Cherry Pie (8 page)

I decided to stop for supplies on the way home, and by the time I ducked into the Ormond Road IGA, pellets of freezing rain were attacking my head.

Bypassing the stuff I really wanted—crusty ciabatta bread, unsalted butter and frozen lasagne—I bought a cauliflower, homebrand tuna and a tub of cottage cheese. It was too cold for salad and I’d recently figured out I could mash the three ingredients together for a cheap, low fat, no carb dish that was just like tuna mornay. But not.

I lived on Broadway, a wide, tree lined street with renovated bungalows on one side and a mixture of units, townhouses and thirties flats on the other. Rain pocked the surface of the canal as I crossed the bridge and a fishy smell rose from the water.

There was no shelter under the bare branches and by the time I retrieved a couple of soggy bills from my letterbox, I was soaked and shivering. I’d just turned to walk up the path to the security entrance when I heard a voice behind me.

‘Simone.’

I turned. Detective Senior Constable Alex Christakos stood on the footpath, rain pattering the fabric of his large, dark blue umbrella.

Alex always looked good and that day was no exception.

Thick dark hair swept back from his forehead, his eyes were their usual dark chocolate and his wide mouth was just plump enough to bite. A slight five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw even though he must have shaved only a few hours before. He wore a long charcoal wool coat, a well cut suit and navy tie with a subtle pattern of little squares.

My hair was plastered to my scalp and water ran down my face.

‘Alex. Shit. Haven’t seen you for months.’

‘Been a while,’ he agreed.

‘You here about the court case?’ Alex and I were going to be prosecution witnesses in a major trial later in the year.

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘I can’t make a social call?’

‘Ha. Suzy wouldn’t let you.’ I blinked through the rivulets of rainwater running into my eyes. ‘You are still engaged, aren’t you?’

‘Wedding’s in November. Why don’t we go inside. You look like a soggy Chihuahua.’

Thanks. ‘I warn you. Place is a mess.’

‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

‘This place is a shitfight!’ Alex hung his coat on the back of the door and surveyed the room with his mouth turned down.

‘It’s not that bad.’

I switched on the gas heater, dumped my shopping bags on the kitchen counter and ran back in to the combined lounge/dining room to gather up newspapers, copies of
Australasian Investigator
magazine, and bowls encrusted with cauliflower mash. Alex was about to sit in the overstuffed armchair I’d found in the street on hard rubbish day, looked behind him and plucked something from the cushion. A pair of my oldest, daggiest knickers dangled from his index finger.

Faded black, elastic peeping through holes in the fabric, not entirely clean. I snatched them off him so fast I nearly dropped the bowls.

‘It’s cold. I get dressed in front of the heater.’

‘I can see that.’ With one shiny black lace-up he nudged the flannelette PJs lying in a heap on the floor. He always wore nice shoes.

‘Sit,’ I said. ‘Stay. I’ll be five minutes.’

I dumped the newspapers in the cardboard box I used as a recycle bin, chucked the bowls in the sink and ran to the bathroom, ripped off my soaking outfit, had a quick shower and dressed in jeans, an oversized man’s shirt and thick socks. I ran a comb through my wet hair and put on a little powder, mascara and lip gloss. Not that I was trying to impress him or anything.

When I returned I found Alex had disobeyed my instructions and was rummaging around my kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers. It had last been renovated in the late eighties so the surfaces were all grey laminate with pink trim.

‘Got anything to drink?’

I opened the fridge to display the cask and his top lip curled back.

‘I was thinking more like Jameson’s.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

I stuck on my white plastic kettle, rinsed out the plunger and pulled the coffee tin from the freezer. As I scooped grounds Alex went through my shopping bag.

‘Do you mind?’

He held up the no name tuna. ‘You’re eating cat food now? Must really be doing it tough.’

I snatched the tin. ‘Not cat food. People food. Check the can. Nowhere does it say unfit for human consumption.’

‘I tried to feed my cat this shit once, he wouldn’t touch it.’

‘You have a cat?’

‘Uh-huh.’

I leaned back on the bench and studied him.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing. I just thought you’d be a dog person.’

‘Why?’

‘Need a pet that obeys.’

‘Shows how much you know. I like how cats are independent and don’t take any shit. Plus, you don’t have to walk them.’

I stuck my cauliflower on to steam and we took our coffees into the lounge. Alex checked out my CD collection, picked one of the few jazz disks in a wall of alt country, and put it on.

Miles Davis.

‘Make yourself at home,’ I said as he sat back down.

‘Really into that country shit, huh?’

‘You’d better believe it.’

I flashed back to the night I’d forced him to see Doug Mansfield and the Dust Devils at the Greyhound. We’d ended up in a laneway with his hand up my dress. He must have remembered too because he suddenly became very interested in his coffee cup, as though an image of Jesus had just appeared in the crema.

Alex and I had gotten into a lot of passionate clinches without ever going ‘all the way’. I guessed we never would now that he was marrying fellow officer Suzy McCullers and I was going out with Sean, his best friend. It was just as well.

I’d first met Alex at a strip club and I’m not convinced a relationship can ever work if the guy sees you naked within ten minutes of meeting you.

‘How’re the wedding plans going? Bet you’re excited.

Been practising the bridal waltz?’

He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You know I’ve been married before, when I was twenty-one? Big Greek wedding? Didn’t want to go through all that shit again so I thought we’d just do the registry office thing, then out to dinner with a few friends and immediate family. But she’s got her mother involved. Eight bridesmaids, as many groomsmen, flower girls, page boys. I ever tell you little kids in suits freak me out? Guest list’s blown out to over two hundred and, get this, she wants a carriage, with horses, and for us to dress up in poncy medieval gear.’ He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

‘This fucking outfit she’s picked for me, it’s got, like, gold brocade. It’s got puffy sleeves.’

I choked down a laugh. I knew it wasn’t nice, but Alex bitching about Suzy’s bad taste made me feel really good. She had punched me unconscious once so I felt entitled to a little gloating. I rearranged my face to look serious.

‘C’mon, Alex, let her have her princess fantasy. It’s every little girl’s dream.’

‘Not yours.’

‘No. In the unlikely event I ever get hitched it’d take place in Vegas with Elvis impersonators, strippers and a shitload of Bolivian marching powder.’

Alex shook his head at the mention of drugs. He was so straight I was willing to bet he’d never even smoked a J.

Unlike his best mate.

‘I could see Sean being in that. Heard from him lately?’

‘’Bout a week ago.’

‘Miss him?’ The question, coming from Alex, made me uncomfortable.

‘Of course.’

Enough pussyfooting around. I tucked my legs under me, sipped my drink and rested the cup on the coffee table. ‘So spill, Senior Constable. Why are you really here?’

He slid an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, handed it over and I pulled out a stack of photos. The shots were grainy and it took me a moment to realise what I was seeing. Holy shit. It was me and Trip out the back of Jouissance.

‘Where did you get these?’ I asked, flipping through them.

‘Get these? I took the fucking things.’

‘What?’

‘From a unit block behind the restaurant.’

‘I don’t understand. You’re looking for Andi Fowler too?’

‘The missing waitress? Hardly. I’m fraud. We’ve been investigating Trip Sibley.’

‘What’s the fraud?’

‘Can’t talk about an official police case. What’s going on with the waitress?’

‘Sorry.’ I said. ‘Client confidentiality.’

We stared at each other over the coffee table, a Mexican standoff. I tried to look inscrutable while my mind raced at a million miles. I was dying to know what Trip was being investigated for. It had to have something to do with Andi going missing. I couldn’t help myself and broke first.

‘It’s to do with the suss deliveries after midnight, isn’t it?’

I blurted. ‘The ones courtesy of “colourful” Sydney businessman Sam Doyle.’

Alex shrugged and put on a blank cop face that infuriated me so much I briefly considered slapping some expression into it. Instead I grabbed the empty coffee cups, marched into the kitchen, clattered them into the sink and turned off the stove. Alex followed and leaned against the slatted door of the pantry, wrinkling his nose at the farty, sulphurous smell.

‘I’m not stupid, Alex.’ I tonged the cauliflower into a bowl, picked up a fork and mashed it into a lumpy paste. ‘You’re obviously here to pick my brains, but you know how it works.

I won’t give up shit unless you share information with me.’

I opened the tuna and realised he was right, it did look a lot like pet food.

‘I’m not here for information,’ he said.

I snorted, mixed in the fish and opened the fridge to retrieve the cottage cheese. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m here because I’m not the only one who recognised you in the photos. Our case is at a critical juncture and my boss ordered me to tell you to stay the hell away from Trip Sibley.’

I was halfway through peeling the foil back on the plastic tub and froze, every muscle tense. ‘Why?’

He laughed. ‘C’mon, Simone, you’ve said it yourself. You’re trouble with a capital T.’

I swung around and when he saw my face he held out his palms. ‘Hey, I’m not saying you’re a bad investigator but you have to admit, things have a habit of going pear shaped when you get involved and we can’t risk tipping the suspects off. Look, it’ll only be for a week or so, just until we’ve wrapped things up. If I find out anything about the waitress along the way, I’ll let you know.’

He thought I was a fuck-up. The whole goddamn police force did. I was about to tell him just where to shove his orders when I had a better idea. It was risky, I might not be able to pull it off, but if I did I could possibly help Andi and prove Alex wrong all at the same time.

‘Okay, sure. I’ll back off.’ I turned and scooped about half the cottage cheese into the bowl, added salt, pepper and Tabasco sauce, and stirred.

‘Really?’ He sounded like he didn’t believe me.

I leaned back against the bench, bowl in hand, and tried to look sincere. ‘Yeah. I don’t want to piss off you guys and risk losing my license again. And realistically, I blew my cover last night. There’s no way I’d get away with waltzing back into Jouissance. I was already thinking I’d concentrate my inquiry on other avenues, like the boyfriend and stuff. You promise you’ll let me know if you find anything on Andi?’ I forked the cauliflower mixture into my mouth. It really was a taste sensation.

‘Absolutely.’ He smiled, relieved, then screwed up his face when he saw what I was eating. ‘That smells like an old folks’

home and looks like something my cat sicked up. What the hell is it?’

‘Kind of like tuna mornay?’ I said through a mouth full of slop. ‘But not.’

The Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology was sprawled across a couple of city blocks on the northern edge of the CBD and comprised maybe twenty different buildings, from gothic bluestone to modern structures of concrete and steel. I drove to the city and parked under a new shopping complex that took up a whole block between Lonsdale Street and Latrobe, then followed Liam’s instructions to Bowen Street. It was more of a lane really, blocked off to traffic, skinny trees and wooden benches lining either side. Students in coats and bulky jackets, weighed down with backpacks, hurried into buildings, out of the cold and rain. Wherever Andi was, I hoped it was somewhere warm.

The cafeteria where I’d arranged to meet Liam was a couple of hundred metres down the lane and the entrance looked like something out of
Playschool
, a wall of glass squares coloured blue, yellow and red. I looked around. The only person I could see was a gangly guy leaning against a tiled pillar, smoking a cigarette and sheltering from the rain.

‘Liam?’

He was all in black, from his jeans to his gel-spiked hair. He had a long neck with a prominent Adam’s apple and the face on top was slightly beaky. He was no more than nineteen, with remnants of teenage acne that looked raw and inflamed where he’d shaved. Guys that young did nothing for me, but I noted he had a kind of intense poutiness that might turn into something in five years’ time.

‘Simone Kirsch?’ His voice was a little strangled.

‘That’s me.’ I held out my hand and the wooden beads around his wrist rattled as he gave it a limp shake.

‘I’ve read all about you. Big fan of Curtis Malone. You look different than I imagined.’

‘I’d normally show up in a G-string and pasties, drawing a gun from my garter belt, but it’s too fucking cold.’

He laughed and stubbed out the ciggie under one of his Doc Marten boots. ‘You’re not wrong, let’s go inside.’

The cafeteria was set up like a food court with a linoleum floor and counters selling coffee, sandwiches, burgers and noodles. The air was muggy and the smell reminded me of school in winter: wet wool and tomato sauce. I bought us both a coffee, Liam grabbed a bucket of hot chips and we sat at a metal table beside another glass wall, this one clear glass, posters advertising dance parties and student rallies fixed to the squares.

‘Thanks for agreeing to speak to me.’

‘No problem.’ He blew on a chip and the sharp scent of vinegar hit my nostrils. ‘Just tell me to shut up if I talk too much. Got up early and popped six Sudafed so I could finish off an assignment. Works like speed, turns me into a motor mouth.’