by Peter Klein
‘Odds on, the girl with the cap,’ I said.
‘No, the guy’s much better turned out. Have a look at the trouble he’s gone to,’ argued Kate.
As we waited for the jockeys to mount up, I provided Kate with an imaginary market on each strapper’s chances.
‘A dollar eighty red-ribbon-girl, three’s the guy with the hat and fives for the blonde leading in number seven. Tens the rest of the field.’
‘I’ll have ten on the guy with the hat, then.’
‘Done,’ I said.
We didn’t have to wait long. As soon as the jockeys were mounting up, Mr Chubby Face made a special announcement over the microphone that the strapper’s prize was being judged. Shortly after, he and Laskers’ man conferred with one another and seemed to come to a decision.
‘The winner of the strapper’s prize for the best turned out horse goes to number four, Melissa Jordan, and her horse, City Sights. Melissa, as soon as the jockeys have ridden onto the track, we ask that you come forward and collect your prize.’
I wriggled my thumb and fingers in front of Kate’s nose. ‘Um, a matter of a tenner?’
‘I was dudded. He only had eyes for that girl. He didn’t bother looking at anyone else.’
What a fantastic idea, a strapper’s prize! Of course, there can only be one real judge of that contest. Someone who knows and understands what those little strumpets are really up to. Namely, yours truely.
I make sure to get right up close against the mounting yard fence where I can watch them clearly. And from where I’m standing I notice the sponsor and a fat committeeman jotting down points on a clipboard. Now that’s very professional. Perhaps I should do something similar? Formalise things a bit more, maybe work out a scoring system myself. But no. There’s no need. I know instinctively which of those trollops will get my vote. They virtually pick themselves, don’t they?
But this is wonderful entertainment! They’ve dressed up for today; I like to think especially for me, but of course I know it’s because of the contest. Even the guy strappers have taken the trouble to wear suits and ties. But with two men judging, I doubt they’ll go for the male strappers. Not unless they’re faggots. Now then, time for business. Which harlot will it be today, who’s going to get my vote, hmmm?
Number one’s a bit on the podgy side. She shouldn’t really be wearing jodhpurs owning a backside like that. She appears to be a simple country girl and I smile smugly to myself when I see that the horse is in fact trained up bush at Bendigo. Next. Horse numbers two and eight both have male strappers, so moving right along . . . Number seven has possibilities. She’s youngish, still perfecting the slutty looks she’s trying to palm off to anyone stupid enough to pay attention. In a year or two she’ll be ripe. Number ten’s as ugly as sin; an old brood mare. I watch intently as the last of the stragglers comes into the ring. They are all there now, all the strappers and their horses.
Have a close look at number four, will you. Tight jodhpurs around her arse. Blouse buttons open for all the world to see. The only thing stopping a decent peek down there is the ridiculous pinafore with the horse number on it that strappers are required to wear. Now then, did you see that; the way she flicked her plait? Amanda used to flick her hair like that too. This one’s got a black plait with a red ribbon in it and a matching one in her horse’s mane. But wait, did I just see what I think I saw? Did she really tip her cap to the judges? I can’t believe it. And he’s fallen for it too, that sponsor fellow. So has the fat committeeman. Fallen for her treacherous little ways, each of them thinking they’re half a chance with her. She knows that. She knows the power she has over men. Just like Amanda.
By the way the two judges zero in on her, I can tell the com petition is as good as over. And so it proves to be. After the jockeys ride their horses out onto the track, they announce the winner on the PA and, shock horror, it’s number four. Melissa, Sweet Melissa. She steps forward to collect her prize. Holds a hand to her face in an ‘Oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-I’ve-won’ sort of way, and responds briefly with some insincere words of thanks for the sponsor. I check her trainer in the race book. Some local battler. The horse has some form though. I might even back it; it’s got half a chance. Now, wouldn’t that be a nice double for Melissa, picking up the strapper’s prize and her horse winning the race. And even better would be the trifecta; my little rendezvous with her later tonight. But she doesn’t know anything about that yet, so let’s not spoil it for her.
8
I ’d only just gone to bed when the hospital rang me.
‘Is this John Punter?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have some news about Maxine Henshaw. She’s come out of her coma and she’s going to be okay.’
Thank god for that. The four words I most wanted to hear: going to be okay. I’d been Googling anything I could find about brain trauma on the internet and the more I looked, the more convinced I was that Maxine was a goner. It seemed that cyberspace was full of gloomy predictions and case histories of coma patients, with such cheerful information as: . . . It’s not uncommon for victims to be comatose for weeks or months at a time . . . the longer they are, the greater their chances for permanent brain damage.
Maxine had been out for just under twenty-four hours, so she’d been lucky, the doctor said. Apart from some cuts to the back of her head caused by the beer bottle, she was relatively unscathed. They were keeping her in for observation for a couple more days, but I could come and visit her tomorrow if I wanted to.
The next morning after breakfast, I drove over to the Alfred Hospital. On the way, I stopped off at a florist and bought a big bunch of something colourful and fragrant. Can’t remember what exactly, just pointed them out and the girl wrapped them for me and sold me a card as well. At reception, they gave me directions to where I could find Maxine. They’d shifted her out of Emergency and put her into a private room. As I trooped through the various wards, there didn’t seem to be many visitors around; still a bit early yet. I thought I may have even been the first. But as I walked through J Ward and into Maxine’s room, I saw that I’d been beaten to the post. Russell Henshaw was there ahead of me, sitting in a chair next to Maxine, who looked to be sleeping peacefully.
I nodded at him. ‘You been here long?’ I said civilly.
‘Hours,’ he replied gruffly. ‘More than I can say for you.’
I doubted he’d been here for very long. They’d told me last night; strictly no visitors before eight thirty, so don’t think I was buying any of his father-keeps-all-night-bedside-vigil story.
‘I bought these,’ I said, holding my bunch of flowers awkwardly in my hands.
Henshaw grunted and jerked his head towards the window. There, on a table, was the largest bunch of flowers I’d ever seen. Bought by Daddy, obviously. Must have cost a packet; they made mine seem pathetic. I placed my humble offering next to them and looked at Maxine. She still had tubes sticking out of her arms and attached to monitoring machines. A nurse came in and checked her; smiled at us as she fussed around Maxine.
‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know why you’d be interested,’ butted in Henshaw.
I ignored him. ‘Nurse, can you tell me the latest?’
‘She’s going to be fine, a very lucky girl. She’s very drowsy, we’ve got her on medication, so it’s best if you don’t stay too long.’
The nurse fluffed up her pillows a little and checked the monitors. Maxine looked pale and childlike lying there. I watched her a moment, unsure whether I should try to talk to her, maybe wake her up. Felt a prat sitting there with her bully-boy father.
‘I thought I made myself quite clear yesterday,’ said Henshaw. ‘I don’t want you seeing my daughter again.’
‘When I started going out with Maxine, I didn’t sign up for the package,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The father-comes-with-daughter deal.’
‘You impertinent little fool. No one speaks to m
e like that.’
This was getting loud and nasty and the nurse was doing her diplomatic best to pretend not to notice. But I couldn’t help myself, I finally lost my temper.
‘Oh fuck off, Russell. Wake up to yourself. If I hadn’t been there looking out for Maxine, she may not even be here with us now.’
‘It’s your fault she’s here at all!’
‘Yeah, is that right? You believe what you want to believe. I don’t give a shit what you think.’
‘I don’t want you seeing her, I tell you. I won’t put up with it. I’ve got horses with your father,’ he said, a nasty blackmailer’s edge entering his voice. ‘Don’t think I won’t hesitate to take them somewhere else.’ He let the threat hang.
‘Look, you can give them to the pope to train for all I care. Your horses aren’t my problem. And like I’ve told you before, as far as not seeing Maxine again, that’s something I’d want to hear from her, not you.’
The silly bastard went for me, can you believe it? In the same hospital room where his daughter lay before us, a victim of violence herself, and a nurse was trying to do her job. He came at me like a windmill blowing in a gale, swinging a wild succession of haymakers that I easily dodged. Then he grabbed me by the shirt front and I thought, for Christ sake, enough is enough. I gave him a cuff on the bridge of his nose, not hard, but enough to make him drop his hands.
The nurse yelled at us, ‘Stop it! I’m calling security.’
Henshaw came at me again and this time I let him have it, gave him a decent right-hander under the eye. He fell to the side, bringing the stand carrying Maxine’s tubes and bottles crashing down beside him.
‘Sit down, you bloody fool!’ I told him.
‘Stop it, the pair of you!’ shouted the nurse.
A big gorilla of a security guard came rushing in from the corridor, not quite believing what he was seeing. Henshaw glared at me from the floor where he’d fallen. This time he wasn’t in such a hurry to get up.
‘Right, you two. You’re out of here now!’ barked the security guard at us.
‘He started it,’ said Henshaw, pointing a threatening finger at me. ‘I want him arrested for assault.’
‘I started it? You’ve got to be kidding. I was defending myself.’
A meek little voice broke the silence.
‘Can’t you two stop arguing?’ Maxine said, drawing herself up weakly on her pillow. ‘You woke me up,’ she said. ‘Both of you, with your stupid fighting.’
I muttered an apology; suggested it might be better if I left. Henshaw, for once, agreed with me.
‘You want them both to leave, miss?’ said the security guard.
‘I think that’s definitely a good idea,’ said the nurse, starting to clean up the mess.
Maxine spoke again, softly, almost to herself. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to get some more sleep. You’ll have to come back later. I’m so . . . tired.’
Poor girl looked exhausted, like she was going to collapse back onto the bed as she spoke.
That was enough as far as the nurse was concerned. She shooed us both out, forbidding us to see Maxine again before the afternoon’s visiting session, and with the explicit instruction that we weren’t to visit her together. The security guard marched us all the way to the foyer, determined we wouldn’t cause any more trouble. Outside, Henshaw stormed off ahead of me. I got to the entrance steps and waited there, giving him time to get into his car. I didn’t particularly want another scene with him in the car park. His car was in the first bay, something loud and yellow, a Maserati I think. He got in, slammed the door, threw the thing into reverse and then straightened it up and roared past the entrance, giving me a glare as he sped by. An absolute psycho. I really didn’t fancy having him for a father-in-law.
As his car disappeared out through the gates, my mobile rang. It was Kate.
‘Hi Punter, I’m at work. There was a police report that came in earlier I thought I should tell you about.’
Kate is usually either pretty jovial or deadpan on the phone. This morning it was the latter, so I figured the news couldn’t be good.
‘What’s up?’
‘There was a girl murdered last night. You and I sort of know her.’ Kate paused a moment before continuing. ‘She was the girl who won the strapper’s prize yesterday.’
An hour later I was sitting in a café opposite Great Southern Station sipping a cappuccino and waiting for Kate. Her workplace at The Age was only a short stroll away. She didn’t keep me waiting long. Five minutes after I’d arrived she eased her petite figure into the chair next to me, a coffee in her hand.
‘Hi Punter.’
‘Hi.’
‘My editor’s just assigned me this story I called you about. I’m gonna be tied up solid on it for a couple of days.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Another raceday, another female strapper murdered. Melissa Jordan was her name.’
‘The girl you and I saw win the strapper’s prize yesterday?’
‘Uh-huh. And she was done just like the others. They’ve all been killed in their homes. All showing signs of multiple stab wounds and sexual assault. They found Melissa this morning the same way, although they’re still completing an autopsy on her. That makes three in the past month. There’s someone out there killing female strappers.’
I thought back to the first killing. ‘Everyone thought Julie Summers was killed by Mad Charlie until the police let him go,’ I said. I was thinking about what Beering had told me, the reasoning behind dropping the charges. ‘Beering used some fancy legal jargon for describing why the DPP didn’t go ahead. Noel something or other.’
‘Nolle prosequi. It’s when they refuse to pursue charges because of certain evidence coming to light. I know all about Mad Charlie’s alibi and the other bits and pieces ruling him out, including the scribble on the wall of the victims’ bedrooms.’
‘The girl killed last night, was . . .?’
Kate nodded matter-of-factly. ‘Same writing on her bedroom wall: Silk Chaser. I saw the police photos, although we’ve been requested by police not to mention that in the papers.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Up to a point, but I think it’s gonna be hard to keep a lid on this one.’
‘What do the cops think? They got any ideas?’
‘You want my opinion? They haven’t got a clue.’
I thought about that for a moment while taking a sip of coffee. ‘Why do you think he’s killing them?’
Kate drained her cup, set it down again and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin.
‘Beats me. Find his motive, you probably find the killer.’
I realised we’d both jumped in with a he as the killer. ‘There’s no possibility he could be a she?’
‘It’s true, there have been female serial killers, so you can’t discount it. But in the first two cases, the victims were raped and semen samples were found. It’s the same MO with Melissa Jordan, which suggests a similar finding.’
‘She’d been dealt with the same way?’
‘Poor girl. Her apartment was broken into while she slept. He attacked her in her bed. She never had a chance.’
I thought back to yesterday afternoon when I’d been standing next to the mounting yard with Kate. Melissa Jordan had been leading her horse around, pretty as a model, wearing that groom’s cap and the red ribbon in her hair. Dressed to impress for the strapper’s prize. She had, too; caught the judges’ eye and won the thing. But that was yesterday, and now she was gone. A pale corpse lying in the coroner’s morgue.
‘Listen, I’d better get going,’ said Kate, ‘but if you hear anything at the track, and it doesn’t matter how insignificant, can you give me the heads up? This story’s not going to go away quickly.’
‘Sure. Anything I hear, you’ll know about.’
Kate got up to leave. ‘Hey, I nearly forgot to ask, any news about Maxine?’
‘She’s okay. Came out of her coma las
t night with no complications.’
Kate laid a hand on mine. ‘I’m so pleased.’
When I got back to my flat, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself for the rest of the day. Che suggested a lunchtime feed was probably a good starting point. He rubbed against my leg and let out one of his not-before-time meows.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, anyone would think you hadn’t been fed for a week.’
I spooned a handful of dry biscuits into his feed bowl and he hoed into it like a greedy pony who’d found the door to the oat bin open. Ridiculous creature.
Outside, Mrs Givan was putting out her first load of washing for the day. Colours this time, but there was every chance of another wash later on. Maybe the whites would come out then. I mean, I know she had method, unlike myself who chucked everything in together once a week when I realised I’d run out of clothes. I waved at her through the window when she looked up at me. Nice old dear. Shouldn’t complain about her as a neighbour if doing lots of washing was her worst crime. She fed Che for me too, if I was away overnight. In fact, I’m sure that feline was double-dipping during the day and getting an extra feed from her when he shouldn’t.
Mrs Givan had picked a good day to hang out her washing. It was a brilliant December afternoon with the promise of a warm northerly. It occured to me that perhaps I, too, should do some chores around my flat, maybe even some washing of my own. I looked into my laundry basket, which was badly overflowing. It was crying out for an empty, but when I checked my tallboy, it still had three days’ supply of undies and T-shirts in it. I had a quick peek at the flag tower across the road at Scotch College. Yep, definitely offshore. Stuff it. Never do today what can be put off till tomorrow. I was going surfing.
Nothing like the first smack of a wave as it breaks over your head. I was at Gunnamatta, way down the beach towards Cape Schanck, where I’d found a nice isolated bank. There were little lefts and rights forming off an A-frame; an easy rip to paddle out in and, even better, all the stand-ups were surfing at the first car park, too far for them to venture down, so I had the wave all to myself. And today conditions were just right. Clean waters, a warm offshore breeze; just what I needed to clear my mind and get some exercise. I caught a couple of sets in quick succession, then enjoyed a leisurely wait in between waves dangling my legs over the sides of the ski. When it got too warm, I flipped over and eskimo-rolled back up, enjoying the sensation of the refreshing water dripping down my hair. A school of whiting skipped by; don’t know what they made of me splashing about like a whale. A flock of gulls hovered overhead, ever watchful for possible food scraps.