Murder with the Lot (25 page)

‘The audience will be immersed in crime. Not real-time crime, unfortunately, but we've worked hard to do our best.'

‘Very nice,' murmured Vern.

‘Bloody creative.' Ernie leaned forward on his walker.

‘It's a portal to the experiences of those in other towns, towns that aren't crime free.' Her voice had a hint of smug. She rustled back into the kitchen.

Ernie had been staring at the mantelpiece behind the heads, at a row of photos. He got up and shuffled closer. One young and lovely woman in a bathing suit, circa 1950, signed in the corner. A more recent photo of four young men in footy jumpers. Red and blue, Muddy Soak–Patchemilda colours. I picked out a young Dale Monaghan, then Terry, younger, thinner. There was a third bloke who looked like a shorter, dark-haired version of Grantley with a twisted nose. Kev? The fourth man looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. They stood in a row, muddy-kneed, all with their arms around each other.

Mrs Pittering came in with a tray. Vern surged forward to assist, earning him a red-gashed smile. She sat and poured tea into dainty, gold-rimmed cups.

Clearing his throat, Ernie said, ‘Gladys Wilson!'

I'd never heard him so excited.

‘I suspected when I first saw you, and that photo there confirms it.' He pointed at the mantelpiece. ‘It was you who kept me going in 1944, love.'

She smiled. ‘It's been quite a while since anyone called me Gladys Wilson.'

Ernie snickered. ‘They didn't show all their bosoms…'

‘Anyway,' I said. ‘Thank you for the tea. Especially since you must be so busy at the moment.' I waved my hand at the sticks.

A pause.

‘Where did you meet Kevin? In Bendigo?' she said to Vern.

‘That's right,' he beamed. ‘Through a mutual friend. Soon worked out we had a lot in common, me and Kev.'

‘Acting? You'd get a lot of leading parts, good-looking man like you.'

Vern smiled. ‘It was Kev who truly had the leading-man looks. Everyone told him so.'

‘Really?' She looked puzzled, then sighed. ‘He was a terribly gifted actor. He could have done anything.'

‘He must have been a clever fellow,' I said, ‘good at both acting and accounting.'

‘Kevin never wanted to be an accountant, it was his father who insisted on it.' A tear slid down her cheek.

I reached out, patted her hand. ‘You mustn't blame yourself, it's not your fault.'

She wiped her face angrily. ‘Of course it's not my fault.' A pause. ‘Kevin was murdered.'

‘I thought the official verdict was…' I shut my mouth suddenly. I wasn't supposed to have heard about Kev's death. But Gladys wasn't listening.

‘An accident, they said. But there is not the slightest chance that Kevin would have wanted to, would have done, would have…And ivory organza? How ridiculous. Kevin detested polyester.' She sniffed.

‘Did you let the police know your concerns?' said Vern.

‘Of course. And Dale investigated it personally. He was always terribly good to Kevin. He was such a support for him, after that little motoring misunderstanding. But Dale said he'd looked and he could find no evidence of murder.'

Vern nodded.

‘My poor Kevin had just been offered a part he really wanted. A terrific play, in Sydney. He was finally going places.'

‘His wife must have been pleased for him,' I said.

‘Kevin wasn't married.'

‘You'll have to forgive my colleague,' Vern said. ‘Terribly nosy, writers. Part of the job description. She doesn't mean anything by it.'

She sniffed. ‘What do you write, Dr Tuplin?'

My stomach did a little whirl. I gabbled, ‘I'm writing a series of romances set in Australia's historic houses. And of course, Hocking Hall, being as it is, well, as you know…'

‘I see.' She sipped her tea.

Cringing at my forlorn lie, I shot a look at Vern, but he just nodded as if everything was following his carefully plotted plan.

‘Kev must've inherited his artistic streak from you,' said Vern, pointing at the heads on sticks. ‘I'm sorry I missed the funeral. I'll bet it was a big crowd, he was such a popular fella.'

‘Yes, he had many friends.'

‘I should call in on some of them, pay my respects. Not sure if I remember many surnames, though. It's been a while. There was this one fella he used to mention…'

‘Terry? Or perhaps Dale. He spent a lot of time with his cousins.' She waved a hand at the photo of the four footballers.

I peered at it. ‘Is that Kev on the left? What a…handsome young man. Who's the other boy on the right?'

‘Ford Hocking-Lee.' She looked at me with suspicious eyes. ‘Don't you know him, Dr Tuplin? He was Mona Hocking-Lee's son.'

‘Well, my focus has really been on the building,' I said, ‘and the complexities of my storyline, not so much on the Hocking-Lees, not as such.' Now I thought about it, he did have Clarence's weaselly chin. ‘The four boys are close?'

‘Only two of those boys are alive today.' She sighed. ‘Dale and Terry. Poor dear Mona. No mother wants to outlive her son. Not that Ford was…'

Ernie had been looking at Gladys in a dazed fashion. Now he leaned forward. ‘That fella give you trouble? Attractive woman like you might have a bit of trouble.' ‘Well…I never trusted him. I was worried he was a bad influence on Kevin. Little Kevin was easily led. I know how hard Mona tried with Ford. And then, of course, he died so tragically. With his young wife, in that traffic accident.'

‘No,' I breathed.

She stiffened. ‘You're not some kind of reporter? They're circling the town, since poor Mona was found.'

Vern reassured her, I reassured her, Ernie tut-tutted about the true evils of gutter journalism from across his walking frame. ‘Gladys Wilson,' said Ernie. ‘I don't suppose…' he paused.

‘Yes?' she smiled.

‘You probably get asked this all the time. But I'd love an autographed copy of one of your terrific photographs. Bloody patriot, you were.'

She beamed, got up and opened a drawer. Returning with a photo, she handed it to Ernie. In black and white, she sat against a striped beach ball, her fair hair streaming around her face. No heads on sticks anywhere near her back then.

Ernie and I sat on the bench outside the RSL, trying to look normal, trying to blend in. Red posters of the Christmas Fringe Festival were hanging from poles, glued to walls, displayed in every shop window. Endless drifts of shoppers inched along the street.

‘That Pitterline bastard disappeared with my money, you know,' Ernie said to no one in particular. A CFA truck with Santa ho-ho-ing on the back sailed past.

‘Yep.' I watched the door of the RSL, fretting over Brad, chewing a fingernail. The sky was a hard dark blue, black clouds on the horizon.

‘Bloody oath. Owed me sixty dollars.' Ernie stabbed a bone-like finger in the air. ‘Buggered off to the Northern Territory. 19-bloody-88. Shit year in a shitty decade.'

My phone rang. ‘Brad! Where are you?' I said.

‘Pittering.' His voice had a nasty, choking sound. The phone crackled.

‘Where are you? Are you OK?'

‘…locked me in…' More crackling.

‘Where? Locked you in where?'

The wind wrapped an empty Twisties packet around my feet.

‘I'm hanging…' something garbled.

‘Hanging?' My voice rose.

‘…middle…low…send help. Quick.' The phone cut out. ‘Brad? Can you hear me?'

Silence.

‘Brad?'

I dialled his number. My hands were shaking.

My call went to his answerphone. I tried three times, then waved my phone wildly at Ernie, as if that might make it work.

‘Whole century was crap, you know. And Hugo flaming Pitterline…'

‘Shut up, Ernie!'

I called Dean. ‘He's locked inside somewhere,' I said. ‘Hanging. In terrible danger. You have to
do
something.'

‘Whoa, stop yelling, Mum. What are you talking about?'

‘Brad, for God's sake.'

‘Where is he?'

‘I don't know. Why I am always expected to know every single thing? You're the bloody cop. Get out there and find him.'

‘All right, calm down. Leave it with me. Where are you, anyway?'

‘Be back soon.' I hung up.

I sat vice-tight on my hands. ‘Brad's in danger and it's all my fault.'

‘Can't believe you told me to shut up. And after everything I've done for you,' said Ernie.

‘He told me not to get involved in this.' My voice was croaky.

‘Help a person out, and that's the thanks I get.' Ernie shook his head. ‘I spent years telling all those hanger-on women that Piero had something nasty.'

‘Ernie. Please. I need to think.' I stood up, paced along the pavement. I should have let Brad waste his life with all those banners. It might have been a waste, but at least he'd be alive.

I stared up at the darkening sky, hoping I'd find some kind of answer. I set my shoulders. Pittering, Brad had said. Grantley, surely. ‘We'll get that devious bastard Grantley to talk,' I said.

‘Piero's got a weepy little infection, I told them, every one of them,' said Ernie. ‘And now you just tell me to shut up. Brutal way to treat a fella in my time of life.'

When Grantley stepped out through the doors of the RSL, Vern was by his side. They wove a zig-zag line along the path towards us. Vern slipped his arm through Grantley's as they got closer.

I gave Ernie a nod. He stepped over to them, jabbing two fingers held together, into Grantley's back. Ernie's fingers are old-bone and icy, not a bad impression of cold steel.

‘Hey?' said Grantley, staggering.

‘Shut up and keep walking.' Ernie kept his voice dark and low.

Grantley's face turned grey. ‘Look, I don't have any money, mate.'

‘Keep quiet, and you'll live. We're walking to that nice park ahead. At a normal pace. Smiling.'

I marched on the other side of Grantley, hemming him in. Oblivious Christmas shoppers parted like the Red Sea around us. Grantley's face glistened.

The park was the huge, green kind that attracts the relaxed family visitor. I guided our little group towards an old Telecom shed, away from any happy families.

‘Face the wall,' I growled. Not a tone of voice I'd used before. I sounded like Clint Eastwood. Vern held Grantley's arms up against the wall.

‘Don't kill me.' Grantley's voice was shaky.

‘Tell us what you've done with Bradley,' I said, ‘and you won't get hurt.'

‘Who's Bradley?'

‘You bloody well know who Bradley is. Where is he?'

He swallowed. ‘I know that voice. You're that woman who came to my office. Who
are
you?'

‘You don't need to know. What have you done to my son?'

‘Me?' His voice was a squeak. ‘I haven't done anything to anyone.'

‘Decent people stand up to hooligans, Grantley. Now, a woman has been murdered. That's not acceptable. And three people are missing. Including my son. And it all comes back to you. Where is he?'

‘I don't know. Honestly.' Grantley started crying.

I wasn't going to let some blubbing get to me. Conniving, murderous bastard.

‘I'll report you to the police. This is harassment.'

‘Maybe he really doesn't know,' whispered Vern.

I shot Vern a warning look. ‘You know something, Grantley, even if you don't know—you know. So spill it.'

He stood there, head slumped against the wall.

Maybe I needed to be more specific. ‘Brad's locked up somewhere. Hanging.' My voice choked up.

‘God, you must be worried,' said Grantley.

A silence while I digested that. This was one crafty masterminding murderous type, offering sympathy like that.

‘I am,' I said, snappy. ‘Now, what's the Pocket Money bank account about?'

‘The what?'

Vern twisted his arm.

‘I don't know! Honest, I'd tell you if I did.'

Vern twisted harder.

Grantley cried out. ‘All I know is…Kev wouldn't let me near it. Or anything.'

‘Go on. You have my interest.'

‘Junior partner, supposedly, but I knew nothing about the stupid business. It was a nightmare after he died. Took me ages to unravel things. Still haven't managed to.'

‘Get to the point.' Ernie jabbed his fingers harder into Grantley's back.

Grantley cringed against the wall. ‘Kev never took a holiday. Couldn't be out of the office, he had to control every little detail. Then last year he got the flu and couldn't get out of bed. I had to run the place on my own. Someone rang, asking about the Pocket Money account. I'd never heard of it. I went round, woke up Kev and asked him. “I'll deal with it,” he said. Stared at me with big eyes. “You stay right out of it,” he told me. Kev didn't trust me to do anything.'

‘Get to the point,' I said.

‘Christ, I'm telling you, OK? I was offended, naturally. I stamped off. Perhaps I should have asked him all about it. If I'd known I'd be held at gunpoint later on, obviously I would have.' He squealed as Vern twisted his arm another notch.

‘Pitterlines never think, they're all the same,' muttered Ernie.

‘What does Clarence have to do with the account?' I said.

‘Clarence? Nothing.' He paused. ‘Although he seemed to know all about it, that day he left. Strange. I'd never mentioned it.'

‘So why did you kill Mona Hocking-Lee?' I said.

‘What? I wouldn't…I couldn't…Look, you've got the wrong person. Honest.'

‘Well, who is the right bloody person?' I snapped.

‘I'm telling you, I don't know.' His shoulders shook.

‘Reckon he might be telling the truth, Cass,' whispered Vern.