Mystery At Riddle Gully Page 3

  Pollo looked up. ‘I’m onto a really good story, Sherri. If I get to the bottom of it and put out a brilliant early edition it might be enough to win me that cadetship he was talking about. But now I have to waste my last ever Riddle Gully Gazette on a stupid apology he doesn’t deserve and that’ll make me look like I’ve done something wrong.’

  Sherri put her arm around Pollo’s shoulders. ‘Do your big story anyway,’ she said. ‘People won’t notice a boring old apology if the rest of the edition is a ripper. And, on the bright side, you’ve got another couple of leads to follow up now.’

  ‘There’s that graffiti,’ said Pollo. ‘What’s the other one? You’re not thinking of Sergeant Butt’s stepson, I hope. I know I mentioned him the other day, but—’

  Sherri laughed. ‘No! Not him! Though it must be hard for the kid starting a new school halfway through term. No, I was thinking of what Mayor Bullock said.’ She took Bublé from his cage and raised him to eye-level. ‘How did that nasty old mayor put it, boy? “I’m not a man to let a little red tape get in the way.” Something like that, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Red tape,’ said Pollo. ‘That’s all the boring stuff the authorities make people do, right?’

  ‘All the checks and regulations, yes,’ said Sherri. ‘But it’s easy to forget that they’re mostly there for a good reason.’

  ‘And Mayor Bullock thinks he’s above it all?’

  ‘Said so himself.’

  Pollo pulled out her notepad and made a few halfhearted notes. ‘But even if I did manage to bring out a good edition,’ she sighed, ‘he’s just as likely to rubbish me to the editor-in-chief anyway. I’m never going to get that cadetship. There’s no point in even trying.’

  Sherri smoothed the feathers on Bublé’s back. ‘What would your mum have said to that?’

  Pollo nibbled her thumbnail. It wasn’t just any old story that she was onto with this Viktor von Albericht. It could not only get her the job with a real newspaper—but it could make her famous! She looked up at Sherri and grinned. ‘I guess I’ll let the editor-in-chief make up his own mind about me.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, kiddo,’ said Sherri, giving Pollo a squeeze. She returned Bublé to his cage. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’d kill for a cup of tea. Shall I make one for both of us and we can talk about something nice?’ She went to put the kettle on.

  Pollo sat thinking. Maybe she should ask Sherri over for dinner tonight? No, better to wait for a day when her dad had done something heroic with a sick animal. Besides, she had a certain stranger to tail.

  From the kitchen, Pollo heard Sherri humming a slow, smoochy song—something from her cruise-ship repertoire, she guessed. Sherri suddenly popped her head around the screen. ‘I know what we can talk about!’ she said with a giggle. ‘Viktor von Albericht! That was him on the telephone earlier. You can tell me why you’re so interested in him. I know he’s way too old for you, but he’s a bit of a dish, don’t you think?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Saturday 11:30

  ‘What do you mean it’s a rather good likeness?’ The pitch of Angela’s voice climbed with each word. ‘Honestly, HB, how can you sit there and smile when some little brat has made you a laughing stock?’ She was striding around the kitchen picking up whatever items came into her reach—the salt shaker, the wet sponge, a pen, a banana—and banging them down on the bench.

  Will sat at the table, his eyes flicking between his stepfather and his mother. The red fingers that ten minutes of scrubbing hadn’t cleaned were tucked between his clenched knees.

  ‘Calm down, love,’ said HB. ‘It may not have been a “little brat”, as you put it. From the Riddle Gully Gazette this morning, it looks like Principal Piggott has a dark side!’ He stirred two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. ‘Besides, the joke’s on whoever did it, isn’t it? I’ve been called a darn sight worse than “pig’s bun” before now.’

  ‘You know very well what they intended to say.’

  ‘Precisely,’ HB chuckled, ‘only they didn’t get to say it.’

  ‘It’s the parents of these kids who worry me!’ said Angela. ‘Whatever happened to good old-fashioned values? Don’t people teach their kids respect anymore?’

  HB dropped in another two sugars. ‘Well, whoever did it has been taught punctuation. The apostrophe’s in the right place!’ He looked hopefully at his wife.

  Angela snorted. She turned and stared out the kitchen window, her arms folded, her back rigid. ‘Whoever did it should be shot!’

  Will flinched. Angela could get mad. Really mad. It was how she and HB had met. After his parents got divorced there’d been a blow-up over school fees. Angela had put on a disguise and dumped a load of chicken manure over Clive’s new Kawasaki motorbike. HB was stationed in the city at the time and he’d been the arresting officer.

  While she was in the lockup waiting for HB to finish his paperwork, Nan and Pop had come around to watch Will and take turns to mutter about their daughter’s ‘petrol temper’. ‘One spark and she turns into a ruddy bonfire!’ Pop had kept saying, while Nan looked at Will over and over and shook her head with, ‘You’d better not have inherited it, young man!’ It was a fun night.

  Thankfully, Clive decided that to press charges could have ‘undesirable outcomes’ for Will, so it had all fizzled out. His mum had seemed calmer the last couple of years but, looking at her now, could he be sure?

  HB put his hand on Angela’s arm. ‘The boys at the station will have the graffiti off first thing Monday, love. All it needs is some turps and a scrubbing brush. Don’t go spoiling your birthday over it.’

  ‘My birthday’s already spoiled! Everyone in town’s laughing about it!’ Angela snatched an old Bart Simpson beaker from the dish drainer and went to the fridge. She emptied the remainder of a bottle of wine into it and plonked down on a chair at the table. She was staring glumly over the rim, holding the cup in both hands and slurping.

  HB dropped another spoonful of sugar into his tea and stirred slowly, the clinking of his teaspoon sounding to Will uncomfortably like leg-irons.

  Suddenly HB slapped the table, causing Will to leap in his chair. ‘Hey, Will! We nearly forgot!’ He reached over and shook Angela’s arm. ‘Didn’t we, love?’

  ‘Forgot what?’ Her lips remained clamped to the beaker, giving her words a swampy tone.

  ‘Will’s picture, of course!’ HB was all smiles. ‘The one he did for you while we were out at breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, heck!’ Angela put the beaker on the table and smiled crookedly at Will. She reached over and ruffled his hair. ‘Of course. I’m so sorry I didn’t think of it, love. Here you’ve been sketching away and I come home ranting and raving. Even more reason to hate that little delinquent out there.’ She pushed the beaker of wine away. ‘Will you go and get it for me? If there’s one thing that can cheer me up right now, it’s a picture from my beautiful boy.’

  Will smiled like an orange quarter was stuck in his mouth. He knew there was something he was meant to be doing instead of waiting for HB’s workmates to kick the door down.

  ‘Sure,’ he mumbled. ‘Back in a sec.’ He ran to his room, grabbed a charcoal stick and dashed off a sketch of the view from his bedroom window. Then he rubbed the charcoal thickly over his paint-stained fingers.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, Angela was sipping a glass of water and HB was massaging her shoulders. She was smiling, just a little. She didn’t look capable of killing anyone. Should he confess everything then and there? Just get it over and done with? He hovered near the doorway.

  But where to start? Thoughts tumbled in his head like socks in a dryer. Could he tell them how much HB got under his skin? That he’d rather be back at boarding school? He couldn’t even tell them why he’d got so mad and done what he’d done. He didn’t know. His anger had somehow hit him from behind. He hadn’t seen it coming.

  Angela was looking at him eagerly, holding out her hand. Maybe he should talk to Clive first—see wh
at he said. Sort out everything in his head. Just wait a bit. He stepped forward and gave his mother the sketch.

  ‘Happy birthday, Mum.’

  ‘Oh! It’s ... lovely.’ Angela wafted her hand across the picture. ‘You’ve really captured the ... grass and ... the fence and the ... the shed.’ She moved around the table and put her cheek against his. ‘You’re my rock, Will. I don’t know what I’d do without you, I really don’t. I’m so lucky to have you around at a wretched time like this.’

  Yeah, thought Will, his heart around his ankles. He’d definitely wait a bit.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Saturday 13:30

  ‘We’ll be off then, son.’ HB appeared in the doorway. Will, sitting on his bed, snapped the top half of his lever-arch file over his sketchpad, hoping no edges were sticking out. For a big bloke HB sure moved quietly. ‘We’ll probably stay on for a drink or two afterwards, seeing as it’s your mum’s birthday.’

  Angela squeezed underneath HB’s armpit. ‘Sure you don’t want to come down for a hit? Quite a few young people go, you know. You might find some friends.’ They looked at him hopefully, tennis racquets dangling, white shoes gleaming.

  ‘Sorry,’ Will mumbled, ‘but I want to do this assignment.’ Find some friends? Him? A wanted criminal? He didn’t think so.

  ‘Well, try to finish so that you can come to the movies with us tonight, eh?’ said Angela.

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Will. Angela and HB turned to leave. ‘Hey, Mum,’ he called. ‘Clive hasn’t rung, has he?’

  ‘No, love. Should he have?’

  ‘Nah. Just wondering.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Well, anyway ... knock ’em dead today!’

  ‘Don’t encourage her,’ said HB. ‘If she lets off steam with that serve of hers, there’ll be bodies all over the court. My sources tell me Homicide’s on red alert!’

  ‘Oh, honestly!’ Angela elbowed HB in the chest. ‘Though I admit the thought of that delinquent out there on the loose might pepper things up a bit.’

  ‘Heh, heh, heh!’ Will tried to laugh, sounding more like someone who couldn’t quite call ‘help’.

  The afternoon slouched along. The house was silent except in Will’s room, where the scritch-scritch-scritch of his pencil had produced page after page of glowering comic book villains.

  Will suddenly tossed his pad and pencil onto the floor and went into the kitchen. He stared at the phone. He’d have thought his dad might have rung him by now to see how he was getting along. Clive came out with some weird stuff at times but they usually had a good understanding. Will had moved away, sure, but he hadn’t gone to Antarctica!

  He needed to talk to him—now! He grabbed the receiver and keyed Clive’s mobile number. But the call went straight to a recorded message, inviting him to try again later—the same as any old stranger. Will banged the phone into its cradle and stomped back to his room. He kicked his backpack, the ball-bearing in the empty spray can clanging as the bag skidded across the floor. Had his father forgotten he existed?

  Will flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. As if talking to Clive would fix anything anyway. Those stupid red letters were up there for all the world to see, at least until the police got rid of them on Monday morning. HB wasn’t that bad. He didn’t deserve this.

  Will sat up. Until the police got rid of them! What had HB said they’d use? Turps and a scrubbing brush. That was it! He jumped off the bed and emptied his backpack, shoving the spray can and ruined T-shirt into a drawer. Angela had an old wig somewhere. He’d seen it sticking out of a box when he was stowing his empty suitcase. It was blonde and curly—the opposite of his own hair. He had to try. And it sure beat hanging around like a sack of spuds waiting for his dad to ring.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Saturday 17:30

  Will squatted in the bushes in the spidery shadow of a eucalypt on the edge of the school oval. Brimming over his knees was a flowery dress from his mother’s op-shop bag and, stretched over his head, the curly blonde wig.

  As the last players and spectators left, he picked up his backpack with its load of turpentine, scrubbing brush and rags and trotted to the scene of his crime. He splashed turps over his artwork and got busy.

  Ten minutes of hard scrubbing in, sweat was trickling down his temples and the wig felt like a hot water bottle strapped to his head. But he was starting to make an impact. He’d got rid of most of the words and felt better than he had in ages.

  He upped his pace.

  Maybe it was the glupping sound or maybe it was the zesty lime tang in the air but ... bit by bit ... something made Will turn around.

  A little kid with a shaggy red mop of hair was standing a few metres behind him, sucking heartily on a Chupa Chup, staring at him unblinkingly. From the other side of the building came a man’s deep voice. ‘Is it there, Rooster?’

  The crunch of shoes on the bitumen drew near.

  Will froze. He tried to move but the bitumen, it seemed, had glued to his feet. Eyes popping, he attempted to smile at Rooster. He succeeded only in baring his teeth.

  Rooster took a step back. He slid his Chupa Chup from his mouth, a string of green saliva keeping it connected with his bottom lip—a lip that was starting to tremble.

  ‘Daddy?’ Rooster whimpered.

  The deep voice called out, ‘It’s okay, boy. We’ll find it!’ With that, the owner of the voice himself appeared from behind the brickwork. ‘What the devil...?’

  Rooster’s dad didn’t look the type to bother with introductions. He snapped into a karate position, set to spring. At that moment, Rooster began to wail. He clutched his father’s hand with both of his own. The man’s eyes flickered in a split second of hesitation and Will saw his chance.

  Finally, his feet did what feet were supposed to do— run! He pelted for the trees, for the second time that day leaving a job unfinished. But this time it was to the boom of ‘Oi, girlie! Come back here! Oi, girlie! Stop!’

  Will slammed the front door of his house and ran to the laundry out the back, his heart hammering. He unzipped his backpack and reeled as sharp fumes of turpentine shot up his nostrils. He yanked out the dress and wig. They were both covered with red splashes and reeked of turps. And what about the T-shirt he’d wrecked, lurking in his bottom drawer? They were like neon signs, pointing to him.

  If he put them in the bag for the op-shop they’d be traced back to him, or worse, to his mum. That was presuming HB and his big nose didn’t sniff them out first. And there was no way he could clean and dry everything before Angela and HB got back from tennis. Besides, the dress was ripped where he’d wrenched it off before jumping on his bike. He drummed his fists on the washing machine, trying to think.

  Just then, he caught sight of a tiny red box on the laundry shelf. Simple! Genius!

  Angela wouldn’t miss the things—not straight away at least. He didn’t know why she even had the wig. He’d never seen her wear it. If he went down to the very bottom of the backyard and did it, no one would ever know...

  A minute later, Will was at the back fence beside an empty stretch of straw mulch in which Angela had been going to plant a vegetable garden. He pushed aside the straw with his toes, scraped a hollow in the dirt below with his spade and piled in the dress, the wig and his T-shirt. He slid open the box of matches from the laundry shelf, struck one and tossed it in.

  Whoosh! Fire seized the turpentine-splattered clothes and polyester curls.

  Will leaned on his spade and watched in awe as flames licked the things into life, turning them into crackling, writhing creatures. They hadn’t been allowed to have so much as a candle at boarding school. This was awesome!

  Gradually he became aware of heat on the back of his legs. He turned around to see a second fire growing fast, its tentacles hungrily snaking through the mounds of dry straw. A spark must have jumped! Will began scraping a firebreak with the spade, springing from one edge of the charred black patch to the other in his bare feet, banging at sparks as he leapt about
.

  One by one, the tongues of fire reached the ring of bare dirt and fizzled out. It looked like he’d won the battle. He straightened and, closing his eyes, exhaled. Leaning on his spade, he stretched to the right and then to the left. He opened his eyes and saw it—a tiny ember, nestled on the edge of the firebreak, glowing softly.

  He lunged and banged the spade down on top of it.

  Once more for luck ... He hoisted the spade high in the air.

  ‘Everything okay down there?’ HB’s voice boomed from the back doorstep.

  As Will’s eyes jerked towards his stepfather, the spade swung down and slammed into the end of his big toe. Whumph! Bang! Ferocious pain shot up his leg, through his stomach and into his head. His legs buckled beneath him and Will’s world, for the moment at least, went black.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Saturday 18:15

  As the sun began to dip below the treetops, Pollo opened her back gate and set off for the cemetery, Shorn Connery, straining on his rope, leading the way. Sherri’s favourite customer, this Viktor-with-a-K von Albericht, had gone to the cemetery the night before and her gut told her he’d go there again. She’d tail him this time, even if it meant going down Diamond Jack’s Trail at night.

  She had on her best surveillance gear—black runners, black pants, black T-shirt, black beanie and the scarf her dad had knitted her from Shorn Connery’s wool, spun and dyed black by Aunty Giulia. Most importantly, she’d bought new batteries for her torch. She wouldn’t be turned back this time!

  Unlike Sherri, Pollo wasn’t fooled for a second by von Albericht’s ‘old-fashioned manners’ and his ‘deliriously deep brown eyes’. She knew what he was up to. He’d wangle his way into Sherri’s confidence and when she was off-guard make his move—like Count von Alberecht had done to his latest victim in Last Slayer IV.