Switchback Stories (24 page)

‘My group will be moving on now. But before we do, later today, we’re going to the local cemetery for something a little different for us. A kind of twilight service.’

‘Oh?’

‘We’re going to light our candles and say a prayer for a girl I’m told was murdered here some years ago.

‘Carrie Stevens?’

‘That’s right. Janet Stevens approached me with the request. Even though her daughter’s identity was always known, and there’s no need for a vigil to attract attention, Janet felt there was so much love coming from our group she wanted our candles lit for her daughter. We could hardly refuse.’

After she’d left, Max turned to his desktop computer and accessed the file on Carrie Stevens. Every now and then, while working a particular case, a detective gets a series of shivers that runs to the nape of his neck. Nagging him. Teasing with a thought or a suspicion that lies just out of reach.

Max Crichton felt that shiver when he’d gone out to Cromwell Junction.

Now he felt it again …

Like Rebecca Featherstone, Carrie Stevens had been strangled. She’d been found, also early in the morning, by a local jogger. She’d been by the side of one of the quiet roads not far from where the highway passed through Pioneer Hill. The same general area Rebecca had been found.

Could it be the same killer?

Someone who passed this way regularly at the same time of day? Once again Max’s thoughts turned to the truck drivers, hurtling along the highway.

What had Carrie been doing out so early? Max scrolled through the report on the screen. He read Gordon Stevens’s words from ten years earlier – Carrie had also been out jogging. She’d been on a health and fitness kick.

The police report showed that her body had also been moved after her murder.

Her body had been found by a middle-aged man who also took early morning runs. That man had since died.

Was there a connection?

Sergeant Bob Hadley delivered a wad of computer printouts to Max’s desk. ‘Bonehead just finished spitting these out,’ Hadley said and Max smiled. Bonehead was the affectionate term for the station’s central computer unit in the communications room.

He leafed through the printouts. More than 100 people had used credit cards or accounts to buy petrol that morning at Cromwell Junction. Of those, just three had previous convictions – all of them for petty violations such as traffic matters and minor disturbances. Nothing violent.

The computer had also grouped the names from the list, by postcode, into specific regions. Max was interested in seeing if any of the drivers were from the same area in Victoria as the school where Rebecca had been. He scanned the list and his attention was drawn to the names of those from the surrounding local district.

There were, of course, dozens of these. But there was one name in particular that leapt at Max from the page.

He didn’t notice Bob Hadley re-enter the office. Presently, Max looked up into the sergeant’s eyes.

‘You look like you’ve seen the devil himself,’ Hadley said.

• • •

The day was warm and clear, the kind of day it felt particularly good to be alive. But Max Crichton felt an odd mix of emotions. He was certain he knew what the events of the next few hours would bring. He simply didn’t want to believe it, and he was going through the motions with a sad sense of unreality.

Let me be proved wrong, he thought.

The patrol car converged on the modest fibro and tile home. At the front door, a puzzled face stared back at Max.

The detective held up the hastily obtained paperwork and said, ‘I’ve warrants here to search your premises and to impound your vehicle,’ he said. ‘George Rush, you’re being placed under arrest for the murders of Rebecca Featherstone … and Carrie Stevens.’

The newsagent’s shoulders slumped. Silently he stood aside, making way for the contingent of officers who were backing up the senior detective. He never said a word as the search commenced and he was taken into custody.

Max didn’t know whether the house or the car would yield any evidence. But he knew that the strand of hair found on Rebecca would be a perfect DNA match with the newsagent who had play-acted finding the body.

And he was just as certain George Rush had killed Carrie Stevens years before. How many times had he left the house earlier than he needed for his paper run, prowling the quiet streets for a potential victim? Max already had the computer compiling a list of any other young people who’d gone missing and who might have been murdered, in the surrounding district, during the past ten years.

With a paper run that took him all over the district, George was a regular customer at the Cromwell Junction petrol station.

Angela Rush watched from the shadows. Had she known – or perhaps suspected? Max realized he would probably never know. George Rush had seemed to be an ordinary, middle-aged man, known to many in the community. How could he have such a dark side that no-one even suspected?

Max noticed a familiar car pull up on the other side of the road. He’d told Gordon Stevens to stay away, but now the coroner stood, holding his wife close, and they watched from a distance, just a fraction too far for Max to be able to see the expressions on their faces.

In the days that followed, the DNA match did indeed confirm that George Rush was guilty. After a long silence, the newsagent’s defences crumbled. He expressed relief at having been caught and admitted to three other killings, the coroner’s daughter among them.

‘I’m glad Janet Stevens asked you to light a candle for Carrie,’ Max said to Celia Rossington later in his office. She alone, of all the candle people, remained in town. ‘When she did, she was really asking for an answer to the mystery of Carrie’s death. Just as your vigils have helped reveal the identities of so many victims, I think she was praying it would help expose Carrie’s killer. Something about seeing your vigil for Carrie, after the one for Rebecca, prompted me to look deeper at the similarities between them.’

‘I’m glad her prayers were answered,’ Celia said softly.

Max suggested some fresh air and they walked to the reserve across the street where they had first met.

‘You know, Max, I’m thinking of taking a holiday, somewhere quiet and picturesque with some places of historical interest.’ Celia paused, looking at the hills beyond the town. ‘I don’t suppose that Pioneer Hill has much to offer in that regard.’

‘There’s plenty of things to see and do around the district.’

‘Really? I don’t suppose you’d care to prove that by finding some time to show me around?’

She gave him one of her infectious smiles and he smiled back. It occurred to him that it was a long time since he’d felt such a strong surge of attraction. He was happily at ease in the company of this special woman.

Impulsively, he reached out and touched her hand.

‘You just tell me when you want to get started,’ he said.

Y
ou need to know the daily routine of the intended victim. Jill had read that in an article by a noted criminologist. He’d been describing the mind of the criminal, and theorizing about the possibility of the perfect crime. Human beings are creatures of habit, he wrote, and most of us have a routine we stick to, day by day, week after week, year in and year out.

Jill thought: I’ve known Marlene Chambers for two years and she always has a bourbon and Coke when she gets home from work. Just one glass. ‘The perfect end to a working day.’ Marlene had said that often.

‘Are you having your usual drink tonight?’ Jill asked casually as they entered Marlene’s apartment.

‘Did Michael Jackson believe in plastic surgery?’ Marlene quipped.

Jill thought: That’s just so like you, always the witty one. Always the glamour girl. I’ve envied you all those things, but most of all I’ve envied you for Mike.

Jill didn’t show her true feelings. Instead, she laughed. ‘I guess that’s a yes. I think I’ll join you for one tonight before I head for home. You sit down, Marl, and relax. I’ll get the drinks.’

Marlene flopped down on the sofa. ‘I could get used to this kind of service. What’s with all the attention, Jill? Driving me home from work, fixing me drinks’

‘Well, I know you’re feeling a little low, after missing out on that promotion, and you’re alone for a couple of days while Mike’s out of town.’

Jill picked up the bottle of bourbon from the liquor cabinet and went through to the kitchen. She poured a nip into each of two glasses, then added Coke and ice. She and Marlene worked together at the Sanderson Film Distribution company, and ever since their first day as colleagues, Marlene had regarded Jill as a friend and confidante.

Jill had found herself swept along by the friendship. Like everyone else, she was easily manipulated by her vivacious workmate.

Against her better nature, she became increasingly jealous of Marlene. It seemed that Marlene could do no wrong. Even her sudden mood swings, which were frequent, were overlooked by her admirers. Especially the men – Marlene’s blue eyes, blonde hair and pouting lips made sure of that.

Jill thought back to the first time Marlene had introduced her husband, Mike Chambers. The attraction between Jill and Mike had been immediate and electric. Jill found herself blushing every time Mike’s eyes wandered over to her. With her short, dark hair and gamin features, Jill was Marlene’s physical opposite.

Mike found that exciting and told her so when they were alone together.

Mike was a tall man with a solid build. Fair hair, hypnotic eyes and an easy, raffish charm. He and Jill began their affair soon after and it had continued, on and off, for the past eighteen months.

‘What’s this trip of Mike’s about?’

‘Regional sales,’ Marlene called from the lounge room. ‘He makes one of these trips every couple of months. He’ll be back late tomorrow night. About eight.’

Eight pm. A couple of hours after Marlene arrived home from the office. Perfect, thought Jill. She looked at the bottle of bourbon. It was very low. Jill poured some of the liquid down the sink so that there was only enough for one more drink. Moving swiftly, she took the vial of strychnine-laced poison from her skirt pocket and emptied it into the bottle. One nip. Tomorrow night’s drink for Marlene.

Jill returned the bottle to its place in the liquor cabinet and joined Marlene with the drinks. ‘You are going to hang around and have some dinner with me, aren’t you?’ Marlene asked.

Jill made a disappointed gesture with her hands. ‘I wish I could, Marl, but I’m afraid I have to rush off. I’m expecting a visit from my sister.’ It wasn’t the truth, but any excuse would do.

I couldn’t bear to spend the evening with her, Jill thought, knowing what I know. At eight the following evening, Mike Chambers would arrive home to find his wife deathly still. But he wouldn’t suspect murder. Neither would the police. Jill would make sure of that.

Three months earlier, Jill had brought samples of Marlene’s handwriting home from the office. She practised writing in Marlene’s style. Night after night, week after week. Jill always had a talent for drawing and lettering. She had once attended an evening course in calligraphy, so it didn’t take long to perfect her copy of Marlene’s handwriting.

Jill finished her drink and said a cheerful goodnight to Marlene. Later, in her own apartment, she sat down and wrote the suicide note.

There was absolutely no reason anyone would suspect it wasn’t Marlene’s own writing.

Of course, everyone who knew Marlene would be shocked to hear she had poisoned herself. But they all knew she suffered mood swings. She could be bright and mischievous one moment, depressed and irritable the next. Everyone in the office was aware she was pissed about missing out on the promotion. Unlike Jill, Marlene was pushy and ambitious.

Jill made the note brief and to the point. Marlene saying that she couldn’t go on, that she doubted she would ever amount to anything; that she was certain her husband was going to leave her. Jill knew the police had seen this kind of despair before.

She thought back to the night, months earlier, when the idea of murder had first come to her. She’d been in bed with Mike. It excited her to think of those long limbs; the muscular sweep of his arms embracing her, the husky edge to his voice.

‘If you love me,’ she said, ‘then why don’t you leave Marlene? Divorce her. I want to get married, Mike. I want to be with you all the time.’

‘I can’t, Jill. Not now. Not yet.’ He placed his arms behind his head and sighed. ‘It was her father’s influence at the bank that got me the loan to start the import business. If I walk out on Marlene now for another woman, then he’ll pull strings, behind the scenes, to make sure the loan is called in. He’s like that. Vindictive. And he wields a lot of power at the bank.’

‘When?’ Jill was anxious. She felt like screaming every time Mike went home to Marlene.

‘The loan will be paid out in a couple of years. Three at the most.
Then
.’

Three years. It seemed like a lifetime. Jill had wanted Marlene gone from that moment, and it became an obsession. She began investigating poisons and found that the strychnine, readily available in over-the-shelf poisons, would do the job. Diluted in a glass of bourbon and Coke, it wouldn’t be immediately detectable by the drinker. The poison was fast and fatal.

She kept the plan to herself. She didn’t want Mike to know she was capable of this. It amazed even her. She found the fact she was a scheming murderess exciting and frightening at the same time.

She couldn’t sleep that night after arriving home from Marlene’s and completing her draft of the suicide note. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Marlene pouring that last nip of bourbon into a tumbler, adding Coke and ice and raising it to her lips.

Jill tried to blot out the vision of death and thought instead of being with Mike.

It was best if he believed, like everyone else, that his wife had committed suicide. He didn’t love her, and he would get over the shock quickly. Then he and Jill could be together.

She was sitting on her balcony when the dawn light passed over the suburban skyline. She’d hardly slept at all and she knew she couldn’t go into the office and spend a day working alongside Marlene. Her blood didn’t run
that
cold. A little later, she phoned in to say she was ill.