Dead Men Don't Order Flake (25 page)

‘Ernie, where's their gravel pit? There's no sign of any gravel business here.'

‘Fella doesn't live near the pit, for God's sake. Who'd do that?'

I supposed he had a point. I remembered an article I saw in the paper, back when that coal mine in Gippsland was on fire for months, saying none of the managers of the mine lived anywhere near it. They might have been slightly more motivated to prevent the fire if they had.

We arrived at a big white gate across the tree-lined avenue. Behind the gate was the house, its white curves reflected in a reed-edged pond below. A pond that had been carefully positioned, presumably, to catch those reflections and thus impress arriving guests.

I parked under an old cypress to one side of the house.

‘We're just here to ask Bamfield a few Fitzgerald-Showbag-Natalie-related questions. Nothing about your watch—is that understood?'

His yellowed moustache quivered.

I groaned. ‘OK, but only if we get time. And you're under strict instructions to hit the bloke if he starts up on any comfort-specialist crap.'

The door knocker was a fancy enamelled parrot.

After a short delay, a pale-faced woman in a black velour tracksuit opened the door. Long blonde hair. Red-rimmed eyes. A walkie-talkie clipped to her waistband. She held a book in her hand:
This House of Grief
.

‘Yes?'

‘Could I talk to Peter Bamfield, please?'

‘I'm sorry, he's not available.'

‘Oh. When will he be?'

‘He's…in a meeting. I'm not sure how long he'll be. Can I take a message?'

Ernie cleared his throat. Nudged me with his foot.

I looked over at him. He gave me a tiny, but significant nod.

‘Last flaming wish,' he hissed.

‘Err, yes. Look, this probably sounds like a rather strange request, but my great uncle, Ernest,' I waved at Ernie, ‘well, I promised him. You see, poor Uncle Ernest isn't well.'

‘Dying,' he said.

I took out my hanky and dabbed at my eyes. Cleared my throat.

‘I said we would at least try…' I paused.

‘Oh?' Her voice was whispery.

‘Really, I was in two minds about coming. But Uncle Ernest raised me—my parents died when I was a little kid—I won't go into all the details—I'm sure you've got better things to do than be subjected to somebody's sob story.' I gave her a brave little lopsided smile. ‘Anyway, he remembers coming to a party here, years ago, don't you, Uncle?' I glanced at Ernie, who was nodding.

‘Eighty years ago, would you believe. It was in an underground room, I think? Or a cave. Oh, you loved it, didn't you, Uncle Ernest! And lately, he talks of nothing else. Finally, he said to me this morning,
Cassie, I'd love to see that room again. Just once, before I die. Will you take me there?
'

‘Yep. Just one last time,' said Ernie in his best sad-old-dying-bloke tone. He wrung his work-worn hands.

‘Oh.' Her hand fluttered to her throat. ‘Well, of course, he must see it. Although,' she peered at him, ‘can your uncle walk?'

‘I'll manage,' he said.

She stood back from the door to let us inside. We stepped into the black and white checked hallway.

‘My name's Anne.' A perfectly normal name and her demeanour seemed normal, too. But for some reason, my skin prickled.

She moved at a brisk clip along the wood-panelled hallway, past a lounge room—soft grey curtains, hard-looking white armchairs, a blue velvet couch, huge chandelier. Then past a dining room—black and white chairs, a black and white striped vase containing red roses. A life-sized silver statue of a bulldog stood in the centre of the dining table; quite possibly a hindrance to dinner conversation.

She marched us under an ornate arch, moving towards the back of the house. Through a window, I caught a glimpse of the garden outside: a multitude of roses. There was a car parked in the garden bed. Strange place to park, I thought.

Then I realised: it was a brown Fairlane.

43

What was Morris Temple doing here, parking his car in their rose bed? I remembered, suddenly, the white truck I'd seen near the cypress trees. In one swift moment, it seemed like a good idea to get out of here. Quickly.

‘Uncle Ernest is tiring,' I said, dragging Ernie to a stop. ‘I'm sorry, we might have to do this another time.'

‘I'm fine. Don't flaming fuss.' Ernie glared at me.

Anne turned and looked at me. Frowned briefly. ‘Would he like to sit down for a moment?'

‘Oh, no, we don't want to be a bother. Really, I think we'll go.'

‘But your uncle may have…so little time. Don't you think it's best he sees the room now, while he's able?' She looked at Ernie. ‘What do you think? Shall we let you decide?'

‘I want to see it.' He set his mouth in that line.

I gave Ernie a special look, but he just glared back at me.

Anne turned, half-smiling, then set off again, leading us along more interminable black and white checked hallway.

I stayed put under the arch, pulling Ernie's arm. ‘Let's just give you a chance to catch your breath.'

We have to get out of here
, I mouthed silently at him, but Ernie's lip-reading skills weren't up to the task.

I peered through the window, trying to see out to the garden. A movement out there. Morris?

Anne opened a door to her left and stood there waiting for us to catch up. Ernie shuffled along, me gripping his elbow. Then she shepherded us down a set of red-carpeted stairs. Carefully closed the door behind us.

The air wasn't especially cold, but the hairs on my arms stood to attention.

There was a full-on cinema at the bottom of those stairs. Rows of leather armchairs. A huge screen, flanked with panels featuring gold statuettes and a frieze high up on the walls—athletic-looking women in weird poses.

Anne took three velour-swish steps towards a red curtain hanging across a wall.

‘I'm afraid there are a lot of stairs from here. Do you think your uncle will be able to manage it?'

‘Be fine.' Ernie the ever-bloody-helpful.

Anne pulled open the curtain. Cool air circulated around my ankles. She flicked on a light. Signalled for us to walk ahead of her, then followed behind, down a long set of stairs. Plush carpets underfoot.

She flicked another light switch and the room's magnificence came into focus. Chocolate brown satin walls, dotted with sparkles. Gold-leaf ceiling domes. A mosaic tiled floor with a giant B in a blue circle at the centre. On one wall there was a line of mirrors, in case B or
any of his guests had an urgent need to check on their appearance.

The walkie-talkie at Anne's waist crackled. She grabbed it. ‘Yes?'

‘Where are you?' A male voice.

‘I'm downstairs, showing some people around.'

‘Who? You know I have a meeting here today.'

‘Cass, I didn't catch her surname. And her uncle, Ernest something. Nice old man. Apparently, he came to a party here years ago. Wanted to see the room again before he…'

‘Come upstairs. Now.'

She put the walkie-talkie back on her waist band. ‘Sorry. I won't be long.'

Anne headed up the stairs, closing the door behind her.

‘Ernie, I think we should get out of here,' I hissed.

‘Not till I find my watch,' he said. ‘Waited eighty years to get into this joint. Least you could do is let me have a quick squiz.'

‘Didn't you see Morris's car outside?'

I looked around. Unless you had some serious earth-moving equipment, there was no way out except the stairs we'd come down.

Ernie was busy peering at a gas bottle on a trolley in the corner. ‘Must be helium, Cass. You could blow up a hell of a lot of balloons with a bottle this size.'

‘Ernie, come on. We're leaving. Now.' I moved towards the stairs.

The lights went out.

‘What the…?' said Ernie.

I shivered. There aren't many things darker than a room that's underground. I rubbed my arms, trying to warm up.

‘The light must be on a timer.' I said. ‘Where's the switch?'

I started walking, my hands stretched in front of me. Aha. The feel of satin under my fingers. I started moving along the wall. Would anyone put a light switch in satin?

The creak of a door opening. A chink of light at the top of the stairs—I could see the steps now, dimly in the gloom.

‘Can you turn the light back on, Anne?' I said.

No answer. The door closed and the sliver of light disappeared. A torch clicked on. A grating sound. A key turning in a lock?

‘Anne? What are you doing?' My voice was more quavery than I'd expected.

No response. The torch started moving, a pool of light sliding down the stairs.

‘We're leaving now,' I said.

‘Oh, I don't think so, not yet,' said a voice. A deep voice. Not Anne. A lot more male than Anne. ‘But don't worry. You will be leaving quite soon.'

The lights snapped on.

A black-moustached man in an Akubra was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Peter Bamfield.

44

Bamfield had a roll of duct tape hanging around his wrist, like a bangle.

‘You.' He clicked off the torch and put it in his pocket. ‘It had to be bloody you.'

For the first time, I looked properly at his big black moustache. It was a very Freddy Mercury type of moustache, now I considered it. The woman from the park: her voice in my head.
That girl went off to see Freddie Mercury. I don't think she should have.

‘Just the man we want to chat with,' I said, aiming for a breezy tone. ‘We're wondering whether Natalie Kellett… happened to come and see you the day she died? The twenty-eighth of January?' My voice wavered.

He moved forward suddenly and punched me in the stomach.

I fell onto my hands and knees, winded, gasping uselessly at the air. A shuffle-click sound. I looked up: it
was Ernie. A cracking noise as Ernie whacked Bamfield's shoulder with his stick. Bamfield turned and snarled, smashed Ernie's face with his fist. Watched Ernie stumble, then collapse onto the ground, the stick clattering.

Bamfield flipped Ernie over like a burger on the grill; started taping his wrists.

The mosaic floor was cold against my face. Breathe, Cass, breathe. Come on: there has to be a way out of here. I braced my hands against the floor; started pulling myself to my feet. I stood, wobbling. A juddering breath, at last. I pulled out my phone to dial Dean.

No signal.

Bamfield jumped up from Ernie's taping. Pulled out a pair of scissors from his pocket. Shiny, new, sharp-looking scissors. Their silvery blades reflected the light. He held them out in front of him. Moved towards me.

‘Of course she came to see me,' Bamfield's voice was high. ‘Natalie would not let go, damn her.'

‘Let go of what?' I backed away.

But he swept on. ‘And you. You're just as bad. I tried to warn you. With your stupid friend on his ridiculous recumbent bike. And the damn dog. For God's sake, how to get through to you? And why won't you understand that I don't like it when people get in my way?' A scissor-thrust towards my chest.

I side-stepped. ‘Don't you touch me, you mad bastard. You know, it's pretty pathetic watching you do Fitzgerald's dirty work for him. Come on, Ernie, we're leaving this sad little henchman.' I sounded braver than I felt.

Ernie just lay there, groaning.

‘
Henchman?
' Bamfield's voice had dropped an octave. I didn't like the look in his eyes. ‘I work for no one but
myself. It's the only way to get anything done in this world of morons. You've come across that Ignition crowd, have you? No
idea
how to run an efficient operation.'

‘And would that efficiency involve decapitating pet dogs?'

He laughed. A mad, high-pitched bark—like a dog, in fact. One that has spent far too much time alone. ‘Yes, but that wasn't sufficient warning, apparently. Still, I'll be done with you, shortly.'

‘Gunna kill me with a pair of scissors, you stupid man?' Tough words. But my hands were shaking; my chest thudding.

‘Well, you'd be the person to recognise stupid, of course. They breed them very thick indeed in Rusty Bore. That fool Showbag—greedy enough to hold out for a speedboat, dim enough to be satisfied with one. Now hold out your wrists like a good girl, so I can tape them.'

‘No way.'

‘Surely even you can see I can't let you leave here alive.' His voice was a hiss. ‘Oh for God's sake, this is all so inconvenient. All I wanted to do was run a business of my own, instead of some family hand-me-down. Overextended—bullshit! Bold! Visionary!' He paused. There was a dob of foamy spittle on his lower lip. ‘Anyway, I would have sorted all that out in time…But that doesn't concern you. Now, hold out your wrists.'

I shook my head.

‘Or I can just kill you now.'

My stomach dropped down a lift shaft.

‘Helium is perfectly painless, you know. Quite popular with the end-of-life choice crowd. And then, once you've… gone, you'll be cremated. Buried under my pinot grigio paddock. Along with another foolish person.'

I remembered the burning off I'd seen earlier. The nasty smell. Of…burnt meat?

‘Who?' I whispered.

‘Oh, that cretin Temple. Another brainless type who thought he could “expose” me. A shame…You know, he could have been another of your satisfied clients.' He smirked and anger surged the blood through my veins.

I balanced myself carefully, then kicked Bamfield in the knee.

He stumbled forward, lashed out with the scissors, a burning pain in my arm. Blood on my sleeve.

Ernie staggered to his feet.

‘Run, Ernie!' I raced for the stairs, weaving around Bamfield. I was part-way up the stairs when I heard a thump and a loud cry. I spun around to look behind me: Ernie was on the floor, Bamfield crouching over him, scissors at Ernie's throat.