A bigger question remained over someone named Douglas Balfour, the man who had received the huge payment just prior to Harry Colston’s death. It smelt rotten, even from a distance.
Cole entered the State Bank and sat down with the bank manager.
He said to Rowlands, ‘You mentioned a large payment of nearly ten thousand dollars Harry Colston made to one Douglas Balfour just before his death. Can you have a look at it and tell me who opened the account? Can you also give me his contact details, please?’
Rowland went out of his office and through its glass window Cole saw him rummaging through first one filing cabinet, and then another, before pulling a teller aside and showing her the contents of a particular file. From their puzzled expressions, and the teller’s obvious distancing herself of it, Cole knew he wasn’t going to receive much joy there.
‘It looks like all the right procedures weren’t followed,’ Rowlands frowned immediately he closed the door behind him again. ‘I’ll need to check but it looks like we may have been given a false name and address. The Balfour account was opened six months ago but the teller who created it remembers nothing about it. Or at least she doesn’t at the moment. Besides that ten thousand dollars going in, there has been only one other transaction in that account.’
‘Let me take a stab at what that might have been,’ Cole said. ‘Ten thousand dollars taken out?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘If your teller remembers anything, let me know, won’t you?’ Cole said.
A dead-end then, Cole thought. But what had that money been for? A gambling pay-off to Bob Fry? A one-off for another piece of horseflesh? Whatever it was, Colston was still staring down the barrel of more Tax Department payments, not to mention his other debts. Was he perhaps secreting his money away as rainy day insurance? For a man who had already endured severe financial storms, it might have been his last attempt at protecting himself. It might also have meant his final undoing.
Harry Colston had been sinking. There had been long-held friction between the Colston and Kinross families. Before he died John Colston had complained of being inexplicably ill. In his younger years he had probably had an affair with Elsa Kinross. Bill Kinross had made him pay for it, the story went. But how? A proud man who didn’t like being humiliated, Kinross had also punished his wife, a long drawn-out punishment he was probably still savouring. He might have also been responsible for the death of his brother in law. His daughter then had forged a relationship with Colston’s son before John Colston put an end to it. The two families were like entwined snakes swallowing each other.
Bob Fry and his sidekicks. The opportunist Bramleys. The Guineys, Agostinis and the Bigelows of this world had all made the most of a sad situation. The more Cole thought about it, the more he thought poor Harry Colston never had a chance. Once his father had gone there was no longer anyone to protect him, and his brothers and sister either didn’t care or were unaware of how dire his situation was, or understood it far too late.
Cole realised, too, that he was now pursuing the cause of the Colstons’ deaths almost entirely on his own. At what point had he decided to do that? The station staff were capable, there was no question of that, so why hadn’t he engaged them more? Was it trust that worried him? The talk, the gossip, the information that shouldn’t be discussed, the risk that the fish would slip the hook just as it was being pulled from the water? Or was it those still-unheard voices from the past making him hold his reserve? What had Robyn Kinross said, All those voices whistling down the wire?
And if he didn’t entirely trust Senior Constable Sheridan now, when at the outset he had been so impressed with her, why was that? She assessed a situation quickly, she asked good questions, she was affable with the station personnel, and she was smart enough to see through a problem faster than most. But when he had just yesterday witnessed the collusion between her and Linda Fantasio, the blurring of the lines, and the eruption afterwards with Ken Bramley that would have been a continuation of it, he knew why he couldn’t trust her.
Sheridan’s heart was ruling her head.
Chapter 30
Barry Jennings lived in a clapped-out house in a clapped-out street patrolled by skinny cats and bored children on the lookout for a diversion. It was a worn, dusty-looking thoroughfare even in winter, its yards almost entirely barren of plants or attempts at decoration save the rubbly remains of a distant cement pond craze and cars jacked up on cinder blocks. There were no fly screens on windows. Cement sheeting walls cracked and tin rooves rusted while television aerials leant out precariously from chimneys. Police vehicles weren’t uncommon here, and the arrival of Cole’s car drew no more attention than would a plumber’s van.
When he knocked at the Jennings’ door it was answered by a youngster about eight with a closely-shaven head, who without any trace of hesitation took Cole inside the house where he was immediately surrounded by four other children sporting the same haircut.
A weary-looking woman appeared at the same time with a wet dishrag in her hand; she, too, was unsurprised at suddenly seeing a policeman in her house.
‘Which one of ‘em do yer wanter see?’ she asked tiredly.
‘None, actually, Mrs Jennings. It’s Barry I was hoping to talk to.’
‘Well there’s a surprise,’ she said. ‘I thought one of these little buggers must’ve been pinching stuff from the milk bar again.’
‘No, there’s no problem there,’ Cole said, all the children eyeing him eagerly, as if he might empty his pockets of sweets at any second.
‘If yer wonderin’ about their heads, it’s the nits,’ she said matter of factly. ‘Easier ‘n cheaper ter just cut it all off.’
‘Makes sense,’ Cole agreed. ‘Mrs Jennings, if you could round up Barry for me that’d be good.’
‘No worries,’ she said and shouted for her husband at the top of her lungs. ‘You little buggers come with me,’ she ordered.
As Cole waited he took in what he could see of the lounge room through an open door: bare boards with no rugs or carpets, the most basic sticks of furniture, nothing on the walls, and rod and rings barely keeping hold of tattered, green curtains. They were all at odds with the brand new television sitting proudly on an expensive stand.
Jennings appeared, fresh from the shower or bath. He was like his brother but a neater version, being reasonably well-dressed, fitter and more bright-eyed. The only odd note about him was the large dark bruise on the side of his face. He, at least, wasn’t expecting to see a police uniform in his house and he stared at Cole suspiciously as the latter introduced himself.
‘I want to talk about Harry Colston,’ Cole told him. ‘Have you got a minute?’
‘A couple,’ he answered. ‘I’ve gotta be out soon.’
‘I won’t keep you any longer than I have to then,’ Cole said. ‘You’re share-farming at Hilltop, I take it? Is that right?’
‘Just doing the milkin’. Nothin’ else,’ he answered.
‘What’s the arrangement now? I guess you’re still being paid?’
‘I hope so. Someone said I need to see the fuckun solicitor now to get my dough.’
‘Have you seen him yet?’
‘Not yet. But I’m gonna see him alright.’
Cole saw him trying to figure out where this talk might be going.
‘Who gave you the milking job, Barry? And when was that?’
‘Probably a year ago? Somethin’ like that. Why?’
‘I’m just trying to work out who’s been around the property lately, that’s all. Did Harry hire you?’
‘Yeah. He could milk himself but he wasn’t very interested. I needed the brass. You seen my kids?’
‘I did. Nice bunch of kids. Did you talk to Harry much, about things other than milking and the herd?’
‘Sometimes. The footy. Cricket. Fishin’ and shit.’
‘Did you know he was in financial trouble?’
‘Someone been pinchin’ stuff, have they?’
‘Maybe. But did you know?’
Jennings put his hand through his wet, curly hair and looked down the front of his shirt.
‘He never talked to me about none of that. It was nothin’ to do with me. And I never took nothin’.’
‘You and Harry used to play cricket together didn’t you? I saw the 1961 premiership photo up in the pub the other day.’
‘Same as Wayne did. What’s that gotta do with the price of eggs?’
‘You two go back a bit, that’s all. You knew each other pretty well way before you started working at Harry’s farm.’
‘That’s why he put me on. He trusted me, Harry did.’
‘And is that why he had you witness his will?’
There was a slight jerk of Jennings’ body.
‘I might’ve. Can’t really remember.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Am I gonna get somethin’ am I?’
‘No, you’re not. But you did sign that will. I’ve got it on my desk at the station and it’s got your name on it as the witness. I suppose you were handy, and Harry didn’t need to go into town to have someone else witness it, was that it?’
‘I reckon that’s it.’
‘Harry’s wife. Dianne. Did she ever write a will, do you know? Did you ever witness her will, Barry?’
‘If she had one, I didn’t know. Nothin’ to do with me,’ he shrugged.
‘Did you talk to her a bit?’
He shrugged again. ‘Sometimes. If she came to the dairy to get some milk.’
‘Did she ever talk about Harry?’
‘Not much.’
Cole swept a look around the room.
‘Looks like you’re doing it hard at the moment, Barry, though that’s a nice TV set you’ve got in there,’ Cole said. ‘But you could do with some more furniture by the look of it. Are you short of money?’
Jennings, too, took in the room.
‘Five kids, who wouldn’t be? That’s why I gotta see that solicitor bloke, make sure he doesn’t welsh on me.’
‘Do you have anything to do with your brother’s business?’
‘What business?’
‘Laying bets for Bob Fry. I know you and your brother are pretty close, so you’d know what he does for Bob.’
‘What Wayne does is his own business, I reckon.’
‘Yes, well you could be right, but have you ever joined him in doing a bit of work for Bob?’ Cole said.
‘Him? Nah, never.’
‘Did you happen to see Harry or Dianne the day they were killed?’
‘Nah, I never go to the house. Just do my job and shoot through.’
‘You didn’t see anything that day?’
‘Just the lights on at the house when I got to the shed, nothin’ else.’
‘How did you find out the Colstons had died?’
‘Me brother. He phoned to tell me when I couldn’t get up the driveway the next day.’
‘And you got the keys to the gate then from Mrs Fantasio?’
‘It was the only way I could get in.’
‘Okay, thanks then Barry. I’d better let you go as you’ve got things to do. I appreciate your time. I’ll probably catch up with you again. Maybe soon.’ He started to leave. ‘By the way, what have you done to your face? Been in a scrap?’
Jennings felt it gingerly.
‘Down at the pub. It was nothin’,’ he said.
Cole said goodbye to Jennings’ wife and started his car for the drive out to Hilltop. He was keen to see the property again, and to speak with Martin Bigelow about his signing of the second will.
He let his eyes wander over the edge of town and then the bare fruit trees and green paddocks he drove by. He always liked driving. It gave him space to think, and to ponder on the difference between truth and lies.
He pushed on.
The look in Nancy’s eyes when he’d left the Bridges’ house last night came to him. It had been a look of abandonment. They both knew home wasn’t safe until whoever had shot at their house had been caught, but when she’d walked out to the car with him she’d said, ‘It isn’t going to be like this all the time, is it?’
She meant their separation. Their drifting apart, and her drinking and his gambling were wedges between them. They’d tried to tone down her drinking – the doctor’s visits, the excursions to Melbourne, the efforts at having more contact with their children, tennis, playing cards with friends, all the things they’d done together in happier times, but it was mostly to no avail.
The dream of getting back his parents’ house in town. It was a rental property now with talk of it coming up for sale. But they’d buy it with what? He realised with shame that he’d been harsh and unhappy with Nancy about her drinking, when she had never once castigated him about his betting. The truth was, they’d never have the old house, or indeed any other house to move to because of the money he’d squandered. But it was never too late, he thought. Never too late.
He gripped the steering wheel and stared at the passing countryside. Wasn’t it time now, for him as much as her?
When he reached Hilltop he pulled the car over to the side of Doherty Road and turned off the engine.
The wrought iron gates with their peacocks were padlocked shut. Cole got out of his car and slipped through the wire-strand fence beside the gate. He walked leisurely to the house. The first time he’d been here it was pitch-black and wet, the accident scene alive in his head. In this his second visit in daylight everything again looked different, from the cream brick milking shed to the hayshed down to its last handful of bales, to the paddocks beginning to sprout serrated tussock, to Hilltop’s last bastion, the house, on its island of green. Even here, the lawn was beginning to creep over the edges of the driveway and paths, with capeweed and onion grass also staking claims.
There was no one about. The window he’d broken beside the laundry had been replaced when he went to look. The curtains were drawn throughout the house except for a gap between them in the lounge, through which he saw open cardboard boxes on the floor in the middle of the room. It looked exactly as if a household was preparing to move, a white bed sheet spread and taped over the couch. The will frozen or not, a house being readied for sale was the only conclusion he could reach.
Linda Fantasio had already cleared the farm’s files, but at least they were in his possession, albeit temporarily. No doubt Fantasio was working her way through the rest of the house sorting, packing and throwing away. He wouldn’t have to muse too long on the fate of all that had belonged to Harry’s wife.
Cole completed another circuit of the house, estimating the distance to Bigelow’s house, which was probably half a mile at most. Returning along the driveway to his car he walked the tight loop off the drive that allowed milk tankers access to the dairy. Inside the milking shed, the cement floor was still wet from the morning’s milking. The milk vat had been pumped out but not flushed clean when he looked. Jennings taking short cuts. Glancing back at the house, he realised it would have been only shouting distance from here to there.
He slipped back through the fence and got into his car, barely having time to get it into third gear before he was on Bigelow’s property. This time the Bigelows were inside having a cup of tea and slice of fruit cake. He declined the offer of a cup for himself.
Bigelow seemed to have tired of his visits, however. He was hunched over the table, more attentive to the cake being dunked into his tea than to his visitor.
‘What this time?’ he asked, barely looking at Cole.
‘Who asked you to witness Harry Colston’s will, Mr Bigelow?’
‘Who was it?’ He pondered a dripping piece of cake before popping it into his mouth, munching it down before saying, ‘I didn’t think much about it. It was just
an ordinary thing. I can’t even remember.’
‘Wasn’t it that fellow who came over?’ his wife thought, sipping at her tea.
‘Oh, him,’ it came to Bigelow. ‘Yes. It was Dianne’s old man who asked me to do it.’
‘Ken Bramley?’
‘Him.’
‘Why would he have asked you to witness Harry Colston’s will?’
Bigelow went to dunk another mouthful before resting the cake on the edge of his saucer instead.
‘I don’t know. Ask him. But the Bramleys were often about the place, so I didn’t think anything of it. He just said could I do Dianne a favour please and sign this bit of paper because she was busy with something. He didn’t know what it was. I didn’t care.’
‘He’s a bit of a knockabout fellow, isn’t he, that Bramley?’ Mrs Bigelow said to Cole.
‘That he is,’ Cole answered. ‘Did Harry or Dianne ever mention the will to you? Or thank you for witnessing it?’
‘Not that I can recall,’ Bigelow answered. ‘Jean?’
‘No, those people weren’t in the habit of being polite,’ she said. ‘If our cars passed in the road they didn’t even wave.’
‘It takes all sorts,’ Cole said. ‘So there was no acknowledgement of you signing the will at all?’
The farmer gruffly answered, ‘No’ and went back to his cake.
Chapter 31
Christine Sheridan stared out her window at nothing in particular. It wasn’t raining yet, but the way she felt it should have been. She lifted her eyes to grey clouds. It had been like this since yesterday when she had been sent home in disgrace, a tribal banishment that had everyone at the station silently watching her as though she was leaving for ten long years in the wilderness. No one had offered to stop her. No one offered to help.
She’d barely slept last night, tossing and turning to check her watch by torchlight as the minutes dragged into hours as night dragged into day. She woke feeling worse than she had the night before. After a miserable breakfast of cold toast and weak tea she began to debate whether she should telephone Linda or not, but the fear of a snub meant she kept her distance from the phone, regarding it like an enemy while waiting fretfully for a call that was unlikely to come.
Whistle Down The Wire Page 20