Catch Us the Foxes

by Nicola West

  ‘You should go with him, Lo. Then you can take your photos when you’re done.’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I spun around and saw the shock register on both their faces. They hadn’t realised I’d been crying.

  ‘Are you all –’

  ‘How could you possibly think I’d ever want to step foot in those stables again?’

  ‘I just –’

  Before he had a chance to finish, I walked away. Neither man tried to stop me. The station’s back door slammed behind me and I looked down at the paper in my hands. When my eyes scanned over the article’s byline, I knew what my next step would be.

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘Phwoar!’ Dan groaned. ‘Why don’t you ever dress up like that for me?’

  ‘Because I don’t need anything from you,’ I replied sweetly, perching on a stool in front of the Blue Diamond’s bar.

  ‘Did you stuff your bra?’ he asked, leaning in close.

  ‘Push-up,’ I whispered. ‘Is it working?’

  ‘Hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in. I s’pose if I were that handsome, I wouldn’t feel the need to be subtle either.’

  I laughed loudly.

  ‘Ooh, do that again. He just gave me the filthiest look for making you laugh. Wouldn’t have pegged him as the jealous type.’

  I didn’t tell Dan that I’d been counting on it.

  ‘Anyway, the usual?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nah, need to keep my wits about me but don’t want him knowing that. Can you make me a mocktail that looks like the real deal? Maybe something fruity? Feminine?’

  Non-emasculating, I thought.

  ‘Ah, one bimbo beverage coming right up!’

  I picked up the bar’s menu and began scanning the list of cocktails. They all had cheesy local names that the tourists no doubt found charming. The mirrored wall of the bar offered the perfect vantage point of my mark. Between a bottle of Chambord and Midori, I could just make him out in the reflection. He was sitting by a window overlooking the harbour, his laptop opened in front of him and a glass of whisky by his side.

  Owen Archer was staring so intently at the back of my skull that I felt goosebumps ripple over my skin. For a second, I wondered if he had recognised me. But I knew it was impossible. During the research for my thesis, we’d only ever spoken via email and phone. I’d tried to arrange a face-to-face meeting multiple times but he’d always said he was too busy. Though, seeing the way he looked at me now, I was frustrated to realise that all it would have taken was a figure-hugging dress and a pair of heels.

  I’d begrudgingly spent the evening preening myself, and I was pleased to see that my effort had not gone unnoticed. Owen had garnered a reputation for being somewhat of a playboy and, despite pushing forty, appeared to have a penchant for significantly younger women. It was a weakness that I’d hoped to exploit, and it seemed to be working.

  I was thankful that Dan was helping me – tracking Owen’s movements and reporting in. I’d been getting worried that he wouldn’t show up at the bar that night but about forty-five minutes before closing time he’d sauntered in and ordered a nightcap. I’d practically sprinted the short distance from the cottage when I’d received Dan’s text:

  the chiselled eagle has landed

  Dan was right, Owen was exceptionally handsome – even more so in real life – but he also knew it. His pride was palpable; an overinflated ego that I longed to puncture. He was the type of guy that I’d usually go out of my way to ignore, just for the fun of it. And, as I watched him watching me – casually leaning back while his index finger circled the top of his empty whisky glass – I relished the power I held over him.

  It was going to be even easier than I thought.

  My eyes flicked to Dan. He was showing off – effortlessly spinning and flipping the cocktail shaker around him, while ‘seductively’ dancing to the mellow jazz spilling from the bar’s speakers. On any other night, I’d be rolling my eyes, throwing coasters and booing loudly but I giggled coquettishly, applauding the spectacle. In the bar’s reflection, I caught a flash of anger illuminate Owen’s face, and watched him physically puff up in some primal display of dominance. Dan quickly spun around.

  ‘He’s coming over.’

  ‘Good job.’

  Dan placed a large tulip-shaped glass in front of me and poured the peach-hued liquid in. A garish umbrella skewer, loaded with fruit, completed the illusion but I was dreading drinking the sickly sweet concoction.

  ‘Sex on Bombo Beach,’ Dan announced, winking. ‘Just how you like it.’

  Owen sidled up beside me and I took an exaggerated sip.

  ‘Mmm, perfect,’ I purred.

  It wasn’t perfect. It was orange juice and grenadine.

  ‘Probably would have tasted better if Tom Cruise here hadn’t manhandled it,’ Owen chided. ‘You don’t shake a Sex on the Beach.’

  Dan opened his mouth to reply, but I interrupted him.

  ‘I asked for a show and Daniel was gracious enough to oblige.’

  Owen scoffed and his jawline tensed. He had the type of ‘effortless’ permanent five o’clock shadow that only came from a fastidious grooming routine.

  ‘And a Cocktail reference, really?’ I teased. ‘Bit before our time.’

  I had hoped to deflate him, but that flash of pearly whites – potentially veneers – told me he was into it. He clearly enjoyed being the older man. I made a note of it.

  ‘Dan? Can you please get the gentleman one of whatever he’s drinking? My treat. But, god forbid, do it right or prepare to face a barrage of outdated insults.’

  ‘I don’t think even I could stuff up Kilmagoon on the rocks.’

  ‘Wait,’ Owen said, shocked. ‘I was coming over to buy you a drink.’

  ‘And maybe if you’d spent less time insulting the bar staff you would have beaten me to the punch.’

  ‘You’re seriously buying me a drink?’ Owen asked. He looked genuinely puzzled – that same incredulous expression men get when a woman holds the door open for them.

  ‘Yeah. I actually owe you one.’

  There was a flash of panic in Owen’s steely gaze as he desperately scanned every millimetre of my face trying to recall it.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not one of your one-night stands.’ I leaned towards him and whispered, ‘Well, not yet, anyway.’

  I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as his breathing became heavy.

  I laughed loudly. ‘I’m taking the piss, Owen. You helped me with my thesis last year. Bylines from Belanglo?’

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said, laughing. ‘Yeah, Wollongong Uni, right? Don’t tell me your name, I’ll remember it.’

  I knew he wouldn’t, but I kept up the charade. The longer he struggled, the more indebted to me he’d feel.

  ‘Uh, it was something weird.’

  I laughed. He wasn’t wrong.

  ‘Fuck, what was it?’

  He stared at my face like the answer would reveal itself. He looked at Dan pleadingly.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I threatened.

  ‘Oh!’ Owen suddenly exclaimed. ‘Raymond Chandler! Uh… Uh, Philip…’ He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. ‘Marlowe!’

  I smiled to myself, surprised that he’d actually remembered.

  CHAPTER 30

  We retreated to the corner where Owen had been drinking. His computer was resting on one of his competitor’s newspapers, and Lily’s serene smile peered out at me from the front page. I thought what an attractive couple she and Owen would have made. Classic, yet wholesome good looks – fit for the poster of a Hollywood rom-com.

  He saw me looking and attempted to tidy up. But, before he closed his laptop, I spied a blank word document. It was reassuring to see that even the pros suffered from the occasional bout of writer’s block.

  We spoke about my thesis for a while, and I was surprised to discover he’d actually read the whole thing. I’d emailed it to him but, much to my disappointment,
had never heard back. He swore he’d replied, but I could tell he was bullshitting me. Still, it was nice to hear him discuss obscure points I’d made, and my chest swelled when he praised my writing.

  Sure, he obviously wanted to fuck me, but at least he’d actually read the bloody thing. The same couldn’t be said for my dad, editor or friends. In fact, up until that point, the only person other than my supervisor who had bothered to read it had been Lily.

  ‘How the hell did you get Milat to talk to you?’ Owen asked. ‘He fucking hates journos.’

  ‘I know. I used it against him. Pretended I was on his side and was only interested in exposing the unfairness of his trial due to the media’s involvement.’

  ‘Shit.’ Owen laughed, looking me up and down. ‘You’re ice cold, kiddo.’

  ‘To be one hundred per cent honest, I only sent him the letter to impress my supervisor. I never thought he’d actually get back to me. And then, next thing I know, I’m pen pals with a bloody serial killer!’

  ‘Let me guess, top of your class?’ he asked, flashing that artificial smile.

  I laughed dryly. ‘Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?’

  He raised a surprised eyebrow.

  ‘A very close second,’ I replied, holding my glass up in a mock toast.

  ‘Who was the prick who beat you? Want me to get him blacklisted?’

  ‘Her,’ I corrected. ‘And I don’t think –’

  ‘Come on, screw the sisterhood.’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’

  He crossed his arms and shook his head. ‘And here I thought you actually had the balls to make it in this industry.’

  I twirled the umbrella in my mocktail and sighed, wishing I’d ordered a real drink.

  ‘Go on,’ he goaded. ‘Just give me a name, and it’s done.’

  I reached across the table, picked up his whisky and downed it in one gulp.

  ‘Lily Williams,’ I replied.

  ‘God.’ Owen sighed. ‘I forgot how incestuous small towns are. Should have made the connection with your age though. You must’ve grown up together, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Were you two close?’

  ‘She was my best friend,’ I said. It wasn’t technically a lie – we had been best friends before my mum died.

  ‘Shit. Sorry.’

  I shrugged and ran my finger along the rim of the whisky glass. Owen looked uncomfortable. It was the perfect time to pounce.

  ‘I want to write about her. It feels like the only thing I can do, y’know?’

  He broke my gaze. ‘Have you chatted to the Gazette editor? He’d probably be your best bet, I imagine.’

  ‘The one who fired me for even suggesting writing about her?’

  ‘Wait, you’re the one who took the photo? The one we used on the cover?’

  ‘Yup, that was me. Thanks for the attribution, by the way.’

  ‘Hey, I tried.’ He held his hands up defensively. ‘Believe me. Your editor said he’d had a falling out with the intern who took it, and that they were no longer employed by the paper. He refused to give me a name. I wanted to track you down but the deadline was looming and my boss ordered me to just run the thing under Mark’s name.’

  ‘And you dutifully obliged?’ I mocked. ‘S’pose it’s been a few decades since you spent any time in an ethics class.’

  That too-perfect smile. ‘Let’s just say your former boss led me to believe you weren’t worth my journalistic integrity.’

  ‘Let me guess. Said I was a vulture, right?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Do you still believe him?’

  He rested his cheek on his fist and stared at me. Piercing slate-grey eyes.

  ‘No. Men like Mark are part of the old guard, still intimidated by young women such as yourself: the go-getters, the ball-busters, the ones who refuse to take no for an answer.’

  I rolled my eyes, trying not to let on that he’d hit the nail on the head.

  ‘The way he spoke about Lily though. She sounded like your antithesis. Sweet. Compliant. Unquestioning. Got the job done without ruffling any feathers. By the sounds of it, he hired her because he wasn’t threatened by her.’

  ‘No one was.’

  ‘It may have helped her get a job over you but it’s also probably the same thing that got her killed.’

  ‘Fuck, man. For someone who just critiqued “the old guard” that’s a backwards-arse view that sounds a lot like victim blaming. Lily didn’t “get” herself killed. She was murdered. Are you really trying to say that if she was a bit more of a bitch she wouldn’t have been targeted?’

  Owen was flustered. ‘No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just – fuck. I wasn’t victim blaming, okay? I know it wasn’t her fault. Obviously.’

  I saw my chance and took it. ‘This, this is why I should be the person writing her story. You’re a phenomenal journalist, Owen. I’ve admired your work since I was a kid. Fuck, I wanted to be you. But you didn’t know her, and you don’t know this town. The drivel that men like Mark are spouting isn’t real. We’re not all reduced to some shitty binary. Lily – the good girl; me – the bad. She was a real person. Help me show the world who she was.’

  I was worried that I’d laid it on a bit thick but then I noticed his puffed up chest and boyish grin. He’d taken the bait.

  ‘Look,’ Owen sighed, ‘you’re a talented writer, Marlowe. Your thesis was exceptional, but the kind of piece you’re suggesting just doesn’t sell papers. Even if I put a good word in, I know Paul – my editor – would never go for it. People want that binary; they don’t care that Lily was a multifaceted person.’

  I opened my mouth to reply, but he continued.

  ‘They want this,’ he said, picking up the paper and pointing at Lily’s smiling showgirl portrait. ‘And this.’ He opened the cover to reveal a grainy yet foreboding photo of Steve Masters. ‘Good versus evil. As simple as that. They’re not real people. Not any more. They belong to the masses.’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘I know. But it’s true. And, if you want to make it in this industry, you’re going to have to start viewing the world a little more black and white.’

  ‘Good versus evil?’ I scoffed.

  He nodded. ‘It’s what all crime reporting boils down to.’

  I flipped between Lily and Steve’s photos and tried to hide my smile. ‘And images that capture that dualism, they’re important?’

  ‘Hell yeah. It’s a cliché, but as writers’ copy shrinks in favour of ad-space, a picture really is worth a thousand words – sometimes more.’

  ‘So, what would the holy grail be? Like, a picture of some poor dead girl with satanic symbols carved into her flawless flesh?’

  ‘A little on the nose, but, yeah, that shit would sell.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, leaning back casually, ‘I guess it’s a good thing I took photos of the symbols on Lily’s back when I found her.’

  That chiselled jaw almost hit the floor.

  CHAPTER 31

  ‘Bullshit!’ Owen spat.

  ‘If you say so. I’m more than happy to go through your editor instead.’

  ‘I’ve seen the coroner’s report. There was nothing on her back.’

  ‘What’s the best way for me to get in contact with him?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re playing at, but –’

  I pulled my phone out of my bag and selected the photo of Lily I’d uploaded before I’d come to the bar. Even on the small screen, you could see the symbols – jagged and angry. I held the phone out to Owen.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said, reaching for it.

  I snatched it back. ‘Eyes, not hands.’

  He nodded, and I held the screen out to him once more.

  ‘How the hell did you – wait. Goddamn it. Marlowe fucking Robertson, right?’

  I pulled the phone back. ‘Yeah, so what?’

  He laughed dryly and shook his head. ‘None o
f us could figure out why they were keeping the person who found her under wraps. The logical answer was that they were a suspect but when Masters’ name started floating around we knew that wasn’t the case.’

  I frowned at him, puzzled.

  ‘The other theory was that the cops were protecting someone. Either someone close to the Williams family or close to the investigation. Y’know, someone like an inspector’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Shit,’ Owen said, shaking his head. For the first time, he actually looked his age.

  I took a sip of my mocktail, pondering what to do next. The bar was completely empty, save for Dan behind the counter. He tapped his watch and I nodded.

  ‘Look, I’m not denying anything,’ I said to Owen. ‘But you know there’s a third option, right?’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that?’

  ‘Maybe it’s less about the cops protecting a specific person, and more about them protecting themselves.’

  ‘Fuck, Marlowe, what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. At least, nothing on the record.’

  Owen ran his fingers over his stubble. ‘I know what my editor would pay for a photo like that. It would set you up for life. You could get out of here.’

  I shook my head. He placed his hand on mine, and I fought the urge to recoil.

  ‘We can protect you,’ he said, squeezing my palm. ‘Keep your name out of it?’

  I finally pulled away. ‘I’m the only person who could have taken that photo. If it’s published, they’ll know it was me.’

  ‘Who’re “they”?’

  I stared him down, making it clear that I wasn’t going to answer.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Owen said. ‘Where does Masters fit into all of this? Some travelling carny cult?’

  I stared at him in disbelief. ‘You know those marks weren’t fresh. You can’t seriously still think he actually killed her, right?’

  ‘I mean, the cops certainly do.’

  ‘He didn’t do it. But he heard who did. The cops aren’t mentioning that, are they?’

  ‘His blood was on her dress, Marlowe.’

  ‘She attacked him, on the ghost train – when I took your cover picture. He never saw her after that.’