Greater Good

by Tim Ayliffe

  ‘Prefer the grassroots.’ Rugby was easier to talk about than war.

  ‘How come we haven’t discussed rugby before?’

  ‘You never asked.’

  Bailey had been coming to see Jane for almost three years. Part of Gerald’s return-to-work plan, or something. It had taken a little longer than anyone had expected.

  ‘Tell me, why don’t you like the Wallabies?’

  He looked up at the clock again. Thirteen minutes.

  ‘Because the team’s been ruined by a bunch of Gen Y dickheads.’

  Jane was scribbling in her notepad again.

  ‘Surely that’s not going to make the book?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  What didn’t Bailey like about the Wallabies? He didn’t like the way they played the game, for starters, and the word team didn’t seem to mean much any more. It was all about money. He especially didn’t like the way the players referred to themselves as brands.

  Today’s crop had nothing on the legends of 1991. The boys who brought home the William Webb Ellis Trophy when nobody believed they could. Farr-Jones, Horan, Lynagh and Campese. Campo! Those guys threw the ball around with passion and grace. Never gave up. Beating Ireland on the bell in that quarterfinal was a case in point. The hardheads like Willie-O and Poidevin, the backrowers who bounced off defenders and tackled anything that moved. And who could forget that giant-killing front row of McKenzie, Kearns and Daly – three blokes plucked out of second grade to represent their country – who overpowered the mighty All Blacks to make the Rugby World Cup final at Twickenham. In an era when every player needed a day job to pay the bills, these guys played rugby for the love of the game.

  Bailey had all but given up on today’s Wallabies. He would occasionally catch them on television, but he couldn’t justify paying for a ticket. He preferred watching free-flowing rugby where he could smell the grass, which often led him to Coogee Oval on a Saturday afternoon to see the colts run around. The girls played there too, and they were getting good. Young players lacing up for the fun of it. Pure.

  ‘John? John?’ Jane was tapping Bailey’s knee. ‘I’m still here, you know.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘You were telling me about rugby, how you like to watch a game, now and then.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful game.’ Bailey shrugged and winked at her as he noticed the last minute tick over. ‘I’m afraid time’s up, Doctor Jane.’

  She fumbled with her watch and when she looked up, Bailey was already on his feet.

  ‘Got to run. Next time.’

  ‘Okay – and John?’

  He paused at the door. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You seem different this week. And I’m not talking about the rugby.’ She paused. ‘You look tired. Do you feel like you’re getting better?’

  ‘You really want the truth?

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m done looking backwards.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘All this . . .’ He pointed at the couch, shaking his finger. ‘It’s all about the past and, no offence, because I like you, but I’m done with it.’

  ‘We can work with that.’

  Doctor Jane might call that progress.

  CHAPTER 12

  The escort service that had employed Catherine Chamberlain had a registered address in Double Bay, one of Sydney’s most exclusive suburbs, ten minutes drive from Paddington.

  Bailey parked his car and chuckled to himself as the Corolla settled like a hobo in a fine-dining restaurant beside the Mercedes and BMWs that lined the street. The business, offering ‘something special for Sydney’s discreet elite’, was called Petals and the address that Bailey had scribbled on his notebook was a large gunmetal-grey townhouse. It could have been a family home.

  Bailey rang the bell and the door buzzed open. His phone was vibrating in his pocket. It was Dexter. He’d call her later.

  ‘Hiya sir, what can I do for you?’ A young and, not surprisingly, beautiful receptionist looked up from the type of desk you might expect to find in a doctor’s surgery.

  ‘I’m wondering if I might be able to speak with someone about one of your former employees, Catherine Chamberlain? Or you might remember her as Ruby Chambers?’

  The girl burst into tears and hurried away, disappearing into a room out back. Not a good start. At least Bailey knew he was in the right place.

  He could hear voices in the back room before an older woman appeared. She too was beautiful, wearing a fitted dress – sleeves to the elbows, stylish, with plenty of cleavage and a hem short enough to show off her legs – no doubt bought from some overpriced Double Bay boutique. Her black heels made her tower over Bailey and her asymmetrical hairstyle didn’t move, neither did the skin on her face.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ She was confident and direct, holding his gaze, leaving him with no doubt who was in charge.

  ‘I’m sorry about the intrusion.’ Bailey was doing his best to be charming. ‘John Bailey from the –’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m a reporter from The Journal, and I –’

  ‘We don’t talk to journalists.’

  It was her place, her terms. Bailey’s pleasantries were pointless.

  He tried playing it straight. ‘As the young girl out back may have mentioned, I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me about one of your former employees, Catherine Chamberlain?’

  ‘I’m not sure that anyone here can help you, Mr Bailey. As I explained, we don’t talk to the media. And we’re certainly not in the business of talking about our clients, or our girls.’

  ‘Even the dead ones?’

  The woman reacted to the provocation with silence, her piercing eyes daring him to insult her again.

  Bailey knew that if he was going to get anywhere, he needed to make a friend.

  ‘That was a bit insensitive, I apologise.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ She paused. ‘Murder isn’t something we’ve had much experience with here at Petals.’

  ‘Didn’t expect you would.’

  She was older than him, more experienced. Bailey couldn’t help imagining what her body was like beneath that dress. A night with a brothel madam – that would be something else. But she wasn’t flirting, she wanted him gone.

  ‘As you can see by the reception you received when you arrived, we’re all still coming to terms with this horrible, horrible tragedy.’

  ‘It’s truly awful, Miss . . .’

  ‘Francesca.’

  ‘Sorry, is that your first name or last?’ Full names – a journalist’s habit. You never knew when you would need them.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Okay, Francesca, I really don’t want to add to your grief or cause any more problems. I’m just trying to understand who might’ve wanted to hurt Miss Chamberlain, or Ruby Chambers, as she was known here.’

  ‘Her name was Catherine,’ Francesca said. ‘Her friends called her Catherine, her clients called her Ruby. I’m not sure where you fit into that equation. I’d guess neither.’

  ‘Never got to know her, you’re right. But that’s the tragedy of it, right? She was also a law student and my daughter knew her as Catherine when she taught her at Sydney University.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry, Mr Bailey. I presume your daughter was as shocked as we were here at Petals.’ Francesca’s voice softened, but not the hard look in her eyes.

  ‘Yeah, she was. I’m trying to find out why someone might’ve wanted to hurt Catherine.’

  ‘At least the police know who’s responsible. The sooner they catch this man, the better we’ll all feel. An advisor to the defence minister – who would’ve thought?’

  ‘Well, Francesca, that’s the thing.’ Bailey was sure she knew something. ‘I have some new information suggesting there may be another suspect.’

  Francesca raised her eyebrows, gesturing for Bailey to go on.

  ‘Did Catherine have any other regular clients?’

  ‘As I said to you, M
r Bailey, we don’t discuss our clients.’

  ‘Not even if it might help find the person who killed her?’ He knew it was a cheap shot, but he was running out of ideas.

  ‘A job for the police, no?’

  Francesca was done. She wasn’t interested in talking about Chamberlain’s death with a reporter.

  ‘I understand this is very distressing for you, Francesca, but –’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I have some work to do. Please leave.’

  ‘Could I ask one more question about a potential client? Was there a young Chinese gentleman, perhaps?’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Bailey.’ Francesca gave him a blank stare, turned and walked away before he had a chance to show her the photograph of Victor Ho.

  Bailey watched her disappear into the back room, wondering how she had ended up running a brothel. It wasn’t on the list of prospects at his high school career night. But life was complicated. Of all people, Bailey understood that much. And Francesca was smart, wily too. Observations – the only things he was taking away from Petals.

  The young girl from the reception desk reappeared and told Bailey she would escort him out.

  ‘Francesca was very close to Catherine.’ She opened the door. ‘All the girls liked her.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It’s awful . . . Miss?’

  ‘Scarlett.’

  ‘Everyone just calls me Bailey.’ He held out his hand and she took it. ‘I’m sorry to have upset you earlier. You girls were close?’

  They were standing in the doorway.

  ‘Yeah. She was a good mate. And I’m just –’

  ‘Scarlett!’ Francesca’s voice sounded from inside. ‘I need you!’

  ‘I should get back inside, Mr Bailey.’

  She closed the door.

  There was no point loitering outside. Francesca had two cameras pointing at the footpath and she was probably watching right now, waiting for Bailey to leave. But Scarlett had looked like she wanted to tell him something. With no leads other than the picture of the dead bloke in his pocket and Michael Anderson’s conspiracy theories, he didn’t have many options. He needed to do this the old-fashioned way.

  Bailey walked across the street, grabbed a tabloid and a tired looking pre-made sandwich and headed for his car, parked just up the street. He sat on the bonnet, eating his ham and cheese sandwich while thumbing through the pages, without paying much attention to the words. Tabloid newspapers stopped reporting real news stories about the same time they stopped leaving ink marks on your fingers. Anyway, his focus was on the people coming and going from Petals. Every fifteen minutes or so, someone walked in or out, old and middle-aged men mostly. Some of them looked like they’d just attended a business meeting, others wore big coats and hats, and walked with their chins almost touching their chests.

  A group of young blokes in chinos and bright polos walked out together, backslapping each other, having just paid for something that Bailey would have thought they could have had for free. He had just skimmed over a column about sexting – which he didn’t really understand – and how kids these days had a distorted view of sex. Paying for it at Petals probably didn’t help, either. Whatever happened to dinner and a movie? Crossing your fingers that if you played your cards right, after a few more dates, you might just get lucky?

  Bailey looked at his watch. It was almost two o’clock, but it felt like five. He folded the newspaper in half and placed it on the bonnet beside him. There was nothing left to read.

  The clock ticked past two.

  Scarlett appeared on the steps, alone. She crossed the road and walked into the pub on the corner. A watering hole that Bailey knew well.

  The Sheaf had been in Double Bay for as long as Bailey could remember. As a cub reporter, he used to drink there and watch the rugby on the big screen. It had probably been renovated five times since those days and, apart from the gaming machines, it still looked and smelled like the pub he remembered, minus the cigarettes.

  Bailey watched as Scarlett ordered food at the window in the courtyard, then walked into the public bar, sat down at an empty table and started thumbing through her phone.

  The public bar was littered with red-nosed locals. The private school boys in their tight fitted t-shirts were playing drinking games in the courtyard under the big oak tree, and the smell of a busy hotplate was wafting from the kitchen window.

  Bailey ordered two glasses of orange juice.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ He pointed at the empty stool beside Scarlett.

  She looked up from her phone. ‘Uuuummmm . . . sure.’

  ‘Didn’t mean to startle you,’ Bailey said. ‘Ordered us a couple of orange juices – they’re on the way.’

  ‘Just juice?’

  ‘Mate!’ Bailey called out to the bartender. ‘Put a nip of vodka in those drinks, would you?’

  The bloke behind the bar gave him a thumbs up.

  ‘One thing we’ve got in common.’

  ‘Midday rule, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bailey lied.

  ‘I never say no to a drink at lunchtime.’ Scarlett smiled. ‘Especially when someone else’s buying.’

  ‘You looked like you wanted to tell me something back there, about your friend.’

  ‘She was a good person, Mr Bailey. She didn’t deserve this. It’s not right.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out what happened to her.’

  The barman arrived at their table with the drinks. ‘Here’s those screwdrivers, guys.’

  ‘Good man.’ Bailey handed him a twenty and took a long sip of his drink. Hungover, operating on very little sleep, it was just what he needed.

  ‘How’re you, babe?’ The barman touched Scarlett on the shoulder.

  ‘Good, Pete. How about you?’

  ‘Surviving, babe. No surf today, so, only just.’

  She shrugged at Bailey when Pete had left. ‘What can I say? I’m a local.’

  ‘A popular one, too.’ Bailey noticed every bloke in the room checking her out. ‘I know this is tough on you – and I really am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Thankfully, Francesca’s hard-bitch routine hadn’t rubbed off on her staff.

  ‘I didn’t mean to react the way I did back there,’ Scarlett continued. ‘In this line of work we’re kind of like a family. We look out for each other. It’s why Francesca was so short with you.’

  ‘It’s okay, I get it.’ Bailey was determined to make a friend this time.

  Scarlett gestured to the courtyard. ‘See those boys out there?’

  ‘Yep. Private school boys, I’m guessing.’ It was obvious to a state-educated kid like Bailey.

  ‘Arrogant little trust fund babies, no idea how to treat women. Some of our biggest clients.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘See the blond one?’ Scarlett was pointing with her chin. ‘Looks like a footy player, the one in the pink shirt?’

  Bailey nodded.

  ‘He comes in with his dad sometimes. Reckon he was fifteen the first time.’

  Bailey had known guys like that and he didn’t like them either. ‘Different life.’

  ‘Mine or theirs?’

  He didn’t know how to answer that.

  ‘I’m joking,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll try to keep up.’ Bailey laughed awkwardly. ‘Now, you okay to talk?’

  Scarlett put down her drink and leaned back on her stool. ‘We were close, Catherine and me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s good money, what we do. For Catherine, it was just for a while. For me too, I guess. But I don’t have a grand plan like she did. She was going places, going to be a lawyer.’

  ‘I know. My daughter says she was a smart girl.’

  ‘Real smart. A good friend too – looked out for me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘There was this one client of mine who liked it a bit rough.
Catherine once hid in a hotel bathroom just in case he really hurt me.’ Scarlett’s eyes were filling with water. ‘She really cared for people, Mr Bailey. I mean, who’d do that for someone?’

  ‘Sounds like you lost a good mate.’ Bailey was speaking as softly as his voice could go.

  ‘I did. Shame I couldn’t . . .’ Scarlett was fighting back her tears. ‘It’s a shame I couldn’t do the same for her.’

  Scarlett looked like one of those people who only knew how to be honest. She was a straight talker and Bailey liked her.

  ‘I don’t think there is anything you could have done,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing whoever did this was a professional.’

  ‘Professional? What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know anything for a fact. All I know is that it wasn’t Michael Anderson.’

  If Scarlett was going to share the truth, Bailey was too.

  ‘I never thought it was, to be honest. He was a nice bloke, maybe a little jealous but tell me a bloke who isn’t? He loved her, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’

  ‘Sure, it started out as a trick but it was real by the end.’

  ‘Know how long they’d been seeing each other?’ Bailey needed to find out as much as he could about Anderson – whether he was someone who could be believed – in case he got in contact again. Scarlett was his best chance.

  ‘Months. Maybe six? Can’t be sure.’ She shrugged and took a sip of her drink. ‘Long enough that she knew she wanted to be with him. He was trying to get her to quit Petals. He even said he’d pay for her tuition.’

  ‘What did Catherine think about that?’ Anderson wasn’t sounding so crazy.

  ‘She was a proud girl, and she wasn’t keen on relying on someone.’ Her voice was cracking up. ‘But she was smart. She knew they couldn’t last if she was still getting paid to sleep with other men. She was thinking about it.’

  ‘That’s good –’

  ‘Careful not to judge us here, Mr Bailey,’ Scarlett said. ‘We know what we do, and it’s okay, as long as you stay in control.’