The Fourth Season (19 page)

‘Laila told you there were things she needed to find out. You helped by driving her to the cafe and picking her up.'

Bronwyn said, ‘You know, there are coral reefs down there in Bass Strait. Massive sponge beds. Canyons and trenches that have never been explored. There may be whole new species living in them. What we know about their ecosystems could be printed on a postage stamp.'

‘What else?'

‘Isn't that enough? The government's in danger of selling out to the oil and gas and fishing industries. That's why Laila was collecting information.'

‘What about shipwrecks?'

‘If you're going to make stupid comments, then I
will
hang up.'

‘Did you notice anyone in the street while you were waiting for Laila outside the cafe?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘A man watching the entrance. Medium height. Short dark hair.'

‘No.'

‘Why did Laila want to be picked up?'

‘She said she might need to get away quickly, that's all.'

There was a sharp click as Bronwyn decided she'd given away too much and broke the connection.

I brought my notes up to date, and saved them to a memory stick.

That night we went to bed early. Though nothing had been said, I knew that Ivan wouldn't resume his night wanderings. A line of some sort had been crossed.

Twenty-five

An item on the early news said that a diver's weight belt had been found in Jerrabomberra Creek. Local radio stations had been reporting on the police divers' lack of progress every few days, speculating on the cost of keeping up the search.

I rang Brook to congratulate him.

‘It's not me you should be congratulating,' Brook said, sounding much more cheerful. ‘It's Gordon.'

‘Congratulations to Gordon too. Is it a whole belt?'

‘That's how Gordon spotted it. The buckle end of the strap was exposed. If they'd gone that far up the creek the first day—'

Brook broke off to tell me that he had another call.

To swing a diver's weight belt at a person's head with enough force to kill them required both strength and accuracy. I reminded myself that an athletic woman could have done it and that a weight belt was an easy item to purchase, while I made a note of Gordon's name, thinking that he might have known Ben Sanderson. The question was, had the belt been used to kill one person, or two? I pictured Brook's efforts to provide an answer, with DS Brideson biting at him from behind. The more the two cases dove-tailed, the greater the argument for combining the investigations under one command.

. . .

Ben Sanderson's neighbour, Ian, was enjoying the sun on his miniscule front porch. In the clear autumn light, he seemed to dwarf all of his surroundings, his thick white hair longer, more upstanding than before. I glanced through the window behind him. The curtains were pulled right back and yellow light filled every corner of the room, shining down between the cracks in furniture.

‘So they've found the weapon, then,' he informed me with a satisfied nod.

When I asked Ian if he was familiar with the creek, his answer was another nod, more vigorous this time. ‘Used to fish down there, didn't I? In the days when I could get around.'

Ian claimed to know all of the best fishing spots. His expression was grave and self-congratulatory by turns, as he confirmed that Ben sometimes went running in the nature reserve. Apparently, Ben could see perfectly well even after he'd left the street lights behind.

When I asked if he needed any help with shopping, or jobs around the house, Ian thanked me and told me he was managing.

‘Ben took me up to Kingston Saturdays.' His eyes clouded with the recollection. ‘If I ran out of something during the week, Ben picked it up for me. He was good like that. A good neighbour.'

I nodded and said that I was sure he had been.

‘That copper, he gave me his mobile number, told me he could be here in five minutes, I was to ring him if I needed anything. A good fella, that one.' He paused, and added, ‘The older fella, not the muscled-up one.'

I took note of the phrase thinking that Brook might be amused by it. But would Brook be annoyed, rather than amused, to hear I was still at it, that I'd been back quizzing Ben Sanderson's neighbour?

When I steered the conversation around to the night Laila had been killed, Ian gave me a sharp look and said he'd been in bed like a good Christian, and that Ben had too. He began to praise his friend again. Ben had been a champion diver. ‘Just the best'. I asked if Ben had talked about his favourite dives and Ian replied that there was a shipwreck in Queensland he'd described as awesome. It had a funny name.

‘Could it have been the Yongala?' I asked, pleased with myself for the hours I'd spent poring over websites.

Ian looked confused for a moment, then his expression cleared. ‘Up there where the cyclones are,' he said. ‘You know, we watched a TV program once about a shipwreck. Not in Australia, but. We watched it at Ben's place.' From the look on Ian's face, I understood that the occasion had been special. ‘I don't often splash out, but I did that night. I ordered us a pizza.'

Ben had paid for the hire of the video.

‘Or was it one of them new DVD things? There was this warship, you see. Henry VIII of England had her built. Pride of the royal navy. Her name was the
Mary Rose
.'

I listened while Ian described the program, warming to his subject, recalling details I'd forgotten, of the timbers and the structure, the musical instruments, the skill and dedication of the men and women who'd finally brought her to the surface.

I wondered aloud if it might have been Ben's ambition to do something similar.

‘Find an old shipwreck, be part of a team like that.'

‘I reckon,' Ian said. ‘Bit of a dreamer, Ben was. Smart as well, and brave. Working on them oil rigs. Now you wouldn't get me doing that if you paid me a million quid! I just hope the police get whatever mongrel did him in. It's shocking.'

Ben hadn't liked to talk about the rigs. ‘My guess is that something bad happened to him. I mean worse than usual. Wouldn't get me within cooee of a job like that.'

‘An accident, you mean?'

‘He didn't want to talk about it,' Ian answered with a grimace that showed off his bad teeth, and an expression in his eyes that said he might have been taken in once by a mystery cousin asking questions, but that twice was pushing it. ‘A close one, Ben could be, when something bothered him. What was private was private.'

I ignored the warning. ‘What about another
Mary Rose
, one that disappeared in Bass Strait?'

‘Now you're properly confusing me!'

Ian thought for a moment, then said it was funny I should bring that up, because Ben had gone diving down in Bass Strait for a few days in the summer. He hadn't gone into details, just told Ian he was going to be away, and why.

‘Kept an eye on his place for him. He would've done the same for me.'

When I asked Ian if he knew who Ben had gone with, he turned on me, suddenly fierce. ‘A young man has his right to privacy! Specially now he's dead and can't answer for himself!'

. . .

A police blockade had been set up at the entrance to the nature reserve, and part of Newcastle Street was once again blocked off.

Heading back towards the city, I noticed that a white Honda stayed a discreet distance behind me. The traffic picked up once we turned into Commonwealth Avenue, but the Honda tailed me through Civic with two motor bikes and a landscape gardener's truck between us. I pulled up at the Lyneham shops, but a station wagon with three small children in the back took the last parking spot. The Honda drove by as the children grinned at me, one waving a grubby fist. I thought of Katya as I checked my watch. It was almost three. The driver of the Honda, behind a baseball cap and sunglasses, was talking on a mobile phone.

Detouring on the way to soccer training later that afternoon, I drove past Don Fletcher's house, noting a double garage with both doors firmly shut. I did a U turn and parked on the opposite side of the street, responding to Katya's cries of impatience with, ‘This'll only take a minute.' The man walking from the front door towards the garage used a remote control to open the doors. He was dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, white running shoes and sunglasses. The baseball cap was in his hand. A minute later, he backed a small white Honda down the driveway.

I rang Brook while watching Katya from the sidelines, and recited the Honda's rego number. It came up as registered to Clare Fletcher.

Brook sounded tired and defeated. Gone was the energy he'd brought back with him from Thailand, and gone also, since the last time we'd spoken, his desire to keep me at arms' length and censor what he told me. Or perhaps he was just too tired to bother.

Cameron Fletcher had alibis for both murders, Brook said. He'd been in Melbourne at a yachting dinner the night Laila had been killed, and with his brother and sister-in-law on the night of Sanderson's death. He'd reacted hostilely to being questioned. I could tell, from the way Brook repeated certain phrases, that he would have loved to catch Cameron out.

‘So the brothers have alibied each other.'

Brook laughed without humour. ‘Prove one is lying and we've got them both. On top of that, the red car's clean. The report's sitting here in front of me. Cameron owns a Landcruiser as well. Big enough for a body, though you'd be amazed what can fit in an ordinary boot.'

Brook had just come back from interviewing Roger Stanton at the dive shop. Stanton was adamant that none of their weight belts had gone missing. When Brook had asked to see his sales records, Stanton turned belligerent.

‘I can get a warrant, but I'm sure the records will be straight.'

If Cameron had taken one of the belts, did this meant Stanton was covering for him? There were plenty of ways for Cameron to get his hands on a weight belt, ways that could not easily be traced.

Brook told me that the belt in Jerrabomberra Creek had been a new type, made from a pouch filled with lead shot, rather than a hunk of solid metal.

‘What about the dive school at Merimbula?'

‘Erickson's been down there. He took statements from the instructors who worked with Sanderson. Sanderson never left any of his own equipment there. He brought it back to Canberra with him. And all their weight belts are accounted for.'

‘Each step brings us closer to deep water,' I said.

Brook grunted. ‘I'll be careful the next time I take a bath.' His voice became stern then. ‘Leave the brothers to me, Sandra. Send Don a bill and tell him you've done as much as you can. Or don't tell him anything. Just quit.'

Twenty-six

Pam opened the door to her ground floor flat in Turner, and told me how pleased she'd been, as her arthritis worsened, that the flat had become available and she'd been able to move down from the third floor.

With a small air of ceremony, she unfolded a piece of paper sitting by the phone. The name had been written with care, but with some difficulty too.

‘What in the world are we coming to, Sandra? Can you tell me that? Two murders in the neighbourhood. And brutal bashings too!'

I hadn't thought of Pam and Laila being neighbours. It seemed stretching a point. But they'd lived in the same suburb, that was true.

‘And Jess is a nervous wreck. To think she saw them sitting there together, and now they're both dead.'

When I asked Pam if she was sure, she nodded decisively, cradling her bad hand. ‘The girl signed him in. I went back through all the stubs. It's her handwriting and signature. I checked it against the membership form.'

‘How did you manage that?'

‘Jake got the book for me. He thought she was a lesbian. Poor Jake.'

Pam was keen to talk. She'd moved beyond the taking of small risks, in her own eyes at least. Involving Jake, going through the stubs—these actions put her on the other side of the relatively simple fabrication of excuses. I understood Pam's reasoning. She was doing it for Owen. She was grateful to me for keeping the cafe open for his sake, and a favour to me was a favour to her friend. I was sure Pam was aware of Rita's opposition to the cafe, though I didn't think Owen would have complained about his wife. He didn't seem the type for that.

Pam watched me with a frown between her eyebrows, her shrewd eyes weighing up the different possibilities. She'd reached her own conclusions, but she wanted re-assurance from me.

‘Do you think that young man killed her? And who killed
him
, for goodness sake?'

I thought back over Jess's story. Jess and Pam had agreed that Laila's problem was most likely a romantic one. But why had Sanderson cast himself, or been cast, in the role of comforter? Perhaps what Jess had witnessed was not so much Sanderson's sympathy for a young woman disappointed in love, but Sanderson bringing bad news of another kind.

Laila had found, or been sent, photos of the
Lightning
which told her where the yacht was registered. She may have found out about the trip to Bass Strait and asked Sanderson if she could go too. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Cameron had been part of the trip, even that he'd organised it. Bernhard Robben might have gone as well.

Perhaps Laila had approached Robben directly. He'd said no, and Sanderson's job had been to sweeten the pill. But why did it matter? Why did the pill need to be sweetened? What was Laila to Cameron, or to Robben? Was Robben the lover, or former lover whom she'd gone to Jindabyne to see? Had this been her hold on him, threatening exposure if he refused to include her? Why not take her and be done with it? The whole thing seemed like making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Even if all three men thought searching for the
Maria Rosa
was a mad idea, Laila had been gorgeous enough to grace any sailor's yacht, any diver's table.

I tuned back into what Pam was saying. She was asking—if I had the time, if it wasn't too much trouble—if I'd take her to visit Owen. I said I'd be glad to.

. . .

‘Jess saw them together, Owen, ' Pam said gently.

She'd brought a photograph of Sanderson. Owen lunged forward to see, practically snatching it out of her twisted hand.

‘Steady on, mate,' Pam replied without rancour, but with a wary glance at me. ‘I thought having his pretty face in front of us might help.'

‘Well, he wasn't there
that
night,' Owen said. ‘But he might have come into the cafe any other night. I wouldn't register a face like that.'

‘Not when Laila was there?' I wanted to make absolutely sure.

Owen shook his head. It was his turn to ask a question. ‘How do you know this was the guy with Laila?'

Pam told the story. Owen looked wistful as she described the tête-à-tête, the dark corner of the tram. I knew he was wishing he'd been there, and thinking that his role as an observant witness might never be revived.

I left the two of them alone together. Rita had taken the opportunity to pop out to the shops. I'd watched curiously to see how Rita reacted to Pam. The two women had greeted each other with neutral friendliness, but that could have been acting. I told myself that whatever Pam and Owen got up to wasn't any of my business.

. . .

After dropping Pam back home in Turner, I parked by the lake, and sat staring at the flat grey plate that seemed to tilt first one way then another, as I waited for impressions to settle in my mind. I reached out my hand to turn the key in the ignition, and the action had the concrete, yet diaphanous feeling of a dream.

That morning Ivan had gone off to a computer repair place that had employed him before, muttering that he'd have been better if he'd stuck to machines. I hoped they'd have work for him; it would be the best thing for Ivan, some steady, pedestrian employment. As for myself—I willed myself away to some other place, where Laila Fanshaw had never existed. My skin shrank at the approach of danger, yet my mind flitted and refused to settle, let alone take steps to avoid it.

. . .

That evening, I walked to Dickson in the crackling twilight. Nights were colder now, crisp and far too clear, with a clarity that mocked my steps.

I'd spoken to Rita and confirmed my feeling that she'd just as soon sell up. But she couldn't make the decision on her own. She couldn't make it until Owen was sufficiently recovered for them to make it together, and when that happened,
if
it happened, he'd put up a fight.

I'd offered to keep the cafe open till the end of the week and Rita, not knowing what else to say, and, I suspected, not wanting to discuss the subject in front of Pam, had agreed. Neither Owen nor Rita had ever mentioned children. I didn't want to ask, in case the subject was painful.

Instead of walking straight home from my shift, I continued on past the carpark and shopping centre. A light was on in the Dickson Pool's small office, shining dimly through the black plastic that still covered the main entrance. I wondered who could be in the office at 10.15 at night.

I decided to double back to the
Tradies
, and see who was there.

The rugby was on and there was a big crowd in front of the plasma TV. A waitress I'd never seen before was serving up large plates of fish and chips. She stared at me, then looked away. I knew I must be acquiring a reputation.

I chose a small table in a corner and sat facing the room.

When the waitress came to take my order, I made it hot chocolate and cake, feeling a sudden need for sugar.

The swing doors behind the counter flapped, and there was Jake, carrying three plates of food. Someone laughed in the kitchen. Jake grinned over his shoulder, but sobered up when he saw me.

Jake's hair had grown back sufficiently to give his head a feline gloss. His biceps and shoulder muscles might owe something to a gym, but might as easily have been developed in a swimming pool. I watched the way he walked, the ease with which he balanced plates, side-stepping a child who'd wandered from a table. I remembered the rotating hips routine the first time I'd seen him. Until Jake spotted me, he'd looked as confident as though he owned the place.

‘What do you want?' he demanded.

‘A chance to talk.'

‘What about?'

‘Laila Fanshaw and Ben Sanderson.'

‘You've got a nerve, you know, turning up like this.'

‘I'm a member. I can come in here as often as I like.'

‘If I had my way, you wouldn't.'

‘Jess told you she saw Laila in the tram. Did she call you over? Did you recognise the man Laila was with?'

‘It was Ben Sanderson,' Jake said with a scowl. ‘Everybody knows that now. It's all over the club.'

‘Had you seen him here before?'

‘Why should I tell you if I had? The cops took my button. It was just a button, but it was all I had of her. I'll never get it back.'

I said I was sorry.

Jake glared at me and walked away.