Liars, page 12
‘Okay. Thanks for all that.’
‘No problem.’
Seb hung up. He wondered if Karen had spoken to Tom about the person she saw meet her ex in the park. He rang him.
‘Sorry, Tom. Can I ask just one more thing about Karen?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did she mention her court matters in Sydney?’
‘Court? No.’
‘Right. She was charged with stealing phones from Bondi Beach.’
‘Shit.’
‘She was trying to trade some information to police to get a more lenient sentence. She said she had seen someone hanging around with crime figures. Sorry. Must be a shock.’
‘Another one.’
‘Did she ever talk about trying to identify someone, or seeing a clean-shaven middle-aged man with glasses in a suit? Someone she was trying to put a name to?’
‘Nah. Not at all.’
‘Okay. If you remember anything, even a throwaway comment she made, let me know.’
‘Sure. Fuck. You think you know someone …’
After ending the call, Seb wondered what to do next. Before he had worked it out, he got a text from Barb.
Please text me photo of syringe Joe used. Will explain later
Doing so would be a breach of police rules, but he had just told several lies to a fellow officer. If he wanted to find out what happened, it seemed rules had to be broken. He found the photo in his phone and sent it.
CHAPTER 20
After she left Sue’s, Barb walked down to the bay and out to the end of the jetty. The hill behind her hid the late afternoon sun, so she was able to stare out into the bay without squinting.
Had she solved the mystery of Joe’s death? She tried to think it through as a pelican glided peacefully past, unperturbed by the drama that had recently engulfed Bullford Point. Maybe it had its own problems. Relationship break-up, insomnia, fish shortage, aching wing. Who knew?
After a few minutes, Barb texted Seb and waited for his reply. When the photo came, she looked closely at it and then walked back to Sue’s, where she found her friend, still slumped in her armchair, looking exhausted. Having a daughter herself, one who had thankfully had a relatively trouble-free passage through life so far, Barb could imagine how hard the last few years must have been on Sue.
Or could she? Perhaps you could never properly understand the problems of others, because when you tried to, you usually just thought about them for a couple of minutes and then moved on to something else. Whereas Leanne’s problems would be continually running around Sue’s head all day, every day, wearing her down.
‘You said you left Joe a syringe,’ said Barb. ‘Where did you get it from?’
‘Why?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Online. Can’t remember.’
‘Can you find a picture of it?’
‘Probably.’
‘Quick sticks, then.’
Sue didn’t move.
‘It didn’t happen the way you think,’ said Barb. ‘Joe didn’t succumb to temptation, because that doesn’t explain everything else: his teeth, the belt, injecting into his elbow, his pyjamas, the sheets or the spare key. I think Joe was murdered. Let’s find out if the syringe that was next to his bed was the one you left him, or a different one.’
Sue blinked, heaved herself up and led Barb into a messy cell-like office containing a filing cabinet, chair and desk, upon which sat a laptop and lots of papers. Barb hovered over her as she searched her emails. She opened an order confirmation that showed a picture of a syringe.
‘Can you enlarge it?’ Barb asked.
Sue did, and Barb compared it to the picture Seb had sent of the syringe found in Joe’s room.
‘They’re different. Yours is shorter and wider. The syringe that injected Joe wasn’t the one you left for him.’
Sue looked uncomprehendingly up at her.
‘Do you think Joe didn’t like the syringe you left him?’ asked Barb. ‘So when he decided to use your heroin, he went to all the trouble of getting a different one?’
Sue’s eyes widened.
‘Has Leanne ever been picky about what sort of syringe she uses?’ asked Barb.
Sue shook her head.
‘Getting a syringe isn’t like buying a new shirt, where it has to look just right,’ said Barb. ‘It’s like buying a hammer. Who cares what it looks like, as long as it does the job? He didn’t use your heroin. He saw your welcome home present, he didn’t want it, and he threw it out.’
‘So I didn’t …’
‘You tempted him. But he resisted. I get why you did it, but it was a bad thing to do. Then, later on, someone killed him using a different syringe and different heroin.’
Sue dropped her head and her chest heaved. Barb put her hand gently on her shoulder.
As she walked home, Barb felt relieved Sue wasn’t responsible for Joe’s death. On the other hand, she was back to square one. What next? Joe’s funeral tomorrow. A sad day. She wondered if his killer would be there.
PART 3
CHAPTER 21
Viv hated gatherings, especially when he was the focus. His parents were no longer alive, and he had no other siblings, which meant everyone’s attention would be on him, the bereaved older brother. The funeral had gone well enough, he supposed, but the wake was where everyone would want to talk to him. He steeled himself, took one last, longing look out past the jetty into the peace of the bay, and entered Bullford Point hall.
Inside, there were maybe eighty people, most clumped in groups of four or five around the plain, timber-floored hall, weighted more toward the far end where a makeshift bar had been created with a couple of trestle tables. Next to it was another table overflowing with party pies, sausage rolls and quiches. Nothing fancy, or too expensive. Viv had known better than to ask Sue to cater Joe’s wake, and instead found a company in Woy Woy. When they asked if he was going to pick up the bar tab, he was about to say an adamant ‘no’ before he remembered he had just become the outright owner of a house worth several million dollars, and that Dev wanted to buy it for more than its market value.
‘First thousand,’ he’d said instead. It might make people think he was nice. He was trying to get better at that.
He took a few tentative steps into the throng, already feeling glances in his direction. He had known almost everyone in the room for decades. Thankfully, none of Joe’s junkie mates from Sydney seemed to have made the trip. Perhaps he didn’t have any. He wished he was back on his bike. He had gone for a long ride that morning during which, pleasingly, he had overtaken nine other cyclists and not been overtaken by any. Particularly satisfying had been passing two show-offs with top of the range bikes, wraparound sunglasses and even aerodynamically shaped helmets going up a hill. He had deliberately slowed his breathing as he overtook them so it looked like he wasn’t even trying.
Riding usually helped him clarify things, but not this time. He was supposed to be grieving his younger sibling’s death, but Viv was more angry than sad. Angry at his talented, popular brother for wasting his life by enslaving himself to a drug, angry at him for manipulating and stealing from their parents, angry at him for becoming such a colossal prick.
He had been furious that Joe’s self-destructiveness had caused their mum to leave him two-thirds of her house. Firstly because it was unfair, and secondly because it had placed him in financial jeopardy. It had been Viv who’d visited her regularly, fixed anything that broke, and held her hand as her health declined. Well, held it metaphorically, except for that one time in hospital when she had asked him to. It had felt clammy and awkward, and he’d let go as soon as he could.
Viv knew he was a good lawyer. He never missed a deadline or overlooked an obscure contractual clause. He gave every client excellent advice. The problem was that he was bad at people. He had started at a medium-sized firm, but found the politics baffling and unsettling. Now he worked alone, which was much better, except for the permanent avalanche of admin, and there being no one else who could talk to the clients.
He had slowly worked out that to keep clients happy, you had to do more than good legal work. You had to smile, nod and act sympathetic, almost like you were their friend. He tried, but a peek at his online reviews had left him shaken. ‘Robotic’, ‘No empathy’, ‘Treated my life like a maths problem’. Now he was on the verge of having to close his office to cut costs, and that was a slippery slope. Even he knew that a lawyer meeting clients at home or in a café did not give off the safe, reassuring vibes they craved.
The plan, when his mother died, had been to sell her house and use his share to pay off his mortgage, upgrade his bike, pump some money into marketing and advertising, and even consider getting a client-friendly partner who could do the meet and greet. Mum leaving Joe a two-thirds share and a controlling interest torpedoed that.
He should try and focus on some good memories of his brother, in case anyone asked him for a story about Joe or to share a happy memory. They had definitely played together when young, but in their teens got on less well. For every blurry image he had in his head of them fishing off their jetty or riding bikes, there was another of Joe shouting at him or his parents, sullenly refusing to communicate, or storming out of the house in a fury.
Their relationship improved when they formed From Afar. Viv had liked drumming, and when Joe wrote a tune, Viv could always find the right beat. Keeping time was not dissimilar to the cadence of cycling. Regular. Predictable. Sensible. When they played together, they communicated with glances and nods, which worked much better than words ever had.
For Viv, the band was never more than a hobby, but Joe genuinely believed they had a chance of making it. After Sal vanished and the band broke up, Viv missed playing, but was also relieved that he could concentrate on finishing his studies and beginning his legal career.
A couple of years later, he escaped the city and moved back to live in Bullford Point and work in Woy Woy. Joe stayed in Sydney, took up drugs, and as far as any meaningful relationship between the brothers went, that was pretty much it. Whenever Joe called, ‘just to say g’day’, there would always be a request for money. Eventually, Viv stopped answering.
When Joe called him from jail, bail refused, Viv wasn’t surprised. In fact, it had seriously undermined his faith in the criminal justice system that it had taken so long for his brother to get there. Given Joe’s lack of a stable job, he could only have been financing his drug habit from some fairly persistent crime.
He visited Joe once. He didn’t want to, but his incarceration was the biggest news in Bullford Point since a drunk teenager had driven a motorbike off the jetty, so he would have looked like a prick if he hadn’t. A two-hour drive followed by an awkward chat across a plastic table as Joe slurped the Coke Viv bought him and tried not to look at the musclehead over Joe’s shoulder feel up his girlfriend. After they got through the small talk – ‘Food okay?’ ‘Depends. You like cardboard?’ – Joe had said he wanted to go to rehab. Viv barely resisted scoffing, but, surprisingly, Joe had got himself in and completed the program.
After he moved back to Bullford Point, Viv had given Joe an old computer he had, bought him some equipment for his stupid podcast, even asked him over for dinner, where he made the mistake of offering him wine. ‘I’m off everything, but you have one.’ Viv wasn’t a big drinker, but that night he finished a bottle himself, just to get through the awkwardness of it.
When the development deal was on the table, he prayed Joe would take it. He didn’t want to co-own anything with an ex-junkie who was probably one bad day away from relapsing. More importantly, he needed the money. It was incredibly frustrating to have a million dollars, enough to sort things out, and not be able to get it. Finally, Joe agreed to sell, and Viv started to relax. Then Joe changed his mind, and Viv felt the earth slide.
Maybe that was why he didn’t feel sad. Because he was too busy feeling relieved. Now he was the house’s sole owner. He wasn’t travel-to-Monaco-in-a-private-jet rich or don’t-have-to-work-anymore rich, but he was not-going-to-lose-your-business-and-house-and-be-out-on-the-street rich. Perhaps that wasn’t rich, but it was a lot better than what he had been.
CHAPTER 22
‘And that’s why Barry never worked in television again!’ punchlined Gary, beaming his television smile. As he’d expected, the audience erupted. Not bad, given he was at a wake. That was catharsis for you. As a performer, his role was to help people process the tragedy of death by sharing insights, empathy and funny stories about drunk newsreaders.
He followed the golden rule – leave on a big laugh – gave the semi-circle surrounding him a wave and headed for the bar, feeling impressed eyes on him as he passed. Since his return to television as host of Which Duck? four weeks ago – Channel 9, 5.30 p.m., Monday to Friday – he had noticed more people looking at him as he went about his day, and did not mind one bit.
Were it not for some ridiculous, short-sighted, merit-blind and probably corrupt decisions by various television executives that had sidelined him for several years, he would never have been away. His official line was that his enforced absence from the box had allowed him to ‘get back to my roots’ and play comedy clubs. In fact, he had mainly done corporates, comedy in a suit, as well as the odd guest spot on television panel shows, leaving him with plenty of free time. Too much, really. He had probably wallowed a bit.
Some financial rationalising had also been necessary. Sell the apartment with views of apartments with water views in Sydney, buy a house with an actual water view in Bullford Point, and have enough left over for a decent-sized boat. His parents had retired and moved to the Sunshine Coast, but Bullford Point still felt like home. More peaceful than Sydney, but close enough that he could zoom down the highway for gigs and meetings. All good. More or less. Now he was back with what was already Australia’s third favourite game show and gaining rapidly on second place.
‘Great eulogy, Gary,’ said Bill Hopkins.
He didn’t need people’s compliments to know he had nailed it, but it was still nice to get them. He mouthed, ‘Thanks,’ nodded solemnly back, not slowing down to give the old coot any opportunity to prolong the conversation.
He had been particularly happy with his opening line. ‘I really miss Joe, and not just because he owes me fifty dollars.’ A joke containing a deeper truth that broke the ice, released the tension and let everyone know that he wasn’t going to pretend Joe was a saint.
‘I’m no expert on what drove him, or where his demons came from,’ he had continued, gravitas oozing, ‘but I do know Joe could be friendly, funny and great company. He was spontaneous and full of ideas. Many of those ideas, admittedly, were terrible, but still … And he could be thoughtful and considered …’ That was a stretch, but he probably had been once or twice.
‘He was the life of the party, but that became a double-edged sword. I don’t know why Joe’s life took the course it did, but there was a turning point. Seven years ago we were in a band in Sydney. He loved it, wrote great songs and was excited about the future. Then our band unravelled and that hit him hard. When a few months later our friend, Sal, who many of you knew, was murdered, that hit him harder. After that, things really went downhill for poor Joe.’
Hard truths, but they needed to be said, and he was the guy to say them. Not a bad turnout, either, given the number of people Joe had alienated and pissed off over the last few years.
He reached the bar and grabbed a white wine. More calorie friendly than beer. He had to watch his waistline now he was back in Australia’s lounge rooms.
He had always loved performing. He first got a taste in school musicals, then in the band. He could act a bit, had a decent voice, but his biggest asset was his stage presence. He belonged in front of an audience. When others got nervous, he got excited. Onstage, he was at ease. Not just himself, but a better version of himself: funnier, cleverer, happier, more energetic and alive. All the great performers were different onstage – Elvis, Pink, Steven Wright. They knew how to turn it on (or in Wright’s case, off) and so did Gary.
After school he had moved to Sydney and done communication at UTS, but that was just to do something. What he’d really wanted was to see how far their band could go. They made progress, but bands had a lot of voices, and not just the ones singing. Everyone had an opinion on everything (except Viv, obviously). It took a two-hour meeting to get agreement on buying a new extension cord.
Ideally, Gary wanted to be in charge. One night he and Joe went to a comedy night at The Antler in Glebe, and something clicked. Comedians had total control over what they did. They didn’t have to share decision-making, applause or laughter with anyone.
Some of the comedians he saw that night had good material, but couldn’t sell it, while others had confidence and presence, but only average jokes. He spent the next day watching more on YouTube. There were two variables: stage presence and material. If you lacked one, but had lots of the other, you could go okay, but if you wanted to make it, you needed both.
He knew he had the presence and confidence, so he tried to write jokes. It was harder than song lyrics, where you could get away with lines that sounded deep but didn’t mean anything.
After an hour writing comedy he had some observations about driving in cars, and a true story about being allergic to cats. Were they funny? One way to find out. He rang The Antler and put his name down for open mic night. Turned out they weren’t. He got some chuckles with his charm, but that was it. He tried again and again, without much improvement. It was frustrating. Comedy was a great pipeline to fame. So he kept working until he had his breakthrough.
