‘Poetic,’ Paddy commented, ignoring the dismay in his stomach. He got the feeling this copper wasn’t going to do much to identify the woman.
‘If I write up this statement, will you sign it?’ Detective Pyke asked. ‘I need a proper record of this.’
‘I can wait.’
Putting a sheet of paper into a typewriter, Paddy watched as the man started to type with two fingers. It was going to take a while, so he tipped his head back and rested it against the wall. He’d slept in worse places.
A couple of hours later Paddy walked into the offices of the local newspaper and asked to see a journalist.
‘Got a story for you,’ he said as way of greeting.
The journalist was young and green and his eyes rolled at the description of the body. ‘You want me to put this in the paper?’ he asked.
‘You write the story and put in it what you want—you know what makes good reading, not me. All I’m doing is telling you what I’ve done so you can get it out there.’
‘I’ll get it written now,’ he answered. ‘Then you can check it.’
On the 23rd of February 1945, a local miner, who wants to remain anonymous, came across a gruesome discovery of the body of a woman, hanging from a tree.
‘It appeared,’ he said, ‘she had committed suicide.’
Twenty miles north of the town site of Barrabine there is now a lonely, unmarked grave holding the body of a woman. Her identity is unknown and the miner is eager to make her family aware of where he has buried her.
‘I came along too late to stop her from doing what she did, but I handled it the best I could once I found her. Everyone has a right to have a place to go to grieve,’ the miner told me today. ‘And everyone has a right to know what has happened to their family member. I want her family to know I took good care of her. That she had a Christian burial, as much as I could give her.’
This woman will be one of the many unnamed people buried in isolated graves in the Australian goldfields. The local miner said he couldn’t find any evidence of a camp close by.
If you know of miners who were living out that way, or of anyone who is missing, please contact the local police.
Paddy nodded. ‘Done me best, haven’t I, lad?’ he said when the journalist had finished reading it to him.
‘Don’t think you could do any more. Where you headed?’
‘Victoria, mate. Try my luck over there.’
‘Safe travels, then. If I hear she’s ever identified I’ll write and let you know.’
‘Care of the Ballarat Post Office,’ Paddy said, pushing his hat down tightly on his head. ‘They’ll know where to find me.’
Chapter 22
‘Did you hear that?’ Dave asked when he and Spencer were in the car.
‘Hear what?’
‘His story is different.’
‘What?’ Spencer put the key in the ignition and turned on the engine.
‘When we saw him on the road, he told us he left camp because a dingo had frightened him and then he had to go back because he’d left his GPS behind. Now the dingo’s an afterthought and he left because he got a little wet. I need to check my notes but I’m sure he camped in a tent during his first stay.’ His tone was incredulous.
Spencer laughed. ‘I reckon he’s about that soft.’
‘Wonder what he’s up to.’
‘Let’s do a search on him…’ Just then the radio crackled to life and the comms officer was calling their names.
‘Roger that,’ Dave said, picking up the receiver.
‘Got a 3-4-0 at the Oakamanda Pub,’ he said. ‘Repeat, a 3-4-0.’
Spencer shoved the car into gear as Dave reported that they were on their way to check out the disturbance.
Even before they pulled up, Dave could see the front windows of the iconic old pub were smashed. Dee was sitting on the wooden bench outside, waiting for them.
‘Bastards!’ she said fiercely as they walked over to her.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Thrown rocks through the window and got in that way. Knocked over the drinks fridge, taken beer and ciggies.’
There wasn’t any cool air to greet them today as they went in through the front door. Dave looked around at the carnage and sighed heavily before snapping on his rubber gloves and picking his way through the glass shards and up-ended bar stools.
‘When did you find it?’ he asked.
Her usual bouncy, humorous way of speaking was gone. ‘S’morning. Came to open at ten. You know, get set up for the day.’
‘No alarms?’
The look Dee gave him made him wish he hadn’t asked. ‘Does it look like we have an alarm here?’
Dave looked down and walked around, seeing if he could spot anything that could be used as evidence but, really, all he could see was a hell of a mess.’
‘Been any problems in here lately, Dee?’ Spencer asked. ‘Fights? Blokes you don’t know causing trouble?’
‘Nothing. Few tourists, some of the locals. Nothing out of the ordinary. Haven’t had any fights here for ages.’ She looked bewildered. ‘Everyone comes in, has a drink. The tourists read about the history, I tell ’em a few tall tales and off they go. The locals sit and keep on drinking. Only people who were in last night were China and two other locals. They never cause any grief.’
‘Here’s the rock. Or one of them,’ Dave pointed out. A large piece of quartz was sitting underneath the window.
Going back out to the car, Dave grabbed the camera and fingerprint kit.
While Spencer talked to Dee, he snapped shots of the window and stone in situ. Crunching over the broken glass, he dusted the inside of the windowsill, hoping that whoever had climbed in had left a print behind.
‘It’s
