Dead Men Don't Order Flake (19 page)

‘Don't you bloody yep me, Mum. You're part of this.' He paused, put down his knife. ‘Maybe it's a good thing I'll never get a job in science. No point working in a rational profession when the world isn't rational. And most conservation scientists live in a constant state of grief. Not that anyone really talks about it.'

I stood still. ‘Never get a job?'

‘Yeah, I know. It's wrong on so many levels.'

‘What happened, exactly? Why have you been kicked out?'

‘Well, you'd think the journalist would have done some fact checking, wouldn't you?'

‘Checked what?'

He sat down. ‘I sort of…faked a press release. Saying that all Australian super funds had decided to dump their investments in companies that mine fossil fuels.'

I tried to take that in.

‘It was only a very short market wobble. I mean, everyone realised pretty quickly it wasn't true. The whole point was just to shake up the system. Someone has to stop this ecocide. We need more Jonathan Moylans in this world.'

‘Is what you've done…some kind of fraud?' I said.

The lines around Brad's eyes deepened. A bloke that young shouldn't have lines like that. He folded his hands like he was doing a TV interview.

‘Mum, intergovernmental climate talks have been going on for my entire life. For over twenty years they've been saying something will be done to prevent dangerous climate change. And you know what's been done? You know what they've achieved? Nothing. They just keep on talking, while the world gets hotter.
Our
world.' His voice sounded tired. ‘All so a few rich men can get richer.'

‘Brad? Is what you've done a crime?'

He didn't seem to have heard me. ‘Someone has to stop them. And the only way to do that is to stop the money.'

‘Bradley! Answer my question.'

He hunched his shoulders like one of those Japanese snow monkeys stuck out in a five-day blizzard. ‘I've been charged with disseminating false information.'

‘Is that serious?'

‘Best-case scenario? Suspended sentence.'

‘And the worst?'

‘A fine of 765,000 dollars. And ten years' jail.'

31

I marched out to the bathroom, in serious need of Panadol. What the hell was I going to do about Brad. Where did I go wrong?

Well, maybe it wasn't all me. After all, Piero was the one who encouraged him, way back when Brad was little, helping him bandage up those ex-racing blue tongue lizards. All very convenient for Piero that he wasn't around now to deal with the consequences.

I'd do my best for Brad, of course. Speak up for him in court. Sob, if necessary, which in fact wouldn't be hard. And I'd visit him in jail, wherever that turned out to be, miles away, probably. He'd need regular doses of home-made vanilla slice.

Maybe Dean could wield some kind of influence? I should talk to him, when he'd recovered from this Natalie Kellett business. When I had. In fact, assuming we all survived, Dean's and my shared concern for Brad could
turn out to be the chance we need.

Ours hasn't been an easy relationship, obviously. Maybe it'd help if I worked harder at talking up Dean's good points. Number one: he wasn't headed for jail.

I downed the Panadol, headed out to the shop storeroom and grabbed the pile of newspapers from beside the freezer. They were cast-offs from Vern, left over from the painting after my rebuild. I'd been meaning to get rid of them. The one on top was a recent copy of the
Muddy Soak Cultivator
.

Over a cuppa, I flicked through the papers. More than I'd ever wanted to know about Muddy Soak's harness racing, basketball, croquet club championships and junior tennis. An ad for a luxury cruise on the Danube, with Sold Out! stamped across in capitals. A snip at fifteen thousand bucks a head. They obviously cater to a different demographic in Muddy Soak.

In the older editions there were some stories by Natalie Kellett—mostly interviews with local identities—positive news stories on local people.

Some of them were about people I knew or at least vaguely recognised. One on Billy Barker, with a nice picture of him leaning against his work bench. Billy's an inventor. Designed the Locust Sucker.

‘Converts to a top-notch Mouse Sucker as well,' Billy told me, the pride heavy in his voice. He scratched his faded blue beanie. ‘See, all you have to do is slip on the Mouse Attachment.' Be extremely handy in the next mouse plague.

A brief story on the doomed disaster that was Solar Logic. A quote from Andy Fitzgerald:
In the long run, we will be thanked for our vision, for stamping out the
solar scourge—this offensive blight on our countryside.
I moved on rapidly.

Preliminary exploration licences granted—the article Vern had been on about. A photo of Rory Quayle, the CEO of Gas Solutions: tall bloke, wavy grey hair, dead-fish pale eyes. He had a grey moustache and a too-bright smile.

Finally, I found the article about Will Galang's accident on Jensen Corner. A photo of the mangled car, a smashed phone lying on the road beside it.
Grief-stricken Tina Galang of Gisborne says her son Will was always a careful driver.
A paragraph of lamenting about the black spot, with statistics on the number of deaths since the road was built in the 1930s.

Later that afternoon, I enlisted Brad to help find Tina Galang's phone number. It wasn't difficult: the White Pages had only one Galang in Gisborne.

‘I could call her, Brad, but I reckon you'd do a better job of it.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you. I can hardly phone and say I think her son was murdered, can I?'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, there's a fairly good chance she'll think I'm off my head. Or she'll think Dean is useless.'

‘Serves him right.'

‘If you don't have family loyalty, what do you have?'

‘A healthy distance from your stupid older brother?'

‘Here's an idea: tell her you were always a huge fan of Will's blog—that's true enough. Say he inspired you to set up your own blog and you'd love to run the last
story he'd been intending to write, as a tribute to him and Natalie. You're gathering information et cetera; did he ever happen to mention…Rory Quayle; anyone else she could suggest you talk to yada yada.'

Brad was silent for a moment, like he was trying to find a reason to say no.

‘All right. I'll give it a go.' He walked towards the doorway connecting the shop to my house.

‘I was thinking you could make the call in here and put her on loudspeaker, Brad. In case you need my help.'

‘I'll do it my way. And there'll be fewer distractions in my room, away from your queue of customers.'

Queue—ha. Still, I didn't argue.

While Brad was on the phone, I spent a few moments tidying up the newspapers, lugging them back out to my store room.

The shop bell rang. Tall bloke in a police uniform. Oh shit.

‘Err, Dean, terrific to see you.' I said, straightening my shop apron.

He closed the door and wiped his feet on the mat. ‘Just wanted to see if you'd managed to get yourself a solicitor,' he said.

‘Um, they're all terribly busy…'

‘You haven't called any, have you?'

‘Err, not as such. I've had a lot to do in the shop, actually.'

‘I hope you're bloody well taking this seriously, Mum.'

‘Of course.'

He handed me a card. ‘Nelson Haines. Solicitor in Hustle. Went to school with him. Maybe you should give him a call. He's into hopeless cases.'

Great, thanks. I took the card.

‘Friday, Mum. With or without a lawyer, it's your choice. Five o'clock. No extensions.'

He turned and marched out the door.

Bloody Dean. A solicitor, even one he went to school with, would cost a fortune. For a completely pointless meeting that even Dean should be able to see would be pointless. I'd have to find a way to put Dean off. A convincing way. Until his boss arrived. Surely she'd be sane?

I headed out the back to check the freezer. I hoped Brad was doing OK with this phone call. He seemed to be taking a while.

I updated my inventory sheet: dim sims: check. Chiko Rolls: check. A bag of something orange, not quite identifiable. I took it out and shook it. Chunks of sweet potato? Good on you, Brad.

The connecting door to the house creaked. A moment later, Brad popped his head around the back room doorway.

‘How'd you get on?' I said, closing the freezer door. This wasn't the moment to bring up the sweet-potato issue.

‘Not bad. She's going to scan some papers Will had in his desk and email them to me.'

‘Excellent. What about?'

‘Something to do with the Ignition Group.'

‘The arsonists?'

‘Well, I don't know that they're arsonists. Anyway, she said she thought there was a file on his desk with that name.'

‘What about Gas Solutions?'

‘Didn't mean anything to her. Anyway, we'll find out more soon. She's going to send the PDFs tonight.'

32

I looked at my watch. Almost seven. Shit, I was due at the Broken Nail in fifteen minutes. I dashed into my bedroom. Panic-emptied the contents of my wardrobe onto the bed. Sum quantity: one pair of navy blue tracky dacks, a shapeless red jumper, two sloppy tops and a floral apron, overdue for mending. Where's your personal shopper when you need her?

I held up the red jumper and stood in front of the mirror.

‘Are you going out in that?'

I looked over at my bedroom door. Claire was standing there, leaning against the frame. I don't know why she had to hang around the doorway looking so smooth-skinned and attractive. And young.

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Err, currently undecided.'

‘You can't wear that to meet the love of your life, Cass.'

‘Pardon? Ha ha. No, nothing like that. No, this is
just a kind of…business meeting. Leo has offered to help with…' I knew better than to say the word ‘investigation' around blabbermouth Claire, ‘a couple of things.'

‘But I thought you were meeting him for the big dinner date?'

‘Well, we're eating out but…'

She sighed—a happy sigh? Or maybe it was more a Brad type of sigh, the kind he does when I'm not entirely focused on his latest state-of-the-planet briefing.

‘Sophia's thrilled for you. She didn't want me to say anything, of course. But there were tears in her eyes when I told her Leo had turned up after all this time. Alive. And that he'd been in to see you.' She held up a hand. ‘I'm not going to pry, obviously. But Sophia said,
Could be Cass's final chance at love. In the autumn of her life
.' Claire smiled. ‘You know what a romantic Sophia is.'

Autumn? I cleared my throat. ‘Well, thanks for looking after the place tonight, Claire.'

‘No problem. I'm learning a lot, actually. And it'll all be useful when I start my slow food place.'

You had to hope for her sake that she wasn't planning to set it up in Rusty Bore. ‘Well, can't chat, I'm running late.' I returned to my outfit crisis. Gave the mirror a look of desperation.

‘What about the black dress? You know, the one you wore for that interview. Way back, after the Mona Hocking Lee business.'

Ah, not a bad idea. If it still fitted.

I rootled through the back of my wardrobe. Pulled out the dress and slipped it on. Lipsticked at high speed. Smoothed down the hair. I gave myself a fleeting glance in the mirror. The dress was not bad but a little tight
across the hips. Turns out even Spandex has its limits, unfortunately.

‘You look great,' said Claire, giving me an appraising stare. ‘But I think you're in danger of forgetting the most important accessory.'

‘What's that?' I said, hoping I wasn't about to get the Madison-style pep talk re my underwear.

‘A smile. Remember to relax.'

The Broken Nail turned out to be a far cheerier place than I would have expected of a dining establishment located in Hustle. More bar than restaurant, it had a fireplace in the corner and armchairs arranged around coffee tables. A swirling range of mismatched designs—a couch covered with fabric modelled on giraffe skin, a couple of armchairs in old cracked leather. There was a cowskin rug in front of the fire. And a lamp in the corner that looked like its mother had had it off with a palm tree.

I scanned the crowd for Leo. Finally, I spotted him, waving from a table with fifties-style orange vinyl chairs. I smoothed my hair, straightened my dress and walked over.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. The shop…' I said.

‘No worries. Hey, you look beautiful.' He looked me up and down; smiled. ‘Get you a drink?'

‘Pinot grigio, thanks.'

Leo headed up to the bar and joined the queue.

A big-bellied bloke was playing a guitar on the stage. I swivelled around to watch. It sounded like something Vern would have approved of, a mournful song involving a fella who'd been messed around by a no-good woman. No mention of any bad behaviour on the bloke's part, naturally.

The performer finished the song and spoke. ‘“Dead Flowers” by the Rolling Stones. Dedicated to my ex-wife. Lovely woman.' A crooked smile.

My phone buzzed: Dean. I put the phone away. I could do without another lecture on the urgency of getting a lawyer.

While I waited for Leo, I watched the new band step up, now that Mr Mournful had finished. Which Witch is Which, a three-piece band, all women. Less expert with the microphones but a lot livelier.

A bloke drifted over to my table. Skinny, moustached, wearing an Akubra. Christ, it was Peter Bamfield. I wasn't in the mood for his top-quality vaudeville tonight. Or any mention of Target. I looked down, hoping he hadn't seen me. Too late.

‘Why, how lovely to see you, Mrs Tuplin.' Bamfield smiled, touched his hat. Who even does that hat thing these days? Maybe he thought he was in a western.