‘Will you eat these, Graham? Will you? I’ve never liked peaches. I don’t remember buying them. Why would I buy something like this?’ She yelled the last sentence. Graham stared at her. He took the tin of peaches from her outstretched hand and placed it gently on the table with the rest of the food.
‘I won’t eat it, Geraldine. I’ll be leaving soon.’
She turned back to the pantry. ‘Yes, I expect you will,’ she said. Her voice collapsed. ‘Have you fed the fish?’ she whispered.
Graham looked at the thin ridge of her spine poking through the worn fabric of her dress as she bent over the lower shelves and thought, I will not miss you. It made him sad. The only thing he would have missed about Banville was Mrs Montepulciano, and now she was gone too.
Yesterday he had seen her in her garden.
‘How are you today, Mrs M?’ he had asked, tipping his hat to her jauntily.
‘Ah, not so good,’ she answered. ‘My heart, it stabs me like the little knife!’ She made poking motions with her index finger and shook her head. ‘But what you can do? I am old. Old things, they break, sì?’ She leant against the table and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.
‘You can fix them, sometimes,’ Graham said. ‘Give them a bit of love. New parts, bit of superglue here and there. Grease in the hinges.’
‘Grease in the hinges!’ she crowed. ‘Sì, this is what I need! Grease!’ She held her leg out and bent it back and forth at the knee. ‘Creak, creak! And the other . . . Selley’s No More the Gaps!’ She opened her mouth and stuck her tongue through the hole where a rotted tooth had left a space.
Graham laughed.
‘Even my gnome, he is old,’ she said, pointing at the garden gnome at Graham’s feet. Graham picked him up.
‘Now this one’s easy,’ he said. ‘All he needs is a coat of paint.’
‘Sì?’
‘Sì. Tell you what, Mrs M, lend this little fella to me and I’ll give him a going-over, I’ve got some paints at home, I’ll bring him back as good as new.’
She waddled over to him and patted him on the arm.
‘Okay. You make my gnome beautiful.’ She winked. ‘I trust you with him.’
Graham had nodded solemnly, tucked the gnome under his arm and continued on his way. Someone trusted him. It was a rare and precious feeling.
Later, at home, he had stripped the paint off to begin again from scratch and painted on denim overalls in a cornflower blue left over from his last plane, with a red and white chequered shirt underneath. He gave the gnome dimples like Mrs M, and used white paint and a fine brush to shape little crescent moons of light into his eyes to match hers. This morning, he had got up at the crack of dawn to replace the creature in Mrs M’s garden. He wanted it to be a surprise for her to see it there, where it had always stood, but in dazzling vibrant colour. She would have seen that the old could be made new again, with the right attentions, if ministered to tenderly enough. But when he had gone to the back gate to slip into the garden, he had seen Mr M through the back door, on the laundry floor with Mrs M cradled in his lap. Blood stained the white of his singlet, under which his old man skin hung withered on his frame. It was so intimate, so beautiful and brave and sad. I should not be here, Graham had thought, because she is dying, and these are the last moments between a husband and his wife. He heard the sound of an ambulance siren coming closer. Mr M must have called it already. There was nothing he could do. The ambulance siren stopped. Graham left the gnome there where he stood, backed out of the gate and ran down the alleyway, heading to Susannah’s. That was all he wanted to do, urgently. See Susannah, and hold her in his arms.
She was on the verandah when he arrived, but he continued past her into the kitchen. After a few moments, she followed, and sat at the kitchen table with her head resting on her folded arms.
‘Suze, it’s time. Are you coming?’
She didn’t look at him. Graham sat down next to her. Along the top of her scalp there was a frizzy stripe of grey where the blonde had grown out, and when Susannah lifted her head Graham saw that her lipstick had smeared over her forearm and bled into the lines above her upper lip. It was bright orange, the colour of overripe peaches when they were just about to turn. He leant over to wipe it off her face with the pad of his thumb. Susannah caught his wrist and put her lips to it and Graham breathed in the cigarette smoke clinging to her, the sourness of alcohol in her skin and the heady gardenia musk of her chemist-brand perfume, Mystique. Graham knew Susannah had very little mystique in her day-to-day life. He would like to give her that. The sweetness of not knowing precisely what drudgery the next day held, or the one after that. As if there weren’t enough reasons to leave Banville already, there was another. The surprise of tomorrow, somewhere other than here.
Susannah put her feet up on the chair between them, and Graham looked at the thinness of her ankles and the knots of varicose veins clotted under the white skin like purple ink spreading in water. She had probably got them from waitressing, twelve-hour days on her feet. No wonder she now chose to do a job where she could lie down. Susannah smiled at him and her smile turned into a yawn.
Graham got up to put the kettle on. He cleared his throat.
‘I’m sorry,’ Susannah said. ‘I just can’t.’
The kettle boiled and whistled, steam pouring out and fogging the windows, but neither Graham nor Susannah heard it from where they sat with their chairs pulled close, both of their heads buried in the warm corner where the neck met the shoulder of the other and their fingers knotted together inextricably like the warp and weft of rope.
chapter forty-three
Tommy was back in the mango tree. It was late afternoon, and he was waiting for Graham to return to his house. Tommy doubted Graham would have ventured out of Susannah’s house today with all the police and media attention at the Montepulcianos’ just down the road, but eventually he would have to return home. Susannah was busy at nights. And when Graham returned, Tommy would watch him, just like Graham had watched Sarah all those years. With Tommy following his every movement, there was no way Graham would be able to hurt anyone else. He only hoped that it was not too late for Sarah.
In the meantime, there was plenty to see at the Wilkinsons’, a hive of activity that afternoon. First, a suited man had come by and hammered a ‘For Sale’ sign into the ground, a Welonga real estate agent’s contact details printed across it. Tommy thought of the white ants he had seen evidence of underneath the house. Depending on whether he liked the look of them or not, he could possibly warn prospective buyers what they were getting. The Wilkinsons must have bought a new house somewhere. Bigger and fancier, probably. Onwards and upwards.
After the real estate agent left, Marjorie had come out of the front door of the house, a cardboard box in her arms. She wore a loose cotton dress that looked like a nightgown, a dowdy outfit for Marjorie, and was sobbing. Her mother was behind her, her arms full of laundry, speaking in a shrill voice, words that Tommy had not been able to catch. Marjorie had put the box into the open boot of the car and her mother had dumped the laundry on top. Then a moving truck came trundling down the street, brushing the underside of the mango tree and turning into the Wilkinsons’ driveway. Marjorie had stamped her feet and shouted at her mother, ‘But, Mum, he loves me, he said. And I love him! He’ll look after me. He’ll look after us!’
‘Really, Marjorie? Then where is he now?’
Marjorie had no response. Mrs Wilkinson had taken her daughter’s arm and frogmarched her back into the house. Mr Wilkinson got out of the truck and followed them. Slowly. Tommy had no idea what all that was about. Bloody Marjorie and her histrionics. New bedroom still not big enough? Poor Mr Wilkinson. It wasn’t about Roberts, that much he knew. From the way the junior officer had glared at him that morning, Tommy guessed that Marjorie had declined his generous offer of a date. Small comfort.
The sun was setting and the rain beginning again when, at the other end of the street, Tommy
saw Graham come around the corner, walking quickly. But then, he was always hurrying these days. Tommy clutched at the branch nearest to him, levering himself down so he could see Graham’s transit from between the lacework of leaves. Adrenalin surged in his chest and he thought of dropping down from his perch straight onto Graham, pinning him to the ground. But he still needed Graham to lead him to Sarah. He held his breath and watched as Graham passed just metres below where Tommy sat, and continued over to his house. He opened the door and entered. That’s right; in you go, thought Tommy. Gotcha. Trapped like a bug in a bladderwort, Utricularia aurea.
He lowered his feet so they dangled a metre or two above the ground and then jumped, springing into a run. It was almost dark now, so he could afford to get a little closer. Nobody would see him if he lay down flat on his belly on the path next to the house; hibiscus bushes planted along the neighbour’s fence line obscured their view. From here, Tommy could see into the basement and watch Graham’s movements. The last time he had left the house might have been a false alarm, but Tommy just needed to be persistent. Probably the plane-watching was a red herring. Graham could have known Tommy was watching him, and deliberately led him off course. Very clever. But not clever enough.
Tommy lay at an angle so that he could see in the window and folded his arms under his head. The light was off in the basement, but he would wait. For Sarah, for Mrs Maria Montepulciano, he would wait and wait and wait. The path still held the warmth of the day’s sun in it, and it soaked into his belly, making him drowsy, despite his grim determination. To keep himself alert, Tommy reviewed the Latin species names and classification for every plant he could see.
About two hours later he came to with a start, in total darkness. Shit. He had fallen asleep. He punched himself in the thigh. How could he have fallen asleep? He was stupid, such a moron! The worst possible time, when he was about to do the most important thing he’d ever done. He blinked his eyes and slapped both his cheeks to wake himself up. The basement light came on. Tommy crept closer to the window, as close as he dared, and watched as Graham appeared on the staircase and went over to his workbench, pulling a suitcase out from underneath it and setting it down at the foot of the stairs. Tommy bit his lip. His whole body was clammy with cold sweat and he felt like he was about to throw up, but he kept his eyes trained on Graham. He walked to the door set into the wall that Tommy had seen when he was down there, and opened it. His mouth moved, like he was talking. He smiled. Then he turned and went back to his recliner, leaving the door open. From the corner of his eye, Tommy noticed more movement from that doorway. A shadow of a figure appeared. There must have been a whole other room behind that door, but who was in there? Geraldine? That seemed unlikely; she never went down there. Tommy was concentrating so hard that he bit into his tongue. The shadow moved and a figure emerged. Tommy saw the back of a head. A head with long, straight brown hair. Then a hand, carrying a lantern. And then the head turned, and it was her.
It was Sarah.
Sarah Vale, his Sarah, she was right there in Graham Knight’s basement, she was alive and only metres away from him and she was smiling and she was talking and looking beautiful and healthy and whole, with the light from the lantern making shadows pinwheel across her face.
chapter forty-four
Behind the steel plant, floodlights had been set up on the grassy slope down to the creek. Ambulances from Welonga, the station squad cars and the Sydney fleet had parked anywhere they could find a spot, and the reporters from Sydney had crammed in behind them. Sergeant Henson had tried to make sure the police left the station quietly, but obviously they were not quiet enough. He paused at the top of the slope for a moment. The junior officers were cordoning off the area with crime-scene tape and laying down sand and planks in a trail to the water to ease the passage. The slope was a muddy quagmire from all the rain and the footsteps of everyone at the scene had made it a dangerous trek. At the edge of the water, a photographer was crouched over Cameron Wolfe’s body. Each time the flash went off, illuminating the grey skin and blue lips of the teenage boy, Sergeant Henson flinched. With his hair wet and swept off his face, his chest bare and skinny legs in shorts lying in the mud, Cameron Wolfe looked like a child. A child pretending to be a man.
‘Number three,’ called Gwendolyne Meyers from behind the barrier of tape at the top of the slope. Sergeant Henson turned and advanced towards her, but Crane appeared out of nowhere and laid a firm hand on his shoulder.
‘She’s baiting you,’ he said. ‘Don’t give her the satisfaction.’
Henson took a few deep breaths and fumbled for his pills, but he had left them at the office. Crane reached into his own jacket pocket, took out a bottle and shook a tablet onto Henson’s palm. ‘Occupational hazard.’
‘One of many.’
They looked down the slope. Things were finishing up. The same forensics team that had been at the Montepulciano house that morning had arrived to attend this scene as well, and the head pathologist was walking towards them now.
‘Are you lot trying to get me divorced?’ he asked.
‘Should never have got married,’ Crane scoffed. ‘Ball and chain. Me, I’m a free agent.’
‘Well, who would come and identify your body then?’
‘My mother,’ Crane said, his voice soft.
Mrs Wolfe sat in the squad car with Gertie, a blanket over her shoulders, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that she had not drunk from and barely seemed to notice she held. Her face was drained of all blood. There should be a unit of measurement, Henson thought, for how much water a mother cries over the dead body of her child. Like a fathom, but greater. A mother-full. He turned back to the pathologist.
‘What have we got?’
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
Henson lit a cigarette. ‘Surprise me.’
‘Well, the bad news is you’ve got a murder on your hands. The lad down at the creek was stabbed. He haemorrhaged. The good news is, it’s just the one. Murder, that is. The lady this morning, Mrs . . .’
‘Montepulciano.’
‘Right. She died of natural causes. A heart attack. Arteries fit to burst.’
‘But she’s still dead,’ Henson said, and the pathologist shrugged, uncomfortable.
‘That bit I cannot change.’ He nodded at them and walked away. Crane excused himself as well. From somewhere in the crowd of reporters, Henson heard a familiar and unwelcome voice.
‘Sergeant Henson! Sergeant Henson.’
He turned around. Monica Wilkinson was elbowing her way towards him, her daughter Marjorie behind her. The girl looked exhausted, her face red and crumpled. Henson lifted the tape and stepped under it to meet them.
‘Mrs Wilkinson, I’m not sure it’s appropriate for you to be here. This is a crime scene.’
‘I know that. Gwendolyne Meyers called me,’ Monica said, importantly.
‘She did, did she?’
‘She wants to interview Marjorie. The beloved of the deceased.’
‘The what?’
‘Sergeant Henson, Marjorie has something to tell you,’ Monica said, and her voice was not so assured. ‘I hope you’ll forgive her for not telling you earlier.’ She pressed her lips together.
Henson waited, thinking of Monica’s strange reaction the day he saw her at Edna Stewart’s. He had a feeling he was about to find out why that was. Marjorie looked up at him, her chin trembling.
‘I know what happened,’ she said, her voice so quiet that Henson could hardly hear her. It began to rain again, and Marjorie peered past him and down to the water. Henson blocked her view.
‘Cameron!’ Marjorie said, and began to make her way down the slope. Henson grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
‘You don’t want to go down there.’
‘But he’ll get wet!’ Marjorie said, struggling to get past him. ‘Let me go. I need to cover Cameron or he’ll get wet!’ She was screaming now, and pushing at his chest with all her might. Mr Wilk
inson came running, ducking under the tape and pulling his daughter into his arms. She wilted against him, her hysteria abating as quickly as it had begun. She curled a hand across her stomach, and Henson watched as the fabric of her dress pulled tight against an unmistakeable bulge. The girl was pregnant. Monica stood apart from her family, staring at the ground. Mr Wilkinson spoke softly to his daughter.
‘Shush now. You need to tell the sergeant, love. Tell him what you told us.’
Marjorie took a deep breath. ‘I know what happened to Cameron,’ she said. ‘I know who killed him. It was Sarah Vale. He went to the creek to find her and now he’s dead. She killed him.’
chapter forty-five
Before Tommy could stop himself, he banged his fists against the glass of the basement window, pushing his face up against it, trying to lever it open with his fingertips. His knees grazed against the cement of the path and he banged an elbow hard against the sill but hardly noticed.
‘Sarah! Sarah!’
She turned around and frowned up at the window. Tommy leant back, realising she could not see him like that. He called out again. ‘Sarah! It’s me, Tommy.’ Inexplicably, he pointed at his chest. Inside, Sarah’s whole body seemed to perk up and brighten like a light had been turned on inside her chest. He saw her mouth make the shape of his name. Tommy.
The Vale Girl Page 23
