Blood Junction Read online

  “Didn’t your husband report the boys to the police?”

  The woman rolled her eyes as though impatient at India’s stupidity. “You obviously don’t grasp the situation. These boys came from wealthy, well-connected families. Families who believed Aborigines were an inferior race, who taught their children the same, who wouldn’t care if a dozen indigenous boys had been fed to the sharks that day. The police felt pretty much the same. John wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on. They would have destroyed him and me.”

  India frowned. “Your husband was a man who was scared of the authorities. That was it?” She looked at Catherine Buchanan-Atkins. “Did something else stop him from reporting the boys?”

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  “There may have been something that made him vulnerable. Something the boys’ fathers could have used against him.”

  “Why should you think that?”

  “It’s the only explanation I can think of for such a strong and moral man backing off like he did.”

  Suddenly the woman looked intensely weary. She gave a sigh and walked to the wall of photographs, staring at a picture of a young girl breastfeeding her baby. “Perhaps I should have done something about it years ago. But I didn’t.”

  “About what?”

  Catherine Buchanan-Atkins appeared to struggle with herself as she spoke. “John’s life was this school. He built it. Made it what it was then, and is now. One of the best in Australia. It was his heart, his soul”—she paused briefly and took a breath—“but he made some mistakes. All to do with scholarship pupils. Children who were incredibly bright, but whose parents couldn’t afford even the lowest fees. He ended up terribly frustrated. Thought how unfair it was that a child of low intelligence from a wealthy family could get the best education, where another child, extremely bright, couldn’t. So John redressed the balance. Altered the accounts. Nobody knew, not even me for a while, that four scholarship pupils were paying less than fifty dollars a term.”

  “But the boys’ fathers knew about this?”

  Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers.“Yes.”

  “So your husband never pressed charges?”

  Catherine swung around. “John had no choice. It was either that or lose the school. If it came out he’d been doctoring the accounts and favoring students, just about every parent would have taken their child away. Those men had him over a barrel. Eventually he came to the decision not to let three boys ruin the education of hundreds of others, present and future. Poor John,” she said again. “He saw their picture in the newspaper last month. Said it was one of the most frightening days of his life, seeing them together as grown men. He had a heart attack two days later and now he’s dead.” She closed her eyes. “I blame those three for his death.”

  India was finding it difficult to stand still. The adrenaline rush of an explosive story was pulsing through every vein. “Are you sure you won’t let me quote you?”

  Catherine Buchanan-Atkins reacted violently. “Absolutely not. These men are not to be played with. They’re dangerous. Cunning and dangerous. If you expose them in your search to find your friend’s killer, all well and good. Otherwise I’ll deny we ever met.”

  NINETEEN

  MIKEY STOOD OPPOSITE THE POST OFFICE IN MARTIN place, waiting. Sam was five minutes late. He scanned the streams of office workers and tourists pouring down the broad pedestrian street, studied people sitting and eating out of takeaway cartons on the post office steps, searching for a man who might be nervous, perhaps checking over his shoulder.

  Nobody. Mikey wiped his brow with the back of his hand, glad he was in the shade. If he had to stand in the sun with the humidity levels as they were, he’d melt. He touched the back of his neck, glad to feel the knobbly scabs that had formed. No infection, and no pain aside from when he knocked his bruises. India’s first aid had done the trick.

  A young couple were snogging on one of the post office’s steps, and he watched the varying expressions of people as they passed; some amused, some disapproving. A fit-looking man with a buzz haircut, dressed in dark trousers and white shirt, stood a little distance away, seemingly oblivious to the snoggers. Mikey took in the man’s alert stance and followed his gaze.

  There. A balding man walking behind a fat woman laden with shopping. Mikey was sure he recognized him, tried to place him. When their eyes met the balding man looked away and slowed as though hesitating. Then he nodded once, and weaved through the crowd to come and stand beside Mikey. His shirt was wet with sweat.

  “Nice to see you again,” said Mikey. “Shall we take a walk?”

  Sam fell into step beside him. Out of habit, Mikey checked the man with the buzz cut and breathed easier when he saw he’d gone.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Sam said.

  “Yes, I do. I just can’t recall your name.”

  “It’s Stirling.” The man’s eyes were jumping over the crowd as he spoke. “Rodney Stirling.”

  “So, Rodney. What have you got for me?”

  Rodney fiddled with his tie. “I want to show you something, but I don’t want anyone to see us.”

  “The files, right?”

  Rodney nodded.

  “At the Australian Medical Association’s offices?”

  Rodney jerked his head around. His brown eyes were scared. “How did you know?”

  “Come on, Rodney. They’re just over the bridge in St. Leonard’s. It’s also where we met, albeit very briefly, during my investigation into your colleague’s death. You do remember Alex Thread’s murder, don’t you?”

  Rodney gave a jerky nod. “How could I not?”

  They crossed over Pitt Street and to the left of a broad water feature. Mikey relished the brief sensation of damp cool as they passed.

  “So, how do you like your promotion?” he asked.

  “I wish I’d never got it. Jameson used to be our head of ethics. He died soon after he was transferred. Alex became head of ethics and then he was murdered. Now I’m head I’m utterly terrified.”

  “Where’s the stuff you want to show me?”

  “In the office.”

  “Tell me what it’s about.”

  “I only found them by accident. I was changing a fluorescent strip, the maintenance man always takes so long, and the ceiling panel came loose.”

  Mikey glanced over his shoulder as Rodney turned left into Castlereagh Street. No buzz cut. Nobody seemed to be following them. Good.

  “What’s in the files?”

  “Personal notes. Technical profiles. From a British defense establishment.”

  “Porton Down?”

  Rodney halted outside a dry cleaner’s and looked at Mikey. “I couldn’t understand much of it. It’s way out of my league. Apart from the DNA profiles and the notes Alex made. Some horrifying accusations. A list of names. Alex highlighted three though, which I suppose are important.”

  “Which three?”

  “Sergeant Patterson, Lauren Kennedy and Peter Ross.” He frowned for a second. “Oh, and a solicitor’s name. Something Italian. I can’t remember it offhand.”

  “Why don’t we just go and get the files, then we’ll know what his name is?”

  “Christ,” said Rodney, and ran a hand over his pate. He looked close to tears. “I’ve a wife. Two kids. I’m terrified for them, not just me.”

  “Come on, Rodney. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to give them to me. Share the burden—”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get them. Give me an hour and I’ll meet you at Saint Leonard’s station.”

  Mikey’s mind flicked to India, who would be waiting for him at the same time. He said, “See you in an hour.”

  Mikey arrived at St. Leonard’s and stood at the Pacific Highway entrance half reading his newspaper, half watching pedestrians and streams of traffic pouring in both directions.

  An ambulance, lights whirling and siren blaring, joined the highway from opposite him and raced past. He wa
tched it, not thinking anything of it; the Royal North Shore Hospital was just down the road. The ambulance roared to the next traffic lights and swung left.

  Then his stomach lurched.

  The AMA’s offices were just around the corner.

  Mikey dropped his paper and belted after the ambulance.

  He rounded the corner into Christie Street. A crowd stood around the ambulance. Two paramedics were hunched beside a figure sprawled on the pavement. Mikey pushed his way through the onlookers. Stared at the man the paramedics were trying to resuscitate.

  His heart stopped for a second. He felt very unsteady.

  Oh, God. Rodney.

  Mikey swayed slightly. He heard a woman say, “Are you all right?”

  His poor wife, thought Mikey. His two kids.

  “You know him?” the woman asked.

  “What happened?” Mikey said.

  “I think he got mugged. That man over there saw it. He’s the one who called the ambulance. He’s got a mobile.”

  Mikey took in the man the woman had pointed out and went over to him. “What happened?”

  “Jesus,” the man said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. In broad daylight—”

  “What happened?” Mikey repeated.

  “It happened so fast. I still can’t believe it. I was behind him, heading for the station. He was just walking along with his briefcase when two blokes coming in the opposite direction jumped him. They snatched his case and he fell to the ground.” The man paused. “I thought he’d get up, I really did, but he didn’t. He just lay there. I got down to ask him if he was okay, but he didn’t move. Then I saw he’d been shot. His shirt…” The man gulped. “All bloody. I called triple zero straight off.”

  “Where did the men go?”

  “They were running for the highway. I’d have gone after them but he … he needed help.”

  “You did good.”

  “Thanks.”

  In the distance, Mikey heard the mournful wail of a siren and knew the police were on their way. He saw the paramedics rise to their feet. They were shaking their heads. Dully, Mikey walked away. His legs felt as though they’d been filled with wet sand.

  “Shit,” said India when he told her how Rodney had died. “Shit, shit, shit.” Her face had paled but she wasn’t panicking. She had a lot of guts, this woman. She’d been waiting for him outside the school gates when he returned and didn’t mention he was an hour late, just said, “You look awful. What’s happened?”

  Now he said, “It looks like it’s down to your friend Scotto to deliver.”

  He watched her buckle her seat belt. They’d agreed that she should drive again while he map read. “That’s not until tomorrow,” she said. “I tried to ring him, to see if we couldn’t make it tonight, but apparently the sod’s gone sailing.” She tossed the Gregory’s Street Directory at him, and turned the ignition. “Where next?”

  “North Sydney. I’ve some cop friends there. I want to see if any of them has an ear to the ground and might have heard something useful to us.”

  India pushed the stick into drive. They cruised out of the school gates and turned right up the hill, towards Military Road.

  “I’ll drop you off before I head for Cremorne,” she said. “I’ve heaps of time. I’m not due to see Dr. Child until four and I—”

  “Remind me,” he said.

  “Lauren saw her before she went to Cooinda. Scotto says she’s important.”

  “What sort of doctor?”

  “I don’t know. But I think she’s tied into the stolen generation thing.” He listened as she filled him in on Catherine Buchanan-Atkins’ story. “Lauren was searching for Bertie Mullett, but Catherine only had a record of a Louis Mullett, no fixed address. I know where his girlfriend is though. If we manage to track him or Bertie down we might find some answers.”

  “According to that printout I nicked, they could still be at the Research Institute.”

  India turned left onto Military Road and accelerated hard into the second lane between a red Honda and a silver Mack truck, to avoid a braking taxi in the bus lane. In the wing mirror Mikey saw the Mack flash its lights. India stuck her arm out of the window and waved with her thumb up. Sensible girl, he thought. You don’t want to mess with those monsters. He smiled when the Mack gave her a short blast of its air horn and dropped back.

  The car thumped steadily on the seams in the road. He saw a queue of cars outside a car wash and twin rows of awnings announcing food, videos and florists.

  “Mikey?” India’s tone was cautious. “Why aren’t you in the police anymore?”

  “I didn’t like the uniform.”

  “Seriously, what was it? A complaint from the public? Being caught taking a bribe?”

  He opted for silence.

  “Too many unpaid parking tickets? Perjury?” she prodded.

  He looked across, saw the determination in her face. “You won’t give up, will you?”

  “Never.” India braked smoothly for a red light. She turned her head and fixed him with her deep brown eyes. He felt something shift in him as their eyes met, as though something dark inside him was being pulled into the light. He looked at her mouth, the fullness of her lips, the way they were curved in a slight smile, then back at her eyes.

  The Mack tapped its horn. India turned her head and pushed her foot on the accelerator. The car surged forward and within a few seconds they had caught up with the red Honda. They cruised through Cremorne and Neutral Bay, with its palm trees dotting the pavements. India remained silent, but she kept flicking her eyes his way.

  “All right,” he said. “If you really want to know I was convicted of strangling a man in custody, late at night, no witnesses.”

  He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he felt faintly surprised when the car didn’t falter. She drove steadily on, glancing in the rearview mirror, concentrating on keeping her distance from the Honda in front. She said nothing. Simply waited for him to continue.

  “The man, Harris, was an ex-employee of Karamyde Cosmetics, suing them for wrongful dismissal. One minute he’s taking Karamyde to court, and the next the poor sod’s in jail for killing a little girl, his niece. He yelled his innocence, but we didn’t listen. Not just me, but everyone in the station reckoned he’d been abusing the child and was guilty of murder.”

  He turned his head aside. The carriageway dipping to the Harbour Bridge slid across his eyes like a flattened worm.

  “Then someone strangled him. Not me. But I took the rap. I was suspended, which meant the investigation into Karamyde Cosmetics was suspended too. They removed me without killing me to avert the entire police department landing on their doorstep. And they killed an innocent man and a little girl under the noses of Cooinda PD.” He shook his head wearily.

  “Bastards,” was all she said, after a moment’s silence.

  “They’ll pay,” he said tightly.

  When India dropped him off her face was troubled. “Take care, okay?”

  “You too,” he said. “Call me on my mobile later. I don’t want to miss out on the oyster festival.” He was glad when her expression brightened.

  Dr. Geraldine Child was very old, amazingly tall—taller than India—wizened with age and appeared constantly alert. Her gaze was hard, blue and bright, her body lean, and she looked exactly how India wanted to look at her age. The room she ushered India into was small and immaculate, crammed to the ceiling with shelves packed with books and journals of various sizes. Each publication and book was, India saw, in alphabetical order by author.

  Dr. Child sat on an upright chair behind her desk and smiled warmly at India. “I’m so pleased you came,” she said. “Lauren told me all about you.”

  India found her nerves bristling, her insecurity rising at the woman’s intimate tone.

  Dr. Child gestured India to sit opposite her.

  “How is Lauren? I haven’t seen her or heard from her since she left for …” The woman paused, studied India’s face
. “She didn’t tell you about me, did she?”

  “No. Her husband suggested I come.”

  “Yes, I’ve met Scotto.” Dr. Child didn’t say any more. As she sat there, waiting for India to break the silence, she seemed less open, almost guarded. A truck rumbled past outside and India could hear a baby crying. The smell of freesias—there were a dozen, tallstemmed, in a vase on the windowsill—fought with a deeper odor of furniture polish.

  India took a deep breath. “Lauren’s dead. She was murdered nearly three weeks ago. I’m trying to find out why.”

  “Murdered?” repeated Dr. Child faintly.

  “Yes. She was shot.”

  Dr. Child closed her eyes. Her tall body seemed to shrink. She brought a hand to her eyes. Her lips trembled.

  India rigidly suppressed her own urge to cry. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you more gently. I didn’t know—”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Dr. Child wiped her eyes. “We were quite close, Lauren and I.”

  “I’m sorry,” said India again.

  “Me too. I liked her enormously.”

  They sat in silence for a minute or so, then Dr. Child, more composed, studied India at length. She nodded to herself. “Lauren was a reporter,” she said. “Do you think she was killed in the course of an investigation? For Disclosure perhaps?”

  Surprised, India said, “Yes. I don’t suppose you happen to know what she was working on?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dr. Child. “She never mentioned her work, but I know how important it was to her.”

  “How did you know Lauren?”

  “We met at a party in Rushcutter’s Bay. I’m a genealogist, retired but bored. She wanted a family tree done. We did it together. I enjoyed it immensely. Lauren had an inquiring mind and a wicked sense of humor. She made it great fun. I shall miss her.”

  India was puzzled. “Why on earth did she want a family tree done?”

  “It was a present. A Christmas present for you.”

  India’s eyes widened. Her heart was thumping. “She said she’d found my grandfather but I didn’t believe her. Not really. He’s been dead for thirty years.”