The Sower

By Jeff Thompson

Bill Turner, an old man battling cancer, has gone missing from the West Hastings nursing home. The reverend Ray Riley, concerned for Bill's welfare, drives out to Bill's small rural property where he finds the old man's body lying under a scar tree beside a dry river bank. Strangely, Bill's corpse has fallen into a neatly cut one meter deep rectangular hole. A shallow grave of sorts. For the the police it's a simple suicide, but for the reverend Ray Riley Bill's death raises more questions than it answers. How did Bill, an old man with one leg, get from the nursing home to this secluded spot by the creek? How did he get the gun? What was the significance of the shallow grave where Bill's body had fallen? Had Bill dug his own grave? 

 

Senior Constable Olivia Wagstaff, new to town, has questions of her own about the apparent suicide even though according to her senior officer it's case closed. As Olivia begins her own discreet investigation about the circumstances surrounding Bill's death she crosses paths with the reverend and they agree to work together in their search for answers. Ray uncovers a tragic family history and stumbles upon a mystery left unsolved - an old mystery that no-one wants to talk about. Olivia's investigations lead her down dusty backroads as she follows up on a series of petty crimes. These initially seem unconnected, but as she begins to uncover the truth Olivia and Ray face a race against time to stop a murder. Book length approx 75,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Thompson
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223074366

Jeff Thompson

I grew up in a small farming town in rural NSW as the son of the Uniting Church minister. In 1994 I graduated with a Bachelor of Communications (Journalism) at the University of Canberra, then worked on a community newspaper in Camden NSW, the Camden Crier. In the immediate post-apartheid era I worked on the newspaper 'Homeless Talk' in Johannesburg. More recently, I have written and self-published a novella 'Faceless', while working in the community sector. I live in South Durras on the NSW South Coast.

Book preview

The Sower

1.

Bill Turner stood in the long grass beside the dark, dry creek. It was as close to midnight as it was going to get for him. His strength was failing him and he was tired. Dying too slowly. Cancer. The gnarled, tortured gumtree reached out to him with long shadows from the full moon. It was not a beautiful place to die. But it was a place he knew. He shifted the carved butt of the rifle in his hands to bring the barrel to his chin. It was difficult in his weakened state to hold it steady. He had worried about this part of his plan. He knew the gun was an unwieldy, heavy thing – designed to rest against the shoulder, not to be held at a strange upward angle with arms outstretched. Not the best gun for the job. He struggled with the barrel and swayed, almost losing his balance. Then with a grasping desperation he clumsily pushed at the trigger and called out a name that was lost in the flash and noise of the old weapon firing. His body crumpled and fell forwards. The old tree reached for him  but he was gone.

*

The Reverend Ray Riley adjusted his reading glasses as he considered the Lectionary readings for the coming week. He tried to set aside Tuesday nights to begin writing his sermon for the coming Sunday. Ray liked the Revised Common Lectionary. You simply looked up the date and the Lectionary suggested verses from both the Old and New Testament to inspire your reflection on the scripture. No guesswork. No picking and choosing the verses that conveniently suited the message you wanted to send. Ray thought the Bible was a difficult book full of inconsistencies and riddles, but the people in his congregation seemed to think of it as a source of comfort and gentle wisdom to help them through the difficult week ahead.

The Bible scared the shit out of him.

The Lectionary, in its wisdom, had chosen the parable of the sower for the coming Sunday. Perfect. His congregation was mostly made up of farmers and their children who would really warm to this one. But the meaning would mostly be lost on them. They’d hear the story of a man sowing seed in a field and their minds would drift to another place, sitting behind the wheels of their six hundred thousand dollar tractors with their direct drill air seeders hooked up, cutting through the shallow dry topsoil injecting a payload of yellow gold seed and fertiliser.  Then they’d think about rain. And how much they needed it. Then the sermon would be over and they’d shake his hand at the door on the way out and thank him for the comforting words.

The sower, the reverend reflected, teaches us that we should only tell the word of God to those who want to hear it. The irony was not lost on him.

"Though hearing, they do not hear or understand," he read the verse out loud.

The fire in the old slow combustion stove crackled back at him.

The phone rang. The landline. A lot of his older parishioners still only used the landline and he knew that he was sometimes the person they called before they considered contacting the doctor, or even their own relatives when they had a fall. Or maybe just to tell him there was a plate of scones waiting for him on his next visit. It was late for a call. Almost 11.30 pm.

Reverend Riley? It’s William Lake here from Waratah.

Yes, Will? Waratah was the nursing home next to the dog pound on the way out of town.

Sorry to bother you, but old man Turner has gone missing.

Bill Turner?

Yep – strange – not in his room. Just doing my rounds. His light was on but no-one home.

A bit like you William Lake, Ray thought. Perhaps that was a little unfair. Lake was a likeable enough young man but not the best aged care worker in the shire.

What should I do?

William waited on the line. The reverend once again marvelled to himself. Why did people choose to call him at these times?

Has Bill been wandering off lately? he asked.

What? No, Bill’s as quiet as a mouse. An affable gent – grumpy sometimes, but aren’t they all?

Rev Riley let that one through to the keeper.

So he’s not in the bathroom? A midnight snack maybe? All problem-solving he could have done himself the reverend mused as he waited for the inevitable question that Will actually rang to ask.

Nowhere – I’ve looked. Should I call the police?

And there it was. The residents of Waratah often took matters into their own hands and scarpered. Was it dementia or a desperate escape from the mundane neglect of the underfunded institution where their children had dumped them? Hard to say.

But it was unlike Bill to do a runner. A taciturn, deliberate fellow who had been polite to Ray as he had made his weekly round at the old people’s home. Old Bill had mostly talked about the farm and the weather. He had no family in town, just a sister in Sydney, who he didn’t have much time for, to be honest. He was not one of the older residents at the home but he had been blighted by two scraps with cancer. And it was back. The big C. It would get him this time. Not if I get there first, Bill had grimly told Ray on his last visit.

You should definitely call the police, Will. Urgently.

Sure thing, Rev.

Do you want me to come out and see if I can be of help?

That’d be super, Rev. Thanks.

Reverend Riley cast a glance at the Lectionary propped open on the coffee table as he grabbed his coat. Some seed fell on the rocky places.

*

Bill Turner’s room was as William Lake had described it, empty. And bare, Ray noted. Bed neatly made, no personal items left lying around, the chair tucked in behind the small desk that had been provided by the aged care home. No art, no cards, no flowers or pot plants, not even a crocheted blanket from the Hospital Ladies Auxiliary. Too neat. Rev Riley had seen this before on home visits after a tragedy – a son’s room neatly made with nothing out of place, a farewell note of sorts. Ray felt an urgent energy enter his chest and he quickly paced the room, opened the small cupboard and squatted down to check under the bed. No boots. Just slippers. William Lake entered the room looking slightly peaked.

Macca’s on his way. Told me not to let you go into Bill’s room.

Ray ignored the pointed comment. Where are Bill’s boots? Did he have a coat or warm jumper he wore outside on colder days?

Um, Rev Riley? Macca told me to make sure...

Ray held up a hand. This is important, Will. Bill is gone, his boots are nowhere to be found – no jumper, no coat on the back of a chair or the door. He’s made the bed, got dressed for a cold winter night and...

And what? Walked out?

Is the bus here, Will?

Yes, sure. I mean, I think so.

Well, go check, lad! And the ute? Make sure they’re both here.

Will was the only one on shift that night. Waratah was a small home and the population fluctuated. Sadly, there had been some recent departures.

With Will gone, Ray resumed his search of the room. In the drawers of the bedside table he found pens, a yellow notepad, and a diary of sorts. On inspection the lined yellow notepad looked unused, but as Ray gave it a quick flick he noticed a page of neat cursive and the opening sentence gave him a jolt. The last will and testament. Ray scanned to the bottom of the page and noted Bill’s signature. A quick look at the battered diary revealed that the entries were dated from May 1976 to December 1979. Slightly odd. Each entry began with detailed pencil drawings of birds and animals with hand written notes that Ray found difficult to read. He flicked to the last entry - a drawing of a tree dated December 1979. At the bottom of the page he caught a glimpse of a name. Charlie. At the bottom of the drawer he found a battered manilla folder full of letters, all written in the same hard to read cursive. All dated in the late seventies.  As interesting as the letters were, they wouldn’t shed much light on Bill’s whereabouts, so Ray slid them back into their place. The second drawer had a stack of Footrot Flats cartoon books and Joffre’s Outback – and an Alistair MacLean paperback. The bottom drawer was all socks and underwear.

Ray stood still and listened. He was missing something here. There was no obvious note or letter from Bill which Ray hoped was a positive sign. No Bible, but Bill was not a churchgoer. No phone, but Ray was unsure if Bill even had one.

No iPad. That was it. Bill had an iPad. He carried it with him and spent most of his time glued to it while sitting in the Waratah sunroom. He’d purchased it during his first fight with cancer. A nurse had told him to research and understand what was happening to him and how the treatments worked. The doctors don’t tell you everything, Bill had told Ray. I used to look at my charts and ask Dr Google, that’s what the nurse showed me how to do.

The iPad was gone and so was Bill. A blue flashing light briefly lit the small room. Rev Riley made a quick exit and jogged to the visitor waiting room where he slid into one of the chairs, grabbing a magazine as he did so. He decided the magazine was too obvious and was in the process of replacing it when Sergeant Michael McCalister came in through the front door.

Very convincing, Ray.

Rev Riley chose what he hoped was a quizzical look. Sergeant McCalister, nothing new on Netflix tonight? You got here so quickly, I’ve only just arrived myself. Waiting here in the...waiting room for you to arrive.

I doubt it, Ray. Why do they always call you first?

I was only just asking myself the same question half an hour ago, Sergeant.

The door swung open and a second officer entered - Olivia Wagstaff. Or Senior Constable Olivia Wagstaff to you. She was new to town.

Senior Constable, Ray greeted her.

Reverend. She nodded back.

Will Lake’s thumping footsteps alerted everyone seconds before he burst into the waiting room. He took in the police officers and Ray then blurted, Gone!

Who’s gone? You mean Bill? asked Sergeant McCalister

No – well, yes – but the bus, is also gone. Rev Riley got me to check.

All eyes turned to Ray who held up a hand. I just thought it was an avenue of inquiry we could carry out before your arrival, Sarge.

What other avenues have you explored there, Ray?

As I say, I only just got here when you arrived.

Sergeant McCalister took a deep breath. I assume you checked his room.

Rev Riley paused. McCalister waited.

His boots are gone, there’s no coat on the hook, the bed is made, room neat as a pin, said Ray.

Did you touch anything? I swear, Ray, I wish these people would stop ringing you first. He turned to Senior Constable Olivia Wagstaff. Go with Will, have a quick look around – inside and out. Old guy may have taken a fall – if we think he’s making a run for it. Double-check the missing bus situation.

The two went off with Will talking a mile a minute, explaining how he had already looked everywhere.

McCalister turned to Ray. Stay here. Don’t move. I’m going to check his room. He turned to go but turned back. Better still, go home. We don’t need you here anymore.

Rev Riley nodded. Of course, Sarge. I guess you won’t need me for the search?

McCalister considered, tilted his head. Okay stay, but stay out of the way. With that he set off down the hallway.

Left alone, Rev Riley waited until Sergeant McCalister had turned the corner, then tried the door on the front office that adjoined the waiting room. Locked. There was a reception window next to the door. He slid it open, stole a quick look back down the hall, climbed up on the counter and reached around to open the office door from the inside. No time to weigh down his conscience by considering the ethics of his actions. Rev Riley suspected the worst given his final conversation with Bill Turner. I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved.

Once inside Rev Riley found the small torch in his jacket pocket. He must have left it there when he was locking up the church hall last night. The Lord worked in mysterious ways. Under the direct beam he searched, finally locating what he was hoping he’d find. The vehicle booking sheet. Open to today’s date.

Waratah Bus: Benedict Aroyo. Signed out 11.30 am. Bowling club lunch. No return time or signature. Oh, Benny. Bad night to borrow the bus.

*

On McCalister’s return, Rev Riley was back in his seat in the waiting room. This time with the magazine open. For effect.

Looks bad, Ray. Gonna have to organise that search. He paused. Take that as an apology and call your people – HK and Roger – get them to call around. Surely Bill will turn up having a glass of red by someone’s fire. It’s cold tonight.

Hence the coat, commented Ray. I’m not sure we’ll find him anytime soon, Macca. We both suspect what his intentions were. He’s lived alone most of his life. He’s a tough old fella. He’s out there somewhere but my guess is he doesn’t want us to find him. Reverend Riley chose not to finish the sentence. Sergeant McCalister had no such qualms. Until he’s done the job.

Senior Constable Olivia Wagstaff returned with William Lake in tow.

No sign of the missing resident, she reported. I can confirm the aged care facility’s bus is not in its allocated location.

That was actually how she spoke. She got out her notepad and began reading from her list. All entries and exits checked, interior and external grounds searched. No disturbances or signs of struggle.

McCalister stopped her there. Well, he won’t get far.

Unless he took the bus, ventured Wagstaff.

There was a pause.

I doubt he took the bus – he’s only got one leg. said the sergeant.

She wrote it in her notebook. Prosthesis?

Yes, but no sign of that either, so he must have it with him, McCalister said.

Security cameras? Can we look at the tape? The senior constable looked up from her notes.

The three men looked at each other.

Will answered. No cameras, I’m afraid. Not much need for security here.

Olivia Wagstaff, who had only worked in city stations, was not to be deterred. I’ll note that for the report. A facility like this with vulnerable elderly residents wandering off – a surveillance system is essential.

Where would they go? Ray Riley asked gently.

To the pub most likely, or the pokies at the RSL club, said the sergeant. That’s where we usually find them. This town has the best security system known to man.

Not tonight. Reverend Ray Riley knew in his gut that Bill would not be found in one of the seven drinking and gaming establishments that the town had to offer. Bill had taken up arms against his internal oppressor and chosen to end it. Old Bill. Not a brave man, just a practical one. In the carpark Ray waved off the coppers and shook hands with Will.

Thanks for calling me, Will, but you’d better get started on that paperwork. Did the area manager get back to you?

Not answering her phone.

Try again in the morning, but get a headstart on your notes and take care to write down everything that happened. Send them through to me. I’ll be happy to have a look over them for you.

Will looked exhausted but a little relieved. Thanks, Rev. Will do.

Ray would read those notes with interest.

As Will closed the door behind him, Ray reached for his phone, considered the hour, and decided that waking people to look for Bill would not serve a purpose. There was no race against time. Rev Riley suspected that for Bill Turner, time was a thing of the past.

2.

Most mornings Ray Riley rose early and attended to his sizeable vegetable garden. The veggie patch served two purposes. First, it provided him with fresh produce, and due to its size and the care he took in its maintenance, the garden’s bounty was shared with those in the town who needed it most. He often used a delivery of fresh vegetables to check in on a family in crisis, or an oldie who had just put down a beloved pet. People had their pride but Ray had discovered that an ice cream container of freshly picked tomatoes and a zucchini or two could open the door to the most stubborn of hearts. Secondly, it gave him a certain credibility with the farmers and gardeners in his rural parish. When he had first arrived to take up his calling, he spent the first few weekends converting a massive, drought-stricken lawn at the back of the manse into a fallow paddock of garden beds. The patch was right beside the back door of the church hall, along the path to the Sunday school hall at the very rear of the church itself. It was a well-trodden way that allowed the congregation full view of the reverend’s progress. They paused to comment, You’ve bitten off quite a bit there, Reverend. Or, Looking good there, Rev. Come around to my place when you’re done. And, Hope you’re not putting a cash crop in there, Ray, Macca will be on to you.

There was some surprise when he announced a working bee to build a greenhouse and install bigger water tanks. Scouring the local tip, Ray had collected a yard full of scrap metal and hardwood beams. Woah, Ray, what are we building here, mate? The Taj Mahal? one old cocky quipped. And so it became known. As for the water tanks, Ivy Cattle had complained that ever since she had been put on the mains, her tanks sat useless and empty taking up space in her yard. Ray, with some amused volunteers helping out, flipped them on their side and rolled them down Grenfell Street and up his driveway where he hooked them to the gutters of the tin-roofed church hall.

In time the people realised that this was a serious garden and the reverend was not just another urban lightweight. A man with dirt under his fingernails was asking to be taken seriously. Rev Riley could often be found in the Taj Mahal tending to the seedlings, wearing an old Parramatta Eels jumper and an olive green beanie. His backyard block was chockers with herbs, veggies and flowering natives