Blood Junction Read online

  Her eyes snapped open.

  She sensed someone in the room.

  She sat up.

  Her heart kicked in her chest. A broad figure was standing in the doorway. It was Mikey the Knife. His hair was untied and flowed thickly around his neck, making him look as if he had a mane.

  She pulled the sheet tight to her chest.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Mikey demanded. He was taller and broader and more hostile than she remembered.

  “I would have thought it was obvious,” she said, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice. His big hands flexed menacingly, so she quickly added, “Whitelaw said I could stay.”

  If she had grown horns and a tail, he couldn’t have looked more astonished.

  “You’re kidding me, right? I thought he said he was going to find you accommodation?”

  “This is it,” she said stiffly.

  He strode forward towards the bed. “I want you out of this house in two minutes.”

  “Oh,” said India, as it suddenly occurred to her. “You’re Jeremy’s tenant.”

  Mikey’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s Jeremy now, is it? You certainly suck up to the right people, don’t you? Well, I’m sorry I’m not impressed, but as a resident of this house I stand by my right to get rid of undesirables. So I suggest you get your bitch ass out of here.” Without another word he turned and left the bedroom, crashing the door shut behind him.

  Trembling a little, India clambered out of Mikey’s bed and hastily pulled on her jeans and boots. She packed her backpack and took it outside, onto the rear balcony. She could hear Mikey bellowing in the kitchen, and assumed he was giving Whitelaw an earful. For a moment all she could do was stare over the backyard and watch the dry grass blowing in the hot breeze. I want to sleep, she thought, I feel so tired and drained, why couldn’t he have come home later?

  But he was home now. So India left her backpack where it was and went for a walk, thinking to find a bed of soft sand beneath the shade of a tree and sleep some more. She climbed the fence at the end of the garden and headed for the sloping hills in the distance; there was a tree line at their base. She didn’t care that she was trespassing. She couldn’t imagine an irate farmer being upset at her footsteps crunching on nothing but burnt brown grasses and their soft seeds. Raising her face to the sun, she felt something inside her shift, and a little peace trickled through her veins. Ever since she could remember she’d loved heading off like this, preferably on her own. Lauren had found it amusing, but no man she’d met had understood it. They had, in fact, resented it.

  Her legs started to stretch out into their ground-eating stride. Soon she was in the low mound of hills, smelling dust and heat in the company of no one but lizards and brown-bellied snakes.

  “He’s not happy, your friend Mikey,” India said to Whitelaw later, over a bottle of wine, a jug of lemonade and a plate of dips and crisps. The wine was for India, the lemonade for Whitelaw. A buff-colored file sat on one side of the table.

  “It’s all sorted. Don’t worry about him.”

  They were sitting on the front verandah. Whitelaw’s Land Cruiser glowed orange, as though lit by a bonfire. The jacaranda flamed red. The sun was a huge bloodred orb lowering into the horizon, and bats flicked past them, snicking midge and mosquitos on the wing.

  “Help yourself.” He gestured at the dips.

  India contemplated the pink and brown goos and lit a cigarette. Whitelaw looked at her closely. “I think you’re exhausted,” he remarked.

  “I am a little tired,” she admitted. She exhaled some smoke sideways. “I don’t suppose you’ve any news on who paid my bail? I haven’t gotten around to ringing Jerome yet.”

  Whitelaw smothered a crisp with pink goo and ate it. “Jerome confirms it was paid by Arthur Knight. Knight is based in Geelong, ACT, apparently.” He brushed his hands together and fished in his front pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and passed it to her.

  India scanned the address.

  “I still don’t know him!” She leaned forward, her cigarette dangerously close to her shirt. “The only people I know in Australia are Scotto and Lauren’s family—who certainly wouldn’t help me at the moment—and some so-called friends in Melbourne who haven’t returned my calls.”

  Whitelaw pointed out her shirt was nearly on fire. She leaned back.

  “All that matters is you’re out.”

  “Come on, Whitelaw. Isn’t there anything else you know about this guy?”

  “Just that for a person to pay anyone’s bail they have to be pretty upstanding. Provide supporting documentation as to where the cash has come from, no laundering dodgy money via the police.”

  “Okay, so Arthur’s an upstanding citizen. Albeit a rich one.”

  “He’s also a fed.”

  She took a drag on her cigarette. Her fingers were trembling. “I don’t understand.”

  “Look, why don’t you contact the guy and get him to fill you in? I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”

  “But I want—”

  “We’ve more important things, okay?” Whitelaw glanced up and down the street, back at her and away.

  “What is it?”

  He took a few seconds before speaking, and when he did his voice was low and troubled. “Tiger’s the second policeman to be murdered around here.”

  India barely registered that shock when he delivered the next. “Along with an official from the Australian Medical Association called Alex Thread.”

  “Jesus.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “I don’t believe this. Four murders? Who was the first?”

  “Sergeant Brian Patterson.”

  “Are the murders connected in any way?”

  “There’s no evidence we can find, but Mikey’s sure it’s to do with the Karamyde Cosmetics Research—”

  “Karamyde?”

  Whitelaw raised his eyebrows.

  India recounted the story of her beer at the Royal Hotel, her meeting Debs, Roxy and Kerry and hearing how they were fired because Debs had spoken to a reporter.

  “Your friend was obviously following the same trail as we are,” said Whitelaw. “Although how she came to know about it is anyone’s guess.”

  “Perhaps one of the testers rang her. She’s … was pretty well known.”

  They both looked up as a door slammed. Mikey appeared with a bottle of beer and stood cradling it in front of his chest, hips against the balustrade, watching them.

  They both ignored him.

  “According to the record book,” Whitelaw said, “Tiger got a call from a reporter, which we take to be your friend, asking him to meet her; apparently she had something vital to share with the police regarding the two murders.”

  “Why didn’t she meet him at the police station?”

  Whitelaw took a gulp of lemonade. “Apparently she didn’t trust everyone there.”

  “Good heavens,” Mikey mocked. “You’re not suggesting she didn’t trust our homegrown incorruptible Abo?”

  Whitelaw’s fingers tapped on his knee but he didn’t look at Mikey.

  “Someone else obviously knew about this meeting,” said India. “But who, and how?”

  “The last entry in the book was made the day before Tiger died,” said Whitelaw. “Tenth December.”

  “Could be a cop then,” she said, and took in Whitelaw’s sick expression. “So that’s why you wouldn’t talk to me in the police station.”

  He gave a brief nod.

  “Jesus Christ.” She ran a hand over her face. “Didn’t it cross Tiger’s mind that Lauren was right? There might be a bent copper watching his every move? Was he a total idiot?”

  Mikey appeared at the corner of her vision. “He was a bloody good officer,” he said tightly.

  “So bloody good he got himself and my friend killed,” she snapped.

  Hurriedly Whitelaw said, “Anyone recognize this?” He showed them a scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. “Found hidden beneath the insole
of your friend’s shoe just this afternoon by yours truly.”

  It must be important, India thought, if Lauren hadn’t trusted her wrist with it: she couldn’t have wanted anyone to see it.

  “Don’t tell me,” Mikey drawled, “that it’s also unbagged and untagged?”

  “Dead right,” said Whitelaw with a grin.

  Mikey refused to relent and continued to keep his expression stony.

  “Whose number is it?” India asked.

  “No idea as yet, I haven’t even contacted directory inquiries.” Whitelaw turned a querying look on India. “Perhaps you might like to give it a try.” He gestured at Mikey, who reluctantly passed her his mobile.

  India dialled.

  “Hello?” A woman, broad Australian, answered on the sixth ring.

  “Hi,” India said, sounding brisk. “I’m from the AMPS, the Australian Mail Preference Service. Our concern is about the privacy of all Australians. Would you mind answering a couple of questions for me—”

  “Sorry, but—”

  “I’m doing a survey. It won’t take a minute and it would help us enormously … Do you receive much junk mail?”

  “God, yes. Swamped with the stuff.”

  “Are you happy with the situation as it stands, or would you prefer not to receive any junk mail?”

  “I’d kill to find my mailbox empty of all that bloody rubbish,” was the robust response.

  “Well, AMPS is working for limits to be put on the scope and extent of junk mail for all Australians. What we do is insert a computer code on your behalf that then prevents any company accessing your address for the purpose of junk mail. Would you be interested in this facility?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “If it could be guaranteed that from tomorrow you would never receive any junk mail again, would you be happy for me to arrange it for you? Or would you prefer to wait—”

  “Sign me up, Scottie!” said the woman cheerfully.

  India laughed, then dropped her voice. “I’m not supposed to do this, but perhaps just this once I could do you a favor since you’ve been so straight with me. All I need is your address, and I’ll punch it in tonight.”

  “Jesus, that’d be bloody great. I’m at Waratah, Jangala Vale … hang on a tic. Does it matter that I’m not on my own phone? It’s just that I’m helping Elizabeth out for a bit. Her husband died a few days back. Got bitten by a bloody snake in one of the sheds. They’ve got antivenom in the house but he never made it. Weak heart, they reckon.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, it’s a right bugger.” The woman gave a sigh.

  “I’ll flag your address for you anyway. Jangala Vale …”

  The woman rattled off the postal code.

  “Shall I do your friend Elizabeth’s too?”

  Short pause. “Why not? Save the poor cow from wading through all that shit every day. She’s two properties up, Janga Yonggar—”

  “Could you spell that for me?”

  “Everyone says that. Drives me insane.” She spelled it out.

  “Her surname?”

  “Ross. Elizabeth Ross.”

  “And yours?”

  “Gask. John and Joan.”

  India thanked her, pressed the clear button and passed the phone back to Mikey.

  “Sly as a snake,” he remarked.

  “Thank you,” she said, and smiled prettily at him, which made him glower.

  “How about I go and see this Elizabeth Ross,” she said to Whitelaw, “and do some snooping?”

  “Okay. I’ll leave these for you to read.” He tapped the file.

  Mikey looked appalled. “You’re going to let her read your stuff?”

  “If she’s not up to speed, how can she help us?”

  “Hell, Jed, we don’t really know if she’s clean—”

  “She’s clean as a whistle,” snapped Whitelaw.

  “You call a man lost in the Flinders Ranges an alibi?”

  “Who’d have thought it?” Whitelaw’s tone was biting. “Mike Johnson, acting like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie and choosing to believe what suits him rather than the evidence. You’ve lost your touch, Mikey, admit it. That famous cop’s instinct of yours has failed you after all these years. Did it get pickled in bourbon?”

  Mikey stared at him.

  “Ah,” said India into the taut silence. “He’s an ex-cop?” She looked at Mikey. “What happened? They boot you out for boozing? Taking bribes? Or was it simply a bit of gratuitous violence?”

  He took a step towards her. Instinctively India shrank back in her chair.

  “I wouldn’t have thought a reporter could afford to prejudge,” he ground out, “but you took one look at me in jail and stuck me in a convenient pigeonhole—”

  “Which fits you perfectly, if I might say, and you’re one to talk considering you branded me a killer the instant—”

  “Be quiet!” said Whitelaw. “I’ll not tolerate any bickering here. We’re a team, okay?”

  Mikey looked shocked. “A team?” he said.

  “Unless we act like one we’re going to get nailed, one by one, just like Patterson and Tiger.”

  India played with the stem of her wineglass. “Okay. No bickering.”

  There was a long silence as Whitelaw looked at Mikey.

  Eventually, he muttered. “Okay.”

  “Good,” said Whitelaw, then to Mikey, “Anything happening out at the Institute?”

  He flicked a glance at India and away. “I guess since we’re a team”—he accented the word sarcastically—“you should know they received a visitor earlier today. One Bentley owner, Gordon Willis, who used to work at Porton Down in the UK. Porton Down is a government defense establishment. Apparently Willis is a genius, and the British government poached him from us. Five years ago he got a better offer from Karamyde Cosmetics and came back.”

  “What was he working on in the UK?” asked India.

  “Classified stuff. Anything concerned with the defense of the realm, I guess. Guns, germs, missiles … You name it, he’s probably invented a deterrent for it.”

  “I find it hard to believe a man like that would be happy working on lipstick and mascara,” said India.

  “The cosmetic company’s a cover,” Mikey said. “It has to be.”

  There was another silence during which he stared long and hard at India.

  “How much rent will you be paying?”

  “That’s our business,” said Whitelaw.

  Mikey looked expectantly at India. “I hope you can cook.”

  “Sorry. I’ve never even learned how to boil an egg. I can burn toast to perfection though.”

  Mikey opened his mouth and then, seeing Whitelaw’s expression, headed inside. The screen door slammed behind him. Whitelaw followed. India finished her glass of wine and poured another. She stared gloomily at the darkened horizon. The prospect of enduring an undefined period of close contact with a bad-tempered ex-cop suddenly made her extremely depressed.

  TWELVE

  INDIA COULDN’T FIND THE ENERGY TO GO AND SEE ELIZA beth Ross for two days, and on the third morning it was by sheer force of will that she propelled herself to the VW and turned the ignition key.

  Whitelaw had told her to take the road to Jangala from Cooinda, that Jangala Vale was just out of town, but after ten minutes she wasn’t sure if she was on the right road. It was supposed to be a minor road, but it ran as wide as a runway. She had passed a disused railway junction, a sheep station, a windmill and two elevated water-storage tanks. After another five minutes, she came to a smattering of houses interspersed with barren bush, and as she drove saw a flock of pink galahs beneath a ghost gum and a crow perched on a telegraph pole.

  She hit a pothole and the VW shuddered. She slowed the car and glanced in her wing mirror. She pulled a face. Mikey was behind her. Whenever they were both at Whitelaw’s, he stayed in the sitting room. Since her first night, when she’d slept in Mikey’s bed, India had
taken to living in the kitchen, sleeping on the divan in the corner, and there were whole hours when she’d forget he was there. Then he’d stalk in and make some biting remark to which she would retaliate and they would bicker until he’d made his tea or toast or poured his bourbon and left. When he wasn’t annoying her, he was racing off in his white Toyota pickup, or hunched over his computer, tapping busily. Yesterday, curious, she’d sneaked a look to see what he was working on. Over his shoulder, she could see the screen. It was filled with a color display of a dogfight between what appeared to be two F18s.

  “You’re playing games?” she’d said, inordinately outraged.

  “Hang on …” He was tapping furiously, the aircraft spinning wildly, swooping and buzzing at incredible speed over a vista reminiscent of Dartmoor. The screen suddenly exploded into a fireball. “Yo!” he exclaimed. “Imagine what that would have looked like on TV!”

  India glanced at Whitelaw’s twenty-inch screen. “Well, believe me when I say I’m truly sorry you don’t have that facility.”

  “I will though,” he said cheerfully. “Everything’s on order. Delivery any day. The sound’s going to be amazing. Boy, is this living room going to rock and roll with those little beauties.”

  “I’m so thrilled for you.”

  He spun around. “What’s your problem, India?”

  “I thought we were supposed to be catching killers, not playing computer games.”

  “You read books to relax. I do this.”

  “All day?”

  He didn’t answer. Simply turned around and restarted the game. They hadn’t spoken since.

  She passed a rusty green mailbox with the name Waratah painted in white and flicked her indicator and slowed, letting Mikey cruise past. She waved her fingers jauntily at him and braked harder, preparing to swing left into the driveway of Janga Yonggar, which had a large green and gold sign that announced: ROSS KANGAROO SANCTUARY. At the moment she downshifted to second gear, she took in the BMW parked in the full sun opposite. Gleamingly clean. No dents, no rust, no dirt. Black with tinted windows. Bloody expensive.