Blood Junction Read online

  Helpless against his rage, India watched Mikey stumble for the door.

  SIX

  WHEN HIS MOBILE RANG, MIKEY IGNORED IT. IT RANG again, for longer, and still he ignored it. Two minutes later it rang again, and he gave a groan. He slumped onto the step outside the grocery store and pressed the Answer button.

  “Yes.” His mouth felt stiff, his tongue too large for his mouth. His mind was foggy with shock.

  “Is that Detective Michael Johnson?”

  “Not any longer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you want to speak to the police,” he said wearily, “I suggest you dial direct. This mobile number belongs to a civilian.”

  “I have your card here. You’ve written your home and mobile numbers on the back.”

  The fog cleared a little. “Who are you?”

  The voice lowered. “My name isn’t important.”

  “Okay. So talk to me.”

  “You’re investigating the Patterson case.”

  “Yes.”

  A slight pause.

  “I might know who killed him. And the other guy.”

  Mikey leaned forward. “Keep talking.”

  “I’m scared, okay? I found some files. Notes and stuff. Highly classified … It’s really serious stuff.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I can’t say. But if they knew I’d seen it … I’d be dead.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  Silence.

  “Can you send them to me? Or a copy?”

  “I don’t know if I can do that. They weren’t supposed to be found …” The voice trailed off.

  “Take it easy,” Mikey said. “Why don’t you give me your name and we’ll go from there.”

  A hesitation.

  “Call me Sam.”

  “Okay, Sam. Where are you calling from?”

  “A phone box. In Sydney. I’m worried they’ve bugged my office and home.”

  “Where do you work?”

  Another silence.

  “Sam? Are you still there?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Will you call me later?”

  “I’m scared they might kill me.”

  “I’d like to promise you protection—”

  “You can’t protect me. Nobody can.”

  The man hung up. Mikey stared at his phone. A breakthrough. At long last a fish had tugged at one of the lines he’d cast during November. Not that he’d learned much from Sam, but once a witness started to squeal, they usually found it very hard to stop. He hoped this one would be no different. Tiger would have been thrilled.

  He wondered if his friend had looked the Kane woman in the eye when she’d shot him. He wondered if Tiger had died in agony, or if he’d known nothing about it. A spasm of emotion, like a physical pain, sliced through him. Unsteadily, Mikey got to his feet and headed for the bottle shop.

  It was gloomy inside. Mikey mopped his face with the end of his shirt and glanced around when the fly screen banged to see Skippy standing there, his big black head hanging. The corners of his eyes and mouth were webbed with wrinkles, his skin dark as a log scorched by fire. Gray spotted his mop of black hair, and his bare chest and shoulders were scored with cuts and long red scabs like worms. In one hand he had a smooth wooden carving of a snake and in the other a painted emu’s egg.

  “Which you like?” he asked Mikey.

  “I spent twenty-four hours in the nick because of you,” Mikey snapped. “Next time, call the cops.”

  “They wouldn’t come.”

  “I wish I’d been as sensible. Getting mixed up in a bar brawl between a bunch of pissed Abos and white blokes was not a good move. Cops even think I bloody started it!”

  “You saved my life. Jacko’s too.”

  “And what do I get for it? Jail. With a two-hundred-buck fine. My body feels like it’s been run over by a steamroller. I’ve a loose tooth and thanks to you I need a new shirt.”

  Skippy shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “Didn’t mean to get you into trouble, but …”

  Mikey paid for his bourbon in silence.

  “You’re a good man, Mikey,” ventured Skippy, and came and laid the carved snake on the counter. “Thanks, mate.”

  Mikey looked at Skippy’s dropping shoulders, the way his raggedy shorts hung on too-thin hips. As he picked up the snake, he wished to God he wasn’t so bloody softhearted sometimes.

  India expected Donna to treat her much as Mikey had, with enmity and contempt, but the young policewoman seemed friendly enough when she asked if she could make a phone call.

  “If it’s interstate,” Donna said. “Make it short, would you?”

  “Sure,” said India, and dialled Scotto’s direct number at the Sydney Morning Herald. It was answered briskly. “Sorry,” said a man’s apologetic voice, “but Scott Kennedy’s on holiday. Won’t be back for ten days. Can anyone else help?”

  India announced herself. “It’s extremely urgent,” she said. “Pretty much life and death. It’s about his wife, Lauren. Can’t you get a message to him?”

  “What’s up with Lauren?”

  “I can’t say right now, but I need to contact Scotto immediately. It’s an emergency. I’m at Cooinda Police Station. Could you take this number? Get him to ring me?”

  “Is Lauren okay?”

  “I can’t …” Her voice wavered.

  “Right.” His voice turned brisk. “I’ll get hold of him as soon as I can. It’s not going to be easy—the last we heard he was heading into the jungle to spot orangutans. Borneo somewhere. He took his mobile but I doubt if it’ll work out there. I’ll try and track him down another way, starting with his parents. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “My name’s Tom Worthington. I’ll give you my home and mobile number. You have a mobile?”

  “No. But, wait a sec …” She asked Donna for a pen and paper and if it was okay for Tom to ring her at the station.

  “Sure,” Donna said. She tore a scrap from her notebook and passed it and her pen to India.

  “Tom, you can leave a message for me here. Give me your numbers.” She scribbled them down.

  “Don’t worry, India. We’ll find him fast for you.”

  Taking a breath India dialled a number she knew by heart from childhood, her fingers trembling. A woman answered, “Hello?”

  “Sylvia? It’s India Kane.”

  “Indi!” Lauren’s mother said. “What a lovely surprise!”

  She felt sick. They didn’t know.

  “How’s the trek going? Lauren was so excited about the whole thing she packed a week early …”

  India concentrated on the clock on the wall to try and stop herself from bursting into tears as Lauren’s mother talked. Sylvia Walker, who made the best fruitcake this side of heaven. Lauren had always brought a cake from Sylvia whenever she’d visited.

  “How’s Lauren?” her mother said. “Bet she’s got a sore behind! She hasn’t been riding for years.”

  “Um … I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Scotto lately?”

  Sylvia laughed. “She’s missing him that badly already?”

  “I guess.”

  “I haven’t spoken to him since he left for Borneo. Borneo of all places! As if Australia isn’t hot enough.”

  “He didn’t leave you a number?”

  “Why, no, he didn’t.” Small silence. “Is everything all right out there, Indi?”

  No. No, it’s not but I can’t tell you, not until I’ve heard from Scotto.

  “Fine,” she said. Her throat swelled with the effort of not crying. “Sylvia, I’ve got to go. Good to talk to you.”

  “You too, and just you make sure you come over here soon. It’s been too long. Promise?”

  India wanted to repeat “promise” but couldn’t. She hung up just before a sob escaped.

  Donna passed her a box of man-sized tissues. “Try someone else, why don’t you?”

  India managed a
muffled thank-you and blew her nose. She took several deep breaths, then she made some more calls. People she’d met over the six months she’d been in Melbourne. The first was away until Thursday and India left a message. The next was already on their Christmas break in the UK and not due back until January. The remainder were out. India left more messages. Considered contacting the Broken Hill police but there seemed no point; cops stick together.

  She started to shake. Don’t lose it, she told herself. Just because the cavalry’s on holiday doesn’t mean it’s not going to get here. You can survive this until Scotto gets here. You will survive this.

  “Not having much luck, are you?” said Donna.

  India didn’t reply. She followed the sergeant to the shower room, where she found her backpack, which had a big red tag on it with the number eight. Donna opened the door. “There’s no lock, so I’ll wait outside.” India wasn’t sure whether the policewoman intended to keep intruders out, or to stop her from making a run for it.

  Her backpack was a mess. Everything had obviously been pulled out and inspected and then stuffed back in. India emptied it, making separate piles of clothes, books and toiletries. She opened her washbag and pulled out her shampoo and conditioner, soap and a sponge, and set them inside the shower. She put a thin orange towel within reach and turned the water on full blast.

  India kicked off her deck shoes and peeled off her shirt and jeans. She dumped her underwear on top. Clouds of hot steam drifted towards her. She checked the shower’s temperature and turned it down a fraction.

  Finally, she stepped beneath the spray. Involuntarily she made a small sound of intense pleasure. She rotated slowly, luxuriously, letting the water beat on the base of her neck and shoulders, her face and over her head. She closed her eyes and as she breathed in the familiar scent of her soap, she pretended she was in her little Melbourne apartment.

  This is the only pleasure you’re going to get for a while, so enjoy it.

  She shampooed and conditioned her hair, then stood with the jet pounding against her shoulder blades, her eyes still shut.

  She pictured the last time she’d seen Sylvia and Lauren together. She’d turned seven the day before they’d taken her to Kingsford Smith airport. Sylvia was trying to be brave for Lauren, Lauren was trying to be brave for India, and India was trying to be brave for them all. All three of them burst into tears when her flight to London was called.

  There was a loud knock on the bathroom door. “Time’s up,” called Donna.

  India didn’t answer. Her eyes were still closed and she knew she should be preparing herself for the forthcoming interrogation but her mind was stuck on the image of Sylvia, her warmth and kindness.

  The door banged open. “Miz Kane, get the hell out of there before I come in and interview you naked.”

  India turned off the shower and dried herself. She rubbed her hair with the towel and wrapped it around her while she smothered her body with moisturizer. She combed out her hair before she got dressed. Tan jeans, yellow shirt, big brown belt. Refusing to rush, she carefully repacked her backpack.

  Eventually, she wiped the small mirror above the washbasin clear. Her face was sallow and gaunt, and her normally olive skin had a gray tinge. There was a bluish bruise on her jaw, not particularly noticeable, but it was sore when she touched it. She stood there for a moment, fingers against the bruise, staring numbly at her reflection. Jesus. How did I get here? How do I get out? She closed her eyes. I must remain strong, she told herself, strong as iron as steel as rock.

  Straightening her shoulders, she turned from the mirror, picked up her backpack and returned to the corridor. Donna took her backpack and made to walk her to the interview room.

  “Could I make one more phone call?” India said.

  Donna glanced up and down the empty corridor. “If you make it short. Stan’s going ballistic.” She hustled India into reception.

  It took her two attempts before she got the number right. Asked for Mr. Tremain.

  “RonTremain speaking,” a curt male voice said.

  “Um,” said India, “sorry, this might come as a bit of a surprise. I’m trying to track down a relative of mine, on my mother’s side. Her family came from Cooinda, you see. Their name was Tremain.”

  “Well,” said Ron Tremain. “I can tell you straight up that you’ve got the wrong mob. We’re not from Cooinda, we’re from New Zealand. Moved here five years ago. My parents emigrated to New Zealand from Germany in the thirties. My grandparents are still in Germany. None of them have ever been to Cooinda.”

  “What about any other Tremains? Do you know any in or around Cooinda?”

  “Nope.” He paused, as though thinking. “You tried the phone book?”

  “Yes. You’re the only Tremain listed.”

  “The electoral role?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good luck.”

  India rubbed at the frown between her eyes. Had Lauren really found her grandfather? Or had she also seen Ron Tremain in the phone book and simply used it as an excuse to get her friend to Cooinda? Right then it didn’t seem to matter because Donna started leading her to the interview room.

  SEVEN

  JEROME WAS SITTING ON ONE SIDE OF THE TABLE, Whitelaw and Stan the other. All three men appeared to be contemplating a single buff-colored folder, four cups of coffee and a plate of granular sugared doughnuts.

  India greeted her lawyer and sat down. Whitelaw immediately pressed the Play button of the tape recorder and leaned forward.

  “We need to know where the weapon is. The weapon that killed the two victims. Can you help us?”

  She took a gulp of her coffee, then picked up a doughnut, unsure if she could eat it or not. She’d never felt less like eating in her life but knew she had to keep up her strength. She bit into the doughnut and started chewing. The sound of crunching sugar seemed to fill the small interview room.

  “For fuck’s sake—” Stan started to say but Whitelaw held up a hand and the senior sergeant fell silent, looked away. The muscles in his jaw bulged with the effort to restrain himself.

  India didn’t allow her surprise to show. She’d thought Stan would be leading the interview, but something had obviously occurred and it was Whitelaw who was in charge today.

  “Anything you might remember about the evening of the eleventh, when you heard the shot, would be helpful.”

  India chewed slowly, concentrating on the yeasty warmth and teeth-edging sweetness of cheaply manufactured jam. She glanced at Jerome’s watch—eight-thirty-five—and continued to eat.

  “If you’re not careful, Miss Kane,” said Whitelaw, “we might start to believe you have something to hide.”

  The shower and doughnut had revived her, and the caffeine was perking her up surprisingly well.

  “Why is Mike called Mikey the Knife?” she asked Whitelaw.

  He gave her a measured look. “Why do you think?”

  “Because he knifed someone?”

  “Correct.”

  “Who did he knife?”

  Stan made a small choking sound but Whitelaw cut in. “You’d do best to ask him yourself.” He cast a sidelong glance at Stan, who sat back, looking furious.

  India found herself staring at the remaining four doughnuts, the polystyrene cups, in a state of weariness. She looked at the lawyer. “Jerome, surely the police can’t hold me here indefinitely without a court order or something?”

  “We don’t need anything,” Stan said.

  Whitelaw’s expression turned inward as he got to his feet, walked to the door. “Sergeant Bacon’s right,” he said. “We can hold you for twelve hours without any sort of order.”

  “Twelve! But I’ve been here since midday yesterday!”

  Jerome hurriedly explained the meaning of Time Out, and that the time she’d spent waiting for her solicitor didn’t count. The police were, he went on to say, actually only allowed to hold a suspect for four hours but Cooinda PD had gotten an eight-hour extension.
The total of twelve hours in jail started when the questioning did.

  India glanced at Jerome’s watch again. “It still means they’ve run out of time. Question time started six-thirty yesterday. They’re breaking the law. They’ve got to let me go.”

  Stan rose so violently his chair fell to the floor with a crash. “Who says the magistrate hasn’t given us special dispensation so we can go to court in an hour and get permission to hang on to you as long as we goddam like?” he ground out. He then gave her a humorless smile and joined Whitelaw at the door. They both stepped outside, letting it bang behind them.

  “Is that true?” India asked Jerome weakly.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “This town’s completely mad! How can they possibly think I killed Tiger and Lauren out of jealousy when I only arrived yesterday? For God’s sake, I only met Tiger because my car broke down, and I never even saw Lauren let alone knew what she was up to with Tiger. I’ve got to get out and find out what the hell’s going on or I may never see daylight again. You’ve got to get me bail!”

  “How much bail can you afford, in cash?”

  “Ten thousand, tops.”

  “That’s not going to help us much. Don’t you have a surety, perhaps a house, you can put up?”

  “No.”

  “What about a car?”

  “I’ve a Honda Civic in Melbourne. I bought it for five hundred bucks.”

  “Can any friends help?”

  “Not yet.” She filled him in on Scotto. “I’ll get bail, right?”

  He sucked on his lips.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re in front of Judge Deacon,” Jerome said on a sigh. “Judge Dread to you and me.”

  India found out where she stood at her arraignment at ten-thirty: $250,000. She felt suddenly light-headed and knew she was white as chalk. Jerome asked for bail reduction, arguing that she would have a solid alibi within the next few days, that she was a well-known journalist who had never been arrested before and was a tourist from out of town and no danger to anyone. The judge watched him impassively, then said, “Thank you, Mr. Trumler, but may I point out that your client is also a long way from home, and seems to have no family to help her in her current difficulties. In my opinion she is a serious flight risk. The bail stands as is.”