‘They argued self defence and Isabella walked. Fast forward ten years and Isabella appears to have cleaned up her act. Until two months ago, she was employed as a counsellor in a homeless people’s shelter. But the million-dollar question is – where is she now? Her car was left in the Brosnans’ garage. Emily Brosnan was only prepared to say that her daughter had “gone away”.
‘Another thing, Brosnan took a call on his mobile at seven twenty-nine from one Sherene Payne.’ He turns to Jason. ‘Matthews, still chasing the elusive Mrs Payne?’
Jason nods and Higgins quickly moves on. ‘There were no signs of forced entry so Brosnan probably knew his killer. This could point to Emily? It might also point to Isabella. Given that her car’s still in their garage, she presumably has a key to her parents’ home, or at least she might know where the spare’s kept. We need to check. Henly, you’ve been to Isabella’s last address?’
‘Boss, the place was deserted. I’ve spoken with the landlord. Isabella cleared out four weeks ago. She left the place in a shambles. The only forwarding address is her parents’. I knocked on the neighbours’ doors, but came up with nothing.’
‘Matthews, any luck getting a copy of the will?’
‘Jennings finally sent it through this morning. He was right – the only beneficiaries are Emily and Isabella.’
‘Alright, now, another controversial aspect is that Brosnan dismissed a native title claim on the morning of his death.’
Higgins looks down at his notes. ‘Here we go . . . ah yes, the Corrowa People.’ He grasps the Queensland Daily, waves it around in a circle. ‘Which means we’ll get shit like this. So we’re going to keep the feathers out of the public domain. Let’s just concentrate on the facts, rather than this voodoo bullshit.’
Higgins turns to Henly. ‘I want you to go back to Isabella’s old employer. See if anyone’s heard from her.’ He pauses to check his watch. ‘Matthews, we gotta go.’
Higgins is behind the wheel as per usual. Jason doesn’t mind. It’s an opportunity for him to reflect.
‘I wonder how they managed to keep Isabella’s trial out of the headlines,’ Jason says.
‘It never made it to the jury. The Crown entered a nolle prosequi on the first day.’
‘But I still would have expected some publicity from the committal.’
Higgins screws his face like a pin cushion. ‘It pays to have friends in high places.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What was that?’
‘Loses her job and her home. No doubt the inheritance will arrive at a fortuitous time.’
Emily will always cling to the memory, even though it’s jaded. Court One had a musty smell and the listlessness of artificial light. The place was a rambling tow-truck, clearing the city’s streets of the downtrodden, whose engines had died long ago. The old black woman sat in the dock, face filled with indignation. Her body was stiff, folded arms shielding wounded pride. Bruce stood at the bar table; his body tall and strong. Emily had only heard of him, was yet to feel the touch of his eyes, or the rush of excitement when he spoke to her. He turned to the dock, murmured gently to the old woman and placed a reassuring arm on her shoulder. The woman smiled. Perhaps it was the first time that anyone in that desolate place had treated her as a human being. In those few seconds, Emily fell in love.
‘Is the air conditioning too heavy?’
She smiles into Chris’ warm eyes.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Chris has always been grounded, so unlike her Isabella, whose life constantly teeters on the brink of disaster. She’s always thought that about him, even when he was Bruce’s associate. Had naïvely hoped that he and Isabella would form a relationship. They were roughly the same age, shared the same family background.
‘There’s no need for us to get out of the car until the police get here,’ he says.
It’s been less than a week, but the house is like an abandoned mansion, something that she would expect to see in an American Civil War epic. The grass is overgrown, hedges require trimming and the pond is choking on leaves. But it’s the silence that causes a tremor within. It’s the silence of a ghost who swallows its pain, who revels in the familiarity of haunted dreams.
When she had first seen it, Emily imagined standing perched against one of the four white columns, greeting him when he came home. But it struck her as odd that the three of them could possibly need so much space. Bruce nudged her lips and whispered, ‘We’ll need a big house for the other babies.’ Her heart sang.
Early in the marriage, they had made love daily. The look he gave her was a combination of affection and hunger. But the look had disappeared long ago. She’d given up on having more children. Bruce was already gone when Issie woke in the mornings and she was asleep by the time he walked through the front door, wearily carrying tomorrow’s brief.
‘For how long were you here?’ Chris says.
‘Twenty-five years in June,’ she replies.
Emily threw herself into their baby home. She painted the interior, spent hours selecting the right shade for the curtains. Within a year, Emily had breathed order into the garden that had been rack and ruin. But the babies never came. When she had the last miscarriage, Bruce was in Court, defending a rock star who’d assaulted a flight attendant. So Emily invested all of her love in Issie. And the house.
Bruce may have slaved to become the star of the Bar, but Emily and Issie had paid the real price for his success. Emily was determined that the debt be discharged. The luxury pool became a necessity, as was the new kitchen. Then there was the matter of the sauna. Emily had almost managed to convince herself that she was happy, until Issie began her downward spiral.
‘They’re here.’
She smiles nervously at Chris.
‘I’ll be with you the whole time. It’ll be okay,’ he says.
Higgins opens her door.
‘Mrs Brosnan, thank you for meeting us here.’
Emily enters the garage at the western wing of the house, just as she did five nights ago. She pauses when she sees his fishing rod standing next to the bikes. Bruce took up fishing on his fiftieth birthday, his first and only hobby, she tells them.
Higgins moves forward. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Mrs Brosnan, take your time.’ The stench of disinfectant irritates her nose. Emily expected to see bloodstains, but the marble is clean.
‘Mrs Brosnan, do you remember anything?’ Jason says.
Emily scans the room, begs for hidden memories to enter her mind.
‘Take your time, Mrs Brosnan.’
But the fishing rod is where he left it. We’re going to Stradbroke next weekend. Bruce will tell you. He’ll want me to protect Issie.
Feebly, she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, detectives.’
Higgins asks her to check whether any valuables are missing. Emily is adamant that nothing has been removed. ‘Did Bruce store any money in the house?’ he says.
‘He always kept some cash in the top drawer of his desk in the study.’
They walk up the stairs and into Bruce’s study. Photographs of the young barrister adorn the wall. He’s standing between an older man and woman, their cheeks rosy against the yellowed paper.
‘Bruce’s admission ceremony.’ She keeps her head bowed. Emily is certain that his smell is still here. A combination of aftershave and Scotch.
‘Mrs Brosnan, the drawer isn’t locked.’
‘It never is. This is a safe neighbourhood. At least, it used to be.’
Jason rifles through the drawer. A pile of old receipts, but no cash. ‘How much money did Bruce keep in the drawer?’
‘Oh, a few hundred I suppose. Why, how much is there?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did anyone else know about the money?’ Higgins says.
&n
bsp; ‘No, no, of course not.’
‘What about staff?’
‘The cleaner comes twice a week and the gardener drops by to mow the lawn every Tuesday. But they’ve worked for us for over ten years.’
She leans on Chris as they walk into the sunlight. Emily doesn’t look back at the house. It’s no longer her home.
Higgins stops them in the driveway. ‘Mrs Brosnan, you still need to provide us with the details of the relative you visited before you came home on Thursday night.’
She stares at him blankly.
‘We need that information.’
‘I told you, she’s sick.’
‘Who are you protecting, Emily?’ Higgins says. There’s a new hardness in his voice.
‘No one.’
‘Where is Isabella?’
She steps away from Chris. Folds her arms across her chest, as though she could lock out all of them.
‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a person to change her life, detective? I’m proud of my daughter. She’s a good person.’
Higgins shakes his head, he’s incredulous. ‘Emily, your husband was murdered.’
‘Of course I know . . .’
‘It’s my job to find out who did that and that requires me to ask you questions. Emily, my questions are reasonable. Where is Isabella?’
SIX
‘Bub, the Premier was very apologetic for missing our meeting. He said to let you know.’
Dick draws his chin into his right hand, offers her the look he’s perfected in front of the mirror.
‘The Premier is very excited about the AEI,’ she says.
Acronym rolls off her tongue, smooth as velvet. Everyone in Indigenous affairs craves acronyms, everyone, that is, except those on the ground, he thinks. Acronyms won’t deliver jobs, won’t wean them off the sit-down money.
‘I don’t want that happening too often.’
‘Dick, the Premier’s a busy man.’
He can always tell when Lesley is nervous, anxiety yapping at the bottom of her voice like a chihuahua biting its heels.
‘If it happens again, I’m pulling the pin.’
‘Bub, bub – I promise, it won’t.’
He knows Coconut Holdings has no intention of withdrawing from his Aboriginal Employment Initiative. It wants free black labour that can be disposed of on a whim. Dick’s wants coalesce with those of his client. He needs his mob to taste his hardness.
Lesley is biting her top lip. Doughy eyes. She’s gone from a chihuahua to a labrador who can’t understand why its master won’t take it for a walk. Dick enjoys the charade. It’s one they’ve played a hundred times. Will perform a hundred more.
‘So what are you offering?’
‘Bub, that’s why I’m here. The boss has suggested you and I do the community consultations.’
They’ve worked the community meeting circuit so many times. She has such an angelic face, one the debt collectors always believe when she says, ever so softly, ‘I’ll send you a cheque next week.’ But as soon as Lesley stands to speak at a community meeting, the metamorphosis begins. With arms waving like balloons tied to a speeding car, her tongue deftly sows seeds of conflict.
Handiwork that will hit the audience like a fallen wasp nest.
‘It’ll be fun. Just you and me.’
Dick leans back in his chair. ‘Tell me more.’
He has no doubt Lesley will be useful, at the very least a great photo opportunity. Dick imagines the chief executive of Coconut Holdings posing with his arm around the quintessential black matriarch.
‘We’ll be flexible, work around your commitments. Everyone knows how busy you are.’
Her voice is desperate, like the mother coaxing the screaming brat on the supermarket floor.
‘What about my fees?’
‘Bub, the Premier’s Department will handle that.’
He rises from his chair, walks to the window. Hands in his pockets, he speaks with his back to her. ‘When do we start?’
‘As soon as possible after the launch.’
‘We’ll have to discuss this with the Feds at some point. Those young fellas aren’t going to work if they can get sit-down money. If it was up to me, no one under the age of thirty would be eligible for welfare. Survival of the fittest, Lesley, that’s what it’s all about. Black people have to learn to be individuals. Individuals don’t get held back by bludgers and drunks. I mean, look at me. I made it to this place from nothing. Never spent a day of my life on fuckin’ sit-down money.’
Behind him Lesley is cringing. The reality that Dick will be paid a fortune to give five-minute spiels irritates her. After all, she’ll be doing all the legwork. On her meagre salary. Lesley smiles when it dawns on her that Dick’s fees are probably ‘sit-down money’ too. It’s not as though he’ll be breaking into a sweat for it.
As if reading her humour, Dick turns around. ‘What’s wrong?’ he says.
She nods enthusiastically. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all, bub.’
He smells her fear. Grins. ‘I’ll have to discuss this with the senior partners.’
‘How about you get back to me tomorrow?’ she says.
‘It may not be sorted by then. But don’t worry. The partners understand the importance of my work. They’ll give the go-ahead.’ Dick studies his expensive watch, the usual cue for her to leave.
‘Bub, I’ve already taken too much of your time. I’ll see you at the launch on Friday.’
‘If I don’t run into you at the casino sooner.’
Her face burns with embarrassment.
‘Oh Auntie, I’m only having a joke with you.’
She turns to leave, head hung a little lower. ‘Give my love to Sherene and the baby.’
It’s the same parting words each time. Lesley barely knows Sherene, is too low in the food chain to be a real part of his world. But she clings to whatever familiarity she can and uses it to bolster her own sense of importance. Dick watches the door close. Slams his hand on the desk. The woman is trouble. His wife.
When they met she had been so excited by life. Sherene spoke of studying art in Paris and trekking across the Sahara. Of course, a great deal of it was puffery, like so much of what lovers share in those early days. But her passion was intoxicating. Now she’s lost her exuberance, has no dignity. If she had remained the woman he married, he’d have no need for his playthings. The fact that he went home to her, night after night, was proof of his goodness. Dick was faithful to the institutions of marriage, family, if not to Sherene.
But since last Wednesday, she’s gained a new dimension. Until then, he had never thought of her as dishonest. He didn’t think she was capable of darkness. At least Dick had always harnessed his darkness, used it to power his crusade. He had walked through the door just after midnight, smelling of perfume and wine. She sat staring at the kitchen table.
No book in front of her, no magazine.
‘I know what you’ve been doing.’
He chose to ignore her and opened the fridge door, looking for a glass of wine. Just one more before some shut-eye.
‘I’ve been doing it too.’ Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Voice quivering. ‘I’m having an affair,’ she said.
‘Dick, Sherene is on the phone.’
‘Thanks, Holly. I’ll take it.’
How did Sherene know he was thinking of her? Perhaps he really is gifted.
‘Dick, how are you?’
He hears the timidity in her voice, but has no desire to put her at ease. ‘Where are you?’ he says.
‘Still in Sydney.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘I’ve rung Mum twice a day.’
He has no comeback. Dick hasn’t contacted his mother-in-law once since S
herene left.
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Tonight. On the eight o’clock flight.’ She pauses. ‘I’ll miss Bruce’s memorial service this afternoon, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to go.’
‘No, his widow hardly wants to come face to face with his whore.’
She breathes deeply, and he knows she’s expecting him to salvage their conversation. But Dick wants nothing to do with a salvage operation.
‘How are you getting home from the airport?’
‘I’ll get a taxi to Mum and Dad’s apartment.’
Her voice seems a little brighter. Perhaps she’s heartened that he cares about her transport arrangements.
‘Have you been talking to them about us?’
‘Dick, you know that I don’t discuss our marriage with my parents.’
Damn right. The last time, three years ago, he belted the living daylights out of Sherene. The following morning, Dick addressed a fundraiser for International Women’s Day. The irony still brings a smile to his face.
‘I’ll see you at home then,’ he says, and hangs up the receiver. No clichés like ‘have a good flight’ or ‘love you’. The whore deserves silence.
The top button on his pants is the crust of a volcano about to erupt. He eases himself out of the chair, walks to the window. His clothes are tighter than usual. He’s been enjoying his nights with Harrison, perhaps too much. Eating at restaurants with river views, drinking fine wine.
The Gateway Bridge is a mere speck on the magnificent glass canvas that consumes an entire wall of his office. The Storey Bridge is a fossil whose flesh was eaten while the city was still young. Cars and trucks pass in and out, rattling the ancient bones. Dark clouds suggest an afternoon storm.
Dick has looked at the apartment buildings on his left every day for the past five years, but, for the first time, they remind him of the ant mounds back home. Like the ant mounds, the luxury apartments are rifled with holes for the living. Underground parking spaces are the ants’ hidden catacombs. One has to see the red earth to believe it, an artist’s impression of Mars come to life.
The Boundary Page 6
