Resurrection Bay

by Emma Viskic

  ‘Fuck that, I’ll just use a different name. Something Shakespearean maybe. I’ve always liked the name Cordelia.’

  A flash of red caught his eye: Elle, dressed in a shimmery silver coat, a flame of hair showing beneath a purple beret.

  ‘That’s her.’ He got out and caught her as she stepped onto the footpath. ‘Elle.’

  A moment’s hesitation, then her eyes cleared. ‘Caleb from Trust Works.’

  ‘Can we talk? About work,’ he added quickly as her face settled into an I’ve-got-a-boyfriend expression. ‘This is my partner, Goneril.’

  Frankie stepped on his foot as she leaned forward to shake Elle’s hand.

  ‘Nice hair,’ Elle said.

  ‘Yours too. Goes well with the hat.’

  Elle beamed. ‘You want to talk to Sean? I can pop up and see if he’s still in.’

  ‘No, we want to talk to you. How about we buy you lunch?’

  Elle picked at the sandwich she’d ordered. They were sitting in a laneway cafe that served excellent coffee and shit tea. Caleb gave his soggy teabag another poke and wondered what had made him order an English Breakfast in the coffee capital of Australia.

  ‘You want me to spy?’ Elle said.

  Her nails were silver today, with tiny purple spots. Had she chosen the clothes to go with the polish, or the polish to go with the clothes? He re-evaluated her importance to City Sentry; anyone that organised had to be a boon in any office.

  ‘No,’ Frankie said. ‘Nothing like that. We’re trying to clear City Sentry’s name. It’s obvious the company had nothing to do with the robberies, but we’re having trouble getting the evidence to prove it. Sean’s being a bit close-mouthed about everything.’

  Literally, Caleb thought, remembering Sean’s miserly lip movements.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t really like the idea of talking behind his back.’ She studied Frankie for a moment. ‘You ever think about adding a bit of pink? It’d go well with your colouring.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re not a pink type of girl. Orange’d work, too. Be a good contrast with the purple. I can recommend some hairdressers.’

  ‘I usually just do it in the bathroom sink.’

  Elle’s mouth opened in shock.

  Caleb jumped in before she could start listing salons. ‘If the insurance company takes legal action against City Sentry it’ll be ugly. I’d hate to see people losing their jobs just because Sean and I didn’t hit it off.’

  A blush rose up Elle’s cheeks. ‘He’s not usually like that, he’s a bit of a joker, you know? I’ve never seen him …’ She chewed her lip. ‘I thought he was going to hit you.’

  He ignored Frankie’s raised eyebrows. ‘He was just worried. He’s got a lot of people working for him. It’s a big responsibility.’

  ‘It is. He’s been so stressed with all the redundancies. And he says the new owners keep threatening more.’ She began picking at her sandwich again.

  Frankie caught his eye and an unspoken ‘stay silent’ passed between them.

  When she’d pulled all the crusts from the bread, Elle looked up. ‘Just information?’

  ‘Just information,’ he said. ‘Sean said that the guards don’t have the keys to the actual warehouse, just the gates. Is that right?’

  ‘Sure, they only ever have the keys to the gates. No need for them to have the building keys. If they find anything unlocked, they have to call in anyway.’

  ‘How closely monitored are the keys to the warehouse?’

  ‘Monitored?’

  ‘Can anyone take them, are they left in an unlocked cupboard or drawer?’

  ‘No. Everything goes through Mrs Hitchens. She keeps them in the safe and changes the code every week.’ Her expression morphed into one of po-faced severity. ‘There’s a “strict operating procedure for the benefit of our company and clients”.’

  ‘So when Sean gets the keys out …’

  ‘Sean doesn’t get the keys out, that’s Mrs Hitchens’ job.’

  ‘And if Mrs Hitchens is away?’

  ‘She’s never away.’ She leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘She’s worked for City Sentry for thirty years. Some of the guys joke that she’s a vampire.’ She didn’t look convinced that it was a joke.

  ‘What about the codes to the warehouse alarm? Who has them?’ Caleb asked.

  ‘Oh, that’s not one of ours.’

  ‘So no-one at City Sentry knew the alarm code?’

  ‘No.’

  Damn, there went that theory. ‘Can you get us a list of everyone who’s had the keys to the warehouse doors in the last year? We’d usually go through Sean, but …’

  Elle picked up her sandwich, then lowered it again. ‘Do you really think the insurance company will sue us?’

  ‘They lost two million dollars, Elle. What would you do?’

  ‘Just a list of people? That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’ Frankie slipped her a business card. ‘Email it from a private account, don’t use your work one. And don’t make photocopies or anything, Sean might be offended that you’re trying to help. Men, you know.’ She jerked her head towards Caleb. ‘They’ve got such fragile egos.’

  Elle’s cheek dimpled. ‘I’d better go. But hey, listen.’ She looked at Caleb. ‘I’ve been practising – hvordan har du det.’

  Not a single identifiable word. ‘Sorry, what?’

  Her face fell. ‘Oh, didn’t I get it right? Hvordan har du det.’

  She looked like she was holding marbles in her mouth. Fuck it, he was going to have to ask Frankie for help. No, she was looking equally blank.

  ‘Hvordan har du det,’ Elle said again.

  She was usually so easy to read, but that didn’t look like English at all. Ah. He remembered his supposed background as a Danish immigrant.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Really clear.’

  ‘So I did it right?’

  ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself.’

  ‘Hvordan har du det,’ Frankie said when they were outside. ‘Does that mean, “I’ve got a crush on you” in Danish?’

  ‘No, Goneril, it means you should dye your hair pink.’

  She patted its spiky tips. ‘I might just do that. What was the Danish all about, anyway?’

  ‘Bit of a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Yeah? You seem to be having a few of those lately. What happened between you and Sean?’

  ‘Nothing much. He just assumed I’d scare off easily and gave it a go.’

  She examined him. ‘Ah. Did the nasty man hurt your feelings?’

  Two seconds to imagine the testosterone-fuelled interview, work out the reason for Sean’s assumption, and calculate his own reaction to it. She was terrifying, really.

  ‘So, Giannopoulos now?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re awfully keen to see him. Do you really think he’s going to be of any use?’

  ‘No, I just want to see if you’re going to yell at him again. Particularly now I know about you and Sean. I’ll be ready to video it this time. Be a useful training tool for my next partner – how not to talk to witnesses.’ She pulled out her phone and frowned at the number. ‘Hello?’ A look of almost comical surprise crossed her face.

  She held it to her chest. ‘It’s Detective Tedesco. He says hello.’

  He stumbled. ‘What? How the hell did he work out I was with you? Or that you’re even alive?’

  ‘Guess the man’s good at his job. Kind of nice to know.’

  He couldn’t summon the same amount of enthusiasm.

  ‘Well done, Detective,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m very well, thank you. Sorry to have inconvenienced you all. So, did you ring just to show off your detecting skills?’ She winced and covered the phone with her hand. ‘He said Detective McFarlane found out that he’s been speaking to you privately. And because McFarlane balled him out about it in the middle of the Broadmeadows cop shop canteen, we should assume that pretty much everyone else in Melbourne knows about it,
too.’

  Shit. ‘I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.’

  She turned her attention back to the phone. ‘Is that it, or did you just ring for a chat?’

  A lot of nodding, not many words. Unease stirred: Frankie’s expression remained carefully neutral, but her shoulders had stiffened.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said as she hung up.

  ‘Look, don’t panic, but he was asking about Kat.’

  ‘He knows …’ He took a breath. ‘He knows about Kat?’

  ‘Him and McFarlane.’

  ‘He told fucking McFarlane?’

  ‘Other way round. McFarlane went to Tedesco because there’s a tap on Kat’s phone in Collingwood, another one at Maria’s house.’

  ‘The fucking arsehole. He’s going after every member of my family, isn’t he? What now? Kat’s the leader of a bikie gang? Or is she supposed to be cooking up meth in her studio while Anton stands guard?’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. McFarlane didn’t order the tap, he just found out about it. Apparently … Look, this is the bit I don’t want you to freak out about, OK? But apparently neither of them asked for the tap. Someone else did. Someone with a lot of pull, because McFarlane hasn’t been able to find out who.’

  Ice in his veins. ‘Scott. Scott knows about Kat.’

  ‘He’s probably just trying to find out where you are.’

  ‘He’s not that subtle. If he’s interested in Kat, it’s because he’s after her.’

  She didn’t disagree. ‘I’m ringing her now.’

  Scott will kill them if he finds out.

  Frankie was talking to Kat, thank God. No, leaving a message. A fucking message.

  Scott will kill her if he finds out.

  He had to get to her. Resurrection Bay was hours away. Or would she have gone back to Collingwood? No, she knew it wasn’t safe there. Fuck, fuck, no idea where she was. What was he going to do?

  Frankie touched his arm. ‘… fine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve left messages on her mobile and at Maria’s house and clinic. She’ll get them, she’ll be fine.’

  ‘The clinic closes at four.’

  ‘Which is why I left a message on her mobile,’ she said slowly.

  ‘If Scott … Frankie, I just left her there. I thought she’d be safe out of the house. I thought he was just after me. No, I didn’t think. I didn’t fucking think.’

  Half the town’s mouths flapping, gossip flying from their lips. The conversation would have taken less than a minute. ‘Excuse me, local person, do you know Caleb Zelic? Staying with Dr Anderson? His ex-mother-in-law? You don’t say. And her daughter’s name?’

  It was hard to breathe.

  24.

  There was a forthcoming auction sign staked in the middle of Arnie’s dandelion-specked front lawn.

  ‘Misjudged him,’ Frankie said. ‘Didn’t strike me as the type who liked change. What was your impression?’

  ‘Same. Can you ring Anton? She might still be in the Bay somewhere. He’ll find her if she’s there, he knows everyone.’

  ‘Sure, but give her a chance, it’s only been twenty minutes. She’s probably just got her phone on silent.’

  He followed her from the car. ‘I don’t want to wait. Ring him now.’

  ‘Give it an hour, then I’ll call.’ She nodded at the real estate sign. ‘So what do you think that means?’

  ‘That Arnie’s selling his house. Why are you trying to deflect me?’

  ‘You want to do this? OK.’ She stood still. ‘What would you do to keep Kat safe?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Throw yourself in front of a train? Give yourself up to Scott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So Scott’s pretty clever to go after her then, isn’t he?’

  ‘Are you trying to make me feel worse?’

  ‘No, I’m walking you somewhere you don’t want to go. Scott does two things: he goes after people, and he goes after their families. Anton’s your family, but Scott isn’t going after him, he’s going after your ex-wife. Why? If someone came after my ex I’d say have at him. So how does Scott know that Kat’s your vulnerable spot?’

  It started to rain, but neither of them moved.

  ‘She’s Maria’s daughter. Maria was treating me.’

  ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’

  Yes. Yes, he was. Because following that line of thought made him want to scratch out his brain.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘Ant loves Kat, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.’

  ‘Come on, Cal, you’ve been worried all along that Anton’s involved in this somehow. Three names keep coming up in this investigation – Gary’s, Scott’s, and Anton’s.’

  ‘There’s no way he’d set Scott onto Kat.’ He started up Arnie’s front path.

  Frankie kept pace, talking quickly, but he didn’t look at her.

  She grabbed his arm just before he reached the house. Droplets were clinging to her eyebrows and lashes.

  ‘Na-ah, you don’t get to break your own rules – you watch me while I say, very clearly, that you’re kidding yourself if you think Anton has loyalty towards anything except his habit.’

  He wrenched his arm free. ‘Back off, Frankie.’

  ‘He’s a junkie. You can trust him as far as you can kick him.’

  ‘Seriously – back the fuck off.’ Rain was running down the back of his neck and soaking his shirt.

  ‘I’m not saying this for fun. I know all about addiction, I know exactly what Anton …’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Oh shit.’

  He followed her gaze. A scrap of something blue and white was fluttering from Arnie’s front door. Police tape. He felt dizzy. Killed? Or just attacked again? Something horrendous, either way: they didn’t bother stringing up police tape for a break-and-enter.

  Frankie wiped the rain from her eyes. ‘Neighbours might know what happened.’

  He surveyed the surrounding houses. The one diagonally opposite was the best bet: pram on the front porch, fairy stickers on the front window. Young mum at home with the kids. Young mums were even better than old ducks: very observant, very vigilant, very bored.

  ‘House with the kids,’ he said.

  She nodded but didn’t move. ‘And Anton?’

  He unclenched his jaw. ‘Don’t call him.’

  He turned for the road before she could tell him he’d made the right decision.

  A man answered their knock, a baby thrown over his shoulder, a three-day old beard and the smell of sour milk on his clothes. Young dad at home with the kids.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Caleb began.

  ‘Hang on. It’s cooking.’

  Context was half the trick of comprehension. Maybe the word had been ‘looking’. No, that didn’t work, either.

  ‘Sorry, I …’

  ‘It’s still cooking,’ the man said. ‘It takes three minutes. Watch the little hand on the clock.’

  Right. Another child in the house, an egg boiling. Or well-done two-minute noodles.

  ‘Look, what is it? I don’t want to buy anything. Or donate anything.’ He looked at the squirming baby. ‘Unless you want one of the kids. Could give you a couple of those.’

  ‘Do you know what happened in the house across the road? Arnie Giannopoulos?’

  ‘Oh.’ He grimaced. ‘You’re not friends of his, are you?’

  ‘Business acquaintances.’

  ‘Oh. Oh good.’

  ‘The police tape – can you tell us what happened? Was he killed?’

  ‘Yeah, last week. I’m surprised you didn’t see it on the news. Nice old bloke like that, hard to believe. Bloody family couldn’t wait to get that auction sign up. Don’t think he was even buried yet.’

  ‘Do the police have any theories?’

  The dad glanced at his wrist. ‘Another twenty seconds – watch the clock. They said it was someone on meth or something. Arnie was a little paranoid, had these bars on the window, but
the guy just smashed the back door in. Shocking stuff, meth. Turns people into animals.’

  ‘So the house was wrecked?’

  ‘No, that’s the tragedy of it. The bastard didn’t take a thing, just went straight to Arnie’s bedroom and cut his throat. OK, time’s up.’

  He wasn’t hungry, but he drove to a souvlaki joint on Sydney Road so they could dry off and think. Frankie had been silent for the past ten minutes, eating her way through her souvlaki with mechanical disinterest. She finally screwed her paper bag into a ball and looked up.

  ‘Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. What if Scott had nothing to do with the cigarettes being stolen? What if he was smuggling something through the warehouse, through lots of warehouses? He’s got a nice little set-up until Arnie comes along and steals the cigarettes and, along with them, whatever Scott’s smuggling. So he beats Arnie up to get his goods back, then comes back a week or so later to kill him because there’s too much interest in the case.’

  As a theory it had everything going for it. Except for the part where Arnie organised two major robberies.

  ‘Arnie couldn’t organise his life, let alone two warehouse raids involving heavy machinery and an alarm system. The only thing he’d changed in that house were the bars on the windows and he didn’t even think to replace the shitty back door. He’s a follower.’

  ‘Followers need someone to follow,’ she said. ‘Maybe he knew someone with connections.’

  Good point. And Arnie had mentioned a friend when they’d interviewed him. Mentioned him more than once, the way people do when they’re trying hard not to think of someone.

  ‘His mate,’ he said. ‘That’s who we need to find.’

  ‘What mate?’

  ‘The guy he mentioned in that story about falling over on the way back from the pub.’

  ‘It was a story, Caleb – he didn’t fall over, he was bashed. By Scott.’

  ‘And, like all good stories, it had an element of truth to it – the friend’s real. Had some weird name, think it started with P.’ He thought back to Arnie’s chapped lips and staccato sentences. What had he said?

  ‘Had a few drinks down the pub with me mate …’ Pierre? Pytor? Percy?