We turned off the lights and left the way we’d come in.
Back in the car I had an idea. ‘The wheelie bin. I should check it.’ I opened the glove compartment and pulled out latex gloves and a torch. Even though I hadn’t worked a case for a while, it paid to stay prepared.
‘Want me to come?’ Chloe lit up a Winfield, drank more champagne.
‘Nah, finish your smoke. I won’t be long.’
Twilight was long gone and the night was black. My torch must have needed new batteries because the weak yellow light hardly penetrated the darkness, just seemed to bounce off it. I wasn’t scared though. The jitters had disappeared once I’d searched the house and found no nasty surprises.
I wondered about my dizzy spell before. Post-traumatic stress?
I didn’t believe in that shit … well, maybe for other people, but not for me. If I’d suffered from it I’d have been a basket case long before now. I didn’t much believe in counselling either. After the last violent incident I’d been involved in, both Sean and my mum had been at me to see someone, but I hadn’t gone. What was wrong with pulling your own self together, stiff upper lip and all that?
The back lane was narrow and cobbled, built for the shit-cart to travel down a hundred years ago. I imagined being a shit-cart driver and decided it wouldn’t be quite as bad as waitressing or retail. At least people would leave you alone.
I passed through the gate and found the wheelie and recycling bins on the left. Going through rubbish was a huge part of being an inquiry agent, and usually yielded all kinds of interesting bounty. Luckily I had a strong stomach. I opened the lid and peered in. Just a lone plastic shopping bag tied up down the bottom. I’d have to tip the thing over to reach it so I put the torch on the ground.
Just as I started to push I noticed a flash of movement behind the bin, and then a shadowy figure reared up and rushed me. My breath caught in my throat as I was body-slammed back onto the cobblestones, where I lay, gasping and winded, skin prickling with fear. I reached for the torch and had just closed my fingers round the handle when it was kicked out of my grasp and flew down the lane, plastic cracking. The light was extinguished and all I could make out was a shape looming above me, amorphous and shifting like something not quite human, and then the shadow lengthened and there was a rush of air and an incredible cracking pain on my forehead, and after a brief flash of light it was darker than ever.
Chapter Four
‘Simone.’
I came to on the cane couch, Chloe softly slapping my face. I batted her hand away. My head was throbbing and I felt like throwing up.
‘Codeine,’ I croaked.
Chloe fumbled in my bag, popped a couple out, checked the champagne bottle and, finding it empty, swished through the curtain to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘You got mugged. Your wallet was lying beside you, open.
The cards are still there but the money’s gone. How much they get?’
‘Ten bucks.’
‘You only took a tenner to go out with me? Jeez, we were gonna have a ball.’
‘I’m on a budget. How’d I get in here?’
‘You walked. You said you were fine, picked up that rubbish bag, marched in here and passed out again on the couch.’
‘My brain hurts.’
‘No shit. You’ve got this red mark on your forehead. It’s weird, kind of curved.’
I tried to lift myself up on my elbows but the room spun and little dots danced in front of my eyes.
‘I’m driving you to casualty,’ Chloe said.
‘Forget it. You’ve drunk a bottle of champagne and I’m not sitting there for five hours just so a doctor can give me a couple of aspirin and send me home. Soon as these pills kick in we’re going to the cops. First, open the rubbish bag for me. I don’t think it was a mugger. I think whoever attacked me wanted what was in there.’
‘Why didn’t they take it?’
‘I don’t know, maybe you scared him off. Maybe he freaked.’
Chloe ducked into the kitchen and grabbed some old newspaper and a pair of washing-up gloves and upended the bag. I lay back, praying the tablets would act fast. I hadn’t had a headache this bad since the night I’d mixed vodka, gin, whiskey, champagne and beer.
‘Safeway receipt, tissues, hair. God, other people’s hair is gross. A business card.’
‘Whose?’
‘The Doyle Food Group. There’s a Sydney number and a picture of a fish and some cheese.’
‘Put it aside.’
She glared at me.
‘Please.’
‘That’s it except for an old toothbrush, double gross, and a bit of newspaper. It’s that food section from the Age.
“Epicure”.’
‘What’s it say?’
She scanned the first page. ‘Oh my god.’
‘What?’
‘I think I just creamed my jeans. Check this out. “Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know. Meet Trip Sibley, Young Chef of the Year”.’ She held the paper in front of my face so I could clock the picture.
Trip Sibley reclined on a red chaise longue in what looked like a Parisian bordello but could have been any bar in the Melbourne metropolitan area. He wore dirty jeans, motorcycle boots and a black chef ’s jacket open to the waist, displaying a sinewy, muscular torso. His long wavy hair was tied back in a ponytail, a jagged scar traced his right cheekbone and his brows arched in a devilish, Jack Nicholson fashion. Plump cherries were scattered across the thick gold carpet and one, resting between his teeth, looked about to pop. I started to read and the letters danced around in front of my eyes. Gradually they settled down and I got through the whole thing.
Trip Sibley ran the Jouissance Restaurant and Bar on Fitzroy Street, St Kilda, and the place had won just about every food award in the year since it opened. It was the brainchild of Sibley and his Sydney based business partner, Sam Doyle. The article took the reader on a tour of Trip’s St Kilda penthouse apartment, complete with view of Luna Park, pinball machines, home theatre set-up, gourmet kitchen and rooftop spa. There was even a mention of his bedroom. Black bed linen, mirrored walls and a selection of whips and chains that would put the House of Fetish to shame.
‘“What are those for?” ‘the reporter asks. ‘Trip chuckles and, with a wicked glint in his eye, replies, “Keeping the apprentices in line.” Although his temper is legendary, once resulting in an assault case that was settled out of court, I don’t believe him for a second.’
The article explained that Trip had served an apprenticeship under the great Rudolpho in country Victoria, and finished his training in London and France. The reporter went on to gush about his food, his rock hard abs, his appearance in People magazine’s ‘50 Sexiest Issue’ and his upcoming TV cooking show, Chef of Steel. Trip enjoyed such exciting hobbies as skydiving and rock climbing and had even taken the interviewer for a spin on his new motorbike, a crimson Ducati 996, breaking just about every road rule in the process.
Chloe looked over my shoulder and pointed at a picture of the bike. ‘I’d kill for one of those.’
‘You can’t ride.’
‘Yes I can. I used to hoon around on a two fifty, in Frankston.’
‘With Colin and Worm?’
‘Uh-huh. So is the article a clue?’
‘Possibly. Can you check Andi’s work uniforms, see if there’s anything embroidered on them?’
She was back in two seconds. ‘Jouissance Restaurant.’
‘Interesting.’
‘We’ll have to investigate.’ Chloe looked thoughtful. ‘I’m prepared to fuck him for information, if I have to.’
‘You want to fuck him you’ll have to do it on your own time. We’re not investigating shit. We’re going to the police. Now.’
I struggled to sit up and that’s when I heard it. Chloe did too. The front gate creaked open and footsteps scraped down the path.
‘Shit!’ She jumped up and s
tared at me like a rabbit in the headlights. ‘What do we do?!’
‘Sit tight,’ I whispered. ‘It’s probably just the flatmate. We’ll tell him what we’re doing here. I think you’re actually in a couple of his magazines so he’ll probably be delighted to see us.’
The footsteps stopped at the door and I listened for a key turning in the lock but it never happened. Chloe and I held our breath. The steps started up again. I heard them scuffing around the side of the house.
‘I don’t think it’s the flatmate,’ Chloe breathed.
‘Back door locked?’
‘No.’
I attempted to get up but the room started spinning. I sat back down. Chloe grabbed the empty champagne bottle and stood just to the side of the curtained kitchen door, back flat against the wall. I tried to wave her over but she shook her head and held the bottle up to her chest. The back door opened. Footsteps crept across the kitchen lino. Stopped. The beaded curtain made the tiniest of clicks.
Chloe leapt out from the wall with the bottle held high, faced the figure through the curtain and bellowed like Mel Gibson in Braveheart: ‘Aaaaarghgh!’
The figure yelled back. A short, sharp shriek. A hand jabbed through the curtain, karate chopped her wrist and the bottle soared. A foot shot out and kicked her ankle and Chloe flew up in the air, landing flat on her back. The whole person jumped through, screamed and stood above her in a karate stance, ready to drop a knee on her neck.
The woman was in her mid-fifties, tall, dark skinned, hair a waterfall of black curls peppered with grey. She wore brown cords and a black skivvy with a burgundy shirt unbuttoned over the top. Wire framed glasses rested low on her nose, silver studs curved up each ear and a turquoise pendant dangled from her neck. It was Joy Fowler, Andi’s mum. She could still scare the shit out of me.
Chapter Five
Joy was sitting on the couch, Chloe and I the armchairs. It hadn’t taken long to sort out who was who and what we were all doing there. Joy had just come back from the police station where she’d been hassling the cops for an update. She’d reported Andi missing the day before. Luckily for Chloe, the floral carpet was thick and she hadn’t been badly hurt.
‘How’ve you been?’ I asked Joy.
She took out a pouch of Port Royal tobacco and started rolling a cigarette. ‘Karen left me after fifteen years. My mum’s terminally ill in hospital, and now Andi’s disappeared. Always comes in three’s, huh? But I’m glad you’re here. I’ve read about you girls in the paper. I’ll hire you. Between the three of us we’ll find her.’ She licked the paper, stuck it down, struck a match and the tobacco flared.
Hire me? I thought back to when I worked for Tony Torcasio. He wouldn’t touch missing persons, said they were bullshit. The individual either didn’t want to be found, or was dead, in which case it was Homicide’s problem.
‘I wouldn’t go that far. We’ll help you look around, but it’s best left to the cops. I mean, they’ve got all the resources.’
‘The cops?’ Joy snorted and smoke roiled out her nostrils.
‘This smarmy little dickwad, Nolan, thinks Andi’s pissed off, or met some guy and shacked up with him. Kept asking if she had a drug problem, or was depressed.’
‘Was she?’
‘No! The problem is I gave them her bank details and they found out she withdrew five thousand dollars, her whole savings, last week. So of course they think—’
‘Five grand?’
‘Yeah, anyway, I’ve hated jacks since I got bashed after a demo in seventy-nine and I went off, called him a pig and kicked over a fucking pot plant.’
Chloe giggled and clutched her ribs. ‘Ow. Hurts to laugh.’
‘Sorry, mate.’ Joy reached out and patted her knee.
‘Couldn’t believe it. Thought I was being attacked by Buffy the fucking vampire slayer.’
‘A smoke would make it better,’ Chloe said.
Joy proffered the Port Royal pack.
Chloe shook her head. ‘A smoke smoke. There any around here?’
Joy grinned, stuck her hand up her skivvy and dug around in her bra, finally producing a bent-up joint. It never ceased to amaze me, the way potheads immediately recognised their own kind.
Chloe perked up immediately. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a bottle of bourbon stashed in your knickers?’
‘You’re a cheeky one. Should be some home brew in the fridge.’
Chloe made a face.
‘No, it’s really good. Andi makes it.’
Joy sparked up the number and the room instantly filled with the thick, wet smell of marijuana. Chloe had a toke then tripped off to the kitchen, her spike heels catching on the carpet. I heard her open the fridge then rustle through cabinets. She returned with a long necked Coopers bottle and three glasses that looked like they’d been nicked from the pub.
‘Couldn’t find an opener,’ she explained, levering off the bottle top with the base of her disposable lighter.
Joy smiled. ‘Andi does that. She can knock the cap off with a metal spatula too.’ She made a sweeping action.
‘I’d like to meet her.’ Chloe tipped cloudy brew into an inclined glass and handed it to Joy. ‘Sounds like a cool chick.’
She offered me a glass but I shook my head. Not if I was driving to the cop shop.
‘She is.’ Joy offered me the joint but I refused that too.
Dope made me want to eat everything in sight, then hide in a closet, trembling.
‘I remember your mum and I, years ago,’ she said, ‘wondering how you and Andi would end up, whether you’d follow in our footsteps or go the other way. My worst fear was Andi becoming one of those simpering girly girls who’d need a man to change a tyre or turf out a spider. But she didn’t. Maybe kids don’t rebel like we did. Maybe you all turn into your mothers these days.’
Chloe grabbed a handful of butt and jiggled it around.
‘My arse is turning into my mother’s.’
I shook my head. ‘No way. Me and Peta are total opposites. I’ve seriously rebelled.’
Joy raised her eyebrows then skolled half her glass in one go.
‘So tell me what you told the cops,’ I said. ‘How long has Andi been missing?’
‘Two days. I was supposed to pick her up at Sydney airport yesterday morning. Don’t know how much longer Mum’s going to be around and I wanted Andi to be able to say goodbye to her grandma. Plane landed at nine but she never got off. Or the next one. No message on my phone so I called hers.
Home and mobile. No answer. Tried her work but they were closed. Bloody dolly birds at the airport wouldn’t tell me if she’d got on the plane or changed flights or anything, and I started imagining she’d had an accident on the way to Tullamarine. I called the hospitals. The morgue. Nothing. So I jumped on the next plane to Melbourne, with only my shoulder bag.’ She pointed to a battered leather satchel.
‘I know where Andi hides her key so I let myself in but there was no sign of her. Car’s gone, laptop’s gone, no note. It’s like she vanished without a trace. I found her flatmate’s mobile number. He’s in Canberra for the week, and he thought she was in Sydney. I rang her best friend in Sydney, Daisy, and she hadn’t heard from her, tried her ex-boyfriend, studies with Andi at RMIT, but he was clueless, useless as tits on a bull. I called everyone in her address book, knocked on all the neighbours’ doors, left notes for the ones who weren’t home and then Monday arvo I went to the police.’
‘What about Andi’s father or other relatives? Have you contacted any—’
‘Sperm donor.’
‘What?’
‘I guess you were too young to know back then.’
‘I wish my dad had been a sperm donor,’ Chloe piped up.
‘He’s an arsehole. In and out of jail for years. Only contacted me after he’d seen me on TV. Thought I was loaded and he could get some money out of me. What a prick.’
‘All Andi’s rellos are in New Zealand,’ Joy said, ‘and yes, I called them. No one’s
heard from her. Except you, this evening. What did she say exactly?’
I didn’t want to do it but felt I had no choice. I fished in my bag for my phone, pressed the message bank number and handed it to Joy. She listened to it about five times before setting it down on the coffee table.
‘I knew it. My baby. Somebody’s got her.’
‘Who?’
‘You said she was writing an article about some scandalous stuff? Obviously, whoever she was writing about.’
Joy set her jaw and stared at the wall opposite.
‘We don’t know that. She did take the money from her account.’
I was confused. Maybe my attacker was just a junkie.
Maybe Andi was holed up somewhere down the Great Ocean Road with a hot guy, bottle of Wild Turkey and a couple of grams of coke. I would be, given half the chance. Maybe she was doing this to punish me for blowing her off the other day, and to punish her mother for god knows what. I hadn’t seen her for years. For all I knew she was a total fucking fruit loop.
And then Joy’s eyes teared up, her bottom lip started to tremble and she flung herself sideways on the couch and let out a keening wail, the kind you hear on news footage from the Gaza Strip. I didn’t know what to do, so I stared at the carpet for a bit. When I looked up Chloe was glaring at me.
She knitted her eyebrows and inclined her head toward the couch, where Joy was still sobbing, face pressed into a cushion, broad shoulders heaving.
I shrugged and mouthed, ‘What?’
Chloe rolled her eyes and tiptoed over to Joy, sat next to her and cradled her in her arms. She stroked her hair and made soft cooing noises and looked very much like a trampy Virgin Mary. I sat opposite and attempted an expression of thoughtful concern, but probably just looked constipated.
Joy’s sobs turned to hiccups, then rattly breaths.
Chloe reached for her silver handbag and gave Joy a travel pack of tissues. ‘It’s okay, hon. Me and Simone are on the case now. She’s as good as found.’
Now it was my turn to glare at her. ‘I’ll go to the police, tell them what I know, let them listen to the phone message, but I’m not on any case.’
Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie Page 3