by Peter Klein
‘’Ullo, Punter, surprised you’re still here. You should know that betting on mares’ races can only lead to ruin.’
Beering. He leant next to me on the rail, both of us watching the horses parade. So much for my early exit. Beering was in his usual wearily worn sepia-brown suit and hat. Fashion pundits said that brown was the ‘in’ colour this year, but I couldn’t imagine Jim winning a fashions on the field contest with his garb.
‘G’day, Jim. Yep, you should avoid all mares’ races, maidens, highweights, inexperienced apprentices and wet tracks, and don’t play a race on Melbourne Cup Day except the Cup itself. Wonder there’s any races left to bet on.’
‘You seem to find ’em.’
‘Not today, I haven’t.’
Beering grunted, cleared his throat and spat some phlegm over the rail. Small talk over, time to get serious.
‘You’d have heard by now about that girl from your old man’s yard last night?’
‘Yeah, David told me this morning. But I don’t know the details.’
Beering pointed to a wayward horse who was back- pedalling away from its approaching trainer and jockey. Its handler, a young woman, calmed it soothingly with a pat and a kind word.
‘A good strapper, that girl,’ he said.
I nodded in agreement. ‘Most of the girls are. The old man swears by them. Says they’re gentler with the horses than any guy is.’
‘That so?’
‘Yeah, I’d go along with that. Years ago if you saw a girl working in a stable it would be a rarity. Now it’s the other way around; they outnumber the guys. They’re more reliable too. Don’t get on the piss and sleep in like half the strappers did in my day.’
We watched the rest of the jockeys mount up before Beering spoke again.
‘They let Mad Charlie out,’ he said softly.
‘They what? I thought he was locked away awaiting trial for killing that Summers girl?’
‘He was. The DPP dropped the charges this afternoon at a special court hearing. Entered a nolle prosequi.’
‘Noel who?’
Beering rolled his eyes at my ignorance and explained. ‘Nolle prosequi. It’s a legal term used when they refuse to pursue charges. When evidence comes to light that effectively results in the discontinuance of a prosecution.’
I squinted at him in confusion. ‘Can you translate that into English?’
‘Okay, let me put it like this. What did you hear about the Summers girl’s death?’ he asked.
‘What everyone else saw in the papers, I guess. Brutally murdered, knifed repeatedly.’
The last of the horses had gone out onto the track and we had the mounting yard fence to ourselves. Even though there was no one within earshot, Beering kept his voice low.
‘Let me tell you something, Punter,’ he said. ‘The stuff you see on a major crime in the papers and on TV, it’s always minus a few details. When they issue a statement on a murder, they never reveal the full facts until they’ve got all their bases covered. With Summers, they had to identify the body, do an autopsy, make contact with her family, get a team to go over the crime scene for prints and –’
‘I get the picture, Jim. The public just got the bare bones.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. There’s a lot more to her death than’s been mentioned. Like that she’d been raped, for starters.’
‘Did Mad Charlie –’
‘No, hear me out,’ Beering cut me short. ‘The autopsy found semen that didn’t match Charlie’s. They also established that her death was at least four hours earlier than when Charlie was put at the scene of the crime, and his lawyer’s rounded up a rock-solid witness who can vouch for him not being anywhere near there at the time. Importantly, they got a sample of skin tissue from under Summers’ nails, which they’re pretty sure she got from scratching her killer. It wasn’t Charlie’s.’
‘So it’s not the open-and-shut case everyone thought it was?’
‘No. And I’ll admit I was as guilty as everyone else for pointing the finger at Mad Charlie. It’s someone different. And there’s something else which wasn’t handed over to the press. The killer had written something all over Summers’ bedroom mirror with her lipstick.’
‘What, like an obscenity?’
‘He’d written the words Silk Chaser. You know what a silk chaser is, Punter?’
I knew what it meant, as would anyone working around stables. ‘It’s a derogatory stable term. Used to describe a girl trying to romantically attract a jockey. Hence the term; a jockey wears racing silks, so she’s a silk chaser.’
Beering turned and nodded at me, loosening the tie from around his neck.
‘Is there any chance that Mad Charlie could have written that on Summers’ mirror?’
‘He could have, but it wouldn’t explain what was scribbled on Carmen Leek’s bedroom wall. Charlie was still locked up in remand when Carmen was killed last night. The same message was found there.’
‘What, the same words, Silk Chaser?’
Beering nodded grimly. ‘That information wasn’t made public, which is why the police are thinking it’s probably the same person who killed Summers.’
I thought that through for a moment, considered what he was saying. ‘What do you think?’
‘Same frenzied knife attack, same message left on the wall. Both victims young, good-looking, female strappers. No apparent motive for either of ’em. I’ll tell you what I think – I’m worried.’
5
How delicious! That’s the only way I can describe it. The watching and anticipation. The stalking and waiting; so exciting! The preparation. The look in their eye when they know what’s going to happen to them. It’s hard to say what the best bit is really. Selecting them gives me goose bumps, because they don’t realise they’re being chosen. Actually, I do admit to getting aroused during the selection process. I find it a turn-on sorting the wheat from the chaff, sifting through all those vacuous brunette lookalikes. There’s never a shortage of that type of girl, is there? The way they dress, the way they act. The dirty way they look at the jockeys. When I think about it, stalking gives me a high, too. Following safely at a distance. Invisible to the little trollop’s senses. Jesus, even an antelope can sense a lion’s presence in the grass. And it’s so easy to follow the brainless scags home. They suspect nothing, know nothing.
I never try too hard to conceal my presence, although I’ve heard tell of others who go to extraordinary lengths to try and hide their DNA evidence. Like using latex gloves and condoms or even vacuuming up their mess afterwards. But all those precautionary measures sound rather silly, really. They say you always leave a trace of something behind, no matter how careful you might be. And I really don’t care if they find my prints or my semen. For I have no record, and I never will have. I’m unknown to police. Indeed, I’m unknown to my victims until I make their acquaintance and then, it’s all too brief. I’m the invisible man, so do your best, catch me if you can.
What have I covered? Selection, stalking . . . but I can’t leave out the waiting. Now that’s always exciting. Especially if I’ve let myself in and have to hang about until they return. And speaking of letting myself in, how easy that has been. With the spate of hot weather, the idiots had virtually put a ‘house open’ sign up, leaving every window ajar, flimsy flyscreen doors their only security. One slash with a knife through the mesh and you could unsnip any lock in seconds.
My, what a surprise. What a complete, fucking surprise when they find me dressed in my jockey silks and a knife against their throat. That outfit’s so clever, isn’t it? And so appropriate. Makes perfect sense, really. I mean, they’re silk chasers anyway, so why not provide the uniform? Give them what they really want. And what about my other little touch with that Carmen strumpet? Oh my God! That was just massively brilliant, given that it was totally spontaneous. Her trembling fingers, barely gripping the lipstick in fear. But I made her write those words. Letter by letter. She could barely spell, the halfwit. I
guess she’s not going to learn anytime now.
I should have made Amanda write those words before I killed her. Her of all people; Amanda, the original silk chaser. The filthy two-timer could have written a book about the subject. But I didn’t think of it at the time. She was my first kill and it was all a bit of a hurried blur. I should have drawn it out more, taken my time like I’ve learnt to do now, done the job properly. Still, I’m a bit like an improving racehorse; getting better with each run, aren’t I?
Saturday night was like Groundhog Day. I picked up Maxine from her apartment, drove her to yet another function she was organising and dutifully swanned around with a glass of wine trying to mingle with people I neither knew nor particularly cared about. This time it was an opening night for a new art gallery over in Armadale that Maxine was promoting. Even her instructions were the same: ‘Do you mind if I leave you for a minute? I’ve just got to make sure everybody’s happy and the show’s running smoothly,’ she said.
No sweat, I was getting used to the drill by now. At least the subject matter was something I could relate to. The new gallery was called The Sport of Kings and like the name suggested, it had an interesting collection of prints and original artworks from the turf. There were also a number of other sports represented. Tennis, football, boxing and swimming’s greatest moments had all been painted or photographed for sport devotees. Some of the works were quite good, not that I know anything about art. One caught my eye over on the far wall. It demanded attention and had a small group of admirers surrounding it. The painting was an original Charles Billich, in which he’d captured the essence of Derby Day. Men in morning suits and top hats. Smiling ladies sipping champagne from flute glasses underneath wide brims and fascinators. The mood of a crowd in party mode. A city skyline in the background and the horses transposed against a sea of jockeys’ vibrant silk colours. I could imagine how nicely that painting would look hanging above my fireplace.
I found myself drawn to the painting and walked closer to look at it. There was a group in front of me already inspecting it and as I approached them from behind, I recognised Kagan Hall’s voice floating over and above everyone else’s. See what I mean about Groundhog Day? The same racing A-list was invited to all these gigs. Hall was talking to a man and a woman with the same confidence and authoritative knowledge about art as he had about racing. Was there nothing he didn’t know about? I listened to him impressing the pair.
‘Well, of course Billich is renowned for painting sport and horse scenes. But he’s done some wonderful exotics and then there are his dance paintings. His Bolshoi collection is probably regarded as his best example.’
The woman on his left, a ditzy-sounding redhead, made some ooohing and aaahing noises. Said he knew an awful lot about Billich. Her partner seemed impressed too and he took a step forward to inspect the painting more closely.
‘Of course, I should know,’ Hall said, ‘I have two of them in my own collection.’
He held up his catalogue for the woman to see and that entailed standing nice and close; close enough to place a hand on the small of her back and impart some other clever arty fact about Billich. He kept his hand there too, the smooth bastard, even with her partner only a step away. Hall prattled on about texture and light as he lowered his hand to her buttocks. She appeared halfway between squirming politely and not wanting to cause a scene. Must be hard for a woman to know how to react in that situation.
‘G’day, Kagan,’ I said, pushing between the two of them and pretending to peer at the painting. ‘How would you like to get your hands on that?’
He turned around coolly and carefully dropped his arm by his side. If I’d surprised him, he didn’t show it.
‘Oh hello, Punter,’ he said.
‘Nice painting. Hi,’ I said to the redhead. ‘I’m John Punter.’
‘I’m . . . we’re just going,’ she said.
‘Friend of yours?’ I asked Hall.
Hall took his time answering, watching as the woman grabbed her partner’s arm and hustled him across to the safety of the other side of the gallery.
‘No, I never met her before in my life. Excuse me, will you. I’ve just seen some people I need to speak to.’
I ended up doing slow laps of the gallery floor, balancing a glass of red and a catalogue and trying to look like I fitted in. I’d done half a dozen rounds and inspected every painting and print before I thought everyone must surely think I was doing track work. I gratefully accepted some sushi being offered by a waitress and then took myself off to a quiet corner, hoping the night would finish soon and I could go home. Maxine eventually spotted me hiding away and came to my rescue.
‘I’m sorry, Punter. I’ve left you all alone, haven’t I? They’ll be finished in a minute. Jacki, she’s the gallery owner, has just got to make a bit of a speech, and I’ve got to organise some photos and then we’re done. Then you can have me all to yourself.’
Maxine planted an apologetic kiss on my cheek and dashed off again to do whatever she had to do. Her minute grew to half an hour as the gallery owner droned on and on in her speech, thanking anyone and everyone who’d helped her set up shop. Finally she finished, Maxine was happy with the photos the journalists had taken and we left.
We drove home to my place for a change. My idea. The last couple of weeks I’d stayed the night at Maxine’s pad over in South Yarra. She owned one of those huge two-storey apartment-cum-townhouses with everything that opened and shut. Her father had bought it for her as a twenty-first birthday present and I could have fitted my entire flat in her entrance hall and lounge area. Nothing wrong with spending the night at Maxine’s, but the truth was that over the past couple of nights I’d felt like I was being hijacked. Pick Maxine up, go to one of her functions, go back to her place. Di dah, di dah. So when I made a right-hand turn at Glenferrie Road she said, ‘Oh, are we going to your flat, then?’
‘Uh-huh. Mr Punter, aka assistant events coordinator, has decided that after dutifully following orders and attending two functions in two days, he has the choice of where we spend tonight.’
Maxine giggled and put a hand on my knee. I felt her relax for the first time all night. ‘I guess I have been a bit bossy, haven’t I? Do you want to stop off somewhere and get some takeaway?’
‘No. I’ll cook up something at home for us.’
‘Do you want to buy some wine?’
‘No. Got a rack full of it.’
‘Do you want to pick up a DVD, then?’
I shook my head.
‘Is there anything you want to do tonight?’
‘Uh-huh.’
I felt for her hand and positioned it a little higher up on my thigh.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’
I don’t know if it was that we’d both been missing each other over the past week or so, but as soon as we got inside my front door we attacked each other like a couple of wild animals. Clawed our clothes off with urgency and had each other on the bed, the floor and on several other items of furniture not really designed for coupling. We grunted, we groaned, we sighed. Laughed at each other when we were finally sated. Then fell asleep together on a battle-strewn bed surrounded by lingerie and carelessly discarded clothes.
The next morning I awoke to Che scratching at my open bedroom door for his breakfast. He was none too pleased about another big cat invading his territory, either. He looked dis dainfully at Maxine sleeping in my bed and gave one of his high-pitched yowls, which clearly meant I don’t like this in cat talk. I slipped out of bed and fixed him a bowl of those obscenely priced top-shelf biscuits he insisted on. Well, let’s be honest, I was the sucker who bought them for him.
First light was peeping through the plantation shutters in the lounge room and I debated whether to put some coffee on or go back to bed.
‘Punter? Is that you clobbering around out there? For god’s sake, it must be midnight, come back to bed.’
An easy decision to make. I slipped back underneath the sheets. ‘
How come you’re so warm?’ I said, spooning up to her. She wriggled back into me, seemed to perfectly complement my body shape.
‘What were you doing, getting up?’ she asked dreamily.
‘Feeding Che. It’s his breakfast time.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Five thirty.’
‘Oh my God! I’m never awake at this hour. In fact, I’m not awake now.’
I cradled her in my arms. Hands exploring gently, my stubble rubbing on her neck. ‘I know how to wake you up.’
When I woke up again, it was nearly ten. I gazed at Maxine, lying asleep and naked next to me. She looked like one of those exotic nudes that someone like Billich might paint. A wave of hair curled over her face. The sheet was drawn back to reveal the small of her back and the glimpse of a breast. Quite stunning really, women’s bodies, the way they attracted men. I thought about it for a moment and about our relationship. Last week I’d missed her like crazy when she’d been away. When she’d got back, it had been all work with her and I’d been ignored, which had irritated me. Yep, admit it, Punter, you’ve had the sulks for the past two days because Maxine left you on your own at those functions. Not the centre of her attention, were you? But that was all forgotten now, as I planned to treat her to a long, lingering breakfast down at Southbank.
Maxine woke up with a start. ‘Oh, fuck!’ she said, sitting bolt upright in bed. ‘I’m going to be late and it’s all your fault.’
‘My fault?’
