‘The thing is, Patrick,’ George continued, ‘I’ve been in this town a pretty long time and I know most people.’
‘Dad, Patrick’s not local.’
‘Well, Port Louis, Sandringham, Close’s Beach.’
Moy stopped in front of the entrance to Turner’s Shop. ‘How are you off for clothes?’ he asked his father. ‘Socks, jocks, singlets?’
George looked at him. ‘I’ve got enough clothes to see me out.’
‘Shirts? That one’s only got four buttons.’
‘There’s another job for you, when you move in.’
They continued.
‘You leave him with me, I’ll get him talking,’ George said to his son.
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘It is.’
‘A few days ago he wouldn’t say a word. Now he talks to me. You’ve gotta give him time.’
George flicked his hand, as if there was a fly. ‘I know all that,’ he said.
‘He needs to know he can trust you.’
‘Why couldn’t he trust me?’
Moy walked around a pram left in the middle of a footpath. ‘Maybe he will.’
A thought occurred to George. ‘You’re not doin’ this because you need a babysitter?’
‘FACS was looking after him. I asked to have him. But it might be nice, mightn’t it? If I gotta go off somewhere?’
‘It might be…but I’m an old man.’
‘You’re not that old.’
‘Old enough.’
‘For a nursing home?’
He glared. ‘No.’
‘Well, this will be good…bonding.’ He looked back at Patrick. ‘Eh, Patrick, Dad says you two can hang out. Says he’ll take you to bowls.’
‘Did not.’
‘He’d love that, wouldn’t you, Patrick?’ He looked at his father. ‘Imagine all the old girls, with their paws all over him. You’d be the most popular man there.’
‘Too old for that.’
Moy stopped outside the chemist. He looked at Patrick and asked, ‘Can you look after Dad for a minute?’
Patrick nodded, took George by the arm and led him to a bench.
‘I’m all right,’ the old man fussed, reclaiming his arm.
But Patrick persisted, sitting beside him and holding his walking stick.
Moy went into the chemist, walked down the soap and shampoo aisle and emerged at the front counter. ‘Remember me?’ he asked the assistant.
‘Yes, Detective Sergeant. How did it go?’
‘It was Alan Williams, wasn’t it?’
She looked confused.
‘The man in the car. The old car you told me about. It was Alan Williams?’
‘Was that his name?’
‘You know it was.’
‘Pardon?’ She looked indignant. The pharmacist was listening from the dispensary, slowly typing.
‘He taught your nephew, didn’t he?’
‘Did he?’
Moy glared at her. ‘You’ve wasted a lot of my time.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Alan was with his mother, in town. He had an extra day off school. They were seeing King Lear.’
The assistant just shrugged. ‘All I know is I saw this man, several times.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could charge you.’
She took a step back. ‘Excuse me?’
But Moy almost laughed. ‘King Lear. Shakespeare.’ He left the shop, upsetting a table of half-price cologne.
25
AFTER MOY DROPPED his father home he decided to take Patrick along Creek Street. There’s something I’ve missed, he kept telling himself.
As they drove they passed paddocks full of stubble. Moy noticed a pair of tall silos: Stow’s Fabrications. He wondered if this was the farmer who’d misplaced his photos. Then felt the usual exhausted futility. What could you do? Knock on the door, ask if he had a camera?
Moy’s arm extended out of the car, tapping on the roof. ‘You gotta understand,’ he said, ‘George is gonna do his best to scare you.’
‘Why?’ Patrick asked.
‘It’s just how he is.’
‘Why?’
Moy shrugged. ‘I suppose there weren’t a lot of Disney movies when he grew up.’
‘So?’
‘He was out bagging wheat when he was nine.’
Patrick was confused. ‘How’s that make him grumpy?’
‘He’s not grumpy.’
The boy was staring at him.
‘Back then you didn’t have time to stand about discussing your problems.’
‘Doesn’t mean you gotta be grumpy.’
‘No,’ Moy agreed. ‘Maybe they wanted to come over strong… manly.’
‘Why?’