Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(38)

Berlin dropped the disk into his pocket. Next he studied the fuel drum. It was the right height and easily strong enough to take the weight of a man. Mower fuel spilt on the top had evaporated over time, leaving an oily black film that had attracted dust and dirt particles. The black film also showed the marks of boot prints, a criss-cross, non-slip pattern different to that on the worn-down soles of Len’s sandshoes.

The doctor arrived ten minutes later. Len’s wife got to see him first, since Len wasn’t in any real hurry. Berlin decided to leave when the constables brought the doctor out to the garage to certify that Leonard Manning was indeed dead. He didn’t really want to see Len’s face when the blanket was pulled back. The doctor was grumpy, probably at being dragged away from a date with a bottle of Scotch by the smell of him. Berlin knew the death certificate would say suicide because that was what it looked like. Another ex-serviceman with a decade-plus of bad memories and worse dreams who’d taken the easy way out, and the good people at Legacy would get another family to take care of.

As he walked away from the light of the garage towards his car it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. In that time the car had almost rolled past, but even a brief glimpse as it disappeared told him it was a dark green Ford Zephyr with a mud-spattered licence plate and a St Kilda football club decal in the rear window.





TWENTY-FIVE


‘Cup of tea, Charlie?’

Berlin jerked into consciousness at the rattle of the kettle lid. He had his face down on the laminex-topped kitchen table with a book under him. Rebecca had the aluminium kettle under the tap in the sink. There was a drumming from the pipes as the water ran into it.

He sat up and shook his head to try to clear his foggy brain. ‘Sorry, I needed to look something up. I must have fallen asleep.’

‘I guess that could be construed as a comment on the riveting nature of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.’ She put the kettle on the stove and lit the gas with a match.

When they had first arrived in Australia from Germany Rebecca’s parents had purchased a complete Encyclopaedia Britannica to help her learn English and assimilate more easily. The embossed volumes now filled a long shelf in the living room. Berlin had pulled out ‘R to U’ but that was as far as he’d got. The leather-bound cover made a surprisingly comfortable pillow.

Berlin checked the volume to make sure he hadn’t marked it. He knew how much the books meant to Rebecca, who was spooning tea from the Bakelite caddy into the pot.

‘I missed you in bed last night.’

Berlin yawned and worked his jaw, trying to wake up. ‘Yeah, me too. I didn’t think I’d be able to get to sleep and I didn’t want to disturb you.’

She was watching him. Sometimes it made him a little uncomfortable, and others it was the most comforting thing she could do. ‘Was it bad, Charlie? It sounded bad from what I heard on the phone.’

He smiled up at her, hoping she would read it as a sign that he was coping. ‘You know how it goes. I missed the really grim bit but it still wasn’t nice.’

‘Did you find out what was so urgent? You know, the note.’

He shook his head.

Rebecca looked up at the clock mounted on the wall over the stove. ‘Can you get the milk? I have to wake the kids.’

The sun was just up but the air was still crisp. There were no clouds to help hold in yesterday’s warmth. Beads of condensation had formed on the roof of the Studebaker and on the red foil caps of the milk bottles set down by the front gatepost. A folded copy of The Sun was caught in the branches of a straggly rosebush. Berlin checked the street in both directions. Nothing out of the ordinary.

As he passed Sarah’s bedroom he could hear Rebecca trying to wake the girl. It was as hard to rouse her in the mornings as it was to get her to go to sleep at night. In the end it usually came down to tickling. How had Rebecca managed it? he wondered, giving him a life in a house that woke to laughter. He put the bottles of milk on the sink. There would be no laughing in the Manning household this morning, he thought.

Peter was at the table in his pyjamas and dressing gown. ‘What’s this?’ He was holding the khaki-painted disk that Berlin had retrieved from Len’s garage.

‘I’m not sure, I found it.’

‘What does ro-ent-gen mean?’ He pronounced the word slowly. ‘Is that how you say it? What does it mean?’

‘What do we do when we find a word we don’t understand, Peter?’ Rebecca was at the kitchen door, holding Sarah’s hand. The girl stumbled over to Berlin and wrapped her arms around him.

‘Morning, Daddy. Did you have a good sleep?’

He reached down and ruffled her hair. ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Dictionary?’ Peter asked.

‘That’s right,’ Rebecca said. ‘But since you’ve got the encyclopaedia right there, you can try that for starters. Charlie, can you make the porridge while I wash her face?’

‘Bacon and eggs, please.’ Sarah had her face pressed against Berlin’s leg. She sounded like she was half asleep again.

‘Porridge, young lady.’ Rebecca took her hand again. ‘But a face wash first, and let’s see if we can untangle this mess. Definitely our child, Charlie, your appetite and my hair, poor little bugger.’

Peter looked up from the table. ‘You said a rude word, Mummy.’