by Emma Viskic
There was an email waiting for him.
– What took you so long? It’s been four days. I need to be able to contact you more reliably than this. Give me a phone number.
He wiped his palms on his jeans as he sat down.
– This works best. Have you heard anything about Frankie?
– No.
He closed his eyes a moment, then read the rest of the message.
– Detective McFarlane would like you to come in for another interview.
– Why?
– Further questions about Gary’s movements the day he died.
Gary, not Senior Constable Marsden. It was the first time Tedesco had called him by his first name. A salesman-like attempt at empathy, or had he known Gary? It felt genuine.
– Did you know Gary?
Tedesco’s reply took a full minute to come, but was as short as his previous ones.
– Not well. We were stationed in Nhill together for a few months.
Seven or eight years ago. Tedesco would have been on the fast track to detective even then, Gary happy to just keep his head down and do the job. But two young cops in a town where heavy rain counted as entertainment? They would have been drinking mates at the very least.
– So you know what he was like. You know he never used the patrol car for personal chores. That he paid the caffeine kitty on time, in full every month. That he drove the other cops crazy with his pain in the arse adherence to every law that’s ever been written. You know he couldn’t have been involved in anything criminal.
There was a brief pause, then a new email.
– We need to meet. When can you get here?
– Not interested in seeing McFarlane again.
– No McFarlane, just me. But it needs to be in person, not online.
– Why?
… … …
… … …
………
Had Tedesco gone? He was about to type another message when the reply came.
– I have photos that may match those sketches you sent.
So the big man was taking him seriously. Thank God.
– I’m not in Melbourne. You’ll have to email them.
– No. We have to do it in person, or not at all.
Tedesco was definitely loosening up, despite his stick-up-arse language. How to get him fully on side?
– I can’t get there until tomorrow. Probably the day after. If you want to wait, fine, but it’ll be quicker if you email them. You can trust me not to send them on to anyone. I need you on my side. On Gary’s side. I won’t fuck that up.
A long wait this time. He stood up and tried some tentative stretches. Very tentative. The email popped up, a new subject line this time: DELETE IMMEDIATELY.
– I’ll send them from a different email address. Reply to the same address. Delete them immediately. Reply immediately. Do not in any way copy or forward them. If you do, I’ll hunt you down, cut off your balls, and shove them down your throat. Understood?
He smiled: even Tedesco’s threats had correct punctuation. So like Gary. Important to remember he wasn’t a friend. Might not even be an ally.
An email appeared from [email protected]. So Tedesco had a sense of humour. That was a surprise. He’d obviously spent the last few days putting together the photo line-up. Ten photos of white men between thirty-five and fifty, clear face shots, some posed, others candid. Five Grey-face look-alikes, five Boxer look-alikes. The fourth photo, a visceral reaction: Grey-face. He went through them all again, lingering over the mouths and eyes. No Boxer, but number four was a definite. He hit reply.
– Number 4 is Grey-face.
– How sure are you?
– 100% What’s his name?
– You don’t need to know that at the moment.
– Is it Scott?
– No.
– Then he’s connected to Scott.
– There is no evidence that Scott even exists.
– Then why are you worried about your official email being accessed? Why did you react to his name when I first told you about Gary’s text?
– Rumours aren’t fact.
Bingo.
– You can find the facts. If Grey-face and Scott know each other, there’ll be a record of it. Scott will be an in-formant or a witness, an old arrest. If Grey-face is smart, he’ll have tried to hide the connection, but you’ll find something somewhere.
He stared at the screen for a long time.
– Give me your phone number in case I need to contact you quickly. I’ll call via the relay service. That worked well last time.
– Better this way. No third person.
– You’re a stubborn bastard.
– So you keep telling me.
He shut the computer and let out a long breath. Someone on his side. Probably. Maybe.
He made two mugs of tea and carried them outside. The backyard was a sloping hectare of bushland, which Maria had crafted into a surprisingly whimsical garden. Copses of flowering gums and native grasses edged inviting patches of lawn. Gravel paths meandered through them, leading to hidden courtyards. He wound his way towards Kat’s favourite nook and stumbled as he turned the corner. A new sculpture guarded the alcove’s entrance: a larger-than-life woman hewn from a single tree trunk. She had a warrior’s stance, hair of tangled wire and a ball-retracting glare.
He gave her a wide berth and made his way to where Kat was sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench. Despite the ten-degree temperature, she hadn’t noticed that her knitted orange throw had slipped from her shoulders, leaving her arms bare. She was bent over a large sketchbook, drawing long, sweeping lines. Preliminary sketches. Next would come the finer details, different angles, calculations for materials. She looked up as his shadow fell across the paper. Her eyes were opaque, still tuned to her inner world. She’d been drawing trees again – a bare-limbed skeleton and a flourishing gum with sturdy limbs.
He passed her a mug. ‘English Breakfast.’
She gripped it in both hands, shivering. He casually lifted the blanket across her shoulders as he sat down.
‘Good tea. Thanks.’
‘Peace offering.’ He hesitated, reaching for the right words. ‘I may have overreacted before.’
‘May have?’
‘Did overreact. Momentary insanity. Is there anything else you need to tell me? Any more phone calls or emails? Smoke signals? No more frothing at the mouth, I promise, just my usual, laid-back self.’
‘It’s sweet you think you’re laid-back, but no, there’s nothing else.’
Sweet. Kittens were sweet. Pygmy horses. Still, he’d take what he could get.
‘Anything from Tedesco?’ she said.
‘Nothing on Frankie, but we had a bit of a chat. He’s found Grey-face. Won’t tell me the guy’s name, but he’s loosened up a bit. May even be open to the idea I’m not crooked.’ He paused. ‘The talk we had over the relay service seemed to help.’
For such an expressive person, she had an excellent poker face. ‘You must have had an excellent operator.’
‘The best.’
She closed her sketchpad, but instead of leaving, sat back and drank her tea. Her breathing was slow and even, hands relaxed: happy to just sit for a while. It was a good place for it; sheltered from the wind, with the brick walls giving back the warmth of the afternoon sun. For some reason he thought of their old claw-foot couch.
A ray of sunlight caught the top of the wild-woman statue, glinting off her hair.
Kat nodded towards her. ‘Did you introduce yourself to Bertha?’
‘No, I backed away and tried not to make eye contact. I take it she’s from your I-am-woman-hear-me-roar phase?’
She held his gaze. ‘No, she’s from my all-men-are-bastards phase.’
‘Right.’ He wondered about its autobiographical tendencies. ‘And when was that?’
‘I’m not entirely sure it’s over.’
He smiled, didn’t think, just rea
ched down and took her hand. She stilled. The blanket had dropped again, revealing the soft line of her throat. He used to press his lips against that silken skin. The taste of salt and honey and musk. He needed to touch her. To gather her in his arms and inhale her scent until it filled him. Her eyes held his: ocean-dark and endless. And there was nothing but her warmth, the thrum of blood in his veins, her soft lips, parting. His head dipped towards hers.
She stood up.
He reeled for a moment, untethered. She was pulling her phone from her pocket, looking at the screen.
‘Hi Ross.’ Smiling. Happy to take the call. Delighted. ‘No, I’m not busy.’
She started back towards the house. Didn’t look back.
12.
The next afternoon, he ventured into town to do the shopping with Kat. It was the first time since the garden that she’d relaxed enough to spend more than a few minutes alone with him. Something to be said for his slow gait: the usually fifteen-minute walk was going to take at least thirty. His legs felt boneless, a little like the way he’d pulled up after his first marathon. Only this time he was well at the back of the pack. Maybe in the St John’s ambulance getting his electrolytes back under control. When they reached the primary school on the outskirts of town, he took the opportunity to lean on the low wire fence and gaze at the kitchen garden that had sprung up near the playground. It was his old school, the one he’d gone to in his hearing days. And for a few months of his non-hearing days.
‘Kohlrabi,’ he read from the little wooden signs. ‘Kale, Jerusalem artichokes. Bit different from our vegemite sandwiches.’
‘They make their own chutneys, too,’ Kat said. ‘Date and fennel. I’ve got the recipe.’
He’d missed the whole autumn term and returned on a windswept day like this. Walking to school that morning, the world had felt new: the larger hand holding his, the longer stride, the smell of Old Spice instead of his mother’s White Linen perfume. His father had never taken him to school before. It wasn’t until he was sitting at his desk that he realised how wrong everything was. Hands patted his back without warning. Mouths gaped and flapped, but the words travelled through oceans of water. A sour heat churned in his stomach. Then Miss Peterson was there; her face too close, a smudge of lipstick on her front tooth. Her words floated up high, far out of range. She was shaking her head, frowning. He was meant to do something. Say something. Be something. He sat rigid until the heat forced its way up his throat and a burning rush of puke exploded from his mouth.
His father took him back the next day, and the next, and the next, until one day it was his mother holding his hand, taking him to a different school that would ‘suit him better’. Failure still smelt of chalk dust and vomit.
Kat’s gaze was on him. Wearing a quilted red coat and orange beanie, she was a welcome flash of colour against the leaden sky.
‘Are you sure Mum gave you permission to walk this far?’
He released the fence and began walking. ‘She said it was up to me.’
‘That really doesn’t sound like her. What exactly did she say?’
‘“Walk if you want to, but if you keel over I’ll stick another catheter in you.”’
‘OK, that sounds like her.’ She stopped as they reached the small supermarket on the edge of the shopping strip. ‘I’m going to duck in here. How about you pick up some wine for tonight and meet me back here?’
His ears pricked. ‘Maria’s going to let me drink?’
‘No, but that’s not going to stop me. Get something that’ll go with goulash.’
Soups, risottos, and now Eastern European stews. ‘This cooking thing, is it new?’
She thrust her hands into her coat pockets and gave him an unwavering stare, the wind whipping her hair into crazy ribbons. Stunning was the first word that came to mind. Medusa, the second.
‘You complaining about the quality?’
‘Restaurant quality,’ he said quickly. ‘Two-hat quality. Just intrigued.’
‘Well, I guess it’s because my hands feel empty and my brain feels full.’
He felt a pang. ‘I’ll get you back to your studio soon.’
‘It’s probably good for me. Gives me a bit of distance from what I was working on.’
He thought about the sketches she’d been doing yesterday, and those in her house, the saplings with leaves of gold-red.
‘The trees? I’d love to see more of them.’
A flash of bleakness, then her face smoothed of all expression. Shit. He’d stumbled into one of the wastelands that edged their conversations. He’d caught glimpses of this one before, and it was a vast and desolate place. He searched for a way out.
‘So, ah, red wine for goulash?’
‘Sure.’ She signed it casually, but her shoulders were hunched as she turned away.
What had he done this time? Was it because he’d mentioned the trees? The cooking? He waited until she walked through the supermarket doors, but she didn’t look back. He headed for the grog shop.
The Bay’s main street looped in a lazy curve around the beach, the shops turning their salt-speckled gaze out to sea. Its handful of bluestone buildings and wrought-iron balconies featured in all the local tourist brochures, but distance from Melbourne and a wild surf break put off most visitors. There were three new For Lease signs, and judging by the meagre stock in Angelique’s Homewares, there’d be another one by the end of the month. His father’s old office had been on the market since he died four years ago.
Best Buy Cellars seemed to be the only business doing a good trade. He wandered through its crowded aisles, picking up bottles and putting them down again. He needed something good, something thoughtful, something that would warm icy wastelands and go well with goulash. Too much to ask from a bottle of wine. Then he saw it. It was a grape variety he’d never heard of, from a country he hadn’t realised produced wine, but the label featured a sketch of a bird in full flight. He wiped the dust from it and smiled. Yep, a white-bellied sea eagle.
A familiar figure was coming through the doors as he left. One of Kat’s cousins, a dark-skinned man with prison ink and eyes a few shades lighter than Kat’s. There was a fat-legged baby wearing a pink headband strapped to his front. Eyes the exact shade of Kat’s.
‘Mick.’
‘Cal, mate, long time.’
They thumped each other’s backs and went through a quick, complex handshake. The baby kicked eagerly at the excitement, but Caleb kept his eyes fixed firmly on Mick.
‘Didn’t realise you and Pauline had had another one. Congratulations.’
‘What can I say? I’m a walking fucken sperm factory.’ Mick caressed his daughter’s soft curls, the tattooed ‘Fuck Cops’ clearly visible across his knuckles.
When Caleb had first started dating Kat, Mick had taken it upon himself to ‘have a little chat’ about the consequences of fucking with her. He’d been so convincing, it had taken Caleb months to realise that behind the man’s terrifying exterior lay a heart of gooey marshmallow.
Mick’s gaze lowered to the bottle in Caleb’s hand, lingered on the label. ‘You and Kat back on, then?’
‘No.’
‘Bit of a dickhead buying that then, aren’t ya?’
‘Lot of one.’
‘Good you know, I guess. Listen, that’s a bad bit of sorry business with your mate, Gaz. They caught the bastard that done it, yet?’
‘No.’
‘Let us know when the funeral is, yeah? He was a decent bloke, ’specially for a cop. Helped young Jai out of a bit of shit last year.’ He squinted. ‘Speaking of fuckwits.’
Caleb braced himself. ‘Anton?’
‘Yeah. Not to be snooping, but the kitchen window looks right onto his front door, y’know? He’s had a couple of visits from the cops this week.’
‘They arrest him?’
‘Nah, he didn’t answer the door.’
Because he didn’t want to? Or because he couldn’t? He was probably fine. He probably wasn’t slumped
on the bathroom floor with a needle in his arm and blue-tinged lips.
‘Have you, ah, seen him around? Since then?’
‘Yeah mate, I checked on him. Nothing to worry about. Actually looking pretty good these days.’
His heart settled back in his chest. ‘OK. Thanks. Appreciate you looking out for him.’
‘Family, mate. He came with you.’
‘Guess you can dump us both now Kat and I have split.’
Mick slapped his shoulder ‘Can’t get rid of us that easy. You’re a boong-in-law forever, mate. So, bit of cousinly advice, you might want to check on Kat. One of the O’Briens is out there sniffing around her.’
‘Shit, really?’
‘Yeah. Would’ve stopped to thump him one, but you know.’ He hooked his thumbs under the baby sling’s straps.
‘You’ve got the baby.’
‘Oh. Yeah. But mainly ’cause Katy gets a bit huffy when I do things like that. Still hasn’t forgiven me for that friendly little chat you and I had way back when. Remember that?’
‘Fondly. Thanks, I’d better go.’ A thought struck him as he turned away. ‘The cops, were they locals?’
‘Nah, couple of city blokes.’
‘You remember what they looked like?’
Mick gave him an assessing look. ‘A big guy and a ranga, both in suits. Just down for the day according to Allie at the service station. Could let you know if they come back.’
A seven-hour round trip. Either Tedesco and McFarlane were very interested in Gary’s phone call to Anton, or there was more going on than they’d told him.
‘Thanks, Mick. Owe you a couple.’
‘We’re even as long as you don’t tell Katy I sent you.’
He found Kat outside the supermarket, talking to a slope-shouldered man in his late thirties. Not just an O’Brien, but Brad, the floating turd in the toilet bowl that was his family. All four O’Brien brothers liked to joke about boong-bashing, but Brad was the one who followed through with his fists. The prick shouldn’t be on the same planet as Kat, let alone talking to her.