Forbidden Fruit (5 page)

‘All done,’ announced Betty, adjusting her re-buttoned shirt. It was still inside out.

‘Well, firstly, the detective in charge is a ruddy unfortunate-looking man,’ said Grace. ‘Face like cut glass. Squinty little eyes.’

‘Yes, but what did he
say
?’ asked Lyn Russo.

‘That they’re nearly done with Nell’s backyard. Which should be good news for her.’ Grace sent me a smile and then took a slow sip of her tea, stretching out her moment. ‘Ah, delicious. Thank you, Kat. Now where was I? Oh yes, and he also mentioned that the bones belonged to a woman. A blonde. Late twenties.’

Lyn Russo put a protective hand up to her own tresses. ‘A blonde!’

‘Not to worry, Lyn,’ said Kat. ‘Different age bracket. Grace, do they know how she died?’

‘No details, but definitely suspicious. Murder, most likely. Oh, and she had a yellow handbag.’

Rita was staring at her. ‘A yellow handbag?’

‘Eww,’ said Lyn. ‘Yellow?’

I was still trying to reconcile the idea of the handbag with someone from Petar Majic’s time. It didn’t fit. ‘Ah, do they have an idea of timing?’

‘Yep. They’re waiting on official confirmation, but apparently the contents of the handbag don’t just tell them the year, they tell them the exact date. The only thing they don’t tell them is the woman’s identity. That’s why they held the press conference – they’re hoping someone will come forward and tell them who she is.’

‘And the timing?’ I prompted, holding grimly to my nonchalance.

‘Oh, yes. Hang on, I wrote it down.’ Grace passed her tea to Sally Roddom and then began to rummage through one of the shopping bags. ‘I know I wasn’t terribly surprised. One of those swingers, I’m guessing.’ She finally emerged holding a cardboard box of tissues. On the underside was scribbled a date. ‘Here we go! The twenty-fifth of April 1970.’

Everyone except Betty, who had fallen asleep, began firing questions at Grace. How could they not know who she was? Didn’t the handbag hold her purse? What was she wearing? I heard the questions bounce around the room like little missiles, but I was unable to move beyond the date. It was caught in my throat, pulsing, narrowing my breath. 25 April 1970. I remembered very few dates from my childhood but this one I was able to place into context immediately. I knew the story, and its timeline, off by heart. After a month of relentlessly hard work (her words), my mother had opened Renaissance on Monday 27 April 1970. This was the same day my father had left the country forever, winging his way over to Merry Olde England and a new life. And it was two days after he had closed the doors of his butcher shop, situated at the end of Sheridan Lane, aka Nell Forrest Close, and locked them for the final time. On Saturday 25 April 1970.

‘They’ll need to speak to him, you know,’ said Petra.

‘Yes.’ I tilted my goblet, catching the ruby rays of the setting sun, and watched Yen through the tinted glass. This impromptu session of after-work drinks had been Petra’s idea, a dual-purpose initiative aimed at providing company for our mother when she heard the news, and then extracting information while her defences were down. Which meant that I was finishing the day at the same place I started, sitting outside the hotel at the corner of my road. The January warmth was sliding smoothly into a balmy evening and, with almost every other table occupied, conversations rose and fell like background music.

Despite the pleasant ambience, however, so far neither of our objectives was proving successful. The information about the blonde woman, along with her yellow handbag, delivered about twenty minutes ago, had been greeted with a silence that clouded around Yen like a force field.

‘Might even be speaking to him right now.’

‘Yes.’

‘It must have been the magazine that did it. It’s the only thing in her handbag that could’ve had a date. But that doesn’t leave much room to argue. A woman gets buried in the backyard of his shop on the last day of occupation, and then two days later he leaves the country for good.’

I kept my eyes on Yen. ‘They may even ask him to come back for a bit.’

‘To help with their inquiries,’ added Petra.

Yen took a sip of her scotch and then sighed, a soft, regretful sound that surprised me.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked gently. ‘This all must come as a terrible shock.’

She gave a slight shrug. Silence fell for a few more moments and then she looked up. ‘I could have gone with him, you know. He asked me to.’

I exchanged a glance with Petra. Our mother rarely spoke of her marriage and, if she did, it was in an impersonal tone. I was nearly forty-eight years old and all I knew was that the union had, apparently, ‘run its course’. She spoke of it as she would a secretarial qualification. Been there, done that, got the certificate to prove it.

‘Why didn’t you?’ asked Petra.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. With all the work I’d put into the shop? And on the eve of opening?’

‘But why did he have to leave
then
?’ I asked the million-dollar question. No doubt the same one my father was either already being asked, or was soon about to be. ‘Why not a year before, or a year later? Why
that
weekend?’

‘It just worked out that way,’ said Yen crossly. ‘One weekend’s the same as another.’

‘Not when your business closes on the Saturday! And your wife is about to open a brand-new one on Monday!’

Yen shook her head. ‘Your father’s business didn’t close on the Saturday. It closed on the Friday. The twenty-fifth of April is Anzac Day. That’s a public holiday in this country. Nice to see you’re both so patriotic that you forgot the one day each year we pay respect to those who have fought for this nation. Paid the ultimate sacrifice. Lest we forget? Remember?’

‘Yes, of course we do,’ I snapped. ‘It just got temporarily overshadowed by the news that a body was buried on my father’s watch. So don’t try to change the subject.’

Petra was nodding. ‘Besides, that just makes it worse. A busy weekend becomes even busier. He closes his shop on Friday, joins the Anzac commemorations on Saturday, has a day of rest on Sunday before Monday sees you open a new business and him flit off into the wide blue yonder.’

‘Abandoning his two pre-schoolers along the way,’ I added.

‘I don’t think England qualifies as the wide blue yonder,’ replied Yen. ‘Besides, it was
one
pre-schooler. You’d already started prep.’

‘Oh, well that’s
entirely
different. I’m surprised I was still living at home.’

Petra lifted her hand before Yen could respond. ‘So if that’s your standard weekend, then no wonder the marriage ran out of steam. He probably needed a break.’

Yen’s eyes narrowed. Instead of responding, however, she just kept her gaze fixed until Petra flushed and looked away. She had used the same tactic when we were small, with the same success. A steady gaze from my mother could shrivel your soul.

Laughter erupted from a table on our left, occupied by some young tradies. One of them had moulded a bread roll into the shape of a ball and they were tossing it around. A couple of sparrows danced along the kerb, watching the proceedings with bright, hungry eyes.

‘I won, you know,’ said Petra abruptly, turning to me. ‘It was forty-three years and I came closest with my seventy. You owe me chocolate.’

Yen frowned. ‘Please do not tell me that you bet on the murder of that poor woman.’

‘Okay,’ said Petra quickly, clearly regretting her contribution.

‘Well, I have to say that you never fail to plumb the depths of my expectations.’

‘Yen?’ I knew that she didn’t really care if we had bet on the bones or not; she just wanted to shift the focus away from herself. ‘You
have
to acknowledge that all this sounds very odd.’

‘I don’t
have
to do anything of the sort.’

‘Then can you at least answer one question? The blonde woman with the yellow handbag: does she ring any bells? Did anybody go missing around that time?’

‘Nobody,’ she answered, rather quickly.

I frowned, watching as she took another sip of scotch. A few long moments passed and then she sent me a challenging look. But something else shifted behind, a shadow of knowledge, huddling protectively. My eyes widened. ‘You know who it is.’

She folded her arms and looked away, towards the laneway. After a moment her eyebrows rose. ‘Nell Forrest Close? Really?’

Petra had followed her gaze. She started laughing. ‘Oh my god.’

‘I’m not sure I think that’s a good idea,’ continued Yen. ‘With your propensity for getting into trouble, do you really need to draw attention to your whereabouts?’

Petra was still laughing. ‘It sounds like a stalker alert. Take precautions, Nell Forrest Close.’

‘Deb’s taking care of it,’ I said shortly. ‘It’ll be changed soon. Now – who is she?’

‘No idea.’

I leant forward, trying to force eye contact. ‘You know. I
know
you know.’

‘No, you
think
you know that I know.’ She rose, plucking her bag from the table. ‘And as fascinating as a discussion about your knowledge always is, unfortunately I shall have to forgo the remainder. I am going home.’

‘But Yen –’

‘Goodbye.’

I watched her slim, straight-backed figure wind its way through the tables and out onto the footpath. As soon as she rounded the corner back towards Renaissance and her car, I turned to Petra. ‘She knows.’

‘I know.’

‘This is not looking good.’

Petra drew in a deep breath and then let it out, her shoulders dropping. ‘He has to be involved. There’re too many coincidences otherwise. Do you think she’ll call him?’

I thought of Darcy, now settled with a new partner and a new child, and what I would do under the circumstances. ‘Yes.’

The bread ball bounced onto our table and rolled to a stop by my wine. It was now a mottled grey colour. One of the young tradies rushed over to retrieve it, very apologetically. His pants hung from snake hips, with jellybean patterned boxers puckering above.  

‘I don’t really remember him,’ said Petra, as soon as the young guy had left. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought …’

‘Me neither.’

The sun was now directly behind the new street sign, with Nell Forrest Close framed by claret rays. We remained silent, each lost in memories that were born mainly from black-and-white photographs of forty-odd years ago. Sitting on his lap, riding high on his shoulders, secure in the knowledge he was simply there. Until one day he wasn’t.

*

Despite Grace June Rae’s assurances, the police investigation showed no signs of removing itself from my backyard. The blue canvas was still securely in place, the side fence was still missing, and there were still two police cars parked on the spare land beside my property. Along with a lone Channel Seven news van, complete with mini satellite dish mounted on the roof.

Charlotte, however, was now on the decking, looking none the worse for her ordeal. I positioned her by the sliding door and ignored Gusto’s forlorn face on the other side of the glass. For the time being the backyard was out of bounds for him, with Quinn having to take him out the front on a lead every few hours for ablutions. I watered the apple tree, standing back to admire the effect. Matt Carstairs, Scarlet’s fiancé, came wandering over, his police pistol bumping against his hip.

‘Hey, Nell. Dreadful business, isn’t it?’

I nodded. ‘I heard there was a press conference this afternoon?’

‘Yeah. They’re hoping someone will ID her based on the information we’ve got.’

‘Which is?’

‘Young, blonde female. Mid to late twenties. Yellow handbag. Black boots.’ He held a hand to his knee. ‘This high.’

‘Wasn’t there some form of identification in her handbag?’

‘Nah. It had a magazine and some make-up. Oh yeah, there was a change purse thing but it just had money and some receipts. Hang on …’ His ruddy skin visibly paled. ‘I don’t think they’ve released that information yet. Can you forget I told you?’

‘Told me what?’

‘About the purse.’

‘No, Matt.’ I smiled, despite everything. ‘I meant, consider it forgotten.’

‘Oh, good. Thanks.’

‘I suppose they didn’t have a lot of cards in those days. It wouldn’t be so unusual to have a purse without identification.’ I gave this some thought but then realised Matt was still looking nervous. I changed the subject. ‘So, all set for the big move this weekend?’

His face relaxed into a grin. ‘Sure am. Can’t wait. Scarlet’s already got a lot of her stuff up here already. Did you know my parents were coming up as well? To help?’

‘Considering they’re here for dinner Saturday night, yes, I did have some idea.’ I glanced over his shoulder to where Eric Male was making his way across the yard. His granite features were set in their usual implacable folds. ‘Here comes your boss.’

‘Shit.’

‘Ms Forrest.’ The detective nodded before turning to Matt. ‘Senior Constable Carstairs.’

‘Just getting back, sir,’ said Matt quickly, doing exactly that. He took up position by the missing fence and I guessed that his role consisted of ensuring no sightseers, or media, breached the gap. No wonder he seemed bored.

‘Befriending the local police?’ queried Eric Male. One of his eyebrows rose just slightly.

‘Actually, Matt is engaged to my eldest daughter. Their first child is due in a few weeks. So the befriending has already taken place.’

‘Clearly.’

I frowned, unsure whether he was trying to be clever, or witty, or just conversational.

‘We should be out of your hair soon.’ He lifted his eyes. ‘Nice hat.’

‘Thank you. So is there any news? Other than that released at the press conference?’

‘Not at this stage.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Not yet determined.’

I regarded him steadily. ‘And I gather you’ll be speaking to my father?’

‘Should I?’ His eyebrow lifted again. ‘Is that your recommendation?’

‘Well, no. It’s just that the timing, ah, with his shop. I thought …’

‘All avenues will be investigated, of course.’

It suddenly occurred to me that he was enjoying the conversation, and he was also making a point. My involvement was not going to be tolerated. This annoyed me. It was both unnecessary and presumptuous, given it was based on a premise that I even wanted to be involved.

‘I believe that you are, um, good friends with a colleague of mine. Ashley Armistead.’

My eyes narrowed. ‘I do know him, yes.’

‘A good man. He’d be in the middle of this if he was here, of course. But he’s not.’

‘No, he’s not.’

Eric Male smiled, but it was a smile that went nowhere near his eyes. ‘Best I get back to it then. Good day, Ms Forrest.’

I nodded, not really trusting myself to speak. The detective crossed the yard with slow, lengthy strides, towards the gap in the fence. He paused to have a word with Matt before continuing on to one of the police cars. I went inside and then stood, staring at the stacks of partially unpacked boxes. Gusto came over to stand by my side companionably. After a few minutes, with thoughts ricocheting around my head like bullets, I glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes to go before the late news and, hopefully, a repeat of the afternoon’s press conference. Knowledge was power.

I took off my hat and dropped it on the kitchen bench, then ran a hand through my hair. I could feel it rising crisply now that it was free. The house was quiet, with Quinn still at her friend Caitlin’s house until later. I picked up the landline handset and weighed it in my hand, trying to decide whether to make the call.

I had met Detective Sergeant Ashley Armistead the previous year, when he was investigating a local murder that, somehow, inadvertently, I had become involved in. It had not been until a few months later, however, that we had commenced our current relationship. But this itself was complicated, particularly at the moment. The truth was that I had been perfectly content with spending time together once a month, going away for a weekend, treating it,
us
, as time out, completely separate from my real life, so that I could slough off everything like a second skin and just rejuvenate. But Ashley had become increasingly disgruntled with this arrangement, so much so that his six-week secondment to the Northern Territory had come as something of a relief. For us both.

I ruffled Gusto’s fur and then took a deep breath before dialling his mobile.

‘Hello, Ashley Armistead speaking.’

‘Hey, it’s me.’