The temperature had to be somewhere in the high twenties, but it wasn’t as stif ling as it had been by the pool due to the light breeze floating in off Port Phillip Bay. The air smelled like summer holidays: sunscreen, salt water, hot chips and battered fish bubbling in hot oil. Out past the yacht club sailboats rose and dipped on the swell, and in the park near the foreshore families picnicked on the grass, shaded by chunky date palms.
The restaurant was in a nineteen-twenties weatherboard building painted dark olive with white trim; it had the feel of an expensive, minimalist beach house on Cape Cod. A waitress with a black shirt and apron and a long blonde braid led me through a room full of whitewashed wood, widely spaced tables and giant picture windows. As we made our way out to the large deck overlooking the sea I half expected to see toothy Kennedys lounging about drinking gin and tonics, contemplating a turn around the bay on the yacht.
Liz sat in the far corner wearing large round sunglasses and clutching a glass of white wine. Her silver-streaked blonde hair was carefully flicked, as before, and she wore a pair of expensive-looking beige slacks and a gauzy white sleeveless top with unobtrusive ruff les down the front. Her bronze bracelets were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and had probably cost quite a lot in a South Yarra boutique.
‘Hey.’ I nodded as I sat down opposite her. Close up she looked thin, her upper arms stringy. She’d been almost plump at the writers’ festival. Not anymore.
The waitress poured me a glass of crisp pinot grigio from a nearby ice bucket, placed a menu in front of me, then quietly disappeared.
‘I’m really sorry about . . . everything that’s happened,’ I said. ‘How you holding up?’
‘I’m alright. And you?’
‘Not bad considering your brother showed up at my place with a gun.’ I smiled, but the joke fell flat. Liz must have thought I was an insensitive cow because her mouth set into that schoolmarm line and she looked away. I guessed being the sister of a fugitive murder suspect wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, but hell, being the supposed accomplice of one wasn’t either. It was an awkward situation and I decided I’d quickly stuff my face, check the facts and leave.
‘That the manuscript?’ I pointed to the package and she nodded, still looking over my shoulder as though scanning the restaurant behind me. ‘Shall we look over the pages now? Or you wanna eat first?’
Liz leaned forward, pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head. I noticed for the first time that she looked a lot like Nick. Strong jawline, straight, prominent nose. Her grey eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.
‘Simone, can I trust you?’ she said softly.
I shrugged. ‘I dunno. Trust me to do what?’
She grabbed her wine glass and took a big mouthful.
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘What?’ It dawned on me that she’d lied about Curtis’ manuscript. I was so pissed off I considered walking—until I saw fresh tears shimmer in her swollen eyes.
‘Nick,’ she mouthed, then sat back and looked around again.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you were there.’
‘Unfortunately that’s true. But it was after the fact.’
‘The police think he’s guilty.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. The official line is he’s wanted for questioning. He ran. Shit. He’s still running. They’ve got to bring him in.’
‘Please keep your voice down,’ Liz whispered. I looked over my shoulder. The nearest patrons were two tables away and deep in conversation. ‘But do you think he’s a killer?’ She leaned forward, the table wobbled and I had to grab my wine glass before it tipped over.
‘Didn’t strike me as one when we first met, and I’m sure you don’t think so, but believe me, you never know. Still, I don’t think he was there to kill me last night.’
‘He wanted your help.’
‘Maybe.’ I shrugged again. ‘Look, Liz, I really can’t say either way. All I know is I saw Isabella’s body. I saw Nick with blood on his shirt.’
‘How much blood?’
‘’Bout this—’ I indicated a fist-sized area.
‘His blood. From the festival. He was wearing the same clothes, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And there was a lot of Isabella’s blood in his office?’
‘More than I ever want to see again.’ I felt sick having to recall it.
‘If he’d killed her he would have been covered with it.’
She had a point.
‘Yeah, I’ve thought about that. Unless, I dunno, he wore some sort of plastic raincoat he got rid of? Or maybe some other clothes, and then he changed back into the old ones.’
‘But he was dead drunk, right?’ she continued, leaning further forward, gripping the edges of the table.
‘I thought so. He smelled like it. If he wasn’t he’s a great actor.’
‘If he was that drunk, then how could he manage to change or get rid of his clothes? And if he wasn’t that drunk, why did he pass out and leave the body there for anyone to find it?’ She almost sounded angry at me.
I held up my hands. ‘Hey, I agree. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know what forensic evidence the cops have, but from what I’ve seen it doesn’t really add up.’
She finished off the rest of her wine, grabbed the dripping bottle and refilled her glass. Rare for someone to finish a drink before I did.
‘He’s not a killer,’ she stated.
‘Statistically, women are most likely to be murdered by their exes. Especially when they leave. Apparently the divorce papers were on the desk.’
She shook her head and drank more wine. So did I, having to slug the stuff to keep up with her. The bottle was almost gone.
‘What does your gut feeling tell you?’ she asked.
‘Seems unlikely, but then, why did he run? What’s this all about?’
‘I can’t tell you unless I trust you.’
‘Okay.’ I was so exasperated I told her what she wanted to hear: ‘You can trust me with your life and I believe your brother is innocent, cross my heart and hope to die.’
She narrowed her eyes. I had sounded kind of sarcastic.
‘Honest.’
The waitress returned, and I ordered crab and caulif lower ravioli, followed by seared tuna with a white bean puree. Liz finished her drink and ordered just an entree: goat curd, roasted beetroot and rocket. No wonder she was so thin. I was already anticipating the cheese plate for dessert.
‘Sure you don’t want a main? I’ll feel like a pig if you only eat salad.’
‘Forget eating. I want to hire you.’
‘To do what?’
‘Shh,’ she hissed. ‘Someone could be listening.’
‘Who?’
‘The police. Nick called me three days ago . . .’
‘You serious?’ It came out a little loud and she gave me a worried look so I lowered my tone. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t call the cops.’
She shook her head.
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘That he didn’t kill Isabella, and he needed money or someone else was going to die.’
‘He tell you who did kill her?’
‘No.’ She bit her lip.
‘Who’d he say was going to die?’
Liz emptied the bottle into her glass, then finished it in one go.
‘Me.’
chapter fifteen
‘What? Who would want to kill you?’
‘I don’t know. No one. It’s not personal, just someone using me for . . . leverage. Nick said if he didn’t come up with the money it’d be me, then our younger brother, then Mum. Dad’s passed away.’
‘You think someone’s blackmailing him? How much money does he want?’
‘As much as he can get. At least a million, maybe more. I cashed in my shares and raised almost fifty thousand. I’ve put my flat on the market but it’s going to take months to sell and even then it’ll only be four hundred. He said he’d try and pay it back
as soon as he sorted out the mess he was in. But I got the feeling he needed a lot more.’
‘Mess?’
‘That was as specific as he got.’
‘Why do people usually need large amounts of money in a hurry?’
‘Bad debts?’ she suggested.
‘Or blackmail. We already know he liked a drink. Did he gamble? Coke? Was he a kiddy fiddler?’
‘No!’
‘And all this is assuming he wasn’t just scamming the money off you?’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He’d need cash to leave the country. They would have frozen his bank accounts.’
‘I know Nick better than anyone. He wasn’t scamming me,’ she insisted. ‘And why would he show up at your place if he was about to leave?’
‘No idea.’ I shrugged. ‘Couldn’t have been to scab cash because I don’t have any. Maybe he’s just . . . unhinged?’
She bridled. ‘He’s not.’
‘Did you see him? Do you know where he was hiding out for six weeks?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I talked to him on my assistant’s phone. I had to drop the money off in a park, so I didn’t see him face to face. He said it wasn’t safe.’
‘Christ, sounds just like one of his books.’
The waitress came back with more wine and the entrees, so we kept our mouths shut until she was gone.
‘Will you help him?’ Liz implored. ‘I think that’s why he turned up at your flat. He needed help, and then the police . . .’ Her eyes shimmered with tears.
‘After Nick was shot he asked me to warn Nerida and somebody whose name started with J. Ring any bells?’
Her bronze earrings rattled when she shook her head. ‘I don’t know any Neridas, and a lot of people have names starting with J. Nick’s ex-wife’s name is Jenny, but she turned into a religious freak and he hasn’t had anything to do with her for ages.’
Liz refilled our glasses while I nibbled on my ravioli. It was divine, but I had other things on my mind.
‘What do you mean, help Nick?’ I asked.
‘Find him before the police or Rod Thurlow. There’s a rumour Rod will hand over the money to anyone who catches Nick, dead or alive.’
I had to try very hard not to roll my eyes.
‘How come you’re so sure I can do that? The cops haven’t had any luck.’
‘That’s because Nick’s friends and family know he’s not guilty and haven’t been telling them everything. We don’t want him in jail or shot dead, and we’re not going to sell him out for the million-dollar reward. Even if you don’t find him maybe you can at least discover why he had to run. That’s the main thing. Then we can help him, and clear his name.’
That was debatable. If Nick was being blackmailed over something really sick, things could turn out worse. I didn’t tell her that, though. She was Nick’s sister, and as far as she was concerned he could do no wrong.
‘I’m sorry, Liz, but I can’t help. Why don’t you try another investigator?’
‘I wouldn’t trust another investigator.’
‘Have you been reading the papers? Because of your brother, I am not presently licensed, therefore I can’t legally work for you.’
‘Oh, fuck that.’ She waved her hand dismissively and I was a little shocked. It was the first time I’d heard her swear. ‘I’m talking off the books. Cash in hand. I’ve read Curtis’ manuscript. I know you don’t always stick to the letter of the law.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘He wrote that?’
‘Yeah, but don’t worry, we’ve taken out all the libellous stuff. Anything we thought you could sue Wet Ink over. Listen, Simone, I’m willing to pay you, and well. In with the manuscript is an envelope containing seven thousand dollars. That’s for a week. Five hundred a day plus the same again for expenses.’
Seven thousand bucks? My heart started to palpate.
‘How’d you come up with that figure?’
‘Nick’s books. It’s Zack Houston’s daily rate. He doesn’t usually charge so much for expenses but I figured you might need it. Should cover plane tickets if necessary, motels, bribes . . .’
It was ridiculous. I couldn’t take the case. It was illegal, possibly dangerous, I’d been warned off by Talbot, and Sean would hit the roof. Plus there was the fact that everybody in the country was already after the guy. If the entire federal police force and any number of self-styled soldiers of fortune couldn’t catch up with him, what hope did I have? Even if by some amazing fluke I did find him, wouldn’t it be illegal not to hand him over to the authorities?
On the other hand, I really, really needed the money, and if I was careful Dianne Talbot would never have to know.
‘I can’t promise I’ll find him.’
Jesus, I was as good as agreeing. My palms tingled and the electric feeling shot straight up my arms, making my neck veins throb.
‘Of course.’
‘And I can only give it a week.’
Sean was on double shifts for the next seven days. No awkward questions.
‘I’ll take what I can get,’ Liz said.
Unfortunately, Liz couldn’t give me much to go on. For all her talk, Nick didn’t have a hell of a lot of family or friends. Their parents had emigrated from Poland before they were born; the dad was now dead and the mum in a nursing home. Their only other relative was a younger brother, Tom, who worked in IT in Sydney. Liz asked me not to contact him directly as she was sure he was under surveillance. The friends that Liz knew of were more like acquaintances from the publishing industry: Curtis, Desiree, Victoria Hitchens.
‘I know that name.’ I said. ‘The tall blonde writer filming a doco at the Summer Sessions. Isabella’s friend.’
‘Ex-friend. Don’t believe all the kissy-kissy stuff, it was just for the cameras. But yes, Nick met her through Isabella.’
‘Think the ex-wife, Jenny, would be worth talking to?’
‘The Christian? He hasn’t spoken to her for at least two years.’
The conversation pretty much deteriorated from there on in. While I rather virtuously sipped a double espresso Liz finished the wine and reiterated the varied and innumerable ways in which Nick was the most wonderful brother on earth, slagged off Isabella and told me that it was actually good she was dead, despite the fact that Nick was now a fugitive murder suspect, because he could finally get closure on the relationship.
I got the feeling she’d been wound up tight for at least six weeks so I let her go for a while before finally signalling for the bill, propping her up as she staggered down the stairs, and then stuffing her into a cab. The coffee had cut through the wine and the food and my usual afternoon somnolence. I was raring to go.
Back at the hotel I headed straight for the business centre so I could get on the internet. Chloe had gotten sick of waiting for me and gone to the movies. Good, because I could get straight to it and didn’t have to tell her about the case. Chloe was my unofficial sidekick, but she also had a big mouth: if she spilled to someone like Curtis, news of my clandestine job would be all over town. As to whether I’d tell Sean, I figured I’d decide later.
While I waited for the computer to start up I scribbled notes on scrap paper, realising I only had one piece of information that the cops didn’t: Nick picking up forty grand in cash at Yarra Bend Park a few days ago. So what? I hadn’t a clue what he’d done with the money, and no way of knowing if Liz and the rest of his family had actually been threatened and, if so, by who.
Maybe Liz had been right and Nick had come to me for help, although I didn’t know why he would do that.
Of course, Liz was so obsessed with finding her brother that she hadn’t even thought of Isabella. It was possible Nick was mixed up with some sort of major shit, but in any murder case it was important to find out everything you could about the victim. Perhaps Isabella had been involved in the same trouble, or maybe someone else had a motive to kill her.
I thought of Rod Thurlow. The victim’s partner was alway
s the main suspect, and I remembered the look on Rod’s face when Nick and Isabella had commenced their vicious flirting at the writers’ festival. Sure, Rod had appeared on TV looking heartbroken, and he’d put up a million-dollar reward for information leading to Nick’s capture, but it could all be an elaborate smokescreen. What if he’d somehow found out about the kiss I’d witnessed? What if Isabella was having an affair with her ex-husband? And why did they break up anyhow?
I had so many questions and so few answers that my head was spinning. The only thing for it was to begin researching and asking questions. It seemed like an enormous task that was unlikely to produce much of a result, but I had to start somewhere. I motivated myself like I did sometimes when I was stripping: by thinking about the money.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening doing internet searches on Nick and Isabella and printed out reviews, profile pieces, and a couple of articles that Nick had written. The two of them also turned up on past writers’ festival programs, and radio interviews podcast onto the net. I even downloaded a picture of Nick at some sort of leftist meeting from an archived issue of the Melbourne University newspaper, Farrago.
Most of the hits I got on Isabella, though, were generated after her death. A crime writer brutally slaying his ex-wife then going on the run—it was the kind of ironic story the public pored over, and had shown up everywhere from the New York Times to the Warsaw Voice. I managed to get a fair bit of background on Isabella, but nothing that told me why anyone, apart from Nick, might have wanted to kill her.
She’d grown up on the Mornington Peninsula, attended a private girls school and then gone on to study writing at RMIT. Her father ran a boat-building business, and there was mention of her parents divorcing when she was a teenager. I’d always thought it more noteworthy if a person’s parents weren’t divorced, but maybe that was just me. She’d had her first novella, The Liquidity of Desire, published at twenty-seven. I checked out a few of the reviews, and although they were mostly positive, the book didn’t sound like my cup of tea. It was variously described as ‘lyrical’, ‘nuanced,’ ‘ephemeral’, and ‘utterly without plot’.
Thrill City Page 9
