I took a deep breath. Christ, I was worse than a bitch on heat. Could have done with a bucket of cold water, or maybe a quick spray with the hose. I tried to think of Sean, but his face had gone all blurry and he seemed far away, as though he’d never come back from ’Nam. I had to approach before Alex turned and saw me ogling like a playground pervert.
‘Hi,’ I said.
He glanced up and it took him half a second to realise who I was.
‘Simone.’ He smiled, then frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just passing, thought I’d drop in. Your neighbour told me you’d be here.’ I climbed onto the bar stool opposite.
‘Want a drink?’
‘Nah, I’m trying to cut—’
‘Give me a break. I’m already living with one reformed alcoholic.’ He got up, went to the bar and soon returned with a whiskey to supplement his beer, and a glass of champagne for me. He carried both the glasses in one hand, not a good sign. Meant his right arm wasn’t back to normal.
‘Whiskey in winter, champagne in summer, yeah?’
‘That’s right.’ I couldn’t believe he’d remembered. I’d said that to him, what, a year before? ‘So, Suze back off the booze?’
‘And coffee, sugar, preservatives, non-organic vegetables, deep-water fish.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘We’re trying for a baby.’
‘Oh.’ My guts clenched, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Alex had already told me having kids was one of the reasons he wanted to get hitched. ‘Good luck.’
We clinked glasses.
‘Seems like everybody’s popping out sprogs these days,’ I said, thinking of Chloe.
‘Even you?’
‘Huh?’
‘Put on a bit of condition.’ He poked me just above the waistband of my hipster jeans. ‘Thought you might be in the family way.’
‘Bitch.’ I involuntarily sucked in my stomach. ‘That’s low.’
Alex laughed.
‘Settle down, Simone, looks good. Men don’t mind a bit of extra padding, gives us something to hang on to.’
That gave me an image I really didn’t need. There was a short, not entirely comfortable silence in which we sipped our drinks and I feigned interest in a replay of a Manchester United game on one of the TV screens.
‘How’s Graham?’ I asked. Alex’s Burmese.
‘Most people inquire after my wife.’
‘Your cat’s friendlier.’
He grinned and swung his leg under the table so that our knees were touching.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘why are you really here?’
‘Somebody wants to kill me.’
‘What’s new?’
‘Shit, Alex, I’m serious. I really need your help.’ I pulled out the note in the plastic sandwich bag and slid it across the table.
He gave it a cursory glance and shrugged. I moved my leg away because my knee was tingling and it was getting hard to concentrate. Alex frowned, just for a moment.
‘That’s not all,’ I said. ‘I think the same guy slashed my tyres and ran my car off the road. I wasn’t driving, but I could have been.’
‘What do you want me to do about it? Call the cops like a normal person. Christ’s sake, you’re shacked up with a serving member of the state police. How hard can it be?’
‘Sean doesn’t know.’
Alex shook his head.
‘Can you promise to keep a secret?’ I asked.
Alex gave me a disparaging look. ‘Simone, I’m really not in the mood for any girly let’s keep a secret bullshit, especially when it comes to my best mate.’ He downed the rest of his whiskey, chased it with a sip of beer and turned his attention back to the form guide.
The dismissive act made my face prickle. Who did he think he was? I didn’t so much want to sniff his neck as slap his face. I was sick of his superior attitude and the fact he was a total hypocrite.
‘No bullshit girly secrets? You told Sean and Suzy about what happened at your buck’s party, then?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘Well nothing. You think you’ve got something over me?’
‘Not any more than you’ve got over me.’
We stared at each other across the table. His expression was flat and I knew there was no reasoning with him. So I told him what was going on, and why I didn’t want to inform my boyfriend, and after I’d done that I asked very nicely for him to not mention to Sean that I was looking for Nick Austin.
‘Just tell him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You don’t really have much choice.’
‘But if you could make some inquiries . . . You have lots of good mates in the service and it wouldn’t be corrupt, just helping out a friend.’
‘I’m not working for the Ethical Standards Department anymore and I don’t really give a shit about corruption so much as what happened last time I helped out a friend . . .’ He held up his arm and concentrated on making a fist, but his fingers wouldn’t fold. ‘And the time before that.’ He jerked down the front of his t-shirt to show me the puckered bullet scar on his shoulder.
I didn’t know how to respond. Everything he said was true. Helping me out had left him near death and out of work. He had every right to be pissed off. And if I was honest with myself, was it really his help I needed, or did I just want to be near to him, getting off on the amphetamine rush of infatuation? If so, then I was a selfish, immoral bitch. Sorry for myself, too, I noted as my eyes filled with tears. Somewhere in my conniving little head I must have hoped the crying would placate Alex, but it just made him colder.
‘You know, I was glad when I heard you were moving to Vietnam,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Yeah, Sean told me and I thought, thank Christ, I’ll finally have her out of my life. More fucking trouble than she’s worth.’
I sat there with my mouth open, trying to work out exactly what Sean had said.
‘But I haven’t—’
‘Canberra first, then Ho Chi Minh? I can’t imagine even hitmen want to spend time in our nation’s capital so you’ll be quite safe there. Maybe you should leave now.’
I searched his eyes. They were triumphant, venomous. I should never have come. Alex was right. We weren’t friends. We had nothing in common except Sean and a grubby sort of attraction to each other. He had his form guide and his procreation and his expensive flat that he was probably trying to trade in for a family home further out in the suburbs, and unless I was up for some quick, dirty encounter that was too meaningless to even make a blip on his moral radar then he didn’t have much use for me. Screw him.
‘Fine. I will leave.’
‘Good.’
‘Bye then.’ I stood up and felt a mix of shame, anger and unrequited bullshit slop around my veins. ‘Have a nice life, Alex.’
‘Oh, I will.’ He finished his beer and turned his attention to the form guide as I walked out the door.
chapter twenty-seven
I called Liz from a public phone in the park opposite Alex’s place, pretended to be someone else in case her phone was tapped, and arranged to meet her at one pm in a café in Albert Park.
It was a five-minute walk to the station, where I boarded a city-bound train and stared out the window and seethed all the way from Mentone to South Yarra.
As the train left Richmond I pulled myself together, strengthening my resolve, and by the time it shunted past the MCG I’d made up my mind. I’d forget about Alex once and for all and chalk down his buck’s party to a bout of bad behaviour never to be repeated or thought of again. It had been a crush, stupid and childish, and it was time to act like a grown-up instead of a boy-crazy teenage girl.
Sean was great, we got on really well, and as for his opinion on my stripping, well, I was kidding myself to think that any guy would be pleased I was doing it. Hadn’t Alex said as much? Sure, domestic life lacked the excitement of the early days of our relationship: a crazy for
tnight of love triangles and flying bullets, hyped up on a cocaine-like combination of infatuation and adrenaline, but tough shit. That was life and life wasn’t a naff, straight-to-video action movie based on one of Rod Thurlow’s books. Well, not most of the time.
Moving overseas would be exciting enough and the job was a fantastic opportunity only a certified dickhead would pass up. I knew I’d be stuck desk jockeying at first, but if I kept my head down and worked diligently they’d eventually have to throw me some fieldwork, surely. Canberra was a bit iffy, but that was only for a few months.
As the train pulled into Spencer Street Station I realised I’d made my decision. I was going to Vietnam. I felt like calling Sean and telling him straight away, but thought it’d be better to do it in person, after a glass of champagne. He’d be stoked. I got off the train and looked up at the high, wavy ceiling and had an expansive feeling, like life was opening up rather than closing down and trapping me.
I breathed out, strode up the concrete ramp to Spencer Street to find a tram, and felt light on my feet. I’d made my decision, organised my life, put all my ducks in a row. And all your eggs in one basket, whispered a voice in my head. I ignored it.
There was, of course, the small matter of the death threats, but I had a solution to that, too. I phoned my ex-boss while I waited for the tram.
‘Tony, can you talk?’
‘Sure, what’s up?’ He sounded wary. He usually did when I called. It was another good reason to leave. Everybody in this town had obviously had enough of me and I had no favours left to call in. Still, I wasn’t asking for favours this time.
‘I want to hire you.’
‘To do what?’ he asked.
‘Follow me.’
‘Huh?’
‘I think someone’s stalking me, and I want you to follow, catch him in the act and then hopefully I can identify him.
Don’t worry, I’m flush, I can pay.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow, say nine till five?’ I suggested.
‘I was doing some surveillance . . .’
‘If you can’t, then one of your subcontractors?’
‘Nah, I’ll do it, get someone else to take over the factory job. What’s the brief?’
‘Start outside my flat. I’m gonna leave about eleven am and just sort of drive around and run some errands. There’ll be some in-vehicle surveillance, some on foot. Sound alright?’
‘Too easy.’
‘I don’t need to tell you to make sure you’re not spotted.’
‘No, you don’t. How many years I been doing this?’
•
Victoria Road, Albert Park, was a wide street full of lattice-trimmed terraces that had been converted into restaurants, bookshops, clothing boutiques and the sort of stores that specialised in expensive scatter cushions and fancy lamps.
The café doubled as a deli, and built-in shelves held gourmet produce for sale: arborio rice, quince and plum pastes, imported spices in ornately decorated tins. A rack by the door contained flour-dusted spelt and sourdough bread. Ladies who lunch, latte-sipping mums and real estate agent types in suits and ties sat chatting, sounds bouncing off the polished wood floor.
Liz was squished into a table by a glass case heaped with cheese, olives and cured meat. I walked over.
‘Hi.’
‘Hey. I’ve just ordered a sandwich. You want something?’
‘I’ll go.’
At the counter I passed over the cheese plate and pinot for a chicken and avocado salad, black coffee and water, feeling slimmer, purer and more righteous by the second.
‘What’s going on?’ Liz leaned forward as I slid into the chair opposite. She looked even thinner than she had at the Stokehouse, if that was possible, her flicked-out hair more grey than blonde.
I told her most of what I’d found out and she seemed impressed that I’d tracked down Jenny and got an audience with Rod, even though I hadn’t actually learned much. Our lunch arrived and Liz took a bite of her turkey salad sandwich while I blew on my coffee.
‘Has Nick contacted you again?’ I asked.
She shook her head as she chewed.
‘You don’t have any contact details for Desiree, do you?’ I asked. ‘An address or phone number?’ I really didn’t want to get Curtis involved.
‘She’s pretty private. Hardly anyone knows her real name, although I think Nick might have. All I have is an email and a post office box.’
‘No worries. She does her radio show tonight so I’ll see if I can “bump” into her at the station. Speaking of agents, you know anything about Rod’s, Brendan Whatsit?’
‘There’s been a lot of speculation about that guy. Rod doesn’t even need an agent. I mean, you’ve met him, he’s pretty assertive and brokers most of the deals himself. Brendan doesn’t do much except handle the contracts and apparently Rod pays him a lot more than ten percent.’
‘Why?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Is he Rod’s bum boy? His illegitimate son? An old friend he owed and wanted to give a ride to? Believe me, this has been discussed ad nauseum at cocktail parties and writers’ festivals for years. No one knows. I’ve never actually met him. What’s he like?’
‘Bit of a weasel.’ I told her about our lunch.
‘He doesn’t seem to have liked Isabella. Do you think . . . ?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up. I’ll have a bit of a dig, though. Can’t discount anything at this stage.’ I ate a couple of forkfuls of chicken salad. ‘Another person I can’t reach is Victoria Hitchens. I’ve tried everything. Any contacts?’
Liz thought about it while she brushed crumbs from her mouth. She bundled up the paper napkin and laid it on top of the sandwich. She’d only taken two bites.
‘You doing anything New Year’s Eve?’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Victoria’s having a combined New Year’s Eve party and book launch on a boat on the Yarra. Great view of the fireworks, tickets are the hottest property in town.’
‘How would I get one?’
Liz reached down the side of her chair and pulled her big, caramel-coloured leather handbag onto her lap. She retrieved a long wallet with lots of compartments, slid out a slender envelope and waved it in front of my face. I opened it to find a gold embossed invitation.
Victoria Hitchens and Caravelle Press
cordially invite you to a masked ball to celebrate the launch
of Victoria’s new bestseller
Masquerade
New Year’s Eve
7 pm to late
MV Neptuna
Crown Promenade
Mandatory Fancy Dress
‘Her publicist used to work with me at Wet Ink,’ Liz explained.
‘Won’t she be disappointed you’re not there?’
‘There’ll be so many people she won’t even notice. And the last thing I feel like is a party, everyone staring, asking me questions about Nick.’
‘You don’t happen to have an outfit, do you?’
‘Yeah, I got one made, but . . .’
‘What?’
‘No way it’ll fit you.’
I stopped chasing around the last piece of chicken with my fork.
‘I’m not saying you’re fat,’ she said, seeing the look on my face, ‘just more muscular, sort of . . . broad around the back.’
Nice save, sorta.
‘No worries. I’ll go to a costume hire shop.’
She frowned.
‘What?’
‘I was talking to a friend the other day who’s going. Every costume place in town seems to be out of masquerade ballgowns. My friend actually flew to Sydney to hire something, maybe—’ ‘By masquerade ball we’re talking those corseted, Frenchy, Dangerous Liaisons style outfits, right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’ve got it covered.’
Liz raised her eyebrows.
I did. I’d remembered that one of Chloe’s girls’d had something made for a Marie An
toinette-turns-porno-slut themed show. I was sure she’d let me borrow it if the price was right.
chapter twenty-eight
After lunch I strolled around Albert Park for a while, wandering into shops, touching jewelled candle holders and embroidered pillow cases that I couldn’t afford and didn’t really want anyway. The sales assistants seemed to sense it and after a few snooty looks I was back out on the footpath, at a loose end. I was too wired for another coffee, couldn’t have a real drink because that’d wipe out the rest of the day, and I still had five hours until Desiree’s sex-advice show. Going home or to the office was out of the question as I didn’t want my mad stalker to pick up my trail, at least not until I had Tony there to watch my back. I passed a sportswear shop, which reminded me I really ought to put in a couple of hours at the gym, but I didn’t have my gear. Unless . . .
Half an hour later and five hundred bucks broker I walked out of the shop with a whole new workout outfit, including shoes and socks. The bill had taken my breath away, but shit, I needed new runners and had hardly spent any of the money Liz had paid me for the job.
The gym was opposite the Elsternwick railway station and sat above a chicken shop on Glenhuntly Road. If the wind was right you could smell chips and gravy in the aerobics room. It was a big barn of a place and not the slightest bit stylish or trendy, which suited me fine. The women dressed in bike shorts and big floppy t-shirts, and most of the men had abundant back hair and wore nylon running shorts that ballooned at the thigh so you could see their jocks, if they were wearing any.
I felt out of place in my new, matching cotton-lycra tights and sleeveless tank, but soldiered on nonetheless, doing an hour on the treadmill then another of free weights for every muscle I knew of, and some I didn’t. By the time I’d finished my legs were so wobbly I barely made it down the stairs to the change room.
After the gym I called Sean and told him I had something important to tell him. He was finishing at nine and we arranged to meet at a bar in the Royce Hotel, right across the street from the St Kilda Road Police Complex and walking distance from the radio station in Southbank where Desiree was doing her show.
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