The White Tower by Dorothy Johnston

as if Moira might have known this all along. She called through the back door to let him know that I was coming out, and for a second they could have been any older couple, habits known so well that a few half words were all they needed.
    Bernard stood in the open air, framed by trees, bushes and a trellised fence. Two tall eucalypts in one corner, a clutch of three silver birches in another, gave the garden balance. In between were smaller apple and plum trees, flowering shrubs and creepers that gave off mingled, wind-shredded scents of acacia and fruit blossom.
    Niall’s father motioned me forward and indicated a green wooden seat in a spot out of the wind. He didn’t sit down though, and, in the circumstances, I too felt like standing.
    If I’d met him socially, I’d probably have thought of his face as pleasant. His features were small and regular, and his resemblance to Niall grew on me as we talked. I guessed his hair had been blond, and his blue, wide-spaced eyes suggested that the similarity between father and son would once have been striking. He was taller than Niall looked in his photo, with a heavier build.
    He held himself very erect, one hand on the back of the garden seat continuing to extend the invitation I’d declined. Instead of looking at me as we spoke, he addressed some part of his own anatomy, his hands mostly, a forearm hidden under a shirt that smelt strongly, even out there, of dry-cleaning chemicals.
    We began talking, of all things, about Niall’s car.
    â€˜What happened to it?’
    â€˜The police returned it to us,’ Bernard said, frowning at his fingernails, ‘along with my son’s computer and his—personal effects.’
    â€˜Which were?’
    â€˜His wallet and his car keys.’
    Bernard reminded me of Mikhail Litowski at the Telstra Tower, though they weren’t alike to look at. It was the stiffly upright stance, the self control, though I sensed that in Litowski it would go much deeper.
    â€˜My son’s wallet,’ Bernard went on, ‘was in the car. There was his driving licence, credit card, and about fifty dollars cash.’
    â€˜Nothing else?’
    â€˜Just his wallet and car keys. Oh, and his work pass. One of those clip-on passes.’
    â€˜Why would Niall be carrying his work pass? He’d finished work for the day.’
    Bernard checked his spotless shirt cuffs and replied, ‘I have no idea.’
    â€˜Where’s the car now?’
    â€˜I sold it. Don’t know about sold. Gave it away practically. The boy who got it couldn’t believe his luck.’
    â€˜Do you have his address?’
    â€˜Somewhere,’ Bernard said. ‘If I haven’t thrown it out. Look, where is all this leading? I really want to impress upon you, Ms ah—?’
    â€˜Mahoney,’ I said, thinking that he knew perfectly well.
    â€˜What help can you possibly be to my wife? You’re not a trained counsellor. You’ll only end up doing harm. Moira needs to be helped to put the tragedy behind her, not to dwell on it. If she’s offering you money to perform some sort of an investigation, then I’m prepared to offer you a larger sum to stay away from her, from us.’
    He finally looked at me, a long level stare. I was sure this had been planned as well, the timing of it, the carrot and the stick in one.
    â€˜Mr Howley,’ I said, ‘why do you think your son killed himself?’
    I didn’t think he was going to answer me, but eventually he did.
    â€˜Niall lost control, of this game—I don’t know what else to call it, but game seems an obscene word—of his personal life,’ Bernard paused and took a couple of deep breaths, ‘God knows, I never thought Natalie added up to much, I thought Niall was worth ten of her in fact—’
    â€˜Moira told me that at the time Niall moved back here, after breaking up with Natalie, you advised her—she said your