Hell to Pay (30 page)

“What?”

“Butt out.”

Kropp shook him off. “What, you don’t think I can do the job properly if a friend’s involved?”

“Sarge, if you sit in on my interview with Mr. Latimer, my report will say so. If you say one word to, or for, Mr. Latimer during that interview, my report will say so. And what Superintendent Spurling or the coroner make of that, I can only guess, but it won’t look good.”

“You’re a grade-A cunt, son,” Kropp said.

“And proud of it, Sarge.”

Kropp stomped out, a heavy man, brutally unhappy. The front door slammed. Hirsch heard the Explorer roar and kick up a little gravel.

L
ATIMER INSISTED ON USING
his study, a dim, unloved cave, the lone armchair a long way from the desk. “Mr. Latimer,” Hirsch began.

Latimer started talking. “No one will tell me when or even whether I’ll get the inheritance. Do you know? If the inquest shows she shot herself while of unsound mind, that won’t affect the inheritance, right? It’s unrelated? Only I know some insurance policies won’t pay out on a suicide, but this isn’t an insurance policy, it’s an inheritance. The state can’t touch it, can they?”

Hirsch blinked. He was always meeting men and women who had the tact and emotional intelligence of a slab of concrete, but it always surprised him. “Mr. Latimer, you agreed to talk to me about your wife. I can’t advise you on the legalities or otherwise of an inheritance.”

But if you killed her I’ll see you don’t get a penny of it
.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Latimer said.

“Very well. What was Alison’s state of mind in the last few weeks and months of her life?”

“Depressed. Irrational,” Latimer said. His dark, hard man’s good looks contracted. “Made our lives a living hell.”

“In what way?”

“Didn’t look after herself. The place was a mess. Forgot to cook or shop. Screamed her head off at us one minute and begged forgiveness the next. Then in the last few days this sort of calmness came over her. I can’t describe it.”

“She was happy?”

“I wouldn’t say happy. More … like she’d come to a decision.”

“A decision to leave the marriage now that she had an inheritance to fall back on.”

Latimer shook his head. “That wasn’t it. More like she’d decided to end it all.”

“Not upbeat, happy, looking forward to the near future?”

“Who have you been talking to? That bitch across the road? She wasn’t here, Allie’s parents weren’t here, you certainly weren’t here. I was. Craig was. Ask him.”

“And Jack?”

“You leave Jack out of this. He’s just a little kid. He’s not … strong.”

Nor is Craig
, thought Hirsch. “Did your wife threaten suicide at any time in the last weeks and months?”

“No. But she had tried once before.”

Had she? Hirsch was having doubts. There was no direct evidence, only hearsay. “Was she depressed by nature?”

“Up and down.”

“What was her relationship with your father like?”

Latimer bristled. “What relationship? What are you implying?”

You can’t be too careful with your word choice
, thought Hirsch. He spelt it out: “From all accounts, she had a close and happy relationship with your mother. She had a close and happy relationship with Mrs. Street across the road. That’s what I mean by
relationship. Was she close to your father or did they quarrel? I understand he’s a … forceful man.”

“My father loved her like she was his own. If she was nervy around him that says a lot about her, not him.”

“Did he urge her to pay the inheritance into the business rather than leave the marriage?”

“My father’s not the type to interfere like that. His view was I was well rid of her. She was splitting up the family, taking Jack away with her. Craig chose to stay with me.”

“Well, did
you
urge her to reconsider? The farm’s struggling, you told me that yourself. The inheritance would have helped carry you over until prices improved or the rains came.”

Latimer curled his lip. “What do you know about farming? Look, we’re not that far gone. It’s all cyclical anyway. You wouldn’t know that, being on a regular salary.” He grinned crookedly. “Plus your other perks.”

Hirsch bit. “
My
other perks? Or do you mean all police officers get perks?”

“You. I know all about you. Happy to belong to a crooked squad yet quick to dob the others in to save your own skin.”

Hirsch smiled. “So your wife’s inheritance
wouldn’t
have been a godsend? Surely it would have eased the pressure? Craig could have returned to his boarding school. Apparently he was happy there.”

“A hundred and sixty thousand dollars doesn’t go far, not if you’re on the land. All I wanted to do was save my marriage, not grab Allie’s inheritance.”

“But you just said she made your lives a misery.”

“Only at the end, it would’ve blown over.”

“If she did make your lives a misery, perhaps it was because you had other women.”

“I still loved her.”

“Really? You told Mrs. Armstrong
last year
that the marriage was over.”

“I never said that. She misunderstood.”

“You were quick to move her in.”

“Not that quick.”

Hirsch gave Latimer a scoffing look and let the silence build for a while.

“She’s being magnanimous about the fire.”

Latimer shrugged.

“She could have pressed charges against your son.”

Latimer grew heated. “Didn’t take her long to shoot through on me, though, did it? Didn’t stay around once the shit hit the fan. And have you seen the condition of the fence? Half falling down, and I suppose she wants me to spend top dollar repairing it.”

Hirsch was fascinated. “I think the engagement ring was the final straw.”

“What do you mean?”

“She thought you’d bought it specially.”

“It was my mother’s ring. I can do with it what I like.”

“You gave it to your wife.”

“Of course. Then when she left me I got it back.”

“She left it here when she went to stay at her parents’?”

“Yes.”

“But she had a close and loving relationship with your mother and it would have meant a great deal to her to wear the ring.”

“Who knows what went on in her mind. Can we stop now?”

“Returning to the inheritance.”

“Do we have to?”

“At the start of the interview you seemed quite concerned that you might not get it. Why, if it’s no big deal?”

“Of course it will help, I’m not an idiot. I’ve got two mouths to feed and no one to help me.”

“What were your thoughts when you heard about the inheritance?”

Latimer looked dumb. “Nothing much.”

“Well, did you think it would save the farm from ruin? Did you fear it would give your wife a measure of independence,
give her the nerve to leave you? That wouldn’t look too good, would it? Make you look a bit of a fool?”

“I don’t have to listen to this. Why don’t you just shove off and leave us alone.”

“What time did you and Mrs. Armstrong go to Redruth the weekend your wife died?”

“In time for the footie. And I was with her until I got arrested. And I was in the lockup when Allie died, okay?”

Then Latimer’s face altered, a look almost of glee. “Where are you going with this? You looking at Finola?”

“She’s in the clear. But why are you pointing me at her? As far as you’re concerned, your wife committed suicide.”

“That’s what I think, yeah. If you’d lived here with Allie, it’s also what
you’d
think. But for some reason you’ve got it in for my father and me, probably influenced by that bitch across the road, so I’m indulging you, it amuses me.”

“Did you break your wife’s hand one day, Mr. Latimer? Bend her fingers back? Slam it in the car door?”

“Fucking get out.”

H
IRSCH COULD HAVE GONE
home to talk to the furniture, but he said, “Mr. Latimer, where’s the second twenty-two rifle?”

He pointed to the gun cabinet on the wall.

“What?”

“You have two such rifles: the one that killed your wife and one other.”

“How the hell do you know that? You checking on my licenses?”

“A Ruger and a Brno. Where’s the other one? In the ute? The shed?”

“Fucked if I know. Why?”

“Because your son is unraveling and might decide to shoot himself. Or you.”

That got Latimer going.

They didn’t find the rifle in the ute, the sheds, the car,
cupboards, wardrobes, under beds. Leaving one room still unsearched.

Craig Latimer was curled up on his bed, a damp, blotchy, unlovely lump of a boy, his meaty spine turned to them. Latimer sat, placed a big hand on an unresponsive shoulder. “Son? Where’s the twenty-two we keep in the ute?”

Craig rolled onto his back. “I dunno.”

“You haven’t been taking potshots at tin cans?”

“Not me! Jack.”

Latimer gaped. “Jack?”

“Him and Katie Street.”

Hirsch stepped in. “Craig, where is your brother?”

“Staying with Allie’s parents.”

“Would he have taken the rifle with him?”

Craig scoffed. “Nanna wouldn’t let it in the house.”

“Perhaps your mum hid it.”

“Why would the bitch hide it?” Craig said.

After a moment, Hirsch said, “Did your father teach you to talk about her like that? Perhaps she hid it because it wasn’t being kept in a secure place.”

He left, stewing. But the thing was, none of the Latimers could have killed Alison. They hated her, though. Given an opportunity to sweeten the memory, they hadn’t taken it.

ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON in late November, Hirsch washing the HiLux again, maintaining standards, feeling stiff from yesterday’s tennis, a new white Camry with Victorian plates entered town from the south. It slowed outside Tennant’s store, braking next to the petrol bowser. A young man got out, rattled the nozzle. Hirsch knew Tennant locked it overnight and on Sundays and public holidays. Then the driver peered through the shop window, into the shadowy, closed, unlit interior. A young woman joined him. They pantomimed dejection, but that didn’t last: Now they were looking around for a way out of their dilemma. And there was Hirsch a short distance away, a hose in his hand, the
POLICE
sign above his door. They climbed back into the Camry.

A moment later they were parked at the curb and stepping onto his lawn. Hirsch released the spray-gun trigger, dropped the hose, wiped his palms on his jeans and thought
backpackers
. The clue was in the backpacks like a pair of passengers on the backseat. Northern European? Tall, blond, lithe, sun-browned, clear-eyed, quizzical, fearless—on just about every count they were not locals.

“We are not having benzene,” the boy said, his teeth white and straight. Board shorts, faded T-shirt, craft market sandals.

“Petrol,” Hirsch said.

The girl said, “This is so. Pet-rol.”

She was as tall as her boyfriend, vital, athletic, with cropped hair, tight shorts and a singlet top. Hirsch fell in love on the spot, looks and vitality and accent.

“The shop’s closed, I’m afraid.”

“We must be in Port Augusta for the famous Ghan and Pichi Richi trains,” the girl said, mangling the words charmingly.

Hirsch had a mental stab at their movements. A few weeks or months traveling around and across the continent, hitchhiking, taking buses and trains, camping, staying in hostels and cheap motels, some fruit picking and bartending and waitressing along the way. Hiring a car occasionally, like this Hertz Camry. The Ghan ran from Adelaide, with a stop at Port Augusta, on its 3,000 km journey to the Timor Sea, but it seemed they first wanted to ride the Pichi Richi train, a rickety little rattler that traveled a short distance near Port Augusta, where he supposed there was a Hertz agency where they could return the car.

“Please can you help us? The next town is too far for us and the last town is too far also. We are not having the petrol for these journeys.”

Hirsch thought this was something they didn’t prepare you for when they posted you at a one-man police station in the bush. He made a mental note to stock some emergency fuel, one jerry can of unleaded, one of diesel. A man of the people.

Bob Muir.

“I can take you to someone who might have some petrol.”

“
Dank
.”

Dutch? He squeezed in with the backpacks—grimy, faded, unraveling—and directed them to the street where the Muirs and the Donovans lived.

Yvonne Muir answered. Eyeing the Camry and its occupants,
quivering to know, she said, “Bob’s next door, setting up Leanne’s new TV.”

Hirsch paused at the Camry to explain where he was going, and walked across the grass to the Donovans’. Leanne opened the door, looking red-eyed, uncombed, a little awry in battered Crocs, tracksuit pants and T-shirt. She blinked at Hirsch, said, “Sorry, haven’t had a shower yet,” and led Hirsch through to her sitting room, where she collapsed into an armchair. A mug of tea steamed on a stool beside it, a cigarette burned in a saucer.

“Bob,” Hirsch said, nodding at Muir, who was kneeling on the floor beside a wall opposite Leanne’s armchair, a screwdriver sticking out of the rear pocket of his overalls.

Muir nodded, said “G’day,” and returned to his task. He’d run coaxial cable along the skirting board to a large flat-screen television, which had replaced the boxy set Hirsch recalled from his first visit. The old TV sat with its face to the wall with a coil of old ribbon cable, disgraced, forgotten, ready for recycling. Ready for the rubbish tip, anyway.

The air was dense: Both Muir and Leanne had cigarettes going. Hirsch wanted to cough, wave the smoke away, open a window. “Need to ask a favor.”

Muir, still on his knees, produced a Swiss Army knife, took up the cable end. He peeled back a couple of centimeters of black outer casing, revealing the inner sheath, core and copper wire. He hadn’t a hurry in the world.

“Shoot,” he said.

Hirsch told him about the backpackers.

Muir grunted. “Wouldn’t be the first time. The last bloke always had a couple of drums on hand, one unleaded, one diesel.”