The Twisted Knot (10 page)

27

Faye lived in a modest cottage within walking distance of the centre of town. They had rung Mel to find out the exact address and she had explained that when Faye's husband had passed away, she had left the farm to her two sons and moved into town because she didn't drive. Mel said there was some story about her not wanting to stay at the farm, and lots of speculation on the reasons why.

So Peter had kept the house and run the farm. Barry had split off a portion of the land and sold it. He'd bought a new house in a good part of town when he became engaged to Belinda. By all accounts, Faye kept to herself and kept out of her sons' business – good, bad or otherwise.

Sammi rang the doorbell, waited, then knocked. She glanced at an unkempt flowerbed next to the front door. It was littered with cigarette butts. She couldn't see past the chenille curtains into the front room but the slow creak of floorboards suggested someone was at home somewhere. She rapped again more loudly, her knuckles stinging as they hit the door with force.

‘Hello. Police,' she called for good measure. She heard footsteps now, but it still took another moment before the front door swung open.

It was hard to tell how old the woman was, but ‘very old' was a good start. She was small, and appeared even smaller because of the way she stooped and rocked when she walked. She had long white hair, wisps of which escaped from a loose ponytail. Her face was deeply lined liked a scrunched-up piece of paper. She looked older than Sammi had expected. Mel had said that the date of birth listed on the computer put her age at seventy-one. Suddenly Sammi was unsure if she had knocked on the right door.

‘Hello,' the woman said, looking at them curiously. ‘I thought I heard someone knocking. Can I help you?'

‘Bob and Sammi from the police,' Sammi said, waving her hand between them by way of introduction. ‘We're looking for Faye Woodford.'

‘That's me,' the lady said, still looking expectant.

Now that she knew she was talking to the next of kin, Sammi let her face drop and her mouth purse.

‘May we come in, please? We need to talk to you about Peter,' Sammi said, in a low tone of voice.

‘Oh,' Faye said. Her face also dropped. She stepped aside and ushered them into the house.

Bob gave Faye a small nod as he walked in behind Sammi. He had his hands folded in front of him as he walked into the lounge room. The unmistakable odour of tobacco hung low in the air, masking an underlying scent of mothballs. The room was sparsely furnished, and everything looked worn and dusty. It fitted perfectly with the woman who owned it. They all took a seat in the lounge room, Sammi sitting down carefully so her holster didn't get caught on the arm of the lounge.

Sammi took a deep breath. There was no good or right way to do a death knock. But Sammi preferred to do it quickly and without pulling any punches. Faye had sensed now that this was to be bad news. She would not hear any small talk. She would only want to know who it was and what had happened.

‘It's bad news, I'm afraid,' Sammi said. ‘Peter has died.' She avoided any euphemisms which might be open to interpretation.

With a sharp intake of breath, Faye gave a little cry and clutched at her chest.

Shit,
thought Sammi.
She's going to have a heart attack.
She reached over and caught Faye's hand in hers.

‘Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?'

Faye shut her eyes and breathed in and out deeply. She was composed again when she opened them.

‘No, dear. I'm okay. It's just a shock.' Her voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away. She reached out and took Sammi's other hand in hers, seeking the human contact as if steadying herself against Sammi even though they were both sitting down.

‘How? What happened?' she asked.

‘It looks like he has committed suicide.' Sammi squeezed the old lady's hands gently.

Faye closed her eyes and moaned softly. ‘I always thought this day may come,' she said. ‘I knew he was . . .' she paused, as if mentally groping for the right word, ‘. . . damaged,' she said. She let go of Sammi's hands in order to reach for a pack of tobacco on a side table. She rolled herself a cigarette – the paper, filter and tobacco coming together slowly but cleanly. She brought it up to her lips, licking the paper to seal the edge shut. Finally, she lit it up with a pink plastic lighter and inhaled, the lines around her lips deepening as she drew back.

Then the tears came. But there were no sobs or cries. Only silent tears following the lines of her wrinkles as they ran down her face. She still managed to take drags on her rollie as she cried.

‘I'm so sorry for your loss,' Sammi murmured. Bob shifted slightly in his chair, but seemed quite happy to be ignored.

‘I hope he's at peace now,' Faye said. ‘Finally at peace.'

Sammi and Bob exchanged glances. They had discussed this in the car on the way over. How much should they tell Peter's mum? He had a right to privacy, even though he was now dead. But his death was part of a much bigger story, one which Faye had a right to know, to put into context the things that would now arise. She lived in this community. There would be no avoiding it.

Faye puffed steadily, staring straight ahead. She didn't pause, didn't even look when the rollie was finished. Her fingers knew what to do, her eyes were not required as she rolled another smoke.

‘Did he leave a note?' she asked.

‘He did leave a note. It says “Sorry”. Nothing else,' Sammi said. She hesitated. ‘There have been some rumours around town,' she said, watching Faye's face closely to see how she would process this news.

Faye stared at Sammi, the words clearly burrowing through the wall of her grief. Then she put both of her hands over her face and started to wail, a loud primal sound at odds with the quiet old woman sitting before them. Sammi was shocked this news seemed to upset Faye more than finding out her son had killed himself.

‘He's done it again, hasn't he?' she asked between gasps.

Sammi grasped for an answer. ‘We . . . ah . . . can't say too much . . .' She remembered Faye had been babysitting when Janey had been molested, wondered what sort of lasting impact that had left on her.

Faye took a deep breath, as if drawing her pain back inside. ‘It's okay,' she said with half a hiccough. ‘It's okay . . .' She tapered off, breathing deeply, clamping a lid down on her grief. ‘Have you told Barry?' Faye asked.

‘No,' Sammi answered. ‘We spoke with Belinda, but Barry's out at the moment. I'm sure he'll be over to see you as soon as he gets back.'

Faye nodded and Sammi watched her carefully. The old woman's reaction to her son's death confused Sammi, especially her lack of questions. Sammi wasn't sure what assumptions Faye had made, what inferences she had drawn when Sammi had mentioned the rumours. But the old woman seemed certain she had correctly filled in the blanks. It was possible that Faye already knew about the alleged abuse, or at least had some sort of suspicion. Sammi couldn't rule that out, but now was not the time to ask.

Instead, Sammi mentally went through the paperwork that was required for a dead body. There was one more thing she had to canvas. ‘Faye, in situations like this where a person has died suddenly, generally the coroner orders an autopsy to be done to determine the cause of death. Do you have any objections to an autopsy being performed on Peter?'

Faye looked blankly at her. ‘Autopsy? Objection?'

‘Some people have religious or personal objections to an autopsy being performed. Do you need me to explain what's involved in an autopsy?' Sammi queried, as gently as she could.

Faye still looked blank but shook her head. ‘They should do what they need to do. I have no objections.'

‘Okay. Is there someone we can call for you?' Sammi asked. ‘To come and be with you. We will need to go shortly, and I really don't want to leave you alone here.'

Faye shook her head. ‘I'm all right, dear. You've done your job here.'

‘One other thing,' Sammi ventured. She didn't like to ask but couldn't ignore the miserable animal. ‘Peter's dog. The poor thing's alone at his house. Could you maybe look after it?'

Faye stared at her. ‘Roxy?'

Sammi nodded.

‘No . . .' Faye said eventually.

Sammi sighed. ‘We'll have to call the pound. We can't leave it out there all by itself.'

‘That would be a shame. She's a nice little dog.' Faye hesitated. ‘Maybe I can take her in the short term. Try to find a good home for her.'

Sammi didn't give her the chance to re-think it. ‘That would be great,' she said, animating her voice. ‘I'll leave that with you then.'

Although Sammi no longer felt like the old woman was going to collapse, she still felt uncomfortable about leaving her alone with the burden of her son's death. Pedophile allegations aside, Peter was still this woman's child.

‘We'd really rather not leave you alone,' Sammi said more firmly this time. ‘Who can we call in for you?'

28

The
police
had
been
insistent
that
they
find
her
a
support
person.
There
were
two
people
Faye
normally
would
have
turned
to
in
this
situation.
Now
one
was
dead
and
one
was
away.

She
realised
she
didn't
have
any
friends
to
call
and
in
the
end
she
nominated
her
next-door
neighbour.
She
and
Cath
sometimes
chatted
over
the
front
fence
if
they
both
happened
to
go
to
the
letterbox
at
the
same
time.
The
police
had
gone
next
door
and
pulled
Cath
away
from
her
daytime
television
shows.
After
Cath
had
made
her
a
cuppa
and
found
her
a
new
box
of
tissues,
they'd
then
spent
a
few
minutes
sitting
in
uncomfortable
silence.
Faye
felt
relieved
when
Cath
made
her
excuses and
quietly
let
herself
out
of
the
house.

Once she was alone, Faye drew her sorrow around her like a cold, wet blanket. It made her feel heavy, with a chill that reached into her chest. She could not say how long she sat on the couch like that, her eyes drawn shut by grief. She wasn't thinking so much as remembering. Old jagged memories. Although their sharp edges had been worn smoother by the years, they could still cut and pierce. Faye submitted to the memories and the tears flowed.

She cried for herself and for her son, who she both loved and hated. She had helped to form him. Hating him was like hating a part of herself.

And she did. Her life was full of regrets and now the consequences had landed squarely in her lap. She wanted to know all the details of his death, of the rumours, but couldn't bear to know them, to have her failures as a mother laid bare. She could understand suicide, how death may beckon when your life felt worthless.

When her sobs subsided, she noticed she was sitting in the half-light of dusk and she was hungry. She had smoked a full pouch of tobacco. She emptied the ashtray and pulled another pouch of tobacco out of the drawer next to the cutlery. But instead of rolling another cigarette, she turned on some lights and set about making her dinner. The simple act of being busy, her hands moving with a sense of purpose, calmed her mind more than the chain smoking.

She was too old now to do anything useful. Too old to do anything except watch the tatters of her life flapping in the breeze.

29

After the death knock, Sammi and Bob returned
to Peter's house. There was something about Faye's reaction that
sat uneasily with Sammi. She knew people dealt with death
and the grief which followed in different ways. They had
learnt about the stages of grief at the academy, how
people could cycle through anger, denial, depression or any other
combination of emotions. Faye was certainly grieving, but there was
little of the shock that an unexpected death usually brought.
Had she expected the news? Maybe known something they didn't?
If this was a case of foul play, maybe Faye knew more than she was letting on? These questions tumbled through Sammi's head as they walked back towards the shed.

The government undertaker was on scene, which meant that Forensics were finished. By now the undertakers would have cut down the body, and would be bagging it up, probably in double bags to try to keep the maggots contained.

Terry was walking out of the shed towards them. ‘The undertakers are earning their money today,' he said. ‘And people think cops have a bad job.'

‘Not helping wrangle the maggots, Terry?' Bob asked.

‘Get fucked. I don't get paid enough for that shit,' Terry said with a half-smile. ‘How'd you go?'

Sammi told him about the visits to Belinda and Faye. ‘Peter's mother took it . . . better than I expected,' Sammi said, not sure how to explain her reservations to Terry.

‘Good. 'Cos we need an ID.' Terry fixed his eyes on her, as if to gauge her response.

‘No!' Sammi replied immediately.

Every body had to be positively identified. While often done at the scene, if the next of kin found the deceased, it could be done at the morgue, where there was a viewing room. The deceased would be arranged on a trolley with a blanket and pillow in the futile hope they would look as if they were sleeping.

Sammi had seen Peter's body. There was no way she would ask Faye to look at the bloated mess that remained of her son. She gave Terry an incredulous look.

‘Come on, the morgue staff will clean him up,' Terry said. ‘It'll be okay. You said she handled the news well. She's lived on a farm, she probably butchered animals, seen worse.'

‘Terry,' Sammi began, in her best police-officer-means-business voice, ‘there is no way you can ask that poor old lady to identify her son. For one, how could she positively identify him? He's all puffed up and changed colour. And two – just no. Every time she thinks of her son, that's what she'll see. That's the last image she'll have of him. No. It's not fair. You can't.'

Terry glanced at Bob, who shook his head slightly.

‘So, I've got to do fingerprints?' Terry asked.

‘Good luck getting fingerprints off that body,' Bob replied. ‘The fingers will be mush. Grab Forensics now while he's here and ask.' He gestured to Jeremy Haskins who had walked out of the shed, camera hanging around his neck, peeling off his gloves.

Jeremy saw them looking and came over. ‘I'm going straight home for a shower,' he said by way of a greeting.

‘Hey, any chance of getting fingerprints off old mate?' Terry asked.

Jeremy snorted. ‘Nup. If you need an ID you'll have to do DNA. Or dental records.'

Terry pulled a face. ‘That's a lot of fucking around for nothing,' he said. ‘Really, who else is it going to be? Not sure it's a straight-up suicide, I'll give you that, but it's going to be the pedophile, isn't it?'

‘You're the D, mate,' Bob said. ‘You're telling the story.'

‘Okay,' Terry said. ‘So the next of kin has been notified. Are you going to do the Form One for me, Sammi?'

Sammi shrugged. Paperwork didn't bother her. She was a fast typist. The Form One, reporting the details of the death for the coroner, was a straightforward tick-the-boxes form. She had all the details she needed. She could knock it over in half an hour. She glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, Bob. We'll head back to the station. You finish up and I'll do the Form One and the log.'

As Sammi tapped away at the computer back at the station, she made a mental inventory of the events of her shift. She glanced at the clock. Three fifteen. In forty-five minutes her shift would be finished. And she'd done it. She'd spent a shift back out on active duties. She'd located a dead body and completed two death knocks. Successfully. At no point during the shift did she think she couldn't cope or feel like running back to the safety of the station. So much for a quiet Monday. But it was a victory.