Lapse, page 17
‘So who’s the guy I saw you with the other day, coming back from Earlville? Blue ute, the skinhead at the wheel.’
‘You mean Cleggy?’ he asked.
‘Who’s Cleggy?’
‘Jase. Jason Clegg. He’s a good guy. He’s been helping me train at the gym.’
So Red Flanno has a name, she thought, and he hangs around in gyms.
‘He’s not giving you any gear, is he?’
‘Nah, I can’t afford it…I mean, no, he doesn’t do that stuff anyway.’
‘Yeah, well, stay away from it, right. It’s totally not on. We’re going to win this thing fair and square, and you don’t need it anyway—look at you, you’re a bloody superstar these days.’
He puffed out his chest, smiled.
‘Is there anything else we need to speak about, Todd? You’re not going to be out throwing any more bricks, are you? Because I don’t want you in the lock-up for the semi-final.’
That seemed to shock him, the reality of being arrested, the fear of missing out. He blinked and shook his head.
‘Good,’ she said and started walking back to the sideline.
‘Umm, well, actually, I do need to let you know something…’ he mumbled.
She stopped, turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, ah. Well, see, it’s something you need to know.’
‘Out with it, Wakely.’
‘Well, it’s…You…Well, you just need to stay out of it.’
‘Stay out of what?’
‘The Clancy thing,’ he whispered.
Heat rose in her neck and fanned out like a flame across her cheeks.
‘What do you mean, the Clancy thing?’
‘You know, him leaving the team and stuff. You shouldn’t be talking to him or trying to get him back.’
‘I’ll talk to whoever I damn well please, Wakely—no racist shitheads are going to tell me what to do, and you can take that back to your friends and tell ’em to shove it where the sun don’t shine.’
‘Aw, Jonesy, don’t be like that…There’s talk, you know, about what he said in the court case a few years back. It’s just not safe for you to be around him.’
‘Did you and your thug mates break into my house?’ she said, eyes blazing.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
He looked genuinely confused. Wakely may not have been involved, she thought—he would have been exhausted after training and then he’d have had to drive all the way to Earlville later to participate in the riot—but maybe his associates were responsible.
‘Somebody broke into my house, roughed up my dog. Was it you?’
‘No, Jonesy, never—I’d never do that.’
‘Was it your mates, then? Jason Clegg?’ Her anger was tumbling out, unfiltered.
He said nothing, shaking his head, fear in his eyes.
‘This is where it leads, this nonsense. This is where it all ends up!’ She was breathing heavily, glaring at his downcast face. She counted to five. ‘Todd, you’re bigger than all this. You know that. You don’t belong in that crowd. Your team is here, right here. It’s us that’s on your side, not these brutes who throw bricks at people’s roofs and set houses alight, for Christ’s sake.’
He swallowed, started fidgeting with the hem of his guernsey.
She let it rest, hoping it was enough, hoping she’d broken through. ‘All right, then, I believe you, but I don’t trust your mates, not for one second. Now go get changed.’ He started walking away, relieved. ‘Oh, and look after yourself, okay?’ she called after him. ‘I don’t want you getting any injuries before the game—in fact give the gym a miss. I’d wrap you in cottonwool if I could.’
He turned, smiled, trotted off to the sheds.
She walked over to the car park, feeling weary with the weight of these young men and their futures. Rowan was over by his van, looking thoughtful. Wakely Senior was standing nearby on his own, an anxious look on his face. He’d been watching her with Todd. She went over, asked him for his thoughts on the training session, any pointers. He had little comment to make—the man was like a wound-up spring.
‘Just had a chat with young Todd. Bit of a worry, that new hairdo,’ she said, smiling.
Wakely looked relieved that she’d brought it up.
‘Oh, it’s horrible. I don’t know what to do with the boy,’ he said, his eyes darting around the car park at the remaining supporters and the players now beginning to emerge from the sheds. ‘I’m sick with worry about him. His mother would turn in her grave if she saw his head looking like that’—he leaned in close, lowering his voice—‘and the company he’s keeping. It’s no good, it’s no good at all.’ He cast another nervous look across the car park.
She said it was probably just a phase, something he had to go through before he woke up to the fact it was all bollocks. Then she gave Wakely something to do: ‘Get some good food into him this week, John, and plenty of sleep. I’ve told him not to go to the gym because I don’t want any injuries, so if you could keep him occupied at night, that would be good—maybe watch some replays of the AFL finals from last year with him? I’ve got copies—I’ll drop them in to you. Anything to keep him home.’
He grabbed at the idea like a lifeline.
As he drove off, she walked over to her car, parked next to Rowan’s van. Rowan was there, leaning against it, waiting for her still. He wore his usual khaki jacket, which emphasised his broad shoulders, dirty jeans, wide brown belt hugging narrow hips. She caught herself—the fact that she was even noticing these things was a problem. She needed to get back behind the wall, fortify the ramparts. She took a deep breath of icy air.
‘Bloody hell, eh. The Cats,’ he grinned, as she approached.
She smiled. ‘Yep. Who would’ve believed it?’
He stood up straight, his thumb hooked over the top of his front jeans pocket. ‘Up for a meal at the pub before you head for the hills?’
She felt both a flash of desire and a rush of anxiety. ‘Thanks, but I have a casserole I need to finish up at home,’ she lied, wondering whether she’d remembered to top up the cans of soup in the pantry.
‘Ha, you’re like me. Nothin’ better than your own company, right?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Well, what about the pub Friday night? They do a good chicken parma special.’
His smile was framed by an un-sculpted three-day growth and his eyes had an optimistic sparkle. This has to stop, she thought. ‘I’m having a quiet one, sorry—gotta study up on the game plan,’ she said as she opened the rear door and threw her bag in, hoping the stab of regret she was feeling wasn’t obvious.
He gave her another smile, walked to the driver’s side of his van. ‘No worries. See you at the game.’ He was still smiling as he opened the front door of the van. ‘Semi-final, bloody hell…’ He shook his head, grunted, as if he never thought he’d see the day.
As she was pulling out of the car park, she noticed Torrens coming out of the sheds. He jogged over, waving. She stopped and wound down the window.
‘Have you heard anything from the cops?’ he asked, leaning down to speak to her.
‘No, not since that first house call. You?’
‘They dropped the whole Audi thing after they saw the lump on my head—very authentic,’ he laughed. ‘They’re all over me like a rash for the letterbox, but. Threatening me with me parole and stuff.’
Guilt slithered through her like a snake. It was the same feeling, always. Was Torrens’ life the next one she would destroy?
‘God, I’m so sorry I got you involved that night, Torrens.’
‘Nah, don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘They’ve got nothin’ on me—they’ll lose interest and it’ll be over in a day or so.’
‘Maybe I should talk to Sergeant Phillips, tell him how well you’re doing.’
‘Shit no, don’t do that. That’ll make the old git even more suspicious. Just keep quiet and it’ll all blow over.’
She wasn’t so sure, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could do. ‘All right, well, let me know if anything happens. Maybe I can help. God knows you’ve done so much for me.’
‘Yeah, well, like I said, just keep behaving yourself—stay out of other people’s houses unless you’ve got an invitation,’ he laughed.
‘How’s the job going?’ she asked.
‘Bloody brilliant,’ he boomed. ‘I’m a champion boner now, Jonesy, the best one they’ve got—employee of the week this week. Me big mug’s up on the noticeboard and all!’ They giggled like schoolkids.
She’d needed a good laugh, she thought as she drove away. Win, lose or draw, God bless Torrens.
CHAPTER 28
She gently scooped Pocket up from the back of the wagon. He whimpered as she carried him in and carefully set him down, his sad little cast sticking out to one side and his head ensconced in a huge plastic cone. His face had been shaved and a row of stitches, bulging and raw, ran from his right eye up to his ear.
At around four-forty, her mobile rang. Torrens.
‘Are you sitting down, coach?’
Oh my God, he’s been charged, she thought. ‘No. Should I be?’
‘Yes,’ he said gravely.
‘What is it?’ she said, bracing herself.
‘Clancy’s missing.’
She stood there, staring out the kitchen window at Jim’s paddocks, momentarily paralysed, her mind reeling.
Torrens told the story. Clancy had been drinking at the pub last night. He’d had a few too many, staggered out and hadn’t been seen since. At first the police said the most likely thing was he’d be sleeping it off somewhere and would turn up soon. But someone found his phone around three pm, its screen smashed, and with the fight last week and the riot, the police commenced a search straightaway, covering the main routes from the pub to Clancy’s place and expanding out from there. Torrens had heard the story from a mate, Pete Jameson, who’d been at the pub and had been speaking with Clancy before he left. Apparently Clancy had been worked up about something, Torrens didn’t know what. She pressed him until he reluctantly gave up his mate’s phone number.
‘Leave it alone, Jonesy. Not your job to go after this one—leave it to the coppers to investigate and come join the search. I’m off there now myself.’
Clementine told herself not to panic as she rang Jameson’s number. It rang out. She dialled Gerard’s number. What did he know? He had to be involved. Had he broken their bargain? It went straight to voicemail. Probably just as well—she needed to calm down before she took him on.
She topped up Pocket’s water bowl and left him with some treats in reach, threw on a jacket, jumped in the Commodore and roared down the driveway. The shadows across the paddocks were long and foreboding as she sped past, the cattle beginning to make their way to the milking shed.
Her phone rang as she sped along Makepeace Road. It was Torrens’ mate Pete Jameson.
‘Is that the lady footy coach?’ He spoke with a slow country drawl.
‘Yes, that’s me. Thanks for calling me back, Peter,’ Clem said. ‘Apparently you were one of the last people to see Clancy before he left the pub?’
‘Yeah. Turns out I was the last to speak with him.’
‘Torrens said he was worked up about something,’ she said.
‘Yeah, he was well and truly under the weather. Looked like he’d been on it all afternoon. He was saying how everything was ruined, repeating it over and over, seemed to be blaming himself for something. I tried to calm him down for a bit, but he was pretty upset.’
‘Did he say what was ruined?’
‘Nah, nothing I could make out. He was slurring so much I could hardly understand a word. He was going on about some woman, I think, but that’s about as much as I could pick up.’
Clementine reached the end of the straight stretch, braking heavily for the first of the sharp bends down the hill.
‘Did he talk to anyone else?’
‘Nah, not while I was there. He was sitting at the bar on his own. People were giving him a wide berth.’
‘Did anyone overhear him talking to you?’
‘Well, maybe. Not sure. There were a few people in the bar.’
‘Who?’ Jameson’s slow country plod was driving her crazy.
‘A couple of locals. They were up the other end of the bar from Clancy, but.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘There were these two German chicks at the table closest to that end of the bar. I think they might have been backpackers—all right to look at, but their English wasn’t real good. Only other table close enough was two blokes from out of town,’ Jameson said.
‘Know their names?’ She was throwing the Commodore around the bends, spraying gravel into the thick undergrowth and fighting the urge to hurry Jameson along.
‘Nah. Never seen ’em before.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘One of them was a skinhead, and he was bloody huge—gym junkie, I reckon. The other guy was shorter. He had his back to me, wore a baseball cap.’
‘Do you know when they left? Was it at the same time as Clancy?’ She turned onto the main road and took the Commodore up to 150 kilometres an hour.
‘Geez, I dunno. They might have done, but I wasn’t paying attention. I did see Clancy leave, but. I was pretty pleased to see him go by then, bloody miserable bastard. I don’t bloody know him from a bar of soap—I just happened to be the one who copped it. Anyway, dunno what the fuss is all about. He’s probably sleeping it off in a gutter somewhere.’
She was turning onto the main road to Katinga now, tyres screeching.
Clementine pressed the button at the front gate and waited impatiently, glaring at the impeccably trimmed edges on the front lawn. There was a buzzing sound and a click. She pushed open the gate and marched through the garden and up the steps to the porch.
The front door opened. Bernadette stood there in the doorway. Clem had only ever seen her perfectly made up, but now she looked spotty and pale. Had she been crying perhaps? Clem really hoped she was suffering.
Bernadette forced a smile. ‘Clementine. Hello.’
‘Hello. Is Gerard in?’ she said, not even attempting to return the smile. She was still unsure if she could contain herself as far as Bernadette was concerned. Besides, she didn’t know how much Gerard had told Bernadette about their deal or what was going on with Clancy. He might be keeping his wife at a distance so she could deny knowledge if anything came to light, keeping her shiny reputation intact for the big job. Best to speak to Gerard on his own.
‘Yes, yes, of course. Come in,’ she said, stepping aside and ushering her in.
Clementine had been in the house twice, once for the committee meeting and once to steal the tapes—she’d never entered by the front door before. An imposing abstract painting and a few framed photographs hung on the wall in the spacious tiled foyer. She noticed one of Gerard and Bernadette in ski gear and another of a young man with Bernadette’s features. Their son?
Bernadette showed her into the living area. Gerard was seated in a wingback chair in the space between a luxurious L-shaped lounge and a huge polished teak dining table, reading the paper. He looked up as she came in.
‘Gerard, I might let you and Clementine talk, if you don’t mind,’ said Bernadette. ‘I’m expecting a call from head office.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, folding the paper and placing it on the coffee table in front of him.
Bernadette turned to Clementine. ‘But do tell me, Clementine—has there been any word? We’ve been so worried.’
Clementine was taken aback. Bernadette sounded genuinely shaken. Was she feeling remorse? Maybe she could be another source, an angle, or even a wedge against Gerard.
‘I’ve heard nothing more since I got the call half an hour ago.’
Bernadette nodded, said, ‘Oh. I’m…I’m sorry,’ before hurriedly turning towards the hallway. Clementine wondered what it was she was sorry for—the abuse of power, the predatory lust, the ruining of young lives? She needed to be sorry for all of it, from beginning to end.
‘Please, take a seat, Clementine,’ said Gerard.
She remained standing. ‘What’s going on, Gerard?’ she said. ‘I thought we had a deal.’
His face dropped as she spoke, as if affronted. ‘Well, yes, Jones, we do. I don’t know what you think—’
‘Cut the crap, Gerard. What have you done with him?’
‘Why on earth would you assume I’ve got anything to do with it? Perhaps you haven’t heard the details, but Clancy got himself drunk and wandered off from the pub. It’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘Don’t take me for a fool, Gerard,’ she snapped.
‘Oh, come on, Jones. It’s been a terrible day for all of us. Please, sit down. Let me get you a drink.’
He was a picture of charm, gesturing to a chair, smiling at her in his carefully pressed chinos. She wanted to squeeze the information out of him with her own bare hands, but she needed to hold it together, let Gerard relax a bit, then make her play. She bit her tongue, walked slowly to the chair, sat down.
‘Now, can I get you a drink?’ he said.
‘No,’ she said a little too aggressively. ‘I mean, no, I’m fine, thank you.’ Calm down, get him talking, she thought, gripping the arms of the chair. ‘Bernadette seems shaken. How is she taking all this?’
‘Oh, very badly, as you can imagine. She feels responsible for all the staff, especially since we so recently terminated Clancy’s employment. Nonsense, of course. Workplace safety can never be compromised.’
Unbelievable. He was still denying what Bernadette had done. She dug her nails in under the thick piping along the edge of the armrest.
‘Anyway, Clancy’s probably passed out somewhere.’ He flourished a hand in the air. ‘Perhaps he’s hurt his leg or something. They’ll find him, fix him up and this whole episode will all look a little melodramatic.’ He crossed one leg over the other, leaned on the armrest, affecting a relaxed pose.
She kept her voice civil, measured. ‘I admire your optimism, Gerard, but I’m afraid I didn’t come here for empty reassurances. I’m on my way to see the police for an update on the search. I’m trying to decide before I see Sergeant Phillips if there’s anything I know about Clancy—anything about possible enemies, for instance—that he might be interested in finding out.’ She saw him squirm. Good.
