Starlight Peninsula (18 page)

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s only a feeling, and I’m not sure I even had it back then. I’ve only uncovered it now.’

‘Pretty tenuous,’ he said, looking ahead.

‘Exactly. You can’t tell people, the police, you have a
feeling
. That you’ve developed a feeling you didn’t even know you
had
back then.’

‘It wouldn’t have much evidentiary value, no. Also, you said he died the morning he was found, that’s a fact, right? The neighbour came out and found him. So even if you were noticing some missing item or whatever, it could date from any time when you were in Sydney. Not necessarily on the morning he … passed away.’

‘You drive very fast, don’t you.’

‘Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’ He slowed down, then almost immediately speeded up again.

Eloise gripped the top of her seatbelt.

After a moment she said, ‘Missing item.’

‘Do I turn left here?’

‘First left and then right, onto the peninsula road.’

Silence. The big car hissed over the chip seal.

Eloise bit her nail. ‘You said
missing item
.’

‘Did I? No. I’m not sure.’

‘I didn’t think of that. I thought I must have seen some clue, or sensed it. I didn’t think maybe something was
missing
.’

It was a high tide, the estuary a brimming stretch of silver beyond the tip of the land. Inland, the water looked viscous, almost bursting, like the skin of a blister. The creek was full almost up to the bridge, and
only the tops of the mangroves were visible in the still water. Skeins of high cloud stretched over the dog park, a line of grappling ropes thrown towards the horizon, their angle making the whole vista seem as if it was on a slant.

Simon parked and she led him down to the creek, showing him the wooden bridge and the path along the peninsula.

He stood shading his eyes, looking over at the dog park. He was very tall. Broad shoulders, curly hair, big hands. Something so self-contained about him, so controlled. She had a moment of — what could you call it — incredulity? That she was standing here with this unknown person. It was entirely improbable he should be here at all. Sudden memory: when she was a student she used to think, I like that person. Somehow, I am going to find my way into his house. It was usually a man — she was better at making friends with men. She had managed to enter Lampton’s house, now he was about to enter hers.

Did she like Simon Lampton? The way he’d led her to the wooden seat in his garden, sat her down and placed two fingers on her wrist. Looking into her eyes, his expression intent, respectful, serious. The freshness of his shirt. The clean, masculine smell of him. His big hand resting lightly on her arm.

Don’t get carried away. It’s called a good bedside manner. They all do it; they learn it at medical school. They touch you somewhere nice and safe, a brief comforting squeeze on your arm or foot, before leaving you to get on with your dying.

All that. But yes, she did like him. He had a way of looking sideways, as if, beneath his smooth politeness, there was something more real. His patients were women; he must be used to covering his male nature under a veneer of gentleness, concern. Not scaring the ladies — he was good at that. But sometimes his smile dropped and he gave you a shrewd, assessing look, as if, during a crisis, he would swap the pleasantries for toughness, efficiency, pragmatism.

Funny, he is most charming at the exact moment he stops smiling.

He followed her along the creek path; now they surveyed the blackened bushes on the fenceline, and the base of the toe toe, rising crookedly out of the grass like a dead tooth.

‘What happened here?’

‘We had a little scrub fire.’

‘This weather. Everything’s tinder dry.’

‘And then some moron drops a cigarette …’ Eloise pointed across the lawn. ‘This is my house.’

‘Very nice. Someone’s home, I see.’

‘No. I live alone.’

‘Someone’s upstairs. At the window.’

She squinted up, shading her eyes. ‘There shouldn’t be anyone in there.’

He shrugged. ‘Your ex. Your sister.’

‘No. No one. And it’s not Amigo’s day.’

‘Well, let’s go and see.’

The door was deadlocked. She opened it and called, ‘Sean?’ The hallway was silent and hot, crossed with sunlight from the high window. Dust motes whirled in the air. The alarm was switched off. Hadn’t she set it, since there was no Silvio to trigger it?

She called out again.

There was no sound except the seagulls crying above the house and the ticking of the noisy clock in the kitchen. And a faint, metallic clang, as if someone had bumped against the garage door at the front. Could Sean have gone out through the door that connected the garage to the house?

But there were voices behind her.

Nick and Simon Lampton were facing each other on the path, Nick slowly raising his sunglasses, pushing them to the top of his head. He was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt.

Simon turned to Eloise, his face inscrutable.

‘Oh Nick, hi! Nick, Simon Lampton.’

The two men shook hands. Nick looked hard at Simon, who declined to meet his eyes, only looked at Eloise with an odd, smiling expression.

‘Simon says he saw someone in the house. At the window. Did you see anyone?’ she asked.

Nick shook his head.

Simon smiled with mouth not eyes. He was impatient, keen to move on. ‘The sun was right on it. Impossible to see really. Probably a curtain blowing.’

Nick said, ‘A trick of the light.’ His tone was faintly derisive.

Silence.

Nick tried to engage, to catch Simon’s eye, but Simon turned away, jingling his car keys.

Eloise said to Simon, ‘Are you in a rush?’

‘I was just going to ask if you wanted me to cut your grass,’ Nick said.

‘Oh, thanks, that’s really nice of you, but I’ve still got Goodfellow. Goodfellow Nkemba — he does a lot of lawns around here.’

‘Okay. See you later, Eloise.’ He flipped his sunglasses down over his eyes and went off along the path, with a backward glance.

Simon passed his keys from one hand to the other. ‘Who was that?’

‘Nick, he lives across the way.’

‘All right, is he? Seems a bit, I don’t know …’

‘A bit what?’

‘What was he doing on your property?’

She laughed. ‘We’re a bit more relaxed about boundaries here. Not like over your side. With your gated communities. Your security details.’

‘I hope you trust him.’

Eloise thought about Nick’s backward stare. He was much younger
than Simon Lampton. Next to Nick, Simon appeared smooth, affluent; everything about him, from his clothes to his expressions, was infinitely more complex. She looked at his expensive shoes, his air of competence. He was a doctor. Well respected. A pillar. It was right to trust him.

‘So, Eloise …?’

She refocused, understood the tone: he meant she was using up his time. Time is money.

‘Do you want to see Arthur’s file?’

He nodded casually. ‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Come inside. Nick’s okay, he’s just a neighbour. He’s incredibly useful around the place. One of those practical guys. Always has his toolkit on him. Do you want a drink? Just sit there if you like, sorry about the paw prints, that’s Silvio, he’s always covered in mud. From the estuary. He likes to get down and wallow in it. I’m thinking of getting a puppy, but I’m at work all day. I have to move out, my husband and I will have to split the assets, you know, go fifty-fifty. Because he’s left me, and he’s not coming back. His family’s rich, he’s an heirloom. He’s got this actress. This bimbo,
narcissist
. Everyone says she’s an idiot; she’s into spiritual self-improvement, all kinds of humourless New Age bullshit. He’s making us sell the house but I love the peninsula; I love the dog park but it’s a bit challenging at night sometimes. That’s why I borrow Silvio. For the company.’

She left him and went out to the Honda, sliding the file out from the cavity under the spare wheel. Should she take it to Klaudia next session?

Klaudia. An image of the therapist appeared, along with a lingering sense of
tristesse
. Transference again. Not erotic exactly (not so much about Klaudia’s soft, fair hair and wry, crafty smile), more just a yearning for her large, square, blonde presence. Note to self: think up something very ‘worrying’ for next session. Something to get old Klaudia frowning intently and reaching for the textbooks …

Eloise now entered a daydream she’d begun to have lately: filling the house with people. Klaudia, on an extended house call. Carina and the Sparkler. Silvio. Nick. Scott and Thee. Maybe Simon Lampton, too. The more the merrier. Having them move in and stay. After an earthquake, say. Catastrophic floods. All in it together. Camaraderie. Never a moment to yourself.

Simon hadn’t moved. He was staring out through the ranch slider, over the brown grassland to the dog park. His expression was far away, distracted.

‘Air,’ he said, vaguely.

She sat down next to him with the file on her knees. ‘You want the window open?’

‘You said your ex is an heirloom. You mean an
heir
.’

‘That’s what I said. He’s an heirloom to the Rodd family fortune.’

‘An
heir
. To the
Rodds
. The
Rodd
family, no less. How did you meet him?’

‘He’s an intellectual property lawyer. He came to ask me if I had a copy of a screenplay Arthur had written for one of his clients. Then one day he came to the studio with a Chinese businessman who’d been buying up farms. The guy presented us with photos of himself and the prime minister. Sean was part of the entourage. He’s a lawyer at Jaeger’s.’

‘Jaeger’s act for the Hallwrights.’

‘Yeah. The
Soon
franchise. Soonworld. All that.’

‘All that,’ Simon repeated. A look of intense calculation in his eyes.

‘Here,’ Eloise said. She turned over the photo of Arthur sitting on a rock, the green West Coast bush behind him. The intensity of his expression. His pale, young face and startling eyes.

Simon made a sound in his throat. He swallowed.

Eloise frowned. ‘He always wore that shirt. It was his favourite.’

His thin legs crossed, one pale ankle visible, a boyish sock. His face
was pale, his lips blue. Faint purple shadows under his eyes. Rain had slicked his hair down across his scalp, and his arms were folded tightly across his chest.

‘He’s cold,’ Simon whispered.

‘Yes. It was freezing. The rain was bucketing down. But it was beautiful, in a, you know, melancholy,
atmospheric
way. We were somewhere near Greymouth. We walked along a river that was banked by big grey stones. And we came to a kind of mystery, a pile of deers’ feet, heaped on the bank. Left there by hunters. It was eerie.’

‘He’s so young.’ Simon reached out as if to take the picture, drew back. ‘I have a son looks about that age.’

Eloise traced the edges of the photo with her finger. ‘I’d like to have a son.’

‘Maybe you will, one day.’

‘I need a man first. At least briefly. Or I could do an Anita O’Keefe. I’m conducting a poll, by the way. Asking everyone. Who do you think’s the father?’

Simon looked straight at her, searching her face.

‘Of Baby O’Keefe?’ she prompted.

‘No idea,’ he said.

Eloise thought for a moment. ‘Most people make a guess. One out of the front bench. Jack Dance. Colin Cahane. Ed Miles.’

He shrugged.

‘Funny. For some reason, you’ve made me imagine you know the answer.’

‘I told you, I’ve got no idea.’

‘Maybe you do know, since you’re friends with the Hallwrights.’

‘Why would they know?’

‘As political insiders. Members of the inner circle. Is Ed Miles a friend of yours?’

He made a slight face. ‘No.’

‘Oh, you don’t like him?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I’ve met him up at Q, when he’s been in for interviews. He’s unnerving. His eyes bore into you.’

‘That’s true. He’s very observant.’

‘What was it like being on holiday with him?’

‘Fine. Very pleasant.’

‘Pleasant! You know, I met him in passing, at Q, and it was strange, he knew my name.’

‘Why is that strange?’

‘I hadn’t been dealing with him directly. We hadn’t been introduced. Why should he know my name?’

‘Maybe he makes it his business “to know everything”. Part of his scary aura.’

‘So you admit he’s scary.’

‘Well, sure. He’s about as cuddly as a lizard. But he’s trying to soften his image.’

‘Because he wants to take over from Jack Dance.’

‘So they say. Dance is low in the polls, and Miles wants the job.’

‘And Miles is maybe fuelling the illegal spying allegations against Dance? Secretly helping the Opposition fan the flames.’

‘Possibly, but I don’t follow politics closely.’

‘And your friend Hallwright’s helping Miles. Hallwright, back from Monte Carlo or wherever. He’s supposedly been meeting with Miles. Plotting.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

There was a silence. They were looking hard at each other. Eloise put her hand on his arm. ‘Simon. If there was something funny about Arthur’s death …’

He drew back. ‘It sounds like a tragic accident.’

‘But if there was something odd about it … Arthur rang you at
Rotokauri while Hallwright and Miles were there. The fact that he called you was investigated …’

‘It was nothing to do with Miles or David … with Hallwright. The only
tenuous
link is between me and Arthur, because the records showed he rang me twice. He was looking for gossip. Simple as that. The police made a quick inquiry, found nothing. End of story.’

‘It’s just, I was thinking, Jack Dance would like to find something on Ed Miles and Hallwright.’

Simon folded his arms across his chest. ‘I understand you’ve got caught up in this idea of looking back. Now that your marriage has ended, and you’re on your own, brooding perhaps. And you’ve got these ideas about “something funny” and “digging dirt” and “mysteries”. But from what I’ve seen, politics doesn’t work like that. Not in our boring little country. Jack Dance will be trying to save himself in the usual way. Shoring up support. Rallying his base. Whatever they do. No black ops. No cloak and dagger.’