by Tim Ayliffe
The bell sounded at the door when Detective Sharon Dexter walked into the restaurant. The barman looked up from his post and stared a fraction longer than was appropriate. Bailey had clocked her too. She smiled at the barman while he ushered her to where Bailey was sitting by the window.
He hadn’t paid much attention to her appearance that morning. He did now. She was dressed in a dark suit, practical and conservative, nothing too flash, somewhere in between expensive and cheap. He couldn’t help noticing that her body still pushed her clothes in all the right places. Middle age could be brutal. But Sharon Dexter was one of the lucky ones. Other than the crow’s feet around her eyes, she looked much the same as she did when she’d dropped Bailey at the airport more than a decade ago.
He stood up when she approached the table, tucking in the front of his shirt.
‘See – all class, Sharon. A nice restaurant and a table with a view.’
‘Don’t get carried away, Bailey,’ she said. ‘All I can see is a building site, a busy street and a window of skinned chickens across the road.’
‘Ducks.’
‘What?’
‘They’re ducks,’ he said. ‘And my apologies. They’d promised a view of the harbour.’
‘This restaurant would need to be twenty storeys high to see the water from here.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, what’d you have for me? I can’t stay for lunch.’
‘You still know how to cut me down.’
‘Don’t be cute. I’m here on business. From my reading, it could be serious business.’
‘Okay, okay, just messing around,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk – just like old times, hey?’
It wasn’t going well.
Dexter looked like she was about to say something, but she paused and stared out the window instead.
‘It wasn’t suicide. I’m sure of that.’
‘Figured. Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?’ Bailey was relieved that they’d moved on to the case.
‘Couldn’t. Not with the other coppers around me. Didn’t want them getting excited and running to the boss about a new murder case for us to solve.’
‘Have things become that political in the force?’
Dexter was turning her mother’s engagement ring on her finger.
‘Sharon?’ Bailey could see that something was unsettling her and he hoped it wasn’t him. ‘Not like you to go quiet?’
‘There’s something . . . something strange going on, Bailey.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bailey realised they were talking about more than a murder investigation. He wanted to reach across the table and hold her hand, reassure her that he was still someone she could trust.
‘The commissioner has shown an unusual interest in laying this case to rest as soon as possible.’
‘And?’
‘When I was on my way to Catherine Chamberlain’s apartment he called me to get my thoughts about what had happened.’
‘Weird – you hadn’t even seen the body.’
‘There’s more. He wanted to read my report before I put it in and –’
‘Is that even legal?’
‘He can do what he wants – he’s the police commissioner. But that’s not the issue. Can I just get this out?’
‘Sorry.’
‘He told me the victim’s name was Ruby Chambers.’ Dexter pronounced the name slowly.
‘She had two names – not unusual for a prostitute?’
‘Yeah, but how’d he know it? The girl’s name was Catherine Chamberlain. It’s the name that appeared on the mail in her letterbox. The name that all the people we spoke to in the building knew her by.’
‘So, what do you think it means? The commissioner was a client?’
‘I strongly doubt it. I’ve known David Davis for almost thirty years and he isn’t the type.’ Dexter’s voice hardened, along with the expression on her face.
‘I don’t think you can ever know the type. Most men –’
‘He’s not sleeping with prostitutes!’
They sat in silence, the seconds ticking by, waiting for each other to say something.
‘Don’t tell me?’ Bailey sat back in his chair. Surprised, disappointed too. He couldn’t hide it.
‘Not any more. Usual story. Unhappily married, kids are grown up and his wife spent most of her time at their place on the Central Coast.’
‘Shit, Sharon. I never would have picked you for –’
‘Don’t you dare lecture me!’ She yelled across the table, face flushed with anger.
The barman looked up, startled, from polishing wine glasses at the bar.
‘Sharon, I’m sorry . . . I was –’
‘You were what, Bailey? Going to give me relationship advice?’
He was struggling to dig himself out of this one.
‘Seriously, I’m sorry. I was going to make a joke.’
‘Don’t.’ Dexter stood up, slinging her jacket and bag over her shoulder. ‘Your jokes were used up a long time ago.’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ He looked at her. ‘You weren’t joking about not staying for lunch.’
‘No, Bailey, I wasn’t.’
‘Fair enough.’
Dexter made to walk away, then hesitated. ‘You know, Bailey, I’m not upset with you, not any more. But that’s all I’ve got for you about Catherine Chamberlain.’
‘Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got?’
‘Okay. Go for it.’
‘Michael Anderson.’
‘Am I supposed to know that name?’
‘He’s an advisor to the defence minister. Gerald met him at a function last Thursday night and dropped him at Chamberlain’s place afterwards, late.’
‘Thursday?’ Dexter looked surprised. ‘The medics reckon that’s around the time she died – best guess, anyway. That’s the timeframe we’re looking at.’
Bailey tapped the menu on the table with his finger.
‘Surely that little nugget of information has increased my chances of you staying for lunch? The spring rolls here are to die for.’
‘Don’t push it.’
‘It’s a sad old man who eats alone,’ he said.
‘You did that.’
‘Yeah, guess I did.’ Trauma and loneliness had, at least, made an honest man out of him.
Dexter stepped back to the table and their eyes met in the uncomfortable silence.
‘Bailey?’
‘Yep?’
‘Have you seen much of Miranda?’
‘I’ve got a bit of work to do there. Any advice is welcome!’ He made another unsuccessful attempt at humour.
‘How long have you been back?’
‘Three years, give or take.’
‘Three years! What have you been doing?’
‘I don’t know how to answer that.’ The shame of depression, post-traumatic stress, or whatever it was that his psychologist had diagnosed, wasn’t something that Bailey knew how to talk about, or wanted to.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The desert banged me up this time. I made dysfunction an art form.’ But Bailey wasn’t much for analysing himself. He preferred to focus on real things, like his relationship with his daughter. ‘Miranda’s the one good thing I have going.’
‘She was always a lovely girl.’
Dexter had gotten on well with Miranda.
‘A lawyer now. Can you believe it? Her mother did well there.’
‘You didn’t do too badly, either.’
Bailey shrugged. ‘I never quite mastered how to be a father. But we’re talking regularly now, catching up when we can.’ It was the one thing he was determined to make right.
‘You’re a shit. But there was never a shortage of love with you. You just forget how to show it sometimes.’
He knew that Dexter wasn’t talking about Miranda any more.
‘It’s a long way back from where I’ve been.’
‘Believe me, I know.’
‘Why don’t you stay for lunch, just f
or old time’s sake?’
Dexter threw her jacket on the chair and sat down opposite Bailey.
‘A quick one.’
CHAPTER 4
Bailey had stuck to black tea during lunch. Wine was off the menu because Dexter was on duty, so he’d played along. Sitting at the table with Dexter reminded him of the life he had chosen not to have. He wanted to show her that he’d changed or, at least, that it was possible for him to change.
He had nervously drunk so much tea that when he arrived back at work his bladder had puffed up like a blowfish. It was sending painful signals, urging him to get to a urinal. Quickly.
He limped past the reception desk – oblivious to the tall man loitering in the foyer – and charged into the elevator, headed for the toilet on level one.
When he came out, Penelope was waiting for him. ‘Mr Summers knows you’re back and he wants to see you.’
‘Has he got a tracking device on me?’
‘Dunno, Bailey. Don’t shoot the messenger!’
‘Sorry, Pen, only kidding around.’
‘Forget about it. He’s just on edge today,’ she said. ‘Maybe he’s in shock after hearing you’re in the office for the second time in one day?’
Penelope had spunk. Bailey liked it. ‘Guess I deserved that.’
‘Anyway, Mr Summers also wanted me to give you this.’ Penelope handed him a small computer bag with a laptop inside. ‘Now that you’re back on the job.’
‘Thanks.’ Bailey took the bag and peered inside. ‘These things get smaller every day.’
‘It’s called tech-nol-ogy.’ She sounded out the word. Cheeky.
‘Yeah, yeah. I’m an old man, we’ve been here before.’
‘You’re a popular boy today. A bloke downstairs has been waiting for you ever since you went to lunch.’
Strange. It was Bailey’s first day back at work and he hadn’t told a soul.
‘Give a name?’
‘Ronnie someone. American accent, or maybe it was Canadian. I can never –’
‘American, thanks.’ Bailey knew exactly who it was, but what was he doing here? He turned and started walking towards the elevator.
‘Hey, Bailey! What do I tell Mr Summers?’
‘Tell him I’ve gone to get a haircut. Part of my new serious approach to the job, look the part, you know?’
‘Bailey! That’s not going to fly –’
Penelope’s plea was cut off by the elevator doors.
Ronnie Johnson was sitting on a cracked leather sofa near the reception desk, reading a newspaper with an unlit cigar in his hand.
‘Thought you’d given up on those things?’
‘I have, bubba.’ He stood up, towering over Bailey. ‘Like a pretty blonde, I just like to hold one from time to time.’
During the almost three decades they’d known each other, they always started with banter.
‘Yeah? When’s the last time you held a blonde?’
‘I only remember the cigars these days, bubba.’ Ronnie grew up in Oklahoma and his thick southern accent had survived his intrepid lifestyle.
‘Been a long time.’ Guys like Ronnie Johnson didn’t stop by just to say hello and Bailey was struggling with the old pals routine. ‘What brings you to Sydney?’
‘That all I get?’ Ronnie looked offended and shoved his cigar into the corner of his mouth. ‘Almost three years and all you can say is what’re you doing here?’
‘C’mon, Ronnie, don’t get all sensitive on me. It’s good to see you.’
‘You too, bubba.’ He clutched Bailey in a bear hug. At six feet four inches and weighing more than a hundred kilograms, Ronnie Johnson was a barrel of a man. His big hands were like catcher’s mitts. When he gave you a hug, you felt it.
‘Okay, big guy.’ Bailey patted him on the back. ‘Time to let go.’
Bailey didn’t have many friends, other than Gerald. He and Ronnie had seen a lot together, most of it not good. Whatever the reason for his visit, it was good to see him.
‘You’re a long way from the action, Ronnie. Or have you finally given up on the Mid East?’
‘You mean settled for the easier life, like you?’
It didn’t feel so easy for Bailey. ‘Could say that, but yeah, have you?’
‘Let’s not talk here. I presume you know somewhere quiet for a chat between two old buddies?’
The look in Ronnie’s eyes gave him away.
‘Friends can catch up anywhere, mate,’ Bailey said. ‘This really isn’t a social visit, is it?’
‘I don’t want us to be seen together, bubba.’
‘What is it with you?’ Bailey was shaking his head. ‘Whenever we see each other you’ve got trouble clinging to your shoe like chewing gum.’
Bailey started walking towards the elevator. ‘My car’s downstairs.’
‘Your car? Please tell me you’ve upgraded from that old bomb you were driving when you picked me up at the airport for Gerald’s sixtieth?’
‘Same old bomb. And just like me it gets more interesting with age.’
Ronnie was still laughing when they stepped into the elevator, headed for the underground carpark.
When a CIA agent wants a quiet conversation, you don’t take him to your favourite watering hole. Bailey drove them to The Duke in Kings Cross, a 24-hour bar that was popular with the late-night crowd and dead by day.
They sat down in a quiet booth in the corner, the kind where hookers and drug dealers plied their trade in the early hours of the morning. Hopefully the cleaners had been in.
‘Nice place, bubba.’ Ronnie peeled a sodden beer coaster off the table.
‘I wasn’t about to introduce you to my local. I like it too much.’ Bailey also didn’t want to take Ronnie to a place where everyone – literally everyone – knew his name. Ronnie didn’t need a rundown of Bailey’s life for the past three years.
‘This isn’t your local?’
‘Good one.’ Bailey held up his glass of whisky to cheers Ronnie across the table.
Clink.
‘Now, what are we talking about?
‘Catherine Chamberlain.’ Ronnie took a sip of his whisky. ‘Or, Ruby Chambers. Not sure how much you know.’
Bailey put down his glass. ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not here to play games with you. This isn’t just some dead hooker.’
‘And why does the great and wonderful United States of America care so deeply about a dead Australian prostitute, apart from the fact that your new president is rumoured to have enjoyed a little party time –’
‘I didn’t vote for him.’
‘Someone did, but let’s not get off track. Why do you guys care about a prostitute who may, or may not, have killed herself?’
‘She didn’t kill herself. I think you know that.’
‘Suspected as much,’ Bailey said. ‘Can we go back to my original question?’
Ronnie took a long drag of his single malt, emptying half of his two-finger pour, and placed his glass back on the table. Bailey followed the American’s eyes as they darted from one corner to the next, surveying the room. Old habit. The place was empty, apart from the middle-aged barman studying the form guide, sipping from the beer he was hiding on a shelf under the cash register. The colour of his nose suggested that he’d been drinking too much of what he was selling.
‘You know I can’t go into the detail,’ Ronnie said.
‘Not good enough.’ Bailey wasn’t in the mood to mess around. It was mid-afternoon and he should have been drunk by now. He raised the tumbler to his lips until he could see the bottom of the glass, swallowed and waited for the warm sting to subside.
He held Ronnie’s gaze across the table for a few seconds before opening his mouth again. ‘For once, mate, I’d like you to tell me something that’s not part of some grand charade, like half the bullshit you fed me in Baghdad.’
‘I have a job to do too.’
‘And you’re very good at it.’ Bailey held
up his empty glass and tried to get the attention of the barman, who was busy staring at the television, dreaming about the thirty-to-one shot that was finally going to turn his luck.
‘Don’t make this personal, you grumpy old son of a bitch,’ Ronnie said.
‘Hey, who’s getting personal? I just want to know why we’re here. It wasn’t my idea. And you want to know who’s grumpy?’ Bailey held up his phone, which was vibrating with Gerald’s name lighting up on the screen. ‘Gerald’s sitting in a big leather chair staring at the hotel some rich prick built in front of his harbour view, wondering why I’m ignoring his calls.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Ronnie showed Bailey the palms of his big hands.
It was all an act, one that Bailey knew well. Ronnie knew exactly what he was going to divulge long before they’d walked across the sticky carpet at The Duke.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Bailey said, ‘I enjoy having a drink with you. We are, after all, old friends. Aren’t we? It’s just that I know you better than you’d care to admit. So, why don’t you cut the shit and tell me what it is you want to get off your chest?’
‘We’re worried about an intelligence leak.’ Ronnie ended the charade. ‘More to the point, we suspect someone very senior in Canberra may be squeaking like a barn full of mice.’
‘What does that have to do with Ruby Chambers – or Chamberlain – or whatever the hell we’re calling her?’
‘I’m not sure, bubba. I was hoping you might enlighten me on that score?’
‘You think a washed-up journo who has barely written a story in three years would know more than the CIA? You guys really are losing your edge!’
Bailey was almost as good at playing the game. Almost.
‘Don’t toy with me. I’m being straight with you. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.’
‘Straight? Yeah, if straight could turn a corner.’ Bailey enjoyed holding the cards for a change. ‘You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here?’
‘I’ve told you, I want to talk about Ruby –’
‘No, dummy,’ Bailey said. ‘What you’re doing here – in Australia? Surely this is a job for your local people?’