One Boy Missing(64)
Must go, he thought, pulling himself away from the window, wanting to see how it ended. They would be saved, he guessed, but not before the most problematic passengers were strangled or drowned. Then there would be room for the other survivors. Neat, simple justice. The sort that always seemed to elude him.
He went into the store, talked to the manager and soon the mystery man’s face, complete with pollen-crusted eyebrows and reef-shredded cheeks, was doing a circuit of the white goods showroom.
No one had seen him before. An old woman, visiting from Fortescue, claimed he looked like her daughter’s ex-boyfriend but that, she explained, was twenty years ago. The accounts clerk had seen him somewhere, perhaps the IGA, perhaps playing for the Guilderton Maulers, but then said no, I’m thinking of someone else.
He tried Webb’s Tyres and the Commercial Hotel before returning to Mango Meats. ‘Is Justin back?’ he asked a young man, busy making sausages.
‘Justin,’ the lanky teenager called, before turning to Moy and asking, ‘You’re that detective?’
‘Yes, that detective. You’re new?’
‘Ray Foster. The new apprentice. I would shake your hand.’ He showed him his meaty hands.
Justin Davids appeared from the cool-room. ‘Sorry I was out.’ He opened the display cabinet and placed a tray of premium mince at the front.
‘You look busy,’ Moy said.
‘So-so. Got your man yet?’
Moy produced the photo of the Mangrove Point body and placed it on the counter. Davids took a moment before looking up. ‘That’s him,’ he said.
‘You sure?’
He squinted and tilted his head. ‘I reckon. Stood there lookin’ at him. What happened to him?’
‘Washed up on the coast.’
‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella. You don’t know who he is?’
‘No idea. Nothing on him.’
Foster glanced at the picture then stepped forward. He picked up the image and studied it. ‘That’s Alex Naismith,’ he said. ‘He used to play for the Maulers.’
Moy noticed the young man’s deep brown eyes. ‘Naismith?’ He took a pen and paper from his clipboard and scribbled the name. ‘Seen him around lately?’
The apprentice wiped his hands on a towel. ‘Year before last… Div Four. ’
‘That’s it?’
‘I didn’t know him that well, just to say g’day. Worked around the place. Odd jobs, whatever was going.’
‘You know who he worked for?’
‘A fella named…John Preston. Did a couple of harvests for him.’
‘John Preston?’ Moy wrote this second name.
‘He had a farm on the Port Louis Road. Sold it. Moved to town.’
Moy stared at him, thinking. ‘Right, thanks for that. I’ll ask around.’
Davids said, ‘There you go, looks like we’ve found your man.’
‘Let’s hope.’
MOY RETURNED TO the station and crosschecked a database until he found the correct John Preston. He rang and got caught up in small talk before eventually asking, ‘You had a fella named Alex Naismith working for you?’
‘Yes…I remember him. Did some harvesting, drove the trucks.’
‘Good worker, eh?’
‘What’s he been up to?’
Not a lot, Moy wanted to say, but remembered how this sort of throw-away line used to get him in trouble. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Naismith is deceased.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck. How’d that happen?’
‘Well, it looks like…’ He stopped himself. ‘We’re not meant to say but…you know, someone else was involved.’
‘Someone’s killed him?’
‘That’s what it looks like. I was wondering if you could tell me about him?’
‘Fuck…dead. Always comes as a bit of a shock, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘To be honest, I didn’t know much about him. Just come, did his job, that was it.’
Moy was scared it might come to this. ‘No friends, relatives?’
‘Don’t know. Sorry.’
‘What about Naismith himself? What sort of person was he?’
There was a shrugging sound, as though Preston had never given his farmhand much thought. ‘He got on with the job, didn’t say much.’
‘Easy to get along with?’
‘Mostly. I remember a few times telling him, do it this way, and he’d…well, not argue, but disagree.’
‘So you wouldn’t describe him as violent?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘And he never talked about what else he did with his time?’
‘Not so I remember. Mainly just the farm, and what needed doing.’