Spencer shook his head. ‘I can’t say that until we know if the poor bugger was murdered or accidentally walked down a mine shaft.’
‘So we’ve ruled out that he died elsewhere and his body was dumped. We already know that Shannon indicated there was only a small amount of blood from the fall. He wouldn’t have bled if he was already deceased because there’s no heart action to make him bleed.’
Spencer nodded slowly as he put his marker down. ‘See?’ he said with a grin. ‘That’s why you’re one of the hotshots in Perth. You’re quick and onto it.’
Dave felt his face redden. ‘Don’t know about that.’
‘Credit where credit is due. You’ll probably be wasted here, Burrows.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll just check those MPs, okay?’
Dave sat at his desk and pulled up the Missing Persons Register on the police database and typed in what he knew, which, as he kept telling himself, wasn’t very much.
Scrolling through he looked at the ages because that was the best thing he had to go on. Occasionally he glanced at the photos but, not knowing what the man had looked like before he’d died, he couldn’t make a connection.
Twenty-seven, no good.
Nineteen.
Thirty-four…Dave stopped to read the information:
Jack Doust, reported missing on 10 September 1996 from Perth. Last seen wearing a red windcheater, denim jeans and sandshoes. Disappeared after a disagreement with wife. Missing ten days before reported.
Dave printed it off, knowing it could be a possibility, then went on to the next one.
Fifty-two-year-old Ian Shipe. Reported missing on 5 June 1995. Wearing tracksuit pants, possibly grey, black jumper and runners. Requires medication. History of mental health problems.
He was a possibility too.
‘Dave?’
He looked up at the sound of his name and realised an hour had passed and he only had two possibilities.
‘G’day, Nathan,’ he said to one of the other detectives. ‘You off?’
‘Yeah, you in for a quick drink?’
Dave glanced at the screen and saw he had thirty files still left to go through. It would be better to have the whole lot sorted and all the possibilities ready for Monday morning. Hopefully by then they’d have Shannon’s report and they’d be able to discount half of the possibilities and work on the others…if it wasn’t murder. ‘Nah, mate. I want to get through this lot tonight. Next time?’
‘Sure. Catch you on Monday.’
Giving him the thumbs up, Dave checked the time and picked up the phone to ring Melinda. When she didn’t answer, he left a message on the machine: ‘Hi, honey, I’m going to be a couple of hours late tonight. Still working on that body we picked up Wednesday and I want to do some final checks. Hope your day was great. See you tonight. Maybe about seven or just after.’
As he hung up the phone he wondered where she could be. Usually she was sitting by the telephone, waiting for her parents or sisters to call. Maybe she was hanging out a load of washing or talking to Ernie over the fence.
He chuckled to himself, knowing that wasn’t a possibility; so far, the Indigenous community seemed to make her uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure why—perhaps because she hadn’t grown up knowing any Aboriginal people, whereas he’d had Aboriginal friends at school. Turning his attention back to the computer screen, he continued reading the files.
Chapter 8
Melinda heard her husband’s message and scowled. She’d been sitting on the couch for the last three hours, crying and hitting the cushions. Dave being late was the last straw. She needed him at home. To yell and scream at. For him to be able to calm her down and make her see sense.
Trouble was, she didn’t want to see sense. She wanted to hit out. Let him know she blamed him for this. For her unhappiness. Her lack of career.
Was she overreacting? She didn’t care. It was how she felt. She stomped across the lounge and picked up the wedding photo sitting on the dresser, wanting to throw it across the room. There was no way, when they’d driven out of Bunbury, she’d ever envisaged being unemployed, lonely, homesick and angry at Dave. Certainly, she’d been nervous about the move and, if she was truthful, apprehensive. Her meeting with Wes had upset her more than she’d anticipated—especially when he’d told her it was hard to get back into good jobs once she’d resigned.
Instead of having a fulfilling and challenging job to go to every day, she was holed up here, looking at four white walls while the world went on without her.
‘Bastard,’ she hissed and threw the photo towards the kitchen with all her might.
The photo hit the bench and shattered, sending glass splintering across the kitchen.
‘Bastard,’ she whispered again and burst into loud, noisy sobs.
‘Hey, Mr Dave?’ a voice whispered through the darkness as Dave hurried up the path to his front door. ‘Mr Dave?’
‘Evening, Ernie,’ he answered as he continued to walk. Dave didn’t want to get stopped in conversation right now. He was tired and had the beginning of a headache, along with an aching back from sitting all day.
‘Got sad missus, yeah? Sad missus,’ the low voice said.
That made Dave stop. He turned and went over to the fence. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Crying. Lots of crying. Then I heard glass break. Uh-huh. Glass break. I knock on door, you know? To see if I can help. No answer. Ah nuh. No answer.’
Closing his eyes, Dave rubbed the back of his neck and let out a heavy sigh. ‘She’s not settling in well.’
‘Take time. I bring her present, next time I out in bush. Yeah? Present.’
‘You’re a good neighbour, Ernie. Thanks, mate. Have a good night.’
Dave walked in the door and was greeted by broken glass and an empty house. He slowly looked around and realised the glass in the kitchen had come from a framed photo of the wedding.
‘Melinda?’ he called, stepping over the glass and walking down the hall. Fear
