Dead Men Don't Order Flake (24 page)

‘Go on.'

‘She was lying, obviously. Although why she would do that is hard to fathom. She had always been quite
scrupulous, up to that point. Anyway, she said she had evidence that…what is the man's real name?'

‘What man?' I said.

‘Showbag.'

‘Samuel Jenkins. Although no one ever calls him that. What about him?'

‘Natalie said she had evidence that he was lying.'

‘About what?'

‘This solar sickness business. Goats with headaches et cetera.'

‘What evidence?'

‘A pathetic tissue of lies, obviously. Very sensibly, Millson refused to run the story.' Glenda sniffed.

‘Did this tissue of lies involve Andy?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘You'd better hand me that number for
Crikey
, Ernie.'

Glenda spoke quickly. ‘She said this…Showbag had been paid to complain. And that his payment involved a speedboat.'

‘Paid by flaming whom?' Ernie leaned in on her desk. Always been a stickler for grammar, Ernie.

Glenda winced. Possibly Ernie's menacing look. Or his breath.

‘She didn't specify.'

‘Oh, really? I think she did specify, Glenda.' I paused. ‘She specified your son, didn't she?'

‘That is a ridiculous notion.'

‘Ernie, we'd better get the number for the
Guardian
as well. And the
Age
, if they're still in business. They'll all be very interested.'

‘Yes, yes, all right, she tried to suggest Andy had paid the man. Well, that was clearly untrue. What would Andy
possibly have to gain from such a stupid action?'

‘Perhaps a favour from his friend.'

‘What friend?'

‘Rory Quayle. CEO of Gas Solutions. It'd suit him very nicely if the world thought solar energy was suss.'

‘What exactly are you insinuating?' Glenda's neck was red. ‘That my son is…somehow corrupt? How dare you.'

‘If you're worried about what I'm suggesting, just wait until the national news gets hold of this. They'll suggest a whole lot more than I ever could.'

‘I've told you all I know.' Was that a look of pleading in Glenda's hard flinty eyes?

‘Tell me what happened to Natalie that night.'

‘Well, Millson told her there was absolutely no way he was publishing such a ridiculous tale. She resigned and flounced out.'

‘And was killed. Run off the road.'

‘I have no idea what she did after she left this office. She was a very confused young woman. Perhaps she suicided.'

‘Of course she did. She killed herself because she had a story that would make her career, and, more importantly, reveal the slime-bag behaviour of your son. I don't think so, Glenda.'

I marched out. Ernie staggered along behind me.

41

Andy Fitzgerald's electoral office had a huge Aboriginal dot painting on the wall. A vase of flowers on the white counter. The smell of carpet cleaner.

I leaned on the counter. ‘We're here to see Andy Fitzgerald.'

‘He's in Melbourne,' said the woman seated behind the desk. Spiky grey hair; red-rimmed glasses.

‘Can you check that?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't need to check. Andy's been in Melbourne the last couple of days. He was at the Innovation Awards ceremony last night. Didn't you see him on the news?'

I'd had other priorities to deal with last night. The shop, avoiding Dean, avoiding that philandering arms smuggler and his nonstop phone calls. Double-bagging a dead dog head. Yeah, a few things.

‘He'll be back later this afternoon, for the Turning
Leaf Spectacular.'

Ernie and I draggled back out to my car. Sat there a moment. A Winnebago steamed past.

‘Bit difficult for the bloke to stick a dead dog head on my doorstep when he was in Melbourne,' I said.

‘Maybe he snuck back overnight.'

‘Maybe.'

‘No point letting it get you down, Cass. We'll find out. We need to find this Morris fella. Interrogate the untrustable little bastard.'

Yes; where was Morris?

‘Untrustable bastards: they're everywhere.' Ernie clicked his false teeth. ‘Like those flaming Bamfields. Bunch of crooks.'

Oh, shit, Ernie's watch. Time to change the subject.

‘What was that number Brad said was on Morris Temple's phone? The Rusty Bore one?'

‘2426.' Ernie's recall can be a little terrifying.

I took out my phone, dialled the number.

‘Yes?' The quavery voice of Showbag. So Morris phoned Showbag the day Natalie died?

‘Showbag, what's this about you and Natalie Kellett?'

‘Who?'

‘Natalie Kellett, the journo from Muddy Soak. Apparently she was working on a story about you.'

‘What story?'

‘Don't buggerise around, Showbag. I'm not in the mood. It was about your solar sickness crap.'

‘You got no right saying it's crap. It's perfectly legit. Government's got an inquiry into it. Can't be more legit than that.'

Ha.

‘So Natalie came and saw you?'

‘Might of.'

‘What'd you two talk about?'

‘This and that.'

‘About your goats?'

‘Yeah. Missy had another turn that day, actually.'

‘So why did Morris Temple call you the day Natalie died?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Did you talk to him?'

‘Don't remember.'

‘What about Will Galang—did he come and see you as well?'

‘Who?' Showbag's voice was a little more quavery than usual.

An idea. ‘I have to tell you something, Showbag. It's not very nice, I'm sorry to say.'

‘What?'

‘I've been talking to a few people. Andy Fitzgerald, for instance. And the word is that you told Natalie a huge pack of lies.'

‘The bastard! That's totally off. And after everything I did.'

‘What did you do?'

He mumbled something.

‘Speak up. I can't hear you.'

‘That's the thanks you get for giving a bloke your bloody time. I'm a busy person, you know.'

‘Where'd you get the speedboat from, Showbag?'

‘Nowhere.' A frightened tone had crept in to his voice.

‘What does that mean? Didn't you say a long-lost uncle left you some money?'

‘Yeah, yeah. That's right. Uncle, err, Wayne.'

‘Where's he live, your Uncle Wayne?'

‘Nowhere. He's dead. That's how he left me the money.'

‘Yeah, but before he died. Where'd he live then?'

‘Oh, he sort of roamed around.'

‘Really? How'd he make his money?'

‘Filthy rich, the bastard.'

‘How?'

‘What?'

‘The money, Showbag.'

‘Oh, ah, he sold stuff. Import-export, that kind of thing.'

‘Really. And what was his surname?'

‘Jesus, why the sudden overwhelming interest in Uncle Wayne?'

‘He doesn't exist, does he?'

‘Fuck off, Cass.' He hung up.

A crow pecked at a wrapper on the road. Ernie's tummy rumbled. ‘Could do with that birthday gelati now, Cass.'

‘Ernie, we're in the middle of a crime investigation here at the minute.'

He sniffed. A moment later, he sniffed again.

I looked over. Oh shit, his eyes had gone all shiny.

After the gelato pitstop, with Ernie still licking chocolate ice-cream from his lower lip, I dialled Madison.

‘Be another half hour, I'd say, Cass. Vet's had an emergency. Apparently there was a big dog fight this morning. Three Jack Russells in intensive care. Anyway, Brad wants to talk to you. I'll put him on.'

‘That email from Tina Galang's come through, Mum. Finally. There's a PDF attached.'

‘What's it say?'

‘Hang on, I'll open it.' A pause. ‘Looks like the minutes of a meeting of the IOI.'

‘IOI? As in the…' I racked my memory for the name; came up only with Old MacDonald.

‘The Institute of Open Information. It says
Special Meeting 16 August. Subcommittee formed for action
.'

‘What kind of action?'

‘It's a long document.'

‘Read some out.'

‘
The minutes from the Annual Business Meeting were previously provided to the Board. Mr Fitzgerald made a motion to approve and it was seconded by Mr Quayle. The motion passed
.'

‘As in Andy Fitzgerald. And Rory Quayle?'

‘I guess so.'

‘What else is there?'

‘
Mr Fitzgerald tabled a paper by the Australia Institute entitled “Climate Proofing Your Investments: Moving Funds out of Fossil Fuels”. A discussion followed
.

‘
The paper outlines the actions to be considered by “mezzanine level” institutional investors…
'

‘Just a few edited highlights will do, Brad.'

‘That's what I'm giving you.' He cleared his throat. ‘…
Global coal markets are facing an increasingly uncertain future. Prudent investors should assess their exposure to carbon-intensive businesses and unburnable carbon risks, and take appropriate action. They may opt to impose a carbon-emissions-intensity–related screen on their investment portfolio. They may also consider supporting shareholder actions aimed at improving company climate-change responses
.'

‘Maybe we should just focus on this subcommittee, Brad. What's it doing?'

A pause. ‘
It was agreed to form a subcommittee to workshop innovative solutions regarding the concerns resulting from the Australia Institute report.
'

‘Innovative solutions? What does that mean? Who's on the subcommittee?'

A pause. ‘Doesn't say.'

‘What about the Ignition Group? That get a mention?'

‘Not as far as I can see.'

Ernie grunted. ‘Time to go find my watch, Cass.'

‘We don't have time to go to the Bamfield place,' I hissed.

‘Actually, Bamfield would be worth talking to, Mum.'

‘Why?'

‘He's involved in the IOI. Maybe he can help you find what you need to prove Fitzgerald paid off Showbag.'

‘What's Bamfield doing with the IOI?' Unless he figured they would somehow enhance his magnanimous image?

‘He's a coal investor, Mum.'

‘Brad, you're getting yourself mixed up here. Bamfield's the
Gravel
Baron. You know, all those generations of gravel dynasty.'

‘Peter Bamfield has a whole load of investments in coal mining. It was in the
Financial Review
. Don't you pay attention to anything?'

Yeah, thanks. ‘I'm actually pretty busy, in case you hadn't noticed, Bradley. I don't always find the time to read up on every obscure piece of information in the papers. I've got a business I'm trying to run.' Not to mention a whole host of bloody impossible investigations.

‘We've got to wean ourselves off our high-carbon
lifestyle; anyone with half a brain knows that. Bamfield's actively obstructing, hanging around with his coal buddies at those parties, doing all they can to win over politicians so they'll keep funding fossil fuels.'

Parties. I remembered that photo I'd seen on Natalie's Facebook page. ‘Natalie Kellett went to a party with Jacinta, not long before she died. It was in some kind of cellar…or…'

‘Bamfield's party cave.' Brad and Ernie said it at the same time.

42

I fired up the car; drove along that avenue of spectacular autumn trees. Then past Muddy Soak Animal Supplies, the Regional Livestock Exchange—a collection of corrugated iron sheds and races, and Walker & Son, Grain Agent; three huge grain mounds under blue tarps. I put my foot down as we passed the derestricted sign.

That photo of Natalie's—there were two men in it. I screwed up my eyes a moment, trying to remember it. Their faces hadn't been clear. Could it have been Fitzgerald and Rory Quayle? Had Natalie spoken to them at that party?

We passed a mirage lake shimmering over a burnt black paddock. A road train thundered by.

I followed the signs for Rhapsody Downs, turning off onto a gravel road. Dry scruffy forest on our left, paddocks of bleached grass on the right. A strange rasping noise. From the engine? No, it was just Ernie snoring.

I headed past a crumbling old weatherboard church: squashed-looking, leaning to one side. It looked like it might blow away in the next storm, although the dunny was still standing straight, a lonely sentinel, at the far end of the yard. Two eastern rosellas rose from the road.

I hit a section of corrugations in the gravel and the reverberations set my teeth rattling.

‘Bastard stole my watch!' Ernie shouted, jolting awake.

An ornate, gold-edged sign came into view.
Rhapsody Downs
. A vineyard: a rectangle of yellow-green in a sea of faded grass. Behind the vineyard, rounded hills studded with eucalypts.

‘Ernie, have you ever asked any of the Bamfields about your watch?' Surely he'd have asked them once in the last eighty years?

‘No.' A watery-eyed glare.

‘Why not?'

‘No point. Bunch of bloody crooks sold it.'

‘Well, we might not get time to look for it today, so… hey, I know, let's put an ad in the paper. Did it have any distinguishing features?'

‘Yep. Black strap. White face. Roman numerals. And we're gunna find it today. It's my birthday present.' He folded his arms.

I turned left onto the track leading to the station. A long avenue, lined with copper beech—an orange-yellow procession of stately trees.

The curving lines of the Bamfield house came into view. The huge white house looked like an ocean liner, marooned on a sea of pale yellow grass. A gust of wind blew across the grass, forming ripples like foamy waves across the hill.

Beyond the paddocks was a row of old-man gnarled cypress trees, a white truck parked beside them. A heavy blanket of brown-grey smoke rising into the air, a scatter of flames. Looked like someone was burning off. There was a nasty smell in the air.