Dirty Weekend (2 page)

‘I don’t shut you out,’ I said.

‘You do,’ she countered. ‘You’re always in a hurry. Our relating has become—well—superficial over the last few months.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, coming over and kissing her. ‘I have been hard to catch lately. Always running from one thing to the next.’

‘Jacinta rang me yesterday because she couldn’t even reach you on the mobile,’ she said.

‘Did she say what she wanted?’ I asked. My daughter would sometimes ring to grizzle when her boyfriend Andy was being—according to her—‘a total dickhead’.

‘That’s not the point I’m trying to make,’ she said.

‘We’ve had all that extra work—lots of people away,’ I said, trying to explain. ‘Samples from the Indonesian police. I’ve had to pitch in with everyone else
and
manage the administration side of it as well. If I didn’t switch the mobile off occasionally, I’d never get anything done—and with some assays, it’s critical to work without interruption.’

I could see she wasn’t convinced.

‘What did Jacinta want?’ I repeated after a pause.

‘She’s worried about Shaz. Said she turned up to yesterday’s lectures with a black eye.’

One of Jacinta’s friends from rehab days was involved with a violent man and Jacinta had spoken to me already of her concern.

In the firelight, I could see the love and concern in Iona’s eyes and I put my arms around her. I didn’t want to stuff up with this woman. My life span was reducing every day; I didn’t want to go to my grave without experiencing real love and, with Iona, this was possible. It had taken both of us so long to find the other and I’d lived long enough to know that a woman like her was a rare gem. We were financially independent of each other and had no small children, so the usual grounds for conflict were not in place. Neither of us viewed the other as a means to an end, nor wished to derive any benefit from the other apart from mutual happiness and growth. My marriage—ill-judged and hormone-driven—had quite quickly turned into a war zone and I was determined to do things differently this time, and was very hopeful that I could.

‘I really will do better,’ I said, trying to lighten her mood, leaning to kiss her solemn face. ‘Charlie and Greg will be down sometime today. I promise I’ll be around for the next few days.’

Maybe I overdid the enthusiasm a bit.

‘Practically a lifetime,’ she said, turning back to her books with the hint of a smile on her full lips.

I went to kiss her properly but she fended me off with a cheek.

‘You’re pissed off at me,’ I said.

‘You can redeem yourself this time,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just remember the extra milk and bread and other basics for our visitors.’

I promised I wouldn’t forget.

As I left the cottage, she kissed me goodbye on the doorstep then stepped back to regard me with her sombre, smoky eyes. ‘I love you,’ she said, steadily regarding me. ‘But I can only do fifty per cent of our relationship.’

‘I’d better go,’ I said.

I was still thinking of Iona’s words as I slammed my car door shut in the area behind the Blackspot Nightclub, in an outer suburb of Canberra. Signs of the terrible bushfires of a couple of years before were still visible, but rebuilding and the growth of new vegetation had softened the scars.

Iona was right. Not only did we need to spend more time together, but I needed to examine what it was that sabotaged the plans I made to do exactly this. I knew as few others can how easily and quickly a couple can start to grow apart, living separate lives, becoming estranged. It was partly what had happened in my marriage. The routine set in, the job, the shopping, the housekeeping, the taxi service for the kids. Too tired to make love at the end of a difficult day, physical intimacy fell away. And although my marriage had fallen apart inevitably because of the emotional immaturity of both parties, I was only too aware that my alcoholism had played a large part in its destruction. I knew how important it was for a couple to spend unhurried time together and Iona needed me to make that time for her.

I wasn’t too sure I understood what she meant about me shutting her out. But it was true that too often lately she’d had to eat dinner alone because I’d been catching up on urgent work at Forensic Services. Or she’d have a couple of late evening music lessons to teach and would eat in town, coming back to the cottage later to find me crashed out with exhaustion. My kids, although both now studying at university, still needed the emotional support and occasional financial help of a father and I wasn’t spending as much time with them as I wanted either. I needed to make more time for my kids, time for my woman and time for myself. Even forensic analysts have souls, I’d joked to my brother, Charlie, not so long ago. And it had been too long since I’d taken out my paintbrushes and completed the watercolour of Boora Point, the sandstone headland that butted out in the ocean at Malabar. Yet no matter how much I told myself that I wanted to do these things, something always seemed to be getting in the way. A talk with Charlie might help clarify things—if I could bring myself to do it.

I decided to give my brain a break by surveying the landscape for a while before I headed to the crime scene proper. I spent a moment taking in the place—dull, heavy skies that threatened rain, a bird of prey high above, circling on a thermal, the stink of cars and asphalt.

During the year, the isolated storms that had brought rain were over far too quickly, wetting only the surface, turning dirt roads into skidding traps, not delivering any real moisture, merely settling the dust awhile. I looked down, then cursed when I realised I’d just trodden in dog shit and tried to rid myself of it by scraping my shoe up and down in the burnt-off grass.

I walked over to the far side of the parking area, towards a small group of people, noticing beyond them the figure of a space-suited young woman working by herself, taking soil samples. Wisps of fair hair escaped the plastic covering her head and the outstanding features of her slender body were not entirely hidden by the rustling, impermeable fabric. There’d never seemed to be such attractive women working crime scene when I’d been in the job in Sydney. Curious, I diverted from my course to join the group to check her out. She straightened up as I neared, waiting for me to reach her. At closer quarters, her face reminded me of those overbred dogs whose eye sockets seem too small for their large eyes.

‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped. ‘Who are you?’

Was it my belt buckle or the fact that I hadn’t shaved? I could’ve replied that when I’d started out in this work, she’d been blowing bubbles in her milk.

She crinkled her nose in a grimace. ‘What’s that stink?’

Guiltily, I looked down at my sneaker. I couldn’t smell anything. I pulled out a handkerchief and blew my nose.

‘What’s in there?’ I countered, pointing to the small plastic collection jar in her hand.

In response, she turned to one of the locals in the group behind us. ‘Brian!’ she called. ‘Can you get this fellow out of here? He won’t identify himself and he’s contaminating my samples.’

Brian Kruger, with whom I’d worked quite closely on a previous case, straightened up from where he’d been squatting, his frown gabling his thick eyebrows. Then, as he recognised me, his expression of aggravated surprise switched to a grin.

‘You heard the lady, pal,’ he said, standing up and coming over to join us. ‘Stop contaminating her samples.’

The young woman looked from one of us to the other, trying to read the situation, her face betraying nothing. This was a very cool customer.

‘Sofia,’ Brian said. ‘Meet your boss. Dr Jack McCain.’

So this was the latest member of the team, I thought, remembering the name from the very impressive application she’d forwarded. After the disastrous events of the previous year, including the loss of two of our most senior scientists and the relocation of another two to Indonesia, several vacancies had been advertised, including that of chief scientist. A couple of less senior positions had been filled, but, increasingly, it looked as if I was pretty well stuck with the acting position until the right applicant turned up. The early selection process and interviews had been held at Sydney headquarters, and I’d been away in Sydney during the recent final interviews in Canberra. The palynology lab was housed separately from the main complex, linked by a covered walkway, otherwise Sofia and I would have met sooner.

Sofia didn’t bat an eyelid. Instead, she stared at me, her eyes moving down towards the Black Commandos buckle and back again, before saying, ‘And how was I supposed to know that?’

Brian’s grin widened as he inclined his head in her direction. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is Sofia Verstoek. Sofia’s new on the block. She’s been helping us out over the last few weeks.’

Sofia Verstoek had still barely acknowledged me, nor did she seem to notice the irony in Brian’s voice. Ordinarily, I’d have welcomed someone like her on board, but she’d got me on a bad day and I was still feeling pissed off.

‘I want to know what you’re collecting,’ I repeated, again indicating the collection jar she was holding.

‘Soil samples. From a series of locations around the scene.’

I noticed how mask-like her face seemed, as if it were stretched too tight across the bones of her face.

‘Samples I need to examine,’ she said. ‘And from what I hear,’ she looked around at the others, ‘things in Canberra are still somewhat backward. I believe I’m the first palynologist employed here full-time.’

I couldn’t help thinking that if they were all like her, she’d probably be the last.

‘Okay. Carry on,’ I said and watched while she went back to work, confident she’d won that round. I actually knew something of her discipline, but I didn’t intend to play ego games with her. And, to be fair, as a particle man myself, the forensic evidence Sofia Verstoek might discover could be of great help to this investigation.

‘She can’t help it,’ said Brian, before I could say anything. ‘You’ve heard the definition of a well-balanced New Zealander.’

I hadn’t.

‘A chip on both shoulders.’

It certainly seemed apt in this case.

‘Apparently, they’ve been using forensic palynology in New Zealand for twenty-five years, but until I met her ladyship, I’d never heard of it.’

I went to my car and pulled on a sterile suit and gloves from the collection I keep in the back in a plastic fishing container. I had to admit Sofia Verstoek had a point—I
should
have suited up before approaching. As I was about to pull the plastic covers over my shoes, I bent and sniffed. Damned if I could smell anything.

I collected my video camera, grabbed the smaller tackle box that I used to house my bits and pieces and made my way towards the small group of people who stood around the body of Tianna Richardson.

Even from a slight distance, the body on the tarmac, left arm flung out at shoulder height, legs sprawled, head turned away, could never be mistaken for someone who was merely sleeping. Or even unconscious. I’d been to the crime scenes of a lot of violent, fatal sexual assaults and this had all the trademarks—legs outflung, skirt bunched up, panties tugged down, abrasions down one side of the leg, dried blood smearing the thighs.

Tianna still had her curvaceous figure, perhaps a little heavier than I recalled, and the lurex thread on her jacket glittered as I approached. The spangled top she was wearing revealed a strip of tanned belly just above her waist and her long dark skirt was bunched up across her thighs and belly, barely keeping her decent. Her panties, a black lace figure-of-eight, were twisted round her right ankle above a high-heeled sandalled foot, the shoe half pulled off. The other sandal was missing.

‘Ah, Jack,’ said Harry Marshall, nodding to me. ‘I thought it was you getting out of that wagon, but then I remembered that you’re supposed to be keeping decent hours these days.’

Insomniac clinical director and senior pathologist at the Canberra morgue, Harry was an old friend and we went back a very long way—I counted him as a personal friend as well as a colleague. The good humour in his lively eyes was unmistakeable but he was looking tireder and older than when we last met.

‘I wish we didn’t always have to meet like this,’ I said, ‘over half-naked women.’

‘It’s our fatal charm, Doctor,’ Harry said, looking more closely at the woman who lay near my plastic-covered shoes. ‘Someone’s charm was certainly fatal for this one,’ he continued, gently lifting and turning the dead woman’s head to reveal a matted, bloody area at the back. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘Looks like she’s been bashed with a weapon of some sort.’

‘We haven’t found any weapon,’ said Brian, who’d been directing the search around the immediate area. ‘This place,’ he continued, gesturing back towards the nightclub building, ‘is one of those grab-a-granny joints. Some of the guys from work come here towards the end of the week. They reckon you’re guaranteed a sure thing. Reckon the old chicks are really into it. Some hot bodies, too. Monday night was a special singles night.’

‘Got lucky, did you, Brian?’ I asked. ‘What do the grannies think?’

‘Modesty prevents me from saying,’ he said.

‘Never prevented you before,’ I said, recalling a couple of conversations I’d had with Brian over the years. ‘Who found her?’

‘The guys on the drunk patrol,’ he said. ‘They called me around 2 a.m. I’d only been down for a few hours.’

I remembered that life well and was happy to be out of it. Why, then, was I buying back in like this?

‘So what’s your take on this?’ I asked.

‘I heard she liked a bit of rough. Maybe things got out of hand.’

‘Who told you that?’ I said, immediately interested.

‘Can’t remember.’ Brian shrugged, then got up and walked around the other side of the woman’s body.

‘Try. It’s important,’ I persisted.

‘Sorry, Doc, Can’t help you. It was just one of those things. People talking.’

Rumours, I thought. This place lived on them. If Brian didn’t remember, maybe someone else might.

I took out my video camera and began recording, starting with a slow pan around the area, establishing the place and surrounding conditions. While I did this, Brian took a lot of stills of the same area. Later, if the need arose, I could get copies from him.

After I’d filmed the surrounding areas, I focused my attention on the dead woman on the ground. My job here was to record, collect, collate and later analyse any traces that might be helpful to the investigation. I panned down, recording the woman’s body, the scratches and abrasions on her arms and legs. I thought wearily of the hundreds of scenes like this I’d attended over the years, documenting a human being’s last struggle. Knowing Tianna, even slightly as I did, made me feel that much worse. With my sodden head, aching face and sweaty space-suited body, I suddenly felt old and unaccountably sad. I needed a holiday. I tried to focus on the bright side. At least here I didn’t have to deal with decomposition.

There was something about the presence of a dead body, especially a murdered one, that still touched me. Despite its silence, a dead body posed an immense question. A murdered body even more so.

Why did your life end like this? I silently asked. Who did this to you, Tianna? And why?

Gilded flies already clustered around her staring eyes and open mouth, disappearing then reappearing from the shadowed area covered by the bunched-up skirt. One species of fly arrived within four minutes of death and they’d had quite a few hours already to get busy.

While Harry waved the flies away, I focused in on a dark, extensive bruise covering one side of her face, the dried matter gathered on the lower side of her mouth. Had she been attacked and taken by surprise in the dark while getting into her car to go home? Or had she danced the night away with someone who’d later turned
nasty in the car park? Moving down, I filmed a reddish mark just visible in the declivity between her left shoulder and the swelling of the breast and I wondered what it was, noticing another similar mark just visible on her jaw, near her left ear. After filming them and asking Brian to take some stills, I turned back to my examination.

‘What’s that stuff?’ I asked, my attention taken by something I could see through the magnifying glass. Brian came closer and leaned over my shoulder. On the blood-matted hair, coarse grains of greyish sand could be seen adhering to the wounds and their edges, and I could see more of them, some as big as sugar crystals, embedded in the reflected scalp tissue now shrinking and drying around the seat of the major damage. As Harry held the head, I used a small brush to sweep the grey particles into a specimen jar, taking as much as I could gather.

Before getting up, I carefully checked over the ground around and beneath the dead woman. Then I straightened, frowning. The car park was made of old asphalt, strewn with debris from the trees and the fine dry soil that surrounded it. I took samples of this soil in another jar for comparison back at the laboratory. Curious, I thought, that I couldn’t see any of those larger grains. Maybe closer examination would reveal more.