Hell to Pay (24 page)

“That dyke across the road, you mean?”

“I’ve been told by more than one source that Mrs. Latimer was intending to divorce your son. Leaving home was the first step to doing that.”

Nothing altered in Leonard Latimer’s chemistry. “News to me.”

“Your son didn’t tell you? I’m astonished.”

“I didn’t know anything about any divorce talk.”

“If Alison had divorced your son, how would that have affected business?”

“What do you mean?”

“Legal fees,” Hirsch said, “settlement costs, alimony. You’re already struggling, money-wise, can’t pay your bills. You’d be forced to sell part of the farm.”

“All academic now.” Latimer said.

No satisfaction, slyness or triumph, just the bald truth. Hirsch opened his mouth for another question and heard voices within the house. Looking past Leonard’s shoulder, he said, “Are Ray and the boys inside?”

“Leave us alone. We’re grieving. And for your information the property’s not struggling.”

“Perhaps I’ll pop in later.”

“Perhaps you won’t. The undertaker’s bringing Allie home tomorrow and on Saturday we’re cremating her.”

They’d released the body? News to Hirsch. He pocketed his notebook. Away to the east a helicopter clattered into view, running along the line of wind turbines on the ridge.
Maybe it’s partly down to the turbines
, Hirsch thought. None had been erected on Latimer soil, meaning no rental income. But in the nick of time had come news of Alison’s inheritance—except that
that
rug had been pulled from under their feet when she announced she was getting a divorce and taking her money with her.

Leaving Finola Armstrong with her adjoining property and wind farm income.

Hirsch beamed at Leonard. “I expect your son will soon find arms to comfort him.”

H
IRSCH WENT BACK AND
logged on to his email. He read the one from Rosie DeLisle first.
Letting you know that Jennifer Dee’s father was best mates with Reid. The suicide hit him hard, so looks like the daughter decided to do something about it
. “But what are you going to do about
her
,” muttered Hirsch.

The next email caused him to reach for the phone, dial the number for the Forensic Science Building in the city. Connected to a technician, he cited the reference number and heard the soft rattle of a keyboard.

“Got it,” the tech said. “Point two two caliber Brno bolt action. What about it?”

Peering at his computer, Hirsch said, “Says here you found the victim’s palm and fingerprints on the stock and the butt.”

“Correct.”

“Not on the barrel?”

“Correct.”

“Wouldn’t you expect her to grasp the barrel so she could place the end of it in her mouth? Wouldn’t you expect to find prints there?”

“That’s your concern, bud. I’ve known people to do all kinds of things when they shoot themselves. Me, I run tests.
Science
. Motives, impulsive behavior, they don’t concern me.”

Hirsch heard a young voice and pictured the guy: about thirty, breezy, loved his job, loved the science and the technology—but maybe he was crap at relationships. “Okay, but scientists speculate, right?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“You’ve seen the photos?”

“I have.”

“The victim’s thumb is still inside the trigger guard, hooked around the trigger.”

“Yeah, so?”

“How often would you expect to see that?”

“As against what?”

“As against the body going into spasms, jerking, arms flinging out.”

“I see what you mean. But, a first time for everything. No two shootings are alike.”

Hirsch moved on, rocking back in his chair and glancing out across the front desk to the community notices. “You found tiny amounts of gunshot residue on her hand and sleeve.”

“Correct.”

“
Tiny
amounts.”

“What about it?”

“And none in her lap or on her thighs?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t you expect to, if she sat on the ground with the gun between her legs?”

“Mate, I’ve seen everything.”

“And that’s your scientific conclusion,” Hirsch said.

“I wouldn’t want to get vague on you,” the tech said.

Next, Hirsch phoned the forensic pathologist. She was slicing and dicing; she’d call back, the morgue assistant said. Hirsch
waited. He should step outside and wash the HiLux before the area commander saw it again, but he waited.

She called an hour later. Thanking her, Hirsch said, “I understand you’ve released the body for burial.”

“Correct.”

The voice of a busy, short-shrift woman. Hirsch wasted no time: “Under cause of death you put gunshot wound to the head.”

“Yes.”

“You go on to say that foul play, accident and suicide are, quote, ‘unascertainable.’ ”

“Correct.”

“May I ask what you mean by that?”

“It means exactly what it says. I do not know if another party was present, I do not know the state of the victim’s mind at the time of death, I do not know the choreography, for want of a better word, of her last few moments of life. She might have been enjoying the sunshine, idly playing with the rifle until a bunny rabbit came hopping into range and, in manoeuvring the rifle, accidentally shot herself. Or she committed suicide. Or someone staged it. Did she leave a note?”

“No.”

“Like I said, ‘unascertainable.’ ”

“But suggestive?”

“You know I won’t speculate.”

Please speculate
, Hirsch thought.

Instead, the pathologist said, “I can’t rule anything absolutely in or absolutely out. ‘Unascertainable’ does not mean the death wasn’t suspicious or wasn’t accidental. A gunshot to the head was the cause of death but an autopsy cannot ascertain the circumstances surrounding it.”

“You’ve informed the Port Pirie CIB?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“I have no idea what they’ll do with it. I merely passed on my report.”

“Okay, what about the marks on the body?”

“I found a subcutaneous bruise just above the collarbone when I peeled back the skin on the right side of her neck, and—”

“Suggestive of someone trying to throttle her?”

“You’re jumping the gun. I can’t ascertain what happened. And if you will let me continue, I also found a couple of tiny abrasions on her abdomen, a small bruise on one breast, a cut on the back of her left wrist, all trivial.”

“Suggestive of …?”

“A word you seem to like, Constable Hirschhausen. Suggestive of ordinary wear and tear from housework or gardening, for all I know, and so, again, ‘unascertainable.’ ”

I hope that someone, somewhere, is ascertaining something
, Hirsch thought. Before he could speak, the pathologist added, “On the other hand, when people die violently—when they shoot themselves, for example—or are in a heightened mental state, they mark or injure themselves. I’ve seen it in cases of anxiety and panic attacks, a need to wrench at upper body clothing, for example.”

“But you’ve also seen women who have been forcibly manhandled.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t ascertain that that happened in this case?”

“No.”

“Anything under her nails?”

“No.”

“Recent sexual activity?”

“No.”

“What about
old
injuries?”

“She’d fractured her wrist at some point in the past.”

“How? Could someone have bent it back, twisted it?”

“That I can’t ascertain,” the pathologist said.

“Toxicology?”

“Negative.”

“Underlying medical conditions?”

“None.”

“You’ve been a great help,” lied Hirsch.

N
EXT HE CALLED PORT
Pirie, the lead detective reciting him the highlights of his report: “ ‘… death consistent with a self-administered gunshot wound with further investigations pending’—meaning that’s as far as we’ll take it. Meaning you’re preparing the brief, so it’s your job to tell the coroner she was nuts. Sorry, balance of her mind was disturbed.”

“But,” said Hirsch, outlining his buts, concluding with the pathologist’s claim of unascertainable.

“Exactly. It means foul play can be ruled out.”

“No,” said Hirsch, “it means that foul play
can’t
be ruled out. In other words, foul play might be ruled in, if other evidence is found.”

“Semantics,” the voice from Port Pirie said, “and there is no other evidence.”

T
HREE HOURS LATER, SPURLING
was standing at the front counter.

“You rocking the boat, Sunshine?”

You came all the way down here to ask me that?
“Sir?”

“My detectives can’t see that any further action is needed on Latimer.”

“So they told me, sir, but I need to be thorough.”

“Oh, is that it? Do you have evidence of foul play?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“When you do,
if
you do, I want to hear about it.”

“Sir.”

“Meanwhile, do you know a Wendy Street?”

“I have met her,” Hirsch said carefully.

“And?”

“Schoolteacher, nice woman, widow, I think.”

“Not the troublemaking sort?”

“I wouldn’t say so, but I don’t really know. Why?”

“She’s called for a public protest meeting, police bullying in Redruth.”

“Oh.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open, all right?”

“Sir.”

“And get that bloody windscreen fixed.”

FRIDAY MORNING, HIRSCH PARKED outside Redruth Automotive.

It was a sprawling place a couple of blocks from the motel, and “Automotive” was a catch-all term: you could buy a used car from the dozen tired vehicles in the side yard, fill your tank from one of three bowsers, diesel, unleaded and premium unleaded, get your oil changed or motor tinkered with in the workshop and, in a vast, silvery shed out the back, have your scratches, dents and crumples smoothed over.

That’s where Hirsch found the boss. “Sergeant Kropp said you’re the man to see about a cracked windscreen,” he said, blinking as he stepped from drenching sunlight into shadows, air laced with chemicals and the stutter and clang of machinery.

Bernie Judd grunted, muscling past Hirsch to stare at the HiLux. Then he shook his head as if confirming worst fears. “She’s stuffed, mate. Can’t be repaired. I can replace it for you.”

He was shorter than Hirsch, older, full of twitches and fury like a man who has sworn off cigarettes and alcohol. He glanced again at the windscreen, critically along each flank of the vehicle, then at his watch, Hirsch’s uniform and finally somewhere
past Hirsch’s right ear. Stubby ginger hair on a bumpy scalp, fine gingery hair on his forearms and wrists, gingery freckles, grimy nails. A lopsided face, as though he held contradictory positions at once, condoner and judge.

“Take long to get one in?” Hirsch asked.

Judd jerked his head. “Got a good one out the back. Off a wreck, but not a scratch on it.”

“Done,” Hirsch said. “When?”

“Got things to do in town? Be ready in a couple of hours.”

Hirsch handed over the keys. “We’ve been investigating that hit-and-run up at Muncowie. I guess the others have already asked if any vehicle has come in with—”

“Like I told Nicholson, nothing’s come in.”

Hirsch nodded philosophically. “Has he been working here for long?”

“Wouldn’t call it working here. Him and his mate give me a hand now and then.” He glared at Hirsch. “There a law against it?”

Hirsch shook his head. Plenty of police regulations, though. He peered into the dimness again, at the hoists, paint bays, drums, workbenches and two young and three slightly older men in overalls. The only vehicles in there were a farm ute patched with pink primer, a station wagon with a crumpled tailgate and a Honda he recognized as belonging to Finola Armstrong. “You do small jobs? My own car has a couple of dents.”

“We do everything. Give you a good price,” Judd said, staring at the silver watch face nestled in the ginger furze surrounding his wrist. “Would this be an insurance job?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly,” Judd said. “Well, bring her in and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Fair enough.” Hirsch turned to go. “Getting back to that hit-and-run: they reckon Melia Donovan was in an accident two or three weeks prior, older boyfriend. Know anything about that?”

“Not me. See you in a couple of hours.”

“Wasn’t Nicholson, was it? We were having a laugh the other day how his girlfriend crashed his car only she didn’t have a license so he had to do some quick thinking.”

A kind of stillness settled in Judd. As if Hirsch hadn’t changed the subject he said, “Give me your mobile number. As soon as we’ve fitted the glass, I’ll give you a bell.”

H
IRSCH WALKED
.

First to a café, where the coffee was tepid and weak, the vanilla slice gluey and the conversations limited to the weather. It was going to be a long, hot summer. Not that anyone asked for Hirsch’s opinion. Customers and staff averted their faces from him. His uniform worked to shut him off, and so, as he sipped and chewed, he tried to imagine how Wendy Street’s public protest meeting might play out. He saw a big room, perhaps in the town hall, with Superintendent Spurling, a public relations inspector, a deputy commissioner and maybe Kropp himself seated at a large table at the head of the room, trying for smiles and patience and genial common sense. But the crowd would not have logic or patience on its side, only heat and hurt. One by one they would stand, awkward men and women who’d felt fine and flashing moments before but now, in the spotlight, tripped over their words and lost the threads of their accusations. A disordered atmosphere, the crowd blurting accusations that trailed into nothing or were overheated or roamed off the point, while Spurling and the others tried to smile and reassure and give everyone a fair go and water it all down with platitudes fed them by the public relations guy.

Where would Nicholson and Andrewartha be? Seated in the front row, solid and aggrieved, their uniforms too tight on them, their upper bodies so beefy they couldn’t fold their arms with comfort—but wanting to, to show contempt or indifference. Their wives would sit with them, mirror images of their husbands, large, dimly intelligent, stubborn, sulky. Kropp’s wife? She’d be out of sight somewhere.