s life changed forever. A doll was found at the scene. Chloe left town with her family. With her leaving, it seemed like some of that night left too.
Now, eight years after the original attack, the one that stopped us thinking we lived in a safe place, it had happened again. Why has he come back? Why does he leave dolls?
There’s a bit of a wait for Mary to pick me up, so when I get back to York, I’ll have just enough time for a quick shower before work.
Outside, I breathe in the wattle-scented air and glance across at the Northam Community Hall, remembering the night my dance was held there, the night things changed between Walshy and me forever.
* * *
Walshy woke me when he walked across the veranda. I had lain awake for a while, going over the events of the social dance and our argument and wondering where he’d gone and torturing myself about him being with another girl.
A thump. A few quick footsteps. A pause. He’s drunk, I thought. I couldn’t see the time, but I knew it was late. I heard him creak onto his bed.
I padded barefoot through the kitchen and out through the screen door to the veranda. There was just enough moon to see, that’s all. I climbed on behind him, and he flinched. He was shirtless, just wearing jeans.
‘You okay?’
‘Sore ribs. Bit of an accident.’
I got up on my elbow. ‘What? Car accident?’
‘Yeah. Kangaroo jumped out. Can still drive the ute, but the front’s busted up.’
‘Shit. Are you badly hurt?’
‘Nah. Sore chest. Hit the steering wheel.’
I sniffed. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘Few beers.’ He turned over, sighed sadly. ‘I’m sorry about before.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Me too.’ Something patted down on the bed between us, and I craned my neck and felt around until I found a sharp-cornered square packet. I held it up and squinted. Walshy snatched at my hand, pulling it away. Then I realised what it was, and my heart fell.
‘You’ve got condoms?’
‘One,’ he said, sighing as he lifted his hips and shoved it back down into his pocket. ‘It was your idea.’
I jack-knifed up and swung off the bed. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I got them because of your suggestion. You seem embarrassed that I’m not doing what everyone else is doing.’
I leant over him, poking the air with my finger. ‘Don’t you bloody blame me! You want to get drunk and screw around, take responsibility for it!’
‘Jane!’ Walshy grabbed my hand. ‘I don’t do that!’ His green eyes looked dark and glassy, as if he wanted to cry. ‘You must think I’m a shit person.’
I shook my head.
‘So, what do you think of me, Jane? You can’t even look at me, see? Why does it matter what I do? Girls round here want to go out with me. Stuffed if I know why.’ He put one hand over his eyes and his voiced lowered. ‘But I’m no good for anyone. That’s why I keep moving.’
‘You’re good for me. I miss you when you go off all the time. Those girls don’t even know you, but I do. I know how great you are.’
He looked up from beneath his hand. ‘Do you think you know me?’ He bit his lip and shook his head. ‘I don’t know me, Jane. I don’t know if I’m a good person.’
‘You are. You always have been. It’s your dad who’s the bastard. You’re nothing like him.’
‘So why did Mum leave me with him?’
I swallowed hard, realising Walshy had carried that question with him everywhere. ‘Maybe she was forced to because she was scared of him.’
‘He’s angry because it was me that made her leave. She had that depression thing after I was born.’
I got onto my knees beside him. ‘No way, Walshy. No way! A three-year-old is basically a baby. No baby can make a man be the bastard your father is. Did he say it was your fault? You can’t believe that. What an absolute shithead!’
I put my head on his chest, felt how fast he was breathing.
‘Then why did she leave me?’
I looked up. ‘She left him, Walshy. No one could live with that man. He doesn’t even have friends. Workers can’t even stay out there on the farm. Only you stay.’
He stared up at the sky, his face soft, a small frown wrinkling his forehead. ‘I’m glad we met, Jane,’ he murmured.
‘Me too.’ I shuffled forwards to kiss his prickly cheek.
Walshy smiled gently and pushed my hair back off my face. ‘I’ve wanted to ask you out, but I know you deserve better. I can’t stand the thought of you going out with anyone else. I’m sorry. I must seem really crazy.’
My heart thuds right through my torso. ‘You do? I thought you didn’t like me like that. I ... I only want to be with you.’
‘You don’t think I’m a Tom Cat?’
‘Not a bad one. I’m only jealous because it’s not me.’
We kiss then, and it’s a relief, like someone’s switched off the pain tap that’s been running for a year. The kiss changes, deepening into this lovely, longing thing that melds us closer and closer.
I don’t remember the exact point it changed, grew more serious. I was drinking in the smell of him, running my hands up and down his back. He was beautiful, muscular. We began touching, exploring, peeling off clothes, feeling each other’s skin. Gradually, he rolled over, so I was underneath him. A pressure started and I tensed.
‘Go soft,’ Walshy said gently. ‘Shh.’ He kissed the side of my neck. I started to release my muscles, fibre by fibre. The rose perfume was delicate in the night, the scent of waxes spicy as Walshy and I made love.
Next morning, when I woke, Walshy slept beside me. I touched his hair lightly, and he sighed in his sleep.
I thought about Shelley while I waited for him to wake up. I hoped she was okay.
* * *
When he woke, Walshy ran to the deli for milk and heard the news. Another girl had been raped in Northam. Fifteen-year-old Chloe, a local, grabbed on her way home from cheerleading at the football. At the scene, another doll had been left.
That weekend was surreal. I was floating on a tide of sleep deprivation, love, disbelief, and horror. A hush fell over the town, and we all thought of Lisa without saying her name. Everyone who’d been at the game where Chloe had been, was questioned.
Even Walshy was questioned, but he’d filled his ute with fuel at The Lakes service station where he met up with a mate, so they had him on CCTV.
Months later, there wasn’t a single suspect.