No Safe Place

by Jenny Spence

  “They bought it?”

  “Sure did. The auditor flipped through it, nodding, and gave it a big tick. I’m positive he didn’t read a word.”

  “And you reckon this is the same sort of thing?”

  “Yeah. There are probably people who do that all the time. I’d imagine it pays pretty well.”

  “It figures. And the document you’d seen before could have popped up if you were searching on something like ‘white paper engineering’.”

  “Exactly. Stuff like that lives on the net forever, like garbage in space.”

  In a way I’m glad I’ve got this little puzzle to keep my mind occupied. I’m starting to think about going home, back to dear old Melbourne with the trams and the drizzle and the possums in Royal Parade when I walk home from work. I’m missing my little house and my neighbours, even Alf, the bigoted old bastard. I wish Lewis would call me. The police are so bloody careful. It’ll take them weeks to officially identify that body, but they must know who it is by now. There must be stuff – clothing, stuff in his pockets. Would he have O’Dwyer’s phone? I wonder what happened to that.

  That night, Steve sends me a cryptic SMS:

  She talks money with someone called danielg. Big sums. Ever heard of him?

  I reply: No. What else have you got?

  But there’s no response. I shouldn’t be surprised. Steve only communicates when he’s got something worth saying.

  33

  Tuesday offers a cloudless sky and a forecast of twenty degrees. I decide to wear my new blue dress while I’ve got the chance, and bounce into the office.

  In contrast, Brett’s looking miserable. Another promised visit from Helena has come to nothing.

  “I got these concert tickets for tonight,” he says, disconsolately. “I’ve been telling Helena about it for weeks. She was pretty excited.”

  “And?”

  “She told me she loves the ACO, but she’s found out Richard won’t be playing, and now she’s suddenly got too much work on. I should have checked.”

  He looks abject. There must have been some cutting words.

  “She only goes because he’s so sexy. I don’t think it’s the music at all.”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t really know what he’s talking about.

  “So do you want to come? It starts at eight o’clock.”

  I nod weakly and he brightens a little and shows me on Google Maps where to meet.

  At about ten my phone vibrates with a message. I glance down and see that it’s from Lewis.

  Where can you get a decent cup of coffee in Sydney?

  What’s he up to? I message back the location of my café in York Street. The reply comes swiftly.

  Ten minutes?

  OK I type back. I consider just slipping out before thinking better of it and sending a quick SMS to Steve.

  Lewis is at the café before me, sitting with his back to the wall as usual, talking on his phone. He looks up when I come in and pretends to nearly drop the phone as he takes in my new hairstyle and the gorgeous blue dress.

  I grin, then betray myself by blushing.

  “Hey!” he says.

  I sit down opposite and deal with an over-efficient waiter. Once we’re alone, I demand an explanation.

  “Well, looks like you might be on to something with this O’Dwyer character. Looks like he might be able to help us with our enquiries, so to speak.”

  “Aha!”

  “We’ve tracked him down in Sydney, and I’ve wangled the trip up to be there when they collar him.”

  “That’s great! What evidence did you find, with the body?”

  “I’m not allowed to tell you that, Elly! Cause of death unknown, etcetera.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Okay, but this doesn’t go any further. Looks like blows to the head with a rock. And the body had been hidden. It couldn’t have got to where they found it without someone putting it there.”

  “Right.” I feel a chill at the thought. “Near the summit?”

  “Yeah, just a little way down the other side. There isn’t a track, but it’s not too hard to get down there.”

  “Any phone with the body?”

  “No.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Well, O’Dwyer’s living in a flat in Elizabeth Bay. He doesn’t seem to have a job, but some of those fitness trainer types just work cash in hand, so maybe we’ll pass him on to the taxman when we’re through with him. Anyway, the local cops will bring him in and we’ll put the hard word on him, see what he’s got to say about this phone business.”

  “That’s great, great.” I hope there’s someone to play bad cop.

  “We’re a bit mystified about the motive,” says Lewis. “No hint he’d been playing up with the wife, or anything like that.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “It could be money, but I can’t talk to you about people’s bank accounts, right?”

  “Right,” he nods emphatically.

  “But you could check to see if O’Dwyer’s got more than he should have, can’t you?”

  “Yeah, we can do that.”

  The waiter brings coffee and we drink it.

  “Anyway, how’d you know I was here?” I ask.

  “Hey, give me some credit. I’m a detective!” He’s looking pretty happy. “This coffee isn’t bad. Nearly up to Melbourne standards.”

  “Nearly,” I agree.

  He walks back towards the office with me, but after a couple of blocks I touch his arm.

  “I’m still taking precautions,” I say. “I think we’d better separate here.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll call you later, let you know how it went.”

  I go down the steps of the Queen Victoria Building and take a circuitous route underground, past Town Hall Station and around the block, finally approaching the office building from the opposite direction. I don’t look round, but I know Steve’s nearby and he’ll see if anyone’s behind me.

  I send an email to Steve, Luke and Ravi:

  I’ve just talked to Lewis, the cop. It’s definitely Talbot’s body they’ve found and, off the record, it is murder and O’Dwyer is chief suspect! They’re about to pick him up for questioning.

  Another long and frustrating wait follows. I get congratulatory messages from Luke and Ravi, but nothing from Steve. I’m going to have to make a decision soon about this dodgy document, and I still don’t know who I should talk to about it. Not Helena clearly.

  At about five-thirty I get another SMS from Lewis:

  Leaving work soon?

  The idea of sticking around until it’s time for the concert has crossed my mind, but any excuse to get out is good enough for me, so I reply: Right now. See you in McDonald’s, corner Park and Pitt.

  I gather up my things, put my coat and scarf on and go down into the gathering darkness. He’s hovering just inside the door of Macca’s, lost in the hungry throng.

  “Is this where you eat?” he enquires.

  “Hardly,” I say. “Just looking for some protective cover.”

  “You’re getting good at this,” he says approvingly.

  “Hope so. What’s happening?”

  “Not a lot. Turns out they can’t lay hands on our friend until tomorrow. He’s flying back from Bali overnight.” He makes it sound like a crime.

  “Bali?”

  “Yeah. He seems to have some sort of part-time gig over there, training rich Americans at some health spa,” he says, sounding disgusted. I can’t help laughing.

  “They should have sent you over there to nab him. You could have had a bit of therapeutical massage on the side.”

  “Yeah, right. Well, I suppose I’d better let you get home.”

  So! Poor Lewis is at a loose end in Sydney – nobody to have a drink with.

  “Actually, I’m going to a concert, but I’ve got a couple of hours to kill. I thought I might grab a bite to eat somewhere. Would you like to come along?”

  He looks doubtf
ul. He was probably thinking more of a drink in one of those pubs near Central, the older ones that still look like public lavatories. I bet that’s where cops go.

  “Don’t worry, Lewis. Your virtue is safe with me.”

  “I dunno. If you’re still wearing that blue dress . . .”

  I spoil the moment by blushing again.

  “Come on,” I say. “I don’t know anywhere decent in the city, but we can get a bus to Glebe.”

  “Forget buses. I do get some perks,” he says leading me to an unmarked police car parked up against a Clearway sign. I shake my head in disbelief.

  I know Steve’s resourceful, but I don’t think he should have to leap into a cab to follow us out of the city, so I send him a quick SMS:

  Should be safe with Lewis until 8. Will be at concert at Angel Place. Hope you managed to get ticket.

  In the meantime, I hope he appreciates a bit of free time. It can’t be that much fun trailing around after me.

  We go to a nice café I know in Glebe Point Road. It has good food and it’s popular, but there’s a whole string of back rooms that are relatively quiet. We order food and drinks. For the first time since my night with Diana I indulge in alcohol, but it’s only a light beer. Any more and I’d disgrace myself by falling asleep during the concert.

  Lewis turns out to be good company. There’s an unspoken agreement that we won’t talk about the case that’s brought us together, and I’m glad to forget it for a while. I tell him briefly what I’m doing in Sydney, but keep my misgivings about the job to myself.

  “What about your daughter?” he asks. “Is she still in Augusta Creek?”

  “No, that’s finished. She’s up here for a few days, staying with her cousin in the Cross.”

  “Getting up to mischief?”

  “You bet.”

  “It’s funny to be more worried about your girl when she’s in Augusta Creek than when she’s in Kings Cross.”

  “Well, her cousin Sarah has worked her way through university, and a couple of years of a PhD, doing bar work in Oxford Street and Kings Cross,” I say. “I reckon she knows every bouncer in that part of the world, and they know her. Everywhere those two girls go they’ve got big blokes in dark glasses out in the street, watching out for them.”

  “It’s something, I guess.”

  “Yeah. I’d rather she was in a nunnery, though.”

  I’m very conscious of the issue of his son, his damaged child, but I don’t want to take that next step towards intimacy.

  “So are you from Melbourne originally?” he asks.

  “I was born there, but I grew up in the bush,” I tell him. “We lived in Castlemaine, but my parents had some land just out of town, at a place called Canton Creek, and that’s where we spent all our free time.”

  “Gold country?”

  “Absolutely. There were old mine shafts everywhere. Great place for kids to play.”

  “Mine shafts?”

  “Yes, some of them were really deep,” I say. “Scary. There was one area where we were absolutely forbidden to go. We used to dare each other to run through it.”

  “Yeah, I like the bush,” he says. “Grew up in the inner city, myself. Never really got away from it. We lived in Collingwood when I was a kid.”

  “So you’re a Magpies supporter?” Now we’re on familiar ground.

  “No, though I’ve got a soft spot for the old Pies. You’ll never guess who I barrack for.”

  “Hmmm. Richmond?”

  “Nope.”

  I voice my worst fear: “Hawthorn?”

  “Do me a favour!”

  “Well, we could be here all night,” I complain.

  “Okay. Cheer, cheer the red and the white.”

  “The Swans! They’re not even a Victorian team!”

  “They were when I was a kid. They were when my Grandad played for them, when they were South Melbourne.”

  “Wow, I didn’t realise I was out with the aristocracy.”

  “He only got a couple of games with the seniors, but that’s my family’s claim to fame.”

  “Well, it’s something to brag about with your kid.” There, I’ve said it now. “I mean, I suppose you don’t . . . I mean you . . .”

  There’s a silence. He looks at me enquiringly, and I feel about as big as a snail.

  “I’ve seen you around Brunswick with your family,” I say. “I didn’t recognise you at first.”

  “I do brag about it,” he says. “My Grandad. With Toby. See, the only way I can play it is to treat him like a normal kid. I know he doesn’t act normal, and he can’t help that. He’s kinda trapped in a world he doesn’t understand. But somewhere in there there’s just a scared little kid.”

  “Yes, of course.” I keep my eyes down. “Yes, I think that’s what I’d do, too.”

  “He’s a good kid, when he can manage it.”

  There are a million things I could say, and there’s nothing I can say. I could reach over and touch his hand, but I won’t.

  He’s the one who changes the subject.

  “So, are your parents still in the bush?”

  “No, they’re both dead, but I’ve still got the land. Well, a share in the land. It was a sort of commune. I’ve got a funny old shack that they built, but one of these days I’m going to build a proper sustainable house and move up there, get out of the rat race.”

  “Sounds good. What’ll you do there, contemplate the meaning of life?”

  “Something like that,” I say. “Read books. Invite friends to stay. Commune with nature.”

  “I used to go up that way a bit in my early days on the force. I was in the drug squad for a while and there were a fair few people in those parts communing with nature one way or another. They don’t grow much stuff in natural conditions these days – it’s all under lights in attics in the suburbs.”

  “I know. I’ve never really been into all that,” I say. “My parents smoked a lot of cigarettes and the other stuff – naturally grown, and it was pretty strong. Dad died of heart disease and Mum had a pretty awful lung cancer, and they were both only in their sixties. So I decided none of that was for me.”

  It’s time to make a move because I’ve arranged to meet Brett at a quarter to eight. I get up and put my coat on.

  “No more blue dress,” he says.

  “Now, now,” I say sternly.

  “That colour,” he says. “It’s what those old masters were all after, isn’t it? The ones you see in Italy, like Titian?”

  “You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been to Italy looking at art?”

  “Only on TV,” he says, taking my arm to steer me between the crowded tables. I find this a bit distracting. “What, are you into art too?”

  “Just a bit,” I admit. “I’m kind of obsessed with Vermeer.”

  “Ah, yes.” We’re out in the street now. “That is a sort of Vermeer blue, isn’t it? Like in that book, Girl in Hyacinth Blue.”

  “Now you have surprised me,” I say. “I loved that book.”

  “Yeah, it was good.” He grins at me. “Policemen can read, you know.”

  We get into the car.

  “Something tells me you weren’t always a policeman,” I say. “Did you start life as something else?”

  “You got me there, Detective Elly,” he says, doing a perilous U-turn in a narrow street.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What did you start life as?”

  “That would be a builder’s labourer, as I recall.” He’s enjoying this. “Hey, when you build your sustainable house I could come up and help you.”

  He drives so fast into the city I’m scared to distract him by asking any more questions. I press back against the seat, more poetry running through my head.

  Footfalls echo in the memory

  Down the passage which we did not take

  Towards the door we never opened

  Into the rose garden.

  Jane Eyre never had this prob
lem. Neither did Mary Anne Evans, for that matter.

  Lewis drops me off in George Street at the end of Martin Place. I watch him go, smiling. Who would have picked Lewis as a reader? Or that he’d even know who Vermeer was? At least this dinner will give me something to remember.

  You gave me hyacinths a year ago; they called me the hyacinth girl.

  Eventually I find the entrance to the City Recital Hall. Brett is hovering anxiously, easily spotted over the heads of the audience members mingling in the foyer, most of whom are shrunken with age. He has a glass of wine in his hand and his eyes are darting everywhere, looking for people to greet. If Helena comes to these things to see the mysterious Richard, I think Brett may have some sort of networking motivation. I wave to him and we make small talk before the bells start ringing to go in.

  The concert is a revelation. The orchestra, mostly strings, is led by a small Russian woman in bare feet, who plays the violin as though her life depended on it. The others follow her on a journey that starts deceptively quietly, then builds in dizzying waves of energy until they’re all sawing away in unison, filling the hall with glorious sound. They play pieces by composers I’ve never heard of, and do things with their instruments that I didn’t know you were allowed to do. They sing and stamp. Whoever Richard is, I don’t see how he could be as sexy as the dark-haired viola player with the mohawk.

  We go out at interval because Brett wants another drink, or maybe because he wants to do some more schmoozing. While he’s fighting his way to the bar, I spot a familiar face across the crowded foyer. This was always going to be a hazard. I turn my back quickly, but she’s onto me.

  “Elly! Is it really you?”

  It’s bloody Judith Masters, one of my tormenters from school. She wouldn’t give me the time of day back then, what’s she doing fawning over me now?

  “You look great, Elly! Love the hair. I’ve had to cover up a bit of grey, too. Not fair at our age, is it?”

  She’s gone for the shade of platinum the hairdresser wanted to use on me. It doesn’t look good with her florid complexion.

  “You look great too, Jude,” I say in my sincerest voice, noting with some satisfaction that she’s put on a lot of weight. “What are you up to these days?”