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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
‘A beautifully written police procedural, where the characters are every bit as important as the plot. Brilliantly captures the impact of small-town tragedy, as investigators struggle to cope even as they work towards solving an horrendous crime.’
—Chris Hammer, winner of the UK CWA New Blood Dagger Award for Scrublands
How many lives can one incident shatter?
For one Daylesford cop, this will be their last callout. Another may not make it. A third will call it quits.
Black cloud on a winter’s morning signals what nobody could’ve seen coming. An anything-but-routine welfare check by two Daylesford police officers at a farm in Korweinguboora. A fatal house explosion that leaves a rural community reeling.
Local cop John Franklin and Melbourne journalist Georgie Harvey are among the first responders at the property. The crime scene is compromised by fire and tonnes of water, and speculations run rife. Murder-suicide? Accident or sabotage? An isolated incident or just the beginning?
As lives hang in the balance, Franklin seeks answers and someone to hold accountable while Georgie investigates her toughest story yet. But will one of them crack?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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BLACK CLOUD: HOW MANY LIVES CAN ONE INCIDENT SHATTER?
GEORGIE HARVEY AND JOHN FRANKLIN BOOK 4
SANDI WALLACE
CONTENTS
Praise For Sandi Wallace’s Books
Also by Sandi Wallace
Day One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Day Two
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Day Three
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Day Four
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Day Five
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Day Six
Chapter 79
Day Ten
Chapter 80
Acknowledgments
You may also like
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2020 Sandi Wallace
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter
Published 2022 by Next Chapter
Edited by Elizabeth N. Love
Cover art by CoverMint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
PRAISE FOR SANDI WALLACE’S BOOKS
‘A beautifully written police procedural, where the characters are every bit as important as the plot. Black Cloud brilliantly captures the impact of small-town tragedy, as investigators struggle to cope even as they work towards solving an horrendous crime.’
CHRIS HAMMER, WINNER OF THE UK CWA NEW BLOOD DAGGER AWARD FOR SCRUBLANDS
‘Aussie Noir at its best. Once again Wallace has tapped into the rural crime genre with an iconic sense of place beneath a black cloud of menace and intrigue. Her Georgie Harvey and John Franklin series just gets better and better.’
B. MICHAEL RADBURN, AUTHOR OF THE TAYLOR BRIDGES SERIES
‘Black Cloud is absorbing and suspenseful, a perfect weekend read for the rural crime fiction lover. Wallace has struck that elusive balance between relatable characters, disturbing crimes and an urgent plot that drives the reader forward.’
L.J.M. OWEN, AUTHOR OF THE DR PIMMS SERIES AND THE GREAT DIVIDE
‘Sandi Wallace’s best yet! Engaging, fast-paced, and full of suspense.’
KAREN M. DAVIS, FORMER NSW POLICE DETECTIVE AND AUTHOR OF THE LEXIE ROGERS SERIES
‘A gripping twist on the bushfire threat all Australians live with.’
JAYE FORD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF DARKEST PLACE
‘Suspenseful, exciting, atmospheric rural crime; a riveting debut.’
MICHAELA LOBB, SISTERS IN CRIME AUSTRALIA
‘The police aspect of this novel has depth and believability…this debut is a cracker.’
J.M. PEACE, SERVING QLD POLICE OFFICER AND AUTHOR OF AWARD-WINNING A TIME TO RUN
‘Worthy debut.’
HERALD SUN
‘Sharply crafted and authentic… These are stories that linger, long after they are read.’
ISOBEL BLACKTHORN, REVIEWER, EDUCATOR, NOVELIST, POET
‘Sandi Wallace packs as much punch into her short crime stories as she does into her novels.’
ELAINE RAPHAEL, GOODREADS READER
ALSO BY SANDI WALLACE
Georgie Harvey and John Franklin series
Tell Me Why
Dead Again
Into the Fog
Black Cloud
Short story collections
On the Job
Murder in the Midst
Award-winning short stories
‘Sweet Baby Dies’ (Scarlet Stiletto: The Eleventh Cut – 2019)
‘Fire on the Hill’ (Scarlet Stiletto: The Tenth Cut – 2018)
‘Busted’(Scarlet Stiletto: The Eighth Cut – 2016)
‘Ball and Chain’(Scarlet Stiletto: The Sixth Cut – 2014)
‘Silk Versus Sierra’(Scarlet Stiletto: The Fifth Cut – 2013)
Non-fiction
Writing the Dream (contributing author)
For Simon, much missed. And Ellen.
DAY ONE
WEDNESDAY 13 JUNE
CHAPTERONE
‘Nobody could’ve seen it coming. An accident.’ Bob Getty scrunched up his face.
Fifteen minutes into their interview, he’d done a full circle to the exact words he’d used at the start. Georgie Harvey laid a mental bet on what he’d say next.
‘A good man’s life snuffed out. Kaput. Dead.’
Word-for-word, same facial expression, identical pauses. He hadn’t just used it earlier, but also on the breaking news report on Channel 7 last Friday evening. It’d been echoed in the print, radio and television media until the story was bumped from the spotlight by the murder of a baby boy during a burglary in Bendigo.
If Georgie worked for a daily, she’d be chasing today’s headline, not talking to Getty on his farm in Gordon. The main perk of writing for Champagne Musings was leeway to follow her instincts on stories that’d lost traction in the mainstream. From her warm, comfy study in Richmond, Getty’s quirks had signalled there was more to this situation than the initial news story. Standing in the iced-over paddock with her feet turning numb inside her boots, a niggle seeded in her mind.
She shuffled on the spot, and her feet prickled with the movement. She assessed Getty, re-running her editor’s response, You reckon there’s a story, so find it. Typical of any conversation with Sheridan Judd, she’d added, Don’t miss your deadlines though.
In Georgie’s silence, the middle-aged man repeated the words and gestures.
He’s talking about his best mate’s sudden death – sure it’s not a reaction to shock?
She pretended to make notes, covertly watching Getty’s eyes shift to the shed, float over a bunch of gas cylinders, then across the misty yard to the dam from where they’d pulled Allan Hansen’s body.
Almost certain.
Her gut feeling was that he kept restating it so that he wouldn’t forget or deviate. She’d seen it before. Her partner John Franklin told her crooks did it all the time, and he should know as a seasoned cop.
Hansen’s drowning was no accident.
Constable Sam Tesorino’s mobile went off. She scooped it up, noted the caller and grinned.
‘Hi!’ She restrained herself from adding, boss. ‘Franklin! How’s it going? You busy?’
‘Just killing a few minutes while I’m waiting for Marty. Got to thinking, you’ve only six months left. You worked out where you want to go next?’
Since John Franklin’s move from the Daylesford station, they often went days without catching up. Yet she knew that he meant her next posting, when her two-year probationary period was up, and not holiday plans.
‘Definitely the country but not a town this small. Regional, with a CIU – maybe Bendigo or Ballarat. That’s if I have much say.’
Sam’s chest tightened with an odd mix of gloom and excitement. She struggled to imagine moving on from Daylesford, even though it wasn’t the same anymore. She had to transfer out in a step towards joining one of the squads. She wasn’t sure which. The mounted branch used to be her dream. But after what had happened at Mount Dandenong last spring, she’d done a mind-shift from never wanting to deal with sex offences or homicides to thinking she could make a real difference in a unit like that, after a requisite stint in a crime investigation crew.
She saw the time. ‘Shit.’ With her mobile still pressed to her ear, she snatched her jacket from the back of her chair and gave the toilet door a sharp rap as she rushed by.
‘Hurry up, Irvy.’
‘Catch you at a bad moment? You got a callout?’
Franklin sounded strange. Could he be wistful?
‘Haha!’ She laughed. ‘You miss the uniform, don’t you? You miss us!’
He denied it.
‘Yeah, right. Whatever you say. But yes, we should’ve left already – we’re due to meet a nurse in Korweingi at 10.00am.’
It’d ordinarily only take fifteen minutes to reach the address in Korweinguboora, or Korweingi as locals dubbed it, but she’d wanted to allow longer in view of the weather.
Not going to happen now. Thanks, Irvy.
‘Hang on,’ she told Franklin, then hollered to her partner, ‘Irvy, hurry up. I’ll meet you in the truck.’
‘What’s the job?’
After grabbing the keys for the marked four-wheel drive, she juggled the phone to shrug on her jacket. ‘A welfare check at a farm on Riley’s Lane.’
‘Whose?’
Sam scurried down the wet staircase and climbed into the driver’s side of the truck. ‘The Murray place. Alec and–’
‘Bel. Our local kindergarten teacher.’
Her ‘Yes’ was drowned out by Senior Constable Grant Irvine slamming the passenger door, letting out three loud sneezes.
She shook her head. ‘You look like crap, Irvy.’
He sniffed hard, complained in a nasal twang, ‘That’s nothing on how I feel. Bloody thanks I get for swapping shifts with Harty.’
Sam turned over the ignition. ‘Gotta go, Franklin.’
‘Take it easy.’
She laughed. ‘The only trouble I’m going to get is from the grumpy bum sitting next to me.’ Irvy wagged a finger at her. ‘Hopefully, we’ll be offered a nice hot cuppa though.’
Marty Howell glanced sideways, as he and John Franklin drove out in the unmarked station wagon. ‘Bet you used to dream about popping on your suit for the theft of a bunch of pigs, didn’t you?’ He let out a little snort.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Franklin chuckled. ‘It’s right up there with our hundred-odd woolly friends that were nicked from Greendale last week.’
The older detective sobered. ‘These cases mightn’t be glamourous, but I get a kick outta cracking them.’
Franklin nodded, thinking of his farmer mates hurting enough without losing their stock.
‘I like it when crooks make mistakes. I like it a lot,’ Howell said, entering the Grant Street roundabout after a light van. He then took the first exit onto Bacchus Marsh Road, the car’s tyres swishing on the wet bitumen.
Franklin watched his partner’s face wondering what he was getting at. ‘Yeah?’
‘Think about it, mate. We’ve had a run of similar jobs, and most couldn’t be pinned down to a specific day, let alone time. True?’
Howell zipped through the second roundabout. Only a month into Franklin’s posting at Bacchus Marsh, he’d taken this route from the cop shop to Western Freeway plenty. It hadn’t grown on him much.
He pulled his attention back to the conversation. ‘Yep. The Greendale sheep could’ve been gone for up to five days before the owner noticed. Big difference to the pigs missing from Colbrook – we can narrow this one down to the past twelve hours. So assuming they’re the work of the same mob–’
‘They’re getting sloppy or cocky,’ finished Howell. He smacked his lips. ‘I never doubted we were eventually gonna nab ’em. But now I warrant it’ll be sooner than later.’
In her side vision, Sam saw Irvy thudding away on his mobile. He stopped, dumped his phone into his lap and plucked at the woven leather band on his wrist. It’d gone on non-stop since they’d left the station.
‘Anything wrong, Irvy?’
He pulled out a wad of tissues and blew his nose, but didn’t answer. Sam sensed him stiffen as they neared his house on the left. He twisted in the seat as they passed it, huffing loudly.
She forgot him and focused ahead, steering the truck by the Sailors Falls car park. Steady rain ratcheted to a volley pelting the windscreen, and a patch of fog swallowed the truck. Sam checked the headlights and fog lamps – both were on and the wipers set at top speed. Shitty day – any worse and she’d have to pull over, but it’d definitely make them late.
She anticipated the dip, rapidly assessed the water over the road. Navigable in the four-wheel drive.
‘God, it’s cold, isn’t it?’
The truck heater was on full blast but barely took off the edge.
Irvy didn’t answer, too busy typing on his phone. Sam wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t force him to talk. He really should’ve called in sick and stayed in bed. She hoped man flu was all it was because she wanted the real Irvy back, not this cranky version.
Georgie parked in Gordon’s main street, running over her interview with Getty in her mind. She left the car heater on to defrost her feet. They were so cold she couldn’t decide if her socks were wet.
Allan Hansen’s home was next on her list, and she needed an opening that’d get her over the threshold. Her background research revealed the man had left behind a de facto wife, Jeanette Roselle, and two grown sons from a previous marriage. Every chance she’d find one or more of them there.
Could she go with the same approach she’d used for Getty? As the face of the news story, a follow-up with the guy had been an easy sell. She needed to come at it differently with the family. But how?
Georgie eyed the structures around her, ignoring a couple of men on the footpath chattering as they darted glances at her 1984 black Alfa Spider. Her course to Getty’s place had given her a good overview of the town. It boasted a large church and two primary schools in addition to a small number of businesses, including the cluster she could see from here: a pub, a general store, a hat shop and a strange mixed business combining old wares, clothes, books and café. The nearby homes were predominantly lived-in as opposed to weekenders: cars in driveways, wheelie bins out of sight, chimneys smoking, gardens tended, and kids’ play equipment, building materials, caravans or trailers in the yards. She guessed the residents rarely saw impractical classic convertibles in town mid-week. She’d given them something gossip-worthy.
What she needed was a good strong coffee from the café to kickstart her frozen brain and get this story moving. She’d hate this trip to have been a timewaster.
Sam concentrated on driving. Irvy was crap company, playing with his phone, and blowing endless amounts of snot from his nose.
‘That was Sucklings Lane,’ she thought out loud. ‘So next turn.’
She spotted Riley’s Lane and hooked onto it. The truck bumped along the narrow gravel road, the tyres slushing and spraying mud.
They swept past a round-topped shed and approached a wide gate hung with a sign etched with ‘Goodlife Farm – A & B Murray’. They were at the right place. Wispy fog threaded around twin bare trees on either side of the driveway giving the place a haunting beauty. Sam grimaced at the black cloud bearing down from the south-west. Nothing sweet about that. Just dark and threatening.
‘Can you get the gate, Irvy?’
He muttered, then released the passenger door. The cabin temperature plummeted. Sam shivered, shaking her head at him, clearly still grumbling while he moved to the gate. He quit it when two kelpies bolted down the gravel driveway, barking.
Irvy gave a settle gesture and spoke to them. The lead dog came close, quiet now, its white-blazed nose held high and red-coated chest and neck stretched up as it listened. Its mate stood alongside – two red-dog bookends, the second one slightly finer-boned and pure-coloured. They stalked Irvy as he opened the gate and swung it shut after the truck pulled through.
Sam drummed the steering wheel while he used his mobile, this time speaking, not texting. Not happy either. The dogs tracked his wild arm movements. He didn’t say a word when he reentered the cabin, pocketing his phone. She didn’t dare ask what was going on and inched the truck forward.
Old, spindly trees and an informal cottage garden around the timber house meant Sam had to stop near the adjacent shed. She left the motor running for heat and wipers, and took in the empty space.
‘We seem to have beaten the nurse.’
‘Yeah.’ Irvy went to get out. The wind gusted, rocking his door on its hinges. He shoved a booted foot against it.
‘Hang on. It’s only ten now.’
‘We can do this without her.’
Sam glanced at the rear-view mirror. No sign of the nurse who’d requested the welfare check. ‘She’ll be here any moment.’
The dogs watched on, dropping to their haunches when Irvy yanked his door closed. Sam hid her relief, then let central communications know they were at the address.
While they waited, Irvy plucked at his wristband. ‘This is going to be a dud.’
‘Possibly, but we have to complete the job.’
‘They’re probably not home.’
The place did have an empty feel. They couldn’t make assumptions though. She said, ‘Maybe the Murrays are asleep or down the back and haven’t seen us.’
Silence inside the cabin, except for Irvy’s snotty breathing. Sam’s eyes followed a dappled grey as it trotted along the fence line to their left. The horse whinnied.
She floundered for something to say that might get Irvy to loosen up. The rain suddenly stopped, and the truck’s wipers scraped over the windscreen. She clicked them off. No doubt it’d bucket down again any minute.
At a loss, talk about the weather.
‘Think it might fine up?’
He twitched his shoulders.
‘The last two nights were so cold, weren’t they? I had to sleep in my tracksuit and socks.’
He didn’t react.
‘And how was that wild wind that blew up at 3.00am? I thought the roof was going to come off on Monday night, but it was even worse last night. Still gusty now, isn’t it?’
He gave her nothing.
Sam tried again. ‘We’ve probably had the equivalent of June’s usual rainfall in the past fifty hours, don’t you think?’
All he said was, ‘Yeah,’ and she surrendered.
Irvy glared at his mobile and mumbled to himself. He pulled out his mushed-up tissues and blew his nose. It went on forever.
‘Gross!’
He pushed open his door and lumbered out. ‘Not waiting.’
‘Irvy!’
Sam switched off the ignition. He was already tramping across the yard. The two kelpies sniffed at his heels.
Sam exited, zipping up her police jacket. She tuned into an approaching vehicle and tracked a silver, compact SUV on Riley’s Lane. It was unmarked. It could be Denise Zachary’s own vehicle or from the hospital fleet. If it wasn’t the nurse, it appeared that they’d be going ahead without her.
Sam met the SUV at the gate. She waved it through, indicating to park near the police truck, and hurried back.
The woman’s black gumboots landed in a puddle when she emerged from the SUV. She laughed. ‘Lucky I didn’t wear my stilettos today.’ Her boots squelched as she took a step towards Sam, tugging down her pink blouse with blue logo to cover a ring of bare flesh above her trousers.
‘Sam? I’m Denise.’ Strands of brown hair whipped in the wind, escapees of a messy, high bun hugging her round face, as she stooped to shake hands. When she straightened, Denise had a good eight centimetres on Sam. She glanced at Irvy pacing on the verandah deck. ‘Your partner’s keen.’
Embarrassed, Sam didn’t respond. She led the way up an overgrown pathway. The dogs yapped and ran by.
‘Freezing, isn’t it? Hold on while I grab my coat?’
Sam shuffled for warmth while the nurse returned to her SUV and battled the wind to pull on a woollen coat. She heard knocking.
‘Mr and Mrs Murray?’ Irvy rapped again.
Denise made her way back up the path, and Sam continued towards the cottage.
Irvy sneezed, once, twice, then a third time, each progressively louder. He swiped his nose with the back of a hand while he opened the flywire door, then the main door. As Sam’s foot struck the bottom verandah step, she smelt rotten eggs.
Can’t believe Irvy farted.
She caught another whiff, and her stomach pitched.
‘IRVY! STOP!’
She charged forward. He had too much of a lead and stepped inside. Denise yelled from right behind, ‘Sam?’ The dogs took up barking.
‘NO!’
Irvy disappeared calling, ‘Mr and Mrs Murray? It’s–’
Sam shouted, ‘GAS!’ as she reached the top step.
A loud bang coupled with a whoosh and bright flash, chased by the flare of orange flames, a burst of heat. A scream. It could’ve been Irvy. Windows blew outwards, and the panes in the front door and its fanlight exploded. A dog’s yelp pierced through the noise. Sam flew backwards, holding up her arm, shelled by shards of glass and splintered timber.
She hit the ground. Her skull struck a brick edging the pathway.
CHAPTERTWO
Marty Howell hummed a tune, and Franklin’s mind drifted back to Daylesford. To Sam and her next move.
She’d be wasted driving the van for too long. She needed a few more years of general duties and experience in larger stations, then he could see her smashing through the extra training and exams to move up the ranks. Her empathy was the only thing to watch: a good and bad trait. Sam would fit well in a SOCIT team, be a smart investigator and great advocate for victims and their families, but he worried how dealing with child abuse and sexual offences would affect her long-term. Luckily, the brass had assumed as the rookie she’d been roped into their rogue investigation last year, and there was no black mark on her record—well, maybe just a smudge—unlike the rest of them. But he had no regrets considering what might have happened otherwise, and his mates said the same.
He took in the landscape as Howell steered the car along the Ballan–Colbrook route. Very different to the urban sprawl of Bacchus Marsh’s centre and the distinctive steep, undulating hills and mixed farms around it. Bacchus straddled commuter belt suburbia and traditional country town with a population of over 20,000, making it nearly ten of Daylesford. And the patch for their crime investigation unit ranged over the Golden Plains, Hepburn and Moorabool areas. It made things interesting.
If he got the chance for official attachment to the CI team, would he take it?
Franklin pulled a wry smile. He’d jump at it. But District Inspector Eddie Knight’s push me–pull you since October seemed to have no use-by date. It was wearing thin. He’d struggled but passed his sarge’s exam while biding his time, seeing if what effectively amounted to work-experience kid in the detective’s unit would come to more.
Still waiting.
Sam stirred and coughed. She wheezed, conscious of things in stages. Heat. Smoke. Muted sound. Tingling in the back of her neck – no, not tingling, a shooting ache. Her fingers found a sticky spot. It stung, and she pulled away. There was a horrible stench coming from somewhere. Confused, she couldn’t think what it was, what to do. Pain scorched through the fuzziness. She was hurt. Badly. All over. But especially her head.
Oh, God! I’m on fire. Can’t remember what to do.
She tried to sit up and swayed giddily, and then fell back to the ground. Dullness in her ears cleared to hissing, buzzing. Nauseous, her stomach rolled.
That’s it, roll. Drop and roll.
Already down, Sam didn’t have to drop. She tried to roll, but couldn’t. She felt around – one of her legs was twisted sideways at an angle that was all wrong. The tips of her fingers probed melted material, flesh, and bone protruding the skin.
She screamed. Couldn’t hear it.
Sam writhed and slapped at her body. Trying to beat out the flames. To detach from the singeing and melding of her skin, hair and clothes. She cried, ‘Help!’ but it disappeared into a vacuum of confusion.
Oh, God, this pain is unbearable!
Thoughts spun in her brain. Irvy. Denise Zachary. The Murrays. Who else was hurt? How long would it take for help to arrive?
She strained to lift up. A fresh level of pain hammered her skull. She yelled, ‘Irvy?’ thinking she was facing the cottage. Unsure, she shook her head. The movement made an ear pop. It still rang, but the roar of flames taking over the building was unmistakable.
Toxic fumes, the reek of burning flesh and hair, horrific pain. Sam flopped back, staring up blindly. Sick with the thought that they might’ve been set up.
The police radio crackled. Franklin was chuckling at something Marty Howell had said. But their laughter died when they heard ‘…reports of a series of explosions and fire in the vicinity of Spargo Creek. Fire and ambulance dispatched.’
Franklin plucked up the radio mic and gave the callsign for their unmarked CIU station wagon. He requested the address.
‘Still pending corroboration. Initial caller said Spargo–Blakeville Road, Spargo Creek.’
The operator paused. Then said, ‘Second informant stated Back Settlement Road, Korweinguboora.’ She stumbled over the pronunciation, emphasising the r in the first syllable.
‘We’re not far–’
Franklin cut off Howell, saying into the mic, ‘Casualties?’ He clenched the handset.
‘Unknown.’
‘We’ll be there in,’ he glanced at Howell who mouthed ten minutes, ‘approximately eight minutes.’
After he’d signed off and activated lights and siren, he answered his partner’s unspoken question. ‘My old crew are in the area. Riley’s Lane, which runs straight off Back Settlement Road in Korweingi.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yep.’
Howell planted his foot, and the Commodore shot forward. Franklin grabbed the dash to stabilise against body roll.
At this rate, we’ll be there in five.
Sam heard a sound that tore through her body, hurting much worse than her own physical pain. It repeated, while a dog whined in the other direction. She could tell the difference. Both were agonised. One was human.
‘Hold on.’ Sam’s words rasped and cracked.
Sweet Jesus. Help us.
‘It’ll be all right.’
It’s not going to be all right.
She was still burning.
Sam’s eyes rolled at the spearing pain in her fingers as she fumbled the zip on her jacket. The fine movement of grasping and drawing the pull tab was impossible, so she yanked the jacket lapel as hard as she could, letting out a whimper of relief when the gap widened around her neck. She attempted to slip off the jacket like a jumper. It ripped her skin, and she let go, panting.
She clenched her jaw, blocking out her injuries. Somebody needed her. Irvy? The nurse? One of the Murrays?
She tried to swallow to make saliva. Managed, ‘I’m coming!’
She rocked on the wet turf and slapped at the flames. Her bra had fused with flesh, the underwire blazing. Heavy on her skin, her equipment belt chafed. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, scared of permanent damage.
It didn’t help.
It’s probably normal after a blast.
Couldn’t stop the sinking dread with, Nothing’s ever going to be normal again.
She talked over her inner voice. ‘Shut up, Sam.’ She had to hold it together for the other survivor. ‘Survivors,’ she rebuked herself.
It was all on her. And she had to quit wasting time. If they were set up, the perp could still be lurking or more booby traps about to go off.
After another round of fast blinks, Sam made out the hazy outline of her hand in front of her face and gasped. Then the other person moaned. Her gut wrenched in response.
Her best guess was that the person was further back from the Murray house. Denise had been behind her before. It had to be her.
‘Denise?’ she croaked.
The shrieks heightened.
Sam dug deep to call louder, ‘I’m coming!’
She turned in the opposite direction, into the heat. ‘Irvy? Where are you?’
He didn’t answer. Sam’s stomach lurched again as reasons for Irvy’s silence ricocheted in her mind. None of them good.
Biting her lip against the pain, she sat up. She tried to stand, stumbled and gave up on getting upright. She pulled herself over onto her elbows and half-crawled, half-slithered, dragging her useless leg as she followed Denise’s screams.
She refused to think about what the friction was doing to her burnt skin as she scraped along, snagging on bushes and shrapnel, or what she’d see when she reached the nurse.
CHAPTERTHREE
Georgie sipped from her takeaway coffee beaker and nearly spat out her mouthful when Sheridan Judd said, ‘To be honest, you haven’t done much to impress me lately.’
It hit a sore spot. All she’d written for the magazine in the past month, at least, was fluff and dull stuff. But every journo had dry patches. She still cringed.
Her editor went on. ‘Finish your column and what’s outstanding. Then take this week to recharge.’
Innocent enough, except for the barbed edge. Georgie anticipated what was coming.
‘And get me that brilliant story you said you were onto.’
Judd paused.
‘Or don’t bother coming back.’
Reasonably sure her editor had run out of steam and wouldn’t actually dump her, Georgie said, ‘I told you, there’s a story here.’
There was something about the pretty township of Gordon that intensified the vibes she’d sensed at Getty’s farm. All she had so far were her instincts and imagination. Yet she promised, ‘I’ll get you a top story…’
She broke off, distracted by the serious tone of the radio announcer.
‘In breaking news, there have been reports of a series of explosions and an uncontrolled fire in the vicinity of the small town of Korweinguboora in central Victoria.’
Georgie turned up the volume.
‘The number of casualties involved, extent of damage to property, and cause of the incident are not known at this stage. Emergency services have been called to the scene. We’ll bring you further information as it comes to hand.’
She straightened in her leather seat. ‘Something big’s going down not far from here, Sheridan. I’m going to check it out. Talk later.’
Her editor was still speaking when she hung up.
Sam tried to fix on a positive. Blurry, excruciating sight was better than none.
It sort of helped.
She made out the shape of a person in the haze. They were upright and in motion. She slither-crawled in that direction, soon exhausted by the effort of moving what was probably mere metres.
A few feet from the nurse, her body took on fierce shaking.
She hadn’t been in the job long, but she’d already seen too many victims of accidents and violence, several with horrendous injuries. A few that were dead. Scenes like that were always dreadful. But she wished she’d never witnessed this.
It was difficult to imagine that the burning woman was lucky to be alive.
Sam’s hearing dulled as a woozy wash came over her. She recognised it was shock. She knew she couldn’t give way to it. Denise needed her – she’d die without her help.
She took a shuddering breath. Smoke scratched her throat and swelled her airways. Her lungs strained. When she coughed, her ears popped, and noise burst back. More chaotic and louder than ever.
It took immense effort, but her ‘I’m here, Denise’ sounded reasonably controlled.
The other woman continued to shriek.
Sam drew from deeper inside to use her cop voice. ‘You need to stop, Denise. Drop and roll.’
No reaction, and the nurse’s erratic movement was fanning the flames, feeding the fire.
‘Denise, please listen.’ Sam struggled into a standing position, biting back her yelp at the sharp pain that shot up her leg. Listing to one side, she held up a hand, meaning it to be calming and authoritative. ‘You know what to do from your training. Stop, drop and roll.’
It was no good. She couldn’t get the message across.
Sam groped for ideas.
Take Denise to the ground and roll out the flames.
Impossible with a broken leg.
What then?
I don’t know!
Oh, God. Yes, I do.
She’d have to use what was left of her own jacket to douse the fire. It was going to hurt, beyond anything she’d ever experienced before.
No choice. Rip it off. Do it fast.
With shaking hands, Sam yanked the material away from where it had fused to her waistline, tearing her flesh. Finally, it was off. Panting, she blinked off dizziness.
Denise still appeared oblivious to her.
Maybe it did more to calm herself than the nurse, but Sam talked through what she was doing. ‘I’m going to wrap you in my jacket and pat out the flames. Okay?’
Denise didn’t answer, but she stilled and looked directly at Sam. Her eyes were filled with naked fear, and underlying that, trust.
Sam murmured as she worked, aware that she was going to hurt Denise by helping her. Her thoughts scattered when she took in the strips of skin peeling off her own red-raw hands.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
At full throttle, they made it to the Mineral Springs Hotel in Spargo Creek in record time. Most locals knew it as the Korweingi Pub, despite the five-odd kilometres separating the two places and the years since the last beer was officially pulled. It traded as an antique store these days, open only for short, random hours during the week and on weekends. Could often drive by and see no vehicles out front.
On their approach, Franklin clocked two women and an elderly man clustered near a couple of cars, talking animatedly. One woman pointed up the road and another nodded. The group turned and watched as their unmarked passed by, apparently mesmerised by the wailing siren and flashing blues-and-reds on the wagon.
He and Howell had exchanged few words since the initial call. Seeing as they’d sped along Spargo–Blakeville Road and taken the turn onto the Ballan road without spotting anything amiss, the first informant’s version was clearly dodgy. Franklin’s gut shrivelled. Worried because that put the incident in Korweinguboora, close to Sam and Irvy’s welfare check at the Murray farm.
The radio crackled to life. Franklin took in the two words ‘Riley’s Lane’ and grabbed up the mic.
‘Two officers from Daylesford…’ He faltered and tried again, adding their names. ‘They were due at Riley’s Lane this morning, to see Belinda and Alec Murray. Have they reported in?’
Franklin sweated on the operator’s response.
‘Not since they notified their arrival.’
He clicked off the mic. Slammed a fist into the dashboard.
Howell slowed behind several cars travelling in the same direction, possibly locals on their way to the property to offer help. All suddenly slowing to the speed limit. As if they were going to issue tickets right now.
‘Why don’t they pull over? Morons!’
Howell peered through the windscreen. ‘Can’t.’
Franklin saw the truth in that but fumed. Howell was hamstrung by the vehicles bunched up on the curving road. Without a clear visual for oncoming traffic, he couldn’t gamble on space to cross over the centre line to overtake without risking a head-on. Likewise, overtaking on the left shoulder was out.
So much for the good time they’d made reaching Spargo Creek.
Franklin dialled out on his mobile. Unanswered, the call went to message bank. He disconnected, then tried a second number. Ended it and blew out a breath.
‘Fuck.’
‘Still can’t get onto Sam and Irvy?’
‘No.’
The wagon bounced over a pothole.
Franklin stared at the phone in his lap, dwelling on Sam and Irvy. His colleagues until he’d been attached to Bacchus Marsh. His mates.
‘They were on a welfare check.’
Howell grimaced.
‘What’s happened to them?’
His offsider didn’t answer. Instead, he glimpsed his mirrors, clicking on the indicator, and deftly accelerated past the cars.
Both uncontactable. Why? Because they’re too busy helping? Or because they can’t answer?
They were the closest car to the address. First responders to what?
Howell decelerated, signalling right.
They were nearly there.
‘How bad?’ The nurse’s voice rasped.
Sam floundered for words. Honesty would not help. But an outright lie?
God give me strength.
A man broke into her desperate prayer. He bellowed in a language she couldn’t understand, not English or Italian. Then said, ‘Hold on, we’re coming.’
Sam wheezed, ‘Thanks,’ hoping he was real, not imagined. Then scared he was the perp who had set up the explosion – if it was an ambush.
‘Get water, Vlatka!’
A female answered, ‘I have got it, Sven.’
Feet pounded in approach. Other sounds made Sam think items were being dragged or thrown out of the way. But she still couldn’t see their rescuers.
She crawled forward. Tried to yell out. Croaked, ‘Have you rung triple zero?’ It was doubtful they could have heard it.
But the woman spoke. ‘Don’t panic. The fire truck and ambulance are called.’
Sam slithered a bit further. ‘My partner–’ The words were indecipherable, and she collapsed backwards. Spent. Nothing left to fight with.
She blinked to be sure the apparition leaning over her was real. An older woman with a concerned round face. A bucket propped on her hip.
‘This will be cold, I’m sorry.’ She splashed water onto her.
Sam heard a hiss. Maybe the sound was only imaginary, but the liquid soothed fractionally more than it deepened her pain.
Denise was screaming. Sam felt herself fading. In the distance, a man cried, ‘What on earth!’
In the next heartbeat, somebody shouted, ‘LOOK OUT!’
A loud crash, the popping and snarling of debris and flames. Then Sam blacked out.
CHAPTERFOUR
The car’s tyres hissed on the slick bitumen. Wind buffeted the little convertible, whistling as it crept through every tiny gap between the canvas soft top, glass and body.
Georgie gunned the accelerator, slipping past a tractor trudging along, half on tarred road, half on gravel. Trying to calculate when she’d get to Korweinguboora. Then jumping to her good luck at being relatively close by.
Maybe the magic story wasn’t Allan Hansen’s mysterious death. Maybe she’d had a kind of premonition leading her to be on the spot for a massive breaking story, all the better because of her connections with Daylesford. But if so, there might be a conflict over whether it could wait for the forthcoming issue of Champagne Musings or Georgie needed to sell it to a daily.
Her pulse thumped through her palms on the steering wheel, while her stomach turned. Several explosions and rampant fire couldn’t be victimless. Someone had to be hurt – by property damage, if not physically. The same event that excited a journo or editor for its newsworthiness would leave people devastated. But finding and writing the truth was her job, so she brushed off the niggle.
Georgie slowed for her turnoff, then powered the Spider along the Ballan–Daylesford road.
What am I going to find when I get there?
A red Country Fire Authority tanker had beaten them to the corner of Back Settlement Road by seconds. Franklin recognised the crew-cab immediately – the primary voluntary fire brigade’s appliance for Daylesford. Out quick, it probably held only a skeleton crew. The cumbersome truck took the left turn awkwardly, then paced up. It filled the width of the rough tarmacked road and rumbled with its siren blaring and lights flashing.
When Howell pulled the wagon in behind, the tanker blocked the forward view, so Franklin stared through the side window, expecting a tell-tale mushroom of thick dark smoke but wincing when he spotted it. Large and noxious looking.
He pointed. ‘Over there.’
His offsider glanced and nodded, grim.
Neither spoke for a few moments. Bitumen turned to gravel as they wound through backroads that narrowed as they went. Sirens from the tanker and their car wailed out of sync, filling their silence.
Franklin lowered his electric window and sniffed. Even here, a couple of minutes from the farm, smoke and fumes impregnated the air.
He tilted his head and listened. He made out at least one siren well in front, possibly stationary and already at Riley’s Lane. An appliance from another nearby fire brigade was his best bet.
Speedy response – this could turn out all right. Then, ‘Reports of several injuries,’ on the police band dashed his hopes.
It occurred to Georgie that it was odd to be on this road without Daylesford being her destination. Not that Franklin was there anyway: he was posted nearly sixty kilometres away.
Her thoughts took a tangent from what lay ahead to Franklin. He had admitted to missing the crew at Daylesford more than he’d expected. And he was cynical about whether he’d ever be officially promoted to detective with the black mark from the investigation into the Savage kids’ disappearance still shadowing him. So she could see what he was doing – playing down how much he was enjoying the new challenge in case it didn’t pan out. She also got that he felt disloyal to his mates and his home town.
She turned her mind to the story she was chasing, driving by rote. Her left hand and both feet handled the gears, clutch and accelerator, while she was oblivious to the changes in landscape, from open pasture to forests of gangly gums, then a cypress pine plantation to her left as the road continued to wind and gently climb.
All the while, her thrill over the potential story alternately waxed and waned.
Howell dodged around a motley mix of utes, cars and trucks that’d arrived before them. Franklin figured some belonged to volunteer firefighters who’d come direct instead of joining the trucks at the CFA shed. Others would be neighbours pitching in. Fortunately, they’d showed nous and parked along the lane where the sides weren’t channelling water overflow, leaving room for emergency service vehicles around the burning structure.
The Murray place.
Howell steered up the driveway, then far left of the frantic scene, braking beyond the round-roofed garage. Franklin pushed his door open as the wagon was coming to a stop. He leapt out, sidestepped the swinging car door, then took stock, squinting through a haze of black smoke. Assessing dangers, the situation. Seeking signs of life.
This was worse than bad.
He coughed as fumes stung his throat, noting a silver Holden SUV parked behind a marked police truck. He recognised the ding and scrape on the truck’s rear quarter panel. It belonged to the Daylesford station. They had a sedan and a truck and occasionally an unmarked loaner, but in these weather conditions, Sam and Irvy would’ve chosen the truck for a farm job.
‘Sam? Irvy?’ Franklin’s shout was lost. Overwhelmed by the crackle and roar of flames, yells between people, and tooting horns.
Six firies dived out of the Daylesford tanker they’d followed up Back Settlement Road. Donned in yellow hard hats, fire suits and gloves, moving with well-practiced cohesion, unravelling the thick heavy hose, extracting other equipment. There was a sense of suppressed urgency. Rushing could put the lives of their crew in danger.
Franklin ducked around the Daylesford truck and an ultra-light appliance from Leonards Hill, as the fire captain from the smaller town waved to his Daylesford counterpart and loped over to strategise. The bloke always took the four-wheel drive quick-attack ute home, allowing him to travel directly in primary response to emergencies. His team would be here soon in the tanker.
After hasty words, the two firies split up, apparently working through their RECEO list. Franklin knew it backwards and carried out a similar pattern of hazard check and prioritisation as he searched for Sam and Irvy.
Rescue if possible was always the number-one priority.
Protect life and protect property came into check exposure. Risks like arcing electricity wires or combustibles, and potential for the fire to spread to other buildings and vehicles.
The focus would then move to containment and ultimately extinguishment. Down the line, they’d overhaul the scene, ensuring the fire couldn’t rekindle and making it safe for investigators.
He mentally logged what he noted as he called out, ‘Sam! Irvy!’
Long grass around the house – but it was green and wet from the recent rain. A small mercy, particularly in these squally conditions. Dry fuel and blustery wind would’ve turned their house fire into a fast-running grassfire, and possible bushfire too, with Wombat Forest edging Korweinguboora in spots.
He didn’t like the proximity of a clump of large trees. The closest structure was the garage. The nearest vehicles aside from the fire trucks were the two four-wheel drives in front of the garage and a couple in the attached carport. They’d need to keep the fire clear of these combustibles, watch for embers.
Franklin hopped over a thick hose, eyes watering as he approached the burning house. His breathing laboured as the smog of hot vapours intensified.
Where the fuck are they?
It was what – fifteen or twenty minutes since the first explosion? And already fire engulfed the Murray home. Even as he watched for a few seconds, the flames swelled. They whooshed high and hungry, chewing everything in their path and erupting through the roof.
The destruction made Franklin wonder about the order: the blast, then fire, or other way around? His stomach dropped.
Where are Bel and Alec?
The Murrays hadn’t crossed his mind until now. He froze, staring at the house.
They’re not in there with the two boys?
Georgie passed the old pub with the half-painted mural on its windowless wall. She trailed a couple of utes, all driving above the speed limit. Probably all headed to the same place, so she wouldn’t have to worry about missing the turnoff.
‘…on the situation at Korweinguboora,’ grabbed her attention.
She straightened in her bucket seat and increased the radio volume.
‘Unconfirmed reports have indicated that several people have been injured in a number of explosions and fire called in at approximately 10.00am this morning.’
The announcer sounded hyped.
‘It is believed that at least two police officers from Daylesford are among the injured.’
Georgie inhaled sharply. Her immediate thought was, Franklin. Relief, then guilt, and horror.
Franklin backtracked, found the Daylesford captain.
‘What do you know, Rohan?’
‘Very little, so far. You?’
‘Sam and Irvy are here somewhere, plus a nurse. They were due to check on the Murrays.’
The firie cast an alarmed glance at the house, then back to Franklin. He squeezed Franklin’s shoulder and hastened back to his crew. They sprang into action—one member directing the nozzle at the structure, his mate helping manoeuvre the awkward hose—and pumped water from the belly of the tanker.
Franklin was a cop, yet he’d been on the end of hoses and involved in many and varied ways around more fires than he’d wished. As the firies worked, the house continued to collapse, oxygen fed the flames, fanning them higher and hotter. His years of experience told him that containment was the best they could hope to achieve here. The building was a lost cause.
God help anyone inside.
Franklin homed in on a small cluster of people fifty metres away. ‘Sam? Irvy?’
Frantic yelling stopped him dead. Fragments of an exchange between several firies reached him.
‘Heat’s getting up to the LPG cylinders!’
‘…can’t let them go up…’
‘…roll them out the way…’
‘…can’t get close…’
‘Too late!’
‘RUN!’
