Hall had looked at the bench the unknown man had sat on while he waited for the bus, and then he looked at the pie cart. It was such a short distance between the two, and there were not many other options if you were hungry. In that part of Clarke it was either a pie or a snack from the newsstand, and given the contents of the unknown man’s stomach, Hall approached the pie cart—Mick’s Famous Pies—and spoke to a cheery man called Mick.
‘Are your pies really famous?’ asked Hall.
‘Could be,’ said Mick, with a toothy grin. A gold tooth, in fact; it sat right up in front of his mouth and glinted in the sun. ‘You want to try a pie and see?’
‘Do you remember a man in a brown suit who may have bought a pie from you on Wednesday? It was an old-fashioned suit.’
‘Oh yeah, that guy,’ said Mick easily. ‘Yes, yes, I remember.’ And he relayed to Hall his recollections.
The man in the suit had come from the station—or that general direction—on Wednesday morning. Mick was in his cart, serving a lady who bought fifteen pasties, which turned out to be both a good and a bad thing. Good because it was always pleasing to sell so many pasties, but bad because it really upset the man in the suit that the fifteenth pasty was in fact Mick’s last one.
‘You never know with pasties. Some days I end up with so many pasties at the end of the day, you understand? And I don’t love pasties. Or I’ll say that pasties aren’t my favourite of my products.’
The man in the suit had waited calmly as the woman made her purchases. Then, she went off with her paper bags full of pasties, and he approached the cart.
‘One pasty,’ he said.
But Mick had no more pasties.
So Mick explained this cheerily to the unknown man, and he put forward an alternative proposition: that perhaps the man could tolerate a pie.
‘Ah,’ said the man in the suit, shaking his head. He appeared distressed. ‘No.’ He seemed very opposed to the notion of a pie, and very concerned about the lack of pasties. He really had his heart set on a pasty. He stepped back from the cart and looked up and down the street, peering at the few other shops. Mick felt he was scanning them for potential pasties.
‘That’s when I go, “Mate! It’s just structure. That’s the only difference, my friend! Structure! A pasty is folded over and a pie has a lid on top. But, my friend, the middle is very often the same, you understand? What would be the matter if it folds over or if it has a lid?”’
The man in the suit had considered this deeply.
‘Then he goes, “Okay.” He said something like this. And I said, “Yes, mate. That is all it is—it’s the structure.”’
Simmons looked at Hall as he told his story, an amused expression on his face. Franklin had wandered over too; he was sitting on a stool eating a biscuit.
‘So what happened?’ asked Simmons, leaning forward.
‘He agreed to a pie,’ said Hall. ‘Then he sat down at the bus stop and ate it. And that’s it.’
Simmons hooted and Hall, who wasn’t sure what was funny, smiled cautiously. Then Simmons sighed and soured and said, ‘Seriously, though, that’s everything?’ and he rubbed his temples.
Unfortunately, it was.
Hall had questioned the man who ran the newsstand, who had no memory of the man in the suit. He questioned two people who worked at Clarke train station and were present on Wednesday morning, but they had no memory of the man either. Then he canvassed the rest of the area, shop to shop, but either the unknown man hadn’t visited any of them or everyone just failed to recall it. Indeed, the only person in the vicinity of Clarke station who had anything to report was Mick—whose name was actually ‘Danilo Batez, to be truthful’, as he admitted when signing his official statement.
‘Yugoslavian,’ said Hall, and Simmons nodded.
They sat in silence for a few moments, thinking.
‘Any accent?’ asked Simmons.
‘I’m guessing Yugoslavian,’ said Franklin.
Simmons looked over at Franklin. ‘I mean our guy, mate.’ And then to Hall: ‘Did you ask Mick if our guy had an accent?’
‘Yeah, I asked what kind of voice he had. City accent or country accent, that kind of thing. Mick didn’t reckon he said enough for him to be able to tell. He said he had a normal-sounding voice, whatever that means.’
‘Hmm,’ went Simmons. He was uncomfortable, it was hot. They needed a fan in the kitchenette. ‘And nothing about this Mick guy felt off?’
Hall shook his head. ‘No. He definitely didn’t serve the guy an arsenic pie.’
‘No,’ said Simmons.
‘I mean, boss, if I’d felt there was anything … but there was nothing. He’s been running the pie cart for years. He obviously didn’t know the guy. And I made a couple of calls—you know me. He’s got a young family and no criminal history.’
Simmons put his hand up and swiped away some imaginary thing in the air. ‘Yeah, yeah, good,’ he said, and then he made the rhythmic sucking sound for a while—tock tock tock—before adding that it was something, at least. That they now had someone who had actually spoken to their guy.
Franklin finished his biscuit and adjusted himself. He held his media release in his lap. It said APPEAL FOR INFORMATION ABOUT UNKNOWN MAN along the top, and had Franklin’s typed text below it.
‘Someone got this poison into him somehow—or he got it into himself,’ said Simmons. ‘Jimmy, what do you reckon?’
Jimmy Hall sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
‘I thought “wog” meant Italian or Greek,’ said Franklin.
‘Also Lebanese, I think,’ said Hall.
‘It’s a bit of a catch-all,’ said Simmons. ‘What do you think about our fucking guy, Jimmy?’
‘I think our guy really wanted a pasty,’ said Jimmy Hall.
24
The afternoon was still bright as Benny drove along Valley Road on her way to Odette’s house. She went through the town and soon approached the big sandstone bridge, with the river running deep and brown beneath it. Benny drove across, glancing at the sign on the wooden rail that prohibited a person from fishing from the bridge, or jumping off it, or stopping on it. She looked down quickly and saw ducks below, sitting on the rippled water.
Benny Miller found everything very beautiful along the route up the mountain—the tall gum trees with long strips of bark peeling off them, occasional banksias with their thick yellow flower heads. As the road grew steeper and the trees grew thicker, she watched the odometer to make sure she didn’t miss the turn.
At the LIMES ETC sign she left the sealed road, and excitement swelled inside her at the thought of seeing Odette again. She wondered if tonight they might speak properly of Vivian, and of Odette herself, and the vibrant ecology of her life.
Why had Odette kept a box of her mother’s books in the shed? This was something Benny wanted very much to ask. Had she been holding on to them out of sentimentality, or as a favour? Had they been an unwanted gift? Yet of course Benny could not ask these questions without revealing the undignified fact that she’d been snooping, so she would certainly not ask.
She thought more about the books themselves—the novels and travel guides. Frank Miller had told her that Vivian had gone off to Europe, and Benny had found a French phrasebook and foreign language dictionaries. She had flipped through them, just quickly, and found notes inside the front covers: French or German words or phrases were written there in her mother’s handwriting, alongside the English translation. Bus stop, bookshop, hotel, train station, glass of wine—common traveller’s words. Benny thought of Vivian Moon in Europe, smoking in a Parisian cafe or reading some intellectual tome on a park bench in London, and she was filled with a puzzling kind of envy, the source of which confused her.
Coming along the dirt road, Benny slowed over the cattle grid at the start of Odette’s driveway. The cows were eating from a small pile of vegetable scraps, right up next to the fence, and the white birds were standing beside them. When Benny turned the engi
ne off and got out of the car, she was struck by the quietude. Long light stretched across the paddock and, even though the cows were several metres away, Benny could hear so loudly the sound of their big hooves squishing around in the mud and carrots.
From the bush to her right, some birds.
Below her, the crisp sound of her own boots on the tough grass as she walked towards the house.
And then, ‘Hello! Welcome!’ as Odette, wearing an apron, opened the front door. Bessel trotted forward. And Odette’s strong, warm arms went around Benny so that Benny closed her eyes and nestled there for a brief moment, against the woman’s shoulder, before Odette released her and said, ‘Come in, I’m cooking,’ and Bessel walked around in excited circles.
Odette’s feet were bare and she wore loose pants, and swished back through the house in them to the open kitchen. Benny followed, stopping to put her bag down near a coat stand.
‘Do you mind anchovies?’ asked Odette.
‘I like them,’ said Benny, who wasn’t certain that she had tried anchovies.
‘Oh good, I know some people find them a challenge.’ And Odette stirred some onions frying in a pan, and began to chop herbs on a wooden board.
Benny knelt down and patted Bessel, and then she stood and looked for a moment at some of the photographs that hung on the wall next to the bookshelves. Odette was chopping and chatting—telling her what they would eat—and Benny nodded and peered at a picture of a hillside of houses in some foreign country. Lots of white rectangular houses with identical roofs, sloping down to a bay full of boats.
‘Would you like a glass of wine, Benny?’ asked Odette, going to the fridge.
Music was drifting from the record player—jazz music with a clarinet—and Benny said, yes, she would like a glass of wine. So Odette fetched two glasses and poured white wine into them, and Benny looked at another photograph, a black-and-white one of Odette when she was much younger, standing with a shirtless man in a fisherman’s cap. They were both leaning up against a white wall, smiling, and Odette had her hand up over her face to shield it from the sun.
Benny went over and sat on the stool on the other side of the kitchen island. She set down the paper bag of biscuits, embarrassed now by her offering, but Odette thanked her graciously and began to speak about her day—she’d had lunch with a friend from a nearby town—and then Benny told Odette that she’d met Cora from next door, that Cora had brought over food in plastic containers, and Odette laughed at that.
‘That’s good of her,’ said Odette. ‘She likes to be part of the action, old Cora.’ And then she started talking about Cedar Valley Curios & Old Wares, telling Benny that it was a Cedar Valley institution. It’d been there for over twenty-five years and showed no sign of closing. Odette was never sure how Cora made any money, but she guessed Fred was supportive. He’d been an engineer before he retired.
‘You know, if you ever need anything, you can ask Fred. He’s a good man—and he’s got this great head of hair, a bit like Bob Hawke’s hair. Just give him a yell over the fence. He’s a bit more your speed, I imagine. Not so pushy.’ And she smiled knowingly at Benny.
Benny nodded and sipped her wine and wondered for a moment if Odette Fisher was so perceptive that she could read Benny’s mind. From the first moment they met, the way Odette had gazed at her, Benny had felt transparent. It was as if this strong and graceful woman could look right inside her and see her—she could see the very truth of her—without any effort at all.
The two of them talked more as Odette prepared their dinner—easy conversation about everyday things, like the best spots for swimming at the river, and how it was a bother not to have a proper agricultural supply store in Cedar Valley, because Odette needed some supplies. They made a plan to go to Clarke together in the next few days—Benny wanted to see it. And Odette was so pleased to hear that Benny had been in to the Royal already and Tom Boyd had given her a trial.
‘I guess Tom looks like an old man to you but God, be still my beating heart! I think he’s terribly handsome. Annie Boyd is a lucky woman—and don’t think I haven’t told her that.’ Odette laughed as she poured some olive oil into a jar.
‘Yes, he’s very nice,’ said Benny, feeling herself blush, and she told Odette about her day at the pub, how she had got to know the workings of the place pretty well and had poured lots of beers for the locals. Everyone had asked her who she was and where she was from, and she had been quite conversational, speaking at length with an elderly gentleman about the Cedar Valley cattle market and the difference between steer weaners, heifer weaners, yearling weaners and plain old cows. Benny had learned a lot and she liked the people she’d met; she liked talking with them, and they had been welcoming and kind. In fact, the only person she didn’t warm to was the man called Ed who ran the kitchen.
‘Ed Johnson’s got tickets on himself,’ said Odette. ‘He’s probably got eyes for you, you know. I don’t think he’s noticed that he’s not twenty-one anymore. Apparently some women find him charming but I really don’t see it.’
Benny told Odette how she’d been allowed a free lunch from the bistro and had ordered hot chips and a side salad and eaten it happily at the end of the bar. Tom had given her a Royal Tavern T-shirt at the end of her shift and she was going to wear it there on Sunday. He’d been friendly, if a little reserved, and what Benny didn’t tell Odette was that while he surely did look like an old man, Benny found herself drawn to the cropped thickness of his grey hair and the rough shape of his skull, and she’d spent a portion of the afternoon thinking about Jules Cowrie, and how—even though he was twenty-one, the same age as she was—he seemed to her, now, just a boy.
Odette went to the oven, pulled out a tray of blackened capsicums and set them on the bench to cool, then she whizzed something in a food processer that came out like a thick green paste and smelled of garlic.
‘It used to belong to a real shit, the Royal,’ said Odette. ‘This old racist called Tick Finch, he’d refuse to serve Koori men from the mines back in the day, even if they had one of those ridiculous certificates. Then Tick died, and his son Finchy—I don’t even know what his actual name was—took it over. He was slightly better, even though he still wanted women to only drink in the parlour. That was when your mum was here, and we’d go in and rattle the chains and sit in the main bar. Finchy had no idea how to handle a woman like Vivian.’
And just like that Vivian Moon came alive in the room, and it was like someone opening a door in winter: a cold prickling on Benny’s skin.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Well, Vivian was so defiant,’ said Odette. ‘And very spirited about it. She just thought a lot of those cultural norms were so backwards, and of course they were.’
‘No,’ said Benny. ‘I mean about her being here?’
Odette wiped her hands on her apron and looked at Benny in a quizzical way.
‘Oh, Benny, we really need to sit down and compare notes,’ she said. ‘I keep assuming you know things about Vivian that maybe you don’t know. Your mother lived here, honey. In Cedar Valley. She lived with me at the cottage. She had that same bedroom you’re sleeping in now.’
25
‘How’s she coping?’ asked Lil Chapman, once Therese had gone back to the Old Paris Coiffure.
‘Oh, she’s okay,’ said Cora, sitting on her stool behind the counter. ‘She asked Ed about it directly and he denied it. So what can she do?’
Lil gave a withering look. ‘For God’s sake, of course he’s going to deny it!’ she said.
And Cora said, ‘Yes, well,’ and ordinarily Cora would have found some terrible delight in telling Lil Chapman about Ed Johnson having it off with Chicken Linda—under the pretence of ‘feeling bad for Therese’, but really just enjoying the scandalous thrill of it—but on that day Cora made the very uncharacteristic, and some may say wise, decision to keep all that to herself.
‘That woman—the blonde woman who you saw talking to the dead man—she was i
n here for quite a while, you know,’ said Cora. ‘She had shaky hands, I think. Now I wish I’d talked to her more. It was just a quick hello and I showed her the watches. Therese had already left. But you remember her, don’t you, Mary Anne?’
Mary Anne had pulled up a stool on the other side of the counter and was wearing the expression so common to her: a kind of flinch, like someone was about to hit her in the face.
‘Well, yes, I think so,’ she said. ‘But you know what I’m like with my memory.’
‘Oh, I’m the same,’ said Lil. ‘I just sat up in bed the other night—bolt upright—and I thought, bloody hell! That woman talked to him! I don’t know why I didn’t remember it earlier, when the police were asking us.’
Lil had one hand pressed up against her cheek, which gave her a worried look, and her face was grey and lined from many years of smoking, except for her nose, which was red from many years of drinking.
Then she smiled and took her hand down and a glimmer came across her milky eyes.
‘I know it sounds silly, but I said to Barry last night in bed, I said, “What if she killed him!” And Barry just laughed at me.’ Lil laughed at herself now, too. ‘But then he got out his KGB books. You know Barry loves his spy stories. And they’re always poisoning each other with nerve agents and whatnot else—like in that James Bond movie where a lady has the poison in her shoe. Barry was telling me about this case in London, a real-life one, where a KGB man poked a Bulgarian spy with a poisoned umbrella. He died, Cora! From an umbrella!’
Lil started to laugh huskily, and Cora hooted and said, ‘Lillian Chapman! Our man was not murdered by the KGB!’ ‘A silent assassin,’ said Lil, grinning. ‘Barry also suggested something else: a cyanide pill—like the Nazis. But I think that’s for when you commit suicide.’ Lil giggled again and it turned into a small coughing fit. Then when she was done, she wiped a tear away and helped herself to a biscuit.
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