Thrill City

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘The attack on Victoria Hitchens is connected with Nick Austin,’ I said.

  That got her attention.

  ‘But I’m not saying anything until you do something for me. I need my mother and brother, and my friend Chloe, in protective custody and I need to know that Sean is safe. The same with Liz Austin and her mother and brother.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything until I know they’re alright.’

  An hour later Talbot was back, telling me that Jasper and Peta were with the Byron Bay coppers and Chloe was at the St Kilda Police Station on Chapel Street. Sean was on his way. Liz had refused to leave her flat, so was under police guard. No one was happy about it, apparently, but I didn’t care.

  Talbot and her offsider, the paunchy Jefferson Archer, sat in front of me. Talbot had a file with my name on it that appeared to be even fatter than the last time I’d seen it. The video camera was in the corner, red on-light an unblinking eye.

  ‘How’s Victoria?’ I asked.

  ‘In surgery. Looks like she’s going to make it. The bones in her corset stopped the knife from penetrating her heart.’

  Relief flooded my chest. Thank god.

  ‘Have they caught the guy who attacked us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Found his body?’ I asked hopefully.

  A headshake.

  ‘How’d he get on the boat?’

  ‘Mugged a guest and stole his clothes and his invitation. The man’s at the Alfred with head injuries.’

  ‘You ready to talk?’ Archer growled. ‘You said the attack had something to do with Austin. Was he there?’

  ‘No, I don’t know where he is. But the guy who stabbed Victoria is the same one who killed Isabella. He and his cronies set Nick up for the murder and are demanding he pay out a large amount of cash. I don’t know what they’ve got over Nick, but they’re also threatening to kill Nerida Saunders—aka Desiree—and a performance poet slash uni lecturer called Jerome Jones, from Adelaide. Desiree and Jerome were on a writers’ travelling roadshow thing with Nick and Isabella a few years back. That’s the only way I can connect them. Victoria wasn’t, so why she was targeted I don’t know. I also don’t know why they want to kill me.’

  ‘’Cause you’re a pain in the ass,’ Archer suggested. Talbot shot him a censorious glance and he looked down and clicked his pen.

  ‘I started getting death threats just after Nick got shot in my flat,’ I said.

  ‘Why didn’t you report them?’ Talbot asked.

  I shrugged. ‘I didn’t take them seriously at first. Thought someone was just trying to wind me up. But then I was attacked by the same guy who stabbed Victoria. He was wearing an Elvis Presley mask and he held a knife to my throat.’

  ‘And you didn’t report that, either?’

  I hated Archer’s smug, jowly face. ‘No. He said he’d kill my family, Chloe and Sean if I talked to the police. Which is why I just asked you to protect them. He knew exactly where my mum and brother were, even though I didn’t, and he said, Don’t think we can’t get to them. We. That’s why I reckon he’s not working alone, plus he’s too fucking deranged to be organising the whole thing himself. Someone else has to be pulling the strings.’

  ‘How come you know all this about Nick Austin? Detective Talbot told you to stay out of it.’

  Time for the ruse I’d made up in the hour they’d left me alone.

  ‘I was, but the timing of the threats made me think it was connected to Nick so I did a little digging around, trying to find enough information to protect myself. I wasn’t breaking any laws.’

  ‘Why’d you want Liz Austin in protective custody?’

  ‘I have reason to believe she’s in danger if Nick doesn’t cough up enough money.’

  ‘How did you find out this mystery . . . cabal are squeezing Austin for cash?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘Because the same person who told me Nick’s family were in danger also lent him forty grand to pay them off. Wasn’t enough, though. I think that’s why he won’t go to the police. He gives himself up, they don’t get paid, and his family and friends get killed in retribution.’

  ‘So who lent him the cash?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘Look, I promised I wouldn’t say.’

  Talbot rolled her eyes, flipped through her file and scanned a printout.

  ‘We already know Elisabeth Austin withdrew forty thousand dollars from her bank account a week ago. Liz. That who it was?’

  I shrugged. You didn’t break client conf identiality, especially when you were working illegally.

  Talbot sighed. ‘We’ve had her under surveillance.’

  Shit.

  Archer piped up. ‘She wouldn’t have hired you to look for him, would she?’

  ‘My licence is suspended.’ I tried to look sincere. ‘That would be against the law.’

  I was there for hours, being honest when it counted, telling half-truths when I had to, and refusing to answer the occasional question if I thought it might incriminate me. They kept trying to trip me up but I stuck to my story, refused to implicate Liz over the forty grand, and said I’d managed to slip past the party security without an invite.

  I let Talbot know that Isabella had been acquainted with Lachlan Elliot, but if this news got her juices flowing, she didn’t give any sign.

  By the time someone had formally typed up my statement, it was three in the morning on New Year’s Day.

  A uniformed officer escorted me back to the same hotel on St Kilda Road that Sean and I had stayed in after Nick was shot in my flat. Sean was waiting for me, Chloe had the adjoining room and there were a couple of cops in the suite across the hall. You needed a swipe card to access specific floors so it was pretty secure, and would suffice while they figured out what to do with us. I wasn’t sure what was going on with my mum. It was too late to call so I resolved to ring in the morning.

  I thanked the copper and used a card to get into the room, opening the door carefully in case Sean was asleep. I hoped he was so we wouldn’t have to have the ‘big talk’.

  No such luck. All the lights were on and he was sitting out on the balcony. Gauzy curtains trembled and unfurled in the warm predawn breeze. I said hello, but he didn’t reply, or even look at me.

  It could have been the same room we’d had before: identical beige stylings, fake mahogany desk, TV opposite the bed. My overnight bag sat on a chair. Sean must have gone home and packed it. He knew the drill.

  I glimpsed myself in the mirror and saw that my hair had dried stiff and frizzy and my cheek was turning from red to purple, marking the spot where pain radiated out along the bone. The tracksuit wasn’t a real good look either.

  I should have showered, but was too bone tired. I took a singlet from my bag and a pair of Sean’s boxer shorts from his, changed and pulled my hair into a ponytail. Stooping to open the fridge I plucked out a half-bottle of chardonnay and found a wine glass on a tray next to the kettle and the too-small coffee cups. Then I joined him on the balcony, the bad girlfriend, ready for my ear-bashing.

  ‘Hey, babe.’ I bent down and kissed his cheek.

  He didn’t react.

  I flopped into the chair opposite and poured a glass of wine. Yellow as vitamin B piss and oaky as hell, but it’d have to do. Sean had a few little bottles of vodka in front of him, and the tin that contained his pipe and stash of grass. Except for the tie he was still in his work outfit: black pants and a striped shirt, rolled up to the elbows. He dragged on his Marlboro Light and looked towards the botanic gardens where the elms were huge hulking shadows. Beyond the gardens the lights of the eastern suburbs twinkled. Sound drifted up to us from St Kilda Road: speeding cars, sirens, hooting drunks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, for about the trillionth time in my life.

  He still didn’t say anything, or look at me, so to fill the silence I launched into an abbreviated version of what I’d told the cops.

  ‘Bullshit.’ He finally turned, his
blue eyes arctic.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not an idiot so don’t treat me like one.’ His Scottish accent got stronger when he was mad, and he started rolling all his r’s. ‘Strange that you never mentioned the death threats.’

  ‘I didn’t think they were ser—’

  ‘You see, I don’t really buy that. I think you couldn’t tell me because you were hiding something—the fact you’d been hired to find Nick Austin.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Simone, we were in this same room when you asked me what I’d think if you took the case. You were fishing. You did take it. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I noticed you acting weird and distant, but I put it down to the fact you’ve had a lot of shit to deal with, not to mention the whole moving overseas thing. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to pressure you.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘You really went and threw it all back in my face, didn’t you? Do you have any idea what being in a relationship means? Any idea at all?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘It’s a partnership, it’s two people who care about each other supporting one another, working together, being honest, not lying and sneaking around. Do I really mean that little to you?’

  ‘Sean.’ I reached out my hand, laid it on his forearm.

  He shrugged it off and stood up.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.

  chapter thirty-seven

  I slept fitfully, pain jabbing my cheekbone whenever I rolled over and accidentally rested my injured side on the pillow. Sean was curled into himself, his back to me, and each time I tried to put my arm around him he inched further away until he reached the far side of the mattress, teetering on the edge. I checked the red display on the digital clock every five minutes, it seemed, and by eight in the morning decided I’d had enough, and got up.

  I showered and tried not to wake Sean as I dressed in jeans and a singlet, slipping thongs onto my feet. I grabbed my handbag, left the room and knocked on the door opposite. The copper, a young guy with a crumpled suit and dishevelled hair, yawned and escorted me down to the breakfast buffet in the restaurant adjacent to the lobby. The room was only half full, and he sat at a different table, drinking coffee and reading the paper.

  I loaded up my plate with soggy scrambled eggs, collapsing tomatoes and small, pale sausages. A waitress poured me a cup of burnt coffee and I washed it down with some unnaturally pink juice that had been labelled ‘guava’ but tasted mainly of sugar.

  Once it was all in my mouth there was no need for chewing. The food disintegrated into savoury water and I pushed the plate away. I couldn’t help going over what Sean had said the night before and mentally attempting a moving speech in response. I saw myself starting with the teeniest bit of justification, laying on a big slab of contrition, and concluding with a double whammy: pleas for forgiveness plus hopes for our future life together. All going well, he’d take me in his arms while a crowd cheered, music swelled and the American flag waved in the background. I wondered if I’d get away with Victoria’s quote about the transformative power of love. Probably not.

  Oh god. I was so tired I was delirious. My eyelids felt raw and scratchy and my face still throbbed and twinged. I knew I should get it checked out but doubted there was anything the doctors could do for a cheekbone, short of a full head cast with two little nose-holes to breathe through. It crossed my mind to call Chloe to come join me so we could start drinking mimosas, but she usually slept till midday and was known to become violent if roused any earlier. I didn’t want to deal with Sean until I had to, and preferably with a couple of cocktails under my belt to shield me against the sickening reality of my own bad behaviour. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if he’d done the same thing to me and realised he was right. I’d been a shit.

  I waved over the middle-aged waitress.

  ‘Can I get a glass of champagne?’

  ‘We don’t serve alcohol with breakfast.’ She gave me a look.

  I sat back. Could it get any worse? Well, yeah. I could be lying in the ICU at Prince Alfred like Victoria, stab wounds to the chest.

  At a loss and not wanting to go back to the room I dug my mobile out of my bag and checked the messages. Twenty. Twenty was bad. A few were from my mum so I took a deep breath and called her back. I owed her an explanation as to what was going on, and I figured that once I’d talked to her, dealing with Sean would be a piece of piss.

  Soon as she answered, I did my spiel: the grovelling apology followed by approximately five minutes of half-truths that didn’t seem to be convincing anyone. Silence after I’d finished. Ten seconds that felt like ten years. Finally she spoke.

  ‘I see you haven’t taken any of my advice. If anything, you’ve attracted more violence and negative energy into your life. I’m only going to say this one more time: it’s up to you to control your spiritual destiny. I know people who can help you out with that, but not until you’re ready to admit you have a problem.’

  ‘I don’t need help.’ I was tearing up a paper napkin and rolling the sections into balls. ‘I’m not going to be a PI for much longer, or a stripper. Me and Sean are moving to Vietnam. I’m getting a government job.’

  That was supposed to be my trump card and I expected her to be surprised and happy. She was neither.

  ‘You sure about that?’ she said coolly.

  ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘Sean called me last night to let me know what was going on, and we had a nice long chat. He seems like a really good guy.’

  Too good for you, I translated when she paused.

  ‘The sense I got,’ she continued, ‘was that he’s unsure the relationship is strong enough to withstand the pressures of working together and moving overseas. He’s not convinced you’re ready for that sort of commitment. And I’d have to agree. If you haven’t worked on yourself and your problems, then moving to another country is just running away. And running away never solved anything. It’s a coward’s way out.’

  The napkin was completely decimated and there was an intense pressure behind my eyes that I felt could only be relieved by flinging the remaining guava juice at the window overlooking St Kilda Road. I didn’t, just breathed hard through my nose thinking up bitchy comebacks. From which top fifty self-help books did you cobble together that shit? was number one.

  ‘So where are you staying?’ I asked mildly. ‘Are you still with the police?’

  ‘No. I’m home.’

  ‘But they’re outside, right?’

  ‘I told them their presence wasn’t necessary. Jasper’s going up to Brisbane to see some friends and I’m off to a two-week yoga retreat.’

  ‘You can’t,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ By the tone of her voice I could tell she was arching an eyebrow. ‘Not only did I organise and pay for it months ago, but I refuse to be held hostage to this . . . darkness you surround yourself with. It’s horrifying, quite frankly, and I won’t be caught up in it. Not anymore.’

  She hung up.

  I rang back.

  A recorded message told me her phone would be switched off until the fifteenth of January.

  I sat there, stunned. She was blowing off the police protection and blithely skipping along to a yoga workshop, feeling secure in the knowledge that because she had good vibes, the universe would look after her. Fucking hippies. Unless she had a death wish since Steve had passed on. Couldn’t discount that either. I wondered if it were possible to force people into police protection. I doubted it. Christ.

  chapter thirty-eight

  Still at the breakfast table, I fiddled with my phone. Most messages I had no intention of dealing with. I opened a text from Tony: Emailed those details. T.

  So I had the phone numbers of the other writers who’d been on the roadshow. I looked around. No sign of Sean. Wouldn’t hurt to give them a call, just to see what they had to say. I could always pass on any info to the cops, assist their investigation, win myself a few brownie points . .
.

  I pushed back the chair, threw my napkin on the table and walked through the lobby to the small glassed-in business centre where all my research on the case had started. I found the numbers in my inbox and called them one by one.

  JJ’s phone rang out, neither Thomas Finch nor Albert Da Silva picked up, and I cursed the summer holidays. I didn’t anticipate having much luck with Cecelia Levy, either, but she answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Cecelia?’

  ‘Speaking. Who’s this?’

  ‘You don’t know me but it’s possible you’ve heard of me. I’m a private detective, Simone Kirsch.’

  ‘I read about you in the papers. That business with Nick Austin.’

  ‘That’s me. Were you and Nick friends?’

  ‘Acquaintances, I suppose. We met on a writers’ thing where we went around in a minibus to rural areas for six weeks. He was a nice fellow, we got along very well, but I haven’t seen him in three years. What’s this all about?’

  ‘I’m trying to help Nick,’ I said. ‘I believe he’s been set up for Isabella Bishop’s murder and I’m trying find him before some really bad guys do. He’s in a lot of danger and I think it all goes back to the roadshow.’

  ‘The roadshow? You must be joking.’

  ‘I’m not. Can you tell me about it? Anything unusual happen? Any trouble?’

  ‘Nothing apart from a few flat tyres. Oh, and no one turned up to a book signing in Wilcannia but that was because the local footy club was playing in the grand final. We packed in the signing and went along to watch! I suppose the only thing to happen of note was that Nick and Isabella started a romance. Oh, and JJ broke a few hearts. Poets . . .’

  ‘Did JJ really annoy any of the locals? Stir up any green-eyed boyfriends or husbands?’

  ‘Goodness, no. Most everybody loved him. He did workshops with the kids and organised poetry slams in the evenings. People came from miles away to read their work. It was wonderful.’