6

At seven, I gave up trying to sleep, and got up. Took a look in my bathroom mirror: a top-quality black eye. After breakfast, I steeled myself and phoned Gary. He took the theft of Natalie’s bag pretty well, told me that it confirmed his suspicion that her death was no accident. It was nine-thirty in the morning and Gary’s voice was already slurred.

I slipped on a jacket and blu-tacked my Back in 10 sign on the shop door. Walked briskly along Best Street, hugging my coat across my chest to keep warm.

A flock of galahs, noisy pink, shrieked from the native pines lining the road. Fifty steps later, I was at Vern’s general store, rusty corrugated iron flapping above walls flaking yellow paint. Vern stocks the full range, from neapolitan ice-cream to tractor parts. His grey-muzzled kelpie cross, Boofa, trotted out and sniffed the phone booth. That phone booth is Vern’s strategic advantage. Along with the petrol bowser, mobile library stop and post office licence. Vern doesn’t need to play Monopoly, he’s got Rusty Bore.

Vern was out in his driveway, squatting down, examining something on his recumbent bike. He was wearing a red cycling jacket and black lycra shorts that were too small on him. A knife-sharp wind was blowing, but it takes more than a bit of nippy air to worry Vern.

He got himself that bike a couple of months ago. Easier to manage, given his missing arm, but those recumbent bikes, I reckon they’re just a target for some people. That cheerful little flag waving at the back—it’d be useless against a manic truckie. Some might even view it as an invitation.

He heard my footsteps and looked over. ‘Cass. Gotta get yourself a bike. Ripper flat roads around the district.’ He stood up, put his arm on his hip, and started doing some groin stretches. ‘I reckon we’d make a terrific little cycling team. And a fine figure of a woman like youse got nothing to fear from a pair of lycra shorts.’

It’s not the shorts I fear so much as what’s inside them.

He peered at me, suddenly. ‘What you done to your eye? You all right?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I stood there a moment, feeling awkward.

‘Haven’t seen you in a while, in actual fact,’ he said. ‘You been difficult to pin down lately.’

Things are currently a bit complex with Vern. After the fire that destroyed my shop and house, he put me up at his place for months; on his couch. He cleaned up his old caravan so I could still serve takeaway while my rebuild went on, at glacial speed. He took a cut of my takings, naturally: Vern’s not an idiot. We ate together. We watched TV together. And Vern was keen to do a lot of other things together.

Unfortunately, one evening after some pinot grigio (I’m not good with wine: might as well face up to it) I made the mistake of feeling a bit too grateful for everything Vern had done. We got slightly physical. Not completely all-out physical, but still.

Anyway. Strictly a one-off, but Vern was keen to upgrade. The next evening he suited up and asked me, with a gigantic bunch of flowers and a bloody ring, if I’d consider making it a permanent arrangement.

Well…no. (I might have shrieked that.) And it’s possible I imagined it (I truly hope I did) but I thought I saw tears in his eyes.

So I tend to feel pretty bad any time I see Vern. I never wanted to hurt him and, look, maybe he isn’t actually hurt, it can be hard to tell. Still, I find life’s a lot more comfortable if I avoid him. Trouble is, avoidance isn’t easy to achieve in a two-shop town.

I took a deep breath. ‘Vern. Could do with your help. Got your notebook handy?’

Vern’s a deeply observant bloke. He keeps a notebook on all the happenings in Rusty Bore, although it’s a fairly slim kind of journal.

‘Private property, that.’ He narrowed his eyes.

‘Calm down. I’m not the tax office. I’m just looking for a rego. The brown Fairlane that came into town yesterday.’

‘I get the feeling I’m being used for me information.’ He made a minor adjustment to his groin.

‘Vern, your notebook could likely play a vital role in an important investigation.’

‘What investigation?’

‘Err, into the death of a young woman.’ Best not to tell him everything. News spreads at top speed around here, especially news Vern’s managed to intercept.

‘Natalie Kellett? Heard you were looking into her accident.’ He unzipped a pocket in the front of his jacket and took out a blue-covered spiral notebook. He leaned the book on his bike and flipped it open. Ruffled through the pages.

‘Yep.’ He stabbed his finger against the page. ‘Suss-looking vehicle. Dark-haired fella. Didn’t stop. Slowed right down outside your place though. Assumed he was a friend of yours.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘Course, I wouldn’t know who your friends were these days.’

‘The rego, Vern?’

‘ASY 341.’

Back in the shop, I was hurtled into an unexpected lunchtime rush: six customers. I gave them the extra-large welcome smile; tried to pretend I didn’t have a black eye. The Rusty Bore Takeaway is in no position to put off new customers. Still, the new stainless steel decor might compensate for my eye. I hoped.

One of the customers was a stringy-looking bloke, moustached. He took off his Akubra with a sweeping cavalier type of movement. ‘So this is the famous Cass Tuplin, hey?’ He gave me a wide grin. Somehow, I didn’t have a good feeling about where this was headed.

He put the Akubra back on and leant his skinny arms on my counter. ‘Comfort specialist, is what I hear. Discretion guaranteed.’

He laughed. As did all his mates, standing in a King Gee-shirted row behind him. There’s nothing like a bit of side-splitting fnah fnah when you’ve got a cracking headache.

‘Not that I’d need that kind of service, of course. Get all mine for free.’ More laughter from Skinny Arms and his hilarity teamsters.

‘Take your order?’ I said. Did my best to flutter my eyelashes. Attempted a winsome smile. The things you have to do to sell a few chips.

I waited while they guffawed, spluttered and slapped each other’s backs. Still, when they finally got round to ordering, it was enough to fill all my baskets: huge piles of chips, flake, dim sims and thirty-six potato cakes.

I set to, getting it all into the oil.

‘I should really introduce myself properly,’ said Skinny Arms. ‘Pete Bamfield.’ He held out his hand; I wiped my hand on my floral apron and shook it.

‘What happened to your eye?’

‘Minor altercation. With a door.’

‘Ah. Sorry to hear it. Well, next time he…it…bothers you, why don’t you give me a call?’ He held out a business card.

I took the card. P. L. Bamfield. Muddy Soak Gravel International. I recognised his name, once I had the context. Peter Bamfield is known as the Gravel Baron in Muddy Soak. Third-generation gravel dynasty. There’s always a Bamfield in the paper—opening a building, attending a charity dinner, doing something magnanimous. Unfortunately none of that magnanimity has ever got as far as Rusty Bore.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But you don’t need to worry about me. I can look after myself.’

‘Uh huh.’ He clearly wasn’t buying it. ‘Anyway, up here with the Lions Club today. Replacing the fences at the McKenzies’ place.’

The McKenzies lost a heap of fences in the bushfire that whipped through two months ago.

I turned back to the baskets. Slipped in a few extra dim sims gratis, courtesy of the management. Complete tool he might be, but a stringy bloke like Bamfield could certainly afford to eat. And a few more Lions Club visits could make quite a difference to Rusty Bore.

A quick call to Dean to phone in the rego of the brown Fairlane. He wasn’t there, so I left it in his message bank. Sent it as a text as well, just in case.

A late lunch: a boiled egg and toast. I made some plans. On Monday I’d go to Gary’s place in Muddy Soak; look through Natalie’s room. And call in on Dean with some peace-making sausage rolls.

I was just settling into my egg when my phone rang. I grabbed it from my handbag. But it wasn’t ringing, and come to think of it, it wasn’t my ring tone either. It took me a moment to realise. It was the phone I’d been finger-swiping.

I snatched it off the table. The name flashing up was Jazz.

I threw in a quick half-mouthful of egg before I answered.

‘Yeah, hi,’ I said, doing my best to channel a deep-voiced book basher. When you operate in an investigative capacity, there are occasions when you need to temporarily deepen your voice, so it’s something I’ve taken a more than casual interest in. There’s no entirely foolproof method, but these are the two that work best for me: one: half-swallow a Panadol; the trick is to let it sit at the very top of your throat. Once it’s uncomfortable, and you think you might vomit, make the call; or two: throw in a small mouthful of food. You have to use minimal words and get them out quickly, before choking.

So it was fortuitous that I happened to have that boiled egg to hand when I grabbed the phone.

‘What the hell have you done?’ A female voice on the other end. Familiar, somehow.

‘No idea what you’re on about.’ I said. Another quick nibble of egg.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘Depends who’s asking.’

‘You know it’s me, you bastard. Did you…hurt her?’ Her voice was a whisper.

‘Who?’ I swallowed. Threw in another mouthful.

‘Cass Tuplin, you idiot.’

She knew my name?

‘Why would I want to do that?’ Not a bad effort, if I say so myself: always good to fire out an open-ended question.

‘Who knows what you want.’ A pause. ‘Where were you that night, anyway?’

‘What night?’

‘You know what bloody night. Did you…do something to Natalie? Tell me the truth.’

Shit, I was onto my last skerrick of egg. I shoved it in. ‘Let’s meet. I’ll tell you everything.’

A pause. ‘You sound weird.’

‘Got a cold.’ I coughed on the egg. ‘Feel like shit, actually.’

‘All right. You’ve got five minutes. After my kickboxing practice. Six o’clock tonight. Outside the community centre.’

‘Where?’ I croaked.

‘Oh for God’s sake. In Hustle, you dickhead.’