The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... (28 page)

Friday 7
th
August

It’s an uncharacteristically warm morning for this time of year. I will, however, take a jacket to work with me as this place is renowned for its four seasons in one day. I’ve set the alarm on my mobile phone to remind me to see Keith Noonan at Bosley House at ten. I will go shopping in Moss Vale for a few gifts at lunch-time. It’s lovely to have someone to spend money on. I often bought little things for my mother, though indubitably, she would complain about them. I bought her a pair of slippers, only to be told that fluffy shoes give her tinea?????? I gave her a lovely opal pendant on a chain which I was to learn from her, was very bad luck and the last time I bought her a case of free-range eggs from the Hill’s farm, she presumed that I was trying to kill her with bird flu.

You appear to appreciate my presents to you. I have seen the sapphire around your gorgeous neck. You put my first flowers in a vase and drank the champagne and spent the money on your car, so I have no reason to doubt that you will appreciate whatever I buy today.        

7:45p.m.

God, I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten all day. I just kind of forgot. I’ll make a chicken sandwich in a minute. I got so wrapped up in spending money on beautiful things for you, that I lost track of time and had to rush, not to be late for a tribunal hearing at three o’clock.

Sipping coffee with you this morning was like a religious experience. You were so humble and reserved. I knew you’d had a rough night. It showed in the shadows beneath your eyes. I had my usual Latte while you went for the Cappuccino. We talked business and you have agreed to pay an extra fifty dollars a week until you’ve caught up the two weeks you lag by. I had to warn you that it was my job to hound you and it would end up in the tribunal if you slipped behind any more. You were very appreciative of my lenience and made your promise to keep up the payments.

I asked you if you had been to any more Choral Concerts to see Mr Cox sing and you shook your head and said you didn’t see them any more. I didn’t push you for reasons.

You were in a hurry to get to work and so it was all over in about fifteen minutes. Your lips are very dry. Winter will do that to you.

   You will absolutely love all the wonderful things I have bought for you, my darling.

But before I start telling you about them, I want to share some of Mr Psychologist Noonan’s quack theories about Sarah Moorebank’s murder.

He showed me into his office at ten past ten. It smelled of stale cigars, which is undisputedly one of the more offensive stenches in this world. I breathed through my mouth, the entire time I was there, which made my voice sound vaguely like Kermit the Frog.

He was a large man and spilled out either side of his chair as if he were melting. He had strange grey tufts that may have been sideburns and a cigar-smoker’s, jaundiced teeth.

On a lighter note, he was very jolly.

He was curious about my interest in the case and at a loss to know why I would suspect that the perpetrator could have been an inmate or guest or whatever they call the whack-jobs at Bosley House. I explained that the girls had been my tenants and that I felt the community needed to become more involved in getting to the bottom of the crime as the police were dragging their heels. He seemed to buy that.

I felt a little intimidated by him as he was clearly an educated man and knew a lot about human behaviour. He stressed that his patients were “ill” rather than “bad” to which I pointed out that the nature of some illnesses causes some people to behave badly. Due to the issue of confidentiality, Mr Noonan (he was a psychologist not a psychiatrist) could not go into any personal histories of the loonies but he assured me that most of the people at the hostel were completely incapable of such an act - physically, emotionally and psychologically - and the two patients with a history of minor violence were both in the Goulburn psyche ward under lock and key for the two weeks either side of the murders.        

He was sure that no-one from Bosley House was responsible for the homicides and he had assisted the police with their enquiries already and had satisfied them as well.

He asked if I minded if he smoked and although I was feeling heady from breathing though my mouth, I shrugged and tried not to grimace. He lit the fat thing and pumped away with his lips. Visions of Monica Lewinsky danced in my head.

Keith Noonan proceeded to give me his professional theory or ‘profile’ of the type of person the police were looking for.

“I am fairly confident that the two little girls knew their killer. Perhaps well, perhaps not well, but they saw him as a figure with some authority and had probably been happy to get in the car with him. Yes, Keith was sure it was a man we were looking for. He prattled on about “murderers not necessarily being evil, ugly monsters” and that most murderers are very often “the guy next door”. I though of Mr Potter and his wood-chipper and axe. Keith was sure the deaths were not random. He was sure there was a motive beneath the surface. Perhaps someone who had a bone to pick with the family. He could not rule out the possibility of it being a drug-related, pay-back killing, directed at the Moorebanks.

As I left the building and breathed a long sigh of relief before inhaling some fresh air into my lungs, I became aware that one of the Bosley freaks was following me, very closely. I turned to see a grotesque, dribbling man lurching towards me, gibbering about me taking him to the racetrack. You’ve never seen me move so fast to the car and speed away, with the zombie shrinking away in my rear vision mirror. If I ever had anyone I cared about in that condition, I would use a pillow and a bit of force and let them go to a better place and I’d want anyone to do the same for me.

I won’t bore you with a recount of my Tribunal hearing. It all becomes the same after a while. Only the faces of the tenants change. I did, however, request an order for the Cox’s to appear in fourteen days time so that I can have them removed from their home. I rang Michelle at the police station late this afternoon and demanded to know how the investigation is going, into my daughter’s murder. She assured me that they are doing all they can. I tried not to lose my temper with her but pointed out firmly that I am innocent and the police are wasting precious time, fucking about in my car looking for evidence that just isn’t there. She sounded a bit annoyed and told me that no information would be released to the public about the investigation because it was all very sensitive. “I am not the public!” I announced. “I was her father.”

She began belittling my paternal role, telling me that as I had never had contact with the child, my paternity was on paper only. I hung up, exasperated. 

I’m sitting here by my fire, going through my shopping and laying various items out on my rug. I’ve bought you a gorgeous red lace and silk negligee. I looked at a few black outfits as I know you lean toward black lingerie but I want to see you in flaming red. Scarlet woman that you are! Sorry. That was a bit of a cheap dig. I hope it fits. You are a funny sort of shape. Your bra size is DD but the rest of you is pretty average. I think it will be fine. I bought you some Clarins moisturiser. It’s for dry skin. Crabtree and Evelyn bath salts. A box of Lindt chocolates. One large pink scented candle. One bottle of Tempus Two Cabernet Sauvignon.

All in all, a very good haul. I think you’ll be suitably impressed.

I’m gift-wrapping them all in red-rose print paper. It’s not Valentine’s Day. But I want you to be my Valentine every day. I will come over and watch you for a while and leave the gifts just inside your bedroom door, assuming that it is unlocked. Failing that, I’ll leave them at your front door. I feel like Santa Claus.

I’ve just given your home a call to make sure you were in. I liked hearing your voice on the phone. After I let you say “hello” a couple of times, you snapped me out of my trance by asking if it was HIM on the other end of the line. As soon as you said “Andy?” I hung up. Forget him. Just forget he ever existed. If he rings you ever again you must hang up. I have been pushed to the limit of my endurance with your cheap and demented obsession with him. He’s just a little fish, Gracie. Not a good catch at all. Throw him back into the ocean and wait for the big one. I’m just beneath the surface, looking up at you through the shimmering waves.

God, my stomach is making some interesting noises and I could almost choke on my hunger, so I’ll go and invest in some gastronomical delight before nipping over to deliver my booty. Perhaps a glass of something soothing as well.    

9:45p.m.

I’m off now. Ho, ho, ho.

11:56 p.m.

What a hair-raising adventure I have had. My pulse is still racing and I feel like a hunter who is close to capturing the prey he has followed and researched for so long. You are the ultimate prize. My hand is shaking as I write this.

Deep breath.

You went to bed early. No revelling at the hotel. No phone calls. No champagne.

Your eldest boy went out with a gang of Goths and he told you he wouldn’t be home until the next day, as he was staying at his mate, Brent’s. Eli and Harry were asleep when I arrived. I know this because I heard you ask Dan and his mates to keep the noise down as they went up the driveway as the two boys were asleep. I think ten o’clock at night is a bit late to be heading out. Daniel is only sixteen and where exactly are they headed? Do you even know? There is nothing to do in Babylon for teenagers, except to get into trouble. You’ll regret this lax parenting one day. Did the Department of Children’s Services contact you? I doubt it. I’m sure I would have heard about that in one of your conversations. Typical, heh? So many little children at risk in the world and our government can’t run an operation well enough to protect them. Sarah Moorebank and her oddly named cousin, might have been alive if there had been some intervention in their lives. Surely a number of complaints must have been made to DOCS. Every day the newspapers report stories of step-daddies raping and torturing little kids. Junkie parents who lock babies in their cots for weeks on end to starve to death. Parents shaking newborns. Cigarette burns on peachy skin. Kids smoking marijuana at eight. What the hell is anyone doing about all this???

Eli is suffering from a bout of the flu, poor fellow. A few times through my surveillance, I could hear his wracking coughs from the distance.

You went to bed at about ten-twenty. Lights off, including your ensuite light. As an afterthought you got back out of bed five minutes later and went to your bathroom, returning with a medicine cup and a bottle of something medicinal-looking. You disappeared and returned a minute later, obviously having performed a final nursing duty to your ailing son. See! You are fundamentally a good mother. You love those boys and try to do your best. But your best is sometimes not enough. I will pull up the slack and fill in those spaces you find hard. Boys need a father. That is a basic fact of life. All my insecurities and inability to be aggressive and assertive are because I had no man to teach me how to be one. I had a dominating mother. A deceitful, disparaging wife who turned out to be a snake-bitch. I have never had a healthy or meaningful relationship with a woman because I lack the forceful and confident sexuality that appeals to the weaker sex. I have had too much empathy, instead of the healthy, naturally-decreed superiority that men should exhibit in the presence of women. You are the first woman who I have adored but still felt completely in control of. Vicki played me for a fool. She made a complete ass of me, sucking away my dignity and leaving my masculine pride as if it had been run through a shredding machine. You have also made a monkey of me with that clown, Randy Andy Cox.

I’ve coped with that assault to my self-esteem with remarkable restraint and a generous amount of forgiveness.          

I waited until I was sure you were asleep. The tossing and turning had subsided and your breathing looked slow and regular. I cruised my car down your street, without the lights on and stopped two doors from your place. I had all your gifts in a black garbage bag which I slung over my shoulder like a stealthy Saint Nicholas and walked softly down the south side of the house and around the back to your terrace. I put the bag down and crawled along the glass windows until I came to your closed sliding door. The blind was at about waist height so from my crouched position I could see into your room, although my eyes could make out nothing but a shadow on the bed. Very slowly and carefully, I tried the door. I gave a little more of an effort but to no avail. You had locked your door. I wasn’t disappointed really. It was a good sign that errant bike-riders were not welcome. No vacancy! Keep out!

As I gave one last look into the room, your bloody cat appeared out of nowhere like a ghost, on the other side of the glass from me. I nearly wet myself and fell back onto my haunches like I’d been electrocuted. After a second, to catch my breath, I laughed silently at my foolish nerves. Larry still stared at me through the glass with those demonic eyes and then he lifted a paw and scraped it along the glass. I leaned forward and did the same. We played this game for a minute. Swiping at each others claws and fingers. Hilarious.

BUT THEN…..