‘Have to go, Kumi. See you at work.’ She hung up the phone.
‘Can me and Phoebe go see?’ Finn asked.
Brigitte said she’d come with them, flicked off their dinner, and called Ella.
Harry was out front of his house, looking up at the TV choppers. He joined Brigitte and the kids.
From the park, they saw media — local and city — and onlookers swarming the Paynesville foreshore.
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Harry said, squinting across at the cars, vans, reporters, camera crews.
The ferry was docked on the mainland. Brigitte could just make out Jeremy, on centre-stage again, talking to an audience of enthralled passengers.
‘What’s happened, Mummy?’ Phoebe asked, standing close to Brigitte.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Cam: Seen the news?
She opened The Age webpage — breaking news — as they reached the ferry shelter. Harry read over her shoulder.
Celebrity chef found dead in East Gippsland lake
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
‘What?’ the kids said in unison.
She held up a hand to shoosh them, and read on.
A woman’s body pulled from the water between Lake Victoria and Lake King at the small boating town of Paynesville in Gippsland has been identified as celebrity chef Maree Carver. The thirty-five-year-old star of the popular One, Two, Three, Cook! cooking show had been in Gippsland to film a TV commercial promoting her new cookbook.
Ms Carver’s family, including her husband, Michael Gorr, and her two young children, were told of the tragic news yesterday.
Mr Gorr said he and his children were going through hell. ‘We’re devastated. [I’m] just trying to push on as much as possible,’ he said.
The phone rang. Cam. ‘You were right. Awful, awful, awful. I feel sick to my stomach.’ He sniffed. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I can’t believe she drowned. I should have walked her to the motel.’ It sounded like he started crying.
‘Is somebody there with you?’
A pause, and then a snuffly ‘A friend’s on his way now.’ He couldn’t get any more words out.
Finn wanted to go across, but Brigitte said, ‘No,’ and turned for home. She phoned Aidan on the way.
‘How’s your hand?’ he said.
‘You should have told me about Maree Carver.’
‘Wasn’t meant to come out till tomorrow.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘You know I’m not allowed to discuss investigations.’
‘This is different.’
Zippy came bounding up the road towards them; he must have slipped through the broken gate again. Brigitte hung up, grabbed Zippy’s collar, and led him home.
They’d left the TV on in the lounge room. Channel Nine news. A blow-waved, heavily made-up reporter was standing in front of the Bateau House, looking serious, trying to furrow his botoxed brow, but there were no lines. ‘The news has devastated the Channel Nine community,’ he said. ‘Maree was a much-loved member of our Melbourne team. Our thoughts are with her family and friends during this difficult time. There has been a massive outpouring of grief on social media, and tributes from fans have already started flooding into the studio.’
An image of Maree Carver lit up the screen. She looked younger than she did on her cookbook cover. Her clear skin was made up to look natural. Model-smile, grey-green eyes, hair piled loosely on her head. It was a photo her agent must have provided. A classic head-shot pose: hand casually under ear, elbow resting on top of forearm draped along a bench or back of a chair that had been cropped out of the photo. Soft lighting. The boat neckline of a dress or evening top — black, satin and velvet maybe — skimmed her collarbones.
The reporter said, ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Steven Williams of the Homicide Squad said police are investigating the circumstances of Maree’s death, and has urged anyone who saw Maree on Thursday night to call Crime Stoppers.’
Brigitte went to the kitchen for a drink.
9
‘Shut the door,’ Aidan said as Brigitte walked into the bedroom.
She tilted her head. ‘Kids are out there, you know.’
No smile. He was wearing grey trousers and a business shirt — work clothes.
‘Why are you dressed like that?’
‘Night shift. Bloody Ray called in sick. Reckons he’s still recovering from some dodgy fish at the farmers’ market.’
She looked at her feet.
‘Can’t get anybody to cover him.’ He crouched in front of something next to the wardrobe.
She stepped closer to see what it was. ‘What the —’
He put an index finger to his lips.
— fuck is an ugly steel safe doing in our bedroom?
‘The combination’s Ella’s birthday,’ he said as he twisted the lock. ‘30–10–9.’
From the safe, he lifted a blue plastic case the size of a family-value cereal box. ‘We’ll keep the ammunition locked away in the shed later on —’
‘What ammunition? What are you talking about?’
‘But for now, it’ll be on top of the wardrobe.’ He stood, placed the case on the bed and opened it.
She drew in her breath when she saw the coal-black pistol nestled in the foam interior. ‘Is that your work gun?’
‘No.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Doesn’t matter where it came from, and it can go back once this investigation’s —’
‘Oh my God.’ She put her hands over her mouth. ‘Maree Carver didn’t drown, did she?’
He glanced at her, lines knitted between his brows, and then looked back at the gun in its case. ‘It’s a semi-automatic, just means it’s self-loading. See here.’ He pointed to something on the gun.
She didn’t want to see, turned her head slightly and looked at it from the corner of her eye.
‘Harry’s coming over in a minute to watch the kids, so we can have a little go at shooting it round the back of the island before I go to work.’
‘Aid, you’re scaring me.’
‘It’s OK, Brig. It’s just gunna stay in the safe for a bit.’
‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Just being careful.’ He closed the case. ‘Now go put on a jacket and some boots.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Yes.’ He spoke firmly — his policeman’s voice — and touched her cheek. She did as he said.
Aidan walked around from the back of the car, holding two pairs of industrial-looking earmuffs. ‘Ear protection. Guns are louder than a jet engine. Can cause permanent hearing damage.’
He was serious, no joking — no Say hello to my little friend. He handed her a pair of safety glasses. Let me guess, she thought, loose shrapnel could take out your eye.
They were at the back of the island, where the roads were dirt and the houses were few. Ferns grew in the shade of eucalypts, pines, and tea-trees. The sky was wolf grey and the water was the colour of the gun, a white-lace trim of foam edging the wavelets.
‘Always assume the gun is loaded.’ The wind whipped through Aidan’s hair as he pulled back the slidey thing on top of the pistol. ‘Whenever you put the gun down, make sure the slide is locked open, so you can tell it’s empty.’ He placed the gun next to a box of ammunition on the car’s bonnet. ‘And never point it at anything you don’t want to shoot.’ He swivelled it to point at the water.
Brigitte folded her arms under her breasts and hunched her shoulders forward. Aidan told her to pick up the gun. She shook her head and took a step backwards.
‘It’s OK. It’s not loaded,’ he said.
‘But you just said to always assume the —’
‘Just hold it for a sec, Brig.’ He lo
aded ammunition into a rectangular metal container.
She sighed, unfolded her arms, moved forward, and picked up the gun with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length, like a raw fish.
‘Hold it properly, Brigitte. It’s not a toy, you don’t want to drop it.’
She scowled and gripped it, hurting her burnt hand. It wasn’t as cold or as heavy as she’d imagined.
‘And remember what I said about never pointing it at anything you don’t want to shoot?’
She pointed it away at the water; she’d had it aimed at him.
He took the gun and showed her how to insert the metal container, the ‘magazine’, into the base of the grip. She started to zone out as he explained how the slide springs forward, loading one round into the chamber. ‘Now the gun’s ready to fire.’ He glanced at her.
She nodded and swallowed, her mouth dry. He wasn’t seriously expecting her to fire it?
He demonstrated how to grip the gun, thumbs on the same side. ‘The slide flies back with each shot, so never cross your thumbs behind it.’
‘Would it break your thumb?’
‘Cut it right off.’
Was that supposed to be encouraging?
He took a few steps forward onto the coarse, sandy beach. She followed. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, arms extended, gripping the gun in both hands.
‘What if you hit a boat?’
‘There are no boats out there.’
‘Or a dolphin?’
‘Stop being silly.’
He explained how he was lining up the sights — the front sight should be centred in the rear-sight notch. She had no idea what he was talking about now, could barely hear him through the earmuffs and above the wind and her heartbeat. ‘See that green shopping bag out there in the water?’
No. She squinted. ‘Oh, yes.’ She lowered her chin to her chest and hugged herself as he placed his finger on the trigger.
‘Imagine you’re placing your finger against something delicate like glass,’ he said. ‘Gently. Don’t jerk the trigger.’
She held her breath.
Bang! She jumped, and a tiny, strangled scream escaped her throat. The shopping bag disappeared.
He shot four more rounds, and then turned to her, still pointing the gun at the water. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
She felt hot and cold like she did when she was on the water. She took some shallow breaths and her legs started to shake. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘No, Aid.’ She shook her head.
‘You’re a brave woman, Brig.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Survived all that shit when you were young. Had three kids. This is nothing.’
The ground seemed to rock beneath her, like a boat. She ripped off the earmuffs and safety glasses; the glasses caught and tore out some of her hair. She didn’t care — just had to get them off.
Aidan frowned. ‘You OK?’
‘No!’ The wind almost blew her over as she turned and marched back to the car, crunching pine cones under foot.
She sat in the passenger seat, shivering, as she watched Aidan removing the ammunition from the pistol. Angry with herself for being silly, angry with him for trying to make her do this, the gunshots and the isolation of the island rang in her ears.
When he got into the car, he reached across and hugged her, kissed the top of her head, stroked her hair. ‘It’s OK. We’ll try another time.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘We won’t.’
He held her tighter, his breath hot against her cheek.
‘What’s going on, Aidan?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll send the divvy van to patrol the island tonight.’
Don’t worry! ‘What for?’
‘Nothing else for them to do.’
‘What for?’
‘I told you — just being careful.’
10
When the kids were in bed, she started reading a book that Tate, the new production assistant, had recommended: Cloud Atlas, which started in the form of a mid-nineteenth-century ship-traveller’s journal. She couldn’t concentrate. She flicked on the TV, lowered the volume, and called Zippy onto the couch with her. Leaves whispered against the side window and cast shadow fingers across the curtains. Zippy’s ears pricked up. ‘It’s just a tree branch,’ she said, patting his warm head. He licked her hand.
Somebody drove into their dead-end street — unusual at that time of night. It must be the car Aidan had sent. She walked over to the front window, looked through the blind slats, but the car was out of sight at the end of the cul-de-sac. Tail-lights like two cigarette tips in the dark. Brake lights. White lights. Reversing. Zippy barked but didn’t get off the couch. She held her breath.
The car stopped in front of their house. White and blue: the colours of safety. She let out her breath, turned up the heater, and went back to the couch.
Her phone rang. Her mother, Joan. Asking if she was all right. ‘That girl from the cooking show, how awful.’
‘Yes, it was —’
‘And that wasn’t you I saw featured in a TVC, was it?’ Priorities back on track, no asking how Aidan or the kids were.
‘I forgot you get Gip TV up there.’
‘Why were you in a commercial?’
‘Long story.’
Joan deepened her voice. ‘Go on.’
‘Actor didn’t turn up, so I had to fill in.’
Joan cleared her throat. ‘But you don’t have any training.’
‘Don’t need a performing-arts degree for regional telly.’ She looked at her fingernails, picked at a split one.
‘You’re not a member of the Media, Entertainment, and Arts Alliance.’
‘Didn’t ask for my union card either.’
‘Are you going to be doing more of this?’
She was about to say no, then decided to tell her about the series of farmers’ market commercials. Joan said she’d better get a casting agent. Brigitte heard ice crackle and ping against glass as Joan gave her acting tips. She stifled a yawn. ‘I’ve gotta go, Mum.’
‘Have you spoken to your brother lately?’
She’d forgotten to call him.
‘I think you should talk to him. He sounds funny.’
‘What do you mean “funny”?’
‘I don’t know. Call him and find out what’s going on. He’s never going to tell me.’ The flick of a cigarette lighter, the inhalation of smoke. ‘Now, shall I give you my Melbourne agent’s number?’
Melbourne agent, like she had more than one. ‘Sorry, Mum, bad reception, it’s the wind, you’re breaking up.’
‘I can hear you. Brigitte?’
‘Are you there?’
After she’d hung up on her mother, she tried Ryan’s number. No answer. She left a message, inviting him up for the weekend. The landline in the kitchen rang.
‘Everything OK?’ Aidan.
‘Yes.’
‘Been trying your mobile.’
‘Joan was on the phone.’
‘Dispatched the divvy to patrol the island.’
‘I know. But it’s not patrolling. It’s parked out front.’
Zippy wandered in to find her.
There was a rustling sound at Aidan’s end. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just Carla. See you in the morning.’
Zippy barked as the theme music played at the end of Law and Order: SVU. He jumped off the couch and charged at the back door; Brigitte heard his claws on the glass. She sprang up and rushed to look out the front window. The divvy van was still there. Safe. She went to see what Zippy was carrying on about. Probably a koala.
She stopped dead when she saw a dark figure standing on the porch. How long to open the
safe, get the gun from the case, drag over a chair to stand on, reach the ammo, load it? Three minutes? Four?
The figure was holding a bottle of wine. Fuck, just Harry. She flicked on the porch light, and held Zippy by the collar as she slid open the door. The smells of wood smoke and mosquito coils were in the air.
Zippy continued to bark.
‘Shh, Bugalugs, it’s just me.’ Harry wiped his feet on the mat. ‘Aid said to check on you.’ He was wearing overalls, a navy sweater, and a yellow hi-vis beanie.
‘You almost scared me to death.’
‘Sorry.’ He pulled off the beanie, handed over the bottle, and followed her in. ‘Cop car out the front.’
‘Yes. Aid’s being obsessive.’ She took two glasses from the cupboard.
‘Can’t be too careful, love.’ Harry rubbed his hands together. ‘Bit nippy out.’
‘Autumn.’
He lifted his gaze to her face and took a seat at the kitchen table.
Zippy lay at the back door, licking himself. A koala grunted like a pig while Brigitte was pouring the wine; she jumped and spilled some on the table. Zippy growled.
‘You all right, love?’ Harry said.
She nodded. ‘Fucking koala bears,’ she said as she crossed to the sink for a cloth to wipe the spill. ‘Did you know they have exactly the same fingerprints as humans?’
‘Bullshit.’
‘It’s true. Even experts can’t tell the difference under a microscope. Aid told me.’ She sat at the table and gulped her wine.
‘They’re not actually bears.’
‘I know.’ She’d started calling them ‘bears’ because it was amusing how much it annoyed Aidan. ‘Where were you before the island, Harry?’
‘Moved around a bit. Melbourne, New South.’
‘For work?’
‘Yeah, mostly. Worked in an abattoir, as a salesman, all sorts of odd jobs, dirty deeds.’
‘Done dirt cheap,’ she laughed, and drank. Thank God for wine.
‘And then got into boats.’
She wondered why he hadn’t found a partner, but didn’t ask. ‘Any luck with the internet dating?’
His cheeks flushed.
‘You have!’
‘Not really.’ He shook his head. ‘Just one date. Last Thursdy.’
Dead in the Water Page 5