Cold Cuts

by Calder Garret

  ‘Yeah, that’s clever, Colin,’ said Arbor. ‘Very witty. That’s a new one.’

  ‘The mongrel’s got no show in shit,’ said O’Reilly. ‘You shouldn’t lead him on.’

  ‘Ah, you never know, Sarge,’ said Arbor. ‘He swears he hasn’t had a drink since last night. It might just be some residual alcohol in his system.’

  ‘Residual, eh? That’s a ten-dollar word. I’ll use that.’

  Arbor put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Yeah, hi. It’s Constable Arbor. Is Doc Phillips free? … Uh-huh? … Yeah, well, get him to ring me, will you? When he gets back. Tell him I’ve got a blood alcohol test for him … Okay, thanks.’

  He hung up.

  ‘So what does that mean?’ asked Rodgers.

  ‘It means you’ve got room and board for the afternoon.’

  Arbor led the boy towards the back of the station and into the cell.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t close the door. Tell me. Are you hungry? I don’t suppose you’ve had any lunch yet?’

  ‘I haven’t had any breakfast.’

  ‘That’s half your problem. I’ll get you something. Relax. The way Doc Phillips is, I can see you getting off with this altogether. He’s got another three hours. Otherwise …’

  ‘Otherwise what?’

  ‘Otherwise you walk.’

  ‘Cool. What are you getting?’

  ‘Burgers, probably. From Jack and Jill’s. Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Yeah, brill. Barbecue, though, not tomato.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Sauce. On the burger. And extra beetroot. What do they say? You can beat an egg, but you can’t—’

  ‘Yeah, right, Colin.’

  Ordering lunch from Jack and Jill’s Deli was always a hit and miss affair. Some items were delicious, something to look forward to. Others were fit only for the bin on the way out. The problem was, Arbor could never be sure which was which. On any given day, the burgers came grilled to perfection, the buns fresh from the oven and the salad bursting with life. On the next, the burgers could be dripping with fat, the buns three days old and the salad limp and pale.

  Today’s fare, Arbor hoped, would be okay. He could smell the beef and onions frying and could feel his mouth watering. That was always a good sign. He grabbed some drinks – a ginger beer for the sarge, a Powerade for himself and a Mother for the Rodgers boy – and then reached into his pocket for some cash. Cash. It was always cash here in Chatton. It might be 2019 but might as well have been 1919.

  The bell on the door chimed and someone entered, silhouetted by the sunshine beyond. It took Arbor’s eyes a moment to adjust.

  ‘Hi, Danny.’

  It was Amira Rashid. Amira had recently reopened her father’s newsagency next door. Not that she had needed to. Since Salim’s murder just a few months before, his daughter had become a very wealthy woman.

  ‘All set for tomorrow?’ Arbor asked.

  ‘Yeah, sort of,’ said Amira. ‘But I’m not looking forward to it. Not really.’

  ‘Yeah, I understand. I can’t say I am, either.’

  Tomorrow marked the start of the trial. Local pig farmers Henry, Jim and Phil Hogg and Henry’s son, Harry, were all up for Salim’s murder in the Supreme Court. Amira and Arbor were both listed as witnesses for the Crown. And while they might not be needed straight away, the prosecutor had asked them both to be ready.

  ‘I’ll pick you up about half five, eh?’ said Arbor. ‘It’s a bit early, but we’ve a hell of a drive.’

  ‘Yeah, that’ll be great,’ said Amira. ‘I’ll be ready.’

  She stepped forward to the counter, ready to give her order.

  ‘Hey, and I heard some news,’ she continued, smiling.

  ‘Yeah? And what’s that?’ said Arbor.

  ‘I was speaking to Jenny,’ said Amira. ‘She said you might be moving out to the farm.’

  Women, thought Arbor. They can’t keep a secret.

  ‘Yeah, I’m thinking about it,’ he said. ‘I might as well, I suppose. I spend half my time out there, anyway. Of course, that’s if she’ll have me.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll have you,’ said Amira.

  ‘Three burgers!’

  Jill Lemon had emerged from the kitchen, burgers in hand.

  Was Jill her real name, Arbor wondered. Jack and Jill’s. It seemed a convenient brand if it was.

  Damn it, he thought. I forgot the barbecue sauce. And the beetroot. Too late, he decided. Rodgers would have to deal with it. He handed the woman his money.

  ‘Separate?’ she asked.

  ‘No. That’s cool.’

  She bagged the burgers and drinks. Arbor lifted the bag and reached for the door. A sudden jolt forced him back.

  ‘Hey, steady on,’ he said, as the young Jones boys, Drew, Jason and Shane, pushed their way in.

  ‘Danny! Danny! Come and see!’ said Shane, at ten the youngest and, marginally, the most civil of the three. He was tugging at Arbor’s pocket.

  ‘Yeah, hold your horses,’ said Arbor. ‘What is it? Did you find ET? Yeah, hang on. I’ll see you later, Amira.’

  ‘Yeah, catch you, Danny.’

  Arbor followed the boys from the shop.

  ‘Back here,’ said Drew. ‘We were looking in Butch’s bins for some bones for the dog … and we found this.’

  He and Jason flipped the lid of the nearest wheelie bin.

  There had been no effort to hide it. It lay on top of some more general scraps of rubbish and amongst some other pieces of rotting flesh and bone. But it was not a piece of beef, or lamb, or even a piece of pork. It was human and it was not a butcher’s cut. It was a leg, the left Arbor noticed, extending from just below the knee to the stumps of the missing toes.

  Arbor called the station and waited.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Hey, Sarge. It’s Arbor.’

  ‘Of course it bloody is. What is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve got trouble.’

  ‘What is it? I’m getting hungry.’

  ‘It’s the Jones boys. They were rummaging in the bins at the back of the butcher’s. And they found something.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? Butch probably tosses all sorts of stuff.’

  ‘No. You don’t get me. It’s a leg. It’s a human leg. It’s human.’

  ‘Shit. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m sure, Sarge. I’m not an idiot. I know a leg when I see one. And it’s missing its toes.’

  ‘Hell.’

  ‘Are you coming down?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I suppose I’ll have to. Just give us a minute. And don’t touch anything.’

  ‘As I said, Sarge, I’m not an idiot. Will I try Doc Phillips again?’

  ‘Yeah, you do that. Boy or girl?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The leg. Is it male or female?’

  ‘Male, I think. Pretty hairy. And there’s a tattoo, too. A big one. A magpie on the calf. That’s one less Collingwood supporter, I suppose, Sarge.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Arbor. And if I’m not mistaken, I know who it is.’

  ‘Who? … Sarge? … Sarge? … Shit.’

  The sergeant was gone.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Jason Jones. ‘Is it someone we know?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Arbor. ‘Look, keep clear. I don’t want the sarge getting onto me because you’ve been getting your grubby little hands everywhere. But hang around, why don’t you? He’ll probably have a few questions for you. And keep your voices down. We don’t want a crowd like last time. Do you understand?’

  Last time had been Boxing Day, when Salim had been found gutted and dumped on the pavement outside his shop.

  He rang the medical centre. He knew Doc Phillips always ate lunch at home, but surely he was back by now.

  ‘Yeah, it’s Constable Arbor again. Is Doc Phillips back yet? It’s urgent this time.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  He held.

  ‘Christ, man,’ cam
e a voice on the other end. ‘Can’t I let my lunch settle? It’s only a drink driving offence. That gives me until … two o’clock.’

  ‘No. It’s something else, Doctor. The Jones boys have found someone’s leg in a bin at the back of the shops.’

  Arbor could hear the doctor thinking.

  ‘Yeah, all right. I’m on my way. Is O’Reilly there?’

  ‘He will be.’

  ‘That’ll be a first. Don’t touch it.’

  Again, thought Arbor. As if he needed telling. He stood back and ushered the boys away, reaching for his Powerade. No sense in wasting it, he thought. He would drink it before it got warm.

  ‘Get the kids out of here,’ said O’Reilly. ‘Shout them a drink or something.’

  Arbor took the last twenty from his wallet and gave it to Drew.

  ‘Get yourselves some drinks,’ he said. ‘And some chips as well, if you want.’

  ‘Savage,’ said Drew.

  The boys darted back into the deli.

  ‘So, do you know who it is, Sarge?’ Arbor asked O’Reilly.

  ‘Too right, I do,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’d know that ink anywhere. I’ve seen it dozens of times. I used to play footy with him back in my younger days.’

  ‘Who is it, then?’

  ‘It’s Butch,’ said O’Reilly. ‘As sure as shit. It’s Butch Paterson.’

  ‘Hell.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. There’ll be hell to pay when news of this gets out. A popular bloke, was Butch. I say was … I mean, I pity him if he’s still alive … Christ, look at those toes. They look like they’ve been taken off with pliers … You do know what you’re going to have to do, don’t you, Arbor? Once Doc Phillips has had a gander? You’re going to have to go through both those bins, bit by fucking bit.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you don’t see me doing it, do you? Here’s the doctor now. I’ll see to him. You head down to the co-op and get yourself the biggest sheets of plastic you can find. Bring them back here. We’ll see if we can’t sort you out a spot at the back of the shops.’

  Despite the mild autumn weather, and although the co-op was only fifty metres away, Arbor didn’t fancy the idea of lugging heavy rolls of plastic back along the street. So he climbed into the paddy wagon and, dumping the burgers and remaining drinks on the passenger seat, started it up.

  His first thought was for the Rodgers kid, probably still stuck on his lonesome at the station. With Doc Phillips now sure to be busy for the rest of the day, it appeared Nobby had had a lucky escape. There was no chance of a blood or urine test now. It did cross Arbor’s mind that maybe O’Reilly had let the boy out already. But that seemed unlikely. It would be just like the sergeant to leave the boy hanging. So he decided to drop off the boy’s burger and then send him on his way.

  Sure enough, even with the doors wide open, the boy hadn’t budged. He sat on the cot like a condemned man.

  ‘You took your time,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be stuck in here all by myself for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Arbor. ‘I would have had to come back tonight to put out the lights.’

  Rodgers didn’t get the joke.

  ‘Come on,’ Arbor continued. ‘You can eat your burger in the kitchen.’

  They settled at the small table that separated the kitchen from the rest of the office. Arbor retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge.

  ‘So what was it?’ asked Nobby. ‘World War Three?’

  ‘I know you’re joking,’ said Arbor, ‘but it’s sort of worse. There’s been a murder … I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. So far we’ve only found a piece of him.’

  ‘Strewth. No kidding? Unreal. Do you know who it was?’

  ‘Yeah. The sarge seems to think it was the butcher … Butch Paterson.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. Fuck me … Hey, nice burger. Even if it has red sauce.’

  ‘So Doc Phillips is going to be tied up all afternoon,’ said Arbor. ‘You may as well shoot through once you’re finished eating. Did you get your dad to pick up the car?’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then get a mate to pick you up … But I don’t want to hear about you driving any time today, you got me? If you need to, rope in a couple of mates. Get one of them to drive the Monaro back to the property. All right?’

  ‘Yeah. All right,’ said Rodgers.

  ‘You don’t seem that fazed, Nobby,’ said Arbor. ‘About Butch. Did you know him much?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of,’ said Rodgers. ‘But just to say hello to. He used to be my footy coach. When I was ten. But that was all donkey’s years ago. I only played for one season. I couldn’t hack the training, eh? Not like you. Big footy star and all. But I bet you get sick of talking about it.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Anyway, on and off,’ said Rodgers, ‘the old man would get Butch to dress and pack a lamb for him. If he was sending it down to rellies in Perth.’

  ‘And that’s that?’

  ‘Yeah. I guess.’

  The boy drained the last of his Mother and belched.

  ‘Sick,’ he said. ‘That was just what I needed.’

  ‘I didn’t take your phone, did I?’ said Arbor.

  ‘No. I’ve still got it,’ said Nobby. ‘I’ll give someone a ring. And you know me. I’m sure I’ll manage to keep myself busy until they get here.’

  ‘That’s just your style, Nobby,’ said Arbor. ‘Just your style.’

  Rodgers laughed, something loud and base.

  Style. The boy had no style at all.

  One of the strangest things about the Chatton co-op was that you never knew what was hiding at the back of the shop. Apart from the usual range of dry goods, tinned goods and semi-fresh vegetables, there were assorted items of furniture, bins of dusty toys, electrical appliances, tools and more. The women of Chatton, if they so desired, could find sewing patterns and bolts of fabric dating back to the 1960s. Arbor himself, during an early rummage, had uncovered an Elizabeth Jolley first edition and faded cassette tapes of Ultravox’s ‘Vienna’ and Van Morrison’s ‘Into the Music’. Although he had nothing on which to play the tapes, he bought them. Perhaps, one day, he might find a still functioning tape deck lurking amongst the pile of old analogue TVs.

  It took him less than five minutes to find what he was after. In what passed as the hardware section of the store, alongside some odd-sized sheets of chipboard and various lengths of pine and jarrah, he found a large roll, about two metres high, of thick black plastic. Fine. It was just what he needed. But it was impossible to unroll without some help.

  ‘Are you all right there, Danny?’

  It was Karen Todd. Wife of Matt. She was manager of both the Chatton co-op and the Chatton Blue Tongues. She was a short bustling woman with an endless smile.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a knife handy there, would you, Karen?’ said Arbor.

  ‘Yeah. Give us a tick,’ said Karen.

  She went searching behind the counter and found what she was looking for at the very back of a drawer.

  ‘Matt says you’re coming to the game this arvo,’ she said.

  ‘News travels fast,’ said Arbor. ‘Yeah, I wanted to. But I might have to give it a miss. There’s been an incident.’

  ‘So, I heard,’ said Karen. ‘Butch Paterson.’

  News does travel fast.

  ‘Yeah, well. See how you go,’ Karen continued. ‘If you can make it, it’d be great. The guys need all the help they can get … Here it is. But watch yourself. It’s one of those Stanleys. It’s got a bloody sharp edge.’

  ‘Thanks. Give us a hand, will you? Maybe we could spread it out a bit.’

  ‘No worries. How much were you after?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Arbor. ‘I need a couple of bits. One bit, say, two or three metres. The other twice that.’

  ‘That’s easily done,’ said Karen. ‘You spin it. I’ll roll it from this end … I can usuall
y tell. I’ve been rolling fabric for God knows how long … But you’re not thinking of playing again, though, are you?’

  ‘Christ, no,’ said Arbor. ‘My playing days are long gone. The doctors at the Eagles told me one wrong move and I’d be … Let’s just say I don’t mind chasing a crim every now and again. But that’s about all I’m up for.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Karen.

  ‘Yeah, well. Every cloud …’ said Arbor. ‘That’s what they say, isn’t it? That’s about enough there, I reckon.’

  ‘Give it another couple of rolls,’ said Karen. ‘Go on. I won’t charge you for it. This stuff’s been back here since before I was born, I reckon.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What’s it for, anyway?’

  ‘Ah, you don’t want to know,’ said Arbor. ‘While Doc Phillips is away doing his forensics and O’Reilly is making a stab at an investigation, I get the good job. I get to sort through the bins at the back of Butch’s place looking for evidence.’

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. I know they’re emptied once a week, but I reckon some of the treasures at the bottom might be pretty ripe.’

  ‘And what is it you’re looking for?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Good question. I guess I’ll know it if I find it.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, some more bits of Butch?’ Karen smiled. ‘Are you sure you can tell man from beast?’

  Arbor gave it some thought. No, he decided. He really wasn’t sure.

  O’Reilly and the doctor had positioned themselves outside Jack and Jill’s. By the drinks in their hands and the cigarettes in their mouths, Arbor could tell that, for now at least, they had drawn a line under their investigation. He pulled up nearby and alighted.

  ‘How did you go?’ asked O’Reilly. ‘You certainly dragged your feet.’

  This was just the sergeant’s way, thought Arbor. He shrugged it off.

  ‘Yeah, I got some plastic sheeting,’ he said, opening the back door of the wagon. The plastic came out in a cloud of dust. Arbor coughed.

  ‘Jesus.’

  O’Reilly and the doctor laughed.

  ‘I’ve cordoned off a space for you out back,’ said O’Reilly. ‘But there’s no security to speak of. You’ll just have to work there until you’re finished. If you get my drift.’