by Berry, Tony
‘Time to go. Bad vibes. Not my sort of place.’ He glanced towards Theopoulos: ‘Or people.’
He pushed back his chair, moving to stand up. Liz reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘Please, Bromo. At least hear me out.’
He shrugged and settled slowly back into his chair. There was a centimetre of coffee left in his glass. He gulped it down and gave a half smile.
‘Okay. So, tell me, what makes you so sure Melissa O’Grady was murdered? And, if she was, why should I care – or even you, for that matter?’
Liz shot a nervous look at the bar where Con Theopoulos had manoeuvred his bulky backside on to a stool and was slicing into a ham and cheese croissant. She lowered her voice to a near whisper.
‘This place wasn’t such a good idea,’ she said. ‘We need to meet somewhere else. I’ll give you a call. Or send a message. And I’ll provide the evidence to convince you.’
She stood abruptly, leaned across the table and brushed his cheek lightly with her lips.
‘Take care.’
Liz left as briskly as she had arrived but now her shoulders drooped forward. She was no longer walking tall. Bromo watched her scurry down the road, the folds of her coat trailing behind her as she did a neat side-step to dodge a thin man flicking his white cane across the footpath in front of him. It was not the Liz Shapcott he thought he knew.
Bromo looked across at the bar. Theopoulos spread his arms, palms turned upwards, and shrugged in mock despair, his thick lips pouting, lacking any warmth. Bromo read the gesture as an unspoken warning. It oozed menace.
THREE
Bromo had barely settled back into his office when he heard a tattoo of three sharp knocks on the door. The caller gave him time to respond. As the knocking ended, the door flew open and a stocky woman barged in; her body bulged beneath a garish neck to ankle Lycra bodysuit. A straggle of sweaty black hair protruded from beneath her bike helmet strapped down low over her brow.
She thrust an A4-size brown envelope and a pad of dockets at Bromo.
‘Mr Perkins? Sign here.’
‘Nice of you to knock,’ said Bromo. ‘Please come in.’
‘I am in.’
‘Precisely.’
Bromo sighed; some people were immune to irony.
‘Sorry about that,’ said the cyclist. ‘But time’s money in this business and the customer’s already told me to take a long way round; some nonsense about making sure I wasn’t followed.’
Bromo tried to make amends.
‘My apologies. She has her reasons.’
He scribbled his signature on the pad and took the envelope.
‘Ride safely. Sometimes the long way’s the safest way.’
The courier grunted an acknowledgement and left as briskly as she’d arrived, the intercom at her belt squawking details of another pick-up. Bromo balanced the envelope in his hand for a few seconds. He felt its contents would set him off on a trail he didn’t want to travel. Another Omar Khayyam moment:
“The ball no question makes of ayes and noes,
But right or left as strikes the player goes.”
There’d been a time when he’d sought out such spontaneous instants. They meant risk and adventure and living for the moment. Eventually there’d been too many of them. The extraordinary became routine and he was merely going through the motions – alert, proficient, but simply doing a job. And making mistakes, taking his eye off the ball. Getting shot. He jiggled the envelope on his palms. Oh for X-ray eyes to let him assess its contents before committing to opening it.
“The ball no question makes of ayes and noes …”
It was his to strike – right or left, yes or no, to walk away or get involved.
Bromo slowly eased open the sealed flap. Inside were three sheets of paper. Two were rimmed in black where the originals had been too small or awkwardly positioned for the photocopier. The third was a sheet torn off a lined notepad bearing a hand-written message: “Lunch – the vaults beneath Fed Square about 12.30.”
Almost without thinking, he fed it into the shredder. Only when the machine stopped whirring did he realise he was already back playing the game – taking precautions, destroying evidence, leaving nothing to chance. ‘No, I’m not paranoid.’
Bromo placed the remaining two sheets of paper on his desk. The first was a neatly typed list of addresses. Some had a tick alongside, others a cross. Next to one was the comment. “Entrance next door.” The addresses were mostly local, nearly all within the Richmond borders, easily reached on foot or bike if he decided to check them out. There was no knowing whether they were private homes or businesses. He saw no immediate significance in the ticks and crosses. Maybe Liz Shapcott would provide the answers.
Set on a slight angle in the centre of the other sheet of paper was a terse message written in a scrawling, backward sloping style: “I’ve had enough. Can’t go on.” The letters were badly formed and misshapen. Bromo read it as the hand of a child, a semi-literate – or someone disguising their writing, laying a false scent. It invited an obvious conclusion, especially when linked to what Liz had told him only an hour ago. It would have been what led the coroner to reach a verdict of suicide in Melissa O’Grady’s death, assuming the absence of any evidence to support an alternative finding. It was clearly intended to be taken as a suicide note. Bromo accepted it as such the moment he read it.
He scanned it again. The longer he studied it the more it seemed its meaning was too clear, too simple. It lacked any explanation for the suggested hopelessness and despair. All emotion was missing. There were none of the “last note” meanderings he had seen in so many other final messages. There was no forlorn farewell to a lover, parent or child.
He rummaged through the piles of paper on his desk, looking for the Melway. It must be somewhere under one of the mounds that represented a filing task he had great intentions of tackling – one day. He had long ago decided that labelling files and placing invoices, letters, leaflets, newspaper clippings and scribbled reminders into some sort of order was akin to housework, something done with reluctance and only when visitors started brushing dust off the chairs before sitting down.
A pristine desk-top might ease any qualms clients had about his efficiency but as most of his regulars were used to the clutter and happy with his service why spoil a successful image? Look too efficient and he might get more customers than he wanted. He might get busy, pressured, even stressed out – and that would never do. Those things belonged to the bad old days.
He made a second fruitless search through the piles of paper, noting most of it was now past keeping, the newspaper clippings overtaken by events and the accounts by more recent demands for payment. He glanced up at the bookshelf. Too obvious – a book actually in its proper place.
‘Should’ve have guessed,’ he muttered, taking down a well-thumbed Melway.
Bromo considered the directory’s dog-eared corners. It was time he splashed out on a new edition. Too many freeways, bike paths and dockside developments had altered the face of the city since this edition came out. Change was becoming unbearably rapid. But the directory sufficed for getting around Richmond’s unchanged maze of narrow streets and lanes and might tell him something about the list of addresses.
He picked one at random, checked it in the index and turned to the relevant page. Its location revealed little. It was midway down a long street containing a haphazard mix of shops, offices and private homes.
He picked another address. This was a few blocks to the south in another hodgepodge area of the private and the commercial, where homes mingled with light industry, warehouses, panel beaters and packaging plants. Still none the wiser.
He returned the directory to the shelf, folded the two sheets of paper and stuffed them into the inside pocket of his jacket. A walk was called for. A brisk march up the Bridge Road hill and through the parklands might clear his fogged-up brain and spark fresh thoughts. If nothing else, it could keep his expanding love ha
ndles in check. Maybe Liz would find something appealing about a man with a healthy glow and – he drew in his stomach muscles tight – a taut, trim look about him. Dream on, Bromo, dream on.
FOUR
Bromo strode into Federation Wharf across the sand-strewn wasteland of Birrarung Marr and along the riverbank path riven and runnelled by the roots of trees desperately seeking water. Liz had already arrived. She’d found a bench seat at a corner table on a deck protruding towards the river. It was away from the main cluster of tables, chairs and benches and gave a clear view of the footpath along the river’s edge.
‘Good choice,’ said Bromo, leaning forward and brushing her cheek lightly with his lips.
‘The seat or the wine?’ said Liz, indicating the glass of white close to hand.
‘Both, though I’d prefer red.’
‘They won’t bring it. You’ll have to organise it yourself – over there.’
She nodded in the direction of a row of bluestone vaults arched beneath the roadway above. The furthest from them had a counter across its entrance where staff were dispensing coffees and drinks, and taking orders for meals. Two other vaults housed dining areas, one with a large communal table and the other with more formal seating for couples and foursomes.
Bromo sauntered over, noting with pleasure the way this small corner of the riverfront had been revived after languishing for years as a haunt of druggies, drunks and dropouts. The 20 barrel-vaulted cells that began life back in the 1890s as one of the city fathers’ many grand plans were beginning to regain some of their former glory. Their previously grimy basalt and granite walls looked spruce and clean and were once again graffiti-free. Arched glass windows replaced the boards and metal sheets that for several years had provided an ugly barricade against squatters. A ferry company, a bike hire business and a firm of architects had each set up shop in the other vaults. Long before they fell into disuse these same alcoves had housed boat-builders, a coffee importer, metal-workers and, like now, a ferry operator.
Bromo waved his arm in the general direction of the solid bluestone walls as a busty young woman in a black singlet leaned over the counter towards him, smiling, cleavage showing, pen raised over an order pad.
‘It’s looking good,’ he said.
Her smile turned into an aggressive glare. Bromo realised too late the ambiguity of his remark. She’d taken it personally. He pushed on, feigning innocence.
‘I was thinking that they’ve done wonders with the old vaults.’
Her smile slowly returned, bashful. She tugged at the neckline of her singlet, defensively.
‘Some guys tend to get a bit full-on and personal.’
To her, the wharf was just another place where she clocked up a few hours taking orders and pulling coffees before moving on to her other job in another building, still taking orders and running coffees.
‘Yeah, it’s okay. Bit out of the way, though. People don’t know we’re here. You drinking?’
‘A glass of house red, please. And a couple of menus.’
Back at the table, Liz was hunched forward, nursing her glass in both hands. Bromo slid in alongside her. He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and unfolded them on to the table.
‘So, what’s this all about?’
One hand left her glass and began fingering the edges of the papers, lightly. Her eyes stayed focused down.
‘I wish I knew. Melissa must have dropped the addresses when she was round at my place. I was going to return it, but …’ She paused, sighed, remembering. ‘The note I managed to wheedle out of the coroner’s office. I was hoping you might be able to help.’
Bromo sat back against the slats of the bench.
‘Sorry, Liz. You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m just a simple travel consultant who likes to keep out of trouble.’
‘Like you did with Aurelia Nuyen and that detective Delia whatever her name was.’
‘Yes, well, that was a bit different.’
She turned and looked at him – neutral, no smile and no anger, but hard and determined.
‘What way different? Do you have to be shagging someone before you take an interest in their murder?’
‘It helps.’
For a long, lingering interval, she held his gaze, revealing nothing in her eyes, studying him. She briefly looked away. Suddenly, she slapped a hand down on the papers.
‘Stop being so bloody flippant,’ she said. ‘Cut the world-weary cynicism crap. This is another official cover-up. People are being protected who shouldn’t be protected. We can’t just sit back and let it happen.’
‘Why not? It was ever thus. It’s a fact of life.’
Liz breathed in deeply, exasperated. Again they were in too public a place. On the other side of the deck two women were fingering a knitted open-weave sleeve that one of them had slipped off a pair of rounded needles. The shorter woman extended her arm while the other slid the sleeve up to her shoulder, assessing the length and the fit.
‘A bit short,’ said one, pulling the sleeve as far as it would go. ‘Needs two more rows.’
‘Yes, two rows should do it,’ agreed the other. ‘It’s a good fit. You’ll look lovely.’
They gently rolled the sleeve back down over her wrist and hand. The taller woman folded it into a small plastic sandwich bag and tucked it into a large tote. Bromo watched Liz watching the women. She seemed mesmerised. Almost in unison the women picked up needles and wool from the bench. Heads down, they began busily knitting as they waited for their meal. Liz turned back to Bromo. He sensed her fury subsiding
‘Thank god for knitters,’ he murmured.
‘Shut it,’ she hissed. She pushed the scribbled note towards him. ‘This is a bloody fake and someone needs to care. It was in one of those sealable plastic sandwich bags, pinned to Melissa’s dress.’
She nodded in the direction of the knitters. Now he understood what had held her attention.
‘To stop it getting wet,’ she explained. ‘People killing themselves don’t do that. Melissa did not throw herself into the river. Help me, Bromo. Help me.’
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned hard against the wooden slats, pulling away from Liz and the note. He lolled back, gazing up at the cirrus-laced sky. A jet was gliding in towards the airport. All was right with his world. Why disturb it? Self-interest ruled. And yet …
Bromo picked up one of the menus.
‘You eating?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t aiming to. I thought a break might help.’
Liz glanced at him. Her lips parted as if to speak. She thought better of it and picked up the other menu.
‘The bratwurst and salad sounds good.’
‘Think I’ll have the duck snags,’ said Bromo.
He sauntered across to a canopied barbecue where a cook was tending fingers of fat sausages and mixing salads. He needed the break to think, to settle down. Three deep breaths helped. His unarmed combat instructor had told him that all those years ago. Too true, but he kept forgetting to take them. He gave their orders and returned to their corner seat. Liz arrived at the same time with refilled glasses.
‘Thought this might help,’ she said.
‘Won’t do any harm,’ smiled Bromo.
He took three more deep slow breaths before speaking.
‘You’d better tell me all about it. What’s with the list of addresses, why murder and not suicide and how come you’re involved?’
Liz fiddled with a chunky gemstone ring on the index finger of her left hand.
‘Last things first,’ she said. ‘Melissa O’Grady was a beautiful girl. She sparkled and glowed all at once. Modelling agencies chased her while she was still just a kid at high school. In no time she was on all the catwalks and her picture was in every glossy fashion mag.’
Liz paused, still rubbing and twisting the ring, turning it slowly, the large brownish stone catching the light then sliding down out of sight leaving only the silve
r band in sight.
‘Big stone,’ observed Bromo.
‘A tiger eye.’
‘Expensive?’
‘Not really. I made it myself. The big cost is time, not money.’
It was something new to Bromo.
‘What do you mean – made it yourself? I thought you were an architect, not a jeweller.’
She smiled.
‘Even architects have hobbies. Mine’s gemstones. I fossick, cut, grind, polish. The lot.’
Her hand went to the strand of black oval stones looped around her neck.
‘I made this, too. From rock face to necklace, as they say. All my own work.’
‘Very nice. But what about Melissa and the modelling? I suppose that’s when the rot set in,’ offered Bromo.
‘Right. It’s not that unusual. She was mixing with a faster, edgy crowd and moved into an apartment with a couple of older girls. The booze and drugs came with the territory. Some can handle it. Melissa was one who couldn’t.’
‘What about parents?’ asked Bromo.
‘No sign of a father, and the mother was a hopeless ratbag who saw herself living off Melissa’s earnings but soon faded away into her own alcoholic haze.’
A waitress set two large round plates in front of them and took cutlery wrapped in paper serviettes from her apron pocket.
‘Enjoy,’ she said.
‘And if we don’t?’ asked Bromo.
His words bounced unheard off the waitress’s retreating back. They busied themselves arranging their salads and slicing through the crisply browned sausages. Bromo’s duck version showed snippets of green-tinged pistachios mingled with the meat.
‘Great tucker,’ he said. ‘You talk, I’ll eat and listen.’