by Ilsa Evans
*
Despite Grace June Rae’s assurances, the police investigation showed no signs of removing itself from my backyard. The blue canvas was still securely in place, the side fence was still missing, and there were still two police cars parked on the spare land beside my property. Along with a lone Channel Seven news van, complete with mini satellite dish mounted on the roof.
Charlotte, however, was now on the decking, looking none the worse for her ordeal. I positioned her by the sliding door and ignored Gusto’s forlorn face on the other side of the glass. For the time being the backyard was out of bounds for him, with Quinn having to take him out the front on a lead every few hours for ablutions. I watered the apple tree, standing back to admire the effect. Matt Carstairs, Scarlet’s fiancé, came wandering over, his police pistol bumping against his hip.
‘Hey, Nell. Dreadful business, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘I heard there was a press conference this afternoon?’
‘Yeah. They’re hoping someone will ID her based on the information we’ve got.’
‘Which is?’
‘Young, blonde female. Mid to late twenties. Yellow handbag. Black boots.’ He held a hand to his knee. ‘This high.’
‘Wasn’t there some form of identification in her handbag?’
‘Nah. It had a magazine and some make-up. Oh yeah, there was a change purse thing but it just had money and some receipts. Hang on …’ His ruddy skin visibly paled. ‘I don’t think they’ve released that information yet. Can you forget I told you?’
‘Told me what?’
‘About the purse.’
‘No, Matt.’ I smiled, despite everything. ‘I meant, consider it forgotten.’
‘Oh, good. Thanks.’
‘I suppose they didn’t have a lot of cards in those days. It wouldn’t be so unusual to have a purse without identification.’ I gave this some thought but then realised Matt was still looking nervous. I changed the subject. ‘So, all set for the big move this weekend?’
His face relaxed into a grin. ‘Sure am. Can’t wait. Scarlet’s already got a lot of her stuff up here already. Did you know my parents were coming up as well? To help?’
‘Considering they’re here for dinner Saturday night, yes, I did have some idea.’ I glanced over his shoulder to where Eric Male was making his way across the yard. His granite features were set in their usual implacable folds. ‘Here comes your boss.’
‘Shit.’
‘Ms Forrest.’ The detective nodded before turning to Matt. ‘Senior Constable Carstairs.’
‘Just getting back, sir,’ said Matt quickly, doing exactly that. He took up position by the missing fence and I guessed that his role consisted of ensuring no sightseers, or media, breached the gap. No wonder he seemed bored.
‘Befriending the local police?’ queried Eric Male. One of his eyebrows rose just slightly.
‘Actually, Matt is engaged to my eldest daughter. Their first child is due in a few weeks. So the befriending has already taken place.’
‘Clearly.’
I frowned, unsure whether he was trying to be clever, or witty, or just conversational.
‘We should be out of your hair soon.’ He lifted his eyes. ‘Nice hat.’
‘Thank you. So is there any news? Other than that released at the press conference?’
‘Not at this stage.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Not yet determined.’
I regarded him steadily. ‘And I gather you’ll be speaking to my father?’
‘Should I?’ His eyebrow lifted again. ‘Is that your recommendation?’
‘Well, no. It’s just that the timing, ah, with his shop. I thought …’
‘All avenues will be investigated, of course.’
It suddenly occurred to me that he was enjoying the conversation, and he was also making a point. My involvement was not going to be tolerated. This annoyed me. It was both unnecessary and presumptuous, given it was based on a premise that I even wanted to be involved.
‘I believe that you are, um, good friends with a colleague of mine. Ashley Armistead.’
My eyes narrowed. ‘I do know him, yes.’
‘A good man. He’d be in the middle of this if he was here, of course. But he’s not.’
‘No, he’s not.’
Eric Male smiled, but it was a smile that went nowhere near his eyes. ‘Best I get back to it then. Good day, Ms Forrest.’
I nodded, not really trusting myself to speak. The detective crossed the yard with slow, lengthy strides, towards the gap in the fence. He paused to have a word with Matt before continuing on to one of the police cars. I went inside and then stood, staring at the stacks of partially unpacked boxes. Gusto came over to stand by my side companionably. After a few minutes, with thoughts ricocheting around my head like bullets, I glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes to go before the late news and, hopefully, a repeat of the afternoon’s press conference. Knowledge was power.
I took off my hat and dropped it on the kitchen bench, then ran a hand through my hair. I could feel it rising crisply now that it was free. The house was quiet, with Quinn still at her friend Caitlin’s house until later. I picked up the landline handset and weighed it in my hand, trying to decide whether to make the call.
I had met Detective Sergeant Ashley Armistead the previous year, when he was investigating a local murder that, somehow, inadvertently, I had become involved in. It had not been until a few months later, however, that we had commenced our current relationship. But this itself was complicated, particularly at the moment. The truth was that I had been perfectly content with spending time together once a month, going away for a weekend, treating it, us, as time out, completely separate from my real life, so that I could slough off everything like a second skin and just rejuvenate. But Ashley had become increasingly disgruntled with this arrangement, so much so that his six-week secondment to the Northern Territory had come as something of a relief. For us both.
I ruffled Gusto’s fur and then took a deep breath before dialling his mobile.
‘Hello, Ashley Armistead speaking.’
‘Hey, it’s me.’
‘Nell. What a surprise. It’s nice to hear from you.’
I grimaced at my reflection in the glass sliding door. ‘You don’t sound like it is.’
‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. I thought we were going to stick to emails. Wasn’t that what you decided was best?’
‘We both decided,’ I corrected him.
‘No, you decided. I just agreed because I’m that sort of bloke. Eminently agreeable.’
‘You are that,’ I replied, because it was the truth. ‘How is it going up there?’
There was a slight hesitation. ‘Good, good.’
‘Two weeks to go.’
‘Is that all? Christ, hasn’t that gone quick!’
‘You sound disappointed.’ I flicked my hat, sending it into a spin across the bench.
‘No. Look, Nell, I’d rather do this face to face. And also I’m running late at the moment. How about we talk when I get back?’
‘What about?’ I asked quickly, my stomach tightening.
‘You know. This. Us.’
‘Fine. Whatever.’ I sounded like Quinn.
‘Okay then?’ His voice was gentle, which made it worse. ‘Shall we postpone this?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, good idea. We’ll talk it out then. But before you go, what can you tell me about Eric Male?’
‘Eric Male?’ A frown echoed through his words. ‘Christ, Nell, what have you done now?’
‘Nothing! Only, well, I found some remains in the backyard yesterday.’
His breathing wrapped itself around our connection, slow and steady. ‘Some remains.’
‘Yes,’ I continued rapidly. ‘Apparently she was buried forty-three years ago. A blonde woman, mid to late twenties, black boots, yellow handbag. So now I have police all over the place and that Eric Male is in charge and he’s a tool.
’
‘Let me get this straight. Yesterday you just happened to stumble across the remains of a well-dressed woman in your yard. And now it’s a crime scene.’
‘That’s what I said. But that detective is being a total arse about it all.’
‘Christ. You’re unbelievable.’
‘Thank you. But I don’t know why you’re making this all about me. I didn’t put her there. All I did was try to plant an apple tree.’
‘Yes, but other people manage to plant trees without … ’ He trailed off, sighed loudly. ‘Let me make a few phone calls. In the meantime, for Christ’s sake leave it alone. Let Eric do his job. He might come across as a bit of an arse but he’s not a bad guy, and he knows what he’s doing. No doubt they’ll be out of your hair soon.’
‘Is that a police expression? Do you learn that in your training?’
‘What? Look Nell, I really do need to go. But I’ll get back to you, okay? Cheers.’
‘Yep, cheers.’ But I was speaking to the dial tone. I put the phone down slowly, feeling inexplicably like bursting into tears, which was not a usual occurrence at all. Gusto pressed his head against my knee. It had been an odd, awkward phone call, which had resolved very little. Not about my relationship, or the events unfolding in my backyard. If anything, regarding the latter, he had simply reiterated the same lack of faith as Eric Male. Which only proved how little he knew me – not because I had delusions of investigative brilliance, but because if I had more time and space on my hands, I might well have seen it as a challenge. Local woman solves murder mystery. Community delighted. Police furious. Woman smug.
As things stood, however, with a father now under suspicion, plus impending grandmotherhood, and questionable adoption plans, and visits from potential in-laws, and a house that qualified as a disaster zone, I already felt like I was in one of those rooms with the walls slowly closing in. The last thing I needed was more walls, or depth, or whatever it was that crushed one to death in those scenarios. Instead, I was going to do the sensible thing and stay away. The police would be gone soon and then they could investigate to their hearts’ content; out of sight, out of mind. Then maybe things could get back to normal.
Chapter Six
Loved your list of quotes about middle age in last week’s column, but you didn’t mention my favourite, which is from Doris Day (believe it or not!): ‘The really frightening thing about middle age is the knowledge that you grow out of it.’ Really puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it?
It was another forty-eight hours before the police finally vacated my property. Their actual presence had been reduced, and the Channel 7 van disappeared in search of more compelling news, but the yard itself remained out of bounds. Nor did I have any further communication with Detective Sergeant Eric Male, although I did hear, from Petra, that he paid a lengthy visit to our mother for background information on the shop. But that was to be expected.
Tuesday I spent in my study working steadily. I had a conversation with my editor about whether recent events merited a column, or if they would affect my ‘vibe’. ‘After all, you do seem to do this type of thing a lot, Nell. It might be overkill.’ With the eventual decision being to wait and see, I was able to complete a draft column for the following week, a relatively inoffensive one about moving house, and then answer thirty-seven emails. This was a new record so I wrote it on the wall by my desk.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent helping Quinn choose an outfit for a friend’s birthday dinner that evening, to be held at the Pancake Parlour in Bendigo. Although ‘help’ was probably a loose translation of what occurred. Much of our conversation consisted of Quinn giving me a list of reasons why my opinion was invalid, and then berating me for not giving her feedback. ‘You’re not even looking! Thanks for nothing! You always helped the others!’ The latter comment being entirely untrue.
By the time she was collected by Lyn Russo, whose son Griffin was also invited, there was discarded clothing draped over the banisters, birthday wrapping paper scattered over the couch, and the remains of a microwave noodle dish abandoned on the bench. But at least the teenage angst, that multi-hued, frenzied vortex that seemed to surround Quinn nowadays whenever she was under pressure, had departed along with its owner, leaving an oasis of peace, despite the disaster zone.
I thought of my own birthday, coming up in just under two weeks. Normally I would have already started planning something, whether it was lunch at the pub or a barbecue or even a series of events where I spread myself thinly so that nobody missed out. Like Vegemite on toast. But this year, it was impossible to think so far ahead. Impossible to imagine that by that time, at least one baby would have been born and the other imminent. It was going to be a time of great joy and great adjustment and, perhaps, great despair. My birthday paled into insignificance.
I spent the first part of Tuesday evening unpacking. As something of a reward, the second part was spent out in the garage working on my latest doll’s house, with Gusto curled in the corner napping. I had three of these now: a Tudor-style, cantilevered cottage; a Victorian mansion with leadlight windows; and the new project, a Swiss chalet with a sloping roof and flowering window boxes. The aim was to eventually have five, one for each of my daughters, but as I had yet to complete even one, I expected the task to be accomplished in about ten years. Maybe twelve.
*
Scarlet drove up from Melbourne on Wednesday, bringing a carload of small, mostly breakable items. Quinn and I helped her unpack into Matt’s unit, which was a standard two-bedroom, one living room abode that sat among a number of identical peers about a ten-minute walk from my house. It was furnished simply, which Scarlet clearly saw as a challenge. Afterwards we had lunch at my house and Lucy popped in. I took a photo of the two of them on the decking. Both with blooming, gravid bellies; blonde head resting against brunette, laughing into the sunshine. I printed the photo off in black and white and then slipped it into a spare frame, but left it in my study. To me it was beautiful, but things weren’t as simple as that.
Another media conference featured on the news that evening, but this time the press contingent had crowded into the small police station in central Majic. As usual, Eric Male took centre stage, behind a trestle table that held a pair of long, black boots and a mottled grey handbag, its original yellow only evident within the folds. The only new detail was the confirmation that the unidentified woman had died under suspicious circumstances. Given that it was difficult to bury oneself while dying a natural death, or after committing suicide, this was not exactly breaking news.
The main point of the conference seemed to be a renewed call for anyone who might recognise the limited description, or had a family member go missing around April 1970. I imagined the woman wearing those boots along with a sixties-style mini featuring black and yellow swirls, her blonde hair teased into a beehive but for single strands that curved down either side of her face. She would have had blue eye shadow and long, mascaraed lashes, and perhaps coral lipstick to complement her pale complexion. And off she had set, jauntily turning the corner into Sheridan Lane towards the only-just-closed butcher shop, her yellow handbag containing a newly-purchased magazine … only to vanish, with nobody to notice her absence, muster a search party, mourn her loss.
I got up from the couch and walked over to the sliding door, and that was when I realised that the backyard was finally deserted. The blue canvas had vanished, the side fence had been replaced, and all that remained of the occupation was a large indentation of freshly-turned earth and a few ribbons of crime-scene tape fluttering in the breeze. I slid open the door and Gusto shot out to hurtle around the yard, occasionally pausing to sniff warily. I followed more sedately. A pathway now snaked from the gravesite to the fence, the earth packed by footprints. A few cigarette butts studded the grass nearby.
On the spur of the moment, I decided to plant Charlotte. It seemed fitting to provide some shade for the burial site, even if the remains were now gone. This was where sh
e had rested for so many years. It was a hot, tiring task, but eventually I stood back to admire my handiwork. Charlotte stood at a slight angle, inclined towards the grave, but I liked her that way. I propped the shovel against the fence and then stood back, hands clasped loosely, and closed my eyes. Silence swirled, a tide of nothingness, paying respect.
The telephone began ringing as I finished. It had rung out by the time I reached the door, then began again as I was washing my hands. I considered not answering, but in the end its insistence wore me down. Not that it would have made much difference as there was no escaping this piece of news. After forty-three years, my father was coming home.
Chapter Seven
Just a note to let you know the sixties are now over, so you can stop perming your damn hair.
If social media had been around when my father left in 1970, we might have been able to preserve our relationship and perhaps even build on it over the years. A family Facebook page, with a sharing of events and photos and short video clips, or weekly sessions on Skype like we had with Ruby, over in Thailand for the year, or even just emails, flying backwards and forwards and bridging the gulf. Instead, my sister and I had sat down each Sunday to pen short missives that said little. Hello daddy, how are you. I am fine. In return we received postcards every month or so, and birthday presents that usually arrived a few days after the actual date, and a Christmas parcel that always held a writing set each and a diary with a tiny silver key.
By the time I was ten, however, the postcards had petered off and at some point after that Yen stopped making us write our weekly letters. Perhaps even she realised it was like flogging a dead horse. A few years later, gradually, and largely unnoticed except in retrospect, the Christmas and birthday presents became cards alone. These remained our only contact over the years, conveying snippets of information like Big storm hit the Cornish coast yesterday! or Tom just got his licence – we’re all very nervous!