Darkening Skies (10 page)

‘To feed the dogs?’ She had never been one to stand around idle, so it didn’t surprise him when she offered: ‘I could do that, if you can lend me your car. I can probably still tell one end of a dog from the other.’

One problem solved. In
the building heat of the morning, the likelihood of the dogs being out of water had become a major concern. Even if they refused to take food from a stranger, they’d at least have access to fresh water. She’d been around the station dogs enough in their youth, and Jim trained his working dogs well, so Mark didn’t worry about how she’d handle them.

Mark passed the keys to his ute over to her without hesitation. ‘Thanks, Jenn. The dog run is around the back and the feed’s in a bin in the machinery shed.’

‘I’ll find it,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back soon. Assuming they don’t eat me.’

With a flash of her old, wry grin, she took the keys and headed over to his ute, practical and focused, and for a moment it was Jenn the teenage girl he saw, not the television journalist, and the summer heat on the breeze and the scent of dry grass brought a hundred memories of working together at Marrayin tumbling back.

As the ute did a U-turn and took the corner into Gearys Road, Kris shook her head. ‘I’d heard she was Jim’s niece, but I still can’t quite get my brain around seeing Jennifer Barrett here in Dungirri. She lived here for a while, didn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Mark replied. ‘At Marrayin for some years when Mick worked for my father, and then in town.’

‘Does she know anything more? About what happened?’

‘I don’t think so. She was only seventeen at the time, Kris, and she and
Paula were close. I left messages for her the other night, before the media conference. Like everyone else, she believed Gil was responsible for the accident.’

‘Yeah.’ Kris blew out a long breath, and leant against a tree. ‘I heard about your resignation on the radio while I was driving to a suicide at Jerran Creek. I couldn’t call Gil right then to find out what the hell was going on, but when he got back from Sydney last night I extracted the details about the conversation you two had last week.’

Extracted
. He’d have felt some sympathy for Gil if he didn’t know that the man was more than capable of meeting Kris’s assertiveness head-on and deflecting it.

But he needed to set matters straight. ‘I’m sorry, Kris. I knew it would be a shock to you, but it seemed the best way to handle it.’ He made an attempt at a grin, but it probably looked more like a grimace. ‘I’ve challenged the government – both parties – often enough about honesty and accountability. I don’t plan on being a hypocrite.’

‘You’ve never been that.’

A simple statement, from a woman who didn’t bullshit, and for a moment gratitude clogged his throat.

Her phone beeped and she glanced at the message, then tucked it back in her pocket. ‘I can understand why Gil kept quiet, all these years,’ she said. ‘I don’t necessarily approve, but I can understand his take on it – that to speak out would do more harm than good. Especially since you don’t remember it, and few would trust his word over yours.’

Privilege. She spoke no more than the truth, but he hated how the world worked, how he’d benefited from an accident of birth when
others – when Gil – had struggled against prejudice and injustice every step of the way. Mark had recovered from his injuries, gone on to university, made a life and a career for himself, while Gil had gone to prison, just a youth, alone and friendless in a violent environment. It shouldn’t have happened that way, and it made a mockery out of the principles he’d tried to live his life by.

‘The investigation was corrupt, Kris.’ He couldn’t keep the anger from his tone. ‘Those involved in framing him have to answer for it – for threatening an eighteen-year-old youth and sending him to prison for something he didn’t do.’

She nodded in agreement, and her gaze settled on the doctor’s body, just visible in the driveway. ‘Was he one of them, Mark?’

‘I don’t know.’ And that was the honest truth. ‘To all appearances he was an ethical man. A defender of moral decency.’ He had a folder filled with letters from Doctor Russell in his office, demanding parliamentary action on a wide range of issues.

‘But he certified a blood-alcohol sample as Gil’s when it wasn’t.’

‘Yes.’ Mark could see no grey between the black and white in this case, no greater good to be served that could defend the magnitude of the lie, and he couldn’t fathom the doctor’s reasons.

But he
had
done it, certified the form when Gil was sixty kilometres away – and the only other patient who Mark knew with certainty was at the hospital at the time was him. If the well-over-the-limit blood sample proved to be his, then criminal responsibility for Paula’s death lay squarely with him.

Driving down Gearys Road suited Jenn’s restless mood better than waiting around, either outside the Russells’ or back at the pub.

At Gearys Flat, a couple of kilometres from Dungirri, the 1930s homestead Jim had
lived in was as well kept as Marrayin, except that instead of terraced gardens there was mown grass and a sturdy wooden swing set and a treehouse not unlike the one Jim had built for his boys when they were small.

Jenn had helped out mustering here a few times long before Jim became the manager, so she knew the place a little. The driveway, homestead, garage and assorted sheds to the rear of the house were all standard rural layout. As she drove around the back and parked near the large machinery shed, three border collies rushed at the fence of the dog run, barking.

Despite volunteering to do this, it had been a long time since she’d had anything to do with dogs, and somehow she had to get these ones to trust her. She walked slowly over to the fence, talking to them in an even voice, letting them watch her and take her measure while she took theirs. Three females of assorted ages. One grizzled around the jaw and thicker in the middle, but still the dominant dog. One quieter, holding back, wary. The third a half-grown puppy, all legs and bounce and excited barks.

The oldest and the youngest sniffed her hand through the wire and she spent a few more moments talking to them, light and easy, encouraging the timid one closer. Undoubtedly not the way Jim had talked to them, although he had always been a bit soft when it came to his dogs. Working dogs, yes, but mates, too. Unlike Mick, who’d treated his dogs more as barely tolerated slaves.

‘How about I get you some food and water, hey? You hungry? Want some munchies?’

Three dog dishes stacked on
top made locating the feed bin in the shed easy, and next to it sat a full sack of food with feeding guidelines on it. Not that she had any clue how much each dog weighed, but it gave her a rough idea. As she wasn’t sure when they’d last been fed, or when Mark would be out again to collect them, she added extra. It surely wouldn’t hurt.

She found a metal bucket upended on a post near the tank stand and filled it with water, the precious liquid noisy as it bubbled into the bucket. Just as well she’d come: the bowls in the run were empty, and the temperature was climbing. They were dependent on her, those innocent, trusting dogs. Not the kind of dependence she sought – her lifestyle was way too erratic to ever consider that kind of commitment – but today she could do this task for Jim, and take one weight from Mark’s shoulders.

With feed bowls stacked in one hand and the water bucket in the other, she approached the gate to the run, the dogs running backwards and forwards along the fence. She had a vague memory of Jim feeding his dogs once – they would have been different ones, long-gone now – and giving them a command to sit and stay before allowing them to eat. With her hand on the gate latch, she tried telling them to sit, and with a second, firmer command, they did.

She felt as ridiculously pleased with herself as the puppy looked.

The puppy wasn’t so good at the ‘stay’ part, jumping around her, but she managed to get the bowls down on the ground without spilling the dry food, and all three dogs began to wolf down their meals when she
told them to eat. Innocent, trusting, and oblivious to death and murder. They would miss Jim when he didn’t come home. The two older dogs looked up frequently, both keeping an eye on her, and looking for their pack leader.

She opened the gate into the larger, grassy part of the enclosure and spent a few minutes tossing well-chewed balls and a piece of knotted rope for the younger two dogs while the older one sat beside her, permitting a back scratch. She envied them the simplicity – eat, play, work, sleep. Not to mention free, no-obligation back rubs.

The dog suddenly tensed under her hand, and the other two stopped tugging at the rope, all ears turned towards the house.

She heard a car door slam. A neighbour? A visitor? Maybe Paul’s wife, Chloe. Jenn rounded the dogs back into the smaller enclosure and latched the gate securely. As she headed towards the house, she saw someone in the kitchen. Definitely not Chloe.

Shit.

She reached for her phone, well aware she stood, fully visible, in the open yard.

The man crossed the kitchen in front of the window. Her Uncle Mick. Bitter and self-absorbed, he’d managed some affection for his daughter but never for Jenn. She’d avoided him as much as possible even when they lived in the same house, but now she had to confront him.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She dropped her phone back into her pocket. Mick might well have reason to be at his brother’s home. For all she knew, he might live here – although probably not, since Mark hadn’t mentioned it.

She walked around to the front
of the house, and found the door open, the lock jemmied with a crowbar. In the kitchen, he had half-filled a cooler with meat and other food from the fridge and was rummaging in the pantry cupboard, leaving discarded tins and packages strewn over the floor.

For all that he was a broken old man, her anger boiled over. ‘For God’s sake, Mick, he’s been dead for less than twelve hours and you’re here stealing his
food
?’

He barely glanced at her, but she saw recognition and contempt register in his bloodshot eyes. ‘He doesn’t fuckin’ need it now, does he?’

His callousness about his own brother stunned her, and for a moment words failed her.

He yanked open another cupboard, and muttered, ‘Yes.’ Bottles – wine, spirits, a six-pack of beer, went into his cooler. He opened a bottle of Scotch with an inch or so in the bottom and took a swig.

She followed when he wandered out into the dining room, bottle in hand. Jim must have been in the midst of doing some accounts, for there were papers on the table, a chequebook and a laptop.

Mick unplugged the laptop and tucked it under his arm.

Food was one thing – he’d been right, Jim didn’t need it now – but valuables were another thing entirely.

‘Leave it, Mick,’ she warned. ‘That’s for Paul to deal with it.’

‘Get out of my way.’

‘No.’

The smell of alcohol assaulted her nose as he approached but she stood her ground, one hand reaching for her phone,
the other held out towards Mick. Her heartbeat thudded but she didn’t let him see her rising anxiety. ‘Take the food, but give me the laptop. It stays, Mick.’

‘Don’t you fuckin’ tell me what to do, you little bitch.’

He shuffled forward and took another slug from the bottle, tipping it up to drain it but keeping his eyes on her. Hate-filled eyes, devoid of reason, just like the last time she’d faced him, and belatedly she realised that he’d positioned himself where he almost blocked her path to the door, the table inches to her right hemming her in. Stand her ground? Try to dodge around him? She didn’t dare give him power by dropping her gaze to her phone; dialling triple-0 wouldn’t do much good way out here, anyway.

He spat straight into her face. ‘You should be dead. It should have been you, not her. You should have died with your goody-two-shoes fuckin’ mother. My bloody brother Pete couldn’t even get that fuckin’ right. It’s all your fuckin’ fault.’

At seventeen, she’d almost believed him. At thirty-five, she knew the ravings of a mad alcoholic bastard, but still … still his barbs hit, derailed her concentration for an instant. First her parents, then Paula, then Jim … he was screwing with her mind.

Get out.
She had to get out, get away from him. She pushed past him, but before she reached the doorway crashing pain hit the
side of her head and the bottle bounced against her arm before shattering against the doorframe. She instinctively raised her arm, turned her head to protect herself from the flying glass, but shards stung her. Head swimming, unsteady, she couldn’t move quickly enough, and Mick grabbed her wrist, jerking her around with surprising strength, throwing her stumbling back against the sharp edges of the door.

‘You should have burned instead of Jim, you bitch,’ he said, and
in her blurred vision all she could see was his fist, flying towards her face.

Mark jumped out of the SES truck the moment Karl pulled to a halt behind Mick Barrett’s ute. Around the back, the dogs barked. Closer – inside the house – a woman’s cry rang out.

The uneasiness that had been nagging at him since he’d seen Mick drive down Gearys Road blazed into full-blown alarm and he pounded up the front steps and into the house. A thud and another gasping cry led him to the kitchen just as Mick raised his arm to swipe another blow at Jenn, who was scrambling to her feet, blood on her face and arm.