(2005) A Certain Malice
A Certain Malice
Felicity Young
First published in Great Britain in 2005
by Crème de la Crime Books
Crème de la Crime Ltd, PO Box 523, Chesterfield,
Derbys S40 9AT
Copyright © 2005 Felicity Young
The moral right of Felicity Young to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting by Yvette Warren
Cover design by Yvette Warren
Front cover photography by Acestock.com
www.acestock.com
Printed and bound in England by Biddles Ltd,
www.biddles.co.uk
ISBN 0-9547634-4-0
eBook ISBN 9781906790851
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
www.cremedelacrime.com
For Mick, with love
About the Author
Former nursing sister Felicity Young has no problem ensuring the accuracy of procedural details in her crime writing – her brother-in-law is a retired police superintendent. These days, when she’s not busy penning novels, rearing orphan kangaroos or satisfying her thirst for action and adventure as an active member of the local volunteer bushfire brigade, Felicity manages her own Suffolk sheep stud in a small West Australian country town.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank Tania Hudson, Margaret Johnson, Christine Nagel, Trish O’Neill, Iain Pattison, Lynne Patrick, Susannah Rickards, Carole Sutton, Larry Votava, Michael Young, Ben Young, Peter Young and Superintendent Simon Young (NT Police, retired). Also Tom and Pip, for putting up with wrong turns, blank stares and general withdrawal into the ‘zone’ while the book was being written.
Extract from lyric of Women in Uniform by G Macainsh reproduced by kind permission of Mushroom Music Publishing.
Author’s note:
For the benefit of readers who don’t speak Australian – A lamington is a small chocolate and coconut cake; a lamington drive raises funds for charity by selling them. CWA stands for Country Womens’ Association. WAFL is Western Australian Football League.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
1
MONDAY
“First I heard the thumping feet, then I caught a flash of the kangaroo bounding through the burned bushland. I started running after her, hoping to capture her on film. She hopped over the log and I followed, nearly tripping over the body, although of course I didn’t realise what it was then. The kangaroo disappeared into the parrot bush and when I turned around I saw the body lying next to the log.”
The woman’s tone lost some of its animation. She ran a hand through her tousled dark hair. “I had a closer look. It was awful.”
Twenty years in the Police Service hadn’t made Senior Sergeant Cam Fraser blasé about human misfortune or caused him to develop an overly black sense of humour. But it was, he rationalised, still possible to enjoy the way Cecelia Bowman chose to tell her story if not the story itself. She was an English teacher; that accounted for a lot. Her sweeping gestures and clear diction made him wonder if she also taught drama.
He hoped she wasn’t embellishing the facts for dramatic effect. “And about what time was this?” he asked.
“Six and a half minutes past ten.”
He was unable to hold back his smile. “Six and a half minutes past ten?”
“Roughly,” she said, smiling back. This was the first time she’d smiled during the interview and the ease with which she did so told him he was speaking to a woman well used to laughing at herself.
She smelled of wood-smoke and eucalyptus and reminded him of a picture of a wood nymph he’d seen once in an old-fashioned fairytale book.
Cam looked at the burly Senior Constable standing next to him. Vince Petrowski seemed unaffected by Cecelia’s humour and continued to stare at some fixed point in the distant hills, eyes slitted against the abrasive wind. The lines on his face were encrusted with red dust, giving him the powdered appearance of an old woman.
“I’d only just looked at my watch. I didn’t want to be late for the staff meeting,” Cecelia added.
Cam followed her gaze to the small collection of teachers standing well away from the crime scene tape that whipped about in the relentless easterly. They’d been in the staff room attending a pre-term meeting when Cecelia had discovered the body in the school grounds.
“Why did you decide to visit the scene of yesterday’s fire only minutes before the staff meeting?” Cam asked.
Cecelia’s fair skin blossomed into pink. “I suppose it does seem a bit suspicious, doesn’t it?”
“Not suspicious, Ms Bowman, just strange; you’re hardly dressed for a bushwalk.” Cam tried to keep his eyes away from the knee poking through a hole in her stocking.
“I’m an impulsive person, Sergeant. I was out for a walk, thinking about the upcoming meeting, and I had my camera.” She held it up by its carry strap for him to see. “There’re some exciting projects going on at the school right now, including the establishment of a small media department. I’ve been busy all holidays buying equipment and setting it up. I wanted to try out the new camera. While I was walking I saw the kangaroo.” She indicated to the blackened area behind them. “It looked like one I’d hand-reared a couple of years ago then put back in the wild. I’d recognise Pinky anywhere. Her jaw was crooked from being fed with an artificial teat.”
Cam cleared his throat.
“Sorry, Sergeant, I’m afraid I tend to go off on a tangent.”
“Before, you said you nearly tripped. I take it that means you didn’t actually tread on the body?”
“No, but I was kind of aware of it as I leapt over the log. I could have easily stepped on it though, it was the same colour as the burned wood.”
“Yeah, just like it,” Vince agreed, worrying at a husk of sheep turd with the toe of his boot. His khaki shirt billowed in the wind, creating the image of an inflating hot air balloon.
Cam looked at him for a moment, fantasising the lift-off. When it became clear that Vince would remain firmly rooted to the ground, he turned back to Cecelia.
“So you didn’t touch the body at all?”
“Absolutel
y not, it was revolting. I was almost sick.”
“Can you remember how it was lying?” Cam asked. She swallowed as if to contain rising nausea. “On its side.”
Cam looked over to Vince. The Senior Constable put his hands on his hips and bunched up the muscles of his jaw. “It was on its back when I got here,” he said, fixing his eyes upon Ms Bowman’s.
She held his pointed stare. “I don’t like your tone, Constable.”
Vince turned back to the sheep turd and shrugged.“You could easily have tripped over it,” he muttered.
“Then I would mention it. It’s no skin off my nose – why should I lie?” Though she only came up to Vince’s shoulder, Cam could see his Senior Constable didn’t intimidate her. And she was right. She had nothing to lose by admitting she touched the body. Vince, on the other hand, had everything.
Cam stopped Vince’s retort with an outstretched hand and a frown. He reached into his top pocket for his notepad and began to write, conscious of her eyes upon his scarred hand. The awkwardness of his penmanship would not be overlooked; she was a teacher after all.
He’d just finished noting down her account of the body’s position when a gust tore into his notebook, riffling the pages and forcing him to dig his heels into the ground. He’d forgotten how unforgiving these desiccating Wheatbelt winds could be, an indication of just how long he’d been away from home.
Vince held on to his peaked cap and said something indecipherable.
“Thank you for your help, Ms Bowman.” Cam had to raise his voice to stop it from being swept away. “I’d like you to return to the school now with the other teachers. We might still need to ask you some more questions. It’s pretty unpleasant here and you’ve all been standing around long enough.”
She nodded and walked over to the group of teachers. A tall woman with blonde curly hair reached for her hand and pulled her into a hug.
Cam wiped his arm across his dripping forehead, surprised there was any moisture left in his body at all. He reached for the small bottle of water he’d earlier jammed in his pocket, and drained its tepid contents. His mouth still felt as if he’d been licking out the floor of a sheep truck. Resisting the urge to spit, he spoke to Vince instead.
“Do you know her?”
“In Glenroyd most people know each other,” Vince said, barely opening his mouth. “Rumour has it she’s a dyke. That’s her girlfriend,” he added with a nod towards the tall blonde.
“Turn you down, did she?” Cam said, really needing to spit now. Vince said nothing. The corners of his thick moustache drooped to follow the contours of his mouth downwards.
Cam said, “Go back to the school with the staff and get started on the other interviews. Find out about yesterday’s bushfire. Ask if anyone saw anything then check it out with the local bushfire brigade. I’ll join you later after I’ve called SOCO.”
“Scene of Crime Officers? Out here?”
“Why the surprise?”
“With all due respect, Sarge, you don’t call SOCO out to cases like this; this isn’t Sydney.” He shrugged.“It’s obvious what happened here anyway.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.” Vince folded his arms, satisfied that he’d put Cam back in his place.
Within hours of their first meeting Cam realised that people skills were not among the Senior Constable’s strengths, if he had any strengths at all. Cam’s predecessor had left behind a pile of complaints against Vince he either would not or could not deal with. Cam had spent days trying to untangle the mess of paperwork and still hadn’t got it all sorted.
He’d chosen to delay action until he’d settled into the new police subdistrict and Vince, sensing Cam was on his case, had thrown every obstacle imaginable at him to make the settling in process as difficult as possible. He’d given him the wrong directions to one of the outlying farms, forcing him to stop at the BP to ask for help. He’d forgotten to tell him that the petrol gauge on the ute was faulty, which meant he’d rolled to an embarrassing standstill on his way to an emergency call. He’d hindered Cam’s paperwork by giving him the wrong forms. Now here he was, taking advantage of the fact that Cam had spent many years out of the state to deliberately misinform him on police procedure.
But Cam had been the sole parent of a difficult teenage girl for several years. He’d learned that verbal battles inevitably led to outright war, with victory to the side best prepared. In Vince’s case, he knew he needed to dig in for a winter campaign.
“How do you see it, then?” Cam asked, rubbing his chin.
Vince puffed himself up. “Some lush was in the bush having a drink, fell asleep, dropped his smoke and whoosh, instant crispy critter with fries. You don’t call SOCO out over the accidental death of one pisspot. I’ve been here eight years, Sarge; you’ve been here eight days. Toorrup has enough on its hands with the bikie gangs right now; they’ll have your balls if you bother them with this.”
Cam shrugged.
“See you back at the school, then, Vince. I’ll keep Leanne here with me.” He looked around for the young probationer. “Where’s she gone?”
“Last I saw, she was spewing her guts up behind that tree over there.” He pointed to a large jarrah looming above the ragged scrub.
“That’s right. You were having a good laugh about it, weren’t you? Get on back to the school. I’ll see you there.”
Cam turned his back on Vince, reached for his phone and called SOCO. They said they’d be there in about two hours.
Behind him, there was a hiss of escaping air.
2
Cam shaded his eyes to follow the convoy of cars making its way along the gentle gradient of the dirt road back to the school. It was a clear straight view, unhindered by hills or trees of any substance. Apparently the science teacher, Ruth Tilly, had spotted the smoke from yesterday’s fire when she was working in the science lab.
Hands on hips, Cam regarded the distant school buildings. Glenroyd Ladies’ College had been built nearly one hundred years ago to cater for the needs of enlightened farming families who wished their daughters to have the same advantages as their sons. Only the state’s wealthy could afford to give their daughters such an education, but despite few early enrolments, the school’s reputation in excellence grew and it was soon attracting pupils from interstate and overseas.
It was twenty-five years since Cam had last stood in the grounds of his wife’s old school. The countryside hadn’t changed much. The winter creek beyond the burned patch was maybe wider and rockier than he remembered, and the hill beyond, once sparse of decent trees, was now covered in healthy regrowth.
And the prickling parrot bush was as thick as ever.
For a moment he could see Elizabeth and himself on horseback, stuck smack in the middle of it. She hadn’t known whether to laugh or scream at their predicament and he’d had to dismount to lead her protesting pony into the clearing. She’d slid her feet from the stirrups and jumped to the ground, turning her back on him to pick the holly-shaped leaves from her saddle blanket. He’d reached to circle her in his arms from behind, nuzzling the back of her neck so she would turn for that first kiss.
They’d been standing at the future site of yesterday’s fire.
“What now, Sarge?”
Her voice made him start; he shut the door on his memories.
“Sorry, am I interrupting?” Leanne said.
“No, I was just thinking.”
He turned to the young constable. She had to be at least twenty-one but her round face made her look no older than his fifteen-year-old, Ruby. Her thin hair had fallen from her cap and the wind was lashing it against her cheeks, red and shiny as store-bought apples.
“I want to have another look at the body,” he said.
“Oh jeez, Sarge.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen worse things on the road.”
“MVAs don’t smell like Mum’s Sunday roast, but.” She grimaced, bringing her hand to her mouth.
Cam stepped over the t
ape. “Stay in my footprints and don’t touch anything.”
With their eyes on the blackened ground, they walked towards the body. The scorched earth was snaked with tyre tracks and stamped with the print of heavy work boots. He hoped SOCO would attempt plaster casting, despite the surface ash. Cam pointed out the vague indentations of their own police boots to Leanne and compared them to the heavier prints of the firemen.
The fallen log lay at an angle across the path, the body next to it, so well camouflaged he could see how it could have been mistaken for an extra branch. Blackened bottles and broken glass gleamed on the ground near their feet.
Cam hitched his uniform pants at the knee and squatted down, beckoning Leanne to his level.
“OK, Leanne, what can you tell me about this body?” The girl made a gagging sound and turned her head away.
“Turn back and look at it carefully. Don’t let yourself think this was once human. Hell, we don’t even know who it is yet. Look at it as evidence, that’s all. Build up a picture in your mind and tell me what you see. It’s speaking to you, Leanne – what’s it saying?”
Won over by the patience of his tone, Leanne sniffed and straightened up. After scanning the surrounding bush for a moment she lowered her gaze to a blackened bottle, still unable to focus on the charred body.
Into her hand she said, “He was drinking and fell asleep. The bush caught fire.”
Here we go, Cam thought, manipulating the evidence to fit her theory. “Is that the evidence talking or is that Vince, Leanne?”
She said nothing for a moment as she tried to collect her thoughts. Then, with a sudden squeal she sprang back and broke into a vigorous jig, smacking at the bottoms of her pants as if beating out flames.
“Christ, Sarge, there’s ants everywhere. Shit...”
Cam brushed some ants off his own legs then pointed to a pile of fine stones about two metres from the body. There were so many ants on it the rocks themselves seemed alive.
“I’ve never known someone so drunk they would take a kip next to an ant heap – what do you reckon?”