Black Cloud (Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Book 4)

Book summary

In "Black Cloud," a tragic incident in Daylesford spirals into a complex mystery. When a routine welfare check leads to a fatal explosion, local cop John Franklin and journalist Georgie Harvey delve into a web of speculations. Was it an accident, sabotage, or something more sinister? Amidst a compromised crime scene and a shaken community, their search for answers and accountability tests their limits, unveiling a story of resilience and intrigue.

Excerpt from Black Cloud (Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Book 4)

‘Nobody could’ve seen it coming. An accident.’ Bob Getty scrunched up his face.

Fifteen minutes into their interview, he’d done a full circle to the exact words he’d used at the start. Georgie Harvey laid a mental bet on what he’d say next.

‘A good man’s life snuffed out. Kaput. Dead.’

Word-for-word, same facial expression, identical pauses. He hadn’t just used it earlier, but also on the breaking news report on Channel 7 last Friday evening. It’d been echoed in the print, radio and television media until the story was bumped from the spotlight by the murder of a baby boy during a burglary in Bendigo.

If Georgie worked for a daily, she’d be chasing today’s headline, not talking to Getty on his farm in Gordon. The main perk of writing for Champagne Musings was leeway to follow her instincts on stories that’d lost traction in the mainstream. From her warm, comfy study in Richmond, Getty’s quirks had signalled there was more to this situation than the initial news story. Standing in the iced-over paddock with her feet turning numb inside her boots, a niggle seeded in her mind.

She shuffled on the spot, and her feet prickled with the movement. She assessed Getty, re-running her editor’s response, You reckon there’s a story, so find it. Typical of any conversation with Sheridan Judd, she’d added, Don’t miss your deadlines though.

In Georgie’s silence, the middle-aged man repeated the words and gestures.

He’s talking about his best mate’s sudden death – sure it’s not a reaction to shock?

She pretended to make notes, covertly watching Getty’s eyes shift to the shed, float over a bunch of gas cylinders, then across the misty yard to the dam from where they’d pulled Allan Hansen’s body.

Almost certain.

Her gut feeling was that he kept restating it so that he wouldn’t forget or deviate. She’d seen it before. Her partner John Franklin told her crooks did it all the time, and he should know as a seasoned cop.

Hansen’s drowning was no accident.

*

Constable Sam Tesorino’s mobile went off. She scooped it up, noted the caller and grinned.

‘Hi!’ She restrained herself from adding, boss. ‘Franklin! How’s it going? You busy?’

‘Just killing a few minutes while I’m waiting for Marty. Got to thinking, you’ve only six months left. You worked out where you want to go next?’

Since John Franklin’s move from the Daylesford station, they often went days without catching up. Yet she knew that he meant her next posting, when her two-year probationary period was up, and not holiday plans.

‘Definitely the country but not a town this small. Regional, with a CIU – maybe Bendigo or Ballarat. That’s if I have much say.’

Sam’s chest tightened with an odd mix of gloom and excitement. She struggled to imagine moving on from Daylesford, even though it wasn’t the same anymore. She had to transfer out in a step towards joining one of the squads. She wasn’t sure which. The mounted branch used to be her dream. But after what had happened at Mount Dandenong last spring, she’d done a mind-shift from never wanting to deal with sex offences or homicides to thinking she could make a real difference in a unit like that, after a requisite stint in a crime investigation crew.

She saw the time. ‘Shit.’ With her mobile still pressed to her ear, she snatched her jacket from the back of her chair and gave the toilet door a sharp rap as she rushed by.

‘Hurry up, Irvy.’

‘Catch you at a bad moment? You got a callout?’

Franklin sounded strange. Could he be wistful?

‘Haha!’ She laughed. ‘You miss the uniform, don’t you? You miss us!’

He denied it.

‘Yeah, right. Whatever you say. But yes, we should’ve left already – we’re due to meet a nurse in Korweingi at 10.00am.’

It’d ordinarily only take fifteen minutes to reach the address in Korweinguboora, or Korweingi as locals dubbed it, but she’d wanted to allow longer in view of the weather.

Not going to happen now. Thanks, Irvy.

‘Hang on,’ she told Franklin, then hollered to her partner, ‘Irvy, hurry up. I’ll meet you in the truck.’

‘What’s the job?’

After grabbing the keys for the marked four-wheel drive, she juggled the phone to shrug on her jacket. ‘A welfare check at a farm on Riley’s Lane.’

‘Whose?’

Sam scurried down the wet staircase and climbed into the driver’s side of the truck. ‘The Murray place. Alec and–’

‘Bel. Our local kindergarten teacher.’

Her ‘Yes’ was drowned out by Senior Constable Grant Irvine slamming the passenger door, letting out three loud sneezes.

She shook her head. ‘You look like crap, Irvy.’

He sniffed hard, complained in a nasal twang, ‘That’s nothing on how I feel. Bloody thanks I get for swapping shifts with Harty.’

Sam turned over the ignition. ‘Gotta go, Franklin.’

‘Take it easy.’

She laughed. ‘The only trouble I’m going to get is from the grumpy bum sitting next to me.’ Irvy wagged a finger at her. ‘Hopefully, we’ll be offered a nice hot cuppa though.’

*

Marty Howell glanced sideways, as he and John Franklin drove out in the unmarked station wagon. ‘Bet you used to dream about popping on your suit for the theft of a bunch of pigs, didn’t you?’ He let out a little snort.

‘Oh, yeah.’ Franklin chuckled. ‘It’s right up there with our hundred-odd woolly friends that were nicked from Greendale last week.’

The older detective sobered. ‘These cases mightn’t be glamourous, but I get a kick outta cracking them.’

Franklin nodded, thinking of his farmer mates hurting enough without losing their stock.

‘I like it when crooks make mistakes. I like it a lot,’ Howell said, entering the Grant Street roundabout after a light van. He then took the first exit onto Bacchus Marsh Road, the car’s tyres swishing on the wet bitumen.

Franklin watched his partner’s face wondering what he was getting at. ‘Yeah?’

‘Think about it, mate. We’ve had a run of similar jobs, and most couldn’t be pinned down to a specific day, let alone time. True?’

Howell zipped through the second roundabout. Only a month into Franklin’s posting at Bacchus Marsh, he’d taken this route from the cop shop to Western Freeway plenty. It hadn’t grown on him much.

He pulled his attention back to the conversation. ‘Yep. The Greendale sheep could’ve been gone for up to five days before the owner noticed. Big difference to the pigs missing from Colbrook – we can narrow this one down to the past twelve hours. So assuming they’re the work of the same mob–’

‘They’re getting sloppy or cocky,’ finished Howell. He smacked his lips. ‘I never doubted we were eventually gonna nab ’em. But now I warrant it’ll be sooner than later.’

*

In her side vision, Sam saw Irvy thudding away on his mobile. He stopped, dumped his phone into his lap and plucked at the woven leather band on his wrist. It’d gone on non-stop since they’d left the station.

‘Anything wrong, Irvy?’

He pulled out a wad of tissues and blew his nose, but didn’t answer. Sam sensed him stiffen as they neared his house on the left. He twisted in the seat as they passed it, huffing loudly.

She forgot him and focused ahead, steering the truck by the Sailors Falls car park. Steady rain ratcheted to a volley pelting the windscreen, and a patch of fog swallowed the truck. Sam checked the headlights and fog lamps – both were on and the wipers set at top speed. Shitty day – any worse and she’d have to pull over, but it’d definitely make them late.

She anticipated the dip, rapidly assessed the water over the road. Navigable in the four-wheel drive.

‘God, it’s cold, isn’t it?’

The truck heater was on full blast but barely took off the edge.

Irvy didn’t answer, too busy typing on his phone. Sam wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t force him to talk. He really should’ve called in sick and stayed in bed. She hoped man flu was all it was because she wanted the real Irvy back, not this cranky version.

*

Georgie parked in Gordon’s main street, running over her interview with Getty in her mind. She left the car heater on to defrost her feet. They were so cold she couldn’t decide if her socks were wet.

Allan Hansen’s home was next on her list, and she needed an opening that’d get her over the threshold. Her background research revealed the man had left behind a de facto wife, Jeanette Roselle, and two grown sons from a previous marriage. Every chance she’d find one or more of them there.

Could she go with the same approach she’d used for Getty? As the face of the news story, a follow-up with the guy had been an easy sell. She needed to come at it differently with the family. But how?

Georgie eyed the structures around her, ignoring a couple of men on the footpath chattering as they darted glances at her 1984 black Alfa Spider. Her course to Getty’s place had given her a good overview of the town. It boasted a large church and two primary schools in addition to a small number of businesses, including the cluster she could see from here: a pub, a general store, a hat shop and a strange mixed business combining old wares, clothes, books and café. The nearby homes were predominantly lived-in as opposed to weekenders: cars in driveways, wheelie bins out of sight, chimneys smoking, gardens tended, and kids’ play equipment, building materials, caravans or trailers in the yards. She guessed the residents rarely saw impractical classic convertibles in town mid-week. She’d given them something gossip-worthy.

What she needed was a good strong coffee from the café to kickstart her frozen brain and get this story moving. She’d hate this trip to have been a timewaster.

*

Sam concentrated on driving. Irvy was crap company, playing with his phone, and blowing endless amounts of snot from his nose.

‘That was Sucklings Lane,’ she thought out loud. ‘So next turn.’

She spotted Riley’s Lane and hooked onto it. The truck bumped along the narrow gravel road, the tyres slushing and spraying mud.

They swept past a round-topped shed and approached a wide gate hung with a sign etched with ‘Goodlife Farm – A & B Murray’. They were at the right place. Wispy fog threaded around twin bare trees on either side of the driveway giving the place a haunting beauty. Sam grimaced at the black cloud bearing down from the south-west. Nothing sweet about that. Just dark and threatening.

‘Can you get the gate, Irvy?’

He muttered, then released the passenger door. The cabin temperature plummeted. Sam shivered, shaking her head at him, clearly still grumbling while he moved to the gate. He quit it when two kelpies bolted down the gravel driveway, barking.

Irvy gave a settle gesture and spoke to them. The lead dog came close, quiet now, its white-blazed nose held high and red-coated chest and neck stretched up as it listened. Its mate stood alongside – two red-dog bookends, the second one slightly finer-boned and pure-coloured. They stalked Irvy as he opened the gate and swung it shut after the truck pulled through.

Sam drummed the steering wheel while he used his mobile, this time speaking, not texting. Not happy either. The dogs tracked his wild arm movements. He didn’t say a word when he reentered the cabin, pocketing his phone. She didn’t dare ask what was going on and inched the truck forward.

Old, spindly trees and an informal cottage garden around the timber house meant Sam had to stop near the adjacent shed. She left the motor running for heat and wipers, and took in the empty space.

‘We seem to have beaten the nurse.’

‘Yeah.’ Irvy went to get out. The wind gusted, rocking his door on its hinges. He shoved a booted foot against it.

‘Hang on. It’s only ten now.’

‘We can do this without her.’

Sam glanced at the rear-view mirror. No sign of the nurse who’d requested the welfare check. ‘She’ll be here any moment.’

The dogs watched on, dropping to their haunches when Irvy yanked his door closed. Sam hid her relief, then let central communications know they were at the address.

While they waited, Irvy plucked at his wristband. ‘This is going to be a dud.’

‘Possibly, but we have to complete the job.’

‘They’re probably not home.’

The place did have an empty feel. They couldn’t make assumptions though. She said, ‘Maybe the Murrays are asleep or down the back and haven’t seen us.’

Silence inside the cabin, except for Irvy’s snotty breathing. Sam’s eyes followed a dappled grey as it trotted along the fence line to their left. The horse whinnied.

She floundered for something to say that might get Irvy to loosen up. The rain suddenly stopped, and the truck’s wipers scraped over the windscreen. She clicked them off. No doubt it’d bucket down again any minute.

At a loss, talk about the weather.

‘Think it might fine up?’

He twitched his shoulders.

‘The last two nights were so cold, weren’t they? I had to sleep in my tracksuit and socks.’

He didn’t react.

‘And how was that wild wind that blew up at 3.00am? I thought the roof was going to come off on Monday night, but it was even worse last night. Still gusty now, isn’t it?’

He gave her nothing.

Sam tried again. ‘We’ve probably had the equivalent of June’s usual rainfall in the past fifty hours, don’t you think?’

All he said was, ‘Yeah,’ and she surrendered.

Irvy glared at his mobile and mumbled to himself. He pulled out his mushed-up tissues and blew his nose. It went on forever.

‘Gross!’

He pushed open his door and lumbered out. ‘Not waiting.’

‘Irvy!’

Sam switched off the ignition. He was already tramping across the yard. The two kelpies sniffed at his heels.

Sam exited, zipping up her police jacket. She tuned into an approaching vehicle and tracked a silver, compact SUV on Riley’s Lane. It was unmarked. It could be Denise Zachary’s own vehicle or from the hospital fleet. If it wasn’t the nurse, it appeared that they’d be going ahead without her.

Sam met the SUV at the gate. She waved it through, indicating to park near the police truck, and hurried back.

The woman’s black gumboots landed in a puddle when she emerged from the SUV. She laughed. ‘Lucky I didn’t wear my stilettos today.’ Her boots squelched as she took a step towards Sam, tugging down her pink blouse with blue logo to cover a ring of bare flesh above her trousers.

‘Sam? I’m Denise.’ Strands of brown hair whipped in the wind, escapees of a messy, high bun hugging her round face, as she stooped to shake hands. When she straightened, Denise had a good eight centimetres on Sam. She glanced at Irvy pacing on the verandah deck. ‘Your partner’s keen.’

Embarrassed, Sam didn’t respond. She led the way up an overgrown pathway. The dogs yapped and ran by.

‘Freezing, isn’t it? Hold on while I grab my coat?’

Sam shuffled for warmth while the nurse returned to her SUV and battled the wind to pull on a woollen coat. She heard knocking.

‘Mr and Mrs Murray?’ Irvy rapped again.

Denise made her way back up the path, and Sam continued towards the cottage.

Irvy sneezed, once, twice, then a third time, each progressively louder. He swiped his nose with the back of a hand while he opened the flywire door, then the main door. As Sam’s foot struck the bottom verandah step, she smelt rotten eggs.

Can’t believe Irvy farted.

She caught another whiff, and her stomach pitched.

‘IRVY! STOP!’

She charged forward. He had too much of a lead and stepped inside. Denise yelled from right behind, ‘Sam?’ The dogs took up barking.

‘NO!’

Irvy disappeared calling, ‘Mr and Mrs Murray? It’s–’

Sam shouted, ‘GAS!’ as she reached the top step.

A loud bang coupled with a whoosh and bright flash, chased by the flare of orange flames, a burst of heat. A scream. It could’ve been Irvy. Windows blew outwards, and the panes in the front door and its fanlight exploded. A dog’s yelp pierced through the noise. Sam flew backwards, holding up her arm, shelled by shards of glass and splintered timber.

She hit the ground. Her skull struck a brick edging the pathway.