‘Reverend. I have to get going,’ he said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Not at all, Mr Norton,’ replied Reverend Pillinger. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea before you leave?’
Les shook his head. ‘No, thank you. See you later, reverend.’
Norton left Reverend Pillinger with his ouija boards and stepped out of the storage room into the fresh air. He turned his collar up against the wind then strode quickly across the church grounds back to the car, pressed the remote and got inside, shutting the door firmly behind him.
The rain came down and Les stared up at the leaden sky. Bloody ouija boards. Fair dinkum, boss. Why do that to me? Les took out his hanky and wiped away the dust and rain from his face. Well, what now? The church of the great unknown, over the other side of town, and waste more of my time. Les checked his map then started the car and headed for Falls Road, while some hillbilly band called the Bluegrass Cardinals started honking a song over the radio he didn’t catch the name of.
Once he’d crossed the bridge over the Erskine River and veered left onto Deans Marsh Road, Les began to see the ironic side of things and a thin smile creaked across his face. What about the boys saying they were hit by a car. Bloody Stepha. She wasn’t wrong. I’ll give her a ring later. Les hung a left up a hilly road and thought he might ‘cruise the hood’ before he found Falls Road.
It was steeper than the other side of town, with the same nice homes on big blocks of land, only with more trees. Les drove past a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos picking at the grass on the side of the road, then the road climbed through a sloping golf course and he came to a sign on the edge of a large parking area saying LORNE COUNTRY CLUB, VISITORS WELCOME. The golf club was on the right and on the far side of the parking area was a tennis court. The rain eased off, Les parked next to a set of steps at the tennis court and got out of the car with his camera.
There was no one on either tennis court and a handful of cars in the parking area. Les walked along the back of the tennis court then stopped at the edge of the fairway. From high on the golf course the view was magnificent. Even on a dismal day Les could see right across Lorne to the jetty and the old hotel and back to the surrounding green mountains. He took a couple of photos then walked over to the car and drove back down the hill.
Les followed his little map and Lorne Cemetery appeared on the left behind a fenced-off dirt parking area surrounded by trees. All the graves sloped down to the treeline and faced the ocean and around the corner, two gates sat opposite the houses across the road. Falls Road was further down on the right. Les drove past a row of houses to a corner to where the road levelled off, and several houses along on the left was the church.
Compared to the others, it was very humble. Just a brown wooden building in a yard surrounded by trees, and a low cyclone-wire fence separating it from the houses next door. A square of yellow window panes with a white cross on them faced the street, the entrance ran up on the left and a driveway led through the trees to what looked like a rickety wooden shed at the back. Les pulled up and switched off the motor. Apart from the rain and a few magpies whistling in the trees, there were no other sounds and no one about. Les took his overnight bag from the back seat and got out of the car.
Behind the fence, the front yard was full of leaves and needed mowing and along the side were small piles of rubbish. Next to the front gate a faded yellow sign on a chipped brown background said CHURCH OF FUNDAMENTAL ADORATION, LORNE, DEACONESS: BRITNEY SKENRIDGE. Les let himself in the front gate and got a feeling Deaconess Skenridge definitely wasn’t a profit preacher. He closed the gate behind him and followed the dirt driveway to the shed at the rear.
The shed was built from old brown palings, had a sagging roof and wasn’t much bigger than a garage. On the side was a rickety door bolted with a rusting padlock. Les gave it a tug then glanced at another pile of rubbish stacked alongside the back fence. Beneath the bricks and rubbish was half a metre of steel rod from a building site. Les picked it up and put it in the lock, gave it a twist and the lock snapped easily. He kept the piece of metal and pushed the door open.
There was no light inside. But enough coming in to make out a dirty, concrete floor and a cobweb-strewn ceiling. Les took a torch from his overnight bag and ran it around the shed. Stacked alongside one wall were a couple of push-blade mowers, and a birdcage sitting on an old suitcase. In the middle was a canoe with a hole in it, a pushbike with two flat tyres and a coffee table stacked with magazines. Along the other walls were more piles of wood, tins of paint and a whipper snipper resting against an old table strewn with tins of screws and nails. Pinned to the wall above the table was a poster of the Geelong Cats. Les had another quick look around then turned off the torch and exited, locking the door behind him as best he could.
Before he left, Les stopped under the entrance at the side of the church and took an empty envelope from his overnight bag. He put a fifty-dollar bill inside, printed DONATION on the front and slipped it under the door. After walking back to the car, Les had one last look at the little church sitting quietly in the rain, then drove back into town. He didn’t bother about the radio.
When Les turned into Mountjoy Parade, he was wet, cold and ready to kill for a cup of hot coffee. He parallel-parked facing the beach, got his overnight bag and walked across to the same coffee shop. After ordering a flat white from inside he picked a table out the front and sat down. An attractive dark-haired girl in black brought his coffee out; Les added sugar and took a very enjoyable sip. He had another sip then got a notepad and biro from his bag and jotted down a few things; all negatives surrounded by doodling.
The day had been a waste of time and money. However, Les couldn’t think of anywhere else to look for the paintings except in the old churches. Les still doubted if Father Shipley destroyed the paintings, and he would never have hung them; if the customs department was going to burn them, they’d be too raunchy. There was another possibility: he left them to someone when he died. If that was the case, then the paintings could be anywhere. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack. But Reverend Pillinger said Father Shipley was often in Apollo Bay. So tomorrow would be much like today. Visit the churches down there, give whoever the same spiel, along with a donation, and with a bit of luck the paintings might turn up. A lot of luck. Norton finished his coffee and went inside to order another.
Les resumed his seat and was wondering where the day had gone when a different girl, wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket, came out of the doorway with his coffee. She had shiny black hair cut in a fringe and appeared just as attractive as the other girl, when she came across the footpath. Unexpectedly, an elderly man wearing a hat and raincoat, darted past and knocked her from behind. The girl with the fringe slipped in the wet and Les copped most of his flat white down the front of his anorak; the rest went over the table.
‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed the girl. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Les flicked at the coffee on his plastic jacket. ‘That’s all right,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘I’m wearing plenty of wet weather gear.’
‘Look. Let me get a cloth,’ said the girl.
She straightened the cup and saucer, went inside and returned with a wettex and a tea towel. Les took the tea towel while the girl wiped the table.
‘I really am sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Les, wiping coffee off his jacket. ‘I won’t get you the sack.’
‘There’s no chance of me getting the sack,’ said the girl, wringing coffee out of the wettex. ‘I don’t work here.’
‘That figures,’ said Les.
‘Now don’t be like that,’ smiled the girl.
‘So what are you doing if you don’t work here?’ asked Les. ‘Rehearsing for a part in The Three Stooges run a coffee shop?’
‘No. I just called in to see my girlfriend. She was on the phone. So rather than see a nice gentleman like you waiting out here in the rain, I brought your coffee out for you.’
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‘Well raise my rent,’ said Les. ‘Don’t you know how to butter people up. You can tip as many cups of coffee over me as you like.’
‘I’ll get you another one,’ smiled the girl.
‘Thanks.’
The girl took the tea towel off Les and went inside. A few minutes later she was back with another coffee and the same thing happened again. This time it was a woman in a yellow mackintosh pushing a pram. The girl managed to straighten up and save the coffee. But it was close.
Les recoiled slightly. ‘Hey listen. I was only joking before,’ he said.
The girl carefully placed the coffee in front of Les. ‘Golly! I don’t think it’s my day.’
‘You’re not Robinson Crusoe there,’ said Les.
The girl looked at Les and smiled. ‘Enjoy your coffee,’ she said.
Les returned her smile. ‘I will. Thanks very much.’
The girl went inside, Les drank his coffee and stared absently at the rain on the ocean. For some reason holiday resorts always seemed worse than anywhere else when the weather turned sour. His mind completely in neutral, Les finished his coffee, left some money on the table then picked up his overnight bag and walked back to the resort.
When Les got inside the unit and tossed his bag on the bed, it suddenly dawned on him that he’d left the car opposite the coffee shop.
‘Shit!’ he cursed. ‘Now I’ll have to go back and get the bloody thing.’
No, bugger it, he thought. I’m having a shower first. Les climbed out of his damp clothes, wrapped a towel around himself and walked down to the lounge room. He switched on the ghetto blaster, and with Jools Holland and Marianne Faithfull getting into ‘You Got To Serve Somebody’, stepped into the bathroom.
After a miserable, cold day, Les took his time under the shower. He had a few bruises on his arms and the odd lump on his head from the fight on Sunday night and he was enjoying the hot, steamy water running over his body. It would have been nicer if Stepha was in there with him, helping him save water while he showered with a friend. But it was still pretty good. Les got out and had a shave then changed into a pair of jeans and a dark blue Easts T-shirt and made a cup of tea. It wasn’t cold in the unit and after he switched on the TV, Les sat on the lounge watching the news and pondered what to do. Why not ring Stepha and see how she’s going? He got her mobile number from his bedroom and picked up the phone. After dialling he got the usual message saying the mobile phone he’d called was switched off. Ring back later. Les replaced the receiver and sipped his tea. Hang on. What about Sonia in Geelong? I promised I’d give her a call. He found Sonia’s number and dialled.
‘Hello. You’ve rung Sonia. I’m not home. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back. Thank you.’
‘Sonia. It’s Solomon. How are you? I’m in room 202 at the Otway Resort, Lorne. Call me when you get a chance.’
Les rinsed his cup and thought about having a couple of nice draught beers then dinner. There was a hotel just across the road. But he had to go and get the car. Why not drive up to the old hotel near the jetty, check it out and have a couple in there? Les put his black leather bomber jacket on, locked the door and caught the lift down to the lobby.
Outside, the rain had eased off but it was still a cold, bleak night and there was no one around as Les walked briskly down to the car. He got behind the wheel and minutes later pulled up in front of the Great Ocean Hotel, which was lit up like an ocean liner in the night and looked beautiful from the road. Les locked the car and stepped up to the entrance under the archway.
Inside, the hotel had been revamped with an ultra-modern interior that contrasted tastefully with the outside. A restaurant on the right faced a roomy lounge with polished wooden tables sitting on a polished wooden floor. The walls and ceiling were ivory white and around the walls were asymmetrical mirrors, panels of black riverstone and sepia photos of old Lorne. Rear of the lounge was the bar and behind the bar, a mirror reflected back to the doorway. The bar top was perspex with coloured lights underneath. Soft lights sat in the corners next to healthy indoor plants and music was playing softly from speakers hidden in the ceiling. Despite the delightful atmosphere there wasn’t a soul in the place. Les pulled up a black padded stool, sat at the bar and waited. Before long a dark-haired man in a blue shirt and black trousers appeared from a doorway behind the bar.
‘Sorry mate,’ he said. ‘I was doing something out the back.’
‘That’s okay,’ replied Les.
‘What can I get you?’
Les looked behind the bar then pointed to a pilsener glass and a Carlton Draught tap. ‘One of those full of that, thanks.’
‘No worries.’
The beer arrived and it was chilled and delicious. Les left his change on the bar and the man walked out the back again. Les decided to have a wander around with his beer and look at some of the old photos.
There were shots of the old hotel, beached whales and stranded sailing ships, all blown up and clear as the day they were taken. Down a step left of the bar and along a short corridor, another room with a bar full of coloured lights looked out over the ocean. In the middle of the room several small lounges faced a fireplace. Three girls in black were seated on two of the lounges having a quiet drink and a cigarette. Les guessed by their outfits they’d just finished work somewhere. One of them turned around and caught Norton’s eye. It was Trish, the girl who’d been seated next to Stepha outside Rosa’s. Les blanked her. But she got up and walked over, holding a glass of white wine.
‘Hello,’ she said evenly.
Les looked at her like she was trying to sell him insurance. ‘Hello,’ he replied. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Trish. I was with Stepha last night. You left with her.’
Les gave her a false double blink. ‘Oh yes. I remember now. I’m sorry.’
Trish gave Les a surreptitious once up and down. ‘Where did you go with Stepha?’
‘Go?’ replied Les. ‘Nowhere. I walked up the road with her and put her in a taxi. She went to a friend’s house.’
‘Oh? Did you hear what happened last night?’
Les looked mystified. ‘No. I was only talking to Stepha for a few minutes before a taxi came along. Do you know if she got the bus all right this morning? She seemed quite worried about it.’
‘Yes. Evidently she did,’ said Trisha. ‘So what did you do after Stepha left in the taxi?’
‘Me? I went home to bed. It was getting late and I was tired.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Staying? Falls Road. Up near the cemetery. I’m down here visiting my sister.’
‘And you don’t know anything about last night?’ said Trish.
Les shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue. Why, what’s up? Is Stepha all right?’
‘It’s not about Stepha.’
‘Well, you’ve lost me, Trish.’ Les looked at his watch. ‘Anyway. If you’ll excuse me. I have to meet someone in the restaurant. Nice talking to you.’
‘Yes,’ replied Trish.
Les turned and walked back to the other bar. Fancy bumping into her, he mused. And what about the third degree. You can bet she’s friends with those three dills I belted last night. They can have her. When he got to the other bar a girl wearing a black uniform was seated having a cup of coffee. It was the same girl who tipped the coffee on him earlier. Well, well, well, Les smiled to himself. Isn’t it just my night for bumping into old acquaintances. He resumed his seat one stool down from the girl, where his change was still sitting on the bar.
‘Hello,’ said Les. ‘If it isn’t Larry out of The Three Stooges. I’m not going to wear that cup of coffee too, am I?’
The girl turned to Les. She had lovely hazel eyes and a whippy body under her uniform and was even more attractive than Les had noticed earlier.
‘Oh hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘How are you?’
‘Good thanks.’ Les took a sip of beer. ‘Are you working here?’
‘Yes. In th
e restaurant.’
‘Looks like you’ve got it easy tonight.’
‘Yes. It’s dead,’ agreed the girl. She looked at Les over her coffee. ‘So what brings you up here? It’s not much of a night.’
‘I wanted to check the place out. So I came up for a couple of quiet beers,’ replied Les. ‘I’m glad I did. It’s a terrific old hotel.’
‘Yes. The new owners did a great job restoring it.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the beer either,’ said Les.
‘Hey, you were really nice this afternoon when I spilled your coffee on you,’ said the girl. ‘Generally if that happens, people start jumping up and down like it’s the end of the world.’
‘What was I going to do?’ shrugged Les. ‘It was an accident. And I could see you were proficiency challenged.’
‘Proficiency challenged,’ laughed the girl. ‘You’re a cheeky bugger. What’s your name?’
‘Les. What’s yours?’
‘Claire.’
‘Nice to meet you, Claire.’
‘You too, Les.’
‘So what sort of work do you do in here, Claire?’ asked Les.
‘Tonight I’m in the restaurant,’ replied Claire. ‘Thursday night I’m singing up here.’
‘You’re a singer? Unreal. What? You play a guitar and all that?’
‘Yep. Sure do.’
Les raised his glass. ‘Good on you. It must be terrific to have talent. Any particular sort of music?’
‘Oh. I do a bit of Sheryl Crow. k.d. lang. Kasey Chambers.’
‘Yeah? I don’t mind all three,’ said Les. ‘I might come up and see you.’
‘Why don’t you,’ said Claire. ‘We get a few in here on Thursday night.’
‘All right. You got me,’ said Les.
Claire gave Les a short once up and down as he had a mouthful of beer. ‘Where are you from, Les?’
‘Sydney. I’m here till Friday. I got a unit at the Otway.’
‘Really? I’ve heard it’s very swish in there,’ said Claire.
‘It is.’ Les took another sip of beer and smiled at Claire. ‘You might like to call round and hear some music. You like blues? Rock ’n roll?’
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