Switchback Stories (22 page)

‘You are my real granddaddy!’

I gave him an affectionate squeeze. ‘No, I’m not, Jamie. But I’ve realized that I was once something else. I was your grandfather’s friend. I met him on the road sometime after he left this town and we hitched our first ride together. We were good mates for a while, until I lost him. He never fully told me about the tragedy he’d caused here but I picked up bits and pieces of information from him. Enough to understand he was haunted by demons that no man deserves.’

‘Your mate, Nugget. That was my granddaddy?’

‘That’s right. Deep down he was an honest fella trying to come to terms with a terrible mistake. I know that ‘ol Nugget would be happy to think that one day I came here and tried to be the granddad he would’ve wanted to be. What do you say? Do we give it a go?’

Jamie nodded excitedly. ‘We’ll give it everything we’ve got, Mac!’

I grinned. I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

I
have walked these lands a long time.

I have sought shelter in your homes. I have found nourishment in your food and water.

I have worked alongside you. We’ve shared our ideas, our dreams, our memories, our hopes, our fears.

I’ve laughed with you, fought with you, there’s been many times I’ve spoken out in defence of you.

I’ve joined in celebrating your victories, just as on other occasions I’ve felt your grief and cried with you. And prayed for you.

But there are other sides to me, sides you do not see.

Sides I rarely show.

Sometimes, my guilt and my shame are mine alone to bear. They haunt me, shadow me like a dark cloud, scream out at me in anguish.

Most of you will never meet me, will never be touched by me, but I am always in your midst. I could be a part of any one of your lives at any time, in any place, seeking to implant my will for any number of reasons.

I do not have a name but I’ve been known by many.

Curious?

Perhaps you’d like to take a walk with me.

There’s so much I could show you, so much you can’t begin to imagine about this world, about its hidden depths, about its secret agendas.

So much you could gain if you were to listen to me.

I am the ultimate sin, seeking your company, waiting, smiling in the darkness.

I am Murder.

Which one of you will take that walk with me?

Ah, there’s a few of you, inching forward, showing interest, showing that hidden side, the side I seek.

Come forward, just a little closer. No takers, yet?

In that case, I choose….

I
’ve been following you for a long time now.

I know where you go, who you spend your time with, everything you like and everything you do. I’m there.

Watching.

Like most people you have a routine. You leave your apartment at 7.15 Monday to Friday and you catch the 7.24 bus to the city.

The driver’s always glad to see you and you exchange a laugh. You’re a striking looking young woman. Your chestnut brown hair dances on your shoulders when you toss your head. I love the crinkle that forms across your nose when you smile. It’s a smile that can light up a room. It’s a smile that turns heads.

It’s a twenty minute ride and you buy a flat white and a blueberry muffin in the ground level café of the building where you’ve worked for the past two years.

You’re at your desk at 8.20 for an 8.30 start.

Thursday night is a big shopping night for you. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday you’re generally out with your girlfriends and lately you’ve been on a couple of dates with a guy named Joseph. A sporty type of guy who works in a bank.

I don’t like him.

I don’t like him at
all.

It’s a couple of months since we last met. I pretended to ‘bump’ into you during a lunch hour. I asked you to have a cup of coffee with me, for old time’s sake, for a catch-up, but you said you didn’t think it was a good idea.

I expressed an interest in getting back together but you made it clear that wasn’t going to happen. You’d moved on, and you said I needed to do the same.

You told me you were busy, you said good-bye and you rushed off.

Sometimes I envisage that you’ve agreed to a reunion and we meet for dinner at the seafood place that used to be one of our regular haunts. An imaginary dialogue plays out in my mind.

You’re cautious but nothing can dull the compassion that shines in those beautiful eyes. ‘It just wasn’t working between us, John. You’re so…intense. And you often seem so frustrated in so many…anyway, we just didn’t fit. You were still finding yourself, I think.’

‘Being with you had a positive effect on me, Alice. I’m a lot more grounded now.’

‘I’m sensing that.’

‘If you were to give me another chance, I’d be the luckiest man alive.’

She ponders this. ‘I guess, maybe we could take it a step at a time.’

‘That would be awesome.’

I long for the day when that exchange is real, not imaginary.

I don’t have many friends but I get on well with a guy named Georgio. He’s older than me and he owns and runs a local pizza parlour where I eat two or three times a week.

We talk about all sorts of stuff, sports, video games, movies, our respective workplaces. I confide in Georgio.

‘You’ve gotta let go of these obsessions of yours, buddy. Learn to move on, eh? Every guy has a starter girlfriend that doesn’t go the distance. Every day’s a new start and there’s plenty of fish in the sea.’

‘Too many clichés.’

‘Life’s full of clichés, John, that’s the thing.’

I don’t think life is full of clichés but I envy Georgio’s easy charm and thick hide. Maybe life’s better that way.

But none of that has helped.

I lay awake at night, wondering what you’re doing, wondering who you’re with. Time is supposed to heal, isn’t it? In my case, nothing could be further from the truth, in my case it’s had the complete opposite effect.

And that is how I knew I had to act.

• • •

I’ve become very adept at shadowing your every move, observing from a distance and you’ve never been aware I was close.

Day and night I never stop thinking about you. Never.

But it’s simply become too hard and seeing you with Joseph was the last straw. I could feel it burning holes through me.

You couldn’t appreciate how much I loved you. You weren’t prepared to give us a second chance, to allow me to show how much I’d changed.

I’ve been carrying the pistol for a couple of weeks now. I’ve taken lessons at a shooting school, I know how to use it, I know how to take aim and hold steady.

With heavy heart I’ve imagined you in my sights.

Today is the day. One year since you broke it off with me and I began living my life as a shadow, watching, dreaming, wishing. Our anniversary, but not the anniversary I wanted.

I watch as you leave work and walk to the bus shelter. You stand and wait with the usual crowd for the 5.46 to take you home. As always, you’re oblivious to my presence. As always, I’m near the small cluster of shops across the road. Only today the pistol is in my hand and I know what must be done.

You’re wearing your hair loose today, my favourite of your styles, and a gentle breeze lifts it. Those large green eyes are looking a little sad today and I wonder if, instinctively, you
know
.

I grip the pistol firmly and raise it slowly.

My finger is on the trigger. My hand is remarkably calm.

I take one last loving look at you.

I place the barrel against my right temple, my finger poised on the trigger.

And I pull.

M
ax Crichton couldn’t believe his bad luck: there was a storm coming. The air was heavy, the clouds sweeping in across the sky and greying the landscape. Gusty winds growing stronger by the minute.

He pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the chill of early morning. A light rain had fallen earlier. It was meant to be a rostered day off for Max. A Friday, and the kind of morning for sleeping in and lazily reading newspapers over a late breakfast. The 7.40 call from the police dispatcher had been lousy timing. But then that was the norm with police work. Lousy, lousy timing.

The body had been spotted by the local newsagent, George Rush, as he’d gone about his morning paper run. It was twenty minutes since his phone call to the police. Now this quiet stretch of road in the farming community of Pioneer Hill was besieged by activity.

The local sergeant and two constables were scouting for any trace evidence at the scene. The girl had been strangled. A dark-haired young woman was nearby, talking with the newsagent. Max noticed she had a notebook in hand. He walked over. ‘Press?’ he inquired.

The woman offered her hand. ‘Yes. Donna McEvoy. I’m with the
Chronicle
.’

Max introduced himself. ‘I haven’t seen you around before,’ he commented.

‘New in town. Sort of. I’ve been away at uni, then in the city for the past seven years. But I joined the local paper this week. Wanted to be close to the family again.’

Max nodded. He turned his attention to George Rush. The newsagent was clearly distraught. ‘Nasty shock, George.’

‘I’ve done this route five days a week for the past fifteen years. Never expected anything … like this.’

‘We’ve got your statement, George, so go on home. Take it easy. Can your weekend guy finish the rest of this morning’s run?’

‘I’ll give him a call. Thanks, Max.’

‘Take it easy.’

Crichton turned his attention back to Donna as George ambled off. He didn’t want to see the newsagent accosted any more by a story-hungry reporter. ‘So you’re a local girl.’ Max considered this a moment. ‘Not the McEvoys who run the hardware store?’

Max didn’t know them well, but he’d met Bill and Barbara McEvoy from time to time at the local church. He vaguely remembered something about a daughter who was living away from home.

‘The same,’ she said. The wind whipped the dark hair about her face. ‘Can you tell me anything about the situation here? Could I quote you?’ She was forthright and very eager – over-eager, city-style, he thought – but the wide, warm smile smoothed away any of the hard edges in her manner.

‘Too early for that. But I can assure the people of Pioneer Hill that every stop will be pulled out to catch this poor girl’s killer.’ Max excused himself and turned towards the sergeant, Bob Hadley. ‘Have you been in touch with the coroner?’

‘Yeah. Gordon’s on his way.’

‘Damn.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought I’d call in an out-of-towner on this one. Never mind.’

The two men turned as Gordon Stevens’s van pulled up. There had been only one other murder of a teenage girl in Pioneer Hill – and that had been ten years earlier, before Bob Hadley had come to the town. That had also been the strangulation of a girl aged around sixteen. She’d also been found in the early morning.

That girl – Carrie Stevens – had been the coroner’s daughter.

• • •

Max Crichton sat in Gordon Stevens’s office.

‘The pathologist’s report says that lividity in the corpse makes it clear the body was taken to that spot after death and dumped,’ Gordon reported. ‘Whatever the vehicle might’ve been, the wind and rain washed away any tyre marks. No trace evidence at the scene. Except for this.’

Max leaned forward as Gordon tabled a plastic evidence bag. It contained a single strand of hair.

‘It isn’t hers,’ Gordon said. ‘We found it underneath her blouse, pressed into the nook of her shoulder. It must’ve been shed by the killer at the time of strangulation, slipping down beneath her collar line as she struggled.’

‘It isn’t much,’ Max observed, ‘at least, not without a suspect with whom to match it.’

He leaned back and appraised Gordon. The coroner was a large man with strong blue eyes. He wasn’t showing any signs of strain, but Max knew Gordon was a man who hid his true feelings easily. ‘You should’ve let Radcliffe from Stoneyvale handle this one, Gordon.’

‘No, no. This may be too close to home, but I have to deal with these things. I’m a professional.’

You’re also a father who lost his daughter, Max thought. He said, ‘How’s Margaret?’

‘Oh, she’s fine. Keeping busy.’ All of a sudden, a lone tear welled in the corner of Gordon’s left eye. ‘We still mourn her every day, Max, but life has to go on. After all, we have two other children. They need us and they’re important too.’

‘Of course they are.’

Gordon regained his composure. ‘Any word on the girl’s ID?’

‘Not a thing. No fingerprints on file. And Missing Persons has no listing that meets the description.’

‘Perhaps we can expect a visit from those candle people.’

Max shot him a puzzled look. ‘Candle people?’

Gordon managed a half smile. ‘You just aren’t well read enough, Max,’ he said. He rose from his desk and moved over to the filing cabinet. A moment later he’d placed a folder, which held several newspaper clippings, in front of the detective. ‘I was intrigued enough to keep these. Just three months ago, over in Ridgley, a 14-year-old, unidentified girl was found. Throat cut. It was the third time these candle people had turned up in such circumstances.’

Max flipped past the Ridgley clippings and glanced at the others. Six months earlier, in far northern New South Wales, a woman in her twenties was found. Also unidentified. She’d been strangled. Two months before that, another teenage girl, shot at point blank range, no ID.

The only link between these cases was that all the victims were youthful, and unidentified. And in each case the candle people had travelled to the scene.

• • •

Two days later the situation at Pioneer Hill had not changed. No-one had reported a girl missing locally. The national Missing Persons lists offered nothing further. Donna McEvoy’s story in the local paper was accompanied by an illustrated likeness of the girl. However, no-one came forward to say they recognised her.

‘It’s as if she never existed,’ Gordon said to Max. ‘But she was about sixteen years old. She had to have had parents, friends, teachers – someone, somewhere who’s missing her. Where the hell are they?’