White Throat Page 23

  ‘I was shot at, sergeant. It was me he wanted to hit, because I know he killed Helen.’

  ‘Yes, you said that in your statement. We have forensics on your house and Mrs Henderson’s car, there’s road blocks in and out of Piama and extra officers coming up from Brisbane to help. We’re doing everything we can.’

  ‘But I told you, he’s travelling by boat. A roadblock at Piama won’t help if he comes ashore at Benton Bay or Jug Point or…any little beach.’

  ‘Yep, exactly. The Great Sandy Straits are over seventy kilometres long and I can’t count the number of bays and coves and inlets—he could come ashore anywhere. We simply can’t monitor all of that coastline.’

  ‘What about a chopper? Police boats?’

  She chuckled, shook her head. ‘This is Piama Beach not Miami Vice, Ms Jones.’

  The realisation was arriving in Clem’s head like an unwelcome guest—her lie had ruined everything. Jackson was going to slip the net and Doncaster wasn’t even on their radar. And Helen? She had assumed this would now be a murder investigation. But was it?

  ‘Sergeant Wiseman, are you investigating the death of Helen Westley?’ she said with as much force as she could muster.

  ‘The coroner ruled there were no suspicious circumstances around her death. You’ve made some allegations which we are understandably cautious about, given your propensity to play with the truth. And right now we have a shooting—an actual murder investigation—on our hands. That is our priority.’

  She had got precisely nowhere. She’d been shot at, Torrens had a bullet hole in his shoulder, their friendship was in tatters and Helen was still a suicide statistic. Everything she’d been through, everything she’d sacrificed had achieved exactly nothing. Clem dropped her head, her mind stumbling at the multiple roadblocks. One thought made its way through and presented itself. It was not a plan, hardly even an idea, but it might help. Slowly she pulled out her mobile phone from her shorts pocket, held it in her lap under the table and switched on the camera. The room was quiet. She signed her name on the statement.

  ‘Can I go now then, sergeant?’ she said wearily.

  ‘Yes. Griffin will see you out.’ And before Wiseman could blink, Clem darted her hand across the table, grabbed the image of Jackson from the open folder and pulled it across the table onto her lap.

  ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing. They’re police documents,’ cried Wiseman, standing up abruptly. Griffin erupted from his chair, knocking it sideways, and stormed around the table towards her.

  Clem lined up the camera and clicked just as Griffin reached out to grab the photograph. Then she sat back in the chair, pocketing her phone.

  ‘Just want to remember who tried to kill me, sergeant—the man who killed my friend, Helen. Nothing illegal about having a photograph. I expect you’ll have this photo all over the news tonight anyway.’

  Wiseman’s mouth dropped open. Griffin looked confused. Clementine made for the door. She slammed it open, banging it against the wall, and walked out.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Commodore smelled musty. So much rain, so much damp heat. How do you get the smell out? Domestos? Bicarb? Anything but one of those sickening cardboard cologne things you hang off the mirror.

  Pine plantations lined up either side of the road—their tidy rows an affront in this chaos. No order, no justice anywhere except these stupid rows of trees.

  Clem’s thoughts remained mushy with fatigue and disappointment. She was hungry, too. It was two o’clock in the afternoon and she still hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She pulled into the last service station on the crumbling concrete fringe of Barnforth and ordered a yellowish sausage roll from the pie oven, looking over her shoulder every few seconds as she waited.

  Stupid. Jackson wouldn’t be anywhere near Piama or Barnforth. He’d be lying low, laughing at the cops somewhere. Wake up, Jones.

  Back in the car she switched on the stereo, set her LOUD playlist on shuffle and hit the road again, gripping the greasy paper bag with one hand and steering with the other as the Hilltop Hoods thumped out ‘Hard Road’. She screwed up the paper bag and threw it on the floor. Cee Lo Green came on and she wound the window down, shouting the chorus to the pine trees, every one of them, individually: ‘Fuck you-oo-oo—WISEMAN!’ her hair flying back off her face as she sped along the hundred-k stretch towards Piama. A stream of humidity rushed inside the car and she wound the window up.

  The fuzziness in her head was beginning to clear. She breathed sharply—three hard breaths, like a sprinter at the start line. Alert, stomach satisfied, pelting down the straight road as the pine plantations gave way to a crowded mess of gum trees and scrubby undergrowth.

  Jackson was on the loose and dangerous. She had his photograph but she didn’t know what good that would do. At least the cops were looking for him. It was Doncaster that enraged her though. It was as if he was a figure skater, skimming across the surface with a sparkling white toothy smile, and getting away with it. Wealth without consequence. Power and privilege like a screen around him. She had nothing substantive on him and as much as she hated to admit it, neither did Wiseman. And what was worse, he was going to get his slimy hands on Helen’s land, her sanctuary. Turn it into some sort of theme park, desecrate Turtle Shores with concrete and artificial light and fairy floss and noise.

  The land. There’s a contract on foot—he’s going to own the land. Come on, Jones, think! This is why Helen wanted you on board in the first place. You’re a lawyer, for Christ’s sake.

  An idea started to form in her head, the legal elements lining up, like planks in a tower, rickety but gaining height. She wrenched the wheel left, pulled onto the gravel shoulder in a cloud of dust and a fishtail flourish, picked up her phone. Scrolling through her contacts, she tapped one and pressed the call button, waited as it rang.

  ‘Clementine, what a delight to hear from you. How are you?’

  Hamish Doncaster always sounded like he was lying on a banana lounge with a cocktail in his hand.

  ‘Yeah, had better days. Did you see my text message?’ He hadn’t. She filled him in, the summarised version she’d given to the cops. He punctuated the story with shocked gasps and outrage at his father’s role in all this.

  ‘Oh my God, this is insane,’ he said at last.

  ‘Yep, a real life Loony Tunes. So tell me, do you know who the executor is for Helen’s estate?’

  ‘What? No. Why would I know? And what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You bid at the auction, didn’t you? You would have reviewed the contract beforehand.’

  ‘Pfft. I was never going to buy, why would I look at the contract? I dealt with the agent and signed the stupid stat dec as I walked in, that was it.’ She heard liquid being sucked up a straw. He had a cocktail. He had a friggin’ cocktail.

  ‘So the agent never mentioned the executor’s name?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  There was a pause while Clem collected all her rage and funnelled it down into one simple imperative. ‘He can’t get Helen’s land.’

  ‘What? You mean my father? You’re referring to my father?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got to stop your father getting his hands on Helen’s land.’

  ‘Oh dear. You’ve had a rough day, Clementine, and you’re probably exhausted. Let me spell it out for you: he has a binding contract, the executor is obliged to complete, the transaction will settle and he will be the owner of that parcel of land.’

  ‘I think I might have an avenue—’

  ‘But Clementine, don’t be foolish. Whoever the executor may be, he can’t just pull out of the contract. Big Red will simply commence proceedings against him for specific performance and the court will agree and the land will be transferred to him. Doesn’t the thing settle tomorrow anyway?’

  ‘Yes, but I think there’s a chance the contract could be validly rescinded.’

  ‘Oh dear. Oh dearie, dearie me. You can’t be serious.’


  ‘Hear me out—’

  ‘No, no, no. I don’t care what crazy theory you’re working on, you’re talking about my father. You cannot take on His Redness. The last person who did that is now bankrupt and living in a disused fridge somewhere in Dubbo. Anyway, didn’t you just say he hired someone to kill Helen? Not to mention you.’

  ‘Forget that, focus on the transaction, the sale of Turtle Shores. That’s all I care about right now. Your father participated in the auction fraudulently.’

  ‘You don’t mean that silly little statutory declaration? Surely not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, starting a Google search for Queensland courts on her iPad.

  ‘But you know that’s just a sideshow. The seller will still be bound.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Where are you, anyway? A resort somewhere?’

  ‘Port Douglas. Why don’t you come up?’

  She ignored him. ‘Here we go,’ she said, typing in Helen’s name and then selecting Deceased in the party field.

  ‘He would have used one of his companies anyway,’ said Hamish.

  ‘He’ll be the beneficial owner. The stat dec applied to the legal owner and the beneficial owner. It’s misleading and deceptive, Hamish, and anyway, if someone or some entity was acting as his agent, we might still be able to sheet it home to him as principal.’

  ‘Holy snapping subpoenas, Batman. You might be onto something there,’ he said sarcastically. ‘But what damage has the vendor suffered? Let me think…’ She imagined him in his poolside outfit: black budgie smugglers, tanned abs, designer sunglasses… perhaps a white Panama hat—the whole box and dice. ‘Oh yes, perfect! You could argue on behalf of the possums—as interested third parties, Your Honour—that they’ll be disadvantaged if he concretes the place over.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s watertight, smartarse, I’m just saying we might have a chance.’

  ‘But it’s all a pipe dream. Imagine the legal fees. His Redness will be literally throwing money at it. What executor would allow the estate to be whittled away to nothing like that? God, there won’t be any estate left by the time my father’s finished with them.’ He drew a sharp breath. ‘And can you please just stop saying “we”?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. It was the royal “we”. Don’t worry, you won’t be receiving any instructions to act.’

  ‘My dear Clementine—Charlie’s Angel, Arya of Winterfell—you must let this slide. There is absolutely no point in taking on a legal battle with my father. I know this, you know this. You will be squashed like a pea, you will be roadkill. What you must do is get your barge pole out and push away. Get as far from his vile vessel as you can.’

  Clementine was hardly listening at all now as the search result came up on her screen. ‘Margaret Jeppeson,’ she said.

  ‘What? Who…’

  ‘I have no idea. But I’m going to find out.’

  The plastic ribbon of crime-scene tape had gone and the yellow fibro shanty looked different—a cold prickliness about it, as if it no longer trusted her.

  Torrens’ Patrol was in the driveway and the shed door hung open. Pocket trotted over as she got out of the car, tongue lolling. He seemed nervous and the tail wag was faltering. ‘Come here, boy,’ she said, fondling his ears with both hands. ‘You’re okay. We’re all okay.’ Sarge came over looking lost. She gave him a pat and a cuddle. ‘You’re a brave, brave boy.’

  She shut the car door and peeked in the back window of Torrens’ Patrol, cupping her face against the glass to neutralise the reflection. It was packed, ready to go. Esky, camp stove, duffel bag.

  She poked her head in the shed. Silent and empty but for his footy, sitting forlorn under the bench in the shadows. She picked it up, flipped it twice from hand to hand, smoothed down the tiny tear near the lace. Bouncing it as she walked up the front path, it hit the pavement close to the point, yoyo-ing back into her hands. She liked the certainty of it and the comforting slap as it hit her palms. Memories of Katinga flooded in. The boys, Clancy, Wakely, each of them. She thought of the nine-strong Flood family; Bob Nicholls from the IGA and his man of the match award. Mrs Lemmon and her beanies and her Tom, ‘smiling down from heaven’.

  And Rowan. Oh God, Rowan, who’d saved her life when she didn’t feel like it was worth saving. Who’d slipped, effortlessly, seamlessly, under her skin.

  She stopped on the path. He was the one person to whom she’d told everything, weeping, distraught, his arms around her. Rowan was the one person in the world who knew her. And still he wanted her.

  As if on cue, her phone rang. Rowan’s name lit the screen.

  He’d seen the news, shooting death in Piama, recognised the shanty…Yes, she was okay…Yes, it was linked to Helen…No, nothing to do with her. Then why the shanty? Well, okay, yes it was linked to her…

  ‘You’ve found something and they’re after you.’

  She assured him the police were onto it…no, there was no police guard for her…it was all hands on deck to find the killer… no, nothing he could do…

  There was a long pause. She watched a pale-headed rosella land on the roof of the shanty, its mate arriving just after— the brilliant yellow, the breathtaking violet.

  Then his voice, distant. ‘You can’t pursue this. You have to leave it to the police.’

  ‘I am leaving it to the police.’

  ‘Yeah but, I mean…’ He searched for the right words. ‘You need to look after yourself…really look after yourself.’

  It was not how she thought of herself—something to protect, safeguard. Not since the accident.

  ‘Yep.’ It was a brush-off and he picked it.

  ‘No, I mean it. You…you’ve got to…’ he fumbled for words. The rosellas spun around to face the yard with a quick glance at her and a nod, then took flight in a burst of colour, disappearing together into the bush next door.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said.

  ‘Wait. No.’

  She sighed.

  ‘I want to tell you something.’

  A wave of exhaustion washed over her—nothing left in the tank. ‘I don’t think this is the time,’ she said.

  ‘No. It is the time. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s to say the stuff you need to say when you have the chance.’

  ‘It’s okay, Rowan, really, it’s okay.’ Oh God, how to end this?

  ‘I’m not good with words. But Clem, I’ve thought about it a lot and I was going to tell you when you got back, and…’

  ‘No, no. Rowan, don’t, it’s going to be all right,’ she said softly. She simply couldn’t deal with this. Not now.

  ‘…I need to tell you.’ She closed her eyes for what was coming. ‘I didn’t…I wasn’t looking for anything.’ He paused, struggling to summons the courage or inspiration or something. ‘But somehow when you arrived…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m just gonna say it, Clem…you arrived and it was like the rising sun on a clear blue day.’

  Beautiful. Terrifying. Just his breathing and the waves collapsing on the beach in the backyard.

  ‘And suddenly I felt like…I felt like I could live again. Like really live. Something I hadn’t felt since Kate.’ The breeze sweeping across her shoulders and rustling through the branches of the palm tree and Rowan’s voice speaking these impossible things. ‘And I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but it seemed then, with you, like anything was possible again. I mean it, Clem, anything…even love.’

  Her hand began to tremble on the phone.

  ‘I know this is a lot. I never intended to say it over the phone. But there’s a time and a moment and if you miss it, it’s gone, and I learned that lesson once.’ His voice cracked the slightest bit. ‘And oh God, you make me do crazy things, you make me say crazy things.’

  He’d driven five hours to save her. He’d gone and spoken these words—words that he’d prepared and crafted and lovingly packaged up for her like a gift for her return.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he said.

&
nbsp; ‘I can’t say anything. I’ll cry,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I mean, no. I’m not sorry. Just…just be careful, okay?’

  ‘I will,’ she said. She could not find the strength to say anything more.

  She stood outside for a long while, hugging the football to her chest, then wiped her eyes and took the steps up to the verandah. The flyscreen door slammed shut behind her as she entered the lounge room, stuffy with heat. In the kitchen, Torrens was at the sink, his back to her, filling a bottle of water from the tap. He had a sling around his neck but both arms free.

  ‘Hey mate,’ she said. ‘How’s the shoulder?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll live,’ he said, without turning around.

  ‘Not bothering with the sling?’

  ‘Nah. Pain in the arse.’ He spoke to the sink, couldn’t bear to look at her.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, just the sound of the running water. Pocket came into the kitchen, sniffed the spot where Membrey had lain. It was scrubbed clean.

  ‘Did the cops…?’ she said, pointing at the floor.

  He turned to face her, following her hand, shook his head and took an aggressive swig at the bottle of water.

  ‘Oh geez, Torrens, you didn’t have to clean up. You’re injured.’

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ he said coldly. ‘Membrey bled, a lot.’

  She felt slightly ill. This side of Torrens was still a shock. He turned back to the sink and began filling another water bottle. Definitely leaving. Preparing for the long road trip. At least it wasn’t bourbon.

  ‘Hey, Torrens, nothing wrong with your legs, how about a kick?’ she said, handpassing the ball to herself. The words hung in the air, flat and leaden. He didn’t even give her the courtesy of an answer.

  Pocket was sitting at Torrens’ feet, looking up, hoping for a scrap. Her fluffy friend would be the only one left once Torrens had gone. She felt like crying again.

  ‘When are you heading off then?’ she said at last.