BECKER Read online

  ‘We saw you, didn’t we, kids?’

  ‘Yeah!’ the boy said. They were waiting for a salad and bruschetta each for him and her, and apple pie with lots of cream for the kids.

  ‘At the Hovell,’ she explained.

  He jumped a little, trying to cover it. He’d been caught out.

  ‘Oh, yeah—’ He couldn’t think fast enough.

  ‘The tall blonde who came for the old man?’

  He was surprised. She had not previously described Chook as a tall blonde. She must have seen more of the visitor than he’d thought.

  ‘Tall? Was she?’

  ‘Yes, dear, she was taller than you.’

  Of course, that was it. Chook had been standing beside him at the window. And she really was taller than he. Over six feet.

  ‘Ah, yeah, I’d been down to see Tommy, but he was not there. His girl was there and I could have waited a while, but I knew I had to meet you. So, I came back. Thought I’d have a drink while waiting. Walked in and there she was, the same woman and—’ He was beginning to blush. He’d not gone down to Fitzmaurice Street to see Tommy. He hated having to lie. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he didn’t want her to know the truth about Chook. That would lead to everything that had gone wrong in Canberra. If she found out, she’d wonder what the hell sort of man she had married. She might want to clear out, get away from him, take her kids and run.

  They were staring at him, all three.

  ‘So you had to say hullo?’

  ‘Yeah, especially as she had seen me. And so I had to buy her a drink and—’ He dried up. He could not go on lying. Not to a good woman like Robyn. He didn’t love her, but he liked her immensely. She was what he’d needed. Especially after what had happened in Canberra.

  A waitress appeared, holding the two bruschettas. He waited while she served them.

  ‘Thanks, Heather,’ Robyn said.

  ‘I’ll be back in a tick, children,’ the woman said, smiling. They were all such pleasant women at the Gumnut. That’s where they’d met up again, when he came back to Wagga. He picked up a knife and a fork, not sure whether it was the right way to attack bruschetta.

  ‘You can cut it and then pick it up in your hands,’ she said. ‘No-one will mind.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He promised himself he’d never lie to his new wife. Now he’d done it.

  ‘So?’

  ‘What?’

  The waitress came back with the ice creams, each with a wafer and a cherry on top.

  ‘Hooray!’ the boy said. ‘I’m gonna eat the cherry first.’

  ‘Going to,’ his mother said. ‘Not gonna.’ She’d made her first cut into her food. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What happened to the old man?’

  ‘What happened? Yeah, well, he wanted to go to Los Angeles.’

  ‘Los Angeles?’

  ‘He had relatives there, so he said.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘She said it was all in his mind. He was, you know—’

  ‘Wandering?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She finished a mouthful. ‘She knew him, then?’

  ‘Yeah, she did. She’d been asked to find him, check along the road. He was hitching rides to Wagga to get on a plane to go to—’

  ‘Los Angeles?’

  ‘To Sydney first then to Los Angeles.’

  ‘Did he have any money?’

  ‘None at all. He wanted me to give him a hundred-thousand dollars.’

  ‘A hundred-thousand?’

  ‘Yeah, well, he was crazy.’

  ‘The poor man.’

  He was relaxed now, lying quite easily. He thought he was safe. They ate in silence for a while, the children watching them. Already they were halfway through the ice cream. The boy had eaten both the wafer and the cherry first. The girl was saving hers for last.

  ‘Like Mum,’ he added involuntarily, but it was what he thought of his mother. Also, it was a change of subject.

  He’d taken Robyn to Kirralee twice to see her, the first time before they were married. Robyn had wanted to invite her to the church wedding. She was a strong Anglican, but Becker had talked her out of it. Iris would be an embarrassment, not knowing what was going on and sure to ask more than once: Who is that girl holding his arm at the altar? Is it Shirley Bascombe? Or his cousin, Biddy Barnes, the one who fell off her bike and smashed all her teeth?

  And the second time was when she’d had a stroke. She’d been in hospital then, but she’d not known him. All she could do was lie there and grunt now and then to herself. Or call for the nurse, asking quite loudly: Where was her pink cardigan? She’d looked everywhere, but could not find it. Someone must have stolen it. Ignoring her son and her new daughter-in-law, as if they must be visiting someone else and had wandered into the wrong ward.

  Pitiful to see. They shouldn’t go that way, as mad as they might be. Even if they’d had a bad life, wracked with worry, and she being a war widow. All because of those dreadful Asians.

  Robyn was watching him. She too knew about war. Her own father had been at Tobruk. They’d held out there for six months against the Africa Corps. But he never talked about the war. And he never went to an RSL club, to drink beer and play the pokies. He’d been a wheat farmer out Lockhart way. Three years ago he’d given up, walked off, couldn’t take it any longer. The long dry and the debts. He’d moved to Wagga with his wife and settled in a small weatherboard near the railway station. Settled down to playing bowls by day and listening to freight trains in the night.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching his hand.

  They finished the meal in silence, the kids watching them. They knew something had happened they didn’t understand. But they sensed it, in the way a pet dog will sense it, feel it, worry about it with you.

  ‘I’ve finished mine, Mum,’ the boy said. ‘Can I have another?’

  ‘May I have another. No, you may not, Terry.’

  ‘That was lovely, Mum,’ the girl said. She always ate slowly, and spoke slowly, and thought slowly. She was not unintelligent, just thoughtful and watchful. Wendy never asked for more or complained about anything. Like her mother, she was thankful for what the good Lord provided in His wisdom each day.

  ‘Coffee, Harry?’

  ‘No, er, well, perhaps I’d better.’ It was not that he needed coffee to keep himself awake. He had whiskey on his breath and Robyn would have noticed. He was thinking about Chook. If she found the fat man—the man ordered the hit on Polly—she would kill him.

  Robyn ordered two long blacks, then returned to the subject tactfully.

  ‘So, does she live in Wagga, then?’

  ‘Who? Oh, the woman? No, no, in Griffith, where the old boy lived. He was Italian.’

  ‘Was she Italian?’

  She was being nosy, against all her rules. But she had to ask.

  ‘Italian? Oh, no. Not everyone in Griffith is Italian.’

  ‘So, what was she doing in Wagga?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. Shopping, I suppose. Or business. Anything.’

  She seized an arm, patted him. Trying to smile reassuringly.

  ‘I’m not being jealous, Harry,’ she said. ‘I just wonder happened to the old man.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Please believe me, Harry.’

  He nodded, eating.

  ‘Please, dear,’ she said again

  He chewed and nodded. ‘No problems, Robbie. It’s all right.’

  But it was not all right. He knew it and she knew it. And the kids looking at them knew it was not, but they didn’t know why.

  She loved him. It was not fair he was so often far away. Thinking about something terrible or something wonderful, it was hard to say. She accepted him as she found him, thankful for every day with him. Afte
r what had happened to her first husband—a terrible smash on the Hume Highway going south, the truck bursting into flames—she knew God had understood her grief, had taken pity on her and sent her a good man named Harry Becker. But there still remained the man in Canberra. She had fled from him. He was a Vietnam vet, and he might turn up at any time. But she could face him next time. She was now married to a former policeman who looked tough and had tough friends.

  That was the thing about Harry Becker. She felt safe.

  When they arrived home, they were surprised. The big, red Holden was parked near the gate, which was closed as they’d left it. It looked menacingly official, a hefty red car with a blue checked pattern along the sides. Sirens and lights and antennas piled up on top like a battery, not so much of firepower as of authority. The law has called and you’d better have your story straight before you open your mouth.

  ‘Jesus,’ Becker said.

  The boy hopped out and opened the gate. They could hear the dog barking behind the house. He wasn’t as smart as the dog Becker had encountered when he’d visited this place nearly twenty years ago. When he was working for Tommy Thomkins, stock and station agent in Wagga. This dog couldn’t open and close gates, but he was a good watchdog. He was a nut-brown kelpie named Nutty and he was barking frantically, aggressively.

  They were getting out of the BMW when Barnes appeared from one side.

  ‘Ah, g’day,’ he said. ‘Thought I heard y’s.’

  Becker did not reply, but Robyn did. ‘Oh, hullo, Barry. How are you?’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Yeah, great. Was just passin’, you know, an’ thought I’d drop in again. See how y’s are gettin’ on.’

  He walked up cheerily, his hard, thin, crusty lips open, grinning like something from the depths of an ocean. His arms out too, walking like a gunfighter out of an old movie. The revolver on his right hip sticking out, loosely, floppily. Which was what he wanted you to see. He was an undersized cop with the over-sized confidence of a man with a badge and a gun.

  ‘Knocked on the door, but no response, so went ’round the back, thinkin’ y’s’d be there. Nice dog, but. Nearly took a bite out of me. Nice place you’ve got, anyone can see. Can I help y’ with y’shoppin’?’

  He was ready to take a bag or two, but Robyn said, ‘I’m right, Barry.’

  ‘Y’sure?’

  ‘She’s right,’ Becker said, stiff with unfriendliness.

  He went to the door, opened it for his wife and the two kids to pass. He was going to close the door, but Barnes immediately followed, wiping his boots on the coir mat. Being thoughtful, like a welcome visitor.

  ‘By gee,’ he said, y’ve got a nice place here, haven’t y’? All them cows. Counted forty. Prime condition b’the look of ’em. They’d be worth a bit, I bet.’

  Becker said, ‘You must have counted some twice. There are only thirty-five. And they’re not cows, they’re weaners.’

  ‘Weaners?’

  ‘Yeah, calves that have been weaned.’

  Robyn cut in. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Barry?’

  ‘Gee, Robyn. You gonna have one?’

  ‘We’ve just had coffee.’

  ‘Have y’? In that case, don’t worry about me.’

  He’d taken off his blue cap and was banging it and whacking it from one hand to the other. Dancing too in his scraped and greying with age clunky boots, the kind who never kept still. His eyes going like mad, peering at this and that. Adding it all up. ‘No, no,’ he added, ‘just called in t’say we’d love t’come and have lunch some time. That is,’ he added, ‘if the invitation’s still open.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m sure you and Harry have a lot to talk about. He said you and he were at school together.’

  ‘Yeah, we were. Great mates, weren’t we?’

  Becker did not answer.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Anyway, like I said, we’d love to come, Maria an’ me. Just name the day, and we’ll be here. I was tellin’ her about y’s. What a beautiful place y’had. Really enthusiastic, she is. Thinks she might know you from somewhere. Told her she’s sure to be wrong.’

  ‘Maria?’ Becker said.

  ‘Yeah, from Griffith. Been married only three or four years. No kids yet, but.’

  ‘She’s Italian?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Maria who?’

  ‘Terracini,’ the cop said.

  Chapter 6

  He still didn’t know what to do with the pistol. It was still hidden under the spare tyre in the boot of the BMW. Then he got a bright idea. It was the dogs which gave it to him. They’d appeared one night, harassing the weaners. Pretty fierce they were, trying to bring one down. Must have been four or five of them, hunting as a pack. He’d gone out, heard Nutty barking furiously. Thought of letting him loose on them, but changed his mind. They’d probably tear him to pieces. So, he’d run to the BMW, got out the Smith and Wesson. Rushed back in the dark, almost falling over in the creek. Accidentally discharging a shot, which went anywhere in the dark. Rushed into the paddock among the cattle, among the dogs. He’d fired away at them. Then, seen one dog, eyes gleaming in the moonlight, snarling at him. So, he’d fired at the yes. Terrible howl. Rushed at the rest, firing until out of rounds. He’d stood still, not daring to move. They could have rushed at him, torn his throat out. But they’d gone. He’d slept on the verandah that night, Nutty by his side. Ears up listening. Come dawn, he’d checked. No sign of any dogs. Not the one he’d hit. Maybe he’d slunk off. Maybe the others had eaten him.

  He told Robyn it was his old service pistol. Which, of course, it was not. You don’t get to keep your pistol if you are a cop. Maybe she knew that, maybe not.

  She didn’t like what she saw. ‘Oh, Harry, that thing frightens me.’

  ‘I’ll get rid of it.’

  ‘What about the dogs?’

  ‘I’ll get a rifle.’

  She couldn’t argue against that, she knew. She’d been a farm girl. Her own father had had a rifle, when he’d had a wheat block out west at Wybilonga. That was years ago, before he’d had to walk off. Give up, sell the farm to pay his debts. He’d tried to teach her to shoot when she’d been a girl, but she never did learn. She’d had a brother once, but he had shot himself. She was the one who’d found him. No-one knew why he had done it. There had been a girl, they knew. Or they thought there had been a girl, but eventually it came out. The girl was married. It looked like suicide, a broken heart.

  But was it suicide? The police weren’t too sure. He may have been murdered and his death made to look like suicide. The bullet had definitely come from his own gun. But who pulled the trigger? She was sixteen, when she’d found his body in the she-oaks at the bottom of the hill, propped against a tree. A spindly, smelly sort of tree that looked as if God couldn’t make up his mind what to do with she-oaks, now that he had created them. They didn’t look like anything at all. And about them always was that smell, that strange smell of rotting wood. The smell she always association with death.

  Her big brother had been her secret love. The kind of man she dreamed of marrying one day. A quiet, dependable man.

  Next day, Becker went to town and bought a lever-action Winchester—not the famous Model 73, the gun which supposedly had won the West—but its successor, the Model 94, a centre-fire carbine, still with the lever action. It was quite a fancy-looking weapon. He could have bought a modern Winchester at less than half the price, but it had a cheap-looking stock, composite. Somehow, he felt that a gentleman farmer like himself should not be seen with anything cheap. Besides, it could hold only three to four shells, whereas the 94 carbine held seven. And he might need seven one day. As for the Smith and Wesson, he locked it in the glove box of the BMW. And did not tell Robyn.

  He was uneasy. His creep of a cousin was still hanging around, dropping in when he wasn’t wan
ted. Becker had a bad feeling about him—and anyone else he may have been linked up with. Such as his wife in Griffith. Lots of Italians in Griffith. And, he feared, many of them had by now heard of him.

  When she saw the Winchester, Robyn had a fit. ‘Harry? What is that? Oh, sorry, I mean why have you brought that thing home? A rifle, a great big evil-looking rifle. So shiny too. It looks alive!’

  ‘For the dogs,’ he said. ‘And the rabbits and the duffers.’

  ‘Duffers?’

  ‘Cattle duffers.’ He meant rustlers. ‘A bloke a few miles down the road lost six one night.’

  She was horrified. ‘You mean you’d shoot a man?’

  ‘Any man who steals cattle is worth shooting.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, do be careful.’

  ‘I’m never careful,’ he said.

  He’d said that to Evelyn Crowley soon after he’d met her. She’d asked him to do a job for her, find out who was blackmailing her. And everything had followed. But it was all in the past. ‘I do what I have to do,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes.’ Wiping her hands on the apron. ‘If you think so, dear. Where will you put it? They have to be locked away, don’t they?’

  ‘In the laundry,’

  ‘In the laundry. In a cupboard? With the linen?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I’ll get a locker built, a strong locker instead of that cupboard.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, I’m sorry to be so jumpy. I hate guns, the awful things that can happen, accidents and—’

  ‘No need to worry,’ he said.

  ‘If you think so, dear.’

  He went to the laundry and locked the rifle away, along with a box of cartridges. Then he went to the bathroom, washed his hands. It was lunchtime. When he came back, she was standing with hands clasped across her belly.

  ‘I have some news,’ she said.

  He thought she was going to say she was pregnant. Several times she’d asked him whether he’d like a baby, at the same time saying she knew he might not wish to take on the burden of another dependent. Aware, she was, that he had three children in Sydney, or two if you allowed that the first had not been his child. But it was not that at all.