Nefarious Doings

by Evans, Ilsa

  My mother’s house was the third from the corner, on the left; a single-storey weatherboard with a garage nestled against one side, beneath a bushy gum whose branches once trailed scratchy leaves across the tiled roof. But not anymore. I stared, stunned, as I let the car cruise to a halt by the kerb, dragging my eyes away only to avoid rear-ending the police divvy van in front. This van was one of a line of vehicles, plus a white Holden Commodore that was parked at the end of the driveway, over the footpath. Beside it stood a gaggle of neighbours who were now staring at me, as if I had some answers. Several of them should have known better.

  But it was the house that demanded my attention. It was like a dragon had spewed fiery breath through one half, leaving just a charcoaled gash behind. A blue canvas bandaid partly hid what was left of my mother’s Honda, beside a jagged torso of crow-black pine tree. Oddly, the other end of the house, away from the garage and the bedrooms, remained almost untouched. Shrubs hugged the creamy weatherboards, lace curtains fluttered at the windows, buoyed by a soft breeze. This was where I had grown up, along with my sister. Sleeping in a bedroom that was now hidden from view, climbing a tree that had become a blackened stump, having sleepovers in a garage that was no longer there.

  I got out of the car, immediately discovering that the soft breeze also carried an ashy, coal-laced smell that went way beyond burnt toast. I stared, then closed one eye and tilted my head, so that all I could see was the good side of the house. It was like nothing had happened. There had been no dragon, no fire, no death, and my mother wasn’t in the hospital, heading my way.

  ‘Mum!’ hissed Quinn. ‘What’re you doing? You look retarded!’

  ‘Don’t say retarded,’ I replied, opening my eye. The damage swam back into view, clear and vicious, and now I could also see that there was red and white crime-scene tape strung from the remains of the gum, right around the front of the house and past the letterbox. It emphasised the fact that a man had died here, overnight.

  ‘Smells like barbecue,’ said Quinn. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Frigging hell,’ breathed her sister. She walked over to the tape and, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped underneath and then stopped. As if it was important for her to challenge the rules, but only just. She dragged out her iPhone and began taking photos.

  ‘At least the lounge’ll be okay,’ said Quinn, waving towards the undamaged side. ‘And the kitchen. Where do you suppose everyone is?’

  I didn’t need to ask what she meant by this last statement. The number of cars suggested quite a crowd and yet there was a single overall-clad man working in the debris beside the blue canvas. In fact, despite the destruction and the smell and even the cluster of neighbours, there was a balmy peace to the neighbourhood. A magpie swooped down beside the Commodore and regarded me beadily.

  Suddenly, with almost surreal inappropriateness, the voice of Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show rent the air with ‘The Time Warp’. The magpie shot skyward and the overall-clad investigator stared at me in surprise. I scrabbled in my bag, trying to find my mobile before bringing one’s knees in tight was followed by the actual pelvic thrust. ‘Jesus Christ! Hello?’

  ‘No, just me,’ said my sister. ‘But I’m happy to ring back if you’re expecting him.’

  ‘Oh, very funny. And you can change that stupid ringtone you put on here too. You just embarrassed the hell out of me. This is why I don’t usually turn the damn phone on.’

  ‘Don’t dis the Time Warp. You’ll have Frankenfurter come down on you big-time.’

  ‘Do you want to rephrase that?’

  ‘No. It’d probably do you good.’ Petra’s tone changed. ‘I just spoke to Yen. I’m in shock. Why didn’t you call me earlier?’

  I turned away, lowered my voice. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been one thing after the other. I’ve only just got to the house. And it’s bad, Pet, really bad.’

  ‘God. Do we know who the guy was?’

  ‘No, but I might get some answers after I speak to someone here. In fact, why don’t I ring you back in half an hour or so? I’ll know more then.’

  ‘All right, but don’t forget, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ I rang off and turned the phone to silent, storing it in my bag. I would have preferred to throw it in the nearest bin, but it had been a birthday present from my offspring last year. Apparently I had to be contactable at all times, just in case.

  ‘I think they were expecting, like, a flash mob,’ commented Quinn, nodding towards the neighbours. ‘Or at least, a choreographed step to the right.’

  I followed her gaze to the group that was made up of Edward Given, Rita Hurley and two other people I didn’t recognise. Edward immediately beckoned me enthusiastically and my heart sank. Edward was one of three people remaining on the lane from when I was a child, and the only one who was my peer. His parents and siblings had moved on, albeit to different destinations, leaving Edward with the house, his movie collection, and an addiction to food that had seen him grow from a stocky, unpleasant child to an obese, unpleasant man. His appetite for eating was matched by his appetite for gossip. If a bloke was seen having a drink at the pub two days running, then he was an alcoholic by the time Edward got to tell the tale, or if a woman smiled a little too cheerfully at the milkman, then it was clear the transaction was about much more than just milk. And given half a chance, Edward would provide the details, licking his lips and leaving them just a little too moist.

  ‘My golly gosh, what a turn-up for the books, hey?’ Edward began talking before I even reached him. ‘Exciting times!’

  ‘Except for the bloke who died.’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course.’ Edward schooled his expression. ‘And your poor mother! How is she? Recovering well? I expect the Richard III committee meeting this afternoon has been called off then?’

  I nodded. ‘She’ll be fine. Thanks.’

  ‘Glad to hear,’ said a younger man standing off to the right. ‘You’re Nell, aren’t you? I’m Mark Tapscott, and this is my wife Trudy.’

  ‘They’re from opposite,’ added Edward, waving to the neat brick veneer across the road. ‘The old Canter place.’

  ‘You’re the writer,’ stated Trudy, a slim, rather pregnant blonde.

  I nodded again, because I never knew how to answer this without sounding self-promotional. ‘And these are my daughters, Lucy and Quinn.’

  ‘Hi. D’you know, I’ve always meant to write too. Just haven’t got around to it, I suppose. How does it work? Like, I mean, how did you get a regular column?’

  ‘Ah, well, I was already working as a journalist.’ I felt a little defensive. ‘I’d done some work for the Sunday paper that prints the column now. So I just pitched the idea.’

  Her brow cleared. ‘Oh I see. It’s always who you know, isn’t it?’

  ‘Should you be over there, Lucy?’ called Rita Hurley, the fourth member of the little group. ‘It is a crime scene, you know.’

  ‘What isn’t?’ asked Lucy, perhaps making an existential statement.

  I dragged my eyes from Trudy Tapscott to give Rita a reassuring, albeit tight, smile. It might be a crime scene but it was our house, and Lucy was my daughter. Rita, called Auntie Rita throughout my childhood, had lived next door to my mother for as long as I could remember, maintaining a friendship which probably relied more on proximity than personality. Along with her husband, who I could now see exiting their front door. My smile softened, because I was very fond of this man. Tall and thin, where his wife was short and plump, with Buddy Holly glasses and a grave air. Once my father’s best friend.

  ‘Uncle Jim.’ A bandage swathed his right hand. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. What an incred–’

  ‘Then don’t.’ He stopped by my side and surveyed the damage.

  ‘Uncle Jim, you’re a hero,’ said Quinn, moving closer. ‘You saved our only functional grandparent from certain death.’

  I frowned. ‘Functional grandparent? So are the other three in an iron lung or something?’
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  ‘A ménage à trois,’ said Lucy from the other side of the crime tape. ‘With echoes.’

  ‘I meant functional as in here,’ explained Quinn. ‘Not somewhere else.’

  ‘Ah, the egocentricity of youth,’ said Jim. He waited a few moments. ‘How’s Lilly?’

  I looked at him fondly. I don’t know when he first developed his crush, whether it was before or after my father left, when he was helping pick up the pieces. I also don’t know why, but that’s a different story. What was pretty common knowledge, for anyone who saw the way he looked at my mother, was that he thought the sun shone from her gimlet eyes. Which would have been fine if not for the fact he had a wife, who also had gimlet eyes. ‘Fine, thanks to you. She’s just being kept overnight for observation, then she’ll be coming home with me until we sort this out.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ interjected Rita. ‘You’re such a good daughter.’

  ‘Might pop around and visit later.’ Uncle Jim cleared his throat. ‘Old friend. Flowers.’

  ‘Not today,’ said his wife quickly. ‘You’re otherwise occupied, my man.’ She turned back to me. ‘Now, Nell, the details can wait but could you keep in mind our side fence when you start dealing with the insurance? The palings past the garage. They’re dreadfully burnt.’

  Jim frowned at her. ‘Time and place, woman!’

  ‘Certainly, Rita.’ I nodded, feeling disproportionately cross. Over by the crime-scene tape Lucy was now texting, fingers flying, no doubt updating her Facebook status. I wondered if it was acceptable practice for me to go inside the house, use the bathroom. Surely they had some sort of policy or procedure in place? I turned back to the group. ‘Could anybody fill me in on what’s been happening this morning? Any word on what started it all?’

  ‘Well, you just missed the news crew,’ said Edward enthusiastically. ‘They even filmed us! And they had one of the investigators on air. Apparently it’s definitely suspicious.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll have a go at writing while I’m stuck at home with the baby.’ Trudy Tapscott was looking pensive. ‘No offence, but I think I’d rather write a book though.’

  ‘And you’d be good at it too, honey,’ said her husband. He turned back to me. ‘They think some form of accelerant was used.’

  Edward took over again. ‘And of course they’ve moved the body. He’s long gone.’

  ‘Long gone?’ repeated Quinn, staring at him. After a moment she turned back to me. ‘Mum, I’m hungry. Can I go inside and get something to eat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe I should make snacks,’ said Rita worriedly. ‘Offer them to the police and all. I think Lilly would appreciate that.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said her husband, demonstrating his superior knowledge of my mother.

  ‘But where are they all?’ I looked over at the single investigator, who was now writing industriously inside a foolscap folder. Beside him, the blue canvas swelled in the breeze. He paused to poke at something with his pen and then began writing once more. It occurred to me that he might just be an enterprising novelist, looking for inspiration. After all, writing books was so easy.

  ‘In the back,’ said Edward. ‘They were all in the garage area earlier but then most went out back. Odds are they found something dodgy.’

  ‘Like, apart from the fire? And the accelerant? And the long-gone body?’ asked Quinn. She turned to me before he could answer. ‘I’m going over to stand with Luce.’

  Edward, who had opened his mouth to reply, frowned as he watched her go – perhaps trying to work out if she was being rude or not. I could have answered that.

  ‘Iced VoVos,’ said Rita. ‘Maybe some sandwiches.’

  ‘A couple of police went into the Craigs’ house a while back,’ added Mark in his quiet way. ‘But I think that might be about something separate.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Edward turned back, dismissing Quinn. ‘The wife came out all wailing! They bustled her back inside quick-smart. Bet it’s about that … husband.’

  Silence met this statement because everybody present had an excellent notion of why Beth Craig might need the police. Even I knew that Dustin Craig treated his young wife and two little daughters as if they were subjects of his personal fiefdom.

  ‘They had another argument last night,’ added Edward. ‘He was cursing and all that.’

  ‘Pfft,’ said Rita. ‘What else is new? That’s why we have our TV set loud.’

  Mark shrugged. ‘Didn’t hear a thing for once. I was out.’

  ‘I don’t know why the investigation is taking so long,’ said Rita, changing the subject. ‘I should think it’s perfectly obvious. Homeless man, accidental fire. Could have been any of the houses.’ She waved an arm. ‘I blame the council.’

  ‘But what was a homeless man doing out this way?’ asked Trudy, a little nervously. ‘And why would he have lit a fire?’

  ‘Maybe you should write about it,’ I suggested. ‘Put it in your book.’

  Just then the Craigs’ front door banged open. A young policeman emerged, along with a suit-clad older man who immediately frowned at Lucy and Quinn. Impressively, both girls scrambled back under the crime tape without a word being spoken. I recognised the uniformed policeman as one of the two who had visited me this morning and tried to dredge up his name. Michael? Andrew? Carson?

  ‘It’s that Matthew Carstairs,’ hissed Lucy, loud enough for the owner of the name to hear. He glanced in our direction and then said something to his companion, pointing straight at me. The suit-clad man turned and strode towards us, looking grim. As he neared, his eyes flicked to my hair and I put a hand up self-consciously, and rather ineffectually, given even the lightest breeze was wont to increase the volume exponentially. He dropped his gaze.

  ‘You’re Lillian Forrest’s daughter? Eleanor Forrest?’

  I could feel the energy emitting from Edward beside me and guessed he was on the verge of answering so I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. And could I ask if I –’

  ‘If you don’t mind, how about over there?’ He gestured towards the remains of the garage and then nodded at the other group members, presumably to soothe their feelings. After lifting the crime tape for me to pass beneath, he led the way to the bricked side fence in front of the Commodore. He put his clipboard down on the bricks.

  From this vantage point I could now see past the blue tarpaulin and into about three-quarters of the backyard, including the periphery of the investigatory activity that seemed to be taking place near the fence shared with the Craigs. There were more men in overalls here, along with a policewoman who wore a fluoro vest over her uniform. Straight ahead, through the remains of the garage and over the back fence, I could see the elevated, partly enclosed veranda that belonged to Leon Chaucer, owner of the Majic Art Gallery. I thought I could also see his silhouette, and reflected that he had the best seat around.

  My companion stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ashley Armistead.’

  ‘Nell Forrest,’ I replied, shaking politely. The detective had a nice grip, which complemented his air of authority. And he was rather good-looking in a well-used, Law and Order type of way. Not quite NCIS, but close.

  ‘Mrs Forrest, I –’

  ‘Actually it’s Ms Forrest.’ I suddenly realised that sounded like I was trying to let him know that I was single. ‘But never mind about that – just call me Nell.’ Now I’d just made it worse. ‘Or whatever you like. Bloody hell. Look, am I allowed to go inside the house?’

  ‘I’m afraid not at the moment. I’ve got a few questions if you don’t mind. Just trying to get a bit of background.’ He opened his clipboard and then put his hand down to protect the contents from the breeze. ‘First, though, how’s your mother doing?’

  ‘Better, thanks. She should be discharged tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good to hear, good to hear. She’ll be going home with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, trying to sound enthusiastic. I noticed that the young uniformed policeman had stopped beside my
two daughters and was now being shown something on Lucy’s iPhone. He began laughing and then stopped, glancing our way.

  The detective sergeant ignored him. ‘Best thing for her, I’m sure. Nothing like family. Now I wonder if you could tell me what sort of relationship she had with the gentleman from next door, Dustin Craig?’

  I stared at him, and then blinked. Had? ‘Oh my god. You mean it was … the body …’

  ‘Well …’ He regarded me evenly. ‘We have to wait for dental records but yes, it does seem that the deceased was your mother’s neighbour. His wife has identified certain items of jewellery. He was found in the garage.’

  The last statement was left hanging in the air, like a question. I stared over his shoulder, trying to replace my image of the homeless man with that of Dustin Craig. Behind the Christmas decorations. Words floated from the youthful group by the crime tape, given clarity by the temporary silence. ‘Really?’ said the policeman admiringly. ‘You’ve just spent the last two weeks fruit picking? A little thing like you?’ Lucy was now simpering as if auditioning for a Jane Austen novel. I filed the information away and forced my mind back on track. Dead man, garage. Dustin Craig. ‘That makes no sense. They hated each other.’

  ‘I see. Was there a reason for that?’

  ‘Yes, he was an arse. Do you think he started the fire, then got caught?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ He looked interested, as if expecting me to now produce a confessional letter written by the guilty party, with a timeline of events and the odd illustration.