‘Satisfied?’
Not quite. ‘If you keep the filing cabinet keys in your top desk drawer, as most people might…wouldn’t it be natural for the thief to look for them there? Instead of going to the trouble of forcing the lock with a screwdriver?’
‘A screwdriver? You sure? That’s how they got in the window?’ She looked stricken for a moment.
‘I think they wanted to give the impression they got in by the window. But they came in by the door. Where do you keep your office key?’
‘In my handbag, of course.’
‘Which you keep where?’
‘My bedroom. And yes, it was there all the time.’ She eyed the clock, stifled a yawn.
‘D’you keep a spare?’
‘Miss Murchison keeps the spares, in the council safe.’
‘The receptionist?’ He made a mental note to check Eileen Murchison. Councillor Curio had that covered too.
‘She’s had the opportunity for eight years. I think we can safely rule Eileen out.’
He stared at her. ‘D’you keep a key at home, Mrs Curio?’
She glanced at her watch in case he hadn’t got the message.
‘Say, for emergencies?’
A range of emotions struggled for possession of her face, incredulity winning out. ‘What are you getting at?’
Ah, a sore spot. He pressed it harder. ‘Is there anyone at home, Dianne, who might’ve had access to your keys?’
Her face flushed scarlet. ‘My husband has better things to do.’
‘Anyone else at home who—?’
‘I’ve got a lot on my plate today, constable.’ She sailed to the door and threw it open. Which left Mick little option but to pick up his hat and make his farewells.
‘I’ll be in touch, councillor.’ He adjusted his hat, painfully slowly.
‘Super.’ She pressed the door shut behind him.
Mick walked through the foyer, conscious of the receptionist’s strange blue eyes on him but he didn’t stop, even when she furtively mouthed something at him.
‘Can I help you?’ he thought she said. He was on the point of asking her about the keys; then, overcome by the futility of small-town politics and the resistance of powers-that-be in any place he had ever been, city or country, to honest enquiry, he said no and shoved open the door.
He squinted at the scarlet Jag and muttered, ‘Wankers,’ as he reversed loudly out of his spot.
He was almost at the station before he realised what Eileen had really said was, ‘I can help you.’
There was nothing stopping him from turning the car around and going back to speak to Councillor Curio’s receptionist. Except maybe her incredible violet eyes. The movie star’s name popped into his head: Elizabeth Taylor.
He drove on past the station, thinking he’d do something useful with his time, like check up on Mrs Faye Duncan, see if she’d got her missing Siamese back. He drove on past the library, Methodist church, corner shop, the funeral parlour. Amused by the idea that old Mrs Duncan was close to all the things she needed he was about to swing a left down her street when he spotted the sign outside the old sandstone building on the corner. Lands Office, Est 1888. He pulled over before anything else could distract him.
8
Hal stood on the porch and surveyed his home. Yesterday his father had taken down their coloured lights and folded the cardboard Santa back into his box for another year. The front of the house looked shiny and blue, the lawn wilted in moth-eaten patches separated by aisles of red dirt and, surrounding it all, a white picket fence. The gates were flung wide open. Between them sat the company car: a Falcon 500 station wagon, sides painted with Prime Foods For ALL Your Family’s Needs, rear packed with cartons of soup and powdered foods. The car sat facing the road, a sturdy workhorse impatient for adventures in far-flung outposts.
The garage roller door was raised. Inside, Hal’s dad, chamois in hand, was lovingly polishing the Studebaker until it gleamed like a futurist sculpture, all sleek lines and luxury interior. A thoroughbred on wheels. Dad whistled at it, gave it a proud pat on the bronze bonnet, dragged the heavy canvas tarp over it and wrapped it up like a Christmas gift to himself.
Hal watched Dad glance into the corner where Hal’s new Malvern Star bike leaned on its stand, then to the little scooter beside it that he had painted green and white for Evan. He saw him moving past the wall stacked with cartons of soup and powdered desserts to his workbench. Reaching up to a small horizontal cabinet above the bench, he checked the .22 was in its spot. Dad always said it was good to have a weapon on hand, even a light one like the Marlin 60. Not that Mum would ever use it. One day he’ll teach me how to shoot it, Hal thought. One day.
Dad was whistling ‘Hit the Road Jack’ when Mum called to him from the back door. Instead of replying, he pulled out his Lucky Strikes and lit one up. Caught Hal watching, mouthed, ‘Women,’ and winked.
Ten minutes later Hal watched his father climb into the Falcon and rev the engine: the signal for Evan to rush to the driver’s window and throw his arms around Dad. Hal strolled after his brother, trying to look casual despite the jumpy feeling in his stomach. Mum stood back behind them, waving, trying to keep her cheery smile in place.
Evan said, ‘Bon voyarg-ee, Dad.’ Dad laughed and hugged him.
When it was Hal’s turn to kiss his cheek, Dad pulled away.
Hal was stung. Does he know? That Hal had seen him and Jenna?
Suddenly Dad thrust his hand out, and Hal looked at it. Took the big hairy hand in his small one and squeezed. Dad squeezed harder, grinning.
‘Good grip. Keep an eye on them, son?’
‘I’ll try…’ The pressure on his hand was unbearable.
‘Don’t try. Just look after them. All right?’ Dad released Hal’s hand and slapped his shoulder. Then Mum and her bright smile leaned in past him.
‘I want some driving lessons when you get back.’
‘Give you all the lessons you want.’ His smirking mouth brushed her lips, then hardened as his eyes turned to the road. Her cue to go. She stepped back to the boys.
A jaunty toot of the horn, and the car cruised off in a puff of dust. They stood watching it drive off towards the west where, for some reason they could never fathom, his restless heart kept whispering him away.
Following his mother inside Hal spotted Mrs Next Door. Studying them, fag in mouth, through the half-open screen of her front door. Mum waved at her but the screen door clattered shut and the old lady disappeared into her hidey-hole.
They were charging towards the TV—it was nearly time for My Favourite Martian—when Mum’s arm came up to bar their way.
‘No,’ she said.
‘No what?’
‘You boys aren’t going to spend the entire holidays watching TV.’
‘What do we do then?’
‘You’ll think of something.’ She pushed them out the front door and locked it behind them. They glared at each other.
‘Look what the cat dragged in. Where’ve you been, Goodenough?’
Sergeant Bradley blocked the foyer as Mick sidled in through the street entrance, dragging the afternoon heat into the office. Goodenough ignored the scathing look and nodded politely.