Sharp Turn

by Marianne Delacourt

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos she’s a bitch,’ she said with a shrug.

  Her pale face was made paler by the black shift she wore and I noticed some purple bruising on her neck that looked suspiciously like fingermarks.

  ‘How did you get those?’

  ‘She wanted to watch something else on television.’

  ‘Your mother tried to strangle you because you couldn’t agree on a TV station?’

  A shrug. ‘Jus’ need a place to stay for a few days while I get some money from Centrelink. I had nowhere to go and you said you’d help me if I ever needed it.’

  ‘How on earth did you find me?’

  ‘Phone book.’

  ‘But there’s heaps of Sharps. And the phone’s not even under my initial.’

  Another shrug. ‘Picked the one that lived in the poshest suburb, caught the train here. Walked down the street and waited. Saw your car pull up. Followed you down.’

  I glanced at Wal. ‘Look, I haven’t got much room here, Cass. You got other family?’

  ‘Lilly’s in Bandyup prison and Danny-boy’s gone up north. We kinda split up.’

  ‘Lilly’s your sister, right?’

  Nod.

  I sighed. ‘It’s really late. Let’s get some sleep and talk about it in the morning.’

  I got up and dragged the spare doona from the couch onto the floor then dropped one of my pillows on it.

  She rubbed her eyes and nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and without another word she collapsed onto the doona and curled up.

  I turned the light out, remembering at the last minute to set the alarm for my early start as a sandwich maker at Wanneroo, hoping that this evening would fade from my memory soon.

  Turned out it wasn’t quite over.

  My phone started ringing just as I fell into a dream that involved butter icing and Edouardo. I ignored it, too comfortable and sleepy to wake up. On the third go around, I roused myself to answer. The caller ID wasn’t familiar.

  ‘’Lo,’ I croaked.

  ‘Ms Sharp?’ a distant voice whispered.

  ‘Hmmmm?’

  ‘Ms Sharp, it’s Lena Vine.’

  I didn’t say anything for a moment while my brain fired the necessary neurons to register that a brothel madam was ringing me after 1 am.

  ‘I need your help, Ms Sharp. It’s Audrey.’ Her voice was so quiet I could hardly hear her.

  ‘What? How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s . . . I . . . Audrey’s dead. Can you come over straightaway?’

  Chapter 7

  BY THE TIME I dressed and made it over to Leederville, it was nearly 2 am. I took Wal with me but left Cass deeply asleep on the floor.

  Madame Vine’s front yard was crawling with police and plastered with crime-scene tape. Every nook and cranny of the garden was lit by portables. Whitey stood at the front door, dressed in civvies and talking to my other least favourite constables, Cravich and Blake. A partially covered body lay not far from their feet. Even from where I stood I recognised the to-die-for heels peeking out from the bottom of the sheet. To-die-for. Now I wished to hell I’d never had that thought.

  One of Audrey’s arms was outflung and twisted and the dark shadow around her head had to be a pool of blood. I was glad I wasn’t any closer.

  Whitey saw Wal and me and came straight over. ‘What are you doing here, Sharp? Showing up for work?’

  ‘Yes, but not the way you think. Madame Vine called me to help with the investigation.’

  ‘You got a PI’s licence?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then I suggest you go home to bed.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘This is a police matter,’ said Whitey officiously. ‘I can’t discuss it.’

  My hands went to my hips. ‘I’d like to see my client.’

  ‘Your client,’ he said, wiggling his fingers in the air to indicate inverted commas, ‘is busy talking to police. Now you and your boyfriend need to beat it.’ He scowled openly at Wal.

  Wal made a noise in the back of his throat that could have been a cough. Or maybe a growl. He didn’t like being called my boyfriend. I felt the same way.

  ‘Boss?’ he said under his breath.

  I shook my head the tiniest bit, meaning ‘let it go’, and turned back to Whitey. It was hard to believe this arrogant git was the same sleazeball who’d rung me out of the blue a month or so ago on the off-chance I might want to have an affair with him. Or maybe it wasn’t.

  ‘Please tell Madame Vine I’m here.’ My voice had risen an octave. It was two in the morning, I didn’t need this shit.

  ‘Problem, Detective Whitehead?’ called out Cravich.

  Oh my God! Whitey had been promoted to detective, which meant he must have been undercover when I’d seen him here before – not a client!

  Fortunately, before he could reply a white government truck pulled up in the street. Forensics, I guessed.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Whitey ordered. He ran over to the truck, leaving us by the gate.

  I got out my phone and called Madame Vine’s number. She answered in a second.

  ‘I’m outside,’ I said. ‘The police won’t let me in.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  At first glance, she seemed composed: still in work attire and full make-up, which hid her extreme pallor and bloodshot eyes. Once she was closer, though, I could see her trembling.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ I asked gently.

  While she gathered her thoughts, I watched Constable Blake shepherd a half-dozen very embarrassed men onto the veranda for questioning. I wondered how many of them would be recognised by the curious neighbours peering out their windows at the disturbance.

  I scanned the line. No one I knew except for a guy I recognised from my previous visit. Mr Zegna Suit looked like he’d cornered the market on shame.

  A few moments later, the men were joined by a line of Madame Vine’s girls. The police made them sit a distance from the men.

  Madame Vine cleared her throat and took a breath. ‘I was in my office. Audrey answered the door to a caller. From what the police have said, there was probably no one there so she stepped out on the veranda to look into the garden.’ She gave me an imploring look. ‘I’ve told her not to do that. We get a lot of pranksters. More of late since the threats started. I’ve told her to open the door on the chain then shut it if no one’s there.’

  ‘Do you have security?’

  Madame Vine nodded. ‘Leonard had heard a noise in the back garden. He was out there looking into it because the security camera was down. Audrey answered the door instead, and when she stepped out someone . . . shot her . . . from the street.’

  ‘Were they in a car?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. No one saw it.’

  She began to shiver in the way people did when suffering deep shock.

  ‘Madame Vine, you need to sit down. We can talk tomorrow.’

  ‘No. Now. While it’s fresh,’ she insisted. ‘Tomorrow . . .’

  Tomorrow would be all police and newspapers.

  Tomorrow she’d begin mourning her lover.

  ‘Okay.’ I opened the notes section on my phone.

  ‘What happened this evening? Anything unusual?’

  ‘No. It was quiet.’

  ‘No prank calls earlier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why someone would . . . m-murder . . . Audrey?’ I’d never dealt with this kind of thing before and it was hard to say the word. ‘Do you think the killer was after her, or could it have been a random event?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ Her voice began to sound faint again. ‘Tara, you can see things others can’t. Tell me, please, do you notice anything here amongst the clients? Or the girls?’

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was hard to read paralanguage at night, so I made a show of scanning the customers, the girls and the police. From across the garden, I could only see a smudge of di
stortion around their bodies: their energy heat. The customers were giving up a lot of that, while the police were cooler and less disturbed. The girls were the most interesting: two of them had barely visible energy lines, almost as if the event hadn’t stirred any emotion in them at all.

  ‘Who are the two girls at the end?’ I asked.

  She looked over. ‘Kate is the blonde, and Louise.’

  ‘What were they doing . . . err . . . at the time . . . of the . . . shooting?’

  Madame Vine pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘They were in the lounge, I believe. Neither of them had a customer.’

  I thumbed their names into my phone. ‘I’d like to talk to them both. Could you arrange it?’

  ‘Of course. Do you sense something?’

  ‘I can’t say yet. I’ll know more when I’ve spoken to them. Is there anything else you can think of that might be a clue?’

  Whitey came back before she could answer. ‘You’ll have to move, Sharp. We’re extending the crime scene to include the street. Miss Vine, would you please go inside? One of the detectives is waiting to speak to you.’

  Another profound shiver shook the woman’s body. I reached out and patted her hand. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  She nodded and walked unsteadily back to the house.

  ‘She needs medical attention,’ I hissed at Whitey.

  ‘Don’t tell me my job,’ he snarled back, and began widening the taped-off area so that I had to move.

  ‘Freakin’ idiot,’ I muttered over my shoulder to Wal as I backed away.

  But Wal didn’t reply. In fact, when I looked, he wasn’t even there.

  I walked back to my car to wait for him, and watched the forensics guy donning his bootees and coat. Wouldn’t be much evidence left with all those cops stomping around!

  Wal returned a few minutes later, sliding quietly into the passenger seat.

  ‘Where the hell did you go?’ I felt tired and shaken.

  ‘Bin talkin’ to Leonard Roc.’

  ‘The security guy?’

  He nodded. ‘We used to work a band together.’

  ‘He tell you anything?’

  ‘Didn’t see nothin’ of the shooting. First he knew was one of the girls screaming.’

  ‘He didn’t hear the gunshot?’

  Wal shook his head. ‘Must have used a silencer. Lennie was out back checking the security cameras. One had stopped working.’

  ‘So it was planned.’

  Wal nodded. ‘I reckon.’

  ‘I wonder if it’s got anything to do with the problems she’s been having.’

  ‘Which are?’ asked Wal.

  ‘That’s why she originally called me. She thinks one of her employees is unhappy. Someone’s been leaving dead animals on the doorstep and sending nuisance texts.’

  ‘Sounds more like someone’s trying to scare her.’

  ‘Did your friend Leonard mention anything about it?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Wal. ‘Probably too freaked himself to be thinkin’ straight.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I wasn’t feeling too good. A murder investigation was way out of my league.

  ‘Have to say, it’s a big step up from shitty texts to a drive-by shooting,’ commented Wal.

  As usual, he was right on the money.

  Chapter 8

  SLEEP AMOUNTED TO THREE hours. When the alarm went off, Cass was still snuggled into my spare doona and Wal was stretched out on the couch, fully clothed. Neither of them stirred.

  Crap. That’s how I felt. And now I had to make sandwiches all day.

  ‘Urrrr!’ I sat up and scrubbed my face.

  Cass opened a make-up-smudged eye. She looked disoriented.

  ‘You’re on my floor because you got kicked out of home,’ I said.

  A little nod. She licked her lips. ‘Why are you up?

  It’s still night-time.’

  ‘No,’ I corrected, ‘it’s morning and I have to go to work.’

  With that, I gritted my teeth and planted my feet on the floor. Grabbing my towel, I headed for the shower. When I got back, awake but still cranky, Cass was up and rooting through the kitchenette cupboards.

  ‘You’ve got no food here,’ she said.

  ‘I eat out a lot,’ I said, thumbing the clothes rack. ‘There’s bread in the freezer.’

  What did you wear to work in a sandwich van? Jeans and a white tee-shirt seemed right. I assembled what I needed and pulled the screen across between me and Wal to dress. Not that I should have worried – his face was buried deep in the couch, a cushion resting on the back of his head.

  ‘Where ya working?’ Cass asked.

  I stood on my tiptoes and peered over the screen. She had the kettle on, and was spreading jam onto toast and cutting it into unbelievably neat triangles.

  ‘Hey, can you make sandwiches?’ I asked.

  She stared at me in surprise. ‘Who can’t?’

  I pulled a face, grabbed a spare towel off my rack and hurled it at her. ‘Shower’s outside in the pool house. You got any clothes?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mum wouldn’t let me take anything.’

  I rifled through the drawer at the bottom of the rack and found a tee-shirt. ‘Wear this over your dress,’ I said, passing it out from behind the screen. ‘And here . . .’ I threw her a hair band. ‘Tie your hair back.’

  Her expression turned stubborn, like she might argue or tell me to piss off, but I wasn’t going to have any of it.

  ‘Look, I’m working on a case, which means I have to disguise myself as a sandwich-seller. I need help with the food while I get around and ask some questions. Think you can do that?’

  Her mouth snapped shut, cutting off whatever she’d been thinking of saying, and she nodded.

  ‘Good. I’ll give you forty per day.’

  Her scowl disappeared altogether. ‘Dollars?’

  I stepped out from behind the screen. ‘Yeah. If you pull your weight. Now hurry up.’

  We drove through Perky’s Pies for a second breakfast: two custard tarts, one vanilla milkshake and one chocolate.

  Cass didn’t have much to say until she’d finished her custard tart. She gave her mouth a refined dab with a paper napkin. JoBob would approve. Then she burped long and loud.

  Maybe not.

  ‘What’s the job?’ she asked.

  ‘My client’s a guy called Bolo Ignatius who owns a bike-racing team. Someone’s been sabotaging his bike gear. Probably one of the other teams. He’s got an important event coming up on Sunday that he can’t afford to lose. So keep your eyes and ears open for anything.’

  I got a nod. Without her Goth make-up on and with her hair scraped back, Cass looked younger than her sixteen years – and sweeter. Her eyes were a soft green and her aura was like a cinnamon sprinkle. But that was all a bit misleading. Cass’s idea of a good time was throwing beer bottles at the railway tracks. ‘Sweet’ didn’t work as a description for her; try ‘tough and resourceful with attitude’. She’d helped me out a couple of times when I was chasing a lead in the Bunkas and I hadn’t forgotten.

  Nor had she.

  Whatever happened at home must have been bad. I’d bet anything that Cass had a high tolerance for dysfunction.

  I took the coast road up towards Karinyup. White-topped ocean waves and glancing sun; air clean and cool. Perth was the most beautiful city in the world and the best-kept secret.

  The food-van owner lived in a salmon-brick duplex not far from Observation City in Scarborough. The rest of the street was full of mansions. He was tinkering under the hood of the van when we pulled up, and straightened up with difficulty, hands pressing into his lower back.

  ‘I’m Tara Sharp. Bolo Ignatius asked me to run your van while you’re recuperating this week. This is my . . . err . . . assistant, Cass.’

  ‘Jim,’ said the sandwich man. ‘Thanks fer doin’ this. Bolo says you’ve bin in caterin’.’

  ‘Ahh. Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘Jus’ bring her back he
re when you’ve finished. I’ll restock each day and the missus will clean her down.’

  That sounded like a good deal.

  He opened the van door and beckoned us in. ‘She’s got everything you need. Grill runs on gas, so don’t forget to turn the valve off when you’ve finished. Menu and price list here.’

  I stared at the well-scrubbed hot plate and deep fryer alongside. How did that work, I wondered.

  Jim’s forehead creased with doubt as he saw my expression. ‘There’re two five-kilo bags of chips in the freezer, above the meat patties and the dooper dogs.’

  My stomach heaved at the thought of battered sausages.

  No such problem for Cass. ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘Milkshakes?’

  Jim pointed to an appliance with a silver swizzle. ‘Three flavours. Choc, vanilla and strawberry. Ice-cream’s an extra fifty cents.’

  Cass nodded, casting a critical eye over everything. ‘Looks simple enough. Sandwich filling in the fridge?’

  ‘Yep.’ Jim seemed happier then. ‘The security guard at the gate’ll show you where to park and hook up to the mains power. There’s a list of instructions in the drawer under the cutlery. Call me if you need to know anything else.’

  He handed me a bright yellow card with a tiny image of a BLT in one corner and his name and number in the middle.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He dangled the keys in front of me. ‘Look after my girl.’ He clearly didn’t mean his wife.

  I summoned some assurance in my smile. ‘Of course.

  What time do you normally close?’

  ‘Around 2 pm. Unless a late order comes in.’

  ‘Then we’ll see you about 2.45. Mind if I leave my car parked here?’

  Jim stared at Mona. ‘I guess so. What’s the story with the paintwork?’

  Damn flames! I’d got a cheap paint job from a majorly dodgy spray painter named Bog in the Bunkas. The colour had been bad enough – orange – but he’d gotten creative and thrown in some black flame transfers for free. I now officially drove the she-beast from hell. ‘Friend did it.’

  ‘Okay, well pull her into the driveway when you drive the van out.’