Dead Men Don't Order Flake (11 page)

‘What? There's no way I'm a troublemaker. Did Shane say that?' He folded his arms.

I leaned back in my chair. ‘I like you Morris, despite what Shane's…suggested. In fact, I have an excellent feeling about you.' Apart from the way he gave me the creeps. And that he'd quite possibly broken into my house. And hit me over the head. ‘I suspect you're the journalist I'm looking for.'

He gave me an uncertain look.

‘I understand you're mostly focused on obituaries at the moment? We don't do deaths in
Grooming
.'

His face lit up momentarily with a smile. He looked quite different.

The big downside of spinning the compelling cover story is that the spinner can end up feeling uneasy at her success; it's never a good idea to feel sorry for your spinnee.

‘Natalie was the one who was the troublemaker.'

‘Oh?'

A short silence. The key to an effective grilling is knowing when to wait.

‘Shane thought the sun shone out of her. He couldn't see what she was up to.'

‘And that was…?'

‘Well, I don't see what this has to do with you.'

‘I don't mean to be nosy, of course not. But if we're going to have a good working relationship, it's really best if we're honest with each other, don't you think?' I stretched my mouth into a smile.

‘Well, all I said was that I didn't see the point in having this big story but not telling anyone you work with about it.'

‘And this big story was something Natalie was working on when she tragically…?'

‘Your James Wong story, I bet.'

‘And his involvement with the…Ignition Group?'

He nodded.

‘So how did you hear about the Ignition Group, Morris?'

‘Ah, I just happened to overhear a phone conversation of Natalie's.'

‘I see. And did you happen to pick up any other details…?'

He folded his arms. ‘I don't understand why you're asking me all this. You've got the information in your emails.'

‘Yes, of course. I'm just trying…to get a feel for your investigative journalism skills.'

‘Well, I didn't hear anything else. She saw me and hung up.'

‘Ah.' I paused. ‘And I understand you were with her on the night she died? So, so terrible for you…' I clicked my tongue.

‘Who told you that?' A sharp look.

‘Shane.' I shook my head sadly. ‘And were you injured yourself?'

‘How dare he. I wasn't anywhere near her.'

‘Oh? He led me to believe…'

He stood up. ‘Frankly, I don't see what any of this has to do with your article.'

‘No, no, of course. But please, sit down and hear me out. What I'm thinking is that we might be able to extend the story into a whole series of articles. I mean, if it was as big as Natalie seemed to think.'

‘I really doubt the story has anything to do with dog shampoo.'

I tsked. ‘I take it you're not very familiar with our magazine? We run a wide range of pieces. And we're always interested in noteworthy people. For example, we recently had a piece on…Madison Watkins.' Madison would understand the imperative for some minor fiction. ‘She's a fascinating person, and very well groomed; of course, that's essential.'

I smoothed some hair away from my black eye.

‘You've heard of Ms Watkins, I imagine? She's very big in ferrets. A national ferret icon, in fact.'

Morris shook his head. He sat down, though, which I took as an encouraging sign.

‘Anyway, I just mention that to help you understand the breadth of our remit. Now, here's an idea: how about you give me a summary of the points you'd cover in the piece and I'll let you know what I think.' I leaned back
in my chair; turned on what I hoped looked like a bored-editor expression.

‘That's the trouble—I don't know. Given that she wouldn't talk about it.'

‘But surely an astute reporter like you would have conducted his own enquiries?' Searched the laptop that was in the bag you bloody stole from me, for instance.

‘You probably know more than I do, from her emails. All I know is that she was very interested in Andy Fitzgerald.' He glanced over my shoulder at the doorway. ‘Don't mention this to Glenda, obviously.'

‘Of course. Discretion is my name. And why was she interested in him?'

He stared. ‘Is this another test question?'

‘I suppose you could call it that.'

‘Let's just say he's a man with a dubious history.'

I waited but he wasn't forthcoming.

‘Any other…hints you picked up?'

‘She had a few trips to this hopeless flyspeck up north. Rusty Bore. You've probably never heard of it.'

‘Well, oddly enough I called in there recently. A very good takeaway, as I recall. So you think there's a connection to her story there?' What the hell would that be?

He shrugged. Tapped something into Shane's computer keyboard. Did some mouse-clicking.

‘Actually, Natalie did mention someone else in one of her emails…' I fossicked in my head for the name, ‘Will Galang?'

‘What do you know about him?' His voice was sharp.

‘Well, didn't they know each other? I think Shane said…' I smoothed down my skirt.

But Morris was staring at Shane's computer screen.
After a moment, he looked up at me. ‘Why doesn't your magazine appear when I search for it on Google?' He gave me a long look, like he was memorising the details of my face.

‘Err…we prefer not to have an online presence. It's a carefully thought out strategy, actually.' I stood up and grabbed my bag. ‘Well, I'm afraid I've run out of time. Must dash. Terrific meeting you. I'll be in touch very soon with the details of our offer.'

I swept out as quickly as I could.

Outside, I paused a moment. There was a brown Fairlane parked at the end of the street. I hopped into my Corolla and drove around to the other side of the park; pulled in behind an ancient oak tree. I grabbed Brad's old binoculars from my glove box. If I leaned forward, binoculars jammed tight against the side window, I had a reasonable spot to stake out the
Cultivator
building.

Ten minutes later, Morris came out of the office. He locked the door, then looked up and down the street. Started walking. Got into the brown Fairlane.

Bingo.

18

Dean and Melissa live behind the Muddy Soak police station, on the southern edge of town, a tarted-up brick place with a picket fence framing a lush, green yard. A magpie warbled in the old sugar gum.

I crunched my way across the gravel, lugging the esky with Dean's sausage rolls. There was a lot of yelling going on inside the house; it sounded like Melissa's voice. Maybe she was having a day off. Melissa works at the council but I must admit I've never entirely understood what she does. I think her job title is Let's Be Healthy Together Mallee All Active Now Project Officer. The word Initiative might be in there somewhere too.

A scowling Dean met me at the security door.

‘If you'd just give me a
bloody break
,' he called out over his shoulder, then turned to face me.

‘Mum, why are you wearing that weird suit? You look terrible.'

Always uplifting to get one of Dean's pep talks.

‘Listen, you might want to pop out quickly and interview Morris Temple.'

‘What are you talking about?' he said.

Dean's thought processes weren't whirring as rapidly as one might hope for.

‘He's the owner of the brown Fairlane. You better move fast though. He's in the process of nicking off.'

Dean looked at me as if I'd offered him a Chiko Roll past its use-by. But maybe he was just in need of sustenance. A low blood-sugar level is no friend to speedy reasoning. I cleared my throat. ‘Brought you something for lunch.'

‘Melissa and me are on a diet.'

‘Right.' I backed away. ‘I'll leave you to it. These homemade sausage rolls will go off, I guess. Never mind.'

‘Ah…come in through the station entrance.' He spoke in an urgent whisper.

I hoofed around to the front and up the steps into the police station. My shoes clicked over the floor tiles. I stood and waited at the long brown desk.

‘Yes, yes, for God's sake, Melissa,' he called out behind him as he came in through the side door.

Dean and Melissa have been married almost ten years. Their kids are being home-schooled—Melissa's idea. She laid down that condition when they moved from Hustle. Melissa's got a range of conditions laid down.

‘No way my girls are going to that dreadful local school,' she told me when I popped in after their move. I'd brought her a plate of lemon slice, since she'd just started on the fruit diet. She peered at the plate. ‘Do these contain sugar, Cass?'

‘Err, no. Touch of condensed milk. And butter, of course. But they're very lemony. Just bursting with lemon zest.'

She pushed the plate away. ‘Yes, I'm determined to shield our girls from all that negative socialisation. So they'll be schooled at home. By their father. And me, of course, when I get time. But it's easier for Dean, since he works from home, essentially.' It was unclear how wandering alpacas fitted into that.

I put Dean's sausage rolls up on the front counter.

He smiled—Dean looks a whole lot nicer when he smiles. If only he did it a bit more often.

He led me through to his lunch-slash-interrogation room, where we got settled with a cuppa and the sausage rolls. A companionable silence for a few moments, while I gave him time to let some nutrition penetrate his brain. The only sound was teeth on crisp pastry.

Finally, I said, ‘What I'm talking about, Dean, is the car that was behind me on the road that day. Morris Temple, driver of that brown Fairlane, is quite possibly the person who broke into my place. I think he was after Natalie's last story, whatever it was. Vern saw the car too; thought it was suss. He was the one took down that rego I sent you.'

He groaned. ‘So you've recruited Vern into your squad of lunatics now?'

I spent a moment channelling my serenity. Pushed the plate of sausage rolls closer to Dean. Nothing like good quality pastry to help relax the uptight cop. Especially one that's on a nasty diet.

‘Vern's sailing bloody close to the wind with that notebook of his.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Invading people's privacy.'

‘Dean. Vigilance is the kind of outlook that's generally welcomed by the cops.'

‘I'll tell you what I want you to be vigilant about, Mum. Staying away from this so-called Leo Stone. I need to confirm his story with Australia Police.'

‘Australia Police?'

‘We need to check out that yacht accident. Whether it really was an accident. And whether he's actually who he says he is. I mean, how'd he get his passport renewed if he was recorded as dead? Tell me that.'

‘Dean, please. Don't waste your time on Leo.'

‘It's never a waste of time to look into a potential arms smuggler. Plenty of them come and go from that part of the world.' He bit into a sausage roll.

Oh, for God's sake. How to get Dean focused? ‘Listen, Morris Temple's got a bruise on his cheek. Could be from my star picket. I know I made contact with the intruder with that thing.'

‘Oh?' He paused mid-bite.

‘Yes, I…just happened to pass Morris in the street, and I noticed he had this massive bruise.' Probably best not to tell Dean all the ins and outs of my meeting at the
Cultivator
.

‘Right. Maybe I should go and talk to him.'

Yes, yes, YES.

‘After lunch.' He reached for another sausage roll.

‘By the way, Dean, you didn't happen to find out what the story was that Natalie was working on before she died? Anything to do with the Ignition Group?'

‘You sure Gary's not paying you, Mum? You seem very
determined to follow up on this.' He gave me one of those drilling looks—you have to wonder if he practises them in the bathroom mirror. ‘And, as you're aware, operating as an unlicensed private investigator is illegal.' He paused significantly. ‘I can always access your bank records, if I have reason to believe a law has been broken.'

Thank God I'd put Gary's money under the frozen peas.

‘Dean, relax. All I'm doing is helping out a grieving parent. Anyway, lovely to catch up with you, son. It's been ages since we had a chat.'

A pause while we chewed.

‘Did the Ignition Group have anything to do with those bushfires last summer?'

He glared.

‘Just making conversation. No point coming all this way to see you if we're just going to sit here in deathly silence. Here.' I pushed an extra-large diversionary sausage roll his way.

‘Arsonists don't usually work in groups. It's normally one demented individual.'

‘Let's say, just hypothetically, that Natalie was killed and it was made to look like an accident,' I paused, waiting for Dean's reaction.

All clear: he was busy with his sausage roll. Best really if he ate all the evidence; Melissa might not be too happy if she discovered Dean's diet had gone off-piste.

‘Well, maybe she'd found out something. Something someone didn't want made public,' I said.

‘Mum, listen to me. I get that you feel sorry for Gary. Of course you do. So do I. I'm not a person without empathy.'

‘Really?' I don't want to put you off him, but the fact
that Dean was aware of the concept of empathy came as a bit of a surprise.

‘But I can't run around after every little thing just because a bloke is feeling sad. I have to use police resources responsibly.' He used some of those resources to stuff his mouth.

‘Maybe someone forced her car off the road. Ernie reckons it'd be possible.'

‘You and Ernie watch too many movies.'