Felicity Young - An Easeful Death

She returned to find the lunch they’d ordered had arrived. De Vakey said he didn’t wish to discuss the case when he was eating, it interfered with his digestion.

Shit, they were going to be here all day.

She watched him prepare his meal for eating. First he put the napkin on his knee, then helped himself to salt and pepper after offering it to her first. Then he turned his plate until the meal was balanced to its aesthetic, symmetrical best. Each bite was slowly savoured and alternated with sips of iced champagne.

She shovelled down a mouthful of local snapper and salad, risking a glance at her watch as she chewed.

‘I’m sorry, am I keeping you?’ he said.

‘Oh no, I still have plenty of time. I promised my daughter I’d be home early today, that’s all.’

‘And what time does her father get home?’ he said, carving off a piece of bleu steak.

Now she was trapped. The rare meat quivered on his fork as if its synapses were still firing. Deciding that the truth would give him less to work with than a hedge, she said, ‘Actually, her father and I split up not long after I discovered I was pregnant.’

‘I’m sorry. It must be hard for you.’

She shrugged off the unwanted sympathy. ‘My mother lives down the road. She’s a big help and has a lot of time on her hands since my dad died.’

‘And, of course, you have Monty.’

The warmth spread from her neck and heated up her words. ‘If you’re trying to imply that Monty and I are anything other than old friends, you obviously aren’t as good at reading people as you like to think.’

De Vakey raised his hands in surrender, but the butterflies in her stomach told her it was she who’d lost the battle.

8

It is of vital importance that the investigating officers have some form of emotional release. Those without supportive families must have a life outside their work through which they can relax. An officer with no outside interests is well on the way to burn out.

De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

Stevie and De Vakey headed back to his hotel in the unmarked Commodore. They were passing through the Polly Pipe when he said, ‘Continue on the freeway past the old power station, it’ll probably be quickest.’

She shot him an irritated glance. The orange tunnel lights flicked across his face, striping it with light and shadow. ‘Know Perth well, do you?’

‘I grew up here. Still come over whenever I can for private consults. I’d live here if I had the choice, but unfortunately most of my work’s in the eastern states.’

Stevie masked her surprise; it was hard to imagine such a smooth, urbane man as this being at home anywhere but in a large cosmopolitan city. ‘Would you rather drive?’

‘No.’ And then, ‘Sorry, I’ve been back-seat driving haven’t I?’

She pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have let you drive even if you’d said yes.’

‘Ah, but you would have liked me to say yes. It would have given you the opportunity to put me in my place.’

‘Got it in one,’ she said, smiling at last. ‘So, what kind of private work do you do when you’re over here?’

He turned away from her to look through the side window. ‘Seminars mainly.’

Out of the tunnel, they saw the river, its surface under the gloomy sky grey as wrinkled as elephant’s skin. The dilapidated power station loomed amidst a tangle of wires. ‘I see they still haven’t made up their minds about what to do with that old place,’ he said.

‘It’s stirring up quite a controversy.’

‘And how do you feel about it?’

‘I don’t feel anything.’

‘Is that because you’re not originally from here?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ After a pause her curiosity got the better of her. ‘How do you know I’m not from Perth?’

‘Your accent for a start. You’re a country girl.’

Any minute now she expected him to comment on how out of place she seemed, that she was like a hayseed blown to the city on a warm wind.

For his sake, she was glad he didn’t.

She dropped him off at his hotel and wound her way through the afternoon traffic to her home in Maylands, one of the older suburbs. Hers was the most ramshackle house in the street—the price she’d paid was more or less block value only. Her father had insisted upon the purchase and given her the money for it—they’d done well from the sale of the family station. He’d said he wanted to see her settled before he died, said she’d get a lot of satisfaction doing the place up. And perhaps she would have if her circumstances had been different, if the challenge of day-to-day survival hadn’t proved so hard. Several years later the roof still leaked, the stumps were still supported by jacks and a recent storm had left one rusty gutter dangling like a withered vine.

She opened her front door to be almost knocked flat by her whirlwind of a daughter.

‘Mummy, Mummy you’re just in time for Playschool ! It’s on now, come on!’ A sticky little hand grabbed hers before she’d even had a chance to kick off her shoes.

At the same time her mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a chocolate-splattered apron, and launched into the day’s news as if any delay might cause her to forget something.

‘The teacher sent a permission slip home today for the zoo excursion next week. It’s all signed. I also put my name down to help with the busy bee on Saturday. They’ve started work on the new playground. We were hoping to get the cubbyhouse painted...’

‘Great...’

‘And I bought Izzy a new lunchbox, the one you bought her was ridiculously small.’

‘I thought it was fine. How was the parents’ assembly?’

‘It couldn’t even hold two pieces of fruit.’

‘But she never eats two pieces of fruit.’

‘She was very disappointed you couldn’t make it.’

‘C’mon Mummy, it’s starting!’ Izzy yelled from the lounge room.

Tied by each arm to galloping horses was not an unreasonable comparison. Just as Stevie felt herself begin to split, Dot said, ‘Izzy, let Mummy have a cup of tea with me in the kitchen first, then she’ll sit with you and watch Saddle Club .’

Izzy looked from Stevie to the firm expression on her nanna’s face, a look that used to have the most hardened jackeroos jumping for cover. The chocolate-covered mouth turned down with a synchronised whine of protest and Izzy stomped back into the living room.

Stevie swiped her hair from her eyes, secured her ponytail. ‘Thanks Mum, it’s been quite a day.’

Dot Hooper regarded her daughter’s bomber jacket. ‘Well, I’m just glad you got rid of that old bike. I wouldn’t have wanted you riding in this weather.’

‘I’m not stupid; I would never have ridden in this. I don’t think I’d have had the energy to start it, let alone stay on it.’

The whistle of the kettle lured them into what the real estate agent had called the ‘Magnificent potential of the authentic 1950s kitchen,’ where they made tea and sat down at the table.

With the first mouthful of homemade brownie, Stevie tasted childhood: afternoon tea in the hayshed with her brothers and sometimes Monty, School of the Air, bare feet, red dirt, spinifex and bull ants.

Her mother had drifted into a similar train of thought. ‘Do you remember how much your father loved my chocolate brownies? Once, when he was expecting them for afternoon tea, I ran out of cocoa and had to make Anzacs instead. I think I can honestly say that was one of the few times he’d ever shown unjustifiable anger.’

‘That wasn’t long after he got the diagnosis, Mum. That was probably the real reason for his anger,’ Stevie said softly.