In the middle of the night the phone rang, tearing Hal out of a dream where the murdered dog was alive and licking its wounds and wanting to run with him, over the hills and away. The ringing went on and on. He thought about getting up to answer it, but…It rang on. Then heavy footsteps were clomping down the hall. The ringing stopped.
‘Hullo? Hullo?’ Dad’s voice got sharper, ‘Who is this? Hullo? Hullo…?’ He banged the phone down, clomped back to bed. Mum murmured something. The last thing Hal remembered before he dropped off again was Dad saying, ‘Wrong number.’ Wrong number? What number…? Made no sense at all, when the dog was calling and calling him.
6
It was eight-thirty on the second morning of 1967 when Mick Goodenough arrived at the office. Uniform cleaned and pressed, he sat at the new beaut electric Remington hammering out a report addressed to Superintendent Warren Dennison, Supervising Duties Officer at New England District Police, Armidale, on his work as probationary constable at Moorabool Local Area Command for the last month of 1966. No need to refer to the occurrence book to recall the matters to which he’d attended. There were just three.
1/ Apprehended shoplifter. 2/ Broke up altercation in the Batsman’s Arms Hotel involving dispute over meat raffle. 3/ Investigated alleged catnapping of a female blue point Siamese cat, Buttons, and consoled elderly owner, Mrs Faye Duncan of 36 Federal Street.
Definite results obtained for all except Buttons, which to his knowledge was still missing. Since no other catnappings had been reported, Mick had thought it safe to assume the catnappers were either terrorising another district or lying low over the holiday season. But he wasn’t feeling so flippant about it now. Not after Charlie’s murder.
The aim of these monthly reports was to demonstrate that Constable Goodenough was competently carrying out his duties as a probationary uniform in a regional outpost. He was aware they were also penance, after forfeiting his job as a detective sergeant of Homicide at a major Sydney police station, where he’d been 2IC on a major murder investigation.
He’d lost it in every way possible after a public dispute with another detective sergeant, which had culminated in assault charges against Mick. The charges were dropped conditional on his resignation from NSW Police, and then his former mentor, Assistant Commissioner Terry Byrne, had intervened to have Mick’s resignation commuted to a transfer to Outer Woop-Woop. He wasn’t to come within two hundred yards of DSS O’Dowd—meaning stay the fuck away from Sutherland. His old mate Terry was no longer taking his calls. And so Moorabool LAC gained its newest, oldest-ever probie.
Goodenough was fourth man at the police station. In other words, the fifth wheel. Could’ve been worse, he’d reassured himself, and until other visible means of support came along he might as well be a good little probie and hand in his monthly reports.
He’d just dropped December on Bradley’s desk when Petrovic arrived, tossed his hat on the stand and gave a curt nod.
‘Morning, Peter. How was the weekend?’
‘Yep.’
Interesting. ‘Fresh tea in the pot.’
‘Nah.’ Sullen shake of head. He flopped at his desk, opened the Northern Daily Leader and thumbed to the used-car ads.
Mick glanced at the photo on Petrovic’s desk of a singlet-clad Peter grinning under a tropical sunset, two hands holding up a huge river barramundi.
‘Catch anything this weekend?’
Tormenting a zit, he mumbled, ‘Coupla perch. Carp.’
‘Perch, nice. Carp always tastes like wet dog to me. Muddy.’
Peter scowled. ‘Not the way I do it.’
‘Oh? There’s a trick?’
‘Common sense,’ Peter huffed. ‘Put it on ice soon’s you take it off the hook.’
‘Really. Makes it taste all right?’
‘Yup.’
The conversation died at that point, as it normally did after ten words with Peter.
‘So, you bake it? Put a bit of lemon on it, I suppose?’
‘No-o,’ Peter explained, as if to a dim child. ‘You cut a fillet? Thick as a steak? Both sides? Yeah?’
‘Both sides?’ Mick oozed fascination.
‘Shake ’em in a bag. With flour? Salt and pepper, right?’
‘Hmm…’
‘You fry ’em in butter? Minute a side? Bewdiful.’
‘Well you learn something new every day. Thanks Pete.’
‘Pet-er.’ Head back in used-car land.
Mick, thinking he’d lost him, heard the van pull up in the carpark. Now or never. Whipping out the bag containing the hook and tracer from Charlie’s mouth, he dangled it in front of Petrovic’s nose.
‘Mate, where would you buy a hook like that in this area?’
Petrovic sniffed at it, head swivelling like a ferret. ‘Whaddayou onabout?’
‘What fishing shop or…or sports shop would sell a hook this size with these barbs on it?’
‘I know what you’re doing, Probationary Constable Goodenough.’ Petrovic glared, arms folded, triumphant smirk. ‘You’re wasting police resources on animals. Instead of people.’ His small eyes ferreted into Mick’s like he was delving into all Mick’s dirty little secrets.
‘He killed my dog, Peter. Cut his throat, treated him in a way you wouldn’t treat a carp.’ Goodenough leaned closer. ‘Help me find him before he does it again, to someone else’s pets. Or worse.’
Peter snorted. ‘What makes you so sure he will?’
‘Oh, he will. He’s done it before. He’ll do it again. He likes killing.’
‘Sergeant Bradley said—’
‘Tell me.’ He waved the barbs in front of Peter’s eyes and watched him jerk back. ‘Where would he get a hook like this?’
Petrovic gave a supercilious sneer. ‘You’re not a fancy Sydney detective anymore. You’re not even a full constable.’
‘True. Where would he get one? Peter? Please.’
He heard boots crunching the gravel outside and slapped the bag in Petrovic’s hand.
Peter cast resentful eyes over the hook. ‘Not round here. It’s what they use for big-mouth fish. Like Murray River cod.’
‘Not around here?’
‘What’d I say?’ he said, sharply. ‘Murray–Darling, Murrumbidgee, big river.’
‘Thanks Peter. You’re worth your weight.’
In what, he couldn’t say; but a modicum of flattery never hurt.
Just as Mick stuffed the bag in his pocket, the door swung open and Sergeant Bradley marched up the hall with Senior Constable Bligh behind him.
‘Morning all,’ Bradley boomed.
Petrovic sprung into brown-nose mode. ‘Fresh tea in the pot, gentlemen!’
‘Good lad. Look at you two, thick as thieves, eh?’ The sergeant beamed at the pleasing harmony in his bailiwick. ‘White and two, Mick.’
Mick stiffened. Remembered, be nice, and got up to pour the tea. Harmony all the way.
‘Tea, Ross?’
Bligh scoffed. ‘You mad? It’s ninety-two out there. I’ll have a beer.’
‘Not today, you won’t,’ Bradley said.
The phone rang and Mick looked away. The other two stared at Petrovic, who was closest.