Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Dead Coach (Episode 3)

 

In those terrible final days, when there was nothing left of our marriage but a pile of smouldering embers, the accusations and recriminations flew thicker and faster than a politician’s mistruths. My ex-wife had asked of me many questions which I was able to answer, like “Why won’t you get a real job?” and “Why did you drink so much Jameson whiskey?” I simply told her that if she wanted a rainbow, she would have to put up with a little rain.

But there were some questions for which I had no comeback, like “Why do you still have Laura May’s number in your phone?” In truth, I had asked myself that very same question. My conscience was clear, but sometimes that is merely the sign of having a very bad memory. But on a drizzly autumn morning when my phone buzzed and her name flashed before my eyes, I was suddenly glad that I had resisted deleting her from my contacts list. “Swifty,” she breathed down the phone, “Can we meet up to talk?” After spending years wondering if she would ever talk to me again, it had now been twice in as many days. But suddenly I felt like the dog who barks and chases after the neighbour’s car every morning: on the day that the neighbour abruptly stops, the dog is at a loss for what he should do now that he has caught the vehicle.

We arranged to meet at a small coffee shop in an alley off Douglas Parade called The Cup and Crumb. I had never previously darkened its doorway, but the truth is, had she asked to meet me in Port Pirie I would probably have acquiesced. And anyway, I no longer had a coffee shop to call home since my old barista Lim skedaddled for the bush a few months back. It was not so much a sea-change as a flee-change, for lazy Lim had left a trail of debts and angry creditors in his wake. One of them had even marched into my office and inquired if I knew of his whereabouts.

In the Cup and Crumb I immediately spied Laura, sitting alone at the rear of the room. Confidence oozed from her manner. Hell, it always had. It was one of the things that had attracted me to her in the first place, all those years ago. I sat down opposite her and politely waited for her to speak. “Swifty, I want you to look into my brother Dean’s death. He didn’t kill himself. Sure, he and his ex-wife didn’t get on, but he loved his kids and would do anything for them. He wouldn’t have left them”. Her eyes were glassy, but she remained composed. “I don’t know, Laura. The police thought otherwise”. She sniffed in contempt. “The police. Huh. They had it all done and dusted, and wrapped up in a neat little parcel before Dean’s body was even cold. And besides, there is the mystery of his missing medal”. At least it wasn’t a missing shield. I was not keen on heading down that road again. But I was all ears.

“When the Pelicans won the grand final last year, my brother had his premiership medallion fashioned into a necklace. He’d heard about Kevin Murray, the old Fitzroy player, you see. And how he wears his Brownlow Medal everywhere he goes, and never takes it off. My brother did the same, he always had the medal on him”. She paused for breath, and I took the opportunity to speak. “Could it have come off when he went into the water?” She shook her head. I changed tack. “Do you know of a man named Jack Shepherd, in the transport game?” Again, she shook her head. “Who is he, Swifty?” I told her not to bother herself with the details and said that I would do some sniffing around.

The rest of our conversation was civil, formal, and slightly stilted. We were like two boxers in the opening round of a title fight, throwing out feelers, but keeping our defences up against the possibility of an early knock-out blow. She stood and prepared to take her leave. “I don’t expect you to find anything further, but it won’t hurt me to live in hope for a while”. For the second time in as many days, I watched her walk out a door and leave me grappling with emotions in her wake. I wanted to tell her that living in hope was an uneasy and fretful existence. And that I should know, because I was an expert.

 

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