12.

Oliver parked a couple of doors down from Harold’s house. His street was behind the Terrigal esplanade, a few hundred metres up the hill. The place was private, built around the ocean views. Oliver hadn’t visited for years, but he’d been here at least twice over the last decade.

The house spanned a few different levels, with steps separating living areas. He noticed the garage was closed. There was no hint to help ascertain whether Harold was home.

Winding down the car window, he let the breeze move through the Jaguar. He’d only been on the road for four hours, give or take a few minutes. He’d left a chilly morning and arrived in a balmy afternoon, as though he’d boarded a plane, landing suddenly in an antipodean land.

A lady, pushing a pram, walked by. A couple of joggers laughed and whacked each other’s arms as they cantered down the hill towards the esplanade. Oliver realised then, sitting in the car, feeling like some kind of failed detective, that he should have taken Gabe’s ute; as soon as Harold walked onto the street, or veered into his driveway, he’d more than likely spot the Jag and know that Oliver was there.

Opening his phone, he fumbled around and eventually found the icon that was used to record conversations. He was going to make Harold admit that he was somehow tangled up in all of this. That his art-dealer friends, the corrupt ones, were complicit. That they knew about or had instigated the murders – not just of his twin brother, but potentially Clare as well. There was a plethora of missing puzzle pieces, but Oliver knew, as he sat contemplating Harold’s house, that he’d find a couple buried inside the beachside mansion somewhere. Stuffed and sewn up in the fabric of an old chair. He wasn’t sure how he’d find them, or what he’d have to do to get Harold to reveal them, but he was going to give it a crack.

A family walked into view. Two men and a young girl with a grey, curly-haired labradoodle. Oliver couldn’t help but wonder whether that could have been – should have been – him and Penny. What if Miles hadn’t killed Julia and dictated everything for the rest of them?

Perhaps Julia would have recovered after her chemotherapy. She would have left Miles, and Theo would have come back to Australia sooner. They could have all congregated on the Central Coast for Christmas, popping corks from champagne early in the morning, Penny stirring and scrambling eggs in the pan, the kids and the dogs scurrying around the kitchen and onto the deck, overlooking the ocean, the blue skies, the clouds, picture perfect, primed for painting, Julia erecting the easel and—

No, Oliver thought. It was too late, too futile, for that kind of nostalgic meandering. Finding out what Harold knew would help him achieve something more tangible.

He took the gun from the glovebox and wedged it inside his jeans, flinching at the coolness of the barrel against his bare skin.

***

Harold definitely wasn’t home. Oliver knocked on the front door and peered inside. There were no movements, no sounds emanating within. He tiptoed around the side of the house, through a small walkway beside the fence that was draped with ferns and plants and had beach sand spiced along the path like cinnamon sugar. He walked up the steps, onto the rear verandah, and noticed—

The wood.

When Oliver had asked about Harold’s hands, he’d answered, ‘Oh, nothing. Just fixing some boards and staining the back deck. No one tells you your body becomes an apple when you’re old.’

Oliver crouched down and brushed the boards with his fingers. They were cracked and splintered. Lacquered they may have been, but they certainly hadn’t been stained a week earlier. A year or two had passed since someone had last taken to them with polish. There was dirt and sand and mud congealed on a leg of the outdoor table; a kind of mess that could only accumulate with time.

He peered inside the house. There were so many paintings visible on the wall that they almost morphed into a mosaic. In the kitchen, he noticed a loaf of sourdough peeping from brown butcher’s paper. The lid to the butter dish had been left to the side, the yellow fat melting and seeping down the edges, with the humidity, onto the bench. A sign that Harold had left in a hurry.

Harold wasn’t home, but he’d be back. And when he was, Oliver would be waiting. He sat on one of the chairs and closed his eyes. For a brief moment, he thought of nothing; listened only to the bellbirds as they fluttered and chimed and flapped their wings.

***

Less than an hour later, the sun waning, the verandah steeped in grey, Oliver heard the garage door rattle and go through its movements. He stood up, opened his phone and began to record audio, before slipping the phone into his pocket. A minute or so passed before Harold entered the kitchen. He was dressed in suit pants, a navy chequered jacket and a patterned white shirt that was only half-buttoned. Oliver thought Harold would see him through the glass door, but he didn’t; the gallerist was too busy cursing at the spilled butter, shaking his head while dancing around the bench, using paper towels to absorb the fat. Oliver then lost sight of him, until Harold reappeared in the kitchen with a bottle of wine and began extracting the cork. When he looked up, he jumped at the sight of Oliver standing behind the glass.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he hissed, pulling on the handle. ‘What the hell, Oliver?’

‘Did I scare you?’

‘I’m far too old and compromised for surprises.’

Oliver stepped inside and Harold walked further back into the kitchen. Beside the wine was a decanter and two glasses.

‘What?’ came a voice. ‘I didn’t catch tha—’

A woman materialised, evidently startled.

‘Oh. Sorry, I—’

‘Madeleine, this is Oliver. One of my oldest friends.’

Oliver nodded, and the woman stood there awkwardly, before saying tentatively, ‘I was just going to walk down and grab …’ She paused, clearly still crafting the narrative in her mind. ‘Something for later. Would you like anything?’

‘Don’t go,’ Harold said to her, peering into Oliver’s eyes. ‘Our friend here shan’t be staying long.’

‘I don’t think a walk’s all that bad an idea,’ Oliver added, scowling at Madeleine. ‘I think Harold and I could have a quick chat over a glass of that beautiful barolo he’s just about to open there.’

Madeleine glanced at Harold, confusion veiled behind a polite smile. As she left, she gave an unconvincing wave. She appeared familiar to Oliver. He’d seen her before, he just couldn’t quite place where.

Once the front door had closed behind her, Oliver said, ‘That stain you did on the back deck didn’t last long, did it?’

The sound of the cork leaving the bottle, like bubblegum bursting, was followed by silence. Harold poured the wine slowly into the decanter.

‘What are you doing here?’ he finally said.

‘What’s she doing here is the question,’ Oliver said. ‘She was gone faster than the babysitter’s boyfriend after the car pulled up. I’m guessing she was hoping her visit was a little more covert?’

Harold bristled, poured some wine into a glass and swirled it in his hand. ‘What the hell do you care? Since when have you given a single fuck about the morality of my relationships?’

‘I don’t,’ Oliver said. ‘Just an observation. What I do care about, though, is how you’ve been lying to me.’

‘About what? Enjoying your barbera?’

‘Killing Theo.’

Harold laughed. ‘Oliver. I warned you about the fox. It’s been a big week, mate, but you need—’

Oliver pulled out the gun and pointed it at Harold’s head, his hands sweaty and shaking. Harold was more confused than scared.

‘Sweet Jesus, what kind of historical junket is that?’

Oliver clipped the gun. ‘Talk.’

Harold emitted a breath that turned into a groan. ‘Come. Sit down.’ He placed the wine on a glass coffee table. Something modernist. He sat, opened his palm and pointed at the chair opposite.

‘I’ll stand,’ Oliver told him.

‘Can you please just put the gun back in your pants? You’re not a natural. And with your lineage, that’s a compliment.’

‘You killed him. Over the paintings,’ Oliver pressed.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ Harold said, taking a sip of wine. ‘But I was there.’

Oliver tightened his grip on the gun. ‘The night he died?’

‘Yes, Oliver. The night he died. I came late that afternoon … you’d already gone. Your brother and I had a disagreement.’

‘About the painting?’

‘Paintings. It’s been established already.’

‘He wouldn’t give them to you?’

Harold nodded equably. ‘Correct. He said some unsavoury things about me, your twin brother.’

‘Warranted?’

‘I can understand why he wanted the paintings,’ Harold said, swirling his glass, unaffected by the gun. ‘But there are ways to do things. If he’d asked me for them, I probably would have just given them to him. But you don’t steal from someone.’

‘So, you were there. You saw who killed him?’

Harold looked momentarily confused. ‘I have no idea who killed him. We had an argument, a couple of punches. He winded me, I slugged him right in the noggin. That would be the blood. We swore a little. It was a bit like something that happens after a big day at the races. Too much booze and testosterone. Silly egos. Not something I’m proud of. Anyway, I left straight after that.’

‘So, you beat him and left him to die?’

‘Jesus, don’t you get it? We fought, he wouldn’t give me the paintings and I left in a huff. At that stage whoever poisoned him or killed him moved in. I was long gone by then, in Orange by about nine. I stayed with a friend. You can confirm that if you want, Detective.’

Oliver wasn’t sure what to believe; he wasn’t expecting Harold to be so candid this early. He thought there’d be more resistance to admitting he was at the vineyard the night Theo died. Oliver had a bad feeling, in the pit of his stomach, that Harold was telling the truth. And that this would send him back to where he had started with Theo’s murder.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked.

Harold looked at Oliver like he was daft. ‘That I was there the night he had his throat slit like a sacrificial lamb? When I left, Theo was perfectly alive and well. I’ve given up on the paintings. I’ve told the police everything I’ve just told you. I’m not scared.’

Oliver returned the gun to his pocket. ‘I don’t know what to say, other than that you disgust me.’

‘I think you need to trust the police. You stick with your wine, let them stick with this.’

Oliver moved towards the door.

‘Oliver,’ Harold called out, crossing his legs. ‘Have you read Jack Gilbert’s poetry? He poses the question, Why does everyone forget that Icarus also flew?’

‘Goodbye, Harold.’

The gallerist grinned. ‘Do you believe Icarus was failing as he fell, Oliver, or simply coming to the end of his triumph?’

***

Oliver had been to Terrigal beach a handful of times since he’d moved away. It was always filled with tourists and perhaps for that reason there was something about the suburb that felt distant to him, as though he was stranded in a country he’d never been to before. When he was seven, his family had moved from the city to the Central Coast, where – apart from a brief, temporary stint in the bush for his father’s work – they’d settled. For a long time, the beach had felt wholesome; had been his escape as an adolescent. It had been home. Oliver had walked up and down the sand at Wamberal, a few kilometres away, paddled in the surf, letting his imagination run wild. Terrigal beach, after his encounter with Harold, felt like a tatty imitation of his childhood home.

Oliver sat on the brick wall between the esplanade and the sand and stared out to sea. The weather was warm, calm, a slight breeze ruffling his hair. He was only four hours’ drive from the winery, but he felt as though he’d been away for weeks rather than hours.

A new feeling of resignation had seeped into his stomach. Harold wasn’t guilty. He wasn’t telling Oliver everything he was involved in – he knew now without a doubt that the man was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg – but he wasn’t a murderer. Oliver knew that much. He’d followed his intuition until he’d seen the look on Harold’s face. One quick look – unknowing, perplexed – along with some admissions, had told Oliver everything he’d needed to know.

And yet, there was something not quite right. Something Harold was withholding from him. Oliver suddenly realised why Madeleine looked familiar. The woman, Oliver could have sworn, was the one in the photograph Everson showed him after Theo was killed.

Or was he just seeing patterns that didn’t even exist? You’re tired, he told himself. Everything feels strange. He missed Penny. For so long, he’d tried to be independent. After everything that had happened with his mother and father, and with Theo running away – and his ex leaving – Oliver had wanted never to rely on anyone else in his life again. Just as he was beginning to think he could trust Penny with everything, he was back to the start.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He realised he hadn’t even turned off the recording. Gabe’s name appeared on the screen.

‘Hey.’

‘Glad to hear you’re alive.’

‘In the flesh. Not sure about the spirit.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘Yeah,’ Oliver said. He wished he had a cigarette. ‘It’s not him.’

‘Wouldn’t confess?’

‘He didn’t need to. He was there, had a fight with Theo, but he didn’t kill him. I don’t want to believe him, but I do.’

Gabe stayed silent. ‘Don’t let that fool you,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ve met him before. I think that man lies for a living.’

‘I had a gun to his head.’

‘Good joke.’

‘Do I sound like I’m in the mood?’

Gabe exhaled. ‘I called because we have a problem. Something strange.’

‘Something stranger than what’s already happened?’

‘I called Clare’s winery, pretending to ask about an order. Apparently, the cellar door is open as usual today. The staff said it’s strange that the dogs were left alone, but there was no sign of Clare. So, that means no one found any blood. And by the way they were talking, there was no body.’

Oliver tensed; a man jogging by clipped his arm without looking over his shoulder.

‘Whoever killed her went back?’

‘I’m guessing so.’

Oliver paused, racking his brain for something. ‘I don’t know what to think anymore.’

‘You definitely saw her? Dead, I mean.’

‘What?’

‘Was she—’

‘She was gone, Gabe.’

‘I know, I’m just concerned. I think you should call Everson.’

‘When I return. I’m going to stay the night here. I’m too tired to drive.’

‘That could be the first smart thing you’ve said all day.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me, mate. I’m fine.’

Oliver heard someone else’s voice in the background. A few bangs on a door. ‘Sounds like you’ve got company.’

‘Murray’s here. And actually I need to go – I think someone’s at the door.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Can I give you a call soon?’

‘Don’t let me interrupt your soirée. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘See you then,’ Gabe said, words fading. He hung up the phone before Oliver could say anything else.

Dear Angie,

I’ve been writing about the past. I’m stuck, you know. Can’t settle in the present. Unnecessarily oscillating between what happened yesterday and where to go tomorrow. I fear I’m missing out, Angie, with this persistent toing and froing.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my twin brother. How I failed Oliver in the past and, even now, how I can’t seem to muster the courage to see him. Last night, for the first time in years, I dreamed about him and his first girlfriend.

Oliver first met Rosie Woods in high school. Back when we all thought she was hiding something. Oliver could tell from watching her in the playground; meandering about with her friends, whose tans looked like they’d been dabbed on with teabags. She sat across from him in maths and he found it impossible to take his eyes off her. She was beautiful in this cryptic, furtive kind of way. Her skirt stopped before her knees and her auburn hair draped her shoulders like a stage curtain. Sometimes she’d see Oliver staring and he’d dart his eyes away, hoping that she wouldn’t notice. The girl seldom spoke, but when she did the class sort of paused, hanging onto her words like they were some kind of imperative.

I wasn’t the only one who could tell that Oliver had a crush on her, but after so many years of hiding his feelings, it was a welcome relief.

One night we went to a party that included a bonfire in a paddock, an infinite line of utes and swags, and a keg of rum. Our friend threw his eighteenth on the outskirts of town and everybody in Grade Eleven showed up. It was pandemonium: crackers and kisses and fires and empty bottles splayed across the slope of the property.

The moon was trying to lustre, but the paddock was black. Cars and mobs of kids were sprawled along the driveway, and Oliver and I sat on the back of a ute, taking turns chugging from a bottle of Southern Comfort. I told him it was the only spirit I could drink straight. But Oliver told me it was too sweet for him. I guess he had a pretty savvy palate, even then.

I was so drunk, I collapsed onto the ute’s tray. Oliver took the bottle from between my legs and took a gulp. The kids that thought they were too cool for the party were parked in their own line. Oliver was staring at Rosie among them. They were laughing and joking and putting on the tough act. I remember closing my eyes, pretending to be asleep, and surreally, as if in a beer dream, Rosie was there, her soft hand clipping Oliver’s as she pulled herself up next to us.

She took the bottle from Oliver’s hand and swigged from it. Her lips were wet and gleaming in the light and a trickle of the bourbon slid from her mouth to her chin; she wiped it away and leaned back, gazing up at the sky. I knew that Oliver wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. They shared the occasional conversation but they struggled to flow; each time they spoke it became a concerted effort to avoid an awkward silence. I wished I could have spoken for him.

She offered him a vodka-and-raspberry premixed bottle, and he took a sip. Before the bottle had left Oliver’s lips, she was waiting. I turned away, but I could hear their tongues as they dovetailed in a feverish rhythm.

Someone called Rosie’s name, but they continued to kiss for a little while until Rosie pulled away and kissed Oliver’s cheek – a soft hand on his thigh as she jumped from the tray – and walked away without a word. Oliver glanced down and saw me pretending to have passed out, my head to the side with a drunken leer.

The problem was, though, Oliver had fallen in love with her. Things moved quickly after that. Oliver even held Rosie’s hand whenever they’d walk home from school. He lost his virginity to her, on the beach, at an impromptu party. He stopped telling me any details after that night.

But then, when Mum was murdered, he stopped hanging out with her altogether. Rosie visited him after that, once or twice, but I’m not sure he really made the effort. I think he was too scared of what she thought of him. What she’d make of our family.

One night I stayed at Rosie’s. Ended up drinking at the pub one afternoon – got blind with a bunch of mates. Wrote myself off. She was there somewhere, fully sober, dressed in a singlet top, denim shorts and a pair of thongs. She drove my ute home, with me barely conscious in the passenger’s seat. The music was blaring. She told me I had to stay at hers as Robert Palmer crooned that I was addicted to love.

I tried to kiss her, you know? At that time, my life was a mess. Spinning, spiralling, untethered. She was the one who pulled away, who told me not to be stupid, that my brother deserved better.

I’m not sure I was a good person for a long time. I never told Oliver that I stayed with Rosie – that I passed out, slept beside her in my jocks. I’m not sure he ever knew, but after my group started hanging out with her, Oliver changed. Became cold. I wasn’t sure whether it was because of everything else or …

You know, as talented as Oliver is, he’s a pretty shithouse talker. Never really says what he’s thinking. Would never confront me about it. I confess: that’s all I wanted. An argument with him, a fight: fists out, toe to toe, blow for blow, twin brothers in a blue. But he wouldn’t provoke me. Not once. In some ways we’ve always been alike, and in other ways we’ve always been so different.

Forgive the rambling. I must visit him soon. Make amends. It’s true: we hurt the ones we love most. I’m sure a criminal barrister sees it every day: betrayal, lost love, heartbreak. The extremities of the human experience. Sometimes, it’s too much to handle, don’t you think?

I must go, Angie. There’s a joint to roll, a deck chair to collapse onto.

I’ll write to you again soon.

Peace,

Theo