White Throat Read online

  Council buildings in country towns like Barnforth followed a model. Two-storey Victorian buildings, high-ceilinged, with wide shallow steps along the extent of the street frontage. This one had the year of construction (1879) carved into the stone above the front door.

  Clem waited twenty minutes. The group had decided Blair the Mayor must be handled with diplomacy—he’d been known to attack when cornered. They were unaware that Clementine’s primary purpose was to expose Helen’s killer; nevertheless, it was good advice and Clem thought hard about how to approach him. She decided to present as a better alternative to Helen, someone he could work with; more capable of compromise, perhaps even vaguely corruptible. Who knew, she might unearth something. Might even score an invite onto his boat, she thought, smiling to herself. The door opposite her opened and a woman with an incredible hairdo, a hard-wired bouffant mass, appeared.

  ‘Miss Jones, the mayor will see you now.’ The woman bared a set of small pointy teeth and led her into another room that appeared to be her office—carved wooden chairs, coat rack and gilt-framed but slightly faded Tom Roberts print. Then on through another door into a huge semi-circular office, with a dark mahogany desk at one end big enough to play a game of table tennis, long windows from the lofty ceilings to the burgundy carpet—plush and so deep your shoes left a footprint. Outside was a carefully sculpted lawn with manicured hedges and stone bench seats.

  Blair Fullerton stood up from behind the ping-pong table and advanced towards her, hand outstretched.

  ‘Good afternoon, Ms Jones, good to see you again.’ Round face, grey eyes and a smoothly barbered helmet of greying hair.

  He ushered her to the other end of the room where chairs were placed around a dark coffee table in front of a huge fireplace with fake logs. The mantelpiece above displayed a few carefully arranged ornaments.

  ‘Thanks so much for seeing me, Mr Mayor,’ she said, smiling with as much tooth as she could muster. ‘I know you have a very busy schedule.’

  ‘Never too busy to meet with my constituents, Ms Jones.’

  She wasn’t a constituent, just passing through. Never mind.

  ‘Oh, call me Clementine, please.’

  ‘My sincerest condolences on the passing of your predecessor.’

  The words were as hollow as a paper straw and in his eyes she saw nothing resembling sympathy. What she could see, reflected in the concrete grey, was a fleet of earthmovers and a hundred local voters in hard hats and high-vis shirts.

  She repeated the word diplomacy in her head like a mantra; visualised herself stepping onto his boat.

  ‘Yes, a great loss. Something we’re all struggling to recover from.’ The words were like a mouthful of dry flour.

  ‘I’m sure it will be felt for some time. But now,’ he said, clasping his hands together, ‘how can I assist you, Ms Jones?’

  ‘Well, although we’re still mourning Helen’s death, we all agreed she would want us to keep moving forward.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So, we’re about to take the next steps on the campaign but we wanted to speak with you first and keep you in the loop.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate that very much, Ms Jones, transparency and dialogue are fundamental, I always say.’

  She forced herself past the management babble and pressed on. ‘We’re lodging an appeal against the minister’s approval for the mine’s water management plan. Funding has come through from our supporters and we’re preparing for the first stage.’

  Fullerton’s cheeks fell, then quickly reconvened themselves back to their moon shape.

  ‘Well, I’m disappointed to hear that, given we believe the mine and the port are in the community’s best interests. But of course,’ he said, holding his palms out wide, like a true believer, ‘it’s the right of every citizen to call for further scrutiny.’

  ‘Democracy in action, Mr Mayor,’ she smiled.

  He nodded; smiled back.

  ‘The thing is, councillor, I didn’t want to deliver this news without at the same time extending an olive branch. I do believe there may be some scope for further dialogue.’

  ‘Ah, well that sounds promising. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Well, with legal proceedings under way, it’s often an opportune time for parties to come together and explore more practical solutions.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘WAGSS is prepared to discuss a compromise, then?’

  ‘You could say that, councillor,’ she said, in full knowledge she had no authority from either WAGSS or the Galimore Foundation to say any such thing. She hadn’t even raised it with either of them. ‘I’m inclined to think the best solutions are uncovered outside the courtroom, don’t you?’

  ‘I totally agree. So have you anything particular in mind at this stage?’

  ‘Well, it would certainly need to include a sizeable commitment from Marakai Mining, you know, to a mutually agreed conservation program…something sufficiently meaningful to satisfy our membership.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The association could then withdraw the legal proceedings…’

  ‘And the port could proceed?’

  ‘As you said, councillor, it’s what the community wants.’ She forced a smile.

  ‘Well, that is certainly something that ought to be explored.’ The grey eyes had a glossy sparkle to them now: polished concrete.

  ‘And I think it would be useful if the council could act as a broker of sorts, at least in the public eye. I’m sure it would be helpful if the community were to see your leadership bringing the parties together.’

  His face was aglow with enthusiasm—the opportunity to increase his standing, to be the hero of the day, he was eating it up.

  ‘You know, I’m very pleased to be hearing this type of thinking,’ he said. ‘Your predecessor was, well, somewhat inflexible.’

  ‘Helen was a passionate advocate.’ Forgive me, Helen. This is all for a greater goal, I promise.

  ‘And have you considered the sort of monetary contribution that might be sufficient for the association’s ends?’

  ‘I’ll give that some thought now that we’ve discussed the concept, councillor. But before we move to that step, there is something else the members are keen to pursue and they’d like to raise it formally before we progress any discussions about a compromise.’ She could see he understood the euphemism: this is a precondition. Listen up.

  ‘I’m all ears, Ms Jones. If there’s something I can do to help, please let me know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a slow nod. ‘The thing is, a number of us believe the investigation into Ms Westley’s death was, quite frankly, lacking.’ She watched his face, searching for a sign. Was that a twitch, like a feather tickling the edge of his right eye?

  ‘I’m sure the police have given it their close attention,’ he said. Definitely a pained look in his eye. Was it guilt, or just the simple realisation that the deal Clementine was offering might come with an awkward price? Impossible to tell.

  ‘Still, we’d like your help. We’re speaking to the Labor Party councillors and the independents,’ she lied, ‘and it seems they’re keen to support WAGSS in calling for an official inquiry.’

  ‘Inquiry?’ Fullerton uncrossed his legs and planted his feet firmly on the carpet.

  ‘Yes, a council-led inquiry into the efficacy of local policing in the Rivers Shire.’

  ‘But council has no authority over the Queensland Police Service,’ said Fullerton, completely rigid in the deeply upholstered chair.

  ‘No, no,’ said Clem. ‘I realise council has no jurisdiction, but it doesn’t mean the QPS aren’t alive to politics, does it? I mean, don’t tell me the cops don’t know what’s good for them, right? The last thing they want is the Police Minister coming down on them because he’s under pressure from local government.’ She gave Fullerton a knowing look; decided a wink would be over the top. ‘And in the spirit of open dialogue, you would be doing them a favour to go see the local officer in ch
arge and let him know the lie of the land. Call it community relations, whatever, but get them to dig deeper, demand they dig deeper, or…’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or else, an inquiry. A public inquiry, with Helen Westley’s death a central focus.’

  Fullerton’s look was blank, all expression vacuumed away. She couldn’t tell whether it was actual culpability or a stock defensive routine, well-practised in the heat of politics. Either way, she was sure she’d got under his skin: unnerved him and, at the same time, hung out a most tantalising carrot. If he was the killer, maybe it would scare him into a mistake. If he wasn’t, he would go ahead and pressure the police to take up the investigation again.

  Win win.

  The view from Ralph Bennett’s living room was superb. So much better from a two-storey house than the verandah at the shanty. From here Piama was a canopy of palm trees above a strip of golden beach, the Great Sandy Straits banded in teal and navy and the vast expanse of K’gari’s shoreline stretching as far as the eye could see.

  She was looking out from the dining room with Ralph the Resident President himself—in checked shirt and brown shorts, smelling of Deep Heat—as he explained how he’d come to the Seascape Avenue subdivision twelve years ago.

  ‘Got in first,’ he said, nodding proudly. ‘Best block in the whole estate.’

  Clem had heard Ralph got in first on most things, took his share, staked his claim, bullocked his way to the front of the queue. He’d chosen his home for their first meeting, Ralph’s territory marked with Ralph-scent: elephantine leather recliners, a framed fishing photograph of Ralph with a huge tuna hanging from a steely gaff, and instructions to his wife, Selma, to bring tea like she was his personal secretary.

  They sat down at the large dining table and Selma laid the cups in front of them, darting back to the kitchen and appearing again with a plate of homemade Anzac biscuits. She smiled sweetly at Clem with her hair fresh out of rollers, soft curls around crinkled eyes.

  ‘Thanks love,’ said Ralph lunging for the plate.

  ‘Beautiful view, Mrs Bennett,’ said Clem. She wanted to say, ‘Shame to bulldoze it for a coal port’ but held herself back. Selma turned towards the kitchen and as soon as she was out of the room Ralph started.

  ‘Now. Let me tell you a few things.’

  He sounded like Clem’s old high school headmaster. It made her feel cheeky, rebellious. She reached for an Anzac and took a bite. Still warm!

  ‘I worked hard all me life, see. Had me own business, raised four kids, made enough for me and Selma to have our little piece of paradise up here. Grandkids can stay for school holidays, teach ’em to fish, get ’em outside and away from them Apples and Blackberries into the sunshine. Selma can have her garden and play bowls once or twice a week. And believe me, we deserve it. Fair dinkum tax-paying Australians all our lives.’

  The polite thing to do would be to say ‘too right’ but Ralph didn’t look like he wanted to be interrupted, so she nodded enthusiastically and kept her listening face on, chewing discreetly on the Anzac. Golden syrup crunch, soothing, like home.

  ‘So everything’s peachy, just like we planned, until this bloke, this preening rooster come through town: Robert Considine.’ He scowled and leaned back in the chair abruptly, arms crossed tight on his chest. Clem could imagine Ralph swinging a gaff straight through Robert Considine’s eyeballs.

  ‘Yep, Robert Considine sold us a line. Could make one of those rhyming things out of it. What do they call ’em?’

  ‘Limericks?’ said Clem helpfully.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ he said. ‘A limerick. Only it wouldn’t be anything I’d recite in front of a lady.’ He glowered at her for a moment then looked away. She could tell he did not consider her a ‘lady’. More of a ‘girly,’ probably. She had expected as much and didn’t take offence. Ralph came from an era of unconscious patriarchy, as normal and healthy in a man as a bushy moustache or chest hair. She’d already planned to play the part. You never knew what a full-blooded man of the 1940s might let slip to a harmless girly.

  She frowned, shook her head in silent agreement with Ralph, damning Robert Considine to hell.

  ‘And bugger me, I got in first again, didn’t I,’ he said, startled, as if he was still stumped as to how it could have happened. ‘Fell for his bullshit hook, line and sinker. Had me eye on a new centre console fishing tinny, 115 horse four-stroke on the back, even showed him a picture of it. Fifty grand’s worth. Well, old mate Rob the Dog said I’d earn that in less than twelve months. Take out a loan against this place, invest the cash in shares. So I thought to myself, this joker’s backed by the big banks, obviously successful, drives a flash car, and the graphs! Oh! Those pretty graphs—all pointing up and up. And I thought, Selma’d like a trip to visit the youngest in London, I could have my boat…I’ll give it a go.’ He rested his big plumber’s hands on the table, bitterness oozing from his fingertips.

  ‘That slimy bastard,’ his hands flew up and thudded down again with a crash. ‘Said it’d never happen. More chance of getting struck by lightning were his actual words.’

  She knew what came next. The share-market collapse, the price of Ralph’s shares falling too low to secure the loan, the margin calls from the banks demanding payments from cash that Ralph and Selma did not have. Then, to save them from taking his home, he would have had to sell the shares as the prices were diving to the bottom—not enough to pay out the loan, substantial mortgage against his home and nothing to show for it.

  She sat quietly as Ralph continued.

  ‘Banks were on the phone the very next day, the vultures. I didn’t even tell Selma. Kept it from her for weeks until I had to sell her car. She cried. Not for the bloody car either…’ Ralph blinked. ‘For our dreams.’ He swallowed hard, his lips coming together in an embarrassed, emasculated line. ‘And she cried again when Lynette—the eldest—started sending us money to pay the bills.’

  Clem imagined Selma weeping. ‘Ought to be illegal,’ she said softly. ‘Playing with people’s lives like that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ve got a class action going,’ Ralph declared, bristly jowls bouncing like exclamation marks.

  ‘And I understand there’s quite a few in the same boat?’

  ‘Yep. You can repeat that tale thirty times over and you’d have the story of Piama.’ Ralph picked up his cup, took an angry gulp.

  ‘So,’ said Clem after a polite pause, ‘the court case? What are the lawyers saying?’

  She’d researched the class action against the banks that supplied the margin loan products to Considine’s clients—it had been dragging on for five years or more with a series of interlocutory hearings, procedural matters, long and pedantic picking over the documents to be disclosed and those that might be withheld, barristers arguing over timetables…All of it eating up months and years.

  She imagined all the pensioners living on mince and canned peas; ageing bones sweltering in their beds, unable to turn on the air conditioning; taking three-minute showers and watching their carefully tended gardens shrivel as they minimised the water bill.

  ‘Ha! Bunch of blood suckers the lot of ’em! Useless as tits on a bull. And we’ll be waiting till kingdom come for a decent offer from the banks, with all their carry-on.’

  As much as she felt for the Bennetts and the cruel turn their lives had taken, she sensed it was time to take the conversation closer to the end goal. ‘So if you could get a satisfactory offer you’d settle?’

  ‘Of course we bloody would!

  ‘Maybe one will come soon?’

  ‘Don’t be silly—the parasites have to run up the fees first and the banks are still in combat mode. Could be years away.’

  ‘So how will you and Selma survive till then?’

  ‘Can’t keep accepting money from the kids, that’s for sure. Tried selling the house. Couldn’t even cover the mortgage. The new port’s our best shot. They’re offering a shitload more.’

  ‘Enough to clea
r the mortgage?’

  ‘Yep, and some left over.’

  Clem nodded, ‘Geez, you’d kill for that I reckon.’

  Was that a curl of his lower lip? Ralph Bennett, proud provider to Selma and his kids all his life, the man in front, first in the queue, now accepting money from his daughter to survive, his paradise turned to the pinch and pucker of poverty in the blink of a financial flog’s eye—he was motivated, for sure, and now she searched his face for discomfort, for compunction of any type.

  He leaned in towards her and spoke slowly, so the girly could understand. ‘Listen, this is pretty simple, love, it’s you and your reptiles versus people. Right? Real people. Senior citizens who’ve made their contribution and deserve more than what’s been served up to them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clem. ‘I can certainly see your point of view, Mr Bennett, it’s a terrible situation’—and it was—‘but I guess, well, it is only one perspective isn’t it?’ She was pushing shit uphill here, but she had to give it something.

  ‘There’s only one perspective that counts, sweetheart.’

  ‘But it’s just…well…an entire species. To see it obliterated, lost forever…’

  Ralph snorted. ‘What about your fellow man? Geez, you lawyers are all alike,’ he started laughing now, ‘reptiles protecting reptiles.’ A crumb of Anzac exploded from his nose and he grabbed a handkerchief from the back of his shorts and blew it loudly.

  Helen would have persisted: Humans need no special support, Clementine, we’re dominating, relentlessly…we’ve got to share the planet…be the voice before it’s too late. Clem didn’t see the voice having any impact whatsoever here in Ralph Bennett’s dining room. But still, it seemed she had managed to convince Ralph that she was not a threat, little more than a hippy turtle-lover and certainly no match for his manly arguments. That was an advantage she might be able to use.

  ‘Hey, have you heard the one about the catfish and the lawyer?’ he said.