Dead Men Don't Order Flake (4 page)

I moved rapidly to Plan B: flee. I'm no coward, but I'm not stupid either. Nearest exit? My bedroom window, stuck closed thanks to the painters. Out via the shop? The noisy lock would give me away. That left the back door. Which involved getting past the lounge.

I crept forward, tiny slo-mo steps. I'd slither past the lounge and out the back door. Then run like the wind.

More flickery torchlight movements. Something in that lounge had his attention. My handbag was there. And the money Gary had paid me—I'd left it in that envelope on my coffee table. Bastard would probably steal it. OK, four steps to go, maybe three. Nearly there. Remember to breathe.

I slunk past the lounge; the door was open an inch. No need to touch it or look in there. I made a silent beeline for the back door. A floorboard creaked under my foot.

Shit shit shit.

I rushed for the door. Fumbled with the lock; my hands shaking. Maybe locking up so carefully last night hadn't been a great idea.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. I swung around. The torchlight blinded me. I raised my star picket. Aimed for a foot above the torch; brought it crashing down. A cry of pain. The torch fell to the ground. I bent down, snatched it up.

‘Bitch.' A man's voice, muffled.

Something whacked my head. I saw dancing fireflies for a tick. Then everything went black.

Car tyres squealed. There was something cold against my face and I realised I was lying face down on the floor. I sat up, touched my forehead; it was sticky. I groaned: my head felt like a train smash.

I tried standing on my wobbling legs. Everything was dark. No skittering torchlight. Where was he? I held my breath; felt around in the darkness for my back door. Found it—the door was open. I held onto it and sucked in a deep breath of cold night air. Revived a little, I turned, felt around the wall and flicked on the light.

There was a huge book on the floor near my feet.
Slow Food: Collected Thinking Through the Ages
. On loan from Claire. I'd been knocked out by that? I hadn't even wanted to read the bloody thing.

Armed with my star picket, I marched through my house, turning on every light. My bathroom window was broken. I searched the house methodically, confirming the absence of intruders. No noises, no torchlight.

I headed back into the lounge room. Stood there a
moment, feeling woozy. Where was Natalie's bag? I was sure I'd left it on the coffee table, next to Gary's envelope of money—which was still there. With the money inside. All of it.

I phoned Dean. I won't bore you with his long and tedious list of questions, his complaints at being woken up at 3am, his impatient tone.

If it was anyone else calling about a break-in, he'd skip the judgment and fling out pronto to his divvy van. I hoped. I took a deep breath and explained a second time about my book-bashed head, the flickery torchlight, the car tyres squealing. Somehow, something finally clicked for Dean.

‘Jesus, why didn't you say so? I'm on my way.'

I hung up, holding back the snappy
Say so? What do you think I'm doing?

In the bathroom, I took a look in the mirror. Blood on my forehead. Swelling around my right eye. I hoped I wasn't up for a black eye. I wiped off the blood, downed some Panadol. Grabbed an icepack from my freezer and pressed it against my head.

I performed a fruitless search through the house looking for Natalie's bag. I should have locked the damn thing away somewhere. If I had a lockable kind of somewhere. I slumped onto my couch, feeling nauseous.

There was something shining on the floor, next to the couch. I bent down and picked it up.

A phone.

5

The phone was similar to Brad's, with a PIN involving a security pattern that you swipe across with your fingers. Nine dots. You have to join the correct dots in the correct order. I tried a few different swipes. No success.

If I had the internet, I'd have googled
how to get into a book basher's dropped phone
or similar. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person on the planet without a smart whatsit of any kind. It's like I'm drifting along on my own current, a lost and lonely speck of prehistory. Even Ernie's got an iPad.

Ninety-five minutes and a lot of finger-swiping later, a car pulled up outside. I peered out through my curtain. Six foot one of reassurance dressed in navy blue. Dean's uniform, even at this hour, was impeccable, his shirt pressed, his black tie hanging in a perfect vertical.

I shoved the phone in my pocket. Met Dean at the door and auto-offered him a cuppa. He must have been
well over the speed limit to get here so quickly, but this wasn't the moment to remind him of his commentary on how speed kills.

‘Are you all right?' A worried expression in his brown-black eyes.

‘I'm alive. Last time I agree to read one of Claire's books on slow food though.'

‘Did you get a look at this bloke?'

Dean whipped out his notebook, all ready to take down my detailed description.

You can't rely on a word I say—I am his mother after all—but Dean can be quite efficient, when he's motivated. The key is finding a way to get him into that state. I hoped I didn't have to make a habit of being whacked over the head.

‘Err. I was a bit busy getting away to look at him. I heard his voice though. Deep. And growly.'

‘Oh.' Dean looked a bit disappointed at my lack of detail. Put his notebook away. He patted my arm. ‘Well, don't you worry, Mum. I'm pleased you called me, actually. It's good to see you open up a bit.'

Open up?

‘You're always so secretive. Ever since…'

We both knew exactly what that referred to. I don't suppose there are too many people who can say they've been imprisoned in a police cell by their own son, even if only briefly. I wouldn't call it an achievement.

‘Dean, the bloke stole Natalie's bag. There's obviously something fishy going on. Still, you'd have a record of its contents?'

‘I'm not at liberty…'

‘Cut the crap, son. Did you manage to get her laptop
working? Anything revealing on it? Explaining why she had those bullets, maybe?'

‘Mum. She died in a simple car accident, as I keep telling you. Not all of us have time to chase down every little irrelevancy in people's lives.' He tugged on his sleeve, pulling it down a millimetre to line it up with the other one.

‘Well, given that someone's stolen her bag, I'd say a couple of those little irrelevancies might actually be relevant. And they didn't even take the…' Oh shit, I couldn't mention Gary's money: no licence. ‘…TV. Anyway, you recorded the contents of the bag?'

He drilled me with those brown-black eyes. ‘I am NOT in the mood for a critique from someone unqualified, not to mention unlicensed, on how I should do my job.'

Clearly I wasn't the only one in need of something calming. We headed into my kitchen and I made us both a hot Milo.

I sat down and rubbed my head. I'll admit I was feeling pretty scungy.

Dean touched my arm. ‘You OK, Mum? Look, sorry if I was a bit…oversensitive. It's just, well, I've had it up to here with all these people suggesting I don't know how to do my job.'

‘What people?'

He sighed. ‘Only most of Muddy Soak.'

It's not something I enjoy facing up to, but it's probably true Dean isn't universally loved. I'm sure it'd make a difference if he'd just…relax a bit.

‘And now Sergeant bloody Paula Vandenberg…'

‘Who's she? You got some support, at last?' Dean's had a hell of a load on his plate with two stations to run,
singlehandedly. Victoria Police haven't had much luck filling the gap at Hustle.

‘…She starts Monday week. She told me we'll need to examine my priorities. Christ, I would look into a wider range of priorities if I had the time. You know how much I've got on. No one else seems to notice. Or care.'

I made the required sympathetic noises, and then moved swiftly into pep-talk mode. A person might be slightly concussed and have a black eye forming, but she never truly gets a chance to forgo her parental responsibilities.

‘Well that's terrific you've got this Paula, whatsit, Vandenberg, now. It'll make all the difference. At last, an assistant.'

He sipped his Milo. ‘She's not an assistant. She's my new boss.' A doleful tone.

‘Oh.' Well, that was good. Possibly. Although Dean's used to running his own show. And lately I'd been starting to wonder, well, it's a depressing thought, when you suspect your own son might be sexist. Just a touch, and only temporary, I hoped. How the hell he picked it up is a mystery: I might blame Piero for that one. He deserves a bit of blame.

‘It'll be good to have someone else to share the load with you. And she'll have useful ideas, probably. Smart new ideas.'

He snorted. ‘She's smart all right. On the bloody fast track.'

I don't know why Dean won't shunt himself onto the fast track. He seems to want to spend his entire life crawling along in the slow and bimbly lane.

‘Probably means she won't stay long. Do your best to get along with her. It's always best to get on with potential
chief commissioners. Don't be…'
A pompous puffed-up pile of self-importance
was the phrase dangerously close to the speaking end of my tongue. ‘…discouraged.'

We sipped our Milo in silence for a moment.

‘You know, there was this brown Fairlane…' Possibly a long bow, but the investigative professional, even if unlicensed and not entirely qualified, knows the importance of considering all possibilities.

‘Yes?'

‘It was behind me on the road.'

‘Behind you on the road. Right.' He sighed. ‘Mum. You need to rest.'

‘I'm fine. Don't you worry about me.'

‘And I don't want you in danger.'

No disagreement there.

‘So go to bed. And make sure you lock up properly this time. Victims of crime generally bring it on themselves.'

Thanks a bunch, Dean.

After he left, I locked and relocked my place. Stowed Gary's money under a giant bag of peas in my freezer. Then I climbed into bed with the dropped phone. I wasn't sleepy: I guess being broken into and bashed over the head can do that to you.

I spent a couple of hours swiping finger patterns; still no success. I know, I know there's a line of argument that says I should have handed that phone over to Dean. Vital evidence, important police investigation, blah blah. Thing is, there was every possibility the vital ‘irrelevant' evidence would sit on Dean's filing cabinet while he was busy rounding up alpacas.

In my experience, it's generally more efficient to sort things out yourself.

6

At seven, I gave up trying to sleep, and got up. Took a look in my bathroom mirror: a top-quality black eye. After breakfast, I steeled myself and phoned Gary. He took the theft of Natalie's bag pretty well, told me that it confirmed his suspicion that her death was no accident. It was nine-thirty in the morning and Gary's voice was already slurred.

I slipped on a jacket and blu-tacked my
Back in 10
sign on the shop door. Walked briskly along Best Street, hugging my coat across my chest to keep warm.

A flock of galahs, noisy pink, shrieked from the native pines lining the road. Fifty steps later, I was at Vern's general store, rusty corrugated iron flapping above walls flaking yellow paint. Vern stocks the full range, from neapolitan ice-cream to tractor parts. His grey-muzzled kelpie cross, Boofa, trotted out and sniffed the phone booth. That phone booth is Vern's strategic advantage.
Along with the petrol bowser, mobile library stop and post office licence. Vern doesn't need to play Monopoly, he's got Rusty Bore.

Vern was out in his driveway, squatting down, examining something on his recumbent bike. He was wearing a red cycling jacket and black lycra shorts that were too small on him. A knife-sharp wind was blowing, but it takes more than a bit of nippy air to worry Vern.

He got himself that bike a couple of months ago. Easier to manage, given his missing arm, but those recumbent bikes, I reckon they're just a target for some people. That cheerful little flag waving at the back—it'd be useless against a manic truckie. Some might even view it as an invitation.

He heard my footsteps and looked over. ‘Cass. Gotta get yourself a bike. Ripper flat roads around the district.' He stood up, put his arm on his hip, and started doing some groin stretches. ‘I reckon we'd make a terrific little cycling team. And a fine figure of a woman like youse got nothing to fear from a pair of lycra shorts.'

It's not the shorts I fear so much as what's inside them.

He peered at me, suddenly. ‘What you done to your eye? You all right?'

‘I'm fine, thanks.' I stood there a moment, feeling awkward.

‘Haven't seen you in a while, in actual fact,' he said. ‘You been difficult to pin down lately.'

Things are currently a bit complex with Vern. After the fire that destroyed my shop and house, he put me up at his place for months; on his couch. He cleaned up his old caravan so I could still serve takeaway while my rebuild went on, at glacial speed. He took a cut of my
takings, naturally: Vern's not an idiot. We ate together. We watched TV together. And Vern was keen to do a lot of other things together.

Unfortunately, one evening after some pinot grigio (I'm not good with wine: might as well face up to it) I made the mistake of feeling a bit too grateful for everything Vern had done. We got slightly physical. Not completely all-out physical, but still.

Anyway. Strictly a one-off, but Vern was keen to upgrade. The next evening he suited up and asked me, with a gigantic bunch of flowers and a bloody
ring
, if I'd consider making it a permanent arrangement.

Well…no. (I might have shrieked that.) And it's possible I imagined it (I truly hope I did) but I thought I saw tears in his eyes.