The Build Up, page 12
‘Jesus, Kirky, what are you doing working on a weekend?’
‘Last one left. Everybody else is down there on the McVeigh case.’
‘I found that body in the billabong,’ said Dusty, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
‘Jimmy’s gook?’
‘Yes, the Asian woman.’ Already Dusty was feeling protective. ‘I’ll need a unit down here as quick as possible.’
‘No chance.’
‘Don’t shit me.’
‘Like I’ve told you, everybody’s on the McVeigh case.’
‘You ready for a few tricky questions, Kirky?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like how you went all the way down there and came back with nothing.’
‘You? “We”, you mean?’
‘Yeah, well I went back. I redeemed myself, Kirky.’
Kirky belched. Whether it was an indication of his dyspepsia or his displeasure, Dusty didn’t care.
‘You’re fucking unbelievable, you are?’ he said.
‘Just sort it, big fella,’ said Dusty.
A click, and she was on hold, listening to Norah Jones.
Two whistling kites wheeling high in the sky had captured Tomasz’s attention.
‘Can I take a photo?’ he asked, camera already in his hands.
‘It’s a free world,’ replied Dusty.
Tomasz smiled, and opened the door.
It took the sergeant three songs to get back to Dusty.
‘John’s just finishing up at the McVeigh scene. He can get there in less than two hours.’
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’
Dusty considered what to do next. She could leave Tomasz here, let him hitchhike back to Darwin. She looked over to where he was standing, intent on the sky. His T-shirt, once white, was sweat-stained, his khaki shorts muddied. What were the chances of him getting a ride on this lonely piece of road? As if to emphasize this, one of the kites emitted a mournful call. No, she couldn’t leave him here.
‘Come on, Tomasz, let’s go.’
An hour later, and they were in a truck-stop café. The same smell of greasy food they all seemed to have, the same bleary-eyed truckers slouched at plastic tables, watching Australia’s Funniest Home Videos on a wall-mounted television.
Dusty flashed her badge. ‘I need a favour from one of you blokes.’
It was an awkward parting, standing in the truck parking area, the air wreathed with diesel fumes, the driver keen to hit the road.
They hugged chastely.
‘Keep in touch,’ said Dusty.
‘I will,’ said Tomasz, before he climbed up into the cabin.
It was only as she watched the truck disappear down the Track that she realised that she didn’t have his number.
Chapter 26
It had been the worst feeling in John Goode’s life, sitting in the courtroom, watching that bastard Gardner walk. He would never forget the look on the faces of McVeigh’s family, her mother especially. He’d let them down. They all had. Second chances didn’t come along very often in his line of business. In fact, it’d taken nine years as a forensic scientist for one to appear. And he wasn’t going to muck it up. He’d taken extraordinary care with each sample – frequently changing his disposable gloves, sealing the bags, double-checking labels. It was looking promising: there was blood that could be Gardner’s, there were hairs that could be Gardner’s. It was looking promising.
‘Could be the old fella’s,’ a junior constable remarked.
‘Don’t think so,’ had been John’s reply.
The old fella had done well.
‘It just looked different, you know,’ he’d told the police. ‘When you’ve spent your whole life out here peering at dirt looking for gems you know when it’s been interfered with.’
He’d marked the place on his map and driven to the nearest station. If only all people treated a crime scene with this sort of respect, thought John. Especially coppers.
John bagged and labelled the last piece of evidence – an empty chewing gum packet, and checked his watch. 3.20pm. The game started at eight. For the first time since he’d received the phone call – ‘They’ve found Dianna McVeigh’ – he could relax. He’d make his fifteen-year-old son’s basketball game after all, a promise he’d made at the start of the season.
The stocky figure of Senior Sergeant Barry appeared at the tape. A thirty-year veteran of the Force, he had one of those emotionless, seen-it-all faces.
‘Mate, you’re not going to like this,’ he said gruffly.
‘Don’t tell me it’s another job,’ John said.
‘Afraid so. A dead ’un.’
‘Darwin?’ John asked hopefully.
‘No such luck. Place by the name of . . . actually, I don’t know if it’s even got a fucking name. Near where those vets set up their camp. Up the Track and then east, towards Kakadu. I’ve marked it on the map for you.’
Inside the van John rang his son’s mobile, but there was no answer. He left a message. It sounded pathetic, of course. What could he say? He’d promised and now he was breaking that promise.
He’d thought about quitting this job many times before, but now he knew he had no choice. Dead ’uns had wrecked his relationship with his wife and now they were wrecking his relationship with his boy as well.
One more, and he’d quit.
John pulled out of the crime scene, popped a couple of No-Doz, washed them down with some tepid Nescafé and adjusted the air-conditioner vent so that the cold air blasted his face. Half an hour later, as he turned onto the Track, the rain started. It didn’t last long – only a few minutes – but it was heavy, water sluicing the windscreen. Sixty kilometres of bitumen and he turned right onto another dirt road.
He assumed the fresh tyre tracks belonged to Detective Buchanon – they were a good match for her early-model Holden ute. As it had only rained forty or so minutes ago he reasoned that she couldn’t be too far ahead, either. His logic proved impeccable – he arrived at his destination to find the ute with the detective inside. He pulled up alongside, wound down the window.
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You’ve been here about twenty minutes.’
‘Sherlock, you’ve done it again,’ said Dusty, flashing a smile.
‘Elementary, Detective Buchanon.’
‘How’d you go down there?’ asked Dusty, as she got out of the ute.
‘Got some good stuff,’ said John, opening the door. ‘We’ll get that bastard this time.’
‘Which bastard would that be?’
‘Don’t tell me you still don’t think Gardner did it?’
‘Keeping an open mind, John.’
John felt sorry for Dusty – nobody liked to be taken off a case, especially a big one like the McVeigh case – but he could understand the commander’s decision.
‘So what we got here?’
‘Asian. Twenties. Maybe younger. Homicide, I reckon.’
‘Just the way I like them,’ said John. ‘Where is she?’
‘Still in the water where I found her.’
‘Floating?’
‘No, got a pair of iron Nikes on.’
‘Not like you, Detective Buchanon, following protocol like that.’
Dusty ignored that.
‘Water’s gorgeous by the way,’ she said, as if she was contemplating a quick dip at Bondi Beach.
‘Can’t wait,’ said John, undoing the buttons on his shirt. ‘Crocodylus porosus?’
‘None that have made themselves known.’
Dusty stripped down to her bathers, John to his underpants.
‘Never have pegged you as a Calvin Klein sort of guy,’ said Dusty.
‘Fake,’ said John. ‘Bought them on the street in Bali.’
This is better, thought John. More like the relationship we used to have, before the McVeigh case came and fucked everything up. He followed Dusty as she breast-stroked across the billabong, stopping next to where a fallen gumtree angled into the water. The sun had dropped behind the stand of paperbarks and the resident frogs were now in full chorus.
‘She’s right under us,’ said Dusty, treading water. ‘You can’t miss her.’
‘Well, I better see what we’ve got,’ said John.
He filled his lungs with air and dived.
‘Not pretty, eh?’ said Dusty when he’d resurfaced.
‘Right under us?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I couldn’t see anybody,’ said John.
‘Bullshit!’
‘I’m not joking, I couldn’t see anybody.’
Dusty went under, surfacing soon after.
‘Somebody’s taken her!’ she said.
John checked his watch, did the calculations. He couldn’t get there in time for the start of the game, but he could make the last quarter, definitely the award ceremony.
‘Dusty, I’m heading back to Darwin.’
‘No, you’re not. Somebody’s taken her!’
John was already swimming, freestyle this time. Reaching the bank he quickly dressed, got back in the van, started the engine and put his foot down.
Chapter 27
In the fading light Dusty scoured the edge of the billabong for clues. The footprints, the tyre tracks – all the gross evidence that Tomasz had wanted to photograph – had been obliterated by the unexpected downpour. There’d be other evidence – a thread caught on a twig, a smidgen of blood on a leaf – but this wasn’t as obvious, it had to be found. Unfortunately, this had never been Dusty’s forte. She lacked what they called in the business ‘an eye’ – acuity of vision, attention to detail, whatever it took to pick up those clues. Early on in her career this had worried Dusty greatly. Without ‘an eye’, how would she ever become the gun Dee she was determined to be? It hadn’t taken her long to realise that in the real world, away from books and television, there were no supercops. Police always worked in teams – one cop’s weakness was another cop’s strength.
By nightfall she’d found nothing. The thought occurred to her that she could sleep in Beastie Boy, continue the search at daybreak. She dismissed it, though. Dusty wasn’t particularly superstitious, but she was alone and she was unarmed and somewhere, perhaps nearby, there was a murderer.
There was only one option: she climbed back into Beastie Boy and once more headed towards Darwin. As she drove she tormented herself with ‘if onlys’.
If only I’d left Tomasz here.
If only there was mobile reception.
If only we’d taken the body with us.
That out of the way, Dusty moved onto the stuff she could do something about. She’d have to report John, of course – you just can’t abandon a crime scene like that. He’d probably lose his job and, you know what, he deserved to. Dusty liked John and considered him to be one of the better scientific officers she’d worked with but today, as the Yanks would say, he’d been out of line. Way out of line.
Dusty stopped at the same truck stop where she’d left Tomasz. She ate some greasy food, drank some execrable coffee, and watched Australia’s Funniest Home Videos. An obese truck-driver wearing a T-shirt that said ‘I beat anorexia’ stopped at her table, leering at her.
‘You’re not looking for a bit of fun are you, sweetheart?’ he said.
‘Sweetheart?’ questioned Dusty. She’d avoided the mirror during her recent visit to the rest rooms but had no doubt how she must look – frightful.
Against her better judgement, she said, ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Bit of slap and tickle in the Kenworth? Got some whiz too, if that’s your thing.’
He obviously thought that his combination of forthrightness and amphetamines was going to be a winning one, because he was now holding a hefty bunch of keys.
‘Look, I’ll keep it in mind,’ she said.
‘Fair enough,’ said the ex-anorexic as he waddled off.
Dusty finished her coffee, paid the bill and hit the road again. Just after Pine Creek a nimbus of light appeared in the distance. It could’ve been many things – one of those enormous cattle trucks, shooters spotlighting for roos – but Dusty’s experience told her one thing, MVA – motor vehicle accident. Half-an-hour later and her experience was vindicated. Portable spotlights blazing. Police cars. An ambulance.
She slowed down, coming to a stop next to a young blond-haired constable in a fluoro green vest. She’d seen him around, wondered what a surfer type was doing in the Force, but didn’t know his name.
‘What’s up?’ she said, winding down the window.
‘Bad news, Detective Buchanon.’
Dusty was impressed – despite her bedraggled state he’d recognised her.
‘Accident?’
‘One of our own, I’m afraid.’
It seemed a strange choice of phrase, especially coming from the surfer cop. One of our own, I’m afraid. Like something out of an old English movie.
‘John Goodes.’
Dusty was out of the car and running. She could see the forensics van on its back, a dead creature, wheels in the air.
She could see the kangaroo, its broken grey body splotched with blood. She could smell it, too.
An ambulance, the colours gaudy under the spotlights, the back door open. Two ambulance officers sliding in a stretcher.
Fontana’s there. He sees Dusty. Shakes his head.
Chapter 28
Tomasz walked quickly across the concrete expanse of Alexanderplatz, looking up to where the Tele-Spargel pierced the low grey sky. Even though Berlin had been re-unified for seventeen years now he still felt a tiny frisson when he was in the old East Germany, like he was trespassing a forbidden land.
He passed the huge polished stone statues of Marx and Engel. They looked so avuncular, those two, it didn’t seem possible that so much havoc could’ve been wreaked in their name. He crossed the river and turned into a small street, stopping in front of a modest shop front. ‘Entwickler der Fotos’, said the sign. Developer of Photos.
‘Tomasz, good to see you,’ said Herr Franz as Tomasz entered his musty shop.
‘You, too,’ Tomasz replied.
‘Have you been away?’ inquired Herr Franz.
Tomasz smiled to himself – such old-fashioned courtesy. Herr Franz was the only one in the shop, he’d developed the photos, he knew exactly where Tomasz had been.
‘Australien,’ replied Tomasz.
‘Ah, Australien,’ repeated Herr Franz pinching the bridge of his nose, and for a second Tomasz thought he was going to continue, to reveal some personal connection with Australien, perhaps a relative who had immigrated there after the war or a long-held desire to go there himself, but he said nothing, instead bending down to retrieve a bundle of envelopes from under the counter.
‘Do you want to check them now?’ inquired Herr Franz. ‘While you’re still in the shop?’
‘No. I’ll wait,’ said Tomasz.
Herr Franz smiled at him with complicity; he too understood the pleasure in waiting. With the envelopes clutched against his chest, Tomasz headed up the street towards Hackescher Market. The dingy café, as usual, was empty. The coffee, as usual, took forever.
When finally it came he stirred in a sachet of sugar and took a sip. Now that the ritual had been observed he could open the first envelope. The photos, he knew, would be in chronological order; Herr Franz was meticulous like that. The first photo was taken just out of Darwin – a wedgetail eagle atop a roadkill kangaroo. Not a great photo, he had not yet become accustomed to the harsh lighting in Australia, but, oh, what an animal! He remembered how blasé he’d become towards the end of his trip, ‘Oh, just another wedgetail.’ But sitting in this café, surrounded by thousands of years of settlement, of civilisation, he was almost overwhelmed by the bird’s beauty – the magnificent talons, the feathered legs, the cruel hook of the beak crimson with blood. The next photo showed the same bird in flight, its mighty wings outstretched.
‘Wingspan of up to two and a half metres in a mature wedgie,’ he remembered the guide saying.
Only later did he realise that a ‘wedgie’ was a wedgetail eagle, that Australians were averse to too many syllables in their words. What had Dusty called her sunglasses again? That’s right – ‘sunnies’.
And so it went on. Photo after photo, bird after bird. Occasionally the avian parade would be interrupted by a landscape photo – an obligatory shot of Uluru at sunset, for example – or even less frequently, a portrait, one of his fellow twitchers or Jess, the young Aborigine who had taken them on the bush-tucker tour. People, as subjects, didn’t interest Tomasz much, though. Why bother, when there are birds around?
He opened the last envelope, took out the contents and placed them on the table. The photo on top was of a flock of magpie geese, silhouetted against a red-streaked sky, taken in Darwin’s Botanic Gardens at dusk. This was the last photo he’d taken that day. After that they’d all gone down to the pub to drink beer, then to another pub to drink more beer, and finally to the pub where’d met Dusty.
He removed the magpie geese and she was there, standing at the edge of the billabong, unaware that his camera was on her. She was just like he remembered her and nothing like he remembered her. She was more beautiful and less beautiful. More desirable and less desirable. He could feel his penis rising.
He slammed the table hard with his fist. The rat-faced waiter was suddenly at the table, seemingly having appeared from nowhere.
‘Bitte?’ he inquired.
His eyes took in the photo and he smiled at Tomasz. ‘Your wife?’ he asked.
Covering the photo with his hand, Tomasz said ‘Nein,’ before ordering another coffee.
Throw it into the bin now, Tomasz told himself. Throw the ficken photo into the ficken bin. No, even better, throw it off the bridge. He imagined Dusty floating down the river, gently undulating with the current. Even better still, put a match to her. Right there under Herr Marx and Herr Engels would be a good place.
Instead he put the photo into the inside pocket of his jacket.
The next photo of the azure kingfisher, was the best photo he’d taken in twenty years of photographing birds. He picked it up, holding it up to the light. Everything about it – the focus, the composition – was perfect. It was the photo that would at last win him the Verga, the award that he had coveted for so long.
