Murderer's Thumb (6 page)

Matt wore a black pair and an old red T-shirt with holes along the collar. He fired up the engine, and they drove off, dust billowing behind them.

The eight-kilometre drive to the football ground took them past the Pattersons Creek bridge, where the road sign had been bent sideways and pockmarked with bullet holes. The entrance to the silage paddock was decked in police tape, fluttering like a sales display. Adam tried to see if the police were there, but the angle was wrong and he saw nothing but straggly melaleucas and the yellow tractor, now parked closer to the gate.

‘They've moved the tractor,' Adam said.

‘The cops wanted it shifted,' Matt stammered.

‘Did you shift it?'

‘Dad did, y…yesterday.'

‘Have they found out anything?' Adam said, looking at Matt, whose eyes were firmly on the road.

Matt blushed and his mouth twisted furiously before he said, ‘Reckon it's f…female, aged between fifteen and thirty. Died from a head injury.' His words stuck in the air, echoing against the drone of the engine.

Adam wanted him to talk more. ‘Bet you miss Emma,' he prompted.

‘Yeah.'

‘What was she like?'

‘Sh…She loved me.'

‘Well, you're her brother…'

‘No. She
really
loved me. Told me not to talk to girls or she'd get angry.'

Adam shifted in his seat. The way Matt spoke was creepy. ‘Why would she get angry?'

‘B…because…she loved me,' he said glancing at Adam. Then he added, ‘They say it's going to be another dry winter.'

‘Yeah, but—'

‘Worst drought I've ever seen,' Matt stammered. His eyes were fixed on the road again.

Adam didn't press him any further, but he couldn't help feeling that Matt's answers were odd. What was his relationship to Emma? Just how close were they?

They drove in silence for a few kilometres until they reached the Castlebrook Road turnoff. The road sign was barely legible; it had been used for target practice and the initials CC were spray-painted over the top.

‘What's CC?' Adam asked.

Matt shrugged. ‘Dunno. Some group of kids.'

‘Did you go shooting when you were a kid?' Adam asked.

‘Not me.'

‘Did you ever leave notes signed MT around the old house?'

‘Dunno, m…might have. What do you mean? Did you find some?'

‘Just some old papers in a desk,' Adam lied.

‘Not a diary?' Matt said.

‘No, no, nothing like that,' Adam said hastily.

‘N…never had a diary. Don't like writing,' he said. ‘But I read things. They're raising the price of butterfat by two cents a litre next week.'

Adam stared at him. What the hell was he on about? He tried to steer the conversation back. ‘You know the desk that was left in the old house?'

‘Yeah.'

‘One of the drawers is locked and I can't find the key.' He paused, glancing at Matt to see if there was any recognition, any reaction. Nothing. ‘I was wondering about that key you wear around your neck. Could I borrow it to see if it opens the drawer?'

Matt took one hand off the wheel to touch his necklace. ‘This?'

‘Yeah.'

Matt blushed again. ‘Oh, I dunno. I s'pose…if you want, but it's special. I want it back.'

‘Why's it special?'

‘She told me to look after it.'

‘Who?'

‘N…never seen a drought this bad.'

‘Who, Matt? Who gave you the key?'

‘They say it's worse up north. They're selling all their milkers.'

Adam sighed. If Matt didn't want to say, why didn't he just tell Adam to mind his own business? ‘You'll get it back, don't worry.'

They entered Redvale without incident and drove through the main street, with its faded general store, cement tennis courts, two-storey hotel and dilapidated scout hall. Adam was beginning to think Snake's warning about Matt's driving was bullshit until they turned left for the football ground and almost ran up the arse of a car towing a trailer.

Matt swerved and accelerated past, muttering, ‘I saw him, I saw him.'

Adam exhaled. The boost of adrenaline made his neck prickle and his head buzz. It sharpened his senses. It was a feeling he liked.

The football ground was nestled at the foot of a hill. Red brick clubrooms and a stand of tall gum trees looked out over the field. The drought had been unkind to the playing surface: it was the colour of weak tea.

A group of men jogged the boundary. Adam was dying to be out there with them. Snake had said that although six o'clock was the official starting time, things never really got going till half-past. Matt parked next to the line of cars, bonnets facing out to watch the action.

‘All set?' Matt asked.

‘Sure,' Adam said, grabbing his water bottle and bag and taking a deep breath. He followed Matt up to the change rooms where they left their bags on the benches and hung their towels. Then they were out the door and jogging down the players' race.

The moment Adam descended the race he could sense the waiting players' admiration. He knew what they were thinking…big strong youth…hands like plates of meat… could probably kick the ball a fair way...

It wouldn't last long. Soon enough they'd look him in the eye and back away, wary and unsure. It happened every time. The Falcon Ridge-Redvale football team would be no different.

A cluster of young men pulled up from their preliminary jog around the oval. A dozen others were doing hamstring stretches along the fence. An overweight man, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and his thongs, placed orange witches hats at strategic positions around the ground.

Adam walked towards the main group, determined not to let his nervousness show. A few guys shook Adam's hand. He could tell they didn't know where to look. The coach, a square-jawed man in black shorts and T-shirt came forward. His biceps, as round as turnips, bulged from his sleeves.

‘G'day, I'm Birdie,' he said. He looked Adam over as if appraising a race horse, then said, ‘You play in the ruck?'

Adam shook his head. ‘More a half-back, defender.'

‘Pity, we could do with someone your size. Better go and stretch, then two laps of the oval,' Birdie said.

Adam jogged over to the fence with Matt. Three other blokes were already lined up, heads bent towards their knees, stretching. As Adam pressed his left foot into the fence and leant forward he heard a woman's voice call out.

‘Can I get a shot or two for the
Standard
, boys?'

Adam looked up. The standard what, he wondered. The girl was blonde with pink streaks, wearing a singlet and shorts, a camera held out in front of her face. Before anyone had time to react she'd taken a few snaps and moved onto the field to catch the rest of the team.

Snake's familiar voice rang out from behind the line of parked cars. ‘You decided to give it a go, Stats?'

Adam waved, but didn't shout back. He pushed into his stretch.

Snake loped over. He looked emaciated in his footy shorts and blue singlet: all bone and sinew. His face was red; looked as if it had been scrubbed raw and his wiry hair stood out thickly from his head.

‘Thought you might chicken out,' Snake said.

Adam shrugged him off, ‘Nah, not me.' But he couldn't dismiss the knot of tension in his gut, the feeling that everyone was watching and judging him.

After an hour and fifteen minutes of running, tackling, kicking and marking, Birdie told them all to head back to the showers. Adam was impressed by some of the players. Matt marked the ball, dodged and ran effortlessly, kicking it far into the setting sun. The coach's younger brother Mongrel Byrd, a thickset man with piggy dark eyes, was relentless in defence. He tackled and punched the ball away with furious intent. Most of the others were average, or worse. Especially Snake. He had to be the worst player on the field, dropping the ball, kicking crooked and handpassing to fresh air. But no one could match his enthusiasm.

On the way up to the showers someone clapped Adam on the back. ‘Solid work-out, mate.'

Adam spun around. It was Mongrel. His face was scarlet and a thin vein stuck out on his forehead.

‘Looks like you did a bit of running yourself,' Adam said.

‘Can run all day if I have to,' he said.

‘You're a fitter man than me then,' Adam laughed.

‘Heard you been digging up gruesome things in the silage,' he said, stringing out the words for emphasis.

Adam flinched. ‘Who told you?' he asked, immediately suspecting Snake.

Mongrel flashed Adam a wide grin. ‘Word gets around. Small town stuff. Should come over for a beer one night. Swap a few stories, go spotlighting.'

Adam didn't know how to respond. Beer? This guy was pushy. What did he want? ‘I suppose…one day…yeah, right.'

‘How about Friday night? I'll come round after eight.'

‘Um…OK, fine.' The invite to drink echoed in his head. Rosemary would freak if she knew he planned on drinking. She'd probably try to talk him out of going anywhere with Mongrel if she knew. But she didn't have to know. He had nothing else planned. And what was there to do around here anyway? Boring hole of a town. Still, the thought of spending time with a dickhead like Mongrel wasn't inspiring.

‘Great,' Mongrel said. He jogged up the race to the showers.

Adam and the rest of the mob trudged after him. It stank inside: a mixture of wet wood, liniment, sweat and urinals. The spit and splatter of the showers mingled with the hubbub of voices. Men huddled naked under the three outlets, or snatched for towels back at the benches.

Adam peeled off his T-shirt, wet with sweat. Then he prised off his sneakers.

‘You did all right,' Matt said as he stripped down.

‘I'm not much good, but—'

‘Don't believe it,' Matt said. He took his necklace off and handed it to Adam. ‘L…look after it,' he said. ‘Do you think you'll join up?'

‘Yeah.' Adam felt tired, hot and satisfied. It was great to play footy again, to get out and run till his lungs burnt. He'd missed it for too long. Country hicks or not, it was his chance to keep playing, and in the reserves team at that! And the standard wasn't too high, he didn't feel outclassed.

He looked over to where Snake was getting dressed. After Adam had told him so clearly not to spread the word, it was obvious that he'd been telling the whole football club. How could he be such a bastard? Adam would have to watch Snake, not trust him with any secrets. Adam and Rosemary had been betrayed before. Kazek would be on their trail again if they weren't careful.

Adam was disappointed. He'd thought Snake was friendly and honest. Now he wasn't so sure. Snake was a good nickname for him; snake in the grass.

SEVEN

After dinner Adam tried the key in the desk drawer. It was the right size, slotting in neatly. But it wouldn't turn.

‘Shit!'

He sighed and unfolded the note again. The eighty-ninth key? The clue was plain. There must be eighty-eight keys. Piss off! No one has that many. He clenched the small key in his hand and willed it to reveal the answer. Nothing. He placed it on the desk in front of him. Key, key, lock, turn, open, unlock, padlock. Words floated in his mind. He jotted them down on a note pad, as if brainstorming for a crossword clue that had him stumped. Nothing came of it. He twirled the pencil in his fingers until it spun around his thumb then clattered to the floor. This wasn't going to beat him. Adam knew from experience that the more a solution eluded him, the more obsessed he became, until something in his subconscious snapped and the answer would appear. All the while Matt's little key held his gaze, taunting him, fooling him. He just hadn't reached that magic moment yet. Frustrated, he picked it up and went down to the Thackerays' house.

The red farm dog barked when he approached but wagged its tail and ambled about in a canine welcome dance. Adam patted it, let it sniff his hand as he walked to the house. The flyscreen door was closed, but the main one wasn't. He peered inside. Blue and grey overalls hung in a row opposite the door. He was about to call out when a figure appeared in the gloom: a tall, thin, middle-aged woman.

‘Hello, you looking for Matt?' she said. Her voice was dreamy, vague.

Adam jumped back from the doorway with a start. ‘Uh, yeah…is he in?'

The woman held the flyscreen door open with bony fingers. She studied Adam's face impassively. Her nose was long and sharp. Adam was reminded of a large flightless bird.

‘I'll go and see, shall I?' she said.

She slipped back into the house and left Adam on the doorstep, the door ajar. He didn't know whether to go inside or stay out. He hadn't been invited in exactly, but then she hadn't made a point of shutting the door in his face either. Curiosity won over; he stepped inside.

He was in a small entrance room which housed a chest freezer, an assortment of brooms, a built-in cupboard, and a mop and bucket. There were pairs of gumboots on the floor, underneath the boiler suits. The door to the left led deeper into the house. The one on the right led to the laundry.

Adam turned and noticed something hanging behind the back door. It was a wooden board of keys, dozens of them. He couldn't believe it. The keys hung on little nails, four rows of five. Twenty hooks for twenty keys—not eighty-eight. But if each hook held multiple keys, he mused, then he might find what he was looking for. Fat chance! Something was written beneath the bottom row, in fine black letters on the wood. Adam was positive it was the same neat loopy writing that was on the note attached to the desk. It read:

You're not in the right key.

A joke, a musical reference or another clue? It had to be. The image of the piano back in his lounge room flashed into Adam's brain. Pianos had lots of keys—maybe eighty-eight.

The sound of footsteps padding down the hallway made him draw away from the keys. Matt came into view, his eyes hopeful, mouth slack.