The Fourth Season (16 page)

Twenty

Don Fletcher finally phoned next morning, asking for an update. Recalling how he'd pocketed Laila's diagram and sketch, I felt uneasy about meeting him again, but told myself there was nothing he could do to me in a public place.

I suggested the
Tradies
cafeteria, thinking that Don might object; but he showed no surprise at my choice, and no sign of being familiar with the club.

He stood with his shoulders stooped and head down while I showed my membership card and chose a table in full view of the counter. I was hoping that the young waitress who'd told me someone had been asking about me would be able to identify Don, or else say for certain that he had not been the man.

The expression in Don's eyes was hunted; he looked gaunt and ill. There were stains on his jacket, and he seemed to carry shadows with him, shadows he seemed both to welcome and recoil from. Registering his deterioration, I felt cold suddenly, and drawn into it without understanding why.

Don's decision to offer me money had been a calculated one, but it had not been Don doing the calculation. No doubt someone else had written the script for this encounter too, but it was up to Don to deliver it, and he was having trouble.

He studied the menu in silence for what seemed like a long time, while I studied him.

Don's was the sort of skin that went sallow in the autumn, summer's tan fading to a mustard yellow. The room's dim light—for outside it was cloudy, clouds once again offering hints and half-promises of rain—accentuated the deep pouches underneath his eyes.

He raised them to complain about DS Brideson, then about his wife. He seemed not to notice my scepticism, and almost to have forgotten that I'd met Clare and formed my own impressions.

My feeling of coldness, of being physically chilled, of having stepped into deep water out of sight of land, returned with greater strength when I asked Don what his brother had been doing outside the internet cafe.

Don pretended not to know what I was talking about at first, but, by the way he picked up the menu again, grasping the corner tightly, I was sure my guess was right. It had been Cameron that night last October, and it had been Cameron watching me as well.

Don told me that I must be mistaken, trying to sound brusque, but managing only to sound confused and fearful.

‘You're close to Cameron, aren't you?' I said.

I watched Don framing a denial, then giving up.

‘Do the police know of the connection between Laila and your brother?'

Don licked his lips, pulling himself together. ‘There is no connection.'

I knew this was a lie, and Don knew that I knew it. In a few short sentences, we moved beyond superficial lies and their consequences, while much bigger ones waited in the wings.

The more mystery surrounded Cameron Fletcher, the more curious I felt. What
was
his connection with Laila? Had it come about through Ben Sanderson perhaps, or in some other way? I recalled the photograph of Laila on the dive shop's website. Cameron had put it up, and was keeping it up there, I felt sure. It was part of a game he was playing with the police, and with me as well. I felt sure that Cameron was confident he could squash me any time he liked, and reminded myself that he might well be right.

I remembered the outline I'd glimpsed alongside Don's at the pool that night, solidifying then dissolving through the mist; the voice that had, for an instant, been so clear. Yes, Cameron was the dangerous brother, the one who needed watching and yet continued to evade my gaze. Chameleon-like, he changed from a man of average height and build, a short-haired shadow momentarily caught by a street light, to a jaunty figure in a baseball cap, curb-crawling in a small red car. Cameron had been watching Bronwyn's house, I felt certain of that too. But why? And did Bronwyn know? Cameron had been moving round the city, half invisible, yet flaunting himself at the same time—flaunting his skill and cunning.

I knew I should get up from the table straight away, go straight to Brook and tell him. But would Brook believe me? Would he even agree to see me? I admitted to myself that the answer, probably, was no.

Don asked about Ivan, how Ivan was getting on. When I told him a bit better, Don looked both annoyed and dissatisfied, as though expecting to hear that Ivan was still wallowing in misery, or better still, on the brink of being charged.

Don struck me then as behaving like a child who fears arbitrary punishment, who has early learnt to fear it, who sees the path ahead as full of giant stones and yet stumbles on along it, from lack of choice, or the inability to imagine a way out.

After a few more desultory questions, he got up to leave, having barely touched the coffee it had taken him so long to decide on ordering. From the back, his coat looked ragged, a tear beginning at the shoulder seam. I thought of Laila's waistcoat with its marks of dirt and oil.

It struck me that he hadn't said anything about terminating our agreement. I understood that I would have to be the one to do it, and almost called him back.

I left some money on the table and hurried out into the street. Don had disappeared.

. . .

An item on the evening news declared that announcement of the Bass Strait marine park had been postponed yet again. Speculation was mounting that there might be no park at all. The oil and fishing companies were lobbying furiously, I assumed, but their lobbying was going on behind locked doors. This time, there were no leaks to the press.

When I glanced behind me, Peter was standing in the doorway.

He cleared his throat, and then spoke clearly. ‘I've been thinking—Kat and I could go and stay with my father for a while.'

Peter allowed a special emphasis to fall on the word father, almost that of an adult son speaking about a revered, but absent parent.

He had the high moral ground to himself, and he knew it. I felt a spasm of dislike for my son, seeing him, in ten years' time, as an upright, pompous young man. Then I told myself this wasn't fair, and that he had every right to get away from the atmosphere of anxiety and tension.

When I told him I was sorry, Peter lifted his chin; it was not quite steady.

‘We could go at the weekend. Kat as well,' he said.

‘What about soccer?'

‘My father will take us.'

‘Why don't you phone and ask him?'

‘Thanks, Mum. Awesome. Can I be the one to tell Kat?'

‘Of course.'

I pictured the house along the Murrumbidgee, a house into which Derek had poured all his skill as an architect, conceived and built for the second family he and Valerie had failed to produce. In a rare confiding moment, Derek had told me of Valerie's deep disappointment. I imagined that house—substantial, comfortable, elegant—breathing in and out with the pleasure of having children within its walls. I imagined Valerie's maternal hands, and the blush of baking that wasn't too much trouble, and the kitchen full of wonderful smells. And outside the river, narrow and truncated, yet still flowing, the eucalypts that hid only grass, not men whose intent was evil. I told myself that if Pete and Katya were safe, then that was all that mattered, and who was I to begrudge Valerie her pleasure?

. . .

As my children walked down the drive to Derek's waiting car, Kat turned and looked at me over her shoulder. She was carrying a small backpack, Peter a larger one, and as Kat turned, she re-adjusted it, her eyes seeking mine. Derek waved, and Ivan, who'd come to the front door, waved back.

Peter did not turn around. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from calling out to him. Peter kept his eyes down, but the pulse beating in his neck told me how alert he was, braced in expectation of yet another false move by his mother.

Katya raised her hand and her lips parted for an instant. Her expression was familiar and strange at the same time. She wasn't nervous about spending a few days with Valerie and Derek. I was aware, rather, of the sense that my daughter was holding herself in, holding her breath until she escaped the threat that remained at home, with me.

She smiled at her father, but I thought it was a sad smile.

Derek had driven in alone to pick them up. Valerie would be getting things ready. My heart went cold again, and I told myself not to be stupid. I was lucky my children had somewhere to go for a break. Derek and Valerie were perfectly capable of looking after them. But still, I had to stop myself from rushing down the driveway, grabbing Katya by the arm and pulling her inside with me.

The car left and Ivan turned away. I felt like staying outside for a little while, my spirits suddenly lifting at the thought that, for the next few days and nights, I would not need to consider my children's needs, or timetables. I could stay out half the night without feeling guilty, sleep the afternoons away. There'd be no jolt at ten to three, reminding me that I must be at my post, watching the school oval, waiting for that singular flash of yellow that distinguished Kat's T-shirt from all the others, Kat's black, bobbing curls.

Who, or what, I wondered, had given my daughter that complicated gaze, the mixture it expressed of duty and relief from duty, an inner balancing remarkable, surely, in a six-year-old? Kat's shouldering of responsibility was so different from her brother's, yet there were similarities as well. How had she learnt it, and from whom? Those clear black eyes, that pale face with its chin upturned, expressed the confidence that, whatever the current trouble, it would end. In response, in gratitude, a sliver of hope inserted itself under my skin and stayed there.

I feared to scar my daughter with my own fear. I feared also for her bright pure courage, her belief that anything is possible once you've scored a goal.

Twenty-one

Ivan huffed and puffed about wild goose chases, but I didn't care. Once the idea occurred to me, my need to get out of Canberra was suddenly so strong that there was no way I was going to allow him to deflect it. Plus, getting our car back called for some kind of celebration.

I found the Monaro Highway, traffic light along it, maps of Jindabyne and the route up into the mountains open on the seat beside me. I felt myself beginning to relax, picturing my children happily occupied, Derek and Valerie at the soccer oval cheering from the sidelines. I let my thoughts take me where they would, in a more reflective and less agitated way.

I'd convinced myself that it had been Ben Sanderson in that tram with Laila, but admitted that I might be wrong. The mountain air was tinder dry. Gradually, small alpine eucalypts replaced the taller lowland varieties. Grey paddocks held scatterings of handfed sheep, but most were empty. I'd heard on the news that the Snowy catchment area, source of water for the huge hydro-electric scheme, was in deep trouble, one of the worst drought-affected areas of all. I couldn't have said why, but felt sure that I was on the track of Laila's mystery lover.

Recalling Ivan's dismissive reaction when I'd told him about them, I allowed for the possibility that Laila's sketch and diagram were no more than the expression of a childish fantasy, one she'd never seriously intended doing anything about. This was certainly Ivan's opinion, and I expected that anybody else I put the theory to would react with equal, if not greater scepticism. I'd read as much about the Babel canyon as I'd been able to get my hands on, and about the
Maria Rosa
. I'd been disappointed to discover that, although one source had the ship sinking more or less in the vicinity that Laila had marked, others suggested that the vessel had gone down much closer to the Victorian coast. Various groups of divers had been looking, but had never found it.

I'd also learnt that ExxonMobil's Babel rig was meant to have been the first of what had provisionally been called the Babel Cluster, but that development had been postponed pending the government's final decision on the boundaries of the marine park.

I'd only ever been to the snowfields once, and hadn't taken much notice of Jindabyne township on that trip. Now I was curious, negotiating the steep descent towards what was supposed to be the water's edge. Bare sand and clay stretched for a further hundred metres. I passed the bowling club, the statue of Strezelecki and service station on my right, driving slowly as I kept an eye out for the caravan park. I was surprised to see so few trees on what would once have been the water line. A bike path wound its way much further up, sometimes dipping in and out between alpine gums and casuarinas.

I found the park entrance a few kilometres further on. The place was deserted except for a few single men who liked to fish, judging by the rods that leant against their vans, the metal tables obviously used for gutting and cleaning their catch. One elderly couple looked to be living there permanently and had gathered around their van the detritus of long lives, in overflowing bags and boxes, some under cover, others open to the weather.

When I asked the manager about the cottage Bill Abenay had rented, he told me where to find it with the expression of a man who'd be grateful for a bit of extra business. We discussed the drought and its effects. He told me with a wry, encouraging smile that the fish, what was left of them, were still biting. I said I might be interested in hiring a boat, and he replied that he'd be happy to supply it.

When I pulled out my photograph of Laila, he shook his head and told me he'd never seen her at the van park, or anywhere in Jindabyne.

What struck me immediately was the cottage's isolation. It was a proper cottage, rather than a shack. It even had a bit of garden round it, spiky bushes that were surviving the drought. The park manager had told me I could have it for a hundred dollars for the night, but I was sure he would have taken seventy if I'd offered it to him.

I parked and did a quick circuit. Each window was covered with a thick brown blind, fully drawn. The building was weatherboard, with a curious double chimney at one end. I tried counting rooms. If the cottage was as old as its chimney suggested, it would, in its original state, have had only one bedroom. I let my mind play over the ­possibility that Bill Abenay and Laila had shared it.

Had Abenay expected payment for what had amounted to an unusual diving lesson? If he had, what might Laila's reaction have been? It was easy to assume that Laila had been the dominant one, gracing a middle-aged solitary man with her desirable presence, doing him a favour just by offering him her company. According to Abenay's version of events, he'd refused her request to dive alone, and she'd seen the folly of this and relented. Had his story been an attempt to show me that Laila hadn't had him wrapped around her little finger, that his word had counted for something?

I fetched a map and a pair of binoculars from the car. No proper path followed the recently exposed shore. I climbed a small rise, ­figuring that Wollondibby Creek and Inlet should be on the other side. The creek was dry, but that wasn't what took my attention. A huge pile of granite, rocks of all different shapes and sizes, rose up at the Inlet's mouth. I wondered why Abenay hadn't mentioned them as I checked my map. Curiosity Rocks, they were called. The water was so low that you could almost wade out to them.

The launching ramp was clearly visible from the rise, though not at all from the cottage. I counted seven four-wheel drives with trailers lined up, but only three boats were visible from where I stood. The water was flat and there was no wind at all. A small pontoon supported a shed with Boat Hire printed on it in large letters. Several dinghies and canoes were tied up there, but I could see no sign of anybody and the shed was closed.

I turned around and looked up towards the hills rising behind me, wondering what the valley must have looked like to the first white ­settlers. I spotted a narrow dirt path winding through a stand of poplars and walked towards it. Thistles were getting a good hold on the soil, but apart from that it was desperately bare. I followed the path to the ramp, stopping for a few moments to watch a water-skier take off. The ramp was a simple concrete slope, on the other side of it another creek and inlet.

Widow's Creek: I found it on the map and thought about the name as I walked around the shore close to the water. Though muddy in patches, it was easy going for the most part. I shaded my eyes and squinted at a boy running in the shallows up ahead, a dog barking excitedly beside him. For a moment I imagined it was Peter and Fred, when Fred was still alive.

The boy threw the stick he'd been holding and the dog swam after it, taking off with an almighty leap.

‘Great dog,' I said, coming up to them.

‘Thanks.' The boy grinned, pretending indifference to the compliment.

‘What's his name?'

‘Max. He's a mountain dog.'

‘He looks like the dog my son used to have, except his coat's thicker.'

‘Do you live round here?' The boy shot me a glance. ‘I ain't seen you before.'

When I said I lived in Canberra, he shrugged. We talked while he threw sticks and Max retrieved them, looking as though he would never tire of the game. I learnt that boy's name was Justin and that he used to work at the fishing shop next to the service station before ‘mean old Mr Robben' had given him the sack.

‘I never did nuffin' and me Dad belted me cos he didn't believe me.'

Mr Robben organised fishing trips for ‘townies' and dives to the homestead, ‘though you could practically walk out to it now'. When I asked Justin if he'd been diving there himself, he shot me a look bordering on contempt and said old Robben was far too mean to teach him for nothing, and where would he get the money to pay for scuba gear?

‘You said you're from Canberra? I thought nothin' ever happened there, I mean like nothing violent. But there's them two murders.'

Somewhat surprised by the comment, I agreed that two murders in a short space of time was unusual.

‘I reckon I seen that girl, you know, like of what she was wearing, this red—I don't know what you call it—'

‘A red waistcoat?'

Justin nodded. ‘I seen it on the telly and I thought, that's her.' He stared at me as though weighing up his options.

I took out my card and showed it to him. Justin frowned, but didn't comment, or ask for an explanation. Max panted and looked up at him intently. Justin bent to pat him, then threw the stick again.

I drew Justin's story out of him with the help of twenty dollars.

Laila had appeared at the boat ramp while he was there with Mr Robben, getting ready to take a couple of guys out for a spin.

‘In his new boat. Pride and joy, in'it?'

Laila had walked right up to Robben's Landcruiser, and Robben had leant out of the driver's side to speak to her. It was obvious that they knew each other, and that he wasn't pleased. ‘She was like wow, you know. I never seen a girl like her except in the movies.' Justin shook his head and turned away, but not before I caught the glitter of a tear in his eye.

Max flopped down at his owner's feet. Justin scratched him lovingly behind the ears and said, ‘I never seen what happened next because Mr Robben sent me back to the shop to fetch some extra life jackets.' These were supposedly for the tourists, but they didn't need them. There were plenty of life jackets in the back of the Landcruiser, Justin said disdainfully. He described the tourists as ‘Just fellas. Townies. Nothing special.'

There'd been no one else at the ramp, and Justin had not seen Laila again.

‘The next day Mr Robben fired me, after I got to work on time and all. No notice, nuffink. He can rot in hell for all I care. Never told me what I done wrong, and my old man belted me because he said I must be lyin'.'

They'd all been gone when Justin returned to the ramp with the extra life jackets. He'd waited for a while, then, not knowing what else to do, he'd gone back to the shop. ‘A mate of mine dropped by and we went and had a game of pool. I reckoned Mr Robben could find me if he wanted me. I hated working Sundays anyway. And he never paid me extra for it.'

When I asked about Mr Robben's boat, Justin said, ‘Worth a hundred thousand. Reckons he got it cheap.' Justin made a face, half scepticism, half envy. ‘He's a mean bastard, but I don't reckon he's a thief. Too bloody obvious in a place like this.'

I thanked him for talking to me. ‘Would your dog let me pat him?'

‘Sure. Max, listen. This lady is a friend. Max knows the word friend.'

I said I was sure he did.

. . .

A large sign over Bernhard Robben's shop said ‘Lake Jindabyne Trout Fishing Adventures'. Smaller ones underneath it offered fishing lessons, fly rod hires and boat trolling. Another said, ‘Qualified Diving Instructor, Altitude Specialist'. A Landcruiser was parked at the front, and the door was ajar. I wondered where the new boat was kept.

The door opened onto a large variety of rods and other equipment. A counter held a cash register, computer, fax machine and phone. A big pin board took up half a wall, mostly covered in photographs of smiling men holding improbably large fish.

There were a few groups of divers in wetsuits as well, with the expressions of startled inanity that diving masks create. I stared at one that looked familiar. He was standing in front of a yacht with a tall apricot-coloured sail. I took a step closer to read the name, as a voice behind me said, ‘Can I help you?'

A man with dark hair tied back in a pony tail, dark eyes and good bones nodded a greeting.

I introduced myself and said I was interested in diving.

Robben pushed a strand of glossy hair off his face with his left hand. He wore a wedding ring. He described the trips he offered, and handed me some brochures.

‘I'm told you need to be pretty experienced,' I said.

Robben blinked rapidly. His eyes were a very dark brown, almost black.

‘The lake's a bit low at the moment. In general, well, there are certain conditions that make it more hazardous than diving at sea level.' He looked me up and down. ‘Sudden drops in temperature, for one. Hypothermia can be a problem. On the other hand, you don't have to worry about sharks.'

I smiled and said that was a relief.

‘Why don't I take your contact details, Ms—'

‘Mahoney,' I said, and gave him my mobile number. ‘Is the Kalkite homestead hard to find?'

‘Not if you know where to look. If you don't, there's seven and a half thousand hectares of water out there. Or there used to be.'

‘Does anyone dive without a guide?'

‘Of course. There's a boat hire place at the caravan park. That's where most start off. Some find the buildings, some don't. You've got to be lucky with the weather too. The water temperature can get down to three degrees Celsius.'

I asked Robben if he knew why the homestead hadn't been removed.

‘Removed?'

‘I understand that most of the buildings were taken away before the area was flooded.'

‘The Snowy Mountains Authority might have kept records on that. I've no idea.'

I pointed to the photo of the yacht. ‘A beautiful boat. Does it belong to you?'

‘If only.'

‘You enjoy sailing?'

‘I do.'

Robben's phone rang and he turned away to answer it. I took the opportunity to take another look at the rest of the photos.

He spoke softly to whoever the caller was, then raised his voice to ask, ‘Will that be all, Ms Mahoney?'

‘Please let me know next time you're arranging a dive trip.'

Robben glanced upwards, his expression sceptical.

‘I know,' I said. ‘Pray for rain.'

He ushered me out the door, then leant against it, watching me get into my car.