Tom’s mouth is open, and his eyes bright.
‘That is far-out. Have you got any evidence?’
‘Not really. Sort of. I’ve got boxes of ashes. And a box of money that was sent to me. Like I told you.’
Tom looks down. ‘I thought you were off your rocker when you said that.’
‘Yeah. It doesn’t mean I’m not.’ This brings a small laugh. He asks about how and why I think this might have been happening, and I tell him everything I know. He sifts through my logic like a professional until he is satisfied that I’m not just fantasising.
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asks.
‘I think it’s time to go to the police.’
‘Can you keep me in the loop? It could be a big story for me.’
‘Absolutely. You want ice cream or something?’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘Chocolate sauce?’
‘You have chocolate sauce?’
‘Now that I think about it, no.’
‘Plain ice cream is fine.’
‘Lucky you weren’t hungry.’
I grab the ice cream from the freezer, and put out two bowls.
‘I thought you’d move from here,’ Tom says.
I look up at him, because I’m not sure whether he’s talking about James or my knock on the head.
‘After James. There’s just so much of him in this place. Not just the grave.’ He’s embarrassed. It has come out wrongly. ‘Everywhere. I mean, in this house, the farm, and everything around it. I feel like he’s on his way in from the paddock or somewhere, and we’ll see him in a minute.’
‘Yep, I know. I feel it all the time. I thought about moving. But when you let go of that, it feels like you’re letting go of him. So I can’t leave, and not just because of the grave.’ I go back to the ice cream.
‘Is Mrs Martin okay?’
‘I think so. She’s happy in the city. Some of that’s because of exactly what you say — away from the memories and the reminders of the way life could have been. Maybe being away from me helps, too.’
Then we are quiet. We eat, and examine our bowls. The conversation has been too much. I get up and turn the TV on, and Tom takes our bowls to the sink. As I flick through the channels, he says, ‘How are they cremating the bodies? Is there a crooked crematorium somewhere?’
‘I guess so.’
‘That would be pretty hard to do, wouldn’t it? Get a body in, and remains out, of a public business like that?’
‘How else could they do it? Maybe one of their crooked mates owns a crematorium. But you’d think the police would work that out pretty quickly. I mean, if Tony Soprano owns a crematorium, you’re going to be keeping a close eye on it, aren’t you?’
Tom goes back to the tablet, and taps it several times. ‘To do a proper job, bodies have to be cooked at 870 to 980 degrees Celsius. You can’t reach that heat in a normal bonfire or barbecue. You need a furnace or …’
‘A kiln.’ The light-bulb moment is mine.
‘You know people with a kiln? Oh, the Slades. Right.’
Once again, I go over my deductions out loud, because otherwise they’ll become another theory piled on top of another theory. ‘That means Tito, and possibly Elaine, are behind this. The Vasilievs or whoever they represent were forcing them to cremate the bodies and then put the ashes into his artworks.’
Tom nods thoughtfully. ‘It’s kind of circumstantial. I mean, we don’t know if there are other kilns about, or if they used a kiln a hundred kilometres from here.’
‘No. But I’m thinking, if you’re dealing with dead bodies, and you’ve got enough power over one guy to make him put human ash into pottery, and he has kilns, then it would be really convenient to force him to do the cremation.’
‘Yeah. No one else needs to be involved.’
I feel the sadness of what I am saying. Elaine is mixed up in this, and she has deliberately played me along. Tom must see my distress, because he says, ‘You can’t blame them, can you? They were being forced. And it’s not like they did the killing or anything.’
‘And it seems like Tito did his best to get out of it.’ Once again, I am prepared to grasp at any straw when it comes to Elaine. ‘So how does Ben Ruder fit into this?’
‘Why would he fit?’
‘I saw him fighting with Elaine, and the crazy guy told me … the crazy guy went crazy when I mentioned Ben’s name.’
‘He lives near you, doesn’t he?’
‘Further up my road. He was an uncle and a friend of Tito’s. I can’t help thinking he was the link to the Vasilievs.’
We go round and round various theories, but without anything solid we don’t make any progress. It is enough to send us to bed. It is good to have him in the house, and I go to sleep looking forward to seeing him at breakfast.
He sleeps late — something I’d forgotten young men like to do. By the time he appears, slow and sleepy-eyed, I have been pacing the floor for a while. The breakfast things have been in and out of the fridge several times.
I offer him eggs, but he declines, and pours himself a bowl of cereal.
Then he says, ‘It’s possible Elaine knows about the boxes, knows you are supposed to have them, but doesn’t know how sinister the contents are. The same might be true for Ben. Maybe only the Vasilievs and Tito knew what was supposed to go into the pottery pieces.’
‘Yes.’
‘So don’t feel so bad.’
‘I’ll try not to. But I don’t see how Tito could do all that on his own: receive the bodies, somehow get them in the kiln, and cook them without Elaine or anyone else knowing.’
‘True.’
‘It’s really hard to see how any of them get in the clear.’
‘I guess so.’
He leaves after he has eaten, thanking me and saying how much he enjoyed it. I say, ‘Come again,’ and hope that he means what he’s said.
15
And it is time to go to the police. I should have done this when I first got the money and the cremains. I’m not a detective or a vigilante. I’m not even a properly functioning human being. I ring the police station beforehand as a kind of self-defence, after my last experience with them. My idea is to let them know I’m about to give them something important that I need help with, so they don’t make me feel like a goose when I walk in there.
It is Constable Murray who takes the call. I am sober-voiced and serious. But before I can begin on the spiel I have been practising, she says, ‘We know about the box, Mr Martin.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’ The same tired tone. I really am a headache for her. ‘I delivered it.’
‘You delivered it?’
‘Yes, Mr Martin. Hand-delivered it. By the time we’d dropped it off, taken a run up your road, and turned around, you were waiting at your mailbox.’
‘I don’t understand.’
She sighs loudly. I am a ten-year-old who has been told many times. ‘My mother nursed your father in his final days in the nursing home.’
‘Okay.’
‘And he told her he had a big box of money, his racing winnings, that he had kept in a back room somewhere.’
I am speechless. I have a sense that Constable Murray is a pivotal part of this whole series of events — a policewoman, at that.
‘He asked my mother if she could hang on to it, and give it to you in ten years’ time. Of course, he paid her to do it.’
‘The money was from Dad?’
‘Yes. And for the record, I never approved of it. I’m guessing it came from a fixed race, and I’m certain the tax department knows nothing about it. Sadly, my mother got sick, so it was left to me to carry out his wishes.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘You didn’t find the letter?’ The sigh again. ‘Mum s
aid there’s a letter that explains it all. Have another look.’
A sob rises up out of my throat, unexpected and uncontained.
She takes the sob I’m trying to suck back in as confirmation.
‘I’m sorry things didn’t turn out so great for you. Nevertheless, I think your father wanted you to enjoy the money. I’ll leave you with that.’
She hangs up the phone, which I don’t really notice. My father’s selfishness … my memories of him … the thousand thoughts I’ve had about the contents of that box and why I received them, and now what it means, all smash into each other in my head, creating confusion and even a little joy. When did my father win $250,000? It must have taken him years. Or did he have one big win in the later years? Why didn’t he tell me? I lie on the floor, letting the new facts wash over me. I realise I didn’t tell her about the other boxes, and now it’s the last thing I’m worrying about.
I drag myself to the meat room and uncover the box of money. I take it inside, pull out all the cash and throw it on the floor. I feel through all the seams in the box, pull open the bottom, and run my fingers through any gap I can find. Nothing. It is becoming less real. For a moment, I think I’ve imagined my phone call with Constable Murray, or I’ve misunderstood what she was trying to tell me. Was it in some sort of code that I should have understood? Is there an undercurrent that I have completely missed? I upend the box and shake it in fury, but nothing comes out. In my frustration, I tear at the corner of the box, and it comes away in my hands. I see a mess of writing across one of the panels. It looks a lot like my father’s handwriting, scrawled in blue-ink pen. I sit on the floor, and rip at the crease so I can see the writing clearly. It is a letter, written directly onto the cardboard inside of the box, that starts ‘Dear Son’, but I can hardly read it, because my hands are shaky and out of control. It continues:
I know this is going to seem very strange to you. A box of money coming to you from your dead father. I’m aware money doesn’t buy happiness or love, but it can surely help. I know how hard it can be on the land, and I thought a lump sum coming out of the blue at a time when all your lump sums (probably) were gone would be a blessing for you and Sarah. Marriage is hard. Your mother and I struggled at times. At least the way we did it: for better or for worse. But I always loved her.
I knew she wasn’t right for a long time before I admitted it to myself. When she finally went into the hospital, I was so worried there would never be enough money to keep paying her medical bills. Doctors kept telling me patients with dementia could live healthy lives for years, even if they couldn’t remember where they were and the people around them. The only things I could think of to do were to sell the farm or take a huge punt. You know what I did.
I know you always disapproved of my hobby, and I did lose my share of bets in the early days. But at the end I had three good wins. Let’s just say I had some good tips from a bloke I’d bumped into a few times over the years. I took the chance and won big. My plan was to leave the box in your mother’s room in the nursing home as a personal possession to be opened in case of emergency. But then your mother died. It was so unexpected. I was going to put the money in the bank, but then I knew it would become a part of the estate and somehow Henry would get his hands on it. I decided the money should go to you. It is a gift, son. From me and your mother. I asked Gemima Murray to pass it on after enough time for Henry to have passed too.
Whatever has happened to you since we went, I hope there has been joy. If not, I hope you have the fortitude to not let it destroy you. James is a terrific kid. You’re so lucky in the friendship you have.
With all my love, Dad.
I am howling as if I hope someone will hear and come to help me. The money is from my father, not the Vasilievs, or Tito, or some other family of crooks — my self-serving, coat-and-tie father. That he would have given any thought to the personal stuff in my future is impossible to believe. I read it again and again, and see the word ‘friendship’ when he talks about James, and take it to mean he was envious of our link. I never thought he would have wanted friendship with me.
Weirdly, the word sticking in my head amongst all those bombshells is ‘love’. It wasn’t a word my father or his generation ever really got the hang of. When I think of the word and the concept, I think of James, Sarah, and Mum. I do not think of him. Maybe I do now. Not because of the money, but because there was more fear and loneliness in him than I ever realised. It must be terrible to have the person you love not remember you, and then be afraid you cannot afford to look after her. I think I am grieving for him, for everybody, and I might even be grieving for me.
I pick the cash up again and take it out to its place in the meat room. Then I walk down to James’s area. I lie down on my back on the long grass at the edge. I talk to myself, babbling about the money, the bad guys, Tito, Shiflon, Ben, and the father I lost who had more to him than I ever realised. I feel like I’ve lost him all over again. Eventually, the words come back to Elaine. I am trying to suppress the anger I am feeling towards her. Why did she do all this to me? If she had just told me, I could have helped. I wonder if she knew the money came from Dad, because she never seemed that interested when I told her. But all the other stuff I know tells me it is time to confront her.
But first, I have a question for Constable Murray. I know I should be telling her things, but a question keeps bubbling up through the black mud of my brain. When I call, somebody else in the station answers, but I am quickly put through to Murray. There aren’t many people in the station.
‘Spent the money yet?’
‘No, but thank you for everything you did.’
‘I did it for my mother as much as anyone.’
This is going to be a brief call, because Constable Murray seems to have decided that her job gives her state sanction to dump on me.
‘I was wondering if I could ask a question about the investigation into the stolen crockery?’
‘Haven’t we done this?’ The sigh is back in her voice.
‘It’s a different question.’
‘One question. I’ll do what I can to help.’
‘Why did they test the crockery for “everything I could think of”?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not a detective.’ The sigh is replaced by a lilt. Is it the money that makes her dislike me? It’s more than that. She enjoys my discomfort. I am the light in her day. At least I’m that for someone. But then she says, ‘My understanding, and this is only from office hearsay, is that they have a hunch about something unusual going on in our district. Specifically in your area. I don’t think they know what. The only person I can think of who behaves “unusually” is you.’
I suppose people tell the police to go and fuck themselves, but it’s not really in my armoury. She may be goading me.
Her goad having failed, she continues, ‘The rumour mill has it that they’ve traced a link from somebody bad in the city to our little oasis. They haven’t shared with us yet.’
‘Well, thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Perish the thought.’
I am about to give her something, maybe even everything I have, but then that last comment pulls the shutters down.
‘And we still have your bag with your gun, and your pyjamas. You can pick them up whenever you want to.’
‘Thanks.’ End of conversation.
I tell myself I will ring her back and explain it all, and deliver the ashes and the powder, and maybe give her a leg-up with the detectives. But I am also thinking about loyalty — skewed, unjustifiable loyalty to Elaine. She is involved, and there is no way that her involvement is good. She knows about the boxes, and she’s been trying to get them back ever since we became friends. Which means we’re not friends, and that she only wanted to sleep with me for other purposes. Mucking about with ashes of the murdered people is a nasty business that she hasn’t managed to
report to the police. But still I feel loyalty. Tom’s comment that maybe she doesn’t know how bad this all is has stuck with me. The weeks we’ve been seeing each other, even though they’ve turned out to be false, have mattered to me; they’ve helped me take a few steps forward, and I can’t stop myself being thankful for that. So my heart carries the day against my head, and I decide not to spill the beans on Elaine to the police.
But the police think something is stinky, and I am not quite as insane as I thought I was. Good news for a change. It means I have to follow up on what the boxes started, answer the questions, and maybe even right a wrong — any wrong that I can find.
Elaine is on Wilson Road, walking in gym gear, stepping out, swinging her arms. I’ve seen her on walks before, and never paid any attention except to swing my vehicle wide so the stones don’t kick up at her. From the back, she looks tight and shapely. Nothing moves when it shouldn’t, and I note the fact that I have registered this. I slow down, but she doesn’t. I open a window, and keep pace with her. She keeps her face to the front. I say hello, but she ignores me. I have the surprising sensation of an adolescent crush unrequited. This fits, because Elaine has become the sixteen-year-old who doesn’t just reject you, but makes sure you know you’re not worth consideration.
I am about to wind the window up, and ‘man up’ with it when she says, without turning around, ‘How did your visit from the phantom bad guy, Vasily whatever he was, go?’ The sneer is in full flight.
‘He hasn’t turned up yet.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’ Gravel is being punished beneath her pounding, brightly coloured joggers. ‘So when is he supposed to arrive?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he won’t. We just guessed that when the Vasiliev family found out where the Costello remains came from, they would be pretty upset at us.’
‘We? Us?’
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