body. It’s en route to Brisbane.”
The women didn’t even flinch. “Where are you calling from?”
“Point Hallahan Police, over on Turnell Island. I’m the Officer overseeing the investigation.”
“And your name again, please?”
The assistant promised a call back.
Romano looked up the Brisbane exchange, and tried the extension for fingerprinting. After being passed around, she reached a soft-spoken man who agreed to keep an eye out for the work.
“And it’s a double homicide?” he said.
“OD and suicide, maybe a homicide. I’m just confirming the victims. I’m on Turnell.”
“Tunnel? Right. Okay, then.”
“You know anyone I can talk to in ballistics?”
He had a name for her. Romano called and made arrangements. They had a backlog but they sounded on the level. They didn’t care where the gun was from.
Romano wrapped the work up and took it out to reception. Denny and Chandler were hard at it. Chandler gazed into the television, an infomercial. Denny had his head stuck in a copy of People . Romano dropped her parcel in the outgoing mail. She nodded at Chandler. “How was the day off?”
“Fuck off,” he said.
“Uh huh. You want to come for a ride, Denny?”
He winced. “I’m pretty busy.”
“I can see that.”
Chandler said, “What are you up to?”
“I know who the guy is, but I don’t know who the girl is. I’m going to start there. We also don’t have the gun yet. I found a piece, similar calibre, in the victim’s car. But I don’t think he shot himself, then stashed the gun there.”
“Pathology will sort the girl out. And that gun is long gone. You should forget it.”
“Brisbane could be a fortnight, they reckon. Last time I checked, we still tried to find out who killed people relatively quickly.”
“It could be fucking anyone over here,” said Denny.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your vic, your perp, could be anyone. If that dead bloke is from the mainland, you’re better off letting Brisbane handle it. The bodies went over, right?”
“Yeah. And the girl, if she’s a local?”
The two constables looked at each other.
“What?” said Romano.
“Then it’s absolutely their business,” said Chandler. “Brisbane will notify the family over here. If they have any questions—which they fucking won’t—they’ll come over and ask them.”
Denny went back to his magazine. “He’s right,” he said. “You don’t want to get yourself mixed up with the locals.”
T he road to Arthurton hugged the edge of a small costal range. Romano moved the police cruiser out of low gear and took in the township as it appeared through the windscreen. It wasn’t much. A dozen residential blocks pushed into a bulb of land jutting out from the island. The tunnel from the mainland lay on the edge of the bulb like a giant black eel in the water. A tall set of gates—a checkpoint—sat across its mouth.
Romano drove into town. There was a commercial strip on the outskirts: the drinks card office, the Arthurton pub, a service station, a bakery, a newsagent doubling as a bait shop. She passed through the suburban streets to a school on the far side before doubling back. That was Arthurton, start to finish.
The idea was to try the local currency exchange, then the checkpoint gates. She bought a top-up for her own drinks card in the exchange, before lobbing a few softball questions at the clerk. He stammered through his answers. Overhearing the conversation, a manager stepped out of a carpeted partition.
“New girl, over here,” he said.
Romano went to a side door leading back behind the tellers. It hung open. Security obviously wasn’t a big concern.
“What is this? Bush Week? We don’t talk to the police,” said the manager. “What are you doing?”
Romano took a photo of Bachelard’s drink cards out of her folder. “So you can’t tell me who these belong to then?”
“I wouldn’t even if I could,” said the manager. “What do you think
The women didn’t even flinch. “Where are you calling from?”
“Point Hallahan Police, over on Turnell Island. I’m the Officer overseeing the investigation.”
“And your name again, please?”
The assistant promised a call back.
Romano looked up the Brisbane exchange, and tried the extension for fingerprinting. After being passed around, she reached a soft-spoken man who agreed to keep an eye out for the work.
“And it’s a double homicide?” he said.
“OD and suicide, maybe a homicide. I’m just confirming the victims. I’m on Turnell.”
“Tunnel? Right. Okay, then.”
“You know anyone I can talk to in ballistics?”
He had a name for her. Romano called and made arrangements. They had a backlog but they sounded on the level. They didn’t care where the gun was from.
Romano wrapped the work up and took it out to reception. Denny and Chandler were hard at it. Chandler gazed into the television, an infomercial. Denny had his head stuck in a copy of People . Romano dropped her parcel in the outgoing mail. She nodded at Chandler. “How was the day off?”
“Fuck off,” he said.
“Uh huh. You want to come for a ride, Denny?”
He winced. “I’m pretty busy.”
“I can see that.”
Chandler said, “What are you up to?”
“I know who the guy is, but I don’t know who the girl is. I’m going to start there. We also don’t have the gun yet. I found a piece, similar calibre, in the victim’s car. But I don’t think he shot himself, then stashed the gun there.”
“Pathology will sort the girl out. And that gun is long gone. You should forget it.”
“Brisbane could be a fortnight, they reckon. Last time I checked, we still tried to find out who killed people relatively quickly.”
“It could be fucking anyone over here,” said Denny.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your vic, your perp, could be anyone. If that dead bloke is from the mainland, you’re better off letting Brisbane handle it. The bodies went over, right?”
“Yeah. And the girl, if she’s a local?”
The two constables looked at each other.
“What?” said Romano.
“Then it’s absolutely their business,” said Chandler. “Brisbane will notify the family over here. If they have any questions—which they fucking won’t—they’ll come over and ask them.”
Denny went back to his magazine. “He’s right,” he said. “You don’t want to get yourself mixed up with the locals.”
T he road to Arthurton hugged the edge of a small costal range. Romano moved the police cruiser out of low gear and took in the township as it appeared through the windscreen. It wasn’t much. A dozen residential blocks pushed into a bulb of land jutting out from the island. The tunnel from the mainland lay on the edge of the bulb like a giant black eel in the water. A tall set of gates—a checkpoint—sat across its mouth.
Romano drove into town. There was a commercial strip on the outskirts: the drinks card office, the Arthurton pub, a service station, a bakery, a newsagent doubling as a bait shop. She passed through the suburban streets to a school on the far side before doubling back. That was Arthurton, start to finish.
The idea was to try the local currency exchange, then the checkpoint gates. She bought a top-up for her own drinks card in the exchange, before lobbing a few softball questions at the clerk. He stammered through his answers. Overhearing the conversation, a manager stepped out of a carpeted partition.
“New girl, over here,” he said.
Romano went to a side door leading back behind the tellers. It hung open. Security obviously wasn’t a big concern.
“What is this? Bush Week? We don’t talk to the police,” said the manager. “What are you doing?”
Romano took a photo of Bachelard’s drink cards out of her folder. “So you can’t tell me who these belong to then?”
“I wouldn’t even if I could,” said the manager. “What do you think
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