Cold Justice (23 page)

Wade dug his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground. Ella and Murray let the silence stretch out. Wade didn’t look up.

‘Let’s give the man some thinking time,’ Murray said to Ella. ‘We’ll be back, Wade.’

Murray turned away. Wade lifted a small cement-spattered Esky from the tray of the ute, stamped across the concrete and flung open the door to unit five, and as Ella followed Murray she could hear the sound of arguing from inside the unit, even over the rush of the highway traffic.

Callum sat on Tim’s bed and watched Josh going through his cupboard.

‘Lots of things in here,’ Josh said.

It wasn’t really Tim’s bed because it was a spare room, but anytime guests came they stayed in one of the other spares. Only when space got really tight did anybody sleep in here.

Josh backed out of the cupboard and held up Tim’s Macquarie College soccer shirt. ‘Tim played soccer.’

‘That’s right, he did,’ Callum said.

He had half an hour before his meeting with local hospital staff. Anna had suggested using the time to talk to people before the meeting, let them get to know him, but he’d told her to drive here instead. He wanted to talk to John. As soon as he’d knocked on the door, however, Josh had latched onto him and dragged him upstairs, John following to stage-whisper that Josh was focused on Tim again, probably because of what was going on, people talking about him, that sort of thing. ‘Just listen,’ he’d said. ‘That’s all you can do.’

‘Tim was my brother,’ Josh said now.

‘That’s right.’

‘The bad man got him.’

Callum felt uncomfortable nodding, but it was true. Some bad man had got him.

‘Have they got the bad man yet?’

‘They’re looking.’

‘That lady’s going to find him.’

‘She is,’ Callum said. ‘That’s what she’s doing right now.’

Josh went back into the cupboard. ‘Will the bad man get me?’

‘No, you’re perfectly safe.’

His voice was muffled. ‘Tim said he would always protect me. But Tim’s not here.’

‘But I am,’ Callum said. ‘I’ll make sure that bad man doesn’t get you.’

Josh came out with soccer boots on his hands. ‘Tim saved me.’

‘He was good like that.’

‘I love him.’

‘So do I .’

Callum was surprised to feel tears prick his eyes. It’d been almost twenty years – but he knew that didn’t mean much. The loss was still the loss. And looking at Josh standing there fitting the studded soles of the boots together, Callum felt the echo of the grief, the high-water mark of the tsunami that had torn through the family. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.

Josh came to sit next to him. ‘You want a hug?’

‘I’d love a hug.’

Josh put his arms around him, the boots still on his hands. Callum hugged him back and felt the warmth and life in his body. God forbid anything should ever happen to him.

‘Love you, mate.’

‘I love you, Cal.’

After a moment Josh handed him the boots and crawled back into the cupboard, pushing boxes and plastic bags of clothes out behind him as he dug into the back. He came out smoothing a narrow golden ribbon over his arm like a maitre d’ with his white towel. ‘Can I play with this?’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s shiny.’

Callum nodded, the boots balanced on his thighs. ‘It’s pretty.’ He checked his watch. If he was going to talk to John he needed to do it soon. First, though, he had to work out what to say.

Josh draped the ribbon over his hair and smiled.

‘Nice.’

It felt like prying, and they’d never been a family who got into each other’s business. It also felt like being less than supportive. Callum wanted to ask the question – since Ella had asked it of him he couldn’t get it out of his head – but worried that it was the wrong thing to do. And what did his desire to know actually mean?

He was helping Ella, that was all. He didn’t suspect John. He just needed to know. It was his family too.

He made up his mind and stood. Josh was still playing with the ribbon. Callum leaned into the cupboard and put the boots into Tim’s old sports bag on top of the shirt.

‘I have to talk to your dad,’ he said.

Josh nodded, pulling the ribbon between his outstretched fingers. ‘Bye.’

‘Bye, mate.’

Downstairs, John was eating a pear over the kitchen sink. Callum leaned against the bench. Out the window he could see that the door to the granny flat was shut but the window was open, the curtain moving in the breeze.

‘How’s she going?’ he asked.

John shook his head. ‘She hasn’t spoken to me all day.’

‘Is she angry?’

‘About what?’

Callum coloured. ‘The investigation?’

‘I don’t think it’s that.’

‘Ella?’

‘Partly.’

‘She’s just doing her job,’ Callum said. ‘Like the detectives did before, when they thought that you might have been, um, involved.’

John dropped the core into the bin and didn’t answer.

Callum soldiered on. ‘It’s weird, talking to the detective, thinking about it all again. It makes me question some of the stuff I remember. Or think I remember.’

‘Coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

John filled the kettle and switched it on.

‘For instance,’ Callum said, ‘the barbecue that night. I remember you and Tim arguing, but I remember that he was angry even before that.’

‘He didn’t want to be there.’

‘I saw him trying to talk to you.’

‘Yes, about how he wanted to leave.’

‘He was almost crying.’

John frowned. ‘Was he? I don’t remember.’

‘He was behind you. You were lighting the barbecue. He looked really upset.’

‘Like I said, he didn’t want to be there.’

‘Why?’

‘He just didn’t,’ John said. ‘But there was no question of him missing it and I told him so.’ The kettle clicked off. He poured the water into the cup and spooned in coffee and sugar. ‘Sure you don’t want one?’

Callum shook his head. ‘Uncle John, does Aunt Tamara blame you for Tim’s death?’

John dropped the spoon in the sink. ‘I blame me for his death.’

‘What?’

‘If I’d been able to find him that night he’d still be here.’

‘But . . .’ Callum began, then hesitated.

‘But what? Isn’t that what you meant?’

Callum wasn’t sure what he’d meant, but he was ashamed of what he’d thought when John gave his answer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘For what?’

He shook his head again. ‘I have to go.’

When they got back to the office, Murray went straight to his desk to call the lab about the DNA results while Ella updated Galea.

He held out the photos that Technical had sent over. ‘You have a partial plate.’

The photos showed the woman getting into the light-coloured sedan and then the car driving away from the camera. The tech guys had done a great job with their computers: while part of the plate was obscured by parked cars, Ella could make out the three letters PQW. The car was definitely a Holden Commodore.

‘This is great.’

‘Look at the next ones.’

She flipped forward to the enhanced shots of the woman’s face from the supermarket tape. The pixels were gone and the image was much sharper and clearer. Ella felt she’d only have to glance at the real-life woman to be able to match her to this.

‘These are excellent,’ she said. ‘We’ll get them out to the papers for tomorrow.’

Murray was still on the phone when she reached her desk. ‘They’re checking,’ he told her.

Ella entered the partial plate into the database and got eleven Commodores back. Four were in country areas – Laurieton, Kiama, Lismore and Coffs Harbour – so she scratched those for now. Four were dotted about the greater Sydney area: one in Hornsby, one in Campbelltown, one in Bankstown and the last all the way out at Blackheath. The other three were in the south and south-eastern suburbs, likely locations for regular shoppers to Miranda, and these she highlighted yellow as her first ports of call.

‘Thanks anyway.’ Murray hung up. ‘Not done yet.’

‘Still?’

‘When it is, they’ll compare it straightaway with Tavris’s sample taken in prison,’ he said. ‘I have a strong feeling about him.’

‘I know you do,’ Ella said.

‘And I know you don’t.’ Murray cracked his knuckles. ‘We’ll just have to see, won’t we.’

‘We sure will.’ She showed him the photos and the list of cars. ‘Let’s get something written up to send to the papers with the woman’s picture, then start on these addresses.’

The closest address to the shopping centre was in Caringbah. It took them the best part of an hour to get there through eye-squintingly bad traffic. Ella drove slowly past the house and Murray said, ‘There it is.’

The pale yellow VN Commodore was on the lawn. Ella parked one house up and took another look at the woman’s photo before getting out.

They walked up the driveway, looking at the car. It had a shabby paint job and there was a P plate jammed in next to the numberplate. They stepped up on the timber patio to the screen door. The door behind it was open and Ella saw a hallway with a small table and an old-style telephone. She smelled meat cooking. Murray knocked.

A woman came up from the back, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Yes?’

Ella showed her badge. The woman came closer to see. She wasn’t the woman from the tape.

‘Are you Francesca Ritter?’ Ella asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re the registered owner of the Commodore there?’

‘Yes, but my son Will drives it.’ Francesca glanced past her at it. ‘Has he done something silly?’

‘Can you tell us where it was last night?’ Murray said.

She put her hands on her hips. ‘If he’s done something silly I’ll wring his bloody neck.’ She turned her head. ‘Will!’

Ella heard grumbling from the back of the house, then a lanky teenaged boy appeared at the end of the hall. ‘What?’

‘Come up here,’ Francesca said. ‘Police want to know about your car.’

Will slouched forward and Francesca jabbed him between the shoulders. ‘Stand up straight.’

Will’s eyes took in Ella and Murray then went to the car as if to make sure it wasn’t being towed.

Ella said, ‘Were you driving that car last night?’

‘I was at my cousins’ place.’

‘Tell the truth,’ Francesca said.

‘Ask Aunty Laura. We had pizza and watched DVDs.’

Ella pulled out her notebook. ‘What address was this?’

‘Fifty Sunrise Avenue, Maroubra,’ Francesca said. ‘See, she’s going to check that,’ she said to Will. ‘You’d better be telling the truth.’

‘I am!’

‘Did anybody else drive the car last night?’ Murray said.

‘Better not have,’ Francesca said darkly. ‘If you let your cousins behind the wheel you know what –’

‘I know,’ Will said. ‘You’ll take it off me. Nobody drives it but me.’

Ella believed him. The look in his eyes when he glanced past her again at the car showed how much it meant to him. But still. ‘The keys were on you the entire time?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Francesca pinched his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes!’

‘If anything –’

‘Muum.’

Ella held back a smile. ‘Thanks for your time.’

‘Do you need to inspect it?’ Francesca said. ‘Is there damage to something?’

‘That’s fine,’ Ella said. ‘Thanks again.’

She went down the steps hearing Francesca saying, ‘If you’ve been silly, if I find out that you’ve been silly,’ even as she crossed the footpath behind Murray to her car.

‘Want to talk to that aunt?’ he said.

‘Let’s check out the other local ones first.’ She started the car. ‘You never know who might open the door.’

Georgie flipped angrily through the standing orders then slammed the folder closed. There was no help in these pages. She had to decide for herself whether to confront Freya, tell Butterworth, or call the detective.

If she told Butterworth she wanted to change assessors, he would want to know why. If she said because Freya had threatened to fail her, he’d ask Freya if that was true and she’d deny it. If Georgie told him it was a personality clash, he might tell her to suck it up and get on with the job. If she said their past history made things awkward – well, that wouldn’t work, because Freya had already told him they’d been best buddies at school. And even if he did assign her another assessor, there was a chance that
they
might be in the cabal. At the very least they were going to be a workmate and friend of Freya’s, and once she got in their ear, Georgie was in more or less the same boat as now.

She glared out of the office window into the plant room where Freya was fiddling around in the back of Thirty-three. If she confronted her, she couldn’t imagine what Freya would say or where it would get her. She tried to picture them having a conversation but all she could see was Freya’s stony face.

She shoved the folder into its spot on the S/O’s shelves and slumped back on the chair.

If she called the detective, would Freya really fail her? If Freya was indeed lying about Tim then she should have nothing to hide, so there should be no problem. Freya could tell the detective she’d made it up and that would be that.

So why the threat?

Georgie flung the plant room door open and almost ran into Freya who was coming the other way.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Freya said. ‘Got a minute?’

You bet I do.
Georgie followed her into the lounge room.

Freya perched on the edge of a recliner. Georgie stayed on her feet and folded her arms. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘I know,’ Freya said. ‘That’s why I want to talk to you. To say I’m sorry. Things have been tough at home lately, and I know people say you should leave all that behind when you come into work but I just can’t. I’ve been cranky and irritable and, as you say, it’s not right.’ She smiled up at Georgie.

Georgie stared at her. ‘Is that all?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You apologised for being cranky but not for threatening me.’

Freya’s eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘At the end of that pedestrian job you were saying what a pity it’d be if I failed.’

‘Yeah, and?’

‘You went on and on about it, about how you had to write that report and how hard it is to know what to say.’