Two small wooden buildings, almost side by side on a neatly kept lawn, faced the street from behind a low brick wall. They both had stained-glass windows set in panels and the larger building on the right had a vestry out front. A concrete driveway ran between the two buildings to a residence at the rear, and a sign in the left-hand corner of the front yard said SAINT QUILLAN’S CHURCH, MINISTER: REVEREND BRANDER CROMWELL. Les got out of the car and walked along the driveway.
The residence was separate from the church, with windows along the side and a set of steps running up from a garden to a front door on the right. Between the residence and the smaller building on the left, was a wooden storage shed as big as a double garage with a flat tin roof and a wooden door at the end. Les checked the lock then walked up to the residence and knocked on the door. Again no answer and no sounds from inside. He knocked twice more then went back and had another look at the lock on the storage shed. It was just a lock and Les was sorely tempted. Instead, he shook his head ruefully and walked back to the car.
Oh well, thought Les, as he stared morosely out the windscreen. One church to go. And you can bet there’ll be no one there either. Bloody hell! Where would anyone be, on a prick of a day like this? He checked the map and drove off towards Sandstock Road.
The last church was on an open block of land where the houses thinned out into trees running up towards the surrounding hills. It was a yellow weatherboard A-frame featuring a row of stained-glass windows along the side and a white vestry in front with a wooden cross on top. Built onto the back of the church was a residence, and a garage on the right faced a wooden storage shed on the left. A slab walkway led from a gate in a fence out front up to the vestry and the residence, and a driveway cut through the trees to the garage. The grounds were well maintained with beds of flowers running along either side of the walkway, and the church had just been given a fresh coat of paint. Les pulled up near the front gate, switched off the engine and got out of the car. On a white wooden sign board behind the gate it read CHURCH OF THE HOLY ORDER, MINISTER: DEACON LORIMER BROCKENSHIRE. Les followed the wooden walkway up to the residence and was about to take the steps to a door at the rear, when a man in a pair of khaki overalls stepped out of a side door in the garage carrying a stepladder. He had a lean, acned face with thick fair hair swept straight back from his forehead along with a fervent, God-fearing look in his eyes and reminded Les of a young Jerry Lee Lewis. When he saw Les, he stopped and placed the stepladder on the ground as if it was a shield between them and stared at Les suspiciously.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’ he said in a raspy voice that sounded like a loud whisper.
‘Yes. I was hoping to see Deacon Brockenshire,’ said Les.
‘Deacon Brockenshire isn’t here at the moment.’
‘He’s not?’
The man shook his head. ‘All the ministers from Apollo Bay are arranging the funeral of a colleague in Portland. They won’t be back until Friday at the earliest.’
‘Oh,’ replied Les, figuring out why nobody had answered when he knocked on the other doors. ‘So are you the caretaker, mate?’ Les asked.
‘Yes. I’m Deacon Brockenshire’s nephew. Uriah.’
‘Nice to meet you, Uriah. My name’s Les. Les Norton.’ Uriah nodded, but he didn’t reply or accept Norton’s attempted handshake. In his God-fearing eyes, Norton looked like a philistine at the gate. ‘All right, Uriah,’ said Les. ‘I’ll tell you why I’m here.’
Les gave Uriah the usual spiel, adding a bit more about the sentimental value the paintings meant to his family and how the family had sent him a long way at great trouble and expense. He ended by offering a one-hundred-dollar donation to the church if he could take a peek in the storage shed. Uriah listened intently and Les thought for a moment he detected a brief sign of sympathy in Uriah’s God-fearing eyes.
‘I understand your position, Mr Norton,’ Uriah said. ‘But under no circumstances could I let you look through the storage shed without the deacon being here.’
‘The deacon has to be here,’ said Les.
‘Absolutely.’
‘And you couldn’t just open the door and let me have a quick look around?’
Uriah shook his head slowly and adamantly. ‘Not without my uncle’s permission, and my uncle being here.’
From the look in Uriah’s eye and the way he stood behind the stepladder, Les figured Uriah would lay down his life before he’d let him in the storage shed. And with God on his side, Uriah would probably fight like ten men if he had to protect the church’s property.
‘Right,’ nodded Les.
‘If you come back when my uncle returns from Portland, possibly he could arrange something. But definitely not until then. I’m sorry, Mr Norton.’
Les turned to the shed for a second. For some reason he had a feeling about this one. But he’d identified himself. So even if he did fight Uriah to get in, he’d be up for assault, as well as break and enter. And he couldn’t sneak back and break in, either. Les found himself snookered behind the black. Unless he wanted to take the odds to spending time in a cold hard Victorian prison for the dud rap of assaulting a church worker and breaking into church property.
‘All right, Uriah,’ said Les. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ll come back later.’
‘Do that, Mr Norton.’
Uriah picked up the stepladder and walked over to the house. Les returned to the car and got inside as the rain temporarily eased into drizzle.
Well, wouldn’t that root you, scowled Les, looking back at the church. A quiet wet day. No one around. I could have knocked over those storage sheds like piggy banks. But between that copper pulling me over, and Uriah on the scene, I’ve been well and truly fucked. And maybe it’s just the old forbidden fruit thing. But I got a feeling about this one. Les glanced at his watch and felt the cold seeping into his damp clothes. Fuck it, he cursed silently. And fuck heading straight back to Lorne. I’ll have a cup of hot coffee and a sandwich in Apollo Bay first. Les started the car and headed into town.
He found a parking spot right outside a neat little coffee shop next to a camping store, and got out of the car with his overnight bag. A sign above the footpath with a girl’s face wearing a sailor’s hat said SAILOR GIRLS, CONSCIOUS CUISINE. There were sheltered fold-up chairs out the front and several Tibetan prayer flags hung above a wide doorway; on one wall inside were several racks of books, on the others murals and Eastern bric-a-brac. Les scanned the blackboard menu and ordered a pina colada muffin and a mug of flat white from a dark-haired man in black, then sat at a table next to three girl backpackers talking in Scandinavian. He took his notebook out of his overnight bag and started sourly doodling.
Les didn’t have to doodle much to tell himself he’d struck out again; badly. Yesterday was just a waste of time. But today he’d been completely rooted. Mainly by bad timing. If he’d have left five minutes later or five minutes earlier, the cop might not have pulled him over. And if Uriah had of been somewhere else, the paintings could possibly be sitting in the boot of the car. Les looked up and gave the proprietor a thin smile as his order arrived, then drank his coffee and ate his muffin while his mood increasingly matched the weather.
So what now, Norton asked himself. The answer: nothing. It was all over Red Rover. Unless he wanted to stick around till the priests came back from Portland. And with the weather well and truly set in, that would be a real fun time. Even Thursday night with Claire had lost its allure. And she’d probably change her mind by then. No. The best idea would be to cut his losses, go home and come back another time. Catch an early flight to Melbourne, hire a car, check the churches out in Apollo Bay and fly home. You’d do it in a day. Les finished his coffee and ordered another one. By the time it arrived another thought occurred to him. The ministers in Apollo Bay obviously stuck together. Now that he’d been down there asking about the paintings, what was to stop the ministers from looking for them? And if they found them, keep them? A few phone calls and they’d
soon find out Les wasn’t Rosa-Marie’s son. He could get stuffed and the paintings would be considered a gift from the Lord. Along with a nice little earner for the local ministers.
Les now wished Father Shipley had either burnt the paintings, sold them, or shoved them in his arse, and also wished he’d never got the letter in the first place. He was also looking for someone to blame for what had turned out to be a complete waste of time and effort. Warren? No. Father Shipley? It was all his fault for getting involved with Rosa-Marie in the first place. The dope. Les finished his coffee, paid the bill and sourly headed for Lorne.
The drive back was no joy either. The rain came down heavier than ever at Wongarra and Les finished up stuck behind a council truck just past Cape Patton. The radio reception was bad the entire trip and all he got was scratchy parts of songs he’d never heard, like Leonard Cohen’s ‘There Is A War On’ and The Infernos’ ‘Cry Cry Cry’. And Les was in too lousy a mood to even change the station. Just outside of Lorne, the council truck finally decided to pull over and let everyone past.
After a slow, punishing drive squashed behind a seat belt, the two mugs of coffee had gone right through Les and when he made it to the old hotel opposite the jetty, he was absolutely bursting for a leak. But Norton’s mood had overtaken him. He drove straight past the resort and down the main street, crossed the bridge, then veered left and started climbing towards the golf links. A left turn here and a right turn there and soon Les found what he was looking for. Lorne cemetery. He stopped the car in front of the gates, got out and strode through the small one.
Left of the gate was a sheltered table with a list of all the graves and the names of the people buried in the cemetery engraved on it in alphabetical order. Les quickly scanned the names and found Father Bernard Shipley. Row 11, Plot 28. With the cemetery to himself, Les started off in the rain down through the graves.
There were elaborate ones and plain ones, recent ones and some going back to 1850. There was even a Ruby Blanche Norton buried there. Father Shipley’s was almost at the end of the row going towards the tree line. It was just a simple plot edged in moss-stained stone with a faded stone cross. There were no dates. But inscribed beneath the cross was FATHER BERNARD SHIPLEY. LOVED BY ALL. ESPECIALLY THE PEOPLE AT THE CABLE STATION. Underneath that it said, SO HE BRINGETH THEM UNTO THE HAVEN WHERE THEY WOULD BE.
‘Well, good on you, Bernie boy,’ said Les, undoing his fly. ‘Now I’m going to bringeth you something for causing me all this trouble. And for getting caught with your hand up Rosa-Marie’s dress. You Bible-bashing hypocrite.’
Les closed his eyes with joyous relief and pissed all over Father Shipley’s grave, giving it a good going over before squirting and shaking the last drops on the epitaph. When he’d finished, Les tucked Mr Wobbly back into his jox and tied up his tracksuit pants. Although he felt wonderfully relieved after emptying his bladder, suddenly Les didn’t feel all that thrilled. He watched some of the steaming froth get washed off the grave by a gust of wind-blown rain and actually felt quite disgusted with himself.
‘Now why did I have to go and do that?’ Les turned to the leaden sky and nodded sagely as the rain hit him in the face. ‘You’re right, boss. That was a bit out of order. Sorry.’
There was a bottle-brush tree at the edge of the cemetery. Les walked over and picked four yellow sprigs off the tree then walked back to the grave and placed them below the epitaph.
‘My apologies, Father Shipley,’ Les said quietly. ‘I dunno what brought the nark out in me. Maybe it’s the weather? Have a good sleep.’ Les made a quick sign of the cross and walked back to the car.
So what now, Les asked himself as he stared out the windscreen once again. Have a hot shower, grab a bite to eat and get ready for another exciting night watching TV. And pack my gear ready to piss off early. To be honest, I’ll be glad to get home. Shit! And won’t Archie Goodwin give me a nice bagging when I get back. Warren’ll feed off this for ages. Clover, too. The worst part is, I can’t tell them I was going down to Melbourne anyway. Bloody hell! I’ve certainly put my head in a moose with Woz and his girl this time. Hang on a minute, talking about girls. What about Stepha? Didn’t Stepha say something about a woman in a bookshop? Mrs Totten? She knows everything about down here? I can’t see how she can help me. But what have I got to lose by calling in for five minutes and just saying ‘g’day’? Les started the car and drove back into Lorne. He angle-parked across from the shops then locked the car and jogged across the road.
Les had noticed the bookshop before. It was a tiny wooden house, painted olive, set back off the main road in a laneway near the paper shop. A large window faced the street on the right and a set of steps ran up to a small landing in front of a doorway on the left. In the middle was a chimney stack with a sign on it saying OCEAN ROAD BOOK EXCHANGE. Thick vines grew alongside the wall in the laneway and amongst the groundcover out front stood a couple of small trees. Les jogged up the stairs and opened the door and a small bell tinkled overhead as he stepped through.
Inside, tables and Balinese wicker shelves stacked with books were spread over a polished wooden floor or standing against the walls. A couple of bird mobiles hung from the ceiling and sitting along a cornice were several abstract paintings without frames. The books were all listed in order: humour, history, action, romance, etc, and the little shop had a lovely, dusty ambience about it that made you want to spend hours just browsing. In a corner on the left a counter stood in front of a doorway leading out the back and seated in front of an old-style till, a little old lady was writing something down in a notebook. Les approached her slowly and smiled.
‘Hello,’ he said.
The little old lady looked up. She was in her eighties at least, short and stooped with signs of arthritis in her hands. Her face was lined with just a tiny bit of blue mascara round her eyes and her hair was grey and short and brushed down either side of her face. A pink cardigan hung across her shoulders over a blue top and a pair of blue woollen slacks, and asleep in her lap was an old tortoiseshell cat. The little old lady might have been getting on in years, but when she looked up, Les noticed her hazel eyes were as bright as buttons.
‘Hello,’ she said, returning Norton’s smile.
‘Are you Mrs Totten?’
‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘My name’s Les, Mrs Totten. Les Norton. Stepha sent me to see you. Dark-haired girl, works as a waitress. She said she gets her books here.’
‘Yes. I know Stepha,’ said Mrs Totten. ‘She’s a lovely girl. Likes lots of thrillers. John Grisham and Robert Ludlum.’
‘They’re a bit heavy for me,’ said Les.
‘Oh? And what sort of books do you like, Les?’
‘Well,’ shrugged Les. ‘At the moment I’m reading Hell’s Angel, the story of Sonny Barger.’
‘I only just finished reading it,’ said Mrs Totten. ‘What a good book. He was a bit of a villain, that Sonny.’
Les gave Mrs Totten a double blink. ‘You read that?’
‘I read all sorts of things,’ smiled Mrs Totten.
‘I suppose you would,’ replied Les, taking a quick look around the bookshop. ‘Anyway, Mrs Totten,’ he said. ‘I didn’t really come here to talk to you about books. I came to see you about something else.’
‘Oh? And what was that?’ asked Mrs Totten.
‘I’m from Sydney, Mrs Totten,’ answered Les. ‘But Stepha said you know quite a bit about the area around here.’
‘Yes. My late husband was the postmaster here for many years. And I’ve always maintained an interest in Lorne and parts of the coast. I got a little book together a few years ago.’
‘All right. Well, I’ll tell you what’s going on, Mrs Totten.’
Without going into too many details, Les told the bookshop owner where he was staying and how he met Stepha, then gave her the usual spiel about the paintings. He told her about calling into the local churches and how he couldn’t get into the storage sheds belonging to the churches in Apo
llo Bay because the ministers were all down at Portland. Mrs Totten listened intently, but something in the way she looked at him with those bright hazel eyes gave Les the impression she only half believed him.
‘So that’s what’s going on, Mrs Totten,’ concluded Les. ‘I don’t know if you can help me. But Stepha suggested I call in and see you anyway.’
Mrs Totten didn’t say anything at first. The cat woke up, yawned and stretched then jumped off Mrs Totten’s lap and went out the back. Mrs Totten watched it disappear through the doorway then looked up at Les.
‘Well, you’ve been to all the churches there are, Les,’ she said. ‘So I can’t help you there. But I did know Father Shipley.’
‘You did?’ said Les.
‘Yes,’ nodded Mrs Totten. ‘A very nice man. Always doing things for people. Though he could be a bit of a devil at times if he wanted to,’ she added with a knowing smile. ‘He’s been dead for years now.’
‘Yes. I actually visited his grave,’ said Les.
‘That was nice of you.’ Mrs Totten flicked a piece of cat fur from her lap. ‘But apart from knowing Father Shipley when I was younger, I don’t see how I can help you.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Totten,’ said Les. ‘I didn’t really expect you to.’
‘However, I think I know someone who can.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. Tania Settree,’ said Mrs Totten. ‘She runs an orphanage not far from where you’re staying.’
‘Oh?’
‘She might not be able to help you actually find the paintings, but I’m sure she can get you into the church storage sheds in Apollo Bay.’
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