Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  ‘Stop whinging. Phuong’s loyal. She actually thinks if I find Mortimer it will get you out of this mess. Why she should help you I have no idea. After you had threats painted on her car.’

  He stepped back. ‘Never. That was not me.’

  ‘Some friend of yours then. The one who wrote her name on the bullets?’

  He frowned. ‘No. You don’t understand, she’s so fucking conscientious.’

  ‘Not anymore. She gave me a transcript of the recording you asked her to delete.’

  Copeland took that in with a bitter laugh. ‘Told you, she’s disloyal.’

  ‘You overreached, getting her to delete it. There’s nothing on the recording to convict you of anything, other than drinking. Your guilt got the better of you. That’s why I don’t believe your story about Blyton and the Turk and Mortimer. Like that was the first time you’ve ever done the Corpse Flowers’s dirty work. You and Blyton were bent for a long time. But you treat Phuong’s professional integrity as a small price to pay for your reputation.’

  He flung his glass at my head. ‘Get fucked.’

  I ducked. ‘Right back at you,’ I said, and walked out.

  Felicity was drinking tea in the café. When I walked in, she signalled the waiter for a second cup. She poured me a cup from the pot. ‘How was your meeting?’

  ‘Great.’

  My phone sang ‘Superstar’.

  ‘It’s Bunny. Do you have any idea what was in those documents you gave me?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all weapons importation, about grenades, and setting up connections for drug trafficking.’

  ‘There’s letters here from the Xishuangbanna People’s Hospital in China, that’s near the Burmese border, right across from Kengtung, in fact.’

  A hospital? That was troubling. ‘I’ve got you an interview with the insider. There’s a Buddhist temple —’

  ‘Great. Sure. But you’ve got to get me into that house.’

  ‘Peck’s house, you mean? No. Forget that. You have to meet with the person I told you about. Tomorrow at two.’ I gave her the address of the temple and I dropped my phone into my bag.

  The teapot was empty, and Felicity scooped up the keys. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Home.’

  She stopped opposite my building. I crossed the road, and spotted a blob of meat and fur in the gutter. Not Trotsky, please, not Trotsky. I went for a closer look. It was messed up. I bent down, peering in the shadows. A cat — fur was black rather than brown. Sorry, cat.

  Felicity came over. ‘You okay, Stella? You’ve gone white.’

  To my horror, I’d started shaking. ‘I can’t … go upstairs.’

  ‘Of course not. Come on, you’re staying at my place. Don’t even think of going up there. We’ll buy you a toothbrush. You can borrow some of my clothes.’

  I was beginning to genuinely like Felicity.

  51

  I WOKE up, taking a few minutes to register that my phone was ringing, just as it rang out. There was a momentary fit of terror at finding myself in an unfamiliar room, until I noticed I was wearing Felicity’s largest pair of pyjamas and remembered it was the Sparks’s spare room. A missed call from an unknown number. It rang again.

  ‘Stella Hardy?’

  ‘Who is this? How did you get this number?’

  ‘Shane Farquhar. Remember me? Your old school friend.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve been talking to your mother.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It has everything to do with you. I’m in the city. At Crown. Meet me in the food court on the ground floor in an hour.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘In an hour or there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Ten. I’ve been up for four hours.’

  The man kept seriously anti-social hours. A farmer’s hours.

  I had no desire to have it out with Shane Farquhar, and certainly not at Crown Casino. But the sooner this farm-sale fiasco was over the better. After that, I’d never have to deal with him again.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said, half-heartedly.

  I went in search of breakfast. I expected the household to be asleep, taking advantage of the public holiday, but the Sparks were in a state of frantic activity, in preparation for the Cup Day festivities.

  Felicity’s mother stood at the kitchen bench making sandwiches. Dressed in a slip, she was deeply tanned and her white-blonde hair was done up, reeking of hairspray. She padded around to the pantry in bare feet. Felicity’s father came out in his suit pants and a singlet. Shorter than I expected, but otherwise conforming to the image of a wealthy middle-aged man, greying hair, fit, muscular, good teeth. He asked for advice on cufflinks.

  Mrs Sparks introduced me as a friend of Felicity’s. Which I supposed I was now.

  She came bustling past me. ‘Breakfast?’ She popped a pod in the coffee machine. ‘Cups here, cereal there, help yourself.’

  Good coffee and sourdough toast — I liked the way these people lived. Felicity came out in a white dressing gown. ‘I put some toiletries and a change of clothes on your bed.’

  I trotted off to see what she had in mind. A loose, cotton frock with an Italian label. I held it against my shoulders. It would fit. Just.

  In the bathroom, I washed and slipped into Felicity’s dress. Then I brushed my teeth with my new toothbrush and stepped on the pedal bin to dispose of the wrapping. As I did, something in the bin drew my attention. I reached in and pulled out a piece of a photograph, just a corner. It was only a headless shoulder, a hint of dark hair. The design of the shirt matched a shirt of mine.

  I put the piece in my bag and went out into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m meeting a friend in the city. Can you point me to the station?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll drop you in the city,’ Felicity said. ‘No trouble at all. I was going to do some shopping anyway.’

  We were back in the Mercedes, me in Felicity’s dress. With each favour, I was feeling more and more indebted to her.

  ‘Forgot my phone,’ she said and went inside.

  I crossed my legs and kicked Felicity’s handbag. I looked up to make sure she was not on her way back. Then I opened it. Wallet, lipstick, pen, nail scissors, and a spiral notebook. I flipped it open.

  It was a list of dates and times.

  10.50a.m. S > pumpkin

  1p.m. P > S

  11.30p.m. S > taxi

  I looked up, saw Felicity coming out of the house, and threw the book in my bag.

  ‘Crown it is.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said with a sidelong glance.

  She let me out at the entrance to Crown. Impenetrable crowds, some already spectacularly drunk, milled around the entrance, in anticipation of Crown’s ‘alternative racing experience’ — inside a tacky casino as opposed to mingling with a hundred thousand punters outside at Flemington racecourse.

  ‘I’ll be in the boutiques if you need me,’ she said. I waved her goodbye, hiding my mounting feelings of mistrust. I would deal with her later. First, I had to get this Farquhar thing out of the way. I texted Shane to say I was waiting in one of the coffee shops.

  ‘Hardy, you two-faced slag,’ he said, sliding into the booth with a plate of chips. ‘You’ve ruined my life.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration.’

  He seized a bottle of sauce and squeezed the contents all over his plate. ‘How’d your fucking sister and her idiot husband get the money?’

  ‘Through a family member. They got lucky. On the market. Apple.’ Not strictly a lie. I’d been lucky and I’d been known to buy apples at the market.

  He stabbed the chips with a fork and crammed them in his mouth. ‘I had plans. Big plans and you fucked me over.’

  ‘Hey, I resent tha
t.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I resent you lying to my face.’

  Jeez this bloke was hard work. ‘I never promised you the farm. All I said was that I would talk to Delia. And, frankly, this isn’t my fault. Mum’s been selling small parcels of the farm for years. You had plenty of chances. You blew it.’

  ‘Waiting for the drought to end. Thought of selling up myself.’ He ruminated on some dark notion, resentment all over the sunburnt face he was stuffing. ‘I’ll sue.’

  ‘There was no contract. Nothing in writing.’

  More stabbing and gnawing. ‘I can make things very uncomfortable for your family.’ He lifted his gaze from the chips to sneer at me, reminding me of Alma. ‘The fuck happened to your face?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, Shane. You have to take this like a grown up. Kylie is family. And you’re …’

  ‘A long-standing member of the community.’

  ‘Tyler doesn’t have much experience. Maybe you could help him out. Mentor him.’

  ‘Get fucked.’

  ‘They want to breed Dexters, small Irish cows. They’ll need advice.’

  He sat upright. ‘Dexters? Terrible decision.’ A smirk crept across his face. And I didn’t like the glint in his eye.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He pushed the plate away. ‘Driving back. Never want to hit the city again.’

  ‘Have a good trip.’

  ‘You and your whole stupid family have made a big mistake.’

  ‘Give my regards to your mum.’

  ‘She always said your dad couldn’t kick. Played for frees.’

  I didn’t bite. ‘Off you go, Shane.’

  I went to where the high-end boutiques were located, looking for Felicity. I looked in Ralph Lauren, Marc Jacobs, DKNY, expecting to find her checking out the handbags, or trying on sunnies. With no luck tracking down Felicity, I decided to see if I could crash Crown’s Cup Day gig.

  The event entrance was in the main foyer of Crown. It was sponsored by Fregare, the new fragrance by Caposala, a European cosmetics giant, rebranded when the old name scored negatively with consumers ever since a notorious incident when a bad batch of exfoliant removed numerous layers of skin, way too many layers. A class action lawsuit was pending.

  A group of tall Barbie-esque women, in mauve — this year’s Caposala colour — were checking tickets and handing out free samples. I pulled my work lanyard from my handbag and rolled back my shoulders, extended my neck and tipped my head up. Inhaling the clouds of scent, I made an arrogant mince towards the function entrance, swishing Felicity’s floaty frock, and put out my hand for a sample.

  ‘Ticket?’ An improbably beautiful woman asked nervously.

  ‘My dear, I’m Angora Rockford, I don’t need a ticket. Here.’ I flashed the WORMS lanyard.

  ‘Oh, of course. Here, have two samples.’

  And I was in.

  Fregare was the feminine perfume. The male fragrance was Fegato for Men. The bottle was in the shape of Michelangelo’s ‘David’, so not at all tacky. I pulled out the stopper. Notes of vetiver, musk, and cashmere wood. Interesting.

  I dropped the bottle in my bag and went looking for food.

  A big screen had been erected, and was showing horses and pretty people being interviewed. Food was laid on, and waiters in long, white aprons carried trays of champagne flutes. I mingled for a bit, and who should I spy but Pukus. He was in his natural habitat, hovering over the food, like a corpulent antelope grazing the vast tracts of canapes.

  ‘What’s good to eat around here?’ I asked.

  He welcomed me with a high-pitched snort. ‘How did you get in?’

  I smiled enigmatically.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘How’s Ogg-Simons?’

  ‘He quit.’

  ‘The twat.’ He was already pink from champagne. ‘He’s a weak cunt.’

  The language shocked me, and then it didn’t. ‘Boss is a good bloke.’

  He finished a miniature gourmet sausage roll and dusted his fingers. ‘He’s weak. Leaving the agency. Why? Because of his feelings. I said to him, I said Brendan, get drunk and get laid like the rest of us, mate. Go to the footy and shout your cares to the wind. But no, he’s sensitive. Prefers the company of his wife.’

  ‘Yes. I see how that makes him unfit to be a man.’ I selected a mini pastry with a cheese filling, and a piece of cucumber, a blade of grass balanced on top.

  ‘You know the passport thing is about to go public,’ I said.

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s all tight. They managed it very carefully. No media.’

  ‘Okay, but the whistle-blower is about to give an interview to Bunny Slipper.’

  Some of Pugh’s face slipped down into his jowls.

  ‘Yeah. Apparently, he’s going to talk about how the passports were for homeless kids to go to Asia and have their organs sold to rich people with bad hearts, and dodgy kidneys.’

  ‘What? Are you sure? Oh, no. PR’s not ready for that kind of front-page disaster.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can spin it. You’re very good on your feet.’

  ‘Yes, er, thanks Hardy. But still … this kiddie travel business. Looks bad.’

  ‘So you’ll honour your commitment to increase funding for homeless children?’

  A young man behind a bar started pouring champagne.

  ‘Oh, right, that scheme of yours. Makes sense, I suppose. I could make that announcement at the same time. Yes, yes. Very well,’ Pukus said and pushed past me to join the other dignitaries gathered around that waterhole.

  I ate my pastry; it was delicious. Tomorrow when Boss gave me a lecture for refusing to apply for his job, as per the letter I’d left in his pigeonhole, I’d be able to say that I can at least continue to hold Pugh to account for his promises.

  So far, so good. On the giant screen, a race started. Several guests fell to raucous cheering. The security guards eyed each other warily. Judging when to chuck the buggers out was a delicate matter, especially if they were, say, the justice minister.

  I looked up and saw Felicity coming towards me. How had she evaded the purple door sentries, I wondered? I flashed the David-shaped perfume bottle at her. ‘This is the one you gave Brophy.’

  She froze like a rabbit in a spotlight, light reflected in her large brown eyes. She tried to swallow. ‘Is it?’

  I considered the bottle, the brand. ‘It must have cost a bomb.’

  ‘Oh, no. I get them free.’

  ‘What about cutting me out of the pictures you stole from Brophy’s? And keeping a record of all my movements? That’s why you’ve been so helpful to me — you’re gathering intel.’

  Guilt and tears welled in her eyes. ‘Stella,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Admit it, you’re stalking me, aren’t you?’

  Tears spilled as her face crumpled. ‘God help me.’

  ‘A-ha! I knew it!’

  ‘I tried everything to get him to love me. I’ve cast hundreds of love spells. I brought wine to the modelling sessions, I flirted, I flaked out on his couch, but he never went near me. All he wanted was to paint.’

  Brophy, you legend. I wanted to run around and high-five every fool in the place.

  She blew her nose and went towards me. A hug was the idea. My arm went out and locked straight, fending her off.

  Felicity Sparks. Well, well. To think I’d blamed Marigold for the photo thefts.

  ‘So you admit you pinched that photo of Brophy and me?’

  ‘Stella, I’m sorry.’

  ‘And the spying?’

  ‘So I could tell him you were seeing other men. Forgive me?’ She raised her arms, moving towards me again. A mummy’s girl, used to getting a kiss for every little booboo.

  ‘Back off, Sparks, you treacherous, two-faced slag.’ I was so angry, I found myself slippin
g back into the old Woolburn lingo, using a particular favourite of Farquhar’s. ‘Ring Brophy now. Make a full confession.’

  Felicity pouted for a second and then, to my amazement, actually got out her phone. I waited while she tried his number. He wasn’t home, of course. I checked my watch. ‘I have to go. But you will tell him, won’t you Felicity? Then you will leave us both alone.’

  She sniffed, nodding, bottom lip turned out.

  I was roaring inside with vindication. I’d turned the tables on that bully Shane Farquhar. Pressured that liar Pukus. And now Felicity. As if she stood a chance trying to deceive me and steal Brophy. It was possibly the best day of my life. The only way it could be improved would be if I managed to track down the Corpse Flowers, round them all up, and deliver them to Phuong.

  I made my way to the exit. There was a hush in the foyer, and I checked the screen. Another race was getting set. The horses were at the barriers.

  My phone rang. An unknown number.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Alma.’

  ‘Alma! Finally. What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m going to go to the police, Stella. I realise I’ve been really stupid.’

  ‘Great. Good for you.’

  ‘But I thought it best to see you first. I was thinking, why don’t I come over and you can help me talk things through? Where are you?’

  It was a pretty clumsy effort, really. ‘I’m busy right now.’

  I thought I heard whispering.

  ‘Really, doing what?’

  An idea was forming, and I realised I was nodding and smiling. ‘You won’t believe it,’ I said. ‘But I was planning on going to Ricky Peck’s house in Sunshine.’

  There was a pause. ‘Wait, what? When? How come?’

  ‘Oh, in about an hour. I was just going to have a look around. His death was declared an accident, and now the evidence team have finished their search it’s just sitting there empty. No cops around. It’s in legal limbo.’

  Another long pause. ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yep. All by myself. Sorry Alma, got to go. Don’t tell Josie, okay?’

  ‘As if. I don’t even like her anymore.’