‘I was at the council for a while.’
‘Quite a while. That was ten-fifteen, it’s one-fifteen now.’
‘I was detained on the street by Mrs Duncan with further questions about her missing Siamese.’ It was only a slight stretch of the truth.
Bradley’s eyebrow lifted. ‘Ten-thirty. And then?’
‘I dropped the lady home…she’s ninety in the shade herself.’
‘Ten-forty-five.’
‘I asked her a few questions about Buttons—the missing cat—I have a feeling if she hasn’t seen Buttons by now it might not turn up again. Not if the pet-killer that got my dog—’
‘Still on about that. Eleven?’ Bradley’s tone was sharpish.
‘Since it was morning tea and I’d had nothing to eat for breakfast,’ he paused to get his story clear, ‘I stopped for a—’
‘Eleven-thirty. And?’
‘For the last hour and a half, I was…’
‘In the lands office!’ The sergeant bristled. ‘I don’t recall telling you to go there, Mister Goodenough?’
That weasel of a clerk. ‘No, sergeant. You didn’t.’
Bradley folded his beefy arms. ‘What were you doing in the lands office, Michael?’
‘Looking for records, sarge.’
‘Records of what?’
‘Recent land purchases.’
Bradley shook his baffled head.
‘Councillor Curio’s break-in concerns three missing files, sir. Memorandums of agreement involving some parcels of land that are currently in transition.’
‘Plain English, Goodenough.’
‘Transition between an offer made to Moorabool Shire Council by a certain lady councillor. And the agreement of the rest of the council, to be decided by vote next week.’
‘Parcels of land? What the heck are you on about?’
‘The parcels of land Councillor Curio deemed too sensitive to discuss. I felt she might be a bit premature with these “transitions”. So I went to—’
Bradley frowned. ‘You didn’t mention these files to the lands clerk I hope?’
Not the clerk, then.
‘No, I didn’t know what files I was looking for. I just asked to see all records of purchases pending for the last two years. Seems Councillor Curio purchased vacant land in Armidale eighteen months back through a council transfer; plans for an old people’s home in development with Armidale Council.’
‘Old news,’ he snapped. ‘What about here?’
‘The parcel of land she’s interested in here is the abandoned property on Falls Lane where that family lived in their caravan. Before the murders. Eighteen years back.’
‘Is that all? Rubbish land.’ Bradley tapped a finger on Mick’s chest. ‘You like gallivanting about on your own, don’t you, Mick? Digging up conspiracies. They warned me.’
‘What about?’ The knot in his stomach tightened.
‘That assistant commissioner mate of yours. Terry Byrne. Not a team player, he said. Loner. Bad with authority. Insubordinate. His other qualities might cancel them out, he said. What d’you think those “qualities” might be, Mick?’
‘Self-praise is no recommendation, sarge.’
‘No one else is singing your praises lad, not even your pal Terry.’ Bradley wiped his glasses with his shirt tail. ‘We had an agreement, Mick. You were to act like a probationary constable engaged in general duties. And here you are, acting like a detective again. But you’re not one, are you?’
Goodenough looked at the floor.
‘Sniffing about in matters that have nothing to do with a break and enter. Civil matters.’
Guilty as charged.
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’ve had a complaint from Councillor Curio. She says you were completely tactless when she told you the matter was sensitive. Worse than that, you were insolent!’
‘Insolent? I asked her a question about the missing files. How else can I help her? It’s my job.’
‘Sniffing around, navel-gazing? Going off on some wild-goose chase in property records? That’s not your job. Taking notes, consoling the victim, writing it up in the occurrence book and reporting to your senior officer. That is your job.’ He glared at Mick. ‘What are you, Goodenough?’
Mick met his cold stare. ‘Probationary constable, sir.’
‘On. Probation.’
Nodding, Mick went to the occurrence book, watched by a smirking Petrovic.
‘Oh, and Mick—word to the wise?’
He turned back to Bradley.
‘She can be a funny chook, but they’ve done a lot for Moorabool. The council. The police boys club too. They gave us that building, did you know?’
‘No sir. I had no idea,’ Mick said, giving his best impression of a humbled, chastened, junior officer.
‘You do now.’
9
Hal was pedalling his new Malvern Star through the dappled streets, whizzing past the littlies, ringing his bell as they waved and shouted. In the distance, Evan was whining, ‘Slow down! Wait for me!’ When he did slow down the bike wobbled on the bumpy footpath, and almost threw him over the handlebars. Safer to go full tilt.
Soon he was brave enough to ride on the road, and compared to the footpath it was a breeze. So great, in fact, that looking back for Evan was the last thing on his mind. When he finally did, he couldn’t see his kid brother anywhere.
Hal was on the rougher side of town now—the streets potholed and lined with shabby Housing Commission fibros, lawns brown and threadbare. Lanky youths scowled at him from run-down porches.
He wheeled the bike around and started back for Evan, loudly ringing the bell, hoping it would bring him out again. It didn’t, but a skinny, tough-looking older boy tossed a rock at Hal.
‘Whatsh all the fucken noise, shit for brainsh!’ he snarled.
Hal’s bike squealed to a stop.
The kid curled his lip, showing mossy teeth, and pulled a stained T-shirt down over his jeans belt. ‘Think yer shmart, dontcha—I shee you at school, ya won’t be so fucken shmart! Now pish off!’ He lobbed another rock and Hal took off.
He pedalled on, shaken by the boy’s viciousness, the worse for being spat out with that weird lisp. It was only when he’d reached the end of the block that Hal risked ringing his bell again. He veered around the corner and saw the forlorn figure of Evan, squatting on the kerb, staring into the gutter. At last.
Hal rode up and casually dismounted. ‘What happened to you?’
‘You said you’d wait! And now I’m lost!’
‘No you’re not. The park’s just up here.’ Hal pointed confidently ahead.
‘I’m going home.’ Evan swiped at flies. ‘I’m thirsty.’
‘There’s a bubbler at the park. Come on.’ Hal had no idea if there was, but he couldn’t have Evan dobbing him in to Mum. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll dink you on the bike?’
Evan shrugged and let Hal hide his scooter in some bushes then climbed up on the bike rack. Hal wobbled them along the empty streets in the boiling sun, keeping a sharp lookout for the nasty teenager, who was fortunately nowhere to be seen.