Rubdown (30 page)

‘I need a cab.’

‘Forget about it.’

‘I’ll tip you.’

‘It wouldn’t be enough.’ He reached the driver’s door and unlocked it.

I rummaged through my purse, saw how much I had and thrust it across the roof of the taxi. ‘I’ll give you two hundred bucks to take me to the Flinders Street Police Centre.’ A five minute drive, max.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But don’t you dare bleed on the seats.’

Four and a half minutes later we pulled up in front of the World Trade Centre. I jumped out of the cab, ran through the lobby, up two escalators and caught a lift to the eleventh floor. Plain-clothes coppers turned to look as I passed, but I was too quick for them.

By the time they thought to ask the crazed, bleeding hooker what business she had in the building, I was gone.

I spilled out of the lift, pushed through double doors leaving bloody handprints on the glass and shouted at the guy behind the counter. ‘The two o’clock hearing! Where is it? I’m late.’

Eyes wide he pointed to a door on my left and I marched over and knocked. I tried to collect myself while I waited, to catch my breath, gather my thoughts. Didn’t work. My pulse was racing and my breathing staccato. There were no thoughts to gather ’cause my mind was pretty much gone. Blood ran from the wound in my side and pooled in the waistband of my skirt. My palms were wet and sticky. Curiously, there was no pain. I crossed my arms so the extent of my injuries wouldn’t be noticeable and my forearm would cover the bloody slash in my top. Not much I could do about the legs.

A framed poem hung on the wall next to the door. The Desiderata. It suggested I ‘go placidly amid the noise and haste’.

For some reason that struck me as hilarious and I started laughing, a strange gurgle that seemed to be coming from a long way away.

Then I realised Alex had answered the door and was staring at me.

I looked past him into the hearing room. It was tiny, with the same red walls and blue carpet as the lobby, and a huge oval table made of blonde wood filled most of the space. Emery was sitting on the opposite side of it, staring too, and at the head a uniformed policeman with white hair had his mouth open, eyes bugging out.

I cleared my throat and tried to sound as much like an ABC news reader as possible. ‘I’m awfully sorry to have kept everyone waiting. The traffic on Kingsway was terrible. Shall we begin?’

Blood dripped between my fingers and onto my right forearm.

Alex took an immaculate handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to me. I pressed it between my palms, still keeping my side wound hidden with my arm.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘I’m taking you to a doctor.’

‘No need,’ I said. ‘Just a scratch.’

‘If you need medical attention…’ the white haired policeman said.

I shook my head. ‘I’m fine. Average day in the PI biz, you know how it is.’

The cop looked at Wade. Wade said, ‘If Ms. Kirsch is sure she’s alright, I have no problem with proceeding.’ He smiled at me. I smiled back.

Alex and I sat down. He examined me like he was trying to work out what I was on.

Adrenaline, which I decided had much the same effects as speed, with a little acid thrown in for good measure. My pupils were probably
huge
.

The policeman said, ‘My name is Detective Inspector Brian Cornwell. I’m the Deputy Registrar of Private Agents, Victoria.

The allegations against Ms. Kirsch have already been investigated.

We’ll give her a chance to respond and then I decide the outcome.

As I’m sure you’re all aware, these licence hearings operate like a civil court, on the balance of probabilities, and the witnesses are not under oath nor are we bound by the rules of evidence. Mr. Wade, if you’d like to begin.’

Wade looked straight at me, mouth almost curling up at the corners. ‘Certainly. On the eighteenth of April I came home early to discover Ms. Kirsch inside my garage, in the process of stealing my late daughter’s mobile phone. When I asked my wife why she had let her in she responded that Ms. Kirsch had informed her I’d given my permission, which I had not.’

Inspector Cornwell turned to me. ‘Do you wish to respond to these allegations?’

‘Yes I do. I said no such thing. Susan Wade invited me into the premises and gave me permission to look through the mobile for a phone number pertinent to a case I was working on.’

Cornwell said, ‘Mrs. Susan Wade has given a statement refuting that.’

I said, ‘It’s her word against mine.’

Emery’s smile grew broader. ‘May I?’ he asked Cornwell, then took a videotape from his briefcase, pushed back his chair and walked over to a TV and video unit in the corner.

When the tape started playing it took me a while to work out what I was looking at. Some pattern, a blur. Then I saw it was hundreds of tiny hexagonal tiles. Wade’s verandah. There must have been a hidden security camera in the porch roof. My head came into view and a few seconds later I realised the camera had been wired for sound because my lie to Susan rang out across the hearing room.

Wade looked triumphant. Alex put his hand on my shoulder.

Cornwell said, ‘On considering the material available to me, I’m convinced the respondent has engaged in conduct as a private agent which is dishonest and have decided to cancel the licence, taking effect today. Ms. Kirsch, if you’ll surrender said licence out at the front desk—’

‘Wait!’ I said. ‘You’re going on the word of a guy who killed his mate, his parents, and just three weeks ago his stepdaughter?’

‘Simone, leave it.’ Alex said. ‘I’m taking you to get those cuts looked at.’

I reached into my bag and held up the video. ‘What if I’ve got evidence of my own?’

Wade shook his head and looked at the detective inspector. ‘You made the right decision, Inspector, she’s obviously unbalanced. Ever since I caught her misrepresenting herself she’s had a vendetta and, as I’m sure you know, has been making unfounded allegations against me.’

I shook Alex off and marched around to the video player, ejected Wade’s tape and threw it at him, then stuck mine in and pressed play.

‘Vendetta this, motherfucker.’ I stared at the screen. Black. The time counter ticked over on the VCR but there was nothing on the television. I pressed fast forward. Still nothing. The tape was blank.

No one was looking at the TV, they were gazing at the gash in my side and the ever expanding blood stain that was turning my red top maroon.

‘I’m getting you to a hospital.’ Alex stood up.

Wade gathered up his briefcase. ‘Best place for her. Do you mind, Inspector? I have a rather busy afternoon.’

Cornwell nodded and Wade squeezed past the television, then past me. Just before he got to the door an old fashioned countdown bleeped from the screen and he stopped and turned. A grainy picture wobbled into view. Neville and Emery in a suburban back yard, Neville in obscenely short stubbies turning sausages on a barbecue, and Wade wearing a flared pinstriped suit with a wide tie.

His hair was longer and he had chunky sideburns.

The sound was bad quality, scratchy, but everyone could hear Neville when he said, ‘So what’s this job you want me to do?’

‘Do you mind?’ Wade asked. ‘I have to check,’ and Neville lifted his t-shirt, shucked his shorts and slowly turned around.

‘That’s fine,’ said Wade.

Neville sorted out his clothing. Wu Chan walked into the frame, carrying a tray with two cans of KB lager. She was dressed like Madonna in her ‘Holiday’ phase, wearing a mesh top, fingerless gloves and a raggy hair band. When she’d handed over the beers and left Wade spoke up.

‘I want you to kill my parents.’

I was so mesmerised by the grainy video I didn’t see Wade drop his briefcase and come at me until it was too late. He grabbed me by the throat, pushed me back on the conference table and banged my head into the wood. I couldn’t believe it. His whole face had changed. Mr. Smooth had left the building and in his place was a snarling, rabid animal, glassy eyed, immaculate hair flopping forward.

A couple of seconds later Alex and Inspector Cornwell grabbed Wade from behind and pulled him off me. I lay there gulping in air and Cornwell bent over to see if I was alright.

Alex was getting his cuffs out and telling Wade he was under arrest for assault when Wade lunged and grabbed Cornwell’s gun from his belt. He stepped back and swung it from Alex to Cornwell, shouting at them to get away. They retreated a couple of steps and Wade pulled me off the table by my shirt and held me to him. My back was against his chest, his arm hooked around my throat, and he pressed the gun barrel to my right temple.

Alex and Cornwell had their arms out, calling him mate, telling him to calm down and lower the gun.

Wade dragged me towards the door. ‘Stay the fuck away or I’ll shoot the bitch. Should have killed her the first time. Would have but that fucking bleeding heart Billy talked me out of it.’

Keeping the gun at my head he took his arm off my throat, flicked open the door handle and hauled me into the lobby, his back to the wall. Alex and Cornwell followed slowly, talking softly and trying not to spook him, as if he were a wild brumby they were trying to tame. Wade was snorting like a horse, breathing hard out of his nostrils, and with my back against him I felt his heart pounding beneath his starched shirt. Mine should have been jumping out my chest, but I must have been in shock. I was oddly calm.

The guy behind the reception desk saw us and ran out a door.

Wade pulled me toward the glass doors but stopped when the lifts opened and uniformed cops poured out, guns raised. He backed up against the wall, adjacent to the doors.

Cornwell said, ‘Now, Mr. Wade, let’s talk about this. What do you want?’

‘Let me out of here or I spray her brains all over the carpet.’

‘Okay, look, I’m sure we can work something out.’

While Cornwell was talking I saw Alex inching his hand into his jacket.

Wade saw too and yelled so hard my ear popped. ‘Don’t even think about it! I’ll do it!’

Alex withdrew his hand and held it out where Wade could see it.

Everything was quiet suddenly. All I could hear was the air-conditioning and Wade’s ragged breathing. And then I got the giggles like I had reading the Desiderata.

Wade had me in a headlock about to blow my brains out, but for the first time I wasn’t intimidated by him. My laughter got louder and I couldn’t stop.

‘Shut up!’ Wade shouted. ‘Just shut up!’

‘No way. You’re a piece of shit, Wade. You’re misogynist, a hypocrite. Think you’re so superior to all the working girls? I’ve met junkie street hookers with more integrity in one fake fingernail than you’ll ever have.’

‘Shut up!’

Alex was shaking his head at me, trying to get me to stop. But I wasn’t going to. ’Cause I knew something the others didn’t.

Wade was going to kill me. And he was going to do it soon.

When I was nineteen my flatmate came home one morning tripping on LSD. She was lying in the back yard hallucinating, looking up at the sky, and I lay down next to her. All I saw was blue and a few clouds until she shifted position, our bodies touched and suddenly I was off my tits, visions of skulls and whirl-pools and colours dancing in front of my eyes. When I moved away it stopped. Pressed against Emery I experienced the same thing. But I was seeing blood and bone and brain. My own. And I could feel his hatred for me leak from his every pore.

So I had a plan. Not a very good one, but without a plan you’re planning to fail, right? Eye contact had worked with Lulu out at the farmhouse. Surely it would work with Alex. We’d shared meaningful looks before. Hopefully he’d get the meaning of this one.

I gazed in the direction of his shoulder holster, then into his eyes and smiled. He got it alright, but shook his head almost imperceptibly from side to side. I kept smiling and hoped he was a quick draw.

Just before I made my move another shot of adrenaline jacked through my veins and everything in the room became bright and clear. The carpet was the deepest blue, the Coke machine so red it hurt my eyes. The fake plants, the cops with their guns and tense expressions, all stood out in sharp relief.

And I lifted my leg and drove that metal spike heel straight through Emery’s Italian leather lace-ups, right into his foot, crunching through muscle and bone. Then I threw myself to the side.

Alex reached in his jacket.

Emery screamed and grabbed at my hair as I fell, pulled the trigger and shot the wig.

Alex pulled his pistol and fired at Emery as I hit the carpet, ankle twisting, heel still embedded in his foot. I looked up. Emery was clutching his throat, bright blood gushing through his fingers.

He held his gun out and Alex dived towards the hearing room.

Emery squeezed the trigger and the framed Desiderata crashed to the floor. So did he.

From
: “Simone Kirsch” [email protected]
To
: [email protected]
Subject : All kindsa shit Dear Sean

Hey gorgeous, how’s Nha Trang? Sorry I haven’t got back to you for so long. So much shit going on I hardly know where to start.

Just found out that Emery Wade has been pronounced fit for trial and so his committal hearing is going ahead next week. Yay!

Billy is apparently giving evidence against him and so is Neville.

Think they’ve both cut some sort of deal. Emery still can’t speak, that bullet totally tore up his larynx, but he’ll have someone else representing him so I guess it doesn’t matter. Hey, maybe he’ll get one of those weird throat things like that guy on South Park. Is that mean? Hell, the fucker tried to kill me. I don’t think so.

You know how Alex got stood down while his own department had to investigate him after the shooting? Well he’s been cleared of any wrongdoing and is transferring to fraud. Sounds just as boring as Ethical Standards if you ask me. If I was a cop I’d want something glamorous like armed robbery or vice. Is there even a vice squad anymore? Sorry, had too much coffee this morning. Raving on.