Tropic of Death

by Robert Sims

  ‘I have?’ Rita had a flashback to when she was a teenager in the principal’s office at grammar school. Audrey seemed to possess the daunting aura of a headmistress. ‘Then what’s this about?’

  ‘There are two items I want to check: one official, one unofficial.’

  ‘I can feel a headache coming on. Can we start with the official?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Audrey. ‘As system controller, the human resources files fall within my responsibility and there’s a discrepancy in your security rating.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re registered as an associate officer of the Whitley Sands Security Force with an approved level-one clearance. You’re also confirmed as a police delegate to the Whitley Sands Security Review, again with a level-one clearance.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘You were present in a control room on level five.’ Audrey gave her a probing look. ‘In addition, the project coordinator told me you had a level-five clearance. I’ve examined the updated profiles and you have no such listing. I’d like an explanation.’

  ‘Can I speak frankly?’

  ‘Surely that’s your only option.’

  ‘Fine,’ Rita replied. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Paul Giles lied to you.

  He all but hijacked me to level five because of his personal concerns.

  If rules were broken, I suggest you take it up with him.’

  ‘Don’t doubt that I will.’

  ‘Have you told Maddox?’

  ‘I’m conducting this check under the data integrity protocols.

  It doesn’t require an alert to the security director.’

  ‘So what’s the point of this?’

  ‘Because the information in the system is sensitive there are strict directives to maintain the integrity of the data.’

  ‘And that’s one of your chores?’ asked Rita.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So what’s the unofficial item?’

  ‘Professor Byron Huxley.’

  ‘Byron?’ Rita wasn’t expecting this. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you have a relationship with him?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do,’ she answered, taken aback by Audrey’s directness. ‘When you say this is unofficial, do you mean it’s personal?’

  ‘You could put it that way,’ agreed Audrey. ‘He and I share some personal history from our time together at Cambridge. He was an inspired student with a mind that moved beyond the usual parameters. I found him intellectually stimulating and genuinely affectionate.’

  ‘Did you now? So what went wrong?’

  ‘Unfortunately, we weren’t emotionally compatible.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Rita coolly. ‘But why are we discussing him?’

  ‘There’s a question mark still outstanding over his rejection of an offer to do breakthrough research in his field at Whitley Sands for an extremely high salary,’ Audrey explained. ‘He turned down the offer and gave no reason. Perhaps you can enlighten me.’

  Rita thought she detected a note of regret in the remark, even a touch of pathos. Maybe Audrey was human after all, with the true feelings of a woman carefully concealed behind a mask.

  ‘It wasn’t because of you,’ Rita said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking. It was the oppressive regime that didn’t appeal to him.

  If you understand Byron at all, you’ll realise he needs his independence.’

  Audrey paused, as if considering this, then said, ‘That’s true.’

  ‘While we’re on the subject of personal history,’ Rita continued,

  ‘what is your current relationship with Paul Giles?’

  ‘Professional.’

  ‘And that’s all? What about the emotional side?’

  ‘From my point of view,’ answered Audrey, ‘it’s nonexistent.’

  ‘That sounds harsh.’

  ‘It’s simply a fact.’ Audrey’s eyes seemed to be staring directly into Rita’s as she went on. ‘My focus is on the science of intelligence and pushing the boundaries of research. For the past year I’ve left all individual relationships behind.’

  For some reason, the statement made Rita shiver. ‘With all due respect, that seems inhuman, Audrey.’

  ‘On the contrary, I have the entire spectrum of humanity within my reach. Humani nihil a me alienum puto. ‘

  ‘Sorry, my Latin is basic.’

  ‘Nothing human is alien to me.’

  ‘Very objective,’ said Rita. ‘I take it that’s because you have the Omniscient Tracker at your disposal.’

  ‘The name’s a nod to Jeremy Bentham.’

  ‘With a wink to George Orwell. Playing God with technology leaves a bad taste.’

  ‘Which do you find distasteful?’ asked Audrey. ‘The technology or God?’

  ‘I have no doubts about the power of technology.’

  ‘But you don’t believe in God?’

  ‘Whose version of God?’

  ‘Everyone’s,’ Audrey answered. ‘The force that holds the universe intact.’

  ‘Omniscient or not,’ Rita persisted, ‘you must be lonely if you’ve cut out all relationships. How can you function without emotional support? Don’t you feel the need of love in your life?’

  ‘What is falling in love but brain chemistry - adrenalin and dopamine forming vivid snapshot memories that stick in the mind and won’t go away. I’m not lonely in the way you think.’ Audrey gave a cryptic smile. ‘We must resume this debate when we next speak. Goodbye for now. I hope you enjoy your holiday.’

  With that the face flickered and dissolved from the screen, leaving Rita with an odd sense of numbness, as though she’d been speaking to an emotional vacuum or been touched by almost sublime coldness. There was something frightening about the woman. Byron had had a lucky escape.

  Rita freshened up with a shower, did her hair and applied her make-up, before wriggling into her slinky red halter-neck. A pair of high heels and she was ready for action. But first she needed to touch base with Sutcliffe. She picked up her mobile and punched in his number.

  ‘I’m about to go to the wedding,’ she said. ‘Anything I need to know?’

  ‘Yeah, Billy’s mobile is switched off,’ he told her. ‘Not even his lawyers have been able to contact him.’

  ‘Why would they need to?’

  ‘They’ve got the jitters. The search warrants have given us free rein to go through his business accounts and they haven’t been able to tell him. We’re even putting his links with the council under the microscope. The mayor’s well and truly pissed off.’

  ‘What about evidence?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘We’re still conducting formal interviews.

  It’s obvious he’s got motive for killing Rachel Macarthur and the Times reporter but he’s also got alibis provided by his staff. That pisses me off. I need to be able to put some real pressure on him.

  So, like I said, keep an eye on him, watch who he talks to and listen out for any hint of funding from the proceeds of crime.’

  ‘And if we get into a stand-off ?’

  ‘Like you said - rattle his cage. Tell him he’s got a taskforce on his arse. Tell him Whitley Council doesn’t want to know him anymore.’ Sutcliffe gave a brief grunt. ‘On the other hand, don’t put yourself in harm’s way. This guy’s a maniac of one sort or another. There are a couple of uniforms on the island and I’m getting them to position themselves outside the villa gates. If things go pear-shaped, call them in as backup. Don’t hesitate.’

  ‘Okay. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t drink too much bubbly.’

  Rita observed the wedding from a seat at the back. The venue was the internal courtyard of Vic Barrano’s villa, a two-storey mansion with marble pillars, a driveway curving through an avenue of palm trees and a view overlooking the waters of Catseye Bay. Men in dark glasses and black suits patrolled the grounds and manned the gates. Rita was on the guest list as an editorial assistant to Lola, but sh
e had to show some ID - her driving licence - before they let her in.

  The nuptials were being conducted by a celebrity priest in front of several hundred guests. Both the bride and groom wore shades of white - Cara Grayle a picture of fragile beauty in an ivory gown, Barrano looking deceptively refined in a cream tuxedo.

  The theme continued around the courtyard with white ribbons, ornamental wedding bells and vases of Madonna lilies.

  A reading from St Paul’s epistle on love was delivered with passion by an actor from a TV soap and, during the signing of the wedding register, a pop diva performed an aria by Puccini, provoking a burst of spontaneous applause. A pair of cameramen filmed the proceedings from different angles, while the magazine shots were taken by Lola’s lover, American photographer Morgan Lee. She wasn’t quite what Rita had expected. Wearing a pale linen suit, she was slim with a taut, sculpted face, strong cheekbones and cropped hair. Not masculine in her appearance, but not feminine either. She worked at a brisk, no-nonsense pace.

  The wedding guests were a glitzy mix. Women with plunging necklines, exposed midriffs and bare thighs were there in force, mostly in the company of hard-faced men with open shirts and gold chains. Billy Bowers was among them, along with a couple of dozen recognisable heavies from the Melbourne underworld. But Rita didn’t recognise the young woman standing with Billy. She was petite with black hair, dark eyes, a pouting face and stunning figure. Maybe she was a model, like the bride and bridesmaids.

  As well as guests from the fashion industry, there was a sprinkling of personalities from sport and showbiz.

  At the end of the ceremony, the newly married couple walked from the courtyard under a hail of white rose petals to be whisked away in a Rolls-Royce convertible for sunset photos on the beach.

  Their guests were ushered to the back of the villa where a huge marquee had been erected. Two gold cupids, wings fluttering, held a pair of entwined hearts at the top of a bridal arch at the entrance.

  The marquee was about the size of a circus tent, extending beyond the reception tables, dance floor and stage to include the villa’s cascade of pools and poolside decking. The motif here was different from that in the courtyard. Ivy-clad Roman columns, gold satyrs and statues of naked nymphs were dispersed around the interior, where champagne was being served by club hostesses clad in flimsy togas.

  Rita was still taking it in when Lola appeared beside her in a figure-hugging dress, face flushed and two flutes of Bollinger in her hands.

  ‘This is where the fun begins,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rita, accepting a glass. ‘And I can see where it’s leading.’

  ‘I told you - a wild night is guaranteed. Cheers!’

  ‘Here’s to wedded bliss! And after the Christian vows: a pagan reception.’ Rita raised her glass and drank. ‘It looks like Barrano’s borrowed the props from one of his pole-dancing clubs.’

  ‘And I know which one: Satyricon.’

  ‘Lola! Don’t tell me you’re a patron.’

  ‘Of course not! I was there for the magazine - a fashion week party. Designer swimwear and expensive booze.’

  Champagne flowed freely, night fell quickly and Roman torches were lit, casting a primitive glow around the marquee as the guests were shown to their tables. Lola’s was on the fringe of the celebration. It suited Rita, allowing her to watch Bowers from a distance without being observed.

  ‘Exactly which crooks are you clocking?’ Lola asked as they sat down.

  ‘Better for you not to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s police business.’

  ‘And you don’t trust me to be discreet.’

  ‘You’re about as discreet as a megaphone but that’s not the point. If, by chance, things get ugly, you can plead ignorance.’

  ‘Ah, good point. Mustn’t spoil my night of abandon.’

  ‘Abandon? Isn’t your girlfriend joining us?’

  ‘Morgan hates this sort of thing,’ said Lola. ‘In her own way she’s a puritan. Anyway, she’ll be busy processing the wedding pics then it’s an early night for her. She’s got to be up at dawn for the shoot on Whitehaven.’

  By the time the bride and groom made their entrance and settled at the top table, the mood was becoming raucous. People were already drunk, sensing an unruly night ahead. The customary restraints of a wedding reception didn’t seem to apply.

  ‘What do you make of Barrano?’ asked Rita.

  ‘For a club owner, more polished than you’d expect.’

  ‘And his bride?’

  ‘Not in the supermodel league, but smart enough to hook a man who can give her anything she wants.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘She wants to be a movie star, darling.’

  ‘And who’s the little stunner with Billy Bowers? Another model?’

  ‘A wannabe model,’ corrected Lola. ‘Maria Monotti - Sicilian firebrand. A handful even for a heavyweight boxer.’

  ‘Well, well - a girl from the Monotti family.’

  ‘Yes, the fruit and vegetable wholesalers.’

  ‘And wholesale drug suppliers.’

  The formalities came and went, the wedding feast lubricated with vintage wine and the family speeches fuelled by high-octane grappa. After that, music was provided by a ten-piece Latin band. While some people danced, others changed into swimming costumes and took to the pools, the raw flames of the torches reflected in the water as they splashed around. The party was getting lively.

  Rita had switched to iced water to stay clear-headed while she did some snooping around.

  ‘Time for me to start circulating,’ she said.

  ‘Me too,’ said Lola. ‘And I’ve spotted my hunk for the night.

  His name’s Lachlan and he’s a model.’

  ‘A male model?’

  ‘Don’t think in stereotypes - he’s straight. I’ve got it on good authority he’s got balls on his balls. I’m going to offer him a picture spread.’

  ‘What does he have to spread to get it?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. Catch up later.’

  Lola surged off among the tables, guests and statuary, her quarry in her sights. Rita watched her go then got up and moved closer to Billy’s table, keeping in the background. When Billy’s girlfriend left the marquee with another woman, Rita followed them. The pair headed into the villa, past the tinkling water of an indoor fountain and across the courtyard. The site of the wedding ceremony had been cleared of rose petals and the seating packed away. Catering staff moved back and forth. At the far end a man in a black suit stood smoking. Beside the fountain were two signs pointing right and left - one for men, one for women.

  Maria Monotti and her friend followed the arrow to the left. It led to a palatial bathroom. About a dozen women were already there, chatting distractedly, applying cosmetics, dabbing at their noses. Rita joined them, pretending to busy herself with lipstick while she took in the scene.

  It served as a powder room in more ways than one. There were baroque-style chandeliers, gold taps, gold soap dishes, white marble tubs and large mirrors with ornate gold-leaf frames. But the room was also furnished with something much more customised - a self-service trolley, laid out with small silver spoons and a silver platter heaped with cocaine. The drug was on offer like a complimentary treat, to be sampled by whoever wanted it. To Rita the display was blatant, but not to the other women in the room.

  They treated it as commonplace, helping themselves as casually as if they were having after-dinner mints.

  Rita made a point of taking no notice, appearing to concentrate on the mirror while tuning in to Billy’s girlfriend’s conversation.

  ‘I need more concealer,’ said Maria.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked her friend.

  ‘Aches a bit. And they’re still swollen.’

  ‘Not much of a present to bring to a wedding.’

  Maria shook her head as she peered at her reflection. ‘If he hits me like that again I’ll stick a knife in
his ribs.’

  Rita glanced sideways and saw that Maria Monotti was sporting two black eyes. She was using make-up to hide the bruising.

  ‘It was the bloody stag night on the boat,’ said the friend.

  ‘They all went troppo.’

  ‘No, it’s something else. He’s in a shit mood. Says he’s under stress.’

  ‘Are you going back to Whitley with him?’

  ‘No fucking way. I’m staying here.’

  When they were finished with the cosmetics they went to the trolley, snorted cocaine and checked their noses in the mirror.

  ‘That helps,’ said Maria. ‘At least Billy’s good for one thing.’

  As they walked off, Rita considered what she’d just heard. The implication was that Bowers had supplied the party cocaine. She put away her lipstick, left the bathroom and crossed the courtyard, sidling up to the men’s room on the other side. It too had a steady stream of visitors. Through the open doorway she could see male guests bending over another trolley. More white powder on offer.

  It was obvious she had to call it in.

  Rita walked from the courtyard and stood beside the fountain, got out her mobile and called the two uniformed officers posted at the villa gates. She alerted them to the presence of the drug and told them to stand by, saying she’d call back in half an hour after she’d checked out the rest of the villa.

  This time she took a side entrance off the terrace. It led through a sunroom and past a kitchen, busy with caterers cleaning up, and along a wide hallway with a lounge and games room off to either side. More of Barrano’s men in suits were brandishing cues around a pool table. Another stood, arms folded, outside the closed door of a corner room, presumably Barrano’s private study. Rita smiled at the bodyguard as she breezed past. He didn’t smile back.

  The sound of voices came from rooms above, so she climbed the curving sweep of stairs as if to join them. Bedrooms with ensuites led off the landing, some with doors closed and noises within, interspersed with laughter. Further along, a balcony with a balustrade overlooked the courtyard. On the other side of the villa were more bedrooms. Rita went back down to the ground floor and out to the terrace from where she phoned Sutcliffe.

  ‘There’s so much coke here,’ she told him, ‘it’s like the snow season on Mount Buller.’