by Tara Moss
‘Father, I know, but…’
‘No. I don’t think you do know.’ Jack shook his head with disappointment. ‘An underaged girl? Why?’
Damien was stunned. How did his dad know about his proclivity for young girls?
‘This man who threatened me is someone your friend Simon Aston got involved, isn’t he?’
Damien shrugged sheepishly. ‘I don’t know. It sounds like it. I mean, he could be.’ He wanted to sink right into the chair and disappear, like he had never even existed. Oh, how he would have loved to be somewhere else—anywhere but in his father’s office.
‘Right. Simon is involved, then. He will be the one to deliver the money to Mr Hand personally.’
‘What? Who is Mr Hand?’
But his father was no longer listening to him. He was staring gravely at the embossed writing tray on his desk. ‘I will not allow this family to be blackmailed by a lowlife scumbag. Do you hear me?’ he said. ‘I will not let your life be ruined. This has to be taken care of properly, professionally. If this video is embarrassing or incriminating and it gets out, your life as you know it will be over and our family’s reputation will be ruined. I won’t let that happen to you, son. I won’t let that happen to us.’
Damien swallowed nervously.
There was a knock on the door, and he jumped.
‘Ah, Bob has arrived. Let him in, son.’
The American. Damien felt weak. His thoughts were jumbled up into an incoherent mess. He couldn’t talk his way out of this one, he realised. This was serious. This was real. Damien moved across the room in stunned silence. He opened the door to find The American waiting patiently outside, hands held behind his back like a general. Bob White. The American walked in, unassuming as ever, closed the door behind him and waited for Damien to be seated before asking gently if he could sit beside the younger Cavanagh.
Damien nodded a nervous yes.
The American sat with erect posture, one leg crossed over the other. He was a fit man with grey hair worn short around the ears and collar. He was of average build and appearance, only neater, more precise. The funny thing about The American was that, no matter how many times you met him, you still didn’t know anything about him that was not on his business card. And the only thing distinguishing about him was his American accent—hence his nickname. Of course, he was also distinguished by reputation and rumour, mysterious though it was, but the stories could never be verified.
The American spoke to Damien. ‘I understand we have a situation.’
‘Well, I uh…I don’t know if—’ Damien began, his face feeling so hot he thought it must be swollen to twice its size.
Jack stopped him with a raised hand.
‘Bob, thanks for joining us here. It looks as if Simon Aston…You remember Damien’s friend Simon Aston?’
The American nodded.
‘Well, it would seem that Damien has got himself into some trouble, and his friend Simon Aston hired someone to sort it out for him, and managed to make the situation worse. I am fairly certain this is the same man who has threatened to blackmail us.’
Sickening. Sickening.
Sick.
Damien felt desperately ill, being in the presence of The American, and in the presence of his own father talking of blackmail and problems that needed to be fixed. What about Simon? Where was his trusted friend Simon in all this?
‘The wheels are already in motion,’ The American told Jack. ‘With your confirmation, Mr Hand will be on a plane tomorrow. He comes highly recommended.’
Who is this Mr Hand?
Jack took a deep, contemplative breath. ‘Son, I will organise to dock your personal account by one million dollars.’
‘One million!’ Damien protested. ‘But…’
But Simon had only needed an extra $35 000 to tie up the loose ends. What would they need one million dollars for?
Jack leaned forwards again, getting Damien’s undivided attention. ‘The price to clean up your mess is two-and-a-half million dollars, son. I am taking one million from your account because you need to learn that money is not free. I will have to cover the rest. We cannot afford any mistakes. Not now. And I don’t want to hear a word from you about it—ever. Not to your mother and not to anyone else.
‘I want your friend Simon here in one hour,’ Jack continued. ‘No excuses. You can call him now to tell him to come here, and that is all you will say to him.’
Jack stood up.
‘Now you and Bob will have a chat about a few things. Answer all of his questions, son—everything,’ he said with a pointed finger. ‘I don’t need to know the details. I don’t want to know. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. After you have told Bob everything you know, you will not think about all this again, and you certainly will not discuss it with anyone, ever. Not even your friend Simon. He will have his own problems.’
Jack shut the door behind him, leaving Damien alone with The American.
CHAPTER 12
It was five-thirty on Friday afternoon, and Mak was just thinking about finishing up at her computer and making her first house visit for Groobelaar’s investigation.
The home phone rang, and she sprang up to grab it, hoping it was Andy calling with their dinner arrangements.
He’ll be gone tomorrow. Gone for three months.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mak.’ It was her father, Les.
‘Dad! How are you? I’ve been thinking about you a lot today. I miss you.’
There were very few people who rang the house line except Andy and her dad. Mak savoured her father’s voice. She smiled, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear. Her laptop was glowing beyond the doorway in the dining room, where she had spent half an hour searching online newspaper archives and other websites for the subjects of her investigation.
‘It’s great to hear from you. It must be late?’
From her position in the hall Mak looked back towards her father’s photo on the living room table.
‘Mak, there is an opportunity I want you to know about. It’s something I really think you should consider.’
‘Um, okay.’ Mak knew that her father kept tabs on her life in Australia, even though she asked him repeatedly not to snoop around in it. He had local contacts, as it turned out, and he seemed to get the inside scoop on everything Andy was doing before Mak even knew a thing about it. ‘What is it? What kind of opportunity?’
‘The Justice Department here has an opening for a forensic psychologist. They’ve seen your application and they are very interested.’
‘My application?’ Mak was furious. How could her father apply for a job on her behalf without even asking her—a job on the other side of the world for goodness’ sake?
‘I’m sure the job will be yours,’ he said. ‘It would be great for you.’
Mak closed her eyes. ‘But, Dad, I can’t work in Canada. I am living in Australia. This is where I live,’ she said, exasperated.
‘You can’t stay there for ever.’
Mak put her hand to her forehead. ‘Yes I can, Dad.’
Or can I?
He paused.
‘Mak, you aren’t working. You need a job.’
‘I am working,’ she explained. ‘I am just about to head out the door to interview someone for an investigation. Soon I will have saved up enough money and then I will be able to get my practice started.’
He didn’t respond to her explanations.
Les Vanderwall had been one of Vancouver Island’s longest-serving detective inspectors; as his eldest daughter, Makedde had seen a lot of crime in her twenty-nine years. That was why she had chosen the field of forensic psychology in the first place, and it was also, perhaps, where her knack for investigation had come from. From the very first time aged twelve she had seen a murder victim in the local morgue during a father-daughter bonding field trip, Mak had wanted to understand crime—particularly violent crime. She longed to comprehend why people did the things they did to one a
nother, and exactly what made a criminal recidivist tick. She didn’t have the answers yet, but she was sure she would. Some day. Les, who had dealt with criminals his whole life, had once said—with some sarcasm—that Mak should give him a call when she figured out what made criminals commit crimes. She’d said he would be the first person she’d call.
‘How is Ann? Is she good?’ Mak asked.
Makedde had lost her mother, Jane, five years earlier. She could hardly believe it had been that long; it had been a tough stretch of time. Thankfully, Les was no longer alone. He had found Ann, a psychologist. Mak liked Ann a lot—though of course she would never replace her mum.
‘She’s good,’ he said. ‘I think you should consider the Justice Department job, Mak. Come back.’
‘Dad, no. Not now. I am setting my life up here at the moment. Well, trying to…’ But she still felt bad for abandoning him. ‘I have to go now, Dad.’ She had planned on making her house call after work hours, but just before dinner, so she would have to hurry up. ‘And you should go to bed. I love you, Dad. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’ Mak hung up and frowned. She’d forgotten to ask about her pregnant sister, Theresa. Mak doubted she ever met with such disapproval.
Mak pulled up at a modest single-level house in Parramatta, in Sydney’s west, and tossed the Sydways map into the back seat with a thunk.
This is it.
She parked Andy’s red Honda on the street directly in front of the house, and made her way up a paved path towards the door, her heart beating fast with nerves. It was a small fifties-style home with an unkempt garden, and windows full of pot plants and white lace curtains. It looked bleak within the small windows—a still place where no light entered.
Mak felt awkward about visiting Meaghan Wallace’s parents. She knew it was part of her job, part of the chores her client was paying for her to do, but she found herself feeling sad for the Wallaces, and sorry that she was going to bother them in their grief. She had not done this sort of thing before.
Taking a deep breath, Mak knocked on the door.
Shuffling footsteps moved towards the door. It opened to reveal a weathered woman who looked at Mak with fragile, red-rimmed eyes. ‘Hello, young lady,’ the woman said. ‘May I help you?’
Mak was not sure how she would be received. Either very well, or very badly…
‘My name is Makedde Vanderwall. May I speak with you for a moment, Mrs Wallace?’ she asked, assuming this was Meaghan’s bereaved mother, Noelene.
Meaghan’s mother seemed surprised. ‘Oh yes, please come in.’ The woman stepped aside for Mak to enter. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Mrs Wallace asked.
Now it was Mak’s turn to be surprised. ‘Tea? Um, certainly. Yes. Thank you,’ she replied clumsily.
Makedde was already inside the front door, which was a better result than she had expected in so short a time. She was inexperienced about what to expect of bereaved strangers. Andy had performed many death knocks as a constable, and said that nothing surprised him any more: tears, screams, laughter, fidgeting or numb silence. With all that in mind, tea seemed a very civilised option coming from the bereaved Mrs Wallace.
The woman shuffled away towards her kitchen, and Mak trailed her several feet behind, unsure if it was okay to follow or if she should wait in the hall. She stopped just on the edge of the kitchen linoleum.
‘You’re with the police?’ the woman said.
Here was the moment of truth. Mak could tell any number of fibs, but one thing that was too legally risky was to lie about being a police officer. She wouldn’t do that.
‘Mrs Wallace,’ she began from the safety of the orange hall carpet, ‘I’m not with the police. I am a private investigator looking into your daughter’s death. I am going to do my best to find the whole truth of what happened.’ She opened her wallet and passed the older woman a business card. ‘I am so very sorry to disturb you. I know this must be a difficult time, but if it is all right, I would like to talk to you about Meaghan.’
The woman kept her back to Makedde as she prepared the tea. Mak thought there was a fifty-fifty chance she would be immediately kicked out.
Mrs Wallace hesitated for a few seconds before saying, ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Yes, please.’
Noelene Wallace put the kettle on and laid out cups and saucers. She led Mak into a dark living room, where her husband, Ralph, was watching television. The curtains were already closed, although the sun was still up. Ralph Wallace didn’t get out of his chair, and Mak couldn’t help but imagine that he had sat down in that spot when he heard of his daughter’s murder and not moved since.
Mrs Wallace laid out the tray of tea and biscuits, and gestured for Mak to take a seat on the lounge.
‘Thank you,’ Mak began. ‘I appreciate your time. I am very sorry for your loss. Your daughter was very lovely.’
Ralph Wallace eyed Mak suspiciously, but nodded to acknowledge her words. He raised the remote control in his hand and turned the television to mute. He had been watching the soap opera Neighbours with the sound low.
‘You’re a cop?’ he asked, without taking his eyes from the screen.
‘No, sir, I’m not. I am a private investigator looking into the circumstances of what happened to your daughter.’
She leaned over to pass him a card, and when he did not offer his hand to take it, she placed the card on the TV table beside him.
‘Who you workin’ for?’ he asked.
‘I work for Marian Wendell Private Investigations. A friend of Meaghan’s has hired me to look into Meaghan’s, um, death…’ She hesitated to use the word ‘murder’.
‘She was murdered. You can call it what it is,’ Mr Wallace said bluntly. ‘Stabbed. She deserved better than that.’
Mak nodded. ‘You are right.’ She had thought the very same thing herself when her friend Catherine Gerber had been murdered five years earlier. People had spoken of ‘loss’ and ‘passing’, but Catherine too had been taken violently. It was not just a death—it was murder.
‘Who would do that? Who would pay for all that?’ Mr Wallace asked Mak.
‘Someone who cared very much for your daughter,’ Mak said, hoping that was true. ‘I understand this must be hard for both of you. Can you tell me if you saw any changes in your daughter leading up to her death? Anything unusual? New habits? Friends? Behaviour?’
‘Meg was a good girl,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘She was a mystery to me…’ She shook her head. ‘So independent. I don’t know how much help we might be with your questions.’
Mak was relieved to no longer be justifying herself to them. ‘Anything would be of help—’
Mrs Wallace paused and looked into Mak’s face with a strange familiarity. ‘You look like a model.’
Mak was thrown by the comment, considering the setting. ‘Um, I used to model.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. Meg was very pretty, like you. She did some modelling. She was always such a pretty little girl.’
‘Did she do a lot of modelling?’ Mak asked.
‘She did some photo shoots but they kept telling her she was too short.’
‘I see.’
Mrs Wallace got up and wandered away, leaving Mak with her husband. He was staring at the television screen as if Mak wasn’t there. Thankfully, Mrs Wallace returned a few minutes later. She had a small album of photos in her hands.
‘See how pretty she was?’
Mak took in the photographs slowly. They showed Meaghan posing in a glamour studio in a gold bikini, heavily made up. Mak understood now why Meaghan’s mother had made the comment about Mak’s appearance, and perhaps why Mak had been so easily received. Noelene had been proud of her daughter’s appearance. Her daughter had once dreamed of being a rich and famous model. It was a common dream, and one that was rarely realised.
‘She looks very pretty. Those are very nice photos,’ Mak said, feeling strange to be making such comments. ‘Did she do any modelling recently? In the past few weeks?’
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Mrs Wallace shook her head.
‘Did Meg visit you often, Mrs Wallace?’
‘Occasionally she’d find time to visit us boring folks,’ Mr Wallace blurted from his lounge chair, then clenched his jaw and continued staring in the direction of the mute television. He might as well have kept the sound on, Mak thought.
‘She used to visit once a month or so,’ Mrs Wallace said.
Once a month didn’t seem like much, especially as Meaghan had only lived thirty minutes’ drive away, but every family was different and there could have been all kinds of dynamics happening within the Wallace family. Mak was so often far from home that the idea of seeing her dad at least once a month seemed like heaven. Even with all his meddling, she missed him terribly.
‘What sort of things did you talk about when she visited?’ Mak asked Mrs Wallace.
‘Oh, this and that. She told us how good things were going with that real estate company, and she’d show me her new clothes. She always dressed well, kept herself nice. I wished she’d find someone, but she never seemed excited about anyone special. We’d hoped she would have settled down…’
Her words trailed off, the unspoken hanging in the air: Now she never will find someone. Meaghan was an only child; there would be no grandchildren now. No new Wallaces for Ralph and Noelene.
‘Do you recall the name Simon Aston? Did she ever mention him?’
‘Simon Aston?’ Noelene said. ‘Well, no. Were they together?’
‘I’m not sure that they were together,’ Mak replied cautiously. ‘But they knew each other, I believe.’ She had cut out a photo of Simon from a printed image off the internet, and she showed it to Mrs Wallace. ‘Do you recognise him?’
‘No. What did he do? Was he involved?’
‘No, no. I was just wondering if your daughter ever brought him up in conversation.’ Damn. She’d been hoping for some recognition. ‘Did Meaghan ever mention a girl named Jag? Or Amy?’