by Pamela Hart
‘I thought that was laundry night?’ I asked, exasperated.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We do our laundry together on Wednesdays.’
Now if I’d known that I’d never have gone out with Stuart in the first place. The image of them ritually washing clothes and watching TV together was creeping me out.
So. Carter. Or Winchester? No, surely not, especially if Rick’s gaydar was right. But I’d better check.
‘Not the old guy? The pastor?’
‘No, no.’ Paul shook his head. ‘Not him. The other one.’
That was a relief.
‘She met the old guy a few times, but it was in a café,’ he added.
‘Amos Winchester?’
‘The pastor guy.’
So she might not have been sleeping with Amos, but she could have been blackmailing him. ‘Can I tell Detective Prudhomme this, Paul?’
‘Don’t mention me!’
‘All right. I’ll just say a source told me that Julieanne was having an affair with Carter.’
‘With the guy from the church,’ he amended. ‘I don’t know his name.’
Bloody curators. They need every i to be dotted and t crossed.
‘The guy from the church,’ I agreed. ‘And that she met with Winchester.’ Although that could have been purely party related.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I suppose,’ he said. He looked straight into my eyes, and I could see that he was haunted. ‘I know she was … not a good person. But we were close. I miss her.’
What could I say? I just nodded and stood there silently while he left.
Then I rang Chloe. She wanted to know my source, of course, but we got that out of the way and I repeated Paul’s information word for word.
‘A guy from the church who was in that story you did for The Daily Report,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘And not Winchester,’ I added. ‘I checked that.’
‘God, I should hope not!’ she said, then coughed to cover the lapse in correct form.
‘She did meet Winchester several times, apparently, but only in a café.’
Chloe dismissed that. ‘Probably just preselection business.’
Should I tell her Rick’s assessment of the pastor? Something in me just refused to believe he was a killer. Despite the fact that I hated everything he preached. But because I hesitated, the moment was lost.
‘Getting into a car clandestinely …’ Chloe mused.
‘Is it enough to ask for a DNA sample from Carter?’ I asked hopefully.
‘I doubt it. Anonymous tip-offs rarely convince a magistrate to issue a warrant.’
‘You could just ask.’
‘Mmm. Why are you being so helpful?’
‘Because a couple of days ago you thought I did it. Another suspect sounds like a great idea to me. Especially Carter.’
She laughed. ‘You really don’t like him, huh?’
‘He believes in submissive wives,’ I said.
There was a short silence on the other end. ‘Fair enough.’
She hung up. Not only no goodbye, no thanks either. But I was feeling much more cheerful. Chloe would arrest Carter—break that alibi of his, maybe—and the investigation would be over. Now, if we could just get the council to lift the heritage ban, I could get back to concentrating on my house. I badly wanted to call the electricians, but I didn’t want to jinx the council meeting. All right, it was irrational, but better safe than sorry.
Out of nowhere, I was hit by a feeling that things were never going to go back to normal. That I’d never get my house finished. That I’d end up living forever at my parents, with my ex-boyfriend doing laundry with his school friend and my potential boyfriend digging up walls in Jordan while I never had sex again.
I went over to Jennifer Jay’s desk.
‘I think I’ll take tomorrow off in lieu of that day I had to work for Tyler,’ I said.
She looked me over and patted me on the arm, a thing she’d never done before. ‘Good idea. You look like shit.’
Which about summed it up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Friday
I spent a curiously soothing morning looking at kitchens. The kitchen-to-be in my house was small, which meant that proper planning was essential. That being so, my sister Theresa came with Mum and me. Theresa is my oldest sister, a solicitor, and an extremely organised person. She’d just renovated her kitchen, so she was full of experience and good advice. And questions.
‘What’s Matthew Carter like?’
‘Smooth,’ I said, opening soft-close drawers and letting them slide shut again. Easy to use, but expensive, and with all the mechanisms hidden. A bit like Carter.
‘They’re doing great work,’ Theresa said.
‘The church, she means, not the party,’ Mum added, checking out a particularly clever corner cupboard that unfolded like a concertina.
‘Radiant Joy?’
Theresa bridled at my tone. ‘What’s wrong with them?’
Oh dear. I should have known Theresa would like Radiant Joy. She is very conservative. More so even than Mum and Dad, although they wouldn’t admit that.
‘Prosperity gospel? I know you don’t believe in that.’
‘That’s not all they believe in. At least they don’t allow same-sex marriages!’
I just looked at her. We’d had that fight too many times before; I wasn’t going to engage in it again, especially with Mum looking at me pleadingly from the other side of the display counter. Theresa huffed, and changed tack.
‘They’re getting all the young people in, and that’s more than you can say for the Catholics!’
‘That’s true,’ I admitted, and her ruffled feathers settled down. It was true, which made it all the more depressing. I’ve had lots of practice at deflecting arguments with Theresa, so I said, ‘What do you think about induction cooktops?’
While Theresa went around gathering up brochures, my mother slid her arm through mine. ‘She means well,’ she said.
‘She’s a homophobic right-wing nutjob, Mum.’
Mum laughed as though I were joking and, reluctantly, I smiled.
‘She just feels things very strongly.’
‘I wish she’d pick her enthusiasms a bit more carefully.’
‘Try to get along. She wants to be helpful.’
Which was true. Theresa loved being helpful.
We pondered pantries, benchtops, cupboards, deep drawers, narrow drawers, splashbacks and sinks, and then moved on to ovens, cooktops and grillers. Did I mention I like to cook? I wanted marble for the benchtop for when I made pastry. It was too expensive. Everything was too expensive.
‘If you need a loan …’ Theresa said quietly, while Mum was checking out the engineered-stone benchtops. This is why I can’t stay cross at her. She’s so kind.
‘Thanks, but I’d rather not get into any more debt. The ABC doesn’t pay me enough!’
‘You should get a proper job. With your research skills, you could walk into any law firm in the country and be earning twice what you’re getting!’
‘But would they let me get up at six o’clock in the morning to ride the roller coaster at Luna Park?’ I grinned at her, and she reluctantly laughed.
‘You’ll never get Poppy to commit to nine to five,’ Mum said over our shoulders. ‘She always hated routine, even as a baby. I could never predict when she’d need a feed. Or do a poo. Not like you, Theresa. You were as regular as clockwork.’
Nothing like family, right? At least she hadn’t said that in front of Tol.
Theresa went home and Mum and I rewarded ourselves with decadent hot chocolates and macarons at a nearby café.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mum asked.
I realised that I’d been silently stirring my marshmallow into my hot chocolate for so long it had completely melted. ‘Julieanne is dead. Someone I know, or at least have met, probably murdered her in my house. My renovations are stalled for who knows how long, and … Do
you think that someone can be happy if they deny who they are?’ I was still tussling with the enigma of Amos Winchester.
Mum sat back and went a little white. ‘Oh my lord. Is this your coming out speech?’
‘What? No! What?’
She went boneless. ‘Oh, thank God. We’ve been worried.’
‘I have a boyfriend!’ My family are insane. I swear, they’re insane. Or maybe this was what you got if you concealed your love life from them.
‘But you’re almost thirty and you’re not married, and you must admit, it was a while before Stuart. And Stuart … there’s not much spark there, is there?’
Spark. It always astonishes me that my mother puts so much stress on sex as the basis for a relationship. Tells me more than I need to know about why she and Dad got married.
‘I’m not a lesbian, Mum.’
‘Well, then …’ She settled more comfortably in her chair, as if she hadn’t just pole-axed me. ‘Who were you talking about?’
‘This is in confidence.’
‘Of course.’ Her curiosity was up now, but I had to be sure.
‘Including Mary.’
‘Oh, all right.’
‘It’s about Amos Winchester.’ I took a sip of hot chocolate and watched her face carefully.
‘Oh, no!’ She looked very distressed. ‘He isn’t!’ Her reaction would reflect that of anyone in the pastor’s church. This was what he was risking.
‘A friend suspects that he is. A gay friend. But he’s never made a move or anything.’
‘So it’s just a nasty rumour!’ Mum, when she’s on the defensive, ruffles up like a hen and pecks. ‘Someone’s trying to bring him down because of all the good work he does. Because he condemns those unnatural practices!’
‘No. Amos Winchester has never said that homosexuality is wrong.’
She opened her mouth and then closed it again. ‘That’s odd.’ She pondered it for a while. ‘That’s very odd.’ Pursing her lips, she shook her head with pity. ‘Poor man. But he doesn’t … practise himself, you say?’
‘Not as far as we know. And he says not. He says, “Not once.”’
‘You asked him? For Heaven’s sake, Poppy, you can’t go around asking men like Amos Winchester if they’re gay!’
‘Why not?’ In that moment, I felt the gulf between us. I loved her to bits, but we shared almost no beliefs or opinions. Her God and mine were a long way apart.
‘The church says that, as long as they don’t do anything, gay people are welcome in Heaven. As long as they don’t sin.’ Her tone was hopeful. Winchester could sit at God’s right hand, just like all the straights. So long as he never loved anyone.
‘Good news for Amos,’ I said, and sighed. ‘Let’s go.’
At home, I found that Tol still hadn’t emailed me the report for that night’s council meeting. I rang him.
He sounded harassed. ‘I’ll meet you at Graciella’s,’ he said, and hung up.
I considered writing to the newspaper about the decline of modern manners, but settled for putting on a nicer top and a skirt. It wasn’t for Tol—if the report took too long to finish, we might have to go straight on to the council meeting, and I knew how important appearances could be for politicians, even local ones.
But I admit the lipstick was for Tol.
He didn’t notice, of course. They never do when you want them to, unless your neckline is down around your waist. He was typing on a laptop and sipping—uh oh—an espresso. If he needed that much caffeine, things were bad.
I sat down opposite him and waited.
‘There,’ he said. He spun the laptop around so I could read the report. It was full of technical information. Very impressive. But the councillors would only understand one word in three.
‘If you’ll permit me,’ I said. I typed in, right at the start, Conclusion: There is no evidence of fat-tailed sheep at the site. The site is not of historical significance.
I spun the laptop back to him and he read it. His brows contracted and I felt absurdly nervous. So many men hated being corrected in any way. Then his face relaxed and he laughed, so I saved the document to my dropbox.
‘You don’t think the mayor will get the gist?’
‘Fozina warned me to keep it simple.’
He leant back in his chair and let out a long breath. ‘Fair enough.’ He took a sip from his espresso as if it were his lifeblood, his long fingers curling around the tiny cup.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Didn’t get much sleep.’ He stretched. ‘I was up late talking to the director at the institute in Jordan. The time difference is a real bitch.’
Ah. Walls. ‘You’ll be leaving soon, then?’
He shrugged. ‘About six weeks. They’ve had to pay out long-service leave for the woman who’s leaving and they can’t afford to bring me on until that’s over. Archaeology’s always run on a shoestring. So I’ve told Annie I’ll stay until she can find a replacement for Julieanne. If that’s earlier than six weeks, I’ve got some contract work in London.’
Six weeks. Long enough for a fling, but I didn’t want a fling.
‘You’re very serious,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
I found I couldn’t withhold information from him. ‘Paul Baume followed Julieanne and saw “the guy from the church” get into her car several times and go off with her.’
His eyes grew intent. ‘Carter?’
‘Who else?’
‘I thought he had an alibi.’
‘Alibis can be broken.’
He sat back and tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s not the only one with a stake in keeping the relationship quiet. Can you imagine what it would do to the party to have it made public? Religious MP gets preselection candidate pregnant? Twitter would go crazy.’
‘That opens up the suspect list pretty wide.’
‘Well, that’s Detective Chloe’s job.’ I was startled to hear him use my private name for her. ‘At least she won’t be looking at us any more.’
‘I don’t think she’s crossed anyone off the list.’
He finished his espresso. ‘I need another coffee. Do you want one?’
We spent an hour or so just talking. He told me about Jordan, I told him about the ABC. It was pretty low-key; neither of us felt like making jokes or being too lively. But I relaxed for the first time in days.
We arranged to meet at the council, then I went home and printed out eleven copies of Tol’s report.
I was at the council chambers in plenty of time, but Tol was nowhere to be seen. I spent a jittery hour waiting in the public section until my case was called, but there was no sign of him. When they finally called me, I presented the report and drew the council’s attention to the conclusion.
The mayor was a middle-aged matron who, I remembered from the election, had used her Italian descent to tap into community support. She had that reddish-gold hair you get in the north of Italy, and her clothes undoubtedly came from Milan via the expensive shops in Leichhardt Plaza. She listened to my report with barely concealed scepticism, and I wondered if she was one of those women who secretly despise other women.
One of the male councillors, a fussy-looking man with a brown cardigan, tapped his finger on the report. ‘They found sheep,’ he said accusingly.
‘The sheep they found were much later than the archaeologist suspected,’ I said. ‘And of a number of different breeds, but not fat-tailed sheep, which was what she was interested in.’
‘Hmm.’ He whispered something to the woman next to him, and they glared at me suspiciously. ‘But there must have been something there.’
‘They think it was a butcher’s,’ I said. What the hell. If Tol did turn up, that’s what he’d say. I deliberately used the word ‘butcher’s’, though, instead of slaughterhouse, because it sounded much less interesting or historical and there was a reporter from the local paper slouched on one of the chairs looking bored. Which was also why I hadn’t used Julieanne�
��s name. The last thing I wanted was an article headlined ‘Murder in the slaughterhouse’.
‘I’d like to hear from the archaeologist herself,’ the mayor said in a dissatisfied voice. ‘Why isn’t she here?’
‘Um … I’m afraid she’s passed on,’ I said in a hushed tone. The mayor blinked and flushed a little, embarrassed. ‘Another archaeologist from the museum wrote up the findings for the council.’
Cardigan man checked the report. ‘Dr Lang?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get him in. We’ll hear from him at the next meeting.’
‘That’s a month away!’ I protested. ‘The report is quite clear.’
‘I’m not prepared to sign away part of our local heritage if the archaeologist concerned isn’t willing to report in person. Some respect for the traditions of this area—one of the oldest in Sydney …’
He was off on a lecture and it was clear the other councillors tuned out immediately, leaning back in their seats or doodling on their notepads. They’d heard it all before.
‘Let’s put it to a vote, then,’ the mayor interrupted when cardigan man paused to draw breath. They voted to wait until Tol could report in person.
My little house was doomed. In a month, Tol could be in London.
I left the council chambers fuming with anger—at brown cardigan man, at the mayor for not standing up to him, but mostly at Tol for failing to show up.
Bastard.
How could he?
I stood in the parking lot and fought the tears that surged to the surface. It wasn’t fair. It really, really wasn’t fair. I felt like he’d betrayed me. Not just let me down, but stabbed me in the back. He knew how important this was!
One of the things I most hate about myself is that I cry when I get angry—as though all the emotion is just too much and it has to come out. I hate it because when I get into an argument and start to cry it makes me seem weak. Girly. The problem is, I have a very bad temper and I have learnt to keep it under control—but the fight to do that is what generates the tears. So I have a choice of crying or hitting someone. Right then I’d gladly have hit Tol.
My mind flashed to Julieanne. Is this what the person who’d killed her had felt? This urge to smash whoever was closest—whoever had caused the distress?