‘Really?’ she asked, touching her hair where it was tucked up into a bun.
‘Yes. By Linda Fantasio. Being in the chair will give you a chance to find out what she’s like. And hairdressers like to talk, they can’t help themselves, and they hear everything. Tell her she was recommended to you by someone at the bank when you asked about a hairdresser, pump her up a bit. Say you also heard about her brother, what a blow it must have been to her, and so on. You’ll know what to say. Give it a few days though, so she doesn’t think it was me putting you up to it.’
‘Okay, boss.’
‘And while I’ve got you here, can you grab Ben Whittaker please so we can go through what you learnt about those phone numbers?’
Sheridan fetched Constable Whittaker from the kitchenette and the three of them retired to the interview room.
Whittaker passed a single sheet of paper across the table to Cole.
‘Well, senior sergeant,’ Whittaker began with a toothy grin. ‘We got some pretty good results here, I reckon. First things first.’ Cole looked on, a bemused expression on his face. ‘The first number – A – is for Raf Agostini. Agostini has horses, trotters. I got that one. Pl is for John Pleasance. I don’t know who he is, but I got that one, too.’
‘Pleasance is the new house painter in town,’ Cole said. ‘I got that one.’
‘He’s been here two years,’ Whittaker objected.
‘In this place, that’s new,’ Cole said. ‘What else have you got?’
‘Then there is SP. We couldn’t get that one. Every time I dialled that number no one answered. I could tell someone was there but they wouldn’t say anything. Just silence and then they hung up. That was the only one we didn’t get. So far. We got the last two as well.’ Whittaker asked, ‘Senior Constable Sheridan, do you want to say the rest?’
‘No, you carry on, Constable. I couldn’t do it any better than you,’ she answered in a drawl.
‘Alright then,’ Whittaker continued. ‘TR is Terry Reilly. We all know Terry, don’t we? It was Sergeant Forrest nabbed him last week for stealing from the loading ramp at Potter’s store. The second time he’s done it.’
‘Or at least, the second time he’s been caught at it,’ Cole interjected. ‘He steals and then sells it on.’
‘And the last one is X. That’s what people actually call him. X. That’s Xavier Guiney. People are lazy and don’t want to say the whole name. He’s a farmer, too.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Cole said. ‘And not a very good one at that. He lives on the other side of town from the Colstons, too. Maybe that’s who Harry was going to see the night of his accident.’
‘Are you going to the funeral, senior sergeant?’ Whittaker asked.
‘When it’s something like this I usually go. People like to see us taking an interest.’
‘Do you think Harry Colston might have been up to some shady business before he died?’
Cole folded the piece of paper Whittaker had given him.
‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘He started building his new house during the drought and what farmer would do that?’ He stared at the SP on the paper. ‘But you two have done a great job here and I might get you to do some more research for me.’ They looked at him expectantly. ‘Linda Fantasio told me a few things about her brother and their family. She wasn’t exactly her brother’s biggest fan. She also mentioned something about brushes with the law, and disasters in the family. Besides their father dying early last year, I can’t recall much else though. So see what you can find out, will you? Start with the others here in the station, then try the local gossips. You know who I’m talking about,’ he told Whittaker. ‘Talk to the Colstons’ bank manager and the solicitors, too. You can say we’re looking into a few matters to do with the dead couple’s estate, and care of the child, nothing serious, if they want to know.’ When Sheridan and Whittaker remained sitting at the table, Cole waved them off. ‘That’s it, see you later.’
But after they’d gone he smiled that he now had at least two officers who had their hearts in their job.
He also wondered if SP didn’t stand for SP bookmaker. He knew Colston, like himself, enjoyed a flutter on the horses and the introduction of the Totaliser Agency Board in Victoria hadn’t yet eradicated all the independent, if illegal, bookmakers. The few rumoured to be still operating in the district would be working mostly out of pubs, but it was said one did the lion’s share of his business by telephone. There would have been a password, or a name given to the bookie to elicit a response, but at any rate he had a number and the Postmaster-General’s people would be able to tell him who owned it, so whoever it was playing possum at the other end of the telephone line would soon be uncovered.
Chapter 9
Ray Furnell wandered into the station, which he often did lately on his way to the shops from his garage, a dirty rag flapping from the back pocket of his overalls. It was always the same conversation.
‘I want to say thanks for what you did for my boy, Lloyd. You cleared Lee’s name, that’s what you did.’
‘Ray, you’ve already thanked me enough.’
‘But here, where you work, so it’s official, like. I promised myself I would never forget my boy, and you never gave up on him.’
‘You don’t owe me anything, Ray. It was small comfort for everything that happened.’
In truth, Cole was unnerved by Furnell’s ritual visits, and he wondered how long they were going to continue. Clearing a dead boy’s name had given him no joy. The grief over Lee Furnell’s suicide was an everlasting wound and no amount of congratulations over solving the murders of Faraday, Quade and Bridges would ever heal it. Furthermore, if his suspicions were correct, the quiet that had returned to the town might prove to be nothing more than a false dawn.
The Colstons’ funeral began at eleven a.m. at the Anglican Church with the pair afterwards interred at the Mitchell cemetery. A wake was held at the bowling club where Harry Colston’s father had been a life member. Cole joined the mourners for a cup of tea and a bite to eat, while others opted for a drop or two of something alcoholic.
The Colston clan, including the Fantasios, kept their own company at one end of the expansive room while the Bramleys huddled in a tight knot at the other end. Harry’s two brothers seemed slighter versions of him, wiry and on the tips of their toes, one of them glancing at his watch every few minutes. And it wasn’t true what the priest had said, United in death, Cole thought, at least not so far as the Colstons and Bramleys were concerned. There was a noticeable chill between the two families.
Filling out the room were other groups of like-minded people: the racing set, the cattle breeders, members of the rifle club and various business identities from town, as well as representatives from the Returned Services League and the local football team. There were also the funeral evergreens, mostly elderly men and women who attended every funeral in Mitchell regardless of whether they knew the deceased or not, and who always stayed on for the morning or afternoon tea. Whether or not Harry Colston had been doing his best to undo the family’s hard work, the family still held some clout in the town, as was evidenced by the large turnout. Harry Colston’s brothers and his sister were kept busy in receiving mourners’ condolences.
Cole had also noticed Xavier Guiney during the service and joined the fidgety farmer as they stood by the window overlooking the bowling green. Cole engaged him in some small talk about the weather and football.
‘Good crowd at the church today, and here. It’s a compliment to the Colstons,’ he remarked as he stood nursing cup and saucer.
‘Probably the first time either of them had been in a church, as well,’ Guiney said. ‘But look on the bright side, they got there in the end.’
When Cole asked how he knew Harry Colston, Guiney replied that they’d known each other from way back.
‘You ever had much to do with him, lik
e as friends, though?’ Cole said before bringing the cup to his lips.
‘Old John Colston, his dad, was a stalwart of this place,’ Guiney answered. ‘He helped build up the bowling club. You’ll see his name on the board over there. But Harry was a good enough bloke too. We went to school together, go to the races sometimes, as well. We both liked the gee-gees, so we had that in common. And I’ve always had a few horses of my own, so we could talk about that.’
Cole saw that. Guiney, wearing a worn tweed jacket over a white shirt and gravy-stained red tie, had a look of genteel shabbiness about him, the kind of genteel shabbiness common amongst the talking-from-the-sides-of-their-mouths, horseracing fraternity. A pasty-looking man, with pale eyelids, and wavy, slightly unkempt and greasy-looking hair, Cole easily imagined him running a hand down a horse’s flank, but had more trouble picturing him raising a sweat with a shovel in his hand. The glass of beer trembled in his hand as Cole observed a thirst that would never be slaked. However Guiney spent the hours on his farm, it was doubtful many of them involved actual farming.
‘Did you have much to do with him lately?’ Cole inquired.
‘A bit here and there,’ Guiney thought. ‘There was a nice filly I thought he might want to buy a share in about six months back, and he was red hot for it only to let me down in the end.’
‘What happened?’
‘I needed four people to buy a part of her, and Harry was the last one. I thought everything was agreed to, but when the time came to sign the papers he said he changed his mind. Just like that, when he knew I wanted that horse bad. Wasted plenty of my time when I could’ve found someone else to buy a share and taken that horse. And then to make it worse, by the time I did get another buyer the owner had already found someone else. You might say bad luck, but that two year old has won twice in three starts in Melbourne now.’
‘Are you sore about that?’ Cole asked, but as if he was watching bowlers outside on the green.
‘Who wouldn’t be? It was the time I put into finding that horse, too. People think they fall out of trees, but they don’t. But that was Harry and I should’ve known better. Thank you, a top up would be lovely,’ he said with a broad grin to a wizened old gent poking a bottle of Foster’s Lager at him. He turned back to Cole. ‘Always be nice to the man with the bottle, eh sergeant? But where was I? Oh yes, but you don’t speak ill of the dead, do you? And I heard he did that to people all the time – be red hot for something only to muck everyone around when it came to putting his money where his mouth was. Still, what can you do about it, eh?’ he said, admiring his beer before routing it in one gulp. ‘Now, where did that gentleman go?’
‘Xavier, do you think Harry might have been short of money? Did he ever talk about being in any trouble about it?’
‘Why? Has someone said something?’
‘Only that he was putting a few noses out of joint. That’s all I heard.’
‘Well, he could’ve. Money comes in and money goes out, doesn’t it? The Kinross girl, the one before Dianne came onto the scene, her family was supposed to be loaded and I don’t know why Harry didn’t saddle her up. They say she was keen and all that and there would’ve been plenty of money to go round if he’d married her. So I don’t know why he went for Dianne, or I do, but that’s none of my business.’
‘What was wrong with the Kinross girl?’
‘You can search me, but I wouldn’t have the foggiest. I only heard stories.’
‘What stories?’
‘I shouldn’t repeat it, not at a funeral, but there was one thing I knew for certain. Robyn Kinross is a good looking girl, but the family is mad as hatters. The mother got carted off to the looney bin in Bendigo. Her father should have been sent there as well. Then there were the brothers, both of them skew-whiff. Robyn was the only one you thought wouldn’t start frothing at the mouth the minute you looked at her. So you think John Colston was going to abide having her in his family, even if they had plenty in the bank? Harry’s dad was a straight-as-a-die man, and he didn’t like anything out of the ordinary, or people talking about him …’ Cole waited as Guiney’s glass was filled again, the farmer warming to his talk. ‘… Yes, a plain old bugger was John. Mean. He didn’t like surprises, and they say he used to look out the window every morning to make sure the sun had come up and he hadn’t been diddled. I once saw him cart a load of old newspapers into his outside dunny, too cheap to buy proper toilet paper, and every single time he bought something, even if it was a box of matches, the person who sold it to him had to give him a receipt.’ He raised his glass. ‘That was the man who was Harry Colston’s father. You know what I mean?’
‘But the girl, Robyn, I take it she and Harry must have going out for a while then.’
‘On and off. On and off. They were in their early twenties. I just got my first stallion then and was considering going into full time breeding myself. It was Harry who broke it off, because of his old man.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Not too good. Harry didn’t say much about it and I didn’t see a lot of him then. Only one time he did tell me that Robyn Kinross had gone out to the farm with one of her brothers and they threw cow shit all over his front door step.’ Guiney tilted his head back and his beer disappeared. ‘Don’t ask me where they got the cow shit from. Probably the dairy.’
Cole nodded toward the other side of the room.
‘I see Raf Agostini is here, too.’
‘Agostini!’ Guiney snorted. ‘Don’t make me laugh about him. Calls himself an expert on horses, Equine specialist, he says, according to the ad in the local paper. But if you ask me, he wouldn’t know the difference between a gelding and a stallion, even if someone explained it to him. Or a duck from a goat. Specialist, my arse.’
‘Probably Harry had a bit to do with him, too?’ Cole hazarded a guess.
‘More fool him then.’
But Guiney was losing patience with the conversation, the farmer’s dull eyelids turning elsewhere.
‘Just one thing, Xavier. Harry wasn’t on his way to visit you the night he died, by any chance, was he?’
Guiney almost sneered, ‘If he was, he didn’t make it, did he?’
‘Was he going to see you?’
‘Nope. But there’s someone across there I’ve got to see.’
Guiney walked away holding his empty glass upside-down.
Chapter 10
The Snip hairdressing salon was one of only a handful of double-storey buildings on Main Street, the salon occupying the lower floor while creaky wooden stairs led upstairs to two sparse, bare-boarded rooms used predominantly for storage. Downstairs the shop frontage consisted of one great window separated from a two-paned glass door by a vertical strip of teak. A flip-around sign on the door declared the business OPEN.
Chris Sheridan paused briefly before entering the shop, making sure Linda Fantasio was inside before she pushed the door open.
Hearing the door bell tinkle, Fantasio summoned her in. ‘Come in, get out of the cold!’ she called cheerily. ‘We’ve got the heater on in here. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a tick.’
Sheridan sat down and watched while the hairdresser attended to the only other customer in the salon. The second hairdresser’s chair was empty, and there was no sign of the other two women she’d encountered on her previous visit.
Sheridan watched as Fantasio pirouetted and bobbed about her customer, always with an eye on the mirror so she could gauge the customer’s reaction to the cut and her conversation. Sheridan saw she had a good manner with her client, using the customer’s name frequently and smiling constantly while skipping from one topic of conversation to the next with the buoyancy of a lifting breeze. Everything about her was upbeat. Her hair tossed with the rhythm of her banter, as all the while her client kept staring at herself in the mirror with a self-satisfied air.
&nbs
p; The woman’s wash and cut complete, Linda Fantasio smilingly accepted her payment at the cash register and saw her out, opening and closing the door for her in a pleasant, final gesture.
‘I heard on the grapevine we had someone new in town. Christine Sheridan, isn’t it? Welcome to Mitchell! I’m Linda Fantasio,’ she cooed.
‘Nice to meet you, Linda. And thank you, everyone’s making me feel right at home,’ Sheridan said.
‘I’m pleased to hear that, then. Now come over here and sit in the chair and we’ll see what we can do for you.’
Sheridan put herself in the chair.
‘But before we go any further,’ Fantasio teased. ‘I think we’d better take your hat off, otherwise it’s going to make it a bit hard for me to do my job.’
‘Oh, how stupid of me!’ Sheridan blushed, as she fumbled with her hat only for Fantasio to take it from her.
‘Now then. What would you like me to do today?’
The hairdresser stood behind her, a hand either side of her customer’s head, trying to garner a sense of what she might do as they looked at each other in the mirror.
Sheridan answered, ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t come in with any fixed plan. I’m hoping you might have a few ideas. Straight hair, there’s not much you can do with it, is there?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Fantasio replied, teasing out her hair with her fingers. ‘Your hair’s an unusual colour, this light shade of brown. It’s really popular at the moment and I have girls coming in wanting something like this. And you have the perfect complexion for it so we shouldn’t change that. But what about we put some life in the cut, too, give you a modern English look?’ she suggested, pushing Sheridan’s hair about in search of that look.
‘I’m happy for you to decide. But maybe I should try something different?’ Sheridan ventured, again meeting Fantasio’s eyes in the mirror.
‘Sure, I can do that,’ the hairdresser agreed. ‘A cut first. I’ll take a little bit off, and then we’ll run a few curls through it. I know just the thing. It’ll look fantastic.’
Whistle Down The Wire Page 6
