SYNOPSIS: At a dawn service in a memorial park on Anzac Day, the rising sun reveals the body of a man on the shore of Bellwater Reservoir. He is a water engineer from the nearby hydraulics laboratory and has been stabbed to death. In the crowd is Meredith Renford, a solicitor from a local law firm.

An eccentric man who camps in the bush is suspected of the murder after the police discover he has stolen some of the victim’s belongings. Meredith offers to defend the suspect, motivated partly by her obsession with the reservoir, where a traumatic childhood incident left her with aquaphobia.

Meredith and her legal assistant delve into the victim’s life and learn that his environmental work attracted enemies, while documents uncovered point to a secret assessment of flood-prone land for a property development.

Meredith’s concerns about the integrity of the police investigation magnify when the suspect disappears on bail. She visits his haunts and finds clues to his true identity, putting herself in danger.

Untangling the web of shady dealings, Meredith realises there is a connection between the property development and one of her files involving a bequest to an obscure foundation. To unmask the person behind these ventures and solve the case, Meredith must confront her fear of water and break free of the past.

Chapter 1

It was a quiet time to meet in the name of the dead, in the darkness of early morning.

Meredith Renford drove across the outskirts of Bellwater, veering away from its dormant hub, towards the bush. Past the car yards and smash repairs, the funeral parlour, the hardware megastore and the empty playing fields of the high school. It was the sort of place on the fringe of suburbia that was not quite city or country but somewhere in between.

The sky looked like a solid mass, tilting over the landscape. She drove with the car radio on an easy listening station. It soothed her nerves, jumpy from a disjointed sleep.

As a precaution, she hadn’t gone to bed. She didn’t trust the lazy zone in her brain to obey the alarm while it was still dark outside. In the stupor of sleep, she knew she might thump the snooze button and forget what day it was. Instead she had dozed upright in a high-backed lounge chair, dressed in outdoor clothes with a throw rug over her.

The local streets were deserted until she approached the turn-off to Memorial Drive and saw the blinking indicators of other cars waiting for the lights to change.

The cars headed in a convoy towards the reservoir. In this part of Bellwater, where the land was cheaper near the bush, the houses were mostly weatherboard and fibro with unfenced front yards.

Along the footpaths, figures wandered like sleepwalkers in tracksuits and beanies. Teenagers and toddlers had been stirred from their beds to answer the call.

As the houses dwindled, the government hydraulics laboratory loomed in the glow of the streetlights, long buildings inside a compound protected by a barbed wire fence.

Then the trunks of silver birch trees flashed in the car headlights on both sides of Memorial Drive, marching in silent tribute to local diggers who had not returned. Two by two, the marching trees led to a boom-gated entry through the bush and a wide expanse of water, halted by a dam wall.

The dawn service was held in the war memorial park next to the reservoir. A large clearing in front of the water stretched from the nearby picnic huts and barbecues, to a children’s playground and toilet block at the far end.

Halfway down the grassed area, beside the water, a stone of remembrance sat on a stepped base. The rectangle of polished granite was inscribed with the emblems of the three armed forces and a dedication to those who had served in all conflicts.

A few metres away, a flagpole was stuck into the grass like a white spear, although the flag at the top hung twisted and still. Between these two markers – the stone of remembrance and the flagpole – a portable light had been rigged up to illuminate a lectern and microphone. Beyond the reach of artificial light, the landscape blurred into clumpy shapes around the flat table-top of the lake.

Rows of plastic chairs were already filling up with distinguished guests and the elderly. Teenage students, excited by the novelty of being up so early and in school uniform on a public holiday, were shepherded by a teacher into choir formation opposite the audience.

Behind the seats, the rest of the onlookers stood in a mass, trying to edge into a good position. Some had brought torches, the beams zig-zagging across the ground to guide their way.

A familiar figure emerged from the jumble of people. It was Simon Haverstein, a magistrate from the Local Court. His unruly grey eyebrows sharpened in recognition.

‘Meredith, good to see you.’

She smiled but her voice stalled, unsure whether to call him ‘Your Honour’ away from the court.

‘And you sir,’ she managed.

His attendance wasn’t surprising. When his name appeared in print it was followed by the letters RFD, Reserve Force Decoration, to mark his long service in the naval reserve.

‘How’s Frank getting along?’ he asked.

Frank was the principal of Valenti and Associates, where Meredith worked as a solicitor.

‘He’s recovering from the surgery and then I understand he’ll have a course of radiation treatment.’

‘Give him my best if you see him.’

‘I will.’

The magistrate pointed at the official party. ‘Better claim my seat.’

People kept arriving, pushing from all sides. Meredith shifted to see between the heads in front of her. The muttered conversations in the crowd hushed as a drum beat began.

Four youthful figures in khaki entered, stepping to the beat: the catafalque party, followed by a small marching band. The soldiers carried their rifles with white-gloved hands, the barrels pointing over their shoulders. They stood at the four points of the stone of remembrance, as if guarding it, and leant on the butts of their upturned rifles.

At the microphone, the master of ceremonies addressed the audience with a resonant voice belying his small stature. ‘Welcome to the 2012 Anzac dawn service everyone. Since this place was dedicated as a memorial park nearly sixty years ago, people have gathered here every year to pay their respects to their countrymen and women. Such a beautiful, tranquil location, a living reminder of how fortunate we are.’

A splash of light reflected off the balding head of their anonymous guide. It seemed fitting, on a day of humility, that he had not introduced himself.

He announced the hymn Abide With Me, and the harmonies of the school choir floated sweetly on the crisp air.

An army chaplain dressed in a white smock read the opening prayer, commending the souls of the fallen to God for eternity. Meredith bowed her head with everyone else, despite her lack of faith, to stare at the ground and the forest of legs. Woven into the grass, she could see a couple of large white feathers, shed by the geese that normally straggled freely over the clearing.

At the end of the prayer, people opened their eyes and glanced around. Dark suits were adorned with medals, ribbons and sprigs of rosemary. The sharp smell of mothballs wafted from somewhere nearby. Here and there a veteran wore the coloured beret of a special force or auxiliary service. In the next row, a grizzling baby dressed in a romper suit with a parka over the top was passed through the air by its father to the sturdy, reaching hands of its mother.

The MC announced the Royal Hymn of Australia which was instantly recognisable as God Save the Queen, the old national anthem. Everyone knew the words and sang with a guilty pleasure. Meredith thought of the oath on her grandfather’s enlistment papers, which she had ordered by credit card from the National Archives:

I will resist His Majesty’s enemies and cause His Majesty’s peace to be kept and maintained…

Owen Morgan Davies, accounts clerk, aged nineteen, had sworn his allegiance in 1940 not to Australia or its government, but to the British monarch.

During the singing, Magistrate Haverstein sidled up to the microphone. He spoke of the origins of the first Anzac Day. The breeze lifted, clanging the cable against the flagpole. Meredith realised the sky was markedly lighter, its lustre starting to creep across the polished surface of the lake. The chill hit her face, coming off the water and swishing through the she-oaks.

A bagpiper played a wheezing accompaniment as local dignitaries advanced to lay wreaths against the stone of remembrance. The mayor of Bellwater, the police local area commander, the president of the sub-branch of the RSL, the fire and ambulance station chiefs, and more behind them, each laid a wreath, stepped back and gave a nod of respect.

One of the teenage boys from the choir slouched over to the microphone and unfolded a square of paper. His hair was sticking up at the back, like he’d slept on it while damp. Meredith saw in his smooth features the raw recruits who weren’t much older than him when they enlisted.

They went with songs to the battle…

They fell with their faces to the foe…

They shall grow not old…

No matter how many times she heard those lines they knotted her stomach. Then a cold prickling of the skin when the bugler played the Last Post and the flag descended, flapping.

People’s faces went blank as their minds turned inwards, reflective, for the minute’s silence. It stretched longer than any ordinary minute. The random coughs in the crowd seemed magnified, as though the coughers had microphones.

Meredith closed her eyes and watched the coloured dots coalesce against her eyelids into a strong square face, grinning wide enough to show the gap between two side teeth. Her father’s hand was curved in a half-salute, shielding his eyes from the sun. The other hand stretched towards her. Come on, Meri. Her sister splashed and duck-dived while their mother stood at a safe distance in the shallows, checking her hair was securely pinned up.

Someone was speaking during the minute’s silence; a muffled voice from a few rows ahead. How rude. Then someone else joined in, whispering a reply or possibly a reprimand.

Reveille blasted over the top of them, undeterred, while the flag was hoisted back up to full mast. The light continued to rise, brightening the sheen on the water.

As the bugle died away, the voice came again, to the right. Female, persistent: ‘But it is. I can see the arms and head.’

From the front a male voice, louder, said: ‘Yes, look. Over there.’

The crowd surged forward. Meredith was carried in a shuffling march towards the water’s edge. Despite being taller than many of the women, she still craned for a clearer view among the heads of the men and a bobbing slouch hat.

‘There!’ cried others around her, as they pointed out the position to their companions.

Where the shore protruded in a sweep of sand and flat rocks, a body lay face down, the water lapping at its legs. The body did not rest neatly but with arms sticking out and knees slightly bent. Judging from its size, clothes and hair, it appeared to be a man.

People kept jostling around Meredith, trying to see. Police officers and a paramedic who’d been in attendance at the ceremony pushed their way through the crowd. They ensured that nobody approached the body as they called for assistance.

Meredith’s gaze locked on the rusty stain smudging the sand. The patch of shore was only a few metres from where her family’s future had abruptly changed direction. She had returned many times to that spot to ask: Why him, why not me?

Over the microphone the calm authority of the MC cut through the air: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, that brings this morning’s service to a close. Would you kindly assist by leaving the area in an orderly manner.’

Army personnel started herding from the sidelines, their khaki limbs jutting between the groups of bewildered guests. ‘Back please, everybody back.’

From the trees, the birds seemed to erupt at once with the sunrise. Louder than all the rest, the kookaburras unleashed their full-throated cackle.

*          *          *

The mayor hosted an Anzac Day breakfast at Bellwater Council for representatives of the community. Meredith went in place of Frank Valenti, who was on the executive committee of the Chamber of Commerce.

The mayor, a stocky, red-cheeked man, wore the robes of office as he welcomed the guests. The fur trim and chains with gold medallions looked impressive from a distance but, up close, they seemed fake to Meredith, like something out of a dressing-up box.

The guests shifted around each other awkwardly, initially not mentioning the incident at the reservoir as they found their places at the long tables in the function room. Meredith exchanged smiles and nods with several other lawyers and business people who she knew from the Chamber of Commerce meetings.

Teenagers from the local scouts and girl guides delivered breakfast to the guests. It was a mass produced mixed grill, a one-size-fits-all offering of eggs, sausages and bacon. The air was heavy with the smell of fried fat. Meredith left the sausage untouched and flipped the wobbly egg face-down onto the toast so that the bursting yolk would be absorbed into the bread.

Rumours about what happened at the reservoir swirled around her as she ate.

‘I heard he was a teacher from the high school.’

‘Could it be suicide?’

‘Not in a few inches of water.’

‘What if he jumped from the dam wall, drowned and then floated to the shore?’

‘But the water would be moving the other way, slowly towards the wall.’

The mayor took to the stage and cleared his throat at the microphone as he told the audience, ‘Anzac Day is not just a day for reflecting on the past, it’s a day for looking ahead, building on the progress that previous generations made.’

On a screen behind the mayor, a grainy black and white image appeared of men in slouch hats marching in a paddock with a row of timber barracks in the background.

‘This is a photo from the library’s local history collection. It shows the army training camp at Ashburn in World War Two, where there’s now a housing estate.’

He pressed a button on the lectern and the image on the screen switched to a photograph of some long-haired young people wearing peace badges and handing out leaflets.

‘Another war in a very different era. Protesting against conscription in the Vietnam War. This was taken outside the railway station. Notice the roller rink in the background, before Bellwater Square was built. As many of you know, the council has approved a new library and construction is about to start. One of the projects planned for the library is called Photobank, which will greatly expand our local archives by inviting the public to lend their photos of the area to be digitally copied. This will benefit students, historians, journalists, family researchers, authors. Social history is a precious resource, but to be useful it has to be accessible.’

He spoke of other upcoming initiatives and the importance of public participation, while the knives and forks scraped their accompaniment. Meredith drove her last bit of toast back and forth on her plate, to the rhythm of the mayor’s words. A man had died and they stuck to the program. Maybe that was the true Anzac spirit.

‘So I hope that’s something to take away from today,’ the mayor concluded with a nodding smile. ‘The pages of history contain many examples of sacrifice and loss, but it’s how we learn from those experiences that counts.’

The Combined Southern Districts brass band marched onto the stage playing The Road to Gundagai and a medley of patriotic songs, while the guests dawdled over their gossip and refills of tea.

*          *          *

Later at her townhouse, Meredith watched the water in the laundry sink shimmer over the delicate work blouses that she washed by hand. She smeared the eucalyptus soap under the armpits and inside the collars and cuffs. As she gently massaged the fabric, her hands clenched inside the rubber gloves, dipping and rising in the water. She imagined the dead man at the reservoir, the blood mingling with his wet clothes. Perhaps somewhere, his next of kin were reeling from the news.

On the balcony, Meredith arranged her washing on a clothes airer. Voices carried from neighbouring townhouses and she could smell the tangy smoke from someone’s barbecue.

Back inside, she stared at the phone dock sitting on the end of the breakfast bar and thought about giving her sister a call.

Kelly was the conference manager at a four-star hotel on the Gold Coast, and she did not usually work on public holidays. Meredith called her home landline but there was no answer. Kelly was probably out, enjoying the extra day off. It wasn’t worth ringing her mobile and having one of those stilted exchanges with fractured or crackly reception and voices colliding.

A few years earlier, Kelly had taken a transfer with the Pacific Pearl hotel chain. Their mother, Glenys, visited several times before deciding to retire there. Lots of shops and restaurants, affordable real estate and a touch of glamour. Her sort of lifestyle.

Phoning her mother on Anzac Day was risky. Meredith knew she couldn’t mention the dead man at the reservoir. It would be considered morbid and, worse still, give away that she had attended the dawn service.

Glenys avoided participating in Anzac Day, associating it with her own unhappy childhood as the daughter of a veteran. The man Meredith remembered as a devoted grandfather was not the irritable drinker Glenys knew. Yet Owen’s generosity and warmth towards his granddaughters only heightened Glenys’ resentment at growing up without his affection. When Owen died, the past became off-limits. It was a place where Meredith travelled alone.

A burst of raucous laughter from the neighbours broke her hesitation. Meredith picked up the phone. No barriers, no grudges. The important thing was to keep in touch. The phone rang and rang.

A man answered. Reg, the new bloke in her mother’s life. They had been getting around together, as Glenys called it, for nearly a year.

Reg collected records and memorabilia from the fifties. From what Kelly said, he had a whole schedule of music festivals and community fairs mapped out through the year. Meredith had only met him once, last Christmas, when they came for a visit before heading to the Elvis festival at Parkes. Reg looked like a rockabilly with his long sideburns and two-tone shirt, nowhere near seventy.

Reg was short of breath. He had rushed back inside to answer the phone. ‘We were on our way out. Your Mum’s in the car. I’ll get her for you.’

‘No, that’s fine. I don’t want to interrupt.’

‘Sure? It’s no trouble.’ Faint wheezing between the words.

Time to give up the smokes, she thought. ‘Honestly. I just wanted to say hi, see if you were doing anything interesting today.’

‘Only the Bowlo for lunch. And you?’

Making up a quick lie she said, ‘Going to a neighbour’s barbecue.’

‘You have a good one.’

‘You too. Tell Mum hi for me.’

‘Will do.’

As Meredith put down the phone, another burst of intoxicated laughter struck from outside, with a mechanical staccato rhythm, like the rapid fire of a Bren gun.

Chapter 2

The police cordoned off access to the reservoir and the walking tracks in the surrounding bushland. A fine mist of rain blurred the trees and speckled the uniforms of the officers. They tramped along the water’s edge, wet sand clinging to their boots. Following the curved shore, their progress eventually stopped at the concrete wall of the dam, stained with age.

The wall extended across the water, spanning the neck of the reservoir. In front of the wall, about a hundred metres from shore, the water was strewn with green and yellow lily pads, giving the ducks refuge from the intrusive search.

Several police divers trawled the lake, their glossy black heads breaking the pitted surface. The deeper water in the centre of the lake was battleship grey, mirroring the swollen clouds.

On the grass at the brink of the shoreline, the detective in charge of the murder case, dressed in business trousers and a button-down shirt, conferred with the uniformed sergeant directing the search.

‘The gates are locked at sunset?’ asked Detective Sergeant Rory Driscoll, staring up at the dam.

The sergeant nodded. ‘Five thirty this time of year. And they’re too hard to climb. Metal spikes along the top and down the posts. Mesh too small for getting a foothold.’

Detective Driscoll pointed over the glinting water to the bushy hills opposite. ‘Are you searching the other side?’

‘Thinking about it. I guess it’s possible the killer rowed across the lake and left the same way. Problem is, how far do we search?’

Driscoll eyed the shoreline stretching out of sight. ‘Someone could’ve stowed a dinghy in the reeds.’

‘But why go to the trouble when it’s easier to use the main entrance? Walk past the boom gate into the park. No security at night once the ranger goes home,’ said the sergeant.

‘Any drag marks or wheel ruts to suggest the boom gate was up and vehicles came in?’

‘No, I checked and it was locked until the organisers of the dawn service arrived. Sand was a bit stirred up where the body was found, but no clear tracks or footprints. Gouges in the grass don’t prove anything because a lot of equipment was hauled in for the ceremony.’

‘Of course. Not to mention the punters, all those feet tramping around,’ said Driscoll.

The sergeant’s radio crackled from his utility vest with a call for back-up. Suspicious person, male, detected observing police operations from the undergrowth. Fled on foot when called to stop. Officer giving chase. Northern side of the dam. Take the first path up into the bush.

They exchanged a frozen look of understanding.

The sergeant blurted a response into the radio and they bolted for the dam, bounding up the steps. Through the tall gates that were anchored open with chains, they landed on the metal grid of the walkway which vibrated under their pounding feet. On either side, the safety railings and chain mesh reached waist height and they tapped the railing with their fingers at intervals to steady themselves in the dampness.

Driscoll darted a glance at the terrain beyond the dam’s spillway, to the rocky creek bed and the high fence which ran parallel to the creek, forming a barrier to ground access.

Reaching the end of the walkway, they passed through the corresponding set of gates and jumped down the metal steps leading from the dam wall to the start of a dirt track which forked in two directions: one zig-zagged with a downward slant into the trees and the other climbed to higher ground.

They followed the radio instructions and took the path upwards. Driscoll blinked at the tangle of vegetation, clearing his vision in the light drizzle. Scrambling up the sandstone steps, he puffed as he tried to keep pace with the fitter sergeant.

The track turned sharply and carved its way into the hillside, becoming steeper and with shorter steps made from treated logs. The sergeant almost slipped on the rounded edge of a step, caked with mud and leaf litter, but righted himself and resumed climbing. Driscoll, on the alert, concentrated on planting his foot firmly on each step.

The ground levelled out at a rest area with a wooden bench. A pair of eastern yellow robins flitted from a wattle tree, disturbed by the sudden arrival of the men. The winding path continued, partly obscured by overgrown vegetation. They jogged on, the sergeant swiping bunches of grevillea and banksia out of his way and Driscoll waving his hands to deflect them. He wasn’t quick enough as a long, limber shoot bounced awkwardly and batted him in the face. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he muttered.

A blue cloth ball with checked trim bobbed into view and Driscoll slowed up. It was a marker, in the form of a baseball-style police cap, waving from a stiff clump of mountain devil. ‘Hey!’ he called to the sergeant who had powered past the cap, looking the other way.

They agreed it must be a signal to leave the path. Stop, turn here.

Wading into the undergrowth, Driscoll and the sergeant weaved around branches and bushes until they thinned out, revealing a bare rock platform. Reaching the edge, which dropped abruptly, they gazed down to see the flash of a blue uniform through the foliage below. The sergeant crouched, flipped onto his stomach, and started to clamber over the brink of the platform.

Driscoll followed, carefully descending the craggy rock face. He stretched his foot to the last jutting bit of ledge and brushed it with the toe of his polished shoe. Transferring his grip, he thought his foot was secure but he slipped and dropped awkwardly to the ground. Skidding on the wet leaves, Driscoll fell on his side but pushed himself up quickly with giant palms. He brushed his hands and flicked the sticky dirt from his trousers.

The sergeant had gone ahead and joined the constable wrestling a raggedy older man who snarled from his beard like a cornered animal and clawed with flinty nails. Although the rain had stopped, the smell of mulch was released as their feet churned the damp earth. The sergeant grabbed the man in a headlock, but the man kept thrashing, trying to free himself.

The scuffling was echoed on the rock face by another constable climbing halfway down and dangling to jump.

The more the merrier, thought Driscoll. Let the uniforms handle it, tire the nutter out. He strolled a few metres further, to scout the rest of the clearing. Where the rock face curled to form a cave, he spied some kind of makeshift shelter. A natural screen had been created from a framework of tied branches, covered with dry bracken for camouflage and held in position at the base with chunks of rock. He spent a few moments quietly inspecting the scene before striding back to the sergeant.

The bearded man was handcuffed and subdued, the sergeant questioning him.

‘Why’d you run away when you were told to stop?’ asked the sergeant.

No answer.

‘What’s your name?’

Nothing.

‘Why did you cross the police cordon at the entrance?’

The slightest shake of the head, or possibly a nervous tic.

Driscoll sidled up to the sergeant’s ear. ‘Wait till you get a gander at the treasure trove down there.’

The sergeant’s eyes flashed to where Driscoll indicated with a tilt of his head.

Leaving the man in the custody of the constables, the sergeant went with Driscoll to take a closer look at the camp site.

Shielded by the bracken screen, assorted belongings were arranged on a groundsheet: cans of food, a dented saucepan, tin mugs, plastic bowls and plates, and a metal toolbox. A few mildew-spotted books were stacked next to a canvas kit bag bulging with other goods.

‘He lives here, like a swaggie,’ said the sergeant.

‘So he didn’t cross the cordon. He’s been in the reserve the whole time,’ confirmed Driscoll.

Pulling on latex gloves, the sergeant flicked open the toolbox. Knife blades extended from a jumble of cutlery. ‘Maybe the murder weapon is among this lot.’

‘That would explain why he was in a hurry to get here first, to hide some evidence,’ Driscoll agreed.

The sergeant poked at the knives without picking them up, and peered at the inside of the hinged lid of the toolbox, which was stained with dark, dried flecks. It wasn’t rust. Possibly paint, or even blood.

The sergeant waved to the constables. ‘Bring him over here.’

They came in convoy, frog-marching the man.

‘This is your camp, right?’

The man remained silent.

‘We’ll find something that identifies you, so you might as well tell us what you’ve been up to,’ continued the sergeant.

Driscoll chipped in: ‘If I was you I’d do myself some good and cooperate.’

Face downcast, the man dug the toe of his filthy sandshoe into the leaf litter, grinding a hole in resentment at the intruders nosing around his patch.

Driscoll pointed to the toolbox. ‘Those knives, you should be worried whether you really scrubbed them clean. Cos we’ve got tests that can detect blood even when you think you’ve washed it off.’

The sergeant nudged the kit bag. ‘And I can’t wait to see what’s in here.’

Still didn’t get a peep out of him.

The sergeant arranged for Forensic Services to attend and instructed the constables to look for a way around the rock face at ground level, while he guarded the man.

Driscoll paced the length of the camp site, hands clasped behind his back, eyes cataloguing what needed to be done by the scene of crime officers. Photographs recording the undisturbed appearance of the site before the search began in earnest. Fingerprints to confirm the person of interest was connected to the belongings. Items bagged for DNA testing, including the speckled toolbox and cutlery. The man had done them a favour, leading them to a secret location they probably would never have found otherwise.

Chapter 3

A distant beeping, like that from a roadworks site, reached Meredith in the depths of sleep. She cocooned the pillow around her head and ignored it, drifting off again. But it kept up its incessant beat, penetrating the wadding of the pillow. As flickers of consciousness registered in her brain, she decided the roadworks must be very close. Right outside. Or perhaps it was a garbage truck reversing. If so, she wished the rubbish could be taken away without so much noise.

As she lay there and more brain cells started switching on, Meredith realised the beeping wasn’t from roadworks or a garbage truck. It was from her own alarm clock.

Reaching out to hit the snooze button, another thought struck her. Not only was it a work day, it was a court day.

Meredith threw off the blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. The intoxication of sleep clung to her as she blundered to the bathroom, bumping into the door and the basin, before sponging her eyes with a drenched flannel. Through the bathroom window, the sounds of a new day floated in: birds twittering in the tree outside, breakfast radio banter from another townhouse and someone revving their car engine.

She drove past the front of Valenti and Associates in a string of small businesses and professional services. The firm’s name, fading on the metal shop awning, was repeated on the front window, along with the invitation First Consultation Free in big red letters. Rounding the corner and turning into a back lane, she parked in a reserved space behind the firm and entered through the rear door.

Adriana Valenti – legal secretary, trainee conveyancer and niece of Frank Valenti – was distributing the mail which she collected each day from the post office box on her way to work. When she saw Meredith she gave an apologetic smile. ‘Hi Meredith. Dan Serovic called to say he won’t be coming.’

‘What? His hearing is today.’ The fuzzy traces of sleep around her temples dissolved instantly.

‘His wife’s sick.’

‘But what about him?’

Adriana detoured to the reception desk and peeled a yellow square off the message pad. ‘I’ve written a note for the file.’ She waved the piece of paper and a diamond engagement ring sparkled on her finger. Meredith felt a pang of envy at Adriana’s ability to balance work with a busy personal life.

Taking the note, Meredith started reading aloud: ‘My wife’s having chest pains and I can’t leave her. It’s the council’s fault.’

‘I wrote down exactly what he said,’ Adriana confirmed.

‘Thanks,’ said Meredith, as the room seemed to be shrinking, the ceiling getting lower. She hadn’t anticipated this, hadn’t warned Dan Serovic about the consequences of failing to appear.

Brian Heraghty was behind the glass wall of his office, sitting at his desk with Jeremy Choi, the student paralegal, whose back was to the glass. Jeremy’s head was at an angle, listening, and his hand moved gracefully across a writing pad as he took notes.

Brian dictated instructions and sifted through documents from a file. He had the sort of craggy face that could easily become stern. Starting to look up, he quickly lowered his eyes again, which Meredith figured meant he was aware of her presence but chose not to acknowledge her.

The large darkened office of the principal of the firm, Frank Valenti, sat empty at the rear of the premises, like no man’s land between the occupied territories of Brian on one side and Meredith on the other. Brian, as the more senior of the two, was technically in charge while Frank was on extended sick leave. Inquiries from potential new clients were directed by Adriana in the first instance to Brian, if he was available, and he decided which of the new files to delegate to Meredith. As the weeks turned into months, Brian had retreated further into cold formality, leaving post-it notes for Meredith or sending an email across the few metres of wiry carpet when he wanted to communicate.

Meredith couldn’t imagine continuing at the firm long-term without Frank. Each day she tackled the work in front of her and hoped that Adriana would bring good news of her uncle’s progress. Sometimes Meredith thought about moving on. She had been at the firm for more than six years and needed a new challenge. But she had to wait and see if Frank was going to recover. It wouldn’t be right to leave in his absence.

In her office, Meredith opened the blinds and the light slanted onto the framed certificates on the wall and a print of a towering Heysen ghost gum. She switched on her computer and checked her emails before dialling the Serovic household. There was no answer on the landline and Dan Serovic’s mobile phone went to voicemail.

The Serovic case concerned a noisy air conditioning unit. The photos in the council’s report showed an industrial-sized monster more suited to a shopping centre than a residential house. When Meredith had rung the council inspector to clarify a few details, he told her this was increasingly a problem on the fringe of suburbia. ‘People live in these whopping McMansions with more rooms than they need, and they expect to be toasty warm in winter and super cool in a heatwave,’ he lamented. ‘How they afford the bloody power bills is beyond me.’

The neighbours, fed up with the roar of the Serovic’s air conditioner, complained to the council. The inspector tested the decibels and issued a noise control notice. The Serovic’s refusal to comply had left the council with no option but legal action. To compound the problem, Dan Serovic had confronted the neighbours and unleashed his frustration on their screen door after an argument, causing the latch to break. The neighbours had responded by taking out an interim apprehended violence order against him.

Meredith rang the council’s solicitor, Osman Atalay, to break the news about the no-show and to call off the witnesses. ‘These things happen, it can’t be helped,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Who knows? In future I might be asking you for the favour.’

*          *          *

The courthouse was an old building with modifications. Reinforced glass doors had been added to the stone arches, a CCTV camera spied from above, and a disabled ramp skirted around the front steps. In the waiting area, Meredith recognised a reporter and photographer from the local newspaper, huddled in conversation. She knew they were there to cover the main attraction, the reservoir murder, not her little air-con matter.

When she checked the court list on the noticeboard next to the registry, the name mentioned in the news reports jumped out: Warren Connor. Listed for Court 1, while she was in Court 2.

Double swinging doors with inset windows fronted each courtroom. Meredith hurried through the doors of Court 2 and bobbed deferentially at the magistrate, Penny Roebuck, who was already on the bench and calling the list, checking which matters were ready to go. Her steel grey hair and waxy skin were brightened by a pair of purple plastic reading glasses.

Meredith took a seat as close as she could get to the front and made eye contact with Osman Atalay. When it was their turn, she gave a diplomatic account of the message she received from Dan Serovic and her unsuccessful attempts to contact him personally. Osman Atalay consented to an adjournment and the magistrate granted it with a sigh, but warned that if the defendant failed to appear next time, the case would be dealt with in his absence.

As the next matter was called, Meredith gave more of a twisted curtsy than a bow to the magistrate, in her rush down the aisle to leave.

In Court 1 the reservoir matter was underway. She stayed at the back and tried to work out who the personnel were from a distance. The defence solicitor, a small man with a young, soft voice, was not familiar. The reporter who’d been in the lobby, Nelson Loomis, jotted in a notebook and looked up at intervals with the suddenness of a meerkat.

Magistrate Simon Haverstein sat with his chin propped on one hand, unsmiling. Those who regularly appeared in his court were aware that his posture sagged as his patience diminished.

The solicitor for the defence said, ‘Perhaps if I could have a word with my client, your Honour.’

‘Haven’t you already spoken with him this morning?’

‘Another word, your Honour.’ His hands spread in a pleading gesture.

‘Very well.’

The solicitor approached the dock and leaned over to whisper to his client. Warren Connor was described in the Bellwater Register as an itinerant found living in the bush by police investigating the murder of Maxwell Linton, a hydrologist from the nearby water research laboratory. The article said the forty-one-year-old victim had been fatally stabbed and Connor was ‘assisting police with their inquiries’, which Meredith knew was code for the prime suspect.

Connor still wore the red flannelette shirt that had alerted police to the watcher in the trees. His beard was overgrown and the skin that was visible on his face seemed shaded with in-ground dirt. It was hard to tell his age, but Meredith thought he looked to be in his sixties.

He broke off the conversation with a shake of his head and turned to face the bench. ‘Judge, I don’t want this lawyer.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He called me O’Connor.’

‘It was a slip of the tongue,’ said the solicitor under his breath. Meredith decided he must be a Legal Aid lawyer, unless Connor was some kind of eccentric millionaire.

‘He doesn’t know me or the area,’ continued Connor. ‘He’s never been to the reservoir.’ His voice bounced off the thick walls of the courtroom.

The solicitor tried to defend himself. ‘Many lawyers aren’t familiar with their client’s neighbourhood, your Honour.’

‘I think you’ll find that’s so, Mr Connor,’ said the magistrate.

‘Give me someone who’s more experienced.’

‘I’m afraid that’s a matter between you and the Legal Aid Commission, not my concern.’

An idea hatched in Meredith’s head, impulsive and rapidly taking shape. No time to think it through properly.

Connor pointed to the solicitor’s ear: ‘And he’s wearing an earring. How can he be a serious lawyer?’

The solicitor started blushing, the red rising up his neck. Connor turned for support to the spectators in the courtroom and said, ‘I don’t remember Perry Mason wearing an earring.’

A chortle escaped from an older, overweight lawyer who was waiting for his case to be reached.

‘Mr Connor,’ said Magistrate Haverstein, ‘I must ask you to exercise some self-control.’

‘What a surprise, the judge sticks up for the lawyer. The system protects its own interests –’ His voice became inaudible as he shook his head and muttered.

‘If you don’t curb your behaviour, I’ll find you in contempt of court,’ warned the magistrate.

‘– lining the pockets of the rich and powerful.’

Meredith stood up. ‘Excuse me, your Honour.’

Everyone’s attention swivelled to the rear of the courtroom.

Magistrate Haverstein raised his eyebrows, waiting. The Legal Aid solicitor looked rattled, shoulders twitching.

Meredith edged forward. ‘I’m familiar with the area, if I can be of any assistance.’

‘In what capacity?’ asked the magistrate.

‘I’d be willing to represent Mr Connor, pro bono, if he’d consider it.’ She walked to the front to address her potential client. ‘I work at Valenti and Associates, opposite Pioneer Park. I grew up in Bellwater.’

‘You look familiar. Maybe I’ve seen you in the street.’ He scratched his beard, taking his time.

‘You can always fire me if it doesn’t work out,’ Meredith smiled sweetly.

He signalled his acceptance with a shrug, the kind that says, ‘We’ll see.’

Magistrate Haverstein left the matter in the list, to be called again later, giving Meredith time to look over the file and confer with the defendant. ‘You’ll have to take him downstairs for now,’ said the magistrate to the sheriff’s officer.

Everyone in the system knew ‘downstairs’ meant the cells, which at Bellwater were under the police station next door, connected to the court by a passageway.

The Legal Aid solicitor rustled the papers into the file cover and left the bar table with his eyes lowered. He and Meredith bowed to the magistrate and faced each other in the corridor.

‘I didn’t catch your name in there,’ said Meredith, gripping the Serovic file so tightly it buckled.

‘Elliott Bergstrom.’

Up close, his face wasn’t so boyish and Meredith could see tired lines around his eyes. ‘Sorry for sticking my nose in, but it didn’t look like your client was going to back down.’

‘You’re welcome to him, as long as my manager has no objection,’ said Elliott, phone already in hand.

He wandered away to make the call and Meredith reached for her own mobile to check her messages. Within a couple of minutes, Elliott returned with approval for Meredith to take carriage of the matter. Handing over the police papers, he kept the file cover with its Legal Aid markings.

‘Good luck dodging the insults,’ he said.

Meredith skimmed the documents in the lobby, taking baby steps as she read. She didn’t like trying to absorb a file during a consultation while the client was eyeballing her, especially when that client seemed to have a grudge against lawyers. Being prepared was crucial.

Warren Connor had no fixed address and was denied police bail. His date of birth put him at fifty eight, going on fifty nine.

Her eyes landed on the name of the officer-in-charge of the case: Detective Sergeant Rory Driscoll. A barb of panic twisted in her chest, opening up the past. The not-so-distant past. But even if she’d known ‘Risky’ Driscoll was the OIC, she still would have taken the case. She couldn’t let a personal issue get in the way.

The police facts revealed that a wrist watch and library card belonging to the victim were hidden in the bottom of a kit bag at the defendant’s camp site. Also found in the bag was a sack of items commonly used in burglaries such as screwdrivers, a spanner, a glass-cutter, balaclava and gloves. The defendant had fled from police, ignoring requests to stop, and when cornered he scratched, kicked and spat at officers.

Meredith suspected the relatively modest charges of possessing housebreaking implements, having stolen goods in custody, assaulting police and resisting arrest were intended to hold Warren Connor while more evidence was gathered against him for the murder of Max Linton.

Nelson Loomis emerged from the sidelines and slunk up to Meredith. His height meant he stooped to question most people. ‘Why did you volunteer to take the case?’ he asked.

‘Just trying to help the court in a difficult situation,’ said Meredith.

‘Good to see generosity is alive and well in the legal profession.’ He winked at her, as if he was not convinced. The dark shadows under his eyes made him look like he’d been up all night, hunting for stories.

Chapter 4

The police station’s colonial stone façade was joined on one side to a modern two-storey building. The stables at the back had long ago been turned into a vehicle compound for highway patrol cars, paddy wagons and motor bikes.

The cells and interview rooms for the defendants in custody were underground. The interview room that Meredith was taken to was not much larger than a cubicle, with a perspex window and a gap for passing across documents.

Warren Connor was already in position, rapping his knuckles on the edge of the moulded brown counter. Meredith pulled out the metal chair, which screeched in protest along the floor, and placed the Serovic file and the papers from the Legal Aid solicitor on her lap and her handbag on the ground.

‘I’m not sure how much you discussed with Mr Bergstrom,’ she said.

Warren scowled up at the glass barrier and touched inside his ear. ‘Hang on, I’ll just turn this up.’

Realising he wore a small, discreet hearing aid in that ear, Meredith raised her voice a notch. For a man in his late fifties he looked like he’d been through the mill. ‘What did you cover with the other solicitor?’ she repeated.

‘Not much. Start from scratch.’

‘The main thing I need to know is whether to apply for bail.’

‘Definitely. I don’t want to spend another night in here.’

Meredith explained that if he was refused bail, Warren wouldn’t be staying at the police station, he’d be sent to a prison remand centre. For the first time he looked worried rather than indignant.

She held up the charge sheet. ‘It says here you have no fixed address. That makes it very difficult to get bail.’

‘I’ve got a room.’

‘Where?’

‘Huxley Lodge.’

Meredith didn’t know the place, but the address was in Carver Street, a narrow thoroughfare of cheaper, old flats.

‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’

‘None of their business.’

‘If you’ve got a room, why do you camp in the bush?’

‘To get away from people. I like being in nature.’

‘Do you have any commitments that would be disrupted if you were kept in custody, like a job?’

‘Not since I was made redundant.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She left a sympathetic pause and looked down at her documents, wishing she didn’t have to ask further about finances. ‘Would you have sufficient funds to put up the money for bail yourself, or could a relative help you out?’

He frowned at the mention of relatives and leant forward, as though concerned at being overheard. A smell like damp socks floated across the counter.

‘How much is sufficient?’ he asked.

They discussed possible sums and he conceded he had some small savings he could risk as security.

‘I need to ask, do you have a prior record?’

Warren shrank back in his seat again and thought about it. ‘What do you mean by record?’

‘Criminal convictions. The police prosecutor should have access to all that, but there’s nothing in the papers I’ve been given.’

His eyes flickered. ‘Only some traffic fines.’

‘That’s okay.’

Meredith glanced at her watch before asking about the items found at the camp site, trying to assess the strength of the charges.

Warren twisted his hands. His fingernails were ingrained with dirt. ‘I can explain,’ he said. ‘The tools belonged to a bloke at the house who’d been in trouble, so he asked me to mind them. Later he went AWOL, but I held onto the stuff in case he came back.’

Warren’s excuse for taking the watch was that the victim didn’t need it anymore. ‘Might as well put it to good use, it was a nice watch. Mine conked out ages ago.’

The explanation for the library card was even simpler. ‘I like reading,’ he said. ‘The card didn’t have a photo, so I thought I might be able to use it at the library.’

Meredith looked up from her notepad. ‘Weren’t you worried about taking things from a dead man?’

Warren fixed his red-rimmed eyes on hers. ‘No, because I didn’t kill him. If I did, I would’ve taken his money, I’d have nothing to lose.’

Instead, after removing the library card, Warren reckoned he put the wallet back in the victim’s pocket so the police could identify him. And he left the money there, in case the man had a family to support. Meredith scribbled herself a reminder to find out if the victim’s wallet was still on his body or missing.

There was no sign of the police prosecutor in the lobby of the courthouse. Meredith took the opportunity to make a quick call on her mobile to Huxley Lodge to check Warren’s story, before heading into Court 1.

Magistrate Haverstein leant forward in his seat. ‘Are we ready to proceed in the matter of Connor?’

‘Yes your Honour, I’ve had an initial consultation with my client,’ said Meredith.

‘Bring him up,’ the magistrate told the sheriff’s officer.

When Warren was seated in the dock, Meredith explained, ‘It’s too early to indicate anything in relation to the plea, given the short time I’ve had with my client, but he wishes to apply for bail.’

The police prosecutor, Sergeant Darren McKenzie, sprang to his feet. His suit strained to keep in check his footballer’s frame and his confidence. ‘Your Honour, the defendant is a person of interest in a murder investigation.’

‘How is that relevant to the present application, Sergeant? You know I have to go on the charges before me, not some speculation about future charges,’ said the magistrate.

‘But he’s a flight risk.’

‘In what sense?’

‘Lack of community ties. My understanding is that he’s homeless.’

‘Actually he lives at Huxley Lodge in Carver Street,’ Meredith interjected. ‘I’ve spoken to the caretaker who told me he’s been there three years, never caused any trouble.’

Sergeant McKenzie tried further arguments but the magistrate decided to grant bail on strict conditions that the defendant report to police three times a week, not approach points of departure (although he had no passport to surrender), and agree to forfeit a thousand dollars in the event of breaching bail.

‘Stood over for plea,’ the magistrate said before turning to the next matter.

As Warren left the dock, Meredith saw his feet for the first time. They flapped in a muddy pair of sandshoes without laces, which she realised would have been confiscated as a safety measure in the cells. His flannelette shirt was tucked awkwardly into his grey trackpants in an apparent attempt at neatness.

Meredith accompanied Warren to the court registry to sign the bail papers, her heels clicking beside the slap of his sandshoes on the shiny floor. While he signed the papers, Meredith noticed Nelson Loomis out of the corner of her eye, hovering in the background.

To avoid lingering, she asked Warren, ‘Do you have time for a quick debriefing over a bite of lunch? Coffee, sandwich, whatever you’d like.’ It was a prime opportunity to ask him further questions while he was grateful to be on bail, but bringing such a dishevelled character to the firm was not a good idea; she would need to raise the subject diplomatically with Brian first.

Warren looked drained as he clutched his copy of the bail papers. ‘I do feel a bit peckish. Breakfast in the cells wasn’t much chop,’ he said. Hunger seemed to have temporarily overcome his suspicion of lawyers.

Outside, a couple of photographers lunged forward and Meredith shielded her face with the Serovic file, steering Warren down the steps with the other hand.

They crossed the road and turned the corner into a shopping precinct. Avoiding the open-sided cafes and juice bars where young people worked to thumping music, Meredith led Warren to one of the last old-fashioned coffee lounges in Bellwater. It was down a quiet passage that she thought of as the Lane That Time Forgot, where slow-paced businesses like a cobbler’s, a haberdashery, and an electrical repair shop ignored the advance of disposable culture.

The front window of the Chataway Cafe was painted with red and white checks to simulate gingham curtains, and a paper sign advertised ‘Lunch Special – Roast of the Day’.

A woman with dyed yellow hair and an embroidered apron nodded in acknowledgment as they came through the door. ‘Hi Ludi,’ said Meredith.

An elderly couple were the only other customers, having the roast of the day. The smell of meaty juices hung in the air.

Meredith and Warren sat at a table at the back of the cafe. They consulted the laminated menus which had bits of adhesive paper stuck over items that had increased in price or been discontinued.

‘I can recommend the minestrone with bread roll,’ said Meredith.

Warren squinted, holding the menu at arm’s length. ‘I get plenty of soup at St Cuthbert’s,’ he said.

Meredith realised he must be referring to the soup kitchen run by the church.

‘Something different. Meatballs,’ he decided.

Ludi took their orders and disappeared out the back, followed by the tell-tale beeping of buttons on a microwave.

‘Did you cook meals at the reservoir?’ Meredith asked.

‘Sure, over a fire.’

‘I haven’t done that since I was in the girl guides. I remember cooking baked potatoes wrapped in foil, burying them in the ashes of a camp fire.’

The food arrived, the meatballs rolling around in a thin sauce. Meredith was worried about copping a splatter of tomato on her suit, and edged a little further back from the table as she sipped her soup. But Warren managed to keep the meatballs under control, holding each one down with his fork while he carved off pinkish-brown slices.

‘It’s quite good,’ he said.

There was something distinctive about Warren’s pronunciation of certain words. ‘Good’ almost sounded like ‘gudt’. Yet Connor was an ordinary enough surname, of Irish or Scottish origin she thought. Perhaps his parents had spoken with a strong regional accent and he had picked up some of it.

‘You mentioned being made redundant. What sort of work were you doing?’

He frowned, with his fork poised above a meatball. ‘Commercial artist. What they call a graphic designer these days. It’s become a computer job.’

‘You’re not into computers?’

‘I retrained but didn’t like it. My main interest was in hand-drawn artwork.’

She couldn’t imagine him drawing. His hands were rough, his fingers chubby on the handle of the fork.

‘My father would know what you’re talking about. He worked in the printing industry, years ago, as a typesetter,’ said Meredith.

‘How did he cope with computerisation?’

‘He passed away before computers really took over, but I remember him saying everything was going to change.’

Warren made a gruff sound of condolence. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when the Encyclopedia Brittanica stopped publishing a printed version,’ he said.

He looked down at his plate and carved another meatball. Meredith noticed that he wielded the cutlery quite daintily.

‘Do you have any kids?’ she asked.

He finished chewing and shook his head.

‘Married?’ she ventured.

‘Long time ago.’ He clanged his knife on the plate, as if to mark the end of the topic.

‘Books,’ declared Meredith brightly. ‘What do you like to read?’

Warren made eye contact again and relaxed a little in his chair. ‘All kinds of things.’

Meredith waited while he thought for a moment.

‘Biographies on great figures in history. Books about the future of the human race.’

‘Do you mean predicting the future?’

She was thinking of Nostradamus, but it turned out Warren was referring to science-fiction. Meredith pictured her grandfather’s collection of classic sci-fi titles, which she had rescued after his death, arranged on the shelves in her loungeroom in alphabetical order from Asimov to Wyndham.

The discussion of reading habits reminded Meredith about the dead man’s library card. ‘Do you use Bellwater Library?’ she asked.

‘I read books there, but it takes many visits to get through longer books and sometimes people borrow them before I finish,’ he explained.

‘You could apply for your own library card,’ Meredith suggested, assuming he must not have one. ‘I think all you need is proof of your address on something official like a bill or a bank statement.’

‘I don’t like giving out my private details.’

‘Libraries are pretty harmless.’

‘They’re run by councils, aren’t they, which is local government. Part of the big surveillance network. Government institutions share records.’

Ludi came over to clear their empty, tomato-streaked bowls. When she had gone, Meredith asked Warren if he had ever encountered Max Linton at the reservoir or elsewhere when he was alive.

‘Never laid eyes on him before, I swear.’

‘What time did you find him?’

‘I don’t know exactly.’

‘But it was dark?’

Warren nodded. ‘I like to go for a wander after the visitors have left for the day.’

‘How did you see the body in the dark?’

He unscrunched the paper napkin that had been balled in his fist and concentrated on smoothing out the creases.

‘Warren, you need to tell me the full story,’ urged Meredith.

‘It’ll go against me.’

‘I can’t do my job unless I have all the details.’

He looked up from the napkin, which was starting to resemble a flattened white square again, except with a couple of random smudges of red.

‘I heard raised voices, like people arguing or calling out.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere along the grass near the war memorial, I think.’

‘And where were you?’

‘The other side.’

‘On the opposite side of the dam wall?’ Her face was disbelieving.

‘The place is like a big bowl. The sound carries.’

‘Go on.’

‘The voices stopped. Everything went quiet. I had a feeling I should go and check, so I did.’

‘How did you get across?’ Meredith knew the gates on the wall of the dam were locked at the end of the day, preventing entry onto the walkway.

‘I climbed the fence behind the dam, crossed the little creek and went over the fence on the other side.’

She remembered from playing at the reservoir as a child, how other kids found gaps in the fence or scaled it in the bush to explore the creek bed.

‘And you discovered the body. Why didn’t you call the police?’

‘Didn’t want to get involved.’

He rubbed his brow with grimy fingers, the expression on his face slipping from irritation to resignation at being dragged into the mystery of a dead man.

Meredith paid and they parted at the start of the laneway, heading in different directions. ‘I’ll call you in a few days,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget to report for bail tomorrow.’

Warren rolled his eyes at the heavens. ‘Can’t wait.’

Chapter 5

The peace lily at reception quivered in the draught as Meredith opened the glass front door of the office. At the imitation marble counter Adriana was sorting conveyancing documents. She looked up from a drainage diagram and said, ‘How did the Serovic matter go?’

Meredith had almost forgotten her original reason for attending court, so much seemed to have happened since then. ‘Adjourned for a couple of weeks,’ she said.

She decided to hold off asking Adriana to create a file for Warren Connor. Better to wait until she found time to have a word with Brian.

In her office, Meredith updated the computer record for the Serovic file and added the next court date to the firm’s intranet calendar, which sent alerts in advance of events. She also started composing a letter to Mr and Mrs Serovic, notifying them of what happened and advising that at least one of them had to attend court on the next occasion, otherwise the magistrate could hear the matter in their absence and make an order to their detriment. It is imperative that you contact me with further instructions.

Trying to think of the right phrasing, she wanted to add something to guard against being strung along by the Serovics without getting paid. Something diplomatically worded to request they make a progress payment, or perhaps inviting them to reconsider their legal representation.

As a break from the Serovics, Meredith did an internet search on Max Linton, the murder victim. The most recent items were about his death, while past references to his name were connected with his projects at the hydraulics laboratory, his previous job as a water engineer at Bellwater Council, and his contributions to community debates on environmental issues. Meredith could see there would be a lot of material to trawl through.

She picked up the phone and dialled the extension to Brian’s office, having learnt to check on his availability rather than risk turning up at his door at an inconvenient time.

‘Hi Brian, just wondering if you’re free at the moment for a quick word.’

‘You’ve been gone a long time.’

‘Something unexpected came up. That’s what I wanted to see you about.’

‘Okay, give me a couple of minutes.’

From a distance, Brian’s office conveyed an impression of colour and warmth but up close it spoke to Meredith of order and status. His varnished desk was starkly clean, with pens and highlighters arranged in a neat line and current files stored on the shelves instead of piled within easy reach. On the walls, along with the framed degrees, were a signed Wallabies rugby jersey and a certificate of appreciation from his old private school for his support as an adjudicator in their mooting competitions. Next to his phone, facing outwards so that clients could see it, was a photograph of his blonde wife, their toddler son and primary school-aged daughter.

Meredith stepped inside the doorway but remained standing. ‘Hi. Things didn’t go quite as planned at court.’

‘With the air-con case?’ Brian frowned at her over his metal half-moon reading glasses.

‘The Serovics didn’t turn up, so it’s been adjourned while they sort themselves out. Another case was in the list that might be linked to the murder at the reservoir. Did you hear about that?’ She waited for his nod before continuing. ‘A man who’s a potential suspect was before the court on some minor charges but he sacked his lawyer. I’m afraid I agreed to represent him pro bono.’

‘What?’ Brian put down his silver pen and gave her his full attention.

She explained the basic circumstances and Warren Connor’s situation. ‘He wants a local lawyer but doesn’t have the means to pay. I thought seeing you’d done some pro bono cases –’

‘That’s different. They were approved by Frank.’

‘There wasn’t time to ring you in the middle of court, with the magistrate waiting.’

Brian pointed his forefinger and thumb like a gun, jabbing the air for emphasis. ‘So let me get this straight. It’s not a murder case yet, but it might turn into one?’

‘It could raise our profile. Attract more business.’

‘Or it could be more trouble than it’s worth if this fellow is a crackpot and brings us bad publicity.’

‘Are there any guarantees with clients? The Serovics seemed to be all right and now they’re giving me the run around.’

‘And how many murder cases have you done?’ Brian rolled his chair back and stood up, surpassing her height.

‘Not many,’ she agreed. ‘But wouldn’t we brief a barrister?’ Meredith’s brain was rapidly searching through previous cases she’d worked on. There were only a couple of murders: the squabble over drug debts which prompted a dealer to bash a courier’s head in, and the shaken baby case which turned into a plea by the stepfather to manslaughter. In both cases she’d been helping Frank, not calling the shots.

‘There’s still a lot of preparation and I don’t have time to hold your hand. A barrister would expect you to know what you’re doing.’

‘The police have only charged him with fairly minor offences at the moment. So I could probably cope until the next appearance.’ She failed to curb the sarcasm before it slipped out.

Brian looked at her sharply. ‘You’d have to keep up with your allocated files. Paying clients come first.’

‘Of course. I’d work on the Connor matter in my own time as much as possible.’

‘What about Jeremy, would he be involved?’ asked Brian.

‘I might need some research assistance.’

Brian fiddled with his cufflinks while he contemplated the idea. ‘I really don’t agree with paying him casual rates to work on a file that might not make us a cent. In fact it could cost us in time and resources.’

It was striking how possessive Brian had become of Jeremy, considering he didn’t initially support hiring him for the paralegal position. Brian had given the job to a friend’s son who, after a month, had a crisis about his career choice, deferred his law degree and went backpacking. Luckily Jeremy was tracked down at a large firm in the city and was willing to leave the windowless confines of the photocopying room for a job closer to home.

Brian threw down the gauntlet. ‘If you feel it’s essential to use Jeremy, I really think you’re going to have to cover it.’

‘You mean, out of my wage?’ Meredith tried to keep her voice steady, hoping the tremor running through her body wasn’t visible. ‘All right, I will,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort out the accounting with Adriana, and keep a record of any hours Jeremy works on the Connor matter.’

‘Very well.’ Brian puffed out his cheeks, as if he was accepting a compromise when he’d actually won the argument.

Meredith started to turn, slowing in the doorway in case Brian fired a parting shot. Nothing came, only the squeak of his leather executive chair as he sat down. Crossing the open-plan area, she glanced at Jeremy’s work station but his face was focussed on his computer screen and his demeanour did not betray whether he’d overheard anything.

Meredith resisted the urge to shut her door, not wanting to appear to be sulking. Instead, she opened a drawer and took out a stress ball, a souvenir from a conference when stress balls were fashionable. Imagining it as Brian’s head, she repeatedly thumped it with her fist, bulging the slogan: Squeeze More From Your Day.

When she tried to switch to her work, her thoughts remained stubbornly on Brian. They had never been on friendly terms and she wasn’t sure why. In the beginning she deferred to his views and tried to show interest in his family. Still he remained cold and formal, and Meredith assumed she must have unwittingly done something to offend him.

Surely it wasn’t because she was female. He seemed to get on fine with Adriana, although admittedly she was Frank’s niece. Or perhaps Brian didn’t regard Meredith as meeting his elite standards. She had attended state schools and a regional university whereas he and Frank were taught by the Christian Brothers and had graduated from the same traditional, ivy-clad university.

She remembered at the job interview, Brian talking over her a couple of times as if nothing she said would change his pre-conceived opinion. If her suspicions were correct, Frank must have swayed the decision to hire her. He had seemed impressed at the time by her university results, her volunteer work, and the references from judges who had appointed her as a tipstaff and researcher.

She looked at the potted cactus on top of the filing cabinet for guidance. They had a telepathic sort of relationship, although she knew that the cranium-like bulge of its head could not house an actual brain. The cactus hadn’t grown or visibly aged in the two years since it was given to her by a client as an easy-care replacement for a tub of dead violets that she kept forgetting to throw out. It just sat there with prickly patience, sharing its silent wisdom when she consulted it about ethical or intellectual dilemmas.

Today it told her Frank Valenti’s opinion was the only one that mattered; life was too short to solve the mystery of Brian Heraghty.

Jiggling the mouse to bring the computer screen to life again, Meredith finished the letter to Mr and Mrs Serovic. She asked for settlement of the bill to date before acting any further on their behalf. After checking a hard copy of the letter, she made some minor alterations, printed it on letterhead and signed it.

Meredith gave the letter to Adriana and asked her to prepare an invoice of the bill to enclose with the letter. ‘Send it registered mail, so someone has to sign for it,’ she added.

She also asked Adriana to arrange a file cover and number for the Connor matter. Hard copy files seemed old-fashioned but were difficult to eradicate while correspondence and other documents were still received and file notes were jotted by hand. A parallel computer record of cases was maintained, with entries of court results and other developments updated and Word documents saved to the file. Meredith imagined the two systems could be combined one day, but not while Frank Valenti was unwell and absent.

Later Meredith returned to the research on Max Linton. She created a table, dividing it into the main topics raised by the items on the internet. She clicked on a few of the newspaper articles with interesting headings. Almost immediately, she could see the potential for an enemy or two. His work, his private life; either could be the source of trouble. What mattered was that a professional, useful citizen had been terminated. Violently, and in her community, where she grew up. She had to do whatever she could to help find who was responsible, even if it alienated Brian and cost part of her salary.

Brian kept to his usual routine that day, starting early and heading home to his family around five thirty. Once he had left, Meredith called Jeremy in for a chat.

Jeremy hadn’t heard about the dead man discovered at the reservoir, which made Meredith wonder whether students existed in a cocoon. Between university, the law firm and family commitments, perhaps he didn’t have time for news reports.

Meredith explained the basics of the case and how she had taken on the defence of Warren Connor. ‘There’s preliminary research to do, if you’d like to help me.’

‘A murder.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect of something a bit different from the bread and butter of a suburban practice.

‘Just routine inquiries at this stage.’ She didn’t want to give him unreasonable expectations about working on the case.

Angling her computer screen towards Jeremy she said, ‘I’ve started this list of issues to be expanded. I’m particularly interested in disputes, controversies, scandals. Anything where someone has a grievance against Max Linton and conceivably might want to harm him. Then the next stage is to find contact details for people mentioned in the articles.’

‘So you don’t think Mr Connor did it?’ he asked.

‘At this point it looks like a weak case. We need to explore all the options and be aware of other likely suspects.’

‘The defence can present alternative hypotheses, I remember that from trial procedure at uni.’

Jeremy spoke impeccable English at a flickering speed and Meredith’s brain sometimes lagged for a moment while processing his comments. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

They discussed the time frame for doing the research and Meredith confirmed that it had to take a back seat to any tasks assigned by Brian. ‘Whatever material you gather, don’t leave it lying around your desk.’

Jeremy’s feathery black eyebrows rose with concern.

‘It’s okay, Brian has approved this,’ she reassured him. ‘But it’s a side project and I don’t want to bother him with speculation until there’s something definite to report.’

When Jeremy returned to his desk to get stuck into the job, Meredith added, ‘Don’t stay too long, especially if you’ve got lots of reading for uni.’

‘I can do some of this research remotely, can’t I?’

Remotely. It took her a second to remember the computer meaning of the word – a location away from the office although not necessarily a distant one.

‘I mustn’t let you do unpaid hours.’

‘Honestly, I don’t mind. Anything to get out of helping my sister with her homework.’

There was an earnestness in his eyes that made her realise Jeremy had overheard the discussion with Brian. He didn’t want the money to be a bone of contention.

‘Thank you,’ she smiled, and left it at that.

*          *          *

At home, Meredith poured herself a glass of chardonnay and, remembering the conversation with Warren, drifted to the bookcase to gaze at her grandfather’s collection of science fiction that she had rescued from destruction after his death. Most of the editions were from the fifties and sixties, with cover designs that seemed almost childlike in their portrayal of aliens and other threats to humanity. Tracing their spines with her forefinger, she stopped at a bright yellow cover and levered out The Day of the Triffids. The ink drawing of a triffid looked more like a baby dinosaur than a venomous plant, while the robot on the cover of I, Robot, resembled a knight in a suit of armor.

She had read some of the books but found the subject matter of most of them disturbing. After the suffering that Owen had witnessed in the war, she couldn’t understand why he would want to read about a vivisector creating hybrid animal-humans in The Island of Doctor Moreau. Perhaps it comforted him to realise that war veterans weren’t the only ones haunted by the debasement of humanity; H.G. Wells had foreseen the sort of cruel experiments that Dr Josef Mengele pursued decades later at Auschwitz.

The landline rang, interrupting her thoughts.

‘This is your social secretary,’ chirped Kelly.

‘Hi Kel, how’s it going?’ Meredith tried to infuse her voice with cheerfulness to shake off her sense of gloom.

‘Mother’s Day, only two weeks away. Decision time!’ cried Kelly.

It was a big tradition in their household, without a father. They did something special every year for Glenys and had already batted around some ideas.

‘I’ve checked a few more places but the rooftop restaurant at my work sounds the best. They’re doing a Spanish theme with a flamenco guitarist and tapas-style menu. I think Mum would love it, but it’s filling up fast so we’ll need to book ASAP.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away,’ said Meredith. ‘I’ve just started an important case.’

‘Surely you don’t have to work on a Sunday? Come up on Saturday night, stay over and go back late on Sunday arvo in plenty of time for work.’

‘Hang on a tick while I look at my schedule.’ Meredith grabbed her phone and checked her organiser while Kelly sighed. The fridge seemed to hum in sympathy from the kitchen.

‘I have a court appearance on the Monday,’ said Meredith. ‘Sometimes that means preparing the weekend before.’

‘Isn’t the rest of the weekend enough? This is a special day, only once a year.’

‘It’s just that a lot of time is taken up going to and from the airport and there’s no guarantee the flight leaves on time. A computer glitch or storm in one city can stuff up the entire network –’

‘Or what about a massive earthquake hitting the entire east coast?’ Kelly interjected.

The caustic remark jolted Meredith like a clip over the ear. ‘Let’s say I can do it. I’ll try to book a flight. Can I confirm with you tomorrow?’

‘It would be better if you could call me back tonight,’ Kelly persisted.

‘Okay, will you be up late?’

‘Sure, until midnight.’

When she got off the line, Meredith turned on her computer straight away. The airline website took its time loading the flights. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a tray of chicken risotto from the freezer, popping it in the microwave. Checking the crisper for fresh vegies to go with it, she found a stub of zucchini and some mushrooms that were starting to shrivel and sliced them up.

There were no good deals except for flights at six thirty in the morning. It was a similar story with the so-called budget carriers. She checked the calendar to confirm it was not school holidays. Maybe hordes of people flew around the continent visiting their mothers that weekend.

She accepted paying double what she’d hoped, reminding herself not to be stingy. Kelly always took the initiative to organise Mother’s Day and Meredith couldn’t let her down.

But at ten o’clock Kelly rang back, beating Meredith to it. Everything had changed.

‘I’ve spoken to Mum and we’ve had a rethink. Would it save time if we came to you? Then you could work for the rest of the weekend if needed. No travelling time.’

Meredith tried to make a counter-offer. ‘I’ve checked the flights. There’s not a huge selection but I can book something tonight. Really.’

‘No, it’s okay. Mum’s been to the restaurant at my work a few times so she’s happy to do something different. I have a contact who can get a discount on our flights and I’ll get the staff rate for accommodation at the Harbour Pearl.’

‘Are you sure? You were down here at Christmas, it doesn’t seem fair to expect you to make the trip again.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Would Reg be coming?’ asked Meredith.

‘No, strictly us girls. That’s the idea.’

After finishing the call, Meredith stared at the phone in its dock and exhaled. She had long given up the notion of fulfilling the role of the guiding, older sister. Impressing her mother and sister with her event-organising abilities just wasn’t going to happen.

Chapter 6

The next day, after Brian had gone to lunch, Jeremy Choi came to see Meredith. He appeared in her doorway, hovering on the verge of entering.

‘Would now be a good time to give you an update on the research?’

‘That’s quick work.’ Noticing the thin sheaf of papers in his hand, she added, ‘You didn’t find much?’

‘This is just your outline expanded, with links to material you might want to read.’

She still preferred reading in hard copy but knew he was right to save paper. ‘Okay, take me through it.’

Jeremy sat down and reached across the desk to show her the summary.

‘Maybe it would be easier to bring your chair around,’ she said.

Casual familiarity was not Jeremy’s inclination. He had to be invited and, even then, re-positioned his chair on the short end of the desk, not on Meredith’s side. Pointing to the first section of the summary, headed Bellwater Council, he said, ‘This seems to be the stage of Max Linton’s career with the most serious controversy.’

‘He was some kind of environmental or water officer, wasn’t he?’ asked Meredith.

‘Hydraulics engineer was his official title at the council.’

‘I noticed reports on the internet about him being involved in an inquiry into the death of a man who fell into – was it a creek?’

‘It was actually a stormwater drain that ran under a culvert at Dunraven.’ Jeremy paused to get the man’s name right. ‘Mr Bilal Bakkour was hit by rushing water. He didn’t drown but died a few days later of blood poisoning. The family blamed the council for the lack of measures to combat flash flooding and pollutants in the water. Mr Bakkour’s son had a confrontation with Max who conducted an internal review at the council.’

Meredith said, ‘Why did Max do the review?’

‘He was in charge of the stormwater management strategy. He found that what happened was a freak accident that could not have been anticipated and the drainage system was not at fault.’

‘Sounds predictable, a council not wanting to admit liability. I guess if everyone who had an accident in Bellwater Shire sued the council it’d go broke. So what transpired, did the family take action?’

‘They started an action in negligence, but after a few months I couldn’t find any further mention of the case in the paper. I searched the legal databases for judgments too, but nothing came up.’

‘Maybe the family dropped the action or settled out of court. Either way it’s hard to see why it would be an issue now, years later.’

Jeremy’s long fingers fanned through the air. ‘Unless someone from the family ran into Max.’

‘Bearing a grudge is one thing, but would you really kill someone over it?’ Meredith wondered aloud.

Jeremy tilted his head and crinkled his nose, suggesting he wouldn’t, and yet Meredith knew murder was often irrational. Road rage incidents between random strangers could rapidly escalate to murder, let alone when acrimony festered between people with scores to settle.

She asked about contact details for the family and Jeremy said, ‘There’s still a listing in the phone directory under B. Bakkour. Members of the family might be living there.’

Scanning the other entries on the summary she asked, ‘What’s the next controversy, the waterskiing?’

Meredith was already aware that the council was in the process of reviewing the recreational uses of the reservoir and the surrounding bushland. Waterskiing and mountain bike riding were the two most contentious activities up for re-evaluation.

‘I printed out Max’s submission to the inquiry, and there’s a link in the summary to the other submissions online if you want to look at any of them,’ said Jeremy, handing her the stapled pages.

Meredith flicked through Max’s submission, noting diagrams of the shoreline of the reservoir and scientific terminology that was beyond her grasp. She checked his contact details on the title page. ‘It looks like he’s submitted this as a private citizen, nothing to do with his employment at the hydraulics laboratory.’

‘I’ve also included links to articles which mentioned Max as one of the environmental activists who clashed with the waterskiiers at the reservoir,’ said Jeremy.

‘Good. Do you know what stage the council’s review is up to?’

‘Submissions closed in February and now the council has to produce a report. I rang them but the officer I spoke to didn’t have a date yet, just said before the end of the year.’

‘Anything else significant?’ said Meredith.

‘I found some other issues, but I couldn’t see who would be aggrieved.’

‘What’s this one – dredging?’ Meredith pointed to an item in the summary. ‘Not in the reservoir, surely?’ She avidly followed any items in the local press affecting the reservoir.

‘No, at Ferny Creek, where residents were complaining about stagnant water and mosquitoes. Max’s tests at the hydraulics lab confirmed the velocity of the creek was at a ten-year low. He supported the residents, and the state government agreed to share the cost of dredging with the council.’

‘Did anyone oppose it?’

‘Only some of the Bellwater councillors who wanted Strathdene Council to contribute because the creek runs through its territory too.’

‘I can’t imagine a councillor getting so worked up they’d blame Max,’ said Meredith.

‘But maybe you’ll see something I missed on one of the issues.’

‘I’ll have a good look.’

Jeremy patted the summary. ‘I’ll email you an electronic copy too.’

‘Great. Have you had your lunch?’ asked Meredith with motherly concern.

‘Not yet.’ Jeremy rolled the chair back to the other side of the desk.

‘Have a decent break. Don’t worry about Brian.’

She watched Jeremy go and realised how little she knew of his personal life, beyond his university studies and the likelihood that he lived at home. Although he was clearly of Chinese heritage, the nasal edge to some of his words suggested he’d been to school in Australia.

Unwrapping her home-made sandwiches, Meredith ate while looking through Jeremy’s summary about Max Linton, clicking on the links to articles and reports. A hard nub of crust got stuck in the back of her throat, reminding her that she had to chew before swallowing.

Time was getting away. She wanted to start making calls and seeing people as soon as possible. The police might pounce and charge Warren with murder any day.

Her first phone call was to the Southern Districts Waterskiing Association. The president and vice-president didn’t answer the numbers given on the website but Meredith got hold of the club secretary who confirmed the waterskiiers met at the reservoir every Saturday until the midwinter break. ‘Hopefully for years to come,’ he said, ‘Despite the council’s review.’

Next she considered calling the Bakkour household. Procrastinating, she rehearsed different opening lines which all sounded feeble, and swigged from her water bottle as her throat started to constrict. Then she took the plunge and dialled the number, deciding it was unlikely someone would be at home in the middle of the afternoon anyway.

‘Hello?’ said a groggy voice. When Meredith hesitated, the speaker added: ‘Jason here.’

Jason Bakkour was identified in the news reports as the son of Bill, the man who died after exposure to stormwater.

Meredith introduced herself and stammered as she explained why she was calling. ‘I-I’ve been reading about the flash flood and the council’s handling of the matter. I’m very interested in what happened and wondered if you’d be willing to answer a f-few questions.’

‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ he said, despite the quiet in the background and the sluggishness of his voice which gave the impression of a post-lunch snooze rather than a hive of activity.

‘That’s okay, not right now. I was thinking of later on. How about in a few hours, if I dropped by after work?’

‘I can’t really see the point.’ His voice had the flat monotone of defeat.

‘I know it must be difficult and the loss of your father will never go away, but sometimes it helps to talk to someone with a different perspective.’

‘I’m trying to put the past behind me, not drag it up.’

‘Seriously, I’d like to hear your side of it.’

The pause expanded as his mind ticked over.

‘A mate of mine was supposed to be coming round tonight to watch the footy. Can I just see if I can hold him off till later?’

‘Sure.’

She thought it was a ruse, that Jason wouldn’t call back. But he did and he agreed to see her.

*          *          *

It was dark by the time Meredith arrived in Bardia Crescent. The dandelion weeds brushed her ankles as she stepped cautiously along the uneven concrete path. The house was two storey, greyish white brick, and dated by decorative features from the seventies like ornamental brown shutters and a panel of amber bottle-glass next to the front door.

Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” seeped out of the windows as Meredith pressed the door bell. The music dipped in volume and the door was opened by a man who looked about forty, curly hair, unshaven, wearing faded jeans and a black top with racing stripes down its long sleeves. Jason Bakkour was an older, heavier version of the dejected son pictured in the Bellwater Register, staring grimly at the reader while holding a framed photo of his dead father.

Inside the living room, layers of clothes were tossed over the end of the sofa and sports pages were strewn on the grubby carpet. The yeasty smell of beer rose from a couple of empty stubbies which sat with a wooden bowl of peanut shells on the coffee table. Meredith also detected stale cigarette smoke but couldn’t see an ashtray.

Jason gazed around the room, as if for the first time in ages. ‘Excuse the mess,’ he said and flopped into a recliner covered in knobbly oatmeal fabric.

Meredith checked for food stains before perching on the edge of the sofa in her good office suit.

‘We’re still deciding what to do with the place now Mum’s gone,’ said Jason.

‘Gone?’ echoed Meredith. Mr Bakkour’s widow had not looked much older than her sixties in the newspaper articles.

‘After Dad went, it was like she lost her bearings, you could see the energy slipping away. Her life revolved around him.’

Jason didn’t volunteer the cause of his mother’s death and Meredith didn’t want to pry. ‘When was this?’ she asked.

He closed his eyes to think. ‘About a year and a half ago. It’s gone so quickly.’

‘I’m sorry, I had no idea. So you’re staying on here?’

‘More or less.’

Meredith searched his face and waited for a further explanation.

‘My sister’s overseas. Singapore. Her husband’s posted there for his job. But his contract is up soon, so we’ll deal with the house when they get back.’

‘I hope it all works out.’

He kneaded the arm of the recliner. ‘I guess things will, eventually. It’s just hard getting back to normal, you know?’

She nodded and let the air settle before embarking on the difficult topic of the grievance with Bellwater Council. ‘I’m interested in the legal action your family started, but the media reports stopped referring to it.’

‘Sorry, I’ve gone a bit foggy about what you said on the phone.’ A light flickered in his brain. ‘You’re a solicitor, right?’

‘From Valenti and Associates. Meredith Renford,’ she confirmed.

‘I’ve heard of them. And why do you want to get involved in this?’

‘In terms of your father’s death, I suppose I’m coming from a social justice or public interest perspective, as a local resident worried about the environment and whether there’s been a cover-up.’

As she hoped, Jason looked bamboozled by the onslaught of words. ‘Fair enough, except now I’ve forgotten what you just asked me.’

‘The legal action your family commenced, did you continue with it?’

‘No, we had to drop it because the costs were blowing out and it wasn’t worth the stress on Mum.’ His face darkened as he continued. ‘The lawyers offered a “no win, no fee” deal, but that only covered their charges, not the stack of scientific and medical reports we needed which were bloody expensive.’

‘Didn’t the lawyers explain that?’ asked Meredith.

‘Not upfront. We didn’t realise the case would turn into a battle of the eggheads.’

‘What law firm was it, out of interest?’

‘Huntley Kroll Spry.’

Not a firm she held in high esteem. She knew Oliver Kroll from the Chamber of Commerce meetings and he was the sort of smooth-talking salesman who gave the profession a bad name, impressing clients at the outset but letting them down in the end.

‘If you want a second opinion, I’d be happy to read the material in case anything’s been missed,’ she said.

Jason ran splayed fingers through his curly hair. ‘Geez, it’s all in boxes in the garage. Don’t know if we can stand any more lawyers, no offence to you. There’s a lot of pain in dredging it up. I’ll see what my sister says when she gets back.’

‘That’s okay. No pressure.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer. But maybe karma has sorted it out so we don’t need to.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘Maybe Linton got what was coming to him from someone he crossed. Unless it was just his unlucky day, totally at random, and what are the chances of that?’ said Jason.

Meredith decided to play innocent and asked, ‘Did you have any contact with Mr Linton when he worked at the council at the time of your father’s accident?’

Jason nodded slowly. ‘He wrote a report that said the council shouldn’t have to accept any responsibility for what happened. I wasn’t too impressed and rang him up to tell him so.’

‘I can understand you being frustrated.’

‘Anyone could see the stormwater from the flash flood caused Dad’s death. We had the water tested and it was toxic. There should’ve been a fence, or at least warning signs.’ Jason rubbed his forehead, stretching the pallid skin. ‘Okay, so he had a few health issues, but nothing that would’ve killed him in a week. The council and Linton only cared about covering their arses.’

Meredith’s heels dug into the carpet as she recalled the newspaper reports which said Jason made abusive phone calls to Max at the council, then waited for him one day after work and shoved him against a wall. Jason vowed he would get him, no matter how long it took.

She struggled to find a delicate way of putting the next question: ‘How did you come to be charged with assault back then?’

Jason’s eyes flashed and he suddenly leant forward. ‘You knew all along. Did the cops send you?’

‘No, no, of course not. I’m just trying to understand what happened.’

‘So much for being on our side.’

She held up her hands in surrender. ‘I’m not taking sides, I need to be impartial.’

‘Funny way of showing it.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She stared at a small fold on the knee of her skirt and resisted the impulse to smooth it out.

‘Look, I was stupid,’ said Jason. ‘I was a bit younger then and very pissed off. I took it out on Linton because he was being a smart arse. These days I don’t think I’d be so aggro.’

‘You didn’t bear a grudge?’

His eyes flared again momentarily, before dimming as he sank into the recliner. ‘I probably did, but eventually I realised it wasn’t going to bring Dad back.’

‘Had you seen Mr Linton around Bellwater in the past few years?’

His gaze swung down to the floor. ‘Nope. Why would I wait this long to get my revenge?’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I’ve never met Mr Linton, so I have to rely on what other people tell me, and I’m getting the impression he had a tendency to rub people up the wrong way.’

‘You can say that again. He was pretty arrogant, considering I’d just lost my father. Maybe he finally pushed someone too far. Someone who didn’t back down like my family did. But it sure as hell wasn’t me.’

Meredith could see she wasn’t going to get any further. She inched up from her seat. ‘I should let you get on with your footy night.’

As they moved to the door, Jason swung his arms with self-conscious nonchalance. ‘Do you think the cops have any leads?’

‘It might be a bit early yet. They’re still making preliminary inquiries.’ She didn’t want to turn the focus onto her client, Warren Connor.

‘Right, right.’ Jason leaned casually against the door as he held it open.

‘Thanks very much for your time,’ said Meredith.

‘No worries.’

The door clicked behind her, and as she crossed the gritty landing she heard the deadlock thunk.

*          *          *

Jason waited a few hours to make the call, later that night, when he felt up to it. No mate of his had been coming to watch the footy.

‘How did it go?’ said a well-spoken, male voice.

‘Okay.’

‘What did the solicitor want to know?’

‘She mostly asked about my Dad’s death and why we dropped the court action.’

‘Did she mention me?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Good. What else did she say?’

Jason gave more details, his replies becoming shorter and his voice dwindling to almost a whisper.

‘Don’t sound so disheartened. Max has gone, isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘I didn’t ask for that.’

‘No love lost, surely. Just look at your bank account, that’ll make you feel better.’

Jason gave a snuffle of acceptance.

‘I’ll be keeping tabs on this nosy lawyer,’ said the man.

‘I wouldn’t want her to get into trouble for talking to me.’

‘Don’t worry, you just drive that little gravy train of yours, helping old people. Any likely candidates on the horizon?’

‘There’s a woman I’ve dropped off a few times,’ said Jason. ‘I think she might live alone. I’ve offered to carry her shopping bags to the door, to try and get to know more about her.’

‘Excellent work. Reach out to her, be creative. Tell her to sit up the front because fumes sometimes leak from the engine at the back,’ he suggested. ‘It’s only small isn’t it, the community bus?’

‘Twenty one seater.’

Jason eyed the stubby bottles on the coffee table and tried to remember how many were left in the carton. He needed a drink. Or two.

‘And thanks for bringing the lawyer to my attention. I do appreciate it,’ said the silken voice.

‘Not a problem.’

After the call, it was too quiet. Jason switched on Led Zeppelin again, to help fill the void.

Chapter 7

The Bellwater Valley contained a series of creeks running downhill from the catchment area and along the floodplain, like the lines on an outstretched palm. Two of the larger creeks were dammed at the start of the twentieth century in creating the reservoir. It provided a reliable supply of fresh water to the outer southern suburbs, and some of the marshy land beyond the dam was drained and turned into market gardens.

In the nineteen fifties, when the Bellwater district was connected to the main city water supply, the focus of the reservoir became recreational and the government protected large tracts of the surrounding bushland from post-war construction.

The creek which continued on the ‘dry’ side of the dam, Serpentine Creek, meandered through residential and commercial areas, and was polluted by chemical spillages from light industry, run-off from building works, illegal dumping, and pesticides leaking from the golf course and playing fields.

Meredith had criss-crossed the district over the years on outings with her family, her school, and the Girl Guides, but she had never fully grasped how all the segments of the valley fitted together and how each creek and stream interconnected.

On Saturday, Meredith traced the waterways as she drove from Bellwater Heights down to the nearby suburb of Dunraven where Bill Bakkour’s accident happened, intent on re-imagining it for herself. Media reports had identified the street and she’d printed an enlarged map of the location from the internet.

She parked her Chrysler PT Cruiser Classic on the shoulder of the road and carried a plastic sleeve with the map and articles in it as she walked down the grass verge to the culvert under the road. The drain, which emptied into a concrete channel, was shown in the news reports as a big open pipe, but it had since been covered with a mesh grille.

To one side of the culvert, a council sign warned of flash flooding and polluted water. The sign looked relatively new, with unfaded lettering on a clean white background. In the wake of the accident there had been debate about the lack of signage and barriers, and Meredith realised that the council must have decided to take precautions against future liability claims despite denying any duty to warn the public.

The news reports highlighted the unfortunate chain of events, how Bill Bakkour had relented to the whining of his fox terrier, Rocket, to be taken out for a walk in an extended break in the heavy rain which had fallen for days. Meredith looked back towards the road and imagined their figures approaching, the rotund man puffing as he turned from the footpath onto the start of the walkway, the little dog off its leash and trotting ahead.

The rain started sprinkling again, and Bill and Rocket took shelter under a tree, waiting for it to pass. A rumble of thunder came like a warning before a fork of lightning dazzled the sky with a mighty crack. Meredith could picture it, so close that it seemed to strike just beyond the shoulder of the embankment.

The lightning spooked Rocket who panicked, zooming down the slope. Bill called the dog to no avail and hurried after it. Rocket zig-zagged across the soggy grass, eluding his master, and leapt over the concrete channel into what must have appeared to be a safe hiding place in the drain, as the rain turned white and teeming, drenching Bill’s clothes.

Bill stepped into the channel and tried to coax Rocket out of the drain. The dog retreated further up the pipe and Bill leaned forward to stand on the rim of the drain for support but slipped, falling backwards into the channel.

A rushing sound became a roar, prompting the dog to shoot out of the dark tunnel to safety, over the prone and squirming body of Bill. The sound was not thunder, but the echo of water rolling down the network of pipes, gathering speed from higher up the valley. Bill struggled to get up and was knocked down again by the torrent sweeping over him. Later he told his family that he thought he swallowed some of the tainted water.

The day after the flash flood incident, Bill’s legs broke out in a rash and he felt nauseous. His wife took him to a local general practitioner who diagnosed a skin infection and prescribed an anti-bacterial ointment. Bill’s condition worsened: swollen lumps rose on his calves, he developed a fever and his mobility and speech became slower. The doctor arranged a referral to the hospital, where Bill was admitted that evening, but a specialist did not attend until the morning, by which time the condition had entered the bloodstream. Intravenous antibiotics were administered but Bill died of blood poisoning. The official cause of death according to the autopsy was septic shock.

Meredith paced the cushioned grass, comparing the quiet scene in front of her with the newpaper images of storm debris and the sad faces of Bill’s family, before putting away the articles.

Resuming her tour of the valley, Meredith arrived at the reservoir late in the morning and found a spot in the crowded main car park. The paths were busy with joggers and kids riding scooters. Several families already occupied the picnic huts near the barbecue area, with esky lids askew and tables set in readiness for lunch. One of the huts was decorated with curly multi-coloured streamers and ‘happy birthday’ balloons.

Crossing the grass towards the water, Meredith’s attention was diverted under the she-oaks by a senior lady, wrapped in woolly layers despite the pleasantly mild air, feeding ducks and geese with crusts from a bread bag.

The sun glared between the clouds and its reflection made the water look from a distance like shiny pewter. Continuing ahead, Meredith folded her arms to brace herself as she approached the shore. Up close, the shallow water was reddish, tea-tinted. It lapped with a harmless shushing, but Meredith regarded it as poisonous.

She stared at the stretch where her childhood had been shattered. Pictured the splashing, the sinking, the body reeled in.

Her mind focussed on conjuring the fallen figure, as time and history shrank. Rewinding numb regrets, offering tidings of respect, following the well-worn pattern of her visits.

Sounds bounced over the water, interrupting her trance, and Meredith looked up to see two figures in bright kayaks, one yellow, one orange, on the other side of the lake, paddling from the direction of the bend in the shoreline, rounding a thick crop of reeds.

The sight of the kayaks triggered in her memory the flash of an orange canoe and she turned her back abruptly and started to march away, short of breath. But the rise and fall of teenage boys’ voices skimmed across the surface, reaching her ears, and she stopped again. The high-spirited tone of their exchange was clear and she could make out some of the words. ‘Come here…look at this!’

Warren Connor was right, the voices echoed around the bowl of the reservoir. In the stillness of night he would have been able to hear people talking loudly or quarrelling near the edge of the memorial park from the opposite side.

Meredith walked to the distant end of the grassed area as the buzz of a speedboat ignited further up the reservoir. She continued past the children’s playground and the toilet block, onto the second car park where the waterskiiers’ cars monopolised the spaces. Near the shore were a couple of boat sheds and a concrete ramp sloping down to the water. Along the sand, a cluster of people sat on folding chairs and towels: the club members and their families. Meredith held back from breaking the spell that hovered over the group as they gazed at the water.

The speedboat made a wide curve, churning the surface of the upper reservoir white. The skiier, wearing board shorts and a black padded flotation vest, leant close to the water as he was towed, looking like he might topple over at any second, and his skis sent up an arc of spray.

Meredith was transfixed by the spectacle of a person in synchronised motion with the aquatic environment. It didn’t look real, plumes flaring with such speed, more like a radio-controlled model and the skiier a statuette, getting smaller as the boat carved its course away from her.

The assembled group turned to stare at Meredith crunching across the ground into their domain. She had worn casual gear – cargo pants, sneakers and a plain long-sleeved top – trying not to stick out. Her sunglasses deflected the glare and concealed her discomfort at approaching a bunch of strangers who were water enthusiasts.

She headed for a woman with a toddler and asked if the president of the waterskiing association was around. The woman pointed to a muscular, stocky man standing on the shoreline, watching the speedboat. ‘That’s him there, Brett Dunkley.’

Meredith took a couple of steps in his direction while the others were mesmerised by the progress of the speedboat towards a white jumping ramp that floated in the deep green open water. The boat veered sideways at what seemed like the last moment to allow the skiier to catapult up the ramp and launch into the sky. Meredith stopped and held her breath. The skiier glided, becoming lopsided, as if he might fall, then landed wobbily and resumed furrowing the lake. Brett Dunkley gave a ‘woo-hoo’ and punched the air.

Meredith skulked behind him, noticing the hairy shoulders that were exposed by his tank top, before stepping into view. She introduced herself as a lawyer representing a suspect in the murder of Max Linton, a name that brought a frown to Brett’s face.

‘I’m trying to find out what sort of a person Max was,’ said Meredith.

‘Don’t speak ill of the dead, isn’t that what they say?’ Brushing his wavy hair from his eyes, Brett looked at her more keenly.

‘Did you know Max?’ she asked.

‘Listen, I understand people being passionate about what they believe in, but really, the guy was a fanatic.’

‘In what sense?’

‘He used to video us. Reckoned we were inside the five metre zone.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Power boats have to remain five metres or more from the banks of the reservoir. Max said the waterskiing was damaging the shoreline, told us he was going to report us to the council and get us banned.’

‘What did you think of that?’

‘Not too impressed. I thought he probably had contacts in local politics. Wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘And the other club members felt the same?’

‘Absolutely. Our club’s being going for sixty years.’

Meredith had seen old photos in local history books, with waterskiiers in pyramid formation, men in their swimming trunks on skis and women in bathing suits balancing on their shoulders.

Brett continued, ‘If we’re causing any damage to the reservoir I reckon it’d be more obvious by now.’

‘Did your club put in a submission to the council’s inquiry?’

‘Sure did. We even said we’d be willing to consider a compromise like reducing the number of weekends of skiing, but banning it outright is just not on. A lot of us in the club are training for competitions. It would be a real hassle to go elsewhere. Imagine if someone wanted to dig up the cricket pitches and footy fields to turn them back into bush? It’s ridiculous.’

As his hands curled into fists, Meredith could picture Brett Dunkley becoming aggressive. Put him at loggerheads with Max Linton, who was equally opinionated, and there’d be sparks. Stabbing someone seemed an extreme reaction, but anything was possible if an argument got out of hand.

Another man who’d been standing nearby, listening in on the conversation, approached from the other side of Brett. He had similar facial features and when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was almost identical. They had to be relatives – brothers or cousins. ‘Have you told her about the boat?’ the man asked Brett.

Meredith raised her eyebrows, inviting an explanation.

‘Someone broke into the shed where we store our speedboat. The cops reckoned it was probably bored teenagers or a gang but we’re not convinced,’ said Brett.

Meredith couldn’t imagine a professional like Max stooping to such a level.

The other man chipped in. ‘Kids trash things and a gang would spray their tags, but this person knew what they were doing and buggered the motor. Like sending us a message to stop using the boat.’

‘I slept in the shed a couple of nights, to see if anyone came back but they didn’t,’ added Brett.

Meredith’s mind jumped ahead with the information. She pictured Max snooping around the boat shed at night time. Brett, giving chase in the dark, waved a knife as a warning, and an accidental slash turned out to be fatal.

The speedboat pulled up parallel to the shore, the motor idling as it waited for a changeover of skiiers. Before she left, Meredith asked the two men whether they had ever seen someone matching Warren Connor’s description wandering around the reservoir but they hadn’t.

As she reached the main car park Meredith remembered the ranger’s office, near the boom gate. It was too good an opportunity to miss; she wanted to ask him about Warren.

Concrete steps led up to the office. The door was shut but she opened the flyscreen, knocked and waited for a couple of minutes. There were no sounds from within or flickers of movement that she could detect through the angled blinds in the front window.

Meredith explored further up the yard, observing a water tank and a storage area where, under corrugated plastic roofing, divided bays held bark chips, red gravel, treated logs and other supplies. Behind green netting were trays of native seedlings, while at the far end was a shed with a roller door.

Returning to the entrance of the yard, she realised the ranger’s ute would usually be parked under the carport, confirming that he was out.

On the way home, Meredith stopped at Farm Fresh for some supplies. Pushing a trolley around, she stocked up on fruit and vegetables before proceeding to the bread section and the deli. At the display cabinets in the deli she spotted the familiar figure of Dan Serovic.

Meredith crept closer, watching him request some lamb and rosemary sausages. Eventually he felt her presence and turned, finding it was too late to escape. She knew from the gulping motion of his fat neck that he’d received the letter Adriana had sent.

In a beat he gathered his composure and broke into a boyish grin, declaring with cheerful loudness, ‘See, with my wife sick I even have to do the shopping.’

The deli assistant handed over the parcel wrapped in butcher’s paper and Dan dropped it into his plastic basket.

‘How is she?’ asked Meredith.

‘It’s her heart. They put in a stent, to open a blocked artery.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Meredith’s gaze fell on the package of cholesterol-laden sausages which she hoped he didn’t intend sharing with Mrs Serovic.

‘She can’t take any more stress,’ he added.

‘Is she in hospital?’

‘She’s home now.’

‘That’s good.’ Meredith glanced along the bright cabinet full of deli goods before meeting his eye. ‘Have you had a chance to read the letter?’

‘I’ll come to see you next week.’

Meredith nodded. ‘It’s important to decide what you want to do.’

‘I’m still getting quotes from a handyman for a sound-proof cover on the air-con unit and advice from the council about what they’ll accept. It’s complicated. On the one hand they’re telling me to fix it, but they need to approve the work and do another inspection. I don’t want to be held responsible if they’re causing the delay.’

‘Make sure you keep a record of your communications – letters, notes of phone calls – to prove you’re negotiating with the council. Something to show the court on the next occasion.’

‘The other alternative is to buy a quieter air-con unit, but geez, the price of those things, I reckon it would cost more than the legal fees. Makes me wonder if I should call the council’s bluff and fight it,’ said Dan.

‘If you lost, you’d risk being hit with the council’s costs too, so fixing the problem could turn out to be cheaper.’

‘The joke is, these neighbours who complain about me, they’re no angels. Their son plays the drums and since this blew up he’s been practising later and later at night. I reckon his parents have told him to do it deliberately, to get back at me.’

‘You can lodge a complaint with the council about that if you want, but it’s a separate issue. It’s not an answer to their complaint about your air-conditioner.’

‘Round and round it goes.’ He edged away with his basket. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Meredith turned her attention to the display of cold meats, a jumble of large lumps which were kept unsliced until deli assistants carried out each customer’s order, slowing down the process of getting served. By the time she reached the checkouts, Dan Serovic had left the store.

Chapter 8

Outside the courthouse, the young man shook Meredith’s hand. He was delighted to emerge from the sentencing with no conviction recorded for low-range drink driving. It meant holding onto his job as a courier.

‘Thanks again, you’re a lifesaver.’

‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’ It was hard to be overjoyed at putting a drink-driver back on the streets.

The young man remained grinning at her as he started to move away in the breeze. Meredith nodded and smiled, holding the court file in one hand and her hair with the other, to stop any more strands flying across her face and sticking to her lipstick.

During the exchange she was well aware of Detective Sergeant Rory Driscoll pacing in his suit at the bottom of the steps, mobile phone wedged against his ear while he kept her in his sights. Meredith had been expecting a visit from him as the officer-in-charge of the Linton murder investigation, and a prowling-leopard ambush was his style.

The breeze was unrelenting and Meredith decided she had to risk descending the steps in her A-line skirt and high heels, worried the breeze would flip her skirt up and flash her underpants. So she held the file low on her thigh in an attempt to keep the skirt in place.

Every time Meredith saw Rory Driscoll he seemed a little heavier, as if the gym sessions weren’t enough to absorb the junk food anymore. Grey hairs were also sneaking into his sideburns. But he still had the dark, striking features of a movie tough guy and it annoyed her that the signals in her brain became scrambled when she looked at him.

‘Another happy customer,’ said Rory, jutting his chin in the direction of the young man. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t want to take you to lunch.’

‘He’s just relieved to keep his licence.’

‘How about lunch with me?’ His voice was warm wax.

‘I’ve got to get back to the office.’

‘You have to eat lunch, don’t you? You’re looking too thin.’

Bastard. Such a cheap shot, making her feel insecure with a physical comment.

Meredith returned serve: ‘Whereas you’ll have to buy a bigger suit soon. Are you an XL yet?’

Rory smiled, glad she was playing. ‘Here’s your chance to make sure I eat something healthy for lunch.’

‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked.

‘Anywhere you want. You say and I’ll pay.’

‘Okay. How about Shalini’s?’ she said, trying to maintain an earnest expression.

‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Indian place, around the corner from the station.’

‘Indian’s good. Lead the way.’

As they crossed the road, Meredith said, ‘This is obviously about more than lunch.’

‘We need to have a chat about Warren Connor. Compare notes.’

‘Ever heard of the telephone?’

‘I wanted to sit down face to face. Miss Valenti kindly pointed me in the right direction.’

‘Remind me to kill her when I get back to the office,’ said Meredith. But she couldn’t blame Adriana. Rory had a combination of authority and charm that worked wonders in getting information out of people, especially women.

Inside Shalini’s Kitchen, chunky tables were teamed with benches instead of chairs. Meredith chose a bench along the wall, so she could rest on the shiny orange and purple cushions embroidered with golden thread. A poster of the Hindu elephant deity with four arms adorned the wall above her. Writing that looked like sanskrit at the bottom of the poster was followed by an English translation: Ganesha, remover of obstacles.

It was early for lunch. A bunch of uni students at another table talked across their clutter of computer tablets and mobile phones. An Indian mother, shopping bags dragging on one arm and a child on the other, chatted to the wife of the proprietor.

Rory shifted awkwardly, in danger of slipping off his narrow bench as he turned the menu over and back again, looking for the meat dishes.

Meredith bit her lip, struggling to keep a straight face until the penny dropped.

‘I get it,’ said Rory. ‘Vegetarian. You brought me here for punishment.’

‘It’s for your own good,’ she smirked.

‘Maybe I’ll just sit and watch you eat something.’

‘No, the deal is you’ve got to sample the menu if you want to ask me any questions.’

Eventually Meredith ordered several dishes for them to share: beetroot dip with naan bread, dhokla on carrot salad, pan-fried eggplant, and potato and pea samosa with raita.

‘I thought you might be interested in hearing about the autopsy, before the food arrives.’

‘Definitely.’

Rory pointed at the cutlery on the table. ‘Let’s start with the knife.’

‘The murder weapon.’

‘Yes. Max Linton was stabbed twice to the chest. The size of the wounds were consistent with a filleting or boning knife with a narrow blade. None of the knives among Warren Connor’s belongings at the camp site were the right sort.’

‘Surely he’d get rid of the knife. Throw it in the water or bury it.’

‘We’ve had a team searching the area, divers in the lake, but it’s a needle in a haystack situation,’ said Rory. ‘At least we know he had easy access to that type of knife.’

‘Wouldn’t everyone?’ said Meredith.

‘It’s the kind of knife a chef might use.’

‘But Warren isn’t a chef.’

‘He works in a kitchen, though, doesn’t he?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Her mind found it difficult to flick back through the conversations she’d had with Warren while Rory was talking.

‘He volunteers at the charity kitchen run by St Cuthbert’s church. It feeds the homeless and elderly and anyone else who’s hard up. I checked with the co-ordinator and she said Connor does a shift there each week, sometimes two.’

‘When he mentioned St Cuthbert’s to me, I assumed he was a customer,’ said Meredith.

‘Some people start as customers and become volunteers. The co-ordinator said Connor came along with one of the blokes who lives at the same place as him.’

A basket of naan bread and a bowl of maroon-coloured dip intervened, delivered by an Indian youth wearing a cowboy shirt complete with piping and pearly buttons. Rory reached for the bread, tearing off a strip and dunking it into the dip. ‘What flavour’s this again?’

‘Beetroot and mint,’ said Meredith, using a butter knife to spread some dip onto a segment of bread rather than risk fragments of bread falling into the dip.

As she wiped the blade clean on the bread, Meredith pictured Max Linton fighting off a shadowy attacker. ‘Any defensive wounds on Max?’

‘Not on his hands. But the direction of the stab wounds indicates some twisting like he was trying to turn away or resist. There were traces of alprazolam in his system, so possibly he was a bit woozy, which allowed a single attacker to overpower him, or there might’ve been a co-offender helping to hold him.’

‘What’s the drug?’

‘A tranquilliser. Brand name, Xanax.’ Rory chewed a chunk of naan before continuing. ‘There was also some water in the lungs, which supports the theory that he struggled. Or he was left in the water when he wasn’t quite dead.’

Meredith’s chest went tight at the sensation of water in her lungs, at the idea of breathing it in. ‘Excuse me,’ she coughed. ‘Either way it means he was killed at the reservoir, not moved there after being killed elsewhere, doesn’t it?’ The scenario fitted with Warren’s description of hearing raised voices coming from the memorial park.

‘Correct,’ said Rory.

‘At the Anzac service when I saw Max’s body on the shore, his legs were in the water but not his head. Obviously he wouldn’t be breathing water in that position. There’s no tide going in and out.’

‘So he managed to crawl forward before collapsing,’ suggested Rory. ‘Like I said, he didn’t die instantly and there might’ve been a struggle. We know he died from the stab wounds, not from drowning.’

Meredith pictured the stain, brownish red on the wet shore, and quivers ran up her ribcage. She sat upright as though she was adjusting her posture.

The hot food arrived. Rory picked up a samosa and bit it in half. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he tried to chew rapidly and exhale at the same time.

‘Too hot?’ she asked.

His toffee-brown eyes bulged in the affirmative.

They ate for a while and Meredith realised she hadn’t asked the estimated time of death.

‘Six to eight hours before the body was found at dawn, so from ten thirty till around midnight,’ said Rory.

Meredith remembered something as she rolled up a slice of eggplant and cut it in half. ‘Was Max Linton’s wallet found on him?’

‘Yes, with money still in it, which seems to rule out robbery as a motive.’

‘I wonder what Max was doing there at that time of night?’ Her thoughts roamed in search of some sort of environmental activity that Max could have been monitoring. Bonfire parties? Nocturnal mountain bike riding?

‘My bet is that he tried to pick up the killer or vice versa and it went wrong.’ Rory stabbed another samosa but delayed biting into it.

‘As in a gay pick up? Have you seen Warren Connor? He looks like a dero.’

‘It takes all types. The reservoir’s a well-known beat at night, especially the toilets.’

‘That’s quite a distance into the park. Max would have to leave his car outside the boom gate and walk the rest of the way in darkness.’

‘Part of the attraction, a secluded spot.’

Meredith lowered her fork with the curl of eggplant uneaten. ‘Hang on. Was Max’s car found outside?’

Rory shook his head. ‘Sometimes these guys go cruising in pairs. He could’ve got a lift there with another guy who panicked and took off.’

Meredith pictured the toilet block. On a summer’s day there was a busy procession of people of all ages using the facilities, parents taking their kids inside, people having showers and changing into or out of their cossies. How different it must be under the cover of darkness.

‘But the toilet block’s much further up from where the body was found.’

‘So Linton tried to get away, there was a chase and he was brought down.’

‘I’m confused. Is Warren supposed to be the one soliciting who goes psycho when he’s rejected, or is he propositioned and reacts so angrily he kills? My impression of Warren is that he retreats into the bush to get away from people.’

‘I don’t think it’s such a stretch of the imagination. Hermit. Loner. Has he said anything to hint at being gay?’

‘No, he’s very guarded, but he did let on that he was married once.’

‘Doesn’t prove anything. Plenty of married blokes cross the line.’

Meredith’s brain was starting to hurt. She stared at the table, trying to find order in the patterns of the woodgrain. ‘Let’s stick to what we know, okay? Warren was very reluctant to talk about anything personal, even to help him get bail. But he was adamant that he was on the opposite side of the reservoir when the incident occurred.’

‘That’s interesting, provided he can back it up. If you could encourage him to go on the record. Have a word to him. He’s more likely to listen to you,’ said Rory.

‘You’re asking me to persuade him to make a statement?’

‘It’s an opportunity to tell his side of the story.’

‘I don’t pressure clients. It’s up to them.’

‘But you’re there to advise them. All I’m saying is we should help each other out. Quid pro quo.’ It was the only Latin saying she’d ever heard him use.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ she said.

When they got up to leave, Meredith’s gaze travelled again to the poster of Ganesha while Rory paid the bill. The jewels in the elephant’s ears prompted her to remember the moment in court when Warren Connor pointed at the earring worn by the Legal Aid solicitor, Elliott Bergstrom. If anything, that seemed to indicate Warren was homophobic. Could he have lashed out if he thought Max was gay? If so, he must have lied about being on the other side of the reservoir at the time of the stabbing.

Rory stood outside the restaurant and seemed reluctant to let her go without achieving more. ‘I’m glad we had lunch. It’s been too long. We should keep the channels of communication open.’

Meredith nodded. A truck roared past, trailing fumes she tried not to breathe in.

‘It’s good you’re representing Connor instead of someone who doesn’t understand where I’m coming from,’ he continued.

Someone who doesn’t understand how hard you’ll push to get your own way, thought Meredith as she said, ‘Thanks.’

Staring into her eyes with an intensity that once melted her resistance, Rory added: ‘And you never know, you might even convert me to vegetarian food.’

Fat chance of that.

Meredith said she had an appointment with a client.

‘Speak soon,’ he said, and to her ears it sounded more ominous than friendly.

It was a competition with Detective Sergeant Driscoll; he would strive to win.

Marching onto the pedestrian crossing, treading firmly on each thick white stripe, Meredith resolved not to let him shift the balance and take control. There was a danger, in being thrown together on the Linton and Connor matters, of allowing the fascination to be re-ignited. But she knew he would ultimately be pulling the strings, and that wasn’t what she wanted.

Meredith had been decisive in ending their brief relationship and had no regrets. Just as well the tip-off had come early, before she got herself in any deeper.

Meredith replayed in her mind’s eye the scene from the prevous year when Lisa Kristov, a solicitor from the Director of Public Prosecutions, intercepted her outside the courthouse.

‘Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Lisa. I’m with the DPP.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen you around,’ said Meredith.

‘Do you have time for a quick word?’

Meredith assumed the discussion was going to be about a case.

‘I don’t mean to intrude,’ Lisa started, ‘But I have some information that might interest you. It’s to do with Rory Driscoll.’

Meredith felt a chill. ‘What about him?’

‘Did you know he used to go out with Kara Hodges?’

The thought occurred to Meredith that Lisa was a scorned woman picking a catfight. ‘Isn’t that his business?’ Meredith took a sideward step, intending to go around her interrogator.

‘Please, I’m trying to do you a favour.’

Meredith paused and let her continue.

‘Kara’s a state netballer if you haven’t heard of her.’

‘I know who she is.’ Tanned and blonde, she often featured in the Bellwater Register. Younger than Meredith, she was a more obvious match for Rory.

‘Since Kara dumped Rory for Mark Garland, the barrister, Rory’s been trying to get even by dating lawyers.’

Mark Garland was another local legend who had played first grade rugby union before qualifying as a lawyer and being called to the bar.

Meredith’s stomach churned with dread. She had found it difficult to believe when Rory started showing interest in her, asking her out for a drink after work. He was full of lively discussion and boyish enthusiasm, confident and persuasive. The attention was overwhelming. Doubts about his motives had hovered at the back of her mind but she kept pushing them away.

‘He even has a bet running with some of his detective mates about how many of us legal chicks they can get into bed. Whoever scores the most by the end of the year wins a slab of beer,’ said Lisa. ‘A female detective wised me up too late – I’d already fallen for it – and now I’ve heard he’s latched onto you. I don’t like to see good people get hurt.’

Meredith cleared her throat, and waited for the right words to come. The tree they were standing next to seemed to be leaning, the footpath tilting.

‘Just one more thing,’ added Lisa. ‘Has he ever tried to influence any of your cases?’

‘How do you mean, influence?’

‘He tried to pressure me into going easy on a drug dealer I was prosecuting. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s involved somehow with taking bribes or kickbacks.’

Meredith stood there stunned. It didn’t sound like Rory, going easy on crooks. She’d never seen anything suspicious, but then she hadn’t been close to him for long at that stage.

‘Watch out for him, that’s all.’ Lisa reached over and touched Meredith’s arm. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she added before clip-clopping away on white pumps.

For days Meredith didn’t phone Rory or return his calls to her mobile. But he knew her direct line at work and eventually she picked up the receiver and there he was.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked.

Meredith blurted it out before she changed her mind. ‘I’m not seeing you anymore.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s over.’

‘Didn’t we have a good thing going?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Come on, you can’t cut me off without giving me a reason.’

‘Okay. Answer this: would you have asked me out if I wasn’t a lawyer?’

There was a guilty pause. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘If I worked in some other job, like a bank teller or a shop assistant, would you be interested in me?’

‘We both work in the legal system. That’s how people meet.’

‘I made a mistake.’

‘What’s brought this on, all of a sudden?’ he asked.

She was close to saying she knew what he and his mates were up to, but didn’t want to risk exposing Lisa Kristov. ‘Don’t call me.’

And she hung up.

*          *          *

It took ages that afternoon for Meredith to focus on the tasks in front of her. As usual, once she was in the groove of a matter she didn’t want to stop. She stayed late to make up for the long lunch at Shalini’s Kitchen and the loss of concentration.

At home, after dinner and doing the dishes, she waged her usual battle with getting under the shower. The procrastination had itself become a ritual. Removing her make-up, cleansing her skin and brushing the tangles out of her hair were followed by attending to various little chores: ironing a blouse for work, checking if any of the bills left on the counter needed paying in the next few days, taking stock of the fridge and the pantry cupboard and writing a shopping list. Doing circuits of the loungeroom, she turned on the TV to catch the late news headlines before shutting it off again. She hovered at the bathroom door, did another lap of the interior of the townhouse and finally marched across the tiled floor of the bathroom to open the window wide in preparation for letting out the steam.

Meredith avoided looking directly at the shower recess as she used the toilet and began to peel off one item of clothing at a time. After hanging her clothes on the back of the bathroom door, she slid the towels along the rail to be easier to grab when she needed them later. Twisting the face washer in her hands, she paced outside the shower, steeling herself to swiftly open the door and reach in furtively to turn on the hot tap without wetting her arm.

Stepping into the recess, getting accustomed to the confined space, Meredith tested the water with her right foot. She let the drops climb slowly up that shin and then the other, humming a dirge-like tune to distract herself as she closed the shower door behind her. The sprinkles rose up her body but stopped at the neck where she swabbed the soapy flannel quickly. Even when she washed her hair, she wet it from the back and sides, never putting her face under the water.

That night, lying against the pillows with a novel fallen open beside her, Meredith let her memory rewind to the night at the reservoir with Rory.

It was his idea of a surprise on one of their early dates, as a change from happy hour at the pub, when she baulked at going to a fancy restaurant.

‘What should I wear?’ she had asked with trepidation on the phone.

‘Something casual. Jeans and joggers.’

Her tense shoulders relaxed. ‘Great.’

Rory picked her up in his four-wheel drive and she spotted an esky and a picnic hamper in the back, suggesting somewhere outdoors. The days were getting longer, with a golden haze brimming over the hills as they drove.

‘Are we going far?’ she asked.

‘No, not far.’

Once they were in the turning lane to Memorial Drive she knew their destination was the reservoir. Pin-pricks raced up her arms. He couldn’t have known what the place meant to her.

‘We seem to be heading to the reservoir,’ she said, her mouth suddenly dry.

‘I remember you said you liked nature and animals.’

She had said that, in the cushioned surrounds of the upstairs bar of the Surveyor’s Inn. He was attentive, with a good memory, appropriately for a detective.

‘But at this hour? It’ll be dark soon and I thought the reserve closes.’

‘The ranger is a mate of mine, so it’s cool.’

Rory pulled over to the side of the road at the boom gate. He insisted on lugging the hamper and esky, as well as his backpack, while allowing Meredith to carry a smaller shopping bag to the barbecue area.

Rory had thought of everything. Savouries, mains, accompaniments and drinks. White wine for her and beer for him.

As the sun sank behind the tree tops, they sat with their drinks, picking at pretzels and pistachio nuts. ‘Hope this is okay,’ he said. ‘It was the most casual idea I could think of.’

‘Very creative. Gives me a whole new perspective on the place.’

He pointed with his stubby bottle in the direction of the dam where the ranger was visible, returning from locking the gates on the walkway. ‘Do you mind if I take him a beer and say a quick cheerio?’

‘Go ahead,’ said Meredith.

Rory called out ‘Tyson’ and waved before jogging over. He had a surprisingly graceful stride for a big bloke. Meredith watched him and sipped her wine, thinking it would be a relief to have a partner who worked in the justice system and understood what she did for a living, unlike her family members.

When the light faded, Rory went to his backpack and brought out a compact, portable lantern which he switched on and hung from the cross-bar of the picnic hut to light their dinner.

‘Wow, camping has modernised since I was in the Girl Guides.’

‘It’s LED. And check this out.’ From a side pocket of the backpack he took a small remote control, no larger than a central locking device for a car, and adjusted the light from brighter to dimmer.

‘Very impressive.’

After fetching a tray of porterhouse steaks from the esky he ignited the gas barbecue next to the picnic hut. ‘How do you like your steak?’

‘Medium, please.’

As the steaks started to sizzle on the cooking plate, he arranged the other supplies on the picnic table: tubs of gourmet salads, dinner rolls, a squeeze bottle of tomato sauce and paper serviettes. Meredith helped by unloading the cutlery and plastic plates from the picnic set.

When they’d finished eating, Rory suggested meeting the locals. Meredith looked puzzled as he fetched a torch out of his bag. ‘Wildlife spotting. Up there,’ he pointed at the bushy hill behind the car park.

Good, the opposite of a moonlight stroll along the water.

Crossing the grass, he turned to her with the torch held under his chin and said in a spooky voice, ‘Be afraid, be very afraid.’

She laughed and took his hand.

Beyond the empty car park was a trail of stone steps leading to a lookout. The bush was alive with the chirping of crickets and the clear, lonely call of a tawny frogmouth. At the top of the first series of steps, Meredith and Rory followed a network of paths in what seemed like the direction of the bird’s call, aiming the torch at the lower branches of the gum trees, but they couldn’t see it. Instead a brushtail possum froze in the spotlight. It gazed at them sweetly with shining eyes, but eventually became bored and went on climbing, showing them its fat furry rump and thick tail.

They reached the lookout, marked by a border of ghostly sandstone blocks. In the darkness, the view was mostly a blank. Only some tiny lights twinkled off to the east: the nightlights of the hydraulics lab and the houses leading back towards the centre of Bellwater. Meredith felt the tension between them as they breathed, their bodies next to each other, and thought Rory might put his arm around her. Instead he said, ‘It looks peaceful from up here, but I can’t help thinking somewhere a crime’s being committed. Come on, back to civilisation.’

On the way down, they heard the ‘woo-hoo’ call again and wandered off the path a short distance, crackling over the leaves towards where they thought the sound was coming from. The beating of big wings on the air signalled a creature disturbed, as Rory flashed the torch and caught the flutter of mottled plumage departing through the distant branches.

‘Was it the tawny frogmouth?’ Meredith strained to see.

‘The wingspan looked too great. I think it might’ve been an owl.’

Returning to the path, they descended the steps again. Meredith hesitated before taking each step, but at one point misjudged the distance, stumbling into Rory’s back. He spun around and caught her securely, the torch in one hand knocking against her hip. Standing on different steps, their faces were at the same level. His hands stayed on her waist and he drew her towards him. Wrapped in the spell of the bush, they kissed.

Alone in her bed, Meredith nestled her head deeper into the pillows behind her and drifted off, with the taste of tomato sauce on her lips.

Chapter 9

At work the next day, Meredith took lunch early and drove over to the hydraulics laboratory where Max Linton had been employed at the time of his death.

Approaching the facility, Meredith eyed the external fence topped with barbed wire and the large outlying buildings which were reminiscent of barns or hangars. The low front building was administrative, with rows of office windows along the street and steps leading to reception.

The glass doors were locked and the reception desk was unattended. Spotting an intercom on the wall beside the entrance, Meredith pressed the buzzer and waited.

A young female voice answered, sounding scratchily distant. ‘Hello, who’s there?’

‘My name’s Meredith Renford. I’m here to see Mr Chegwin.’

‘I’m not sure if he’s in,’ said the voice, fading at the end.

Meredith spoke louder, bending awkwardly close to the metallic box as if urging the voice to stay. ‘I have an appointment.’

‘Okay, I’ll be there in a moment.’

After several minutes, a young woman with a fountain of dark hair appeared and opened the door.

‘Hi there,’ she said, without introducing herself. ‘It’s this way.’ She led Meredith a short distance down the corridor to an office door, before mouthing, ‘That’s him’ and retreating.

Roger Chegwin, the director of the laboratory, was a short, neat man with white hair. He straightened up from looking in a filing cabinet when he saw Meredith standing at the door.

‘I’m Meredith Renford. We spoke briefly on the phone yesterday.’

‘Do come in,’ he said, stepping forward to extend a hand.

She proceeded past a couple of cardboard packing boxes on the floor and shook his hand. They sat on opposite sides of the black imitation woodgrain desk. The other items of furniture in the office – bookcases, credenza and closet – were in the same finish.

As they settled in their chairs, Meredith noticed some colour brochures on his desk. The heading on the top one said ‘Golf Links Estate’ above a picture of a silver-haired man teeing off, although it was difficult to tell upside down whether the brochure was for a residential development or a holiday resort.

‘I’m retiring in a couple of weeks,’ Roger explained. ‘At this rate, a good deal of time until then will be spent sorting through decades of documents. I guess I hadn’t realised how much material I’d acquired over the years.’

Meredith started forming a trite response about paperwork accumulating of its own accord, when Roger fixed her with narrowed eyes. ‘Now, to the matter at hand. As I told you on the phone, I’m not sure if I can be of assistance to you. I think you mentioned something about Max Linton’s background?’

‘My client, who seems to be the main suspect, denies being involved or ever meeting Max so I’m looking into other aspects of Max’s life including his work. It would help if I knew more about the laboratory, as there wasn’t a lot of information on the internet.’

The hydraulics laboratory featured on the website of the Department of Environment and Water, and among its listed areas of expertise were water quality, irrigation, sea levels, tidal flow, estuaries, and flood activity. Besides undertaking its own research projects, the laboratory could be commissioned by clients from the private or public sector to conduct water testing, monitoring and modelling.

‘What did you want to know, in particular?’ asked Roger.

‘Would you say any of the work the laboratory does is controversial?’

‘I suppose anything to do with the environment these days can provoke strong views.’ His dapper little moustache bobbed up and down as he spoke.

‘And are employees of the lab allowed to make public comments?’

Roger’s forehead creased into a herringbone pattern.

‘I’m thinking of Max’s letters to the editor and contributions to online forums about the environment,’ Meredith added.

‘As long as the comments are made as a private individual, not claiming to represent the laboratory.’

‘Were you aware that Max made a submission to Bellwater Council’s inquiry into the uses of the reservoir?’

Roger blinked a couple of times, absorbing the inference that Meredith had done her homework. ‘Yes, he did advise me as a courtesy. But it’s a public process and he’s entitled as a citizen to lodge a personal submission.’

‘He refers to his experience as a hydrologist, and his arguments clearly draw on his work for the laboratory without naming it,’ Meredith pointed out.

‘I saw a draft. Obviously some of the figures and modelling were developed using the equipment here and I told him we had to be mindful of a conflict of interest. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt, on condition that he not identify us.’

‘Could the laboratory have made a submission to the inquiry as an organisation?’

‘I felt it was inappropriate, considering our location right next to the reservoir and our interest in how its resources are used. It might look as though we were seeking to influence the outcome.’

Roger glanced at his desk calendar and, realising it was still on the previous day, flipped the page over the silver hoops to the current day. Meredith waited for him to look back at her. ‘Do you know if Max was ever threatened over any of the projects he worked on at the lab?’

‘Threatened, why? Are the police suggesting his death is related to his work?’

‘Not directly at this stage, as far as I know, but I don’t want to rule out anything. How would you describe the working atmosphere? Were there conflicts between staff?’

‘Not of a serious nature. This is a professional workplace, people don’t go around killing each other,’ said Roger.

‘But rivalries, tensions?’

‘Of course there are disagreements in a scientific environment, but everyone behaves in a civilised manner. Max and I have different specialities, so I didn’t work closely with him.’

Meredith fixed her attention on Roger’s precisely clipped moustache as she ventured into delicate territory. ‘What about personal relationships with other staff or trouble in his private life?’

Roger broke into an awkward smile. ‘Sorry, I’m not in the loop when it comes to that sort of thing.’

She decided to level with him. ‘Mr Chegwin, the police have developed a theory that Max was involved in a homosexual encounter at the male toilets in the memorial park, and it resulted in his stabbing.’

‘Goodness me. I thought he was married.’

He seemed genuinely shocked and Meredith softened her tone. ‘Apparently the two things are not necessarily mutually exclusive.’

His eyebrows remained aloft, his fingers twitching. ‘I really don’t know anything about Max’s personal activities. His contemporaries would be in a better position to comment. Let me see if I can raise one of them.’

Roger picked up the phone and dialled an extension that nobody answered. ‘Might have gone to lunch,’ he muttered to himself. Tapping another number, he got through and told the person who answered: ‘I’m trying to find Griff. He’s not in his office. Have you seen him?’ Roger’s eyes darted anxiously to Meredith. ‘Thanks. I’ll try there.’ Tracing a finger down the phone list, he found the required extension.

With a furrowed brow he waited until someone answered and the wrinkles softened with relief. ‘Griff, it’s Roger here. I’ve got a visitor with me who I’m sending down to you. She’s a lawyer who wants some information on Max and I’d like you to help her with whatever you can.’

Putting down the phone, Roger said, ‘That was Griff Parnell, who’s a senior hydrologist.’ Roger stood and pointed out the window. ‘He’s in that building there, doing some testing. Follow the corridor outside this room to the double glass doors, go down the steps, and across the courtyard.’

As Meredith backed out of the office she glanced at the packing boxes and said, ‘All the best with your retirement.’

‘Thanks. Officially I’ll still be on the books for a while, taking long service leave, but Griff is next in the chain of command so you’re better off dealing with him.’

Meredith followed Roger’s instructions and walked across the courtyard towards the large, warehouse-sized building, quickening her pace as she imagined him watching from the window to see if she was going the right way.

The door was closed but when she tried the handle it turned, letting her into a vast space where rows of steel frame uprights, like giant insect legs, supported the gabled metal roof. An artificial glow was cast by cup-shaped lights hanging from the girders.

Most of the ground was consumed by a swimming pool. The smell of chlorine reminded Meredith of an indoor aquatic centre, without the paraphernalia of towels and beach-bags and the bouncing echo of squealing children. Instead, the surrounds of the pool were occupied by stacked pipes of concrete and plastic in different sizes and other equipment with mysterious functions.

A man walked beside the pool with his back to her, consulting a stopwatch and clipboard as if he was coaching an invisible swimmer. The water rose in glassy undulations and the light danced in distorted diamond patterns over the surface. From somewhere nearby came the humming of a pump or machine that was generating the swell.

Meredith realised the man must be Griff Parnell. His age was difficult to tell from a distance as he moved slowly, bending forward in concentration. Pacing with soft steps, there was a harmony between himself, the motion of the water, and his recording of the data which made Meredith reluctant to interrupt. She watched the relentless roll of the waves and wondered how the machine forced the water to rise up so evenly from its own mass.

Taking a few steps forward to announce her arrival, she let her shoes scrape on the concrete floor. Griff spun around, lifting his clipboard like a weapon.

Meredith raised her voice above the sound of the humming. ‘I’m Meredith, the lawyer Mr Chegwin just rang you about. Could I ask a few questions?’

‘I’m in the middle of something, if you can wait a minute.’

‘No problem,’ she said, smiling patiently.

Irritation crossed his brow as he turned back to his work.

Meredith advanced cautiously to watch him, propelled by curiosity despite her apprehension. The waves bulged and crested, then slumped against the far side of the pool with a reprimanding slap in an endless cycle of movement. She stared at the fluid curves, felt their vibration and imagined falling, the current dragging her under.

The walls of the building started to shift and a ripple of nausea hit her stomach, head and knees simultaneously. The surroundings were flattened to a two-tone pattern of black and sickly green, printing crookedly on her vision and multiplying like overlaid strips of film. The chemical smell rose in her throat, threatening to stifle her, and the humming grew louder.

She had to get out of there before she fainted. An open door on the other side of the building glowed a promise of oxygen and relief. Meredith hurried on shaky legs towards the rectangle of daylight, ignoring the voice behind her. She burst through the doorway and onto a landing, gulping the air.

‘Are you all right?’ said Griff, catching up.

How humiliating. She couldn’t answer him yet. Leaning against the wooden verandah post, she was aware of steps leading down to a car park and, beyond it, the blur of more structures and fences. Thankfully the air outside was cooler, the smell of chemicals had gone and the post was solid to lean against. The world had stopped shifting on its axis.

Griff moved into her line of sight. Meredith dreaded people seeing her so vulnerable. ‘I felt dizzy in there,’ she said, careful not to mention the water.

‘Sorry, I didn’t quite get your name.’

‘Meredith Renford. From Valenti and Associates,’ she said, puffing between the words.

‘Do you need a doctor?’ he asked.

‘No, I’ll be fine. Really.’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Sometimes it happens with chemical fumes. It must be the chlorine. I feel much better outside in the fresh air.’

He looked at her uncertainly. ‘We have a staffroom if you’d be more comfortable there.’

‘No, I should stay out here where I can breathe the air.’ Wasn’t he listening?

‘You look like a ghost. Are you sure it isn’t a blood sugar thing?’

‘No. If I can just sit here for a bit I’ll be okay.’ She lowered herself onto the top step. The moments passed as Meredith concentrated on breathing deeply and distinguishing the shapes of the individual leaves on a nearby tree.

Griff’s foot tapped jerkily on the concrete, marking time, as if asking how long until she would regain the strength to stand up, how long until she left and he could get back to work. He looked at his watch. ‘Is that the time? Have you had lunch yet?’

‘I think I’d probably throw up if I tried to eat something.’

‘A reviving cup of tea, or at least a glass of water?’ he suggested.

‘Okay, some water.’ Anything to keep him occupied.

Griff rubbed his hands together, glad to be given a task, and hurried inside. Meredith heard the sound of a tap running and objects clinking. Then he was back, carrying a glass of water and a plastic canister. He gave her the glass and sat down on a step below her.

‘I know you said you didn’t feel like eating, but in case some sugar might help.’ He popped the push-button lid and tilted the canister towards her.

Meredith took a sip of the water and eyed the selection of biscuits. He might be right. A sugar hit. Breakfast had been almost six hours ago.

She chose an Iced Vo-Vo, then Griff dug out a Monte Carlo and put the canister aside. He played with the biscuit, twisting apart the two halves and examining the dubious pink substance in the middle before clamping the halves together again and chomping down on the whole.

While he was preoccupied with the biscuit, Meredith took the opportunity to examine his appearance more closely. Griff was not yet middle-aged but there was something old-fashioned about his face, reminding her of the surveyors and engineers in pictures she had seen of the dam being constructed at the reservoir at the turn of the century. His hair was gingery with long, narrow sideburns and a neat, pointed beard. Dressed in mismatching clothes, his tan vinyl walking shoes clashed with dark blue cords, and a baggy brown jumper was stretched over a red and yellow checked shirt.

She was suspicious of beards, always trying to picture what the wearer looked like without one. Perhaps his chin was lopsided, jutted too much, or was spoilt by a gouged dimple or cleft.

Griff finished the Monte Carlo and wiped the back of his hand briskly over his mouth. ‘How are you bearing up?’

‘A lot better.’

‘Sorry to hurry you, but I have to get back to my work soon, if there’s something you wanted to ask me.’

‘Of course.’ She put down the glass of water and brushed the tiny shreds of coconut from her fingers. ‘What sort of projects was Max Linton working on?’

‘A variety of things. He had broad interests, but his research mostly involved water levels and drainage, especially in relation to stormwater and flooding.’

‘Did everyone get on well with him or were there conflicts?’

‘I can’t speak for others. You’d have to ask them.’

She trained her eyes pleadingly on him. ‘Mr Chegwin said you could help me with questions about relations between staff.’

‘I’ve been over all this with the police.’

‘I’m a defence solicitor, on the opposite team. My perspective is somewhat broader. I’m trying to gain a complete picture of Max’s situation, without making assumptions.’

Griff sighed. ‘We all get along well enough to do our jobs. Some of the staff like collaborating, others prefer working on their own. Some are open-minded, others form a view quickly and stick to it. I can understand if some people found Max a bit –’ he searched for the right word ‘– combative.’ As he spoke, his gaze shifted to a procession of ants transporting the specks of biscuit crumbs.

‘Any squabbles over grants or whatever you compete for in your field?’

‘Sorry, no. If anyone felt resentment because Max had a higher profile, I didn’t know about it. I think most of us were just glad it wasn’t us. We’d rather go about our work without the glare of publicity.’

‘I can imagine.’ She concentrated on phrasing the words to sound interested, not interrogatory: ‘And were you on good terms with Max?’

‘I hope so. I liked his honesty. We had frank and forthright discussions. One day we’d tell each other to get stuffed, the next day it would be business as usual.’ He looked up suddenly. ‘Of course, it’s very hard to accept losing a colleague in such a violent way. I keep expecting him to turn up at work.’

Meredith nodded solemnly and watched the trail of ants for a little while before she continued. ‘I found reports on the internet about Max’s run-ins with interest groups like recreationists, I think they’re called, the people who go four-wheel driving on sand dunes and mountain-biking in national parks.’

‘Yes, he’d go into battle with them. Attending protests, writing emails. It’s one thing to debate issues with your colleagues, another to lock horns with every ratbag out there. To my mind, it’s attracting the wrong kind of attention.’

‘I believe he was particularly vocal about the reservoir,’ said Meredith, noticing an ant that was struggling to haul a crumb too big for itself.

‘He felt very attached to the place, as if it was his personal domain. We used to have lunch sometimes in the picnic area and he’d confront people about dropping rubbish or cleaning up their dog’s mess.’

‘I heard he wasn’t on the best of terms with the waterskiiers either.’

Griff raised his palms, imploring the air. ‘I told him to save it for the review, where his arguments would have more impact than tackling people one at a time.’

‘Do you think Max was right, that waterskiing is eroding the shoreline?’

‘I found his research persuasive. He combined previous records with his own monitoring over a number of years, and used computer modelling to make projections for the next few decades. It’s difficult to establish conclusively because it’s a longitudinal prediction. The alternative explanation is that natural forces are simply changing the waterline over time.’

‘But would the council seriously ban waterskiing on the strength of his research?’

‘It’s possible. Back in the nineties, the council stopped jet skis, although that was mostly on safety grounds rather than protecting the environment. The potential for collisions between jet skis and other watercraft or swimmers was too much of a risk. At least the waterskiiers only use one boat in a designated zone.’

The ants had run out of crumbs and were going around in circles, making sure they hadn’t missed any. Meredith glanced up to find Griff studying her face. His eyes darted away the moment he was caught.

‘Do you know if Max had any personal problems that could be connected with his death?’ she asked.

‘He didn’t share them with me if he did.’

Meredith explained the police’s theory that Max was cruising the toilets at the reservoir.

Griff’s serious, scholarly face broke into a smirk. ‘Maxy, swinging both ways? I doubt it.’ He shook his head, as if realising he needed to set Meredith on the right track. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t joke. He was devastated when his wife asked for a divorce. He tried to save the situation, to no avail.’

‘Why did she want to divorce him?’

‘To be with another man.’

‘So she didn’t have any motive to harm Max, no desire for revenge?’

‘Nothing like that, as far as I know. She did quite well out of the split from the sound of it. I don’t think I would have been so cooperative if I was being dumped,’ Griff added with a defiant gleam in his eye.

Meredith made a mental note of the points against Griff so far: poor dress sense, suspicious beard, dubious attitude towards women.

‘Did they have any kids?’ she asked.

‘No, so I believe the divorce was fairly straightforward. I didn’t know him terribly well, but from what I observed, he was strictly heterosexual. In social situations I could see he obviously liked women even though he seemed awkward around them.’

Meredith nodded, taking stock of the information, but thought Max’s ‘devotion’ to his wife might be a cover for the truth. Divorce and no children could conceivably indicate a double life.

‘I got the impression from speaking to others that he was confident, to the point of being arrogant,’ said Meredith.

‘Ah, the many sides of Max. He had a deep confidence in his professional abilities and opinions but was socially uncomfortable. I think arrogance can sometimes mask shyness.’

Meredith wondered if the same also applied to Griff. Perhaps it was a trait of scientific types. ‘And Max didn’t mention anyone he was involved with after the divorce?’

‘Nobody in particular but – ’ Griff stopped and smiled to himself.

‘What?’ asked Meredith.

‘The thought did cross my mind. He seemed to be getting more personal phone calls in the last few months.’

‘You could hear his calls?’

‘His office was opposite mine. A couple of times I popped in without realising he was on the phone. He suddenly told whoever it was that he had to go and quickly hung up.’

‘Sounds personal.’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘Did he have any family, apart from his ex-wife?’

‘He has a sister and his father’s still alive. I saw them at the funeral. His mother died a few years ago.’

‘Did his wife go to the funeral?’

‘Of course, yes. I don’t think she held any grudges from the break-up.’

Griff shifted his legs on the steps and rubbed his shins as if they were cramping. ‘It’s cold sitting here.’ He stood up and stretched each leg in turn by bracing it on the step above and then below.

Meredith started to get up too, brushing her skirt. ‘Yes, I must get back to the office.’ Her legs were slightly stiff, but she was grateful to the cold concrete for stabilising the nausea and making her feel more alert.

Griff avoided taking Meredith back through the wave building. Instead they walked the length of the car park which led to the front gates and the road.

Observing the tall pronged gates and the barbed wire along the top of the fence, Meredith said, ‘It’s funny, I’ve lived in Bellwater all my life and not thought about what goes on in this place. At the risk of sounding paranoid, can I ask if the lab conducts research on secret projects for the government? Projects that could be very valuable or dangerous to know about?’

He scratched his pointy beard. ‘We do some work that’s experimental, I guess, or can be worth considerable money if it reaches the development stages, but not in the sense of top secret or classified information, and nothing that Max was working on if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Just wondering about the barbed wire,’ she said.

‘That’s to keep out intruders because a lot of our equipment is expensive, and there are safety issues with the outdoor pools down there. Someone trespassing or skylarking could drown.’

‘Of course.’ Meredith scuffed at the gravel, slightly embarrassed by the obvious explanation. ‘Thanks for taking the time out of your schedule to talk to me. It’s very interesting work, despite making me nauseous.’

‘I couldn’t stand your job, dealing with people’s tedious problems all day,’ he smiled. ‘Nature is much more logical as far as I’m concerned.’

‘That’s settled then, we’ll stick to our chosen professions,’ she declared.

Griff unlatched the gate to let her out to the street, where her car was parked. ‘Sorry if I seemed difficult earlier. I do care about Max. So if there’s anything I can help with, let me know.’

He gave a little two-fingered salute and strode away, before she had a chance to reply.

As Meredith drove towards the centre of Bellwater, the different impressions she’d gathered of Max jostled for position in her head. Depending on whether she believed Griff, or Jason Bakkour and the water skiiers, Max was a decent man with strong principles, or arrogant and unsympathetic. A combination of the two profiles was not necessarily incompatible, but would someone really kill Max because of work issues or his environmental views? It seemed unlikely on the face of it, unless something deeper was going on that she didn’t know about.

*          *          *

Meredith parked in the lane behind the law firm and ducked to the Japanese takeaway on the corner for a couple of sushi rolls. There was a message on her voicemail from Dan Serovic. She gobbled her food before calling him back.

‘Something’s happened,’ said Dan, his voice hollow.

Meredith braced herself. His wife’s had a heart attack. What if she’s dead? It was enough to make the nausea from the wave pool start rising again.

‘The air conditioner’s gone.’

‘What do you mean, gone? Where?’

‘Dunno. Looks like somebody’s nicked it. Probably the bastards next door, but we asked them and they reckon they didn’t have anything to do with it.’

‘Who’d steal an air-conditioning unit from outside a house?’ said Meredith, trying to think straight.

‘You’d be surprised. Air-conditioners are worth a packet. Could be burglars who were casing the place, thinking of breaking in, but they saw the security system so they decided to take the air-con unit instead.’

They talked about the consequences for the court proceedings and Meredith asked Dan to report the theft to the police, as that would be something official to tell the court.

‘I’ve got to report it anyway for the insurance,’ he said.

A light flicked on in Meredith’s head. The insurance. Kill two birds with one stone: resolve a neighbour dispute without losing face, and profit by making an insurance claim. Hypothetically of course.

‘So can you get the council off my back now? ’ he continued. ‘There’s no noise anymore because there’s no air-con unit.’

‘I’ll call the solicitor at the council and check if he still needs you to come to court on the next occasion to tell the magistrate what you’ve told me, or if an affidavit will suffice. You should also pledge that you’ll comply with the council’s decibel limit if you do buy another air-con unit.’

‘Then will this flippin’ thing go away?’

‘Hopefully, subject to anything the council’s solicitor thinks of.’

‘What about the AVO?’

‘That was only on an interim basis, so if the source of the dispute has gone, I’ll argue that it should be discontinued.’

‘Terrific.’

As soon as Dan hung up, Meredith gulped some water and rang Osman Atalay to tell him the news.

‘Do I deduce from the tone of your voice that you are not entirely convinced the air-conditioner has been stolen?’ said Osman.

Meredith could picture his plump bottom lip jiggling as he spoke.

‘It did cross my mind that if we sent a tactical response team in, they might find the air-con unit stashed in the attic.’

He chuckled. ‘As long as the noise has abated, the order is complied with. But we will have to seek costs, for our wasted time.’

‘That’s understandable.’

They continued discussing the procedural details and Meredith replaced the receiver thinking they would both be lucky to see any money from Dan Serovic.

Chapter 10

The next day, after lunch, Adriana put a call from Griff Parnell through to Meredith.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘You’re obviously back on deck.’

‘Sorry?’ said Meredith, momentarily at a loss to remember falling off one.

‘The dizzy spell, yesterday.’

‘Of course. Yes, I’m back to normal.’

‘Is this a convenient time to speak?’

‘Sure, go ahead.’ She reached for the stress ball on her desk and rolled it under her palm, intrigued at his calling so soon.

‘Your visit prompted me to think more deeply about Max. After work yesterday I started sorting out his office. Roger Chegwin had asked me to do a stocktake but I hadn’t really got stuck into it. Max’s projects have to be assessed and priorities decided as to what needs prompt attention, what can wait, who to allocate jobs to and so forth. It sounds heartless, but from a practical angle his absence has resource implications.’ Griff paused, as if waiting for her to respond.

‘Yes, I understand, the work doesn’t disappear.’

‘Exactly. I found something in Max’s office that I wanted to ask you about, from a legal standpoint, to see if it might be relevant to the case.’

She stopped rolling the ball. ‘What is it?’

‘A document that doesn’t seem to fit in with anything Max was working on. I’d rather not go into details over the phone. All sorts of possibilities are jumping into my mind, including corruption. I’m concerned that if there’s a connection between it and his death, anyone at the lab might be at risk.’ His voice caught and he stopped to cough. ‘I’m probably worrying unduly, but if I could take you through the document in person, it might help me to put things into perspective.’

‘When did you have in mind?’ She glanced at the cactus on top of the filing cabinet and it seemed to lean forward ever so slightly in anticipation.

‘I could drop by your office at the end of today. Save you the trouble of coming out here again.’

‘All right. I’ll be at work until at least six.’

‘Let’s say six then.’

Meredith gave her direct phone extension to Griff before signing off, in case the front of the office was unattended when he arrived.

During the afternoon, while she worked on her files, Meredith’s thoughts returned to Griff’s phone call. His tune seemed to have changed, compared to the previous day when he was so certain that none of the lab’s research could be considered dangerous. Gone was his brisk, at times irritable, attitude and instead she heard apprehension in his voice. Whatever he’d found in Max’s office had rattled him.

The time dragged, the clock on the computer advancing by only a few minutes after what felt like a long interval since she’d looked. At five thirty Meredith realised she was hungry, but the only thing she could find in her desk drawers was an almost-finished packet of nibble mix. She tipped the remaining seeds and sultanas into her cupped hand and siphoned them up.

Jeremy was the last of the other staff to leave and he said goodbye to Meredith at six o’clock before latching the door on his way out.

A minute later, her phone rang. ‘It’s Griff Parnell. I’m out the front.’

When Meredith arrived at the glass door, he wasn’t there. She stuck her head outside and checked up and down the footpath, at the same time as Griff emerged from the recessed doorway of the next business.

He clutched a leather satchel to his ribs and approached with sidelong wary glances at the street.

Meredith closed the door behind him, wondering if it was only a coincidence that he arrived so promptly after Jeremy departed, or whether he’d been watching the place and waiting for it to go quiet. She hoped she hadn’t misjudged him and encouraged a stalker.

In her office, Griff peered at the framed testamurs on the wall: bachelor degrees in arts and law, master of laws, the ornate Supreme Court admission parchment, the mundane graduate diploma in legal practice from the College of Law, and the print-out of her current practising certificate.

‘The principal of the firm insists we display our credentials, embarrassing as it is,’ she said.

‘That’s perfectly reasonable. People want to know that you’re qualified to give legal advice. My certificates are still rolled up in a cupboard, probably being devoured by silverfish. But we don’t have customers in a direct sense, so nobody at the laboratory bothers displaying their degrees.’

Going to her desk, she noticed the empty packet of nibble mix and swept it into the rubbish bin before Griff turned around. ‘You said you’d found something you wanted to show me.’

‘I probably sounded paranoid on the phone. There may be an innocent explanation,’ he said, taking a seat and lifting the flap of his satchel. He removed a yellow A4 envelope and drew out of it a thick, stapled document. ‘This was tucked inside a draft of a different report in a bottom drawer, as though it was concealed.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It appears to be an assessment of an area of land as suitable for development, for real estate purposes. Not the sort of work we do at the lab.’

‘Is there anything in it that could be connected to water and the kind of issues you deal with?’

‘There’s information about drainage which is relevant to property development so I checked our register of jobs and nothing resembled it. I asked Roger Chegwin this morning if he’d assigned any work to Max with a similar subject matter because every task or inquiry goes through him first, but he hadn’t. Roger is retiring soon and he would rather not know about problems that may disrupt his smooth departure.’

Meredith smiled. ‘I sensed as much when I spoke to him yesterday.’

‘Fortunately he’d already authorised our IT section to give me access to Max’s email account at work so I could follow up on communications with clients and participants in his projects. I had a look this morning to see if any of his recent emails shed light on the mystery report but they didn’t. He must have been careful not to keep evidence of this research on his work computer.’

Griff held the document outwards, facing her, and turned the pages to show topographical diagrams of land with explanatory symbols about soil type and drainage capacity, a table of flood-risk calculations, and charts with annual rainfall figures and other technical information.

‘Max’s name doesn’t appear on this, but I recognise the style from other work of his I’ve read. Certain distinct phrases are familiar: exemplifies the fundamental principle; figures would be artificially skewed; foreseeable and preventable outcomes.’

Griff flicked to the end. ‘And I’ve seen him put this disclaimer in the conclusion before: The models used have been devised according to current best practice but there will be a margin of uncertainty in the results. Personally, I don’t like the use of “uncertainty”, it sounds too vague.’

‘I believe he wrote reports when he worked at Bellwater Council,’ said Meredith. ‘Could the assessment have been from that time? Is there any date on it?’

Griff’s eyebrows bobbed at realising Meredith knew about Max’s career. ‘There are figures to the end of last year and projections into the future so it’s a recent work. The odd thing is he hasn’t identified the location of the land, just dimensions and phases of completion: Stage One, Stage Two etcetera. My gut instinct is it’s a real location, not hypothetical. It’s too detailed to merely be a template, but I don’t recognise the site on paper.’

‘Could it be near the reservoir?’ Meredith asked.

Griff tilted his head. ‘Not immediately. I’m familiar with that area, although it might be somewhere in the wider valley.’

‘Does the report find the land is suitable for development?’

‘Yes, it says there are no environmental dangers – threatened species, land degradation and the like – and while it admits there are some minor drainage issues these can be managed. Strategies are suggested for dealing with run-off generated by sloping land, stormwater overflow, and the impact of development on the quality of nearby waterways.’

‘My impression of Max is that he was devoted to preserving nature. Why would he want to encourage development?’

‘It’s not necessarily a contradiction. Some people who care about nature also accept the reality of allowing sensible development, if it’s appropriate. Especially on scrubland that isn’t fit for much else, which is preferable to clearing pristine bush at another site.’

Meredith doodled a leaf shape on her writing pad. ‘So could Max have done this report as a private request while working at the lab?’

‘It depends. We take on contracts for industrial and agricultural clients and we charge them using a scale of commercial rates.’

‘No, I mean like freelancing or moonlighting, to make extra money.’

‘Not without prior approval from Roger, which wasn’t given. I’ve checked. There are rules about secondary employment in the public sector, in case there’s a conflict of interest, and a proper agreement needs to be reached.’

‘Are there any clues in the document to suggest who the work was done for?’

‘Nothing obvious. But it’s likely a land owner or a property developer would commission this sort of report before lodging an application for land rezoning or development approval.’

He slid the assessment across the desk for her to have a closer look.

‘Where do clients usually go for such reports?’

‘A firm of environmental consultants, or even a general outfit like a projects company.’

As Meredith turned the pages, Griff added, ‘I can only assume Max was commissioned to do an appraisal for the money or a stake in the project. He doesn’t have an established reputation in this particular field, which could signify something under-handed going on. Land deals are worth millions and that brings temptation. I know you haven’t had a chance to absorb the contents yet, but what’s your initial feeling – do you think this could be relevant to his murder?’

Meredith kept scanning the pages and took her time answering. ‘Hypothetically it could be linked to a motive for killing him because he knew too much, or he tried to blackmail or bribe someone over a development and it backfired. But on its own, all it proves is he’s been secretive in taking on work outside his job. We need more evidence.’

‘I know where we might find some, and it’s not at the laboratory,’ said Griff.

Meredith stopped midway through turning a page. ‘Where, then?’

‘Max’s apartment.’

‘Which you wouldn’t have access to, right?’

‘But his sister, Emilia, does. I have to return Max’s personal items from work to her anyway.’

‘You know her?’

‘Slightly. I’ve met her a couple of times, most recently at the funeral. Give me a few days and I’ll see what I can arrange.’

Chapter 11

The next day, Warren sat nervously in the waiting area at Valenti and Associates, dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers. His hair was still untidy but his beard was trimmed and the fuzzy growth was shaved back on his cheeks and neck. His skin was cleaner, not as grey, and the smell of mouldy socks had gone.

Meredith ushered Warren into her office, where his eyes glided past the certificates on the wall and landed squarely on the reproduction of the Heysen ghost gum.

‘I think his trees are too heavy, too chunky. The Australian impressionists have a lighter touch. Streeton. McCubbin. Roberts.’ The ex-commercial artist sounded like an art critic.

‘I just like gum trees,’ smiled Meredith.

Warren squirmed into the guest chair, making a dismissive ‘tch’ sound as he turned his back on the painting.

‘Are you staying at your lodgings for a while, or still camping in the bush?’ she asked.

Warren shook his head. ‘It’s been too wet lately and the nights will be getting colder with winter coming.’

Meredith suspected the police presence at the reservoir also had something to do with it. ‘And what about St Cuthbert’s?’

‘I’m still going there.’

‘I didn’t realise you worked as a volunteer.’

‘It’s no big deal. We peel potatoes and chop vegies for the meals. Luckily they let me come back after the cops searched the place. Bastards took most of the knives from the kitchen.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. They believe a kitchen knife was used to stab the victim.’

‘Except it wasn’t me. They should be looking for someone else.’

‘The problem is, I don’t think the police have many other suspects, or at least they’re not letting on if they do.’

‘I figured that’s why the cops searched my room at the lodge.’

Her voice jumped an octave: ‘When was this? Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I wasn’t even there. It was all over by the time I got back,’ Warren shrugged. ‘The cops had a search warrant so Terry had to let them in.’

Meredith remembered speaking on the phone to Terry, the caretaker who lived on the premises. She groaned with frustration at not being able to protect her client, and tried to get back on track, fingers gripping the edge of the desk. ‘Have you thought about how you want to plead?’

‘I’ve got mixed feelings.’ Warren picked at his sleeve, not looking up. ‘Can you go over the charges again? I don’t see how an ordinary screwdriver, which most people have at home, can be a burglary tool if the cops just decide to call it that.’

‘But there wasn’t only a screwdriver, was there?’ Meredith drew a line on the desk with her finger as she tried to think of a simple way of explaining the elements of the offence of possessing housebreaking implements. ‘Okay, remind me what the man who gave you the tools said.’

‘He wanted me to mind them for him.’

‘But why couldn’t he keep them in his own room?’

‘He’d been in some trouble in the past and didn’t want the tools to be misinterpreted. So I took them to the bush.’

It didn’t sound logical; Warren should have heard alarm bells ringing when the neighbour revealed he’d been in trouble. Perhaps Warren feared the consequences of turning the man down. ‘Did he threaten or pressure you?’ asked Meredith.

‘No, I just thought I should help him out.’

‘The magistrate might find it hard to believe that a glass cutter and a balaclava could be kept for innocent purposes.’

‘I didn’t look all the way inside the bag.’

Meredith rubbed at the smudge she had made on the desk. ‘You see, to prove possession, the implements only need to be capable of being used for housebreaking. The prosecution doesn’t have to prove you actually intended to use them for that purpose. There’s a defence if, for instance, you were discovered with the tools on your way to a friend’s place to fix their broken window, but you haven’t suggested anything like that.’

‘I’ve already told you, I took the bloke’s word for it and didn’t check the bag properly. So maybe I should plead guilty to that one.’

They continued going through the charges, Warren looking for ways to wriggle out of taking responsibility. ‘I know I struggled with the cops, but they started it by chasing and tackling me.’

‘Did they actually grab you first without calling on you to halt?’

‘It’s a bit fuzzy.’ Warren closed his eyes to concentrate. ‘They behaved in a very threatening manner and I guess I lashed out.’

‘This may seem unfair, but you’re not meant to resist the police. You’re supposed to co-operate with them.’

Warren sagged forward. ‘Let’s say for argument’s sake I plead guilty to everything, what happens then?’

‘You go straight to sentencing. I have to advise you of the maximum penalties that apply to the offences, although I think it’s unlikely you would get a prison sentence with your good record.’

Meredith summarised the penalties, the alternatives to prison, and the mitigating factors the magistrate would take into account, like an early plea, lack of priors, an expression of remorse, and any health problems or mental issues.

‘I’m not a head case,’ Warren said gruffly. ‘Look, I can’t deny I took the stuff off the dead bloke and I’m very sorry about that. He was entitled to be left in peace. But it’s hard to admit to the other charges when I don’t agree with the slant that’s put on them. Can I say yes to some and no to the rest?’

‘That’s possible,’ said Meredith, inwardly cringing at the hassle involved. ‘A hearing would be held for the charges you’re pleading not guilty to, and the magistrate would consider the evidence and decide the verdict. There’s no jury in the Local Court. It’s your word against the police for most of the charges, unless you can get this ex-neighbour of yours to testify that the tools were his.’

‘He racked off. I wouldn’t know where to find him. The magistrate will take the side of the cops and they’ll stick together.’

‘I think the magistrates at Bellwater are about as neutral as you’ll get. I haven’t seen them obviously favouring the prosecution.’

‘Come on, they’re not going to believe me over a bunch of cops.’

Perhaps he was right and she had been working in the system too long. In a sense, Meredith hoped Warren would plead guilty. Then she could cut her losses and try to make peace with Brian.

‘What do you think I should do?’

Meredith picked up a ballpoint pen and played with the cap, twisting it around. ‘It’s for you to decide. I can only present you with the options.’

‘If I admit to these things, I reckon it’ll make the cops even more determined to pin the murder on me.’

She tried to follow his reasoning. ‘I don’t see how admitting to minor offences would give them any stronger evidence of murder.’

Warren grumbled and she heard: ‘They’ll find a way.’

Meredith dotted the air with the ballpoint pen. ‘I saw in the Register that a taskforce has been formed in the Linton case, so that might influence the direction of the investigation.’

‘You mean they’ve hit a wall?’

‘I’m not sure the police would put it in those terms. A detective from the homicide squad has joined the local team, which means he’ll bring expertise from working on a lot of murders and perhaps a different point of view.’

‘I hope he calls the dogs off me then and gets on the right track.’

‘I’m looking into other users of the reservoir too, in case that turns up any likely suspects,’ said Meredith. ‘Which reminds me, have you ever had contact with the waterskiiers?’

Warren scoffed. ‘I made sure I kept away from them, the noisy buggers.’

‘What about the ranger, did you see him doing his rounds?’

‘I’d wait until he left for the day to go walkabout. Except sometimes he didn’t leave, he stayed in his quarters at night. Unless he just forgot to turn the lights off.’

‘Really? I thought the ranger’s place was only an office with a storage depot behind it.’

‘Sometimes I saw visitors’ cars at night, like he was having a meeting.’

‘There might be a committee for the memorial site. I’ll check it out.’ She whipped the cap off the pen and made a note of the issue.

Meredith said she would give Warren a few more days to think over the plea before calling him again.

She knew Frank Valenti was right to insist on getting every defendant to sign a statement that they had made the plea of their own free will. No matter how uncomfortable the request, it was important to avoid the defendant later claiming they were pressured by the solicitor. Warren was a prime example. Getting him to decide on the plea was one thing; getting him to stick to it could be another matter entirely.

Chapter 12

Meredith frowned at the tired exterior of the block of flats where Max had lived, remembering Griff’s suggestion that the divorce settlement had depleted Max financially. She guessed the block was built in the late seventies or early eighties, judging by the yellowish-brown bricks that were the colour and texture of Anzac biscuits, the water stains under the balconies and the curled design of the railings. It wasn’t a lot to show for a middle-aged professional on a decent salary with no children to support.

Meredith had agreed to meet Griff outside the block of flats, but driving along the street she couldn’t spot him. She found a space in the line of parked cars and waited in comfort in her PT Cruiser Classic.

On the phone, making the arrangements, Griff had explained: ‘Emilia will let us into Max’s flat. I decided to keep it simple and told her Max sometimes took work home, so I needed to ascertain where he was up to with various projects and pick up anything that should go back to the office.’

‘Did you tell her I was coming?’

‘Yes, I said I was bringing along a lawyer who’s trying to help find out what happened to Max.’

The clack of a car door brought Meredith back to the present.

Griff was standing beside a silver Prius on the other side of the road, with a wine box in the crook of one arm as he locked the car. Meredith got out of her Cruiser and waved to attract his attention.

‘I see you value style over the environment,’ he said by way of greeting, nodding at her retro, streamlined car with its burgundy duco and grey and black upholstery.

‘I’d gladly combine the two, but car designers seem to have decided that greenies don’t have much taste.’

‘Why would they think that?’

Meredith glanced at his orange and caramel patterned jumper, baggy olive-green cords, worn at the knees, and tan vinyl shoes. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she muttered.

Max’s flat was on the first floor. Meredith stood behind Griff on the landing as he tapped on the door. It was opened by a woman whose pale, strained face brightened when she saw Griff.

‘Hi,’ said Emilia Linton, peeping around Griff with shy curiosity.

Meredith recognised someone of her own age group, mid-thirties, although there were tired shadows under her eyes and her hair hung limply.

‘This is Meredith who I mentioned on the phone,’ said Griff.

‘I hope we’re not putting you to any trouble,’ added Meredith.

‘It’s no problem, I’m just at the Heights.’ Local shorthand for Bellwater Heights.

Emilia stepped aside to let them in, eyes falling on the open box Griff carried. ‘For you,’ he said, angling the box so that she could see the contents more clearly: Max’s personal items from work.

Emilia reached into the box, her eyes flickering with recognition, and picked up a paperweight shaped like a chunk of ice with sparkles embedded in it and a penguin standing on top. ‘I gave Max this when he started work at the lab. We had this tradition of exchanging tacky gifts as a joke.’

She tapped the penguin’s head, lost in thought until she realised Griff was still standing there holding the box. ‘Sorry, come through to the study.’ She led them past a closed door, which Meredith presumed was Max’s bedroom, and through the doorway of a second room at the end of a short hall.

‘There they are, my pressies to Max.’ She pointed to a row of snowdomes, a figurine of a cane toad wearing sunglasses, a fake gold nugget and other quirky souvenirs on top of the hutch over the computer desk.

Griff rested the box of possessions on the desk, next to a flat screen monitor.

Gazing reverently at him, Emilia continued: ‘Everything Max was working on will be in this room. I found a few books and papers in the other rooms and brought them in here. The police didn’t take any of his work.’

‘Did they indicate what they were looking for?’ Meredith asked.

‘It was more of a quick assessment, seeing what’s here. Apparently his mobile phone is missing. I think they were trying to piece together his movements and if he was meeting someone at the reservoir. They said they might need to take his computer away for further analysis.’

While Emilia spoke, Griff paced a circuit of the room, absorbing its features like a potential purchaser at a real estate inspection.

Propped against the desk for support, Emilia nodded at the pair of tall bookcases that occupied most of the opposite wall. ‘I don’t think the police bothered with the shelves. You’re welcome to take whatever should go back to the lab, it’ll be more useful there. I was interested in Max’s work, but I didn’t really understand the details of it.’

Griff stopped pacing. ‘Have you thought about what you’ll do with all the material we don’t need?’

Her fingers darted to her forehead, rubbing at the hairline. Meredith could see that discussing the sorting process made everything too real. Emilia wasn’t ready to deal with the disposal of her brother’s life.

Griff continued, ‘Of course there are the odd secondhand book dealers still in existence, but I don’t know whether there’s much demand for academic titles, and I’ve heard that some charity stores have stopped taking book donations.’

Meredith wanted to jab him in the ribs. Instead she glared, trying to convey: Leave her alone, it’s too soon, let her grieve. But the message didn’t register.

‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Emilia’s voice wavered.

Griff pointed at the mass of loose paperwork in the bottom of the nearest bookcase. ‘Would it help if we put aside excess material that isn’t personal to Max, for recycling?’

‘Okay, I suppose that makes sense.’ Her voice was shrinking and becoming younger. Emilia laced her hands and frowned at the corner of the ceiling, as if to stop the tears forming and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She turned, scooped up the box of Max’s personal effects and left the room.

Meredith dropped her handbag onto the desk and let out a sigh. Griff’s attention was focussed on the bookcases, looking from one to the other in anticipation. She couldn’t bring herself to try educating him about sensitivity towards the recently bereaved.

The upper shelves of each bookcase were filled with academic and environmental texts, while lever arch folders and piles of assorted papers crammed the lower shelves.

Meredith angled her head to read some of the book titles. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, what qualifications are required to be a hydrologist? It looks like a mixture of science and engineering.’

‘That’s right, there are different paths into it. I’ve got a Bachelor of Science and a Masters of Environmental Engineering, whereas Max started with a Bachelor of Civil Engineering then became more interested in environmental issues at uni and did a Masters in Environmental Science.’

Griff approached the bookcase in front of him and tapped a folder’s spine. ‘Let’s keep in mind, if Max was working on a land project in secret he might have concealed the research material, even here at home. So look behind the books and inside the folders in case something is hidden there.’

He demonstrated by selecting a glossy cardboard portfolio with a collection of stapled documents inside. ‘Conference papers. Nothing else. This can start the recycling pile.’ He tossed it on the floor between them.

Meredith pulled out a spiral-bound manual from the bookcase closer to her. ‘This looks like some kind of training guide for a computer.’ She showed the cover to Griff before tipping it forward and shaking the pages to see if anything fell out.

‘Outmoded software program. Onto the recycling pile.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘Ideally what we’re looking for is something to indicate the location of a land development site, or who Max was doing the assessment for. But don’t expect clear or obvious labelling.’

Meredith eyed the plain manila folders, cloaked in anonymity. She sat cross-legged on the floor, where she had easier access to the lower shelves and chose a folder, pausing as a thought occurred to her. ‘Could Max have given the project a fictitious name, to disguise it?’

‘Call out the details if you’re in doubt.’

Meredith opened the contents of the folder in her lap and didn’t need to ask. The cover sheet matched the material behind it, an analysis of the water quality of Flinty Creek.

Classical music reverberated up the hallway, slow and melancholy. Meredith wondered if that was another reason Griff had invited her along to the flat, so as not to be trapped alone with Emilia and her grief. ‘Do you know what composer that is?’ Meredith asked. ‘I listened to a lot of classical music when I was studying, to help stay focused, but I can’t place it.’

Griff held up a reprimanding finger, ‘Come on, nose to the grindstone. We’ll be here all day at this rate.’

Meredith replaced the manila folder and took another one. Griff was starting to remind her of Brian with his directives and judgmental air. She completed a shelf and found nothing significant before sneaking a glance at the taskmaster. His fingers nimbly filleted a book, checking it at intervals and poking into the cavity behind it on the shelf.

A few items later, Meredith picked up a report with a transparent plastic cover. It was Max’s internal review, when he worked at Bellwater Council, into the death of Bill Bakkour. She had not seen the original, only read descriptions of it in newspaper articles, and opened it randomly at the medical account.

Her eyes ran down the page, picking out the names of doctors and other additional details that were beyond the scope of the media coverage. The general practitioner at the medical centre, Dr Vantra, diagnosed a skin infection and prescribed an anti-bacterial ointment as well as painkillers. But when the condition worsened, he referred Mr Bakkour to the hospital with suspected cellulitis. As to the source of the infection, it was noted that Mr Bakkour suffered from diabetes and had a cut on his leg where bacteria could have entered. A night-shift intern, Dr Hinchley, delayed requesting that a specialist attend until the following morning, and by the time Dr Kwan, the specialist, arranged intravenous antibiotics it was too late to prevent Mr Bakkour’s death from septic shock.

Griff realised how long Meredith had been looking at one publication. ‘Find something?’ he asked.

‘It’s a report Max wrote for an internal inquiry at the council, after a man died in a flash flood incident. I’ve read about it but haven’t seen the real deal. Do you think it would be okay if I keep it?’

‘Sure, Emilia said it’s fine to take anything work-related.’

‘Apparently the force of the water gushing out of a drain stopped the man from getting up. I find it hard to grasp exactly how that can happen.’ Meredith crossed her arms and shivered.

‘You have to see a flash flood to believe it.’ Griff’s eyes lit up. ‘A freakish set of circumstances comes together. There are intense downpours on hard, sloping ground that cannot absorb the rain quickly enough, often coupled with something unexpected like debris that was obstructing the flow upstream, suddenly giving way to release a wall of water. Cars can be swept away, let alone humans. We stand on two pins that don’t occupy a wide area and we’re easily destabilised.’

Emilia appeared in the door and edged cautiously into the room, producing what looked like a folded pamphlet from behind her back. ‘Griff, I’ve been going through Max’s school things and thought you might find this interesting. Look at the comment for science.’

She handed over a school report with a crest on the front and stood closer to Griff than necessary while he read it.

Griff’s face softened as his eyes ran along the grid of subjects, filled with marks, rankings and comments, to the science section. He gave a short bark of a laugh before reading aloud: ‘Max is enthusiastic and has a strong sense of scientific curiosity but his confidence sometimes exceeds his ability.’

The colour bloomed in Emilia’s cheeks and she giggled. ‘I remember his teacher was a bit of a dinosaur, and Max used to delight in suggesting radical theories which challenged established scientific beliefs, just to annoy him.’

‘That’d be right. He had a natural talent for stirring.’ Griff re-folded the school report and handed it back to Emilia. ‘Actually, would you mind if I checked Max’s computer?’

Her expression turned slightly puzzled. ‘I guess so. What are you looking for?’

‘I think he may have kept updated versions of his written work at home for some of his most important projects.’

‘Sounds like Max. He’d get obsessed with whatever he was working on,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know his Gmail password so I can’t help with emails. I told the police the same thing.’

‘That’s fine, just Word documents.’

She started up the computer. A screensaver picture of a waterfall in a rainforest appeared, bordered with rows of icons for software programs.

Emilia clicked on the Word icon and opened a list of file names. ‘There you go,’ she said, stepping aside and letting her arm brush past Griff’s shoulder as he settled into the swivel chair. Meredith detected the lingering gesture, the briefest friction of fabrics, but Griff either didn’t notice or didn’t react. He scrolled through the file names and stopped at one. ‘Review submission,’ he read aloud.

Selecting the file, he confirmed it was a copy of Max’s personal submission to the review by Bellwater Council of recreational uses of the reservoir, which he and Meredith already knew about.

The women stood on either side of Griff as he resumed scrolling up and down the list, looking for excuses to open any of the files. Emilia rested her arm across the back of the chair.

‘What about that one? Landscoping,’ said Meredith. ‘Or is it a typo and it’s meant to be landscaping?’

Griff clicked on the document, which appeared to be a duplicate of the mysterious assessment in favour of a land development. ‘This is one of the projects I’m interested in,’ he said to Emilia.

‘Do you want to print it out? I can set up the printer if you like.’

‘It might not be necessary. I’m familiar with the content, so I’ll check first if it’s the same version.’

‘Sure, whatever you decide.’ Emilia rubbed her eyes and blinked at Meredith, as though seeing her clearly for the first time. ‘You’re a lawyer, a solicitor? At which firm?’

‘Valenti and Associates.’

‘Maybe Dad and I should come and see you. I haven’t been able to find Max’s will. I checked with his divorce lawyers and he didn’t lodge one with them, although they told me their standard advice to every client after a break-up is to make a fresh will when re-organising their finances. But I don’t think he got around to it.’

Meredith shot a glance at Griff, whose eyes did not waver from the screen. ‘It’s a fairly common situation, dying without a will,’ she observed.

‘Yes, I don’t have one either,’ said Emilia. ‘But Dad needs me to find out what to do, and I won’t be using Max’s divorce lawyers. They didn’t do a great job of protecting his interests. I even thought of going to Chloe’s lawyers. She did so well out of Max, I figured they must be good.’

‘Chloe was Max’s wife?’ confirmed Meredith.

‘Ex-wife,’ said Emilia. ‘So, what happens if there isn’t a will?’

‘A lawyer applies to the Supreme Court for a grant of letters of administration, which has to be done before any property can be sold. You or your father would need to make an inventory of Max’s assets for the application.’ Meredith knew the legislation dictated the order of distribution to relatives when a person died intestate, but it didn’t seem the right time to tell Emilia that her father would get everything.

‘The main asset is this flat, minus the mortgage, and the car in the garage downstairs. I’ve looked at Max’s bank statements and he had only a few thousand in the bank. He’d already lost a stack of money on Chloe’s stupid ventures.’

‘What sort of ventures?’

‘She set up a restaurant with a friend and neither of them had enough experience. The friend previously ran a homewares shop that had a café in it, and Chloe had done cooking courses and was great at hosting dinner parties, but that’s not the same as being professionally trained.’

‘What happened?’

‘They lasted a year. Blamed it on a dispute with the landlord about the rent going up, but whenever I went past the restaurant it was deserted. Who opens an Italian restaurant these days, especially if you’re not Italian?’ Emilia rolled her eyes. ‘Chloe’s next big idea was running a catering business from home to cut out paying rent.’

‘And how’d that go?’

‘Not much better. She bought a stack of equipment, wasted more of Max’s money. Didn’t have any proper qualifications for that either, though to be fair she did a certificate in event management. When it failed she blamed the economic downturn, said people had cut back on having parties.’

‘And what was Max’s reaction to all this?’ asked Meredith.

‘He seemed blind when it came to her faults. I think because he wasn’t very good with people socially, he was glad to have a glamorous wife and he accepted that cost a bit to maintain. He trusted her and believed her excuses about the business failures. But eventually he couldn’t absorb her spending. My theory is that’s when she started looking elsewhere, when the cash flow decreased.’

‘So she was the one who instigated the split?’ confirmed Meredith.

‘Yes. The truth is she left him for a richer man. But Chloe was cunning, said she was at a crossroads in her life and needed to sort out some issues,’ Emilia recounted. ‘She moved in with friends and that became the separation period once she commenced divorce proceedings, which I reckon is what she intended all along. I confronted her and she had the hide to suggest that Max wasn’t exactly the most exciting man in the world. I should’ve told him.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘I guess I didn’t want to hurt him, or risk him turning against me. He never saw through Chloe’s manipulative tactics. I think for a while he even hoped to win her back.’

‘How did he expect to do that?’

‘By impressing her with a business opportunity that was on the horizon. He told me he didn’t intend working at the hydraulics lab forever, and was investigating the option of becoming an environmental consultant. But he couldn’t say more until the details were settled and the financial backing was in place.’

Griff rolled the swivel chair away from the desk. ‘Interesting. He never mentioned anything like that to me.’

‘What was Chloe’s attitude to his plans?’ Meredith asked Emilia.

‘I’m not sure if she knew, and she wouldn’t have cared anyway. She’d already moved in with a guy who ran a horse stud at Greenhaven.’

Greenhaven was a historic town where wealthy people had expensive country retreats, formerly the commercial hub of a grazing district that had since dwindled.

‘How’d they meet, I wonder?’ said Meredith.

‘Apparently she arranged a function for him through her catering business. He must’ve been happy with it.’

Griff raised a forefinger, prodding the air. ‘I tried to take up Max’s cause during their separation because I could see how much it was affecting him, but when I rang Chloe she made excuses not to speak to me and didn’t return my calls.’

‘Did you know her well?’ asked Meredith.

‘I only met her socially a few times, like at our work Christmas drinks.’ He steepled his fingers meditatively under his chin. ‘She reminded me of a bird of prey. Beautiful in a sharp-featured sort of way. They were such opposites. I think Max was captivated by someone so stylish and I presumed Chloe was impressed by his qualifications and professional standing.’

‘Until the novelty wore off,’ snapped Emilia. Resentment clouded her features, overshadowing the tiredness and grief.

Griff stretched in the chair. ‘I’ve finished with the computer. The landscoping report was a duplicate of what I already have, and I didn’t find any other files of interest. Did Max have a more portable device like an I-Pad or something?’

‘I’m sure he had a laptop at one point, but it isn’t here. Unless it wore out and he got rid of it,’ said Emilia.

The three of them exchanged looks of doubt.

‘I’ve sorted through his office at work and it’s not there,’ confirmed Griff.

Emilia bounced on the spot. ‘His car, I haven’t needed to use it. The laptop might be in there. I’ll go and check the garage.’ She set off down the hall.

‘Don’t forget the boot,’ Griff called out.

As Emilia retreated, Griff said in a stage whisper: ‘Before she comes back, let’s go through this desk.’

The top drawer contained assorted stationery items, the middle drawer rattled with computer accessories and spare parts – but no USB sticks – and the lower drawer held only a ream of paper for the printer.

Griff started poking around the compartments in the hutch above the desk. Meredith tried to see as he flipped through a wad of papers from the main compartment. ‘Electricity bill and receipt. Council rates. Health fund letter,’ he recited. ‘Donation request from the Wilderness Society. Minutes of strata meeting. Donation request from Greenpeace.’

‘What’s that one?’ Meredith asked, catching a glimpse of the familiar letterhead of a local law firm, Baxter Kellaway, and leaning closer.

‘It’s an invoice for legal fees for the divorce settlement,’ said Griff. He reached the end of the pile. ‘This is all personal business. I don’t see anything about land deals.’

Replacing the papers on the shelf, he stood back from the desk and regarded it with a critical eye. ‘Emilia said she’d been looking for a will. Call me suspicious, but haven’t people been known to hide documents in secret compartments in furniture?’ He pulled out the keyboard ledge and felt under it.

‘That’s true, I’ve heard of people taping wills to the undersides of drawers.’

Griff dropped to the floor and wriggled backwards under the desk, huffing as he went. Meredith slid the drawers open as far as they would go and felt their rough undersides, while Griff tapped the masonry from beneath.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

The floor creaked in the hall. ‘Quick, get up,’ she said, rolling the lowest drawer into place, ‘and mind your head.’

Griff squirmed across the floor and sprang to his feet as Emilia came through the door frowning. ‘No laptop,’ she said, still puffing from climbing the stairs. She paused to catch her breath before asking, ‘So you guys haven’t found anything yet?’

‘Nothing new or enlightening,’ said Meredith.

Emilia checked her watch. ‘How much more do you have to do? Not that I’m trying to hurry you.’

‘Just finishing sorting through the bookshelves. Less than an hour,’ said Griff.

Emilia kept breathing in waves as she looked from Meredith to Griff. ‘Can I ask what you think happened to Max?’

Meredith hesitated and Griff stepped in. ‘I think it might be connected to one or two things you’ve touched on, actually. Financial pressure and this idea of becoming a consultant. He possibly owed money to someone or got mixed up in a deal that went wrong, and whoever’s done this has acted out of greed or revenge or betrayal. That’s my best guess.’

Emilia shifted her eyes to Meredith.

‘I’d agree with that, but there’s a lack of hard evidence. That’s what we’re trying to find. Some document to confirm the theory.’

‘Take as long as you need. I’ll be watching TV. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ Emilia’s eyes lingered on Griff before she left the room.

Minutes later the sound of the television filtered down the hall, the muffled tones of serious dialogue and dramatic music overlapping.

Meredith and Griff returned to combing through the material in the bookcases. After thirty minutes of sifting, tossing items onto the recycling pile, and Meredith reading out the names of projects to clarify their authenticity, Griff grunted in recognition at something.

‘This is interesting.’ He leaned across and showed Meredith a few stapled pages branded with the State Government logo and the heading: Guidelines for Direct Housing Redevelopment Scheme.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s an initiative that allows owners to nominate their land for fast-tracked rezoning, so it can be redeveloped for housing, as long as there are no significant heritage or environmental concerns. The approval of the local council usually means the Department of Planning rubber-stamps the proposal. The scheme prides itself on cutting red tape and making it easier for councils to meet their housing quotas, which are only going to rise with population pressure. But there are reduced requirements for community consultation and greater potential for corruption, especially where the land is connected to councillors or property developers.’

‘Do you think the scheme could be linked to the assessment Max was doing?’ Meredith asked.

‘Quite possibly. I can’t imagine why he would need these guidelines otherwise. The house he owned with Chloe was on a standard block, not suitable for subdivision or redevelopment.’

Meredith turned her mind to the council records and what information could be released. ‘So, Max’s name wouldn’t be on the development application or other paperwork?’

‘I don’t think so. He’d be too small a player, surely. Or a silent partner. And he would know that any evidence of his involvement could jeopardise his employment at the lab. But that gives me an idea. D.A.s are listed on the council website.’

‘Only by address. They don’t reveal the applicant’s name,’ said Meredith.

‘I could work backwards from the addresses and see if any match the land as described in Max’s assessment.’

‘Wouldn’t that be very time-consuming?’

‘I’m willing to give it a go.’

Slipping the housing scheme guidelines into his satchel, Griff said, ‘Let’s keep this to ourselves for now. We don’t want to get Emilia’s hopes up.’

Before they finished sorting, Griff also found, concealed beneath the flyleaf of a large hardcover book, some printouts of tables and charts that looked similar to the material in the mysterious land assessment. Early versions, perhaps, with ideas for revisions noted by hand.

‘I’ll take these papers with me and keep looking into it,’ said Griff. He bundled up the documents with a few reference books that he thought would be useful for the hydraulics laboratory library.

As they walked into the loungeroom, talking, they surprised Emilia dozing on the sofa. She jolted upright, kicking the coffee table.

‘Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well lately. You’re going. Is that all you’re taking?’

‘For now. Let me know if you decide to have a clean out and I’ll come back to help you with more sorting,’ said Griff.

‘Thanks, that’d be great.’ She stood and reached towards his elbow but stopped short of touching it.

Meredith handed Emilia her business card. ‘Here are my contact details if you want to follow up those legal issues. First consultation is free. No pressure, of course.’

‘Thanks. I’ll ask my Dad about coming to see you, if he’s up to it. And take my mobile number in case you think of anything else you’d like to know about Max.’

Meredith entered Emilia’s number into her phone, before tucking it back into her handbag.

With a sudden jerky movement, Emilia stuck out her hand to shake Meredith’s, as if deciding she liked her. Meredith smiled warmly, realising Emilia might regard her as a potential rival for Griff. She wished she could tell Emilia not to worry, she wasn’t competing for his affection. Emilia was a much better candidate, someone to marvel at Griff’s intellect and tolerate his occasionally insensitive comments, someone to make a packed lunch for his field trips and gently remind him not to wear odd socks, someone who wouldn’t challenge him for the last Monte Carlo in the packet of Assorted Creams.

They left Emilia at the door of the flat, with her memories of her brother.

Outside the sun was shining, making Griff and Meredith squint at the brighter light. Griff busied himself with finding and putting on his sunglasses.

Out of the corner of her eye, Meredith noticed movement. A figure ducked behind a dark car halfway down the street. Hunched over, the person squeezed into the driver’s seat and started the engine promptly, head still bowed.

‘Look at that guy acting strangely,’ she said to Griff as the car did a u-turn and drove off quickly, making it too difficult to see the number plate.

‘Where?’

‘That car speeding off down there. I’m not sure if the guy was checking us out.’

‘I thought I was the only one seeing phantoms.’

‘He could’ve just been in a hurry, I guess.’

‘Or our movements are being monitored, which is what I keep worrying about,’ said Griff.

‘Who would be following us?’

‘I don’t know, but at least we’re about to leave in separate cars, which might create confusion. Watch your rear vision mirror in case someone is waiting in a side street.’

‘Don’t encourage my paranoid tendencies,’ said Meredith, smiling grimly.

‘Not paranoid, just precautionary.’ Griff pointed with two pronged fingers at his own eyes, then at hers. ‘Keep your eyes peeled.’

Chapter 13

Frank Valenti’s wife had the flu and couldn’t take him to his medical appointments. While she was quarantined in a wing of Villa Valenti, Adriana drove her uncle to the hospital for his radiation session.

Jeremy Choi was at university all day, so Meredith filled in at the reception desk. The peace lily on the counter appeared to be slightly drooping and she gave it a drink from her bottle of water, sprinkling droplets on the creamy, hooded flowers. Sitting in Adriana’s chair, Meredith sank low beneath the desk with her knees sticking up. She adjusted the chair to a higher position, realising that she had never thought about the practical differences of life with shorter legs.

The main task as receptionist was taking phone messages. Only one personal appointment was scheduled before lunch, involving a nervy female client of Brian’s who arrived early, and Meredith made small-talk to put her at ease while they waited for Brian to get off the phone.

During the morning there were two phone inquiries from members of the public checking if the firm offered fixed-fee conveyancing. Young voices, one female and one male, probably first home buyers. Meredith outlined the firm’s fixed rate and conditions, but couldn’t persuade either of the callers to make an appointment. The young man said he would think about it and the female wanted to consult her partner, which sounded in both cases like they were hoping to find a cheaper deal. Meredith was reminded that conveyancing was a big chunk of the firm’s income and would continue to be so while interest rates stayed low and properties were in short supply. In the outer suburbs like Bellwater it was still possible to break into the market and every dollar saved, even on the legal costs, helped to secure the dream.

A real estate agent, Sam Benedetto, also rang. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ he asked.

‘Meredith Renford, I’m a solicitor here.’

‘I’m used to dealing with Adriana, is she around?’

‘She’ll be back this afternoon. Can I take a message?’

‘No, I’ll try again later.’

Meredith knew that Frank had a business arrangement with Benedetto Realty to recommend Valenti and Associates to vendors and purchasers who had not already organised their legal services. But she didn’t know whether the firm paid Benedetto a commission for the referrals or there was some other kickback.

It got her thinking about clandestine property deals and networks of influence in the district. Connections between real estate agents, property developers and local councils were nothing new. Some councillors at Bellwater were former real estate agents or had financial interests in local developments, while entire councils elsewhere in the state had been sacked over corruption scandals ranging from receiving bribes during the building approval process, to puppet candidates standing for developers in local elections. It wasn’t such a stretch to imagine lawyers also being involved in shady deals. With a chill, she wondered if it was possible that the firm might be indirectly tangled up in corruption, even in what happened to Max. Surely that was too fanciful, or was it? She couldn’t be certain who was part of Frank and Brian’s network of mates from school, university, the business community and the church.

Adriana arrived after two o’clock with a takeaway container of Vietnamese rice paper rolls, and dumped her things on a chair in the waiting area while she updated Meredith on Frank’s progress.

‘He’s doing well, but after the treatment he’s a bit groggy and doesn’t talk much, so I leave him alone. It scares me. He’s not the same Uncle Frank who organised the games at my birthday parties as a kid. I just want him to be his old self again, but I guess that’s not going to happen quickly.’

The surgery had removed a large tumour and the radiation treatment was intended to zap the surrounding area and prevent the cancer coming back. To some extent, the size of the tumour was a reflection of Frank’s work ethic. It had not been detected early because he delayed seeking medical attention, explaining away the persistent cough and the sensation of something stuck in his throat when he swallowed as symptoms of a stubborn virus. It was only when blood appeared in his phlegm that he went to a doctor. A video camera on the end of a small tube found the problem, and the biopsy and scans confirmed the diagnosis of throat cancer.

Frank was not a smoker and the only logical explanation seemed to be the years he spent inhaling passive smoke as a uni student, working in his uncle’s restaurant before smoking was banned in eateries.

Meredith told Adriana about the call from Sam Benedetto and asked how he and Frank knew each other.

‘They went to the same school and we all go to mass at St Brigid’s.’

Not a surprise. She ventured another question. ‘Adriana, do we pay anything for the conveyancing referrals from Benedetto’s?’

‘A small fee, why?’ Her dark eyes sliced the air between them and Meredith decided not to push further.

‘Just curious. I’ve got all these property connections going around in my head in relation to the Linton case.’

Adriana looked at her watch. ‘I’d better eat my lunch and get back to work.’

‘Sure, I’ll move out of your way. Later, when you have a moment, do you mind taking me through some business searches? Fair Trading, ASIC, anything else you can think of. I’m trying to find if Max Linton established a consultancy, but if he didn’t use his own name I’m a bit stumped.’

‘Give me a few minutes and I’ll call you.’

‘Thanks.’

*          *          *

Later that afternoon, back in her office, Meredith answered her phone and heard a car passing in the background before the caller spoke.

‘It’s Griff Parnell. I’ve arranged the flash flood simulation for this weekend.’

‘What flood simulation?’ she said. ‘I didn’t agree to anything.’

‘I thought you wanted to understand the force of the water overwhelming the fellow you were telling me about.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ She lifted her feet and waggled them to escape the sensation of water slithering across the floor and lapping at her shoes.

‘There’s a student intern at the lab who’s keen to help. It’ll be fun.’

For Meredith, the concept of fun could never apply to water. Her legs pedalled in the air, she couldn’t keep them still. ‘Let me think. I’m pretty busy this week,’ she said.

Another car buzzed past.

‘It sounds like you’re in the middle of a road,’ she added, stalling for time.

‘I’m outside the lab, up the street. I don’t want to be seen or overheard talking about this at work. Roger wouldn’t mind me setting up an experiment in my own time, but I’d rather not advertise the fact.’

‘Then, please, don’t do it on my account,’ said Meredith.

‘Nonsense, it’s a good opportunity. Let’s say Saturday.’

‘I don’t know if I can – ’

‘And while you’re here I can show you something else I found.’

‘What’s that?’ She stopped paddling her feet.

‘You know how I’ve been sorting through the contents of Max’s office?’ Enthusiasm rose in Griff’s voice. ‘In his desk drawer was a diary – more of an appointment book I suppose, not a journal. I didn’t see anything important in it at first, but now I’ve studied it more closely, there are some jottings that could be significant.’

‘In what way?’

‘Just a couple of intriguing notations. You have to come to the flash flood simulation to find out. Then you can comb through the whole diary, and you might notice something I didn’t. How about eleven in the morning?’

‘Hang on, my mother is visiting this weekend for Mother’s Day.’

‘That’s on Sunday.’

‘I need to make preparations,’ she tried.

‘Two good reasons: learn about flash flooding and find out what’s in the diary. See you then.’

The phone cut out before she could make further excuses. Meredith was left with the sound of her own jagged breathing, taken aback by Griff’s insistence on the meeting. She wasn’t sure if it was a sign of his dedication to his field or an attempt to influence her perspective.

But as Adriana’s online searches had found no evidence of Max creating a consultancy, Meredith figured that getting her hands on Max’s diary might be worthwhile. At least it would feel like she was doing something, keeping the momentum going.

Chapter 14

Meredith took a long time choosing her deliberately casual clothing. The scuffed, heavy-soled Blundstones had been neglected in the back of the wardrobe since her uni days, but looked just the thing for a slippery wet surface. With old jeans she wore a cotton long-sleeved top instead of a jumper. Better to shiver than risk dizziness again or even fainting. Short of strapping a pair of “Floaties” to her arms, she couldn’t think of what other precautions to take.

The grey, woollen sky seemed to be brooding, deciding if it would rain, and Meredith packed a folding umbrella into her bag at the last minute in case it did.

A young woman was waiting at the vehicle entrance of the hydraulics laboratory, ready to open the metal gates. As they swung wide and Meredith drove through, she realised it was the same dark-haired woman who had answered the intercom on the day Meredith visited the director, Roger Chegwin. Evidently she was the intern that Griff had mentioned, not a receptionist.

Climbing out of her car in the employees’ car park, Meredith said to the young woman, ‘We’ve met before but I don’t remember if you told me your name.’

‘Kazia. Everyone calls me Kaz.’ Her long hair was pulled back into a thick plait for active duty.

‘I believe you’re doing an internship here?’

Kaz spoke of her interest in extreme weather events like super storms, and the consequences for sea levels and coastal erosion. Meredith followed her across the gravel, trying to anticipate the direction she was heading and hoping it wasn’t to the building with the nauseating wave pool.

Kaz seemed to sense Meredith’s unease, from the twitching of her arms. ‘We’re staying outside, so I hope the rain holds off.’

‘Me too,’ said Meredith.

‘Griff’s down there already.’

As they walked, Meredith wondered if Griff had divulged to Kaz any of the information he’d uncovered about Max. Workmates talked to each other, that was reality, but Meredith hoped he had kept their tentative theories to himself. All the same, she was glad that Kaz was there, a potential intermediary whose support she could enlist if Griff tried to persuade Meredith to go in the water.

Behind the car park, a fenced compound enclosed a series of small pools, concrete pits and channels. Griff hopped out of a dry pit to meet the women and Meredith momentarily forgot her nerves at the ridiculous sight of him in a wetsuit and white Dunlop Volleys.

‘This is our irrigation and drainage testing area,’ he said with a sweeping gesture.

Meredith looked down at his legs and feet. ‘Interesting outfit,’ she said.

‘It seemed the most practical option.’ Lifting one shoe to examine the sole he added, ‘I considered bare feet, for the superior gripping ability of human toes, but I realised I should recreate the conditions of what happened to Mr Bakkour. I did some research. The news reports indicated he was walking a dog and I presumed his shoes were of a casual nature, so I chose sandshoes.’

‘Good thinking.’ Meredith turned her focus to the equipment inside the pit. A large PVC pipe emptied into a wide trough in the concrete, while channels along each side of the pit allowed for drainage.

Griff indicated the open end of the PVC pipe. ‘It’s not as big as the stormwater drain but the discrepancy shouldn’t make much of a difference to the velocity. We’re using a high-pressure pump to simulate the force of the runoff and the back half of the pipe is raised with sand bags to create a downhill gradient.’

Griff went to a plastic storage box and pushed aside a beach towel to rummage around, taking out a clipboard and a cane which appeared to have a digital watch stuck to one end of it. He extended the telescopic shaft of the cane.

‘What on earth is that?’ asked Meredith.

‘A flow probe – or to use the technical name, a digital water velocity meter. It takes a reading every second and displays the minimum, maximum and average speeds on the LCD screen. I call it the magic wand.’ He pointed the end towards her. ‘See the tiny propeller? It gives off an electric signal.’

‘Looks like something invented by Q Branch.’

‘What’s that?’ he frowned.

‘James Bond. Forget it.’

‘That reminds me. I’ve got something else here.’

He went back to the storage box and brought out a hand-held video camera. ‘You might as well do something useful,’ he said, handing the camcorder to Meredith. ‘Film the demonstration and I’ll analyse it later, to help calculate the timing and intensity of the water.’

‘Can you show me how to operate this?’

At that point, Kaz called out to Griff.

‘Play around with it, see if you can work it out,’ he said, marching off.

Meredith peered at the cryptic little symbols, muttering about arrogrant taskmasters, and was determined not to be defeated.

After conferring with Griff, Kaz skirted around the border of the concrete pit to the farthest end and hunched over a squat, metal cylinder combined with a thick hose and motor, an arrangement which Meredith realised must be a pump. Soon it was making a chugging sound and water started pouring from the pipe. Griff took the flow probe and leant across to hold it against the rim of the pipe.

Meredith had figured out the sequence of buttons on the camcorder to film and zoom in on the action. She stayed outside the enclosure, leaning the camera over the railing.

Kaz came forward again, where Griff could see her, to await his further instructions. ‘Take the velocity up a notch,’ he said, ‘so we can show our sceptic here the concept.’

Griff stood in the concrete trough in front of the pipe as the water swirled around him. His legs vibrated but he didn’t seem in any danger of falling over. Meredith practised filming, uneasy at the sight of the water through the viewfinder. She looked down to double-check that the water wasn’t somehow sneaking along the ground towards her, then raised the camera again and tried to hold it steady by propping her elbows on the railing.

Nothing can happen. The sides of the pit are sloped. Even if the water splashes me, the bars will stop it dragging me in.

Griff briefly impersonated a skiier, bending his knees and wielding the flow probe like a ski pole, before striding out of the water. He handed the probe to Kaz and said, ‘Okay, full bore and you’ll have to take the readings.’

Kaz increased the velocity again so that the water was gushing. Griff waited a moment before walking through it to stand in front of the pipe. Kaz stayed safely out of its path, reaching over from behind the pipe and angling the probe into the torrent to take the readings.

Through the eye of the camcorder, Meredith saw Griff wobbling as the surge intensified. She tried to concentrate on holding the camera steady, regarding him as an object to be framed rather than a person under siege. The railing was strong and she braced her elbows against it, reminding herself that it would keep her safe from danger.

The force of the water started shifting Griff diagonally, the pressure mounting on his shins and ankles.

The camcorder was slipping in Meredith’s perspiring hands and she quickly swiped each palm down her jeans and tightened her grip.

Rock solid. Uluru. Gibraltar. Three Sisters. Monument Valley. Towering mountain defeats trickling fountain. Everest. Matterhorn. Fuji. Kilimanjaro.

Legs planted apart, bent at the knees, Griff managed to stay upright and made a batting downward gesture with one hand, calling ‘off, off’ to Kaz.

When the gushing had abated, he splashed out of the trough and said, ‘I don’t want to waste too much water. You can see how much effort it’s taking me to stay up, trying my hardest. Let’s do that same velocity in a sitting position and see if I can get to my feet.’

Griff sat reclining in the leftover puddles and Kaz turned the water on full blast. He waited a while before leaning forward and trying to raise his rump off the ground without success. Changing strategy, he twisted his body, rolling onto one thigh and kneeling. He pushed himself up with rigid arms to a squatting stance, hunkering against the tension. But within seconds, the shaking spread up his torso and he flapped outstretched arms until toppling over.

Soon this will be finished and we’ll look at Max’s diary. Hold on, it shouldn’t be much longer. Panic prevents proper perception. Patience permits productive planning.

‘Okay, stop,’ Griff cried.

As the velocity decreased, he scrambled sideways out of the water.

Yet the image of Bill Bakkour lingered in Meredith’s mind, floundering in the rush of dirty water. Muddy and bobbing with bits of litter, the water sloshed across his chin and mouth. Enough to make anyone sick.

Griff jogged out of the enclosure and dripped his way over to Meredith, slicking back his hair. Breathing in bursts he said, ‘Get everything? Good. I can do the calculations later.’

His sandshoes squelched as he fetched the towel from the storage box. Drying his hands before taking the camcorder from her, he watched the replay with the scrutiny of a judge evaluating a performance. Meredith let her eyes go out of focus when Griff turned the screen to her, nudging her to watch.

‘Let’s not forget, Mr Bakkour was much older than me, with health problems and he was obviously caught off guard, whereas even though I’m trying to re-enact what happened, I know the water is coming. My body cannot help tensing in expectation,’ said Griff. ‘I can make some estimates, based on my height, weight and how long I held on, to show how people of different sizes might react.’

Meredith agreed that Mr Bakkour looked, from the photos she saw in news articles and the family home, smaller in height than Griff and chubbier, which could have made it harder for him to get up.

Later, with the water turned off and Kaz packing up what she could manage on her own, Griff changed into dry clothes and they went to his car to look at Max’s diary which was in the glovebox. The book was slim and black, a government-issued stationery item with 2012 embossed in fake gold leaf on the front.

‘The entries are very brief and less than four months’ worth. Nothing for the fatal day, unfortunately,’ said Griff, flipping through the pages. ‘Ordinary things like a dental appointment, car registration due, bills to pay, a dinner booking for his sister’s birthday, and a few short entries about work projects.’

‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ said Meredith.

‘Okay. At the end, in the spare pages for notes, there’s this.’

He flicked past the blank pages of December, which hit Meredith like a wet slap as she realised there would be no Christmas for Max.

Griff held open a page in the notes section, revealing a simple diagram:

 

 

‘What is it?’ said Meredith.

‘It’s a box with the number four and an arrow pointing to Lifeglow.’

‘I can see that. It looks like he was jotting while thinking. But what does it mean?’

‘I’ve been agonising over it and my preliminary theory, based on Max’s environmental assessment, is that the box symbolises an area of land for development and four could be a lot number or the number of blocks or the overall size. Four acres would roughly match the dimensions in the assessment document. But I’m mystified about the word Lifeglow.’

‘Any clues in the rest of the diary?’

‘Not that I could see,’ Griff said, handing it to her. ‘I’m willing to place this in your custody for further inspection in case you see something I didn’t.’

Meredith found the relevant page again and stared at the doodle. ‘Have you checked the internet for ideas on what Lifeglow might refer to?’

‘Yes, and nothing obvious jumped out at me. There’s a fitness centre, a brand of vitamins in America, a book about spirituality, and other things under the general theme of alternative therapies or philosophies.’

‘Does that fit in with Max’s interests?’ asked Meredith.

The first spots of rain hit the windscreen, small random dots multiplying.

‘Max was a practical person, not a hippy idealist basking in the glow of life,’ said Griff. ‘He dealt in evidence and scientific hypotheses. That was his belief system, the same as mine.’

Chapter 15

The renovated entrance of the restaurant at the Harbour Pearl stopped Meredith in her tracks. It was over a year since her last visit and a large fish tank had been built into the wall dividing the reception area from the body of the restaurant. Tropical fish of eye-popping colours – citrus yellow, indigo blue, sunburnt orange – floated in a suspended world that looked more like magically glowing syrup than water. An oval striped fish glided in slow motion, a tubular shape with a long snout darted, a shy spotted one peeped from a weedy forest.

Beyond the tank entrance, the décor was sleek and minimalist, with glass teardrop lights dangling over the black lacquered furniture, and a red rose on each table for Mother’s Day.

Meredith’s mother and sister, Glenys and Kelly, were already settled in their seats with a cocktail. Kelly’s pinkish drink looked like a cosmopolitan while Glenys was halfway through a margarita, judging from the salt-encrusted rim of her glass.

‘Hi, I’m not late am I?’ said Meredith, checking her watch.

‘No, we were running early and decided to get our welcoming drink,’ said Kelly.

Meredith nodded towards the entrance. ‘Did you like the new fish tank?’

‘Very impressive,’ said Glenys.

‘And I always forget how great this view is,’ Kelly pointed to the big windows which framed the tourist boats, rocking in the patchy sunshine.

A sightseeing cruiser was setting out on its lunchtime run, past a converted ferry moored as a floating restaurant and a paddle steamer that turned into a party boat at night.

Meredith drew out a chair to sit down. ‘I’m so glad the weather fined up. Did you have time to do anything this morning?’

‘We had a swim in the heated pool and a massage,’ said Kelly.

Meredith stared at her two closest family members and wondered how they could all be related. The last thing she would use in a four-star hotel would be the swimming pool.

She changed the subject, telling her mother, ‘Your hair looks great.’ It was dyed a coppery colour with golden highlights.

‘Well, next time you come up I’ll take you to my hairdresser. She’s such a treasure, she might be able to do something different for you.’

The wine waiter appeared, displaying even teeth framed by designer stubble. ‘Would madam like to choose a complimentary cocktail?’

Meredith flinched at being called madam; it made her feel old, even though she realised she couldn’t get away with ‘miss’ anymore at thirty five.

The wine waiter pointed to the card on the table which indicated a choice of champagne cocktail, cosmopolitan or margarita, included in the fixed price menu. Somewhere she’d heard that a champagne cocktail was just the house bubbly with a cube of sugar in it.

‘I’ll have a cosmopolitan, thanks.’

‘Tell Mum about your murder case,’ said Kelly.

‘I don’t want to spoil the occasion.’

Kelly turned to Glenys and raised her eyebrows. ‘A murder in Bellwater, of all places. One of the scientists from the water research laboratory.’

‘Really?’ said Glenys. ‘Does anything positive ever happen in Bellwater? Whenever I hear about your work it seems so depressing. Murder, divorce, domestic violence. At least if you worked in a big commercial firm you’d make piles of money.’ Glenys drained the rest of the margarita, her eyes tipping back in her head with dramatic flourish.

‘Except for the slight problem of getting hired. Remember the interview where I had to participate in a group audition and how humiliating it was to perform in front of other candidates?’

Kelly jumped in before Glenys had a chance to respond. ‘Have you found out yet what’s wrong with the grumpy guy at your work?’

‘Brian. I don’t think I’ll ever solve that riddle,’ said Meredith.

‘I once worked with a guy who was always in a bad mood and he turned out to have a gambling problem,’ said Kelly.

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Does he leave promptly at the end of the day?’ asked Kelly.

‘I guess so. He rarely works past five thirty. But he starts very early.’

‘Gamblers never work late; they’re always itching to hit the TAB or the pokies. Follow him when he leaves one day and see where he goes.’

‘Is Mr Valenti back?’ asked Glenys.

‘No, but I think he’s past the worst of the treatment. The surgery was a success.’

‘Don’t be too swayed by sympathy,’ said Glenys.

‘What do you mean, swayed?’ Meredith demanded.

Kelly intervened, brandishing her menu. ‘We should look at the set options, so we’re ready when they want us to order.’

The wine waiter reappeared first, beaming and bearing Meredith’s drink. The cranberry taste was a welcome fruity relief to the acidity that had seeped into her mouth.

‘All I’m saying is don’t extend yourself beyond the call of duty – like you usually do,’ said Glenys.

‘Mum, the man has cancer.’

‘Shh,’ said Kelly. But there wasn’t much chance of being overheard amid the rising noise. The place was filling up and people squeezed into their seats at closely-spaced tables. Little kids ran up to the picture windows, pressing their faces and hands against the glass to look at the boats.

‘All the more reason to watch your own health,’ advised Glenys. ‘Don’t run yourself into the ground working longer hours on account of someone else’s misfortune.’

Biting hard on her back molars, Meredith reminded herself of the occasion and the importance of keeping the peace.

‘Ladies, check out the choices.’ Kelly flapped her menu at them. ‘Everything sounds so delicious, I don’t know what to pick.’

The sisters exchanged glances while Glenys studied her menu, holding it at arm’s length rather than resorting to using her reading glasses. Between them a mutual understanding was silently transmitted in a few seconds.

Kelly, with eyes pleading: Don’t spoil things.

Meredith: She’s the one provoking me.

Kelly: You know what she’s like. Don’t take the bait.

Meredith, with a subtle nod: I’ll try not to.

A waitress arrived to take their food order and they chose mostly seafood dishes for entrées and main courses: scallops in ginger and lime; goat’s cheese tart with grilled king prawn; salmon and snow pea risotto; baby barramundi with Japanese salsa. Turning their attention to the wine list, they decided to share a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

Meredith asked questions about the Gold Coast and the functions Kelly had organised lately at work, to deflect the attention from herself.

Halfway through their main courses, Glenys held the near-empty wine bottle above the ice bucket and said, ‘Shall we risk getting another?’

It was a pose Meredith had seen before, more than once.

She gave a diplomatic smile, letting Kelly handle it, agreeable to whatever they decided. Kelly suggested Glenys finish the rest of the wine, as there didn’t seem much point ordering another bottle so late into the meal.

Nodding vaguely and withdrawing from the present, Meredith recalled her mother decades earlier, bounding into the kitchen at home with an empty bottle in hand…

The teenage Meredith intercepted Glenys when she reached for the door of the fridge to get a fresh bottle of chardonnay.

‘You’re making too much noise. I’m trying to study.’

The hubbub of women’s voices continued from the dining room. A few of her mother’s friends were over for Sunday brunch. Kelly had gone to a friend’s place.

‘Shut your door,’ said Glenys.

‘I did, but I can still hear that woman screeching.’

‘Can’t you wear headphones? Listen to music or something.’

‘I need to concentrate. Why did you have to invite your friends today? Why not next weekend? You know I’ve got an important exam tomorrow.’

‘For goodness sake, it slipped my mind. Everything doesn’t revolve around you.’

‘You don’t care if I fail.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic. You’ve never failed anything at school.’

‘Only because I study. It doesn’t happen by magic.’ Meredith stormed back to her room, her throat catching.

She banged the door shut as a shriek of laughter rang out from the dining room. Middle-aged women behaving like giggling girls. Her anger ricocheted off the walls of the bedroom and landed on her piggy bank. Turning it upside down, she prised out the stopper and emptied some coins into her palm.

After shoving her folders and a textbook into her school backpack, Meredith wrote a note and blu-tacked it to the outside of her door: ‘Gone to library’. It would do for a cover story as her mother didn’t know the library was closed on Sundays.

Meredith slipped out the front door, using her key to turn the lock silently behind her. From the payphone on the corner she called her grandfather Owen’s house.

‘Poppa, can I come to your place to study? It’s noisy at home.’

‘When were you thinking?’

‘Now. I’ve got an exam tomorrow.’

‘That’s a bit short notice, pet. What does your Mum say?’

‘She doesn’t mind. Her friends are making a racket.’

‘As long as it’s okay with her.’

Poppa Owen still lived by himself in the same house where Glenys grew up, the family home that he bought in the fifties with a war veteran’s loan. Nobody thought Nanna would die first, years before her smoking, drinking, melancholic, malarial, shrapnel-limping husband, but she did.

The house was a white stucco bungalow. When Meredith rounded the corner from the bus stop, the stucco glinted in the afternoon sun and reminded her, as always, of whipped cream or meringue, like a pavlova topped with red roof tiles instead of strawberries. As a small child she thought the house looked edible, until she noticed up close there were speckles of soot in the whipped waves.

Poppa was scooping up leaves when she arrived, clamping a wad of them against the head of a rake and releasing them into the black, rectangular vegetation bin.

‘Look who’s here,’ he said. His thick crop of grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses gave him the appearance of an eccentric professor. ‘I’ll just finish this lot,’ he added, pointing a canvas-gloved finger at the pile of leaves near his feet. ‘Don’t want them blowing away.’

Meredith watched him moving awkwardly with his limp. ‘Can I help?’

He looked slightly offended before relenting. ‘You can lift the other end of the bin.’ They lugged it back into position against the house and she followed him inside.

Standing in the lounge room, he said, ‘I can offer you this or the spare room.’

She knew the spare room was her mother’s old bedroom, which would be distracting, seeing the reminders of her youth.

‘Here, if that’s okay.’

‘You could use a bit more light on the subject,’ he said, tugging at the blinds and sending flecks of unwiped dust into the air. ‘I’ll be reading the paper in the kitchen. It’s mostly trash on a Sunday, don’t know why I bother. Sing out if you need anything.’

He shuffled off and Meredith hurriedly unpacked her things, realising how much time she had lost making the journey. She sat on the lounge but could see herself reflected in the big television and switched to the special chair, a padded recliner with a tartan rug draped over it.

The lounge room felt slightly chilled and she snuggled under the rug and adjusted the chair’s footrest so that her legs and knees created a slope for leaning her folder on while she flicked through the class notes and highlighted key words.

The tick of an antique clock, the smoker’s cough, the rustle of the thick newspaper spread on the formica table – soon these background sounds faded.

Now and then, looking up from her notes, her gaze wandered to the shelves in the china cabinet which was full of bric-a-brac, like figurines and cut glass vases and a collection of souvenir teaspoons. Poppa hadn’t disposed of anything since Nanna died, except her clothes to Vinnies and the sewing machine to Glenys.

Mouthing the words quietly, turning page after page, Meredith’s annoyance at her mother subsided until eventually she regretted making such a fuss and intruding on her grandfather.

*          *          *

Hours of memory were condensed into a few minutes.

Glenys and Kelly’s lips moved and Meredith nodded and smiled. She tried to catch the thread of their conversation again. Something about events on the Gold Coast. A blues music festival was coming up at Broadbeach.

The dessert she had chosen was delivered on a square plate with a thin wedge of cake in the centre and a reddish purple slash of sauce. Wild berry cheesecake. She preoccupied herself with cutting a small chunk, sweeping it through the coulis and transporting it to her mouth, where she mashed the smooth cream cheese and the granulated, nutty base against her palate. The conversation slowed as Glenys and Kelly tasted their desserts and traded superlatives.

The discussion of music resumed, turning from blues to country, and names were mentioned that she didn’t recognise. Still, Meredith managed to offer the occasional neutral word like ‘Really?’ and ‘Good’ without following the details, while her body settled back into the recliner in the lounge room, secure in the tartan rug and her school notes.

*          *          *

A chair scraped in the kitchen, the Grosby soles padding across the lino, and Poppa appeared to ask if she wanted a cup of tea.

The kitchen was in the back of the house and caught the last of the sun. There was a residue cigarette smell from where he smoked at the open back door. Outside the door, an icecream container of sand sat on the ground, studded with butts. He never smoked indoors, out of respect for Nanna, as if flouting the rules would bring a reproach from her ghost. On the kitchen table, the Sunday paper was open at the puzzles section, with half of the large crossword done.

The kettle whistled and Poppa heaped the tea leaves into the pot. Old people were strange. They went to the trouble and mess of brewing tea in a pot and pouring it through a strainer into a cup sitting on a saucer, when it was much easier to dunk a tea bag in a mug. Instead of keeping cold drinks in the fridge, they used powders and syrups that had to be diluted and chilled to make the finished product, like Robertson’s barley water and Tang and Bickford’s lime juice cordial. But at least Poppa had real sweet biscuits. Kingstons.

‘Making progress?’ he asked, pushing aside the newspaper to set down the tea things.

‘I understand the work when I’m reading it, but trying to remember it is much harder. I have to go over and over it to make it sink in.’

‘Practice, that’s the ticket. Not much else I can suggest. Long time since I’ve been at school.’

‘Did you have to do exams for accounting?’

‘My word, yes, at night school. But a lot of it was learning on the job back then. Mind you, I did have some strife with concentrating when I got back from overseas because I’d been away from the office routine for nearly six years.’

‘Overseas’ meant World War Two, she’d picked that up. He hadn’t travelled overseas since.

Meredith leaned forward, stirring the sugar into her tea. She liked to hear about the war but only tiny fragments came from Poppa, inadvertent and fleeting, triggered by another topic.

‘I was making a lot of mistakes. It was like a mental block. Couldn’t keep my mind on the job,’ he explained. ‘We didn’t have all the counselling and whatnot that’s around today. You were expected to just get on with things.’

‘So couldn’t you remember the sums you had to do?’

‘That was part of the problem. I’d look at the numbers and they’d turn into casualty figures, or the service numbers of mates, or the field returns, or the amounts of our rations. Numbers swimming before my eyes, it drove me to distraction.’ He rubbed the outside of his tea cup like he was trying to remove a stain. ‘I got the boot from one job and hit rock bottom. Until I saw the hypnotist.’

‘You were hypnotised? Wow.’ She pictured a man with a waxed moustache, swinging a fob watch on a chain.

‘He was able to empty my mind of all the clutter and teach me to see the number as a shape, a symbol on its own. So when I came out of the trance the numbers didn’t remind me of anything except themselves. Add up the symbols, apply the formula. I was able to hold down a job again.’

‘Maybe I should try getting hypnotised.’

‘I think you might have to be over eighteen, pet. But there’s probably no harm in using some of the tips he gave me. You have to trick the mind into doing its job.’

He turned the newspaper around to show her a word puzzle, pointing at the letters with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘One of the techniques is trying not to remember. Stare at the white background behind the letters or numbers on the page and see how much more that brings them forward. Try to ignore them and they’ll stick in your mind.’

‘I think I get it,’ said Meredith.

‘The memory’s a funny thing. When you try to hammer information into your brain, it doesn’t want to stick, but if you don’t have to remember something it stays with you.’

‘Like the words of a song or lines from a movie.’

‘Exactly, because it’s not a chore to remember.’

When Meredith went back to studying she tried it, pretended not to care and let the words demand her attention. She stared at the background, at the pale blue lines, and the words cried out to be noticed. Here we are! Don’t forget us!

As the light faded, Poppa drove Meredith home in his navy blue Holden Statesman to save time. He wouldn’t hear of her getting the bus. ‘You patch things up with your mother, won’t you?’ he said.

Meredith nodded, reaching for the door handle. ‘Thanks for letting me come over.’

‘You’re welcome. Now blitz that exam tomorrow.’

 

*             *             *

 

Hearts of white, milk and dark chocolate were served with coffee. Meredith melted a dark heart in her mouth as Glenys recounted her efforts to learn golf with some girlfriends who were bored with pilates. The golf club held a coaching clinic for ladies and offered a free introductory lesson with the club pro.

When it was time to go, Kelly and Glenys fussed over the complimentary rose, lifting it out of the slim silver vase and letting it drip onto a thick cloth napkin before taking it with them.

As they left the restaurant, Meredith noticed the mess the kids had made on the big windows. Layers of handprints and mouth shapes were smudged like mist over the boats. At the entrance, Meredith clutched her mother briefly next to the fish tank, kissed her cheek and said, ‘Happy Mother’s Day.’

Chapter 16

Warren sat in the waiting area of the law firm, looking ten years younger with his hair cut. Meredith double-blinked, taking in the blazer that was too short in the sleeves and had the crest of a bowling club embroidered on the pocket. His tie was wide with mustard and chocolate brown stripes, a relic of the seventies, but it was a major improvement on no tie. Clearly Warren had done his best to comply with her request to wear a collar, tie and jacket.

‘Very spiffy,’ she said as a greeting.

‘One of the blokes at the house lent me the jacket.’

The previous afternoon, on the phone, Warren had told Meredith that he’d decided to get the matter over with and plead guilty to everything.

She could smell soap and talc emanating from him as they walked the short distance to the courthouse, Meredith hurrying in heels to keep pace with Warren’s loping strides. Elbows raised defensively, she fired wary glances around them.

The usual collection of human traffic loitered outside the courthouse: smokers puffing on cigarettes; lawyers talking on mobile phones; women watching restless toddlers while their partners were inside.

Magistrate Haverstein seemed to be on automatic pilot, coasting through the list until the Connor matter. When Meredith informed the magistrate that the defendant would enter a plea of guilty to all charges, a look of visible relief passed over his face.

‘I’d like to make submissions on sentence, which will take a little extra time to prepare, your Honour,’ added Meredith.

The magistrate agreed to her request and the matter was adjourned for sentence.

The dazed-boxer expression of Sergeant McKenzie suggested disappointment at the plea, as though the police prosecutor had been looking forward to the battle of a hearing.

In the lobby, the chance of a quick departure was blocked by Nelson Loomis who asked Warren, ‘How do you feel now you’ve pleaded guilty?’

Warren kept his eyes ahead.

‘He’s not answering any questions,’ said Meredith.

‘Have the police questioned you for the murder of Max Linton? Are you still a suspect?’

The comments provoked a sharp glare and the slightest head-shake, which was cast in somewhat different terms in the next issue of the Register. A brief article, recapping the facts and charges, ended with:

Outside the court, Mr Connor indicated that the police had not questioned him for the murder of Max Linton and he denied being a suspect. Police appear to be no closer to making an arrest in the case that has rocked the quiet community of Bellwater.

Meredith and Warren went to the Chataway Café for a debriefing. It was sparsely occupied, with two elderly ladies at the front spooning whipped cream onto their scones and down the back, a middle-aged man tapping away on a laptop next to a jumbo mug of coffee.

Meredith and Warren chose a table in the centre of the café and Warren picked up the menu, his eyes combing it greedily. ‘Are you going to eat?’ he said.

‘I’ll probably just have a coffee, but don’t let me stop you.’

‘The thing is, I skipped breakfast and now I’m starving.’ He looked up suddenly from the menu. ‘I’m not expecting a shout, by the way.’

‘Go for it.’

Ludi came over to take their order: a flat white coffee with waffles and maple syrup for Warren, and a cappuccino for Meredith.

Ludi gave Meredith a conspiratorial look. ‘We’ve got your favourite muffin.’

‘Raspberry and macadamia?’

‘Delivered fresh this morning.’

‘Okay, you’ve twisted my arm.’

After Ludi had gone, Warren said, ‘Are you a regular here?’

‘I try to pop in to support the place. Ludi and her husband used to run a bigger café in the Keystone Arcade and then her husband died and she relocated here for the cheaper rent. Some of her customers followed, but I’m not sure how long she can last.’

‘Makes me glad I ordered more than a coffee.’

‘Before the food comes, can I give you a sentencing update so you know the sort of issues I’ll be covering in my submissions? I’ve checked the sentencing statistics which confirm prison is highly unlikely, but I have to prepare for that possibility just in case.’ Meredith then focussed on the options she thought were the most appropriate: good behaviour bonds and community service.

Ludi hung in the background with a tray until Meredith beckoned, smiling. The discussion of sentencing paused while Ludi unloaded the orders and Meredith and Warren sipped their coffees and tried the food. Meredith cut up her muffin with her coffee spoon rather than get her fingers sticky pulling it apart.

‘Okay, where were we up to?’ she said. ‘Community service.’

‘You mean picking up papers on the side of the road?’ asked Warren, sawing at his waffle.

‘No, it would be something more meaningful than that. Bush regeneration could be a good match for you, or volunteer work in a charity centre, along the lines of what you already do. It demonstrates your suitability.’

‘If you say so.’ He lifted a piece of waffle on his fork and revolved it to stop the syrup from dripping.

‘In this business you’ve got to use any positives to your advantage.’

Warren grimaced as he chewed, like the pastry had turned to cardboard.

‘The other penalty that’s commonly imposed is a fine but I can argue against that on the basis of means to pay.’

‘What are we talking, hundreds?’

‘At least. When you add the amount for each charge together it could be more, over a thousand.’

She asked him about testimonials, whether anyone could give him a character reference, and he clammed up, sticking his knife into the grid of the waffle.

‘What about your supervisors at St Cuthbert’s?’

‘I’d rather not drag them into it. They’ve got important work to do, helping people who really need it.’

‘Please let me call them for you. It could make a difference.’

His shoulders rose and fell. ‘Whatever you need to do.’

‘And the caretaker where you live, Terry, he said you’d been a good resident. That’s significant. I’ll arrange a reference from him.’

‘I’d better start showing him a bit more respect, then,’ said Warren.

*          *          *

Back at the office, Jeremy Choi was in for the day and Meredith asked him to do a business name search for ‘Lifeglow’ and trawl the web for any instances of the name that might be connected to Max.

After lunch, the phone rang on Meredith’s desk. Picking it up, the line sounded hollow like a payphone.

‘Hello Meredith, this is Mr Waters,’ said an educated voice.

Her mind went blank for a second, trying to place the familiar tone.

‘Some people think I’m a bit of a drip.’

Mr Waters. Hydraulics. So Griff did have a humorous side.

‘Very funny. Some of us have real work to do.’

‘Speaking of which, I was hoping you could join me for an excursion early tomorrow before work if you’re free,’ said Griff.

‘Depends what you mean by early. I’m not a morning person, so it’s an achievement for me to get to work by nine.’

‘I thought you were committed to this case,’ his voice rose with mock indignation. ‘You were the one who inspired me to become more interested.’

‘My dedication is beyond question,’ she responded in kind. ‘I stand ready, but you haven’t told me what the excursion is for.’

‘I think I’ve found a significant location, if I can put it that way, to show you,’ he paused as the sound of a car passed in the background, ‘and it’s not too far.’

‘Seriously, what time did you have in mind?’ asked Meredith.

‘Let’s say eight, if early starts are a problem.’

‘Eight is rather early. Where?’

‘Brookfield Mall, on the coast road.’

‘That’s quite a detour. How long do you need me for?’

‘I’m giving you a guided tour, which will take about half an hour. I can bring breakfast if that saves you time.’

‘Better make it quarter to eight, or I’ll be late to work. Even later than usual, that is.’ There was always the option of sleeping upright in the lounge chair, though she inwardly groaned at the prospect.

Another car hummed past in the background. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘are you calling from outside again, on the street?’

‘I decided to use a payphone, as an extra precaution, in case anyone is tracing my calls.’

‘I’m surprised you could find one,’ said Meredith.

‘They’re still out there, if you really look.’

*          *          *

Later that afternoon, Jeremy reported his progress with internet searches to Meredith. The national business names register identified a Lifeglow Pty Ltd and listed the directors as Haina Binoko and Zira Serdi. The business location was recorded as an interstate postcode. She knew it did not mean they lived at the location; people registered businesses anywhere, even overseas. Curiously, neither director’s name was in the online White Pages or on Facebook or other social media.

Meredith emailed Griff and phoned Emilia Linton to check whether they’d ever heard of Binoko and Serdi. When they said no, Meredith told Jeremy to hold off doing further research for the time being as Binoko and Serdi might not be associated with Max. ‘I don’t want to waste your time unless I’ve got something stronger to go on,’ she said. She also didn’t want to waste her money on paying Jeremy to do work that wasn’t necessary.

Chapter 17

The next morning, Meredith drove sleepy-headed towards the coast, a route that reminded her of family holidays at the beach. Brookfield Mall didn’t exist then, but had since risen to dominate the landscape beside the highway which had long bypassed the centre of Brookfield.

There weren’t many vehicles in the car park of the mall at ten to eight as she drove around to the back, where the ugly concrete loading dock was visible, its giant shutter still closed and buttercup yellow dumpsters waiting to be fed. No wonder, she thought, that the customer focus of malls was on their entrances, with colourful signs and glass sliding doors and piped music. The brick box exterior, particularly the rear-end functions of delivery and disposal, and the stark or scrubby surrounds of the complex didn’t normally rate a conscious thought among shoppers.

One of the furthest parking spaces was occupied by Griff’s silver Prius. The sight of it made her smile. It was reassuring, to have a fellow traveller to share theories and setbacks with; she just had to beware of being manipulated by someone with a different agenda.

Swallowing a yawn, Meredith rolled into the space next to Griff and he looked up from his phone. Getting out of her car, she could see a paper bag and takeaway coffees in a cardboard holder on the passenger seat of the Prius.

Griff put his phone away and pointed at the seat. When Meredith opened the door he said, ‘Have your breakfast before the coffee gets cold.’

The morning air was crisp and the insulated cup was warmly comforting in her hands. Eyeing the paper bag, she hoped for croissants or date scones, although the shape of the contents suggested something more rounded. Griff leaned over and tore the bag open, revealing two cupcakes with smiley faces in chocolate piping.

Meredith had a sudden urge to tease or taunt, in exchange for his ‘Mr Waters’ joke on the phone the previous day. ‘How old are we?’ she smirked.

‘Never too old for cake, I hope,’ he pouted.

‘Sorry, they’re very cute. Strange, but cute.’

‘They reminded me of your perpetually cheerful, optimistic nature,’ he said.

She recognised sarcasm when she heard it. ‘Sure they did. I don’t suppose there was anything slightly healthier for breakfast?’

‘Actually, they’re organic.’

‘Really? I’m intrigued to know how cupcakes can qualify as organic.’

‘The woman at the bakery was quite clear on that. Organic flour, free-range eggs and ethical chocolate.’

‘As opposed to ruthless, corrupt chocolate. Seriously?’

‘It’s responsible trading or something along those lines. No child labour and non-exploitative to cocoa plantation workers.’

‘Okay, I believe you.’ She sat down and balanced the takeaway coffee on the dashboard before peeling the patty case off the cupcake and taking a bite. ‘I must admit it’s ethically tasty, morally scrumptious.’ Swinging her head in the direction of the monolith behind them, she added, ‘Can I assume we’re not here to go shopping?’

‘Correct. Do you know what this place was before the mall was built?’

‘No, I haven’t been down this way for years and I have no recollection of what used to be here.’

‘Originally the land was the site of a tip, outside the town limits, which was filled in when rubbish disposal became more organised in the nineteen hundreds.’ Pointing to a slope, he continued. ‘Down that way leads to a creek, hence the name Brookfield, and over there, closer to the town, used to be market gardens. We’re heading for the vacant land in the middle.’

Meredith drained the rest of her coffee and they left the empty cups and the balled paper bag in the console before getting out of the car.

Beyond the concrete border of the car park, they stepped over a scattered fringe of takeaway rubbish discarded by shoppers and negotiated their way around clumps of privet and lantana and an upturned rust-tinged trolley.

Griff spoke in a monologue, as though he was leading a tour group. ‘The market gardens were at their peak from the nineteen twenties to the fifties and the families who ran them owned the extra land for potential expansion, but they never used it. The demand for small-scale production started to decline from the nineteen sixties with the rise of supermarket chains. Apparently it was cheaper to bring produce in bulk from elsewhere, even interstate, than distribute small quantities from places like this. The last of the families sold off their land ten years ago. So far the purchasers have kept the land or sold it on without developing it.’

‘You know a lot about the area. Are you from around here?’ asked Meredith, sure that she had not seen Griff before their recent introduction.

‘No, no, I moved to Bellwater when I began working at the lab nearly seven years ago.’

‘My guess is you’re from the country.’

‘Is it that obvious? I thought I’d brushed off the hayseeds long ago,’ he scuffed the ground awkwardly.

‘Where did you grow up?’

‘In a gold rush town called Longrest.’

‘I think I’ve heard of it.’

‘The gold has long gone. Tourism keeps it alive these days. But let’s not get sidetracked onto my personal history. There isn’t time and it’s pretty dull.’

‘I doubt that,’ she grinned.

He folded his arms, like a teacher in frustration at a cheeky pupil. ‘Where was I? The shopping centre. Yes. One of the first projects I was involved with at the lab was doing some drainage modelling for this shopping centre development. There were concerns about inundation during heavy rain and the council insisted the developer get the modelling done as part of the assessment process, which was more rigorous then. People were already speculating about the future of this adjoining land – why not a housing estate to go with the shopping centre? So I remembered it when I was thinking of likely locations and, sure enough, there it was on Strathdene Council’s website under DA listings.’

Meredith’s foot sunk into a soft, muddy patch of ground. ‘I wish I’d brought some old shoes,’ she said, wiping her ankle boot on a clump of grass and checking the hems of her good slacks. ‘Okay, so the application for this site fits into the fast-track housing scheme?’

Griff nodded. ‘The staff I dealt with at Strathdene Council years ago for the shopping centre have moved on, and I spoke to a woman who was very cagey about releasing information. Certainly wouldn’t tell me the names of any individuals, just the developer which is Acrob Projects. A-C-R-O-B. The council’s listing gives a basic description: twenty six dwellings, a mixture of multistorey townhouses and some freestanding homes on the four acre site.’

‘Strathdene Council,’ said Meredith. ‘Weren’t we expecting Bellwater?’

‘Not necessarily. It could make sense to choose land in the neighbouring council area and avoid the spotlight of Bellwater Council where Max used to work. And whoever else was instrumental in selecting the land might prefer dealing with Strathdene for similar reasons.’

Numbers and dimensions didn’t make much of a visual impression on Meredith. She revolved slowly with careful steps as she peered through the trees and tried to imagine twenty six dwellings. It sounded like a lot. ‘Do I take it no plans are available to compare with the diagrams in Max’s assessment?’

‘The council won’t release anything until the public display stage, which is a window of opportunity of two weeks if council gives approval in principle. No plans or artist’s impressions are shown on Acrob’s website either; it’s just listed as one of their forthcoming developments. I didn’t try contacting anyone in the company yet.’

‘That’s okay, I can do it,’ said Meredith. ‘So, on what basis do you think this is the land in question – just the size?’

‘And the consistent features of the landscape, like the gradient and the proximity to a creek with an adjoining wetland,’ Griff swept an arm through the air. ‘Max’s assessment doesn’t show a detailed site plan, only simple boundaries and indications of medium density dwellings, but that’s understandable because his focus is on topographical and environmental issues.’

‘I’m assuming the current zoning of this land is not medium density residential?’

‘That’s right, changing the zoning is part of the fast-track scheme, and the commercial rezoning of the shopping mall creates a precedent. Actually, I would have expected Max to refer to the presence of the mall. I guess his main concern was the suitability of the land for residential construction, and he did broadly refer to the area’s landuse being consistent with development, in terms of existing road access, infrastructure and so on. If some of the realities I’m seeing on the ground, like the natural drainage, are not as good as his assessment claims, it could be because Max put a positive spin on them to help get the deal approved.’

‘You mean falsifying the true situation?’

‘Exaggerating its suitability.’

‘Doesn’t it seem odd for Max to be willing to do an assessment that’s exaggerated or dodgy? What if someone found out?’

‘We only found out because Max wound up dead, which presumably he wasn’t expecting. It’s very possible his name did not even appear on the assessment. Sometimes the author is a team or a consultancy, like Bellwater Environmental Consultants or Smith and Partners, and specific individuals are not identified. If it looks professionally done, it’s taken on faith and no one would demand to know the personnel behind it.’

The wind was picking up and Meredith braced her jacketed arms across her chest, noticing the time on her watch as her sleeves rose. ‘I’d better make tracks to work.’

They started tramping towards the coloured chequerboard of cars that had slotted into the parking spaces outside the mall while they were viewing the site.

‘I brought Max’s diary to give back to you.’ She patted her handbag. ‘I didn’t find anything, but that was before this Acrob business.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go through it again,’ said Griff. ‘Probably not for the last time. Further information might come up. First it was Lifeglow, then Acrob, what next?’

‘I’ll make those Acrob inquiries and let you know how I get on. While I think of it, do you have the folio identifiers for this land?’

‘I’ll text them to you when I get back to my office,’ said Griff, stepping around a patch of thistles. ‘Thank goodness for the Torrens register, another homegrown innovation. Not that it was an entirely novel idea; the ancient Sumerians recorded the transfer of property on clay cylinders.’

‘I’m struggling to remember my lessons from school about the history of civilisation. Were the Sumerians before or after the Ancient Egyptians?’

‘Before. Around 3000 BC.’

‘Which means we can probably eliminate a Sumerian from owning this particular parcel of land,’ said Meredith, scuffing a blob of mud off the toe of her boot.

Chapter 18

Once Griff texted Meredith the deposited plan number and other details of the Brookfield land, she arranged with Adriana to do an online title search and hung around reception to see the results. The search confirmed Griff’s information that the registered owner was Acrob Projects Pty Ltd. Meredith nodded to herself, knowing a company had the legal status of a person and could therefore own property.

Back in her office, Meredith looked at the Acrob website, absorbing the different divisions and personnel under the ‘Organisation’ tab. She entered Max’s name in the ‘search site’ box, already sure it would be too simple for him to be listed as a consultant. Nothing came up.

The same phone number was repeated on the website for each of the executives. Meredith rang the number and requested to be put through to Leonard Huang, the Chief Executive of Projects.

There was a delay as the receptionist transferred the call, a soft humming on the line before he said hello.

Meredith introduced herself and said, ‘I’m trying to contact a man called Max Linton who I believe may be connected with your company’s development at Brookfield.’

The humming was audible on the line again, while Mr Huang checked something, and she worried the call was being monitored.

‘He’s not in our organisation. Many sub-contractors are involved in a major project like that.’

‘Have you heard of him at all?’

‘I don’t think so, not that I can remember.’ Another pause and more definitely, ‘No.’

Something stilted about the answer made her think he was hedging.

‘Can I ask then, please, who is the author of the environmental assessment for the Brookfield site?’

‘I cannot reveal that information. It is confidential.’

‘It shouldn’t be. Those assessments are in the public domain.’ An attempt at bluffing. She assumed they were, although she didn’t know for sure.

‘You write to the managing director of the company, ask permission.’ Mr Huang had a thick accent – thicker than Jeremy’s – and Meredith had to concentrate on the clipped words.

‘It would be quicker if you could put me through to him, please.’

‘He is not in the office today. He would tell you the same thing, that you need to make a written request.’

‘Can’t you simply tell me if you’ve used another firm of environmental consultants? If it’s not Max Linton, that should be easy.’

‘You must deal with the managing director. In writing. Goodbye.’

*          *          *

Later, Meredith rang Griff with an update on the uncooperative reception she received from Acrob Projects. ‘I’m worried we’re wasting time, going in circles. The early weeks are crucial in a murder case.’ Her indignation at the brush-off from Mr Huang bubbled over. ‘There are so many parcels of land in the outer suburbs ripe for development, we could keep picking locations and getting nowhere. Should we go to the police taskforce with the land development angle?’

‘What would you tell them?’ asked Griff.

‘We could show them Max’s assessment and urge the importance of accessing the council records to see if his name appears on documents for the Brookfield development.’

‘I guess it’s another strategy worth trying.’

‘You could come with me to the taskforce, to explain how you picked the land if they have questions. And maybe if you’re in communication with the police you won’t be so worried about being followed.’

‘I’m sure they’ll give me a secret number to ring, twenty-four-seven,’ he said with weary doubt.

*          *          *

At lunchtime, Meredith bought a serving of chicken teriyaki on rice from the Japanese takeaway on the corner and went straight back to her desk. While eating, she skimmed the information available on government websites about the Direct Housing Redevelopment Scheme and found what Griff had told her was correct.

After the other staff left for the day, Meredith kept working. She felt she hadn’t made enough progress on her usual files as her mind had been preoccupied with land development issues and the Brookfield site.

Empty desks, the ghostly effect of turning off most of the lights, and the slightly stuffy air accentuated the loneliness of the late-night lawyer.

Taking a break to stretch her legs, Meredith rinsed her mug in the kitchenette and went to the restroom next to it. After using the toilet, she noticed the liquid hand wash bottle at the basin had overflowed, making a mess. She mopped up the spillage with a wad of paper towel and examined the pump. Undoing the top of the bottle, which was almost new, she was unable to find anything wrong with the mechanism and she wondered if someone had simply pushed too hard on the pump when the bottle was still full. She emptied a little more gel down the drain so the level of the liquid wasn’t as high and made a mental note to check it again in the morning.

As she opened the outer door of the restroom, Meredith heard a rustling noise and took cover in the kitchenette. Thoughts dashed into her mind – distorted, solitary, nocturnal thoughts. An intruder could be searching the place to see what material the solicitors had gathered on Max Linton. Or was it possible that one of her colleagues had popped back? She had forgotten to latch the front door like she usually did when she worked late on her own. But Brian never returned after he went home and Adriana had a busy private life.

A noise again, of a folder slapping on a desk top. Definitely from Frank’s office. Meredith looked wildly around the kitchenette for something to use as a weapon but nothing obvious was visible. Checking the fridge for a bottle would trigger the light and the motor and give herself away.

Meredith flattened herself against the counter and slowly edged towards the partition that screened the kitchenette and the restroom from the main office and the gaze of clients in the waiting area. A blood vessel beat in her ear. She angled her head around the partition and spied a figure bent over the plastic trays on Frank’s desk, indistinct in the subdued light from the green banker’s lamp.

Eyes darting to the front door and back, she wondered if she could sneak out without attracting attention, or if it was better to retreat into the restroom.

At that moment, the figure straightened and turned in profile, revealing itself to be Frank Valenti. Meredith stepped out of the shadows to alert him to her presence.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I saw your computer was on and figured you hadn’t gone far.’

Frank looked thin, greyish-yellow rather than pink and prosperous. His eyes were smaller and glinted more intensely than she remembered.

‘This is a surprise. A nice surprise,’ Meredith grasped for a positive comment to conceal her shock at his shrunken appearance.

‘Occasionally I pop in to check the books, usually on weekends when it won’t be a distraction for everyone.’

‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, knowing Brian and Adriana also kept him updated about developments at work.

‘My wife wants me to stay away, says I’m supposed to be having a complete rest. But believe me – tests, medications, side effects, eating through a tube in your stomach and endless appointments are not conducive to rest. I need to remind myself of what I actually do for a living.’

His voice was a gangster’s whisper, all the more sinister for its softness. Adriana had mentioned the eating tube, a temporary measure while the throat healed after surgery. She said he wouldn’t allow any visitors to see him that way, even relatives. It was so unfair, a non-smoker getting throat cancer from second-hand cigarette smoke.

‘I can understand needing to be productive,’ Meredith sympathised.

‘Tell me, seriously, how are you and Brian managing without me here to mediate?’

‘We give each other a lot of space. I think I get on his nerves.’

‘Generally, or over a particular case?’ Frank asked, raising his eyebrows.

He knows, she thought. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware of the Connor and Linton cases?’

Frank smiled. ‘Yes, Brian mentioned those matters to me. I think I would have approved of your involvement. Every lawyer has to stick their neck out eventually. If it turns out badly, you’ll be more cautious next time.’

‘That’s what I wanted to tell Brian, except I didn’t put it so well.’

‘Brian has been a part of this firm for a long time, as you know. Almost from the beginning. He may act cold-hearted, but that’s necessary sometimes to make tough decisions and not lose any sleep over them.’

‘I wish I could be that way, detached and professional,’ said Meredith.

‘No, you each bring different qualities to the firm. You’re a bit more compassionate and creative in your thinking, not so rigid. When I hired you I was looking for someone to complement Brian. I’ve seen his softer side with his family, which he doesn’t show at work.’

‘I just get the sense he’s always annoyed with me, even when I agree with him. It’s like I’ll never be good enough.’ Her glance wandered along the clustered photographs of Frank’s extended family, framed in gold, silver, brass and polished wood.

Frank nodded and cleared his throat, wincing with the effort. ‘I’ll tell you something in the strictest confidence, so you know it’s not your fault. Brian’s son seems to have a developmental condition, although it’s hard to get a definite diagnosis until he starts school. They lost a baby after their first child, and went through a lot of heartache at the time, so they felt truly blessed when their son was born.’

‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

‘Of course you didn’t. Brian stores up resentment and takes it out on people for no apparent reason. Perhaps on someone he thinks hasn’t struggled enough, or perhaps it’s at random. Who knows, but it doesn’t change what you stand for, right?’

Propped against the desk, dressed in black, Frank looked like her confessor. He had been to the edge of the abyss of mortality, gazed into its depths and returned to share his insights.

Without consciously intending to, Meredith heard herself say, ‘Can I ask you about something that’s come up in relation to Max Linton’s death? It has to do with the Direct Housing Redevelopment Scheme.’

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘Max supplied a positive environmental assessment for a housing project under the scheme. He worked on it without telling his superiors at the water research lab, and the most logical reason for the secrecy seems to be that there was something underhanded about the arrangement,’ Meredith explained. ‘Have you ever come across any collusion like that in the development process, especially where misleading material is provided to get a project approved? It could be in Bellwater or another council area.’

Frank took a while to respond. ‘Not first hand, no. I’ve had my suspicions with some of the developers I’ve dealt with over the years but –’

He coughed and his fingers darted to his throat.

‘Are you all right? Do you want some water?’

He nodded and they went to the kitchenette, Frank dryly wheezing. Meredith reached into the cupboard for a glass, checking it was clean before filling it and handing it to Frank.

He took a drink and said, ‘I shouldn’t talk so much.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault for asking questions.’

He sipped and waited. ‘That’s better. The voice will get stronger, I’m told, with the help of a speech pathologist.’

Meredith exhaled with relief, but couldn’t bring herself to revive the corruption topic.

‘My wife’s booked a trip for when I finish the treatment. Being optimistic.’ He swallowed another mouthful of water. ‘To the Northern Territory. We’ve never been there before.’

‘Me neither,’ said Meredith. ‘I’d like to see the colours of Uluru at different times of the day.’

‘Yes, I’m hoping if I go somewhere really ancient, I’ll feel younger.’

Meredith left Frank to get on with checking the books. She shut down her computer and said goodnight on her way out. At the parting sight of him, hunched and pale, she hoisted her bag with robust arms, so grateful for her health and glad to be on the youthful side of middle age.

His words stayed with her: it doesn’t change what you stand for, right?

She would remind herself of that the next time her confidence needed bolstering.

Chapter 19

The taskforce was based at Bellwater Police Station in the new annex, where the rooms were functional and box-like without a trace of history in the architecture.

Meredith and Griff arranged to meet outside the police station, but as Meredith walked towards it, with the view distorted by shopfronts and awnings and the signs at the start of a laneway, she thought she saw a figure resembling Griff coming out of the entrance. Had he been visiting the police before the appointed time? If so, who was he talking to?

Greeting him, she asked, ‘Been waiting long?’

‘No, just a minute or two.’

‘Did you go inside?’

‘No, I went over there,’ he said, pointing to a recess in the wall, ‘to check if it was more sheltered from the breeze, but it wasn’t.’

‘Sorry, I’m a bit jumpy. Must be seeing things.’ She still wasn’t sure whether to believe him, and yet she could hardly prove otherwise. ‘But I think we should be careful about revealing too much. Let’s stick to the facts and focus on the records that need to be obtained. Hold back on sharing theories or matters of speculation.’

‘Why is that?’ A flash of irritation crossed his face.

‘The detectives will take all they can get and might not give anything in return.’

He chewed over the remark, digging his hands in his pockets.

Meredith twisted her hair with the crook of a finger to stop it flying about in the breeze. What she couldn’t say was that she’d noticed when Griff was enthusiastic or possibly nervous, he talked faster, in a science-geek stream of consciousness, and she was worried how much he might let slip.

‘Let’s go inside,’ she said.

Trotting up the short steps of the entrance triggered the reinforced glass door to slide open expectantly.

Meredith wished she could see the room where the taskforce operated, so that she might gain a sense of the direction of the investigation from glimpsing suspects’ names on a whiteboard or overhearing a discussion of tip-offs left on the Crimestoppers hotline.

Instead, the mundane reality was that Meredith and Griff were escorted by a young female administrative officer to wait in a room that looked like it was used to interview victims. A circle of black, padded vinyl chairs surrounded a low table with a box of tissues on it, and a crate of toys sat nearby on the floor. Closer to the entrance was a row of laminated tables with a desktop computer, which Meredith thought was perhaps for the recording of statements, and a few office chairs were arranged on either side.

Detective Inspector Claude Barzine, who had come from the homicide squad to lead the taskforce, entered the room ahead of Detective Sergeant Rory Driscoll and made the introductions. He confirmed with Detective Driscoll that Griff was among the water laboratory employees interviewed at the beginning of the local investigation, before the taskforce was formed.

Nudging aside the keyboard of the desktop computer, Detective Barzine opened his own laptop. He was strictly business, with a focussed presence and pale, silvery-blue eyes. Asking pointed questions, he isolated the relevant land development issues and the possibility that Max had been caught in a lucrative web, leading to his murder.

Detective Driscoll sat quietly beside his superior officer, leaning forward in expectation, watching and waiting.

Griff gave Detective Barzine a copy of Max’s assessment of the unidentified land for development. He explained that it was not part of the research work of the water lab. Detective Barzine fingered the pages of the document without really looking at its contents. ‘Talk me through this,’ he said, fixing his frosty eyes on Griff.

As Griff spoke, Detective Barzine put down the document and started typing a commentary, glancing up robotically at intervals without attempting conversational rapport. ‘Yep, yep, got that,’ he said while Griff paused to let the detective’s fingers catch up. He was touch-typing and if he tried to go too fast he made mistakes and had to keep hitting the backspace key.

The man who types the record controls the interpretation, thought Meredith.

‘See how this version of the assessment has no cover page with the date or name of the author or a consulting firm?’ said Griff. ‘If you could check whether a final version of this has been lodged with Strathdene Council, those identifying features might give more clues about Max’s involvement or who else is behind this.’

Detective Barzine stared back at him, unblinking, processing what Griff was requesting, but not necessarily agreeing to that course of action.

Detective Driscoll continued to sit leaning forward in anticipation, as though waiting for a turn that might never come, his hands clasped and thumbs chasing each other around in circles. His face wore the slight indignity of a local cop who has a higher-ranked outsider imposed on him. He looked past Meredith, which she assumed meant he couldn’t do anything to contradict his superior or raise any subject that they weren’t there to discuss.

When Griff told the detectives about the similarities of the land in Brookfield, Meredith handed a copy of the title search for the suspected site to Detective Driscoll, compelling him to make eye contact.

‘You’ll see the registered owner of the land is a company called Acrob and I’ve written some contact details at the bottom. I spoke to the Chief Executive of Projects, Mr Huang, but he wouldn’t discuss the environmental assessment.’

‘You seem to be going beyond the usual inquiries of most defence lawyers,’ said Detective Barzine. His piercing eyes flashed a warning like a ‘no trespassing’ sign.

Meredith tried to make light of it. ‘You know how it is, looking into one thing leads to another.’

‘The defence would say that, wouldn’t they? Sounds like a scattergun approach,’ said Detective Barzine.

‘I call it keeping an open mind,’ she retorted. ‘The point is, you can find out if Max was connected to this development through Acrob, or by getting access to records held by the council or the Planning Department, whereas we can’t.’

Detective Driscoll waved the title search document. ‘Are you saying this is definitely the land?’

‘We can’t say for certain,’ admitted Griff, ‘but the parallels are striking.’

Meredith added: ‘It’s a strong contender. Checking from the council’s side of the equation has got to be easier than canvassing all the land in the district.’

‘I’ll make a note of it, and if we need further clarification we’ll call you,’ said Detective Barzine. ‘Anything else you come across, phone it through to the taskforce number.’ There was a brisk, dismissive manner to his fingers as they flipped shut the laptop.

Meredith had considered mentioning the Lifeglow lead, but his arrogance decided her against it, at least until she had verified whether it was significant.

Instead she asked, ‘Had you encountered any land issues in the case before we raised this?’

‘Unfortunately I cannot reveal details of the investigation, but thank you for coming forward with the information,’ said Detective Barzine, reciting the standard script.

Treating her like an ordinary member of the public. He obviously didn’t think she was capable of cracking open the case and, as she pushed back her chair, Meredith resolved to prove him wrong.

Chapter 20

Warren had not returned the messages Meredith left at the rooming house. She wanted to remind him of the sentencing the next day, and to let him know that community service placements were currently available in the southern region.

Unable to reach him directly, she thought about other options and rang the office at St Cuthbert’s church. An administrative assistant called Deirdre listened to Meredith’s concerns and said she would make some inquiries.

Reflecting on her recent conversations with Warren, Meredith hoped she had not alarmed him by sounding too negative. Her strategy was to promise less and deliver more, but some lawyers seemed to prefer to tell their clients what they wanted to hear and leave it to the judge to confront them with reality.

Deirdre from St Cuthbert’s called back to say that she’d spoken to the coordinator of the soup kitchen and he hadn’t seen Warren around for at least a week.

Meredith rang the front desk at Bellwater Police Station to check if Warren had reported on bail. When she identified herself as Mr Connor’s solicitor, the desk sergeant revealed that Warren had missed reporting on the previous two occasions. Her stomach dropped. Breaching bail requirements made him look like a guilty man, but perhaps he wasn’t thinking in a logical fashion if he just wanted to get away.

Warren had told her he did not own a mobile phone or computer. The only way of contacting him was at the rooming house, where she’d already left three messages. There was a single number rather than individual lines to the rooms, and luck determined who answered the communal phone. Trying again seemed the only option. The phone rang at length until the caretaker, Terry, answered.

Meredith identified herself. ‘I know I’ve called before, but can you see if he’s there? He’s in court tomorrow.’

Terry grunted and went to check.

‘Come on, Warren,’ said Meredith to herself, pressing down on the stress ball with the heel of her spare hand.

After a long wait, there was a scraping sound as the receiver was picked up again. ‘He’s not answering his door,’ said Terry.

‘When did you last see him?’ asked Meredith.

‘Not for a bit.’ Terry’s strong Kiwi accent made ‘bit’ sound halfway between ‘but’ and ‘bet’.

‘Can you be more precise?’

‘Three days, maybe.’

‘What was his mood like? Did he seem okay?’

‘Same as usual. He’s not the most cheerful bloke I’ve ever met.’

‘He hasn’t reported on bail. I’m very concerned.’

‘I’ve just left another message under his door,’ said Terry.

Meredith’s ears grated at the warped vowels. I’ve jest lift another missidge…

‘But if he’s not there, that won’t work,’ she pointed out.

No suggestions from Terry.

‘Can you let me know if he turns up?’ said Meredith.

‘As long as that’s okay with him.’

Meredith clicked her tongue with irritation. ‘This is important.’

‘Look, the residents have got a right to their privacy,’ said Terry. ‘If I see him, I’ll tell him to call you.’

After she hung up, Meredith thumped the stress ball, distorting the Squeeze More From Your Day slogan. Despite its age, the ball refused to split or decay, no matter how hard or repeatedly she punched it. ‘Make that Squander More of Your Day,’ she muttered.

Meredith knew she should probably wait to see if Warren contacted her. But things had a habit of eating away at her; she couldn’t leave them alone.

Her gaze landed on the cactus sitting on the filing cabinet and she silently suggested to it the idea of ringing Detective Driscoll. The angle of its prickled head gave it a proudly indignant look as it recommended she regroup and try another approach, perhaps with an element of surprise.

It was a short drive to Huxley Lodge, near the railway station. Most of the dwellings in the street were old blocks of flats and rooming houses, dark brick, no balconies, built in the thirties for low-income tenants or single workers who commuted by train.

Meredith parked her Cruiser Classic diagonally opposite Huxley Lodge. The small windows on the outside of the dingy building seemed designed to repel the abundant natural light. Nobody came or went as she sat there, although she knew it was possible the caretaker had already slipped out during the ten minutes since they’d spoken on the phone. She waited a few extra minutes to calm herself and think of what to say.

A tudor-arched entrance framed double glass doors which bore the name ‘Huxley Lodge’ in frosted lettering. She pushed through the doors and they bounced shut behind her.

The tiled lobby smelt of dampness and Dencorub, as though a sore and soggy character had hobbled ahead of her. To the right were pigeonholes marked with room numbers for mail and messages. Warren had never given her his room number. On the left, a metal payphone was fixed to the wall. Meredith realised it must be the landline that received the incoming calls, while also allowing residents who didn’t have their own phone to call out. Battered phone books were stacked on the floor and a wooden stool was parked underneath the phone.

She hesitated to proceed further into the all-male domain, then rallied herself and continued down the tunnel-like hallway. The first door displayed a rectangular plastic sign announcing ‘Office’. She raised her fist and knocked before she had a chance to change her mind.

A man answered with a newspaper clutched in one hand. His long unshaven face and lopsided nose jutted through the gap in the door. Sports commentary and engine noises droned from a television in the room behind him.

‘Yes?’ his eyes bulged at the sight of a female in the house.

‘Hi, you must be Terry. We spoke on the phone a short time ago. I’m Meredith.’

His face turned into a scowl. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I need to find Warren.’

‘I told you,’ he said.

‘Have you checked his room?’

Terry shook his head.

‘Don’t you have a spare key?’

‘I’m not going to invade a resident’s private space.’

‘What if he’s had a heart attack or something in there?’

Terry swung the door wider, revealing images of racing cars buzzing around a track on the television.

Meredith stared directly into his puffy eyes. ‘Please. Can you look, in case he needs help.’

Warren’s room was on the second floor. Male voices and the smell of cooked sausages floated down the hall, suggesting a group kitchen or common room at the rear, mixed with the taint of cigarette smoke. ‘Is smoking allowed in here?’ she asked.

‘Not inside, only the back courtyard. But I know some of them try to get away with it in their rooms.’

She sniffed a passing door and wondered if the stale residue from all the smokers who’d ever lived there could have seeped into the walls.

Terry knocked on the door of Room 11 before turning the key. The paper phone messages levitated with the incoming draught. ‘Nobody’s here,’ Terry announced over his shoulder.

‘Does it look like he’s gone for good?’

Terry stood aside to let Meredith see for herself. ‘More like he’s popped out, I think. Hard to be sure. I can’t remember the last time I was in here.’

Meredith entered the room. Wooden floorboards creaked underfoot. The single bed was unmade, with a grey blanket trailing over the side and obscuring a pair of tartan slippers. There was something intimate about the bedding that made her look away.

Against the opposite wall stood a chest of drawers and a slim plywood closet, decorated with stickers from radio stations and campaigns in past decades to stop whaling and save the forests. The rest of that wall to the corner was occupied by a chipped hand basin with a small mirror above it.

‘Was he up to date with his rent?’ Meredith asked.

Terry nodded. ‘For this week.’

In the middle of the room stood a small, square table and two wooden chairs. A block of art paper lay open beside a set of watercolour paints, a jar of cloudy liquid that looked like it had been used to rinse brushes, and an empty soup can with some dry brushes sticking out of it. On the pad was a half-finished painting of pink and mauve petunias, in the detailed style of a botanical study. The trumpet-shaped petals of the real flowers had collapsed into a crinkled fan, hanging over the rim of a sherry glass.

‘I’m surprised,’ said Meredith, staring at the fine strokes of the painting. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was the type.’

‘What type is that?’

‘So patient and meticulous.’

‘He used to be a commercial artist,’ said Terry.

‘I know, but this is more intricate than I expected.’

‘He likes doing cards for people. For free, he won’t accept payment. I’ve sent a few home to my Mum on her birthday and Mother’s Day.’

She leant forward for a closer look and tried to imagine Warren at the table, shoulders hunched as he concentrated on the painstaking work.

‘Maybe it was his way of relaxing.’ Terry made circles in the air with his hands, trying to come up with something to say. ‘Clear his mind or whatever.’

Meredith focussed on the sherry glass, noticing the gap between the current level of the water and the level on the painting. She lightly touched the shrivelled petals of the petunias. ‘I guess water isn’t enough to keep them alive.’

‘Once delicate flowers are cut, they’re on borrowed time.’

Meredith examined the leftover paint, dried and cracked in the mixing compartment of the paintbox. ‘I wonder if this dried-up paint and the water level in the glass indicate how long he’s been gone?’

Terry shuffled up beside the table. ‘Probably since I saw him, three or so days ago.’

‘It almost looks like he was interrupted before finishing the painting.’ Meredith nodded at the soup can and added, ‘Except he had time to clean his brushes, so he didn’t leave in a panic.’

On the seat of one of the chairs was a plastic display folder. Meredith opened the cover and leafed through the transparent sleeves. They held sketches of plants and flowers, with notes about colour, tone and texture.

Tucked into the back of the folder were a few pages of crossed-out designs, paint tests and doodles. One pattern caught her eye because it didn’t resemble flowers, but was composed of rows of rectangles and triangles either side of a vertical strip down the middle. More like flower beds, perhaps a design for a garden. Underneath it was written: Dhurringile. She stared at the unusual word, wondering if it was Aboriginal or possibly the name of a heritage property with an impressive garden.

Terry stood silently while Meredith closed the folder and slowly eyed the rest of the room. She pointed at the chest of drawers. ‘Can we check if anything really important is in there? The sort of thing he wouldn’t leave without.’

Terry moved closer to the drawers. ‘I guess so. You’ve got me worried now.’

As he slid open the drawers, one by one, she peered inside. No wallet, keys, passport or other essential items, mainly clothes and a few cheap toiletries: no-name shampoo and disposable razors and band-aids. In the lowest drawer Meredith spied the edges of some envelopes poking out from under a sloppy joe. Left to her own devices, she would’ve had a thorough rummage.

But at that moment Terry declared, ‘I don’t want to poke around too much more. My hunch is he wouldn’t leave his paints behind. I think he just likes going off by himself, having a change of scene. He does it every so often.’

‘Great timing, with court tomorrow,’ said Meredith.

‘Maybe that’s it, the pressure got to him and he needed to escape it.’

‘At what point would you call the police to report him missing?’

‘Not yet. See if he turns up for court first.’

Meredith moved towards the dirty window, which was enclosed in a metal frame and half-open on a rusty arm. She noticed a few cars parked in a gravel yard.

‘That reminds me, did Warren have a car?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

So it was less likely that he would suddenly take a road trip, she surmised, although it wouldn’t stop him jumping on a train or bus.

Meredith asked about relatives, but Terry was none the wiser. ‘He doesn’t get many calls. A couple of times I’ve picked up the phone downstairs and it’s been a woman calling for him. Didn’t introduce herself, which isn’t unusual. People often don’t.’

Terry closed the door behind them and Meredith dug inside her handbag for a business card. ‘Can you ask among the residents? See if we can establish who was the last one to see him and try to pinpoint a time.’

He paused on the stairs, flicking the edge of her card. ‘Talk about giving me the heebie jeebies. If you hear from him first, can you let me know too?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Okay then, good luck,’ he said, stopping outside his room.

‘Bye, and thanks.’

Terry’s door clunked shut as Meredith crossed the lobby. Roused by her footsteps, a chocolate Burmese cat appeared from behind the stack of phone books and trotted up to her, mewing hopefully and eyeing her handbag.

‘Sorry, no treats,’ she said, opening her empty palms. ‘Who do you belong to? Do you live here?’

The cat wore a plastic flea collar but had no name tag. It looked healthy and, being a pedigree, made her wonder if she had assumed correctly that the residents of the house were men of humble means. After vibrating its tail against her leg, it flung itself on the floor under the pigeonholes and rolled over, inviting her to pat its flank. She combed its velvety fur and rubbed under its chin.

‘Have you seen Warren?’ she asked. But the cat just purred and stretched with pointed toes.

When Meredith stood up, she noticed the pigeonholes again.

There’s an idea, she thought. ‘Clever kitty. You keep watch, let me know if anyone’s coming.’

Two envelopes peeped from the pigeonhole for Room 11. Both were business letters, one from a bank and the other showing a logo for ‘U-Safe’. Her fingers shot out and slipped the envelopes into her handbag.

‘I owe you,’ she said, giving the cat a final scratch on the head and waving to its dreamy eyes as she slunk out the front door.

Chapter 21

In the car, Meredith held the letters up to the light, debating with her conscience. Sometimes making progress justified bending the rules. Warren’s absence called for tough measures and she was only borrowing his mail, not stealing it. She realised the seals needed some precise and careful treatment, which was better conducted from the privacy of her home.

Putting the key in the ignition, Meredith remembered another possible source of information about Warren. Someone she had been meaning to call on. At the end of the street, at the T-intersection, she took the turn away from the centre of Bellwater and headed instead to the reservoir.

Outside the ranger’s headquarters was a ute bearing the council emblem, and the door of the office was open, although a flyscreen provided a blurry barrier to visibility inside. The she-oaks hugging the corner of the hut-like building whispered and twigs scratched against the metal roof in the breeze.

Meredith rapped her knuckles on the edge of the flyscreen and it rattled against the timber door frame.

‘Who is it?’ called a gritty voice. ‘Be there in a sec.’

A tall man approached, stopping short of the grey mesh which shaded his features.

‘Hi, I’m Meredith Renford from Valenti and Associates, the solicitors. You must be Tyson.’

He flung open the flyscreen so that Meredith had to step back quickly, thinking she might be struck. But he stayed in the doorway with his elbow propping open the screen, as if assuming whatever she wanted wouldn’t take long.

‘Yep, what can I do for you?’

Tanned and athletic, he wore cargo shorts and a khaki shirt. She’d never seen him up close before, only from a distance. There were heavy crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and he had the hair of a surfer, matted and frayed at the ends like it had been in salt water too long, despite the distance to the sea.

Meredith explained her professional relationship with Warren Connor, leaving out her present concern that he may have disappeared. ‘I’m trying to gather some information about the reservoir, seeing he spent a lot of time here.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘Did you know that Warren had a camp site in the bush?’

‘Only when the cops told me. It was pretty well-hidden, way off the paths under a rock ledge.’

‘Is it unusual for people to make camps like that?’

‘I guess so, but then I don’t go trekking through the open bush. My job is to monitor the entrances, decide what maintenance needs doing, and check on hazards in public areas – trees fallen on tracks, people lighting fires, campervans staying overnight.’

‘I understand. In your patrols, had you seen Warren on foot around the reservoir?’

‘I don’t think so. He didn’t look familiar from the photo the cops showed me.’

‘And since being shown the photo, have you seen him, say, in the last week?’

‘No, definitely not.’

The answers came quickly, perhaps a little too quickly.

Meredith noted the beaded choker around Tyson’s neck, which she associated with alternative or new age people; but they had a reputation for being easygoing and altruistic, whereas Tyson seemed agitated and suspicious.

‘Do you remember the day before Anzac Day, the twenty fourth?’

‘Not in any great detail.’

‘Were you here at work?’ she pressed.

‘Sure.’

‘And what time did you finish?’

‘It would’ve been sixish. Why?’

Long before the argument that Warren allegedly heard.

‘Just trying to work out who was here. I’m presuming preparations are made for the Anzac service the day before. Who sets up what?’

The swishing twigs clawed at the roof like a witch’s fingernails as Tyson thought for a moment. He stepped further outside the flyscreen and let it clatter behind him.

‘The seating and technical equipment gets delivered by a hire company in the afternoon. A bloke from the RSL picks up the key to operate the boom gate because they need vehicle access at three or four in the morning, way before I arrive. The Red Cross sets up a stall with tea and bikkies.’

‘You didn’t go to the service?’

‘I’ve been a couple of times in the past, but not this year.’

‘Do you ever stay late in your office?’

He stuck the toe of his work boot into the decaying doormat and prodded at a hole. ‘For Anzac Day?’

‘No, just normally. I’m wondering if you’re around at night, catching up on paperwork or whatever.’

‘No, I don’t stay back. It’s not a desk job.’

‘What about meetings, do you ever hold any here?’

‘This is sounding like the third degree.’

‘Sorry, I’m simply asking about activities that should be a matter of public record. Is there a committee for the park or the war memorial and does it hold meetings?’

The crow’s feet around his eyes bunched tighter. ‘If there are public records, go check them yourself. I don’t have time for any more questions.’ His matted hair vibrated as he stamped inside and shut the door.

‘Thanks for your help,’ Meredith said to the mesh.

Face and neck burning with humiliation, she made a beeline for her car, without looking over her shoulder.

But secure in the driver’s seat, starting the ignition, Meredith glanced into the rear-vision mirror and saw Tyson out on the step again, peering at the tail of her car, as though he was memorising the number plate.

Driving away, her eyes flitted once more to the rear-vision mirror and she saw a mobile phone go up to his ear.

She remembered the night at the reservoir with Rory Driscoll, when he said hello to the ranger, and she hoped Tyson wasn’t ringing his cop mate to report her visit.

*          *          *

At home in her study that evening, Meredith examined the envelopes more closely. The bank one had a gummed seal that was fused shut and would take much care and patience to open without damage. Instead, she shone her desk lamp as a spotlight through the envelope to see if she could make out what it contained. It looked like a form letter, with a bold subject line announcing ‘Changes to Account Fees’, so she didn’t bother proceeding.

The U-Safe letter, viewed through the spotlight of the lamp, seemed to be of a more personal nature and Meredith wanted to read it properly. The self-seal flap of the envelope was the sticky type that could be carefully lifted and later re-sealed. Using a ruler, she prised the flap open slowly and evenly, without damaging it.

The letter was from a self-storage company regarding unpaid rental fees on a lock-up at Maribyrnong. Her eyes skidded to a stop at the lines:

Gisele Konigsberg has notified us she will no longer be making payments on your behalf as the goods are yours and the account is in your name. She assured us she has raised this matter with you and suggested we contact you at the address supplied. We seek payment of the arrears as per the attached invoice within 14 days.

Meredith wondered at the name of the woman referred to in the letter: Gisele Konigsberg. Warren said he had been married a long time ago; perhaps she was his ex-wife, reverting to her maiden name or having since remarried. The goods could be his belongings left behind from a matrimonial home when he moved interstate to start a new life. She convinced herself it all seemed to fit.

Meredith checked online for any record of Gisele’s contact details, but there were only a few scattered instances of her name associated with animal causes, including prizewinners in a raffle for Found Hounds Rescue and volunteer organisers of a pet therapy program for aged care residents.

Intriguing as the discovery of Gisele was, it didn’t solve the immediate problem of Warren’s whereabouts.

Meredith remembered the doodled drawing of the triangles and rectangles. What was the name at the bottom of it? She closed her eyes to see it written on the page. Dhuringal. Something like that. She typed the letters into the search engine and the proper spelling came up.

Dhurringile. The first item that grabbed her attention was the mention of a minimum-security correctional centre in Victoria. A prison. What if Warren had been incarcerated? That would mean he had committed a serious offence and had lied to Meredith about not having a criminal record.

Her side was knotted by a cramp and she realised she was hunched over the desk, every muscle in her body tensed. She stood up and stretched, putting her hands on her hips and bending sideways. Rising to an upright position again, she breathed deeply, feeling the air expanding in her lungs.

Meredith decided she had given Warren long enough to contact her. If he was the murderer and was on the run, he should be apprehended. Depending on how desperate he was, he might hurt someone else.

She called Rory Driscoll’s mobile and apologised for disturbing him after hours. ‘I’m worried, I can’t find Warren and he hasn’t been reporting on bail.’

‘News to me. I only got back from a training course late this arvo.’

‘I rang the place where he lives,’ added Meredith. ‘They haven’t seen him. What else can I do, just wait to see if he’s at court tomorrow?’

‘That’s about it. You’re not his keeper.’

‘I’ve come across some other information which might affect things, if you could look into it as soon as possible so we can advise the court if it’s relevant,’ Meredith suggested.

She told Rory about Dhurringile prison, the name of the woman who seemed to be involved with Warren, and the storage facility which was holding some of his belongings.

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Rory.

‘I ended up going to Warren’s rooming house to see if he was there. Spoke to the caretaker, who opened Warren’s room and I – we had a ferret around.’ She decided not to admit to nicking his mail, as she could put the letters back later without anyone missing them.

‘Good detective work. If you feel like joining the side of right and might anytime soon, I’d be happy to support your application to the police academy,’ said Rory.

Meredith gave a nervous laugh, not so sure he’d be impressed if he knew the full story. ‘Will you be able to check with the Victorian police and corrective services if Warren has a criminal record there?’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Thanks for the heads-up. By the way, sorry about Barzine at the meeting the other day. He’s very by-the-book.’

‘I noticed. Has he made a start on those land inquiries?’

Rory adopted the flat, official tone of a police spokesman. ‘I’m under strict orders not to comment on operational matters.’

Meredith suspected he was hiding behind that as an excuse. He revealed information when it suited him, but she stopped herself from saying so. She could hardly be critical when she was equally careful about divulging everything she knew.

Chapter 22

Raindrops studded the ramp and the steps outside the courthouse. Figures were blurred, umbrellas bobbling around each other. The smokers still puffed away in the rain, huddling under the shelter of the eaves. Meredith held her umbrella with one hand and the Connor file tucked against her ribs with the other. She scanned the faces in the faint hope that one of them would be Warren’s. None of them was. The only consolation was that she didn’t see the reporter or photographer from the Register amid the jumbled collection of rain apparel and umbrellas outside the court or on her way past the loiterers in the lobby.

Magistrate Penny Roebuck came promptly onto the bench and called the list, as practitioners scrambled for poll position. The police prosecutor, Sergeant Darren McKenzie, explained that the matter of Connor would be ready to proceed when the officer-in-charge arrived with some further information.

Meredith waited restlessly, her knees rubbing and stockings chafing while other matters were heard. The details swirled past her ears: places, dates, allegations, excuses, dysfunctional backgrounds, addictions, apologies and pledges to rehabilitate or make reparations.

Movement in the next row alerted Meredith to the solid form of Detective Sergeant Rory Driscoll in his suit, bending to sit down. He nodded at her and then leant forward, waving a finger in the air to catch the police prosecutor’s attention.

When the magistrate checked the list again, Sergeant McKenzie confirmed that the officer-in-charge of the Connor case had arrived. ‘Your Honour, unfortunately the situation is that the defendant is not before the court and has not reported to Bellwater Police Station this week, in contravention of his bail agreement.’

As Sergeant McKenzie spoke, Meredith ducked into a vacant seat at the bar table.

‘Shall I ask the court officer to call the defendant’s name outside the doors of the court?’ offered the magistrate.

‘It’s probably a formality, but if your Honour sees fit.’

‘I think so, for abundant caution.’ The magistrate tipped her chin at the court officer, a white-haired gentleman who meandered towards the doors, giving Detective Driscoll and the police prosecutor the chance to confer in whispers.

Meredith leaned incrementally in her seat as she strained to hear what they were saying, but couldn’t make it out. Instead she lapsed into studying the contours of Rory’s handsome profile, then reprimanded herself for the loss of concentration.

The court officer came back alone, shaking his snowy head.

‘As expected, your Honour,’ said Sergeant McKenzie. ‘I believe my learned friend has some further information regarding the attempts she made to contact the defendant.’ He turned to Meredith at the bar table.

Magistrate Roebuck cut in: ‘Is this the fellow who lives in the bush?’

Meredith rose from her seat. ‘That’s right, your Honour, at least occasionally. He also rents a room at an establishment called Huxley Lodge, but I phoned and left several messages there this week that were not returned. Yesterday I visited his lodgings and spoke to the caretaker who said he hasn’t seen Warren for approximately three days. The caretaker called me this morning to confirm he’s checked with the other residents and none of them has seen him more recently either.’

Meredith looked pointedly at Sergeant McKenzie, raising her eyebrows to prompt him.

‘The OIC can also give some brief evidence of pertinent matters, if the court pleases,’ he added.

The magistrate’s reading glasses glinted with curiosity. ‘As long as it is brief – I still have numerous matters to get through.’

Detective Driscoll took the stand and the oath, fidgeting in his seat. He patted the pockets of his suit and slid his fingers along his tie to make sure it was sitting straight. Giving his rank and station in a monotone voice, there was no trace of his cheeky charm.

‘Can you tell the court, briefly, what relevant information you have uncovered in relation to the defendant’s identity and possible risk to the community?’ asked Sergeant McKenzie.

‘I had reason to make inquiries with Victoria Police, who confirmed that Warren Connor was born with the name Werner Konigsberg. He has a criminal record in Victoria from the nineteen eighties, mostly petty offences like negligent driving. But there is a more serious offence of indecent assault.’

The phrase hung in the air.

Indecent assault, a sexual offence. An intrusive image of a public toilet block, like the one at the reservoir, flashed into Meredith’s mind. The theory of the pick-up gone wrong, or something along those lines, was back on the agenda.

Detective Driscoll continued. ‘I have spoken by phone to his sister, Gisele Konigsberg, who tells me she hasn’t heard from Warren lately, hasn’t seen him, and doesn’t know where he is. Certain financial issues between them, regarding monies owed to her, would support her account at this stage.’

So the woman paying the fees on the self-storage unit was his sister, not his ex-wife.

Magistrate Roebuck’s spectacles swung back to the police prosecutor. ‘Do you wish to make an application, sergeant?’

‘Yes. I request a bench warrant be ordered, your Honour.’

Meredith nodded with resignation, knowing it might be the only way of finding Warren.

‘Very well,’ said the magistrate, who suddenly seemed to notice Detective Driscoll was still occupying the stand. ‘You may step down, detective. I order that a warrant be issued for the arrest of Warren Connor, also known as Werner Konigsberg.’

As Meredith and Rory left the courtroom, Nelson Loomis slid from the back row of seating and followed them, propelling Meredith to steer Rory swiftly to a door near the registry marked ‘LEGAL’.

Inside, a female lawyer paced, stabbing the floor with black high heels as she talked on a mobile phone, her files and handbag on a nearby desk, a golf umbrella propped against the back of a chair. Meredith and Rory headed to the furthest corner.

‘Did you find anything to indicate where Warren might be?’

‘No, but once the warrant is on our system, if he shows his face, we’ll nab him. And I’ll be paying visits to St Cuthbert’s and his lodgings to remind them of their duty to call us if he turns up, unless they want to be charged with hindering.’

‘What’s your gut feeling about where he is?’ asked Meredith. ‘I’m worried something’s happened to him.’

‘I reckon he hasn’t come to court because he thinks we’re planning to hit him with more charges.’

Meredith recalled Warren’s prediction of that very thing. ‘And are you?’

Rory clamped his lips like he wasn’t going to tell, but then he shook his head. ‘No. The main thing is, once he’s arrested we can hold him for questioning and try to get to the bottom of what he’s covering up. I’m assuming you want that too and you’ll let us know ASAP if he contacts you.’

At that moment Meredith believed she would, as she stared at the herringbone weave of Rory’s suit and gave a slight nod. But she did not promise aloud, reluctant to commit without knowing the full score.

*          *          *

Back at the office, Meredith found two files balanced across her in-tray. The flow of work had increased in recent weeks and she had lost pace while distracted by the Linton and Connor cases.

New files always seemed to arrive when she was away from her desk. She would go to the restroom or to lunch and, by the time she returned, a file had magically snuck into her in-tray. Brian very rarely briefed her on a file in person, preferring to leave a note or send instructions by email. The two files that had appeared each bore a post-it note with a patronising message: ‘Standard claim’ and ‘Should be straightforward’.

She examined the files and, when she took a break to get a cup of tea, nearly collided with Brian coming out of the kitchenette. It was a tight space, with the fridge protruding and a blind corner. He looked up suddenly and steadied his cup of tea with a second hand so as not to spill it. Meredith pulled up sharply, her soles slapping on the tiled flooring.

‘I’ve started on those files,’ she said.

‘Good. What’s the latest with the Connor case?’

‘He’s gone missing and a bench warrant has been issued.’

Brian shook his head sagely. ‘As I said before, beware of charity cases. It might even cost us money, in terms of lost time and such.’

Meredith resisted the temptation to remind him that she had funded Jeremy’s research and donated most of her own hours. Instead she kept her face lowered, inspecting the stained lining of her mug as though she found it fascinating. Better to avoid conflict at work, especially since learning of Brian’s personal worries.

Detective Driscoll rang late in the afternoon. ‘I thought I’d pass on some information that’s come to light about Warren. Not directly relevant to where he is, but it certainly fills in more of his background if you’re interested.’

‘Definitely.’

‘First up, it looks like he has never been in prison. The Dhurringile connection is to the era when the place was a prisoner of war camp. I spoke to a historian from the war memorial in Canberra who checked the records and confirmed that a German sailor, Oskar Konigsberg, was in the crew of a raider called Sturmvogel, which was torpedoed and sunk by our navy off the coast of WA in World War Two. The survivors were brought to Fremantle, interrogated and transferred to the POW camp in Victoria. Sorry, I get a bit carried away with this military stuff.’

‘That’s okay, I’m very interested in World War Two,’ she replied, gripping the edge of the desk. In their brief relationship, they had not discovered this topic of shared fascination.

‘Years after the POWs were sent home, some of them willingly returned to Australia as migrants. The military historian was able to search the passenger lists electronically and found Oskar and his wife, no problem. It fits what Gisele told me, that her father came here with his bride to make a fresh start after the war because he realised Europe would take many years to rebuild. He got work as a mechanic and apparently didn’t cop too much flak for being a Gerry. Anyway, I’m flying down tomorrow to see the storage unit and talk to Gisele in person.’

‘What does she call her brother, Werner or Warren?’

‘Warren. They were given Aussie names when they started kindergarten, like a lot of migrant kids at the time. Gisele became Gillian. She said Warren had a difficult relationship with their father – called him the Fuhrer behind his back – and was embarrassed by his German background. He anglicised his surname when he started working, which you could do more easily then, before computerised records and tax file numbers. But the Victorian police record is under Konigsberg, so maybe he gave them that name because he didn’t want his employer finding out, or it was taken from some other document like a birth certificate. Around the time he moved here, he officially changed his name by deed poll.’

‘And Gillian went back to being Gisele?’

‘Yes, she told me she never felt right as Gillian. So she switched to Gisele when she was at university and met students from all different cultures.’

‘Strange isn’t it, that Warren was conflicted about his identity?’ said Meredith. ‘Nobody would have looked down on him for having German heritage.’

‘I know. People couldn’t care less,’ Rory agreed. ‘Gisele said her father reckoned Aussies were naturally friendly. They forgot who was a past enemy, as long as you worked hard and had a beer with them. Isn’t that great?’

‘I guess people like Warren are trapped by their own outlook, whether their perceptions are accurate or not,’ said Meredith, thinking of her mother’s unforgiving attitude towards Owen.

*          *          *

That night at home, as she had dinner, Meredith thought over the war information about Warren. She realised the sketch of rectangles and triangles she had seen in his art folder might have another meaning.

Taking a ration of chocolate-coated almonds in a glass dish to her study, she searched the internet and found historic photographs that confirmed the layout of the Dhurringile POW camp. The triangles in Warren’s sketch represented rows of tents, the rectangles were barracks, and the long strip down the middle was the access road.

She and Warren were the descendants of men who had served in the war, albeit on opposite sides. Allies versus Axis, slouch hat versus swastika.

But she wondered if that was their only connection. In a way, they were both people who didn’t quite fit in. Warren had been frustrated in his vocation, unsuccessful in marriage, and troubled by his heritage. He had indecently assaulted someone and had lied to Meredith about his prior convictions. His furtive, socially awkward streak seemed to explain his outbursts against authority and periods of solitude in the bush.

Meredith had conformed to social expectations to an extent by becoming a lawyer, yet she resisted the notion of following a conventional path in life. When she tried to picture herself in a wedding dress or pushing a pram or driving an SUV with kids in the back, the images flickered briefly before vanishing. The empty space left behind did not feel like sadness, just a blank, and she didn’t know if it might shift in time to become regret, or yearning, or whether it was merely a transition that would be filled with a purpose she had not yet discovered.

Chapter 23

A couple of nights later, Meredith stayed back at work again, to make progress on another file that had appeared in her in-tray. This one displayed an ‘urgent’ orange post-it note, alerting her to an unfair dismissal claim which had to be lodged within 14 days. Inside was a checklist of the client’s details and a brief outline from the free consultation Brian had already given.

Meredith settled into her chair with a cup of instant tomato soup and read about the client, Dina Sangalang, a bank employee who had a history of absenteeism and was terminated when she stayed away for four days without contacting her supervisors. She belatedly provided a medical certificate from a general practitioner, but management refused to change its decision.

Meredith started going through the relevant factors. Yes, the client had been an employee with the company for a minimum of a year. Yes, a conciliation over her patchy attendance had been attempted in the past and resolutions made. Dina was supposed to personally speak to her supervisors when needing to be absent, but continued to leave messages on their phones outside office hours or with junior staff instead.

Consulting the statutory provisions and the medical documents Dina had brought in, Meredith started to form the view that the bank was wrong. The law prohibited an employer from dismissing an employee who had supplied a medical certificate and had not taken more than three months’ sick leave in the past year.

It was only later, when Meredith was about to go home and was slotting the copies of the medical certificates back into the file, that she noticed an anomaly.

On one certificate, the font of the numbers in the date and the number of days unfit for work did not exactly match the font of the doctor’s provider number. Yet the signature was absolutely identical to that on another certificate issued by the same doctor, without the slightest variation, which Meredith knew was unnatural.

Meredith peered more closely. Perhaps the doctor’s earlier certificate had been scanned onto a computer to create a duplicate and the numbers were altered electronically in a slightly different font, assuming that was technically possible. Or the numbers could have been manually cut and pasted from another source and photocopied to create an additional certificate. Something like that. Her gut instinct told her the certificate had been tampered with.

The photocopies were certified, but the signatory’s occupation was stated as ‘bank officer’, which could mean a friend of Dina’s. Meredith needed to see the originals and jotted herself a reminder to check whether the medical centre could confirm the appointment dates.

Stepping into the private car park behind the law firm, the fresh air tingled her cheeks. It had been raining and the wet asphalt shone in the reflected street light.

The Cruiser Classic looked solemn, its burgundy duco dull in the gloom. As she walked towards the car, Meredith noticed a white envelope on the windscreen, anchored by the wiper on the driver’s side. The front of the envelope felt dry, suggesting it had been placed there when the rain eased off. There was a message inside, on a piece of paper torn from a notepad and folded in half. The jerky printing in blue ballpoint pen read:

Sorry I didn’t call, had to lay low for a while. I’ve got something important to show you. Meet me at the top car park of the reservoir at 8pm by yourself. No cops, they can’t be trusted. W.

The timing made sense; the guilt must have been weighing on Warren for not turning up to court. The note implied he had been hiding out at the reservoir after all. Meredith shivered at the thought that he knew which car was hers, or had told someone else who placed the note there.

It was already 7.45pm. She had to make a quick decision.

I’ve got something important to show you. Meredith needed to find out what it was, if it could be the breakthrough she’d been waiting for.

She could hedge her bets. Drive to the reservoir while there was still time and decide what to do when she arrived. The top car park was not the main boom gate entrance, but a more private meeting place that a local would choose.

The streets were almost empty. Pausing at a stop sign, she glanced at a glowing window where the figures of a family were gathered around the dinner table. In other houses, TV screens pulsed in warmly lit rooms.

There were no other cars in the small top parking lot. Beyond the white wooden rail which marked the end of the car spaces was a grassed area bordered by bunched trees. Meredith knew a track under the trees led through the bush and down to the reservoir.

It was almost eight. She turned the headlights off and wondered if Warren was already there, concealed by the shadows, or about to arrive at any moment in a car or taxi.

Digging in her handbag, Meredith fingered the buttons on her phone and thought about calling someone. But who, and what would she say? Just letting you know where I am, in case I’m doing the wrong thing by meeting a client who might be a murderer.

A light caught her eye, flickering from over near the bushes at the far end of the grassed area to her right.

She slipped the phone into the inside pocket of her jacket and buttoned it.

The white spot hovered in the bushes like a knowing eye.

Meredith shoved her handbag under the front seat and took the keys out of the ignition. I’ll just check it’s him. We could sit in the car to talk.

Opening the car door was like breaking a seal. The squeaking upholstery of the seat and the noise of her feet hitting the gravel seemed magnified as she left the safety of the car. There was a chill edge to the breeze. Her hand lingered on the rim of the closing door.

The light blinked again from the bushes. On-off, on-off. Like a code, encouraging her to answer. She stepped off the gravel and onto the grass.

Warren would carry a torch, for camping in the bush, and there was something about using a signal that seemed to match his suspicious nature.

Meredith took a couple more steps towards the light. The torch pointed to the ground, helpfully showing the way, not dazzling her, but also concealing whoever was operating it.

As she approached, a hoarse voice called, ‘Over here.’ It was hard to be sure if it was him, on the strength of two words.

‘Warren?’ It came out softer than she intended, swallowed by the night. She said it again, louder.

The figure was under the sagging limbs of the trees. The head was indistinct, wearing some kind of covering or hat perhaps. The free hand appeared, cutting through the glow of the beam, beckoning.

‘I’ve been worried.’ She picked her way over the ground, wobbling as she trod on a clump of spiky grass. She concentrated on stepping carefully, where the texture of the ground was even.

Two stocky male legs were planted in front of her, but the upper body was still in shadow.

For the last few steps the ground became smoother and level and she glanced up. ‘Everyone’s been looking for you –’

She caught a brief impression of a man, taller and bulkier than Warren, before the torchlight snapped off, snuffing out the bleached grass. He rushed at her, dark eyes glaring from the bare strip between a woollen beanie and a half-mask like cyclists wear to filter out pollution.

The torch swung in the air to become a weapon, targetting her head. Meredith ducked but the torch clipped her on the shoulder, with enough force to throw her off balance. Sucking in air, there was no chance to yell. Her desperate effort to project a scream came out as gasping in the chill night.

As the attacker grabbed her, Meredith channelled her anger into squeezing her knuckles as tightly as she could and punching him in the windpipe. He reeled back, coughing, and she spun, orienting herself towards the car. A fraction too long in hesitating, and he lunged again, thick arms trying to encircle her. She elbowed him sharply in the ribs, only to feel the padding of his jumper cushioning the impact.

Still tangled in his clutches, she stamped hard at his feet with her cuban heels, aiming at the fluorescent white triangles on his joggers as she looked down.

She wrenched herself free and bolted away, realising too late she was heading into the bush rather than back to her car.

Tearing down the track, spiky vegetation snagged at her clothes. The ground vibrated with the man’s feet thudding behind her.

The track became squelchier, dipping into a shallow trough where water had pooled. She splattered through the mud, before the track temporarily ascended. Instinct told Meredith she was running towards the reservoir, but it was difficult to get her bearings in the dark, whipping past blurry forms. The moon between the clouds cast some light on the landscape, yet the speed at which she was moving meant the foliage appeared in bursts at the last minute, right near her face: the bristles of a bottle brush, the serrated leaves and candles of a banksia, the springy tendrils of a grevillea.

The track narrowed going into a bend, and she reached out for support from the rough, hairy trunk of a stringybark as she rounded the curve.

But at the next dip in the track, Meredith tripped on a protruding tree root and stumbled. She couldn’t slow down, charging off the track as it switched direction. Her heels gouged into the ground and twigs from bushes scratched her face. She dodged colliding with the trees, their outlines sculpted by the moonlight.

The ground kept dropping and her legs sagged beneath her until she was sliding on her bottom along the dirt. Skidding down the embankment, arms flailing, she had no way of steering or grabbing onto anything.

The trunk of a ghost gum loomed and she tried to twist away, but it was too late. She rammed against the trunk with her left arm and landed in a shaggy stand of tree ferns, bringing her to a halt on gentler ground. With the last bounce, she heard the jangle of her keys jumping out of the pocket of her slacks. Frantically she patted the leaves around her.

A ribbon of light made her look higher up. The torch beam left the path and began twisting through the trees. The attacker was coming after her.

Meredith’s fingernails trawled through the leaves and grit and struck the keys. She snatched them tightly and pushed them deep into her pocket. Feeling her jacket, she confirmed her phone was still there. She wanted to call 000 and raise the alarm, but the torchlight was sweeping too quickly. She had to get out of sight immediately and not make any noise.

Nearby was a large patch of ferns. As she started crawling towards it a searing pain shot from her left arm. She transferred the weight to her right side and propelled herself by her haunches, burrowing into the bracken. The crowded stems made a crackling, scratchy sound and pulled at her clothes, while the broad fronds were feathery and draped over her protectively.

Anxious to be hidden, she crawled deeper into the nest of ferns, squinting in case a broken stem poked her in the eye, nudging aside brittle, dead foliage until the ground became wetter and the stems were clustered too thickly to penetrate.

Meredith shifted sideways on the boggy ground, with her painful arm facing upwards to avoid putting pressure on it, fearing it was broken. Resting her head on her right hand, she spread her hair over the exposed side of her face, to screen her pale complexion from being seen through the gaps in the fronds. She tucked her knees closer to her chest, trying to make her body more compact and waited, listening. Her breathing was audible, raspy, and she concentrated on making it regular and low.

A rustling sound came from nearby. Her senses flicked to ultra-sharp, trying to isolate the source, whether it was footsteps in the undergrowth, or the breeze in the trees, or some sort of vermin. She squirmed, realising that anything could be scuttling among the ferns. A rat, a giant bush cockroach, even a reptile if she’d disturbed its hiding place. She clamped the heel of one shoe onto the ankle beneath it to keep her legs still.

Peering through clumps of her hair, she thought she could see fuzzy light between the stalks of the bracken.

Cold moisture had seeped into her clothes and was nibbling her skin. Closing her eyes, she hoped that her dark suit and chestnut hair would camouflage her against the muddy ground and dead fronds.

I am invisible, I am invisible, she told herself.

She tried to embrace the gluey stickiness of the mud, to regard it as her disguise, her cloak of belonging.

Meredith heard the swishing of fronds and cracking of dead stems under heavy feet. Her eyes snapped open, straining in the dark as she held her breath, begging the reservoir:

Don’t betray me, I know this valley, I come from this place.

Through the ferns, a spot of light bounced briefly ahead. The swishing sound seemed to move forward too, although she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was circling around her and would return. The pain in her arm throbbed and she counted silently along with the rhythm of the ache to take her mind off the present danger, reaching ten, fifteen, twenty beats. When she shifted her attention back to listening to her surrounds, she couldn’t hear any rustling or trampling of ferns, any movement in the bush.

She waited for what felt like a very long time. Angling her arm to see her watch, she thumbed the dirt from its white face and held it up to her eyes to read the hands. It was nearly a quarter past nine, over an hour since she had arrived at the reservoir. She decided to stay where she was for as many grinding minutes as she could stand before coming out.

Meredith shut her eyes again and thought of the jotted notes she had found in Owen’s handwriting, tucked into one of his sci-fi novels. ‘Memory Task’ was the heading, possibly for one of his hypnosis sessions. Over the years she had read it so often she almost knew it by heart:

We lay in the mud, waiting. I couldn’t see the blokes around me, only hear the squelching when they moved. Our clothes were soaked through, stuck to our skin. I hadn’t taken off my shoes for a week, so swollen were my feet. The sock, boot and foot were all one clod. We’d hear snatches of voices on the air, twenty or thirty yards ahead of us. Suddenly it’d be on, firing at us like blazes, heads down, bits of shrubbery flying everywhere. Just to punish us, keep our nerves on edge.

Printed inside her eyelids, Meredith could see a map of Papua New Guinea with a dotted line, as the track ascended the rugged terrain. Menari, Efogi, Myola, Eora and Isurava, leading to Kokoda.

Owen knew what it was like to lie in the mud, alert and exhausted at the same time. To press your body against the ground, hoping it would shield you. He had survived and made it back to a life of peace, yet with little peace of mind.

Frogs exchanged clicking calls, one nearer and one farther. She couldn’t remember hearing them start up, but they weren’t calling when she was counting the minutes. The sound was rhythmic and comforting, unthreatened by any human presence.

Chapter 24

Gone nine thirty, Meredith raised her head off the ground to peer through the ferns. The moment she tried to straighten her left arm, a wrenching pain rocketed down it and made her gasp.

Pushing herself up from the ground with her good arm, Meredith broke through the cover of the ferns and sat upright, adjusting her eyes to the shading of the landscape.

Crouching, then standing, she realised it would be too difficult with the pain radiating from her left arm to hold onto branches and clamber back up the steep embankment to the track which led to the car park. Better to follow the low-lying ground past the field of ferns until she met another track.

Meredith’s damp clothes stuck to her body. The scratches on her face stung and she cradled her left arm to support it as she walked. Approaching each tree she hesitated, expecting the attacker to be concealed behind it. Peering around the trunk and finding it clear, she continued on. The smell of soil enriched with decaying ferns, fallen leaves and curls of bark seemed to rise in the air as she trod her way through the undergrowth.

She held off using her phone in case her voice attracted attention to her position, still her mind jumped ahead, contemplating who to call. She considered Jeremy or Adriana, before deciding against anyone from the law firm, or Griff for that matter. It was too intrusive to call them at home at night, unthinkable to let them see her muddied and bedraggled, too humiliating to admit how foolish she had been. Rory was another option but, added to the embarrassment, was the issue of whether she could trust him.

The tangled scrub was eventually broken by a stretch of lumpy dirt and pebbles, and Meredith realised she was on a track leading down to the water’s edge. The patches of moonlight between the clouds showed the curved sweep of the hillside. Turning to her right, she followed the track up the slope while thinking about calling a cab. But even to make the initial call would require giving the taxi company a location by street name, which she would not know until she emerged from the bush. She also needed to retrieve her wallet from her car to pay the fare.

The Cruiser Classic. Meredith couldn’t remember whether she had locked her car. Probably not. In her mind, she didn’t hear the beep of the central locking device. What if the attacker had returned to the car park, searched the car and found her handbag?

She quickened her pace, plodding up the track, panting and watchful. As the trees thinned, small chunks of light appeared in the distance. Soon the fuzzy squares sharpened into the rear windows of houses that backed onto the bush.

*          *          *

Approaching the timber boundary fence of a house triggered an outburst of barking and growling from behind the palings. Meredith hurried on, and kept going past the next house, gritting her teeth from the pain of swinging her arm as she tried to hastily put some distance between herself and the loud dog.

She reached a house with a rear fence made of metal bars. A soft haze of light came from deep within the house, but nothing was visible of its inhabitants through the windows. No obvious signs of dogs: no kennel or snuffling sounds or low-moving shadow as she peered into the yard. She tested the gate in the fence and it creaked open.

Sneaking around the edge of the yard, she found a concrete path leading down the left side of the brick house. She scooted across the front lawn, darting glances at the large curtained windows of the house, and onto a driveway which emptied into a cul-de-sac.

Digging her phone out of her jacket, Meredith checked her contact list while she kept walking, to see if she had stored a number for a taxi company. It had been a long time since she’d caught a cab.

The houses in the street were mostly red brick structures from the sixties, with a smattering from later decades. Meredith guessed she was in Rover’s Ridge which had been opened as a new subdivision in the mid-sixties. It was beyond Bellwater Heights, quite a hike back to where she’d parked her car.

Bellwater Heights was where Emilia Linton said she lived, when they’d exchanged contact details at Max’s flat. Meredith scrolled to the number as Emilia’s melancholy face hovered in her mind. Surely she would understand Meredith’s determination to search for the truth, and it would be less embarrassing to appear dishevelled before a comparative stranger.

Meredith rang the number. It was after ten o’clock. Bedtime for some people.

‘Hello?’ said a female voice, from what sounded like the bottom of a well.

‘Hi, is that Emilia? I hope I’m not calling too late. It’s Meredith Renford. We met at your brother’s flat the other day.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ she said, her voice tinged with surprise.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m in a bit of trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ The word cut through the late night tranquility.

‘I was supposed to meet someone tonight about your brother’s case.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘murder’.

‘Have you found out anything new?’

‘No. The person who sent the message didn’t show up, but someone else did and they weren’t exactly friendly.’

‘Are you all right?’ Emilia’s voice grew more urgent.

‘I think so. Slightly disoriented, wandering around what I’m guessing is Rover’s Ridge.’ She realised, as she talked, that her face was sore, as if she’d been punched in the jaw.

‘I know it well. What street are you in?’

‘Not sure yet,’ Meredith said, walking faster. ‘I’m looking for a sign.’ As she neared the entrance to the street, she could see a prominent white post with ‘No Through Road’ on it, but a large conifer obscured the street name.

Circumnavigating the conifer she announced, ‘Highden Close.’

‘That’s only a few blocks away. Do you want me to come and get you?’

‘That would be wonderful, if it’s not putting you out. I’ll wait at the sign.’

‘See you in a couple of minutes.’

The street seemed ominously quiet when Meredith ended the call. She concealed herself in the bristly skirts of the conifer. Five minutes dragged by, then seven. A couple of cars arrived but kept going, headlights swinging past.

Shivering, Meredith nursed her arm, testing along the bone with her fingers, hissing with the pain. She was about to call Emilia again when another set of headlights slowed to reveal a gold metallic hatchback, reminiscent of a Christmas beetle.

Meredith approached the driver’s side as the window whirred down. Emilia looked younger than she had at Max’s flat, with her hair tied back in a ponytail.

‘Sorry, I got held up. My father has a bad cold and I had to sort him out before I left,’ she apologised.

Meredith swung open the car door and Emilia recoiled at the full, dirt-streaked vision of her. ‘Gosh. What happened?’

‘I’ve been for a mud slide,’ said Meredith. She looked at the spotless passenger seat and baulked at sitting down.

‘Don’t worry, it’s only vinyl. I can wipe it over later.’

In the small car, Meredith felt cocooned, safe for the first time in hours. Emilia was dressed in a leisure suit of dove grey with pink trim, the sort of outfit for lounging around the house. Close up, her hair seemed hurriedly done, strands dropping down from where they had evaded capture. Her hands were clenched tightly on the steering wheel. ‘Whereabouts do you live?’ she asked.

‘I need to get to my car first, to retrieve my handbag.’

‘I’m confused. I thought you were on foot.’

‘I was. I didn’t explain very well. I’ve hurt my arm and it’s a long walk back to the car.’

‘Where’s that?’ said Emilia, peering across at Meredith’s arm before looking up at her face.

‘In the car park off Wanderlee Road at the top of the reservoir.’

Emilia nodded as she spun the hatchback smoothly in a u-turn. ‘The mud slide – is that how you hurt your arm?’

‘Yes, I slipped and collided with a tree.’

‘So you didn’t make it to the meeting? I thought you said on the phone about meeting someone.’

Meredith briefly sketched the sequence of events. Emilia’s ponytail flicked as she kept turning her head to glance with wide-eyed concern at Meredith.

‘Did you see the man who attacked you?’ asked Emilia.

‘Not properly, he was wearing a mask.’

Emilia shuddered. ‘So it was a trap?’

‘That seems the logical explanation.’

The hatchback slowed to a crawl as they arrived at the upper car park and Emilia switched the headlights to high beam.

‘I hope he’s not hanging around here,’ said Meredith.

They scanned the area. Emilia gasped. ‘What’s that in the corner?’

They both stared at the shiny triangular shape. ‘A clump of some trailing plant like privet. Too small to be a person.’

‘For a second I thought it was someone crouching down.’

Meredith blinked, unable to see the human resemblance, crouching or otherwise.

The Cruiser Classic appeared undamaged, its doors closed and windows unbroken. Meredith let out an audible sigh of relief.

Emilia kept the motor running while Meredith hurried stiffly to her car. She reached down to drag her handbag from under the front seat and unthinkingly tried to use her left hand to untangle the bag straps from where they were caught on the seat frame. A spearing pain jolted up her arm and she knew she couldn’t drive safely.

Back at Emilia’s window she said, ‘I think my arm might be broken and I don’t want to risk driving.’

‘We should get you to a medical centre.’

‘If I can stop off at my place, to get into some dry clothes first.’

‘Just tell me where.’

‘Sebastopol Street.’

Emilia reversed and, as Meredith watched her car recede, she thought it looked like a sitting duck in an asphalt pond. The second biggest purchase in her life, after the deposit on the townhouse. She consoled herself that if anything happened overnight at least it was insured.

As they drove through the streets to Meredith’s place, Emilia suddenly twisted in her seat. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, who were you supposed to meet in the car park?’

‘A man called Warren who used to camp in the bush at the reservoir. He seems to have found your brother first and might know more than he’s telling.’

‘So why do you think Warren didn’t turn up?’

It was a good question, which Meredith had temporarily lost sight of in the drama. ‘I’m not sure. I’m worried something’s happened to him. Whoever tricked me would know the answer.’

*          *          *

Meredith lived in a security complex. Down a ramp and beyond an automatic garage door was an underground car park. Fluorescent lights created an eerie starkness, with pockets of deep shadow in the corners and behind concrete pillars, where an assailant might be waiting.

Meredith glanced around nervously as they stopped at her individual garage and alighted from the hatchback. She unlocked the tilt-a-door for Emilia to raise and lower.

Inside the garage was internal access to the townhouse, through a door leading to a flight of tiled stairs. At the top of the stairs was another door with a keypad alarm. Meredith switched off the alarm and opened the door with a mixture of relief at arriving home and awkwardness at letting an outsider see her private domain when it was not at its tidiest.

Flicking on the light, she saw how filthy her hands were from crawling around in the mud and digging in the dirt for her keys.

‘I’ve got to get cleaned up,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry, doctors have seen it all,’ said Emilia.

‘I’ll be quick. Feel free to turn on the TV. Or do you want a coffee or something?’

‘I’m fine. I’ll have a browse at the shelves,’ said Emilia, moving towards the bookcase.

Meredith fetched her terry towelling bathrobe from the bedroom and drew the door closed to conceal the unmade bed and strewn clothes, before disappearing into the bathroom.

The sight of her face in the mirror was a shock. Several prominent scratches marked her cheeks and forehead, which she presumed were from foliage flicking in her face as she ran through the bush and crawled into the bracken. Her lipstick was smeared, spatters of dirt and mud were stuck to her face, and a bruise was starting to come up on the side of her chin. She didn’t remember her head making contact with the trunk of the tree that she rammed into, but it was possible. What else would have caused the bruise?

Meredith tissued the worst of the dirt from her face and peeled off her soiled clothes, wincing as she freed her sore arm. She dropped the clothes into the empty bath tub, convinced that her mud-stained suit was ruined.

The shower taps glared at her and she froze in mid-step. Her usual procrastination battled with the urgency to remove the sludge and grit on her legs and to not keep her guest waiting longer than necessary. Quietly chanting ‘hurry, hurry’ with short, sharp breaths, she reached for the taps. Testing the water, she jerked backwards and jittered on the spot, waiting for it to warm up.

When the water was ready, Meredith edged under the shower, trying to control her whimpering sounds, and sponged herself as best she could one-handed. There wasn’t time to wash her hair, although the ends got wet when she revolved under the jets of water to rinse the soap from her skin.

Every movement of towel-drying and getting dressed sent a shudder of pain up her arm and into her neck, connecting with her sore jawline. The twinges of a headache flared at her temples, like her whole body was sending out signals of distress. Abandoning the challenge of doing the clasp on a bra or pulling a jumper over her head, she managed to wind her arms into a thick shirt and wrap a chunky cardigan around her instead.

Emilia looked up from where she sat on the lounge, leafing through a book on Tasmanian tigers.

‘Panadols,’ said Meredith, going to her handbag on the dining table. As she clawed at the packet, Emilia said, ‘Let me help.’

She popped the tablets out of the blister pack and poured Meredith a glass of water in the kitchen. The dishes from breakfast were still in the sink. It seemed days ago that she had left them there, rather than the morning of the very same day.

Between gulps of water, Meredith nodded at a fridge magnet for a local medical centre. ‘Open late, seven days. But what exactly is late?’

‘Let me take a look at your arm. I’ve got some first aid experience,’ said Emilia, ‘though mainly with animals.’

‘Really, what kind?’

‘Domestic animals.’ Emilia peeled back the cardigan to feel Meredith’s arm, and sent her reeling from the touch. ‘Take a deep breath and grit your teeth. I’m a veterinary nurse. Sometimes we have to treat the owners too, so we have general first aid training. People get quite emotional about their pets.’

‘I can imagine. Oww,’ yelped Meredith as Emilia prodded her arm.

‘I can’t feel an obvious break. But it’s definitely swollen compared to the other one.’

Emilia phoned the medical centre and got an automatic message that it closed at nine. ‘It’s off to the hospital then,’ she said. ‘We can see a doctor in the casualty section.’

Chapter 25

The hospital was on the southwest fringe of the city, a huge multi-storeyed white building with a giant roundabout and ramp up to parking levels like a shopping complex.

In the waiting area at casualty, a television suspended from the ceiling played silently to the people gathered in rows of moulded seats. Meredith was surprised to find the place so busy on an ordinary weeknight. She went up to the counter with Emilia, and was told by the triage nurse that the wait would be more than half an hour.

‘You should go. I can get a cab home,’ said Meredith.

‘It’s all right, I don’t mind,’ said Emilia.

A small boy who lay across two seats in the waiting area, with his head in his mother’s lap, unleashed a barking cough.

‘Is that whooping cough?’ Meredith murmured.

‘Let’s sit at the other end,’ Emilia suggested.

Emilia called her father to let him know she would be delayed, and Meredith gave her some space while she was talking. Wandering over to the vending machine, Meredith realised she was hungry. But looking at the chocolate bars and packets of crisps, she decided it might be foolish to eat when her body was racked with pain and she was just about to see a doctor.

As she circled back to her seat, she heard Emilia say into the phone, ‘She might be able to help us find out what happened to Max.’

Meredith retreated a few steps until the call was finished. ‘Is your Dad okay?’ she asked, sitting down.

‘I think he’s sleeping too much in the daytime, so he can’t settle down at night. I’ve told him where I am. I don’t want him to worry, not after what happened to Max.’

‘Good idea,’ said Meredith. She thought of her own father, youthfully preserved in her mind, and asked, ‘How old is he?’

‘Seventy four.’

Meredith could understand how difficult it must be for a parent who’d lost one child to let the other disappear into the night with a stranger. ‘And your Mum?’

‘She died a few years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

An extended Asian family arrived at the waiting area and settled into the seats at the end of two consecutive rows. Meredith couldn’t tell from a distance who was the sick or injured party.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it, to think that when we’re usually going about our lives, having a quiet night, there are always people gathered here due to some random accident or illness,’ said Emilia.

Meredith nodded, tenderly feeling her puffy arm. The Panadols had not made much impact to the arm, but the transferred pain in the jaw and head had diminished.

‘I think the last time I was here was with Max,’ added Emilia.

Meredith waited for her to say more. She wanted Emilia to talk, not only to pass on information, but as a distraction from the needles pricking her lungs when she breathed.

Meredith’s look of expectation prompted Emilia to go on. ‘I didn’t know where else to take him at that time of night.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was supposed to be having dinner at his place but when I got there he didn’t answer the door or his phone.’ Emilia stalled, as if Meredith might already know the rest of the story.

‘When was this?’

‘About a year ago, I think. After the divorce. Eventually I used my spare key to get in and I found him sitting on the lounge, staring at a blank wall, like he was in a trance.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Asked him what the matter was. He didn’t say anything for ages then started shaking his head. Eventually he said “I can’t do it anymore” or something like that.’

‘Can’t do what?’

‘Go on, I suppose.’

‘So you brought him here?’

‘Yes, I didn’t tell him where we were going, just said I wanted to show him something he might find interesting. He was seen by a psychiatrist who thought it was a depressive episode triggered by the divorce and he put Max on anti-depressants, which seemed to help.’

At that moment, a youth holding a hand towel over his nose arrived at the counter with two friends, a male on one side and a female on the other. All of them clutched mobile phones and the friends’ thumbs worked rapidly like they were sending text messages. Meredith wondered if there had been a dust-up between mates, an accident, or perhaps they had fended off an attack by others.

Her attention returned to Emilia. ‘The incident with Max, was it out of the blue or had it happened before?’

‘He’d always been moody. In high school he’d have these bad days when he’d stay in his room and I’d find him lying on his bed with the pillow over his head and he wouldn’t answer me, so eventually I’d leave. At the time I thought he was just being selfish.’

‘You’re a few years younger than Max, right?’

‘Yes. Six years, so I was in junior high when he started uni. He seemed to grow out of being depressed or whatever it was as he was doing his masters, and then he was busy working. Maybe his marriage falling apart brought it back. Or maybe it had been there all along and I didn’t realise.’

‘Do you know if his mental health created problems in the marriage?’

‘Nothing was ever said, but I suspected part of his attraction to Chloe was that she cheered him up. She was so bubbly, we all thought she’d be good for Max, and everything went well for a few years.’

Meredith’s curiosity drove her to keep trying to ignore the needles in her lungs as she talked. ‘Had you seen him depressed recently?’

‘That’s the thing,’ said Emilia. ‘Lately he seemed to be happier and going out more. So I teased him about it and all he’d admit was a friend had introduced him to some younger people, and there was a girl from overseas, a student, who was interesting but he didn’t think they had enough in common.’

‘Do you know her name?’

‘No. I remember him saying, “If I tell you any more you’ll want to meet her and it isn’t serious”.’

‘And the friend who introduced them, was it Griff?’

At that moment, the triage nurse called Meredith’s name, and Emilia only had time to shake her head in reply.

The nurse pointed down a corridor and Meredith ventured past the shiny walls and closed doors, hearing the vibrating sound of a floor polisher nearby. The smell of cooked vegetables – cabbages or brussels sprouts – still hung in the air, long after dinner.

Meredith saw a female doctor, Audrey Lau, and described how she had slipped and fallen down an embankment, ramming her arm against a tree. Dr Lau helped to remove Meredith’s upper clothes, causing her to squirm at the sensation of a twisting corkscrew in her arm.

‘Slight discolouration is coming up on the ribs on this side. Bruising from the impact,’ the doctor noted, observing the torso. Feeling around the shoulder joint she asked, ‘Any pain there?’

Meredith said, ‘Not much, it’s lower down.’

‘Good, I think we can eliminate a dislocated shoulder. No visual distortion, no looseness of the socket.’

The pain intensified as the doctor’s hands moved down the humerus. Meredith clenched her jaw while the fingers felt around the elbow and onto the radius.

‘Getting worse,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Hmm, the swelling is pronounced compared to the right forearm, but I can’t feel a distinct break. We’ll need to take an x-ray.’

Dr Lau gave Meredith a hospital gown to put on and sent her down the corridor.

*          *          *

The radiologist was a large, bored-looking woman who lumbered around without the slightest trace of a smile. She curtly told Meredith to lie on the examination table and placed a heavy, padded vest on her torso, which Meredith assumed in the absence of an explanation was some protective device against radiation.

The x-ray machine had a mechanical arm that stretched above Meredith and emitted light from a metal box onto the affected limb. The radiologist adjusted the dials on the box and said, ‘Keep totally still.’

Thirty minutes later, back in her consulting room, Dr Lau viewed the x-rays on a computer screen. ‘Good news, it’s a simple “Type A” fracture of the radius, the least serious. You must have strong bones.’

‘I’ll give credit to my parents for that.’

‘Expect more bruising and swelling from the soft tissue injury.’

‘Do you put the arm in plaster?’ Meredith asked.

‘Not for a simple fracture. Just a sling for support. It basically self-heals. You must have a day of complete rest tomorrow, keep the arm raised to improve circulation and ice it to help bring down the swelling. If you don’t have a gel-pack at home, a packet of frozen peas will do, but wrap it in a cloth or towel; don’t put it directly on the skin because that can cause ice burn. I’ll also give you an elasticised bandage for pressure and support. Remember the motto is R.I.C.E: Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. So, no work tomorrow. Would you like a certificate?’

‘That’d be great,’ said Meredith, knowing she did not intend using it. She was already behind with her files and staying at home would cause a fuss.

‘I’ll give you three days’ supply of panadeine forte to ease the pain, then ordinary paracetamol should do, and some Ibuprofen to reduce the swelling. You can buy more of that over the counter, no need for a prescription.’

Dr Lau went to a metal supply cupboard and brought over the samples of tablets, along with a compression bandage and a black synthetic sling with adjustable straps. ‘The sling is important for elevation and it’s very effective as a visual deterrent,’ she explained. ‘People will take more care not to bump into you if you’re wearing it.’

Meredith stifled a yowl as Dr Lau pushed the compression bandage onto her arm. After helping Meredith into her shirt, the doctor fitted the sling into position.

‘How long do I have to wear this?’ asked Meredith.

‘At least three weeks. I’ll give you a referral to a physiotherapist for rehabilitation exercises.’

When Meredith finally got back to the waiting room, Emilia was asleep with her head against the wall and her mouth ajar. Meredith perched on the chair beside her but Emilia didn’t stir until Meredith coughed.

‘Oh.’ She flinched and sat up, noticing the sling. ‘You’re all fixed up.’

‘Luckily only a fracture. The simplest type.’

‘That’s good,’ Emilia said, rubbing her stiff neck.

‘Sorry it took so long.’

‘Not at all. I’ve been quite busy. Playing games on my phone, practising my lip-reading skills on the TV, and catching up on sleep,’ she yawned.

In the car park, crossing the grid of spaces with painted markings and oily patches, Emilia seemed to wake up. Meredith knew the capacity of drivers to snap into alert mode when taking out their car keys, despite being tired or tipsy. But she was the injured passenger and her reserves of energy were spent. The exertion of the chase through the bush and the fear of attack had caught up with her once the medical urgency was addressed.

Leaving the hospital precinct, they turned back towards Bellwater. ‘I keep thinking about that night, Max’s last night,’ said Emilia, taking her eyes off the road. ‘I wish he’d rung me if he was in trouble.’

Meredith nodded with drowsy sympathy, about to say ‘Me too’, when she remembered she had never met him.

‘If only he’d called me instead of going to the reservoir, I could have helped him,’ Emilia continued.

‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to worry. Whatever happened was beyond your control.’ Meredith wished she could think of something more personal, not the standard consoling words to a victim’s relative, but fatigue was taking over.

‘Even to have spoken to him one last time, if he didn’t want to tell me what it was about.’ Emilia’s fingers clutched the air in frustration, one hand leaving the steering wheel.

Meredith tried to keep watch as navigator, blinking hard, but the street was empty and the blocks passed with no impending dangers emerging from left or right.

‘I guess you never know when it’s going to be the last time,’ Emilia added.

‘Very true,’ said Meredith as the edges of the road started to blur, curving to form a tunnel, and she felt herself falling into it.

Chapter 26

After a few hours’ rest, the beeping of the alarm startled Meredith awake. She had not slept as deeply as usual because of her injuries, while her troubled subconscious kept telling her that she lay on a mattress of decaying, muddy bracken.

When she tried to move, her body was so stiff it was almost paralysed. Only her feet obeyed her commands easily, waggling as she recalled the events of the previous night. What had happened seemed surreal, but trying to get out of the bed confirmed it was no dream. She struggled with the bedclothes, inching her way across the mattress to hang her legs over the side.

In the bathroom, she panicked at the sight of her puffy, bruised face in the mirror, and dreaded what her colleagues might think of her battered appearance. She couldn’t tell them the truth, but phoning Brian with an excuse to take a sick day was even harder, an impassable barrier. Work was piling up and Brian would be suspicious. How unfortunate. You seemed fine yesterday.

Her stomach was hollow, twisting with hunger, yet everything in the kitchen had to be re-negotiated, broken up into separate, individual movements with her right hand: filling the kettle, dunking the teabag, adding the milk, spooning muesli and yoghurt into a bowl.

It took ages to do her make-up. She used an undercoat of liquid foundation to cover the patchy tones and minor scratches, then concealer to paint over a graze on her cheek, the larger scratches, and the bruise on the side of her chin which required several coats. She hoped dark, coppery lipstick would draw attention away from the rest of her face.

After calling for a taxi, Meredith fitted the synthetic sling over her left arm. On her way out the door, she suddenly remembered the doctor’s instructions and hurried back to the kitchen, with her aches protesting, to grab an ice brick from the freezer, wrapping it in a tea towel and dropping it into a plastic supermarket bag.

Waiting for the taxi on the kerb in front of the townhouse complex, Meredith worried about how to retrieve her car without imposing further on Emilia’s goodwill. She frowned at the silvery sky, willing it to stay dry as she didn’t have a free hand for holding an umbrella.

When Meredith pushed open the front door of the law firm, Adriana stopped what she was doing at reception. Eyes locking onto the sling, she cried, ‘What happened?’ Her alarmed face mirrored the white, elliptical flower of the peace lily on the counter, stark and unblemished.

Jeremy swivelled around at his work station. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I slipped in the rain at a friend’s place and fell into their garden – and I hadn’t even been drinking,’ said Meredith, trying to sound casually jovial despite rehearsing the line in the taxi.

Adriana peered at Meredith’s face. ‘Are you sure you should be at work?’

‘I saw a doctor last night. Nothing’s broken. But I might need Jeremy’s help a bit more than usual with the computer.’

Jeremy rose from his chair. ‘Of course, anything you need.’

Brian appeared in the doorway of his office. ‘What’s going on?’ he said, advancing with a pen in his hand. He was wearing the tie Meredith disliked the most, the one with lemon and grey stripes.

Meredith repeated her story about slipping on wet steps. ‘Luckily it’s only a low grade fracture. It could’ve been a lot worse.’

‘Happened to me as a young fella playing rugby. Had a plaster cast,’ said Brian.

‘The doctor said it will heal itself, no need for a cast, but I have to do some rehab exercises.’

‘What’s the recovery time these days?’

‘Up to six weeks,’ Meredith said, giving the minimum period as the maximum.

Brian’s forehead buckled at the prospect of disruption to work output. ‘Don’t forget that unfair dismissal matter.’

‘I was just saying to Adriana, I should be able to keep up with my files but I may need to dictate some typing,’ Meredith explained.

‘If anything changes I want to be kept up to date, please,’ said Brian with a note of irritation before pacing back to his office.

Jeremy repeated his offer: ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

Meredith was about to say what she had in mind, when the glass front door swung open and Detective Driscoll strode in.

He nodded at Meredith, Adriana and Jeremy. ‘Hi, folks. Sorry to interrupt. I was passing so I didn’t bother to call.’ His eyes homed in on Meredith’s sling. ‘Do you have a moment for a word in private?’

Once they had stepped into her office, he pointed at her arm. ‘When did you do that?’

‘Last night.’

Meredith retreated behind her desk, dropping her bags on the floor, and Rory took the chair opposite.

‘Interesting coincidence,’ he said.

‘With what?’

‘Did you have some car trouble last night?’

Slowly she said, ‘No…’ The ‘o’ lingered on the air as her mind zig-zagged, wondering how much he knew.

She noticed his gaze assessing the uneven tone of her make-up, like that of a battered wife who had tried to cover her bruises. Ducking her head, she switched on her computer.

‘What happened to your arm?’ he asked.

‘I had an accident.’ Deliberately vague, realising from the mention of ‘car trouble’ that he might already know she wasn’t at home.

‘What sort of accident?’ he persisted.

‘I tripped in the dark going down some stairs. At a friend’s place.’ She felt herself blush unwillingly, dreading that it would make the patches of concealer stand out more obviously on her face.

‘Is your arm broken?’

‘Fractured.’

‘Your car was outside the top entrance to the reservoir,’ said Rory.

‘How do you know?’

‘Routine patrol in an area of interest. Distinctive retro car like yours. The officers checked the rego which confirmed your name.’

‘My friend lives near the reservoir. It was a convenient place to park.’

‘Couldn’t you park closer to her – or is it his – place?’

‘Her,’ said Meredith. Sneaky bastard, you just had to check, didn’t you? ‘The parking spots were taken,’ Meredith lied. ‘Anyway, what time was my car observed?’

‘Late. Around midnight.’

Meredith took a moment to recall her movements. The police must have noticed her car after she and Emilia had retrieved her handbag and left.

‘You should be careful,’ he continued, skating his forefinger along the top of her in-tray. ‘It’s a drug dealing area.’

‘The upper car park, really?’

He nodded. ‘Popular spot. Quiet at night but still handy. People pull up, buy their stuff and take off.’

‘I hope I’m not under suspicion for drug dealing.’ She was only half-joking. Her eyes tracked over the outline of his head and shoulders. His build was similar to the man who had attacked her. But it was too ridiculous, the thought that he could have set her up, lured her there to scare her off the case.

‘So you got home okay, despite the fall?’ he asked.

‘Eventually. My friend drove me to the hospital first, because I was in too much pain to drive.’

‘Drove you in your car?’

‘No, my car’s still at the reservoir, I’m picking it up today.’

‘I can send a constable over to get it for you.’

‘That’s fine. I’ve already made arrangements.’ With each strand of the web she hurriedly spun, she knew there was a risk of catching herself in it.

‘If you change your mind, just call me,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ Meredith tried not to squirm and instead straightened the pen and highlighter next to the writing pad, hoping the interrogation was over. ‘Can I ask if you’ve made any progress with finding Warren Connor?’

‘Not much,’ said Rory. ‘I went to Melbourne, met Gisele and searched the storage unit. It was mostly full of furniture and art supplies: canvasses, easels, that sort of stuff.’

‘What was Gisele like?’

‘A bit kooky, lives with stray animals she’s adopted. I kept tripping over dogs and cats. But I think she’s being straight with us. She hasn’t seen Warren. I also got more intell on the prior indecent assault. The complaint was from his wife in the context of a domestic assault. He accused her of seeing someone else. Pushed her onto a lounge, tore her blouse and grabbed at her breast before she managed to escape.’

‘How awful. No wonder he clammed up when I asked if he’d been married.’

‘I take it you didn’t know about the assault. He didn’t tell you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I think he’s got a real problem with bottled-up aggression and it made him attack Max, even if there was no logical reason.’

‘I still find it difficult to see a connection between Warren and Max,’ said Meredith.

‘So you believe him?’

‘It’s not about believing him, it’s my perception of the situation. I just can’t see anything connecting them.’

‘Why does there need to be a connection? Warren has a grudge against the world. He lashed out at someone he came across that night,’ Rory declared.

Meredith figured there was no point disagreeing with him and going around in circles. Instead she tried to look meditative, as though finding his argument persuasive, and waited for a couple of seconds before attempting to change the topic. ‘Speaking of connections with Max, I know you said you can’t reveal operational details, but can you at least indicate if there’s any link between Acrob Projects and Max, or are we wasting our time looking at their development sites?’

Rory shifted in his seat. ‘I’ll tell you this much. The managing director of Acrob insists he’s never heard of Max and we’re yet to find any evidence to contradict that.’

‘There’s something suspicious going on, though. If there was nothing to hide, why didn’t Max just name the location in his assessment?’ Meredith pointed out.

‘Sure, it’s an interesting theory. You can keep trying to identify the location, but the site Mr Parnell picked looks like the wrong one.’ Rory sat back, the panels of his jacket flapping open. ‘See, this is where I’m confused. I assume you’re trying to help the taskforce with the land information and the background on Warren, not mislead us.’

‘Of course.’ Meredith fixed her attention on the knot in Rory’s tie and came to the conclusion it was too small.

‘So I don’t understand why you’re being cagey about your car, holding something back. I get the feeling you don’t trust me.’ He tried to catch her attention with the intensity of his stare but her eyes flicked downwards.

‘I’m sorry if it seems that way. It’s not intended,’ she said, clamping her molars together.

‘Frankly, Meredith, I’ve had a lot of practice at detecting bullshit stories over the years and I’m not buying your explanation of what you were doing at the reservoir last night.’

At the sound of her name, Meredith felt the sweat glands activate under her arms.

Rory sighed. ‘There were plenty of parking spaces in the street. You didn’t need to park at the top of the reservoir.’

She gazed at a stray staple on the desk and trawled her brain for anything she could offer without revealing the attack.

‘I don’t know why you won’t tell me what really happened.’ Rory waited.

She considered the request. After all, he could help find out who was behind the incident. Perhaps it was just her embarrassment and pride at not wanting to admit she was so easily tricked. But her instinct was to retreat and reflect, not to be bullied into making disclosures.

‘Whatever you’re up to, you’re out of your depth,’ he continued. ‘You could get yourself into a lot of trouble.’

The note on the windscreen, which lured her to the reservoir, sprang to mind and Meredith wondered if it was still in her handbag. But she wanted to check the message again first to see if there were any clues in the words before showing it to Rory.

Adriana’s head peeped around the doorway. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Brian’s looking for the Panetta file. Do you have it?’

Saved by the bell. She seized the chance to break the deadlock with Rory. ‘Yes, it’s here somewhere. Don’t go, Adriana. Detective Driscoll and I had just finished talking.’

Meredith thumbed the files on her desk. Panetta wasn’t among them. Meeting Rory’s glare, she vowed, ‘I’ll give it serious thought, what you said, I really will.’

‘I hope so.’ As Rory pushed back the guest chair and stood up, Adriana stepped further inside the room and tucked herself into the corner to give him more space to depart. He paused in the doorway. ‘Then call me and tell me what’s going on.’

Adriana raised an eyebrow at Meredith, who waited for Rory to leave before rolling her chair towards a pile of material in the bookcase. ‘He’s just annoyed because I didn’t cough up everything he wanted to know.’

When the Panetta file had been located and she was alone again, Meredith looked in her handbag and found the blank envelope that had been left under the windscreen wiper. But it was empty. She remembered her soiled suit, still in the bottom of the bath tub at home, and hoped she had tucked the note into a pocket. Otherwise it was probably lost.

Reaching for the plastic bag on the floor, she took out the ice brick and tried it in different positions, eventually resting her arm on the edge of the desk with the cold block propped against it.

Reflecting on the conversation with Rory, she wondered whether to believe his claim about police monitoring drug activity at the reservoir. Was it really an innocent coincidence that they spotted her car? If she was under surveillance, why didn’t they intervene to stop the attack? She couldn’t think of a convincing reason other than the alarming prospect of police involvement in Warren’s disappearance.

Later that morning, Meredith emailed Jeremy to come and see her when he had a chance. Within ten minutes he appeared at her door.

‘Any suggestions to make it easier to use the computer with my arm in a sling?’ she asked, nudging the air with her elbow.

Jeremy moved around to her side of the desk and considered the angles and dimensions.

‘The doctor said to try to keep the arm level,’ Meredith added. ‘See how I have to reach up to use the keyboard?’

Jeremy leant across to put the cap back on her water bottle which was right beside the keyboard. ‘Dangerous near computers,’ he said, smiling to soften the criticism.

‘I’ll try to remember.’

Jeremy suggested getting a cordless keyboard to rest on her lap so she wouldn’t have to stretch. He agreed to come to the shops at lunchtime to help her pick something suitable.

Chapter 27

Standing outside on the footpath, Meredith asked Jeremy, ‘Can you drive a car?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘But aren’t we just walking to Bellwater Square to look at computer keyboards? The stores there should have enough to choose from.’

‘I have to collect my car from where I left it last night, before we go to the shops, but I can’t drive because of my arm. Would you be able to drive me?’

‘If it’s an automatic,’ he said.

‘Sure is. We can go to Bellwater Square on the way back if that’s okay.’ She ushered Jeremy towards the taxi rank, explaining, ‘We’re getting a taxi to where my car is parked.’

Jeremy nodded while looking slightly perplexed at the change of plan.

Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, her senses assaulted by the drone of news-talk radio and pine-scented air freshener, Meredith decided not to tell Jeremy about the attack. She merely said that she had been too shaken up by the accident to drive home the previous night.

In the upper reservoir car park, the only legacy of the hours the Cruiser had spent outdoors was a white starburst of a bird dropping on the bonnet.

Jeremy took a while in the driver’s seat checking the position of all the controls in an unfamiliar interior, before driving back to Bellwater Square with the caution of an octogenerian.

At Officetech they chose an ergonomic cordless keyboard with a built-in mouse at the centre of it. Jeremy also suggested Meredith consider buying voice-recognition software but she baulked at the cost and decided she would give Frank’s dictaphone a try first if she needed to do much typing.

Meredith was relieved when her Cruiser was safely tucked into the reserved parking space behind the law firm, where it could stay until she was strong enough to drive.

As they came through the back door, Adriana called to Meredith from reception. ‘There’s a two o’clock appointment which Brian said to give you. New client, seeking advice about a will.’

She handed Meredith a note with a few details Brian had taken over the phone.

‘Where’s Brian?’

‘He’s gone to a property settlement in the city.’

Brian’s note identified the new client as Stuart Furness, the sole executor of his deceased aunt’s estate. He wanted to query the size of her bequest to a charity.

Meredith’s arm was starting to throb with pain so she took a dose of panadeine forte while Jeremy disconnected her old keyboard and tested the ergonomic one. She practised trying it out by doing some online research on the general principles of charity bequests. Every so often, her right hand reached for where the separate mouse used to be, forgetting about the one in the centre of the keyboard.

As two o’clock approached, Meredith checked her face in a compact mirror. The concealer had smeared on her chin, allowing the bruise to show through. She figured she must have absent-mindedly brushed her hand across her face, or perhaps the concealer had run with nervous sweat during the uncomfortable conversation with Rory. Reaching for her make-up bag, she set about repairing the damage.

On a sudden impulse as she heard voices coming, Meredith slipped off the sling and let it drop to the floor. Adriana appeared in the doorway, leading a man who she introduced as Stuart Furness. Meredith half-stood, stretching her right arm over the desk to shake hands.

He looked to be in his late forties, with quick, bright eyes and a down-to-earth manner. His weathered complexion and the sand-paper texture of his hand suggested he had spent at least some of his working life outdoors. The slippage of middle-age showed on his body, from the receding hairline to the stomach which threatened to teeter over the wide leather belt.

‘Can I just confirm, is this the free consultation or was that the chat with the other solicitor on the phone?’

‘This is the free session.’

‘Great. I don’t mean to sound like a penny-pincher, but my father died a couple of years ago and the lawyers charged like the light brigade. So when I saw the offer in your window, I thought I’d try you lot.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

‘You’d be the one handling it now, would you, if I go ahead?’ His eyes darted around the room, as though contemplating escape. She’d seen it before, the slight disappointment when a client realised they weren’t getting the wise-sounding man they first spoke to, but were being shunted off to the younger, less experienced female.

‘Correct, and I’ll do my utmost to ensure you don’t regret it. My colleague said you would like us to have a look at your aunt’s will.’

‘That’s right. I’ve got it here,’ he said, lifting a backpack onto his lap.

‘And I believe you’re also the executor,’ said Meredith.

‘Yes, I was her closest remaining relative.’ He drew out a large envelope from his bag, containing a folded document of several pages.

Meredith softened her voice to ask, ‘When did she pass away?’

‘Almost six weeks ago. I’ve been putting off doing anything. Busy with work and I guess I didn’t want to face it. Now some bills are coming in, so that’s been a reality check.’

‘Fair enough. There’s no strict time limit but the court may require an explanation if it’s over six months.’

Stuart handed the document across the desk. ‘See, it’s one of these will-kit things. Are they legally valid?’

‘It depends if they’re done correctly.’ Meredith flicked through the will, noting the date it was signed. ‘So Barbara made this quite recently. Late last year?’

‘Yes, but I’m confused because she told me she was leaving everything to me. After Dad – her brother – died, I was the last one left. She never married or had kids, and I’m an only child. I felt a bit greedy, getting the lot, so I asked about friends of hers. She said at her age she wanted to keep it simple and the money was also meant to cover my family, who she was very fond of. That was the last I heard, but I guess she must have changed her mind and found a cause she wanted to support.’

‘And you’re not too happy about that?’

Stuart sat up a fraction in his seat. The darting blue eyes betrayed a sharper mind or more restless spirit than his casual exterior suggested. ‘I just want to make sure no one took advantage of her. I thought you could look into it and tell me if everything is above board.’

The estate was split fifty-fifty between Stuart and the other beneficiary. Meredith focussed on the charity provision:

I give and bequeath 50% of my estate to the Lifeglow Foundation, or its successors, for its general purposes, free of all death and estate duties. I declare that the receipt of the said foundation shall be a sufficient discharge to my executors.

Lifeglow.

Meredith’s eyes jumped at the word. The same word that appeared in Max Linton’s diary.

Anyone could put the words ‘life’ and ‘glow’ together, that was true. Random similarities occurred with absolutely no connection.

‘Is everything okay?’ Stuart asked, noticing her surprise.

‘Yes, the wording is standard. It’s just the proportion that seems more generous than usual, suggesting your aunt had a special relationship with this organisation.’

‘She never mentioned any outfit called Lifeglow to me.’

Meredith dragged her eyes away from the bequest clause. ‘Were you close to your aunt?’

‘Pretty close, I reckon. We saw each other regularly, got on well.’

‘How old was she?’

‘Seventy seven.’

‘That doesn’t seem old these days,’ said Meredith.

‘Yes, I was shocked. She was sturdy, that’s the word. Not one of those little old ladies who seem to shrink.’

Meredith lowered her eyes, awkward about asking: ‘What was the cause of her death?’

‘Heart attack. Apparently there was some weakness with her heart that she didn’t know about, or if she did, she kept it to herself. Everyone was surprised.’

‘Did she live on her own?’

‘Yes, for a long time now.’

‘And she managed all right?’

‘Certainly with day-to-day things like shopping and housework. She only needed help with bigger jobs. I’d go over to mow the lawn, cut back the garden when it got overgrown, clean out the gutters once a year. Anything that involved getting up on a ladder or heavy lifting.’

‘It sounds like you did a lot around the place.’ Meredith was thinking about the value of his services, if there was a case to argue that he should be reimbursed by the estate against the charity for labour or other expenses.

Stuart sat forward. ‘Actually I wish I’d done more for her. I offered to buy her a computer and get her connected to the internet, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Unfortunately time is always a problem for me and I don’t want to let her down now either, so it would certainly be a load off my mind if you could check the will’s in order.’

Meredith nodded her willingness to help. ‘Okay, even though you haven’t heard of Lifeglow, were there any activities of Barbara’s that could be relevant? Anything to do with health, lifestyle, spiritual beliefs?’

‘She wasn’t religious. She did the usual activities that older people do. Senior cits and the bowling club. She went in their raffles and gave us things she won like a popcorn maker for my kids.’

‘Perhaps Lifeglow was affiliated with the bowling club, as a sponsor or whatever,’ suggested Meredith, grasping for ideas.

‘But why leave them a wad of money?’ Stuart muttered, more to himself.

Lifeglow. Meredith stared at the word again, a sliver of doubt creeping into her mind. The word in Max’s diary did not have ‘Foundation’ after it.

‘Did you know if Barbara had any other health issues, besides the heart?’ she asked.

‘None she ever mentioned to me. She wouldn’t have wanted me to worry.’

The phone rang and Meredith apologised to Stuart for the interruption as she picked it up.

On the line she heard the cut-glass tones of a family law solicitor, Margot Daniels, and pictured the glossy, red nails gripping the phone. ‘Sorry Margot, I’m with a client. Can I call you back in a few minutes?’ Meredith didn’t have any qualms about making her wait. Margot had a reputation for overcharging and railroading her clients, and had managed to wriggle out of a couple of complaints that went to the disciplinary tribunal. Besides, any lawyer who had time to maintain such glamorous nails wasn’t busy enough as far as Meredith was concerned.

She returned her focus to Stuart. ‘Right, where were we up to?’

‘My aunt’s health. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention. I could’ve missed something.’ His eyes swept over the desk like searchlights.

‘What about her mental state? Any signs of disorientation or confusion?’ asked Meredith, wondering if Barbara might have been vulnerable to exploitation.

‘You mean like Alzheimer’s? Not that I saw. Nothing worse than occasionally forgetting where she’d put something, which happens to me already. My visits were usually for a couple of hours, so I think – I hope – I would’ve noticed if she was losing her faculties.’

‘Okay, let’s assume she was of sound mind when she made this will.’ Meredith scanned the pages again and looked at the signatures of the two witnesses and their names printed underneath: Aristotle Calligeros and Eleni Calligeros. ‘Do you know who these people are?’ She angled the page towards him.

‘They’re her neighbours, but everyone calls them Harry and Helen. They were quite good friends with my aunt. Kept an eye on her and did little things out of kindness.’

‘Such as?’

‘Harry would take her wheelie bins in, or put the paper on her doorstep when he saw it in the gutter. Barbara told me Helen was a terrific cook and would bring her meals or invite her over.’

‘If only we all had such helpful neighbours.’

‘Why not leave them some money?’ Stuart’s voice rose with surprise, as if he’d just thought of it.

‘Technically, witnesses can’t receive anything under the will, although she could have found someone else to witness it.’

‘It proves this Lifeglow Foundation must have meant more to my aunt than the Calligeroses. As far as I know, they were the last to see her, and they were the ones who called the police.’

‘What happened?

‘They realised something was wrong the morning after she died when they couldn’t raise her but they heard the TV, I think, going in the house.’

Meredith asked about Barbara’s background and assets, trying to identify who might benefit from her death besides Stuart. She had been a high school language teacher, financially secure after inheriting money from her parents and her female partner who died in a motorbike accident many years earlier.

The estate comprised Barbara’s house, money in the bank, a car, some jewellery, and a holiday unit that she and her partner had bought on the coast.

‘Barbara encouraged my family to use the place and sometimes she’d come with us. I’m pretty sure it’s still managed and let out by the same agent, but I can check that for you.’ His eyes stopped roving and swung back to Meredith. ‘I guess what I’d like to know is, if this Lifeglow crowd turns out to be dodgy, would that be a basis for challenging the will?’

‘I need to confirm what sort of an organisation it is first. Assuming it’s legitimate, the law is cautious about intervening in the testamentary wishes of the deceased, unless there are people who should have been provided for and weren’t. Once I find out what Lifeglow’s connection is to your aunt, if you think there’s something suspicious, then we can look at strategies for challenging the will.’

‘And if there’s nothing suspicious?’

‘Then I would recommend proceeding with an application for probate in the Supreme Court, which involves lodging the necessary documents like the death certificate, bank statements, certificates of title for the house and the holiday unit.’

‘Okay, go ahead and find out what this foundation is up to before we make any further decisions.’

Meredith added her own request. ‘I’d like to speak to those nice neighbours, in case your aunt mentioned the Lifeglow Foundation or any health issues to them. Do you think it would be possible to arrange a visit?’

He looked surprised. ‘At their home?’

‘I find a personal approach generally gets better results than firing questions down the phone.’

She glanced away, to give him a moment, and her gaze fell on the cactus which seemed to be bristling.

I know, I’m being pushy, but time is short and I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

Stuart patted his pockets, as if trying to locate a phone or a pen. ‘Right-o. When would be a suitable time for you?’

‘After work would be best. I’d like to get moving on it this week if they can see me.’ Meredith handed him a business card from a holder near her phone. ‘Ring me on the mobile.’

Stuart played with the card and opened his mouth but hesitated.

Meredith took a guess. ‘This isn’t an average will, so I’m prepared to do a house call or other background research on my own time, no extra charge.’

‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks a lot.’ He smiled broadly, showing a grey tooth on the bottom row.

Kindness or generosity wasn’t the point. She couldn’t let a client who was careful with his money get in the way of making progress on Max’s murder case.

After Stuart Furness left, and Margot Daniels had been dealt with, Meredith could concentrate more fully on scrutinising the details of the will. Consulting a pro forma charity clause in a wills and estates guide, she realised the Australian Business Number for Lifeglow was missing. Perhaps Barbara Furness did not have the ABN or appreciate its significance, but the number would facilitate paying the bequest. Usually such information was easily confirmed on a charity organisation’s website, except Lifeglow didn’t have a website. Meredith wondered how knowledge of Lifeglow was circulating. Possibly by old-fashioned word of mouth.

She looked for Lifeglow on the database of the Australian Charities and Not-for-profits Commission, but it wasn’t there. After making some other inquiries, she called Jeremy in and said, ‘You remember doing the business search for me on Lifeglow and finding the directors’ names? Lifeglow has come up again, this time in relation to someone’s will, so can you please check if those names appear on the electoral roll as soon as you can fit in a visit.’

‘The roll isn’t available online?’

‘No, I’m afraid it means a personal trip to the AEC headquarters in the city. The objective is to identify the directors’ full addresses, which were just a postcode on the business register, so you’ll have to go through every state and territory to make sure.’

‘I can do it tomorrow after uni, if that’s okay. My last class finishes at two.’

‘Great, that’ll give you plenty of time.’

Better still, as the Lifeglow name had cropped up in the case of a paying client, Meredith realised that Jeremy could work on the research more openly and she wouldn’t have to cover his time out of her own salary.

Chapter 28

Jeremy went up in the lift of a tower block in the city to the Australian Electoral Commission. Through the glass doors he saw the inquiry counter straight ahead, while off to one side was a recess with a bank of computer terminals for public use. The sole occupant was a young man sharply dressed in a suit, focussing intently on the screen. As Jeremy chose a seat, he noticed a printout of names on the desk beside the young man and wondered if he was a clerk tracing defaulters for a law firm or a debt collection service.

Jeremy searched the database and found a listing on the electoral roll for Zira Serdi, with a street address in the southern suburb of Crawden, a convenient location compared to the interstate postcode on the business register. There was no listing in any state for Haina Binoko. Jeremy knew from his own relatives that being on the electoral roll depended on whether the resident was a citizen. Even people born in Australia sometimes omitted to enrol to vote and slipped through the cracks until they were detected by record-sharing between departments.

Jeremy noted the addresses and first names of two other Binokos in case Meredith was interested in investigating whether they were relatives. He left while the young man in the suit continued working through his printed list, seemingly oblivious to the signs on the wall advising users of fifteen-minute time limits.

Downstairs in the lobby, Jeremy leant against a planter box with his I-Pad and looked up the location of Zira Serdi’s address in Crawden. Google Streetview showed a commercial building in what appeared to be a business park, not a private residential address.

Jeremy didn’t catch the train straight back to Bellwater. Breaking the journey on the southern line, he got out at Crawden Station, which had been absorbed into a retail development topped with high-rise apartments. It was a long walk to the light industrial area on the outskirts of the suburb, but he wanted to demonstrate his initiative, especially as Meredith would be reluctant to ask him to go to any trouble. If he could find evidence of Zira Serdi, maybe even capture a photo on his mobile phone, Meredith could decide what to do next.

Along the street were warehouses, showrooms, workshops, factory outlets and trade suppliers. A power saw whined nearby and Jeremy wrinkled his nose at a chemical smell in the air like burning plastic crossed with nail polish.

He slowed down outside the right address: a two storey building of ribbed concrete with a smoked glass entrance to office suites. Walking a few steps beyond it to see what else was in the complex, he noticed drive strips leading to parking and storage areas, before returning to the large directory in front of the premises. His eyes skimmed over the names of twelve businesses, including Glotechnics, Shazzam Designs, Karak Imports, Take Aim Promotions, and Lifeglow Pty Ltd at number nine.

Jeremy followed the walkway to the entrance lobby. Inside was a carpeted corridor with numbered offices and stairs leading to the second level.

Trotting up the stairs, Jeremy found himself in a matching corridor. The first suite on the upper level, number seven, was lit by bright fluorescent tubes and contained stacks of cardboard packing boxes but nobody seemed to be around. At the next suite, the gaps between the angled vertical blinds revealed several figures wearing head sets and sitting at work stations.

Jeremy stopped at suite nine, which appeared to be abandoned. There was no business name on the glass door and the interior was empty and unlit. He tried the door. Locked. However, on the floor of the room was an envelope and a couple of advertising flyers, which must have been pushed through the mail slot in the door, landing more than half a metre inside the room. Peering through the glass, he saw the envelope was addressed to Z. Serdi, Lifeglow Foundation. So the two entities – the proprietary limited company and the foundation – had to be connected.

Suite ten’s door was open and Jeremy checked to see if anyone was there. A young woman was loading copy paper into a printer while humming to herself, listening to an I-Pod, its thin cords disappearing into her black, purple-streaked hair. He waited in the doorway for her to shut the tray of the printer and turn around.

She jolted with surprise and removed the earbud on one side. ‘I didn’t see you there,’ she said.

‘Sorry for startling you. I’m just wondering if you could help me.’

‘With what?’ she smiled, showing dimples. A silver celtic pendant dangled on her black stretch top.

‘I’m looking for a company called Lifeglow. I think it’s supposed to be a charity.’

‘Next door,’ she nodded at suite nine, ‘but they’ve gone.’

‘When?’

‘A few weeks ago. Like, the week before last, or maybe the one before that.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘No. What did you want them for?’ She angled her head suspiciously, taking in his appearance.

‘I’m a student and they’re on our list of local organisations that offer internships.’ The lie rolled easily off his tongue as work placements were becoming more common among uni students. ‘I couldn’t get through on the phone so I thought I’d come and see what the situation was.’

Her posture relaxed. ‘All I know is two women worked in the office. Other people seemed to drop in, but they were the main ones.’

‘The contact name on my list is Zira Serdi.’

‘I never knew their names. One of the women was older and the other was roughly my age. I thought they might be mother and daughter.’

‘Did they look alike?’

‘Kind of, in the face they did. The young woman was taller, thinner, and the older one was shorter and chubbier. Sometimes I heard them talking in another language but I couldn’t tell you what it was.’

‘Did you ever speak to them?’

‘Just the younger one. If we bumped into each other in the corridor or the toilet we’d say, “Hi, nice day, isn’t it?” Nothing important.’

‘What about the older woman?’

‘I’m not sure if she spoke English. You’re very curious, wanting to know all these details.’ She fingered her silver pendant.

‘I just want to be sure, so I can tell our teacher to take Lifeglow off the list and other students won’t waste their time.’

She stared past him, remembering. ‘It was really sudden. One day I came to work and the place was empty.’

‘They never said anything in advance about going?’ asked Jeremy.

‘No, they cleared out on a weekend. Or it might’ve been the public holiday, Anzac Day.’

‘Sounds like they’re not coming back. I’ll definitely cancel that idea. Thanks very much for your help.’

‘No worries. Good luck with finding somewhere else.’ She flashed her dimpled smile and put the hanging ear bud back in.

Stopping at suite nine to look through the glass door again at the envelope on the floor, Jeremy realised the contents might give some clues of Lifeglow’s activities if he could retrieve it. He checked the compartments of his computer bag, but the longest, thinnest implement he could find was a pen. He looked around the carpeted corridor, scanning the décor for anything suitable he could adapt.

A large indoor plant with spade-shaped leaves stood in the corner in a ceramic tub. He fingered the rubbery texture of the leaves, toying with breaking one off to use as a tool, but decided they were not long enough to reach and probably too floppy to push an envelope over carpet.

The blinds screening the exterior windows of the building had a wand on the end of each panel that revolved to open and close the horizontal slats. Jeremy pulled at the nearest wand and stretched on his toes, squinting, to see how it was attached to the blind and if it might unhook. Dropping his bag to free himself for the task, he reached up and jiggled the wand. He could see a metal loop on top of the wand which linked onto a kind of clasp that would need to be prised apart.

At that moment, Jeremy noticed a reflection looming on the glass window, fragmented by the slats of the open blinds. He wheeled around to face a big block of a man, dressed in a security guard’s outfit with shield-shaped badges on the shoulders. Perhaps called to investigate a suspicious character in the building, or simply on his routine circuit.

‘What are you doing?’ the guard demanded, hands on his hips.

Jeremy stared for inspiration at the blinds, the corridor, the pot plant. ‘I’m having a look around, to see about leasing the vacant office there.’ He pointed at suite nine.

‘You seem more interested in the blinds than the office.’

‘I’m thinking of getting some of these for where I live.’

‘How can you inspect an office that’s locked?’

‘Just checking the size of the premises and the facilities of the building before arranging an inspection.’

The security guard puffed out his chest. ‘Come back with the real estate agent.’

The young woman from suite ten appeared in the doorway, her eyes jumping with confusion between Jeremy and the security guard. Jeremy smiled nervously at her, worried that she would say something to contradict his story.

‘Doesn’t matter, it’s not suitable,’ he muttered to the guard. Grabbing his bag, he ducked his head and marched across the carpet to the stairs, hoping the guard wouldn’t follow or challenge him further.

Jeremy bounded down the stairs and didn’t look back. Out on the street, he fought the impulse to run and instead walked briskly away, not wanting to attract attention. Despite his disappointment at failing to secure some evidence for Meredith, at least he had confirmed the address.

Striding along the footpath, the adrenalin was rippling through him. He had flirted with dishonesty, willing to act ruthlessly for a worthy goal, and yet was relieved not to have actually crossed the line.

Outside the railway station, before heading underground, Jeremy rang Meredith and reported to her that one of the directors of Lifeglow was on the electoral roll at an address in Crawden. ‘I went there to make sure and it’s definitely business premises, no longer occupied.’

‘The electoral roll should show a residential address, but I guess the Electoral Commission is none the wiser if a business unit looks like the number of a home unit,’ said Meredith.

‘Don’t they check?’ asked Jeremy.

‘I don’t think it’s practical for them to verify if everybody’s declared address is residential.’

‘They could use Google Streetview like I did.’

‘I’m sure they’d welcome that suggestion,’ said Meredith. ‘I hope it wasn’t too far out of your way.’

‘No, I just walked from the train. I spoke to a girl working in the next office who said she’d seen a couple of women, one middle-aged and one younger, possibly mother and daughter. Speaking a language she didn’t recognise.’ He relayed the rest of the conversation, leaving out the close encounter with the security guard.

‘Thanks for going to that extra effort.’

‘That’s all right,’ Jeremy smiled to himself.

‘I wonder if those women were the directors, Haina and Zira, or other staff members. I suppose their names do sound more female than male, now that I think about it,’ said Meredith.

‘And would the older woman be the one on the electoral roll, Serdi, if the younger one wasn’t eighteen yet?’ asked Jeremy.

‘That makes sense.’ Meredith breathed down the line as she pondered. ‘I’m definitely getting bad vibes about this Lifeglow Foundation. It exists in name but doesn’t seem to have a lot of substance to it. Maybe someone is operating a shell company for tax purposes.’

‘Could that explain the different entries in the business register and the electoral roll?’ asked Jeremy.

‘Good point. Possibly there’s a pattern of shutting up shop and moving on. Lots to consider. We can discuss it further at work tomorrow.’

‘Okay, see you then.’ He ended the call and stepped into the open mouth of the station ramp.

Chapter 29

Phil the physiotherapist was a lean, taut man with a shaved head. The shadow of his diminished hairline suggested he had decided to beat advancing baldness at its own game.

He showed Meredith through to a room with a padded examination table, wall charts of the nervous and muscular systems, a monitoring machine on a trolley and, over in one corner, a hi-tech chair that resembled a cross-trainer in a gym.

Phil took up his position in front of a computer at a black metallic desk and motioned her to sit in the guest chair. He slid a photocopied handout towards her and said, ‘Today’s an introductory session. I’ll take you through some general information and show you a few simple exercises.’

Meredith nodded and glanced at the diagrams on the handout.

‘Incidentally, what do you do for a crust?’ asked Phil.

‘Legal work.’ It sounded more modest than ‘solicitor’.

‘Would that involve spending a lot of time at a desk?’

‘Most of the day.’

‘You should be getting up and moving around every thirty minutes.’

‘That’s not practical. I’d never get anything done.’ It was enough of an imposition to have to leave work before five to attend the physio appointment.

Phil’s face clouded. Meredith wanted to be cooperative. She relaxed her tense shoulders and smiled. ‘I wish I could have a treadmill adapted for the office. A smaller version than in a gym, with a document holder so I could read judgments while walking.’

Phil swivelled in his chair with enthusiasm. ‘They’ve got them in America – treadmill desks, with a proper table top at standing height where you can put a computer or documents. Employers here should take notice because sedentary habits are going to have an increasingly negative impact on the health of office workers. Like smoking used to have in the workplace. Sorry, I don’t mean to rant. Let’s get back to the matter at hand, or should I say arm,’ he chuckled. ‘Did your doctor tell you about the R.I.C.E. principles?’

‘Yes. I tried to incorporate them into my routine, to the extent that work allowed.’

‘The current wisdom is to exercise earlier, as long as it’s been three days since the injury and the arm is not obviously painful to touch. Too much rest causes stiffness and loss of function.’ While speaking, he leant forward and snuck his fingertips into the sling. ‘Does that hurt?’

Her puffy arm was tender but the finger-walking didn’t actually hurt. ‘No, that’s okay,’ she said.

‘I’ll show you some basic exercises to do at this stage without causing damage. Just slip off the sling and rest your arm along the desk here, with your hand and wrist hanging over the edge.’ He rolled back in his chair to give her more space. ‘A really simple one first. Leaving your palm face down, wave the hand up and down at the wrist.’

Meredith complied but Phil made a clicking sound of disapproval with his tongue. ‘Keep your fingers together and try not to lift the arm off the surface when you raise your hand.’

It was more difficult than she expected, her lips pursing with concentration.

‘That’s better,’ said Phil. ‘Now use your right hand to push your left fingers a little further up and down, to make sure you’re giving the muscles a really good stretch.’

After she repeated the sequence five times to his satisfaction, he sprang neatly from the chair. ‘Let’s get on our feet.’

He demonstrated a forearm rotation and she copied him, standing with her elbow at a right angle by her side and slowly turning the left hand to face down and then face up. Next came squeezing the left hand around a tennis ball, followed by the fingertips around a squash ball.

‘Don’t forget to breathe. Let the air go deep into your lungs,’ said Phil. ‘Your jaw looks tight, like you’re holding your breath.’

He was right. Meredith exhaled and continued fondling the squash ball.

‘Keep your elbow tucked against your side, not sticking out.’

Between hissing air through her teeth, Meredith asked when it would be safe for her to drive.

‘Not until you feel you could control the car in an emergency,’ said Phil. ‘Then start with short trips in the daytime in good conditions. I know it sounds obvious but minimise the risk.’

Phil wound up the appointment with a few comments about the frequency and duration of the sessions she should do at home, and what they would cover on the next visit.

Meredith thanked him and realised his knowledge might be useful in another respect. ‘I take it you’ve been working in the health field for some time?’

‘Nearly twenty years.’

‘Have you ever come across the name Lifeglow?’

Phil repeated the word to himself. ‘In what context?’

‘I’m not exactly sure. The name cropped up at work and I’m trying to confirm if it’s a business or some kind of charitable organisation, but I can’t seem to get a definite answer.’

His eyebrows hovered. ‘It does sound familiar. Wait a minute.’

He went to his computer and brought up the home page of the practice. Clicking on a directory of links, he scrolled down a list of businesses and other contacts and frowned. ‘False alarm, it’s the wrong name. Lifeforce Yoga Centre. Not Lifeglow. Sorry about that.’

Dead ends, like the sodden note she had found in the pocket of her slacks in the bath. Heavily creased but still intact and legible. She was not familiar with Warren’s handwriting, recalling only the isolated, scribbled words in his art folder. So she didn’t know if he personally wrote the note or not. Presumably, if he did, he must have been forced against his will, unless he was an accomplice to the deception, and neither seemed a likely scenario. More credible was the prospect that someone else pretended to be him. Reading the message again had not triggered a rush of ideas. The words ‘No cops, they can’t be trusted’ puzzled her. If the police were behind the set-up, would they deliberately include this to mislead her?

*          *          *

 Meredith had arranged with Stuart Furness to pick her up after the physio session and drive her to meet the Calligeroses.

She kept the sling on to casually introduce the sight of it, with a cashmere cardigan worn cape-style over her shoulders, secured by the top button. Stuart quickly spotted the discrepancy, pointing as he approached. ‘Your arm, it wasn’t like that before.’

‘No. I’ve been to the physio. He reminds me to wear it. A silly accident, nearly healed,’ she said briskly.

Arriving at his car, Stuart removed a bunch of material from the passenger seat: interior design catalogues, a clipboard with a wad of forms resembling orders or invoices, and a folder stamped with a real estate logo.

‘Are you in real estate?’ asked Meredith.

‘Fit-outs,’ he replied.

‘Sorry?’

‘Commercial fit-outs. Corporate offices, retail premises. We’re doing a real estate branch at the moment.’

He was a project manager, coordinating the designers and tradesmen, making sure that everything from electrical wiring to furniture and computers was installed by the deadline and without the costs blowing out. Negotiation, compromise and budgeting were essential skills in his job. Meredith was beginning to understand why he queried the legal fees during their consultation.

As they drove towards the city, the conversation shifted from fitting out commercial spaces to the run-down shops near the railway station in Bellwater. They found themselves on opposing sides: Meredith with the conservationists who wanted to preserve the decorative old shopfronts, and Stuart agreeing with the pragmatists who wanted to knock them down and build something new.

‘Bottom line, restoration costs more than rebuilding and who’s going to pay?’ he said. ‘The council’s already in debt and the shops are not rare enough to be heritage listed.’

‘Great. So we end up with the same generic shopping malls and franchise stores in every suburb,’ Meredith replied, but kept her voice playful.

It was dark by the time they arrived in a narrow street of small brick bungalows and semi-detached cottages in Wattlebank. Parking was in short supply and Stuart made use of his aunt Barbara’s driveway. Getting out of the car, Meredith could smell the fumes from the evening peak hour traffic hanging in the still air.

At the next bungalow, the porch light was on in readiness. Harry Calligeros opened the door holding a newspaper. In the background, Helen appeared from the kitchen, wearing pink rubber gloves.

Stuart introduced the Calligeroses to Meredith. She could see they were in their late sixties at least. Helen’s solid black hair was dyed and Harry was slightly stooped.

‘You’ve been at work?’ said Helen. ‘You must be starving. Let me get you something to eat.’

Stuart and Meredith assured her in unison they were fine.

‘Something to drink then.’ After further discussion, Meredith and Stuart agreed to a mineral water each.

Harry ushered the visitors into the good front room, which was dominated by a lounge suite in a heavy fabric that reminded Meredith of tapestry. She detected what she thought was a doggy smell but, glancing around, couldn’t see any obvious evidence of a canine companion.

Helen brought the drinks and a plate of almond crescent biscuits, placing them on a side table. A floor lamp with a linen shade on a brass stand cast a wide glow. On the dresser behind the lounge, worry beads hung from the knob of a drawer and decorative painted plates depicting village scenes stood among photos of small children in school uniform, presumably their grandchildren.

Stuart and Meredith sat in matching wing chairs, twisting their bodies slightly to face the older couple who settled into the two-seater.

As Meredith arranged herself on the cushioned seat, Helen noticed her arm sticking out from under the cardigan. ‘Your arm. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, nothing to worry about, just a minor fracture.’

Stuart drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, Meredith is checking Barbara’s will to see if everything is in order.’

He turned to Meredith with an expectant smile and she took the baton. ‘I’m trying to find out about an organisation that Barbara left money to, called the Lifeglow Foundation. We think it might be a charity but we’re not sure. Did she ever mention the word Lifeglow, or anything about a charity or foundation to you?’

Helen and Harry looked at each other and shook their heads.

‘I don’t remember a name like that,’ said Helen.

‘You both signed Barbara’s will as witnesses. Did she tell you what was in it, or did you see any of the details?’

‘No, she only told us to watch while she signed her name, then we signed ours,’ said Helen, her large, bulbous glasses catching the light as she spoke.

‘Have we done anything wrong?’ asked Harry.

‘No, of course not,’ Meredith assured him. ‘I’m just trying to understand how much Barbara told her friends. For instance, did either of you know that Barbara had a heart condition?’

‘Not before that day. Did we, Ari?’ she blinked at her husband.

‘No, and you were her friend more than me.’ His big lion head wobbled, as if he was having difficulty holding it up.

‘Did she tell you about any other health issues?’ Meredith asked Helen.

‘The main one I remember was her ears.’

‘What was the matter with them?’

‘They would get blocked and make her feel dizzy. She went to different doctors but none of them could find anything.’

‘Even the ear specialist,’ said Harry.

‘That’s right,’ confirmed Helen. ‘He did tests and they came back clear, but Barbara was sure there was a problem.’

Stuart cut in. ‘Her hearing was okay, though, wasn’t it?’

‘I think her hearing was usually good, but when the pressure built up, she got headaches and she said the sound became muzzled – is that the word?’ asked Helen.

‘Muffled?’

‘That’s it, and her ears would only unblock if she fainted or threw up. But then she found this doctor who helped her and it stopped happening.’

‘Did she tell you who the doctor was?’ asked Meredith.

‘She might have at the time, but I’ve forgotten.’

Harry shifted his shoulders in a kind of shrug.

‘Any indication if it was a man or woman?’ Meredith prompted.

Helen’s eyelids fluttered momentarily behind the thick lenses. ‘A man. I remember her saying he was wonderful. He looked at every part of her life and changed her diet.’

‘That rings a bell,’ said Stuart. ‘Something to do with cutting down on salt. She mentioned it to me, this would be a couple of years ago.’

‘Like a naturopath, perhaps?’ said Meredith.

‘Yes, yes, I think so,’ agreed Helen.

Meredith paused and pressed her fingertips together, approaching sensitive territory. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but could you tell me about finding Barbara, how that unfolded?’ She looked from Helen to Harry, not sure who actually made the discovery.

It was Helen who replied. ‘I saw the lights were on in most of the house late at night, which was unusual, shining into our bedroom. I pulled the blind down to block out the light, but the radio was going too and kept us awake. It sounds louder when everything is quiet. What is the show called where people ring up to complain?’

‘Talkback,’ said Stuart. ‘The graveyard shift, great for insomniacs.’

Helen continued: ‘I said to Harry, maybe Barbara couldn’t sleep. So I didn’t worry too much, until in the morning the lights and the radio were still going. We called over the fence, where the windows were open, to see if she was okay but there was no answer. So we went in her front gate and down the path to the side door and I stood on the steps, trying to see in the living room window. That’s when I – ’

Helen stopped, gulped. Her wrinkled hands went up to her nose and formed a tent, pressing down as though to stop the tears coming. ‘I’m sorry. I still can’t believe she’s gone.’

Meredith noticed the engraved tendril pattern on Helen’s gold wedding band. ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to go on. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Harry raised his head and continued on his wife’s behalf. ‘She saw a slipper on the carpet in the living room. So I said that’s it, I’m calling the police. When they came they found the front door was unlocked.’

Helen swallowed hard. ‘I thought that was strange because Barbara was careful about security.’

‘Maybe she hadn’t finished doing things outside,’ suggested Harry.

Stuart took over the upsetting details of the story, clasping and unclasping his hands on his knees like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office to give an account of an incident.

Barbara was dead on the living room floor. The police thought she might have felt unwell after dinner, because her plate with a chop bone was still on the dining table and the rest of the dishes were in the sink waiting to be washed. But testing found nothing wrong with the food.

Harry and Helen gave Stuart’s name to the police as the next of kin. He drove straight over to assist. While he was there he located Barbara’s current will in a bedside drawer.

‘That’s about it,’ he said, releasing a pent-up breath.

Meredith asked, ‘Would it be possible to have a look inside the house, to get a better picture of what you’ve all been talking about?’

‘Now?’ said Stuart.

‘If you’re not in a hurry.’

He nudged the backpack on the floor beside him with his foot. ‘Don’t see why not. I’ve got the keys with me.’

They said goodbye to the Calligeroses, who got up from the lounge with some effort and came to the front door to see them off.

Meredith waited below the steps to give Stuart the chance to have a few words in private with the Calligeroses. She heard him say he’d keep in touch and let them know when he was going to put the house on the market.

*          *          *

Barbara Furness’s cottage looked smaller, squat and abandoned next to the cheerily lit Calligeros residence. Scratching at the lock with the key and missing the target in the dark, Stuart held the key up to the streetlight to make sure he had it the right way before trying again. ‘It still feels strange letting myself in, like Barbara could come home and spring me,’ he whispered, flicking a light switch inside the door.

They were greeted by a stuffy, locked-up smell and Stuart left the front door open for air. Standing in the entrance hall, Meredith’s first impression, as Stuart went ahead to turn on more lights, was of a tidy interior once renovated and since grown dated again.

‘What do you want to see?’ he asked.

‘Do you know if Barbara had an address book, or something similar, with contact details that might mention the Lifeglow Foundation or the doctor who helped her with the ear problem?’

‘I think I saw her jot down appointments and phone numbers in an old exercise book she kept in the kitchen,’ said Stuart, crossing to the seventies showcase of chunky pine cupboards, saffron yellow tiles, and orange vinyl studded stools parked at a breakfast bar.

While he fished around in the kitchen drawers, Meredith scrutinised the messages and contact names on a corkboard stuck next to a white wallphone. She spotted Stuart’s business card, but most of the items were related to trade services.

In the upper drawer, Stuart found only coasters, manuals for appliances, advertising flyers, and the council’s waste guide. The lower drawers contained utensils and cookware. ‘Hmm, she must have moved it,’ he said.

They continued to the dining room where the furniture belonged to an earlier era, possibly handed down in the family. A long, dark wood table was protected by bamboo placemats, and a carved sideboard displayed souvenirs from overseas: Japanese warrior figures, a miniature samurai sword, a brass Buddha, Balinese masks, an Indian elephant decorated with tiny mirrored tiles.

‘Are these from Barbara’s travels?’ asked Meredith.

‘Yes, she made a lot of trips to Asia and the main languages she taught were Indonesian and Japanese.’

He searched the drawers of the sideboard, which were packed with paid bills and other paperwork. ‘Even if I’m wrong about the exercise book, surely she’d have some kind of address book. She was very organised.’

Meredith ventured ahead to the living room, where she stared at the mottled oatmeal carpet, trying to picture Barbara’s fallen figure. Perhaps she had staggered towards the lounge to lie down or was heading for the bedroom. Meredith prowled the room, scanning for places where a notebook might be tucked: the drawers of the TV cabinet; the leftover spaces in the bookcase which was dominated by language dictionaries and travel guides; and the gaps between a nest of small tables. Scarcely anything was out of order. Magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table, an old TV guide remained next to the screen, but there was no mess or clutter.

‘Have you tidied up the place?’ asked Meredith as Stuart came into the room.

‘Not much. Mainly in the kitchen to keep away the cockies, and when I was looking for the will I straightened a few things up that were lying around, but there was very little to do.’

Stuart entered the master bedroom while Meredith lingered in the doorway. Her attention was drawn to a framed photo on a chest of drawers, showing a middle-aged woman wearing a baseball cap.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Meredith, although she could guess.

‘Barbara’s partner, Justine. She was a postie. Easy to get along with, liked a joke. Barbara must have been very lonely for all those years after Justine died, but she never talked about it.’

‘Did you say there was a motorbike accident?’

‘Yes, it was a bit ironic. She was into all these adventure sports like paragliding and abseiling and nothing bad happened, only to be killed on the road, clipped by a truck.’

Meredith’s gaze hovered on the bed which was neatly covered with a quilt.

‘I didn’t make the bed, in case you’re wondering,’ said Stuart. ‘Barbara was up early every day, dressed and ready, even after she retired. Of course, on that last night she never made it back to this room.’ He turned away suddenly and started searching the bedside drawers.

Meredith’s concept of a house-proud person was someone who made their bed daily, whereas hers stayed in the same unmade state from when she struggled out of it in the morning, to when she crawled into it again late at night. Bedmaking was one of those household tasks that had to be sacrificed in a life devoted to work.

The second bedroom had been converted into a utility room, with an ironing board at the ready, a sewing machine on a table, and a long wicker hamper. Stuart lifted its lid to reveal piles of wool and fabrics and a sewing basket. He looked in the drawers of the table, shifting the knitting and dressmaking patterns and the craft clippings from women’s magazines.

The last places left to check were the hallway cupboards. Stuart rummaged to the end of each shelf, taking a moment to restore the contents before proceeding to the next level. He stood up straight and rubbed the small of his back. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where it’s gone. It seems unlike her but perhaps she threw it out.’

Meredith doubted it, given all the material Barbara had kept. She wondered who Barbara might have let into her home besides the Calligeroses. Was her door unlocked on the night of her death because she opened it to a visitor?

‘Never mind, thanks for taking the time to search,’ said Meredith.

‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘I’ll keep investigating other avenues,’ she vowed. ‘Speaking of which, I’m currently looking into a company called Lifeglow and trying to figure out if it’s associated with the beneficiary in Barbara’s will. My paralegal is helping track down the directors, who are called Haina Binoko and Zira Serdi. Are those names familiar to you?’

His eyes latched onto hers. ‘Never heard of them. Have they been up to no good?’

‘I haven’t found anything incriminating so far.’

‘Okay, I won’t get my hopes up. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

At the entrance to the cottage, the cool air from outside had dispersed the musty smell, just as they were about to lock up again.

Chapter 30

Meredith caught a taxi to the Wattlebank Bowling Club on Saturday afternoon because of her injured arm. The taxi dropped her outside the large and bustling establishment, a contrast to her modest local club which was reportedly facing a merger with a neighbouring club or closure if it couldn’t attract more members. The logo of the Wattlebank RSL featured prominently around the exterior of the bowling club and, Meredith suspected, had something to do with its prosperous appearance.

Stuart Furness had given her information on Barbara’s leisure activities that seemed worth following up, although Meredith did not involve him in case he realised her interest in Barbara’s will went beyond professional efficiency. Instead, Meredith had phoned the secretary of the bowling club to obtain permission to go and chat to some of the members on the next playing day. The secretary also confirmed that none of the club’s sponsors was called Lifeglow.

Bowlers stalked around the greens in their soft shoes, bending slowly to release the ball. The white outfits she had seen relatives and neighbours wearing in her childhood seemed to have given way to colours. Click-clacking echoed as balls struck each other with varying degrees of force, and scattered applause broke out occasionally in praise of a fine shot.

Meredith hung around the bar area as bowlers came off the greens and repaired to the clubhouse for refreshments. A couple of TV monitors fixed high on the walls flashed lotto results and racing odds. She sat at a corner table with a tall glass of Diet Coke, observing the banter between the players, trying to work out their relationships and who looked the most friendly and approachable.

The women outnumbered the men and Meredith figured that women were more likely to know Barbara. She observed a couple of women in light blue uniforms chatting over lemon squashes and decided they were suitable candidates. But they turned out to be from a visiting team, explaining to Meredith that the local team were in the green and gold stripes.

Having made a false start, she felt awkward and disconnected, waiting and watching the tables where the local players sat. The table that snared her attention was occupied by a foursome whose gestures had the familiarity of married couples. The men were drinking beer, probably light beer if they were driving, with lemon squashes again for the ladies.

When one of the men went to the gents and left a prominent gap at the table, Meredith hurried forward a bit too eagerly and stammered through her opening lines about trying to find acquaintances of Barbara Furness. One of the women, who introduced herself as Leonie, said she knew Barbara ‘slightly’ but they had never discussed health issues.

Meredith asked if they’d ever heard of anyone leaving money in a will to an organisation called Lifeglow. Their memories meandered around the question and, in the process of conceding they did not specifically recognise the name, they recounted anecdotes of friends who’d made bequests to charities, sometimes deliberately to punish ungrateful offspring. They moved further off the topic, swapping tales of fraudsters who preyed on seniors with tactics ranging from investment scams to fake council requests for tree lopping. The husband who’d been to the toilet came back and tried to follow the conversation but seemed to have trouble hearing.

Leonie asked Meredith, ‘Have you been to the senior citizens centre? I think Barbara was involved in the craft group there and you might find some people who knew her better.’

‘What about the dance tomorrow arvo?’ suggested her husband. ‘That’d be a good opportunity to ask around.’

‘A dance?’ Meredith said, as an image flashed into her mind of a disco with a mirror ball. ‘What sort of dancing?’

‘New vogue. Slow foxtrot. Nothing too exhausting,’ the other wife chipped in.

Meredith nodded as though she understood them, still unclear.

‘It’s a casual affair, no need to dress up,’ said Leonie. ‘We’ll be going if you want to drop in. Anytime after two.’

‘Thanks, I’ll try to make it.’

Shifting away from the table, she ordered another Coke at the bar and chatted to a few more bowlers while they waited for their drink orders, but made no further progress.

*          *          *

Late in the afternoon, the townhouse seemed quieter than usual. Meredith reflected on the events of the day and remembered that she had not yet asked Jeremy to look into the naturopaths in the region. She sent an email to his work address, for when he next came into the office, requesting a list of the names of naturopaths and any other information that sounded relevant.

Before Saturday night revved up, Meredith rang her sister in case she was going out. A clogged voice answered and for a moment she thought it was Kelly’s boyfriend.

‘Hi, who’s that?’

‘Kelghh,’ came the congested reply.

‘You don’t sound too good,’ said Meredith.

Her sister coughed and tried again. ‘Change of season. Colds are starting to go around.’

‘I won’t keep you then. It’s nothing important, just saying hi.’

‘Don’t go, I’m only sitting on the couch watching TV. What’s happening?’

Meredith told her about the elderly couple she’d met who had found their neighbour’s body. ‘It makes me worry about not being on better terms with my neighbours. What are yours like?’

‘Actually, pretty good. I’m lucky. There’s a guy downstairs who tidies up the common areas and arranges the quotes when work needs doing. I gave him a spare key in case there’s an emergency while I’m not here.’

‘I should do that, but who would I trust?’ Meredith wondered aloud. ‘The lager louts, or the rev head, or the uni students who seem to move every six months? The most reliable people are the couple I told off for using the visitor parking as a permanent spot for their second car.’

‘See, Meri, you’ve got to be nicer if you want to ask people a favour one day. You can be a teeny bit harsh.’

‘How can I grovel to people who don’t observe the strata by-laws?’

Meredith drifted to the bookshelves with the phone, while Kelly blew her nose and recounted her experience of befriending the noisy kids of a single mother in her block instead of clashing with them.

Looking down from the top shelf was a photo of Owen from a family birthday gathering when Kelly and Meredith were teenagers. It was one of the few photos Meredith had taken of him, after she saved up to buy her own camera. His glasses were smudged, his ears were large and drooping and his nose was pitted. Hardly recognisable compared to the young Owen in the stamp-sized mug shots attached to his enlistment form. In those, his nose seemed pointier, his face thinner, his eyes more intense. The only lasting features were the mischievous shape of his mouth at the corners and the ridge of his brow which always made him look reflective even when he was joking.

Kelly wound up her anecdote about the juvenile delinquents. ‘If I’d tried to stop them skateboarding I would’ve been the wicked witch, whereas now they say hi to me.’ She gave a phlegmatic cough. ‘Go on, eventually you have to trust someone,’ she said before signing off to fetch more tissues.

Meredith looked at the photos on the shelf again. She knew there must be photos from Owen’s youth, perhaps hidden somewhere by Glenys. But when she had pressed her mother, the response was: ‘Don’t be so morbid, dwelling on the past.’

‘Please tell me you haven’t thrown out his personal stuff.’

‘Old clutter. You’re glorifying someone you barely know, putting him on a pedestal when it isn’t deserved.’

‘We should be preserving historical records.’

‘He might be a war hero to you, but to me he was an apology for a father. Even when he was at home, he was irritable or holed up in his workshop or sitting in the corner drinking himself into a daze.’

‘What if he had post-traumatic stress disorder and it wasn’t diagnosed?’

‘I had friends whose fathers went through worse in the war and they didn’t behave like that.’

‘At least donate the army material to the war memorial in Canberra if you won’t let me have it.’

The way her mother wouldn’t answer her directly gave Meredith hope that she hadn’t thrown anything out. But Meredith knew she would only get her hands on the surviving items after Glenys had died, when history could be reclaimed.

Eventually you have to trust someone, that was Kelly’s advice. Meredith was wary of confiding in a cop, but a hydrologist was probably a risk worth taking.

If Griff knew the reasons behind Max’s death or who was responsible, why would he divulge the name of Lifeglow? More likely he would have kept it to himself or invented a fictitious name to mislead her; unless Lifeglow was concocted, in which case it seemed an elaborate strategy to insert an entry in Max’s diary and implicate innocent people who actually ran a business of that name.

She caught Griff on his mobile, answering in a fog of music. The thumping rhythm was contemporary but not rock. Possibly soul or jazz, not what she expected. She had imagined him leafing through a large academic volume in quiet contemplation. Funky music could mean he had female company, and the noise dropped abruptly, guiltily, as though someone had swiped at the volume control.

‘I thought I’d ring with an update, if it’s not a bad time.’ Meredith nervously plucked at the fabric of her shirt with fingers protruding from the sling.

‘I presumed you were busy at work and that’s why you hadn’t been in touch,’ said Griff, sounding a little tired and flat.

‘Not much has been happening, but now a possible clue has turned up so I wanted to ask your opinion.’

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘In Max’s diary, the word Lifeglow was just on its own, wasn’t it, a single word, not with another word?’

‘That’s right.’

‘This might be a coincidence, but I’ve come across a case at work where a woman made a generous bequest to the Lifeglow Foundation in her will.’

A bubble of air expanded between them, before Griff’s voice shifted a notch higher. ‘Really? That’s interesting. It’s not a common word. But yes, it could be something different, the Lifeglow Foundation as opposed to merely Lifeglow in relation to Max.’

Griff seemed genuinely surprised, which helped to ease Meredith’s concerns that he had ulterior motives.

‘Initially I assumed a foundation meant a charity,’ said Meredith, ‘but it didn’t come up on any charity lists, so now I’m searching business records for companies of that name.’

‘Is there anything that could link the woman with the bequest to Max?’

‘Not that I’ve found yet. Her name is Barbara Furness, a retired school teacher. She has no obvious connection with developments or the environment unless you count owning a holiday unit at the beach.’

‘Could the place be up for redevelopment?’ he asked.

‘I’ll check with the real estate agent who manages the unit,’ said Meredith. ‘How’s your land research going? Have you had time to do any further delving?’

‘Trying to. I’ve been going through Max’s projects again, looking for anything that doesn’t fit, and tracing more blocks of land. It’s hard to concentrate on my own work at times.’

‘I know what you mean, it becomes consuming. This is probably the last thing you want to hear but Detective Driscoll told me they don’t think the block of land at Brookfield is the right one, and there’s no evidence of Max being involved with Acrob Projects.’

‘Great, now I’ll be even more obsessed, trying to come up with new locations. Not much hope of switching off tonight.’

‘There’s something else I’d appreciate your help with. Sorry to ask, but at least it won’t encroach on your working hours. Barbara Furness was a member of the senior citizens’ centre at Wattlebank and she might have discussed personal matters with other members, if you’d be interested in coming with me for a visit tomorrow.’

Meredith had realised, from her uncomfortable experiences of approaching strangers at the bowling and waterskiing clubs, that two minds on a subject were better than one and Griff might notice or think of something she missed.

To her surprise, Griff was quick to accept the invitation. ‘Why not? It’s a lead worth following up. Shall we save fuel and combine vehicles? I could drive you or vice versa.’

‘A lift would be great. Actually, I’m not driving at the moment. I had an accident a few days ago.’

‘A car accident?’

‘No, I slipped over and injured my arm. Just a hairline fracture, but I’m not supposed to drive.’

‘That’s no good.’

‘The sling makes it look worse than it is.’

‘Only too glad to offer the Prius then. Maybe I can convince you of the benefits of going green.’

Chapter 31

The senior citizens centre resembled a school auditorium with a flat roof. Access to the entrance was by a concrete walkway with a low ramp at either end. A handwritten sign sticky-taped to the glass door read simply: ‘Dance. 2.00pm.’

Meredith was intrigued by the purpose of the sign and figured it was intended as a reminder for members. Surely passersby were not expected to wander in and join the activities.

She could hear the music before Griff opened the glass door. The main room was clustered with people in their seventies and eighties doing what looked to Meredith like an informal version of ballroom dancing. Some of the dancers were straight and tall, some were short and compact, others were crooked like badly lopped trees. The heads were white, grey, tinted or bald. Depending on their level of agility, the dancers glided or shuffled over the polished wooden floorboards. Plastic chairs were arranged along the walls for spectators or those having a break. Meredith spotted Leonie and her husband and gave them a small wave.

Down the far end, in an adjoining room, people were visible in pairs and quartets, sitting at spindly tables playing cards. It was like entering a time warp to an era when leisure did not involve gadgets.

The couples danced to a recording of a sultry voice accompanied by a Hammond organ:

Our day will come,

If we just wait a while…

Looking around at the wizened faces and hunched shoulders, Meredith thought: Don’t wait a second longer, it might already be too late.

She introduced Griff to the coordinator who they found in the kitchen, spooning tea leaves into a couple of giant, dented aluminium teapots.

Rhonda Massey was a plump woman with brassy hair and a silk scarf tied pertly around her neck. Although she looked to be in her fifties, a couple of decades younger than her charges, she had the sort of crackly voice and conservative grooming that made it possible to imagine her in old age.

Meredith had taken the precaution of ringing that morning, and Rhonda told her that Barbara Furness had been on their charity committee and in the craft group, making handicrafts to sell for fundraising purposes. She wasn’t into the social activities that were organised around couples, like dancing or card playing. Rhonda herself didn’t know Barbara well and hadn’t heard of Lifeglow.

‘They’ll be breaking for refreshments shortly. That’s the best chance to have a chat with them.’ Rhonda filled the teapots with boiling water from an instant hot water unit on the wall and sat them on a metal trolley to brew. As she turned to lever open the lid of a catering-sized tin of instant coffee, Griff stepped forward. ‘Can I help with anything?’

‘That would be lovely.’ Nodding at a plastic supermarket bag on the counter, Rhonda said: ‘You can put that lot on serving plates, which you’ll find in the bottom cupboard.’

‘Coming right up,’ Griff rubbed his hands together as he approached the task. Opening the plastic bag revealed a large packet each of ‘Family Assorted’ biscuits and lamington fingers.

Rhonda eyed Meredith’s sling and said, ‘I’ll give you a disability exemption.’

‘My right arm’s fine.’

‘Milk from the fridge then, regular and light, poured into jugs.’ Rhonda turned to finish filling a chrome coffee pot with boiling water and gave it a stir.

Meredith set the plastic flagons of milk on the drainage board, and found china jugs in the top cupboard. She glanced across at Griff but he was absorbed in the process of upturning the lamington fingers onto a platter. She could see he was enjoying himself, in the mood to be sociable, and she tried to be pleased. It’s not a competition. Whatever advances the cause, she reflected as she filled two jugs with full cream milk and a third with light milk.

When everything was ready, Rhonda said, ‘Mr Parnell, can you do my back a favour and push the trolley?’

‘Please, call me Griff.’

They arranged the plates of food, the milk jugs, bowls of sugar sachets, stirrers, and towers of polystyrene cups on a trestle table against the wall in the main room and left the tea and coffee pots on the top of the trolley.

The dancers separated as the music ended and made a beeline for the refreshments, the noise level booming. Meredith and Griff waited to one side while the seniors buzzed around the table and trolley, heads bobbing as they chose their beverage and snack.

Eventually, when most of the seniors had a cup in hand and the activity around the table had subsided, Rhonda clattered one of the tea pot lids to call the room to order. She rose up to her full, modest height.

‘Everybody, if I could have your attention. We have a guest who wants to speak to you briefly. Her name is Meredith Renford and she’s a solicitor at Valenti and Associates in Bellwater. She’s working on a case and I’ll let her tell you about it.’

The heads looked eagerly to the front, craning to see with shiny eyes trained on Meredith while they still nibbled their biscuits.

Meredith stepped forward to speak and found her throat was dry. It reminded her of being in court, that confronting moment when she had to stand and face the bench and speak to the grey-haired magistrate or judge. Instead, a whole room of senior figures waited expectantly. She cleared her throat and smiled. ‘Hi everyone. I’m handling the estate of Barbara Furness, who I understand was involved in craft and charity activities here. I’m trying to find anyone who knew Barbara, in particular anyone who remembers talking with her about health issues and doctors, or leaving money as a bequest to a charity. That’s the gist of it, really. So please do come up and have a chat.’

Meredith retreated a few awkward steps, bumping into Griff, who covered the moment by suggesting, ‘Cup of tea?’

Meredith felt more like a coffee to sharpen her senses. They made their beverages and hovered over the platters of treats.

The lamington fingers were popular and Griff said, ‘I might as well sample the fruits of my labour before they all disappear.’ Meredith chose a shortbread, not wanting to risk mock-cream filling or sticky coconut near her carefully applied make-up.

Rhonda called to the seniors nearby, ‘Who’ll have another biscuit? I don’t want any to be left behind.’

Griff flirted with the women, assuring them that they need not feel guilty about eating sweet things as they would burn off a biscuit in two dances and a lamington in three. They giggled and one said, ‘As long as you lead by example.’

‘Sorry ladies, I don’t know how to dance.’

Meredith shot him an irritated look and he responded with an innocent shrug, as if to say: I’m just trying to make them feel more comfortable, so they’ll talk to us.

Sure enough, after chatting for a few minutes, he escorted one of the women over and introduced her as Ursula. ‘I’m on the charity committee, which Barbara was on.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Griff before being dragged away by another lady who was determined to teach him some dance steps. Meredith gave Ursula her full attention.

‘What does the committee involve? Raising money?’

‘Yes. We sell produce and crafts at fetes and community events and the money goes to charity. The committee decides which charities will be the recipients each year.’

Meredith asked Ursula about Lifeglow.

‘It sounds familiar but it’s not one of our selected charities this year, or for the three years that I’ve been on the committee. We choose up to four charities each year; any more and the donations get too small. It might have been discussed as a possible contender, maybe that’s where I’ve heard of it.’

Meredith put her coffee down while she fished a business card out of a pocket. ‘If you think of anything else, please give me a call.’

Two women who had been loitering in the background with their heads together conferring, caught Meredith’s eye. One raised a white paper napkin in the air as if surrendering. When Ursula moved away, they advanced and introduced themselves as Judy and Narelle, sisters who knew Barbara through marmalade-making operations. She was one of their fruit donors, supplying grapefruit and lemons.

Meredith cast her mind back to the bungalow in the dark. In her memory, the approach to the front entrance was devoid of trees but she imagined they could have occupied the unseen backyard.

Judy said she was surprised by Barbara’s sudden death. ‘I had no idea she had any heart problems.’

‘Did she mention any other health issues?’ asked Meredith.

‘She used to talk about various ailments, but nothing major compared to friends of mine who’ve had cancer or a stroke. So I’m afraid I didn’t retain the details.’

Narelle nodded in agreement, recalling Barbara describing vague symptoms like feeling ‘off balance’ or ‘out of sorts’, and confirming Barbara’s interest in herbal remedies. The sisters kept chatting for a while but they hadn’t heard specifically of Lifeglow.

Meredith returned her empty foam cup to the table and thanked Rhonda for letting them intrude. Although the music and dancing had resumed, a bunch of seniors still hung around the last of the refreshments.

Feeling she hadn’t done enough, Meredith addressed the stragglers: ‘If anyone remembers some information that might be relevant, no matter how slight, I’ve left my contact details with Rhonda. Feel free to call me at work or on my mobile.’

Some of the women asked Griff to stay for the waltz, as there was a shortfall of men, but he made polite excuses.

Leonie from the bowling club stepped forward and said, ‘Good luck with your case. You make a lovely couple.’

Meredith blushed and quickly corrected her. ‘Oh no, we’re not a couple, just acquaintances.’

Griff mugged at Leonie’s husband for sympathy. ‘She’s a career woman. Work comes first, I don’t stand a chance.’

‘He’s pulling your leg. Ignore him,’ said Meredith, glaring at Griff.

Leonie’s husband wagged his finger. ‘Don’t take no for an answer, mate. The missus knocked me back for a year before I wore her down.’

Meredith tried to keep smiling as she hissed at Griff: ‘It’s time to go.’

‘Alas, we must,’ he said, waving regally at the room. ‘Lovely to meet you all.’

The seniors waved back and called their cheerios.

‘Thanks again, Rhonda,’ said Meredith, skulking towards the door.

In the car, the atmosphere was tense. Meredith checked her phone and looked out the window. But later it made her laugh to replay the moment when they were mistaken for a couple. To the romantic old people it seemed a perfectly natural assumption, their puckered faces beaming with faith and optimism.

Chapter 32

Monday morning. Brian and Meredith had a meeting with the unfair dismissal client, Dina Sangalang. It was Meredith’s idea to present a united front, in Brian’s office. His authority would be stamped on whatever happened. Better than being criticised by him later for the way she handled the matter or, worse still, challenged by the client.

When confronted about the authenticity of the medical certificates, Dina seemed to be tugged by invisible wires attached to her shoulders, jerking in her seat. Her eyes grew large, her mouth puffing as she asked, ‘Have you spoken to my employer?’

‘Not yet, we wanted to give you the opportunity to explain,’ said Meredith.

Dina’s chest rose, pigeon-like. ‘I don’t think you are the right lawyers. You don’t like me, and now time is running out. I need to find someone else.’

‘It’s not personal,’ Meredith tried.

Brian intercepted: ‘That’s your prerogative, but if you do, I must counsel you against using the medical certificates with other solicitors. You could be caught and charged with making a false instrument.’

Dina stared at them, uncomprehending.

‘Forgery,’ Meredith translated.

‘I did not – ’ Dina started to say and stopped. Squirming free of the chair, backing away, she almost forgot her handbag in the rush, but realised her hands were too empty and lunged awkwardly to grab the bag.

After further discussion with Brian, Meredith returned to her office and tapped out a letter to the bank and Dina to confirm that Valenti and Associates would no longer be acting for her.

Meredith spent the rest of the day picking her way through a shopping centre lease for a prospective tenant at Bellwater Square. Concentrating was difficult, her mind replaying Dina’s panic-stricken face and envisaging other people in distress, driven to desperate acts: Max Linton, Warren Connor and Barbara Furness, who Meredith pictured as an older, female version of Stuart.

In between the clauses of the shopping centre lease, Meredith thought of a few more inquiries to make. She rang Preeta Balgi, the director of the Bellwater Community Centre, which hosted information sessions during Seniors Week and invited local law firms to give advice about wills and other pertinent topics. Meredith assured Preeta that she wasn’t seeking to identify any specific files or client names, merely to check if she had ever come across the Lifeglow Foundation. Preeta had seen numerous bequests to charities over the years, but did not recognise the name. The response was the same when Meredith rang Teresa Mifsud, the solicitor in charge of the Southern Metropolitan Community Legal Centre, which helped low-income earners including seniors with legal issues.

It was nearly five o’clock when Jeremy brought Meredith his research on naturopaths. He handed over the pages and waited for her to start flicking through them.

‘Unfortunately I can’t look at this now,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go to a Chamber of Commerce meeting. But I’ll take it with me and read it later tonight.’

*          *          *

The meetings of the Bellwater Chamber of Commerce were hosted by a different member business one evening each month. The May meeting was in a function room at the golf club. Meredith caught a taxi there and slipped into the back of the Boronia Room to sit behind her assembled colleagues.

At the front of the room, lined up at a long table, the executive committee members faced the rest of the representatives. Meredith attended the meetings in Frank’s absence, but did not take his place on the executive committee as it was elected.

The main item on the agenda was revitalising the shopping strip near the railway station, where the retail premises looked shabby or lay vacant. The area had declined in the years since the opening of Bellwater Square shopping mall on the other side of the railway line. As customers dwindled, the remaining businesses faced closure. Everyone agreed something had to be done in the short term while waiting for the council to upgrade the strip, which could take years to go through the planning and approval process.

Suggestions were discussed to fill vacant shops with temporary pop-up stores or market stalls at lower rents, or at least to decorate the empty windows with artistic displays. If a consensus could be reached, the next stage would be to formulate a strategy for lobbying the council and persuading the landlords to cooperate.

As the brainstorming continued, Meredith scanned the representatives around her: the real estate agents, accountants, small business owners and solicitors from other law firms. She wondered about discreetly checking if anyone had heard of Lifeglow. But the lawyers and accountants would be bound by client confidentiality and there was the ever-present question of who she could trust after the attack. What if someone she spoke to was corrupt and repeated the information to the wrong ears?

The only person Meredith really trusted was the owner of Bellwater Pharmacy, Anton Melikian. His pharmacy was located in the neglected strip of railway shops and was more dependent on passing trade than the chemist franchises in Bellwater Square. A kindly, owlish-looking man, Anton was a long-standing member of the Chamber of Commerce and had a common sense approach that sometimes conflicted with the lawyers.

There was no one else present from the medical profession that evening to ask about the possible association of Lifeglow with health. Doctors’ surgeries and medical centres did not have a high rate of membership in the Chamber of Commerce as their flow of patients was guaranteed by sickness, accidents and ageing, irrespective of how cheerful the shopping areas looked.

After the meeting, drinks were hosted by Reuben Platt, the golf club’s chief financial officer, who was also an executive committee member. A young barman served the guests from a small dispensary bar at one side of the room, and everyone gathered around a long table laid with bowls of nuts, kettle chips and a cheese platter. Most of the men drank light beer as they were driving, but Meredith treated herself to a glass of semillon sauvignon blanc.

Trying to make her way to Anton, her path was blocked by Oliver Kroll barrelling up with a glass of red. ‘What happened?’ asked the solicitor, pointing a fat finger at her sling, ‘A fight with a client?’

‘No, I was chased by a savage chihuahua,’ she retorted. ‘But don’t worry, it’s been put down.’

Anton already knew about Meredith’s fractured arm from when she visited his pharmacy to buy more anti-inflammatories.

They chatted about business for a while and whether pharmacists should be allowed to prescribe medication to customers. When the topic had run its course, she asked whether he’d heard of Lifeglow.

Anton tapped his forefinger on the side of his beer glass and guessed, ‘Vitamins?’

‘A few people have suggested that, but no, our research into the vitamin and health products angle hasn’t turned up anything.’

‘What’s the case in connection with?’

‘A will. The deceased made a bequest to an organisation of that name and we’re having difficulty tracing it.’

They batted around some more ideas and Anton apologised for not being much help. He grabbed a little supply of kettle chips before asking for an update on Frank’s condition. Meredith confirmed that Frank was still having radiation treatment, and Anton elaborated on the different circumstances in which radiation or chemotherapy was used, depending on the size and stage of the cancer.

When the meeting dispersed, it was raining and Anton dropped Meredith home. As he drove he leaned forward, peering through his glasses and the swinging wipers on the spattered windscreen.

Meredith let Anton concentrate on the road, while she gazed at the drizzle, thinking about Frank and what she would be doing with her life if he hadn’t hired her. It was only because she did not get a call-back for the second round of interviews at Chadstone’s in the city that she had been sitting at home, dejectedly leafing through the Bellwater Register in the days when jobs were still advertised in print, and had seen the position vacant for a graduate solicitor at Valenti and Associates. Her career might have taken quite a different path otherwise. Working full-time at a city law firm would have certainly prevented her from being involved in the cases of Warren Connor and Max Linton and all that flowed from them.

*          *          *

Over dinner, Meredith looked at the research Jeremy had done. There were not many naturopaths in the area, and most of them were women. None of the profiles seemed to fit the shadowy figure in her mind.

Later, Meredith tried the exercises from the handout that Phil the physio had given her. She stood facing the bookshelves in the loungeroom, with her arms by her sides, bending her left elbow and straightening it, counting ten times. She did the forearm rotations, feeling the stretch and pinch of the swollen muscles.

As she exercised, Meredith considered whether there were more inquiries she could pursue. She didn’t want the task to become like ticking boxes in a stack of forms, an automatically replenishing pile that never allowed her to reach the end. Work smarter, not harder. She needed to think of a better way of looking at the problem, but how?

The last rehab exercise was an optional one that Phil said she could try if her arm was not hurting. It involved the use of a hammer, which Meredith fetched from under the kitchen sink. Who would have thought, a hammer to help mend a fracture? The exercise was similar to the forearm rotation, except holding the hammer and slowly turning it back and forth ten times, having a rest and doing another ten. But her arm started to ache so she took the hammer with her right hand and swung it slowly, feeling the weight shift to the stronger side of her body.

She stood there focussing on her core of stability, knowing that the physical wounds from the attack would heal; it was the emotional damage that would take longer to disappear.

Chapter 33

At eight in the morning, the line of cars drove with headlights on, burning through the mist that hung in the vale approaching Bellwater. The glaring red letters on the roof of the parked police car flashed: RANDOM BREATH TESTING. A male police officer in a yellow hi-vis vest stepped from the line of witches’ hats and waved a STOP POLICE sign at the next car.

The young woman knew about breath testing but thought the police were out at night or on weekends when people were socialising. Not first thing in the morning, springing a trap to catch people still affected by drinking the night before.

The officer approached the driver’s window and took a step back when the young woman turned to him. She was beautiful, with long hair, large caramel eyes, olive skin and a full mouth framed in an ‘O’ of apprehension. Motioning for her to lower the window, he noticed what appeared to be evening clothes: a black satin jacket over a silver mesh top, a flash of legs. She was alone in the car, maybe on her way home from a night of partying.

The officer held out a chunky device about the size of an old mobile phone with a screen that displayed the words ‘passive mode’.

‘Good morning, we’re breath testing today. Please count from one to ten into the end of this device.’

He held the device just over the car window, near the woman’s mouth. She stared up at the officer, uncomprehending, and blinked her long lashes, as though the shock of being pulled over had muddled her ability to understand what he was saying.

‘Count aloud from one to ten into this device,’ he repeated.

‘One, two, tres…’ she paused and her voice faded. ‘Umm…five…seis, sete…’

‘Louder, in English.’ He moved the device closer to her glossy pink lips.

‘Desculpe, sorry, sorry.’ She waved her hands and counted again in halting English. He wondered about the accent. Spanish maybe.

The device started beeping.

‘You’re over the limit. Show me your licence, please.’

She reached for her handbag on the passenger seat. It was black with silver studs and she sat it on her lap to claw inside it with long, pearly nails. The international driver’s licence she thrust over the car window gave an address in Sao Paulo, Brazil.

‘Cristiana Viviane Pereira, you are under arrest for the purpose of breath analysis,’ he recited.

‘Arrest?’

‘Yes, but we will do another test to confirm the reading.’

She sat there, frozen, trying to process ‘confirm the reading’.

‘You have to leave the car and come with me to the bus,’ said the officer.

She tried to capture the words floating around her and hold onto them. ‘We are getting a bus? What about my car?’

‘No, we’re just going over there.’ He pointed to the mobile testing unit parked on scrubby vacant land beside the road. It was shaped more like a caravan than a bus, with a blue awning at the front and blue-and-white-checked trim, marking its police status.

Breathing faster, Cristiana unclipped her seat belt while juggling the handbag in one hand. She fumbled and the contents spilled in all directions.

The officer saw among the blur of objects what looked like a glass vial. Cristiana quickly tried to scoop up the items.

‘Leave the bag. Get out of the car. Now.’

She wriggled out and his eyes fixed on her very short black skirt and shapely brown legs tapering into red stilettos.

He gestured for her to stand with the female constable, a short athletic blonde, while he leant into the car and retrieved the vial-shaped object from the recess in the console. It turned out to be a space-age designer lipstick. But in the side pocket of the handbag he found a resealable plastic sachet of chalky green tablets.

‘Right, Miss Pereira. I’m also arresting you on suspicion of drug possession. Anything you say in relation to that will be taken down and can be used in court. Is that clear?’

She was shaking, eyes moist, which made them appear even larger.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

She hugged her jacket tighter around her and gave a wobbly nod.

‘Lock your car and come with me to the bus.’

Walking unsteadily in her high heels over the lumpy ground, she tripped on a tussock. The officer’s arm shot out and steadied her by the elbow. ‘Why don’t you remove those shoes, it’ll be easier to walk.’

Cristiana obeyed robotically, her height significantly reduced without the towering stiletto heels. She hooked the straps over her fingers and walked in bare feet.

‘When did you last have alcohol?’

‘Last night.’

‘How many drinks?’

‘Three or four.’

‘What time was the last one?’

‘I don’t know. Two, two-thirty, maybe.’

‘You’ve had a long night. What type of alcohol were you drinking?’

‘Champagne. Then vodka.’

‘Where was this?’

‘At a friend’s place.’

‘Alcohol stays in the system longer for a female, did you know that?’

‘No.’

In the mobile testing bus, the officer told Cristiana to sit at a table where a jumble of equipment was connected. He held up a mouthpiece, attached by a long tube to a computer. ‘Take a deep breath and blow into this. Keep blowing steadily until there’s a double-beep.’

The result appeared on the computer screen. ‘Mid-range,’ he announced, then translated for her benefit: ‘You’re way over the limit. I must ask you to surrender your car keys.’

Her face was stunned as she put her handbag on the table and scrabbled for the keys.

‘Under the circumstances, owing to the tablets in your bag, I’m also requesting you submit to a drug test.’

She didn’t reply or resist as he went about the procedure methodically, putting on purple latex gloves to hand her a cartridge which looked a bit like a thermometer. ‘Stick this under your tongue and keep it there until I tell you to take it out.’

While they waited, he picked up the handbag and upended the contents into a plastic tray, poking around the items.

His attention was distracted by the cartridge waggling in Cristiana’s mouth but it steadied when he shot her a sharp look.

The result was positive for methamphetamine. ‘What did you take – ice? Speed?’

She kept quiet, staring at the table.

Holding the sachet of tablets, the officer peered through the plastic at the stamped imprints of peace signs. ‘And my bet is these are ecstasy, right?’

Still nothing.

‘They’ll be sent to the lab for analysis and whatever they are, you’ll be up for possession and, depending on the quantity, maybe supply. Very serious charges. You’re in a heap of trouble so I would think about answering my questions if I was you.’

Cristiana prayed there was no chance of her parents being informed. They would be shocked, if not disgusted, to find out what she was doing for extra money.

The officer fingered the items in the plastic tray, stopping at a little stack of business cards. ‘Okay, I want to ask you about these.’

He held up a hot pink card, which displayed the name Krystle with a mobile phone number and underneath a slogan: Sparkle with Krystle.

‘Is Krystle your alias?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Another name you use.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Is sparkle a reference to drugs? Do you supply drugs to people?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘What does sparkle mean, then?’

‘To enjoy yourself. Dinner, good conversation, when someone who is lonely wants company.’

The officer smirked. ‘Right, I see.’

He walked his other hand into the tray of personal items, and picked up a glittery red envelope, the kind that Valentine’s Day cards come in. Shaking it released newspaper clippings, which he skim-read, nodding. ‘Now this is something that might make your situation different to the average punter we catch driving under the influence.’

He fanned the articles about Max Linton’s death onto the desk. ‘What can you tell me about these?’

‘They are newspaper reports.’ She looked down at her lap.

‘What do you have them for?’

‘This is not a crime, no?’

‘No. But the detectives on the murder case might want to speak to you and, if I was you, I’d think about the mess you’re in and how you could help them.’

He got up and conferred with the sergeant in charge of the mobile RBT unit who agreed they should contact the detectives. ‘Not the blow-ins from homicide. I’ll call the local OIC, Risky Driscoll. He’s a mate of mine, he’ll know how to handle it.’

The sergeant talked on the phone with Detective Driscoll, chin tucked against his collarbone and mouth hardly moving.

Beckoning to the other officer, the sergeant passed on the instructions from Risky in a lowered voice: ‘Bring the girl to the station and tell her as little as possible. If she objects, say the detectives trying to find out what happened to Max need her opinion urgently on a couple of matters.’

The officer returned to Cristiana and explained, ‘It’s all good. Me and Lindy will drop you off at Bellwater for a quick chat with the detectives, then someone from there will give you a lift home.’

Cristiana figured she had better do as she was told. In Brazil, you didn’t mess with the police. Cooperating seemed the easiest way out of the nightmare.

‘What will happen to my car?’

‘You’re not allowed to drive for twenty four hours with a positive drug test. Come back tomorrow, we’ll be here. Unless you want to call a responsible person now who can collect the vehicle.’

Cristiana bit her lip and looked away, reluctant to bring anyone she knew to the attention of the police.

In the back of the highway patrol car, she put on her sunglasses. The mist had lifted, although the air was still crisp, and the stark light hurt her eyes.

At Bellwater Police Station, Detective Sergeant Driscoll introduced himself with a friendly smile and asked Cristiana to call him Rory. Strictly speaking, he knew he should refer the matter up the chain of command, but he wanted to satisfy his own curiosity first, before Detective Inspector Barzine spoiled any spontaneity with his devotion to protocol. It was good to catch witnesses off guard. If this girl had been out all night, as the sergeant at the mobile RBT unit suspected, she could be sleep-deprived, unprepared, a bit emotional, and more likely to let something slip.

Ushering Cristiana to another part of the station, away from the taskforce, Rory explained his role in the Linton investigation. He took the precaution of enlisting a female plain clothes constable he was mentoring to make Cristiana a coffee and be present in the interview room. The trainee detective sat mute in the background and activated the recorder at Rory’s signal.

A disciplined focus settled on his face. He spoke calmly, watching Cristiana closely, unphased by her beauty. He’d seen a lot of party girls in his time, under-dressed and over-stimulated, although this one had a bit more style than the local scrubbers he usually dealt with.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Max Linton, if that’s okay. Just a casual chat. This is not a formal interview, there’s no pressure. I understand from the police who breath-tested you that you were carrying newspaper clippings about Max’s murder. Did you know him?’

Cristiana nodded. Rory waited. ‘He was my friend,’ she added.

‘Would you like to help him?’

Another nod. She took a sip of coffee from the insulated cup.

‘Good. We need to make faster progress on this case. Have you met any of his family?’

She shook her head.

‘His father’s not in great health. His sister, Emilia, is a bit fragile. I’d like to get answers for them.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Do you know why this terrible thing happened to Max?’

Her large, glistening eyes looked like they could spill over at any second. ‘No, I do not.’

Rory reached out but did not touch her. ‘Can I ask, to improve my understanding of your situation, what brought you here to Australia?’

‘I am studying English at the Achieve College.’

‘So you’re on a student visa?’

Her forehead dipped in agreement and she drank a little more coffee.

‘How did you meet Max?’

‘At a party.’

‘Whose party?’

Her eyes darted around the room, as though assessing the escape options. ‘Nobody said whose party it was, I just went along to have a break from studying.’

‘But I believe some business cards were found in your handbag with the name Krystle on them. Was that why you were at the party – to provide services?’

‘No, a friend invited me.’ She shivered and it rippled down her satin jacket.

‘What’s your friend’s name?’

‘Just a girl I met at the backpacker hostel. Lena. I don’t remember her last name. She’s gone home now.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Germany.’

Cristiana dug her fingernails into her palm. There was no way she was putting her friend in danger by providing her details.

‘Where was this party?’ persisted Rory.

Cristiana batted her lashes innocently. ‘I did not see where we went. Lena spoke to the taxi driver and then we talked in the back and I was not looking out the window.’

An image of the mansion flashed into her mind and the handsome, raven-haired host who asked her to cheer up his friend Max.

Rory’s voice cut in. ‘How long did you know Max?’

‘A few months.’

Rory traced a scratch that scarred the desk, as he formulated the next question. ‘Were you in a relationship with him?’

Cristiana frowned to consider her response. ‘No.’

‘Did you have sexual relations with him?’

A long pause. ‘That is none of your business.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

She glared at him. ‘I don’t want to answer any more questions.’

Rory raised placating hands. ‘I’m sorry, I get a bit over-enthusiastic. We’re just having a friendly chat, remember? Everything’s fine.’ He waited for her rapid breathing to subside. ‘You knew where Max worked, did you, at the water laboratory?’

Nodding slightly, then a bit more, Cristiana said, ‘He really cared about the environment.’ She gazed at her pearly fingernails. ‘And he was a good person.’

‘Did he ever mention any enemies to you?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Do you have any idea who would want to harm him?’

‘No.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Rory asked, hoping to pinpoint how close it was to the murder.

‘I don’t know the date. It was at night time on a weekend.’

‘The weekend before Anzac Day?’

‘I guess so,’ she said, although her face was doubtful.

‘Was this at another party?’

‘No, we met a couple of times on our own.’

‘Where?’

‘His apartment.’

Max made dinner for her. Tossing the meat in a wok, the oil gave off a burning smell because he had the heat up too high. Snatches of conversation came to her as Rory scribbled a few marks in his notebook. ‘My life has changed so much in the last year,’ said Max. ‘I shouldn’t think too far into the future, just day by day.’

Rory’s voice cut in: ‘And did anything seem to be troubling him?’

Only the future. ‘No, he seemed fine,’ said Cristiana.

She wasn’t going to repeat comments that made it sound as if she wanted money from Max, because it wasn’t like that and the spotlight of suspicion might fall on her. Max talked about his dreams for the future, and sometimes money came into them.

‘I’d like to help you,’ he said. ‘I don’t have the means right now, but when this enterprise I’m involved in gets up and running…’

‘It’s okay, I don’t expect you to.’

What Cristiana had really hoped was that Max knew someone who could give her a proper job, something to let her get a working visa and stay in Australia, but she had learnt not to believe promises from men. Sometimes they said things like, ‘I’ve got a mate who might be able to help you with that’ or ‘I’ll look into it for you’, and nothing would happen.

‘In the meantime, if you ever need somewhere to stay,’ said Max.

She lifted her glass of wine and smiled a thank you.

‘You’re keeping up with the rent where you are, not having money problems?’ he asked.

‘No it’s fine, and my flatmate is nice.’

Rory narrowed his eyes, searching Cristiana’s face.

‘Did Max use drugs or give any to you?’

She smiled for the first time. ‘I don’t think Max ever tried drugs. He was not like that. Very straight.’

Rory asked where she got the tablets in her handbag. Cristiana gave the same evasive answer he had heard on many occasions: from a man in a pub who she met through a friend of a friend. Nobody had surnames. Rory didn’t push it. His primary concern was Max’s murder, not the drug habits of call girls. Rory knew she was holding back information, but it was better to keep her on side. Depending on where the web of connections led, she might be useful for identifying a person of interest down the track.

‘Okay, look, I think that’s enough for now. Another officer will contact you in relation to the drug matters. But I might need to talk to you again about Max, if it would help us solve the case. Can you give me a direct number to call you on?’

Cristiana dictated the number and Rory wrote it down. ‘Thanks. I’m going to take you to see the bail sergeant now.’

‘Will I be allowed to go?’

‘Hopefully yes, but it’s not really my decision. I want to sincerely thank you for talking to me about Max today.’

As they stood, he noticed she was trembling. ‘Come on, I’ll tell the bail sergeant how helpful you’ve been.’

*          *          *

Meredith’s phone rang as she was heading back to her office from conferring with Brian about the shopping centre lease. She quickened her pace to pick up the receiver.

‘Have you got it yet?’ said Rory. He didn’t identify himself, but the deep, confident voice was unmistakeable.

‘Got what?’ A chill ran up her neck at the thought of the last, awkward time they spoke in her office.

‘The email with the picture attached.’

He sounded buoyant, not frosty, but then Rory didn’t hold grudges; he recovered quickly, especially when he wanted something.

‘Hang on. I haven’t been at my desk.’

She opened the email and clicked on the attachment. There was an enlarged image of an international driver’s licence.

‘Who’s Cristiana Viviane Pereira?’ she asked.

‘You haven’t heard of her?’

‘No.’

‘A student from Brazil. Seems quite fond of Max Linton. Still pining for him. She goes to one of those private English language colleges and I reckon she’s paying the fees by doing escort work. She had calling cards under an alias when we picked her up.’

Meredith raised her eyes to the cactus on her filing cabinet. ‘Max and an escort, that’s the first I’ve heard of it, and I’m willing to take a polygraph on that one.’

‘She also had newspaper cuttings about Max in her handbag. Admits they’d spent time together at his place.’

Rory’s enthusiasm for pursuing another lead prompted Meredith to risk being a little more bold. ‘What happened to your gay murder theory?’

He gave a snort of annoyance. ‘Currently under review.’

Meredith wondered if Cristiana was the overseas student that Emilia had mentioned, but she bit her tongue, not wanting to disclose that she knew Max’s sister.

‘Where does this new development take you?’ she asked instead.

‘Into murkier territory. Cristiana also tested positive to meth and had what appear to be ecstasy tablets in her bag. Once drugs are in the frame, that changes the course of the investigation.’

Meredith’s mouth tasted metallic. ‘Of course, potentially another network of associates.’

Rory was already planning his next move. ‘We’ll hit the escort agencies, find out where Cristiana works. She reckons she just rocked up to a party with a friend and Max happened to be there, but my gut tells me she was hired for entertainment purposes.’

Meredith assumed Rory’s intention was to pressure the proprietor of the escort agency to reveal details of clients and bookings.

‘I didn’t pick Max as the type to be mixed up with call girls at all, so my instincts aren’t much help to you,’ said Meredith.

She hung up the receiver with an ache nestling in the pit of her stomach. If the call girl connection was true, she hoped it didn’t get back to Emilia and tarnish her memories of her brother.

Meredith had hardly shaken off the phone call and returned her attention to the shopping centre lease when Rhonda, the convenor at the senior citizens centre rang, her voice wavering between eagerness and caution.

‘One of the ladies who was present the other day during your visit approached me with some information. She wishes to remain anonymous – which is why she didn’t speak to you personally – but asked me to pass on a message in case it’s useful.’

‘Sounds intriguing. Would you say she’s a reliable source?’

‘I think so. She’s not losing her marbles like some of them. But she’s a rather anxious woman and is worried about being considered a gossip.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘She said another member of our charity committee, a local artist called Lillian Wright, mentioned a doctor who had done wonders for her and was planning to open a natural healing centre, although she couldn’t remember the doctor’s name. Of course, Barbara was on the charity committee too, so there might be a link.’

Meredith’s hand tightened around the receiver. ‘Was anything said about leaving money to this doctor in a will?’

‘No, the substance of it was that Lillian was interested in backing the venture financially. I think that was the word, backing, which is more like something you do in your lifetime rather than in a will, isn’t it?’

‘True, but artists usually seem to be looking for funding, not providing it.’

‘Lillian is from old money, very well off I believe. Her family were landed gentry in the Greenhaven area and diversified into other investments. She’s been a marvellous supporter of our activities.’

‘You mean financially?’

‘Not only that. She also gives art classes at very low cost to us, just to cover the materials, and she donates art works to our raffles and Christmas markets each year.’

‘She wasn’t at the centre the other day?’

‘No, she’s not a dancer or a card player. She regards herself as a serious artist.’ A hint of sarcasm crept into the last phrase.

Meredith chewed her lip. The story sounded like third-hand hearsay, but it had an enticing glimmer of possibility about it. ‘Can you put me in touch with this Lillian?’

‘She runs an art gallery in Figton called the Gumnut Gallery, which is open to the public. The number’s in the phone book and you’ll find some general information on the internet, although I don’t think the gallery has its own website.’

‘I’ll check it out. Thanks.’

Rhonda breathed in sharply with sudden resolve. ‘I’m probably being paranoid, but I’d like my name left out of this if you contact her. I wouldn’t want anything to harm Lillian’s ongoing relationship with us, or to make her feel we’ve betrayed her confidence.’

‘I understand. I won’t mention you.’

‘Much appreciated.’

Anonymity was catching. It was fascinating the way that fear spread so quickly when death was in the air.

Chapter 34

Meredith decided on a lunchtime visit to the Gumnut Gallery. She caught a taxi to Figton, a semi-rural village twenty five minutes south of Bellwater. The cabbie was a grizzled local with disappointment in his eyes, as though he’d been laid off from what he used to do for a living.

But those baggy eyes knew the territory well. From the back seat, Meredith watched the eyes in the rear-vision mirror, sweeping the road with self-assured familiarity.

The main street of Figton was marked by a historic post office, hotel and bakery, interspersed with smaller, more modern shops. At the end of the stretch was a little stone church with a slate roof and lancet windows, standing on a weedy block of land.

Meredith paid the driver and the taxi turned a swift circle, crunching on damp gravel to head in the opposite direction. She paused to check the sign which had once displayed the church services but had been painted over to read: ‘Gumnut Gallery. Open 10.00am to 4.00pm, Wednesday to Sunday.’ In smaller print underneath was a note: ‘Inquiries at other times to 12 Hardwicke Road.’

Venturing up the cobbled path, conscious of how long she was spending away from the office, Meredith briefly observed the coarse beauty of the stonework and a round window hovering above the pointed entrance, where only one of the double doors was open.

Inside the church, her eyes were drawn initially heavenwards to the exposed timber rafters before scooting along the walls, adorned with rows of paintings, to the altar area which had been turned into a display of ceramics and sculpture. A light-haired, willowy woman was chatting to a middle-aged couple who looked like travellers, with daypacks, broad-brimmed hats and walking shoes.

Slinking up the nave of the church, where the pews had been removed, Meredith figured the woman must be Lillian Wright. Her eyes flitted in Meredith’s direction, registering her presence, while still serving the customers.

Meredith strayed over to the wall to examine the paintings but, in her preoccupied state, they were a blur of colour, mainly landscapes of gentle hills or bright, jumbled gardens, with some interiors and still lifes. Lillian’s name appeared more frequently on the labels underneath the paintings than the names of other artists. As Meredith scanned the labels, the smell inside the church reminded her of a trunk packed with old books or blankets.

The customers paid for a ceramic object that Meredith couldn’t see clearly, wrapped in a flurry of tissue paper. Still chatting, they finished the transaction and started to move down the aisle, the couple readying to leave and the willowy woman intent on approaching the new visitor.

‘Hello, just having a browse?’ asked the woman. She was older than she seemed at a distance, probably in her sixties. Laughter lines fanned from her eyes and her hair glowed silver. She wore colourful, flowing clothes and jade drop earrings.

‘You must be Lillian,’ said Meredith.

‘Have we met before?’ Her eyes searched Meredith’s face and travelled in a line that bisected her torso and stopped at the injured arm, sticking out from beneath her jacket, but Lillian refrained from commenting on it.

‘No. My name is Meredith Renford, I’m a lawyer handling the will of Barbara Furness.’ Meredith waited to see if the name resonated.

Lillian looked away, to the nearest painting of a fiery burst of waratahs. ‘Poor Barbara, yes, so sudden.’ She turned back. ‘Her will, you say? Goodness, I can’t imagine what that has to do with me.’

‘I believe you were both on the charity committee at the senior citizens centre.’

Lillian’s eyes sharpened, fixing Meredith with a penetrating stare. ‘Who did you speak to?’

‘It came up in conversation with some ladies at the centre. I didn’t think to ask their names. They spoke very highly of your artistic talents.’ Meredith held her breath, realising it sounded evasive. At least it was true that she didn’t know the name of the woman who had contacted Rhonda.

Lillian’s face softened. ‘That’s nice of them. I wasn’t a close friend of Barbara’s, but we had some common interests. Health and wellbeing, travel, languages, art of course, although she was more into craftwork, whereas my focus is on fine arts.’

‘It’s the health area that I wanted to ask about,’ said Meredith. ‘Barbara left a bequest in her will to a foundation called Lifeglow, possibly connected to a healing centre.’

Sparks ignited in Lillian’s eyes at the mention of the name. ‘I can’t really talk about the foundation, it’s a very sensitive project. I suppose I did mention it to a couple of women some time ago in my enthusiasm. Nowadays I’m more cautious. Not everyone approves of alternative medicine. It’s important to be sure one is speaking to like-minded people.’

‘I hope I’m like-minded. I’m interested in natural therapies,’ said Meredith.

‘What have you tried?’

Meredith scrambled for ideas. ‘I’ve found acupuncture really helps my neck pain, which I get from sitting at a computer for long hours.’

‘The flow of energy to the head is very important. The chi,’ Lillian smiled knowingly.

‘I don’t have nearly as many headaches these days.’

‘Yes, acupuncture relieves the pressure points at the gates of consciousness,’ Lillian added.

Meredith had never been treated with acupuncture. Her sister, a health fanatic, had described the process when recommending it, but Meredith wasn’t keen on being punctured with needles, no matter how fine.

Lillian seemed to expect more, so Meredith praised the benefits of echinacea forte and other vitamins which she had only tried because Kelly signed her up for discounted online deals, concerned that Meredith was working too hard and not looking after herself.

Lillian scrutinised Meredith’s office attire and neat grooming, as if on the verge of making a decision. ‘Do you have a business card, something to confirm your bona fides that I can keep? Sorry to ask, but one can’t be too careful.’

‘Sure.’ Meredith tried to dig in her handbag with one hand while not letting the straps slip off her shoulder.

Curiosity got the better of Lillian and she nodded at the sling. ‘Looks like you’ve had a bit of a mishap there.’

Meredith opted for humour. ‘If only there was a herbal remedy for clumsiness. I tripped and suffered a minor fracture, and I’m supposed to wear this for added support.’

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ Lillian pointed, with fingers flashing chunky rings, to a pew that had been relocated to the border of the ceramics area as a courtesy seat.

‘This is such a great use of a church, by the way,’ said Meredith, following Lillian to the pew.

‘Saved it from being demolished.’

Meredith cast her eyes over the pots and bowls, mugs and plates arranged on upturned crates and packing cases draped in hessian and neutral fabrics. Sculptures figurative and abstract stood on the floor and she admired the way the dark wooden pulpit had been converted into a point-of-sale area.

Meredith sat on the pew, leaving a generous distance between them, and handed her business card to Lillian. After contemplating the card, Lillian pronounced: ‘You seem like a reasonable person, but there’s not much I can tell you.’

‘I’m fascinated by the idea of a healing centre,’ said Meredith. ‘Can you indicate if it’s the vision of an individual, or a group project?’

‘A visionary individual, although others are lending their support.’

‘Would that person be a health professional, say, a doctor?’

Lillian’s head dipped in subtle acknowledgement and she spoke in a hushed voice: ‘I really cannot reveal who it is.’

‘Barbara Furness also knew a wonderful doctor, who sounded like a naturopath from what she said to her neighbours. Can I assume it’s the same one?’

Lillian sighed and placed her hands in the folds of her batik skirt, displaying the rings. Meredith observed the settings of turquoise, amber, rose quartz and pearly moonstone.

‘It’s true, she did give me a recommendation, but my lips are sealed,’ said Lillian.

‘You were obviously impressed with this doctor, is that fair to say?’

‘Yes, what a blessing at a difficult point in my life.’

Meredith took a guess. ‘Family issues?’

Lillian made a little gulping sound. ‘I was still recovering from the death of my husband, and then my daughter’s marriage broke up and she decided to move overseas. It felt like my cosmic universe was veering off course. The people who I had oriented my life around were gone.’ Her eyes floated to the rafters and Meredith looked up too, expecting to see something there.

‘When I noticed my energy fading, I convinced myself I was just getting stale,’ Lillian reflected. ‘But the symptoms grew worse: exhaustion, aching joints, skin rashes, nausea, poor digestion, though to be fair I’ve never had the strongest stomach. The doctors at those revolving-door medical centres misdiagnosed me with various ailments. Reflux, irritable bowel syndrome, hormonal deficiencies, chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia. One doctor even suggested I go on anti-depressants. I ask you, does this look like the lifestyle of a depressed person?’ Her jewelled rings waved at the sculptures, ceramics and paintings.

‘No, it looks positively vibrant.’

‘So when I heard about this doctor, I thought what did I have to lose? It was one of the best things I ever did. The answer was coeliac disease. It’s becoming more commonly recognised nowadays, but it still gets mistaken for other conditions, and I was lucky Dr Vvv–’ Her eyebrows jumped. ‘Oops, I almost said his name. He wouldn’t be too happy with me.’

‘Why not?’ asked Meredith. ‘Don’t doctors want people to know about them, to be praised for their good deeds?’

‘Some people can be ungrateful and spiteful. A couple of former patients, mentally unstable people from what I understand, invented complaints against him, so now he only sees people on the personal recommendation of another trusted patient.’

‘Does he have a practice, a surgery where people go for consultations?’

‘I don’t believe so, not any longer, due to the unpleasant business I mentioned. He did when I first met him, but now he comes to see patients in their homes. Very convenient, any time, nothing is too much trouble.’

‘Is he a qualified GP, or more of a naturopath-homeopath?’

‘I think he’s both,’ said Lillian. ‘He seems to have all the usual letters after his name. I did get some prescriptions from him in the past, but I haven’t needed any for ages. I’ve been doing very well on the gluten-free diet and herbal remedies.’

A vehicle door slamming outside made their faces swivel towards the road. In the entrance the figure of a man appeared, wearing an orange hi-vis vest, and he marched down the nave with a package in a plastic satchel. ‘It’s a courier,’ said Lillian, rising from her seat.

While Lillian signed for the package, Meredith checked her watch and calculated how long she had been away from the office. She was running out of time and joined Lillian halfway along the nave to finish the conversation. ‘This doctor sounds so good, I’d be interested in going to him myself. You couldn’t pass on a message, saying I’d like to make an appointment?’ Meredith asked.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you well enough to vouch for you. No offence to you personally.’

‘That’s okay, you’ve been very patient with my questions. Just one last thing. It’s a delicate issue, but are you considering giving any financial support to the doctor’s work? Like a bequest, something of that nature.’ Meredith steeled herself for an indignant reaction.

Lillian’s fingers fluttered across her chest, the rings bobbing with optimism. ‘I feel so healthy these days, it’s probably going to be a long time before a bequest would be of any use. Instead I’ve decided to give some practical support now. This is highly sensitive so I must ask you not to breathe a word.’ She paused, clutching the parcel in one hand and brandishing Meredith’s business card in the other like a winning lottery ticket as she yielded to the excitement. ‘I’ve seen some wonderful plans for the Lifeglow Centre, where people will be able to go for a range of alternative therapies. I’m giving advice on interior design and providing some of my paintings for decoration. Studies have found that patients feel better in a tranquil environment, surrounded by objects of beauty, you know.’

Meredith’s ears tingled at hearing Lillian herself say the magic word, ‘Lifeglow’, and she tried to sound pleased for her by making a supportive comment: ‘Could your art classes be used as part of the therapy too?’

‘Absolutely. That’s the spirit, a lovely idea.’

‘What stage is the centre up to? Do you know if a development application has been lodged with the council, or have you seen any architectural plans?’

‘What I saw was more like preliminary sketches, artist’s impressions. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m looking into cases that test the legality of benefactor arrangements, but where the donation is in the form of a bequest, not the situation you’ve described.’

‘I hope you don’t think I’m being taken advantage of.’ Lillian gazed innocently into Meredith’s face. ‘I assure you, this is totally of my own free will.’

‘Of course. It sounds like a very good cause.’

‘Oh it is. Life-affirming.’

Meredith departed with the paintings clamouring from the walls either side of her. Their brightness was a contrast to the diminishing light outside, as waves of purplish clouds advanced across the sky.

Meredith hurried along the main street of Figton village, calling another taxi on her mobile. Frowning at the prospect of rain, she wondered whether Lillian had anyone much in her personal life. Her daughter lived overseas and there was no mention of other children or a current partner. Like Barbara Furness, Lillian seemed to be a senior woman on her own. Busy with activities and in touch with associates and friends, but lacking someone immediately present in her life to stand guard and sound the warning of impending danger.

Chapter 35

Arriving back at the firm as the rain started, Meredith was relieved that Brian was not in his office. She made file notes of the conversation with Lillian, while it was fresh in her mind, before ringing Bellwater Pharmacy. Transferred to Anton in the dispensary, she pictured him there in his thick glasses and white coat checking stock orders.

‘Hi Anton, it’s Meredith Renford. I’m hoping to tap into that impressive memory of yours.’

‘That’s a diplomatic way of saying I’m old.’

‘It means I don’t think you’ve missed much over the years.’

‘Fire away.’

Meredith could hear, in the background, the alternating voices of a customer making inquiries and a shop assistant suggesting options.

‘It’s to do with the case I was telling you about at the golf club. I’m trying to trace male doctors who worked in the district in recent times and – this probably sounds strange – whose surname starts with V. He’s supposed to be a legitimate GP but possibly also a naturopath. I’m sorry I can’t be more definite at this stage.’

The pharmacist murmured ‘Dr V, Dr V’ to himself as he thought about it. ‘Bruce Verdon springs to mind, a well-respected family GP, but he’s retired now. Does that count?’

‘Yes. Any male doctor within, say, the last ten years. It doesn’t matter if he’s officially stopped practising.’

‘There’s Dr Van der something. Dutch name. Can I ring you back? We’ve got a lot of provider names on our computer system, but the current database wouldn’t cover the whole ten years. I can check some other records.’

‘Thanks Anton, that would be terrific.’

While she waited for him to call, Meredith searched the internet for general items on Lillian Wright rather than the Gumnut Gallery specifically, but none of the results related to health issues.

As the rain grew heavier, drumming on the roof and blurring the window, Meredith started researching the doctor’s name that Anton had already supplied: Bruce Verdon.

The Register had run an article about Dr Verdon’s retirement, with a picture of him next to a woman who had been his medical receptionist for more than thirty years. ‘We were competing to see who would retire last and I won,’ she said. Dr Verdon joked that retirement would enable him to concentrate on his golfing handicap. Sure enough, he later appeared in the Register in a group photograph of participants at a charity golf day.

The most recent mention was in an article about a local gardening competition. His wife had been highly commended and was quoted as saying Bruce had become her helper since his retirement. ‘It’s great to have an extra pair of hands. You could say his skill at looking after patients has been converted into caring for plants.’

It sounded like he was enjoying the golden years of retirement, not pursuing ambitious plans for a healing centre.

Waste of time, cross him off the list, Meredith decided.

A couple of hours later, Anton Melikian called back with a shortlist of other male doctors:

Vanderwerk, Henrik

Vantra, Cyrus

Vella, Anthony

Vickers, Barry

Vuletic, Marko

As soon as Meredith put down the phone, she Googled Dr Vanderwerk’s name. He was still practising as a GP, although he had moved to an inner city medical centre. Its website displayed ‘Our staff’ and Meredith noticed one of the female doctors had the hyphenated surname Bashir-Vanderwerk. There was also an online newsletter which confirmed the two were husband and wife who had done charity work in south-east Asia for Medics Abroad.

Jeremy’s head popped around the doorway. ‘Hi. Brian called to say his conciliation conference in the city is running over time and he’ll be going straight home. So if you have any work that needs doing, I’m not in a hurry to leave in this weather.’

‘Great, bring your laptop whenever you’re ready.’

Jeremy smiled and disappeared. Meredith liked having his input and technical expertise without worrying about Brian’s opinion. Jeremy returned and opened his laptop on the short end of her desk, pushing the guest chair into position.

The rain grew loud again on the roof, and water from a downpipe wooshed outside the window. Every year, the transition from autumn to winter was marked by a week or two of wild weather, and every year it seemed to take Meredith by surprise. She had to raise her voice to brief Jeremy on the visit to Lillian Wright and the shortlist that Anton supplied of male doctors whose surnames started with ‘V’.

‘Sounds more promising than my research on naturopaths, seeing none of them had a V-name,’ he said.

She told Jeremy where she was up to with Dr Vanderwerk and Medics Abroad, wondering aloud: ‘There might be a connection with Lifeglow. It seems a stretch, but could Vanderwerk possibly have set up a charity of his own, as an offshoot from the Medics Abroad activities?’

‘Or someone acting on his behalf, like Serdi and Binoko, the directors of the Lifeglow company,’ suggested Jeremy.

‘Let’s split this. I’ll go onto the Medics Abroad website and see if there are any references to Vanderwerk. Can you keep looking at the other search results and tell me if you find anything relating to charities?’ said Meredith.

Jeremy and Meredith clicked away at their computers in tandem. She glanced sidelong at his fingers darting over the keys, his eyes following the entries on the screen. Showing little emotion, the pace and progress of his work was indicated only by variations in his breathing and the speed of the clicks.

Jeremy couldn’t find any adverse mentions of Dr Vanderwerk. Most of the search results were for personal matters like his university medical school reunion, his name as the contact parent for an under-tens soccer team, the meeting minutes of the P&C Association of a primary school, and the finishing time he achieved in a fun run.

Vanderwerk didn’t sound like the doctor Lillian had described, a charismatic individual approaching senior ladies as something of a lone wolf. Lillian made no mention of a wife, whereas the Vanderwerks often acted as a couple. Why would Dr Vanderwerk’s wife not be involved in the establishment of a foundation?

Meredith and Jeremy came to the end of the leads on Dr Vanderwerk and, although there were theoretical possibilities, there was not a skerrick of evidence.

The next doctor on the list was Cyrus Vantra. Entering his name seemed to send the computer into deep thought, a longer than usual pause before entries unrolled down the screen. Meredith blinked rapidly as her eyes tried to absorb the connotations of the entries, pulsing in front of her like road signs.

The repetition of the name in vertical formation nagged at something deep in her memory.

Vantra. Vantra. Vantra. Was it a glimmer of genuine recognition, or did the word recurring in the search results merely give the illusion of familiarity?

‘Gosh, where to start?’ Her eyes jumped ahead. ‘Medical Council, that sounds important.’

As she read the item, Meredith clucked with indignation. Dr Vantra had failed to declare to the Medical Council a criminal conviction for drug possession and restrictions placed upon him in New Zealand due to complaints when he practised there.

The Medical Council was the body that approved his local registration when he came to Australia, and her eyes trawled the text for the circumstances in which his deception came to light.

‘Listen to this,’ she said. ‘Vantra has been prosecuted here by the Health Care Complaints Commission in the Medical Tribunal and was found guilty of professional misconduct for having a sexual relationship with a 22-year-old female patient who was in a vulnerable state.’

Jeremy scowled, his fingers frozen above the keyboard. ‘How can a doctor do such a thing, when they are supposed to protect their patients and set an example for the community?’

It seemed a naïve question for a law student to ask and Meredith wasn’t about to attempt an answer. ‘I’m going to look at the judgment on the Medical Tribunal website,’ she said. ‘You keep checking the other items and start making an electronic file on Vantra with a record of the links as we go.’

Meredith skimmed the judgment and homed in on the penalty. The Medical Tribunal had issued a reprimand, fined Dr Vantra, and placed conditions on his registration. The conditions included that he was only allowed to work in a group practice and, when he was on duty, another practitioner had to be on the premises.

‘It gets worse,’ said Jeremy. ‘See the article GP flouts Tribunal further down the search list.’

Dr Vantra was caught practising in private homes. After another hearing at the Tribunal, he was removed from the register for three years. When that period expired, he would be able to apply for re-registration.

‘So the time isn’t up yet,’ said Meredith. ‘Assuming he’s the doctor of Lillian Wright, he’s still doing home visits. It’s arranged by word of mouth, based on personal recommendation. I’m sure the Health Care Complaints Commission would be interested to hear about that.’

The window rattled with the squally wind. The world outside seemed to be dissolving, coldly melting. ‘It’s not getting any better out there,’ Meredith observed.

She did some research into the registration of doctors and found it was no longer a State matter, as she had presumed, but had been nationalised. The website of the Australian Health Practitioner Regulation Agency confirmed Dr Vantra was not registered.

As Meredith and Jeremy continued sorting through the articles and legal proceedings, snatches of personal information emerged which she listed on her notepad in case they gave clues to Dr Vantra’s behaviour. His family left Zanzibar at a time of unrest in the sixties when Cyrus was a baby, moving to England, then New Zealand, and finally Australia.

At the Medical Tribunal hearing he raised his father’s death as a mitigating factor. His father was a hard-working, ethical man, a civil engineer, who died prematurely and unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm, with a hugely detrimental impact on Cyrus’ outlook and conduct. A former colleague was quoted in a newspaper report as saying Cyrus believed there was no true justice in life, no reward dispensed by a divine being in return for moral goodness. In everyday reality, doctors held more power over life and death than God.

The tribunal judgment also referred to the family’s expectations and financial pressures after the father died, which were transferred onto Cyrus as the only son and eldest child. The tribunal took into account at its first hearing the consequences of the loss of his father, but when he tried to revive the issue at the next hearing, after contravening the conditions imposed on his registration, the tribunal found it had already been taken into account and could not excuse his continued acts of defiance.

One of the newspaper articles contained a photograph of Dr Vantra outside the tribunal, wearing a dark suit and tie and steel-rimmed spectacles. The quality of the photo was not the best, taken from a distance and in shadow, but he appeared to be slim and middle-aged with a thoughtful expression, like an academic on his way to a conference.

In the items online there was no reference to charity work or an organisation called Lifeglow. Presumably if he was swindling money from patients, this was not known to the authorities at the time of the tribunal hearings.

Jeremy was just as troubled as Meredith by the apparent contradictions in the reputation of Dr Vantra. ‘He doesn’t seem like the wonderful doctor the ladies told you about. Do you think he really believes in alternative therapies and creating a healing centre?’

‘The cynic in me says he’s probably using those things as a way to make money,’ replied Meredith.

The clock in the corner of the computer screen reminded her that it was getting late. ‘I guess we’d better wind this up for today.’

‘What about the other doctors on the list?’ asked Jeremy.

‘I’d be surprised if any of them are shadier than Vantra, but I’ll have a look at the last three tonight and email you if there’s anything I’d like you to follow up. I don’t want to keep you back now.’

‘Do you want me to check social media? You’d be surprised how much information people display on their personal lives. It wouldn’t take me long,’ offered Jeremy.

‘Okay, if you’re sure it’s no hassle.’ For Meredith, social media was still largely unexplored territory. Her sister had mentioned Facebook several times and Meredith had agreed to look into it but had put it off. Apart from having privacy concerns as a lawyer, the truth was that she was embarrassed at her lack of social life. She didn’t have a boyfriend or children, and she didn’t have photos to display from a whirl of events and pastimes.

When they left the office, the rain had eased, and Jeremy walked with Meredith through the shiny streets to the taxi rank. ‘Take care,’ he said, his eyes skating over her sling, before he continued towards the entrance of the railway station.

At home, Meredith had another short session on the computer and made a one-pot pasta, a staple from her cheat’s repertoire of cooking for singles. Boiling the pasta spirals and fresh vegies together for quickness, she drained them and stirred in some bottled bolognese sauce, waiting for it to heat through while she thought over the day’s developments and the challenge of locating Dr Vantra.

Meredith suspected from Lillian’s reluctance to reveal Vantra’s contact details that he would be careful about what appeared on public records. He wasn’t in the online White Pages and, despite Jeremy’s enthusiasm, she doubted if they would find much of a personal trail on Cyrus Vantra, electronically or otherwise. The medical authorities would also be unlikely to release his private details without police involvement.

Meredith ate the pasta, chasing the spirals around the shallow bowl and pausing between mouthfuls to catch up on her unopened mail. Dumping her bowl in the sink, she went to her study and started delving into the pile of research she had collected during the case, looking for where she had seen Vantra’s name before. Past the halfway mark, she thought her memory must be playing tricks on her. It would take too long to scan every page of material, hours that could be better spent. The print blurred as she skimmed through Max’s report into the death of Bill Bakkour and she decided to stop for a coffee.

Folding the corner of the page to mark her place, Dr Vantra’s name leapt out at her. The general practitioner at the medical centre, Dr Vantra, diagnosed a skin infection and prescribed an anti-bacterial ointment as well as painkillers.

He was the GP who first saw Bill Bakkour when he developed an infection after coming into contact with stormwater.

The realisation of this nearness in time and place between Max and Dr Vantra ricocheted inside her head. Had they come into contact because of Bill Bakkour and, if so, who instigated the contact and why? Or had they already crossed paths on the local scene for another reason?

Either way, it was a clearer link, something more definite. Meredith sent a message to Jeremy’s personal email, confirming that she would appreciate him checking social media and asking how soon he could fit in another search of the electoral roll, for Cyrus Vantra.

Meredith knew this information would be of interest to Griff and, more importantly, she needed his advice. It was late and she bit the inside of her lip as she dialled his mobile number, but he answered after a couple of rings.

‘Hi, it’s Meredith. I’m sorry to intrude at this hour.’

‘Not at all. Actually, I’m taking the night air while there’s a break in the rain, to check on the bats.’

‘You have bats?’

‘Not personally, but they’re in the trees behind where I live and they sound like cats fighting. I don’t understand why they squabble when there are so many branches to hang from and so much sky to fly around in.’

‘Beats me.’ Despite her preoccupation with more pressing matters, Meredith paused to listen and made out squealing and squeaking in the background.

‘No doubt you’ve rung for reasons other than a wildlife report, so I’ll go inside. It’s a bit chilly standing out here anyway.’

As she heard his shoes scuff on a hard surface and a sliding door roll open and clack shut, Meredith nestled into a lounge chair.

‘Right, go ahead,’ he said.

Meredith outlined the connection between Lillian Wright and Barbara Furness, the plans for a healing centre called Lifeglow, and the process of uncovering the doctor’s identity. ‘As I was reading about Dr Vantra’s chequered past, I was sure I’d seen his name before somewhere, and I finally found it in Max Linton’s report into the flash flood, where Bill Bakkour came into contact with toxic water. It confirms that Dr Vantra and Max were both involved in that case.’

‘Can we presume they knew each other?’ asked Griff.

‘They must have. The mystery is how the concept of a healing centre relates to Max’s assessment of the suitability of land for development,’ said Meredith. ‘Could the land be used for a medical facility rather than housing?’

‘I guess it’s possible. Physically, the site could be occupied by buildings providing treatments and accommodation for patients,’ said Griff. ‘The problem is, that type of landuse would not fit into the rezoning scheme for housing. Of course, the other explanation is that the healing centre and the housing development are two separate projects at different locations. Dr Vantra could have fingers in various commercial enterprises.’

‘Should we take this information to the police yet?’ asked Meredith.

‘Let’s think it through. From what you’ve said about the doctor’s past, he likes to stay a step ahead of the authorities. Why put him on notice by ringing alarm bells if we can’t be sure he’s our man?’

‘It’s a pretty big coincidence if he’s not, but okay, what if we try to get proof of his movements before giving more solid details to the police?’

‘Yes, I’d like to be well-prepared, so it’s not a re-run of the taskforce meeting and we find ourselves begging, “We think we’ve got it right this time, we’re onto a significant person. Please believe us and look into him” while Detective Inspector Barzine fixes us with his steely glare.’

‘I know what you mean. Evidence. Not begging,’ agreed Meredith.

‘I can go back through Max’s work files, now that I’ve got the name Vantra, and see if I missed anything that could be associated with a doctor or a medical context,’ said Griff.

‘I’m getting my paralegal to search for an address for Vantra, but I expect he will be very privacy-conscious.’

‘Lillian the artist sounds like she knows where to find him. What if we visit her again and try to persuade her to tell us?’ suggested Griff.

‘I don’t think that’s going to work. Her defences went up as soon as I mentioned contacting the doctor.’

‘But she hasn’t met me yet. I could go to the gallery on my own, unconnected with your visit, and try sweet-talking the information out of her.’

‘How, by buying up the entire contents of the gallery? Even then it probably wouldn’t work. Seriously, what would you say to convince her?’

Waiting for a response, Meredith almost heard the cogs in his brain turning.

‘I could try from a scientific angle,’ said Griff.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I tell her I’m trying to continue the research Max was doing for the doctor. Take a gamble on that being the answer: Max and Vantra were working together on the land scheme.’

‘But why wouldn’t you have his contact details already, if you were involved in the project?’

‘Good point,’ he admitted. A couple of beats of thinking time and he tried again. ‘I could say Max had taken me into his confidence about the land assessment, asking for my help with some technical modelling, but hadn’t given me Dr Vantra’s details. Now Max has gone I need to get more guidance from the doctor to carry on the task.’

Meredith made a sound like a balloon letting out a high, thin stream of air. ‘I don’t know. It’s a stretch. Lillian might think Max betrayed Dr Vantra’s confidence by telling a colleague about the project. Why would she want to be seen as aiding and abetting a breach of trust?’

They paused in thought.

‘Got it,’ said Griff. ‘I won’t pretend that I’m already part of the project. I’ll say I found the land assessment in Max’s office when cleaning up and some very important information has come to light that will be of interest to the doctor.’

‘Such as?’ said Meredith. ‘Lillian would probably ask.’

‘I’ve realised there’s a problem with the development site, or there’s some other potential aspect that will be of great benefit to him to consider.’

‘I guess it could work. But if Lillian has told Dr Vantra I’m snooping around, or she’s passed on my business card, he might have already gone underground.’

‘Did you mention land deals to Lillian?’

‘No.’

‘Then hopefully he won’t jump to conclusions. She might not even have spoken to him yet. But it’s all the more reason to act quickly. I need to persuade her to put me in touch with Vantra, and that’s going to involve some improvisation, depending on how she reacts.’

‘Give me tomorrow morning to follow up a few more search avenues on Vantra,’ said Meredith. ‘If we’re lucky enough to get hold of his contact details by alternative means, it would save bothering Lillian again.’

‘I can get away from work if needed tomorrow. No pressing deadlines. I certainly don’t think we should risk losing an extra day.’

‘Okay, we could go at lunchtime if the other inquiries draw a blank.’

‘I’ll be on standby,’ confirmed Griff.

Chapter 36

Meredith woke in the early hours, dismayed to find a jagged piece of bone sticking out of her left arm near the elbow. Her arm was not merely fractured, it was broken, and the bone had pierced the skin because of the strain of packing up Owen’s books and the rest of the contents of her townhouse so that she could move to Papua New Guinea to track down Dr Vantra and solve the Linton case.

She grizzled, breathing in exasperated little bursts. Now the journey would be delayed while she went into hospital to have the bone set properly.

As she rubbed her arm, regaining full consciousness, Meredith realised the bone wasn’t sticking out. She was just feeling the knobbly end of her elbow. Dr Vantra had nothing to do with PNG. It had been a dream.

But she couldn’t get back to sleep, worried that she had confided too much in Griff, that Dr Vantra had already fled, and her preoccupation with the case was having a detrimental effect on her other work. She lay there, reflecting on the searches she’d done late at night on the rest of the doctors on the list, turning up nothing important before going to bed. Dr Vella was definitely in the clear because she’d found his funeral notice from January, poor bloke.

She got up in the dark, made a cup of tea and went to the computer. There was a reply in her inbox from Jeremy, sent the previous night. As expected, Cyrus Vantra was not on social media and Jeremy was willing to do more electoral roll research. He said the easiest option was to go before uni in the morning, as he could exit from the railway station near the electoral commission headquarters and then walk the few blocks to his city campus.

Between eating the rest of breakfast and doing her make-up, Meredith exchanged another email with Jeremy, asking him to phone her with the electoral result and repeating her thanks.

Meredith arrived at work before eight and Adriana bobbed up in her chair at reception, checking her watch.

‘You’re early. Is everything all right?’ she called in disbelief, as Meredith paused on the way to her office.

‘Yes, don’t look so alarmed. I won’t make a habit of it.’

Meredith tried to think of extra inquiries to make, reading over her notes for ideas. She even contacted medical centres where Dr Vantra had worked in previous years in a futile attempt to obtain a forwarding address for him.

Jeremy rang after he had visited the electoral commission to confirm that Vantra was not on the electoral roll in any state.

‘Sorry for putting you to that trouble,’ apologised Meredith. ‘I hope you have a hassle-free day at uni.’

‘Thanks. No dramas, boring is better,’ he said.

Meredith tiptoed out to double-check that Brian was in his office; she could see him through the glass wall, on the phone with the door shut. After ringing Griff to make the arrangements, she thought of forewarning Brian that she might be back late from lunch due to a medical appointment. But she decided that sneaking off and taking her chances was better than telling an outright lie.

Griff picked up Meredith across the road at Pioneer Park just after midday. The plan was still for Griff to go into the gallery on his own and catch Lillian by surprise. Meredith would stay outside in the car, close at hand in case Lillian reacted unpredictably and they needed to make a quick decision.

On the drive down, Griff said he’d been looking through Max’s work files and his diary again. In it he found a notation in February, Don’t forget C.V., which was perhaps an abbreviation of Cyrus Vantra or simply a reference to his curriculum vitae. Griff also gave Meredith an update on his analysis of development applications. He was still working backwards from the published lists on council websites to identify likely locations, and it was an exhausting process that had not uncovered anything convincing.

Meredith was uncomfortable in her seat. The sling pulled crookedly and she tugged at the strap. She tried to guard against a muscular cramp by shrugging her shoulders and draping her free arm casually across her lap, resigned to accepting whatever was about to happen, but instead found herself digging her nails into the upholstery of the seat.

Watching Griff as he drove, she was impressed with his steady resolve. ‘You seem so decisive. I wish I could be sure we were doing the right thing,’ she said.

‘I’ve got to see this through. I want answers, otherwise I may never get back to normal at work.’

‘There’s something I should have told you,’ she admitted, ‘in case it turns out to be related to Vantra.’

‘What is it?’

‘I didn’t fracture my arm slipping over. I was attacked.’

‘Bloody hell. By who?’ Griff’s hands sprang from the steering wheel for a moment and the car wobbled.

‘I’m not sure. I couldn’t see properly. It was a man in a car park. He tried to grab me and I got away from him, but tripped and landed on my arm.’

Griff’s composed face dropped as he twisted, open-mouthed, and she instantly regretted telling him. When he pressed her for further details, Meredith gave a shortened version of the episode which sounded less terrifying than it was. ‘Who knew you were representing Warren Connor?’ he asked. ‘Any obvious suspects?’

‘Too many. Police, lawyers, court staff, potentially any member of the public, as my name was mentioned in conjunction with the case several times in the Register.’

‘And now you can add Vantra to the list,’ said Griff.

*          *          *

Arriving at the art gallery they were surprised to find it apparently shut, contrary to the opening hours. Meredith sank deliberately low in the car, wary of Lillian suddenly appearing from having her lunchbreak or doing errands, while Griff headed up the lichen-stained path to test the front doors in the pointed archway of the church.

The lancet windows along the flank of the nave looked dull, revealing no light from within. Griff clomped through the weeds at the side to check if Lillian was out the back. Meredith’s eyes roved around the exterior, taking in details of the architecture she had not registered during her lunchtime visit: the iron cross on the roof at the front; the interlocking combination of large and medium stones to form each row of rough stonework; and the contrasting smoothness of the corner piers, sharply chiselled and somehow fused onto the building.

When Griff returned to the car, Meredith pointed at the information on the sign about “inquiries at other times” and suggested checking the Hardwicke Road address.

They drove up the hill behind Figton, following the GPS fixed to the dashboard. Turning into Hardwicke Road they passed a man unloading a lawnmower from a ute with the aid of a metal ramp. Nobody else seemed to be around and they cruised to the end of the street, where the bush stretched into the distance, and did a u-turn, doubling back to park outside the house next door to Lillian’s.

Meredith leaned forward, examining Lillian’s house through the windscreen. It was similar in style to a Queenslander, with a wraparound verandah and a green metal roof. The house sat on square pillars, the space between them filled with a garage and underfloor rooms.

Griff disappeared down the driveway and Meredith tried to look occupied, checking her mobile phone. The lawnmower erupted two properties away and soon the smell of cut grass, laced with petrol, permeated the air.

Glancing up and wondering how Griff was faring, she was surprised to see him scooting across the lawn towards her and beckoning her to leave the car.

Meredith grabbed her handbag and swung out of the seat, closing the door. She noticed the lawn man pushing the mower along the neighbour’s verge in the opposite direction, with his back to her and wearing headphones to muffle the noise.

At the front of Lillian’s house, where steps rose to a door with leadlight insets, Meredith joined Griff. But they weren’t going up the steps.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Not good.’ He swallowed a gulp and kept moving.

Following Griff to the right side of the house, flickers of light from above caught her eye and she looked up to see objects dangling from the verandah posts – chunks of crystal and plastic spirals flashing rainbow colours as they revolved.

A swathe of backyard appeared, with the lone spear of a grass tree rising above flaming orange and red stands of kangaroo paw and curly pink spider flowers.

‘There was no answer at the front door so I kept going around the verandah, down the back steps and found the studio,’ Griff explained.

Meredith glanced at the house next door and realised the large oleander bushes along the fenceline would prevent the neighbours from seeing the studio entrance at the rear of the house.

Griff stood outside it and pointed: ‘The door was open like this.’

Meredith paused on the threshhold, focussing her eyes. Metal storage shelves just inside the entrance, packed with equipment, blocked the view of much of the interior.

Visible to the left were benchtops and a sink under streaky windows. At the far end, an easel and a bunch of canvasses were propped against the wall.

Meredith passed the storage shelves and stepped into the centre of the room. Lillian was slumped on the floor next to a potter’s wheel. In front of her was a kiln, slightly reminiscent of a large safe on metal legs. Near her on the floor lay a lump of clay wrapped in plastic and a broken pot.

Meredith clasped her hand to her mouth, her eyes glued to the inert figure. As her hand dropped away, she tried to speak but the words came out as a dry rasp. She cleared her throat. ‘Oh no, please no.’

Lillian’s eyes stared open, unseeing, and her face was drained of colour, her fingers like stiffened claws. Griff stooped and said in almost a whisper: ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of a pulse.’

‘Don’t touch anything,’ Meredith warned.

‘I won’t, I’m just making certain.’ Kneeling and tilting his head, Griff positioned his ear in front of Lillian’s mouth and waited for any sensation of breathing. ‘Nothing,’ he confirmed.

‘Who would do this? Why, why?’ Meredith moaned.

‘I don’t know why, but I can picture what happened.’ Griff nodded at the items on the floor – the clay lump and the ceramic vessel. ‘She was probably struck with either or both of these. I think that’s a jug. See the spout, although the handle has broken off and flown somewhere. And look here,’ he pointed at the back of Lillian’s head.

Meredith bent down, peering at a dried, brownish red stain that matted the roots of the silver hair. Blood.

Meredith locked her jaws shut to stop them vibrating and tried to summon her observation skills, sweeping her gaze over the the rest of Lillian’s body, around the lino floor and up to the kiln door, which was ajar. ‘Lillian could have been in here this morning, early, before it was time to open the gallery, or even last night, checking the kiln or whatever. I can see some items inside it.’

‘If it was last night, whoever attacked her turned the lights off when they left,’ Griff interjected.

‘Right, and whoever it was didn’t attract her attention when they entered, which fits with being struck from behind.’

‘Yes, even in daylight she might not have noticed anyone coming, with her back to the window,’ agreed Griff. ‘They must have opened the door very quietly, unless, of course, it was already open.’

Meredith nodded as she stood up, straightening her clothes and keeping her eyes averted from Lillian’s face. ‘Perhaps she was hit with the lump of clay first, which stunned her, then the jug with enough force to break it.’

‘I’d say there wasn’t a struggle, otherwise more things would probably be askew,’ Griff added. He leaned forward, hand hovering near the open kiln door.

‘Don’t,’ Meredith blurted. ‘This is a crime scene.’

‘I was only feeling for warmth, to see if it had been on. I have no idea how long it takes for a kiln to cool down. Lillian could’ve been caught unawares while bending over, about to remove the pots.’

Meredith didn’t see any obvious implement for removing pottery – tongs, a spatula, an oven mit – but scanning the benches she observed splotches on the laminate and the edge of the sink that bore a slight resemblance to blood. On closer inspection, they seemed old and dry, not what she imagined recently-spilt blood would look like. Probably paint or glaze.

Meredith wanted to tell Lillian: ‘It’s okay, you can get up now. We’ve finished acting out these hypothetical scenarios. Keep your doors locked and be extra careful.’

She saw the chunky rings on Lillian’s fingers and remembered how they had bobbed with enthusiasm, her eyes shining, when she spoke of opportunities to promote art and healing. Now her energy and optimism were extinguished.

Griff’s shoes creaked as he moved past Meredith, blotching the light. She glanced at the long windows and said, ‘Someone might come. We shouldn’t be seen in here.’

On their way out, Griff paused at the shelves, which were packed with ceramic objects in various stages of completion, jars of glaze, paint tins, and bags of clay on the lowest shelf. He pointed at a box of disposable nitrile gloves for handling chemicals, and pulled at a pair protruding from the slot in the box.

‘What are you doing?’ Meredith asked.

Griff started putting on the gloves as he stepped outside, stretching them to fit over his hands. ‘I think I should take a look around upstairs.’

‘No way, it’s too risky,’ said Meredith. ‘We’ve got to leave now and report this to the police.’

‘I saw a window ajar on the verandah, before coming down here. We can’t miss the chance to find something. An address, a phone number, any scrap of evidence.’ His eyes darted with agitation.

‘You can’t climb in someone’s window!’

‘I won’t leave prints,’ he said, holding up his gloved hands.

‘A woman is dead. Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘It makes it all the more important to act now.’

Meredith blinked at movement in the trees on the edge of the bright garden. But it was only a bird-feeding tray swinging from the bough of a gum tree as a couple of crimson rosellas pecked at seeds.

‘What if a neighbour spots us?’

‘I’ll be the one infiltrating,’ said Griff. ‘You keep watch from the car and blast the horn if anyone comes.’

‘I’m not going along with this.’ She sliced a hand through the air.

‘Good, that’s the spirit. You don’t know a thing. Actually, forget the car horn, it will attract attention. Ring me if you see anyone heading over here.’

He gave her the car keys and scooted up the back stairs.

Annoyed as she was, she still whispered after him: ‘Be careful.’

Meredith sat in the car, feeling like a ‘cockatoo’ for a gang of bank robbers. Her chest tightened with nervous apprehension and the wheezy tang of cut grass. She tried to push from her mind the implications of being an accomplice, and instead pretended to be engrossed in the control panels for the radio and air-conditioning: Mode. Auto. Temp. Off. Scan. Buttons numbered one to six. She murmured the numbers over again, marking time.

The whining of a garden trimmer amplified until the lawn man reappeared, neatening the grass edges at the neighbouring property.

Meredith lowered her head and started rummaging in her handbag, trying to look busy.

Griff emerged, limping slightly as he hurried towards the car. His expression didn’t give anything away but he winced getting into the driver’s seat.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Meredith.

‘I pulled a muscle in my leg. Misjudged the drop climbing out of the window and landed heavily.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Only Vantra’s address. At least I think it is,’ he said, peeling off the disposable gloves and rolling them into a ball.

‘What?’ Meredith squeaked as Griff fished in his pockets. He took out a folded piece of paper, stuffing the gloves into the pocket instead.

The paper, when he unfolded it, looked to be torn from an indexed address book. He pointed to an entry in the middle of the page: GP, 23 Coopers Way, Trindall.

‘My hunch is that’s him. She’s used the abbreviation for “general practitioner” rather than his real initials,’ said Griff.

‘What if it stands for the name of a friend whose initials are GP?’ asked Meredith.

‘Look at the phone number. Clearly a mobile number, from the prefix, but there are three missing numerals in the rest of the sequence, with two dashes and an asterix in their place. If it was an ordinary friend, she wouldn’t feel the need to disguise the phone number.’

‘I guess so,’ said Meredith.

‘I’d say the dashes represent the same missing numeral and the asterix is a different numeral. Easier for her to remember that way,’ Griff suggested.

‘If we assume the missing numbers are none of those shown, that leaves one, five, six or nine. We could try ringing each possible combination.’

‘Why tip him off?’

‘I wouldn’t say my name or what it’s regarding, I just want to see if he identifies himself when he answers the phone,’ said Meredith.

‘People with something to hide never give their name when they answer the phone. I don’t say mine and that’s purely for privacy reasons.’

‘What are we going to do with his details then?’ she asked.

‘I think we should look at the address in person.’

‘Right now? But we’ve got to tell the police about Lillian. We can’t just leave her. Who’s going to find her?’

‘If we go to the police we’ll be tied up for ages, answering a lot of questions and explaining why we were snooping around her property. What if that gives Vantra the chance to shoot through?’

‘That would be a shame but it’s a risk we’ll have to take,’ said Meredith.

‘And do you intend giving the police the Trindall address? If it’s not Vantra’s, we’ll be sending them on a false errand.’

While Meredith stalled, thinking, there was another bout of mechanical buzzing from a gardening device.

‘Let’s move from here before someone notices us and gets suspicious,’ said Griff, starting up the engine.

As they coasted down the hill, the cross on the roof of the church-gallery came into view and it reminded Meredith that Lillian would not produce any more works for the gallery, or teach art classes, or donate her wares to the senior citizens centre. A vibrant woman was dead and the community would manage without her.

Meredith turned to Griff. ‘Drop me off at the police station. I have to report Lillian’s death. I won’t tell them about Vantra. You can keep driving south to check out the address and update me by phone.’

He released a sigh. ‘All right. We’ll go to the police station together and take it from there.’

‘Thank you.’ She glanced at his chastened profile. ‘I thought I saw a police sign just off the main street when we drove along it earlier.’

It was a quiet weekday afternoon, not many people around. A couple of figures were visible inside shops, and a kelpie trotted down the footpath, pausing to lift its leg against the red mailbox on the kerb outside the post office before continuing on its way.

At the next cross-street, one building from the corner, was a small weatherboard cottage with a blue police sign out the front.

The door was closed and, as they approached, they could see a paper notice in a plastic sleeve fixed to the wooden door with thumb tacks and rippled from moisture: This station will be unmanned after 31 January. The nearest 24-hour police station is at Trindall.

The phone numbers for Trindall police and the Crimestoppers hotline were printed underneath.

‘All roads lead to Trindall,’ declared Griff.

Meredith looked at the sky. ‘I wonder whether Lillian would say the forces of the universe are guiding our path?’

‘She sounded a bit eccentric from what you’ve told me, so she probably would. Now that we have to go there anyway, we can drive to the Coopers Way address first, then give the police better information if we find any evidence of Vantra.’

‘Okay, okay, but I have to contact work.’ Meredith took out her mobile as Griff strode to the car.

She sent a text message to Brian:

Urgent devt Furness case. Not back this arvo. Will try 2 call later. Sorry but impt.

She switched off her phone in case Brian rang to interrogate her. At that moment, she couldn’t let anyone change her mind.

Chapter 37

They followed the highway south, further away from the metropolitan area. On either side of the road, the landscape sloped into scrub under inky grey clouds. A billboard advertised sales for a housing development: New Land Release. Selling Fast!

As Griff drove, they discussed the likelihood that Dr Vantra was involved in Lillian’s death.

‘He must be,’ said Meredith. ‘She talked to me and a couple of days later she was dead.’

‘Or someone else was paid to do it. Is he the type to get his hands dirty?’

‘Probably not. What if Lillian told Vantra about my visit, and he was angry at her for mentioning the healing centre? I’d feel responsible.’

‘So angry that he’d kill her? That would make him an over-reacting psychopath, which can’t be your fault,’ said Griff.

‘Maybe she’d already given him the money, or signed whatever he needed, so she was expendable.’

‘Make that a greedy, over-reacting psychopath.’

Griff took the turn-off to Trindall. The surroundings became more rural, the landscape dominated by greens and browns and yellows, with horses grazing in paddocks and properties rimmed by tall hedges, stone walls, and post and rail fences. Here and there, the border between two estates was marked by a line of poplars or conifers, and the names of properties were displayed at the gates. The biggest gates belonged to a horse stud, an agistment facility and a pony club.

They turned into Coopers Way and Meredith instinctively searched the street numbers, despite the GPS in Griff’s car. The first number she saw, on a milk can converted into a letterbox, was an even number, so she switched her focus to the opposite side of the road.

Griff slowed the car to make a u-turn and parked in front of arched metal gates, flanked by white-painted stone walls. They climbed out of the car to inspect the gates, which opened manually and swung inwards, Griff still hobbling slightly from his pulled muscle and Meredith helping with her right hand. She took a moment to dash to the mailbox, thinking it might contain proof that Dr Vantra lived there, but it was locked and the slot wasn’t sufficiently wide to allow her hand to reach far into it.

The bushes on either side of the long, slanting driveway were overgrown and shadowy, concealing what lay ahead.

‘Maybe we should leave the car here and walk up, if your leg’s okay, in case the engine gives us away,’ said Meredith.

‘An element of surprise,’ nodded Griff. ‘I can see I’ve got to think more like a detective.’

Parking under the cover of the trees, Griff had just enough room to squeeze out. The dirt and gritted stones, damp from the recent rain, made a slurring sound beneath their feet as they started up the drive.

‘Is that smoke I can smell?’ said Meredith.

Griff sniffed the air and squinted his eyes to concentrate. ‘Yes, it’s like a burn-off or an incinerator.’

‘As long as the buildings aren’t on fire,’ said Meredith. The thought made her hurry, digging her shoes into the ground, and Griff struggled to keep up.

The driveway curved sharply and the house appeared. Resembling an English manor house, it had a covered portico entrance with windows symmetrically on either side and dormer windows set into the roof. A separate building that might once have been stables was fronted by three garage doors.

Griff and Meredith stayed close to the bushes on the edge of the yard until they reached a side path that disappeared behind the triple garage. She scanned the exteriors of the buildings for surveillance cameras and wondered if any had been concealed at the entrance as she hadn’t thought to look.

The modern style of the rear of the house was in sharp contrast to its historic facade. French doors opened onto a large entertaining terrace and barbeque area. Meredith felt a ripple of nausea at the sight of a swimming pool, surrounded by a transparent barrier of glass panels. From a distance the water appeared dull in the soft light, the surface scattered with autumn leaves, next to a Balinese-inspired cabana with a thatched roof, sun lounges and a hammock.

Beyond the cabana, a small bonfire smouldered on the lawn. The mound was comprised of printed matter, most of the pages blackened and curled. Patches were still alight with fringes of orange and blue flames. Meredith thought the acrid smell might be the result of plastic covers or dividers burning, pointing to a hasty decision to set fire to material without carefully sorting it first. Possibly disposing of records relating to the land deal or the patients who Dr Vantra had treated privately.

Meredith glanced towards the French doors, the reflected smoke quivering on the panes, then up to the first storey windows, checking for figures at the curtains, and back to the bonfire, a sense of urgency growing at the potential destruction of evidence. ‘I want to see what’s burning in case it’s important, but I’ve got the feeling someone might be watching us,’ she told Griff.

‘I’ll do a recce, see if I can spot anyone,’ he said.

‘Stay in the shadows if you can help it. Watch the windows.’

Meredith crept closer to the fire, the smoke stinging the back of her throat, and reached for a sheaf of papers. Removing them brought down a ledge of ash and she took a little hop backwards. The stump of papers in her hand revealed a series of entries in medical jargon.

She grabbed at another few pages. They contained some kind of financial records for a company called Freedbird Holdings. Lists of figures in the thousands. Deposits from and transfers to different account numbers.

She took out her phone, and started to type a text message to Adriana with Vantra’s name and the Coopers Way address.

She didn’t get to send it.

A quick rustle behind her was the only warning. Before she could even wheel around, the blow struck her and she fell forward, the phone flying out of her hand.

*          *          *

Meredith woke with fingers brushing her cheek. The back of her head was raw and thumping, too sore to move. Her mouth was wedged open with something. Fabric, a gag. She could smell dampness in the cloth, moistened by her own breathing.

Trying to lift her right hand, she realised her forearms were tied with cord. Not stretched lengthways in front of her, but overlapping. The left arm faced upwards, while the right forearm was wrapped underneath it, so that the arms formed a wreath, resting in peaceful repose on her torso.

She was still wearing the sling, and the unusual position in which her arms were lashed together seemed to be in deliberate consideration of her injury. Someone had been careful not to put pressure on the injured left arm and instead had arranged for the right arm to cushion or reinforce it.

Attempting to test the bindings set off a deep ache in her fractured arm. Her feet couldn’t be parted either. She was stuck.

As Meredith tried to look around to get her bearings, the world shifted and she realised the rolling sensation under her was a set of wheels. She was in a vehicle and her immediate surroundings started coming into focus. She could make out the off-white metal interior of a compact, windowless cargo van, with a small interior light on the ceiling. A mesh screen formed a barrier between the driving cabin.

She tried to think straight. Where was she going? How long had she been travelling? What had happened to Griff?

Then a man’s face leaned in from over her right shoulder, as though he was sitting slightly behind her. Dark, blurry features swayed: black hair, large brown eyes, olive skin. ‘You’re awake. Are you seeing clearly?’

She didn’t really know.

He held up a pinkish-brown palm, slowly tracing one finger in the air which her eyes followed. ‘Good,’ he said. He was handsome, a wing of shiny black hair flopping across his forehead.

Raising his hand in a boy scout salute, he asked, ‘How many fingers am I showing now?’

Nothing made sense with the pain in her head. It seemed like he was trying to help her, but how could she reply with a gag in her mouth? The gag meant she was a captive, and he wasn’t attempting to remove it.

The van slowed and turned, bumped onto a different surface and rolled a short distance before coming to a halt with the motor humming. The handsome man half-stood, craning to see through the mesh, and sat down again. The van vibrated as the cabin door opened and the weight shifted, with the sound of the driver’s feet landing on crunchy ground.

‘How many fingers?’ repeated the smooth, cultured voice.

‘Three,’ she said, the gag shrivelling her voice in her throat.

Outside there was a ratcheting sound like a shutter, then the door of the cabin slammed and they moved forward slowly, jerkily, lurching to a halt. More shutter-squeaking occurred before the side door of the van slid open.

Meredith flinched and tried to lift her head, but all she could see through the door was the grid-like pattern of shelves and a confined space similar to a concrete chamber. No rush of light.

The handsome man’s face bent towards her again. Familiar, yet she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him. His features might have originated anywhere from Borneo to the Middle East, even Latin America, or maybe some exotic place where she didn’t have a visual impression of the inhabitants. What did people look like from Malagasy, the Maldives, Antigua, Tenerife? Random destinations swirled in her mind and she knitted her brows in concentration. As she harnessed her memory from between the pulsing beats of pain, a word popped into her head: Zanzibar.

‘I can’t see a light switch,’ boomed a rougher voice with a broad Australian accent, and a woolly head appeared in the doorway of the van. ‘I’ll leave the headlights on, okay?’

‘Low beam. We don’t want to attract attention.’ The handsome man untied Meredith’s feet and helped her to get up from a bed of old blankets and to step out of the van.

They were in some kind of storage space, like an enclosed shed, with a high window confirming darkness outside. The air was damp and tinged with a woody smell of potting mix or bark chips and the lingering residue fumes from the van.

The men sat Meredith on an upturned milk crate, beside the white cargo van, which fitted snugly into the space with the shutter rolled down.

The handsome man pointed at the gag. ‘I can remove that so you can talk. But you must agree not to scream. Nobody can hear you outside and it would make me very annoyed. Nod for yes.’ His cultured voice was authoritative, commanding.

There was no choice. Her hands were tied, her head ached, and the sweaty smell of the gag filled her nostrils, making her want to retch. She nodded.

He pushed down the gag and Meredith inhaled deeply. The air wasn’t fresh but it was better than breathing through the soggy filter. She waited for him to speak while he stood looking at her, watching her drink the air.

The photo in the newspaper article about the Medical Tribunal proceedings didn’t do him justice. The conservative spectacles were gone and he exuded self-assurance, bordering on defiance.

‘You must be Dr Vantra,’ she said as calmly as she could manage.

His bold stare didn’t deny it. Instead he asked: ‘What did you tell the police?’

‘Nothing about you. I didn’t know your name when I last spoke to them.’ There was no response so she asked a question of her own. ‘Where is Griff Parnell?’

Dr Vantra waited for a long moment before answering. ‘He’s taken the place of Max Linton on a project for me.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

Actually, she wasn’t so certain. In paranoid moments, Meredith still worried that Griff had cultivated her acquaintance to monitor how much she knew and disguise the fact that he was working against her.

‘Look around. Where do you think you are?’ asked Vantra.

She peered at the stored goods, trying to focus on the details. In the nearest corner were plastic sacks of fertiliser and potting mix and drums of chemicals. Rolls of wire and panels of treated timber lattice leant against the far wall.

‘In a shed somewhere.’

‘At the hydraulics laboratory. Griff Parnell kindly arranged to give us access.’

Potting mix and fertiliser seemed unlikely to be used at a hydraulics lab, although she kept her scepticism to herself and asked instead: ‘What exactly is he helping you with, flash flood research or land deals?’

The doctor’s eyes flickered but his voice remained steady. ‘I don’t know what you’re insinuating.’

‘You’ve left a trail. The police will be putting it together as we speak,’ said Meredith.

Vantra stepped closer and his face leaned towards hers, so that she could see the stubble on his jaw. ‘They haven’t been in touch with me,’ he said. The corner of his mouth lifted in a taunting smile. She noticed that one of his eyes had a red dart in it, as if from strain or sleep-deprivation. It was hard to think of a plan on the spot while he was staring at her. ‘You only have yourself to blame,’ he continued. ‘I did try to discourage you.’

The attack. She looked between the two men facing her in the confined space. Up until then her attention had been focussed on Vantra, but her gaze hovered on the other man, with his thick build and bulky legs shifting on the ground.

Her eyes traced the shape of his head, travelled to his heavy brow and dark eyes, then shot down to his feet, to the white fluorescent triangles on his sports shoes.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. ‘You were the one at the reservoir,’ she said to his feet, unable to look at his face.

‘If you had taken the hint, stopped meddling in my affairs, we wouldn’t be here now,’ said Vantra. ‘Time has run out, Miss Renford.’

The pulse in her ears quickened as she grasped for an idea. ‘If Griff is part of your enterprise, couldn’t I be of service too?’

‘One more person to take into my confidence, just to risk them betraying me. I don’t think so,’ said Vantra.

‘I’m used to keeping my word as a lawyer.’

‘You’re telling me to trust you because you’re a lawyer? That’s not worth much, I’m afraid.’

She realised it wasn’t the time to point out his own tarnished reputation as a doctor. ‘What about money? I have access to a lot of funds. I’ll pay you to release me.’

He scuffed at the ground, put a finger to his chin. ‘What’s to stop you going to the police when you’re free?’

‘If I take the money from my firm’s trust account, I’d be incriminating myself in fraud by going to the police.’

Meredith knew it sounded desperate and it didn’t ensure her safety. Even if she paid a huge amount of money, she’d still be a burden he would want to erase. Like the senior women she suspected had been cheated out of their money.

Vantra shook his head and laughed. ‘Quite inventive. But I pick and choose the members of my team. I made the mistake with Max of not seeing his ulterior motives. He wasn’t content with making a contribution to my work, he wanted a bigger role. He wanted to take control.’

Yes, thought Meredith, you would have expected Max to do as he was told. He probably seemed cooperative and enthusiastic at first, but after a while his opinionated side emerged. He started asking too many questions, dared to disagree, so he became a liability.

A mobile phone rang, with the old-fashioned warble of a bakelite handset. Vantra reached into his trouser pocket and retreated to the corner of the shed to mumble into the phone. He ended the call and turned around, looking at his watch. ‘We must attend to some other business. But my associate here will be back to check on you.’ He nodded at the thug beside him, as if recommending him for a job. ‘Perhaps I should mention that he used to be a boxer. But of course, you’re already aware of his strength.’

The man in question stared straight ahead. He certainly looked like a boxer, with his broken nose and chunky arms.

Vantra eyed the immediate area around Meredith. He tugged at the steel shelving unit behind her to confirm it was bolted to the wall, brushing against her knee. Stooping, he delicately picked a wavy lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘In different circumstances, we might have worked something out. But events have overtaken us, unfortunately.’

Meredith squirmed and dug her fingernails into her arm, deciding to keep quiet.

Turning to the boxer, Vantra’s tone hardened. ‘Put the gag back in her mouth. I’ll get the rope.’

While Vantra went to the van, the boxer came forward and pulled the piece of cloth up into position, tightening it behind her neck. Her lungs convulsed at the damp smell of the rag and the grubby intimacy of his fingers poking around her mouth.

Vantra emerged from the van, tossing to his offsider the thin rope he had earlier removed from Meredith’s ankles. ‘Tie her legs to the pole connecting the shelves. Don’t use the crate.’

‘Stand up,’ the boxer told her.

Meredith stood shaking in the presence of the man who had grabbed and chased her at the reservoir. Smoke clung to him, a charred smell like the fire in the backyard of Vantra’s house, and he was the logical culprit, creeping up from behind to attack her for the second time.

The boxer kicked the crate aside, tethered her ankles and then looped and re-looped the rope around the metal upright of the shelving unit. As Meredith stared at the floor, her eye latched onto a small pinkish blob, slightly reminiscent of a wad of spat-out chewing gum, illuminated in the glow from the van’s headlights.

‘Ready to go? It’s getting late,’ said Vantra, looking impatiently at the screen of his phone as though he was checking for updates that affected his schedule.

The boxer tied another knot for good measure and stood up, giving Meredith a parting sneer.

Vantra hauled up the roller door as the van revved to life, the headlights retreating before the shutter came down again and sealed the dim interior. Feeling her wrist, Meredith realised her watch was missing and she could not tell how many hours had passed since she had been abducted. She was sure her phone had also been confiscated, the text to Adriana unsent. Nobody would be alarmed by her absence. Brian would probably be annoyed at her message about Stuart Furness, but not troubled enough to make further inquiries. She wondered if she was still in the Trindall area, or back in Bellwater as Vantra claimed. And where was Griff? Nearby and alive, she hoped.

Chapter 38

After the men had left, Meredith examined her restraints. There was no time to waste if the boxer was coming back. The cord that was wrapped tightly around her wrists was not much thicker than shoelace-width, etching deep grooves into her skin. She turned from side to side, trying to see in the dim light if there was anything sharp within reach to break or saw through the cord. But twisting her torso, she realised she wouldn’t be able to line up her arms at the correct angle to use any of the tools on the shelves for cutting.

Instead, Meredith considered the rope that was tied above her ankles. The boxer had doubled the narrow rope and knotted it securely to the vertical metal pole of the shelving unit, but he had not taken the precaution of weaving the rope between her ankles in figure-eight fashion. Meredith wriggled her feet inside her slip-on wedge-heeled moccasins, a little stretched with wear, and confirmed that her feet had the potential for some movement, particularly in lycra knee-highs which were new and still quite slippery. She concentrated first on stretching the rope by any miniscule fraction possible by imagining she was striding, pushing her left leg ahead and her right leg behind.

Next, bracing the heel of her right moccasin against the pole, she shoved her slightly-loose foot backwards inside the shoe before lifting it, but it caught on the lip of the moulded heel. She tried the same manoeuvre with the left foot and it was tighter, not as flexible.

The gag was getting moist with exertion. Meredith discovered she could raise her arms high, even while they were still tied in a circle, and withstand the searing pain long enough to hook her right thumb over the fabric of the gag. Anchoring her thumb, tugging and repeating, she pulled the gag away from her mouth. It was such a relief to breathe freely, it hardly mattered that the air in the shed was stuffy and tainted with gardening smells. She considered yelling for help but decided it was not a good idea without knowing where she was or if the boxer was within earshot.

Jutting her elbows in an awkward dance to compensate for her tethered arms, Meredith jostled her foot back and forth in the shoe, with the rope rubbing against her ankles. The jerky elbow movements added to the pressure on her injured arm, until the pulling strain hounded in unison with the pain at the back of her head.

After a few more attempts, her right heel popped out of the shoe and she mouthed a quiet cheer. To lift her foot all the way, she kept it as compact and vertical as possible, toes tightly bunched and sole cramping with the clenched pose, as her foot brushed against the lassoo of rope and slipped free.

Once the rope was slack, Meredith assumed she could lift her left foot through the loop without removing the shoe, but it wasn’t as easy as she expected. Her bound hands were useless when the heel of the left shoe caught on the rope and she stumbled, lurching to steady herself and yanking her forearms.

Trying again, she clamped her right big toe onto the back of the left shoe to hold it still, then slid her foot out. Stepping free and shaking the rope off her stockinged feet, she staggered a little and had to concentrate on planting her legs solidly on the floor to keep her balance.

Meredith turned to examine the storage unit, peering at the collection of objects on the shelves. There were various implements potentially capable of cutting the cords around her wrists, but she wouldn’t be able to sufficiently manoeuvre the items into position without the full use of her fingers. Running the back of her right hand along the shelving, she detected a jagged bit of metal on the outward corner of a shelf where, instead of curving under neatly, the metal flicked up in a barb.

She tried different angles, impeded by the restricted arrangement of her arms, before succeeding in rubbing the cord against the barb of metal, gently at first. When she tried to quicken the pace she slipped. With a gasp, she expected the tickling sensation of blood, but it didn’t come and she figured she had only grazed the flesh.

Once more she repositioned her wrists and pushed the cord over the barb of metal, squinting with concentration as she resumed the sawing motion. She could not work rapidly and risk the cord slipping. Eventually, when she achieved a reliable rhythm, Meredith thought about Griff. If Max and Griff were both involved in the land development deal, there might have been rivalry and a falling out, motivation enough for Griff to conspire with Vantra in getting rid of Max. But why would Griff make such an effort to share information with her if he knew about Vantra all along? The other explanation was that Vantra was trying to trick her into thinking Griff was on his team, playing mind games with her.

Distracted, Meredith slipped again and her arm fell, just missing the sharp bit of metal. Raising her arm, she lined up the worn section of cord and kept sawing in the gloom.

A strand snapped but the cord still circled her wrists multiple times. She used the barb to pick and unwind another loop until she could separate her arms. Stretching her right forearm, she gave it a good shake and wiggled the fingers as the flow of blood slowly returned. Her attention switched to the left arm and she massaged the deep red marks around the wrist, working down the meat of the hand to the stiff fingers.

She padded around the floor to loosen her body, and trod on something hard like a little stone. Remembering the pinkish blob she had seen, Meredith crouched to feel around for it and located a hard plastic device. She held it up close to her eyes and thought it must be a hearing aid. The image of Warren in the interview room at the police station sprang to mind. She wondered if he had been held in the shed and the hearing aid was dislodged in a struggle or he dropped it deliberately to mark his presence.

Raising her head as she stood up triggered the pulsing at the back of her skull. Meredith felt her scalp and discovered a large lump. Rubbing the spot, she peered at the floor, hoping to see any other clues to suggest that Warren had been in the shed, but it was too dark.

Meredith pushed the hearing aid deep into the corner of a pocket of her slacks. She tested the roller door at the front of the shed, just to be sure. It didn’t budge, locked from the outside. She tried to think of other options while she continued to massage her wrists and flex her fingers.

High on the back wall above the shelves was the rectangular window she had noticed when the shed was illuminated by the van’s headlights. She couldn’t see if the window had a lever or other opening mechanism and decided to climb up and inspect it more closely. Fetching the milk crate, she realised she would be able to move more freely without the sling, so she peeled it off and rolled it up tightly to jam into the same pocket of her slacks as the hearing aid, helping to stop the small device from falling out.

Meredith tested the strength of the storage unit by tugging on the pole connecting the shelves and letting her body sag to its dead weight. The structure gave a single, short creak and seemed securely fixed to the wall. Standing on the crate, she clasped the pole with her right hand and stepped onto the nearest shelf. With her knees wedged under the next shelf for support, she quickly shifted her hand to grab the pole at a higher spot. Stepping up again, she stretched across the top of the storage unit to examine the window. It was a simple pane of glass encased in a metal frame, intended only as a light source and not for ventilation.

She dropped back to stand on the crate, searching the shelves for a suitable battering object. There were tools, including a paint scraper, screwdrivers and a hammer. She swung the hammer onto the top of the storage unit before clambering up once more to sit alongside the window.

Wielding the hammer in her right hand, she tapped first at the glass and then whacked the metal head against the window, flinching as the glass cracked. It took another few blows to obliterate most of the pane. Anyone outside would hear the noise. She trembled at the thought that the boxer was waiting below but couldn’t detect any shape or movement in the dark.

Chipping away at the remaining corners of the pane, fragments fell out of the window until it was an empty rectangle. She checked the rim of the frame for leftover shards, dislodging them with the claw of the hammer and plucking them free with her fingers so that she wouldn’t tear her clothes on the jagged edge when climbing out.

Meredith squinted again at the surroundings below and lowered her feet over the sill of the window, before rolling onto her stomach. Putting the pressure on her right side, she tried to keep her left arm elevated. Her legs dangled a couple of metres above the hard ground, while she gripped the top of the storage unit with her right arm.

Breathing in short raspy bursts, she slowly extended her arm and shifted the pressure to her elbow, bracing it against the inside of the window frame as she hung out of the opening. Her left fingers clung to the frame for support, intensifying the strain on her injured arm. Tiny darts of moisture struck her body and she realised it was lightly spitting with rain.

Scuffing her shoes against the brickwork, Meredith steadied herself until she counted to three and kicked off, letting go of her hands quickly and dropping the remaining couple of metres to the ground. The impact shuddered up her legs and she tumbled onto her good side, rolling on the thin, wispy grass.

Meredith sat up abruptly, tensed for danger, and adjusted her eyes to the nightscape. She listened, scanning the surroundings of the shed, but nobody emerged from the bushes. Noticing a gleam on the ground near her, she crawled closer and saw a shard of glass from the window. Useful perhaps, as a weapon in case the boxer appeared. She picked it up gingerly and wrapped a tissue around it before tucking it into the pocket of her blouse, protected by her jacket.

Slowly getting to her feet, she assessed where she was. Bellwater, as Vantra had claimed, although the shed was not at the hydraulics laboratory. Rather, it was in the ranger’s compound, past the open storage bays, at the end of the yard. Beyond the shed, on the other side of a dividing fence, was the empty car park of the hydraulics laboratory. A couple of lights on the exterior of the buildings made it easier to see. The staff had gone for the day which Meredith estimated meant it was some time after six o’clock.

The obvious exit was past the ranger’s office, out the driveway and up the road, keeping close to the bushes in case the white van returned. Without a mobile phone or money, her immediate objective was to get to where the houses began, knock on a door and alert the police. But as Meredith started walking down the driveway, she saw a light was on in the ranger’s office. It occurred to her that if Vantra had access to the shed in the ranger’s compound, Tyson was involved.

Retreating in the sprinkling rain, Meredith passed the shed of her captivity and arrived at a clumpy border of bushes and a chain-link fence separating the end of the yard from the hydraulics laboratory grounds. As she contemplated climbing the fence, headlights swung into the driveway of the laboratory car park and she bobbed down behind the bushes. Peeking out, she hoped if the driver was a staff member from the lab, she might be able to get their assistance.

The car was dark coloured and looked like an Audi, judging by the interlocking silver rings on the front grille. It rolled to a stop and a person emerged from the back seat. Hurrying around the bonnet of the car, the headlights revealed Dr Vantra wearing an anorak. He opened the other rear door and ushered Griff out of the car, hands tied behind his back. The driver killed the lights and got out, his features difficult to see as he angled his head away from the rain, but his build was similar to the boxer.

Griff was pushed up the steps where Meredith had sat after having the dizzy spell on the day she first visited the laboratory. It was the rear entrance to the wave pool building, a place she dreaded entering again.

Vantra held up something she guessed was a bunch of keys, waving it at Griff and gesticulating until he nodded. Opening the door, Vantra prodded Griff inside and the boxer followed behind.

Once they had disappeared, Meredith waited a minute, blinking as the rain grew heavier, before hauling herself over the fence and jogging across the car park. Sneaking up the steps, she headed for the door and stood at the hinged side so that she would not be exposed if the door was suddenly flung open.

Meredith listened with her ear to the crack but couldn’t hear anything, especially with the tapping of the rain on the big metal roof. Biting her lip, she turned the handle and gradually pushed the door open. In the background were snatches of muffled voices. No one was in immediate sight. She slipped inside and closed the door softly behind her.

The lights hanging from the roof girders were switched off and the pool was flat and dark, exuding chemicals. The fumes irritated her throat and she instantly clamped her mouth shut, fearing she would cough and give herself away.

Light seeped from the passage that led to the kitchenette and other unseen rooms. ‘That’s only one of the sites I’ve screened,’ came Griff’s voice. ‘It’s going to be a growth area for housing in future. Leave Meredith out of it, forget her. She was pressured by Detective Driscoll to gather information on his behalf.’

Her ears strained and her heart clobbered while she tried to decide whether Griff’s words meant he was embroiled in the scheme with Vantra or he was protecting her. Or both.

The response was too faint to make out but it was Vantra’s low, smooth voice, ending with ‘show me’.

‘I’ve put together an outline of the proposal,’ said Griff. ‘It’s in that drawer. I can’t get it with my hands like this. No, the middle one.’

Meredith crept along the wall towards the passage.

A drawer skidded on its tracks, unleashing a shriek of pain, then a body thumped heavily against the door frame of the office, causing the thin wall to vibrate.

Meredith reversed and ducked behind a metal cabinet which stood facing the pool, only to find a mop and bucket blocking the space. She pushed them sideways to make more room for her to hide in the gap and peep around the cabinet.

The men burst into view: Griff in front, the boxer in pursuit and Vantra wringing an injured hand.

Meredith shrank against the cabinet and realised the mop would be her only available weapon if she was spotted. She lifted it slowly from the bucket and lowered it quietly to the floor, treading on the head of the mop to squeeze some of the weighty excess water out of it rather than rattling the noisy rollers inside the bucket.

The boxer caught Griff and tackled him to the floor. With his arms still restrained behind him, Griff thrashed his legs. He landed a kick to the gut of the boxer who reeled for a moment but absorbed the blow. Steadying himself, the boxer aimed a punch which connected with the side of Griff’s jaw.

Vantra grabbed some packaging straps off the top of a stack of plastic pipes and helped to overpower Griff. Sitting on him, holding his struggling feet, Vantra gave the straps to the boxer and told him to tie Griff’s legs. Gone was the cultured, almost apologetic manner. He had snapped, overtaken by a frenzied anger.

Meredith couldn’t believe what seemed to be happening. Vantra and his henchman were going to push Griff into the water and let him drown.

The boxer grabbed Griff’s legs and started trying to wind the straps around them. Griff, still squirming, puffed out disjointedly at Vantra: ‘No – don’t – do – this – you’re – mad.’

‘The world is mad, not me,’ declared Vantra. ‘I’ve contributed to society, been an achiever, I’ve helped the sick and elderly, I’ve given people like Max opportunities, encouraged them to aim higher. But will I be rewarded? No, I’ll be pursued and condemned.’

There was no more time to think.

Meredith brandished the mop like a war club with her right arm and started running. Vantra looked up and yelled a warning to the boxer, who sprang to his feet. He raised his fists, ready to bat the mop away as Meredith brought it down. She changed tactics and swung the mop, nearly losing control, to use the stick as a jousting lance. Jabbing the boxer in the guts, he staggered backwards and fell into the pool.

Griff kicked off the straps, which were not yet secured, and managed to scramble to his feet as Vantra rushed at Meredith. Eyes on fire, Vantra tried to snatch at the mop, but she darted and lunged, fending him off. Griff dodged behind Vantra and kicked him in the back of the knees, making Vantra stumble. Meredith wielded the mop, driving him towards the edge of the pool, and Griff charged with his shoulder. Tumbling into the water, Vantra’s anorak ballooned like the parachute of an airman crash-landing into the sea.

‘Come on!’ Meredith cried, dropping the mop with a clatter. She grabbed Griff by the sleeve and they ran for the door.

Chapter 39

Outside the wave building the rain had stopped. Meredith and Griff landed at the bottom of the steps in the laboratory car park and instinctively turned towards the driveway which led to the road. But a ute was braking with its headlights shining at them and a figure barged out of the driver’s door. Meredith shielded her eyes, to avoid being dazzled.

‘Stop! What are you doing?’ yelled a man.

‘Ask your drowning friends in there,’ Griff shouted, jerking his head at the wave building while pushing Meredith in the other direction, adding urgently into her ear, ‘There’s a lower exit, let’s go.’

Tyson ran towards the wave building calling, ‘Doc! Carl!’

So that was the boxer’s name: Carl.

Meredith and Griff pounded ahead, skirting around the fenced ponds. Meredith shivered, trying not to think about the water inside the barriers.

‘That was the ranger,’ she confirmed.

‘Yes, he’s in league with Vantra.’

They reached a gate at the lower boundary and she scrabbled for the latch in the dark before flinging it open. Running down the hillside towards the creek, the grass was damp and she tried to plant her feet firmly to guard against slipping.

‘What happened in the wave building?’ she asked.

‘I’ll tell you later.’ Griff’s breath fogged in the chill evening air. He was having difficulty keeping up, with his arms tied behind his back.

Meredith slowed to stay with him. ‘I need to know now. You said something to Vantra about housing.’

The reply came in bursts: ‘I tried to trick him. Told him I had a land proposal to show him. Kneed the drawer shut on his hand, shoved Carl into the wall and took off.’

‘Good thinking.’ It matched what she had overheard and was probably the best explanation she could expect under the circumstances. ‘I was locked in the ranger’s shed, smashed a window to get out, in case you were wondering.’

Griff nodded but did not answer. His face pointed straight ahead, focussed on the immediate goal.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw a spot of light bobbing around the car park area. ‘There’s a torch. Could be all of them, or just the ranger.’

‘The fence in front of the creek,’ Griff huffed, ‘It’s too high for me to climb.’

‘I’ve got some broken glass. I can cut your hands free.’

‘We have to find somewhere sheltered to stop first. Let’s go over here to the trees.’

He made a sharp turn, away from the fence that ran parallel to the creek until it joined the mesh barriers enclosing the back of the dam, preventing the public from gaining access. Instead they veered upwards across the scrubby slope, passing on their left the ranger’s office, where Meredith could see a light still glowing from the window over the brush fence.

Straight ahead was a stand of conifers and thick bushes, where a simple timber and wire fence cut through the vegetation and marked the start of the memorial park and the picnic grounds.

Griff twisted around to look back. ‘They’ve reached the fence. Probably shone the torch and realised we weren’t going over it.’

They watched the torchlight strafing the side of the hill.

‘Go the other way, go right,’ chanted Meredith wishfully at their pursuers.

The ground was springy under the conifers, cushioned with decades of fallen pine needles. Meredith reached the fence and kneeled so that Griff could use her bent leg as a step up to the fence. He tried to balance on the top rail and she propped her good arm against his back for support until he jumped down.

Clambering over the fence, heavily favouring her right side, Meredith leapt awkwardly and landed forward in a squat, as though she was about to perform a dive roll. She patted her shirt pocket to make sure the shard of glass hadn’t fallen out when she jumped.

Catching up with Griff, they headed for a thicket of she-oaks and myrtle bushes, in the direction of the reservoir’s shoreline. Parting the foliage, they crouched in the bushes. Meredith showed Griff the broken piece of glass, unwrapping it from the tissue. ‘I’ll try to cut the rope. Turn around,’ she said.

He started to turn and paused. ‘Thanks for saving me at the pool.’ Dipping forward, he kissed her quickly and softly on the lips.

She was bewildered, too stunned to be flattered or to object. ‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes darted away, nervously checking behind him for torchlight.

‘If this ends badly I might not get the chance again,’ he said with a bashful smile.

Meredith felt her cheeks burning. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t untie you.’

‘Seriously, we’d better hurry.’

Hands shaking, she tried to concentrate on holding the piece of glass steady. It was difficult in the dark to get a good look at the rope, thicker than the cord used to bind her wrists. Griff’s chunky sports watch had also been removed, presumably so it didn’t interfere with tying his wrists tightly. Checking the broken piece of glass, she tucked the smooth side into the slight gap between his wrists, bluish in the night, and left the sharp edge pointing outwards to rub against the rope.

Sawing towards herself to avoid jabbing Griff, she tried to work quickly yet carefully, brushing his skin lightly in the process. Was it adrenaline, the sensation of particles skittering inside her? No longer just two individuals caught in the same ordeal, there was a connection between them.

Griff gave updates in urgent snatches. ‘They’re exploring the trees where we came over the fence.’ As Meredith kept sawing, the news turned negative. ‘They seem to be reconsidering their options. Not this way. Bugger.’

Griff and Meredith squirmed lower in the bushes, dropping onto their knees. The torch swept the memorial park to check if they were crossing the grass.

One strand of the rope snapped. Meredith willed the jagged glass to cut faster, faster.

A beam of light skimmed past and they both ducked their heads. She felt a tremor of apprehension go through Griff, down his arms and into his hands. It rattled her concentration and she slipped. The pointy end of the glass stabbed his wrist. ‘Yow,’ he cried.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered, renewing her grip on the shard.

‘That’s okay.’ He wiggled his fingers to encourage her to proceed.

‘Hold still!’

The torch beam was retracing the territory, rolling back towards them. Meredith fixed her attention on the fraying rope, resisting the urge to look up. The last strand broke as the light seared the edge of the bushes. ‘It’s cut,’ she said into Griff’s ear, frantically trying to unwind the loops around his wrists.

Griff wrenched his hands apart. ‘Stay down, I’ll distract them and you crawl the other way,’ he said before standing up.

No time to argue.

‘There!’ yelled Tyson and Carl in unison, the bushes igniting yellow-white.

Meredith retreated further into the foliage while Griff forged ahead. The spotlight latched onto him and the ground shook as he bolted towards the shore, pursued by leaden footsteps. Meredith emerged, rustling, on the opposite side of the bushes, hoping to dash for the park entrance. But Tyson was waiting and shone the powerful beam on her.

Spinning, she changed course and detoured behind the bushes, running in a mad zig-zag between the she-oaks, to keep him guessing which trunk she was going to use as a shield next.

The garish flashes from the torch were disorienting but she reached the cover of the picnic huts, her own breathing loud in her ears. There were no lamp posts in the picnic area; like the rest of the memorial park it was not officially open at night.

The first picnic hut she came to was the largest, with a pitched metal roof, open sides and a long, communal table. Too exposed. She darted to the next hut which was divided into two halves, each with a smaller table and bench seats. Climbing onto a seat to stand on the table, Meredith flattened herself against the partition and waited.

The torch beam seared the edge of the hut and wormed along the table. She steeled her nerves until the last second when Tyson stepped forward. Leaping high, she struck him feet-first and they fell together. The large, waterproof torch bounced from his grip, landing on the ground within reach. Meredith grabbed the torch as Tyson squirmed beneath her, anger surging, and shone the beam directly into his eyes. While he was temporarily blinded, she clenched the handle tightly and cracked the heavy-duty plastic base across his nose.

Tyson clutched his face, swearing, and kicked at Meredith’s legs, trying to trip her over but she jumped clear. Sprinting in the direction where Griff had fled, she switched the torch off to conceal her approach and followed the sounds of splashing and struggle.

The water appeared as black, glinting sludge. Meredith lurched to a stop. The splashing was coming from a few metres out.

Her eyes travelled over the moonlit water and she could see a bulky figure which had to be Carl, standing waist-deep, holding someone else under. Griff. At the realisation that he was in trouble, her feet gouged the sand, her hands grasped the air.

There seemed to be a barrier between them, solid yet invisible. She looked down, reminding herself that the shore was safe ground; she had stood on it many times. Taking another couple of steps, the sand squeaked underfoot.

Her eyes travelled to the shallows which were quivering, seething as the ripples reached all the way in. She stood rivetted before a body of water that she had not entered for nearly twenty five years.

The phantom image of a bright orange canoe, partly-submerged but drifting, flashed in front of her, superimposed on the nightscape.

Slap. Griff’s arm hit the surface of the water as he fought for air, like the sound of a large fish flapping to death on the deck of a boat.

Griff was going to drown, and it would be her fault because she encouraged him to get involved in Max’s case. Their bond, so tentative and new, would be broken.

She had let the reservoir claim her father. The cycle was going to repeat itself unless she put a stop to it.

If I save someone in his place, will it make things right? One life lost, another restored.

The splashing was getting softer, dying away.

Do it now. Now, before it’s too late.

In the moment, all senses blazing.

Meredith took a deep breath and gripped the torch tighter as she stepped forward. The surface seemed to shatter on contact with her feet, a cold jolt shuddering up her body. After a few steps the water started to climb from her ankles to her shins and then her knees. The numb chill of it clung to her and she ploughed against its weight, grimacing with the effort.

Carl’s back was to her, stooping as he held Griff under. Vibration radiated from the exertion of force, but her presence introduced its own cross-current and he started to turn. With a shriek of determination, Meredith hurled herself at Carl and smashed the side of his head with the torch before twisting away.

Carl howled and let go of Griff. Clutching his head, he charged at Meredith, who shone the light in his eyes like she’d done to the ranger. It slowed him for hardly a second and he kept surging towards her.

Behind him, spluttering and gasping, Griff was alive.

Meredith tried to reverse hurriedly and met heavy resistance from the water. Carl swiped at her, the distance distorted in the dark, but he missed as she toppled backwards, losing the torch which bobbed out of reach. Falling, she had forgotten to hold her breath. Swallowing water and floundering, the big hands found her shoulders and pushed her down deeper.

When her feet scraped the bumps and lumps of the reservoir floor, Meredith realised her shoes had slipped off. She had run out of air, with only panic to propel her.

Her lungs heaved with frustration. Just when personal progress seemed possible in her life, everything was in danger of being lost.

This cannot be my fate, to surrender to water. I must fight, I must demand another chance.

At that moment, the grip of the hands on her diminished and released her.

She came up coughing, immediately checking her attacker’s position while gulping for air, but Carl was not preparing to lunge again. Griff seized him by the neck, throttling him with his bare hands.

‘Go!’ ordered Griff.

Meredith started to obey, pushing through the water, her sodden clothes weighing her down. She kept looking back, not wanting to abandon Griff. As soon as she was out of the water she waited for him, peeling off her slippery knee-highs and stamping on the sand to get the circulation going in her legs.

Her nerves and senses were on high alert, beating in time with the aching protests of her left arm and the back of her head. She wanted to shed her battered body and climb into a new, energised one.

Swivelling, she scanned the immediate area for Tyson the ranger. Could he have been so stunned that he didn’t realise where she ran? And Vantra obviously hadn’t joined Carl in chasing Griff. Perhaps he had slipped away in the confusion and was making his escape.

The water churned as Griff struck for the shore with Carl in pursuit. Meredith shivered and craned to watch the horrible race, her body prickling all over with the transition from frigid water to chilly air.

Griff staggered out of the water in the lead and she grabbed his arm. The sand shifted and squelched under their feet as they ran to the grass. Meredith saw the movement of two figures rushing towards them, a split second before a gunshot exploded.

They both dropped to the ground. She hadn’t been hit and Griff seemed unharmed, signalling to crawl to the stone of remembrance. Her legs were stiff and jarred from the water, and she leant hard on her right arm while crawling to ease the pressure on the left. Another shot was fired, the sound of it ricocheting around the bowl of the reservoir. It felt very close and Carl, still catching up, bellowed behind them, ‘My leg.’ There was a thudding sound as he fell.

Taking refuge behind the blank, smooth side of the stone of remembrance, Meredith tried to think straight. Tyson hadn’t produced a gun earlier, which suggested the second figure was Vantra, back with firepower.

The agitated voices of Tyson and Vantra overlapped, telling Carl: ‘Stay here’ and ‘We’ll be back’.

Griff hauled Meredith to her feet again and they ran diagonally across the grass towards the children’s playground. Despite the head start, it was difficult to sprint in wet clothes and the best option was to take cover amid the play equipment. As they approached, the shapes and outlines grew sharper, revealing swings and a merry-go-round and see-saw animals, their cheerful colours dulled by the darkness.

Lungs straining, Meredith plodded after Griff through a sandpit to shelter behind a playhouse with a ladder fixed to the back of it and a slippery slide down the front.

Still breathing heavily, she peered around the corner of the playhouse, looking for their antagonists. Griff stood on the ladder, trying to focus in the dark. ‘I can’t see them but they must have realised we were heading this way,’ he said.

Meredith pointed in the direction of the dense bushland next to the waterskiing zone. ‘What if we went down there and hid until it’s safe?’

Before Griff could reply, it was already too late. Figures emerged from the dark: Vantra and Tyson.

‘We know you’re there,’ called Vantra, ‘Hiding in the coward’s castle.’

Dropping from the ladder, Griff landed in a crouching position and said quietly, ‘Do this.’ Meredith watched him bring his hands together into a shovel shape and scoop up a pile of sand.

Tyson’s voice, low and insistent, reached them on the air but was directed at Vantra. ‘Give it to me, I’m a better shot.’

As the men stalked into the sandpit, Griff leapt out from behind the playhouse and flung sand in their eyes. Meredith joined the assault, hurling her sand from the surprise angle of a side door.

In the confusion, face contorted with grit, Tyson fired anyway and the shot went wide, pinging off the ladder of the slippery dip.

Griff charged Tyson before he could line up another shot. They fought over the gun and Meredith dodged Vantra, trying to reach Griff to help him overpower Tyson. But Vantra caught the back of her jacket in his clenching grasp. Spinning her around, eyes glinting, he snarled, ‘Interfering bitch.’

She threw a punch which fell short, into the soft space under his sweater-clad arm. The anorak he’d been wearing at the pool had gone. Kicking at his legs, aiming for the kneecaps, she over-balanced and he pounced. They wrestled in the sand, Meredith squirming and swinging her fist as Vantra tried to pin her down with his damp body.

In her peripheral vision, Griff grappled with Tyson, moving further along the path beside the sandpit area, towards the stocky silhouette of a wheelie bin chained to a short post.

Gaining control, Vantra pushed Meredith onto her back as she scuffled for traction. He leant on her fractured arm, making her screech.

‘Not so smart now, are you?’ he taunted.

She tried to sit up. Vantra raised his arm, aligning it with her neck. She realised that he was preparing to press down on her windpipe and crush the air out of her.

In that moment of clarity, the pain of her injuries seemed to ebb away. Only the raw core of herself remained, a hard ball of stone polished smooth, with fire around it. Her awareness was broad and specific at the same time, channelling itself into rapid breathing and pin-prick senses. She saw the angry holes of Vantra’s eyes, smelt chlorine and desperation, heard him panting and Tyson coughing in the background in synchronised response to a plastic thwacking sound.

She slipped her right arm under her jacket, clutching at the fragment of glass in the pocket of her blouse.

Vantra’s arm weighed on her neck. The burning ball of stone inside her reached its maximum heat and cracked open. Meredith pulled the glass out of her pocket, snagging it on the lining of the jacket. She twisted the shard free and slashed at Vantra’s face with more force than she intended. A dark crescent of blood sprang onto his cheek almost immediately and she dropped the glass in shock at what she had done.

Vantra reeled back, fingers flying to his face. Meredith wriggled from under him, jumped up and dashed to Griff.

Tyson was doubled over with his head in the wheelie bin, while Griff swatted the plastic lid like a blunt guillotine on the back of his neck, trying to immobilise him and make him drop the gun. She was spurred on by the spectacle of Griff in action mode. He had taken charge, banishing the traces of doubt and worry. Maybe a survival instinct had kicked in, and it had overtaken her too, transforming and uplifting her for as long as the threat lasted.

Tyson wheezed and dry-retched. Meredith could smell the rubbish fumes from where she stood: takeaway food scraps mixed with a pooey stench of something discarded in the park bin, perhaps a soiled nappy or bagged dog turds.

Tyson’s arm swung blindly, as Griff tried to bat it away, and the gun went off again. Griff slammed the weight of his body over Tyson and clamped the bin lid harder, until he could grab the gun-wrist. In the attempt to wrench the gun out of Tyson’s hand, the weapon slipped and fell to the ground.

Meredith rushed to pick up what she recognised was a pistol, heard scuffing behind her, and wheeled around to see Vantra advancing with a large stick. His free hand was still on his cheek, as though holding the cut flesh together. Blood trickled down his face and onto his shirt where a stain was spreading. ‘Drop the stick or I’ll shoot,’ she said.

A siren squealed in the distance. Meredith wondered if someone in the nearby houses had heard gunshots coming from the reservoir and called the police.

She saw Vantra’s body stiffen, the stick poised in mid-air, and his eyes swept the memorial park to assess possible exits. He had time to run, or to attack her, but not both. He seemed to be trying to decide, his feet shifting on the spot.

Meredith took a step closer, pointing the gun directly at his chest. ‘I will shoot you, no hesitation, for Max Linton and Lillian Wright.’

‘No you won’t. You’re too sensible, too cautious.’ He started to back away, choosing the option of escape.

She fired at his shoes and he crumpled on the ground, shrieking.

You asked for it, you bastard. This ends now.

Tyson lifted the bin lid with his head, groaning and gasping for air, and Griff slapped it down, leaning heavily on him again and twisting his arms further behind his back.

The first police car pulled up to the boom gate, lights flashing.

Chapter 40

That night it rained like it had not rained since the flash flood that triggered the death of Bill Bakkour. The hillside gutters turned into torrents. Creeks rose and a lake formed on the high school oval. Street signs were swamped at the base. Rain roared on metal roofs and carports and shop awnings. Water overflowed where downpipes were clogged with leaves, streamed in rivulets down windows, and seeped in under doors.

It was very late by the time that Meredith, in wet clothes with a towel wrapped around her shoulders, finished giving her statement to Detective Barzine and was dropped home in a police car, the visibility outside reduced to a misty beaded curtain.

In the townhouse, Meredith’s chilled bones and soiled skin drove her under a hot shower, overcoming her usual reticence. Letting the water drizzle across a shoulder and onto her chest, she experienced a new soothing sensation. After drying off and dressing in warm sleepwear, she took Panadols for the pounding at the back of her head and down her left arm. She thought of ringing Griff to check if he’d made it home all right, as she had not seen him when she left the police station, but it was nearly 1.00am. Meredith knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of asking what he told the police, which could seem calculating, so she decided to get some rest and speak to him the next day.

Apart from the injuries to her arm and head, Meredith dreaded she might be coming down with a cold or some kind of infection. She made a cup of lemon herbal tea, stirred in honey, added extra lemon juice from a squeeze bottle, and gargled it to ease the scratchy soreness in her throat.

Sliding quickly into an exhausted slumber, she was jarred awake several times in the night by a clap of thunder or the relentless pounding of the rain which filled her ears and made it difficult to get back to sleep.

When she woke the next day, the symptoms, instead of receding in the night, had overtaken her. After ringing Adriana at work, she stayed in bed all day, an extra pillow and a lavender wheat bag nestled behind her to absorb the chill that had lodged in her back and kidneys. The smell of silt clung inside her nostrils. Her joints ached and her chest felt sodden, as though some of the water she had swallowed at the reservoir had seeped into her bodily cavities and would slosh around in there for months. Forehead burning, she flung the blanket away, only to find herself shivering ten minutes later and pulling the blanket back up to her chin. Meredith thought about Bill Bakkour dying from his contact with polluted water and wondered what toxins might have leaked into the reservoir from the catchment area and invaded her system.

Strange images danced through her feverish naps. A spiky shape transformed into a triffid, and a soldier lunged at it with a bayonet. The soldier was Owen, except when he turned around he was Owen as an old man, with thick glasses and nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Mustn’t take this lying down!’ he cried.

Vantra materialised, waving a robotic clawed hand of metal and wires. ‘Give me the number of the trust account,’ he demanded, reaching for her neck.

‘Tell me first, why did you target older women? Old men can be just as trusting,’ she asked, unsure whether she’d spoken aloud or in her head.

‘Simple mathematics, Miss Renford. Life expectancy. Women outlive men, so there are more widows than widowers.’

Everything was jumbled, disjointed. Meredith kept going over the events, trying to put all the pieces in order, but she could never complete the sequence. A corkscrew of pain in her head, or an unrelated thought about a file at work, or some random distraction like a burst of light hitting the wall, would intervene and she’d lose where she was up to and have to start again.

In the early afternoon, her mobile rang on the bedside table. It was Griff.

‘Hi, I’ve been meaning to call you but I’m sick,’ croaked Meredith. ‘Hopefully it’s just a cold from being in wet clothes,’ she added, trying to convince herself.

‘You don’t sound too good.’

‘At least I’ve got the weekend to rest before I have to go into the office.’

‘Definitely no thinking about work.’

‘If only Vantra would stay away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sometimes he’s here, talking to me, and it’s so vivid I forget what’s real,’ said Meredith.

‘That proves you’re seriously unwell. You usually have a very strong grasp on reality.’

‘It’s like a fever dream.’

‘Isn’t fever a symptom of the flu, rather than a cold?’ asked Griff.

‘I hope not, I don’t have time for the flu. You were in the water longer than me and you seem fine.’

‘Whatever it is, if you’re any worse tomorrow I’m taking you to a doctor. We don’t want it turning into pneumonia.’

‘Vantra said you were helping them, in place of Max, and gave them access to everything at the laboratory.’ As soon as the words came out she wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. It sounded like an accusation.

‘No, no, they took my keys. All the senior employees have after hours access,’ said Griff. ‘And they forced me to override the security, deactivate the alarm. They said they would kill you if I didn’t cooperate.

Meredith ran her hand over her brow, which was slick with sweat. A fragment of memory glinted between the drumbeats in her head: Griff on the steps of the wave building with Vantra holding up the keys and Carl there as muscle.

‘Of course, now I remember. Sorry, I’m half out of my mind. Did I tell you I was tied up in the ranger’s shed?’ Meredith reached for a tissue to plug the drip that was creeping down one nostril.

‘Yes, and I was interrogated in his office. Before that, I think we were both held at Trindall, or somewhere en route for a couple of hours, because they had to wait until after dark to bring us to the reservoir. They couldn’t risk a bystander or someone from the lab seeing us in transit,’ said Griff.

‘How did you fare with the police last night?’

‘I answered everything they asked of me.’

Meredith knew he would tell the whole truth. For the most part she did too, admitting they were abducted because they were snooping around Vantra’s property. But she avoided mentioning in her police interview that Griff illegally climbed into Lillian’s house.

‘So they haven’t charged you with breaking and entering?’ joked Meredith.

‘Thankfully they didn’t press me on exactly how I discovered Vantra’s address. I said you were very upset to find Lillian dead, and you waited in the car while I had a further look around. From that, they may have presumed I meant in her studio.’

‘Good, and surely it doesn’t matter now. Things were moving fast and the culprits have been caught.’ She felt a sneeze escalating as she talked.

‘I assured Detective Barzine we intended going to the police,’ said Griff. ‘We were only trying to gather more information when we were intercepted.’

She stifled the worst of the sneeze. ‘Did Barbara Furness’s name come up in your interview?’

‘No, it was all about Dr Vantra and Lillian Wright, and the police were also interested in Tyson Whitten, the ranger. I used to see him buzzing around his depot, of course, because it’s next door to where I work, but I don’t think my observations were particularly helpful.’

‘It was such a shock when Tyson started shooting at us. It really happened, didn’t it?’ Another sneeze escaped without warning.

‘Yes. I should let you rest. You need to get better,’ said Griff. ‘Can I bring you anything? Do you have enough food? I could drop off some supplies.’

‘Thanks, but I couldn’t eat a thing. I’ll be okay. Last question, to stop me worrying: has someone contacted Emilia?’

‘I’ve spoken to her and she said the police have kept her updated. She was relieved to hear Vantra had been arrested and she’s looking forward to catching up when you’re well enough.’

Nothing was said about the kiss and Meredith wondered if it was another product of her fevered imagination.

After putting down the phone, she drained her nose thoroughly and dropped the soggy tissues into a plastic bucket on the floor beside the bed. Outside the wind whistled around the corner of the building and a shaft of sunlight broke through a gap in the clouds to quiver on the wall. She gazed at the wedge of light, which continued to glow after she closed her eyes.

Sinking her head back into the pillows, the light danced inside her eyelids, shimmering like sunshine reflecting off water…

 

It was a hot summer’s day at the reservoir. Cicadas throbbed in deafening unison and the sun blazed on the brittle leaves, making it seem possible that the bush could spontaneously combust. Nearer to the water, the ducks and geese sat quietly camouflaged in the dappled shade under the she-oaks.

Meredith’s father had hired the canoe as a treat on the last weekend of the school holidays. The water sparkled an invitation. Kelly had paddled around with ease, fearless in her ten-year-old innocence. But Meredith, eighteen months older, had a greater awareness of danger and a growing self-consciousness.

‘Have a turn, Meri,’ said Dad. ‘The rental’s up in an hour and you’ll miss out.’

Kelly steadied the bright orange canoe in the shallows with both hands while Dad helped Meredith climb into it. ‘A canoe can easily overbalance so you’ve got to keep it stable,’ he said. ‘Never stand up in the canoe unless you’re in shallow water and getting in or out.’

Dad guided Meredith around as she practised paddling, shifting direction and maintaining her balance. In the glare, she squinted over at Mum reclining in a low beach chair, but it was hard to tell if she was watching or dozing behind her big sunglasses. Mum sometimes waded into the water but never put her head under, preserving hair and make-up. She even wore a watch to the beach, the designated timekeeper.

Meredith ventured past the children splashing in the shallows, with Dad’s encouragement. Eventually she was able to paddle in a slow circle and return to him. After a couple more laps he waved and said he would watch from the shore.

Bolder now, Meredith went out further on her own, looking back to see Dad sitting in his beach chair beside Mum, watching as he had promised. Kelly was a mound on the grass, lying face down on a red hibiscus towel.

Meredith set herself the challenge of going as far as the lily pads, which swept in a huge arc in front of the dam wall, more than an Olympic swimming pool away, she reckoned. At first scattered like green and gold discs, the lily pads multiplied and joined in the distance to resemble a patchy carpet.

Up close, the lilies still didn’t seem real; the round pads were rubbery and thick, the flowers waxy and sharply pointed. Bewitched by their white perfection, Meredith had not checked how far the shore had receded after heading for the lily pads.

One flower was within reach of the canoe and sitting up on a longer stalk. Attainable. If only she could secure this trophy, it might impress Mum.

She leant over the edge of the canoe, stretching towards the creamy white star. Just a bit further.

The world flipped: sky jolting and water rolling beneath, as if an invisible rope attached to the side of the canoe had been yanked. Meredith’s legs banged against the rim of the hull and the paddle resting on her knees hurtled into her arms.

The suddenness of the overturning canoe barely gave her time to snatch a breath before plummetting into the water. She felt the pull of gravity separate herself from the buoyant hollow of the canoe. Her bones were coated with lead, heavier than the boat. As she sank, her ears instantly blocked and she kept her eyes screwed shut. It was unthinkable, impossible to expose the delicate jelly of her eyeballs to the stinging suction of the water.

Once her brain had registered the danger she was in, Meredith pummelled and bucked and managed to rise up enough to gasp air before sinking again. Deeper this time, arms flailing uselessly.

Pedalling to try and catapult herself into the air, Meredith found her legs were tangled in hidden ropes. Except the texture wasn’t that of rope. Her toes jabbed among a forest of slimy cords until she realised they were the long stems of the water lilies trailing below the surface.

Writhing and twisting, she freed her legs but the effort increased the pressure on her lungs. Water pushed against her nostrils and her clamped mouth. The urgent plucking in her chest became a wrenching need to take a breath. She was about to let the water in, when something rounded bumped into her. At first she thought it might be the canoe drifting back into her path.

Then arms gripped her torso, lifting her up, and she broke the surface. She gulped sweet air, mixed with sloshings of water that tasted like rust. Spluttering, as a big hand thumped her on the back.

Dad.

Meredith grabbed his arm while he trod water. Pawing at him, coughing.

‘It’s okay, Meri, I’m here.’

Father and daughter hugged and she clutched his neck, her lungs jerking air and spit and relief.

‘Not sure if this will work,’ he said, trying to adopt a sidestroke posture with Meredith still fused to his chest. Extending one arm, he batted the other bent arm and gave a few experimental kicks. But they were sagging in the water, her face half-under, and she was weighing him down. ‘Too heavy,’ Dad huffed.

Meredith wouldn’t let go. Clinging and whimpering.

Dad told her sternly: ‘Settle down and listen, otherwise you’ll drown us both. Is that what you want?’

Meredith shook her head and lessened her grip.

He detached her to arm’s length and stared into her eyes, commanding obedience.

‘Here’s the drill. I’m going to float you on your back and tow you to the shore. Look up at the sky. Imagine you’re a cloud, light and fluffy.’

She caught sight of the orange vessel, partly-submerged, as Dad started to turn her. ‘What about the canoe?’

‘Let’s get you on dry land first, then I’ll come back for it.’

Dad guided Meredith into a reclining position, otter-style, with her head raised and chin supported in the crook of his elbow. He shadowed her in the water, a much larger figure hanging below her and angled slightly to one side.

Giving a scissor kick, Dad launched off, scooping the water ahead with his free hand so it slopped against his forehead, before pushing forward. He developed a rhythm, extending his powerful arm and batting his feet, beckoning the water and gliding, stroke after stroke, making progress. Meredith’s stick legs trailed and she puffed air between the backwash from Dad’s sweeping arm.

I’m a cloud. Safe in the sky, she tried to convince herself.

But the closer they got to the shore, the harder it became. The level of the water was rising over her chin.

Dad’s pace faltered. He breathed more heavily, panting. He pushed desperately to span the distance to the shore, making determined sounds, almost growling from the effort. But it was no good, he couldn’t keep going.

‘Need a rest.’ Dropping to an upright position, treading water, he offered Meredith his right elbow. ‘Hold on here.’

Frowning, he gritted his teeth.

‘What is it, Dad?’

‘Arm’s a bit numb from being bent.’ He winced as he massaged his left arm.

Meredith felt a bolt of electricity shudder through his torso. And another. He convulsed, a giant spasm. Invisible volts threw him forward and severed her grip.

‘Dad!’ She flung herself at him, grabbing his arm.

He seemed to have succumbed to sleep, a listing ship, the unsinkable sinking.

The water started sucking them down. Their slick, greasy captor.

Going under, everything jammed again. Eyes, ears, mouth, nose, throat, lungs. Pressure knocked at every opening. It wants to take us both.

Meredith couldn’t hold her breath any longer. Letting go, legs and arms wheeling, she bobbed up and screeched between hawking and spitting.

‘Hey, you gotta cramp?’ came a young woman’s voice. ‘Need a tow?’

Meredith twisted to see a tanned figure on a bodyboard, a jutting shield, bouncing towards her. A young man swam alongside, with choppy strokes. They were an adolescent team, like brother and sister or maybe boyfriend and girlfriend.

‘I can’t swim and my Dad’s sick,’ pointed Meredith, trying not to sound panic-stricken. She didn’t want to scare away the good samaritans.

The young man went to investigate, his confident freestyle slicing the water.

‘Here, hang onto this,’ said the young woman, offering the leash attached to the front of the bodyboard.

The young woman paddled with one-hand, on the opposite side of the board to Meredith’s face, and propelled them with churning feet. Meredith kicked too, trying to help as the land appeared crookedly in front of them. In her state of shock she didn’t process how close the shore was, and soon her feet scraped the silty floor beneath her. She gawped with the realisation.

‘Good, you can stand. I’ll check on your Dad.’ The young woman flicked her head in the direction of the deeper water and turned the bodyboard around.

Other people were coming, swimmers from the shallows. Kelly had already waded in and Mum strained to see, shielding her eyes as she entered the water.

Kelly called ‘Dad? Dad?’ before diving further out.

Mum ventured up to her knees. ‘Where is he?’ Flapping her arms, ignoring the immediate surrounds, her eyes lasered to the source of the trouble, stripping away time and other people, to the singular connection with her husband.

Only when the activity seemed to be shifting, coming back towards her, did Mum’s gaze hover closer and detect Meredith. They stumbled through the water to reach each other. Mum clutched Meredith in a quick, fierce embrace, while bombarding her with questions. ‘Are you all right? Where’s Dad?’

‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled.

‘What happened? Is he getting the canoe? Why did you go that far? Didn’t you see us waving at you to come in?’ Mum’s voice accelerated in a nervous jabber.

The only option was silence, dazzled by dancing diamonds on the water. Meredith couldn’t give the real reason. The white lily seemed so frivolous now.

Other people retrieved her father, brought him in. Limp and coated in poisonous liquid, hair plastered on his head like slimy seaweed.

Mum sprang forward, hands clawing the air. ‘Dean!’

People they didn’t know lifted him from the water, carried him dripping across the shore, heels dragging channels in the sand. They let his jumbled limbs fall. Laid him out on the ground.

Meredith wondered if her father had struck a bargain, surrendered to the water so it wouldn’t take her. She wished she had let herself drown and then he might be safe.

A middle-aged woman with an organising voice headed to the ranger’s office to call for an ambulance. A grey-haired man who said he was a doctor came from nearby and began pumping her father’s chest. Figures clustered around his top half. Through the gaps between other people’s heads and torsos, Meredith could see Dad’s face frozen in a slight grimace at the foe that had brought him down. Mum grasped the edge of his hand, as if pressing a wound tightly to stop it bleeding. On the fringe of the scene, the teenage couple who had helped Meredith sat cross-legged with the bodyboard beside them. Hanging around to see if there was anything else they could do.

Meredith tried to crawl closer to Dad’s legs, which were covered in v-shaped groves of wet hairs, with droplets of water still running in tiny rivulets.

Water. Treacherous. Slithering. Suffocating.

Bad things happened in water. It could not be trusted.

Water is the enemy.

Kelly tugged at Meredith. ‘Don’t get in the way. What were you doing out there so long anyhow?’

‘I wanted to pick a white lily for Mum.’

‘Why? That’s a dumb idea.’

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She cursed herself for causing such a fuss, a public spectacle. If only she had been content with doing a circuit, not trying to prove something, Dad wouldn’t have hurt himself by rescuing her.

The colour had drained from him, the athletic limbs and square jaw, strikingly pale on the dark, silty sand. His face already a death mask.

The reservoir wasn’t just a place. It held his spirit. Her father’s life had seeped into the water, eventually drifting back to the shore. It had spread in microscopic particles that multiplied and regenerated throughout the landscape, the nutrients feeding everything from the reeds and water lilies to the tender, new leaves on the trees.

Chapter 41

Adriana organised a welcoming morning tea when Meredith returned to work a few days later. Jeremy was present and Frank came into the office especially.

The food was laid out on Jeremy’s desk, where there was space to gather around a tiered cake stand loaded with treats, a platter of ribbon sandwiches, plastic wine goblets, stacked paper napkins, and bottles of champagne, orange juice and mineral water.

‘Will you do the honours, Brian?’ asked Adriana, peeling the foil off the top of the champagne bottle and unwinding the cage from around the cork.

She handed him the bottle and he pointed it out of harm’s way, towards the restroom door.

Adriana played bartender and persuaded Meredith to have a mimosa on the pretext that the orange juice would help her to recover from the flu.

Frank said, ‘Just the smallest dash of champagne. I’m driving.’ His face still looked thin and ghostly against his black leather jacket.

Jeremy was a good sport and agreed to try the mimosa concoction he had not heard of before, while Brian stuck rigidly to his cup of tea.

Meredith’s mood swayed between relieved satisfaction and pensive reflection. The Linton case had ended with the culprits being arrested and it was wonderful to see the staff of Valenti and Associates all together again, yet she felt sure the families of the dead would not be popping champagne corks anytime soon.

‘Uncle Frank has some good news,’ announced Adriana.

Frank put his plastic goblet down on the desk. ‘Cautiously good. The latest test results are clear. So I’ll be coming back to work, at least part-time to begin with.’

There was a collective excited intake of breath and a chattering of congratulations.

‘That’s terrific,’ said Meredith. The thought of Frank’s steady presence, assigning tasks and being available for consultation, instantly boosted her spirits.

‘I don’t want to push my luck too soon, but I think I’ll be ready after I have a short holiday. Being laid up at home is like waiting around for death. If that’s a glimpse of retirement, I want to work for a few more years.’

‘Here’s to a few more years,’ said Adriana, raising her goblet.

They toasted each other, with muted clicks of plastic, and Brian joined in with his tea cup.

‘Now, dig into the food,’ commanded Adriana.

Meredith selected a lemon tart, nibbling at the pastry edge before breaking through to the tangy filling. As the others sampled their choices, Meredith fondly observed their childlike enthusiasm. She owed a lot to them: to Frank’s faith in her, to the practical common sense of Adriana, to Jeremy’s eager assistance and even the cautionary advice of Brian. Sometimes they seemed closer to her than her own family.

‘May the gods grant us an easier run for the rest of the year,’ said Frank. He turned to Meredith. ‘No more accidents for you.’

‘I won’t be in a hurry to take a pro bono case again, that’s for sure,’ she said, darting a sheepish glance at Brian.

He smirked as he reached for a turkey and cranberry sandwich. ‘I did try to warn you.’

‘Actually, we’ve been getting calls from Meredith’s fans while she’s been away sick,’ said Adriana.

‘Don’t,’ groaned Meredith.

‘Like who?’ asked Frank.

‘People who saw the news reports on the arrest of Cyrus Vantra and figured Meredith must go to a lot of trouble for her clients, so they want her to handle their cases. I was telling her this morning about the consultations I’ve booked in. There’s a divorce settlement, a dispute over an insurance policy, a negligence claim to do with a fallen tree, and what was the building one?’

‘Non-payment due to poor workmanship,’ said Meredith.

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ said Frank. ‘Bringing in some business.’

Brian sipped his tea, opting for silence.

Adriana offered the champagne bottle around for a top-up, and Meredith asked Jeremy what he thought of the mimosa.

‘Interesting. Ticklish,’ he said, rubbing his nose. ‘I suspect the acid in the orange juice makes the bubbles jump higher than they would in ordinary champagne.’

‘That’s a good theory, but you need to test it by trying another one.’ Adriana took his glass and Jeremy was too polite to refuse.

‘Don’t worry, it’s for research purposes,’ said Meredith.

A slab of suit appeared at the glass front door. Detective Driscoll. As the door swung open, making the creamy flowers of the peace lily at reception tremble, Adriana leaned towards Meredith and said quietly, ‘I’m afraid I told him you were due in today.’

‘The gang’s all here,’ said Rory, stepping into the room. He noticed the champagne and the food. ‘Having a little celebration? Hope I’m not interrupting.’

‘Not at all,’ they said in unison, waving paper napkins in the air.

Rory nodded respectfully at Frank. ‘Mr Valenti, good to see you.’

Frank tipped his glass. ‘Good to be here. Seems I’ve missed a lot of excitement with the Linton murder case.’

‘I can give you an update on the investigation if you like,’ offered Rory.

‘Absolutely,’ said Frank.

‘But first – ’ Rory trained his focus on Meredith. ‘I have to deliver this.’ Feeling in his pockets, Rory withdrew Meredith’s watch.

Meredith beamed as she took the silver, art deco-style timepiece. It was the only dress watch she had bought, when she started working as a judge’s tipstaff, and she was emotionally attached to it. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘In the glovebox of Vantra’s car, along with Griff Parnell’s watch.’

‘Any sign of my mobile phone?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Rory.

‘At least that doesn’t have any sentimental value.’

There was an awkward lull in the conversation as Meredith busied herself with buckling the watch strap and polishing the oblong face with her sleeve.

Adriana made a sweeping gesture at the food. ‘Please, Detective Driscoll, have something to eat. We’ll never finish it all.’

Rory hesitated, torn between polite refusal and the sight of sweets. He homed in on the butterfly cupcakes on the top tier of the cake stand. ‘My nanna used to make these when I was little.’ No one else had dared to disturb the crowning glory of the display.

‘Brian’s wife is the cupcake queen,’ said Adriana.

Everyone nodded admiringly.

‘She’s perfected the best sellers at school fetes,’ said Brian with pride.

‘It’s my lucky day, then,’ said Rory. He selected a butterfly cake and appraised it from every angle, before nipping off the wings with his teeth. Peeling back the patty case, he wolfed down the rest of the cake in one go as Meredith watched his adam’s apple lurch on his wide neck. Then he licked the icing sugar off his lips and fingers, accompanied by contented smacking noises.

Returning his attention to his audience, he said, ‘I don’t want to spoil your party with my murder report.’

‘That’s all right,’ they chorused, keen to learn the real purpose of his visit.

‘I know you’ve been hoping for news of Warren Connor,’ he began, catching Meredith’s eye. ‘The hearing aid you found inside the shed matched his customer details at an audio clinic. We tested the ground under the sawdust for latent blood stains and got an initial positive result, but we’re waiting on forensic confirmation. It’s likely he was murdered there and buried in the bush.’

Adriana suppressed a gasp. ‘How awful.’

Meredith nodded solemnly, studying Rory’s face. She had expected it, prepared herself for the worst. The others looked awkwardly down at the floor or into their drinks.

‘Why would Dr Vantra want to make Warren disappear?’ asked Meredith. ‘Surely not just to keep the suspicion focussed on him for Max’s death?’

‘Warren was there on the night of the murder. He saw Carl and Tyson at the scene, at least that’s according to Carl.’ Rory turned to Frank. ‘He’s a henchman who has rolled over and agreed to give evidence against the others. Tyson, the ranger, isn’t talking but we hope to wear him down. Vantra won’t budge a millimetre, of course. He acts as if he’s the victim and nobody understands him.’

Rory reached for a plastic goblet and poured himself a mineral water.

Meredith balled her paper napkin impatiently. ‘So, has Carl said what happened to Max?’

‘Vantra ordered them to get rid of Max,’ explained Rory. ‘Tyson invited Max to his house for a meeting with Vantra. Gave him a spiked drink while they waited, then said there’d been a change of plan and Vantra would meet them at the boat shed, which was a lie. Max felt dizzy on the way to the boat shed, realised something was wrong and tried to break away and yell for help. Carl caught him on the shore and Tyson stabbed him in a panic to shut him up. It was too far to carry Max’s body deep into the bush, so they went back to get a wheelbarrow and shovel from the ranger’s yard. But they almost collided with a crew arriving much earlier than expected with equipment for the Anzac service.’

‘Hang on,’ Meredith interjected, ‘I’m trying to follow the sequence. The ranger, Tyson, stabbed Max, and while he and Carl were deciding what to do, Warren was making his way across the creek to check out the voices he heard. He must’ve found Max left alone, as he had the opportunity to take some of his possessions, right?’

‘Yes, that’s when Carl and Tyson had gone to get the tools but were surprised by the sudden visitors. They eventually worked their way back to the shore and spotted Warren at the crime scene. He bolted, they chased him, but he knew the bush too well and gave them the slip. Carl reckons at this stage they lost their nerve and buggered off. Didn’t want to collide with more people turning up early to prepare for the service. Vantra wasn’t impressed when he learnt they had failed and used it as a lever to demand their cooperation with everything that followed.’

Adriana clutched a Portuguese custard tart, which she had absent-mindedly squashed in the napkin. ‘So Warren became a loose end that had to be tied up? How sad. I remember him coming in for appointments with you, Meredith.’

‘Carl and Tyson didn’t get a great look at him in the dark,’ added Rory, ‘but once the media started reporting on Max’s death and Warren appeared in court, it wouldn’t have taken too much effort to find him.’

‘Why didn’t Warren tell me? He must have known they’d be after him,’ lamented Meredith, turning to Frank for inspiration.

‘He probably figured you’d tell the police and he’d get more tangled up in the case,’ said Frank.

‘Yes, he used to say lawyers, judges and the police were in cahoots,’ she admitted.

‘And as the star witness, he’d be under pressure to give evidence at any trial of Vantra or his cronies,’ said Brian.

Jeremy’s eyes bounced from one speaker to the next as he chewed on a sandwich and wiped a smear of avocado from his lip with a napkin.

‘Why would Tyson agree to be drawn into this nasty business in the first place? He had his position as the ranger. What did he owe Vantra?’ asked Meredith.

‘He’s mixed up in dealing drugs, mainly dope and speed, and that brought him into contact with Vantra, through the drug network.’

Meredith recalled that Rory and the ranger knew each other. ‘But weren’t you a friend of Tyson’s?’ she asked, watching his reaction closely.

‘Only casually through friends, and that was before the drug dealing came to light. When the intell pointed at him, I put out feelers, like I was interested in getting some action, but he didn’t take the bait.’

‘And Carl, is he just a thug for hire?’ asked Meredith.

‘Steroid junkie. Got into it through boxing and body-building. Vantra arranged a regular supply and paid for it, and Carl did what he was told. He now claims he wanted to get out of the arrangement but didn’t know how.’

‘Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?’ quipped Brian, reaching for another sandwich.

‘Let’s not forget Vantra himself was a drug user,’ added Rory.

‘Yes, he had a conviction for drug possession, I remember reading that in the reports of the disciplinary proceedings,’ said Meredith.

‘The Brazilian student that I told you about, Cristiana, she was at the house parties Vantra hosted, where he paid the call girls in cash and drugs – mostly ecstasy and cocaine.’ Rory glanced cautiously at Adriana and Jeremy, as though reluctant to go into more lurid details in front of them. ‘We found the escort agency Cristiana works for and we’ll question her further about the drug connections.’ Rory counted on his fingers to recap: ‘That’s Carl, Tyson, Vantra and the call girls on drugs, maybe even some of the old people.’

‘How do you mean?’ Meredith scooped at the air with her empty goblet.

‘We think one of Vantra’s schemes was peddling prescription drugs to a circle of elderly customers as vitamin supplements, to make them so addled they’d sign away their money.’

‘Could drugs be linked to the death of Lillian Wright?’ asked Meredith.

Jeremy leant towards his workmates to clarify: ‘She was an artist who was a patient of Dr Vantra’s and donated money to his projects.’

‘We’ve got the autopsy results, and they don’t show anything alarming with drugs or pharmaceuticals, just ordinary murder, if you don’t mind the grisly details while you’re eating,’ said Rory.

Brian waved his assent. ‘Go ahead, I’m sure I’ve heard worse.’

Jeremy nodded a little too eagerly and took a step forward. Adriana swallowed her remaining bite of Portuguese custard tart in readiness.

‘Fractured skull, subarachnoid bleeding, swelling to the brain. In other words, the blow to the head killed her.’

‘Any idea of the culprit?’ asked Meredith.

‘If it’s Carl, he’s not confessing, but we’ll see if any fingerprints or DNA samples from Lillian’s studio match him or Vantra.’

The phone rang at reception and Adriana went to answer it. She signalled to Brian that the call was for him and he ducked into his office so that she could transfer the caller.

‘The land zoning, that’s the angle that intrigues me. For a doctor, Vantra seems preoccupied with property development,’ said Frank, eyes travelling to Meredith in recognition of their discussions.

‘His financial arrangements are complex, and he moves the money around dummy companies set up in the names of his sisters and other relatives, so it’s difficult to trace his transactions,’ said Rory, drawing circles in the air. ‘It looks like quite a bit of evidence about Vantra’s business dealings went up in smoke in that bonfire in his backyard. We’re still sifting through the burnt records.’

‘Have you identified the land which Max assessed for Vantra?’ asked Meredith.

‘We’re focussing on the Figton area. Lillian’s financial transactions show a number of purchases from the Uniting Church and it owned significant land holdings around Figton, not just the church that she turned into a gallery. There’s acreage on the outskirts that fits the size of the housing development and there’s also land directly behind the church, where the old Sunday school hall is and the spare block next to it, which could suit the healing centre. We’ve subpoenaed Greenhaven Council for the records.’

‘Greenhaven, the council where Lillian lives, of course. Griff was concentrating on Bellwater and Strathdene Councils for starters,’ said Meredith.

Frank took a sip of his drink, his expression of discomfort softening as he moistened his throat to speak more easily. ‘So how did Max Linton and Dr Vantra cross paths?’

Meredith recounted their common link to Bill Bakkour, the man who died of blood poisoning after exposure to stormwater. ‘Vantra must have become aware of Max doing the inquiry at the council and been impressed with his expertise. Persuaded him to do the land assessment for a price.’

Rory cut in. ‘Jason Bakkour, the son, is one of our informants. Another druggie who was on Vantra’s payroll for doing odd jobs and bringing him tip-offs. He wanted to get revenge against Max, but now he’s having a delayed attack of the guilts and is helping us.’

Meredith remembered interviewing Jason Bakkour, moody and muddled, which she attributed to his grief and lack of direction. Now she realised there were more layers to his involvement than she knew at the time, and his vagueness could have been drug-affected.

‘I’m presuming Max and Vantra had a serious falling out, for Max to wind up dead,’ said Frank.

‘Correct,’ Rory agreed. ‘Carl overheard discussions about Max wanting a bigger role, as a partner in a consultancy business, not just paid for doing a report now and then. Max also upped his price, claiming more work was involved than he anticipated, and he wanted payment upfront instead of a delayed chunk of the proceeds, so maybe that suggests Max was worried Vantra was going to renege on their agreement.’

‘Not the most rational solution though, killing someone. Didn’t he think the police might trace Max’s activities to him?’ asked Meredith.

‘Here’s where it comes back to drugs. The call girl parties confirm Vantra’s cocaine habit. All the science indicates cocaine makes users feel more confident, even invincible, and long-term dependency fuels paranoia and delusions.’

‘Which would help to explain his behaviour spiralling out of control,’ said Meredith. ‘He was unhinged that night at the reservoir, ranting about society not appreciating his efforts.’

Rory nodded. ‘If it’s any consolation, Carl told us you weren’t going to be harmed in the shed. Vantra intended to leave you tied up while they made their getaway. Vantra had a ticket to Bali and Carl was going to lay low here until things blew over.’

‘They seemed prepared to kill when they took pot-shots at Griff and me,’ said Meredith.

‘What? When was this?’ Frank jolted to attention.

‘Don’t worry, we didn’t get hurt,’ Meredith assured him.

A mischievous smile crossed Rory’s face. ‘I’m not sure how much Meredith told you, but she held Vantra at bay the other night at the reservoir with his own pistol until officers arrived at the scene. Those details weren’t released to the media.’

Adriana and Frank stared at Meredith in awe. Jeremy’s mouth hung open.

‘She kept it to herself,’ said Frank. ‘Modest, as always.’

Meredith squirmed and checked her newly-recovered watch. ‘Is that the time already? The day’s getting away.’

‘Yes, I’d better get back to the station. Lots to do,’ Rory agreed. ‘It’s been great catching up with you all.’

‘Please, take something for later,’ said Adriana.

His eyes latched onto the cake stand and his willpower crumbled. ‘You’ve twisted my arm. I’ll take one of these for the road.’ He stepped forward and pincered a chocolate and walnut brownie, wrapping it in a paper napkin. Giving a wave to the room with his free hand, he headed for the door.

*          *          *

Not long after Rory left, one of the things he said came back to Meredith, with the nagging reminder of unfinished business. It was the theory that Vantra was peddling prescription drugs to a circle of seniors, to make them more dependent on him and willing to sign away their money.

Barbara Furness.

On the night of the dramatic events at the reservoir, Meredith had been badly shaken and omitted to raise Barbara’s name with the police. There hadn’t been another opportunity while Meredith was confined to bed with the flu for days.

She wondered if the police who were called to the Wattlebank house where Barbara died, or those investigating Lillian’s murder, thought to consider what medications or other supplements each woman was taking.

Meredith rang Stuart Furness and asked him if he saw the police search the cupboards at his aunt’s house or take any items away.

‘Not that I noticed. They certainly didn’t mention anything like that to me.’

‘The police at Bellwater are investigating the suspicious death of a lady called Lillian Wright. She was a member of the same senior citizens centre as Barbara and was funding the side projects of a doctor who might be the one Helen Calligeros mentioned. Can I pass on your contact details to the murder taskforce at Bellwater?’

‘Sure, if you think it would help.’

‘How soon could you give them access to Barbara’s house?’

‘Tonight if they want, after I finish work.’

‘Make sure you show them anywhere she kept medical or health items. Not only the bathroom cabinet, but the kitchen cupboards, the bedside drawers. It could be something that doesn’t have the packaging of prescription medicine, more like a vitamin bottle or even a container without a label, as this doctor supplied remedies privately to people. And please be careful about touching stuff in case there are fingerprints that aren’t Barbara’s. Use gloves or just point the police in the right direction.’

‘I understand. Look, don’t touch.’

‘Stuart, without promising too much, I think this doctor’s crooked conduct is shaping up to be a strong basis for challenging Barbara’s will,’ said Meredith.

‘If he’s been swindling old ladies, I hope he gets what’s coming to him.’

‘Me too.’

When Meredith hung up, she waited two beats, lifted the receiver again and dialled Rory Driscoll’s number to put him in contact with Stuart Furness.

Chapter 42

Griff offered to bring takeaway food to Meredith’s townhouse for dinner, but she made excuses about the place being a mess and still full of germs from when she was sick. The truth was, she preferred neutral territory to the vulnerability of her personal domain, so she suggested meeting for a casual dinner at a nearby Thai restaurant.

Watching the Prius roll into one of the parking spaces outside the restaurant reminded Meredith of something she’d been meaning to check. As Griff emerged, patting his pockets, she called in greeting, ‘I see you got your car back. Must be a relief.’

‘Yes, the police found it in one of the garages at Vantra’s estate. I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t taken somewhere else and torched.’

Meredith could tell he’d made an effort with his clothes for the evening, wearing a decent jacket that looked to be actual leather. On the phone over the past week, his gentle voice had been a comfort. In person, at the sight of his fresh, inquisitive face, she felt a spark there.

The dark furniture inside the restaurant was offset by the lustre of Buddhist statues and brass tubs of potted palms, red tea lights and hot pink cloth napkins folded into pleated fans. The aroma of steamed rice, basil and coriander hung in the air.

Meredith spotted a couple near the front of the restaurant, holding hands and gazing over their wine glasses at each other. Too confronting. When the waitress glided up the aisle to greet them, Meredith pointed to the emptier section of the restaurant, away from the romantic couple. She decided not to bring up any personal discussion with Griff, rather to keep the topics professional and wait to see what he said.

At the table, Griff almost lunged to pull out a chair for Meredith, then stopped himself and stood back to let her choose her own seat. It was quite a while since he had been on a serious date.

Opting to sit facing the street, Meredith started reading the menu and said, ‘Something to clear my congestion would be great.’

‘Sounds like yes to chilli and no to coconut milk.’ Griff’s fingers traced the suitable dishes on the menu with the dexterity of interpreting a scientific chart.

They ordered fish stir fry with chilli, kaffir lime leaves and green peppercorns, crying tiger with a papaya salad to ease the heat, and jasmine tea to drink.

Meredith draped the pink napkin in her lap. Her left arm was securely nestled in a sling again, after all the jarring and wrenching in the struggle with Dr Vantra. ‘I rang Detective Driscoll about Barbara Furness and passed on her nephew’s contact details, so the police can get access to her house and examine it for medications or anything else associated with Vantra.’

‘Good thinking. They might not realise a connection otherwise,’ said Griff.

Meredith summarised the taskforce’s progress on investigating whether land purchased by Lillian Wright in Figton was for Vantra’s projects, and they discussed what might happen in the wake of her death.

‘Chances are the end result could be the same and the land resold for development,’ said Griff.

Meredith frowned. ‘I just hope the church building isn’t in danger and the gallery keeps running. Lillian has a daughter so I’ll check if the police have contacted her.’

The crying tiger and papaya salad arrived and Meredith felt the burning heat as soon as she put a piece of beef in her mouth. ‘Wow, this is hot. I can really taste it, so my senses must be recovering.’

Griff poured the jasmine tea for both of them and tried a sip. ‘Can I ask your advice on an unrelated topic that’s been troubling me?’

Meredith took a quick, shallow breath and nodded.

‘Do you think I should go for the promotion as director of the hydraulics laboratory?’

Relieved it was a professional question, Meredith combed her fork over the strands of papaya on her plate while she thought about it. ‘Sure, if you want to take on the responsibilities and administrative load I assume comes with the director’s position. Maybe I’m wrong, but I gathered you’re a bit of a loner, wrapped up in your own research.’

‘You’re right, it would be a huge responsibility, and I’d have to make a commitment to stay in Bellwater for at least a couple of years.’

‘Is there a problem with that?’

Griff clasped his hands and planted them on the edge of the table, displaying clean, neatly trimmed nails. ‘Not necessarily. It depends on your plans, if you’ll be sticking around.’

‘Me?’ She squirmed as the spotlight turned on her. Grabbing her tea cup, she tried to bury her face in it to drink, until there was no tea left and she had to look up. ‘I have thought about making a fresh start somewhere else. I don’t really have much family here now. But then again, I know this area, and I want to stand by Frank, at least while he’s recovering fully and settling back into work. He had faith in me years ago when I was starting out as a lawyer and I feel like it’s time to repay the debt.’

‘I’m sure he’d consider it repaid already through your efforts. But I’m glad to hear you’ll be staying.’

The waitress interrupted with the fish stir fry, smiling shyly as she made room on the table. Meredith welcomed the distraction, admiring how artistically the dish was presented and pushing it towards Griff to try first.

He heaped a generous serving onto his plate and left it untouched to continue his train of thought. ‘I’m glad you’re staying because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. In fact, I’d be devastated to contemplate the future without you in it.’

Meredith froze with the serving spoon in her hand, eyes zeroing in on a glossy red circle of chilli. ‘Really?’

Griff’s eyes explored her face. ‘Don’t you think when two people go through an ordeal like we did, they have a special bond?’

Meredith transferred a helping of the fish to her plate as she considered the question, but before she could reply he jumped in again. ‘No, I’m messing this up, it’s not sounding like it should. We’re mature-aged people, not teenagers. I don’t want to waste any more time in my life. I’ve waited so many years, hoping to find someone like you and I’m willing to risk humiliation and rejection to admit it.’

Her heart swelled at his openness and bravery. Yet she stalled, needing to test him a little further. Meredith put down the spoon and gave him her full attention. ‘What sort of person is someone like me?’ she asked with playful curiosity.

Griff looked above her head for the right words, as though seeing an aura. ‘Someone who cares about their work and gets wrapped up in it as much as I do in mine. Someone who’s determined, ethical, courageous, a bit rebellious at times, with a sense of humour and –’

‘Stop, stop!’ She held up her hand. ‘You’re making me sound too perfect.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘I’m not as ethical as you might think. Sometimes I cut corners or bend the truth to justify my actions and I don’t understand where that tendency comes from.’

‘If you’re aware of it, that proves –’

‘And I’m not courageous. At times I definitely lack courage.’

‘Don’t we all?’ he asked.

She stared into his calm, hazel eyes. ‘I know so little about you. We’ve only had snippets of personal conversations. Nothing really in-depth.’

‘I’ve got all evening. Ask me anything you want,’ he said.

Meredith’s gaze hovered on the cosy glow of the red tea light.

‘Okay. I remember you saying you moved to Bellwater to work at the lab. Where’s the place you’re from again? Long something.’

‘Longrest.’

‘I remember, a gold rush town.’

Meredith asked about his family and Griff sketched a brief portrait of his father, a stock and station agent, and his mother, a supervisor at the visitors’ information centre. They had two children, Griff and his younger sister, Phoebe, who were sent to single-sex boarding schools, in accordance with their father’s family tradition.

‘Wasn’t that tough, being separated?’

‘I didn’t know anything else and it wasn’t too bad. Boarding school taught me to be self-reliant and I still got to see my family in the holidays. I used to go with Dad inspecting farms and livestock that were up for sale. At first I thought I wanted to be a farmer, but once I’d witnessed the misery of bank foreclosures I realised what fascinated me was the impact of farming on natural resources like the water supply and soil quality.’

Meredith could see in his face that, even as a youngster, he must have had an inquiring mind. ‘What does your sister do?’

‘She’s a social worker, a real people person, and she seems to be enjoying the inner city lifestyle.’

Meredith told Griff about her sister moving to the Gold Coast, followed by her mother a few years later.

‘And your father?’

Trying to keep her voice steady, Meredith managed to give a factual account of her father’s death at the reservoir after rescuing her from drowning. But a lump lodged in her throat, so she stopped and focussed on the sticky pit of the rice bowl, studying the shape and texture of the clotted grains until her self-control returned.

‘That explains a good deal,’ said Griff, bridging the gap. ‘I could see you were agitated when you went anywhere near water. So it’s even more impressive that you saved me – twice.’

‘It’s hard to believe I did.’

Griff covered her right hand gently with his and she didn’t pull away. For weeks Meredith had felt the chemistry between them growing. She’d found herself thinking about him, missing him even though he wasn’t an important figure in her life, and looking forward to seeing him again.

Reassurance and familiarity flooded through her. Here’s a person who could really understand. He seems to know me very well already.

As if to prove it, Griff stared at her with a mixture of determination and support. ‘It wasn’t your fault, your father’s death. Maybe you don’t want to hear this, but if his condition was undetected, sooner or later some kind of physical strain would have triggered a heart attack.’

It wasn’t her fault. In all the years since it happened, no one had ever said that to her.

‘Yes, I can see that now.’ The fingers of her free hand plucked the air. ‘And I only realised the other day, when I was stuck in bed sick, that I was so consumed by my grief as a child, I didn’t think how terrible my father’s death must have been for my mother. The worst day imaginable, losing your partner and having to bring up two children alone. Maybe she left Bellwater because of the pain and she disguised it with flippant comments about wanting to go somewhere more exciting. Moving on with her life was probably a show of strength, not running away from bad memories as I thought.’

‘Doesn’t the same apply to you – wanting to move on, put the past behind you?’

‘After what’s happened recently, I think I’ve learnt to deal better with the past. I don’t need to turn my back on this place. Perhaps one day if an opportunity comes up elsewhere, I could imagine going, but there’s no urgency.’

‘Who better than a hydrologist to help you cope with water?’ Griff smiled.

‘I hadn’t actually thought of that. The aquaphobic and the hydrologist, what an odd combination.’

‘It might just work, opposites often do.’

Griff soothed her hand and her fingers uncurled, exploring the contours of his knuckles, the warmth radiating from within as their fingers entwined.

The relief lapped around her, relief that they were both staying put in Bellwater and could make plans together.

Behind Griff, figures passed on the street, dawdling or hurrying, snatches of colour and form in the sporadic light and shadow.

‘I guess the food is probably cold by now,’ said Griff.

‘It’s a shame to waste it.’

‘You must keep up your strength, guard against having a relapse,’ he added.

‘But I need my right hand to eat.’

‘I’ll give it back to you temporarily, only because I’m concerned for your health, nothing to do with me being hungry.’

Meredith tried a chunk of fish and rice. ‘As expected, luke warm.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, digging in. ‘It’s still the best meal I’ve had in a long time.’

They went on eating contentedly, looking from their plates into each other’s eyes, smiling between mouthfuls. Griff refilled her tea and she realised that, despite picking up and shifting the pieces of crockery numerous times, the settings had aligned in a matching pattern, their plates and rice bowls symmetrically arranged, their cups equidistant from the pot, and it was as if it belonged to someone else she envied.

Meredith hoped this was the first of many meals where the food grew cold as they were distracted by discussion or debate or romance. She glanced across the restaurant. The other couple had left without her even noticing.

Rowena Helston © Copyright 2018