Croc Country Read online

  Traps were illegal within Binboona’s boundaries, of course, but there was little the rangers could do about enforcing the rule. They would have needed to find proof first, and then the culprit – something they all knew to be impossible. Lacking the ability to dig or even to drink properly, Harry would certainly have starved if it hadn’t been for the ranger’s intervention. He’d be a permanent guest, Tilly mused, tossing him his breakfast, one piece at a time. She’d tried letting him take it from her hand, but his enthusiastic lunges hit her fingers as often as they did the target, as if the damage done to him had also addled his judgement. The possum, being nocturnal, required no effort beyond removing last night’s empty container from the cage and replacing it with the full one. It was almost ready for release, the injury to its front paw having healed and the fur almost grown back.

  The garden was her next chore. Wearing a wide straw hat and gardening gloves, Tilly entered the netted enclosure, methodically watering her way along the rows, picking a lettuce for lunch and, when the hose had been coiled out of the way again, filling the crown of her hat with beans. It was a productive piece of ground and she enjoyed the work. In Cairns she had grown tropical shrubs and African violets, but since taking over the plot from the men’s hit-and-miss efforts, the vegetable garden had prospered.

  ‘You’ve got a natural green thumb, Till,’ Sophie had said admiringly.

  ‘I like it.’ She found a soothing rhythm in gardening, a thoughtless peace where for a little while she could forget everything but the task before her. With her hands in the earth, time seemed to flow over her without the constant reminders that accompanied the rest of her day. Only in the garden were the ghosts of the lost absent from her thoughts. Sitting back on her heels, Tilly smeared a muddy glove across one cheek to brush away a stray hair and looked about her with satisfaction. Weeding carrots was finicky work but she’d got most of them out, thinning the rows as she worked.

  Resting for a moment, she surveyed her small netted kingdom and the reach of land beyond that stretched all the way to the river bank. There were no fences or garden beds around the homestead, though the gateposts near the bird bath showed there must once have been. Of the original station garden only the lemon tree had survived. Some natives had grown up and been left for shade, and there was one immense tree towering above the house whose name none of them knew. The grass that Matt usually mowed ran to the edge of the little spring-fed and pandanus-lined creek behind the homestead from which they drew their water.

  Out front, the land dipped to the jungle-like edge of the Nutt River, where sweeping paperbacks intertwined with swarming creepers, palms and pandanus thickets that almost screened the water from view. It was a big river, the Nutt – deep and brown and dangerous, home to the estuarine crocodiles that could often be seen sprawled like drying logs on the muddy edges of its banks. Open forest country stretched beyond the water, a dry vista of grass, landscaped with bloodwood, stringybark and white-trunked gums. A blue-winged kookaburra was just now cackling his heart out from the branches of one.

  With a last glance at her row of weeded carrots, Tilly stood, clapping her earthy gloves together. She just might add to the order for yeast, she thought. Surely the WPA could buy her a packet of flower seeds? She had a sudden desire to see a tub of them near the front steps. Cosmos, perhaps, or marigolds. Something bright and pretty to lift all their spirits at the end of the day. And if management considered them an unnecessary expense, she’d damn well pay for them herself.

  Chapter Two

  Tilly stripped off her gloves, leaving them in the basket beside the door, and went to wash, thinking she had best get on with preparing the spare room. A glimpse of her mud-smeared cheek in the mirror brought an involuntary smile that faded as she studied her face. She had not looked at herself – not really – for months. There was no call for make-up out here and sunscreen could be applied by touch.

  Now, placing her hands on the vanity top, she leant curiously towards the reflective glass, her gaze tracing the lines of her face with its high cheekbones and long chin. There were shadows under the blue-grey eyes and her cheeks were thin enough to look hollow. She pulled the scrunchy from her ponytail and saw that her hair needed a trim; the ends when she examined them were split and uneven. Sophie cut the men’s hair – maybe she could take a bit off hers, too? Tilly’d lost weight and she looked – what? Older, haggard, sad? All of the above, and dirty.

  Abandoning the introspection, she reached for the soap, then paused, cocking her head to the sound of an arriving vehicle. It pulled up and there came the clunk of a car door closing, followed shortly by another. Luke and Matt were long gone and wouldn’t be back until late. It must be their visitor from the university, only it sounded like he had somebody with him.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ Hastily she washed her face and brushed her hair, thankful to hear Sophie’s footsteps in the hallway on her way to meet them. She wondered where they could find another bed for the extra body. There might be a spare stretcher in the old men’s quarters that they could set up on the verandah. Otherwise whoever it was had better have a swag. Catching up the scrunchy to secure her hair, she heard her cousin calling her name.

  ‘Coming!’ Tilly almost bumped into Sophie as she exited the room. ‘What’s up? I know he’s earlier than we exp—’

  ‘It’s not the botanist. It’s a couple of detectives from Darwin. They want to talk to you.’

  Tilly stared at her. ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘They didn’t say. Just asked if you were here and said they needed a word.’ Sophie frowned, concerned. ‘Do you want me to stay? I’ve no idea what it’s about.

  ‘Neither have I.’ Her heart suddenly leapt and she pressed a hand to her chest, face paling, made giddy by sudden hope. ‘It couldn’t be,’ she whispered. ‘They haven’t – oh, Sophie, they haven’t heard something about Francie? She . . . did some boat find her, save her?’

  Sophie put an arm around her. ‘Don’t, Till. Don’t go there, you’ll only hurt yourself. Francie’s gone and it’s no good letting yourself hope. That’s a one in a million chance and you know it . . .’ She paused. ‘They didn’t look like they were bringing good news.’

  ‘Well, but why . . .?’ Tilly’s wild leap of hope fled, leaving her feeling drained and slightly sick. Numbly she entered the kitchen where Sophie had left the two men. They hadn’t sat down; one stood by the table while the other peered out of the window above the sink. Both faces turned towards her and she was aware of a hard scrutiny from each. The closest, who was also the tallest, spoke first.

  ‘Morning. Mrs Matilda Hillyer?’

  Tilly nodded. ‘That’s my name. What—?’ she began but she was interrupted.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant David Burns.’ He tipped his head sideways, ‘My colleague, Detective Constable Wayne Wilmot. We’d like to have a bit of a chat with you about your husband. Shall we sit down?’ He pulled out the chair where Matt normally sat. ‘Please.’ He gestured towards another seat as if the place belonged to him. To Sophie, he said, ‘Thank you, Ms, erm . . .’

  ‘Barker. Tilly’s my cousin and I’m staying.’ Sophie seated herself in Luke’s place and patted the chair beside her. Tilly took it, as the constable moved to sit beside his superior.

  Clearing her throat, Tilly said, ‘What’s this about, Sergeant, and why now? Gerry’s been dead for two years.’

  The man’s hard eyes, a curiously pale grey, bored into hers. ‘Are you quite certain about that, Mrs Hillyer? I understand there’s room for some . . . confusion, shall we say? His body was never found. And he did owe rather large sums of money. Isn’t that correct?’

  Tilly gaped at him. She heard and understood his words but they made no sense. Before she could say so, Sophie’s voice cut harshly across her bewildered silence. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Sergeant? The matter was fully investigated at the time, I can assure you. There was a full-scale search – of the sea and the coastline. They had boats out for a week looking for
his body. It’s all in the coroner’s report.’

  ‘And yet Gerald Hillyer still managed to disappear off the face of the earth.’

  Sophie cast up her eyes. ‘God give me strength! His two-year-old daughter fell overboard. He went in after her, plucked her from the water and put her in the runabout, and the tide took both it and him. We’re talking about a fast ebb in shark- and croc-infested water, man! Of course they didn’t find his body. Be a bloody miracle if they had, in my opinion. He was probably taken in the first ten minutes. I’m sorry, Till.’ Her eyes shot daggers at the officer as she turned to her cousin. ‘You shouldn’t have to listen to this. What is the point of it anyway? Why are you here?’

  ‘It might be better, Ms Barker, if you let Mrs Hillyer speak for herself,’ Burns said. He turned back to Tilly. ‘So you haven’t had any contact with your husband – seen him, spoken to him on the phone, received any written communication from him since his alleged death? And before you answer, please remember that lying to the police is a serious matter.’

  Tilly gripped the table’s edge, eyes enormous in her pale face. ‘Are you suggesting . . .? How can you even think – I don’t believe it!’ Her voice rose wildly as the enormity of his meaning sank in and she shot to her feet. ‘Gerry loved his daughter! He dived into very dangerous water to save her! What are you saying? That he let her drown because he owed money? That he planned it? You . . . you . . . Get out!’ she screamed, livid with rage.

  The constable tapped his superior’s arm. ‘Sarge, maybe you’re . . . I mean, there’s nothing to prove—’

  ‘And you can get out too,’ Tilly spat at him, a flood of scarlet flushing her formerly pale cheeks.

  ‘You’re done here,’ Sophie seconded her. ‘I’m asking you both to leave. You’re way out of order. Go strangle some kittens or something,’ she added contemptuously. ‘That ought to be right up your alley.’ Marching to the door, she swung it wide and stood there holding it, waiting for them to pass through.

  ‘We have inquiries to make,’ Burns said, as he stepped past her, though whether in explanation or apology neither woman could tell. ‘Not everybody likes them.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you’re planning another visit you’d better bring a solicitor with you,’ Sophie snapped. ‘She won’t be speaking to you again without one.’ She returned to Tilly’s side and they stood listening to the doors slamming and the sound of the engine turning over. When the noise had faded to a faint hum she blew her breath out, saying comfortingly, ‘I doubt they’ll be back, Till.’

  Tilly dropped bonelessly onto her chair. ‘How could they even think . . . Why would they think—’

  ‘Of course he didn’t! Where are their heads at anyway?’ Sophie demanded rhetorically. ‘Do they seriously imagine he was going to swim all the way to the islands dodging death at every stroke? And what then? It’s not as if it wasn’t the first place the searchers looked. The man’s a cretin! The copper, I mean, not Gerry.’

  Immersed in her own thoughts, Tilly ignored this outburst. ‘He would never have left Francie, Sophie. He adored her, he gave his life to try and save her. Oh, I was angry with him, because he was supposed to watch her. He promised he would, but you know with kids you only have to look away for a second—’

  ‘I know, love. I know. Come on, now. Don’t let that idiot get to you. It’s pointless because he was talking rubbish. Probably fancied a drive on a nice day and thought hassling you was one way to justify it. What you need is a good strong cuppa.’ Sophie, filling the kettle, prattled on, though Tilly hardly heard her commentary: behind her anger and bewilderment, and the reopened wound of her grief, it had occurred to her to wonder why, two years after the event the police should suddenly suspect the veracity of the inquest’s findings.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. At one moment Tilly would find herself standing with a plate or a sheet in her hand, stalled like a rundown wind-up toy while her mind went over and over that morning’s meeting, analysing the sergeant’s words and his hard, inquisitive eyes. Next she would be at the sink with no memory of the interim period, or rubbing furiously at a spot on the table, reliving it all again. The moment, indelibly stamped on her memory, when she’d stepped from the companionway onto the deck and had seen the bright bundle that was Francie falling overboard. And being plunged back into the useless self-recriminations that had accompanied her mourning.

  If only she hadn’t left the deck to step below! Or that she had returned five seconds earlier. If only she’d learnt to steer and work a boat – she and Gerry had been married four years, for God’s sake, and the boat was their livelihood. But she’d never been more than a day passenger on the Esmerelda. She’d just coasted along, leaving everything to him, and her ignorance had contributed to their deaths.

  Once upon a time, before that dreadful day, she had been a mother, a wife. She had been happy – and then in the blink of an eye everything had changed.

  Sometime during the afternoon Matt returned with a cooler of meat. Tilly put the kettle on for him, then in the same mechanical fashion with her mind elsewhere, sliced and cubed and bagged the hunks of flesh for the freezer.

  ‘Everything okay, Tilly?’ Matt’s forehead creased as he watched her. ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said brightly. ‘So how were things at the station? Who did you see?’

  ‘Pretty busy, actually. The stockyard was full of horses. I expect they’ll be mustering soon. I spoke to Bruce, and the cook. He’s new – a bit strange, I thought. Mad-looking eyes. Talked non-stop. Only got one hand too.’

  ‘Really? How does he manage?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘He seems to get along. He’s got some sort of a fist fitted to the stump, inside a glove, like.’

  ‘I suppose it would help kneading dough,’ Tilly said doubtfully. Some of the stations still baked their own bread. ‘I guess people who lose bits of themselves learn to compensate, because they have to.’ As she had, she thought. But the amputation she’d suffered was invisible to the casual viewer.

  ‘I saw the tracks out front,’ Matt said. ‘Who was it? The closed sign’s still up for visitors.’

  ‘Oh, just the police.’ Hastily, to prevent him asking what they had wanted, she added, ‘I wondered, Matt – is it worth reporting the fire to them? Not that they’re going to catch anyone for it, but—’

  ‘What would they do?’ he scoffed. ‘The wind’s died, but driving back I never saw smoke. Probably gone out by now.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Tilly collected her knife and cutting board and carried it to the sink. ‘Well, that’s the meat done. I’d best feed the chooks. Just leave your cup and plate with the rest of it, Matt. I’ll clear up when I get back.’

  Luke returned at sundown. Tilly, who had been giving the joeys their evening feed, paused to hail him as he climbed out of the vehicle and stretched his long body before reaching back in for the thermos and his lunch pack. His hands and forearms were scratched and dirty, and there was a rip in one sleeve of his shirt.

  ‘How was the fire, Luke? Is it still going?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s contained, just creeping along slowly now. I did a backburn, so there’ll just be logs and stumps alight come morning. Looks like it started behind the shoreline and spread a fair distance inland. I got there in time to burn back into it from the old track along the coast, put out a few spot fires where it’d already crossed over, and Bob’s your uncle.’ He caught up with her, slowing his long stride to keep pace. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  She laughed. ‘Do you ever think of anything but food? There’s syrup pudding for dessert – how does that grab you?’

  ‘You’re a wonder,’ he said fervently. ‘You ought to have seen us before you came. Sophie can’t cook worth a damn and Matt and me are no better. I tell you, it’s a miracle we didn’t starve.’

  Tilly rolled her eyes. ‘You didn’t look exactly malnourished as I recall. So how do you think the fire started?’

  �
�Oh, someone lit it. A boat had come in. There’s a stretch of sand between the mangroves where the track runs in, and they’d beached it there. The tide hadn’t washed their footprints away when I arrived. Most likely fishermen down from the islands, or maybe Indonesia – probably illegals after trepang.’

  ‘Or people smugglers?’ Tilly suggested. ‘Wasn’t there something about a boatload of Chinese people put ashore on the Kimberley Coast maybe five years back? Which is practically murder when you think of the isolation and distance from anywhere. It was just luck some of them found that station.’

  ‘Pretty damn silly to light a fire if they were trying to sneak in the back door,’ Luke objected.

  ‘There is that, of course. Do you want a cuppa before dinner?’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he decided. ‘I need to shower first anyway. Might have a beer after that though.’

  Nobody was late to bed that night. Once she had cleaned up in the kitchen, Tilly readied the bottles for Sophie to give the joeys their evening feed. The next task was preparing the possum’s breakfast. Matt, busy setting out the board and having failed to find a playing partner in Luke, then invited her to a game of chess.

  She pulled a face. ‘You know I’m not up to your standard.’

  ‘Don’t matter. Call it practice.’ He shrugged.

  Sighing inwardly, Tilly took a seat across the kitchen table from him. Not that she had anything better to do. The others had found their own pursuits, Sophie lost in a book and Luke watching a football game on TV, by the sound of it. She pushed a white pawn carelessly forward, and when her turn came around again followed it with another, seeing not the board but the hard glint in DS Burns’ face as he asked if she’d had contact with her husband. Even if it were possible that Gerry still lived, why would the police be involved? Just supposing he had somehow miraculously survived, was that in itself a crime? Matt was waiting on her; she moved a knight at random and saw his fingers, with their light dusting of blotchy freckles, grasp his king and tip it over.