Murder with the Lot (12 page)

‘I don't know.' I held it out for her to take.

She didn't take it. ‘Take it back to Mona, sweet pea.'

‘Um…I don't know where she is. Do you?'

‘I wouldn't have the vaguest idea where Mona is at any given moment.'

‘You don't see her often?'

‘Just who
are
you?' Her eyes were post-box slits. ‘The police?'

I cleared my throat. ‘Look, I'm just trying to do the right thing here. Are you going to take this briefcase or not?'

She tilted her head to one side. ‘That's a not, my honeydew. I don't go near Mona or her toxic grandson, not anymore. Take it to Mona's lovely little PA.' She waved a hand towards the door. ‘Ravi'll look after it.'

I tried another tack. ‘I see you're closing down,' pointing at the sign.

‘Yes. Time to move on, I'm starting a B&B not far from the Soak. You could send along your customers.' She laughed, more shattered glass.

‘At Hocking Hall? It would make a terrific B&B,' I said.

She stared at me a long moment. ‘Yes, wouldn't it. Not Mona's thing though. Too busy with all her charities.' She paused. ‘But Mona won't be around forever, will she?'

Back in the car, I passed the derestricted sign south of town. There was uninterrupted green hedging to the left, paddocks of greying grass to the right. Black cattle nosed around the grass, winding long strands around their tongues. Then, on the left, there was an opening in the hedge. Tall pink gates, a sign, ‘Hocking Hall'. I pulled in, stepped out and pressed the intercom.

‘Cass Tuplin to see Mona Hocking-Lee,' I said.

‘Mrs Hocking-Lee is away. Do you have an appointment?'

‘No, but…'

‘I'm afraid we don't admit visitors without an appointment.'

‘I need to return a briefcase.'

Some rustling, as though someone was looking through papers. A murmured conversation.

I leaned in, resting my arm against the wall. ‘Actually, the briefcase looks quite expensive.'

More rustling. The gates opened with a hum.

I steered along the driveway, a gravel ribbon lined with trees, leading to wide green lawns, and the spouting lion fountains I'd seen on the internet. Finally I saw the house, large, turreted and surrounded by verandahs.

I parked by the sign that said ‘Visitor parking.' Another gate, another intercom. No rustling this time, the gate hummed open.

A young man met me at the door. He had dark brown eyes, straight black hair, a sculpted face, the kind of body one of those Bollywood movie moguls would snap right up. His shirt was more unbuttoned than was warranted, in my opinion. Presumably this was Ravi. He held a mobile against his ear and waved me towards a room without interrupting his phone call.

I tip-tapped across the marble floor into a large, dim room. Brown leather armchairs were arranged around a fireplace. Bookcases lined three walls. I took a squiz, running a hand along the shelves: all kinds of books; cracked leather covers, creased paperbacks, rows of slim journals with wearying names—
Ecological Economics
,
Corporate Social Responsibility
,
Business and Sustainability
. Near the floor, two shelves of mystery books. Old ones, with lurid covers.

‘Look, Grantley, Mona isn't here at the moment.' Ravi spoke from the doorway into his phone. ‘I'll let her know you called.' An English accent. He saw me looking, closed the door.

I stood near the door, listening carefully.

‘Clarence? I have no idea where he is. Isn't he at work with you?' Ravi's voice was muffled.

I pressed my ear against the door.

‘What?' Ravi's voice rose a few notes. ‘Mona will be very concerned about this. She's terribly keen for this intern thing to work out. That's the only reason she agreed to your excessive fee.'

I looked around. There was nothing homey about the room, no family photos, footy trophies or kids' basketball awards. A wall full of photos of Mona at business dinners, collecting awards. She was a woman who knew how to look good in her clothes.

‘What do you mean he's stolen your property? What kind of property?' said Ravi.

I held my breath.

‘Personal? Look, Mona will need full details.' He paused. ‘Absolutely not. No. Anyway, I don't have the authority to make that kind of payment.'

I peered at her awards.

Fairleigh Special Programmes Award presented to Balance Neutral for outstanding practical work in the field of sustainability
.

LiveWell Best Practice Not-for-Profit Award
. For Balance Neutral.

Good Giving Guide Award
. Balance Neutral again.

‘I have someone here,' said Ravi. ‘I really must go. Yes, yes, of course I'll let Mona know.' The snapping sound of a phone closing.

The door opened and Ravi walked in, swinging his hand onto his hip.

‘So what's all this about a briefcase?' He looked me up and down, taking in my bandaged leg.

‘Cass Tuplin,' I said, holding out my hand. ‘And you are…?'

‘Ravi Gounder.' He shook my hand for only the briefest moment.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘Mrs Hocking-Lee left this case with me. I thought I should return it.' I held it out.

He took the case from my hands, turning it over, studying it. ‘This isn't Mona's.' He gave me a sharp look. ‘Where did you get this?'

‘Oh,' I waved a hand, ‘she asked me to hold onto it for a day or two. I understand it belongs to her grandson, Clarence. He's renting Mr Jefferson's charming lakeside cottage. The one near Rusty Bore. I am his agent.' I used my most dignified tone.

‘Clarence is in Rusty Bore?'

‘Yes, in the environs,' I said. It didn't seem the moment to mention Clarence and his handcuffs. ‘You know Mr Jefferson, of course? I believe he and Mrs Hocking-Lee go back a very long way.' Ernie would understand the imperative for a little fiction.

‘Never heard of him.'

‘Oh? I must say I'm surprised she hasn't mentioned him. Perhaps,' I paused. ‘Well, their relationship is quite personal.'

Ravi's face darkened.

‘Not
that
personal,' I said quickly, and added a light and tinkly laugh. Maybe Mona and Ravi were an item. Maybe she'd been a woman with a lot of pent-up energy. Although my guess was Ravi wasn't primarily focused on the energy of women.

‘He's always been a father figure for her, I understand. Mr Jefferson is quite elderly. He doesn't have quite…the vigour he once had. Anyway,' I paused, thinking quickly. ‘The point is, I have some disappointing news. I'm afraid there's been some damage to the cottage.'

Ravi looked like he was having trouble taking all this in. I'll admit I was having a bit of trouble keeping up with it myself. ‘What kind of damage?' he said, running a hand across his forehead.

‘Well, a lot of broken crockery. All of Mr Jefferson's lovely willow pattern plates, smashed into tiny pieces. He was terribly fond of those, they were his mother's. I always told him it was a mistake to leave items of sentimental value in a rental cottage.' I clicked my tongue. ‘There's some structural damage too, I'm afraid. A door has been torn off its hinges. And,' I paused, ‘there was a lot of ripped-up women's clothing in the bedrooms. Mr Jefferson was rather shocked about that, to tell you the truth.'

Ravi swallowed.

‘You're sure you don't know Mr Jefferson?' I said. ‘Ernest Jefferson. You must have heard of him, surely. He has a whole suite of agricultural machinery businesses throughout the north-west. Terribly successful.' Well, Ernie did have a rusting pump by Perry Lake he'd once tried to flog off to Vern.

Ravi, looking bewildered, shook his head. ‘I don't understand any of this. What's Clarence doing in Rusty Bore?'

‘Something about writing a book.' I gave another little laugh.

‘Book? Clarence? He can't even spell.'

‘Really? And after all those bedtime stories Mr Jefferson read to him when he was small. Oh, he will be disappointed. He's been so looking forward to the book. Although I'm not sure what it's about…?'

‘That makes two of us.'

‘Anyway,' I said, ‘as you can imagine, Mr Jefferson is keen to resolve all this with as little fuss as possible. The trouble is…well, I've had no success at all contacting Clarence. He's not at the property. Perhaps if you could try to phone him? I'm happy to wait,' I said with an officious smirk.

He snorted. ‘No point in calling Clarence.'

‘Oh?'

Ravi gave me a dishwater smile. ‘Family business. There's no need to go into…'

‘I see. Well, if you could perhaps call Mrs Hocking-Lee?'

‘The trouble is,' he ran a hand through his hair, ‘I've just tried her mobile, it's switched off. It's been off for days, actually.' He paused. ‘Oh dear, this is all rather inconvenient.'

‘Isn't it.' Another light click of my tongue. ‘And she's due back when…?'

‘Well, yesterday. I don't know what could have delayed her. It's unlike her not to let me know,' he said.

‘Ah. Now that
is
a little worrying.' I leaned in closer and adopted a confidential tone. ‘I'm actually a bit concerned for Mrs Hocking-Lee, Ravi. I do hope everything's all right, but…'

‘But what?' Poor Ravi. His eyes were restless pools of black-gloss ink.

‘You know I really don't have a good feeling about this. Mrs Hocking-Lee seemed terribly…anxious when I saw her on Saturday. And with all that torn-up clothing, well…I hope Clarence isn't a violent person?'

‘Violent?' Ravi's eyes widened. ‘But he would never harm her. Surely?'

A pause.

‘Mona works so damned hard.' Ravi seemed to be talking to himself. ‘It's simply unjust she's been inflicted with that appalling grandson. She gives him everything, money, that car, his own flat here in the hall, but no, he has to steal and cheat. She's tried everything. Threats, bribes, motivational therapists. He's just…'

Yep, I understood. A dropkick.

‘Any recent disagreements?' I said. ‘In particular…?'

‘Well, there are so many…' he paused.

I waited. The key to effective grilling is knowing when to wait.

‘He said she'd held him back from his dream.'

‘And that was…?' I said.

‘He wanted to be a professional gambler.'

‘Oh? Is that an actual occupation?'

Ravi snorted. ‘She thought the internship with Grantley…'

‘Grantley's a professional gambler?' I said.

‘He was. Unsuccessful. Now he's an accountant.'

An accountant with a past as an unsuccessful gambler. Not the best of looks.

‘Well, Mr Jefferson is quite worried,' I said. ‘In fact, he said to me this morning, as he wrung his work-worn hands, “Cass my dear, the only responsible course of action for us now is to phone the police.” You know, Ravi, it was truly heart-wrenching to see the pain in that poor man's honest face.'

‘Police.' Ravi's eyes bulged.

‘So,' I said, ‘shall we do that? I mean, really Mrs Hocking-Lee is sort of missing, isn't she?'

‘Missing,' said Ravi, a panicked expression on his face. ‘Oh my God. Here, use my phone.' He held it out.

‘Actually, it's probably better coming from you,' I said. ‘Right.' Ravi opened his phone. ‘Yes. Sod Clarence.'

‘Exactly,' I said, in a brisk tone. ‘Now, I don't mean to worry you further, but there were several bullet holes in the kitchen wall at the cottage.' I paused. ‘I think you'll probably need a taskforce. As it happens, I have the number of a terrific police officer in Hustle. He'd be the ideal lead for that taskforce. I'd suggest you ring him direct.'

He gave me a look like I was offering him week-old snapper. ‘No, thank you.' He sniffed. ‘I'll call our local police, here in Muddy Soak. They'll work out the best approach.'

At last. Mona was missing. Officially. Once Ravi made that phone call. Now the police would have to get involved. I started the car, a smile on my face. A wedge-tailed eagle soared across the sky. I snapped shut my seatbelt, then drove on through the pink gates, turning onto the highway. I'll admit I was pretty proud of myself, the way I'd handled Ravi. I was starting to think I could be good at this. It was like playing tractor chicken. Like that scene from
Footloose,
where Kevin Bacon wins. Against that fella in those tight jeans.

I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich from one of Muddy Soak's multitude of up-market cafes, then set off in search of Pittering and Son. It turned out to be a dingy accounting establishment, with a small window looking out over a dusty yard. A rat-faced man met me at the door. Silver hair, navy suit. He moved stiffly, like he carried an old injury or had bad joints.

‘Grantley Pittering,' he shook my hand. ‘The son. And you are?'

‘Cass Tuplin. Major retailer in Rusty Bore. Looking at expansion down the track, but before that…' I glanced at the leaflets on the counter.

‘You're in the market for a top-notch accountant?' He smiled, rubbing his hands, dark pouches below his eyes. A faint waft of old alcohol rose from his skin. ‘You've come to the right place. But I warn you, we're about far more than mere number-crunching here. Business has to be transparent, truly porous, these days. Don't you agree?'

‘Wipe your feet,' screamed a voice behind him. A grey parrot in a cage.

Grantley waved me to a seat in front of his desk, settling himself on the other side. I gathered up some of the leaflets. ‘Well…' I started.

‘Yes, many of our customers are unsure at first which package floats their boat.' He held out a coffee-stained brochure. ‘We specialise in bookkeeping and can furnish a full suite of BAS-related services. And we offer a multi-faceted approach to your taxation situation. Perhaps you're planning for retirement, looking at an intergenerational property transfer?'