Tallowwood Page 26

  Jake smiled at Kenny in the mirror, then looked at Hirsch. “What about you, boss?” Jake asked him. “Where have you been stationed?”

  Kenny pulled up at the still-locked gate of the national park, and Hirsch shot out of the car to unlock it. He really didn’t want to answer where he’d been before Tallowwood.

  “He’s been really pissed,” Jake said to Kenny as they both watched Hirsch open the gate. There was no way Hirsch could hear them. “I mean, he’s pissed off on a good day, but since we found that first body, he’s been on edge.”

  Kenny didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn around or give Jake a nod. He simply stared out the windscreen at the man they were talking about. “He always lacked the intestinal fortitude for this job.”

  Jake cocked his head at Kenny. What an odd thing to say. Sure, Hirsch liked his town to appear pristine and quiet, he liked the people of Tallowwood to be happy and law-abiding, he liked everything in its place. But lacking intestinal fortitude? Seemed harsh, but then Jake remembered why he was in the car to begin with and how Deans had given him a satellite phone and pepper spray because neither of them trusted Kenny. Jake became very aware that he was alone with two men he knew nothing about. Cops, sure, but in light of the last week, Jake also realised that badge and uniform didn’t mean a damn thing.

  Kenny never said anything else. He just waited for Hirsch to pull the gate open, then drove the car through, and Hirsch closed the gate behind them and got back in the car.

  They drove slowly past the original crime scene, and Kenny crept the car along the dirt road. As they rounded the bend through the trees, Kenny edged off the road onto the shoulder and Jake could see where worn tyre tracks of less-equipped vehicles had tried to gain traction to the side of the slippery and off-beaten track. Kenny’s adept driving surprised Jake, though he wasn’t sure why. Jake wouldn’t attempt to drive on this road in anything but his big four-wheel drive. Kenny had definitely driven this road before, and Jake realised of course he had. McNeill was found up here. A dozen cop cars and crime scene vans would have made those tyre tracks and Kenny’s would have been one of them.

  God. Jake was getting paranoid. He was over-analysing everything, every comment and every action. He was in a car with his two superior officers—Kenny was the Local Area Commander, for fuck’s sake—he should feel safe with him.

  But he didn’t.

  He had that sixth-sense feeling, that unexplainable sense of danger that he couldn’t shake. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end because a voice in his brain was telling him something was wrong.

  He’d always told the kids at summer camp that if they were ever in a situation where they got that horrible feeling that something was wrong, or that a person was bad, to trust it.

  Yet here he was telling that voice in the back of his mind to be quiet.

  Just be wary, Jacob. Don’t act suspicious. Just be wary.

  The car stopped on the left side of the dam. Jake had seen the photos, but he didn’t have to ask where McNeill’s body was found, because blue-and-white police tape was still tied to a row of trees, clearly marking the entry point into the forest.

  Jake got out of the car and Kenny was next. Hirsch took a few moments longer to open his door. Jake noted that neither of them were armed. Not that he could see, anyway. They may have had concealed weapons, but Jake wore his Glock in his holster. He slung his camera bag over his left shoulder. “What exactly are we looking for?” Jake asked, feigning excitement.

  Kenny nodded toward the crime scene. “Go on in and tell us.”

  Jake couldn’t decide if putting some distance between them was a great idea or a horrible one, but an errant thought occurred to him. If one of them tried to overpower him, he’d stand a better chance in the forest. He was younger and fitter, stronger and more agile. He was also armed.

  So Jake gave a nod and crossed into the line of trees. He went south of the police tape and worked the scene like he would any other. He did his usual grid formation, he took photos of the soil, the trees, the path, he noted the depth of blood seepage, and he even managed to snap a few shots of Kenny and Hirsch talking at the car.

  When he was certain they weren’t watching, he slipped the satellite phone into one of his cargo pockets at his thigh and the pepper spray on the other leg.

  When he was about done, and it was clear neither Hirsch nor Kenny had any intention of joining him in the forest, he made his way back out to the clearing. Kenny was leaning against the side of the car and he smiled at Jake. “What did you find?”

  “The scene’s been picked apart by forensics. There’s not much left to ascertain anything from. The tree he was found against isn’t any different to the hundred around it, so I’d guess it’s not significant. The location is though. And why the killer chose a somewhat hidden location. The police vehicle had tracking, so we were always going to find him. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “The killer?” Kenny asked, his eyebrows raised. “It was a suicide.”

  Jake looked him right in the eye and smiled. “No it wasn’t. The killer’s not as smart as he thinks he is.”

  Kenny surprised Jake by laughing. He popped the boot of the car open, and Jake readied himself for whatever it was he was going to retrieve. Jake carefully put his hand over his holster but then Kenny pulled out a small Esky. He put it on the ground and opened it, revealing some bottled water and some premade sandwiches. Jake pretended to close up his camera bag to hide where his hand had been, and Kenny took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the lid, and took a long mouthful. “Here,” he said, handing Jake a new bottle, then handing one to Hirsch. Hirsch declined at first, but Kenny shoved it in his hand. “Stop being so damn miserable.”

  Hirsch grumbled at him, and Kenny laughed, but they both drank their waters and Jake had wondered if he’d read the whole situation wrong. Kenny took out a sandwich and bit into it, then proceeded to tell Hirsch about the local deli with his mouth full of food, and Hirsch rolled his eyes, and for one moment—for one stupid moment—Jake relaxed. He twisted the lid off the bottle and took a mouthful of water.

  Kenny prattled on about the price of sandwiches for a bit, when Jake realised, far too late, that he couldn’t remember if the bottle lid cracked the seal when he’d opened it.

  Was it sealed? Or did he imagine it. He looked at the lid and couldn’t see anything wrong with it.

  But then the birds went real quiet, and Jake’s mouth felt funny. He blinked a few times and turned his head; his vision followed in slow motion. Kenny was staring at him, but in a tree above his head, a kookaburra sat watching over him.

  Jacob smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  August grabbed his coat and phone, then checked his pockets for keys. He had an address and a fire in his belly. He was so close. He was so close he could taste it.

  “I’m coming with you,” Agent Eather said.

  August didn’t give a fuck who came with him. Just as long as no one tried to stop him.

  Reinhart opened his mouth to probably object, but the glare August gave him as he brushed past him obviously made him reconsider speaking. August was so fucking done with him, and if today was to be his last day as a police officer, he’d make sure he punched that arsehole in the mouth, purely as icing on the cake.

  Agent Eather was a young guy, maybe late twenties, so August deduced he was super smart to have that rank at his age. He had a shock of short, thick black hair, he looked Middle Eastern, and had eyes like a hawk. He also, thankfully, let August get them out into traffic before he started with an explanation and questions.

  “The AFP received a phone call from a Chief Inspector John McCulloch from Merimbula Area Command,” he said. “He said you contacted him and questioned his involvement in a case in 1998, of which there is, in relation to that case, missing evidence, falsified reports, and the possibility of a missing class nine prohibited substance.”

  August smiled. Jesus. He could have cried. Someone was finally l
istening. “That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t you contact the AFP, Detective?”

  August gripped the steering wheel and changed lanes. He was speeding, but Eather wisely decided not to mention that. “Because there’s corruption and cover-ups, and I don’t know who I can trust. How far up the blue line do we go? These are people with positions of power, those who can falsify reports and make witness statements disappear. How far back do we go? These murders started in the 2000s for Christ’s sake. Those who were cops back then are all fucking commanders or senior sergeants now. Wanna know what would happen to me if I started accusing them without hard evidence? I didn’t even really want to call McCulloch. For all I knew, he could be playing golf this weekend with the cop who stole the evidence, where I’d be the hot topic of conversation and end up missing, buried in a forest somewhere.”

  Eather was quiet a moment. “Your boss didn’t seem too happy with you.”

  “Reinhart can get fucked too,” August said. “Like I told him, he’s either complicit or incompetent. Either way, I’m done with him. I’m done playing their games. They want me to be quiet and to not ask questions. Reinhart probably retires in two years and doesn’t give a fuck how many more people die, just as long as he gets his pension. When the PSC ask me for a list of names of cops to investigate, he’ll be on that list.”

  The corner of Eather’s lip quirked upward at that. “Tell me about these murders that are all over every news channel right now. Given you’re lead detective, and how pissed Reinhart was at you, I assume it was you who went to the press.”

  August glanced over at him. “Because I had no choice. Public pressure was the only way to get anyone in my department to act.”

  “I’m not saying going public was wrong,” Eather said. “I mean, it worked didn’t it? You have the attention of the AFP.”

  August nodded. And maybe it was a good thing. Maybe having a federal agent as his witness to the phone call earlier with Harvey Lynn and now with a woman who claimed to know the identity of the killer was exactly what August needed.

  So, in the twenty minutes it took to drive to Mrs Dulcie Roth’s house, August told him everything. The condensed version, but he covered the important details. “It’s like having all the pieces but trying to do the puzzle blindfolded,” August said. “That one strand of tangible proof, connecting all the dots. I dunno if the system is so backlogged and understaffed or if my requests are just binned as soon as I put them in. I’ve asked for retesting and for more missing persons cases but haven’t heard a single thing.”

  Agent Eather gave a nod. “Perhaps my office can inquire on your behalf.”

  August sighed. “I’m not a snitch or a whistle-blower,” he mumbled, despite the gnawing feeling that he was exactly that. “I just want people to do their jobs. Nothing more, nothing less. People have been murdered, and cops aren’t doing their jobs. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad McCulloch called you.”

  His GPS told him they were approaching the house, and August pulled the car up to the gutter. It was a dark brick, old-style federation with terracotta tile. The gardens of agapanthus were well-kept, the lawn neat and tidy. There was no car in the drive, but the blinds were open. “This is us,” August said, getting out. Eather followed him to the door and let August lead.

  A small woman, no taller than five two, thin, and a little stooped, opened the door. “Mrs Roth,” August said. “I’m Detective August Shaw, and this is Agent Eather.” Both men showed their ID. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. Her voice was small and shaky. “Please come in. I’ve made a pot of tea. Take a seat, I’ll bring it out.”

  She shuffled off through a hall and left August and Eather standing in a front sitting room. The carpets were an original 80s brown swirl, and the sofa was floral. There was an old oil heater at the end of the room that flickered a gentle flame and heated the room nicely; a mantel framed the heater, but before August could get a closer look at the framed photos there, Mrs Roth came back in carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits.

  Eather quickly dashed to her and took it. “Here, let me help,” he said. He slid the tray onto the side table between the sofa and a sitting chair.

  “Thank you,” she said kindly, then set about pouring them all a cup of tea. Her hands were arthritic and shook a little. August got the distinct impression she didn’t have many visitors, and that hurt his heart. “Here you go,” she said, handing one to Eather first, then to August.

  She was a sweet little old lady. August put her at about eighty, she had short grey hair and wore grey trousers with a knitted blue cardigan over a white skivvy top. She had blue slippers on her feet, and she was so tiny, she took up hardly any space at all.

  Her eyes were a dull brown, as though the light had gone out in them years ago. And August was reminded of why they were here. “Mrs Roth, thank you for calling me today. I’m hoping you can shed some light on what we discussed on the phone.”

  She sipped her tea and let it rest in her lap. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It’s been a long time.”

  August didn’t want to push her for anything, even though he was desperate to know the answers. “You mentioned your son,” August prompted gently. “He died in 1978.”

  She nodded. “Yes. His name was Peter.” Her face etched with sadness. “It was . . . awful. It’s not something you ever get over. I think about him every day. I miss him every day. No parent should ever bury a child.”

  “I can’t imagine,” August said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  She tried to smile but gave up, settling on a nod instead.

  August’s mind was trying to join the dots, but the date was wrong. 1978 was too early. Unless he was the first?

  “He was gay,” she said before August could say anything. “It was a different world back then. My husband at the time, his father, didn’t take it well, and he . . . he reacted poorly. He wasn’t a nice man, and Peter struggled. It wasn’t fair on him. He was just a boy, barely eighteen years old.”

  “Do you have a photograph of Peter?”

  “Oh yes,” she replied. She put her tea on the tray and shuffled over to the mantel and took a frame in her gnarled fingers. “This was his last school photo.”

  It was a typical late 70s photo, yellowed with age. Bad hair, an awkward teen moustache, but there was a kind smile and life in his eyes.

  Familiar eyes . . .

  August put his tea down and went to the mantel, scanning the other photo frames until he found one he was after.

  He took the frame to her and pointed to one of the three guys in the picture. “Who is this?”

  Her face changed, morphed into sadness and resignation. She nodded and straightened her cardigan. “That’s Peter’s brother and two of his friends. I thought you might recognise him . . .”

  August could feel the blood run from his face. “Brother . . .”

  All the pieces finally clicked into place, and everything made perfect sense.

  “He was fifteen or so when it happened. He came home from school and found his brother with the note and the cross. ‘Nothing Gold Can Stay’. It was Peter’s favourite book. I think maybe he fancied one of the characters. Or maybe he saw himself as an outsider, I don’t know. But his father’s rejection . . .” She shook her head. “Peter committed suicide.”

  August felt like the floor gave out from underneath him.

  “I’d like to say it changed his brother. He was never the same afterward, but he . . . he’d always been so distant,” Dulcie said; her voice was distant and hollow. “I know a mother should love all her children, but he was . . . different. His eyes were empty. They were dark and . . . soulless. He was never outgoing or had lots of friends even before Peter died, but after that, he . . .” She shuddered. “He was always different. Even when he was small, I took him to doctors, and one doctor wanted to call it sociopathic tendencies and said he was born that way. After that, for any other
doctor appointments, he’d act all normal and put on a show. And as a teenager, he was so cold, even before Peter died . . .” She met August’s eyes, and there was such profound sadness there. “Do you know what it’s like to be afraid of your own child?” Her bottom lip trembled. “He was never right after Peter died. He was cold and hard, but worse. And then when he joined the police, I thought it might help.” Her hands shook so she wrung them in her lap. “He was stationed in the Eastern Suburbs to begin with, and there were all those terrible bashings. I always wondered if he was involved . . . I’d heard him talking about it once . . . And you say there’s been eight or nine of these murders? All found exactly like Peter was found? With that note and a silver cross, and on the North Coast where he is now?”

  August nodded. “Yes.” He took out his phone and snapped some shots of all the photos in the cabinet. “Can I take this photograph?”

  She nodded and sagged and looked to have aged a decade in a minute. She grew pallid and gaunt, and her tired eyes met August. “You must stop him. Please.”

  Eather sat beside her. “Mrs Roth, is there someone we can call?”

  She wiped away a tear. “No, dear. I’ll be fine.”

  “Would you like me to call a friend to come sit with you for a while?” Eather offered.

  “Oh well, if you wouldn’t mind. Judith’s number is by the phone,” she said and began to cry.

  August felt terrible for her. Truly he did. But he had more pressing concerns. He pulled Jacob’s number and hit Call. It went straight to voicemail. August disconnected the call and dialled the Tallowwood station.

  “Tallowwood Police, Constable Deans speaking.”

  “Deans, it’s August Shaw.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” she replied.

  “Why? What’s happened? Where’s Jacob? I just tried to call him.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to call you about. He wanted me to let you know where he was going.”