One Boy Missing(49)
Can’t seem to put things together, he thought. Pedal faster and go slower. But I’m dealing with it…Every day in every way…
Later, as they sat eating lunch, Moy looked across the table at Patrick. He hoped he didn’t have far to go. If the boy told him everything (the crime, who was at home, who did the bashing and burning) then all this time would have been well spent. He knew what he should do next. ‘I’m quite stumped, with this fire,’ he said.
Patrick looked at him. ‘What fire?’
‘The house, on Creek Street…not far from where that old fella said he saw you and your…friend.’
Patrick looked down, studying the cuts he was making in his pie. ‘Don’t you know what happened?’
‘I thought you might know something, seeing how you lived around there.’ He waited. ‘You did live somewhere…close?’
Patrick stood up, scraped the rest of his pie into the bin and went into the next room to watch television.
Moy fetched another box, took it to the lounge room, taped it together and started packing DVDs. As he worked he said, ‘Do you want to help?’
Patrick just stared at the screen, trying to make sense of other crimes, other people’s problems.
After ten minutes of packing Moy stretched and said, ‘I’m getting a bit sick of this.’
No reply.
‘Maybe we should go for a drive. There may be ice-cream involved.’
‘I can help you pack.’
‘Later.’
Moy picked a random route through town: Civic Park, Ayr Street, King Edward Terrace back to the showgrounds. The boarded-up sideshows were being cleaned, painted and stocked for the annual show. A few men were welding sheep-yard panels. Some of the rides and the steel superstructure of the ferris wheel had already arrived. ‘Ever been to a country show?’ he asked.
Patrick shrugged.
‘It’s a lot of fun. Preserves and tractors and monster pigs…big as cows, I kid you not.’
‘Pigs?’
‘Yes. Genetically engineered. Enough bacon for a whole city. And cows like elephants. Not natural. Still, that’s what it’s all about. Increased productivity. Even the pigs have to fall in line.’
‘What makes them fall?’
‘It’s an expression. They have to get bigger.’
Then they went onto the oval, driving around the circumference for no particular reason. ‘See, this is my exercise,’ Moy said. ‘Four circuits…and look at me, still fat.’
‘We could try jogging.’
‘You could. It’s much easier this way.’
‘You’re a disgrace, Bart,’ the boy said, beaming.
Moy turned to him. ‘Bart? That’s a bit disrespectful. What about Mr Moy? Or Detective?’
‘Bart…fart.’ He giggled.
‘Hold on, that’s it. I’m placing you under arrest for—’
‘Bart fart.’
Moy reached for the boy’s hand. ‘Where are my handcuffs?’ As he started searching his belt the car veered left. He braked but the front fender made contact with one of the posts supporting a boundary rope. Closing his eyes, he smiled. ‘They never check.’
He continued along RM Williams Way, across the train track and back onto Creek Street. Then he saw a familiar-looking jogger: early twenties, slim, bike pants. He noticed how she hovered above the road. Her trunk, too. Like you could get your hands around it. And tear-drop breasts that slept in a sort of leotard.
‘I reckon you fancy her,’ Patrick said.
Moy turned to him. ‘Pardon?’
‘You were looking at her.’
‘I look at everyone.’
‘Not like that.’
‘I’m a detective. It’s my job.’
Patrick smiled. ‘You should stop and talk to her.’
‘Why?’
‘You could pretend you’re looking for someone.’
Moy shook his head. ‘You think I fancy her?’
‘I don’t think…’
‘I should stop and talk to her?’
‘Get her phone number.’
‘How old are you, exactly, Patrick?’
‘Old enough to know.’
Pause.
‘I wasn’t even looking.’
‘You were.’
They passed a tractor.
‘About an eight,’ Patrick said.
‘You’re scoring women? You’re nine years old.’
‘So?’
Moy tried the radio but there was nothing worth listening to. Then Patrick asked, ‘Where are we going? Are we going back to see him?’
‘See who?’
‘The old man.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘I’ll wait in the car.’
Moy looked at him for a few moments. ‘I just feel like some fresh air.’