Thrill City

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘Fair enough.’ Sean crossed his arms on the table and looked at me steadily. ‘In your opinion, what are the most common cases an inquiry agent is hired to investigate?’

  I sighed. There was no point trying to lie.

  ‘Insurance claims, WorkCover fraud, cheating spouses. Tracking down defaulters so credit companies can repossess their cars.’

  We were silent for a bit, sipping champagne. Damn him. It was as bad as arguing with my mother. I tried another tack.

  ‘What about Chloe?’

  He was ready for me. ‘You’ll miss her, of course, but we’ll be coming back to Australia at least once a year, and she can visit anytime.’

  An image popped into my head: Chloe tottering around some crazy South East Asian city on spike-heeled platforms, using a combination of mime and pidgin English to hit the befuddled locals up for ganga. I shuddered. Far as I knew she’d never been further north than Surfers Paradise.

  ‘What about the baby?’

  ‘You arranged to babysit?’

  ‘Hell, no.’

  ‘Look. The contract doesn’t start till the middle of the year and she’s just about to pop, right, so you’ll be around for the birth. Having a kid takes up a lot of time and she’ll probably be out of action for the next two years anyway. Chances are you won’t be missing much. You really into newborns?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Right, so by the time we get back it’ll be two or three. They’re cute at that age, don’t puke on you so much and you can actually talk to them. No mess, no fuss.’

  ‘Chloe won’t be happy.’

  ‘She’ll have her hands so full she probably won’t even know you’ve gone.’

  Maybe I had tickets on myself, but I doubted that.

  Sean continued: ‘Opportunities like this come up, you’ve gotta take a risk and grab them. You want to apprehend real bad guys, or poor bastards who can’t keep up payments on their cars?’

  He had me there. He had me on pretty much everything, although there was one point we hadn’t yet covered.

  ‘You realise you’re suggesting we move in together for two years. What if it doesn’t work out? That’s the biggest risk of all.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid to go out on a limb, that’s where all the fruit is.’

  I groaned. ‘Spare me the motivational quotes. You really serious? You really want to do this?’

  ‘Yes.’ He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

  ‘What if I said I couldn’t move to Vietnam.’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t take the job.’

  ‘You’d give it up for me? Why?’ I asked.

  ‘’Cause I’m in love with you, you idiot.’

  chapter twenty-one

  I woke up at nine, naked and sweating, the electronic chime of a mobile phone piercing my brain. Sean’s side of the bed was empty, and I dragged myself across a tangled expanse of sheets in search of the noise. My handbag lay slumped on the floor and as I hung my head over to dig around inside, blood rushed painfully to the back of my eyeballs.

  Lying down again I stared at the unfamiliar number lighting up the display, and as I waited for whoever was ringing to leave a message, I attempted to measure the extent of my hangover and ascertain how, exactly, I’d gotten to bed.

  Turned out Sean had brought two bottles of Veuve to Claypots, the fish hadn’t soaked up either of them, and I’d had the bright idea of going for after-dinner cocktails at the Vineyard. If I was wasted I wouldn’t have to contemplate the daunting prospect of moving halfway around the world with someone who’d just told me he loved me.

  I had vague memories of groping Sean under the table at the bar, no recollection of the cab ride home, and hazy, strobing visions of animalistic sex on the lounge room floor. I kicked free of the twisted sheet and raised both legs, pointing my toes at the ceiling. Red and brown scabs crusted both knees. There was no clever excuse for carpet burn. Everyone knew exactly what you’d been up to, roughly where, and in precisely what position.

  I checked voicemail, discovered Rod Thurlow had been ringing, popped three Nurofen Plus and called him back. He was at his home in the Yarra Valley, and suggested we meet later that afternoon in town. Maybe I was still drunk, but I was determined to go to see him. Neutral ground was no good to me. I wanted to see where Isabella had lived.

  By ten fifteen I was manoeuvring the Laser along winding blacktop, through small towns full of craft ‘shoppes’, and densely wooded corridors of national park. Sunlight flashed through ghost gums and lit up groves of bracken. Bellbirds pealed, and the warm air gusting in the windows smelled of eucalyptus and tasted of dust and dried-up twigs. Cicadas murmured, sharp and shimmering.

  The well-judged combination of codeine and ibuprofen had suppressed any headache, and my hangover was of the dozy, brain-dead variety. Bad for interviewing skills, but good for stif ling nervousness, especially since I had to talk to a man whose fiancée had been brutally murdered. Not for the first time I wondered why the hell I wanted to do a job that involved so much unpleasant shit. I flicked open the glove box and found liquid courage in the form of my hip flask, now half full of warm whiskey. I’d have a slug right before I went in—real breakfast of champions when mixed with the five cheese singles I’d eaten while driving.

  Despite living in Melbourne for four years I’d never actually been to the Yarra Valley. I’d always imagined it as a narrow gorge filled with the same scrubby brush I’d just driven through, so I got a shock when I rounded a bend and the landscape opened right up. The place was huge, an honest-to-goodness valley about five flat k’s across that wouldn’t have looked out of place in France or Italy. Rows of grapevines covered gentle slopes that curved towards meadows of lush grass. Rustic farmhouses dotted the landscape, jersey cows milled in paddocks, and yellow flowers bobbed their heads at the side of the road. The air smelled of grapes and hay, and even the quality of the light had changed. The harsh beams that had sliced through the eucalypts had been replaced by a soft glow, as golden and syrupy as an aged sauterne. Two huge butterf lies gambolled past the car, as though inserted by some Hollywood CGI whiz.

  It was so pretty I almost burst into tears. I revised my hangover status to ‘brain-dead yet emotional’. I could have lost it watching a Kleenex ad with toddlers and fuzzy ducklings, and knew I’d better be careful. If Rod’s bottom lip so much as trembled while he talked about Isabella, I was a goner.

  I checked my map, realised I’d missed the turnoff, doubled back and found a red dirt road cut into one of the ubiquitous vine-covered hills. I drove slowly, gravel popping as I negotiated the bends, and suddenly Rod’s place came into view.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I whispered and let out a low whistle.

  At the end of a poplar-lined drive sat my dream house. Except ‘house’ was too modest a word for this two-storey stone Tuscan villa on top of the hillside.

  I rolled the Laser up to the spiked iron gate, leaned out my window and hit the intercom attached to the wall. No one replied, but the wooden double doors at the front of the main building swung out and a pumped-up Aryan blond in a black quasi-military outfit emerged. He stalked down the driveway past silver-leaved olive trees and flowering shrubs in large terracotta pots. Slipping through the gate, he circled my car, examining it as though it might have been a giant mobile bomb. Finally he crossed his arms and stood by my window.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, chirpy as an Amway saleswoman. ‘I’m Simone Kirsch, here to see Rod.’

  ‘You have an appointment with Mr Thurlow?’ Hitler Youth asked, accent disappointingly Australian monotone.

  ‘He’s expecting me.’

  ‘See some ID?’

  I dug out my wallet and flashed my driver’s licence. He hit the button on a plastic tag hanging off his belt and the gate slowly opened.

  ‘Turn left, park in the garage. I’ll escort you to the house.’

  I did as he said, drove about twenty metres and found a garage cunningly disguised as an eighteenth-century barn. I
turned off the engine and glanced in the rearview. The boy in black was still a good ten metres away so I quickly whipped the hip flask out of the glove compartment, unscrewed the top and took a couple of hefty gulps. The tepid whiskey stung my throat and brought tears to my eyes. I took another slug for good measure, coughed and shoved the flask back in the glove box, popped a Fisherman’s Friend mint in my mouth and crunched. Between the alcohol and the menthol my face was on fire.

  He walked me to the main building in silence and demanded to check my bag before he let me in the front door.

  ‘Why?’

  No answer. I handed it over. Wasn’t much in there except the mints, phone, makeup, and a couple of tampons bulging fluff out of their plastic wrappers.

  Inside, we passed a cavernous living area filled with tasteful antique furniture, Turkish rugs and the sort of massive fireplace in which you could easily spit-roast an entire wild boar. We climbed a sweeping stone staircase to the next floor, and padding along the hallway I glimpsed bedrooms with four-poster beds and French doors overlooking vineyards and distant mountain ranges.

  I’d met a fair few rich folks in my investigatory dealings, but had never run across a spread like that. Reminded me of a boutique hotel, or a poxy movie where some middle-class ponce restores a gorgeous manor in Tuscany or Provence and finds themselves and true love in the process.

  When we reached the end of the corridor my escort knocked on the open door and walked in. I poked my head round the frame and saw a huge double room with a large wooden desk at one end and a lounge area at the other, filled with furniture that managed to be both overstuffed and understated. A flat screen TV the size of a small billboard adhered to the wall opposite the couch, built-in bookshelves flanking either side. Rod sat behind the desk, which was empty except for a wide, thin LCD computer monitor, wireless keyboard and mouse. His ginger hair was crew cut, like I remembered, but he’d swapped the military get-up for an open-necked white linen shirt. Mozart or Beethoven wafted through the air, one of those symphonies they always played in commercials for luxury cars.

  Rod looked at me and nodded, then dismissed Nazi-boy.

  ‘Thank you, Dean, that will be all.’

  Dean? I’d been hoping for Gunther, Klaus or Helmut. Disappointing. He didn’t even click his heels or perform a clipped salute.

  ‘Sorry, Simone, I’m just finishing up an important chapter. It’ll only take a few moments. Have a look around, make yourself at home.’

  Just before he turned his attention back to the screen he gave me a quick up and down and, judging by his expression, approved of what he saw.

  I’d figured he responded well to ultra-feminine women, recalling Isabella’s floaty outfit, and Rod flirting with Chloe at the writers’ festival, so I’d worn my girliest item of clothing: a moderately frilled white sundress just long enough to cover the fucked-up knees. Made me seem non-threatening, less like a hard-arsed PI, and wouldn’t have looked out of place on a model prancing through fields of sunf lowers in a feminine hygiene ad. In my line of work it could be advantageous to be underestimated, and that’s exactly what most folks did when they discovered I’d flaunted my modest jugs in most of the titty bars in the greater Melbourne area.

  I wandered over to the bookshelf to study the mix of gleaming hardcovers and pristine paperbacks, tilted my head to examine the spines and got a shock when I realised every single book was one of Rod’s. Editions from all over the world lined the shelves, sporting different covers, titles translated into dozens of languages. A framed poster for the film version of his first book, Lethal Entry, hung on the wall, a pumped-up Jean-Claude Van Damme posing in the foreground in torn army fatigues with an AK47 slung over his shoulder. A dishevelled ingenue clung to his leg, lips parted, head level with his crotch, while behind them a helicopter detonated in spectacular fashion.

  I glanced back at Rod. Despite possessing a typing style best described as ‘hunt and peck’, he performed like a concert pianist, raising his hands before swooping them down, stabbing his index fingers at the keys. While he worked his face contorted, lips twitching as though mouthing the words. He punched the keyboard one last time, sat back, blew out some air and rolled his broad shoulders, then slapped his palms on the desk, hoisted himself to a standing position and smiled.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but when the muse strikes . . .’

  So far he was playing charming, so I decided to go along with it.

  ‘Don’t apologise. It must be tough writing a book. You do many drafts?’ I thought it was a safer question than ‘Where do you get your ideas?’

  He walked around the desk. ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Really? Wow.’ I was sure Nick had told me he did three or four.

  ‘Of course, I outline every last detail before I start. Failing to plan is planning to fail, in my opinion.’

  As he approached I noticed brown slip-on shoes made of soft leather and beige pants constructed of the same fabric as the shirt—a finely woven linen that shimmered when he walked and skimmed his bulky muscles, giving him a leaner, taller frame. When he stood beside me I smelled aftershave that must have cost a bomb but was way too sweet and musky for my taste.

  Suddenly remembering why I was there, I told him I was sorry about Isabella and was a little taken aback when he grabbed both my hands, squeezed and sort of jigged them up and down.

  ‘Thank you, Simone. I won’t lie to you, it’s been incredibly hard, but I’m trying to be strong and take it one day at a time.’ He let go of my hands and I was relieved when he didn’t lunge in for a hug.

  ‘Would you join me on the terrace?’ He nodded towards the wide Italianate balcony outside the open French doors. ‘I’ll call up for some drinks. What would you like? Coffee? Tea? San Pellegrino? Wine?’

  My eyes must have lit up and given me away.

  A small smile. ‘Let me guess. You’re the sort of lady who savours a cold climate sauvignon blanc?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Then may I be so bold as to suggest our own, Villa Bella, riesling? Before you protest, it’s not sweet like the rieslings of old, but dry with a crisp, grassy finish and the subtlest hint of fruit. Marvellous.’

  ‘Sounds lovely, but—’

  ‘Be a shame for you to come all this way and not sample such nectar.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve twisted my arm. But just a little. I’m driving.’

  ‘Of course.’

  From his pants pocket he plucked a shiny, rectangular black object that looked like one of those all-in-one computer/ camera/mobile phones, spoke softly into the device, then placed his hand on my elbow to steer me out through the double doors.

  chapter twenty-two

  The balcony was made of sandy, rough-hewn stone and decorated with antique wrought-iron furnishings upholstered in worn brown leather. Delicate flowers spilled from clay urns, and attached to the wall was a terracotta mask in the shape of a lion’s face, dribbling water into a small pond. The sound made my bladder twinge, but I decided not to break the seal just yet.

  Sitting opposite Rod at a small round table, I checked out the view. The villa’s three buildings formed a U shape and framed a courtyard with a rectangular swimming pool made of grey tiles and enclosed by a low stone fence. Neat lawns, hedges and the odd statue surrounded the pool, and the open end of the U provided a spectacular vista of vineyards and distant mountain ranges. Not for the first time I realised I was seriously in the wrong line of work.

  A butler appeared, pushing a cart that rattled over the coarse flooring. Jesus. An actual butler. Or maybe he was a valet? He wasn’t wearing tails but he did have on a nice black suit and tie. I felt like I was either in a movie or tripping on some exceptionally strong acid. He set the table with two large glasses and a plate of gourmet snacks: a washed rind cheese, fresh figs, olives, home-made crackers and thin slices of pear.

  The wine tasted of melon, green apples and grass, and shat all over the casks of riesling I’d guzzled as a dedicated unde
rage drinker.

  ‘Beautiful,’ I said.

  ‘The wine?’

  ‘And the house. Everything.’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s nothing without Bella. I bought it for her and named it after her. The estate is actually a reproduction of the Villa Rossa in Siena. We took our first holiday together there, and it’s where I proposed.’

  ‘Where did you and Isabella first meet, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Not at all. It was at the Perth writers’ week, last February. We were both married to other people at the time, and I’m not proud of that fact, but when twin souls find each other, there’s not much you or anyone else can do about it. We both knew it was bigger than both of us . . . Do you have anyone special in your life?’

  ‘I’m kind of seeing someone . . .’

  ‘Mmm . . .’ He gave me a slightly pitying smile. ‘Not everyone has what Bella and I shared. It’s a once in a lifetime thing. Maybe rarer. Many people never get to experience that sort of . . . transcendent love.’

  It was at that point I decided not to mention Isabella snogging Nick behind the tree.

  ‘So,’ Rod asked, ‘why exactly did you need to see me?’

  I trotted out my excuse about wanting to find out everything I could about Nick so I could clear my name and get my licence back. I wasn’t quite sure if he bought it, but as long as he talked to me I didn’t care.

  ‘An exchange of information, then? Seems like we both want the same thing, for Nick Austin to pay for what he’s done.’

  ‘You’re a hundred percent sure he’s guilty?’

  ‘A hundred and ten. Jilted lover, classic case—if he can’t have her then nobody can. From the moment Bella and I met, Nick refused to let her go. He couldn’t accept that she’d had enough of the drinking, the abuse.’

  ‘Abuse?’ This was news to me.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been taken in by his Mr Nice Guy routine?’ Rod cocked a carefully trimmed brow. ‘She never admitted he actually struck her, although I wouldn’t be surprised. I do know there was pushing and shoving, and on one occasion he punched a hole in the wall, right next to her head. It was the mental abuse, though. They say that’s the worst, don’t they?’