We live in an apartment overlooking a parking lot, a two-story motel of twelve rooms and a laneway leading to the main road, in a farmer’s terms a small holding possibly big enough for a dozen fruit trees and lawn enough for the grandsons to play cricket.
The police car pulled in at the motel carpark just after lunch and two officers exited the car and walked without haste to the bottom floor room in the furthest corner where they were met by the motel owner, him we know, being overlarge, bald and from Mona Vale. He preceded them into the room.
Minutes passed before the police re-appeared, walked back to their patrol car, climbed in and flagged their interest to the local station.
We waited. They waited.
We waited until a long white panel van arrived and watched as two men climbed out to be met by the police before they all entered the room. We watched as one re-appeared, opened the back door of the van and took out a folded bag, took it inside the room.
Then the van driver and his offsider came back out and fitted their hands with blue gloves. Slid out a folding stretcher. Wheeled it back into the room. No need to hurry.
Whoever the dead man was he drove a white Corolla.
It’s still parked outside the room. Been there for eleven hours now.
We watched the mortuary van drive away, past a young woman talking on her phone, past a man carrying a fishing rod and bait bucket, past an old couple carrying their shopping bags.
Past the untended copse growing in the corner of the carpark where the warbling serenade of this season’s generation of young magpies heralded his passing.