Rubdown (22 page)

‘Yeah, well, having your life threatened tends to bring it on.’

‘Scoot over here. I’ll give you a massage.’

‘It’s okay.’ I shrugged.

‘Come on. I’ll give you a massage and tell you about Emery Wade.’

I slid over and sat in between her thighs. I could feel her thin strip of pubic hair press against my coccyx. Her delicate hands were surprisingly strong and I yelped as she dug her fingers into my shoulders and kneaded them up my neck.

‘Wow, you’re storing a lot of tension here, hard as a rock.’

‘So what about Emery Wade?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Jesus, Dahlia. I’m not here to fuck around. Tony told me—’

‘And I’ll probably tell you, but I’ve got to be sure I’m doing the right thing. There’s an unwritten code of confidentiality in this job that I really respect. We’re kind of like priests or doctors. However, I am prepared to break that personal rule if the information I provide is going to prevent something bad happening. If it’s just muckraking I’m not interested. I decide on a case by case basis and it has to be something I can live with, ethically.’

‘Do you get Tony in the spa and discuss ethical dilemmas when you give him information?’

She laughed and splashed water at me. ‘Muckraking. Now tell me about Wade.’

‘Can you keep a secret?’

‘What do you think?’

I arched my back as she ran her knuckles down either side of my spine and said, ‘Tamara Wade was blackmailing her stepfather and I think he had her killed but made it look like suicide. Soon as I started investigating I had my life threatened and now Wade’s trying to take away my inquiry agent’s licence. A friend of Tammy’s, Lulu, insisted Wade killed Tammy and was trying to kill her. Now she’s missing, maybe dead. If I can find out what Tamara was blackmailing him with I might have a chance at getting some evidence against him. Without a shred of proof I’m fucked.’

She massaged me silently for a moment. Finally she said,

‘I don’t know if my information will help but I’ll tell you what I know. I never liked the prick anyway.’

‘You saw him as a client?’

‘Once. I refused to see him again.’

‘Violent?’

‘No, nothing like that. It was his arrogant, condescending attitude I couldn’t handle. Liked to head-fuck the girls, put them down to make himself feel good. But he did it in a really subtle way. Like, if he’d seen you before he might say, “Have you put on weight since we last met?” Or if it was your first time he’d say, “Oh, so is this your only job?” As if you were doing sex work because you were too stupid to do anything else.’

‘Did you tell him about your PhD?’

‘No way. I didn’t have to prove myself to a weasel like him.

The other thing he was into was finding out what a girl absolutely wouldn’t do in the room, and offering her big money to do it.

I don’t kiss clients unless I really fancy them. I can’t. To me it’s much more intimate than sex. So Wade just kept offering me more and more money. It was ridiculous. Got up to five thousand by the end.’

‘Five grand for a tonguey?’

‘Listen, I could have used the money, but it was the principle of the thing. When I told the other girls they said I was crazy to knock him back, but if I’d given in he would have won.’

I understood what she was saying.

Dahlia went on: ‘I found out from the others that he’d hassle for anal, or oral sex without a condom. Didn’t matter to him as long as she didn’t want to do it. Pretty twisted, hey? But then the whole lot of them are fucked up, except for Blaine.’

‘Blaine comes here?’

‘Oh no, not anymore. Emery brought him in a couple of years ago when he turned eighteen, before he was selected for first grade.

Real sweetie for a football player. Had trouble getting it up actually, but he didn’t make a big deal of it. Most guys blame you, even if it’s their own fault for drinking or taking too many drugs. Blaine was cool. We just sat in the spa and talked for the rest of the hour.’

‘You said the whole lot of them. Who else comes in with Wade?’

‘Neville Annis did a couple of times. Only stayed with Asian girls. Billy Chevelle always comes in with him. They like to hire a couple of girls and swap around. Watch each other fuck. Bit hom o erotic, if you ask me. I wouldn’t see Billy either. I’ve got some really lovely regulars. I don’t need to bother with idiots like them.’

‘What’s so bad about Billy?’

‘Where do I start? Thinks he’s god’s gift. Comes in coked up, fucks like a rabbit without being able to come. Likes to talk dirty, which is fine, except he gets off on saying really nasty stuff, calling the girls bitches and whores.’

‘Why would anyone see him?’

‘He tips well and he’s generous with his coke.’ Her thumbs made small circles on the base of my skull. I felt something click.

‘Hey, we’re getting somewhere here.’

She was right. My neck was feeling loose. My entire body was.

She swirled her knuckles around my lower back and it felt so good my eyelids fluttered closed. The spa water made me drift against her and I felt her soft boobs bobbing against my back. Her perfume smelled like chocolate and flowers. One of her hands floated up to my neck and the other strayed to my left breast.

I was so relaxed I didn’t even realise until she started tracing delicate circles around my nipple and it hardened underneath her fingertips.

There’s a direct line goes from my nipples to my pussy and I felt a wetness that had nothing to do with the spa. Was I a lesbian without knowing it? What if I was bi? That would have been cool, twice the chance to score on a Saturday night. And if her hand moved lower? What if she led me over to the bed? Would I be able to say no? Did I want to say no? Would it qualify as cheating on Sean? Her skin was so soft.

She kept talking. ‘But the worst of all was Emery’s personal trainer. What was his name? Bergen or something. He was so bad he was banned.’

‘Why?’

‘Pushed me down on the bed and pinned me there. It was terrifying because he was huge, one of those body builders. But what really scared me were his eyes. They were flat, no emotion in them, just like a shark. I managed to push the panic button with my foot, but before security burst in he did the most disgusting thing. He licked my face with this horrible sticky tongue, and the saliva smelled hideous, metallic, like tooth decay.’

I pulled away from her. ‘Oh shit,’ I said.

Back at the Elsternwick Hotel I couldn’t find Sean in the public bar. I searched the gaming room, then the main bar with its dark polished wood and red chesterfield lounges. No dice.

Jazz filtered through from the bistro. Of course. Pensioners’

night. The oldies flashed their seniors cards for a six dollar roast and the baby grand got a workout by a band playing wartime hits.

I walked through an arched doorway into the restaurant and there was Sean, in jeans and Converse sneakers, roaming around the room serenading the biddies with ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’.

I leaned against the wall, crossed my arms and shook my head.

Talk about the singing detective.

He glanced over and smiled at me and I waved. A blue rinsed woman on her way back from the salad bar nudged me.

‘That your boyfriend, love?’

‘Sort of.’

‘He’s cute. You keep an eye out. They may look like sweet little old ladies, but they’ll tear him apart given half the chance.’

Jesus.

Sean finished the song and the seniors applauded and called for an encore. He shook his head and apologised, bowed and thanked the band for letting him stand in. His eyes were shining as he approached. Performance high. I knew the feeling but it had been a while since I’d had one myself.

I clapped my hands. ‘You’re wasted in the police force. Think of all the good you could do in the world of dinner theatre.’

He placed one hand on the back of my head and kissed me, then drew away.

‘Your hair’s wet.’

‘Spa.’ I ignored the questioning tilt of his eyebrows. ‘I know who attacked me.’

We sat in the Saab across the road from Bootcamp Personal Training. It was eight thirty and the rain that had been threatening all day had finally arrived. Large splotches crackled on the windscreen and traffic signals, car headlights and neon signs all melted together. Cars swished past on the wet road.

While Sean finished his cigarette I wiped condensation off the window with the arm of my coat. We were parked outside the furniture shop where Alex and I had kissed before our big fight, and looking at the spot brought back the taste of whisky on his lips, the soft wool jumper, his stubble scratching my cheek.

Sean nudged my ribs. ‘I said let’s check the place out. Jesus. You’re a million miles away. Did something happen at the Daily Planet?’

‘Sean, if there had been anything other than a bit of light breast fondling, you’d be the first to know.’

As we hurried across the road I heard him behind me: ‘Breast fondling? Really?’

We strolled past Bootcamp’s glass door, noting the closed sign and the blinking alarm unit at the bottom of the stairs. A Perspex holder contained glossy leaflets and I plucked one out as we passed.

Bootcamp Personal Training by Jurgen Van Annen. Drive, Discipline,
Determination
. The headline appeared in a military style font above a photo of a pair of weathered dog-tags.

Up the street an internet café spilled fluorescent light onto the footpath.

‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked.

‘I’d prefer a whisky.’

We raced inside out of the rain, paid for an hour on one of the computers and ordered an Earl Grey and a long black. Rolling our padded chairs together we looked over the leaflet. Inside was a list of services and prices. Bootcamp offered one-on-one studio sessions with Jurgen or one of his hand selected personal trainers, and the outdoor group training that gave the business its name. Busy executives paying top dollar to run along the beach getting screamed at and treated like shit. No thanks. When I saw the photo on the back page I felt sick in the pit of my stomach.

Van Annen’s arms were so bulky he could barely cross them over his pumped up chest. He wore a camouflage t-shirt and matching cap and his head was square, mostly jaw. He didn’t smile and his eyes were small, flat and mean.

‘Scary son of a bitch,’ Sean said.

‘Tell me about it. That’s him. I recognise the eyes.’

Our drinks arrived and I sipped coffee in between reading out Jurgen’s bio.

My name is Jurgen Van Annen and I was a soldier for two
decades. During my service I did a Tour of Duty in the first Gulf
war and spent time as a highly decorated commando in the Elite Special Forces Squad participating in many dangerous missions.

I left the army in 2002 to start my personal training
business. I have always been dedicated to fitness and have won
many body building titles, most recently coming first place in the Victorian finals of the Pan Pacifics.

I have been featured on such television shows as Good
Morning Australia, Today-Tonight and Mornings with Kerri-Anne, and have successfully trained many celebrities including Veronica and Blaine Wade.

I believe my military background separates my Bootcamp sessions from the rest of the pack, helps my clients reach
peak fitness and provides them with Discipline, Drive, Determination.

While I was reading Sean had done a Google search on Van Annen. He was drinking tea and scrolling down the eighty-four hits he’d got. Most of them were linked to magazine articles about his training business and television appearances.

‘Aha,’ he said, and turned the computer screen around so I could see.

It was a newspaper article from 2002.

PERSONAL TRAINER CLEARED

ON STEROID CHARGES

Personal trainer Jurgen Van Annen was yesterday aquitted
of importing steroids and injectible testosterone. His barrister,
Emery Wade, told the media Van Annen had always maintained his innocence and had been confident of beating the charges.

I leaned back in my chair and drank the last of my coffee.

I was wide awake now. ‘Special Forces. Are they the kind that get trained in covert operations, assassinations, can kill a man with their bare hands and not leave a mark?’

‘The government denies it, but yeah, probably.’

‘Great. I don’t just have a regular bad guy after me, I’ve got a steroid pumped, psychopathic killing machine. What the fuck are we going to do?’

‘Go to the police.’

‘But the police don’t believe me.’

‘Not just any police. We go to Alex.’

After the internet café we checked out Geisha’s place, a single storey terrace in Collingwood. No one was home and in the hour we sat in the car nothing happened so we headed back to the hotel.

Sean called Alex when we got there, took his mobile out to the car so I couldn’t listen in and talked for an hour. I peeked out the curtain and saw him sitting in the Saab, chain-smoking and drinking vodka out of the hip flask, deep in conversation.

I ate a tuna salad, drank some wine and lay on the bed watching TV.

‘What did he say?’ I asked when he finally came back in.

‘He’s going to help. He’s coming over here tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Good. There’s some tuna salad in the fridge. You could make a sandwich out of it.’

‘I’m not very hungry.’ He sat at the round table, lit a cigarette and poured another vodka.

‘You want to come to bed?’ I patted the brown striped spread and gave him a lascivious smile.

‘Not just yet.’

He didn’t come to bed until after I was asleep. The next day it was still raining, coming down steady outside. Sean and I hung around the hotel, waiting for Alex to show up. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him again, but hell, I didn’t have a choice. We were lying on the bed and some crap midday movie was on the TV. Sean was drinking tea and smoking Marlboro lights. I was next to him reading his Irvine Welsh book, and when I glanced up I saw he wasn’t watching the television. His eyes were focused somewhere in the middle distance.