by Tim Ayliffe
‘I’m sorry, I –’
‘Forget about it. You’ve got a daughter and it’s hard to imagine a girl wanting to do this. Right?’
He leaned forward on his stool. ‘I’m not here to judge you, Scarlett.’
‘It’s actually not that bad, and the money’s ridiculous, especially for a girl from Penrith with folks who gave me more beatings than hugs.’
Bailey didn’t know how to respond to that.
‘Sorry – you don’t need my back story. I’m just saying that if you play it right, you can do all right. A grand a day. Who else’s going to pay me money like that?’
‘That’s good money. Got an opening for a washed-up reporter?’
Scarlett patted his arm playfully. ‘You’re a handsome man, Mr Bailey. But girls only.’
Bailey’s phone was vibrating – Dexter, again.
‘Anyway, Scarlett, recall any customers a bit out of the ordinary the past few weeks or months?’
‘In my game, there’s no ordinary. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?’
‘A young Chinese bloke, a student.’
‘We get plenty of them – fat wallets.’
Bailey put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘Go on.’
‘Frustrated they can’t seem to pick up Aussie girls in nightclubs, they come to us instead. A bit more expensive, but money’s never an issue.’
‘Any of them behaving strangely?’
‘Maybe. Sorry, you’ve put me on the spot here.’
‘Can I show you a photo?’
‘Sure.’
Bailey reached into his pocket, unfolded the photograph of Victor Ho that Ronnie had given him at Bondi Beach and handed it to Scarlett. ‘This guy one of them?’
Scarlett stared at the photograph.
‘Yeah, he’s been around.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘I think he started booking with us a month or so ago.’
‘Anything else you remember?’
‘Bit creepy. Probably made five or ten appointments in the space of only a few weeks. A lot of money – and I mean, a lot – flashed it around and talked about his rich family back in China. And he always asked for Catherine.’
‘This is really helpful.’ Bailey threw back the rest of his drink and slid off his stool. ‘I’ve got to get moving.’
He scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper and tore it from his notebook. ‘If you think of anything else, give me a call.’
‘Thanks. And Mr Bailey?’
‘Yep?’
‘What are you going to write?’
‘Haven’t figured it out yet. I don’t have enough on the Chinese bloke in the photo other than that he might be a person of interest.’
‘Francesca would be pissed if she thought I was a source.’
‘Don’t worry. Nothing I write will lead back to you.’
One dead prostitute was enough.
‘Thanks. And I’ll get back to you once we start recruiting old blokes to turn tricks!’
‘For the money you make, I’d do anything!’
‘You’re a nice guy, Mr Bailey.’
He liked how she kept calling him Mr Bailey. It made him feel responsible.
‘You take care of yourself, Scarlett.’
He walked across the stained carpet and out the door of the public bar. His phone vibrated again in his pocket. This time he answered.
‘Sharon, I’m sorry I haven’t called you back.’
‘We need to talk – now.’
‘Okay, what’ve you got?’
‘Not on the phone. I’m in Rushcutters Bay – at the apartment.’
‘Chamberlain’s?’ Bailey stopped alongside his car.
‘Yes, dum-dum. Where else?’
He deserved that.
‘Be there in ten. And I’ve got . . .’ He jiggled the key in the lock, trying to get the door open. He really needed to get it fixed, or buy a new car.
‘Bailey? Bailey – are you there?’
‘Sorry. I’ve got something for you too.’ The door finally clicked open. ‘What are you wearing? Just in case –’
‘Just shut up and get here, John.’
John.
Dexter had never called him by his first name, even when they were together. It was always Bailey. Something was wrong.
CHAPTER 13
Bailey called Gerald on his way to Rushcutters Bay.
‘I’ve just had an interesting discussion with one of the girls at Petals.’
‘Find out anything new?’ Gerald sounded just as irritable as when he’d stormed into Bailey’s house that morning.
‘Yeah. Not exactly sure what it means yet.’
‘And?’
Bailey could tell that Gerald wasn’t himself. ‘Are you okay, mate?’
‘I’m fine. Let’s meet.’
‘My place. Give me forty minutes.’
A run of giant Moreton Bay figs lined the road across from the apartment building where Catherine Chamberlain had been killed. It was unseasonably warm for May and Bailey was relieved to have found a parking spot under the trees away from the glaring sun. On hot days it was almost impossible to get the heat out of his car because the air conditioner hadn’t worked since 2000. He used to tell people that the millennium bug had killed it, until Miranda reminded her father that his car was too old to have a computer.
Dexter was waiting for him at the entrance of the building. He didn’t know whether to hug her, give her a peck on the cheek, or shake her hand. Amidst the uncertainty he avoided all options and settled for a smile. ‘Detective.’
‘Don’t be cute, Bailey. I’m not in the mood.’
Keeping his distance was the right decision. ‘Okay. Why’re we meeting here?’
‘The building manager, a bloke called Mario Monticello, won’t pick up his phone. I thought I’d try knocking on his door.’
‘Any luck?’
‘No one home.’
‘I presume we’re here to share information then. Got something for me?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Are you going to start, or should I?’
‘The security tape.’ She pointed at the little camera in the roof above the entrance.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s got a black hole in it.’ Dexter was still looking up at the camera. ‘We don’t know who walked in and out of this building between eleven and eleven-fifteen on the night Catherine Chamberlain was murdered. Looks like some static interference knocked out the signal.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Interesting how?’
Bailey didn’t want to hide anything from her, but he wasn’t sure this was a good time to be sharing. He was a journalist, not a cop.
‘Bailey? If you know something, then please do me the courtesy of –’
‘Hold on, hold on.’ He held up his hand. ‘I just need you to agree that I won’t be divulging any sources.’
‘You think you need to explain that to me of all people? Give me a break.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘And right now I couldn’t give a damn about police protocols, so spit it out.’
Bailey reached into his pocket and withdrew the photograph of Victor Ho.
‘That’s Victor Ho,’ he said, pointing to the picture. ‘Could be a professional hit man, foreign spook – who knows?’
‘Chinese intelligence?’ Dexter gave Bailey a sarcastic smile. ‘C’mon, you’re not trying to tell me we’ve got a modern-day Profumo Affair on our hands?’
‘I’m not saying anything – just laying it out and trying to make sense of it.’ Bailey didn’t like Dexter’s dismissive response, especially given Catherine Chamberlain had most likely been strangled to death because Michael Anderson had spilled his guts to her. ‘And what are you talking about? This is nothing like Profumo!’
Bailey was hit by a sudden pang of tiredness. Maybe Scarlett’s tears had got to him. Or maybe it was the vodka.
‘Bailey – it was a bad joke. Calm down, would you?’
He knew he was being ridiculous. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No worries,’ Dexter said. ‘Now, how’s the guy in the photo connected?’
Bailey was struggling to concentrate. ‘The photo?’
‘In your hand?’
‘Yes, yes . . .’ Bailey shook his head as though he was warding off a fly. ‘For starters, he’s already dead.’
‘What?’
‘Bashed for his wallet, apparently. Pyrmont, two nights –’
‘Down by the casino. I heard about it. It’s being investigated as a robbery. You about to tell me it’s not?’
‘You tell me. You’re the cop.’
‘And how’d you get all this?’
‘Got a source.’
‘Police?’
‘No, because that would be you.’
‘Then who?’
‘Nice try.’ Bailey wouldn’t even know where to begin if he was going to tell Dexter about Ronnie Johnson. Not that he would anyway because Bailey never gave up his sources. ‘I thought you weren’t going to press me about this.’
‘Can’t blame me for trying.’
‘What I can tell you is that it appears our Victor Ho was a client of Catherine Chamberlain.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘He had a bunch of bookings with her in the weeks leading up to her death.’
Bailey didn’t need to interpret the incredulous look on Dexter’s face to know that it was all sounding too simple.
‘You don’t book an hour with a prostitute to kill her.’
‘As I suggested earlier, I’m not trying to join dots for you. I’m just throwing them on the page and, right now, there are lots of dots.’
‘I’ve got another dot for you, then,’ she said. ‘David Davis. He’s been going around me and instructing the cop who’s supposed to be helping me with the investigation.’
‘How so?’
‘Hard to pin. Gave me the impression he knew about the black hole in the videotape.’
‘We’ve got to find out what that black hole’s all about.’
‘To point out the bloody obvious.’
‘Thank you, detective,’ Bailey said. ‘After all these years, you and me, working the same murder.’
It had been a long time since they’d laughed together. A lot of tears in between.
‘I can’t hang around, Bailey. And neither can you.’
Bailey was disappointed, but she was right. They couldn’t stand in the street all afternoon. ‘Yeah, of course, jobs to do.’
‘I sent the cop I was talking about, Rob Lucas, up the street to see if any other shops around here had cameras pointing at the footpath. I don’t want him seeing us together.’
‘I’m a bad influence.’
‘Yeah, you are.’
He couldn’t tell if she was being serious.
‘I told him I’d meet him at the Cross. I need to get going before he doubles back looking for me.’
‘Dinner tonight?’ Bailey said.
‘No.’
Shutdown.
‘Some other time, then?’
‘I’ll say maybe.’
‘And I’ll say that’s good enough for me.’
‘One more thing before I go –’
‘Yes, detective.’
‘Monticello might have gone away somewhere. Let me know if you hear anything.’
‘Sure. What’re you going to do?’
‘I’m going to head back to the station and find some contacts for his family. He must be around somewhere.’ She was already walking away.
‘Okay. Let’s talk later. And Sharon?’
‘Yep?’
‘I’m going to hold you to your maybe.’
‘Part of me hopes you do. But there’s also a little voice that wants me to tell you to piss off.’
‘Don’t listen to it, even though I probably deserve it.’
‘Yeah, you do.’ She was standing on the street talking to him over the roof of her car. ‘But ask me again sometime. When this is over.’
‘That’s a promise.’
‘See you, Bailey.’
He watched Dexter drive away, feeling a buzz inside that he hadn’t experienced for years, and walked over to where he’d parked his car under the fig tree. A familiar figure was loitering and chewing on a cigar.
‘I’m starting to think you’ve got a thing for me.’
‘I do, bubba,’ Ronnie said.
‘Well, I’m not interested. You’re too tall.’
‘Have you been back to your house today?’
‘No time. Why? And is that bloody tracker still on my car?’
‘No, bubba, took it off, like I told you.’
Problem was that Ronnie had told him lots of things over the years. ‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’ Ronnie obviously had other things on his mind, which was why he was waiting under the fig tree in the first place. ‘You’ve had visitors, and your house looks a little different to how you left it this morning.’
Bailey rested his elbow on the roof of the car. ‘Don’t tell me some druggy prick has robbed me?’
‘I’d say pricks, plural,’ Ronnie said. ‘They’ve worked it over good and proper, and I doubt they were drug addicts.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘TV, toaster – all the good stuff’s still there.’
All Bailey could think about was his vinyl record collection. ‘Better go and check out the damage. I’m due to meet Gerald. You coming?’
Ronnie tapped the roof. ‘Was planning on riding with you.’
‘Easier than sticking that tracking device under my car again, right?’
‘Why’s it so bloody hot? Isn’t it almost winter?’
‘Global warming, mate. Apparently it’s real.’
Bailey used his key to unlock the passenger door for Ronnie.
‘Please tell me your air conditioner’s working.’
‘Hasn’t since January, the year 2000 when –’
‘The millennium bug attacked this piece of junk’s computer?’ Ronnie finished the sentence for him. ‘You need some new material, bubba – and a new car.’
Ronnie climbed in and chuckled as he watched Bailey fiddle with his key to unlock the driver-side door.
He reached over and lifted the latch. ‘Having trouble?’
‘Shut up, hillbilly.’ Bailey climbed in and fastened his seatbelt. ‘And as for the air con, pretend it’s June – in Baghdad.’
‘Might as well be.’
After a few pumps on the accelerator, the car spluttered to life.
‘Now, let’s go see how my renovation is looking.’
CHAPTER 14
Gerald was smoking a cigarette on the front porch when Bailey arrived home with Ronnie. ‘Are you two going to tell me what the hell’s going on?’
‘Not even a hello for your old pal?’
Gerald glared at them through a cloud of smoke. Bailey hadn’t seen him light up for more than a decade but he resisted making a quip about telling Nancy.
‘You walk into my newsroom yesterday and out the door with Bailey without giving me that courtesy, Ronnie. Don’t expect niceties from me.’
‘Okay, bubba.’ The big Oklahoman extended his right hand and Gerald shook it, reluctantly. ‘You’re going to love me again soon, just you wait.’
‘It’s going to take more than that bullshit charm of yours.’
‘Look, you two,’ Bailey said. ‘I’m the one who’s just had his house done over. Get a grip.’ He turned to Gerald. ‘How bad is it in there?’
‘Not good. They’re looking for something, Bailey. I was hoping you could tell me what?’
Bailey ignored the question, pausing at his front door and shaking his head at the shattered window on the porch. The glass had spread across the tiles inside and it crunched under the soles of his shoes as he stepped inside.
‘That’s where I climbed in t
o take a look. Hope that’s okay . . .’
Gerald’s voice trailed off as Bailey checked out the damage inside. His belongings were scattered everywhere, ripped out of cupboards and thrown on the floor. Bookshelves overturned, picture frames smashed, lamps broken and tables lying on their sides. Anything with cushions or fabric had been sliced open – chairs, his couch and even the mattress on his bed.
He walked over to where his vintage Pioneer turntable had been tipped on its side in the lounge room beside a half-empty bottle of Talisker. His beloved vinyl collection was spread out in a mess on the carpet. Pink Floyd, The Eagles, Dylan, The Who, Ziggy Stardust, The Clash and every Stones record he’d ever purchased were now a jumble of cardboard covers, plastic sleeves and black discs on the floor. None of the records looked broken, thankfully. It was just a matter of how many were scratched.
‘Fuck me.’ Bailey bent down and picked the bottle of single malt off the carpet, unscrewed the lid and took a long swig. ‘This is about as thorough as you get.’
Buying the Paddington townhouse after his divorce was the only responsible thing Bailey had ever done. He did it so that Miranda would have a place to call a second home, not that she’d spent much time there. But he loved the house and it was unsettling seeing it trashed.
‘Any idea what they were looking for?’ Gerald asked again. He and Ronnie were following Bailey from room to room.
‘Who knows? I don’t have much, only that –’
Ronnie grabbed Bailey’s elbow and raised his index finger to his lips. He gestured towards the roof and then touched his ear. ‘Outside.’
‘What’s going on, Ronnie?’ Bailey said when they were all back on the porch.
‘It looked professional in there.’
A guy like Ronnie must have messed up a few homes in his time, so he would probably know.
‘Someone could be listening.’
‘You mean a bug? In my house?’
‘These guys knew what they were doing. Who knows what they left behind?’
‘Arseholes.’ Bailey took another swig from the bottle.
‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk.’ Ronnie patted Gerald on the shoulder. ‘Just like old times.’
Bailey was still staring at the mess through the window. ‘Sure. House is stuffed and the cleaner isn’t due till Friday.’
‘Okay then,’ Gerald said. ‘But I hope this is nothing like old times.’