From the bestselling author of How to Kill a Client comes a page-turning rural thriller of loyalties and lies, murder and greed.
Read on for an extract …
ABOUT THE BOOK
People like Dash didn’t die. He was only what? Mid-30s? Well off. Adored. By some anyway. World at his feet. Well, Myddle at his feet, which was his world.
Ruth Dawson has taken a break from big city law to fill in for a few months for an old mate in Myddle. How hard can it be? she thinks. Turns out, very hard.
So when Ruth hears the front door of her office open, she’s expecting a weird demand, or a question she doesn’t know the answer to … but it’s Bea Baulderstone’s mum, worried that she hasn’t seen her seventeen-year-old daughter for five days, and Constable Gazza Parker is refusing to report the girl missing. Easily fixed, thinks Ruth, and heads off down Myddle’s main street to charm Gazza into action.
But Victoria Baulderstone was right: Gazza doesn’t care. That is until Dash Rogers is found at his farm gate, dead from a gunshot wound, and suddenly the town is very interested in Bea’s whereabouts.
And it’s not just Bea who can’t be found. Dash’s wife Evie is AWOL too.
Then Troy, Evie’s protg and Bea’s only friend, also smoke-bombs.
**********
Chapter 2
RUTH
June, the following Monday
Ruth was joggling a teabag in a chipped mug in the lino-and laminex-encrusted space that passed for a kitchen when the bell jangled on the old cedar door. Someone had just entered the office from Myddle’s main street.
She ran her fingers through her hair. She was still getting used to the wavy layers after years of a sharply delineated bob. Shaggy dog. That’s how she felt, too: like an unkempt dog looking for a home.
Deb on reception didn’t stop the person. Whoever it was would be in front of Ruth in a moment, unvetted. Could be anyone. Wanting anything. With some wacky idea of what lawyers do. Ruth had only been filling in for the local lawyer for two months but she’d already refused some weird requests (kidnap a labrador from an ex-spouse; clean out a hoarder’s home).
She made a dash for her office so she could shut the door before they saw her.
Too late. In the hall, Ruth found a woman, wispy, like a frayed scrap of beige cotton.
The woman looked familiar. Ruth struggled to place her. ‘Can I help you?’ she said.
‘I’m here to report a missing person.’ ‘Who’s missing?’ said Ruth.
‘My daughter.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ Ruth softened her tone. ‘But you should go to the police.’
‘I’ve tried that,’ the woman snapped. ‘He won’t listen.’ ‘How old is your daughter?’ Ruth asked.
‘Seventeen.’
Ruth had met a lot of people since she’d first arrived in Myddle six months ago and their faces had blurred together in her mind: a conga line of fleeting acquaintances. She held out her hand. ‘Sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Ruth Dawson. I’ve taken over Harry Dunstan’s office while he’s on sabbatical.’
‘Victoria,’ said the woman, proffering limp fingers. Her accent jarred as it didn’t correlate with the shabby person in front of Ruth. It was affluent, redolent of black-tie dinners in designer frocks. This was rural Myddle – a tiny town in the verdant hinterland of the Northern Rivers of New South Wales, not Sydney’s Bellevue Hill.
‘And your daughter’s name?’ Ruth asked.
It was a long, romantic name: the first syllables a languorous ‘Bayart’; the second a clipped ‘riss’.
‘Beatrice?’ Not a name Ruth had heard in Myddle. ‘How were you thinking I could help?’ Ruth asked. She kept her voice distant, to repel any idea that she was capable of conducting a search for a missing girl.
‘You’re a lawyer. You could talk to the police about their obligations.’
‘Did they say why they wouldn’t look for her?’ ‘He thinks she’s run away from me,’ Victoria said. ‘How long has she been gone?’
‘I last saw her on Wednesday morning.’ Today was Monday. So five days.
A seventeen-year-old girl had been gone for nearly a week and the police were doing nothing about it? Why would that be?
‘What do you think happened to her?’ asked Ruth.
‘I don’t know.’ Victoria’s eyes darted sideways. ‘She did hang around with some bad people. Shouldn’t someone be asking questions?’ The woman’s anger was rising and she was strug- gling to control the shape of her mouth.
Victoria was right. If it was Ruth’s son Jack, there would be more than questions.
Ruth made a decision she hoped she wouldn’t regret. ‘Let’s have a chat in my office,’ she said, pointing to her door.
‘Deb, can you get Victoria a cup of tea?’ Ruth called out. She moved closer to the receptionist and whispered, ‘And can you ask Troy to come into my office?’
Deb’s eyebrows shot up. But she slowly stood and walked down the hall in the direction of the kitchen.
‘What did the police say exactly?’ Ruth asked when Victoria sat down.
‘He told me she’d turn up. To stop worrying.’ Her rage seemed to rear up again, like a stallion, lashing out.
Ruth was sure she had met this woman before.
Victoria paused. She seemed to understand that if she wanted something from Ruth, she should assuage her fury. ‘I waited for her to turn up. She’d been gone longer than usual. One of the reasons why I waited so long to go to the police in the first place.’
‘What’s the other reason?’
Her foot was jiggling. ‘He doesn’t like us.’ ‘The policeman? Why do you say that?’ Victoria waved the question away.
Ruth tried another tack. ‘Does your daughter have a job?’ ‘She works in the chemist.’
Then it struck her. ‘Not Bea?’ Ruth said. ‘From the pharmacy.’ Finally, she realised why Victoria looked familiar. Ruth had seen her at the chemist when she’d first arrived in Myddle, just before Christmas.
‘I told her to get a better job, but she won’t.’
Poor Bea. It must be hard work having to handle this barrage of negativity.
‘And the pharmacist hasn’t seen her?’ ‘She didn’t turn up to work.’
‘Who was the policeman you spoke to about her?’ ‘Constable Parker,’ said Victoria.
‘Gazza?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve met them both,’ said Ruth. She’d seen Bea and Gazza at a party together, and not in a good way. She kept that to herself. ‘You don’t need a lawyer, Victoria, but I’d be happy to talk
to the police if you think that would help.’
‘Thank you.’ Victoria looked down at her writhing hands. ‘I appreciate it,’ she added, almost surprised.
‘There’ll be no charge. You’re not my client. I’m not opening a file. There’s not much I can do apart from mention it to him.’ This was a community service to help a distressed woman whose anger made it hard for her to communicate with the world. Ruth stood, to make it clear to Victoria that their meeting was over, and escorted Victoria to the door to make sure she left.
It would be a simple matter to sort this out. Surely if Bea was actually missing, someone other than her mother would notice.
‘Where’s Troy?’ Ruth asked Deb.
‘Dunno,’ said Deb. ‘Gone walkabout probably.’ Deb could be depended on to drop a snide remark.
Ruth walked back to her office. She’d taken Troy on to get some work experience but, as he liked to say himself, he had a tendency to smoke-bomb. Like a magician in a disappearing act.
Ruth had seen Troy with Bea several times. He might know where the girl had gone.
4
Winter days in Myddle were clear and bright, the warmth of the midday sun tempered by the corrugated iron roof that curved over the footpath. The street had barely changed since it was built a century and a half ago. Ruth passed the pub—a few stolid drinkers at the bar—and the courthouse, gabled red brick set among the silver trunks of the gums, which were full of rosellas having a raucous argument. She smiled. The flashes of red and blue, and the cacophony, delighted her.
The low-set sandstone police station was by the river, a verandah separating it from the street.
Constable Parker – Gazza to his mates – was leaning on the front desk in his navy-blue uniform, every breath through his ravaged nose a gusty effort.
‘Hello,’ she said with friendly cheer. ‘What can I do for ya?’
‘I thought we should get to know each other a bit better, especially as we may be appearing opposite one another in court.’ Usually, at this point there’d be an offer of a cup of tea. Ruth waited. He looked at her benignly. The next person to speak would have to be Ruth.
‘Actually, Victoria – ’ she paused, forgetting Victoria’s full name. ‘Bea’s mum,’ she finished.
‘Victoria Baulderstone.’ He said it with the smug certainty of a man who had all the facts. His eyes strayed to some paper on the desk beneath him as if he needed to attend to more important things.
‘She’s upset,’ said Ruth.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘she’s usually upset about something.’
The office was festooned with signs explaining how visitors should interact with the police, how far from the counter glass they should stand, how to report a theft. One just behind Gazza’s head said: Thank you for your patience and courtesy.
‘She’s worried that she hasn’t seen Bea for nearly a week.’ ‘If the kid has shot through, she’d have a good reason.’ ‘It’s worthwhile making some inquiries, isn’t it?’
‘Is Victoria Baulderstone your client?’ ‘No.’
‘Then I’m not going to tell you how to do your job, if you don’t tell me how to do mine.’ There was an impasse while they stared at one another.
Ruth wanted to exclaim, ‘Do you know who I am?’ but that would be folly. Not least because, in this town, who was she? A middle-aged sheila who had taken over the lawyer’s office for a few months. All the locals were interested in was her marital status, and Constable Parker wasn’t much interested even in that.
‘You know Bea,’ said Ruth. Gazza raised an eyebrow.
‘I saw you with her at the New Year’s Eve party. At Dash Rogers’ place.’
Gazza just stared at her.
‘Not with her,’ Ruth said. ‘But you clearly knew her. And you seemed to want to know her better.’
Gazza’s face turned a deeper shade of purple. He sneered at her but said nothing.
The landline rang, loud. Gazza’s hand reached for it. ‘Thank you, Constable Parker,’ she said. Ruth dredged up
what she hoped looked like a disdainful smile.
‘See ya later,’ said Constable Parker, as he picked up the handset.
Ruth shuddered as she walked down the front steps. What a creep.
4
Back at the office, Troy was at his desk.
‘You know Bea Baulderstone.’ It was a statement of fact not a question.
Troy kept his eyes on his computer screen, his fingers on the mouse. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did you hear she’s missing?’
Troy concentrated on the screen while he typed in a few words, then he slowly turned to look at her, almost wary. ‘I heard her mum’s worried about her,’ he said, and turned back to the computer.
‘But you’re not?’ ‘Not what?’
She was speaking to the back of his head. ‘Worried about her?’
He turned again, sighing as he did so. ‘Why would I be worried about her?’
‘I don’t know. I just thought you might know the scuttlebutt about town.’
‘Scuttlebutt?’ He had the same ironic expression Jack had when she said something he thought stupid or boomerish, even though, as Ruth pointed out to him, she wasn’t a boomer. She was Gen X. She’d looked it up. Several times.
‘Is there talk around town that she’s missing?’ Ruth asked. ‘Not that I’ve heard. Except from her mum.’
‘And what do people think about that?’ ‘They think her mum is nuts.’
‘Do you think she’s nuts?’
‘I think she’s’ – he paused to search for a word and found one he didn’t use much – ‘nasty. I stay away from her.’
‘That why you smoke-bombed?’ Ruth asked. ‘When she came here before?’
‘She’s not a nice lady.’
He was stonewalling so Ruth thought she’d try a new tack. ‘Are you on Instagram?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you follow Bea?’
‘Probably. Went to school with her.’
‘Can you see if she’s posted lately?’ Ruth indicated to his phone, which he picked up reluctantly and then put his thumb on the app icon with a well-practised movement.
There were pictures of Troy horsing around with his mates: swinging from a rope into a river; surfing; sitting around a fire on the beach at night; a group of young men in their footy kit after the game, holding beers, laughing.
‘Can we go to Bea’s page? Is that what you call it? A page?’
Ruth expected a series of pouting selfies, but all that popped up were photos of women at the local yoga studio.
‘When was her last post?’ Ruth asked, noting Bea’s username. A week ago. At one of the yoga events.
‘How often does she post? Normally?’
Troy scrolled back. Bea posted every two or three days, but for the last week, nothing.
‘You’re friends with her?’ Ruth had seen them hanging out together a few times.
‘Nah. Not really.’ Troy was concentrating on the screen. ‘You seemed pretty friendly with her at the New Year’s
Eve party.’
Troy spun the chair around to face her, his arms crossed. ‘Are you trying to accuse me of something?’
‘No, of course not.’ She was annoyed now. ‘But your responses are not filling me with delight.’
‘You don’t seem to understand what it’s like being someone like me in a country town in Australia,’ he said. ‘If a crime has been committed, or even if it hasn’t, I’ll be accused of it. Or my cousin will.’
Ruth’s hackles rose. ‘I’d hoped you would realise I was better than that,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t assume that everyone who looks like me is the same.’
Troy laughed.
‘What?’ she said, affronted. ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself.’ ‘Oh.’ She smiled. He had a point.
‘Can we have a sensible discussion about Bea now?’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Where do you think she is?’
Troy shrugged. ‘Bea has a few issues.’ He turned back to his computer with a sense of purpose, as if he wasn’t going to be moved from it.
Troy hadn’t answered the question. He hadn’t answered any of her questions. Instead, he’d started an argument with her, and when that had been defused, he’d deflected.
She considered taking him on. Challenging him. But he was withholding for a reason. And she knew from long experience there was no point in trying to forcibly extract information from a teenage boy.
Better to lure the information out of him. Make him feel comfortable enough to let it go. Stay calm, and gently persist. She walked back to her office.
Outside, in Myddle’s main street, the police siren went off. Probably another car accident on the road to the beach at Azuri.
For a moment she felt almost sorry for Gazza.
4
Ruth went onto Bea’s Instagram page and scrolled down. She was surprised. Most of the photos were landscapes: mist rising off the river at dawn; a leggy heron; a contented bull staring down the lens in a green paddock with some kangaroos in the background. Even the photos taken at Chandra’s yoga meetings were quirky. Bea had captured Chandra as she led a yoga class: head back, laughing; long fingers spanning out as she made a point.
Bea was a bit of an artist.
The only selfies were a couple taken at the New Year’s Eve party—even those featuring not her but a reflection of the camp- fire in the river behind—and another of her in the iconic Rolling Stones lips and tongue T-shirt, which swamped her tiny frame. Bea smiled uncertainly into the camera seeking some affirmation.
Why was nobody looking for her? Why was it only her mother who cared?
4
Ruth spent an hour googling how to bypass local police to report a missing child, and in doing so went down a rabbit hole on the missing persons register, which featured a lot of teenage girls who’d been missing for decades.
She shook herself. This was getting her nowhere. She pulled her laptop out of the docking station so she could put it in her backpack.
Her phone lit up with a tinny version of ‘Satisfaction’. Roscoe. Her long-time friend and former colleague.
Mentor, even.
‘Have you heard?’ he said as soon as she answered.
‘About Bea?’ said Ruth, because that was at the top of her mind. ‘What?’ Roscoe sounded confused.
‘Oh . . . No, I clearly haven’t heard. What?’ ‘Dash Rogers.’
‘What about him?’ ‘He’s dead.’
Sharp intake of breath. An image of Dash jumped into her mind: his shiny smile, laughing eyes. People like Dash didn’t die. He was only what? Mid-30s? Well off. Adored. By some anyway. World at his feet. Well, Myddle at his feet, which was his world.
And another image: Dash lying prone on her floor, even then flashing his gorgeous smile at her.
‘What happened?’ she asked Roscoe.
‘Gunshot wound. And he was hit by something big and hard . . .’ Roscoe paused.
Dread, hot and heavy, hit her gut. ‘Where?’ she said. ‘Must have happened somewhere near their farm gate. On
Clive Road.’
‘Did you find the gun?’ ‘We found a rifle nearby.’ ‘We?’
‘Gazza. Constable Parker.’
The police siren. The call on the landline while she was standing in front of Gazza at the police station.
‘Oh God. Poor Dash. How’s Evie?’
‘She’s still away. We’re trying to contact her.’
‘Who found him then?’
‘I did. Two of their dogs turned up at our place covered in blood and sniffing for food. I was driving them back to their house when I found him.’
‘Horrible,’ said Ruth.
‘Not great,’ Roscoe agreed. ‘He’d been there a while.’ ‘Anything I can do?’
‘I just thought you ought to know.’ Roscoe turning to Ruth in a crisis, as it had always been.
‘I’ll come over,’ she said. ‘Be there at six?’
She checked her watch. Three pm. She had a bit to do before then. She had to visit Victoria. And she wanted to check in with her son Jack in London. It was early morning there.
‘No need to come over,’ said Roscoe unconvincingly. He liked to give the impression of inviolability.
Ruth insisted. ‘See you in a few hours. I’ll bring some pasta.’
4
Ruth
You awake?
Jack
Yep
Ruth
Bit of action here
Jack
?
Ruth
Missing girl and a dead man
Jack
In Myddle? Who?
Ruth
Girl from chemist. Dash Rogers.
Jack
What happened to Dash?
Ruth
Shot
Jack
Did the same person do both?
Or did the girl shoot him and scoot?
Ruth
Don’t know
Jack
Is there a gunman on the loose?
Ruth
Don’t think so. They found the gun.
Jack
Must be awful there
Ruth
Surreal. Still processing.
Jack
And you went to Myddle for some peace and quiet
Ruth
Maybe it’s me. Maybe chaos follows me
Jack
Well, you’re the woman for the job
Ruth
**********
Read an interview with Joanna Jenkins
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joanna Jenkins grew up on a small farm in country Queensland. After graduating from the University of Queensland with degrees in English Literature and Law, she practised as a solicitor, including for many years as a partner of an international law firm.
She now writes full-time. Married with three sons, Joanna lives in Brisbane.
Her debut novel, How to Kill a Client, was published in 2023. The Bluff is her second novel.
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