The Tax Inspector by Peter Carey Page B

it fascinating – she brought her Salem to her lips, inhaled and released the smoke untidily. ‘I always told them here in Franklin,’ she said, ‘that if they went in with the Presbyterians I’d switch over to the Catholics. We never had a Greek Orthodox. I never thought about Greeks. But now I suppose we have. We have all types here now. The Greek Orthodox is like the Catholic I think, is it not?’
    ‘The service is very beautiful.’
    ‘Oh I do like this,’ said Mrs Catchprice. ‘It’s so lovely you are here. Has Johnny gone for the milk?’
    ‘Mrs Catchprice, do you know why I’m here?’
    ‘You mean, am I really ga-ga?’ said Mrs Catchprice, butting her Salem out in an ugly yellow Venetian glass ashtray.
    ‘No,’ Maria said, ‘I did not mean that at all.’
    ‘You are a Tax Inspector?’
    ‘Yes. And I’ll need an office to begin doing my audit.’
    ‘They’re up to something, all right.’
    Maria cocked her head, not understanding.
    ‘You met her?’ Mrs Catchprice said.
    ‘Your daughter?’
    ‘And her husband. I don’t like him but I’ve only got myself to blame for the fact she even met him.’
    ‘And you feel they are up to something?’
    ‘There’s something fishy going on there. You’ll see in a moment. They’ll have to give you access to the books. They won’t let me look but they can’t stop you. I think you’ll find the tax all paid,’ said Mrs Catchprice, folding her hands in her lap. ‘We’ve always paid our tax. It’s not the tax I’m worried about.’
    Maria felt tired.
    ‘People always expect car dealers to be crooks, but you try buying a car from a classified ad and you’ll see where the crooks are. When my husband was alive, we always worked in with the law. We always supported the police. We always gave them presents at Christmas. A bottle of sparkling burgundy for the sergeant and beer for the constables. I would wrap up the bottles for him. He’d take them down to the police. They thought he was the ant’s pants.’
    ‘Mrs Catchprice,’ Maria said, patting the old woman’s hand to ease the sharp point she was making, ‘you weren’t bribing the police?’
    ‘It was a small town. We always supported the police.’
    ‘And now you’re supporting the Taxation Office.’
    ‘I wonder where that boy is with the milk.’
    ‘Mrs Catchprice. Are you Mrs F. Catchprice?’
    ‘Frieda,’ said Mrs Catchprice. ‘I’ve got the same name as the woman who was involved with D. H. Lawrence. She was a nasty piece of work.’
    ‘There’s no other Mrs F. Catchprice in your family?’
    ‘One’s enough,’ she laughed. ‘You ask the kids.’
    ‘So you are the public officer and also the one with the anomalies to report?’
    ‘Me? Oh no, I don’t think so.’ Mrs Catchprice folded her arms across her chest and shook her head.
    ‘You didn’t telephone the Taxation Office to say you were worried that your business had filed a false tax return?’
    ‘You should talk to Cath and Howie. They’re the ones with all the tricks up their sleeves. All this talk about being a professional musician is just bluff. She’s an amateur. She couldn’t make a living at it. No, no – what they want is to set up a motor business of their own, in competition to us. That’s their plan – you mark my words. But when you look at the books, you take my word, you’re going to find some hanky-panky. I won’t lay charges, but they’re going to have to pay it back.’
    ‘Mrs Catchprice, you do understand – I’m a tax auditor. I’m here to investigate tax, nothing else. You phoned the Taxation Office. Your call is on record.’
    Mrs Catchprice looked alarmed.
    ‘They recorded me? Is that what you say?’
    ‘They recorded your name.’
    Mrs Catchprice was looking at Maria, but it was a moment before Maria saw that there were tears flooding down her ruined cheeks.
    ‘The terrible thing is,’ said Mrs Catchprice, ‘the terrible thing is that I just can’t remember.’

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