headed for a point where a clump of trees fringed the property and I could see across flat, open ground to the buildings. The sky had cleared and the light was holding. There were three vehicles parked nearby-one white car, one red and the dusty 4WD.
There was a cool breeze. I struggled into my jacket and checked the pistol. There was no cover of any kind between the fence and buildings. With difficulty I parted the strands of barbed wire and stepped through. I felt very exposed as I walked across the rough ground, stopping from time to time to check for movement ahead. Nothing. A hundred metres from the house a drainage ditch I couldn’t see from the road ran across the paddock. A little beyond that was a long, flat strip of land about twenty metres wide and running for at least a hundred metres to the south. Wheel marks showed on the closely mown grass. A runway of some kind.
I moved on until I reached the cars. The VW was old and rusty. I glanced inside and saw the same kind of chaos as in Chloe Monkhurst’s bedroom. The white Commodore was dusty but well maintained. The driver’s position was fitted with a hand throttle and a device to help with using the pedals. Same with the 4WD. There was a red paint smudge on the passenger-side bumper bar of the Commodore.
I moved cautiously towards the house. It was an old-style farmhouse, double-fronted with a tin roof and a bullnose verandah supported by sturdy posts. The roof was steeply pitched with two windows. There was no garden or ornamentation of any kind, but the porch and the surrounding area were tidy and swept clean. The front door was standing open but I worked my way around, crouching low as I passed the side windows with the pistol in my hand. No sounds from inside except something being rattled by the breeze.
The shed was several metres off to the right with a stand of paperbark trees affording it some shade. It faced the long runway. It had a skylight but no windows. Its double doors were open and a ride-on lawnmower stood just outside them. I approached it carefully. There was just enough light from the skylight to see a workbench, various bits of equipment and fuel drums inside, all in neat order. Nothing else.
I put the gun in my pocket and approached the back of the house. There was a lean-to with an ancient washing machine and a double cement tub. What used to be called a washhouse. Split wood was stacked in a box beside the back door. I went into the house; everything was clean and tidy and the door moved smoothly on oiled hinges. The kitchen was old style, with a linoleum floor, wood-burning stove, chip hot-water heater, a kerosene refrigerator and an enamel sink. An empty glass sat in the sink. I sniffed it. Rum.
I moved through the house, inspecting the two bedrooms and the sitting room. The bedrooms held double beds and old wardrobes and chests of drawers. The only signs of modernity were in the sitting room, where there was a home entertainment unit with a massive screen and shelves full of DVDs. Two large bookshelves were crammed with books, mostly to do with stage and screen. There were a few on gymnastics and diving. An old- fashioned drinks tray stood on a sideboard. It contained half-full bottles of dry sherry, brandy and whisky; the bottle of Bundaberg rum was empty.
The old house creaked around me and the rattling I’d heard from outside was louder and coming from upstairs, joined now with another noise. I paused and waited until I’d distinguished the two sounds: a blind flapping and human sobbing. With my stiff right leg protesting, I struggled up the narrow staircase and into the small room on the right of the landing.
Chloe Monkhurst sat on an upturned tea chest by the window. She was racked by sobs as she stared out the window.
‘Chloe,’ I said.
She turned towards me and a pistol in her shaking hand came up pointed straight at my chest.
23
I stopped in the doorway and leaned against the jamb.
‘Put it down, Chloe.’
‘I’ll shoot you.’
‘No you won’t. The gun’s too heavy. You can hardly hold it.’
She tried to hold the pistol steady with her other hand but her eyes were blurred by tears and she fumbled. I got to her in two strides and wrenched the gun away, exerting the minimum amount of force. It was a Glock automatic, fully loaded and quite weighty. I put it on the floor out of her reach and stood beside her. She’d stopped crying but her shoulders had slumped forward making her look small and vulnerable.
‘Where’s Jason, Chloe?’ I said.
She didn’t answer for what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds. There was something so tragic in her manner that time seemed distorted. The window was open and the light was fading fast.
‘You’ll never catch him.’
‘Why not? I’ve got this far.’
‘Yes. I shouldn’t have told him about you.’
I squatted beside her. ‘You told him all about your father and Bobby Forrest, didn’t you?’
Her eyes drifted down to a set of photographs she’d spread out on the floor in front of her. I’d noticed them when I’d put the gun down but now I bent to take a closer look. There were twelve, arranged in a semicircle. Jason Clement was the subject: Jason at the beach, Jason aiming a pistol, Jason in company with people I didn’t recognise, and four or five of Jason with Chloe. In one he was kissing her tattooed arm, in others they were smiling together at the camera or at each other. In one he was on crutches. It struck me how young he looked and how fresh and open his smile was. In the group photo several of the others were turned towards him and their looks were admiring. Youth, good looks and charisma-a powerful combination.
Chloe moved her feet and destroyed the pattern of the photos. She reached down and flicked some of them over, the ones in which they were together and glowing. She sniffed and knuckled her eyes. I had some tissues in a pocket of my jacket and I gave them to her. She wiped her face and dropped the tissues on the floor as she’d done a thousand times before.
‘I love him.’
‘I understand that. So when Jason found out all about Bobby and how he was happy and everything, he couldn’t stand it and he killed him.’
‘He’d had his life ruined. He had the right.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘He used to be so good-looking and he could do everything and now he can’t even. .’
‘He’s got some sort of plane, hasn’t he?’
She nodded. ‘An ultra-light.’
‘Where’s he going?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘You’re not making sense. I’m not trying to destroy him. Maybe it was an accident. It doesn’t have to be the end of his life.’
She shook her head and seemed unable to speak. Then she pointed to the pistol. ‘I told him to throw it away but he wouldn’t.’
‘What happened when you told him I’d been talking to your father?’
‘He said he knew you’d catch up with him sooner or later. You or the police. He said he didn’t care. He didn’t care that I loved him. He didn’t believe me.’
‘That’s hard.’
‘He gave me a test. He said if I loved him I should go with him in the plane. I wanted to but I was too scared. I couldn’t do it. So he laughed and said it couldn’t be much of a love.’
‘Why were you scared? Had you ever been in the plane before?’
‘Yes, of course. You don’t understand. He drank nearly a whole bottle of rum and he left the gun so you or the police would be able to prove what he’d done. He got the plane out of the shed. He said he had enough fuel for an hour’s flying and that he planned to be a thousand feet up when it ran out.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘I don’t know. It feels like a long time. I didn’t have the guts to go with him. He said I’d see him come down and be able to say goodbye.’
