Through a Camel's Eye (6 page)

TEN

Anthea woke to the sounds of water birds and opened her curtains to the slow movements of swans across the bay. She felt she would never get used to the sheer number of birds. There were thousands out there feeding when the tide was right.

The light was pearly over the water as the fog began to lift, sun strengthening every second, turning the sea and sky into a soft blue-grey. In the distance, on the opposite shore, a line of light hit the tree-tops. Round the corner, hidden from her view, the town was beginning to stir.

Before plugging in the kettle, Anthea switched her phone on and checked for missed calls. It was her habit to do this each morning, though she'd given up hoping that Graeme would ring or text her late at night. At least she turned her phone off when she went to bed. The first two weeks she'd left it on, sleeping fitfully; at every creak the wind made she'd grabbed the small rectangle from her bedside table, as though it was the weather's fault that it refused to ring.

She'd grown used to the night sounds. There was so little traffic on her narrow street that every car announced itself as individual. It would be easy, she thought as she ate her solitary evening meals, to amuse herself by spying on her neighbours. Sometimes she went outside at night, just to feel the cool dark air all around her, taste its briny texture, smell the strong weedy smell coming off the bay at low tide. A footpath wound its way along the top of a low cliff. After dinner the night before, she'd taken her torch and set off along the path.

After a while, she'd turned the torch off. The moon had been up and she'd seen quite well without it. She'd thought of her phone not ringing on the bedside table, how the air of expectation in her flat was squeezed and squeezed until she couldn't bear it any more. She'd stood still and traced the outline of Swan Island, where there was an army training camp, imagining all those waterbirds roosting in military lines.

She'd pictured herself getting in the car, not stopping till she reached Graeme's suburb, and the house he shared with another architect. She would confront him, forcing answers to her questions. Hadn't she been trained to do just that?

Anthea had kept walking, tiring herself out. Back at the flat, she'd had a shower and fallen into bed, slept well for the first time in weeks, woken to a different question, or the same one differently put. Did it require more courage to wait, or to have it out with Graeme?

Anthea had never been a patient person. She forced herself to be patient when dealing with members of the public, but it did not come naturally. She expected others to come up with answers as quickly as she put the questions. She was inclined to interpret hesitation either as evasion sliding into lies; the wish to prevaricate while thinking up a lie; or a sign of cowardice. After all this time, she asked herself, what did she want from Graeme? Did she want him back, or did she want to shout at him and tell him to go to hell? Did she want him back if it meant pretending that these miserable weeks had never been?

Before leaving for work, Anthea made a start unpacking her boxes, stacking her books by subject and alphabetically on the built-in bookshelves along one wall of the living-room. Then she made a shopping list, wondering if it was a cause for congratulation that her needs were so modest.

Anthea guessed that there was no love lost between Frank Erwin and her boss, and that perhaps some old rivalry or mistrust had led Chris to focus on Erwin's trailer.

Chris knew everybody's property - how many sheds, what kind of garage the townsfolk and surrounding farmers owned. He hadn't examined every single one, but he'd been over Frank's and Camilla's with a fine tooth comb.

Chris and Anthea sat over an early morning cup of tea on the station's back veranda, while Chris outlined their tasks for the morning. He wanted Anthea to check on Julie Beshervase's insurance.

‘She said she couldn't afford it, but she might be lying. Then I want you to go and talk to her again.'

Anthea was quick to read the challenge, and wondered why Chris was palming Julie off on her. He seemed prickly and disagreeable, as though he'd got out of the wrong side of the bed.

Julie shook her head in disbelief. ‘I ought to throw you off the premises for that. I know my rights, even if I can't afford a lawyer.'

‘I'd go as soon as you asked me,' Anthea replied, ‘but it's better if we clear this point up without wasting any more time.'

‘Why would I lock my own camel in a garage when I've got a perfectly good paddock to keep him in?'

Julie shot this over her shoulder as she took down a bunch of keys from a hook behind the kitchen door.

Anthea observed that the room was in an even worse state than the last time she'd been there. Some people didn't notice dirt. She'd come across a number of blokes who were literally blind to it. Though not Graeme: Graeme was fastidious.

She realised that Julie was waiting for her to say something, and asked, ‘Where's the Talbots' car?'

‘They've lent it to their daughter while they're overseas.'

‘I'd like her contact details, please.'

Julie pressed her lips together and shook her head as though in disbelief.

She stayed outside the garage, leaving Anthea to walk around it by herself. There was a work bench at one end, an old fridge, various tools and boxes.

Anthea opened the fridge door, wondering if she was missing something obvious. She could search the garage properly, and felt confident of her ability to ride down Julie's objections while she did so. But she did not believe that Riza had ever been hidden there. And the camel hadn't been insured; Julie had been telling the truth about that.

Dangling the keys by a forefinger, Julie strode back into the house.

But once inside, she did not ask Anthea to leave. Instead, surprisingly, she offered tea. Anthea made herself look and sound appreciative, trying not to think about the grimy rings around the mugs.

‘Have you given any more thought to what we were talking about the other day, about people who might have a grudge against you?'

Anthea waited for another complaint about Camilla.

She wanted to tell Julie about the bet to ride Riza, see how she reacted; but Chris had warned her not to. He'd said he wanted to investigate further before presenting Julie with the story.

‘What about the shops - the newsagents, the supermarket?'

‘You mean, have I made enemies of checkout chicks? Why would I
bother?'
Julie shook her head again, impatiently this time. ‘I'm still paying rent, you know.'

Anthea reflected that, if she'd been asked six months, or even six weeks ago, how long it would take to find a camel that had disappeared from a paddock on the outskirts of a small town, she would have laughed and said a morning max. Yet when faced with the actual problem, her skills and training seemed to be of little use. If she'd been asked whether she would have cared about a missing camel, her answer would have been a disdainful no. She shook her shoulders irritably. Her thoughts returned to Graeme once again, and how, if she'd been expecting him that weekend, she'd be buying the best coffee and fresh croissants from the bakery.

‘Would you like to see Riza's saddle?'

Anthea nodded, surprised at the question.

Sitting on some sheets of newspaper, on a dusty floor, in an empty room, the saddle looked like a throne. Anthea understood that Julie had put it in an unused room because she couldn't bear to look at it. Then why the invitation?

She bent down and ran her fingers gently over the tassels and the mirrors. In each one was a view.

Behind her, Julie was speaking softly, describing how she'd loved to turn from her training sessions and see her face reflected in them, to bring Riza up close and see his reflection too.

She talked about the Afghan women sitting in their camp circle outside Alice Springs, camels hobbled a little way behind them, her childhood in the Territory and how it returned to her in nightmares whose precise details she could not, awake, recall, but whose mood she always could.

Anthea stood up and breathed in deeply. ‘You said no when I showed you that photograph of Margaret Benton, but you recognised her, didn't you?'

A woman had been standing at the gates of Wallington stud, back in December last year, when Julie had driven out with Riza, full of unbelieving joy that he was really hers. The woman's fearful attitude, when she slowed down and pulled over, had pierced Julie's happiness. When Julie had asked if she needed a lift anywhere, the woman had stared at her and shaken her head. Then a Landcruiser had come tearing down the driveway, kicking up the gravel. The door had swung open, and the woman had stood absolutely frozen for a few seconds before getting in.

Had she noticed who was driving the vehicle?

It had been a man, that's all Julie could say.

Without intending to, Anthea parked in the main street and went into the supermarket. She chose the most expensive coffee, ingredients for a tasty sauce to serve with fresh pasta, a bottle of chardonnay. Then she had to drop them at her flat before she could return to work, all the while mulling over Julie's story.

Pulling up outside the white fence, the lavender and rose bushes, Anthea surprised herself by feeling what amounted to a physical longing for the hard anonymity of a metropolitan police station, where hierarchies were clear. Perhaps she should have stayed on and done her detective training. But she'd wanted to work; she'd wanted to be out there
doing
something.

If she'd stayed in Melbourne, Anthea told herself, the breach with Graeme would not have occurred. But she couldn't go back now. She couldn't go back to the way things had been. And she knew she was simplifying matters too. It had been partly as a result of Graeme's teasing that she hadn't continued with her training. Her marks had been borderline, certainly not brilliant. She'd spent every free minute with Graeme, and the limits had been mostly ones he'd fixed - limits set by his work and what he liked to call his ‘other commitments'.

Anthea asked herself what career would have found favour with her boyfriend. A profession? Not architecture, since that was his field. A lesser profession then - teaching, perhaps, or accountancy. She admitted something else about her departure from Melbourne; she had wanted financial independence.

But she hadn't realised that living in a small community would feel like drinking water that was always tepid, never hot or cold.

What was it she really wanted? Drama she could fling herself into, as others flung themselves into the surf? Was that what Julie wanted too? Was that what she sometimes saw in Julie's eyes?

Anthea got out, locked her car and stood staring at the park and park bench, and, beyond them, the bay and shipping channel.

At least she could wish for some absolute division between work and recreation, and that each should have a taste that was distinct. Anthea felt she would have preferred harshness or censure, rather than being left to find her own line through to what was important.

ELEVEN

Anthea found Chris sitting at his desk, which was covered with notes on bits of paper in his small, backsloping handwriting.

He looked up, flushed with excitement.

‘Margaret Benton was definitely here in Queenscliff. She and her husband rented a cabin at the van park.'

While Anthea had been with Julie, Chris had started at the top end of the main street and called in at each of the businesses and shops. Most of the shopkeepers thought he was back to ask about the camel, and a few teased him for not having found it yet.

‘Maybe the little fella's run away to the circus,' one suggested, and another, ‘Maybe those greenies've got him, on account of being feral and a pest.'

Chris had laughed and replied, ‘That's in the Northern Territory, you oaf. What you've got to worry about is cats like Snowy here.'

When he'd stopped by the caravan park, he'd found the office unlocked, but empty.

Ben came when he rang the bell, looking sullen and wary.

‘Mum and Dad've gone into Geelong. I've got the day off cos I'm sick.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that, Ben. This'll only take a moment. I just want you to tell me where you've seen this woman before.'

‘I never - ' Ben began, turning white like Ian Lawrey had.

‘It was here, wasn't it? When was Margaret Benton here?'

Ben's face was blank, the practised blank of adolescents. Chris waited for what might be going on beneath this.

He said finally, ‘We were full up all of January.'

‘I can appreciate that. And I can understand how faces must start to look alike.' He didn't add, especially the faces of middle-aged women. ‘But you do recognise this lady, don't you?'

‘I might.'

‘Could you tell your father I'd like to ask him a few questions? I'll be back in an hour.'

Anthea told Chris her news. Chris rang Swan Hill police station again. Margaret's husband, Jack Benton, had been questioned about the coat, but claimed to have no idea how it had got into the sandhills. He said his wife had left him for another man.

‘What do you think?' Chris asked his assistant.

Anthea said, ‘If the coat's been lying there since January, why didn't someone pick it up?'

‘Maybe it was buried. Maybe kids or a dog dug it up.'

Chris was thinking that he should have looked for signs of this.

He returned to the caravan park just as Penny and Alex McIntyre were getting out of their car. From the look of them, their trip to Geelong had not gone well. Penny's make-up was smudged. Alex was scowling and his lips were pulled in, as though to stop himself from saying something he'd regret.

Chris hitched up his uniform and approached them, holding out his hand.

‘Alex. Penny. Just a few questions. Shouldn't take long.'

When Penny took his hand, Chris felt the tension in it, how it was hot and dry. ‘I have to see about lunch,' she said.

Alex watched his wife's departing back, still frowning, then led the way to the office. He pulled two chairs out from the wall and let himself fall onto one.

Chris reached in his pocket for a photograph. Instead of looking at it, Alex went round behind the counter and opened his bar fridge.

‘A beer, Blackie? Come on, mate. You can't stay on duty all the frigging time.'

‘Okay then, a small one. Thanks.'

Alex smiled a private smile, drank deeply, then wiped his face with a tissue.

‘That's better.'

His big frame relaxed as though someone pulled a peg that was holding complicated scaffolding in place. He wiped his face again, then aimed the tissue at a small metal bin, moving slowly to take the photo Chris held out.

Alex didn't speak for a long time. When he did, his voice was tired and full of what seemed to Chris like old and useless anger.

‘The bloke gave me a bad feeling from the moment they pulled in. You know how it is sometimes. There'll be a hundred, and one will make your skin crawl.'

Chris nodded. He'd felt that often enough, going into a pub on a hot summer night, when one word out of place would start a fight. Almost straight away, he could pick the man who'd say that word, loudly, in his presence and in defiance of it. It was his job to stop that happening. It was Alex's job too. People wouldn't return to a van park where fights broke out, not people with young families, and fishermen who just wanted to sit on the beach with a rod and reel and cook their catch in the twilight.

‘Tell me about it.'

‘The barbecues were full. This one's old man claimed he got there first.'

Alex lifted his chin and Chris understood that, rather than seeing Margaret Benton, it was her husband's outline that was before his eyes.

‘Another camper claimed he got there first as well. He had friends to back him up, but he was willing to accept my ruling on the matter. It could have come to blows, would have, I think, except that Jack - oh, yes, I remember his name - took stock of his opponents and decided he could take on one man, but not four.'

‘Benton was drunk?'

‘Not so you'd notice. A nasty piece of work drunk or sober, and looking for a fight.' Alex indicated the photograph again. ‘This lady tried to hose him down, but I don't think she expected to succeed.'

‘What did you make of her?'

‘I never thought about it, to be honest. Penny might have more to say on that score. She saw it on the news, that she'd gone missing.'

And never phoned to tell me, Chris thought but didn't say.

‘How long were they here?'

‘Less than the week they'd booked for. I told Benton he'd have to leave.'

‘Could you dig out the registration details?'

‘Now?'

‘If you wouldn't mind.'

Chris sipped his beer while Alex took down a folder from a shelf behind the counter and began thumbing through it.

He found the page he was looking for, and Chris copied the information.

‘Was Ben around when the argument broke out over the barbecues?'

Alex nodded. ‘It was Ben who came running to tell me.'

They talked for a few more minutes. Chris thanked him for the beer and the information, and said he had to go.