Neither Fair nor Just: Evil Stalks the Hills

By Geoffrey Gilbert

Adam Jonas was a bit of a loner, his love of trains and the tunnels that sliced through the Adelaide Hills brought about his undoing. His broken body was found at the bottom of a railway cutting leading into one of the tunnels.

He became the third child who had gone missing in the hills, the other two had not been found either alive or dead. It had been over three months since the first boy went missing and at this point the Police had no leads on who may have been the perpetrator.

The case had been assigned to two ageing Detectives, one nearing retirement, both came under fire from the press for their lack of progress in solving the case. The hills communities were now living on the edge.

The two detectives under pressure to solve the case started to line up several Prime Suspects but on each of them they drew a blank. Their supervising officer comes under extreme pressure to relieve them of their duties.

A new lead presents itself but where it ends is not as expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669831730

Geoffrey Gilbert

Geoffrey Gilbert was born in Stawell. He completed a Commerce degree at the University of Melbourne, and worked for several years for General Motors Holden before travelling overseas. He then began working in the Wine Industry where he became a CPA before moving back into the Automotive Parts Industry. He moved into Aged Care where I spent thirty years in Finance and Admissions. He is married to his wife Pam, and have two grown up sons Damian and Travis. After a life in figures, he took up the challenge of mastering words.

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Copyright © 2022 by Geoffrey Gilbert.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Rev. date: 02/15/2023

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Dedicated to family and friends,

both past and present.

"The human soul damages itself when it becomes (as far as it is able)

a kind of cancerous tumour on the Universe."

Marcus Aurelius

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My sincere thanks to the outstanding team at Xlibris Australia for the rebirth of Neither Fair Nor Just, for its production, distribution and marketing and for your knowledge and advice.

Special thanks to my wife Pam and sons Damian and Travis who encouraged me to go ahead and have the book edited and proof read for distribution which I had previously self published.

I would like to thank all the wonderful writers who not only gave me a greater understanding of life but who coloured it in a hundred hues. I became lost in the worlds which they created, amazed by the way they wove the stories by their masterful use of words, painting the pictures and laying down the puzzles to be solved, who was manipulating who, what was each character’s reason to be in the story, their motives, their loves and their hates. In the genre of crime fiction just to name a few, Elizabeth George, Lynda la Plante, Camilla Lackberg, Stieg Larsson, P.D.James, John Grisham who inspired me to have a go at writing a novel, the result being Neither Fair Nor Just.

I am greatly indebted to Wikipedia, without which I could never have achieved the research into the subjects that make up the story or the facts which are outlined within the book

I thank my son Damian for his input into the creation of the cover.

Books or initially comics have always been a close friend and I am much indebted to all the wonderful writers which have opened up my life from my teens to my senior years, thank you for the wonderful and glorious memories.

PROLOGUE

Ballarat in winter can be very, very cold. Residents like those of other Australian cities with a reputation of being cold old holes develop an immunity to it or have the incredible ability to endure, but those of us who are just visitors to this provincial Victorian city will be literally chilled to the bone unless forewarned and appropriately attired.

Ballarat sits in the Central Highlands of Victoria on the Yarrowee River, elevated some 458 metres above sea level, causing its mean winter temperatures to be three or four degrees below those in Melbourne. Light snow falls each year on two nearby extinct volcanoes, Mount Buninyong and Mount Warrenheip, but falls only in the urban area during very heavy winters. Snow or no snow, night temperatures during winter are on average below five degrees centigrade; anyone caught out at night without proper clothing would likely suffer hypothermia.

The two boys stood side by side astride their new Malvern Stars, then one of them swung his bike in the opposite direction. He adjusted the kit bag which was fastened to a frame above the back wheel; he was the sporting son of the family. As he rode away, he called back to the other boy, ‘See you later at home,’ then he pedalled madly for the school oval. He didn’t want to be late for training. He had only just turned 13 but was in line to be picked in the under-16 team.

The other boy looked over his shoulder to watch his brother slowly disappear out of sight. A shot of green envy entered his being but just as quickly was gone. There was no one he loved more, perhaps other than his mother, than his older brother, albeit that he was only older by some thirty to forty-five minutes.

Almost mimicking his brother, he checked his satchel, also attached to a frame above the back wheel which contained his schoolwork; he was the scholar of the family. He then started to make his way around the lake along Wendouree Parade until he was on the western side. He stopped and watched the Golden City paddle steamer gracefully ply its way across the lake, as it had done since it was launched in 1885.

He looked east across the lake, and the blue-purple shape of Mount Warrenheip, wisps of cloud hanging across its face, could be seen away in the distance while a flotilla of black swans headed in a V formation towards a mass of bulrushes running along the shore of the lake. A rowing four bent itself to the task, urged on by the coach following them up in a motorised dinghy, their appearance causing a mass of water birds including ducks, waterfowl, and coots to rise from the lake’s surface. One last time he let his eyes wander across the surface of the lake, ruffled first by the paddle steamer then the rowers and finally by the mass of water birds first exiting then returning to the lake’s surface. Across the ruffled waters, he could see the boat sheds on the other side of the lake.

He had homework but as his brother was off playing footy, he got it into his head that he might take a little ride before going home, so he rode across the grass, stopping at the edge of the road to wait for the tram as it rumbled by on its way, then bumping over the tram lines, he headed for the Botanical Gardens. The famed Begonia Festival held in March was long gone, but it wasn’t flowers he was headed for. The Prime Ministers Avenue was his goal. He was constructing an essay on those prime ministers born in and around Ballarat.

He paused for a moment looking back along Wendouree Parade. Already, a damp mist was starting to settle amongst the trees. He watched a squirrel climb up a tree amongst the orange and yellow autumn foliage clinging on desperately, much of which now festooned the lawn around the trees and decorated the footpath as it ran along the street. Some of the leaves had drifted on to the roadway and the tram tracks. It was almost four thirty in the afternoon as he recollected on the squirrel’s introduction to the gardens in the early sixties.

Through the growing dusk, one of the conservatory buildings in the gardens could be seen partially hidden in the mist. Street lights along the parade had come on, giving a halo effect as the light reflected back from the mist gathered around them. He could feel the chill starting to creep into his bones; his school uniform was starting to be inadequate in keeping out the cold.

Having arrived at the avenue, he slowly took in the names of the various prime ministers who were born in and around Ballarat, including the second prime minister, Alfred Deakin, being the first parliamentary member for Ballarat. There was also the man who had guided the country through World War II, Mr John Curtin, who was born in nearby Creswick. There was a bust of Sir Robert Menzies, who was educated in Ballarat.

He sat on his bike, trying to commit to memory the names paraded down the avenue who fitted into the essay he was writing. He sensed he was being watched. Away to his right, three older boys were sitting under a tree, looking his way. He didn’t recognize them, so he didn’t give them a second thought, just pedalled off along a pathway that led around the back of a huge conservatorium used for the Begonia Festival which would take him on a circuitous route back to basically where he started then over to Wendouree Parade.

As he returned to where he started, a worrisome thought crossed his mind that he might run into those three boys again. Relieved to find none of the boys in sight, he headed along a path taking him to the Parade, where he turned right, riding along the footpath, scattering the last fall of autumn leaves, heading for Sturt Street.

He came to where the tram turned off Sturt Street heading for the gardens and the lake, crossing Sturt Street to the safety of the side road. On the other side, he mounted the ramp over the gutter giving him access to a large park. An expanse of recently mown green grass studded with a variety of foreign trees, most looking forlorn without their foliage, some leaves still clinging in remnants, others surrounded by a ring of the last of their amber foliage. Above them from the boughs, an interlocking framework of spidery twigs formed.

He had only travelled about one hundred metres or so when he was suddenly hailed by three younger boys all wearing the same school uniforms as he did, riding towards him across the grass.

He didn’t know their names but he felt, being from the same school, maybe they’d recognised him.

He was rather surprised but was a bit chuffed for it was usually his brother that people recognised. He saw no harm in answering them, ‘Hi there.’ The largest of the three, who had spoken first, seemed to be the leader of the trio.

‘Some of your mates have something for you. They are over behind those toilets.’ He flung his arm in the direction of the public conveniences.

He still wasn’t sure, so he said, ‘Why couldn’t they come and get me?’

‘It’s just that we were headed home and they asked us to tell you,’ he replied. ‘They have something your brother gave to them to give to you. Anyhow, we’ve got to go.’ At that, he headed off, with the other two in hot pursuit.

He watched them ride away. It seemed a bit funny to him that his brother would have given them something to give to him. Still, perhaps he bumped into them on the way to training.

He turned off the path, heading across the grass in the direction of the toilets. Something inside was gathering butterflies in his stomach, and the cold started seeping into his bones. It crossed his mind to turn in the other direction and ride like mad for home, but curiosity got the better of him.

It was seven in the morning. The temperature had fallen to three degrees overnight. A sand-coloured Land Rover with ‘Parks and Gardens’ adorning the sides made its way into the park. The huge expanse of grass and trees was shrouded in the early morning mist; denuded trees were skeletal in the dim light. The vehicle’s fog lights were bouncing back, reflecting off the moist atmosphere as the driver carefully made his way to one side of the park.

He was headed in the direction of a brick building which loomed out of the mist, finally bringing the vehicle to a halt at one end of the structure. He checked to make sure he had his bunch of keys attached to his belt, checked that his mobile radio telephone was switched on, then as he alighted from the van, grabbed a Dolphin torch conveniently stored in a pocket in the door, made his way towards the back of the building.

He could feel the mist swirling around him. With virtually no breeze, it lay like a blanket over the expanse of the park and most of the environs of Ballarat. The cold was invading his internal organs, and there was an increasing pain in his groin. As he came around the side of the building, he stopped to unlock a gate and then moved in a hurry down towards the other end of the building to another gate, which he proceeded to unlock with a good deal of haste, swearing out loud to himself, ‘Damn it, less haste, more speed, ya bastard.’ The cold had well and truly seeped into his bladder, and he was busting for a piss. He finally unlocked it and scrambled into the interior, heading quickly for the urinal.

He let out a huge sigh of relief as he tucked his pride and joy back into his underwear and then zipped up his trousers. He was about to turn and head back out of the toilet block when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. He swung the Dolphin torch off his shoulder and switched it on, pointing it in the direction of the end of the block. It was about as useful as tits on a bull; the light bounced straight back at him.

He switched off the torch and walked down to the last cubicle. Nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to find. He took one look inside the cubicle. Overcome by nausea, he struggled not to be violently ill, turning, stumbling towards the entrance, the image forever indelibly printed on his mind.

The area was soon abuzz with police and ambulance personnel, the early morning gloom illuminated by the red and blue lights of several police cars and the flashing amber light of the ambulance; that and the early morning mist helped to create a weird chilling atmosphere.

In the mist, dark shapes of several police personnel could be seen fanning out across the park. Light was slowly increasing, brightening up the area. They were looking for anything that might somehow provide a clue to the horror that had happened, anything that might identify the perpetrators. There came a shout from across the park, where a clump of bushes sat all alone. ‘Hey, I’ve found something over here, someone’s bicycle.’

Another vehicle arrived, a white Holden station wagon with ‘City Coroner’ on the front doors.

Meanwhile inside, the paramedics were in the throes of their examinations assessing the situation.

At the same time, Detective Bronson was grilling the man who had called in to report what he had found.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jesse—Jesse Horngren.’

‘What were you doing here so early?’

‘Part of my job, I’m a park ranger. I open and lock up the conveniences in a number of parks around the area, including the Botanic Gardens and around the lake,’ he replied.

‘So when you opened up this morning, what did you find?’

‘Well,’ he stammered, bile still sitting in his gullet, ‘you see, I don’t normally go inside. I just drive to each convenience, unlocking the gates, then around five in the afternoon, I lock them again, but it was bloody cold at seven o’clock and I was busting.’

‘So you just walked in. Was it before or after you had a piss that you discovered the body?’

Horngen was slightly caught off guard. ‘After, the urinals are in front of the cubicles—well, something caught my eye and then I discovered what it was.’ He swallowed hard as the bile eased its way up again.

‘So you caught sight of it out of the corner of your eye—that seems rather convenient,’ the detective said disparagingly. ‘Can’t imagine the light would have been all that good at that time—lucky.’

Horngren started to get a bit flustered. He felt he had done the right thing calling in immediately, but now he wasn’t so sure. ‘Perhaps I turned that way when I finished my business and that’s when I saw it.’

‘So you’re not sure,’ the detective pressured him. ‘You say you lock the toilets at five. Do you remember yesterday what time you locked these ones?’

‘I can’t say for sure exactly the time, but it would have been around five fifteen.’

‘So you didn’t go inside?’

‘No, I just locked the gate.’

‘You didn’t hear anything from inside the toilet, nothing that made you suspicious, made you want to look inside?’

‘No.’

‘Surely you must look inside in case someone’s there. Otherwise, you would lock them in overnight,’ the detective said. ‘Wouldn’t that be part of your procedure?’

‘Well, I don’t go right inside. I stick my head in the door and call out,’ he explained. ‘If I don’t get an answer, I lock up.’

‘So you didn’t do that last night as you would normally do?’ There was menace in the detective’s tone. If the answer was what he expected it to be, he knew he had to keep his temper.

Jesse Horngren’s face went a whiter shade of pale, if that was possible. He swallowed hard and stammered, ‘I just locked it. I was running late. I’d had to wait at two of the other toilets for someone to finish having a shit. It was my kid’s parents’ night at the school. Christ, if only I’d known, if only I’d called out.’

‘Yes, if only you had, may well have been a very different scenario,’ the detective warned, then looked across at the coroner’s vehicle. ‘Still, maybe not. Don’t leave yet. You will have to come down to the station. We will need your fingerprints and a blood sample.’

‘Surely you don’t think I killed him. I—’

They were cut short by a commotion from inside the toilet. One of the paramedics came rushing out to the ambulance, grabbing portable breathing apparatus before rushing back in. He called out, ‘We’ve got a weak pulse. The boy’s still alive.’

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Chapter 1

A cheer rang out as the school bell pealed through the school grounds, the students hurriedly shuffled books, pens, and other school essentials into their bags. It was a teachers’ half day off.

It was just after 12.30 p.m. as Adam Jonas headed home. He couldn’t wait. He would dump his school gear, scoff down the lunch his mother would have left him, and head up to his favourite spot, the train line that ran through the Adelaide Hills.

He opened the back door, barging into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty. His mouth fell open. Someone was home. An uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach, the day already losing some of its appeal.

The bigger boy sneered, ‘Hi, Adam, guess you didn’t think anyone would be here.’

Adam looked at his stepbrother, concern running across his eyes. He mumbled, ‘Hi,’ dropping his bag against the kitchen wall, and went to the refrigerator in search of his lunch.

Before he even opened the door, his stepbrother smirked, saying, ‘I’m afraid I was hungry, so I ate some of your lunch. I left you a sandwich and the banana. I hate bananas. Oh, by the way, there are some dry biscuits in the cupboard, help fill you up.’

Adam ate what was left of his lunch, poured himself some milk, then went to his room to change his clothes and head up to the railway line, where the air was clean and bright.

He didn’t get very far, his stepbrother blocking the way. He enticed him into his bedroom with the lure of some comic books, which he had got for him.

It was nearing 2 p.m. when Adam finally left the house, heading for the ravine where the railway line ran into the tunnel.

His hair all tousled, his slim frame stood erect beside the shining silver rails connecting the harbour cities of Adelaide and Melbourne. The Overland, the only passenger train between the two cities departs Adelaide Station around dusk and rolls into Melbourne as that city awakens to a new working day, but it wasn’t this train he had waited for. It was one of several freight trains which passed through the Adelaide Hills at odd intervals during the day; he knew their schedules for he had a great fascination for the huge diesel engines with their variety of rolling stock and he loved to spend much of his out-of-school hours along the tracks and in the tunnels, observing and counting the different types of rolling stock, the open flat cars, refrigerated vans, petroleum or oil tankers, wooden slatted animal carriers, overseas shipping containers, freight cars, car carriers, and finally the Guards Van; the names painted on them such as Maersk, Hamburg Süd, Orient Line, P & O, Mobil, Linfox. He knew the various diesel locomotives used by the South Australian Railways such as the 700 class, the 830 class, and the 930 class. His uncle worked on the railways.

It was a very warm, verging on a hot October afternoon, the azure-blue sky etched with white brush strokes of cirrus cloud. A hot breeze swirled its way through the railway cutting, enhancing the heat bouncing off the rocky walls, his shirt sticking to his back. Extracting his finger from his nose, he wiped his dirty hand across an already dirt-ravaged face, causing a speck of dirt to lodge in his eye, making him blink rapidly in an attempt to dislodge it; then attempts to extract it with a grubby finger only exacerbated the pain.

He blinked back the tears and stood contemplating the twenty-cent piece lying in the flat of his hand, the image of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, barely discernible. ‘Holy AC/DC, Tommy said it would be flat and smooth. He sure was right,’ he exclaimed aloud. ‘The goods train squashed it flat as a tack.’

A sinister metallic sound infiltrated his concentration, and he swung around in fear, the coin slipping from his hand, tumbling, making contact with the railway line, then spinning out of control across the tracks and coming to rest against the burnt-orange rocks at the foot of the wall of the railway cutting leading into the tunnel. Anxiety sent bilious shock waves washing over his body, staring with fear-laden eyes at the opening of the railway tunnel only fifty metres away, expecting creatures so often in his nightmares to come rushing out.

Adam Jonas was a bit of a loner, his night-time dreams often filled with dark holes inhabited by serpents and demons. Suddenly, his body was wracked with uncontrollable shakes. His nights were often long and seemed never-ending. Some nights, his room was filled with light, a dark shape would appear in the doorway, cross the room, then stand alongside his bed. The bed clothes would be pulled back, and the nightmares would start.

The uncontrollable shaking and the incessant pounding of his heart slowly subsided. He became consumed in the task of recovering his lost treasure, blissfully unaware of the presence which had emerged from the tunnel. He looked around and suddenly the sun’s rays played on the shiny surface, and he jumped across the tracks and scooped it up from its resting place at the base of the cutting.

Squatting at heel, he again examined the flattened coin, wondering at the power and weight of the locomotive and its attached rail cars to transfigure the coin. In his absorption with the coin’s disfigured state, he was oblivious of some other presence until its shadow fell upon him. Adam sprang up and turned around, expecting something horrible but instead found himself looking into the face of a man, his face partly hidden by dark sunglasses sitting on a broad flat nose. He wore a peaked yellow cap; tufts of dark hair protruded from under it. His jeans were rather worn and faded, and he wore a denim shirt and yellow work jacket with ‘SA Railways’ marked on it. It all seemed in quite stark contrast to Adam’s T-shirt, shorts, and thongs. An overnight bag swung heavily from his shoulders.

Adam looked apprehensively at the man, his mother’s warning about strangers suddenly filling his mind, and uncertainty tugged at his very being, making him unsure what to do, but he seemed familiar as if he had met him before.

He sensed Adam’s uneasiness and attempted to placate him. He smiled and said, ‘Do you often play along the railway? I was passing by last week and thought I saw you near the other end of the tunnel. My job is to ensure that nobody places obstacles on the railway line inside the tunnel or defaces railway property. Do you know what defaces means?’

Adam excelled in his school work, his other refuge from the world, and was keen to show the stranger that he was quite clever. He replied, ‘It means to damage or maybe write on something.’

‘Yes, well done.’ The man gave him a smile. ‘That’s a good answer for someone so young. How old are you?’

‘I am 9, but I will be 10 on the fourteenth of November,’ Adam replied.

‘I guess you like your schoolwork,’ he replied.

‘Yes,’ Adam said, ‘I like to read about things. I have some books about trains, and that’s why I come up to the tracks and try to identify the big engines and also count all the different rail cars.’

The man smiled and asked Adam what he had in his hand that he been looking at before. Adam started to feel another bout of anxiety, remembering what the man had said about things being put on the railway line; he thought about putting it in his pocket but realised that the man knew he had something in his hand, then in a low and tremulous voice, he uttered, ‘It’s a coin and the train ran over it.’ He proffered the coin to the man.

The stranger carefully examined the coin, turning it over several times. His brow furrowed as he gazed intently at the flattened coin, smiling at Adam. The genial tone in his voice had a calming effect on the young boy, and his words brought a look of incredulity into Adam’s eyes. ‘The train was heading in that direction when it ran over the coin.’ He gesticulated with his hand in the direction of the tunnel and further up into the hills.

Young Adam raised his eyebrows and stared with bulbous eyes at the man and stammered, ‘How did you work that out?’

‘I can tell by the way the coin has been flattened,’ he explained, running his finger across the extrusion of the metal. In fact, he knew which way the train had been travelling because he was in one of the safety arches inside the tunnel when the train had passed through.

‘Wow, you must be very clever,’ Adam squawked, then remembered having put the coin on the railway line. ‘Will I get into trouble for putting something on the railway line?’

He stifled a smile and said rather surreptitiously, ‘Well, I think we can keep this between ourselves, Adam.’

Adam was quite startled and blurted out, ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Don’t you remember I met you once when you were at the Eden Valley railway station with your Uncle Roy, a few weeks back?’ he explained.

Adam wasn’t really sure he remembered the man, but he had been at the station with his uncle who was a train driver. He thought to himself, He works for the railways like Uncle Roy, and if he knows Uncle Roy, he must be OK. He thought his voice sounded kinda familiar, and he felt he recognised him even with his dark glasses.

‘Well, Adam, what do you like most?’ the man asked.

Adam replied, ‘I love watching the trains.’

‘What does your sister like the most?’ he asked.

‘I don’t have a sister, only a stepbrother,’ he replied, a despondent tone in his voice. ‘Something happened to Mum, and she can’t have any more children.’

‘What does your mum like the best?’

‘Flowers, I think, and sparkling things when she can afford them,’ he replied. ‘She’s always had to work since my real father left us.’

The branch fell, a proliferation of rose petals garnishing the bark chips which acted as mulch for the rose trees which gave out vivid bursts of colour and fragrance along the picket fence. Archie James Mulley cursed under his breath, one of his pride and joy, the rich red petals of a Mr Lincoln, now lay among the mulch and loam of the garden bed instead of decorating the sideboard in the hallway, the victim of inattention, ageing limbs, and wayward secateurs. ‘Oh, Marilyn, if only you were still here. I guess I’m getting too old for this caper.’ The sprightly 79-year-old spoke aloud. ‘I guess I had better move into one of those retirement units up on the hill.’

Then another voice broke into his reveries. As he swung around to confront the perpetrator, the secateurs almost slipped from his gnarled and horny fingers, fingers bearing the scars of a time in the military, of an occupation requiring the demanding coordination between hand and eye continued into retirement as he whiled away the hours in his workshop; the retired engineer was never happier than when he was making something out of nature’s own, that is, except spending time with Marilyn, God rest her soul. Why did you take her before me? He so often was anguished over that.

‘Were you talking to me, Mr Mulley?’ the voice said, and he found himself looking into the hooded eyes of his next neighbour and local councillor, Hans Vorster, a squat well-dressed man with a slightly flattened nose and bushy eyebrows with tufts curling up on his forehead.

‘No, just mumbling to myself,’ he replied and, under his breath, ‘just minding my own business.’

‘You know what they say about talking to yourself, signs of dementia.’ He shook his head and half smirked at his attempt at humour, his Boer accent still evident. ‘But I’m glad I caught you as there are a couple of matters I wanted to run by you.’

Archie waited for the gossip which had become too heavy for him to bear alone.

‘You know, Mr Mulley, those two that live down the road,’ he began, his eyes bright, the tip of his tongue running along his bottom lip, signs of the joy he procured from rumour-mongering.

‘Which two are you referring to?’ Archie responded, knowing all too well who the councillor was talking about.

‘You know, Archie, the two in number 10, the old weatherboard cottage,’ he retorted. ‘Alternative lifestyle, so they say, but we know what they’re about, eh, mon?’

‘Oh, you mean Roger and Derek,’ Archie exclaimed. He often passed the time with them. They had a real appreciation for his garden and had offered some suggestions from time to time which he had tried with some success. ‘I believe the modern term for it is gay.’

‘Dress it up as much as you like, a couple of poofters.’ He spit it out as if he had chomped on a rotten apple, not really listening to what Archie had said. ‘It isn’t natural, you know.’

Archie rubbed his hand on his chin and thought again about asking his neighbour to drop the Mr and call him Arch but thought he would avoid any extra familiarity, simply saying, ‘I guess each to his own.’

‘Well, that may be, but the council is worried about their effect on the neighbourhood, especially the children, the effect it may have on them or the possible danger of interference,’ he exclaimed.

Archie thought, I’ll bet you have been throwing fuel on the fire, knowing a little of his neighbour’s past: born in South Africa, where he joined the army but then moving to Britain, where he served in the British Army, rising to the rank of sergeant major, following his discharge he emigrated to Australia to work in the security industry, finally settling in Adelaide, a past perhaps not entirely conducive to an open-minded acceptance of the gay community.

Hans went on, ‘The council has also learned that one of them has that dreadful disease that affects people who indulge in such perverse activities. We have to protect the children.’

‘It’s Derek’—Archie tried to maintain a rational outlook—‘who has AIDS and unfortunately is now in a rather advanced stage.’

‘Quite, quite, Mr Mulley, but I’m afraid it’s too late for sympathy.’ His voice was devoid of any sense of compassion. ‘They should have thought about that before they indulged in their somewhat unnatural goings-on. I’ve told my boy Kenny to stay well clear of them, not to talk to them. God knows some people say you can get it by just a casual contact. Still, we know what the book of Leviticus warned us that man should not lay down with man.’

Archie replied, ‘You can’t contract the disease just through conversation or shaking hands but through contact with bodily fluids. In fact, acquired immune deficiency syndrome, the full name for AIDS, is caused by a number of conditions caused by the infection with the human immunodeficiency virus or HIV, which weakens the body’s immune system, causing it to be unable to fight diseases which enter the body. It is believed to have originated in non-human primates in West-Central Africa and transferred to humans in the early twentieth century. The earliest documented human case was in the Congo in 1959 but was first clinically observed in the US in 1981.’

‘Is that how they reckon it happened, early this century, probably someone desperate enough to have a go with a monkey, eh, mon? Probably at night and couldn’t tell the difference. Anyhow, I don’t want them putting any ideas in his head. Ten-year-olds are quite impressionable,’ he carried on, again not really taking in what Archie had alluded to. ‘Anyway, I’d best be moving on, council business, you know, can’t stand around gossiping.’

‘See you again, Hans,’ Archie said, stifling a sigh of relief, running his hand through his greying beard, as he watched his neighbour stride towards his car, pondering that he would never change his outlook on homosexuality.

The young man struck his head on the bonnet catch as he leapt backwards to avoid the effusive discharge from the radiator. Knowing little about motor cars, he was unprepared for the eruption of fluid which occurred when he loosened the radiator cap, stifling an expletive as the impact shot a wave of pain through his body. His jacket and trousers now splattered by the rust-coloured liquid ejecting from the emancipated radiator cap, the boiling discharge showering the overheated engine, inducing clouds of steam which enveloped the front of the car; the relatively simple act of leaping backwards to avoid the mutilating impact of the boiling murky liquid emanating from the tortured engine left him panting, short of breath, one hand on his chest, gulping volumes of air, trying to regain his vigour.

Taking his hand away from his chest, he gingerly felt the top of his head and became conscious of blood in his hair. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the spot where he felt the blood was flowing and, in the process, managed to get blood on the front of his jacket. He waited briefly. Feeling his head again, he felt that the flow had been stopped. The radiator had stopped belching its hot contents. He fastened the radiator cap to its rightful place, hauling down the bonnet of the car. He then retrieved his bag from the back seat, headed off down the road.

He circumnavigated the roundabout and headed up the hill towards the station. As he approached the steps leading up to the railway platform, he paused, leaning back against the railing, taking time to regain his breath, failing to register a car decelerating to near-walking pace, its driver gaping intently in his direction, the driver’s circumspection taking in the dark stains on the young man’s coat and trousers and the apparent state of his apprehension.

The car crawled slowly by. The young man oblivious of its presence, with laboured breath, began to ascend the stairs, interrupting his climb on the landing halfway to allow a middle-aged woman and presumably her daughter to pass. He smiled ruefully, more a grimace at their failure to acknowledge his courtesy. He wondered whether it was a sign of the times and then he thought, maybe more my appearance. He cursed inwardly at the poverty of his energies, pressing onwards and upwards.

Securing a ticket, he headed for the platform.

The following morning, Archie Mulley, having made some purchases at the local supermarket, found himself on a park bench, gazing up at the war memorial which dominated the roundabout, a digger depicted with slouch hat and rifle, a fitting tribute to those who died for king and country.

He thought of passing the day reminiscing but decided against it. He rose, taking up his bag of purchases, headed off towards the car park. As he reached the roadway, a voice rang in his ear. ‘Archie, good to see you,’ a younger man resplendent in a pinstriped suit with matching blue tie and kerchief hailed him. ‘It has been quite some time since we crossed paths or should I say crossed swords. How are you?’ in a manner quite jovial and presumptuous.

‘Well, quite well, thank you, Councillor,’ the older man rejoined, unsure as to whether he was pleased with the interruption to his morning. A possible frustration loomed up which he could well do without. He also held an intense antipathy towards his assailant. ‘A pompous ass’ came to mind, but if he searched more deeply into his psyche, it might well have revealed that he was holding a grudge over the fact that the councillor had secured a victory to keep the old valley dam open, victory he had engineered through the council over a group of local protestors, Archie having been to the forefront of any action.

The valley dam was used by local youngsters as a swimming hole, remnants of ropes tied to overhanging branches where youthful bodies launched themselves into the muddy waters below, but in the eyes of other locals, it was seen to becoming unsafe for swimming as effluent was evident in the stream which fed the dam. Its bottom was now sprouting heavy concentrations of underwater vegetation, not only unsafe for swimming but becoming increasingly unsanitary.

Councillor Marden had successfully chaired the committee appointed by the council to look into the matter, in spite of claims that the councillor was drawing water from the dam to irrigate his orchards growing adjacent to the water resource. The committee voted to retain the dam by the majority of a single vote. Subsequent to the decision, a protest was lodged about Councillor Marden having voted in what seemed a conflict of interest, the decision being overturned and Councillor Marden as a gesture of goodwill abstained from voting at the next council meeting. However, the result was the same, and the motion this time was passed by a majority of two. Rumours were rife that the councillor, being a highly powerful local businessman, had put undue influence on a couple of other councillors; however, there was no evidence either way.

Archie had a pretty fair idea what was coming next and braced himself. ‘It was a good fight, Archie. Reason prevailed. Nothing untoward has happened. My own son uses that dam, and I believe your next-door neighbour’s boy also spends time there. Really, do you think I would want to harm my own son?’ he said in rather supercilious manner.

‘Maybe not, Councillor, maybe not,’ he concurred without any real conviction. ‘Mark my words—that dam is not safe. Someone will get into strife there one day.’

‘I was discussing something in council with your neighbour Hans Vorster and others,’ he carried on, ‘those two shirt lifters who live on your street. He brought it to the council’s attention that one of them is suffering that monkey disease, contracted, I believe, from improper relationships.’

‘They are consenting adults,’ Archie countered.

He rambled on as if not hearing. ‘It’s our children I worry about. What if they tamper with our children?’

Strange, thought Archie, you didn’t worry about a toxic dam when it came to the children. He exclaimed, ‘Perhaps we could create a modern version of the leper colony and herd them in there and lock the gate.’

‘Ja, that’s dom fine idea. Hans would agree to that,’ the councillor mimicked. ‘Must move along, business to attend to.’

Archie watched the councillor walk away, then resigned himself to the fact that his beloved roses would have to wait, because from his peripheral vision, he caught the imposing shape of Mrs Grimwald making a beeline in his direction, coming from the other side of the car park, her momentum making her bulky edifice wobble in all directions.

She was an elder of one of the local churches which Marilyn had faithfully attended right up until the end of her life. She called, ‘Hello, Archibald, it’s nice to cross your path again. We haven’t seen much of you since Marilyn’s passing.’

Her greeting was amiable enough, but he shuddered at the use of his full name.

‘How are you, Mrs Grimwald?’ he replied, making every effort to be agreeable.

‘Oh, do call me Ettie,’ she said, placing her hand on his arm, the glint in her eyes behind her glasses a little unnerving.

He said nothing, forcing a smile.

‘Have you heard?’ she probed.

‘Heard what?’ he said, expecting a morsel of juicy gossip; starting to becoming a habit, first the next-door neighbour, the councillor, and now another guardian of the moral high ground.

‘A young boy has gone missing from somewhere at the end of Shepherds Hill Road.’ Pleased he hadn’t heard, she was straining now to let out her news.

Archie countered, ‘Left home, seems to be more and more of it these days.’

‘No, they don’t think so,’ she said in a manner all knowing. ‘He went up to play near the railway tunnel and didn’t come home.’

‘Hopefully he has got himself lost or maybe gone to a friend’s place.’

‘No, Archibald, they fear the worst.’ Her voice took on a pessimistic edge. ‘Apparently a bit of a loner, went off yesterday, and hasn’t been seen or heard of since.’

‘Still, may have fallen and broken his leg.’ Archie tried to put a more optimistic outlook on it.

She shook her head and continued, ‘You know what sort of deviants there are out there, queers, rapists, perverts, child molesters. Molly Jones mentioned at church last Sunday that you have two living on your street.’

He had been right, more innuendos. He tried being a little light-hearted. ‘Don’t think there are any of those, Agnes,’ a wry smile on his lips, ‘but there are two adult gay men living at number 10.’

‘Could have been one of them or even both. I should imagine the police will be looking into them,’ she said rather seriously, ignoring his wry humour. ‘Anyhow, can’t stop to gossip, a church bazaar to organise.’ Again she put her hand on his arm. ‘You know how I hate gossip, Archibald.’

He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched her waddle off. Her ample hips swayed to and fro. An image jumped into his mind of Mr Grimwald, a small, timid man lost in the folds.

The car shone in the late morning sunlight. Its rich dark iridescent gold paint looked almost new even though the model was now almost seventeen years old, clear evidence that its owner had taken great care to keep it in immaculate condition, someone who respected automobiles, seen by many as the greatest source of personal freedom engineered by mankind. Cared for not only because of the financial outlay which it would have initially cost but of someone who believed that if you looked after something, that something will look after you.

He turned into his driveway and reached for the remote control for the garage door. Pushing the button, he proceeded slowly along the drive to enable the door to ascend to such a height which would safely allow the vehicle to pass underneath.

He was about to shut the garage door when a female voice called out to him. It was Matron Stone, who lived at number 35, several houses up from him in the other direction, her cheery voice a welcome change from his recent conversations, a diversion most welcomed.

Joan Stone was the matron at one of the local nursing homes. She and Marilyn had so often talked of changes in nursing practices, the changing face of aged care, flowers, books, politics, and church matters. Marilyn had shown great empathy with Joan in relation to her now 37-year-old mentally challenged and partially disabled son, partly because before she married Archie, she had worked as a nursing Sister in homes for the mentally ill, many of which in the 1950s and early 1960s were to say at best, bearable. She clearly understood Joan’s reluctance to put her son, Ryan, into a home for the mentally ill.

She was tall and slim, her dark hair slightly greying tied in a bun, her not-unattractive face was dominated by a slightly largish nose separating her somewhat faded eyes but her full lips parted to reveal a set of well-kept teeth, a real set of pearlers. Ryan’s father had had enough and walked out when the boy was just ten years old, Joan being left to raise the boy on her own and also maintain the family income, immensely assisted by her mother for the first ten or so years after her husband’s departure, the increasing age and size of the boy taking its toll on her health and she died rather prematurely.

‘Hello, Joan,’ he replied. His tone, no longer needing to be on guard, matched hers for warmth and friendliness. ‘Not working today?’

‘Yes, just taking the opportunity to grab some fresh air, Ryan is in respite for the day,’ she said, although her tone seemed to sadly have an edge of guilt to it. ‘I am lucky to have the respite services so I am able to work, but he is becoming a handful for the girls because of his deteriorating mental skills and because of his size. I have missed several days over the last three months because I had to come and get him when he gets too much to handle.’

‘That’s a real problem for you, Joan.’ Archie endeavoured to ease her sense of self-reproach. ‘Impossible to be always at home, where you feel you should be, but essential, not only financially, but for your own mental health, to be at work, socialise, converse on matters pertinent to your job, and maintain a job so immeasurably important to our ageing society. Who knows, I could be knocking on the door soon.’

‘Kind of you to say that, Archie, and I know I have to look after my own health, no good to Ryan if I fall over,’ she countered, her eyes almost becoming achromatic. ‘I shouldn’t feel any guilt, but I do from time to time when I find it gets too much for me, attending to Ryan’s needs, covering the responsibilities at work, besieged by increasing government requirements and then hopefully grab some personal time.’

‘Your mother passing on as early as she did depleting your resources, so to speak,’ he remarked, ‘throwing you more into other avenues for support, plus it sounds like work is becoming more and more stressful.’ He queried, ‘How are your staff handling it all? From what you’ve just said, it sounds like the government is putting its own pressure on the Aged Care Industry.’

‘Not quite an industry yet, Archie,’ she mused. ‘Makes it sound like we take in a person, work on them, and when the time comes, move them on. No, we still have a human face, but maybe time will indeed change that.’

‘Sorry, Joan.’ He hurried to hose down his earlier comment. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest you and your staff are not a caring bunch.’

‘They’re marvellous,’ she responded. ‘The registered and enrolled nurses are first class, but we couldn’t do it without the dedication of the care staff. Many give their time after the knock-off bell has gone off. Plus the support of the domestic staff is invaluable. The care and domestic staff are the very essence of aged care. Not everyone feels as I do, but when the world starts to get me down, I think of all the care and domestic staff in aged care and their wondrous spirit, and gosh, Archie, that doesn’t take into account the staff who care for the mentally ill, the disabled, the blind, disadvantaged children, the homeless, and the list goes on.’

‘What about management support?’ Archie enquired. ‘Do you feel that is always forthcoming?’

‘I don’t have any underlying feelings that we have resources withheld from the nursing home in relation to other departments in the organisation. The majority of the funds come from government which are formula driven,’ she explained. ‘As the finance manager once said to me, aged care is the classic economic dilemma, alternative ends, limited means, or something along those lines.’

‘Are there other staff who have a direct impact on your patients?’ he ventured.

‘We prefer to call them residents. It is their home. Our duty is to ensure their health and comfort and to make it as homely to them as we possibly can, but in answer to your query, yes, we have our admissions coordinator. Her support is invaluable, being the first point of contact in the organisation to the resident and their families. Their impression of us comes from her empathy and understanding of the residents’ needs, simply the best.’ The pride and admiration in her tone so abundantly evident.

‘I don’t think the community in general probably understands the extent of an aged care organisation,’ Archie reflected. ‘Any others?’

‘Oh yes, the volunteer coordinator is another who, without her endeavours to attract and organise the volunteers along with the activity coordinator responsible for a range of things to do, we would not be able to provide the services and activities to our residents that we do,’ she continued. ‘But the jewel in the crown is the volunteers themselves. No aged care organisation could possibly give the level of care, the variety of activities, the comfort and support, to provide the residents a quality of life.’

‘Highly illuminating, Joan, I know Marilyn often passed on bits and pieces, but I didn’t always take them in,’ he said in a grateful way. ‘I won’t pursue it any further since this is a day away from all that. Just changing the subject, I bumped into Mrs Grimwald up at the shops. She mentioned something about a missing boy.’

‘Good old Ettie, always asking me each Sunday to help with this or that. I simply don’t have the time, especially with work and Ryan,’ she said, half apologetically. ‘I don’t go quite as much because Ryan takes to yelling out more and more. I just feel it is too disrupting, yet nobody has ever said anything.’

‘Not even a sly innuendo? I could imagine E-E-Ettie’—he found it difficult to use her Christian name—‘perhaps suggesting that it might be wise for him not to come.’

‘Oh dear, Archie, not you as well. I know she can have a wagging tongue at times, be rather boring and dogmatic, probably rather un-Christian-like in some of her expressions about others.’ Joan’s facial expression and tone became a bit sharp. ‘But below her rather expansive exterior beats a heart of gold. She works tirelessly not only for the church and the nursing home but is a member of several charitable organisations raising funds for this cause or that. In fact after Marilyn passed away, she has on occasions looked after Ryan.’

‘Perhaps I owe her an apology. I stand a little condemned. I am at present taking my foot out of my mouth,’ he exclaimed, although his tone still held a touch of scepticism.

‘It’s the times, Archie. Fifteen to twenty years ago, the public looked more kindly, more appreciatively on people like Ettie, less condemning, more charitable of people who maintained their Christian faith,’ Joan postulated. ‘Acts of public kindness in the name of Christianity were more acceptable, but since then, scientific discoveries have thrown a new light on creation. Lots of personal gadgets have been developed, artificial intelligence is the new wave, economics seems now to run not on a sharing of the increasing wealth but on the ever-increasing divide between rich and poor, the money changers now free to do their business anywhere, a society once driven by mutual support now turned to a world of what’s in it for me? Actions of some of the clergy haven’t helped, especially the younger generations’ view of the Church.’

‘Whoa, I think you have got me, Joan. Still, not a lot of what you say will get any argument from me,’ Archie retorted. ‘Well, Ettie is not the only one out of kilter with the modern world. I think a good many people have been swamped by what has to be the most rapid change in the history of mankind in such a short period since World War II. Many of us grabbed those opportunities in the fifties, sixties, and seventies, but change is running rampant. What we learnt then is almost becoming obsolete, so much so that the older generations not only can’t keep up but struggle to understand. The fortifications of our lives are being very quickly eroded away, today’s sense of morality far different from yesterday.’

‘Anyway, Archie, I almost forgot what you asked me. That’s the trouble. I get bit vocal when something hits a raw nerve, becoming a grumpy old woman. Yes, I think you are right. The world is running over the top of us, old personal values becoming out of date.’ Her tone more cordial, less sharp, she smiled as she continued, ‘All I have heard is a little boy went out sometime yesterday and didn’t come home, don’t have any details. Hopefully he stayed at a friend’s place. Anyhow, best be moving on, nice to talk to you again.’

‘Likewise, Joan, enjoy the rest of your day off.’ He wished her well and watched her stride off down the street.

The doors of the Sturt Police Station at Bedford Park slid open as a man in a crumpled suit slipped through the expanding opening and unhurriedly crossed the tile floor towards the reception desk. He was pulling along behind him a small case on wheels, and under his arm was an old battered brown satchel.

On approaching the desk the duty officer looked up. ‘Good morning, Detective, been busy,’ he said as he took in the case and satchel.

‘Morning, Constable, yes, been working on a couple of cases,’ he replied, ‘an older one and a newer one.’

‘Getting anywhere?’

‘Some leads to follow. Has the inspector come in?’ he asked, his tone somewhat sharper.

‘I am sure he came in earlier. Would you like me to ring through?’ the uniformed man asked.

‘Yes, if you could, thanks.’

The constable turned to the console behind the desk front and dialled a number. A voice came through the receiver. ‘Inspector’s phone.’

‘Good morning, Miss Merriwether, it’s Constable Travis at Reception. I have Detective Croser wanting to see the inspector,’ he asked.

Her reply was curt and sharp. ‘I’ll check.’ After a short period of silence, her voice came back. ‘Send him up.’

The constable lowered the phone to its cradle before saying anything and looked up at the man in the crumpled suit. ‘Doesn’t sound too happy, must have got out of bed on the wrong side, but she said go on up.’

The lift doors opened on the third floor, and he hauled the case across the opening, juggling the satchel under his arm, headed down the corridor towards a glass door at the end.

Entering, he was confronted by a woman, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, an expression of annoyance on her face, but before she could speak, he uttered as pleasant a greeting as he could muster. ‘Good morning, Prudence, that’s a lovely scarf you are wearing.’

‘Don’t try sweet-talking me, Donald Croser. I’ve already juggled an appointment to enable you to see the inspector. He can spare you ten minutes. Take a seat. He will be with you shortly.’

‘Nice of you to do that for an old friend,’ he replied.

‘I’m not sure we are old friends,’ she clipped.

‘Well, Prudence, we have known each other for a lot of years now. You were on the desk at Sturt Street when I came over from Victoria,’ he replied. ‘I had a bit of a thing for you. Feeling wasn’t mutual though.’

Her face became a little flushed. ‘Humph, can’t you see I’m busy, Don?’ Her voice was rather hesitant, a trace of regret evident. ‘Could you please sit down?’

Shortly, the door to the inner office opened, a slightly balding man in a well-fitting grey suit opened the door and spoke. ‘OK, Don, come on in. Hold any calls, Prudence. I need to get the business with Don over as quick as possible. The chief inspector has called an urgent meeting.’

Don Croser rose, half smiled at the PA, towing his bag into his superior’s office, closing the door behind him, made his way to the seat which the inspector indicated. He took in his boss’s immaculate attire, furtively looked down at his own with an air of despondency.

Inspector Molloy began, ‘Well, Don, I wanted to fit you in before I see the chief, hoping you might have something that I can report. You know, we go back a long way, so speak freely. If it needs to be off the record, just say so.’

Don hesitated for a moment before he began his response. ‘We do go back a way, started working together at Sturt Street when I arrived from Vic in 1970. I’ve slipped a bit behind, I’m afraid.’

‘Quite so, quite so, Don, would be nice to have time to reminisce, can’t keep the chief waiting.’ His tone was not quite so affable. ‘Do you have anything new to report?’

Don had been here before. The change in tone was not associated with someone wishing to relive old times but someone who was still climbing the ladder, someone desperately anxious not to displease his superior. He launched into his brief report. ‘Nothing on the older case of the missing boy but maybe what could be a possible follow-up on this recent disappearance, depending on what we find, nothing really concrete but you know we interviewed those alternates who live on Paddock Drive. Both appeared to have watertight alibis, although I wasn’t totally sure of one of them. But we couldn’t prove anything, well, I saw him at the railway station, looking rather dishevelled, appeared to have stains down the front of his shirt and coat.’

‘Did you talk to