Flashpoint (15 page)

EARLY FRIDAY MORNING

Jo Bowman gripped the edge of the toilet bowl and heaved her guts dry. It seemed the only thing preventing her from falling into the murky depths was Ruth's cool hand upon her forehead.

‘I'm all right now, I'm fine,' she said, sinking onto the tiles of the bathroom floor.

‘OK, darl, up you get now and rinse your mouth out.'

Ruth helped Jo over to the bathroom sink. Jo's hands shook as she squeezed the toothpaste onto the toothbrush, cleaning her teeth as tenderly as if they were hanging on threads of silk.

‘Better now?' asked Ruth. Jo nodded although she could still taste the burned chemicals in her mouth and feel the caustic sear in her lungs whenever she took a breath.

Ruth held a warm flannel to her face. ‘The doctor said you're suffering from smoke inhalation. All the cilia in your airways have been singed off, just like those of a veteran smoker.'

‘I'm never going to smoke again.'

‘You'll definitely give up now.' Ruth threw the flannel into the sink and took her gently by the arm, down the passageway to her bedroom.

She should have been prepared for the impact when she heard the scrabble of feet from behind. But her reflexes were dulled and she was unable to sidestep the mammoth paws as they slapped against her back, knocking her from Ruth's clasp onto the wooden floor.

With what little strength she had, she pushed the slobbering beast away while Ruth got a grip on the
dog's collar. The effort caused a fit of coughing. She caught her breath and gasped, ‘Prudence seems to think she's hungry.'

‘I fed her when you were in the bath. All I could find were lentil patties. She didn't seem to mind,' Ruth said.

‘The dog meat's in the freezer.'

‘Oh, I thought you were one of those obsessive vegetarian types who doesn't give her dog meat.'

‘Give me some credit, Ruth,' Jo said as Ruth helped her off the floor.

She flopped onto her bed. The dog climbed up next to her, putting her head on the spare pillow and falling asleep instantly. Jo sank back, envious of the dog's carefree slumber, wondering if a peaceful sleep would ever be hers again.

Ruth bustled around the room. With her halo of blonde curls, she looked angelic in the soft light. Watching her, Jo wondered how she could ever show Ruth how much she appreciated and valued her friendship. Ruth had always seemed so self-sufficient. She never seemed to get into the same kind of scrapes as she did, never needed any kind of help or moral boost.

And it wasn't as if Ruth's life lacked tragedy.

‘Ruth?' Jo said, leaning back further into her pillows, her mood continuing along its contemplative path. ‘Do you still think of your husband?'

Ruth was straightening the patchwork quilt on the end of Jo's bed. She stopped what she was doing and looked at her friend, a frown creasing her forehead.

‘Sometimes.'

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I suppose I'm just feeling a bit maudlin. There's nothing like a near-death
experience to get the old brain cells cranking: life, death, the secrets of the universe, etcetera.'

Ruth straightened herself up, letting out a long sigh. ‘To dwell on death is futile. It's life that counts.'

Jo closed her eyes and took a breath. ‘I still think about little Daniel.'

‘Of course you do.'

‘He wasn't conceived under ideal circumstances. I suppose he was never meant to be.'

‘You need to get to sleep. Thoughts like that will only keep you awake. I don't want a depressive on my hands.' She paused for a moment's thought. ‘I'm going with Cliff to a bike show in the city on Saturday. We're going to stay the night with one of Cliff's mates, but we'll be back early Sunday morning – why don't you come along?'

Jo shook her head. The topic had been changed, just as it always was when she tried to scratch beneath the surface with Ruth.

‘I'm not sure I'll be up to it by then. The doctor said I had to take it easy, remember?'

‘That's OK. I just thought it might help.' Ruth flicked a finger into the air. ‘I'd better get you a bucket, just in case. I'll be back in a sec.'

Jo blew out a breath. At least she'd got a valid excuse to miss the bike show. Cliff was one of the few people Jo had met to whom she'd taken an instant dislike; he emanated violence the way a pot-bellied stove gave off heat. On several occasions Ruth had sported mysterious bruises for which she had no explanation other than liking it rough. It was at times like these that Jo would catch a glimpse of the vulnerability, as fragile as the tip of an icicle, buried deep within her friend.

Ruth reappeared. ‘How are you now? I'll bet that bed feels good,' she said.

‘Just about everything aches, even my hair.'

‘You were very lucky.' She drew the curtains, and put a glass of water on the bedside table and a bucket by the bed. She stood over Jo, looking at her with anxious blue eyes. ‘Would you like me to stay? I will if you'd feel more comfortable.'

Jo didn't trust herself to speak. The concern in her friend's face was enough to start the tears welling.

Finally she sniffed. ‘There's a spare mattress under the bed. You can grab some bedding from the linen cupboard.'

‘OK. Go to sleep, Jo. When you wake up you'll feel much better. Things are always worse in the middle of the night.'

Jo clutched her pillow to her chest and Ruth rubbed her back in slow circles until she relaxed. Then, overcome by her own weariness, Ruth succumbed to the mattress on the floor.

But sleep didn't come to Jo. She knew it wouldn't. She lay awake listening to the rock-crushing snores of her bloodhound and Ruth's soft breathing from the floor by her bed. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the prefab, the flames growing closer, building up like the screams inside her head. Her heart pounded in her head with a sickening rhythm. She took some deep breaths to slow it down, noticing how the rhythm seemed to have synchronised itself to the ticking of the alarm clock and the noises of the night. From the river a banjo frog called to its mate with a slow resonant twang. The old gum in the back garden creaked to the whisper of the breeze.

She listened to the tapping of the moths as they threw themselves against the flyscreen, trying to get to the soft glow behind the curtains. By morning they would be no more than small piles of powdery
nothingness on the windowsill.

And then her thoughts drifted to the man with kind eyes, who, in a moment of panic, had mistaken her for his dead wife.

The early morning sun filtered through the bedroom curtains making the inside of his eyelids warm and red despite the cold emptiness he felt everywhere else. Cam exhaled and stretched out on the bed with his hands tucked under his head, trying to make some sense out of the previous night.

Vince was dead. He'd destroyed the photo lab and come close to murdering two people in an attempt to protect his career. Overcome with remorse he had then taken his own life. No, this was all too neat, too tidy. Suicides are rarely so transparent. Vince had never obliged anyone in life; why then would he be so obliging in death?

The facts pricked at Cam's mind like a grass seed in a dog's pelt: the car seat, the suicide method, the timeframe, the motive, even the note did not ring true. He stared up at the purring ceiling fan as it shifted stale air around the room, willing it to blow the fuzz from his brain. But he received no blinding revelations, just a noise from the kitchen to disturb his thoughts.

Ruby.

‘Hey, I was going to make you McDaddy's,' Cam said as he stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his sore eyes and stifling a yawn.

She'd already filled a mixing bowl with cereal and was putting on the finishing touches of strawberries and cream. He marvelled, not for the first time, at how slim she managed to stay.

‘That's OK, Dad. I'm not really hungry.'

She moved into the lounge room, put the telly on and plonked herself down in front of it. His eyes
wandered around the room. Well, they no longer lived in a warehouse, but homey was not an accurate description either. Ruby's possessions were spread over almost every square inch of the house. A trail of discarded clothes and shoes led to the bathroom where lotions, potions, powders and gels covered the vanity unit. CDs and DVDS were stacked in precarious piles along the hearth in the lounge. Cords of electrical gadgets Cam couldn't identify criss-crossed the carpet like the tangled net of an animal trap. He grimaced, knowing only too well who the first hapless victim would be.

‘So what plans have you got for today: the stock feeder's?' He leaned across the breakfast bar and poured the remaining handful of cornflakes into a bowl for himself.

Ruby did not look up. Between shovel loads of cereal, she was untangling the wires of her Sony Playstation.

‘Jo, I mean Ms Bowman, said I could go over to her place and she'd show me more of her photos. I thought I'd give her a ring, maybe go over this morning.' She caught his worried frown. ‘Yeah, yeah, I'll ring you if I go out,' she said, her voice flat.

Cam started to cough and splutter. ‘Are you OK, Dad? You look like shit.'

He nodded and wiped his mouth with a tea towel. Should he tell her about the fire? She'd find out soon enough. He had to say something.

‘Ms Bowman's photo lab burned down last night. That's why I was late home. We think vandals did it. Luckily no one was in it at the time. I think Ms Bowman will be pretty busy going over things today. There'll be all sorts of insurance stuff to organise.'

He bunched up the tea towel and threw it in the direction of the laundry, scanning her face as he did so, looking for a crack, a grimace or a tear. In the past, even the word fire had set her off.

But she responded like any normal, self-absorbed teenager. ‘Bummer. I hope I can still do photography at school.' She let out a melodramatic sigh. ‘I guess I'll just have to go to the stock feeder's then.'

‘You can also put your name on your new uniforms and cover your books.'

No response; perhaps he was asking too much.

He'd showered at the station earlier, so his preparations to leave only involved changing into his uniform, grabbing his keys and giving Ruby the usual goodbye speech that resulted in the usual eye roll. Mrs Rooney would be starting at their house next week. Maybe then he'd be able to leave the house without the usual feeling of dread.

He parked the ute in his reserved space behind the station, immediately sensing that something was different. The cars: there were too many of them. Shit, there was a Channel Nine news van, a couple of unfamiliar newer models and a small crowd of people on the front steps.

Someone hoisted a camera. ‘There he is!'

Microphones were brandished in the air like cudgels. The crowd moved towards him with the enthusiasm of a Highland horde. He made a dash for the back entrance, only to find it locked.

Dam Derek to hell. He turned to face the mob. A flash exploded in his face. He saw white ghosts on a dark void.

‘. . . the third police suicide in three months . . .' ‘. . . Royal Commission . . .'

‘. . . stresses of the job . . .'

‘. . . police corruption . . .'

‘Can you give us the cop's name?'

‘No comment.' Cam pushed his way through the mass of bodies. Just as he reached the front entrance a man said, ‘Are you the same Sergeant Fraser whose family were killed by a bikie bomb in Sydney?'

He whirled around and faced the crowd. They fell silent, a pack of dogs waiting apprehensively to see who would get the first morsel.

He drew a deep breath. ‘The name of the constable involved will be withheld pending notification of next of kin. Details of the tragedy cannot be revealed at this stage of the investigation.'

‘But it was a suicide, right?'

‘Please contact police media in Toorrup if you have any other questions. Thank you.'

Cam stormed through the front entrance, locked the door on the clicking camera shutters and strode over to Derek at communications. The constable looked up from his crossword puzzle, regarding Cam for a moment through dishwater eyes.

From his lifeless eyes to the ever-present cup of tepid weak tea by his side, there was nothing distinguishing about the man. His personality was grey. Vince had been a veritable Bob Hope compared to this man.

‘I heard you had a rough night. Too bad about Vince.' Derek rubbed his beaky nose, his gaze falling back down to the paper in front of him. Cam felt like screwing the paper up into a ball and shoving it down the constable's throat.

‘Thanks for your help out there,' he said.

Derek nodded without looking up. Cam wondered how Derek would react if the station was burning down. Probably finish the crossword first. He was
either the coolest customer that Cam had ever met or the dimmest. Cam hadn't worked him out yet.

‘As much charisma as a cup of warm piss,' he muttered to himself like an old man. Then in a louder voice he said, ‘You relieve Leanne on traffic this arvo, OK?'

‘Right-oh, Sarge.'

Cam fixed himself a coffee, then went into his office and closed the door. Prising open the Venetian blinds, he noticed with relief that the press had packed up and gone. He settled down to tackle last night's incident reports, make some phone calls and organise the interviews. He was halfway through his second report when the phone rang.

‘Hey, Sarge.' It was Pete. ‘I've just finished having a chat with Toby Bell. He was not impressed at being dragged out of bed at 7 am, I'm telling you.'

‘So, did you confront him with the account drawings?'

‘Yeah, I did. He just about shat himself. I think he was more scared of his wife hearing about what he's been up to than anything I had to say.'

The office door opened and Derek appeared. ‘Mr Smithson's here. He wants to see you.'

Shit; a confrontation with that man was the last thing Cam needed right now.

‘Tell him he'll have to wait.' Cam swivelled around on his chair so his back was to Derek, and continued his telephone conversation with Pete.

‘So what was his explanation?' he asked.

‘He withdrew the money in a lump sum and gave it to a Ms Tiffany Davis,' Pete said.

Cam smiled for the first time that day. ‘Ah, the niece. Of course.'

‘That's one name for it, I guess. Anyway, Sarge, I followed
it through and traced it to a deposit on an apartment. It's all bona fide; he's just putting her up in style.'

‘You've done well, Pete. Good work. That makes up for last night.'

‘We even then?' Cam could hear the cocky smile breaking through the young constable's voice, picture the deepening dimples of his cheeks.

‘Almost. Get back here ASAP.'

Cam replaced the receiver and turned back to Derek.

‘Sarge, he insists on seeing you now.'

Cam sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Show him in, then.'

Derek showed Mr Smithson in, closing the door behind him. Cam gestured to the spare office chair but didn't get up. Mr Smithson continued to stand. His face was pale; there were beads of sweat on his forehead. He opened his hands and was about speak, but thought better of it and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief instead.

‘Mr Smithson, are you feeling all right?' Cam asked, taking in his visitor's pasty complexion and the slump of his thin shoulders.

‘I . . . I want to know what you're doing about the fire.'

Cam searched the man's face, trying to fathom the true reason for his visit.‘I'm waiting to hear back from forensics, though I'm not pinning much on the physical evidence. I still have some other leads to follow up.' Cam put his elbows on his desk and steepled his hands. He stared at Smithson for a good ten seconds before continuing: ‘Is that all you wanted to speak to me about, Jeffrey?'

Smithson unfurled his handkerchief as if it was a flag of truce and began to dab at his face. Cam got up from his desk and poked his head out of his office door, calling to Derek to bring in a pot of tea. He pulled out the spare chair and indicated for Smithson
to sit down.

Smithson stared blankly at Cam for a moment then took off his jacket, sinking into the chair with his head bowed as if all the energy had been sucked from his system.

‘When you're ready, mate. I'm not going anywhere.' Cam sat back down behind his desk.

Smithson took a breath. ‘When we got back home last night, my wife and I had a talk. She persuaded me to come and see you to . . .' He waved a limp hand in the air.

‘Put the record straight?'

‘Quite.' He nodded and looked into his lap for a few seconds. ‘I hit him. You know that? I hit him but I didn't kill him.'

Cam nodded. ‘Go on.'

‘Did Ms Bowman give you the details?'

‘Some, but I'd like to hear your side of the story.'

‘She caught Herbert Bell stealing Anne's underthings from the washing line. I was consumed with rage when she told me. When we found him in the shed, I felt like I wanted to kill him. Jo had to hold me back, but not before I got a solid punch off into his face.' He looked down at the hand on his lap and rubbed at his swollen knuckles, as if still feeling the sting. The glazed look in his eye told Cam he was far away, back in the potting shed.

Derek knocked then entered the office with a tea tray. Smithson started, took a deep breath and pulled himself back to the present.

Cam poured tea. Smithson seemed mesmerised by the hot amber liquid, staring at it as if it might provide him with some kind of a release. Eventually one corner of his mouth curved into a slight smile. ‘I felt a lot better after that.'

Cam pushed a cup of tea towards Smithson and took a sip of his own before saying, ‘I'd consider anger to be a normal reaction to the situation you've just described.' He took a breath. ‘But I consider hitting him to be an over-reaction.'

Smithson opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words. Cam continued. ‘From our first meeting, I got the feeling you were trying to protect your wife from something. My best guess is she's been the victim of some kind of violent crime. That might also explain your assault on Bell.' He took another sip of tea, not taking his eyes off Smithson. ‘Am I right?'

The older man sighed, nodding.

‘I'm sorry you didn't think of telling me about this earlier.' Cam tempered his stern tone with compassion. ‘Your lies and hostility to my inquiries have hindered the investigation and cast both yourself and your wife in a suspicious light.'

Smithson passed a hand across his face, focusing on the teapot. He took a breath and spoke in a flat tone, as if the smallest of inflections might provide a weakness through which his barely contained emotions would escape.

‘We lived in Adelaide. I used to work long hours. We almost lived separate lives, both involved with our own careers. I came home late one night and immediately knew that something was wrong. She always left lights on for me, but this time the house was completely dark and the front door was unlocked. I went up to the bedroom and . . .'

He made a small sound, almost like a hiccup. Cam was sure he would lose it now but Smithson took a breath and managed to keep himself together. ‘She was tied up on the bed. She'd been raped and left lying there. She'd been alone in the dark for hours. The physical
scars healed, but . . .' he sighed, and shrugged, glancing at Cam before shifting his gaze back to the tea tray.

‘She took the long service leave she was owed and we began to re-evaluate our lives. I never wanted to be in a job that took me away from her again. I resigned from my company, did a Dip Ed, then we applied for the position at Glenroyd. It all seemed so perfect. Just the challenge she needed to help her to forget the trauma. We threw ourselves into turning the school around. You've seen how much we've achieved in such a short time.'

Some of the old pomposity had returned to his voice, but Cam forgave him for it.

‘But then the underwear theft seemed to open up the old wounds. I suppose it was the sexual connotations . . .'

‘Was the rapist ever caught?'

Smithson shook his head. ‘No. We've had no closure.'

Cam cleared his throat. ‘You know, Jeffrey, it's as much in your wife's interest as it is in ours that we find the perpetrators of these violent crimes at the school.' Cam paused, studied Smithson for a moment then said, ‘Do you see where I'm going with this?'