by Berry, Tony
‘So, how are you feeling?’
She smiled: ‘Too broad a question, Bromo. Do you mean physically, mentally or emotionally?’
It was a tease. They both knew it. Playing games. Liz had made the play and provided the openings: multiple choice. Now it was Bromo’s turn. He realised his heart wasn’t in it. Life was too short. He wanted her, but not enough to endure a prolonged word-play of hints and innuendos.
‘Physically, I don’t need to ask,’ he said. ‘You’re looking great – as ever. As for the rest, I wouldn’t know.’
She smiled. He took his glass over to the sink, turning the tap to rinse it, his back to her. Liz got up, her bare feet making no sound on the tiles as she came up behind him. She put both arms around him, drawing him close, her head resting in the slight hollow between his shoulders.
‘The nerves were a bit shattered, but I’ll survive,’ she murmured. ‘Thanks for coming round. I feel much better.’
Bromo felt her hug him gently closer. He clung to the moment, one hand still holding the rinsed glass, the other resting on the edge of the sink. It was as close as they’d ever been. There’d been the occasional kiss of greeting or farewell between friends, the touch of hands, a comforting embrace around her shoulders, a pleading clasp of his arm, one urgent tonguing of his mouth – always brief, fleeting, linked to the moment and lacking any follow-through. He sensed this was different, deeper, even the first step down a road without signposts.
His brain went into overdrive, trying to compose the right words, afraid of wrecking the mood. He need not bother. She did that woman thing and read his mind.
‘Don’t say it, Bromo. Now’s not the time. Let’s not spoil things.’
She dropped her arms and walked slowly back to the lounge. Bromo remained looking down into the sink. Deflated, yet in a way relieved. When it happened – if it happened – he wanted it to be more than two needy people urgently feeding off each other for a few hours. Liz was different from the others.
He picked up the Tiger Poppies folder, took a deep, slow breath and turned to face her.
‘I guess I’d better get going. You’ll be okay. No one’s going to get inside this place and the graffiti lads have done their thing. They won’t be back tonight.’
She walked with him to the door and held it open while he wheeled his bike outside into the yard.
‘Thanks for everything. Ride carefully.’
Bromo heard her click the lock behind him as he let himself out through the industrial strength metal doorway and into a short, narrow street. It was deeply dark with only a couple of streetlights at either end of the street. High brick walls and a profusion of overhanging trees added to the gloom. The graffiti message glowed white in the dark.
Bromo threw a leg over the bike’s saddle and planted himself on the seat. He heard the scrape of shoes on gravel as he leaned forward to slip his feet into the pedal straps. He turned to look over his shoulder. Too late. A glimpse of black. A lean, thin shape. Whoever it was had grabbed the bike’s pack-rack and was pulling it backwards with one hand. Their other arm snaked out towards him, circling his neck, jerking him upright, choking off voice and breath. Bromo could smell beer. A voice hissed in his ear.
‘Don’t shout, don’t say a word!’
The voice was soft, young, a little trembly – the nerves of a young druggie or the fear of an amateur mugger? It didn’t matter. Both were dangerous, irrational, likely to do anything.
‘Say nothing. Do nothing and no one will get hurt,’ said the voice. ‘Nod if you agree.’
Bromo nodded. The black-clad arm fell away from his throat.
NINE
Bromo slumped on the footpath, feet in the gutter, his bike propped up against the fence. He massaged his throat. His assailant, in black tights and roll-neck black sweater, crouched alongside. A nylon balaclava covered his head, only the eyes and mouth showing through narrow slits.
‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to hurt you.’
The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Bromo rifled through his mental teledex trying to recall when he’d heard it, or where.
‘Just wanted to talk,’ said the voice, muffled by the balaclava. ‘On the quiet, like.’
‘You could have phoned,’ said Bromo. ‘I’m in the book.’
‘Phones can be tapped. I’m being watched. You’re being watched.’
He flicked his fist, thumb raised, in the direction of Liz’s house.
‘She’s being watched, too.’
There was no hint of menace. The initial violence of their encounter had quickly evaporated. Bromo patted the footpath.
‘Take a seat. And if we’re going to talk, take that bloody helmet off.’
His assailant squatted down, sliding the balaclava back over his head. Now Bromo knew where he had last heard his attacker’s voice. Back then, it was shouting at him above the raised barrel of a shotgun.
‘You’ve had a haircut,’ he said.
‘You remember?’
‘How could I forget? You were a mess.’
The face behind the mask was that of the street kid Liz and her Tiger Poppies thought they had set on the road to recovery, the graffiti artist now working in a graphic design studio. He had been living rough in an old factory being fought over by a couple of the city’s rogue developers. A corner of the factory had become a studio for graffiti vandals, sleeping rough and practising their idea of art along its walls. When Bromo discovered their hideout, the street kid had brandished a shotgun at him and warned him off. He used the gun again when armed police later raided the factory to arrest one of the developers. This time the threat had little effect: the kid had his legs shot from under him.
‘How’s the leg?’ asked Bromo.
‘Can’t kick a footy, but I get by.’
Bromo nodded in the direction of Liz’s house.
‘She tells me you came good. Working in a studio.’
‘Yeah. She helped a lot. Got me the job. Advertising, doing brochures, CD covers, all that sort of stuff. Pretty cool.’
A car slowed at the end of the street, its lights bright against a white fence. The youth twisted his head away, downward and in towards Bromo, shielding himself. The car picked up speed and moved on across the intersection.
‘Relax,’ said Bromo. ‘It’s gone.’
The youth rested his hands in the gap between his knees, fingers clasped.
‘I said relax,’ said Bromo, with a nod towards the youth’s thumbs, slowly revolving around each other. ‘Why so nervous? I thought you wanted to talk. How about a name for starters? I’m Bromo.’
He extended a hand. The youth took it in his, limply, and gave it a cursory shake.
‘Yeah, I know. I’m Luke. Luke Jeffries.’
He glanced up and down the street as he spoke. Nervous, twitchy.
‘Let’s make it quick. Someone’s sure to come.’
Luke pointed over his shoulder towards the graffiti on Liz’s fence.
‘I did that.’
He paused.
‘Can you tell her I didn’t want to? She’s done a lot for me. I don’t want to see her get hurt. He made me do it.’
Bromo noted the lack of a name but was wary of pushing too hard. He waited for a further explanation. None came. He had to ask.
‘So why all these messages?’
‘Can’t say.’
Luke stood up and began pulling the balaclava back over his head. Bromo, still sitting on the footpath, was caught off guard by the sudden movement. He grabbed Luke’s ankle, tugging, throwing him off balance and almost bringing him crashing down on top of him.
‘Easy on, mate. What do you think you’re doing?’ snarl0ed the youth. ‘I can’t hang around here. He might come back. He keeps checking up on me. Threatens to tell the boss.’
Bromo released his grip and levered himself up from the footpath. They stood eye to eye, Bromo seeing fear, Luke seeing irritation bordering on anger.
‘Tell me, Luke. Tell me about it,’ sa
id Bromo, his voice insistent, afraid the youth would sprint away.
‘Who’s threatening you?’
Luke pulled at the balaclava, twisted sideways in his haste to cover his head. The fabric muffled his voice. His head jerked from side to side, scanning the street, twitchy, nervous, a rabbit ready to bolt at the slightest sign of another presence.
‘He calls himself Mr Morris. Sounds a suss to me. Might not be his real name. Always smartly dressed. Gloves, hat, collar and tie. A bit poncey. He’s got it in for Liz.’
Bromo grabbed him by the arm.
‘So, tell her. She won’t bite. You know she’s on your side.’
‘Yeah, that was if I stayed out of trouble. This Morris guy dug up some more dirt and put the screws on me. Things she doesn’t know about. Just one job, he said. But it didn’t stop there. He keeps demanding more. I want out, Bromo.’
‘Where do we find this Mr Morris?’
‘I don’t know. He just turns up, sudden like. Or phones me. It’s scary. I think he was a friend of that woman found in the river.’
‘Melissa O’Grady?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one.’
A car’s headlights lit up the wall on a house at the corner as it turned into the street. Luke jerked his arm up, out of Bromo’s grasp.
‘Can’t stay. Might be him. Checking up.’
In seconds he had twisted away, lengthening his stride, gathering speed in a lopsided jog towards the intersection at the other end of the street. He hurled a brief yell over his shoulder as he ran away.
‘Help me, Bromo! Help me!’
The car stopped, engine running A woman got out of the passenger seat and raised a roller door into a back garden carport. The car was driven in. The door clattered down. Silence.
Bromo mounted his bike and pedalled slowly home, his mind trying to unravel the evening’s events and deciding where next to look for answers. The inside of a glass containing a couple of fingers of Lagavulin seemed like a good starting point. If nothing else, it would lead to a dreamless sleep.
TEN
Bromo squeezed through the tables and chairs cramming the length of Degraves Street. There was hardly a seat to be found. The breakfast-all-day crowd was in full swing. Students, shoppers, city workers and tourists mingled under the large canvas umbrellas shielding them from sun or rain – either being possible within minutes of each other, no matter how settled the weather might seem.
The tall glass doors into the Council of Adult Education slid open, giving access to a tiled foyer and a double bank of lifts said by students to be the city’s slowest. Down the far end, behind a window wall labelled “Reception”, a mid-30s man with two days’ stubble on his chin sat tapping at a computer keyboard. The man slid the window open to answer Bromo’s query and directed him to an upper floor. The students were right: the lift creaked and groaned upward, eventually sliding to a stop on an upper floor. The doors opened on to a small space with two settees facing off across a low table laden with leaflets, course brochures and student newspapers.
Another reception counter. Another sliding glass window. Behind it, watching Bromo, was a short, thin woman, rimless glasses high on a sharp, pointed nose. He thought of a bird, pecking at seed. One hand swept away strands of mousy hair falling over her brow. The other pushed a pane to the left, head cocked to one side. Definitely a bird.
‘Can I help you?’
Her voice surprised him with its baritone richness. So deep for one so small. All wrong. It should have been shriller; a tweet even.
‘Bromo Perkins. Looking for Jude Barton. Is he in?’
The woman extended a bony hand, a ring on every finger.
‘You’ve found him.’
She made a point of emphasising the last word.
‘Jude, short for Judith,’ she explained. A hint of a reprimand. Schoolma’am-ish.
‘My mistake,’ Bromo muttered. ‘Thinking of the apostle.’
It was a slight atonement that she acknowledged with a sniff.
‘Please take a seat. I’ll come and join you.’
She unlocked the door of the office and stepped into the reception area on low-heeled sling-backs. A straight-cut tan dress ended at knee height and a high scalloped neckline revealed little of a busty chest. She gathered a turquoise cardigan in close as she sat down. They faced each other across the foyer table. Bromo dived in. Small talk was clearly off the agenda.
‘Melissa O’Grady. The girl who died. She was studying here, taking a course. I wondered what you could tell me about her.’
‘Such as? You’ll have to be more specific, Mr Perkins. We don’t give out information about students. Privacy laws, you know.’
Yes, he did know. Fully anticipated to confront this barrier. He didn’t expect anything less from the prim Ms Barton. She was fully within her rights. He tried a different tack, bending the truth ever so slightly.
‘It wasn’t a pleasant way to die. We’re friends of Melissa, trying to tie up a few loose ends. Tidying up her life. Sorting out her course materials.’
Jude Barton leaned forward and straightened out the brochures on the table. Put them in neat formation. Playing for time. Considering his plea.
‘She was a good student. Very keen. Popular, too.’
Bromo said nothing, sensing a breakthrough of a sort. Let her talk. All information would be gratefully received.
‘She was studying community services. It’s a very demanding course, lots of theory and knowing the regulations, but also spending time out in the field. We call it practical placement. Not all students can handle it. Melissa could. She was very determined. Sorry I can’t be more specific.’
Bromo pondered the concept of field work. Wondered if that included a job in a brothel, seeing how the other half lived, surveying conditions of the working girls – a polite euphemism for prostitution.
‘Pity about the specifics, Ms Barton,’ he said. ‘A few of those might help us track down some of her friends. Let them know.’
Her shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug. Her glasses had slid down her beak. She pushed them back into place.
‘Oh, they’d know all right. Word of mouth. Texting all the time. Never stops, even in class.’
He shared her irritation, going with the flow, getting her on side.
‘Don’t know what they find to talk about. Funny how we managed with just a public call box. Never missed a date.’
She smiled. Memories. He took his chance.
‘Placement, you said. Do you arrange that, or is it left up to the students?’
The brochures underwent a further shuffle, her cluster of rings clicking against the hard surface of the table. Another pause. Probably deciding if this was classified information.
‘It could go either way,’ she said at last. ‘Depends on the student. The go-getters do it themselves. The others …’
He’d got his answer. Melissa was a go-getter, the type who would arrange her own job placement, getting work in a brothel to study the scene, chasing down material for her assignments, working towards a future.
Bromo stood, smoothed down his jacket and pants. He held out a hand. She shook it, limply, surprised at the sudden end to his questions. Her rings pushed into his flesh.
‘She was a good girl, Mr Perkins. Doing good work. She wasn’t a prostitute.’
‘I know. I never said she was.’
He handed her his business card.
‘If you think of anything else perhaps you could give me a call.’
She read the card, frowning. She turned it over: blank.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Bromo. ‘You look puzzled.’
She shook her head, still studying the card, as if seeking some hidden message.
‘Travel consultant,’ she said, confirming what she read. ‘Is that all?’
Bromo began to understand the reason for her earlier reticence. She doubted him, suspected him.
‘Yes, that’s all,’ he said. ‘A travel agent pure and s
imple. Any time you want a trip through Academia I’d be happy to oblige. An intriguing and complex country I believe. I’m sure I explained who I was when I made our appointment.
‘Yes, you did,’ she said, still fingering the card, rubbing it, turning it over and over. ‘I just thought—’
Her voice trailed off. Bromo hesitated, wondering what it was she had been thinking, what motives she had been attaching to his visit. He decided not to push her further. The lift had made a silent arrival, its doors open and waiting. He stepped in, turning to face her as he pressed the button.
‘Nothing to worry about, Ms Barton. I’m simply a friend of a friend who wouldn’t like to see any more of your students ending up in the river.’
The doors slid shut. It was a slow journey back to street level.
ELEVEN
Carl West, tall, lean and trying to look dapper in a pinstripe suit that had seen better days, gave a cursory nod to the receptionist at Richmond Realty and Rentals and kept walking towards the corridor beyond. The receptionist raised herself up off her stool, leaning forward across the counter. A keeper of the gate, trying to do her job. Once again, she was not quick enough to stall Carl West’s progress.
‘Mr Theopoulos is …’ her words faded to a murmur in the empty foyer, ‘… on a call.’
West’s voice resounded back to her, high-pitched, strident.
‘It’s okay, darl; he’s expecting me – as always.’
Through the rippled glass upper panel of the office door West could see the bulk of Con Theopoulos hunched over his desk, gripping the phone. West laid a gloved hand on the glass and pushed the door open. He raised his other hand in an open palm salutation. Theopoulos acknowledged it with a brief nod as he continued what sounded to West like an angry one-sided conversation – a rapid-fire rant in his mother tongue that left no pauses for interruptions. As far as the monolingual West was concerned, Theopoulos could just as easily have been reciting a recipe for moussaka.