‘I’m supposed to be at the wake in half an hour. There’s a coffee shop down the road.’
‘Isabella, I’d prefer that you wait until Chris is free,’ Emily calls, striding across the car park.
Isabella frowns. ‘I don’t need Chris, Mum.’
The milk bar is as lacklustre as the burnt coffee. A middle-aged man, who appears to be the owner, stares gruffly into space.
‘The truth is I’ve been in rehab,’ Isabella says, peering into her coffee, her face laden with shame. ‘Alcohol. This time.’
Jason offers a warm smile. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why do people always say that? It’s not as though my addiction is your fault.’ She shakes her head. ‘Everyone has been saying that today. As though they carry some responsibility for what happened.’
‘It’s been a huge day for you,’ Higgins says, trying to calm her. His sympathy is real, at least, it appears to be.
‘The night that Dad died . . . Mum and I were at rehab. I escaped for a few hours.’
She laughs to herself, a mixture of pain and disbelief.
‘Mum had to rescue me from one of my old haunts.’ She shrugs. ‘Didn’t even try to hide in a new place.’
Jason flips open his notebook. ‘What time was that?’
‘You’d have to check with the rehab centre. They record all of that kind of thing.’
‘We’ll do that. Rough guess?’
She shrugs her shoulders again. ‘I’d say early evening.’
Isabella looks wistfully into the street. The storm has lulled, cars crash through puddles.
‘It had been building up for a while. First I lost my job. Then Mum and Dad took my car because they were worried I’d drive when I was drunk.’
Jason didn’t expect to feel pity, but he does.
‘I couldn’t pay the rent anymore, but I didn’t care. All my money was going on alcohol. Then Mum walks into the apartment. The front door is wide open and I’m lying on the couch, naked. She convinced me to go to rehab then.’
‘What did your dad have to say about it?’
‘He wasn’t exactly a hands-on father.’
Isabella pauses as new customers walk past their table. She lowers her voice. ‘Look, I need to get something off my chest. The day I escaped, I went to their house . . . I stole some money from Dad’s desk.’
She wipes her eyes, her voice breaking. ‘What kind of person steals from her own father?’
* * *
The car’s doorhandle is like a hot pebble in the road. As Jason welcomes the air conditioning, his phone rings.
It’s Higgins.
‘What news do you have for me?’
‘Isabella’s alibi – it checks out. I’m just leaving the rehab centre. Isabella arrived here at seven thirty-two.’
‘Well, I guess Isabella’s off the hook. Emily’s unlikely to make a statement about the stolen money. It’s not in our interest to pursue it. What about Emily?’
‘Emily drove her there. Emily left the centre at nine forty-one. I’ve just done a run from here to the Brosnans’. It took thirty-five minutes. Emily would have done it quicker at that time of night.’
Higgins pauses, then says, ‘We’re sure she didn’t leave the centre at any point?’
‘The director didn’t think so, but couldn’t be certain.’
‘Where does that leave us?’
‘Isabella’s no longer a person of interest. Emily probably isn’t.’
‘What of the elusive Mrs Payne?’
‘Arrives in Brisbane tonight.’ Jason stops.
‘What is it?’
‘Her husband sounded defensive on the phone.’
‘Yeah, well he comes across as an arrogant prick on TV.’
‘Perhaps there’s another reason for him to be defensive,’ Jason says.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Sherene Payne leaves all of a sudden the morning after Bruce Brosnan is murdered. Fails to return any of my calls. What’s she hiding?’
‘Hmm, I think we should discuss this over a beer.’
‘No can do. After I drop this car off, I’m heading straight for the gym.’
Sweat pours down his temples. Jason groans as he pulls the chest press. The spin instructor hollers, urging the small handful of zealots to keep sprinting, up the imaginary hill. Jason feels old and slack. It’s a week since he’s been here.
‘Long time no see.’
The trainer’s yellow hair is tied up messily in a bun. Jason appreciates her muscular physique and alluring grin. But he would never pursue her, or any other woman in this place. His church.
He walks over to the leg press and loads the weights until he reaches 180 kilograms. Moves his body into the seat and lifts his legs up to a forty-five degree angle. As he pushes against the weights, Jason imagines the muscles in his legs contracting and the oxygen being pumped through his body. Thoughts hidden in the crevices of his mind often emerge during his workouts.
After finishing his third set, Jason wanders to the exercise bike. Takes the headphones from his pocket and plugs them into the audio device. Only reality TV on the monitor on the wall, so he opts for radio.
‘Brian, this has been a very disturbing week for many Queenslanders,’ an interviewer says. ‘You’re not surprised when a judge is killed in a South American dictatorship. But in Brisbane! What’s going on?’
‘Alexander, obviously I don’t want to say anything that would pre-empt the police investigation.’
‘Come on, Brian. The Labor Government is soft on crime. Am I right?’
‘Look, I agree with you. That’s why the Coalition is promising to get tough on crime. When violent offenders get sentenced to ten years in jail, they should serve exactly that.’
‘Do you also agree that violent crime is on the rise?’
‘Alexander, I think it’s time to get to the roots of the problem.’
‘Brian, let’s not beat around the bush here. You’re really talking about welfare dependency?’
‘Yes, Alexander. These dysfunctional families are often welfare dependent over generations. They need to be targeted.’
‘Now some do-gooders are going to accuse you of stigmatising the innocent. What do you say to them?’
‘Bruce Brosnan was an innocent victim too.’
‘Indeed he was. Brian, I want to focus on welfare dependency just for a moment. One of the great Australian thinkers of this century is Dick Payne, who also happens to be an expert on this issue.’
‘Ah yes, I’m a great admirer of Dick.’
Jason does his stretches and then hits the shower. The jets of cold water are like pine needles on his flesh. He walks into the humid summer night.
At home, her fine cheekbones are pink, lips scarlet. She whispers French into a telephone as rain plummets behind a white curtain. The subtitles are annoying, but Jason isn’t watching the flatscreen television for entertainment. When he walked into the store the sales assistant ignored him. The jerk could not have been a day older than eighteen and his face was pocked with acne scars. So Jason walked up to the TV he had spotted in the catalogue and casually produced four thousand dollars from his wallet. The sales assistant instantly transformed into a gecko, whose beady eyes blinked as he salivated over the cash. As much as he’s enjoying his new purchase, Jason knows it looks out of place in his apartment. Paint that was once white has yellowed and the arch between the kitchen and living room is more 1970s than twenty-first century, as are the dark brown kitchen cabinets. Each veneered edge stands cocked like a dog’s ear, revealing the cheap chipboard beneath.
He sits back into the futon, whose sagging centre is beginning to resemble an hourglass. The deformed couch is one of his few pieces of furniture. He seems to exist rather than live,
Jason thinks. Photographs, trophies and the other footprints of his life sit in scraggly cardboard boxes strewn throughout his living room. Soon he will unpack them, but he knows he’s been saying that for three years.
Dinner is nothing to brag about – pizza with less flavour than the cardboard it came in. Jason reflects on the rare occasions that Mum and Dad took him to the local pizzeria when he was a boy. In those days, you had to wait for forty minutes for the pizza to cook. It was worth it – fresh ingredients and a base that lingered on the tongue, as opposed to the rubber he’s just eaten.
He sprawls across the old bed and buries his head in the soft pillow.
Jason can see light underneath the door, but he’s afraid. Rebecca Collis opens it and beckons. He trusts her without knowing why. Isabella is standing below the canvas, holding wads of cash. Head hung in shame. The light in the kitchen is overpowering, the radiance of the marble floor hurts his eyes. Higgins is yelling, face red with anger. But he can’t hear him. The tallest man Jason has ever seen. His head touches the ceiling. Arms out of proportion with the rest of his body. Long finger points below. Jason lies on the floor, head swimming in blood. And red feathers. Mobile phone drags him from sleep.
‘Mate, get up. You need to get here now.’
Higgins’ voice is a sudden blast of cold air.
‘It’s Dick Payne. He’s dead.’
PART TWO
NINE
The lights are too bright, taunting her eyes.
‘Mrs Payne, can I get you a glass of water?’ Higgins says, reaching for the jug in the centre of the table.
‘No. Thank you.’
The smell is stale, like their first home. Windows and doors closed for three months, not even the cockroaches stayed. But Sherene loved the old streets of St Lucia, near the university.
‘Dick, if you don’t start studying by the time the jacaranda trees are in bloom, you’ll fail. Don’t laugh, darling. It’s true.’
‘I trust the baby can stay with your parents for now.’
She nods, remembering her mother’s voice on the phone, pleading for reassurance.
‘May I call you Sherene?’
Higgins reminds her of a Great Dane. Cheeks running down his sides like arms. He’s spent too many nights drowning his sorrows, scoffing down grease that passes for food. But he’s earnest. Humour’s probably rough.
‘Sherene, we’ll ask you to give a sworn statement in due course.’
She looks at this one. Matthews. His brown eyes bore into her soul. Why can’t she see into his?
Matthews is an ice cube. Thick hair gelled back, denim shirt neatly pressed. Body wrapped in taut brown skin. Eyes covered in smog like the windows in the police car. It felt sterile in the back. She watched them take their equipment inside the foyer. Nightclubbers stood by gawking.
Higgins removes his jacket. Her nose is hit by a concoction of rain and cigarette ash.
‘You should really quit, now that we have the baby, Dick.’
Sherene wants to run outside, stand in the rain, the cleansing rain.
Rain in the ferryman’s oar.
Black cape flowing into rotting timber.
Long spidery fingers gliding the oar.
Is Dick with the ferryman?
‘Now you understand that anything you say to us may be used . . .’
‘Detective, I know my rights.’
‘Would you like us to contact your legal representative?’
‘No.’
Eloquent language skims off his tongue, like rocks kissing water. The audience is clapping, the Premier marvels at his brilliance. They believe that Dick is one of history’s great men. Dick believes. He can have anything. Anyone.
‘Sherene, this conversation will be recorded . . .’
The first time was the half-empty box of condoms in his overnight bag. Lacy underwear in the glove box.
‘Yes, yes, I’m aware of that. I’m sorry. I’m just anxious to see my daughter.’
Matthews’ face is a question mark.
‘It must have been difficult to be away from your daughter for a week.’
His concern is bait she won’t take.
‘Why did you go away, Sherene?’ he says.
‘Dick and I were having problems. I needed time to think.’
‘We spoke with your housekeeper. You left in a hurry.’
‘When Dick was angry he was difficult to be around.’
‘Why was Dick angry?’
Adrenalin floods her tired bones. ‘Dick was angry because I was having an affair.’ Her voice becomes soft, barely a murmur. ‘With Bruce Brosnan.’
‘So you left for Sydney the morning after your lover was killed?’
Her clothes are drenched in perspiration. She’s been wearing them since seven o’clock this morning. Lethargy seems fitting in this place.
‘I know what this looks like.’ She glances at Matthews. ‘Dick had so many affairs over the years. Part of me had wanted to get even. But I also had feelings for Bruce. He was a good man. In the end, I couldn’t live with the lie. So I told Dick.’
Wine bottle in his hand smashes to the floor. Eyes full of hate.
‘You’re nothing without me, you hear me!’
Oh Jesus, he’s getting the glass. Not my face. Please, not that.
‘Bruce begged to see me one last time. We arranged to meet at our usual place.’
‘When?’
‘Seven o’clock . . . the night he was killed.’
Higgins cocks an eyebrow, unspoken code.
‘The Mantra in Grey Street,’ she says.
‘So you checked in?’
‘Yes, our room was booked under “Mr and Mrs Brosnan”.’
A blush blooms across her face when her eyes meet Higgins’.
‘When did Bruce arrive?’ he says.
‘He didn’t. I waited for about twenty minutes. I called his mobile, but he never returned my message. It wasn’t like Bruce to do something like that.’
‘Did you go anywhere after leaving the hotel?’
‘Home. Straight home. The nanny stayed with me until just after nine.’ Tears stream down her flushed cheeks and Higgins offers her the dilapidated Kleenex box.
‘I never spoke to Bruce again.’
‘When did you decide to go to Sydney?’
‘Soon after I got home from the Mantra. My mind was just a mess. I rang one of my old girlfriends and made arrangements to stay with her.’
‘And your husband was happy for you to go to Sydney?’
‘I don’t know. To be honest, I was desperate to leave. When I saw Dick in the morning he looked like he’d been in a fight. His face was all swollen and he had a black eye. He wouldn’t tell me anything about the night before. I was listening to the radio when I heard the news about Bruce. I assumed Dick had done something terrible.’
Matthews rises from his chair. He paces like he’s the one who’s drained the carpet of life. Mockery dances in his eyes.
‘We’d been trying to contact you for days.’
‘Oh, that must have been on my personal mobile. I only used that phone for Bruce’s calls.’
Sherene looks at Higgins and knows he’s scrutinising her. He can’t see her in a courtroom? Can’t believe what he’s heard – she’s one of the best family lawyers in town?
He thinks I look frail.
Sherene straightens herself in her chair. ‘There was no point in taking the phone to Sydney.’
‘What made you decide to come back last night?’
‘I missed my daughter.’ She pauses, then finally says, ‘And I wanted to see if it was possible for Dick and I to make amends.’
‘But if you were concerned that Dick had done something terrible, would
n’t you be afraid, if not for yourself, then for your daughter?’
Sherene shakes her head wearily. ‘In spite of everything, he was the father of my child. At the very least I had to try to put things right.’
‘Alright, but if you had concerns that Dick might have been involved in Bruce’s murder, why didn’t you call us?’ Matthews says.
Sherene needs to escape his eyes, they’re like an x-ray machine to her conscience. She turns to the clock on the wall. It’s wrapped in cheap plastic, faded black hands carry no sound. Everything in this room is meant to be rough. Breathe in misery like cancerous fumes.
‘Sherene, when was the last time you spoke to your husband?’ Higgins says.
She turns to face him. ‘This morning.’
She looks back at the hands of the clock; sitting at one, they’re as tired as she is.
‘I mean yesterday. Just after nine o’clock in the morning. I told him I was catching the eight o’clock flight home that night.’
‘How did he sound?’
‘Not happy.’
These leeches will suck her dry. Give them something. Anything.
‘I think we both had this idealistic view of marriage. Neither one of us was really prepared for the challenges. Then there was Dick’s public profile.
‘It’s not healthy for anyone to be told that he is a genius. But they all said it. Politicians, businessmen, journalists. Dick lost his perspective.’
‘What time did you land in Brisbane?’
‘It would have been nine-thirty. I caught a taxi to Mum and Dad’s place to collect my daughter. They weren’t very happy about me taking her while she was sleeping.’
‘Grandparents can be like that.’
Higgins sounds sincere, but she has no doubt he’s reading from a script.
Good cop, bad cop. Do they think she’s stupid?
Dick thought I was stupid.
‘Where do your parents live?’
‘They have an apartment in Albert Street in the city. While I was there, I rang Dick on his mobile, but he didn’t answer. I tried him at home, but no luck there either.’
It unleashes a new wave of tears and she reaches for the tissues. ‘Dick often worked late. I left my daughter with my parents and drove to Dick’s office.’
The Boundary Page 9
