After the Flood, page 12
‘Sorry for all the drama,’ he said. Clement tried to reassure him there was nothing to forgive. He knew Earle wouldn’t want to say more in front of the others anyway. Earle begged off food and Clement recapped what di Rivi had just told them.
‘The witnesses are all over the place, like they often are, but it seems,’ says Clement, ‘there are nights when Seydoux isn’t at home.’
Earle reminded him, ‘Lauren Bagot said he likes to go for long drives on the bike and sometimes camps out.’
He could be doing that, thought Clement.
‘Recently his routine seems to have changed. He’d normally leave about four, I’m guessing to go to the beach. Lately though, he was leaving around lunchtime. What was he doing?’
Blank faces stared back at him. Josh Shepherd licked his fingers clean.
‘He could just have been testing out his new ride,’ said Shepherd.
That was true, thought Clement. Maybe he was overthinking but it would at least be nice to know where Seydoux spent Wednesday night. He moved on.
‘Josh, how did you go?’
‘Stuff all,’ said Shepherd leaning back in his plastic chair. ‘I got through about a third of the shops but a lot closed up early for Saturday. A few people said he looked familiar but I didn’t get one bloody hit of any use until I got to Squeeze.’
That was a juice shop.
‘The girl there remembered him as a Pineapple Express, that’s the juice he always ordered. She said he had an accent, Spanish she thought, durr, and he often came in with two or three other people who looked like they did Pilates or something together.’
That would likely be the crew I’ve just met at the beach, thought Clement. He turned to Lisa Keeble.
‘Fill us in.’
‘As for the flat, no large sums of cash, no flunitrazepam – otherwise known as Rohypnol – no blood stains, no railway spikes. Nothing there to suggest a violent struggle recent or past. On the vehicle that killed Seydoux, some progress. Perth reckons their best guess is it’s a standard four-wheel drive that crushed Seydoux, went over him, then backed up, then went over him again. The tyre marks were only partial but they say the weight looks right. We took various other photos and casts of tyre marks in the vicinity. If we believe the ringers at the station, then some tyre marks we found about fifty metres south of the body could be better versions of the vehicle’s. That’s why it’s Perth’s best guess but they won’t commit to an exact make of tyre even.’
Earle asked, ‘How about the vehicles at the Meda station?’
‘Two four-wheel drives. I’ve run tests inside and out and there’s nothing that says either is the one used.’
Clement said, ‘And nothing that rules them out?’
‘Correct.’
Clement then spoke his own thoughts aloud. ‘If this was a crime in the heat of the moment then maybe somebody at the station could be involved, but Seydoux was drugged. I think that’s premeditation. It’s planned, and in some way personal. So why, if I work and live at the station do I shit in my own nest? Much more likely somebody drove or met Seydoux somewhere in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Although not too far from where Lauren Bagot works at Hardcastle Minerals.’
Shepherd was vigorous on his burger.
‘Indeed,’ said Clement and looked back at Keeble, bidding her to continue.
‘Three possible vehicles at Hardcastle but two we think we can rule out. The keys were in the locked office in a locked cabinet and the site manager keeps the key to that on his person. You can’t rule out that somebody made a copy of the key to the cabinet but the office is alarmed and only the site manager and his assistant have the code.’
‘Mal checked them out,’ volunteered di Rivi, ‘and there are no flags on either the site manager or the assistant.’
Keeble went on. ‘The third vehicle was being used by a Kevin Atkinson. He says the key was in his room with him when he went to sleep and right there when he woke up. His room was unlocked so it’s possible that somebody could take it and return it while he slept. We’ve tested the vehicle and there is no sign of blood, Seydoux’s prints or anything nasty. There is also no indication at all of it being bleached. The soil around Hardcastle is near identical to Meda so any match in the tyres means nothing really. I know I’m not a detective but speaking as a woman, there is no way Lauren Bagot is having it off with Atkinson rather than Seydoux.’
‘He’s like me, fat and old?’ said Earle.
‘You’re George Clooney compared to him.’
Clement knew, however, there could be myriad reasons why Bagot might work in concert with Atkinson.
‘Jo, I want you to drive there tomorrow first thing and make some inquiries at Hardcastle about what Lauren Bagot might have said about her relationship with Seydoux. She mentioned two other women who work there, they might be a good starting point but, you know, a mining camp is a very limited space. If Lauren was close to anybody up there, somebody will know. I can tell you guys that Manners has done a good job and there is nothing in the phone records of Lauren Bagot that indicates any other relationship. Her texts to Seydoux are not angry. Her bank statements are exactly what you’d expect. As for Seydoux, no activity on his phone after he received a call from Bagot at six twenty p.m. Thursday.’
Earle deduced, ‘He knew where he was going. If Bagot is involved, that phone call might have set the arrangement. But it could have been organised beforehand or he met somebody right off after the class.’
Clement agreed. ‘Manners is sorting through Seydoux’s phone calls and messages. There is a young woman with dark hair whom he sometimes meets after his class. A witness says she was there around six forty. I’d like to find her, so I’ll get Mal Gross to get a couple of our better uniforms out to the beach to ask around.’
Everybody had finished their meals and Clement did not want to keep anybody, particularly Graeme Earle, longer than necessary. It had been a gruelling day.
‘So what do we think about Lauren Bagot?’
Earle ventured, ‘So far what she told us has no holes in it. She had possible access to the vehicle and the murder site but it would not be easy. It would take a deal of planning and a bit of luck, and I reckon she’d need an accomplice.’
‘I agree,’ said Clement. ‘We’ll see what Jo can find out but I’m inclined to rate her very low. We can’t rule out that somebody simply killed Seydoux for the bike but why they would peg him out like a claim … that seems personal.’
‘Unless they are trying to throw us off the scent,’ said Shepherd.
Keeble wrinkled her nose. ‘Still seems a very complicated way to go about it if all you’re after is the bike.’
Clement said, ‘I agree, but I don’t think we can discard any theory yet. The key to this is who Jean-Claude really is. Where did he get that money? Was it from something illegal?’
‘He’s not on the radar of the Feds or Wildlife,’ said Earle. ‘I got a message about an hour ago from Mal Gross.’
‘Like I said, we can’t rule anything out,’ repeated Clement. ‘Tomorrow morning, Jo, Hardcastle. It’s a Sunday, so some workers might be offsite. Any who aren’t at work might be in Derby or Fitzroy Crossing, so chase them up. Some could be in Perth or interstate. Josh, continue with the shops.’ Josh looked downwards and dropped his serviette to the table like a kid pretending his bomber was unleashing a payload. He was sulking but too bad.
Clement ran on. ‘Lisa, everything and anything.’
When the others had gone, Clement and Earle leaned back against Clement’s car.
‘Josh was underwhelmed,’ chuckled Earle.
Clement smiled. ‘I think Lauren is genuine.’
‘Me too.’ Earle scuffed loose stones on the bitumen. ‘Rhys was with those protest people. The Meadows.’
Earle gave Clement a short version of events. Told him about the heart-to-heart.
‘I mean maybe I have been deaf to him. You expect, you know, when they’re eighteen or something they will go their own way. You don’t think it’s going to happen this soon.’
And Clement felt it then rising up, that buried fear that Phoebe might feel the same, like he was an intrusion on her life. And where would that leave him? A lonely, middle-aged man with his best years adrift.
‘You best get back,’ said Clement, and watched as his friend drove away.
The air was a warm flannel. Over the last several years rain seemed to be coming earlier in November than what Clement remembered as a kid but so far this year it had been as dry as Marilyn’s quips. A thunderstorm would be welcome.
Clement sat on his bed. Even with the window open and the fan on, it was still oppressive. He’d not long got off the phone from Seydoux’s sister who had called him direct. She spoke reasonable English and had already talked things through with her other brother who did not. Unfortunately, she had been able to shed no light on her brother’s killing, other than to say that he had seemed happy in his relationship with Lauren. His brother, who had also spoken to Jean-Claude’s best friends, had passed on that Jean-Claude did not appear to be troubled in any way when he’d last spoken with him.
Dead end. Clement was frustrated.
The phone he discovered still in his hands might as surely have been the apple the serpent tempted Eve with. It whispered to him. He dialled. The phone rang, three long burrs. On the fourth it was answered.
‘Yes, Dan.’ Marilyn’s world-weary voice like he’d been calling every day for a week when in actual fact they’d not have spoken more than twice in the month.
‘You didn’t tell me about the band tour.’ It came out like a spray from an Untouchable’s Tommy gun and even as he pulled the trigger, he regretted that he had not fought the impulse harder. There was a pause. A breath, the passive-aggressive, I’m-being-patient kind.
‘No. I should have. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, I appreciate your deep and obvious concern but I went to a lot of trouble to organise a boat and plan out a schedule.’
‘I doubt that. I’m guessing you walked into the Anglers one night and asked if anybody, or maybe it was your mate Bill, had a boat free. Now,’ she added hastily, like ointment after a burn, ‘I know that doesn’t excuse me and I know you’re a good dad and you love your time with Phoebe …’
‘Damn right.’
‘… but I only found out myself a week ago. Maybe just over. And I meant to tell you. I did.’
‘I guess you were too busy arranging the champagne in the fridge by size.’ It was a poor comeback and she duly smashed it across his bow.
‘I thought you would have remembered I hardly drink champagne.’ Another sigh. ‘One of the reasons I probably put off the call is because in the back of my mind I knew it would devolve into this bickering.’
‘It wouldn’t have if you had let me know.’
‘You sure about that?’
Why did she always manage to make it like it was his fault? He never should have called. He had squandered the high ground to plunge headlong down the slope and find only a stalking-horse waiting.
She kept on. ‘You have my apology. If you’d like me to refund the hire or find another boat later, I can pay.’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘If there’s nothing further then …’
He stabbed the button to end the call and cursed himself. She’d almost been out of his system. Almost. And now she was right back in there.
When he turned out the lights it would only be her face he saw.
13 FIFTY-TWO HOURS EARLIER
Thursday November 11 2021
Ingrid and he had taken a walk to the west side of the island where he had shown her some of the bird habitats. They had fallen into step side-by-side but they had not held hands. At one point he’d gone to reach out for hers as a reflex because the only time he’d ever had any woman walking to match his step had been Gabrielly and it just came naturally to him. He had caught himself in time and didn’t think Ingrid had realised but he had panicked after that, becoming aware for the first time that he was not holding her hand. That had been disconcerting but eventually the feeling had faded. She’d had some rounds to do and he had a few spreadsheets to fill out but when those were done, they had met up in the cafeteria again and then Ingrid had invited him into her unit.
She had pulled a bottle of beer for herself and one for him from the bar fridge and he had not refused. She had a bunch of DVDs and had offered him the choice.
‘You pick,’ he’d said, self-conscious because he hardly ever watched any movies and wouldn’t have a clue what to suggest.
‘Most of them are girl things you’ll probably hate.’
‘I don’t care,’ he’d said.
‘Funny or sad?’ Before he could answer, she said, ‘Actually I’ve only got funny.’
And it made him laugh. Not a belly laugh but a chuckle.
The movie she picked was Fun With Dick And Jane with Jim Carrey and a woman he remembered from TV who was really good. Attractive too. He’d never seen a Jim Carrey movie although he had heard of him.
It was an interesting movie. Dick and Jane were ordinary, good people but they lost everything because of others’ greed. That was a story Paul was all too familiar with. They decide to do robberies. They break the law and we can all see they are only doing this because it has been forced on them. And all that is well and good but it raises the question of the innocent people who might suffer because of them.
That point resonated with him. It’s not just about you, it was saying. And there it was again, that … well not so much panic, as rising dread.
Ingrid laughed a lot throughout the movie and he enjoyed her laughing, and even he, despite his muddle of thoughts, couldn’t help himself, especially when Jim Carrey got brain freeze from the icy drink. There he was, laughing, getting pleasure from life.
Everything had seemed so settled just a few weeks ago. He had been so certain that life was a desolate wasteland, that life was non-life. For sure, the corporate forces didn’t care about the little man. They were a juggernaut whose goal was to grow bigger and fatter by feeding on the misery of the peasants. And this unformed, shapeless idea that he’d sensed but not been able discern fully had coalesced when he’d found the Marx book on the verge. He was sure there had been a purpose in him finding that. He was sure a hand was guiding him, maybe Gabrielly’s. Yet he had felt alone, isolated from everybody he knew. His new knowledge hadn’t helped one iota, if anything it was salt to his wounds. The inexorable path he was on might be certain but it offered no rescue. It led to the edge of a cliff and he was going over it. Until one night you are wandering under the pleasant early-spring night sky of Broome and boom! You collide with destiny. And you say, well I’m going over the cliff but why be a lemming, why not make Gabrielly’s death and that of my unborn child count for something?
It seemed that he was being channelled by some universal plan.
Except now he had to ask himself, was that really destiny or was that nothing but a false trail? Was this, could this possibly be, destiny? The warm body of another human being beside you? What made more sense, Gabrielly as the avenger, or Gabrielly as one who forgave? She was compassion itself. So this, this with Ingrid was confusing. Since that day when Ingrid had met him on his walk and they had talked about the birds, he had felt something in his universe shift. He cared for her. Not as a lover, not yet at any rate. Here they were fully clothed watching a movie, that was all. But the big point was that he had found himself able to care about somebody at all. What was important in the movie is what Dick and Jane feel for one another. Yes, they get the bad guy, give him a satisfying comeuppance, though that probably wouldn’t ever happen in real life, but it’s their love that is important.
After the movie, Ingrid had had another beer. One had been enough for him. They had sat on her bed to watch the movie, that was the most comfortable way but it was a tight space and they had been squeezed together.
‘Want to try another one?’ she had asked.
‘Sure,’ he said. This time it was Pirates of the Caribbean.
‘It’s kind of silly but I like Johnny Depp.’
And it was silly but that was a good thing because his head was still spinning from the first movie.
Halfway through, she had fallen asleep resting on his chest. It was the most intimate thing that had happened in his life since that day. He should feel guilty, disgusted with himself for his treachery to Gabrielly but he did not. In fact, he imagined Gabrielly smiling at him with those dimpled cheeks as if saying, ‘Go on, there’s nothing wrong.’
But then he was worried that might just be his own self-serving projection. He’d never seen Gabrielly jealous. Not that he had ever given her reason to be. He wondered if the situation had been reversed and it was him who had perished, whether he would want Gabrielly to be lying with her head on some stranger’s chest. No. That was the answer that jumped out at him. But once you are dead what is it to you? It should be a simple question shouldn’t it? Do you want your lover happy or not? He supposed you wanted to give them that opportunity but only if you knew that they weren’t going to take it up because then what if they were happier with the new person? What did that say about the life you’d had together? That it hadn’t been that special after all? That time healed? That worse, the first instalment was but an illusion. For a long time, he just lay there watching the movie but not really taking it in. Instead, he kept wondering about Gabrielly and destiny. Loyalty.
When she had been lost to him, it was as if he was the one who had been shipwrecked, life disappearing in full sail over the horizon. He felt totally alone, and that isolation became his status quo, it defined him. Until that night in Broome wandering along the beach, he had heard voices and spied the glow of a campfire. He had stopped and stood in the shadows listening, catching the words, expressing, incredibly, the very sentiments he had been mulling over. Yes, in a different way, but the same sense.
‘Humankind is fractured,’ this man’s voice was saying. ‘And it is no accident. Globalisation has deprived us of everything: our nationalities, yes but that could have been a good thing if it had rid the world of jingoism. But has it? No. That’s worse than ever but it is allowed to play out on sports fields. Games to distract the masses, while our humanity is leeched from us, keystroke by keystroke. A man or woman is no more than a digitised stroke that exists in cyberspace. We are an algorithm’s DNA, that’s what we are. The multinationals are a bunch of cleverly adapting viruses working in concert. Each attempt to rid us of them is absorbed and mutated so that the virus gets even stronger and humanity weaker. We are replaceable, interchangeable. We trade our souls for something as useless as this.’
