Cooking the Books (14 page)

‘A kid?’ I was startled.

‘A baby goat. What do you think Pockets means by the crooked man?’

‘No idea,’ I replied promptly. ‘It might be worth looking up what the original meant. All those rhymes had some point when they were made up. In that endeavour, Mr Google is our friend.’

‘So he is,’ agreed Daniel. ‘How about some lunch?’

‘Let’s go home,’ I said. ‘It’s getting really hot.’

The apartment was cool and tidy and I fired up the computer as Daniel assembled some salad sandwiches and Horatio, dislodged from his snooze on my chair, went to the kitchen for a few munchies to settle his newly awakened nerves.

I googled.

‘I don’t see that this will help,’ I told Daniel as he sliced beetroot. ‘It’s about the Scots general who signed the covenant, Sir Alexander Leslie. The “crooked stile” is the border between England and Scotland and “they all lived together in a little crooked house” is about the Scots and the English coexisting in peace, sort of, after the covenant was signed.’

‘What was the covenant?’ asked Daniel, and the history lesson lasted all through lunch. But, fascinating as it was, it did not take us any further in the clarification of Pockets’ message. Where to find a crooked man? I instantly thought of politicans and suggested a scout around Parliament House. Pockets might turn out to be a stringent social commentator. Daniel went off to do this and I found the ingredients and took myself and Horatio up to the roof garden for a drink. I felt that I deserved it.

The roof was hot but the temple of Ceres was cool, for some reason lost in the mists of architectural engineering. I reposed on the bench in front of the statue of the goddess. Horatio prowled off into the undergrowth. The garden was heat-stressed but admirably green, due to Trudi’s water recycling. The gin and tonic tasted fine. But I was concerned. Never someone who likes to be involved in strong emotions—I hate mobs and their propensity for absorbing you, which is why I do not go to football matches or concerts—I was nevertheless enmeshed in
Kiss the Bride
, which was seething with passions. Ms Atkins, Ethan, Emily, Tash, Harrison with his wholehearted narcissism. The girls, as well, desperate to succeed. A plot to get rid of Ms Atkins, too. And it was all surface. Bodies. Faces. I had not the merest notion what anyone might actually be feeling. They were all actors and they were acting. Except Tommy, who seemed much as she was when we were at school together. What were the writers plotting?

I decided that none of this was any of my business. Pockets’ magical mystery trail around the city was likely to be much more amusing. I dozed, musing on the crooked man.

I was woken by Kylie and Goss, who had arrived unnoticed and were sitting in the wisteria bower, sipping Diet Coke, nibbling something out of a cardboard box, and giggling.

‘Corinna!’ exclaimed Goss. ‘Come and have some of this sour cherry cake, it’s, like, fabulous.’

‘I know, I stole some of the apricot cake,’ I replied, disinclined to move. ‘That Bernie is a very good pastry cook.’

‘Come and sit here,’ insisted Goss, so I dragged myself to my feet and obliged. They were clean of makeup and I asked what had happened to the day’s shooting.

‘Ethan cracked the shits with Ms Atkins,’ Goss told me in a high state of excitement. ‘He walked out just after lunch. So Tash sent us home.’

‘I wonder if he’s going to turn up at the party tonight?’ put in Kylie, popping another chunk of sour cherry cake into her rosebud mouth.

‘Party?’ I asked.

‘You’ve been invited,’ said Goss. ‘Tash asked for you special.’

‘Especially,’ I corrected.

‘That, too. Didn’t you get the invitation?’

‘Tommy did give me a note,’ I confessed. ‘I didn’t read it.’

Both of them gave me that peculiarly young-person look which can be summed up as ‘What’s the weather like on your planet?’

‘So you’ll come,’ insinuated Kylie.

‘Perhaps.’ I did not know if I wanted to spend more time with actors. ‘I’ll have to see what Daniel is doing. We’ve got a treasure hunt.’

I told them about Pockets and his paper clues. They were interested but had no insights to offer.

‘Weird,’ opined Goss. ‘Corinna, was it nice to replace Jason?’

‘I didn’t,’ I said, taken aback. ‘Bernie was supplied by Tommy because I am cooking for her. Bernie wants to be a pastry cook and she’s working for Tommy, not me. I could never replace Jason.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Kylie, after a pause and some more cake.

‘What?’ I demanded.

‘We’ve been getting texts from Jason,’ said Goss, as Kylie had apparently been rendered mute by all that cake. ‘He was asking how you were going. And . . .’

‘You told him I had replaced him?’ I demanded. Bloody texting. I knew it was evil.

‘Er . . .’ said Goss. ‘Sort of.’

‘Sort of?’

‘Don’t be wild, Corinna, we just said that a girl was working in your bakery.’

‘You idiots,’ I said angrily. ‘Don’t you think at all? Jason’s a recovering heroin addict! He always said he got off the gear because of Earthly Delights! If he thinks I don’t want him anymore he might do anything!’

Then I stopped yelling, not because they were frightened but because they were excited. Their lips moistened, their eyes sparkled. I was flooded with disgust.

‘Text him back,’ I demanded. ‘Do it now.’

‘Can’t,’ said Kylie. ‘He doesn’t have a phone. He said he was on a borrowed one.’

‘I’ll send an email.’ I got up and, without another word, collected the esky and Horatio and stalked off to the lift. What had those two thoughtless—and that was throwing roses at their mental processes—young women done to Jason? And to me?

I did not seem to be able to avoid emotion, I thought, as I slammed the apartment door and fired up the computer. Horatio withdrew to the safety of my bed as I hit keys with unnecessary force. Curse Kylie and Goss! I wondered if our resident witch Meroe could supply me with a good solid malediction for them.

Dear Jason
, I began.
Kylie has just told me what she told you. Don’t believe it. I have not, repeat NOT, replaced you. I was doing a favour for a friend. Hope to see you soon
, I concluded. I was sure that this would not work. Adolescent feelings are so sensitive and no one cherishes a hurt like a sixteen-year-old boy. He cuddles it close and relishes it. Damn. Damn. Damn. I really liked Jason.

Just as I was wondering what I could do to get rid of this anger, Jon and Kepler arrived to take me up on an ill-advised promise to check their accounts. They are so sweet together that I could not turn them from my door. And accounts are my field. I provided directions to the tea- and coffee-making facilities and sat down with their books.

And found something to be righteously wrathful about. One of their suppliers had misinterpreted ‘double-entry bookkeeping’ as ‘charge a charity twice, they’ll never notice’. I noticed. I accepted a cup of tea from the delightful six-foot Jon and the sugar from the equally delightful Kepler, Asian and the same height as me, and declared, ‘This person is cheating you.’

Jon has been an international charity worker for a long time. He looked sad, but not surprised. Kepler, who does frightfully complex IT for various companies, was horrified that someone would rob those who live to do good works. I explained, pointing out the entries and invoices. Twice for the same goods.

‘Oh dear,’ said Jon. ‘Well, we shall have to find another supplier, shan’t we?’

‘Call the cops,’ I urged. My blood was still hot.

‘Oh yes, that too. I shall talk to that nice Sergeant Nguyen in the Fraud Squad. Just because we’re a charity must not mean we are a soft touch. Once that sort of thing gets said it is work, work, work, as Westley says in my favourite film.’

The Princess Bride
. I might have guessed.

‘Do you want me to write you a report?’ I asked.

‘If you would be so good,’ said Jon, sitting down and cradling his teacup. ‘You seem a little distracted, Corinna dear.’

I told him, while typing out a summary of depredations, what Kylie and Goss had done. Jon looked grave.

‘That is not good,’ he commented. ‘Can you contact Jason?’

‘Only by email. I’ve sent one. For what good it will do. I might have lost him,’ I said, and surprised myself by bursting into tears.

‘Oh no, you won’t have lost him.’ Jon hugged me. ‘Jason’s like the poor. Always with us. And I should know . . .’

Kepler nodded. I finished the report. They left with thanks. I read the note which Tommy had passed to me. It appointed a Spanish restaurant in Calico Alley as the venue for a ‘friendly gathering’. Lorca. I had always meant to go there. At least it was within easy staggering distance.

It had not been a good day. And I had to go to a party tonight! Bugger everything, I thought, and lay down on my bed for a nap. Horatio attended me.

Daniel woke me, inadvertently, by rattling the kettle as he filled it. He made tea as I escorted Horatio to the kitchen and sat down heavily. I was on a chair, he was on the table. We were both, if not entirely disgruntled, not gruntled to any noticeable extent.

‘I’ve got a police report on Pockets,’ he told me. ‘Could help us guess where he might stash his documents. Tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘What’s the matter?’

I told him. TV people, mysteries, someone cheating Jon’s most worthy organisation. Most of all, Jason. Daniel filled the cups with the beverage. I sipped. It was Earl Grey—so civilised.

‘I think Jason will be all right,’ he said consideringly. ‘He’s grown up a lot since he came here. And he knows that the girls are airheads.’

‘Even so,’ I said.

‘We shall have to wait and see,’ he told me. ‘Let’s look at this report and find out about Pockets. Might be good to take your mind off your troubles.’

‘That would be nice,’ I agreed.

The police report was pithy. Most police reports are. It said that Pockets was a fifty-three-year-old alcoholic ex-businessman with serious mental problems. His real name, before he became deranged, was Robert Banks. He had been on the street for four years, which was a long time to survive, although perhaps the Lemurians protected him. Parents dead, one estranged sister in Queensland, married and divorced, no children. No prosecutions, several arrests for drunk and disorderly (held for four hours and released), several hospital admissions for alcoholic dementia. Prognosis: dire. Poor Pockets. And I thought I had problems. Nothing like viewing a report like this to restore one’s perspective.

‘Nothing really helpful,’ said Daniel.

‘He used to be an accountant,’ I told him. ‘Previous employment: associate at Mason and Co. Isn’t Lena’s employer called Mason?’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Daniel. ‘But it’s a common name. In any case, it’s unlikely Pockets remembers anyone from his previous life, before he met the Lemurians.’

‘True,’ I said. ‘Though memory is tricky. I’ve known people absolutely demented able to recall in pinprick detail learning to sew when they were five.’

‘True again,’ he said equably. ‘What’s all this about a party?’

‘How did you know about that?’

‘Met the girls in the atrium. They said that you were going.’

‘They say a lot of things,’ I snarled. ‘I’m still thinking about it. I might have to work with them, but I don’t know if I want to socialise with them.’

‘Well, well,’ said Daniel pacifically. ‘How about a little walk?
Voulez-vous promener avec moi
, Madamoiselle?’

‘
Bonne idée
,’ I conceded.

I like walking with Daniel. I fit exactly under his arm. We promenaded down to Flinders Street and then threaded our way through the crowd outside the fast-food places and the book- shop, crossing the road to the old city square. It has a massive hotel on one side, a rather ineffectual fountain (dry) and a plinth on which stands those favourites of Australian legend makers, the Lost Explorers. Burke and, as it happens, Wills, at the last stage of thirst and starvation. They looked just like men who had discovered that the relief party which should have been waiting for them had got bored and gone home. No one has bothered to put up a statue of their rescuer, who made it all the way to Adelaide without losing a horse, much less a man. Alfred Howitt has been forgotten except by mountaineers. I don’t know why we do this. Celebrate the disasters and forget about the triumphs. It’s irritating. I looked at the bronze. It was a very good depiction. Burke, or possible Wills, sagged crookedly down in his mate’s embrace. The other man—Wills, perhaps—stared blankly out into despair.