Blood Junction Read online

  The address and phone number had been clumsily torn out.

  “Are you telling me Bertie’s entire family upped sticks to go to Sydney because of this advertisement?”

  “Idjits,” said Bandanna Man, nodding.

  “Can I keep this?” asked India. At their nods she rolled it up and tapped it against her thigh. “When did they leave?”

  “Six months back.”

  “And you haven’t heard from them since?”

  “Nah.”

  India brushed flies from her face. “Did they ever do this type of work for the Karamyde Cosmetic Research Institute?”

  “Nah. Wouldn’t have ’em. Not interested in blacks.”

  The steady sawlike screech of cicadas rose a notch. She hadn’t believed the insects could produce any more noise, but they had just proved her wrong.

  “Could I see where they lived before I go?”

  “Whatcha want to do that for?”

  She made a vague gesture with her hand. “To get the feel of it, perhaps find another clue.”

  “Skippy’s lot’s moved in there. You won’t find nothing.”

  India had a look anyway. The shack was larger than most and built mainly out of lengths of wood and sheets of galvanized iron. A group of children were playing noisily inside, and when she called out they smiled at her, white teeth flashing. An enormous woman, barefoot and wearing a filthy floral dress, emerged from another room and demanded to know what she wanted. India explained, but the woman couldn’t help.

  “They took the Greyhound out of town, and we ain’t laid eyes on ’em since.” She looked around the room with satisfaction.

  “All of them?”

  “Yeah. The kids were real excited, whistling like pigs they were.”

  “How many children did the Mulletts have with them?”

  “All up …” the woman stopped to think “… seven kids, five grown-ups. Off to make their bloody fortune. Bet they haven’t or they’d be back to crow about it.”

  “Do you have any idea where they might have gone when they got to Sydney?”

  “God knows. But you could try Jinny Pollard. Last heard, Jinny was sponging off some mates in Redfern. She’s Louis’s sweetheart. Louis is Bertie’s eldest grandson.”

  For no apparent reason, the cicadas stopped their screeching. India was struck by the density of the silence.

  “Is it usually this quiet?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. Everyone’s gone into town to get drunk. They’re putting up the millennium lights on the clock tower. Any bloody excuse.”

  India thanked the woman and returned to her car, where Polly sat in the passenger seat, beaming. India clambered inside, started the engine. “What would you like at Albert’s?” she said.

  Polly’s brown eyes gleamed. “Pie floater.”

  “Remind me.”

  “It’s a meat pie floating in pea soup.”

  India shuddered. It sounded so revolting her stomach was already informing her it was full despite the fact she hadn’t eaten anything all day.

  “And it’s really good with lots of tomato sauce.”

  Mikey left Tiger’s sister with Donna and returned to Whitelaw’s. He wandered to the back of the house thinking about putting a wash on, and opened the washing-machine door. He was frowning at India’s laundry when his mobile rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Sam.”

  Mikey’s whole body stilled. The mystery caller who’d rung his mobile the day he learned Tiger had died. Sam. Not his real name, but he was the only fish who’d taken one of Mikey’s baits and was still wriggling at the end of the line.

  “So what’s happening, Sam?”

  “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I don’t know whether they’re following me …

  “Who might be following you?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “What can you say, Sam? Come on, talk to me. You said you knew something about Patterson’s murder. Some files you found. Classified stuff.”

  He could see a silky bra the color of raspberries and some matching panties. Would she throw a fit if he hung her laundry on the line? Probably.

  “It’s still there. They don’t know about it. I’m thinking of dumping them—”

  “How come?”

  “It’s too dangerous. They’d kill me if they knew I’d seen it.”

  “Okay. So how about we meet and talk this over? Share the burden. I can be in Sydney in twelve hours.”

  “No.”

  “Why are you calling me, Sam? I thought you wanted to help, but I’m not getting any information from you.”

  “I’ll ring again.”

  “When? I’m not always able to answer the phone.”

  “Don’t push me.”

  Sam hung up.

  Mikey rammed the phone into his back pocket. Jesus, the guy wasn’t half pussyfooting around. But he’d call again. Mikey hoped it was sooner rather than later, and before another body turned up.

  “Hey, I can do that.” It was India, with a laundry basket under one arm. “Thanks for the thought though.”

  He followed her outside, and watched her peg her clothes on the Hills Hoist. He told her about Sam’s second call, and she pulled out the magazine advertisement from her jeans pocket and gave it to him. He scanned it. “What do you reckon?”

  “I think Karamyde Cosmetics are into some sort of Aboriginal exploitation.”

  “This says nothing about Karamyde.”

  “Well, either it has nothing to do with them, or they’re being incredibly clever. From what I’ve gathered, interviewees have to go to Sydney, which keeps any attention well away from Karamyde Cosmetics in northwest New South Wales.”

  “Hmm.” His attention had been diverted by the raspberry panties, which weren’t panties at all but a G-string. He’d never known a woman who wore G-strings daily. Most of them said they were uncomfortable and only brought them out for special occasions. Which was a shame because he’d always found them amazingly sexy.

  “I rang my medical journalist friend,” India said.

  “And?”

  “Nathaniel Jameson’s dead. He was mugged a week after he arrived in London.”

  “Christ.” Mikey ran a hand down his face. “It’s turning into a regular massacre.” A crow cawed and he could hear the steady creak and rustle from the trees.

  “How was Tiger’s sister?” she asked.

  “Distraught.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She had finished hanging her laundry and was standing still beside the hoist. She looked miserable.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” he finally said.

  She gave him a sad smile. “Me too.”

  He noticed she had a tiny mole at the corner of her right eyebrow, and another on her cheek, just where her jaw angled to her neck. They’d have to be watched, he thought, to ensure they didn’t turn into melanomas in the sun.

  “Mikey?”

  “India.”

  “Why do they call you Mikey the Knife?”

  “Hasn’t anyone told you?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Because you knifed someone?”

  “Correct.”

  “Who did you knife?”

  He gave a sigh. “My left foot.”

  She looked down at his foot. “I haven’t seen you limping.”

  “It was a long time ago. I was fifteen. I was going to show my knife-throwing skills to my mates. I could nail a hair on a board ten feet away. Anyway, I was holding the knife by its blade, to get the right spin, and I was so nervous I was sweating and the bloody thing slid out of my hands and went straight through my shoe and into my foot.”

  She gave a muffled snort and turned away. He watched the way she walked into the house, hip bones fluid, shoulder blades prominent through her shirt, and felt a wave of confusion wash over him. He didn’t want to be attracted to her. She was too complicated for his tastes. She was also smart and h
ard and very bright, and he liked her taste in underwear. Scowling, he headed into the kitchen, got a beer and took it to the verandah. Sitting on the top step he sipped his beer, trying to wash away his confusion, but still it lingered. He was glad when a police Land Cruiser came into view at the top of the street and cruised into the front yard.

  A pair of dusty-booted feet appeared beneath the driver’s open door. Not Whitelaw, but Stan.

  When the engine died, he called out, “G’day,” and waved his bottle at the senior sergeant. “Can I get you a beer?”

  Stan slammed the door shut and rearranged his holster before stumping to the bottom step. “Sorry, Mikey. I’m here on police business.”

  Another police four-wheel-drive appeared and cruised in to park by Stan’s. Constable Crawshaw and a sinewy dark-haired man he hadn’t seen before, dressed neatly in black jeans and a dark shirt, climbed out. Crawshaw looked at Stan, who shook his head. A confirming nod from Crenshaw, who took up position behind the cars, feet apart, hands free, his whole stance wary.

  Slowly, Mikey got to his feet and crossed his arms. “Where’s Whitelaw?”

  “Bringing in a body.”

  Stan walked up three steps, trying to peer past Mikey’s bulk, but Mikey met him halfway, impeding the policeman’s vision inside the house. “Is India Kane in, Mikey?”

  “Why would you think she’s here?”

  Stan cut him a cold look. “Everyone knows she’s moved in. Gossip can’t sit still without getting a scum on it in seconds, you know that.”

  Mikey shrugged. “She went out ages back.”

  The policeman glanced around and Mikey saw him ticking off the VW parked out front, the washing dripping from the Hills Hoist, the sound of water running inside.

  “Ages?”

  “Stan, just tell me why you’re here, will you?”

  The close set eyes narrowed. “I’d like to talk to her. That’s all. Just a friendly chat.”

  “About a dead body? You reckon that’s going to be friendly?”

  “Not just any dead body,” said Stan. “Elizabeth Ross’s. Your housemate”—he loaded the word with sarcasm—“was seen leaving the Rosses’ house with blood all over her at ten past twelve. That’s exactly when the pathologist has estimated time of death.”

  Oh my God, thought Mikey. With a feeling of dread he watched Stan unholster his Glock.

  “Your pretty little housemate’s under arrest.”

  FIFTEEN

  WHERE’S YOUR WARRANT?” SAID MIKEY.

  “You know we don’t need one. Not when we know she’s guilty.”

  Water was still running inside. He could hear it, and so could the senior sergeant. Stan turned and beckoned the dark-haired man to his side. “This here’s Ben Thomas, from the federal police.”

  Mikey didn’t offer to shake hands, nor did the fed.

  “If you don’t mind stepping aside, Mikey,” Stan said, “we’d like to check the house. We’ve right of entry.”

  “Fine by me,” he said, and stepped back to let them inside.

  Stan immediately raised his pistol and headed for the kitchen, glanced at the taps, then skirted the living room and headed for the bathroom. For a man of his bulk he moved with surprising silence and agility. He held the Glock in readiness and seemed aware of everything around him. Mikey liked the way he worked. Cautious and in control.

  The bathroom door was shut, and Stan stood there a moment as if contemplating his next move. He tried the doorknob. Locked. He turned and beckoned to Mikey. “Knock,” he demanded in a low voice, “and get her to open it.”

  Mikey knocked on the door.

  No response.

  Again, he knocked, calling, “India! India, it’s me, Mikey.”

  He found himself wondering how she came to be named. Had her parents travelled a lot? The continent of India was mysterious and exotic. She had been named well, he decided.

  “India, open the door,” he called.

  Still no response.

  “We’ll have to break in,” announced Stan.

  “After you.”

  Stan raised his foot and smashed it just below the knob. The door shuddered, but didn’t give.

  He kicked again but the lock held. “This never happens in the bloody movies.”

  Mikey pulled him aside. Stepped back and charged at the door, right shoulder down.

  With a snap, the lock popped. Mikey fell inside with Stan almost on top of him.

  “Where the fuck is she!” Stan erupted back into the hall.

  “Haven’t a clue,” Mikey said, and tried not to smile.

  The fed brushed past him, shut off the shower and opened a window. He poked his head outside and withdrew. Mikey then peered through the window. Nothing, except for the faintest footprint on the warm wood, rapidly drying.

  While Stan bolted around the house like a demented bullock, yelling his frustration, Mikey went into the kitchen and pulled out the stack of steaks. He contemplated them briefly. How many should he prepare?

  Feeling optimistic, he pulled three free and set the rest back in the fridge. He crushed a handful of peppercorns with the blade of a knife and pressed them into the steaks. Next he mashed four cloves of garlic. He put two dried bay leaves on the board along with a sprig of thyme and poured some olive oil into a frying pan and set it on the stove. He brought out a tub of soured cream from the fridge, and some salad.

  Stan entered the kitchen. His face was brick red and he was sweating profusely.

  “Stan,” said Mikey, “please don’t have a heart attack or I’ll get accused of murdering you, and since I really don’t like prison food—”

  “If you hadn’t farted us about for so fucking long …”

  “I’m sorry, Stan. What was I supposed to do, not ask any questions at all? I’m a citizen in your precinct and have every right—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Stan radioed for backup, torches, dogs and four-wheel-drive vehicles.

  Mikey checked his ingredients. Something was missing. What was it? He couldn’t remember. He crossed the kitchen for the pile of recipe books and paused.

  India’s backpack had gone.

  He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. The backpack was on the sofa and all of India’s belongings lay in neat piles on either side of it. The fed had his back to him and Mikey watched as he picked up what looked to be a used shirt the color of terra-cotta and held it to his face.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The fed folded the shirt, put it to one side.

  “Thomas, isn’t it?”

  The fed glanced at Mikey, and gave a little smile.

  “You think she’s left her forwarding address in there?”

  The fed picked up a teddy bear the size of a pack of cigarettes with a tartan bow tie. He surveyed it for a few seconds before placing it on top of a frothy pile of lace and cotton. India’s underwear.

  Mikey strode across. “You can put that lot back where it came from. Now.”

  Seemingly unperturbed, the fed meticulously repacked India’s backpack. He folded each item of clothing around a book or shoe to avoid creasing and replaced the teddy bear on top with a little pat.

  Mikey didn’t look at the fed as he grabbed the backpack and lugged it back into the kitchen. He propped it against the divan where it belonged and reached for the cookery book.

  The manhunt gathered half an hour later. Mikey leaned against the screen door and watched lights fill the front drive as cars arrived. The sun had set and the night sky was clear. He saw a Nissan Patrol park with a leisurely spurt of gravel and Whitelaw hopped out, crossed to Stan and asked a question, then walked over to the fed. They shook hands, came inside. Mikey followed.

  “We need all the firepower we can get,” said Whitelaw to the fed. “Not for the woman, but for that trigger-happy lot outside. They’ll start shooting one another out of sheer excitement if we’re not careful.”

  Whitelaw unlocked his gun cabinet and withdrew two shotguns
. The fed expressed an interest in one of Whitelaw’s pistols and handed the detective his own .45 to handle. Mikey left them discussing the merits of each and went to pour himself a bourbon, which he took outside.

  He saw Donna, Cooinda PD’s desk sergeant, climb out of what appeared to be a brand-new white Toyota four-wheel-drive Amazon. She gave him a little wave and came towards him.

  “So, what’s it been like, living with a killer?” she asked.

  Mikey nodded at the Amazon. “What’s it like winning the lottery? That must have cost you a fortune.”

  “It’s Ed’s.” She turned her wedding ring around. “He bought it with his Christmas bonus. Mind you, it didn’t cost as much as you think; he knows a bloke who knows a bloke, et cetera. Ed never pays full price for anything.”

  “Maybe I should become a rig driller,” Mikey mused. “I like the idea of getting forty grand every Christmas.”

  “Yo, Mikey!” It was Reg Coffey, who’d donated half a side of beef after Mikey had chased a bunch of rustlers from his land two weeks ago. He held his broken shotgun over one arm and waved with the other. Mikey offered a half-hearted salute with his glass. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Donna wave her fingers at him before she returned to her husband’s new car. “Not joining us then?” Reg asked.

  “I’ll leave you cowboys to it.”

  “Jimmy’s with us,” Reg said encouragingly. “He’s brung his dogs.”

  Mikey laughed, earning himself a few frowns. Jimmy’s dogs weren’t trackers but hunting dogs; four Labradors, one spaniel and a raggedy Airedale. They had good noses but they spent most of their time running around enthusiastically chasing rabbits. Mikey recalled the Airedale, during a hunt for a psycho the year before, charging full speed after a dingo he’d flushed and not returning for twelve hours.

  “I take it you’re not planning on finding your quarry,” Mikey said wryly, and took a slug of bourbon.

  “What can we use to scent on?” asked Jimmy, a thickset man wearing a black cap emblazoned with the logo of the Melbourne Grand Prix. Six dogs were barking as they leaped excitedly around him.

  Whitelaw handed over a plastic bag. “Shirt, socks.”

  “What, no skivvies?” Jimmy scowled into the bag.