Bitter Wash Road Read online

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ Kropp muttered.

  Hirsch beamed in his chair, arms folded again. He bumped shoulders with Nicholson, gave a little nod. ‘Integrity test,’ he whispered.

  ‘Get the fuck out of my face.’

  ‘Is that what you’re calling it?’

  Hirsch was having a high old time.

  ~ * ~

  The accident investigator was a sergeant named Exley.

  ‘If you find us the vehicle,’ he said, ‘we’ll match it to the evidence.’

  Hirsch hadn’t seen any evidence. ‘What evidence, Sarge?’

  Spoiling Exley’s flow. ‘All in good time. I’ve spoken to the coroner. She intends to visit the scene during the week and on Friday open an inquest. In all likelihood she’ll immediately announce a recess, but it would help if we could report on the victim’s last movements and meanwhile investigate local crash repairers and motorists with a history of driving under the influence.’

  Then he was gone.

  Kropp was nettled; Hirsch could see it in his jaw, his whitened knuckles on the back of the chair. ‘The powers that be have spoken, so let’s get to it. Constable Hirschhausen, your job is to interview family and friends, see what the poor kid was up to.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘And have a poke around in Muncowie.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  Kropp gazed bleakly at Nicholson and Andrewartha. ‘Redruth Automotive. Given that you two simpletons work there in your spare time, I’ll let you take care of that.’

  ‘Sarge,’ Nicholson said, swapping grins with Andrewartha.

  Kropp looked at Dee sourly. ‘You can tag along if and as required.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ Nicholson said.

  ‘Cut it out,’ Kropp said.

  Hirsch waved his hand lazily. ‘Sarge, what’s the story with the family?’

  ‘Old story: single mum, two kids, separate fathers. What else is there to say?’

  ‘Melia was done for shoplifting.’

  ‘She was. Slap over the wrist.’

  ‘I’d look at the brother,’ Andrewartha said. ‘Abo prick.’

  ‘Knock it off,’ Kropp said, weary.

  ‘Well, he is.’

  Hirsch said, ‘Why would that make him run his sister over?’

  ‘Why would he do anything? That’s the point, there is no why.’

  ‘Thanks for clearing that up.’

  Kropp intervened. ‘She liked to hitchhike,’ he said, looking at Hirsch. ‘Bear that in mind.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  ~ * ~

  8

  EARLY AFTERNOON NOW.

  Hirsch shot out of town before anyone could intercept him, heading south. He half-expected Kropp to call him with some tiresome demand but his phone rang only once, a Barrier Highway motorist calling to report a spill of hay bales near Mount Bryan. ‘Try the Redruth police station,’ Hirsch said.

  Better still, drag them off the road yourself.

  Thirty minutes later he was at Far lee, where he turned south-east into undulating country, giant silent silvery gumtrees watching, until finally he was driving past vines and old winery names. Another thirty minutes and he was on a potholed dirt road leading up to Rosie DeLisle’s tiny hilltop winery. Out of habit, Hirsch checked the cars parked there, slotted into bays marked by old redgum sleepers. A mix of expensive German sedans and four-wheel-drives. He didn’t know Rosie DeLisle’s car.

  German refinement and his dirty police HiLux. No disguising that. But Hirsch did a quick number on himself. Tossed his tie, jacket and cap onto the back seat, stowed the gun belt in a briefcase, dragged on a denim jacket.

  He found Rosie seated on a wooden bench at a wooden table— more old redgum slabs—under a shadecloth, the fabric whispering and slapping in a stiff breeze from the valley. Severe rows of vines stretched down into the valley and up the other side, but here in the al fresco dining area there were beds of vegetables and herbs, the air scented and bees buzzing and one magpie warbling from a trellis. There’s money here, Hirsch thought—well obviously, given the cellar-door prices he’d noted on his way in.

  Rosie stepped away from the table and pecked his cheek. Her movements were careful; her misgivings weren’t about to evaporate any time soon. And she’d already eaten, leaving a fleck of oily lettuce in a salad bowl and a crust of pizza on a chunky white plate.

  ‘Started without me?’

  ‘Starving.’

  Hirsch grumbled his way onto the bench opposite hers, stowed the briefcase at his feet and studied the menu. Salad, smoked salmon pizza, mineral water.

  ~ * ~

  He ate, they talked.

  When it all went bad for Hirsch, he’d been a detective stationed at Paradise Gardens, an outer Adelaide police station. Head of CIB was a senior sergeant named Marcus Quine. After the arrests of Quine and his team, after the raid and the charges and the media frenzy, Rosie DeLisle had been the Internal Investigations officer assigned to question Hirsch. ‘One officer per corrupt detective,’ she’d told him. ‘We all swap notes at the end of the day, to build up our picture of what you shits have been up to.’

  ‘What about innocent until proven guilty?’

  She told him to shut up. It was clear she thought he was scum. And then, days, weeks later, her mood lightened. She believes me, Hirsch thought—or, at the very least, she’s got doubts.

  Finally she’d expressed these doubts to Hirsch. ‘Will you give evidence against Quine?’

  ‘No.’

  She’d gnawed her lower lip, then confessed that she’d recommended no further action against him. ‘But my colleagues don’t agree with me, and it doesn’t necessarily let you off the hook.’

  No, not off the hook. A whiff clung to him. He was demoted and posted to the bush. And for all he knew, no one but Rosie and his parents thought he was an honest copper. Then, when Quine and the others were charged and punished—variously sacked and jailed; one senior constable suiciding—people asked why Paul Hirschhausen had got off so lightly. The answer was clear: he was a turncoat, a dog, a maggot. He stared at Rosie, misgivings shading her face as she drained her shiraz and slapped down her glass. ‘Sometime soon, maybe as early as next week, you’ll be invited to police headquarters to face another round of questions.’

  ‘Invited.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To answer fresh allegations.’

  ‘Against me?’

  ‘Yes. Quine’s not exactly been twiddling his thumbs.’

  Hirsch had heard it on the grapevine, Quine the master manipulator beating Rosie and her colleagues into exhaustion with a battery of freedom-of-information requests and demands for daybook entries, diary entries, files, notes, statements, records, reports, memos, e-mails, video and audio recordings, computer discs and memory sticks. And any and all correspondence, however vaguely connected to his twenty years in the employ of South Australia Police. A futile exercise if undertaken by anyone else, but Quine had got away with a lot for a long time and he might get away with this.

  ‘He’s saying the case against him is a soufflé,’ Rosie said.

  Hirsch snorted. ‘So what are these allegations?’

  Rosie began to chip at a fleck of cheese on her pizza crust. Nice hands, Hirsch thought. That was inconvenient. He dragged his eyes away. They’d had fun in bed, one night when it was all over, but that had no place here. He couldn’t look at the vines and vegetable beds and other diners forever, though, so he turned back to watch Rosie struggle with herself. She was vivid and round and lit within, normally, her fine black hair flashing, her scarlet nails and lips avid for experiences. She was probably an affront to the men she investigated and treated seriously by no one.

  ‘Anonymous tipoff,’ she said.

  ‘Saying...?’

  She looked fully at him, eaten up, you could see it in her face and upper body. ‘No one
will tell me anything, but I’ve gathered they think you pilfered stolen goods from the evidence safe at Paradise Gardens. Apparently they have serial numbers.’

  ‘What kind of items?’

  ‘No idea. Drugs? Cash?’

  Her face twisted. She almost reached across the redgum and took his wrist. ‘Paul, they seem dead certain. Is it true? Will they find something?’

  ‘Sure,’ Hirsch said, and he fished out his phone, pressed the photo gallery icon and handed it over. ‘Scroll through.’

  He watched a pretty forefinger flick the screen. ‘The first-aid box in my car,’ he said. ‘The phone is an iPhone 5, and the cash amounts to two and a half grand in hundreds.’

  She continued to scroll. ‘Serial numbers.’

  ‘Yes. Phone and cash.’

  A twist of frustration. ‘It’s all going to match, isn’t it?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘Paul, tell me straight, did you pinch this stuff?’

  ‘Fuck you, Rosie.’

  She slid the phone back across the table. ‘But who’s going to believe you just stumbled on this? They’ll think you took these photographs just in case, some weak attempt to say you were set up.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Hirsch said.

  A young woman came by with a tray and a smile, a little frown when Hirsch bent his upper body over the phone. ‘Get you anything else? Coffee? Sticky date pudding’s on special.’

  ‘Sticky date, please,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Coffee,’ Hirsch said.

  When the waitress was gone, tight black jeans winking, Rosie gestured at the phone. ‘They’ll use this. Quine has plenty of friends. Even the people I work with. You should have brought everything with you and logged it in with me.’

  Hirsch took up his phone again. ‘Got a little movie to show you.’

  He found the file containing the CCTV footage of the woman lurking around his car. Pressed ‘play’ and sat back to watch DeLisle’s face.

  She breathed out. ‘Quality’s not great, but...’

  ‘But it’s clear what she’s doing, and time and date are embedded in the original, and I have a statutory declaration from the shopkeeper whose camera took this.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Kropp’s wife?’

  Hirsch went very still. He looked hard at Rosie. ‘One might ask why you mention his name.’

  DeLisle shut down. Eventually she said, ‘Could this be the wife of one of the others? Nicholson? Andrewartha?’

  ‘And one might wonder how you happen to know the names of everyone stationed at Redruth,’ Hirsch said. ‘Unless you’ve been checking up on me.’

  Rosie DeLisle shrugged, a shrug that contained volumes. Well, fuck them all. ‘When am I supposed to face the music?’

  ‘You’ll get an e-mail.’

  ‘Not even a phone call.’

  ‘A phone call to ensure you got the e-mail.’

  Hirsch would have to tell Kropp he wouldn’t be available next week. ‘How long for?’

  ‘Two or three days.’

  ‘How will they run it?’

  ‘They’ll say some irregularities have cropped up, no big deal, but we need your help sorting them out. They’ll start by taking you through your history at Paradise Gardens CIB, let you explain everything away, the corruption, etcetera, etcetera, then just when you’re feeling secure, hit you with the phone and the cash.’

  She’d told him. But the doubt was still there, he could read it in her. He threw a twenty onto the table and left.

  ~ * ~

  9

  HIRSCH WAS BACK in Redruth by four-thirty. Rather than drive through the town, he turned off the highway, intending to reach Tiverton via the back roads that ran north and west of the town. A couple of the properties out there were on his watch list: an elderly farm widow and her schizophrenic son, and a farmhouse rented to a handful of dropout city kids who’d been accused of sabotaging the wind farm turbines.

  His information was out of date: the widow had died and the farm was sold, the son taken in by a sister; the dropouts had returned to the city. Hirsch drove on, warm and slow from his lunch and the sun, and made the final turn back towards the highway. All of the roads out here were treacherous dirt nightmares like the Bitter Wash, so he wound down his window for a stay-alert breeze.

  He came around a bend and a silver Lexus shot out of a driveway ahead, fishtailing as it gathered speed and spat pebbles at him. He backed off, hoping the dust would settle, and then accelerated gradually. He was twenty seconds or so behind the Lexus, the road otherwise empty, the air still, the dust dense, not budging. But the road coiled around the hillsides and dipped in and out of the erosion channels. He glimpsed the Lexus now and then before the dust intervened again. The driver was powering along, too fast for the conditions, and Hirsch found himself muttering, ‘Slow down before you kill yourself, pal.’

  Then about one kilometre before the Barrier Highway intersection, the Lexus sideswiped a guardrail. Hirsch saw the driver overcorrect, the car shooting back to the centre of the road, brake lights flaring, and he was pretty sure the driver had seen the HiLux behind him, a dim shape in the rearview mirror. The guy didn’t stop but flicked around the next bend.

  Fuck it. Hirsch accelerated, approaching the bend in careful stages, and found the Lexus in the middle of the road, doors open, the dust settling around it.

  He braked, switched off, got out. So much drama, you’d expect an orchestra of panicky sounds, but the air was still and silent, only two hot engines ticking as they cooled. Then Hirsch’s dust rolled over him and the stink of it was in his nose with his own diesel fumes.

  When it cleared he saw a woman alight from the driver’s seat, swinging one leg out of the footwell, then the other, emerging with the kind of fluttery relief you’d expect of a driver who’d had a close call. Or an actor.

  ‘Oh, hello there. Whooh! My heart’s going pitter-patter.’

  She walked the ten metres towards Hirsch, a flirty blonde full of smiles. She was about thirty and, in a nod to spring, wore a darkish, short-sleeved cotton dress, knee-length over her tanned, tennis player legs.

  She toed the dirt cutely with a sandalled foot. Red toenails. ‘Talk about a lucky escape. These gravel roads are quite treacherous.’

  Hirsch smiled, nodded, tutted his commiseration.

  ‘Sorry about the guardrail. Of course I’ll pay to have it mended.’ She turned to eye the car. ‘My husband and I have insurance.’

  Now the husband was emerging, grinning like a madman, shaking his head at Hirsch, one bloke to another. ‘If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a thousand times...’

  ‘Oh, Mike,’ the wife said fondly. She rolled her eyes and turned on her smile for Hirsch, finger-hooking quotation marks in the air: ‘Drive according to the conditions of the road.’

  ‘Well, sweetheart, now you know first-hand what it means. Mike Venn,’ the husband said, sticking out his hand. ‘And this is Jess, my wife.’

  ‘All right, knock it off both of you,’ Hirsch said.

  Venn glanced at his wife, at Hirsch. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You, sir, were driving, and you swapped places with your wife.’

  ‘He did no such thing!’

  ‘You’ve no doubt seen the drink-driving ads on TV,’ Hirsch said. ‘Every police vehicle is a booze bus. You can be breathalysed on the spot.’

  The woman was astounded. ‘You think we’ve been drinking?’

  ‘I can smell it on you,’ Hirsch said.

  ‘A glass to celebrate a property sale, nothing more,’ Venn said.

  The wife could have left it at that. Her nose was exquisitely and maybe even naturally shaped, and it quivered now, a terrier after prey. ‘What are you, some jumped-up little Hitler?’

  ‘I’m sure if you run your mouth long enough I’ll come up with another charge,’ Hirsch said. He fetched a couple of breath-
test kits from the HiLux, picturing the drama playing out behind his back. She glares at her husband, he glares at her, fury, a touch of panic, a pantomime of Make it go away and Who do we know?

  He returned stony faced and gleeful. ‘Blow into this, please, sir.’

  ‘But I wasn’t driving.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m testing both of you. I can’t have one drunk driver replaced by another, now can I?’