Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(33)
Rebecca passed by on her way out to the laundry with her arms full of Monday-morning washing. ‘Who was that?’ she asked as he put the handset down.
‘No one important,’ he said. ‘Just someone from work with a question.’
He smiled, remembering a comment Rebecca made after an earlier run-in he’d had with Chater. ‘He might be your boss, Charlie,’ she’d told him, ‘but that fat bastard is nobody’s superior.’
He walked out to the coat hooks by the laundry door and took down Pip’s leather lead. ‘I’m going for a wander round to the hardware store, I’ll take the dog. Do you need anything from the shops?’
TWENTY-TWO
Berlin left Pip tied up outside the hardware store, near a pile of hemp sacks filled with chook food. He pottered around inside the store, not really knowing what he was after. In reality he knew what he was looking for was time to think. He was shocked at the price of a new panel saw and kept well away from a tempting display of shiny silver Desoutter circular saws and electric drills. He wandered amongst piles of timber, ladders, boxes of nails, cans of paint, and drums holding kerosene, paint thinners and methylated spirits, and all the while Chater’s phone call was on his mind.
Someone upstairs had wanted him warned off. Chater had been given the job and obviously enjoyed doing it, but who would order it, or who had the clout to organise it? he wondered. And why? Stansfield had been a little more subtle in the car park out at the asylum, which was surprising, but the blokes who’d had a go at Roberts had gone in boots and all. And had it really all started with that licence-plate number on a scrap of paper torn from Lazlo’s notebook?
At the front counter of the store he asked a man in a grey dustcoat about his order of asbestos cement sheeting, but it appeared it still hadn’t arrived. They would make inquiries by telephone, the man promised him. As Berlin turned to leave he noticed them, leaning against the wall, the paint shiny and new and the hardened jaws glistening under a thick coating of protective oil. The man in the grey dustcoat saw him staring.
‘Best bolt-cutters money can buy, Mr Berlin. Sheffield-made, and just in by ship from Britain. And a full range of sizes, as you can see. Just tell me what you want to cut through and I’m sure we can help you.’
‘Just looking,’ Berlin said with a shake of his head. ‘And please let me know about that order as soon as you can.’
Luckily the dog yelped when he came out of the hardware shop or he might have forgotten him. He could see sticky buns in the window of the cake shop across the road, and iced cakes. Rebecca might appreciate a late morning tea, he decided, and crossed between the slow-moving cars. He bought two pink-iced finger buns and two lamingtons for the kids to have after school. It took him a while to get to his wallet in his back trouser pocket, inside his overalls.
They walked slowly back home, Pip tugging again at the lead and the icing on the finger buns slowly forming a grease stain on the outside of the paper bag. The walk hadn’t really helped him clarify things. He was getting deeper and deeper into a situation he didn’t understand, and he wasn’t sure what to do. There were plenty of good reasons for him to drop the whole thing, and it looked like that would suit a lot of people, but would it suit him? He was a copper, after all.
His return to policing right after the war had surprised many, including himself. A lot of men who were trained to fly had the bug, and surplus aircraft could be had cheaply. But with this oversupply commercial aviation was a cut-throat business and besides, Berlin knew he could never stand to be in a cockpit again. His first postwar flight in a DC3 as a passenger back in ‘47 had left him breathless and shaking in terror, and he hadn’t flown since. He had decided to be a copper that day at Windy Hill, seated on his grandfather’s broad shoulders, and he saw no reason to change. He could do some good, help people occasionally, and at the very least feed and clothe his family. That was enough.
When he turned into his street he saw the hearse. Outside his house. His heart stopped. He began to walk faster and the dog whined, pulling back, dragging, sensing his nervousness. Get a grip on yourself, Charlie, he told himself. When he reached the house he saw it was a different hearse to the one he’d seen Lazlo with the other day. Shiny, though, the duco polished, chrome gleaming. Through the side glass he could see a scattering of flower petals in the otherwise empty rear compartment.
Lazlo was standing on the front porch with a cup of tea in his hand. ‘Charlie, we were wondering where you had gotten to. I came out to look for the errant husband.’
Berlin let the dog in through the side gate before walking up to the porch.
‘I see you bought cakes, Charlie – so did we. We shall have a feast.’ Lazlo leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I very much like your Rebecca. Besides her beauty she has a sense of humour and a great talent for photography.’
‘Once you get to know her, Lazlo, you’ll find our she isn’t my Rebecca. And you shouldn’t let her hear you say that if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Perhaps I am old-fashioned, or it is my Hungarian heritage, but I take your point. She is a woman to be reckoned with. It is easy to see why you love her so passionately.’
Berlin was embarrassed. ‘When did I say that?’
Lazlo shrugged. ‘Not in so many words, I suppose. But the way you say her name, the look in your eyes, a man can tell. And the children. She showed me all the photographs; you are a lucky fellow. Sarah will be a heartbreaker and Peter will be a man, you mark my words.’