by Dave Warner
Clement was well attuned to falsity. He detected only genuine confusion.
‘You never gave it to anyone?’
‘No. I left it in the drawer in my bedroom. I didn’t think there was any point bringing it on my holiday. Roaming charges, all that.’
‘How long ago did you leave?’
‘Two weeks. I’m skiing. Here for four more days.’
‘You have a boyfriend or relative who might have taken it?’
‘My boyfriend is with me.’ There was the slightest pause. ‘There’s my flatmate.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Her. Sonia Rochdale. She’s a flight attendant.’
Clement elicited a phone number. Chelsea Lipton was still bamboozled.
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t take it … she would have told me.’
‘When did you speak to her last?’
‘I skyped her about a week ago. We’ve been texting. I use my boyfriend’s phone. She never mentioned a robbery or anything like that.’
‘She married? Boyfriend.’
‘No. She’s a bit of a party girl.’
Clement read casual sex, recreational drugs.
‘Do I need to cancel my phone?’
‘No, we have it here, but it’s evidence. We might need to hold onto it for the time being. Why don’t you enjoy the rest of your holiday and we’ll work something out when you get back? We can probably send you back the sim card. Do you know a Dave Grunder or Bruce Henderson?’
She did not. Nor Shane Shields or Damon Kelly.
‘One last thing. You don’t possess a pendant do you?’ He described it.
‘No. Nothing like that.’
He finished the call and explained the gist to Earle.
‘Somebody took it. The uniforms didn’t mention a break in?’
‘No, but they might have missed it.’ Or, Clement was thinking, some ‘friend’ of the flatmate could have helped himself. He dialled the number for Sonia Rochdale he’d been given and hit voicemail. He left a message for Sonia to call him as soon as possible. They finished their beers. Laidlaw had been sitting there, quiet, patient. Clement’s phone rang again. It was Mal Gross. Justin Coulthard, one of the detectives on the night shift who specialised in drugs, had popped one ‘Jungle Jim’ Thornley the night before, carrying eccies. Coulthard told Jungle Jim his grief would be lessened if he spilled on Cole and Turner. Thornley said as far as he knew it was nothing to do with Cole. He denied Turner was dealing for Cole, said he was too ‘squirrelly’.
‘What did Coulthard think?’
‘He was inclined to believe him. The tablets we found on Turner aren’t anything like the batch Thornley was carrying. That rang a bell. I went back and checked an email from the Pilbara boys a month ago warning of some eccies that were cheap and nasty. They look identical to Turner’s. I’m sorry, boss, I should have picked it earlier.’
‘Don’t worry, you do a great job.’
He relayed the info to Earle who chewed it over. ‘Turner could have travelled to the Pilbara for his little earner.’
It was true, a bigger can of worms, one that would have to wait.
‘Of course, if he was dealing in competition to Mongoose …’ Earle didn’t have to complete the thought. Clement understood. Cole might have been out to eliminate that competition. He spoke to Laidlaw. ‘This old fellow you mentioned who camps out where you found Turner?’
‘Warry.’
‘Can you take us to him?’
‘Sure.’
‘How far from here?’
‘Forty minutes.’
He was calculating. The uniforms would have cordoned off the area by now, Keeble’s crew would be arriving any minute, Keeble herself was still probably an hour off landing, plus the drive. There was no sense hanging around.
‘We’ll follow you.’
They got up. Clement felt a twinge in his knee. The first sign of age. He told the others he would meet them outside. He needed to notify Olive Pickering but did not have her phone number on him. He called Mal Gross and got it.
She answered on the second ring. He imagined her waiting right by the phone, the slow tick of a clock the only sound.
‘Mrs Pickering, it’s Detective Clement.’ He heard the intake of breath. He imagined her praying the next words out of his mouth would not be ‘he’s dead’.
‘We’ve found him.’
Little gasps, a sob. He did not want to build her hopes.
‘But he’s in a very bad way. He’s unconscious with a broken leg and head injuries. He’s in Derby Hospital.’ He ran through the bare bones of it. ‘There is no guarantee he will survive.’ She was babbling, part thanks, part fear of the worst outcome. ‘I will arrange a police car to bring you here.’ He was already thinking Jo di Rivi. ‘Would you like that?’ Eventually he got a yes. He called Gross back and told him to give di Rivi a car and for her to bring Olive Pickering to Derby to see the boy. ‘Ask her to call me first.’
He finished the call, walked down to Turner’s room and cracked the door open. The doctor was still there. She was young, thirties he guessed, Indian, Sri Lankan maybe.
‘No change?’
‘We’re just trying to stabilise him.’
‘I’m organising a policeman or woman to be on call. If he regains consciousness please notify them. It is extremely important.’
‘You could be waiting a long time. He may never regain consciousness.’ He hoped to God she was wrong.
They used to call it a motel but I guess apartments sounds better. No, I’m being disingenuous there. Motels always have concrete as a motif, a second-level balcony with iron railing or a long narrow porch. The Boab Apartments were single level and eschewed a long concrete porch for small wooden ones. The apartments were built in four blocks of four, each block two apartments side by side with matching ones behind. The porches were higher than the old-style single concrete step; two wooden steps plus the apron. They also featured an overhang roof that gave shade, plus wood-chip gardens, but I was guessing there was still a slip to order breakfast the night before and a kettle for you to make your own complimentary weak tea from bags as skimpy as the costumes the girls wore. No doubt too, a few of those long-life milk pods that proved impossible to open without squirting something nearby. The other thing that hadn’t changed was the kidney-shaped pool surrounded by a few chunky wood lounges behind a steel fence erected to prevent the drowning of unsupervised toddlers while their parents slept to the rumbling of a temperamental air conditioner. I’d stayed in a heap of these places down through the ages. My clients rarely ran to more than three stars and their cheapskate husbands, or their wives who were having affairs with somebody else’s cheapskate husband, seldom performed their sins in luxury love-shacks. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, just not in the circles from which my clientele is drawn. Which I suppose reflects on me. That said, I’d rarely had the experience of standing at the edge of one of these pools looking at four hot young women sunbathing. These were clearly the sExcitation dancers. Now, when I say ‘hot’ I’m not talking supermodel or super-athlete hot. All the girls had about them an aura that suggested a prior history of stacking shelves, hairdressing and early-teen body-piercing; however, compared to the fare normally on offer around the communal blue kidney bean, female or male, they were noteworthy.
I walked to the gate. ‘Hi girls.’
The girls looked up and waved. It’s a funny thing, endearing, girls who had worked low-pay, sore-feet jobs were nearly always open and friendly, even to an old guy like me. I think they felt the world was smiling on them. They were happy, and happy to give it back.
‘You’re the dancers,’ I said. They were split fifty-fifty between brunette and blonde.
‘Yes, we’re on tonight.’
‘At the Cleo.’ I wanted them to know I was a fan. ‘You guys did Hedland a couple of weeks ago, is that right?’
One of the blondes seemed to be a little more the spokesperson. She confirmed what I already
knew.
‘My name is Richard Lane and I’m a private detective.’ I could see the scepticism on their faces.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ laughed the blonde and the others tittered.
‘No, seriously, I am. I used to be a cop but I’ve been doing this thirty years.’
‘That how you got this?’ One of the blondes cheekily pointed at my scarred forehead.
‘In the line of duty, yes.’ I wanted to shift it on from my less than glorious effort. ‘There was a young couple at your Hedland gig, they partied with you guys afterwards. They left next day and have not been seen since the roadhouse at Sandfire.’
Now I really had their attention. Only then did I open the childproof lock on the gate to join them. I got their names: the talkative blonde was Sierra, the other blonde, Dana, the brunettes Briony and Teagan. I hoisted up my folder.
‘I’m sure you’ll remember them.’
I opened it and produced photos of Ingrid Feister and Max Coldwell. Two of the girls were hazy but Sierra and Teagan reacted.
‘Oh yeah,’ they said in a kind of lopsided unison.
‘This is a photo of the party, see?’
I produced the photo that showed them eating pizza after the show.
‘You think something’s happened to them?’ one of them asked while I was busy sorting photos.
‘That’s what he’s trying to find out,’ Sierra said on my behalf.
‘What I’d really like to know is, who took this photo? Anybody remember?’
In turns they all squinted, shook their heads.
‘There were a few people hanging around,’ offered Sierra.
I pulled out one of the other photos that showed Dana strutting her stuff on stage.
‘Here’s some other shots the person took. You remember somebody taking phone shots of you?’
They laughed. ‘We get so many guys doing that,’ Briony said.
I was growing twitchy. I felt so close. ‘What about this girl?’
I pointed to the fifth dancer. She wasn’t present here.
Teagan said. ‘Kelly quit.’
I felt like Scott of the Antarctic must have when he was down to his last dog. ‘Did you guys take any snaps of the party on your phones?’
Blank looks. Sierra said, ‘You should ask Alex. She’s our boss. She videos all our shows.’
A jolt went through me: smoke on the horizon, a supply ship to rescue me.
‘Where do I find Alex?’
Sierra pointed towards one of the blocks of apartments. ‘Number three.’
‘Thank you, ladies.’
They waved me adieu and told me they’d see me tonight. I was trying to keep a lid on it. Maybe this could pay off after all. It was hotting up, honky nuts were scattered over the bitumen where they would store up the heat. A memory echoed, Tash telling me to sunblock. But they were no more than dust motes. My brain was ninety-nine point nine percent full of one idea: a video of the Hedland show.
…
As I approached the apartment I heard music from inside. The same track was being stopped after a few bars and restarted repetitively. I didn’t recognise the song but I could guarantee the clip featured the young female singer surrounded by a dozen male dancers who looked like nobody I’ve ever seen at my barber’s. I reached the open door and called out but the music must have been too loud, nobody answered. I knocked, and poked my head inside.
A slim young woman with long red hair was working on a dance routine in a bikini. A pocket-sized woman, muscular like she did aerobics, and wearing a singlet and three-quarter leotard, watched her carefully. The redhead saw me first. The other woman turned too, killing the music. She was probably forty or just shy, with a hardness I’ve seen in women who worked mining camps or were ex-army: too much sun, drinking and a divorce, but a sense of fun too.
‘Sorry to interrupt. Alex? My name is Richard Lane. I’m a private detective. I’m hoping you can help me.’
The older woman appraised me, spoke to the dancer.
‘Take five. Work on the left turn. It’s sloppy.’ The dancer skipped outside. We were in an all-in-one living room and kitchen area. The furnishings comprised bamboo-style couch and armchairs, a small glass dining table with two tubular chairs. The couch and armchairs had been shifted to create a space. Alex moved to the fridge.
‘Water?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Got a show tonight and a new dancer. Trouble with this business, they don’t stick around. They get money in their hot sweaty palm, or some bloke whispers sweet nothings, and they’re out of here.’ She poured water, offered me a glass. ‘So?’
I pulled out the photos of Ingrid Feister and Max Coldwell.
‘These people disappeared the day after your Port Hedland show. The family hired me to find them.’
She studied the photos, shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘They came to a party the girls had after the show …’
‘I can’t help you. After the show I’m packing up and counting money. Then off to bed for my beauty sleep.’
That ruled out her identifying the cameraman from the party.
‘I believe you take a video of the performances.’
‘Yeah, check the girls are doing the routines right. Put it up on our Facebook page. It’s the way these days.’
‘Would you still have footage from the Port Hedland show?’ My heart was pumping against the roof of my mouth.
‘I dump it all on the hard drive.’ She jerked a thumb at a laptop sitting on the table.
‘Would it be possible to take a look? These people haven’t turned up. We can’t rule out foul play. I want to see if there’s anybody suspicious.’
She looked me up and down. ‘Don’t see why not. Richard?’ Like she was checking she had my name right.
‘Lane. People call me Snowy.’
I got the sense she was sifting memory to see if she’d heard of me. Evidently not.
‘You can check it here if you don’t mind us rehearsing.’
‘Of course not.’
She moved to the computer and found the file. ‘I shoot the routines. I file them under the name of each dancer if it’s a solo, or “group”. Most of the time you’ll only get backs of heads because I’m near the lighting desk. You might be better off checking this file.’ She pointed at a folder marked CUTAWAYS. ‘I do grabs of the audience.’
I clicked on the folder. There were a dozen files in it. I opened one. It seemed simple enough to work.
‘So it could be some nutter?’ I heard her hunting for a packet of cigarettes. ‘Plenty of those up this way.’
She crossed to the door and called out, ‘Gabby!’
I smelled the smoke as Alex lit up, the last thing I wanted, but I wasn’t in a position to complain. I heard the girl from before come back in and they started back up, dousing the audio of the pub gig I was watching. The visual quality wasn’t great. It was too dark in a lot of places to make out faces, but I saw what the girls were talking about: half the guys in the audience held phone-cameras. Alex must have been standing side of stage right as she videoed. Every now and again you caught a glimpse of the dancer as she moved to the front. I was especially keen to see Dana because I knew our camera guy was filming right then. The people near the front were fairly clearly visible but I knew from where the Dana camera shot came that whoever took it was about middle of the room, pretty close to centre stage, maybe slightly to stage right. I went through three files: bupkis. I was on the fourth file, vaguely aware that in present time Gabby must have been getting better because she was being stopped less often, when on the video, I saw Ingrid Feister with Angus Duncan and the Chinese guy, Shaun. They were over near the wall stage left. It was only fleeting and I couldn’t make out whether anybody was paying undue attention. Of Coldwell there was no sign but Shaun had a smile on his dial bright as Shanghai by night. I made a note of the file number but when I struck out on the next three I was back to being Scott of the Antarctic
as he roasted his last dog.
The Chinese believe number eight is lucky. And it was on the eighth file that everything happened: the fragmented, fractured puzzle suddenly cohered. Alex was shooting but slower, lingering a little more than the quick sweep of the other audience grabs. Dana ever so briefly sliced through frame, two perfect butt cheeks in a spangled thong shaking, I later discovered, to an INXS song. I zeroed in on the section of the audience where our unknown photographer had been hanging and hit the motherlode. There was one guy with a phone-camera, half-lit, good enough for ID but his camera arm was blocking his face. And then the number must have stopped because people were applauding and he dropped his arm. Bingo. There he was. I made him as late thirties to forty, average height, average everything. I found rewind and went back to recheck. I got the shot again and hit pause.
What the …?
My pulse wound so fast the watch-face shattered, the springs fell out. I was sure I recognised the guy. Or he looked awfully like somebody I knew. My brain was treacle. I picked out film actors: no, no, no … think. I forced myself back to 2000. Out of nowhere I saw Cathy Freeman in her special spacesuit. Post-race photos. The race I never saw because I was camped out in Mosman Park, watching this guy smoke dope by the ocean, then breaking into his car. I had him now.
Shane Crossland.
CHAPTER 27
The old fellow had not seen a car. But he had heard one, Thursday around lunchtime. He wasn’t sure where exactly, his hearing wasn’t so good these days, but he knew it was somewhere down the mangroves where he’d seen the crocodile. ‘Those fellas are in for a surprise,’ he thought to himself. Here he showed a gummy smile. One tooth stubbornly clung to his upper mouth and three to his lower. They were sitting on the ground at Warry’s campsite. Warry himself had the luxury of a small fold-out stool, his bony knees rising up in front of him. Behind him was a modern, tautly assembled tent. His swag consisted of a bedroll, a small aluminium pot, some cutlery, a fishing handline and, incongruously, a pair of small, modern binoculars.
Clement was grateful he had Laidlaw to help out on translation. Old Warry spoke his own version of pidgin and it would not have been easy to follow. He had not heard the vehicle leave; by that time he was off, heading further east looking for dinner.
