‘Will you help him?’ Liz implored. ‘I think that’s why he turned up at your flat. He needed help, and then the police . . .’ Her eyes shimmered with tears.
‘After Nick was shot he asked me to warn Nerida and somebody whose name started with J. Ring any bells?’
Her bronze earrings rattled when she shook her head. ‘I don’t know any Neridas, and a lot of people have names starting with J. Nick’s ex-wife’s name is Jenny, but she turned into a religious freak and he hasn’t had anything to do with her for ages.’
Liz refilled our glasses while I nibbled on my ravioli. It was divine, but I had other things on my mind.
‘What do you mean, help Nick?’ I asked.
‘Find him before the police or Rod Thurlow. There’s a rumour Rod will hand over the money to anyone who catches Nick, dead or alive.’
I had to try very hard not to roll my eyes.
‘How come you’re so sure I can do that? The cops haven’t had any luck.’
‘That’s because Nick’s friends and family know he’s not guilty and haven’t been telling them everything. We don’t want him in jail or shot dead, and we’re not going to sell him out for the million-dollar reward. Even if you don’t find him maybe you can at least discover why he had to run. That’s the main thing. Then we can help him, and clear his name.’
That was debatable. If Nick was being blackmailed over something really sick, things could turn out worse. I didn’t tell her that, though. She was Nick’s sister, and as far as she was concerned he could do no wrong.
‘I’m sorry, Liz, but I can’t help. Why don’t you try another investigator?’
‘I wouldn’t trust another investigator.’
‘Have you been reading the papers? Because of your brother, I am not presently licensed, therefore I can’t legally work for you.’
‘Oh, fuck that.’ She waved her hand dismissively and I was a little shocked. It was the first time I’d heard her swear. ‘I’m talking off the books. Cash in hand. I’ve read Curtis’ manuscript. I know you don’t always stick to the letter of the law.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘He wrote that?’
‘Yeah, but don’t worry, we’ve taken out all the libellous stuff. Anything we thought you could sue Wet Ink over. Listen, Simone, I’m willing to pay you, and well. In with the manuscript is an envelope containing seven thousand dollars. That’s for a week. Five hundred a day plus the same again for expenses.’
Seven thousand bucks? My heart started to palpate.
‘How’d you come up with that figure?’
‘Nick’s books. It’s Zack Houston’s daily rate. He doesn’t usually charge so much for expenses but I figured you might need it. Should cover plane tickets if necessary, motels, bribes . . .’
It was ridiculous. I couldn’t take the case. It was illegal, possibly dangerous, I’d been warned off by Talbot, and Sean would hit the roof. Plus there was the fact that everybody in the country was already after the guy. If the entire federal police force and any number of self-styled soldiers of fortune couldn’t catch up with him, what hope did I have? Even if by some amazing fluke I did find him, wouldn’t it be illegal not to hand him over to the authorities?
On the other hand, I really, really needed the money, and if I was careful Dianne Talbot would never have to know.
‘I can’t promise I’ll find him.’
Jesus, I was as good as agreeing. My palms tingled and the electric feeling shot straight up my arms, making my neck veins throb.
‘Of course.’
‘And I can only give it a week.’
Sean was on double shifts for the next seven days. No awkward questions.
‘I’ll take what I can get,’ Liz said.
Unfortunately, Liz couldn’t give me much to go on. For all her talk, Nick didn’t have a hell of a lot of family or friends. Their parents had emigrated from Poland before they were born; the dad was now dead and the mum in a nursing home. Their only other relative was a younger brother, Tom, who worked in IT in Sydney. Liz asked me not to contact him directly as she was sure he was under surveillance. The friends that Liz knew of were more like acquaintances from the publishing industry: Curtis, Desiree, Victoria Hitchens.
‘I know that name.’ I said. ‘The tall blonde writer filming a doco at the Summer Sessions. Isabella’s friend.’
‘Ex-friend. Don’t believe all the kissy-kissy stuff, it was just for the cameras. But yes, Nick met her through Isabella.’
‘Think the ex-wife, Jenny, would be worth talking to?’
‘The Christian? He hasn’t spoken to her for at least two years.’
The conversation pretty much deteriorated from there on in. While I rather virtuously sipped a double espresso Liz finished the wine and reiterated the varied and innumerable ways in which Nick was the most wonderful brother on earth, slagged off Isabella and told me that it was actually good she was dead, despite the fact that Nick was now a fugitive murder suspect, because he could finally get closure on the relationship.
I got the feeling she’d been wound up tight for at least six weeks so I let her go for a while before finally signalling for the bill, propping her up as she staggered down the stairs, and then stuffing her into a cab. The coffee had cut through the wine and the food and my usual afternoon somnolence. I was raring to go.
Back at the hotel I headed straight for the business centre so I could get on the internet. Chloe had gotten sick of waiting for me and gone to the movies. Good, because I could get straight to it and didn’t have to tell her about the case. Chloe was my unofficial sidekick, but she also had a big mouth: if she spilled to someone like Curtis, news of my clandestine job would be all over town. As to whether I’d tell Sean, I figured I’d decide later.
While I waited for the computer to start up I scribbled notes on scrap paper, realising I only had one piece of information that the cops didn’t: Nick picking up forty grand in cash at Yarra Bend Park a few days ago. So what? I hadn’t a clue what he’d done with the money, and no way of knowing if Liz and the rest of his family had actually been threatened and, if so, by who.
Maybe Liz had been right and Nick had come to me for help, although I didn’t know why he would do that.
Of course, Liz was so obsessed with finding her brother that she hadn’t even thought of Isabella. It was possible Nick was mixed up with some sort of major shit, but in any murder case it was important to find out everything you could about the victim. Perhaps Isabella had been involved in the same trouble, or maybe someone else had a motive to kill her.
I thought of Rod Thurlow. The victim’s partner was always the main suspect, and I remembered the look on Rod’s face when Nick and Isabella had commenced their vicious flirting at the writers’ festival. Sure, Rod had appeared on TV looking heartbroken, and he’d put up a million-dollar reward for information leading to Nick’s capture, but it could all be an elaborate smokescreen. What if he’d somehow found out about the kiss I’d witnessed? What if Isabella was having an affair with her ex-husband? And why did they break up anyhow?
I had so many questions and so few answers that my head was spinning. The only thing for it was to begin researching and asking questions. It seemed like an enormous task that was unlikely to produce much of a result, but I had to start somewhere. I motivated myself like I did sometimes when I was stripping: by thinking about the money.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening doing internet searches on Nick and Isabella and printed out reviews, profile pieces, and a couple of articles that Nick had written. The two of them also turned up on past writers’ festival programs, and radio interviews podcast onto the net. I even downloaded a picture of Nick at some sort of leftist meeting from an archived issue of the Melbourne University newspaper,
Farrago
.
Most of the hits I got on Isabella, though, were generated after her death. A crime writer brutally slaying his ex-wife then going on the run—it was the kind of ironic story the public pored over, and had shown up everywhere from the
New York Times
to the
Warsaw Voice
. I managed to get a fair bit of background on Isabella, but nothing that told me why anyone, apart from Nick, might have wanted to kill her.
She’d grown up on the Mornington Peninsula, attended a private girls school and then gone on to study writing at RMIT. Her father ran a boat-building business, and there was mention of her parents divorcing when she was a teenager. I’d always thought it more noteworthy if a person’s parents weren’t divorced, but maybe that was just me. She’d had her first novella,
The Liquidity of Desire
, published at twenty-seven. I checked out a few of the reviews, and although they were mostly positive, the book didn’t sound like my cup of tea. It was variously described as ‘lyrical’, ‘nuanced,’ ‘ephemeral’, and ‘utterly without plot’.
Although I hadn’t found out anything particularly useful, the web search was a start. It was scary how much information about a person drifted around in cyberspace, available to all. I resisted the urge to google myself. I really didn’t want to know. I did, however, search my dad. He had an unusual name, Mark Koputh, and I only got one hit: LinkedIn, a professional networking site. It even had a photo.
Mark had been a bohemian surfie in his twenties, but his fifth decade had seen him morph into a typical suit-wearing, middle-aged middle manager. The perma-tan was long faded, his blond hair had receded and greyed, and his big brown eyes seemed to have shrunk into pockets of fat. My mum had fared a lot better in the ageing stakes and I was glad I took after her. Still, he was the only father I had, and the only parent who didn’t hate my guts, so I sent him a quick hello through the website.
Back up in the room a message on the hotel phone told me my flat would be ready to reoccupy the next morning. I packed most of my stuff, careful to shove the printouts and the cash down the very bottom of my bag, hidden underneath some dirty clothes. I didn’t want Sean to discover them when he came back late from work. After eating a room-service chicken and avocado salad and drinking a half bottle of Jacob’s Creek red, I washed my face and brushed my teeth and lay between the smooth, cool hotel sheets watching an incredibly silly documentary about koalas during which the narrator described two fighting males as ‘furry gladiators’. Jesus. The program, combined with the sun, skulduggery and mind-numbing hours spent staring at the computer screen, meant I was out for the count long before Sean got back.
‘A
ll this rooting is melting my brain.’ I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. Despite the air-con I’d worked up a major sweat.
‘I thought you liked sex.’ Sean crawled up from between my thighs, kissing my belly and chest along the way.
‘Yeah, but I’ve never had so many goddamn orgasms over a six-week period. It can’t be healthy. You spoil me.’
‘Well, Moneypenny,’ he put on the Connery voice, ‘you deserve spoiling.’
‘Huh,’ I snorted. ‘Flagellating more like.’
‘That’ll cost you extra.’
I laughed, smacked his arm, then kissed him and tasted the both of us on his lips. Peach crumble and sea salt. Strange but true.
‘You’re the perfect man.’
‘I am.’ He lit a cigarette and I took it off him for a quick drag, handed it back and laid my head on the pillow, exhaling and watching the smoke wind its way to the ceiling. I was wondering if I should tell him about my new job.
‘What time do you have to be at work?’ I asked instead.
‘Seven. What are you up to today?’
‘Apart from going home and trying to avoid the media?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Might go for a run, stock up on protein, start my diet again.’
‘You don’t need to diet.’ He stroked my belly. ‘Curves are hot.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not curvy, I’m straight up and down. When I put on weight I turn into a barrel.’ I propped myself up on my elbow and had another turn of his ciggie.
Tell him
, urged my brain.
You’re in a relationship here. Honesty is the best policy.
I sucked in smoke, blew it out, handed the durry back.
‘Sean, what would you say if I told you I’d been hired to look into Nick Austin’s . . . disappearance?’
‘What? What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I—’
‘Are you completely out of your mind?’ He sat straight up. ‘It’s illegal for a start, not to mention dangerous, and if you piss off Talbot one more time you’ll—who’s hired you?’
Best policy my arse.
‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘Relax. It was a hypothetical. I’m not really doing it. I just wanted to see what you’d say.’
‘So someone must have asked. Who?’
That was a point. Why else would I be asking what he thought?
‘Rod Thurlow,’ I lied.
‘That tool? I hope you said no.’
‘I said I’d think about it. It was quite a lot of money . . .’ Once I started making stuff up I really couldn’t stop.
‘For god’s sake, don’t worry about money.’
‘Not so easy when you haven’t got any.’
Sean looked off into the middle distance like he was mulling something over. ‘I’m serious, you don’t need to worry. I’ve got a plan.’
‘Oh.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘What?’
He put the cigarette out and smiled at me, slate-blue eyes gleaming behind the veil of smoke. ‘I’ll tell you tonight. Wanna meet somewhere around Acland Street for dinner? Cicciolinas? Claypots?’
‘Aren’t you working a double?’
‘I’ll swap with someone.’ He jumped off the bed and I studied his body while he searched for his towel: slim hips; medium-sized, nice-looking cock; good legs; red-gold hair in a small V on his chest; freckled forearms. Cute. Chloe was right, I was a lucky bitch. Watching him made me want to go again, but he’d found the towel and slung it over his shoulder. I watched his firm buttocks shimmer as he walked to the bathroom.
‘Want me to order you up some breakfast?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘They actually do a great eggs florentine— spinach, hollandaise, sourdough toast.’
‘No!’
•
My unit was in a wide street full of oak trees. Nobody appeared to be skulking about in the shadows, so I grabbed my mail from the bank of metal letterboxes out front, strolled up the shrub-lined path, unlocked the not-very-secure security door, and climbed the stairs.