by Peter Klein
He took a bite of his hot-dog. It looked revolting; doused with French mustard to either disguise or enhance the rubbery flavour. The horses started to trickle into the yard and as they did, one of the race club staff erected a couple of sandwich boards inside the grass ring near the presentation table announcing that this race was for the strapper’s prize.
I nodded towards the sign. ‘Had any luck finding the strapper killer?’
Beering swallowed another mouthful and wiped a dribble of mustard off his chin with his hand.
‘I wish. Papers have been giving us hell, my department’s had all leave cancelled and now we’ve got to put up with these hired clowns,’ he said, nodding to the three security guards. They’d marched into the ring like an SAS battalion, strutting around as if they owned the place. Earlier in the day, they’d been a little unsure of their routine, the movements of the horses and strappers, but after a few races it seemed like their confidence had grown and now they were almost directing the mounting yard traffic.
‘They going to make any difference?’
‘Bloody goons. Our chairman and the board have shit ’emselves, they have, just trying to appease the union. They’re convinced they have to be seen to be doing more to provide protection for strappers until this killer’s caught.’
‘So they brought in the hired guns?’
‘Yep. If you ask me, all it will do is drive the killer underground, make it even harder to catch him.’
We watched as the final horses and strappers entered the ring. It was a large field, eighteen horses, and I could see the judges with their clipboards busily making notes and trying to select the winner. I thought it would prove a difficult task today as there were so many well turned out strappers and horses. A tallish, wafer-thin strapper walked by leading her horse, its mane plaited like it was entered for the Royal Show. She wore riding boots and whiter-than-white vanilla ice cream–coloured jodhpurs. It was clear she’d gone to a lot of trouble. But they all had. Number eight was an eye-catcher: a cheeky young blonde whom I half knew from the track. She donned a pair of designer sunglasses, the brand name emblazoned on the side in huge letters. She was flirting with one of the security guards, who had taken it upon himself to walk laps of the mounting yard alongside her as if he were her personal protector. Number ten seemed to wiggle around with a beaming smile etched onto her face. If they were giving out happy awards, she’d win for sure.
‘Like the bloomin’ Royal Melbourne Show, ain’t it?’ said Beering cynically.
‘Give them a break, Jim. Only chance some strappers have of picking up some extra cash. Half the trainers don’t sling anymore and they work all day for a pittance.’
Beering grunted. ‘S’pose you’re right.’
We watched for a few more minutes as the strappers led their charges around. They were already running late because of the large field and only half the jockeys had mounted up.
‘You wanted to see me?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got a name for you to check out,’ I said.
‘Pertaining to what?’ Amazing how quickly Beering could revert back to cop talk.
‘You said to keep my eyes and ears open and pass anything on, no matter how silly it sounds.’
‘The strapper killer? You’ve heard something?’
‘It’s probably nothing. But you and the police would be able to check him out, make certain.’
‘Who is it, do I know him?’
I looked over to the side of the mounting yard steps, which were still packed with punters watching the horses being led around. The strapper’s prize was about to be announced and people were milling about to see who had won. In a group by the steps stood a man I was beginning to think I knew better than he knew himself. He was talking to another guy, making small talk about the horses. I could hear his suave, upper-class British accent from where I was standing. He was staring lasciviously at every female strapper who passed by, undressing them with his leering eyes. No doubt imagining what he’d do to them if he caught them alone in a stable. I turned back to Beering. ‘It’s a spruiker with a shady past who can’t keep his hands off the ladies. Goes by the name of Kagan Hall.’
12
After the races I dropped back to my flat, fed Che, changed out of my raceday suit and had a shower. Then I drove over to Maxine’s. When I buzzed her on the intercom, she chided me for not using the key she’d given me.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘force of habit.’
I still hadn’t used her key in the short time that I’d had it. I probably wouldn’t have needed a key to get into her place tonight anyway. A guy had left a telephone book jammed in the entrance door, and was ferrying groceries back and forth from his car out the front. I nodded at him as I walked in and he didn’t seem too concerned when I made my way up the stairs to Maxine’s. I’d rented an apartment once with a similar intercom system; pain in the arse they were too. People would come home late or drunk and forget their key, then buzz every intercom in the block until finally someone opened the door for them.
Maxine had left the door ajar for me. I called out to her and her head appeared like a jack-in-the-box from the bathroom down the hallway. She had a towel draped around her, obviously still getting ready to go out.
‘Hi sweetie. Fix yourself a drink and I’ll be out in a min. We still eating out at that seafood place in Middle Park?’
‘There’s a John Dory reserved with your name on it.’
‘Oh goody! Won’t be long, I promise.’
I helped myself to a light beer from her fridge. There was plenty to drink inside of it. Wine, a dozen or so chilled bottles; all premium brands. Tonic water, juices. Soy milk – yuck. Not a lot of food to be seen, though. I think Maxine preferred to eat out with the hours she kept. It probably explained the spotless kitchen. The sparkling European stove didn’t look as if it had ever been used, and I pulled the oven open to have a stickybeak. Sure enough, a couple of expensive-looking frying pans were stacked neatly on the oven racks. Costly sort of a cupboard if that’s all it was used for. I sipped my beer and took in the view from the back of her place. I hadn’t really noticed it before. All my previous trips to Maxine’s seemed to have been hit-and-run missions made in the dark. Both of us home late, the inevitable wild scramble in the bedroom, and then I’d scurry off at the crack of dawn back to my place. Her kitchen and lounge opened up to a smaller patio area which overlooked a communal garden down below. It was very peaceful; green manicured lawns lit by gentle spotlights. Attractive shrubs and bushes surrounded a feature waterfall and rock pool. I hated to think what the strata title fees in this place would be. Maxine had her own stairway leading into the garden and I took a couple of steps down, admiring the greenery. It was very pleasant, a warm night, gentle breeze. I could get used to this place; perhaps I should make more use of it.
‘I’m nearly ready. How do I look?’ she said.
She had on a sexy white skirt. Not quite a mini, but damn near. A red scooped top with a plunging neckline. Lots of bling. Perfume; don’t know which brand, but it made me want to stop and investigate. I gave a suggestive growl. She squirmed playfully, avoiding my clutches.
‘Not now! We’re late as it is. Can you lock the back door and I’ll get my purse.’
Later, at the restaurant, Maxine was bubbling over with enthusiasm for some new law firm client she’d picked up. Over dinner, I let her gush on about them while nursing a glass of something very good the waitress had recommended. Quite enjoyable; sipping a cold wine, listening to Maxine and casting the occasional discreet glance at her barely covered neckline.
‘Punter, are you listening?’
‘What? Of course I’ve heard of them. Freedales. Didn’t they act for a jockey or trainer recently who was warned off for life?’
‘It was a trainer. They get a lot of racing and sporting cases. Rodney Ellis, he’s one of Freedales’ top QCs, he got it reduced to just a twelve-month suspension. Can you believe that, from life to just twelve months?’
>
‘He must be terribly clever.’
‘He is. I got to meet him and some of the other senior partners. But the beauty of the whole deal is that they’ve outsourced the entire in-house marketing and they’re giving me the lot.’
‘The lot?’
‘Uh-huh. Advertising, PR, media releases, newsletters, corporate events. The whole box and dice. I’ll probably have to put on staff to cope.’
‘Sounds like you’re the clever one. Are you going to be able to handle all the extra work? I mean, with Winning Way’s business.’
Maxine nodded her head enthusiastically as if she’d already gone through the schedule.
‘It’ll be fine. I’ve done virtually all of the planning and bookings for Winning Way’s functions. I just have to turn up and see that everything’s all right. But Freedales,’ she said, getting back to her favourite new client, ‘are great, so professional. And I only have to report through to one chain of command, Rodney Ellis. He’s such a nice guy.’
Thought I’d better try to steer the conversation back to something other than law firms.
‘How’s your head feel now?’
‘Apart from a lump and the stitches, it’s fine. The doctor said I was lucky. Wanted me to take it easy for a while. They’re always too cautious.’
‘I must admit I was a bit concerned when you launched straight back into work. You were knocked out, after all.’
‘I can’t sit around, I’ve got a business to run. Hey, you know the other thing I’m really looking forward to doing?’
‘What?’
‘Leading in Dad’s horse, Princess Upstart, on New Year’s Day.’
‘As if you haven’t got enough on your plate.’
‘It just so happens she’s entered for the race with the strapper’s prize. And you know what?’ she said, with a determined look in her eye, ‘I’m gonna win it.’
I frowned; wasn’t sure it sounded such a great idea. ‘You know, there was a lot of security around the track today with this strapper killer still on the loose. It’s got a lot of people very worried.’
‘I know, I read the papers. It’s just some crazy. They’ll catch him soon. Besides, even though that girl from your dad’s stables was killed, I always feel safe enough at Parraboo Lodge. Anyway, I’m not a full-time strapper and I don’t live in the stables. I’m not really part of their world; it’s just something I do for fun.’
‘Do you ever think that maybe her regular strapper should lead her in?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, this is sorta getting into a philosophical argument, but most strappers really look forward to leading in their own horses come raceday.’
‘Oh, I get it. And I’m cutting them out because I just turn up on raceday and claim the glory?’
‘Well, I’m not saying that. But they don’t get paid much, so a chance to win something extra from a strapper’s prize would be something to look forward to.’
Maxine pretended to cry. ‘Oh, please. Can I have a handkerchief? For heaven’s sake. Dad owns the horse and if I want to lead it in, then that’s just tough titties for the strapper. Anyway, have you seen Belinda, the girl who normally looks after Princess Upstart?’
I knew Belinda. A big girl who wouldn’t look out of place in a football team. ‘I know her.’
‘Well, could you ever see her winning a strapper’s prize? Not unless she spent the next three months at Jenny Craig.’
I shrugged. Not an argument I was going to win. And obviously wasn’t worth mentioning that Belinda was very good at her job.
‘Well if you are going to take her, I’ll ask David to watch out at the stables for you. I know the old man’s taking extra precautions as it is, but you can’t be too careful until this guy’s caught.’
‘Okay.’
I swung the conversation back to Winning Way.
‘How long have you been doing work for Kagan Hall?’
‘About two months.’
‘And you’ve known him for about the same time?’
‘No, be longer than that. A year or so. I met him through Dad at the races. They’re race track buddies. It’s how I got his business.’
‘I see. Have you always, like, got on with him?’
‘Oh, he’s a pain in the arse. I’ve told you before what a demanding client he can be, always changing his mind. But it’s a prestigious account to have and even though he’s a nightmare to work with, I put up with him.’
‘Ever had any . . . you know, trouble with him?’
Maxine put her glass down, finally sensing I was struggling for the right words. ‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’
‘I don’t know. Has he ever . . .’
‘Has he ever put the hard word on me?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Punter.’ She placed a hand in mine over the table. ‘Are you jealous?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘My baby’s jealous!’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then why the interest in Kagan Hall?’
I shrugged. Didn’t really know if I should tell her my real reason for asking. ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’
‘Look, sweetie, he’s never touched me and I have a golden rule; I never fuck with my clients.’
‘Phew, glad we got that sorted,’ I said, pretending to mop the sweat from my forehead. She smiled, leant forward and let me have a glimpse of what was inside her top.
‘And as you’re not a client and I don’t have to worry about rules, I think we should go on home, don’t you?’
I’m sitting in a little café in Brunswick Street eating pasta carbonara. Brunelli’s, or some woggy-sounding name, it’s called. It’s one thirty in the morning and I’m feeling very clever. I’ve done two tonight. Two! I’m definitely getting better. Stacey and her flatmate Catrina. I hadn’t intended to do Catrina, but she was there and it was necessary and what good’s a job unless it’s done properly?
Stacey was a dead ringer for Amanda. I suppose that’s why I picked her, why I pick any of them. The jet-black hair, the tarty way she dressed. The sly-looking eyes. Looking, she was always looking to see if men were watching her. She knew that I watched her, was attracted to her. Was it a coincidence that Amanda closely resembled my mother? Is that why I was drawn to her? She certainly had the same features and deceitful ways as my mother did.
I went out with Amanda for a while, if you can call a few awkward dates and an occasional, snatched kiss a relationship. She always insisted I take her to nightclubs. I can see now why she frequented those places; I must have been blind not to notice her eyes always shopping around for talent, for someone better. I was just a handbag, a toy boy to buy her drinks. Me, holding her glass while she danced with that jockey. Writhing away and willing her body to him. And then the two of them, kissing and groping on the dance floor like I wasn’t even there. I walked out on Amanda that night without saying a word to her. But I never forgot, and my patience is infinite.
Amanda was my first kill and I waited for nearly two years after that night before I did her. I wanted to be sure that I wouldn’t be implicated in her death, and so it turned out. But there have been several others since her and I certainly didn’t wait two years for the next one. It’s peculiar how this urge to kill becomes stronger with each new killing. The next one after Amanda was eight months later and then only a month went by before I felt the urge again. Lately it’s been every week or so, but I would go out every night if I could.
I guess it takes some of us a while before the penny drops on what our purpose in life should be. I now realise I’m on a path I should have followed years ago. Preventing a silk chaser’s treachery is what I do. It’s a good deed, the correct thing to do. I, with my expert knowledge of how they think and act. It is a gift, this knowledge, and one which I must use wisely to track down every last one of them, before they grow into jockey-fucking whores like my mother was . . .
13
Che woke me prom
ptly at five thirty on Monday morning for his breakfast. I got up, fed him and went straight back to bed. Didn’t get to sleep in much longer; my mobile rang at six forty-seven. It was Jim Beering calling to tell me the strapper killer had struck again some time on Sunday night. According to Beering, there were two girls this time, both employees of a small-time Flemington trainer, Toby Devon.
‘I just thought I’d let you know,’ said Beering. ‘It’ll be all over the news by breakfast time.’
‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘he’s never done two before. How many’s that now, five?’
‘That we know about.’
I caught the double meaning in Beering’s answer. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Homicide have been sifting through some cold cases. There was a woman who was raped and stabbed to death in her flat about a year ago they’d written off as a break-and-enter gone wrong.’
‘There’s a connection?’
‘Uh-huh. The deceased’s occupation. Amanda Kaisha was an ex-strapper.’
‘Why didn’t the police pick up on that straightaway?’
‘Sometimes you don’t always know what to look for until a pattern emerges. In Amanda’s case, she’d quit racing eighteen months before she was killed and had gone back to studying at TAFE. So all police could tag her with at the time was as a full-time student.’
‘Jesus. So this guy may have started his killing much earlier than what we thought.’
‘He might have. The police are digging up every similar unsolved case in their files. There may be others we don’t know about yet.’
I sat up properly in bed, still not yet fully awake, but starting to think through what Beering had told me.
‘What about that guy I gave you on Saturday, Kagan Hall; you checked him out?’
‘I gave him straight-up to Homicide after you and I spoke at the races. They’re making inquiries in the UK about him. And in light of last night’s discovery, I’m sure they’ll be speaking to him.’
