I parked my butt on a low cinderblock wall opposite ROCK FM at seven o’clock, an hour before Desiree’s broadcast was due to start. The area was semi-industrial and the building two storeys of brick, with mirrored windows and double doors out front. I’d peeked through when I first arrived and saw a security guard behind a perspex screen. Looked like everyone had to sign in before gaining entry and I hoped that applied to Desiree too. I remembered her and Chloe’s mini-catfight at the writers’ festival, Chloe saying, like, that’s your real name?, and I wondered what it actually was. Kylie? Bertha? Liz had told me Nick knew, but I couldn’t ask him.
It was still light and I flipped through my file on Nick while I waited. I was just coming to the depressing realisation that my internet printouts and scribbled notes led to absolutely nothing when a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up, a driver in front and two figures in the rear. The man in the back, a chunky guy in a dark suit, jumped out, ran around to the other side of the car and opened the door. A tall woman with a sleek red bob stepped out.
I ran across the road towards her, stuffing the file back into my bag.
‘Desiree!’
I was totally unprepared for what happened next. The chunky guy came at me and shouldered me in the chest, and I dropped like a G-string at a buck’s party. The driver, thinner and dressed in the same kind of suit, ran over. Both of them pulled guns.
‘Get on your front! Hands where we can see ’em!’
I was too winded to move and lay on my back wheezing, attempting to suck in air.
‘Whoa, guys, hold up, I know her.’ Desiree laid manicured fingernails on the first guy’s enormous besuited bicep, and he reluctantly lowered his arm. ‘Simone Kirsch, right? I met you at the Summer Sessions. Curtis’ friend?’
I couldn’t actually talk so I nodded yes to the name question and shook my head for the Curtis one. The men re-holstered their weapons, and the driver held out a hand to help me up. I stood up, doubled over until I got my breath back.
Desiree wore a knee-length pencil skirt and a tight, vaguely S&M-looking halterneck top. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, ‘they thought you were someone else.’
‘Who?’ I panted.
She ignored my question. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I need to talk to you about Nick Austin.’
‘I don’t think so.’
As she walked away I grabbed her wrist and the suits advanced. When I let go they backed off, just.
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Do you think he killed Isabella?’
‘No.’ She crossed her arms.
‘Who did?’
‘I have no idea. What’s it to you, anyway?’
‘I’m trying to help Nick, and you’re not doing him any favours by lying.’
Desiree sucked in her cheeks and lifted her Roman nose. The big guys were looking over, ready to shoulder me again, so I inched forward, speaking quick and quiet.
‘I think whoever killed Isabella is after Nick and they’re also after you. Why else would you have armed bodyguards?’
‘The books I write ensure I get more than my fair share of strange fans.’
‘You didn’t have security at the festival.’
She turned to leave. I didn’t dare approach with the goons ready to go me, but I did raise my voice.
‘Why does somebody want to off you? What does it have to do with the money Nick’s paying?’
Nothing.
‘For fuck’s sake, Desiree, I’m on your side.’
She was ignoring me, climbing the steps to the radio station, when in an instant it became clear. How could I have been so stupid? Bodyguards. Like, that’s your real name? Nick in my flat telling me to warn—
‘Nerida!’
She stopped, slowly turned.
‘After Nick was shot he said to warn Nerida and J somebody. You’re Nerida, aren’t you?’ I was talking softly so the bodyguards couldn’t hear.
She paused like she was wrestling with something.
‘I was Nerida Saunders. I’m not anymore.’
‘How did Nick contact you?’
She didn’t answer, just shook her head, but something in her face seemed to soften and I pushed on, sure I was in with a chance.
‘Then who’s J?’ I kept my voice low. ‘Is it short for Jason or Jayden or what? Has Nick warned him, too?’
She chose her words carefully, clearly not prepared to admit to any contact with Nick. ‘Nobody can find JJ.’
‘JJ?’
‘He’s a poet . . .’ Her eyes misted over for a second and she wobbled slightly on her heels. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d sunk to the concrete step, rested her head on her knees and started to cry, but she didn’t. She blinked rapidly, straightened her back, sniffed and checked her watch. ‘I have to go.’
‘Do you want me to try and find JJ?’
‘Stay out of it, Simone, unless you want to end up like Isabella.’ She put her hand on the door handle, started to push.
‘Desiree, what’s this all about?’ I pleaded. ‘Give me a hint, at least.’
‘You want advice?’ Her face was composed now, all hard planes, sharp cheekbones, Cleopatra eyes glittering like a cat’s.
‘Anything.’
‘How’s this? False fingernails and anal stimulation just don’t mix. It’s from chapter three.’ She opened her handbag and handed over two books wrapped in black fishnet and held together by hot pink ribbon. A fuchsia sticker announced ‘Sizzling Summer Reads, Two for One Special’. The first was her autobiography, the second the sex tips.
‘Christmas promotion,’ Desiree muttered, then looked over my head and addressed the guards in a clipped tone. ‘Make sure she’s gone by the time I’ve finished my show.’ She slipped inside the station.
Damnit. She knew exactly why Nick had run and she wasn’t going to tell me. I wondered if Curtis had an inkling as to what was going on. It would mean I’d have to talk to him and he’d find out I was up to something, but maybe that was a sacrifice I had to make.
What was the connection between Desiree, Nick, Isabella and this JJ dude? Who wanted to off a bunch of writers, why, and how the hell was I gonna find out?
I followed the short concrete path back down to the roadway. One of the guards had the boot up and was removing a bucket full of rags and car polish. Inside were two Louis Vuitton suitcases, stacked on top of each other.
‘Desiree going somewhere?’ I asked.
The guy straightened up and slammed the trunk.
‘Piss off.’ He pointed.
‘Sure.’ I stuck my hands in my pockets and started down the street. The sun had just set and bright orange clouds streaked the darkening indigo sky. It was almost time to meet Sean. I walked to the end of the road and turned left, pretty sure the street I was on was parallel to St Kilda Road. If I kept going for a couple of blocks I’d be able to hang a left and hopefully pop out not far from the police complex and the bar.
As I walked, my mind raced. I didn’t know shit, really, but discovering that Desiree was Nerida made me feel like I was finally getting somewhere.
I was curious about the Desiree/Nick connection. He was the only one aware of her real name, as far as I knew. Had they had a fling? At least I had another avenue to investigate. I also wondered what JJ the poet’s story was, and itched to get on the internet and do a search. If I couldn’t find out anything on publicly available sites then maybe I could get Tony Torcasio to check everyone out on one of the many databases he subscribed to.
Where the hell was the street that connected to St Kilda Road? I kept trying to turn left, but ran into lanes blocked by brick buildings that made up the arse end of the Victorian College of the Arts. Irritating, because I ached from the gym, my hip and shoulder smarted from where I’d connected with the tarmac, and I was sweating in the heat. I badly wanted to flop into a comfy chair at the Amberoom and could practically taste the glass of cris
p, cold sparkling I was determined to order.
The sky was darkening and the air glimmered with that mysterious twilight afterglow. Urban crickets, hiding in the walls of converted factories and scrappy patches of weeds, started their summer-evening chorus. In the distance trams dinged their bells, and I heard cars swishing across the Kingsway overpass en route to the airport or the western suburbs.
I also heard footsteps.
I glanced over my shoulder. A figure strolled a block behind, runners squeaking on the sidewalk.
My heart revved and I tried to calm myself down. Just a dude walking along a footpath, not a crime, no big deal, and besides, I’d been careful all day. No car, just an unpredictable mix of taxis and public transport. I’d kept looking over my shoulder the whole time. I was sure I hadn’t been followed.
I relaxed a little. God, I really had to stop being so nervous and rabbity. Not everybody was a crazed stalker, out to slit my throat. Just to reassure myself, I looked back one last time.
My heart didn’t so much rev as stop completely. The guy was only half a block away and something was very wrong with his face. As he picked up speed and closed the distance between us I finally figured out what it was. He was wearing a mask.
chapter twenty-nine
My legs, already weary and sporting a deep ache from the gym, nearly went out from under me. Then the guy started sprinting and I literally felt adrenaline spurt from the gland and didn’t have to tell myself to move, I was running, thongs slapping the pavement, arms pumping. My backpack slapped my shoulders and buildings blurred as I flew by.
I knew I couldn’t keep up the pace for too long; already my chest was tight and I could hear him gaining ground behind me. I glimpsed a crossroads ahead. Desperate to get off the deserted street I darted left, praying it led to St Kilda Road.
It finished in a dead end at the back of something called Arts Building B.
I stopped, planning to swivel and take a frantic swing at my pursuer, maybe catch him off guard, but he was too quick. Before I could turn he slammed into the back of me, we fell to the concrete, and for the second time in an hour my skin was scoured and I was gasping for breath.
I didn’t have enough oxygen in my lungs to scream, so I bucked and wriggled, frenzied as a vet-bound feline. He grabbed the hair at the base of my skull like I really was a spacked-out cat, lifted my head off the footpath and pressed something sharp into the side of my neck.
I stopped thrashing and stayed perfectly still except for a slight shudder as I breathed in footpath-f lavoured air. The guy was astride me, basically sitting on my butt. His fist was tight and my scalp burned where he was ripping out hairs. His scratchy breathing was amplified by the mask and he smelled of sweat, cigarettes and something sweet and boozy. Bourbon? Funny what you notice when you’re sure you’re going to die. I also observed an abandoned hair elastic on the pavement in front of me and was just debating whether it would be gross and unhygienic to wear something I’d found in the street when a vein throbbed, right near the point of what I assumed to be the knife. Or maybe it was pressing on an artery? Words like carotid and jugular sprang to mind and I finally focused on what was happening to me.
‘Fancy meetin’ you here,’ my assailant said. He had a whiny ocker accent and a raspy voice. I couldn’t remember hearing it before.
‘Who are you?’ I choked out.
‘Your worst nightmare.’
Corny, but it turned my spinal cord to ice.
‘No, really,’ I gasped and tried to swallow. Impossible with my head reefed back. ‘Who are you, what do you want?’
‘Who am I?’ His laugh was a wheezy staccato intake, like Mutley the cartoon dog. ‘Who do you reckon? I’m the king, baby, the fucken king.’
I thought he was truly unhinged, until he jerked my head to the side and bent down. The cheap plastic mask had a black painted quiff, pink sneering mouth, and dark brows above cut-out eyeholes. Elvis.
‘Be-bop-a-lula,’ he said, pushing my face back into the concrete and sitting up again. My lower back throbbed, my arse went numb and I decided not to mention that Gene Vincent had actually recorded the song first. He took his hand off my hair but kept the knife in place.
‘I like Elvis,’ I mumbled, partly because it was true, mainly because I’d read somewhere that if you could establish a personal connection with an attacker they were less inclined to gut you like a trout.
‘I fucken don’t.’ He was tugging at my backpack strap now, pulling it off my shoulder and sliding the bag down my arm. ‘Tunes for pooftas and old cunts. Acca Dacca’s the go, but the costume shop didn’t have Bon Scott.’
I willed someone to walk past the lane, but the College of Arts was shut up for the holidays. A car drove down the adjacent street, headlights pointing the wrong direction to illuminate the dead-end lane. Even if I screamed I doubted a driver would hear me over the engine, and it was likely to get me stabbed in the neck.
I heard Elvis Mask dump the contents of my bag onto the footpath, my notes sliding out of a cardboard folder, keys and change jangling. What did he want with my stuff?
‘You’re the guy who sent me the letter, right? Slashed my tyres, ran my car off the road?’ Although I was acting casual and conversational, I felt stupid as self-pitying tears glazed my eyes.
‘Clever girl. You work that out all by yourself?’
‘How’d you find me?’ I asked, still attempting the personal connection thing with a bit of ego-appeal thrown in. ‘I was looking over my shoulder all day. You must be good.’
‘I am,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Plus I got a knack for being in the right place at the right time.’
‘Huh?’
‘Thought the evenin’ was a write-off when the slut showed up with them Claytons cops. Couldn’t believe it when you run up and the fat one knocks you arse over tit. Fucken bonus.’
It took me a second to pick up on the ramifications of what he’d said and I wondered if I’d heard him right. He’d been threatening me two seconds after I’d started investigating for Liz and he was the guy Nick had warned Desiree about? I didn’t get it. What was the connection? Despite the danger I couldn’t help but ask.
‘Why are you after Desiree? What did Nick and Isabella do? And JJ?’
He didn’t reply, just shuffled through my files.
‘Okay then, what have you got against me?’ I asked.
Still nothing, just the sound of papers being stuffed into a bag.
I searched my memory, desperately trying to find a link, and remembered Desiree telling me to stay out of it unless I wanted to end up like Isabella. Shit, I’d found her body, it had been in the news . . .
‘Did you . . . ?’ I had a hard time getting it out. ‘Are you the one who . . . ?’
Another zipping sound, then he shifted his weight, grabbed the scruff of my neck, and once more I caught a whiff of the fags and chemical-smelling sweat as he leaned forward. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed his gloved hand holding a huge hunting knife with a black rubber grip and a blade of shiny stainless steel. Every cell in my body seemed to dissolve.
‘Did I what?’ he cooed softly into my ear, an Aussie thug’s version of coy.
‘Is—Isabella.’ Her name stuck in my throat. ‘Is it because I found her body? I swear, I didn’t see who did it. I didn’t find any clues. I just, I just spewed my guts out and ran.’
‘I know. Saw you piss-bolt down the street,’ he said.
He had to be Isabella’s killer. I was dead. I let out an involuntary whimper.
‘Awww.’ He released my hair, clumsily patted my head and put on a goo-goo voice, as though talking to a toddler. ‘You scared? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill ya—well, not today. I don’t have the, whatchamacallit? Facilities. I don’t have the right facilities.’
Facilities? What the hell was he talking about? He was crazy, had to be. The mask, the different voices.
‘Why do you want to kill me at all?’ I croaked, hoarse with fear.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. Tell you what though, it’s going to be a hell of a show.’
Show?
His palm thumped my head again, an evil child tormenting a pet.
‘You know what I like about you, Simone? You don’t run whingeing to the snouts, even though you’re rooting one of the filthy fucks. Now, I reckon you’re probably so scared you’re about to piss your little panties, but I’d stick with that policy, yeah? Make things hard for me and there’ll be penalties, yeah? Know all about your friend Chloe, the banged-up slapper. And your mum in Sydney with that faggot brother of yours. Oh, hang on, they’re not in Sydney, they’re up north with the ferals for New Year’s. Then there’s your boyfriend. Don’t think we can’t get to him just ’cause he’s a dog cop. I could waste him easy. One bullet.’ He made a shooting noise in the back of his throat and coughed his abrasive laugh.
Anger at him threatening my friends and family caused a familiar red mist to cloud my vision, but it was tempered by paralysing fear and all I could do was lie there inhaling concrete dust and shaking, thinking about how he’d said ‘we’. Was it a slip of the tongue? If not, who was ‘we’? And were my mum and Jasper really up north? I’d thought they were in Sydney.
He finally got off me. My lower back tingled as the blood flowed back in.
‘Be seeing ya,’ he said.
chapter thirty
The freak in the mask walked off and I lay on the roadway shivering, astonished to find myself alive. After a few minutes I sat up and checked my bag. My wallet had been opened and appeared as though it had been riff led through, and the Nick Austin file was gone.
I tried to remember what I’d had in there. Printouts of articles I’d found on the web. Notes I’d scrawled about my conversations with Jenny and Rod, diagrams connecting people, question marks, circled names. Near impossible for anyone else to decipher.
Had he taken my file in the hope it would lead him to Nick? No wonder Nick was running. Of course, that raised another question: if Elvis Mask really was the murderer, why hadn’t he killed Nick when he’d slaughtered Isabella? Nick had been out cold, would have been easy. Dead men couldn’t make pay-offs, but pay-offs to who, for what reason, and what the hell did it have to do with me?
Thrill City Page 17
