Authors: Bronwyn Parry
He well understood Kris’s frustration at being kept at arm’s length from the murder investigation, her itch
to be doing something constructive. And knowing that she would see Jenn and keep an eye on her injuries would ease at least some of his concern. ‘She said she wouldn’t report it, but maybe if you talk to her she might. She’s at the pub.’
‘Good. Mick’s not usually a problem but he’s been crankier and occasionally unstable lately, since Liam and Deb at the pub clamped down on serving drunks.’
‘He threw a bottle at her and struck her several times because she wouldn’t let him take Jim’s computer. I had to haul him away from her. He’s becoming more than unstable, Kris. He’s downright dangerous.’
‘Shit.’ She bit at her lip. ‘I’ll have to find some way to curb him. An assault charge would help.’ Her face grew darker as they watched the unmarked mortuary van reverse into the Russells’ driveway. ‘I hate the sight of that van,’ she confided. Then she shook her head, as if to shake away the image – or the moment of vulnerability – and it occurred to Mark how many qualities she shared with Jenn. The tough armour covering a caring core. The determination to take charge of her life and do her chosen job with thoroughness and commitment. The independence and resilience.
‘Steve hasn’t eaten and I’m guessing you haven’t, either,’ Kris said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Tell Steve I’ll ask Liam to leave some breakfast out for the two of you. See you up there.’
She headed back along the road to the pub, taking one last glance through the gates towards the doctor’s body as she passed.
Mark didn’t watch them
load the body, leaning on the bonnet of Steve’s car instead while the detective finished his call.
‘Did I hear Kris say something about breakfast?’ Steve asked as he pocketed his phone.
‘Up at the pub. Presumably the usual basic breakfast, but anything will be good as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Yeah, well personally I’d prefer a croissant in a Parisian cafe with a gorgeous blonde and a weekend in front of me with no work to do, but that sure isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Let’s go. We can talk as we walk.’ Steve shot him a glance as they set off. ‘You know I’m going to have to ask you about your movements this morning?’
Exactly the first question Mark expected. Underneath Steve’s various masks – charm, informality, off-handedness – lay a thorough detective, more than committed to his job. ‘I left Marrayin a little after sunrise, maybe six-thirty or so. I drove to Dungirri, turned right on to Gearys Road, and saw Esther Russell run out on the road just outside their place.’
‘Did you see anyone else? Any vehicles on the Birraga road?’
‘No. No-one in Dungirri, or on the road. Which leaves me,’ he pointed out, ‘without an alibi.’
Steve acknowledged the fact with a nod. ‘Let’s hope someone saw you. Or the killer. Adam’s checking all the houses nearby now. Did you happen to step on the garden?’
‘No, I didn’t. The footprint isn’t mine. Or Esther’s – her feet are tiny.’
‘Yeah. And I’m no religious scholar, but I haven’t heard of angels leaving footprints.’
They walked the last few metres to the hotel in silence. Mark paused to check on the dogs in the back of the ute – still in
the shade, still with plenty of water. Inside the pub, he paid Liam for the buffet breakfast, and after pouring himself coffee and filling a bowl with muesli and fruit, he followed Steve out to a table in the back corner of the deserted courtyard. No sign of Jenn or Kris.
For the first few minutes they both concentrated on eating, Steve hoeing in to his food as though he hadn’t eaten for days. Mark
hadn’t
eaten decently for days – a meat pie on the road yesterday didn’t count as decent – but he had no appetite, and ate only for necessity.
After polishing off a bowl of cereal and a thick slice of bread with jam, Steve leaned back in his chair, a coffee mug clasped in his hands, as casually as if they were relaxing at a barbecue. Except there was nothing relaxed in his eyes, and he launched straight back into the business at hand. ‘Both you and Gillespie implied yesterday that Russell might have known the truth about the blood sample.’
Mark could read exactly where Steve was going. ‘That could provide a motive for murder. So, I could be a suspect, if I believed Russell’s evidence might incriminate me. Gil Gillespie could be a suspect, if he
was
the one who was driving that night and wanted to cover it up. And whoever organised the corruption might want to silence Russell, if he knew part of the truth.’
‘Now you’re playing detective,’ Steve said, the dry humour friendly enough. ‘But Russell’s death
could
be purely coincidental. Someone else may have a reason to want him dead. Doctors can have angry patients – misdiagnosis, medication allergies or side effects, even an unsympathetic bedside
manner can breed resentment.’
‘He wasn’t universally loved,’ Mark agreed. ‘He was very old-fashioned, and he certainly wasn’t known for sensitivity. But other than the blood-alcohol report issue, I’m not aware of any significant questions over his actions. He was living quietly in retirement. And I know that a spouse is often the prime suspect, but Mrs Russell has been with him for close on fifty years, and they loved each other, despite his bad temper. I don’t see her ending his life, even out of mercy. I certainly don’t see her strangling him with a garrotte.’
‘There’ll be an autopsy. Cause of death seems obvious, but I’ve been surprised before. They’ll screen blood samples for drugs, check his organs and such.’
‘You’d better hope they put the right name on the samples this time.’
‘Yeah. Maybe the doc didn’t look at what he was signing. Maybe he did. But Gillespie can be thankful that the custody records were complete, and contradicted the hospital’s. That’s what got his conviction quashed. There was no other evidence suggesting culpability.’
‘Yes.’ Mark had noticed the absence of other evidence in the transcript of Gil’s committal hearing. The blood-alcohol report and Gil’s guilty plea – made under duress – had ensured a speedy conviction. Which left far too many questions unanswered.
Straightening and stretching his arms, Steve asked, ‘Speaking of police records, can you send me a copy of what you have?’
‘I’ll email the file to you this morning.’
‘Thanks. I’ve been hassling the archives staff, but their files are missing. They can’t find anything in the computer
files – there was a basic system back then – or paper files. And the blood sample itself is apparently long gone.’
The last thin hope Mark had held for a speedy resolution disappeared, and he swore silently. ‘No chance of DNA analysis, then.’
The look Steve gave him had a dose of compassion in it. ‘No. No nice clear answers there. But add together Doc Russell’s death, missing police records, the fire at your place yesterday and Jim’s murder, all less than twenty-four hours after your announcement, and I’m smelling a hell of a lot more than just smoke.’
‘It has to be someone attempting to destroy any evidence relating to Paula’s death – the police report, what Russell knew. Believe me, Steve, if I’d known there was a substantial risk to anyone, I’d never have spoken to the media yesterday.’
‘I believe it. I wouldn’t have thought a crime this old would provoke this response. I’ll keep an open mind, but I want a list from you of all the people who might have some knowledge of the accident and its aftermath. Names, Mark – anyone, from police stationed here at the time, to paramedics, to nurses at the hospital.’
Mark already had several names listed on the note app on his phone. ‘Bill Franklin was the sergeant based at Dungirri at the time.’
Steve nodded. ‘I checked on Franklin yesterday. He went up to the Northern Territory after he retired. A couple of years ago, he drove off into the bush in Kakadu and disappeared. His car and campsite were found, but no signs or
sightings of him since and his bank accounts are untouched. The Territory cops are referring it to the Coroner for an inquest.’
The wild country in the Kakadu National Park could kill a man quickly, and in the vastness, remains might never be found. A crocodile, a snake, a wild boar, or even heat stroke or a heart attack – plenty of things could go wrong for an old man alone and a long way from help. Mark mentally struck through Franklin’s name on his list.
The second contender was definitely still alive. Dan Flanagan. Everything Mark knew about the man pointed to the likelihood that he’d been the one behind the cover-up, yet in the same way the police had not been able to pin anything on the patriarch of the family despite arresting his sons, Mark had no evidence, no link, nothing solid to prove Dan’s involvement.
‘Bill Franklin wasn’t the brightest guy,’ Mark commented carefully. ‘Someone with more influence, more ability to fix things must have been involved.’ He didn’t mention Flanagan’s name. He didn’t need to.
‘There are several avenues of enquiry I’ll pursue, don’t worry. People with influence, as you put it. Although I have to say, Gil has plenty of suspicions about who was behind setting him up, given the enemies he’d made, but all the threats were delivered by hired thugs, so he doesn’t have any firm evidence. Which reminds me, Mark, I want to talk with your parents. They retired to the coast, didn’t they?’
People with influence. No evidence
against Flanagan. His parents. Steve’s connection of the three ideas caught him unawares, but the frankness in the detective’s study of him made clear his train of thought. As prominent and active landholders in the district, his parents
had
been influential. Rationally, the possibility that they’d arranged to frame Gil to protect their son had to be considered, but Mark’s every instinct insisted it was a waste of time. Service, integrity, decency – values not just drilled into him throughout his upbringing, but demonstrated in everything Len and Caroline Strelitz did.
‘They do a lot of overseas charity work,’ he told Steve. ‘At the moment they’re in Bolivia, building a school in an isolated village without phones or mobile reception.’ He thumbed through the contacts on his phone. ‘They have a satellite phone but it died, so I’ll send you their email address and mobile number. Good luck getting hold of them. I spoke with them last Sunday. They might go into a larger town this weekend to check their messages.’
‘Did you happen to ask them about the accident?’
‘Yes. They were shocked and worried. But it was a bad line; we couldn’t talk for long. I got the impression they’d never had any doubt that Gil was driving.’
‘But they’re not rushing home to stand by you?’
‘I doubt it.’
Steve raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t get along?’
‘Yes, we do.’ How to explain his parents to someone who’d never met them? Too complex to try, and not relevant to the situation. He shrugged and opted for a simpler,
close-enough comment. ‘I’m thirty-six now, not eighteen, and even then they encouraged my independence.’ Not an entirely adequate phrase to describe their distracted affection and the consequent physical and emotional self-reliance that Mark had formed from a young age, but it would have to do. ‘They handed control of the family company to me some years ago and moved to the north coast. Their charity work is a full-time job, though, and they’re often away. They’re very dedicated to it.’
‘Dedicated’ – there was another inadequate word. Passionate. Driven. Although what drove them he’d never been entirely sure. All the commitment and energy they’d once put into building Marrayin they now poured into building schools, hospitals and clinics in isolated corners of the world.
Steve’s phone, lying on the table, beeped with a message, and he heaved a frustrated sigh and thumbed a response. ‘I’ll have to go in a minute,’ he said, putting the phone down again. ‘But before I do, how do your folks get on with the Flanagans?’ He dropped the name almost casually, as if it were of no importance.
Mark kept it brief. ‘Coolly polite. When they meet in public. But they try to avoid meeting at all.’
‘How come?’
‘I don’t know the full story. But I do know that back in the long drought in the early eighties, Dan Flanagan specialised in irrigation equipment, and he started buying up land and properties that were heavily in debt and had to be sold. My father didn’t say why, but he believed that some of Flanagan’s actions were, at the very least, unethical. He established Strelitz Pastoral and outbid Flanagan on at least three places, including the Gearys Flat property.’
‘Some rivalry there, then.’
‘Yes. Definitely not business associates. Of any kind.’
After Steve left, Mark considered
again the idea that his parents might have framed Gil to protect him – and he rejected it as swiftly as he had the first time. Not only because they weren’t here, now, and couldn’t possibly be responsible for Edward Russell’s murder, but more importantly because the idea of them framing Gillespie ran counter to everything Mark knew and believed about his parents’ characters.
Dan Flanagan had to have known, if not masterminded the whole business. It had been there in his behaviour, especially since Mark’s election to parliament. The jocular pretence
at friendship, the confident grins – oh, yes, he’d known. But the one thing Mark didn’t understand was
why
Flanagan had never used the information he held against him. And he wondered if he would try to use it now.
The blackened ruins of the homestead’s central wing stood against the brilliant blue of the sky, the reality of the destruction making Jenn’s breath catch in her throat.
Never her home, but still she’d loved the house, the heritage grace of the old sections, the rambling additions of successive generations and owners, the whole place rich with history and stories. In Marrayin’s glory days, a hundred years ago, there’d been a whole community here – a family, household staff, station workers – with the buildings to house them. A self-reliant village, like so many large properties isolated from towns. As a
girl she’d been fascinated by the history, spending many long hours reading the old account books and wandering around the outbuildings, imagining the kitchen maid in the dairy where the machinery shed now stood, the stableboy working with the family horses in the main stable, now the garage, and the grazier’s daughters playing tennis in long white frocks.