Bitter Wash Road Read online

  A spare room now, all vestiges of the child and teenager removed. Hirsch surveyed it first and then began a search. The drawers yawned emptily, and all he found in the wardrobe was one wire hanger, a white bowls uniform in a drycleaner’s bag whispering in the eddying air.

  He popped his head into the adjacent room. An untidy bed, a child’s trainers on the floor, warm cotton pyjamas poking from under a pillow, a laptop on top of the pillow, pasted with footballer stickers.

  In the kitchen again, Hirsch said gently, ‘It seems Alison packed all her things but left Jack’s here.’

  He saw the rapid assimilation in Heather Rofe’s face. Instead of giving him her conclusions she said, ‘All right, how do you read it?’

  Hirsch said, ‘Did she give any indication she wanted to thrash things out with Ray?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Leaving Jack here, where he wouldn’t witness any nastiness?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  They took it no further than that but Hirsch could see a couple of scenarios, each ending in suicide: Alison Latimer had returned to the farm for a trial reconciliation, only to fall into a deep depression, or she’d wanted to rub Raymond’s face in it.

  ~ * ~

  The black Explorer was waiting for him outside the station.

  Hirsch parked in the driveway, liking this visit even less than Kropp’s visit the day Melia Donovan was found. Choosing to ignore it, he stepped onto the little porch, his key at the ready. Well, that triggered movement. A door slammed and footsteps stalked him. He turned: Superintendent Spurling in full uniform, a man of fifty with the bearing of an army officer. Clean, slender hands; a narrow, ascetic face.

  ‘Sir,’ Hirsch said.

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Area commander, sir.’

  ‘I need a word.’

  Hirsch led the way into his office, hoping Spurling wouldn’t insist on the sitting room. But did he offer Spurling the swivel chair behind the desk, or the stiff visitor’s chair?

  Spurling made no move to sit anywhere. ‘I’ll get right to it. This afternoon I received a phone call.’

  Hirsch gave him a long look. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Anonymous caller, female, very brief: “The husband did it.’”

  Oh, hell, Wendy. ‘Well, sir, the thing is, he was in the Redruth lockup at the time.’

  Spurling grunted. ‘There will be an inquest.’

  Hirsch nodded his agreement.

  ‘I need you to prepare a brief for the coroner.’

  What? ‘Sir, I’m new here.’

  ‘All the better,’ Spurling said, settling his lean rump against Hirsch’s desk and folding his arms. ‘And on the subject of phone calls, I’ve also been contacted about a different matter. Phone calls and letters.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Most were from our old friend Anonymous, but a handful were not. In particular, a nurse, a couple of high-school teachers, a priest and the local ALP candidate. All from Redruth, all raising the same issue.’

  Hirsch waited. He wanted to go behind his desk and sit, but that would disadvantage the superintendent, so he stood, almost at attention.

  ‘In a nutshell,’ Spurling said, ‘the over-zealous policing methods employed by Sergeant Kropp and Constables Nicholson and Andrewartha. Physical and verbal abuse, harassment, unwarranted speed and drink-driving traps, etcetera, etcetera.’

  Hirsch knew where this was going. All he wanted was to be free of worry and moral complications. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t be dim. Is there anything to these claims?’

  ‘Like I said, sir, I’m new here.’

  ‘Yeah, be like that. I’ve been hearing whispers for months now, and this afternoon I hear that Sergeant Kropp is best mates with a man who might have killed his wife.’

  ‘I haven’t been here long enough to see any patterns or—’

  Spurling snarled, ‘What, you’re selective in which coppers you snitch on?’

  ‘Is that why you called in to see me, sir? Want some spying done?’

  An icy glitter in Spurling, and Hirsch wondered if he’d gone too far. He tensed, watching as Spurling propped his hands on the edge of the desk as if to launch himself.

  The tension hung, poised. Then Spurling leaned back and folded his arms again. ‘Look, I know who you are, I know your history. I’m not here to rake over the coals or...set you up, anything like that, okay?’

  Hirsch said nothing.

  ‘Marcus Quine is a disgrace to the force. He deserves whatever’s coming to him.’

  Still Hirsch said nothing. He felt the skin under his right eye give the faintest twitch.

  ‘But right now,’ Spurling went on, ‘I’m in a bind and I need your help. Otherwise we could be looking at a behavioural management audit, and that’s the last thing anyone needs.’

  Hirsch blanched. Audits were ten times worse than ethical standards complaints. Worst-case scenario, a complaint might lead to an individual officer being rapped over the knuckles, house and locker searched, finances scrutinised, but audits were applied to entire squads or police stations. Every staff member, every scrap of paper, every corner. An audit of Redruth would mean an audit of Hirsch, and he was through with being poked and prodded by the Internals.

  He looked at Spurling. He saw a man whose job required him to be political, clandestine, subtle. He gathered himself to help. ‘The usual rumours, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m new here and there’s still a lot I don’t know.’

  Spurling, exasperated, said, ‘Look, man to man, off the record, no comeback, is there any truth to the allegations that the Redruth officers are in any way overstepping the mark?’

  Hirsch drew back his shoulders. ‘It’s not as if this is the inner city,’ he said. ‘We’re not dealing with bikie gangs or ethnic clans.’

  Spurling nodded. ‘Good. And?’

  ‘I’ve heard the odd whisper, sir.’

  Spurling smiled, unfolded from the edge of the desk, patted Hirsch on the shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

  He left Hirsch there, stepping out of the office and into the little foyer. Then he paused, propping his slender hands on the counter. ‘Meanwhile, if you do hear or see anything specific, I want to know about it pronto.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Spurling assessed Hirsch briefly, then turned to go. He stopped at the front door. ‘Your fleet vehicle: get a new screen fitted.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And get it washed. It’s filthy.’

  ~ * ~

  Instead, Hirsch got it filthier, heading out along Bitter Wash Road again.

  The Latimer house and yard were still choked with cars, but the Port Pirie detectives had been and gone, and in the meantime the Latimer children had returned with their grandfather. Hirsch found them in the main room, standing with Ray Latimer at the centre of a constantly moving press of people. Without being sure of his intentions, he began to edge through to them, pausing to grab a sausage roll from a table crammed with sandwiches, sponge cakes, beer and juice bottles, wine flagons.

  The Latimer men spotted him and stiffened, acutely aware of his progress through the crowd. Why was that? They locked eyes with him, as if only they and Hirsch existed on earth, betraying nothing but stillness and vigilance. Two powerfully made, big-jawed, proprietorial men.

  Then Kropp was back in Hirsch’s face, red, beery and emotional. ‘I thought I told you to piss off.’

  ‘Just seeing if you wanted a hand, Sarge.’

  ‘Is that a fact. I can read you, pal.’ He poked Hirsch in the chest. ‘You lay off, understand? That’s an order.’

  Hirsch, glancing past Kropp, saw Raymond Latimer and his father watching the exchange. They didn’t smile to see Hirsch get his comeuppance, didn’t look relieved. Nothing. He wondered what vaunting disappointments and ambitions drove them.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sarge, if you must kn
ow, a few things bother me.’

  ‘Is that a fact, Nancy Drew.’

  ‘Mrs Latimer had some odd bruises on her, Sarge. No mud on her shoes. What if this house is a crime scene? Or, if she was snatched from her parents’ house, then that is a crime scene. The hut, the rifle, her car...We need prints, blood samples, tyre impressions.’

  Kropp looked like he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Hirsch was distracted by an abrupt movement at the corner of his vision. He turned. Raymond Latimer had collapsed onto the sofa with his sons, Jack burrowing into his chest as if wanting to slip inside him, Craig shoulder to shoulder and looking stunned. All three looked reduced: damp, blotchy, all animation gone.

  ‘Look at them,’ Kropp said. ‘Look at them.’

  ‘All I’m saying is—’

  ‘The Port Pirie boys took all the samples and photos they need. Meanwhile you keep out of it. This is a peaceful community. You, you’re a traveller here. Passing through.’

  ~ * ~

  20

  MONDAY BEGAN WITH Kropp on the line, in a mild froth. ‘Just been talking to the super.’

  Hirsch said nothing. He could hear yelling across the road, doors slamming: the school holidays were over.

  ‘I’m warning you: the Latimers are decent people visited by tragedy, and Spurling or no Spurling, I’ll have your guts for garters if you step out of line.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Why the hell he put you on it, I don’t know. The mind boggles.’

  ‘Sarge, I’m as surprised as you are.’

  ‘Arselicker.’

  Hirsch heard impotence in the sergeant’s voice. ‘I’ll tread lightly, Sarge.’

  ~ * ~

  Hirsch propped his feet on the desk, notebook in his lap, not writing but thinking.

  In his view there were three essential truths to police work: most crimes go unpunished; most crimes are solved not by forensics but chance, an admission or a word in your ear; and detection matters less than piecing together rumours and random scraps of information.

  Still, a bit of method didn’t hurt. Scrawling Interviews at the top of a blank page, he made a list: the Latimer clan; Alison’s parents and sister; her doctor; her neighbours; her friends. Not knowing all of their names yet, that’s how he listed them, by role and title.

  Wendy Street should be able to help: friend and neighbour.

  But he suspected he’d get mainly emotional, partial and impressionistic evidence from these people, proof of nothing, and it might very well lead him to one conclusion, that Alison Latimer took her life while the balance of her mind was disturbed, or however coroners liked to word it these days.

  He flipped over the page and made another list: Formal Evidence, namely the autopsy findings and forensics. What would her body, clothing, car, parents’ house, own house, rifle and the Tin Hut reveal about her death?

  Finally, gut impressions. He stared at the ceiling, formulating them in his mind. The death didn’t seem right to him, or to her parents or Wendy Street. Were his guts listening to them or to his own rumblings? On the surface, there was little evidence to suggest homicide, plenty to suggest suicide. Alison Latimer knew how to handle a rifle, he’d seen it himself, and she’d made a prior suicide attempt. No suicide note. But that didn’t mean anything: plenty of people took their own lives without explaining themselves. Meanwhile, what about her spotless shoes, the bruises, her thumb in the trigger guard? Why the Tin Hut? Why spend her final seconds in a place that freaked her out? On the other hand, those who might want her dead—her husband, her father-in-law, maybe even the older boy—had unshakeable alibis.

  Who else? A secret lover? Wendy Street might know.

  Hirsch jotted scenarios:

  She committed suicide.

  She was snatched from her parents’ house, subdued by force, taken to the Tin Hut and shot dead, the body and gun arranged to suggest suicide.

  Ditto, but she was accidentally killed during the struggle and so on.

  She was lured to the farm, or the Tin Hut, and killed by accident or design and the body and gun arranged to suggest suicide.

  Alison Latimer was a slight woman but not frail. Could a woman have killed her?

  And so Finola Armstrong’s name surfaced again. Hirsch found her address in the phone book, locked up and headed out to Bitter Wash Road.

  ~ * ~

  Armstrong’s house was stone with a wash of cement over it, painted white once upon a time but now mostly dust and mould, the veranda iron rusty. It sat among pine trees so high and cramped they robbed the sun, their needles starving the garden and choking the gutters. Hirsch had never seen such a miserable building, and wondered at the man or the woman, a couple of generations ago, who’d decided the pines and the cement were a good idea. The sheds, on the other hand, were in the open and expressed the busyness of a working farm.

  He mounted gloomy steps. There was a hollow wind, mournful where it wrapped around the chimney, eaves and veranda posts. He was about to knock on the front door when Finola Armstrong appeared from behind a rainwater tank, removing canvas gloves. Hirsch stepped down from the veranda and eyed her carefully: jeans, a checked shirt, a scowl and an odour of diesel and silage.

  She stopped a metre from his chest. ‘I guessed you’d be dropping by.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Hirsch.

  ‘Don’t be coy.’

  ‘Okay, well, perhaps you could tell me your movements after I saw you at the motel on Saturday night?’

  Armstrong tilted her head, revealing a smear of chaff dust along her jaw that he itched to wipe away. ‘You’d like me to say I went home in great turmoil, deciding that all my problems lay with Alison Latimer, and that I got up the next morning and did her in.’

  ‘Well, that would simplify matters. Is that what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think she was murdered?’

  ‘Not for me to say, but I doubt it.’

  ‘What did you do after I left you on Saturday night?’

  ‘Didn’t stay in that dreadful motel, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You went home?’

  ‘I was in turmoil, but going home wasn’t going to fix it. I went to my sister’s.’

  Hirsch patted his jacket pocket for pad and pen, fished them out, clicked the pen, found a blank page. He could feel her eyes on him.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked, a glint in her eye. She gave him address, phone numbers and names: sister, brother-in-law, nieces.

  ‘They can all verify etcetera, etcetera?’

  ‘They can.’ She tilted her head again. ‘Are you treating it as suspicious, the death?’

  ‘Covering bases,’ said Hirsch blithely. ‘Preparing a brief for the coroner.’

  ‘Uh huh. Bill Kropp thinks it’s suicide.’

  Letting him know who her friends were. ‘Getting back to Saturday night.’

  ‘I was upset. Cross. Couldn’t think clearly. Told myself—not for the first time—that I should end it. So I went to the only person who’d listen and talk sense to me about it.’

  ‘After midnight.’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ Armstrong said.

  ‘You stayed the night?’

  ‘I stayed two nights. Got back this morning.’

  By now Hirsch had pretty much discounted her. She was a hard, brusque woman—notwithstanding her need of sisterly comfort— and seemed essentially truthful. A straightforward woman, even if her love life wasn’t.

  Or maybe in her mind it was. ‘What was your understanding of the Latimers’ marriage?’

  ‘Am I a slut, do you mean? Secretly sleeping with another woman’s husband? He told me the marriage was over, she wanted a divorce.’

  ‘When did he tell you that?’

  ‘Ages ago. The beginning of the year, when we first hooked up.’

  ‘Did Mrs Latimer know about you?’

  Armst
rong shrugged. ‘We didn’t shove it in her face, but yes, she did.’

  ‘Did she have words with you about it? Angry words, upset words?’

  ‘I barely knew the woman. Don’t get me wrong, I think her death’s a dreadful thing, it’s sad on all levels. Those poor boys. Her parents.’