7.

Oliver needed to shower. He took a whiff under his arm; he’d get away with waiting until he got home from dinner with Gabe. He sat on the lounge chair and exhaled. The house was quiet. Closing his eyes, he tried to think who the hell could have driven his car, in the middle of the night, without him knowing. No one else had a key. Surely, he would have heard someone trying to steal it outside? Or he would have heard someone come in to Penny’s to grab the key. There was a spare inside the cottage, but he’d locked it up when he’d left, and it wasn’t missing.

Who wanted to make Oliver look guilty? There were people in town with whom he didn’t see eye to eye, that was for sure, but no one despised him enough to kill his brother and somehow attempt to frame him. He barely spoke to anyone. The only people he shared colourful banter with were Murray and Charlie, and he wasn’t sure either of them would break in and drive the Jaguar. Thinking about the whole ordeal made him feel dirty; like someone had been sleeping in his sheets, had dipped their muddy feet in his freshly drawn bath.

Oliver walked to the computer and typed into Google the name of the poison Everson had told him about. Sodium fluoroacetate. He looked over the formula: FCH2CO2Na. Symptoms: nausea, vomiting … cardiac anomalies. Toxic.

Oliver’s heart began to hammer harder with every new paragraph. If the poison could lead to heart failure, it could have caused Orson to die. Did he need any further evidence that someone had slipped poison into the wine he’d sent to Orson? The question wasn’t how, but why. And who.

Although the internet speed was excruciatingly slow, he found himself reading through article after article; a rabbit hole he couldn’t seem to stop himself from going down.

As he racked his brain for a connection, he clutched the house phone and called Clare.

‘I heard from Valerie,’ he told her without preamble when she picked up.

‘Me too. She’s still waiting to learn what happened.’

‘It’s going to be weird without him.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Clare said. ‘Hard for us with the equipment. From a technical perspective, I mean.’

‘Hey,’ Oliver said, closing the door to the verandah and checking to make sure he was alone. ‘Do you remember that conference we went to last year?’

‘The Australian Wine Industry Tech one?’

‘That’s it,’ Oliver said, feeling the adrenaline pump through him.

‘What about it?’

He paused, unsure how to bring it up. He remembered the conference well. Afterwards he, Clare and Orson had retreated to their hotel. They’d had a nap in the afternoon, before having dinner in the restaurant downstairs. They’d imbibed a couple of bottles between them and finished the night perched by the fire in the hotel’s courtyard.

‘Do you remember after we had dinner, we sat around drinking outside for a while?’

‘I suppose,’ Clare said. ‘Although I’d be lying if I said I could recall every boozy dinner I’ve had in the last twelve months.’

‘Right,’ Oliver said. ‘Remember we saw that government min­ister walking to his hotel room? The balcony above the courtyard?’

‘Oh. I remember. The cute one from the conference. Yes, he was smoking and walking hand in hand with his press secretary. His male press secretary.’

‘Even though he’s married,’ Oliver said. ‘With kids.’

‘That doesn’t seem to stop anyone these days. Maybe they’re non-monogamous.’

‘The state’s Minister for Industry and Trade being a swinger? Doubt it.’

‘Valid point,’ Clare said with a cough. ‘Dare I ask, what does the issue of parliamentary monogamy, or lack thereof, have to do with Orson?’

Oliver sighed. He knew how outrageous he was about to sound, but it had started to niggle at him during the online search. ‘I was trying to think why someone would want me dead. Would want Orson dead.’

‘Orson died of a heart attack, Oliver.’

‘They haven’t confirmed it yet. Valerie told me that Orson was drinking our wine samples – you know, the ones we’d recently sent him – just before he had the heart attack. And you know the police told me that Theo was poisoned. I just researched the poison found in Theo’s drink. It induces a heart attack and vomiting.’

‘What?’ Clare barked. ‘Slow down, hold up. What are you saying?’

‘I’m trying to understand what the hell’s going on. Someone poisoned Theo, and now Orson is dead, and if he had a heart attack after drinking our wine, then it’s possible that he was poisoned too.’

‘But why would anyone want to poison Orson?’

‘The same question as why would someone kill Theo in my house and then try to pin it on me.’

‘Okay, you’re moving far too fast for an old lady like me. This is why they invented Valium.’

Oliver was pacing around the kitchen. He pulled the cord of the phone with him as far as it would go, feeling as though he was making some kind of progress.

‘Clare, the police have a video of my car leaving Penny’s place and heading back to the house the night Theo was murdered. It wasn’t me. I think maybe someone was supposed to kill me, or they wanted to make it look like I killed my brother.’

The line was silent for a moment. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

‘I have no idea,’ Oliver said. ‘It’s weird. I don’t have a good feeling about it, let’s just say that.’

‘You’re upset, darling. You’ve lost your brother and one of your best friends in the same week. That’s going to be tough on anyone.’

‘It could be somehow related to this minister.’

Clare laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t, but that’s too funny.’

‘What’s funny?’

‘A man poisoning two people because a few drunk winemakers saw a minister holding hands and having a sneaky pash with his secretary?’

Oliver sat down at the computer and started typing a name into Google. ‘Is it ridiculous, though? John Geraghty is no longer just the Minister for Industry and Trade. Next month, he’s the candidate for premier.’

‘Oliver, you know I love you. But take some time out. Think about this.’ Clare dropped her voice. ‘I don’t think there’s anything there.’

‘Yeah,’ Oliver said. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’m just trying to think of something.’ He remembered Harold’s hands. ‘You know, Theo visited Harold in Terrigal before he came here.’

‘Harold?’ Clare said. ‘The gallerist you grew up with?’

‘Yeah.’ Clare was one of the only people he’d spoken to about his childhood. He had been tipsy and acquiescent one night, too many bottles of wine down, and let most of it leak. ‘He dropped by yesterday. I don’t think he’s telling me everything he knows.’

‘Well,’ Clare said. ‘Maybe you should talk to him again. I think that theory holds more gravitas than our politician friend.’

‘I threw that bone to the detective. Penny and I are going to come and see you soon to go through everything. Until then, be safe. You call me if you see anything weird. And watch what you drink.’

Clare sighed. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you. Please, try not to worry too much?’

‘Never do.’

When the call ended, Oliver sat at his computer and typed ‘John Geraghty’ into Google then pressed ‘enter’. It was the man he’d locked eyes with that night. The one who had presented him with his award at the wine show. It was an arbitrary train of thought, but he’d file it away in the back of his head. There were answers out there, he just needed to start putting the pieces together. Harold was returning the next night, and he would work out how to catch him off guard. He knew something, Oliver was certain of it, and he wasn’t going to let Harold leave without sharing it.

***

‘Your vineyard manager, what’s his name?’

‘Gabe,’ Oliver said to Rocky, who was balancing right near the crest of his ladder.

‘Isn’t he pretty tech savvy?’

Oliver watched as Rocky positioned the small camera on one of the top shelves, wedging it between a couple of bottles of dusty wine. It was noticeable if you looked hard enough, but he was sure no one would have any idea the camera was there.

‘He’s all right,’ Oliver said. ‘But I don’t want anyone to know it’s here. I’d rather you do it.’

‘Not stealing from you, is he?’ Rocky asked as he made his way down. Once there, he nabbed Oliver’s laptop and began fiddling.

‘No. Definitely not. I’d just prefer to keep things … covert.’

‘Fair point,’ Rocky said, pushing the computer back to Oliver. The screen was clear and there was a monochrome image of the two men talking, the ladder in the corner of the frame. You could see the piano clearly behind them. ‘Do you want one in the other room with the barrels, or just in this part of the shed?’

‘Here’s fine,’ Oliver said, checking out the footage that appeared on the screen. ‘Wow, it’s pretty sharp.’

‘Yeah, it should work all right. Might have a few delays and drop out occasionally, depending on the signal. Oh, forgot to tell you,’ Rocky went on, opening the bottle of beer Oliver passed him. ‘Your brother was in the café on the weekend. Before, you know …’

Oliver swallowed his first sip of ale. ‘Theo was at the café?’

Rocky squinted his eyes, concentrating. ‘Yeah, on Thursday. He was the last customer we had. He was reading a book and writing something down.’

‘It was definitely him?’

‘Well, I thought it was you. Sarah told me you weren’t as chatty as usual. And that you’d ordered a soy latte. I was cleaning the kitchen when he came in.’

‘Jesus, soy milk. Should have raised the alarm.’

‘I remembered you telling me ages ago you had a twin. Guessed that was him.’

‘Only had one doppelgänger. As far as I know.’

‘Sorry to hear, mate.’

Oliver nodded politely. It was maybe the first time he’d really been taken aback by someone acknowledging Theo’s passing. ‘Still need to get the funeral together. Haven’t heard from the coroner.’

‘Grisly business. Drugs, they reckon?’

‘Apparently so. Not sure yet.’

Rocky took a long swill of beer. ‘This is good. Different. What is it?’

‘Something I make during vintage. A cleansing ale for when it’s warm. It’s nice to have a relaxing beer after a big day.’

Rocky laughed. ‘So, you’re already busy but you make a beer as well?’

‘Yeah,’ Oliver said, finishing the remainder of his bottle. He was nervous and had drunk it in three sips. ‘A lot of pale ales on the market have the same annoying hops. This one is better.’

Rocky patted Oliver on the shoulder. ‘You’re different, mate.’

‘What do I owe you?’ Oliver asked. ‘For your help.’

‘Nothing.’ Rocky flicked his hand. ‘My pleasure.’

Oliver walked over to the wine shelves, grabbed the neck of a bottle and wiped away the dust. ‘This is supposed to be good, but I’ve heard the winemaker’s a bit of a nutter.’

‘Ha,’ Rocky said with a wide grin. ‘All the best ones are.’

***

‘You’re drinking too much again,’ Gabe said. He was sitting beside Oliver at the bar; they had just shared a lamb shoulder smothered in anchovy paste and sprinkled with mint, and Penny was opening a second bottle of red. In a strange upheaval of order, Oliver was electing to be away from the winery as often as possible.

‘I’m not sure I even care at the moment,’ Oliver replied. Penny poured a small sip for him, then offered one to Gabe, who initially waved his hand in protest before deciding to taste.

‘That’s really good. You can definitely get a feel for the grenache in there,’ Gabe said, planting his nose deep into the glass.

‘It’s one of my favourites at the moment,’ Penny said, topping them up. The inky hue comforted Oliver somehow. ‘Why are the police bothering with a warrant? What do they think they’ll find?’

‘They think I’ve got something to do with it,’ Oliver said. ‘They’ve got the video footage of my car travelling down the main road at one in the morning. They even asked if you could’ve been driving.’

‘Right.’ Penny shook her head, baffled. ‘It’s really weird. I definitely didn’t hear you get out of bed.’

‘I barely slept, but still I didn’t hear my car start outside. I would have woken up.’

The phone rang and Penny left to answer.

Gabe swirled the wine, took a small sip and turned back to Oliver. ‘I’m sorry. But you did say to tell you if you were drinking too much. After how paranoid you got last time.’

Last time, Oliver thought. He’d been drinking heavily. Smoking too much weed. Something he’d given up until Theo arrived. Had it been five years since Gemma had left him? Five years since the waves of malaise had oscillated so intensely he could barely leave the house? His first romantic heartbreak had occurred well into his thirties. It had felt so banal – so untimely – at that age, but Oliver guessed that it always came for you, whether you were ready or not.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Oliver said.

‘We’ll get through it. Just a couple of hurdles.’

‘You hated Orson.’

Gabe chortled. ‘I didn’t hate him. He was just full of himself. Homophobic.’

‘I never saw that side of him.’

‘That’s such a fucking straight-man thing to say. Your business partners are eccentric, but they’re smart and they make good wine. I’ll give them that.’

‘Smarter than I am.’

‘You know I’ll excuse excessive drinking, but I won’t allow shameless self-deprecation.’

Oliver sighed. Penny walked past, a bottle in one hand and three glasses in the other. They both loved wine equally, but the thought of doing Penny’s job made Oliver twitch.

Gabe finished his grenache and silently signalled for more.

‘And you said I was drinking too much.’

‘Yeah, well someone has to keep up with you. This is delicious, by the way,’ Gabe said, as Penny poured. Once she had moved to another table, he added, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Harold? What do you mean about his hands being all scratched up?’

‘He said he’d done it when he was staining the back deck in Terrigal. But I just don’t trust him. I’m lucky if he makes a phone call these days, let alone arrive on my doorstep unannounced.’

Before Oliver continued, he felt something behind him. Could sense someone’s presence.

‘Mind if I pull up a seat?’ It was Murray Vernon.

‘What do you want?’

Murray laughed, long and slow. ‘Gabe, mate. What are you doing working with this rude prick?’

‘Muz,’ Gabe said, ‘you smell like a brewery. Might be time to call a—’

‘Fuck that,’ Murray said, moving closer to Oliver. He could detect beer and garlic on Murray’s breath. Chimney smoke and sweat. ‘Just came to talk to our mutual friend here. Although, he never seems to give me a warm welcome.’

The vintage before last had been, in Oliver’s words, an unmitigated disaster. It had rained for what felt like years. Buckets from the sky. Dirt roads had deteriorated into mud baths. No one’s fruit was in good shape. Some winemakers, like Oliver, elected not to make much at all; small parcels to blend with older vintages, whites that became botrytis. Murray and Charlie had decided their fruit was mostly unaffected by the maelstrom. The Vernons’ particular geographical position afforded them the privilege of a sheltered location that others in the area didn’t enjoy. They told the media everything was fine and dandy with their fruit. Spruiked their wine and the fuck-awful vintage to anyone who’d listen.

‘I don’t have anything to say to you,’ Oliver told him.

Murray sniggered slightly and rolled his head back, so far gone he was struggling to maintain control of his limbs. ‘Only to the media, eh? About how shit our wine is.’

‘What? One day I’m a recluse, the next I’m pillorying your wine to the media?’

‘Penny,’ Gabe said, leaning over the bar. ‘I think our friend here needs a taxi. Would you mind calling us—’

‘There’s poison, they say. In the whisky.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Oliver, Gabe,’ Murray slurred, circling his finger in front of both men. ‘Shit look for our town. This poison and the murder. Mudgee’s been through enough. I think it’s time you boys packed up and …’ He drew a thumb, pointed to the door and whistled.

Oliver dropped the volume of his voice. ‘My brother’s dead, Murray. I thought out of anyone you’d be sympathetic to that.’

‘Didn’t know before now you even had a brother. You’re not that open with things, are ya?’

Gabe stood up and walked across the bar to Penny, who was on the phone. A few diners had turned their attention to Murray and Oliver.

‘Plus,’ he said, his breath hot and heavy, ‘I know your dirty little secret.’

‘You’re making a dick of yourself.’

He leaned closer to Oliver’s ear, whispering. ‘Does Penny know your old man killed your mum?’

Oliver didn’t even look up. He felt spit lash his lobe. Grabbing Murray by the collar, he hauled him across the restaurant and pinned his neck to the wall.

‘If you say anything like that ever again, I’ll kill you.’

Murray made a sound – Oliver couldn’t tell whether it was laced with fear or hubris – but before he could speak, he took a swing; grazed Oliver above the eye. Gabe moved in and ushered Murray to the door.

‘Oh, you’re more like him than you think,’ he said. And then he said it again, before Gabe slammed the door closed.

Everyone in the bar sat in silence, the only sound coming from the speakers as one song faded into another.

***

The last of the red wine, the altercation, had left Oliver giddy.

‘I didn’t start that,’ he said as the taxi left the vineyard. ‘He was as pissed as a fucking parrot.’

‘Yeah,’ Gabe said, brushing something from his leather jacket. ‘But you finished it. What are you doing roughing him up? In Penny’s bar, of all places.’

‘He knows.’

Gabe looked concerned. ‘About your dirty little secret? Being more like him than you think?’

‘He said to me, “Does Penny know your father killed your mum?”’

Gabe’s let his head fall back. Exhaled. Gazed up to the sky. ‘Oli, you should have told her from the start.’

Oliver vigorously shook his head. ‘I don’t want anyone knowing.’

‘We are mates. But I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re about to suggest.’

Oliver didn’t respond. Instead, he watched Luna scratching at the window, murmuring a dictum of disapproval.

‘Murray fucking Vernon. How would he know?’

‘I have no idea.’

Gabe opened the door and Luna launched straight for Oliver’s feet. He suspected Gabe had told Murray. Probably let it slip after too many wines in the corporate box at Royal Randwick. But what could he do? Gabe would never admit he’d divulged anything.

‘I’d be locking that door, if I was you.’

‘Why?’ Gabe said, leaning down and scratching Luna’s stomach.

‘I think there’s someone creeping around the shed. They keep pranking me on the landline.’

Gabe raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Right. Thanks for the tip.’

‘I need to be the one thanking you. For helping out with Murray. I don’t want to cause tension or trouble in paradise.’

‘I did it as much for my sanity as yours.’

‘Well,’ Oliver said, beginning the stagger back to his cottage, ‘that’s why I pay you the big bucks.’

‘Just for the record …’

When Oliver turned around, he could see Gabe illuminated in front of the porch light.

‘You’re far less like him than you think.’

***

Oliver opened a bottle of port and poured himself three fingers. Throwing a redundant log onto the dying fire, he sat on the lounge with a blanket. He was going to turn on the television, but he was too groggy and enervated to find the remote control. He was missing Luna. He’d have to adopt a dog; that would be a good distraction.

Eventually, he stood up and poured himself more wine, then got the fire going again. Went to the record player and put on the Sharon Van Etten LP he’d bought the week before. As he was about to sit back down, he heard a thump. It sounded as though it was coming from the roof. He waited, poised in an absurd half-crouch, but didn’t hear anything more. He again went to sit down but heard another noise that was quickly followed by the sound of footsteps. Oliver walked to the verandah door, suddenly nervous, and clicked on the light.

You’re more like him than you think.

He looked outside but couldn’t see anything unusual. The cold was vicious. If someone had come to kill him, they wouldn’t be skulking out there for too long.

If someone killed me now, would I die a good man?

Oliver walked back and sat on the lounge, eventually suc­cumbing to fatigue and lying down. The record kept playing, echoing through the empty house.

He wondered how Theo could be tied up with drugs and crime rings after everything that had happened with their father. Oliver had been the one who went to the police first, he knew that. Theo was more scared of what would happen if their father wasn’t found guilty – what he would do to them.

‘There’s blood in the boot,’ Oliver had said to Theo. They could hear Miles crush an empty beer can in the living room before he expelled a large burp. The sound of laughter from a sitcom.

‘So? It could be from something else.’

‘You know it’s not.’

Theo sighed. ‘I know, but what if there isn’t enough evidence to convict? You know what his temper’s like. He’ll throttle us if we send him to the police.’

‘Fuck him,’ Oliver said, unsure where the courage was coming from. ‘Mum wouldn’t run away now. Not without saying goodbye.’

‘I get it.’

‘But you don’t want to do anything about it?’

‘I’m scared, Oli. I don’t know what he’ll do.’

Oliver closed his eyes. ‘I’ll do it. You can stay here. But we can’t let him get away with it.’

Oliver heard Miles stand from the chair and walk into the kitchen. Moments later, they heard the sound of a can being cracked open.

They both paused to make sure Miles was still enraptured with the television. They heard him let out a little giggle. Was he watching Seinfeld?

‘He’s a controlling arsehole with a temper, but I don’t think he’d kill her,’ Theo said.

‘We need to make sure. I can’t live with myself thinking I didn’t do something about it.’

‘Do you think he suspects anything?’

‘Don’t think so. We need to move, before he does something with the car. Cleans it or whatever.’ As Oliver finished the sentence, Miles let out a trickle of little laughs.

‘It makes me sick,’ Theo said, ‘that he’s laughing right now.’

‘I can’t even go out there,’ Oliver said.

While Miles watched television and Theo left the house, Oliver walked into his bedroom and closed the door. He strode over to his bed and lay down and screamed silently into the pillow, before beginning to sob, as soundlessly as he could, as intensely as he ever had before. Days later, his father would briefly be in custody for the murder of his mother, and for beating Harold to a pulp. The twins’ grandmother would whisk them away. Change their names. Anything to protect them from their father. Not only because of what he’d done, but because of what he could do next.

Julia’s body had been dumped in the ocean, before washing up within twenty kilometres of the family home.

***

There were noises outside, interrupting his thoughts. Oliver was sure someone was there, but he was too drunk to worry. They can come for me, he thought. Let them come. He wasn’t like his father.

‘I’m in here, you fuckers!’ he yelled, before breaking into a fit of laughter at his own outburst.

He was alone. He was warm, and for the moment, that was all that mattered.

Dear Theo,

Your reply arrived today, quicker than some return an email. It’s always exciting to receive something with a handwritten address in the pile of letters. Better than the envelopes with multiple plastic windows; the ones that tend to bear bad news.

You’re right, people do perceive me as haughty. I suppose it’s part of the trade. You don’t want someone defending your livelihood if they’re shaking their notes or repeatedly clearing their throat with uncertainty. I’m glad to hear that you do crosswords. I’ve done them since I was a kid, although admittedly I’m terrible at anything cryptic. Perhaps that’s why I was attracted to you; being the straight shooter that you are.

If I asked for child support I’d be inviting you into my life, as well as the life of my future child. Do I want you in my life, Theo? I don’t know the answer to that question. We’ve met, all in all, for a couple of hours. Opening up a dialogue is good, but to put you at ease, I’m not going to ask you for child support. You might be someone who hoards weird figurines, someone who doesn’t wash their hands after they take a shit. I don’t know you well enough to make a decision.

Furthermore, I have decided I won’t be keeping the baby. While having children is something I’ve pondered for many years, I’m not sure the timing is right. I’m not sure that I’m ready. For a while, at the beginning, I thought that I would have the baby. On the train, I watched people walk past with prams. I watched mothers carry newborn babies on their shoulders. At the supermarket, I noticed men walking with their kids, dour-faced, looking for any kind of reprieve from the whining. Have you noticed how many fucking children there are in the world? I thought I was ready, but I’m not, Theo. It might sound selfish to you, but I’m not ready to give up everything I’ve built to walk around the supermarket, eyes sleep sapped, wondering what I’ve done with my life.

I’ve resisted the urgings from family for so long – to settle down, find an appropriate suitor with whom I will have children so my mother can be called ‘Nanna’. I know for a fact that even those like me, who have maintained a staunch opposition to such a lifestyle, sometimes wonder whether it all might not be so bad, after all. But an hour later, I’m back to sharing feminist memes on Facebook and ranting on a news website about our country’s dismal attempts at staving off climate change. I like drinking at a wine bar quite late after a hard day at court, my brain feeling as flat as batter. I can hear your protestations: raising a child and doing those things aren’t mutually exclusive. I know that. I’m just getting my head around it.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to change my life so drastically. I’m not sure I’d be a good mother. I’m not sure the world needs another child. I’m not sure how I’ll deal with the guilt of having it done, even though I’ve been programmed otherwise.

What would you do, Theo? If you found out you were carrying a stranger’s child?

Yours,

Angie