One Sunday (33 page)

Nicholas lit Mrs Johnson's big old lamp and set it on the table. ‘That fool coming here at this time of night, disturbing everyone.'

‘She's leading him a merry dance, isn't she?' Olivia commented, keeping the table between herself and her son.

Eggs from the pantry, milk jug from the refrigerator. Salt and pepper from the cabinet, bowl for mixing. Arthur was quiet now, recognising the sounds of their industry. Anyone could make Arthur's scrambled eggs. He couldn't eat toast, so he ate his eggs on breadcrumbs. Breadknife in the work table drawer, bread in the tin, Helen sawed off a thick slice then she broke it into one of Arthur's blue-ringed bowls, broke the crusts up too. Once, Arthur had got a piece of crust stuck in his injured throat and he'd almost choked on it –

‘Helen! What on earth are you doing with that bread?'

‘Oh.' Her head jolted up, her mind jarring back to the moment, back to the dining room table, where Nicholas, Father Ryan and Olivia stared at her aghast. She looked from them to the breadcrumbs, her plump lower lip pursed as she placed a crust on her plate.

Crumbs on her dinner plate, long pieces of crust spelling ‘INSANE'. She hadn't known she was doing that! She'd been away, far away. Maybe she
was
insane.

‘Excuse me,' she said, standing. ‘Excuse me.' She walked quickly to her room.

Sunday, 6.50 pm

Tom hung up his whistle for the second time in half an hour, hung up the earpiece and rang off. Nicholas Squire had been onto Russell Street, wanting to know where Morgan was, so Russell Street had been onto Tom, demanding to know where Morgan was. Tom hadn't liked the officious bugger on the line, so he'd got in a word or two of his own.

‘Well, sir, if I didn't have half the local chaps out looking for two missing tots, and the other half out diving for a missing handbag, I would have organised a search party to go out looking for Morgan – if I had access to a vehicle, sir, other than my pushbike, which I've already punctured once today. In fact, the way things are up here, I can't really see my way clear to do much about finding him for you tonight.'

It was going on for seven o'clock, and no one had heard from Morgan for hours. There were a few hills between Molliston and Melbourne. The train went around them but the dirt track south went over them. Anyone driving a vehicle, if he had half a brain, would follow the main road up to Willama then cut back across to Molliston, even if it was fifty-odd extra miles. Knowing Morgan, he'd take the shorter route. He could have run into a roo, rolled his car, run off the side of a hill – and Tom remembered wishing that on him this morning. He hated the mongrel but he didn't want him dead.

Someone knocking down his front door again. Probably Miss Lizzie with an earache – and do her good, the stickybeaking old bugger. He flattened his hair, straightened up his trousers, squinted at his watch and strode to the door, ready for war.

It wasn't Miss Lizzie, or Morgan. Tom stood staring down at Mike Murphy and Billy O'Brien, struck dumb by what they were pushing at him. Maybe he was seeing things, but he was smelling it too, and it smelt of wet cow. His mouth gaping like a drooling fool's, his jaw hinge refusing to function, he stood there looking at what they were dangling by a long plaited strap.

‘Having second thoughts about our two quid, Mr Thompson?'

‘No. No, by Christ, I'm not. You pair of little corkers!' He wanted to kiss those faces, smile-split from ear to ear. He damn near couldn't stop himself. ‘You bloody little heroes!' He slapped his thigh, slapped their backs, his feet dancing as he took that plaited strap in his own hand and held the handbag high.

‘We gave up two times, didn't we, Billy?'

‘Yeah, then we said, just one last dive, didn't we? Two times we said, just one more dive.'

‘You pair of dinky-di little corkers.' Tom headed for his office but changed his mind about leaving the bag in there; he didn't want to let it out of his sight. Nor did those lads. They'd followed him in, wanting to talk. He wanted to listen so he led them through the residence door and down the passage to his kitchen.

‘You looked like a stunned plover there for a while, Mr Thompson. We told you that anything a city diver could do, we could do better.'

‘You're looking at a man of too little faith, lads. Where did you find it?' His smile so wide now it matched theirs.

‘It was about two yards further out from where we were diving when you last saw us, but on the far side of the snag. It wasn't down deep either. We'd been looking deeper, but the strap had got caught up on a bit of branch.'

‘You're a pair of little bobby-dazzlers, that's what you are,' he said, a mite surprised he'd used that expression; he hadn't spoken it in fifteen years, but by the bejesus, it was warranted tonight. He slapped the kitchen table, made his enamel mug jump high, his smile still growing, then the kids started laughing at him, so he laughed with them. And by God, it had been a long time since he'd laughed like that. And the more he laughed, the more they laughed at him.

Tom was crying, wiping laughter tears away, when the telephone rang again. ‘Those flamin' things are more nuisance than they're worth,' he said, his laughter dying as Rosie started trying to outdo the telephone. ‘Sit yourselves down, lads. I'll grab that and see if I can find your two quid.'

The telephone bell stopped its jangling and Rosie stopped her yelling. Jeanne must have picked it up. He left her to it.

‘We'll trust you until tomorrow, Mr Thompson,' Mike said. ‘We wouldn't say no to a sandwich, sort of on account – on account of we both missed dinner, and swimming makes you starving. All we'll get if we go home now is the rounds of the kitchen.'

Tom cut the meat, cut the bread, spread it liberally with butter, his eyes constantly seeking out that handbag. ‘Mustard or pickles, lads?'

‘They look like Mum's pickles. I get enough of them. A bit of bought tomato sauce would go down well, though – if you've got any.'

He added a liberal dash of sauce, then offered the sandwiches uncut, the way he and his boys had liked them. He made a pot of tea, strained it into three enamel mugs, then settled down to examine the handbag. The murdering bastards had ripped the insides right out of it. No rock, nothing to weigh it down – any crim with half a brain would have stuck a brick in it. No little brush either. Probably lost in the river.

‘Help yourselves, now, deputies. There's plenty of butter.' He offered two thick slices of fresh bread, the jar of cream and Miss Lizzie's home-made apricot jam. She made good jam, he'd say that much for her, even if she only brought it to the door in the hope of getting a squiz at Rosie.

The bag lay amid the jam, pickles, cream, meat, plates, breadcrumbs and used knives, and Tom still couldn't believe it. What a day he'd had. It was damn near used up, though; outside the window the light was taking on that evening glow.

And he wanted those murdering mongrels, wanted to show Inspector Smartarse Bastard at Russell Street that Tom Thompson didn't need Morgan in his town. What a bonzer end to his day it would be if he could shove Mo Riley and Lefty Logan up Morgan's snout when he got here – if he ever got here. Tom wanted that so badly, he could taste it.

They could have jumped that morning train to Melbourne. But if they had, why hadn't Vern gone with them? Too drunk to tangle with a moving train? Legs too short to chase it? Safer to get the night train, go through Willama to the end of the line, then ride back with it in the morning. Those mongrels could have been holed up here somewhere, waiting for tonight's train.

I ought to give Reg Curtin and Len Larkin a bell, round up a few more reliable blokes to do a search of the bush down behind Kennedy's crossing, he thought. Heading in there alone at nightfall, pursuing a punchy ex-boxer and his big bugger mate, wasn't Tom's idea of a good way to spend a hot evening. Neither was feeling a fool, calling out a posse on a wild-goose chase.

Bill from the garage would have taken a walk with him. He'd given Tom a ride around to Squire's the night mad Tige went over the edge and did the deed. A good bloke to have around in an emergency, Bill, but he'd headed out of town early and wasn't back yet. He'd be searching for those missing tots, refusing to give up. He had three little ones of his own.

The sun growing eager for its bed of smoky clouds, it was too late now to start rounding up a posse; he should have searched that bush an hour ago, except he'd been waiting for Morgan an hour ago, hadn't had that handbag, hadn't believed it was in the river. He hadn't spoken to that Russell Street inspector an hour ago either and got himself all pumped up and determined to show the smartarse coot that he was still a good copper.

He'd asked him what Mo Riley was wanted for and been told that he, Vernon Lowe and Lefty Logan had robbed an elderly tobacconist, and knocked him down while they were doing it. The old chap died of a heart attack a week later. And why the hell a mob of curs who attacked a defenceless old bloke twice their age had been given bail, Tom did not know. The world was going to the dogs.

‘You look as if you've lost a quid and found sixpence, Mr Thompson.'

‘Just thinking, deputies – thinking about taking a walk down near Kennedy's place. How would you feel about walking down there with me and keeping watch from a distance, in case it turns ugly?'

‘You could lay him out easy.'

‘Who?'

‘Gimpy Kennedy.'

‘I'm looking for the bugger who threw that bag in the river.'

‘Oh. Yeah, he's a bit bigger, though we still reckon Gimpy killed Rachael because she was leaving him. We saw him this afternoon, sitting in the bush opposite Dolan's, and for a tick we thought it was old man Kennedy's ghost, didn't we, Billy?' Mike stuffed the last of his bread in his mouth, stood and wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers as Jeanne Johnson entered, leading Rosie by the hand.

‘That was Mr Squire on the telephone. He just wanted to know if the other policeman was here yet. I told him you said he must have taken a wrong turn.' She stared at the handbag, at the boys, and if that girl wasn't suffering from a severe dose of ‘what's-going-on-here-itis', then Tom had never seen a case.

Rosie looked better. All afternoon she'd been wandering around in curling pins, and was now sporting ear length curls, a light floral frock, and even her gnashers. If Morgan walked through that door and saw her right now, she wouldn't look too bad – though she'd have those gnashers out in minutes and she'd be out of that dress too.

‘Righto, we're ready to go, Mr Thompson,' Mike said, either allergic to Jeanne or Rosie.

‘Can you feed her for me, Jeanne?'

‘I'll make her some scrambled eggs, Mr Thompson,' she said, eyeing the corned beef on the table. ‘They'll be easier for her to eat. The Squires make a lot of scrambled eggs for Arthur. I'll have some meat, though.'

Tom cut two slices, wrapped a clean tea-towel around what was left of that shrinking lump of beef, and put it in the ice chest. He slid his carving knife in behind the tea canister set on the mantelpiece while Jeanne stared at the handbag she probably recognised.

‘What you see and hear in this house stays in this house, lass. And watch her in that dress. It's not too safe putting that one on her with the buttons at the front.'

‘I'll watch her like a hawk, Mr Thompson.'

‘Answer any telephone calls that might come through, but don't make any. We have to keep that line open in case those city police call.' He picked up the handbag and ushered the lads towards the passage. ‘Oh, and if those city blokes turn up, tell them they'll find me down at the bottom railway crossing.'

His shotgun was kept beneath the office counter. It raised enough dust to cause a small storm when he picked it up and blew it clean, but he broke it open, sighted down each barrel. No mouse nesting in it, so he loaded it, and stuck four extra cartridges in his pocket.

In the vestibule, Mike had picked up a cricket bat. ‘Can this be our weapon?'

‘Put that down,' Tom demanded, then, attempting to take some of the sting from his words, added, ‘You don't need a weapon. You'll be staying on the road using your ears, and keeping an eye out for those other coppers.'

Mike put it down – until his mate picked up the bat's partner. For a moment Tom's mind stilled. He stood there, his gun pointing at the floor, just watching those young hands appreciating two good bats, watching them test the weight of the bats, like they might know what to do with them.

It didn't hurt much, seeing their young hands on those grips. It didn't hurt like he'd thought it would. The truth of the matter was it didn't hurt at all seeing those two lads' hands holding his boys' bats. He sucked air in deep, reached high, his fingers feeling along the top shelf of the hall stand until they found a cricket ball. He ran his thumb over the seam, ran his fingers over it, then tossed it. ‘Stick it in your pocket. You can have a hit on the road while you're waiting for me.'

At seven-ten the trio walked out onto the veranda, Tom feeling a lot of things he didn't understand – and feeling a flamin' fool hanging on to that shotgun too. He couldn't decide how to carry it.

From their front steps Joan and Rob Hunter watched the armed trio step down from Tom's veranda and, as one mind, they walked out to Church Street, just to see where he was off to. Only minutes before, they'd moved Ruby into their infectious diseases ward, two small rooms well separated from the main hospital but not too far from their rear door, where Irene Murphy would sit with her through the night.

For the past hour Ruby's blood pressure had been creeping higher. There was no plan to move her to Willama yet – maybe tomorrow. All they could do for her this night was wish her through to morning.

Joan stood on the side of the road, craning her neck to get a better view of Tom and his posse, who had disappeared down Station Street. ‘I wonder where he's going, Robbie? He was carrying his shotgun, wasn't he?'

‘Could be going after Miss Lizzie from the rear – don't know, don't care. I've got a date with my pillow. If they bring her in with a dose of saltpetre in the bum, don't wake me up, love.'

Barely a stone's throw away, Miss Lizzie and her sister were considering a walk over the road to enquire after Ruby. They had every right to express their concern. She was, after all, their niece.

‘I wonder if Jeanne found out anything from Constable Thompson, Lizzie.'

‘You could pop over there while he's out.'

‘I'm not going over there.'

‘You've been complaining all day about the telephone, and when I give you the opportunity to get away from it, you complain about that too. You don't have to go in. Speak to her on the veranda.'