Blood Junction Read online

  He started on the shelves, running his hand along the dusty wood. Then the cupboards, and the debris scattered in each room. It took him two hours to search the house, top to bottom, beneath carpets and rugs, behind skirting boards and window shutters, fridges and freezers. All the time his eyes were tuned for a slim square of plastic.

  It was well after midnight when Mikey gave up. He left empty-handed, without a single computer disc.

  Walking the same trail she had raced along the previous week, panicky and breathless, India found it hard to believe she hadn’t been hiding for a month. An extraordinary calm flowed through her veins and, as she walked, she hummed a repetitive chant she’d picked up from the old man.

  The sun bleached the sky hard white. She heard a repeated double whistle, pee-yaa, from a wedge-tailed eagle circling nearby. Its wing tips lazily stroked the rising thermals. She reached the top of the ridge that overlooked Cooinda and sat for a while to rest her bruised and heavily scabbed feet, enjoying the view. The town was a gray-brown smudge in the distance, barely distinguishable in daylight. At night it twinkled like a galaxy.

  She pushed the sleeves of her shirt above her elbows. Milangga had presented her with the vast man’s shirt the morning he’d decided she should leave. “White fellers don’t respect a woman’s bare skin,” he’d said as he handed it to her.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From someone that don’t need it as much as you.”

  It was freshly laundered but unironed, and India had pictured an irate housewife going to her washing line to find it gone, and laughed. She chuckled to herself now as she slipped from the ridge and moved down the folded ribbons of the hills and across the dry landscape. The shirt felt constricting and heavy after walking naked for nearly a week, and India longed to throw it off; her chest and back were soaked with sweat.

  The tail end of Biolella Road, as usual, was a ghost town late morning. Silently, she approached the rear of Whitelaw’s house, watchful of his neighbor. She was hoping to grab her backpack, get properly dressed and hitch a lift out of town to Sydney to regroup with Scotto. Through the back screen door she could see that the kitchen was empty, and she paused, listening. Insects buzzed and clicked in the heat. All was still.

  She slipped silently into the house. It was cool inside and smelled of toast and fried bacon. She froze when she heard water splash. Someone was in the bathroom. Softly, India crept into the kitchen, checking that her weight on the floorboards didn’t make them creak. Fortunately the bathroom was on the way to the front door, and she could grab her backpack and leave without passing it.

  She crossed the kitchen. Her backpack had been beside the divan, but it wasn’t there now. Water splashed again, and she heard a man’s grunt. Mikey, no doubt, trying to wash away another hangover. She searched the kitchen, checked beneath the sink, inside the broom cupboard … nothing. Laundry … second loo … amenity room … no. She padded into the living room, checked the cupboards next to the stereo. Piles of cassettes, LPs and CDs, but no backpack. Sod it! Quickly, she tiptoed into the front corridor. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. The water was no longer splashing; no sound to cover her movements.

  Holding her breath, India quietly opened Mikey’s bedroom door and peered inside. Sheets were tangled in the middle of the bed, a pile of laundry sat in one corner. No backpack. She was easing back into the corridor, skirting two tennis rackets and a tool kit, when the bathroom door flew open.

  “India!”

  She whirled around.

  Whitelaw looked stunned. Freshly shaven and smelling of Armani, he wore red-and-blue tartan boxer shorts and red socks. There was a smudge of foam just below his right ear.

  India exhaled. “Hey, cool shorts,” she managed.

  Whitelaw’s expression remained stunned. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be gone for good.”

  “I just came to get my backpack,” she said. “Then I’ll be off.” It was only then she suddenly saw how tired he looked, how bruised and sleepless his face. “What’s happened?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you want the bad or the good news first?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “No. I don’t suppose it does.” He gave another sigh. “The good news is that the charges against you have been dropped.”

  For a moment she was too astonished to take it in. “I’m innocent?” she said. “It’s been proved that I’m innocent?”

  He nodded. “Frank Goodman came back on Wednesday and made a statement. You’ve an alibi set in stone.”

  India felt her face crack into a grin as broad as the Murray River. “That is great news! God, that’s great!” She started to laugh, a slightly hysterical mixture of relief and elation, but another thought made her pause. “What about Elizabeth Ross’s murder? Aren’t I still up for that?”

  “No. They’ve found someone else to take that particular rap, along with the others.”

  India punched the air with a fist, shouting, “YES!” and did a little dance of delight.

  Whitelaw remained motionless, watching her. He didn’t smile.

  India stopped her dancing. “Sorry.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “Okay, so what’s the bad news?”

  The muscles in his jaw were jumping and twitching. Now she saw how tense he was and regretted her outburst of glee. “God! What is it?”

  “Someone’s fitted me up.” He blurted out the words. “The gun that killed Tiger and Lauren was found Monday. The day after you legged it. Its got my fingerprints all over it.” He looked at the floor, speaking in a murmur. “I’m a suspect.”

  India Felt a ripple of shock trickle unpleasantly down her spine. “What do you mean?”

  He looked up. His burning stare was intense. “I mean, I’ve been framed. The hearing is tomorrow.”

  “Who’d frame you? I don’t get it … How come your fingerprints …” She trailed off as the information finally permeated her brain. She took an unsteady step backwards. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Surely, you didn’t …”

  “No. I did not kill them.”

  “But you … just said … your fingerprints were on the gun …”

  “That doesn’t make me the killer.”

  “Then how did they get there? By magic?”

  An angry flare lit at the back of his eyes and she muttered, “Sorry.” She wanted to remain reasonable, but she’d been in too many courtrooms to accept his word just like that.

  “It’s the shock, I know.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I still can’t quite believe it either.”

  “So where did your fingerprints come from?”

  “I obviously handled the gun at some point. The question is, whose gun? It happened after Elizabeth Ross was killed because I’m up for that one as well.”

  “Elizabeth?” Her voice was faint.

  “I did not kill Elizabeth either.”

  “But who do you think framed you? You must have some idea!”

  “Could have been a cop, or maybe someone at the manhunt.”

  “Well, that narrows it down a lot.”

  She was finding it increasingly hard to believe him. She owed him that, after his kindness to her, but one thought blocked out all others: Had he known from the start she wasn’t the killer, because he was?

  “India, let’s stay steady here and think a minute—”

  “But why pin it on you, when I was already in the picture? It doesn’t make any sense!”

  He reached a hand towards her and she jerked away.

  “Did you make me stay with you so you could keep an eye on me? Make sure I didn’t find out too much about who killed my friend?”

  “No!”

  The next second Mikey appeared.

  India and Whitelaw stood facing each other, breathing hard, faces flushed.

  Mikey’s eyes flicked from one of them to the other, as though measuring the tension in the atmosphere. “What’s happening, Jed?” he said levelly. “She being rude ab
out your shreddies?”

  Whitelaw’s furious brown eyes didn’t move from hers.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was,” Mikey continued, “because tartan is for Scots and by no stretch of the imagination are you a Scot. Scots wear tartan and eat porridge. Abos wear paint and eat insects.” He made a tsking sound and shook his head. “You really should know that by now.”

  “Suspicious cow,” Whitelaw said.

  Mikey’s gaze travelled over her. “Bloody hell,” he said. “What on earth have you been doing, woman?”

  Vaguely she became aware of her grime, the countless scratches on her legs and arms. Her hair had tangled into a fierce mass and her skin was sunburnt. She must look like a madwoman.

  He said, more gently, “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not,” she snapped. “I thought he was going to hit me—”

  “Serve you right if I had,” snarled Whitelaw. He turned to Mikey. “She thinks I’m the killer.”

  “Ah,” said Mikey, and looked from one of them to the other. “Why is that?”

  “Because she won’t listen.”

  “Very good,” India said acidly. “Award-winning, I’d say—”

  “India! Go outside. Leave us for a minute.”

  Somehow India made it to the kitchen. She felt herself to be in a strange place between disbelief and horror. Disbelief because she liked Whitelaw, and horror because she knew it was all possible. Like a sleepwalker she filled the kettle. She spooned coffee into a mug, and poured water from the kettle onto it, not realizing she hadn’t plugged it in. As she stared at the grains of coffee floating on the cold water she thought: surely not Whitelaw.

  She’d started a headache when Mikey joined her five minutes later. “He’s gone.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Mikey studied her grimy face, then her slashed ankles and calves. “Where have you been?”

  “Walkabout.” She sank onto a chair and massaged her aching temples. “Do you have any aspirin or some codeine? My head’s killing me.”

  Mikey disappeared briefly, and returned with a packet of Disprin. “Take three,” he advised. “Two’s never enough.”

  India washed them down with water, leaned back in her chair. “Where’s my backpack?”

  “Under the house. I’ll get it for you.”

  He returned a few minutes later, put it beside her. He peered into her mug, threw the contents out and turned on the kettle. “You can’t blame him, you know. You’re mates, or supposed to be. He thought you’d be on his side. He expected you to believe he’s been set up. He expected you to believe in him, full stop.”

  Her agitation showed in the way her hands were clenching and unclenching.

  “Come on, India. Surely you can’t believe he killed Tiger and Lauren? And Elizabeth Ross?”

  “People are capable of doing anything,” she said, struggling to her feet. “Anything. I’ve faced the sweetest and kindest of men and women who’ve protested their innocence. One woman even killed her baby daughter for the insurance payout.”

  Mikey spoke evenly. “Jed’s not one of your murderers.”

  “And you really believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though his fingerprints are all over the gun that killed …” India took a deep breath. “Three people.”

  “Yes.”

  Her gaze levelled with his, then, on unsteady legs, she made her way out of the kitchen and headed for the shower.

  “You can’t leave,” said Mikey. He plucked the backpack off her shoulder and dumped it on the verandah.

  “Just try and stop me,” she said icily. “I’ve had enough of this place.”

  He felt his gaze drawn to her. Her hair was still wet from her shower and her skin had darkened in the sun and gleamed as though it had been polished. She reminded him of a cheetah as she stood there, poised, all legs and grace. He had never seen a woman look more desirable. He looked away.

  “Whitelaw did a run on the Beemer’s plate,” he said.

  She glanced at him.

  “It belongs to a company registered in Panama.”

  “Very helpful,” she remarked, and made to pick up her backpack.

  “It’s Christmas Day tomorrow,” he said, and saw her start of surprise. “You’ll be lucky to get a lift over the next few days, and you can’t fly abroad, not until you get your passport, clear things with Stan. How about you stay here over the holiday, free of charge of course, until you’ve sorted out what you’re going to do next?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “How come the change of heart? Last time I remember I was on your hate list.”

  He ran a finger around the neck of his T-shirt. “I guess it’s because I had doubts about your alibi. The whole Frank Goodman thing.” He forced himself to look her squarely in the eye. “I’m sorry. I’m a suspicious bastard. It just took a while because I couldn’t …” He trailed off and scuffed the ground with his boot. He didn’t know how to explain it. His initial dislike, his growing attraction.

  To his surprise, she reached out and squeezed his upper arm. “Thank you,” she said.

  He didn’t respond. He simply stood there, dumb as one of Reg Coffey’s bullocks while she settled her backpack on her shoulder. “Well then,” she said. “Since I have no intention of hanging around in this subnormal, retarded town any longer than I have to, I’ll say goodbye.” She held out her hand.

  Mikey took it in both of his. His were hot and sweaty, hers cool and dry. He squeezed her hand gently and cocked his head to one side, projecting his most endearing expression.

  “Do you do the little lost boy look often?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted.

  She glared at him. “Well, you can drop it with me.”

  Immediately he straightened up. “All right,” he agreed. “How about this: I believe you’re a woman of principle, and that if you don’t give Jed a hand and he ends up with a life sentence in jail, your conscience will eat at you until the day you die.”

  “You’re entitled to your beliefs,” she said in a waspish tone, and walked down the steps, out of the verandah’s shadow and into the sunlight. She turned and stared at him for a long moment, then walked away.

  India regretted leaving almost as soon as her shoes touched the road. The sun thundered out of the bright-white glaring sky, making the pain behind her eyes almost unbearable, and when a car cruised into view she stuck her hand out without a second thought.

  I hope he’s got air-conditioning.

  The silver Lexus pulled up beside her, its passenger window open. India peered inside. A gray-haired man, midforties or so, peered back.

  “Miss Kane?” he said.

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “No.” He gave her a charming smile. “I guessed it was you from the description the security guard gave me. I’m Robert Jones, I work for Karamyde Cosmetics. Glynnis Coggins, our PR manager sent me to see if I could find you. She wants you to meet our director for a quick briefing before his three-week break in the Far East. He leaves tonight.”

  India took a step backwards.

  He gave another smile. “Where were you headed before I turned up?”

  “Sydney.”

  His face lit up. “That’s great,” he said. “I’m planning on leaving for Sydney later today. How about you get your business over with and then I give you a lift? I could do with the company.”

  India looked up and down the road, undecided.

  “You got relatives in Sydney?”

  “Just friends.”

  “Come on, hop in.”

  “I really don’t feel in the mood for interviewing,” she protested feebly.

  “He’s flat out. Won’t take more than half an hour, promise. We’ll be in Sydney in time for breakfast tomorrow.”

  It was the thought of breakfast with Scotto that decided her. “Okay.”

  She glanced through the rear window as the Lexus purred down the road, tires sucking on loose sto
nes. Mikey stood watching her go, and the sunlight through the dust in the air surrounded him like golden candy floss.

  SEVENTEEN

  ROLAND KNOX WAS IMMACULATELY GROOMED BUT HE WAS seven inches short of six feet and India towered over him. She shook the hand he offered, warily taking in his narrow mouth and pale, calculating eyes.

  All her instincts were on red alert. There had been no Glynnis Coggins when she’d arrived. No PR director. Just Roland Knox, the owner.

  Knox gave India a polite, professional smile before showing her into an impersonal room that smelled of lilies and bore the gray-and-chrome style of meeting rooms the world over. Beyond them an expanse of window looked out over what appeared to be a laboratory. Opposite hung a massive canvas, which took up most of the wall.

  In oil and acrylic, a huge shark appeared suddenly and silently out of the green-blue gloom. Its eyes were matt black, its gaping maw hung with tatters of flesh and its razored teeth cut white against the aquatic darkness. Millions of tiny air bubbles formed a ragged halo of pearl-like droplets as it lunged. A mist of blood trailed after it. It was an image of sleek and ferocious power, of blind instinct and violent death.

  India swallowed.

  “Study of the Great White Shark, number seven,” Knox said. “By Richard Hall.”

  “It’s spectacular,” India said truthfully.

  “It should be, for twenty thousand dollars.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, as though impressed. In fact, she was thinking of Elizabeth’s photograph. Was Knox the short young man standing aggressively with his friends around the dead shark?

  She felt him studying her intently. “I wonder how you’d react if you faced such a creature in its own environment.”