Siren

by Tara Moss

  Oh, come on.

  Her confidence waned with every passing blast of exhaust. She thought about walking back to the apartment and phoning for a taxi. She had thought this way would be quicker.

  ‘Oi!’

  A sedan pulled up in front of her. It was not Bogey’s car. The window rolled down slowly, and a waft of cool air-conditioning drifted out.

  ‘Get in,’ a man said softly. ‘I’ll drive you.’

  Cars began honking. The driver was blocking traffic.

  ‘Mak. It’s me,’ the man said, a little more forcefully. ‘Get in.’

  She took a deep breath and ran a hand across her face. Another gust of wind blew against her, tangling her hair. He pushed the door open for her. Mak gripped her keys in her hand, steadied herself for whatever was to come, got in and slammed the door shut behind her. How else would she find out what this was all about?

  ‘My name is Ben, by the way,’ the man said, driving on.

  It was the man from the Metro; the guy with the mean mouth. ‘Hello, Ben. Have you been hanging round here all night waiting for me to come out?’ Makedde asked with faux civility, her arms crossed.

  ‘Not quite, but close enough,’ he admitted and turned a corner.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ she asked him, deadpan.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Airport.’

  He looked at her bag. ‘Back to Canada?’

  ‘No. So, this is part of your standard stalking service, is it?’ she said. He didn’t answer. ‘Driving the target to the airport? You know, Ben—if that is your real name—I thought you were an undercover cop when I first saw you at the Metro. You didn’t exactly blend in. But I was wrong. You’re a private investigator, like me. Aren’t you?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Have you been hired by Damien, or Jack?’

  ‘Neither.’

  Of course you’d deny it, because you’re working for rich arseholes who don’t think anything of killing people, and that doesn’t sound so good. ‘I’m not convinced you’ve been doing surveillance for long, Ben. I made you at St Ives. Same car, and wearing a baseball cap. And then there was the McDonald’s on George Street, wearing that same stupid baseball cap that you were wise to ditch. Much better without it, Ben, if I may say. And you should really quit smoking, by the way.’ She unfolded her arms. ‘Then there you were last night, in an ill-fitting blue cop suit on a dance floor with a bunch of tattooed goths, blending in like…well, like my redhead friend would in an office. So tell me, where did I miss you?’ she challenged.

  He just continued to smile, and she squinted at the road ahead.

  ‘You’re lucky I’m too tired to feel angry,’ she told him. In fact, some part of her found the situation strangely amusing. She wanted to know who he worked for and what they hoped to gain by so obviously tailing her. And why he was so bloody bad at tailing her. A tail shouldn’t get made.

  ‘They told me you would be a handful. Look, I’m really not such an arsehole,’ he said, seeming pleased with himself.

  ‘Really? Are you it, or do they have a team following me?’ she asked, hostile now, watching his face carefully. A flash went through her mind. This guy driving her through the gates at Darling Point into the Cavanagh house to meet his boss. Now that would be a interesting conversation.

  ‘I told you, I’m not the arsehole you think I am.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I’m doing you a favour.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Someone you know needs to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Really? Who?’ she asked, infuriated.

  He had only driven two blocks and he pulled the car over. Mak saw a flash of red in the side mirror. Her jaw hung open. Andy?

  Andy’s red car was pulling to the side of the road. Mak sighed and recrossed her arms.

  For Christsake!

  She got out of the car, and walked along the kerb to Andy’s vehicle. The other car drove away. Her ex-boyfriend sat in the driver’s seat with the window down. ‘I got here as soon as I could. I really needed to see you. Please get in. You haven’t been taking my calls.’ He sounded breathless.

  She stood next to his car as if paralysed. Fresh conflict ran through her.

  ‘Did you get my flowers?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said. They mean nothing. Our relationship meant something, but not flowers, which you never used to give me.

  ‘Mak, I really need to speak to you.’

  ‘So you ambush me?’ She shivered. This was stalker behaviour. ‘I have somewhere I have to be.’ Taxis were flying past on the street now. She needed to get into one.

  ‘Just give me two minutes,’ Andy pleaded. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  Not what I think?

  ‘Fine.’ Mak sat herself in the passenger seat, overnight bag on her lap, distinctly unimpressed. ‘This better be good.’

  Andy looked at her with concern. ‘Look, I love you. But that isn’t what this is about.’

  Will everyone please stop talking in riddles?

  ‘You have to stop tailing the Cavanaghs. You’re getting in the way,’ Andy said solemnly. ‘There’s a Federal investigation going on. Damien and his father are both under surveillance.’

  The whole world seemed to come to a halt. ‘Holy shit.’ Mak was shocked. My god…

  ‘Exactly. You need to pull back.’

  ‘So something is finally being done?’

  ‘Just stop getting yourself involved. You are either going to get yourself more tangled up in this thing than you already are, or you’re going to blow it for them. Either way, it’s not safe for you.’

  Mak shook her head. I can’t believe it. ‘Is it about the girl?’ The ‘Dumpster Girl’, as the cops called her. The underage trafficked prostitute Damien was seen with. She had not received justice for what Damien had done to her.

  ‘It’s broader than that. Organised crime. Something international.’

  Mak put her hands over her eyes. ‘I’m really tired,’ she said, defeated. She had no anger for him. She had no fight in her. She just wanted peace.

  Andy moved close to her and hugged her as she sat stiffly, remembering the taste of Bogey on her tongue. And then the tears came. They rolled down her cheeks freely, without warning. Andy held her in her wordless grief, her head leaning into his chest, her tears casting off into his shirt like warm drops of rain.

  ‘I’m glad I got to see you. I hope your case goes well,’ Andy told her softly. ‘You really did do a great job with the Cavanaghs. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that. Not even Jimmy knows. It’s highly confidential.’

  ‘Jesus, Andy.’ She was exhausted. She looked at her watch. ‘I have to go,’ she said in a whisper. She was aware of his closeness, their intimacy. It was somehow comforting. ‘Thanks for letting me know. Just…with the flowers and stuff, give me a break, okay? Things got really bad between us. I can’t…can’t deal with that sort of thing right now. Okay?’ She gathered herself and stepped out of his car.‘Bye, Andy,’ she said.

  The wind grabbed the door and slammed it harder than she had intended.

  Shaking, Mak hailed the first vacant cab that approached.

  CHAPTER 34

  ‘No excuses. There aren’t any. I don’t deserve any. I’m not worthy of forgiveness. If only you knew how much I’ve cried…’

  Adam Hart felt queasy as he read the lines nervously to his reflection in the mirror of a cramped toilet cubicle. He tried to get the hesitation and emotion just right. A tingle of excitement electrified him at the thought of what he was about to do. He would soon be performing on a stage. Paris! He would begin with some acting parts, and work on his magic routine. Perhaps he could even work with Lucien onstage? As a double act?

  ‘When you said “I’m leaving you” I thought I’d go insane—it was my entire life. I lost my head. People can become ferocious when they’re—’ he said, then mouthed Jeanne’s lines, ‘I’m going to punish
you.’

  He had finally been accepted into the troupe. He was in.

  I can do this.

  This was to be the finest time of his life, if one of the scariest. The most romantic, exciting adventure he had ever embarked upon. He was doing it. He was on his way. You are nineteen. A man. A real man. He liked the idea of being a real man. He felt he’d been held back until now, but nothing would hold him back any more. His dad was dead and his mum couldn’t tell him what to do.

  He was free.

  There was a noise outside the bathroom cubicle, someone impatiently knocking on the door.

  ‘Are you okay?’ came an unfamiliar voice.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said, disappointed.

  Adam was going to be an actor, and he was nervous about his debut. He had been practising in front of every available mirror since Bijou gave him the part. He had read it for her, and aced it. She had given it to him, just like that! ‘Magnifique, mon amour…’ He would be a star! And almost as exciting, Bijou had told him that the contortionist, Arslan, had suggested the part for him. He was finally being accepted. A miracle. He would not let them down. Adam planned to study the lines for the rest of the flight, albeit silently.

  Once he touched down, he would have less than seventy-two hours to prepare for his acting debut on Sunday night in a new twist on the classic Grand Guignol short play—The Final Kiss.

  CHAPTER 35

  Makedde Vanderwall was loose on the streets of downtown Brisbane, armed with a map.

  She felt she nearly had Adam. She would begin with the pawnshop and then try to determine his whereabouts.

  What exactly are you up to, Adam? Did someone harm you? Charm you? Or are you just so desperate to get away from home that you’ve stolen your mum’s jewellery and pawned your grandad’s irreplaceable watch?

  Behind her professional drive, she was still troubled by her run-in with Andy. Her tears had disturbed her. There was emotional attachment there, even if it was the kind of emotion that caused them frustration and fights, rather than closeness and harmony. Some people, though bonded, seemed destined to never quite make it.

  An international investigation?

  She imagined herself on the radar of the Feds who were following Damien Cavanagh. She felt a fool. But at least something was being done.

  Mak pushed open the door of Rick’s Pawn Shop, to the sound of a tinkling bell. The shop was filled with glass cases bursting with trinkets and gold chains, watches and clock radios. A depressing number of gold wedding rings were up for sale. Mak noticed an old-fashioned surveillance camera trained on the entrance, and another on the spot where a customer would stand at the counter.

  A hirsute, heavy-set man appeared through a doorway screened by a curtain of rainbow streamers. She had not seen one of those since she was a kid.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Makedde. And you are…?’ Rick?

  ‘Phil.’

  ‘Phil, I appreciate your time. There is a stop order on a watch you have here. A gold watch with an engraving saying Jill & John, Amor Vincit Omnia.’

  ‘Yeah. What’s that mean, Amor Vincit Omnia?’

  ‘Love conquers all,’ she told him. ‘It’s Latin. Can I have a look at it, please?’

  ‘You the cops?’

  Mak passed him a business card. ‘I’m a private investigator, working for the owner of the watch.’

  He disappeared and returned with a gold watch.

  ‘Look, I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he explained nervously.

  ‘I know that.’ She held her hand out and he gave her the watch. It felt heavy in her palm. She flipped it over and read the inscription. It was the one.

  ‘The young man who brought the watch in, he identified himself as Adam Hart?’

  ‘Yeah. The kid had a passport. I didn’t do anything wrong,’ the man repeated nervously.

  Mak smiled.

  ‘This is my brother’s shop…’ he continued.

  She caught his eye and flashed him a pretty smile. She had obviously been too forceful, too direct. She leaned against the counter casually. ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘You like working here, Phil? Is it fun?’

  ‘Fun?’ he repeated, his eyes wandering a bit. ‘Not fun, really.’

  ‘Oh. Do you remember much about the guy who brought the watch in? What he looked like?’

  ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘But he was a good-looking kid. Tall. Blond hair. Didn’t look like most of the customers here. Clean-cut kind of kid, you know.’

  That’s our boy. There was no need to check the security tapes. Mrs Hart would be pleased to know that her son was indeed alive and well, if a thief. Unless he was under duress from someone else…

  ‘You have a great memory, Phil. That’s a good description. Very accurate.’ She leaned closer and smiled. ‘Did he bring anything else in? Some pearls?’

  Phil shook his head. ‘Nuh.’

  ‘And what happened when he came in?’

  ‘I gave him some cash. Hey, if I can’t sell this thing my brother says we have to get our money back.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five hundred.’

  She forked over the cash and he handed her the watch. Incredible. He had just sold it to her and it had a stop order on it. He obviously didn’t know the difference between cops and private investigators.

  ‘Thanks, Phil. You’ve been really helpful. Do you remember, when the boy came in, was he with anyone?’

  ‘No. Alone. But there was someone outside, smoking a cig. At the café, right over there.’ He pointed across the road. ‘I knew they was together because he joined her for a drink.’

  ‘What did she look like?’ Mak asked, feeling a rush of excitement. This guy had been paying attention. Perhaps there was not much else to do when business was slow.

  ‘Like a movie star,’ he gushed. ‘Kinda like you.’ He added this as an afterthought. It didn’t sound like a sincere compliment.

  ‘He was with a woman? Do you mean she looked like me?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Dark hair. But yeah, she was a looker. She didn’t look like she was from around here,’ Phil said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I dunno,’ he said. Mak waited patiently while he searched for a reason. ‘Like she ain’t a local.’

  Mak had to ask. ‘Was she white?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But she didn’t look like she was from around here. How is that, exactly? Was it the way she dressed?’

  ‘I guess that was it. She was dressed real elegant. Like a movie star.’

  ‘Was she short, tall? Younger, older?’

  ‘I dunno. Just like…a movie star. Yeah, she had great legs. Heels. Everything.’

  A brunette with great legs. That was something. She wouldn’t get any better description out of him, and Adam’s mysterious companion had not entered the shop, so the tapes wouldn’t help.

  ‘Thanks, Phil. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Mak walked out with Mrs Hart’s missing gold watch in her hand. $500 was nothing. Glenise would be happy to see it back. Now all Mak needed was the boy.

  She felt confident, on the scent. The café across the road was an upmarket place, with an interesting, well-planned menu. Mak took a seat and ordered a coffee.

  Well, isn’t that something? she thought.

  There was a large sign across the road announcing the shows currently playing at the Powerhouse Theatre. Along with a famous comedy act, it seemed a vaudeville-style troupe was in town—

  LE THÉTRE DES HORREURS.

  Sydney, and now Brisbane.

  He had run off with a brunette with great legs. A dancer, perhaps. Brilliant, Adam. Just brilliant. And he had pawned the watch right across from the theatre. What a boy. Wherever the woman with the great legs was, Adam would be close, Mak felt sure.

  She sipped her expensive coffee and smiled to herself.

  Bingo.

  It was four o’clock when Makedde strolled across the foy
er of the Brisbane Powerhouse Theatre, keeping her eye out for anyone of Adam’s description. It was quiet at this time of day, still hours before the evening performances. She stepped inside the air-conditioned building and stopped beneath a graffiti drawing of a staggeringly oversized mosquito. She looked it up and down, not quite able to admire its artistry. Mosquitos had declared war on Makedde Vanderwall back when she was a young model in Hamburg. She had woken to find herself covered in bites—on her right arm, shoulder and side of her face, including some inside her ear, the side which had been exposed while she slept. Needless to say, that had not been one of her more fruitful modelling trips. Mosquitos had been her sworn enemies since, so this piece of art was not hitting the right notes for her.

  A pamphlet told her the theatre had been built in 1902 as a power station, and its exposed brick and concrete refurbishment reminded Mak of some of the places she’d frequented in Berlin. She passed a bar illuminated by dangling exposed light bulbs, and a restaurant with an open kitchen, chefs already fussing over plumes of steam. A few patrons had gathered, sipping coffee and champagne. She scanned the sparse crowd for Adam Hart. What a simple case it would be if he just wandered past! It was a stroke of luck that his grandfather’s watch had shown up so quickly on the register. Were the still-missing pearls around the neck of his new lover, perhaps?

  Mak walked up to the box office, far from the threat of the graffiti mosquito. A woman of about twenty was behind the counter.

  ‘Hello,’ Mak said, and smiled. ‘I’d like a ticket for Le Théâtre des Horreurs. For tonight please.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You must have your dates mixed up. They were on last night.’

  Mak frowned. ‘I saw the sign…’ She looked out the front windows of the building and saw the sign being changed. Oh, come on!

  ‘It was one night only. Can I interest you in Tim Minchin, perhaps? He’s playing the larger theatre here, and there are a couple of seats left.’

  ‘No. Um, can you tell me…where are they playing next?’

  ‘I don’t know, sorry,’ the young woman said, and Mak, quite unfairly, wanted to slap her.

  ‘Can you check? I mean, is there any reference to any other shows on their schedule?’