by Sue Williams
Preliminary exploration licences granted—the article Vern had been on about. A photo of Rory Quayle, the CEO of Gas Solutions: tall bloke, wavy grey hair, dead-fish pale eyes. He had a grey moustache and a too-bright smile.
Finally, I found the article about Will Galang’s accident on Jensen Corner. A photo of the mangled car, a smashed phone lying on the road beside it. Grief-stricken Tina Galang of Gisborne says her son Will was always a careful driver. A paragraph of lamenting about the black spot, with statistics on the number of deaths since the road was built in the 1930s.
Later that afternoon, I enlisted Brad to help find Tina Galang’s phone number. It wasn’t difficult: the White Pages had only one Galang in Gisborne.
‘I could call her, Brad, but I reckon you’d do a better job of it.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. I can hardly phone and say I think her son was murdered, can I?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, there’s a fairly good chance she’ll think I’m off my head. Or she’ll think Dean is useless.’
‘Serves him right.’
‘If you don’t have family loyalty, what do you have?’
‘A healthy distance from your stupid older brother?’
‘Here’s an idea: tell her you were always a huge fan of Will’s blog—that’s true enough. Say he inspired you to set up your own blog and you’d love to run the last story he’d been intending to write, as a tribute to him and Natalie. You’re gathering information et cetera; did he ever happen to mention…Rory Quayle; anyone else she could suggest you talk to yada yada.’
Brad was silent for a moment, like he was trying to find a reason to say no.
‘All right. I’ll give it a go.’ He walked towards the doorway connecting the shop to my house.
‘I was thinking you could make the call in here and put her on loudspeaker, Brad. In case you need my help.’
‘I’ll do it my way. And there’ll be fewer distractions in my room, away from your queue of customers.’
Queue—ha. Still, I didn’t argue.
While Brad was on the phone, I spent a few moments tidying up the newspapers, lugging them back out to my store room.
The shop bell rang. Tall bloke in a police uniform. Oh shit.
‘Err, Dean, terrific to see you.’ I said, straightening my shop apron.
He closed the door and wiped his feet on the mat. ‘Just wanted to see if you’d managed to get yourself a solicitor,’ he said.
‘Um, they’re all terribly busy…’
‘You haven’t called any, have you?’
‘Err, not as such. I’ve had a lot to do in the shop, actually.’
‘I hope you’re bloody well taking this seriously, Mum.’
‘Of course.’
He handed me a card. ‘Nelson Haines. Solicitor in Hustle. Went to school with him. Maybe you should give him a call. He’s into hopeless cases.’
Great, thanks. I took the card.
‘Friday, Mum. With or without a lawyer, it’s your choice. Five o’clock. No extensions.’
He turned and marched out the door.
Bloody Dean. A solicitor, even one he went to school with, would cost a fortune. For a completely pointless meeting that even Dean should be able to see would be pointless. I’d have to find a way to put Dean off. A convincing way. Until his boss arrived. Surely she’d be sane?
I headed out the back to check the freezer. I hoped Brad was doing OK with this phone call. He seemed to be taking a while.
I updated my inventory sheet: dim sims: check. Chiko Rolls: check. A bag of something orange, not quite identifiable. I took it out and shook it. Chunks of sweet potato? Good on you, Brad.
The connecting door to the house creaked. A moment later, Brad popped his head around the back room doorway.
‘How’d you get on?’ I said, closing the freezer door. This wasn’t the moment to bring up the sweet-potato issue.
‘Not bad. She’s going to scan some papers Will had in his desk and email them to me.’
‘Excellent. What about?’
‘Something to do with the Ignition Group.’
‘The arsonists?’
‘Well, I don’t know that they’re arsonists. Anyway, she said she thought there was a file on his desk with that name.’
‘What about Gas Solutions?’
‘Didn’t mean anything to her. Anyway, we’ll find out more soon. She’s going to send the PDFs tonight.’
32
I looked at my watch. Almost seven. Shit, I was due at the Broken Nail in fifteen minutes. I dashed into my bedroom. Panic-emptied the contents of my wardrobe onto the bed. Sum quantity: one pair of navy blue tracky dacks, a shapeless red jumper, two sloppy tops and a floral apron, overdue for mending. Where’s your personal shopper when you need her?
I held up the red jumper and stood in front of the mirror.
‘Are you going out in that?’
I looked over at my bedroom door. Claire was standing there, leaning against the frame. I don’t know why she had to hang around the doorway looking so smooth-skinned and attractive. And young.
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Err, currently undecided.’
‘You can’t wear that to meet the love of your life, Cass.’
‘Pardon? Ha ha. No, nothing like that. No, this is just a kind of…business meeting. Leo has offered to help with…’ I knew better than to say the word ‘investigation’ around blabbermouth Claire, ‘a couple of things.’
‘But I thought you were meeting him for the big dinner date?’
‘Well, we’re eating out but…’
She sighed—a happy sigh? Or maybe it was more a Brad type of sigh, the kind he does when I’m not entirely focused on his latest state-of-the-planet briefing.
‘Sophia’s thrilled for you. She didn’t want me to say anything, of course. But there were tears in her eyes when I told her Leo had turned up after all this time. Alive. And that he’d been in to see you.’ She held up a hand. ‘I’m not going to pry, obviously. But Sophia said, Could be Cass’s final chance at love. In the autumn of her life.’ Claire smiled. ‘You know what a romantic Sophia is.’
Autumn? I cleared my throat. ‘Well, thanks for looking after the place tonight, Claire.’
‘No problem. I’m learning a lot, actually. And it’ll all be useful when I start my slow food place.’
You had to hope for her sake that she wasn’t planning to set it up in Rusty Bore. ‘Well, can’t chat, I’m running late.’ I returned to my outfit crisis. Gave the mirror a look of desperation.
‘What about the black dress? You know, the one you wore for that interview. Way back, after the Mona Hocking Lee business.’
Ah, not a bad idea. If it still fitted.
I rootled through the back of my wardrobe. Pulled out the dress and slipped it on. Lipsticked at high speed. Smoothed down the hair. I gave myself a fleeting glance in the mirror. The dress was not bad but a little tight across the hips. Turns out even Spandex has its limits, unfortunately.
‘You look great,’ said Claire, giving me an appraising stare. ‘But I think you’re in danger of forgetting the most important accessory.’
‘What’s that?’ I said, hoping I wasn’t about to get the Madison-style pep talk re my underwear.
‘A smile. Remember to relax.’
The Broken Nail turned out to be a far cheerier place than I would have expected of a dining establishment located in Hustle. More bar than restaurant, it had a fireplace in the corner and armchairs arranged around coffee tables. A swirling range of mismatched designs—a couch covered with fabric modelled on giraffe skin, a couple of armchairs in old cracked leather. There was a cowskin rug in front of the fire. And a lamp in the corner that looked like its mother had had it off with a palm tree.
I scanned the crowd for Leo. Finally, I spotted him, waving from a table with fifties-style orange vinyl chairs. I smoothed my hair, straightened my dress and walked over.
‘S
orry to keep you waiting. The shop…’ I said.
‘No worries. Hey, you look beautiful.’ He looked me up and down; smiled. ‘Get you a drink?’
‘Pinot grigio, thanks.’
Leo headed up to the bar and joined the queue.
A big-bellied bloke was playing a guitar on the stage. I swivelled around to watch. It sounded like something Vern would have approved of, a mournful song involving a fella who’d been messed around by a no-good woman. No mention of any bad behaviour on the bloke’s part, naturally.
The performer finished the song and spoke. ‘“Dead Flowers” by the Rolling Stones. Dedicated to my ex-wife. Lovely woman.’ A crooked smile.
My phone buzzed: Dean. I put the phone away. I could do without another lecture on the urgency of getting a lawyer.
While I waited for Leo, I watched the new band step up, now that Mr Mournful had finished. Which Witch is Which, a three-piece band, all women. Less expert with the microphones but a lot livelier.
A bloke drifted over to my table. Skinny, moustached, wearing an Akubra. Christ, it was Peter Bamfield. I wasn’t in the mood for his top-quality vaudeville tonight. Or any mention of Target. I looked down, hoping he hadn’t seen me. Too late.
‘Why, how lovely to see you, Mrs Tuplin.’ Bamfield smiled, touched his hat. Who even does that hat thing these days? Maybe he thought he was in a western.
I gave him a strained type of smile.
‘You’re here alone?’ He put his hand on the back of Leo’s chair.
‘That chair’s taken.’ I spoke quickly, before he had a chance to sit.
‘Oh? Who are you here with?’
‘A friend,’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘One of your…clients?’
Piss off, Bamfield. And it’s none of your bloody business who I’m with. But it was obvious I had to give him a name if I had any hope of getting rid of him.
‘No. Leo Stone. He’ll be back in a second.’
‘Oh. I didn’t realise you were that sort of woman.’
‘Listen, I’ve had enough of your stupid jokes.’ Possibly not the smartest move for the Rusty Bore Takeaway’s profit margins, but there’s only so much a person can take.
‘Ah…actually, that’s not what I was going to say.’ He paused. Took off the hat. ‘Can I offer you some friendly advice?’
No, but it was clear he was going to anyway.
‘Well, it’s more a question: are you really sure Leo Stone is the kind of company you want to keep?’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Guns.’ He gave me a significant nod.
Leo arrived, carrying two glasses of wine. ‘Peter,’ he said, looking at Bamfield.
Bamfield gave him a strange look, then scurried off. Leo sat down and passed me my wine.
‘Here’s to…us.’ He smiled.
‘Cheers.’ I took a sip. ‘So how do you know him?’ I tilted my head at Bamfield.
‘Oh, everyone knows him.’
‘He gave you a weird look.’
‘No idea why.’ He shot me the Leo Stone killer smile. ‘Anyway, we’ve got more interesting topics to talk about than Bamfield. You, for instance. And what you’re doing for the rest of your life.’
Ha.
He reached out and took my hand. His touch sent a sizzle to my knees.
I looked around in an attempt to distract myself. One of the three women on the stage was playing a red guitar. Leo had a red Stratocaster, way back. He was in a band. Another reason why so many girls used to hang off Leo.
‘You still play that red guitar of yours?’
He shook his head; frowned; took his hand away. Maybe he’d given up on the music. Well, we’d all given up on things we dreamed of in our youth. I cleared my throat. ‘Anyway, before we get into anyone’s future, Leo, I could do with a little more information about your past.’
‘Which part? There was too much of it without you, that much I know.’
‘You could start by telling me what you’ve been doing all this time. And why you didn’t tell anyone you were alive.’
He rubbed his face. ‘It’s, ah, complicated.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Why don’t we order some food?’
‘You avoiding the subject?’
‘More like delaying the inevitable.’
What did that mean?
‘Let’s eat. I’ll tell you after that; promise.’
The menu options consisted of fifteen varieties of pizza. I ordered a medium Mediterranean and Leo went for a large Mexican.
‘Must be a bit weird being back after all this time?’ I said.
‘Strangely enough, in some ways it’s like I never left.’
‘I bet Showbag’s pleased to see you.’
Leo shrugged.
‘Maybe he’ll take you out in that speedboat.’
‘Ha.’
What did that mean? Was there bad blood between Leo and Showbag? A thought: that money Showbag inherited—was Leo due a share, now he’d sprung back to life? Showbag had bought the speedboat after a mysterious uncle died: I’d never heard of Showbag having an uncle apart from Leo’s father, who died years ago. Maybe this long-lost wealthy uncle was related to Leo too? And maybe Showbag wasn’t keen to share.
Our pizzas arrived.
Leo forked in a mouthful of his Mexican; chewed and swallowed. ‘So, no more trouble from that bloke with the brown Fairlane, I hope?’ A grim expression on his face.
‘No, thank God.’
He nodded. ‘How’s the investigation going, anyway?’
I filled Leo in on the latest developments. ‘I’m hoping these documents Tina Galang’s sending will make things a little clearer.’
He nodded. ‘Let me know what I can do to help.’
I smiled.
‘Hey, I’m not completely useless, you know. I learned a few things in the Congo.’
Well, I might as well ask, given that everyone was going on about it. ‘Anything about, ah, guns?’
‘Yeah, you pick up quite a bit about those in my line of work.’
‘And your work was…?’
‘Let’s talk about you, Cass.’
‘Médecins Sans Frontières, didn’t you say?’ I couldn’t see how that would involve guns.
‘Mostly, yeah.’
Mostly? ‘Leo, is there something you’re not telling me?’
He wiped his mouth with a serviette. ‘Nothing important.’
I sat there a moment, toying with my pizza. Did Leo have some sort of…sideline in the Congo? A not particularly nice sideline? And maybe he still had it now? Christ, was Dean actually right?
Suddenly not hungry, I pushed away my plate. ‘Gotta get going.’ I stood up.
‘Already? You haven’t finished your pizza. Or your wine.’
‘Shop emergency.’
‘Surely it can wait until you’ve finished eating?’
‘Fast-food customers wait for no one.’
I hurried to my car and drove the hell out of there, just like the title of that old Meatloaf song.
33
The drive home was a blur of wheat paddocks and, I’ll admit, the odd angry tear. I blinked them away. Did my best to focus on something, anything other than that lying gun smuggler. Bloody hell, Leo. I’d bet there was a wife over there in the Congo as well. Maybe more than one. I’m not up on the number of wives permitted in that part of the world. Stone men, can’t trust any of ’em. Yes, yes. OK, Ernie.
Back in the day, before Ernie’s little Stone-men briefing, Leo and me, we were going to travel around Australia. We had it all mapped out—first up, we’d go work on a melon farm in Rockhampton. After that, we’d see the world. We’d discussed it all in detail, the night we went to see Grease at the drive-in. That is, when we weren’t focused on other matters.
There I was, seventeen, all full of plans and hope and trust. I told Ernie all about our scheme, of course. Ernie was our guardian—after Mum died, Ernie looked after me an
d Helen. Dad had buggered off long before.
Ernie gave me a long look. Stroked his grey moustache with his dirt-stained fingers. ‘Gotta be honest with you, Cassie. And best you know this now. Leo’s told at least three other girls that little plan. An early life lesson for you—on the topic of the untrustable fella. Still, it’s in his family, so maybe he can’t help it. None of those Stones has ever been any flaming good.’
A sleepless night. Was it true? Leo had said the big I love you. Was that just a bunch of words he told every girl? Should I bust up with him? The idea was a knife to the chest. And then, at 3am, I came up with a kind of compromise.
Next day I told Leo I needed a bit of time to consider that trip. Helen was quite impressed with that when I told her afterwards: she said it was surprisingly mature behaviour for a kid. She was an elderly eighteen and a half.
I would have been quite interested in further drive-in missions with Leo, while I considered our travel plan in more detail. But a couple of days later, the bastard nicked off to Rockhampton. Without me.
I swerved around a dead cat on the road.
It was definitely time I moved on. No more of this bloody nonsense, Cass. Who knows, he’s probably involved with Serena as well. Why do I always have to get interested in blokes who can’t stay loyal? And who can’t stay within the law?
I whipped past the ex-solar power joint. There are a lot of ex-things around here. I sighed. Well, I was still alive, as Dean likes to remind me, so I guess I should be grateful for that.
My phone rang. I pulled over.
‘Mum, you OK?’ It was Brad.
‘Just on my way home. Everything all right in the shop?’ I said.
‘Yeah, good. We’ve had a bit of a run on sweet-potato wedges, especially with Claire’s sour cream and lime dip. But we’re managing.’
‘When did we start doing wedges?’
‘Ah, today.’ His voice was casual.
You had to wonder if this was an attempt to divert the clientele into vegetarian slow food. Although maybe a wedge is too speedy to be genuinely classified as slow?