Faces in the Rain (24 page)

I opened some Chablis while Cassie checked over the apartment.

‘So this is Oliver's love-pad,' she said, poking her head in the bedroom.

‘It's mine, temporarily,' I said, taking a drink to her.
I brought my glass to hers and nodded a salutation as they clinked.

‘You're in a good mood,' she said, ‘considering the pressure you're under.'

‘Relief really. I'll have to give myself up after the weekend.'

She wandered to the window and looked up Bourke Street to the Parliament, which was imperially lit at night. A tram rattled into the street.

‘I've spoken to my ex about the surgery business,' she said, turning to me, ‘he was reluctant to divulge anything.'

‘I don't follow.'

‘Apparently there is a surgeon. Colin says this doctor is nearly as good as him, which coming from my ex is about the biggest praise one can receive.'

‘Name?'

‘I can't tell you.'

‘Cassie! We're trying to nab Michel, remember.'

‘I was sworn to secrecy.'

‘Why?'

‘This guy specialises in changing the faces of criminals. He's made a fortune doing everything from Triads to American Mafia bosses. They come to him from everywhere. He can even do skin grafts on fingertips to beat fingerprinting. The only thing he can't beat is genetic typing.'

‘He has to be the one,' I said. ‘He'll have done Michel for sure.'

‘Colin thinks so.'

‘Cassie! He could provide the break we need!'

‘The catch is I can't tell you who he is.'

‘Can't I go to him,' I said off the top, ‘can't I say I need a change?'

‘It's risky.'

‘No it's not. He'll know I'm on the run. He'll think my coming to see him is legitimate.'

‘He'll know you've reached him through my ex. The doctor concerned is well known and highly respected. He runs a practice where the high and the mighty, and their wives, all go.'

‘All the more reason why I should go to him. He won't want to know who sent me. And I don't have to tell him.'

Cassie took a deep breath.

‘All right. But please, please be careful.' I reached for a pen and pad.

‘Russell Dimset,' she said.

‘I've met him,' I said. ‘He came to Benepharm with a range of cosmetic product ideas a few years ago.'

‘You've done business with him!?'

‘No. We refused. He was too greedy.'

Cassie reclined on the long lounge sofa. I replenished her glass.

‘How did you get out of seeing Walters?' I asked.

‘Told him I was going to Somers. My family has a holiday house there.'

‘How do you really feel about him?'

‘I don't love him,' she said, ‘if that's what you're asking.'

‘What's the problem?'

‘Rather not talk about it.'

I came close, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She eyed me curiously as I wandered to Oliver's compact disc library. His music taste had been caught in a sixties time warp. I selected ‘Windmills of your Mind' from the film,
The Thomas Crown Affair
, and put it on.

It began,
‘Round, like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel . . .'

I reached for her hand and we began dancing. Cassie
began to sing along with the disc.

‘Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon, Like a carousel that's turning, running rings around the moon . . .'

I kissed her on the nape of the neck. She shut her eyes and then opened them.

‘You're in a strange mood,' she said.

‘I was thinking it was nice to be alive and free,' I said, ‘and great to be with you.'

She smiled. I kissed her on the mouth as the tune continued:

‘Pictures hanging in a hallway, in the fragments of a song.

Half remembered names and faces, but to whom do they belong?'

And Cassie responded.

T
HE FRONT DOOR
clicked shut and woke me.

‘Cassie?'

I jumped out of bed, ran to the door and opened it just in time to hear her walking down the alley. I grabbed a dressing gown and was about to chase after her when I spotted an envelope on the kitchen table. It had a note from her:

Dear Duncan,

I loved the night with you. Hope you meant all the things you said. I did. Pity you won't be at the wedding, but it would be too dangerous.

With love,

Cassie

I pondered the note, especially the ‘With love', over my lonely breakfast and didn't stop thinking about it until I reached Russell Dimset's surgery at the top end of Collins Street where many doctors had rooms.

It was the right address to show you were big enough to charge exorbitant fees. In this case inflated charges were for increased, uplifted or reduced breasts, honed noses, new jaw bones, hip bones and a whole graveyard of other skeletal change options, not to mention liposuctions from under the chin to the inner knee. You also could have hair put on your head or removed from your lip.

The huge waiting hall – it was hardly a room – was in a top-floor penthouse suite. Dimset liked pink. There was a pink circular marble bar in the middle of the room. TV and video monitors hung from every corner of the pink ceiling and there were pink easy chairs and sofas and a huge white Floccati rug on the floor. A sign on the wall said: ‘Feel Good About Yourself and Your
(sic)
Always In the Pink.'

Female waiters in pink suits, all of them tall and modelly, took drink orders from the thirty or so people here on a Saturday morning for a consultation. The speciality of the house was pink Singapore Sling. The waiters had plastic smiles, surgically added no doubt, and such perfect noses that they made you wonder if they had been under the hammer and chisel too.

There were more than a few Barbra Streisands and Jimmy Durantes amongst the patients, and I found myself looking for flaws in all of them. Some were easy, like the young guy sitting on a bar stool. He had made an attempt to drag strands of yellow hair across a vast bare head. The bet was on a hair transplant for him. The woman opposite me had outsized hips. A bone hone for you, dear. A young girl of about ten had an undershot jaw and wore braces on teeth that came out at right angles. I could see the poor kid being condemned to dental work and jaw-thrusting wire for a decade.
I recognised Lady Caroline Putty, the elegant, sixty-year-old wife of the billionaire industrialist, Sir George, but with my glasses and coat, I didn't think she noticed me. Lady Caroline was reading a copy of
New Idea
magazine, about herself. Her nose was long, but too graceful to be tampered with. The shapely legs had no sign of varicose veins, and she was wrinkle-free.

Just as I was guessing what part of her well-preserved anatomy might have to be modified, a flat-chested woman of thirty stepped out of Dimset's office. The receptionist smiled and nodded to me. I walked to the door. Lady Caroline looked up over her glasses and gave me a puzzled look of near-recognition.

Russell Dimset was shoving moulds of busts into a cupboard. He turned to me and he showed annoyance at being caught with his finger in the jelly. There were photos of big-busted women on his desk. I wanted to say something funny, but couldn't think of anything. He probably wouldn't have appreciated it. I couldn't remember him having a sense of humour.

He shook hands and sat on the desk so that the photos were hidden. He was a tall man of about fifty with a full head of hair which had a healthy sheen.

‘Mr Perks?' he said, peering at me over bifocals. ‘What can I do for you?'

He was either too busy or too blind to notice it was me. It made me wonder how he ever got his surgery right. Perhaps he buried his mistakes, like Claude Michel.

‘My name is not Perks,' I said, ignoring the seat that had been offered. Dimset played with his glasses and examined his Saturday list of patients.

‘Er . . .' he said. I removed the spectacles. He squinted at me.

‘Christ!' he said.

‘Not even close,' I said.

‘What do you want?' he said, standing up straight, which showed he was rattled. He had been trying to hide the photos.

‘I don't want my arms shortened,' I said, ‘I just want information.'

‘I beg your pardon,' he said, backing towards the door.

‘You're pardoned,' I said.

Beads of sweat had already formed on his upper lip and jaw, which were in need of a closer shave. I looked out the window. It had become a habit since the visit to the French Consul.

‘You're wanting surgery,' Dimset said, resuming his seat, ‘I understand.'

The man was trembling. Sweat had lit up his brow in such a way that I wondered about his hair, if it was his hair.

‘I was thinking about it,' I lied.

‘It's probably your only hope.' There was flicker of confidence in his manner. He thought I needed him, but for the wrong reasons.

‘How much would a complete face job cost?' I asked. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out the Michel photo.

‘It depends.'

‘Just for the sake of comparison,' I said, ‘how much did this job cost?'

I handed over the photo, which had been trimmed from the French newspaper article. Dimset frowned over his bifocals at the picture. The blood rushed from his pink cheeks and nose and he began coughing. Dimset grabbed water from his table but went on spluttering.
I slapped him on the back. He blew his nose and composed himself.

‘You know him of course,' I said.

Dimset nodded.

‘He's a very great friend,' I said, ‘we worked together in France. He told me to see you.'

‘He did?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘But . . .'

‘Are you surprised?'

‘Frankly, yes.'

‘Why?'

‘He threatened me with my life if I told anyone about his surgery,' he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘and he tells you about it!'

‘He wasn't actually blasé,' I said, ‘we are such good friends.'

‘It's a wonder he didn't call me about this.'

‘He doesn't wish to be associated with . . . a person who may be on charges,' I said, with faked hesitation, ‘he said you were to show me the before and after shots you'd have on file.'

‘Perhaps I should speak with him,' Dimset said, still cautious.

‘He won't be at work today,' I said, frowning, ‘will he?'

‘That's the trouble. I doubt I could contact him during the weekend. I haven't seen him for years. Not since the operation. It was five years ago.' Dimset frowned contemplatively. ‘Of course, one sees his face about. After all, it is my craft. I would know it anywhere.'

‘That's right,' I said, sensing the pride in his chiselling skills.

Where would he see his face about? Where?!

‘That's why he wanted me to have a look at your results.'

‘But if you've seen his face . . .'

‘He insisted on me seeing your photos.'

‘I don't understand,' he said with a worried expression, ‘he told me to destroy all shots of him.'

‘He probably meant for you to show me the negs.'

‘No, no. He took the negative.'

‘Perhaps he meant you to construct the operation from the file.'

‘There is no file.'

I put on a deep frown.

‘But you must have sketches,' I said.

‘I think they went too. It was so damned dangerous, at least, that was what he said.'

‘Did you know he was French?'

‘I always thought he was English.'

Dimset looked at his watch.

‘I do have several appointments,' he said.

‘I would appreciate you checking your files.'

‘I think you'll be disappointed.'

‘Please try. He was insistent that I see them.'

‘Could you ring me Monday?' he said, reaching for his leather-bound desk diary. I nodded.

‘You'll appreciate the discretion here,' I said.

‘It's my job,' he said, ‘all clients are confidential.'

‘This is critical,' I said, holding his gaze. He blinked and touched his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.

‘Of course.'

‘How much did you say a change similar to Michel's would cost?'

‘For you, fifty. That would include the usual convalescence at Anglesea, where we have a recovery farm.'

I left, confident of a breakthrough for the first time and drove to Farrar's Fitzroy offices. It had been impossible to reach him on his number, which was either engaged or had the answer machine on.

He was shocked to see me at the front door, and reluctant to let me in.

‘It'll only take a minute,' I said, pushing past him.

‘Jesus wept!' Farrar said, following me down the hall. ‘You shouldn't have come here! Homicide's on to me.'

‘Sorry to get you up,' I said, eyeing his appearance. Farrar looked as if he had slept in the subway. He had greying stubble on his chin and his hair stood up like Stan Laurel's.

‘Something's cookin' at St Kilda Road,' he said, leading me into his office, ‘they won't answer my calls. I'm gettin' a frosty reception all the time. Now they've nabbed Fazmi I'm of no use. They're acting suspiciously.'

‘Any reason?'

‘Probably got Fazmi to say he met us together at the mosque.'

‘You'd be interrogated, wouldn't you?'

‘Don't know. They may have been on to our link all the time. It may have been a ploy to give me plenty of rope.'

We were both standing. The phone was ringing near me. Farrar waited for the answer machine to pick up the caller. It was Benns.

All he said was, ‘Tony. Got your call,' and hung up.

‘Bastard!' Farrar yelled at the machine.

‘I'll be brief,' I said. The call had made me edgy. I outlined the meeting with Dimset.