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I pulled out my airport luggage case and laid out some clothes on the bed—a pile of tee shirts, two collared shirts, jeans, cargos, gym gear, deodorant, razor, socks, and underwear. I threw in two chargers, my Nikon DSLR, three copies of my contract, a bottle of soft merlot, and two bottles of pinot noir. I unplugged my laptop from the charger and packed it into a laptop case. Any other necessary items I could get down the coast.
An online search for accommodations in Sussex Inlet showed that, due to the summer season coming to a close, cheap hotels were available. I booked a room for a week. I spent the rest of Sunday catching up on season two of The Returned on Netflix, trying to lull my brain into inactivity, and hit the sack early.
My phone alarm went off at five to five, and I stirred. A dull throbbing pain in my crotch hit me at full swing, and I breathed through my teeth. I’d noticed the pain four months earlier, and it came and went on a whim. I told myself for the umpteenth time to get it checked. I got up, showered, and downed a quick coffee. After I’d washed up and tidied the kitchen, I made my final checks, locked up, and went down to my ute.
I drove to the nearest Shell, filled up, checked the tyres, and headed south on the Princes Highway. The drive was pleasant enough. I alternated between humming and singing to music on my iPod, and when I was bored of that, I put on a CD audio book of Reckoning: A Biography by Magda Szubanski. As one of Australia’s best-known comediennes, and someone I grew up watching on TV and loving, it was like having a friend, a very funny friend, sitting right next to me telling me her life story.
The coast road offered sporadic ocean views, with abandoned diggers and the odd steamroller offering proof of ongoing road widening projects in some places. The highway wove past green fields and dairy farms. The speed limit slowed to fifty through Berry, a quant town full of antique stores vying for the trendy Sydney crowd.
I stopped at a pub in Nowra for a toilet break, and twenty minutes later, I spotted the turnoff to Sussex Inlet. The inlet was a natural barrier of sand to the southeast of St George’s Basin behind Bherwerre Beach, restricting the ocean connection. The basin itself was a shelter and food source for pelicans, ibis, kingfishers, and sea eagles. A holiday website described it as a charming and quiet coastal resort.
The village of Sussex consisted of small residential houses built from the sixties onwards. River Road was the main street where all the civic centres and small arcades had sprung. Ocean winds provided a coolness, white sand lay in the footpaths, and some of the side streets had no kerbing—a real summer holiday locale. A half-filled bottle of soft drink lay abandoned in the sun on some council reserve, and tall gumtrees caught the coastal wind in their higher branches, against cloudy blue skies that always carried the threat of thunderstorms.
The cheap hotel I found online was easy enough to find in real life. It stood prominently on a corner on the main road, a two-storey, pale-bricked, early eighties affair adorned with a flat metal roof, a semi-detached drive-through carport, and a car park. I pulled in, parked, and noted the time.
Seven twenty-three. Not bad going at all.
I got out and stretched, causing my lower back to crack in a couple of places, then locked up and went into the air-conditioned cool of the reception area. They hadn’t updated the decorating in thirty years, with dark, unwashed curtains, a chipped laminated reception desk, and thirsty-looking pot plants. The sound of a TV emanated from a back room.
Soon a woman in her fifties shuffled out, matronly and genial. ‘You must be Mr. Matt Kowalski.’
I nodded.
She introduced herself as Noelene, otherwise known as ‘Miss Cootamundra 1970’, as she told me. She straightened her hair and lifted her chin.
I could definitely see traces of her beauty in her cheekbones and strong jawline. ‘It’s an honour. I’ve never met a Miss Cootamundra, or any ‘Miss’ for that matter.’
She cackled with laughter and won a handful of points in my eyes. She gave me the key and told me to go to the top of the tiled stairs, first room on the right.
It took some jiggling to get the door open, and when I stepped in, the sweet odour of cheap carpet shampoo hit me, no doubt to cover the less desirable smells that haunted the room. Tiny with exposed brick walls, it offered just enough room to step between the bed and the built-in wardrobe, itself a relic. I cringed at the outdated pink and mauve bedspread and an ancient TV hung on an old bracket against the wall, and thanked the gods I wasn’t the luxurious type. An alcove by the bed held a teacup, half a dozen earl grey teabags, and a stained plastic kettle with the cord loosely wrapped around it. The limp and tarnished showerhead in the bathroom screamed absent husband or, barring that, no onsite handyman. The blackened grout between the tiles screamed indifference. The window didn’t open properly, and I didn’t see an extractor grille in the ceiling.
In need of a good coffee and a hearty breakfast, I dumped my things, and went back downstairs and out through the foyer.
Noelene had retreated out of sight.
I explored the various shops nearby—a charcoal chicken, a bottle shop, a Scandinavian supermarket franchise. They were closed at such an early hour, so I ventured into an unassuming arcade and discovered a hole in the wall café open for early trade. I found a table and ordered the big breakfast—eggs benedict, bacon, mushrooms cooked in garlic and butter, baked beans, sourdough toast, and a coffee. When the food came, I brought up Google maps on my phone, searched for Carmine’s automotive business, and memorised the various roads and series of turns. I savoured the food, and the coffee gave me the spark I needed to face the potentially awkward family reunion.
Italians have the propensity to be over-emotional and guilt-ridden, particularly when some time had passed between visits, with each party trying to out-guilt the other.
I went back to my room, collected my folder and my notebook, got in the ute and drove back towards Nowra. A few kilometres west, I reached the edge of an undeveloped industrial estate. I drove past acres of vacant land parcels, many of them with faded ‘for lease’ signs advertising missed business opportunities. I spotted a blue sign on the right and recognised Demich’s logo from the net, a spanner on a blue background, and turned into the gravel drive that led to a large industrial shed surrounded by a high fence. Stacks of crushed cars rose in columns above the fence line. I parked next to an old nineteen seventy-nine Ford Escort.
The building was a single storey workshop, with a mezzanine office. Three large roller doors stood open, and three car hoists sat side-by-side. I picked up my pad and pen and got out. The strong pungent smell of engine grease hit me as I followed a sign to the front office. A small waiting area contained a few padded chairs, a large tropical fish tank that desperately needed a clean, and stacks of Motoring Australia magazines. The sounds of talkback radio came from the workshop.
A dark-haired man in his late twenties with wavy dark hair appeared from an open doorway marked ‘Staff Only’. He approached the counter and squinted at me. The embroidered nametag said George. ‘Can I help you brother?’
I smiled congenially. ‘G’day George. I’m Matt Kowalski.’
His eyes sparkled and a grin spread across his face. ‘Holy shit. The old man said you were coming down.’
His enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and I laughed.
He rounded the counter and approached me with open arms, but stopped, looked down at his grease-covered overalls, and offered a hand instead.
I shook it.
He appraised me with a childlike glee. ‘I’ve got a private detective for a cousin! That’s sick, mate. So, you spy on people and shit, huh?’
‘Yeah, something like that. It’s not quite like on TV, but I undertake surveillance, insurance fraud, that sort of thing.’
George’s humour left his face as he nodded and held my eyes. ‘Thanks for coming down, for helping us. I know Dad talked to Zia Valeria over the phone. I remember her from when I was growing up. She’s a really nice lady.’
I nodded, noting that he’d shot up and bulked out since the last time I’d seen him.
He shook his head. ‘Man, I don’t even remember the last time I saw you.’
‘You were probably... oh, I don’t know... eight or nine. It was at Gina’s wedding.’
George tried to suppress a laugh. ‘Holy shit. Don’t tell the old man. He’d go ape shit. That was the first time Rob tried some mull. He took two puffs and was off his face. You should’ve seen Dad. He was cut like a mad snake.’
George laughed and rubbed his face, then sighed, and when he looked at me, his eyes had glassed over. ‘Fuck. I can’t believe he’s gone. You know? I can’t believe he was only in the workshop last week. Right there.’
‘It’s the reason I’m here.’
He nodded and we stood silent for a while.
Finally, he looked up and said, ‘Hey, you want a coffee or something? Just use the machine over here, okay? It’s one of those George Clooney ones. Chuck in one of those dispensable things and it does everything for you.’
‘No thanks, but I like the look of them. I might get one myself.’
‘Best four hundred bucks we’ve ever spent.’
I whistled. ‘You’d hope it pays for itself. How’s your Dad?’
George shrugged. ‘He’s like a zombie, you know? He doesn’t sleep much, or eat. Me neither, to be honest. I’ve just been too twisted. It’s hard to focus on work, you know? Really, really hard. I’ll be doing a wheel balance, and I’ll forget what I need to do next.’
He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘It’s really shit. I mean, I’m the first to admit Rob wasn’t an angel, but he didn’t deserve this shit.’ He trailed off for a minute. ‘I loved him, man. I don’t know what to do now, you know?’
I nodded.
He exhaled and rubbed his neck. ‘Dad’s down the back. I’ll go and tell him you’re here, okay? Hang here for a tick.’
He went back through the doorway, and I took the opportunity to inspect some of the photographs on the wall. One in particular caught my eye. It showed Carmine standing between two taller young men, each of whom had an arm around his shoulders. I recognised the muscular frame and angular face of Robert Demich on the left, and the man on the right, George, had smooth skin and appeared ten kilos lighter. A sign over the roller doors read ‘Demich & Sons’. The sign was noticeably absent when I’d driven up.
A rack of business cards on the front counter had George’s name, mobile number and email address on them. I took one and slipped it into my wallet.
George reappeared and waved me over. ‘Come through the workshop, mate. Dad’s office is down the back.’ He led me through the workshop area to a modest office obviously retrofitted to the existing structure.
The man I recognised from the photo shuffled over and greeted me with a large calloused hand. ‘Carmine Demich.’
We shook hands. He smelt like White Ox rolling tobacco.
‘Mr. Demich. How are you?’ I said, not quite ready to call him ‘Zio’, even though, legally speaking, he was my uncle.
He seemed to sense my apprehension. ‘Remember on telephone. Call me Carmine. Sit if you like. Please.’ He gestured to a plastic chair.
I sat down and looked around the room. A large cheap desk took up most of the space, several filing cabinets sat nestled side-by-side against the far wall, and a spare chair sat next to me.
Carmine eased into a leather chair on the other side of the desk, moving slowly, almost cautiously. His rough hands scraped against the leather. As soon as he settled, he yelled, ‘George!’
George reappeared in the doorway.
Carmine said, ‘Make Matthew coffee.’
I detected a look of barely contained annoyance on George’s face. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I prefer something stronger, if you have it.’
Carmine nodded, and George turned on his heel and disappeared.
Carmine opened a drawer and produced a glass decanter of what appeared to be whiskey. ‘You drink?’
‘Whiskey, wine, the occasional beer.’
Carmine nodded and, from the same drawer, produced two glasses. He poured two nips, passed me one, said, ‘Salut,’ and downed his in one hit.
I did the same.
He eyed me up and down. ‘I don’t remember. I’m sorry. Your father Serbian?’
Any question relating to my father, no matter how redundant, always took me aback. I cleared my throat. ‘Polish.’ I said. ‘As far as I know.’
He nodded.
I took out my notebook and pen to be professional. ‘Carmine, I need to know what happened to Robert. Can you tell me a little bit about his murder?’
He seemed to shrink into his seat a little, and poured another whiskey. He took a quick pull, then closed his eyes for a moment. After a while, he sighed, long and slow.
He then opened his eyes and said, ‘They find his body at construction site for new houses. He was jackhammer operator. Police say someone hit him with concrete brick in head. Many times. Many times.’ He took another pull on the whiskey and offered to top up my glass.
I accepted and took a sip.
He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘They drag his body behind these pallets and leave him there. Like a dog. My son.’ His eyes watered and he put a hand over his mouth. ‘Rob was my boy.’
In an effort to break him out of his reverie, I said, ‘And how is George coping with everything?’
His eyes refocused and he looked at me as if I’d just entered the room. ‘Mi dispiace?’
‘Your youngest son, George. How’s he coping?’
He shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know,’ then shifted his weight and sighed again. ‘George is my son, but Robert... he was my boy.’ He placed a hand over his heart. ‘My boy. Understand?’
All too well.
Robert, being the eldest son of a European, carried a huge cultural significance. Robert could have strangled a nun with her own underpants, and his father would still have considered him an angel.
I nodded solemnly, to be polite. ‘Did the detectives find anything?’
‘They say they investigate but they no tell me nothing.’
‘Was he robbed?’
‘No. He had two hundred dollars in his wallet.’
‘Did the detectives talk to anyone you know?’
‘You have to talk to police. I don’t know.’ He sighed yet again, and looked across the room, then rubbed a gnarled hand across his stubbled chin. ‘Rob got into trouble sometimes. He took this ice. He took drugs. He didn’t tell me, but I know. Sometimes, he stole something—money—or sometimes he asks for money. I don’t know what to do for him.’
He buried his face in his hands and started to sob quietly.
I waited and let him take a breath.
After a minute, he straightened his shoulders and recomposed himself. ‘Matthew, can you find the bastard who do this? I don’t want to waste another five thousand dollars.’
I wouldn’t get anywhere with pleasantries and false promises, as Carmine had the nose of a pugilist, misshapen and indented with pockmarks, no doubt broken in countless scraps from his youth. He had street smarts.
I kept it calm and cool. ‘Carmine, I can’t promise I’ll find the person or persons responsible, but my investigation will be thorough. If I uncover evidence that leads to a particular person of interest, I’ll present it to the detectives of the homicide squad, which may lead to criminal charges being laid in relation to the murder of your son. I’m sorry. I know this is very hard. Can I ask... was there anyone who’d threatened Rob, or who may have wanted him dead?’
He looked at me for a moment before taking another pull on his drink, then sniffed, blinked a few times, and shook his head. ‘Robert always in trouble. With the police, with other people. People who are no good. Drugs, money, guns. Dangerous people. You can talk to these people? You don’t run away like this fucking Mooregold, scared of his fucking shadow?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t do this because we family?’
There’s an old notion I agree with: ‘never mix business and family’. I’ve seen many a family unhinged over mismanaged loans, misunderstandings, and poor property management. I wanted to be clear from the start that I’d undertake the investigation purely via a contractual obligation, rather than a familial one, despite my promise to Zio Fausto.
‘No,’ I said. ‘However, this is a copy of my standard contract if you’d like to have a look at it. This way there’s no confusion. I hope you understand.’
He fell silent, then nodded.
I felt in that moment as if I’d passed a test, or at the very least, presented myself as trustworthy.
He got up and gingerly crossed the floor toward me, and took the seat to my right.
I handed him a copy of my contact to look over. I’d had them drawn up by a solicitor friend I helped once. I offered Carmine my pen, and he took it.
He said, ‘I pay one thousand dollars.’
‘I’ll need a retainer for initial costs, and then a daily fee of a hundred and fifty dollars plus expenses. Fifteen hundred.’
Carmine held the pen aloft for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay.’ He scribbled a signature and passed the contract back to me.
Once I’d signed it, I tore off the carbon copy and gave it to him. I felt a mix of anxiety and elation that my first murder case was underway and then hated myself for it. Even though we weren’t close, I felt an extra element of pressure to prove myself.
Carmine crossed the room to a metal cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. ‘Matthew, you do this for me and your Zia Valeria, okay? I don’t want to see her disappointed.’
There it is.
The ink was barely dry and Carmine had pulled out the classic passive aggressive Roman Catholic guilt manoeuvre.
In the cold light of day, I wasn’t related by blood to Carmine. Zio Fausto had married my mother’s sister, so there wasn’t much I could say for family loyalty.
Mannaggia.
We shook hands and I told him I’d keep him updated with any news. I walked back through the garage and out through the front office.
George was looking at my ute and, when he saw me, grinned. ‘Nice beast, mate. 2004, six-speed auto.’
‘She gets me around.’
He asked for my phone number and I gave him my card.
I indicated the workshop. ‘This going to be yours some day?’
George scoffed. ‘Nah, not if Dad has anything to do with it. He reckons I’m soft.’
We shook hands, and George suggested we meet up for a drink while I was in town. I agreed, and he said he’d text me when he got off work.
