Dying Words (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  He dropped into it then turned back to her with his dissolute smile. “Bloody pneumonia,” he said, coughing a little. “It’s got me by the short and curlies, but it won’t take me down, Roxanne, I can promise you that.”

  More’s the pity, she thought, but said instead, “I’m sorry to drag you out of bed. I just need to ask you about the Reillys.”

  He scratched at a patch of skin on the top of his head. “Really? Ginny mentioned Berny Tiles.”

  “Yes, well, about him, too.” She produced a copy of the photo and held it across to Bergman. He didn’t look like he wanted to take it at first, but eventually he did and he stared at it now, his brow furrowed slightly.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “It’s a copy of an original that Berny sent me for your book.” She paused. “You did hear about Berny—”

  He nodded firmly. “Of course. Poor bastard. Couldn’t make the funeral, I was too sick, but I hear the police suspect foul play.”

  “Yes, a deliberate hit and run. But they can’t find a motive as yet.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” His watery eyes penetrated hers and she wondered how to play it.

  “Not exactly, no. Sondra—Berny’s daughter—has asked me to track down the people in that photo. She has her reasons, it’s probably not important, but well, a job’s a job, and I thought that if anyone knows, you would.”

  He continued staring at her for some minutes, sipping on his scotch and rubbing his head where the skin was flaking off. Roxy noticed there were white flakes on his shoulders and tried not to recoil.

  She said, “I have already learned that two others are dead—”

  “Yeah, Clive lost his battle with cancer some time ago, and Browny—Bob Brownlow—well, he also met a pretty grim ending. Only recently, I believe. You heard about that?”

  “I read about that. Did you attend his funeral?”

  “Why would I? Hadn’t seen the man since ... well, probably since this photo was taken.” He paused then added, “He wouldn’t have amounted to anything.”

  The superiority in his tone shocked Roxy. “Really? Why?”

  He shrugged, not interested in elaborating. “I can’t see what any of this has got to do with Sondra.”

  “She’s obviously very upset about her father. She’s searching for a link, that’s all.”

  She knew it was a vague answer and he knew it too. A slip of a smile crossed his lips and he said, “She’ll find no answers here, and neither will you, my love. It’s all just ancient history now.”

  “What about the fifth man, G. Reilly? Do you know where he might be?”

  Wolfgang glanced back at the picture. “Gordo Reilly,” he said slowly, his eyes squinting slightly but his expression impossible to read. “Nope. Lost touch with him soon after as well.”

  “Would he have amounted to something?”

  Wolfgang shot a quick glance at her, his expression now clearly amused. “He was an alcoholic loser, so you decide for yourself.” He took a long sip of his scotch, the irony clearly lost on him. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, Roxanne. Have I ever minced my words with you?” He chuckled, coughing a little. “I’ve told you this before and I’ll tell you again now: there were all types of blokes in Indonesia in those days, not just entrepreneurial types like me, or guys like Berny who were trying to make an honest buck; there were also plenty of cowboys and conmen, alco’s and party boys. The wilds of Irian Jaya attracted them like flies to shit.” He coughed and cleared his throat.

  “So you’re saying Gordon and Brownlow fell into the alco’s, cowboys and conmen category?”

  He shrugged but didn’t say a word.

  “Okay, then, what about Betty Reilly?” She indicated the photo. “Gordo’s wife, I presume?”

  He shook his head, the wolfish glint in his eyes again. “Not anymore. They split years ago, or so I heard.”

  “Do you know why?”

  He sniggered. “I can guess why. Look at her. She was wasted on that man. Nice piece of work, a good sport, too.” His licentious smile was back and he was doing that icky tongue licking thing that made her stomach churn.

  “Do you have any idea where Betty might be now?”

  “Far away from him, if she’s smart.”

  He really had it in for the guy, she thought. “Do you know why she was in the picture? She couldn’t have been a surveyor.”

  “’Course not.”

  “So why was she in this shot? Why were you, for that matter?”

  He considered this. “She was obviously at the Congress with her husband, but why she was in this official photo I can’t recall. I was there as an honorary guest of the Surveyor General. My company had been providing the bulk of Irian Jaya’s survey work for many years. Bloody lucky to have me.”

  She smiled, well accustomed to his arrogance. “Do you know anyone who might know where Betty or Gordon ended up?”

  “I’d say Berny Tiles. He kept up with everyone from those days. But ... well ... dead men can’t speak, now can they?”

  She felt a shiver race down her spine while he placed the glass to his lips and polished off his scotch. He dropped it on the table by his chair and cleared his throat again.

  “I’m not sure what Sondra’s playing at here, Roxanne, nor why you’ve agreed to be her puppet, but I’d let it drop if I were you. I really would.”

  He was half smiling now, but there was a steeliness in his eyes and she had a fleeting feeling he was threatening her. As if on some silent cue, the door swung open and Ginny reappeared.

  “Okay, you two, that will do it!” she announced. “I’ll show you out, Roxanne.”

  Roxy stood up. “Of course, I really appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Sir Wolfgang.”

  She took the photo he was holding out to her and noticed as she did so that Ginny’s eyes widened and she shot a quick glance towards her husband.

  “It’s quite all right,” he said firmly.

  As she was led away, Roxy had to wonder whether he was saying those words to her, or to his startled looking wife.

  Chapter 14

  There’s nothing more delicious than a properly prepared Pad Thai, or at least that’s what Roxy decided as she brought the overflowing fork to her lips. Gilda had come, as promised, laden with edible goodies, and Roxy had to ignore her friend for several minutes as she enjoyed the slippery flat noodles, crisp vegetables, slivers of marinated tofu and nutty lime after taste. She even ignored her glass of merlot, which spoke volumes for the quality of the Thai, and Gilda had to laugh.

  “It’s like you’ve never eaten before,” she said, shaking her head and reaching for her own glass.

  Roxy tried to smile, her mouth bursting with noodles. Eventually, she said, “Sorry, Max is mad about Indian, so I haven’t had Thai for ages. Forgot how much I missed it.”

  Gilda stared at her sideways. “You don’t have to eat what he wants to eat all the time, you know. You are your own person.”

  “I know, but I do almost nothing else he asks, so ...”

  “Oh, I see. You’re compensating?”

  She smiled weakly, picked up her glass. “Something like that. Anyway, let’s not go there tonight, what’ve you got for me?”

  Gilda held a hand up as she polished off her wine. “I’ll fetch more vino while I get my bag.”

  She jumped up and strode to the kitchen where the merlot bottle had been left, then brought it back, along with her oversized Oroton handbag that had been dumped by the front door on her arrival. It was late on Tuesday night, and both women had been so famished when Gilda finally got away from work, they couldn’t contemplate anything until some food had found its way to their stomachs.

  Gilda refilled her glass and topped up Roxy’s, then reached into her bag and produced a notepad.

  “My colleagues think I’m a pain in the butt, poking around in everyone else’s cases, but they’re getting used to it,” she said, giving Roxy a pointed look, then opened the pa
d and began to read. “Okay, so according to the Robbery Squad, Robert ‘Bob’ Brownlow was found deceased outside his residence exactly three weeks ago tomorrow. Suspected mugging as his wallet had been raided, several credit cards missing and no cash found on his premises.”

  “On his premises?” Roxy repeated, laughing. “You mean, in his pockets? On his body?”

  “Hey, don’t knock ‘police speak’, it’s the only thing that keeps me going—working out clunkier ways to say ordinary things and confuse the crap out of the public. Even better, you should try saying it into a news camera with a straight face. Hilarious! We take bets who’s going to crack up first.”

  “It’s just one big barrel of laughs on the police force, eh?”

  “It’s either that or we’re crying all day. I know which one I prefer. Rightio, so the investigator tells me he was beaten pretty badly, even for a mugging.”

  “Like it was personal, perhaps?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Some junkies can get a bit carried away. Maybe the victim tried to fight back. In any case, there are a few leads, nothing strong, etcetera, etcetera. It’s another one of those ‘open’ cases that seem to be going nowhere fast.” She placed her pad down. “So you think this is connected to your Berny Tiles?”

  Roxy nodded and got up to retrieve the print she had made of the old photo. She handed it to Gilda, pointing out Brownlow as she did so.

  “I went to see Wolfman this arvo, to see if he knew where any of these people might be. He reckons he hasn’t seen Brownlow since 1975. Called him Browny; also said he wouldn’t amount to much, whatever that means. He certainly wasn’t living large and had no family, at least not according to the newspaper reports.”

  Gilda considered this before glancing at the man on the right. “And that’s Berny Tiles?”

  “Yep. He’s about the only one Wolfman has nice words for, oh, apart from the woman, of course. But then again, I don’t think Sir Sleazebag has ever met a woman he didn’t like.” Roxy pointed out the other man in the picture. “Still tracking down Gordon Reilly. Wolfman says he hasn’t seen him in decades either.”

  “You believe him?”

  “No reason not to. Although I got the distinct impression he wasn’t happy about my questions.”

  “Why?”

  She squinted slightly behind her thick, black glasses. “Nothing concrete, he was just ... I don’t know, not very forthcoming. I mean, it was pretty obvious he didn’t have much respect for Gordon and Brownlow but he wouldn’t elaborate or explain himself. Said they were losers and insisted I leave it at that.”

  Gilda plucked a bit of corn from her teeth. “So, he’s not a gossip.”

  “No, I think there’s more to it than that. He told me some pretty salacious stuff for his book—all about his first wife and his affairs before he met and married Ginny. Reckons he’s been faithful ever since and I believe him, she’s way too scary to cheat on. So why clamp up over a bunch of guys he has barely seen in thirty-something years? Bit odd, I’d say.”

  “Hmm. I’ll hunt around and see what I can find, although I’m still not quite sure what this is all about.”

  Roxy leaned back on the sofa, patting her stomach, which now felt the size of a bar fridge, and sighed. “Tell me about it. Sondra has hired me to do a job but I’m very confused exactly what that job is. I do think there are some odd connections and coincidences, but I’m not a hundred percent convinced any of them add up to much.”

  “Let’s spread it out and see, shall we?”

  Roxy nodded and they cleared the coffee table of the takeaway containers then placed the seemingly benign looking photo in the centre. As Gilda sat staring at it, Roxy ducked into her bedroom to find the treat she had bought earlier.

  “Nourishment for the little grey cells,” she announced, dropping the large block of dark chocolate into Gilda’s lap.

  “And that’s why you’re my favourite person,” Gilda said, wrestling with the packaging and breaking them both off a large chunk. They chewed away as they continued to stare at the photo.

  “Okay, so as far as we know, it all starts with this simple group shot.” Roxy nodded. “Right, so, just to be clear, you wrote a book about this man.” Gilda tapped a long silver nail on Wolfgang’s head. “This man,” now she tapped on Clive, “died innocently enough of cancer about ten, fifteen years ago. Nothing too suspicious there. This man,” tap tap on Berny Tiles, “only recently died, most likely deliberately killed in a hit and run, and this man,” she indicated Browny, “similar thing, but switch ‘hit and run’ with ‘mugging’. And this man is nowhere to be found.” She kept her nail pointing at Gordon Reilly. “Seems to me that he is the missing link.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Do you think he might have killed the others?”

  She broke off another two squares of chocolate and handed one to Roxy. “I’m not saying that. But with the others either dead or on their sick bed, you’ve got to wonder where he is and what he’s up to.”

  “And what about her?” It was Roxy’s turn to tap on the picture.

  “Yes, Betty Reilly, the only woman in the frame. Vely vely interesting.”

  “Wolfman tells me she was married to Gordon but it’s most likely she has since left him, but he says he has no idea where she is now or why she was even in this picture.”

  “And you don’t believe that either?”

  Roxy went to speak when a shrill ring caught her off guard and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She flung a hand to her beating chest, shot Gilda an apologetic smile and reached for her landline. It was now almost 11:00 p.m., way too late for polite phone calls, so it could only be one person.

  She relaxed considerably and said, “Hi, Oliver.”

  “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Just spit it out.”

  “Okay, well, the bad news is, your week of easy money is over. Needy Woman won’t be needing you anymore.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “That’s the good news,” he told her. “I found the elusive photograph.”

  Chapter 15

  Oliver’s office was almost as dingy as the scanning agency, but in a more favourable location, at least as far as Roxy was concerned. It was wedged in the heart of the city, just a quick train ride away from her apartment, down a dusty alleyway and up four floors.

  Olie’s long-suffering assistant, Sharon, had her bony, Lycra-clad butt in the air as Roxy walked through, and was clearly digging away for something under her desk. She swung around with a wide smile when Roxy called out hello.

  “How’re you doin’, Rox? Good?”

  “Yes, all good. You?”

  “Oh, don’t even start me, love. Go on in, His Highness awaits.” She waved a scrawny hand towards the inner office and Roxy did as instructed, finding Oliver chowing down on a donor kebab, a giant glob of red sauce on his stubbly chin.

  In front of his desk sat a bright blue armchair that looked like it had been taken straight out of the box. There wasn’t a stray thread or a dust particle to be found. She raised her eyebrows, impressed as she sank into it.

  “Been decorating I see,” she said, caressing the smooth, spotless arms.

  “Shazza talked me into it.” He ripped another bite from his kebab, talking as he chewed. More sauce dripped onto his chin. “Reckons the old one made us look ‘cheap’.”

  “And cheerful! I liked the old one. It suited you perfectly.”

  “That’s why it had to go,” Sharon announced from the doorway. “Coffee, darls?”

  Roxy nodded and she disappeared again.

  “Okay, hand it over,” Roxy told Oliver. “I won’t believe it ’till I see it.”

  He quickly finished chewing then he wrapped his kebab back in its foil, dropped it onto the desk and reached for a serviette, which he dabbed at his fingers before lobbing it towards the bin, missing spectacularly.

  “And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I never made the NBA.”

  “That and the fact you’r
e a short, fat, white man,” Roxy added, tapping on her chin.

  “Huh?”

  She tapped again and, comprehending this time, he swiped his chin across the sleeve of his polyester bowling shirt, then began glancing around his desk.

  “Now, where did I put it ...”

  She groaned. “You have not gone and lost it again.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, it’s here somewhere ... Oh, yeah, here it is.”

  He pulled an A4-sized photograph out from under some papers and passed it across to Roxy like it was made of egg shells. She took it just as carefully and studied it again, still wondering what on earth all the fuss was about. It was a mirror image to the copy she already had.

  “Turn it over,” he told her, raising his eyebrows a few times.

  She did so and saw a few simple words scrawled in fading lead pencil across the back. It was hard to make out but she was pretty sure it said, Beautiful Bett.

  “Beautiful Bett?”

  “Is that a double T at the end, or is one of those an exclamation mark?” Oliver asked.

  She squinted her eyes and studied it more closely, trying to think, then turned it back over. Her eyes widened suddenly.

  “Bett! It must mean Betty Reilly. Beautiful Betty Reilly.”

  She stared at the picture, glancing from Betty to Berny and back again. “Oh my God, why didn’t I see that earlier? In this photo, Berny Tiles is looking away from the camera, towards Betty. I didn’t think much of it before ... but maybe ... maybe there was something there.”

  “How so?” he said, just as Sharon returned with two Horowitz mugs in her hands. She plonked them down and gave Oliver the evil eye.

  “I’ll tell her, I promise!”

  “Tell her what?” asked Roxy but Sharon had already slunk away again.

  “It’ll keep for now. So what are you trying to say? You think Berny and Betty were getting it on? Doing the naaaasty?”

  Roxy stared at him. “What are you? Twelve?” She looked back at the picture. “Maybe. He is looking towards her fondly and she is quite a catch as Wolfman pointed out. Maybe Berny and Betty had an affair back then. Berny was married, so was Betty, so I guess that would be pretty scandalous stuff.”