by Andres Kabel
Bella swung on her heels and headed toward Princes Bridge. “Follow me.”
Peter fancied himself a fast walker, but he struggled to keep up with Bella and Mick as they charged under Swanston Street. Bella’s buttocks rippled, and Peter saw a shuffling homeless man leer.
At the other side of the bridge, rowing teams carried boats down to launch from wooden decking. Peter was already puffing and barely had time to take in the city skyline.
Bella stopped on the first sweeping curve of the river. Here there were no pedestrians, just a steady stream of cyclists. The river lapped gently.
Bella’s olive skin shone in the low sunlight. Hands on hips, she looked at Mick. “Okay, I’ve got something to say.”
“We’re all ears,” Mick said.
“You must understand…” She looked out across the slow water. “Rollo and I don’t have your regular marriage. I do my bit, he does his, we get along. Understand?”
“No,” Mick said.
Bella and Mick stared at each other intently. Peter might as well not have been there.
“Yes you do,” she said.
“He’s too old for you. That it?” Mick made no attempt to keep contempt from his voice.
Bella’s green eyes narrowed, but she half-smiled. “The tact of the professional.”
She walked up the grassy slope and sat down, legs gaping immodestly. Peter’s back complained when he slumped down next to her. Mick remained standing.
Bella shielded her eyes with a hand and peered up at Mick. “What’s really going on, is I love Willy.”
Willy who? Peter clamped his mouth shut to prevent a shout. She meant Willy Keppel? The saxophonist bum?
“Love’s a big word.” Mick’s voice was soft, almost dreamy.
“You’re right.” Bella shook her head. “Willy was there. That night. I snuck him in.”
“Willy?” Peter blurted. “That night?”
“Yes. I made him tell Rollo about us. I got him into the building and up the back stairs with my pass, then walked home. Rollo came home maybe thirty minutes later. We quarreled.”
“What time did you let Willy in?” Mick said.
“About eight.”
“How long have you been in love with Willy?”
Peter’s mind clicked through the scenarios this revelation opened up. Bella had been in the office. Had she even gone home? Had Willy stayed behind? Who was covering for whom?
Bella rested her tiny chin on hands across her knees. “We fell in love years ago, before I married Rollo. Then Willy skipped to America and that was the end, okay? But he came back a couple of years ago, and it was like the old love. You ever been in love?”
“Yes,” Peter whispered. He saw Mick nod.
“Well, this is love.” Bella’s voice cracked harshly. “What Rollo and I have is marriage, it’s not the same. Fifteen years I’ve given him, now I’m doing what I should have done then. Sticking with Willy.”
“Why not just keep seeing him?” Mick asked. “You’ve been doing what you like with men right through the marriage.”
She didn’t respond. Her face had grown darker, and for the first time seemed to Peter to reflect her forty years.
“Why have Willy break the news?” Peter asked. “Why not you?”
She gave a short laugh. “Willy’s sweet, but he’s no tough guy. I wanted him to show some balls for once.”
Mick took off his sunglasses and stared at Bella below him. “What happened that night?”
“Told you.”
“I mean what happened when Willy told your husband.”
“I wasn’t there, understand? But from what Willy told me, he just tells Rollo and walks out, Rollo follows, they talk in the street, Willy walks away, Rollo walks home. To start flying off at me.”
“As expected.”
“You’re right. I can handle him.”
“But you’re still with Rollo.”
She stood up. Long legs planted apart, she scowled at Mick. Peter scrambled up.
“Yeah, well, the murder came up, didn’t it,” Bella said. “Rollo said we had to appear respectable, otherwise the cops would be all over us. But I’ve had enough of that. I’m ready to move now.”
Peter marveled at how she could look radiant one moment, ugly the next.
“Bella?” Mick’s pale eyes were implacable. “Who killed Kantor? Willy? Or was it Rollo?”
“Get stuffed.” A snarl. “They left together.”
But she’s been wondering, Peter thought. She can’t know if her husband or her lover is a killer.
He analyzed furiously. What if Willy stayed behind? Then he could have been the mystery person who went out the emergency exit. Why would he kill Kantor? Easy—because he hated him. Maybe he went to crow to Kantor about taking Rollo’s wife, maybe they quarreled. But why wait two hours to do that? What about Rollo? Why would he cover for the brother who is stealing his wife?
“Sergio,” Peter said. “What’s he in all this?” Mick’s eyes jerked in his direction and Peter saw a brief nod of appreciation.
Peter fancied he saw color leach from Bella’s face. She smiled at Mick, a grimace that showed teeth. “You go ask him, tough guy.”
“Do you know Bertoli?” Peter said.
She rolled her shoulders, and Peter watched her breasts move. “Who?”
“For fuck’s sake.” The merest mention of Bertoli seemed to have angered Mick. “Your brother’s helping Rollo, isn’t he?”
“Half-brother,” Bella said. “And he’s got nothing to do with this.”
Then she was gone, loping down to the river and away along the bank, turning heads as she went.
Mick looked as if he might give chase. Something had gone on between Mick and Bella, some chemistry that Peter didn’t understand.
“You done good, genius,” Mick said, his sunglasses back on.
Peter glowed. “What a schemer. She hasn’t cleared herself yet in my eyes. I’ve never met anyone like her.”
“I have.”
“A bad experience, big guy?”
“The best and worst. Fantastic in bed, a viper out of it.”
Peter felt electric heading back toward Southbank. Seagulls glided over water and bicycle bells jangled. A jogger heaved past. The towers across the river glistened.
“Why did she tell us all that?” Peter asked.
“Not sure. Maybe she knows Rollo did it and is cracking his alibi.”
“But Rollo’s alibi is stronger than ever. Willy saw him leave the building.”
Mick shrugged. “Or maybe she just wants us to pursue Rollo. Leave Willy alone.”
They walked through the coolness of the tunnel into teeming Southbank.
Mick was hurrying. “Willy’s the key. Let’s go get him.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Stuff breakfast.”
Peter laughed. “Stuff you.”
By the footbridge he rang their client.
Imogen was drunk. “When we married, Kantor said to me… I remember the river sparkled, he said, ‘Imogen you will always be the light of my life.’ Why won’t you find his killer?”
Peter held the mobile up so Mick could hear the screech of the last part, and the sound of a glass smashing.
CHAPTER 32
Down a gravel driveway, past a carport housing a Mercedes. Mick Tusk pressed the doorbell and heard a chime deep inside. Time check—11:07. A wide, low-slung house. Large, lush garden, the wet grass springy and green. The crystalline calls of bellbirds.
So typical that Marcia Brindle lives in Donvale, Tusk thought. A relatively young suburb northeast of the city, with large land subdivisions, recently infused with Asian business migrants, Tusk liked its prettiness but the residents… ladder crawlers every one of them.
He looked at his partner, Gentle the excited kitten, bouncing on his feet. His hair already wild, a fresh bandage on his left hand. Blue and red wind jacket, ugly cotton shirt, jeans, and new Reeboks. A yuppie going to the footy.
It had drizzled intermittently on the drive out. Tusk had spotted a yellow vehicle hovering four cars back, but it hadn’t seemed to follow them off the Eastern Freeway. Even if he was mistaken, some of the high from the success with Bella had worn off.
“Yes? Who is it?” A confident voice.
“Mrs. Brindle?” Gentle said. “It’s Peter Gentle, we had a discussion a couple of days ago?”
“It’s Saturday, for God’s sake. What do you want?”
“It will only take ten minutes.”
Tusk hoped they succeeded in getting in. He’d been disappointed when they found no sign of Willy Keppel in his fleabag hotel. At least they’d managed to find out that he was performing tonight. It was Gentle who suggested they interview the accountant again.
A pause, then the sound of keys.
Tusk breathed deep to ease tension. Early in the morning, before any lights came on in Belgrave, he’d eased out of bed and jogged hard with Bully. Three days without exercise, unless he counted the scrap with Marcantonio. His lungs bursting with sweet air, he stood outside his house afterwards. Reflecting on Dana’s tears last night, and his sense of guilt when he failed to cross the threshold and tell her the real story about Marcantonio. Only the five-day limit placated her, that and making love with the lights on.
The door opened and Marcia Brindle sized him up. Gentle had said she was a handful and indeed she was. Older, with a worn face and neat snowy hair. Held herself with confidence. Eyes that took no prisoners.
“Mick Tusk,” he said.
Her handshake was vigorous. “I guess private detectives come in all shapes and sizes. We’ll go out the back.”
A reedy voice called out when they stepped into the long corridor. Marcia waved them on and ducked out of view, and Tusk could hear low voices conferring. He found himself in a large rumpus room next to an open kitchen. Sofas and easy chairs. Large windows that somehow let little light in. Crusted dishes stacked on the kitchen counter. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke.
Tusk had his game plan for the next two days. Work like crazy, get the bulk of the digging done, then walk, leaving the genius to figure it out. He had his own ideas on who’d done what. Gentle’s appeal to justice had hit a chord, but he couldn’t stay on longer than that. For Dana’s sake. For his own sake.
Marcia entered. “Coffee?”
They both shook their heads. They’d agreed to switch roles as soon as possible, so Tusk kicked off.
“We’re sorry to bother you and your husband,” he said.
Marcia wore a black tracksuit with white stripes. She sat down on a lounge chair and motioned them to a sofa. Tusk perched on the edge, keeping his body straight and relaxed.
“My husband is an invalid,” she said, as if that explained something. “You’ve had one minute of your ten.”
“What were you doing the evening before last?” Tusk asked.
“I worked till late. But let me save you the trouble, the alibi isn’t tight. The police inform me I could have slipped out of the office and killed Benedict. As if I’d strangle my colleague and then go back to my ledgers.”
Tusk watched a cat pad across the huge back yard. “Going back to the night of Kantor’s death, did you notice any strangers in the building? A man with scruffy hair?”
“Who, Peter Gentle? No. As I told your actuary friend, I had my head buried in the management accounts.”
“Did you notice Rollo’s wife?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
Marcia gave a slow nod.
“You know about Bella’s infidelities?” Tusk asked.
A pause. Marcia chewed on a thumbnail, gnawed to the quick, Tusk noticed. “Rollo loves that woman in a way you and I might find difficult to imagine, even when she abuses his love.”
Tusk realized he admired her. “You say you and Kantor argued that afternoon, about a report format. What else? You need plenty of money, Mrs. Brindle, enough to set up your own practice.”
Marcia gave a brittle laugh. “You two have been digging. Yes, I may set up my own practice in the not-too-distant future, and yes, I need capital for that. But no, Kantor never threatened my plans, and no, I didn’t kill him. Your ten minutes are almost up. Are we done?”
“Does the name Scaffidi mean anything to you?”
No reaction on the strong face. “Sounds like a stonemason.”
That was the question that nagged Tusk: How did Scaffidi fit in? Had Bella and he cooked something up? Or Rollo—Gentle reckoned the tycoon hardly knew Scaffidi, but Rollo had Boy Wonder well and truly mesmerized.
Marcia lit up a cigarette. Tusk leaned back, the signal for Gentle to take over.
“Marcia,” Gentle said, “are you aware of anyone programming invisible passes since the first three made for Rollo, Bella, and Kantor?”
“I know nothing about security passes. I just use mine.”
“Who makes the investment decisions of the Quant Fund?”
Tusk watched the confidence drain from Marcia’s face, like air hissing from a punctured balloon.
“What?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
Gentle’s eyes gleamed. “I think you know what I’m talking about. The investment performance of the fund can’t be accounted for by a computer program. Someone human helps out.”
“What nonsense.” A firm voice, but Tusk could see she was rattled, badly rattled. “You know as well as I do that there’s an array of computers that—”
“Crap.” The beanpole’s hands waved. “You and I know that’s not true. Who are you lying to protect?”
“How dare you?” Marcia’s face twisted. She rose and pointed down the corridor. “Out.”
Tusk stood up. “Are you crazy, Marcia?” It was time to personalize. “Dancer said the same to us, less than two days ago, and someone twisted his own bathrobe belt around his neck until he died.”
“Out.” Her neck muscles rigid. Cigarette trembling.
“No.” Tusk’s innards boiled. “That’s what we did last time. What’s going on?”
He realized he’d shouted. Bugger, all his precious control was flying away.
“Out!” She ran to the phone on the kitchen counter. Dialed.
Tusk’s heart was racing. Gentle put a hand on his arm.
“Okay, Marcia,” Gentle said. “We’re going. But you’re pushing away the only two people who can help you. Won’t you reconsider?”
Tusk felt his anger subside. Gentle was right. Who could ever save the stubborn from themselves?
Marcia slammed the phone back down. Her face ghostly in the shadows of the room. Eyes round as marbles.
“No.” A croak. “Get out.”
“Ring us,” Gentle said.
As they walked out, Tusk felt foreboding in the pit of his stomach. A trembling voice called out in another room. The sky outside had turned gray again but it seemed like sunshine after that dark house. Behind them, tumblers clicked into place.
“Well done back there,” Tusk said. He meant it. “Christ, what can we do?”
“We can’t make her protect herself.”
Gravel crunched underfoot. Tusk made his way up to the Peugeot. Nothing suspicious in either direction. He breathed in the cool scent of pine sap, cleared his nostrils of cigarette smoke. A song surfaced—“When the Levee Breaks,” Led Zeppelin’s lurching metal blues of apocalypse.
He flipped open his notebook. “Give me that bloody phone of yours.”
“Sam?” He hadn’t expected Vinci himself to answer. “Tusk here.”
“The pretend cop.” Vinci’s voice held equal doses of amusement and contempt.
“We’ve just visited Marcia Brindle. Sam, she’s shit-scared about something. She needs protection.”
Surprisingly, Vinci didn’t blast him for going on with the case. “Haven’t got the manpower.”
“You want another body?” Shouting again.
“Be civil, arsehole. See what I can do.”
A dead line.
Tusk looked at Gentle’s grave face, at the house hidden behind whispering pines. He cursed.
CHAPTER 33
The crowd exploded. A red-faced Melbourne supporter cracked knees into Peter’s back when he stood to shout, “Carna Daymons.” Chip fragments rained from the man’s mouth onto Peter’s neck.
Come on the Demons, Peter presumed. Essendon versus Melbourne at the Melbourne Cricket Ground on a Saturday afternoon. Two teams who had once dominated Australian football, but now struggled near the middle of the ladder. The players surged up and down the ground in frantic flurries through the mud, punctuated by leaps into the sky. And the crowd—screaming, waving, swearing—living the Melbourne passion with a moronic intensity Peter found bewildering.
Peter loathed football, always had, but he had to admit the MCG was a stirring sight. Huge stands surrounded the green grass oval. The six massive light poles, for all the world like giant, inverted ice hockey sticks, could be seen from the city when ablaze. Melbourne’s home for cricket and football, Peter had read, was now a tourist destination, and every week hundreds of Europeans and Asians soaked up tales of test matches and classic Grand Finals.
He glanced at Mandy, lovely in faded jeans and a bright yellow jumper, chatting with Dana. He wished Mandy hadn’t come. His mind refused to let go of the case, and the noise left it impossible for him to talk privately with her. And he was nervous, imagining a thin-faced man slipping a knife into his back from out of the heaving crowd.
He could tell Mick felt the same, despite his love of the game. The big man sat at the other end of their foursome, hands loosely clasped, a picture of relaxation, but his head scanned the crowd in regular sweeps.
Rollo Keppel had rung a couple of hours earlier, pressing Peter on the job offer. Strangely, the chief executive hadn’t mentioned their walk with Bella—could it be she hadn’t told him? Peter had tried to charm Rollo, saying he would decide by Monday, but the smooth voice had sounded annoyed.
“Why do you team up with that ex-policeman hood?” Rollo had said. “My father was like him, a primitive.”
Now it was cold, rain threatened, the man behind Peter stank of sweat, lunch had been tasteless meat pies, and their case was going nowhere while he’d sat watching this bloody game for three hours. He tried to spot Magnus Jones amongst the Essendon players, but they all looked the same. He longed to draw Mandy close. At least she seemed to have found a new friend. Peter looked at Dana. Strange, but he’d never imagined Mick with a wife so earthy, so domestic. And why had she been brusque to him?
