Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Collection

Chapter 23

‘And it’s back to summer weather for Melbourne, with an expected top of thirty. The high will remain with us until at least the weekend, but there’s more rain on the outlook. The Bureau warns that this will be the wettest autumn on recent record and –’

‘And it’s back to summer weather for Melbourne, with an expected top of thirty. The high will remain with us until at least the weekend, but there’s more rain on the outlook. The Bureau warns that this will be the wettest autumn on recent record and –’Georgie flipped a hand sideways, smacked the radio’s snooze button and killed the overly cheerful voice. She prised open one eye, then the other. First to admit she wasn’t a morning person, Georgie gazed at the ceiling, procrastinating. Eventually she swung to sit up, and her stomach heaved. She dropped back to the mattress. Her temples thumped waves of pain, and her left eyelid twitched with the incessant beat of a heavy rap.

The music in her head switched from rap to pop. Three lines of the song What You Waiting For? had replayed all night, along with the tick of the oversized clock. She craved more sleep, decent sleep, without those annoying lyrics. Instead, she pushed back the sheet and emerged.

What You Waiting For?‘Aargh!’ AJ said with mock fright.

She squinted at the bathroom mirror. Rat’s-nest hair, mascara-clogged lashes, smudged rings under bloodshot eyeballs, all prominent against pale skin. She resembled a morning-after-binge vision but had actually drunk very little.

Georgie laughed. It’d be a worry if you never laughed at yourself.

‘I spoke to Michael, George.’

She sucked in a breath and held it.

‘Ruby’s doing well.’

The air whooshed out. ‘Yes!’

‘The doctor’s going to check on her this afternoon. Hopefully, she’ll be out of intensive care and up to visitors later today.’

‘That’s so good.’ Her legs turned to jelly with relief. ‘I was psyching myself up to ring the hospital.’

She tucked her forehead into AJ’s mid-back and wrapped his bare torso with her arms. Her headache eased several notches. He reached behind and patted her butt, saying, ‘You think too much.’

‘Probably,’ Georgie admitted.

People to see, things to do.

People to see, things to do.She pulled away, headed for the shower.

Last night, her brain had certainly been hyperactive. Images of Pam Stewart merged with worst-case-scenarios for both Susan Pentecoste and Ruby Padley. Added to the 3D flying slideshow were newspaper headlines, disabled women sporting black eyes, an arrogant country cop and Pedantic Percy, the magistrate who’d almost snatched her licence. The imagery pulsated to what she now considered the most irritating pop song ever in the charts.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Cathy Jones said.

‘Were you expecting someone else?’ Franklin asked. He anticipated a negative.

She blinked and widened her eyes. Her left one was lazy and sleep-encrusted. Tangled hair completed the crazy-just-awake-woman image. ‘No,’ she mumbled through a yawn.

She flapped the sides of her dressing gown, crossed them snugly and secured the waist tie. He caught a glimpse of a camisole and French knickers set in black cotton with ivory trim. Three months post-partum, she had a great figure; a gently rounded belly and swollen breasts but trim thighs. Donna would have hated her. She’d never recovered her pre-baby shape. Not before she took off.

‘Cathy, can I come in?’

Her fingers sought a gold locket under the dressing gown and slid it along the chain.

‘I need to talk to you, and I don’t suppose it’s crash hot having a copper on your doorstep at eight in the morning.’

She scanned the street for nosy neighbours and stepped aside.

‘You’re here now, so I guess you’d better come in.’

‘Do you know why I’ve come?’

The corners of her mouth twitched and her shoulders lifted.

The door banged behind AJ as he left. Georgie dialled two numbers, from memory now, but neither Susan nor Margaret Pentecoste answered. Then she forced herself to sit at the desk and go through the workday motions. Foremost were her computer inbox and phone messages.

David Ruddoch had left several – each with a rising inflection. Texts demanded she phone in relation to the first-aid script. His latest voicemail gave a deadline of twelve o’clock today for her call. Despite the implied threat, she’d finish her message check before she rang him.

The emailed feeler for an editing job failed to entice. Clients driven by the hip pocket often had unrealistic expectations and they preferred talks at arm’s length until rates and terms were established. That could wait at least another day. She added a yellow sticky note to the row on the wall.

The next two phone messages were pleasure, not business. The first was Bron, who chased an update on all matters from AJ to Susan Pentecoste. The second, her mum, Livia, who just wanted a chat.

Georgie obliged both as she stroked the scarred edge of the blackwood desk salvaged from a hard-rubbish collection. The desk was the first piece to grace her writer’s office, and she’d rubbed beeswax over the nicks and initials carved into its top to capture its history rather than over-restore it. She swivelled in the black chair, a gift from AJ, its fresh-leather aroma more subtle now. Thick planks of oiled jarrah on stacks of red bricks formed a three-tiered bookcase and flanked the desk. Slimline laptop here, antique lamp there, somehow the old and the new fit perfectly.

Next, a virtually maxed-out credit card gained grace on various bills. Smug with the results, Georgie picked up the ringing telephone.

‘Georgina.’

‘Georgina.’It was the unmistakable voice of AJ’s mother. Her stomach dropped.

Stupid, stupid i***t. Should have let the machine pick up.

Stupid, stupid i***t. Should have let the machine pick up.She mumbled and waited for the inevitable, counting Four, three, two…

Four, three, two…‘I expected you to be at work,’ Jane Gunnerson said.

‘I expected you to be at work,’The woman never let her down.

‘I am. I. Work. From. Home.’ Georgie’s teeth were gritted.

‘Oh, well, yes, I suppose you do. Although you ought to have resumed your legal career by now.’

‘Oh, well, yes, I suppose you do. Although you ought to have resumed your legal career by now.’Yeah, right. She’d been a glorified personal assistant, not a lawyer. Highlight of the job: doing Jane Gunnerson’s son on the head partner’s mahogany desk.

‘Look at how well our Adam is doing, Georgina.’

‘Look at how well our Adam is doing, Georgina.’Georgie grunted. She tolerated Georgina from few people and cringed if Livia said it, as it signified trouble. From Jane Gunnerson—too high and mighty to allow her son’s girlfriend to call her anything less than Mrs Gunnerson (and thus Georgie called her nothing)—it was torturous.

GeorginaBesides, the statement didn’t deserve a reply. They would replay twists on this conversation to hell and back. No wonder she shied from AJ’s marriage proposal. She’d also be hitched to his pomp-arse parents.

‘Geoffrey would like Adam to join us for luncheon on Sunday. It is high time for the next step in his career. If he is to make Silk by the age his father did, he must sit for the Bar.’

‘Geoffrey would like Adam to join us for luncheon on Sunday. It is high time for the next step in his career. If he is to make Silk by the age his father did, he must sit for the Bar.’Georgie tuned out. AJ had to decide for himself. His buddies at Berkowitz Clark Oxford, along with his father’s well-connected cronies, were guaranteed to throw him briefs, which would make his transition from solicitor to barrister smoother than most. The rise from Junior to Queen’s Counsel (aka a Silk after the silk court gowns these barristers wore) would follow. If he told his folks to stick it because he’d rather build furniture, Georgie would be far more impressed.

‘…Adam could arrive at twelve, for twelve-thirty?’

‘…Adam could arrive at twelve, for twelve-thirty?’‘Huh?’ Georgie said.

‘For luncheon on Sunday. Oh, and you’re welcome to join us. If you wish.’

‘For luncheon on Sunday. Oh, and you’re welcome to join us. If you wish.’It would almost be worth accepting the reluctant tacked-on invitation to spite Jane Gunnerson. But Georgie said they’d check their diaries. While AJ’s mother spluttered, she hung up with a flourish that rivalled her bewigged perhaps-one-day-father-in-law’s best effort.

Two minutes later, she answered her mobile to, ‘Have you been terrorising my mother again, George?’ Fortunately, AJ laughed as he said it.

‘Have you been terrorising my mother again, George?’ ‘Didn’t take her long.’

‘Never does. Not keen on lunch?’

‘Never does. Not keen on lunch?’‘We could get a better offer.’

‘True. We’ll think on it, then,’ he said. They hung up.

‘True. We’ll think on it, then,’She decided one of the best things about AJ was his acceptance that she and his mother would never be mates.

Mates.

Mates.Pam and Ruby.

Pam and Ruby.Invisible threads to Susan.

Georgie shook her head. She turned back to the computer and tried to concentrate.

Fuck.

Fuck.She wanted to focus on other responsibilities. But Pam Stewart’s obvious distress for Susan Pentecoste and Ruby laid up in hospital for the same reason distracted her. The agonist-antagonist contest wouldn’t stop for a lame assignment, regardless of David Ruddoch’s fury. It pushed her back to Daylesford; to hell with everything else.

They hovered awkwardly in the hallway.

Franklin started, ‘Want to tell me about it? What you wanted to talk over in the bakery?’

‘Okay, but let me get changed first.’ As she padded down the hallway, Cathy called, ‘Take a seat.’

She soon re-emerged in a long sundress and sandals. ‘I’ll make coffee.’

A few minutes later he took a sip from his mug as Cathy curled up with her own in the armchair opposite.

‘Tyson sleeping?’ Franklin asked.

She nodded, and he said conversationally, ‘He a good sleeper then?’

His first sergeant had told him one way to get a witness to cooperate is to talk about their kids, pets or whatever it is they have a passion for.

‘Uh-huh.’ Her face lit up. ‘I’ve been lucky. He’s been a great sleeper ever since I brought him home. Other mums are lucky to get two hours between naps. Want to see my photos?’

They pored over her brag book, so similar to Kat’s chronicle at home. Copy of the ultrasound; first cuddle and first bath pics; clipping from the local newspaper; poster-paint imprint of Tyson’s miniature hands and feet. All the usual, with one jarring absence, but he’d hold that subject until she relaxed more.

Cathy suddenly fixed on him. ‘I’ve had a letter from a crank. Two actually. One straight after Tyson was born and the second letter last week.’

Franklin straightened.

She fetched papers from the hall table. ‘Here’s the first one.’

He perused it and asked, ‘Do you know Tayla Birkley, Lauren Morris and Renee Archer?’

‘Vaguely. I’ve bumped into them at the health centre. We don’t socialise.’

He pulled out the other three letters in their baggies and confirmed the wording, overall style and formation of the calligraphic script. ‘They have a match for yours.’

Cathy shivered. ‘My second one runs along the same line. Except it gets nastier.’ She passed it over.

Shit. Already an escalation? How much time do I have before this wacko wants more action than letter writing?

Shit. Already an escalation? How much time do I have before this wacko wants more action than letter writing?He read it twice.

You must lie only with your husband and be tempted not to the door of a stranger, or tempt a stranger to your door. Children should only be borne to Virtuous women, Righteous women, or as bastards be damned to follow their w***e-mother’s steps down to death. You must beg His forgiveness and atone for your sins. Or your end will be Bitter.

You must lie only with your husband and be tempted not to the door of a stranger, or tempt a stranger to your door. Children should only be borne to Virtuous women, Righteous women, or as bastards be damned to follow their w***e-mother’s steps down to death. You must beg His forgiveness and atone for your sins. Or your end will be Bitter.Solomon

SolomonFranklin considered nasty a bit soft. Unhinged was more like it. He easily arranged the five letters in chronological order, as the author’s handwriting declined with their mental state over the three-month period.

nasty‘Has Solomon been in touch in other ways?’

‘No,’ Cathy bit her lower lip. ‘Oh, a couple of times the phone’s rung, but when I’ve answered it, no one’s spoken. After a few seconds, they hang up. And once or twice, I’ve felt like someone’s watching me. That could be my imagination, though.’

‘Do you know who Solomon is?’

‘No, I wish I did.’ She suddenly switched from apologetic to angry. ‘What right has this person got to send disgusting letters? And make threats? How do they get off judging a stranger, without knowing their situation?’

Cathy’s eyes blazed when she looked at him. Then they filled and tears flooded her cheeks.

Georgie swerved from the Daylesford off-ramp at the last moment. Instead, she continued along Western Freeway.

Margaret Pentecoste held the key. Pam believed that Susan was with her niece in Ballarat or, if not, the woman would know her whereabouts. Easy enough to loop back to Hepburn later if necessary.

At Ballarat, she parked and pulled up a map on her phone. She worked it out and found herself in a street a short distance away, in the old part of town. Not among the trendiest addresses adjacent to Lake Wendouree but a short stroll from it and Sturt Street’s shopping and business district, in Ascot Street South. Nestled amid period homes, Margaret’s property was one peg down from location, location, location.

location, location, locationGeorgie stepped through the low picket fence and followed a no-nonsense pathway carving straight through low-maintenance gardens to the verandah. Rendered brick above weatherboards clad the Californian bungalow. Its ivory and tan trims offset butter walls and at least three red brick chimneys topped the galvanised iron roof. On first impressions: immaculate to the point of sterile.

Georgie banged the brass knocker twice and waited. Overcome with déjà vu, she called Margaret’s name and rapped on the glazed panel.

After a minute, she pulled out her mobile and dialled.

Rings echoed between her phone and the house.

The call rang out, unanswered by even a machine, and ghosted away.