‘Hey, babe.’ I bent down and kissed his cheek.
He didn’t react.
I flopped into the chair opposite and poured a glass of wine. Yellow as vitamin B piss and oaky as hell, but it’d have to do. Sean had a few little bottles of vodka in front of him, and the tin that contained his pipe and stash of grass. Except for the tie he was still in his work outfit: black pants and a striped shirt, rolled up to the elbows. He dragged on his Marlboro Light and looked towards the botanic gardens where the elms were huge hulking shadows. Beyond the gardens the lights of the eastern suburbs twinkled. Sound drifted up to us from St Kilda Road: speeding cars, sirens, hooting drunks.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, for about the trillionth time in my life.
He still didn’t say anything, or look at me, so to fill the silence I launched into an abbreviated version of what I’d told the cops.
‘Bullshit.’ He finally turned, his blue eyes arctic.
‘What?’
‘I’m not an idiot so don’t treat me like one.’ His Scottish accent got stronger when he was mad, and he started rolling all his r’s. ‘Strange that you never mentioned the death threats.’
‘I didn’t think they were ser—’
‘You see, I don’t really buy that. I think you couldn’t tell me because you were hiding something—the fact you’d been hired to find Nick Austin.’
‘No.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Simone, we were in this same room when you asked me what I’d think if you took the case. You were fishing. You did take it. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I noticed you acting weird and distant, but I put it down to the fact you’ve had a lot of shit to deal with, not to mention the whole moving overseas thing. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to pressure you.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘You really went and threw it all back in my face, didn’t you? Do you have any idea what being in a relationship means? Any idea at all?’
‘I—’
‘It’s a partnership, it’s two people who care about each other supporting one another, working together, being honest, not lying and sneaking around. Do I really mean that little to you?’
‘Sean.’ I reached out my hand, laid it on his forearm.
He shrugged it off and stood up.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.
I
slept fitfully, pain jabbing my cheekbone whenever I rolled over and accidentally rested my injured side on the pillow. Sean was curled into himself, his back to me, and each time I tried to put my arm around him he inched further away until he reached the far side of the mattress, teetering on the edge. I checked the red display on the digital clock every five minutes, it seemed, and by eight in the morning decided I’d had enough, and got up.
I showered and tried not to wake Sean as I dressed in jeans and a singlet, slipping thongs onto my feet. I grabbed my handbag, left the room and knocked on the door opposite. The copper, a young guy with a crumpled suit and dishevelled hair, yawned and escorted me down to the breakfast buffet in the restaurant adjacent to the lobby. The room was only half full, and he sat at a different table, drinking coffee and reading the paper.
I loaded up my plate with soggy scrambled eggs, collapsing tomatoes and small, pale sausages. A waitress poured me a cup of burnt coffee and I washed it down with some unnaturally pink juice that had been labelled ‘guava’ but tasted mainly of sugar.
Once it was all in my mouth there was no need for chewing. The food disintegrated into savoury water and I pushed the plate away. I couldn’t help going over what Sean had said the night before and mentally attempting a moving speech in response. I saw myself starting with the teeniest bit of justification, laying on a big slab of contrition, and concluding with a double whammy: pleas for forgiveness
plus
hopes for our future life together. All going well, he’d take me in his arms while a crowd cheered, music swelled and the American flag waved in the background. I wondered if I’d get away with Victoria’s quote about the transformative power of love. Probably not.
Oh god. I was so tired I was delirious. My eyelids felt raw and scratchy and my face still throbbed and twinged. I knew I should get it checked out but doubted there was anything the doctors could do for a cheekbone, short of a full head cast with two little nose-holes to breathe through. It crossed my mind to call Chloe to come join me so we could start drinking mimosas, but she usually slept till midday and was known to become violent if roused any earlier. I didn’t want to deal with Sean until I had to, and preferably with a couple of cocktails under my belt to shield me against the sickening reality of my own bad behaviour. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if he’d done the same thing to me and realised he was right. I’d been a shit.
I waved over the middle-aged waitress.
‘Can I get a glass of champagne?’
‘We don’t serve alcohol with
breakfast
.’ She gave me a look.
I sat back. Could it get any worse? Well, yeah. I could be lying in the ICU at Prince Alfred like Victoria, stab wounds to the chest.
At a loss and not wanting to go back to the room I dug my mobile out of my bag and checked the messages. Twenty. Twenty was bad. A few were from my mum so I took a deep breath and called her back. I owed her an explanation as to what was going on, and I figured that once I’d talked to her, dealing with Sean would be a piece of piss.
Soon as she answered, I did my spiel: the grovelling apology followed by approximately five minutes of half-truths that didn’t seem to be convincing anyone. Silence after I’d finished. Ten seconds that felt like ten years. Finally she spoke.
‘I see you haven’t taken any of my advice. If anything, you’ve attracted more violence and negative energy into your life. I’m only going to say this one more time: it’s up to you to control your spiritual destiny. I know people who can help you out with that, but not until you’re ready to admit you have a problem.’
‘I don’t need help.’ I was tearing up a paper napkin and rolling the sections into balls. ‘I’m not going to be a PI for much longer, or a stripper. Me and Sean are moving to Vietnam. I’m getting a government job.’
That was supposed to be my trump card and I expected her to be surprised and happy. She was neither.
‘You sure about that?’ she said coolly.
‘Sure about what?’
‘Sean called me last night to let me know what was going on, and we had a nice long chat. He seems like a really good guy.’
Too good for you
, I translated when she paused.
‘The sense I got,’ she continued, ‘was that he’s unsure the relationship is strong enough to withstand the pressures of working together and moving overseas. He’s not convinced you’re ready for that sort of commitment. And I’d have to agree. If you haven’t worked on yourself and your problems, then moving to another country is just running away. And running away never solved anything. It’s a coward’s way out.’
The napkin was completely decimated and there was an intense pressure behind my eyes that I felt could only be relieved by flinging the remaining guava juice at the window overlooking St Kilda Road. I didn’t, just breathed hard through my nose thinking up bitchy comebacks.
From which top fifty self-help
books did you cobble together that shit?
was number one.
‘So where are you staying?’ I asked mildly. ‘Are you still with the police?’
‘No. I’m home.’
‘But they’re outside, right?’
‘I told them their presence wasn’t necessary. Jasper’s going up to Brisbane to see some friends and I’m off to a two-week yoga retreat.’
‘You can’t,’ I said.
‘Really?’ By the tone of her voice I could tell she was arching an eyebrow. ‘Not only did I organise and pay for it months ago, but I refuse to be held hostage to this . . . darkness you surround yourself with. It’s horrifying, quite frankly, and I won’t be caught up in it. Not anymore.’
She hung up.
I rang back.
A recorded message told me her phone would be switched off until the fifteenth of January.
I sat there, stunned. She was blowing off the police protection and blithely skipping along to a yoga workshop, feeling secure in the knowledge that because she had good vibes, the universe would look after her. Fucking
hippies
. Unless she had a death wish since Steve had passed on. Couldn’t discount that either. I wondered if it were possible to force people into police protection. I doubted it. Christ.
S
till at the breakfast table, I fiddled with my phone. Most messages I had no intention of dealing with. I opened a text from Tony:
Emailed those details. T.
So I had the phone numbers of the other writers who’d been on the roadshow. I looked around. No sign of Sean. Wouldn’t hurt to give them a call, just to see what they had to say. I could always pass on any info to the cops, assist their investigation, win myself a few brownie points . . .
I pushed back the chair, threw my napkin on the table and walked through the lobby to the small glassed-in business centre where all my research on the case had started. I found the numbers in my inbox and called them one by one.
JJ’s phone rang out, neither Thomas Finch nor Albert Da Silva picked up, and I cursed the summer holidays. I didn’t anticipate having much luck with Cecelia Levy, either, but she answered on the third ring.
‘Hello.’
‘Cecelia?’
‘Speaking. Who’s this?’
‘You don’t know me but it’s possible you’ve heard of me. I’m a private detective, Simone Kirsch.’
‘I read about you in the papers. That business with Nick Austin.’
‘That’s me. Were you and Nick friends?’
‘Acquaintances, I suppose. We met on a writers’ thing where we went around in a minibus to rural areas for six weeks. He was a nice fellow, we got along very well, but I haven’t seen him in three years. What’s this all about?’
‘I’m trying to help Nick,’ I said. ‘I believe he’s been set up for Isabella Bishop’s murder and I’m trying find him before some really bad guys do. He’s in a lot of danger and I think it all goes back to the roadshow.’
‘The roadshow? You must be joking.’
‘I’m not. Can you tell me about it? Anything unusual happen? Any trouble?’
‘Nothing apart from a few flat tyres. Oh, and no one turned up to a book signing in Wilcannia but that was because the local footy club was playing in the grand final. We packed in the signing and went along to watch! I suppose the only thing to happen of note was that Nick and Isabella started a romance. Oh, and JJ broke a few hearts. Poets . . .’
‘Did JJ really annoy any of the locals? Stir up any green-eyed boyfriends or husbands?’
‘Goodness, no. Most everybody loved him. He did workshops with the kids and organised poetry slams in the evenings. People came from miles away to read their work. It was wonderful.’
‘Nerida Saunders get into any strife?’
‘Who?’
‘Desiree.’
‘Not at all. She was a lovely, polite young lady despite her unsalubrious past. It was all a lot of fun, and to tell you the truth it reminded me of being on school camp, many years ago. Why do you assume there was trouble?’
‘Isabella’s dead, and someone wants to kill Nick, JJ and Desiree. The only connection I’ve got between them is that roadshow. I dunno. Maybe I’m clutching at straws.’
‘My god, I wish I could help, but there really was nothing . . . unless something happened that I didn’t know about. I suppose that’s possible. The younger members of our troupe were thick as thieves, used to stay up late drinking in the local pubs while all us oldies were tucked up in bed. They never acted as though anything bad had happened, except for a few nasty hangovers. If there was any trouble they kept it very well hidden. Writers are observers, you know, so I’d like to think that either myself or one of the others would have noticed something.’
‘Okay, well, thanks for your time.’
She must have picked up on the disappointment in my voice.
‘Sorry I couldn’t help. Actually, there are some pictures of the trip, if you’d like to have a look. They’re on a photo-sharing website. Isn’t this new technology just marvellous? I’ll give you the address. Maybe you’ll be able to find a clue.’
Yeah, right, I’ll get out my magnifying glass.
I didn’t say it; no need to be a moll. She was a nice lady.
I typed in the URL and was redirected to a site called Flickr.com. I scrolled through the online album. In the first picture the group posed with their luggage around a white Tarago van, waving. Subsequent photos had them posing in front of town signs, and there were candid shots of all the authors conducting talks and workshops and signing books.
In the first photo Nick and Isabella were on opposite sides of the van, and it was interesting to note how they moved closer in successive photos, until in the last one Nick’s arm was around her shoulder and her hand had twined around his waist. The group stood in front of a two-storey sandstone pub with a nineteenth-century gold-rush look about it. The large second-storey veranda was decorated with latticed ironwork and held up by ornate columns you’d have tied your horse to at the turn of the century. A sign on the front said Empyre Hotel.
Knowing what had happened to them made the photo kind of poignant, and I studied it for a moment. They looked so happy, and so damned young. Less than three years had passed since then, but Nick didn’t have the dissipated, slightly bloated look he’d sported when I’d first met him, or the haunted, haggard appearance I’d seen when he’d burst into my flat. He looked fresh-faced and boyish; Isabella, with her longer hair and very little eye makeup, could have passed for twenty-one.
I checked out the rest of the photos. JJ wore a natty suit with a skinny black tie and trilby hat. Thomas Finch was so tweedy he should have been holding a pipe, Albert Da Silva looked like an eccentric swinger uncle with his long grey hair, open-necked shirt and velvet jacket, and Cecelia was clad in a print dress that made her look like someone’s grandma, which she probably was. Desiree wasn’t there as she’d only shown up in Broken Hill, but there was another guy hovering at the edge of the photograph who looked completely unaware that he was in the shot. At first I assumed he was a local because of his red-checked flannelette shirt, Ned Kelly beard and worn Blundstone boots, but I quickly realised he looked familiar. I’d met him, or at least seen him, somewhere before.