The Way It Is Now

by Garry Disher

  ‘Before I go,’ he said, ‘could I ask about the last few days and weeks you were renting from my mother?’

  ‘Sure. Don’t know what I can tell you, but.’

  ‘Was she seeing anyone?’

  ‘Anyone like a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. Or anyone she spent time with.’

  A shrug. ‘Me and her went our separate ways, really.’

  ‘Anyone, man or woman, friend or otherwise. Anyone you heard her on the phone to.’

  ‘I wasn’t there that long. Started renting…what? A week or two before Christmas? She went to a couple of school break-up sessions in the pub, I think.’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘Just chatting, you know.’

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Anyone come to see her at the house?’

  Lambert grew guarded. ‘Couple of teacher mates.’

  ‘Do you remember their names?’

  ‘Sharon…no, Karen something. And a bloke, once, after Christmas.’

  ‘A bloke.’

  ‘Mate, I don’t know. It was her life, and it was a bloody long time ago.’

  ‘But a bloke.’

  ‘Yeah, I said.’ Lambert was testy now. ‘One of the teachers, I think. I don’t think she wanted him there.’

  ‘Okay. You said you couch-surfed with some mates after you left?’

  The watery eyes went flat, and Charlie saw the Lambert of twenty years ago: the powerful ease of him, a man unimpressed, as he’d stood in the road and stared at the Deravin boys. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘I know where you’re going with this. I grew up in foster care. I never got close to no one. Never hung around with no one would do what you’re thinking.’

  Maeve Frome set her empty beer can down with a sharp metallic this-interview-is-finished slap.

  18

  TO SHAKE OFF his feelings of uselessness, Charlie kicked a garden edging stone when he got home, then a weed clump, then decided to trim the side hedge. The satisfying snap of the blades, the tendrils falling victim at his feet.

  Mrs Ehrlich leaned over and said, ‘Didn’t know you had a green thumb.’

  Charlie peered at her through the hedge. ‘I don’t. My approach is strictly slash and burn.’ He paused. ‘My mother was the cultivator.’

  ‘That she was,’ Mrs Ehrlich said. She paused. ‘Actually, Charlie, if you’re so keen on slashing and burning, the Foreshore Preservation mob’s having a working bee on Sunday.’

  Anna was coming down on Saturday. ‘I might be busy…’

  ‘She can help us, too,’ said Mrs Ehrlich—the witch.

  Late Sunday morning saw Charlie and Anna on the clifftop overlooking the sea with a dozen other volunteers, planting indigenous grasses, ripping out weeds. Weeds: that was a laugh. As Mrs Ehrlich said, they were toiling away beneath a stand of pine trees, the biggest, most prevalent weed on the Peninsula.

  Charlie reached his trowel to the base of a flourishing bit of grass. Hesitated and said, ‘This?’

  ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,’ Mrs Ehrlich said. ‘A weed. It can go.’

  Anna, on the other side of her, shot him a grin. Affecting nonchalance, he dug out the weed, shook the dirt from the roots, tossed it into the barrow, then bent and dug and pulled again in the calm, filtered light, an eye open for snakes. He’d never seen one up here on the cliff, but some of the others had. His back ached. He wanted to be out on the water, he wanted to be in Anna’s arms, and he wasn’t at first aware that Mrs Ehrlich had said something about a cavalcade of police cars.

  He rocked back on his heels. ‘Say that again?’

  ‘At least a dozen of them,’ she said. ‘One after the other.’

  ‘Going through Balinoe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  She looked at him oddly: pay attention, Charles. ‘Mid-morning. I was doing a shop before I came here.’

  ‘Did you see where they were going?’

  ‘Not really. I was trying to turn into the Ritchies carpark and had to pull into the dentist’s driveway to let them through.’

  ‘Sirens?’

  Mrs Ehrlich shook her head and stood to swipe at a tendril of damp hair with the back of her wrist. It was going to be a hot day. Her bony knees were grubby pale orbs under the cuffs of baggy khaki shorts. ‘They weren’t all police cars. Two had crime scene written on the side.’

  Meth lab? Charlie stood to ease the strain in his back. Out there, glimpsed through the bushes and trees, breakers were rolling. Perfect surfing conditions, according to his phone app. Perfect making love conditions. He looked across at Anna, who was weeding efficiently, effortlessly.

  He pointed. ‘What about that one, Mrs E?’

  ‘It’s indigenous, Charles, you may safely leave it in the ground.’

  He pointed at a tiny blackberry plant. ‘That one?’

  She gave him a look his daughter often gave him: he wasn’t as funny as he thought he was.

  They wound up at noon, went home and ate lunch in the shade. Then Charlie suggested a swim.

  ‘Sounds good,’ Anna said.

  ‘I’ll check tide times.’ Charlie swiped at his phone.

  Good: the tide was pretty high. He checked his emails. There was only one, from the police credit union. Finally the news feed.

  Skeletal remains found during excavation work at an address in Swanage.

  19

  THOSE POLICE CARS.

  Charlie’s first thought: Mum. The remains were skeletal, but if her teeth were intact and DNA could be extracted from the bones…

  Notify Dad and Fay, he thought. Tell Liam.

  Charlie was clenched. He didn’t know enough. He didn’t know what his next step should be. And no reason to assume it was his mother, given that her car had been abandoned over in Tooradin.

  Anna cut in on his thoughts. ‘Charlie?’

  He looked up, his mind still racing. Something in his face alarmed her. She reached her hand to his, then jerked back, swearing. ‘Splinter!’

  He watched her pick and dig at her thumb with the fingernails of her other hand. He watched her bite the flesh. She was a stranger at that moment, remote from him. She said, ‘Charlie! Stop it, you’re scaring me.’

  Charlie shook himself. ‘Sorry. Did you get it out?’

  She peered at her thumb again. ‘All good. What’s the matter?’

  Charlie passed her his phone. ‘I think they’ve found my mother.’

  ‘Alive?’ she said, tapping to wake the screen. ‘Sorry, stupid question.’

  She narrowed her eyes and swiped up and said, ‘Quote: “declared a crime scene.”’

  Makes sense, thought Charlie. A body buried is suspicious enough. And maybe there were suspicious injuries: broken hyoid bone, crushed skull, evidence of knife or bullet trauma.

  He felt Anna’s hand slide into his. The world came back to him: the sounds and smells of the sea; the birds; the coins of sunlight on the tabletop and Alby tinkering with his ute again. These were the sounds of Charlie’s life as he thought about death. First, the remains would have to be identified. An autopsy to determine the probable cause and time of death. A check of the property records, missing persons files. Doorknock the neighbourhood.

  ‘Earth to Charlie, you’re zoning out again.’

  He blinked. ‘Sorry.’

  He realised Anna was kneading his knuckles with her thumb. He checked his phone again—this time they had video.

  His mother’s street.

  He double-checked. The camera panned: a sign—Longstaff St—and the road out of Swanage, then the top of the water tower behind the pine trees before returning to a pair of patrol cars parked snout to snout at the entrance to the street. Finally, a long-distance shot along it—and there was his mother’s old house at the mid-point.

  But the main activity was at the end. The house slab. Forensic vans and marked and unmarked police cars parked outside it. Figures in uniform and plain clothes standing around, observing;
others in forensic suits coming and going from a crime-scene tent, evidence bags in hand.

  ‘Charlie?’

  He placed the phone on the table, spun it around on its back, tapped the screen. ‘That’s the street my mother was living in when she disappeared.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie.’ She put her nose to the phone. ‘Are they at a vacant block?’

  As she said it, she exchanged an alarmed look with him, a simultaneous dread, the words ‘vacant block’ somehow making it so much worse. Seeing him swallow, she reached out her hand again. ‘Can you ring someone for more information?’

  ‘Doubt it. I was sex crimes—my old sergeant won’t be in that loop. And I don’t know anyone at any of the local police stations.’

  ‘You were in the Homicide Squad for a while.’

  ‘Years ago. Things change. People move on.’

  ‘Charlie, why don’t you go there.’

  ‘Mum’s street?’

  Anna was definite. ‘It can’t hurt. You might see someone there with answers. Don’t you want to find out?’

  ‘Of course I do, but I know how things work, I’d be told to stand back or move on. If it’s Mum I’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘But what if it takes days before they notify you? What if it’s not her body? It could be a man’s. It could have been there for a hundred years, or, or…five. What if no one tells you anything and you just have to wait? Go down there, find someone in authority and say who you are and why you have a legitimate reason to be there. I’ll come with you.’

  Charlie was halfway tempted. ‘I know how cops think, though. I’m trying to insert myself into the investigation, therefore I must be a suspect.’

  ‘You have the perfect alibi. Didn’t you tell me you were searching for a missing kid when she disappeared? You’re her son, for god’s sake, they can’t deny you.’

  Charlie was touched. It had been a while since anyone cared, since anyone had been supportive of him. He glanced down at the phone again. ‘I doubt they’ll let us in. The street’s blocked off. They won’t be letting cars get anywhere near there.’

  ‘Ride your bike.’

  She grabbed his hand again. They were still getting to know each other, and here she was, in an extreme of emotion on his behalf. What did that say about him, that he couldn’t accept it? Was it really such a good thing, the jaded old Charlie? ‘Okay.’

  Her expression softened; her fingers were mobile in his. ‘Can you dink me?’

  He gave her a crooked grin. ‘Not such a good idea. You can ride Emma’s old bike.’

  ‘This is going to test muscles I didn’t know I had,’ Anna said later.

  She was puffing next to Charlie up the stretch of Balinoe Beach Road between the store and the Frankston–Flinders Road intersection, where they would turn onto the road to Swanage. He grunted; his mind was full.

  A little Audi overtook them with a neat flick, followed by a bulky Land Cruiser, which laboured by, trailing the stink of its ageing motor. As the sound receded, Anna said, ‘Sore bum, sore everything.’

  Charlie ignored her and, at the top, waited for traffic before shooting across to join the bike path. He stopped, turned around, watched her catch up. He shook himself into order again. Now that he’d decided, he was impatient to reach Longstaff Street and was behaving like a prick.

  ‘Sorry.’

  She touched his sleeve. ‘Gentle pace, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  But a few minutes later his legs were pistoning again as he planned their route to Longstaff Street. Come in from the Westernport end, he thought, not through the town. He rode on, farmland on either side, until he neared the roundabout downslope of the water tower. Here he stopped, one foot on the ground, and looked back. Anna was toiling gamely a few hundred metres behind him. He waited. She pulled up, a complicated expression of hurt, anger and sympathy on her face.

  He stretched his fingers to her sweaty neck. ‘Sorry.’

  She shrugged away the offending hand. ‘Can I say something? If you go in all fired up, you’re going to piss people off. Be polite. Wait and see, watch for a while, till you know who to approach.’

  He took a breath in. ‘You’re right.’

  He touched her neck again and she turned her head, gave the back of his hand a quick kiss and said, ‘I’m soaked.’

  Charlie reached down, unclipped his water bottle. ‘Here.’

  He watched her swig from it. ‘Good?’

  ‘Better.’

  He reclipped the bottle, swiped the sweat from his eyes and pointed to the roundabout a hundred metres ahead. ‘That’s where we turn. It’s not far then, just over the rise.’

  But there was a patrol car blocking the way into Swanage, a uniform diverting approaching traffic around the roundabout and away again. Most of the cars simply rolled through and drove on, but some had parked on the grassy verges of the approach roads: a low-slung, hotted-up car playing loud doof; a station wagon; the leaky Land Cruiser from a few minutes ago; a minibus.

  If they’ve blocked this entrance to the town, they’ll have blocked the other, Charlie thought.

  At that moment a shout, a whistle. A small SUV marked Peninsula FM had pulled up at the roadblock, the driver gesticulating, the traffic cop shaking his head. ‘Perfect opportunity,’ Anna said, grinning, streaking down the bike path.

  Charlie raced after her, to the roundabout and then up the slope into this back part of Swanage, trailed by shouts and the shrill of a police whistle. Reaching the top, they dismounted and walked their bikes the short distance down to the entrance to Longstaff Street.

  It was crammed with outside broadcast vans, cameras, reporters, townspeople and police. Propping his bike against a hedge, Charlie removed his helmet and swigged from the water bottle, Anna joining him. That earned them a cold glance from the woman nearest them: ghouls; stickybeaks.

  Or maybe it’s the stink of sweat, thought Charlie. He smiled at her. ‘Have they made any announcements?’

  Her expression shifted into distaste now—but she bit down on it and muttered, ‘No.’

  ‘Any theories?’

  She moved away from him. ‘You know as much as I do.’

  ‘Awful thing to happen. You live here?’

  Faintly mollified, the woman pointed. ‘Next street down.’

  The three of them stood there with the others and the minutes passed. Charlie tried to work out how he could slip past the half-dozen constables who formed a cordon across the entrance to the street. Then, a disturbance: a black BMW police pursuit car was drawing up, followed by an unmarked Passat. Cameras swung around, expectant; microphones reached. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes, until the BMW peeled away again and the Passat, edging closer to the side of the road, bumped its passenger side wheels up onto the footpath. Two women got out, one young and stocky, the other slight, middle-aged, her reddish hair turning grey.

  Charlie watched them sign the log ready to walk down Longstaff to the crime scene—and something caught his attention, a tilt of the head. He knew the older detective. Except she’d been in uniform…Beckman? Bekker. She’d overseen the search for Billy Saul.

  A small world, the police world. Last year, investigating a rape in Shepparton, he’d liaised with a uniformed sergeant who’d attended detective school with him and later switched back to uniform. But now he was sprinting, shouting: ‘Ms Bekker.’

  She turned, expressionless.

  The younger woman whirled around to face him with one hand raised, the other gesturing wildly to the nearby uniforms. She shirtfronted Charlie, shouting: ‘Stop right there. Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

  ‘To speak to Senior Constable Bekker.’

  ‘That’s Senior Sergeant Bekker.’

  ‘I need to speak to her.’

  Bekker’s hard-featured offsider ignored him. At her nod the uniforms came in on either side of Charlie and gripped his upper arms. A voice in his ear: ‘Sir, I have to ask you to move along.’

  Charlie
looked past the stocky detective at Bekker, calling, ‘I’m Charlie Deravin. Is it my mother?’

  Bekker was expressionless. Then she nodded; she’d made the connection. With a sigh she left the cordon and joined her colleague.

  A tired-looking woman with busy eyes, she said, ‘What are you doing here, Mr Deravin?’

  ‘Is it my mother?’

  Bekker watched him for a long beat, then nodded to the uniforms. ‘Let him go.’

  ‘Is it my mother?’

  ‘It is not your mother.’

  Charlie almost protested. But that would be stupid. He slumped. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned to go. Charlie, badly wanting her to stay, babbled absurdly, ‘Are you still based at Rosebud?’

  ‘I joined the Homicide Squad, Mr Deravin. Now, I understand your concern, the conclusion you jumped to, but I must ask you to leave. Go home. We have found human remains, but they do not belong to your mother.’

  Hands steered Charlie away, then gently prodded. He stumbled towards Anna; she gathered him in; people watched, gleaming and hungry.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Is it her?’

  ‘No.’

  She hugged him. Her shirt was damp, her temples, her face, but he didn’t care. Her strength flowed into him.

  They mounted their bikes and rode back to the roundabout; turned left for Balinoe. Still the cars were arriving and still the traffic cop turned them away. More were parked now. They pedalled past a line of them, Anna leading, and Charlie saw her slow and wobble alongside the ditch—another cyclist was on the path, streaking towards them. Looked like…yes, it was Mark Valente.

  Charlie braked, coming in to join Anna as he heard a clunky engine labour into life behind him and was aware of nothing else before something—solid, inevitable—struck his back wheel and flipped him onto his head.

  20

  A SPECIALIST WAS hovering in mid-sentence when Charlie opened his eyes.

  ‘Where am I?’

  Like specialists everywhere, this one hated to be interrupted. An older guy doing his rounds with a retinue of kids in white coats, he glanced at his watch. ‘Frankston.’