cards-to-chest display. ‘Don’t know yet. Watch this space.’
The grader was out of the way now and even though Travis hadn’t yet spun his sign around, Greg took it upon himself to go. In the rear-view mirror Tess caught a glimpse of Travis giving them the finger and his big Warnie smile before disappearing in the dust.
Stuart Miller was too hyped up to hang around the house waiting for a phone call that might never come. Senior Constable Tim Delaney could be anywhere in WA: up north in the red dust, driving around one of those soulless suburbs on the outskirts of Perth, or just down the road. Maybe he already had Davey Arthurs in custody. Davey Arthurs aka Derek Chapman. Stuart knew he shouldn’t be thinking it but he was; he wanted Davey Arthurs still out there. He wanted to be the one to bring him in, even if it was thirty-odd years too late.
He went into the bathroom to splash water on his face, cool down and freshen up. The face in the mirror was tanned but sagging, too much of the good life, the brown hair receding a little but greying rapidly. A good thick head of hair – it ran in the family, along with high blood pressure. Had he taken his pills today? He couldn’t remember. That was another family trait, Alzheimer’s. Miller’s mind was all over the place but it was his eyes that told him the truth about where he stood. Not the pale scar in the corner of the right one or the laugh lines radiating out from both. It was the weakness. He hadn’t been able to cut it as a cop because he was too soft. Bring Arthurs in? Who was he kidding? He had no right to any claim on the Arthurs case. He’d walked away from it, away from the blood and slaughter. Defeated. A young mother with her head caved in, her little boy resting against her with his hand onher knee. He’d abandoned them. All he had to show for it was bad dreams and days like this.
‘Get real,’ he told the face in the mirror.
But he knew he couldn’t let go of Arthurs. Or maybe Arthurs wouldn’t let go of him. Was that what The Dream was about last night? A premonition?
Miller picked up a wide-brimmed floppy hat, sunnies and his mobile, and stepped outside into the heat. It was nearly enough to make him change his mind and head for the dark, air-conditioned bedroom. But he didn’t. He walked along the foreshore footpath, heading west into town. Ahead to his right, the long wooden jetty stretched almost two kilometres out into Geographe Bay. The water was unnaturally blue and, on a day like this, probably infested with millions of little jellyfish. Always just below the surface of what seemed like a perfect paradise, a nasty sting to remind you of what else life had to offer.
It’s horrific that a father could slaughter his own wife and children in their own home.
Davey Arthurs, Derek Chapman. Where are you?
The sweat was pouring off Miller and he was out of breath. He looked up and found he’d already walked the two kilometres into town. Where did the last fifteen minutes go? His eyes were stinging from the salty perspiration. His polo shirt stuck to him, back and front. He was at a roundabout. To his left, the Busselton coffee strip; to his right, the jetty and beach; straight ahead, not much. He stood there like a confused pensioner who’d forgotten who, where, and why. His head was all over the place, off the bloody planet. His hand was throbbing. It took him a moment to realise it was his mobile. He answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Tim Delaney.’
No ‘Hello, is that such and such?’ On any other day Miller would have lectured the young upstart on good phone manners. But that would have been probably just a symptom of his low testosterone levels, his grumpy-old-man syndrome. Today? Today he was so fucked up he didn’t even know which way to turn. Miller parkedhimself at a spare table outside a coffee shop and told Detective Delaney his story. It took a while; he realised he probably sounded like a silly, confused old codger. He
The grader was out of the way now and even though Travis hadn’t yet spun his sign around, Greg took it upon himself to go. In the rear-view mirror Tess caught a glimpse of Travis giving them the finger and his big Warnie smile before disappearing in the dust.
Stuart Miller was too hyped up to hang around the house waiting for a phone call that might never come. Senior Constable Tim Delaney could be anywhere in WA: up north in the red dust, driving around one of those soulless suburbs on the outskirts of Perth, or just down the road. Maybe he already had Davey Arthurs in custody. Davey Arthurs aka Derek Chapman. Stuart knew he shouldn’t be thinking it but he was; he wanted Davey Arthurs still out there. He wanted to be the one to bring him in, even if it was thirty-odd years too late.
He went into the bathroom to splash water on his face, cool down and freshen up. The face in the mirror was tanned but sagging, too much of the good life, the brown hair receding a little but greying rapidly. A good thick head of hair – it ran in the family, along with high blood pressure. Had he taken his pills today? He couldn’t remember. That was another family trait, Alzheimer’s. Miller’s mind was all over the place but it was his eyes that told him the truth about where he stood. Not the pale scar in the corner of the right one or the laugh lines radiating out from both. It was the weakness. He hadn’t been able to cut it as a cop because he was too soft. Bring Arthurs in? Who was he kidding? He had no right to any claim on the Arthurs case. He’d walked away from it, away from the blood and slaughter. Defeated. A young mother with her head caved in, her little boy resting against her with his hand onher knee. He’d abandoned them. All he had to show for it was bad dreams and days like this.
‘Get real,’ he told the face in the mirror.
But he knew he couldn’t let go of Arthurs. Or maybe Arthurs wouldn’t let go of him. Was that what The Dream was about last night? A premonition?
Miller picked up a wide-brimmed floppy hat, sunnies and his mobile, and stepped outside into the heat. It was nearly enough to make him change his mind and head for the dark, air-conditioned bedroom. But he didn’t. He walked along the foreshore footpath, heading west into town. Ahead to his right, the long wooden jetty stretched almost two kilometres out into Geographe Bay. The water was unnaturally blue and, on a day like this, probably infested with millions of little jellyfish. Always just below the surface of what seemed like a perfect paradise, a nasty sting to remind you of what else life had to offer.
It’s horrific that a father could slaughter his own wife and children in their own home.
Davey Arthurs, Derek Chapman. Where are you?
The sweat was pouring off Miller and he was out of breath. He looked up and found he’d already walked the two kilometres into town. Where did the last fifteen minutes go? His eyes were stinging from the salty perspiration. His polo shirt stuck to him, back and front. He was at a roundabout. To his left, the Busselton coffee strip; to his right, the jetty and beach; straight ahead, not much. He stood there like a confused pensioner who’d forgotten who, where, and why. His head was all over the place, off the bloody planet. His hand was throbbing. It took him a moment to realise it was his mobile. He answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Tim Delaney.’
No ‘Hello, is that such and such?’ On any other day Miller would have lectured the young upstart on good phone manners. But that would have been probably just a symptom of his low testosterone levels, his grumpy-old-man syndrome. Today? Today he was so fucked up he didn’t even know which way to turn. Miller parkedhimself at a spare table outside a coffee shop and told Detective Delaney his story. It took a while; he realised he probably sounded like a silly, confused old codger. He
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