One Boy Missing(17)
‘A holiday, in Guilderton?’
‘No. This boy and his mum, dead at the front door. She was holding the keys, trying to undo the deadlock.’
Moy decided not to think about it. ‘So, what’s the verdict?’
‘Diesel. Mainly in the two bedrooms and the lounge. And the woman.’
‘The woman?’
‘She’d been doused in it. Whoosh. Which makes you wonder.’
‘Christ, was she dead?’
The fire investigator smoothed his stubby moustache. ‘That’s why we need a coroner. Dead, or unconscious. We hope.’
Lehmann showed him into the lounge room, to the body—grey and featureless in the moonlight.
‘Where did it start?’ Moy asked.
The investigator led him to the front door. He pointed to a partly burnt match on the floor. ‘My guess is he’s knocked her out, spread the diesel and worked his way back here. Then he’s stood outside and flicked it in.’
Moy sighed. ‘Now I’ve got a job on my hands.’
‘You certainly have.’
‘No other explanation?’
‘Well, she could’ve done it all herself, if she had a great sense of drama. But it’d be the strangest suicide I’ve ever seen.’
Moy attempted a smile. ‘Anything else?’
‘Give us a chance, Detective Sergeant. You leave your man here tonight and we’ll be back in the morning.’ Then he fixed Moy’s eyes. ‘Please don’t go traipsing around.’
‘Obviously.’
‘There’s a lot of disturbance already. Perhaps that’s your Country Fire people…’
‘Perhaps.’
‘They weren’t expecting a body?’ Lehmann suggested.
‘No.’
As Moy headed home he took another call from Gary. Ossie had just visited an old widow called Dorothy Olding who’d reported an intruder. Someone in her kitchen, she said. She’d got out of bed and heard someone running out the back door. Looked down the street and seen a small figure heading back towards town.
‘Said it looked like a kid,’ Gary concluded.
‘Right. That’s all? A kid?’
‘Going through her fridge.’
Stealing food, at this time of night? He thought of the boy in the alleyway. ‘Anything taken?’
‘She said whoever it was had a good go at her orange juice. She was very annoyed. Said she’d paid top dollar. And some mint slices.’
‘How did she know? She counts them?’
‘Apparently.’
He pulled over in front of the first house on the way back into town. Someone would have seen something. As he got out he noticed a blind opening and a pair of eyes peering out. He walked up the front path and knocked. A man his own age, wearing a black AC/DC T-shirt and footy shorts appeared with a beer in his hand. He used it to scratch the tip of his nose. ‘I know you.’
Moy took a moment. ‘Commercial Hotel?’
‘Spot on.’
It was his first week in Guilderton. He’d stopped by the Commercial for a beer, get to know the locals, try a bit of preventative policing. In the almost-deserted front bar he’d heard loud voices and applause coming from out the back. He’d gone to see what was happening.
A small group of men had cleared the tables and used cutlery to make a miniature racetrack on the ground. There were four babies in nappies and jumpsuits at an improvised starting line. One man gave a signal and the babies were off, crawling and tumbling along the beer-wet carpet. If one of them strayed across the cutlery a hand or foot would guide him or her back. The babies approached a finish line of folded napkins where four dads waited, calling, pulling faces and singing snippets of Wiggles’ songs.
Eventually a tubby-looking boy crossed the line and the crowd roared as Dad turned to shake hands with his mates. Then the room quietened. Babies crawled under tables, dads exchanged cash.
Moy approached one of the fathers and said, ‘Looks like a lot of fun.’
‘Ladies’ night at the footy club.’ The man nodded towards the abandoned track. ‘This is the crèche.’ He leaned over and picked up his baby; eyed Moy defensively. ‘It’s not for money.’
Moy was surprised he’d been recognised. ‘Well, I’ve never arrested anyone for baby racing.’
Now, standing in the doorway at the far end of Creek Street, he smiled. ‘How’s the racing?’
‘Good.’ The man was unsure. ‘That what you come about?’
‘No. I’s just wondering if you knew anything about this fire at the end of the street?’
The man took a deep breath. ‘Right…a fire?’
12
MOY TOOK THE usual four hours to get to sleep. He avoided the Stilnox on his bedside table; they left him more tired the next day, and not in a way that translated to better sleep the following night. Just more tossing and turning, cursing himself for not being able to get even this simple thing right. Sometimes he’d get up at two or three in the morning and switch on the television. Abflexer and Hey, Dad did nothing much for his insomnia but they passed the time. Sometimes he’d try a walk around the block. Stand at the end of the driveway staring out across the paddocks.