Murder with the Lot (10 page)

‘Listen, Brad. Noel bought a pack of suspicious moist-wipes. I need to borrow your car so I can follow him.'

Brad looked up from the chopping board, wiped his hands on his apron.

‘He headed out towards Perry Lake,' I said.

Brad sighed, as though he'd had a long day dealing with a wearying queue of imbeciles. ‘Mum. What's a moist-wipe?'

‘Well, exactly. That's what I'm saying.'

‘What? If there's something suspicious about Noel, then phone Dean. You can't go following people just because they bought some tissues.'

‘Really? What about all the poking around you do online, stalking your environmental rapist types?'

‘That's just browsing the internet. It's not actually getting in a car and following someone.'

That's one of Brad's problems; he lets himself get too bound up by all these random made-up rules.

‘Anyway, Mum, I'm just saying you should phone Dean. Tell him about your car.'

‘Maybe you should phone him. He might believe you,' I said.

‘The less I have to do with Dean the better.'

‘What's that mean?'

‘You know.' Brad sighed. ‘Look, those arrests weren't my fault. Someone has to stand up for the river. Not that Dean has any idea about that.'

‘Bradley. Son. He's just…worried about you, like we all are, about your…direction in life.' Your lack of direction.

‘Yeah, whatever. I'm not phoning. Anyway, he'll have to believe you. Your car's obviously gone. Just leave out all the other stuff. Don't mention anything weird like moist-wipes. He already thinks you're off your head.'

Thanks son.

‘Dean?' I put him on speakerphone so Brad could listen too.

I gave a neat little summary about my car, leaving out the bit about Mona's latest disappearance. No point in distracting him with things he might not wish to hear.

There was a pause.

I'll admit I didn't handle what happened in that pause with quite optimal effect. It's possible I may have mentioned Noel. And his moist-wipes.

Brad mouthed, ‘No,' tried to grab the phone, tried to end the call.

I pushed him away. Brad had his line of reasoning, I know, but there wasn't any point in hanging up. Dean had heard the words and would want to know.

Silence at the other end.

‘And Mona's body could be in my car boot, Dean. Every chance of that.'

I've never liked a silence. And there were too many things I wasn't meant to mention. I was a person on confidentiality overload.

‘It has a jail term, Mum.' Dean's voice sounded strangled. It was clear he wasn't referring to the possession of a pack of moist-wipes.

‘Jail term? Look, I'm just trying to bloody help out here…'

‘That's it. I've had enough. I'm coming around to arrest you. Now.' He slammed down the phone.

I turned to Brad, who was holding his head in his hands. Oh, for God's sake. I kicked the phone table, stubbed my toe.

‘I'm going out,' I told Brad in my coldest voice. ‘In your car. Don't you worry, Bradley, Dean won't arrest you. Tell him you tried to stop me. Tell him I fought you off.'

I sailed out with as much dignity as I could.

I headed off in Brad's tiny car towards Perry Lake. I don't travel that way too often, not these days. A million years ago Piero and I used to drive along this road on our day off. We'd come along here in the early morning light. He'd bring his camera, Piero always had his camera. Some of his photos were published in magazines. We'd head along this road and watch the sun rise, its glow a pink glaze over the rows of slashed wheat. Piero would take endless shots of backlit fields. We were going to travel all around Australia. While I gazed at the pink sky, I'd think about all those places we'd be going. I'd get that lifting feeling in my chest. The one that says: this is life, and you know, it's not too bad.

I belted along the road in Brad's shaking car, hot air blasting through the vents, drying my tears. Yep, that lifting feeling; I hadn't felt it in a while.

Slowing down, I peered, blinking, at Ernie's shack. No sign of Noel's van. Then, ahead, by the side of the road, I caught sight of my car.

I parked behind it, got out and looked around. No Aurora. My keys were in the ignition, where I'd left them. I checked through the car. No bloodstains or hacked-up slashes on the seats. No Mona in the boot.

‘Brad?' I said into my phone.

‘Mum! I was just about to call you.' He sounded suspiciously cheerful. ‘Perfect timing. Dean's just arrived. Look, I've explained about your car. It's all straightened out. I'll put him on.'

I won't bore you with the details of that drab-as-a-bastard phone call, of how hard I tried to explain that, yes, my car really had been stolen, only briefly, but yes, it really had; how the disapproval oozed from Dean's deep voice, over Brad's groaning noises in the background.

Any normal cop would have been relieved my car had turned up.

‘I don't like this, Mum, but you're really leaving me with little choice. You're either doing this deliberately, in which case I have to arrest you. Or,' he paused.

‘Or what?'

‘You need help. In which case I have to get you to a doctor.'

‘Come on, son. Don't be so bloody ridiculous. You know, your father would have known to forgive a little mistake,' I said. ‘He knew mistakes can happen. And someday soon, Dean, you're going to find out you've made one or two yourself.' I hung up.

I wasn't waiting around to be arrested or strapped down and subjected to some painful mental probe. I had serious matters to sort out. Noel and his moist-wipes. I tried starting my car. No go. Out of petrol.

I got back into Brad's car and steamed along the bitumen. It was true, what I'd said about Piero, how he knew about mistakes. Dean was a bit of a mistake himself, not that I'd ever tell him that. He stopped a whole lot of things from happening in our lives, Piero's and mine. Especially mine.

Motherhood's a special joy, of course. But sometimes joy's not everything it's cracked up to be.

I took the turn and drove along the track to Perry Lake, winding among the spinifex and buloke pines. Bingo. Noel's van was parked beside the track, in the shade. Grabbing Brad's binoculars, I scanned the place. No sign of Noel. No sign of Bubbles either. I crept up to the van, peered in through the window of the sliding door, cupped my hands around my face to shade my eyes. The van was full of shelves and was surprisingly tidy. Maybe I'd been wrong, maybe Noel was a moist-wipe type of person after all.

On the lower shelf was a small fridge, a carton of food and a cardboard box filled with scrunched-up newspaper. Above them, a bag of clothing and a plastic crate piled with ropes and leather belts with metal spikes attached. Next to the belts another glint of metal caught my attention. A small curved saw, like a short, toothed scimitar. Not that I've had in-depth experience with scimitars. So was Noel some kind of bondage freak? A grey S&M nomad?

I stepped back, wiping the sweat from the back of my neck. I fanned my dress. There wasn't a sound anywhere, the only things moving were the ants swarming around the leaves at my feet. Everything else had shut up shop in the heat. The salt around Perry Lake shimmered in the distance.

The moist-wipe question wasn't resolved, not exactly, but I wasn't keen to stick around. And I didn't want to run into Bubbles. I moved towards Brad's car.

Hearing a sharp cry behind me, I whirled around. There it was again, way over in the trees, beyond the van. I skulked towards the van, hunching down beside it, like a cop in one of those hostage-liberation operations. Holding up Brad's binoculars, I scanned through the trees, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Two people were standing in a clearing, a heap of shopping bags on the ground between them. A black dog stood with them, not obviously attacking anyone. I ticked the people off my list: one tall skinny bloke with wild white hair and a beard; one girl with messy blonde hair and a floaty apricot dress. The dress was looking the worse for wear. They were standing near a third person, who was handcuffed to a tree. He was a smaller, weaselly bloke in a torn grey suit. Clarence.

So were they all into some bondage thing? Is that why Clarence had said his book would be a bestseller, did it involve peculiar porn? Clarence jiggled his leg, cried out again. Well, anyone could have told him bondage would be a problem in the Mallee. Clarence and his cuffs had met up with a crowd of bull ants.

Bubbles looked my way, sniffed the air. She stiffened, then took off; coming towards me. Long, heavy strides, faster than a bolting horse. She barked, strangled gargles, sounding more like an unhinged mother bear than any normal dog. I scurried towards Brad's car with his binoculars swinging heavily around my neck, her galloping thumps closing in behind me. I could feel the dog's hot breath against my legs, hear her teeth clacking as she took empty snapping bites near my feet.

I made it to the car, grabbed the door and flung it open. I was mid-leap when Bubbles got my leg. She clamped on and shook it, like she was planning on worrying it right off. I screamed and held onto the car door, then turned and whacked her with Brad's binoculars. They cracked against her head. She fell back with a whimper and I jumped inside the car and slammed the door. Then I screamed some more.

I checked my throbbing leg and saw it was oozing blood onto the floor. I sucked in a deep breath. Started the car with a shaky hand.

Bubbles raised herself off the ground. She hurled herself at the window with a heavy thump, all black hair and teeth and slobber. My hands shook harder. Most of me was shaking as the car lurched forward and shot out of there, dust swirling in a thick red cloud behind it.

Racing home, I passed Dean's divvy van coming the other way. He pulled sharpish off the road, gravel flying, then turned and followed me. I sped up. I didn't have time to be arrested. The blood from my leg was seeping onto Brad's floor. Dean could wait until I put some disinfectant on it.

Dean surged behind, tailgating. I sped up until the engine whined. He pulled out beside me, waved wildly, wound down his window, shouted to pull over. I ignored him. I knew he wouldn't turn his siren on. He wouldn't want anyone to see him heartlessly pursuing his injured mother in a high-speed chase. He tucked back in behind and followed me home.

Finally, I pulled into my driveway and stopped the car, Dean's car sliding in after me. I limped in through the back door in my tattered dress, a good chunk of it flapping bloodily around my leg. I stared straight ahead, my most dignified look.

‘Jesus, Mum. What happened?' Brad's face turned white.

I half-collapsed into a chair. Dean walked in behind me, glowering and sat down.

Feeling faint, I gabbled out a brief summary, Noel, Bubbles, the bite. Best to fill Brad in before I passed out.

Brad dabbed some Dettol neat onto my leg. It stung like hell and I kicked a bit. He had a few things to say along the lines of
don't-you-bloody-kick-me
while he dabbed, interspersed with a hissing mini-rant to Dean,
you-should-bloody-do-something-about-this-instead-of-leaving-everything-to-me
.

I wouldn't have minded a word with them about all that weird stuff in Noel's van, the spikes, the mini-scimitar and Clarence's handcuffs, but I wasn't feeling entirely well.

While Brad wiped my leg and went on with his rant to Dean, I shut my eyes. I tried picturing Miss Marple and her nephew, Raymond. Raymond wasn't one to go on; he was the supportive type. The kind that might thank a person for finding Clarence and Aurora and for short-circuiting a huge police operation to locate her car. He'd listen politely to her description of a mini-scimitar; maybe he'd look it up in some reference book. He might even give his mature female relative, at risk of swooning any minute from a painful dog bite, a little spot of sympathy.

Dean sat in silence through Brad's tirade, arms folded across his chest, then said, ‘You'd better take her to Casualty in Hustle.' His voice was low.

Hard to say why they were acting as if I wasn't there. Surely I was pretty noticeable since I was bleeding all over the floor.

‘Dog bites can be nasty,' said Dean. ‘She could end up with an infection.'

Infection? I tensed up. What diseases do dogs carry? Into my head they all surged, in one big, unwelcome crowd. Brucellosis. Diarrhoea. Tetanus. Rabies.

Dean stood up. ‘I'm heading out to have a word with this Noel.'

Well,
finally
. ‘And Clarence was in handcuffs,' I said. ‘They're probably making some weird illegal porn.'

Dean looked at Brad. ‘While you're there, you'd better,' he gave a little nod, one of those nods that are meant to be all hush-hush-significant, ‘get her head checked out as well.' He strode out to his car.

I struggled into the passenger seat of Brad's car, careful of the leg. Despite the pain and nausea, I felt surprisingly at peace. Dean was onto this moist-wipe business now, he'd sort it out. And he'd been almost sympathetic, worrying about a possible infection. I rustled up a smile and gave him a wave as he drove away.

‘You know anything about the signs of rabies, Brad?' I snapped on my seatbelt. I was pretty sure there was foam involved. At the mouth. Was that awful dog foaming at the mouth? All I could recall was teeth.

‘No rabies in Australia, Mum. There's lyssavirus, but that's in bats.'

‘Could it pass to a human through a bat-bitten dog?'

‘Dunno. Possibly.' He got in the car. Turning the ignition, he started up a briefing on lyssavirus, how long it takes to incubate, all the convulsions and delirium, how long you take to die. ‘In atrocious pain, probably.'

I stared out the window, trying not to think of all the ways a dog might meet an infected bat, of the reasons the bat might bite the dog. An angry bat; a hungry bat. A bat could have a lot of reasons.