The Fourth Season (15 page)

Eighteen

‘They were sitting right here in the tram,' the waitress called Jess told me. ‘I saw the girl first, or at least I saw her silhouette.' Jess paused, smiling faintly at the memory. She looked old enough for grand­children, and wore her grey hair short. Listening to her description, I looked around at black shadows on cream walls, reflections in the polished wood.

‘Trams!' Pam said. ‘Draughty, cold old things they were.'

‘And a right pain now,' Jess added with a nod. ‘All them steps. All very well for kids, leaping up and down.'

I recalled the trams of my childhood, feeling the sea breeze through the open sides. Trams had been a feature of the
Tradies
for as long as I could recall, but clearly what was a novelty for customers made extra work for the staff.

Pam had persuaded Jess to meet me, but had warned me that Jess had a ‘thing' about the police. I tried to make the distinction plain, but knew that explanations about what I did for a living often made people more wary, not less. As gently as I could, I guided Jess back to the couple she had seen.

‘He was facing the wall. In the shadows. They had their heads together. That pretty girl was crying.'

‘Why do girls cry in public?' Pam chimed in. ‘I'd say love'd have to be the reason.'

‘Love's a fair bet.'

Pam and Jess exchanged a smile.

‘Did you hear what they were saying?' I asked, holding Jess's gaze, realising that, in spite of her initial reluctance, this woman liked a bit of theatre, the well-timed pause, the spacing of each revelation.

‘Well, I was bustling back and forth like.'

‘Perhaps a word in passing?'

‘I'm not sure if I heard it right, but I thought the guy said “Babel”. Maybe it was babble?'

‘Like in the
Bible
, Jess,' Pam said. ‘Tower of Babel.' The two friends laughed, and exchanged stories for a few minutes, reminiscing about childhood Bible classes, funny names learnt and then forgotten—but somehow many of them stuck—boys they'd fancied as their confirmation dates drew near.

I listened, smiled and nodded, happy for Jess to relax, but unable to contribute any anecdotes from a childhood that had been totally deficient in religious study.

‘What about the tears, Jessie?' Pam prompted. ‘What did he say to make her cry?'

‘That was after. That was when I went back to take an order to this end.' Jess raised her chin, taking in the alcove we were sitting in.

When I asked how the man had reacted to the woman's tears, Jess said without needing to think about it, ‘He was nice to her.'

She hadn't seen the young man's features, but was sure he
had
been young. ‘He had his back to me. That's how come I recognised the girl, because she was facing out into the tram.'

By now, though nobody had mentioned names, there was a tacit agreement between the three of us as to the girl's identity.

‘I understand that his face was hidden from you, but what about his size, his shape, those things.'

‘Well, he wasn't shaped like a potato.'

Jess and Pam laughed again, their laughter followed by another detour around the shapes of men they'd known.

Jess wasn't able to describe the man's complexion or hair colour. ‘It could have been brown. Look, better if I put it this way—nothing about the guy stood out special, if you know what I mean. Nice and manly, but. I'd say he was a few years older than her.'

‘Did you see them leave?'

‘No.' Jess frowned. ‘We should get paid extra for going up and down them steps.'

When I asked Jess what she'd been doing when the couple left, she said, ‘Must've been at the counter waiting for an order. You can go out the back way, you know. You can walk straight through the motel.'

‘Twenty-
one
hours we're open,' Pam said. ‘Used to be twenty-four, but we had to close for three ‘cause of the anti-gambling lobby.'

I recalled the changed sign at the front, where the number four had been partially rubbed out, then asked about security cameras in the trams. Pam and Jess were both of the opinion that there wasn't any need for them. The gaming rooms were covered, and the entrances.

Jess checked her watch. ‘Almost half past. I better get going.'

I thanked Jess for talking to me. Pam walked out with her, first indicating to me that I should wait where I was.

‘Could you—' I began when she came back. ‘Do you think you could—'

Pam knew what I was about to ask, and shook her head.

‘We're not allowed access to the members' records. And I'm not pally with any of the girls on reception. Not enough to ask them for that kind of favour. They might tell the boss, then I'd be up the proverbial.'

‘You don't get on with your boss?'

‘I'm still here, aren't I? But I'm not getting any younger, and he likes them young.'

Pam's eyes glittered in defiance of her words.

‘Phone me next time you're rostered on at night,' I said. ‘I've an idea that might just work.'

I walked through the bar to the gaming area, wondering how many tipsy gamblers were turned away, and, if I suddenly started acting drunk, stumbling towards a machine and feeding money into it, someone would gently lead me away, or a big New Zealand bouncer would appear to tell me, ‘That's enough now, little lady. I'll call you a taxi.' I liked to think of a New Zealand bouncer with my interests at heart.

Poker machines beckoned from the shadows. One was called Big Red and sported a picture of a giant kangaroo. Ruby Magic and Sun Queen looked like partners, side by side. Lights flashed. Colours shouted at each other. Every few metres, a printed sign invited players with a gambling problem to call a certain number. The ink was faint, while MONEY LENT, with a huge dollar symbol, took up half a wall. I wondered how many thirsty punters took advantage of the free tea and coffee. The machines looked inviting in a cruel, brittle way, as though I could take three steps and be inside the metal casing, spew out coins, or hold them till I burst.

I counted the trams and eating areas, then returned to the one I'd begun thinking of as Laila's, noting each entrance before climbing back inside. Whose choice had it been to meet there? Laila and Bronwyn had sat at an exposed table, holding hands in full view of the staff and other customers, while Laila and her male friend had chosen privacy, relatively speaking. I studied the ceiling lights. The window frames had been polished till they glowed a golden brown. I'd never considered, rattling along in one, that the cage in which I travelled might one day be restored like this. The tram was empty and practically silent, though the sounds of daytime television came from somewhere on the other side of the bar. If I listened carefully, I could hear a faint clattering of plates and crockery.

I retraced my steps through the maze of poker machines, this time with my eyes at ceiling height, noting the cameras at both ends of each aisle. I found a notice informing members of the fact that they were being filmed. It was faded, like the problem gambling ones. I left the back way, past a barber shaving one customer while another waited, through automatic glass doors to the motel lobby. A man behind a desk glanced sideways at me. A last camera pointed at the doorway from above his head. I walked across and showed him my photograph of Laila. He recognised her from the news reports, but said he'd never seen her in the motel or the club.

. . .

Pam phoned half way through my next shift at the cafe.

‘I'll be there as soon as I've closed up,' I said. ‘Any chance you can take over at reception?'

Pam laughed with delight and incredulity. ‘No way.'

I told her I'd be there at five past ten, and added, ‘I have every faith in you.'

I wasn't surprised when I negotiated the press of bodies just inside the door and saw Pam grinning at me from behind the counter. We didn't have much time. I knew she wouldn't have been able to persuade the legitimate receptionist to leave her post for more than a few minutes.

‘Got your card there, madam?' Pam asked, sober now, nervous behind her façade.

I rifled through my wallet, then said softly, ‘Damn. I must have left it at home.'

‘Do you know your membership number?'

Having just memorised it, I had no trouble reeling it off.

‘One moment, please.'

Pam typed a few keystrokes, biting her bottom lip.

She looked up. ‘That's okay, Ms Mahoney. You can go on in.'

I did a quick circuit of the machines, then left through the motel.

. . .

Ivan was in bed already. There was no sound from the kids' rooms. My fingers itched to dial Pam's number. But she'd be back waiting on tables, and a call might draw attention to her.

I was brushing my teeth when the phone rang. Pam's voice was flush with victory, having found Laila's membership number under the guise of checking mine. She'd also checked for Bronwyn's name and drawn a blank. It looked as if Bronwyn had been admitted to the club as Laila's guest. Ben Sanderson wasn't listed either.

. . .

I told Ivan about the
Maria Rosa
when both of us woke early; I'd surprised myself by sleeping well for once. Yellow dawn light was bright beneath the curtains.

Ivan shook his head and said I was letting my imagination run away with me. But he sounded calmer and saner than he had for a while, and this encouraged me to go on talking, filling Ivan in on my theories and suspicions.

Ivan listened, but was unconvinced. Why would a politically committed young woman like Laila allow herself to become obsessed by a shipwreck? And even accepting the unlikely theory that she
had
become obsessed, why keep it to herself? Why hadn't she told her friends? There was nothing illegal, nothing underhand about discovering a shipwreck in Bass Strait. There were probably hundreds of them waiting to be discovered, ships that had gone missing in the nineteenth century, that had gone down God knew where.

Laila wasn't embarrassed about expressing her beliefs and opinions, and she wasn't shy. And there was another reason why she wouldn't have kept the idea to herself—she would have sought help from her scientific friends.

While Ivan shook his shaggy head, then rolled out of bed towards the shower, I told myself his reaction was a perfectly normal one. After all, if someone else had presented me with the theory, I might have reacted the same way.

I chanced a last question to his departing back. Why had Laila kept the sketch and diagram?

Ivan grunted and said along his shoulder, ‘I told you before, they don't mean anything. Laila liked to doodle. I often saw her doodling.'

That was the first I'd heard of it. Why hadn't Ivan thought to mention this before? Or Tim. The answer was, I supposed, that I hadn't asked them.

I sighed and rolled over, bunching up the pillow and staring at the reflected colours of dawn on the wall. Ivan could have made that up, about the doodling, but there was no reason why he should. He was probably right. I'd probably built a phantom shipwreck out of air.

Nineteen

There was a cheque to write out, small shin guards to try on. I thanked my lucky stars that there was enough money in our account to cover the membership fees. At the rate Kat's feet were growing, her soccer boots would scarcely last a year, but the look on her face when she put them on and ran across the oval made the purchase more than worthwhile.

Ivan had taken her to a couple of practice sessions, and now it was my turn. Kat had been accepted into a team and would begin competition matches in a week or so. She was over the moon that she'd be playing on the same day and the same ground as her brother.

I shook hands with the soccer coach and was turning to go when I recognised Bronwyn Castles on the next playing field. Kat and I had been going to walk home, since the police still had my car. I quickly checked to make sure it would be okay if Kat went on practising her kicking for a while, and that the coach would be around to watch, then walked over to where Bronwyn was just coming off the field.

Her face was red and sweaty. ‘What are you doing here?' she demanded.

‘Hello, how are you?' I said. ‘I'm with my daughter. I didn't know you played soccer.'

Bronwyn kept walking. ‘There's a lot of things you don't know about me.'

She headed towards a car at the end of the carpark, a newish sedan, dark green with a Europcar sticker on the back and a Victorian number plate.

‘I hired it,' she pointed out unnecessarily, opening the car with a key she took from her shorts pocket. She got out a water bottle and drank thirstily.

‘What did Laila tell you about the
Maria Rosa
?' I asked.

Bronwyn sighed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Who's she?'

I put my hand on the car door. ‘Mary Rose in Spanish.'

‘What is this, a language lesson?' Anger pulled Bronwyn's features forward and downwards, tensed and braced her hard, squarish body. I picked her as a player the opposing team underestimated until it was too late.

She replaced the water bottle on the passenger seat, but looked as though she'd like to brain me with it instead.

‘What about shipwrecks in general?' I asked, seeing she was about to get behind the wheel and leave.

Bronwyn half turned and gave me a searching look. ‘Why are you asking me all this?'

‘Laila liked shipwrecks,' I said. ‘She was fascinated by them.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘I worked it out.'

‘Did Tim tell you, that soppy fool she used to share a house with?'

‘No.'

‘That old guy with the beard?'

I assumed she meant Bill Abenay. ‘No,' I said again. I could see Bronwyn struggling between wanting to be rid of me, and needing to find out how I knew. She'd confirmed what I'd wanted to know because she hadn't been smart enough to deny it immediately. In a minute Bronwyn would work this out and then she'd be even more angry.

‘Laila told you about her meeting with Senator Fitzpatrick,' I said. ‘Did she tell you what the meeting was about?'

‘The environment.'

‘What part of the environment?'

‘All of it. How should I know?'

‘Who gave Laila her red waistcoat?'

Bronwyn faced me fully then, making fists of her large freckled hands. ‘Laila wasn't particularly encouraging to men,' she said, spitting the words out, ‘but there was always a line of them waiting for a chance. And they were
always
giving her presents.'

‘What about women friends? Did they give her presents too?'

I was still holding on to the car door. Bronwyn pushed my hand roughly away.

I stood my ground and asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Laila wearing her waistcoat?'

‘I don't remember.'

‘Was it at the
Tradies
?'

‘How do you know about that?'

‘I work next door, remember? I'm friendly with one or two of the waiters.'

Had I just dobbed Jake in?
Waitresses
, I should have said. But I didn't want Bronwyn going after Pam or Jess.

Bronwyn pushed me again, harder this time. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping Katya wasn't watching. Kat was too busy running after the ball, but the coach was looking my way.

I stepped back. Bronwyn reversed so fast that gravel flew up. I noted the number plate as her hire car hurtled out the gate.

Walking home, I was happy to listen to Kat's excited chatter, and not to let my own mood cast a shadow over her, but once we were inside and my daughter in the shower, I went into the office and sat down.

Ivan had made a start on dinner and Peter was over at a friend's. I needed time to think, and my thoughts immediately returned to Laila.

Part of Laila's charm, and her success with men, it seemed to me from the little I'd observed directly, was the effortless way she eclipsed, not only any rival, but the notion of rivalry itself. If Bronwyn was right about the presents, it might be because Laila wasn't interested in having anybody, man or woman, win her with displays of generosity. The more I thought about this, the more it seemed to be an aspect of Laila's cleverness. Laila appeared to be above competition so that she could, with greater ease, and behind their backs, play off her rivals one against the other. I was aware that jealousy might be leading me to this suspicion, and that I should guard against it; but all the same I resolved to ferret out and question anyone who'd known Laila and been immune to her charms.

I rang Clare Fletcher, who told me that Don wasn't in. When I asked about Don's brother Cameron, Clare sounded exasperated at first, but relaxed after a few moments. It seemed she didn't mind talking about Cameron, and that the main point about him was that he was rich. Clare sounded wistful, as though she might, at some time in the past, have had her choice of brothers and picked the wrong one.

My next call was to Phoebe, whose counsellor had told her she needed calming experiences and positive re-enforcement to help her deal with the trauma.

‘I'm doing an aromatherapy course. It's very beneficial. You should try it.'

I said I'd keep aromatherapy in mind.

‘I'm sure it would do you good, Sandra. If you don't mind me saying so, you're a pretty uptight person.'

I thanked Phoebe for her advice and pretended to write down her therapist's name.

Before Phoebe could hang up, I asked, ‘Why do you think Laila was so fond of her red waistcoat?'

‘What do you mean fond?' Phoebe sounded suspicious, but curious enough about the question to find out what I meant.

‘Was it a present from someone?'

‘Maybe,' Phoebe said, considering. ‘But it wasn't
like
Laila to care about presents, if you know what I mean. You know the police showed that waistcoat to me? Freaked me out like totally. Like the embroidery was frayed and the colours had all run. Plus, it had this big oily stain. They wanted to know if Laila had been wearing it around like that.'

‘Had she?'

‘Of course not! Laila wasn't fussy about clothes, but she was always neat.'

‘When was the last time you saw the waistcoat undamaged?'

There was a paused while Phoebe thought. She said, ‘I guess it was before she went on that trip to lake whatsitsname.'

‘I heard Laila came back sick,' I said, recalling Bill Abenay's calm, unhurried voice, his large, hairy arms as he handed me my coffee.

Phoebe chatted amiably about Laila's cold that had turned into bronchitis, how Tim had fussed around her like an anxious hen, but it seemed that she had nothing new to tell me.

Ivan called to tell me dinner was ready. He'd put some effort into the meal and I complimented him, but the fact was, I hardly tasted it. After cleaning up, I left Peter to his music and Kat to a television show she liked, and returned to my solitary thoughts in the office.

After their first dive, Bill Abenay had told me, Laila had said she wanted to dive the homestead again, but on her own this time, ‘for practice'. When he'd asked, ‘Practice for what?' she'd replied, ‘Just practice.' In Abenay's opinion, it was a crazy idea. Laila had never been near Lake Jindabyne before that weekend, beside which, though the structure might appear stable, it might fall at any time.

‘All of which added to the excitement for her. I could see that, but I wasn't about to agree,' Abenay had said.

I got out my notes and jogged my memory further.

After Abenay had told Laila what he thought, she'd gone off in a huff. Of course he'd forgiven her. The question of forgiveness never came into it really. But he'd been concerned enough to follow her as she tramped around the shore on foot. She'd got as far as the boat ramp when one of the instructors who took out fishing and diving groups appeared in his four-wheel drive. Abenay recognised the vehicle and knew the man by sight, though not his name. He didn't see Laila speak to him, and had no reason to suppose they were acquainted. But the presence of another person made him feel awkward, as though he was spying, so he turned around and went back to the cottage, confident that Laila would walk off her bad mood.

She'd appeared about three-quarters of an hour later, ‘soaked as though she'd been swimming in her clothes.' She'd said she'd fallen off the path. It didn't seem to have occurred to Abenay that someone might have pushed her. But if this had been the case, surely Laila would have been upset. Instead, according to Abenay, she'd been cheerful. ‘Came in laughing, dripping like a mermaid. She apologised for having been silly. We had a good day after that.'

I'd asked if she'd taken her phone with her when she went off in a huff, but Abenay hadn't noticed. She'd been wearing her red waistcoat though, he remembered that. When she came back, she'd been carry­ing it folded up under her arm.