Faces in the Rain (25 page)

‘I'd be surprised if you get any more from him,' Farrar said, ‘he'll probably contact Michel. There's no way that
he'd let you have anything. In fact, I wouldn't go back to his offices. Could be dangerous. Dimset has underworld friends.'

‘Getting cold feet, Tony?' I said.

‘It's not that,' he said, lowering his voice, ‘it's just that the police are going to nab you. I don't want to be had up as . . .'

‘Harbouring a suspected felon?'

‘Something like that, yeah.'

‘You think it's impossible to find Martine's killer?'

‘Why would he hang round this city? He'd get the hell out of here.'

‘You want to ditch me as a client,' I said, ‘but you still owe me about five days work.'

‘I know,' he said, ‘I've failed this assignment. Would you like the balance back?'

‘Not if you want to keep on working.'

‘I feel alienated,' he said glancing at the doorway, ‘it's not just Benns and Homicide. It's ASIO too. They've dried up as a source. My old firm!'

‘Why?'

‘Remember that someone in Canberra blew it over the French connection? Our people thought they were dealing with DGSE reps. They weren't. Cochard and Maniguet were thrown out of the security force a few years ago. Well, anyway, it's been a big embarrassment in Canberra. The French and our intelligence services have been in bed together for twenty years.'

Farrar paused as someone walked past the front door.

‘The cosy, “you scratch my back” arrangement wasn't even disturbed when the
Rainbow Warrior
was blown up. But this is different. Trust has gone out the window. There has been a falling out, which has caused a flurry at the heads of both governments. There's a big effort
being made at the diplomatic level to patch things up. But at the covert level, nobody's talking to anyone about it.'

Farrar lit a cigar. ‘I want to warn you about Danielle Mernet,' he added, ‘she
is
a bloody agent too. Fazmi was right.'

‘How can you be sure?'

‘It's the last thing I got out of ASIO,' Farrar said, puffing smoke, ‘she still is officially in the DGSE.'

‘I did worry when I saw her with Cochard in Paris.'

‘She's used you from the start. Ever since she came up to you at the funeral.'

Farrar circled his open-plan office and I stood in the centre of it near a potted palm.

‘The upshot is that Danielle and the others fooled ASIO. They told them they were on an assignment here. When Martine Villon died they bluffed ASIO and in turn, Homicide, into letting them hunt for her killer.'

‘To take the heat off the real killer?'

‘Possibly. Who knows? The point is ASIO is shy, Homicide is nasty, and I'm like a leper with AIDS.'

I turned to go.

‘Your lawyer rang,' Farrar said, coming over to me, ‘he says you must give yourself up.'

‘And you agree?'

‘For your own protection, Duncan.'

‘But Benns doesn't want to protect me! The night I was chased through the city, those thugs were waiting for me at Police HQ.'

‘Benns was conned by Cochard and Maniguet. He probably told them that you were going to come in for questioning. They would have been waiting to nail you before you saw him.'

I headed for the door.

‘We're close,' I said.

‘Will you see the police?'

‘I'm thinking about it.'

My final conversation with Freddie May was coming back at me like a spicy curry. ‘The women have the answers' he had told me. He had to mean Cassie, Danielle and Martine.

Back at the Bunker I began scribbling their names on bits of paper with arrows going everywhere. On the last page I had arrows from their names all pointing to one word in the middle of a page: Michel. Could each woman have been connected to him? Martine obviously was. Danielle could have been, if she was an agent as Farrar speculated. Cassie was the odd person out. I had to speak with her face to face.

It was eleven a.m. when I tried for the fourth time and got her. She was very distressed. Somebody had broken into her apartment again while she was away overnight.

‘I had the locks changed yesterday!' she said.

‘What was taken?'

‘The files!'

‘The research on . . .'

‘All the special data on my breakthrough.'

‘The same files that Maniguet intended to steal.'

‘Yes,' she said despondently. ‘Look, I must go. I'm late for the wedding.'

I
T WAS VERY DARK
for two o'clock in the afternoon and rain began to pelt down as guests made a dash for the front door of the Melbourne Club at the top end of Collins Street, only metres from Dimset's surgery. Cassie and Walters got caught with their umbrella unopened for only a few seconds and their hair and faces were wet as they entered. I stood for a few minutes shivering under an awning until most guests had arrived from the South Yarra church.

For the first time in two weeks I was going somewhere as me. No Morten-Saunders disguise. No Oliver Slack glasses, hat and overcoat. No Russell Dimset rearranged face. Just me in a lounge suit, plain white shirt and red-and-white-striped tie from Oliver's clothes cupboard in the Bunker.

My aim was to get Cassie aside and talk. That was going to be hard with Walters right by her side. Knowing him, she wouldn't be out of his sight. I knew I was
taking a risk in going public but I didn't care any more. I was sick of disguises, of being a fugitive.

I hurried up the steps and into the high-ceilinged drawing room. A waiter thrust a champagne glass under my nose.

The atmosphere was in warm contrast to the black outside. It was all smiles and people were intent on having a good time. In a connecting room a string quartet played light chamber music.

The bride, in a pink dress that would have been a big hit with Russ Dimset, arrived clutching a bouquet of flowers, and a relieved groom accompanied her. Bridesmaids and groomsmen filtered in and stood by an open fire, warming their tails.

The happy couple began mingling. There was much kissing, hand-shaking and hugging. As they edged closer to me, I felt a twinge of nerves. Most people had averted their eyes from me, even though there were several faces I knew well, and I could guess what they were thinking.
What does one say to a murderer?

Oliver pumped my hand and introduced me to his new bride.

‘Terrific you could come,' he said, still pumping. It was one of those long handshakes that bestowed legitimacy. Within seconds, others were crowding round wanting to slap me on the back or kiss my cheek. People were hanging on every word. The bridegroom and bride were forgotten and I wanted to hide in the Club's famous loos, with their barn-sized doors and wooden thrones.

‘What's this I hear about you and a French agent?' was the way Bruce Gower, a tall, imperious, merchant-banker friend from old school days put it, and it was cunning. No accusations, just a statement couched as a
rumour. Now no one was looking away and I was getting more stares than a mouse in a stuffed owl factory.

‘Sub judice,' I grinned.

‘But Crime Stoppers practically branded you a m–'

‘Uh, uh, uh!' I interjected, ‘don't say the ‘m' word. Not in front of the bridesmaids!'

The growing circle round me laughed. It was a little too hearty.

‘Are you going to sue them, old sport?' Ken Douglas, a short, podgy corporate lawyer asked.

‘We'll see,' I said, searching for that hole in the ground.

‘Did you know that beautiful hooker?' Shelley Perret, an advertising executive asked.
Did you do her in or not?

‘For about three hours,' I said, and wished I hadn't, for my admission cast doubts, which were pencilled into their wide-eyed expressions.

Annie Dart, an actress, former lover of Oliver's, gripped my forearm and began to cry. She sobbed into my shirt, then my pocket handkerchief. Annie had never been a buddy of mine and I conjectured that the tears were induced by the prospect of her former beau going down the aisle with a rival. Or was it because film director, Dirk Clancy, a prematurely silver-haired master of celluloid sex and violence, was with her and watching? He was soon close and holding Annie, who was blowing her nose.

‘I'd like to talk seriously about your story,' he whispered in my ear, ‘can I contact you?'

I looked at him. His face almost touched mine. He had the practised gaze of a mendacious main-chancer, and those wide blue eyes full of candour had never been
threatened by original thought. He thrust a card in my hand, as I shouldered into back-slappers, well-wishers, huggers, kissers and those now buoyed enough by champagne who just wanted to touch me.

I caught a glimpse of Cassie and Walters who looked away.

Somewhere in the sea of permanent grins I saw a frown. It was Lloyd's grim visage drifting low between the flotsam of elbows and drink trays like the moon hiding from Mother Earth.

Firm fingers were pressing my shoulder. These were undelicate, digits of a person with a mission. I glanced round and along the arm of Bill, the front-lobby flunky with hair swept straight back into the 1950s, who had been at the Club for a quarter century.

‘Phone call for you,' he said. ‘Name's Farrar. Reckon you better take it.'

It was my chance to escape. I followed old Bill down a corridor of welcome silence, but for the steady clip of our shoes, to a phone booth next to the front entrance. I shut myself in.

‘Thank Christ I got you,' Farrar said, ‘something big is up. I went round to see Benns and O'Dare this morning. Didn't have an appointment. Waited in me car for them. There was a helluva lot of activity at HQ. Plainclothes boys were running in and out.'

‘Yes, so?'

‘Well I watched and waited. I know most of the guys in the Homicide hit squad. A couple who had been in on the Libyan ambush were talking inside the front doors. Anyway, Benns and O'Dare arrived. I got out of the car and ran across the road.'

Farrar paused and added, ‘I blocked them off and asked why they hadn't returned my calls. They reckon
they hadn't got any. Which was bullshit ‘cause I spoke to their flamin' secretaries about ten times. They claimed they were in a hurry. They didn't like me sniffin' about, so I left. As I was comin' down the steps, a couple of plainclothes guys I know hurried past me. I heard one of 'em say, “Where's the stake-out, the MCG?” ' The other one said something about it being “the snobs and bigshots club. Not the bloody footy club.” '

I wanted to run.

‘I'll phone you later,' Farrar said and rang off.

I left the booth and had trouble lighting a cigar. More late arrivals were coming in. I stood in the open door and peered out into the rain. Car windows were fogged over but three shadows could be seen in a white Ford parked opposite. I shuddered and returned to the party.

Lunch was announced. Guests began to surge towards the newlyweds' families who had lined up to shake hands and exchange banalities at the double wooden door to the dining room. When I reached Oliver he leant close.

‘You're on Cassie Morris's table,' he whispered in my ear, ‘I'd go for her myself if she wasn't thirty.'

‘Too old for you,' I said, ‘but thanks for placing me there.'

‘Lloyd told me you wanted to take over her Institute,' he said.

‘We've put in a bid.'

‘Maybe you should take her over too,' Oliver said with a wink.

Our table was in front of an ornate baroque mantelpiece which stretched to the ceiling. We were close to the kitchen doors where ten waiters were lined up as if they were waiting for the starter's pistol. It crossed my mind that I might have to make a quick exit.

Cassie's place-name was next to mine. Moments later she arrived and both Walters and I reached to pull her chair out. He sat the other side of her. She seemed apprehensive. I leant over to shake hands with Walters but he was already engaged with the couple next to him.

‘Did you arrange the seating here?' she asked quietly.

‘As a matter of fact, no,' I said, ‘but I did want to speak with you. I think I may have something.'

Cassie smiled faintly. I thought of her words, ‘with love' in her note, and wondered again if they meant anything. One torrid, brilliant night of love-making did not a relationship make. On the other hand, she wasn't the type to string two men along at the same time.

‘We do need to talk, alone,' I said, glancing at Walters. He was still charming the couple next to him.

‘That's going to be difficult.'

I paused to acknowledge a couple who sat next to me. They were startled. The woman, a very tall blonde with an appropriately large mouth, examined my place-name, which said,

‘D. Hamilton.'

‘You're not
the
Duncan Hamilton?' she blurted. Everyone stopped talking and looked at me.

‘No, I'm his twin, David.'

‘Oh gosh, it must be tough on you!' she giggled.

‘Sure is. I've been arrested often enough.'

‘I'm Bruce Springstein,' her companion said, thrusting a hand at me, which I shook. He was a short barrel of a man in his fifties with a shiny bald head and soft wispy hair like mist round a mountain top. I could see her using it for a mirror or a serving plate.

‘Not
the
Bruce Springsteen?' I said.

‘No,' he guffawed, ‘everyone asks that. I'm
Springstein
.'

‘Anyway, what's in a name?'

I turned to Cassie and said under my breath, ‘I'll meet you in the courtyard.'

I walked along a corridor past another kitchen entrance and a distinct aroma of roast lamb and vegetables. The reading room near the entrance to the courtyard was empty, and without a member in it seemed dank and cold. I pushed through double doors and stood near a bench under an awning.