Eden (15 page)

I smiled, recalling Walewicz's acknowledgment of the play within the play, as I brought up the list of
CleanNet
's shareholders I'd obtained from ASIC. I double-checked to make sure Walewicz wasn't on it, mulling over why he'd had their software sitting in his office, thinking about his reaction when I'd remarked that they were the ones to beat.

I'd noted the name on the front of the studio—
Zabawka Entertainment
. I searched ASIC's website again, and came up with a private company. The registration date was 1996.

I fetched the video I'd borrowed, remembering another name at the bottom of the list of credits.
Artysta Limited
. I did a search for that one too. It drew a blank under registered companies, but I found it when I tried the deregistered list. Begun 1991, ended 1996.

I emailed Andrew Glover to ask how his archive search was ­progressing. Next I rang
Julia's
in Parramatta Road and asked if they supplied wigs to a Mr Stan Walewicz in Canberra. The woman who answered the phone had a smoker's voice, and sounded much older than the one who'd been plaiting yellow ribbon when I'd visited the shop.

She asked why I wanted to know. I said I'd seen Walewicz's wigs and they'd really impressed me. I was looking to buy something similar. She asked me to hold and came back after a few minutes to say that yes, Mr Walewicz was a customer of theirs.

‘Would you like to place an order?' she asked.

I said I'd call her back.

I looked up Travers in the phone book, half expecting Denise to have a silent number, but she answered on the second ring.

‘Are you okay?' I asked. ‘You seemed upset the other day.'

‘I'm fine.'

I tried to think of something sympathetic to say, about her daughter, her responsibilities, but anything that came to mind seemed con­descending.

‘What did you think of Gail's piece in
The Canberra Times
?'

‘Not bad.'

‘Are things okay between you and Margot?'

‘They're fine.'

I'd meant to lead up slowly to my next question, but I was annoyed by Denise's bland and, it seemed to me, false replies.

‘How did you feel when you found out Jenny Bishop was dead?'

There was a long silence on Denise's end, so long I thought she'd hung up. Finally, she said, ‘Jenny overdosed.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘She hadn't been using for a while. She gave herself too much. I have to go now.'

‘Just a couple more questions. I promise I won't keep you long.'

I asked about clients who patronised Margot's club in order to cross-dress. I sensed that Denise's first impulse was to tell me that there weren't any apart from Carmichael, but she said cautiously that she'd had a few over the years.

‘Does Margot encourage them?'

‘If a punter's clean, and pays well, what difference does it make?'

‘Do you end up with them—since you don't mind so much?'

‘It depends who else is working.'

‘What about dressing up yourself?'

‘I'm not into that.'

‘Who else saw Eden Carmichael?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Who did Carmichael see at Margot's club besides yourself?'

‘Ed only saw me.'

‘What about Jenny Bishop?'

‘No. I have to go now,' Denise said.

I put the phone down, wondering if Margot was aware how bad a liar her employee was, and whether this could have been the subject of their dispute. Margot gave the orders on her piece of turf. She made the rules. Her girls kept them, or they left. But rules were different to laws, which clients like Lawrence could break, and get away with breaking. I wondered if Jenny might have had other reasons for leaving the club, besides the incident with Lawrence.

Once again, I recalled the pale, practically translucent hair slipping through Margot's fingers, seeing it this time as a demonstration of her wish to control every aspect of her business, her expert fingers saying, ‘This belongs to me'.

I remembered what Denise had told me about Carmichael the first time we'd spoken, how she'd praised him and said that he was different from other clients. I hadn't been able to detect anything in her voice that I would call sadness. Regret perhaps, but, in recollection, Denise's expression of regret seemed slippery and ambiguous. Who was ­genuinely sorry? Of all the people I'd spoken to so far, only Ken Dollimore. And, just possibly, Margot.

My last task for the afternoon was to answer a curt email from Lucy. She was sorry, but the committee had instructed her to tell me that I should come up with something substantial on
CleanNet
, or give up and stop wasting their money. I put a bit of effort into my reply, hoping to convince the committee that there was a story worth waiting for, but it required careful untangling, and could not be rushed.

. . .

I'd arranged to meet Simon Lawrence at a bar in Civic. I deliberately got there a few minutes early and chose a table at the back, after looking around to see if I recognised any of the other customers.

Lawrence was on time. I sensed he always was.

‘Well now,' he said, walking towards me with his hand extended. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.'

‘Likewise. You must have an extraordinary memory for faces.'

Lawrence smiled. ‘And the roses, they were appreciated?'

‘Thank you. Yes.'

‘What can I get you to drink?'

I thought of insisting on paying for myself, then thought again. ‘A beer would be nice. Light. Coopers if they have it.'

Lawrence ordered at the counter.

‘Who were the roses for?' he asked when he came back with our drinks.

‘A friend.'

‘Correct me if I'm wrong, but I sense a complication there.'

‘Aren't there always complications?'

Lawrence acknowledged the breadth of my reply with a sideways inclination of his curly head, then busied himself wiping up an invisible spill of beer with his forefinger.

‘Why did you want to meet?' I asked.

‘You're curious about me. I'm repaying the compliment.'

I smiled at his choice of words and said, ‘I'm interested in your website.'

‘From what point of view?'

‘It's well designed.'

‘Thank you.'

‘You must be very much against net censorship.'

‘Oh, dead against it.'

‘I'm surprised your site's still up there. Have you had any complaints?'

‘From other florists?'

‘From anyone.'

‘Not yet.'

‘Do you often visit Canberra?'

‘Quite often. It's easy now the highway's been improved.'

‘Would you say the place has a nostalgic value?'

‘I suppose so,' said Lawrence mildly. ‘Drink up.'

I took a few sips of beer. It tasted stronger than the light I'd ordered.

‘I understand that you have business interests here.'

‘What would they be?'

‘Margot Lancaster's club. I heard you were thinking of buying it.'

Lawrence sat back in his chair and raised his glass. ‘Where would life be without a multiplicity of interests?' he asked, studying me over the top of it.

‘Have you seen Margot recently?'

‘No.'

‘When was the last time you saw her?'

‘A while back.'

‘Before Christmas?'

‘Oh, long before.'

‘What about Stan Walewicz?'

‘What about him?'

‘He told me he was thinking of moving into Internet security.'

Lawrence looked annoyed, but said calmly, ‘It's an expanding field.'

‘Have you heard of a company called
CleanNet
?'

‘I don't think so. Should I have?'

‘They're marketing a filter that blocks sites like your embellished one. They put on a presentation for the Communications Minister last year. Stan Walewicz was there.'

‘Stan and I went to school together, and we've kept in touch, but I don't keep tabs on all his business interests.'

Suddenly, I'd had enough.

‘Jenny Bishop's dead,' I said. ‘You forced her to have unprotected sex.'

Lawrence sat up straight. ‘That's nonsense. The girl was a hooker and a drug addict.'

‘Jenny called for help. Denise Travers pulled you off her. Do you deny that happened?'

‘You're making a mountain out of a molehill. I might have got a bit carried away. What of it? She knew the risks.'

‘And you knew you were breaking the law.'

‘Oh, come off it, Ms Mahoney.'

‘Have you seen this?' I asked, pulling the flyer out of my bag.

Lawrence turned it over, frowning, lips pursed.

He looked at me and forced himself to smile, saying, ‘Quite a work of art.'

‘Did Jenny send one to you?'

‘No.'

‘I imagine it would have made you angry if you'd got to hear of it—such a crude attempt at revenge.'

‘Crude, but ineffective. I'd be a fool if I let a little thing like this bother me.'

‘Were you sorry to hear that Jenny was dead?'

‘Of course. It's tragic what these girls do to themselves.'

‘How did she die?'

‘An overdose.' Lawrence's voice betrayed only mild surprise that I should have to ask. ‘I admire you,' he said, with another smile that accentuated the dimple in his chin. ‘It's not many young women who'd be as persistent.'

‘I'm not that young.'

‘Yet you have a three-year-old daughter.'

My throat constricted to a small, narrow pipe, but I forced out another question. ‘What did you have against Jenny?'

Lawrence leant back in his chair again. ‘I like women. I make no secret of that fact. And I like variety. Why not?' His voice was mild, but serious, as though he believed convincing me was a realistic option. ‘Jenny and I went back a long way. We met when she was just out of school.'

‘When you starred in a porn movie together?'

‘That's right.'

‘How many movies have you been in?'

‘You flatter me. I'm not an exhibitionist. It was fun, but once was enough for me.'

‘After the incident at
Margot's
—did you see Jenny again?'

‘You're kidding.'

‘Did Jenny threaten to get even?'

‘She threatened all sorts of things. A proper little wildcat. I had scratch marks for weeks.'

‘How did you know that she used heroin?'

‘I saw the needle marks.'

‘What about when you made the movie?'

‘She wasn't using then.'

‘When did she start?'

‘I don't know.'

‘When you saw her in November, did the marks look recent?'

‘It was hard to tell.'

‘What were you doing on December thirtieth?'

‘The thirtieth? What day of the week was that?'

‘A Thursday.'

‘Then I was working, I expect.'

Lawrence's phone rang. After replying to the caller in monosyllables, he told me he was sorry but he'd have to go. I was used to this excuse, and merely nodded. Perhaps Lawrence had learnt all he'd wanted to from my questions. Perhaps the flyer had made him angrier than he was willing to admit.

I gave him ten minutes, then drove by
Margot's
, but didn't see his car. Just to be sure, I parked at the corner and walked back. It wasn't there.

Thirteen

It was Brook's first day back at work. He rang at lunchtime to say a quick hello. I asked if he could bring round a copy of Carmichael's post-mortem after he'd finished for the day.

Brook laughed and said, ‘When I was a kid, I had a fox terrier who was just like you.'

At six, I had a shower, then sat on my front step waiting for him, my bare feet resting on Fred's hot fur.

The house behind me was used to my solitary habits now, to the closed daylight cosseting of shade; dry, quickened breathing towards that moment when I threw open doors and windows to invite the cooler air inside, suffering a moment's nerves as I recalled my ransacked office, but unable to bear the prospect of keeping the house shut up all night.

Brook waved as he got out of his car.

I smiled and stood up, wanting to run, to throw my arms around him.

He was dressed in his summer work clothes, lightweight trousers and short-sleeved white shirt. He kissed my cheek, patted Fred, then followed me inside, saying, ‘Bloody Canberra. Why do we put up with it?'

‘Place has its moments.' I hoped I wasn't in for a lecture on the pleasures of the coast.

Brook glanced round approvingly, and deposited a fat envelope on my clean kitchen table.

‘Brought some photos and a couple of statements too.'

I thanked him, touched, then asked, ‘Have you had time to check out those rosebuds?'

‘Will the sky fall if I don't?'

‘It's an experience,' I said. ‘On the other hand, big tits aren't everything. What about closing down the site?'

Brook looked surprised, as though, whatever he'd expected me to talk about, it wasn't this. ‘Someone has to file a complaint first.'

‘I will. It will be a pleasure. But—'

‘But what?'

‘If we leave it there, it might tell us something.'

‘About?'

‘About what Walewicz and Lawrence might do next.'

‘A couple now? Why should they do anything?'

‘A number of reasons. One, money. Two, they won't like the authorities having the last word, if Lawrence
is
ordered to take his site down. Three, there's more to it than tits and fannies.'

Slow down, I told myself, but couldn't. There was so much I had to get through before Brook's mobile rang, or he looked at his watch and said he had to go.

Brook pulled a chair out and sat down at the table. He looked up at me to ask, ‘What makes you think Walewicz and Lawrence are ­connected?'

‘Apart from the website? They went to school together. Plus, Lawrence was pulling out of Walewicz's carpark when I turned up there. We had a drink last night.'

‘You and Lawrence?'

I nodded. ‘It's my impression that he and Walewicz meet quite often. And not for old times' sake.'

‘Hardly an incriminating detail, Sandra. You know that filter you were telling me about? Bill McCallum bought one.'

‘Tell him to steer clear of the National Party site.'

‘What's wrong with it?'

‘Never mind. It doesn't look as though Lawrence even made Margot Lancaster an offer for her club.'

‘So?'

‘So maybe Jenny Bishop was abused for nothing.'

‘Sandra.'

‘Her friends say there was no way she would have started using heroin again.'

I was thinking of Mieke and Rose, but reminded myself that Denise had said the opposite.

Brook sighed and said, ‘I can't get into that. It's not my patch, and I don't know any of the details.'

I bit my lip, then asked him if he'd like something to drink.

‘A beer wouldn't go astray.'

I poured Coopers Light for both of us.

‘How was work?'

‘First day back, and my fingertips are already bruised up to the elbow. I don't want to talk about it. Cheers.'

Brook raised his glass, and I clinked mine against it.

We chatted about Ivan and Katya for a few minutes, and Peter, whose postcard from Port Arthur had arrived that morning. Brook smiled at Peter's description of the jail as ‘awesome', with three exclamation marks. I was conscious, as I had been often in the past, of his estrangement from his own children, how this surfaced without warning, and drew a shadow over him.

‘Go on, take a look,' he said, nodding at the envelope. ‘I know you're itching to.'

I opened it and began reading the first page of the post-mortem, noting that Carmichael's blood alcohol level had been .05.

The top few photographs were close-ups of the body. I stared at Carmichael's face. The wig had fallen across it, covering one eye and part of his left cheek. His eyes were half open, his mouth grotesquely twisted. His dress had been ripped and the upper part of his chest was bare. It seemed he wasn't wearing women's underwear.

Beneath these close-ups were a dozen pictures of the body and the room, taken from different angles. I studied them while Brook drank his beer.

Something bothered me about the photo showing the table and its contents.

I puzzled over it for a few more moments. ‘There's no wig box.'

‘What?'

‘Denise Travers described the ritual for me. She had to dress Carmichael in a certain way. The wig was carried into the room in its box, which was then put under the table. It's not here.'

I passed the photograph across. Brook looked at it, frowning. ‘Maybe you misunderstood her. Maybe she made a mistake.'

‘If one of them took the box out after he was dead, then yes, Denise did make a mistake. She told me the routine, but not what must have happened that day.'

‘A slip of the tongue,' Brook said, but his frown deepened, and I felt that my focus on the wig was justified.

‘He hasn't got any underwear on either, and the dress is torn.'

‘He could have torn it himself, struggling for air.'

‘He could have. But where's the lingerie?'

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Brook I hadn't found any in his flat either, but I decided to keep quiet about it.

I put aside the photos, and we stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. We might have left that scrubbed table and walked to any other part of the house, finding, when we arrived, that what had seemed a destination carried a further destination still; carried doubts and questions, made uncertain both our stated and unstated aims. We could walk into a bedroom. There was a bedroom waiting for us. We both knew it, as we had before. It was dangerous, being alone together in my house, yet Brook had come to that danger calmly, invited himself into it, offering what I'd asked for, and a little more.

He was the first to look away. I pushed back my chair and said, ‘There's something I forgot to tell you. I think I was followed in Sydney. A young guy, scarecrow suit. Needed a shave. I saw him going into Lawrence's shop.'

‘Email me a description. Have you spoken to Kevin Saunders?'

I opened my mouth to make excuses.

Brook's mobile rang. ‘Okay,' he said, then, ‘about half an hour.' He returned the phone to its holder on his belt, his expression resigned.

‘It was great down there, you know? I didn't miss work or Canberra for a single minute. It made me think I ought to retire, buy a place at the coast, enjoy it while I can.'

I swallowed, too proud to let him see my hurt.

Brook kissed me on the forehead, and I walked him to his car.

After I'd watched him drive away, I sat on the front porch with Fred curled up at my feet. My stomach was empty, but I couldn't think of anything I felt like eating. The house behind me was drenched with Brook's good smell, mixed with memories of the ocean, and a woman's voice calling down the stairs.

. . .

There were some surprises in the statements, which I decided to sleep on, and work out what to do with in the morning.

Brook had left me a video as well. It was strange, watching the camera pan across that room at Margot's club. I felt the closed-up stillness of a shrine already in the making, with Carmichael at the centre, in his torn blue dress. I knew that the task of whoever had been filming was to scan the room, providing the connections and overall impression that still photographs might not, yet the focus returned again and again, as though the person holding the camera had been fascinated by them, to the bed and figure on it, the evidence that Carmichael had fought for his last breaths.

I felt a surge of excitement when I noted that the space underneath the bedside table was empty. I stopped the tape, rewound and played it again. I replayed the whole tape from the beginning, looking for small, elusive items.