Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie

by Leigh Redhead

  Alex and I didn’t speak at all on the drive, and when he dropped me off I checked in, passed through the metal detector and went straight to the departure lounge. I waited half an hour, in case he was loitering outside, then strolled through the exit, out of the terminal and into a cab.

  ‘Darling Harbour,’ I said.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sydney’s annual Food Expo was being held in the exhibition centre at Darling Harbour, the precinct on the western edge of the CBD home to the casino, aquarium, Maritime Museum and lots of large, loud restaurants and four star hotels. I paid twenty bucks and hurried through the enormous aircraft hangar of a space past a village of little booths displaying samples of everything from gourmet vinegar to instant mashed potatoes.

  They’d given me a map with my ticket and the ‘Chef of Steel—Live’ stage was at the far end of the building. It had been scheduled to start over an hour earlier and I was hopeful they’d still be filming, but when I got there my heart sank. The rows of seats were empty and a lanky janitor with a scraggly ponytail was vacuuming the stage. Great. Trip was gone and I had no way of finding him. I sank down into a chair at the front and the janitor looked up.

  ‘You’re a bit late, babe, missed a good show. The young chef was really giving some shit to the older guy. They almost got into a fight.’

  ‘Suppose the young chef ’s long gone, huh?’

  ‘Nah, he stuck around to chat up these two promo chicks, hey? Last I saw he was over by Lickety Split Gelato.’

  The guy pointed and I was out of my seat like a shot, heading for a booth with a giant ice cream cone sticking out the top. Rounding the corner of the stand I saw the two promo chicks behind a counter, one blonde, one brunette, both wearing hotpants and tight tshirts with a picture of a tongue and the slogan Lick It screenprinted over the breast area. It was like Sexpo, but for the digestive rather than the reproductive system.

  ‘Oh my god,’ the blonde was stage-whispering to the brunette. ‘He’s crazy. I think he’s on something. He tried to get me to go into the toilets and when I wouldn’t he bent down and licked my shirt.’

  ‘No way,’ said the brunette.

  ‘Way.’ She held out the fabric. ‘You can see the wet spot.’

  ‘That would be sooo gross if he wasn’t famous and hot.’

  I cleared my throat and they looked over and plastered big smiles on their faces. ‘Cup or cone?’ asked the brunette.

  ‘Neither. Trip Sibley. The shirt licker. He still around?’

  They looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

  ‘He left, like, two seconds ago,’ said the blonde. ‘See that door? It goes to the car park.’

  I turned and bolted out of a glass exit door, flew down a set of concrete stairs and into a low ceilinged car park. I heard a motorbike start up but couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from so ran to the exit and planted myself in front of the boom gate, breathing hard. Seconds later the Ducati came roaring toward me and stopped with a yelping skid. Trip hadn’t bothered with a helmet.

  ‘Simone fucking Kirsch. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Gee, let’s see. Someone tried to run me over right after they killed your sous chef. I was wondering if you knew anything about that?’

  ‘I heard it on the news. Shame, hey? Never liked the guy but no one deserves that.’

  ‘And I think Andi’s being held in Sydney. You’re in Sydney. Your mate Sam Doyle’s in Sydney. I found her bag behind his restaurant. Give it up, Trip. I know you’ve been lying to me. It won’t be nearly as bad for you if I get her out of here alive.’

  He started laughing and shaking his head. ‘Man, I do not know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do. Remember the possum head?’

  He laughed so hard he doubled over the handlebars. After a minute he swiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Remember the—am I just out of it or was that a really trippy thing to say?’

  ‘Have the police interviewed you about Gordon and Andi yet?’

  ‘This dude rang from Homicide. Duval or something. I haven’t called him back yet.’

  ‘ ’Cause you’re guilty?’

  ‘ ’Cause I’m on acid. Think I wanna hang out in a cop shop and ruin my trip? No thanks, darlin’. I’ll talk to them tomorrow when I’ve straightened out.’

  ‘This is serious. Andi’s in big trouble. If you know anything at all …’

  A car drove up behind him and revved its engine.

  He glanced back. ‘I may know something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, I’m late to meet someone. Jump on the back, I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  The car behind beeped.

  ‘Sorry, babe, I gotta go. Jump on.’

  ‘With a suspected murderer?’

  He sighed and pointed to the security camera mounted above the boom gate. ‘If I was a murderer do you think I’d abduct you on candid camera? Christ, give me some credit.’

  Getting on a bike with an LSD fuelled criminal was definitely a risk, but my only other option was to go straight to the airport, hide out in a crap motel on my own for a week and probably never ever find out what was going on.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Trip said.

  The driver was leaning on the horn now, and another car had pulled up behind him.

  ‘Helmet? I don’t have a death wish.’

  He pulled one out of his side saddle, thrust it at me and I jammed it on and hopped on.

  ‘You’re gonna fucking dig this, darlin’,’ he shouted, cranking the throttle and going straight for the wooden bar.

  Was he insane? I squeezed my eyes shut and at the last minute he dipped his weight and we slipped past, so close I felt it rush by my shoulder and then we were cresting the ramp and speeding through Darling Harbour, coloured lights reflecting off the water, the tang of food and barnacles in the air.

  Ten minutes later Trip parked the bike on Darlinghurst Road. Neon pulsed, music throbbed and the footpaths teemed with clubbers, junkies and wide eyed couples out to dinner. Touts in black suits shouted from strip club doorways, trying to coax roaming buck’s parties and embarrassed tourists inside. I dismounted, slipped off the helmet and shook my hair out, heart fluttering and legs so shaky I could barely stand.

  Trip grabbed the helmet, tore off his chef ’s jacket and stuffed both into the bike bag. Underneath he wore a sleeveless Metallica shirt, and his triceps looked cut, as usual.

  ‘Tell me that didn’t get you hot,’ he growled, ‘speeding through the night with nine hundred and ninety-six cc’s of premium Italian engineering throbbing between your legs.’

  He was right. Tearing through the city on the big red bike with my arms wrapped around Trip’s muscular mid-section had given me a serious thrill, but he didn’t have to know that.

  I put my hands on my hips and attempted a school marm expression. ‘Riding without a helmet, exceeding the speed limit and disobeying the rules of the road is not exciting or clever. It’s just plain immature.’

  Trip blew me a raspberry, turned and headed for a doorway. I followed and suddenly realised we were entering the Hot Rock Karaoke Club, and I hadn’t even mentioned Andi’s card being used there. I clutched the back of his black t-shirt and pointed to the sign.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘Darlin’, we must have a breakdown in communication ’cause I don’t get half of what you say.’

  Upstairs tiny red and orange bulbs twinkled in sequence around archways, the bar and the edge of the stage. The catwalk was covered in multicoloured squares, just like the dance floor in Saturday Night Fever, and round tables filled with a mix of Asian and Caucasian clientele dotted the room.

  I followed Trip to the bar as a man in his early sixties climbed the stage, grabbed a mike and sauntered out into the red spotlight, trailing the lead behind him. He had thick dark hair and sideburns, was dressed all in black and started belting o
ut ‘In My Hour of Darkness’ with a deep gravelly baritone that sounded a lot like Johnny Cash.

  Trip ordered a beer and two tequila shots for himself and a glass of champagne for me and we took the drinks to an empty table at the back of the room. I didn’t know what the hell we were doing there, so decided to play it casual and act like I spent every other night hanging out in karaoke bars with possibly murderous, drug crazed chefs. Inside I was hyped up and as vigilant as the meerkat who stands guard while the others do their digging. At least we were in a public place, with heaps of other people around.

  ‘Gram Parsons.’ I sipped my drink and nodded toward the stage. ‘Good song.’

  ‘If your taste is in your arse.’ Trip knocked back a shot of tequila, yowled like a dingo and slammed the glass down.

  ‘So what are we doing here?’

  ‘I thought you wanted my help.’ He slugged another and this time clucked like a chicken, tucked his arms in and flapped.

  ‘I want the truth. Why the Hot Rock? Is Andi here somewhere?’

  ‘You’ve heard of sex slaves? Well, that’s sooo early noughties. Latest thing is karaoke slaves. We’ve got her chained out the back with a bunch of chicks from Thailand and Eastern Europe and we force them to sing “Hotel California”. It’s depraved.’

  The guy onstage wrapped up too loud applause and a tiny Asian woman got up and belted out ‘Respect’, sounding just like Aretha Franklin. I’d always thought karaoke would be the same as the first round of Australian Idol, but these people were good.

  ‘Stop fucking around, Trip. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘In a sec. I want to introduce you to someone.’

  He was looking over my shoulder, grinning, and I turned my head to see the guy from the stage standing behind me.

  He was handsome for an older bloke, a little thick around the middle, but by no means fat. His slightly weathered features made him look like an ageing Hollywood star playing a grifter in a noir film.

  ‘Meet Sam Doyle,’ Trip said.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I started, bumped my champagne and caught the glass just before it fell. Doyle sat down and when he offered his hand I reached across the table and shook it. The palm was warm and dry and he had an effortlessly strong grip. I’d momentarily forgotten to breathe and my voice came out all strangled.

  ‘Simone Kirsch.’

  ‘Kirsch, hey?’ His voice was low and raspy and he drew out my surname, savouring it like the liqueur. ‘So you’re the young lady set the Homicide Squad onto me.’

  ‘What?’

  He took a pack of Lucky Strikes from the breast pocket of his black shirt and lit one with a book of matches. ‘Detective Duval paid me a visit this evening, asking questions about a dead sous chef and a missing waitress. Seems Andi Fowler wanted to write an article about me, and he thought I might’ve taken offence.’

  My stomach flip-flopped but I tried to appear nonchalant.

  ‘Duval said it was me?’

  ‘No, but young Trip here told me about you a few days ago. It wasn’t too much of a stretch.’ He turned to Trip. ‘You talked to the Melbourne coppers yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well you’re doing it tomorrow, before the party. I’ll have my QC mate sit in. Now get me a tequila.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’ Trip held his hand to his head in a mock salute and sauntered off to the bar.

  ‘Dad?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s taking the piss.’ Sam draped his arm over the back of the chair. His sleeves were rolled up and I saw a faded tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Looked like a horse, maybe a mustang. ‘We’re just friends and business partners. He’s a mad fucking bastard, as I’m sure you know, but that’s what I like about him. Everyone’s so well behaved and sanitised these days, and I’m too old to raise any hell. Someone needs to grab the baton.’ He took a deep drag and ashed his cigarette.

  Sam hadn’t tried to kill me yet, or even do anything remotely nefarious, so I relaxed a little but didn’t entirely drop my guard.

  ‘What exactly did Trip tell you about me?’ I asked.

  ‘That you were sniffing around Jouissance, looking for Andrea Fowler. I did the rest of my research on the internet.

  From what I saw you’d be almost as crazy as he is.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ I said, and sipped my champagne. A candle flickered inside a bobbled red vase in the middle of the table.

  ‘Trip also said you thought he had something to do with it. Why’s that?’

  ‘Because he lied.’

  Trip returned to the table and handed Doyle a shot glass.

  Sam sniffed it, then took a small taste.

  I glared at Trip. ‘He said he last saw Andi leave a staff party and catch a cab on Fitzroy Street, but I have witnesses who saw her going home with him and Yasmin.’

  Sam frowned.

  Trip shrugged. ‘Okay, I lied. Yeah, she did come back to mine for some fun and games but I didn’t say anything ’cause I was being discreet, for once. Didn’t want to screw and tell.’

  ‘So what happened?’ I asked.

  ‘You want details, baby? I knew you weren’t as straight as you made out.’

  ‘Just tell her,’ Sam sighed.

  ‘Okay. Nothing.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said.

  ‘You’re telling me. We hung out for an hour or so, more drugs, more drink, then just as I suggested the girls should kiss, you know, get the ball rolling, Andi’s got a text message and she reckoned she had to leave. Ripped off!’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Sam signalled to a passing waitress for another round of drinks. ‘Why do you think Trip would harm her?’ he asked me.

  I didn’t want to mention the fraud stuff, so I said, ‘Hell, I dunno. Thought it might have been a B&D session gone wrong. I just got suspicious when he lied. Why did you lie?’

  ‘Yasmin didn’t want anyone to know, thought it would undermine her authority or some shit. And it was kind of fun messing with your head.’

  Jesus, what a dick. I couldn’t believe I’d actually been turned on before.

  ‘You came to Sydney to question Trip and me?’ Sam crushed out his cigarette.

  ‘No. I came to Sydney because someone tried to kill me, right after they killed Gordon.’ I looked into Sam’s eyes. Even in the dim light I could see they were a bright, intense blue, but completely unreadable. I imagined he’d be damn good at poker.

  ‘Tragic, although I can’t say I liked the guy myself. And they’re sure it was no accident?’

  ‘I was there. Some thug driving a stolen car ran him over.

  Twice.’

  Sam sipped his tequila. ‘And you’re wondering if I had anything to do with it. The waitress too. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I was here in Sydney, a dozen people can vouch for me, and like I said to the cops, why would I go knocking off my own employees?’

  I couldn’t mention the money laundering so said, ‘Gordon, I don’t know. Andi because of the article. It was about the Melita Kracowski case in nineteen eighty. You know, Melody?’

  Sam didn’t react, just lit another Lucky and studied my face.

  ‘And there’s the fact that Andi’s credit card was used in this bar, and her handbag was found on the back step of La Petite Courgette this morning.’

  ‘Duval mentioned that. I showed him security footage from the restaurant. We saw you, right before the camera was broken, but there was no sign of Andi Fowler in the alleyway. No footage of anyone dumping the bag.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘The camera has a blind spot. If someone stayed flush to the wall they could have placed it on the step without being filmed.’

  ‘So someone planted it?’

  ‘I can’t imagine why else they’d be sneaking around.’

  ‘You think someone’s trying to frame you?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Wh
y?’

  ‘I’m an easy target. Shitkicking Balmain boy made good. Australia, people just love cutting down tall poppies.’

  ‘Who?’

  He shook his head and laughed. ‘Take your pick.’

  Trip had been sitting silent, apparently fascinated by the mirror ball patterns sliding across the wall. Now he piped up.

  ‘Have you thought that Andi might have faked her own disappearance? Maybe she’s a vanilla bean short of a crème caramel.’

  I almost mentioned Andi’s desperate phone message but stopped myself just in time. They didn’t need to know she’d had her mobile, even though I was now convinced Trip had nothing to do with her disappearance. He wasn’t a good enough liar. And Sam? The man was a little gruff, but basically affable and answering every question I threw at him. Hard to get my head around when I’d been expecting the Lord of Darkness himself. I liked to think I had good instincts about people and my gut feeling was telling me he wasn’t a threat. Of course he could have been some kind of evil genius with a talent for lulling unsuspecting PIs into a false sense of security, seducing them with his so-called ‘Hollywood’ charm. I’d seen it in Mafia movies, the wiseguys all laughing and drinking, slapping each other’s backs and then bam, one was garrotting the other with a length of piano wire. Sam had even managed to tame a wildcard like Trip. He was sitting there as docile as a pony in a petting zoo. That took talent.

  The drinks arrived and I had a big gulp of champagne and asked the question that had been playing on my mind all night. ‘Do the names Joy Fowler and Peta Kirsch mean anything to you?’

  He kept the poker face but I could’ve sworn something flickered in his eyes. ‘Never heard of them.’ He didn’t pause to think or even remark on the surnames. It was suss.

  ‘They used to live around here,’ I said. ‘Joy’s Andi’s mum, Peta’s mine.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head. If it had been me I would have asked what they had to do with anything. Doyle didn’t.

  Trip had started to shift in his seat. ‘I’m bored with this. I’m gonna do a song. Anyone else wanna do a song?’

  Sam and I shook our heads and Trip bounded off to put his name down. Sam stubbed out his smoke, drank some beer and checked his watch.