Minutiae

14

Minutiae

    All was going well, Gavin and Ben had got only slightly sunburnt on one of Adelaide’s huge sparkling silver beaches, Dad and I had successfully avoided the seafood on offer at one of the many restaurants at the said beaches, Cassie had taught Molly to “swim” with the aid of water-wings. Mum had discovered a “very strange Italian soft drink” that I might like… (Chinotto: made and bottled in Australia by Coca Cola Amatil. Somewhat reminiscent of Campari. I didn’t.) Stella had made not only a second pineapple upside-down cake but also a towering pavlova complete with a mountain of whipped cream, and, this time, mangoes and passionfruit…

    Gavin and Ben had gone “yabbying” in the creek down near the winery and returned very wet but without the little native crustaceans. Okay, someone up there loved us that day. Molly had spent an entire afternoon sitting under the big gums down at the back of the garden hoping to catch sight of a real koala. Floods of tears had resulted.

    The New Year had been heralded with another turkey. Everyone was now very tired of cold turkey sandwiches, with or without commercial mayonnaise and cranberry sauce/jelly…

    Mike had informed me sourly that it had been “a wet year for most of the country” and “no-one” was expecting “much of a harvest” and not to expect too much of the 2011 vintage. I had now grasped that the year of the vintage in Australia came after the year in which the grapes had actually grown, so I just nodded. On the other hand, he now seemed to approve of Perry and had admitted that the bloke could pitch in and didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. Well, good!

    At the cellar door Miranda had been swamped with visitors, and had had to beg Fred for produce from the Trethewin kitchen garden for their lunches. They didn’t even seem to notice that the prices had gone up, she’d reported dazedly. I just nodded…

    I’d rung Jim: how had his Christmas gone? Out of the doghouse, well, almost, bloody turkey as per usual, it had been their turn to go to her bloody sister’s, she never bothered to control her kids and he was useless, talk about a flamin’ couch potato… Okay, par for the course. There had been a few random messages about Andrews on Hawkes Investigators’ answering-machine, yes, but all from drunks or nutters, make that drunk nutters.

    As I say, all was going well. Then I got a very odd phone call.

    “Um, I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Cartwright,” said a hesitant female voice. “It’s Jenny Crozier here.”

    I was blank for a moment. Oh—of course! Ralph Crozier’s much younger sister. “Yes, Miss Crozier?” I replied.

    “I— Um, Ralph gave me your number. I’m sorry to bother you.” she repeated.

    “Not at all,” I said, very puzzled. “How can I help you?”

    I heard her swallow. Then she said: “I saw the message about—about Tony Brownloe on the TV. I—I’m afraid I didn’t note the number down because I didn’t think he’d stay around in South Australia. But when you had the fire at the house I—I started to wonder… Anyway, I was having lunch at the Art Gallery and—and I think I saw him.” She swallowed again. “Just now.”

    “At the Art Gallery?” I croaked. –She meant, of course, the State Art Gallery.

    “Yes, um, sort of! I was inside, because they let people smoke on the patio—I think that’s horrid. Um, but all that wall is glass, you see. And he came through the—the sort of tunnel place that lets you into the courtyard, and then he headed off across the lawn towards the uni.” She swallowed again. “Sorry, this must sound like Greek to you: the gallery sort of backs onto the uni grounds, you see.”

    “Yes, I see. How close were you to him, Miss Crozier?”

    “Um, I wasn’t right by the window… Um, well, about a metre back from it, I suppose, and then… I dunno,” she said miserably. “He headed off, you see… Well, another four metres just at first, maybe.”

    “And how long ago was this?”

    “Um, I came outside—on the other side, I didn’t want him to see me!” she gasped. “And then I had to ring Ralph—well, less than ten minutes, I think.”

    Jesus! “I’ll contact the police right away,” I said grimly. “Thank you very much. May I have your number? They’ll want to check with you.”

    “Oh—yes.” She gave me her number and we rang off.

    I didn’t ring the emergency number: I had a number for one, Inspector Wilson, who had been in charge of the initial fraud and arson case and had reluctantly arrived to interrogate me after the house fire. And had been very, very annoyed about my not having immediately reported the discoveries of the multiple art fakes to him. Even though he was, of course, in a different jurisdiction… Jim Hawkes had greeted my description of this unimpressible gentlemen with a sniff and: “Aw, yeah. Brett Wilson, that is. Sound enough, but limited: not much imagination.”

    He was not pleased to have his summer holiday interrupted. And nor, judging by the noises in the background, was his wife. And why hadn’t the bloody woman rung the cops direct?

    “I imagine because she was put off by those members of the Force who interviewed her about Brownloe-Andrews, Inspector,” I said politely.

    “Yeah. How long ago was this so-called sighting?”

    “Er—about twenty minutes, now.”

    He sniffed. “I’ll send a car down, but he’ll be long gone.”

    “Ye-es… Unless he was going to the university library to look something up.”

    “Like what, for instance?” he demanded nastily.

    Well, goodness: a great big shiny art book on Munnings? Stubbs? Equine art in general? Anything at all that his father might copy profitably?

    “Er, well, do they collect in the area of the fine arts?” I ventured.

    There was a short silence and then Brett Wilson said very sourly indeed: “Yeah. Run some bloody useless art history course—me daughter’s doing it. In conjunction with the Art Gallery—they got a library, too, only the public can’t use it. All right, we’ll check. I’ll let ya know.” And he rang off.

    It subsequently was revealed, though only thanks to Jim’s spies having their ears well to the ground, his expression, that since the cops were short-handed over the holidays they’d sent two uniformed constables in their patrol car to the university library. –Jim had told me that as you only had to walk straight down from the gallery, go halfway down the steps and cross over “this daft little bridge arrangement” and you were right in the library, took two minutes, my vague guess would have struck Inspector Wilson as spot-on, which would’ve made him even madder with me. Quite.

    Given that the entire library had seemed to be asleep apart from a few earnest shiny black heads at the computers—Chinese students who hadn’t headed home for Christmas but were presumably waiting for the Chinese New Year to do so—it had been remarkably easy to spot the blond Andrews in the art section. Unfortunately it had also been remarkably easy to spot the constables in their summer uniforms, and he knew the layout and the shortcuts and they didn’t. End of story.

    Rabbit’s friends and relations being now due to go home, we had an expedition to the airport, Cassie and I taking Mum and Dad in her car and Perry driving Sarah and her kids, plus Gavin, in my hire car, which had been slumbering in the garage all this while. First grimly checking it out to make sure that Andrews hadn’t loosened anything or planted anything on it or etcetera. And getting Fifi to have a good sniff at it, though noting that if there was any Semtex there she’d have sniffed it out long since. Rather unfortunately then having to explain to the interested big ears of Ben and Gavin what that was.

    And with kisses for Mum and Sarah, a big hug and kiss for little Molly, and a manly handshake for Ben, they went through the barrier. Dad hung back, looking neutral, as usual.

    “I suppose it’s no use telling you to keep me up to date, Alex?”

    “Mike reckons it won’t be much of a vintage this year: we had too much rain,” said the innocent Cassie.

    “Yes,” he said, suddenly all smiles. “May I give you a kiss, my dear?” He saluted her cheek gently, told her how nice it had been to meet her, and finally shook my hand. “Try not to fall off any horses,” he said with a sigh.

    “Yeah.”

    “He’s not that bad, Mr Cartwright!” Cassie protested with a little laugh.

    Dad’s eyes met mine. He refrained from saying “metaphorical ones as well,” said: “I’ll try to stop your mother ringing you if we get home in the middle of the night your time,” and went.

    “You can’t see the planes, really, and it’ll be ages before they take off,” said Cassie.

    “Mm. Same all over the world,” I acknowledged. “—Yes, I know there’s a café over there, Gavin, but you had a banana and a piece of your Gran’s fruit loaf on the way, didn’t you? Are you really hungry?”

    He was, and after consultation with our watches we realised there was no point yet in heading for the city centre and Hawkes Investigators, so we adjourned to this airport café. The coffee was indifferent and the food unspeakable. We adults didn’t bother to eat. Gavin had a disgusting hunk of six inches of unidentifiable something wrapped in far too much pastry and misnamed sausage roll, plus the tomato sauce (extra) to go with it. Regretfully he decided against a Coke in favour of an ice cream at Wendy’s later. Yeah, all right, spring water (grudgingly). It was still early after that so we tried an airport bookstall. No “decent” comics, so Gavin chose a car magazine. Cassie rejected an Australian Women’s Weekly with a shudder, looked dubiously at a Vogue, noted dazedly that these clothes looked as if the models were draped in hunks of rag, and with relief found an Agatha Christie. Perry chose a newspaper but didn’t seem precisely riveted by its contents, in fact his eyes wandered over the crowds and it dawned that he was keeping an eye out in case Andrews might choose today to catch a plane. I opted for a book of crossword puzzles but it was a mistake, they were far too easy, so I allowed Gavin to swap his car magazine for it. He then passed the intervening period alternately reading out clues that were too hard for him and pointing out choice titbits in the magazine to me…

    At long last, after trudging for what seemed like miles to retrieve the cars, we were able to head for Hawkes Investigators. Or, in Gavin’s case, Wendy’s. He was very torn between the demands of his stomach and a desire to see a “real P.I.’s office”—where he’d got that expression from, no-one had the strength to enquire, not even Perry—but the stomach won and Cassie resignedly loaded him up and carted him off, though with the warning that then she’d have to go to the supermarket and not to ask for more junk food there. “I wouldn’t!” “Much”, his hard-hearted aunt returned.

    Perry was driving, as he didn’t trust my leg in the first instance and in the second instance admitted he couldn’t take the flak if the womenfolk found out he’d let me drive. With the casual addendum: “And if they ever find out you’ve been out at dawn on a horse, mate, you’re dead meat.”

    How true. I lapsed into gloom…

    “Oy! Alex!”

    I came to with a start. “Yes?”

    “Is this right?”

    “What? Oh—God. Sorry, Perry, haven’t you been to Jim’s office before? Y— Er… Well, I think this is the alley, yes. Um, Honey Lane, is it?”

    “No.”

    “But— Oh, no, I think Honey Lane is off it.”

    “Ya mean that chink between two buildings back there?”

    Um… “Well, probably.”

    He began to back up very slowly. “Ya realise we can’t park here, there’s no room?”

    Nor there was.

    “Er—no. One heads down Honey Lane and then turns into, um, Jim’s little cul-de-sac—sorry, I’ve forgotten its name: it’s something to do with bees, too. It’s—uh—rather a tight turn, or, well, two, really. Sorry, I should have warned you.”

    “This isn’t Honey Lane,” Perry discovered as we turned into it. “It’s Beehive Lane.”

    “Uh— Oh. I must have mixed them up. Jim’s bit must be Honey Lane. Er—it isn’t a lane, it’s a cul-de-sac,” I ended feebly.

    “So it is,” he discovered, inching his way into it. “Jesus!” he groaned.

    “Um, yes. The taxis had to back out,” I muttered.

    “Ya don’t say! Well, maybe it lowers the rents,” he noted, getting out.

    One could only hope so.

    Jim’s air conditioning now seemed to be working, thank God. Lorrae served us with mugs of tea, the alternative being instant coffee, and we had what Jim referred to as “a sit. rep., what there is of it.”

    There wasn’t much, no. Jenny Crozier’s sighting of the bastard at the Art Gallery was it, really.

    “Didja manage to get hold of those art experts, Alex?” Jim then asked. “Hang on, Perry,” he said as his cousin reached for a biscuit. “Those are the last of the bloody selection, nobody likes them.”

    “I’ll dip it in me tea, maybe they’ll counteract each other.”

    We watched as he did so.

    “Do they?” Jim enquired, though without hope.

    “Not really.”

    “What are they?” I ventured.

    “Dunno. Arnott’s dry-as-dust somethings,” Jim replied heavily. “Them buggers ate all the chocolate ones. Dunno what brand they were, but they were good: choc-mint, think they were call— Sorry,” he muttered, subsiding under our glares.

    “Mate, you’re speaking to two blokes that hadda get up before three to get to the bloody airport in time for a plane that takes off at eight,” said Perry evilly.

    “Three?” he croaked.

    “Yeah! Check-in time was six o’bloody-clock!”

    “Sorry. Um, ya woulda made good time coming down from the hills, though: nothink on the roads,” he offered.

    “True. And we did have time for a mug of instant and a slice of toast before we left.”

    Jim looked at his watch. “Aw. Bit early for lunch. Better have something substantial, eh? There’s a pub over the way—well, corner of Hurtle Square, but it’s more or less straight across from here—that does really great snitzles, wider than the dinner plate, no kidding.”

    “Good-oh,” Perry agreed, while I was still mentally translating “snitzles”.

    “You up for a bit of a walk, Alex?” Jim asked. “Bit tricky to get there by car from here, and there’s nowhere to park, but it’s no distance, really.”

    “Yes, of course, Jim, I’m fine.”

    “Well, wear your hat,” Perry ordered.

    “Yes, Nanny,” I sighed. “Well, to return to the last subject but fourteen, Jim, I didn’t manage to get hold of Lexie from the National Gallery of Victoria, but I spoke to Pete Goodwin, the retired chap. Er, only just retired, I think: he said he was wishing he’d never ‘taken the package’ and was bored stiff and itching for something to get his teeth into.”

    “An art expert?” replied Jim dubiously.

    “Well, yes: there’s no doubt he knows his stuff, but you certainly wouldn’t guess he was in that line of work, to look at him. Looks a bit of a tough, actually. Very fit, I’d say. Er—I’m not absolutely sure what ‘taken the package’ means.”

    “Early retirement. He’d of been working for the Vic government,” said Jim.

    “No—er—National Gallery?” I groped.

    “Nah, it’s their state art gallery, Alex. Delusions of grandeur or somethink. Not that the federal lot are any different: all the government departments have been offering early retirement packages for yonks: cut down on staff, ya see. –They don’t replace them,” he elaborated.

    “But— I had the impression that Lexie had stepped into his shoes.”

    “I dare say she’s doing his work, yeah. But they won’t be paying her his salary and they won’t of taken on anyone else to help out. Geddit?”

    I nodded numbly.

    “Downsizing,” summed up Perry with a sniff.

    “Yeah,” Jim agreed. “What’d he be, Alex: sixty-ish, maybe?”

    “Well… He’d just finished his degree back in the ’70s when Andrews Senior’s art frauds were discovered. Actually I doubt if he’d be sixty yet.”

    “Sounds about right,” he allowed. “So, what did he say? Can they tell if the fakes are very recent?”

    “He didn’t sound very hopeful, I’m afraid—he reminded me it’s not like telling the age of an Old Master. Paints won’t have changed much. He’s going to try.”

    “Can but hope, I suppose,” Perry summed up, shrugging.

    “Yeah,” said Jim heavily. “Look, someone must know if the bloody dad’s still on ’is pins!” he burst out heatedly.

    “Yeah. Lean on the cousin?” suggested Perry.

    “You can’t do that! That poor little man?” I cried.

    Jim rolled his eyes to High Heaven. “Oh, boy. Never thought you’d be one of them, Alex.”

    “One of what?” I replied indignantly.

    “Clients that go all soft over the crims when push comes to shove, mate!”

    “I— No, but really! –The poor little creature dissolved in tears before our eyes, Perry,” I explained.

    “Yeah? Seen murderers sob their hearts out over the dear departed on nationwide TV, mate,” he replied, unmoved.

    “If you’d met him you’d know he isn’t one of those, Perry.”

    Jim rubbed his chin. “Nah, well… Get one of the girls to chat up the wife?”

    Perry looked dubious. “I’d say if she didn’t even cotton on that Andrews had nicked their car, she won’t know a thing. On the other hand… Well, innocent type, no reason she shouldn’t open her mouth, eh? Worth a try.”

    They looked at me.

    “Very well,” I said heavily. “Just don’t let it get anywhere near interrogation, please, Jim.”

    “No worries, mate: all the girls have had bags of experience with that sorta thing.”

    One could only hope so.

    “Heard from Spain yet?” Jim then asked without any evidence of optimism.

    Er…

    “Go on, mate: whaddever it is, we won’t tell,” drawled Perry.

    “There’s a fair bit of it. I took your advice, Jim, and got the firm to supply verbatim reports from their personnel. Lots of minutiae but not much that seems helpful, I’m afraid.”

    “Go on. Ya never know, some little detail might turn out to be useful, and we got bags of time,” said Jim, looking at his watch again.

    “Well, the firm I hired have managed to find out that Anson—Andrews, I mean—did own a villa in Spain, and he certainly turned up there twelve years back with a woman who matched Annabel’s description. It’s a small, very nosy community of English expats who stick together like glue. Some of them are new since that time but several of the older inhabitants remembered the pair. One gathers that the woman who cooked and cleaned for them was also very informative. –Clothes scattered all over the bedroom, and screaming fits if anything wasn’t to her liking: that was her, all right.” I shrugged. “One, Potter—uh, Major Potter, I think it was—also reported that they used to swim naked in their pool in full view of the houses further up the slope.”

    Jim gave a delighted snigger.

    Perry’s eyes twinkled, but he said mildly: “We geddit. How long were they there?”

    “Accounts varied from about one year to about three, but Potter was sure it was just under two years. A much nicer couple then bought the place and rapidly discovered all its disadvantages, that is, the repairs that he hadn’t bothered with. By the time of the sale they’d acquired a second car, a Mercedes that she usually drove on dress-shopping expeditions to the nearest metropolis. According to a Mrs Cunninghame with an E, by that time they were having continual rows, but of course they didn’t know them very well, they weren’t really their type. Mr Cunninghame thought he saw them drive off in different directions just before the new people moved in, but he couldn’t be sure it was that day.”

    After a moment Perry said: “What about the removalists?”

    “Apparently they left the furniture with the house. Very shortly afterwards several enraged firms descended on the unfortunate new owners waving unpaid bills. Mr and Mrs—what was their name? Oh, yes: Scanlon. Mr and Mrs Scanlon let them repossess the stuff, reported not to have been to their taste, really. End of story so far as the expats were concerned.”

    “So that’d be something like ten years back,” said Jim.

    “Mm.”

    “Anything else?” asked Perry.

    “Er… They think they traced the Lamborghini,” I admitted, “but as the German chap who bought it was a well-known character on the Costa del Tax Haven, all sorts of nasty stories about him but nothing proven, it was hard to get any facts. His chauffeur claimed he’d driven it himself for quite a while, got an offer he couldn’t refuse, and deputed him, the chauffeur, to deliver it to a chap in Mostar. Er—Bosnia-Herzegovina.”

    “Eh?” said Jim.

    “When was this?” asked Perry.

    “Well, after the Bosnian War, Perry. Round about 2004. The firm of investigators reported that there’s little doubt that is where it ended up: the man waxed very bitter about the terrain in general and the state of the city streets in particular. Uneven, frightful steep bits, impossible to find your way around even on the flat, and construction going on everywhere. –Reconstruction, strictly speaking, it would have been.”

    They looked at me limply.

    “Right, well, that’s the car ’e nicked,” Jim concluded weakly. “But what about him?”

    I shrugged. “No further assets in Spain as far as is determinable. The Spanish do keep a pretty close eye on purchases by foreigners, the unfortunate investigator got reams of complaints from the expats about Spanish bureaucracy. No trace of a Broderick Anson leaving the country, but given that it’s part of the EU and he was masquerading as British, he could have gone anywhere in Europe. Nothing known against him under that name in Spain, if you except the neighbours’ comments.”

    “Any casual thievery in that part of the country while ’e was there?” asked Jim.

    “Well, yes. Major Potter was convinced the increase in petty crime wasn’t a coincidence, but there was no indication it was him. Small but valuable items,” I explained. “Watches and rings left incautiously on dressing-tables during tennis parties, that sort of thing.”

    “Charming,” noted Perry with a sniff.

    “Mm. Him all over,” I agreed.

    “Did they catch up with your ex?” asked Jim.

    “Yes. Took up with a fat wealthy Dane after Anson, didn’t manage to get him to divorce the wife, latched onto a middle-aged American with a luxury yacht, got dumped when he discovered she was having it away with an Italian lad half her age who was one of the crew, picked up a widowered Englishman at the sort of café only patronised by the rich or the predatory, married him, persuaded him to buy a much larger villa nowhere near the old place, and finally left him two years back for a fat Dutchman in his seventies who owns a giant cheese factory and is said by the disaffected neighbours who don’t approve of his goings-on to resemble one of his cheeses. Rotund and red,” I elaborated.

    They choked slightly.

    “Has ’e married ’er?” asked Jim.

    “Apparently.”

    After a moment Perry said: “Did they ask her about Andrews?”

    “Yes. They had the nous to sic a charming young man onto her, and she revealed readily that she hasn’t seen or heard of him since they split up and doesn’t care if he lives or dies. With a note to the effect that no-one can come down on her for his debts because nothing was in her name. Which was true enough. The young man noted,” I added drily, “that she was wearing a brooch that was a dead ringer for one that Mrs Potter had reported nicked.”

    “You surprise me,” drawled Perry. “I’d of said he’d be the last man to give her anything worth cash dough.”

    “You’re not wrong, Perry, but she was always a picker-up of unconsidered trifles, too. Either from the unfortunate Potter woman direct, or from bloody Andrews later on, take your pick.”

    “Goddit,” he conceded.

    “Hey, this Dutchman had better of sewn everythink up tight in a pre-nup, eh?” noted Jim with some relish.

    “The neighbours reported that he has, Jim,” I replied with a grin. “And the young chap who interviewed her confirmed it: she was very sour about it, evidently.”

    “Goddit!” he said with a laugh.

    “That’s it for the Spanish side, then,” concluded Perry. “Colourful but not exactly fruitful.”

    “No,” I agreed.

    “Pity,” noted Jim sourly. “I was hoping he’d done somethink there that they’d wanna extradite ’im for and he’d end up in a Spanish gaol.”

    “Languishing,” I agreed. “Well, yes: me, too, Jim.”

    “Any bloody gaol’d do me,” Perry admitted. “Given that never mind he’s fortyish, he’s still a very pretty fella.”

    A rather sick silence fell.

    “Well, he’d deserve it,” Jim conceded somewhat weakly. “And on that note, let’s head for the pub.”

    And we went out into the blazing almost-noonday sun. And walked halfway across the CBD, I at least breathing in great lungfuls of dusty, gritty, and petrol-fume-tinged hot Adelaide air gratefully. Never mind I was faced with the eventual prospect of returning to cold old England and a job I didn’t particularly relish, at least for now I was free to breathe, let the heat soak into my bones—which it did seem to do here, it must be because the air was so dry, I thought, never mind Mike’s moans about the rain they’d had last year—and, finally, get up at dawn and ride my own horses any day I liked! True, Stella and Fred were still in residence, but she was supremely uninterested in the horses and never went near the paddock, and old Fred, I was by this time damn’ sure, would never give a fellow male away.

    The pub was a large, typical old Australian structure, never mind it was on the corner of a downtown city block. It was dim and cavernous inside, and the dining-room was huge, dark, and almost empty, with an unpolished wooden floor, large old tables, and very basic cutlery and crockery. But the beer was icy and frothing, and the schnitzels, as promised, overlapped the giant dinner plates. And the chips, of course, were more than plentiful. The meat was juicy and tender, beautifully cooked. Surely it couldn’t be veal? What size animal must it have come off? I gave in and croaked out an enquiry, to which Jim looked blank but Perry responded on an indifferent note: “Charolais, maybe. Why?” All I could produce in reply was a feeble: “The schnitzels are so huge.” The two Australians looked at me blankly…

    After a while a small group of mixed sexes came in, obviously an office staff treating themselves for having to work at this time of year, but apart from them the few diners were all male. All in shirtsleeves and slacks, their ties loosened. More workers from the high-rise office blocks roundabout. Jim noted that they were getting away with it while out from under the little woman’s eye, but it scarcely needed saying, really!

    “I wouldn’t touch the coffee,” Perry warned as we sat back replete at last.

    “I wasn’t going to,” I assured him. “Well—another beer? We have got a hot walk back.”

    Not pointing out that they were used to a hot climate, the cousins agreed, and we sank ’em.

    “I may live,” Perry conceded.

    “Me, too,” Jim agreed. “I’m the mug that’s gotta tell Moira and Audrey that they’ve gotta get out there and cosy up to Mrs Gary Brownloe, just when they were thinking they could take it easy.”

    “I don’t think I met Audrey,” I ventured.

    “Eh? Aw, no, ya wouldn’t of: they had some sort of family anniversary—golden wedding, was it?—somethink like that, end of November, so she took her leave early this year. She’s the best bet for this job, actually: she’s older, nearer the Brownloe dame’s age. Audrey Peterson, her name is—Mrs. Kids long since left the nest, good keyboard skills but wanted a job with a bit of challenge in it. I was a bit doubtful about taking her on at first,” he explained as we slowly headed for the door, “but it’s worked out good, she doesn’t try to patronise the younger staff at all, fits in really well. Had a bloody disaster with one older dame, she tried to boss the younger ones around even though they’d all been on the job miles longer than her. Let her go after her three months’ trial period.”

    I smiled a little. “Do you always hire on a three-months’ trial basis, then, Jim?”

    “Put yer hat on, mate,” he reminded me. “Yeah, learned me lesson on that one yonks back. Me dad kept a deli—what your mob’d call a corner shop. He took on a bloke what started nicking from ’im, real sly, he was, nothink you could prove, just small things, like the number of Mars Bars at the end of the day never added up, kind of thing. Took ’im ages to get rid of the stinker. Kind of a Brodie Andrews in miniature, when ya come to think of it. All smarmy and obliging, up front. Didn’t care what ’e did, underneath.”

    “That’s him,” I agreed, squinting out across the wide, cambered street. Adelaide seemed to go in for hugely wide city streets which were then choked with cars. Though this one wasn’t so busy today: presumably the hordes slackened off during the holiday season. “Is that side road the one we came down?”

    “Nah, next one along: we gotta go round the square. Haven’t you got any bump of direction, mate?” replied Jim in a friendly way, giving the button for the traffic lights a hefty shove.

    “Not much, I don’t think. Well, possibly one can’t count still becoming disoriented up in the hills.”

    “I can,” Perry noted drily. “Jim, they’ll change when they change, that’s not gonna do any good,” he added, as his cousin stabbed the button again.

    “Habit,” said Jim. “Beats standing here with yer mouth open just waiting.”

    “Something like that. –How many times you gone back and forth to Trethewin now, Alex?” he asked.

    “Er… Well, a few, I suppose. I wasn’t usually driving, though. –I don’t lose my way when I’m on a horse,” I offered meekly.

    “That’s very useful,” Perry replied cordially, and Jim collapsed in sniggers.

    “Go!” said his cousin loudly, giving him a ush.

    “Eh? Aw—yeah. Come on.” We hurried across. I for one wasn’t too sure that the traffic which was being allowed to come round the corner of the side road in order to immolate those trustfully stepping out while the sign was telling them to cross would actually pause for us, and it didn’t, but by the time we got that far it had shot through. I staggered onto the pavement.

    “Do any pedestrians ever reach the age of fifty unscathed in this city?” I sighed.

    Jim grinned. “The iron’s entered into ’is soul,” he told Perry. “He met that bloody crossing at the bottom of King William Street ’is first week out here.”

    “The one with the trams and that murderous free turn past the Governor’s mansion? –Right,” he acknowledged.

    My jaw had dropped. “Do you mean to say that that iniquitous death-trap of a driveway belongs to an official State residence?”

    “Ooh, ’is voice has gone all funny,” noted Perry. “That’s the story, yeah.”

    I was speechless.

    “There is a theory,” Perry then said thoughtfully, “though not common hereabouts, mind you, that it’s the locals’ sheep-like acceptance of that sort of thing that’s been holding South Australia back for the last two hundred years.”

    “Bullshit,” sighed Jim. “Ignore him, Alex, it’s one of his hobbyhorses.”

    Yes? It struck me as extremely sound. I refrained from saying so, however, and we headed off slowly in the heat.

    … “Ya didn’t arrange to meet up with Cassie, didja?” asked Perry, staring at the second vehicle which had appeared next to my hire-car in the cramped courtyard that was Honey Lane.

    “No, she wasn’t sure how long the shopping would take. Is that her car?”

    He took a deep breath. “Yes.”

    “Oh, Lor’. Gavin will have kicked up a fuss over missing out on a real P.I.’s office,” I deduced.

    “Eh?” said Jim.

    “His expression, Jim, not mine,” I sighed. “Gird your loins.”

    Jim merely grinned and led the way to his office.

    “Hey! Alex! I seen the computers an’ everythink! An’ Liam, he showed me a surveillance video of a man they hadda track down!”

    Liam Zwolinski grinned sheepishly at me. “Gidday, Alex. It was an old one—closed case. Filmed it on me smart-phone, transferred it to the system, ya see.”

    (No, but I took his word for it.) “Thanks very much, Liam, that was very good of you.”

    “No worries. Ya haven’t got anythink new for me to do, have ya?”

    “Given that you’re not the type to chat cosily to nice middle-aged ladies about their hubby’s cousins, no, mate,” said his boss heavily.

    “Ya could get over to the uni library and interrogate the junior staff about just what art books they might of had to put away recently,” noted Perry thoughtfully.

    “Which uni?”

    I looked wildly at Jim.

    “Adelaide,” he said heavily.

    “Aw: the Barr Smith, you mean,” said Liam arcanely. “I could if ya like, Jim.”

    “Hang on: any more reports of sightings come in?”

    “No.”

    “Well, it’s your dough, Alex: what do you think?” Jim asked.

    “If he can get a result, which doesn’t seem likely to me, it may well suggest what artist is next going to be copied, and I suppose we could warn the police to look out for works purporting to be by him. Police forces, plural, it would have to be,” I ended drily.

    “Yeah, they’d do that,” responded Jim sourly.

    “Mm, quite. I really don’t think it’s worth it, Liam.”

    “Blow. Um, listen, I been thinking…”

    “Yes?” I prompted kindly, as Gavin was hanging on his every word but Jim and Perry were merely looking bored.

    “Well, if ’e was hanging round the Art Gallery— I mean, I know it’s the shortcut to the Barr Smith, if ya know ya way around… But see, what the forgers sometimes do, they pretend to be serious students sketching the real things, gives them time to absorb the style. We might catch ’im there!”

    “Only one flaw in yer logic, there, little mate,” drawled Perry: “as far as is known, Andrews can’t paint. It’s the dad that’s the bloody forger.”

    His face fell. “Aw. Yeah.”

    Jim scratched his head. “Yeah. But hang on. Suppose ’is dad is still hanging round Adelaide and is still at it: he might be squatting in the gallery, pretending to be a serious older student, eh? I mean, ’ve you see that really great Clint Eastwood movie Absolute Power?”

    I shook my head but Perry said: “He wasn’t a forger, ya nit, he just liked art, he was a thief.”

    “Yeah, but he was an older joker that went to the art gallery and sketched a bit, wasn’t he?”

    “Uh—well, ye-ah… It’d be a bloody long shot, Jim. And staking out the gallery— I mean, you’d have to keep it up, doing it for a day or even a week won’t cut it; won’t they notice?”

    Jim looked dry. “Not from what I’ve heard, mate. It’s an outside firm of security contractors, they’re not the gallery’s own staff. They rotate them between the institutions on North Terrace, the types that do it wouldn’t know yer Rembrandts from yer Monets. Besides, we don’t need to send the same person every day. Whaddaya think, Alex?”

    “We-ell… I think we need to consult the experts on what artists he might be likely to choose, Jim, and it’s a very long shot; but it’s definitely an idea. Um… follow any likely suspect to his home, do a bit of surveillance work in case the son turns up?”

    “Yeah!” cried Gavin, his eyes lighting up. “Surveillance! Far—out!”

    Jim eyed him tolerantly. “Surveillance is mostly dead boring, kid: stuck in a car for hours pretending to read a newspaper or snog your—uh—girlfriend,” he finished feebly, the youth of his addressee apparently having belatedly dawned. “Where’s yer aunty, by the way, or have ya lost her?”

    “Nah, ’course not! Moira’s taken her to the ladies’ toilet!”

    “QED,” I murmured. “It’s worth a try, Jim.”

    “Well, okay, if you wanna pay for their time, Alex. I must say, there’ve been times this past month when I’d of paid anything meself to catch up with so-called Tony Bloody Brownloe.”

    “Well, quite. Just, uh, don’t for God’s sake put yourself in his way again, Jim, I’d never be able to face poor Paula if he had another go at you.”

    “Once was enough, actually,” he admitted, grimacing. “Your scar still itching?”

    “Off and on.”

    “Yeah,” he conceded sourly. “Okay, Liam, you fancy the job? Get into town, buy yourself an artist’s sketchbook and some soft pencils and a rubber—that art supplies shop down the bottom of, um, Frome Street, I think; anyway, not far from that bloody Italian restaurant that took hours to serve us and then missed out half our orders that time.”

    “Aw, yeah, I know. Can I use the company credit card?”

    “Yes, ya birk! Go,” he groaned.

    Grinning, Liam went.

    “Well, he looks young enough to pass for an art student,” noted Jim without enthusiasm.

    And given that he was dressed in jeans and a loose floral shirt that just missed being a Hawaiian one by a whisker he wouldn’t look entirely unconvincing.

    “Only they’re all gays with loads of earrings and flamin’ nose rings,” Liam’s boss added gloomily.

    “He’s got an earring!” cried Gavin.

    “Yeah, one. Oh, well, them nongs that do security at the Art Gallery won’t notice a thing. –So, ya seen the computers, eh?” he said kindly.

    “Yeah, they’re ace!”

    Jim eyed his terminal unenthusiastically. “If you say so. Well, some of the staff are real whizzes at the Internet stuff, can’t say I’ve ever taken to it, meself.”

    “Heck, it’s easy! Ya just…”

    He was still in full spate when Cassie surfaced. “Oh, hi, Alex,” she said, pinkening. “I thought you might still be here. Gavin was making such a fuss, Mr Hawkes, and, um, I thought it’d be okay if we just popped in.”

    “Yeah, ’course, love,” he replied kindly. “Anyone forced him to go to the bog, yet?”

    “No,” she said, biting her lip. “We had lunch at McDonald’s but I don’t like to let him go there, you never know.”

    “Stranger danger,” said Perry unexpectedly.

    “Mm,” she agreed.

    “I’ll take him,” he offered. “You coming, after all that beer, Alex? The alternative is to stop halfway to Outer Woop-Woop so as you can decorate the verge, but I dunno if your Pommy sensibilities’ll—”

    “Shut up,” I grinned. “I might as well. Come on, Gavin.”

    “But I don’t need—”

    “You do, Gavin!” cried his aunt. “I gave in and let him have a Coke,” she explained, “and on top of that bottle of spring water—”

    Perry laid a hand on his skinny shoulder. “Right: quick march.”

    “Down the corridor, right at the end,” said Jim as they made for the door.

    “But I don’t—”

    At this Perry simply picked him up, slung him over his shoulder, and marched out with him.

    “Give that man a medal,” said Jim.

    “Hear, hear!” Cassie agreed fervently. “He’s been such a pest… Well, I suppose he didn’t get enough sleep last night. Mum made him go to bed early, but it doesn’t seem to’ve worked.”

    “That Coke’s probably gone to his head,” I noted. I drifted over to the door. “As well as his bladder,” I added, sliding out.

    Behind me I heard Jim collapse in sniggers, what time Cassie cried indignantly: “Alex! That’s not funny!”

    I headed down the corridor, grinning.

    … Out in the courtyard Perry looked thoughtfully at Cassie’s car. “Think ya can back out, love?”

    “Ooh, help,” she croaked.

    “Yeah. Well, gimme your key, I’ll give it a go.”

    I grabbed Gavin and we stood well back as he backed—and stopped. And edged forward again. And backed…

    “Yay!” cried Gavin as he finally crept all the way out.

    “I didn’t think,” said Cassie in crestfallen tones.

    “It was the only option. You could hardly park out in the alleyway, there isn’t room. At least, not if another car should want to pass you,” I pointed out.

    “No,” she agreed gratefully. “I wonder what the staff do?”

    “Give it away and take public transport, I should think. Er—is there a train?”

    “Yes, several, and buses. It depends where you live. Or the tram, of course.”

    “I thought it only trundled round the CBD?”

    “No, it goes about eleven K. All the way to Glenelg.”

    “To the beach!” explained Gavin, his eyes lighting up. “Hey, we could—”

    “No! For Heaven’s sake, Gavin, we’ve all been up since three!”

    “Quarter to,” he corrected pedantically.

    “Yes, exactly,” she sighed.

    “I’m not tired!”

    My eyes met Cassie’s. “Wait for it,” she mouthed. I nodded, swallowing a smile.

    Sure enough, the valiant Perry, having volunteered to take Gavin—in front, yes, but well buckled in—subsequently reported, as we pulled up in front of Cassie’s little house, that he’d been asleep before they left the suburbs.

    “So was this one!” said Cassie with a laugh.

    “Er—yes,” I admitted. “I’m so sorry, Cassie, l meant to spell you at the driving.”

    “Stop apologising!” she said, smiling. “You were tired, and no wonder, after the trauma with your leg.”

    Yes, well, make that the trauma of being fussed over by relays of bossy fem—

    “Er, hullo, Stella. Yes, it all went well, thanks. –Er, yes, we’ve all had lunch,” I said feebly.

    “Good! Now, you can all have a nice lie-down! –Perry, dear, do try to control that dog,” she added as Fifi frisked up to him, big tail waving in immense swoops.

    “I’m not tired, Gran!”

    “Rubbish, Gavin. Go inside. You can go to the toilet first and wash your hands. –No arguments.”

    He went.

    “Off you go, Alex,” she ordered. “Just make sure he does lie down, Perry.”

    Meekly we retreated to the car, Perry unnecessarily but wisely grasping Fifi’s collar.

    “Are you gonna lie down?” he asked as we headed up to the big house.

    “Are you?” I replied nastily, as Junie was seen to emerge from the campervan, hands on hips.

    “Hah, hah,” he said feebly.

    Quite.

Next chapter:

https://deadringers-trethewin.blogspot.com/2025/07/cane-toads-and-chameleons.html