Blood Junction (16 page)

“Be quiet!” said Whitelaw. “I’ll not tolerate any bickering here. We’re a team, okay?”

Mikey looked shocked. “A team?” he said.

“Unless we act like one we’re going to get nailed, one by one, just like Patterson and Tiger.”

India played with the stem of her wineglass. “Okay. No bickering.”

There was a long silence as Whitelaw looked at Mikey.

Eventually, he muttered. “Okay.”

“Good,” said Whitelaw, then to Mikey, “Anything happening out at the Institute?”

He flicked a glance at India and away. “I guess since we’re a team”—he accented the word sarcastically—“you should know they
received a visitor earlier today. One Bentley owner, Gordon Willis, who used to work at Porton Down in the UK. Porton Down
is a government defense establishment. Apparently Willis is a genius, and the British government poached him from us. Five
years ago he got a better offer from Karamyde Cosmetics and came back.”

“What was he working on in the UK?” asked India.

“Classified stuff. Anything concerned with the defense of the realm, I guess. Guns, germs, missiles … You name it, he’s probably
invented a deterrent for it.”

“I find it hard to believe a man like that would be happy working on lipstick and mascara,” said India.

“The cosmetic company’s a cover,” Mikey said. “It has to be.”

There was another silence during which he stared long and hard at India.

“How much rent will you be paying?”

“That’s our business,” said Whitelaw.

Mikey looked expectantly at India. “I hope you can cook.”

“Sorry. I’ve never even learned how to boil an egg. I can burn toast to perfection though.”

Mikey opened his mouth and then, seeing Whitelaw’s expression, headed inside. The screen door slammed behind him. Whitelaw
followed. India finished her glass of wine and poured another. She stared gloomily at the darkened horizon. The prospect of
enduring an undefined period of close contact with a bad-tempered ex-cop suddenly made her extremely depressed.

I
NDIA COULDN’T FIND THE ENERGY TO GO AND SEE ELIZA
beth Ross for two days, and on the third morning it was by sheer force of will that she propelled herself to the VW and turned
the ignition key.

Whitelaw had told her to take the road to Jangala from Cooinda, that Jangala Vale was just out of town, but after ten minutes
she wasn’t sure if she was on the right road. It was supposed to be a minor road, but it ran as wide as a runway. She had
passed a disused railway junction, a sheep station, a windmill and two elevated water-storage tanks. After another five minutes,
she came to a smattering of houses interspersed with barren bush, and as she drove saw a flock of pink galahs beneath a ghost
gum and a crow perched on a telegraph pole.

She hit a pothole and the VW shuddered. She slowed the car and glanced in her wing mirror. She pulled a face. Mikey was behind
her. Whenever they were both at Whitelaw’s, he stayed in the sitting room. Since her first night, when she’d slept in Mikey’s
bed, India had taken to living in the kitchen, sleeping on the divan in the corner, and there were whole hours when she’d
forget he was there. Then he’d stalk in and make some biting remark to which she would retaliate and they would bicker until
he’d made his tea or toast or poured his bourbon and left. When he wasn’t annoying her, he was racing off in his white Toyota
pickup, or hunched over his computer, tapping busily. Yesterday, curious, she’d sneaked a look to see what he was working
on. Over his shoulder, she could see the screen. It was filled with a color display of a dogfight between what appeared to
be two F18s.

“You’re playing
games?
” she’d said, inordinately outraged.

“Hang on …” He was tapping furiously, the aircraft spinning wildly, swooping and buzzing at incredible speed over a vista
reminiscent of Dartmoor. The screen suddenly exploded into a fireball. “Yo!” he exclaimed. “Imagine what that would have looked
like on TV!”

India glanced at Whitelaw’s twenty-inch screen. “Well, believe me when I say I’m truly sorry you don’t have that facility.”

“I will though,” he said cheerfully. “Everything’s on order. Delivery any day. The sound’s going to be amazing. Boy, is this
living room going to rock and roll with those little beauties.”

“I’m so thrilled for you.”

He spun around. “What’s your problem, India?”

“I thought we were supposed to be catching killers, not playing computer games.”

“You read books to relax. I do this.”

“All day?”

He didn’t answer. Simply turned around and restarted the game. They hadn’t spoken since.

She passed a rusty green mailbox with the name Waratah painted in white and flicked her indicator and slowed, letting Mikey
cruise past. She waved her fingers jauntily at him and braked harder, preparing to swing left into the driveway of Janga Yonggar,
which had a large green and gold sign that announced:
ROSS KANGAROO SANCTUARY
. At the moment she downshifted to second gear, she took in the BMW parked in the full sun opposite. Gleamingly clean. No
dents, no rust, no dirt.
Black with tinted windows. Bloody expensive
.

India felt the skin at the nape of her neck tighten. She stared at the numberplate and committed the number to memory. OED
128. She noticed a white van parked in front of the BMW, and its logo:
A.J. LUFFTON BUILDING CONTRACTORS
. The van had a dent in its front fender.

She pulled off the street and parked the VW. She climbed out, dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. The atmosphere was
still and hot, even the insects were silent. All she could hear was the tick of the VW’s engine as it cooled.

The house was partly concealed by a stand of low trees but as she approached she could see it was neat and well cared for.
She reached a gate set in a high wire-mesh fence surrounding a dusty corral and the rear of the house. She saw several tin
sheds, a water trough and a kangaroo. She pressed her head against the fence. The kangaroo obligingly hopped over and pushed
its nose through the mesh. Unable to resist, India stroked the soft gray muzzle. It felt like velvet.

“That’s Billy,” a woman’s voice said behind her. “His mum was killed in a motor accident so we got him as a very young pinky.
Now he’s grown he’ll be off soon.”

India turned. The instant their eyes met, the woman’s friendly grin dissolved. “Sweet, Jesus,” she said. The color drained
from her face. “You … You’re …”

“Yes, I’m India Kane. My friend Lauren Kennedy was murdered and I want to find out what happened, and why. I’m hoping Mrs.
Elizabeth Ross can help me.”

“Sweet Jesus,” she said again.

“Are you Mrs. Ross?”

The woman gave a jerky nod.

India turned back to the kangaroo, who had thrust one furry ear forward, the other back, and was surveying her steadily through
liquid brown eyes. “Lauren Kennedy had your phone number,” she said, keeping her tone calm. “I wanted to know why.”

The woman made a small choking sound and unlatched the gate. Immediately five kangaroos appeared from behind the various sheds
and looked across expectantly, standing on their hind legs. The woman stepped inside the corral and headed for the rear of
the house. India followed.

“The biggest problem in areas like this,” the woman said, her voice unsteady, “where it’s heavily bushed, is there’s no lights,
no nothing, and the animals graze to the edges of the road, from one side to the other, and get hit by cars or trucks or whatever.”
She pointed at the smallest kangaroo, who was hopping slowly after them. “That’s Annie. She lost a fight with a station wagon.
And that’s Randy, had him since he was a pinky too …”

While the woman talked, India studied her. She was slightly built, in her late thirties India guessed, and wore ill-fitting
jeans and a T-shirt smeared with what could have been porridge. Her skin was tightly drawn and her eyes looked tired, despite
the incongruously bright blue eyeliner on her lower lids.

“Do they all have names?”

India received a strained smile.

“Sure they do. We can have them for up to two years and you can’t keep just saying, ‘Oi, you.’”

India asked how many ’roos they rescued a year, and they were still discussing it when they entered the house. Three kangaroos
followed them. In the living room another kangaroo with a bandaged hind leg and tail lay on a pink quilt and nibbled at a
pile of grass left within its reach. Another larger ’roo, at least four feet, was sprawled on the overstuffed couch, tail
draping from the armrest and resting on the floor. Neither acknowledged their presence aside from a brief flick of the ears.

India stepped over a pile of pellets, her face puckering as she inhaled. The smell of kangaroos reminded her of a roomful
of unhouse-trained cats.

“They’re family oriented,” Elizabeth Ross said, a little defensively. “You can’t just put them in a shed and feed them every
four hours. Without the support of their mates they’d never return to the wild, so we have to make them part of our family
so they can survive in the bush.”

India found herself transfixed by a tiny face peering from an artificial pouch made of an old tartan blanket hanging on the
far wall. Its long, delicate silhouette was dwarfed by paper-thin floppy ears and a pair of huge glistening eyes.

Elizabeth Ross smiled. “She arrived yesterday. I’ll have to feed her day and night every two hours for the next few months.
I’ve called her Jilly.”

“You’re a dedicated woman, Mrs. Ross,” murmured India.

Pause.

“Call me Elizabeth.”

Their eyes met. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth gave that strained smile again.

“Would you mind talking about my friend?” India asked gently.

Elizabeth stared at the floor. “I’m not sure.”

“You know she was shot,” India told her bluntly, to get a reaction. “Twice. At point-blank range in the face.”

Elizabeth’s body seemed to shrivel. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. “Yes. I know that.”

“Please,” said India, gentle again. “I need your help. When did you last see her?”

The other woman closed her eyes.

“Please.”

“It was …” Elizabeth swallowed audibly, took a breath. “Night. There was no moon. Lots of stars though. Brilliant stars. Peter
wished he’d brought his telescope. He loved star gazing.” She swallowed again.

In her mind India suddenly saw the white four-wheel-drive cross the road ahead of her and Tiger. She put her hands in her
pockets to hide their trembling. There was a white 4 × 4 Suzuki outside.

“Peter didn’t want me there. But he’d dislocated his shoulder that morning out bush with the Dunsfords, rounding up sheep.
He’d stiffened up and could barely walk, let alone drive. Couldn’t even reach the gear lever. He didn’t want me there,” she
said again.

“When was this?”

Elizabeth walked unsteadily out of the room. “For some reason or other, I don’t know why, they simply love garlic.”

India could feel an obstruction in her throat, like a golf ball. She followed Elizabeth into the kitchen. Found her setting
the microwave.

“Maybe there’s something in the natural bush that’s similar, I don’t know,” she said, not meeting India’s eye, “but as soon
as we do garlic bread up, they go nuts.”

The two women stood there, staring at the microwave. When it pinged, they both flinched.

Elizabeth opened the microwave door and immediately the air was filled with the rich smell of buttery garlic. She had barely
put the first bread stick on the board to slice when three kangaroos bounced in, ears pricked forward, eyes bright and beady.
“Now just you wait, you scoundrels.” Elizabeth tossed slices into a large wicker basket. “You’ll get your share in a minute.”

She glanced up at India, smiling. India found herself staring at the woman’s eyeliner. It was no longer blue,
it was green
.

Elizabeth ran a finger beneath her right eye, then checked it. “I was testing it for Peter the week he died. I’ve worn it
ever since. For sentimental reasons, I suppose. Not wanting to let go. He was a cosmetic chemist.” Elizabeth placed the basket
within reach of a dozen ravenous kangaroos. “He loved these guys as much as I did and they loved him back. I’m not the only
one who misses him.”

“I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth gave her a sad smile. “The risks of living in the Australian bush. If the skin cancer doesn’t get you, the spiders
and snakes will.”

India made a noise of sympathy. “The eyeliner’s an amazing concept. Is it available to the public yet?”

“Not for ages; it still needs a lot of work. It’s supposed to change color depending on temperature. They use special heat-sensitive
inks, you see, and it’s supposed to go blue when I’m outside, green when I’m inside, but it doesn’t always work.”

They talked nail polish and permanent lipsticks for a while, but Elizabeth sounded more and more awkward.

“Who did your husband work for?”

Elizabeth gave her a quick, searching look. “You don’t know, do you?

“Know what?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She glanced at the kangaroos clustered around the bread basket. Two of them were half-boxing each
other with their front paws. “Where on earth is Billy? He loves garlic bread, he really does—”

“I’m sorry,” said India, not sounding it at all, “but who did your husband work for?”

“Karamyde Cosmetics.”

India kept her face bland.

“They’ve a research institute just down the road. Well, in Australian terms that is. Ten Ks away. Not a single give way sign
or traffic light between them and us. A hop, skip and a jump in kangaroo terms.”

Elizabeth suddenly gave her head a sharp shake and looked outside. She was close to tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry that your friend died. The way she died.”

India immediately went to her, gripped her shoulder. “Tell me.
Please
, tell me what happened when you met Lauren that night.
I have to know
.”