Murder with the Lot (13 page)

Retirement? Thanks, Grantley. I flicked through the leaflets. North-West Parrot Trust. Balance Neutral. Pictures of smiling people, colourful birds.

‘Our gold package is popular,' Grantley said. ‘It's favoured by many of our self-fundeds, those with appropriate liquidity, of course.'

‘Actually, Mona Hocking-Lee sent me,' I said.

Grantley's flushed face turned grey. ‘Mona?' He didn't seem to know where to put his hands. He tried running them through his hair. He put them in his pockets, took them out again. ‘And your connection with her is…?'

‘She's invited me onto one of her boards,' I said, suddenly inspired.

‘I don't recall her mentioning that.' Grantley flicked through a notepad.

‘No, I haven't accepted yet. She suggested I come and see you. To help me decide.'

‘I see. Which board?'

Good question. ‘Mona said she was looking for someone independent, unconnected…'

‘Unconnected with what? Which board?' said Grantley. The thing is, Kevin Bacon only won at tractor chicken because his foot got stuck. I looked down, sweating. ‘The North-West Parrot Trust.' I held up the leaflet.

Grantley licked his lips. ‘First-rate little trust, that one. Does terrific conservation work in the region. You're a bird enthusiast, Mrs Tuplin?'

‘Fanatic,' I lied.

‘Don't you touch me, Kev,' the parrot screamed. Some clicking while it ate some seeds.

‘Tuplin,' said Grantley. ‘A familiar name. I had a Tuplin in here this morning, I'm sure of it.'

Dean, on the case at last.

‘I'll pull together some documents for you,' he said. ‘Mona's portfolio is tremendously successful. She's my biggest client.'

I glanced around. Three overfull filing cabinets, their drawers not quite closed. A row of grubby-looking files on the floor. A lamp hanging crookedly on its stand.

Was Grantley still gambling and if so, still unsuccessfully? What signs should I be looking for? Mounds of old Tattslotto tickets? Torn-up form guides? RSI of the pokies wrist?

‘Actually, I've been trying to contact Mona all week.' Grantley loosened his tie.

I clicked my tongue. ‘Such a busy woman. All those charities. And her family takes up a lot of her time.'

I leaned an arm on Grantley's desk. ‘In fact, there's another matter I'd like to discuss. I'm looking for a trainee and I immediately thought of Clarence. But Mona said he has an internship here?'

‘Ah. He started four weeks ago. But, ah…'

‘Good little worker?'

‘Early days, of course. But, ah…Clarence has enormous potential, just enormous.' He sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. ‘One or two minor training issues we're working on. Attendance, that type of thing.'

I leaned in close, like we were conspirators from way back. ‘I'm more familiar than I care to admit with problems of this nature. I've seen too many employees who are all yack and no yakka. Take my son, Bradley, who's…'

‘Actually, Clarence might enjoy a change,' said Grantley. ‘You have a son working with you in your business? Clarence would flourish with company his own age. Have you spoken to him to assess his interest?'

‘Not in detail,' I said. ‘It would be terribly useful to have an informed perspective on his performance. An honest view. So many employers won't tell you what they really think. And Mona,' I was on a roll, ‘did mention there'd been…a little crisis…'

‘Oh, no, no. Not what you'd call a crisis.' Grantley's hands shook.

‘If I took Clarence on, I'd need to understand him. Fully. Comprehend all his strengths and weaknesses.'

‘I tried explaining it to Mona in my phone messages.'

I nodded.

‘I hope she's not…?'

‘Oh no, no.' I used my most soothing tone.

‘Well, Clarence came to me with an odd story. Rather unpleasant, in fact. Still, I don't need to go into details.'

‘Grantley, I'm sure Mona would prefer that you and I were completely honest with each other.' I gave him the threatening smile. The one I used on the boys back when they were kids.

Grantley reached into his drawer and took out a bottle of Bakery Hill Classic Single Malt. He poured three generous glassfuls.

I held mine carefully so it didn't spill.

Grantley threw back a glassful, rapidly followed by the second. ‘I need you to understand we have very high standards in this organisation.' His hands were less shaky now.

‘Of course.' I raised my glass and wet my lips.

‘And just because Mona is my biggest client doesn't mean I'd do
anything
for her. I do have my…err.'

‘I certainly understand integrity.' I sipped again.

He poured another drink and knocked it back.

‘Clarence crossed a line, you know.' Grantley was slurring a little now. ‘I had no option but to have him leave my office. I wouldn'a had him here in the first place, but my brother…'

‘Your brother works with you?'

‘Not any more. He's dead.'

A dead Pittering.
Taylah's voice in my head.

‘Ah. Was he involved in a drama group?'

‘Yes, poor Kev would have loved this ridiculous Christmas Fringe Festival.' Grantley swayed a little in his chair. ‘In my day, entertainment was entertaining. None of this heads on sticks insanity.'

Heads on sticks? Maybe it was a bit early for whisky. ‘And Clarence…?' Did what? Killed Grantley's brother? Put his head on a stick?

‘Clarence said he'd found the truth in my brother's old briefcase. At first I thought he was talking about some demented religious experience. Then he said someone would be sorry.'

‘Sorry for what?'

‘Didn't say.'

‘What happened to your brother?'

He paused. ‘He died in a train accident. Six months ago.' His voice was flat.

‘Organised, I need things bloody organised, Kev,' screamed the parrot.

Grantley stood up, a little unsteady, and put a black cover over the cage.

‘Sorry to hear it, Mr Pittering. Never easy losing someone. I lost my husband almost two years ago.' I put down my glass. ‘Was there…any suggestion your brother's death was suspicious?'

He squinted at me. ‘You're asking a lot of very odd questions, Mrs Tuplin.'

‘Oh, just ensuring I understand all the people I'll be working with.' I waved my hand.

‘Well, I'll have you know Muddy Soak has a record. It's been crime free since 1988.'

‘Records can break, though, surely.'

‘Perhaps.' Grantley put the bottle back into his drawer. ‘Still, none of this is relevant to your decision. I suggest you talk to Clarence and assess his interest. I haven't seen him all week, so he obviously isn't interested in working here any longer. Perhaps when you see him you could ask him to return my brother's briefcase. It would mean a great deal to my mother.'

I was glad I'd left the case in the car.

‘And now,' he glanced at his watch, ‘I'm afraid I have a meeting.'

I stood up, shook his hand.

Outside the door, I paused. I figured I'd pop back in, Columbo-style, and ask one last, naive-seeming question, the one that finally dredges out the truth.

I opened the door.

Grantley was on the phone. ‘Sergeant Monaghan?' His voice was low.

Thing is, I didn't know the question. And Grantley wasn't supposed to be phoning the police. I closed the door quietly and left.

I got into the car, drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe I shouldn't have pretended Mona sent me. Maybe Grantley knew I was lying, that's why he phoned Monaghan. Maybe Grantley killed his brother. He wouldn't want anyone snooping in that case. And it wouldn't have been easy for him to get out of gambling; Ravi said he'd owed a lot of money. Maybe Grantley had powerful friends. Not very friendly friends.

I phoned Brad.

‘You have to take that briefcase to Sergeant Monaghan. Today.' Brad's voice was grim.

‘No way. That lot's for Dean, it's obviously important. Clarence found something in that briefcase, something I haven't located yet.'

‘Jesus, Mum. Can't you leave this Clarence bloke alone?'

‘Brad. Mona is dead, shot through the head. Clarence is missing. And Aurora. And there are bullet holes in the wall at Ernie's shack. Of course I'm not going to leave this alone.' I paused. ‘You do believe me, don't you?'

‘Well…'

‘Come on, son. Don't get all Dean on me here.'

‘OK, let's say, just hypothetically, just for a moment, that what you're saying is true.'

Hypothetically was a start, at least.

‘In that case, tell Dean. Or Monaghan,' he said.

I sighed. ‘Keep up, son, I've tried all that. Look, think of it this way. It's like when you go off to do your fighting for the river. Sometimes you just can't rely on those in charge. You have to sort things out yourself.'

A pause.

‘Well, what about those charities of Mona's?' he said. ‘They might have something to do with it. What's the bird one? The North-West Parrot Trust?'

Good on Brad. Any opportunity to weave parrots into his day. ‘I need a list of Mona's exes,' I said. ‘Exes kill all the time. Everybody knows that.'

Some keyboard clicking noises. ‘On their website the North-West Parrot Trust say they're a group of bird breeders and collectors.'

‘Brad.' I put the leaflet on my lap and smoothed it out while I chose my words. ‘I know you're interested in birds and rivers and trees and everything, love. That's terrific. Nothing wrong with an interest, but we need to focus here. Not get too distracted by things that are beside the point.'

‘Mum, listen to me. Some bird clubs are a front for wildlife smuggling. It's worth billions. The trust could be a cover for poachers, stealing eggs from bird nests in the wild, smuggling them overseas.'

I unfolded the leaflet. A familiar face stared up at me. ‘Jesus, Noel's in this brochure!'

A pause while Brad digested that.

‘Did Noel mention any specific birds when you saw him?' he said. ‘Major Mitchell cockatoos maybe? They nest at Perry Lake and they're worth big money overseas. Not to mention they're a threatened species in Victoria. Bastards.'

What birds had Noel mentioned? All I could remember was his lack of binoculars. And the esky. I looked out at the street. Watched a thin, grey-haired man hurry past holding a child by one hand.

Maybe Mona saw Noel. And he killed her to shut her up. I pondered, staring at Muddy Soak's stately honey-coloured post office, the huge green park with its open-air fernery and tumbling waterfall.

‘Hey, I'm looking at the website for Balance Neutral,' said Brad. ‘They do carbon offsetting. Voluntary. When you get on a plane Balance Neutral plants trees on your behalf. For a fee.'

‘What an atrocious waste of money. Who'd pay for that?'

Brad sighed. Like I'd confirmed something he'd long suspected and not a good kind of something. ‘You don't listen to anything, do you? You watch the news? Read anything? Heard of carbon dioxide, Mum? Air; maybe you've heard of that?'

‘There's no need to be condescending. Not all of us have the entire day to do as we please, demonstrating all over the place against every little thing. Some of us have lives, Brad. Real lives we're busy getting on with.'

A silence.

‘Thanks for reminding me,' he said.

‘You're welcome.' My voice sounded more prim than I'd intended.

‘Yep, that'd be me.' He paused. ‘No real life.'

A gust of wind whipped some leaves against the car.

‘Brad, I didn't…'

‘I was going to leave this hopeless bloody place once you know, leave my hopeless bloody mother and go to uni. But…'

Hopeless bloody mother? What uni?

‘I couldn't leave you on your own. Not after Dad… And I knew Dean wouldn't be any use. I'll go next year, I thought. Or the next; I'd go later. But the question is, when is that? When is later?' He spoke in a whisper, like he was talking to himself, not me.

There was a nasty silence and he hung up.

Gripping the phone, I focused on the road ahead, blinking fast.

Brad would hate the city, course he would. Busy freeways, surly people, murders everywhere. And there are a lot of people's feelings he needs to consider here. Ernie. Dean. Madison, the ferrets. And now there's Claire and, soon, the baby, they'd all miss him. They're used to him. A lot of people are used to Brad. A lot.

A white Commodore pulled up across the road. It looked familiar and…shit. Monaghan.

I grabbed my seatbelt and flung it on, started up the car. Monaghan got out of the Commodore, leather coat flapping in the wind, and headed into Pittering and Son.

I drove out of Muddy Soak quick smart, past the red Christmas Fringe Festival posters, the shady trees, the waterfall, all the fancy cafes and patisseries.

My phone rang: Dean. I pulled over.

‘Mum? Where are you?'

‘In the car.'

‘What are you up to now?'

None of your bloody business. ‘Needed a few supplies from Muddy Soak,' I said. ‘Had a bit of a dim sim emergency.'

‘I was in Muddy Soak. I didn't see you there.'

‘Big place, son. Anyway, why were you there?'

‘Police business. Following up on your dog bite. Noel's van is registered to an address in Muddy Soak. Care of Pittering and Son.'

So Dean
was
there. ‘Why's it registered with Grantley?'

There was a pause. ‘How do you know about Grantley?'

Ah. ‘You mentioned him, didn't you?'

‘No.' Dean's voice was rock-hard cement.

‘I must have heard the name somewhere, probably Ernie. You know what he's like—a walking map of the Mallee. Anyway, how did you get on?'