Back in my car, I dialled Dean and what do you know, he picked up. Finally.
‘Mum?’
‘Yep. Listen, I’m really sorry to hear about Melissa.’
A silence.
‘I’m here for you, if I can help. With the kids, anything. Whatever you need.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ A waver in his voice. ‘Anyway, gotta go. Paperwork…’
Paperwork? ‘So…you’re not out looking for Joanne Smith?’
A crackling down the phone.
‘Dean? You still there?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Err, why?’
‘Answer the bloody question.’ His voice was rock-hard cement.
‘Well, nowhere in particular.’
‘You have to be somewhere.’
‘I’m in the shop, if you must know.’ I’ve never seen the need for Dean to be apprised of my exact location at every moment.
‘You sure about that?’
‘Dean, I know where I am. I’m not demented; not yet, I hope.’
‘So you’re nowhere near, say, Mildura? The Mallee Environmental office building, for instance?’
‘Not at the present time, no.’ I crossed my fingers. ‘So, Joanne Smith?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge confidential police information.’
‘Don’t give me the spiel, Dean.’
‘And don’t try to pump me for information. I don’t see what business this is of yours.’
‘Well, in actual fact it is my business. Vern lent her money. And there’s the small issue of the hitman I ran into in her shop. And Paula said…’ I stopped myself—it was probably best not to mention Paula had been assigned to the Ice Team.
‘I want you staying right away from criminals.’
‘I’m not seeking them out.’ I paused. ‘So you’re involved? You’re part of the police hunt for Joanne?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Nowhere special…In the Foodworks in Hustle, if you must know.’ My crossed fingers were getting very stiff.
‘Uh huh.’ A scratching sound, like he was writing something down. ‘How much did Vern lend her?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge Vern’s confidential financial information.’
‘Ha.’
I waited.
A sigh. ‘All right. You’ve probably heard it on the news anyway: the fire at Rex Patterson’s house.’
‘Yeah, so Joanne’s got a red Yaris. But there’d have to be a million of them around.’
‘Joanne Smith had a relationship with Patterson. A relationship that went sour. Quite a number of her relationships have gone sour, in fact.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘None of your concern.’
Great. ‘Dean, plenty of relationships turn to crap without progressing to arson. After all, look at my relationship with your father. That certainly turned to shit and no one burned anything down. All right, yes, the shop did catch on fire, but that was totally unconnected and I’m sure you see my point.’ I was babbling, which is often the effect of proximity to Dean.
‘I’m not interested in your opinion.’
Thanks.
‘And no one’s saying she did it, just that we want to talk to her. But no doubt you’re about to give me the full array of your insights, Miss fucken Marple.’
I resisted the urge to slam the phone down. ‘Don’t you bloody patronise me.’
‘Verifiable certainties, Mum. That’s what we work with around here. Rational policing, founded on sound and comprehensive evidence. We don’t go hurtling to illogical conclusions like some people.’
That’d be right. You certainly wouldn’t associate Dean with hurtling—not unless it involved a sausage roll and his open mouth. I hung up.
I started the car and headed towards Red Cliffs. Miss Marple quips—very amusing. What Dean conveniently forgets is that I did actually try to make myself legit—I enrolled in a private investigators’ course—one of those fast-track things at TAFE. Part-way through my diploma the TAFE closed down. Regional TAFES are far too costly to justify, according to the minister, who’d kindly choppered in to explain. Off flew the chopper and with it my hopes of ever getting a licence. Not that any of that worries Dean. Don’t you go thinking two-thirds of a PI qualification counts, Mum. The law doesn’t care if you got an A for Covert bloody Surveillance.
Twenty minutes later, I was in Red Cliffs, driving past Big Lizzie—a.k.a. the mother of all tractors—then heading along Pumps Road towards the river lookout. I parked in the gravel car park, got out and leaned against my bonnet a tick, sucking in a breath of cool river air. A hint of frying steak from a distant breakfast-slash-brunch BBQ. A trio of magpies fossicking in some dead bark and leaves. I crunched my way along the path through the scrappy trees and shrubs, towards the lookout and stood there a moment admiring the view.
I could see why Vivian Bentley might enjoy walking here. The river was a wind-rippled milky green. I gazed around at the red-pink cliffs from which the town takes its name. The smell of smoke in the air—from that BBQ, or maybe a distant bushfire—the smell of summer.
So far, not the most successful of mornings. Presumably Vic Police were actually scouring the country for Joanne and her hitman…not that Dean would ever bother telling me that. I really needed to work on my relationship with Dean. Although, frankly, he could make a bit more effort too.
Well, maybe Dr Bentley would be prepared to hand over some info. I walked along the cliff-top path. No other walkers. The only person visible was a distant canoeist, paddling along with a fishing rod locked into a holder.
Vivian Bentley must have finished her walk already and left. I turned around and headed back to the lookout, pausing again for the view, and felt a strange tingling at the back of my neck, the kind you get when you think you’re being watched. I swung around. Not a soul—even the canoeist was gone. Get a grip, Cass.
A pelican took off from a dead tree beside the river. That’s when I noticed there was another colour down there. Not the milky green of the river: this was dark blue and red. An old T-shirt caught on a branch by the river’s edge: crumpled, discarded. The kind of crap people toss away in every lovely location, everywhere.
I tutted and walked along the cliffs, my feet crunching over the dead leaves. Looking for an easy way down. There: a break in the cliffs; a scuffed track leading down a gentler gradient to the water. I scrambled down the track, sending loose rocks and soil downwards, plopping softly as they tumbled into the river. I was on a mission now to retrieve the T-shirt and put it in a bin. Quavery calls as a flock of corellas flew overhead.
It was only when I was right next to the water that I realised the T-shirt didn’t look right. It wasn’t flat enough against the branch. Nor was the pair of red shorts. Or the white sneakers. On the feet.
The T-shirt, shorts and sneakers were clothing a woman. She was lying face down, snagged against the dead tree. Her bare arms were greenish and moved rhythmically as the waves lapped against her. The back of her head was a mass of red pulp matted with dark hair.
I turned away and threw up.