The Dragon's Skin. Ross Gray

he said, nodding. ‘Thin broth down here, it’ll be pea soup up there. And probably like a drive through a car wash.’

      The topography began to bunch and wrinkle. The road began to dip and weave. Drizzly diaphanous curtains billowed in their path. The abrupt arms of the wipers swept them aside.

      ‘I was wet behind the ears. It was my first station.’ He paused and looked at her again. She looked at him this time. She knew what was coming next. She wanted eye contact to field this question. His eyes dropped to her lips. ‘You’re pretty young,’ he said. ‘I mean, you look young. How long’ve you been out – I mean in – the job that is?’

      ‘Four years,’ she said. And gave him her emerald-cut gaze. His eyes swivelled back to the road.

      ‘Jeezus. Musta done something to please the boss, eh?’ he said. ‘To earn this, I mean.’ To his credit, his ears burned bright red when he realised the implication in his words. It shut him up for a while.

      ‘Suppose you went to uni?’ he asked eventually. He was ferreting for why she was one of the chosen.

      ‘Yes,’ she said.

      ‘I just left high school and went straight to the academy. Well, I mean, buggered around for a coupla years in between. Aren’cha hot in that jacket?’

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘Met my wife down here. Farmer’s daughter. Married. Went back to Melbourne. Didn’t like it. Came back here. Didn’t like it. Didn’t like the marriage, turns out. I mean, we’re divorced now.’

      I’m available, I mean.

      ‘Used to go huntin’ with him. In the shooters’ club. Fuck he cou … I mean, shit he could shoot. Moving targets, stationary: didn’t matter. Well, I mean, bloody obvious when you think about it – in retrospect I mean. Considering what his real job was. Locals used to wonder how he kept the farm viable. I mean, it wasn’t real productive. Probably still wonderin’. Locals. I mean, I know how – now.’

      I bet most of the locals do too, she thought. Make a great little copper’s story to pull the chicks on a Saturday night.

      ‘What was he like?’

      ‘Nice bloke – you know. I mean, quiet. Kept to himself. But – have a pot or two with the boys. Didn’t drink much, though. In the CFA. Didn’t go to many social functions. Polite to women. Couple of local girls trailed their hooks. But he didn’t bite. Didn’t seem to have much to do with girls. Not around here, I mean. Used to go up to the city now an’ then. Of course, I mean, we know why now. Most people, then I mean, thought he had a skirt up there. There was a bit of speculation he might be gay, of course. None of the women’d have that.’ They drove a way in the hum of the heater. Then he added, ‘Well, I mean, what would you think? The way he took care of his mum. Everyone thought he was a nice bloke. Couldn’t fault ’im. Women thought the sun shone outta his … I mean, took your life in your hands, say something against him in earshot of some sheilas around here.’

      ‘She was an invalid? His mother?’

      ‘Yeah. Well that was it, wasn’t it? I mean, be alive today, if she wasn’t. He went off to Melbourne, didn’t tell anyone. Expected to be back the next day, prob’ly. Maybe that night. Often didn’t bother anyone if he was only gone a day. Course, he didn’t come home. Poor old bird starved to death up there before anyone found her.’

      ‘How come it took so long? They’d need a relative to confirm identity.’

      ‘Dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘He used his father’s name – in his … city business, I mean. Known by his mum’s name round here. I mean, she went back to hers when his dad shot through. Well, we know now he didn’t shoot through. I mean, he didn’t get far if he tried. And he sort of insulated her. Silent number here. Mobile phone for Melbourne. Two postal addresses. And probably a whole lot of other stuff, I mean, stuff they wouldn’t tell a bush constable.’

      ‘But he was known to Homicide?’

      He chuckled. ‘Yeah. The Murder Club knew him. They could look but couldn’t touch. Never arrested s’far’s I know. Interviewed a coupla times apparently. No material evidence. No witnesses. A bit of a legend though – ’mongst career crims, I mean.’

      ‘Do you think the mother had a clue?’

      He shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

      They were winding upward now. Tall eucalypts climbed hillsides showing knobby ankles beneath the petticoats of cloud, and waded knee deep through wet, smoking ferns down into the gullies. He was concentrating on the road. But he still managed to flick a glance her way.

      ‘So, you went to uni and, you’re – you know – I mean, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but, you’re a bit of a looker.’ Here it comes, she thought. ‘I mean, why’d you become a cop? You coulda been a model, or on Neighbours or something.’

      ‘Too fat, couldn’t act. My dream was to be an administrative assistant, but I couldn’t type,’ she said.

      His ears pinked and his eyes slid towards her again. ‘Yeah. ’S okay, you don’t have to tell me,’ he said amiably.

      She felt a twinge of guilt. He was a nice enough bloke, just trying to make conversation – and, just incidentally, her. She wondered why she was acting like a cold fish: possibly because she felt like a cold fish. ‘It was you that found her?’ she asked by way of amends.

      ‘I’m at Colac now. I manned the Forrest station then. Bob, my boss I mean, the senior constable, married, lived at Apollo Bay. I got most of the night shifts. Wally Coutts, a neighbour, ’cross the valley from them, got woken by a dogfight. I mean, one of their dogs had tried to pinch his dogs’ tucker. This was a bit odd. He, I mean Des, looked after his dogs real well. Then Wally realised he couldn’t recall seeing any lights from the house for a few nights. Myra, Wal’s wife I mean, she said she hadn’t been asked to look in on the old lady. So Wal went over, couldn’t raise anybody, rang me. Could smell her soon’s I got the door open.’

      ‘I know she couldn’t walk, but was she so feeble she couldn’t drag herself to the phone?’

      ‘Phone by the bed. She’d dragged herself to the kitchen. She was lying with her head against the pantry door. I mean, when I found her.’

      ‘Was the door open?’

      ‘Locked.’

      ‘Locked?’

      ‘Yeah. Fridge, freezer, I mean everything edible, in there.’

      ‘Why lock a pantry? Did the old lady have an eating disorder or something?’

      ‘Nah,’ he said and there was something sly in the smile he flipped across. ‘Guess.’

      ‘That’s where he kept his ill-gotten gains.’

      The smooth motion of the car gave a little hiccup. ‘How the f— I mean, you saw that in the files.’

      ‘No, I haven’t read the file on his death. The case I’m reviewing, he’s more likely for the villain than the victim.’

      He gave her a doubtful glance. ‘Then what are you doin’ down here?’

      ‘Had a break in classes and I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. Tourism and research. See the sights, absorb some background colour.’

      ‘See the Apostles?’

      ‘Thought I’d go back along the Ocean Road.’

      ‘And – at Detective Training School I mean – they give you these old cases to, what, study? Like, for assignments?’

      ‘They usually give us classic, text-book case studies as models. But one of our lecturers likes to challenge us with unsolved and unproved cases or stuff-ups in investigation.