The Fourth Season

by Dorothy Johnston

  Next morning, I looked up Bernhard Robben’s website, but found nothing untoward. The shop carried an impressive array of fishing equipment, and the site advertised an equally impressive variety of fishing tours, which could be booked on-line. The attractions of diving in the lake were emphasised as well, along with Robben’s specialist altitude qualifications. There were no photographs of Laila, or Ben Sanderson, but I was reminded of the men in wetsuits on the shop’s pin board, and how one of them had looked frustratingly familiar.

  Ivan cooked me breakfast. The looks we exchanged said that we both missed the children, the sounds of their voices, the need for sanity that they imposed. I resisted ringing to ask how the soccer had gone.

  Twenty-two

  I drove by the bakery to pick up a cinnamon log, knowing Owen had a weakness for them.

  Rita opened the door, her expression hovering between welcoming and apprehensive. The welcoming part won and she gave me a smile.

  ‘Rite?’ Owen called from the back of the house.

  ‘He’ll want to know who it is. He’s that bored. And impatient.’

  I said I’d happily sit with Owen for a while.

  ‘Would you? I need to go to the shops. To tell you the truth, I’m dying to get out.’

  ‘Go ahead and take your time,’ I told her.

  ‘Bless you.’ Rita paused and frowned. ‘Sandra? We need to have a—I don’t know how much longer we can keep going—at the cafe, I mean.’

  When I began to speak, Rita held out her hand to stop me. ‘It’s costing us money every single week. Owen’s recovering, but it’s slow, and his health is so uncertain. I know he’s loth to give it up, but he can find other interests, ones that aren’t so—’

  ‘I understand. I can see that it’s a burden for you.’

  ‘Rite!’

  ‘Just coming, dear. Guess who’s here to see you?’

  ‘I’ll try and suggest—’

  ‘Gently, do it gently,’ Rita said, squeezing my hand. ‘He’s got so little to look forward to.’

  There were tears in Rita’s eyes, but I was brought hard up against Owen’s wishes too. He was recovering so he could get back to business. Those were the words he used. Getting well was, for him, bound up with having a business to get well for, even if it was losing money. Owen had ideas for improving the cafe, and spent half an hour telling me about them—advertising, building up custom. And he was missing being next door to the Tradies, gossiping with Pam. He quizzed me about my trip to Jindabyne and we racked our brains over the mystery of Laila’s wet clothes and ruined waistcoat.

  . . .

  My phone rang as I was crossing the lake. I pulled over to answer it.

  ‘A bit of a development,’ Brook said cheerfully. ‘That character who said he saw your car around the pool? Bullshit artist.’

  ‘I could have told you that,’ I said. There was a second’s pause while I cursed myself for taking a superior tone. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  Brook made a noise in his throat, half way between a chuckle and a growl.

  ‘Can I drop by?’ I said. ‘I’d like to have a look at Laila Fanshaw’s waistcoat if I could.’

  Brook hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t think that should be a problem.’

  . . .

  I hesitated in Brook’s doorway, while the constable who’d escorted me and given me my pass faded noiselessly along the corridor.

  The distance the false witness had put between us felt like a sluggish, barely flowing stream. Brook was someone whose integrity, from the earliest days of our acquaintance—certainly from the time I had learnt about his illness—I had never doubted. I trusted Brook to find his way through whatever fog happened to surround him, to name objects within it that were obscure or invisible to others, not to be pushed off course by their mistakes.

  He greeted me with a small, controlled smile, while I walked swiftly up to him and clasped both of his hands.

  ‘Are you going to tell me who set me up?’ I asked after we’d sat down.

  ‘Nope. You wanted to see this,’ Brook said.

  I held Laila’s waistcoat by one corner of its plastic covering, and studied it under the strong light Brook switched on over his desk. The back was stained with blood, dried mud and algae. The embroidery was torn and unravelled in places. I noted the oily mark Phoebe had described.

  Brook knew when to prod me with words, and when to keep his mouth shut. He let me turn the garment slowly and in silence.

  ‘Laila enjoyed wearing this,’ I said, looking up. ‘Maybe it was a badge of some kind. Or a signal.’ I paused, gathering my thoughts. ‘So even though something, or somebody had wrecked it, she still took it with her to her appointment with Senator Fitzpatrick.’

  Brook inclined his head, a gesture that embraced all the facts the police had gathered of which I was ignorant, as well as that aborted meeting. ‘Somebody?’ he repeated.

  I told him about Lake Jindabyne, the story pouring out, and feeling the immense relief of talking to someone who would listen carefully and evaluate, not respond with disbelief, or try to trip me up.

  ‘What do you think happened up there?’ Brook asked when I’d finished.

  I said I thought it likely that Laila had gone to Jindabyne to meet a lover. She might have been pushed into the water, though I had no idea why, or by whom. Bill Abenay might know who the man was, or might not. If Laila had entrusted him with any kind of secret, I said I didn’t think that he would break that trust, even in the interests of helping find her killer.

  ‘You don’t think it’s Abenay then?’

  I replied that anything was possible, but that I doubted, then went red, remembering that Ivan was still a suspect. But I didn’t think Brook would be talking to me like this if he seriously suspected Ivan.

  I told him about Laila’s sketch and diagram and what I thought they represented, remembering, as I did so, that Don Fletcher had a copy. I didn’t want to annoy Brook by reminding him of Don.

  ‘The spot that Laila marked is close to a canyon called the Babel, right on the edge of the proposed marine park. There’s an ExxonMobil oil rig with the same name in the vicinity. Ben Sanderson did some maintenance work on it.’

  Brook frowned and said I should have brought the diagram to him as soon as I found it. I opened my mouth to remind him that he wasn’t even in the country then.

  ‘After we’ve finished here, you can go home and get it. Babel. Tower of. Do you know the story?’ Brook raised an inquiring eyebrow. ‘The Babylonians wanted to make themselves famous by building a mighty tower, but God disrupted work on it and it was never finished.’

  ‘Why did God do that?’

  ‘Jealousy maybe? No explanation given. He confused the workers on the tower by having them all speak in different languages.’

  We smiled at one another, while I wondered what possible significance the name might have, and thought that here was yet another person who recalled, apparently without effort, the scripture lessons of his childhood.

  I described the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses, who’d followed me for a short distance at Lake Jindabyne, but had, I was certain, been watching me for longer.

  Brook looked worried at this. He turned to his computer and checked the motor registration database. The car came up as registered to Cameron Fletcher.

  ‘I thought that’s who it was.’

  ‘Are you still working for his brother?’ Brook asked in the tone of voice that meant he was about to give me a lecture.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What in earth does that mean, Sandra? You should have more sense.’

  We exchanged a glance in which I tried to indicate that I appreciated the position Brook was in, and would endeavour not to make it worse. A part of Brook—the larger part for all I knew—would have preferred, having stepped back from our friendship, to have nothing further to do with me until Laila’s killer had been arrested, and Ben Sanderson’s too.

  But he
’d called me with good news about the car, called to let me know that, in one respect at least, I was in the clear.

  Brook made tea in the kitchenette along the corridor. When he came back, I continued with my summing up. I summarised what Jess had told me, then described how Jake had also seen Laila at the Tradies, this time with Bronwyn. I repeated what Rowan had told me about Laila being picked up outside the internet cafe, and said, ‘That could have been Bronwyn too.’

  Brook made notes, typing rapidly with two fingers, while I turned the bag over again, holding it with both hands at the top, twisting the material underneath its covering. A red plastic button had replaced the wooden one Jake had souvenired. By contrast with its neighbours, it was round and smooth, attached with strong new thread.

  ‘There’s no label,’ I said.

  ‘Cut off,’ Brook said over his shoulder. ‘Our textile chappie says it was made in Syria. Maybe she cut it off herself. Some people don’t like them.’

  I wondered aloud if the waistcoat was imported, or if someone visiting Syria had brought it back with them, staring at the ruined garment, knowing it had more to tell me, frustrated that I couldn’t simply lift the plastic like a veil and see.

  ‘What about marks on the body?’

  Brook said dryly, ‘There were lots of those.’

  He continued typing, and I felt him beginning to withdraw behind stock phrases, something Brook did when he became uneasy that he was telling me more than I had a right to know. I was aware that the information flow had been all one way, but I was so glad we were on speaking terms again that this scarcely mattered just then.

  ‘I think Laila liked exercising her power over men,’ I said. ‘She enjoyed seeing how far she could push them.’

  ‘And went too far?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The phone rang. ‘I see. Good,’ Brook said, then hung up and turned to face me. ‘The results on those grease marks have come in. It’s—’ he hesitated, then, with a half smile came to a decision—‘they’re from an outboard motor.’

  I felt like a child being offered a sweet from a hoarded bagful. I thanked Brook for it, then I turned to leave. I hesitated, then took two swift steps back to where he was sitting, and kissed him on the cheek.

  . . .

  I missed my children, but it was good not to have to be home by any particular time.

  The gates at the back of Dickson Pool were open, and a police car parked on the yellow grass. The office door was open too, and Sam Borich standing outside it in about the same position he’d adopted the morning Ben Sanderson’s body had been dumped there. Borich was deep in conversation with Detective Sergeant Brideson.

  I thought of Sanderson’s body being dragged across the dry ground and felt the insolence of it, his murderer cutting a big hole in the fence, leaving an obvious trail.

  Brideson looked across in my direction. He was too far away for me to read his expression in any detail, but I could tell that it was hostile, and felt a surge of loyalty for Brook. I also felt that that Brideson would use my friendship with Brook to stir up trouble for him, if he could.

  When I’d first met Brook, he’d worn an Akubra hat to cover a head made bald by chemotherapy, and had stumbled when he walked. Watching Brideson, I had no trouble believing that the fact that Brook had gone on being a policeman, out of some need to prove himself, to thumb his nose at cancer, had not led Brideson to respect him. Rather, I guessed, it had strengthened the healthy man’s belief that Brook was weak and therefore expendable.

  Brideson strode away from the pool manager and got into his car. There was a rim of brown goo around what had been the water level in the fifty metre pool. From where I was standing just outside the gates, it appeared to undulate a little in the slanting autumn light. The shell ducks whose spring babies had been an attraction for the pool’s patrons, if an added burden for the cleaners, were lined up along one edge, many with their heads under their wings.

  . . .

  ‘Sandra.’ Gail’s voice crackled through my phone. I sat down on some steps by the pool carpark to talk to her.

  ‘In spite of the fact that you think I’m the devil in high heels, I haven’t been laughing at Ivan behind his back, or you for that matter. I’m sorry for the trouble that you’re going through. I understand that marriage—’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Sandra—’

  I wished Gail would stop repeating my name in a sanctimonious voice. I was sure she was only phoning because she wanted something from me.

  ‘I don’t have to be married myself in order to be able to observe other people’s,’ she said in a hurt voice.

  I said nothing in response to this. After a short silence on Gail’s end, she wished me good-day.

  Back home, I paid three overdue bills, then rang Senator Fitzpatrick’s office. Jeremy Pascal, his principal assistant, agreed to meet me for a late lunch.

  Twenty-three

  Jeremy had black curls above a pale complexion, blue eyes and a long Gallic nose. I guessed his age to be early thirties and judged him to be a man in a hurry, whose lunch was likely to be interrupted at least once every twenty seconds.

  When I asked Jeremy if he was concerned that Laila Fanshaw might have been having an affair with his boss, he told me calmly that there’d been rumours.

  ‘But that was nothing new.’

  Jeremy seemed to accept that I wasn’t going to waste time with preliminaries. In fact, if anything, he seemed pleased about it. I asked if Laila had encouraged the rumours.

  ‘She didn’t have to.’

  ‘You mean Laila didn’t mind?’

  ‘That women were jealous of her and men made fools of themselves right, left and centre? She was used to it.’

  ‘You sound as if you knew Laila well.’

  Jeremy glanced at me with something like disdain and said, ‘Elementary sexual politics. It’s hardly rocket science.’

  I recalled Bronwyn’s comments while Jeremy waited for me to ask another question. When I didn’t, he said, ‘Brian’s an easy target. Anyone who tries to inject a bit of idealism into this white monster is.’

  Jeremy admitted that Laila had been fond of dropping into the office, that he’d asked her to chill a bit, and that she had refused. Laila had said that she and Brian were friends, and she wasn’t going to give up his friendship for ‘a whole lot of dirty-minded pricks.’

  He’d discussed the problem with Frances and agreed it could be damaging. He hadn’t talked to Bronwyn about it because he and Bronwyn did not see eye to eye.

  ‘About Laila, or about environmental politics in general?’

  ‘Both,’ Jeremy said.

  He went on to explain that working long hours in a small office under heaps of pressure required special skills. Bronwyn hadn’t been selfish exactly. Jeremy considered the word, fitting it around a mouthful of salad; he scarcely seemed to notice what he was eating. Bronwyn had had important policy areas to cover and she’d covered them competently.

  ‘But as for jumping in and coping with whatever blew up on the day, forget it. It put more of a burden onto Fran and me. And little things that build up and get on your nerves, like answering the phone. If I was with a delegation in one room, and Bronwyn was working in the other, and the phone rang at the front, she’d never answer it. I’d always have to.’

  I drew Jeremy back to Laila’s ‘special’ relationship with the senator.

  ‘She hadn’t earnt it,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Environmentally, she was a light weight. Oh, she’d go on endlessly about habitat destruction, over-fishing, pollution of our seas. She was big on that. But drop her into a debate where more was needed than enthusiasm and a pretty face—she’d crumble.’

  I wondered if Jeremy’s bitterness was that of someone who’d never taken short-cuts. It occurred to me that, unless he was a better liar than any of the others, I’d at last found a man who’d been immune to Laila’s
charms.

  I asked him where he’d spent the night of her murder, thinking, from his black look, that he might refuse to answer, but he said, in a relatively mild voice, ‘The office. Apart from when I came down for sandwiches and coffee.’

  He confirmed what Frances had already told me, that Fitzpatrick had spent the evening in the Senate Chamber, apart from a short meal break.

  A man in a security guard’s uniform walked past and nodded hello to Jeremy, a big bear of a man, with a knock-kneed gait that reminded me of Ivan’s.

  Jeremy went red and gave the man the briefest nod in return, then studied the dregs of his latte as though his future lay embedded in it.

  He was getting up to pay when Richard King came by. Jeremy threw a wary glance at the minister over his shoulder, then nodded hello.

  I wasn’t sure if King would recognise me, but after a moment’s ­hesitation, he smiled and said good-humouredly, ‘The partner.’

  Jeremy had his back to us at the counter. King asked, ‘What’s Ivan up to?’

  I said that he was helping me with an investigation.

  King blinked rapidly in response to this, then smiled again.

  The Parliament House cafeteria was a useful spot to be, I decided, as Jeremy walked me to the front entrance and I handed in my pass. If I’d worked in the building, or had regular access to it, I’d have been tempted to spend my days there, watching who lingered over coffee, who blushed at bumping into an acquaintance or a colleague, who had no trouble keeping his cool.

  . . .

  Bill Abenay greeted me with gentle hospitality. ‘Let me make you a coffee, Sandra. And I’ve just taken a batch of fruit buns out of the oven. You’ll have one of those.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I told him. ‘I could smell them cooking.’

  I didn’t tell Abenay that I’d just had lunch. Afternoon tea on top of it would go down a treat.

  Abenay’s expression changed when I said that I’d been to Lake Jindabyne, his solid wombat shape becoming wary.