Murder with the Lot (21 page)

I glanced at Brad. I could have done with a little help but Brad was busy glaring at his magazine.

Dean had the sort of look he gets when he's about to announce something worrying, like the day he told me Melissa was pregnant.

‘Mum.' He rubbed his chin. ‘It can happen to anyone. Early onset dementia doesn't mean you're old, or anything. It can come on really, amazingly early. It's better if we just accept it. You know I only want the best for you.'

Brad gave Dean an eye-flick glare.

‘Dementia?' I struggled onto my pillows, who cared about the nausea. ‘Who says I have dementia?'

‘Yeah,' said Brad. ‘Who?'

‘Well, no one,' Dean took his hand away. ‘Not yet. But that's just because Brad hasn't had anyone look. I'll have a little chat with the doctor. It's the obvious explanation. For your…muddled behaviour.'

‘Muddled? Dealing single-handedly with a murderer because my cop son won't believe a word I say? There's nothing bloody wrong with me.' I looked at my hands. ‘Apart from a few burns.'

‘And a nasty dog bite,' added Brad.

A pause.

‘Some smoke inhalation. And a unique range of irritating habits.' Brad scratched his arm. I don't know what he thought he was smirking at. Kids.

‘Yes, apart from those, there's nothing wrong with me,' I snapped. ‘I don't know how many times I have to tell you, Dean, there's a murderer out there. You need to focus on the facts. Instead of all this waffle about dementia.' I grabbed his arm. ‘Listen, the fella's burned my house down. He's dangerous. And single-minded.' More than I could say for Dean.

Dean shook his head.

‘You need to whip me away into a witness protection scheme. Do I get a say in where I'll be relocated? I wouldn't mind somewhere green. I can draw you up a shortlist.' They'd need to give me a new face, of course. I'd have to consider my choice of nose.

‘I don't know how you could have let things go this far, Brad, without getting her to a doctor.'

At last Brad closed his magazine. ‘Well, I reckon Mum could have a point. There's a lot here that you're ignoring.'

The last time Brad stood up to Dean was when Brad was twelve. Brad lost, as I recall. He always did.

‘So, let me get this straight,' Dean's voice was low. ‘You and Mum, in the absence of any evidence, have decided that someone set fire to the shop. To kill Mum.'

Brad nodded.

‘And why?' said Dean.

‘Because of the body,' I said.

‘Ah, yes. Because of all this crap about a body.' Dean sighed, stared at the wall. ‘Look, we're checking the place for cause of fire. OK? The CFA are looking for any signs of accelerants, signs of arson. All part of the routine. Probably, and it's early stages, but probably all post-fire indicators will show the fire started in the deep fat fryer. The most plausible scenario is that a burner was left on. By Mum,' Dean turned his gaze on his brother, ‘or more likely by you, Brad.'

‘What?' said Brad.

Dean held up a hand. ‘I know you don't like it. I mean, who'd be OK with the idea that his negligence could have killed his mother? I'm afraid you'll just have to live with that. In the meantime, we're waiting on the evidence. The professional knows not to rush to conclusions before reviewing all the evidence.'

That's Dean all right. He'd be reviewing the evidence before deciding to clip his toenails.

‘Consider this, Brad. There are many, many ways in which a fish and chip shop can burn down. Burners left on, faulty thermostats, cheap power boards, dodgy wiring, just to name a few. We professionals must consider everything. That's why we investigate the cause of the fire.
Properly
.'

‘I know,' said Brad, ‘but…'

‘The professional works for a living, Brad.' Dean's voice rose. ‘He doesn't fill his days demonstrating and protesting. He compromises. And he doesn't have his aged mother look after him all his life. He doesn't leave her to work forever. In a bloody. Death. Trap.'

So much for the early onset. I'd moved rapidly onto geriatric, it seemed.

Brad's face turned red.

‘So, whatever paranoid little fantasies you need to clutch onto to tell yourself you're worthwhile, you just clutch away. But Mum will be staying with me and Melissa from now on. And I'll be watching all her comings and goings, let me assure you.'

‘You'd lock me up?' I said.

The grey-headed body in the bed opposite perked right up. She wasn't dead, as it turned out. She fluffed up her pillows with her skinny hands, then sat upright, settling in to watch. Her head moved from side to side, like she was at the tennis.

‘If that's what's needed, yes,' said Dean. ‘Actually, that's a good idea. The cell's quite comfortable and Melissa's not keen to have you in the house. Nothing personal,' he said quickly, ‘Melissa thinks you're terrific Mum, just terrific, but she's busy packing for the move. We're going to Bendigo. Traffic. Monaghan didn't want me at Muddy Soak, thanks to you.'

A nurse came in. ‘Time for your injection, Mrs Flanders,' she said to the tennis-watcher in the other bed.

‘Buzz off. Can't you see I'm busy?' Mrs Flanders batted her away.

‘And to top it all off, Vern phoned this morning.' Dean gave me a glued-on stare.

Jesus, Vern's notebook. Had it burned?

‘He said you broke into his house and stole important records. He mentioned industrial espionage. He wants me to investigate. He wants Monaghan involved. He wants all the bloody detectives in the state involved.' Dean rubbed his forehead. ‘Tell me it's not true, Mum. Tell me you didn't break into his house.'

‘Well, I only just…' I didn't get to finish.

‘Mum! From here on, I have to know where you are. At. All. Times.' A vein bulged in his neck.

Dean needs to attend more carefully to the state of his blood pressure. The stress of the job's not doing him any good. Maybe he's not cut out for it. It takes a certain type of person to cope with this detecting trade.

‘Look,' Dean used a softer tone, ‘Dad would want me to look after you. And Brad, well, he's not the right carer for you. He's too busy wasting his life to notice what's happening to yours.'

Brad jumped up, his magazine sliding onto the floor. ‘I carried Mum out of that bloody fire. And sat beside her for the last two nights. Where were you?'

Dean snorted. ‘I don't have to answer to you. I was doing my job. More than I can say for you.'

‘What's
wrong
with you, Dean? Why won't you give me credit for anything?'

‘Because, Bradley, you're a parasite. If it was just one event, I could get over it. But a lifetime of disappointment, mate, that's harder to forget.'

‘Lifetime of disappointment? What sort of bullshit parent-talk is this? You're not Dad, Dean. He's dead. Get over it.'

Dean sighed. ‘You know, I tried so hard with you. Footy. Volleyball. All those jobs I put your way, the chicken factory, the abattoirs, that lamb emasculation contract. You could have done any one of them. But no. I've come to realise you're just a blood-sucker, mate. Someone has to say it.'

Brad's ears turned red.

‘So don't go thinking this little heroic act of yours changes anything,' said Dean.

I flopped back on my pillows. ‘So. You locking Brad up too?'

Dean stood up. ‘No space.' His voice was a rim of ice on a dark pond. ‘Brad needs a short sharp shock. It's time he found his own way in the world.'

A nasty silence.

Brad picked up his magazine, folded it carefully and put it on the chair. ‘You always were a bastard, Dean, and a stupid one. If you had anything at all going on inside your head you'd be able to see just how stubborn you are.'

He swung around to me. ‘And as for you, Mum. Yeah, you made up your mind about me a long time ago, didn't you? Well, you'll both be bloody sorry. I'll show you.' He stalked out, leaving behind his magazine.

Mrs Flanders stared after Brad, boggle-eyed. We were all pretty boggle-eyed. Her lips moved. I thought I heard her whisper, ‘Good on you, son.'

‘Good riddance to a waste of skin,' muttered Dean.

After Brad had gone, Mrs Flanders curled up beneath her covers. Dean stayed on, looking grim, watching me eat my dinner, a meal of mostly lettuce since it was Brad who'd filled in the meal slip. Finally, Dean stood up.

‘I'll be back in the morning. And don't worry, you'll be comfortable in the cell.' He kissed my cheek. ‘Most importantly, you'll be safe.' He walked out, heavy steps, a man with work, kids and now an insane mother to worry about.

I lay there, TV flickering, showing floods and earthquakes and starving people crying out. I tried calling out a friendly hello to Mrs Flanders, still beneath her covers. No reply. Maybe she really was dead.

Time to review the situation. The situation wasn't going well, that much was clear. My shop had burned down, and my house. There was at least one dead body, two missing people, a murderer on the loose and no one that believed me.

Only Brad, and only possibly. And where was he?

I tried his mobile. No answer. Madison said she hadn't seen him, through the sound of ferrets squealing in the background. ‘He said he'd come around tonight to help get Tim settled in. Poor Timmy, he was abandoned.' She spoke in an agonised whisper. ‘An abandoned ferret is a sight to break your heart.'

I hoped Brad didn't feel abandoned. ‘Ask him to give me a call, will you Madison?' Although it was possible I might be killed by then. I should give her some final words for him, just in case. I couldn't think of anything worth saying. Only that I was sorry.

A nurse came in. Her name badge said ‘Wendy' and she wore the expression of a person who'd seen the world and found it wasn't to her liking. She turned off the TV. ‘Time to sleep.'

‘But…'

‘No arguments.' She pulled up the bed covers, tucking them in more tightly than I needed.

The room grew darker. I waited, buzzer finger at the ready, tensing up as people passed the door. Mrs Flanders started snoring. It was reassuring to know she wasn't dead.

The hospital settled for the night, the night-shift staff came on duty, hushed tones in the corridors, soft-soled shoes squeaking past. What kind of shoes do faux-doctor-murderers wear? Do they squeak or are they completely soundless, leaving you no time to summon help?

I tried not thinking about Brad and whether he was safe, whether he was busy turning into a bedraggled homeless fella on some cold wet Melbourne street. I tried not thinking about him shivering in the rain, the lack of hope in his eyes. I tried not thinking about how much I'd miss him in the shop, at home. Everywhere.

I tried not thinking about how my life was shaping up, assuming I survived the night. Living in Dean's prison cell. Watched every minute, never going anywhere. I'd never get to travel around Australia. I'd have to be polite every morning to Melissa. Admire their girls' latest navel piercings, so they'd smuggle me in a slice of bread. I'll admit a tear slipped out and trickled down my cheek.

Was it true what Brad had said? Was it possible I didn't listen?
You made up your mind about me a long time ago.
I tried, most of all, not to think of that. Or the distance in his eyes.

I woke to the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Heavy-sounding, no squeaking, no soft soles. I held my breath. They came closer, paused. A shadow fell across the doorway.

I reached for the buzzer but it wasn't there. Gasping, I fell back on the pillow, woozy-headed.

‘Mrs Flanders,' I croaked as loud as I could muster. ‘Help. I'm being murdered.'

No response.

Surely the buzzer had fallen on the floor. I surged out from the covers, ignoring the woozy head. There it was, shining white on the floor. I reached down, down, down for it, feeling dizzy, my hand closing around the white plastic.

Something cracked against my skull.

‘We can't tie her down, it's unethical.'

I struggled to open my eyes, to get up off my back. My head felt like a train smash. The murderer had got me—but he didn't want to tie me up? Seemed a strange, politically correct type of murdering. I managed to raise my eyelids. A figure in white floated nearby. I sucked in a breath. So I was dead? In a place where tying up was considered, but forbidden by a code. What type of place? I blinked and a name badge, ‘Wendy', came into view.

‘Mrs Tuplin?' A voice that was too loud. ‘You fainted and hit your head. Can you hear me?'

‘Loud and clear,' I croaked.

‘I hope you'll understand now why you should stay in bed.' Some vicious tucking-in movements.

‘The murderer was here.' My voice was raspy. ‘Donald Streatham, it must have been. He came right up to the door. I saw his shadow.' I paused. ‘Mrs Flanders, is she…alive?'

‘Mrs Flanders is fine, apart from having her precious sleep disturbed by your antics. Now, you will NOT get out of bed again. Understood?' She turned away. ‘She's not in a marvellous state, Sergeant, her blood pressure is very low. Do you have to see her right now? Surely this could wait until the morning.'

Monaghan? What was he doing here? I turned my head. He was sitting on a chair against the wall, that long black leather coat draping across the floor.

‘It's vital I speak to Mrs Tuplin now.'

‘Five minutes, that's all.'

He nodded. ‘Understood.' He paused. ‘You can leave us now, Wendy.'

But she sat down next to him, fiddled with her watch. ‘I've set my stopwatch.' She smiled a plastic smile.

‘This is a confidential police matter.'

She nodded. ‘Four minutes and fifty-five seconds left.'

He stared at her, a stare full of longing hatred. ‘Mrs Tuplin is a potential witness to a homicide.'