Hell to Pay (10 page)

But Hirsch met Yvonne Muir, the neighbor who’d been comforting Leanne Donovan the previous day. “Yoo-hoo,” she called, a thin, edgy figure where her husband was solid and comfortable, and she came across her yard and stopped at the side fence—but still in motion, her hands patting her hair, smoothing her dress, centering her necklace. She took a deep breath and said, “You’re the new policeman. You met my husband yesterday.” She added, in an expense of strength and feeling, “Has something happened?”

Hirsch shook his head. “A follow-up visit, that’s all.”

With an air of tiptoeing through the proprieties, Muir said, “She’s at her mother’s today. In Jamestown. Back tomorrow.”

Hirsch didn’t pursue it. “Have you known Mrs. Donovan for long?”

“Ten years. More.”

“Are you friends, would you say?”

“Friends and neighbors. Are you sure nothing’s wrong? It’s not Nathan, is it? You leave that boy alone.”

Hirsch was tired. Needing to cut through the thickets, he said, “Mrs. Muir, I’m helping investigate Melia’s accident, that’s all. A few questions and I’ll be out of their hair.”

“Please go easy on them.”

It was an entreaty, yet with some steel in it. “Okay,” said Hirsch carefully, inviting an explanation.

“That family’s been through a lot,” the woman said and she whisked back into her house.

H
IRSCH SLIPPED HIS CARD
into the doorjamb and walked back to the highway and the general store.

Inside, the air currents moved sluggishly, the day’s warmth coming to a head. Two cars parked snout up to the shop veranda, two customers browsing with baskets hanging from their elbows. A teenage girl he didn’t know was at the cash register, waiting.

Hirsch said, “Is Gemma here?”

Her lips peeled open slowly, she moved her head slowly. “What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Hirsch made his way to the tiny backroom office. Since yesterday the space had shrunk: hard against the walls were bundles of unsold magazines, the titles torn away, and sundry cartons of cigarettes. Tennant was behind the desk; Eileen Pitcher in the only other chair.

“Well, look who’s here.”

Hirsch ignored the shopkeeper. “Mrs. Pitcher?”

Eileen Pitcher sat knees together, a cigarette in one rawboned hand, refusing to meet Hirsch’s eye or return his greeting. He crouched where she couldn’t avoid him. “Is Gemma at home, Mrs. Pitcher?”

The woman moved then, drawing powerfully on her cigarette. “All your fault.”

“I don’t understand,” Hirsch said mildly.

“She was that upset last night.”

“After my visit?”

She gave him a what-are-ya? look.

“Where is she, Mrs. Pitcher?”

“She’s run off, that’s where she is,” Tennant said behind him.

Hirsch knee-creaked until he was upright again. “Did she say where she was going?”

Cigarette bobbing in her mouth, smoke dribbling up the curve of her cheek and into her narrowed eyes, Eileen Pitcher leaned over to fish in her cardigan pocket. The note was warm and read:
Mum I love you but I have to go away for a while don’t worry about me I am fine I will ring you I need space I done nothing wrong remember that I love you your daughter Gemma
.

“Have you tried calling her?”

“Goes to voice mail.”

“Mrs. Pitcher, is there anything we should be worried about here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she call anyone last night or this morning?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Did she pack a bag? Clothes, shoes, toiletries?”

“Course.”

“Things you’d expect her to take?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going on?” said Tennant.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Hirsch said. “She’s upset, it’s only natural. But sometime soon I will need to have a chat with her about Melia’s movements on the weekend.”

“Thought you already done that,” the mother said.

“It was a preliminary chat,” Hirsch said. “I could see she was too upset to go on.”

“My daughter doesn’t know nothing about nothing.”

“Of course not,” Hirsch said. “Just a formality.”

He glanced at Tennant. “If you could give me a moment with Mrs. Pitcher …”

The shopkeeper didn’t like it. “I keep an eye on Eileen and Gemma. They don’t need any aggravation.”

“That’s not my intention.”

“Go easy, okay?”

“Mr. Tennant.”

“All right, all right, I’m going.”

When he was gone, Hirsch closed the door, crouched by the woman’s knees again. “Mrs. Pitcher, is this Gemma’s handwriting?”

Pitcher began to tremble full-on, her free hand plucking at her top button, ash falling from her cigarette. “Of course it is, what do you mean, are you saying she—”

“When did you find the note?”

“When I got home just now.”

“Where were you?”

“I help out down the pub.”

“Where was the note?”

“Kitchen table.”

“Had Gemma locked up before she left?”

Pitcher jetted smoke across the room. “That girl never locks up, never turns off lights, never picks up after herself …”

“Was anything disturbed or out of place?”

“You’re making me scared.”

“Standard questions, Mrs. Pitcher.”

“You think something’s happened to her.”

“Heavens, no,” Hirsch said. “But there will be an inquest eventually and Gemma might be called and it would be good if we were all on the same page.”

How many times in his career had Hirsch waffled on like that? It was part of being a cop, he supposed. “How about,” he said, “you make me a list of her friends, anyone, family included, who she might visit or call. We’ll contact them together.”

“She’s gone off in me car. Can’t you put out a whatchamacallit, alert?”

“Do you wish to report it stolen?”

Pitcher worried at it. “Will that get her into trouble?”

“It might.”

“No.”

“Can you survive without a car for a few days?”

The woman slumped. “I’ll need it eventually.”

“For now,” Hirsch said, “let’s concentrate on those calls.”

T
HEY USED HER KITCHEN
phone.

The house was as airless as the store and laced with cigarette smoke and emanations from the kitty litter heaped inside the laundry door, which opened onto the kitchen. As Eileen compiled the list of names and numbers, Hirsch made the calls, figuring it was easier for people to deny her than a policeman. Fifteen calls, getting him nowhere.

Hirsch gave up then. Maybe her Facebook page would reveal her whereabouts. “Does Gemma have a computer?”

“One of those laptop things,” Eileen said, taking him to a bedroom that was pretty much furnished by a floordrobe, movie
posters and unmade single bed. Hirsch didn’t bother stepping over the discarded clothes. There was a printer but no sign of a laptop.

He returned to the police station. The first aid box was missing from the boot of his car.

HIRSCH GOT OUT OF bed at six-shitty on Wednesday, drained a coffee and exercised: stretches, then a walk around the town.

Tiverton seemed deserted. Perhaps country people didn’t walk or jog? He took their point: they knew the place, worked hard at physical labor all day, so what was the point? A couple of passing motorists eyed him, curtains twitched and mad dogs raced as he invaded fences and hedges. He gazed benignly at the school, the little grain business along a side street, the Catholic church and the Anglican, various back and side yards, chook sheds, a skeletal horse on a patch of dirt. Galahs screeched in the gum trees and it occurred to him that he’d not been hearing the sounds of big city life these past three weeks. No traffic, no hoons with sound systems, no voices spilling from cafés. Only galahs in the trees.

Back in the office, he fired up the computer. One email, headed
Quine hearing
: starting Monday, Hirsch was obliged to present himself at the hearing into allegations of corruption against Senior Sergeant Marcus Quine and other detectives of the Paradise Gardens CIB.

Hirsch acknowledged, then fired an email to Sergeant Kropp, explaining the circumstances.
So I’ll be in Adelaide all next week, sorry, Sarge
.

A
FTER BREAKFAST, HE MADE
another run at the Donovans’ house. The tired Mazda had returned. He mounted the veranda, reached out his knuckles and knocked.

Nothing. He looked across at the Muirs’, sensing their eyes on him.

Just then the red door screeched and a woman appeared, rounded, not plump, untidily beautiful, drawing a brush through damp red hair. Taking in Hirsch’s uniform she said, “Rose said you’d dropped by.”

As if he’d been an old friend passing. Hirsch removed his cap and said, “I’m very sorry, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through, everyone has such kind things to say about Melia, but I wonder if I could have a quick word with you and Nathan?”

He stopped, conscious that he was babbling. The door widened and he was hit by a front of stale warm air from inside the house, faintly laced with alcohol and dope. “Only if it’s convenient. I could come back tomorrow.”

Everything stopped. Leanne Donovan was very still in her doorway, her eyes clear and searching, then her hands moved, squeezing the end of a rope of the thick hair. Fresh out of the shower, her body was scented with shampoo and lotions and, despite himself, Hirsch was aware of her flesh beneath the green sundress.

“Nathan’s not here.”

“That’s all right, I’ll catch him another time. Could I come inside, do you think?”

Her voice came raggedly, “It’s like a bad dream,” and her eyes filled.

“Yes. I’m very sorry.”

She dropped where she stood and might have slapped onto the cement front step if not for the doorframe and Hirsch
grabbing her around the waist. “Let’s get you inside. Would you like me to fetch Mrs. Muir?”

“That’s okay.”

Her legs found their strength and Hirsch eased her along a narrow corridor to a worn, dimly lit sitting room. A bulky old TV set dominated one wall, powered up and showing a detergent ad, splashing a bit of blue and red over the reflective surfaces—the glass cabinet against one wall, the glossy veneer coffee table. A lived-in room, with an empty wine bottle, an overflowing ashtray, a spill of lifestyle magazines, an image of Christ on the cross, another of Christ gazing soulfully past Hirsch’s shoulder. But no grime or spills, and the only other furniture was a card table in the corner, crammed with a boxy old computer, a cheap inkjet printer beside it. Communal computer? He settled Leanne Donovan onto a floral fabric sofa, but it faced the television set, which continued to paint the room, so he found the remote control and switched it off.

“Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

Leanne fiddled with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “I’m okay.”

God, Hirsch was dreading this. “Before I start, were you told there’d be an inquest?”

Leanne nodded. “This coroner lady rang me, she said Dr. McAskill’s finished the autopsy and I can have Mel back to bury.”

There was a pause. A word you can’t sweeten, “autopsy.” It denotes a slab, knives, saws, fluids, the peeling back of flesh, the removal of organs. Hirsch said, “Do you have a day for the funeral?”

“Saturday.”

“Would you mind if I came?”

“I don’t care.”

Another pause, and Leanne said, “Dr. McAskill said she must of been hitching.”

Hirsch trod carefully. “Her injuries and the position she was found in do suggest that.”

Leanne was very still and then she reeled and wailed. Hirsch waited. She swiped a sleeve across her nostrils and gasped, “Sorry, I’m okay, it hits me out of nowhere sometimes.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t understand nothing of it. She was alone up there? Someone just left her to hitch home? Was she, you know, drunk?”

“She’d had a couple of drinks.”

“Where was Gemma? She should of been looking after her.”

“They went their separate ways earlier in the evening. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?”

“Everyone wants to make me tea. What I want is my daughter back.”

“I understand. Perhaps we could start with what Melia had planned for the weekend.”

Hirsch strained to hear the reply. “She didn’t come home, the little devil.”

“She usually comes home after a night out with Gemma?”

“She’s a good girl.”

“So you don’t know what she was doing or who she was seeing in Muncowie?”

No reaction. Hirsch didn’t know if the woman was taking it in or not, or had never taken an interest in her daughter’s movements. “Mrs. Donovan? Does she know anyone up there? Did she mention a party she was going to, for example?”

No response, then, “Nathan’s all I’ve got now.”

“Did Melia have a boyfriend, Mrs. Donovan? Could she have been with him on Saturday night?”

“Maybe.”

Hirsch felt his insides stir. “Can you give me his name? I’ll need to speak to him.”

She shook her head, her eyes weepy but alertness returning to them. “It was a secret. She didn’t want to jinx it, you know.”

“You didn’t meet him.”

“No.”

Speak to her friends, Hirsch thought. Better still, speak to
her enemies. If the boyfriend was an older man, married or single, or a farmhand, or from a town outside the district, he’d not be easy to find.

In a choked voice Leanne Donovan said, “It was a hit-and-run?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Would she of felt … Did she …”

“It was instantaneous, Mrs. Donovan,” Hirsch said, reaching out to touch her wrist before he could stop himself. He saw her shrink away and knew she was watching a nasty movie in her head.

The voice rose. “She shouldn’t of had to hitch home. Someone should of given her a lift.”

“Yes,” Hirsch said, understanding why Gemma Pitcher had left town. “We’re still not sure of her movements after the pub in Redruth.”

“She likes a good time out.”

“Think back: did she say anything about her movements, anything at all? Did she mention anyone’s name, for example?”

“Not to me,” Leanne muttered, looking mad and incomplete.

“Did Gemma usually pick her up when they went out together?”

Leanne shrugged.

“They were together in the early part of the evening but later separated. Mrs. Donovan, I’d dearly love to know who she might have hooked up with. Have a think about it, will you, please? Ask around? Get Nathan to ask his mates?”