Bitter Wash Road Read online

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Said a moment before the penny dropped. He skidded to a stop. ‘What the hell?’

  Hirsch put a hand to the farmer’s chest. ‘Mr Latimer, you can’t—’

  Latimer was full of trembling potency. ‘She might still be alive.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not, Mr Latimer,’ Hirsch said, maintaining the pressure, waiting him out.

  Slowly the quivering chest relaxed. Latimer stepped back, mouth open in shock. ‘What am I going to do?’ He took a ragged breath and said, ‘How do I tell the boys?’

  Hirsch turned him away. ‘First I need to call it in, and then I’ll help you phone your friends and neighbours.’

  ‘How do I tell the boys?’

  ‘What time do you expect your father home?’

  Latimer was slow, dull, staring at the ground. ‘Late afternoon,’ he said, rallying. ‘He’ll have his phone with him.’

  They returned to the house, slipping and sliding on the grassy bank, Latimer babbling about his life now, the boys, emptiness and what might have been. ‘She was going to come home, I know she was.’

  Hirsch tuned him out. He trudged across the yard, a hand on Latimer’s elbow. He felt mud paste to the sole of his shoes; there was a smear of it on one toe cap and his trouser cuffs.

  And Alison Latimer’s white runners had been pristine.

  And the beautiful diamond ring: had she taken it off? A tidying act, or a gesture of meaning from a woman about to kill herself?

  ~ * ~

  19

  KROPP ARRIVED FIRST, asked for a rundown and elbowed Hirsch aside, then Dr McAskill appeared and pronounced death, and Andrewartha and Nicholson showed up with crime-scene tape and hangovers. Meaning Jennifer Dee was holding the fort in Redruth, Hirsch thought. All he could do was stand back and watch his crime scene—incident scene—be trampled over.

  Then Kropp, still in management mode, began stalking up and down the creek bank, muttering into his mobile phone. Forty minutes later a hearse arrived, ready to cart the body away, followed by a flat-bed truck, Redruth Automotive scrolled across each door. Hirsch watched it back up to the Subaru, two men hopping out, drawing on heavy gloves.

  ‘Sarge, what are you doing?’

  ‘What do you mean, what am I doing?’

  ‘We need to preserve everything. We need crime-scene people here.’

  ‘What does this look like to you? Suicide. A tragedy. No one needs to see it. I know the protocol, mister, I’ve called in Port Pirie CIB, they’ll be here within the hour, and meanwhile that bloody car’s in the way.’

  ‘But Sarge.’

  Kropp cocked his head. Hirsch heard it, too, a background rumble of vehicles.

  ‘Get up there and make yourself useful,’ Kropp said. ‘Make sure no one wanders down here for a look see.’

  Clambering up to the fence above the Tin Hut, Hirsch saw that a dozen cars, station wagons, utilities and four-wheel-drives had poured in off Bitter Wash Road to jostle for room around the house and sheds. Jesus Christ. He began to run. Clearly some kind of phone tree had been set in motion this past hour, neighbour phoning neighbour phoning football club member, churchgoer and Country Women’s Association crony, and here they were, bringing cakes and casseroles and hugs and tears and nosiness.

  And—if Alison Latimer had been killed at the house— trampling over a crime scene.

  More cars arrived. Hirsch barged through the front door. But it was useless. At least thirty people were crowding the hallway, kitchen and sitting room, with more on the veranda or climbing out of their cars. ‘Excuse me,’ he said futilely.

  He went in search of Raymond Latimer, finding him in a huddle with a dozen other people, enduring their embraces but aware of Hirsch, watching warily. Hirsch couldn’t get through. He gestured; Latimer ignored him. And then the crowd moved and reformed and wouldn’t budge, Latimer disappeared and Kropp was there, panting with effort, grabbing Hirsch by the arm. “The fuck are you doing?’

  ‘We’re losing evidence, Sarge.’

  Kropp dragged him through the room and out onto the lawn. ‘What evidence? You’re upsetting people. Get your arse back down to the creek.’

  ‘Sarge,’ Hirsch said, and backed away, watching Kropp apologise and shake hands.

  ~ * ~

  When the sergeant had merged fully with the crush of people, Hirsch made as if to head for the creek. Walking until he was screened by a clump of oleanders, he doubled back and entered the house by the laundry door. Another door led to the kitchen, where half a dozen women were getting in each other’s way. ‘Need a quick word with Sergeant Kropp,’ said Hirsch amiably, not stopping to gauge their reactions but bustling by them to the hallway.

  The door to the main bedroom was slightly ajar. He slipped through the gap and paused and scanned the room. Latimer hadn’t made the bed; dirty clothes lay heaped on the floor and a chair; the wardrobe doors were open, drawers spilling socks and T-shirts. Only a few traces of Alison Latimer remained. Hirsch crossed to the left-hand bedside table. Nestled in a dusty patterned dish were Alison Latimer’s rings: wedding ring and the engagement ring he’d noticed the day he met her.

  Hirsch returned to the hallway. He left via the kitchen. He wasn’t challenged.

  ~ * ~

  He was halfway across the yard when he saw the Subaru. It had been dumped beside a haystack beyond the sheds. Hirsch was fed up with it all. He stumped out of the yard and was almost to the creek when he changed his mind and returned. This time he lifted the Subaru’s tailgate and unzipped the lid of the case. Women’s clothing. Badly folded, which meant a lot or nothing at all. There was no reason to suppose Alison Latimer had been a neat person. No twelve-year-old boy’s clothing. Hirsch closed everything and headed for the creek.

  ~ * ~

  The hearse drivers sat in the sun, smoking. McAskill was still bent over the body, and when he finally eased her away from the wall for the hearse drivers, she moved like a sack of disobliging logs.

  Feeling Andrewartha and Nicholson give him the evil eye from the edge of the tape, Hirsch wandered down along the creek. It was a pretty spot for a house and orchard, except that it gave him the creeps. And he supposed it was prone to flooding, that’s why the Latimer ancestors had moved to higher ground. Why had Alison Latimer come down here to die? Was it special to her? He gazed at the lichen, the fruit trees choking themselves to death, the choked rushes and hoof-trampled muddy verges. A good place to die.

  He took out his phone, found a number in the contacts list, and dialled.

  A voice lashed at his back: ‘Who are you calling?’

  Hirsch whirled around. Kropp, slithering down the grassy slope. ‘Sarge, we need to take Mrs Latimer’s car to the lab.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘I think so, Sarge.’

  ‘The poor cow shot herself. I’m sick of this,’ Kropp said. ‘I want you to piss off back to Tiverton in case someone reports a stolen lawnmower.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Dog,’ murmured Andrewartha and Nicholson. ‘Maggot.’

  ~ * ~

  Alison’s parents, thought Hirsch when he reached the top. Everyone’s wringing their hands over the husband and the boys, but what about her parents, her friends?

  The yard being choked with mourners’ vehicles, Hirsch was forced to steer a slow weave out of the yard, dodging a bulk fuel tank, heaped pine posts, haphazardly parked cars and utes. He was halted by a blue heeler, prone in a dusty pool of sunlight. He stopped; looked at the dog; willed it to move. Then he brapped the horn, and when that didn’t work, got out, grabbed the dog by its collar and walked it to another patch of dirt.

  Climbed back into the HiLux and bumped along the driveway and immediately onto the lawn as a black Explorer shot in, followed by an unmarked Falcon, on a mission. He didn’t recognise the suits in the Falcon but guessed they were the Port Pirie detectives, big men filling their seats and staring at
him with the flat odium of policemen. But he did recognise the man at the wheel of the Explorer: the area commander, Superintendent Spurling. As he waited for the dust to settle, Hirsch thought his irrelevance was pretty much fully underscored now. He steered back onto the driveway, out through the gate and onto Bitter Wash Road.

  It gave him a curious jolt to see Wendy Street standing beside her car in the driveway of the house with the faded red roof. The boot was open, stacked with bags of mulch, one bag out and in a wheelbarrow beside a narrow strip of unforgiving soil. She stopped what she was doing and gazed at him, and even at some distance he felt the force of her frankness, as if she’d caught him acting discreditably.

  So he steered into her driveway, lifting his hand in greeting. ‘Lot of cars,’ she said when he got out, showing a little tension.

  She doesn’t know, Hirsch realised. No one has phoned her. He removed his cap and turned it absently in his hands. ‘Afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

  One hand went to her throat and she said, instantly, ‘Allie? He’s killed her, hasn’t he?’

  Interesting. Hirsch agreed that Alison Latimer was dead, but wrapped it up in some mealy-mouthed cop talk, finishing with, ‘There’s no reason to suppose it was anything other than self-inflicted.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Street spat, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Beside the Tin Hut? No. She hated it there.’

  She gave a tearing sob and went slack, backing away from him and grabbing a veranda post. Using it as a prop, she lowered herself, sat on the edge, her hands rubbing her thighs back and forth, back and forth, as if to bring herself back under control. Hirsch waited.

  She looked up. ‘Who found her?’

  ‘I did.’

  Grim, intense, she said, ‘And where was Ray during all this?’

  ‘Mrs Street, he was in the Redruth lockup all last night and until lunchtime today. In fact, I gave him a lift home.’

  ‘Don’t call me Mrs Street. Has anyone told the boys?’

  ‘That’s all taken care of,’ Hirsch said, not knowing one way or the other. Surely Raymond Latimer would have called his father?

  Wendy shook her head. ‘I can just imagine the delicate way Raymond or his father might break it: Oh by the way, kids, your mum’s shot herself.’

  ‘We have to give them the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘You do, I don’t.’ She bit her lip. ‘How do I tell Katie?’

  Hirsch glanced towards the house, wondering where the girl was. ‘You’ll know what to say.’

  ‘You think so?’ Her eyes were full of tears, her arms folded to ward him off. ‘It’s just terrible. I know he did it.’

  ‘Did you happen to hear a rifle shot this morning?’

  ‘Not to notice, but there’s always someone shooting something. Anyway, I was mowing.’

  A little Cox ride-on, parked beside the house, wearing a fresh chlorophyll skirt, damp cuttings in the tyre treads. Hirsch glanced back at Wendy Street and saw that she was biting her bottom lip, something on her mind.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Katie saw that car again, that black car.’

  ‘Well, you can put her mind at ease: Pullar and Hanson stole a Holden the other day.’

  Then it dawned on him. ‘You think Katie sneaked the rifle out again and fired it?’

  Wendy Street twisted in knots. ‘Could she have?’ And then her consternation disappeared, logic taking over. ‘No, she wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Hirsch said. ‘All indications are, Mrs Latimer shot herself. The gun was still in her hands when I found her.’

  Wendy rubbed her face. ‘This is just awful.’

  She was glancing across at the Latimers’ as if she should head there but knew she might not be welcome. To divert her, Hirsch said, ‘Was Mrs Latimer more than usually down lately?’

  ‘You mean suicidal? No. She’d made up her mind to leave Ray. Get a divorce. She seemed freer if anything.’ She gasped. ‘Her parents!’

  ‘I’m off to see them now.’

  ‘I should come with you,’ Wendy said. She was this way and that. ‘I need to be here for Katie.’

  The younger Latimer boy might need you, too, Hirsch thought. Jack. He nodded goodbye, settled his cap on his head and reached for the driver’s door.

  He stopped in the act and turned around. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said, hating the expression but unable to think of a better one. ‘I know you were friends.’

  Her eyes filled again and she hugged herself. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you need anything...’

  A damp smile. ‘I’m okay. You need to see Allies parents.’

  Hirsch climbed in and drove away.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Our daughter has killed herself, and he tells us over the phone?’

  Heather Rofe was ragged, bleary, angry. Hirsch gently steered her back into the house, to the kitchen, where Keith sat, dazed, a solid man diminished, his decency more threadbare now. Man and wife, they’d been to church probably, best clothes on their backs. They’d made and poured tea but that was as far as they’d been able to take it.

  ‘Is there anyone I can contact for you?’

  Keith Rofe lifted his head. ‘Our other daughter’s coming over.’

  Hirsch stood there, spinning his damn cap in his hands. He felt like a stormtrooper.

  ‘How’s he breaking the news to the boys?’ Heather Rofe said. ‘Text message?’

  All kinds of statements were issued via text message these days. Your services are no longer required; by the way, your husband’s having an affair; I want a divorce; here’s a close-up of my pussy. Hirsch said gently, ‘Alison spent the night with you?’

  Keith Rofe didn’t have the wherewithal to answer. He glanced helplessly at his wife, who said, ‘She was in bed when we left this morning.’

  ‘Church?’

  ‘A christening,’ Heather said. ‘My niece’s daughter, down in Gawler.’

  Two hours distant. ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘So you were away half the day?’

  Heather Rofe’s tears welled and rolled down her cheeks. ‘We just got back.’

  ‘Did she tell you what she intended to do today?’

  Rofe shrugged. ‘Sleep in. Rest. She offered to re-pot my geraniums.’

  ‘Didn’t say anything about going out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s not a churchgoer?’

  Heather struggled. She said, ‘Not lately.’

  ‘Can you think why she’d go to the Tin Hut?’

  ‘No, she didn’t like it there...Please, you’re grilling me. I’d like you to stop.’

  Hirsch back-pedalled. ‘Sorry, terribly sorry, that’s not my intention.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I know you do have a job to do.’

  Hirsch moved his shoulders in uneasy agreement. ‘One last question: was the house locked when you got back from church?’

  ‘We don’t bother, usually,’ Heather said. ‘Nothing worth taking, and we know everyone in...’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was locked. I had to fetch the spare key. Remember, Keith?’

  ‘What?’

  Hirsch tuned them out, letting his gaze roam around the kitchen and into the hallway and mentally retrace his route as he’d entered the house a few minutes earlier. He hadn’t seen anything to suggest forced entry or a struggle, and how would he raise that question with them? ‘May I see her room?’

  Heather Rofe fixed him with a level stare, raw with grief but not about to lose herself in it. ‘Why?’

  Hirsch did his uncomfortable shoulder rotation again. ‘I was wondering if she might have left some kind of goodbye.’

  ‘Like a suicide note. Well, she didn’t. Last night over dinner she was quite chirpy. Not a hundred per cent enamoured with the idea of Jack spending the weekend with his grandfather, but...a weight had been li
fted from her shoulders over the past few days.’

  Heather gave in to the grief again. Hirsch moved across and placed a hand on each shoulder. After the briefest hesitation, she let herself be consoled.

  Hirsch waited, glancing over her shoulder at the husband, who was again staring sightlessly at the top of the table. Presently Heather stepped back and gathered herself and said, ‘Her old bedroom, down the passage.’