Rubdown (10 page)

‘I’ve known him for ten years, met his girlfriends. I even asked him once. Typical Sean, he said he would, but penises scare the shit out of him. Jeez, Simone, is your gaydar out or what?’

Woah. Not gay. I tried to think about what that might mean but my head began to feel like a helium balloon after someone let go of the string. Either I was slipping into a coma or the Panadeines were combining nicely with the vodka and empty stomach. I stared into space, enjoying the mellow codeine rush.

‘I didn’t want to take you upstairs at the Hilton for a quick screw,’ Alex said suddenly. ‘It was a mistake. I thought that was what you wanted.’

I sipped my drink, then set it on a tea chest next to the bed.

‘Why would you think that?’

‘The way you act. You come across as smartarse and cynical, like you don’t give a shit.’

‘So do you.’

He didn’t answer, just picked imaginary fluff off the blanket.

‘I bet you’re the kind of guy who’s never without a girlfriend,’

I said. ‘Am I right? I bet even when you broke up with your wife you had someone waiting in the wings.’

He rubbed his face and stared at the ironing board.

‘You’re thirty-five, mate. Time to get your shit together. Don’t stay with someone just ’cause you’re scared of being alone.’

He turned to me. ‘Like you’re so perfect.’

‘Hardly.’ I reached for the vodka and tipped it over.

He moved the glass out of my reach. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Don’t,’ I protested. Everything was fuzzy around the edges.

He bent to say goodbye and I clung to his neck and kissed him fiercely. It felt like the pain in my lips was a long way away.

I know I said I didn’t want to crack onto another chick’s boyfriend, but since the bitch punched me all bets were off. I yanked the blankets back and pulled Alex on top of me, got my hand inside his shirt, fingers stroking chest hair and the puckered bullet scar on his shoulder. His stubble scratched my cheek as he kissed me back, breath hot and sweet. I hooked my feet behind his thighs, lifted my hips and pressed myself into his crotch. He was hard and my tracksuit fabric was thin and it was like we were really doing it, and then…

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the windows, trackie daks intact and an intense dream lodged in my mind. I’d been lying on the filthy carpet in the Clayton flat, naked, rolling around with Alex and Sean. They’d been fully clothed, each sucking on a nipple, both with their hands between my thighs. I’d been unbearably turned on and only mildly perturbed by the other people in attendance: Neville and Craig, Wu Chan, the Wades, Veronica, Billy Chevelle, Lulu and Suzy. Everyone watched politely except for Suzy, who said, ‘See , I told you she was a slutbag.’

I got up to pee only to find the door to the bathroom closed and the shower running. Sean must have got home after I crashed. I held it in and hopped around the kitchen looking for a water glass. The first thing that struck me was the amount of food in the pantry.

Brown rice, couscous, tinned artichokes, extra virgin olive oil and imported vinegars. I opened the fridge and found a crisper bursting with fresh vegetables and a bunch of basil carefully wrapped in damp kitchen paper. Exotic condiments crowded the shelves: tamarind paste, harissa, caperberries, rocket pesto … The cheese was Gouda, the bread Burgen Soy/Linseed and, astoundingly, a packet of organic tofu at the back of the fridge was still within its use-by date. This was crazy. Single straight detectives didn’t live like this.

I plucked a bottle of mineral water from the fridge door and found a tumbler in the cupboard under the sink, right next to a small bowl containing a hash pipe and mulled-up weed. Shit. I heard the bathroom door open, popped up and leaned on the counter casual-like, pouring water. Sean emerged from the bathroom in a mist of steam and aftershave, something fresh and citrusy, with a hint of cinnamon and warm apple pie. Was there a compulsory class on smelling good at detective school?

‘Hey,’ I said.

He smiled when he saw me. ‘How’d you sleep?’ He walked over with a white towel wrapped around his waist and I saw that although he wasn’t a big guy he had a wiry muscularity about him. Broad shoulders, washboard stomach, well defined arms. There was also the matter of the trail of red-gold hair disappearing into the towel.

Not gay. Scared of penises. I wasn’t scared of penises—in fact they could be a lot of fun.

Trying to remind myself that men were more than just sex objects, I looked up. ‘What was the question?’

‘Sleep.’

‘Good.’

When he reached the counter he said, ‘What happened to your face?’

‘Suzy was pissed and punched me out.’

‘Scrag fight? Dead sexy.’ He saw my look. ‘Sorry, been up half the night putting together this raid.’

‘Tell me about it after I shower.’

I peed, showered quickly and dressed in black stretch hipsters and a red jumper that fell rather fetchingly off one shoulder. I whacked on a bit of makeup and told myself I would have done the same if Sean hadn’t turned out to be straight. When I left the bathroom he was dressed in a suit and was pouring tea from a pot and eating a bowl of beige slop.

‘That top looks great on you. Want some porridge?’

I shook my head. ‘Tell me about the raid.’

‘Not much to tell. We’re going to keep them under surveillance from the airport, wait until they set up for business and then we pounce.’

‘You in charge?’

‘No. I would be, but I’m taking a six month sabbatical Friday week. Won’t be here to see the case through.’

‘Studying?’

‘Not exactly.’ He washed his bowl and spoon and set them on the dish rack. ‘I’ve received an Asialink Fellowship and I’m going to Vietnam for six months to help out in a regional police station.’

He tipped the dregs of his tea out in the sink, rinsed the pot and the cup. ‘Anyway, love you and leave you. Here’s a spare key, help yourself to anything, not sure when I’ll be back.’ He picked a Converse bag off the floor and opened the door.

‘Wait! Where’s the coffee?’

‘Don’t have any sorry, got tea.’

I must have looked aghast.

‘Mario’s is just around the corner.’ And he shut the door and was gone.

Mario’s. Shit. I’d been supposed to meet Lulu there the day before.

I phoned the GT Club. ‘Can I speak to Lulu please?’

Marla’s voice. ‘She’s not here. First time she’s been rostered on and didn’t show.’

‘You have her home or mobile number? I’m a friend.’

‘I don’t care who you are. We don’t give out the girls’ private numbers. Won’t do you any good, anyway. She’s not home and her mobile’s switched off.’

I rang Hannah to see if she knew how to contact Lulu.

‘No idea. If you had Tammy’s mobile you’d be right, it was like her address book. And can you give Vincent a call? He’s anxious to know how you’re getting on.’

I called Vincent and arranged to meet him at his home in Richmond at midday. By this stage my head was pounding from caffeine withdrawal and I race-walked up Brunswick Street, making a beeline for the red neon Mario’s sign.

I hadn’t been to the café in over two years. When I first moved to Melbourne I’d lived around the corner on Napier Street, but six months of share house politics had sent me screaming over the Yarra, vowing to live alone the rest of my days.

Mario’s hadn’t changed. Posters and flyers plastered one wall, fifties light fittings hung from the ceiling, and tiny televisions broad-cast silently in black and white. I sat on a stool at a counter facing the window and ordered. In less than a minute a waiter with a pinstriped waistcoat and interesting sideburns slid a vicious looking double shot long black in front of me. Medicine. Two sips later the headache receded and the neurons started to fire.

I pulled out my small black and red notebook and started scribbling. I needed to get a handle on this case, I needed a plan.

First I wrote down things I knew for sure: I knew Neville, Craig and Wu Chan were setting up an illegal brothel. I knew Tammy had money problems, owed some to Craig. I knew Neville was a ruthless criminal. I knew I’d been attacked. I knew Tammy was dead.

Then I jotted things I suspected, questions to myself: she had the brochure—had Tammy had found out about the illegal brothel? Would she be dumb enough to extort money from Neville Annis? How could someone have killed her and made it look like suicide? Had someone driven her to kill herself? Was that even possible?

Lastly I devoted a page to things I had to do. Find out more about Tammy. Hopefully I could do that talking to Lauren, Hannah’s massage girl, the next day. Track down Lulu. She was Tammy’s best friend. She was the key. I traced Lulu’s name over and over again with my pen. I kept coming back to the fight she had with Billy Chevelle at the funeral. I remembered that Vincent had said Tammy had family problems. How connected was Billy to the Wade family?

The omelette I’d ordered arrived and I put my notebook aside and sliced it down the middle. Cheese oozed out of the moist interior and I thought, god bless you, Dr. Atkins, wherever you are. I stared at the Greek restaurant and an office supplies store across the street, saw a tram rattle by.

I considered researching Billy Chevelle. I could waste a whole day going through newspaper archives, but what I really needed was the stuff that wasn’t fit to print. I hated to have to do it, but I reached for my mobile.

Curtis answered on the second ring. ‘Hey, Simone! What can I do you for?’

‘Scratch my back.’

‘Cool. I knew this would work out great. What you need?’

‘Information on Billy Chevelle. Dirt. The stuff you journos can’t print for fear of defamation. And anything else you can find on the Wades while you’re at it.’

‘I knew there was something suss going on.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up. One of Tamara’s old clients can’t accept that she killed herself. I’m going to prove to him she did.’

I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.

‘What’s Billy Chevelle got to do with it?’

‘Probably nothing. Can you get the info or not?’

‘Ye-es … but you’ve got to do something for me.’

‘What,
Picture
spread?’

‘No, if this turns into something big I want an exclusive. You have no idea how hard it is to break into true crime in this town.

If your name’s not John Silvester or Andrew Rule they don’t want to know you. But if I had something no one else did, man, those bastards at
The Age would beat down my door.’

I sighed. ‘Sure, I’ll give you the story.’

‘Good, let’s meet up in a couple of days. Hey, I started driving for Chloe.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘I don’t know. Your friend’s weird.’

Sounded about right.

I looked down at my notebook and saw Lulu’s name standing out. How to find her? The Good Times Club would have her number, perhaps her address, but it would be suicide to show my face there. The only thing I could think of was what Hannah said.

Tammy’s mobile phone. The removalists had taken her stuff to the parents’ house.

Jesus. Did I dare? Emery would be at work. Susan Wade might be home.

Art students walked past on Brunswick Street, and junkies and yuppies. Stupid motivational platitudes floated through my brain.

He who hesitates is lost. Who dares wins. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I started humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’.

I was going in.

I paid thirty-seven bucks to get my car out of the World Trade Centre car park then cruised through South Melbourne and onto Beaconsfield Parade. I’d gotten the Wades’ Brighton address from my copy of Emery’s contract.

The Indian summer of the day before had given way to more typical Melbourne weather. Clouds scudded across the sky and one second it was warm, the next freezing cold. Wind shook the palm trees and whipped the bay into foamy grey peaks. Riders and rollerbladers persevered along the bike path next to the shore, rugged up in leggings and jackets.

I had the radio switched to Triple J until St Kilda, when they started playing god-awful Australian rap and I slipped in a tape of my favourite band, Doug Mansfield and the Dust Devils. Doug sang, ‘I don’t follow trouble, trouble follows me,’ and I considered adopting it as my own personal anthem.

In Brighton I turned right off St Kilda Street onto a road that ran down to the beach. All the houses were huge, set back from the street, and there were a lot of big old trees. I hated to think how much a joint here would cost. More than I could afford in ten lifetimes.

The Wades’ place was right down the end, with one side facing the road and the other the ocean. It was a restored Federation house on a double block with a sweeping verandah and a spiky iron fence.

I parked outside, found the gate locked, pressed a button on the intercom and checked out the front yard while I waited. Delicate white roses bordered an expanse of soft green lawn, a willow tree shaded a carved stone bench and I wouldn’t have been surprised if Hugh Grant had bounded out holding a croquet mallet and invited me for a game.

Just as I decided no one was home, the box crackled into life:

‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice.

‘Mrs. Wade?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m terribly sorry to drop by unannounced—’ my voice had gone all plummy to fit the surroundings—‘but I’m one of the investigators your husband hired in the matter of your daughter.

My name is Simone Kirsch.’

A long pause. ‘Oh yes,’ she said.

‘There’s something I’d like to ask you, but I’d rather not talk about it out on the street.’

A longer pause, then a buzz and the gate swung in. I crunched up the gravel drive and onto a wide verandah composed of thousands of tiny hexagonal tiles in ochre and dark green. Mrs. Wade waited behind the security door, peering through the bars. She was in her fifties, slender and drawn, with a blonde bob and skin so thin that purple veins fluttered at her temples. When I looked into her pale blue eyes I realised why her reactions were slowed down. Her pupils were pinned, like a smackie’s, but my guess was a truckload of prescription downers.

‘Mrs. Wade, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I met Tamara during the course of my investigations and I liked her. She was a nice girl.’