‘It’s my last day on the paper,’ Stella tells me. ‘I’ve quit.’
‘Is this about the bones?’ I ask. ‘I’m sorry I got it wrong.’
‘It’s not that,’ she says. ‘Newspapers are dying anyway. I’m pitching stories to digital media sites about the top ten reasons not to visit this dump.’
This seems a bit harsh, even for ‘Bonestown’. As she finishes up quickly with a few more half-hearted clicks of the camera, I head over to hug Amy. She looks shattered but happy, hooked up to machines and a drip. She makes me hold her baby. As I pick her up like she is made of glass, Amy makes a sudden grimace of pain.
‘Do I need to get a doctor?’ I ask.
‘I am one, remember,’ she says.
‘But everything’s good, isn’t it? For both of you?’
‘She’s perfect and I’m surviving.’ Amy gives her daughter a big tired hormonal smile full of love and endorphins.
‘Does she have a name yet?’
Amy shakes her head. ‘We’re still deciding, but not Grace.’
I look at the squashed little face, the thick mop of the blackest hair and the tiny chipolata fingers clenched into a fist that has worked its way out of the tightly wrapped blanket. The baby who is not-Grace opens her mouth and looks blearily up at me but her eyelids are too weighed down and she sinks back into sleep. For a long time in the room the only sound, other than the occasional beep from a machine, is her breath. The sighs are so soft I hold my own breath to hear them. Just when you think there’s a rhythm, it stops, pauses, and then starts again. It’s very different to my father’s breath now, the constant wheezing rattle from a pair of worn-out bellows. His is the sound of days being counted down.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said in the car,’ says Amy eventually. ‘There were so many questions we never asked. Why did we just accept it when they told us she ran away? We knew her better than anyone. We trusted the adults to fix it.’
‘We’re adults now,’ I say.
‘Isn’t it too late?’ she asks.
‘There’s something wrong with the original police investigation. Dad would never have missed Jim Keaveney lying about the train, and then he was secretly paying money to Aaron Hedland.’
‘Maybe he felt sorry for him?’
‘Or he felt guilty because he stuffed up.’
The words hang there in the space between us.
‘Mistakes get made, compromises are forced on us,’ says Amy. ‘No-one wants to be judged by their worst day. Fundamentally, your father was a good man who tried to do what was right. Have faith in him.’
‘I need to know what happened.’
Amy moves, looking like she’s about to argue but then gasps, swearing under her breath. ‘Who thought something so small could do so much damage? I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.’
I wince and her baby stirs in my arms and gives a plaintive mewl. Amy glances at the clock. ‘Time for another feed,’ she says.
There is a comedy of errors as she attempts to latch the baby to her. A tiny mouth opens and closes but misses its target. Finally, there is success of sorts. It’s a surprisingly noisy affair with the sound of suckling and gulping. Both Amy and the baby are concentrating intently on each other and it isn’t until hiccups are finished that she speaks again.
‘All right.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘All right, you should keep trying to find out what happened.’
‘Are you giving me your blessing?’
‘Would it stop you if I didn’t?’
I shake my head. ‘But it would be nice to have.’
‘Then, yes,’ Amy says. ‘But stay safe. You owe it to your goddaughter.’
‘Goddaughter? But I don’t believe in God.’
‘That’s optional,’ she says. ‘All you’ve got to do is love her.’
And just like that there’s another one added to the list but before I can get too soppy about it, my goddaughter brings up her own weight in milk all over herself and her mother.
As I walk out of the hospital entrance, an ambulance comes racing up the street. I stand there watching as the ambos open up the back. It’s Ryan, the clinical nurse from Emerald Coast Homes, who gets out, followed by a stretcher. There is a body strapped to it. I’m too far away to make out the face but as they turn it around I see my father’s hair poking out the top.
My feet react quicker than my brain and I’m running before I realise, yelling at them to stop so I can see Dad but they ignore me. Ryan hears me and looks around. By the time I am at the entrance he has reached me, his arms outstretched, gathering me up before I run straight past.
‘It isn’t Mick,’ he says, holding me back. ‘It isn’t Mick.’
I push against him, shouting out ‘Wait, wait’, even though they’ve gone. Ryan repeats himself, gripping me tightly with both arms.
‘It’s Jim,’ he says. ‘It’s not your father. It’s Jim.’
The ground lurches and Ryan holds me steady.
‘Sit down. You’ve had a bit of a shock.’ He guides me to a nearby bench. ‘You stay here,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you some water.’
By the time he returns I’m less hysterical and more embarrassed. He passes me a plastic bottle to drink from.
‘Sorry it took so long. There was paperwork to get him admitted.’
‘It’s me who should be sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m OK now, just I was sure . . .’
‘I know,’ he says.
‘I thought I was ready for Dad to die but I’m really not. There are things I need to get resolved before he goes.’
‘I’d get them done soon,’ Ryan says. ‘I mean it could be weeks but it might not be.’
‘What happened to Jim?’
Ryan’s mouth hardens. ‘Laurelle found him lying in the maintenance shed.’
‘A heart attack?’
‘He had copped a nasty knock to the head.’
‘An accident?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says, his face worried.
‘Was he attacked?’
‘I’m not sure. Today has been chaos with Janey electioneering around the place again and we were short-staffed as usual, what with the police coming for Cadee.’
‘Cadee? She’s been arrested?’
If the police have arrested Cadee, maybe they are closer to tracking down Luke.
My mind is whirling. ‘Could Jim have been attacked?’ I repeat.
Ryan’s face tells me that he thinks it’s possible. ‘I don’t think he got that wound from falling. It could have killed him – it still might.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘What if I’m wrong?’ he says. ‘Might be a fuss over nothing and my boss wouldn’t like it.’
‘You need to tell them,’ I say. Jim knew something about Grace’s disappearance. Perhaps that’s why he was attacked.
Ryan doesn’t seem convinced.
‘Thanks for everything. I’m OK now.’ I stand up.
‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘Maybe you should take it easy for a bit.’
I tell him I will but it’s a complete lie because that could have so easily been Dad in the ambulance today and I need to work out what happened to Grace before he dies.
27
Tess opens the door when I knock. A scarf covers her hair, two sweaty plaits poking out from under it. There’s paint on her shirt and she stinks of turps.
‘You’re still in town,’ she says.
‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘What are you painting?’
‘My old room,’ she answers. ‘You gave me the idea, actually.’
‘Can I come in?’
She says nothing but moves to the side and lets me pass. The house has changed again since I was last here. Photos have disappeared off the wall, clutter has been removed and furniture is missing. As I am delving further into the past, my sister is doing the opposite. She’s taking an eraser to our childhood, rubbing it out.
‘Do you want to
see it?’ she asks.
Tess’s room has been a permanent bruise, the ultimate reminder that she was always more treasured than me.
‘All right,’ I say.
She walks past the living room, down the hall and opens the door. Her bedroom has been completely emptied of all the furniture and drop cloths are on the floor. The room that I have felt such a grievance about has been transformed into a medium-sized square with a couple of newly painted white walls. As I stare at it, the shard of frozen resentment that I’ve carried with me for so long dissolves. This room is not important. It has taken me all this time to realise, but suddenly I am free of it.
‘I should have done this years ago,’ she says with real venom in her voice. ‘I hated this room. It was like Dad never accepted that I grew up.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say.
‘He thought I needed it.’
‘What about my room? What about me?’ There’s still a trace of the forgotten sister’s whine as though it’s an accent that I can’t completely shake.
‘He knew you were fine.’ There’s a half-smile from her, the suggestion of sun from behind the clouds, and for one moment I think that we can come out into our own personal demilitarised zone and have a proper conversation.
‘Why did he think you needed it?’ I ask.
Her smile flatlines. I’ve tripped the wire. ‘What are you doing here, Eliza?’ she says, and we go back to being virtual strangers who are genetically handcuffed to each other.
‘I need to see Gavin.’
She shakes her head.
‘His car is in the driveway. I know he’s here.’
‘He’s busy.’
‘Then I’ll wait.’
She stands there and I expect her to order me to leave but instead she shrugs. ‘Stay in the kitchen,’ she says, and slams the door on her old room as if she’s closing it in my face.
I am sitting at the kitchen table when she returns.
‘He’s on the phone.’
‘That’s OK.’
Tess is on edge now, jumpy and sharp, as if she’s exposed too much. For the first time in forever I feel something like sorrow for her. Perhaps being the favoured beautiful child wasn’t quite the blessing that I imagined. It certainly hasn’t made her happy.
‘I’m staying out at Ocean Breeze,’ I say. ‘Bridie Walker runs it these days.’
Tess clangs around in the cupboard, pretending she can’t hear.
‘She’s still a laugh, Bridie. Remember about the cherries?’ It’s an outstretched hand, an old shared memory of childhood, an appeal in sisterly shorthand to try and get her talking.
Her head pokes out and looks at me. There is a curve to her mouth at the memory of an old misdemeanour.
‘We blamed it all on you,’ she says. ‘An entire box of cherries splattered across the garage wall.’
‘Of course Dad believed you,’ I say.
‘No, he didn’t,’ Tess answers. ‘It was just easier that way. You were too small to get into real trouble and he couldn’t get mad at Bridie, she was a visitor. His whole job was dealing with people who had done the wrong thing. He couldn’t face doing the same thing at home. Better to ignore it.’
This is more insight from Tess than I have had in years. Perhaps painting that room has freed something in her, too.
‘Gavin will be off the phone now,’ she says. ‘You should go in.’
I stand up. ‘Is everything OK? You seem . . .’
‘What?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know, different.’
‘I’m fine,’ she says, and gives me one of her unreadable blank blue looks as though I’ve left the room already.
I push the door of my old bedroom open. Gavin is sitting at my father’s desk surrounded by relics that I recognise, safe from Tess’s purge.
When he sees me a defeated look crosses his face.
‘What’s this? The Mick Carmody Museum?’ I ask.
‘More of a temporary refuge,’ he replies. ‘Take a seat, if you can find one.’ He motions his large hand towards a chair. I move a bundle of files off it and sit down as he pulls open a drawer.
‘Want a drink?’ and he takes out a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
‘Is that Dad’s as well?’
‘You accusing me of theft now?’ He wants to get angry but his heart isn’t in it.
‘Thought you might have inherited it along with the job.’
‘That and the rest of the mess.’ He splashes the whiskey into a chipped police golf day mug and hands it to me. A considerably larger tipple goes into the tarnished pewter tankard that’s already next to him on the desk.
‘You only had to call me,’ Gavin says. ‘Didn’t require a visit but I guess you’ve heard the news.’
I’m not really sure what he’s talking about but, working on the principle that you never admit to ignorance, I make a sort of ‘hmm’ sound.
‘So,’ he begins, ‘Cadee’s identified the body. It’s definitely Luke.’
The shock hits me between the eyes.
‘Luke Tyrell,’ I say slowly. ‘Luke is dead.’
‘His body was found in an old burnt-out shed along the Bridle Track, a shotgun next to it. Probably self-inflicted.’
Gavin pushes back his chair until he almost hits the wall behind him, then stares up at the ceiling. I’m not quite sure how I feel about this. A mixture of sadness and frustration but also undeniably relief. Donal and his mother won’t be put through a trial. I am no longer the prosecution’s main witness. But when I think of Luke as a boy and Cadee now, those feelings soften.
‘I find it hard to believe he killed himself,’ I say. ‘He didn’t strike me as the type.’
‘And you’re the expert, of course,’ Gavin says. ‘On the strength of crossing his path twice in twenty years. He was public enemy number one for any publicity-seeking politician walking past a microphone, was looking at considerable jail time and his former partner, farm and livelihood had been destroyed. I think that’s enough to sink anyone.’
‘I did grow up with him,’ I say.
‘People change,’ Gavin replies, draining his tankard.
‘What was it that he and Paul were involved in?’
‘Guess it doesn’t matter now,’ he says. ‘Months of work and a potential informant just put a bullet in his head.’
‘Was it drugs?’
‘Drugs?’ Gavin looks at me quizzically. ‘No. It was eggs.’
For a moment I think I’ve misheard. I’d expected something along the lines of ice, speed, coke or heroin. ‘Is that some new kind of street slang?’
‘What do you think the price of a red-tailed black cockatoo is on the illegal market?’
I pluck a figure from the air. ‘A thousand bucks?’
‘A hundred thousand dollars alive,’ Gavin says. ‘Maybe more after the fires. Eggs get stolen during nesting season, taken out of the country to be hand-raised and then sold. As lucrative as drugs but not as risky. Until recently, if you were caught, which was unlikely, chances were you’d get a slap on the wrist from a magistrate. That’s if we bothered to prosecute at all. Now there are proper penalties in place, big fines, jail time, an understanding that the same routes for this kind of smuggling could be used for drugs and guns as well.’
‘And that’s what Paul Keenan was involved in?’ I ask.
Gavin nods.
‘When I first came to the district years ago this area was notorious for wildlife smuggling, thanks to a combination of little police interest and an abundance of native cockatoos, galahs and lorikeets. Your dad and Alan weren’t concerned so I tried investigating it myself but all of a sudden the operation shut down. I thought it might have been me starting to make enquiries but I doubt that now. Something went badly wrong with the operation and it stopped. Fast forward to last year when Paul Keenan comes to town, hears the old stories and starts up the racket again. He needs local knowledge about possible nesting sites and finds a financially desperate Luke
Tyrell.’
This fits perfectly with what Luke told me. That he had information about an operation. How they had argued about a delivery and ended up in a fight.
‘What information did you want from Luke?’ I ask. ‘Paul was already dead.’
Gavin stretches out in the chair.
‘Both of them were just the front end. Paul wouldn’t have a clue how to smuggle birds into Asia. I’ve got my own suspicions but I need evidence.’
‘That’s a very good reason for someone to kill Luke then,’ I say. ‘For a start, Jim Keaveney must have been involved.’
I can see Jim standing in the aviary at the nursing home, his large hand wrapped around the finch’s neck, talking about Asia and the Middle East.
Gavin doesn’t deny it.
‘Did you know Jim has just been rushed to hospital?’ I say. ‘Maybe someone is shutting down the syndicate. First Luke and now Jim.’
I can see he’s going to lecture me again about not getting involved in police investigations, but then his shoulders square and his face takes on the mask of professionalism that says the shift is never really over. He grabs his mobile and walks around the desk, moving past me.
‘That’s valuable information.’ I put out a hand to stop him. ‘I want payment.’
‘What?’ Gavin’s distracted, his mind already elsewhere, working out what to do first, who to ring.
‘Consider it a trade,’ I say.
‘You need to play the game better, Eliza. You’ve already told me what you know.’
I ignore him, even though he’s right. ‘Grace,’ I say. ‘There’s something you aren’t telling me. Some problem with the original investigation. Dad stuffed up? What?’
He pulls his arm away from me, stumbling slightly. He’s had more whiskey than I realised.
‘We checked Bridie’s security camera. Kayla Deasey wrecked your room, angry that you got her father in trouble. Nothing to do with Grace’s disappearance. It’s all in your head.’
‘No.’ I stand up, blocking his path. ‘There’s that necklace still. Dave will confirm what I told you. That he found it at The Castle. And now there’s Jim, possibly the last person to see Grace alive, who lied about her catching the train. I’m not going to stop until I find out what happened. I need to know. I think Dad needs to know.’
Second Sight Page 23
