Ash Island Page 12

  ‘There was an investigation afterwards, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone they stayed with you that night?’

  ‘No…well, I didn’t think it was relevant. No one came to ask.’ She gives a helpless, nervous smile.

  ‘So they just turned up out of the blue, you hit it off, and you invited them to stay?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Who else was staying in the house at that time?’

  ‘Um, well, Dylan. That’s all, really.’

  ‘What about elsewhere on the estate?’

  ‘There were people in the staff cottages—the stable hands and so on, I’m not sure who exactly.’

  ‘A housekeeper?’

  ‘Oh yes, Karen. And her husband Craig, they have their own cottage too.’

  ‘Have they been with you long?’

  ‘Ages. Karen’s looked after Dylan since he was born. I’d have been lost without her.’

  ‘Dylan told me that Craig’s been injured recently.’

  ‘Yes! Poor Craig. He hurt himself with some machinery. They’ve taken him to hospital. Is there anything else? This is beginning to feel like an interrogation.’

  ‘Sorry, a bad habit of mine, comes from my job.’

  She glows an unconvincing smile. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘The other thing that my job does is teach me to know when someone’s not telling me the truth.’

  A flush rises in Amber’s face and she looks away.

  ‘My parents didn’t just turn up here at random, did they?’

  He sees confusion and embarrassment on her face, but not denial. ‘What? Was my father here on business?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest…’

  ‘Did he represent a threat, Amber? Was that it? To you and your family’s interests? Is that why they died?’

  ‘What!’ Her whole frame stiffens as if he’s slapped her. ‘You bastard! How dare you come in here and accuse me!’ She jumps to her feet. ‘Get out. Get out right now!’

  ‘There will be phone records, a money trail, fragments of evidence. There always are. It just needs someone to look in the right places. And that’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘GET OUT!’

  He stands and says, ‘Think about it.’ He places a card on the side table. ‘Phone me when you’re ready to tell me the truth.’

  He goes to the door and steps out into the hall, Amber following, then stops as a door opens on the far side of the hall and he recognises the silver-haired woman who was on the balcony last time. She has the chin-up stance of someone posing for the camera. The skin on her face is stretched tight, the lips pumped up.

  The woman stares at him, then at Amber, and says, ‘What was that noise, Amber? We thought we heard shouting.’

  Harry sees that a man is following her—dark suit, tie, black hair slicked back on a lean skull. The lawyer Nathaniel Horn.

  Horn meets his eyes and says, ‘Well, this is a surprise, Sergeant Belltree.’

  ‘Mr Horn.’

  ‘Belltree?’ the elderly woman says. ‘Belltree?’

  ‘Yes.’ Horn comes closer to Harry, examining him as if for evidence. ‘What brings you here, sergeant?’

  ‘Personal business, Mr Horn. What about yourself?’

  ‘I am the Nordlunds’ family lawyer, and I shall be happy to advise them of their legal rights in relation to unwelcome visitors.’ He looks beyond Harry. ‘Is he here by invitation, Amber?’

  ‘No, I’ve just told him to leave.’

  Horn nods. ‘On your way, sergeant.’

  As Harry reaches the front door, Horn, following him, says, ‘I heard you’d left Sydney. Have they posted you to the country now, Belltree?’

  Harry turns to face him. ‘Newcastle.’

  Horn nods. ‘Hmm, you must be running out of friends. You should be careful.’ He shuts the door on Harry’s back.

  When he reaches Gloucester Harry decides after all to visit the police station. A middle-aged uniformed sergeant is leaning over the front desk, doing the crossword in the local paper.

  ‘G’day.’

  The sergeant looks up. ‘And g’day to you. How’s yours been so far?’

  ‘Pretty much as expected. Yourself?’

  ‘Yep.’ He folds the newspaper. ‘And what can I do for you?’

  Harry shows his ID and the man raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes? Belltree? Would you be related to the judge?’

  ‘He was my father.’

  ‘Oh, right. Condolences.’ He offers a big slab of a hand. ‘Tommy Jordan. I was one of the first at the scene that morning. Nothing any of us could do for your folks, but at least we were able to save the young woman.’

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘Ah. Covered in blood she was. How is she now?’

  ‘She lost her sight.’

  Sergeant Jordan shakes his head. ‘Yes, I heard that. Is that why you’re here now, to revisit the place?’

  ‘My wife has only hazy memories of that time, but she has it in her mind that the three of them spent the night before the crash at Kramfors Homestead.’

  ‘Really? First I’ve heard of that.’

  ‘Any idea why they would have done that? Anything going on around here that would interest a Supreme Court judge?’

  Jordan shakes his head slowly. ‘Can’t think of anything.’

  ‘My father was Aboriginal, you know. Interested in Aboriginal issues. Nothing like that? A native title land claim, say?’

  ‘No, not recently. The one for the Crown lands of the Cackleberry Forest was settled a dozen or more years ago. Local Aboriginal land council owns it now. You cross through the forest to get to Kramfors Homestead. Why don’t you go over there? Young Amber’ll talk to you.’

  ‘I did that, but she wasn’t much help. What’s she like?’

  ‘Oh, bright girl, I guess.’

  ‘You don’t sound enthusiastic.’

  ‘Well, it’s just that the homestead is a sad place now compared to how it was. The girl does her best to keep it going, give her that, but it’s not like it was when her father was alive. Martin Nordlund was a real force around here, big benefactor—local hospital, schools, charities. But he was killed eleven years ago in a plane crash. You’ve heard of Flight VH-MDX?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘One of Australia’s great aviation mysteries, a Cessna 172S Skyhawk, Martin Nordlund’s pride and joy. He had his pilot’s licence, flew himself to business meetings all over the state. Anyway, in August 2002 he was coming back with his solicitor from a meeting in Sydney, almost home, and he went down somewhere around Cackleberry Mountain. It was dark, but the weather was fine and clear. No remains ever found.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘Difficult country up there—dense bush, steep ravines. No trails. They reckon the plane’s wings would have sheared off when it hit the tree canopy, so the wings and fuselage would have speared down straight into all this mongrel thick undergrowth, you see. No sign from above. Doesn’t appear to have been a fire. There’s been any number of search parties—I was on three of them—and we might have gone within a few metres of the overgrown wreckage and never seen a thing.

  ‘Amber would have been fourteen or fifteen back then, I guess. She went a bit crazy after it happened.’ His voice drops, confidential. ‘Got kicked out of a couple of expensive boarding schools down in Sydney. Drugs, you know. Then they sent her abroad for a while and she got pregnant. When she came back she was a grown woman with a kid. Took over the running of the estate. She keeps pretty much to herself, and home-schools the boy, so we don’t see much of him either. Kind of sad.’

  ‘Another Ms Nordlund was there—much older?’

  ‘That would likely be Trixie Nordlund. She was a movie star back in the fifties, married Amber’s grandfather Carl. Her home’s in Sydney, but she comes up on visits. Parading down Church Street like she owns the place.’

  ‘And she had a lawyer with her that I
recognised—Nathaniel Horn. Heard of him?’

  ‘Horn? That the one you see on TV, scumbags’ brief?’

  ‘That’s him. I wondered what would bring him up here.’

  ‘Well, it must be the smell of money, eh? The Nordlunds are big money. Not Miss Amber so much as her uncle, Konrad. You’ll have heard of him in Sydney I dare say.’

  37

  Kelly decides to take the day off, phones in sick to work. She needs time to relish her reprieve, and to think. And as she thinks, something occurs to her. She picks up her phone and rings Harry.

  ‘How are you, Kelly?’

  ‘Better, much better, thanks to you.’ She can hear the background noise of his car. ‘Listen, why did you tell me to stop following her yesterday, Harry, after I rang you?’

  There is a slight hesitation. He says, ‘When I checked her car rego I saw where she must be going. It’s isolated, and I thought you could get into trouble following her in there.’

  But Kelly’s journalist’s ear picks something up in the way he says this. He’s hiding something. ‘Have you been there before then, Harry?’

  Another pause. ‘Yeah, I know it.’

  ‘What, it’s known to the police?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just forget it and move on, Kelly.’

  ‘Harry, I’m a journalist. I know when I’m having a door closed in my face. You want me to dig on my own? What’s the place called?’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Then inspiration strikes her. ‘When I was following her I saw signs for Thunderbolt’s Way, and I thought, that’s where Harry’s folks died. Is that it?’

  Another, longer pause before his reluctant reply. ‘It’s called Kramfors Homestead. My parents stayed there the night before they died.’

  Kelly feels a cold finger stroking her spine. ‘Harry,’ she whispers. ‘Remember what I said about coincidences?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Karen Schaefer, formerly of Crucifixion Creek, turns up in the place your folks spent their last night alive? Are you kidding?’

  She can imagine him shaking his head as she waits for his answer.

  ‘No, I’m not kidding. Her car’s registered owner was Kramfors Estate.’

  She explodes, ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve just been there. The owner says that Karen has been the housekeeper there for years. Are you quite sure that she’s Donna Fenning?’

  ‘Of course I am! She recognised me straight away, knew my name. Jesus, Harry! Who is this owner?’

  ‘Just leave it to me, Kelly.’

  ‘No! That woman’s tried to get me killed—twice! I’m going to look into this with or without you.’

  They’re both silent. Five beats, then Kelly says, ‘Sorry. You tried to warn me. But we should work together on this. You don’t want me messing up your investigation, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who owns Kramfors?’

  ‘The Nordlund family.’

  Kelly whistles.

  ‘The woman who runs the place is Amber Nordlund, twenties, kind of…highly strung.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘More digging I guess. Kelly, that thing about my parents staying there. It’s personal. I don’t want that made public. I want to follow it up my own way. Keep it to yourself, okay?’

  ‘Sure, Harry.’

  38

  Harry drives back to Newcastle with the window down, the hot country air billowing into the car. He has found no mention of Dark Riders or Tyler Dayspring on the police databases, and decides it’s counterproductive to try to keep out of sight. When he reaches the city he heads for the port and the suburb of Carrington, and stops at a pub, the Marine, at the crossroads in the centre. Over a beer he talks to the landlord about renting a room. He’s taken upstairs, making a note of access points and fire escape, and checks out a room right on the corner of the building. It overlooks the crossroads and the long perspectives down to the grain silos on the docks in one direction. In the other he can see the bridge over Throsby Creek, connecting the district to the rest of the city. He is less than a hundred metres from the bombed-out ruin of their cottage. His car, sitting outside on the kerb with its scorched paintwork, is like an advertisement to whoever wanted him dead.

  ‘This is perfect,’ he says.

  He brings up his bag, unpacks his few belongings and makes a call to Ross Bramley.

  Ross seems surprised and pleased to hear from him. ‘Where are you, mate?’

  ‘Back in Newcastle.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yep. What are you doing tonight? Fancy a beer and a Chinese at Sammy’s?’

  Ross suggests they meet at a French wine bar first, a new venue he wants to try. Harry wouldn’t have thought it was Ross’s kind of thing, but apparently it brings back memories of a European trip with his wife.

  ‘So how’s work?’ Harry finally asks.

  ‘No more bodies on Ash Island so far, but no leads to the killers either. Foggy’s cranky as ratshit, as usual. Your friend Velasco is keeping out of his way. Nothing on McGilvray—his phone’s dead, no one knows where he is, reckon he’s done a runner. No, it’s been pretty quiet—same old same old. String of service station hold-ups, nasty suicide in Stockton, kid missing in Bar Beach.’

  They drive to Sammy Lee’s place and park across the way. Harry pauses outside the Asian grocery store next door to the restaurant. Looks in at the shelves of packages with Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai labels.

  ‘This Sammy’s business too?’

  ‘Sure. It does well.’

  They go into the restaurant, where a woman at the front desk checks Harry’s booking in a fat diary, then plucks menus from a stack. ‘This way, please.’

  Harry says, ‘I’ll just use the gents,’ and as the other two walk away he quickly turns the diary towards him, flicking back through the pages to 20 October, the date of the photograph on McGilvray’s contact phone. He finds the page, full of names and numbers for a busy Saturday night, and quickly takes a photo on his phone.

  It is a Monday and the restaurant’s quiet. Sammy himself isn’t there. At a lull in the conversation Harry says, ‘I keep thinking of what Leon Timson said about the Ash Island victims: all three of them had been worked over professionally, as if the killers were after information. The two oldest victims were linked to the Crows, so that’s understandable, but what about the sailor, Cheung? What could some poor dumb kitchen hand off a Chinese bulk carrier know that would be of the slightest interest to those guys?’

  ‘Pure sadism, I reckon. So does the profiler they’ve got in. “Sadistic cult murders” is one of his lead possibilities.’

  ‘Okay, but supposing it wasn’t. Supposing it’s cold-blooded business—drug business. Supposing the Jialing was trading drugs as well as coal, and Cheung found out something he shouldn’t have.’

  ‘You heard what the customs guy said—it could only be small quantities, smuggled out by the odd person.’

  ‘Remember when we went onto the NRL berth? There was a van there making a delivery to the ship. There must be lots of stuff they need when they come into port—toilet paper, light bulbs, bottles of water.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re not smuggling drugs into the ship, surely? They’d have to be taking it off. How could they do that?’

  ‘Maybe in the empty containers, once they’ve taken the supplies on board. They do it regularly, month after month, year after year. Customs searches them thoroughly the first few times, then they just wave them through. What do you reckon?’

  Ross shrugs doubtfully.

  ‘Where did Cheung work, Ross? He was a kitchen hand. Worked in the galley, among the food. Tell you what, humour me. Call Gerry Cork’s office and find out who supplied food to the Jialing.’

  Ross chuckles and says, ‘This is what shit-hot homicide cops in Sydney come up with is it, Harry? Okay, let’s give it a try.’ He takes out hi
s phone and calls the shipping agent’s number. One of Cork’s assistants is on duty. He checks the computer. Harry watches the smile on Ross’s face fade. He rings off and stares at Harry. ‘Sammy Lee supplied the Jialing. He’s one of the main providores to the Asian ships. That’s why you suggested coming here, isn’t it? You knew, didn’t you?’’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. But when I saw the grocery next door it made me think.’

  Ross is shaking his head. ‘No, not Sammy. I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s too smart to get mixed up in something like that. He’s got an MBA for goodness sake.’

  ‘And a business that would be perfect for laundering drug money.’

  ‘You’re serious.’

  ‘Remember the CCTV of Cheung at Marketown with his hand to his ear, on the phone? But he didn’t speak English. So who was he talking to? Has to be someone who speaks Chinese.’

  Ross thinks. ‘I don’t buy it, Harry. I know the guy. I’ll do a few checks, and I’ll prove you wrong. Want to make a bet? A hundred bucks Sammy’s in the clear.’

  They shake on it.

  39

  Jenny sits on the rear veranda of the cottage, holding tight onto Felecia’s harness, the three of them listening to the anxious hooting noise that the alpacas are making as the shearer moves in among them.

  ‘They recognise Drew,’ Meri says, ‘he comes every year. They don’t like it.’

  She tells Jenny what Drew is doing, grabbing each one in turn, tripping it to the ground, binding its feet and getting to work with the electric shears, slicing in steady arcs through the thick fleece.

  ‘It’s a good year—three, maybe even four kilos off each one. Thirty kilos, Jenny; that’ll keep us busy.’

  Meri will spin the fibre on a wheel in the main room, which is the combined kitchen, dining, living and work room of the cottage. She explains the process, first spreading the fleece out over the polished wooden floorboards to pick out any bits of stray vegetable matter, any fibre that isn’t from the animals’ premium ‘blanket’—the back, shoulders and flanks. She won’t need to wash the fibre before spinning, it’s not oily like sheeps wool, and she’ll pack it into open-topped bags so that it can breathe. She’ll tease out the fleece from the bag with a comb and spin it. Jenny is to help her. She’s been practising at the wheel with fibre left over from last year’s shearing, enjoying the feel of the fine fleece slipping through her fingers, the total concentration needed to keep the yarn running.