That bitch set her dog on me! Sure I was trespassing, but I know my rights. The punishment for trespassing shouldn’t be murder and that bloody dog nearly killed me. I want that dog put down! I want her charged! Awwwww! Oh God, I’m gonna puke.

[recording suspended due to vomiting]

CHAPTER 17: A HALL FULL OF WOMEN WITH CAKE

CHAPTER 17

A HALL FULL OF WOMEN WITH CAKE

I rose with the roosters on Saturday morning, feeling a little hungover, even though the only beverage I’d had was a strong cup of tea after Matthew Bunting had been loaded into the ambulance. While Randall accompanied the intruder to hospital, Jane had stayed behind with me, taking diligent notes about what had transpired and bagging the knife—a stark reminder that things could have turned pear-shaped. Why the man had been in my shed was a question for after his surgery.

I took Waffles for an early-morning run around the farm, and as we crested the boundary fence to the north of the property, I saw a white ute parked on the dirt access road. Number plates covered in mud. Damage to the front bumper bar and one headlight was broken. We climbed through the fence. Waffles sniffed enthusiastically at the driver’s-side door then looked up at me with his big brown eyes. I recognised the ute. He recognised the scent.

‘I know, buddy,’ I said, patting his head.

I pulled out my phone and took photos. Scuffed the mud off the plates, took photos of them. The ute was locked, so I headed back to the farmhouse with Waffles and called it in. The duty officer would organise for it to be towed. I was pretty sure the broken bits we’d collected from the road the other night when I’d stopped the ute in the main street would match the damage on this vehicle.

I pondered all this while Waffles and I played several games of fetch and tug-of-war with his favourite toy, an old rope twisted into a knot. Waffles pranced about, head held high, spring in his step; he knew he’d done good.

As the sun rose further in the sky, I rang the hospital. Meg Mulligan had a series of tests and doctor visits scheduled for the morning. The earliest she could give a statement would be late afternoon. Ditto for Matthew Bunting. I rang Wozza and arranged to meet him at work later, then showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I pulled on a blazer and a pair of R. M. Williams boots, pleased I didn’t have to cancel the CWA talk at 9 am. Not only did I not want to let Norma O’Mealley down, but I also wanted to try to find out what else the CWA president knew about the Millard murder-suicide.