Blood Ties (43 page)

“Bribery and corruption in Little Town, Senior Constable?” he asked me, focussed on the paper bag I was clasping, an eyebrow raised, a faint ironic smile on his face. He was obviously struggling to overcome his bad mood. “Or are you going to tell me that you’re about to swim across a raging flood-swollen river to hand-deliver it to a widow with ten starving children as another act of the pious small-town police work for which you are renowned throughout the state?”

I laughed, relieved he was teasing, not angry. “No, I’m not that saintly! Dad and I are going to eat this with dinner and if you’re nice to me I’ll share some with you too. It’s guaranteed to be delicious.” Frannie had never made anything that wasn’t. We were spoiled with her living in Little Town, because I thought her food would knock the socks off city folk. He raised his eyebrow again. “People want to give me things, Sarge. As long as they’re fairly insignificant and perishable I accept, otherwise I’d offend the townsfolk. And that’s not a good idea in a small town. You’ll be offered the odd thing now and then too.”

He didn’t respond, but instead turned to pat the trunk of the tree. “These trees are simply beautiful. Gracious, elderly ladies.”

“Oh Sarge, that’s so lovely. That’s exactly what they are,” I agreed, impressed again by his turn of phrase. “That one you’re leaning against was planted in memory of Dad’s great-uncle, Arthur Fuller, who died at Gallipoli. That one across the road is for Dad’s grandfather’s cousin, Bertie Fuller, killed at Fromelles. That one next to it is for Walter Greville, Miss G’s uncle, also killed at Fromelles. And that particularly lovely one on the corner there, with its own small park around it, is for Jake’s relative, Cyril Bycraft, killed at Pozieres.”

A stab of bitter sadness jolted through me when I pointed out that specific tree, because it had been behind it that I had found the body of Marcelle, Abe’s murdered wife, that terrible cold winter evening that I could never forget. I pushed that distressing thought aside and continued with fake cheerfulness. “Cyril was a real hero. Before he was killed, he managed to save three other men by himself, including Dad’s grandfather, John Fuller.”

He couldn’t hide his surprise. I smiled. “I know. It’s unexpected, isn’t it, that a Bycraft could ever do something heroic? But it’s well known in Little Town that every couple of generations or so, the Bycraft family throws up someone who is not like the other Bycrafts. Everyone thinks that my Jakey is this generation’s ‘Changeling Bycraft’ as we call them. I think they’re right because God knows there hasn’t been one for an age. Not since Cyril, in fact.”

“Jake’s a hero too, like Cyril?” he asked, mockingly sceptical.

“Yes, he is,” I said simply but proudly, determined not to become riled by his scorn. “He would never tell you himself, but he has an award from the Minister for Police, Corrective and Court Services for outstanding bravery in the course of his duty.”

That particular minister was an attractive older woman with designer suits and $300 haircuts. Her portfolio covered the police and the prison and court systems, including the state’s public prosecutors. But because of that cynical expression from him, I didn’t bother to explain to the Sarge how Jake had risked his own life to save the lives of two other prison officers during a violent riot in the maximum-security prison he’d worked at in the city before he was transferred back to Little Town and the more cushy job at the low-security prison. The Sarge was probably imagining Jake receiving the award for rescuing some prisoner from drowning in the prison’s luxurious swimming pool or from getting a paper cut in its library or from slicing themselves on a knife during one of their frequent gourmet cooking classes. And I took offence at that on Jake’s behalf. He
was
a real hero.

“Oh, an award from
that
Minister? You don’t come by one of those easily,” he snapped unpleasantly and stalked off in the direction of the patrol car without another word. I stared after him in surprise for a moment, not sure what I’d said that had made him act so rudely.

After a tense and silent trip, we returned to the station. There was a cornucopia of fresh produce on the veranda waiting for us, a show of united support for the town’s police force after the brutal attack by the Bycrafts yesterday. I was touched by it. There were berries, fresh greens, root vegetables, stonefruit, melons, muffins, biscuits, homemade chocolates and fresh cheese. The Sarge flicked me a cold look and stalked into the station, conspicuously stepping over and around the produce. I quietly picked it up and transported it inside, giving the gifts the respect they deserved, putting what needed to be refrigerated into the station’s tiny bar fridge.

“Sarge?” He was so unfriendly at that moment that I didn’t want to, but my conscience forced me to approach him hesitantly to tell him that Des and my normal practice had been to share everything, even though in reality Des had done little to deserve any gratuities. He was aggressively plugging in and unplugging the cables in the back of Abe’s computer, turning it on and off, an irritable frown creasing his forehead and pulling his mouth downwards.

“What?” he snapped, without even looking at me. I almost suggested then that he shove a sweet potato somewhere that would prove exceptionally painful for him, but managed to restrain myself. But I couldn’t contain my indignation over his disparaging dismissal of the gifts from the good people who lived in this town. My blood boiled. I confronted him passionately.

“You think these are bribes, but they’re not. They’re a simple ‘thank you’ for what we do for this town. If you don’t accept, the townsfolk will start thinking that you’re just here for another reason. Like getting some country time up so you can go for a senior sergeant position back in the city.” I paused significantly. “You don’t want the townsfolk thinking that about you, otherwise they’ll question all your motives. If you show them you are one hundred per cent behind the town and them, they’ll be one hundred per cent behind you. And I can’t tell you how important that can be sometimes.”

He cut me an icy stare, face rock-hard. “Thank you very much for your extremely unsubtle message, Fuller,” he sniped, turning his back on me, his attention on fiddling with the computer again, trying to coax it back to life.

I didn’t think that I deserved such a level of hostility from him. Perhaps I’d hit a raw nerve with the senior sergeant jibe.

“I’m going home,” I decided, grabbing my keys.

He spun around. “You’ll leave when I tell you to, Fuller. You’ve got a desk to sort out,” he said frostily. “I want that desk cleared before you go home.”

I was infuriated by that imperious order, because we both knew very well that it would take me hours, if not days, to do that. I thought I should be given a bit of consideration and leeway because of my injuries. I went over to my desk and staring at him angrily the whole time, shovelled up an armful of paper and flung it straight into my little bin, without even looking at it. Then I went back and did another armful, then another. The last few papers I swept off carelessly with the back of my arm until my desk was completely clear, but my bin was flowing over, papers toppling and spilling over each other, covering the surrounding floor in an avalanche of documents.

“There! My desk is cleared! Happy?” I shouted at him and grabbed my keys and as much of the produce as I could carry in my two hands and one backpack. Ignoring his strident demands that I come back and clean up the mess I’d made, I drove off, spraying up gravel in my haste to depart.

I blared the radio all the way home. But it wasn’t any good for releasing my anger because it was livestock hour. There was much deathly dull discussion of cattle prices and only two old soft pop songs from the sixties played to break up a monotonous interview with a stud breeder who spoke with the slow consistency of refrigerated honey. I wanted frantic modern music to sing along with at the top of my voice, but the Land Rover didn’t even have a cassette player, let alone a CD or MP3 player. I screamed out loud in frustration.

Back home, Dad was loving, welcoming, kind and wonderful and all the nice things I needed to feel better again.

“Bad day, love?” he asked sympathetically as I leaned down to kiss him on the forehead.

“I hate that stupid man!” I said vehemently, flinging my cap carelessly across the room like a frisbee, ripping my hair free from its bun, fluffing it out into a hideous mess and flopping down on the lounge, boots still on.

Dad leaned over to stroke my hair gently back to normality. “Problems with Finn?”

I sat up, indignant again. “He became ridiculously angry because the townsfolk left me some produce. I mean, how’s he going to survive here with that attitude? I tried to tell him that it’s just country kindness, but he was so rude to me. I’m never speaking to him again,” I declared decisively.

The phone rang. Dad, on his way to the kitchen with all the produce I’d brought in and dumped in the doorway, wheeled over to it and answered. His eyes flicked to me, and he held his hand over the mouthpiece to tell me in an exaggerated whisper that it was the Sarge on the phone for me.

“Dad! Tell him I’m not home,” I instructed through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

Dad told the Sarge I wasn’t home, then put his hand over the mouthpiece again. “He said he could hear you saying that.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I snatched the phone from his hand. “What do you want?” I snapped tersely into the receiver.

“I want to say I’m sorry.”

That threw me. I grappled for a moment with my incredible anger. “I need to shoot a few things before I can talk to you. I’ll call you back. Home or the station?”

“The station,” he said, startled. “For another hour or so. I want to try to get this computer working again.”

I hung up without a farewell and stalked out to the backyard, pulling out my Glock. I first detoured to the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinet to grab some of my own personal ammunition. I had a reasonable shooting gallery set up in the backyard for my own personal practice, trying to mimic the length, if not the conditions, of the professional ones in the city as much as possible. I bought targets and ammunition online for half-price. I wasn’t entirely sure that was even legal, but hey, they were half-price and I loved to shoot, but it was an expensive hobby.

The chickens rushed over when they saw me at the back door, hoping for a treat. I very gently nudged them away with my boot.

“I’m in a shooting mood, girls. Don’t get in my way,” I warned them and calmed myself by breathing in and out. Then I loosened my shoulders by rotating them and clipped on, then hauled out, a target on a pulley system that Jake had rigged up for me. When it was at the maximum distance prescribed in police training, I started shooting.

It was a reasonably safe operation. Behind us there was nothing except the gentle rise of the lowest part of Mount Big and there was nobody to either side for at least an acre. If Denny Bycraft popped up unexpectedly one day and I shot him, then the entire town would stand up to applaud me. God knows, I’d warned him enough times that I practiced shooting in my backyard. My only difficulty was the weather. If it was windy, I had to bail – it was too difficult to shoot at a flailing target, though I tried on occasion to test my skills.

I aimed and shot rapidly at the target, then pulled it in towards me. Almost perfect. I was a good shot. No, like the Sarge said, that was being modest. I was an absolute sharp shooter, a natural talent for judging distances, conditions and velocity finding its perfect match in weapons training. In a war situation, I’d have made an ideal sniper. I’d topped my year at the police academy for shooting. In fact, I still held the record for the highest score in shooting for any female recruit at the academy, and was ranked third overall for all recruits in the whole history of the academy.

I shot at a few more targets in the same calm, measured way and felt calmer and more measured myself in response. The concentration, the control, the coolness needed to be a good marksman had always proven itself to be excellent therapy for me since I’d first started learning on the range at twelve years of age. Finished, I packed everything away safely and threw my girls an extra handful of feed for scaring them with the shots. After I’d hustled them inside their safe run, I rang the Sarge back.

He answered the phone immediately, as if sitting next to it waiting for my call. “Tess, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so bad-tempered with you.” A pause. “Especially after everything else. It was the last thing you needed.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” I replied and went to hang up.

“Tess!” he stopped me. “What were you shooting? Not your dinner, I hope?”

I frowned to myself, not quite over it yet. “I’m not sure if you’re making a joke or patronising me again.”

“It was a joke,” he said. “Or was it?”

I laughed reluctantly and offered an olive branch. I had to work with the man, after all. “Why don’t you come for dinner and see if I have buckshot bunny on the menu tonight?” In fact, I had planned a lamb casserole and Fran’s lovely focaccia. “There’s enough for three.”

“Sounds good,” he said doubtfully, “but maybe next time. Thanks anyway.”

I laughed again. “Bye Sarge.”

Another pause. “Don’t forget that you can call me Finn now and then,” he said, conciliatory. “When nobody’s listening and it’s just you and me.”

“I won’t. Bye Sarge,” I said deliberately. “See you tomorrow.”

“You’re a very hard woman, Teresa Fuller.”

Smiling to myself, strangely pleased, I hung up on him and went to prepare dinner, regaling Dad with the day’s activities. Afterwards, we played two games of chess, winning one each, then he spent a frustrating hour trying to tutor me on the guitar before we jointly decided to give up and chatted over a last cup of tea. Before long, we both started yawning and headed to our beds.