‘Can I go?’
‘You got to sign it, sorry.’ The Bentleys had been in the area forever. Tim’s father had run a bicycle shop, his mum had been the town florist. Tim Bentley had bought a hardware shop down in Sutton. Nalder was pretty sure Bentley had voted against him at the golf club, at least the first time. Bentley hopped about, checking his watch.
‘I can drive up later, fingerprint the place but there was nothing at the others. You insured?’
‘Yes.’
‘They may not pay out if the door was unlocked.’ Nalder yanked the paper out. ‘Sign here.’
Bentley did as he was told.
‘We’ll keep our eyes out but they are pros by the looks of it. Don’t leave us much to go on.’
When Bentley had gone, Nalder thought to himself, there will be more, definitely more. He tried to return to the form guide but his enthusiasm had waned. Saturday was the day he should be out there on the golf greens putting, not sitting hunched at his kitchen table listening to the ponies. You tried to make something of your life, somebody was always there to block it. He called out to Denham, told him to mind the fort, he was heading out. He strolled down from the station into town and entered the Victoria Tearooms where he ordered a pot of tea and a vanilla slice. It was quiet in here. The only other customers, a woman and a girl, he assumed her daughter, stared out the window without making conversation. Genteel, that’s what it was here. There was almost nothing in the world that a strong pot of tea and a vanilla slice couldn’t put right, even the slight that those who sought his help when the world turned against him did not want him in their club. Rather than sink his spirits, this anomaly buoyed him. When the enemy is at your door, hypocrites, you come running to mine and ask me to defend you. And so he sipped, mildly content.
The ceiling fans in the Victoria were the best in town but even they were struggling with the build-up today. It was going to rain, that was for sure.
You didn’t imagine policemen having tea and cake, thought Kitty, looking at the big sergeant at the other table. Ministers or priests, yes, you imagined them having tea and cake but not say, standing in a pub drinking. She wondered what kind of things the policeman would be thinking about. What he wouldn’t be thinking about was that he had to sit here having tea with his mum because that was the only place he could go now. Yesterday she was at the Olympia malt-bar with Jenny and Leonie having a milkshake when that bitch Brenda had walked in with Todd and she just had to get out of there, like, that minute, or she was going to faint. It was like hot pins and needles through her whole body. Brenda the cat that swallowed the cream, Todd putting on that nice act of his — she knew now that’s all it was, an act. Jenny and Leonie thought it was just because the date hadn’t worked out, that was the lie she had told them, because the funny thing with girls her age was no matter how much they said they loved you and they were your best friend, sometimes if they had some juicy information they just couldn’t keep it to themselves. Kitty knew Jenny too well. She would have been on the phone to everybody: ‘Guess what …’ The only person she trusted was Doreen. So she’d had to get out of there as quick as she could while maintaining a little dignity. She knew what the others were thinking: poor Kitty, she was so over the moon for Todd but he was never going to ditch Brenda. Part of her wanted to correct them but she’d been smart enough to resist and play along, accept their sympathy. Her mother had been talking about something but she had not been listening.
‘What?’
‘The Bentleys were robbed. You think you-know-who would be out looking for the culprits.’
Her mother slid her eyes towards the policeman.
‘The Bentleys have everything that opens and shuts, they deserve to be robbed.’
‘They are very nice people. That’s ridiculous, you are talking like a Communist.’
‘At least they’re fair.’
‘Stealing from everybody who works and giving it to layabouts who wouldn’t work in an iron lung. You think that’s fair?’
It was stupid, juvenile, the whole thing, her mum trying to talk politics and, yes, what she was saying herself. She really didn’t give a rat’s about who had money and who didn’t. She hated politics. She liked JFK, he was good-looking and vibrant and Jackie was glamorous, kind of like Doreen only richer, but Menzies was an old man in a suit who looked like he’d stepped out of a painting where the men had fob watches and the women parasols. The Labor man, she couldn’t remember his name, he was like one of those old blokes you see staggering home from a pub after closing. She hated politics, she hated this town, she hated who she was and where she was, she hated Brenda and she hated Todd but most of all she hated herself.
The thunder started about eleven that night. Lightning flashes began half an hour later as the core of the storm came closer. Kitty slipped out of her bed and changed from her shortie pyjamas into shorts and a top. The ignominy of being found in those pyjamas was too much to contemplate. It was easy to get from her room out the back door and to her bike resting against the back verandah pole. She wheeled her bicycle as quietly as she could along the side-path past her parents’ bedroom. Once out on the street she pedalled steadily towards the golf club. Everybody always said that golfers got hit by lightning because they were in the open space on high ground. There was not a car on the street and the boom of thunder was terrifying. The lightning by now was coming in jagged bolts, making the sky look like a dinner plate cracked down the middle. She reached the back of the golf course, dropped her bike and ran up the incline. Rain had begun falling in big droplets, you could hear it on the piles of fallen gum leaves she passed. She emerged onto the green and walked to its centre where she stood, arms out like a scarecrow. A clap of thunder sounded directly overhead and the whole area was lit ethereal white.
‘Come on, take me,’ she urged the elements and closed her eyes. Take me, take me, take this stupid idiot.
But the next boom was nowhere near as loud as its predecessor and though the crack of lightning was powerful, the area lit was close to a half-mile south. In a whoosh the rain descended and she found herself in wet darkness.
That’s your answer, she thought. The gods don’t deem you worthy. Her tears poured down her cheeks but she couldn’t taste them because of the torrent pounding her.
‘So, you’re all ready?’
Blake had brought the ute to the front of the hospital. Andy was standing dressed carrying a Gladstone bag that contained his possessions.
‘This is it.’
Blake had promised to drive him home. Andy climbed in and sat the bag on his lap. Blake rolled away from the hospital. It had been just over five weeks since he’d been admitted.
‘When can I come back to work?’
‘Don’t rush. How about next week? Give yourself time to get your strength back.’
‘I’m strong now.’
‘Well, I feel responsible. I don’t want anything bad to happen, and I’m paying you.’
It was a pleasant day. The run of storms had finally cleared.
‘Doreen is going to call in on you once you’re settled.’
Andy smiled. Then a shadow crossed his face. ‘How’s Audrey doing?’
‘She’s fine. I’ve been looking out for her.’ The truth was he’d only got the replacement the day before yesterday. He still wasn’t sure the ruse would hold up once Andy was back at work.
‘Doreen said it was a couple of blokes but I don’t remember.’
Blake assured him that was not a problem. The men were most likely miles away by now. ‘They’re not coming back.’
‘They do, they’ll be sorry.’ Andy punched a fist into his palm. ‘I’ve been remembering stuff, you know. Just bits and pieces.’
‘I know. That’s good. The doctor said you’ll probably remember almost everything eventually.’
‘One thing I remembered just this morning as I was about to leave, because there was a man there with a shirt … and it reminded me.’
‘Of what?�
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‘That girl that was killed. I saw her with Crane.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘But I saw her with someone else too, some other bloke.’
Now Blake was totally focused. ‘Who?’
‘I didn’t see his face. They were over near a car and I saw his shirt from the back. It was short-sleeved and had big crabs and crayfish over it.’
Crayfish was what they called lobsters here. He was thinking he had seen that shirt somewhere. At the club maybe?
‘Have you seen that shirt before do you think?’
Andy scrunched up his face, bit his lip. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Do you think you might have seen the guy’s face and just can’t remember?’
‘Maybe but I doubt it. It was the girl I was looking at, you know?’
Valerie Stokes was the kind of woman a young guy like Andy would notice.
Blake wanted to make sure he had this right. He was too excited to think clearly, so he had to repeat everything, straighten it out in his head first. ‘Crabs and crayfish?’ Doreen had come in to do the accounts and found him as he was feeding the fish, just like he’d promised Andy he would.
‘So Andy said. He didn’t see the man’s face but he was certain he was talking to her by the car. You’ve never seen that shirt?’
‘No. But I was busy chasing those wankers that night.’
Doreen had an amazing memory. If somebody had worn the shirt in here when she was present she would have remembered. Perhaps Duck or Panza would recall it, or Crane himself might have got a look at the guy. He’d ring Harvey first thing, let him know. This had to be good for Crane, a witness saying she was talking to some other guy.
‘The problem,’ Harvey said in that measured way of his, ‘is that from what you say, this witness has effectively had brain damage. He can’t recall everything, only bits and pieces. The Crown will play on that. Do you know if it was before or after he saw Crane with the girl that he saw the man in the shirt?’
Blake explained he hadn’t thought to ask that. It was possible Andy wouldn’t know for sure.
‘It’s very important. If she was with the man after talking with Crane, it is much better for us.’
The way Harvey said it, was like he was hinting that should be what Andy remembered. Much as Blake liked Crane though, he didn’t want to put that pressure on Andy. He told Harvey he would check tomorrow and hung up deflated. He would try Duck and Panza, see if they had seen the guy in the shirt. Duck was always sneaking out for a cigarette so there had to be a good chance. They were rehearsing tonight, so he could ask them then.
‘You know I don’t pay much attention to shirts … blouses that’s another matter.’ Duck was fiddling around the jukebox with a new 45 he wanted Blake to hear. ‘And I didn’t see the girl.’
Panza did not recall seeing a shirt like that. Blake couldn’t shake the idea that he had seen one like that somewhere.
‘Maybe back in America,’ said Duck. ‘It’s not like it would be the only one ever.’
Blake was already giving in to that idea. ‘Anyway, are you sure that Beach Bum didn’t do it?’
Sometimes he could imagine putting a neat hole in Duck’s forehead. He shook off that idea because it took him back to the house on Cockatoo Ridge and a world he thought he had escaped.
‘What is this record?’ He asked as much to distract himself as out of curiosity.
‘Last year I was in Sydney and I saw this group on New Faces. They’re instrumental, like us.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Panza.
‘Called The Atlantics. The single is “Moon Man”.’
Blake listened with interest. An Australian group writing and recording their own material was almost unheard of. The track wasn’t special but there was something in the sound, the guitars. He liked it, not enough to cover but it got him thinking, maybe he could actually record those couple of tunes of his.
It was a good rehearsal, nothing but music in his head for an hour or two. It was easy to forget how good it could be here.
It had been a while since she had watched him from her perch on the sand dune. Last week it had been too wet and wild. She asked herself if there was something weird about this. Well it was obviously weird, but was it some psychological condition? It slipped into her mind that sometime in the future there might be a house right here on this block. It would be a shame, her old sand dune no longer there. Maybe this would be a kitchen, kids smeared in Vegemite. Or a bedroom, a couple making love, and perhaps somehow, her spirit from this moment would still be haunting the space, coating it in … what? Longing? Would he still be there opposite, older in slippers, his hair thinner, alone?
She got up and dusted herself off. She did not feel like going home yet. There was nothing there for her except a kettle and a bed. She had girlfriends but they were trending younger as one by one the older ones got engaged or moved. It scared her: that is you in three years. She was making progress saving for a television. That might make things less lonely at home. The golf club would be open. You had to be a member to play but the public could drink there and a pianist plied his trade Wednesdays. It would mean wearing a dress though and that would mean going home to change but at least it was on the way.
There were about a dozen drinkers in the golf club — only one other woman, who was with a man likely her husband because they barely said a word to each other as they sipped gin and tonics and listened to the pianist play ‘Moon River’. She felt the eyes of all the men on her, noted a perceptible but short halt in their murmured conversations about golf or business as she took her stool at the bar. The barmaid she knew as a woman who worked in Gannons. She ordered a brandy and dry. The pianist switched to ‘I’m in the Mood for Love’. She was halfway through her drink when the first man took his chance. He was wearing a suit that looked like it had spent a substantial time in a car. She guessed he worked up near the Heads. Wedding ring said he was married but then the men here all were. He introduced himself as Gary, said he was an accountant, made small talk. Did she live here? Where did she work? She answered politely. He asked if she would like a drink. She was only halfway through the brandy and declined.
‘We should go for a drive,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘You should go for a drive …’ she corrected him, ‘… home.’
He took it well. A man used to plenty of rejection. He placed his empty glass on the counter.
‘Nice meeting you, Doreen.’
The man in the dark suit on her left, whom she had barely noticed because he’d been so quiet, spoke with a mellow voice.
‘Doreen meaning “gift”. From the Greek.’
She felt obliged to say she had never heard that before and asked if he was Greek. He did not look Greek but he must have been fifteen to twenty years older than her and had grey at the temples, which for some reason she associated with European men.
‘No, I’m not Greek,’ he laughed and she enjoyed his smile. ‘Adrian.’
He offered his hand and they shook. ‘My name is from Latin, Adrianus. You know the English Pope was an Adrian?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘When I was a young man,’ he said, ‘I worked at a magazine for a time. One of the things I had to do was a column on names. I’ve never forgotten.’ He ordered himself another whisky and politely gestured whether she wanted another drink. What the heck. She finished her brandy and thanked him. ‘It’s remarkable how something trivial you do in your teens or twenties is marked indelibly on you for the rest of your days. I bet there is something you remember?’
‘My father loves the Melbourne Cup. He used to run off all the names of the winners. I learned from him. Only from nineteen-thirty, mind you, Phar Lap.’ Their drinks arrived.
‘Go on then,’ he urged. She felt foolish but at the same time it was fun to remember being a child.
‘I’ll give it a shot.’ She rattled them off and was going like a storm until 1951 when she hit a blank. At
the last second, the name jumped out at her: ‘Delta!’ From there it was easy an easy run home.
‘I backed the winner of the Melbourne Cup last year,’ Adrian said. ‘It was a complete fluke. When I was at school we had a tyrannical headmaster, Mr Stephens, who was proud of the fact he could deliver the cane with either hand with equal proficiency. We nicknamed him Even Stephens.’
She toasted him and for the first time their eyes met in that other way that men and women seem to register instinctively.
‘Fate,’ he said, ‘is a strange beast.’
The bar was closing. Everybody else except the staff had gone. She wasn’t sure when the piano had stopped. Doreen still didn’t want to face her house alone. She shouldn’t have said it.
‘I’ve got a bottle of Starwine at my place.’
She saw him running through the same scenario in his own mind. He had a wife, almost certainly a family to go home to. His hesitation was like a nick received in battle, it stung but was not fatal; she would recover.
‘I’ll follow you,’ he said.
It did not occur to her until they were actually inside her house — she was far too worried about whether it was too untidy to entertain — that as far as she knew Valerie Stokes’ murderer was still out there, that this ‘Adrian’ could be him. The thought was no sooner through her brain than she felt his hand rest on hers beside the glasses of wine she had just poured. Her heart nearly burst into her mouth and she turned and opened it ready to scream when he gently kissed her on the lips. Crazily, she responded; the brandy and the night and a lone pianist had conspired to bring her to this point and she wanted and needed this moment because this was her house in the here and now, her body, her blood, she was not just some phantom spirit who had once sat on a dune where the house now stood, longing for connection.
Blake was at the back of the bar washing his ute, Edward doing a good job with the chamois, when Nalder drove in. Blake had not told Nalder yet about the man in the shirt. He was thinking that could backfire. Until he could identify the man, all the police would do was what Harvey had said — concentrate on Crane being with the girl, saying Andy’s memory was messed up. So what was Nalder up to? He looked serious as he got out, put on his hat and walked over carrying something in a bag.
River of Salt Page 16
