In the bustle of making breakfast and packing lunches the next morning, I almost forgot about Pam. I rang and said I had to go to the police station, and I’d be in touch after that. Pam didn’t ask me why. She sounded pushed for time herself.
It wasn’t until I was escorted into an interview room in the Winchester Building that I turned my mind again to DC Erickson. On the short walk down the corridor, all I could think about was how Brook was there, in that same building, and how ridiculous it was that I couldn’t knock on his door and go in.
When I complained to Erickson about his treatment of Katya, his response was brief and unapologetic. He opened a folder and took out some sheets of paper, then switched on a tape recorder and asked me again where I’d been on the night Ben Sanderson was killed.
I said I’d left my children asleep in bed and driven to Kingston because I’d wanted to talk to Bronwyn Castles. I could have rung Bronwyn but I’d wanted to speak to her in person. And no, I didn’t like leaving my children at night, but Peter was sixteen and responsible. Many girls of that age were expected to mind younger siblings. I was defending myself too much, trying too hard, and Erickson knew it. He smiled as though I was doing a good job of tripping myself up. When Bronwyn hadn’t been home, I’d driven back. I hadn’t gone anywhere near Dickson Pool. Whoever said they’d seen my car there was lying.
‘Where was your husband while you were gallivanting around Kingston, Ms Mahoney?’
I swallowed the urge to say I had not been gallivanting. ‘Ivan was out.’
‘Out where?’
‘My partner’s grieving for Laila Fanshaw. He goes out at night to walk.’
. . .
I felt angry and shaken after the interview was over. For the first time since starting working at the cafe, my heart sank at the thought of the evening ahead. I needed to spend it with my children.
It was no use trying to guess who was feeding false information to the police, but I couldn’t help myself. I wondered if it was somebody obvious, like Guy Harmer or Allison Edgeware, two elegant crooks whom Ivan and I had helped to put in jail, and who’d been released last year. The other high profile cases that I’d been involved with—Colin Rasmussen, who’d pushed Niall Howley off the Telstra tower, and Margot Lancaster, who’d injected one of her employees with a fatal dose of heroin—were both serving sentences for murder. But plenty of convicted killers had run operations from prison, and the operation here was very simple. Pay someone to say they’d seen my car at Dickson Pool on the night Ben Sanderson’s body was taken there and dumped.
. . .
Laila’s father, Henry Fanshaw, was easy enough to find in the phone book. At first I thought he was going to refuse to talk to me, but when I mentioned shipwrecks, he admitted, after a short silence, that Laila had been fascinated by them. He spoke about Laila’s favourite wreck dive, the Falls of Halladale, off Port Campbell. ‘She’s nearly a hundred years old. Mostly in about ten metres of water. Quite manageable, even for beginners.’
Henry’s voice softened as he spoke, and I could tell the memory was a comfort to him. I asked about the TV program on the Mary Rose. Henry remembered whole sections of it, as well as the date and time of the broadcast.
When I asked if Laila had spoken to him about another ship of the same name, he replied sharply, ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not that unusual a name. I was wondering whether you or Laila had come across any others. A Spanish Mary Rose, for instance.’
‘Ms Mahoney, I’m fifty-two years old. Shipwrecks have been my hobby since I was a boy. If the name’s a common one, as you point out, it’s likely that I would have come across it at some stage. But I can’t remember and, forgive me if I sound rude, but I’m not obliged to try.’
. . .
After checking in with Pam, I phoned the officer in charge of the shipwreck section at the Environment Department, who sounded flattered that a member of the public was interested in his area of expertise. When I asked about the Maria Rosa, he said it was a coincidence because he’d had the same inquiry a couple of months before. A woman had rung wanting to know about wrecks in the area covered by the proposed marine park. No, she hadn’t given her name. He’d told her where to find what information existed within the department’s records. There were no confirmed shipwrecks. I asked if he’d send me the same information, and thanked him for his time.
I contacted ExxonMobil to see if I could find someone prepared to talk to me about the work Ben Sanderson had done for them, but drew a blank. It was confidential information, and I was not, as I was continually reminded, the police. After many frustrating phone calls, I managed to track down another commercial diver living in Canberra, who told me that he thought there might have been some trouble between Ben and the company. At any rate, Ben had made it clear that he’d given up maintenance work. When I quizzed him about Ben’s interest in shipwrecks, he sounded surprised and said he couldn’t help me there.
I made a list of what Laila and Ben had had in common, a fanciful, imaginative list I would have been the first to admit was short on facts. Scuba diving; scuba diving at the south coast—I wondered if that should be one point or two. Then there was ‘Babel’, as in canyon, and oil rig, tantalisingly close to one another, and close to the boundary of the new park, whose announcement had been delayed again. I wanted to add ‘shipwrecks’, so I did, followed by a large question mark.
Eighteen
‘They were sitting right here in the tram,’ the waitress called Jess told me. ‘I saw the girl first, or at least I saw her silhouette.’ Jess paused, smiling faintly at the memory. She looked old enough for grandchildren, and wore her grey hair short. Listening to her description, I looked around at black shadows on cream walls, reflections in the polished wood.
‘Trams!’ Pam said. ‘Draughty, cold old things they were.’
‘And a right pain now,’ Jess added with a nod. ‘All them steps. All very well for kids, leaping up and down.’
I recalled the trams of my childhood, feeling the sea breeze through the open sides. Trams had been a feature of the Tradies for as long as I could recall, but clearly what was a novelty for customers made extra work for the staff.
Pam had persuaded Jess to meet me, but had warned me that Jess had a ‘thing’ about the police. I tried to make the distinction plain, but knew that explanations about what I did for a living often made people more wary, not less. As gently as I could, I guided Jess back to the couple she had seen.
‘He was facing the wall. In the shadows. They had their heads together. That pretty girl was crying.’
‘Why do girls cry in public?’ Pam chimed in. ‘I’d say love’d have to be the reason.’
‘Love’s a fair bet.’
Pam and Jess exchanged a smile.
‘Did you hear what they were saying?’ I asked, holding Jess’s gaze, realising that, in spite of her initial reluctance, this woman liked a bit of theatre, the well-timed pause, the spacing of each revelation.
‘Well, I was bustling back and forth like.’
‘Perhaps a word in passing?’
‘I’m not sure if I heard it right, but I thought the guy said “Babel”. Maybe it was babble?’
‘Like in the Bible, Jess,’ Pam said. ‘Tower of Babel.’ The two friends laughed, and exchanged stories for a few minutes, reminiscing about childhood Bible classes, funny names learnt and then forgotten—but somehow many of them stuck—boys they’d fancied as their confirmation dates drew near.
I listened, smiled and nodded, happy for Jess to relax, but unable to contribute any anecdotes from a childhood that had been totally deficient in religious study.
‘What about the tears, Jessie?’ Pam prompted. ‘What did he say to make her cry?’
‘That was after. That was when I went back to take an order to this end.’ Jess raised her chin, taking in the alcove we were sitting in.
When I asked how the man had reacted to the woman’s tears, Jess said without needing to think about it,
‘He was nice to her.’
She hadn’t seen the young man’s features, but was sure he had been young. ‘He had his back to me. That’s how come I recognised the girl, because she was facing out into the tram.’
By now, though nobody had mentioned names, there was a tacit agreement between the three of us as to the girl’s identity.
‘I understand that his face was hidden from you, but what about his size, his shape, those things.’
‘Well, he wasn’t shaped like a potato.’
Jess and Pam laughed again, their laughter followed by another detour around the shapes of men they’d known.
Jess wasn’t able to describe the man’s complexion or hair colour. ‘It could have been brown. Look, better if I put it this way—nothing about the guy stood out special, if you know what I mean. Nice and manly, but. I’d say he was a few years older than her.’
‘Did you see them leave?’
‘No.’ Jess frowned. ‘We should get paid extra for going up and down them steps.’
When I asked Jess what she’d been doing when the couple left, she said, ‘Must’ve been at the counter waiting for an order. You can go out the back way, you know. You can walk straight through the motel.’
‘Twenty-one hours we’re open,’ Pam said. ‘Used to be twenty-four, but we had to close for three ‘cause of the anti-gambling lobby.’
I recalled the changed sign at the front, where the number four had been partially rubbed out, then asked about security cameras in the trams. Pam and Jess were both of the opinion that there wasn’t any need for them. The gaming rooms were covered, and the entrances.
Jess checked her watch. ‘Almost half past. I better get going.’
I thanked Jess for talking to me. Pam walked out with her, first indicating to me that I should wait where I was.
‘Could you—’ I began when she came back. ‘Do you think you could—’
Pam knew what I was about to ask, and shook her head.
‘We’re not allowed access to the members’ records. And I’m not pally with any of the girls on reception. Not enough to ask them for that kind of favour. They might tell the boss, then I’d be up the proverbial.’
‘You don’t get on with your boss?’
‘I’m still here, aren’t I? But I’m not getting any younger, and he likes them young.’
Pam’s eyes glittered in defiance of her words.
‘Phone me next time you’re rostered on at night,’ I said. ‘I’ve an idea that might just work.’
I walked through the bar to the gaming area, wondering how many tipsy gamblers were turned away, and, if I suddenly started acting drunk, stumbling towards a machine and feeding money into it, someone would gently lead me away, or a big New Zealand bouncer would appear to tell me, ‘That’s enough now, little lady. I’ll call you a taxi.’ I liked to think of a New Zealand bouncer with my interests at heart.
Poker machines beckoned from the shadows. One was called Big Red and sported a picture of a giant kangaroo. Ruby Magic and Sun Queen looked like partners, side by side. Lights flashed. Colours shouted at each other. Every few metres, a printed sign invited players with a gambling problem to call a certain number. The ink was faint, while MONEY LENT, with a huge dollar symbol, took up half a wall. I wondered how many thirsty punters took advantage of the free tea and coffee. The machines looked inviting in a cruel, brittle way, as though I could take three steps and be inside the metal casing, spew out coins, or hold them till I burst.
I counted the trams and eating areas, then returned to the one I’d begun thinking of as Laila’s, noting each entrance before climbing back inside. Whose choice had it been to meet there? Laila and Bronwyn had sat at an exposed table, holding hands in full view of the staff and other customers, while Laila and her male friend had chosen privacy, relatively speaking. I studied the ceiling lights. The window frames had been polished till they glowed a golden brown. I’d never considered, rattling along in one, that the cage in which I travelled might one day be restored like this. The tram was empty and practically silent, though the sounds of daytime television came from somewhere on the other side of the bar. If I listened carefully, I could hear a faint clattering of plates and crockery.
I retraced my steps through the maze of poker machines, this time with my eyes at ceiling height, noting the cameras at both ends of each aisle. I found a notice informing members of the fact that they were being filmed. It was faded, like the problem gambling ones. I left the back way, past a barber shaving one customer while another waited, through automatic glass doors to the motel lobby. A man behind a desk glanced sideways at me. A last camera pointed at the doorway from above his head. I walked across and showed him my photograph of Laila. He recognised her from the news reports, but said he’d never seen her in the motel or the club.
. . .
Pam phoned half way through my next shift at the cafe.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I’ve closed up,’ I said. ‘Any chance you can take over at reception?’
Pam laughed with delight and incredulity. ‘No way.’
I told her I’d be there at five past ten, and added, ‘I have every faith in you.’
I wasn’t surprised when I negotiated the press of bodies just inside the door and saw Pam grinning at me from behind the counter. We didn’t have much time. I knew she wouldn’t have been able to persuade the legitimate receptionist to leave her post for more than a few minutes.
‘Got your card there, madam?’ Pam asked, sober now, nervous behind her façade.
I rifled through my wallet, then said softly, ‘Damn. I must have left it at home.’
‘Do you know your membership number?’
Having just memorised it, I had no trouble reeling it off.
‘One moment, please.’
Pam typed a few keystrokes, biting her bottom lip.
She looked up. ‘That’s okay, Ms Mahoney. You can go on in.’
I did a quick circuit of the machines, then left through the motel.
. . .
Ivan was in bed already. There was no sound from the kids’ rooms. My fingers itched to dial Pam’s number. But she’d be back waiting on tables, and a call might draw attention to her.
I was brushing my teeth when the phone rang. Pam’s voice was flush with victory, having found Laila’s membership number under the guise of checking mine. She’d also checked for Bronwyn’s name and drawn a blank. It looked as if Bronwyn had been admitted to the club as Laila’s guest. Ben Sanderson wasn’t listed either.
. . .
I told Ivan about the Maria Rosa when both of us woke early; I’d surprised myself by sleeping well for once. Yellow dawn light was bright beneath the curtains.
Ivan shook his head and said I was letting my imagination run away with me. But he sounded calmer and saner than he had for a while, and this encouraged me to go on talking, filling Ivan in on my theories and suspicions.
Ivan listened, but was unconvinced. Why would a politically committed young woman like Laila allow herself to become obsessed by a shipwreck? And even accepting the unlikely theory that she had become obsessed, why keep it to herself? Why hadn’t she told her friends? There was nothing illegal, nothing underhand about discovering a shipwreck in Bass Strait. There were probably hundreds of them waiting to be discovered, ships that had gone missing in the nineteenth century, that had gone down God knew where.
Laila wasn’t embarrassed about expressing her beliefs and opinions, and she wasn’t shy. And there was another reason why she wouldn’t have kept the idea to herself—she would have sought help from her scientific friends.
While Ivan shook his shaggy head, then rolled out of bed towards the shower, I told myself his reaction was a perfectly normal one. After all, if someone else had presented me with the theory, I might have reacted the same way.
I chanced a last question to his departing back. Why had Laila kept the sketch and diagram?
Ivan grunted and said along his shoulder, ‘I told
you before, they don’t mean anything. Laila liked to doodle. I often saw her doodling.’
That was the first I’d heard of it. Why hadn’t Ivan thought to mention this before? Or Tim. The answer was, I supposed, that I hadn’t asked them.
I sighed and rolled over, bunching up the pillow and staring at the reflected colours of dawn on the wall. Ivan could have made that up, about the doodling, but there was no reason why he should. He was probably right. I’d probably built a phantom shipwreck out of air.
Nineteen
There was a cheque to write out, small shin guards to try on. I thanked my lucky stars that there was enough money in our account to cover the membership fees. At the rate Kat’s feet were growing, her soccer boots would scarcely last a year, but the look on her face when she put them on and ran across the oval made the purchase more than worthwhile.
Ivan had taken her to a couple of practice sessions, and now it was my turn. Kat had been accepted into a team and would begin competition matches in a week or so. She was over the moon that she’d be playing on the same day and the same ground as her brother.
I shook hands with the soccer coach and was turning to go when I recognised Bronwyn Castles on the next playing field. Kat and I had been going to walk home, since the police still had my car. I quickly checked to make sure it would be okay if Kat went on practising her kicking for a while, and that the coach would be around to watch, then walked over to where Bronwyn was just coming off the field.
Her face was red and sweaty. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
‘Hello, how are you?’ I said. ‘I’m with my daughter. I didn’t know you played soccer.’
Bronwyn kept walking. ‘There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.’
She headed towards a car at the end of the carpark, a newish sedan, dark green with a Europcar sticker on the back and a Victorian number plate.
‘I hired it,’ she pointed out unnecessarily, opening the car with a key she took from her shorts pocket. She got out a water bottle and drank thirstily.
The Fourth Season Page 14
