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  She tossed the phone into her handbag and left the dismal motel with a spin of gravel.

  Georgie's previous visit to Daylesford had been for their joint birthdays, almost a year ago. They'd rented a Japanese-style cottage for the weekend and indulged in aromatic spa baths and heady sex before the open fire. When they'd emerged for a brief change of scenery, they'd tried a pub in the town centre and a trendy bar at the Convent Gallery.

  This time she decided to sample a pub she'd spied near the market. Away from memories of a less complicated era with AJ; predating when he tried to make the 'L' word head towards the 'Big M'. Though she loved him, she was in no rush for marriage, kids or respectability.

  Franklin changed into his civvies - well-worn Levis, teamed with a simple black t-shirt - and strode off, leaving his Commodore in the station car park. He often did that, as home was only a block and a half away.

  He toyed with going home as he inhaled the night air, warm and balmy despite the brief shower a few hours earlier. Franklin loved autumn. For starters, he loved the crunch of dried leaves under his boots. Shot nerves alleviated by that simple pleasure, he lit a nicotine stick and blew a string of smoke rings. He was still pissed off but, hey, Kat was just a kid. Not a rotten kid and no angel, merely an ordinary teenager being a pain in the neck. Same as he'd been at her age.

  Franklin approached their home on Raglan Street. Doof-doof music beat through the air and the house was lit up like the Melbourne Cricket Ground. He hadn't seen a footy match at the 'G' in years, not since his Tigers lost by two points to Collingwood, of all teams.

  His thoughts turned from feral Magpie supporters, back to Kat. So much for his fantasy that she regretted her behaviour. He mashed the cigarette with his heel and frowned. There was no point confronting her.

  He hastened to the end of Raglan Street. Here the Trentham and Castlemaine roads intersected and the town merged into countryside. But he wasn't there to sightsee; he needed a drink at the Farmers Arms.

  The dining room catered for city slickers and local food buffs, sporting polished tables, antique armchairs and wacky art. He didn't mind the front part of the Farmers, though. In the bar and pool room, it was singlets and stubby shorts, vintage farm signs and stuffed animals, a fair dinkum Aussie pub. But Walshs (always Walshs, despite its name change to Daylesford Hotel) was in spitting distance of the station and had all the pub essentials, so that was where the boys generally drank. The patrons there were regulars, in for a chat and ready to take the piss - which was exactly why he chose to drink at Farmers tonight. Not that he could be anonymous anywhere in this town but it would be less like broadcasting his woes via a megaphone.

  Franklin settled on a stool in front of the beer tap, took a long draught and smacked his lips.

  Ivy threatened to obscure the exterior of the Farmers Arms Hotel. But for now snippets of red brick walls, reliefs of cream trim and tall, arched leadlight windows showed. Above the angled cut-off of the L-shaped pub, the walls rose to a peak with two small and one larger ball perched above the 1857 establishment date.

  Georgie pushed through the split door at the cut-off. Now, this is a pub. Rich wood panelling; rows and rows of beer bottles above the bar; hard-yakka types, mainly men, entrenched at the counter. The place was a sister to her old favourite in Richmond and received a big tick so far.

  Aromas of garlic, herbs and spices reminded Georgie she'd barely eaten since breakfast. Her stomach growled as a cheerful woman wearing flowers in her blonde-and-black pigtails whisked by with plates of swanky food. She scanned the three main rooms: crowded group tables, lots of couples, straight and gay, and plenty of happy noise. Georgie smiled. Her Melbourne foodie friends and gay buddies, especially closest mate, Bron, would all be at home here and that ticked extra boxes.

  A song that blended country and rock played in the background. Rock was her number one choice but her taste tended towards eclectic in music, drinks and friends, so she hummed along in her head.

  Tension she didn't realise she held dropped from her shoulders.

  A glimpse of a pool table at the rear sealed Georgie's approval. Yes, she could happily while away hours here.

  Drink in hand, she leaned against the double doorway to the pool room and checked out the talent. She fixed on two candidates. One bloke at the bar was not bad looking, although older than Georgie's usual type. He had to be mid-thirties and she was only twenty-eight, with a penchant for younger men - like AJ, who was four years her junior. She saw several people wave and speak to him. He brushed them off and concentrated on his beer; not in a good mood.

  She focused on the younger bloke with a honed upper body and tight butt. He chatted with patrons and the female publican and she concluded he was also a local. He placed two dollars on the pool table and waited for a contender. He was spot on: a cute guy with a sense of humour, not too rough around the edges, probably generous with companionship and, most importantly, drinks. A mean pool player and an expert in harmless flirtation, Georgie anticipated a bit of hustle.

  While she mentally rubbed her hands together, a ripple ran along her scalp and Ruby's earlier words echoed.

  Franklin half-watched a pool game between a bird in black jeans and a bloke he knew from the footy club. Her creamy skin set off smoky brown eyes and a full mouth. She had a great arse and wore a g-string under the jeans. Though not big-breasted, she exposed nice cleavage as she potted a ball. She swished long dark hair off her face every so often and flirted with her opponent. Franklin didn't recognise her and reckoned she had to be a tourist.

  Over his second pot, he chewed on Kat's recent scrapes. This fell into one of those times he wished her mother had stayed on the scene. No, amend that. One of those times he wished he wasn't alone on this parenting roller coaster, on the proviso that the right person was alongside.

  Franklin twirled his glass in his left hand and examined the layer of foam on its sides. A nod to Roz earned another. He scoffed a bag of chips and drained the third pot. Normally he was a master of slow drinking, so his brain took on a fuzzy edge.

  Fuck it, he wasn't driving. Why not get quietly plastered and forget everything for a few hours?

  Georgie managed to push her conversation with Ruby aside for half a game. But after she'd potted two long shots, she missed an easy one when her friend's voice echoed in her head: '…to promise to do something…and not do it…I know something awful's happened to her…'

  She sensed that Susan Pentecoste needed her and she was letting the chance to help slip away.

  Georgie blew out her cheeks. Idiot. She tossed her hair and turned her mind to the pool game and a fresh Corona.

  Interlude

  Autumn again; it used to be her favourite time. She enjoyed the last flush of roses, bulbs sprouting the spidery heads of her treasured pink nerines and long, variable days hinting at rain for the parched dams and paddocks. Most of all, she loved the season because it marked when she had met her husband and best friend.

  But now, instead of relishing the change of season, its withered brown leaves plagued her.

  She'd tried all means of fighting it; depression hit weak people, not her, for goodness' sake. She had never been an overly emotional woman and was a great believer in a stiff upper lip. Thus if she yielded, the tears were privately shed, wiped away and forgotten.

  Why couldn't she stop blubbering now, then? Her body racked with tears because it was March and she missed him more and more every anniversary. That adage 'time heals' was a lie. She ached and endured black dreams every day but the wretchedness intensified each autumn. So much so that her faith scarcely sustained her and her desperation shocked her.

  One way or another, it had to end.

  She realised that knowing what is unproven leaves a gap for a spark of hope. That hope was not logical and definitely didn't ease the pain. That was why she needed action and answers and, as everyone else had given up, it fell to her.

  Even so, as she stepped closer to the tragic truth, dread curled i
n her stomach like those dead autumn leaves.

  CHAPTER 2

  Saturday 13 March

  The chorus of Billy Joel's Pressure screamed inside Georgie's brain.

  The damn hangover squeezed her temples.

  Eyes slit. Belly burning. Teeth furry.

  The chorus repeated, either as a distraction device or sadistic form of torture.

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

  Remind me again how the fuck I ended up in the sticks.

  The vice tightened on her skull.

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

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

  Now dry but naked, Georgie puffed on her third cigarette for the morning and hovered over the kettle. Finally it boiled. She poured two sachets of coffee into a cup and drank it, scalding hot and revolting. Still, the cheap powdered shit was a caffeine shot and kick-started the day. Another cup of the gross coffee later and Georgie set off to Susan Pentecoste's farm.

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

  She'd thought she'd memorised the route.

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

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

  In the end, Georgie made the trip in legs.

  Left turn before the Blowhole. Map check.

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

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

  Ta-da. Grimwells Road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Of course, Sarge.'

  Smarmy prick.

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

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

  'No, that's Constable Scott Hart, ma'am…'

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

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

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

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

  That was ancient history, but probably why nowadays he was unapologetically a cop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He scratched his chin and concentrated on the second woman.

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

  Two? Holy fuck.

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

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

  Outwardly calm, he compared letters. 'Identical.'

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

  Lauren blushed.

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

  'Tayla noticed I was a bit off yesterday -'

  'She looked wrecked,' Tayla clarified.

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

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

  'But then I started to really worry about this' - she motioned to the letters - 'and yeah, I admit it. I'm wrecked.'

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

  'So, Tayla made a fuss.'

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

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

  'She wanted to speak to her priest.'

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

  'And I said, "What's an old guy with a dog collar going to do anyhow?"'