White Throat Page 7

  ‘Ralph, don’t!’ yelled Selma from the kitchen. Clem knew the joke: it was one of her favourites.

  ‘One’s a bottom-dwelling scum-sucker and the other’s a fish.’ Ralph’s whole body was shaking with laughter, holding his eyes pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he laughed.

  Clem laughed then helped herself to another Anzac, taking a big bite into its crisp honey-ness. ‘Gee these are good,’ she said, savouring the sweetness. ‘Helen could bake, too, you know. Her brownies were the best.’

  Ralph looked uncomfortable. He drained his cup. ‘Selma, love, could you get us another?’

  ‘Can I ask you something Mr Bennett?’ She put her Anzac down on the plate in front of her. ‘Do you think it was suicide?’ Eyes trained on his face, every movement, every twitch. As much as she felt for his situation, nothing justified what had been done to Helen.

  He didn’t flinch, calmly rested his arms across his chest again.

  ‘Cops seem to think so.’ The words had a finality to them. Ralph was a man easily satisfied by whatever the cops might say, the blue-collar workers of the justice system. Not like lawyers and other assorted scum-suckers.

  ‘You knew her longer than I did, of course, but she seemed pretty happy to me, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he sniffed. ‘Who the hell knows what goes on in women’s heads?’

  There was a crash from the kitchen as Selma amped up the tea-making.

  ‘The woman is dead, Mr Bennett.’

  Ralph was defiant, leaning forward, whispering so Selma couldn’t hear, ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t know her that well and as far as I’m concerned, she was a waste of air. All that nonsense about scientific turtle studies. I’ll tell you what the science says,’ he pointed his fat plumber’s forefinger at Clem’s face. ‘We need a mine and a port to give young families jobs and we need to start producing in this country, exporting instead of buying everything from China. That’s what’ll pay for hospitals and nurses and teachers. It’s basic common sense,’ he spat, pushing back again into his chair. His face had gone the colour of a good shiraz.

  Selma appeared with another cup of tea, which she set down, just a little too firmly, on the table in front of Ralph.

  Turning to Clem she said, ‘Another cup, dear?’ Those nanna eyes would melt your heart.

  ‘No, thank you Mrs Bennett. The Anzacs were delicious.’

  Selma smiled, nodded and turned to go, giving Ralph a glare. He glared back at her.

  After he’d finished his tea, Ralph saw Clementine to the door. Selma followed them out as they strolled down the driveway and past Ralph’s old Landcruiser.

  ‘Enjoy a bit of four-wheel-driving do you, Mr Bennett?’

  ‘Used to. Can’t afford the fuel now.’

  Clem cast her eyes down to the tyres as she passed by, checking the tread: caked with mud. There were no dirt roads in the township and the highway in and out was bitumen.

  ‘Take her up to the quarry much?’

  Ralph turned towards her, slowly, eyes narrowing to slits.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  Clem tried to look casual. ‘Just interested to know what folk do around here, other than fishing.’

  The police should be taking soil samples. She could ask them to; demand it. She imagined that sergeant—what was her name? Wiseman—her condescending look. Clem wondered whether you could just rake over tyre marks. How long was the track in? Might be a lot of work. She should go up there.

  ‘You don’t get it do you, you people? We can’t afford to do anything other than put food on the table and pay the bills, never mind fuel for skylarking! We’re in bed before dark so we don’t have to turn the lights on, for God’s sake.’

  Ralph had gone that shiraz colour again. He stood near her, too close, imposing his height, his weight and his shock of wiry grey hair on her.

  ‘Sorry Mr Bennett, didn’t mean to offend.’ She kept walking down the driveway, looking back at the house to check for security cameras. There were none of course. Who would need such things in Piama; or, as Ralph had pointed out, who could afford them? Towards the front, on the concrete landing pad of a driveway, was an aluminium dinghy on a trailer, covered in a tarp.

  ‘I suppose you get out fishing though? Dinghy would run on the smell of an oily rag wouldn’t she?’ Clem didn’t wait for an answer, she knew he did—had seen him out there a few times. ‘Do you enjoy fishing too, Mrs Bennett?’ asked Clem.

  ‘I used to love it. Haven’t been for a long time now, though. My hips…I can’t get in and out of the boat like I used to,’ she smiled, ‘but I love a nice fresh flathead. Lightly seasoned and fried with a bit of lemon, that’s how we do it.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Clem. ‘Delicious.’

  A surprised grunt from Ralph.

  ‘So, do you fish, Miss Jones?’ asked Selma.

  ‘Never tried it but I’d love to have a go.’

  ‘Well I’ll be,’ Ralph chuckled. ‘The Westley woman was a flaming vegan!’ He seemed genuinely delighted to find a greenie who would not only eat meat, but hunt and kill it.

  ‘Well then, you must go out with Ralph!’ said Selma.

  ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t want to impose.’

  ‘Don’t be silly—he’d be pleased to take you, wouldn’t you, dear?’ She rounded on Ralph like a teacher, both scolding and encouraging.

  Ralph harrumphed and raised his hands in submission. ‘S’pose it wouldn’t hurt. Whiting are running,’ he half-smiled. ‘Let’s hope we don’t catch too many catfish, eh?’

  CHAPTER 6

  The view from Andrew Doncaster’s mansion made Ralph’s look cheap. Halfway up the mountain just out of Piama, the house could hardly be seen from the road, thick forest crowding around it. Myrtles arched above, shading a layer of palms and leafy vines, a blanket of wet, green ferns covering the ground.

  Clem buzzed at the gate, a woman’s voice answered and the gate swung wide. She drove in and parked in front of an enormous timber-columned entry portal. Doncaster’s housekeeper met her at the door and ushered her to the expansive deck on the top floor. Two other levels of opulence receded beneath them down the steep block, and below that an infinity pool blended seamlessly into the forest. The top of a towering mango tree stood to the right of the deck, so close you could reach out and pluck the plump golden fruit.

  Doncaster was sitting in a vast outdoor setting, all supersized cushions and designer throw rugs. He had the thick-necked look of a rugby player and a full head of stiff hair—the kind that tends to stick straight up—once orange, now mostly grey. It came with the fair skin of a redhead and when he smiled two dimples appeared in his squarish cheeks. Definitely in the ‘rugged’ category. Attractive, if he hadn’t been thirty years her senior.

  As he greeted her and waved her into a chair, the housekeeper poured them both some water from a jug brimming with sliced oranges and lime.

  Doncaster was a self-made man, the son of a Hunter Valley grocer. Most of his money came from property development and he’d built this, his holiday house, after the breakdown of his third marriage. Opposed to the port, he’d donated many thousands of dollars to WAGSS over the last two years. Clementine hoped he was in a mood to write another cheque. The Galimore Foundation grant conditions stipulated that recipients must have at least one other regular and significant source of funds. The WAGSS operating account was down to its last two hundred dollars and she was due to report to the Galimore Foundation by the end of the week. Without a top-up from Doncaster, questions would be asked.

  She also wanted to ask him about Helen.

  They sipped on the iced water and exchanged condolences.

  ‘I’m sure Helen thanked you many times in the past, Andrew, but I’d like to say it myself, personally, as the new coordinator. The battle to save the turtle only has wings because of you.’ Flattery had worked for her before with powerful men, but as soon as she said the words she knew she’d laid it on too thick.

  He ignore
d her and looked out over the view. She felt her nervousness about the funding ratchet up a notch.

  ‘Corker of a day don’t you reckon?’ He swept one arm before him. ‘A bloke could sit here for hours on a day like today.’

  Clem doubted that was the case. That was not what property tycoons did with their time.

  ‘Yes, beautiful. And not so hot today, thank goodness.’

  In the distance Piama looked very small. Doncaster kept looking out at the view, his view, as if he owned everything within it, including all of Piama. How to win his attention, his interest? Asking for money was not something she’d had to do since primary school fundraising raffles.

  ‘So, I imagine the white-throated turtle is not the only cause you support, Andrew,’ she ventured. ‘Are you generally focused on environmental matters?’

  ‘Hhhmmm, it’s pretty broad really. I kind of go after whatever grabs me at the time.’ He smiled at her as he spoke, then turned back to survey his dominion.

  ‘The turtle is certainly something that grabs your attention. I mean, a reptile that breaths under water from, ah, you know where…not something you forget easily,’ she smiled hopefully.

  ‘Would you like another water?’ He picked up the jug and waved it at her.

  He’d ignored her a second time. She’d have to try a more direct approach.

  ‘And tell me, how was it you became involved in the campaign against the port?’ she asked, holding out her glass for a top up.

  ‘Well, Helen…She was very enthusiastic, and very convincing,’ he paused over thoughts of Helen. ‘And the timing was right,’ he added. ‘I’d been funding a kids’ camp for cancer sufferers for the last four years. Construction completed and Helen knocked on the door almost the same day.’

  Nothing to do with the extinction of an entire species, then. Just Helen’s energy and a timely coincidence.

  ‘You’ve gotta seize the opportunities—carpe diem as they say.’

  He spread his arms back and lay them atop of the lounge like wings, displaying his impressive chest and biceps. Must work out.

  ‘Timing’s the key to so many things, not just in business either… so many other things in life too. I’m not an educated man, Ms Jones. I’ve had to fight for things, make the most of what comes my way…’

  The whiteness of his skin beneath his collar and the pink sun damage on his face made him look like he’d been fighting the elements all his life.

  ‘…and supporting good causes is just as important to me as my business interests.’

  ‘Helen could be quite persuasive as well, I would imagine.’

  He looked pensive, as if he was trying to remember, calling up his entire stock of Helen memories. She waited, hoping he might open up: reveal something about his commitment to the cause that she could use as a hook.

  ‘Yes, she was.’ He stared into his glass, as if speaking to the orange slices, continuing to avoid eye contact with her.

  ‘So you got to know Helen quite well, I guess.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ he looked up, startled. ‘She’d call in to give me updates on the campaign, of course,’ he said, casually. Too casually? Forced? Clementine couldn’t put her finger on it. ‘She was diligent like that.’

  It was true, Helen had been diligent but the word grated. It seemed disrespectful of the woman she’d been, diminishing her somehow. Passionate, driven, articulate, kind—any of those words would have been acceptable.

  ‘Yes, she was tireless for the cause,’ nodded Clementine. ‘Hard to understand why…’ She left the sentence ambiguous. She wanted to see if he would take it as a reference to Helen taking her own life.

  He gazed out over the lush green canopy again. ‘I guess you never can tell, really…what’s going on underneath the surface.’

  Death. Her death was on his mind. But hey, so what? It was on everybody’s mind.

  ‘Did you notice anything with Helen? Any signs?’

  ‘Signs?’

  ‘Yes, you know, depression or anything like that.’

  ‘No. Didn’t know her well enough.’ He swished his glass again, watching the fruit swirl around for a second before raising it to his lips, throwing his head back to get the last of the water. Then he leaned forward and planted the empty glass on the table with a thud.

  ‘So. Tell me, Ms Jones, what can I do for you?’

  Switch flicked, all business.

  ‘Please, call me Clementine. Or Clem, or even Jonesy if you like. That’s what the team back in Victoria call me.’ He looked like he’d be into some sort of footy—it was worth a chance. It bombed, awkwardly.

  She moved on, gave him an update on the campaign.

  ‘Legal proceedings?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, we’re appealing the minister’s decision to approve the water management plan.’

  ‘Not a big fan of legal proceedings.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, they’re messy aren’t they—messy and very public. No fun at all, except for the lawyers.’

  She recalled Helen had mentioned that Doncaster was a very private man who deplored publicity. Why hadn’t she shut up about the appeal? Her stomach was plummeting. The donation cheque was like a white sail on a boat out to sea, disappearing over the horizon.

  ‘Well, of course if we can apply enough pressure, the developers may seek to settle and we could—’

  He cut her off, launching into a diatribe on how the court system sucks money away from what society really needs, like camps for sick kids and a cure for cancer.

  This wasn’t going to plan, not at all. She managed to swing the conversation away from the legal proceedings and chatted about the coming turtle-hatching season. When she did finally slip the question about a donation, she got a big surprise.

  ‘Yeah. Will ten thousand do it?’

  She’d been certain he was going to give her the flick, just like the Galimore Foundation. She scrambled to compose herself. ‘Well,’ she cleared her throat, using the seconds to think…ten thousand wasn’t bad but then he’d once given twenty thousand in a single cheque. Come on, Jones. Game on.

  ‘It’s a wee bit shy of what we need actually, Andrew.’ He grunted, raised an eyebrow. Clem took it as an invitation.

  ‘Thirty will see us clear for a bit.’

  The moon was up and Piama slept. Clementine Jones and Matthew Torrens had work to do. They did a drive-by first, checking who was up in Seascape Avenue at ten o’clock at night. No one, it seemed, not even on a Friday. Maybe they were all saving on power.

  ‘What makes you think he won’t have washed it off? Especially after you put your foot in your mouth asking about the quarry.’ Paranoid about anyone recognising him, Torrens wore a very wide-brimmed felt hat with indentations in the crown. He’d bought it in Tamworth on the way up, and with the Ned Kelly beard it made him look like a Canadian Mounty.

  ‘It’s a possibility, but I don’t think so. Ralph wouldn’t credit me with enough intelligence to suspect him. Besides, he’s saving on the water bill.’

  Torrens pulled up at the community hall carpark at the other end of the street.

  ‘This is bloody déjà vu, this is,’ he said, slapping the steering wheel. ‘You really are gunna have to invest in a balaclava!’

  Clem felt the same way. Only on their last nocturnal adventure they’d been up to serious no-good. Taking a sample of dirt from the tyres was hardly even a crime.

  Clem checked the Woolies bag one more time. Sterile pack of tweezers from the Barnforth chemist, ziplock bags, mobile phone set to camera and a small torch. The thick hedging around Ralph’s driveway would provide a screen and all she had to do was scrape some dirt into plastic bags, photograph the make and model of tyre and walk back to the car. Easy.

  She put on the baseball cap and black hoodie. Can’t be too blasé about these things. Torrens reached into his pocket, pulled something out. A flick-knife, flashing in the light from the street lamp outside the carpark.

  ‘Here y
ou go, for old times’ sake,’ he grinned.

  ‘I don’t need a knife, you clown.’

  ‘For protection, not to slash the tyres, although I know how much you like a bit of that action.’

  She shook her head, ‘You’re insufferable.’

  ‘Aw, come on, you’re no fun anymore!’

  She got out of the car, closed the door as softly as she could, walked briskly down the street. This wouldn’t be of any use as evidence in any criminal proceedings, of course, but she could use it to get the police moving. And at least she would know.

  The evening was still, the day’s heat hanging like a curtain, and to her dismay the midges were still up and about. Must be the full moon or something. They started going for her ankles and behind her knees as soon as she stopped outside Ralph’s front yard. She peered up the driveway to the house. Still no lights on and the street was deathly quiet. Not even a single dog unhappy with her presence. A possum scurried up a tree across the road.

  She crept up the driveway, keeping to the shadows, her sneakers soundless on the concrete, the car shielding her from the house. Crouching by the rear driver’s-side tyre she held the torch between her teeth and opened the first bag, carefully scraped the dirt from the tread. The lab only needed a small amount for testing.

  She tiptoed to the front tyre, still shielded from the house, repeated the procedure, the midges feasting on her ankles—pricking, sucking, setting them alight. Her mouth was beginning to ache from gripping the torch. Next time bring a headlamp. Two done, two to go. She crept back up to the rear of the car and around to the passenger-side wheel. It felt exposed. Nothing between her and the house, Ralph and Selma sleeping only metres away, the moon threatening to burst from behind a cloud and send shafts of light her way. A curlew gave a heart-rending cry and a flying fox flapped softly overhead. She looked up to see it silhouetted against the moonlight, the perfect batman shape. She liked to keep her eye on the wretched things—carried some sort of killer disease, rabies or Hendra or something.

  She scraped and pinched at the dirt on the tyre, sweeping each minute portion into another bag. One to go. Sneaking forward towards the wheel closest to the house.