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vital role in an important investigation.’
    ‘What investigation?’
    ‘Err, into the death of a young woman.’ Best not to tell him everything. News spreads at top speed around here, especially news Vern’s managed to intercept.
    ‘Natalie Kellett? Heard you were looking into her accident.’ He unzipped a pocket in the front of his jacket and took out a blue-covered spiral notebook. He leaned the book on his bike and flipped it open. Ruffled through the pages.
    ‘Yep.’ He stabbed his finger against the page. ‘Suss-looking vehicle. Dark-haired fella. Didn’t stop. Slowed right down outside your place though. Assumed he was a friend of yours.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘Course, I wouldn’t know who your friends were these days.’
    ‘The rego, Vern?’
    ‘ASY 341.’
    Back in the shop, I was hurtled into an unexpected lunchtime rush: six customers. I gave them the extra-large welcome smile; tried to pretend I didn’t have a black eye. The Rusty Bore Takeaway is in no position to put off new customers. Still, the new stainless steel decor might compensate for my eye. I hoped.
    One of the customers was a stringy-looking bloke, moustached. He took off his Akubra with a sweeping cavalier type of movement. ‘So this is the famous Cass Tuplin, hey?’ He gave me a wide grin. Somehow, I didn’t have a good feeling about where this was headed.
    He put the Akubra back on and leant his skinny arms on my counter. ‘Comfort specialist, is what I hear. Discretion guaranteed.’
    He laughed. As did all his mates, standing in a KingGee-shirted row behind him. There’s nothing like a bit of side-splitting fnah fnah when you’ve got a cracking headache.
    ‘Not that I’d need that kind of service, of course. Get all mine for free.’ More laughter from Skinny Arms and his hilarity teamsters.
    ‘Take your order?’ I said. Did my best to flutter my eyelashes. Attempted a winsome smile. The things you have to do to sell a few chips.
    I waited while they guffawed, spluttered and slapped each other’s backs. Still, when they finally got round to ordering, it was enough to fill all my baskets: huge piles of chips, flake, dim sims and thirty-six potato cakes.
    I set to, getting it all into the oil.
    ‘I should really introduce myself properly,’ said Skinny Arms. ‘Pete Bamfield.’ He held out his hand; I wiped my hand on my floral apron and shook it.
    ‘What happened to your eye?’
    ‘Minor altercation. With a door.’
    ‘Ah. Sorry to hear it. Well, next time he…it…bothers you, why don’t you give me a call?’ He held out a business card.
    I took the card. P. L. Bamfield. Muddy Soak Gravel International. I recognised his name, once I had the context. Peter Bamfield is known as the Gravel Baron in Muddy Soak. Third-generation gravel dynasty. There’s always a Bamfield in the paper—opening a building, attending a charity dinner, doing something magnanimous. Unfortunately none of that magnanimity has ever got as far as Rusty Bore.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But you don’t need to worry about me. I can look after myself.’
    ‘Uh huh.’ He clearly wasn’t buying it. ‘Anyway, up here with the Lions Club today. Replacing the fences at the McKenzies’ place.’
    The McKenzies lost a heap of fences in the bushfire that whipped through two months ago.
    I turned back to the baskets. Slipped in a few extra dim sims gratis , courtesy of the management. Complete tool he might be, but a stringy bloke like Bamfield could certainly afford to eat. And a few more Lions Club visits could make quite a difference to Rusty Bore.
    A quick call to Dean to phone in the rego of the brown Fairlane. He wasn’t there, so I left it in his message bank. Sent it as a text as well, just in case.
    A late lunch: a boiled egg and toast. I made some plans. On Monday I’d go to Gary’s place in Muddy Soak; look through Natalie’s room. And call in on Dean with some peace-making sausage rolls.
    I was just settling into my egg when