Murder with the Lot (14 page)

‘Van's registered to a Donald Streatham. Grantley Pittering said Donald is an old family friend. Grantley hasn't seen him for months.'

My phone hand went cold.

‘You still there, Mum?'

‘Did Noel kill Donald and steal his van?'

‘Whoa, Mum, hold on. We're dealing with a dangerous dog, not your cast of imaginary murderers. In imaginary handcuffs.'

‘What do you mean, imaginary handcuffs?'

He sighed. ‘Mum, admit it. There was no one handcuffed to a bloody tree.'

‘Yes, there was!'

‘For God's sake. Look, I just wanted to reassure you that I'm working to find Noel and remove his dangerous dog.'

‘Noel could be responsible for Mona's murder.'

‘Christ, you're not still on about your fantasy dead woman, are you?'

‘She's missing, Dean, as you'll find out very soon. And Brad reckons Noel's a bird smuggler.'

‘You need rest, Mum. A break from worry. I want you home with that leg up. And Brad needs to get himself a job. Did he follow up on that contract at the Hustle abattoirs? Robbo still needs someone to skin the carcasses. Brad'd be good at that, he likes animals.'

‘I'll remind him. Anyway, my leg hardly hurts. Do it good to get out. I can head up to your station. Brad's minding the shop. You want me to man the radio? I'd be good with a radio.'

‘Mum. Go home. Stay away from Noel and his dog. And leave the police work to me.' Dean hung up.

En-route home, I stopped in Hustle. I got out of the car and headed into Whitey's before they closed, in need of Panadol. Sophia was coming out the door.

‘
Ciao
Cassie.' She kissed me on the cheeks.

Claire stepped out from behind her. ‘Hello, Mrs Tuplin.'

‘Just call me Cass. So, how's it all going with the rellies?'

‘Good.'

‘You know Claire's rellies, Sophia?'

‘Ah
si, si
,' she said, avoiding my eye. ‘Come on Claire, we running late.' Sophia bustled off, Claire following along behind her.

Back in my shop, I spent the next hour cutting up onions and making burger patties, wondering if Ravi had made that phone call yet. I was elbow-deep in mince when Monaghan strode in, his leather coat draped over an arm.

‘Mrs Tuplin.' He didn't sound too friendly. Not an
I'm-pleased-to-say-we've-discovered-you-were-right-all-along-about-that-dead-woman
tone of voice.

I washed my hands and dried them on my towel. I remembered how Monaghan had marched into Grantley's place after I left. He wasn't going to arrest me for impersonating a board director, was he? I mean, I only said I was a
potential
board director. And Mona wasn't around to dispute whether she'd sent me in to see Grantley. Breathe, just breathe, I told myself.

‘There's no need to look so frightened, Mrs Tuplin. I've come here for a meal, not a discussion regarding all your eccentricities, your non-existent corpses and so on. Fascinating though such topics always are, of course.'

Well, thanks. So Ravi hadn't made that phone call, then.

He looked up at my blackboard. ‘Oh, I see you do home-made sausage rolls.' A wistful expression on his face. ‘My mother used to make sausage rolls. Yes, I'd come home from school to the smell of them cooking, just wonderful…' He stared off into a happy-pastry-childhood distance.

That eye was looking extra weepy. Maybe I should duck out to Whitey's in the morning and get Monaghan some drops. If the eye felt better, he might be able to concentrate properly. He'd be in need of plenty of top-notch clear thinking, once he caught up with the Mona situation.

‘Are they low fat?' he said.

Low fat? The comfort food specialist knows the whole point of a sausage roll is its fat content. That's what makes them taste so good. ‘Not exactly,' I said.

‘And what kind of oil do you use in here?'

‘The cooking kind.'

He stood there, looking uncertain for a tick. ‘The thing is, I'm trying to transition to the raw food diet.'

‘Oh?'

‘A whole range of health benefits, Mrs Tuplin. Schizandra berries, for instance. Terrific for the liver. You don't happen to stock them, by any chance?'

I shook my head. ‘Right out of them at the minute,' I said. ‘I can make you a salad sandwich though? Without butter?'

‘Yes, I suppose that would be best.' He flopped down into one of my plastic chairs, looking weary suddenly.

I rounded up a couple of slices of wholemeal bread and started making his sandwich. He wasn't a fat bloke, plenty of space in that almost seven foot for one tiny sausage roll, I'd have thought. Maybe Monaghan had cholesterol. Keeping Muddy Soak crime free must be pretty stressful. ‘I hear you were in Muddy Soak today, Mrs Tuplin.'

Oh shit. Here it comes. He
was
going to arrest me, then. Or give me a warning at the very least. I flicked him an anxious look. ‘Yep, had a slight dim sim crisis. Needed urgent supplies.'

‘Really.' It didn't sound like a question. ‘So why were you asking questions of Mr Pittering? A lot of rather odd questions.'

I cleared my throat. ‘Ah, yes. Well, I'm quite keen to find Clarence Hocking-Lee. Mr Jefferson asked me to… sort of look into things. He's pretty anxious about his tenant, as you might imagine.'

I wrapped up his sandwich and put it on the counter.

He fished out his wallet. ‘I suspect you're a woman who…likes to solve things? For herself?'

I looked at him. Maybe he hadn't swallowed the Mr Jefferson line. Maybe Monaghan was smarter than I thought.

‘Mrs Tuplin, this is serious police business, completely unsuitable for some kind of deep-fried Miss Marple.' He handed me the money. ‘Clarence Hocking-Lee could be extremely dangerous. I'm warning you in the strongest terms. Stay right away from him.'

Terry was late, then later, then obviously not coming. No phone message, no go-between popping by with secret notes. It was a busy evening in the shop, a drab type of busy. My head hurt, my leg ached under the bandage. I needed chocolate biscuits.

At eight-thirty I closed the shop, a pile of invoices waiting. But first I flicked through the North-West Parrot Trust brochure. Balance sheets, accumulated deficits, endless columns of numbers. Paragraphs of glowing guff about increasing membership, aviary design, events for kids. I turned to the other brochure. Balance Neutral had more pictures. Orderly tree plantations, koalas, happy kids holding seedlings in eager hands.

Then I saw his photo.

Was it really him? I held it closer. Terry. In a red cap, standing beside a mob of smiling kids. Underneath the photo,
Local contractors do our tree planting. This means we reduce travel emissions while utilising local expertise.

‘Mum?' Brad slouched in the doorway. ‘Dean's been on the phone.'

‘Oh?' Maybe Ravi had called Dean about Mona after all.

‘He's on about a contract at the Hustle abattoirs. Skinning carcasses. He said you'd said I should do it.'

‘Ah…'

‘You both bloody know I'm a vegetarian.' He punched the door frame.

‘Apart from the bacon, son.'

‘Yeah, well, I'm in the process of giving up bacon. And I'm telling you, I'm not skinning any carcasses.'

The thing is, Brad could do with a decent opportunity. One with a bit of clear direction. I had an idea. I filled him in on the owner of Noel's van, poor Donald Streatham, quite possibly Noel's latest murder victim. ‘And, actually, Dean's asked for our help on this.' I crossed my toes.

He paused. ‘Seriously?'

‘Yep. He wants you to arrange a birdwatching outing with Noel.'

‘No way. That dog could have killed you.'

‘You'll be fine. You're just arranging a perfectly safe birdwatching trip. I'll be hiding in the scrub, keeping the binoculars trained on you.' Brad would be all right, of course he would.

‘And Dean?' His voice was suspicious. ‘Where will he be?'

‘He'll be with me, deep undercover. You'll be perfectly safe.'

‘Why didn't Dean mention this to me on the phone just now?'

‘He's a busy bloke, son. Anyway, this'd be better than skinning carcasses, don't you think?'

He sighed.

‘You'd have a contact for Noel; didn't you say he emailed your blog? I bet he's got the internet in that van.'

‘Mum, this is probably the most stupid idea you've ever had. Up there with what you did to Showbag.'

‘No need to bring Showbag into this. That was just an accident. Anyway, it's Dean's idea. It'll be simple, just email Noel and say you've seen the most amazing rare parrots, he'll be there like a shot, to smuggle them. Probably best if you use a false name.'

‘And as this false, as yet unnamed, person, how exactly did I get his email address?'

‘Through the parrot trust, of course. You're a new member. An eager-beaver member, recent retiree, moved up from the city.'

‘How am I going to look like a bloody retiree, Mum? I'm twenty-two. Noel will suss it out and set his dog on me. Or you. And you'll be killed this time.' Calamity and catastrophe; you can always count on Brad to hunt for woe, just like his father always did.

‘An appropriate wig and costume will be provided from the Victoria Police wardrobe. Dean mentioned that, specifically.'

‘What? I can't believe Dean's suggested this. What's the objective of this stupid meeting?'

‘Find out what Noel's done to Donald Streatham, of course. Find out where Clarence is, and Aurora. Find out what happened to Mona. See if Noel's doing something evil to your parrot eggs.' I counted the flush of find-outs on my hand.

A pause.

‘I can always just do it all myself, Bradley. Although there is the injured leg to consider, of course.' I gave it a rub, and winced a bit for effect.

‘You can't go hurting yourself again, Mum.' He paused. ‘Christ, OK.'

It was a pretty good plan. At least it seemed that way for a day or two.

I started working through my pile of invoices. Pretty soon, the desk was in disarray and my neck was sore.

‘Just heading over to Madison's.' Brad paused at the door. ‘Will you be OK on your own? You won't go doing anything stupid?'

I let that one slide by. Seemed like Brad was getting kind of close to Madison. How close? I didn't fancy being mother-in-law to a load of hissing ferrets. And what about Claire? She'd phoned earlier and talked to Brad. He'd acted all strange and hush-hush on the phone.

Anyway, Madison's animals were probably just child substitutes, a cheering thought. If things got serious enough for mother-in-lawing, the ferrets would be on their way out. Life is full of change. Although sometimes not as much change as you might hope for.

Brad tried looking casual. ‘Madison needs a hand with Janette. She's got dermatitis. You have to hold her by the tail and dip her in a bag of powder. It's not easy, powder-dipping an unwilling ferret.'

‘You done that email yet to Noel?'

‘I'll do it later.'

‘You need to send it, son. Dean's counting on it.'

‘I'll do it when I get home. That'll be bloody soon enough.' He turned and left, slamming the door.

I wandered into the kitchen, took out the briefcase from the cupboard. I ripped out the lining, in case something was stuffed inside a secret pocket. No secret pockets.

The books. Maybe there was a cipher? A heap of circled letters spelling a significant someone's name or a vital rendezvous. I flicked through, checking every page. Nup, zero circling. The books looked new, hardly read. I flung them and the shreds of lining back into the briefcase, snapped it shut.

I lay on the couch with a packet of Mint Slices and had a longish worry about suspects and their motives. I wrote myself a list.

1. Clarence. Motive: Mona's money (and she didn't like his book).

2. Noel. Bird smuggler. Mona objected. Donald collateral damage. Or objected too.

3. Grantley. Killed his brother. Mona knew. How?

4. Stu McKenzie. Revenge for Adrian's suicide.

5. Alexandra. Needs Mona's money for the B&B.

6. Aurora. Motive: money.

7. Ravi. Seemed worried about Mona, no obvious motive.

A knock on the door. I jumped, whacking my bitten leg against the table, then limped over to the door and opened it.

Terry looked at me. I looked back.

‘Sorry I'm so late. Had a problem I had to…' he trailed off.

I brushed the biscuit crumbs from my dress. ‘No problem. I expect you've been busy with the investigation. You're too late for potato cakes, but I can make you a cuppa. Maybe a Mint Slice? I suppose you'd like to chat about Mona. I've had an instructive day.' I was talking too much. I've never been able to wait quietly around the strong, silent type.

‘Let's sort out your car door, Cass.'

We headed outside. The sky was dark blue, a lemony smudge on the horizon. He got into the driver's seat via the handbrake manoeuvre.

I sat beside him. ‘Yep, had a useful day in Muddy Soak. Saw all the key suspects.'

‘Key suspects in what?' he fiddled with the door.

‘Mona's murder, of course.'

He looked at me. ‘Why did you really phone me that night?' His voice was low, like he didn't want us overheard. Who'd he think could overhear?

‘Because her body was there, Terry. I wouldn't make up a thing like that.'

He took off the door panel and handed it to me. ‘Could have been a trick of the light. Maybe you saw something else. A sheep, perhaps.' He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He turned back to the door innards.

‘A sheep?' I balanced the panel on my knees. ‘What sort of twit would confuse a dead woman with a sheep?'

He stiffened. ‘People can make mistakes.'

Bugger. I'd offended him.