Thrill City (17 page)
He walked me to the main building in silence and demanded to check my bag before he let me in the front door.
‘Why?’
No answer. I handed it over. Wasn’t much in there except the mints, phone, makeup, and a couple of tampons bulging fluff out of their plastic wrappers.
Inside, we passed a cavernous living area filled with tasteful antique furniture, Turkish rugs and the sort of massive fireplace in which you could easily spit-roast an entire wild boar. We climbed a sweeping stone staircase to the next floor, and padding along the hallway I glimpsed bedrooms with four-poster beds and French doors overlooking vineyards and distant mountain ranges.
I’d met a fair few rich folks in my investigatory dealings, but had never run across a spread like that. Reminded me of a boutique hotel, or a poxy movie where some middle-class ponce restores a gorgeous manor in Tuscany or Provence and finds themselves
and
true love in the process.
When we reached the end of the corridor my escort knocked on the open door and walked in. I poked my head round the frame and saw a huge double room with a large wooden desk at one end and a lounge area at the other, filled with furniture that managed to be both overstuffed and understated. A flat screen TV the size of a small billboard adhered to the wall opposite the couch, built-in bookshelves flanking either side. Rod sat behind the desk, which was empty except for a wide, thin LCD computer monitor, wireless keyboard and mouse. His ginger hair was crew cut, like I remembered, but he’d swapped the military get-up for an open-necked white linen shirt. Mozart or Beethoven wafted through the air, one of those symphonies they always played in commercials for luxury cars.
Rod looked at me and nodded, then dismissed Nazi-boy.
‘Thank you, Dean, that will be all.’
Dean? I’d been hoping for Gunther, Klaus or Helmut. Disappointing. He didn’t even click his heels or perform a clipped salute.
‘Sorry, Simone, I’m just finishing up an important chapter. It’ll only take a few moments. Have a look around, make yourself at home.’
Just before he turned his attention back to the screen he gave me a quick up and down and, judging by his expression, approved of what he saw.
I’d figured he responded well to ultra-feminine women, recalling Isabella’s floaty outfit, and Rod flirting with Chloe at the writers’ festival, so I’d worn my girliest item of clothing: a moderately frilled white sundress just long enough to cover the fucked-up knees. Made me seem non-threatening, less like a hard-arsed PI, and wouldn’t have looked out of place on a model prancing through fields of sunf lowers in a feminine hygiene ad. In my line of work it could be advantageous to be underestimated, and that’s exactly what most folks did when they discovered I’d flaunted my modest jugs in most of the titty bars in the greater Melbourne area.
I wandered over to the bookshelf to study the mix of gleaming hardcovers and pristine paperbacks, tilted my head to examine the spines and got a shock when I realised every single book was one of Rod’s. Editions from all over the world lined the shelves, sporting different covers, titles translated into dozens of languages. A framed poster for the film version of his first book,
Lethal Entry
, hung on the wall, a pumped-up Jean-Claude Van Damme posing in the foreground in torn army fatigues with an AK47 slung over his shoulder. A dishevelled ingenue clung to his leg, lips parted, head level with his crotch, while behind them a helicopter detonated in spectacular fashion.
I glanced back at Rod. Despite possessing a typing style best described as ‘hunt and peck’, he performed like a concert pianist, raising his hands before swooping them down, stabbing his index fingers at the keys. While he worked his face contorted, lips twitching as though mouthing the words. He punched the keyboard one last time, sat back, blew out some air and rolled his broad shoulders, then slapped his palms on the desk, hoisted himself to a standing position and smiled.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but when the muse strikes . . .’
So far he was playing charming, so I decided to go along with it.
‘Don’t apologise. It must be tough writing a book. You do many drafts?’ I thought it was a safer question than ‘Where do you get your ideas?’
He walked around the desk. ‘Just the one.’
‘Really? Wow.’ I was sure Nick had told me he did three or four.
‘Of course, I outline every last detail before I start. Failing to plan is planning to fail, in my opinion.’
As he approached I noticed brown slip-on shoes made of soft leather and beige pants constructed of the same fabric as the shirt—a finely woven linen that shimmered when he walked and skimmed his bulky muscles, giving him a leaner, taller frame. When he stood beside me I smelled aftershave that must have cost a bomb but was way too sweet and musky for my taste.
Suddenly remembering why I was there, I told him I was sorry about Isabella and was a little taken aback when he grabbed both my hands, squeezed and sort of jigged them up and down.
‘Thank you, Simone. I won’t lie to you, it’s been incredibly hard, but I’m trying to be strong and take it one day at a time.’ He let go of my hands and I was relieved when he didn’t lunge in for a hug.
‘Would you join me on the terrace?’ He nodded towards the wide Italianate balcony outside the open French doors. ‘I’ll call up for some drinks. What would you like? Coffee? Tea? San Pellegrino? Wine?’
My eyes must have lit up and given me away.
A small smile. ‘Let me guess. You’re the sort of lady who savours a cold climate sauvignon blanc?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Then may I be so bold as to suggest our own, Villa Bella, riesling? Before you protest, it’s not sweet like the rieslings of old, but dry with a crisp, grassy finish and the subtlest hint of fruit. Marvellous.’
‘Sounds lovely, but—’
‘Be a shame for you to come all this way and not sample such nectar.’
‘Okay, you’ve twisted my arm. But just a little. I’m driving.’
‘Of course.’
From his pants pocket he plucked a shiny, rectangular black object that looked like one of those all-in-one computer/ camera/mobile phones, spoke softly into the device, then placed his hand on my elbow to steer me out through the double doors.
T
he balcony was made of sandy, rough-hewn stone and decorated with antique wrought-iron furnishings upholstered in worn brown leather. Delicate flowers spilled from clay urns, and attached to the wall was a terracotta mask in the shape of a lion’s face, dribbling water into a small pond. The sound made my bladder twinge, but I decided not to break the seal just yet.
Sitting opposite Rod at a small round table, I checked out the view. The villa’s three buildings formed a U shape and framed a courtyard with a rectangular swimming pool made of grey tiles and enclosed by a low stone fence. Neat lawns, hedges and the odd statue surrounded the pool, and the open end of the U provided a spectacular vista of vineyards and distant mountain ranges. Not for the first time I realised I was seriously in the wrong line of work.
A butler appeared, pushing a cart that rattled over the coarse flooring. Jesus. An actual butler. Or maybe he was a valet? He wasn’t wearing tails but he did have on a nice black suit and tie. I felt like I was either in a movie or tripping on some exceptionally strong acid. He set the table with two large glasses and a plate of gourmet snacks: a washed rind cheese, fresh figs, olives, home-made crackers and thin slices of pear.
The wine tasted of melon, green apples and grass, and shat all over the casks of riesling I’d guzzled as a dedicated underage drinker.
‘Beautiful,’ I said.
‘The wine?’
‘And the house. Everything.’
‘Thank you, but it’s nothing without Bella. I bought it for her and named it after her. The estate is actually a reproduction of the Villa Rossa in Siena. We took our first holiday together there, and it’s where I proposed.’
‘Where did you and Isabella first meet, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Not at all. It was at the Perth writers’ week, last February. We were both married to other people at the time, and I’m not proud of that fact, but when twin souls find each other, there’s not much you or anyone else can do about it. We both knew it was bigger than both of us . . . Do you have anyone special in your life?’
‘I’m kind of seeing someone . . .’
‘Mmm . . .’ He gave me a slightly pitying smile. ‘Not everyone has what Bella and I shared. It’s a once in a lifetime thing. Maybe rarer. Many people never get to experience that sort of . . . transcendent love.’
It was at that point I decided not to mention Isabella snogging Nick behind the tree.
‘So,’ Rod asked, ‘why exactly did you need to see me?’
I trotted out my excuse about wanting to find out everything I could about Nick so I could clear my name and get my licence back. I wasn’t quite sure if he bought it, but as long as he talked to me I didn’t care.
‘An exchange of information, then? Seems like we both want the same thing, for Nick Austin to pay for what he’s done.’
‘You’re a hundred percent sure he’s guilty?’
‘A hundred and ten. Jilted lover, classic case—if he can’t have her then nobody can. From the moment Bella and I met, Nick refused to let her go. He couldn’t accept that she’d had enough of the drinking, the abuse.’
‘Abuse?’ This was news to me.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been taken in by his Mr Nice Guy routine?’ Rod cocked a carefully trimmed brow. ‘She never admitted he actually struck her, although I wouldn’t be surprised. I do know there was pushing and shoving, and on one occasion he punched a hole in the wall, right next to her head. It was the mental abuse, though. They say that’s the worst, don’t they?’
‘What sort of mental abuse?’
He didn’t reply, just shrugged and sort of waved his hand in the air.
‘Did you see any of this?’
‘First hand. When Bella told him she was leaving I went with her to collect her belongings. He’d been drinking, as per usual, and started to smash her things. I tried to intervene, foolishly thinking I could reason with him, man to man . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it descended into fisticuffs.’
‘Who won?’
Rod raised a small smile and flexed his large, square hands.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Why do you think he drank so much?’
‘Why does anyone succumb to vice? He was weak-willed, obviously. I don’t buy into all this namby-pamby psychological claptrap about addiction being a disease, or a reaction to some childhood trauma—self-medicating to drown the pain.’ He scoffed and took another sip of his wine. Setting down the glass he leaned forward and tapped the side of his head.
‘It’s all up here, Simone. Triumph, tragedy, success or defeat, every possibility is contained within the human brain. You have to decide exactly what you want in life, then put in the time and the effort to achieve it. If you fail, you’ve no one to blame but yourself. It’s my belief that quitters never win and winners never quit. I apply that philosophy to every facet of my life and I don’t think I’m being conceited when I say I’m a winner. I mean . . .’ He gestured to the grand spread around him before continuing.
‘I’ve never resented successful people, rather I let them inspire me and I make sure I learn from their achievements. Nick, on the other hand, is the envious type: a child coveting another’s toy. If he can’t play with it, or steal it, he’ll destroy it in a fit of pique. It never occurred to him to attempt to emulate my success and better himself. His reaction was to try and tear it all down. And by god, I’m going to make him pay.’
‘Is that why you put up the reward? Better chance of turning him over to the cops?’
‘Nick Austin will be lucky if he’s turned over to the cops.’ Rod’s expression froze. ‘He never should have crossed me. Never. People think my books are bullshit, but I’ve been there. I’ve done things to people who didn’t even deserve it as much as Nick fucking Austin. I’m going to make him suffer. I am going to mess him up like you won’t believe. Death, torture, they’re too good for that fucker. I’m going to think up something special. I want him to suffer like Isabella suffered.’
I’d come into the meeting thinking Rod was a pompous, arrogant but generally harmless git. The sudden darkness in his eyes made me unsure. I swallowed before I asked my next question, instinctively aware I shouldn’t show any bias towards Nick.
‘Any truth to the rumours you want him dead or alive?’
The shadow lifted and his mouth turned up at the corners. The affable, pompous git was back, but now I didn’t believe it for a second.
‘Alive, preferably, but he is a dangerous fugitive. If one of my men, or even a concerned citizen, was forced to defend themselves and something happened to Austin, well, I wouldn’t hold back the reward. It’s only fair.’
‘What do the police think about that?’
Rod laughed, like his scary moment hadn’t even happened, which disturbed me even more. ‘Oh, they hate me,’ he said, ‘especially that bull-dyke Dianne Talbot, but I don’t care. If they’d done their jobs properly I wouldn’t have had to put up the reward. If it wasn’t for me the case wouldn’t still be in the media. You know they hauled me in for questioning and acted like I was guilty when Isabella’s body was found? Kept me there for hours, even though I had a perfectly good alibi. A breakfast meeting with my agent in Melbourne. Hundreds of people saw us.’
‘Did Isabella have any enemies?’
‘Just Nick.’
‘Who was Isabella’s publisher?’
‘Brandenburg, same as me.’
‘Any good friends I could talk to?’
‘Isabella was a lovely person, but we pretty much kept to ourselves. My fault, I suppose: I didn’t want to share her. Oh, she had acquaintances in the publishing industry and at RMIT, where she acquired her master’s. She attended festivals, ran creative writing workshops and mentored the occasional aspiring writer. I could give you some numbers, but no one stood out to me as a particularly close friend. Really, we spent most of our time here. Do you see the building adjacent to the pool? It was her own studio cum pied-à-terre where she could create to her heart’s content. Sometimes, when inspiration struck, I wouldn’t see her for days.’
