Tell Me Why Page 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Oscar yowled.

  'Who asked you, cat?' she spat back.

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

  It was justifiable research, she reasoned.

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

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

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

  She deserted him reluctantly.

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

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

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

  'Here. Now,' Lunny demanded, beckoning to his office.

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

  The sergeant didn't offer a seat. He templed his fingers and sighed.

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

  Franklin shifted his weight but remained silent.

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

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

  '"Or whereabouts unknown."'

  Now I do. Fucking great.

  'It's not advisable to exclude him.' The implication was because of his connections. 'But you know that, don't you?' It was a rhetorical question.

  Just as Franklin felt too angry and dispirited to talk to Kat following her shoplifting episode, Lunny fell silent, although his disappointed gaze spoke volumes. Moments later, he left.

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

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

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

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

  Interlude

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

  Huddled by the punchbowl, she and her girlfriends sipped fruity cocktail. Their feet jiggled to the beat as they stole shy peeks at the young men. At one point she glanced down to adjust the nerine on her breast.

  'May I have the pleasure of dancing with the most beautiful girl in this room?'

  Startled, her eyes lifted to meet pale grey ones. They were soft clouds, mesmerising, mischievous and mirrors to the warmth in his voice. She returned his smile.

  Their gaze still locked, she lifted a hand and rested it in his, her calloused fingers cloaked in white satin. She noticed short fingernails scrubbed yet stained and, when they twirled, blisters on his palms. She sensed the strength of his wiry body through the pressure on the small of her back.

  They danced and danced, she fancied with the grace of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Finally stopping to sip punch and talk, they had eyes for nobody else. He charmed with tall stories and made her feel beautiful because that was how he saw her. She felt like the luckiest girl alive, particularly when they traded dreams and found them harmonised.

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

  CHAPTER 3

  Sunday 14 March

  'Don't you ever wake up grumpy as hell?'

  Some people were obnoxious first thing in the morning: cheerful, chatty, capable, chic. Everything Georgie was not; everything Bronwen Silvers epitomised. Yet despite their differences, they'd clicked during high school, been flatmates, backpackers and fruit-picking partners in their late teens and continued to be bosom buddies in their twenties.

  Bron leaned against the windowsill. When she laughed, her carrot-red bobbed hair flashed in the morning sun. The silver flute she stroked contrasted with crimson fingernails, as did the rings on her fingers. Those fingers were never idle.

  Georgie contemplated the hands wrapped around her coffee mug and bare fingernails in need of a file. She rarely wore nail polish being prone to chip it before she left the house. The creativity that stemmed from her fingertips was limited to words and less lucrative than her friend's artwork.

  She told strangers she was a writer and let them draw their own conclusions. But in reality, she edited tomes on square roots and fractions and wrote health and safety material. These cash cows paid reasonably, were dead boring and while in progress shut down her imagination. That meant zero, zilch, nil, nada fictional output in anyone's lingo. When she'd quit her job at the law firm to study, she'd imagined it leading to a glamorous writer's life. She'd dreamed of loyal fans, masses of published articles, generous cheques and a row of novels with 'Georgie Harvey' on the spine. Joke, right? She'd received more rejection slips than cheques and settled for the odd byline without payment to broaden her portfolio.

  Conversely, Bron's two solo exhibitions in the past twelve months alone had been sell-outs and patrons were queuing up for commissions. She lived comfortably on the proceeds of her contemporary pastels. Georgie was proud and envious.

  She waved to Joanna Holt, who dropped a kiss on her partner's cheek and rushed out, wearing Blundstone boots, jeans ripped at the knees and a grungy t-shirt. Wisps of grey and ash blonde mottled hair already escaped the ponytail secured by an ordinary elastic band.

  'She's chucking bricks today.' Bron said it with a 'go-figure' gesture but Georgie knew what lay behind that bravado.

  As Jo approached her fortieth birthday, a pap test had highlighted a low-grade lesion in her cervix. It scared the shit out of them all, not least Bron and Jo. The pre-cancer was e
xcised and Jo's prognosis was excellent but the experience triggered a deep soul-search and respite from her high-flying accountancy career.

  'You and Jo cruise along, don't you?'

  'Unlike you and Adam, GG? I suppose we do. Though occasionally I pick a fight for fun.' Bron sniggered. 'Sometimes she drives me nuts, agreeing with everything I say, no matter how stupid.'

  'I don't need to try to stir AJ. It happens by itself.'

  'Is that why you're avoiding him today?'

  Georgie wrinkled her nose. She'd escaped to Bron's for a stay on both the script and AJ. He'd been a dogged shadow last night, asking annoying questions. About the court case, where she'd been the previous evening and why she was pissed off with him.

  'How much did you tell him about Daylesford?'

  'He got the bare bones, that'll do,' Georgie replied. 'I'm a grown woman and don't have to report my every move.'

  'All grown up. Intelligent and independent, huh, Georgie Girl?'

  Georgie shrugged.

  'And that's why you insisted on representing yourself in court. And lost. Instead of using one of Adam's associates… 'Cos you're so intelligent.'

  'No one likes a smart arse,' Georgie retorted with an eye roll. 'OK, so stress "independent". He'd frown on me going into Susan's house and freak out that I borrowed her stuff. He'd tell me I don't know what I'm doing and shouldn't get involved. And that'd make me all the more determined.'

  Franklin placed hands on hips and winged his arms sideways to block the entrance to the TAB. Paul Wells tried to push through from behind him. Franklin bent his knees to reinforce his stance.

  'I'll sort it. Let me through.'

  Engrossed in the chaotic scene before him, Franklin snorted exasperated streams of air from his nostrils. Wells was an idiot and would charge right in without summing up first.

  He inhaled to focus his mind and caught a whiff of cow dung and sweat. Now he pinpointed the mêlée culprits in the far-right pocket of the shop. High-pitched threats and blows flew between these two young males.

  'Call yerself a mate! I'll kill you!'

  'As if. You're too much of a pussy.'

  Franklin frowned as the tall bloke rained blows on the shorter one's torso. He knew these jokers. They were thick as thieves normally.

  Several bystanders cheered and egged the blokes on. They looked like kids in a schoolyard about to call 'Fight! Fight! Fight!'

  Leigh smacked at Ryan's fists. Ryan's punches grew wilder and faster. His face turned firey-red with exertion and fury.

  'Imbecile,' Wells hissed just loud enough for his partner to hear.

  Franklin itched to punch Wells but would never give him the satisfaction. He couldn't wait to be rid of the conceited, privileged cockhead who took up space at their station. The greenest of green probationary constables - as long as they didn't have connections to the brass - would be an asset by comparison.

  'Let me through, Franklin.'

  Franklin ignored Wells and quickly continued his assessment of the betting agency. He needed to know what the brawl was about and sort it before someone copped a serious injury. He reckoned Ryan was the instigator of the fight and Leigh had seriously upset his mate.

  A woman. It's gotta be about a woman. Franklin couldn't imagine anything else getting between these two.

  Inside the doorway to his left were Roger and Mick, the father-son team of farmers from Abergeldie. They debated the next race in loud ocker accents.

  'Think we should put ten bucks on Nancy's Reign, Dad.'

  'You dumb prick -' There was a world of hurt in Ryan's words.

  'Each way or on the nose?'

  Punters in front of the televisions shot angry glances at the fray between Ryan and Leigh and towards Mick and Roger who'd lifted their voices over the ruckus. The blokes cursed, turned back to the screens and strained to hear their race. They'd be annoyed at a masked robber with a sawn-off shotgun if he interrupted their gambling fix.

  Franklin didn't flag immediate risk to anyone but the two combatants. Yet things could swiftly escalate with a surge of testosterone and adrenaline. At Ryan's next taunt, he called to the two brawlers, 'Righto, you two. What's going on?'

  Most of the punters craned their necks towards Franklin but the Abergeldie farmers continued their deliberations. Metres in front, Ryan jabbed Leigh's face, left then right. To Franklin's relief and amusement, both skimmed the shorter bloke's jaw.

  'Hey! Are you two thick or deaf?' Franklin raised his volume over the din and let three patrons exit. He saw why the manager had called the station. The fracas was costing the TAB business and could end up with the shop trashed or one of these blueing knuckleheads comatose. 'Cut it out,' he shouted.

  Mick and Roger glanced at the policeman and nodded together. He hadn't addressed them, so they resumed their debate. Leigh seemed to be more than protecting himself now. He threw an uppercut that would've been perfect if Ryan hadn't tripped. The Abergeldie farmers paused, chuckled and turned away.

  Franklin stepped forward just as the brawling men fell into the cluster of customers near the televisions. As one, the gambling addicts pushed away the two young blokes like a battering ram.

  Ryan and Leigh ricocheted across the room. The scene was almost comical, especially when Roger and Mick finally chose their next horse as if nothing else was going on.

  Franklin nudged past the farmers. He eluded Leigh's elbow.

  'Wasn't my fault. Your old lady was up for it!'

  Spittle flew from Ryan's mouth as he countered, 'She's me wife, ya bastard. And yer s'posed to be me best mate.'

  Franklin collared the aggrieved man in the midst of winding a fist. The mob chortled, then lost interest.

  I was right. Franklin nodded to himself. It's about a woman. Leigh's done the dirty deed with Ryan's wife.

  He still restrained Ryan and gave Leigh a look that warned him not to try anything. He said to the TAB manager, 'These two cause any damage?'

  The manager shook his head with a discreet smile.

  'All right then. We're going to have coffee and shoot the breeze, boys.'

  'Rather have a beer,' Ryan said.

  His old mate grinned, seconded the motion, then scowled.

  'We need to take this down to the station,' Wells said.

  Franklin glared at him. 'No need for that, Constable. In fact, you can tootle off. The boys and I are going for a cuppa.'

  'Hey,' said Ryan. 'Why should I have a coffee with this bastard?'

  'Because I said so,' Franklin replied, shooing Wells.

  'You could have your coffee and we could have a beer at the Royal.'

  Alcohol was the last thing these jokers needed. Their breath already reeked of it.

  Fortunately, after much complaint, he got them settled at the Pastry King Café.

  'Righto, I gather you've had a falling out.'

  Ryan's face flushed. 'He screwed my missus -'

  'She was asking for it!' Leigh shouted back.

  Franklin's 'Keep it down!' went unheeded. A couple at another table were transfixed. The shop assistants shook their heads and leaned on the counter to watch.

  'That's not the point -'

  'What're ya s'posed to do if a sheila comes onto ya?'

  'OK, fellas.' Franklin held up his hand. 'Settle down. Ryan, what happened?'

  One ear attuned, he did a quick scan. He'd selected a chair that faced the street to keep an eye on things while he sorted the feud. Through the window he saw a woman reverse from the centre island parking despite signs prohibiting it. She pulled her burgundy Camry into the path of a white Ford Econovan. The latter locked up, followed by a stream of cars behind it. All marginally avoided impact but let off frenzied horns. The Camry sailed away and Franklin thanked his lucky stars that he didn't have to deal with a multi-car pile-up on Vincent Street. Imagine explaining that to the District Inspector.

  He noted the men had toned down. 'Well, Leigh. What's your side?'

  A flood of customers filled the sho
p, keeping the assistants busy. He still listened to the shorter bloke's version and the occasional outburst from the other while he helped a woman manoeuvre her pram through the throng. She ordered a cappuccino and squeezed onto a nearby chair.

  'OK. So what do you plan to do about it, boys?' Franklin asked.

  'I dunno,' Leigh said.

  Ryan shrugged.

  'You've been mates forever.'

  They grunted.

  'So, why don't you' - Franklin nodded to Leigh - 'apologise to your buddy? And you' - he told Ryan - 'accept his apology?'

  This suggestion triggered an uproar that silenced everyone else in the shop. The young mother sat taller to better observe. She unconsciously ran her finger around the rim of her cup.

  Franklin raised his brows, satisfied the boys were close to a resolution.

  'Look. I'm sorry, mate. Shouldn'ta done it.'

  Ryan stared at his old friend, whose eyes were stuck on the tabletop. 'She's always been a bit of a tart, I s'pose,' he conceded. He scowled when his mate vigorously agreed, yet extended a hand and declared, 'Reckon we can both do better than her.'

  Franklin thought, Yes!

  Leigh's 'Wanna have a beer, mate?' left Franklin abandoned. He watched the men cross the street pulsing with day-trippers and locals. Ryan grabbed his buddy in a headlock, jabbed without contact. They laughed and headed for the Royal.

  As Franklin rose from his chair, the woman with the baby spoke. 'You sorted them out OK.' She smiled timidly.

  He sensed she wanted to chat and relocated to her table. She sat on the edge of her chair and fiddled with her necklace. She slid the gold locket from side to side, shy and mute.

  Franklin instigated introductions and small talk about the weather: it began fine but now held the whiff of a cool change and more rain. Cathy loosened up and soon perceived that a paternal streak lurked inside the blue monkey suit. She pushed her three-month-old, Tyson, into his arms. Franklin bounced him as he'd done for baby Kat and the infant chuckled. Cathy clapped her hands to further excite the bub.