After Ariel: It started as a game (15 page)

‘I’ll tell them, don’t worry and I’ll try and talk to you tomorrow. We’ll need you to give a formal statement and come back here when Forensics has finished and see if there’s anything missing. We’ll have to ask Ms Humphries’ parents to have a look as well.’

Pam wiped her eyes, smiled briefly, said good-bye and followed Anthony Hamilton out to the police car. I didn’t envy him. If there’s one thing a cop hates most it’s telling a deceased’s family that a loved one has died. Car accidents are awful, but murder beats everything. I hoped Marigold Humphries wasn’t an only child.

Turning back to the crime scene, I requested kit and suited up from top to toe, after which I edged into the hallway, trying not to get in the way. Traditional floral sofa covers, plain curtains and mock Queen Ann furniture gave the lounge room a “cottage” feel, as did the fireplace, complete with granite surround and mantelpiece bearing family photos.

I checked them out: Pam and Marigold, arms wrapped around each other, Pam with Ally Carpenter and now deceased Jessica Rallison, a much younger Ros and a woman who was obviously her sister. Would that be Fiona Humphries? I must have met her at Ros and John’s wedding but couldn’t remember her. David and I were standing in the back row of their wedding photo. Eloise and James had come home from the UK for the occasion. Pam and my niece, Ally Mochrie, were dressed in bridesmaids gear but no sign of Marigold Humphries. Perhaps she had been overseas at the time. A veritable gallery of smiling faces lined the back of the mantelpiece, but apart from Humphries, none was recognisable.

The portrait above the fireplace invited attention. Parry, 1976 -2009.  Obviously the man in the painting meant a great deal to Marigold – Goldie – Humphries
. Please God, look after her... and let them meet up
. I wouldn’t admit to anyone but David that when I attended a death I always said a quick prayer. My team would probably think I’ve lost my marbles and invest too much emotion in the case. As for the boss, DS Petersen, his take on it didn’t bear thinking about.

The forensics team worked methodically in the background. They would let me know what I needed soon enough. As though he had heard my thoughts, Lynch came up behind me. ‘Well, Susan, no rest for the wicked, eh?’ He grinned and then launched into a preliminary report. ‘Caucasian female, late twenties to early thirties, in good health. Body temperature relatively warm, so she’s been dead for only an hour or two. Broken neck and bruises on her throat indicate strangulation, bruising to her legs and scrape marks on the wall. Fully clothed and doesn’t look as though there’s been sexual assault, but we’ll know more when we do the autopsy. It’s obvious that the wall has been washed down as well as the bottom four stairs, the posts and railings. Because he – or she – knew enough to do that, then no doubt the doorknobs and any other places the perpetrator touched have been cleaned as well, unfortunately for our friends in Fingerprints.’

Who could she have annoyed enough to actually want to kill her? What was he or she after? Lynch hadn’t finished. ‘The person who did this was very strong indeed. Her larynx was completely crushed and the hyoid bone snapped. She was no shrinking violet herself and there are indications that she worked out regularly. She would have put up quite a fight.’ He ran his hand over his head, blinking. The second of his callouts in one night; his whole team must be stuffed.

So, two deaths in twenty-four hours within a couple of kilometres of each other...
I don’t like it
. We made eye-contact, in perfect accord. He nodded and returned to his work. My team had gone upstairs, but so far there had been no indication that they had found anything significant. I tapped out a number on my mobile. ‘Any sign of disturbance up there?’

‘No, ma-am. Everything’s normal as far as we can see so far. Pamela Miller was staying in the guest room. Her bags are here, but no sign of anyone searching. Nothing obvious in Humphries’ either, but we’ll bring her laptop and files down when we finish. Perhaps Ms Miller will know if anything’s missing.’

The sigh in the officer’s voice indicated discouragement. I wasn’t surprised. My gut said it was personal; the perp wanted something or had a grudge. We had a lot of ground to cover, but perhaps the parents could help. Much would depend on the answers to the questions we asked of her nearest and dearest. It’s always the way – quiz the people who knew her and check out who benefited from Marigold Humphries’ will.

I wanted to spend time with Pamela, not convinced that she didn’t know what this was about. Oh, of course she probably didn’t realise what she knew, but if I put the right questions, she would tell me. I was getting incoherent with tiredness. All I’d had time for after the first call out was a shower, before the phone rang again. No sleep and no prospect of rest any time soon, probably not until tomorrow night at the very least.

I wondered what was happening at the home of Marigold Humphries’ parents.

CHAPTER 15

Terror Unleashed

Dingo

Sunday, 1AM

Dingo rushed up the back stairs to the second floor. His hands trembled so badly, he struggled to get the key in the lock. The handkerchief wrapped around his finger snagged on the key. Impatiently, he ripped it off ignoring the stinging, then unlocked and pushed the door open. He switched on the light and blundered to the bed, where he tore the camera out of the bag and fumbled for the SD card. The looped wrist strap snagged on his finger bending it back until he swore at the pain. He dropped the camera on the bed, and sucked the slight puncture wounds on his fingers.
Keep calm...two, four, six, eight, ten...

When the pain had eased, he took a deep breath, picked the camera up again and gently pulled the card. It looked like no SD card he had ever seen. He stepped over to the bedside light and switched it on to inspect the strangely-shaped object. CF...
Compact Flash!
It wouldn’t work in his laptop! He’d have to get a card reader...which meant he would have to go out in the morning and buy one. Dick Smith, Myers, there’d be plenty of places he could go. He wanted to slam the thing against the wall. No, it had to work. Nothing else would do.

No matter how hard he wished, the result would be the same. There was no way he could view what was on the card that night. Disbelief sent shivers of fear surging through his body. He
knew
she’d taken his and Ariel’s photos. She’d even waved to them as they cavorted across the grass, posing for her, laughing. He plopped onto the bed and sat motionless.
Seven...no...six...no, eight...ten...deep breath...slow your breathing...

Dingo leaped to his feet and bolted for the en suite where he lost the meagre contents of his stomach. Leaning on the edge of the toilet bowl, he grabbed the toilet paper, pulled a large piece off the roll, spat into the bowl and wiped his mouth. Gripped by inertia, some time passed before he hauled himself upright and staggered to the washbasin. His lower back hurt, and he finally remembered falling back onto the edge of the stair while wrestling with the photographer. He rubbed the sore patch and then stared at himself in the mirror. Glazed eyes, gaunt cheeks, white face, and hair lying flat against his head. Turning the cold tap on and cupping his hand underneath the stream, he bent to rinse his mouth out. Grimacing, he squeezed a blob of toothpaste onto his finger, rinsed and spat.

A small bottle standing on the shelf above the basin caught his eye. How long since he’d taken the last dose? Dingo couldn’t remember. He shook some tablets into his sweaty palm, threw them into his mouth and chased down them with a swig of water. Minutes later, they came back up. He leaned over the toilet, exhausted and sweating.
Have to get control...
a rinse, more teeth cleaning.
Deep breaths...deep breaths...two, four, six, eight, ten...

Scrabbling through the zippered side pocket of his backpack, he found a bandaid and a foil pack of codeine. He carefully plastered his finger, after which he sat on the side of the bed and picked the camera up again. Maybe, just maybe...could she have
pretended
to take photos just to make them happy? Resisting the impulse to smash it on the floor, he shoved it back into the bag. Terror had him in its grip. What if the cops found him and he had the bag in his room? He opened the door at the top of the built-in wardrobe, pushed the bag to the back and closed it. He would dump it in the morning.

Disappointment and fear pitched him into frenzy. Hardly stopping for a sip of water, he kept on the move until the first light of dawn seeped through the window, counting as he paced back and forth, long steps, short steps –
as long as they were even numbers he was safe!
Exhausted, he fell on the bed, just remembering to set the alarm on his watch before he dropped into sleep.

*

The day his father died, Dingo lost all hope. A stocky, powerfully-built quiet man, his father, Marcus, was helpless to stem the onslaught of obsessive love with which Frances smothered their son, though he did manage, to a certain extent, to protect the child. Marcus and Dingo were a team. When Frances, worn out with ranting at Dingo to practice his music, fell asleep in front of the afternoon soapies, they would take the opportunity to go fishing in the creek, mend machinery or just go for a walk in the bush with the dogs. When he was three, he would wait out by the house fence, listening for the sounds of sheep being driven to the woolshed. As soon as their plaintive tired cries could be heard he would slither down from the fence post and run to meet his father who would pull him up the side of his stockhorse onto the pommel of the saddle. There he would sit, secure in his father’s arms as they followed the mob to the yards.

It was a moot point as to whether Dingo was lucky or not that Frances, a former concert pianist and now music teacher, had realised his ability by the time he was three. An old trumpet was discovered in a trunk in the shearer’s quarters and the young boy, intrigued, tried it out. To his own and everyone else’s surprise, he’d made a pretty good go of it for his age. From tooting a few notes, he graduated within a few days to picking out simple tunes. Flushed with over-excitement, his mother sprang into action, buying “beginners music.” An ancient piano, stored in the back of a shed, was hauled out and the piano tuner summonsed to the property. Before a bewildered Dingo and angry Marcus could marshal any defence, the child’s future was set in concrete.

‘You’ll practice until you drop!’ His mother’s implacable statement was delivered every day through thin, grim lips. Her eyes narrowed to slits as arguments over Dingo’s future raged nightly. A driven woman, denied the successful concert career she had given up to marry a farmer, Frances was determined to have it all through her son. ‘
He’s a genius
!’ his mother screamed, ‘
A prodigy
!’

‘He’s just a kid who likes to play music. He’s too young for you to start making a career for him. He’s only three, for Christ’s sake!’ Marcus’ voice took on an unaccustomed edge, but to no avail. The raging went on and on. Many nights, Dingo snuck out of the window in his room, across the verandah and out to the nearest dog kennel where he crawled in beside the occupant who was only too happy to comfort the sobbing child.

Then came that dark morning and the child’s world changed forever.

The weather forecasters had it right. The storm hit, bringing down a gum tree onto the garage. The crack of the trunk and shriek of the metal roof as it folded into itself was a sound which haunted the five year-old Dingo’s dreams continuing until became an adult. Pieces of wood and tins thrown off the shelves ricocheted off fence posts. His father almost threw him out of the shed, where he fell to the ground, screaming and laid there, his arms wrapped around his head until the terrible sounds faded and the dust stopped swirling around him. He stood up and took a couple of steps toward the ruined garage before running, eyes wide with horror, to the house where he found his mother slamming windows shut.

‘Daddy’s under the tree!’ he screamed, pulling at his mother’s skirt.

She swung around and whacked him across the head sending him crashing to the floor.
‘Can’t you see I’m trying to shut the windows?’

‘Daddy’s in the garage!’ he yelled again, confused. Wasn’t she supposed to run out and look?

His mother swooped down on him, arms flailing and he smelled what he knew was something bad, but at the time didn’t realise was alcohol. ‘
Shut up you little bastard! Can’t you see I’m busy
?’ She rushed from the room. Dingo ran outside into the storm but was driven back inside the laundry, where he curled under the concrete tubs and sobbed, while the wind whipped sheets of iron from the roof and the garden disappeared forever. What was the point of trying anything more? Mum wouldn’t take any notice of him.

From then on, life went downhill for Dingo. It was hours before the storm abated and Frances sobered up enough to realise that her husband was missing and went to look for him. The drama after his father’s decapitated body was discovered surpassed anything previously known in the household. His mother alternately punished him for ‘not telling her what had happened’ and smothered him as her ‘fatherless child.’

They moved into town after the tragedy. The horses and other livestock were sold and the sheepdogs were sent to new homes – Marcus’ dogs were highly prized for their skill. The cat came with them to the isolated mansion which his mother had purchased with money inherited from her husband, his insurance payout and the sale of the farm. Dingo was grateful for the cat. It became his only companion and his mother actually liked it.

Frances kept up the relentless pressure to keep his music up to standard. She would storm up and down his music room, thumping a stick on the floor to emphasise timing, drowning out the beat of the metronome.  She drove her son so hard that he frequently fell asleep over his lessons, home schooling being the method which his agoraphobic mother chose for his education. If Dingo thought life was hard then, it was as nothing compared to what happened after he killed the baby.