Such calls were not unfamiliar to Annie Duke. Her husband was as dedicated to his job as a man could be, and the fact that thirty of his closest relatives were due to descend upon their bungalow within the next twenty minutes and she still had a kitchen covered with flour, sugar, and duck fat was irrelevant. There was no point in arguing; she’d learned that long ago. He would simply hear her out with unstinting patience and then tell her that he was sorry, that he understood, but there was no one else to take his place.
And so, as movement in the front garden drew her gaze through the glass to where the puppy was pawing the white skirt of her ever-punctual mother-in-law, she said only, “What time should we expect you?”
The light was golden as Peter Duke drove himself up into the Hills. The road was busier than usual, as cars loaded to the ceiling withchildren and suitcases headed toward their Christmas holidays. Sergeant Duke followed the hairpin turns of Greenhill Road and outside Tambilla took a left onto Willner Road. His colleagues had arrived already, as had several ambulances. He parked among them and made his way toward a driveway with a sturdy farm gate across it and a fancy sign readinghalcyon.
“You’ll find them if you hug the creek.”
Sergeant Duke turned around to see a young mounted constable tending his horse. The fellow indicated north. “There’s a water hole that opens up about a quarter mile along.”
Peter hadn’t expected to be walking an overgrown creek bed that afternoon, and his footwear was not ideal, especially for a man in a hurry. He went as quickly as he could, clutching at the long sheafs of grass that lined the steep, slippery banks of the narrow waterway whenever he lost his footing. At last he turned a corner and arrived at the scene.
MC Doyle, who’d put in the call to headquarters, had been short on details, but Peter had gleaned enough to know that they were more than likely going to find themselves in front of the coroner on this one and they couldn’t afford to miss a thing. He’d told the young constable to get a police photographer on the scene as quickly as possible and then given him the telephone number for the best. “If he says it’s not his shift, tell him I gave you his name.”
Chris Larkin had been working with the South Australia Police Force for near on fifteen years. Not only was he a first-rate photographer, but he also possessed the ability to survey a crime scene with the eye of an investigator. He could anticipate what they’d need to focus on later and without needing to be told. The older Peter Duke got, the more he appreciated working with people who didn’t need to be told.
Larkin was already on-site, Peter noticed while he received a briefing from the local sergeant, Liam Kelly. As he listened to the other man’s account, Duke took in the scene. He’d been told overthe phone that the man who found them said the Turner family looked as peaceful as if they were asleep, but it was eerie to see it for himself.
Kelly beckoned over another officer with a wave of his hand. “This is MC Doyle,” he said, as the other man joined them, “one of the first to respond.”
Duke decided the fellow had a plain but honest face. “No signs of a struggle?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Wounds suggesting a weapon?”
“No.”
“Dirt stirred up around them? Skid marks in the dust?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Marks on the bodies? Bruising, punctures?”
“Not that we can see. The medical examiner might find something.”
“Discarded needles, pill bottle?”
The constable shook his head. “Nothing so far, sir.”
Duke nodded. “Thank you, Doyle,” he said, placing a firm hand on the other officer’s shoulder as he moved off to take a closer look.
Whoever it was that said they’d seemed to be asleep hadn’t been wrong. At first glance, from a distance, that’s exactly how they looked. Not once he got nearer, though, Duke realized. Only a careless eye would have failed to spot the difference. Careless or kind. It was Duke’s habit to look in on his children at night—the last thing he did when he was heading down the hall to bed. Sleeping children flinched and sighed, smiles flickered like lightning on their lips, their chests rose and fell. These children did not look to be asleep. They were cold and empty. They looked dead.
Duke shifted his attention to the woman, the mother, who was lying on her back on a plaid rug, one arm bent at the elbow to encircle her head, the other folded across her middle. She had fine, slender fingers, he noticed, a wedding band slipping toward her knuckle.
“The husband?” Duke asked.
“Out of town on business,” said the other young constable, Jerosch, who had rejoined the group. “Overseas, I think.”
Overseas at Christmastime. Peter noted the fact with interest. “Get me his name?” It was one of the oldest rules in the policing handbook: in the case of a sudden death, look first to the next of kin. For all that “home” was considered a word of warmth and comfort, policemen knew better. Home is where the heart is, and the heart could be a dark and damaged place. “Let me know when and where you find him.”
A gust of wind lifted the hem of the woman’s dress. Her feet were bare, her sandals by the picnic basket on the edge of the rug. None of the children were wearing shoes either; both the boy and younger girl had bathing towels wrapped around their middles. The girl’s hair was drying now, but the pigtails had clumped the way his daughter’s did after a day at the beach.
“They’ve been swimming.”
“We think so. It was hot enough today.”
Duke exhaled contemplatively. He started making a summary of what was known: people didn’t just close their eyes and spontaneously die together. Something—and possibly someone—had killed them. But there was nothing to indicate violent force. No blood, no obvious bruising, no suggestion of a weapon. There was always suffocation, but unless a group of assailants had descended as one and pulled it off without a struggle, it was hard to see how. Which left poison. There was an outside chance it was something environmental, an accident, but otherwise, they’d been killed. The question was why, and by whom.
