by Tara Moss
Karen digested her words. ‘Really?’ She sounded unimpressed. Perhaps, like Marian, Karen wasn’t happy about the connection.
‘I met Tobias this morning. He’s out of rehab and living with his dad and stepmum. It’s a happy ending for him, considering he nearly ended up in prison for life,’ Mak continued. She strongly suspected that the Cavanagh family was to blame, and resented them still being out there, free and privileged and able to do what they pleased. But she had cleared Tobias. She had done that much.
‘It was amazing what you did with that case, Mak. It really was,’ Karen told her.
Makedde stared down at the table, and her regrets returned. ‘I think we both know the bad guys didn’t get caught.’
A frustrated look twisted Karen’s features. ‘Mak…’
‘No, seriously. We both know the Cavanaghs were involved,’ Mak insisted. ‘Enough bullshit with this thing.’
‘There was a full confession from that Aston guy. Case closed.’ Simon Aston had been Damien Cavanagh’s right-hand man for a time.
‘We both know that Damien Cavanagh was there when that girl died, and she was underage for godsake, and it sure seemed like they had been pretty intimate with each other…yet he was never even formally questioned? Come on, we both know that isn’t right.’ Mak was angry. ‘He’s a monster.’
The problem was money. The Cavanagh family was so powerful, they could evidently protect their son from anything. There had even been video footage placing the Cavanagh heir at the scene. Sure, it was grainy, but Mak had seen it. It was him. The Cavanagh family’s heir, right there.
‘Maybe you saw Aston in the video, not Cavanagh?’ Karen suggested. Simon Aston had supposedly confessed to the killing, and was shortly afterwards found hanging from a chandelier in an apparent suicide. To Mak, he seemed a little too conveniently dead. He would have known a lot about Damien.
‘Simon Aston was blond,’ Mak pointed out. ‘And built. The guy in the video looked exactly like Damien Cavanagh. Dark hair, slim build. He had his shirt off for Christsake; there was no mixing them up.’
Karen seemed a little less sure of her position. ‘Well, I haven’t seen the footage, but they’ve looked at it and decided it’s not Damien Cavanagh. We’ve talked about this before, and I really don’t think—’
‘Who are they?’
Karen furrowed her brow. ‘What?’
‘They have looked at the video and decided it’s not him. Who are they?’ Makedde demanded, getting worked up once more over the police handling of the case, and now in front of a police officer, a member of that clique. She and Andy had already fought over the issue many times. Was it to have the same detrimental effect on her friendship with Karen? ‘Who has looked at the video?’ Mak went on, unable to stop herself. ‘Because Andy hasn’t seen it. You haven’t seen it. Andy said that Jimmy hasn’t seen it, either. So exactly who has seen it?’
‘Well, Hunt, for starters,’ was her friend’s reply. ‘He was on the case.’
‘Ah, Hunt,’ Mak said with a hint of incredulity. She raised an eyebrow.
Detective Hunt was Karen’s senior. He was politically minded and intent on climbing the ranks. Mak did not like him, or trust him. And like many who wanted to make it in Sydney, he apparently mingled with the Cavanaghs.
‘Okay. But others would have seen it too.’ Karen screwed up her face. ‘You know, Hunt knows you’re back, and he mentioned it to me this morning like I would be impressed that he knew.’ Karen seemed a little disturbed by the fact, in light of Mak’s comments. ‘I think you should just drop this stuff. Be careful. The Cavanaghs probably haven’t forgotten about you,’ she warned.
Well, that’s mutual then.
Mak knew she was complaining about something Karen had no power over, but she could not help but continue to plead her case. ‘So the death took place in the Cavanagh home, as I managed to prove by getting in there myself, because no one else would try. And there is a man on the video with the dead girl, and he looks exactly like Damien Cavanagh. And he has never been formally questioned? Never a person of interest? Nothing?’
Silence descended on the small apartment. Mak was seething over the injustice and Karen had crawled into her own thoughts. The air was icy.
‘Time takes a cigarette. Puts it in your mouth…’
The strains of David Bowie’s ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide’ drifted across the courtyard, and with the tension temporarily allayed, Karen spoke. ‘That murder was one of the more horrible ones I’ve seen.’
Karen had been part of the team called to the scene when Meaghan Wallace was found slashed to death in her apartment. The victim had struggled valiantly with her attacker, and Karen had been confronted with blood streaked across the walls, the furniture, and soaked into the carpet. Stabbings were notoriously messy, and television shows did not accurately capture the graphic horror of real-life crimes. It was Makedde’s strong belief that Meaghan Wallace—who was Tobias Murphy’s cousin—had been killed in this horrible manner simply because she witnessed the Cavanagh heir up to no good, and the family was afraid she would go to the police. The witnessing of one death had led to the other. It was a hit.
‘Karen, I don’t want to put any heat on you, but—’
‘Then don’t.’ Karen glared at her with glistening green eyes, the intensity of which gave Mak pause.
She soon regained herself. ‘Come on. You used to be a lot more fun with this stuff.’
Nothing. Not even a smirk in response.
‘Look, if you just happen to find yourself tying up loose ends with the old Wallace case…’ she dared to continue ‘…and the Cavanagh stuff—’
‘Don’t even start.’ Again, the look was intense.
‘All I’m saying is that there might be something obvious that’s been overlooked, and if you were to find it, it could be amazing. It would be great for your career.’
‘Don’t come back to town and immediately start stirring up shit, Mak.’
Mak pulled a fingertip across her pouting lower lip, signifying that she would say nothing more on the subject. For now.
Karen folded her arms. ‘Come on, enough talking about work and crap. I want to know. Have you spoken to him?’
Him.
‘Why won’t you speak to him?’ Karen’s voice was a touch accusatory. She had not even given Mak time to answer. Her red curls trembled like snakes ready to strike.
‘We have spoken,’ Mak said, feeling unreasonably defensive. ‘Actually, we’ve spoken a great deal. We both just need a little space right now. And I don’t particularly want to talk about it.’
Karen was adept at interviewing, but with Mak she had met her match. Karen knew Andy well, but she was a loyal friend to Mak, and in this break-up she had to try to be Switzerland. It was not always easy to tread the thin line of impartiality in such matters. Mak sympathised with that. Still, she did not want to discuss her love life with anyone for the moment. She didn’t want advice. She didn’t want a shoulder to cry on. She just didn’t want to talk about it.
‘I’ll talk to him again, just not right now,’ she offered as a way to close the matter. ‘I don’t have the energy for another emotional face-off—it’s too soon.’
Silence.
‘You’re my friend, Karen. I don’t want to fight,’ Mak murmured.
‘Neither do I.’
But their frosty exchange hung heavily. The reunion was over.
‘I better get back to work.’
‘Me too,’ Mak said. ‘I have to see a man about a coin.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let me help with those dishes,’ Karen offered.
‘I got it,’ Mak insisted. ‘It’s takeaway. It practically takes care of itself. You should get back to work. It’s nearly one.’
She wondered if Andy was there, complaining that she had kicked him out. Perhaps even waiting for Karen’s report.
‘Good luck finding your boy…Adam.’
�
��Thanks.’ Mak led her to the door, disappointed. They didn’t hug. Karen’s footsteps retreated, and Mak closed the door.
Shit.
I’m sorry, Karen.
Mak carried the remains of their meal into the kitchen, and tried to compose herself. She ran the tap, and let her hands sit in the warm soapy water once the sink was half full, dishes slippery to the touch, a prawn tail floating at the surface.
Andy. He had left her a couple of new messages, but she wasn’t going to call him back. She had not asked him to come to Sydney.
A plate slipped from Makedde’s hand and clanged in the sink.
Fuck.
CHAPTER 21
Mak had seen a lot of odd bookshops, but never a place such as this before.
She was the only customer in the shop, and she wandered from shelf to shelf, feigning a sense of purpose as she examined books on the American illusionists Thurston and Kellar, the inventive French magician Robert-Houdin, and the famous American escape artist Houdini, who borrowed the Frenchman’s name. She noted books on various illusions, levitations, mindreading techniques and card tricks, and flicked through them with a cursory interest. Many of the shelves were dusty. The shop did not sell the toys and magic kits for children she’d been expecting, but catered for those serious about the art of magic.
A book on lock-picking caught her eye, and she took it off the shelf with an eagerness unrelated to her current mission. She was pretty good with simple locks like handcuffs, but her effort with more sophisticated locks had been abysmal the one time she’d really needed the skill. She could make a three-pin lock look like a seven-pin. Which was not a compliment. She put the book under her arm and continued browsing.
Eventually, the shopkeeper approached her, as she had hoped. ‘Is there anything I can help you with, miss?’ he asked.
Makedde found herself face to face with a man who could only be a magician himself. His mane of silver hair was slicked back dramatically from the temples and forehead, displaying a distinctive widow’s peak and elongating a pleasant face with oversized teeth, presented in a polite and disingenuous smile. The man was dressed in a high-collared coat and slacks, and had the air of one who’d just emerged from one of the dusty books.
‘This is a great shop,’ she told him.
‘Thank you, miss.’
‘You’re the owner?’ Mak ventured.
‘I am he.’
‘Has this wonderful shop been around for long? I don’t know how I could have missed it before.’
The shopkeeper seemed to take umbrage at her question. His smile vanished and his eyes wandered away. ‘We are the oldest and most respected purveyor of illusionists’ tools, manuals, historical books and paraphernalia in New South Wales,’ he explained a little stiffly.
Is that so?
Mak extended her hand. ‘My name is Makedde,’ she said, to make amends.
He shook it. ‘What an unusual name,’ he remarked. ‘A stage name?’
‘No.’
‘I am Mr Millard,’ he introduced himself majestically, bowing ever so slightly. She imagined him sweeping a top hat through the air as he spoke. He gestured to a large framed poster that hung over the cash register, and there it was, an image of Mr Millard in the top hat and tails he seemed to wish he was wearing. His photograph had been transformed to a grainy sepia tone, giving it the look of an old-fashioned flyer, though his toothy grin seemed not at all convincing for the period.
‘Mr Millard, it is a pleasure to meet you,’ Mak said, implying in her tone that she had heard a lot about him. ‘Can you tell me, do you sell these coins here?’ She had brought the cut coin from Adam’s room with her, and she pulled it from her pocket.
‘Mmm, yes,’ he said, with what seemed like mild distaste.
‘It’s not a good trick?’
‘We specialise in rather more sophisticated tricks. But yes, I have such coins.’
‘Thank you.’ Mak slipped the offending coin back into her pocket. ‘Do you have a members club perhaps, Mr Millard?’
He lit up. ‘Yes, we do. Are you interested in joining?’ He moved to the register and took a thick book from under the counter. ‘We could use more female magicians,’ he told her enthusiastically, opening the book up at a marker. ‘There really aren’t very many, which is a shame.’
Mak brought the lock-picking book over and put it down by the cash register. ‘Actually, I’m interested in someone who I believe may be one of your members,’ she told him, and pulled Adam’s photograph from her pocket.
He closed the book with theatrical indignation. ‘I can’t reveal the identity of our members.’
‘Of course not,’ Mak backtracked. ‘Let me explain why I’m interested.’
Playing mind games with this magic shop owner would be an exercise in frustration. But honesty might just work.
‘I’m a private investigator helping out a very worried mother who’s looking for her son.’ She passed him the photo. ‘Adam Hart. I think he’s probably been in here some time.’
‘Good-looking kid,’ Mr Millard said, studying the photograph. ‘Is he a performer?’
‘Probably an enthusiast.’
‘Well, all the real enthusiasts come here.’
‘So he is a member, then?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
Mak took a breath. This was beginning to get annoying. ‘I see. Perhaps he’s a member of another magicians’ club,’ she said, taking the photograph out of his hands. ‘Sorry, I’ve come to the wrong place. Thanks for your time.’
She began to leave, the lock-picking book sitting unpurchased on the counter.
‘It’s possible he might be part of our membership,’ she heard him say as she reached the doorway. ‘I’ll just check for you.’
Mak turned and flashed him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘That would be most helpful, Mr Millard. Thank you.’
If Adam was an active member she could find other people who knew him, who might have seen him in the past week and might even know where he was. She might be able to find additional contact information for him, information on his interests. Perhaps someone would even have a helpful theory on his disappearance?
‘I don’t have an Adam Hart listed.’
Mak’s heart sank. ‘Thank you for checking,’ she said, defeated. She pulled her credit card out of her wallet and purchased the book.
‘Excellent choice, miss. You’ll find it most helpful,’ he assured her.
‘I hope so. You never know when you might need to bust out of a pair of handcuffs,’ she joked.
She might find the book helpful, but she sure wasn’t finding the coin lead very helpful. Perhaps most nineteen-year-olds had a coin trick or two in their bedrooms.
‘Oh, I wanted to ask you one other thing,’ Mak said. ‘If you were going to conceal something personal in a room—say, some valuables, or a diary—how would you do it?’
‘Things are always best concealed in plain sight!’ he declared.
Concealed in plain sight?
‘You wouldn’t want to use padlocks and the like,’ he added. ‘Locks can be picked. Yes, conceal it in plain sight. That’s what I would do.’
Makedde was puzzled by his response.
‘Or fake books. You know, like this.’ He pulled out what looked like a thick Bible from behind the counter. There was a liquor flask inside.
‘That’s neat,’ she said, and smiled. She’d seen those things a hundred times. ‘Thank you. It was nice to meet you.’
Makedde Vanderwall left the magic shop cloaked in disappointment, passing a cork bulletin board covered with flyers for classes from various ‘Master Magicians’ and playbills for local shows. The words ‘Le Théâtre des Horreurs’ caught her eye for just a moment, printed in gothic letters at the top of the board.
The Sydney show dates had just ended.
CHAPTER 22
Adam Hart could not remember ever having felt so free.
Destiny.
His world was an excit
ing new invention of richer colours and greater possibilities. He lay with his beautiful older lover in her caravan, enjoying the feeling of escape as they were driven like a royal couple further and further from Sydney, further from his clinging mother, the dead father who’d left him behind, and far from anyone who might recognise him and burst this bubble of new reality. Le Théâtre des Horreurs was on the move, their tour taking them to Brisbane where they would perform their final Australian show at the Powerhouse Theatre. And he was with them. He was part of it.
The tour bus moved ahead of them, filled with the rest of the troupe and their sets, their props, their costumes, while Adam and his lover luxuriated in style: special, different, cocooned amongst plush silk cushions on a double bed, just as he believed stars of another era would have been. Bijou insisted on having a caravan for herself when she toured, and would not perform without it. He understood her needs. A refined woman, a queen, she needed her comforts and privacy.
And she was satisfied with his company. His company.
She was nothing like Patrice. She did not criticise him, belittle him, tell him he was immature.
‘Mon ami, fetch me a soda, yes?’ his queen murmured, and Adam sprang up from her side to get her a drink from the minibar-sized fridge. He opened it for her and she took a sip. ‘Chaud, non? Hot.’
The skies outside were clear and blue, and the temperature had risen as they neared Queensland. It was indeed a hot day. She leaned against the open window, her ebony hair and diamond drop earrings blowing back in the breeze. He drank in the sight of her sophisticated beauty with a fresh excitement. She was stunning, exotic. Her acceptance transformed him. He was a man.
For the past five hours, he and Bijou had been able to spend time together uninterrupted by the rest of the troupe. A relief. Despite the giddy happiness he revelled in, the new landscape of feelings, there were problems. Adam felt uncomfortable with the others, particularly the illusionist—or was it the contortionist?—who was strange and seemed always to stare at him a little too long. There was a look in the man’s eye that Adam did not recognise. He found it odd, unsettling. Was it curiosity? Hatred? Was he being measured up? Perhaps it was just a culture clash. The man was a foreigner, after all. Adam now tried to avoid him, but naturally they were in close proximity day and night, such was the nature of a troupe on the road. At least the actor, Michel, had exchanged a few brief, friendly words with him before their departure from Sydney. Apart from that brief dialogue, and Bijou’s loving words, Adam had not conversed in his native language for seven days. Perhaps it was that which had begun to give him an aching longing for the familiar, and encouraged a vague feeling of indefinable dread that lurked just beneath the surface of his bliss.
