Forbidden Fruit (7 page)

I sipped my coffee, now tepid, and added
Ballarat
to the notes I’d made.
Paul and Dallas Patrick
. I circled her name slowly and then looked up. ‘Ah, what did she look like?’

‘Blonde,’ replied Bernice immediately. ‘A slim lass. Always nicely dressed. The kids too.’

Grace was watching me. ‘You’re thinking it might be her. The body, I mean. But you’re wrong. She went with the kids a few weeks before he did, to set up their new place. I remember now, because I ran into her down the street around that time. She had a sister or someone with her, helping her pack. She was all excited about them moving to an actual house. The kids would have a bedroom each.’

‘You’re right,’ added Bernice, nodding. ‘And I said to my Frank that I’m not going near that place now that he’s there by himself. Bad enough when she was around, heaven knows how grabby he’d get with her gone.’

‘Ah, this sister … what colour was her hair?’ I asked casually.

Grace frowned, thinking. ‘She’d have been blonde too, I’m sure. But you’re still on the wrong track. They would have left at the same time. Now eat your cake.’

I broke off half the slice of Madeira and nibbled obediently, even though I wasn’t hungry. Bernice made a comment about Abbott’s, and their willingness to provide home delivery in those days, and that started her and Grace reminiscing about how service had once meant service. Betty began to snore gently in the corner, her head having slipped forward to concertina her chin. Sister, my foot. It was far more likely that the mystery woman had been a single member of the swinger’s club, or even the third wheel of a ménage à trois. Maybe she had been a foreigner, a Scandinavian with limited English, who was being kept as a sex slave. With the Patricks’ big move on the horizon, she had become surplus to requirements, but they couldn’t risk her telling her story to all and sundry, and so she had been buried in the back of the empty shop next door. Somehow my father had seen something, suspected something, been involved in some way. And that’s what I needed to discover next.

I parked around the corner from Grace’s house, just before the turn-off to Majic, and considered my options. I had to find out the exact date that Patrick’s Pharmacy closed down, and also if the family had relocated before or after. Then I needed to ascertain where they went. Only then would I be able to start asking questions about this ‘sister’. I fished out my mobile and after a great deal of fiddling, connected to the internet. There I looked up the telephone directory and tried for any listings for Patrick in Ballarat – nothing. I thought for a moment and then entered Deb’s number. She answered after only one ring.

‘I haven’t forgotten! I’ve just been snowed under, but I promise –’

‘I’m not ringing about the street sign,’ I assured her. ‘This is something else. A favour.’

‘You mean
another
favour?’

‘No, because the street sign isn’t a favour. It’s righting a wrong.
This
is an actual favour.’

She laughed. ‘Okay, what?’

‘I need you to use your contacts at the council, maybe in the archives, and find out for me when Patrick’s Pharmacy closed. It would have been sometime in 1970. Sheridan Lane. And I also need a forwarding address, possibly in Ballarat. And I really need it today, the sooner the better.’

There was a silence at the other end of the line.

‘You don’t have to give me an actual address if you don’t want to. Just whatever business he bought into. Probably a chemist. The names were Paul and Dallas Patrick. Two children.’

‘Um, can I ask
why
you want this?’

‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’

‘Has it anything to do with the body buried in your backyard? And, on that subject, can I also ask why you didn’t mention this when you spoke to me on Monday? I had to find out from Karen Rawlings and her craft group.’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Oh, of course! My mistake!’

I swapped the mobile to my other ear. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you. You’re too nice. Look, I know this is going to sound odd, but when I spoke to you, I was so fixated on the street sign that I’d actually sort of forgotten about the whole body in the backyard thing.’

‘Totally understandable. Why, I discovered two bodies last weekend myself. I was going to tell you but it just slipped my mind.’

‘Then you know how it feels. Does that mean you can do me this favour? Now-ish?’

She groaned. ‘I’ll give it a try. But you owe me a thorough explanation of what happened, and what this has to do with it. Deal?’

‘Deal.’ I pressed end and checked the battery life. Two bars. I really needed to charge this thing more often. I took my hat off and ran my fingers through my hair, then clamped the hat back in place. The question was whether I should turn right and head back home, or take a left and drive through to Ballarat, which was about an hour and a half away. This second option was risky, not just because there was no real guarantee that the Patricks had gone that way, apart from a seventy-year-old woman’s vague recollection, but also because Deb might hit a brick wall with her inquiries. I checked the time. Eleven-fifteen. And I only had today to discover as much as I could, with my father arriving tomorrow.

I pictured him, having a coffee at my kitchen bench, when I casually dropped the name of the blonde woman into the conversation. It would be like a grown-up version of bringing home your school artwork to show your parents. Look at me, look what I’ve done, aren’t I clever. After which I would wander around to the police station and offer to identify the body.
Local woman with own road provides critical key. Father impressed.

I put the car into drive and surged forward, then took a sharp left. The drive to Ballarat was not one that I took very often, Bendigo being closer if we wanted a broader shopping experience than what Majic offered. However, it was quite a pleasant drive with decent roads and little traffic. I spent the time adding to my hypothesis and by the time I reached the outskirts, I had the young blonde woman suffering from Stockholm syndrome, which seemed particularly apt if she was indeed Scandinavian, and this meant that Dallas Patrick had been able to walk her around the streets with no concerns regarding possible escape.

My mobile had rung once on the trip, and a few messages had also pinged into being. I pulled up at a service station for petrol and, while there, checked the phone. Sure enough, the missed call was from Deb so I went straight to messages. The first was from Red:
sorry cant make Scarlet meet & greet. Prior engagement. CU.
The second from Lucy:
These 2 r 2 cute 4 words. LMFAO!
The third from Ashley:
You didn’t tell me your father was involved. Take my advice (for once) and stay away.
And the last was Deb’s:
Patrick’s Pharmacy was the shop next to Forrest & Son Butchers – but I expect you knew that! Last day of trading 11 April 1970. Forwarding address: Cobham Pharmacy, 11a Cobham Road, Ballarat East. You owe me details – and lunch.

I would have preferred a residential address as it was likely that Paul Patrick had now retired, but it was a start. I plugged in my GPS and keyed in Cobham Road, Ballarat East, feeling a rush of anticipation when it was accepted. Ten minutes later I was coasting into a parking spot outside a strip of shops where 11a was indeed a pharmacy, but the facia board proclaimed it as Lacey’s, not Cobham. I double-checked Deb’s message and then stared at the shop. It looked well-established, and the signage was not new, but forty-three years was a long time and it may well have changed hands in the meantime.

The shop was not very busy, with just one young woman waiting for a prescription. She jiggled a pram with a fretful, red-cheeked baby. There were two chemists working behind the counter nearby, but neither was an elderly man. As I hesitated, a white-jacketed attendant approached me with a smile.

‘Can I help you with anything?’

‘Ah, I was actually trying to track down someone who might have worked here once. A man named Paul Patrick. He was a friend of my parents.’

‘Mr Patrick!’ She was nodding before I even finished speaking. ‘We know him well. You’ll be wanting to speak to Denise. I’ll see if she’s free.’

She walked over to the prescription area with me following, and then slipped behind the counter to speak with one of the chemists, a pear-shaped woman in her early fifties. The chemist looked across and held up her hand, fingers splayed, to indicate that she’d be five minutes. She turned to beckon the young mother forward and passed her a tray holding an array of medication. The baby’s nose gleamed wetly. They moved away and the chemist came over. Her white lab coat sagged around her slim waist and then pulled tight across her hips.

‘Hi, I’m Denise Lacey.’ She shook my hand briskly. ‘Your parents were friends of Paul Patrick?’

‘Yes, back in the seventies. He had a pharmacy in Majic. And actually that’s what I’m here about. See, I’m doing research on that shop and the one beside it. Tracking down past owners and all that.’

‘Sounds interesting. Does it have anything to do with the body found there a few days ago?’

I looked at her, impressed. ‘If you mean am I writing about that, then no. My parents really were friends. In fact they owned the shop next door and I’ve recently bought the pair of them. I was told Paul Patrick worked here after he left.’

‘Actually he owned this place, along with my father. I bought him out about eight years ago.’

‘So he’s retired now?’

She nodded. ‘I can give him a ring. Ask if he wants to meet with you. What were the names of your parents?’

‘Harry and Lillian Forrest,’ I replied quickly, because I knew she was testing me. ‘My name’s Nell. Nell Forrest.’

‘Back in a second.’

I browsed a display of multi-vitamins as I waited. With the addition of Chinese herbs, they promised vitality and peak energy levels along with mental stamina and endurance. I needed all that, plus I quite liked Chinese.

Denise returned, smiling for the first time. ‘Paul was thrilled. He says he remembers you well. And he’s fine with me giving you his address – you can even drop by now, if you like.’ She paused, her smile dropping. ‘But if this has nothing to do with the body anyway, can I ask that you not mention it? They don’t go out and never watch the news so they’ve got no idea, and it’d only upset them. They were gone by then, I checked.’

‘Ah, okay. Sure. If you prefer.’

‘Paul has early stage motor neurone disease,’ she said flatly.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I had heard of this illness before, and it was a nasty one. ‘Absolutely, I’ll stick to the shops and that. Ah, his house? Is it far?’

‘Depends on your definition of far.’ Her grin returned. ‘If you walk down to the end of this strip and turn left, it’s the fourth house along. Number seven. Red letterbox.’

I thanked her and then paid for my vitamin tablets and left, deciding to leave the car where it was.

Paul Patrick’s street was a narrow one, lined with neat weatherboards. Rhododendrons were in plentiful supply, along with roses that bobbed over orange brick fences. Number seven had a wrought-iron gate, which gave a protracted creak as I opened it. There was an elderly, white-haired woman standing on the porch, wearing a wraparound sundress, slippers and chunky gold costume earrings that looked like they might have been thrown on for my benefit. She would have been better served changing the slippers.

‘There you are! I was worried you’d get lost. Look at you, all grown up! I met you, you know, when you were just a little tyke.’

‘Yes, I know.’ I smiled, warmed by a feeling of nostalgia. ‘You knew my parents.’

‘Oh, not so well. Not as well as Paulie, that’s for sure. Come in, come in.’

She shut the door behind me and ushered me into a lounge room directly on the right. It was cluttered but cosy, with a musty closed-up smell. A huge flat-screen television anchored to the feature wall was showing Dr Phil as he departed his program, holding hands with his wife. There was a pair of Jason recliners in the centre of the room, one occupied by an elderly man with pouchy jowls and thin strands of grey hair combed neatly across his balding pate. A salmon-pink throw rug lay across his lap. He peered at me.

‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t little Nelly Forrest, all grown up. Take off your hat, girl, let me have a proper look at you.’

I obeyed, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Hello, Mr Patrick, it’s very nice –’

‘You look just like your mum, except for the hair. Always had that mop, though, even when you were little.’

‘Yes, yes I did.’

‘You used to play with my two all the time. Do you remember them? Paul and Jenny.’

I had vague recollections of a boy, a little older than me, who invented the most imaginative games, but insisted that I not speak to him at school. The girl had been small and whiny. Paul Patrick Senior was looking at me expectantly, so I nodded.

‘Denise tells me that you’ve bought the old shops! What a turn-up for the books. And what a story those walls could tell, huh?’ He winked, and I had a sudden glimpse of the man that Grace June Rae and Bernice described as having a ‘touch of the sleaze’.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ said his wife, herding me towards the spare recliner. ‘I’ll get tea.’

‘Use the pot!’ her husband called after her. He turned back to me with a grin. ‘None of them teabags for our important guests.’

‘Thank you.’ I returned his smile, a little touched, and then made an effort to get the ball rolling. ‘One thing that really did surprise me, Mr Patrick, was that your family all managed to live above the shop. It’s such a small space!’

‘Yeah, we did talk about getting a house but it seemed such a waste when that space was there anyways. The bitch wasn’t happy, though.’

I blinked, unsure I had heard right.

‘Nice town, Majic. Probably would never have moved on if the council hadn’t straightened the road. So how’s your folks doing nowadays, huh? What about that pretty mother of yours?’

‘Ah, they’re fine, thanks. Mum runs a bookshop in town.’

‘She was feisty, that one. Ah, fond memories …’ He chuckled and then lapsed into silence, just the corner of his grin remaining.

I stared at him, my mind churning. If I was forced to, I could probably move my father into the swingers group, but not my mother. Not without serious psychological assistance. On the TV, an ad for funeral insurance showed an elderly couple walking along a beach. I was never going to be able to look at older people the same way.

‘Jim and Rita Hurley still thereabouts?’

I nodded, pushing my discomfort to one side. ‘Were you particular friends with them?’

‘You could say that.’ He looked at me sideways, the smile still tugging at his mouth.

His wife came back, holding a fully laden tray. She put it down on the coffee table, teacups rattling, and began to pour.

‘Milk, Nell? Or lemon? Sugar?’

‘Milk, thanks. One sugar. Ah, Mrs Patrick, I was talking with Grace June Rae earlier and she mentioned that you had a sister stay with you just before you left Majic, to help out?’

‘Grace June bloody Rae,’ said Paul. ‘Christ, this all takes me back.’

His wife passed me a cup of tea. ‘I’m not sure who that is, but she’s wrong. I don’t have any sisters. Just a brother.’

‘Top bloke, Ray,’ said her husband, as he accepted his cup. ‘Thanks, Margie.’

I stared. ‘Margie?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘But your name’s Dallas!’

Paul Patrick instantly made a spitting motion to one side. His smile was gone. ‘Not
that
bitch.’

‘You’ve got me mixed up, that’s all,’ said the woman who wasn’t
that
bitch. ‘Dallas was Paul’s first wife, I’m his second. Margaret.’

‘But you said you knew me when I was little!’

‘I did, love. See, my brother is Ray Lacey, who went into partnership with Paul at the pharmacy up the road. Anyway, I was single in those days, footloose and fancy-free, so I went down to Majic for a week or so, helped Dall … his first wife pack. I met you a few times over at your father’s shop, along with your little sister.’