31

I marched out to the bathroom, in serious need of Panadol. What the hell was I going to do about Brad. Where did I go wrong?

Well, maybe it wasn’t all me. After all, Piero was the one who encouraged him, way back when Brad was little, helping him bandage up those ex-racing blue tongue lizards. All very convenient for Piero that he wasn’t around now to deal with the consequences.

I’d do my best for Brad, of course. Speak up for him in court. Sob, if necessary, which in fact wouldn’t be hard. And I’d visit him in jail, wherever that turned out to be, miles away, probably. He’d need regular doses of home-made vanilla slice.

Maybe Dean could wield some kind of influence? I should talk to him, when he’d recovered from this Natalie Kellett business. When I had. In fact, assuming we all survived, Dean’s and my shared concern for Brad could turn out to be the chance we need.

Ours hasn’t been an easy relationship, obviously. Maybe it’d help if I worked harder at talking up Dean’s good points. Number one: he wasn’t headed for jail.

I downed the Panadol, headed out to the shop storeroom and grabbed the pile of newspapers from beside the freezer. They were cast-offs from Vern, left over from the painting after my rebuild. I’d been meaning to get rid of them. The one on top was a recent copy of the Muddy Soak Cultivator.

Over a cuppa, I flicked through the papers. More than I’d ever wanted to know about Muddy Soak’s harness racing, basketball, croquet club championships and junior tennis. An ad for a luxury cruise on the Danube, with Sold Out! stamped across in capitals. A snip at fifteen thousand bucks a head. They obviously cater to a different demographic in Muddy Soak.

In the older editions there were some stories by Natalie Kellett—mostly interviews with local identities—positive news stories on local people.

Some of them were about people I knew or at least vaguely recognised. One on Billy Barker, with a nice picture of him leaning against his work bench. Billy’s an inventor. Designed the Locust Sucker.

‘Converts to a top-notch Mouse Sucker as well,’ Billy told me, the pride heavy in his voice. He scratched his faded blue beanie. ‘See, all you have to do is slip on the Mouse Attachment.’ Be extremely handy in the next mouse plague.

A brief story on the doomed disaster that was Solar Logic. A quote from Andy Fitzgerald: In the long run, we will be thanked for our vision, for stamping out the solar scourge—this offensive blight on our countryside. I moved on rapidly.

Preliminary exploration licences granted—the article Vern had been on about. A photo of Rory Quayle, the CEO of Gas Solutions: tall bloke, wavy grey hair, dead-fish pale eyes. He had a grey moustache and a too-bright smile.

Finally, I found the article about Will Galang’s accident on Jensen Corner. A photo of the mangled car, a smashed phone lying on the road beside it. Grief-stricken Tina Galang of Gisborne says her son Will was always a careful driver. A paragraph of lamenting about the black spot, with statistics on the number of deaths since the road was built in the 1930s.

Later that afternoon, I enlisted Brad to help find Tina Galang’s phone number. It wasn’t difficult: the White Pages had only one Galang in Gisborne.

‘I could call her, Brad, but I reckon you’d do a better job of it.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. I can hardly phone and say I think her son was murdered, can I?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, there’s a fairly good chance she’ll think I’m off my head. Or she’ll think Dean is useless.’

‘Serves him right.’

‘If you don’t have family loyalty, what do you have?’

‘A healthy distance from your stupid older brother?’

‘Here’s an idea: tell her you were always a huge fan of Will’s blog—that’s true enough. Say he inspired you to set up your own blog and you’d love to run the last story he’d been intending to write, as a tribute to him and Natalie. You’re gathering information et cetera; did he ever happen to mention…Rory Quayle; anyone else she could suggest you talk to yada yada.’

Brad was silent for a moment, like he was trying to find a reason to say no.

‘All right. I’ll give it a go.’ He walked towards the doorway connecting the shop to my house.

‘I was thinking you could make the call in here and put her on loudspeaker, Brad. In case you need my help.’

‘I’ll do it my way. And there’ll be fewer distractions in my room, away from your queue of customers.’

Queue—ha. Still, I didn’t argue.

While Brad was on the phone, I spent a few moments tidying up the newspapers, lugging them back out to my store room.

The shop bell rang. Tall bloke in a police uniform. Oh shit.

‘Err, Dean, terrific to see you.’ I said, straightening my shop apron.

He closed the door and wiped his feet on the mat. ‘Just wanted to see if you’d managed to get yourself a solicitor,’ he said.

‘Um, they’re all terribly busy…’

‘You haven’t called any, have you?’

‘Err, not as such. I’ve had a lot to do in the shop, actually.’

‘I hope you’re bloody well taking this seriously, Mum.’

‘Of course.’

He handed me a card. ‘Nelson Haines. Solicitor in Hustle. Went to school with him. Maybe you should give him a call. He’s into hopeless cases.’

Great, thanks. I took the card.

‘Friday, Mum. With or without a lawyer, it’s your choice. Five o’clock. No extensions.’

He turned and marched out the door.

Bloody Dean. A solicitor, even one he went to school with, would cost a fortune. For a completely pointless meeting that even Dean should be able to see would be pointless. I’d have to find a way to put Dean off. A convincing way. Until his boss arrived. Surely she’d be sane?

I headed out the back to check the freezer. I hoped Brad was doing OK with this phone call. He seemed to be taking a while.

I updated my inventory sheet: dim sims: check. Chiko Rolls: check. A bag of something orange, not quite identifiable. I took it out and shook it. Chunks of sweet potato? Good on you, Brad.

The connecting door to the house creaked. A moment later, Brad popped his head around the back room doorway.

‘How’d you get on?’ I said, closing the freezer door. This wasn’t the moment to bring up the sweet-potato issue.

‘Not bad. She’s going to scan some papers Will had in his desk and email them to me.’

‘Excellent. What about?’

‘Something to do with the Ignition Group.’

‘The arsonists?’

‘Well, I don’t know that they’re arsonists. Anyway, she said she thought there was a file on his desk with that name.’

‘What about Gas Solutions?’

‘Didn’t mean anything to her. Anyway, we’ll find out more soon. She’s going to send the PDFs tonight.’