Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  ‘Vern, your shop receipts. What does it say on them?’

  ‘Well, what the person bought. The price. The quantity. GST, naturally.’

  ‘No, I mean the name of your shop.’

  I pulled the wrapper down the chocolate, exposing more for him to bite into.

  ‘Casey International.’ He spoke through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘Why?’

  That receipt of Natalie’s for the bullets, with the top corner ripped off. I squeezed my eyes shut while I thought. Yes…asey International.

  ‘Did Natalie buy bullets from you?’

  ‘Yep. Cleared me right out of ’em.’

  ‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell me? And when did you start selling ammo, anyway?’

  ‘Ammo?’ He looked startled. ‘Nah, liquorice bullets. And a bottle of Fire Drum. Vodka.’

  I spent a moment taking that in. Then said, ‘Natalie knew that UnSmogOz fella—Will Galang. At least in the Twitter sense. What’s more, after she died, he was planning to write up her story.’

  Vern chewed slowly for a moment. ‘Yeah, he come in my place too a while back.’

  I pulled the chocolate bar away from his mouth. ‘How many other people have been in your shop that you haven’t bothered to tell me about?’

  ‘Countless people come in my place. It’s only natural, given that I’m the CBD of Rusty Bore. I didn’t tell you about young Will, cos I figured you’da known all about it. Dean would of filled you in.’

  Thanks, Dean. ‘He overlooked mentioning it. So did Galang say what he was doing in town?’

  ‘Meeting someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Didn’t say. Told me all about his blog, though.’

  So both Natalie and Will Galang had come to Rusty Bore to meet someone. Who the hell were they meeting?

  Dean walked in, his boots clomping on the hospital floor: the heavy thump of officialdom. Dean would get on the case properly now, once he was briefed on the latest findings. And Vern’s accident—that’d motivate him. Surely?

  ‘Dean. Love. How are you?’

  He looked through me as though I wasn’t there.

  ‘Vern. Pleased to see you’re conscious,’ said Dean. ‘The ambos took you away so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to give you this.’ He held out a slip of paper.

  ‘What is it?’ said Vern.

  ‘I’ve told you on at least three occasions that failure to wear a helmet while riding a bicycle is an offence. You’ve run out of warnings, Vern.’

  Dean tucked the infringement notice into Vern’s sling.

  ‘I’ve just experienced a near-fatal accident here. Have a heart, mate.’

  ‘Can’t play favourites. Hurts me more than it hurts you.’

  Vern shook his head.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.’ Dean said. He turned and strode out the door.

  I raced out into the corridor after him. ‘Hold your horses, son.’

  He stopped and turned round. A distant expression in his eyes.

  ‘Ah, got a couple of things I’d like to discuss, if this is a good time? Unless you’re off to talk to Morris Temple?’

  ‘Already have.’

  I was so relieved I sagged slightly at the knees. Good old Dean. He might be brutal with his revenue-raising for the state, but he’d never leave Vern to be murdered on some forsaken roadside. Dean was onto it at last.

  ‘Terrific. So…he’s a suspect in Natalie’s murder? Helping with your enquiries?’

  ‘Not quite. Although it’s true enough he’s helping me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Morris Temple is, ah, a witness in an investigation I’m conducting. A bit of a reluctant investigation, I admit.’

  ‘To do with Natalie’s last story?’

  ‘No.’ A softer expression flitted across his face. ‘Look, Mum, I’ll give you a day or so to prepare yourself, OK? And it might be best if you have a lawyer present.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I need you to come into the station. For a formal interview. I think it’s best we get it over with before Sergeant Vandenberg arrives next week. I don’t want her deciding to…well, she might give you a hard time.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  His face had that concreted-on expression Piero used to get when he was going over the shop’s bank statements.

  ‘Serious allegations have been made about you, Mum. Theft of a phone, a breakin and burglary at the Muddy Soak Cultivator, and it’s also alleged you impersonated an employee of something called,’ he pulled out a notebook and flicked through the pages, ‘Grooming Monthly.’

  ‘Alleged by who?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to divulge…’

  ‘Dean, for God’s sake. This is ridiculous.’

  ‘All I can say is that a senior figure in the community came to me with information. And I know you too well to cast it aside as ridiculous.’ He paused. ‘Mum, an unlicensed private detective is basically just a stalker, you know.’

  ‘It’s Glenda, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t comment on an ongoing police investigat…’

  ‘Dean. Natalie and Will Galang knew each other. They died in the same week. They were both meeting someone in Rusty Bore. Andy Fitzgerald is…’ I paused—I could hardly mention that I’d seen him that night in the Cultivator office—‘behaving suspiciously. Morris Temple lied to you about his whereabouts the night I was burgled. And someone tried to run Vern off the road. Vern’s in danger, Dean. And that could well be the case for half of Rusty Bore.’

  But Dean just started walking away as if I wasn’t talking.

  I ran after him. Grabbed his arm. ‘Dean, what’s wrong with you? Why won’t you listen?’

  He turned and looked at me, his eyes narrow. ‘It’s a learned behaviour not to listen to certain members of my family. A hard-learned lesson, in actual fact. Look, I’m trying to do this nicely, but I’m a little weary of your attitude, Mum. You are required to present yourself to the station. I’ll give you until 5pm Friday.’ He marched out.

  My shoulders sagged. I walked slowly back into Vern’s ward.

  A plump, bright-eyed figure in a white coat was standing beside the bed. Doctor Rangarajan. ‘Mrs Tuplin. Quite marvellous to see you! You’re in fine condition, I trust?’ He beamed. If the doctoring ever falls through I reckon Doc Rangarajan could make a good living bottling and selling enthusiasm.

  He picked up a chart hanging from Vern’s bed and did some rapid ticking.

  ‘Mr Casey, I’m delighted to report that you are doing an absolutely tiptop job with your recovery. You’ll be back home in a day or two at this rate.’ He hung the chart back on its hook. ‘Although I hope you will consider wearing a helmet next time you are out on your bicycle. Dangerous contraptions, particularly without protection for the head. My mother had a cycling accident, years ago, in the Himalayan foothills. Most unfortunate. A close encounter with a lorry, like you. Her helmet saved her life.’ He gazed off into the distance for a moment.

  Then he smiled at me and bustled off, in search of other unhelmeted accident victims in need of counsel.

  30

  I drove home; a cold clenching in my stomach. Ernie had been spot on, of course: Dean always has to be right.

  Well, maybe I’d have better luck with his boss, when she finally arrived. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to present the evidence direct to Sergeant Paula Vandenberg. Although…what kind of first impression would that create for her regarding Dean? She’d start the job only to discover her subordinate was incompetent. Well, not completely incompetent, just…

  In any case, I couldn’t stop the Kellett investigation now. Half of Rusty Bore could be run off the road before Dean finally clicked that he needed to do something. If only I could come up with something that would force him to do that.

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. If I could just figure out this blasted big story of Natalie’s. Who she and Galang were meeting in Rusty Bore. And I onl
y had forty-eight hours to find out, since there was every possibility Dean would decide to lock me up after our little ‘chat’.

  Shortly after I got back to the shop, Brad arrived, looking a bit sorry for himself.

  ‘Janette’s dermatitis is playing up, so Madison’s initiated biosecurity lockdown. Hopefully it’s just for a few hours,’ he said.

  I got on with some auto-wiping while Brad busied himself cutting up a pile of sweet-potato chunks. For wedges, he said. Who in heck he thought would buy them I had no idea. Still, Brad doing something constructive in the shop is an activity to be encouraged.

  I spent a few moments filling him in on the latest developments. ‘Natalie’s story must involve Andy Fitzgerald, I reckon. Some kind of exposé? About killing the wife’s dog? Dog murderer: not a great look for a politician.’

  ‘No, I’d say the story was about something environmental,’ said Brad.

  I took a moment to choose my words. ‘Look, son, I appreciate your input, but we all need to face up to the fact that not everyone’s entire existence revolves around the state of the environment.’

  ‘Well, it bloody should. And who knows, maybe Natalie’s story got her down so badly that she suicided that night. There’s a multitude of depressing articles she could have been working on—just take your pick—we’re in the middle of a huge extinction event, a changing climate and we’ve got a useless government doing nothing at all about it. It’s pretty lonely knowing the planet’s going down the plughole and no one gives a shit.’

  I put down my cloth. ‘Brad, it doesn’t help anyone when you start up on the whole I’m-the-only-environmental-crusader-in-town routine. Plenty of people agree with you. No point in being miserable. You gotta grab life by the throat. Don’t let your own happiness whizz on by.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ He didn’t look up.

  ‘How’d you get on with the book basher’s phone? Any progress?’

  ‘I’ll look at it later.’

  ‘Brad. I need your help with this investigation. Please? Although we’re not calling anything an investigation if you happen to be talking to Dean,’ I added quickly.

  ‘Well, if you want my help, you’ll listen. Natalie’s story must have been about climate science.’

  I sighed.

  ‘No need to sigh, just hear me out. Given that Will Galang was interested in blogging the story Natalie didn’t get a chance to publish, it has to have been environmental. Just look at his blog—every single post is about climate science.’

  ‘OK, fair point. But what story on climate science would she have found around here?’

  Aha.

  ‘The solar farm.’ We both said it at the same time.

  ‘Could Natalie have found out something—some kind of fraud, maybe? Remember how Solar Logic suddenly upped and left Rusty Bore and went to China? Were they running away from something? Did they nick off with some research money?’

  ‘Mum, the reason they bloody left is because the government is totally uninterested in any type of renewable energy.’

  An idea. ‘Could Fitzgerald have somehow cultivated that lack of government interest? Maybe someone paid him off to do it?’

  ‘Rory Quayle,’ said Brad.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘CEO of Gas Solutions.’

  ‘Wait, I know this…the fracking licences?’

  ‘Yes. Every one of those licences was granted to that company, which has to be pretty questionable. And they wouldn’t have wanted Solar Logic to do well. People like Rory Quayle will have a lot to lose if renewable energy takes off. If, or more likely when, solar, wind and hydro become base-load energy sources, that’ll be a huge problem for anyone involved in fossil fuels, including fracking.’

  ‘So you think Rory Quayle might have paid off Fitzgerald to…discourage government interest in the solar joint?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But why would Fitzgerald do that? He can’t need the money, surely—all the Fitzgeralds are loaded.’

  He shrugged. ‘Expensive hobbies?’

  ‘Maybe. And so, then Natalie found this out and was going to write it up. And what, he killed her? Just over a story about a bit of money?’

  ‘People kill for financial reasons all the time, Mum. Look at Matthew Wales—it was the reason he killed his parents.’

  One of the rare moments where it was a relief to be not well off.

  ‘Yeah, but Fitzgerald, Rory Quayle, they’re business people. It’s different, isn’t it?’

  ‘Different, how?’

  I didn’t have an answer. Maybe business issues don’t generate quite the same intensity of hatred as family members?

  ‘Anyway, they’re a bunch of fools. Fossil fuels belong in the past.’

  ‘Before you head into a planetary lecture, Brad, let me just say I agree with you.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked surprised.

  ‘Of course. I’m all for harvesting bucketloads of sunshine, especially given we’re smack bang in the middle of Sunshine Central in this place. The trouble is, I’ve had an awful lot of these conversations. And despite the whole world saying we should get on with it, frankly, we’re not. Well, almost the whole world. Apart from Showbag.’

  ‘Showbag’s another damn fool.’

  ‘Yep.’

  You know, Showbag only got away with that solar sickness crap because most of us can’t be arsed. I mean, everyone wants the planet saved, kind of. Just not if it requires an actual effort. What we’re all looking for is something symbolic and convenient: Earth Hour, that kind of thing. Something that’ll make us feel better about ourselves, without having to really do anything.

  ‘Don’t you bloody yep me, Mum. You’re part of this.’ He paused, put down his knife. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing I’ll never get a job in science. No point working in a rational profession when the world isn’t rational. And most conservation scientists live in a constant state of grief. Not that anyone really talks about it.’

  I stood still. ‘Never get a job?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s wrong on so many levels.’

  ‘What happened, exactly? Why have you been kicked out?’

  ‘Well, you’d think the journalist would have done some fact checking, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Checked what?’

  He sat down. ‘I sort of…faked a press release. Saying that all Australian super funds had decided to dump their investments in companies that mine fossil fuels.’

  I tried to take that in.

  ‘It was only a very short market wobble. I mean, everyone realised pretty quickly it wasn’t true. The whole point was just to shake up the system. Someone has to stop this ecocide. We need more Jonathan Moylans in this world.’

  ‘Is what you’ve done…some kind of fraud?’ I said.

  The lines around Brad’s eyes deepened. A bloke that young shouldn’t have lines like that. He folded his hands like he was doing a TV interview.

  ‘Mum, intergovernmental climate talks have been going on for my entire life. For over twenty years they’ve been saying something will be done to prevent dangerous climate change. And you know what’s been done? You know what they’ve achieved? Nothing. They just keep on talking, while the world gets hotter. Our world.’ His voice sounded tired. ‘All so a few rich men can get richer.’

  ‘Brad? Is what you’ve done a crime?’

  He didn’t seem to have heard me. ‘Someone has to stop them. And the only way to do that is to stop the money.’

  ‘Bradley! Answer my question.’

  He hunched his shoulders like one of those Japanese snow monkeys stuck out in a five-day blizzard. ‘I’ve been charged with disseminating false information.’

  ‘Is that serious?’

  ‘Best-case scenario? Suspended sentence.’

  ‘And the worst?’

  ‘A fine of 765,000 dollars. And ten years’ jail.’

  31

  I marched out to the bathroom, in serious need of Panadol. What the hell was I going to do ab
out Brad. Where did I go wrong?

  Well, maybe it wasn’t all me. After all, Piero was the one who encouraged him, way back when Brad was little, helping him bandage up those ex-racing blue tongue lizards. All very convenient for Piero that he wasn’t around now to deal with the consequences.

  I’d do my best for Brad, of course. Speak up for him in court. Sob, if necessary, which in fact wouldn’t be hard. And I’d visit him in jail, wherever that turned out to be, miles away, probably. He’d need regular doses of homemade vanilla slice.

  Maybe Dean could wield some kind of influence? I should talk to him, when he’d recovered from this Natalie Kellett business. When I had. In fact, assuming we all survived, Dean’s and my shared concern for Brad could turn out to be the chance we need.

  Ours hasn’t been an easy relationship, obviously. Maybe it’d help if I worked harder at talking up Dean’s good points. Number one: he wasn’t headed for jail.

  I downed the Panadol, headed out to the shop storeroom and grabbed the pile of newspapers from beside the freezer. They were cast-offs from Vern, left over from the painting after my rebuild. I’d been meaning to get rid of them. The one on top was a recent copy of the Muddy Soak Cultivator.

  Over a cuppa, I flicked through the papers. More than I’d ever wanted to know about Muddy Soak’s harness racing, basketball, croquet club championships and junior tennis. An ad for a luxury cruise on the Danube, with Sold Out! stamped across in capitals. A snip at fifteen thousand bucks a head. They obviously cater to a different demographic in Muddy Soak.

  In the older editions there were some stories by Natalie Kellett—mostly interviews with local identities—positive news stories on local people.

  Some of them were about people I knew or at least vaguely recognised. One on Billy Barker, with a nice picture of him leaning against his work bench. Billy’s an inventor. Designed the Locust Sucker.

  ‘Converts to a top-notch Mouse Sucker as well,’ Billy told me, the pride heavy in his voice. He scratched his faded blue beanie. ‘See, all you have to do is slip on the Mouse Attachment.’ Be extremely handy in the next mouse plague.

  A brief story on the doomed disaster that was Solar Logic. A quote from Andy Fitzgerald: In the long run, we will be thanked for our vision, for stamping out the solar scourge—this offensive blight on our countryside. I moved on rapidly.