Siren

by Tara Moss

  Who was she kidding? She was anything but normal.

  As if to emphasise the point, Mak felt plastic brush against her bare elbow, and her edgy survival instincts kicked in. But it was only a silver-haired woman manoeuvring her shopping bags next to her. No threat there. In seconds the bus braked, and she was pulled a few centimetres across the seat towards the woman’s shopping before the vehicle came to rest and let a new passenger on. It was an odd-looking man. He wore his few strands of hair in a greasy comb-over, and had on a woolly turtlenecked sweater with a pilled business suit, a choice that seemed more than a little out of place for the warm Sydney weather. Had he been wearing a long coat, she might have ducked for cover. In Mak’s experience, people wearing long coats in summer generally harboured weapons. As it was, she watched the man in the periphery of her vision as she pretended to read her novel. He walked past her and took a seat nearby. His appearance made her uneasy.

  You are paranoid.

  The doors of the bus hissed closed with a familiar hydraulic sound, enough of a sensory cue to temporarily transport her back to her early twenties, to New York City, hearing that same hydraulic sound as she fought a horrible man with a similar penchant for comb-overs to the man on the bus. She had been living in a model’s apartment in a modern high-rise, and arrived home from a shoot to notice someone dressed in a tracksuit near the bell panel. The instant she unlocked the glass lobby door to go inside, the man leaped on her, groping her breasts and trying to push into the building. Self-defence classes had taught her well, and she shouted with all her might and smashed her umbrella into him like a nightstick. But he persisted, and each time she managed to get him back outside the doorway—beating his prying hands out of the way with her umbrella—she would try to slam the door closed, and instead hear that horrible hydraulic hiss, the door fighting against her urgency. Mak and her attacker struggled violently for what seemed like five full minutes before she managed to close the maddeningly slow hydraulic door, finding safety in the lobby on the other side of that locked pane of glass, exhausted and in shock.

  You are a psycho-magnet.

  Thankfully the past several months, though emotionally trying, had not offered up any fresh psycho-magnet stories. But she wondered how much longer this respite from the bizarre would last.

  ‘Hey…you’re that woman from the papers, aren’t you?’ came a male voice.

  Mak looked up. It was comb-over man. She had sensed that he would be a problem. She really didn’t wish to engage with him, especially as she was trapped, at least until the next stop.

  ‘It is. I thought it was you,’ the man persisted, pleased with his discovery. He continued to stare at her, expecting a response. He had caught the attention of several other passengers, who were now doing the same.

  Though seemingly crazy, the man had recognised her from the press coverage of the Cavanagh case. Her involvement had been widely reported in Sydney, she knew, but she had hoped people would have forgotten. Didn’t they say it was ‘today’s news and tomorrow’s fish ’n’ chips wrapper’? She’d hoped that the better part of a year would have made it all blow over. Evidently not. Not in the mind of the public, and certainly not in her own mind. The Cavanaghs had not left her thoughts. Or her early-morning motorcycling routes…

  Outside the bus windows she recognised the buildings near Marian Wendell’s investigation agency. Frankly, her stop could not come too soon. She took the opportunity to stand and move away from her unwanted inquisitor.

  ‘Yeah, you’re that private eye chick,’ the man said to her back as Mak stood waiting impatiently for the doors to open. ‘I reckon those rich people did it,’ he added. ‘You can just tell they’re guilty.’

  Makedde stiffened.

  Guilty. Yes they are. I know they are.

  She disembarked with her head down. ‘You must have me confused with someone else,’ she lied, more for the benefit of the other passengers than for the strange man who had clearly pegged her. She felt eyes on her as she stood at the kerb and the doors of the bus closed with that hideous hiss.

  Next time you’ll ride over on your own wheels, under the anonymous shield of a helmet, she promised herself. But if she was going to work for Marian, she needed a car.

  Mak waited for the traffic to clear, mentally shaking off the encounter. The bus dawdled away down the busy street, and she stood alone on the side of the road near Bondi Junction, looking across to the three-storey, seventies-built concrete box that had been Marian’s office building for decades. The traffic eased and she dashed across clutching her black leather purse to her shoulder, stiletto heels clicking on the uneven surface. Despite her reservations about returning to investigation work, a smile found the corners of her mouth as she pushed the lobby door open and stepped inside. It seemed she had missed the place more than she’d thought. The old office block was a thing of curious, kitsch beauty, from the overabundance of brown and yellow tones right down to the faux wood panelling in the lobby. It was a feast of tacky 1970s delights. In the seven months since her last visit to Marian, the rather tired green-and-yellow carpet had been replaced with something in an inoffensive modern grey. Perhaps no one made reams of yellow and green diamond-patterned carpet any more.

  The old lift took its sweet time, as always, but soon enough she arrived at Marian’s agency on the second floor. She read the words on the door, and took a deep breath.

  MARIAN WENDELL INVESTIGATION AGENCY

  PROFESSIONAL PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

  Here goes.

  A chiming bell announced Makedde’s arrival. She let herself in and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Be there in two minutes,’ came a familiar and immediate shout from the main office down the hall.

  Mak located one of the spy cameras and gave it the thumbs up for her boss’s benefit. She was aware that the offices were fitted out with all kinds of surveillance equipment, and that Marian could watch everyone entering or leaving from the comfort and safety of her desk chair.

  The carpeting outside may have changed, but nothing inside the investigation offices had, not even the magazines in the waiting room, many of which were now several years out of date. The Australian Women’s Weekly, Woman’s Day and National Geographic respectively boasted stories on Olivia Newton-John’s personal life, Angelina Jolie’s ‘shocking!’ weight loss and the plight of radio-tagged deforestation-tracking tarantulas. There was even an old, dog-eared cover of a fresh-faced Princess Diana, smiling with her prince. Mak was sure she’d already read every page of every story during previous visits to the waiting room, so she left the glossies alone, and picked up a section of the local paper.

  Jack Cavanagh.

  She blinked. A metal taste rose in the back of her throat.

  Jack Cavanagh was the patriarch of one of Australia’s richest and most powerful families—the very same family the stranger on the bus could just ‘tell’ was guilty. The Cavanaghs were unavoidable in Sydney, influential as they were. They owned buildings, real estate, businesses and media. In this instance, Jack Cavanagh was pictured doing a deal on the front page of the business section.

  Mak’s eyes narrowed, anger rushing to the surface of her thoughts.

  ‘Don’t look at that,’ Marian Wendell snapped at her.

  Mak dropped the paper like a reprimanded puppy, and got to her feet. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I’m serious, young lady. You’ll want to steer clear of them,’ Marian warned her, looking stern. ‘It’s good that you’ve been out of town for a while, and out of their way.’

  Mak recovered herself. ‘Well,’ she said,‘it feels kind of good to be back, I have to say.’

  Marian Wendell smiled inscrutably.

  The older woman was a vital sixty-something, and could cheat the years when she wanted to, which was always. She had a helmeted mane of auburn hair that would do any country singer proud, and though her clothes were a touch outdated, they were expensive and well tailored. Her days of skulking around filthy
back alleys to get information for her clients were a distant memory. Today she looked businesslike in a midnight blue suit with a striped silk blouse, the bow oversized and elegantly covering her neck. Mak was glad she’d made the effort to look presentable herself. For a woman of diminutive physical size, Marian could be formidable. She wielded great influence in her field, and certainly she had Mak’s respect, though her agency was by no means one of Australia’s biggest. Such titles were left to the giant corporate investigation companies that dealt in big-money cases—insurance fraud, corporate espionage. Marian managed to earn a good living in her less glamorous niche of deadbeat dads and cheaters. Female clients were unquestionably her strong point. There were a lot of women out there who wanted a ‘private dick without the dick’, so to speak.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Mak continued.

  She couldn’t resist giving her boss a hug and air-kissing her neatly on both sides of her face in the European style, as had become her habit after years of working as a model in Paris and Milan. In this case the friendly gesture required considerable stooping. Marian, birdlike next to Mak’s exaggerated Scandinavian proportions, looked up at her for a moment after their embrace, and Mak imagined her thinking that this odd young investigator of hers was some kind of giant albatross.

  ‘Come on,’ Marian said, starting towards her office.

  ‘You know, some of your magazines are getting pretty old,’ Mak commented as they walked down the hall. ‘I can pick up some new ones for you if you like.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Nothing ever changes.’

  Mak laughed. ‘Well, actually, Marian, you have one of Diana there that is decades old already. A lot has changed since that happy little cover photo was taken.’

  They’d arrived at the investigator’s office. ‘Faces and names change, but the story is always the same,’ the older woman replied, deadpan. Mak wondered if she was serious.

  Certainly nothing had changed in the personal offices of Marian Wendell. The handsome Art Deco nymph was still positioned on its square display table in front of Marian’s prized painting depicting the Rainbow Serpent of the Aboriginal Dreamtime. The crystal vase was stocked with fresh yellow roses. The ceramic aromatherapy oil-burner was doing its soothing work from the corner of Marian’s wide desk. The rows of filing cabinets were still stuffed with past cases, some of them quite colourful from what Mak had heard, and neat files covered every surface. Naturally, the photo of Marian’s beloved late husband, Reg, still took pride of place in the room. Reg had been somewhat older than his bride, and had passed away a full two decades earlier. He had been her intellectual match, Marian had once confided—a true soul mate—although Mak wondered if such things existed. Though it had been twenty years, Marian had never remarried. Marian’s personal life, like her office and her wardrobe, was an immaculately kept time capsule.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  Mak did. She looked out the window and then at the painting, and finally at the floor. She fidgeted with her hands.

  Ah yes, time for the post-mortem.

  Mak found herself uncharacteristically nervous, anticipating a brutal dissection of all that had gone wrong in Canberra. She had procrastinated about telling Marian that she was coming back to Sydney, and Marian no doubt knew that. She had not felt ready to explain things, she supposed. Not until she was on that open road and riding away.

  Mak gazed determinedly at the Sydney cityscape outside Marian’s window, inwardly bracing herself.

  ‘Where are things at between you and the cop?’

  Andy.

  ‘It’s over,’ Mak said with resolve, not looking at her interrogator.

  Marian had guessed. She paused, watching Mak swallow heavily. ‘Good then. I’m glad you’re back,’ she continued, and, after another beat, cut to the point. ‘The case I have for you involves a missing person.’

  ‘Okay,’ Mak blurted, relieved by the change of subject. She could hardly believe she’d got off so easy.

  ‘It’s a legit case.’

  ‘Great,’ she said, again too fast.

  All of Marian’s cases were legit, but she always let Mak know she had checked into them. It was one of her important rituals. Checking the legitimacy of a client searching for someone was a very real issue in investigation work. Some people had good reasons for disappearing. Countless obsessed ex-lovers and angry loan sharks tried to enlist a third party to find their victims for them…victims who sometimes ended up dead.

  ‘The subject is a young man. Your client is his mum.’ Marian took a file from a stack next to her, put it in the centre of her desk and placed both hands on it thoughtfully. ‘He’s a teenager,’ she went on, closing her eyes as she often did when recalling information. ‘Well, he’s nineteen. Still lives at home. Name is Adam Hart. It’s been nearly a week and there’s been no sign of him. His mother is concerned, so she called us.’

  Mak took out her notepad and at the top of a fresh page wrote the name ADAM. ‘Surname spelled with an EA or—’

  ‘No E,’ she was told.

  ADAM HART

  ‘Your client contact is Mrs Glenise Hart. I’ve made an appointment for you to see her this afternoon.’

  Makedde nodded. ‘Single mum?’

  ‘Widow,’ Marian explained.

  After a beat, Mak asked the obvious. ‘You said on the phone that she asked for me specifically. Do you know why? How did she hear of me?’

  Marian seemed strangely unprepared for the question. A thought flickered behind her amber eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t a client ask for you?’

  It was clear evasion.

  ‘I see,’ Mak said. She frowned as her mind ran through scenarios. ‘So…she asked for me…’ She paused, hoping for more, but her boss was not biting. The old ‘finish my sentence for me’ trick was one that a surprising number of people fell for, but Marian, of course, could not be so easily led. Mak decided to drop the subject for the moment. ‘Are there any known risk factors associated with this boy? Depression? Drug use?’

  ‘Mrs Hart described him as introverted, but was adamant he was not suicidal. And thankfully he hasn’t shown up in a hospital emergency room or at the bottom of The Gap.’ The Gap. Sydney’s most notorious suicide spot. ‘She insists he would never do drugs, and she thinks he doesn’t even drink.’ Marian relayed this last bit of information with a touch of incredulity. Few parents would want to imagine their child experimenting, but that hardly meant that drugs or alcohol weren’t factors. One thing that private investigation work illuminated was the staggering amount of deception within families. It was frightening what parents did not know.

  ‘What do we know so far?’ Mak prompted.

  Marian’s eyes closed again. ‘His pushbike is missing, as is his wallet.’

  Bike. Wallet. Frankly, this sounds like a very boring case, Mak thought.

  ‘I don’t suppose his toothbrush is also missing…’ Mak added cheekily.

  ‘This one’s not necessarily that easy.’

  But it probably is. ‘Does he own a car?’

  ‘No car. No licence.’

  There would likely be no listed property for someone his age, and with no car to trace it looked like Mak was going to have to do a lot of door knocking. ‘I assume a formal report has been filed with the police already?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Apparently Mrs Hart reported it last week.’

  ‘Right.’ Mak wondered if the police had any good leads, and who she might casually ask about it. Not Andy, that was for sure, and his former police partner Jimmy Cassimatis would probably not be of much help either. Thankfully, she had other friends in the force, if it became necessary.

  Marian pushed the file across to Mak. ‘Your instructions and info.’ She leaned back in her chair and let out a tiny, elegant sigh. ‘Somehow I can’t imagine the cops committing much time to this. Twenty-two people go missing in this state every day. This boy is not underage, not high-risk. He has no record. He hasn’t been caught up in any crimes or foul play in the past
.’

  Marian was right, of course.

  ‘I’ve arranged for you to see Mrs Hart around three.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mak wished she felt more enthusiastic. She needed the money, but the idea of door knocking to find an errant nineteen-year-old seemed like pretty dull stuff.

  ‘Do you have a car?’ her boss asked.

  A car would be more convenient for transport than her beloved motorcycle, and certainly would be a more realistic option for any surveillance that might eventuate. Private investigation work often involved sitting patiently with tightly crossed legs in a car with the lights off and the window rolled down.

  ‘No car.’

  ‘I’ll get Sarah to organise one.’ Her assistant.

  ‘Nothing too bright this time, please.’

  The last rental the agency had organised had been bright orange, which was not a colour particularly good for blending in. Magnum PI’s red Ferrari would never have been good for blending in either, but that was television for you.

  Mak became aware that Marian was watching her face carefully.

  ‘You’re a good investigator, despite the reservations you have about it.’

  She opened her mouth to defend herself, but said nothing. She would not bother trying to deny it.

  ‘Be thorough with your notes and procedures in case this one turns out to be a criminal matter,’ Marian cautioned her, perhaps sensing Mak’s confidence that Adam Hart was a standard runaway. ‘I hope this kid’s all right, but…we don’t know that yet.’

  Makedde stood. ‘I will.’

  ‘And try to stay away from him.’ Andy. ‘You gave him his second chance already. It’s time for you to move on.’

  She smiled. Only Marian would be so bold as to offer personal advice to someone as stubborn as Mak. Mak performed a mock salute in response and left Marian to her files.