Blood Ties
by JD Nixon
Copyright JD Nixon 2011
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its original form.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental. The police force and justice system and their operations and procedures depicted in this book are purely the product of the author’s imagination and are not based on any real jurisdiction.
Also by JD Nixon at Smashwords:
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Cover design by JD Nixon
~~~~~~
Cuttings from my scrapbook . . .
Wattling Bay Messenger, Tuesday, 3 April, 1888
Man lynched by angry crowd after terrible murder
Residents of the small township nestled at the foot of Mount Big were shocked last week when two timber-getters stumbled over the body of Mrs Elizabeth Fuller, aged 21 years. The murdered woman was found in a paddock off to the side of the road leading to the township. It appeared that she had been outraged before being brutally beaten about the head with a large rock that was found in near proximity. Mrs Fuller, described by the townsfolk as a very comely woman, had been on her way to lend assistance to her husband’s sister during her first confinement.
Suspicion for the heinous crime fell immediately on bullock driver, Mr Ned Bycraft, aged 30 years. He was seen by the timber-getters with bloodied hands running wildly from the paddock shortly before their most gruesome of discoveries. According to the timber-getters, Mr Bycraft had publicly threatened to do violent harm to Mrs Fuller on several occasions for rightly rejecting his insistent and unwanted attentions. The husband of the murdered woman, Mr Clem Fuller, also a timber-getter, had reportedly come to physical blows at least twice with Mr Bycraft over his unseemly behaviour towards Mrs Fuller.
An angry crowd of local men (one of whom is believed to have been Mr Fuller) ran Mr Bycraft to the ground before hanging him to his death from the branches of a nearby tree.
Constable Dougal Tighe from the Wattling Bay constabulary was ordered to the Mount Big township to investigate both deaths. But after receiving no co-operation in his enquiries from the local townsfolk, Constable Tighe advised this reporter that there would be no further investigations undertaken into this matter.
Ned Bycraft’s older brother, Mr Bill Bycraft, told this reporter that his brother was innocent of any crime and had actually himself been running for help after discovering Mrs Fuller’s body when he was noticed by the two timber-getters. He further threatened that there would be a deadly reckoning on those responsible for killing his brother, particularly on the Fuller family.
Mr Fuller told this reporter that justice had been delivered for the dreadful outrage and murder of his wife and that he did not regret the circumstances of Mr Bycraft’s death. He would not admit to being a participant in the lynching though.
Mrs Fuller was buried on Friday in a small but well-attended service. She is survived by her husband and two young children.
Mr Ned Bycraft is survived by a wife and seven children.
Wattling Bay Messenger, Wednesday, 22 January 1986
Life sentence for ‘depraved’ murder of young mum
Robert John Bycraft (known as Bobby), 29, seasonal fruit-picker of Mount Big Town, was today found guilty and given a life sentence in the Supreme Court for the vicious murder of young mother, Leonie Mary Fuller, 24. Bycraft showed no emotion as Justice Leonard MacEnroe told the court that the murder was one of the most depraved crimes he had ever presided over in his twenty years on the bench.
Mrs Fuller was attacked in her house in Mount Big Town by Bycraft in June last year. She was half-strangled before being raped and stabbed repeatedly, with such savagery that the blade of the knife broke off inside her body.
Mrs Fuller’s daughter, who was only two at the time, was also attacked during the violent crime, sustaining several serious knife wounds to her arms and torso. Police believe that the young child may have witnessed her mother’s brutal murder. The little girl was unconscious from blood loss when discovered by her distraught father. She was found lying underneath her parents’ bed, where it is believed that Mrs Fuller pushed her to save her from the murderous frenzy. The court heard during the trial that Mrs Fuller suffered extensive defence wounds during the attack trying to protect her daughter and herself. Mrs Fuller was three months pregnant at the time of her death.
Mrs Fuller’s friends and family, including her husband and parents, were in court for the sentencing and were abused by relatives of Bycraft, some of whom had to be forcibly removed from the courthouse by court security.
A spokesman for the Fuller family, Mr Abel Stormley, later thanked the Wattling Bay detectives for their relentless efforts to solve the crime and bring Bycraft to justice. The family also extended thanks to the community at Mount Big Town for their support during the family’s traumatic experience.
Bycraft is expected to appeal his conviction.
Wattling Bay Messenger, Wednesday, 13 May 1998
Man found guilty of assault against teens
Redmond Christopher Bycraft, 22, unemployed of Mount Big Town, was today found guilty in the Wattling Bay District Court of two counts of assault occasioning bodily harm and one count of attempted abduction after he attacked two teenagers in Mount Big Town in mid-February.
The court heard that Bycraft deliberately ran his car into the two teenagers, a female aged 15 and a male aged 16, as they cycled to the beach early one Saturday morning. The male teen was knocked unconscious in the attack and Bycraft then attempted to drag the injured female teen into his car, but she was able to fight him off. Bycraft suffered a knife wound during the assault and fled the scene bleeding.
It was claimed by the defence during the trial that Bycraft had been drinking heavily and smoking marijuana the evening before the assault and had accidently run into the pair. It was further maintained that the female teen was mistaken in her claims that Bycraft had tried to abduct her and that he had been merely trying to assist her, a contention rejected by the jury.
The judge commended the teen on her calm thinking and self-defence skills, stating that the outcome could have been much worse had she not been so skilled. She recommended that it was important for all teenage girls to ensure that they could defend themselves in similar circumstances.
Bycraft was sentenced to two years detention. It was revealed after the verdict that he had previously served a three year sentence for the sexual assault of a sixteen-year-old teenage girl after meeting her in a nightclub in Wattling Bay in 1994.
Wattling Bay Messenger, Saturday, 12 December 2009
Female cop slashed in domestic
A female police officer required stitches to her arm after being slashed with a knife yesterday as she attended a domestic dispute in Mount Big Town. A man was later charged with assault and taken to the Wattling Bay watch house.
Wattling Bay Messenger, Monday, 5 July 2010
Cop car run off road by stolen vehicle
A female police officer sustained minor injuries in Mount Big Town last night when her patrol car was rammed and forced off the Coastal Range Highway during a pursuit of a stolen vehicle.
A witness said it was a miracle the officer wasn’t seriously injured or killed in the accident that left the patrol car badly damaged.
Two youths were taken into custody and were charged with dangerous operation of a vehicle while under the influence. They will face the Wattling Bay Children’s Court today.
~~~~~~
Prologue
In my dream I’m always running. Not the steady comfortable jog of my usual morning exercise, but a desperate sprint. My legs are burning and my heart pounding, a painful stitch down one side, sweat stinging my eyes. I draw in huge ragged breaths, my throat dry and raspy. A single-minded imperative keeps driving me forward, determinedly placing one foot in front of the other despite my utter exhaustion. I have to get to my house to save my mother’s life.
But there is a Bycraft hunting me down as I run and I throw frequent frightened glances over my shoulder, praying he’s not getting any closer. He will kill me if he catches me. I know that as sure as I know my own name.
Sometimes in my dream I’m surrounded by bushland as I run, on an isolated road so long and straight that I can see it converging to a disappearing point in the distance. My house is at the end of that road and my mother is in the house, screaming for help in terror. But no matter how fast or hard I run, I never get any closer to the end of that road. It just keeps rolling out in front of me, as far as my eye can see.
Other times I’m in an unfamiliar building and can’t find my way out. The building is large, filled with identical white corridors that lead into and away from each other in a confusing warren. I run in a wild panic, bouncing into walls, going around in circles, butting up against dead ends, all the while searching for the exit. Some of those corridors terminate with a window and I press my forehead against the glass to see my house on the other side of the road and hear my mother’s agonised cries of fear and pain. Furious and frustrated, I bang and kick and ram the glass with my shoulder, shouting, but it never breaks. Then I start running again, looking over my shoulder as I look for the exit.
I can’t stop for a minute because of that Bycraft chasing me relentlessly down that road or around those corridors. It’s usually Red who’s pursuing me, a malicious grin across his face. But sometimes it’s Craig or Tommy or Bobby Bycraft himself, a razor-sharp knife hidden behind his back. Once or twice it is even Jake.
My dream always ends the same way. Somehow I have finished running and find myself standing on the veranda of my family home. The front door is ajar and I cautiously push it fully open, creeping down the central hallway into the silent house. The bloody handprints on the walls and splatters on the pastel apricot carpet fill me with apprehension. I ignore the overturned furniture in the lounge room and step over the broken remnants of my mother’s favourite lamp. My stomach is a tight ball of fear as I slowly make my way to the kitchen at the back of the house.
My mother is lying huddled up against the blood-smeared back door as if she had been trying to escape through it when she finally fell. A broken knife protrudes from her back, its handle tossed carelessly to the floor. Her face is turned away from me, covered by her long dark-blonde hair, now sticky and matted. Her pretty yellow dress is stained orange with all the red. She is barefoot, her blood-sprayed legs arched gracefully, feet pointed, her toenails painted a bright magenta that clashes with the dark crimson of her spilled blood.
I drop to my knees in a lake of her blood. Tenderly, I sweep her bloodied hair from her forehead, looking down at her young, beautiful face, my mouth stretched in a silent wail of anguished denial. Tears flood my eyes and flow down my cheeks, dripping to the floor. I am too late to save her.
I’m always too late to save her.
Chapter 1
It was chilling to hear. From the open front windows of the house an unnerving symphony of suffering ruptured the night-time peace. Frantic screaming clashed brutally with guttural grunts, loud deep thuds and what sounded alarmingly like a chainsaw. Goosebumps bristled down my arms and I paused a moment to double check my equipment, reassuringly patting each piece as I went through my mental stocktake – gun, OC spray, baton, handcuffs. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I climbed the spongy, rotting timber stairs to the veranda. Despite the lingering heat of the late summer night, the neighbours had prudently slammed their windows and doors shut. The street was deserted, but prying eyes stared out at me from behind every curtain.
I banged on the front door, dislodging peeling flakes of ugly mud-brown paint. There was no response. But then the screaming stopped suddenly with a last spine-tingling yowl, the instant silence that replaced it welcome, but eerie. I took advantage of the unexpected lull to thump harder on the door with my fist. The screaming recommenced, even louder than before, but I’d finally been heard and it was cut off abruptly mid-cry. Thank the heavens, I thought with relief. Two o’clock in the morning was no time to be playing death metal music. Especially when it was blasted so loudly that it made your bones vibrate and your ears feel like they were bleeding.
The veranda light switched on and Red Bycraft flung open the door, his eyes widening in delight when he saw it was me standing at his threshold. He was bare-chested and barefoot, dressed only in faded low-slung jeans that showcased his honey-brown skin, tattoos, muscled arms and six-pack. Like all the Bycrafts, he was tall, well-built and beautiful, with the golden colouring common in his family. He was also trouble. Big time.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t lovely Tessie Fuller standing right before me in the flesh,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms and ankles, snakeish-yellow eyes roaming my body. “And what mouth-watering flesh it is too.” He flicked out his tongue and ran it slowly around his lips with offensive intent.
I didn’t react.
He took a step closer to me, leaning down until his face was mere centimetres away and his eyes drilled into mine. His voice dropped to an intimate whisper, almost caressing. “I can’t wait for the day I get to taste it. To bruise it. To bite it. Get to force myself inside it.”
The alcohol fumes on his breath made my nose twitch. I resisted the sudden strong urge to step backwards, instead returning his stare steadily and making every effort not to show just how much he made my skin crawl. He wasn’t going to intimidate me – not now, not ever. Before answering, I deliberately, conspicuously, trailed my eyes down the jagged ten centimetre scar running down his neck that I’d given him when I was fifteen.
“We both know that day’s never going to happen, don’t we, Red?” I reminded him coldly.
He smiled with lazy menace and shifted even closer. I caught the masculine scent of his underarm sweat, not entirely masked by the musky deodorant he wore. The day had been stifling, the evening not much cooler.
He continued to whisper. “I disagree, Tessie. I think we both know that day will definitely happen. We have unfinished business, you and me. And I have such a hard-on for you.”
He gripped his crotch and bared his teeth with a hiss.
I refused to entertain him by reacting to his crude taunting, maintaining my professionally stony demeanour. He pouted at me for spoiling his fun and ran his hands through his longish wavy golden hair, his chest muscles tensing enticingly as he did. He was a mean bastard of a man but he sure did come in a good-looking package.
“What can I do for you tonight, lovely piglet?” Piglet was the ‘pet’ name the Bycraft family had for me. I hated it, which of course only ensured that they used it as often as possible. “Because I can think of a hundred things you could do for me.” All of them sadistically carnal too, I bet, I thought.
His hand shot out to glide his index finger along my jawline to my chin, then upwards to my mouth, trying to thrust his finger between my lips. I flinched at his touch, immediately batting his hand away and reaching for my OC spray, eyes fixed on his. He laughed with malicious satisfaction at finally prising a response from me. I relaxed my right hand, but kept it in close access to the spray. He knew I wouldn’t hesitate to use it if I felt threatened enough. I’d already sprayed him once since he’d returned home from jail. Drugged up and off his face one steaming hot January afternoon, he’d come at me with a cricket bat in his front yard when I’d turned up to investigate yet another complaint. I’d loved every second of watching him crash to the ground, writhing in agony in the dirt, howling and rubbing his tear-drenched eyes. In fact, it had been the highlight of my week.
“I’ve had a report of a disturbance here tonight,” I told him in my impassive cop voice.
He shrugged easily, indifferent. “I was just chilling to some music in my own home. No need to get you involved.” He smiled with deceptive friendliness.
I didn’t smile back.
“Who rang you?” Asked casually, as if he wouldn’t seek immediate and violent retribution on that brave neighbour.
Again I remained silent, unblinking.
He sighed dramatically and said with insincere contrition, “All right. I promise I’ll turn the stereo down.”
“It’s not about the music, Red. It’s about the shouting earlier in the night. Is everything okay here?”
“Everything’s just peachy, thanks for asking, Officer Tess,” he mocked.
I persisted. “I want to check on Sharnee.”
“Was it her old bitch of a mother who rang you?” he demanded, losing some of his cool, his mouth tightening unattractively. His eyes shifted from my face, past my shoulder into the darkness of the night. Sharnee’s mother and two sisters lived directly across the road.
I didn’t answer.
“Sharnee’s asleep.” He moved to slam the door in my face. I stuck my boot out to prevent him.
It was my turn to look over his shoulder. “No, she isn’t. I can see her moving around in the kitchen behind you.”
Anger swept across his face as he turned around to shout into the house, “I told you to get off to bed, you stupid fucking slag! You better fucking well do what I tell you to next time if you know what’s good for you.”
“No need for that kind of language. Ask Sharnee to come to the door. When I’m satisfied she’s all right, I’ll be on my way. And make it snappy. I’m very busy tonight.”
We faced off for a moment before he backed down. “Sharnee! Get your fat, ugly arse out here so that piglet can see you’re okay.”
She scuttled to the door and poked her head around timidly, looking up at Red with an equal mixture of fear and devotion in her soft brown eyes. Sharnee Lebutt was only thirty and had once been a pretty woman, but hard years of life with Red as his on-again, off-again girlfriend, casual punching bag and the mother of three of his five children, had marred her prettiness with premature wrinkles and a permanent expression of anxious despair. Why she let him return to her again and again was beyond me. He was an uncaring father to their kids and an unfaithful sponger who treated her like dirt. What sane woman would want that in her life? Perhaps she had never given up her dream that he would marry her? Everyone in town knew that’s all it would ever be for her though – a dream. Red, like most of the Bycrafts, was not the settling down type. And he’d proven that to Sharnee thoroughly by also knocking up two of her three sisters.
At thirty-five, he was the oldest of the Bycraft generation I’d grown up with, and in my opinion he was the worst of a very bad bunch. He had only been released on parole a few months ago after serving four years for the aggravated sexual assault of a fifteen year old girl. It was his fourth stint in the slammer for similar crimes and you could tell from just looking at him that he was already planning his next attack on some unsuspecting vulnerable young woman he’d pick up at a nightclub. Most of his assaults were never reported, and any woman courageous enough to make a complaint against him usually withdrew it soon after, in fear of her life after being personally threatened by him. The only reason he hadn’t gone down for longer after his last attack was because his poor little traumatised victim had flatly refused to give evidence against him in court.
“You okay, Sharnee? What happened here tonight?” I asked her with concern.
“What happened, lovely piglet,” butted in Red, not giving her a chance to speak, “is that we had a tiny disagreement over the fact that the useless bitch didn’t have enough rum and smokes in the house for me tonight. I might have raised my voice a little and given her a light slap on the wrist to remind her of her duties to me, but that’s all. Nothing more.”
More like a fist in the face than a slap on the wrist, I thought, turning to the silent woman. “Sharnee?"
“That’s right, Officer Tess. Just like Red said,” she confirmed softly, watching him with wary eyes.
“Let me see you properly.”
Her eyes still fixed on Red, she unwillingly stepped out from behind him into the veranda light.
“Is that bruising around your right eye?”
“N-no, Officer Tess."
“Yes it is, you stupid cow,” hissed Red impatiently, prodding her ungently with his elbow. “Don’t you remember? One of the kids opened the bathroom door suddenly and the doorknob hit you in the face.”
“That’s right. I forgot. Thanks Red.” She looked up at him again, clearly afraid.
“Which kid?” I asked, glancing from one to the other, not believing a word I was hearing.
“Kyle,” Sharnee said.
Simultaneously, Red said, “Teagan."
“I meant Teagan,” Sharnee corrected instantly, flustered. “I meant Teagan. Silly, stupid me! I can’t get anything right these days.” She smiled weakly at me, not quite meeting my eyes. “Everything here’s fine, Officer Tess. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to do what Red told me to and go to bed. It’s very late and I have to get up for the kids in the morning.”
She hurriedly darted back inside, leaving Red smiling at me, slyly triumphant.
“I don’t want to hear of any more disturbances here tonight, understand? And that includes the music,” I warned him and reluctantly headed back to the patrol car. I hated leaving Sharnee with him because he would probably rough her up again the second I left. But there was nothing I could do if she refused to complain about him. And she was inexplicably loyal to him, despite everything he did to her, so I had no real hope that she would ever complain. Especially to me.
“Bye for now, lovely.” Red stood on the veranda and watched me get into the patrol car, kissing the air in my direction and grabbing his crotch again when I looked up at him, an arrogant smirk creasing his features.
I muttered to myself about him under my breath as I switched on the ignition and nosed away from the curb.
But as I did, music blared out at ear-shattering volume from his house again. I jerked the steering wheel and pulled the patrol car back to the curb, switching on its rooftop flashing red and blue lights to warn him that my patience was wearing wafer thin. I hadn’t been joking when I said I was busy tonight. I waited for a minute. His silhouette filled the front window, checking that I’d noticed his defiance, and when he saw I had, the music abruptly stopped once more. Red was only delivering his usual “fuck you” in farewell, but being on parole he couldn’t afford to provoke me too far. I waited for another minute of blissful silence to make sure that he’d behave himself, watching as the lights in his house were extinguished one by one, before driving off again.
I hadn’t even drawn a breath though when I received a phone call from Abe Stormley, owner of the town’s only pub, The Flying Pigs. He wanted to know when I was returning, because “we have a situation with Des.” Five minutes later, back at the pub, I was confronted with an unpleasant spectacle.
“Des, for the last time,” I said patiently, “if you want me to give you a lift home, you have to put some clothes on.” I paused a beat, looking him up and down. “At least put your pants back on. I can’t have you bare-arsed in the patrol car. It’s unhygienic.”
Des swayed in front of me trying to focus, then without a word opened his mouth and projected a stream of vomit that landed like a homing missile right on my boots.
“Aw shit,” I complained mildly, glancing down at the mess. “I just cleaned those this morning.”
“Sorry Tessie, love. You see, it’s like this . . .” he slurred, index finger up to make his point. Then he slowly dissolved in front of me until he was lying collapsed in an unattractive naked heap on the sticky carpet.
I rubbed the back of my neck with tiredness and exhaled heavily while I thought. I nudged him with my soiled boot a few times. He didn’t move. I didn’t want to pick him up. He was starkers for one thing and not a lightweight anymore, for another. There were parts of my job I really hated sometimes – usually they involved the Bycrafts, but tonight was an exception.
“Does anyone know where Des’s clothes are?” I shouted out at the happy-drunk crowd milling around me, bending down to give my boots a perfunctory wipe with some paper napkins I pinched off the nearest table. A few of the crowd pointed helpfully over at a far corner of the room. Others pointed to the opposite far corner. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling in silent supplication, sighed again and headed towards the first corner.
“Anyone seen Maureen?” I shouted again, over my shoulder. Didn’t matter who I directed my question to; there were usually half-a-dozen people willing to listen and help me. There was always someone to look out for you in this neck of the woods. My mother used to call the townsfolk insufferable sticky-beaks. She never got used to country life. Or so Dad told me.
“Maureen took off about an hour ago,” boomed Abe from the bar where he was perfecting the head on a fresh pint. He was probably the only other sober person in the room besides me. “She went home. Said she’d had enough of it.”
I turned to throw him a grateful glance. I was with Maureen – I’d had enough of it too, especially at this time of the night. He winked at me in sympathy, but didn’t volunteer to help me wrestle Des into his clothes. There was a limit to citizen cooperation I had found, especially when it involved drunken naked men.
I eventually tracked down Des’ clothes to where he had carelessly discarded them in the pub’s function room. I smiled for the first time that evening as I picked them up. I must have missed a doozy of a speech from him. He had been a lazy cop and a negligent boss, literally counting down the days to his retirement, crossing them off in red marker on his wall calendar each day. I’d done most of the crime fighting in the couple of years I’d been back in town, and while in his favour he’d given me a lot of freedom, he’d also taken most of the credit for any successes, leaving me to wear the blame for any failures.
It was hard to be angry at him though because he had kissed the Blarney Stone when he was born for sure, and I reckon he’d be able to talk underwater buried in a cement coffin, gagged and following a laryngectomy. I’d barely got a word in the whole time we’d worked together. He had the gift of the gab, was a real charmer and his speech would have been a work of art. Well, it should have been because he’d laboured over it every day for the last six months instead of doing any real work.
I wish I’d been at the pub to hear it, but I’d been at old Miss Greville’s house, half-heartedly searching her dark overgrown garden by torchlight for the third peeping tom she’d reported that fortnight. She’d clutched my hand gratefully, if a little shakily, when I’d assured her that there was nobody there. I hadn’t wanted to remind her that if there was even the remotest chance of a man peeking on ladies in our small town, he’d be heading straight for the nudist community which was only a couple of kilometres away.
Failing that, he had the option of waiting around until eight on a Sunday night when, as regular as clockwork, the town’s good-time girl, Foxy Dubois, gave an impromptu free striptease performance in her lounge room after spending the afternoon drinking at Abe’s pub. There was always a crowd at her window on Sunday nights. But what a peeping tom patently wouldn’t be doing in Little Town however, was wasting his time spying on Miss Greville, a ninety-three year old spinster who had confessed to me with breathless confidentiality that she always bathed with her underwear on, “just in case”.
Of course I had wanted to attend Des’ retirement bash. He’d been my boss, after all, and I’d known him for the whole twenty years he’d lived here. But we were a two-cop town and when one cop is the guest of honour at his own party, the other one hasn’t got much choice but to be on duty, even if she’d been on duty every day for the last month while her boss was busy organising the big event. The evening hadn’t been too onerous though I had to admit, with most of the townsfolk, with the exception of the Bycrafts, gathered at the pub for Des’ send-off. Much of my activity tonight had been confined to ferrying drunk people back home.
I didn’t normally run a blue light taxi with the town’s only patrol car, but it was a special occasion and I didn’t want to make myself unpopular by booking people for being public nuisances or for driving under the influence. Especially after I’d spent the morning manning the radar gun on the highway approaching town from the south. That was where the long mountainous climb finally levelled out and people let their speed rip just as they came to a sixty zone. A lot of interstate drivers, as well as a few locals, would receive an unwelcome penalty notice for speeding in the mail soon. The locals should have known better though. There was always the chance that I’d be lurking behind that thicket of overgrown oleanders on the side of the road just past the ‘Welcome to Mount Big Town’ sign, because that’s where I always perched doing radar duty on that side of town. So I spared no sympathy for those townsfolk who I’d clocked over the speed limit today, but tonight I conveniently looked the other way and lent a helping hand where I could.
I had warned Des about running an open bar until midnight at The Flying Pigs, and as usual he’d listened courteously to my advice and then patted me on the head as if I was his much-loved golden Labrador, Mr Sparkles. But soon after our chat he had left the station with his mobile clamped to his ear, loudly arranging for Abe to have beer, wine and spirits generously on tap until the stroke of twelve for all his guests and after that the “fucking freeloaders” could pay for their own, he laughed uproariously into the phone. I didn’t get mad at him for being so patronising though, because when I thought about it I’d rather that he treated me like Mr Sparkles than like his long-suffering and much-ignored wife, Maureen. At least Des pretended to listen to me. And there was the pat on the head, after all. The rumour around town was that he hadn’t touched Maureen for fifteen years.
But right now I had a drunk, unconscious and naked former boss on my hands. With a great deal of disagreeable (and hopefully forgettable) effort, I managed at least to get Des panted up, commando style admittedly, but as long as his bare butt wasn’t touching any of my patrol car seats, I was satisfied. With the help of some of the more sober guests, I walked Des to the car, manhandled him into the backseat and secured him. He lurched immediately to the side, held only in place with the seatbelt. I really hoped he wasn’t going to throw up again.
I drove off slowly, but before I could drop off Des, I had to deliver a few of the other guests who had opportunistically jumped in for a free ride after helping me get Des to the car. Some of them lived a fair way out of town, on the small-holding farms that formed the bulk of Little Town’s outlying population. I was being taken advantage of I realised, but as I said before, it was a special occasion so I didn’t kick up too much of a stink about it. I turned onto the Coastal Range Highway and headed out of town.
When I finally returned to town and reached the house where Des and Maureen lived, neighbouring the town’s police station, it was in total darkness. I presumed that meant Maureen was in a major snit with him. On the dozens of times I’d escorted Des home after a night out with the boys, she had usually left the veranda light on for him at least. He’d probably forgotten to mention her in his speech tonight, was my guess. I was willing to bet that Mr Sparkles had received a number of loving references though.
Speaking of Des’s adored and spoiled pet, Mr Sparkles let out one irritated bark at being woken up and waddled down the front stairs over to me, sniffing at my crotch in his usual disrespectful manner.
“Stop doing that,” I objected, pushing him away. “You know it’s me, Sparkles.”
He looked up at me with his gorgeous brown eyes, cocked a leg and pissed on the back tyre of the patrol car. It was a deliberate act. He knew it was my job to wash the car.
I let out an impatient sigh. “No need to be like that. I’ve told you a million times that I just don’t like you sniffing me there. It’s nothing personal – I’d say the same to any dog.”
He shot me a contemptuous look and then pissed on the front tyre as well. The dog sure knew how to make a statement. He sniffed at Des, flinching in disgust at the alcohol vapours coming off him, before waddling back up the stairs to his comfy bed on the wide front veranda.
With no helpers, and only Mr Sparkles as my lazily amused audience, I performed an awkward dance with Des trying to get him up the stairs and into bed. We staggered one way, halted, teetering on the edge of tumbling over together, then righted ourselves and staggered the other way. He was a weighty man and was very drunk and it was the longest twenty metres I’ve ever traversed.
Maureen had locked the front door in her temper, but luckily I knew where the spare key was kept. So did the rest of the town. A large green ceramic frog with a comically wide mouth and the words ‘spare key here’ engraved on its chest, probably wasn’t the smartest place for anyone, let alone a cop, to hide their extra house key. I retrieved the key from the frog’s mouth and inserted it into the keyhole, opened the door and we staggered together towards his bedroom, knocking over at least four of Maureen’s tacky china knick-knacks as we did. They filled the house to capacity, perched precariously on every horizontal vantage point. Their house was a nightmare for anyone who liked to gesture wildly as they spoke.
I eventually managed to manoeuvre Des onto his marital bed, letting go of him gratefully as he fell heavily onto the mattress.
“Thank God,” I muttered to myself as I stretched my agonised muscles.
“Don’t you dare take our Lord’s name in vain, Teresa Fuller!” snapped an angry voice from the other side of the bed. Maureen was very religious and, apparently, very awake.
“Sorry Maureen. My deepest apologies,” I said insincerely, stretching again. Jesus! I thought rotating my shoulders. It was going to take me an age to recover from this.
“Did you knock over any of my treasures? I heard a lot of strange noises as you came in,” she asked suspiciously.
“No Maureen,” I lied. They were moving out over the weekend to the city to be closer to their children and grandchildren in their retirement, so I figured I could be loose with the truth with her. Besides, she’d obviously forgotten the bit in the Bible about looking after your own damn husband.
I made a hasty retreat and closed and locked their front door, replacing the spare key in the frog’s mouth. I could already hear Des snoring from out on the veranda. Maureen was in for a noisy night by the sound of it. Mr Sparkles gave a half-hearted bark and made moves as if he was getting up to sniff me intimately again.
“Don’t even think about it Sparkles, you pervert,” I warned. He settled back on his bed again and glared at me with undisguised hostility as I made my way down the stairs. I yawned hugely, stretched again and opened the car door to an indescribably obnoxious smell. I let my nose guide my way to the back seat.
“Oh no,” I moaned quietly in disgust because the revolting odour was coming from a large stain on the seat where Des had been sitting. I didn’t want to investigate any further that evening, but wound down every window as I drove back to the pub, trying not to heave. It would require some intensive car cleaning the next morning, but not tonight – I was way too tired.
Most of the guests had gone by the time I returned to The Flying Pigs. Abe’s step-sister, a pretty sixteen year old, was collecting empty glasses and wiping down tables.
“Hey Romi,” I called to her as I headed over to talk to Abe.
“Hey Tessie,” she replied affectionately, flashing me her devastating smile. She was a smart, lovely girl and a real heartbreaker, with big sky blue eyes and light blonde hair. She had lived with Abe for the last ten years since their father, Abel, and his second wife (Romi’s mother), were killed in a head-on accident with a semi-trailer as they drove to the city to spend a weekend away for their wedding anniversary. Her dream was to head off to the city herself in a few years to study law at university and I knew that Abe would miss her a lot. So would the teenage boys in town, although none of them had ever had a chance with her because Abe watched over her like a hawk. And you wouldn’t willingly tangle with him. He was six feet of hard muscle from all the heavy lifting he did in his job, with a shaved head, emotional dark eyes, deep growly voice, craggy features and had a reputation as a hard fighter. You couldn’t run a country pub without being able to sort out drunk, aggressive patrons when you needed to. He was a good man to have on your side.
He was busy at the bar restocking bottles in the fridges and replacing glasses freshly cleaned from the dishwasher ready for the next day, when he finally noticed me.
“Teresa, you’re back,” he smiled warmly.
“I am, Abraham.” I leaned on the bar, not bothering to hide my huge yawn.
We were old friends and had gone to school together. He’d been my first boyfriend but had dumped me towards the end of eleventh grade when he’d been seduced by Carole Smyth. She was in the year above me at school, the same year as Abe, and had decided that his well-muscled physique was very much to her liking. I still hated her for that. They’d had a hot and heavy romance over the summer and then she’d broken Abe’s heart in turn when she had left for Sydney, bragging to all of us that before long she’d be a top model and we’d see her face on the cover of all the magazines. None of us had ever heard a word about her since, though I believe her parents received a phone call from her now and then.
Abe had moved on from her, but he had stayed in town and when his father was killed in that terrible accident, had taken over his pub and also taken up guardianship of his little step-sister. It was a lot of responsibility for an eighteen-year-old to bear, but Abe had always been a pragmatic kind of guy and didn’t waste any energy in bemoaning his fate in life.
That same year he had met his wife, Marcelle, as she backpacked through town from her own little village in France, entranced by our nearby treacherous mountain and its beautiful lake. They knew they were made for each other the second their eyes met across the bar when she’d perched on a bar stool in front of him, flicking her shiny black hair behind her shoulders and showing off her long tanned legs. She’d teasingly asked him for a Pernod in her sexy accented English, not seriously expecting a country pub to have any. He’d swallowed hard and rolled his tongue back up into his head, but was able to produce it with a flourish and a devastating smile, cheekily telling her he’d been waiting forever for someone to ask for one. Abe loved foreign spirits and we had our fair share of international tourists in town throughout the year, so he took a risk and stocked up. Any that didn’t sell were enjoyed by him and me when I joined him for regular dinners in his flat on the upper floor of the pub. We’d travelled around the world together through exotic alcohol.
Marcelle had been charmed and they ended up spending the night together. She stayed in town and soon after that first meeting Abe and Marcelle had decided to marry, both still just eighteen at the time. They married out near the lake in a small but touching ceremony, with me as their bridesmaid and one of Abe’s school mates as the best man. They had called their only child Antoinette, a lovely French name, but it had inevitably been shortened to Toni by everyone in town since she was born. She was now ten and at this time of the night was fast asleep upstairs in Abe’s flat.
Marcelle had slipped into life as a country publican’s wife with remarkable ease and their marriage had been truly happy and fulfilling. But tragically she had died three years ago in circumstances that were wrenchingly heartbreaking for both Abe and me. I’d loved her like a sister and missed her every day. I also felt an incredible weight of guilt about her death that I would never be able to shake off. I’m no stranger to anguish, believe me, but her death absolutely ripped me apart. To my stunned disbelief, life had gone on afterwards, and we’d all had to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives and carry on. Months later, I’d felt disloyal and heartless the first time I’d smiled again after her funeral. I often wondered if Abe had felt the same way, but Marcelle’s murder was a topic that we never broached. It was still too raw for both of us, even after this passage of time.
“Any more trouble or can I head off home?” I asked him, barely suppressing yet another yawn.
“It’s all good. Go home, sweetness. You look tired,” he said.
“I sure am,” I admitted. “It’s been a long day. Do you want me to check on Toni before I go?”
“Romi checked on her five minutes ago. Off home with you, Tessie. Your bed’s waiting for you.” His smile was poignant as he said that.
He hadn’t dated much since Marcelle’s death and part of the reason for that was because my arrival back in town a couple of years ago had rekindled his amorous feelings for me. He definitely wouldn’t knock back an invitation to join me in my bed, but he wasn’t going to get one. He’d had his chance with me in high school and I hadn’t forgotten the miserable tears I’d quietly spilled into my pillow every night for three months after he dumped me so cruelly. Maybe I would have got over him faster if I didn’t have to catch the same bus as him and Carole Smyth to and from school every day, pretending I didn’t care while they enthusiastically tasted each other’s tonsils in the backseat. So for now, I was content to keep him as a friend only, even though I’d be the first to say that I cared a great deal for him.
I made one last check around the pub, rounded up a couple of stragglers, drove them home, ignoring their ungrateful complaints about the smell in the car. That done, I finally, happily, drove south out of town to my own home. I kept the patrol car with me at home and was responsible for detailing it every week. Officially, it should have stayed with the senior officer at the police station, but we were a bit slack about protocol around here, and Des had made it abundantly clear that he had more important things to do with his time than wash cars. I’d never worked out what those important things were, but they seemed to require an inordinate amount of time spent at the pub.
I left the windows down in the patrol car after I parked in my front yard. I’d worry about that awful stain in the morning, but hopefully the fresh air would move the odour on during the night. I was tired. I’d been on duty since eight on Friday morning and now it was three in the morning on Saturday. That was a long shift for anyone.
I kicked off my disgusting boots at the welcome mat, carefully and quietly opened the front door and tiptoed down the hall towards the bathroom.
“Tessie love?” a voice called from the front-facing lounge room. I detoured to the left immediately.
“Dad,” I remonstrated, going over to kiss him on the forehead. “What are you doing up so late? I told you I wasn’t going to be home for ages tonight.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said and clutched my hand. He was now wheelchair-bound and was the whole reason I’d chucked in my promising city cop career to return home. I was lucky that the junior officer vacancy had come up in town at that time and was grateful everyday for the chance to be here with him, helping him when he let me, earning the both of us some money to get by. It was the main reason I put up with so much from certain people in town.
“Did the party go well?” He’d been invited but hadn’t felt up to going.
“Des took all his clothes off and threw up on my boots,” I told him, flopping down on our saggy old lounge and pulling my hair from its tight bun. “I think he left me a ‘present’ in the back seat of the car too, but I’m too knackered to care about that right now.”
He laughed. “Must have been a hell of a party. How was his speech?”
“Can you believe that I missed it? Miss G called me out again.”
“Another peeper?”
“She only wishes,” I smiled tiredly. He smiled too, but there were lines of pain and weariness in his face. I stood up. “Come on, let’s get you off to bed,” I insisted. He only stayed up because he worried about me, even in this quiet mountain town where we’d both been born. But he had good reason to worry, not that we ever spoke about it much.
Dad had been a seasonal mixed farmer in his prime, delivering quality produce to the nearby farmers' markets and to the Big Town restaurants. He had practised organic farming, had been meticulous with his soil improvement and his planting, fertilising, cultivating and harvesting, but had to give it away when he’d been diagnosed with a rare form of fatal lymphatic cancer over two years ago. I’d been on the brink of breaking it big in the city when I’d heard the awful news, but dropped everything to come back to the small town I couldn’t wait to escape from to look after him. He was the world to me. Nothing else mattered. Nobody mattered more. He was my only family.
He waved away my help as usual, being a proud and independent man, and wheeled himself off to bed in our modified house. I spent a few moments in the bathroom, splashing my face, running a comb through my long, straight dark-blonde hair and brushing and flossing my teeth. Peering in the mirror, I frowned when I noticed the purple smudges of tiredness under my dark gray eyes. I was in desperate need of a solid eight hours sleep. Wearily, I changed into the longish Powerpuff Girls t-shirt I wore as a nightie. Romi had given it to me for Christmas last year as a joke because I was always banging on about girl power to her. Then I strapped onto my right thigh the leather sheath holding the viciously sharp hunting knife that I carried with me everywhere when I didn’t have my gun on me.
I preferred to be armed at all times.
I was on-call day and night which was part of the trade-off for the supposedly quiet country life, so I hung a fresh uniform close by, secured my Glock and utility belt within easy reach, left my mobile in its charger on a loud ringtone, set out a clean pair of boots and socks and fell into bed, groaning with happiness as my head hit the pillow. I soon fell into a deep sleep, utterly exhausted.
~~~~~~
A stealthy noise woke me less than an hour later. I sprung upright in bed on full alert, my ears straining into the darkness, holding my breath.
I heard it again – a soft crunching sound from the front of the house, drifting through my open bedroom window. Someone was approaching up the gravel driveway. They were trying to be quiet, but I was finely tuned to the house’s myriad noises, as you would expect having lived in it most of my life. It could just be Denny Bycraft spying on me as usual, I rationalised to myself. Or it could be Red Bycraft, brooding over our earlier encounter and deciding that he wasn’t finished with me for the night. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. All things considered, I’d much rather it was Denny.
I patted my knife and slid out of bed, slipping my police utility belt around my hips as well. I didn’t bother wasting time changing out of my nightie or to don shoes. I moved silently, not wanting to wake Dad. He had probably taken a sleeping tablet, as he did most nights now, but sometimes they didn’t work. He didn’t get a lot of sleep any more so I was very protective of the little he had.
At my bedroom window I listened intently again. Nothing. Whoever my mysterious nocturnal intruder was, they’d stopped momentarily. A minute later, the footsteps started again, less perceptible this time as the intruder left the driveway and walked across our patchy lawn. They were heading down the side of the house, past the lounge room towards my bedroom window.
“Oh no, you don’t, sunshine,” I promised under my breath and tiptoed out of my room, down the hall to the front door. Slowly I opened it and stepped out onto the front veranda.
A refreshing ocean breeze had sprung up since I’d returned home and the surrounding gum trees rustled gently. A semi-trailer hauling petrol, its lights blazing in the darkness, flew faster than the speed limit along the Coastal Range Highway that fronted my property before snaking its way through town. It lit up the yard brilliantly for a few seconds and I could see that my intruder had definitely left the front yard and had moved down the side of the house.
I ran down the stairs lightly and crept to the corner, not minding the cool dampness of the dew on my bare feet. I peered cautiously around the side of the house. A silhouette was in the distance, disappearing around the back of the house. Damn! They were moving faster than I had expected.
I picked my way carefully down the side, using the bright moonlight to avoid all the rusty, broken farm machinery and piles of timber that Dad had dumped there over the years. One day I’d get around to hauling it away.
When I reached the back, again I peered around the corner. My intruder was standing in the yard, hands on his hips, staring at the house. I couldn’t see any of his features as the moonlight was highlighting him from behind, but could tell it was a man from his broad shoulders and narrower hips, and his height, definitely over six feet. There was one thing I was positive about though – he sure wasn’t a Bycraft.
So who the hell was he?
He moved towards the house, stalking up the ramp and testing the back door handle. Finding it locked, he turned and headed for the other side of the house. That instantly angered me. What made this complete stranger think he was entitled to loiter around my property in the middle of the night, trying to break in? If he was some lout from Big Town thinking that my humble home seemed a likely place to burgle, then he could think again. He’d sure picked the wrong woman to mess around with tonight, I thought, enraged. I had a very low tolerance for trespassers.
Silently, because I was barefoot, I rushed up behind him and threw myself on him in a fierce tackle, my arms tight around his lower body. He fell heavily, his arms flung out in wild panic, grunting when he landed as my momentum forced the air from his lungs.
“What the . . .” he spluttered as I straddled his legs and drew out my handcuffs. “Who the fuck are you? Get off me!” He struggled against me, trying to buck me off his back.
“Police! Don’t move!” I instructed in my loud cop voice.
“Like hell you’re the police!” He groaned as I grabbed his left arm and twisted it unkindly behind his back so I could clap on the handcuffs. He immediately flailed his arm about to escape my hold. “I know how cops operate and that’s not –”
“Oh, I bet you know how cops operate,” I interrupted heatedly, labouring to maintain my grip on his arm. He was strong. “A creep like you who sneaks around people’s houses at night is bound to come into contact with them all the time.”
He moved his right hand to reach around to his back pocket. “I can –” he started to say, even as he arched his back again in an attempt to throw me off.
“I said don’t move!” For all I knew, he had a weapon in his pocket. Maybe even a gun. I pulled out my knife and ground his face into the dirt with my forearm across the back of his neck. His resulting moan was muffled by the soil. “Keep still!” I shouted, touching the blade of my knife to his neck. “I have a knife at your throat and you better believe that I won’t think twice before using it.”
“For God’s sake,” he mumbled into the earth, ignoring my threat and thrashing his body around, trying to free his face. I had to quickly re-sheath my knife, not wanting to accidently stab him or, even worse, myself. It was all I could do to stay on top of him. He reached for his back pocket again, so I pushed his face further into the ground, virtually lying on top of him in an attempt to subdue him.
“Stop moving!” I yelled in his ear. It was impossible to cuff him while he was struggling so much.
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