The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim

  ‘Being her best friend,’ I said, ’I gather you knew her well?’

  ‘I wasn’t her best friend. We were very close, but I wasn’t her best friend. I’m from the country. My father died ten years ago, and he owed half the town we lived in. I could have stayed, but I was an only child and my mother died two years prior to him. I didn’t want to stay there. I lived all my life in a small town, and with a million dollars to my name and no family or attachment, I knew I had to move on. When I was a kid, my father took me to the city once a month. That’s where I want to live, I told myself. It was a brave move for a country girl. Sure, now everyone moves away from the country. No job opportunities. So, I moved here and met Evelyn. She was nice to be from day one. She showed me around Melbourne and in no time I felt at home. But she was a city girl, and there were subtle differences between her and me, enough to stop us being best friend. You know, mainly our taste in clothes and food. She was into designer labels. I dress for comfort, not to impress.’

  ‘So, who was Evelyn’s best friend then?’

  ‘Her best friend was Celia Pressly. She went back home to the US five years ago. She came on a one-year contract for some big business computer firm, but ended up staying four years. Evelyn and Celia met at a nightclub.’

  I made a note of the name in my spiral notebook. I never heard of an Celia Pressly. It must have been someone Evelyn met after we stop seeing each other.

  ‘Who was Celia Pressly working for?’ I asked.

  ‘She worked as a programmer for Foles & Sanders at the company’s headquarters. Battlestar Gallactica, she used to call the place because of its size. It was at a time when there wasn’t enough computer graduates coming out of Australia, so large corporations recruited them from US human resources companies. I went with Evelyn once to visit her at work. You wouldn’t believe the size of the place. It looks like a five-star hotel with a restaurant-like canteen and fully equipped gymnasium. It was like, oh, my God, where do they get all the money from?’

  I knew the place she was talking about. A huge, glass building, which was visible from the South Eastern Arterial just before crossing the Glenferrie Road intersection. I worked there for a month under cover two years ago to investigate mismanagement of the company’s funds. The company’s CEO was eventually charged for fraud. He had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars from Foles & Sanders’s coffers to renovate his own home and that of friends. A million dollars missing through the system hadn’t been easy to trace in a corporate financial maze like that of Foles & Sanders. The company owned hundreds of department stores, restaurant chains, specialised shops and boutiques all over the country, churning out billions of dollars of retail sales per year. That’s where the money was coming from.

  I stirred my coffee and said, ‘Did Evelyn and Celia kept in touch with one another after Celia returned to the US?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Evelyn often spoke about her, what she was doing, so, she must have received some news from her. Maybe they were writing to each other. I don’t know. She didn’t give me details, and I wasn’t asking. I did respect her privacy.’

  Frank interrupted us. ‘Did she have any other friends?’

  ‘Not that I knew of.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep up. She changed and swapped them now and then. Never a two-timer, but she tire really quickly of the same man. She was going out with someone lately, but I never got a chance to meet him. She said he was very handsome. She said she was going to introduce him to me, but like I said, I never got a chance.’

  ‘She mentioned his name?’ I asked.

  Judith puzzled for a few seconds. ‘No idea. I don’t think she ever told me.’

  We sipped from our mugs. The coffee was strong and bitter and could have woken up the dead.

  ‘What about her clients?’ I went on. ‘Did she ever talk about them?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. All of them from high places. They wanted discretion. They couldn’t afford to get extracurricular sex and being seen. It was better for them to have Evelyn cater for their needs. Her services was in high demand because of the guaranteed discretion, and obviously because Evelyn was simply a gorgeous woman. She didn’t look cheap like all those street prostitute. You could be seen in public with her if you wanted to, and you didn’t have to worry about what people thought.’

  ‘How did prospective clients found out about her?’

  ‘By word of mouth. Written application only. They were properly screened. She wanted to know who they were, where they came from, whether they had prior criminal records. Anyone who looked like a potential psychopath didn’t stand a chance. She was extremely careful with all that. She must have listened to me. But now, look what’s happened. It goes to show you never know.’

  I took another mouthful of coffee while Frank recorded details of our conversation.

  ‘Did she mention any names?’ I asked.

  ‘Names of?’

  ‘Her clients.’

  Judith locked her eyes into mine for a few seconds. ‘She did, but I’m not sure if I can repeat them. She gave them her word that she would never tell anyone.’

  If Evelyn told Judith some of her clients’ names, she had already broken the confidentiality rule she set for herself. So, why stop here?

  ‘I understand, Judith, but Evelyn is dead now, and there’s a good chance that the person who killed was one of her clients.’

  ‘And you never promised anything,’ Frank added. ‘She did. If we’re going to find out who killed her, we need all the help we can get. I’m sure Evelyn would have wanted that way if she was still alive.’

  Judith took her time. ‘That’s true.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘What’s the name of that game-show host?’

  Frank and I looked at her clueless. I seldom watched television, and whenever I did, certainly not game shows. My timetable was far too busy to bother with such trivial things.

  Judith went on, ‘You now at seven o’clock - weeknight.’

  ‘Mind Wheel,’ Frank said. ‘Simon Garvey. He’s been host for ten years.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him,’ Judith said, her face lighting up. ‘He was one of her clients. Married with three kids. You can understand why it was imperative for Evelyn to be discreet about her services.’

  Simon Garvey. Okay, the name did ring a bell. I’d never watched his show, but I must have read about him in Who Weekly or TV Week or another one of those celebrity magazines. I wrote the name down at the same time as Frank.

  ‘Anyone else?’ I asked.

  ‘Politicians. A couple of MPs. Can’t recall their names right now. But I’m sure I’ll remember. Some cops in high places. A supreme court judge. Like I said, people in power with money to burn. They looked after each other, don’t you worry. Everyone’s always on the lookout to scratch somebody’s back as long as they know they’re going to get theirs scratched. Aren’t that the nature of politics?’

  ‘It sounds like common human nature to me,’ I said.

  Frank and I looked at each other. If Judith was correct, some people in high places were probably having a hard time closing their eyes at night. If their names became linked to the murder of Evelyn Carter, it would be the end of their careers. I knew Frank was thinking the same thing from the look on his face.

  ‘She did keep a little black book with all the names in it,’ Judith said.

  ‘Her clients’ names?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, all of them. She bragged on about it. She said that if one day she wanted to make a million bucks, all the had to do was sell the book to a newspaper or magazine.’

  ‘Where’s the book?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Don’t know. I guess she kept it at her place.’

  Frank and I hadn’t recovered a black address book of any sort.

  ‘You’re sure about this address book?’ I asked.

  ‘I saw it. She wouldn’t let me look inside it, but I saw the book.’ She made a square in the air about five centimetres by twenty centimetres in dia
meter. ‘It was about that size. “My little black book of horrors”, she used to call it. I though it was rather sad. All the people in her book were men who cheated on their wives, men who lied to their family and friends, men in high places who probably lied about other things as well. I mean how can you trust someone who lies to his wife? Look what it’s done to the American President. Such a disgrace.’

  It was true that the President of the United States of America’s affair with a young intern had tarnished his image forever. And it wasn’t so much because of the affair in a way, but because he lied to everyone around him, insisting he never had a sexual relationship with the young woman. I hadn’t made up my mind as to what to think of him because frankly every man cheated on his wife at one time or another.

  Frank emptied his mug and said, ‘Anything else you can tell us that might help with the investigation?’

  Judith passed one hand over her round face. ‘Like I said, she was going out with someone. You should try to find out who this person was. She must have confined his identity to another person. Someone must have seen them together somewhere. It could have easily been one of her clients. I don’t know how you’re going to get your hands on that little black book.’

  Neither did I.

  We emptied our mugs and thanked Judith for her time.

  She walked us to the door and promised to keep in touch if she remembered anything that would help us with our investigation.

  Frank and I walked back to the car.

  ‘Want to come over to my place?’ Frank asked, as we stepped inside the Ford Falcon. ‘We can brainstorm everything we’ve got so far, look over the crime scene photos, re-watch the video, really get our mind wrapped around this investigation.’

  I understood his excitement. When involved in a mind-boggling case, it was hard not to become obsessed. However, time and experience had taught me to pace myself. The best results were not always achieved under pressure. My private life still counted for something, even if I was just sitting in the backyard of my new home with a good book and a glass of Chardonnay.

  And besides, Frank had picked the wrong night.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said, while clicking in my seat belt, ‘I’m booked for the evening.’

  He nodded, half-turned the ignition key and revved up the engine. Without looking at me, he said, ‘Who is he?’

  ‘None of your goddamn business!’ I snapped unintentionally.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I was just asking. No need to get so nasty.’

  I straightened on my seat. ‘No, no, I’m sorry. I’m just feeling edgy with this investigation. I still can’t get over the fact that the victim was my friend.’

  Frank did a u-turn and said, ‘You can step down any time you want. I’m not going to stop you. I just want what’s best for you.’

  There was sincerity in his eyes.

  ‘I’ll hang in there,’ I said. ‘I need to find the bastard who killed her.’

  ‘Yeah, well, just make sure you do hang in there for the right reasons.’

  It was clear he was beginning to doubt my real motive in this investigation.

  And so did I.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When I got home, there was a message from Goosh on my answering machine. He wanted to know how the investigation was progressing. Instead of returning his call, I faxed him the preliminary report I typed that afternoon. I had concluded that at this stage we had no suspects and were unlikely to get one for at least another week. I also mentioned that if there were to be any suspects in the near future, they would most likely be some of Evelyn’s clients. Other than that, I kept the report pretty formal and free of bias opinion. Unfortunately, Goosh’s attitude towards unsworn contracted investigators limited my ability to reveal myself in a more candid manner. And he could only blame himself for that.

  Michael was home, alone in the confinement of his bedroom. I saw little of him, and whenever I did, it was for a couple of minutes at the most. He usually rushed from one room to the other. Sometimes I caught glimpses of him when he left for school in the morning.

  His form coordinator contacted me on my mobile phone a couple of weeks ago, expressing concern at the way Michael refused to participate in class activities or socialise with other students. His school work was borderline, and based on his current effort, I was told, it would be unlikely that he would pass year eight without having to repeat. Michael’s teachers had been informed of what had happened to him the previous year, how he and I nearly lost our lives. The school principal recommended professional counselling, but Michael refused. The principal asked me to pressure Michael into attending the counselling sessions, and I replied it was ultimately his choice. The right time would come when he would open up and realise life wasn’t over yet, that we had been lucky to escape death on that particular occasion, and we should be thanking our lucky stars instead of dwelling on the trauma we had experienced.

  Despite my self-assurance that Michael would eventually break-out of his cocoon, I often wondered if I was doing enough in helping him. If I said nothing and ignored his problem, I was a bad mother. If I nagged him, I was a bad mother. Was there any way to win this?

  I shrugged while slicing capsicums and tomatoes on the chopping board to make a ratatouille for the following day. The fear of facing my own son was eating away my soul. But still I was acutely aware that I loved him too much to do nothing about it. After much internal debating with myself, I decided to bring dinner to his room. That would give me an excuse to confront him.

  The ratatouille was ready within half an hour. I filled two plastic containers with it and stored them in the fridge. I hadn’t asked Michael if he wanted any because he would have told me that wasn’t hungry. I was certain he hadn’t eaten anything all day, and although his lost of appetite was most probably genuine, it hurt me to see him fade away.

  I filled his plate with two generous scoops of ratatouille, one serve of pasta and two slices of white bread. The plate balancing on my left hand, I grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge with my right one.

  Without knocking on the door of his room, I pushed it open with my foot, maintaining balance with the plate and the can of Coke.

  Michael was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, a pair of tiny earphones inserted in his ears. I could hear the bass and drum thumping from his portable CD-player.

  He glanced towards me and twisted his mouth. Without removing his earphones, he yelled, ‘I’m not hungry’. With the music blasting in his ears, he was probably not aware of how loud he sounded.

  Ignoring his protest, I approached the bed and placed the plate on his side table. There, I noticed the jewel case of the CD he was listening to. I looked at the cover twice because I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Pussy Galore - Dial ‘M’ for Motherfucker. God, I didn’t know it was legal to release such rubbish. And to think he paid for it with the pocket money I gave him made me sick.

  I made a gesture with both my hands, asking him to removed his earphones.

  He pulled an annoyed face and slipped off only one of the earphones.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eat something.’

  ‘I told you I’m not hungry.’

  I should have kept it to myself, but I had to ask him the next question. ‘What’s this rubbish you’re listening to?’

  ‘It’s not rubbish.’

  ‘Pussy Galore? It’s not rubbish?’

  ‘It’s a punk group.’

  ‘Nineties trash.’

  ‘They formed in 1985 in Washington DC with a rockabilly undertone pinched from The Cramps. Not what you would call nineties music.’

  Whatever, I thought. He knew as much about music than I knew about crime-scene investigation. Every generation was pushing the boundaries of music one step further into vulgarity and decadence. The obscenities musicians got away with in the name of art and freedom of expression was unbelievable. Maybe I was too old fashion. A few generations ago, parents said the same thing about The Beatles a
nd The Rolling Stones. In twenty years from now, maybe Pussy Galore will be seen as a middle-of-the-road band, and dismembering fans on stage in the middle of screaming guitars would be the norms.

  I went on, ‘We need to talk, Michael. You can’t go one living this way. It’s unhealthy.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m cut for it. I’m not complaining.’

  ‘That’s just it. Why aren’t you complaining? Why aren’t you saying what’s on your mind?’

  ‘Man, do you have to? I don’t want to deal with this shit right now.’

  I snapped. ‘Watch your language, young man, I’m your mother. I only want to help you.’

  He stared at me for ten seconds.

  ‘If I eat this stuff,’ he said, pointing at the ratatouille and Coke, ‘will you split?’

  I didn’t answer straight away. ‘Sure. You go ahead, eat your food and pretend I don’t exist.’ I was getting worked up, feeling heat on my cheeks. ‘I don’t mind, I don’t have feelings, you’re the only one who’s hurting here. Go ahead and live your life the way you see it fit.’

  Angry, I turned around and paced towards the door.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he whispered as I closed the door behind me.

  I ignored him, letting hot tears cascade down my face.

  Whether he believed me or not, he was the only person I truly loved.

  When David arrived at my place, he knew I was upset straight away. I wasn’t my usual chatty self. My eyes were still puffy and red from crying.