Dead and gone, p.5
Dead and Gone, page 5
‘Did you interview his wife?’
‘Yes. She seems to have spent most of the evening so inebriated she doesn’t remember it. We’re moving across to the police station, now that Byrne’s set up an incident room. It’s small but it’ll do.’
Andre busied himself with pots and ladles, banging them around far more loudly than he needed to. I took the hint.
‘I’ve got to check on Mia and then do the rest of the paperwork.’
‘OK, I’ll see... where we’re up to.’
I guessed he’d been about to say ‘see you later’ and realised Andre was listening, despite the noise.
I bit my bottom lip and sidled out of the kitchen. Mia was grizzling and I groaned – it was impossible to concentrate when she was carrying on. I was sorely tempted to ring Joleen, but it already cost me a fair amount of money every week for babysitting, and I knew I needed to simply pay Mia more attention. Some days it was easier than others.
Suzie was behind the bar, and it was less than ten minutes until the doors opened. Hopefully it’d be a quiet Sunday trading, the regular half a dozen. Suzie jerked her head towards the door. ‘Have you looked outside?’
‘No. Why?’
‘There’s eight cars out there already – they’re lining up, waiting to get in.’ She folded her arms – today she had on a black high-necked shirt and black jeans. ‘There’s journalists, too. It’s like we’ve become a TV reality show. They all want to sticky-beak and find out about Macca.’
‘Not much to tell.’ I shrugged. ‘They’ll have to ask the police. In fact,’ I said, smiling nastily, ‘tell them to go and ask Constable Barney for the latest information. That’ll make him happy and keep him out of our hair.’
‘Yeah, I saw he was back,’ Suzie grumbled. ‘Good idea.’
As soon as the doors opened, it was like a flood. And most of them were gawking tourists – even the regulars looked avid for gory details, which made me cross. A couple of the journalists tried to badger Suzie for information, but she shrugged and moved to the other end of the bar. I picked Mia up and took her into the office, where I sat for a while, staring at the bills and paysheets, trying to will myself to finish them. I should just take them all home and do them there while Mia had an afternoon sleep. But Heath was outside somewhere, and here I was hanging around like a lovesick teenager.
Definitely time to leave then.
Suzie’s crowd had thinned, so I assumed some of them had left again when there was nothing salacious to be heard. I told her I was going home to work and she could ring me if it got busy. I thought about telling Heath I was leaving, decided against it, changed my mind. I was the manager now, me and only me, so he needed to know.
He was out the back again, watching the techs finish up, standing with his hands in his pockets staring into mid-air.
‘Come up with anything useful yet?’ I asked.
‘Not a cracker. Just a lot of very smelly garbage. His car might hold some clues, if we can find it. There were a bunch of phone numbers in his pocket on pieces of paper, but they all looked old – the bits of paper were worn and creased.’
‘That was Macca’s address and phone book, I think. Nothing on his mobile phone?’
‘We were told he didn’t have a mobile,’ Heath said.
‘Who told you that?’ I frowned. ‘He hardly ever used it, but he did have one.’
‘Barney said you’d told him.’ Heath eyed me and pulled on his ear. ‘Did you?’
I tried to think back. What had I told Barney? I couldn’t remember. Last night was a bit of a blur now. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t have told him Macca didn’t have a phone, when I knew he did. I had no reason to lie about it.’ I shook my head. ‘Maybe Suzie told him and he got confused.’
‘There was no phone on Mr Macclesfield’s body. Any idea of the number or who his service provider was? We should be able to get hold of a call record.’
I went back into the office and found his original mobile phone packet in a cupboard, complete with all the information. Heath wrote the details down, and said, ‘Can you talk me through his finances and files?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
He pulled up Macca’s old office chair across the desk from me. ‘Show me the money.’
‘Very funny.’ I gave Mia a container of cut-up fruit and sat her on the floor with some toys, then pulled out the various files with bank statements, suppliers and invoices, and pushed them across the desk.
Heath scanned the bank statements. ‘That’s all he’s got?’
‘These are the operating accounts, the only ones I have access to. I don’t think he had a mortgage on the place, or any big loans. I only did the basics.’ Mia heard the edge in my voice and came over to me and patted my knees. I picked her up and held her on my lap; she grabbed the calculator and started pressing all the keys.
Heath pulled open the filing cabinet, riffling through the files, muttering to himself. ‘Insurance, bills, bills, staff records, WorkCover... all very tidy.’
‘That was me. They were all over the place before I sorted them out.’
‘Any big bills not paid?’
‘No, surprisingly. Usually someone who keeps their paperwork in a big box is in financial strife through being disorganised, if nothing else. I think Macca paid things and then threw them in the box, figuring if it was in there, he could forget about it.’
‘That works for me.’ The last two drawers in the cabinet were empty. ‘Not much here, is there?’
‘No.’
‘Think he kept stuff somewhere else?’
I had a flashback to my brother, Andy, who’d hidden clues and vital information all over the place, hoping I’d piece it all together eventually. Was this what Macca had been trying to do? ‘Only the normal places, like his accountant and solicitor. Macca never struck me as the tricky, secretive type.’
‘Except he was this time, because nobody knew who he went to meet, or why.’
‘True.’ I let Mia get down again, opened every drawer in my desk and went through them, but there were only odds and ends of stationery. I’d cleaned the office out when I first started working at the pub. I’ve never been able to work in a mess. Heath examined the pinboard on the wall, and then the calendar.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else here?’ he said.
‘Have you searched his living quarters?’ I’d only been in Macca’s rooms once – they were just another suite in the hotel, a bedroom and bathroom, and the balcony out the front overlooking the car park down to the river.
‘Yep. Nothing useful.’ Heath eyed me. ‘Did you know he was a Vietnam vet?’
‘No. How did you find out?’
Heath leaned forward in his chair, picking at his thumbnail. ‘He’s got two medals. And we found a photo of half a dozen soldiers in a jungle somewhere.’
‘Shit.’
‘You seem surprised.’
‘Well...’ I zeroed in on the container full of pens and odds and ends on the desk and picked out a white ballpoint. ‘He never mentioned it at all, but this is from an RSL club in Bendigo, so possibly he was a member.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Keith Scott’s a regular here. He was in Vietnam, I think. Surely he’d know if Macca was a vet.’
Heath leaned back. ‘None of that tells us who might’ve killed him, though. Now if it was suicide, the vet thing would be useful.’
Footsteps in the passage and then Connor was standing in the doorway, his steady gaze on me. ‘Hi, Judi. Are you OK?’ He bent and gave Mia a kiss, and she grinned at him, holding up a piece of apple that he politely declined.
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s all a bit unreal, but... thanks.’ I avoided looking at Heath. ‘Did you get some sleep?’
Connor nodded. ‘A bit.’ He said to Heath, ‘I’ve set up things at the station for you.’
‘Great.’ Heath stood, hands laced at the back of his neck as he stretched in the small space. ‘Hope you’ve got some strong coffee over there.’
I knew Connor had a large tin of no-brand coffee and not much else. ‘We can always supply you with caffeine if you need it,’ I said.
‘I’ll, ah, sort something out,’ Connor said. He was probably planning to go and buy a coffee machine as soon as he could, judging by the way he was already heading for the front door.
‘See you later then.’ Heath looked as if he was going to kiss me, but the office door was open and so was the lounge bar door. He backed out and disappeared.
It was time I looked up Macca’s solicitor’s details – he was in Bendigo, so hopefully an initial phone call could sort out how the pub was supposed to run in the interim.
I started to gather up the record books and papers I’d need to work at home, and hesitated, my gaze drawn to the RSL biro. I knew Macca was about to turn 70 so that meant he would’ve been in Vietnam in his early 20s, probably. Way too young to be dodging bullets and killing people in a strange country, but then kids of 16 had signed up for World War I so... there’d been a lot in the news lately about the lack of support for returning vets, from all of the wars. Maybe the fact Macca had never mentioned his service meant he’d blocked it out, or couldn’t talk about it, or no longer cared. I stacked up the roster records, ready to leave then put Mia’s things into her carry-bag, but the questions in my head wouldn’t settle.
So I left it all there and coaxed Mia to climb the stairs with me, and went into Macca’s rooms. I assumed the police had finished in here since the door was unlocked again, Trying not to breathe in, as the place smelled of stale cigarettes, beer and dirty socks, I prised open the window and sucked in fresh air while I watched the river tumble its way over the rocks and down towards the bridge. It was a lovely view and I wondered how often Macca had stood here, taking it in. Like me, he loved living in the country but unlike me, he was a real part of the community. I sighed and then scanned the room. What was I looking for here?
Maybe some sense of what Macca might have been up to, or if he’d been keeping secrets to save my feelings. He’d cared about me, had offered me a job when he didn’t really need anyone, but he’d seen my desperation. He cared about others, too, like Andre with his prison record and Suzie with her brazen attitude and hidden insecurities. Those generous parts of Macca made me doubt the picture of possible criminal dealings that the police were building up. I didn’t want them to be right.
Macca’s bed was unmade and the sheets looked grubby, so I stripped everything off, throwing the dirty linen out into the corridor and folding the blankets and doona up, leaving them on the mattress. Next I picked up all the dirty clothes and threw them out, too. Mia climbed on to the bed and pulled the doona over her, sucking her thumb, which I hated, but I left her alone. She seemed sad today, like she knew about Macca somehow, and after I’d smoothed her hair off her face, she lay there watching me.
Most of Macca’s personal toiletries were in the bathroom, and I hardened myself against the half-used deodorants and aftershaves, throwing them all in the bin. In the small cabinet, however, I found several bottles and packets of prescription pills, and one of them was for Prozac. That pulled me up. Macca had always seemed laidback, relaxed about everything, laughing at people he called worrywarts. Yet here he was on antidepressants, a recent refill according to the label. Perhaps he hadn’t put his war experience behind him as well as I thought. I put them back and carried on. In the bedroom, his dressing-table drawers were filled with worn-out underwear and holey T-shirts; his wardrobe had two musty-smelling suits shoved down one end and a half-dozen pairs of trousers and a dozen plain polo shirts down the other. I spotted a large cardboard box in the back corner and pulled it out, sitting on the floor and taking the lid off.
Here was the army stuff Heath had mentioned; the medals were in two faded velvet boxes. No heroic Victoria Cross or anything ornately important. They looked like ordinary service medals, except that I reckoned just surviving Vietnam made you heroic. The small bunch of photos underneath were mostly of Macca and Wendy in brighter times — their wedding day, on a picnic, at the races. A photo of the pub as a depressing, weathered brown building before Macca renovated it and painted it white, putting gardens along the front and white fences around the car park.
And there was the army photo. I peered down at it, wondering who the six soldiers were. Macca was obvious, with his lanky frame and sticking-out ears. His big lazy grin would’ve completed it but he wasn’t smiling. None of them was. They looked grim and a bit stunned, actually. Who were the others? One seemed familiar, and on closer inspection, I decided it was Carl. Same curly hair and stocky build. I turned the photo over and saw names scrawled on the back.
Me, Carl, John Matthews, Phillip P, Sarge, Tuan.
I inspected the soldiers again and saw that one was indeed Vietnamese. I hadn’t seen it at first because his hat was pulled low over his eyes, but now I noticed his uniform was different, too. Maybe Tuan had been like a scout or a Vietnamese aide or something. Whatever he was doing with the Aussies, he appeared grimmer than all of them. Maybe if your country was a battleground, you’d look like that, too.
I put the photos back and replaced the box, closing the wardrobe door. There wasn’t much else in the room. Standard crap prints on the walls, shoes under the bed, spare hotel keys on a chain and a pile of paperback books on the top of the dressing table. I picked up the books — I didn’t think Macca had been much of a reader, but these were mostly history, and two biographies of a film star and a footy player. One book was an illustrated history of Vietnam, another was a history of the Vietnam War. I flicked through the war history, wondering why Macca would want to read about it now. Did he still have questions, or bear old grudges about being sent there? Two pieces of newspaper fell out of the book and fluttered down to the floor. They were small cuttings, from the Herald Sun by the look of the typeface, with no photos or dates. I read them quickly and thought for a moment, then dived back into the wardrobe for the box of photos. The names on that photo – surely it couldn’t be a coincidence? One article was a brief summary of a single-car accident on a country road near Shepparton, with the dead driver given as John Matthews, 69. The other was a short report on a man found dead in his bathroom with a gunshot wound that police were investigating. His name was Phillip Prender. Phillip P. It had to be. Why else would Macca have cut it out and kept it?
I left the photo out and closed the box again, then tucked the photo and cuttings into the war history book and sat heavily on the bed. Mia had fallen asleep and I watched her face, her slightly fluttering eyelids, her little frown.
In the silence, my heart thumped in my ears and I clutched the book. Three of them dead. So what? They’d all be at least sixty-five years old; they might’ve copped some Agent Orange, or still suffered PTSD of some kind. Probably why Macca was on Prozac, for god’s sake. Why was I getting so het up about this?
Maybe after Andy’s murder and all the searching for the truth I’d had to deal with, my antennae about this stuff were on too-high alert. I was probably making a fuss about nothing, about something that was perfectly normal. Except Macca had been murdered, and it sounded like Phillip Prender could have been, too. And a single-car accident? I’d heard they were sometimes suicide, but someone could force a car off the road, or tamper with brakes. Three deaths, all not from natural causes. A coincidence?
And what was I going to do about it anyway? I wasn’t the police. I wouldn’t know where to start, even if I had any reason to investigate. The best thing was to hand it over to Heath and let him ask the questions.
Yes, that was easy and sensible.
I dumped Macca’s dirty clothes and linen in the laundry basket, and left his door open — I’d ask Joyce to give his rooms a good cleanout, and then maybe use them for accommodation for myself, if I needed it.
Except I couldn’t imagine myself ever sleeping in that bed, even if there was nowhere else but the floor. There was something still in there. Something that was hovering, waiting for answers or closure, something I didn’t want to be close to. I grabbed the book, picked up Mia and cuddled her as I carried her downstairs. I didn’t want her close to it, either.
Chapter 4
I wanted to tell Heath what I’d found, and was glad to see him and Swan entering the pub as I came down the stairs. He looked up at me and grinned, and I couldn’t stop myself grinning back. Luckily Swan’s mobile rang just then and he stepped back outside to answer it.
Heath waited by the reception desk for me. ‘How’s it going?’
‘OK. I really need to take Mia home.’ I shifted Mia on my hip, put the box on the counter and held out the photo and clippings. ‘Did you see these in Macca’s room?’
He took them from me. ‘I saw the photo. Where did you find this other stuff?’ He read the clippings quickly.
‘Tucked inside that book on Vietnam.’ I scanned his face, expecting to see at least a glimmer of curiosity, but he half-shrugged and gave it all back to me.
‘What – don’t you think it’s strange that they’re all dead?’
‘Not really. They’re all over sixty. Par for the course, especially if they were heavy drinkers, which a lot of vets are. Above average for domestic violence as well.’ He’d dismissed it already, which bugged me.
‘But this one died of a gunshot wound.’ I shook the cuttings at him. ‘Macca was murdered. How do you know this other guy wasn’t run off the road or something?’
At once I knew I’d gone too far – he raised his eyebrows in that sardonic way of his and said, ‘You’re not trying to be a go-it-alone detective again, are you?’
‘No, of course not. I just thought it might help with finding out who killed Macca.’
He shook his head at me like I was Mia’s age and had been caught eating stolen biscuits. ‘You have to learn to leave this stuff to us. You could cause problems – like last time.’
