Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  ‘How?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The money, Showbag.’

  ‘Oh, ah, he sold stuff. Import-export, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Really. And what was his surname?’

  ‘Jesus, why the sudden overwhelming interest in Uncle Wayne?’

  ‘He doesn’t exist, does he?’

  ‘Fuck off, Cass.’ He hung up.

  A crow pecked at a wrapper on the road. Ernie’s tummy rumbled. ‘Could do with that birthday gelati now, Cass.’

  ‘Ernie, we’re in the middle of a crime investigation here at the minute.’

  He sniffed. A moment later, he sniffed again.

  I looked over. Oh shit, his eyes had gone all shiny.

  After the gelato pitstop, with Ernie still licking chocolate ice-cream from his lower lip, I dialled Madison.

  ‘Be another half hour, I’d say, Cass. Vet’s had an emergency. Apparently there was a big dog fight this morning. Three Jack Russells in intensive care. Anyway, Brad wants to talk to you. I’ll put him on.’

  ‘That email from Tina Galang’s come through, Mum. Finally. There’s a PDF attached.’

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll open it.’ A pause. ‘Looks like the minutes of a meeting of the IOI.’

  ‘IOI? As in the…’ I racked my memory for the name; came up only with Old MacDonald.

  ‘The Institute of Open Information. It says Special Meeting 16 August. Subcommittee formed for action.’

  ‘What kind of action?’

  ‘It’s a long document.’

  ‘Read some out.’

  ‘The minutes from the Annual Business Meeting were previously provided to the Board. Mr Fitzgerald made a motion to approve and it was seconded by Mr Quayle. The motion passed.’

  ‘As in Andy Fitzgerald. And Rory Quayle?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Mr Fitzgerald tabled a paper by the Australia Institute entitled “Climate Proofing Your Investments: Moving Funds out of Fossil Fuels”. A discussion followed.

  ‘The paper outlines the actions to be considered by “mezzanine level” institutional investors…’

  ‘Just a few edited highlights will do, Brad.’

  ‘That’s what I’m giving you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘… Global coal markets are facing an increasingly uncertain future. Prudent investors should assess their exposure to carbon-intensive businesses and unburnable carbon risks, and take appropriate action. They may opt to impose a carbon-emissions-intensity–related screen on their investment portfolio. They may also consider supporting shareholder actions aimed at improving company climate-change responses.’

  ‘Maybe we should just focus on this subcommittee, Brad. What’s it doing?’

  A pause. ‘It was agreed to form a subcommittee to workshop innovative solutions regarding the concerns resulting from the Australia Institute report.’

  ‘Innovative solutions? What does that mean? Who’s on the subcommittee?’

  A pause. ‘Doesn’t say.’

  ‘What about the Ignition Group? That get a mention?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see.’

  Ernie grunted. ‘Time to go find my watch, Cass.’

  ‘We don’t have time to go to the Bamfield place,’ I hissed.

  ‘Actually, Bamfield would be worth talking to, Mum.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s involved in the IOI. Maybe he can help you find what you need to prove Fitzgerald paid off Showbag.’

  ‘What’s Bamfield doing with the IOI?’ Unless he figured they would somehow enhance his magnanimous image?

  ‘He’s a coal investor, Mum.’

  ‘Brad, you’re getting yourself mixed up here. Bamfield’s the Gravel Baron. You know, all those generations of gravel dynasty.’

  ‘Peter Bamfield has a whole load of investments in coal mining. It was in the Financial Review. Don’t you pay attention to anything?’

  Yeah, thanks. ‘I’m actually pretty busy, in case you hadn’t noticed, Bradley. I don’t always find the time to read up on every obscure piece of information in the papers. I’ve got a business I’m trying to run.’ Not to mention a whole host of bloody impossible investigations.

  ‘We’ve got to wean ourselves off our high-carbon lifestyle; anyone with half a brain knows that. Bamfield’s actively obstructing, hanging around with his coal buddies at those parties, doing all they can to win over politicians so they’ll keep funding fossil fuels.’

  Parties. I remembered that photo I’d seen on Natalie’s Facebook page. ‘Natalie Kellett went to a party with Jacinta, not long before she died. It was in some kind of cellar…or…’

  ‘Bamfield’s party cave.’ Brad and Ernie said it at the same time.

  42

  I fired up the car; drove along that avenue of spectacular autumn trees. Then past Muddy Soak Animal Supplies, the Regional Livestock Exchange—a collection of corrugated iron sheds and races, and Walker & Son, Grain Agent; three huge grain mounds under blue tarps. I put my foot down as we passed the derestricted sign.

  That photo of Natalie’s—there were two men in it. I screwed up my eyes a moment, trying to remember it. Their faces hadn’t been clear. Could it have been Fitzgerald and Rory Quayle? Had Natalie spoken to them at that party?

  We passed a mirage lake shimmering over a burnt black paddock. A road train thundered by.

  I followed the signs for Rhapsody Downs, turning off onto a gravel road. Dry scruffy forest on our left, paddocks of bleached grass on the right. A strange rasping noise. From the engine? No, it was just Ernie snoring.

  I headed past a crumbling old weatherboard church: squashed-looking, leaning to one side. It looked like it might blow away in the next storm, although the dunny was still standing straight, a lonely sentinel, at the far end of the yard. Two eastern rosellas rose from the road.

  I hit a section of corrugations in the gravel and the reverberations set my teeth rattling.

  ‘Bastard stole my watch!’ Ernie shouted, jolting awake.

  An ornate, gold-edged sign came into view. Rhapsody Downs. A vineyard: a rectangle of yellow-green in a sea of faded grass. Behind the vineyard, rounded hills studded with eucalypts.

  ‘Ernie, have you ever asked any of the Bamfields about your watch?’ Surely he’d have asked them once in the last eighty years?

  ‘No.’ A watery-eyed glare.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No point. Bunch of bloody crooks sold it.’

  ‘Well, we might not get time to look for it today, so… hey, I know, let’s put an ad in the paper. Did it have any distinguishing features?’

  ‘Yep. Black strap. White face. Roman numerals. And we’re gunna find it today. It’s my birthday present.’ He folded his arms.

  I turned left onto the track leading to the station. A long avenue, lined with copper beech—an orange-yellow procession of stately trees.

  The curving lines of the Bamfield house came into view. The huge white house looked like an ocean liner, marooned on a sea of pale yellow grass. A gust of wind blew across the grass, forming ripples like foamy waves across the hill.

  Beyond the paddocks was a row of old-man gnarled cypress trees, a white truck parked beside them. A heavy blanket of brown-grey smoke rising into the air, a scatter of flames. Looked like someone was burning off. There was a nasty smell in the air.

  ‘Ernie, where’s their gravel pit? There’s no sign of any gravel business here.’

  ‘Fella doesn’t live near the pit, for God’s sake. Who’d do that?’

  I supposed he had a point. I remembered an article I saw in the paper, back when that coal mine in Gippsland was on fire for months, saying none of the managers of the mine lived anywhere near it. They might have been slightly more motivated to prevent the fire if they had.

  We arrived at a big white gate across the tree-lined avenue. Behind the gate was the house, its white curves reflected in a reed-edged pond below. A pond
that had been carefully positioned, presumably, to catch those reflections and thus impress arriving guests.

  I parked under an old cypress to one side of the house.

  ‘We’re just here to ask Bamfield a few Fitzgerald-Showbag-Natalie-related questions. Nothing about your watch—is that understood?’

  His yellowed moustache quivered.

  I groaned. ‘OK, but only if we get time. And you’re under strict instructions to hit the bloke if he starts up on any comfort-specialist crap.’

  The door knocker was a fancy enamelled parrot.

  After a short delay, a pale-faced woman in a black velour tracksuit opened the door. Long blonde hair. Red-rimmed eyes. A walkie-talkie clipped to her waistband. She held a book in her hand: This House of Grief.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could I talk to Peter Bamfield, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s not available.’

  ‘Oh. When will he be?’

  ‘He’s…in a meeting. I’m not sure how long he’ll be. Can I take a message?’

  Ernie cleared his throat. Nudged me with his foot.

  I looked over at him. He gave me a tiny, but significant nod.

  ‘Last flaming wish,’ he hissed.

  ‘Err, yes. Look, this probably sounds like a rather strange request, but my great uncle, Ernest,’ I waved at Ernie, ‘well, I promised him. You see, poor Uncle Ernest isn’t well.’

  ‘Dying,’ he said.

  I took out my hanky and dabbed at my eyes. Cleared my throat.

  ‘I said we would at least try…’ I paused.

  ‘Oh?’ Her voice was whispery.

  ‘Really, I was in two minds about coming. But Uncle Ernest raised me—my parents died when I was a little kid—I won’t go into all the details—I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than be subjected to somebody’s sob story.’ I gave her a brave little lopsided smile. ‘Anyway, he remembers coming to a party here, years ago, don’t you, Uncle?’ I glanced at Ernie, who was nodding.

  ‘Eighty years ago, would you believe. It was in an underground room, I think? Or a cave. Oh, you loved it, didn’t you, Uncle Ernest! And lately, he talks of nothing else. Finally, he said to me this morning, Cassie, I’d love to see that room again. Just once, before I die. Will you take me there?’

  ‘Yep. Just one last time,’ said Ernie in his best sad-old-dying-bloke tone. He wrung his work-worn hands.

  ‘Oh.’ Her hand fluttered to her throat. ‘Well, of course, he must see it. Although,’ she peered at him, ‘can your uncle walk?’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ he said.

  She stood back from the door to let us inside. We stepped into the black and white checked hallway.

  ‘My name’s Anne.’ A perfectly normal name and her demeanour seemed normal, too. But for some reason, my skin prickled.

  She moved at a brisk clip along the wood-panelled hallway, past a lounge room—soft grey curtains, hard-looking white armchairs, a blue velvet couch, huge chandelier. Then past a dining room—black and white chairs, a black and white striped vase containing red roses. A life-sized silver statue of a bulldog stood in the centre of the dining table; quite possibly a hindrance to dinner conversation.

  She marched us under an ornate arch, moving towards the back of the house. Through a window, I caught a glimpse of the garden outside: a multitude of roses. There was a car parked in the garden bed. Strange place to park, I thought.

  Then I realised: it was a brown Fairlane.

  43

  What was Morris Temple doing here, parking his car in their rose bed? I remembered, suddenly, the white truck I’d seen near the cypress trees. In one swift moment, it seemed like a good idea to get out of here. Quickly.

  ‘Uncle Ernest is tiring,’ I said, dragging Ernie to a stop. ‘I’m sorry, we might have to do this another time.’

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t flaming fuss.’ Ernie glared at me.

  Anne turned and looked at me. Frowned briefly. ‘Would he like to sit down for a moment?’

  ‘Oh, no, we don’t want to be a bother. Really, I think we’ll go.’

  ‘But your uncle may have…so little time. Don’t you think it’s best he sees the room now, while he’s able?’ She looked at Ernie. ‘What do you think? Shall we let you decide?’

  ‘I want to see it.’ He set his mouth in that line.

  I gave Ernie a special look, but he just glared back at me.

  Anne turned, half-smiling, then set off again, leading us along more interminable black and white checked hallway.

  I stayed put under the arch, pulling Ernie’s arm. ‘Let’s just give you a chance to catch your breath.’

  We have to get out of here, I mouthed silently at him, but Ernie’s lip-reading skills weren’t up to the task.

  I peered through the window, trying to see out to the garden. A movement out there. Morris?

  Anne opened a door to her left and stood there waiting for us to catch up. Ernie shuffled along, me gripping his elbow. Then she shepherded us down a set of red-carpeted stairs. Carefully closed the door behind us.

  The air wasn’t especially cold, but the hairs on my arms stood to attention.

  There was a full-on cinema at the bottom of those stairs. Rows of leather armchairs. A huge screen, flanked with panels featuring gold statuettes and a frieze high up on the walls—athletic-looking women in weird poses.

  Anne took three velour-swish steps towards a red curtain hanging across a wall.

  ‘I’m afraid there are a lot of stairs from here. Do you think your uncle will be able to manage it?’

  ‘Be fine.’ Ernie the ever-bloody-helpful.

  Anne pulled open the curtain. Cool air circulated around my ankles. She flicked on a light. Signalled for us to walk ahead of her, then followed behind, down a long set of stairs. Plush carpets underfoot.

  She flicked another light switch and the room’s magnificence came into focus. Chocolate brown satin walls, dotted with sparkles. Gold-leaf ceiling domes. A mosaic tiled floor with a giant B in a blue circle at the centre. On one wall there was a line of mirrors, in case B or any of his guests had an urgent need to check on their appearance.

  The walkie-talkie at Anne’s waist crackled. She grabbed it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where are you?’ A male voice.

  ‘I’m downstairs, showing some people around.’

  ‘Who? You know I have a meeting here today.’

  ‘Cass, I didn’t catch her surname. And her uncle, Ernest something. Nice old man. Apparently, he came to a party here years ago. Wanted to see the room again before he…’

  ‘Come upstairs. Now.’

  She put the walkie-talkie back on her waist band. ‘Sorry. I won’t be long.’

  Anne headed up the stairs, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Ernie, I think we should get out of here,’ I hissed.

  ‘Not till I find my watch,’ he said. ‘Waited eighty years to get into this joint. Least you could do is let me have a quick squiz.’

  ‘Didn’t you see Morris’s car outside?’

  I looked around. Unless you had some serious earth-moving equipment, there was no way out except the stairs we’d come down.

  Ernie was busy peering at a gas bottle on a trolley in the corner. ‘Must be helium, Cass. You could blow up a hell of a lot of balloons with a bottle this size.’

  ‘Ernie, come on. We’re leaving. Now.’ I moved towards the stairs.

  The lights went out.

  ‘What the…?’ said Ernie.

  I shivered. There aren’t many things darker than a room that’s underground. I rubbed my arms, trying to warm up.

  ‘The light must be on a timer.’ I said. ‘Where’s the switch?’

  I started walking, my hands stretched in front of me. Aha. The feel of satin under my fingers. I started moving along the wall. Would anyone put a light switch in satin?

  The creak of a door opening. A chink of light at the top of the stairs—I could see the steps now, dimly in the gloom.

&nb
sp; ‘Can you turn the light back on, Anne?’ I said.

  No answer. The door closed and the sliver of light disappeared. A torch clicked on. A grating sound. A key turning in a lock?

  ‘Anne? What are you doing?’ My voice was more quavery than I’d expected.

  No response. The torch started moving, a pool of light sliding down the stairs.

  ‘We’re leaving now,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, not yet,’ said a voice. A deep voice. Not Anne. A lot more male than Anne. ‘But don’t worry. You will be leaving quite soon.’

  The lights snapped on.

  A black-moustached man in an Akubra was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Peter Bamfield.

  44

  Bamfield had a roll of duct tape hanging around his wrist, like a bangle.

  ‘You.’ He clicked off the torch and put it in his pocket. ‘It had to be bloody you.’

  For the first time, I looked properly at his big black moustache. It was a very Freddy Mercury type of moustache, now I considered it. The woman from the park: her voice in my head. That girl went off to see Freddie Mercury. I don’t think she should have.

  ‘Just the man we want to chat with,’ I said, aiming for a breezy tone. ‘We’re wondering whether Natalie Kellett… happened to come and see you the day she died? The twenty-eighth of January?’ My voice wavered.

  He moved forward suddenly and punched me in the stomach.

  I fell onto my hands and knees, winded, gasping uselessly at the air. A shuffle-click sound. I looked up: it was Ernie. A cracking noise as Ernie whacked Bamfield’s shoulder with his stick. Bamfield turned and snarled, smashed Ernie’s face with his fist. Watched Ernie stumble, then collapse onto the ground, the stick clattering.

  Bamfield flipped Ernie over like a burger on the grill; started taping his wrists.

  The mosaic floor was cold against my face. Breathe, Cass, breathe. Come on: there has to be a way out of here. I braced my hands against the floor; started pulling myself to my feet. I stood, wobbling. A juddering breath, at last. I pulled out my phone to dial Dean.

  No signal.

  Bamfield jumped up from Ernie’s taping. Pulled out a pair of scissors from his pocket. Shiny, new, sharp-looking scissors. Their silvery blades reflected the light. He held them out in front of him. Moved towards me.