Eden (9 page)

‘Hi,' I said, walking up to her.

She looked at me with the merest hint of recognition.

‘I saw you at
Margot's
. Can I buy you a coffee?'

‘Why not?' The young woman's raised eyebrow said she wouldn't have picked me for a dyke.

‘I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

She looked doubtful then, as though I might turn out to be a freak.

I ordered at the counter and came back with two coffees, a twenty dollar note folded underneath one.

The young woman pocketed the money without comment.

‘My name's Sandra Mahoney,' I told her. ‘You're Mieke, is that right?'

‘Are you police?'

‘No, but I'm interested in what happened to Eden Carmichael.'

She grimaced as if to say, not another one.

‘Where's your friend?' I asked.

Mieke frowned, and didn't answer. She was dressed, as I was, in well-worn, comfortable clothes. She wore no make-up, and her hair was held back off her face with bobby pins.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘You must get sick of that question.'

‘I so do.' She had an attractive, singsong voice, with a serviceable European accent.

‘How do you like working for Margot?'

Mieke stared at me, her expression hard to read.

‘How long have you been at her club?'

‘Few months.'

‘Did you come down from
Sans Souci
?'

‘Why do you want to know?'

‘Just curious. Does she pay well?'

‘Money is okay.'

‘Did any other girls come down with you?'

Mieke looked me in the eye. I took another twenty out of my wallet.

‘There was one,' she said carefully.

‘What was the problem?'

Mieke pressed her lips together.

‘What happened?'

‘I don't want to say. Don't tell Denise or Margot I say anything.'

‘I won't. How long are you planning to stay?'

‘In Canberra?'

‘At
Margot's
.'

‘She wants to sell up.'

‘Has anybody made an offer?'

‘There is one guy she talks about, but I don't know if he is buying.'

‘Do you know his name?'

‘Lawrence something. Or it might be something Lawrence.'

Mieke glanced nervously towards the door, and said she had to go.

I felt a certain satisfaction as I thanked her for talking to me. Having found her so easily made me feel I could do so again. I was moving my investigation forward, however awkwardly and slowly. I'd have to watch the money, though. I needed an alternative employer to Electronic Freedom. A second employer would be better, while managing to hang in there with them.

. . .

An email from Ivan said that everyone, including Katya, had the flu. I rang immediately, forgetting it was 5 am in Moscow. Katya was awake. She sounded congested, but cheerful, when Ivan put her on the phone. He breathed hoarsely in my ear, and told me not to worry. I tried to take his advice, telling myself that worry wouldn't do my daughter any good.

Restless and unable to concentrate, I rang
Sans Souci
in Sydney. I said I was a friend of Mieke's who was looking for a girl who'd come down to Canberra with her and Kristina last year. I thought it unlikely that anyone would be willing to talk to me, but the woman who answered the phone asked me to wait. Another, very softly spoken woman came on the line and asked me what I wanted. I told her a computer software company I was being paid to research had led me to Eden Carmichael, and then Margot Lancaster's club. I said I'd be in Sydney on Friday. After some hesitation, she agreed to meet me at a cafe in Glebe.

Nine

I began the three hour drive to Sydney early on Friday morning, heading first for Richard McFadden's office, in Castlereagh Street, Sydney CBD. After that I'd meet the woman from
Sans Souci
, check out
Julia's
wig shop, whose advertisement I'd noticed in the Canberra yellow pages, then drive south along the coast to Brook.

Sydney heat was different, thick and humid. Summer had a way to go yet, but what I was beginning to think of as my summer would be over as soon as Peter, Ivan and Katya came home—my summer that was long days in a city that the heat beat back to bones, the task I'd set myself of sifting through them.

Ivan had rung to say that Katya was recovering. I'd phoned Peter again too. He'd sounded grown-up, full of self-importance.

. . .

Richard McFadden's office was in a well-preserved 1930s building. I passed under chandeliers, by polished hat and coat stands, and even more deeply polished hexagonal tables bearing silver urns filled with hydrangeas. The lift was lined with mirrors set into dark-red padded velvet. There was more red velvet in the small waiting area, where I sat in a deep chair with huge armrests.

CleanNet
had begun modestly, McFadden told me, with a smile down-turned at the corners, in the days when Internet censorship was just becoming an issue. Until the share float, there'd been no board of directors. After that, the heads of the three major investors sat on a board he chaired.

I couldn't see any resemblance to the Maverick Chris Laskaris had described, though Chris had made it clear as well that McFadden was well on the way to putting his past behind him. His smile was transparent, his rather small teeth the product of expensive dentistry. There was a sprinkling of grey through his short dark hair.

I'd tried my filter for a second time and found that it continued to block the National Party site. I'd brought it with me to show him.

McFadden laughed. ‘Oh dear. I'm surprised that one's still in the shops. Where did you buy it?'

I told him and he made a note of the name.

‘We've recalled all that batch,' he told me complacently. ‘If you'd allow me to offer you a replacement?'

After McFadden had demonstrated the newest version of his filter, I asked about staff, and learnt that they consisted of two programmers and a young woman who doubled as secretary and receptionist.

‘Let me tell you the history of my company.'

I thanked him, hoping for something new. When ringing to ask for an appointment, I'd told the secretary I was researching filter software for my master's thesis. But all McFadden did was repeat what he'd already said, plus the few facts I'd learnt from ASIC.

‘So you're not a programmer yourself?' I asked.

‘No. Or, I should say, an amateur rather than a professional. But the two young men I have working for me are first rate.'

‘Glitches not withstanding.'

‘Glitches not withstanding,' he repeated with another smile.

‘How did you like Canberra?'

‘A beautiful city. So much space. Clean air. And the gardens. Beautiful.'

‘And the political climate?'

McFadden looked thoughtful. He picked up my superseded filter and turned it round a few times.

‘How would you rate the climate for
CleanNet
?' I prompted.

‘Favourable, I'd say. Very favourable.'

‘Will
CleanNet
be on the recommended list?'

‘The minister was kind enough to say he was impressed.'

‘How was your presentation arranged?'

McFadden asked why I needed that information for my thesis. I told him I was looking at the social and political aspects of using filters, that I'd prepared school surveys for example, and that kind of thing.

‘Did you receive support from Eden Carmichael?' I asked.

‘That poor man. He was generous enough to compliment us. I was sad to hear he'd died in such distressing circumstances.'

‘What kind of compliment did Mr Carmichael pay you?'

‘Very generous. He admitted that he hadn't been in favour of mandatory regulation in the past. But now he was convinced.'

‘What happened to change his mind?'

‘His constituents did that for him, I believe. Concerned parents. It's shocking what children are exposed to these days. Truly dreadful.'

‘I was wondering if Mr Carmichael had assisted you by recommending your filter to any members of the Federal Parliament.'

‘I would have been most grateful, but I know of no such recommen­dation.'

‘You never spoke to him about it?'

‘Never.'

We talked for a while longer, but no matter how I phrased my questions, McFadden's replies were bland and unrevealing. He got his receptionist to make us coffee, but I felt that I'd learnt all I was going to from him, and was soon on my way.

. . .

I stood outside, looking up and down Castlereagh Street to get my bearings, stepping close to the window of a shoe shop to avoid a group of teenagers. I looked into the window and caught the reflection of a man's face staring back at me. He had dark hair and a strong, inexpertly-shaven jaw. I swung around. The street was crowded with shoppers. The man was already a few metres away, head bobbing above a suit that looked too big for him. He was moving fast, with a peculiar bouncing walk.

I recognised the woman I'd spoken to on the phone before she spotted me. It was her air of expectation, as much as the features she'd described.

‘I'm a blonde,' she'd said. ‘One of those. And you?'

‘Kind of,' I'd replied.

She was sitting inside. I watched her for a moment through the window. Her gaze was locked with that of a young woman standing behind a counter, dressed in a navy singlet, shorts, and tiny apron. Both appeared to be about to say something, and intent on this.

The waitress raised an eyebrow. The other woman eyed me for an instant before she nodded a greeting.

She introduced herself as Rose. The flyer she pulled out of her bag looked professionally done, with some care given to its composition. There was a bunch of red rosebuds in the centre, half open and enticing, and above them a man's dark curly hair, dimpled chin, smiling mouth with a hint of cruelty about it.

Large black letters said ‘THIS MAN IS UGLY ON THE INSIDE'. There was a description, brief but telling, of the incident Rose began describing as I studied it.

‘Jen said they were nearly finished when he ripped the rubber off and held her face down on the bed. She yelled out and the girl next door rushed in and got him off her. Margot took his side and ticked Jen off for making a fuss.'

‘Jen?'

‘Jenny Bishop. She's dead. She died just after Christmas.'

‘How did she die?'

‘The police said it was an overdose, but Jen wasn't using. She stopped using a year ago.'

‘What do you think happened?'

Rose said stubbornly, ‘She never killed herself.'

Her T-shirt smelt of some backyard clothes line by the sea. Her expression was determined, but she was so nervous she could not keep still. I noticed rows of old needle marks along the insides of her arms. She saw me looking and rested her elbows on the table, making no attempt to hide them.

‘Who was the girl who helped Jenny?' I asked.

‘I think Jen said her name was Denise.'

‘When did Jenny die? What date?'

‘December thirtieth. She never made it through the year.'

The waitress came to take our order. She frowned at Rose, and avoided meeting my eyes.

When she'd gone, I glanced at the flyer again. The man's name was Simon Lawrence and he was described as owning a flower shop in Parramatta Road.

‘Did you show this to the police?'

‘I gave them one. You can have that one if you like.'

‘What did the police say?'

‘Nothing. Like nothing to
me
.'

‘Do you think they interviewed this Lawrence?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Where did Jenny live?'

‘In Wigram Road.'

‘Do you have a photograph of her?'

Rose smiled then, as though I'd passed some kind of test. She pulled a small, wrinkled, dog-eared snap out of her bag. The young woman it showed was fair like Rose. Long, wavy hair blew off her face. She grinned at the camera with a child's enjoyment of life.

I thanked her, then asked, ‘When was it taken?'

‘On her birthday. September the first.'

‘I'd like to help find out what happened.'

Rose nodded. She wrote down Jenny's full address for me on a scrap of paper.

‘What did Jenny tell you about Margot Lancaster?'

‘That she was a cow to work for.'

‘Did she say anything else?'

‘Just that she took the side of this pig over her.' Rose tapped the flyer with a pointed nail.

‘When did Jenny leave Canberra?'

‘At the end of November.'

‘Did Margot force her to leave?'

‘They had an argument, I know that much.'

‘Why did Margot take the client's side?'

‘She was sucking up to him because she wanted him to buy her club. That's what Jen said. I don't know.'

I asked Rose if she'd had any contact with Simon Lawrence herself.

‘Are you kidding?'

‘Did Jenny? After she sent the flyer round?'

‘She never told me. I reckon she'd have told me.'

I took out a photograph of Carmichael and asked Rose if she'd ever seen him at
Sans Souci
.

‘He's the one who carked it, right? I saw it on TV.'

‘Did Jenny ever mention him?'

Rose was about to answer when she ducked her head, hunched her thin shoulders, and whispered hurriedly, ‘I gotta go.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘Some creep who's after me.'

Her head was level with our table and she was moving crabwise, fast. The waitress was walking towards us with our coffees. Rose said something to her, then disappeared through swing doors.

I looked round for whoever had frightened her. I couldn't see any likely candidates in the street, and no one came inside.

Not knowing quite what else to do, I drank my coffee. While I was paying for it, I told the waitress I hoped Rose would be okay. She gave me a hostile stare.

. . .

A block away, at Glebe Post Office, I found a stained copy of the yellow pages and looked up Lawrence's Flowers. I wrote down a phone number and address in Petersham, studied my street directory, then drove straight up Parramatta Road and found a park in a side street.

I walked past the florists on the opposite side. Constant buses and semis, a footpath full of people, gave me the confidence to pass back and forth several times without worrying about being noticed. A young man with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail was preparing a window display—heart-shaped red and pink balloons and a huge mock-up of a Valentine's Day card. He was pretty early, but then people did prepare early for festivals these days.

There was a small cafe not quite opposite, the only window table occupied by a woman with three shopping bags, leaving one spare seat.

The woman barely glanced at me when I took it. She was absorbed in eating a sandwich that seemed to consist entirely of beetroot. I was hungry, but if hers was anything to go by, the sandwiches were to be approached with caution. I ordered a soft drink, keeping my eye on the boy in the florist's window. The shop was narrow, but made good use of the pavement space in front. It was a busy area, but I didn't think the people in the street, the woman with her shopping and her slit-vein sandwich, looked the kind to spend twenty dollars on a bunch of roses.

I finished my drink and ordered another, this time with a bagel.

My thoughts returned to Jenny Bishop, and I asked myself if there was any way of creating an effective blacklist, getting it to work. I thought about Rose, the story she'd told, her sorrow for her friend. Who'd been after her back there? I should have stayed and nagged the waitress. I had a feeling that she knew.

. . .

The roses looked better in reality, close up, and so did Simon Lawrence. He smiled at me from behind the counter as though I was his first customer for the day. The young man had disappeared, and Lawrence seemed to have the shop to himself. His skin was lightly tanned, his curls a boy's. The dimple in his chin was deep.

I smiled in return, and said, ‘Roses, I think, red roses. Though it's early for Valentine's, isn't it?'

‘Never too early for love.' Lawrence smiled again, crookedly this time, to undercut what he'd said, but not entirely.

The roses that surrounded him, high, mid-summer roses, looked as though they'd just been picked. Their perfume filled the small space. The buds and half-open blooms seemed to expand as I watched them, as though glorying in an unnatural power, demanding that I pay attention, while their maker went on smiling, secure behind his counter.

‘They're beautiful. A small bunch will be fine.'

‘Thank you. I haven't seen you around before. Are you new to the area?'

‘Just visiting.'

I watched the florist walk slowly from behind the counter to the buckets at the front of the shop.

Carefully, he chose half-a-dozen blooms and wrapped them, aware, all the time, of my eyes on him.

‘Be sure to get them into water as soon as you can. They won't last long on a day like this.'

I nodded, paid the rather high price, took my change and left.

From half a block away, I turned and looked back down the footpath. The crowd of shoppers had thinned, and I chanced to see a tall young man in a baggy suit, with an ungainly bouncing walk, turn into Lawrence's doorway. His head was down, but I knew that, if I'd been able to take a closer look, I would have seen that his jaw was badly shaven, or perhaps that he was starting to grow a beard. It was the man whose reflection I'd caught in a shop window in Castlereagh Street.