Nick.”
Nick’s shop was empty save for Nick and the young girl he had behind the counter. She looked up and smiled at him and then went back to stacking the packs of cigarettes in the display cases. She knew that Nick would look after Barron, that Barron was one of Nick’s special clients, someone he liked to keep in good favour, provide the personal touch.
“What’ll it be, Mr Barron?”
“How about a big plate of bacon and eggs?”
“No worries. And some sausages?”
“Sounds good.”
“You sit down and I’ll get it for you. A coffee?”
Barron nodded.
“Maria, get Mr Barron a coffee, hey?”
There was a copy of the morning paper on the table and Barron looked at the front page. More economic woes, increasing balance of payments debt and falling retail sales. And increasing unemployment. No one was safe these days, he thought. Even public servants - once thought to have jobs for life - were being laid off. Down sizing was the current terminology, along with redundancy. But it still amounted to the same thing - the sack, dismissal. No job. And not much chance of picking up another.
And Lefroy had hinted at problems in the Australian Federal Police. Decreasing budgets. That meant less money allocated to them and with less money you couldn’t afford to keep employing and paying the same number of people. There was a story going around the office that they’d hired a private consulting firm to look at the AFP’s human resource budgeting. Another set of nice words to see how the people were being used. If the duties were relevant, if there were better ways of getting things done, if they could do the same jobs with less people.
Reggie had left a couple of months ago because he thought he could make it on his own. Gone to an easier job and only earning a little less than with the AFP. And they hadn’t replaced him. Let natural attrition solve their budget problems.
“Coffee, Mr Barron,” Maria said and laid the cup in front of him.
“Thanks.”
She’d been working for Nick for the last two years, an attractive girl with the large and dark Greek eyes, the olive skin and the flashing white smile. And breasts that filled out her uniform to perfection. If Barron remembered well, Nick’s last assistant had been similarly built. He smiled and watched her walk back behind the counter.
Increasing unemployment. It made it even more important that he make arrangements for his future. Maybe he could persuade Fay to move out of Melbourne with him. To the Gold Coast. It was warm there. No, maybe not Fay. He would sever all links with this place. Just leave and never come back. There’d be women in Queensland. He felt himself smiling and wondered what his problem was with Fay. Why would he think about severing the ties with her? Too serious?
“There you go, Mr Barron,” Nick said and laid the plate in front of him, placing a knife and fork next to it, wrapped in a paper serviette. “Enjoy.”
It looked good.
A lot of the boys talked about getting out. But to many it was just that - talk. Dreams they might never realise. He didn’t want to end up like that. He’d make it to the Gold Coast. He would.
He jabbed the fork into the egg and watched the thick yellow fluid flow out. He started to eat.
Day 3 - Melbourne
A full forty-eight hours had passed since they’d found Christie and the dead woman. In that time Barron had slept for ten hours; his usual was six. He generally went to bed late. He’d sometimes just sit in the lounge room by himself, no sound save for the traffic that ran outside, and read. Biographies mainly. Stories about people, real people, and the lives they had led. Written by themselves or by others. And he never ceased to marvel how different people could be, how their backgrounds or their parents impacted on their lives - how they made conscious career or life changes because of differing circumstances. Conquered them, reacted against them, went with them. But always went on. Rarely looked back with regret. Looking back was just memories - memories that you kept or ignored.
Or he’d sit and listen to his music. Five hundred records, ninety percent of which were classical, and a growing number of compact discs. There was still something about the tone that made it hard to throw any of the records out. He had five versions of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons - each different in their own way, but if he had to pick one it would be the one by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra. A link, he thought. Association, but then so much of life was. Don’t fiddle around. Violin. Zukerman and the Bach violin concertos. Association.
Who you associate with. Fay. Met her at the club one night. She’d gone with a friend, but he’d lost a lot of money and stormed out without her. She played alongside him for a while, turning fifty dollars into two hundred and enjoying herself, while he’d lost another three hundred. But he’d bought her a drink and one thing had led to another.
Or, on rare occasions, he would merely sit in front of the television and let it rule him. Effortless entertainment that numbed the mind. But, too often, he’d drink too much and he’d awake in the early morning, the television screen a glare of hissing light, cold wrapping around his shoulders, an empty glass at his feet.
In the day work was everything, all consuming, occupying.
And today he felt fresh, as he should. He hadn’t wanted to see Gloria Doyle yesterday, because he needed to be alert. Careful of what he said and alert to her comments, her mood, her reactions.
The Doyle’s house was in Burwood and he turned the car north off Toorak Road before it crossed Warrigal Road. It was a house that Barry and Gloria Doyle had lived in since they first bought it. Barry was prone to repeat the story to whoever would listen to it, about how a rich uncle of Gloria’s had returned from Africa and lived long enough to re-write his will and leave the pretty Gloria one thousand pounds. And with that money they’d bought the house and raised three daughters in it. They’d named the first child after the uncle’s wife - Hortense - that Barry came to regret. Hortense, Barry would say, is not an easy name for a girl to carry around with her.
The original condition of the house had changed over recent years with the addition of an extra bedroom and a sunroom and then a large garage and workshop for Barry. The front garden looked neat and tidy, as if the lawns had only just been cut and the flowerbeds cleared of weeds. The front of the house, Barron knew, had been painted just before Barry’s death and that had only been seven months ago.
Barron rang the front door bell and waited patiently. He saw the shape move behind the mottled glass and then the door was opened.
“David,” she said. She sounded surprised. But she repeated his name and it sounded warmer. “David, it’s been so long. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Fine. And you?”
She merely smiled and nodded her head and then said, “Oh, you know,” and stood back to let him into the house. “Come through to the kitchen, I was just doing some cooking. Biscuits.”
The house was quiet and cool. The kitchen was brighter. One wall was glass and overlooked the back yard beyond a timber deck. A large Labrador dog got to its feet as Barron came into the kitchen and cocked his head to one side, unsure of who he was. He barked
