Good Money (28 page)

‘How about I tell them how great you are on the JUNKIE project, how you're down with the kids and considered cool among the community workers. Stuff like that?'

She made a dubious face and started to scoop up the soggy biscuit with a teaspoon. I stared at my watch, stretched. ‘Sorry, Rae,' I said, standing up. ‘Gotta get back to work.'

Ross sighed, and leaving her cup for me to wash, headed for the door. ‘By the way,' she said. ‘Clacker's out on bail.'

When she'd gone I quickly sent a text to Phuong, and she fired one back. In fifteen minutes I was waiting in front of WORMS with my scarf around my face and my Department of Justice ID in my bag. The little, blue clown car pulled in and the door opened. ‘He's home with his mum. In Deer Park,' Phuong said.

The car smelled like a bakery. I fastened my seatbelt. ‘I need to see someone, get professional help.'

‘You've been through a rough couple of days. Last night was —'

‘I'm fine.' If I had to talk about last night, I'd cry. ‘I mean, I need someone like a lawyer. Corporations law, finance, joint ventures — that kind of thing. Just a five-minute chat. Know someone?'

Phuong put on her indicator. ‘Something you're holding onto? Another bloody book or something? I can't trust you now.'

‘I'm not hiding anything,' I said, hugging my laptop. ‘I'm just curious about corporations law.'

Phuong rolled her eyes.

‘So,' I said. ‘What's the latest?'

‘The Diggers Rest place is rented in the name of Gaetano's cousin. Lives in Italy.'

‘That's not news.'

She sighed. ‘She died night before last, our blokes reckon. About thirty hours ago.'

That was while I was having dinner with Brophy. Before that, in the late afternoon, Mabor had been there, at the Diggers Rest house. ‘How did she die?'

Phuong hesitated. ‘Beaten.'

‘Was she raped?'

‘No.'

‘Why beat her? I don't get it, those dickheads had guns.'

The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘There's no logic to it. Don't even try. Can't comprehend these people.'

I could feel her looking at me.

‘Stella, I have to tell you something.'

‘Is it about Bruce Copeland?'

Phuong put her head to the side. ‘You know?'

‘That you're seeing Copeland?' I shrugged. ‘Everyone knows.'

‘Stella, there's something else.'

‘Copeland's married.'

Her cheeks reddened. ‘Actually, the marriage is over.'

I said nothing.

‘He's been in his own place for months.'

‘Right,' I said. I didn't feel vindicated, or even smug.

‘I made you these.' She reached behind her to the back seat and brought out a wicker basket full of muffins. I took one. It was still warm, no doubt made with organic oat husks. I bit into it, tasted the sweetness of blueberries. It would do.

The roller-shutters on Clacker's mum's house were down. The weeds were high, and two chained-up staffies in the front yard were barking their heads off. Clacker answered the door with: ‘Not youse a-fuckin-gain!'

He sat at the kitchen table and rode the chair, legs akimbo; the back of it came to rest against the wall, with Clacker's feet dangling, twitching. ‘Must be in love with me. Wanna suck my cock?'

‘No thanks,' said Phuong. ‘Darren, we know you were at an address in Diggers Rest where the manufacture and distribution of methamphetamine took place.'

‘Say what you like, gook.' He took on a frozen look, swinging both feet to kick the table. ‘Nothing to do with me.'

‘Your friend Wayne Anthony Gage is dead.'

Clacker laughed. ‘Who?'

‘He was murdered by Tapahia Maurangi aka Titch. Heard of him?'

Clacker shook his head, but his Adam's apple bobbed.

Phuong took a folder from her bag and opened it. She shuffled through the papers. ‘Cooperate now, it will help you in the long run.'

‘About what?'

‘About the drug operation of Gaetano Cesarelli. About the kidnap and murder of Nina Brodtmann. Her body was found last night at his meth lab. It's all over the news.'

Clacker sucked in his cheeks. ‘Cesar? Wouldn't know. I've been in remand for the last two weeks. In case you hadn't noticed. Until today.'

‘You and Wayne Gage were working for Cesar. Right?'

‘Nuh.'

‘You went there, though, didn't you? Diggers Rest. You were a part of Cesar's crew.'

‘Who says?'

‘Your DNA says.' She leaned towards him. ‘You like to leave your snot on things.'

The DNA of the snot we found smeared across the table in the shed had not yet been analysed. But Clacker looked stricken, and his chair came crashing forward.

‘Oh, snap,' I said. ‘Busted.'

Phuong put her hand out to curb my behaviour.

‘In the light of these developments, now would be a good time to tell the truth. Would you like to make a statement?'

‘I told you. I don't know shit about some girl.' He made a fist and cradled it with the other hand, cracked the knuckles.

‘Come on. Cesar must have been planning it for months. Was it him or Gage? Or was it you who knew the girl had rich parents? A girl who lived on her own, no security, easy to grab and shove in the back of your car. Someone made a secure room to hold her in. Wrote ransom notes.'

Ransom notes? I hadn't heard about that. Phuong was probably making that up too. Clacker fidgeted.

‘If you were in on it, it's conspiracy.'

‘Big whoop,' he sneered.

I cleared my throat. ‘Maurangi — he's Funsail, isn't he?'

‘Who? Hahaha. That's funny.' But he kicked his foot harder and faster.

I looked at Phuong. ‘Maurangi doesn't know where Clacker lives, does he?'

She shrugged. ‘Probably. But so what? Clacker has nothing to fear. He was never there, not involved. We can't offer protection if he keeps denying everything.'

‘Jesus, youse don't ever give up.' His freckles stood out against his white face. He started mumbling.

‘Sorry?' Phuong could be a stone-cold bitch when she wanted. ‘Louder please, Darren.'

‘I went to that shit hole. Okay? Only a couple of times.'

‘Mr Cesarelli's meth factory?' Phuong clicked a pen and wrote it down.

‘Yeah.'

‘What were you doing there?'

‘Collecting. Logistics, he called it. Thought he was a businessman or some shit.'

Phuong unclicked the pen and folded her hands on the table. Now she was acting friendly. ‘How'd you come to work for Cesarelli?'

‘Gage introduced us. He was working for Cesar and I ended up there too, driving around, putting the hard word on cunts, making good money — and I'm thinking
this is all right
.'

‘He trusted you.'

‘Yes. Gage and I were trustworthy.'

‘He asked you to help when one of the kids in the flats was a problem.'

‘Yeah,' he admitted. ‘One day, he's got a different kind of job. This kid who's been selling, but now Cesar reckons he's a problem.'

Phuong kept her cool but I was gritting my teeth, wanting to smack him.

‘What happened?' she asked.

Clacker's eyes darted around the room. ‘If I say, youse can offer me protection or something?'

‘Of course.' She nodded.

He wavered, then he shook his head, like that was his big mistake.

‘Come on, Clacker,' I said. ‘Explain it to us.'

He sniffed. ‘I'm supposed ta meet Gage at that bar.'

Phuong was nodding. ‘Adut Chol was there in the laneway. Then what happened.'

Darren shrugged like he didn't recognise the name. ‘Fuckin Gage set me up.' He kicked the table. ‘That's all I fuckin know. That lawyer made me cop this bullshit.'

Phuong closed her folder.

I pushed my chair back. ‘Are you saying Cesarelli never mentioned Nina Brodtmann?'

‘Never. I don't know anything about any girl getting kidnapped. Sounds like bullshit to me, the whole thing.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because he was busy as. Every bit of shard west of Melbourne was his shit. Why risk all that for a dumb-arse kidnapping?' He turned to me, for some reason. ‘Full-on security conscious, Cesar, and he gets cracked at his own fuckin fortress in sunny Keilor. How does that happen?'

Phuong dropped me back at work, and as I walked through the waiting room a discarded newspaper caught my eye:

ICE PRINCESS? Brodtmann daughter found dead in drug den. An anonymous source said today that Ms Brodtmann was addicted to the drug ‘ice' and had been working as a prostitute for Gaetano Cesarelli.

The anonymous source was the journalist's arse — and Brodtmann would sue it. There was something else in the article about loose morals and a wardrobe full of ten-thousand-dollar handbags. Utter bullshit. She was no inheritance queen, for God's sake, she'd once worked in a
mailroom.
That was menial, boring work. The kind of work where having a friend made it bearable.

I thought about that for a moment. I had been thinking of a James, but maybe this ‘Jimmy' was a
she
— a Jimmi, or a Jamie, or Ja'mie?

I went to my desk and stared at my computer. The time was 1.15pm, which was 11.15am in Western Australia. I had the office to myself: Shaninder was out and Boss was on the phone with his door shut. I searched for the Ladies' College in Perth and rang the number. A receptionist called Pam answered, sounding overwhelmed but polite. ‘How may I help you?'

‘I'm Stella Hardy, Clayton Brodtmann's PA. You may have heard the terrible news Nina Brodtmann has passed away.'

‘Oh yes, Miss Hardy, we are all devastated.'

‘I'm contacting some of Nina's closest school friends to arrange a memorial ceremony for immediate family and close friends. I wondered if you could provide me with some contact details.'

‘It's not standard practice.'

‘Mr Brodtmann would appreciate your help. He is a very generous donor, you know, to the school.'

‘Yes. Quite. And what are the names?'

‘The names. Of course. Well, I am mainly trying to reach Jimmy.'

‘Jimmy?' A pause.

I had gambled and lost.

‘…You don't mean Jemima Slattery? They were inseparable.'

‘Yes. Jemima,' I said, calmly. ‘Do you have her parents' number on file?'

‘Just a minute.'

I listened to some piano music. I didn't like piano. If it had to be classical, I preferred strings, sad violins, maudlin cello.

‘The parents are separated and I only have an address for her mother. But it hasn't been updated since 2006.'

‘That's fine, I'll give Jemima's mother a call.'

‘Eliza Slattery. Sixteen Purcell Street, Cottesloe.'

‘Thank you, Pam. I am most grateful.'

I walked home via Union Road so I could buy a wine cask from the supermarket. Shopping was a necessary evil. I grabbed random items for eating and drinking and paid with a wave of plastic. As I entered my building, I met Brown Cardigan in the foyer, checking his mailbox.

‘Most unfortunate,' said he of the gigantic understatement.

‘Yes,' I said. He gave me a grave nod and ascended the stairs. I checked my own mail and found a single business-size envelope without a stamp. My name and address were written in a hand I did not recognise.

Stella,

I should have told you. I meant to. I was going to. I was stupid not to. I wish I could fix this. I'm sorry. Please let me explain.
Peter

I put the letter back in the envelope and shoved it in my bag. Upstairs in my flat I rang Vince McKechnie.

‘Jimmy is Jemima Slattery. Mother is Eliza Slattery, last known address is Purcell Street, Cottesloe.'

‘I'll take it from here, Hardy. Good work. Be in touch.'

I went downstairs and took my washing out of the dryer, and headed back upstairs. Before I reached my door, my phone was singing.

McKechnie. ‘Jimmy's in a palliative care hospice over here. Cancer.'

He said it like it was nothing. ‘You're a first-class hard-arse, McKechnie, you know that? Anyway, well done. I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘How so?'

A snap decision. ‘I'm coming to Perth. First available.'

He gave me his address with a hint of astonishment that was highly satisfying.