White Throat Page 15

  ‘Of course,’ said Clem, dragging herself back to Selma’s question. ‘I expect his fishing is about all he’s got to look forward to these days.’

  ‘That and his cards night. Second Saturday every month.’

  Clem recognised the significance straight away. Helen had died on Saturday night the twelfth of November—the second Saturday of November. Ralph Bennett could not afford a hired killer, the tyres on his car did not carry quarry soil in the tread and now Selma, in complete innocence and without any hint of collusion, had confirmed he had an alibi. It was a strangely powerful relief to know she had finally, conclusively eliminated one suspect. It seemed that being a ghoulish old prick who likes to tell horror stories doesn’t make you a murderer.

  Pocket dashed out from behind a large paperbark, tangling his lead around its feathery trunk and pulling up abruptly at her feet with a surprised yelp.

  ‘Hey, come round this way, knucklehead!’ He looked up at her from under his twin black eyepatches—her little double pirate. She released the lead and, without a second glance, he charged off towards a patch of long grass, tugging her forward. So much energy. What was she thinking? She wouldn’t be living in any inner-city apartment in Melbourne. She’d have to find a place with a yard for Pocket. Unless she left him with someone, maybe someone in Katinga. Maybe Rowan? Certainly not Torrens. Not now.

  Torrens. She’d barely seen him since he’d found out about the Melbourne job. His car was still there, outside the shed during the day, so he must still be around. She wondered what he was doing. He’d been gone when she got back from Barnforth yesterday, the Nissan Patrol he’d bought with Sinbin’s money rolling up the driveway about an hour after she’d returned from her night visit to Turtle Shores.

  She let Pocket and Sarge off the leash as she left the cottages and beach shacks behind. Pocket leapt ahead, darting his snout in and out of the patchy saltbush scrub. Sarge took it easy.

  She had a meeting with the mayor organised for Tuesday. Perhaps she could cancel, fake some illness. So soon after the escapade—she didn’t want to give him any reminders about her height or body shape, or even her face-shape under the Vegemite. He wanted to talk numbers with her, map out a plan for coming to a compromise, the greasy creep. Of course, she couldn’t take any of the information from the recorded conversations to the police, not yet at least—she didn’t want anything connecting her with the mayor or Stanton-Green so close to the break-in and besides, she needed to use it to extract something from them.

  She took what seemed to be the most obvious route from Helen’s house, trying to recreate the path she might have taken. After the dunes along the dry creek bed came a bracken scrub wasteland, sprinkled with dead and stunted trees, the ground crusted with a thin layer of gravel. She looked back. Her footsteps left a faint but clear impression on the surface. The police had said they had found tracks in the sand matching the sandals Helen was wearing when she died. Clem made a mental note to ask them about any tracks in the gravel. Not that they had to tell her anything, but there was no harm in trying.

  To the north of the quarry was the thin, sandy track Helen would have used if she’d walked to the top that day. Was this the sand the police had referred to? What about the first section along the creek bed? Clem was panting in the heat. She stopped, took a swig from her water bottle, called Sarge over, cupped her hand and poured some in. His tongue nearly covered her entire hand and the water was gone in two licks. She called Pocket. His little pink scooper was like a teaspoon compared to Sarge’s shovel.

  Within about twenty metres she was at the top on a plateau of smooth, flat rock the size of three netball courts. There’d be no footprints here—neither Helen’s nor the killer’s. Clem’s back was soaked with sweat, her T-shirt stuck to her shoulder blades. She brushed a trickle from her face and looked across the shimmering dry land to the blue streak of the Great Sandy Straits, and beyond to where K’gari hovered at the edge of the sky. She walked closer to the quarry, stood three metres away from the edge, crisp and brittle where the machines had cut into the face. Was this the spot? The last place Helen had trodden?

  She wanted to look over the edge. She wasn’t sure why. She got down on her hands and knees, inched her way forward, the warm surface of the rock pressing up into her legs, specks of gravel digging into the cuts on her hands. Half a metre to go. A giddy flush swept over her. She had to see…see what Helen had seen in her final moments.

  She lay down, gently lowering herself onto her belly, her head just a few inches from the edge. She caterpillared forward, her fingers gripping the edge of the cliff, stretched her forehead over, then stared down to the rocky floor below.

  It was a sheer drop. No jutting ledges. Just the rubble at the base. They’d removed the death tree.

  Clem closed her eyes, opened them again. Helen. She would have fallen, screaming, fifteen metres or more. The terror of her friend’s final moments sent a chill over her skin, the hairs on her forearms standing up and she could not inhale for a moment, her breath catching in her lungs. She imagined Helen’s cry as she tumbled, her arms frantically grabbing at air, fingernails scraping at the cliff face.

  A wave of nausea pitched through her stomach. For a split second Helen might have felt the tree gore her insides. Then her head, splitting open would have ended it. Surely, dear God, surely.

  ‘Yes, but what about the sand along the creek bed and the gravelly bit here?’

  Sergeant Wiseman gave her a blank look.

  ‘Here,’ said Clem, pointing at the map. ‘She would have gone along here first.’

  The sergeant pursed her lips and leaned forward, stabbing a finger at the map. ‘She went along here.’ Pointing at the boardwalk. The long way, perhaps another twenty minutes longer, tracking the water’s edge, scenic and used by pretty much every grey nomad that ever pulled up at the caravan park. There would have been a thousand footprints on the sandy approach and none, of course, on the boards.

  ‘But she could have gone the quicker way. Did you check for footprints there?’

  Wiseman blinked hard and sighed. ‘We conducted a thorough investigation—’

  ‘Which didn’t include checking for footprints along the fastest route from Helen’s house to the quarry?’

  ‘As I said, Miss Jones, no stone was left—’

  ‘Bullshit, sergeant. If Helen was intent on suicide, as you have concluded, why would she take the scenic route?’

  ‘Look, there was no sign of a struggle up there, nothing to indicate a second person.’

  ‘I told you, sergeant, I showed you the photographs, the struggle was in the kitchen! She could have been bound before she got to the fucking quarry.’

  ‘Yes, well about that…I need you to provide some more details of your unauthorised entry into Turtle Shores.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake! Go ahead, charge me! It’ll give me a chance to tell the court and all the reporters in the public gallery how utterly cursory, how hopelessly inept your efforts have been. This is not an investigation, sergeant, it’s a lazy, poorly stitched-together grab bag of assumptions and incompetence.’

  Clem slammed her hand down on the counter and stormed out.

  She stayed in Barnforth for the afternoon, waiting for Karene Bickerstaff to arrive. Time to test how deep Karene’s loathing of the Hyphen actually was. The drama of the morning was wearing off and she was beginning to feel tired, drained with disappointment and frustration.

  They met at her unit in the best hotel in town (a ‘third-world dive’ according to Karene) and they were two deep into the pinot grigio Karene had brought from Sydney, an antipasto platter half-eaten, when Clementine mentioned she might have some dirt on Scott Stanton-Green.

  Karene nearly choked on a strip of prosciutto. Earlier she’d been complaining about his behaviour. Talking over the top of her at the board meeting, pretending to be an expert in all things media and ignoring her advice, red-penning her latest media release as if she was a schoolchild.


  ‘What’s the beast done now?’ she said.

  ‘Well, I can’t be sure yet. I have a source that hinted at something…’

  ‘Oh darling don’t be coy—tell me what you have on the monster, please, before I die of curiosity,’ said Karene, her eyes hungry for gossip.

  ‘I need you to tell me what you would do with it.’

  Clementine wanted to understand the value of her prized information. Would it be enough to scare Stanton-Green? Get him to dob in his mate, the mayor, for Helen’s death rather than have his deeds exposed? Assuming it wasn’t Stanton-Green himself who’d had her killed. Either way, she wanted to test the potential of the information—and the manner in which the Hyphen’s rivals might leverage it—to unsettle the man.

  ‘What I would do with it? Well, it entirely depends on the flavour of the sauce, doesn’t it? I mean if it’s like the Meatco thing, you know, brown paper bags and so on, I might be compelled, reluctantly of course, to throw poor Scottie-baby under the bus! I mean, I’m the chief custodian of this company’s reputation,’ she declared. ‘We can’t have a hyphen sullying it!’

  ‘And something else? A spicier-flavoured sauce, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh God, I’m going to die. SSG and sexual misadventures! It doesn’t get much better. And actually, now you mention it,’ her eyes were wide open, as if she was understanding a profound truth for the first time, ‘bonus schmonus. I think it probably wouldn’t matter what flavour it is—I would gladly throw him under a fully loaded Sherman tank.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Hamish Doncaster was passing through, so he said. (Who passes through Barnforth?) She’d agreed to a coffee with him before her meeting with the mayor. As she approached the coffee shop, she could see him sitting at a table by the window, looking out of place in his white designer shirt and brogues while locals in shorts and thongs, high-vis and work boots, queued for bacon and egg rolls.

  He stood up to welcome her to the table, moving aside the plastic tray of vinegar and sauce bottles.

  ‘Clementine, good to see you again.’ Air-kiss, both sides. The most distinctive product of a decade’s private schooling on show: European manners.

  His greeting. Kisses. It jumped out at her, surprising in its force—could Hamish Doncaster be the giver of the birthday card? It would explain both the oddities about Hamish: the golden boy’s repeated presence in this backwater and his rabid bidding for Turtle Shores—perhaps the romance had become obsessive somehow, attaching itself to Helen’s home? It seemed a stretch. But all Clem knew was there had been a greeting card, possibly from a lover. As a subtle waft of expensive aftershave blew across the gap between Hamish’s moisturised throat and her face, a host of formless suspicions gathered in her head.

  ‘So, I looked you up,’ he said as they sat down.

  The familiar sinking feeling. How quickly her thoughts switched back to herself. ‘And you still wanted to meet for coffee?’

  ‘Of course—I’m intrigued!’

  It was like Helen had said, she’d become a curiosity.

  ‘I want to know why on earth you’re not still practising law after doing so well at Crozier Dickens and then I want you to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t offer you a position in my firm. But first,’ he said, waving his finger at her, ‘I want the full brief, no detail too small, on how on earth you came to be coaching a team of meathead footballers out in the sticks.’

  Clem swallowed her discomfort. She told him about herself—a few snippets, enough to satisfy for now, and Hamish was too polished to press—then changed the subject.

  ‘So, tell me about you, Hamish.’ He was mid to late thirties, she estimated. Helen would have had over twenty years on him.

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Well, how about we start with your marital status.’

  ‘Oooh, businesslike…to the point…I like that,’ he said. ‘Currently married but recently separated…’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. But didn’t I see a photo of you online with your wife only last month?’ A fundraiser: Hamish, olive-skinned, dimples, resplendent in black tie and a stunning brunette with her arm linked through his.

  ‘Yes. Very recent. Sadly, my wife is an accountant,’ he said, ‘and I’ve found myself on the wrong side of the ledger. She rather likes to draw nice neat lines under things…in fact, I’m soon to be “off balance sheet”—divorce papers on their way.’

  The coins were dropping into the slot without so much as a clang—he could be Helen’s lover, someone who needed to keep their relationship a secret, tried to do so…but failed. Helen was attractive, experienced; and Hamish came across as someone up for experimentation, keen to taste the many flavours of life…an older woman could have been a delicacy or a conquest or both.

  Her suspect list was blowing out again. It was both encouraging and disappointing.

  She wished she could ask if his wife had discovered his infidelity but instead she said, ‘I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you don’t sound too upset about it.’

  ‘Yes, one could be down in the mouth, I suppose, but I’m actually finding it…well, liberating. I mean I’m living in a trendy apartment, I stay up late listening to my music, my opera…loud…I can travel whenever I please, and to hell with the exhausting, goddamn life-sapping budget she insisted on. And, to prove my point, here I am, meeting interesting women without so much as a pinch of guilt.’ He flashed a full smile. Yes, he was very easy on the eye.

  Should she flirt back? It felt weird even to consider it. Rule number one when she was released from prison was No Relationships, not even a friendship. Hiding in her little sanctuary in the hills behind Katinga, her shame locked tight, buried deep so she never had to speak of it, never had to parry the well-meaning questions or endure the looks, avert her eyes from the loaded glances as they imagined her at the scene: the woman, the blood, the smell of death, the reek of alcohol on her breath.

  Well, there was Rowan of course. She’d broken the rule with him.

  She took a gulp of coffee. Black and bitter.

  This was different, though. This would be a pretence—she wouldn’t actually let Hamish get close.

  ‘It’s you that’s interesting.’ She gave him a single raised eyebrow. That’s it, that’s the best you can do Jones? It was like prising open a rusty padlock. ‘I mean why? Why is a man like you even here, in downtown Barnforth?’

  ‘Well, let’s see…I had the good fortune to meet a captivating young lawyer who’s courageously throwing herself against corporations and power. It seems so hopeless…and yet so enchanting…I find it irresistible.’

  Or perhaps he’s keen to make sure she’s not poking around in Helen’s story, thought Clem, unimpressed by the show.

  ‘I thought you said you were passing through on your way to somewhere else?’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m passing through…passing through on my way to new adventures, new life, new loves.’

  She snorted out a giggle. It was just too silly, she couldn’t possibly play this game. He was laughing too, dimples on demand, apparently thrilled that Clementine found him humorous.

  ‘Please, tell me—what lures a man who loves opera to Barnforth? Really?’

  ‘If you must know, Madam Interrogator, I’m here to see His Redness. He has graced me with an appointment this afternoon.’

  ‘Surprising…I kind of got the impression you might not be on speaking terms.’

  ‘Whatever made you think that? It’s the only time I get to use my Japanese sword collection!’ he laughed.

  She regarded him for a moment, tapping a single finger on the table. ‘I’m not sure how to take you, Hamish Doncaster. I’ve met your father twice now, and both times he was an absolute gentleman.’ She imagined that Hamish might be embarrassed about his father—the grocer’s son with his crude inflexions and liberal use of expletives, but she was still struggling to understand what would drive someone to be so gratuitously hostile as Hamish had been at the auction.


  ‘He is, isn’t he? That’s why he’s so effective. Let me guess, he told you about the kids’ cancer camp?’

  ‘Yes, he mentioned it.’

  ‘Did he tell you it’s on a piece of prime real estate in the Blue Mountains?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but I got the impression it’s surrounded by bush, great views…peaceful for the kids and their families.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s a great concept and a wonderful place for sick kids, just…not for long. He plans to sell the operating rights to a hotel-management firm as soon as he can. He’ll make a motza, and then: hasta la vista kids. Meantime, he’s getting government-subsidised rent until the right buyers come along.’

  Clem searched his face. Why was he so eager for her to understand his father’s shortcomings? Perhaps he regretted telling her what he’d done at the auction and needed to cover his tracks, provide a justification for what must have seemed spiteful to a stranger he’d only just met. There was something hollow about it, though. Something forced.

  Hamish explained how his father had made him a director of certain of his companies and then sacked him as soon as he realised his son, not cut from the same ruthless cloth, refused to support his schemes. She didn’t buy it, not entirely; perhaps Hamish had a couple of schemes of his own that clashed with his father’s plans. Hamish had already accumulated enough wealth by that stage, he said, most of it from the property portfolio his father had set up for him before they fell out. His talk was light, chatty, referring to his father as he might a disagreeable pet.

  ‘So I’ve made my first donation to the campaign,’ he said brightly, ‘and I expect you to reciprocate by sending me your CV.’

  Was this his first donation, or was he one of Helen’s regulars? In more ways than one. He struck Clementine as smart, even cunning, with the kind of charm that would open doors and the looks to turn heads, including maybe Helen’s. (In which case, Clem found herself wanting to give Helen a high five for being such a hot cougar.) But why was he in Piama again? Was there something he needed from his father?