Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Collection

Chapter 9

The chorus of Billy Joel’s Pressure screamed inside Georgie’s brain. The damn hangover squeezed her temples.

Pressure Eyes slit. Belly burning. Teeth furry.

The chorus repeated, either as a distraction device or s******c form of t*****e.

A search through her sports bag unearthed zilch paracetamol and she’d used the last tablet in the Spider’s glovebox yesterday. She likewise bummed out on a toothbrush. The closest implement was a de-clumping mascara brush.

Remind me again how the f**k I ended up in the sticks.

Remind me again how the f**k I ended up in the sticks.The vice tightened on her skull.

Desperate, she rubbed soap over her right index finger and buffed her teeth. It made a marginal improvement. However, there wasn’t much she could do about the lack of clean underwear. If she rinsed her undies, the dampness might seep through her jeans.

At least she’d showered. If you could call the showerhead spitting irregular droplets of alternating hot and cold water showering. She’d had to run around the cubicle to get wet.

Now dry but n***d, Georgie puffed on her third cigarette for the morning and hovered over the kettle. Finally it boiled. She poured two sachets of coffee into a cup and drank it, scalding hot and revolting. Still, the cheap powdered s**t was a caffeine shot and kick-started the day. Another cup of the gross coffee later and Georgie set off to Susan Pentecoste’s farm.

Abergeldie was on Grimwells Road in Hepburn. She’d swiped a tourist map from the motel and memorised the route, seeing as she didn’t have satnav and could never be f****d trying to follow a map on her phone, especially with the mother of all hangovers.

She’d thought she’d memorised the route.

thought Five minutes later she stopped in front of the small post office in Hepburn Springs to recheck the map. And spent several minutes holding her aching head while trying to commit the directions to her foggy brain.

Too much to remember and much of it via roads she’d never been on before.

In the end, Georgie made the trip in legs.

Left turn before the Blowhole. Map check.

Turn left again onto Bald Hill Road. She lost her spot on the map, swore and refocused. Nearly there; she could do this.

Georgie hooked right at Howlong Road. If she reached Scheggias Track, she’d missed the Grimwells Road intersection.

Ta-da, Grimwells Road.

Ta-daGeorgie swung onto Grimwells Road and halted, appalled by the rugged track ahead. She normally drove the Spider at one speed—fast—but now eased the sports car into walking pace. Bumps vibrated through the suspension. Gravel struck the black duco as personal body blows. She cursed the Padleys and Susan Pentecoste and her voice jarred, aggravating her hangover.

She travelled a kilometre or so yet passed only one driveway before she saw the arched sign for Abergeldie. A mob of sheep stared from the front paddock as she manoeuvred through the entrance. The leader bolted as she slammed the gate, the rest following with anxious bleats. Cattle in a far field lifted their heads, then returned to their munching.

The gravel driveway had been recently graded, and Georgie’s grip relaxed as she nosed the car through an avenue of large gums. Weeping willows overhung a creek that followed the road. Prior to recent record rainfall across the state, the creek bed had probably been dry and creviced for a decade or more. But water ran now. It rippled with the undulations of the land.

She passed several stone outbuildings that looked a century old. A comparatively new barn clashed with these, as did its attached hay shed chocked with golden bales and the machinery shed.

At last she reached a wall of lofty cypress bounded by a low white picket fence. Several terracotta chimney pots topped the windbreak.

Georgie drew a deep breath and pulled the Spider’s handbrake. The crunch echoed.

What would she find beyond the hedge? Safe bet: Susan and that the tedious journey had been a waste.

Georgie finger-combed tousled hair and noticed sweat pooled at her armpits. It was already steamy under the cloudless blue sky. Enough to make anyone perspire, yet hangover and curiosity probably chipped in too.

‘Ah, you’re back,’ said Tim Lunny, as Franklin and Wells entered the station. ‘Wells, a bundle of documents needs picking up from the Rush. It’s ready for you at reception, there’s a lad.’

‘Of course, Sarge.’

Smarmy prick.

Smarmy prick.The constable pivoted, his scowl observed by Franklin alone. Despite the arse-l*****g tone of Wells’s reply, the sarge apparently read the set of his shoulders and the stiffness of his neck, because he smirked. They all enjoyed razzing Wells and it was too easy. Pleb jobs such as the pick-up from the hotel were shared among the crew but Wells always took personal affront. Although lowest in the station hierarchy, he believed his connections among the brass set him above such tasks.

Relieved to have the cocky constable out of his hair for even a short while, Franklin dropped his folder onto the counter and headed for the lunchroom, nodding to Harty on the telephone.

‘No, that’s Constable Scott Hart, ma’am…’

Pained, his mate pulled on a clump of hair. Franklin chuckled, mimed drinking and received a thumbs-up.

He scooped heaped spoonfuls of coffee into mugs. Set to add commensurable sugar, he heard the front door squeal open. A small sigh escaped. His cuppa would have to wait.

Franklin abandoned the kitchen to observe two women entering. Each pushed a pram. One gazed around, fascinated. The other wore an anxious expression. Scores of people had that manner with police. An innate guilty conscience or fear lurked in even the most do-goody sorts. It made the world kind of us and them and this used to irk Franklin. Back when he was young and idealistic.

us and themHe’d decided not to give a flying f**k if there was an us and them mentality around the time he’d realised childhood sweetheart, Donna, preferred one of the bad boys from school but settled for him because marriage was in vogue with her clique. Then she became increasingly negative about his job, took up with the other bloke and left him with the baby – and a cottage worth less than the mortgage in its semi-renovated state that nearly sent him broke when interest rates spiralled.

us and themThat was ancient history, but probably why nowadays he was unapologetically a cop.

So he approached the women with their prams with what he supposed was curiosity and helpfulness, tinged with arrogance. ‘How can I help you, ladies?’

They exchanged glances. The younger turned on a saucer gaze. Up close she looked barely old enough to be a mother. Her cohort, aged mid-to-late twenties, bobbed her head. The latter’s baby whimpered, and she pulled the child from its pram and cuddled it into her chest. Her youthful friend pushed a folded sheet across the counter.

The women watched Franklin unfurl it. They watched his eyes travel across the page, pause at the bottom, then reread it. They watched as he plucked the letter via fingertips to one corner and dropped it onto his clipboard.

He affixed a deadpan face. But a vein throbbed in his left temple.

‘Shall we go through to the interview room?’ he suggested. Dual motive, to guard the women’s privacy and to keep the soon-to-return Wells out of a juicy case.

They manoeuvred their prams into the cramped room and Franklin procured the missing chair from the kitchen. To his embarrassment, the teenager latched her baby onto her breast. Jesus, he’d seen boobs before, but they weren’t supposed to be so out there during introductions.

The girl presented herself as Tayla Birkley. Her suckling son, Callum, was four weeks old, as was Lauren Morris’s daughter, Millie. Tayla paused and positioned Callum on the other breast, triggering another uncomfortable where do I look? reaction.

where do I look?He scratched his chin and concentrated on the second woman.

Lauren’s hand trembled as she extracted a crumpled sheet from her handbag and broke the silence. ‘We realised we’d both got one yesterday.’

Two? Holy f**k.

Two? Holy fuck.Franklin reached for the second poison-pen letter. He tried to rein in the buzz, but his brain raced ahead.

If there’re two, there’s every chance there will be more.

If there’re two, there’s every chance there will be more.Outwardly calm, he compared letters. ‘Identical.’

Tayla nodded. ‘We got them roughly two weeks ago. I kept mine ’cos I thought it was pretty funny. Wouldn’t’ve thought of it again if Lauren hadn’t been so stressed.’ She burped Callum.

Lauren blushed.

Her teenage friend laughed. She seemed to be enjoying the experience.

‘Tayla noticed I was a bit off yesterday –’

‘She looked wrecked,’ Tayla clarified.

wrecked‘Gee thanks.’ Lauren mocked a glare, then confessed, ‘New baby plus toddler. I’ve got permanent Santa bags under my eyes.’

Franklin smiled sympathetically. Sometimes his battle with his daughter’s terrible twos didn’t seem so long ago.

‘But then I started to really worry about this –’ She motioned to the letters. ‘And yeah, I admit it. I’m wrecked.’

‘I had no idea about that,’ Tayla commented. ‘I thought she might have post-natal depression. My mum worried I’d get it, being on my own. So, we’d had the big chat at home and it was on my mind. Not for me, though. We’re fine, aren’t we, Cal?’ She rubbed noses with her infant and his neck lolled.

thatbig chat‘So, Tayla made a fuss.’

‘And she burst into tears. She mumbled something about Solomon, and I thought, Hello. We went back to Lauren’s and she showed me her letter. We decided to tell someone, in case this Solomon’s a psycho –’

HelloLauren interrupted, holding up her index finger. ‘Only one person, so we can keep it quiet. Tell the wrong person in this town and you may as well’ve placed a classified in the Advocate.’ Her face contorted.

one Advocate‘She wanted to speak to her priest.’

‘But I haven’t been to church since my two-year-old was born. It’d be hypocritical.’

‘And I said, “What’s an old guy with a dog collar going to do anyhow?”’

‘So, we chose a policeman.’

Their story told, both women fixed on Franklin.

Lauren’s expression seemed to say Right, your problem now, fix it.

Right, your problem now, fix itHe read Tayla’s as This is fun.

This is fun‘I’ll try to keep it quiet,’ Franklin said, massaging the crick in his neck.

Who’d have thought interviewing could be a spectator sport?

Who’d have thought interviewing could be a spectator sport?‘No guarantees, though. Now, what can you tell me about this Solomon?’

‘Nothing,’ Tayla said. As he sighed inwardly, she added, ‘That’s why we’ve come to you.’

After twenty further minutes, Franklin had their background but little more and they departed. He placed the letters in evidence bags although he had two chances of the budget stretching to forensics or fingerprinting: Buckley’s and none. What’s more, he assessed the stock to be ordinary mid-range copy paper that could be picked up from any supermarket. Plus, the fingerprints of Tayla, Lauren and himself would probably obscure the perpetrator’s dabs. Moreover, although the letters were handwritten, the calligraphic script could be contrived, concealing more than it revealed of the offender.

He jotted details in his battered daybook, his private log on matters that might never come to anything or that he wanted to explore in his own time and deal with in his own way. There would be no mention of Solomon on the day’s running sheet and not even Harty or Slam would hear about it.

Franklin ran over Solomon’s words and fought rising excitement. This was the case where he could step up, where he could score big points against Wells – the sweetest incentive of all.

The only dampener was whether the wacko stalker presented a harmless or serious threat.