by Berry, Tony
‘No way,’ said Liz and forked into a round of bratwurst before covering it with salad.
When she eventually pushed her plate away she picked up the copy of the suicide note and dangled it between her fingers.
‘This is not the Melissa I came to know,’ she said. ‘She was out of rehab and didn’t drink. She was struggling but she was well on the way to getting her life together.’
‘Something from the past could have tipped her over the edge,’ said Bromo. ‘How long did you know her?’
‘About a year. I’ve got a couple of one-bedroom investment units which tend to get let to students and young couples just starting out. She applied when one fell vacant and I checked her out. All that early stuff she told me herself.’
Liz sipped her wine.
‘She was quite open about it. She was quite proud that she’d been so trashed and wasted and had managed to drag herself back up. She’d even gone back to college to make up for lost school years.’
Bromo looked out over the river. Rowing coaches cycling along the far bank were bellowing at eights and fours from school regatta teams. A double-decker river cruiser idled past with a handful of tourists clustered in an open section at the stern. Lunchtime joggers ambled along both shores in a steady procession of joyless effort. The sun caught a glint of glass; a man was scanning the scene through binoculars, his elbows balanced on knees drawn into his chest. Shirt-sleeved executives eased fears of heart attacks by taking their office discussions for a brisk airing. Couples entwined on the grass in front of the rowing sheds.
‘So many people out enjoying themselves,’ said Bromo. ‘And we’re sitting here discussing suicide and murder. How did Melissa earn a crust?’
‘She said she got casual work in hospitality. Hotels, bars, cafés – that sort of thing.’
‘Didn’t you check?’
‘I didn’t need to. She always paid her rent. Sometimes you have to take people on trust.’
Bromo sniffed. Trust was a rare commodity in his book. He’d seen it devalued too many times. Liz ignored him.
‘Melissa became something more than a tenant. The last time I saw her she asked me to help with some research she said she was doing for a social studies assignment. Something about society and prostitution. I think that’s what that list of addresses is all about. We spent quite a bit of time together. She would bring a pizza round to my place and knock back a couple of fruit juices or Cokes while I got into the wine. That’s how I know so much about her teen years.’
Liz reached out and touched Bromo’s arm, still holding the suicide note.
‘She was a lovely girl and so determined to make up for all that lost time. There’s no way she’d have done this.’
‘So, who did? Because you had a few girly moments doesn’t mean she’d got it all together.’
‘It was more than girly moments. She was interested in the Tiger Poppies. She said she’d like to contribute and help out.’
Bromo’s fingers tightened around his wine glass. The other hand went up to his ear, rubbing the lobe. The old wound was an instant stress alarm. Liz was dragging him back to somewhere he didn’t want to go. The Tiger Poppies had been part of the whirlpool eddying around the events that had led to Aurelia Nuyen’s murder. They were a loose-knit network of local women throwing the spotlight on what they perceived as exploitation of their gender. They were vigilantes trying to close down porn sites and exposing the misuse of dating services. There seemed to be no shape or formality about them – simply a sisterhood of like-minded women who had attached a floral symbol to the name of the local footy club in order to get noticed.
Bromo knocked back the remnants of his wine.
‘I need another. What about you?’
Her glass was half full.
‘I’m fine. Get me a coffee, if you like. Flat white, skinny milk.’
He grinned: ‘Yeah, like you’ve got to fight the flab.’
She was as lean as a garden rake but with curves in all the right places – right, that is, if you were a red-blooded male who couldn’t help having the occasional fantasy about the women met along the way. To Bromo, Liz was definitely that – a fantasy that had never quite become reality, although between them it had often come close. Both knew they could so easily push the right buttons if they wanted to. For Bromo, it was in the eyes. It always had been; the eyes said everything. He set his refilled glass and Liz’s coffee on the table and picked up the suicide note.
‘So, if Melissa didn’t write this, who did?’
‘That’s what I was hoping you might find out.’
He took a long, slow sip of his wine. This was what he feared – involvement.
‘You’ve got contacts,’ she said. ‘And experience.’
‘That doesn’t mean I want to continue using them.’
Her hand returned to his forearm, gently squeezing. Her eyes fixed on his, challenging him to hold her gaze and not look away.
‘For me, Bromo. I need to know. I’m sure I was all she had.’
He met her challenge, eyes to eyes. If only she knew the quivers and ripples running through him. But then, she probably did. It was always in the eyes. He felt her fingers gently massaging his forearm. What the hell.
‘Okay, but I’m going to need a lot more than you’ve told me so far.’
She thrust suddenly forward and kissed him hard on the lips, her tongue briefly licking his. She withdrew as quickly as she’d advanced. She sat back, upright, smiling.
‘Thanks, Bromo. I always knew you’d help.’
He went taut with surprise, then relaxed with a shrug. It was as if nothing had happened. She gave his arm another squeeze.
‘It’s a pity you make it such bloody hard work,’ she said. ‘You really are quite an old softie.’
Bromo looked into the distance, breathing deeply, hazily taking in trees, water and sky. The dream-like trance felt good, but it couldn’t last. He picked the two sheets of paper off the table and stuffed them into his pocket.
‘Any chance of a look around Melissa’s flat?’
Liz reached into the folds of her coat and pulled out a miniature Pooh Bear attached to a split ring with two keys hanging from it.
‘It’s something I’ve put off tackling,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we could go there now.’
Again he shrugged. Why not? “The ball no question makes of ayes and noes …”
He liked the feel of her arm in his as she guided him up the two flights of granite steps towards the car park. They disappeared from view behind the old bluestone wall of Princes Wharf.
Over on the opposite bank, the blind man stood and stretched his aching muscles. He put his binoculars in his backpack, unfolded his white stick, donned the black glasses and tapped his way confidently up the ramp towards Princes Bridge. A warming double scotch in Young and Jackson’s seemed in order before he caught the tram back to Richmond.
FIVE
Liz squeezed her silver-grey BMW coupé between a tram and a parked van delivering seafood to one of the Church Street cafés. She accelerated towards the traffic lights midway along the cluster of stores selling imported ceramic tiles, plush leather sofas and expensive bedroom designs. Green turned to red and she braked to a stop. The tram rattled alongside – an antique green and yellow W-class – but still trundling through the Chapel Street shopping strip and on to the gaping jaws of the funfair at Luna Park.
‘Can’t beat public transport,’ said Bromo.
‘Depends where you’re going,’ said Liz.
A shrunken old woman in a long knitted coat struggled to climb the step into the tram, hauling a shopping trolley up after her. Bromo pointed at the tram.
‘I’d back that old rattler against your Beemer along here any day. All that power and speed under your bonnet and yet we’re going nowhere.’
The tram clunked forward and the long line of vehicles waiting behind it started to move. Liz turned left at the lights and eased her way down a short side street narrowed
by cars, vans and trucks parked both sides of the road. Halfway along, she turned left again, into a narrow laneway between a furniture warehouse and a minuscule cottage left over from the era when Richmond was a suburb of the working class and the poor. The lane opened out into a concreted courtyard. White lines marked six parking spaces beneath a block of apartments rising two floors above. Liz drew into the space designated for unit 3 and stilled the engine.
‘This is it – very basic and completely without charm,’ she said.
‘Bit like me, really,’ said Bromo.
‘You said it.’
‘Saved you the trouble.’
The way in was through a door in the wall of the parking area and up a flight of bare, concrete stairs, chilly and uninviting. Liz unlocked the third door along a thinly carpeted corridor almost as plain and dreary as the staircase. She held the door open to let Bromo enter. He took two steps and stopped.
‘Melissa must have been a very untidy girl.’
Liz pushed past him, almost tripping over an upturned director’s chair, its canvas back ripped away from one side of its frame.
‘Oh shit! Melissa didn’t do this. I checked the place out after the inquest. It was fine. Someone’s been here.’
Bromo held back. He took three deep breaths and leaned against the wall, hands in pockets, studying the room, taking his time. Two more director’s chairs lay on their side beneath a metal frame window. A collapsible camping table in the centre of the room had done what it was meant to do and collapsed with one leg splayed and two hinges bent. Two cupboards over a sink and stove in the corner of the room had their doors hanging open and partly off their hinges. Bromo took in jars of honey, Vegemite and peanut butter on the shelves. On the floor, two plastic milk crates held large format books, folders and manuals – a student’s filing system. Smaller books clustered on a couple of makeshift shelves formed by house bricks and a couple of pine planks. As Liz bent over one of the milk crates, Bromo took a couple of steps into the room.
‘Hold on, Liz. Take it easy.’
He gestured towards a door.
‘Bedroom?’
She nodded.
‘Let’s take a look before we touch anything in here.’
They stood side by side in the doorway. The single bed was tipped on its side, bedclothes scattered over the floor. Strewn over the top of them was a jumble of clothing – skirts, dresses, tops, underwear, a couple of thick sweaters and a few shoes.
‘She didn’t have much, did she,’ said Bromo. It was a comment, not a question.
‘She was getting there. Another year and she’d have probably been okay.’
They stepped back into the living area. Bromo picked up a director’s chair and sat down.
‘Any idea who could have done this?’
‘None. She never mentioned anyone giving her trouble.’
Liz tried righting the table but it was beyond that. It tottered and fell on its broken legs. She sat in the other chair, gathering her coat around her.
‘Cold?’ said Bromo.
‘No.’
‘You look it. I thought you shivered.’
‘I’m frightened. And angry.’
‘Understood.’
He rubbed at his ear.
‘I guess we’d better do something about it. Anger’s not good.’
Liz said nothing. Her eyes, half closed, were directed downwards. The heavy silence was broken only by the tap, tap, tap of her gemstone ring as she drummed her fingers on the chair’s thin wooden frame. Bromo scanned the room, trying to see beyond the debris. Eventually, he leaned forward, hands clasped between his thighs.
‘Well, it wasn’t robbery.’
Liz jerked upwards, his words bringing her suddenly back from wherever her mind had wandered.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘From what you say, she had virtually nothing and what she did have seems to be still here.’
Bromo walked over to the two milk crates of folders and manuals.
‘They haven’t even looked at these.’
He ran his hand over the protruding top edges of the books.
‘Not touched. If they had been, they wouldn’t have been put back so neatly. It’s straight-out vandalism, even a warning – putting the frighteners on her.’
‘But she was already dead,’ said Liz.
‘Precisely.’
Bromo was one step ahead of her. Threats weren’t aimed at the dead. Whoever had done this knew of Liz’s connection to the flat. But he said nothing. Liz didn’t need the added burden of being told the vandalism could be a warning for her, not Melissa. It was only a possibility; but he wouldn’t bet against it.
Liz shuddered. She spread her arms wide, indicating the wreckage, then huddled deeper into her coat.
‘But why?’
Bromo moved to the window.
‘I suppose that’s what you’re asking me to find out.’
He fingered open a slight gap between the slats of the plastic blind and looked down into the courtyard. Cautious. Just in case. No one there. He turned to face her.
‘What’s wrong with going to the police? A case of break and enter, assault on property, whatever.’
Liz sniffed, making no secret of her scepticism.
‘I told you, they don’t want to know. They made their minds up it’s just another suicide by yet another stupid young woman. Routine. About as complicated and interesting as a speeding ticket. Can you imagine how interested they’d be in a break and enter on someone who’s got nothing and is already dead?’
Bromo didn’t like what he was hearing. Liz must have been talking to the wrong people – or to people with an interest in keeping things quiet. He peered into the bedroom, hoping a second look would reveal something missed the first time round. Nothing. Something they’d both said sunk in. He spun round, back into the lounge.
‘What’s this about break and enter? You said it. I said it. Where’s the evidence? You used your keys to get in. The locks hadn’t been forced. No damage to the doors.’
Liz’s mouth dropped open. Her hand clasped her jaw. Suddenly she realised what he was saying.
‘Melissa’s keys. Someone has them.’
Bromo felt he was being drip-fed. His voice hardened.
‘How can you be sure?’
He dragged a chair to sit alongside her.
‘Come on, Liz, stop pissing about. It’s time you filled me in. Tell me all you know.’
Liz looked quickly at him, then away. Her voice was slow and soft.
‘Melissa had one of those tiny handbags that the bright young things use. More like a purse, but on a long narrow chain strung across her shoulders. The police showed it to me. Not much in it – a tram ticket, her student ID card, a packet of tissues, lipstick, a five dollar note, a few coins …’ she paused, ‘… and my business card.’
‘And no keys,’ offered Bromo.
‘Seems not.’
‘So the police had a name from the student ID but not much else.’
Liz gave him a quick look. She nodded in agreement.
‘Which is why they called me—’
Her voice trailed off. Bromo suddenly caught on. He reached out and gently took her hand in his.
‘Sorry, Liz. I didn’t realise. You should have said. Given me a call.’
Identifying the dead was never easy, no matter how hard the morgue staff worked at providing support and comfort. Light and airy corridors, sympathetic staff, a gentle and unhurried approach – it all helped yet never overcame the sense of chilling dread as the climactic moment neared. The white sheet was folded back; the pallid face of the corpse stared back.
‘Yes, that’s her.’
The blunt formality. Signing off on a life. Liz raised her head, eyes open. A sniffle. She gave the briefest of smiles, acknowledging Bromo’s concern. She put her other hand on top of his, patted it.
‘Thanks. I should have said. It wasn’t easy. My first time.’
She f
ell silent. Bromo sensed her mind was replaying the scene in stark black and white. The sequence needed breaking. He stood up, stepped back and paused over the milk crates.
‘Mind if I take these? Have a look through.’
She stood up but didn’t move. She looked lost and helpless.
‘Please do. Take anything you think might help.’
Bromo felt uncomfortable. This wasn’t the Liz Shapcott he was used to dealing with. The coat she wore with such confidence now seemed to be wearing her – enveloping her, diminishing her. He extended his arm towards her, slowly and tentatively, and laid it around her shoulders. She leaned in towards him
‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll get this sorted. Maybe I’ll have a word with Grant Mayfield. On the quiet. Nothing official.’
Their last contact with Senior-Sergeant Mayfield had been over the Aurelia Nuyen business when the policeman had arrested Bromo over a town hall break-in and then helped clear Liz of any involvement with the corrupt deals of Steven Delgado. It was a brittle relationship. Leaks in the police database had meant Mayfield knew far more about Bromo’s earlier life than his masters had assured him would ever be accessed by anyone except the very highest ranks. So much for trust.
Liz turned towards him and pecked him lightly on the cheek.
‘Thanks, Bromo.’
She gestured towards the two milk crates and bent to pick one up.
‘Let’s get these down to the car.’
Bromo gathered up the second crate and moved towards the door.
‘At least this will provide a better evening than watching TV.’
Liz was still closing the stairwell door when Bromo reached her car. A sheet of paper stuck under the windscreen looked like another flyer from a hopeful wholesaler or real estate agent. As he slipped it out he saw the large bold lettering: “GIVE UP LIZ – YOU’LL NEVER WIN.” He screwed it up quickly and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Liz moved alongside.
‘What was that?’
Bromo decided she didn’t need to know.
‘A message from your sponsors.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Rubbish,’ he added. ‘Another hopeful discount merchant touting his goods.’