by Berry, Tony
This was Richmond’s enclave of hidden commerce – secret by intent rather than circumstance; where business names were a tribute to creative anonymity, designed to impress while revealing nothing. Regal, Royal and Emperor were much-favoured prefixes. Several firms claimed to be Global, International, Worldwide or even Universal while the unspecified services offered by Inter-galactic Enterprises appeared to extend where none had gone before. These were the back streets of $10 companies bought off the shelf from seedy lawyers and dodgy accountants. Oriental Supplies had no hint of the goods it traded and there was no knowing what problems to take to Imperial Solutions. The people who ran these secretive concerns kept no regular hours. There were no morning or evening peaks of workers coming and going. Their hours were as flexible as the rules they worked by. Windows were frosted and barred. Doors were solid, bolted and linked to coded keypads.
Bromo glanced to left and right through darkened glasses as he cycled gently by. He had a firm idea of the route he was taking; somewhere in this hodgepodge of mismatched architecture was the place where the murdered Asian girl had once worked. Yet it seemed best to appear as if he was pedalling aimlessly along, in and out of this urban maze, with not a care in the world. Too many people seemed interested in his movements.
He turned into Little Sussex Street wondering if the residents of that English county would want their name associated with such a grotty byway. The place he sought was about a hundred metres further on – a solid, squat brick building with no windows on to the street. Bromo cycled past, giving it scarcely a look but checking the fibreglass nameplate. He saw it as another faceless factory, so discreet you’d think they didn’t want to do business.
He made a slow U-turn at the end of the street and drifted gently back. The acrid tang of paint from a panel beater’s workshop assailed his nostrils; the blare of a radio sitting alongside a couple of chippies erecting a backyard extension attacked his ears. A dog yapped from behind a high corrugated iron fence. Situation normal and the best of all settings for racketeers and criminals wanting to blend unnoticed into the local scene.
Bromo glided to a halt outside Global Products and Marketing and leaned his bike against the wall. He sniffed derisively. Another meaningless moniker, a catch-all business name; it covered all bases and explained nothing. Suss, very suss, he decided as he turned the handle on a galvanised steel door and pushed it open.
He took four steps into a wood-block floored foyer before his way was barred by a wall-to-wall grille of heavy-duty open mesh steel. The foot of the grille was slotting into place as he came to stop.
‘Yeah?’
The monosyllabic grunt came from an alcove to his left. A thick-set man in a white t-shirt and black track pants was squeezing out from behind a desk several sizes too small for his bulky form. Bromo flicked a hand in the direction of the grille.
‘You expecting trouble?’
The man ignored the comment and stepped three paces closer; intimidating and impassive.
‘Can I help you?’
Bromo took a sideways step towards the grille.
‘You could give it a try.’
But somehow Bromo doubted it. This was not a lump of muscle called in from the warehouse to do lunchtime stand-in on reception duty but a full-time door mastiff. Bark and bite first; ask questions later. Clones of the man in front of him could be seen at the entrance to nightclubs and bars all over the city: the spiralling wire of a radio link attached to one ear; arms hanging simian-like at their side; inscrutable faces giving everyone a blank-eyed once-over. The obstacle blocking his way morphed into a Tongan front row forward about to pack down three metres from the try line; and help seemed to be the last thing in his repertoire.
‘You got an appointment?’
‘Didn’t think it would be necessary. Just a preliminary enquiry.’
Beyond the grill Bromo could see a small, open-plan office in front of a partition, half of which was timber panelling, half frosted glass and split by a central aisle. The partition blocked any view of the space beyond, although the occasional shadowy form could be seen moving behind the frosted glass.
‘People usually phone first.’
Bromo dismissed the idea with a shrug.
‘Sorry mate, didn’t think of it. Happened to be pedalling by. Thought I’d drop in as I was passing.’ Bromo pointed at the people on the other side of the grille. ‘Perhaps one of them could help.’
He fumbled for a name; someone Liz had mentioned talking to her at Tamsyn’s funeral.
‘Perhaps I could see Natalie.’
‘You know her?’
Bull’s eye! Bromo lied with a brief up and down shake of his head, lips pursed in what he hoped was a convincing affirmative. He risked another wild punt.
‘Remind her we have mutual interests … like diamonds.’
The towering Tongan grunted; Natalie’s name meant enough to make him relax his aggressive stance.
‘Your name?’
‘Perkins.’
The Tongan shuffled back to his desk, leaned over a console and hit a couple of buttons. He mumbled a few words, his eyes still fixed on Bromo. A female voice squawked back. The man stretched up, tall and broad, scarily so thought Bromo, and flexed his shoulders. He nodded his head at Bromo and walked towards a solid metal gate fitted into the meshed grille where it joined the side wall.
‘This way.’
He tapped out some numbers on a keypad and pushed the gate open. Bromo stepped through and almost collided with a woman whose beaky face was capped by a layer of short-cropped light brown hair that was almost touching his chin. She took a step back as he extended his hand in greeting, seeking a response.
She ignored it.
‘Natalie?’ he persisted.
She neither denied nor agreed. She countered his attack with one of her own, her voice suspicious, tinged with aggression.
‘I don’t remember us meeting before. And what’s all this about diamonds?’
Bromo winced at the sound of her voice: it was harsh and nasally; a Julia Gillard sound-alike. He reckoned it could give a paint-scraper a run for its money. He fudged his response.
‘Ah, it was probably at one of those social occasions, maybe a business do somewhere. A bit too much free booze and everyone exchanging cards … you know the sort of thing.’
If she did, she wasn’t letting on.
‘I don’t do business cards.’
Bromo felt he was treading water. If she didn’t do business cards, what did she do? Certainly not smile. The thin lips seemed to be set in a permanent downward arc. Bromo gestured at the steel grille.
‘What’s with the Fort Knox? Seems a bit much for a small business in the back streets of Richmond.
The woman stood her ground; said nothing. He bumbled on, playing the confused innocent.
‘What’s scaring you? Or perhaps I should ask who?’
The woman took it in her stride.
‘We think of it as workplace health and safety. Looking after our workers. Protecting them. After all, this is Richmond – druggies, muggers, gangs of young thugs with knives and machetes …’
Her voice trailed off. Why say more? It was a familiar portrait of a suburb where crime had been one of the prime pursuits of its residents for more than a century. Where once illegal betting, bribery and corruption thrived under a rule of intimidation and murder it was now the sex trade and drug traffickers who called the shots and ran the streets, much of the time in broad daylight.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Bromo but made no further attempt to express his disbelief. The tone of his voice said it all. The woman returned to the attack, firm and businesslike.
‘So, Mr Perkins, what is that you want?’
He avoided the temptation to say ‘answers’, opting instead for the confused consumer approach.
‘It’s a casual enquiry really. I was cycling past and saw your sign and I ... er ...well, sort of wondered what a firm with that name marketed and how global
it was and then I remembered a young lass who works here and seem to recall she had something to do with ...’
He glanced briefly around at the security guard looming silently nearby and lowered his voice, imparting a secret, conspiring.
‘... well, diamonds, and I have these people in Sri Lanka who ...’
‘Stop right there, Mr Perkins.’
It was like dealing with a hyped-up Jack Russell. Bromo got an impression of the woman suddenly yapping and leaping, one moment in his face, an arm signalling to the security guard, and the next turning and making a swift exit towards the building’s back rooms.
‘We don’t do business off the street,’ she barked.
He threw in his wild card. ‘Perhaps Tamsyn could help.’
For two, maybe three, seconds she halted. Her head twisted round. A reaction. Bromo saw alarm, even fear, in her eyes.
The moment passed.
‘Fokisi, see Mr Perkins out,’ she rasped. ‘Right out. And let the others know.’
Bromo yielded to the iron clasp of the Tongan’s fingers around his upper arm. There was no point in resisting.
‘Seems Natalie’s having a bad day,’ he said. ‘Must be something I said.’
The steel door clanged shut behind them but the Tongan’s grip stayed firm until he had guided Bromo across the foyer and out into street.
‘On your bike,’ he grunted.
Bromo obeyed. As he turned the next corner he looked back. Fokisi still stood outside the warehouse, arms folded, making sure their unwelcome visitor was really on his way. Bromo gave him a wave. A scrawny cat scampered out of his way.
No, not out of his way but to escape the vehicle Bromo could hear behind him. The car that was suddenly accelerating, the sound of its cut-off exhausts reverberating in the narrow street, its tyres squealing, the acrid smell of burning rubber; the car that swerved sharply into him, striking his rear wheel, then turning out again and roaring forward to the next intersection and disappearing around the corner with a blast on its blaring klaxon.
Bromo was pitched sideways and upwards before crashing head first on to the narrow footpath. The impact of his bike helmet on the concrete sent a juddering jolt through his whole body; another followed as his shoulder crunched into the ground. His chest collided with the blunt round end of his handlebar. One more agonising tremor of pain followed. Everything comes in three, he thought as he lay prone and immobilised beneath the weight of his bike. No aftershocks. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, relaxing, letting his body regroup. Slowly he turned, gradually stretching from folded up to full length. Excruciating twinges accompanied every move. He levered the bike upwards and crawled out from underneath. For a while he sat there, arms half extended, holding on to the machine’s frame. Nothing seemed bent or broken. He could pedal home. The cat sauntered up and nuzzled him.
‘You were lucky, mate,’ said Bromo. ‘You saw them coming.’
SIXTEEN
LIZ leaned over him, her ringlets of chestnut hair brushing his face as she dabbed a pad of medical gauze at his cheekbone. He winced.
‘Ouch. Go easy.’
‘Stop being a wuss. It’s only a graze.’
‘Not from where I’m sitting. Feels like the whole cheek’s gone. Probably need a skin graft.’
Liz straightened up and picked a fresh pad of gauze from a first-aid kit on a small coffee table.
‘Bloody men, you’re all wimps. Can’t stand a bit of pain. Here, let’s have a look at the rest of you.’
He looked at her, puzzled, still dazed.
‘What … you mean …?’
She leaned back in, one hand tugging at the hem of his sweat shirt.
‘Yes, I mean take that damned top off and let’s see what other damage has been done.’ She chuckled, that rich throaty sound he found so alluring. ‘Don’t go all shy and bashful. From what I hear you’re not usually this slow about getting your gear off.’
‘Malicious rumours,’ he muttered as he tugged at the shirt and eased it up over his shoulders, grimacing as barbs of pain shot through his rib cage. Liz lent a hand to inch it over his head. She stepped back and stared as his upper body.
‘Nasty,’ she said.
‘Hey, it’s not Mr Universe but it’s not that bad.’
‘Idiot. The cuts and bruises I mean, not what’s beneath them.’
Liz extended a hand and ran it gently down his left side. He winced and wriggled in a mix of pain and pleasure.
‘Umm, excruciating but nice,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should fall off my bike more often.’
‘Cool it, buster. This is therapy, not hanky-panky. And you didn’t fall off your bike; you were pushed.’
Liz pressed the gauze against the cuts and bruises. Bromo shuddered and grimaced.
‘Someone meant you to get hurt, maybe even killed,’ she said.
Bromo felt his bantering mood ebb away. The pain of the yellowing bruises and raw scratches he had reluctantly revealed was all too real. Liz’s diagnosis was spot-on. They were caused by someone with serious intent, not by some inattentive road user or his own carelessness.
‘So, who did it? And what were you doing in that dreary part of town?’
‘Good questions, Liz. I wish I knew the answers.’
‘Come off it, Bromo; this is me you’re talking to. Maybe you haven’t a clue who did this but you know damned well why you were riding along some scary little backstreet. You weren’t out to enjoy the scenery.’
She took a large antiseptic pad from its protective packaging and began unwinding a broad bandage to strap it against his ribcage.
‘This is all about those diamonds, isn’t it?’
He nodded. Even that hurt; a spasm of pain bolted up through his neck and into his head.
‘It’s also about your friend Tamsyn,’ he said. ‘The kid who got murdered. I thought I’d see where she worked. Check it out.’
‘And …?’
Liz motioned for him to keep his arms raised – another throb-producing action – as she rolled the bandage around his chest. She said nothing, her silence inviting him to continue relating the day’s events. Bromo spoke slowly, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, every breath sending an agonising shockwave through his upper body. He kept the story short and concise, but hid nothing from her. When he had finished, Liz helped him slide his shirt back over his head and down to his waist.
‘So what now?’ she said.
He shrugged. Another conveyor belt of painful shockwaves ran up his left side.
‘What about the police? What are they doing?’
‘I think the phrase is “investigations are continuing” or maybe it’s something about a watching brief. Slowly, slowly and all that.’
Liz exploded.
‘How can you sit there and be so bloody complacent? A girl’s been murdered, you’ve been bailed up, mugged and almost killed, there are armed Sri Lankans running around the streets and we have an old warehouse turned into a backstreet fortress. Why isn’t anyone doing something? How about your wonderful Delia?’
Bromo pondered her final comment; was it sarcasm or jealousy? He set it aside for later. Now was not the time for musing on his romantic fantasies. The rest of her outburst deserved a response, although the effects of his bruising were starting to weigh heavy; everything was becoming too much of an effort.
‘You’re right, Liz. Something has to be done. Unfortunately there’s the little matter of evidence. The police can’t simply go charging in on vague suspicions. And it’s getting harder and harder.’
The civil libertarians and bleeding hearts had ensured that. Their sympathies seemed more and more to lie with the perpetrator rather than the victim. Cases were being thrown out of court for minor technicalities even though everyone knew the person in the dock was guilty. Criminals were walking free while their victims suffered.
‘They need cast-iron proof,’ said Bromo.
Liz moved round behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and g
ently kneaded them. He sat back, relishing the light massaging.
‘And you’re the one to find it,’ she said, her voice low and soothing. ‘You’re a free agent.’
‘Hah.’
She kept massaging, feeling him go tense.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he said.
Nor did she; but she had her suspicions and had built up a mental dossier since he had suddenly come into her life when he arrived in Richmond – from where? She didn’t truly know – a few years ago.
‘That travel consultancy you run can’t keep you fully occupied; you’ve no ties, and you’re free to come and go as you feel.’
Free! That was a laugh. He never saw them, they never contacted him; but he knew his masters were always watching. They may have unjustly banished him to the far side of the globe for one small stuff-up, but they had never forgotten him or set him free. Nor would they; that wasn’t in their nature. And he wasn’t the only one. Other long-term and loyal agents had been moved aside, even discharged, seemingly abandoned; but the ties were never severed. Eyes loosely closed, head lolling back, drifting away under the gentle pressure of Liz’s fingers he found his mind wandering down old byways, encountering familiar faces, trustworthy colleagues ...
Bromo emerged suddenly from his trance, jerking forward out of her grasp.
‘I’ve got to get going. Got to pack.’
‘But you can’t … your chest … your head … pack? … packing what?’
She flapped her arms about in exasperation.
‘You need rest.’
He was already standing, screwing up his face as he pulled on his jacket.
‘Plenty of time for that on the plane.’
‘Plane? What plane? Where are you going? Talk to me Bromo.’
It was too late. He was already halfway out the door, stiffly waving a farewell.
‘Going to see the Grumbler. She’s the only one who knows about Sigiriya.’