‘Oh, totally. I mean, who’d have thought? I never picked Nate as the leaving type. I assumed he’d be staying at the farm for the rest of his life. He had this little job in a furniture shop—’
‘Pringles? Yeah, we’ve been there.’
‘Really? Oh. Okay. So you know about that.’ The news obviously rattled Jeb. ‘Well, I suppose I thought Nate would carry on there indefinitely. He didn’t seem the type to break away, you know?’
‘Surprised he was allowed to work. Tight rein, and all that.’
‘Well, money was always tricky. My mother didn’t work. My dad was an accounts clerk – that’s not a big earner. My brother had to contribute what he could, when he could. Nate was expected to pitch in, play his part.’
Nothing about Jeb’s own contribution, Mike noted. ‘So, the day of his leaving?’
‘Just like the day before it. Walked to work, apparently left at lunchtime. No one from Pringle’s contacted me or anything. I had no reason to think he wasn’t at work. When he didn’t show up for dinner I rode around trying to find him, but no luck. Next morning, I spoke to Pringle. Said Nate had taken his pay, picked up all his stuff and left.’
That was it, thought Mike: the pronouns had moved. By the time Nathan was leaving it was all I, I, I. The parents had melted into the background; Jeb was front and centre in his own play. The power must have shifted.
‘And there was no trail? No further contact at all?’
‘Not a thing. I even tried a private detective, but Nate had disappeared into thin air. No letters, no phone calls. Nothing to say he was okay. I would really like to know where he got to, Detective.’
Jeb leaned forward and glowered as he said it. Mike sat impassive and Jeb seemed to realise who was who and where he was. He sat back and linked hands in his lap. Supplication didn’t suit him.
‘We can’t discuss that aspect right now, Jeb. There’s an ongoing investigation, so we have to be discreet. I’m sure it’ll all come out in the fullness of time.’
‘He can’t just have disappeared into nowhere. Someone must have known where he was, what he was doing.’
You’d think so, wouldn’t you, reflected Mike. I’d have thought so, too, until today.
‘And you, Jeb, what did you do when you left school?’
‘I started in construction. Steel frames – I helped put them up. After a couple of years I thought I could do better than the guy running the company, so I started my own.’
‘And did you? Do better, I mean?’
‘God, yeah. It’s not so hard. Gradually expanded out of state; now we’re international. That’s where I was – up north. Deal for five warehouses.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. I have good people in the major positions now. They’re the real asset.’
It didn’t sound right: too trite, too business-book. Jeb came across to Mike as someone who ran everything exactly as he personally wanted it – no opposition, only implementation.
‘To be honest,’ Jeb continued, ‘it’s losing its challenge. I’ve been looking to diversify. I have a couple of irons in the fire.’
‘To keep your hand in?’
‘Exactly.’
Mike couldn’t see this line of inquiry going anywhere. He wanted follow-up on what he’d heard. Someone would have to go to the farm and see if they could find anyone who knew the Whittler parents.
‘Well, that’s great, Jeb. It’s really been useful, thank you. If you could give me your mobile number?’
Jeb reeled it off quickly, almost too fast for Mike to note.
‘As I say, we’re looking after Nathan just fine. He has all the medical and other services he needs right now. But we’re taking it nice and slowly – short interviews with rest periods in between. So you don’t need to worry about his welfare.’
‘But I do, Detective. I’m his brother. Last relative, and all. I’d really like to see him, talk to him.’
Mike waved the notepad.
‘I have your number. You might as well grab some food or something. Get unpacked from your trip. As soon as Nathan indicates he’s ready to see his brother, I’ll call you straight away.’
Jeb sloped out of the main door and Mike made sure to watch him from behind a pillar. As anticipated, Jeb turned when he thought no one was watching and scowled at the station.
Chapter 27
People were beginning to seep out of offices towards their cars: Carlton was going home. A bus growled on a side street, swamped by ads beseeching viewers to watch Channel 7’s latest reality show: some people would be cooking some things, and apparently ‘all Australia’ wanted to see. A gaggle of female students – all in tight jeans and overlong knitted scarves – crossed Dana’s path. She had to stop to avoid a collision and they passed on, oblivious and assured. If it’s a murder of crows, she thought, what’s the collective noun for a group of pretty, entitled college girls? A meanness? A stiletto?
Father Timms was tucked up in a dogtooth coat that made him look like a noir extra – the guy who delivered proof the girl was still alive. Their bench was well away from the flow of footsteps across the plaza.
Timms passed her a coffee: single-shot, one sugar, whipped slightly by a chill breeze that had imposed itself on the plaza. She liked that he knew her regular order.
Dana suddenly recalled it was Friday today: that fact had escaped her totally since midnight. The sunlight was hazy and milky; maybe forty minutes of daylight left. It made her realise how long the day had been, and how long the Day was.
Timms had a dishwater-colour tea in a Styrofoam cup. She thought tea should be in a proper cup, or at least a mug. It looked… unseemly.
‘Today’s the anniversary, isn’t it?’ asked Timms.
He’d said that this morning, Dana realised as she sat. She’d been on her way out of the church, desperate to escape the iconography and everything associated with it and had pretty much blanked out Timms’ offering.
‘How come you remember that?’
Sometimes, key chunks of the moments in question were a little confused in Dana’s head. Incidents, faces, words: all too real and all too visceral. They could reduce her to near-catatonic panic. But dates, and the sequences where people arrived and left the scenes: not so much. Details had dissolved into maelstroms of promises never kept, assurances that wilted, denial made truth. It was almost as if she deliberately dissembled that aspect for self-preservation – purposely scrambling the jigsaw pieces in her mind. Remembering everything would be too vivid, too much impact. She knew this was the Day, but other specifics often eluded her.
‘A week or two after last year’s… well, after, I made a note in my phone. Just of the date, you understand, not of the details. Such as I know them.’ Timms paused and they watched a woman pull frantically on a lead as a large dog quite literally followed its nose towards the fountain. ‘So, you know, my phone remembered.’
She couldn’t turn to look at him: she spoke to her cup.
‘That’s, uh, impressive. Weird.’
‘None taken.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘Sorry. I tend to carry stuff in my head, not on spreadsheets, or technology, or whatever. If someone gives me a telephone number, I memorise it; I don’t punch it into a phone.’
‘Memorise? Jeez, Grandma, no one outside a spelling bee memorises. They know which website it’s stored on in case they need to get it. The modern world is about access, not ownership. Take music, for example. We used to own records, cassettes, CDs; now we have access to a website.’ He took another slurp. ‘But you’re trying to distract from the point here.’