Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Collection

Chapter 11

Georgie moved to the bathroom next. Tidy. Basin and shower both dry.

Her phone beeped. She read the text. Rosie from the occupational health and safety committee had written: ‘DAVIDS ON WAR PATH’. Her overuse of capitals and lack of punctuation irritated Georgie, who punched delete.

A bedroom opposite the bathroom was small and impersonal, unlike the next room. Here there were knickknacks on the dressing table, underwear (very sensible bone-coloured knickers and bras), and, in the wardrobe, a few equally conservative garments for an older woman with poor taste. The single bed was made up. Fluffy pillows cloaked in pure white embroidered slips matched the quilt. The linen still held fold marks. A regular female visitor, not a permanent occupant, used this room. She moved on.

‘Ow!’ She’d bashed her hip on the corner of a hall table. In a grab to steady the piece, she knocked the telephone handset. Georgie lifted it to her ear and heard a normal dial tone.

‘Let’s see…’ She dialled.

The Bumblebee tune went off inside her handbag and with it the defective phone theory as explanation for Susan’s silence.

Bumblebee She swore. There was no handy note by the phone either.

Then she heard scratching.

Georgie froze.

What the hell was that?

What the hell was that?She strained. Considered abandoning the search and told herself not to be a wuss.

Eventually, she dismissed it as creepy rodents and entered the next bedroom. An initial scan here revealed no body—asleep, unconscious or otherwise—in bed or on the floor.

That established, she noted details. The mid-sized room was dominated by a suite of double bed, twin wardrobes and dressing table. The recently buffed veneer pieces were as new, but Georgie knew they dated from the 1940s and would’ve been second-hand when acquired by the Pentecostes because her Grandma Harvey had had a similar set when she was alive.

Georgie leaned over the dressing table. A muffled thump on the bed made the bedsprings rattle and robe doors vibrate. She jumped.

‘b****y hell! You gave me a fright.’

A fat tabby gazed at her with crinkled eyes, as if amused to have caused such a stir. Georgie approached, extending a downward-facing hand and let the cat sniff it, before she rubbed its glossy coat and tickled its chin.

She gently sat next to the cat and checked the small brass love heart on its collar. ‘Hiya, Oscar. Where’s your mum?’

The cat meowed. He rubbed his head against Georgie’s side and climbed into her lap.

‘Careful there, mate.’ Georgie extracted one of his claws from her thigh. She petted his head. ‘You don’t seem hungry. Just lonely.’

Oscar shook his head, spittle flying. His pupils dilated simultaneously with a wail.

‘Shush, Oscar. She’ll be home soon.’

He purred. Georgie placed him on the floral eiderdown and resumed her inspection. The first wardrobe contained men’s clothing, musty with disuse and mothballs. The second revealed well-ordered women’s attire.

‘Susan can’t have taken much with her,’ she told the cat. ‘A few empty hangers. Couple of spaces for shoes…’

Georgie lifted the lid on the sole shoebox, finding a stash of letters. ‘This’d be worth a closer look, don’t you think?’

She put the box aside as Oscar jumped off the bed and headbutted her right calf.

‘This your mum?’

The sepia photo she lifted from a group of three on a bedside table showed a young bride ducking through a confetti snowstorm as her new husband pulled her towards a Buick. She glowed with happiness and, by the way he tugged at his wife, Georgie imagined he itched for the wedding night. Among the cheery crowd was a minister with clasped hands and a euphoric expression.

The second, similarly framed portrait was of the groom: slightly older, still dashing and with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

He was one of the subjects in the third photo, now middle-aged, wearing a charcoal shirt under a navy cardigan, hair and moustache silver-grey. A crease encircled his chin up to flushed cheeks in a second smile, and his pale grey irises were offset by the deep laughter trenches that surrounded them.

Georgie peered at the second subject in that photo. ‘So you’re Ruby’s mate, Susan, all grown up.’

Susan had not aged as gracefully as her husband, Roly. She wore square, silver-framed glasses and a plain cross at the neck of her pinstriped, black skirt suit. Her mouse-brown hair was streaked with grey. Her upper lip had little puckers and her chin a frosting of bristles. But Susan’s eyes shone as sincerely as Roly’s, and girlish dimples imprinted her cheeks. The couple held hands at an open-air function.

Oscar swatted Georgie’s ankles as she moved to one of the front rooms. It was a formal drawing room and brimmed with antique furniture, tapestries and prissy floor rugs. The cat stopped at the doorway. Georgie gathered no one went in there. He bobbed his chin as she abandoned it for the study.

Presented with a large desk, row of filing cabinets and wall-to-wall bookcases, the tabby yawned, exposing a set of sharp teeth and a black freckle at the centre of his pink tongue. He settled on the desk, in prime position to supervise Georgie.

‘Okay, Oscar.’ Georgie pointed to the top bills arranged by due date in a desk stand. ‘Tell me why Susan hasn’t paid these two when she’s so orderly?’

Her headache flipped to full throttle as her phone rang yet again. David Ruddoch. She waited for the inevitable message and retrieved it.

He spoke through gritted teeth. The deadline expired yesterday. He’d give her until midday tomorrow to finalise the first-aid script or he would assign it and all further briefs to another writer.

Georgie’s armpits dampened more. While she happily pushed out the deadlines on the boring OH&S projects, she needed the money and couldn’t lose her most regular work.

She checked her watch and frowned. Less than twenty-four hours. She texted David a promise to deliver and sped through the rest of her search.

She scooted back to the hall. The phone had oversized digits and no memory buttons. Damn. She didn’t find a personal address book on or in the phone stand and slammed the drawer shut. Georgie thumped her forehead in frustration. Redial would be useless; hers was the last number called.

Damn. ‘Stupid idiot.’

Oscar yowled.

‘Who asked you, cat?’ she spat back.

The offended feline shadowed her to Susan’s bedroom. The shoebox and photos magnetised Georgie. She didn’t have time to go through them now, as the script wouldn’t write itself.

It was justifiable research, she reasoned.

Oscar oversaw her loading the borrowed items into the Spider, along with a photo album from the study. It contained more photographs of Susan’s husband and newspaper clippings. She left its mate behind as it seemed to date further back. Apart from these meagre leads, her notepad had the registration number of Susan’s Toyota Land Cruiser.

Georgie cranked her convertible’s engine. With a headshake, she turned it off.

Back in the house, she fed and watered the cat. Instead of hoeing in, Oscar pawed at her leg and purred.

She deserted him reluctantly.

The blue feeling didn’t improve as she left the property. A cursory check of the outbuildings gave no clue as to the Land Cruiser’s location or that of its owner.

‘Where have you been?’ Constable Wells demanded. He sounded more like a nagging wife than a colleague. Even had his hands on hips and lips pursed into a cat’s-bum scowl.

Franklin ignored him. He wasn’t compelled to explain himself to a junior officer, only did so if the other earned his respect, and Wells would never be confidant or mate.

‘Here. Now,’ Lunny demanded, beckoning to his office.

Franklin’s guts tightened. He suspected what was going down.

The sergeant didn’t offer a seat. He steepled his fingers and sighed.

‘You made Wells pretty cranky. Apparently, he believes you’ve shafted him once too often. When you’re rostered two-up, the idea is that you work in partnership. But I won’t tell you how to suck eggs, Franklin. You know how to play the game.’

idea Franklin shifted his weight but remained silent.

‘Wells even went so far as venting to D24.’ Lunny referred to police central communications. ‘Informing them that “Senior Constable Franklin is code 1, code 5, code 3.”’

Out and about, at an address or meal break. I don’t see the problem.

Out and about, at an address or meal break. I don’t see the problem.Franklin relaxed.

‘“Or whereabouts unknown.”’

Now I do. f*****g great.

Now I do. f*****g great.‘It’s not advisable to exclude him.’ The implication was because of his connections. ‘But you know that, don’t you?’ It was a rhetorical question.

because of his connectionsLunny fell silent, though his disappointed gaze spoke volumes. Moments later, he left.

Franklin stalked into the muster room and silenced Wells with a glare. He dropped onto his chair facing the wall. Fortunately, his desk was furthest from the little wanker.

The assorted paperwork that related to Christina van Hoeckel’s property damage absorbed Franklin physically but didn’t engage his mind. Wells’s close proximity thwarted inquiries into the poison-pen case, which frustrated him. He was equally aggravated by Christina’s ducking and weaving. Either she didn’t trust him or she had another motive for holding back.

Was it to hide her wrongdoing? Protect an ex or current lover? Heed a threat?

She didn’t know it yet, but she’d just red-flagged a bull.

She recalled their first encounter as clearly as today’s breakfast: All-Bran, sliced banana and soymilk; a dashing man who lit the room with his baritone laughter.

She recalled their first encounter as clearly as today’s breakfast: All-Bran, sliced banana and soymilk; a dashing man who lit the room with his baritone laughter.Huddled by the punchbowl, she and her girlfriends sipped fruity cocktails. Their feet jiggled to the beat as they stole shy peeks at the young men. At one point she glanced down to adjust the nerine on her breast.

Huddled by the punchbowl, she and her girlfriends sipped fruity cocktails. Their feet jiggled to the beat as they stole shy peeks at the young men. At one point she glanced down to adjust the nerine on her breast.‘May I have the pleasure of dancing with the most beautiful girl in this room?’

‘May I have the pleasure of dancing with the most beautiful girl in this room?’Startled, her eyes lifted to meet pale grey ones. They were soft clouds, mesmerising, mischievous and mirrors to the warmth in his voice. She returned his smile.

Startled, her eyes lifted to meet pale grey ones. They were soft clouds, mesmerising, mischievous and mirrors to the warmth in his voice. She returned his smile.Their gaze still locked, she lifted a hand and rested it in his, her calloused fingers cloaked in white satin. She noticed short fingernails scrubbed yet stained and, when they twirled, blisters on his palms. She sensed the strength of his wiry body through the pressure on the small of her back.

Their gaze still locked, she lifted a hand and rested it in his, her calloused fingers cloaked in white satin. She noticed short fingernails scrubbed yet stained and, when they twirled, blisters on his palms. She sensed the strength of his wiry body through the pressure on the small of her back.They danced and danced, she fancied with the grace of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Finally stopping to sip punch and talk, they had eyes for nobody else. He charmed with tall stories and made her feel beautiful because that was how he saw her. She felt like the luckiest girl alive, particularly when they traded dreams and found them harmonised.

They danced and danced, she fancied with the grace of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Finally stopping to sip punch and talk, they had eyes for nobody else. He charmed with tall stories and made her feel beautiful because that was how he saw her. She felt like the luckiest girl alive, particularly when they traded dreams and found them harmonised.That very night she discovered her soul mate, and she had never doubted that.

That very night she discovered her soul mate, and she had never doubted that.