Siren

by Tara Moss

  ‘Oh, I really don’t want Adam to get into any trouble with the authorities,’ Mrs Hart wailed.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’ve built up a little nest egg since the insurance settlement. Makedde, I could give you a bonus if you bring him back safely. I really need him home.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that; I promise you I’ll do my best to get Adam back for you and keep the cops away.’

  Keep your nest egg, she thought. You’ll need it for the therapy.

  Mak hung up, feeling bad for Glenise, and the death of her illusions about her son.

  Ten hours after answering her text message, the private investigator Pete Don was waiting for Makedde at his usual table, a corner spot in a McDonald’s on George Street in Sydney’s CBD. Mak had hated the restaurants ever since her class had toured the kitchen areas and freezer of the local McDonald’s in her home town in Canada during a school excursion when she was twelve. The uncooked fries had looked to her exactly like the white severed fingers she’d seen at the morgue with her dad days earlier, and the frozen McNuggets like something worse. The association had stayed.

  Mak strode in, not looking at the food the customers were shovelling in. She slid onto the yellow plastic seat opposite her friend and former tutor at the Australian Security Academy. ‘Hi, Pete. It’s great to see you. It’s been what, eight months or something?’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I woke you up with that text last night.’

  ‘No worries, Mak. I never sleep at night,’ he teased, leaning across the table to look at her.

  ‘Sorry if I look a bit baggy, but unlike you, I actually need sleep.’ She’d stayed up until four, and her body wasn’t overly happy about it. She had something like a caffeine hangover, her brain throbbing dimly behind blurry eyes. ‘I thought you’d get my text in the morning.’

  He smiled. ‘It ain’t so bad being woken up by you.’ He sipped at a coffee in a styrofoam cup with a golden ‘M’ branded across it. ‘Anyway, how’s my most promising student faring in her new career?’ he asked.

  My new career. God, this is my career, isn’t it? I am never going to end up a practising psychologist.

  ‘Any psychos chasing you?’ he only half joked.

  ‘No. Not lately. Pete, do you still have contact with someone in the pawnshop records? The second-hand dealers book thing?’

  ‘You got some stolen property issues? Yeah, I know a guy.’

  ‘Any chance he could look out for something for me? A gold watch and some pearls?’

  ‘Sure. But there are lots of watches and pearls that go to Cash Converters every day.’

  ‘The pearls are choker-length, single-strand, white: fairly non-descript, I’d say. But the watch has an engraving.’ She slid a note across the table with Mrs Hart’s description:

  Jill & John. Amor Vincit Omnia.

  ‘A wedding watch. Good,’ he said. ‘I can have him keep an eye out. No guarantees of course.’

  Pawnbrokers and second-hand dealers had to register all goods pawned or sold. Each dealers register listed the time, the date, name and address of the person bringing the goods in, a description of the goods and the price paid, and could be perused by the police on demand. People had to produce ID to pawn goods. So if the watch or pearls showed up, they could help locate Adam, and a stop order would be put on them so they couldn’t be sold. A lot of thieves pawned goods using false IDs and hoped that no one was paying attention to the second-hand dealers register.

  ‘I owe you, Pete. If this watch or necklace pop up it might help me break this case. The kid’s name is Adam Hart. He doesn’t have a driver’s licence or passport, so if he tries to sell the stuff he’d have to use some other ID. Or get someone else to do it.’

  ‘Ah, tough case with nothing to track him.’ Pete stuck out his lower lip. ‘I saw one place that thought a library card would do. Not quite legal.’

  ‘Exactly. He’d probably try to use something like that.’ She stood up. ‘Okay, what am I getting you for lunch?’

  He lit up. ‘Deluxe Brekkie Roll, a hashbrown and hotcakes. And another coffee.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Breakfast? You are one hungry PI.’

  ‘That’s me. Been doing all-nighters watching some babe who’s supposed to be doing the nasty with her real estate agent.’

  ‘Oh, the world is a romantic place, isn’t it?’

  Mak came back a few minutes later with a tray steaming with food. She had ordered herself some pretty average-looking raisin toast and a bottle of water.

  ‘Thanks, Mak. Not eating?’

  Mak smiled and picked at her toast. ‘Pete, did you ever think about…getting them back?’

  He looked up from his hotcakes. ‘Getting what back?’

  ‘You know. The ones who did that to your face.’

  The word was that Pete had spent a long time in hospital after the beating he’d received on getting made during an undercover assignment back when he was still a cop. He had been left for dead, and barely got out of the hospital alive.

  ‘What, you don’t like it?’ he joked, wiggling his free-form nose around like the foot of a rubber chicken. ‘It’s not sexy?’

  Mak put her toast down and stared into his eyes. ‘Really.’ She was serious.

  ‘Look, the thought occurred to me, but I didn’t act on it. I knew better than to act on that impulse because it would have been a really, really bad idea. I let justice take its course. Two of the top guys are dead, shot by rival gang members, and another three are in the pen. That’s justice enough.’

  ‘And what if justice hadn’t been done?’ she pressed.

  He took a mouthful and only half chewed it before speaking. ‘Makedde,’ he mumbled, ‘I would be very careful where those thoughts lead you.’

  ‘Who said anything about me? I was asking about you.’

  Pete knew better, and she could tell. While he tucked into a hashbrown the shape of a flattened kidney, Mak cut to the chase. ‘Have you seen Damien Cavanagh around since he got back?’

  ‘We don’t exactly hang in the same crowd,’ was Pete’s reply between chews. A bit of grease slicked his lips.

  ‘I’d never insult you like that, Pete,’ she said, and smiled. ‘But to be serious for a moment, his presence doesn’t go unnoticed round the clubs. He still enjoys slumming it, doesn’t he? The strip joints in the Cross? Surely he hasn’t given that up? And that black Diablo isn’t the kind of car that blends into the background.’

  ‘He’s been hanging round the Cross. He still likes the shows.’

  Strip shows. I knew it. I bloody well knew it.

  ‘And the young girls?’

  ‘A mate of mine used to work Paper Tiger, and according to him Damien doesn’t appear to be hooking up with the known local traders. He’d have new contacts.’ Paper Tiger was the codename for an operation to bring down the organised crime rings that trafficked ‘sex slaves’ into Australia. Most of the women were from poor villages in Asia. Some were underage, like the Thai girl who had died in the Cavanaghs’ house and had been seen with Damien. The Paper Tiger task force had been disbanded in 1995, but as far as Mak knew there were still numerous active investigations. The problem certainly hadn’t gone away, although convictions were tough to secure because the victims were often deported or wouldn’t testify.

  Mak sensed that Pete had more to say on the subject. She waited, and they ate quietly for a while, the restaurant buzzing around them with kids, teenagers and office workers grabbing lunch.

  ‘I think he has a new guy in the Cross. Some promoter.’

  Mak’s eyes widened. ‘Go on.’

  ‘This guy, James Wendt…he’s the son of some famous entertainer, I can’t remember who. Anyway, he and Damien have been spotted together a lot lately, and this guy has a record. He did time overseas.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  Pete shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Thanks, Pete.’ At least she wasn’t the only one who care
d what Damien Cavanagh was up to.

  Mak felt her heart speeding up. She wanted to know everything about this James Wendt, and Damien’s movements. If he was back to his old tricks she might be able to get some evidence this time. Better evidence. Enough to lock him away. She tried not to show too much interest, although Pete could surely guess.

  ‘Be careful, kid,’ was all he said.

  Mak smiled. She looked out the window and watched the stream of pedestrians and traffic bustling on their way.

  ‘Well, look at that,’ Mak said suddenly. ‘That guy. In the hat. Him. I saw him yesterday in St Ives. That is the same guy. I’ve seen him, like, twice in two days.’

  A man was leaning against a telephone pole halfway up the street smoking by himself.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded. ‘St Ives, on the street outside the Murphys’ house. And now. Why is he still standing out there? Why not sit down somewhere?’

  ‘Well, plenty of office workers come out for a fag.’

  ‘Not in baseball caps.’ It was more a feeling than anything else. Of course she could not be certain that it was the same man, but it didn’t feel right to her, him standing there smoking in a baseball cap on George Street while everyone rushed past. He didn’t look like an office worker or one of the local rough types. He didn’t look…right.

  Pete craned his neck until he spotted the man. ‘Mak, what kind of case are you doing, anyway?’ he asked, sounding concerned.

  ‘Just a runaway, I’m pretty sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll get him.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Nothing else? No other cases? You sleeping with any married men at the moment?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said.

  ‘I thought not. Well then, I can’t see why anyone would be tailing you.’

  Try the Cavanaghs.

  ‘They ever catch the guy who tried to rob you last year?’ Pete went on.

  Makedde had arrived home on her motorcycle and had encountered an attacker in the hallway, an apparent burglar, in a balaclava. The man had been huge, and had a knife. Her motorcycle leathers had saved her. He had tried to stab her, but the blade didn’t penetrate her jacket. That was before Mak had run out into the street, sped off on her bike and gone under a truck.

  ‘Burglars don’t normally pursue their victims for blocks in car chases,’ Mak said with certainty.

  ‘Right you are,’ he agreed. ‘Suspicious as hell, that was. And the police didn’t find prints?’

  ‘Not one.’

  Pete crumpled his empty wrappers in his scarred hands, and got rid of their tray. Sitting down again he spoke thoughtfully. ‘The guy out there, he could be a coincidence, or he could be another guy with the same stupid cap. That burglar, though, he was no normal burglar, you’re right about that. Mak, I think you might find yourself a target so long as everyone knows you’re gunning for Damien Cavanagh.’

  Mak opened her mouth to protest, but she couldn’t lie. She thought for a moment. ‘I am gunning for him, Pete. I can’t help it. He’s a monster.’

  ‘I know. You’re probably right there too. Just be careful, okay? If you have to snoop around, be subtle. Watch yourself. Cover your tracks, cover your legal bases, and keep your neck in. Don’t put yourself in danger for anything or anyone, okay? It’s not safe for you. I hope I taught you that much.’

  She nodded. ‘You did. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I would never accuse you of that.’

  She had finished her bottle of water, and she rolled it back and forth across the tabletop, frowning. ‘Can I touch it, Pete?’ she finally asked.

  She could only mean one thing. He smiled, and she leaned over and touched his collapsed nose affectionately. Without cartilage it was just like putty in her hands.

  ‘I should go. I got an insurance case. I’ll have my guy check the database this arvo,’ he said. ‘Maybe your watch and beads will pop up.’

  ‘You’re the best.’ She blew Pete a kiss as she walked out. The man in the cap was gone by the time she stepped onto the footpath.

  Mak arrived unannounced at Marian Wendell’s offices, eager to check Adam Hart’s diary. She’d had an idea.

  ‘How is my Secret Weapon?’ Marian asked. She was bent over her desk and waved Mak in with one hand.

  ‘Now, I don’t want you to get cross with me, but I need to make some marks on Adam Hart’s original diary.’

  Marian looked up. ‘You what?’

  Makedde snatched a pencil out of her purse and held it up. ‘Just with pencil. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try to erase it again.’

  By now Marian was frowning. ‘If what doesn’t work? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Mak assured her. ‘I stayed up all night reading his diaries. Something was happening to him towards the end. I think he wrote about it, and the pages were ripped out for some reason…by someone.’

  ‘A pencil rub?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s worth a try.’

  Marian sighed, and handed her the keys to the filing cabinet. ‘Those diaries could end up as evidence if this kid doesn’t turn up okay.’

  ‘I know. I’ll wear the gloves.’ The cotton evidence gloves were soft and white, like something a gemmologist would use to handle diamonds.

  Makedde hoped that by rubbing pencil lead lightly across the remaining blank page, she might be able to make out some of what had been written on the final pages that had been torn out. It was a pretty unsophisticated trick, but it sometimes worked.

  ‘Let me know if you get anywhere,’ her boss said, and shooed her from her office.

  Mak took the diaries into the waiting room while Marian worked the phones, keeping updated on her agents and their cases.

  ‘Okay, don’t make me look stupid here…’ Mak murmured, opening the last diary to the torn pages and rubbing the first blank page very carefully with the edge of the pencil. Immediately she could see there were a few spots where Adam had pushed his pen hard enough into the page to make an indent, but it hardly made the entire entry legible; rather, the edges of some letters started to appear. By the time she was finished, three strings of letters had emerged.

  THEAT

  JOU

  OVE

  Theat, jou, ove?

  Mak stared at the letters, willing her brain to find the connection.

  CHAPTER 30

  The subterranean Visy Theatre in Brisbane’s Powerhouse descended into a hush.

  The intimate stage was almost bare, waiting. Eyes were fixed upon it. The evening performance was well underway, and the next act would soon emerge. Adam Hart sat grinning in the back row, his heart lifted by a new sense of love and possibility.

  And excitement.

  In seconds, there was a dramatic whirl of colour as a performer strode across the stage in a splendid Victorian costume of deep burgundy and ebony, the coat long, and the shirt finished with a tie of black lace ruffles. Lucien. As he paused and came into focus, the audience could see that he wore dark eyeliner, and on his right eye lines of black flicked up into stripes like painted eyelashes, right to his eyebrow. The man’s face was sharp, but exceedingly handsome, his mouth delicate and small, his eyes large and dark, framed by exquisitely arched brows and dramatic cheekbones. His hair was deep brown and dishevelled, and worn long around the ears, without any of the shiny falseness audiences had begun to associate with Vegas-style magicians, who seemed always to sport too much hairspray and dyed facial hair, almost as if it were a trade requirement. This man brought to mind the golden era of Victorian magic. In no time he had the small Australian audience in the palm of his dexterous hand.

  Lucien the Illusionist.

  Silently, Lucien extended a hand from one of his long cuffs, his palm up and fingers elegantly curled, his fingernails painted black. He beckoned stage left where a burlesque-attired assistant appeared carrying a small silver tray. In fishnets, corset and veil, she was an alluring cabaret throwback. Gracefully, she produced from the tray a small, flat object. The magician gripped it
carefully between his painted fingers, and walked a dramatic arc along the footlights, holding it up. It was a razor blade, and it glimmered dangerously in the lights. To demonstrate the blade’s lethal authenticity, Lucien beckoned again to his glamorously dressed assistant, who pulled a handkerchief from the top of her corset. She held it in front of her with both hands, pulling it taut. With one swift swipe, the illusionist sliced through it with the blade, leaving it in two pieces. Satisfied that he had proved his point, he stood centre-stage and placed the blade on his tongue.

  And swallowed it.

  The audience winced and gasped.

  Adam Hart did not wince. He had seen this act several times already, and he now sat watching carefully, a man enchanted and awed.

  As if eating the razor blade wasn’t enough, the assistant now held out the plate again, placing one delicate hand on her rounded hip, as if to dare the magician to take another. He picked a second razor blade from the plate and placed it on his pink tongue. So convincing was the illusion that Adam actually tasted faint metal in the back of his throat as he continued to watch for the magician’s deceit. You simply could not swallow razor blades and expect to live. Adam knew that. Still, the effect was captivating, and unsettling. He racked his brain for how it could be done. He knew something of the technique, but only from books.

  Onstage, the illusionist swallowed, uncomfortably it seemed. He coughed. In minutes he swallowed four more razor blades in the same fashion, stopping halfway to again prove their lethal edge by slicing a dramatic ‘X’ through a paper scroll. When next his burlesque-attired assistant returned she removed her necklace. She handed it to the magician, who held it up to examine it under the lights.

  Incredibly, he ate it.

  Lucien took a sip of water, gargled, and with a series of motions of his mouth and throat, one hand on his stomach, he reached into his mouth and—voilà!—as he opened his mouth wide, he grasped the end of the necklace. There was a razor blade dangling from it, then another, then another, all evenly placed. The string of blades came out of his mouth with surprising elegance.