Crucifixion Creek (20 page)

Her phone again, Bernie—as if he's listening to her thoughts. ‘Kelly? The ministers
of planning and transport have just issued a joint statement. They deny that there
are any plans to run the underground rail line anywhere near the Creek. They hope
that this will put a stop to misleading and mischievous rumours emanating
from certain
minor organs of the press.'

‘They actually used those words?'

‘Same as. Doesn't look good, Kelly. Does your source have anything new for us? We
need a new angle.'

‘I'm working on it.' She rings off. No, this does not look good. And the timing—what
will Catherine Meiklejohn make of it? Is her big idea just an illusion? What evidence
did she have for it, really? She imagines the whole thing, her whole campaign, collapsing
in an embarrassing heap, all coincidence and false conclusions amounting to nothing
more than the desperate imagination of a failed reporter. What does she have to give
the
Times
now? Can she offer anything without Harry?

She goes over to the counter and tells them that her mobile isn't working and she
needs to make an important phone call. She offers the girl five dollars, takes the
café phone and dials Harry's special mobile number.

‘Yes?' His voice is barely a whisper.

‘Harry, can we talk?'

‘What phone are you on?'

‘This is a landline from the café I'm in. I had to destroy the other mobile. I think
I compromised it using it to call triple-O when I found my flatmate.'

All this comes out in a rush, then she waits, listening to the silence at the other
end. Finally he says, ‘Can't talk now. Don't call this number again,' and hangs up.

She mutters a pathetic little curse, at herself, at Harry, at fate, then replaces
the handset.

Bereft of ideas, she walks down the hill to Central, where she buys a ticket out
to the northern suburbs. The train is almost empty and she stares out of the window
as it rumbles across the Harbour Bridge. The sky has turned dark and raindrops begin
to stream across the window. Kelly wonders if she should ring Meiklejohn back and
say she can't do it.

At Lindfield she gets off and walks back along the Pacific Highway through the town
towards the public library. There she explains that she's trying to make contact
with someone who's recently moved into the area, and describes her.

‘Oh, Phoebe! Yes of course. She comes here a lot.'

‘Do you have her address?'

‘Well we do, but—oh, you can ask her yourself. Here she is.'

Kelly turns and sees the old lady coming through the doors, wrestling with an umbrella.
She seems frailer now than before, a little more unsteady on her feet. When Kelly
greets her she looks bemused, and Kelly has to remind her.

‘The last time we met was in Mortimer Street, when you were moving out. I was wondering
how you are, how things are going with your sister.'

‘Oh…yes. And you came all the way out here to ask me that?'

‘Well, not only that. Let's sit down.'

They make their way to a table in a quiet corner.

‘I come here a lot,' Phoebe confides. ‘To get out of Delia's way. We're going through
a period of readjustment. It didn't take us long to fall back into our old ways—she
bossing me around and me answering back. I've had to stand up to her, but it's so
exhausting. I do miss my own home.'

‘Oh dear. Do you keep in touch with any of the other people in Mortimer Street?'

‘Well, there aren't any of them left, apart from the bikies. That dreadful man who
was so rude to you—Roman, they call him. The others all left over the years. I like
to think of Mortimer Street when it was a friendly place with young families, children
playing in the street.'

‘Ah,' Kelly is disappointed. ‘So there isn't anybody else I could talk to about what's
been going on in the Creek?'

But Phoebe is gazing into the distance, lost in her memories. ‘I thought I must be
going gaga, seeing the children again. I mean,
I knew they were all grown up now.
Little faces at the windows, peering through the blinds like ghosts.'

‘What?'

‘I thought it must be the Italian children, Rico and Bella, but that couldn't be
right, because they came back when they were grown up, to see their parents before
they passed away.'

Kelly pulls the strap of her bag over her shoulder and prepares to make a move.

‘One of them waved to me, but then the motorbikes came down the street and they vanished.'

‘You saw children in the houses—recently?'

‘Oh yes, several times. At least I thought I did.' There is something rather unnerving
about Phoebe's dreamy words. ‘Someone else to talk to, did you say? Well, there's
Mrs Fenning, of course—Donna. She's still there. I forgot about her.'

By now Kelly hardly knows what to believe. Mrs Fenning probably died twenty years
ago.

‘Where does she live, Phoebe?'

‘Donna? Oh, at number eleven, on the other side of the street, a little further down.
Cacti.'

‘Sorry?'

‘She has a cactus garden in the front of the house. All rocks and gravel and, ah,
cacti. Quite clever I suppose, but not my idea of a garden. I do miss my plants.'

Kelly does vaguely remember seeing cacti in the street. ‘And she's still there?'

‘Well, as far as I know.'

24

Harry calls in at work but they tell him politely to go away. After trying without
success to get information on progress, he decides he'll have to wait until Toby
Wagstaff comes back on duty to get some answers. There is a message from the psychologist,
which he ignores.

As he drives back out of the basement car park the rain turns heavy, lashing the
windscreen and running in a rippling sheet down the concrete ramp. His phone chimes
and he sees a message from the accountant Sam Peck asking him to ring.

‘Hey, Harry, how are you? I've got Peter Rizzo here with me now, and we're wondering
if you can spare a moment sometime soon to talk about options.'

‘How about now?'

‘Perfect.'

Harry heads in that direction, taking a detour past the offices of the
Bankstown
Chronicle
to drop off a package.

They are sitting side by side at the table in Sam's office, flanked by piles of documents.
Harry gets the impression they've been
at it for some time, sleeves rolled up, ties
loosened, empty coffee mugs and a half-eaten bun with pink icing pushed to one side.
Sam welcomes him, Peter hanging back a little awkwardly until it's his turn to step
forward and shake hands.

‘Let's sit,' Sam says, indicating chairs around his desk. ‘Coffee, Harry?'

‘No thanks, Sam. What's up?'

‘Okay. Peter and I have been having a few discussions about how we can handle the
building business.'

‘Doesn't that belong to Bluereef now?'

‘Well,' Sam holds up his hands, a sly smile on his face, ‘that's the point at issue.
As you know, we had a letter from Bluereef's lawyer, Horn, immediately after Greg's
death, giving notice that Greg had defaulted on his loan and that Bluereef would
act to take possession of his assets as set out in their agreement. This was challenged
by Nicole's lawyer, requesting further documentary evidence, but since then Kristich
has died, and Bluereef, of which we understand he was the sole proprietor, has been
incommunicado. So…' more hand gestures, cunning winks, ‘this may provide us with
an opportunity to take care of a few problems.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘Yes. Problem number one,' a finger goes up, ‘what do we do about Greg's clients,
with their half-constructed buildings? Problem number two,' a second finger, ‘what
do we do about Greg's workforce, who need to be paid? Problem number three,' third
finger, ‘what do we do with the building company assets—trucks, premises, equipment—which
all need money for maintenance, fuel, taxes, etcetera, etcetera? These are all major
headaches for us, and in particular for Nicole, who simply doesn't need any of these
problems, agreed?'

‘Okay. So what do you suggest?'

‘Well,' a sideways nod to Peter, ‘Peter has come up with a plan that, after due consideration,
I believe might suit Greg's estate and
Nicole's interests very well indeed. In short,
Peter is proposing to form his own company to which Greg's executors will sell the
assets and liabilities of Greg March Builder Limited.'

‘Can we do that, if Bluereef has already given notice that they believe the company
belongs to them?'

‘Well, it depends how it's done. Let's say Peter approaches client A, and explains
that Greg March Builder is no longer able to continue with the project. The client
will then be faced with months of delays, arguments with subcontractors and additional
costs. However, if the client will write to Greg March Builder and terminate their
contract because of various breaches, he can then appoint Rizzo Construction who
will continue the project without interruption, with the same personnel, and at minimal
additional cost. How can Bluereef object to that?'

Harry shrugs.

‘Then let's say Rizzo Construction approaches Greg's executors and offers to buy
the assets of Greg March Builder for a sum which the parties agree, and the executors
place that sum in a special account which can be preserved intact until the question
of legal ownership of the assets is resolved. Who can object to that?'

‘I see.' And Harry does see—the carefully contained eagerness of the two men, their
air of collusion, their confidence that without working capital Harry and Nicole
will have no choice. ‘And this sum will be comparatively modest, I imagine?'

A serious, businesslike look comes over Sam's face. ‘We've been going carefully over
the figures, Harry. The premises are a tangle of burnt-out debris, the trucks are
ancient, the equipment worthless to anyone else, and there are unpaid bills; so yes,
their value is modest. Nominal, in fact.'

‘And the additional costs that Peter agrees with the clients, to continue their projects?'

‘That's entirely for him to negotiate.'

‘In other words, Peter is getting Greg's business for nothing.'

‘Not for nothing, Harry. For a reasonable negotiated sum which can be justified with
detailed financial assessments. But that's not the point. Peter is agreeing to take
these problems off our hands, at his risk. If Bluereef later object, they'll have
to argue it out with him.'

All this time they've been talking about Peter as if he isn't there. Now Harry turns
to him. ‘Are you confident about this, Peter? You'll have to raise a bit of money,
won't you?'

‘I've done the sums, Harry, and I've spoken to the bank. I'm confident, yes.' And
he does sound confident, self-possessed, almost a different man. Harry wonders what
sort of a deal he's done with Sam.

‘Okay. What's the next step?'

Sam says, ‘I suggest that we get Peter to draw up a formal offer, with details of
what's involved, and then the executors, assisted by myself, can assess it, and then
negotiate or approve it as they see fit.'

They agree on this. The change in the other two men is so striking that Harry can't
shake the idea that he and Nicole are being screwed. But perhaps that is ungenerous.
He certainly has no better idea how to deal with the situation.

25

Kelly picks up her car from outside her home. She doesn't go into the flat, unable
to face it. Instead she drives to the Creek. She parks on the main road at the end
of Mortimer Street and runs through the rain down to number eleven, where the cacti
are getting a soaking. She huddles close to the door and rings the bell. Across the
street she sees a man standing outside Phoebe's house, watching her.

She steps back and puts a smile on her face as the door opens. ‘Mrs Fenning?'

‘Yes?'

It's a relief to see a plump middle-aged woman with nice clothes and hair, who looks
alert and friendly. ‘Hello, my name is Kelly Pool. I've just come from speaking to
Phoebe Bulwer-Knight, who used to live across the street.'

‘Yes, I know Phoebe. How can I help you?'

‘I'm with the
Bankstown Chronicle
, Mrs Fenning, and I'm researching an article on
life in Mortimer Street, and I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time?'

‘Well, you're getting soaked out there. You'd better come in.'

‘Thank you. Oh dear, I'll probably drip on your carpet.'

‘Don't worry about it. Take your coat off and come through.'

She hangs Kelly's coat on a hook behind the door and leads the way into a pleasant
room, lighter than Phoebe's and comfortably furnished.

‘Please sit down. I've been reading your articles, Kelly.
Very
exciting. I seem to
be living in a crime hotspot.'

There is a sceptical look on her face as she says this, and Kelly wonders if she's
going to be accused of talking down real estate values.

‘Well, I'd be glad to hear your impressions of living here, Mrs Fenning.'

‘Donna, call me Donna. Well, we like it. It's a street with a lot of character. I
know people might be put off living with a bikie clubhouse at the end, but really,
that's the last place you'd expect trouble, isn't it?'

‘There was the police raid.'

‘Oh yes, that was exciting, but it was an overreaction, wasn't it? At least as far
as we can tell. I mean they didn't actually arrest anyone, did they? We get on fine
with the bikies. So did Phoebe.'

‘So your husband isn't one?'