Dark Country (26 page)

He was reminded of that now, as she worked in the team with Deb and Liam, sliding easily into their rhythms and ways of working,
joining in the friendly teasing and insults as if she’d known them for years.

He still couldn’t think of her as connected to him. His intellect knew it must be so, but his mind skirted the issue, avoiding
the words, refusing to acknowledge it. He had too much else to deal with. Far easier to just put her in the same mental box
as Deb and Liam – people he’d first met as teenagers, kids who’d had a damn raw deal, but had come up fighting for their dreams.

But then he reached around for more pans and caught the grin she shared with Liam – an innocent, friendly grin, with just
a hint of lingering, of wondering – and the sudden jolt of worry for the girl, the instant protectiveness caught him like
a thunderbolt.

He slid the pans into the water, drizzled on fresh detergent and started scrubbing again. Hard.

While Sandy and his team completed the examination of the shack and shed, Kris found Steve outside, putting the box Gil had
hidden into his car.

‘What did you think of the contents?’ she asked.

He leaned against the car. ‘We have to send it to Petric.’

‘To
Joe?’
She didn’t bother hiding her displeasure. ‘Shouldn’t you be handling it?’

‘He’s in the specialist Organised Crime Unit for the state, Kris. If Gillespie’s claim that Flanagan is connected with the
Sydney mob is true, then it’s already Petric’s case.’

If Gillespie’s claim is true
. The implied doubt irritated her.

‘So you’re not going to do anything about it?’

Unperturbed by her irritation, he shrugged carelessly. ‘I didn’t say that. I’ll make a few enquiries. But the fact is, Kris,
this stuff is all twenty years or so old, and there’s not proof of anything here. It’s not even enough for a search warrant.
Our few resources are better spent on higher priority cases than hunting for witnesses to lesser crimes that occurred two
decades ago, that we’ll probably never be able to prove.’

‘Cultivation of a cannabis crop and extortion aren’t exactly insignificant,’ Kris pointed out, although she accepted she’d
already lost the argument.

‘No, but they’re not murder, arson, rape or child abuse, either. And we’ve got all that on our plate at the moment, and more.
I’ll make a few enquiries, as I said, Kris. But given the drought, and the fact the river’s scarcely flowing these days, I
doubt anyone’s trying to grow marijuana around here any more,
hydroponically or otherwise. Most of the production’s apparently moved to coastal areas in the last twenty years.’

Oh, how she hated it when he was right.

‘And what about Anne Gillespie? I spoke with Delphi earlier, and she confirmed what Gil said about the time his mother disappeared.’

‘I guess that gives us a date, assuming we can rely on Delphi’s memory. I’ll interview a few of the older people, see if their
recollections coincide, and we’ll check bank records and such to see if there was any activity after that, but it looks fairly
straight forward. The skull had a significant blow. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy report, and there’ll be a coronial
inquest, of course, but my guess is the guy found out she was leaving, and slammed her on the head with a heavy object.’

‘Poor woman.’

‘Yep. Some women sure pick ’em.’

She saw Sandy strolling down the track from the shed, and they walked across to meet him halfway, the apricot-tinged light
from the low-hanging sun mellowing the dusty colours of the landscape around them, beautiful despite the ugly history of the
place.

‘We’re just about done,’ Sandy told them. ‘A few interesting things you’ll want to know about, though. First up, we found
a door into the cavity space – behind that big cupboard in the corner. Sealed up a long time ago, though. Second, those plastic
boxes, they’re full of food. Tinned stuff, mostly, but there are some grains. Or were, before the weevils got into them.’

‘Any idea of dates?’ Kris asked.

‘Before compulsory use-by and packaging dates. One of the tins of peaches has a price label of twenty-three cents, so at a
wild guess I’d say early to mid-seventies.’

‘How much food is there?’ Steve asked. ‘Are we talking stuff that fell off the back of a truck, or a stockpile?’

‘A small stockpile. Maybe a couple of weeks’ worth. Tinned meat, tinned fruit, tinned vegies. A fairly reasonable diet, to
be honest.’

‘If you’re going to stockpile food in case of some disaster, it makes sense to have a secret place to hide it, I guess,’ Kris
mused. ‘Did you find anything else of interest?’

‘A small suitcase with women’s clothes,’ Sandy answered. ‘A kid’s backpack with a few clothes and a couple of books. I’m guessing
that he might have built the false wall to hide the food – some people had odd ideas about the Chinese or Indonesians invading,
back then – but once the woman’s body was there, he sealed it off. However, the really interesting thing …’ He took a small
plastic evidence bag out of the envelope he carried, ‘was this.’

Kris turned the bag over to see its contents better. The remnants of a ribbon, with faded blue, red and yellow stripes. A
round, tarnished medal. ‘A military medal?’

Sandy nodded. ‘Have to clean it up a bit more to check, but it looks like a Vietnam Medal, awarded to Australian service personnel
who went to Vietnam. My uncle had one, which is why I recognised it. But it reminded me of something I noticed in the autopsy
report on Des Gillespie last year. There was evidence of an old head injury, and a couple of tiny pieces of shrapnel still
there.’

Kris couldn’t recall seeing the report; but then, things had been fairly hectic around that time. ‘You think Des was injured
in Vietnam?’

‘The medal suggests it’s a possibility. Gil could do some research if he wants, find out if the medal was his father’s and,
if so, get hold of his service record.’

If he wants …
Kris didn’t think that would be particularly likely. But maybe she’d make an enquiry or two herself. War service, a head
wound … perhaps there might be an explanation for Des’s violent instability.

‘Well, I’d better get packed up,’ Sandy said.

‘I’ll wait until you’re done,’ Steve volunteered. ‘Because Cinderella here has to go and get beautiful for the ball.’

The ball. She hadn’t given it a single thought for hours. She glanced at her watch and groaned. She had less than an hour
to retrieve her car, get home, get showered, dressed and made-up, and be ready to stand beside Mark Strelitz and the organising
committee to greet people. And, somewhere along the way, she needed to dredge up some enthusiasm for the event.

The town was quiet as she drove in – everybody else would be getting their glad-rags on, too, she supposed. As she got out
of her car, a few bars of guitar music came from the hall, and a voice: ‘Testing, testing … is that working?’ Someone must
have assured him that it was, for it fell silent again.

Despite her lateness, she took the luxury of at least ten minutes for her shower, letting the hot water flow over aching muscles,
giving her hair a wash. It would have to make do with a quick blow-dry and natural waves. She carefully lifted the plastic
cover off the dress, but hesitated before putting it on.

Enthusiasm. She needed to find it from somewhere. Jeanie would want her to be cheerful about the evening. Most of the town
would be there. Mark would be a pleasant partner. Ryan and Beth were having their first night out together in almost a year.

She slipped the dark blue silk off the hanger, drew it down over her head, and twisted to zip up the back.

But when she stood before the mirror, the thin straps and the fitted, low-cut bodice did nothing to hide the bruises and scratches
on her shoulders and arms, colouring up nicely after last night’s incident, despite Beth’s ointment.

She bit her lip in frustration. Why a ball, of all things? A picnic would have been so much easier. She could more easily
have been enthusiastic about a picnic. She could have joined in the egg and spoon races, bobbed for apples, even been the
target in a dunking machine. The locals would have paid up big to send her into the water, and it would have all been fun.
She could have worn jeans, for heaven’s sake, instead of this nightmare of an evening dress that was just not her, despite
the earnest assurances of the salesgirl at the Birraga boutique.

She’d faced down riots and hardened criminals without flinching, but she’d never felt more like chickening out of something
than she did right now. Sergeant’s stripes and ten years of policing were kindergarten stuff compared with the horror of being
on the official table of a small-town ball.

Music began to float in earnest from the Memorial Hall. She was almost out of time. Maybe if she just wore the sheer wrap
that came with the dress and kept it on all night, no-one would notice the scratches and bruises.

She pulled back the skirt to buckle up her sandals and saw the indents on her ankles from the elasticised socks she’d been
wearing all today.

‘The height of feminine elegance,’ she muttered to herself. Just as well she hadn’t gone for the dress with the side slits.
The long, draping skirt of this one would keep her sock-marked legs artfully concealed. She quickly applied some basic make-up,
then grabbed the gold evening purse the boutique girl had convinced her complemented the dress, yanked the paper stuffing
out of it, and stowed her key, her phone and some cash in it.

A knock sounded on the seldom-used front door.

‘Coming,’ she called, adding under her breath, ‘ready or not.’

Mark waited for her, effortlessly handsome in a well-cut black dinner suit, and he smiled, eyes sparkling, as he saw her.

‘Gorgeous, Kris. Stunning.’ He kissed her on the cheek, and drew her arm through his.

Outside, dusk had deepened to night, the warmth still lingering from the sunny day. A half-dozen or so cars were already parked
on the road in front of the hall, and here and there along the road couples and individuals who lived in town walked to the
event.

Kris saw the hall itself, and gasped.

‘It’s … it’s beautiful.’

Hundreds of fairy lights, strung in lace patterns, draped down from the eaves of the old building, the new paint shining a
soft white in the glow. The few large gum trees around the building were decorated with jewel-coloured lanterns hanging from
low branches, illuminating outdoor tables and chairs; more
of the fairy lights laced around the edges of the marquee behind the hall, two of its sides open to show the bar and the white,
flower-decorated tables where supper would be set out.

For the last year or two, she’d hated looking at the place, with the constant, lurking reminder of its use as the police operations
base through two long, traumatic investigations.

Now the transformation from a tired, old wooden building to somewhere picturesque and inviting seemed to hold out a promise,
and for the first time in a long, long time she felt lighter, hopeful. Enthusiasm began to fill her, natural and unforced.

‘They’ve done a fantastic job, haven’t they?’ Mark said, and although compliments were part of his politician’s way, his pride
surpassed mere politeness. ‘Just wait until you see inside.’

They walked to the hall, arm in arm, and Frank Williams, chair of the organising committee, stood by the door and welcomed
them with a smile that beamed so brightly it could have lit the room by itself.

Around every window, white organza draped gracefully; flower arrangements decorated tables set among the chairs around the
edges, and the wooden floor, sanded and polished to a rich shine, invited dancing.

But it was the people who made Kris’s breath catch again. Although still early, the organising committee and their partners
had arrived, their usual casual working clothes replaced by formal outfits. The men stood inches taller in dinner suits and
here and there a colourful brocade waistcoat. And the women … Beth, defying her childhood nickname, looked beautiful in a
deep, rich red gown, Ryan holding onto her hand and bursting with
masculine pride. Eleni Pappas, her gold jacket embroidered with shimmering beads. Dainty Joy Dawson, elegant – and proud –
in a dress from her native Philippines, the shaped organza sleeves a perfect frame for her face and her intricate hairstyle.

And – Kris almost didn’t recognise her – Delphi O’Connell … in a dress. Kris couldn’t remember ever seeing her in anything
but patched work clothes, but there she was, in a simply cut but surprisingly elegant black dress, a string of pearls at her
throat.

Keeping her arm through his, Mark drew Kris further into the room, and as they greeted people it struck her that all of them,
like Frank, were smiling. Beaming.
Joyful
.

Kris hadn’t seen so many smiles in … forever, it seemed. There had been too much sorrow, and confusion, and guilt to allow
for joy to bloom.

‘Jeanie should be here to see this,’ she said quietly to Mark.

‘I’ll call her during the evening,’ he replied. ‘And I’ll send some photos to Nancy’s phone, so she can show her.’