Читать книгу Flush - Jane Clifton - Страница 9

Despite her considerable skills as a therapist, getting Oleg Kransky to loosen up and talk had been like getting blood out of a stone.

`How did he try to kill himself?'

`Overdose plus booze,' said Volker. `When he first came around he was able to satisfy the staff that he knew who he was and what day it was, what his address and telephone number were blah, blah, blah. But as soon as the boys in blue started asking questions about his wife, he clammed up. Hasn't uttered a word since. Hasn't even asked for a cup of tea.'

`Has he got a lawyer?' Decca asked.

`Didn't ask for one. Not even in sign language.' Volker laughed. `Martha Billings from Legal Aid has put her hand up, of course. But even that patron saint of hopeless briefs will have her work cut out with this one.'

Decca was suddenly very hungry.

`Oh, well, I'm sure they'll get to the bottom of it,' she said, reaching for the room service menu. The Atlantic Salmon sounded good. `Thanks for letting me know, Volker. I guess I'll read all about it in next week's papers.'

`Hang on a minute!' Volker barked. `You don't think I rang you just to tell you that much, did you?'

`The reason why a happily-married father-of-three would spend any time talking on the phone with his ex-wife — especially on the weekend — is a bit of a mystery to me, Volker.'

`Sucker for punishment,' he said. `The police want your help.'

`Poking your nose into matters of local policing isn't going to make you very popular with your opposite number in parliament is it?' Decca asked.

In his role of Shadow Minister of Police, Volker was not known to be particularly `hands-on'. He let rip with a snort of derision.

`Trust me,' he said, `my opposite number has got his hands so full with his own crazy wife he would cheerfully pay good money to have her murdered before she completely destroys what's left of his political future. And I'm not getting involved. An old mate recognised your name in despatches and rang me — off the record, of course.'

`Why didn't they come straight to me?' Decca asked.

`As you very wisely don't display your home number on your card, and are not listed in the phone book, the hard working chaps down at Homicide thought they might take a shortcut. Okay?'

`Give them my number,' she said, and slammed the phone shut.

Oleg Kransky stared at the wall and tried to picture trees or fields of flowers. The screaming in his head must stop. He summoned a lament first heard at his grandmother's funeral. The plaintive and beautiful melody had been coaxed from the strings of an ancient violin. It was the living expression of anguish. Soft as teardrops on skin, excruciating as a stomach ulcer.

Inga was dead and nothing he could do would bring her back. Oleg stared at the wall and tried to find a still point he could fix on that would keep him sane.

Lunch was ruined for Decca. Thoughts about Oleg Kransky, as well as irritation with Volker, were enough to queer the crayfish and curdle her crème brûlée. After a stiff short black she was back in the saddle and heading west out of Lorne towards Cumberland River.

At the mouth of the river the road curved sharply around a stretch of beach where mountain stream met ocean amongst a frozen rockslide of ancient boulders. A cluster of log cabins and caravans nestled at the foot of a deep gorge. Behind this campsite lay a bush track that followed the river towards its source high in the hills. Warning signs cautioned the faint-hearted and the infirm, but Decca was neither of these, and she emerged from the track after an hour or so with flushed cheeks and a raging thirst. The Bonneville was parked on the ocean side of the highway and she wandered down to where the ice blue water surged and crashed. It took a moment for Decca to register that her mobile was grizzling for attention above the roar of the surf.

No caller ID. Not Volker, at least.

`Hello,' she said, but could barely hear a response. `I'm sorry, you'll have to speak up. Hang on while I walk to where it's a bit quieter. Now, speak.'

`Hello? Mrs Brand? This is Detective Sergeant Crockett from the Homicide Squad. I'm sorry to disturb you on the weekend.'

`It's okay, I was expecting your call. But listen, Detective Sergeant Lockett, is it? I'm in a bad place for mobile reception at the moment.'

`Yes, you're breaking up a bit. Would it be all right to call you on a landline? Or would you prefer to call me?'

`Sorry, you've completely dropped out now. If you can still hear me, try again after six. Bye.'