Blood Junction Read online

  India felt the skin at the nape of her neck tighten. She stared at the numberplate and committed the number to memory. OED 128. She noticed a white van parked in front of the BMW, and its logo: A.J. LUFFTON BUILDING CONTRACTORS. The van had a dent in its front fender.

  She pulled off the street and parked the VW. She climbed out, dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. The atmosphere was still and hot, even the insects were silent. All she could hear was the tick of the VW’s engine as it cooled.

  The house was partly concealed by a stand of low trees but as she approached she could see it was neat and well cared for. She reached a gate set in a high wire-mesh fence surrounding a dusty corral and the rear of the house. She saw several tin sheds, a water trough and a kangaroo. She pressed her head against the fence. The kangaroo obligingly hopped over and pushed its nose through the mesh. Unable to resist, India stroked the soft gray muzzle. It felt like velvet.

  “That’s Billy,” a woman’s voice said behind her. “His mum was killed in a motor accident so we got him as a very young pinky. Now he’s grown he’ll be off soon.”

  India turned. The instant their eyes met, the woman’s friendly grin dissolved. “Sweet, Jesus,” she said. The color drained from her face. “You … You’re …”

  “Yes, I’m India Kane. My friend Lauren Kennedy was murdered and I want to find out what happened, and why. I’m hoping Mrs. Elizabeth Ross can help me.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” she said again.

  “Are you Mrs. Ross?”

  The woman gave a jerky nod.

  India turned back to the kangaroo, who had thrust one furry ear forward, the other back, and was surveying her steadily through liquid brown eyes. “Lauren Kennedy had your phone number,” she said, keeping her tone calm. “I wanted to know why.”

  The woman made a small choking sound and unlatched the gate. Immediately five kangaroos appeared from behind the various sheds and looked across expectantly, standing on their hind legs. The woman stepped inside the corral and headed for the rear of the house. India followed.

  “The biggest problem in areas like this,” the woman said, her voice unsteady, “where it’s heavily bushed, is there’s no lights, no nothing, and the animals graze to the edges of the road, from one side to the other, and get hit by cars or trucks or whatever.” She pointed at the smallest kangaroo, who was hopping slowly after them. “That’s Annie. She lost a fight with a station wagon. And that’s Randy, had him since he was a pinky too …”

  While the woman talked, India studied her. She was slightly built, in her late thirties India guessed, and wore ill-fitting jeans and a T-shirt smeared with what could have been porridge. Her skin was tightly drawn and her eyes looked tired, despite the incongruously bright blue eyeliner on her lower lids.

  “Do they all have names?”

  India received a strained smile.

  “Sure they do. We can have them for up to two years and you can’t keep just saying, ‘Oi, you.’”

  India asked how many ’roos they rescued a year, and they were still discussing it when they entered the house. Three kangaroos followed them. In the living room another kangaroo with a bandaged hind leg and tail lay on a pink quilt and nibbled at a pile of grass left within its reach. Another larger ’roo, at least four feet, was sprawled on the overstuffed couch, tail draping from the armrest and resting on the floor. Neither acknowledged their presence aside from a brief flick of the ears.

  India stepped over a pile of pellets, her face puckering as she inhaled. The smell of kangaroos reminded her of a roomful of unhouse-trained cats.

  “They’re family oriented,” Elizabeth Ross said, a little defensively. “You can’t just put them in a shed and feed them every four hours. Without the support of their mates they’d never return to the wild, so we have to make them part of our family so they can survive in the bush.”

  India found herself transfixed by a tiny face peering from an artificial pouch made of an old tartan blanket hanging on the far wall. Its long, delicate silhouette was dwarfed by paper-thin floppy ears and a pair of huge glistening eyes.

  Elizabeth Ross smiled. “She arrived yesterday. I’ll have to feed her day and night every two hours for the next few months. I’ve called her Jilly.”

  “You’re a dedicated woman, Mrs. Ross,” murmured India.

  Pause.

  “Call me Elizabeth.”

  Their eyes met. “Thank you.”

  Elizabeth gave that strained smile again.

  “Would you mind talking about my friend?” India asked gently.

  Elizabeth stared at the floor. “I’m not sure.”

  “You know she was shot,” India told her bluntly, to get a reaction. “Twice. At point-blank range in the face.”

  Elizabeth’s body seemed to shrivel. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. “Yes. I know that.”

  “Please,” said India, gentle again. “I need your help. When did you last see her?”

  The other woman closed her eyes.

  “Please.”

  “It was …” Elizabeth swallowed audibly, took a breath. “Night. There was no moon. Lots of stars though. Brilliant stars. Peter wished he’d brought his telescope. He loved star gazing.” She swallowed again.

  In her mind India suddenly saw the white four-wheel-drive cross the road ahead of her and Tiger. She put her hands in her pockets to hide their trembling. There was a white 4 × 4 Suzuki outside.

  “Peter didn’t want me there. But he’d dislocated his shoulder that morning out bush with the Dunsfords, rounding up sheep. He’d stiffened up and could barely walk, let alone drive. Couldn’t even reach the gear lever. He didn’t want me there,” she said again.

  “When was this?”

  Elizabeth walked unsteadily out of the room. “For some reason or other, I don’t know why, they simply love garlic.”

  India could feel an obstruction in her throat, like a golf ball. She followed Elizabeth into the kitchen. Found her setting the microwave.

  “Maybe there’s something in the natural bush that’s similar, I don’t know,” she said, not meeting India’s eye, “but as soon as we do garlic bread up, they go nuts.”

  The two women stood there, staring at the microwave. When it pinged, they both flinched.

  Elizabeth opened the microwave door and immediately the air was filled with the rich smell of buttery garlic. She had barely put the first bread stick on the board to slice when three kangaroos bounced in, ears pricked forward, eyes bright and beady. “Now just you wait, you scoundrels.” Elizabeth tossed slices into a large wicker basket. “You’ll get your share in a minute.”

  She glanced up at India, smiling. India found herself staring at the woman’s eyeliner. It was no longer blue, it was green.

  Elizabeth ran a finger beneath her right eye, then checked it. “I was testing it for Peter the week he died. I’ve worn it ever since. For sentimental reasons, I suppose. Not wanting to let go. He was a cosmetic chemist.” Elizabeth placed the basket within reach of a dozen ravenous kangaroos. “He loved these guys as much as I did and they loved him back. I’m not the only one who misses him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Elizabeth gave her a sad smile. “The risks of living in the Australian bush. If the skin cancer doesn’t get you, the spiders and snakes will.”

  India made a noise of sympathy. “The eyeliner’s an amazing concept. Is it available to the public yet?”

  “Not for ages; it still needs a lot of work. It’s supposed to change color depending on temperature. They use special heat-sensitive inks, you see, and it’s supposed to go blue when I’m outside, green when I’m inside, but it doesn’t always work.”

  They talked nail polish and permanent lipsticks for a while, but Elizabeth sounded more and more awkward.

  “Who did your husband work for?”

  Elizabeth gave her a quick, searching look. “You don’t know, do you?

  “Know what?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” She glance
d at the kangaroos clustered around the bread basket. Two of them were half-boxing each other with their front paws. “Where on earth is Billy? He loves garlic bread, he really does—”

  “I’m sorry,” said India, not sounding it at all, “but who did your husband work for?”

  “Karamyde Cosmetics.”

  India kept her face bland.

  “They’ve a research institute just down the road. Well, in Australian terms that is. Ten Ks away. Not a single give way sign or traffic light between them and us. A hop, skip and a jump in kangaroo terms.”

  Elizabeth suddenly gave her head a sharp shake and looked outside. She was close to tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry that your friend died. The way she died.”

  India immediately went to her, gripped her shoulder. “Tell me. Please, tell me what happened when you met Lauren that night. I have to know.”

  Elizabeth jerked away, picked up the empty bread basket. “Where’s Billy?” she said again, anxiously. “First time he’s missed his garlic bread.” She strode outside. “What’s wrong with him? Must be something … Never known him to miss a treat.”

  After the dimness inside, the shimmering brightness made India squint. She followed Elizabeth, who was striding urgently between the tin sheds, calling, “Billy! Come on, Billy, there’s a good boy.” She checked that the gate was latched. They skirted the perimeter of the fence, its posts irregularly spaced, cracked and twisted from years of torturing heat.

  India found a deeply scuffed area on one patch of dirt near the fence, spotted with dots of blood. She followed the bloody track to the back of the feed shed where she saw something dangling from a scrawny tree.

  It looked like someone hanging.

  Slowly, she approached.

  A kangaroo, noose around its neck, looked at her helplessly through liquid brown eyes. Blood, still red and moist, seeped from its nostrils.

  Behind her she heard Elizabeth’s horrified exclamation.

  “Billy!”

  THIRTEEN

  IT WAS INDIA WHO FETCHED A LADDER AND RELEASED THE dead animal. She didn’t bother trying to unknot the rope but simply hacked through it with a saw she’d found in the garage. She had to twist the animal’s head around until it was jammed beneath her left armpit to expose enough rope to saw successfully. Tiny black flies swarmed through the kangaroo’s coat, and each time the corpse moved they buzzed briefly into the air before settling once more. India had to keep blowing sharply upwards through her mouth to dislodge those on her lips and nostrils, but they returned seconds later.

  Finally the rope gave way and the kangaroo crumpled with a soft thump to the ground. The two women dragged it outside the corral, Elizabeth hauling on the tail and India a hind leg. Their progress was slow because the body was surprisingly heavy. India felt sticky with sweat and disgusted at the flies swarming all over her and the blood on her shirt. Elizabeth was in tears. “How could they?” she kept saying. “Oh my God, how could they do such a thing?”

  They laid the dead kangaroo to rest beside one of the outbuildings. Elizabeth knelt down and took Billy’s head in her lap, stroking his ears and nose, shaking her head back and forth. “Poor little mite.” She started to sob in earnest.

  India stared down at her, too appalled to say anything.

  After a while she fetched the saw and rope, and laid them in front of the garage. She returned to Elizabeth and suggested they go inside.

  Elizabeth stood but her legs were so unsteady that India had to help her. She searched the kitchen for brandy and eventually found a bottle in the medicine cupboard. She slopped the liquid into two glasses.

  “Drink this.”

  They both drank.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Elizabeth. Her voice had regained some strength. “How could they!”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  Elizabeth wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I can’t say.”

  “Killing Billy was a warning.”

  Elizabeth got up and poured herself some more brandy. “I wouldn’t know.”

  India took a deep breath. “I think you know who killed my friend. I think it was your husband that Tiger and Lauren went to meet at Nindathana. He had some information on Karamyde Cosmetics he wanted to share.”

  “I’d like you to leave.”

  “No. Not until you tell me what happened.”

  Elizabeth was moving all the time, unable to keep still. She stood beside the tiled fireplace and toyed with a photograph frame on the mantelpiece.

  “I stayed in the Suzuki,” she finally said. “I didn’t see anything. Not really. Just your friend. And Tiger. Waiting at the Nindathana turnoff. Peter told me to stay where I was. They all went together, in Tiger’s car. It wasn’t much later when I thought I heard a shot. I didn’t think much of it, I assumed it was Ken’s mob. They’re always after the ’roos. We’ve had three wounded ones come in here, all messed up because of those blokes.”

  India remained still, silent.

  “Peter was only gone fifteen minutes or so, but he was running when he returned. Really scared. Shaking. He shouted at me. Wanted me to get out of there as fast as I could. He didn’t tell me what had happened. It was only when I read the papers that I realized he’d been in terrible danger.”

  “Did he tell you why he was seeing Tiger and Lauren?”

  “No. At the time I was upset he wouldn’t talk about it, but now I see he wanted to protect me.”

  “Do you believe he was bitten by a snake?”

  Elizabeth’s skin turned ashen. She shook her head.

  “Me neither.”

  The two women stared at each other in silence.

  Elizabeth turned and crossed the room to a chest of drawers, pulled out the bottom drawer. She took out a folder and opened it. India saw newspaper clippings and letters and Christmas cards. Elizabeth pulled out a photograph. She stared at it for a long time, then held it out to India.

  “Take it.” She didn’t say anything else, so India took the photograph. It was black and white, of four men standing around an enormous dead shark. Three of them looked to be in their late teens. One of the boys was a full head shorter than the others and his legs were spread aggressively wide, as if to compensate. An older man, about fifty or so, was holding a rod out towards the camera. They had the look of a father and sons.

  “Who are they?”

  Elizabeth shook her head several times. “Peter took … Peter took a similar photograph with him. He also had a disc. A computer disc. It was in his pocket. He kept patting it as we drove. I don’t know what’s happened to it.”

  “Did he make a copy?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Did he return with it?”

  Elizabeth shook her head again. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure? Perhaps he left it with someone? Hid it somewhere?”

  Silently, Elizabeth started to cry again. What was left of her eyeliner seeped green-blue with her tears down her cheeks. “I want you to go,” she choked. “Please.”

  India let her walk her to the front door. She stepped outside. The BMW was still there. “Do you know who owns the Beemer?”

  Elizabeth glanced at it. “No. Never seen it before.”

  “Will you be okay?” India was reluctant to leave Elizabeth in such a state. “I’m happy to stay—”

  “I’d rather you went.”

  India said goodbye. She looked down at the photograph and then back at Elizabeth. “Thank you,” she said. But in Elizabeth’s eyes she saw an expression that chilled her. It was fear. Pure fear.

  India walked down the driveway. A woman was coming towards her, with what looked like a small milk churn in her right hand. She gave a friendly wave, India waved back.

  The woman looked at India as she passed. Her eyes widened. She gave a muffled gasp.

  India tried a reassuring smile. The woman backed away.

  India glanced down at her bloodstained shirt and jeans, then back at the woman.
“It’s okay. It’s from one of the kangaroos. He got hurt …” But the woman was blundering back down the driveway and India wasn’t certain if she’d heard. Pushing back her hair, she wiped her face free from sweat and climbed into the VW.

  She drove to Whitelaw’s, where she showered and changed. She put her clothes in the washing machine with half a bottle of washing liquid and programmed it for cold super wash to loosen the bloodstains. After a coffee and a cigarette, she called inquiries and then rang Arthur Knight, Geelong. A monotone announced the number was no longer in operation.

  India replaced the phone and stood there, thinking. The number had to have been operational when Arthur stumped up her bail. From what Whitelaw said, the police would have checked pretty closely to ensure the money was clean. She resolved to write a letter to Arthur that evening. She grabbed her keys and got into the VW, drove into town and checked in at the police station. Then she climbed back into the VW and took the right branch off Main Street onto the country road signed to Jangala. She passed Elizabeth Ross’s kangaroo sanctuary and, about three kilometers on, shot past a discreet sign carved out of wood: KARAMYDE COSMETIC RESEARCH INSTITUTE. She had to reverse in order to pick up the gravel road east.

  Three minutes later the air was thick with a sickly smell, slightly perfumed, like baby powder. Gravel and dust plumed like a cockscomb behind the VW. Five minutes on she came to the Institute. The first thought that crossed her mind was that the windows were shaped like coffins. The blushing pink paintwork did nothing to detract from the air of morbidity. It reminded her of a piece she had done on the ancient Chinese art of feng shui, and how buildings designed a certain way could enhance or diminish a home or business. She might not be in China, she thought, but this building gave her the creeps.

  She eased the VW towards the electronic gate and glanced at the low ridge behind the building, sparsely dotted with trees. She wondered whether Mikey was hiding beneath one today, but her thoughts were interrupted when the security guard came out. India gave him a warm smile. “Hi,” she said, and turned off the ignition.