Laughs, Corpses... and a Little Romance Read online

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  Monday is the day most working folk dislike, the start of the working week and nothing much to look forward to for the next five days. Of course if you work seven days a week all days of the week are much the same. One of the less pleasurable things about owning your own business is that you never get any time off. Four weeks holidays a year are strictly for those working for wages. Employed people dream of having their own business and ‘being their own boss’. What a joke that is! When you own your own business the business is your boss, and it’s far more demanding than any human boss would dare to be, like for instance having to work seven days a week and no weekend penalty wage rates. Still, I mostly enjoy my job, which seems to put me in some sort of minority, and I have the blessing of reliable employees in my two sons; they’re not likely to leave at the drop of a hat, giving a bare seven days notice. Tim loves his job and wouldn’t think of doing anything else, and although Jack is restless at times he’s smart enough to know which side his bread is buttered.

  This Monday the wind had gone round to the north west, which in these parts means the air has been heated up crossing a long stretch of the outback, and as the day goes on it starts to blow on you hot as a blowtorch. "Better rig the awning lads, the passengers’ll need all the shade they can get today." I always keep an eye on the sky on days like this. The dry hot air coming over the Blue Mountains fights with the cooler humid air coming in off the ocean, and huge thunderheads can build up with very little warning. That's when you can get hail as big as golf balls and violent twisting winds. If the sky starts to turn green and purple you know it's time to run for a safe anchorage, because all hell is about to be let loose.

  We followed our usual Monday timetable, two commuter runs, then delivering mail up the river. The air was hot and sweaty, and the birds and the dogs were silent and resting in the shade. One woman passenger asked me why it was that the seagulls were always so spotlessly clean. It’s true, their white breasts are always spotless, even though they’re always mucking around in mud and polluted water and eating any old scraps. “I wish I knew the answer to that” I told her. “If you ever find out let me know, because it’s been bothering me for forty years!”

  Later that day we had a trip with a Japanese tour group, fifteen people altogether. It was a routine trip, except that as the passengers were disembarking one girl was looking at something in the water, and she tripped and stumbled and started to fall down between the wharf and the hull of Annabelle. It could have been really nasty if Tim hadn’t jumped like lightening over the rail, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her back to safety. The girl was pretty badly shaken up so we took her to the office and sat her down for a few minutes. She was ok except for a few cuts and bruises. Just as they were about to reboard their tour bus the rescued girl came forward to Tim, put the palms of her hands together the way Japanese women do, bowed deeply to him, then she said something in Japanese. She was a small pretty girl, like a doll almost. Tim went red with embarrassment and bowed back. As their bus pulled away Tim turned to Jack. “I wonder what it was she said?” Jack looked at him gravely. “Tim, there’s a matter of Japanese honour involved here. When you save the life of a Japanese girl she’s in your debt forever. She was probably telling you she’ll come back with her family to honour the debt. Her dad will probably insist that she marries you. Wow, you lucky thing, getting a beautiful Japanese girl for a wife.” Tim looked horror-struck. “I don’t want to marry no Japanese girl. I don’t even know her.” “Tim, it’s a matter of family honour. If you don’t marry her she’ll probably have to commit suicide, hari-kari I think they call it. She has to slit open her belly with a knife, so I don’t think you’ve got much choice, have you?” I curse Jack when he starts off with his inventions but I can’t help smiling to myself, and Tim is such a sucker believing everything Jack tells him. After a bit I just had to put him out of his misery. “Tim, he’s making it all up. Don’t believe a word he’s saying.”

  There was a break before our next trip, so I popped round to the supermarket to get a few things. I was a bit surprised to see DC Greg Bennett in there, talking to Rosie, the checkout girl. “Bloody Greg back again,” I said, “Didn't expect to see you here.” He looked round. “Hi Ted. I didn't expect to be back either, but DS Tucker is puzzled we haven't found any trace of the guy from the yacht. He seems to have vanished into thin air. I was just asking around to see if anyone had seen him. It's a bit difficult though not having a proper description, and all the yachties passing through.” “Had any success with your inquiries in Queensland?”, I asked. “We did get a hit with the registered owner of that yacht under the name ‘Zenobia’. It's registered to a Constantine Esposito, who is known to the drug squad in several states, although they've never managed to pin anything on him.” “He’s probably the bloke on the yacht then." "No he isn’t, they sent us his description. He’s a short stocky chap with a bald head.” “Have you identified the corpse?” “Yeh, she was probably Andrea Saunders from Surfers’ Paradise. She was trying to be a model but she was much too old to start that game. New models these days have hardly made it into high school. I'd like to talk to Neville Sneider about his mate Vince Lombardo, and why we can't find him. Pity he hasn't got a phone, I don't fancy a boat ride over there for nothing if he’s not there.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, “come on round the office for a minute, we can call Barbara Williams over at Whitebait Bay. She might know if he’s home.” Back at the office I looked up Barbara Williams’ number and phoned her. She wasn't too thrilled to hear from me again. I asked her if she could see Neville Sneider's runabout at his jetty. She went outside and came back again to the phone. “No” she said “it's not there, and I can't remember seeing him since yesterday or the day before.” “Thank you Mrs. Williams, sorry to bother you.” “Next time why don't you try ringing him instead of me.” “I would have, but he doesn't have a phone.” “Oh yes he does, the cable runs across the back of our garden to his place.” “Oh? Do you happen to know his phone number?” “I've no idea. I’ve never had the slightest inclination to phone him. Try telephone inquiries.” I had a feeling she put the phone down rather hard.

  I turned to Greg. “The old bastard was lying about not having a phone.” “Oh?” He called telephone inquiries. “Can you give me the number for a Mr. Neville Sneider of Whitebait Bay please?” After a pause he turned to me. “Nobody of that name in the directory.” He looked up a number in his notebook and dialed again. “Hello Chucker, this is Greg Bennett… look buddy, I need a favour, I need the number of a phone in a house at Whitebait Bay up here on the Hawkesbury River, … no Whitebait Bay, yeh that's right. Owner's name is Neville Sneider.... Well there's only three houses in the whole bay, shouldn't take a clever bloke like you more than a few seconds to find it. … What's that? … No not that one, … no nor that one, there should be one more. … What? Who?” He wrote rapidly in his notebook. “Thanks old mate, I owe you. Yeh, yeh, next time.” He put the phone down. “Well, the plot thickens, as they say. There is a phone in the shack, but it’s registered to a Mr. C Esposito in Queensland, who no doubt is the Constantine Esposito who owns the yacht. It's also an unlisted number, so he obviously doesn't want anyone else to know about it. No wonder Neville Sneider lied to us. Looks like he's tied in with the drug business too. “

  He picked up the phone again and dialed. “DC Bennett here. Look I want you to find out if there's been any interstate phone calls made from this number in the last few weeks.” He read Schneider’s number from his notebook. "OK, call me back on... um... hold on." He turned to me “What's your number here Ted?” I gave him our business card and he passed the number on.

  Meanwhile I’d been thinking. “Why doesn't Sneider just have his own ordinary phone?” “Dunno. For some reason he must have been hiding over at Whitebait Bay for years”. “It must be pretty hard to hide away for all that time” “Well it’s true, it's bloody hard to vanish these days, so many organiz
ations are keeping track of you, and everything about you is stored on a computer somewhere. All it takes is a few inside contacts with computer terminals to run a search and they’ve found you. You can't have a credit card or a cheque account or ever borrowed money, you can't be on the electoral role or own a phone or a car, never paid an electricity bill or a gas bill or a water bill." “How would he manage for money? He must have had a cheque account or a savings account or something.” I said. “The drug gang probably always paid him in cash for his part in the operation. He probably only needed a bit of cash for groceries and stuff like that. I wonder who owns the house?” “Hold on a minute, I’ll find out.” I said. I wanted to show Greg I had my contacts too. I picked up the phone, called the local council offices and asked for Bill Hemmett. "Hi Bill, it’s Ted Farley. How are you mate? … Good, … Good. Listen Bill, I'm interested in buying that old shack over at Whitebait Bay, you know the one? Yeh, that's it. D'you know who owns it?.” I waited while Bill clicked away on his keyboard. “Yeh that's the one…. Who? … I thought an old bloke called Neville Sneider lives there…. Well, is that so!” I turned to Greg. "Guess what?" I said. “Let me guess” said Greg dryly, “the council rate demands are sent to a Mr. C. Esposito in Queensland.” I nodded, a bit put out that he’d figured it out. “Seems like our Mr. Sneider is really hiding away, thanks to the generosity of Mr. Esposito.”

  Just then the phone rang and Greg picked it up. “DC Bennett... none at all?” He put the phone down looking puzzled. “There's been no calls to or from Neville Sneider’s phone for the last four weeks.” he said, “Maybe I'll try calling the old bugger myself and shake him up a bit.” He picked up the phone and dialed the number in his notebook. He looked even more puzzled. “Funny, the phone's not ringing.” He dialed again. “Hello, is that telephone inquiries? I'm trying to call a number and I can't seem to get through.” He read the number from his notebook. There was a long pause. “Mm..... You’re sure? I see, thank you very much.” He hung up. “The phone isn't working, the line seems to be faulty.”

  Greg, heaved himself to his feet. “Jeez, seems like now we've got one corpse plus two blokes disappeared in suspicious circumstances. Ah well, I must continue with my inquiries. I think I might start by closely questioning the barmaid at the Hawkesbury Arms.” He strolled off with his rolling gait towards the pub for a session of elbow bending at the bar.