The Fourth Season (9 page)

Don stared at the diagram for so long that I concluded he must have seen it before.

‘Why do you think this section has been singled out?' I asked, pointing to the red circle.

Instead of replying, Don turned the second sheet of paper over and read the quotation on the back of the sketch.

‘I'm wondering, you see, how they're connected.' I pointed once again, trying to decide whether Don's silence meant that he was confused, or wondering how to fob me off. I decided that it was most likely both.

‘These layers don't match and I'm wondering if they should. Apologies for my lack of a scientific vocabulary, but it looks as though something's fallen in on top of something else, and, if you believe that quote to be relevant, hiding what was underneath, but not entirely. Does the date 1836 mean anything to you?'

At this, Don shook his head decisively, looking relieved. Not the question he's most afraid of, I thought, trying another angle.

‘Since Laila, or someone, has written “sediment flow” next to the date, could the layers be layers of sediment under the sea bed?'

Don stared at me and shook his head.

I waited another moment, then said, ‘You've seen these before.'

‘No I haven't.'

‘What do they mean to you?'

‘Mean?' Don repeated, as though the word was new to him. He added, as though following someone else's invisible instructions, ‘What do they mean to
you
?'

‘Perhaps a feature of the new marine park,' I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘that Laila was particularly interested in.'

Don folded the diagram and sketch and put them in the inside pocket of his jacket.

I was glad that they were copies, but I wished I hadn't shown him. I'd given away more than I'd learnt. Don surprised me by the adroit way he folded the sheets, the way they quickly disappeared into his pocket. I knew he was planning to show them to somebody. Clare? The police? Why not tell me if that was the case?

. . .

When I recalled our exchange later on, I found myself surprised by the disparity between Don's words and his appearance. He'd hardly spoken, and what he said had been dismissive. It was as though he'd forgotten he was paying me to come up with information, and he hadn't asked where I'd found the diagram and sketch, which would have been my first question.

I remembered the sneer in Don's voice when he'd asked what they meant to me. Given Don's knowledge of the marine environment, I'd been expecting a discussion that would throw some light on the puzzle. Instead, the opposite had happened, and if I hadn't had the foresight to make copies, I would now be without the sketch and diagram, or any evidence that they existed.

I saw again the deft way Don had folded the papers out of sight. Yet he'd looked worse than the first time I'd met him, bedraggled and fraying at the edges, his eyes full of misery and tension. I wondered how he spent his nights. There was something sly and weak about Don, both frightened and duplicitous.

I wondered if there was any way I could check his story about Laila and the leaked correspondence. I'd tried asking for a copy of the internal departmental inquiry, but Don had said he didn't have one. However much he'd managed to relax by the end of our first conversation, that process had been reversed. I didn't know if I wanted to go on working for Don. But there was the money. The money cancelled out a lot.

Eleven

CSIRO was located in a part of Canberra I had always liked. Tucked into the side of Black Mountain, next door to the Botanical Gardens, it was overlooked by a giant telecommunications tower where one year I'd spent bright spring mornings getting on the security guards' nerves, trying to work out whether a troubled young man had jumped from the tower, or been pushed.

After learning that Dr Tarrant had returned from his field trip, I'd made an appointment to see him. The fact that this had been easier than I'd expected had given my confidence a boost.

When I was shown into his office, the marine scientist was sitting stiffly upright, with the awkwardness of a man whose long tanned limbs looked better suited to managing a yacht than folded behind a desk. His inexpensive cotton shirt and pants were designed for the outdoors as well. His were the sort of looks that remain as durable at seventy as they are at fifty, which I guessed to be his age. But there was a line of sweat along his upper lip, and his thin hands, with large, uneven knuckles, were folded into fists. He wore a wedding ring.

‘Dr Tarrant.' I held out my hand.

The scientist rose briefly to grasp, rather than shake my hand, saying abruptly, ‘You're not a journalist, are you? What do you want?'

‘I'm not a journalist.' I handed him my card. ‘Some references to Bass Strait canyons came up in some work I'm doing for a client. I was hoping you could spare a few minutes to give me a bit of background.'

Dr Tarrant glanced at my card and asked how I'd found him.

‘By reputation,' I said.

He smiled at that, and I recognised a man who liked a bit of flattery.

Tarrant explained that he'd just returned from south of Wilson's Promontory where they'd been mapping an area of interest to the environment department.

‘We used a swath mapper. Does that mean anything to you?'

‘This is where I get into difficulties, I'm afraid. Would you mind explaining?'

He gave me a concise explanation, then went on to talk about seismic profiles.

‘We brought back over a thousand kilometres of them.'

‘Do they show what's in the canyons?'

‘Which canyons?' Tarrant asked.

‘The Babel, for example.'

‘Oh, no. It's far too deep.'

‘What do you think is in them?'

‘Your guess is as good as mine.'

This was unlikely. ‘I'm no scientist,' I said, ‘but I don't mind ­hazarding a guess. What about a host of unique, as yet unidentified species?'

Tarrant smiled in a way that suggested he'd heard this idea once too often.

‘Our knowledge of deep sea ecosystems is far from comprehensive. We've been using geological surveys to predict what
ought
to be there.'

‘So in your opinion it's a pretty open question.'

‘Well, I doubt we'll find the Loch Ness Monster, but yes.'

‘What about shallower canyons, trenches, that kind of thing?'

‘There are plenty of those.'

‘Have any of them been explored by divers?'

‘The ones around Port Campbell—they're part of a state-run marine park. I know recreational divers go down there. There may be others. I couldn't tell you off-hand.'

‘What about round the edges?'

‘Well the sea floor's shallow. Bass Strait as a whole is very shallow. But vast, of course, in terms of our knowledge of it—vast.'

‘The swath mapping, would it show the outline of a ship?'

‘It might. Unless the ship was buried in sediment, which they usually are.'

‘Sediment can move though, can't it?'

‘Of course.'

‘If a diver found an old wreck, it would be a coup for him or her, wouldn't it? It would enhance the conservation value of the park as well.'

‘The area has a high conservation value as it is,' Tarrant said. ‘Otherwise the department wouldn't be proposing it. What is it exactly that your client needs to know?'

‘Oh, I think you've filled in the background sufficiently. Thank you very much. And congratulations on the work your doing.'

Tarrant smiled graciously and said he'd show me the quick way out.

I wondered if I'd found the source of Senator Fitzpatrick's phone call. My guess was that I had.

. . .

Owen Thomas sat up as straight as he could in his hospital bed. He was pale and had lost weight, which he said wasn't a bad thing. After thanking me for keeping the cafe open, we talked about practical details concerning the running of it for a few minutes, then Owen looked at me and waited, knowing I was ready with a question.

‘A woman came in a couple of nights ago,' I said.

‘Not all that unusual,' Owen said with a watery smile.

I hesitated over how much to tell him of my hunches and suspicions. I knew very little about Owen, after all. But then, from one breath to the next, I decided to trust him. The more he knew, the more help he might be.

‘She's—Bronwyn's the woman's name—she was a friend of Laila's. It was her car Laila borrowed the night she was killed. I've managed to establish that Laila was picked up the night she used your cafe, and I'm wondering if the driver of the car was Bronwyn. She's adamant it wasn't, though.'

‘You don't believe her.' Owen winced.

‘Can I get you anything?'

‘It's just—the painkillers are wearing off and I can't take any more till midday.'

‘What about a drink of water?'

‘You could pour me a glass. Just a small one. Thanks.'

When I'd done this and Owen had taken a few sips, he said, ‘Tell me what this Bronwyn looks like.'

He listened carefully to my description, then shook his head and set his glass down. ‘Doesn't ring any bells, I'm afraid.'

‘The woman who brought you your hot chocolate left when Laila did. Maybe she saw the car.'

‘Pammy? You can ask her. I'm sure she wouldn't mind.'

‘A thin woman with curly hair?'

Owen nodded cheerfully. ‘Not much meat on her, but she's a fit old bird.'

I described the man Rowan had seen watching the car pull away, and the man I'd seen as well. I believed it was the same one. I asked Owen if he'd ever seen such a person in or outside the cafe.

‘That description is too general. If there was something about him that stood out—'

The doctor arrived before Owen could finish his sentence. I left them, hoping that the news was good.

. . .

It was early for meeting Katya, and I had no desire to go home. Ivan was showing no interest in my interviews, or how I spent my days. He wasn't even interested in Laila's diagram and sketch, which he dismissed as ‘doodling'.

Ivan made an effort for Pete and Katya in the evenings; apart from that, we were keeping out of each other's way. I hadn't asked him why he'd come home drunk, and he hadn't volunteered any explanation. The one bright spot was that DS Brideson hadn't been back for the past few days.

I detoured to the north side of Canberra via the lake, drawn to it as I supposed any murderer might be.

I parked under some trees and got out furtively, like a person who'd left commonsense behind, but retained an element of cunning.

The light over the water was flat, lying like bands of metal across unrevealing depths. Some swans began paddling towards me. They lacked dignity, like any begging animal. I thought of Laila, who had, I believed, been too proud to beg. I hoped she hadn't had the opportunity, that she hadn't been tested in this way, that unconsciousness had come quickly, from behind, with sufficient force to prevent her from turning and seeing her killer's face.

But I wanted to come face to face with that killer now. What man or woman, known to me perhaps, had that degree of nerve? Was it possible to deduce this from the outside? My experience told me no, of course it wasn't. Did other people look at me and ask themselves: could she? Would she? I asked myself then: what are you capable of, if sufficiently pushed? I didn't know the answer. I hoped it wasn't murder. I hoped I knew myself well enough for that.

At night, by the lakeside, there would have been the moving cover of the darkness; not this flat, reflecting expanse. Whoever it was would have felt confident that they were practically invisible, as they dragged Laila's body out, perhaps giving it a valedictory push. He or she had probably expected her body to be found the next day. Laila had been slight of weight and frame. A man of average build, or a strong woman, could easily have overpowered her given the advantage of surprise.

I recalled Ivan making tea in two saucepans that first morning, Ivan lining up dead matches on the kitchen bench. The scene mocked me as I drove back through the city. It was as though the spare domesticity of it could not be reduced any further, and yet was leached of all emotion, even grief. I could no longer say to myself, with absolute conviction, that Ivan was innocent of murder.

In order to put a brake on where these thoughts were taking me, I decided to treat myself to a late lunch at the
Tradies
.

I parked adjacent to the club and stood for a moment looking through the window at a vintage tram. In order the use the club's facilities, I had first to join, a simple procedure of showing some photo ID, paying five dollars and filling in a form. I was told my membership card would be posted to me in a week or so.

The cafe section was practically empty, its only other occupants a couple holding hands. I smiled at the young woman who took my order. Perhaps she'd seen me coming and going next door. It might be a way to start a conversation.

The waitress brought my toasted sandwich, then surprised me by asking what I did for a living. I pulled out my card.

‘Someone was here asking about you. He had a photo cut out from a newspaper.'

The waitress hadn't known the man and had had nothing to tell him. ‘But I recognised you as soon you came in,' she said with a hint of pride.

It was quiet; the lunchtime crowd had departed, and she seemed happy to chat. I learnt that the man hadn't volunteered his name, that he'd been dark haired and dark eyed, of medium height, early forties probably, and that he'd been wearing a hip length brown jacket. He'd given no explanation for his questions, and the waitress, who'd been busy then, hadn't hung around to ask any of her own.

I looked up to check. There was a closed circuit TV camera at the front entrance, and another where a corridor led through a bar to the poker machines, but none in the cafe.

When I pulled out my photograph of Laila, the waitress studied it, then said, ‘That's the girl who got herself murdered.'

She hadn't seen Laila in the club, or the street outside, and was definite about this.

I replaced the photo in my bag, and thanked the waitress for her time. ‘You've got my card. If that guy comes back, can you give me a call?'

‘Sure,' she said, with a sudden grin. ‘I'll do that.'