Greenlight

by Benjamin Stevenson

  Jack kicked at rocks as he kept walking, nowhere in particular. Andrew Freeman still bothered him. That vertiginous restaurant. That mineshaft of a cellar. Birravale Creek had been a healthy business before he’d married into it, Alan Sanders had told him, but not a behemoth. But the money it was making now must be staggering. Sufficient enough not only for renovations, but also to ignore a multimillion-dollar insurance claim. Andrew had brushed it off the other night as over-valued. Out of all of his oddities, that was perhaps the worst: honesty to an insurance company.

  Jack was past the pub again now. With its useless cautionary signs out the front. GAMBLING: KNOW WHEN TO STOP. ALCOHOL: AUSTRALIA’S MOST EXPENSIVE DRUG. All while inviting you in to drink and punt. Something niggled.

  His brain was addled with theories. He had to simplify the facts. He needed clarity, a calm sounding board. He pulled out his phone and dialled.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ Jack said, ‘can you put me on speaker?’ Then, before his father could react: ‘Please, I want to talk to him.’

  There was a short pause, and then the familiar soundscape of his father’s trudge up the stairs. Then more silence, a short scuffle, and Peter said, ‘Right,’ and retreated to his armchair. Jack heard the leather creak and the pencil start to scrape away at a crossword.

  ‘Hey Liam. What’s up?’ The first few words were always the hardest. His voice caught. ‘I’ve been working that case for us. Can you give me a hand sorting through some stuff?’

  The soft beeps in the background audio were almost an errant Morse code. It was a comforting thought that maybe Liam was, in some way, talking back.

  ‘Look, so I know that Curtis – he’s the bad guy, remember, buddy? – didn’t swing the axe that killed Alexis.’

  Beep. Beep.

  ‘And I know that someone stole that axe, so they could plan the murder and a cover story to go with it, until I busted them trying to put it back.’

  His father’s pencil rustled in the background like someone whispering. Jack ran his pointer and his thumb down his temples until they met at his nose.

  ‘And I know that Alexis had a second phone. One that she used for a secret’ – he paused – ‘no, you’re right Liam, I’m speculating there.’ Maybe not secret, but still a discreet relationship. What kind of relationship required discretion? Someone she shouldn’t be seeing. Like Curtis had said, that was almost everybody. An affair? On her end? Was she a mistress, or he a cuckold? Sex isn’t murder, but the two went hand in hand more often than not. Jack clicked his teeth. Liam’s machine continued its rhythmic beat. Maybe not Morse code, but an artificial heartbeat. A small sign of life, that proved he was there.

  ‘You’re right,’ Jack said. ‘That is the real question. Who is the worst person she could be sleeping with?’

  Jack looked up and answered his own question. The hilltop beyond the town was shrouded as if blowing smoke rings. He could see the two silos, the windowed shoebox. Andrew Freeman had struck Jack as leading him around the circumference of the truth. Andrew knew more than he was letting on, and it was time to find out what.

  ‘Yeah, don’t rub it in. I know,’ Jack said. ‘What would I do without you?’ He ended the call.

  The road had thinned underfoot without Jack noticing, his walk taking him to the edge of town. He’d got the gravity of the town wrong. It didn’t pull into Birravale proper. He looked up at the Freemans’. Like everything else here, the gravity ran uphill.

  Andrew’s Forester wasn’t in the drive. Jack lifted the bronze knocker and rapped the front door, his shoes leaving moist prints on the stained deck. In the city, at this hour, it would be almost criminally rude: he’d be greeted by electro-shocked hair, a bathrobe – What the fuck do you want? Out here, though, only silence. Farmers and early risers already out for the day. Jack knocked again.

  Fuck it, he thought, and clomped off the deck. He walked around the side of the house, past a row of overflowing recycling bins, plastic tubs with science-y names – Ethyl, Glycol – peeking from under lids, and across the grass to the Freemans’ silos. He trailed his fingertips along the cool corrugated steel; droplets pooled and ran down his wrist. He looked down at Birravale, the sparse collection of buildings now dark spots in the grey mist. He tried to feel what Curtis had, up here, his knuckles strained around the handle of an axe: contempt for those beneath him. It wasn’t so hard to empathise.

  Past the silos, Jack came to the cellar door. He stooped and yanked at the handle. Locked. That catacomb of a cellar, with its safe-like doors. Who knew how deep it went into the hillside. The perfect place for secrets.

  Eliza had picked here for six months. Had she found something? What had she said on the voicemail? Might even be, I don’t know, illegal?

  Jack walked over to the trellises of grapes. There was a gouge in the dirt, lawn scuffed, from where he’d grappled with the intruder. He continued up the hill. In the light, it was an easier trek. White trunks, bones in the mist, flanked him. Sleeves of bark hung down, swinging shadows like peeled gloves from branched hands. Jack took careful steps over rotting logs and branches. Brown leaf litter swathed his ankles, slicked and dewy like dead tongues.

  The density of the trees petered out. Jack stepped into the clearing. There was a blue tarp tethered to a wooden stake on the right side of the clearing. Jack recalled the crinkle of plastic when he’d run through here in the dark. The tarp was neatly pulled back over something lumpy and weighed down with a brick in the far corner. Jack looked at the irregularity of the lumps, tried to guess, worst case scenarios playing through his head. Lauren. What had she said? Women around my brother keep on turning up dead. He picked up the brick, pulled the tarp back. Under it, rather than a dead body, was a small garden. The smell was unmistakeable. It wasn’t quite the smell in Andrew’s car. That was something earthier. This was a reason to keep investigators at bay. Especially if there was more growing in that cellar. Marijuana.

  But something wasn’t quite right. The garden was too small. Three or four plants. Was it just a sample of what was going on in a lab below? A handful of small plants was nothing to kill over.

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ a voice said from behind. Jack whipped around to Sarah. She was dressed for high tea, not for bush walking in the dew. She had black hand prints on her white slacks where she’d wiped them. Her trouser legs were slicked, cladded and transparent on her calves. And she was shivering.

  Jack clutched the brick.

  ‘You were home, before?’

  ‘I wanted to see if you knew.’ She nodded. ‘Don’t worry, Andrew’s out cycling.’

  ‘Why would I worry?’

  ‘I misspoke. Sorry.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘No. Please.’ Sarah brushed some water out of her eyes, wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Keep this as just us.’

  Jack stepped towards her. She drew back. Momentarily confused, Jack thought to check behind him. He realised then, she was shrinking from him. His face was bruised and cut, hair plastered to his scalp. Still holding the brick. He must look quite threatening. He dropped the brick.

  ‘Does Andrew —’

  ‘It’s fine. Come back this way. I’ll get you a towel.’ She turned and guided him back through the bush.

  ‘How long have you had this?’ Jack spoke to her back.

  ‘A few years.’

  ‘And Andrew doesn’t know?’

  ‘He’s the sergeant, for heaven’s sake.’ Her voice rose above a sullen drone for the first time. ‘What kind of a look would that be?’

  ‘He’s not the sergeant anymore.’

  ‘Still. A secret kept this long, it festers.’

  Jack rubbed the scars on the backs of his knuckles. They were back on the property now, walking past the silos. ‘Why?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Stress mainly. You wouldn’t last one week running this place. Andrew’s a genius, he’s turned this business into a legacy. I think it’s because he didn’t start with it, you know? He respects it, but he’s
looking at it from an outsider’s perspective. Nothing tying him to the old ways. So he sees new opportunities.’

  ‘And that’s stressful?’ Jack asked, dimly aware that this was the same reason Andrew said he hated the Wades. Imposters.

  ‘He’s a bit of a guru with these things. But the way we do things, it’s not without its pressures.’

  Jack thought back to Andrew tossing the expensive bottle of wine back and forth. Telling Sarah to get a different one. That wasn’t a discussion between husband and wife, between business partners, it had been an order. Andrew was intense. If Jack was married to him, he’d probably need some stress relief too.

  ‘Those chemicals . . .’ Jack said.

  ‘Are for making wine,’ Sarah said. Jack shrugged; he didn’t know what went into wine. ‘Alcohol is chemical,’ Sarah continued. ‘I’m not cooking meth, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Do you sell it?’ Jack asked. ‘The pot.’

  ‘To Curtis Wade, is that what you’re asking?’

  ‘Anyone,’ Jack said, but she’d correctly guessed his angle.

  ‘You’re trying to turn one marijuana plant into a murder investigation?’

  It had started to rain. The clouds were so low that it didn’t so much fall as waft onto them.

  ‘I won’t tell him,’ Jack said, but before she could thank him, added, ‘but I want you to take me into his cellar.’

  Sarah flicked the switch and the lights shuddered on, revealing the proscenium chamber that receded into the mountain. The honeycomb-latticed wine racks. The barrels lining the walls. Their footsteps echoed off the walls as she led him onto the clay. It was dry and musty down here. Jack could hear the rain tapping on the top step.

  Jack went in further than he had last time. He peered at the chambers that bred off the main hall. Some were open, circular rooms racked with wines and kegs. Others had large steel doors, like fancy fridges. Or hi-tech safes. A dragon should be sleeping on gold bricks behind these doors. He felt his wet shirt with each step, alternately sticking or peeling off. With every step, a new piece found skin, sending shocks of cold through him. The air was cold too, in the lungs.

  ‘The thermodynamics of being under the earth,’ Sarah said, as if she’d heard his thoughts, or maybe she’d just seen him shiver. ‘It’s the best temperature control there is. We take from the earth, we put it back in.’

  ‘All natural,’ Jack said, rapping a knuckle on one of the metal doors. He spotted a keyhole in the door. ‘These locked?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Can I look?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Can I look?’ He tried to push his leverage.

  ‘Sorry Jack, these are private collections. It’s just bottles in there.’

  ‘You sure there’s no more narcotics?’

  ‘Marijuana is hardly a narcotic.’ Sarah bristled, revealing too much of her politics. ‘I told you, these are private collections. And, well, you’ll just have to trust me.’

  ‘You store other people’s wine?’ Jack said, thinking that it really was like a bank. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘That’s the business,’ said Sarah, looking at him as if he was an idiot. ‘Wine collecting may be niche, but it’s a strong industry. Our customers want to keep their wines somewhere secure, with good conditions. There’s nowhere better in the country than here.’

  ‘Why not just keep it in their own cellars?’

  ‘Some only want short-term storage. They might be building a cellar, or moving house. Whatever. Others simply don’t want to. Why don’t people whack a Picasso in their lounge room? Wine’s the same. For collectors, it’s art. We’re a gallery here.’ She eyed him. ‘A private gallery.’

  ‘Not that private,’ Jack said. ‘Andrew took me down here before.’

  ‘What can I tell you? He likes to brag.’

  Jack almost snorted at that. Give them what they’ve paid for, he’d said about the collectors. Jack bet they’d paid handsomely. So that’s why the leaked silo didn’t bother him – the lost wine was just his supermarket product. This was the real business. And it explained him not claiming the insurance too. If Andrew’s reputation depended on the trust of his customers he couldn’t have claims officers coming out and opening doors. There might be no dragon, but there were gold bars in this bank, indeed.

  ‘This was Andrew’s idea?’

  ‘Yes, and then the restaurant followed. Originally he just wanted to eat up some of the profits, offer employment to the town, but then the restaurant took off as well. Like I said, he transformed this place.’

  Jack wandered to the door at the end of the cellar, not to the left or the right but inset into the back wall. This one had a digital keypad lock.

  ‘What’s so special about this one?’

  Sarah didn’t answer.

  ‘That,’ said Andrew Freeman, his voice booming across the cavern, ‘is my personal collection.’

  Andrew was bare calved, in lycra shorts and a highlighter-yellow windbreaker, zipped to the sternum. There was a clicking sound as he walked to Jack, brushing past his wife without acknowledging her. Jack realised the clicking he’d heard was from Andrew’s cycling shoes, the metal cleats clacking on the floor. Jack tried to decide if the look on his face was anger or surprise.

  ‘Moisture doesn’t go in the vault,’ Andrew said, scanning Jack’s damp shirt. He punched in a code. ‘But no harm in giving you a peek.’

  There was a hiss as Andrew pulled the door wide: so heavy it was hydraulics-assisted. It didn’t look like it opened from the inside. You could sever a finger in that. Jack filed the thought away.

  Inside the room, shelving lined the walls. Bottles lay on their sides in specialty wooden cradles. The corks faced outwards, lines of cannons on a tall-ship. Dull tube lights emitted nothing more than a soft glow. There were hundreds of bottles, rows on rows.

  ‘Temperature, humidity, light,’ said Andrew, looking with affection at his collection. ‘That’s the holy trinity of ageing wine.’

  ‘It’s down here because it’s cool?’

  ‘It’s down here because it’s consistent,’ said Andrew, stepping inside. ‘That’s the real key. Good wine is about consistency – you want the right temperature zone, which is coolish, sure, but it’s the fluctuations that matter the most. One or two degrees across a year can put it out.’ He picked up a bottle and held it neck out so Jack could see. ‘See this? The bottle may be corked, but the wine inside is still liquid. And liquid expands and contracts in different temperatures. So if the temperature moves up and down, the volume of the wine goes up and down too. Excess air pushes out or in through the cork, meaning the wine inside, even sealed, evaporates. Minutely, of course, but when you’re storing wine for a few decades, it matters. Most old wines, you’ll note, have slightly lower levels in them.’

  ‘Okay. So that’s temperature. What’s important about light and humidity?’ Jack was half-interested, and half wanting to keep Andrew talking so he could keep looking around.

  ‘Anything can speed up the process, change the bouquet – that’s what they call the flavour in a wine – just by invigorating different catalysts. Sunlight’s a definite no-no.’

  ‘I thought you just put wine in a closet for a hundred years – the older the better.’

  ‘No! Wine expires. It’s not like spirits. Scotch you can age indefinitely – there’s enough alcohol in there to stop it turning. Wine has a lower alcohol percentage and it is subject to fluctuations. Sometimes, even down here, it’ll go off. But we do our best.’ He slotted the wine back into the rack, breathed in the room, the dusty ageing smell, and looked pleased with himself.

  ‘It’s a clever business idea,’ said Jack. ‘You’re making money off wine without even selling any. That’s why the wine you make isn’t real money.’

  ‘Very good. People say business is about risks. Good investments.’ Jack wondered if Andrew considered his wife an investment. ‘And, yeah, it’s about those things, but it’s also
about guts. It’s about lateral thinking. Did you know in 1987 the CEO of American Airlines saved forty-thousand dollars in a single year by removing one olive from each first-class salad on his flights?’

  ‘Sounds less like business strategy and more like skimming off the top to me,’ said Jack. He was starting to get a hold on Andrew. Here was a country police sergeant who’d married into money, read a couple of business books, and taken it upon himself to flaunt that wisdom.

  ‘You’re missing the point.’ Andrew sighed. ‘Diversification is the key to good business. American Airlines’ business is flying planes, city to city – but the real costs lay elsewhere, outside of the core business. Hell, now flying is entertainment. It’s about the experience. It’s not A to B anymore because someone had the vision to switch it up. But my point on the olives is much simpler. Lots of little changes to make one larger one. One olive, not so significant. A million olives . . .’ Andrew nodded over Jack’s shoulder, and Jack finally realised what he was saying – rows and rows of bottles, Andrew’s own collection insignificant compared to the value of all the chambers combined. The value was in the accumulation. ‘You’ve got yourself a business.’

  Jack listened to the faint whistle of wind through the open doorway. Sarah had left, unbidden. He breathed in the cool air. Andrew was right: the cellar was exactly the same temperature as the last time, despite the looming mist and brewing storm outside.

  ‘Speaking of business,’ Andrew said, stepping out of the vault, ‘have you got Curtis yet?’

  ‘Got him? No. I, uh, the cops think the second murder is a copycat.’