AFTER MONTHS OFf paperwork, to-ing and fro-ing between Melbourne and Sydney, Detective Senior Sergeant Brendan O’Leary had a search warrant for the Glenlyon property owned by Hubert Ramsay Krakauer. Heading north towards the Loddon River, SES volunteers – their orange uniforms cruel against the grey scrub and dried off grass – fanned out over a paddock. The smell of eucalyptus hung in the air. The only sounds were twigs snapping under foot and the occasional kookaburra jeering overhead. 

    Currently an inmate at the Metropolitan Remand Centre, Krakauer was due to face court on drug trafficking charges laid almost two years ago, after 80 packages of ecstasy pills with a street value of more than $300,000 were found in his possession. It still made O’Leary livid that Krakauer was granted bail by some civil rights do-gooder sucked in by his growing-up sob story. Released on just $5,000 security. Probably pulled the cash out of his shoe. Wasn’t until August last year that he’d been picked up again, this time by Sydney traffic police, after he ran up the arse of some woman driving a Merc out of a city showroom. Officers opened up Krakauer’s boot and found a load of DVDs. Checks confirmed that two of the children starring in the kiddie porn were eight-year-old twins, kids who’d disappeared without trace from Beach Road in Beaumaris in 2006. The case stuck in O’Leary’s craw. And then last week a child-size tattered hoodie and a pair of jeans were found in one of the old mine shafts that dotted Krakauer’s Glenlyon farmlet. A keen local cop had made the discovery during a routine visit to investigate reports of a burn-off on a total fire ban day. 

    He sniffed at the air. Hot wind blowing steadily from the north. After the Black Saturday fires, anything was possible. Cap pulled low over a back-to-work haircut, he sat on a fallen tree branch in the shade, cooler than waiting in the caravan that had been towed on site and set up as a makeshift headquarters. Watched the search line move snail-like over the rough ground, until it dipped from view down to the river gully. He rubbed absently at his right thigh, thumb kneading a ridge of scar tissue through his jeans. Gazing up into a peppermint gum, he tried to pinpoint the magpie that had now joined the kookaburra. There it was, perched high in the crown, silhouetted against a brittle sky. He thought he could make out a nest, raised his phone to take a snap to show Zoe and Jack, his twins, when a shout from the direction of the gully had him on his feet. ‘Shit,’ he said, sitting down as promptly as he had risen, a sharp pain shooting the length of his right leg. He kept forgetting that sudden weight bearing was not an option. He craned his neck in the direction the sound had come from and saw two SES volunteers cresting the rise, trudging towards him.

‘Think we’ve found something,’ said the older bloke, heavyset, scarred cheek. 

‘Yeah,’ said his mate. 

‘Bones,’ said Scarface.

‘Where?’ O’Leary hungry, as if knowing the location could solve everything.

Scarface shifted on his feet. ‘About a foot from a mineshaft entrance.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said his mate again. 

‘Probably been pulled out by animals.’ Looking at the ground now. ‘Or something.’

O’Leary felt a cold wave course through his guts. ‘Cordoned it off?’

‘That’s what I told the blokes to do,’ said Scarface. 

‘Nguyen still down there?’ 

‘The little Chinaman seems to know what he’s doing.’

O’Leary resisted landing a punch on the man’s sun-damaged nose. Easy enough for him living in the city. Doubtless few Vietnamese had made their way to Glenlyon, a place on the Loddon River boasting not much more than a general store. And plenty of self-healing and yoga, if the community noticeboard was anything to go by. Not far from Melbourne, but could be a million miles from anywhere, like most of the discarded country towns dotted across the state. ‘Might pay to get your people working in another direction,’ he said instead. ‘The area to the west of the house hasn’t been done.’

The two men shuffled off as O’Leary got out his phone. ‘What’s it looking like?’

Detective Constable Sean Nguyen had been on O’Leary’s team on and off for three ir so years. ‘It’s human.’

‘How much?’

‘Top half of a small body.’ He heard Nguyen draw in breath. ‘No sign of a skull. Keep you posted.’

 

 

Flopped on her couch Angela Micelli was leafing through the day’s paper, thick black hair tied in a ponytail in an effort to keep cool. Outside the sun was sneaking in through windows not quite covered by hastily drawn curtains. She flicked pages until she located the weather report: Thunderstorms expected to cross the city in the late afternoon but little to no rain expected. Hot and humid, winds south-easterly averaging to 40 km/h. Gale warning for waters east of Wilsons Prom. Fire danger: moderate to high in the west and northern districts. Maximum 38. Sweat beaded on her forehead. A pedestal fan was whirring in the corner, moving warm air side to side. Her phone, lying on the coffee table, vibrated. She lunged at it, heart racing. Sighing, she said, ‘Ciao, Mumma.’ A few moments passed before she was able to get a word in. ‘I’ve already been for a bike ride this morning, so don’t worry, I won’t get struck by lightning.’

And you no go to work today, Angela?’

‘Not today. Nor tomorrow,’ she snapped.

‘Only asking,’ her mother replied, voice quavering.

Realising she was still annoyed the caller was her mother, not David Romano, she sat up straighter, made herself smile. ‘Sorry, Mumma. Something else, that’s all,’ saying as an afterthought, ‘the damned aircon’s not working.’

‘Ah,’ her mother said, ‘your papa and I say always you must find nice man. Have fun. Get married.’

Micelli held the phone out from her ear while her mother told her again why girls like her needed a husband. ‘Are you going over to Rosie’s tonight?’ 

‘Of course, Angela. I like to see my beautiful girls.’ Micelli glanced over at the photo on her bookshelf: Rosie, Maria, Rita, Angela. The four Micelli girls, lined up in age order, dressed in identical pink frocks with wide pink hair ribbons trying vainly to hold back unruly curls. Rosie had recently taken to organising family get-togethers on Sunday evenings. With her husband Frank and their three children, she lived in a suburban mansion in Thornbury, a house Micelli privately referred to as the “Pantelerri Palazzo” because of its reliance on heavy colonnading, several Juliet balconies and a wide terrazzo-tiled verandah. She could think of nothing worse than traipsing across town from her seaside apartment in Altona to eat mediocre Bolognese washed down with a cheap pinot noir. And fending off questions from her sisters who shared their mother’s view that “fun” equated to a few dates with a man everyone approved of, followed by a lavish wedding. 

‘You want your father and me to pick you up?’ 

Micelli rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Okay, Mumma. I’ll see you about six.’ Another four hours to herself before they arrived, provided she resisted the urge to call her boss, Brendan O’Leary, who was back on the job.

She got up and walked down the hall to the laundry where Marbles was sprawled out on the tiles. A lazy fly buzzed round a bowl half-full of sardines in jelly. She tugged a load of laundry from the machine and piled it into a basket. Outside the concrete was so hot it burnt into her soles, forcing her to duck inside and slip on a pair of thongs. 

At the clothesline she pegged out her things: work shirts, mainly white and cream; t-shirts – most white, one red and one black; jeans – two pairs; bike gear – lycra shorts and a few old jerseys; underwear – black and flesh-coloured. It made her grin to think what her mother would say about her failure to pre-sort the laundry into piles of coloureds, whites and darks. And her failure to peg socks in matching pairs.

She went back to the couch and picked up the paper, flicked through to the sports section. Her attention was drawn to a close-up of a blond man, grasping a tennis racquet in a sweeping back swing. His wide blue eyes were focused on a yellow ball still several centimetres from his racquet strings. The headline: “Kross shot will cut deep at the Open”. Reading further, she discovered that Markus Kross from Estonia was in town to contest the first of the grand slams for the year. He had already won a junior title in Melbourne. ‘I love this place,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘In my city, Tallinn, it is beautiful, yes, but here it is long gold beaches and long roads with trees. I am full of motivation and want to achieve what I did here five years ago.’ Typical. Talk up the city. Beat the local hero. Become the poster boy for thousands of teenage girls with sunburnt shoulders. Further down the page, a report about Julia Kneebone was doing the opposite, revving up animosity for one of the world’s most successful players. Kneebone was reported as saying, ‘Sure I’m here to win, but tennis, it’s like, not my favourite. Now shopping, if we’re talking like favourites, absolutely. But like, you know, I need to win to shop.’ Micelli dropped the paper onto the floor in disgust. She picked up her phone, put it down again. When Brendan O’Leary went on sick leave she had taken over as an Acting Team Leader, fancy corporate-speak for a homicide detective who could take responsibility for an investigation. For the last four and a half months, give or take a few days, she’d been in charge. His recovery had taken longer than anyone had expected, and although she missed his clear mind and sharp eyes, his absence had given her a taste for what it was like to lead a team and get results. 

When her phone started to jump and buzz on the table, she lunged again. Cleared her throat. Swiped green. ‘Hello Brendan.’

‘G’day, Ange. You staying cool?’

‘Kind of,’ she muttered, ‘better if the aircon’d behave itself. What’s up today?’

‘Search underway since mid-morning. SES as far as the eye can see,’ he said. 

‘Oh.’ She tried to keep her voice light, conceal the hurt that was stinging like a jellyfish. ‘Thought you were going to let me know when operations started.’ 

‘It’s your day off, remember. You’ve been working like a Trojan the last few months. Anyway, I can handle it. Used to do it all the time before you joined me.’ 

She paused. ‘Nothing to keep me in Melbourne, though.’

After a few more exchanges, he promised he’d be expecting her complete attention on the job, but not until Tuesday when she was due back.

She turned her face into the couch. 

No call from David. 

Dinner with the family. 

The aircon on the blink. 

And now, absolute confirmation that she was no longer in charge of a team.