Double Take (25 page)

His vision blurred. Bile rose to his throat. He drifted into blackness.

T
rent rose just after eight and spent the bulk of his first hour awake juggling nausea and a sledgehammer headache. Add to that sorrow and disbelief, and it was fair to say he was feeling like shit. Not a sensation he was used to.

By midday Max had still failed to surface, so Trent started preparing lunch from items he found in their dad's freezer. It was a far cry from the chicken and salad he usually had for lunch, but it was all he had, and he figured the smell of Big Kev's meat pies baking in the oven would wake his brother soon enough.

It worked. Just as he placed two pies and an equal amount of hot chips onto two plates, Max crawled into the kitchen. It only took one look to know his brother was feeling the same way he had a couple of hours earlier.

“Hungry?”

Max rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. “Famished.”

“Get the drinks, then.”

Assuming his brother's taste still hadn't changed, and as much as he detested the nutrient-lacking condiments, Trent put both barbeque and tomato sauce on the table. Max had never been much of a morning person, and in light of yesterday's funeral and the abundance of alcohol they'd consumed last night, Trent didn't even attempt conversation.

He was comfortable with the silence. But whether they liked it or not, they had some serious discussions ahead. All morning Trent had resisted the temptation to start going through the drawers and cupboards. It wasn't right to begin without his brother. He wondered if they'd find a will. Not that he thought there was much to divide up, but he'd heard some horrible stories regarding people who'd passed away without leaving instructions.

The food filled a void he hadn't realised was there and soon he was beginning to feel human again. After washing up the dirty dishes, they moved to the living room. Max flopped onto one of the threadbare lounges, picked up the remote, turned on the TV and began switching the channels with the same haste his father often did. Trent hated the screen constantly flicking like that and had to look away.

Trent sat down too and leant back in an attempt to get comfortable. He scanned the room, feeling strangely like he was looking at it for the first time. Without his father sitting here with him, it was surprising how impersonal the space was.

Only a few framed photos were dotted around the sparse furniture. Most of them were of Trent and Max as kids. His gaze landed on a photo of himself in a police lab coat. His dad had taken it just after Trent graduated as a crime scene analyst. As a twenty-year-old, he had been one of the youngest in that recruitment induction. Accelerating through school and university afforded him that. But people's initial scepticism about his age was quickly set aside when Trent scored top marks on every test. Of course, final vindication was being one of only three members of that class to graduate. Trent could still remember his father's handshake after he posed for that photo, and although he'd tried to hide them, Trent hadn't missed the tears in his dad's eyes, either.

Trent swallowed a lump in his throat and looked at the next photo. This one was of Max holding a Spanish mackerel. Max's face was red with sunburn, his lips white with zinc cream and his smile broad and slightly ridiculous. The fish Max was holding was as wide as his arms and obviously heavy. That fish was a prize-winning catch that earned Max enough money to buy his beat-up car outside. But Trent's idea of fun was worlds apart from his brother's.

No other personal items were displayed in the room. His dad was only forty-four years old when he died, and it now struck him as unusual that he didn't have much paraphernalia reflecting his life. Dad had moved here from the townhouse where Trent and Max grew up just after Trent moved out. Maybe he threw out a pile of things at that time, or stored them somewhere. They might find some items later.

Trent leant forward and opened a drawer in the coffee table in front of him. It was a nightmare. Old television guides, old football lift-outs, remotes, everything just tossed in without any order. Trent shuffled them about and noticed a small book. He reached for it and was surprised to see it was a pocket-sized photo album.

Trent lifted it from the drawer and flipped open the front cover. The first photo was of Max and himself with their arms around their father. The fig trees in the background were a distinguishing feature of that park. They were enormous then. They'd be colossal now. “Have a look at this.”

Max looked over. “What?”

Trent held it up for Max to see, and in response Max stood up, put the TV remote on the coffee table and moved over to sit next to him.

“Huh, how old are we there?” he said.

Trent remembered exactly when that photo was taken. The three of them were at the park playing Frisbee when their father asked a passing couple to take the photo. “I was thirteen, you were eleven.”

“Right… How do you know that?”

“It was the last day of the September school holidays. I was about to start my final term of grade ten and Dad took us to the park to play Frisbee.”

Max cocked his head at him. “You're a freak. You know that, don't you?”

Trent grinned at his brother. He'd been called worse.

He turned the page to reveal a photo of his dad with his arm around a woman. Recognition came quickly. “There she is. That's Gemma. The woman they said broke his heart.”

“And those guys at The Broadway said she stole his money and ran off with another man. What do you think that's all about?”

“No idea. Besides, Dad told me Gemma went overseas to work. I don't think he'd lie.”

“But if he didn't lie to you, then he lied to his friends.”

Max had a good point. Someone was lying. Trent studied the photo in silence. His dad's smile showed his teeth despite his bushy moustache. There weren't many photos where he looked that happy. Other than Gemma's rosy cheeks, her skin was very pale, sickly even. Wisps of her dark hair floated in an invisible breeze, the remainder tucked behind unadorned ears. This photo was taken in the same park with the big fig trees.

“I guess we'll never know what really happened.” Max ran his finger over the woman in the photo.

“Do you remember her last name?”

“No. Why?”

“I could see if I could find her. You know, under the pretence of telling her of Dad's passing.” But even as he said it, Trent knew he would never do that. Not without a police-sanctioned inquiry. The database he had access to was strictly controlled. Access was only given to a limited few and he'd never jeopardise that privilege.

“It's not worth it. Besides, I doubt Dad had any money worth stealing.”

Max had a point there. Their dad had been a baggage handler at the airport for as long as Trent could remember. He barely earned enough to pay his mortgage. Trent had long ago estimated that his father would have been lucky to save three percent of his income, but with Max constantly asking for money Trent doubted he'd even banked that. Maybe they'd find bank statements somewhere in the house.

Trent placed the photo book squarely on the coffee table and stood up. “Are you ready to start sorting through Dad's things?”

“No.”

“Come on, it's never going to be easy.”

Max let out a heavy sigh. “You're not going to give up, are you?”

“Do I ever?”

Max couldn't even afford to buy new tyres on his car, so he'd have no hope of taking over their father's mortgage. Unless they found some paperwork showing their father had life insurance, they had no choice but to sell the townhouse. Trent had offered Max the couch in his apartment, but he'd declined. At this point his brother had no idea where he was going to live, but he didn't seem perturbed by it either.

The process of dividing up their father's belongings was always going to be difficult. After considerable debate, they agreed on four categories: throw away, donate to charity, sell and keep. If it was up to Trent, he'd have a go at selling almost everything. Max, on the other hand, seemed determined to turf out the lot. Clearly he had no idea what it meant to be a Power Seller on eBay.

Max repeatedly argued over which pile to place items. Designations such as tight-arse and anal retentive were bandied around but eventually, with the downstairs sorted, they were ready to progress upstairs. It was time to go through their father's bedroom and Trent wasn't looking forward to it.

Trent opened the wardrobe door. The clothes that hung there were in no apparent order. Work shirts were mixed with casual shirts. If he had time, Trent would've sorted them into purpose and then colour. But, he conceded, this would be pointless.

The shelf above the hanging clothes was packed with an assortment of boxes. Many looked like shoeboxes. Trent reached up and removed the first stack of three. He placed them on the bed and opened them one by one to reveal black work shoes that looked barely worn. Two of the pairs were identical. Trent could relate to this buying regime. Once he found a suitable pair of shoes he'd purchase four identical pairs.

Back at the wardrobe he looked up at the top shelf, and this time spied a box that appeared to have been shoved into the far back corner. He used the stepladder to reach it. This one was also a shoebox, but based on how light it was it did not contain shoes.

Max was sitting on the floor, sorting through the bedside table, and he had bits and pieces scattered all around him.

Trent stepped around Max, placed the shoebox on the bed and lifted the lid. Inside was a collection of newspaper clippings.

Upon scanning the first couple of pages he failed to establish why his dad had kept them. He read a couple more, but quickly cast them aside. With several pages of the newspaper removed, he now noticed the corner of what looked like a yellow padded envelope. He lifted it out, raised the envelope flap and looked inside. “Holy cow!”

“What?” Max looked up from his position on the floor.

Trent responded by tipping up the envelope. Several bundles of money tumbled onto the bed.

“Where'd that come from?”

“It was in this box, along with these newspapers.” Trent handed over some of the newspapers, but Max was more interested in the money.

He gathered up a bundle of fifty dollar notes and flicked through it with his fingers. “Holy shit! There must be thousands here.”

Trent pushed the money aside and carefully laid out the rest of the contents of the box onto the bed.

He spied a yellowed sheet of paper amongst the newspaper pages and picked it out. It was curled at the edges and the folds were almost worn through. Judging by its condition, the page had been handled and read over and over. He unfolded it and began to read, more and more surprised by every line. “Hey Max, listen to this.” He read aloud.

“So those guys were right. She did take off.” Max frowned. “But the letter says she
gave
him $100,000—not stole it.”

“Yeah. Weird.” Trent sat on the bed and re-read the note.

“Why do you think he kept it hidden in the cupboard?” Max said.

Trent shook his head. He didn't have an answer, but instead he picked up one of the newspapers and looked more carefully at the articles. He picked up another and scanned it too. A similar article to the first paper caught his eye. Now, with an idea of what he was looking for, he gathered a third paper. When he found what he was looking for his gut leapt to his throat. The dates at the top of the pages just added to his suspicions. November 1992 would've been around the time Gemma left. It was just after his fourteenth birthday. “Oh no. This doesn't look good,” he said.

“What?”

“Every one of these papers has a story about a bank robbery!”

“So?”

“Dad and Gemma must have robbed a bank.”

Max laughed. “Good one, Sherlock. I think your detective powers are a tad screwed up.”

Trent pointed to an article on the front page of the
Courier Mail
. “Here, read this.”

Max read in silence. “So? What makes you think Dad did it?”

“The article says that the money was never found. And Gemma says in her letter that she left him a hundred thousand dollars and took the rest.”

“Mate, I don't think there's a hundred grand here.”

“She talks about excitement over the last couple of weeks. Chronologically that would put it at exactly the date of that year's Melbourne Cup race.”

Max huffed. “Mild-mannered Murray, a bank robber?”

“Not funny, Max. It's serious. I'll have to report this, you know.”

“Hang on a minute, Inspector Clouseau. You have no proof Dad was involved.”

“She says they shared the excitement. Maybe he felt guilty afterwards. Maybe that's why he didn't spend the money.”

Trent gathered a different newspaper article and read it through. He looked up from the paper. “I may have been hasty,” he said. “I don't think they robbed the bank.”

“Hallelujah.” Max slapped him on the shoulder.

“It's what happened after the robbery that's interesting.”

“What?” Clearly Max wasn't actually reading the pages.

Trent realised he'd have to spell it out for his brother. He put down the paper and held up his index finger. “Point one. Bank gets robbed. Point two, robbers get caught. Point three, no money is found. And point four, robbers claim the money was stolen from them.” He looked at his four fingers. It made perfect sense to him.