Murder with the Lot

by Sue Williams

  I looked at Dean, staring at his pen. I knew he should have believed me and written up that report.

  ‘He’s probably got it all typed up.’ I smiled. ‘Dean has terrific typing skills. One of his best subjects at school. He’s just in the process of remembering exactly where he put the report, aren’t you, son?’ I gave Dean a significant nod.

  Dean gazed out the window, like he was hoping he’d be abducted out of here.

  Monaghan made one of those steeple thingies with his index fingers. ‘I searched Mr Jefferson’s shed, after your call on Monday night. I found no dead body anywhere in the vicinity.’ His voice was slow, like he was talking to a child. ‘And no sign of one ever having been there.’

  ‘Well, the murderer moved her. Obviously. Probably while I was chasing Aurora.’

  ‘Senior Constable. Did you find a body when you were called to Perry Lake? Was a body mentioned in the report you can’t locate?’

  Dean shot a look at Monaghan, shook his head.

  ‘You’ll need to speak for the recording.’

  ‘No. I didn’t find a body.’

  ‘How would you explain that, Mrs Tuplin?’

  ‘Like I said, she must have been moved.’

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘She was definitely there.’

  A pause. ‘According to the senior constable, you phoned on a previous occasion, six months ago, to report a suspicious death. You phoned and said,’ he read from his notepad, ‘“Come quick, Dean, Ernie’s been strangled.” For the recording, Mr Ernie Jefferson resides at the Garden of the Gods Extended Care Nursing Home.’

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ I said. Bloody Dean didn’t need to have winched that one out and slung it on the shore.

  ‘And was Mr Jefferson dead?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Yes or no.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Happily, Mr Jefferson wasn’t dead or in the least bit strangled. And I’m pleased to say we’ve located the relevant police report. It states quite clearly he was asleep.’

  Well, I knew all that.

  ‘Did you check Mr Jefferson’s breathing? Feel for a pulse?’

  ‘Look, there’s no need to hash over this old history…’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you alert the staff at the nursing home?’

  ‘No. I was bit upset.’ I squirmed in my chair.

  ‘And Brad? Was he with you?’

  ‘Brad was parking the car. When I saw Ernie, I rushed out, grabbed Brad’s phone and called Dean.’

  Monaghan moved the steepled fingers to his chin. ‘Whose idea was it to phone?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘You’re sure? It wasn’t Brad’s suggestion?’

  ‘No.’ I paused. ‘Look, this was all a long time ago.’

  ‘Did Brad try to stop you from phoning?’

  ‘It was over so quickly. Anyway, we need to focus. On Mona…’

  ‘We’re getting to that. So, at Perry Lake, whose idea was it to phone the police?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘You’re sure? Take your time answering.’

  ‘Mine,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Brad didn’t try to stop you?’

  ‘Of course not. He wasn’t even there. Look, I’ll admit that business with Ernie was a mistake. But Mona’s really dead.’

  ‘There’s a big difference between someone sleeping and someone dead, Mrs Tuplin. You’re aware of the difference?’ He’d slowed his voice again.

  ‘Of course I am.’ Bloody man.

  ‘Did you try waking Mr Jefferson that day, six months ago?’

  Oh for God’s sake. ‘I don’t remember.’

  Monaghan read from the report. ‘“I didn’t try to wake him. I was a bit worked up.”’ He looked at me. ‘Could you have been worked up at Perry Lake?’

  ‘It was completely different. There was a bullet hole in her head. And her eyes were missing.’

  Monaghan unsteepled his fingers, then flicked through some files on the table, took one out. ‘I have another police report featuring you, Mrs Tuplin. A rather worrying one. It states you shot someone, twelve months ago. Samuel Jenkins of Rusty Bore. A shooting that could have easily been fatal.’

  ‘Showbag? But that’s got nothing to do with anything. Just an accident. I was learning how to use a gun.’ I glared at Dean, who maintained his stare out the window. Dean had done a whole lot of deep-sea bloody dredging for Monaghan this afternoon.

  ‘Whose gun?’

  ‘Ernie’s. He said I should learn how to protect myself.’ Ernie and his good ideas. Look where they got him. After all the fuss, Dean insisted on putting Ernie in the home.

  ‘You pointed a loaded gun?’

  ‘No one told me it was loaded. But, look, Dean knows all this.’

  ‘The gun was discharged accidentally. My mother isn’t an expert with firearms. The matter was investigated in detail.’

  ‘I understand it was you who investigated, Senior Constable?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dean.

  ‘Alone? No other police officers involved? I don’t recall you reporting a potential conflict of interest. Or has that been mislaid as well?’ Monaghan smiled, a stretched-plastic type of smile.

  ‘No.’ Dean’s voice was low.

  ‘A lot of your police work seems to involve your family. I hope you’re not in the habit of misusing your position for family favours, Senior Constable.’

  Dean rubbed his forehead. ‘Of course not. It was only Mum, I knew it was an accident. It didn’t seem worth bothering you in Muddy Soak.’

  ‘It’s always worth following proper police procedure, Senior Constable. Now, Mrs Tuplin,’ Monaghan stared through me. ‘Victoria Police is undertaking some strategic realignments.’

  A pause.

  ‘Your son will be redeployed. He’s been offered a role in Transit Safety. In Melbourne.’

  I glanced at Dean, saw the shadows underneath his eyes. ‘So you’ll be dealing with me in future. And you’ll find me much less tolerant of your mistakes.’ Monaghan looked at his watch. ‘Interview ended at 15:05.’

  Dean saw me out. He wasn’t chatty. ‘Wait in the lounge.’

  I fidgeted in the prickly armchair. A key scraped. Dean’s and Brad’s voices. Brad would straighten all this out. He and Dean together. I could see it might be hard for someone who didn’t know me. The Showbag incident didn’t make me look too good.

  Poor old Showbag. I did apologise. And of all the things to hit. Not exactly the largest item in the room, not that I’m intimately familiar with his anatomy, and possibly not the nicest way to be emasculated. Assuming there is a nice way. Anyway, he was only fifty per cent emasculated. Before all that, Showbag used to pop by my shop, quite regular. We don’t see a lot of each other nowadays. I think he’s gone off takeaway.

  I tiptoed down the hallway. Voices murmured inside the interview room. I bent down to listen at the keyhole.

  Brad’s voice. ‘Yeah, Mum can get…a bit carried away.’

  ‘Your mother’s mental health is a consideration, of course. Now, I suggest you tell us what you’ve done with Mrs Hocking-Lee. Where are you holding her?’

  ‘Holding her? Why would I hold her?’

  ‘Mr Tuplin, there’s a seven-year jail sentence for hindering a police investigation.’ Monaghan’s voice was deep. Trapped-in-a-lightless-cave deep, rather than the reassuring, broad-shouldered kind.

  ‘Brad’s no kidnapper.’ Dean’s voice.

  ‘You’re not exactly an independent authority, Senior Constable.’ Monaghan paused. ‘Mr Tuplin, I understand you’re an active member of DirectAction, the extreme environmental group.’

  ‘Not really. I…’

  ‘You’re aware DirectAction is responsible for a number of criminal activities here and overseas?’

  ‘Criminal? They’re just concerned for the earth’s welfare. It’s called positive direct action.’

  ‘Setting fire to the homes of people w
ho own four-wheel-drives is hardly a positive action. I suppose you know Mrs Hocking-Lee is the president of the Wimmera Four-Wheel-Drive Club?’ said Monaghan.

  A nasty silence.

  ‘We’re working to identify the people involved in these fires. And we will find them, we will find exactly who has orchestrated these acts of eco-terrorism. He or she will serve a prison term, I can reassure you.’ Monaghan’s voice didn’t sound reassuring.

  ‘Um. Do I need a lawyer?’

  ‘I’m just saying I’m worried about your associations, Mr Tuplin. Your behaviour could be regarded as suspicious.’

  ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘Especially for someone with your past.’ Monaghan paused. ‘Four arrests for burglary.’

  ‘I wasn’t stealing anything. I was working on behalf of the environment.’ Brad’s voice rose.

  ‘Where were you the day Mr Jenkins was shot, Mr Tuplin?’

  ‘Away. Probably.’

  ‘Probably? You don’t remember?’

  ‘It was ages ago.’

  ‘I think you know exactly where you were. You weren’t “away” at all.’

  Through the keyhole, I saw Brad shrug.

  ‘It wasn’t your mother who shot Mr Jenkins, was it? It was you.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘I understand you and Mr Jenkins had an argument the day before his shooting.’

  A pause.

  ‘Mr Tuplin?’

  ‘Six of his budgies died that day. It was forty-four degrees and they had no water.’

  ‘And has Mrs Hocking-Lee offended your environmental sensibilities as well? Is that why you’ve kidnapped her?’

  ‘Of course not. What a ridiculous question.’

  ‘Mr Tuplin. I am watching you carefully. Don’t leave the district. Interview ended at 15:45.’

  ‘What’s this Action Direct outfit?’ I got into the car.

  ‘DirectAction, Mum. You weren’t listening at the door? In a police station?’

  The heat mirrored above the road ahead.

  ‘What exactly is DirectAction?’

  ‘It’s an activist group. Based on the idea of deep ecology. Humans aren’t the only species on the planet, Mum. There are some who consider humans to be a…a kind of disease. A plague.’

  ‘Plague? Jesus, Brad, this kind of attitude can’t do you any good. You need to get out and mingle with normal, happy people. There’s a perfectly decent pub in Hustle. You’d meet some terrific people in there.’

  There were dark smudges beneath his eyes. ‘Everyone I used to know has gone now. You know that. They went to uni or moved interstate, they’re miles away from their bloody mothers. There’s nothing for me in Hustle and, anyway, who’d drink with a loser like me? No wonder Madison’s back with Logan.’

  ‘Madison will realise your full appeal eventually. And if not you’ll have escaped a lifetime of ferret-dipping. Anyway, there’s always Claire. You could ask her out somewhere. She seems a nice girl.’

  He glanced at me. ‘You really have no idea, do you?’

  ‘About what? Christ, Brad, it’s your baby, isn’t it? I bloody knew it.’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘Look, Claire will tell you herself soon enough.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘It’s for her to tell you, when she’s ready.’

  We passed a dead snake hanging from a fence.

  ‘Anyway, the thing about DirectAction is, they’re saying the time for peaceful protest is over. It’s time to attack on behalf of the environment.’

  Is that why Monaghan had been on about eco-terrorism? But Brad wouldn’t set someone’s Pajero on fire. Would he?

  A blast of dust buffeted the car.

  I rolled my eyes. A good thing Piero wasn’t alive to hear all this.

  Back at home, I put the burners on. Two regulars came by. Then a French bloke on his way up north, keen to chat about the history of fish and chips.

  ‘Flake? But is he sustainable? There are large declines in shark populations around the world,’ he said.

  Brad scuffed around, cutting up the chips, his movements lethargic. He didn’t discuss the state of sharks, not once, with the French fella, who left eventually, staring at his dim sims like they’d been shipped in express-post from Mars.

  I wasn’t going to let Monaghan get to me. I knew exactly who shot Showbag. It was me. And I had a whole array of witnesses. Vern. Ernie. Showbag himself.

  Brad wouldn’t have done anything to Mona, no way.

  I thumped the freezer closed. We were getting low on calamari. I phoned Rae with my list for next week’s order. ‘And bloody Brad’s joined a gang of crooks, Rae. DirectAction. Turn your back for one second, and your kids turn into eco-terrorists.’

  ‘Nah, you’ve got good kids Cass, no worries there. Brad’s solid. I reckon it wasn’t DirectAction set fire to those houses anyway. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was that bastard Clarence Hocking-Lee. Saw his sister recently. With Donald Streatham. Buzzed past in that old van of his.’

  I stood still. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  So Donald had got his van back. And he was alive? Where was Noel, then?

  ‘Rae, what’s Donald look like?’

  ‘Scruffy fella. Long white hair and beard. Got an awful black dog.’

  ‘Dean?’ I said into the phone.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ His voice sounded weary.

  ‘Donald and Noel are the same person. Noel’s just a false name.’

  ‘Good.’ He didn’t seem that enthused by my breakthrough.

  ‘Listen, you can’t let that Monaghan get to you. I’m sure he can’t close you down.’

  ‘It’s happening. I was told officially this morning. Thanks to you, Hustle will be a non-twenty-four-hour station. Permanent station at Muddy Soak.’

  I let the ‘thanks to you’ slide by. Dean sometimes outsources the blame when he’s stressed.

  ‘Transit Safety. Great. I’ll be trapped indoors, wandering up and down suburban trains. I won’t know a soul.’

  ‘But that’s terrific! Places you right on the doorstep of Homicide, for when they need some extra help.’

  ‘Mum. It doesn’t work like that.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, Melissa’s said categorically she won’t go. She’ll never live in the city. Ever. I’ve requested a transfer to Muddy Soak. That’s my best option now.’

  ‘Reporting to Monaghan?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘But Muddy Soak’s been crime free since whatever-whatever. They don’t need another cop. We need you here. This place is turning into Australia’s murder capital. I’ll have a word with headquarters for you.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Come on, Dean. Everybody knows how persuasive I can be.’

  He snorted. ‘You’re off your head. Everybody knows that.’

  Another stinging bullet I let whip past. ‘Sounds to me like you’re in urgent need of a plate of home-made lamingtons.’

  A strangled sound. ‘Stay away from me, Mum! You’ve done enough damage already.’

  ‘Not even with some lamingtons? Chocolate, of course, I know they’re your favourite.’

  ‘What bit of “no” don’t you understand? I don’t want to bloody see you.’

  ‘You know the Great Pacific Garbage Patch? All the tiny bits of plastic floating in the sea?’ said Brad.

  I suspected I would shortly. I carried on wiping out the freezer.

  ‘It now covers an area three times the size of Victoria. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Excellent. How are we going for dim sims? Got enough for Madison? I assume she’ll be in later. You two sorted things out?’

  ‘Kind of. Logan’s been arrested. She’s a bit down.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Meth lab.’

  ‘She’ll soon forget Logan once he’s in jail. You need to get a move on though. Take her out for dinner, quick. And pass me that box of prawns.’

  ‘I’m telling you, you have to stop selling prawns.
Those nets do horrific damage to the sea floor. Most of what’s pulled up is hurled back into the sea, dead. Sea horses, sea snakes—all dead, dead, the whole lot. Anyway, no girl’s interested in me, Mum, not with you around.’

  I sighed. The thankless work of motherhood was feeling a bit too bloody thankless. ‘I’m worried about Dean, son. We need to help him.’

  ‘If you want to do something helpful, drop all this Miss Marple crap and focus on the shop. Turn it into a vegetarian fish and chip shop.’

  I straightened up, leaned against the freezer. My back hurt and my neck was cricked. ‘Tell me, what exactly constitutes vegetarian fish?’

  ‘You make burgers from wheat gluten, then flavour them with seaweed and spices.’

  ‘Jesus. I have had it with this claptrap.’ I flung down my cloth. ‘No one would pay good money for something so ludicrous.’ I stamped out.

  Almost six and Terry was due any minute. Thing is, when a person hasn’t been out with a fella (even if he’s only a platonic type of fella, someone she’s meeting for an informal briefing on police matters) in roughly a million years, she doesn’t always have the full range of up-to-the-minute outfits at her disposal.

  She’d probably seek a simple black dress, not too tight across the hips, something a bit Helen-Mirren-edging-on-Debbie-Harry-with-a-hint-of-Catherine-Deneuve. She might search her wardrobe: no black dress. Slinging the contents of her wardrobe onto her bed, she’d avoid the fluoro pink leggings, the lime high heels, the jeans that haven’t fitted since 1989.

  Pretty soon, the room was a despairing mound of outdated clothes. I looked at the time and sucked in a frantic breath.

  ‘For the mature woman, it’s all about décolletage.’ Madison stood in the doorway, a ferret squirming in her arms.

  ‘And decorum, Mum,’ said Brad, marching through to the shop. Brad, the expert on decorum. He’d come home last night encrusted with ferret powder.

  ‘Madison?’ I said. ‘Did Taylah mention anything about wives, de factos, that type of thing?’ I held up a short red skirt.

  ‘Terry’s divorced. His wife left him three years ago.’