Catherine Jinks TheRoad (35 page)

‘You didn’t look?’

‘No I didn’t fuckin look!’

‘I’ll look.’ Graham moved forward, rifling through the brown purse and ignoring the axe. Alec called after him: ‘They’ve been
shot
, mate, you wanna watch yourself!’ Climbing back into his seat, he heard Chris say something, but couldn’t make out the words. His head was still fuzzy. When he shut his eyes, a bloody image of destruction imposed itself upon the darkness – so he opened them again.

‘What?’ he muttered.

‘I said, if there was someone still around, he probably would have tried to shoot us already,’ Chris pointed out. ‘You did say they were shot. Is that right?’

‘Yeah.’ Alec winced, and swallowed. ‘I saw a cartridge.’

‘Was it done recently?’

‘Dunno.’ Alec hesitated. ‘Most of the blood looks pretty dry.’

‘Where’s Graham going?’

‘He – he wants to see if he can find a wallet.’

‘Well he shouldn’t.’ Chris leaned out the window, gesturing frantically.
‘Gray!’
he shouted.
‘Come back!’

Graham spun around. Chris saw the purse in his hand.

‘Shit,’ he murmured.
‘Graham! Come back! Don’t touch anything!’

Alec suddenly understood what Chris was getting at. The place was a crime scene. You weren’t supposed to disturb crime scenes. He wondered if he had kicked the cartridge aside, or scuffed through any tell-tale footprints.

‘You shouldn’t be disturbing anything,’ Chris said sharply, echoing Alec’s thoughts. He was speaking to his brother, who had just reached the Land Rover’s factory-fresh roo bar. ‘There might be fingerprints on that bag, Graham.’

‘Oh shit.’ Graham’s eyes widened. ‘What an idiot! Now
my
fingerprints are on there!’

‘Get in,’ said Chris.

‘What shall I do with the ...?’

‘Bring it. Too late now. And don’t forget the axe.’

‘Sorry. Jesus, what a fool.’

The axe was shoved through Alec’s window, and left in Alec’s care. A hunted-looking Graham crawled into the front passenger seat. Everyone looked at the purse that he was carrying, which was made of cheap, thick leather, scuffed and stained. A lot of the stitching had unravelled.

‘Well?’ said Chris, his foot still planted on the brake.

‘There’s a screwdriver in here,’ Graham murmured. ‘A bloody great screwdriver, look.’ He dragged it out; it was old and rusty.

‘Anything else?’ Chris wanted to know.

‘Tissues. Receipts. Wallet.’ Graham laid down the screwdriver and produced the wallet. It, too, had a worn and battered appearance. ‘Let’s see ...Visa card. Medicare card. Civic Video card. All belonging to Grace Stone ...oh.’ He swallowed. ‘There’s another name on the Medicare card. Nathan Bryce.’

‘Shit,’ Chris breathed.

‘Twenty-five bucks. Couple of stamps. What’s this?’ He unfolded it. ‘Prescription. Antibiotics for Grace Stone. Oh, man.’