Through a Camel's Eye (8 page)

FOURTEEN

They were the only customers. ‘Diners,' Anthea said solemnly. ‘We're the only diners.'

Egging one another on, they ordered enough for four people. The waiter showed no surprise at this, but the glances he gave them were wary, though neither was wearing a uniform.

They voiced their fears for and about Julie Beshervase. It was Chris's opinion that Julie was less reliable than Camilla, more inclined to lie if she thought she had anything to gain by it.

‘You don't think she
broke
Camilla's leg, do you?'

No, Chris didn't think so. But there was really no telling, with a wild one like that.

Anthea put down her chopsticks. She liked eating with chopsticks and, when their food arrived, had decided not to be put off by the wince of embarrassment Chris offered her before taking up his knife and fork.

‘Do you think Riza's dead?' she asked.

‘I think he might be.'

‘Do you believe his death is related to Margaret Benton's?'

‘I said I thought he might be dead, that's all. But yes, in answer to your question, I believe it is.'

When Anthea had collected her car from the station and gone home, Chris made himself another cup of tea and drank it on the back veranda. A big meal like that should have made him feel sleepy, but he wasn't sleepy. His senses were alert and his mind flicked from one set of problems to another. He wondered if he should have found out what was bothering Anthea, but she'd made it clear she didn't want him to pry. She'd looked so white and strained; her small face had been pulled tight, to hold together whatever was going on behind it.

Chris's thoughts returned to Simon Renfrew and the interview he knew he'd handled badly. He reflected that, of all the circumstances under which he could have arranged to question Camilla's son, the way it turned out had been the least likely to produce a satisfactory result. He was annoyed with himself for not having spoken to Simon earlier, for having put it off till now, when his mother's broken leg was an added complication.

Chris had seen immediately that Simon was the sort of man used to dominating any gathering he happened to find himself in, even a gathering of two when the other individual was a policeman. First, there was his size. He was a good seven centimetres taller than Chris, who marvelled that a small, slight woman could have produced such a thumper. He understood that Simon was the kind of man who, having reached a peak of sporting prowess by the end of high school, too young to have learnt the relativity of any success, and no doubt confident that his would go on forever, had blamed the world when this turned out not to be the case. A sulky dissatisfaction in his eyes and around his heavy shoulders looked to be habitual, hinting at people and situations that went on letting him down.

Simon's features had taken on an attitude of boredom when Chris asked him how often he thought he'd be able to get down to see his mother. Then Chris had asked about the possibility of transferring Camilla to a Melbourne hospital, to make it easier for her son to visit, and had the satisfaction of watching an expression of alarm take over.

Simon's face would resist ageing; every muscle would resist it; but that challenge was still some years away. His straight fair hair was the type that thinned early. This realisation gave Chris a small, uncharitable satisfaction, till it occurred to him that his own hair was of a similar type. He recalled the café where they'd talked, how tense Simon had been inside the hospital and how his muscles had visibly relaxed after they'd walked through the main section to an outdoor eating area, decorated with plants in raised, brick-surrounded beds.

The sun had shone down warmly on the paving stones, and on the children's corner with its moulded plastic blocks and climbing frame. Chris had bought coffee for them both. They'd sat facing the You Yangs, and an oil tanker making its way across to the refinery. Chris had liked being on a level with the treetops. He could have gone on quite happily drinking his coffee, but he wished he'd been more adept at handling Simon.

FIFTEEN

Swan Bay
caravan park was on the Geelong-Queenscliff road, well placed to attract visitors to the Bellarine Peninsula. The McIntyres had left most of the trees in front to provide a screen from the dust and noise of traffic. The cabins and van sites weren't cramped close together; between them trees and bushes had been used to good effect as well. It occurred to Chris that noise within the cabins - noise of an argument, for instance - would be muted. The place was clean and well maintained. He knew Penny was worried about the lack of custom, and he didn't want to add to her worries; but that couldn't be helped.

When Chris knocked on the office door and asked if he could have another word with Ben, Penny said he'd taken the dog for a walk around Swan Bay.

Chris hurried away before she could insist on being present when he questioned her son.

Once out the gates, he forced himself to face his fear. He was about to make himself do something he hated, all because he wanted to catch Ben on his own.

Chris was of an age and class of man who did not believe in therapy. He believed in getting on with it. This belief, or lack of belief, had been a source of corrosive disagreement with his mother, never openly expressed. Born in the Otways, never having learnt to swim as a child, Fiona Blackie had been, for all of Chris's life, and certainly before it too, frightened of the water. To give his mother her due, she'd tried hard not to pass on this fear to her only son. He'd had swimming lessons. He'd been encouraged, even forced against his will at times, to do what other boys did. It hadn't worked. He'd endured the lessons, and absorbed the emotions that lay beneath his mother's strained encouragement.

He'd been in Melbourne for five years when his father drowned. He'd had no intention of returning to Queenscliff and his mother hadn't asked him to, at least not in words. When it became clear that she wasn't coping, he'd told himself that he need only come back for a few months, to see her on her feet again.

‘The sea took him,' his mother used to say. She never said drowned; always ‘the sea took him'. She lived with her back resolutely turned towards it, but refused to sell the house and move. Chris hatched plans, applied for country stations, cajoled, persuaded and demanded, all to no avail. Fiona Blackie had possessed the intense stubbornness of the weak.

No body had been found; no grave to tend. Instead, this huge and terrifying ocean. His mother had not been religious, not in any way that Chris considered normal. Yet her duty of keeping vigil had been carried out with a dedication that was almost mystical.

All of which brought him more or less here, to his own avoidances and fears, to the flat, marshy expanse of Swan Bay, weeds that could hold a body down, if, that is, a body happened to be silly enough to venture into it.

Chris knew he never would. He'd never had that kind of recklessness, even as a child. When he'd fought with other boys it had been because he had no choice. Yet here he was, contemplating the ignominy of such an end, compared to that of his father, who'd died a hero's death.

Chris followed the shoreline, keeping his eyes down. At low tide, mud and rotting seagrass formed a kind of path. Water birds were feeding way out on the horizon. If he kept going, he would pass below Anthea's flat, where the land rose creating a mix between a sand dune and a crumbling cliff. He thought of that other cliff, on the ocean side, bordered by sandhills where he'd found Margaret Benton's coat, and the path to the lighthouse, where Camilla had seen the murdered woman, and had heard her scream.

As a boy, long, solitary after-school explorations had taken Chris to the town's boundaries and around them time and time again. Once he'd found a tiger snake's skin and taken it home. His mother had refused to let him keep it in the house. Only hunger dragged him back from these expeditions, knowing the exact form of his mother's reproach, reciting the words now with a bitterness that made him shake.

His father's shift work had meant that he was often out in the evenings. Chris walked on, the exact taste in his mouth of how he'd dreaded going home, and how his hunger always got the better of him.

He kept on walking, overcoming a hurdle, notching up a success that no one would ever know about besides himself. The flat bay, the stink of rotting weeds, made his stomach turn. He could see no beauty in it anywhere.

He rounded a pile of broken rocks and came face to face with Ben, wearing a parka with the hood pulled up. As soon as the boy spotted Chris, he whistled loudly. A collie came running, and Ben put him on the lead.

‘About that fight over the barbecues, Ben,' Chris said without preamble, ‘was anybody else involved?'

Ben fiddled with his collie's lead in order to avoid looking up. ‘You mean, like other campers?' he asked in a voice that was barely audible.

‘Anyone at all.'

‘Well, like, there were these guys and they both reckoned they got there first.'

Chris nodded, and took Ben quietly through the details before repeating his question. ‘Anybody else?'

‘The others just wanted to stay out of it.'

‘What about Mrs Benton? What was she doing at the time?'

‘Mrs - ?' Ben repeated, but seemed unable to get his tongue around the name. He scratched his head. Chris waited. Finally, the boy said, ‘She tried to stop her husband from losing his temper. But it was too late.'

‘Did you see where Mrs Benton went after your father sorted out the argument?'

‘She left. With her husband.'

‘Straight away? They'd have to pack. And what about their evening meal?'

‘I dunno. I - I did see her talking to someone later on that night.'

‘Another woman? Do you know her name?'

Ben shook his head.

‘Do you have any idea what they were talking about?'

‘You mean like, was I listening?'

‘I thought, if Mrs Benton was upset, she might have - '

‘I don't reckon she was
that
upset. She didn't show it anyway.'

‘Where were the two women when you saw them talking?'

‘Mrs Benton went back to her cabin, then later on I saw this other lady going in.'

‘Thanks Ben,' Chris said. ‘You've been helpful.'

‘Is that all?'

‘For the time being.'

‘You haven't found that camel?'

‘No.'

Penny invited Chris to take a seat in the office. In answer to his inquiry, she looked annoyed, but did as he asked and took down the big reservations folder.

The argument over the barbecues had taken place on a Wednesday. The Bentons had booked till the following Saturday, but had left on the Thursday morning.

‘How did they pay?' Chris asked.

‘By credit card.'

‘In advance?'

‘Yes. Everyone has to pay in advance at that time of year.'

‘Did they ask for a refund?'

‘I don't think I was in the office when they dropped their key off. They may have asked Alex. There's nothing written here. I'm sure he wouldn't have given it to them.'

‘Ben told me he saw Margaret Benton talking to another guest the night her husband got into a row. Do you know who that might have been?'

Penny pursed her lips then said, ‘It might have been Mrs Desmain.'

When Chris asked for Mrs Desmain's contact details, Penny swung the book around and he copied them.

‘Did he kill her, that husband of hers?'

‘I don't know,' Chris said. ‘What was Margaret Benton like?'

‘I never had anything to do with her. Well, apart from once when she came to ask me about the washing machines.'

‘I know it was your busiest time.'

‘Run off my feet. And thank goodness for it, because look at this.'

‘It'll pick up, Penny. Don't worry. Did you see Margaret Benton talking to other campers, other guests?'

‘I know you're trying to build up a background, but - '

‘But what?'

‘Well, they came from Swan Hill. They went back there, didn't they? That's where she was killed.'

Chris did not attempt to respond to this. When he asked Penny if she'd seen the couple leave, Penny shook her head.

‘Don't be too hard on Ben,' she said.

‘What's Ben done?'

Penny said firmly, ‘Nothing wrong, so far as I know.'

Chris gave her a searching look. When it was clear she wasn't prepared to say anything more, he thanked her and wished her good afternoon.

Chris phoned Mrs Desmain from the station, feeling lucky that she seemed willing to talk. She'd only met Margaret Benton at the caravan park, hadn't known her before, and they hadn't spent much time together, just half an hour or so in the laundry one morning.

‘She didn't have the right change, and I was able to help her out.'

‘What sort of washing did Mrs Benton have?'

‘Well, the usual things. There was one thing I noticed. A yellow cardigan. Nice, it was. I said the machine might be a bit hard on it.'

‘What happened on the Wednesday night?'

‘We were having a barbecue tea. I've got two little kiddies and my youngest - he's only seven, but his father was showing him how to cook the sausages. I guess you've heard about the argument - that's why you're ringing me?'

Chris said that he had.

Mrs Desmain's account tallied with what the McIntyres had said.

‘What did Mrs Benton do when the argument broke out?' Chris asked.

‘She tried to calm her husband down, but she wasn't having much success. Then Alex came over and had a go at him.'

‘Did you see where Mrs Benton went?'

‘Not then, I didn't. We finished our tea, and my husband took the boys to the games room while I did a bit of cleaning up. Then, when I was on my way back, Margaret came to the door of her cabin. I could see that she'd been crying. I went inside and we talked for a few minutes. I asked if there was anything I could do, but she said there wasn't. She said they'd have to leave in the morning.'

‘Did you see any signs that Jack Benton might be violent towards his wife?'

‘Beat her up, you mean?'

‘I'm not making suggestions, Mrs. Desmain. I'd just like you to cast your mind back and tell me what you remember.'

‘I was upset when I heard she'd gone missing, and then when her body was found - I mean, it wasn't as though we were friends or anything, but I felt upset. I never saw any signs of violence. Maybe she was the sort of person who hates a fuss. That husband of hers was the opposite. The more noise he made the happier he was. I do remember her saying to me that they wouldn't get in anywhere else without a booking. Not over the Christmas break.'

‘Did you see Mrs Benton again?'

‘No, I didn't. It was a lovely day the next day. The weather hadn't been too good, but that morning was lovely. We got up early and took the boys to the beach. I remember looking over to the Benton's cabin, and that big car of theirs was gone.'

‘Did any of the other campers talk about the argument?'

‘Not to me. Well, we weren't the Bentons' neighbours. Maybe they talked about it. And they were a lot older than we were. We tended to mix more with other parents of young kids. The Bentons had never had children.'

‘Did Mrs Benton tell you that?'

‘It was when we were in the laundry. There was a little girl there with her mother. About the same age as my Josh. I could tell by the way Margaret looked at her that she had no kids of her own. And then she said how lucky I was to have Josh and Nathan. I must say, I felt a bit taken aback because I hadn't realised she'd noticed. They weren't in the laundry with me.'

‘She knew their names?'

‘Oh, no. “Two great kids”, she said.'