Flashpoint (4 page)

The general store might have revamped into a supermarket, but little else had changed in Glenroyd over the last twenty-five years. Cam walked down Main Street, past the same tin-roofed fibro cottages he remembered from his youth, the same small shops decorated with the same archaic advertising logos, faded by the sun and meaningless to anyone under forty.

The stock feeder's and the farm machinery were the largest retail establishments, but the town also boasted a small newsagency, a post office, a bank, two pubs and two petrol stations. There were enough amenities in Glenroyd to provide basic goods and services, but anyone with a need for anything out of the ordinary would be forced to make the hour and a half trip to Toorrup, the closest town of any size.

The rusting wrought-iron lacework of the pubs and the sloughing paint on the historic post office were visual evidence of the recent agricultural slump. Fifteen-year-old cars dotted the streets or filled up with fuel from the domed shaped bowsers of flat-fronted garages. On market day wobbly-armed women in sleeveless cotton frocks and men in gut-stretched work shirts stood in segregated groups, as they always had, discussing wool prices and CWA, horse racing and lamington drives.

Cam peered through the grimy window of one of the town's two boutiques where post-war dummies with large busts and wasp waists modelled last summer's sun-bleached clothes. No wonder Ruby hated it here.

But given time, she'd learn to love it. The town might
be small, grotty and old, but this was home: this was where they were meant to be.

The sun was heavy on his head as he scooted between the shady shop awnings, but a wave of cool air rolled over him when he reached the open door of the Glenroyd Arms. He stopped for a moment to savour the sour tang of beer and listen to the contented murmuring from within. For those citizens of Glenroyd with the money and the time, this was the only place to be on a stifling day such as this. Even the adjacent TAB had lost all but its hardcore gamblers to the cool allure of the pub.

He paused again at the window of the stock feeder's to peruse the For Sale section. The sun-faded pictures of quaint weatherboard houses surrounded by bucolic farmland were photographed in spring before the summer sun and wind had dried the countryside to a dustbowl. He skipped past these, spending longer on the lists of second-hand tractors, posthole drillers and harvesters, his breath whistling through his teeth when he noticed the prices.

When he came to the equestrian section, he rubbed his chin, reading through the descriptions of over a dozen horses and ponies. The ponies were too small, the horses too young and flighty for an inexperienced rider. At five foot six, Ruby would have to have something between fifteen-two and sixteen-two hands, an old bombproof schoolmaster who had done it all. The right horse would come along, if they bided their time.

A gentle tapping on the window drew his attention from the notices to the smiling face of an elderly woman on the other side of the glass.

‘Mrs Rooney?' he mouthed. Her face lit up. Her hair, like a white powder puff, bobbed from side to side
as she nodded her head.

‘Cameron Fraser, crikey Moses – aren't you a sight for sore eyes!' she said as he entered the store. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the baked whiteness of the street. The store was cool and dark and smelt of grain and dried dog food.

‘They said you'd come back. I nearly dropped in at the station the other day, but held back knowing how busy you've been since you arrived.'

He laughed. ‘You know you're always welcome, Mrs Rooney.'

She frowned, tapping at her cheek. ‘Well, come on then, what are you waiting for? Don't I deserve a kiss?'

He gave her an extended kiss on the cheek and moaned with mock passion.

She laughed. ‘OK, you don't have to eat me alive. Stand back so I can have a look at you.'

He stepped back and braced himself for her reaction. When she tilted her head to one side, he focused on the dust motes dancing in a beam of filtered light.

She clasped his hand. Hers were fibrous and knotted like pieces of root ginger. ‘I'm so sorry, Cam, sorry about everything.'

‘The worst is over.'

She nodded. ‘There's always the future to look forward to.'

‘And what about you? You still have the teashop?' he asked, keen to change the subject.

‘Crikey, no. I gave that up not long after you left, went to work at St Luke's Retirement Home. I'm retired from that too now.' She chuckled. ‘I suppose you could call me a lady of leisure.'

Cam doubted that. She laughed again and smoothed the imagined wrinkles in her faded cotton
frock.

‘I still dream about your vanilla slices.'

‘You and half the boys from St Bart's, I'm sure. I'm hoping them that used to steal 'em are still getting nightmares.'

‘I'll bet they are. You had the fastest wooden spoon in the west. How are Greg and Mark?'

‘They run this place now. Doing a grand job at it. I'm just minding the store for the moment till Greg gets back from lunch,' she said. ‘Mark's at the hospital in Toorrup with his Kate, having their first.'

‘So you're about to be a grandmother?'

‘Heavens, no – Greg has four already.'

‘Wow, and you not a day over forty-five. I'd never have guessed.'

‘Tease,' she said, pushing him with her palm. ‘Speaking of kids, was that your Ruby I saw in the park the other day? I had to do a double take; for a moment I thought I was looking at a fair-headed Elizabeth. How strange that you and Elizabeth would produce a girl with such blonde hair, you two so dark and all.'

Cam looked around the store for eavesdroppers and put his fingers to his lips. ‘Actually, Mrs R, I think it's from a bottle.'

She shook her head. ‘Kids today, what they do to themselves, I don't know. Still, there's a lot worse than a bit of hair dye. That boy she was with, well, I wouldn't want to meet him at night down a dark alley.'

Cam felt as if he'd just received a body blow. He had to jerk in a breath to get the words out. ‘Boy? What boy?'

‘Goodness, Cam, have I said something I shouldn't?'

He forced out a smile. ‘She never told me, that's all. Do you know who he is?'

‘What's-his-name's apprentice, you know, runs
the mechanic shop.'

‘Cliff Donovan?'

‘That's him, and the boy's Angelo, Angelo Arnoldi. He helps out with the bushfire brigade too. He can't be too bad if he does that I suppose. I've always said young people these days don't have enough community spirit, so it makes a change to have one who's willing to help out.'

A man in work clothes walked into the shop and started to look around. ‘Can I help you with anything, love?' Mrs Rooney asked him.

An idea came to Cam while he waited for her to finish serving her customer. When he asked, she said she'd be happy to have Ruby help out in the shop every now and then. But even with the arrangements made, he continued to the station with heavy steps, eyes to the ground, concentrating on the cracks in the pavement.

The police subdistrict of Glenroyd covered an area of over two thousand kilometres, so it was rare to find all five officers at the station at any one time. Theirs was an integrated system, meaning that no one specialised in any particular duty, all spending equal time on traffic, crime and community duties. Vince and Leanne were where Cam had left them earlier, and the other two officers, Derek and Pete, were still out on traffic patrol.

Vince was hunched over the computer keyboard, struggling with Monday's interviews. Leanne was manning the front counter and communications. She started at Cam's entrance, shoving a meat pie on to her lap and betraying herself with a guilty look that did nothing but draw his attention to the blob of sauce on her chin. She flashed him a self-conscious grin; perhaps she hoped to encourage some good-natured banter. But his frown wiped the smile from her face as quickly as her hand could dash away the sauce and she hunched further into the counter.

Cam pulled up a chair next to Vince. ‘Tell me all,' he said to the sweating Senior Constable. Vince seemed more than happy to have a break from the computer. After pecking out one last word, he rocked back in his chair until it creaked.

‘You said the body had been ID'd,' Cam said.

Vince picked up a fax from his desk. ‘Victim identified from dental records as fifty-six-year-old Herbert Bell, no fixed address.'

‘Background check?'

‘Yup, it's all here,' he said, waving the fax. ‘Next of kin listed as a Mr Toby Bell, brother. He's a real estate
agent in Toorrup.'

Cam looked at his watch. He should have plenty of time to get to Toorrup, break the bad news and be back home before dark.

Vince continued. ‘Criminal record, numerous court appearances, fines, community service, but no time spent inside. His offences ranged from petty theft to . . .' Vince gave a snort and narrowed his eyes as if he were reading this for the first time. ‘. . . indecent exposure.' He guffawed with ugly laughter and turned to Leanne with a loose, wet smile. ‘You know what that means, don't you, Leanne?'

Leanne gritted her teeth but said nothing. Vince had obviously been savouring the revelation of this tidbit until Cam's return. He seemed to take special delight in embarrassing Leanne in front of her new Sergeant.

‘It means he liked flopping his doodle out at . . .'

Cam slammed his fist on the desk as the blood rushed to his face. ‘Vince! Shut the hell up. Leanne knows exactly what that means!'

‘OK, OK, I was only joshing her. I've known Leanne since she was a nipper. We're always joshing, aren't we, Leanne?'

‘Doesn't mean I like it,' Leanne said.

Cam snatched the fax from Vince's desk and took it to his own glass-walled cubicle. As he sank into his grey metal chair he caught sight of the telephone and made a move towards it. He stopped himself and reached for his palm exerciser instead, kneading the spongy ball in his scarred hand until he felt the tension ease.

He was halfway through the fax when he gave a start. The palm exerciser fell from his hand and rolled onto the floor.

‘Last known place of employment: Glenroyd Ladies' College.' His voice bounced loudly off the steel furniture of the stark office.

With mounting excitement, Cam flicked the pages of the fax until he came to the coronial section: Autopsy yet to be completed. Then the SOCO report: Yet to be completed. Shit, the frustration of small town policing.

Then he reminded himself why he was here and his eyes were drawn again to the phone.

He forced his attention back to the fax in front of him. There was a PS from SOCO. It seemed he was correct in identifying the smell on the rag as petrol (premium unleaded, said the lab) and what's more, they'd identified the rag as being part of the waistband of a pair of King Gee work shorts. He wondered if the waistband could be matched up to any clothing the victim was wearing. There'd been no visible trace of clothing on the burned body but there was always the chance of fibre or chemical residue.

He tapped his pen against his teeth for a moment, then phoned the pathologist in Toorrup. He'd met Doctor McManus at the crime scene the other day and had been struck by his pleasant, approachable manner.

‘Can't you tell me anything yet, Doc? Fibres? Chemicals?'

‘Sorry, no, Sergeant. He's on tomorrow's list though.'

‘You checked out his teeth, so you must have had a look at him.'

‘Just a cursory glance when I made the dental impression I'm afraid.'

‘How about a time of death then?'

‘Oh, going by the crusting of the skin and the hydration levels, I can pretty well make an estimate that this person was dead approximately twelve hours before he was burned. I can't give you anything more
accurate until I've opened him up.'

Twelve hours before he'd been burned.

Cam thanked the pathologist and hung up, then started to scribble a time line on the pad in front of him. Ruth Tilly reported the fire at eleven on Sunday morning. The fire brigade arrived at 11.20 and extinguished the fire. They hadn't noticed the body, situated as it was away from the perimeter of the fire and camouflaged among the burned debris.

Jo Bowman found the charred body at approximately ten o'clock the following morning, Monday.

Herbert Bell must have died sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning.

He doodled some curly question marks on the pad, then wrote the name Cliff Donovan. Cliff was captain of the bushfire brigade and town mechanic. Underneath Cliff 's name he wrote Angelo Arnoldi, then fire assistant, apprentice mechanic.

Ruby's boyfriend?

His chin dropped on to his hand and he drew some large circles around Angelo's name.

There was a tap at the door.

‘Hey, Sarge. You looked like you needed a cuppa.' Leanne peered into the office as if there might be a man-eating lion sitting at his desk.

‘Thanks, put it here.' Cam cleared a space on his messy desk. The girl put the cup down and turned to leave.

‘Wait a minute,' he said. ‘Shut the door and come in, take a seat.'

Leanne glanced back at Vince's hunched form in the front office.

‘We need to talk about the Bell case,' Cam said in a voice loud enough for the Senior Constable to hear.

He unlocked the filing cabinet, riffled through the bulging dividers then thumped a pile of files on his desk. ‘I've been going through some old case files, trying to get a feel of the place, pinpointing the trouble spots. There's not much I wouldn't expect to find in a country town of this size: stock theft, burglary, property damage, shoplifting – some cases solved, others unsolved.' He stopped reading and looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I've also been going through the personnel files, and frankly, I'm not liking everything I read.'

She shifted in her chair and began to bite at her lower lip.

‘Relax. I'm talking about Vince.' Cam shuffled through the stack of files before him.

She blew the fringe out of her eyes and leaned towards the desk, her eyes straining to look at the extracted file. He tapped at it with his pen. ‘This is the hoo-hah over the liquor licence for the footy club.'

Leanne jumped to her feet. ‘But, Sarge, I tried to explain that to Sergeant Baker.'

Sergeant Baker was Cam's predecessor and was married to Vince's sister. Upon his retirement he had taken off on a world cruise and was now conveniently incommunicado.

‘I've no idea how that happened,' she continued with a wail in her voice. ‘It's gone into my file, hasn't it?'

‘The paper trail led to you.'

‘But shit, Sarge –' Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Sorry, excuse me.
Gosh
,
Sarge, I wouldn't do anything like that. I don't even like beer and neither does Mum. Why would I put a dodgy liquor licence through for a lousy carton of beer?'

‘Sit down, will you?'

She sat with a heavy thump and crossed her arms.

‘Don't worry, I know you didn't – and if Sergeant Baker thought you did, he'd have taken more action. Someone else compromised you to save their own arse, someone who's been milking the system for too long. You're just one of many who've been affected.'

Cam shot Vince a look through the glass partition before delving into another file, producing a wad of complaints. ‘I've spent the last couple of days going through these,' he said. ‘Do you know anything about the dangerous driving ticket issued to Ms Joanne Bowman last month?'

Leanne shook her head.

‘It was issued by Vince. Later Ms Bowman lodged a complaint against him for sexual harassment – though the complaint's now been withdrawn. I'm going to have a word with her. I want to know why she suddenly withdrew it.' He thought back to the scene in the science lab and the concoction in the vial. ‘She and her friend gave me the impression that Vince had been giving them a hard time.'

‘I don't know anything about that,' Leanne said. She was obviously uncomfortable with his line of questioning; a bullying senior officer could make life hell for a probationer.

‘There are scores of other complaints against Vince. I'm compiling the facts for an Internal Affairs investigation. You'll have to do some serious thinking and get your liquor licence story straight. You might even be called to testify against him.'

Leanne swallowed. ‘You mean become a whistleblower?'

‘Any instances of sexual harassment need to be thought about, too. That was a fine example in the front office just now.' He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Don't worry, I'll be behind you all the way.'

The look on her face told him his reassurances didn't count for much.

‘You won't be the only one. I'll be speaking to the others.' Cam took a sip of coffee. Leanne took it as a sign of dismissal and stood to leave.

‘Hang on,' Cam said. ‘We have Bell's approximate time of death as late Saturday night to early Sunday morning. I want you to trace his movements over that weekend. Find out who was last to see him alive. Get his picture off the computer and start with the pubs.'

Leanne glanced nervously in Vince's direction.

‘I can't spare Vince. You'll have to go alone.'

Leanne sighed with relief.

‘Off you go now,' Cam said, reaching for the phone.