I craned my neck, stared into my mirrors: impossible to see if the 4WD was behind the road train. On the other side of the road a caravan was followed by a long tail of traffic.
‘Any joy with Dean?’
Ernie had the phone held up to his good ear. He shook his head.
At Mildura’s Eleventh Street, the road train turned off with a final fuck-you of the horn. I checked my mirrors—no sign of the 4WD—and pulled over. I needed to think. There was enough traffic steaming past to make me feel a bit less exposed.
So, a marina construction site that housed a rare parrot. With photos of that parrot. Photos that had been taken by people who were now either dead or missing.
Was Jim Tovey responsible for the deaths of Vivian and Rex? I mean, it was possible that it was all a strange coincidence and their murders had nothing to do with this. Except I didn’t believe in that kind of coincidence. And what about Joanne—was she alive?
When she’d phoned Vern saying ‘Don’t crackle crackle show Peluso the photos,’ had she actually been saying ‘Don’t something else,’ and then ‘Show Peluso the photos’? After all, why tell Vern who not to show the photos to, rather than who to show them to? So…did that mean Joanne thought Peluso could help?
I tried to grab my phone from Ernie’s hand, but his grip was too tight. He was sitting there staring at one of the Opera Extravaganza banners fluttering from a pole.
‘The Valkyrie,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering why that sounded familiar.’
‘I need to phone Peluso, Ernie. And show him Joanne’s photos.’
‘Ride of the Valkyries. It was on the record player when I went to pick up Ingrid that time. Her family were right into flaming opera.’
‘This is urgent. Give me the phone. Now.’
‘Wouldn’t mind going to see that show,’ he said, still gripping vice-tight onto the mobile. ‘Ingrid. She loved the Magic Fire music. Wouldn’t mind hearing that.’
‘Ernie, can you focus? Or at least shut up, so I can make this call?’
He gave me a hurt look.
I grabbed the phone and dialled Hotel Miramar.
‘I need to speak to Nic Peluso.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here at the moment.’
‘Can you tell me how I can get in touch? It’s important.’
‘I’m afraid not. Can I take a message?’
I ended the call with a hard stabby finger.
‘What’s the point of having a mobile bloody phone? No one’s ever there when you need them.’
By way of response, Ernie folded his arms and stared out of the windscreen, clicking his false teeth.
‘Mel,’ I said. ‘She’s working for Peluso. I’ve got her number here somewhere.’ I grabbed my handbag, rummaged around inside it.
‘Don’t go looking to me to help with your woman problems.’
‘Huh?’ I glanced over at Ernie, glanced back at my bag. Aha, there was the slip of paper with Mel’s number on it.
‘Just an old bloke who should learn to shut up. No value to anyone or anything, that’s perfectly clear.’ He sniffed.
‘Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.’
He grunted.
‘Of course what you say matters. Don’t be daft.’
‘So now I’m daft as well.’
Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish a day out with Ernie from an extended interview with a three-year-old. The main difference is that most three-year-olds reward you with an occasional burst of charm.
‘I just need to make this phone call and then we’ll chat,’ I said.
‘Don’t go troubling Dean again, Cass. Poor bloke needs a break.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Dean. Your son. Remember him? No one listens to the poor fella. No wonder he’s so flaming miserable.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘In a job he hates. In a marriage he hates. At least his kids don’t hate him. Yet. Just another bloke who’s trying to please everybody. Dutiful to everyone except himself.’
‘Where’d you get all this?’ I looked at Ernie, open-mouthed.
‘He mentioned a couple of things that time.’
‘What time?’
‘When he come in to see me, Christmas Eve. You really need to talk to him.’
‘Right.’ Dean’s Christmas Eve visit to Ernie was news to me.
‘But not during the opera. Can’t chat through an opera.’
‘Opera?’
‘Christ, keep up will you? Ingrid’s opera. Tonight, at the Mildura Rowing Club Lawns. Nice little spot by the river. About time you had a night out. And it’ll take your mind off your worries about Dean.’ He patted my arm.
‘It’ll be sold out, Ernie. Anyway, we’re leaving shortly. I’ve got an appointment in Kerang.’ With Leo, and a shower. Once I’d dealt with Joanne’s photos. And Peluso. Mel. Tovey’s double murder. And whatever he’d done to Joanne. Plus I was now a bit concerned about Dean, frankly.
‘They’ll fit me in. Once I tell ’em about me connection with Ingrid.’
‘Don’t see how that’d make a difference.’
‘Instrumental, they were.’
‘Who?’ I said, wishing I hadn’t. I really needed to call Mel and get going.
‘Her parents. They’re the ones who set up Mildura’s opera fund. So shows like this could happen.’
I groaned. ‘Hold on, let me ring this private detective.’
I dialled.
‘Is this Mel…?’ I said, suddenly realising I didn’t know her surname.
‘Yep.’
‘Cass Tuplin.’
‘Ah, Cass! So have you managed to find Joanne?’
‘No, but I’ve got some photos. She left them with Vern.’
‘Right.’ Her voice was deeper, somehow, more serious. ‘What of?’
‘The land Jim Tovey is developing, for the marina. Seems there’s a rare bird there. A parrot…what was it, a regent parrot.’
‘Aha. Great work. Nic will be very interested in this. You want me to come down to Rusty Bore and collect them? I can come right away.’
‘I’m in Mildura, actually.’
‘Oh? In that case, come over to my boat. And you can try my coffee. See if it’s as good as yours.’
‘Boat?’
‘Yeah, I live on a houseboat.’
A paddle steamer moved slowly along the river, smearing reflected trees and sky. In the dusky light, two pelicans floated by, looking regal, regarding their minions with great calm. A lot more calm than I was feeling.
It was clear Ernie wasn’t going to be taking no for an answer vis à vis The Valkyrie, not any time this century. And unfortunately, he was right: the woman on the box office was very interested in the Ingrid connection. So interested she not only fitted us in, but gave us a generous discount.
I got Ernie settled in a front row chair, in a sea of green plastic chairs. A huge floating stage had been erected on the river, with canvas awnings arranged like enormous sails and an orchestra was setting up to one side of the stage. Purple, red and orange banners fluttered from every pole. And there were people everywhere: I’d never seen so many, especially not so smartly dressed. Suits, floaty scarves, men in boaters, all arriving for the opera.
Well, the show was only a couple of hundred metres away from Mel’s houseboat, I reassured myself. I’d pop over quickly and talk to her. And Ernie would be sitting down, at least. The show wouldn’t be that long, surely? Then I’d get Ernie out of here and whizz straight down to Kerang.
‘Ride of the Valkyries: that’s from Apocalypse Now, isn’t it?’ I did my best to take a brief interest. ‘The helicopters.’
Our tickets had cost fifty dollars each, which seemed a lot, but probably not enough to cover helicopters. I scanned the sky, a little anxious, hoping Ernie wasn’t headed for disappointment.
‘Nah, they didn’t have choppers back then.’
‘Back when?’
‘It’s a Norse myth, Cass. This fella Wagner made it into an opera. Ingrid’s favourite.’ He paused. ‘Now, buzz off and go see your friend.’ He waved a hand. ‘And don’t be late back.’
I walked along the riverside in search of Mel’s houseboat. An earthy damp river smell. Traffic noises: cars and trucks rumbling over the nearby bridge, badly tuned engines backfiring, the sound of a pump in the distance.
A row of identical white houseboats—expensive-looking double-storey numbers—tied up at the dock. And then, a bit further on, tied to an old post beyond the pier, I saw the houseboat Mel had described on the phone.
It was a seriously decrepit looking vessel. Corrugated iron roof, faded yellow and brown awning, a couple of rickety chairs on the deck—which looked like it hadn’t seen a paintbrush in quite a while. A solar panel on the roof.
The sky was darkening to royal blue as I crunched over the dried twigs and grass to the side of the boat. A wooden door; beside it a couple of buckets, a plastic petrol can and an old plank.
I jumped over the small gap from the river bank to the deck. Knocked on the door. No answer.
‘Anyone home? Hi, Mel?’
Finally, the door opened. Mel’s dark-roots-blonde head peeked out. There was a bruise on her left cheek.
‘You on your own? No one followed you?’ She spoke in an urgent whisper.
I looked over my shoulder. Nobody there. ‘There was a black four-wheel drive at Gunpowder Bend, but I managed to lose him.’
She nodded. ‘One of Tovey’s guys, I’d say. Come in, best not to linger out here where anyone can see us talking.’
It was dimmer inside the boat than I’d expected, the only light coming from an oil lamp on the table. I paused a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
Mel locked the door behind me. ‘Can’t be too careful.’
The place was full of the smell of freshly brewed coffee. A wood-burning stove against the wall. A round table with a red and white checked tablecloth under the oil lamp, beside the table, two chairs. Next to the table there was a bookshelf; on the top shelf a pair of dark brown leather gloves and a motorbike helmet.
Helmet. I stood still. Gloves. Leather. Dean’s voice in my head: traces of leather on the rock that killed Vivian Bentley.
A fan buzzed in the corner. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw there was a chair next to the fan. A man was sitting there, hands folded in his lap. White hair, tanned skin, cream linen suit; he looked like a middle-aged film star.
Jim Tovey.