Blood Junction (9 page)

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.

J
EROME 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.”

They all rose, the judge left and India sank back on the bench between Jerome and a constable with downy-blond stubble like
rabbit fur. The constable gave her a sympathetic grimace. He crimped a cuff around her wrist for the trip back to jail.

Tears trembled in her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. She didn’t want to cry, hadn’t cried for as long as she could remember,
but the strain and fatigue of the last two days had left her with an overwhelming sensation of grief and defeat. Jerome passed
her a cream cotton handkerchief. He stood up, patted her distractedly on the shoulder and walked out of the courtroom. At
the far end of the room she saw a young man watching her. He was the only spectator. She looked away. She felt like a small
child as she clutched Jerome’s hanky in her sweaty fist. The constable tugged on her arm and led her outside.

The following morning India was sitting on her bunk, staring helplessly at the newspapers on her lap. Whitelaw had brought
them, and seemed to be waiting for her reaction. She was the main story. She was HEADLINE NEWS. Her face, blown up grainy
and gray from her passport photograph, took up most of the front pages. Like most passport photographs it was unflattering,
and her pointed chin seemed sharper, her dark curly hair wilder, her nose longer and eyes black as pits and as emotionless.

Beautiful India Kane in Cooinda custody … Melbourne journalist held on suspicion of murder … Jealous woman accused of killing
best friend and her lover …

The Goodmans were reported as being “shocked” and “appalled” at the fate of their house guests. What Lauren’s parents were
thinking, God alone knew. India thought of Sylvia’s cheery voice on the phone.

“They’ve already found me guilty,” India said, her tone subdued.

“Not everyone believes what they read in the papers.”

“Don’t you?”

When he didn’t reply, she looked up at him. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

Whitelaw looked away and took a step back. He folded his arms across his chest.

“You know I’m innocent, don’t you?” She felt a rush of energy and jumped to her feet. She barely noticed the newspapers sliding
to the floor. “Let me go! You can do that, can’t you?”

“No, I can’t. It’s not only Stan who refuses to accept that Frank Goodman’s your alibi but Judge—”

“But you’re a
detective!
If you think I’m innocent, I shouldn’t be here!”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. With a shock she saw sweat beaded on his brow.

“Jesus Christ, Whitelaw, what the hell’s going on? What’s put the wind up you? Is there a police conspiracy going down or
what?”

He walked to the cell gate and shouted for Donna.

“Whitelaw,” she said warningly. “This is my third day in this jail.”

He didn’t respond but waited until Donna had unlocked the gate, let him through and locked it behind him. He turned his head
slightly towards India. “Anything I can get you?”

“A cake with a file in it.”

Whitelaw walked away without looking back.

Face pressed against the bars, India watched him follow Donna down the corridor. Think positive, she told herself. Whitelaw
thinks you’re innocent. Don’t think about why he won’t or can’t help you right now. You’ve a friend on the inside. That’s
got to be good.

She turned her mind to her friend on the outside, Tom Worthington, and wondered whether he’d found Scotto. Without his help
she stood little chance of regaining her freedom. She had discovered that banks didn’t care to loan money to someone charged
with murder and whose address was Cooinda jail.

Dispirited, she went and slumped back on her bunk. She couldn’t face the newspapers, so she lay down and tried to sleep.

Whitelaw returned two hours later. He gave her a handful of books and put a poinsettia beside her bunk. India was astonished.

“Is this an apology?”

He turned the poinsettia a fraction so the petals faced into the cell.

“Whitelaw?”

“We can’t talk here.” His voice was low.

“Shall I get Donna to take me to the Ladies’? Then you can—”

“We can’t. Not in the station.”

She digested this along with his anxiety. “Okay, I get the message.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled several times. She rotated
her shoulders to ease the tension in her neck. A bone popped audibly. “I need a massage,” she said. “Or maybe shiatsu. Any
massage parlors in Cooinda, Detective?”

He gave her a small smile and said, “Not in particular, but there is Susie.”

“Ah. Susie. Fill me in, will you? It’s not like I’ve anywhere to go, after all.”

As they talked, India began to wonder what the hell was going on. And why the plant? It was positively bizarre that one of
the investigative officers was chatting away to her, a felon, let alone buying her gifts. After a while she watched Whitelaw’s
unease gradually dissipate. He showed her the books he’d brought, including one called
The Lost Generation.
“Might help you understand how Australia ticks,” he said.