The William S Club

by Riley Banks

  ‘I dunno. But this is the stuff The Sun exists for. Juicy gossip. Celebrity scandal.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m supposed to be an investigative journalist.’

  ‘You’ll find some interesting angle,’ Miranda said. ‘Expose some deep, dark secret and win an award. As for me, I’ll end up writing some titillating tale about how Grandpa Harvey kept a mistress in each house and that’s how his family grew so large.’

  Charlotte split open a baguette, slathering it with honey. ‘Did you get any research done last night?’

  ‘Research? Who had time for that? Didn’t get back to my room until nearly four. It’s a major miracle I’m awake.’

  Charlotte raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes. What did you get up to last night?’

  Miranda reached across the table, filling her glass with fresh orange juice. ‘Let’s just say I can tell you for sure that Calvin Klein didn’t airbrush his photo.’

  ‘The underwear model?’

  Miranda nodded, a wicked gleam in her eyes. ‘You better believe it. As for all that research shit, I’ll just rely on you to pass along all the juicy stuff you can’t use.’

  ‘Juicy hey? Like Harvey coming out of self-imposed exile to grace us with his eminent presence?’

  ‘Nice try. But everyone knows that.’

  ‘Ah, did you hear about that recluse thing? Harvey’s supposed to be shit scared of the great outdoors.’

  ‘Try again. I can read Wikipedia like anyone else.’

  Voice lowered conspiratorially. ‘Read somewhere that old man Harvey was a Nazi spy.’

  Miranda looked interested for about three seconds. ‘Hmm, that does have promise.’ She tapped her fingers on the table, as if wondering what story she could write with a Nazi headline. ‘On second thoughts, the agoraphobia thing had more potential. Do you think Damon Harvey will end up like the rest of them, locked behind closed doors? Imagine if we’re the last people to see him in public?’ Miranda’s face took on a dreamy expression. ‘I wouldn’t mind being locked up with him.’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s drop dead gorgeous?’ Miranda’s eyebrows arched suspiciously.

  ‘I didn’t say that -’

  ‘Don’t look now but he’s coming our way.’

  ‘Yo, Wilson. Remember me. Hank Williams. Chicago Tribune. We met yesterday. You mind if I sit here?’

  ‘Hey, Hank. Yeah, I remember you. Take a seat.’

  ‘Did you get some grub?’

  ‘Not yet. Anything decent?’

  ‘Nothing cooked. It’s all that cold meat and cheese shit. I’d kill for some bacon.’

  A waiter walked passed and Wilson whistled him over. ‘Hey, Garçon. Rustle me up an OJ, will ya? Vitamin C is just what I need after a big night.’

  The waiter pointedly reached across and grabbed a pitcher of juice that was located less than thirty centimetres from Wilson’s hand.

  ‘Taa,’ Wilson said as the waiter poured the juice into his glass.

  Hank emptied half a carton of milk into his espresso coffee. ‘So I saw you with that foxy broad last night. The blonde. What’s her name?’

  Harlot Charlotte.

  Wilson looked up the table, seeing the bitch sitting with her skanky mate. Their heads were bent together, giggling like bloody school girl whores.

  Look at the two of them. Definite dykes. No wonder she wasn’t interested in me. Harlot Charlotte likes pussy.

  But he didn’t say any of the thoughts that plinked around his brain like buckshot. Instead he just said, ‘Charlotte? Believe me. Nothing happened, man.’

  ‘You sure? She was all over you.’

  ‘Bitch was colder than she first seemed.’

  ‘Maybe you’re just losing your touch, Zacky Boy? She was gagging for it. My grandpa could have picked her up.’ Hank laughed hard, jabbing Wilson in the ribs like a jocular moron.

  Up the table, he heard Charlotte laugh.

  Bet she’s laughing about me. Probably thought it was real funny, playing old Zac like a fiddle.

  ‘Don’t worry, I still got lucky. Picked up two birds at a club downtown. Had a bit of two on one action happening in my pad last night.’

  God they were hot. And frigging horny like hell.

  ‘Shit hot. Bit of girl on girl huh? They let you play as well, or just watch?’

  ‘Both. I’d take them two any night over Charlotte No Lay.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That ball breaking, cock teasing slut across the table.’ His hands curled into fists.

  ‘Easy on big fella. She’s just one girl. Sounds like you had a time of it anyway.’

  Yeah, she’s just one girl. And by the time I’m finished with her, she’s gonna be squealing like a whore underneath me.

  She dropped the phone back in its cradle, giving it a wide berth as if it were a scorpion trying to bite her.

  Oh shit. Oh God. Oh no.

  Joanne had thought being rostered on to work New Year’s Day was the worst that could happen to her.

  After the phone call from her mother, it seemed her bad luck had only just begun.

  I’ll just go home. I only have two hours left in my shift.

  No, he’ll just come back tomorrow. Take the rest of the week off. Just to be sure.

  She had plenty of sick days up her sleeve.

  Oh God. Where did I put my keys?

  She searched around with growing desperation, eventually finding them under the cheap metal counter where they had fallen.

  Two calls in as many weeks about Vikki.

  It could just be a coincidence but Joanne didn’t believe in coincidences.

  She scrounged around for a fake illness she hadn’t yet used.

  Mr Simonsen, I’ve gotta go. Feeling pretty sick. Must be my period. No, a headache. Think I’ve got a flu coming on. Could you get flu in summer? Maybe a virus.

  She poked her head around the corner of his office.

  Damn, he was on the phone.

  How long did she have? What time did her mum say?

  Come on. Hang up. Please.

  Someone was coming to ask her questions about Vikki, but this time, she intended to be gone.

  You weren’t so lucky last time, were you?

  At least she hadn’t told them anything. Hadn’t told them that she still kept in contact with Vikki. That she’d helped her friend change her identity, to become someone else.

  They were sixteen when they got the idea from some spook movie.

  Easy as one, two, three.

  Find a name in the funeral notices; a girl that had died and was a similar age to Vik, then apply for a copy of the dead girl’s birth certificate. Start a paper trail – library cards, gym membership, mobile phone bill, a driver’s licence.

  Once she had all that, the passport was easy.

  Good thing Jo’s mum was so trusting. She’d signed the passport declaration without even looking at the name.

  Great, he was off the phone.

  ‘Mr Simonsen, I don’t feel so good. Can I go…’

  The front door opened and she turned to greet their client.

  ‘Are you okay, Jo? You look really pale,’ Mr Simonsen said.

  ‘I’m going to be sick.’

  But it wasn’t a lie anymore.

  The man standing beside her in the office was the last person in the world she’d ever expected to see in the flesh.

  Chapter Eleven:

  ‘Joanne Parker?’

  ‘What do you want?’ The words hissed out between her front teeth.

  ‘I need to find Victoria.’ There was no use pretending any more.

  Although Baker was certain he’d never met the woman before, she seemed to know exactly who he was.

  ‘What makes you think I’d ever tell you? If I knew anything, that is,’ she said, covering her angry slip.

  She wore contact lenses – brilliant blue.

  Baker could tell they were contacts because a thin layer of brown outlined the blue
colour.

  Her hair was swept up in a high ponytail, making her look much younger than twenty five, and her dress style was casual and relaxed.

  ‘Please. It’s urgent. I have to find her.’

  So far they had both spoken in whispers, careful that her boss didn’t overhear what, or who, they were discussing.

  ‘Jo, are you okay?’ her boss asked, the faintest hint of a German accent colouring his voice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this man bothering you?’

  She stared furiously at Baker, her eyes level with his even though she wore ballet flats.

  ‘Let me buy you a coffee and after I’ve said my piece, if you still don’t want to talk to me, I’ll walk away,’ he offered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, Joanne. This is really important. Victoria is in serious danger.’

  She softened her expression, unsure what to believe.

  ‘I know she was your friend. I have already spoken to your parents. I saw photos of you and Victoria.’

  He admired her fierce protective streak, happy Victoria had someone to protect her when he couldn’t.

  ‘Jo? Do you want me to call the police?’

  ‘It’s okay Mr Simonsen. We’re just going to get a coffee downstairs. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You’re sure? If you’re uncomfortable -’

  ‘Really, I’m fine.’

  She brought her face close to his and hissed, ‘Just one coffee. But only because I don’t want to tell you what I think of you in front of my boss.’

  ‘That’s all I can ask for, Joanne.’

  They walked down a short flight of stairs and out onto a busy street in Cronulla, south of Sydney. There was a small old-fashioned café that Baker noticed when he came in and Joanne seemed to be leading him towards it.

  Neither of them spoke until they had taken a seat on opposite sides of an old leather booth.

  A jukebox sat on the table, belting out 60s music.

  Baker left it on. He’d rather not be overheard.

  ‘Okay, speak,’ she said. ‘Make me understand why I should help a two-bit crim find his daughter? You abandoned her. What makes you think she’d ever want to see your face again?’

  He wasn’t surprised that Vikki thought he had abandoned her.

  During twenty years of incarceration, he hadn’t given her a single reason not to think it.

  Oh, he’d written letters. Dozens of them. Maybe even hundreds.

  But he had not posted a single one.

  ‘Joanne,’ he said, making sure to repeat her name as often as possible. He had read somewhere that it made people relax. ‘I could spend the next five years telling you that I was innocent but something tells me that you don’t want excuses. You want answers. Am I right?’

  She shrugged, her stare still stony.

  ‘She’s in danger. Serious danger.’

  ‘From you.’ Jo’s accusation exploded like a cannon across the table.

  ‘No excuses okay. I was an ass. I didn’t contact her at all. I didn’t want my little girl visiting me in the pen. But I know other people are looking for her. Have already been to see you, right?’

  ‘I didn’t tell them anything,’ she said, her face indignant, a wall of bravado covering the doubt that clouded her pretty face.

  ‘I don’t know what they told you. No doubt it was a lie. But let me tell you this. These men have killed before. They’ll do it again. I’m just scared Vikki will be their next target.’

  ‘If I tell you where she is, these men, won’t they just follow you straight to her? Won’t that put her in even more danger?’

  Fury swirled inside him; fury born of fear. ‘Listen here. I don’t have time for games.’

  Her eyes widened and she looked afraid.

  How could he make her see she didn’t have to be afraid of him?

  He breathed deep, counting to ten.

  ‘Joanne, I know you don’t think much of me. I know Victoria didn’t either. But much of what she knew was a lie.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Her mother, for starters. She didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.’

  Jo sucked in her breath. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Yes murdered. The same men who are searching for Vikki, I have reason to believe they are the ones who killed my Helen…’

  Tears sparkled in the corner of Joanne’s eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t completely honest with you, Mr Baker.’

  He thought as much but he let her speak.

  ‘After those men came… I didn’t tell them anything, I swear… I tried to tell myself it wasn’t connected…’

  ‘What is it?’ He was frustrated by her unfinished sentences.

  ‘They told me they were with Child Services. Vikki didn’t want anything else to do with those pigs. I knew she wouldn’t want them to know where she was… Oh God, what have I done?’

  ‘Joanne, calm down. What did you tell them?’

  ‘I swear, I didn’t tell them anything. But then my flat was broken into. Someone trashed my place but didn’t steal anything.’

  ‘Was there anything in your apartment that would tell them where Vikki is?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Frank Campagni sat in a late model white Toyota LandCruiser, parked across the road from an old-fashioned diner in Cronulla.

  He wore a baseball cap pulled low over a close-cropped, military style buzz cut – the hairstyle both deliberate and habitual, the remnants of the honest man he once was.

  Thanks to a conveniently located bug attached to Parker’s handbag, Campagni could hear every word of their conversation. He knew the girl was only seconds away from giving Baker a way to find his daughter.

  Under no circumstances could Campagni allow that to happen.

  Not yet.

  Not until they were ready for him to know.

  ‘He found her. She’s about to spill the beans. What do you want me to do?’

  He was careful not to say anything incriminating over an open line.

  ‘You know what to do. Just make sure everyone thinks he is responsible.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Campagni’s official role at Harvey Incorporated was Chief Security Officer, his position allowing him to move effortlessly between Head Office and the Company’s many subsidiaries around the world.

  In reality, he was more of a janitor, cleaning up messes that no one else wanted to deal with.

  Messes like this one.

  Campagni attached a 600mm lens to a Nikon body, resting the heavy camera on the edge of the window.

  Peering through the viewfinder, he moved the image into focus, holding down the shutter release to capture a series of damning photographs.

  Next, he twisted a long suppressor to the smooth barrel of an MP5K assault rifle, flicking the switch from fully automatic to single shot.

  The 5.56mm subsonic round entered the chamber.

  Campagni checked the side and rear view mirrors – the last thing he needed was the police rolling past, or a car blocking the big 4x4 in.

  He slid the metallic barrel of the gun out of the window, moving it slightly to get his trajectory straight, slowing his breathing to a methodical, trancelike state.

  The front window exploded with the gigantic bang one would expect of a rock being thrown through glass.

  Joanne slumped forward, laying her head on the table.

  Tiny glass fragments peppered Baker’s hair, raining into his lap as he too ducked for cover.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  But the question dissolved before it even cleared his lips, as crimson blood spread across the table like an oil spill.

  Confused, he checked his arms and face, wondering if the glass had somehow cut him but he was clear.

  ‘Hey, Joanne, I think you’re hurt…’

  The blood continued to spread across the laminate table, mingling with her spilt coffee.

  There was a lot of b
lood. Too much for a simple cut.

  ‘Jo?’

  He shook her arm.

  No response.

  ‘No, no, oh God no. Oh fuck oh shit.’

  The blood was coming from her head. From a hideous black hole on her left temple.

  She stared at him but her eyes were unseeing.

  He opened his mouth to call for help, to demand someone call an ambulance.

  But before he could get the words out, searing pain ignited in his shoulder, throwing him back against the leather seat.

  He reached for his shoulder, his fingers coming away slick and red.

  Someone shot me.

  He suppressed a powerful urge to run, to get out of the line of fire but Baker knew if he did, the police would think he was somehow responsible.

  He was an ex-con after all.

  How could I do it? I don’t even own a gun. Just wait for the police. Tell them what happened. They will have to believe I’m innocent.

  But Paul had been innocent before.

  The police didn’t believe him then either.

  What made him think they’d believe him now?

  Run. It’s your only chance to find Victoria.

  Victoria.

  Only she wasn’t Victoria any more. She was Charlotte Burke.

  In the precious seconds before the bullet ended Joanne’s life, she had told him that Vikki had changed her name.

  He never got the chance to ask why or to find out where Victoria – Charlotte – was now.

  And now it was too late.

  Joanne was dead, his only line to his daughter cut off.

  You fucking idiot. Her phone. They were friends. She’s probably got her number programmed in there.

  He’d come too far to walk away empty handed and this might be his last opportunity.

  Sliding beneath the white Formica tabletop, he reached for the dead girl’s handbag, searching for her mobile phone.

  His hand closed on a metallic object just as a scream pierced the busy café.

  Blood ran like a waterfall to the tiled ground where he crouched in fear.

  There was still a killer out there.

  Was he waiting for Paul to run? Would he shoot the minute he was in the clear?