Darkening Skies (21 page)

‘Definitely not a CWA meeting,’ Jenn muttered to herself. ‘Just what kind of craziness did you get caught up in, Caroline?’

Sex and power, mixed with alcohol and drugs. A combination that could rapidly become dangerous, particularly in the absence of trust and respect.

The bell in
the reception area pierced the quiet, jerking her back to awareness of her clinical surroundings. On the reception side of the nurses’ station, Rhonda spoke with someone before buzzing them in to the emergency area through the connecting door.

Steve, not Mark. The small flutter of expectation died before Jenn even recognised it.

The detective strode across the room, took his seat beside the bed and resumed the interrupted discussion without wasting a syllable. ‘Mark said you’d found a photo of his mother.’

With the permission implicit in Mark’s sharing of the information, she opened the later image and turned the screen to Steve. He whistled under his breath. ‘That’s her? Mrs Strelitz?’

‘Yes. You’ve not met her?’

‘No. I don’t think they visit here often. Not when I’ve been here, anyway.’

A purely pragmatic curiosity got the better of her. The more she knew about the detective, the more effectively she’d be able to work with him. ‘Have you been based here long?’

‘Me? No. I usually work out of Dubbo. I was called in to work on the Sutherland kiddie abduction a couple of years ago. And again last year when Ryan and Beth’s little girl was taken. Thankfully that worked out better than the first one.’ The guarded solemnity in his face dissolved into a sardonic twist of his mouth. ‘Hell knows why they asked me back but I’ve been temporarily filling a two-month vacancy for six months now.’

In a hotel in – where had it been? London? Moscow maybe? – she’d skimmed the few terse lines in her uncle’s email telling her the news of the death of Mitch and Sara Sutherland’s daughter, experiencing a detached twinge of sorrow for them before the next email and pressures of work distracted her again. A year later, after a week working in Southern Sudan she’d caught up with her emails, and Beth’s daughter was already found, safe and well. Jenn had dozens of dead Sudanese children to write about so Dungirri news again slipped to the back of her mind, nothing to concern her.

But this
man, with his cynicism and no connections to Dungirri, had walked through hell with her former schoolmates and neighbours.

She put the discomfort in her chest down to after-effects of smoke inhalation and ignored it. ‘So, why take a posting here in the backblocks? Surely there must be plenty of other detective postings.’

He leaned back casually in the chair, hands in his pockets, legs outstretched, and his crooked grin was half-sardonic, half-boyish. ‘Oh, a stint in purgatory is supposed to be good for a sinning soul. And it’s a long way from my father.’

She recognised it as a measured, strategic admission, not so much relaxing of any personal guard but designed to gain her trust. Steve Fraser was playing a role and wasn’t about to reveal anything truly personal. Nevertheless she asked, ‘You have daddy issues?’

‘Assistant Police Commissioner Fraser issues.’

She recognised the name. ‘He’s your father? The tall, dour guy?’

‘Yep, that’s him. He sure isn’t renowned for his sense of humour.’

Daddy issues, indeed. The disconnect between her knowledge of Steve and the stiff, formal and yes, decidedly humourless
senior officer who appeared in media briefings … not hard to imagine a chasm of issues, there.

Steve grinned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe I should have bucked the family tradition and joined the army instead of the cops.’

‘My father was in the army.’ She didn’t mean to speak, but the words were gone, unable to be recalled. Just words. Nothing to do with the memories of an exploding car and her mother’s death in this room. She would not, could not, allow those memories to overwhelm her.

‘Barrett. Isn’t there a Barrett on the Memorial Hall roll?’ Steve asked.

‘That’s my grandfather, Paul Aloysius Barrett. He earned a Distinguished Conduct Medal and lost a leg in Vietnam. He died just before Paul and Paula were born. Hence their names.’

‘Ah. Honouring a hero in the family. But you escaped that.’

She shrugged. ‘Not entirely. Jennifer Pauline. I came a year later, though, and it was already confusing enough with Paul and Paula.’

‘Your dad was the only one of his sons who followed him into the army?’

‘Yes. If he stayed here it would have been either the timber mill or agricultural work. The army paid more and provided better training.’

‘Was your mother a local?’

Don’t ask about my mother. Not here. Not now
. ‘No.’ She kept her voice just steady enough to offer the bare minimum. ‘An army nurse he met at Puckapunyal. But my family history isn’t relevant,’ she pointed at the laptop, ‘to this.’

‘Old crime
in a small town,’ he said mildly, ‘in my experience, that makes everything, current and past, potentially relevant.’

In her experience, too. Damn him for being right. But once again she deflected the focus away from herself. ‘Wolfgang must believe the roots of this crime go back years, because he also included this image. That’s Caroline, and Len over on the right.’

Steve raised his eyebrows, spent long moments studying the photo of the party, then reached over to the track pad to flick between the two images. When she told him about the file-name code – dates and initials – he asked to take a look himself and she reluctantly passed his laptop back to him.

Without the distraction of the computer, she shifted restlessly.

She could hear Rhonda’s voice in the triage room, talking to another woman, soothing a sobbing child. Just as a nurse had soothed her when she’d been twelve, desperate to reach her dying mother, incoherent with shock and terror.

Oh, crap, she couldn’t do this. She pushed the cotton blanket back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for the crutches Rhonda had brought a while ago.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Steve asked, dumping the laptop on the bed, moving to her side.

‘Yes. Just a sane, rational adult woman on the verge of a panic attack.’ Her strangled attempt at a laugh didn’t sound exactly
sane
. ‘I just need some fresh air and space.
Now
.’

Without comment he handed her the crutches, helped her steady herself, then, tucking his laptop under his arm, he walked with her out to the ER reception area and through the glass doors to the almost-deserted foyer beyond.

Mark
. She
almost burst into irrational tears the second she saw him. He and Morag Cameron broke their conversation and crossed swiftly to her.

‘I’m fine,’ she said to forestall their questions. ‘I will be fine. Just … Doc, I hope you’ve got good news on those X-rays, because I’m checking out.’

‘No fractures,’ Morag said. ‘But I’d like you to stay overnight, under observation.’

‘No. No offence, but I can’t do it.’ She felt ridiculous. Maybe if she explained, they wouldn’t all think she was losing it. She leaned on the crutches, her injured foot resting lightly on the floor for balance. Words, just words, and rational ones at that, if only she could get them into a clear, concise order. She sucked in a breath. ‘There’s a few too many bad memories. Not just Jim. I saw my mother die in there when I was twelve. My father was killed … they both died … the car-bomb explosion … I’m not usually emotional, but …’

If she opened her mouth for one more word she would howl. She dropped her head, feeling the pain in her lip as she bit it, desperate to keep the sobs building in her throat from escaping. Control.
Control
. She
had
to pull herself together and stop this stupid overreaction.

A hand clasped her shoulder, then became an arm around her, and she knew it was Mark because of the scent of smoke on his clothes. And because the ghost of the teenager she’d been knew she could rest her head against his shoulder. Just for a moment.

‘It’s okay, Jenn,’ he said, with the gentleness that had always been his strength. ‘Breathe. Cry if you need to. We’ll find somewhere else to stay tonight. You’re going to be fine.’

She
meant to move away from him after that moment but she stayed, her wet cheek dampening the soft cotton of his shirt, his arms firm and warm holding her. Part of her was twelve again, running away in distress from the hateful house and the nightmares, lost in never-ending bush in the dark … before the boy found her, wrapped a rug around her, lifted her on to his horse and promised to teach her about the land so that she could always find her way, and never feel so lost and alone again.

Midnight came and went, and still Mark lay awake, his thoughts too crowded and active to allow him to slip into sleep on the hot, still night. Starlight shone through the narrow window above the bunk bed, and occasionally the headlights of the police car making a sweep of the caravan park flashed into the room, the officer exchanging greetings in a low voice with the one on guard outside the cabin.

In the main room of the cabin Jenn slept in the double bed, peaceful for now. He could see her through the door she’d insisted he leave open so the slight breeze from the overhead fan could flow into the tiny bunkroom. At times she turned, or caught her breath or murmured something in her sleep, but the wave of panic that had caught her in the hospital had dissipated once she was out in the fresh air and calm of the night.

With Birraga’s only motel full with a tour group, and the hotels too insecure in Steve’s opinion, the caravan-park cabin had been their only choice.

In the morning he’d make arrangements to take Jenn to Dungirri and return to Marrayin, but even if he had access to a vehicle now he had enough sense not to risk a long drive in the dark after the minor injuries of the explosion. And he could not have left her alone in the hotel in Dungirri tonight. Besides, Steve would be back in the morning, with the homicide detective and prints of all the photographs so that they could go through them all properly, one by one.

Mark
checked his watch, the time glowing in the darkness. One in the morning. In Bolivia his parents were fifteen hours behind – ten a.m., Saturday. If they were travelling into the nearest small town from the village they might already be there, might have checked their email. He reached for his phone. No messages.

He closed his eyes again. Exhaustion, physical and mental, overwhelmed him. His mind was fruitlessly dragging all the unanswered questions around and around. He needed to stop thinking, get some rest.

His senses leapt to full alert as Jenn caught her breath again and made a small sound into the pillow. But she turned on to her side and settled without waking, curled under the sheet, one arm clutching it to her chest.

Thirty seconds, perhaps a minute he’d held her tonight before she’d regained her equilibrium and limped away with a murmured apology; not much longer the night before when Jim had died.

He couldn’t ignore it any longer. All the friendship, the affection, the
love
he’d felt for her in their teens – none of it had faded. And neither would the memory of those few minutes of closeness. The pride, resilience and independence that had enabled her to survive and triumph over a difficult youth remained, stronger than ever, and he doubted she would reveal that much vulnerability again, allow him close again. She’d leave Dungirri as soon as she could – and who could blame her? Her wounds cut too deeply and she had nothing to hold her here, nothing she cared about enough to stop her from going. Just like last time, he would have to let her go. And just like last time, she would leave an aching void in his life.

He rolled
on to his stomach and punched the lumpy pillow into a better shape. With one arm flung over it, he rested his face against it, and just for a moment allowed himself to remember the warmth of Jenn in his arms and the trust and connection between them.

He woke with sunlight streaming through the window on to his face, the sound of running water in the small bathroom and the quiet rolling crunch of a car pulling up on the gravel outside. Sitting up hastily, he narrowly avoided hitting his head on the low bunk above, but relaxed on hearing Steve greet their guard-duty officer.

He yanked his smoky, ash-stained jeans on again and didn’t bother to tuck in his rumpled shirt before he answered Steve’s knock on the cabin’s sliding door.

Steve handed Mark a plastic bag as he walked in. ‘Kris said she sent some clothes for Jenn around last night, and here’s my contribution. Clean jeans and T-shirt. Thank me later. Sorry I didn’t have any socks washed, and I ain’t lending anyone my jocks.’

‘We can all be thankful for that,’ Mark joked in return. A shower and fresh clothes would help to clear the grogginess in his head and wake him up properly. Six hours’ sleep hadn’t
quite made up for days of sleep deprivation. Coffee might help, too – the empty mug in the sink said Jenn had already had some. He refilled the still-warm electric kettle and set it to boil, found the remaining two mugs in the cupboard and emptied a couple of instant-coffee packets into them.

Steve dropped a bulging folder on the table and pulled out one of the chairs. ‘That’s the printouts of the photos. Not for sharing around, but maybe you or Jenn might recognise more people. I only recognised one. Nothing to pin on him, of course, but wherever there’s a hint of trouble, he’s there somewhere.’