Dark Country (23 page)

‘No. He had mistresses. He had a wife, too. Marci and him … it was weird. He kept in touch with her all those years. She flirted
with him – she flirted with every man she knew – but he treated her like a little girl, not a lover. I sometimes thought …’
He dragged a hand through his hair. ‘I mean, her mother told Marci her father was just a punter, and Vince just laughed the
one time I asked him, but … is it possible to get a DNA comparison on them?’

‘You think Vince was her father?’ Kris’s thoughts ticked over rapidly. A rich, powerful man, taking a long-term interest in
a woman he treated like a child. It made sense, in a sick, twisted kind of way. But the pathologist might need something more
solid than a guess before authorising a test. ‘How old were they?’

‘Vince, mid-sixties, pushing seventy maybe. Marci a couple of years older than me. Vince would have already been married when
she was born. Marci – she didn’t actually look like him, but if she was his daughter, it would explain some things.’

‘Like?’ she prompted.

He came and sat down again, opposite her. ‘When I made the deal with Vince, I remember he said as I left, casually, that he’d
appreciate it if I kept an eye out for her. It wasn’t part of the deal, not even a threat, just a comment. But when I saw
him about her, the other day, he was grateful – he even said it – that I hadn’t “let her down”. I thought it was a bit odd,
coming from a guy whose son hated her guts, was actively trying
to destroy her life. If Tony suspected, too … well, that would be more than enough reason for his hatred.’

‘I’ll request the DNA tests. But they take some time,’ she warned. ‘There won’t be a quick answer.’

He drew a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket – the one he’d hidden earlier – and flicked it open. After a quick review
of it, he passed it across to her.

‘That’s the list you asked for. The possibilities. People with motives … the ones I’m aware of, anyway.’

She scanned the columns, concerned by the number of ‘possibilities’, and was startled to see a column for Jeanie, with a couple
of names listed underneath it.

She trusted Gil’s judgment, but they didn’t make sense. Not for the Jeanie she’d known and become close friends with over
the past five years.

‘Why on earth are Dan and Brian Flanagan on
Jeanie’s
list?’

He expected the question and answered it steadily, as though he knew she’d have trouble believing it. ‘She and Aldo paid protection
money for years. Brian was the one who delivered the “invoices”.’

She shook her head. Protection money.
Invoices
. Shit, that belonged elsewhere, not here.

‘How do you know this?’ she asked, with a vain, wild hope that he couldn’t prove it.

‘Back when I worked for Jeanie for a while, I helped her put together enough information to hold over the Flanagans and get
them off her case. I went with her when she confronted Dan.’

Her mind struggled to grapple with the ideas – of Flanagan running protection rackets here in Dungirri; of Jeanie knowing
about it, dealing with him, and yet never breathing a word of it; of her own ignorance of Flanagan’s activities and influence.
Yes, it might have been years ago, long before her arrival in the area, but it seemed things were still going on. There’d
been a few rumours, but as far as she knew, every time she or her colleagues had had cause to contact Dan, he’d been the model
citizen, squeaky clean.

She focused on one aspect, sought to make sense of it. ‘You did the same thing with Vince – found information to hold over
him. So it was your idea to best Flanagan that way?’

‘No. It was Jeanie who showed me how powerful information can be.’

‘Jeanie
taught
you
how to handle the mafia?’

‘Yes.’

She screwed her eyes closed, wondering if the sun was addling her brain, but when she opened them again he was still there,
looking at her, unsmiling.

‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

‘Sorry, Blue.’

She hauled in a long breath, huffed it out. When Jeanie was fit enough, she’d send someone to interview her. Probably even
go herself. But in the meantime …

In the meantime, she believed Gil. Despite the shock of it, what he’d told her was entirely plausible. Jeanie wasn’t the kind
of woman to succumb to bullying, and the old sergeant who’d been here then had not, from all reports, been a sterling example
of a police officer. Jeanie hadn’t liked him – she’d told Kris that, a while back – so it made sense that she’d have dealt
with Flanagan herself. It made her wonder what else had gone on in the town’s past.

The sunshine hadn’t changed, the pub’s courtyard was the same as ever, only Kris’s perceptions had shifted, the shadows more
stark. And she just had to deal with it, piece by piece, fact by fact.

‘The information on Flanagan. What was it?’

‘A package of information. Some Polaroid photos. A cassette recording of threats. Lists of dates, times, places. And maps
and photos of a couple of hydroponic marijuana production areas.’

‘Do you still have the package?’

‘I hid it out at the old man’s place. It should still be there. But it’s close on twenty years old, Blue. Not much good then,
to be honest, as anything more than a bluff, and even less use to the police now. I doubt the photos and tapes will have lasted.’

She pushed herself to her feet. ‘Let’s go and find out.’

Gil wanted to give the new bike a decent run, so he rode out on it, Kris following in her own car. The Birraga road was quiet,
only a single vehicle, a dusty white ute, heading into Dungirri. Not anyone he recognised.

Three kilometres out he signalled the right turn, taking the sharp corner onto the dusty track carefully.

Eighteen years since he’d been along this road. Anywhere else, it might have been a pleasant country lane. With eucalypts
on either side, their branches reaching out to form archways above, shadowing the road, and between the trees the native bushes
a mass of small spring wildflowers, white and pink and yellow.

But the track led past the old shack he’d grown up in, and he’d trudged along it too many times as a kid, desperately dredging
up the courage to face the old man, never sure whether he’d meet violence or the hard stone wall of silence.

Even when he’d grown taller than him, filled out with some muscle, the violence hadn’t ended, just changed. The old man gave
up belting him, but he’d lash out sometimes, unpredictable and irrational, using anything to hand – timber, steel bars, tools.
Gil had learned to be constantly aware, on edge, even in his sleep, listening for the rough catch of breath that heralded
a swing.

Between those episodes, there’d been only silence. No conversations, no arguments, no acknowledgment of his existence beyond
a sporadic growled order.

If it made a man a bastard to be glad his father was dead, then so be it – he’d wear the label. To pretend anything else would
be hypocrisy.

He steered the bike cautiously along the track at a moderate speed, the corrugations in the dirt hazardous enough for four
wheels, let alone two.

A kilometre or so along, a sharp bend followed old property boundaries, and the place came into view. On one side of the road,
the large paddocks were cleared for grazing, only a scattering of trees here and there. On the other side, the old shack,
more decrepit than he remembered it, stood shadowed by trees; beyond it lay two hundred remnant acres of the native bush.
Land he technically owned, now, since the old man’s death. Other than having his accountant pay years of overdue council rates,
he’d scarcely given it a thought.

He parked the bike in the shade of a tree, outside the fence. Kris wasn’t far behind him, and he waited for her, unbuckling
his helmet, welcoming the fresh air on his face.

The gate swung open in the breeze, one hinge twisted off the gatepost. The shack seemed smaller than it had been, with more
corrugated iron and rough timber patching up the old slabs. The junk around it had increased, though – a second ancient truck
rusting away in the scrub, broken machinery, boxes of empty bottles and other rubbish. The outdoor dunny had collapsed on
itself, and the corrugated-iron shed tilted drunkenly towards the tank stand, itself developing a definite lean.

The car pulled up, the door slammed, and he heard Kris’s footsteps, felt her beside him.

‘Is this the first time you’ve been back?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Miserable place.’

He agreed, but to admit it aloud might give the memories too much power.

The old lines appeared in his head again:
The wheel has come full circle; I am here
.

Here, but an adult now, not a kid. Strengthened by the lessons he’d learned, the hard knocks he’d survived, the life he’d
built for himself through hard work and guts.

And he’d not only survived but succeeded, when all the old man had ever done was fail.

The last part of the quote echoed in his mind, but this time as a statement, and a challenge:
I
am here
.

Kris beside him, he went through the gate and walked across the dry ground to the shack.

The corrugated-iron door, too, was already open, squeaking in the light breeze, and she hesitated, falling a step behind him.

‘Were you here? After they found him?’ he asked.

From what they’d told him, he could imagine what she’d seen; the man on the bed, rifle in his mouth, blood, bone, and brains
spattered across the wall. Murder set up to look like suicide.

‘Yes. I secured the scene, waited while forensics examined it, and until the Deputy Coroner came. And I returned later, with
Jeanie, when she checked to see if there were any belongings or papers that you should have. There wasn’t much at all.’

‘I know. She wrote and told me. You don’t have to come in, Blue,’ he added.

‘No. It’s okay. It’s just that – somebody’s been here recently, Gil. We made sure the door was latched, wrapped the chain
around it. And the table was upright.’

His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light inside, and he saw it wasn’t only the rough table overturned; the old chair
lay on its side, the ancient newspapers that had lined the walls were ripped in shreds on the floor.

‘It’s out in the bush, Blue, and the place has been empty for months. Between possums and hoons, I’m surprised it’s not more
beat up.’

‘I know. I drive past every now and again, keep an eye on it. But the door open – the gate open, come to think of it – it
wasn’t like that a few days ago.’

Just a few days …
that
put a more sinister light on it. ‘You stay here, Blue. I’ll take a look inside.’

She placed a firm hand on his shoulder, stopped him moving forward.

‘I’m the cop, Gillespie,’ she reminded him.

If he’d thought there was imminent danger, he’d have ignored her and gone in first, but all was quiet within, so out of respect
for her – more so than for the uniform – he stood aside and let her go inside first.

The main room was a mess, its few pieces of furniture scattered, coals raked out of the fireplace, the rags that had covered
the food shelves torn down.

In the small sleeping space behind the partition, the camp bed was overturned, the mattress slashed open, its kapok stuffing
strewn on the floor. The drawers and doors of the cupboard that had once held their few clothes were pulled out, exposing
the empty interior, and the filthy piece of lino under the iron washstand was ripped up, the chipped enamel basin tossed to
the floor.

He followed Kris back in to the main room.

‘Wanton vandalism? Or were they looking for something?’ she mused.

‘No grafitti,’ Gil observed. ‘Vandals usually like to leave their mark somehow. Which suggests a search.’

He scanned the dingy room again, his gaze focusing on the food shelf against the wall. The contents had never amounted to
much, and now there was even less. The vintage flour tin that he remembered was upside down, lid off, weevils rummaging in
the flour tipped out from it. A lone ant nibbled around the edge of the treacle, dripping from the toppled jar.

Treacle … one ant …

‘Blue,’ he said, keeping his voice low, pointing to the sweet, sticky mess. ‘There’s only one ant. They were here not long
ago. Less than an hour. Maybe only minutes.’

She glanced at the treacle, and agreed with a brisk nod.

‘Okay. Don’t touch anything. We should go straight out. My phone’s in the car. I’ll report it.’

Outside, the bright sunlight hit his eyes hard. He paused in the yard, studying the rest of the place, noticing now the jemmy
marks on the shed door, the old seats dragged out of the dead trucks, green weeds poking out underneath them.

Not long ago at all.

In the distance, he heard a faint sound, what might have been a metallic clang, and he whipped around to look at the overgrown
track behind the shack – and saw recent tyre tracks bending the grasses.

‘Get out of here, Blue.’ He grabbed her hand and started running towards the car. ‘They’re up at the other shed. They can’t
see us from here, but they will when they come back. We don’t want them to see your car or they’ll know we’re onto them.’

She stopped by the fence, hauling him to a halt. ‘I can’t just run away, Gil.’

She was out of uniform, without her belt or any sign of a weapon under her light shirt.

‘Neither of us are armed,’ he argued, ‘and we don’t know how many there are.’ He thought quickly, offered a solution, hoping
things hadn’t changed since he’d left. ‘Go up the road half a kilometre or so. There should be a grid, and a track along the
fence line among the trees. We can leave the car and the bike there, out of sight, and go in that way; there’s a slight rise,
overlooking the shed, that should give us cover.’

She considered it briefly, and agreed. ‘I’ll call for backup on the way.’

The sound of the engines couldn’t be helped; they’d probably be heard by whoever was at the shed, but if they were lucky the
intruders would be distracted enough not to register the distant noise, or at least think it was coming from the main road.
The fact that they hadn’t come to investigate it yet was a good sign.