An Isolated Incident

  I’m trying to gather as comprehensive a portrait of Bella as possible. As someone very close to her –

  You’ve been speaking to Chris Rogers, I assume. That woman is unreliable to say the least. Forgive me, I know she’s grieving, but if you know anything about her it must be that you can’t trust a word she says.

  Why’s that?

  Oh, no, I’m not going there. Do your job. Ask around.

  I’m asking you.

  And I’m done with this interview. Next time get your facts straight before you [inaudible].

  Interview transcript

  22 April 2015

  Carrie Smith

  How long have you lived next door to Chris Rogers?

  Oh, I don’t know, love. I’ve been here my whole life. Inherited the house from my mum. So, however long Chris’s been here, we’ve been neighbours.

  What kind of neighbour is she?

  Lovely. Quiet.

  What about her ex-husband?

  Nate? Oh, he’s a darl. We all miss him around here. He’ll do anything for you, that man.

  Were you aware of any conflict between them?

  No.

  Really? They had quite a fiery relationship from what I hear.

  Look. You’re not going to hear a word against either of them from me, so if that’s what you’re after you might as well chuff off right now.

  Is Chris seeing anyone now, do you know?

  If you’re writing about Bella, how come all your questions are about Chris?

  I’m trying to gather as comprehensive a picture of –

  Sounds like you’re digging for dirt, if you ask me. I told you: I don’t have a bad word to say about her. No one who knows her properly will. All that nasty gossip is just jealousy. She’s a good-looking woman, Chris. People get jealous that she’s still got so many fellas chasing after her.

  Does she have a lot of –

  That’ll do now, love, if you don’t mind. I’m not comfortable talking about her like this. No, no, really. I’ll see you out.

  [ENDS]

  There was something about Chris that everybody thought – or knew – and nobody would say. May went back to her spreadsheet of internet rumours and considered the cluster related to prostitution: Bella worked part time as a prostitute; she had been a prostitute when she lived in Sydney a few years ago; she discovered her sister was a prostitute and the sister killed her to keep her quiet; someone mistook her for her sister the prostitute and then got enraged when she refused to put out.

  May called Chas and asked where Strathdee’s sex workers hung out.

  ‘Geez, love, if you can wait until I finish work I’ll sort you out for free.’

  ‘Very kind of you, but I’m interested in the professionals right now.’

  ‘Hang on a sec, I’m stepping away from all the big ears around here.’

  May listened as the beep beep of a reversing truck faded and then Chas’s voice at almost a whisper.

  ‘Yeah, look, there’s no brothel or anything in town. A couple of places in Wagga will send girls here, but only if you pay for an overnight in a hotel. Some fellas make the trek out there, but most just go for a quickie with one of the cheapos working the northbound truck stop. And before you ask, no, I don’t know all this from personal experience. Blokes share info, that’s all.’

  ‘I appreciate you passing it on. What about, um, independent contractors? Women working privately out of their homes?’

  A pause. ‘Might be a bit of that.’

  ‘Care to share any names?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. That’s the thing with people doing stuff privately. It’s private.’

  ‘Fair enough. So the rumour I heard about Bella doing it?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Just stop right there with that. It’s off the fucking planet.’

  ‘Okay. Any idea where the rumour might’ve come from? Is it because her sister –’

  He sighed. ‘Listen, you’re a great girl and I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, but you need to pull your bloody head in.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –’

  ‘Anything else? I’ve gotta get back to work.’

  ‘No, that’s –’

  He was gone. May was glad she was alone in her hotel room, because her face and chest burnt with shame. At least half her shame was due to how upset and shaky she was from being scolded. Not cut out for this at all, at all, at all.

  Saturday, 25 April

  Soon as I got back from the nursing home I went through the photos I’d taken, noting down the company names and, where I could make it out, the name of the driver. All that week at work, I chatted up a storm with the few blokes whose names I’d recognised and made it my mission to find out where everyone I served worked. We get a lot of delivery drivers coming in, stopping for a quick beer before returning to Wagga or Albury or wherever, and it didn’t take long before I’d connected a face and name to almost every company that made deliveries to the nursing home.

  To be honest, I’m not great at this cloak-and-dagger undercover investigative shit. You’d have been horrified at how clumsy and obvious some of my questioning was, I’m sure. But if a man thinks you might want to root him he’ll interpret any question you ask as flirtation. Especially if he’s had a few beers and so is already inclined to believe he’s God’s fucking gift and who wouldn’t want to know every detail of his life?

  Friday I struck gold. A young frozen food delivery driver called Rick mentioned he’d worked double shifts all week thanks to his slack-arse workmate Dave taking unexpected leave.

  ‘You’re not talking about Dave Hunt, are you?’

  ‘Aw, what? You know The Hunter, do ya?’

  ‘A little,’ I said, heart racing. ‘Long time back. Don’t know we’d recognise each other now it’s been so long. Still got that mop of hair over his forehead? Smile like a cheeky kid?’

  ‘Yep, yep, that’s him.’ Rick gave a dirty laugh. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised. Hear he got all the best-looking birds back in his day.’

  ‘Come on, he’s not that old. My age, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, nah, didn’t mean offence. Not like you’re past it or anything.’ He spent a long, meaningful moment considering my cleavage. ‘Just meant he’s settled down these days. Well settled. His missus is a scary one, keeps him on a tight leash, she does. Yep, yep, yep. The Hunter is well and truly retired.’

  ‘Shame. He still living in that rundown joint out near the Wagga exit?’

  Rick frowned. ‘Nah, nah. He’s been on Topia Street for, God, I don’t know, three years or something? Ever since I’ve known him anyhow. Might be his missus’ place come to think of it. Pretty nice, actually. White picket fence and all that shit.’

  ‘Ah, well, white picket fence. That’s a Danger Keep Out sign for a girl like me.’

  Rick laughed, real dirty this time, and went to speak, but I was urgently needed out back.

  It was good timing, me finding him the day before Detective Brandis called to let me know they had the wrong man. I asked him how they knew but he said he couldn’t give out those details, I should just trust him that Hunt was not involved in my sister’s murder.

  I do trust Brandis, more or less. I mean, I think he’s done his best. I believe he cares that whoever did this is caught and punished. But those relentless visions I get whenever I lie down to sleep and sometimes when I’m standing at the bar or at the grocery checkout or sitting at the kitchen table, those surround-sound, full-colour, fucking IMAX-quality visions I have of Bella’s last hours, well, for almost a week those visions had been starring David Hunt and so however much I trusted Brandis, I felt like Hunt’s guilt was a witnessed fact.

  Topia Street is short and a good chunk of one side is taken up by a council reserve. There used to be a public pool there when I was small. I can’t remember wh
en it disappeared, but I do recall that we all stopped going there after a little boy drowned. It must have been the early eighties. I was still a kid myself but Mum told me all the details, as was her way, and next time I went in the pool I kept thinking his little hands were going to grab my ankles. I refused to go there after that, think I even had a couple of nightmares about these little ghost hands pulling at my legs. I suppose others stopped going for the same reason. Oh, not ghost hands, but the thought of the boy. Worries about safety and all.

  Now there was no trace, just a wide, long expanse of buffalo grass. I walked the length of it in five minutes that Saturday morning. The stink of charcoal and grease from barbecues not used since January reminded me it was Anzac Day. By the time I got to work at six every man in the place would be maggoted, half of them sloppy and maudlin, the rest bristling for a fight to prove their patriotism.

  None of the houses on Topia had white picket fences but two had white timber slats and one dark green pickets. I went door to door asking about a lost cat. I described Bella’s old kitten, Mopey, for believability and, though I know this sounds stupid, for luck. To avoid suspicion I went to every door. Three people told me they’d spotted Mopey in the neighbourhood that week, which only drove home how fucking useless the general public are.

  The sixth door I knocked on was opened by David Hunt. He was paler and thinner than in his picture, than in my visions. His hands were large, bony, mottled with sun damage. The left one had a tattered, beige-coloured bandage wrapped around it. ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  I gave my spiel, thankful I’d started at the other end of the street so that I’d repeated it enough times that it came out smoothly despite the fact my insides were trying to slam their way out of me.

  ‘Nah, sorry, love,’ he said, and went to close the door.

  ‘Wait, can you just –’ I held out my hand, took hold of the door edge.

  He swung it fully open again, looked at me like I’d kicked him in the shins.

  ‘Sorry, I wonder if I could quickly use your loo? I’ve been walking all morning and I’m totally busting.’

  He looked at me hard for a couple of seconds, then stepped back and waved me in. ‘End of the hall, let yourself out.’

  I thanked him and rushed down the hall as if I was about to pee all over myself. I sat on the toilet, concentrated on slowing my breath. I hadn’t planned past finding out where he lived, hadn’t thought through this bid to get inside. There was nothing in this room apart from the dunny and a half-basin with a squirt bottle of soap. I riffled through my handbag for a weapon but there was nothing remotely useful. Why did I not carry a gun, pepper spray, a fucking Swiss army knife even? Why did I walk around like I was made of goddamn steel?

  I entered 000 on my phone, locked the screen without dialling and then slid it into my front jeans pocket. Two touches and it would dial. Not that it would come to that. What he’d done to Bella he’d done far away and out of sight. He wouldn’t risk anything in his house, on a bright Saturday morning, while all his neighbours were home and had spoken to the woman door-knocking the street.

  I flushed the toilet. Washed my hands and face. I would say thank you. Leave. Knock on the last few doors. Go home and figure out what to do now I’d found him.

  I walked back out into the hallway. ‘Thanks,’ I called, heading straight for the front door.

  ‘Wait a sec.’ He stepped out from a room to my left, stepped right in my path. ‘My missus reckons she’s seen a cat hanging around the bins.’ He nodded his head towards the room he’d come from. A girl of eighteen or so with a baby of close to nine months pushing out her belly lay on her back on a brown velveteen sofa, a stack of multi-coloured cushions behind her head.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, trying hard to sound pleased, interested, stepping only very slightly towards the girl, away from the blessed front door. ‘Little grey tabby? Barely more than a kitten? Blue-and-white collar around his neck?’

  ‘Yeah, I think –’ She blinked at me. Pushed herself up to a sitting position. ‘How do I . . .?’ I saw recognition rush over her. ‘Fuck, Dave, fuck, it’s her. Bella Michaels’ sister.’

  I spun on my heel, but he was right there in front of the door. He didn’t touch me, but he made it so I’d have to touch him to get past. I held up my hands, think I said, ‘please’ or ‘sorry’ or something. Cursed myself for holding up my hands because now it would look sus if I shoved one into my pocket to get my phone.

  ‘Fuck, you’re thick,’ the girl was saying. ‘Her face’s been all over the news. How could you not fucking recognise her?’

  He didn’t answer, just looked right at me with this hurt twist to his face. I made myself hold eye contact, same way I’ve done when an angry dog’s been running and barking at me. Hold eye contact, don’t show your fear.

  He looked away first, over my shoulder. ‘Call the cops.’

  ‘You sure? We just got rid of the cunts.’

  His eyes on mine again. ‘I got nothing to worry about. Done nothing wrong.’

  She muttered something under her breath and then I heard her speaking in a put-on voice, like the one I use to answer the phone at the pub. Hunt nodded towards the living room and not knowing what else to do I slunk in and sank into an armchair a metre or so away from a big-screen TV showing a silent game show. To be honest, the way my legs were feeling, it was actually bloody good to sit down.

  It was young Matt and Sally who turned up. Sally took me out to the car and sat with me there while Matt talked to the Hunts. After about ten minutes he came out and stood on the lawn talking on his phone then slid into the passenger seat.

  ‘Righto, Chris, we’re going to take you down the station now, alright?’

  I asked what I was being charged with, since as far as I knew it wasn’t illegal to use someone’s dunny with their permission.

  ‘Not being charged, but I’ve just spoken to Detective Brandis and he has asked that you come in and have a chat.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to hear what he has to say about letting that raping, murdering monster go.’

  The cops exchanged the look everyone who’s ever worked in a pub knows. Crazy but harmless enough, it said. Least we can do is be kind to the poor old bugger, it said. In return I gave them another practised barmaid look: Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, you big steaming pile of cow shit.

  Brandis explained it all, and I suppose I have to as well now, make it plain that David Hunt was fair dinkum cleared. No DNA matches and a hell of an alibi. Hell of an alibi. That’s why I say ‘cleared’ and not ‘innocent’. He’s far from that, believe me. See, the reason the police picked him up in the first place was because a doctor rang them and said that a few days after Bella was taken, this bloke came into emergency with a super-infected wound on his hand. He said his dog had bitten him a few nights back and he’d thought it would heal up okay, but instead it’d turned crimson and started spewing pus. Thing is, the doctor reckoned the teeth marks were human, plus he also had scabbed-up scratches on his face. Anyway, the police looked him up, saw that he had a delivery route which included Bella’s nursing home and a previous assault charge, and that was that, they brought him in.

  His alibi, though. Yeah. His wife. Older than I thought, all of twenty-four. When the police interviewed her she was sporting a fading shiner and puffy lip. Broke down under questioning and confessed that Hunt’s bite marks and scratches were from her. They’d had a ‘little fight’ the week before and it had got ‘a bit out of control’. She explained that he had started drinking at four in the afternoon and when, around nine, she suggested he stop, he’d belted her. This was not the first time an argument had got out of control. Probably wouldn’t be the last, either, given she refused to press charges. None of the cops’ business, she reckoned. She could look after herself. She’d fought back and got him good. That infected bite was causing him hell.

  So,
yeah, they let him go, because he might be a pregnant-wife-beating shit bag but he didn’t kill anyone, so that’s alright then, hey?

  Me, I was warned to stay away. As if I had to be told. Run into enough useless arseholes in this life without seeking them out.

  Sunday, 26 April

  May lay on her hotel bed and tried to think of a reason to get up. It had been over a week since she had spoken to Chris. In that time she’d talked as in-depth as they’d allow with everyone she could find who’d had the slightest relationship to Bella or Chris. She had almost thirty hours of interviews recorded and had started a second spreadsheet just to keep track of who worked where and knew Bella how and was related to/fucking/in a feud with whom. And none of it gave her anything new to write.

  Fuck it. She would give Chris Rogers one more day and then call her again, give the pitch everything she had. If it was still a no she would have to crawl back to Sydney and start begging for a job at some community paper where she could report on new school halls and local chess comps instead of trying to dig up details of a dead woman’s sex life. Either that or try to make it as a glossy-mag freelancer writing ‘How to tell if your husband is cheating’ and ‘Flirt your way to the top’ articles for seventy cents a word.

  Her phone buzzed. Chris. Holy God, like she had willed it into being. ‘Hello?’ she said, hearing the entirely inappropriate joy and excitement in her voice.

  ‘Yeah, look. I’ve decided to do it. The interview.’

  May fist-pumped her reflection. ‘Oh, that’s great. I’m so pleased. When would you like to start?’

  ‘I’ve got today free up till five.’

  May sniffed herself. It’d been days since she’d showered. ‘Give me twenty minutes to finish up this thing I’m working on, then I’ll be right over.’

  Chris invited May through to the living room. It was small and simply furnished. There were two framed photos of Bella on the TV, one each on the stereo and the coffee table and three on the deep windowsill. May wondered how many had been displayed before and whose photos had been replaced, but it was too early to ask about anything that had happened since Bella died. Today’s plan was to get Chris talking about herself, her early life, her beliefs and dreams, start getting a sense of her as an individual rather than a dead woman’s sister.