An Isolated Incident (5 page)

‘Okay. But this thing this arvo, the press thing, that'll help right?'

‘It will, it will. Get the public mobilised. Hopefully someone saw something, heard something. But we can't rely on tips from strangers to solve this for us. We need the people who knew Bella to dig deep as well. Hard as that is for you, it's what we need to do.'

The young fella sighed, his own personal heartbreak, it was. ‘Is there anything else you can think of that we should know about? Might seem something real small, not even worth mentioning. 'Cause, you know, sometimes it's stuff like that which busts things open. Small stuff.'

‘I could tell you small stuff about Bella all day and all night. All month, probably. I can tell you how she did at school. What she got for her last birthday. I mean . . .' I heard my own voice going all shrill, the way it usually went only when I was fighting with Nate. I wished they'd let him come through, but then he'd get riled up by their questions and my voice and it'd all be much worse. I took a breath. ‘I'm serious. I don't know what you're asking me. You want to know about how clean she kept her car? Where she bought her undies? What?'

‘Nah, nah. I guess, Chris, we just want more of an idea about who Bella was outside of work. Like, what did she get up to on a weekend, say?'

I told them about her friends that I knew, said they should talk to them about what exactly went down at the movies or bowling alley or bloody karaoke on a Saturday night. They were barely listening, I could tell. There was something they wanted me to say that I wasn't saying and I had no clue what it was.

‘One thing we were wondering,' the younger one said, after I'd run through the name of every person I'd ever known Bella to speak to. ‘Is it possible that Bella might've been moonlighting?'

My mind hooked on to the word and all I could think was how pretty it sounded. I imagined Bella climbing a ladder and flicking a switch, bathing the world with gentle white light.

‘Like yourself, I mean,' he added.

Moonlighting
. Bella wasn't one for moonlight. She was a morning person if there ever was one. She must've been so tired on Friday night, on top of everything else.

‘C'mon, Chris,' Brandis said. ‘We don't want to bust your chops over it, but everyone knows you –'

‘No.'

‘Listen, you're not in any trouble, we just need to –'

‘Not her. There's no way.'

The detectives exchanged another one of those looks and my hand went hot with wanting to slap their faces.

‘You know it's a high-risk profession,' Brandis said.

‘What is? Cleaning up old people's shit?'

‘Chris,' Brandis said and the younger one smiled. He fucking smiled.

We have to deal with this, I suppose.

The first time, three and a bit years ago, was an accident. It was a slow night at work and I got to talking with a long-distance truckie who'd stopped into the pub for a feed. At the end of my shift, when he said he'd be sleeping in his truck that night, I invited him back to mine. I'd been doing that a bit lately, asking blokes back. It hadn't been long since Nate left and I wanted nothing to do with love, you know, but the other business, well, I've always found it a good boost, to be honest.

Look, I'm no great beauty but I'm handy with make-up and keep myself fit and, harsh as it sounds, the same can't be said of most of the women my age around here. I'm not having a go, just stating a fact: being single and childless gives you more time to spend on making yourself look nice. In this town, most women my age haven't been single and childless since they were young enough that they didn't need to make any effort, so, in that – if nothing else – I have an advantage.

Point being, I've never had much trouble attracting blokes and in the years since I've been divorced it's only been easier. This probably sounds sad to you, but sometimes it's what's kept me going. Like, there've been times I've felt so low, so down on myself and my life, and then some fella in the pub would start hanging around, finding excuses to talk to me. I'd catch him perving when he thought I couldn't see. And it always gave me such a lift, no matter who he was. And if I liked him back, then even better. I tell you, it was a relief to learn, as a divorced thirty-four-year-old, that I could still feel that thrill, that bubbly, giddy, giggly excitement I had thought belonged to being sixteen and getting felt up in the movies for the first time.

I'm not talking about love. I'm resigned to the fact that Nate's my one and only when it comes to that. And I don't think it's even lust, although I can and do get swamped by that now and again, my god. But no, I'm talking about something less dramatic but much sweeter. A crush, I suppose is the word. A crush that might only last a few hours and might end up in awkward sloppy kisses or might end up with mind-blowing sex or might never end up at all, just float away with the summer wind but that, while it lasts, makes you feel fresh and pretty and like your whole life is ahead of you.

Anyway, one night, I invite this bloke back to mine. It's like a hundr– well, not that many, but like a bunch of times before. We have a drink or two and then a nice roll around under the covers and then in the morning he's gone. But this time was different because this time after the bloke left there was a stack of twenties on the bedside table, folded up with a note saying:
Had an early start. See ya next time I'm in town, gorgeous.

I went to the supermarket and stocked up and went home again and stood for a while looking at the shelves of my cupboard, at the brand-name packets of biscuits and muesli, the bags of Italian pasta and tins of Campbell's tomato soup. I made myself a sandwich with the pricey, soft yellow cheese that comes in a wedge instead of thin slices between plastic and drank Moccona made with fresh milk. It wasn't until I was in bed that night that the word
prostitute
jumped into my mind. It was a shock, but not a big one. A fleeing mouse when you turn the kitchen light on kind of shock.
Ooh!
And then,
damn
, and then,
ah well
. I slept soundly that night, and although I've had plenty of sleepless nights since, not one of them has been over the help some blokes give me with my groceries. Not one.

Not that I go boasting about it or anything. A couple of days after that first time, Bella came over and saw all the goodies I had in the kitchen. She hoed right into the choccy bickies and asked whether I'd won the lotto. I'd already thought hard about whether to tell her. I wanted to believe she would see it the way I did, but I remembered all the times we'd sniggered at the whores who haunted the off-ramp service station and the time she dumped a bloke because he admitted losing his V-card to a prozzy way back when he was a kid. ‘Coulda picked up anything from the dirty bitch,' she'd said. I think I'd agreed with her. Why wouldn't I?

When she asked I said, yeah, actually I had won the lotto. She knew I'd never place a bet on anything, on account of the troubles our mum had with the pokies, so I said some bloke at the pub had celebrated the birth of his kid by putting a bet on for the bar staff and that my share of the winnings had been enough to restock my cupboards. ‘Awesome,' she said. She didn't hesitate. I felt so rotten then, watching her hands, rough and red from all the cleaning chemicals she used at the nursing home, dip into the biscuit packet. She told me a story about slipping in some old man's piss and she laughed while she said it but all I could think was how much lower that was than picking up a hundred for letting a sweet, lonely truckie share your bed.

That first bloke stayed over again next time he was passing through and that time he asked if maybe I'd be up for keeping some of his mates company when they came through as well. I said they were welcome to come into the pub and if I happened to be free on the night, then I might let them overnight in my house instead of in their trucks.

It's worked out alright, really. Once or twice a week a bloke will buy a counter meal and a beer and ask me what I'm up to after work. Depending on my mood and my bank balance and whether I like the look of him, I'll either say I'm busy or I'll say I'm planning a night in and tell him what time I knock off. Either way it's no skin off anyone's nose.

I never tell them a price, never ask for payment. They know they're expected to leave a little something on the table before they leave. A couple of blokes have taken advantage, leaving just a tenner or two. One bastard left me a six-pack of the beer he was carrying in his truck. It's okay. I'm always busy when the tight-arses next come through town. Word gets around. Blokes who want a chance at sticking their wick in before crashing out in my comfy queen know to leave at least seventy the first time. If they leave more then I'll remember and when I see them again, I show my appreciation.

I never spent the truckie cash after that first supermarket spree. It all goes into the pewter jewellery box my mum left me. When the box is full I take the bus out to the bank in Wagga. (Can you imagine the gossip if I turned up in the town branch with a couple of thousand cash?) At first I thought I'd just save enough to take Bella on a nice holiday up the Gold Coast, but I realised pretty quickly that if I kept it up I'd have enough for a deposit on a little house in a couple of years. I'd get a place with a spare room and Bella could stay there for nothing and save up her own deposit. Imagine that – the barmaid and the nurse's aide, daughters of a drunken welfare queen and a couple of no-good womanisers, both of us homeowners.

So that dream, that dream that I was well on the way to making reality, that's another thing those fuckers took from me.

Don't think I'm not keeping track.

I didn't tell the detectives all that, of course. They would've loved it, but. They dug and dug at me, asking me stuff that couldn't possibly have a bearing on the investigation. Stuff that couldn't have a bearing on anything except my dignity.

‘This is obviously something you don't like talking about, but for Bella's sake, you need to give us a list of your clients.'

‘Clients? You mean the drinkers at the pub? Geez, you'd have to ask Old Grey.'

‘You know what we mean, Chris. The ones you take home from the pub.'

‘Blokes I take home aren't clients. They're just blokes I take home. No one's business, is it?'

‘Shitty thing about a murder investigation,' Brandis said, ‘is that we have to make everything about the victim's life our business.'

‘You're not talking about her life, though. You're talking about mine.'

The young one sighed again. God, I would've liked to slap him. ‘Your life was intertwined with hers. It's possible some of your cli–' He broke off with a goddamn smirk. Held his hands up. ‘Sorry. Your boyfriends. It's possible one of them might've taken an interest in your sister.'

‘No, it isn't.'

‘Why not? You've got pictures of her in your place, don't you? Bloke might've taken a liking, decided to look her up. Not unthinkable, is it?'

‘You think whoever did that to her
liked
her? Jesus.'

‘Alright, alright. Not a liking. Something else. Point is, it might've been the place of introduction so to speak. He sees her pic, he decides to –'

‘No,' I said. ‘No man I've ever met could do that.'

‘You'd be surprised,' Brandis said, so soft I wondered if he meant me to hear him.

‘Thing is, Chris, we have to operate with the assumption it could be anyone, and since anyone is a hell of a lot of people, we have to start close to home. Bella's workmates and friends, her neighbours and relatives. Her relatives' friends. So, you know, if you could give us your boyfriends' names . . .'

‘Yeah, well, I would, but I don't know them.'

He fucking smiled, that little shit. ‘You don't know the names of the men you take home?'

‘Yeah, that's right. I'm a big old slut. Not a crime, is it?'

‘Chris. Calm down. We're not trying to upset you. Like I said, it's a dangerous kind of . . .
lifestyle
you've got. It's not a safe thing, bringing men you don't know back to your place like that. Fucked-up men looking for women to do nasty shit to, well, a lot of the time they figure a whore is a good target. No one's going to worry too much, you know?'

‘How can you say these things to me?' I turned to Brandis, brooding away in the corner. ‘Is he allowed to talk to me like this?'

Brandis blinked a few times like he was just waking up. I tell you, I understood a little then how someone could commit murder. For real, I did.

‘Easy, Mikey,' he said.

Mikey
raised his hands again. ‘Listen, I'm not judging. I don't care about anything except finding whoever did this to Bella. If that's what you care about, and I know you do, Chris, then I'd ask you to spend the afternoon having a good long think. See if you can't dredge up some of those names from your memory bank, eh?'

Brandis stood up. ‘Press conference isn't for a few hours yet. If you'd like to stay back here, gather your thoughts, I can organise someone to bring you a cuppa and a sandwich or something?'

‘Nah, I'll go home now, I think.'

‘Up to you. Important that we have you back here before one, though. I'll send a car to get you at twenty to, alright?'

Nate was in the waiting area, playing around with his damn phone. Reading the news or texting his woman. I didn't know which would've been worse, so instead of asking him I just believed both and shook away the hand he offered me as we walked out to the car.

‘What did they want to talk to you about?'

‘Just more bullshit about who she might have been seeing. Can't get it through their fucking heads that she isn't like that.'