Rubdown (25 page)

I bet he was quite pissed by then. ‘What, for the next three days?’

‘I’ll be coming back.’

‘Six months is a long time.’

We were driving along Kingsway when he turned the wheel hard to the left and pulled into a loading zone.

‘I am trying so hard not to fall in love with you.’ He grabbed me and kissed me, soft, wet, sweet, slowly getting hotter. I melted inside all over again and felt my hangover lift. A truck beeped at us and we drew apart and Sean nosed the car back into the traffic.

He smiled at me at the next red light. ‘I’ve got to tell you, twenty-four hours of abstinence and I’m toey as a Roman sandal.’

He reached over and brushed a lock of hair off my face. His fingers on my cheek set off sparks.

Then his smile dissolved into a frown. ‘What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘On your neck.’

I angled the rear-vision mirror to check. An angry purple hickey stood out on the flesh below my ear.

‘Who the fuck did you spend the night with?’

‘No one, I was at the Espy,’ I blurted. ‘This dickhead tried to kiss me. I ran away. I didn’t want him. I wanted you.’ Truth be known, I had actually wanted Mick.

Sean didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. I reached for the hip flask in the glove box.

Back at the hotel I had another shower and changed into my Portmans pants-suit, and low heels. I twisted my hair up in a clip, covered the love-bite with concealer and trowelled on makeup, all the while sipping from the pewter flask. I found if I kept topping up a little bit at a time it took me to a place where I was neither too pissed nor too hungover. Makeup truly is a wonderful thing because by the time I was finished I looked gorgeous and dewy, rather than the dried up old booze-hag I knew I was.

I stuffed the flask in my handbag, strode out of the bathroom and grabbed a Red Bull from the fridge. There was a knock on the door and Sean let in four burly detectives. They wore jeans, loose jackets and baseball caps. Could have passed for off-duty rugby league players, except that when they moved I glimpsed guns in shoulder holsters under their arms. Sean introduced me and I immediately forgot their names. The Red Bull and the thought of being involved in a police sting made my mouth dry and my heart thud under my crisp white shirt. Sean was making an effort not to look at me, smoking and scratching a pattern on the table with his fingernail.

‘So, how are we going to play this thing?’ I asked.

A guy with sandy hair and a bull neck, who seemed to be the leader, said, ‘You call Wade and insist on meeting him in an hour.

Tell him you have photographs. Then we drop you at your car, you drive to the city and park in the Downtown car park opposite his office. We’ll have two cars. One on yours in the parking station and the other on the street. Arrange to meet him tomorrow night, doesn’t matter where ’cause it’s not going to happen. Then drive back to your place, taking St Kilda Road and Barkly Street. If nothing’s happened by then, go for a walk. That’ll flush Van Annen out. We arrest him, lean on him, offer him a deal to give evidence against Wade.’

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘How am I going to convince him I have photos? What do I say is in them?’

Sean lifted his head. ‘You’ll think of something. You’ve already indicated you’re a fairly accomplished liar.’

I glared at him. The coppers exchanged glances.

‘So who’s going to wire me up?’ I looked around

‘No wires,’ said the sandy haired guy. ‘Wade’s a criminal lawyer.

He’s going to check. You should use your phone to call him now.’

He handed me Wade’s office number, scribbled on a piece of paper.

I finished the Red Bull, took my phone out of my bag and dialled. ‘Can I speak with Emery Wade please?’

‘He’s busy with a client,’ the receptionist said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yeah, tell him Simone Kirsch is on the line and I’ve got what he needs.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘He’ll know what I’m talking about.’

After a minute of ‘Greensleeves’ Wade’s super-smooth voice flowed through the receiver. ‘Ms. Kirsch, how may I help you?’

‘I have what you’re looking for and I want to make a deal. I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. How about your office in an hour?’

‘I’m booked up all day.’

‘An hour, or I take this stuff somewhere else.’

The lead copper grinned and gave me the thumbs-up.

Wade’s velvety tones turned gruff. ‘Alright. One hour.’

An hour later I was in Wade’s chambers on the fifteenth floor, and the grey haired receptionist with a mouth like a cat’s bum was directing me to a burgundy chesterfield lounge. The waiting area reeked of money and respectability, of generations of rich bastards getting away with things.

A framed painting of a stallion with gleaming flanks and flared nostrils hung on the wall opposite. Even the horse looked up itself.

I was bowel-clenchingly nervous about seeing Emery again, so whenever the receptionist looked away I took out the hip flask and had a swig. I was tipping the balance into slightly pissed, but I didn’t really care. After ten minutes she said, ‘Mr. Wade will see you now.’

I dragged my feet up the carpeted corridor, then chastised myself. I had to stop being intimidated by men in positions of power. Had to remember that behind the pinstriped suit Emery was a misogynist, a murderer and god knew what else. I took a deep breath, knocked on the door and held my head up high.

Wade opened it and looked down his nose at me. Grey eyes shimmering with barely suppressed hostility. ‘Come in.’ There was a hard edge to his smooth voice, like a razorblade inside a soft centred chocolate.

I walked past him and went to sit in one of the armchairs.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Stand there. Put down your bag.’

I placed it on his desk. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a metal wand like they used at airports. I held out my arms and he swept the device from my hairclip to my Mary Jane shoes. Nothing beeped, he grunted and upended my handbag on the desk. A whole bunch of crap fell out. Tic-Tacs, lip gloss, pens, notebook, hip flask, Butter Menthols covered in fluff. A stray tampon rolled off the desk and under a bookcase. He took apart my mobile phone, checked the hip flask to make sure it wasn’t a cunningly disguised listening device and loomed over me. I smelled Listerine mouthwash and a spicy aftershave reminiscent of cognac and cigars. From this angle I could see he really ought to have invested in one of those nose hair clippers.

‘What have you got?’ he asked.

‘Photographs.’ A pulse fluttered at the base of my throat like a dying butterfly.

‘Of what?’

‘You can probably guess. They’re not very pretty.’

‘Where did you get them?’

I was so relieved he didn’t question their existence that my confidence rose a notch. ‘As if I’d tell you.’

He got this look in his eye like he wanted to hit me but smoothed the grey at his temples instead. ‘What do you want?’

‘For you to stop the licence hearing, call off Jurgen Van Annen, and give me fifty grand.’

Superiority glazed his features. ‘Fucking tarts. Do anything for a buck.’

‘Meet me at Goldfingers tomorrow at six pm.’

‘Alright,’ he said, and I knew then he had no intention of giving me the money. In the hour since I’d called he’d set something up.

I stood waiting for the lift, swigging vodka and shaking. So much for not being afraid. I couldn’t wait to get out of the building and chug a cigarette. I hoped this would all be over with relatively soon so I could just lie down somewhere and go to sleep.

The elevator doors slid open and I lifted my head. The bearded guy who’d chased me down Smith Street was standing right there. I was so shocked I froze for a second, and in that time he grabbed my arm, pulled me inside and pressed the Door Close button. I struggled with him and he thrust me against the mirrored wall.

‘Simone!’ He pushed the sunnies on top of his head. ‘Calm down, it’s me.’ The camp voice was incongruous coming out of the butch face. ‘It’s Lulu. Look past the frigging beard and the hideous duds.’

I stopped fighting and examined the chocolate eyes, full lips and stubbly eyebrows growing back in.

‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

‘It’s the best disguise I could think of. I couldn’t believe it when I lost you on Smith Street. I’d been staking out your flat from time to time, but it was dangerous because every now and then Jurgen would turn up looking for you. I was there this morning when you got into that Saab. I’ve been following you in Geisha’s car. Who are all the big dudes?’

The lift, which had been static, started going down.

‘Cops.’ My mind was reeling. Now I’d found her, what was I going to do with her? ‘We’re in the middle of a sting on Wade.’

‘I have photographs,’ she said. ‘They’re the reason Wade killed Tammy.’

Jesus. They really existed. No wonder Wade didn’t question me.

She pulled a manila envelope from inside her bulky army jacket as the lift hit ground and the doors began to open. I started to walk out and ran straight into Jurgen’s enormous chest.

Before I could scream he slapped one hand over my mouth and hustled me back into the elevator. Billy Chevelle was behind him, with a big black gun. He held it under Lulu’s chin and his hand trembled.

Jurgen pressed the button for the basement. ‘What do you know. Two for the price of one.’

I dived for the red alarm button, but Jurgen’s fist shot out and slammed me in the side of the head. I was briefly aware of the mirror cracking as my skull bounced off it. Then nothing.

My eyes were closed and I was cold. The ache in my head was sharp, like someone had shot an arrow through my temple. Why did I always have to drink so much? I tried to roll over in bed, reach for the doona and get warm, but I couldn’t move. Something was restraining my wrists and ankles.

This was no hangover.

I forced my heavy lids open and saw a corrugated iron roof.

Looked down the length of my body and saw I was only wearing black knickers and a bra. I was spreadeagled on a patchwork quilt, tied with gaffer tape to a brass bed. Painfully lifting my head I saw a one room cottage decorated with frilly curtains and dried flowers in milk pails. The place was lit by kerosene lamps.

Lulu was on the other side of the room next to a sink and wood burning stove, unconscious, tied to a chair with her head flopped to one side. Billy and Jurgen stood with their backs to me, by a fireplace to my left. The crackle of kindling and smell of Jiffy Fire-lighters took me back twenty years to my mum’s cabin in the bush.

‘That’s better.’ Billy rubbed his hands together. ‘Was frigging cold in here.’

Jurgen, in full camouflage gear, squatted and balanced a split log on the pyramid of twigs, got up and looked in my direction.

‘Hey, drug’s finally worn off.’

‘’bout time. Wake up the freak.’ Billy jerked his head in Lulu’s direction. ‘I haven’t got all night.’

Jurgen walked past an overstuffed floral couch, filled an enamel mug at the sink and splashed it in Lulu’s face. She stirred, lifted her chin, then her head flopped onto her chest.

Jurgen slapped her, hard. ‘Wake up!’

She groaned and opened her eyes. ‘Where am I?’

Billy marched over to her, pulling the folded manila envelope from the pocket of his puffer jacket. ‘Don’t you worry about that.

Where’s the negatives and the video?’

‘There aren’t any.’

Jurgen backhanded her and blood trickled from the side of her mouth. ‘Don’t fucking bullshit us.’

Billy turned to me. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were flat and dead. ‘What about you? Tell us where they’re stashed and I promise we’ll let you go.’

I shook my head.

Jurgen ripped open Lulu’s jacket and the grey flannel shirt underneath. Her silicon breasts sat on her chest like a couple of oranges. He unsheathed a gleaming hunting knife from a thigh holster and pressed the tip into the underside of her boob.

‘Fucking tell me or I’ll cut off your precious tits, you grotesque freak.’

‘Leave her alone!’ The words ripped out of my dry, raw throat.

He twisted the blade. Lulu’s shriek brought goosebumps to my skin and I saw a thick stream of blood run down her belly.

‘Stop it!’ I yelled.

‘They’re in Geisha’s parents’ garage,’ Lulu screamed. ‘Paint tin under the workbench. Sixty six Redmon Drive, Oakleigh. Please. Just don’t hurt me.’

Jurgen and Billy looked at each other and nodded. They believed her. So did I.

‘Now let us go,’ she sobbed.

Jurgen shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

I wanted to scream hysterically and beg for my life, but I cleared my throat and tried to sound calm and rational. ‘You can’t kill us. Right now the Homicide Squad has copies of the photos and video along with a detailed statement about how you killed Tammy. I had a team of cops follow me to Wade’s office and they’ve probably got the place surrounded. If you stop now we can work out a deal.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Billy. ‘If you gave the photos to Homicide, what’s in them?’

Lulu went to say something but Jurgen clamped his hand over her mouth. Billy and Jurgen looked at me.

‘Emery molesting Tamara,’ I ventured.

Billy smirked. Jurgen tipped back his head and let out a hacking bark. Lulu glanced at me with liquid eyes then hung her head, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Billy’s cowboy boots clomped on the wooden floor. When he sat next to me the mattress dipped and the bedsprings screeched.

He slid the eight by ten prints out of the envelope, straightened them and held them in front of my eyes, one by one. The photos looked like video stills, slightly blurry, but there was no mistaking what was going on. Blaine Wade having oral and anal sex with Lulu who, despite the implants, was definitely pre-op.

Billy said, ‘Do you have any idea how much money was at stake? Millions.’ He pinched his thumb and index finger close together. ‘I am
this close to sealing a deal that’ll break Veronica in America.
We were all going to be set for life until that little whore and her freak friend decided they wanted a piece of the action.’