by Peter Klein
‘Oh, that’s striking! Punter, have a look at this. And this seascape,’ she said, looking at the next one, ‘is this for sale? It’s absolutely stunning.’
After another ten minutes of oohing and aahing at his work, Billco just about had her eating out of his hand. We joined him in the kitchen while he made us some coffee, sitting at his island bench and looking at still more sketches and paintings which covered the walls.
‘Punter says he thinks it’s worth you having a crack at drawing the killer,’ she said. ‘Is it something you can do?’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ said Billco nonchalantly, getting some milk from the fridge.
‘I’ve bought along the police sketch for you to see what they came up with,’ said Maxine.
‘Not necessary,’ said Billco, pouring us both a cup.
‘But you’ll want to see the image they’ve done, won’t you?’
‘No. I’d rather not,’ he said. ‘The way I work is to sketch it out in my mind from your description. If I see someone else’s interpretation, it might influence my perception of what this person looks like. Shall we get started?’
Billco led us out to another smaller studio at the back of his house. It had a small couch and a work table with chairs in the corner. We sat down at the table and Billco picked up his tools of trade and went to work. He had an A3 size artist’s pad of lightly textured paper which he opened up and flicked through, looking for a clean page. He was sitting opposite me, so all I could make out was the upside-down sketches of previous drawings he’d done. Maxine, who was next to him, made him stop turning the pages to look at a couple that she liked. She’d have walked out with a bundle of his work if they’d been for sale. Billco grabbed an ice-cream container full of pastels. He picked one out and fingered it. Its label said Rembrandt, and I fancy Billco had a slight resemblance to the Dutch master as he leant forward, deciding where to start.
‘Now, I know you’ve done all this before with the police artist, but I want you to try to describe this guy again.’
Maxine’s response was to reach for her handbag. ‘Let me just look at the police image again and I’ll remember better.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Billco. ‘Just close your eyes and think back to what you saw. Keep them closed, don’t look at me or what I’m drawing. I’ll ask you some questions along the way to help prompt you. You okay with that?’
Maxine had already shut her eyes and nodded. ‘Yep, let’s do it.’
Billco cradled the pad on the table with one hand and twirled the pastel around in his fingers with the other. ‘What’s the first thing you remember about this man?’
Maxine stayed silent for a few seconds, concentrating. ‘I woke up and he was there on my bed . . . with a hand over my mouth and a knife against my throat. I’ve never felt so sure I was going to die. It was just terrifying. I . . .’ Maxine raised a hand to her mouth and opened her eyes again. I reached across the table and laid a palm on her arm, gave her a comforting squeeze.
‘I know it must be hard for you to relive the moment,’ said Billco.
Maxine put her hand down by her side and closed her eyes again. ‘No, keep going. Keep asking me stuff,’ she said resolutely.
‘Okay. Was he Australian? Asian? From somewhere else, maybe?’
‘No, he looked local and sounded it too. It was dark when he woke me up, but then he switched the bedside lamp on and I could see him clearly.’
‘The size and shape of his head; was it big, small, in between?’
‘He was wearing that stupid jockey cap and silks, so I couldn’t really tell. The cap made it all the more frightening. Made his head look more oversized than maybe it really is. He wore it with the peak on its side,’ she said, putting the palm of her hand out in front of her forehead to demonstrate.
‘Could you see his hair under the cap?’
‘Not really; it must have been fairly short if the cap covered it.’
‘Tell me about his eyes. Think about it. Did they speak to you?’
Maxine went silent again and you could tell she was really concentrating hard.
Seconds ticked by. I glanced at Billco. He held a hand up to shoosh me.
‘Did they . . . speak to me?’ she said, sounding a little puzzled, her eyes still squeezed tightly shut.
‘Were they menacing, cruel? Cavalier? Tell me what they said to you.’
She put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands, her fingers covering her face. Her two pointer fingers squeezed her temple, seeming to will her mind to remember something, anything that would help.
‘Think of when you locked eyes for the first time. It’s usually the lasting impression,’ said Billco.
When she spoke again, it was like we were sharing that same chilling moment in the room with her and the killer.
‘He tied me up with my hands to the front. Then he made me write that message on my mirror with some lipstick. It’s hard writing like that . . . with two hands bound together. But what you just said, about locking eyes, I remember now. I’d written those horrible words he told me to write and I sort of kept staring at the writing once I’d done it, because I just knew then that it was all over for me. When I finally looked up from the writing, his face was leering at me from the mirror.’
Maxine dropped her hands to the table now, her eyes still closed, but a more certain and somewhat satisfied expression on her face.
‘Yeah, his eyes spoke to me all right, the prick. They said, I own you. Me; I have the power of life and death over you. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. They were sorta fervent, you know, like one of those southern gospel preachers. Yet at the same time they had a . . .’ she trailed off again, searching for the right choice of words, ‘rage, an intensity behind them.’
Billco had started to sketch. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘this is good, very good.’
‘They were mocking eyes, smug in the knowledge that I was completely at his mercy.’
I watched, fascinated, as Billco’s sketch came to life. He asked more questions as he drew, coaxing details out of Maxine that I hadn’t heard her describe before. Every so often he’d stop and use his fingers to soften edges, or knead his rubber to make a correction. He asked Maxine about the colours, but she deferred to me and Terry’s racing photo. We’d bought it along with the police image and I pulled it out of Maxine’s tote bag and placed it on the table for him to look at. He studied it for a moment before he went back to work again. He sketched on for a little longer and then put his pastels down. The whole thing took no more than twenty minutes.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ he said to Maxine. ‘Have a look and let me know what you think. It’ll probably need a few corrections once you see it.’
He passed the pad across to Maxine, who grabbed at it eagerly. She only looked at it for what seemed a second.
‘Oh my god, that is so like him.’
‘It is?’ said Billco, sounding somewhat relieved.
‘The eyes, you’ve caught the eyes perfectly. In the police shot, he’s sorta staring straight at you with lifeless, featureless eyes. But you’ve somehow brought them to life, given them soul.’
‘The police have good systems which usually give a good front-on view of the face. But I’ve drawn him from a bit of a side angle, the way you must have seen him from the reflection in the mirror. And of course I’ve probably interpreted what you’ve described a little differently from how a police artist may have.’
‘Can I show you the police image now that you’ve finished?’
‘Sure, be interesting to see the difference.’
Maxine pulled the police image out of her bag and laid it next to Billco’s sketch on the table. They both looked at the drawings, curiously noting the differences.
I walked around to their side of the table and joined them, the first time I’d seen the drawing right side up.
Maxine chattered away excitedly to Billco. ‘The nose could be a bit thinner. And
maybe the chin, too. The police picture is probably a better likeness for that. I’m sorry, I should have described it better.’
‘No, it’s quite okay,’ said Billco. He’d picked up the pad again and was already making corrections to his sketch. ‘There’s some facial parts you remember better than others.’
He rubbed out some of his drawing in little circles here and there and then used his pastels to add some more lines in.
‘The nose thin enough now?’
‘That’s better, but his nostrils were more . . . flared.’
He made some changes, poked and moulded it with his fingers a bit more before he seemed happy with it. ‘Like that?’
‘Perfect.’
‘What about the eyes, you happy with them?’
‘Don’t change anything about the eyes!’ barked Maxine. It sounded like an order and brought a smile to Billco’s face. Finally, he put his pastels and his rubber back into the ice-cream container and put the drawing back alongside the police image.
‘Then I guess it’s done,’ he said.
‘What do you think, Punter?’ said Maxine. ‘Isn’t that far more realistic than the one the police did?’
I looked at the police image and saw what I’d already seen several times before; an unremarkable face who could be anybody. Then I looked at Billco’s drawing. As different as chalk and cheese. He’d captured it just as Maxine must have seen him in all his horror. The jockey’s cap provided a grotesque mask effect and he’d instilled a cruelness in the leering smile of his lips. But it was his eyes that caught my attention. Billco had captured a certain intensity, a life-like fervour that Maxine had described which had been missing from the police picture. They were creepy eyes that repulsed, yet compelled you to stare back at them.
‘Punter?’ Maxine nudged me. ‘What do you reckon?’
I didn’t answer, just stood staring at the drawing. I turned it away from me at more of an angle. Then I tried it again from the opposite side. The eyes stared back at me, following me around the room.
I think Billco sensed it even before I did, the artist in him coming to the fore.
‘You’ve seen him before, haven’t you?’ he said quietly.
‘Do you? Do you know this guy?’ said Maxine, gripping my arm.
‘Look at the eyes, Punter, concentrate on the eyes,’ said Billco. ‘Here, try this.’ He ripped a clean sheet of paper from his pad and then tore it in half. Then he placed one end above the eyebrows and the other just below the nostrils, blocking off the rest of the head and face. I locked eyes again with the strapper killer, this time without the jockey cap to distract me.
Something seemed to tug at the strings of a distant memory. A vague recollection of someone I thought I recognised. For just a second his face ghosted around in my mind, teasing me, mocking me in my attempt to try and identify it. I shut my eyes tightly, willing the face to show itself clearly. It lingered for an instant, so tantalisingly close. I had it in my mind’s eye. Knew I’d seen him somewhere before. Then the apparition seemed to laugh at me and fade into any one of ten thousand other faces I’d seen around the track over the years. I’d lost him.
19
At Caulfield races the next day, I couldn’t help thinking about Billco’s sketch. It had triggered some recall, however small, in the back of my mind. I’m pretty good at remembering a horse’s head or a human face. I can watch a horse walk into the mounting yard and most times I don’t need a formguide to tell me who it is. The same for people. I might not always remember their names, but when I see them hanging out at the track, I file them away and make a mental note to myself that this person or that are players. And Billco’s sketch was bugging me because somewhere on a racecourse, I knew I’d seen that face.
I tipped George from the Salvos as I walked in. Put a couple of dollars in his bucket to grease the wheels of luck and keep them turning. He gave me a kind-hearted smile and wished me well like he always does. George has wide, honest eyes. There is not an ounce of badness in his entire face. Not that I remotely suspected George of being the strapper killer, but with Billco’s sketch on my mind, I found myself looking at every man I met with renewed interest. I bought a coffee from Daisy in the café and agreed with her that yes, I was a bit on the thin side and would definitely try and make it back at lunchtime for one of her roasts. She’s got a set of concerned, motherly eyes. Kind eyes that smiled at me when I tipped her a horse in the third.
I unsuccessfully avoided Trader Bill and his usual spiel about buying a watch. I wondered how Billco would fare, trying to draw his face from my description. Quite easily, I would imagine. Trader’s eyes were large and round and mischievous. I never knew a man who could look you in the face and lie continuously without even blinking like Trader could. But Trader’s lies and tales of deceit were harmless puffery about his watches. And his eyes were those of a harmless con man, not a killer. I parted Trader’s company minus a ‘lazy twenty’ which he promised to return by the end of the meeting. Kiss that goodbye.
After a couple of races I forgot about Billco and his sketch and slipped back into my normal raceday routine. The day passed uneventfully and in between races I spoke with Big Oakie and swapped notes about who we thought could win today and what price they’d be. I watched the horses in the mounting yard before each race. Some I played, some I passed on. I won a few, lost a few and finished up a little ahead after the first five races with my best selection still to run in the last.
Around three, I made my way down from the grandstand to the café. It was time to join the gang for a sandwich and a drink. I took a couple of steps inside and paused for a moment, looking through the crowd to the usual corner where they hung out. Tiny was there sharing a formguide and a couple of beers with Louise. Got on well, those two, like bread and butter. Kate and Nathan, or Ned; I could never remember which, were talking to them. Ric was propping up a pylon like it would fall over without him. He was nursing a glass of red and was there with Matt and my brother and Myles Perry. Thommo was standing, juggling a plate of sandwiches in one hand and a Best Bets in the other. He kept an ear to the conversation and a sharp eye on the crowd collecting bets at the tote window. Sizing them up for a friendly ‘bump’ later in the day, no doubt. David held his glass up when he saw me and I waved back at him.
I bought a lemon squash at the bar then sidled up to David and Myles. I raised a glass at Tiny and Louise and smiled at Kate. Thommo asked me how the battle was going and I gave him the standard response.
‘Hard game the punt, old son.’
I stood next to Ric, who was still leaning against the pylon. He was watching the constant stream of races on the TV monitor, as we all seemed to be doing. Sydney, Adelaide, Brisbane. Didn’t matter if you hadn’t backed a runner, you were always on the lookout for a good thing beaten.
I was down to the ice cubes in my lemon squash and I twirled them around while watching the TV. Kate and her boyfriend came over and she demanded I mark her card for the rest of the day. I flicked through the pages of her race book, circling a horse here and there while her stupid boyfriend stood right in front of me, blocking my view of the TV. I gave Kate her book back and made some small talk, then offered to buy a round of drinks. I hadn’t timed it well. It was rush hour at the bar, a long queue four or five deep waiting to be served. I thought as I’d be waiting a few minutes anyway, I may as well pay a visit to the gents’ and come back.
I walked into the toilets, a smallish bathroom with half a dozen cubicles and a stainless steel urinal. The flusher must have been stuck or broken; the water sounded like a tiny waterfall as it washed down the trough and over the citrusy-smelling tablets floating in the urinal. I stood on the metallic grid, the only person there apart from someone in one of the cubicles. I heard it flush and someone came out and started washing their hands. It was Matt.
He flashed a friendly grin at me from the mirror on the wall as I walked over and joined him. I gave him a nod and asked him how he was going.
; ‘Up and down,’ he said.
‘Yeah, know that feeling.’
I started washing my hands and gave him a smile, catching his face in the mirror. He looked down as he soaped his hands then raised his head again to see me still staring at his reflection. We locked eyes for a moment before he looked away again. I turned off the tap and grabbed a hand towel by the door and gave my hands a quick dry. Then I stood leaning against the door and stared back at him. He pretended not to notice at first; made a show of inspecting his fingers. Holding them out over the basin as if to see if he’d missed anything, then soaping them up and washing them again. Only so many times a man can rinse his hands. I stood and I stared. Took in the back of his head. Noted the shortish carrot-coloured hair. Met his gaze again as his eyes slowly lifted to meet mine in the mirror. His eyes; not so welcoming this time. A flash of annoyance had suddenly crept into them.
It was quiet in that toilet; nobody else there but Matt and I and the sound of the water trickling from the flusher. His eyes hadn’t left mine. It was like we were engaged in some kind of staring competition and the first to weaken and turn away would lose.
‘They’re clean enough, Meggsy,’ I said.
He went on washing his hands, holding me in his stare, and I kept on leaning there against the door with my arms folded, looking right back at him. Finally he looked down at the basin and turned off the tap.
‘No one’s called me that for a long time,’ he said.
‘Let me guess, not since you were a kid. Back when you used to work for Chas Bannon.’
He turned around slowly and faced me.
‘And now you’ve got another nickname, haven’t you? Strapper Killer.’
He gave me the faintest of smiles. ‘When did you work out it was me?’ he said calmly. ‘When did you find out?’
‘I recognised your face from a drawing.’