Blood Junction Read online

  Jerome held his watch so she could see. Whitelaw did the same. She flicked a glance at Donna but the desk sergeant was absorbed in turning her wedding ring around her finger.

  “Yes.”

  “There will be three audio and one videotape made of all interviews. You will be given one audio tape, one will be sealed in your presence, one will be kept with the interviewing officer. The video remains at the station. We can use these recordings in court.” He read her her rights again. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Let’s start with your name, address and date of birth.”

  She repeated what she’d told Donna earlier.

  “You sound English.”

  “I’ve lived in London since I was twelve.”

  He made a note. “Miss Kane”—he paused—“tell me exactly what happened.”

  “You tell me. One minute I’m having breakfast, the next I’m a murderer. Would you mind filling me in?”

  Silence. Whitelaw looked at her steadily.

  “Would you mind filling me in?” she asked him again.

  He stroked his chin slowly, as if contemplating whether to answer her or not.

  “Look, I don’t know what in hell’s going on here, but I’d really appreciate a bit of slack being cut.” India was glad she sounded calm, collected. “Fill me in, will you?”

  The seconds ticked past. He was going to wait her out, make her speak first. Well, fine by her.

  “Can I smoke?” she said. “It might help me pass the time while we play this game.”

  Whitelaw didn’t respond.

  “I really, really need a cigarette,” she said. Hearing the slightly plaintive note in her voice, she was instantly reminded of Polly. “Please.”

  He flared his nostrils a little, pushed back his chair with a tortuous squeal and went outside. Jerome wouldn’t meet her eye. He was puckering his mouth in a peculiar way, as if sucking something sour, and it made his lips elongate like a baboon’s.

  Whitelaw came back with a pack of Benson & Hedges, cellophane already unwrapped, matches in hand.

  India dragged the smoke deep into her lungs. Her head spiralled and for a brief fantastic moment she was displaced, disconnected, as though she were dreaming, but then she was slammed back into the neutral cream-and-brown colors of the interview room, Jerome at her side, the unknown quantity that was Whitelaw opposite.

  She exhaled a stream of blue smoke and said, “I won’t be saying anything else until you make it a two-way street.”

  More silence while India smoked and Jerome sucked on his peculiar long lips.

  The ashtray had two cigarette stubs in it before Whitelaw finally spoke up.

  “All right,” he said, nodding a little. “For the record, it’s a double homicide—”

  “Double! You’re not telling me I’m up for two murders?”

  She thought she saw a flash of recognition at the back of his eyes, but it was gone so fast she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it.

  “Yes. A policeman, off duty, was shot near Nindathana Bilabong last night at close range.”

  Her mouth went dry as sand. “Tiger.”

  “Also known as Terence Dunn.”

  “Tiger,” she whispered, “He’s a cop.”

  “A woman’s body was found too. Same treatment.”

  For a second, India’s mind seemed to jam solid. A chill started at the top of her head, her scalp, and spread through her as she stared at the detective. Lauren had gone to meet a man last night. Lauren, who was up here working. Lauren, who met with detectives and cops and lawyers all the time.

  Lauren.

  The chill had spread downwards, towards her heart.

  Please, God, not Lauren.

  “Both victims were shot twice in the head. Time of death is currently estimated between eight and ten P.M. Pete Davies, Ken Willis and Billy Bryant have signed a statement saying they saw you with Terence Dunn in his car, in the area of the murders, at eight-forty P.M.”

  Lauren’s my family. My mother, my sister, my only true friend. The only person who knows me in the whole world. Please don’t let her be dead. Please, please, please.

  “Why were you in Terence Dunn’s car last night, Miss Kane?”

  She took a shaky breath. And another. Tried not to show she was trembling. Concentrated on breathing steadily, in and out. In and out.

  “Miss Kane?”

  She covered her eyes with her right hand and sat there, her mind still unable to function. She heard Whitelaw cross his legs, the creak of his chair. Then silence. Another shuffle of soft cloth. More silence. Eventually she raised her head.

  “Who was the woman?”

  Whitelaw fixed her with his steady gaze. “Her purse identifies her as Lauren Kennedy, but we’ll need an official ID from her family. Her face isn’t recognizable.”

  India had never fainted before, and didn’t now, but somehow her body folded in on itself, her bones and muscles liquified, and the next second she was sprawled on the floor.

  Whitelaw was barking commands and she could hear Jerome’s flustered response. Then Whitelaw was holding her hands, talking to her gently. After a while, it was only a minute or so but felt much longer, India scrambled to her feet and stood there, clutching the edge of the table.

  “Lauren’s just turned thirty,” she said.

  Whitelaw wouldn’t look at her. Donna was staring at the floor.

  India thought of Lauren’s vitality, her mischievousness, her immense love of life, and closed her eyes.

  Nobody said anything.

  “Can I see her? I have to know it’s her for sure. Can you understand that? I have to know.”

  FOUR

  THE MORTUARY WAS ON THE SAME SIDE OF THE STREET AS the courthouse and police station, but five doors down. No pansies here. Just tough-stubbled buffalo grass edging the concrete path. Inside it smelled of oranges, but beneath the cloying sweet smell India could detect the faint aroma of chemicals. A tall, unsmiling man told Whitelaw to give him five minutes to prepare the anteroom, and clattered off down a corridor lit with overhead fluorescent strips.

  India stood by the window, vacantly watching a magpie hop across the stubbly lawn and back. A hand landed gently on her shoulder, and she allowed Whitelaw to usher her into a harshly lit room with no windows. The tiles were white and cracked with age and the pale blue linoleum floor had worn to gray in the center. Slowly, India approached the chrome trolley, looked down at her friend’s body.

  They’d covered Lauren with a stiff gray sheet but her arms lay bare at her sides. Lauren’s skin was a peculiar color. It wasn’t caramel-colored any longer, more of a dull duckweed green. It was this change in Lauren that upset India more than the fact her friend’s face had apparently been blown away; Lauren had always been so proud of her ability to tan.

  I always start with factor 20 at the beginning of summer and keep dropping it down until I’m on coconut oil. I do love having a tan; I always look so damned healthy.

  On the tender underside of Lauren’s wrist were some hastily scribbled initials: CTW/GN1, in purple ink. India gave a twisted smile; Lauren always used her arm and never a piece of paper.

  You can lose a piece of paper, darl, but not your arm.

  “Is this your friend Lauren Kennedy?” asked Whitelaw gently.

  India traced the three small moon-shaped scars on Lauren’s upper arm where a dog had bitten her when they were children. It was enough.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  India remembered kicking that dog so hard in the mouth it had howled and fled with its tail right between its legs. She loved animals, but Lauren came first, always had.

  “Shall I leave you?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just come out when you’re ready.”

  She heard the rubber seal on the door snick shut behind him.

  Her best friend Lauren. India could see over the sheet that she’d had her hair cut short. It suited her p
ersonality, this new spikily cropped hair like a boy’s.

  Thanks, hon. I quite like it too. You should try it. Keeps your nape cool and it’s really easy to care for.

  India reached out and touched Lauren’s hand. It felt greasy and cold, but she cupped her palm in Lauren’s and held it tight.

  Sorry I can’t come to bail you out of trouble again, Indi.

  India closed her eyes.

  I mean, I always used to look out for you, right? Even in the face of the enemy. God, weren’t your mum and dad a mess? We could have opened a recycling unit from the bottles they got through.

  I’d rather not remember, said India.

  What, you’re not going back to Dee Why for a trip down good old memory lane?

  No way.

  Come on, girl. We had some good times too. What about the beach and all those gorgeous surfies?

  What about Dad getting fired for taking bribes?

  He was a cop, for heaven’s sakes. What do you expect?

  Some restraint, India snapped. Especially towards his own family.

  Just because little Toby—

  Dad had no right to do what he did. It wasn’t Mum’s fault Toby died. My little brother.

  Sure, that was a bad day, darl. A very bad one, I’m the first to admit, but every cloud has a silver—

  You call my being shunted to England a silver lining?

  Well, you got a good education. A better one than I did, that’s for sure. And Aunt Sarah was okay in her own weird way. She paid for my first trip to the UK, remember? I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for the old bat, and besides, she always had a good supply of cigarettes. Given up yet?

  No.

  Me neither.

  India bowed her head over Lauren’s chilled hand.

  Lauren?

  I know. I’m sorry too.

  I should have come to Sydney—

  You said you never wanted to set foot in the place again. I never should have insisted. Can’t believe I acted like some psychologist or something, saying it would do you good. I’m sorry as hell for being such a pain in the ass. I should have come to sodding Melbourne.

  I wish you had.

  “When did you last see Lauren Kennedy?” Whitelaw asked.

  They’d been in the interview room for ten minutes, cassette recorder running, Jerome to one side, Donna in the corner.

  “Miss Kane?” Whitelaw prompted.

  India thought of Lauren’s green skin, the way the blood had dried black and flaky on her neck and shoulders.

  Whitelaw coughed, scratched the underside of his throat with his fingers. “Before you saw her in the mortuary, that is.”

  “Twelve months ago.”

  He flipped through some papers. “You said previously you were close to your friend and spoke every week, if not more. That you used to be neighbors as children. That Lauren Kennedy came to visit you in London just about every year. You sound pretty inseparable.”

  India wanted to rid herself of her memory of Lauren’s dead body, but it remained stubbornly in her mind. She could see every detail: the mole near her elbow, the pale strap where her watch had been, a fresh cut on her right knuckle.

  “How come you didn’t see each other for so long? You’ve been living in Australia for six months.”

  “I wouldn’t go to Sydney,” she whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “I hate Sydney.”

  Silence. A shuffle of paper, the soft brush of cloth as legs were uncrossed and crossed again.

  “Why is that?” said Whitelaw,

  India reached for a cigarette, lit it, and watched the blue smoke spiral. “It has nothing to do with what’s happened.”

  “Still, I’d like to know.”

  She put a finger on her tongue, removed an imaginary piece of tobacco and flicked it aside. “Okay. I had a bad experience when I was young. It has tainted my view of Sydney ever since.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ran away from home.”

  “For how long?”

  “Just a night.”

  Whitelaw frowned. “Why the big deal?”

  “No big deal,” she lied smoothly, and rolled the tip of her cigarette against the ashtray. “But because I refused to go to Sydney, Lauren then refused to come to Melbourne. Hence arranging a holiday in the middle, so to speak.”

  He made a note, moved right on. “What job did she do?”

  “She’s a journalist, like me. But more high-powered. She did investigative stuff, exposés.”

  “How come she chose Cooinda. You too?”

  “I’ve no idea really,” she lied. It was just too complicated to start trying to explain her own bleak family history as well as the fact that she knew Lauren too had another reason for coming to Cooinda. Something about a story she’d been working on—medical ethics or another save-the-world subject. Lauren had always veered towards the crusading side of journalism. Unlike India, who had chosen the easier and more crowd-pleasing route.

  “We were all set to go horse-trekking in the Snowy Mountains until five days ago. Then she suggested we trek here instead,” was all India volunteered.

  “You were happy with the sudden change of plan?”

  India tapped a length of ash into the tray and thought about explaining the Grandfather Tremain business, but decided not to bother. She said, “I was in Broken Hill. It’s not that far from Cooinda.”

  “What were you doing in Broken Hill?”

  “Hunting down Floyd Harrison.”

  She felt more than saw Jerome’s start of surprise.

  “You’re the reporter who …” Whitelaw trailed off.

  “Yes.”

  She could see he was struggling with his curiosity. “I had a source who knew a man called McCarthy,” she added. “McCarthy used to be into currency fraud during the eighties. These guys always seem to know each other. McCarthy gave me the tip-off.”

  Her thrill at nailing the British fraudster felt unreal now. It had taken her three months to track down Harrison, and when she’d found him hiding out in Broken Hill last week, she’d finally bagged him. Put him in jail. Exposed the slime for defrauding more than a dozen Australian companies out of eight million dollars, and managed to initiate extradition procedures. It had been her first big break since she’d arrived in Melbourne.

  Whitelaw gave his head a little shake, studied her in silence for a while.

  “What do the initials CTW and GNl mean to you?”

  “Nothing. Apart from the fact they were on Lauren’s wrist.”

  “Are they people’s initials?”

  “I don’t know.”

  India crushed her cigarette out.

  “Perhaps they’re a code?” he suggested.

  “Perhaps they are. But you’re asking the wrong person. Why don’t you track down the driver of the white 4 x 41 told you about and ask them?”

  She gazed at the ashtray, thinking about her vow to give up smoking for New Year, wondering if she now cared enough to do so.

  Whitelaw sat back, leaned his chin in his hand.

  “Tell me about Frank Goodman again.”

  She gave a long sigh. They’d been over her alibi what felt like a hundred times. “Frank was there when Tiger dropped me off, around nine P.M. His parents were away for the night, at some barbecue in Milparinka. Frank and I had a beer, then we heard the single gunshot, then he went into town to meet some friends, at about nine-thirty. I went to bed at eleven. Got up at eight A.M. He gave me a lift into town around nine.”

  “Frank Goodman’s friends say he was with them at nine. That he couldn’t have seen Tiger drop you off.”

  “They’re lying.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because of Red-cap and …” She couldn’t remember their proper names. “A man wearing dungarees.”

  “Ken Willis and Pete Davies?”

  She gave a shrug. “Whoever.”

  “And where did you say Frank Goodman went?”


  “He said he was going bush walking in the Flinders Ranges with some friends.” India paused. “And until he returns, I’m in the shit, right?” she added.

  Whitelaw started to nod, stopped himself. “We’re doing everything we can to locate him.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Her tone was tight. “How come I heard just one shot that night, if Tiger and Lauren took two bullets each?”

  “The assailant used a silencer. The single shot you heard was the one Tiger loosed off.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  He raised one shoulder, dropped it. “Okay. Let’s start from when your car—” He broke off at the sound of a commotion outside. As footsteps clattered up the corridor, all three of them looked towards the door. It burst open and banged against the wall.

  Senior Sergeant Bacon strode inside, face puce with fury. He switched off the recorder.

  “I can’t believe this shit,” he said. “Turn my back for a second and you’re at it again. Get out, Detective Whitelaw, and let me do my job.”

  Whitelaw stiffened but his expression remained perfectly cool, as though nothing untoward had occurred.

  “She was on Time Out, Detective. Extended Time Out, meaning she was meant to sit here undisturbed. Make her think about her predicament. And all the while I’ve been working on finding her weapon, you’ve been cuddling up to her, taking her on field trips outside …” Bacon stood rigid as a fighting dog facing an opponent. “As the Senior Sergeant of this police department, I’m ordering you out of here.”

  A long silence. Whitelaw pushed back his chair, got to his feet. He gave a curt nod to Jerome, then loped outside without a backward glance.

  “Sergeant,” Stan said to Donna, “call the magistrate and get a detention warrant for an additional eight hours.”

  Donna said, “Certainly, sir,” and left the room.

  “Out,” Stan growled to Jerome. Jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door.

  The lawyer lingered.

  Stan swung around fast, like a snake disturbed. “The interview with your client is over, get it? So get the fuck outta here.” And to India’s horror, Jerome did just that.