by Judy Nunn
Cheeky little bat-eared Gordy looked up at his grandfather, bold, unfrightened, and Gordon tried not to smile. He wasn't feeling particularly well, he hadn't been all day, but the boy gave him unprecedented pleasure. The child was so unlike his father at that age, he thought. Ian had always been a mummy's boy – he recalled how it used to annoy him. But he had to admit, his son had done very well for himself. He'd certainly made a lot of money, and a man's accumulation of wealth was the measure of his standing in society. Gordon flickered a look at his son who was tucking a napkin into little Fleur's collar. Yes, he was proud of Ian.
'I think we're ready now, darling,' Cynthia prompted gently. Everyone was waiting, it was time to carve, but her husband appeared strangely preoccupied.
'Of course, my dear. I'm sorry.'
Gordon quickly stood. A little too quickly it seemed: he felt dizzy and rather peculiar. He steadied himself, plunging the carving fork into the meat, anchoring the leg of lamb, and thereby himself. Or so he thought. He picked up the knife and started to carve. Then he gave a stifled grunt. His face twisted and he dropped the knife, his right hand clutching at his chest. His left hand remained clenched around the carving fork, and as he fell he dragged the leg of lamb with him, along with the bowl of peas, the gravy boat and his glass of red wine.
Arlene screamed, the twins screamed, and Cynthia sat frozen in horror.
Ian rushed to his father's side. Gordon lay on the floor, embracing the lamb, his face fixed in a grimace, his eyes staring glassily at nothing. Still twitching, he was surrounded by peas and gravy and drenched in red wine. He looked like a traffic accident.
Ian did everything he could to revive his father while Arlene rang for the ambulance. He gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and frantically pumped Gordon's chest for a full ten minutes, but there was no sign of life. Gordon Pemberton's heart attack had been massive. He'd died the moment he'd hit the floor.
Cynthia was a mess in the days that followed. At the funeral, she broke down completely. Everyone was deeply sympathetic. The poor woman, they thought, Gordon had been her life.
As the weeks passed, she ceased to be distraught, but remained inconsolable. She wandered about the big house lost and distracted, as if in search of her husband. Arlene, who visited daily with the children, found it most disturbing.
'Poor Cynthia, it's so sad,' she said. 'We must do something, Ian.'
'There's nothing we can do, poppet, it's perfectly natural. The grieving process can take a very long time. She'll get over it eventually.'
'But she's so lonely there without Gordon and that place is far too big for her. Shouldn't we buy her somewhere smaller?'
Ian found the suggestion a strange one. Surely moving his mother would be the worst possible idea. The house she and Gordon had designed themselves was very precious to Cynthia. But then Arlene didn't know that.
'No, I think she's best off where she is.'
'Well, perhaps a little further down the track,' Arlene said. 'It's something to bear in mind. I worry about her terribly.'
'I know you do, poppet.' Thank God for Arlene, he thought. Arlene had been a tower of strength throughout the whole tragic business. He didn't know what he'd do without her. Ian himself was very worried about his mother. Arlene regularly voiced her concern that Cynthia might be becoming mentally unstable and it preyed on his mind. Surely Arlene was wrong. Surely his mother was simply experiencing grief. These were very troubling times.
Several weeks later, his troubles were dramatically compounded.
'Didn't you collect the paper?' he asked as Arlene walked in from the lounge room having settled the twins in front of the television set.
He'd seated himself at the kitchen table where the Sunday Times was normally laid out beside his bowl of fruit. He always slept in on a Sunday while Arlene took the twins for a walk in Kings Park – Gordy and Fleur were awake at six – and she always collected the newspaper from their mailbox in the downstairs foyer, laying it out on the table for him. But this morning, for some reason, it wasn't there. The fruit was, but no newspaper.
'Of course I did.' She dumped it on the table in front of him, still rolled up.
'What's wrong, poppet?'
She'd been grumpy a lot lately. He suspected it had something to do with the fruitless search for the new house. Arlene had become dissatisfied with the penthouse over the past year or so. She was obsessed with finding the perfect home – with a sizeable backyard for the children, she said – which Ian found quite understandable. He was doing his best, but every place they saw seemed unsatis-factory to Arlene. Just yesterday they'd looked at a property by the river in South Perth, which was rapidly becoming quite fashionable. He'd thought it ideal himself, but Arlene hadn't. He couldn't understand the problem.
'Nothing's wrong,' she shrugged. 'I didn't sleep well, that's all.'
Arlene's response was the standard one she gave when-ever she was annoyed, and she was doubly annoyed when Ian unquestioningly accepted it. He was blind to the obvious solution. His demented mother was crashing around in a huge home with perfect views of the river, a swimming pool and a gloriously landscaped garden. Arlene found it a matter of immense frustration that she couldn't, by way of suggestion, inveigle some common sense into her husband. But she didn't dare make the proposition outright. Ian wouldn't be able to see the practicality of it at all. He positively worshipped his mother.
'Oh dear,' he said sympathetically, 'that's no good.' Arlene hadn't been sleeping well for quite some time, it was worrying. 'Why don't you have a lie-down? I'll look after the kids.'
He unrolled the newspaper, furling it back on itself to get rid of the irritating bend, and Arlene stomped off to have a shower.
BEACH GIRL BEAUTY SUSPECT APPREHENDED! the headline shrieked, and beneath the headline, taking up half the page, was a huge picture of Mayjay.
Ian felt sick. He flicked through to page four for the details, but there were very few. A man had been arrested after accosting two girls at Scarborough Beach early the previous evening and was being held for questioning in regard to the Beach Girl Beauty Murder.
He popped his head around the bathroom door and called above the hiss of the shower, 'I have to go out for a while, won't be long.'
So much for 'Have a lie-down, I'll look after the kids', Arlene thought irritably.
'It's a beat-up,' Spud said. 'Pure sensationalism, nothing to worry about. '
Spud had seen the newspaper and had appeared very calm when Ian arrived at his front door. They'd walked through the side gate, past where Josef was working in the rockery, and down to the very rear of the garden where they now sat on the bench by the foreshore, Spud doing his best to talk Ian out of his agitated state.
'One-upmanship, that's all it is. The bloke was picked up on a Saturday so the Sunday Times is running with a scoop. When the proper story comes out in the West, I bet the editor'll cop it for a premature headline like that.'
'Premature?' Spud's attempt at pacification wasn't working. 'So you do think they're going to charge this bloke?'
'Nah. Some insider's dropped a bit of info that the coppers are questioning him about the Beach Girl case. It doesn't mean a thing.'
'Why would they question him if they didn't think they had some hard evidence?'
Spud shrugged. 'Why wouldn't they?'
'But it happened over eight years ago!'
'And they'll still be asking questions twenty-eight years from now, Pembo. These things don't just go away, you know.' He stood. 'Come on, let's go up to the house and have a coffee. We'll talk about all this when we know the full story.'
The Sunday Times did indeed come in for some criticism, but the editor didn't care. They'd achieved massive sales that day, and the headline, it appeared, had not been a complete furphy. The police had genuine cause to connect the man, whom they'd arrested for indecent behaviour, with the Beach Girl Beauty Murder case.
A picture of the man – in his early thirties, bearded and wild-eyed – appea
red in the West Australian, with a request from police for anyone knowing his identity to come forward. The accompanying report stated that the offender had exposed himself to two girls on the beach at Scarborough during the early hours of Saturday evening. His behaviour had been demented.
He had a belt around his neck and he was tugging on it like he was hanging himself, the girls had stated. He kept saying, 'Come and have some fun, come and have some fun,' over and over. He was mad. We were terrified.
In searching the man's rented room at a nearby boarding house, police had discovered no form of identification. Items suggestive of deviant behaviour had been evident: a leather whip, a set of handcuffs, and ropes tied to the bedhead and the door handle. Every inch of wall space had been pasted with pictures of beautiful girls – Mayjay, the face of WA, featuring prominently. And pasted beside the pictures of Mayjay had been newspaper articles relating to the Beach Girl Beauty Murder.
'So he's a perve and he's into auto-eroticism,' Spud said. 'So what? They can't pin a murder on him for that.'
Ian had once again rushed around to Spud's in a panic, and Spud was once again reassuring him as they sat on the balcony overlooking the river. This time, however, Spud wasn't as confident as he tried to make out.
'The bloke's a fruitcake. They'll let him go, they'll have to.'
But would they, he wondered. The police might be only too happy to pin the crime on the poor bastard – they needed a scapegoat. The situation presented a dichotomy and Spud's feelings were mixed. If the loony went down for the count, it'd clear the decks forever of the Beach Girl Beauty Murder. But there was one major problem. Mike.
Ian was thinking exactly the same thing.
'And if they don't let him go, what do you reckon Mike'll do?'
They both knew full well what Mike would do. He'd tell the whole story. And even if the death was declared accidental, they'd have the book thrown at them for failing to report it. The adverse publicity would ruin them all.
'Relax, Pembo,' Spud said reassuringly – Pembo's nerves were getting the better of him. 'It's a storm in a teacup. They won't charge the bloke, I tell you.'
But Ian had worked himself into a highly anxious state. 'You know the moment Mike reads about this he's going to come charging down to Perth, don't you? He's probably booking his flight already.'
'Nah, he won't see the papers. It's a backwater up there. Christ, you said yourself he lives in a fisherman's hut! Stop worrying about nothing.'
'Don't kid yourself, Spud. It's not a backwater up there any more, it's a bloody metropolis. God, there's a whole new town! Have you been to Karratha lately?'
Spud had. He knew Karratha well. The gambling syndicate, in which he was now a silent partner, did very good business in the rapidly expanding new township. It appeared there was no placating Pembo, so he gave up trying.
'Listen, mate,' he said, 'whatever happens, you leave Mikey to me. I know how to handle him.'
Ian looked dubious.
'I handled him all right the last time, didn't I?' Spud landed a comforting pat on Ian's shoulder and rose from his chair. 'Now, you go home to your wife and kids and put this out of your mind. I'll look after things.' He grinned confidently. 'I always do, don't I?'
'Yeah.' Ian stood. 'Okay, Spud.'
He had no option but to place his trust in Spud. And Spud did, when all was said and done, have a way of looking after things.
Left on his own, Spud set about boosting his own confidence. He returned to the balcony where he sat staring unseeingly out at the river, his mind ticking over at a furious rate. Mike was bound to have read the newspaper reports. In fact, Spud was surprised that he hadn't already received a phone call. Pembo, for all his jumped-up nervy state, was probably right, he thought. Mike was probably booking a flight to Perth at this very moment. He'd no doubt arrive on the front doorstep tomorrow with the announcement that he was going to the police.
Spud started to plan his strategy. He'd get around Mikey, he told himself. It wouldn't be easy, but he'd done it before and he'd do it again. It was just a matter of choosing the right angle . . .
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
But Mike hadn't read the newspaper reports. He'd been too busy.
Sunday was always a busy family day, Mike devoting his time to Jo and Allie, and they'd spent that particular Sunday morning fossicking in the mudflats near the ghost town of Cossack with Ash and Beth and their young son, Pete.
The families had become very close. After two years in residence at Roebourne Hospital, Jo had set up a medical clinic at the community centre where Beth taught, and both women shared a deep commitment to their work, particularly with the local Indigenous population. As a result, their children, who attended school at the centre, had become virtually inseparable. Pete, now a beefy nine year old, was the perfect older brother to Allie.
Fossicking in Cossack was a favourite family pastime, particularly for the children. The remains of the township consisted of no more than a derelict stone courthouse and the impressive curved façade of its old bond store, but amongst the mangroves and mudflats lay a wealth of small treasures, proof of a once thriving community.
Over the years, the children had garnered a fine collection, and Mike had had to build extra shelves in Allie's bedroom to house the rows of old medicine bottles and jars, and the carefully stacked coins that sat alongside the brass buckles and all forms of cutlery and utensils.
This particular Sunday had proved most fruitful.
'It's a porcelain pipe . . .' Ash examined the object closely as the six of them squatted on the mudflats admiring Allie's find. 'I'd say late nineteenth century.' He passed it around. 'Well done, Allie.'
'I'll bet it was used to smoke opium,' Jo said with a wink to Mike. She liked to fire up her daughter's lively imagination.
'Yep, opium for sure,' Mike agreed.
Both children were suitably impressed and stared at the pipe in awe.
'Wow,' Pete whispered, breathless with envy. 'An opium pipe.' He handled it carefully as it was passed to him, running a reverent finger around the chipped rim of the bowl. 'Do you want to do a swap, Allie? I'll give you my penny for it.'
Allie looked at him in wide-eyed amazement. Pete's 1901 Federation penny had been the greatest discovery of all time. His offer meant her pipe was of inestimable value.
Beth laughed. 'I'd give that a bit of thought if I were you, love,' she said. 'The penny's actually worth something, you could sell it one day.'
Her practicality was tantamount to sacrilege, and the looks from both children were scathing. As if either of them would ever part with a single one of their treasures!
'No,' Allie said firmly, taking the pipe from him. 'You keep the penny and I'll keep the pipe.' Then, as his face fell, she added, 'But we can do a swap every now and then, if you like.'
'Okay.' Pete grinned, appeased. The two always sorted things out amicably.
They returned to Point Samson, where this time the barbecue took place at Mike and Jo's, and the rest of the day, for the most part anyway, was spent in the water. With the exception of Jo, they were all very strong swimmers. They held diving competitions from the end of the jetty, Beth acting as judge. She'd taught the children back dives and inward dives and somersaults. Pete even managed a clumsy one and a half, but Allie always won. She was agile in the air and pretty to watch.
Allie's favourite experiences, however, were below the water's surface. In her mask and flippers she'd swim beside her father, sharing in the marvels he pointed out to her. Their love of the underwater world had become their bond, and at seven years of age Allie had already decided she wanted to be a marine biologist, just like her dad. Her dad was her hero.