‘I have a weird question for you.’
‘Of course you do. You’re a weird boy.’
‘Can you make fine-bone china using human bones?’
She doesn’t need time to think of her answer. ‘Yes. I don’t know what the quality would be like. Should be okay. Adding bone creates a kind of translucence. There are people who will do it for you.’
‘You can pay to have your loved one made into crockery?’
‘Yes, you can. Either mixed with the clay to make the object, or incorporated into the glaze.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yes, wow. Of course, if the potter isn’t a very skilled artisan, you’re going to run into big problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘Well, they’re likely to be fragile, brittle, easily broken, and of course really, really ugly.’
‘Okay. Thanks. Have you heard of Gzhel or Lomonosov porcelain?’
‘Russian. Not to my taste, but not bad quality.’
‘Could someone make something in a Gzhel or Lomonosov style?’
‘With human remains?’ Mum used to say Mrs J was always the smartest human in the room.
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose so. Both of them have a distinctive style. Gzhel is traditionally white with blue decorations. Lomonosov is known for a thing called “cobalt net”. In crudest terms, which might suit you, it is a kind of bluish fishing-net design on a white background.’
‘You do know what you’re talking about.’
‘I do.’
I put the phone and my beer down, rolling the names Cakestand, Gzhel, and Lomonosov over in my mouth. My thinking isn’t as clear as it would have been before I started the beers, but it’s clear enough.
At the kitchen table, I open a new file on my computer. I start from the beginning, and write down everything I can remember that has happened since the first box arrived. I’m trying to get some clarity in my thinking. If I’m going to believe the theory that the Vasiliev family were blackmailing Tito to incorporate their victims’ bones in porcelain pieces, I need to have the details set out. How do you prove a theory like that? I have ashes and some incriminating money. Unless someone finds a vase or some such with human bone material in it, I’ve pretty well got nothing. Except Marko said the Costello family did a DNA test on their box. That’s a link.
But there’s a good chance Tito never made any of the pieces that the Vasilievs wanted him to. So, no evidence. It’s not as if I’m going to find Buzzcut and force a confession out of him. Shiflon is hardly a reliable witness, and nobody else is implicated. Ben and Elaine are my only keys, and I don’t know for sure if they know anything. But I feel like it is worth writing down and then at least sending it to my young reporter friend, if nothing else. Who knows? He might make a career out of it. Because I do have ashes and the Costello family. The forensic police on the TV would be able to work out who the bones belong to, so I guess the real police would be able to do that, too, and they’re my next stop.
I make a cup of tea, put on some music, and take a chair out into the late sun. I think about Sarah. Is the fact that she has taken up with Lucy some sort of comment about me? To me? Probably not, but sort of. Her intention might be to stay away from everything that was, and anything like it. And then again, it could be just good old love. You have to take that where you find it. Elaine is having an effect on me, but it’s not love. Attraction, sure, which has got to be healthy. And the first re-emergence of something like lust. It suggests I’m recovering a bit. I mean, lust has to be a primal life force, right? I don’t imagine you can be lusting and suicidal at the same time. Perhaps I have a future.
My tea is too milky, but the sun is perfect. I toss the tea on the lawn, and shut my eyes to doze. But James’s voice rouses me, saying, Dad, you’ve got to take a risk. It’s boring otherwise. I know it’s not James’s voice, so I guess it’s me talking to myself, using his voice. But both of us are right. I go to the phone, and ring Elaine.
‘Elaine?’
‘Hi there.’
‘Was it fine-bone china Tito was being forced to make?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’
‘What if Tito, as part of the blackmailing, was being forced to put other materials into his pottery?’
‘Like drugs?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I really don’t know. Seems unlikely. They really liked his pottery.’
‘The Vasilievs?’
‘Who?’
‘They’re like an underworld family in the city. I was thinking they might be Tito’s blackmailers.’
‘Never heard of them. I only ever dealt with an intermediary. I didn’t know who Tito’s gambling debt was owed to, either time. Have you been on your own a lot since hospital?’
‘No. Marko stayed for a night, and, and …’ I almost mention Frank’s visit.
‘Then maybe you know something that I don’t.’
Maybe I do.
‘I talked to Shiflon. He said he told you Tito was mailing boxes to me.’ It sounds ridiculous, and I suppose if Elaine doesn’t know anything about it, it is ridiculous. She is quiet for a long time.
‘I don’t know what’s going on here, Dave. I thought we were friends, maybe something more. But you always seem to be trying to catch me out somehow. Why would you go to the trouble of speaking to Shiflon? The guy has serious problems. He lives in Willi because it’s the only place where his conspiracy theories about the world can’t come true.’
I silently agree with her point, and avoid mentioning that he shot at me. ‘I know. It’s just that I received money and human ash in the mail. Then a guy called in, looking for the remains of his brother, saying he’d got a note from Tito. He identified the ashes as being his brother. His brother had been executed by the Vasilievs. I’m just trying to work out what is going on. Shiflon seemed to know about it.’
‘I’m not sure I get the connection.’
‘I’m wondering if it’s possible that Tito was being forced to put ash from human bodies into his pottery pieces.’
‘Ash from human bodies?’
‘People who were murdered by the Vasilievs.’
‘Why?’
‘To make a kind of trophy, a memento, that says, “Don’t fuck with the Vasilievs.”’
She sighs loudly. ‘All right then. Let’s go through it. You think Tito was making pieces out of the bones of people who were executed?’ I can hear that she is doing her best to take me seriously.
‘Yes.’
‘So he was doing that on this farm. I’ve had them in this house?’ Her breathing is heavy, and I am sorry to have brought the news to her. But then she shows me how poorly I’ve assessed her take on this. She says, ‘Are you taking anything? Drugs?’
‘No.’
‘I know about grief, and I would understand if you had to lean on something like that occasionally.’
The conversation has changed, and I am no longer a friend, or, if I am, a pitiful one.
‘I drink, but I don’t do any other leaning.’
‘Well, you must be spending too much time on your own, because the idea that Tito was doing something like that is just bonkers. He wasn’t that kind of person. I mean, you’re suggesting someone brought the bodies here, and then we chopped them up, cooked the bones, and then made things out of them. Do you seriously believe any of this yourself?’
‘Frank Costello came and got the ashes of his brother.’ I get this in before she can hang up.
‘And that is just too bizarre. How do you know he was on the level? Did you ever think that someone might be playing games with you, Dave? Is there anything in your life that is real? Is there one thing you can guarantee me is true?’ She is sneering, and I’m almost feeling she’s right to sneer. It is outlandish.
‘You were bashed and robbed.’
‘Tit
o made very valuable works of art. People like to steal valuable things. It’s logical. Not everything turns out to be a criminal conspiracy.’
‘You said Ben provided Tito with bones for his pottery.’
‘Cow bones, roo bones. They’re lying around in the paddock on his place. It was a simple favour. No murder, no mutilation, nothing weird. Get a hold of yourself, Dave. You’re the one who thinks you received a box of money for no reason. Do you think that happens to normal people in normal lives? I suggest you visit a doctor. ASAP.’
Then she does hang up.
What does Ben have to do with this? I want to ask, but I am stunned by her response, and feeling insecure about my convictions. She could be right. I don’t have the greatest grip on reality. It is a stretch to believe that she and Tito were doing things with human bones.
I put the phone down, and think of how desperate Frank was to get back what was left of his brother. That did not seem fake to me, but it so easily could have been.
But what if she’s in on the game? What if she killed Tito, knows all about the bones, and has for some reason involved me in it?
Despite still smarting from the feeling of a slap-down, I ring her back.
‘What is it?’
‘I think the Vasiliev family is about to make a visit.’
‘Then send them my best, will you?’ She hangs up.
Elaine is not easily scared.
And then, straight away, the phone rings, and I pick it up because I assume it’s Elaine with one more rebuke. But it’s not. It’s Tom Little, saying, ‘Hi, Mr Martin. How are you?’ The way he asks it makes me think he believes it’s a worthwhile question, not just a meaningless greeting.
‘I’m fine, thanks, Tom. How are you?’
‘Well. Going well.’
And then he is silent, and I’m not sure what is going on. I figure I should be making conversation, but I don’t want to mention his job again in case there are more hiccups. And then he breaks it with, ‘I was wondering if I could come and stay for a night?’
‘For work? For an interview?’
‘No. No. Just to stay. I …’
It doesn’t seem like such a weird request, given how much he wanted to be here after James died, but he is making heavy going of it. I suppose now that it is just me, the prospect of a sleepover is much more daunting. Who is going to cook the meals? Who will handle the small talk?
‘I’d like to have another night out there, and just remember how it all was, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure. I’d like that.’
‘And to tell the truth, the last time I spoke to you, you worried me a bit, the way you were talking.’
‘You thought you’d keep an eye on me?’
‘When I told Marko how you were talking, he asked if I still liked the idea of staying over. I said I did.’
‘Bloody Marko. Listen, Tom, you are welcome to come, but come for your own stuff — don’t come thinking you’ll be my nurse or babysitter.’
‘I wasn’t thinking that. The thing is, after our conversation I did a bit of research into your … situation … I thought you might want to hear it.’
‘My situation?’ I don’t know whether he means my trouble with boxes and Buzzcut, or that he thinks I might be bonkers. ‘I would certainly like to hear what you’ve found, whatever it is. When do you want to come?’
‘Um, tonight?’
‘Tonight?’
‘I just found out I don’t have to work Saturday — tomorrow. So it would fit in fine, if it works for you?’
‘Yeah. Whenever suits.’ No point standing on ceremony now.
‘All right. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Great. See you then. Bye.’
I put the phone down, and consider ringing Marko to tell him to back off. Instead, I focus on whether there is a bed in one of the spare rooms with sheets on it — clean sheets. I think Mick put his stuff in the main guest bedroom, but he get didn’t a chance to sleep there. Then Marko slept in there. I check the room next to it, across from James’s room, and find that Sarah has left it with crisp sheets and a doona in a bright cover. At least Tom won’t think I’m a complete disaster. But if he does, it won’t change anything.
I try to tidy up a bit, and tackle the washing that has accumulated again on the sink. Then I go to the back freezer, and find some mince. I decide to make a spag bol that will cover meals for a few nights, including tonight.
Spaghetti bolognaise was the only meal besides steak and salad that I ever saw my father cook. When he moved to town, and visited Mum every day, he lived in a small unit near the hospital. He got meals on wheels occasionally, and he would often eat meat pies or order takeaway Chinese from the only place in town that offered it. It was a miserable existence, but he didn’t want to live with us, and he wanted to be near Mum. I took that to be a sentimental thing to do with old age. She was one of the few things, the few people, left of his old life. He hadn’t ever really taken Mum’s feelings into consideration. When he got round to it, for whatever reason, she was too far gone to know it.
By the time Tom’s car pulls into the driveway I have managed to waste the hours, and I’m not really sure how. He walks in, smiley and upbeat, in a clumsy cover for his nerves, but I like him for it. He has a small bag with him, which he drops in the corner. I offer him a beer, and am glad when he accepts. It is always good to have a partner in crime. We struggle through conversation about his work and his family.
I say I’ve made dinner, and he tells me there’s no need. I’m pretty sure he’s pretending he doesn’t need dinner because he completely forgot about that practicality. The way he’s eating my stale chips would suggest that I am right. So I serve spaghetti, meat, and sauce, and ask him about his research. Mid-mouthful, he gets up, goes to his bag, extracts his computer tablet, and returns. He turns it on, and is immediately more relaxed.
Without looking at the screen, he says, ‘My dad worked with a guy who knows a local detective really well. This guy knows I’m trying to be a journalist, and he heard about the trouble I had …’ Tom pauses as if giving me a chance to remember. ‘So he asks this detective if there is anything he can pass on to me about a local case. A story. Maybe a scoop sort of thing. This detective says he can’t really tell him anything about his current cases — it wouldn’t be right. Then he remembers a case concerning a family called the Vasilievs, and there’s a link to this area.’ Tom waves a fork at the room, takes a large mouthful, and chews quickly.
My ears are leaping off their fittings. I want to tell him that I know about the Vasilievs, but I don’t want to detract from his moment.
‘The detective says there is this crime family in the city calling themselves the Vasilievs, headed by a guy called Sergei Vasiliev. Not big time, but not small either. Every now and then, the rumour mill attributes a murder to them. The police don’t have anything on them, but they seem to be a presence.’
Now Tom looks at the screen. ‘The police believe they are professional hitmen. If you want someone whacked, you go to the Vasilievs.’
He looks up at me. ‘Word has it that they have a link to this area, but it’s kind of vague. People with connections to the family have been seen up this way. They kind of stand out, because the country is the last place these sorts of people like to go to. Anyway, the police do a bit of research into the Vasiliev family. They ask their sources, follow up rumours, conduct an internet search, or whatever they do. It turns out that the Vasilievs don’t exist. There is no Vasiliev crime family. No credit details, no tax numbers, no bank records, no passport record, and so on. The only Vasilievs they can find are a couple of oldies living quietly in the west, and some grannies in nursing homes.
‘The Vasilievs don’t exist?’ All my theories have just been quashed under Tom’s polite heel. He holds a hand up to steady me.
‘They’re fake, but they e
xist, if that makes sense. Sergei Vasiliev isn’t a real person. The guy who turns up every now and then pretending to be Sergei is someone else. He’s like a pretend tough guy. The way the detective explains it, he’s a bit of an idiot. The police back off from the case, because nothing makes any sense and there is no real evidence.’
I’m going to need to go over this again. ‘So someone has made up the Vasiliev family as a front for their, what? Business? Organisation?’
‘I guess so, but the police don’t know what to do with this sort of information. There are no bodies and no genuine accusations. The Vasilievs are a false name for something that doesn’t exist. Their guess is that if you’re going to be in the business of having people whacked, it’s better for your brand to be a crime family called Vasiliev that lives in the shadows, rather than crazy brothers who live in a caravan at the back of their parents’ house in the suburbs.’
When I look confused, he shrugs and says, ‘Just an example.’
‘Can’t they go undercover? Find out who is what?’
‘Maybe, but, according to the detective, they can’t really justify spending money and time on something so vague.’
‘So you think they might be involved in the assaults on Elaine Slade and me?’ I don’t know if that’s what he’s thinking, but I’m not ready to tell him my far-out theories.
He pushes the computer away, and leans back. ‘I don’t have a clue. It just seemed weird that you and Mrs Slade got attacked and neither of you seem to know why. I wondered if it was a coincidence that people with a connection to a crime family, or a fake crime family, happened to be in the area.’
‘Good thinking.’ And it is. It gives me sudden confidence, and I tell him about the visit from Frank Costello.
‘Wow. So you think Mr Slade had something to do with the Vasiliev family?’
‘I do.’ I get up and take the plates to the sink, as if I care about these sorts of things. I need a moment’s breather before I tell him any more. I rinse the plates, and stack them to dry. I get a cloth, wet it, and wipe down the island. ‘I believe that Tito was being forced to put human remains, ash, in his pottery. People do that sort of thing. I thought it was the Vasiliev family, who he owed gambling debts to, who were forcing him to do this. He decided to trick them and not do what they were forcing him to do, but he died before he could carry out his plan to return the ashes to the families.’
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