Flashpoint by Felicity Young

voice, ‘How’s Mavis taking it? Still bad?’
    She wanted to say, why don’t you go and see for yourself, but held herself in check. Most of the townspeople seemed unnerved by her mother, never knowing how she would be from one day to the next. It was understandable; even Leanne found herself walking on eggshells around her most of the time. If there was something good on the box, blackberry nip in the fridge and plenty of anti-depressants in the bathroom cupboard, she was fine. But if any of these ran low, watch out.
    â€˜Hey, Leanne, I know that guy.’ Kylie thumped a finger onto the printout. Leanne was grateful to Kylie forsteering everyone back on topic. They’d been to Toorrup High School together and knew each other pretty well – as you’d have to when you sat on a bus together for over four hours every day. Leanne considered Kylie to be one of her few good friends.
    â€˜That’s that old sod Herb Bell. You sometimes drink with him, don’t you, Sid?’
    The barmaid turned to a wizened monkey of a man sitting at the bar, quietly dribbling into his beer.
    â€˜Yup.’ Sid belched.
    â€˜Can you remember when you last saw him, Sid?’ Leanne asked.
    â€˜Nope.’ Sid belched louder. Someone started to laugh.
    Leanne grabbed a teaspoon from the bar and tapped it against a glass. She turned around to face the crowd, drew a deep breath and said, ‘As you all probably know, a burned body was discovered in the Glenroyd School grounds on Monday. The victim has been identified as Herbert Bell.’
    There was a low murmur from those whom the town grapevine had not yet reached.
    â€˜I’m circulating a picture of Herb, hoping to jog some memories. The picture has him with his hair dangling down, but I think he usually had it tied back in a ponytail. I want you all to think about when you last saw him, and come and tell me. We are especially interested in talking to anyone who saw him last Saturday.’
    Kylie helped Leanne distribute the pictures. The last few in the pile were wet from resting on the bar. When Leanne tried to separate them they fell apart in her hands. She screwed them up and shoved them in her pocket and glanced around, hoping no one had noticed. Her gut lurched.
    â€˜A face only a mother could love,’ she heard someonesay. Someone else tacked the picture to the dartboard. Leanne shoved her way through the crowd and managed to pull it down before the first dart could be thrown. She backed the offender against the wall away from his mates, and spoke to him low and mean, like Sarge did when he’d caught Tim Robinson letting down little Ian Knox’s bicycle tyres.
    â€˜You knew Herb well enough to want to throw darts at him, did you?’
    â€˜Err, not really, Leanne. I hardly even spoke to him.’
    The guy was younger than she was and seemed nervous of her. That was a first.
    â€˜I think someone who wants to throw darts at someone else’s picture could hate him enough to want to kill him. What do you reckon, Shorty?’
    Shorty swallowed and took a breath. ‘I was only joking, honest, Leanne, ask anyone here,’ he said, nodding to the rabble over her shoulder.
    â€˜He’s right Leanne. He never knows nothing. He’s a dumb little shit.’
    Beery gusts of laughter interrupted Shorty’s character reference. Leanne gave the kid a final glare and returned him to his mates with a push.
    â€˜Oh, there is one thing, I don’t know if it helps,’ the kid said just before he scuttled off.
    â€˜I’m listening.’
    The boy turned to his mates for encouragement and was met by blank stares. He took a gulp of beer. ‘He was always bragging about how rich he was going to be.’ He smacked his lips, failing to get rid of the beer froth. He looked like the Milkybar Kid.
    â€˜He was talking about winning Lotto, you moron,’ one of his friends interjected.
    â€˜When was