Her phone rang. It was a text message from a Supreme Court clerk.
Jarrett acquitted.
All she wanted to do was call Hal Challis. She had him on speed-dial. But he had a family crisis to contend with. It wouldn’t be fair. She had to do this alone.
5
Detective Inspector Hal Challis was one thousand kilometres away, in the far mid-north of South Australia, crossing a barrier of stony hills on a hazardous switchback road at a point known as Isolation Pass. Drivers had been killed on the Pass. Challis knew to take it cautiously that Friday afternoon, climbing the upward slope in his rattly old Triumph, braking for the downward.
Before long he caught sight of Mawson’s Bluff, his glimpses of the little settlement interrupted by guardrails, then rock face, one alternating with the other. Complicated feelings settled in him. The Bluff was a drowsy wheat and wool town on a treeless plain, a place where they knew the cost of everything but the value of nothing. It was named for Governor Mawson’s son, who, in 1841, had set out from Adelaide to survey the range of hills that now sheltered the town and the merino stud properties, but failed to return, and was found a year later with a spear pinched between the bones of his ribcage. Challis had been taught that at the Bluff’s little primary school. He hadn’t been taught that it marked the beginning of a doomed Aboriginal resistance to rifles, horses and sheep. No one in Mawson’s Bluff wanted to know that. He was only going home because his sister had called him.
Home. He still called it that. He visited from time to time but hadn’t lived there for twenty years.
The road levelled out and he accelerated. Before long he could read MAWSON’S BLUFF painted on the roof of the pub, a landmark for the buyers who flew in from the sheep stations of New South Wales for the merino stud ram sales. And there was the cemetery, a dusty patch of gum trees and gravestones on a rise beyond the stockyards. Challis swallowed. He’d attended a funeral there last year, and if things followed their course, he’d soon be attending another.
He slowed at the outskirts of the town. An old sensation went through him, of emptiness and isolation. He’d felt it as a child, Broken Hill lying far to the east, Adelaide far to the south, and nothing between them. He shook off the feeling and looked for changes. Nothing had changed. The houses were the same, low, slumbering, walled in local stone, protected from the sun by broad verandahs, gum trees and golden cypress hedges. TV antennas fifteen metres high. The Methodist church in a square of red dirt, where the ants were always busy. The returned servicemen’s hall where he and Meg had dumped empty bottles for the annual Legacy drive. The stone school with the steep, faded red corrugated iron roof. The old women watering their geraniums and staring as he passed. The cars with their coatings of powdered dirt. Not mud. This was a dry spring, of a dry year, of a dry decade. Nothing had changed.
But he’d spoken too soon. He spotted changes in the little main street. There was a cafй now, a craft shop, and a place selling collectibles. Every faзade had been renovated in late colonial styles. Then Challis saw a sign on a picket fence, and understood: Mawson’s Bluff Community Preservation and Historical Society.
But the grassy plains still stretched on forever, the droughty bluffs loomed over the town and the sky was a cloudless dome above.
Challis had slowed to no more than a walking pace. The town was airless and still. No one moved. Curtains were drawn. Presently a farmer emerged from the post office, nodded hello as if Challis had never left the town, and drove away in one of the battered white utilities that populate the outback. Challis recognised him as Paddy Finucane, from an extensive clan that lurked on forgotten back roads, married into similar struggling share-farming families and drove trucks for the local council. There had been dozens of Finucanes in the convent school and the football team when Challis was a boy. There always had been and always would be. Some, he remembered, had been done for stealing sheep, diesel fuel, chainsaws or anything else that hadn’t been locked away in a shed. Paddy was one of them.
He came to the northern outskirts of the town and turned down a rutted track toward a more recently built house. Young wives of the prosperous 1960s had eschewed the cool old stone houses of the midnorth of South Australia and insisted on triple-fronted brick veneer houses with tile roofs-houses indistinguishable from those in the new suburbs and satellite towns of the major cities. Challis’s own mother had got her dream home. Challis’s father had been happy to oblige her: the love was there, and the money. In those first few years, Murray Challis had been the only lawyer in a one hundred-kilometre radius, drawing up wills, contracts and occasional divorce settlements for everyone from the mail contractor to the local gentry. Now, forty years later, the house he’d built for his wife still hadn’t accommodated itself naturally with the landscape. Like the old stone buildings of the region it came complete with an avenue of pines, a garden of roses and shrubs, rainwater tanks and a kelpie beating his tail in the dust, but it didn’t quite belong. Nor had the Challises, quite, and at the age of twenty Hal Challis had left for the police academy. Perhaps it was wanting to belong that made him apply for a posting back ‘home’ when he graduated. Certainly that had been a mistake. You can never go back. A couple of years later he’d left the state, and now was an inspector in the Victoria Police.
Challis braked at the head of the driveway, angling his car into the shade of the pepper trees. He got out, stretched his aching back and looked north over the struggling wheat flats that merged, in the far distance, with arid country, semi-desert, a land of pebbly dust, washaways, mallee scrub and hidden gullies. Men had died out there. They called it ‘doing a perish’, and many in the district believed that that’s what had happened to Challis’s brother-in-law, five years ago now. Gavin Hurst’s car had been found abandoned out there. No body. He’d been the district’s RSPCA inspector, a difficult man. Challis had never liked Hurst, but his sister had married him, had loved him, so what can you do?
‘The conquering hero returns.’
Challis wheeled around with an answering grin. Meg, two years his junior, was smiling tiredly at him from the verandah. A moment later she was embracing him, a round, comfortable shape. ‘Driving the same old bomb, I see,’ she said fondly, beating the flat of her hand against the chrome surround of his windscreen.
‘Hey, don’t mark my pride and joy.’
She snorted, throwing her arms around him again. ‘It’s so good to see you. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’
When she released him he saw that her eyes were, in fact, sore looking. ‘How is he?’
‘Sweetie,’ Meg told him gently, ‘he’s dying.’
Well, she’d told him that on the phone earlier in the week, and so he’d hastily arranged a month’s leave. What she meant now was, how else did Challis expect their father to be? It was faintly reproving, and Challis couldn’t blame her. Their mother had died a year ago, and their father had immediately declined. Meg, who lived on the other side of the Bluff, near the tennis courts, had been the one to nurse both of them. Their mother would have been undemanding, but Challis guessed that their father, an exacting man even in good health, was making hard work of dying. There rose between Challis and his sister a knot of unresolved feelings: Challis had escaped, Meg hadn’t. ‘I’m sorry.’
She brightened. ‘You’re here now’
Challis had asked for a month, but McQuarrie, his boss, a superintendent in regional command headquarters, had clearly thought that excessive. As if he wants my father to hurry up and die, Challis had thought at the time. ‘I have several weeks of accrued leave owing to me, sir,’ he’d said. ‘And Sergeant Destry is perfectly capable of holding the fort until I get back.’