by Berry, Tony
Washed Up
Tony Berry
© Tony Berry 2016
Tony Berry has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2016.
Author Note
Richmond is a real place. It is an inner suburb of Melbourne which is regularly nominated in international surveys as the world’s most liveable city, although many of its less privileged inhabitants hold a vehemently different view. Richmond’s town hall also exists. And so do many of the streets along which our heroes and villains travel. All else, apart from some historical background, is fiction and bears no resemblance to any known person living or dead.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
ONE
The first police on the scene made a cursory examination of Melissa O’Grady’s drenched body and took an unfounded leap to an on-the-spot verdict of suicide.
Two plastic bags were entwined in her long blonde hair. Her face was streaked in mud and weedy fronds, her once caramel skin grey and puffy. A sodden tennis ball was lodged in one armpit. The river’s current had pushed the folds of her silky calf-length dress up her long slim legs, revealing her skimpy underwear.
A weary-looking young constable stood on the river bank, arms folded, leaning back against the patrol car.
‘Another floater,’ he observed, nodding in the direction of the blanket-covered mound a couple of metres from his feet. ‘Doesn’t look like a sex job.’
‘Probably a jumper,’ added his slightly older colleague, set firm in the same folded-arms pose. ‘Off one of the bridges upstream. She’s not the first to take a dive around here.’
Their hands were still encased in the misty blue rubber gloves they had donned to lift the girl’s body from where it had been snared in a litter trap on a bend of the river, three strokes of an oar from a storm-water outfall.
To those who knew no better, Melissa O’Grady was just another dumb blonde. They grudgingly accepted she was first in line when good looks were being handed out but bitchily alleged she would have been well down the queue for common sense. To her friends, however, it was a different story; she was drop-dead gorgeous and one of the sharpest cards in the pack.
But all her stunning looks counted for nothing now that she had been found two days dead with her blonde tresses soaked and matted and her legs exposed to the top of her suntanned thighs.
The younger policeman broke the early morning silence.
‘Poor kid. No one deserves to end up like that. Looks like she could have come from a good home.’
‘Makes no difference, mate. They’re often the ones who suffer the worst.’
‘Yeah, but … washed up like that without any ID. We can’t even give her a name.’
A thin, scrawny man, shivering in a singlet and running shorts and clutching a mobile phone plugged into his ears, shuffled into their line of sight: ‘Do you need me anymore? I’m bloody freezing.’
The policemen pushed forward off the car, slowly and in unison, reluctantly acknowledging the man’s presence.
‘No, mate. That’s it,’ said the older of the two. ‘You made the call. We’ve got your details. Push off and get warm. We’ve got to wait for the wetsuit brigade.’
The man sprinted off along the narrow track between river and trees. The younger policeman pointed after him.
‘Funny, it’s always the joggers that find them.’
‘Yeah,’ said the other. ‘Joggers and dog-walkers. Early birds catching worms.’
He opened the patrol wagon’s rear door.
‘Better get the tape out. Start sealing this place off.’
An hour later, the search-and-rescue squad finished a perfunctory forage along the riverbank and uncovered Melissa O’Grady for a brief inspection by the coroner and forensic police before she was zipped into a body bag and driven to the morgue.
No one cast a glance towards the opposite bank where a scrawny little man was stuffing a pair of binoculars into his backpack. The man took a swig from a water bottle, unfolded a white cane, donned a pair of dark glasses and crept carefully up through the bushes away from the river to the road above. He’d seen all he needed to see.
TWO
Bromo Perkins had a dilemma: if he kept walking he would have to go without his morning fix. He had reached the bridge marking the end of the two-kilometre strip of shops and offices. A few more paces and he would be in the parkland bordering the river. There were no coffee shops there. It was time to turn back, to forsake exercise for caffeine.
He glanced over the bridge parapet and recalled the last time he’d been down this way. There had been a flurry of activity on the river banks below – cops, ambos, police tape, a shrouded body on a stretcher, suits with clipboards, the flash of a photographer’s camera. It had been yet another “incident” that rated no more than a paragraph in that week’s Leader and never made it into the dailies or the TV news.
He did an about-turn. Another problem faced him: too many cafés, too much choice. Ten years ago, along this same street, he’d struggled to find a place to get a cup of instant in a cardboard takeaway cup. Now it was wall-to-wall baristas churning out macchiatos, espressos, cappuccinos and short blacks as well as a horrendous range of soy milk, skinny milk, decaf, flavoured and babychino concoctions that he considered a gross insult to the noble bean.
He decided Flounce looked good – a long and narrow café with a timber floor and exposed brick walls untouched by trendy architects. A bar ran most of the length of the room. It divided customers on high stools from a scurry of staff working at coffee machines, grillers, toasters and juicers.
Bromo caught the eye of a tall, lanky youth with braided hair streaked in tones of red, green and black.
‘Coffee, please, and a slice of raisin toast.’
The youth’s face showed no expression as he continued smearing margarine over a slice of wholemeal bread while he considered this intrusion into his workflow. Eventually he responded, grudgingly: ‘How d’you want it?’
‘Strong, long and black – like my women,’ said Bromo.
It was far from true but it made a good stock reply. He liked to think its political incorrectness fixed his order in the minds of staff still dazed from a too-early start to their day. He selected a newspaper from a pile on a bench near the door and moved into a seat at a table in the corner where the side wall met the front window. Everyone was in view – customers, staff and passers-by – an arrangement that gave him comfort as it left little room for surprise. Old habits die hard. He had been trained too well.
No sooner had Bromo spread the newspaper over the table-top than the waiter appeared with his order. His foot tapped out an impatient beat as he waited for Bromo to gather up the newspaper to make room for glass and plate,
his black T-shirt proclaiming “Rehab is for Losers”.
Bromo, nodded towards the slogan. ‘Which are you – winner or loser?’ asked
‘Neither. It’s a draw at the moment,’ lisped the youth, mincing off to his place behind the bar.
Bromo felt his mobile phone start to vibrate as he folded the newspaper down to a manageable size and reached for his toast. He let it launch into its La Donna è Mobile ringtone and viewed the caller’s ID. Talking business wasn’t on the agenda this early in the day. For Liz Shapcott, however, he relented and flicked the phone open.
‘This had better be good,’ he said. ‘You should know by now not to interrupt a man’s first coffee.’
Liz ignored him with a chuckle: ‘Don’t be such a grump, Bromo. Most of us have been up for ages, done an hour’s work and are ready for morning tea.’
He glanced at his watch: five past nine.
‘I’m not most of us,’ he grouched. ‘The day’s hardly begun.’
He heard Liz chuckle again. She was too bright by half.
The last job he’d done for Liz Shapcott had been in his travel agent guise, arranging her bookings for a trip through Europe and on to Ireland. Her absence overseas had come at a good time for both of them: Liz had escaped much of the limelight after the unravelling of the murky local politics surrounding the Gerry Nuyen affair while Bromo, in his new-found but reluctant role as local trouble-shooter, had been able to present the police with a credible version of Liz’s involvement. Although Liz had been an unwilling bit player, there were those who had tried to drag her down with them. Bromo’s intervention and gentle bending of the truth had enabled her to return from overseas with her reputation largely intact as one of Richmond’s leading architects and regular A-lister.
‘Why the call?’ he asked. ‘I thought you were staying put for a while.’
‘I am. The travel bug’s dead. It’s something else I need your help with. Can we talk?’
‘Your place or mine?’ he asked.
It was like a choice between Government House and a street kid’s squat. She lived and worked in a sprawling old warehouse converted with flair and style. His office was a desk, filing cabinet and a couple of chairs crammed into an unheated room up a flight of grotty stairs squeezed between two Bridge Road shops. His masters back in London told him it was the best he could expect, especially considering all that had happened. The budget was strictly limited for rogue agents who slipped up on the job. Home was little better – a shambolic apartment kindly described by friends as a bachelor pad and all that implied.
‘Where are you now?’ she asked.
‘Flounce. Know it? Down towards the river.’
She knew it: ‘I’m on my way. I’d kill for a decent coffee.’
‘Not necessary. There’s enough killing going on. Three bucks and a smile is enough.’
He shifted his focus back on to the paper. The quiet time for easing himself into the day was fast evaporating.
It faded completely a few minutes later when Liz Shapcott pushed her way through the door, strode towards him and folded herself into the chair opposite. This was not a person, decided Bromo, but a presence. Her high-heeled boots shouted confidence. An olive green coat fell in folds around her. A mass of golden ringlets framed her face.
She was not easy to ignore. Already the languid waiter had sprung to life and summoned up a glimmer of a smile as he stood at their table, awaiting orders. Bromo extended a hand in her direction.
‘Coffee?’
She nodded.
‘Black, with a dribble of milk.’
‘I’ll have another,’ said Bromo.
The youth stepped away, almost rushing to fulfil their orders. Bromo leaned forward, elbows on table, fingers entwined. Liz copied his pose.
‘So?’ he said, turning a comment into a question. He looked into deep green eyes, distracting and enticing.
‘What do you know about Melissa O’Grady?’ asked Liz.
His brow creased. The name meant nothing. Flippancy was the answer: ‘I never touched her. She’s imagining it.’
Liz sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘No joking, Bromo. This is serious. You really don’t recall the name?’
Shit! What was this? Some bird laying it on him, making accusations? Sending Liz Shapcott to wheedle some sort of compensation for something he’d never done?
He unclasped his fingers and placed his hands firmly on the table top, leaning into her.
‘The name means absolutely nothing. What is she, some Big Brother contestant, a starlet on Neighbours, one of those red carpet nonentities …?’
His voice trailed off, exasperated. ‘Give us a break, Liz; it’s too early for Trivial Pursuit.’
An uncomfortable silence descended as the braided youth arrived with their coffees and took his time arranging cups, plates and glasses on the table.
Bromo shooed the youth away. ‘Okay, that’s fine, we’ll manage.’
Liz reached out and stilled his hand. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
‘Melissa O’Grady was pulled from the river two months ago and the inquest called it suicide. It wasn’t.’
Bromo felt the cogs whirring in his head. Snippets of news, telecasts and radio clips were mingling, coming together, sorting themselves out. He gazed out through the café window, into the distance, dredging up vague recollections and scarcely aware of people scurrying past, heads down against the wind – a trio of giggling schoolgirls, a grey-suited businessman working his mobile phone, a scrawny man in dark glasses tapping out his route with a white cane and leaning against the café window as he stopped for a breather. Bromo began to recall the Melissa O’Grady story. A picture was starting to form.
‘If I remember correctly, the police said she jumped,’ he said. ‘Off one of the bridges.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Liz.
There was another silence, broken only by the thwack of grounds being bashed from the coffee machine and the hiss of another espresso on the production line. Bromo sensed Liz had more to come – and he didn’t want to hear it. He’d had enough unsought involvement with the local underworld. He still lived the nightmare of seeing Gerry Nuyen plunge to his death after killing his wife, Aurelia – Bromo’s occasional lover and Liz’s partner in a local protest group. It was too close to that other life he had supposedly left far behind.
‘She was murdered,’ said Liz.
Bromo held his breath. His hand went up to his left ear and rubbed at the lobe. It was an old habit. The wound – another reminder of those distant days – always irritated at times of stress.
‘So?’ he said – another statement morphing into a question to which he didn’t really want an answer. Life shouldn’t get this complicated. Liz sipped her coffee and set the glass back on the table.
‘Everyone made up their minds from the start,’ she said. ‘It was cut and dried and pushed through the system. As far as they were concerned Melissa was just another kid who’d crossed the line and had enough. Do the paperwork and move on.’
She held him with those eyes. He took the bait.
‘And you know better?’
The door of the café slammed open before she could answer. A short, fat man waddled in. His hair hung in strands down to the collar of his business suit. His swarthy face bore two days of unshaven stubble. Between his fingers was a cigarette extinguished between thumb and forefinger as he entered the café. The man laid a stubby hand heavily on Liz’s shoulder, clenching the flesh. She winced but said nothing. The newcomer smiled.
‘A lovely day and a lovely lady. Don’t you agree, Mr Perkins?’
Bromo tensed. He had often seen the man on Richmond’s streets, but they’d never so much as nodded in passing. He was a familiar figure but a complete stranger. It came as a shock to find the man not only recognised him, but also knew his name. And the greeting didn’t seem all that friendly. The man kept one hand on Liz’s shoulder as he extended his other towards Bromo.
‘Con Theopou
los,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ said Bromo, reluctantly clasping the limp and slightly sweaty cluster of pudgy fingers.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he lied.
‘Yeah,’ said Theopoulos, ‘Liz and I go way back, don’t we darling?’
She winced again as he squeezed down on her shoulder.
‘She’s an architect; I’m in real estate. What a combination. The perfect marriage.’
He gave a throaty laugh that lacked any humour. Liz squirmed beneath his grip. Bromo pushed back his chair and stood up, slowly. He pointed a finger across the table.
‘Perhaps you should let go. Relax.’
Theopoulos smiled.
‘You’re quite right, Mr Perkins. I really should. Bit too friendly, eh?’
He looked at Bromo with bulbous, watery, unblinking eyes.
‘But don’t believe all you hear.’
He removed his hand from Liz’s shoulder and ambled slowly towards the bar. After three steps, he turned and directed a leering smile at Liz.
‘Time to let go, my dear. Accept the verdict. It really was suicide.’
Liz shuddered. She gathered her coat around her, clutching the collar and drawing it close. Bromo gestured towards Theopoulos,
‘Nice friends you have.’
‘As friendly as a red-back spider. He’s strictly business.’
‘Funny business?’
‘Don’t ask.’
She clammed up, staring down at the table.
‘Seems odd that he should walk in like that,’ said Bromo. ‘Almost as if he knew you were here, and who you were meeting. And why.’
She looked at him. The laughter had gone from her eyes. ‘Yes, well, that’s another story,’ she said.
‘Bugging?’
‘Maybe. Or stalking, spying. Who knows?’
‘But you’re not paranoid.’
She sniffed, gave a half-grin: ‘Of course not. It’s just a feeling I have.’
Bromo fell silent, processing what he’d seen and heard and thinking of the quiet life he was still determined to settle into. His hand went to his ear, to his old wound, gently rubbing the lobe between thumb and forefinger. He didn’t need menacing Greeks bearing messages. Liz’s travel arrangements were sufficient complications, along with those of the rest of his small group of select clients. Someone else could deal with her allegations of murder. For him, those days were long past. He had been told to lie low, stay clear of trouble. Regroup, was one buzz word they’d used despite there being only one of him.