One Boy Missing

by Stephen Orr

  ‘Let’s hope.’

  MOY RETURNED TO the station and crosschecked a database until he found the correct John Preston. He rang and got caught up in small talk before eventually asking, ‘You had a fella named Alex Naismith working for you?’

  ‘Yes…I remember him. Did some harvesting, drove the trucks.’

  ‘Good worker, eh?’

  ‘What’s he been up to?’

  Not a lot, Moy wanted to say, but remembered how this sort of throw-away line used to get him in trouble. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Naismith is deceased.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuck. How’d that happen?’

  ‘Well, it looks like…’ He stopped himself. ‘We’re not meant to say but…you know, someone else was involved.’

  ‘Someone’s killed him?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like. I was wondering if you could tell me about him?’

  ‘Fuck…dead. Always comes as a bit of a shock, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t know much about him. Just come, did his job, that was it.’

  Moy was scared it might come to this. ‘No friends, relatives?’

  ‘Don’t know. Sorry.’

  ‘What about Naismith himself? What sort of person was he?’

  There was a shrugging sound, as though Preston had never given his farmhand much thought. ‘He got on with the job, didn’t say much.’

  ‘Easy to get along with?’

  ‘Mostly. I remember a few times telling him, do it this way, and he’d…well, not argue, but disagree.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t describe him as violent?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘And he never talked about what else he did with his time?’

  ‘Not so I remember. Mainly just the farm, and what needed doing.’

  Moy realised this was going nowhere. Preston would probably describe everyone he’d ever met in the same terms. He thanked him, left his number and rang off.

  THEY RETURNED TO Gawler Street, and the last clean-out of the house before the agent came to inspect it. Moy swept and Patrick followed behind with a mop. When they were finished they sat on the front porch and opened a bottle of Coke. There were no cups so they took turns swigging. Patrick spilled it down his chin and his T-shirt and broke up laughing. Then he snorted and spat out the remains.

  ‘You okay?’ Moy asked.

  ‘Went down the wrong way.’

  Mrs Flamsteed walked from her yard and crossed the road, carrying a shopping bag with something heavy in it. She asked how they were, and how the move went. Then, ‘Would you like me to keep up the meals?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Moy said. ‘I think I’ll be okay now.’

  And she looked happy, as though her duty was done, and she could move on. But then she was taken by another thought. ‘I was wondering if you could look at this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Moy replied.

  ‘We were having a plant sale. We, I mean the Country Women’s. I have a friend who collected some plants from another…friend.’ She shook her head, unsure. Looking at Patrick, she wondered whether it was an appropriate topic. Then she decided. She took a plant from the shopping bag and showed Moy. ‘Doug reckons it’s a…’ She stopped, unable to say the word.

  ‘It is,’ Moy confirmed.

  ‘Right.’

  He waited, savouring the moment, wondering whether he should act out some sort of official concern.

  ‘So?’ she continued.

  ‘They’re a hardy plant,’ he said. ‘Stick it in the ground in full sun, plenty of water.’

  She almost stepped back. ‘In our garden?’

  ‘Why not? One won’t hurt anyone, and it’s not like…’ He smiled at her, waiting.

  ‘But they’re illegal.’

  ‘No, you can keep three.’

  ‘Is it marijuana?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Dope, weed, ganja,’ Moy said.

  Mrs Flamsteed was unsure. ‘Maybe I should just pop it in the bin? I thought you might want to investigate?’

  ‘No,’ Moy said. ‘You keep it.’

  She placed the plant back in the bag and said, ‘Righto, well, maybe I’ll return it.’

  ‘You should sell it,’ Patrick suggested.

  ‘That would be illegal, wouldn’t it, Bart?’

  ‘You’ve only got one.’

  Mrs Flamsteed smiled. ‘Well, look after yerselves,’ she said, turning, walking back across the road.

  Patrick looked at Moy. ‘Is it really legal?’

  ‘Of course not but…she’s getting on.’

  There were birds, and a light breeze through a sheoak. ‘Listen…’ Moy said.

  ‘What?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘No more grain trucks.’

  ‘Have they finished?’

  Moy stopped to count the days, weeks and months. He remembered their own harvest and how cold and wet it was when it was over. ‘I think so.’

  The Coke was nearly gone when Patrick said, ‘I think we ran down this street.’

  Moy looked at him. ‘You and Tom? No, you wouldn’t have passed anywhere near here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Patrick was studying the footpath and trees. ‘We just kept running, and we thought we’d lost him.’

  ‘You hadn’t?’

  ‘We turned a corner and saw his car, and he saw us. Then we were off. He did this big skid and turned and came after us.’

  Moy handed him the bottle. ‘But he didn’t catch up?’

  ‘We ran through the park and hid in the wheels of the train. He stopped in the car park and got out and looked. He saw us, but I was running and when I looked he’d got Tom and I just kept going…’ He stopped, still wondering if he’d done the right thing. ‘I went into town, into that laneway, and hid between the bins.’ He looked at Moy. ‘I suppose he told you that?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who came out of his shop.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he said.’

  ‘After he put me in the boot we drove for a minute…and Tom, he was just telling me to be quiet.’

  ‘How long were you driving?’

  ‘I don’t know…maybe half an hour. It was dark and smelled like petrol. Then we got to the farm and he locked us in a shed.’

  ‘What farm?’ Moy asked.

  ‘I think it was a farm. There were pigs. It was a couple of hours before Tom found a spot where I could get out.’

  ‘Was there anyone else at the farm?’

  ‘There was an old man. They were arguing because he was asking why the other guy had brought us there…why he’d hit Mum…and…And the one who brought us was saying he had to, that he thought he’d…’

  ‘Did you see this other man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘That the guy who took us had to clean up his own mess, he wasn’t going to help him. All he wanted was us gone from the house.’

  ‘And you got out?’

  ‘They went away arguing and Tom found a spot where I could just squeeze through, but he couldn’t. He told me to run, to find a road, to tell someone.’

  Moy waited, hoping for more.

  ‘I made it to the dirt road, and then I went back to our house. I remember, standing, looking in the door, walking towards the house…and I saw Mum…So then I went back to the farm. Maybe…I thought…I wanted to ask Tom what to do next. I hid in the bush, then crawled back to the shed, but Tom was gone.’

  He emptied the last few drops from the Coke bottle. ‘See, they’d taken him,’ he said.

  Moy put his arm around him. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find him.’

  ‘No.’ In the pause Patrick’s face was ghastly. ‘No, you won’t.’

  35

  THE NEXT DAY Moy sat at his desk, looked at the clock, listened for the sounds of school recess. Nothing. Why? New bell times? Oval out of bounds? Ah, holidays! Obvious, he thought, especially to someone paid to solve problems.

>   Gary came in with a few forms that needed signing.

  ‘I’ll get them back to you,’ Moy said.

  Gary wasn’t happy with this. ‘Y’just gotta sign them.’ He waited, and watched just to make sure. ‘Oh, and Monaghan called earlier. Said they’ve assigned someone to that arson.’

  ‘Creek Street?’

  ‘Yeah. Said next week, perhaps.’

  ‘You’re kidding. How long’s it been?’

  Gary reclaimed the forms. ‘You know how it is. If yer gonna get murdered, do it in town.’ Then he was gone.

  Moy knew he was running on empty. He searched his mind for anything, no matter how slight. Remembered the address. He grabbed his keys and set off, past Gary, to his car, and west, to Percy Street. A row of six flats that ran the length of a narrow block, separated from a neighbour’s yard by a picket fence. There was a hedge along the same boundary but it was mostly dead, filled with chip packets and faded brochures.

  He pulled into the driveway to flat four, got out and studied a small patch of ground that might have been a garden. A puddle, wet from an irrigation system that hadn’t watered anything but weeds in years. A bird bath, with half its bowl missing. Six or seven copies of the Argus, still wrapped in plastic. He walked up a path and knocked on the door. ‘Hello,’ he said, looking through the window.

  ‘You looking for Alex?’

  He looked around to see an oldish woman—late fifties, but aged by weight, a cheap parachute of a dress and a liver-spotted face.

  ‘Yes. Alex Naismith.’ He showed his identification. ‘Detective Sergeant Bart Moy.’

  ‘Right.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s he been up to?’

  He studied the woman’s face. ‘Well…his body has turned up on a beach.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sorry to say.’

  ‘Dead?’

  He thought of an appropriate reply. Resisted the temptation. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The coroner’s investigating. You don’t know much about him?’

  ‘Not really. He’s…was a bit of a mystery, I suppose. He’d be around, then you wouldn’t see him for weeks at a time.’

  ‘You’re a neighbour?’

  ‘Second flat down.’ She pointed.

  Moy felt his way around the situation—the cracked path, the woman’s strong body odour, a corpse with a shovel fracture to the back of the head. ‘He kept to himself?’

  ‘Very much so. No girlfriend, no mates much.’

  ‘Quiet?’

  ‘Yes. He bought this flat a couple of years back.’

  ‘Nothing else you think might be relevant?’

  She tried, but couldn’t come up with anything. ‘Sorry. I think his parents died years ago. I’m not even sure if there’s a brother or sister.’

  ‘I was hoping to get inside.’ He turned and looked in the window again. ‘But that doesn’t seem likely.’

  ‘Well…not that I’ve been watching or anything…’ She walked over to a pot plant, reached underneath, produced a key and handed it to Moy. ‘I won’t get in trouble?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know they think I’m a nosy neighbour, but I do notice things.’

  And she was gone.

  He stepped into a neat, sparsely furnished flat. The lounge-dining area was simply set out: a recliner, a table, two chairs, a fridge and a gas stove. Everything was put away. Benches were bare. The fridge contained solidified milk, a furry chop and half a block of chocolate. There were no newspapers or magazines, DVDs, bills, papers, books or personal items. No photos, nothing even hanging on the walls, although there were hooks. Nine or ten lonely magnets on the fridge. The scent of a life that had been cleaned up, censored, partly or mostly removed.

  The house of a murderer? Who the hell knew?

  THE AFTERNOON WAS cool. He didn’t want to go home so he headed out of town to the footy club, the place, he believed, that most defined Guilderton. The clubrooms were a favourite for wedding receptions and wakes. In the years between the kids could run around, play an old Space Invaders machine, drink a stray beer and daily strengthen the bonds that would get them through their wheatbelt lives. On the oval there were school sports days and fairs, footy training and Sunday morning dog obedience. The wives in tight circles, planning holidays and fundraisers. The men showing the under-twelves the perfect punt. As though if all of this were protected they could preserve the simple balance that sustained them.

  It was the start of the cricket season now, but the players would be the same. He’d known them at high school, these farmers’ sons, with their open mouths and home-shaved heads. And here they were now, catching practice under three of the four functional lights around the oval. A mist rose from the gardens and grass, settling over a few mums in the ‘Nigger’ Johnson Grandstand.

  He walked across the car park and stood at the oval fence. Each of the players cast a triple shadow. They motioned and shouted to each other but he couldn’t work out what they were saying. There were younger boys kicking footballs through the goals. Perhaps, he thought, some kind of sport would be good for Patrick. A band of brothers that would take him, for a while at least, away from his memories.

  ‘How are yer?’ an old man asked, from further along the fence.

  ‘Good. And you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  A full minute passed before the stooped figure said, ‘That fuckin’ harvest is gonna finish my son.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Hundred and sixty grand to put in a crop this year. All over in a fortnight.’

  ‘What, too dry?’

  ‘Not enough to cover his costs. Fourth year straight. What’s the use? May as well get a job at the IGA. What about you?’

  Moy shrugged. ‘I’m a copper.’

  ‘So, no worries with low yields, eh?’ He moved closer. ‘You lookin’ for someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But the old man just turned and looked back at the younger boys. ‘That one out there,’ he said, indicating, ‘that’s my grandson, Michael.’ They watched him fumble a catch. ‘And over there, my son, Todd.’ They watched Todd, but he was just standing there, guarding his shadow and his few inches of threadbare turf.

  ‘Who you lookin’ for?’ the old man asked.

  ‘I rang earlier and spoke to the secretary.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The secretary?’

  ‘No, yer fuckin’…missing person?’

  ‘Have you heard of Alex Naismith?’

  The old man watched his son lurch after the ball. ‘Played Div Four, two or three years ago.’

  ‘Know much about him?’

  ‘He stopped, didn’t see out the season. That’s the last we saw of him.’ Then he looked back at his grandson. ‘He’s too smart, anyway.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Michael. Clever little bastard. Good at maths. He’d be better off studying engineering, medicine. Steada throwing good money after bad.’

  ‘Things might get better.’

  There was a siren. Moy had no idea what it meant.

  ‘You’re not gonna tell us what it’s all about?’ the old man said.

  ‘Well, Alex, he washed up at Mangrove Point.’

  ‘What, dead?’

  No, bodysurfing. ‘We reckon.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘So, you know, I suppose things could always be worse.’

  The old fella shook his head and turned back towards the oval. ‘Not at eight dollars a tonne.’

  MOY PULLED OUT, back onto the road to town. As he picked up speed he noticed a deserted farmhouse. Nearby paddocks had been reclaimed by scrub. There was a windmill, still turning, although the axle and gears were hanging loose. It occurred to him that there were many places like this—forgotten, cheaper to ignore than demolish. He supposed they could be made livable if someone was determined. They would make decent places to live. Away from neighbours and prying eyes.

  He wondered about the house on Creek S
treet. What if Helen had brought her two sons to get away from someone? What if she’d had to flee the city and remembered this place from some childhood holiday, or something someone had mentioned?

  And what if Alex Naismith, whoever he was, and however he was connected, had found her?

  As his open window sucked in cool air he tried to imagine Helen Barnes, and Alex Naismith, together. He could see Helen popping out to a crowded coffee shop when Austen was at work. She would be smiling, and saying, hi, Alex, offering her hand. They would be huddling together, their faces almost touching. She would be telling him how she was ready to leave Austen and the kids.

  So then, he imagined, fast-forwarding through the highlights, Helen running off with him, him tiring of her, leaving her, Helen telling his wife or vandalising his car…

  He drifted into a low valley, accelerated up a steep hill and became airborne on the crest, settling back onto the road with a gentle hmph.

  Maybe an unpaid debt. Austen’s. Maybe Alex had killed the husband and she’d fled with the kids.

  Silly stuff, he told himself.

  Or maybe it wasn’t, as Patrick thought, Austen leaving the family. Maybe Helen had just got sick of her husband and left, some hot afternoon when she’d had time to think and realise how much she hated her life. Or maybe Patrick was right. Maybe Dad had just up and disappeared, and maybe they’d gone looking for him, returning to some accommodation they’d once shared.

  That didn’t explain the furniture, clothes and toys in the house.

  Or maybe Naismith had nothing to do with the Barnes family? Maybe he was just there to welcome them, to warn them, to tell them to move on…Maybe things just got out of hand.

  36

  THE GREEN AT the Guilderton Bowls Club was freshly shaved, so precisely clipped it looked artificial in the morning light. There were a few patches but they’d been packed with loam, whacked flat and watered in anticipation of new growth. There were waiting bays with seats bolted to concrete slabs. Each one had a sign: Have You Marked Your Score?

  Moy sat in one of these shelters with Patrick and watched George open his felt-lined bowls case. George took out one of a matching pair, wrapped it in a rag and handed it to the boy. ‘A good five minutes.’

  Patrick started polishing the bowl the way George had shown him. ‘How’s this help?’ he asked.