The Fourth Season

by Dorothy Johnston

  ‘When did Bronwyn leave the office?’

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  ‘Were she and Laila close friends?’

  ‘I would have said Bronwyn didn’t have close friends in Canberra. I was surprised when I found out about the car.’

  ‘So she never mentioned Laila to you?’

  Frances made a face. I waited.

  ‘Laila liked dropping in,’ she said.

  ‘She hung around the office?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

  ‘But that Monday night Laila had made an appointment. Do you think it was because she had something special to talk to the senator about?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Frances. ‘I couldn’t speculate about that.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to Bronwyn if I could.’

  Frances made a face as if to say that I could try, but she couldn’t predict what kind of reception I’d get. ‘I’ve still got her number in my phone, I think.’

  After I’d copied the number, I went back to Frances’s opinion of Laila, probing to find out what she’d really thought.

  ‘I didn’t know her well. I just chatted to her a few times when she came in to see Brian, that’s all.’

  Frances blushed the way very fair-skinned people did, all down her neck and upper arms. Clearly the reminder of Laila ‘dropping in’ made Frances uncomfortable.

  She burst out, ‘It isn’t true that Brian was having an affair! That’s a vicious rumour! Brian’s devoted to his family. He’s got two boys. I’ve met them. They’re great. And Imogen, his wife, she’s lovely. I’m angry with him for what he did to me, but he wasn’t having an affair with Laila. It just isn’t in him.’

  The lady doth protest too much, I said to myself. I would have said that it wasn’t in Ivan to have an affair either, but I knew now that, if Laila hadn’t rejected him, he wouldn’t have given me and Katya a moment’s thought.

  I sat in my car and tried ringing Bronwyn, but she wasn’t answering. Back home, I printed out a staff list for CSIRO’s marine science division.

  A couple of names were familiar to me from recent press reports, and I underlined them. I got out the list of documents Don Fletcher had sent me and downloaded several maps of Bass Strait. A coral reef had recently been discovered in the proposed marine park, as well as large, species-rich sponge gardens. These partly overlapped an area which Geoscience Australia, the commonwealth department responsible for surveying and releasing areas for oil exploration, had also marked as promising. While parts of Bass Strait had been mined for oil since the 1960s, others were relatively unexplored. I noted that several of the papers on Don’s list were authored, or co-authored, by Dr Gregory Tarrant, a senior marine scientist at CSIRO.

  I tried Bronwyn again, this time with more luck. When I introduced myself, she sounded as though she’d had enough of answering questions, but did not refuse to meet me.

  . . .

  There was so much building going on in Kingston. Whichever way you turned your head, you couldn’t miss the new apartments. Bronwyn lived in a small semi-detached, one of a pocket of old houses being squeezed out by huge blocks of flats. It would not be cheap to rent, but I could see how someone working long hours in Parliament House would find such a house convenient. Whether or not they’d have time to stroll up and down the lake shore was another matter.

  The house wasn’t all that far from where Laila’s body, and Bronwyn’s car, had been found. A long walk, but by car no distance at all. The interior had been renovated, though not recently. It reminded me of the flat where my old boss, Rae Evans, used to live—anonymous and clean, the cleanliness not necessarily an indication of its tenant’s habits, but rather of the small amount of time she actually spent there.

  Bronwyn was angry. Anger shot out in a palpable electric current all around her. Her spiky hair vibrated with it. Her large, freckled hands made fists. Her long nose and chin were pointed, penetrating, both seeking and needing a target close to hand.

  She spoke in a high, staccato voice, filled with frustration at not being allowed to go home to Melbourne. She’d told the police everything she knew. It was ridiculous that they were making her hang around in Canberra.

  Bronwyn confirmed that she’d left Senator Fitzpatrick’s office three and a half weeks ago. Her contract had run out and she had decided not to renew it. She knew Laila, but they weren’t close friends. This came out like an accusation. She hadn’t had anything personally to do with Laila’s conservation group. Working for a senator was sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and more important, in her opinion, than waving banners and prostrating yourself in front of trees.

  I hadn’t seen any evidence that Laila’s group was into this activity, but I wasn’t about to contradict what Bronwyn said. Bronwyn couldn’t deny knowing Laila, of course, since it was her car Laila had been driving, but she refused to be drawn on where they’d met, or how long they’d known each other.

  ‘That Monday I picked Laila up in Civic and she dropped me here.’

  Laila had been on her own, dressed in jeans and a white shirt and carrying a small back pack. She had not been wearing her red waistcoat. Bronwyn was adamant on that point. When I asked her if she knew whether the waistcoat had been a gift from an admirer, Bronwyn coloured deeply, and said she had no idea. They hadn’t fixed a time for her to bring the car back. Bronwyn had known that she was on her way to see Fitzpatrick, but not why. Laila hadn’t volunteered the information, and she hadn’t asked.

  The police had arrived shortly after ten. ‘There was a knock on the door. I thought it was Laila. They—I couldn’t believe what they were telling me. I didn’t believe it. I asked to see her. Of course they wouldn’t let me. They wouldn’t even tell me what had happened, just asked me all sorts of questions about my bloody car.’

  We talked about that night for a few more minutes, then I asked Bronwyn if she could recall what she’d been doing on the evening of Thursday 12 October last year.

  She stared at me as though wondering where on earth the question was coming from, then said curtly, ‘Parliament was sitting. I would have been at work.’

  Parliament had been in recess that week. I’d looked it up.

  ‘What time did you finish?’

  ‘It was months ago. How am I supposed to remember something like that?’

  When I asked about working for Senator Fitzpatrick, Bronwyn gave me the impression that she didn’t think much of Frances, or Jeremy Pascal.

  She looked disgusted as she said, ‘I’ve had enough of Canberra. It’s a bloody awful place.’

  . . .

  My strongest impression, as I drove across the lake, was that, for a determined liar, Bronwyn was both unskilled and lacking in experience. But why lie about a parliamentary sitting night, when that fact was easily checked?

  Had Bronwyn picked Laila up outside the internet cafe? A darkish car, Rowan had said. Bronwyn drove a dark green Nissan. One thing was clear: Bronwyn was grieving, and her grief was mixed with a large dose of anger, not only towards anyone who happened to come within range, but towards Laila as well.

  I called by Tim’s, but nobody was home. I walked around the back, noting the dry grass and wilting carrot tops, wondering who’d planted the vegetables. Clearly Tim, left on his own, wasn’t doing anything to keep them alive. I wondered how long Phoebe would stay at her cousin’s, if she’d ever come back there to live. Footsteps on a concrete path sounded very loud. I hadn’t noticed how close the houses were on either side. From the laundry, I could have reached my arm out to the fence.

  I’d noticed the open laundry window last time. It was funny how people who were particular about locking doors left a broken catch on a laundry window and didn’t bother to repair it.

  I opened the window wide. There wasn’t any fly screen. The space was just big enough for me to squeeze through.

  Where to start looking? There was a damp smell in the laundry, mixed with dried soap flakes. I was sure that Tim ha
d taken something from Laila’s room, but I had no idea whether or not this something was still in the house. He might have destroyed it. That might have been his reason for taking it in the first place. I recalled Tim’s censorious expression when he’d told me no one was allowed into the room, and the way he’d wanted to get rid of me.

  A cupboard under the laundry sink held rags, soap powder and liquid detergent, two small metal bowls, an old dog lead—all except the powder and detergent covered with a fine coating of dust. I knelt down on all fours and peered into the corners.

  I brushed off my knees and looked at the faint marks they’d left on the floor, then wiped my foot across them, hearing footsteps from next door, followed by laughter, a man and a woman.

  A taller cupboard contained a vacuum cleaner, a broom, smaller brush and squeegee mop, and more dust. The washing machine was about a third full of Tim’s clothes, plus a couple of bath towels. I wondered what had happened to Laila’s dirty clothes, if there’d been any left in the laundry. Perhaps that was what Tim had taken—a bra or pair of underpants. I pictured Ivan with such trophies and felt ashamed again, and angry.

  From where I stood, in the doorway of Laila’s room, everything looked the same as it had the last time I’d seen it. A bed base minus its mattress was still under the window, the desk empty except for a mug holding a few pens. I walked across and opened the door of the clothes cupboard. There was very little inside; three pairs of jeans and a couple of track suits; one pair of denim shorts, a few shirts, two dresses.

  In a drawer I found T-shirts, plain cotton underwear and socks, one woollen jumper and a windcheater with a hood. Laila had got by with very little. She hadn’t needed to dress up in order to attract attention. That made the waistcoat an anomaly. I wondered again who had given it to her.

  At one end of the hanging space was a full length wetsuit, relatively new, and, on the floor of the cupboard underneath the clothes, two pairs of sandals, running shoes, flippers, a snorkel and face mask. The scuba tank was still in its corner.

  As far as I could tell, the book shelves were the same. I doubted if Tim would have used Laila’s room as a hiding place, but I felt around in the narrow spaces under and behind the cupboard, and behind and underneath the book shelf too.

  I checked my watch. It would soon be time for meeting Katya. I could walk out the front door and close it behind me. That would be safer than the laundry window, if the neighbours happened to be watching. I heard music, and every now and then voices and more laughter. I found my feet taking me back to the laundry.

  The tall cupboard had a shelf at the top. At the front were a selection of torches, a packet of candles, light bulbs and an iron. At the back were two medium-sized cardboard boxes. I fetched a chair from the kitchen, took down the boxes and opened the first one on the floor. It contained Christmas decorations and lights for putting on a tree. The second box looked to be full of towels. I lifted the top layer and under it was a file labelled 2004.

  The university year had officially begun in the third week of February. At the front of the file was a dated set of lectures on marine biodiversity. I flicked through bricks and notes written in Laila’s small, backsloping hand. A plain manila folder at the end, with no name or identification of any kind, contained two single sheets of paper. On one was a diagram downloaded from a website. My heart beat faster as I recognised a computer-generated image of an underwater canyon. Contour lines and depths were marked. Someone, I assumed it had been Laila, had drawn a circle with a red felt-tipped pen, not around the canyon, but a patch of seabed in the top right-hand corner of the diagram.

  On the next page were the words ‘sediment flow’ and the date 1836, followed by a question mark and a pencil sketch. This sketch comprised a horizontal line, underneath which a number of straight lines ran downwards at a forty-five degree angle, with a single line about the middle heavier and more distinct than the rest. On the left-hand side, the angled lines were overlaid by more horizontal ones, so that half the drawing appeared as a kind of crosshatch, and the other half not.

  I turned both sheets of paper over. Nothing was written on the back of the first, but on the back of the second was a sentence in ­quotation marks.

  ‘In 1971 a springtide combined with a severe gale uncovered a layer of sediment leaving structural timbers visible.’

  . . .

  After Peter came home from soccer practice, he and Kat made a noisy, messy start to dinner, Kat thrilled to be sharing the responsibility. Neither asked where Ivan was, and I had the feeling that they’d agreed on this; that they’d talked about it and agreed not to ask me questions whose answers I couldn’t hope to know.

  Peter turned his music up full volume, while I shut my office door and went back to the reports Don Fletcher had sent me, mulling over whether Laila’s diagram might be part of what was called a swath map, made from sonar beams that had been bounced to the sea floor and back.

  I turned my attention to the red circle in the corner, wondering why it had been singled out. I studied the words ‘sediment flow’ next to the date. Could they refer to layers of sediment under the seabed? I pondered the connection between the diagram and sketch, reminding myself that they didn’t have to be connected, and noticed something else. The layers didn’t match. It looked as though something had fallen in on top of something else.

  ‘Mum!’ called Katya, her voice full of pride. ‘Mum! Dinner’s ready!’

  The three of us ate together, and I praised every bit of the dinner. Again, Kat and Peter were careful not to ask after Ivan. I saw the looks that passed between them and told myself I must respect their strategies for coping, even as I expected them to make allowances for mine. A tightening of Katya’s black eyebrows signalled a determination ­comparable to her brother’s and a decision to follow his lead.

  Peter said he’d do his homework in his room, and Kat followed him, with her drawing pad tucked under one arm.

  I was midway through the dishes when Rita Thomas phoned to say that Rowan had turned up at the cafe again.

  I made sure that Peter felt comfortable about me going out, and that the doors and windows were all locked. Kat was quick to say they would be fine, too quick in my opinion, but I was keen to get to the cafe and swallowed my misgivings.

  Nine

  Rita was behind the counter, looking tired and worried.

  Rowan frowned when he spotted me. I thought it best to wait until he’d finished whatever he was doing, but kept him in my line of sight while I asked after Owen.

  ‘He’s taken poorly,’ Rita said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I should be home looking after him, but he wanted me to come in here and open up. He says we’ll lose our customers otherwise.’

  Rita pressed her lips together. I felt doubly grateful that she’d taken the trouble to ring me when she had so much on her mind.

  Rita noticed my expression and gave me a thin smile. ‘Owen said to be sure and let you know. He has to go into hospital for an operation. He’ll be there for at least a week. I’ll have to close then. I don’t see how I can manage, running back and forth.’

  ‘I could take over for you,’ I said.

  Rita gave me a startled look. ‘There wouldn’t be much money in it.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘At least we wouldn’t lose our regulars.’ Rita sounded a bit more optimistic. ‘I’ll tell Owen. We’ll have to talk about it. But thanks anyway for offering.’

  I’d been forgetting to watch Rowan, who pushed his chair back suddenly, dropped some coins on the counter and made swiftly for the door.

  I caught up with him to ask, ‘The car you saw Laila getting into, how big was it?’

  Rowan walked faster, throwing back over his shoulder, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you see who was driving?’

  ‘No!’

  Rowan was young and fit and pissed off, but I wasn’t going to let him get away. ‘Did you notice anybody else in the s
treet?’

  He stopped and faced me. ‘What?’

  ‘Think back, please. The street can’t have been deserted.’

  Rowan stared at me, a pointed stare for someone with such ­cushioned features.

  ‘What was the weather like?’ I asked him.

  ‘What?’ he said again, sarcastically this time.

  ‘The weather. Was it raining? Fine?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Do your parents know where you are?’

  Rowan made a strangled sound as though he was trying to say ‘yes’, and took off in the direction of the shopping centre.

  His legs were longer than mine, but I was used to pursuing people who didn’t want to be pursued. ‘Do your parents know how much time you spend at the internet cafe?’ I called out. ‘Do they know why?’

  The street light accentuated Rowan’s angry frown. Shadows squashed his eyebrows down into his cheeks. He looked suddenly much older, a man got up in boys’ clothing, a deceitful person who hid his age beneath a teenager’s preoccupations.

  ‘It was nine-thirty on a fine evening,’ I said patiently, catching up to him. ‘You stood on the footpath. Laila had just left the cafe. You saw her get into a car.’

  Rowan cleared his throat. ‘People were going in and out of the Tradies.’ I knew he was at last trying to remember. ‘The lady who brings Owen his hot chocolate. I saw her.’

  The woman Owen had called Pam had been walking slowly up the Tradies steps. Rowan described her as ‘old and small with frizzed up hair.’ I asked who else he’d seen, and he replied that he wasn’t thinking about other people.

  ‘Which way did the car go?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Rowan said, ‘Towards Civic.’

  ‘Maybe someone else was watching. Maybe one of the guys who came out of the cafe just after you did saw it too.’