‘It’s stirring up quite a controversy.’
‘And how do you feel about it?’
‘I don’t feel anything.’
‘Is that because you’re not originally from here?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ After a pause her curiosity got the better of her. ‘How do you know I’m not from Perth?’
‘Your accent for a start. You’re a country girl.’
Any minute now she expected him to comment on how out of place she seemed, that she was like a hayseed blown to the city on a warm wind.
For his sake, she was glad he didn’t.
She dropped him off at his hotel and wound her way through the afternoon traffic to her home in Maylands, one of the older suburbs. Hers was the most ramshackle house in the street—the price she’d paid was more or less block value only. Her father had insisted upon the purchase and given her the money for it—they’d done well from the sale of the family station. He’d said he wanted to see her settled before he died, said she’d get a lot of satisfaction doing the place up. And perhaps she would have if her circumstances had been different, if the challenge of day-to-day survival hadn’t proved so hard. Several years later the roof still leaked, the stumps were still supported by jacks and a recent storm had left one rusty gutter dangling like a withered vine.
She opened her front door to be almost knocked flat by her whirlwind of a daughter.
‘Mummy, Mummy you’re just in time for
Playschool
! It’s on now, come on!’ A sticky little hand grabbed hers before she’d even had a chance to kick off her shoes.
At the same time her mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a chocolate-splattered apron, and launched into the day’s news as if any delay might cause her to forget something.
‘The teacher sent a permission slip home today for the zoo excursion next week. It’s all signed. I also put my name down to help with the busy bee on Saturday. They’ve started work on the new playground. We were hoping to get the cubbyhouse painted...’
‘Great...’
‘And I bought Izzy a new lunchbox, the one you bought her was ridiculously small.’
‘I thought it was fine. How was the parents’ assembly?’
‘It couldn’t even hold two pieces of fruit.’
‘But she never eats two pieces of fruit.’
‘She was very disappointed you couldn’t make it.’
‘C’mon Mummy, it’s starting!’ Izzy yelled from the lounge room.
Tied by each arm to galloping horses was not an unreasonable comparison. Just as Stevie felt herself begin to split, Dot said, ‘Izzy, let Mummy have a cup of tea with me in the kitchen first, then she’ll sit with you and watch
Saddle Club
.’
Izzy looked from Stevie to the firm expression on her nanna’s face, a look that used to have the most hardened jackeroos jumping for cover. The chocolate-covered mouth turned down with a synchronised whine of protest and Izzy stomped back into the living room.
Stevie swiped her hair from her eyes, secured her ponytail. ‘Thanks Mum, it’s been quite a day.’
Dot Hooper regarded her daughter’s bomber jacket. ‘Well, I’m just glad you got rid of that old bike. I wouldn’t have wanted you riding in this weather.’
‘I’m not stupid; I would never have ridden in this. I don’t think I’d have had the energy to start it, let alone stay on it.’
The whistle of the kettle lured them into what the real estate agent had called the ‘Magnificent potential of the authentic 1950s kitchen,’ where they made tea and sat down at the table.
With the first mouthful of homemade brownie, Stevie tasted childhood: afternoon tea in the hayshed with her brothers and sometimes Monty, School of the Air, bare feet, red dirt, spinifex and bull ants.
Her mother had drifted into a similar train of thought. ‘Do you remember how much your father loved my chocolate brownies? Once, when he was expecting them for afternoon tea, I ran out of cocoa and had to make Anzacs instead. I think I can honestly say that was one of the few times he’d ever shown unjustifiable anger.’
‘That wasn’t long after he got the diagnosis, Mum. That was probably the real reason for his anger,’ Stevie said softly.
A sombre silence ensued. This had to stop, their memories were dragging them both down.
She often resented her mother’s intrusions into her life, but now she was grateful to have a change of subject at her fingertips. ‘Did I tell you I was spending the day with that profiler guy?’
Dot looked up, smiled, well aware of Stevie’s tactics. ‘Go on.’
Stevie looked across the kitchen table at her mother and ran a thoughtful hand across her chin. ‘Perhaps I’d better not. It’s confidential.’
‘I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not going to beg, I have plenty of my own business to keep me occupied.’
‘Okay, you want to know what De Vakey’s like? He’s an arrogant prick, but I think Monty did the right thing bringing him in after all. He’s going to be a big help.’
‘They’re all arrogant pricks, according to you. What does he look like?’
Stevie took a sip of tea. ‘Late forties, tall, slim, rich, sophisticated: George Clooney’s older brother with a dash of Mr Darcy.’
Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you should introduce us? He sounds too old for you.’
‘And lose my babysitter? No way.’
‘Seriously Stevie, I don’t think I could cope with any more grandchildren just now. Please be careful.’
‘Just because I said the man is good looking doesn’t mean I’m going to go leaping into bed with him—you’re too much sometimes, you know that? And even if I did find him attractive, it wouldn’t be ethical. We’re working a case together, for God’s sake.’
‘Are you back on the pill? It wouldn’t surprise me, you’ve been so moody.’
‘No, I’m not back on the pill.’
No one to be on the pill for
, she thought.
Unable to meet her mother’s eyes, her attention strayed to the kitchen dresser. On it rested a framed photo of herself at seventeen, no more than a hazy blur through a dust cloud, clinging to the back of the notorious rodeo bull Kung Moo Fighting. The whole glorious event had lasted 3.7 seconds.
‘The pill sends your hormones all over the place,’ Dot continued in the knowing tone she always used when discussing medical issues. When she was little, Stevie’s dad would refer to her as Doctor Mum. He said she’d obtained her medical degree from the Reader’s Digest
Book of Medicine
.
‘Don’t look so horrified, Stephanie,’ Dot said. ‘I’m your mother. My role in life is to say things to you that no one else would dare. Of course there’s always St John’s wort, we had a lecture on it the other day at TAFE. It has all sorts of benefits for hormonal anxiety; doctors in Germany prescribe it as an alternative to Prozac. I’m not sure if you should take it with the pill, though...’
‘You know damn well I can’t take it with the pill. You gave it to me before, remember, and look what happened, it buggered up everything!’
‘Even so, some things are meant to be. There hasn’t been one moment, I know, when you’ve regretted having Izzy.’
Stevie had to agree with her there, but while Dot continued on her tangent of herbal remedies, her mind drifted. She’d been meaning to tell her about the phone call from Tye yesterday, how he wanted a meeting to discuss custody issues, but decided to leave it for the moment. She didn’t want to upset Dot’s mood when she’d only just managed to lift it, or her own for that matter.
The crystal sphere on her mother’s ring caught the light from the kitchen window, casting multicoloured spots on the table. When she gesticulated to add emphasis to a particular snippet of wisdom, the spots slid across the rough pine table as if it had been tilted. Stevie couldn’t take her eyes off them and fell into an almost meditative state, her mother’s speech falling away until it was no more than background interference.
Dot raised her voice. ‘I made a shepherd’s pie for your tea.’
Stevie blinked and somehow pulled herself back. ‘That’s great, thanks. Izzy can have some and I’ll freeze the rest. Monty’s coming over later so we can go over some notes, he’s bringing takeaway with him.’ She swallowed the last of her tea and climbed to her feet, helping carry the tea things to the sink.
Dot turned on the tap. ‘Oh, give him my love,’ she said, loud above the sound of the rattling water pipes. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. Is he all right?’
‘He’s pretty stressed. I think all the office politics are getting to him.’
‘He handled the press conference well, put Michelle in her place.’
Stevie’s smile hid her concern. She knew Monty believed some of his ex-wife’s allegations, but how he would handle them without wrecking his career remained to be seen.
Dot washed the last cup. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then. You make sure you get an early night, you look exhausted.’
***
Stevie awoke to the tickle of little starfish fingers across her face and sweet breath on her cheek. She’d been having a dreamless sleep, the most solid she’d had since the discovery of Royce’s body.
‘Mummy? Wake up, it’s time,’ Izzy whispered.
Stevie pulled herself into a sitting position on the couch. ‘Oh my, what time is it?’ she said, rubbing her eyes and looking at her watch.
‘It’s thirteen o’clock.’
‘Shh ... ugar. Uncle Monty will be here any minute.’
Her daughter’s face crumpled.
‘What’s the matter?’ Stevie asked.
‘You said I could stay up and see Uncle Monty if I was ready for bed when he got here.’
‘Well, let’s get you in the bath and into your jammies, spit spot. Maybe he’ll read your bedtime story when he arrives.’
In the bath, out of the bath, and the doorbell rang just as she’d finished yanking the pyjama pants over Izzy’s damp legs.
‘Uncle Silly, Uncle Silly!’ Izzy splashed through the sudsy puddles of the bathroom floor, whirling down the jarrah passage to the front door.
Monty shoved the takeaway bags at Stevie before scooping Izzy into his arms and swinging her low. ‘I’m not your Uncle Silly, I’m your Uncle Smarty Pants!’ he said, hauling her back up and holding her high towards the chipped ceiling rose.
‘No you’re not. You’re Uncle Silly. Even Mummy says that’s your name!’
‘Oh she does, does she? I think we’ll have to start calling her Mrs Fusspot—what do you think?’
Izzy began to twist vigorously in Monty’s outstretched arms until Stevie worried he might drop her. ‘Okay now, that’s enough. Calm down before it ends in tears,’ she said.
‘Yes Mummy,’ Monty said in a falsetto voice. Izzy jiggled harder, kicking out at his chest.
Stevie spoke to him through gritted teeth. ‘You stir her up and you can put her to bed. I’ll go and reheat the Chinese.’
Monty reappeared half an hour later, looking the worse for wear. ‘Have you ever heard of the Three Bears triggering posttraumatic stress syndrome?’ he said.
‘I think I’m hearing about it now.’
‘I’m cold and clammy, my heart is racing and I want to run away.’ He sniffed the air. ‘But I think I’ll stay and eat first.’
Stevie began to unload the Chinese from the oven while Monty laid the table and filled her in on Wayne’s meeting with the hobby shop man. Stevie almost dropped the food when he mentioned the purchase of the extra paint, splashing her hand with scalding sauce.
‘Shit.’ She slammed the foil container onto the table and sucked her hand.
‘Here, put it under the cold tap,’ Monty said, turning it on for her.
‘He’s going to kill again.’
‘No he’s not, we’re going to stop him.’
The cold water soothed her burning skin and she regained her composure. ‘Not without help we’re not,’ she said. ‘How was your meeting with Baggly?’
They sat down at the table. Monty pushed a dish of food towards her and handed her a spoon. ‘About as enjoyable as a nosebleed; he won’t let me reopen the KP case, says the budget won’t take it.’
Stevie had just taken a mouthful from the serving spoon and couldn’t speak. She held up her hand. Monty smiled and waited for her to swallow. Finally she said, ‘De Vakey thinks this guy has killed before. He said the whole operation’s far too slick for a novice. He asked me about the KP murders but I said it was sensitive, that he’d have to discuss the cases with you.’
Monty clicked his fingers. ‘I knew it. This deserves a celebratory drink.’ He went to the fridge, took out beer and tomato juice.
They clinked glasses. Monty said, ‘I’ve got the files in my car. I’ll be going through them with a fine toothcomb when I get home.’ He rubbed his hands together and grinned, his tongue darting towards his lower lip. It was a quaint habit he reserved for deep contemplation or excitement. ‘Now, tell me what else De Vakey said.’
‘At first it was like getting blood from a stone. He was reluctant to make anything canon, especially when he had nothing else to compare it to.’
‘We’ll soon change that.’ Monty dipped his spring roll into the sauce and took a bite.
Stevie reached into her back pocket for De Vakey’s list. ‘He’s pretty confident about certain facts though, and wrote me out a rough list to give you.’
‘My glasses are in my case. You read it to me.’
She washed some chicken and almonds down with another swallow of beer. ‘Okay, feel free to interrupt if you don’t understand anything.’
Monty nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘First, the perpetrator has killed before. Next, De Vakey says our guy has a high IQ and is supremely confident. The planting of the commissioner’s hair can be seen as a direct challenge to the police, the gauntlet has been thrown. The Easeful Death message is meant to confuse and may mean nothing at all. The thrill for him is the game he has set up with the police more than the actual crime itself. James...’
Monty looked at her across a mountain of rice. ‘James?’
‘Yes, James—he said first names, remember? James says he’s never known a serial killer who’s not suffered from some kind of serious sexual maladjustment and is puzzled about the absence of rape in this case. He thinks maybe the killer is on some kind of control trip and sees holding himself back until later as part of the challenge.
‘The crime itself is all about domination, manipulation and control, more so of the police than the victim herself. The posing of the body is this guy’s signature. James is sure he’s committed crimes of a similar nature before, though perhaps not as sophisticated as this.’