Headland, page 5
In the four years since he had graduated from the academy, he had pulled his gun twice, and one of those times had been to threaten Jeremy Landers. He stood frozen to the spot, the pistol pointed towards the bedroom door.
Maybe they will just go away.
The wind was tapping a branch against the side of the house. A car swished and thumped through the puddles and potholes on the road outside. He heard a screech from the kitchen.
He moved to the bedroom door. Just one step. There was movement in the darkness at the other end of the hall. He got down on one knee and forced out his arms, shaking, aiming at the kitchen door, his pulse thumping in his ears.
Something dropped to the floor at the end of the hall. He heard it scurrying towards the kitchen. Then another. Rats, king-size rats.
He dropped his head, suddenly very cold. A drop of sweat ran off the end of his nose and hit the floor in front of him.
‘Fucking rats,’ he breathed.
As he approached the kitchen the sound of scratching rat claws increased to a frenzy. Rounding the doorway, the last of half-a-dozen of the filthy vermin, each about the size of a small cat, went leaping and scurrying up through the cupboards, screeching and fighting into a small hole in the wall close to the ceiling.
He had found two boxes of rat poison in the cupboard under the sink when he first arrived. He grabbed both of them, angry now. He found the manhole cover to the roof space in the bathroom ceiling, stood on the edge of the bathtub and pushed up the roughly painted panel into the attic cavity.
Scratching, scurrying, panicked little feet fled into the darkness. The smell was overpowering. He held onto the rim of the opening with one hand while he flicked the open box of pellets out into the roof space. He jumped down grabbed the second box and tossed that up there too for good measure.
When he grabbed the cover, it bumped an object just inside the roof space and he lost his grip. He raised his head slightly to find the corner of the cover snagged against a rotting, rat-chewed hessian sack. He held his breath and pulled the sack down, dropping it straight into the bathtub before sliding the cover back into place.
He stood looking at the reeking, frayed piece of material for a good ten seconds before picking it up with his fingertips. Trying not to gag, he walked quickly to the back door, opened it and tossed the bag out into the knee-high weeds. He slammed the door and then went and stood, fuming, beside the shower while he waited the obligatory five minutes for the hot water, to wash the crawling sensation off his skin.
Ellie met him at the front door of their neat little bungalow just two streets away. He shut the door quickly on the wind and chilly rain and followed her through to the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was bright, beautifully furnished and warm.
‘Take a seat,’ Ellie commanded, nominating a particular chair at the kitchen table. He did as he was told while she pulled the bottle of red from its brown paper bag and openly appraised its quality. Seemingly satisfied, she placed it in the middle of the table.
Larissa was busy at the stove, stirring and checking a selection of steaming pots and pans. This was his first time seeing either woman out of uniform but their casual outfits held no real surprises. Ellie was wearing jeans and a checked cotton shirt that could also be a blouse, gender indeterminate, mission accomplished. Larissa was wearing black gym tights with bright pink trainers, and a vintage Nike hoodie over a singlet top. Her long black hair was hanging loose and tousled down her back and over her shoulders. He felt Ellie’s lasers on him, and dared not let his eyes linger.
‘So, what’s the haps?’ Larissa asked, resting her hand on his shoulder. She positioned a small plate of baked pastries among the glasses and the cutlery and sat down.
‘Rats,’ he said, and received knowing nods from both Ellie and Larissa. Obviously, the rat issue in the barracks was a wellknown problem.
‘Yep, I stayed there for a week myself when I first got here,’ Larissa said. ‘Luckily Ellie came to the rescue with the offer of her spare room.’
I bet she did.
They each cracked a beer.
‘Here’s to us,’ Larissa said, smiling and holding her stubby out in front of her. They all tapped the glass bottles together. Larissa added, ‘It’s so good to have you here, Craig.’
Jesus, compared to what?
They sank beers and made small talk about where they had come from and what they were doing before washing up in Gloster.
‘Ellie told me how you got that arsehole out at the caravan park to fess up,’ Larissa said once they were back to talking shop, onto their third beer each.
‘Oh, she did, did she?’ he said, poker-faced.
‘Yes. You know, you’ll end up getting into trouble if you’re not careful, Craig. You can’t speak to people like that.’
‘Yeah, well, like I said yesterday, sometimes you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do.’ He glanced at Ellie, who had the slightest trace of a grin creasing the corners of her mouth.
‘Dinner should be about ready,’ she said, changing the subject like a pro. She stood and moved over to the stove.
Roast chicken and baked vegetables. An all-time classic, and he would have loved it if he hadn’t had that pipe before he left the barracks. Very low-quality gear, as he expected; all it did was keep him even and kill his appetite. He was also trying not to neck the beers.
‘Now, let’s get down to some serious shit,’ Larissa said when they had finished eating. They had polished off the bottle of red Watson brought while they ate. Ellie grabbed another bottle of red from a well-stocked wine rack in the next room while Larissa led him into the lounge area. Perfect white paint and fashionable accessories, all pre-warmed to an orange glow by an industrial-strength gas heater.
‘So, what’s the situation, Craig?’ Larissa asked, when they were seated three abreast across a long sofa, each with a freshly topped-up glass.
‘What do you mean?’ he responded nervously.
Christ. What have they heard?
‘Are you’—she struggled for the appropriate word—‘attached?’
‘What, me?’ he scoffed, relieved. ‘Have a look at me!’
They both did—Ellie, on the far side of Larissa, even lowering her paperback-sized Android device long enough to inspect him like a lab specimen. His dark hair was too long and a bit of a mess, he needed a shave, and his olive skin was a bit patchy and dry. But he was aware that his strong, square jaw and his tired dark eyes gave him an aura of rugged vulnerability that a lot of women found irresistible.
‘Yeah, we are looking at you, Craig. You’re full of shit.’
‘Well, there was someone,’ he admitted, after a moment, ‘but, yeah, she’s gone. What about you two?’ he added, before they could get too deep.
‘Us two?’ Ellie said, smirking. ‘Like the two of us? Together?’
He squirmed. ‘No, not like together. You know—you two. What’s the … situation?’
‘The situation?’ Ellie twisted the knife a little deeper.
They let him dangle for another awkward moment before Larissa threw him a rope.
‘We’re both single, Craig. Single, female police officers in a redneck country town. I think you could say our situation is that there is no situation, and there’s not likely to be a situation any time soon. Would that be about right, El?’
‘Yeah, I think that sums it up,’ Ellie agreed. ‘Not that there aren’t tons of incredibly attractive, eligible bachelors around town.’
‘Ooh yeah,’ Larissa agreed heartily. ‘Like the one we found passed out at the bus stop outside the pub last week.’
‘Oh, yes. Pissed himself, hadn’t he?’
‘And shit his pants.’
Ellie and Larissa laughed. Craig was pleased for the distraction.
His father had left when he was six years old. He’d only seen him a couple of times since. He’d had lots of affairs apparently. A real swordsman. He had played first-grade football, just a few games back in the eighties, but he was a local club legend.
Craig had played the game himself. A natural, they said. Could be as good as his old man one day; maybe even better.
School work had come easy, friends had come easy and, later, the girls had come easy.
Could be anything this kid, they’d say, and when they asked, he’d always give the same answer: ‘I’m going to be a copper like the old man.’
‘Oh wait, Larissa, you’ve got to see this.’ Ellie scrolled furiously through screens on her Android. ‘I saw this today,’ she said, slowing down the scrolling, close to her destination image. ‘I nearly threw up my lunch.’
Ellie stopped on a photo of a man. She maximised the image on her screen and held it out for Larissa to view. Watson leant forward too, curious. Larissa coughed, held her hand over her mouth, stifled a choking laugh.
The man was bald, looking back over his seriously bulging, tribal-tattooed shoulder, going for smouldering blue steel, coming across as a slightly myopic sex offender.
Larissa grabbed the device and held it in front of Watson, her hand, her whole body, shaking with laughter.
‘Craig,’ Ellie said, taking a good slurp of red, ‘meet Detective Sergeant Alan Bishop. A legend in his own lunch hour.’
‘God’s gift to women everywhere,’ Larissa added. ‘You just have to ask him.’
‘Fuck me. So that’s the bloke I’m replacing?’
‘The one and only.’
‘Jesus, and Philby told me I had a big pair of shoes to fill.’
The comment seemed to take the wind out of Ellie’s and Larissa’s sails.
‘Yeah, those two were close,’ Larissa said.
‘A little too close.’
‘What? Like …’
Ellie smirked. ‘No. Not like that.’
‘But something wasn’t right, was it, El?’
Ellie nodded vigorously, spilling some wine out of her glass. ‘Something wasn’t right at all.’
Watson felt as if his temples were being gripped by a vice. They were down to the dregs of the second bottle. He was getting edgy. The cosy atmosphere dissipated quickly. The lighthearted banter died a slow, painful death.
‘Look, I’m about done for the night,’ Ellie said, pouring what was left of the bottle into his glass.
‘Yeah, I’d better get going,’ Watson said, downing the wine. ‘It’s getting pretty late.’
‘Late schmate,’ Larissa slurred.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Ellie said.
After saying goodbye to Larissa, who punched him on the shoulder and then pulled him in for a hug, Ellie walked with him to the front door.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘about this afternoon …’
‘Yeah?’ He was pulling on his jacket.
‘I just wanted to say thanks,’ she said, and she moved in close, right up into his personal space, looking hard into his eyes. He couldn’t read her expression, couldn’t read the situation at all. He stood frozen. Ellie reached a hand up close to his cheek, paused, and then brushed a tiny piece of lint off the collar of his shirt. The contact felt like an electric shock.
‘Night, Craig,’ she said, with what could have been a smile, but might just as easily have been a sneer.
He stood for a couple of seconds, as awkward and confused as he had ever been in his life, then he turned and walked out the door.
8
The McCann property was forty-five minutes west of town. All the low-lying paddocks were underwater and in places the road was semi-submerged. He took it easy into the corners and eased the car through the deeper puddles lying across the road, still managing to throw up a torrent of muddy water on either side.
His GPS led him up an unsealed side road, thankfully climbing slightly. Five hundred metres further on, amid a strand of wind-whipped eucalypts and carefully tended hedges, stood the McCann residence. There was the obligatory Toyota one-tonne ute and a small Mazda parked in an open-sided shed beside the neat little home. Sparks and thick smoke poured from a chimney on the roof, creating a mist of wood smoke in the trees behind the house.
Watson parked as close to the front door as he could, then made a dash for the cover of the verandah. The wind was howling, blowing twigs and leaves out of the large trees, and the rain continued to hammer down. It was just after 9 a.m. and the house lights were on.
The door opened before he had a chance to knock.
‘Come in quickly out of the rain,’ Eunice McCann urged, holding the door for him.
‘Thanks for that,’ he said, almost tripping on a pile of muddy shoes sitting on a stack of old newspapers just inside the door. He slipped his own shoes off without bending down or undoing the laces.
The house was toasty and warm, and Watson watched as a large man added a split log to an already blazing open fireplace on the far side of the room.
‘Can’t have too much on in weather like this, can we?’ the man said, taking long energetic strides over to the door to offer his hand.
‘John McCann,’ he said, ‘and my wife, Eunice.’
John McCann had farmer’s hands, big blunt-ended things, rough as sandpaper. What was left of his hair sat thin and grey but neatly barbered around the tops of his ears. He radiated health and robust outdoorsiness. His voice was twice the volume it needed to be inside the house.
‘Craig Watson,’ Watson replied, shaking McCann’s hand. ‘Detective Watson,’ he added as an afterthought, taking Eunice’s hand.
She was a plump little church mouse of a woman. Obviously, the Yin to John McCann’s overpowering Yang.
Funny how opposites attract.
‘I’ve just boiled the kettle,’ Eunice said, leading the way to a dining table set with plates, cups and saucers. ‘Would you like tea or coffee, Detective Watson?’
He cringed a little at the formality but decided to go with it. ‘I’d love a coffee, thanks,’ he said.
Like John and Eunice, the home was neat and well maintained. The walls of the dining room were covered with single, group and family photographs, all framed and dusted. There was a faded wedding photograph of John, chest puffed up with pride, and a pretty little woman looking for all the world like she had just been sentenced to life without parole. Watson was a little surprised at the number of slightly wilting flower arrangements spread around the lounge, the dining room and the parts of the kitchen he could see from where he sat. Very keen gardeners, he assumed.
Eunice and John both looked a little unsettled, which was not entirely unexpected given they had received an early morning call from the police informing them that a detective would be dropping by to talk to them about a holiday cabin they hadn’t set foot in for more than five years.
‘So, you want to know about our cabin?’ John asked, once the pouring, sugaring and talk of the weather was out of the way.
Over the following ten minutes they confirmed the cabin was theirs, that they’d bought it on a whim from an old mate of John’s who had fallen on hard times. They’d spent a few Christmases there in the early years, but other than that they’d hardly ever used it.
‘It was mostly our daughter Ellen and her children who used it,’ Eunice said.
Watson felt the mood shift. John McCann reached across and placed his hand on top of his wife’s. They were both suddenly lost for words.
Watson was lost.
What have I missed?
‘Your daughter?’ he said tentatively.
‘Ellen,’ John said. ‘Ellen Sweeney.’
Oh, Christ.
‘Laura’s mother,’ John said, now looking at Watson like he had two heads. Eunice was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
‘I’m sorry,’ Watson said. ‘I should have known. I’ve only been in Gloster three days.’ He felt ashamed when he said it.
‘Is that what this visit is about?’ John demanded. ‘Something about the accident?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’
‘Well, why are you here then?’
‘It’s about Tayla Howard, one of Laura’s friends. She’s gone missing. One of the last places she was seen was your cabin at the caravan park.’
‘Something’s up,’ John said. ‘Something stinks.’ He pointed a shaking finger at Watson. ‘I told you,’ he said to his wife. ‘I told you something stinks.’
Eunice didn’t raise her head.
‘Look,’ said Watson hastily, ‘it’s highly unlikely the two matters are connected. It’s probably just a coincidence.’
‘No. There’s something wrong here. That was no accident, you mark my words. He was up to no good. Ellen knows, you –’
‘Who was up to no good?’ Watson interrupted.
‘Anthony bloody Sweeney. Ellen’s husband, Laura’s bloody father.’
‘Oh, John,’ Eunice moaned; obviously this was a record she’d heard before.
‘No. He should know,’ John said, pointing his shaking digit in Watson’s direction once more. ‘Anthony was up to no good. Why else would Ellen have left him like that, just walked away from her family? Because he was up to no bloody good, and it caught up with him, that’s why.’
John’s eyes were large, bloodshot and boring into Watson’s skull.
‘Details,’ Watson said. ‘What do you mean he was up to no good?’ He resisted the urge to rub at his own dried-out eyes.
‘We don’t know. She won’t say. But ask yourself: how does a bloke who works at the Gloster Council afford a brand-new Jag? Hey? Answer me that!’ He said it defiantly, like he was slapping down a royal flush.
He got to the end of the unsealed road and pulled over before he hit the bitumen. He leant his head against the steering wheel and closed his eyes.
Tayla. Laura. Laura’s mother and father. What. The. Fuck?
He banged his head against the steering wheel a couple of times, reached into his pocket and swallowed an Oxy dry.
His GPS told him the accident site was 3.2 kilometres further along the same road. He checked the file notes and found the Sweeneys’ address, the home Laura and Anthony Sweeney had been travelling from when the accident occurred. He plugged the home location into his GPS and discovered it was 5.4 kilometres further up the road.
