by Chris Krupa
I had a sudden urge to bury my face in it.
She seemed relieved when she saw me. ‘Thanks for arriving at short notice. Simone’s had an anxiety attack and can’t work the bar. Okay if we sort out the particulars end of shift?’
It wasn’t the first time someone mistook my black wardrobe for a wait staff uniform.
‘I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mix up. I’m Matt Kowalski, a private investigator hired by Mr. Lyons to find his missing daughter.’
Evelyn clenched her teeth. ‘Shit. Sorry.’ She offered a thin hand and I took it. ‘I’m Evelyn Turner, Mr. Lyon’s P.A. Welcome to the launch.’ Her hand felt delicate but firm in mine. ‘What do you think? Honestly.’
I looked around arbitrarily. ‘I’m no expert, but cheap and tacky comes to mind. Looks like something Richard Branson would throw.’
She returned a pained smile. ‘I didn’t know which way to go. The projected demographics were all over the place—married couples, young singles. What can you do, am I right?’ She scanned the room nervously, the stress lines apparent around her eyes.
It occurred to me then that she’d organised the party.
Nice work, Kowalski.
She turned back to me. ‘Um, private investigator? Really? I’ve never met one before. Um, Jeff didn’t tell me anything. Did you say Tamsin’s missing?’
‘Eleven days. He recommended I speak to you about it.’
Evelyn scoffed. ‘Jeff’s getting funny in his old age. He needs to let Tamsin grow up.’
‘You’re not concerned?’
‘She’s young, single, and free. She’s probably ignoring him. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Mr. Lyons said she hasn’t been answering her phone. Have you spoken with Tamsin recently?’
‘I spoke to her last week. She’s fine.’
‘Little Bird’ by Annie Lennox came on, and Evelyn started to mouth the words.
I said, ‘He seems genuinely concerned.’
A beautiful woman with a tray of champagne appeared, and I took a glass.
Evelyn offered the woman a tight smile, and the waitress went on her way. Evelyn crossed her arms. ‘Jeff’s scared, Mr. Kowalski. He goes in for a quadruple by-pass in two weeks, and he thinks he’s not going to wake up. He’s convinced. The same thing happened to his father. He believes once you go into hospital, you never come out.’
‘He told you this?’
‘During one of his black dog days. The bypass is hanging over him in a bad way.’
I nodded as certain pieces fell into place. ‘I understand. He wanted me to talk to you. I think he needed you to convince me.’
She shook her head, but I raised a hand. ‘What I mean is... I thought he was a worried father, and he is, but to Jeff, this must be life or death. He needs to know Tamsin is okay for whatever reason—to make amends, to be a better father in his last days, to set her up financially. I don’t know, but I know it’s important to him.’
‘She’s just living her life out of her Daddy’s shadow.’
‘Do you know Tamsin’s current address?’
‘She’s dorming at the Queen Mary building in Camperdown, near the Sydney university grounds. I’m sure it’s nothing, Mr. Kowalski.’
‘If that’s the case, and I find Tamsin tomorrow at the dormitory, its case closed, and it’ll only cost him a few hundred bucks. I won’t charge him the retainer, will reimburse the difference, and we can all go on our merry way. He’s adamant in hiring me, Evelyn. I’ve got a copy of my contract, and he’s asked me to have you sign it.’
I took the contract from my pocket and passed it to her.
She put it on the bar and took her time reading it, then she asked the barmaid for a pen. ‘Can you write here that you’ll waive the retainer if it happens as I said?’
‘Sure thing.’
I wrote it, and she signed it.
I thanked her, finished the champagne, placed the glass at the end of the bar, and walked back out to my car. On my way out, as the machine ate my ticket and the gate saluted, I noticed a grey Toyota Fortuner in my right-hand mirror hastily skid to a stop. I couldn’t make out the occupants due to a windscreen tinted twenty percent lower than the stipulated legal maximum darkness.
I pulled north onto Macquarie Street and deliberately kept it slow, scrutinising the rear-view mirror to see what the Fortuner would do. It soon emerged with a lurch and dashed into my lane, where it remained, three cars back. I had the fresh green at the next intersection, and turned left onto Hunter Street, where I got stuck behind a cabbie who rode his brakes. The three cars behind me made the green, followed by the Fortuner.
I turned south onto Castlereagh, gunned the ute past a slow-moving mini bus, and abruptly pulled in front of him. I got the horn and grimaced an apology. A lane appeared, and I made a fast right into it.
I shuddered to a stop at the end of a tight cul-de-sac, got out, and jogged back to Castlereagh at a half crouch. At the mouth of the lane way, I hugged the wall, carefully leaned out, and eyed the Fortuner farther south and stuck in traffic.
The driver sat low in the seat and turned his head left and right. The bald head and protruding chin were unmistakable.
I made a note of the make and model in my phone, and filed it under ‘Gav’s car’.
Chapter 3
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I arrived in Glebe around 10:00 PM, found the hostel I’d booked online, and parked at the rear. I then went in and handed some of Lyons’ money over to a smiling Sudanese clerk, and felt a sense of innate satisfaction at doing so.
He gave me the key, and I wandered down three dank hallways until finding my room. When I opened the door, it smelled like fish warmed up in a microwave, but the bed was comfortable and the TV worked fine. After flicking through the channels, I took advantage of the free Wi Fi, booted up my laptop, and started background checks on both Jeff and Tamsin Lyons. I started with Tamsin, and the lack of social media accounts surprised me—no Facebook, no Instagram, no Snapchat. I found a link to ‘Explore Tamsin Lyons’ 5 photos on Flickr!’ and clicked on it. A gallery loaded in a grid pattern, and three photos showed Tamsin on a beach with a group of men and women of similar age, wearing board shorts and bikinis. All stood in a line holding bottles of alcohol, striking more and more outlandish poses in each photo, except for Tamsin, who stood extreme left and slightly apart from the group, wearing a one-piece and smiling, close-mouthed.
The fourth photo showed Tamsin grinning, with her arm around the shoulder of a young woman of similar height and hair colour, on what I assumed to be the Sydney university campus grounds. It was a clear photo, so I took a shot of it with my mobile phone. The last photo was an unflattering and slightly blurred selfie, taken in poor light from a low angle.
Someone who knows she’s pretty trying to see something new. Or maybe that’s how she sees herself.
The photos were simply labelled: ‘session 2 break burleigh’, ‘Renee and me’, and ‘solitude’. I downloaded each photo into a folder with the plan to print them back home.
Her LinkedIn account listed two jobs, one at a café in Glebe, and an admin role with Waverley council. Both listings were over a year old. I took a screengrab and saved them to the same folder.
Searches on Jeff Lyons revealed a news article from twenty years ago. The photo featured a younger version of the man I’d drank with. The figure was slimmer, the hair darker and fuller, but the ruddy face gave him away. At his side, a tall, thin woman with dark curly hair and an angular, determined face looked past the photographer. Lyons, dressed in a business suit, had his hand around her waist and was captured mid laugh. The article detailed the media magnate’s marriage to influential socialite Yvette Turner, daughter of the Australian Minister for Finance, Jeremy Turner, in a civil ceremony. The journalist was quick to mention the lack of a pre-nup in the second paragraph of her article.
I found an older article about Lyons’ success with American media mogul Ted Turner during the early eighties, then
losing it all in the crash of eighty-seven. He divorced Yvette in the late nineties, and became linked to a list of beautiful Aussie actresses. He moved into other business ventures I didn’t understand, nor had the inclination to. Lyons was money incarnate, and he obviously played up to the media. I wondered where Tamsin fitted into all of it, what with the wheeling and dealing and upper crust hob-nobbing.
In the morning, I showered under warm water, checked out early, and thanked the gods my ute appeared unharmed in the harsh morning light. I drove east along Broadway, past Saturday shoppers, to the Queen Mary building in Camperdown. Red-bricked, ten storeys high with a glass atrium, it was situated on a quiet tree-lined street. Luckily, a multi-storey parking station sat directly opposite, so I parked and walked across the road.
The foyer featured comfortable-looking breakout spaces, and wall decals explained that the building used to house nurses during the Second World War.
A Lebanese-looking security guard manned a large desk, and he squinted at me as I approached.
‘Morning, I’m a private detective verifying the whereabouts of Tamsin Lyons. Do you mind if I check in on her?’
‘Sorry, brother, can’t let you access the dorms. Students and family only.’
I took out my phone and showed him the picture of Tamsin. ‘Do you know if she checked in over the last twenty-four hours?’
‘I wasn’t rostered on yesterday, but the kids check in all sorts of hours, and the front desk isn’t manned all the time. They can swipe in and out anytime between six and eleven.’
‘Any way you could check the logs from the last forty-eight hours?’
‘Sorry, brother, head office keeps the access logs.’
‘I’m investigating her possible disappearance. I only need to sight her—at the very least, knock on the door and confirm she’s okay.’
He raised his hands. ‘I’m the only one here, and I can’t leave the desk.’
I took stock, considered my options, took out my wallet, and removed the twelve-month Peekaboo subscription card. I held it up. ‘Have you heard about this?’
He eyed the card with interest.
I said, ‘Twelve months obligation-free. Premium package. You let me in, it’s all yours.’
He hesitated for a minute and stared at the desk. He eventually held out his hand. I gave him the card and he quickly pocketed it. ‘I’ll have to escort you in.’ He locked the computer screen and left the desk.
I followed him to a pair of glass doors, which he opened with a swipe card. We rode an old elevator to the second floor, walked down a musty hall, and stopped at a door with the number 212 on it. He pushed his card into the lock. When the red light turned green, he pressed against the heavy door, and the hinges squealed.
The smell of urine and shit hit me. The small room had two single beds under a window, a wardrobe, and a small desk with a flat screen TV. A girl’s body lay on the floor, wedged between the right-hand side bed and a small set of bedside drawers. Blowflies circled her in slow, lazy loops. I watched as one of the blowflies landed on her unblinking eye, and made its way to the corner, where it settled and ate from a pool of sticky fluid it found there.
—-END OF SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW—-
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Stay tuned to the author’s page at our website for more as this series continues to grow:
Chris Krupa at Evolved Publishing
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Please keep reading for additional content, including our second Special Sneak Preview:
BROOMETIME SERENADE by Barry Metcalf.
Acknowledgements
Big shout-outs and thank-yous to Michael Rumore, a real life private investigator who helped with some of the more technical and legal aspects of being a P.I.; Daniel Candler for proofreading the skeleton version of this book and providing valuable feedback; Kerrie for being there every step of the way; Flynn and Grady for letting their Dad write and understanding the process; Mark and John for being the male rocks in my life; and my mum, for probably being more excited than me about the publication of my first book.
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About the Author
Website | Facebook | Twitter
I’m a freelance writer and filmmaker, born in 1975 in The Gong, who now lives in Bathurst, New South Wales, Australia with my wife and two sons.
I used to make my own mystery books in the fourth grade by typing them out on an old Olivetti, and I drew my first five-fingered human being when I was four years old.
In 2004, I pitched a comic series to Image Comics, and I contributed cartoons and designed a cover for the Litmus Journal of Melbourne in 2007.
I worked with the Victims of Crime department in Sydney, rubbing shoulders with ex-cons and stand over men, and sought restitution for their victims.
In 2014, I founded a production company, Glitchfilms, alongside my producing partner. In 2015, I wrote and directed an independent horror film, The Lights, which was released in selected cinemas. I self-published the tie-in, behind-the-scenes eBook, Dark Light: How to Get Your Horror Film into Cinemas.
I write every day and try to put some of myself into my writing. My passion is crime fiction, and my favourite authors include Karin Slaughter and Michael Robotham. I also love graphic novels by Neil Gaiman and Grant Morrison.
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Special Sneak Preview
When authorities fail to identify human remains discovered in and around Broome, Martin and Claire are despatched to the idyllic seaside resort to investigate. Little do they know their every move is watched, as they follow first one lead then another, until they are face to face with a ruthless enemy who is determined to end their lives.
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Prologue, Part I: James & Captain Newberry
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February 1942
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“But Cap’n Newberry,” James Planter’s exasperation coloured his voice, “I enjoy the life of a beachcomber. All I need is one lucky find... one juicy pearl an’ I’m set fer life.”
Gilbert Newberry smiled and handed his companion a tumbler filled with rum. Dressed in a white suit, matching shirt, navy cravat, and black shoes with white spats, Gilbert epitomised the English gentleman, more at home in a green, country estate than here on the edge of the brown, Australian desert.
“James,” he paused to squash a mosquito settling on his forearm, “nobody becomes a beachcomber unless he’s running away from something.”
The comment struck home. James lowered his eyes and turned his attention to his drink. Remembering his past, perhaps.
Gilbert smiled. Even on sweltering days like today, he appreciated the attraction of this isolated shantytown, far from home.
Situated on the rugged coastline of northwestern Australia, the rough-and-ready town had gained a reputation as the world’s largest supplier of mother-of-pearl, but the little gems inside the shells were the real draw. They had lured men from all over the world with their promise of instant riches, despite the one in a million odds.
Like many before him, Gilbert recognised the possibilities abounding in Broome. W
hat he didn’t make from his fleet of luggers—harvesting pearl shell and the odd gem—he more than compensated for in his store. Through a combination of hard work, good luck and an astute business sense, Gilbert had amassed more money than he’d ever dreamed. Soon, he would have to return to all the trappings of civilisation he’d once thought he’d never see again.
Part of him would be sad to discard the lifestyle he’d established. He’d miss the aboriginal servants who tended his house and kept his suits immaculate despite the red pindan dust, the evenings spent dining with the elite of Broome society, and the respect accorded him as a successful businessman.
The weather, of course, he wouldn’t regret leaving behind.
During the wet season, temperatures hovered around ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit, but the heat was bearable. Coconut palms, long verandas, or the insides of dwellings provided shelter from the sun. However, no one could hide from the oppressive perspiration that refused to evaporate in the intolerable seventy percent-plus humidity.
“Cap’n Newberry, almost everyone livin’ in Broome today is runnin’ away from somethin’.” He untied his red bandanna and mopped the perspiration off his red face.
The interior of Gilbert’s store, a corrugated iron structure, offered no respite from the oppressive conditions. Despite the lateness of the evening, both temperature and humidity remained high.
Mosquitoes buzzed and zoomed, targeting the exposed skin of the two men sitting and drinking in the rear of the building. Huge moths darted and fluttered in ever-decreasing circles. Attracted by the flickering flames from two kerosene lanterns sitting on upended wooden casks, they performed kamikaze flights destined for only one ending.
If the drinkers noticed the unpleasant conditions, they didn’t show it. They accepted them, and the constant intermittent swatting of annoying pests, as an everyday occurrence. They conversed, engrossed in a heated debate about life in Broome, a favourite topic. A half-empty bottle of rum sat on an improvised table between them.