Chapter One

 

 

 

 

"Do not go there, do not buy this town," announced the article-cum-fictional melodrama being read by Arlon Grey as he sipped his first coffee of the morning. It was some internet thing, something he should take note of Clarice had said as he entered the office earlier. Arlon did not go for all the internet social media nonsense as, it seemed, did ninety-nine per cent of the population.

Arlon used the internet sparingly for research only. For that reason and no other, he had all the latest in computers and high-speed access installed in his office the moment he signed the lease. It was imperative for his line of work, one that had adopted him when he left the police department. It seemed a natural progression for the tall, lanky Australian with handsome, chiselled features and olive complexion, betraying his Mediterranean heritage on his great-grandfather's side.

Born and bred in Brisbane, Queensland, Arlon had a broad Australian accent which seemed incongruent with his clipped speech and pompous mannerisms, as well as a swarthy buccaneer image of dark wavy hair and lustrous cobalt-blue eyes that weakened the knees of most females when they came under their spell. The image of an enigmatic charm was, however, short-lived. After only the briefest time in the man's company, people were more likely to describe Arlon Grey as ‘a cold fish’.

His secretary, Clarice Manning, had experienced that conflicting image-versus-reality adjustment during her first interview with him. It was disconcerting in the extreme to separate the romantic vision of the man with the actuality facing her over the large desk. The soft-spoken voice devoid of all human emotion clashed so violently with the charismatic countenance that it left her struggling to find a voice that first day. Over a year in his employ she had grown to accept his indescribably soulless demeanour as the falseness he professed it to be, yet never ceased to be amazed at its presence.

"Ms Manning?" asked the disembodied monotone voice over her intercom in the outer office.

"Yes, Arlon?"

"Why do you believe that it's important for me to read through campfire ghost stories?"

"The woman was hospitalised after she wrote that, complete mental breakdown," explained Clarice in her most cheerful voice, hoping, however impossibly, that her ebullience might somehow rub off on her boss.

"I see. So I should pay attention to the mad scribblings of some demented sheila rather than employ good sense and judgement after a thorough investigation?" asked Arlon rhetorically, knowing his secretary would answer nonetheless.

"Don't you think it's very mysterious, Arlon?"

"No, Ms Manning, I don't. I haven't been engaged by Robert Granger to undertake investigations into flights of fancy or be influenced by internet stories, regardless of how intriguing you deem them to be. We have a job to do regarding due diligence for our client acting on behalf of the potential purchasers, the Hendersons, that concentrates more on the quality of the water table and its possible contamination by the sawmilling operation..."

"What about the reports of missing persons and all the talk of the strange noises?"

"Come in here, please, Ms Manning."

"Sure thing, Arlon," she replied with her usual unassuming grace.

When Clarice went through the half-glass door into Arlon's office, she sighed at the sight of the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. If only he never spoke a word it would be so easy to love him, she thought. She pushed back her ringlets of gold falling about her cherubic face, looking amazingly like an adult version of Shirley Temple, including the dimples, albeit with a slightly darker complexion. A full figure, clad in a bright floral-print dress ending at the knees, bespoke of her inability to decline an eclair or two yet did not take away from a certain voluptuous appeal...to anyone but Arlon.

"Yes, Arlon?" she asked upon entering his office, pen and pad in hand should he wish her to take dictation.

"Ms Manning, when was the last time you recall hearing of me attending the cinema?"

"Um...never?"

"Theatre production?"

"No," she admitted quietly, knowing what would transpire.

"Fiction book?"

"Not ever, Arlon."

"No forays into fiction or entertainments of any description?"

"No," she said flatly.

"Why is that?"

"Your condition?"

"Precisely. My condition. No, I'm not interested in reports of missing persons or strange noises or mental patients with delusional paranoia. I'm interested, primarily, in attaining test results for the subterranean water table to ensure its potable nature, as requested by our client, and anything else the purchasers require to enable them to make an informed decision on the property, Allies Creek. That's where our responsibility ends and also our interest. Clear?"

"As a bell, Mr Grey," she replied, reverting to a more formal tone as she felt thoroughly chastised. 

"Have you heard back from Mr Henderson regarding the second inspection?"

"Emailed a few moments ago. He and his wife will be staying over for the weekend. The owner will be away and invited them to house-sit. Sort of gives them free run of the place without her being there. Mrs McAllen said she'll be back early Monday to answer any questions they might have. Knowing those two, it will be a bloody long list," she said with an infectious smile that did not affect Arlon.

"Excellent. I'll meet them there on Saturday morning with the building inspector and the water bloke. What's his name?"

"Which one?"

"The water bloke. I can never remember his name."

"Oh, he is a queer one, isn't he? Gloom and doom. Never smiles...shit. Sorry."

"Always apologising for no good reason. The name?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh, right. Gavin Gaze, and boy, doesn't he? Gazes at you like a blooming zombie, all dark under the eyes and..."

"Are you finished?"

"Sorry."

"Again?"

"Sorry."

"Stop it. Stop being sorry. I know I never smile and I have no feelings that you can hurt, so stop being sorry all the time. It's impossible to insult me. If you end up saying something a bit stupid, which is pretty regular, then just accept it and move on, would you?"

"You've never once in your whole life been hurt or insulted?"

"I can be hurt in the physical sense only. No, never insulted. Can't happen."

"Must be a blessing and a curse all at the same time for you, that?"

"Hardly either. Now, if you've finished trying to psychoanalyse me maybe you can send that email informing the Hendersons that I will join them at Allies Creek by, say...ten o'clock Saturday morning if that suits them. If they agree, tee it up with Mr Gaze and the building inspector, Bill Rogers."

"Sure thing, Arlon. Sorry if I'm a bit nosey. I...I said sorry again, didn't I?"

Arlon ignored his secretary, turning to face the computer screen again. He retreated from whichever website had housed the silly horror story about the goings-on at Allies Creek. Robert Granger, the solicitor acting on behalf of the Hendersons, had hired Arlon to do some of the due diligence involved in purchasing the property about three hours west of Brisbane. Arlon's purview ended with securing the building inspector to report on the status of the cottages and other structures, and attaining a water evaluation. Mr Gaze would be taking samples from the large dam on the property as well as samples from any wells or bore water, which might include some drilling.

The solicitor had been instrumental in Arlon's success to date, favouring him with substantial investigative contracts on a range of matters concerning his clients' needs. Arlon had operated his current business for only twelve months and might have faltered had it not been for the generous nature of Mr Robert Granger. Arlon's choice of clients remained slim because of his unique qualities that disturbed most people he met.

Were it not for the fact that Arlon had saved Robert's reputation and his livelihood a few years earlier in his capacity as a policeman, Robert may not have been disposed to deal with Arlon either. His condition, quite rare, quite annoying...if he could feel annoyance…was the reason he was no longer in the force.  Doctors pronounced his condition when he was approaching his teenage years. While his parents felt a modicum of relief that the problem had been identified and gave them possible absolution for any involvement in their son's condition, it continued to cause great concern.

Commonly affiliated with autism, alexithymia is the inability to identify and describe emotions. On the Toronto Alexithymia Scale, Arlon registered in the top percentile, the more acute end, rendering him incapable of displaying emotions or understanding them. Naturally, this leads to an inability to empathise or sympathise with others.

Arlon was finally given his marching orders from the force when he answered a question truthfully. The question was being asked by the mother of a five-year-old girl found raped, sodomised and then tortured to death over a year. Arlon explained in graphic detail what had occurred to her little girl based on the forensic evidence, while the mother shook with grief in wide-eyed horror.

It was the final straw for Arlon's career. His chief told him to resign then and there or be arrested, or be taken out the back of the station by the biggest and meanest of his detectives or...something. His chief did not know what to do with his underling. Arlon resigned that day. The rest of the agency silently cheered.

"Ms Manning?" Arlon asked through the intercom.

"Yes, Arlon?"

"I've changed my mind. I think I'll venture up to Allies Creek on Friday night with my new caravan. Time for its shakedown cruise, I think."

"Arlon...do you...do you think I might come along?"

"Why on earth would you want to come along?"

"Oh, I'm super-interested. It would be fun. Don't you think?"

"No."

"Are you saying 'no', it wouldn't be fun, or 'no', I may not come?"

"It's your free time and you may ride along if you wish. It won't be fun. It's never fun. I don't know what fun is. You will stay in one of the...other accommodations?"

"Of course, silly. I wouldn't dream of asking to stay with you...unless you asked me to...?" Hearing no reply and not expecting one, she clicked off.

Arlon believed he had just made an error in judgement. He had the distinct impression that his secretary harboured certain notions about herself and him: impossible notions. He understood that she was attractive according to almost any man that had contact with her, despite her largish proportions. 'Big-boned' is how she sometimes put it when Arlon had the tactlessness to ask. She knew about his condition, yet strived at every opportunity to inveigle herself into Arlon's good graces. Flirting, he believed it was called.

Men somehow reacted to a woman displaying this trite, inane behaviour aimed at them. Arlon had read about it, experienced it from time to time, yet could not conceive of a reality in which such odd behaviour succeeded. It had to work, he surmised, as women and men found one another somehow and ended up marrying and making babies a lot of the time. It was a foreign concept to Arlon, one he felt sure he had explained at one time or another to his secretary.

"Are you there, Arlon?" came the plaintive tone from the desktop speaker.

"Is there someplace else I might've gone in the last few seconds?"

"Yes, I mean, no... Sorry..."

"I think we've covered that by now, surely?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose we have."

"Ms Manning?" asked Arlon after a long silence.

"Yes, Arlon?"

"Was there a question in there somewhere?"

"Oh, oh, goodness, silly me, yes."

"Yes, any time now?"

"I wanted to know...what you think I should wear."

"Asking a bloke what a woman should wear is open to any number of fallacies and vagaries, Ms Manning. If you're asking me what you should wear and expect any accuracy or honesty, it might be helpful to know a time and location for the enquiry."

"Well, to Allies Creek, of course. I thought a smart detective like you might have figured that one out."

"I'm probably the last man on earth to have deduced the machinations of a woman's mind, especially yours, Ms Manning. As to Allies Creek; it's not a nudist colony to the best of my recollections, therefore 'clothes' might be the appropriate answer."

"Well, DUH! I knew that much, Arlon. I was asking if there was anything specific I might wear or bring along in your opinion."

"Ms Manning, while it's certainly true that I am out of the office and often at different country locations, hence the need for my new caravan, I'm hardly an outdoors person and have few ideas regarding my wardrobe, much less yours. If it helps you at all, I intend to bring along a set of khaki work clobber and stout walking boots for when I have to accompany the water tester to the property perimeter, and for when I am asked to inspect any of the houses and buildings. It's necessary to wear the appropriate footwear in case of snakes..."

"Snakes!"

"Certainly, snakes, red backs and any other creepy-crawlies thereabouts. A good sun hat would also be recommended. If you choose to go bathing with the eels and whatever else may occupy the dam, then a swimsuit may be in order. I suggest light nightwear of a non-flimsy or transparent quality. Practical wear is the term that comes to mind. I'm not venturing into any town to sample nightlife or food as I'll be providing for myself, mainly barbeque fare. If you wish to chip in with me to share my meals, I'm happy to do so, otherwise, you'll need to bring your own. I believe the houses have all the basics for short-term accommodation."

"Snakes?"

"Absolutely. All country areas have snakes, both poisonous and non-poisonous, though mostly the former. Still wish to accompany me?"

"Arlon?"

"Yes, Ms Manning?"

"You sure don't sugar-coat anything, do you?"

"Most assuredly not. I'll be leaving Brisbane from my residence in Indooroopilly about four-thirty I reckon. Do you wish to meet me there or should I pick you up?"

"It would be better for you if I met you there, Arlon. I assume you're going up through Toowoomba?"

"Correct. You have my address?"

"Sure. See you around a quarter past four then."

"If you're certain that's how you want to spend your weekend off. Have you filled in your time card for the week?"

"Sent it through five minutes ago. No overtime, so standard week."

"Ms Manning?"

"Yes, I am still here!" remarking in much the same tone as he had employed moments ago.

"I know for a fact that you've come early to the office at least twice this week, why would you not put down for overtime?"

"Well, Arlon. The way I see it is this. If you ask me to stay longer or come in early, that is overtime. If I decide to come in early I class that as my decision and on my own time."

"I appreciate that, however, either claim the overtime in future or come in on time. I prefer it to be that way."

"If you say so," she said with a sigh.

"I do.”