Bitter Wash Road (11 page)

‘Did she pack a bag? Clothes, shoes, toiletries?’

‘Course.’

‘Things you’d expect her to take?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s going on?’ said Tennant.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Hirsch said. ‘She’s upset, it’s only natural. But sometime soon I will need to have a chat with her about Melia’s movements on the weekend.’

‘Thought you already done that,’ the mother said.

‘It was a preliminary chat,’ Hirsch said. ‘I could see she was too upset to go on.’

‘My daughter doesn’t know nothing about nothing.’

‘Of course not,’ Hirsch said. ‘Just a formality.’

He glanced at Tennant. ‘If you could give me a moment with Mrs Pitcher...’

The shopkeeper didn’t like it. ‘I keep an eye on Eileen and Gemma. They don’t need any aggravation.’

‘That’s not my intention.’

‘Go easy, okay?’

‘Mr Tennant.’

‘All right, all right, I’m going.’

When he was gone, Hirsch closed the door, crouched by the woman’s knees again. ‘Mrs Pitcher, is this Gemma’s handwriting?’

Pitcher began to tremble, full on, her free hand plucking at her top button, ash falling from her cigarette. ‘Of course it is, what do you mean, are you saying she—’

‘When did you find the note?’

‘When I got home just now.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I help out down the pub.’

‘Where was the note?’

‘Kitchen table.’

‘Had Gemma locked up before she left?’

Pitcher jetted smoke across the room. ‘That girl never locks up, never turns off lights, never picks up after herself...’

‘Was anything disturbed or out of place?’

‘You’re making me scared.’

‘Standard questions, Mrs Pitcher.’

‘You think something’s happened to her.’

‘Heavens no,’ Hirsch said. ‘But there will be an inquest eventually and Gemma might be called and it would be good if we were all on the same page.’

How many times in his career had Hirsch waffled on like that? It was part of being a cop, he supposed. ‘How about,’ he said, ‘you make me a list of her friends, anyone, family included, who she might visit or call. We’ll contact them together.’

‘She’s gone off in me car. Can’t you put out a whatchamacallit, alert?’

‘Do you wish to report it stolen?’

Pitcher worried at it. ‘Will that get her into trouble?’

‘It might.’

‘No.’

‘Can you survive without a car for a few days?’

The woman slumped. ‘I’ll need it eventually.’

‘For now,’ Hirsch said, ‘let’s concentrate on those calls.’

~ * ~

They used her kitchen phone.

The house was as stuffy as the store, what air there was laced with cigarette smoke and emanations from the kitty litter heaped by the laundry door. As Eileen compiled the list of names and numbers, Hirsch made the calls. He figured it would be harder for people to knock back a policeman. Fifteen calls: aunts and uncles, adult cousins, school friends, grandparents, getting him nowhere.

Hirsch gave up. Maybe her Facebook page would reveal her whereabouts. ‘Does Gemma have a computer?’

Laptop, Eileen said, taking him to a bedroom that was pretty much furnished by a floordrobe and an unmade single bed. Hirsch didn’t bother stepping over the clothes. There was a printer but no sign of a laptop.

He returned to the police station. The first-aid box was missing from the boot of his car.

~ * ~

10

HIRSCH GOT OUT of bed at six-shitty on Wednesday, drained a coffee and decided on some exercise: stretches, then a walk around the town.

Tiverton seemed deserted. Perhaps country people didn’t walk or jog? He took their point: they knew the place, they worked hard at physical labour all day; what was the point? A couple of passing motorists eyed him, curtains twitched and mad dogs raced as he invaded fences and hedges. He gazed benignly at the school, the little grain business along a side street, the Catholic church and the Anglican, various back and side yards, chook sheds, a skeletal horse on a patch of dirt. Galahs screeched in the gumtrees and it occurred to him that he’d not been hearing the sounds of big city life these past three weeks. No traffic, no hoons with sound systems, no voices spilling from cafés. Only galahs in the trees.

Back in the office, he fired up the computer. One e-mail, headed
Quine hearing
: starting Monday, 10 a.m. sharp, Hirsch was obliged to present himself at the hearing into allegations of corruption against Senior Sergeant Marcus Quine and other detectives of the Paradise Gardens CIB.

Hirsch acknowledged, then fired an e-mail to Sergeant Kropp, explaining the circumstances.
So I’ll be in Adelaide all next week, sorry Sarge.

~ * ~

After breakfast, he made
another run at the Donovans’ house. The tired Mazda had returned. He mounted the veranda, reached out his knuckles and knocked.

Nothing. He looked across at the Muirs’, sensing their eyes on him.

Just then the red door screeched and a woman appeared, rounded, not plump, untidily beautiful, drawing a brush through damp red hair. Taking in Hirsch’s uniform she said, ‘Yvonne said you’d dropped by.’

As if he’d been an old friend passing. Hirsch removed his cap and said, I’m very sorry, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through, everyone has such kind things to say about Melia, but I wonder if I could have a quick word with you and Nathan?’

He stopped, conscious that he was babbling. The door widened and he was hit by a front of stale warm air from inside the house, faintly laced with dope and beer. ‘Only if it’s convenient. I could come back tomorrow.’

Everything stopped. Leanne Donovan was very still in her doorway, her eyes clear and searching, then her hands moved, squeezing the end of a rope of the thick hair. Fresh out of the shower, her body was scented with shampoo and lotions and, despite himself, Hirsch was aware of her flesh beneath the green sundress.

‘Nathans not here.’

‘That’s all right, I’ll catch him another time. Could I come inside, do you think?’

Her voice came raggedly, ‘It’s like a bad dream,’ and her eyes filled.

‘Yes. I’m very sorry.’

She dropped where she stood and might have slapped onto the cement front step if not for the door frame and Hirsch grabbing her around the waist. ‘Let’s get you inside. Would you like me to fetch Mrs Muir?’

‘That’s okay.’

Her legs found their strength and Hirsch eased her along a narrow corridor to a worn, dimly lit sitting room. A bulky old TV set dominated one wall, a detergent ad splashing blue and red over the reflective surfaces—the glass cabinet against one wall, the glossy veneer coffee table. A lived-in room, with a couple of empty bottles, an overflowing ashtray, a spill of lifestyle magazines. On one wall there was an image of Christ on the cross, on another Christ gazed soulfully past Hirsch’s shoulder. But no grime or spills, and the only other furniture was a card table in the corner, crammed with a boxy old computer, a cheap inkjet printer beside it. Communal computer? He settled Leanne Donovan onto a floral fabric sofa, but it faced the television set, which continued to paint the room, so he found the remote and switched it off.

‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

Leanne fiddled with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘I’m okay.’

God, Hirsch was dreading this. ‘Before I start, were you told there’ll be an inquest?’

Leanne nodded. ‘This lady rung me from the coroner’s, she said Dr McAskill’s finished the autopsy and I can have Mel back to bury.’

There was a pause. A word you can’t sweeten, autopsy. Knives, saws, fluids, the peeling back of flesh. Hirsch said, ‘Do you have a day for the funeral?’

‘Saturday.’

‘Would you mind if I came?’

‘I don’t care.’

Another pause, and Leanne said, ‘Dr McAskill said she must of been hitching.’

Hirsch trod carefully. ‘Her injuries and the position she was found in do suggest that.’

Leanne was very still and then she reeled and wailed. Hirsch waited. She swiped a sleeve across her nostrils and gasped, ‘Sorry, I’m okay, it hits me out of nowhere sometimes.’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t understand it. She was alone up there? Someone just left her to hitch home? Was she, you know, drunk?’

‘She’d had a couple of drinks.’

‘Where was Gemma? She should of been looking after her.’

‘They went their separate ways earlier in the evening. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’

‘Everyone wants to make me tea. What I want is my daughter back.’

‘I understand. Perhaps we could start with what Melia had planned for the weekend.’

Hirsch strained to hear the reply. ‘She didn’t come home, the little devil.’

‘She usually comes home after a night out with Gemma?’

‘She’s a good girl.’

‘So you don’t know what she was doing or who she was seeing in Muncowie?’

No reaction. Hirsch didn’t know if the woman was taking it in or not. Maybe she had never taken an interest in her daughter’s movements. ‘Mrs Donovan? Does she know anyone up there? Did she mention a party she was going to, for example?’

No response, then, ‘Nathan’s all I’ve got now.’

‘Did Melia have a boyfriend, Mrs Donovan? Could she have been with him on Saturday night?’

‘Maybe.’

Hirsch felt his insides stir. ‘Can you give me his name? I’ll need to speak to him.’

She shook her head, her eyes weepy but alertness returning to them. ‘It was a secret. She didn’t want to jinx it, you know.’

‘You didn’t meet him.’

‘No.’

Speak to her friends, Hirsch thought. Better still, speak to her enemies. If the boyfriend was an older man, married or single, or a farmhand, or from a town outside the district, he’d not be easy to find.

In a choked voice Leanne Donovan said, ‘It was a hit-and-run?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Would she of felt...Did she...’

‘It was instantaneous, Mrs Donovan,’ Hirsch said, reaching out to touch her wrist before he could stop himself. He saw her shrink away and knew she was watching a nasty movie in her head.

The voice rose. ‘She shouldn’t of had to hitch home. Someone should of given her a lift.’

‘Yes,’ Hirsch said, understanding why Gemma Pitcher had left town. ‘We’re still not sure of her movements after the pub in Redruth.’

‘She likes a good time, why shouldn’t she?’

‘Think back: did she say anything about her movements, anything at all? Did she mention anyone’s name, for example?’

‘Not to me,’ Leanne muttered, looking mad and incomplete.

‘Did Gemma usually pick her up when they went out together?’

Leanne just looked at him, helpless.

‘They were together in the early part of the evening but later separated. Mrs Donovan, I’d dearly love to know who she might have hooked up with. Have a think about it, will you, please? Ask around? Get Nathan to ask his mates?’

‘They wouldn’t know anything.’

‘I found her bag, but no mobile phone. Did she leave it at home?’

Leanne scoffed. ‘Her and mobiles! She loses them and I can’t afford to buy her new ones all the time, plus she run up a huge bill last time.’

‘So she doesn’t have one at present, she’s not on a plan?’

‘Not unless she paid for it herself.’

Hirsch looked across at the computer. ‘What about Facebook? E-mail?’

‘What about it?’

‘Did she use the computer in this room, or have one of her own?’

Leanne shook her head. ‘We all use that one.’ Looking oddly shamefaced, she said, ‘Bob and Yvonne gave it to us when Melia started high school. It’s their old one.’

The sadness and poverty dragged at Hirsch. The Donovans lived on the margins, and a kid like Melia would want what others seemed to have. ‘Would it be all right if I borrowed it for a couple of days? I’ll give you a receipt.’

He didn’t tell her that he’d found a list of passwords in Melia’s wallet, not that it would do him any good, for the befuddlement faded from Leanne Donovan’s eyes. He could see the cogs turning: she saw dirty tricks, saw a greater darkness attending her daughter’s death, quotation marks around the word ‘accident’.

She shook her head adamantly. ‘We need it.’

‘Everything in confidence, Mrs Donovan.’

‘Don’t you need a whatchamacallit, warrant?’

I certainly do, Hirsch thought. ‘How about if I had a quick look at her Facebook page and recent e-mails? You can sit with me, watch I don’t accidentally stray into anything private to you and Nathan.’

‘It doesn’t feel right. I can’t think straight and I don’t think you should come here poking your nose in.’