Faces in the Rain

by Roland Perry

  I watched them get into a white stretch limousine. There were other people inside it. We got into the Rolls as Freddie drove off fast without daring to look in my direction.

  There was a tap on my window. It was the woman who’d been standing next to Freddie.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’m Danielle Mernet.’

  ‘I guessed,’ I said.

  ‘I was wondering if we could speak,’ she said, ‘in private.’

  ‘Did Freddie send you?’

  ‘It’s fairly urgent,’ she said, ignoring my question.

  I got out of the car. Lloyd looked at his watch.

  ‘If you can’t wait, see if Tony Farrar can you give you a lift back to town,’ I said to him with a wave in Farrar’s direction. He was still talking with Benns and O’Dare. Lloyd appeared put out, but because he often did, I had learnt to ignore it.

  I walked away with Danielle, who held her hat with one hand and an umbrella with the other. She had a limp and from the way she swivelled her body, it seemed to be a hip injury.

  ‘Freddie is very upset,’ she said. ‘He’s worried because the police think that Martine may have been murdered. He had several visits from them and by the end of it all was confused about what actually happened.’

  I bit my tongue. He could have been lying.

  ‘He told me you were unsure also,’ she said looking up for confirmation.

  ‘I am, but I recall some detail. My memory has come back a little.’ We were strolling towards a mausoleum being built for a Lebanese billionaire, whom I recognised ahead of us. He was speaking animatedly with four workmen, all of whom appeared to be Lebanese. He was no older than fifty-five, and apart from a pot belly hanging over an ostentatious belt, he seemed in good health. Like the Pharoahs he planned to visit his eternal home and become familiar with it before he took up permanent residence.

  ‘What happened exactly?’ she asked me.

  ‘Freddie and I slept until four. But I had a chat to Martine before I fell asleep.’

  I waved to Lloyd who had taken a lift with Tony Farrar. He held up a car phone and indicated he would call me.

  ‘And what did she say?’ Danielle asked, her interest heightened.

  ‘That’s a matter for my lawyer and the police.’

  ‘Mr Hamilton, you must understand that Freddie thought you might have been setting him up.’

  ‘That’s a laugh,’ I said, a trace bitterly, ‘I thought the same thing about him.’

  ‘The police found a bottle of pills prescribed for Martine in his apartment.’

  I stopped walking and stared at her.

  ‘What kind of pills?’

  ‘Serophrine.’

  ‘Did they have a label?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘They had been dispensed from a pharmacy in Bourke Street.’

  ‘How did the police come to search his apartment?’

  ‘His story was confused. They became suspicious and turned his place upside down.’

  ‘What did Freddie do when they found them?’

  ‘Swore that he didn’t take them from Martine’s place.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I do. I really do.’

  If I believed her, and Freddie was on the level, it meant someone was trying to pin the death on either or both of us.

  We passed the Lebanese, who bowed.

  ‘Do you mind if we have a look inside?’ I said.

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Hamilton,’ he said and then shrieked an order at the mausoleum. Two Lebanese security men wearing gun holsters emerged. They were keeping it in the family. We reached the entrance to the structure which was about half complete, and took steps down to the vault. Unprotected light bulbs lit the place and gold dominated the inlays of a podium, the ceiling and the floor. The walls had frescoes of Beirut before it had been flattened.

  ‘How do you think Martine died?’ I asked.

  Danielle shrugged. Her eyes moistened just a bit.

  ‘I suspect it was murder,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was not the type to suicide. She had spent years battling against a serious lymphatic cancer and had beaten it. She was so happy with life.’

  ‘Have you any ideas on what happened?’

  Again that Gallic shrug.

  ‘Freddie says he left a few minutes after you at about ten past four. I went to pick her up to go to the Victoria Market, which we did every Saturday at eight. She was always so punctual. I found her . . .’

  Her voice fell away as she recalled the moment.

  ‘And that was at what, about nine?’

  ‘Eight thirty.’

  ‘OK, so there is a gap of about four hours in which a murderer could have got in and killed her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The mausoleum was giving me the creeps. We walked back to the Rolls and got in. I offered her the lift which she had been banking on since Freddie had driven off alone. I didn’t start up. ‘Have you any idea who may have killed her?’ I asked.

  Danielle hesitated.

  ‘There are a few possibilities,’ she said.

  I switched on the windscreen wipers, their monotonous hum penetrated our conversation pauses, and allowed us to see cemetery workers putting the finishing touches to Martine’s grave.

  ‘Did she tell you about what happened in Paris?’ she asked.

  ‘A little,’ I said, leaving an opening. Danielle told me more or less the story Freddie had.

  ‘The doctor who maltreated Martine in France was Claude Michel,’ Danielle said, touching her glasses. She was distracted by a man standing on the edge of the roadway facing Martine’s grave. He was tall and thin and wore a hat and an expensive suit. He seemed to be waiting for the workers to flatten down the mud and erect a plaque.

  ‘Did Martine think Michel was in the country?’ I asked.

  ‘She thought she was being watched.’

  I turned to her.

  ‘Watched? What do you mean?’

  ‘She claimed her phone was bugged and that she was being followed.’

  ‘Did you think she was?’

  No pout or shrug this time from Danielle.

  ‘I’m not sure. She seemed obsessed with the idea that she would be murdered.’

  ‘What other threats did Martine have?’ I said.

  ‘She lived a, how can I say, “different” life,’ she said. ‘The English would call her a “good time girl”.’

  ‘Are you telling me she was a high-class hooker?’

  ‘In a way. You see she had her professional life as a good model and beyond that she liked to live well. To do that she needed money. And Martine would do almost anything for money.’

  ‘Could she have made enemies amongst her clients?’ I asked.

  ‘There was a Libyan amongst the mourners,’ Danielle said. ‘Martine hinted that he was perhaps a terrorist.’

  ‘He was a client?’

  ‘Don’t think so. She had an affair with a Libyan terrorist in London.’

  I pulled a piece of paper from my wallet and scribbled. If I was going to play assistant to Farrar I should be making notes.

  ‘Name?’

  Danielle’s forehead creased in concentration.

  ‘Something like Al Shahati or Al Shahata. The Libyan at the funeral was a friend of his.’

  ‘You don’t know his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘No and I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Martine had something to do with him here?’

  ‘Yes. It may have just been on an old acquaintance basis.’

  Martine was proving to be quite a woman, but my sympathy for her was wavering. She had trodden dangerous ground in her high-class hookery. We had passed in the night, like two ships. Since then she had been torpedoed two metres into the mud and I was rudderless and in danger of being sunk.

  I started the Rolls just as the dapper gent in the hat took some flowers from his dark g
reen Peugot and took them over to the head of the grave.

  ‘Wonder who that guy is?’ I mumbled. I glanced at Danielle. Instead of saying she didn’t know, she remained silent.

  ‘Do you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the French Consul.’

  ‘Must have been a good friend,’ I observed. There must have been sixty roses in the bunch and roses were for a lot more than friendship.

  ‘Was he a client of Martine’s?’ I asked.

  We watched him retreat.

  ‘More than that,’ she said, ‘he was a lover.’

  NINE

  HUNGER PANGS were attacking me when I arrived back at the office round five fifteen p.m. after dropping Danielle off in the city, but I couldn’t grab more than a cup of coffee. A lot was happening. My secretary/assistant/confidante, Rachel Carlotti, a computer-efficient, ex-school headmistress of forty-five, had a daunting list of messages for me. It was important to speak with Farrar and Dr Morris. Rachel said I had better also call Detective Benns, who had made four calls. I had told Rachel not to use the car phone because I didn’t want to be burdened with ‘urgent’ messages while trying to see Farrar and attend Martine’s funeral. At the top of a five-billion-dollar-a-year organisation like Benepharm there is a never-ending stream of decisions to make, things to sign, reports to review, people who wish to see the boss and so on, and no matter how much I delegated, many things somehow managed to seep through to me. On a bad day I was at my desk at seven a.m. and on a good day six thirty-five a.m. That had allowed me to work a hundred hours a week and to keep on top of things for fifteen years. I found discipline and routines not just important, but vital. It therefore unbalanced me to arrive at the office at five fifteen p.m. Before I reached my desk, Hewitt was on the line. The police said they had more evidence and wanted me for further questioning.

  ‘What evidence?’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Benns wouldn’t say, but it doesn’t sound good for you. I’ve suggested that you and I go into Homicide offices in St Kilda Road of our own volition. It’ll look better.’

  Mike Tyson had just punched me in the solar plexus.

  ‘You’ve no idea what that evidence could be?’ I said.

  ‘Benns wasn’t going to pass that on. They want to hit you with it. He sounded almost gleeful.’

  I collected my thoughts. Believe me, they were scattered.

  ‘I’ll tell Benns you’re coming in?’

  ‘OK,’ I replied reluctantly.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know. I want to get home first and . . .’

  ‘Good idea. Take in anything you want. You know, reading matter.’

  ‘They’re going to detain me?’

  ‘It’s possible. Of course, if you’re charged, we’ll do our best to arrange bail.’

  ‘You mean they mightn’t accept bail?’

  ‘It’s becoming tough. So many people, particularly embezzlers, have skipped the country on bail.’

  I cursed all embezzlers, and myself for getting into such a mess. Then I took the curse back. To use an Americanism, I had been stiffed. There had to be a way out, but at that tender moment I couldn’t see it. I felt like the proverbial rat. Cornered.

  ‘So what time tonight?’ Hewitt pressed me.

  ‘Ten p.m.?’

  ‘That’s late, Duncan.’

  ‘I’ve got important business.’

  ‘Nothing more important than this! But all right, I’ll try. If you don’t hear from me, that’s the time.’

  Dr Morris was on the line. I assured Hewitt I’d be on time and picked up the call.

  ‘Cassie Morris here,’ she said. I liked the sound of her voice. Somehow even in that stressful moment it soothed me, just a little.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition I want to put to you,’ I said.

  ‘An offer I can’t refuse?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you saw The Godfather?’

  ‘Sure, about five times. Eight if you count re-runs on TV. One of my favourite movies.’

  I wanted to tell her she gave good phone. Very relaxed. Lot of character. She must have been uptight in that meeting.

  ‘You remember the scene where Sollozo the Turk is trying to persuade the Godfather to get into drugs?’ I asked.

  ‘Very well. The Don didn’t like it.’

  ‘But Sonny Corleone, his son, did.’

  ‘The Turk was alerted,’ Cassie said, ‘he thought he could reach Sonny. Get him on side.’

  ‘Yes. The Don dresses his son down after the meeting. “Never contradict the Godfather in front of business.” Well that’s how I felt with you at the meeting.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Walters was the Godfather and I was the greasy Sollozo trying to get you into something.’

  Cassie laughed. It was a pleasant musical laugh and the first hint that I might get somewhere.

  ‘I was wondering if you would have dinner with me,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘It’s . . .’

  ‘Could change your entire life.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Pick you up at your home at seven,’ I said.

  ‘It might be a little difficult. I have a lover.’

  ‘If he’s new, it doesn’t matter. If he’s a real man and a longstanding friend, he’ll understand.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘New or old?’

  ‘New.’

  ‘Then keep him on his toes. Anyway, this is strictly business.’

  ‘How about lunch sometime?’

  ‘Nope. Has to be tonight. Urgent. Tell him it’s a terrific job offer.’

  ‘Can’t. You see, it’s Peter Walters.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a pause. I could tell she was in two minds. I waited. I had said enough.

  ‘Look,’ she said finally, ‘be here at eight. The top apartment, number five Lawson Grove, just off Caroline Street. Near the river.’

  I was on my way home when I called Farrar on the car phone. I told him about my St Kilda Road rendezvous in a few hours time.

  ‘That’s why I was trying to call you,’ he said. There was an edge to his tone. ‘Don’t say any more. Remember where Lloyd used to take us for a drink after work sometimes?’

  ‘Oh, the . . .’

  ‘Don’t say it! Just get there. Park the car some distance from it. Make sure you’re not followed.’

  Lloyd had taken us to the Botanical Hotel, known as the Bot, in South Yarra, opposite the gardens. I also remembered drinking there in my late teens when it was a run-of-the-mill crowded bar with poor facilities. Like most hotels it had been gutted, renovated and dolled up for a classier clientele with plenty of money.

  Tony was waiting for me in a corner where you could hear yourself speak. I chose a light ale because I wanted to be lucid for tonight’s Police HQ encounter, and Tony switched from whisky to a Bloody Mary.

  ‘Didn’t want you talking on the phone,’ he began in hushed tones, ‘you’re under surveillance.’ He glanced towards the door.

  ‘Then perhaps we could find a less public place.’

  ‘We’re OK. I can spot one of Benns’ boys in here blindfolded.’

  He used a straw to sip half the Bloody Mary. The sound effects were well-practised. Farrar belched.

  ‘I had a long chat to Benns and O’Dare,’ he said.

  ‘So I noticed.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Told them I had a rich woman client friend of Martine’s who wanted to know who bumped her off. They bought it. They’re happy to have me help. Especially as Fadi Fazmi’s somehow involved.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Did you see Karl Krogen there with a guy in a safari suit? That was Fazmi. He’s a suspected terrorist.’

  ‘Why is he allowed in the country?’

  ‘He applied like anyone else. ASIO will let him run for a while. They want to know what he’s up to. He has a twenty-four-hour wa
tch on him.’

  ‘And what is he up to?’ I was watching the door more than Farrar.

  ‘Not sure. Benns believes he’s here to upset the Frogs. You know. A bomb in a consulate building, an attack in New Caledonia – that sort of thing. But it may be something bigger. The only thing that’s for sure is the fact that the French and the Libyans are carrying on their feud in the Pacific. It started in Chad when the Libyans pushed the French out. All through the eighties, Gaddafi tried to belittle Mitterand by helping – through training and weapons – New Caledonia Kanak separatists to kill Frenchmen.’

  I took more beer and contemplated the ever-expanding web I’d fallen into. Libyans. French. Hookers. Questionable old school mates. Armed prowlers. Private dicks. I didn’t need any of them.

  ‘I wish they’d all drown,’ I mumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the Pacific,’ I said. ‘Forget it. Tell me about Benns and O’Dare. Do they really suspect me?’

  ‘There are several suspects.’

  ‘What did they say about me?’

  ‘They were suspicious of my connection to you. When I settled that they said they thought you had lied to them. They didn’t think you’d murdered her, but they suspected she was involved with you.’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘I didn’t defend you. They asked me if you had hookers. I laughed that off. They said you had divorced your wife. They’d been doing their homework. Benns is thorough. O’Dare’s too nice to be a homicide investigator – got there because she’s bright and ambitious and well-connected, but I’d give her two years, three at most. I’ve seen very, very tough men wilt in that job.’

  ‘Terry Hewitt tells me they have a new piece of evidence,’ I said, feeling my way, ‘any idea what that is?’

  ‘Benns told Hewitt that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Reckon it’s bluff. They’re not going to tell a top crim lawyer they’ve got the dope on his client unless there’s a scare motive.’ Farrar finished his drink and stood up to get another. He leaned close to me. ‘It’s bullshit, and if Hewitt doesn’t see that, he’s gettin’ soft.’

  Farrar waded into the crowd at the bar and people made way. There were one or two men as tall as him, but none with his beef or meanness. He returned with two more Bloody Marys, one for the inner man and the other for the beefy outer layer. ‘On the off-chance you ended up in the slammer,’ he said, ‘how am I gunna get paid?’