'Thank you.' Not enough, for what he'd tried to do. For the horror he'd faced, young and alone in the night. In the hardened, mature man across from her she could see reminders of the too-wary boy he'd been, a solitary youth who'd had to deal with the shock of death and injury a and the subsequent events that changed his life forever.

She struggled to pull her thoughts together, to pull herself back on track. 'You said last night that the only crime was what happened after the accident. What did you mean by that?'

'Off the record?'

'Yes. You have my word on it.'

'Falsification of evidence, intimidation of witnesses, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.' There was nothing soft in the anger glittering in his eyes, and his clipped phrases contrasted with the marginally gentler tone in which he'd described the accident.

'Intimidation? Is that why you lied? Why you said you were driving?'

'I didn't say it. The old sarge a.s.sumed that I was driving to start with, then he decided to stick with that.'

'But you pleaded guilty. Why?'

'Well, it wasn't because I wanted to go to prison.' As dry as a desert, he wasn't making it easy for her.

'Were you protecting someone?' she persisted. 'Were you protecting Mark?'

'Mark? No. He's always been a decent bloke, but I wouldn't have gone to jail for him.'

'Then who? Was there someone else in the car?'

'There was no-one else in the car. Listen, I'm not going into detail now. Let's just say that I was only a kid, powerless, and I'd made enemies. Threats were made against someone who mattered, and I had good reason to believe they'd be carried out unless I complied. I've told Fraser that, and-' He waved a hand at the laptop. 'It's all in the statement I've just sent to him.'

The statement he wouldn't let her see, probably for the same reasons Mark had given her. But she refused to be dismissed. 'Who made the threats?' she pushed. 'The old sergeant?' She dug in her memory for the name of the arrogant, bigoted cop who'd picked on the easy targets to make himself a big man. 'Franklin, wasn't it? Bill Franklin?'

He snorted. 'If it had only been Franklin, I could have had him charged for wrongful arrest and police brutality. But he was only ever a tool, way out of his depth.'

'So, who was behind it?'

She wanted to hear Dan Flanagan's name, but Gillespie kept his guard up.

'I've got no proof of who was behind it. Or why. Threats were delivered by messengers. Things were insinuated, not stated outright. What I believe and what I can prove are two different things.'

We've had our own tangled web of organised crime around here for a long time ... Mark's words from earlier this morning added substance to Gillespie's near-cryptic comments, and made her wonder what the h.e.l.l had been going on in the district, what Gillespie had been caught up in, while she'd been absorbed in preparing to escape the place.

'You said you'd made enemies. Dan Flanagan, right? How?'

'Back then I collected some information. Used it to ... dissuade Flanagan from sending his thugs to collect protection money from Jeanie Menotti's business. Not anything that would have stood up in court, but enough to damage his business if I'd been able to get it to an uncorrupt cop.'

Jeanie Menotti's Truck Stop Cafe, where Gil had worked part-time as a teen. Burned out back in September. She'd bet it was Jeanie he'd been protecting, that he'd gone to jail to keep her safe.

His phone beeped and he glanced at the message, closed his laptop and tipped the thick dregs from his coffee mug on to the adjacent garden.

She had seconds before he walked away and not enough answers. 'I read that Dan Flanagan's sons were arrested with Sean and the Sydney mafia guy a Sergio Russo, wasn't it? But I don't understand how the Flanagans are connected to organised crime, now or then, or why the Sydney mob came here.'

'Vanna Flanagan. Dan's wife. She's the connection. Her maiden name was Russo.' He rose to his feet, tucked the laptop under his arm, picked up the coffee mug and plunger. 'And I p.i.s.sed off one of the Russos in Sydney. They wanted payback, and the Flanagans were happy to help.'

With no farewell he left her, walking back into the pub through the bistro door.

She swallowed some of her own cooling coffee, her thoughts sprinting to round up scattered recollections. Vanna Flanagan. Tall, elegant, impeccably dressed, the owner of a chain of beauty salons across northern New South Wales a one of them next door to the Birraga Gazette office. Wife of Dan, a Birraga businessman with interests in many areas, and a substantial advertising account with the Gazette. Mother of Brian and Kevin, loud, obnoxious boys a few years older than her, arrested with Sean two months ago after the a.s.sault on Gillespie.

A year on the crime desk of a Sydney newspaper early in her career meant she knew of the Russo family. Whispers, shadows, hints and hearsay a but nothing ever definitively connecting prominent property developer Vince Russo or his brother Gianni with the crimes of the day.

It seemed absurd that the small-town Birraga Flanagans could be connected to the Sydney Russos. Laughable, almost. And yet ... there had been a few whispers about Dan Flanagan when she'd hung around the Birraga Gazette office as a teenager. Only whispers, nothing concrete, nothing said in front of her. Certainly nothing printed. Not with his advertising dollars keeping the struggling regional paper alive.

But perhaps those whispers held substance. Perhaps there had been a shady underworld back then, capable of framing a young man and getting away with it for years.

She carried her empty dishes into the bistro and went upstairs to her room. She opened her laptop. Research. Go back to the sources, reconstruct events, piece together the connections and the relationships. Her skills and talents, the exact same approaches she took in her work could be applied to this.

But it had never mattered quite so personally before.

SIX.

The forensic team from Inverell that had been on its way to Marrayin to investigate the fire stopped first in Dungirri to a.s.sess the Russell crime scene. The senior officer, Sandy Cunningham, grilled Mark on every movement he'd made while in the Russells' garden and house and took his fingerprints and an imprint of his boots, although the footprint in the garden had a very different tread pattern from his.

When they'd finished with him he joined Steve and Kris beside Steve's car.

Steve was on the phone, but Kris greeted him as he approached. 'Karl told me what happened. If Jenn's up to a few questions, I'll go and see her, since I can't do anything else here.'

He well understood Kris's frustration at being kept at arm's length from the murder investigation, her itch to be doing something constructive. And knowing that she would see Jenn and keep an eye on her injuries would ease at least some of his concern. 'She said she wouldn't report it, but maybe if you talk to her she might. She's at the pub.'

'Good. Mick's not usually a problem but he's been crankier and occasionally unstable lately, since Liam and Deb at the pub clamped down on serving drunks.'

'He threw a bottle at her and struck her several times because she wouldn't let him take Jim's computer. I had to haul him away from her. He's becoming more than unstable, Kris. He's downright dangerous.'

's.h.i.t.' She bit at her lip. 'I'll have to find some way to curb him. An a.s.sault charge would help.' Her face grew darker as they watched the unmarked mortuary van reverse into the Russells' driveway. 'I hate the sight of that van,' she confided. Then she shook her head, as if to shake away the image a or the moment of vulnerability a and it occurred to Mark how many qualities she shared with Jenn. The tough armour covering a caring core. The determination to take charge of her life and do her chosen job with thoroughness and commitment. The independence and resilience.

'Steve hasn't eaten and I'm guessing you haven't, either,' Kris said, interrupting his thoughts. 'Tell Steve I'll ask Liam to leave some breakfast out for the two of you. See you up there.'

She headed back along the road to the pub, taking one last glance through the gates towards the doctor's body as she pa.s.sed.

Mark didn't watch them load the body, leaning on the bonnet of Steve's car instead while the detective finished his call.

'Did I hear Kris say something about breakfast?' Steve asked as he pocketed his phone.

'Up at the pub. Presumably the usual basic breakfast, but anything will be good as far as I'm concerned.'

'Yeah, well personally I'd prefer a croissant in a Parisian cafe with a gorgeous blonde and a weekend in front of me with no work to do, but that sure isn't going to happen anytime soon. Let's go. We can talk as we walk.' Steve shot him a glance as they set off. 'You know I'm going to have to ask you about your movements this morning?'

Exactly the first question Mark expected. Underneath Steve's various masks a charm, informality, off-handedness a lay a thorough detective, more than committed to his job. 'I left Marrayin a little after sunrise, maybe six-thirty or so. I drove to Dungirri, turned right on to Gearys Road, and saw Esther Russell run out on the road just outside their place.'

'Did you see anyone else? Any vehicles on the Birraga road?'

'No. No-one in Dungirri, or on the road. Which leaves me,' he pointed out, 'without an alibi.'

Steve acknowledged the fact with a nod. 'Let's hope someone saw you. Or the killer. Adam's checking all the houses nearby now. Did you happen to step on the garden?'

'No, I didn't. The footprint isn't mine. Or Esther's a her feet are tiny.'

'Yeah. And I'm no religious scholar, but I haven't heard of angels leaving footprints.'

They walked the last few metres to the hotel in silence. Mark paused to check on the dogs in the back of the ute a still in the shade, still with plenty of water. Inside the pub, he paid Liam for the buffet breakfast, and after pouring himself coffee and filling a bowl with muesli and fruit, he followed Steve out to a table in the back corner of the deserted courtyard. No sign of Jenn or Kris.

For the first few minutes they both concentrated on eating, Steve hoeing in to his food as though he hadn't eaten for days. Mark hadn't eaten decently for days a a meat pie on the road yesterday didn't count as decent a but he had no appet.i.te, and ate only for necessity.

After polishing off a bowl of cereal and a thick slice of bread with jam, Steve leaned back in his chair, a coffee mug clasped in his hands, as casually as if they were relaxing at a barbecue. Except there was nothing relaxed in his eyes, and he launched straight back into the business at hand. 'Both you and Gillespie implied yesterday that Russell might have known the truth about the blood sample.'

Mark could read exactly where Steve was going. 'That could provide a motive for murder. So, I could be a suspect, if I believed Russell's evidence might incriminate me. Gil Gillespie could be a suspect, if he was the one who was driving that night and wanted to cover it up. And whoever organised the corruption might want to silence Russell, if he knew part of the truth.'

'Now you're playing detective,' Steve said, the dry humour friendly enough. 'But Russell's death could be purely coincidental. Someone else may have a reason to want him dead. Doctors can have angry patients a misdiagnosis, medication allergies or side effects, even an unsympathetic bedside manner can breed resentment.'

'He wasn't universally loved,' Mark agreed. 'He was very old-fashioned, and he certainly wasn't known for sensitivity. But other than the blood-alcohol report issue, I'm not aware of any significant questions over his actions. He was living quietly in retirement. And I know that a spouse is often the prime suspect, but Mrs Russell has been with him for close on fifty years, and they loved each other, despite his bad temper. I don't see her ending his life, even out of mercy. I certainly don't see her strangling him with a garrotte.'

'There'll be an autopsy. Cause of death seems obvious, but I've been surprised before. They'll screen blood samples for drugs, check his organs and such.'

'You'd better hope they put the right name on the samples this time.'

'Yeah. Maybe the doc didn't look at what he was signing. Maybe he did. But Gillespie can be thankful that the custody records were complete, and contradicted the hospital's. That's what got his conviction quashed. There was no other evidence suggesting culpability.'

'Yes.' Mark had noticed the absence of other evidence in the transcript of Gil's committal hearing. The blood-alcohol report and Gil's guilty plea a made under duress a had ensured a speedy conviction. Which left far too many questions unanswered.

Straightening and stretching his arms, Steve asked, 'Speaking of police records, can you send me a copy of what you have?'

'I'll email the file to you this morning.'

'Thanks. I've been ha.s.sling the archives staff, but their files are missing. They can't find anything in the computer files a there was a basic system back then a or paper files. And the blood sample itself is apparently long gone.'

The last thin hope Mark had held for a speedy resolution disappeared, and he swore silently. 'No chance of DNA a.n.a.lysis, then.'

The look Steve gave him had a dose of compa.s.sion in it. 'No. No nice clear answers there. But add together Doc Russell's death, missing police records, the fire at your place yesterday and Jim's murder, all less than twenty-four hours after your announcement, and I'm smelling a h.e.l.l of a lot more than just smoke.'

'It has to be someone attempting to destroy any evidence relating to Paula's death a the police report, what Russell knew. Believe me, Steve, if I'd known there was a substantial risk to anyone, I'd never have spoken to the media yesterday.'

'I believe it. I wouldn't have thought a crime this old would provoke this response. I'll keep an open mind, but I want a list from you of all the people who might have some knowledge of the accident and its aftermath. Names, Mark a anyone, from police stationed here at the time, to paramedics, to nurses at the hospital.'

Mark already had several names listed on the note app on his phone. 'Bill Franklin was the sergeant based at Dungirri at the time.'

Steve nodded. 'I checked on Franklin yesterday. He went up to the Northern Territory after he retired. A couple of years ago, he drove off into the bush in Kakadu and disappeared. His car and campsite were found, but no signs or sightings of him since and his bank accounts are untouched. The Territory cops are referring it to the Coroner for an inquest.'

The wild country in the Kakadu National Park could kill a man quickly, and in the vastness, remains might never be found. A crocodile, a snake, a wild boar, or even heat stroke or a heart attack a plenty of things could go wrong for an old man alone and a long way from help. Mark mentally struck through Franklin's name on his list.

The second contender was definitely still alive. Dan Flanagan. Everything Mark knew about the man pointed to the likelihood that he'd been the one behind the cover-up, yet in the same way the police had not been able to pin anything on the patriarch of the family despite arresting his sons, Mark had no evidence, no link, nothing solid to prove Dan's involvement.

'Bill Franklin wasn't the brightest guy,' Mark commented carefully. 'Someone with more influence, more ability to fix things must have been involved.' He didn't mention Flanagan's name. He didn't need to.

'There are several avenues of enquiry I'll pursue, don't worry. People with influence, as you put it. Although I have to say, Gil has plenty of suspicions about who was behind setting him up, given the enemies he'd made, but all the threats were delivered by hired thugs, so he doesn't have any firm evidence. Which reminds me, Mark, I want to talk with your parents. They retired to the coast, didn't they?'

People with influence. No evidence against Flanagan. His parents. Steve's connection of the three ideas caught him unawares, but the frankness in the detective's study of him made clear his train of thought. As prominent and active landholders in the district, his parents had been influential. Rationally, the possibility that they'd arranged to frame Gil to protect their son had to be considered, but Mark's every instinct insisted it was a waste of time. Service, integrity, decency a values not just drilled into him throughout his upbringing, but demonstrated in everything Len and Caroline Strelitz did.

'They do a lot of overseas charity work,' he told Steve. 'At the moment they're in Bolivia, building a school in an isolated village without phones or mobile reception.' He thumbed through the contacts on his phone. 'They have a satellite phone but it died, so I'll send you their email address and mobile number. Good luck getting hold of them. I spoke with them last Sunday. They might go into a larger town this weekend to check their messages.'

'Did you happen to ask them about the accident?'

'Yes. They were shocked and worried. But it was a bad line; we couldn't talk for long. I got the impression they'd never had any doubt that Gil was driving.'

'But they're not rushing home to stand by you?'

'I doubt it.'

Steve raised an eyebrow. 'You don't get along?'

'Yes, we do.' How to explain his parents to someone who'd never met them? Too complex to try, and not relevant to the situation. He shrugged and opted for a simpler, close-enough comment. 'I'm thirty-six now, not eighteen, and even then they encouraged my independence.' Not an entirely adequate phrase to describe their distracted affection and the consequent physical and emotional self-reliance that Mark had formed from a young age, but it would have to do. 'They handed control of the family company to me some years ago and moved to the north coast. Their charity work is a full-time job, though, and they're often away. They're very dedicated to it.'

'Dedicated' a there was another inadequate word. Pa.s.sionate. Driven. Although what drove them he'd never been entirely sure. All the commitment and energy they'd once put into building Marrayin they now poured into building schools, hospitals and clinics in isolated corners of the world.

Steve's phone, lying on the table, beeped with a message, and he heaved a frustrated sigh and thumbed a response. 'I'll have to go in a minute,' he said, putting the phone down again. 'But before I do, how do your folks get on with the Flanagans?' He dropped the name almost casually, as if it were of no importance.

Mark kept it brief. 'Coolly polite. When they meet in public. But they try to avoid meeting at all.'

'How come?'

'I don't know the full story. But I do know that back in the long drought in the early eighties, Dan Flanagan specialised in irrigation equipment, and he started buying up land and properties that were heavily in debt and had to be sold. My father didn't say why, but he believed that some of Flanagan's actions were, at the very least, unethical. He established Strelitz Pastoral and outbid Flanagan on at least three places, including the Gearys Flat property.'

'Some rivalry there, then.'

'Yes. Definitely not business a.s.sociates. Of any kind.'

After Steve left, Mark considered again the idea that his parents might have framed Gil to protect him a and he rejected it as swiftly as he had the first time. Not only because they weren't here, now, and couldn't possibly be responsible for Edward Russell's murder, but more importantly because the idea of them framing Gillespie ran counter to everything Mark knew and believed about his parents' characters.

Dan Flanagan had to have known, if not masterminded the whole business. It had been there in his behaviour, especially since Mark's election to parliament. The jocular pretence at friendship, the confident grins a oh, yes, he'd known. But the one thing Mark didn't understand was why Flanagan had never used the information he held against him. And he wondered if he would try to use it now.

SEVEN.