‘Did you see this other man?’
‘No.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘That the guy who took us had to clean up his own mess, he wasn’t going to help him. All he wanted was us gone from the house.’
‘And you got out?’
‘They went away arguing and Tom found a spot where I could just squeeze through, but he couldn’t. He told me to run, to find a road, to tell someone.’
Moy waited, hoping for more.
‘I made it to the dirt road, and then I went back to our house. I remember, standing, looking in the door, walking towards the house…and I saw Mum…So then I went back to the farm. Maybe…I thought…I wanted to ask Tom what to do next. I hid in the bush, then crawled back to the shed, but Tom was gone.’
He emptied the last few drops from the Coke bottle. ‘See, they’d taken him,’ he said.
Moy put his arm around him. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find him.’
‘No.’ In the pause Patrick’s face was ghastly. ‘No, you won’t.’
35
THE NEXT DAY Moy sat at his desk, looked at the clock, listened for the sounds of school recess. Nothing. Why? New bell times? Oval out of bounds? Ah, holidays! Obvious, he thought, especially to someone paid to solve problems.
Gary came in with a few forms that needed signing.
‘I’ll get them back to you,’ Moy said.
Gary wasn’t happy with this. ‘Y’just gotta sign them.’ He waited, and watched just to make sure. ‘Oh, and Monaghan called earlier. Said they’ve assigned someone to that arson.’
‘Creek Street?’
‘Yeah. Said next week, perhaps.’
‘You’re kidding. How long’s it been?’
Gary reclaimed the forms. ‘You know how it is. If yer gonna get murdered, do it in town.’ Then he was gone.
Moy knew he was running on empty. He searched his mind for anything, no matter how slight. Remembered the address. He grabbed his keys and set off, past Gary, to his car, and west, to Percy Street. A row of six flats that ran the length of a narrow block, separated from a neighbour’s yard by a picket fence. There was a hedge along the same boundary but it was mostly dead, filled with chip packets and faded brochures.
He pulled into the driveway to flat four, got out and studied a small patch of ground that might have been a garden. A puddle, wet from an irrigation system that hadn’t watered anything but weeds in years. A bird bath, with half its bowl missing. Six or seven copies of the Argus, still wrapped in plastic. He walked up a path and knocked on the door. ‘Hello,’ he said, looking through the window.
‘You looking for Alex?’
He looked around to see an oldish woman—late fifties, but aged by weight, a cheap parachute of a dress and a liver-spotted face.
‘Yes. Alex Naismith.’ He showed his identification. ‘Detective Sergeant Bart Moy.’
‘Right.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s he been up to?’
He studied the woman’s face. ‘Well…his body has turned up on a beach.’
‘No!’
‘Sorry to say.’
‘Dead?’
He thought of an appropriate reply. Resisted the temptation. ‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘The coroner’s investigating. You don’t know much about him?’
‘Not really. He’s…was a bit of a mystery, I suppose. He’d be around, then you wouldn’t see him for weeks at a time.’
‘You’re a neighbour?’
‘Second flat down.’ She pointed.
Moy felt his way around the situation—the cracked path, the woman’s strong body odour, a corpse with a shovel fracture to the back of the head. ‘He kept to himself?’
‘Very much so. No girlfriend, no mates much.’
‘Quiet?’
‘Yes. He bought this flat a couple of years back.’
‘Nothing else you think might be relevant?’
She tried, but couldn’t come up with anything. ‘Sorry. I think his parents died years ago. I’m not even sure if there’s a brother or sister.’
‘I was hoping to get inside.’ He turned and looked in the window again. ‘But that doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Well…not that I’ve been watching or anything…’ She walked over to a pot plant, reached underneath, produced a key and handed it to Moy. ‘I won’t get in trouble?’
‘No.’
‘I know they think I’m a nosy neighbour, but I do notice things.’
And she was gone.
He stepped into a neat, sparsely furnished flat. The lounge-dining area was simply set out: a recliner, a table, two chairs, a fridge and a gas stove. Everything was put away. Benches were bare. The fridge contained solidified milk, a furry chop and half a block of chocolate. There were no newspapers or magazines, DVDs, bills, papers, books or personal items. No photos, nothing even hanging on the walls, although there were hooks. Nine or ten lonely magnets on the fridge. The scent of a life that had been cleaned up, censored, partly or mostly removed.