Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

  At least he hadn’t sighed.

  ‘Never should have let myself get my hopes up.’ His sigh was long and heartfelt.

  The kettle rattled as the pressure built inside. Mina felt just the same, like the heat in her body was bubbling and expanding until she was just about ready to scream.

  ‘I did find them.’ The words were out before she could stop them.

  He spun on his heel, tea-making forgotten.

  ‘You’ve got them? Where are they?’

  His face was a mixture of eagerness and surprise, perhaps a touch of admiration. She’d waited years to see that look. Gibson held his ethics high. His name in antiques circles—or more accurately, the stigma of her name—was the reason he had kept her away from the elite of his clientele. When he’d offered to endorse her at his invitation-only Christmas soiree on the condition she could complete his tea caddy spoon collection, she’d jumped at it. His enviable collection of Georgian silver crafted by most of the important European silversmiths was almost legendary; if she earned his endorsement by completing it the weight of her father’s deed would lighten. Gibson’s weren’t the only hopes dashed.

  Steam shot from the spout as the kettle screeched its whistle.

  If she told him the truth, she’d have to tell him everything. Not just that she’d stolen from two characters so shady they could sprout mushrooms, but that she had done so knowing they had to have some association with the death of that poor man Schmidt. And what if he told Drummond? The cop already suspected her of something, thanks to her temper. He wouldn’t believe that a wrong turn had led her to some forgotten town way off the freeway; that desperation had caused her to deal with a dodgy fat guy in a junk store with soaped-up windows: Lux Soap, if the painted ad peeling from the outside wall was any indication.

  ‘I didn’t buy them.’ Her ears got hot though it wasn’t a lie.

  His look said it all. The invitation was swept away on the tide of his disgust and the realisation he’d squandered his time forcing this western suburbs lump of coal into the semblance of a diamond.

  She said, ‘I think they were stolen.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘I thought it better not to risk it.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Especially with my Association application awaiting your endorsement.’ She forced a grin. ‘Once you’ve given me a cheque for the screen, of course.’

  Gibson settled the lid of the teapot with a musical clatter. ‘Confidence in a seller is usually a bluff, a sign of desperation.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw how well it looks in my new shop.’

  ‘Well then,’ he showed her a hint of a smile, ‘let’s see how well you can separate me from my hard-earned cash.’

  They negotiated for almost an hour. When they finally shook hands, he opened the narrow drawer of his desk to retrieve his chequebook. Nestled among the notebooks, pens, and her unsigned Australian Antiques and Art Dealers Association application, was a revolver.

  ‘Is that real?’ she asked.

  He closed the drawer. ‘How would you like the cheque made out? Cash?’

  She waved his question away. What was he doing with a gun? He was a pacifist.

  ‘Is something wrong, Derek?’

  Gibson resettled the teacups on the tray. He moved the empty pot a little to the left then back again then ran his hands through his thinning hair.

  ‘Derek?’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself, Mina. I got it when Martin left. These robberies have me a little on edge. And now that you’re leaving, I thought it was prudent.’

  Six weeks ago his long-term business partner had just packed a bag and left. Not one word of goodbye. Gibson hadn’t mentioned his name since. Once she left for her own business, he’d be alone. He had gone from three staff to one in just a few weeks, and all she’d thought about was herself.

  She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What have you done to yourself?’ He peered at the bruise on her temple.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ She faked a smile, the dull throb more intense now she’d focused on it. ‘I almost knocked myself senseless trying to get that room screen out of the attic.’

  ‘Mina, darling, that’s what delivery men are for. You must look after yourself.’

  He was right. She had to put herself first, get her business up and running.

  Drummond claimed the gang was targeting specific antiques. True or not, his investigation would shine an unflattering light on her chosen career; just as her business opened; just when she’d stumbled into a junk store that was clearly a front for the gang terrorising Failie—she’d seen the tri-coloured ribbon poking from beneath that ratty tea towel. And the watch, a watch she’d stolen, was hidden in her bag. With Drummond asking questions, it wouldn’t be long before the locals did more than whisper about Jacko Everton. Not long before they once more viewed her with the same suspicion Drummond hadn’t bothered to hide. If she had any chance at her own life, unburdened by stigma, she had to find out more about these robberies. She had to discover just how her dad fit in.

  Whatever it took, she was going to put this stuff about Jacko Everton to rest. Forever.

  Chapter 10

  LINC AMBLED ALONG the cracked pavement. He should head back to the Everton house or track her down and insist on a statement, but after his run-in with Wainright, he needed to clear his head.

  He longed to go for a run, to fill his lungs with fresh air, feel the blood pumping and the ache in his legs. He’d bet Mina was a runner; a body like hers didn’t come from sitting on that delicious bum. And her house was right on the Esplanade where a sealed recreation path ran the entire length of the foreshore. All she had to do was cross the road. He hoped she appreciated what she had. Back home, it was almost an hour’s drive to a decent beachside running track at Bondi.

  A haze blurred the bitumen as he crossed the bridge that took him back to the main part of town. Below him, the gleaming slate river barely moved. Nestled against its banks was a newish housing development, the knife-blade edges softened by a thick planting of cocas palms. Not a breath of wind stirred the fronds. Even the seagulls rested in the shade. He relinquished his jacket, loosened his collar and wished he’d kept walking away from the town centre.

  The airbrakes of a B-double emitted a combination of shrieks and sighs as it decelerated. Caught in the rush of hot air, an empty Kettle Chips packet waltzed and skittered until it came to rest on the dusty median strip. Another truck rumbled past. The chip packet rose again, swaying and jerking, at the mercy of the traffic. He knew how that felt. It hadn’t been his choice to transfer to the South Australian Police force.

  ‘It’ll just be temporary,’ his department-sanctioned shrink said. ‘Give you a change of scenery. Get your thoughts together.’

  Linc had told him in this job there was no such thing as temporary. The states operated independently and his transfer would be official, meaning he’d have to resign his role in New South Wales. In the circumstances, there was no guarantee he’d be accepted back.

  Despite the assurances of Brian-the-shrink, he’d wanted no part of it until he’d arrived early at the superintendent’s office and overheard their conversation.

  ‘Let’s bottom line this, Brian,’ the superintendent said. ‘I need cops I can rely on, who aren’t going to take a swing at me when I tell them to man up.’

  ‘There were extenuating circumstances,’ his shrink replied. ‘A transfer to the South Australian Police, assisting with a straightforward case in a quiet town like Failie, is just what young Drummond needs to find himself.’

  ‘If I had my way, he’d find himself out on his arse. If he wasn’t so well-connected, that bugger would have been out the door the minute he lost it.’

  ‘Yes, well. There’s still the matter that he hadn’t been properly debriefed after the shooting.’

  The super grunted.

  ‘This Forbes Monroe fellow has the ear of the c
ommissioner down there,’ Brian said. ‘We just need to swing it this end.’

  ‘You saying I need to go doff my hat at our bloke? Fuck that.’

  ‘If you do, Drummond would go as a temporary secondment. It’s a sideways move that makes you look compassionate, the bigger man.’

  ‘Drummond’s got a short fuse. I don’t want any shit sticking to me when he goes off.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be SAPOL’s problem?’

  The superintendent’s answer had been a phlegmy chuckle.

  Linc waited at the traffic lights. The roads seemed filled with the grunting engines of buses and trucks. Brakes shrieked. Fumes thickened the air. On the opposite side of the street were the council chambers, complete with immaculate stonework and a clock tower. On his right, a redbrick church hunkered upon a rectangle of struggling grass surrounded by traffic.

  The church covered most of the block. Its deeply pitched roof and bell tower seemed to clamour for heaven, and in case anyone was in doubt of its ecclesiastical purpose, the tower was emblazoned with a large white cross. Sunlight glinted off lofty windows and a brass plaque commemorating those who’d given their life for their country. He turned his gaze away. The days when he would have tried the doors, sought comfort in the dusky solitude and the glimmer of votive candles, were gone. In any case, it was a Methodist church. He didn’t have a clue whether they used votive candles.

  Half a kilometre ahead, beyond another set of lights, was the imposing curved wall of the police station. The footpath that would take him there was a mass of rubble and orange barrier netting. If only all roadblocks in his life had been so clearly marked. He might have waited for the hostage negotiators, and a four-year-old kid would never have had to witness a bullet ripping through the skull of his deadbeat dad.

  In the middle distance, behind a cluster of buildings, he glimpsed the blue water of the dockyards where a double-masted tall ship tugged against its mooring ropes. A red and white Coca-Cola umbrella flapped in an intermittent breeze.

  The walk signal beside him emitted ear-piercing blips. Ahead were the traffic-filled streets, the clock tower, the church, the forbidding brick wall of the police station. He turned and crossed the street toward the docks and the fluttering umbrella. A short walk on a long pier was just what he needed, although Wainright would no doubt wish it were the other way around. Behind him a car horn blared. Linc turned. Constable Riker saluted him from behind the wheel of his cruiser. The lanky frame in the passenger seat looked like Strzelecki’s. Linc returned the wave just as the lights changed. Riker sped past, his left hand fiddling with his artful hair arrangement.

  Outside the Tall Ships Café four green plastic chairs snuggled against a white table. The large sandwich board near the entrance read: Egg + bacon s/w $4.50. D/cut roll + coffee $6. His stomach growled. He could taste the double-cut roll already. He checked his watch: 10:08 a.m. What the heck? Lukewarm coffee and half a stale danish at six a.m. didn’t count for much.

  ‘Hello, love. What’ll it be? Have here, is it?’

  Behind a long sandwich bar filled with freshly grated carrot, lettuce, beetroot, chicken, and a host of other mouth-watering fillings stood a woman almost as wide as she was tall. Her spiky hair was the colour of fruit punch, her dress a complication of swirling psychedelic patterns. Earrings like chandeliers dangled from slack lobes. She seemed familiar, and he mulled that over while he gave her his order. Where he’d seen her before shouldn’t be too hard to recall. She was certainly memorable.

  ‘You’re that cop, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Right through to my bone marrow.’

  Her raucous cackle filled the shop, which was already packed with chips, lollies and magazines.

  ‘Well, that’s good to know,’ she said.

  She sliced a wholegrain roll and slathered the soft inside with golden butter. The aroma took him back to summer holidays at his grandfather’s house: bread fresh from the wood oven, runner beans tied to stakes and the perfume from olive trees warmed by the sun.

  Without looking up, she said, ‘So you’re the one who’s gonna catch those buggers stealing from the rich and forgetting to hand it on to us poor working stiffs.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’ He liked the deft way she built his sandwich.

  ‘Time something was done about these break-ins.’

  He lifted his gaze, remembering where he’d seen her. He’d pegged her as a domineering loudmouth, the type of woman he’d chew his arm off to avoid, but she could prove useful to know. So far, she was the friendliest local he’d met.

  ‘You were at the community meeting,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, love. Gwen O’Conner. I’d shake your hand but—’

  She held up her latex-sheathed palms then went on to explain she’d had every right to be at the meeting as she was the secretary of the Failie Mainstreet Association. The association Forbes had hinted could be a major thorn in his side.

  She asked, ‘You checking into that muscled bulldog that calls himself Slab?’

  Muscled bulldog perfectly summed up the tattooed thug she’d been conversing with at the meeting. So that was Slab Carlson.

  He showed her his practiced enigmatic smile, always useful when fishing for information. ‘You two seemed friendly.’

  ‘We are not! I’d rather befriend a croc. Crim all the way, that one is.’

  He couldn’t argue with that. The guy might have tight alibis, but he had the thousand-yard stare of a career criminal. When he’d seen Linc watching him, he’d lifted his chin in that way that said, ‘Fuck you, copper’.

  ‘At the meeting, it looked like the two of you were whispering sweet nothings,’ he said.

  Gwen snorted a derisive laugh and arranged his lunch on a chunky white plate. ‘He’s a charmer when he wants to be. Got under my guard. Didn’t take long to realise what he was really after.’ She handed him the plate. ‘Park your butt outside, handsome. I’ll bring your coffee out in a jiff.’

  She turned away and moved to the coffee machine.

  ‘So, what did he want if it wasn’t sweet nothings?’

  A couple of thumps compacted the coffee into the portafilter, and she twisted it into place. The pulse of the machine competed with the invigorating aroma of rich espresso.

  She said, ‘You’ve met Mina.’

  It was said with such certainty that she must have heard of his visit that morning. Word sure travelled fast in a small town. In that respect, Sydney’s underbelly wasn’t so different. Gossips were always good to have on side, but Gwen was the kind that offered information up one morsel at a time.

  ‘You mean Mina Everton?’ he asked.

  ‘Only one Mina in this town, love.’

  He half smiled. For someone with so few social graces, Mina was certainly popular. Perhaps she opened her door to everyone in a barely decent towel. He jerked his thoughts away from the image.

  Alerted by the familiar way Gwen had said her name, he asked how well she knew Mina.

  ‘Well, I don’t mean to imply I brought her up.’ She slid him a glance that told him that’s exactly what she meant. ‘Mina spent a lot of time in my shop when she was a kid. What with her mum going loopy like she did.’

  Loopy? Forbes hadn’t mentioned that. ‘I heard her mum was sick.’

  ‘You ain’t heard the half of it.’

  A scuff at the door caught his attention. A couple of teenagers straggled in. One headed for the drinks fridge at the rear of the store while the other hunched into his hoodie and loitered around the display of chocolate bars. Linc caught his eye. The kid ducked his head and joined his friend at the fridge. After a brief, whispered exchange, the two left empty-handed.

  Gwen raised her scant eyebrows and shook her head. ‘A hoodie. In this weather.’

  She handed him his coffee. ‘It’s nearly time for the elevenses crowd. I won’t get the chance to put my feet up ’til after two, so you won’t mind if I join you outside, will you?’

  How could he refuse
? She’d already made herself a coffee. They each took a seat on a green plastic chair and he let her consider him while he got stuck into his lunch. The iceberg lettuce was crisp and well seasoned, the grated carrot sweet, the chicken moist and the bread soft and nutty.

  ‘It worries me,’ she said eventually, ‘that this Slab has got his eye on my Mina.’

  His lunch lost all flavour, but he kept eating as if she’d said nothing more interesting than commenting on the weather.

  ‘She’s a good kid,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t need that creep hanging around her with the filth that’s on his mind.’

  The bruise. That transparent lie this morning was practically a cry for help, and he’d let her go off, alone, to that Gibson guy. Maybe the shrink was right: the shooting had shaken him up more than he realised.

  He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. ‘And what filth is that?’

  Gwen lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘That Slab’s got a nice bit of gloss on him, but get near him with a stick and he’ll strike you quicker than your common brown snake.’

  ‘You think she intends to use a stick?’

  ‘You have to ask that, you haven’t met our Mina.’

  Gwen had a point. Mina Everton didn’t need a stick to make her blows count, but a sharp tongue was no defence against someone like Carlson. He fished in his jacket pocket for the business card she’d thrust at him. The faster he tracked her down, the better.

  ‘What exactly did the muscled bulldog say to you?’

  ‘Asked lots of questions—who she is, what she does, how long she’s lived around here, if her business is going well. All that stuff.’

  A wind gust dragged his napkin across the table and he snatched it back. Mooring ropes creaked as the nearby tall ship gently rolled and tugged. A couple of screeching gulls circled the tallest mast, and the gentle chop of grey water lapped its hull. It should have been soothing, but all he could think of was that bruise marring Mina’s face.

  A young couple holding hands strolled along the pier. Behind them ambled a straggly band of office workers. Gwen followed his gaze.