I wandered around the flat first, like a cat whose territory has been invaded, bristling and sniffing around. Cleaning fluid and other people’s sweat and deodorant scented the lounge room, and I noticed that the carpet was especially spotless in the section where Nick’s blood had soaked in. The furniture and a couple of the framed posters were slightly askew, but I was sure Sean would sort that out—it’d drive him mental otherwise.
My plan was to drink a formidable coffee, brainstorm while I was jazzed on caffeine, then plunge headlong into the case any way I could. Hopefully I’d be able to get a lot done over the next six days, with Sean rostered on twelve-hour shifts. I felt brief ly guilty about not telling him what I was up to, but he’d left me no choice. The way he freaked out, he’d probably threaten to tell that bitch Talbot, just to stop me. The thought made me feel so indignant I sucked in my cheeks and pursed my lips. I knew relationships were supposed to be about compromise, but why did it all have to come from my side? He didn’t want me stripping, didn’t want me investigating, so what the hell was I supposed to do? I guessed I’d find out when he told me his mysterious ‘plan’. I wondered what it was, before pushing the thought out of my mind. Like any investigation, the Nick Austin case was a sprawling, unholy mess and I had to start focusing on it right away.
I switched on the kettle, filled the plunger with coffee grounds from a tin in the freezer and looked over my mail while I waited for the water to boil. The first envelope was from my real estate agent. I opened the letter inside and it took a few seconds for the contents to sink into my brain. Notice to vacate premises. Sixty days. Refer to clause 32c in the lease.
They were evicting me. And they’d given me enough time that they didn’t need a reason, so I couldn’t go to the Residential Tenancies Association and kick up a stink. Tears spouted in my eyes. Bloody hell. I’d been in the place for four years, which was pretty much longer than I’d ever lived anywhere. I’d been a good tenant, always paid my rent on time, except for when I was really skint. Sure, the police had been around on more than one occasion but that wasn’t
totally
my fault. I started thinking about all those newspaper articles I’d read in
The Age
about a rental housing crisis: skyrocketing rents, hundreds jostling to view properties, prospective tenants offering an extra twenty or fifty a week to secure a lease. Even upright citizens with respectable jobs were struggling to find a place to live. What hope did I have?
I realised how much I loved the apartment. It wasn’t slick or fancy but it had a sweet little balcony that caught the sea breeze and it was close to the Elwood shops and walking distance to St Kilda. Not to mention my picturesque running track to the bay.
I dug my mobile out of my back pocket and immediately rang Sean to whinge, but he wasn’t picking up. Damn. The kettle steamed, gurgled and clicked off so I filled the plunger and checked out the second envelope. Blank and unsealed, flap tucked into the back. Probably a flyer from a local resident advertising ironing or secretarial services or personal training. I shuddered. I probably could have done with a trainer to get me back to my fighting weight, but I’d had an aversion to them ever since one had tried to kill me. Waiting for the coffee to brew, I idly opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was blank except for three words printed in the middle.
You’re dead, cunt.
I
let go of the paper instinctively, like it was a snake or a spider, and it fluttered to the floor. My heart felt like it was fibrillating, and I sucked in a short breath that caught in my throat.
Standing very still, I listened for sounds, expecting assassins to burst into the kitchen with a knife. When none were forthcoming I began to calm down. I’d been through the house. No one else was there. Damn, I’d become a basket-case since my mum was shot.
Finally breathing out, I pulled one of Sean’s clear plastic sandwich bags from a drawer and crouched down to place the paper inside, careful to touch only the edges. I stood up, got another bag and did the same with the envelope. I could ask Sean to get them checked for prints, but maybe I was overreacting. Probably just a poison pen letter, an arsehole neighbour wanting to make sure I left the block. Or maybe some stalker type who had seen me on TV.
All I knew was it couldn’t have anything to do with my new case, because I hadn’t even started yet and nobody except Liz knew I was investigating. I asked myself the same question the cops would have: Did I have any enemies? Heaps, if I was honest, although most of them were in prison or dead. They could have family, associates . . . but why now? Why not try to get back at me earlier?
I decided not to let it worry me. If someone really wanted to take me out they would have, rather than sending a gutless anonymous letter. I took my coffee and notebook to the lounge room, spread all my printouts across the table and got to work.
After an hour and lord knows how many milligrams of caffeine, I had a preliminary list of questions I wanted to ask and people I needed to talk to. Rod Thurlow, Nick’s ex-wife Jenny, Victoria Hitchens, and possibly Desiree the sexpert, although I’d have to be careful with her because I didn’t want Curtis finding out what I was up to.
First off I phoned the hotline Thurlow had set up for information pertaining to Nick. A woman’s voice answered.
‘Reward hotline. Can I have your name, please?’
‘Simone Kirsch.’
‘Do you have information on the whereabouts of Nick Austin?’
‘Not exactly, but I know something that might be helpful.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Thing is, I need to talk to Rod Thurlow face to face.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. We just log the information and then—’
‘He knows who I am. If I give you my number, will you tell him to ring?’
‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘Just let him know I called.’
I hung up and checked the internet white pages for Victoria Hitchens, but like most beautiful, famous people she was unlisted. A general search told me she wrote historical romances and uncovered her website, a slick affair full of posed shots of Victoria wandering around cities like New York, Paris and Rome, leaning on the railings of bridges and staring prettily into the distance, like one of her heroines. In one photo she was actually writing, and I wondered if authors really did sit at their computers in Gucci suits, immaculately made up, blonde hair coiffed.
According to her brief bio, Victoria had been an actress before becoming a writer, and had gone to the same fancy girls school as Isabella.
Clicking the contact tab on her website, I sent an email asking her to ring me. I didn’t know if she would read it, or even get back to me if she did, but it was a start.
As for Desiree, I figured I could always stake out Curtis’ place if I wanted to find her. Failing that, I’d accost her outside the radio studio later in the week. She hosted a live sex-advice show every Thursday night, where listeners could call in and get tips on everything from auto-asphyxiation to anal beads.
Then there was Nick’s ex-wife Jenny. They’d been together for over fifteen years, pre-Isabella, and I thought she’d probably know him better than anyone, and might be up for a good bitch session. But how to find her? I didn’t even know her maiden name. In a profile about Nick that was published when his first novel came out they’d only mentioned her by her first name, along with the fact that she worked as a schoolteacher.
I googled the names ‘Jenny’ and ‘Nick Austin’ and spent an hour clicking on useless, unrelated links until I finally hit pay dirt: a picture of them both at a Miles Franklin Literary Award dinner years before: he’d been nominated but hadn’t won.
Nick wore a dinner jacket and looked bright-eyed and positively baby-faced, while Jenny was dolled up in a black velvet dress, a maroon pashmina draped around her shoulders. She was a little thickset and had a hawk-like nose, broad lips and dense eyebrows. Her long brown hair had been tied back in a loose bun, and wavy strands curled around her shoulders. Dark, matt lipstick and chunky heels were a testament to the mid nineties. Jenny was alright-looking, but no match for Isabella’s delicate, ethereal beauty.
Of course there was no maiden name attached, but as I stared at the photo I began to realise I’d seen her somewhere before. I shuffled through my printouts and found the picture of Nick at university. It had been taken at a Socialist Alliance meeting back in nineteen eighty-eight and showed Nick sitting slouched on a desk looking impossibly skinny and impossibly young, wearing a Billy Bragg t-shirt and attempting to hide his inf lamed skin behind shoulder-length, dyed-black hair. In the middle of the shot, standing up with his fist raised, was a guy who looked like the leader of the group. Despite the scraggly beard and crazy-old-man hair he looked to be in his late twenties, and wore a flannelette shirt and an outraged expression. The name under the photo identified him as David Geddes.
Next to him was a chick with crossed arms and a spiky, bleached-white crew cut called Rachel Devries, and on her right, checking out Nick from across the room, was Jenny, wavy hair roped into two long plaits. She sat in a chair, one ankle on the opposite knee, wearing jeans, cherry-red Doc Martens boots and a t-shirt objecting to the Higher Education Contribution Scheme. Pity her protest hadn’t succeeded. I owed almost ten grand from my uncompleted arts degree, but with my declared income so wretched, the government wasn’t getting it back in a hurry.
Below the picture was her name: Jenny Clunes. Yes! I punched the air and uttered a triumphant whoop. Such small victories were incommensurately satisfying in the PI biz, and I began to feel like I had half a brain and was a useful member of society, rather than the fat, lazy sex addict I knew myself to be.
I jumped back on the computer and typed her name into the internet white pages. Okay. No J Clunes in Victoria. Maybe she’d got married again, or shared a house and didn’t have a landline in her name. That was alright, I could live with that, as long as one of the Clunes in the directory was related to her. I picked up my phone and proceeded to call every one of them in Victoria.
Nobody answered. Goddamn Christmas holidays. All I could do was leave messages:
‘Hi, I’m looking for an old friend called Jenny Clunes? I have no idea if you’re related to her but I’m trying everyone in the book. We went to Melbourne Uni together back in the eighties. If you know her could you pass on my number? My name’s Rachel Devries.’
Underhanded, but I doubted she’d be in a hurry to call back if she knew who I really was. I had no idea if the ruse would work. Maybe Rachel and Jenny hadn’t been friends at all. Even worse, they could’ve been great mates to that very day, living next door and popping over to each other’s houses for tea and Marxist theory every afternoon.
There was also the possibility that Jenny had no relatives in Victoria and I was gonna have to either call every Clunes in Australia or go begging my old boss to get her number and address. Tony Torcasio was an ex-cop, had contacts on the inside, and subscribed to extensive information databases that I couldn’t afford. He was a nice guy but the last few times I’d implored him for help, he’d given me a flat no, he didn’t want to get involved. Guess I couldn’t blame him.
I sighed, typed in ‘Clunes’ and changed the state to New South Wales. Over a hundred of the buggers. Just as I sighed and moved to pick up the phone, it rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Is this Rachel?’ The voice sounded whispery and old. I didn’t think it was Jenny.
‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘Margaret Clunes. Jenny’s mother.’
‘Oh hi, thanks
so much
for calling back.’
‘You knew Jenny from university?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
How?
‘Uh, we were student activists together? Got involved in a lot of protests. HECS and . . .’ I searched my brain. Equal pay for women? More of a seventies thing. ‘Nuclear disarmament. Aboriginal land rights. Gosh, you name it, we protested about it!’
‘Oh yes, I remember when Jenny got arrested. I was horrified!’
‘Yep, pretty frightening,’ I bullshitted.
‘Sorry about the questions.’ Margaret’s voice was friendlier. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard about the trouble with Jenny’s ex-husband?’
‘Mmm,’ I said noncommittally.
‘The media kept pestering her to talk about Nick, but she refused. Very sneaky they were too.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Anyway, I’ll hang up and call her, and pass on your number—that way she can call you if she wants.’
I brief ly considered trying to wheedle Jenny’s number out of her mum, but she seemed like a pretty switched-on old cookie, so I decided not to push it. Ten minutes later my phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Rachel?’
‘Jenny?’ I asked.
‘Ye-es.’ She already sounded suspicious. I guessed I didn’t sound much like her old comrade. I knew I didn’t have a hell of a lot of time before she slammed down the phone.
‘Look, sorry about the subterfuge but I’m not Rachel, my name’s Simone Kirsch and I—’ She hung up.
I wasn’t beaten yet. I checked the display on my phone and was overjoyed to find she’d called from a landline. As I grabbed my bag and hurried to my car I prayed it wasn’t a new number.
I
parked the ’67 Ford Futura out the back of my office, next to the Laser which I hadn’t used for the past six weeks. Chloe’s shitbox Crown Victoria was parked in the lot too, and I hoped she was having some sort of mid-afternoon, pregnancy-induced nap. I didn’t want to have to explain what I was up to.
No such luck. Just as I was opening the back door, Chloe stuck her head and her bare tits over the railing surrounding her deck.
‘Hey, mate, I was just about to call you. I’m bored out of my mind. Come up and have some bubbly.’
‘Can’t right now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Gotta check something in my office.’
‘What?’