Each room of the house had been treated in the same manner; the entire place had been pulled apart and smashed to the floor. There was something odd about it but it took Laverov a while before he realised that what he was seeing was not the evidence of a thorough search but a rampage of destruction. Worryingly, he also found traces of dried blood on the floor of the bathroom.
In the kitchen every plate, saucer, jar and bottle had been smashed. The contents of the fridge were scattered amongst the debris and to his horror he found the body of a ginger cat — its head had been completely obliterated. Laverov crouched down and studied the cat in an attempt to work out how long it had been dead. He guessed no more than a day, maybe two at the outside. It was as he was about to stand up that he noticed the newspaper cutting. The top portion of the paper was badly stained but holding it under the light Laverov realised that he had just had a stroke of luck. The clipping was from a Moscow newspaper and showed a short overweight man with an outrageously drooping moustache. He was flanked by a tall elegant woman on one side while on the other, grinning at the camera, was Oleg Rusak. The paragraph below described ‘the friendly welcome extended to the industrialist Mr Sinclair and his wife by parliamentarian Oleg Rusak’.
The peculiar thing about the photograph was that someone had used a blue pencil to circle one of the figures — that of Mrs Sinclair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He had forgotten just how grotesque Sinclair’s home was.
Teschmaker had decided to ease himself into the surveillance, as though it were a treat to be savoured in small portions rather than devoured in one sitting. Consequently he had avoided the front of the mansion, opting rather to take a stroll through the Botanical Gardens and reacquaint himself with the house from the face that it presented to the public. It was not exactly as he remembered it, but then he acknowledged that he was viewing it with a very different mind-set from when he had last seen it, being more interested now in its effect on those who inhabited it rather than its exterior. But despite his altered focus the exterior still had the power to instil in him a sense of disquiet. In the intervening twenty years the trees had grown and now the alternating yew and cyprus softened the impact of the building’s grotesquely sculptured facade. The arcs of columns appeared to mirror the semicircles of trees, as though they had grown as stone shadows of their living counterparts. The huge concave windows, shadowed by the curved entablature which supported the domed roof, seemed to Teschmaker like grossly hooded eyes, sunken and misshapen. The domes — which ranged from cruel mockery of the golden onions of the Kremlin to perverse beehives — had been softened by pollution, lichens and moss over the years and now looked less harsh than he remembered. The much-criticised roof sculptures that were in fact chimneys still stood like ancient travellers from Greece and Rome lost between the domes, their sooty apertures as intriguing as they were bizarre. In the early morning only one of the six chimneys was actually in use, but the sight of the smoke pouring from Medusa’s mouth brought a smile to Teschmaker’s chill face. Was Jane in there by the fire in a dressing gown? Was she drinking coffee from a bowl? Was her child still living at home? Melanie would be fifteen now. It hadn’t escaped his notice that this was the age Jane had been when they had enjoyed their short romance.
Returning to his car Teschmaker drove around to the cul-de-sac where huge gates guarded the entrance to the mansion. The gatekeeper’s house, constructed in the style of a Karelian slab church, differed from its ancient ancestor in that the slabs were hewn not from spruce or birch but hard red granite carved to look like timber. Knowing he would attract no attention, Teschmaker pulled in behind an early morning tour bus which was lingering while its occupants took photographs. Walking over to the gates, he peered down the driveway past the gatekeeper’s house. If the twin scoops on the Botanical Gardens side of the building had resembled giant eyes, then the single scoop at the centre of this side was a gargantuan mouth, the columns like broken teeth spat out onto the lawn in front of it. The multifaceted windows bubbling up and out from the huge brass front door glinted in the morning sun like crystallised saliva while the driveway snaked towards him like a probing tongue. It must, Teschmaker thought, be a very strange sensation to walk up that driveway and through the entrance. One would feel engulfed by the house. Consumed.
Again it was obvious that the trees had grown but here, set back on the garden’s boundaries, they had failed to soften the impact of the architecture. The sweep of columns leading from the house to the gateway increased in size as they arced in, producing an almost dizzying reverse perspective. Teschmaker wondered what had inspired such a grotesque statement. The columns nearest the gate were crumbling, obviously meant to look like the shattered remains of some ancient structure, but the nearer the house they got the more intact and larger they became. It was as though Sinclair were saying ‘I have reversed the process of decay’.
Teschmaker was walking back to his car when he heard the hum of an electric motor. He turned to see the huge iron gates slowly opening. Moving quickly he got in and started the engine. As he did so, a royal blue Rolls Royce purred out of the driveway, a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. Although the rear windows were tinted Teschmaker thought he glimpsed two people in the back seat. He had not intended to do more that morning than check out the house, but decided that he might as well tag along and at least get an idea of Sinclair’s routine. There was also a good chance that Jane was one of the passengers; if so, he might save some time and find out where it was she had her office.
To his surprise the car did not turn into Fitzgerald Drive and head towards the central business district but cruised up the slip road onto the Mitchell Freeway. Intrigued, Teschmaker slotted himself into the traffic, allowing a two-car buffer between him and the Rolls. Even though it was just after the morning peak hour there was still a fair amount of traffic on the road, but most of it was heading in the opposite direction, into the city. For a moment Teschmaker thought they must be heading out to one of the industrial suburbs, maybe to one of Sinclair’s factories in Claymont or South Pendle, but they turned off at the Belmont exit, dived under the freeway and headed towards the river that divided middle-class Belmont from the upper-crust enclave of old money that was Charlottewood.
As they crossed the Charlotte River Bridge and entered broad tree-lined Lombard Avenue, Teschmaker was forced to slow down. There was now only one car in front of him and he knew it was a fair bet that someone like Sinclair would employ a driver trained in spotting any kind of surveillance. He dropped further back but kept the Rolls well in sight. Ahead the Rolls signalled and made the left-hand turn into Haycroft. This was unfamiliar territory and Teschmaker knew he was certain to be noticed. Then, as the chauffeur pulled in at the side of the road in front of a high wall that almost completely obscured the bluestone house beyond, Teschmaker saw the answer to his problem. Two houses further along the street on the same side was a discreet ‘For Sale’ sign. He drove past, parked and taking a notebook from the glove box got out and made a show of writing down the number of the real estate agent. In the meantime, the chauffeur had gone to the rear of the car and was opening the door. Teschmaker felt a surge of excitement. Surely this would be Jane.
It was and it wasn’t. Dressed in a Milton College school uniform the young woman was, even from a short distance away, the spitting image of her mother. For some reason she was being dropped off. Her father remained in the car. Then, as Teschmaker pretended to look at the house in front of him, he saw a tall, elegantly dressed woman come over to the car. There was no doubt in his mind. This was Jane. The rear window came down and she exchanged some words with the man Teschmaker suspected was Oliver Sinclair. Jane straightened up, took the girl’s elbow and guided her in front of her through the gate in the fence.
Teschmaker was jubilant. He was feeling an almost childlike pleasure in uncovering who Jane had become, and now he not only had a centre to start from but the added mystery of why she was apparently living in a separa
te house. There had been not a hint or whisper of marital disharmony in any of the press clippings that he had scanned. Though given Oliver Sinclair’s playboy lifestyle, it surprised him that the gossip columnists hadn’t speculated on the possibility. It was as though Jane was a no-go area and the media left her alone. Strange, he thought.
A black Ford cruised slowly past, the lone occupant taking a long look at the house for sale. Out of your price range, Teschmaker thought. Even the bottom end of this market would drive Mercedes or BMWs. He waited until the Rolls had pulled away then got back in his car and tried to decide on his next move. He was tempted to wait and see where Jane went to, but knew he had been a little too exposed to risk picking her up from his present position. The other option was to go and get some breakfast. Ahead of him the Ford driver turned around and came slowly back along the street. He probably wants to have a closer look, Teschmaker thought, so decided to get out of the man’s way. The breakfast option won the day.
Later in the morning he decided to see if he could track down the consultancy that the librarian had mentioned. He instituted a computer search of listed company directors but Jane Sinclair was not registered. On instinct he deleted Sinclair and replaced it with Morris and was immediately rewarded. Jane was one of two directors in a company called Strategic Options. The other director was listed as Sarah Norrby. Teschmaker smiled. The old girlfriends had got together. Sarah’s parents had migrated from Sweden in the 1950s and at school the two girls had become inseparable. Outside of his contact with Jane, Teschmaker had met Sarah only a couple of times and once made the mistake of asking her out. It had been in the aftermath of his romance with Jane and Sarah had given him short shrift. ‘How could I go out with you? What would Jane think?’
What on earth, Teschmaker had thought. Would she even have cared? At that stage Jane had stopped taking his phone calls and started going out with a creep from university who smoked a pipe and wore a duffel coat and brothel-creepers.
Brothel-creepers. Suede shoes with thick rippled crepe soles. Teschmaker’s father was wearing them the stormy last night they visited Ginger Mick at the Miners’ Rest in Keynes. They had been on holiday together, father and son in the old miner’s hut the family had purchased some years before. The holiday was a ritual, a repayment for the neglect, made up for by over-indulgence and a week of being spoiled rotten. His father, Alexi, was in those days a tall man whose stoop still lay some years in the future. Under his shirt the pallid flesh was soft and smooth, a marked contrast to a face worn and creased by too much sun, cigarettes and booze — a cartographer’s nightmare of rivulets, ravines, small pockmarks, craters and stubble. High cheekbones were the only sign of his Russian heritage and the eyes — deep dark pools, liquid, rheumy, forever darting over your shoulder looking for another chance. At ten, Martin loved his father. Loved him, and understood that a week was all he was good for. More than that and he would be back on the bottle, ranting and lecturing him about his mother’s selfishness.
‘You want to go see Ginger?’
They always did. It was just a matter of timing. They had been inside the shack all day, stoking the fire, playing cards; breaking only to make sandwiches or dash out into the rain for an armful of firewood. The wood and fibro cottage shuddered and creaked in the wind and when the heavens opened up the drumming on the roof was deafening. Whenever the rain was really heavy they played the game of pretending to be shouting to each other, feigning puzzlement at the other’s inability to hear. They laughed until their stomachs hurt and yet they also mouthed words that would otherwise have been left unsaid. I love you, his father mouthed.
You too. Martin formed the words silently. Wanting to scream them.
‘Can I have a sarsaparilla?’
‘You think you’re old enough?’ His father made his usual joke.
They checked the fire, put up the spark-guard and, after wrapping themselves in their oilskins and scarves, plunged out into the wild west-coast night. As they entered the forest the storm seemed to retreat, the tossing tops of the trees creating a zone of eerie dripping silence. His father, torch in hand, strode fast over the soft forest floor while Martin loped along behind, keeping his eyes fixed on the path, aware of the roots that snaked out and curled around themselves, sometimes holding small pools in their folds. Even on dry days the litter of beech leaves was soft underfoot. Now, glistening and wet, it squelched beneath his father’s thick crepe soles.
A few minutes later they emerged from the forest onto the cinder path that led across the railway tracks to the town’s main street. There was electricity but the few remaining houses set between the railway and the main street had, by some unspoken convention, opted for kerosene lanterns. The soft golden glow of the lamps slipped out between tattered curtains and escaped through gaps in weatherboards long past their replacement date. Mining for gold had fizzled out some years before and the few remaining ore wagons, now rusted to the tracks, held nothing but ragged weeds. The coal bunkers were empty but a large floodlight still illuminated the yard, silhouetting the water tower, the remnants of a canvas hose flapping from a gantry above their head. A train signal, rusted at half-mast, had slowly tilted over during the years of neglect and now stood like some uneasy sentinel.
Teschmaker shivered, pulled the hood of his parka around his face and stepped carefully over the lines and rotting sleepers. ‘Watch out for trains!’ his father laughed, waiting for him in the lee of the signaller’s hut.
A century before the main street of Keynes had been a bustling centre, boasting a bakery, draper, dentist’s and doctor’s rooms, two general supply stores, a whorehouse, postoffice, two banks and six hotels. Now it had shrunk to one general store and, flanked by empty shells of buildings, the dilapidated Miners’ Rest. The nearest police station being fifty miles away, trading hours were regulated by demand rather than statute. Stepping around the potholes in the road they climbed the steps onto the hotel verandah. It was only six thirty, but from the array of coats and oilskins already hanging on the old brass hooks it appeared that the entire town was ensconced for the evening. Martin and his father shook the rain off their wet-weather gear, hung them up and made their way into the thick smoky atmosphere of the pub.
Since the West Coast Highway bypass had been built a decade earlier, few people bothered to make the detour to Keynes. There was nothing there. The locals, unable or unwilling to sell their homes, had banded together, like shipwreck survivors, and yet accorded Alexi Teschmaker and his son some respect for swimming against the tide of history. They greeted them cheerfully and returned to their drinks. Martin found himself a seat and watched as his father went up to the bar. He was frightened of the hotel owner, a huge man with the roundest face he had ever seen. Somewhere in a shady past he had lost the sight in his left eye and it now seemed to have a life of its own, flickering and darting uncontrollably. On account of this he had picked up the nickname Flecker-eye-Pig. Usually he was addressed simply as Flecker-eye but didn’t seem to mind what you called him as long as you paid for your drinks as they were served. Martin didn’t like looking at him but was, at the same time, fascinated. Flecker-eye must have sensed it and was given to walking up behind the boy and tousling his hair. Martin turned his chair sideways, which took the hotel owner out of his direct line of sight but left him in a position to see if he was being advanced upon.
‘Evening, Alex, nice drop of weather.’ Flecker-eye fixed Teschmaker with his good eye. ‘The boy let you out, huh?’
‘Yeah.’ Alexi grinned. ‘As long as I buy him a sarsaparilla and let him flirt with Ginger.’
‘Like father like son, huh?’
‘Not quite. I’ll have a bottle.’
Flecker-eye poured the sarsaparilla, dropping in a couple of ice blocks and a blue straw. ‘Ginger’s not in yet.’ He flipped the top off a tall bottle of beer and inverted a glass over the neck. ‘But she’ll be here.’
Father and son didn’t talk much in the pub, content to sip their drinks and lis
ten to the chatter around them. The locals were a strange bunch, all of whom they knew by sight but only a few by name. The Couch brothers, red-haired twins in their sixties, were the last of the old-style prospectors. Secretive and monosyllabic, they huddled in the far corner of the pub, staring into the fire, dreaming of ore bodies. Neither man had ever married and both were so shy with women that they even avoided looking at Ginger, though local gossip had it that one of them had slept with her twenty years before and the other brother had beaten him severely and not spoken to him for over a year. It was probably true.
Peter Svoboda had spent years in the merchant navy before running foul of the authorities over the importation of some forbidden substance. Seven years in a correctional institution had given him his land-legs and he had turned up in Keynes with all of his worldly possessions loaded into the back of a battered Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. It took him five years to restore the car and they were still waiting for him to put the cladding on the back of his house. Svoboda never left town yet always had cash in his pocket. Rumour had it that he kept a sizeable stash of money buried somewhere nearby.
Old Jack and Mary Verdugo ran the store. Simon Chalk told everyone he was a poet, but nobody had seen a word he had written, and of course there was Ginger.
If Ginger Mick had a real name certainly nobody in Keynes had ever heard it. Her attitude to her personal history was pretty casual. Sometimes she would claim to have worked in the ‘US of A’ and at others she would sigh and say how much better times had been when she was in Paris. The truth was that she had probably never been out of the country, but nobody cared. Everyone in town loved her and most of the men were occasional clients. ‘Everyone’s welcome but nobody’s free,’ she liked to chime. Now over forty, she was the first to admit that she was past her prime but ‘I’ve still got it and it works for me. How about you hon?’ When the main road bypassed the town so did Ginger’s passing trade but, to the relief of most of the town’s dozen or so men, she had decided to stay. Martin Teschmaker was seven when he first met Ginger. She had proclaimed him ‘adorable’, bent to kiss him and then, in a moment of bliss that remained with him for years, she turned his head to give him a good look straight down the neck of her low-cut dress before pulling his head in to her ample bosom.
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