Faces in the Rain

by Roland Perry

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE FRONT DOOR clicked shut and woke me.

  ‘Cassie?’

  I jumped out of bed, ran to the door and opened it just in time to hear her walking down the alley. I grabbed a dressing gown and was about to chase after her when I spotted an envelope on the kitchen table. It had a note from her:

  Dear Duncan,

  I loved the night with you. Hope you meant all the things you said. I did. Pity you won’t be at the wedding, but it would be too dangerous.

  With love,

  Cassie

  I pondered the note, especially the ‘With love’, over my lonely breakfast and didn’t stop thinking about it until I reached Russell Dimset’s surgery at the top end of Collins Street where many doctors had rooms.

  It was the right address to show you were big enough to charge exorbitant fees. In this case inflated charges were for increased, uplifted or reduced breasts, honed noses, new jaw bones, hip bones and a whole graveyard of other skeletal change options, not to mention liposuctions from under the chin to the inner knee. You also could have hair put on your head or removed from your lip.

  The huge waiting hall – it was hardly a room – was in a top-floor penthouse suite. Dimset liked pink. There was a pink circular marble bar in the middle of the room. TV and video monitors hung from every corner of the pink ceiling and there were pink easy chairs and sofas and a huge white Floccati rug on the floor. A sign on the wall said: ‘Feel Good About Yourself and Your (sic) Always In the Pink.’

  Female waiters in pink suits, all of them tall and modelly, took drink orders from the thirty or so people here on a Saturday morning for a consultation. The speciality of the house was pink Singapore Sling. The waiters had plastic smiles, surgically added no doubt, and such perfect noses that they made you wonder if they had been under the hammer and chisel too.

  There were more than a few Barbra Streisands and Jimmy Durantes amongst the patients, and I found myself looking for flaws in all of them. Some were easy, like the young guy sitting on a bar stool. He had made an attempt to drag strands of yellow hair across a vast bare head. The bet was on a hair transplant for him. The woman opposite me had outsized hips. A bone hone for you, dear. A young girl of about ten had an undershot jaw and wore braces on teeth that came out at right angles. I could see the poor kid being condemned to dental work and jaw-thrusting wire for a decade. I recognised Lady Caroline Putty, the elegant, sixty-year-old wife of the billionaire industrialist, Sir George, but with my glasses and coat, I didn’t think she noticed me. Lady Caroline was reading a copy of New Idea magazine, about herself. Her nose was long, but too graceful to be tampered with. The shapely legs had no sign of varicose veins, and she was wrinkle-free.

  Just as I was guessing what part of her well-preserved anatomy might have to be modified, a flat-chested woman of thirty stepped out of Dimset’s office. The receptionist smiled and nodded to me. I walked to the door. Lady Caroline looked up over her glasses and gave me a puzzled look of near-recognition.

  Russell Dimset was shoving moulds of busts into a cupboard. He turned to me and he showed annoyance at being caught with his finger in the jelly. There were photos of big-busted women on his desk. I wanted to say something funny, but couldn’t think of anything. He probably wouldn’t have appreciated it. I couldn’t remember him having a sense of humour.

  He shook hands and sat on the desk so that the photos were hidden. He was a tall man of about fifty with a full head of hair which had a healthy sheen.

  ‘Mr Perks?’ he said, peering at me over bifocals. ‘What can I do for you?’

  He was either too busy or too blind to notice it was me. It made me wonder how he ever got his surgery right. Perhaps he buried his mistakes, like Claude Michel.

  ‘My name is not Perks,’ I said, ignoring the seat that had been offered. Dimset played with his glasses and examined his Saturday list of patients.

  ‘Er . . .’ he said. I removed the spectacles. He squinted at me.

  ‘Christ!’ he said.

  ‘Not even close,’ I said.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, standing up straight, which showed he was rattled. He had been trying to hide the photos.

  ‘I don’t want my arms shortened,’ I said, ‘I just want information.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, backing towards the door.

  ‘You’re pardoned,’ I said.

  Beads of sweat had already formed on his upper lip and jaw, which were in need of a closer shave. I looked out the window. It had become a habit since the visit to the French Consul.

  ‘You’re wanting surgery,’ Dimset said, resuming his seat, ‘I understand.’

  The man was trembling. Sweat had lit up his brow in such a way that I wondered about his hair, if it was his hair.

  ‘I was thinking about it,’ I lied.

  ‘It’s probably your only hope.’ There was flicker of confidence in his manner. He thought I needed him, but for the wrong reasons.

  ‘How much would a complete face job cost?’ I asked. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out the Michel photo.

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘Just for the sake of comparison,’ I said, ‘how much did this job cost?’

  I handed over the photo, which had been trimmed from the French newspaper article. Dimset frowned over his bifocals at the picture. The blood rushed from his pink cheeks and nose and he began coughing. Dimset grabbed water from his table but went on spluttering. I slapped him on the back. He blew his nose and composed himself.

  ‘You know him of course,’ I said.

  Dimset nodded.

  ‘He’s a very great friend,’ I said, ‘we worked together in France. He told me to see you.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘Frankly, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He threatened me with my life if I told anyone about his surgery,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘and he tells you about it!’

  ‘He wasn’t actually blasé,’ I said, ‘we are such good friends.’

  ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t call me about this.’

  ‘He doesn’t wish to be associated with . . . a person who may be on charges,’ I said, with faked hesitation, ‘he said you were to show me the before and after shots you’d have on file.’

  ‘Perhaps I should speak with him,’ Dimset said, still cautious.

  ‘He won’t be at work today,’ I said, frowning, ‘will he?’

  ‘That’s the trouble. I doubt I could contact him during the weekend. I haven’t seen him for years. Not since the operation. It was five years ago.’ Dimset frowned contemplatively. ‘Of course, one sees his face about. After all, it is my craft. I would know it anywhere.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, sensing the pride in his chiselling skills.

  Where would he see his face about? Where?!

  ‘That’s why he wanted me to have a look at your results.’

  ‘But if you’ve seen his face . . .’

  ‘He insisted on me seeing your photos.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said with a worried expression, ‘he told me to destroy all shots of him.’

  ‘He probably meant for you to show me the negs.’

  ‘No, no. He took the negative.’

  ‘Perhaps he meant you to construct the operation from the file.’

  ‘There is no file.’

  I put on a deep frown.

  ‘But you must have sketches,’ I said.

  ‘I think they went too. It was so damned dangerous, at least, that was what he said.’

  ‘Did you know he was French?’

  ‘I always thought he was English.’

  Dimset looked at his watch.

  ‘I do have several appointments,’ he said.

  ‘I would appreciate you checking your files.’

  ‘I think you’ll be disappointed.’

 
‘Please try. He was insistent that I see them.’

  ‘Could you ring me Monday?’ he said, reaching for his leather-bound desk diary. I nodded.

  ‘You’ll appreciate the discretion here,’ I said.

  ‘It’s my job,’ he said, ‘all clients are confidential.’

  ‘This is critical,’ I said, holding his gaze. He blinked and touched his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How much did you say a change similar to Michel’s would cost?’

  ‘For you, fifty. That would include the usual convalescence at Anglesea, where we have a recovery farm.’

  I left, confident of a breakthrough for the first time and drove to Farrar’s Fitzroy offices. It had been impossible to reach him on his number, which was either engaged or had the answer machine on.

  He was shocked to see me at the front door, and reluctant to let me in.

  ‘It’ll only take a minute,’ I said, pushing past him.

  ‘Jesus wept!’ Farrar said, following me down the hall. ‘You shouldn’t have come here! Homicide’s on to me.’

  ‘Sorry to get you up,’ I said, eyeing his appearance. Farrar looked as if he had slept in the subway. He had greying stubble on his chin and his hair stood up like Stan Laurel’s.

  ‘Something’s cookin’ at St Kilda Road,’ he said, leading me into his office, ‘they won’t answer my calls. I’m gettin’ a frosty reception all the time. Now they’ve nabbed Fazmi I’m of no use. They’re acting suspiciously.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Probably got Fazmi to say he met us together at the mosque.’

  ‘You’d be interrogated, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Don’t know. They may have been on to our link all the time. It may have been a ploy to give me plenty of rope.’

  We were both standing. The phone was ringing near me. Farrar waited for the answer machine to pick up the caller. It was Benns.

  All he said was, ‘Tony. Got your call,’ and hung up.

  ‘Bastard!’ Farrar yelled at the machine.

  ‘I’ll be brief,’ I said. The call had made me edgy. I outlined the meeting with Dimset.

  ‘I’d be surprised if you get any more from him,’ Farrar said, ‘he’ll probably contact Michel. There’s no way that he’d let you have anything. In fact, I wouldn’t go back to his offices. Could be dangerous. Dimset has underworld friends.’

  ‘Getting cold feet, Tony?’ I said.

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘it’s just that the police are going to nab you. I don’t want to be had up as . . .’

  ‘Harbouring a suspected felon?’

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  ‘You think it’s impossible to find Martine’s killer?’

  ‘Why would he hang round this city? He’d get the hell out of here.’

  ‘You want to ditch me as a client,’ I said, ‘but you still owe me about five days work.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’ve failed this assignment. Would you like the balance back?’

  ‘Not if you want to keep on working.’

  ‘I feel alienated,’ he said glancing at the doorway, ‘it’s not just Benns and Homicide. It’s ASIO too. They’ve dried up as a source. My old firm!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Remember that someone in Canberra blew it over the French connection? Our people thought they were dealing with DGSE reps. They weren’t. Cochard and Maniguet were thrown out of the security force a few years ago. Well, anyway, it’s been a big embarrassment in Canberra. The French and our intelligence services have been in bed together for twenty years.’

  Farrar paused as someone walked past the front door.

  ‘The cosy, “you scratch my back” arrangement wasn’t even disturbed when the Rainbow Warrior was blown up. But this is different. Trust has gone out the window. There has been a falling out, which has caused a flurry at the heads of both governments. There’s a big effort being made at the diplomatic level to patch things up. But at the covert level, nobody’s talking to anyone about it.’

  Farrar lit a cigar. ‘I want to warn you about Danielle Mernet,’ he added, ‘she is a bloody agent too. Fazmi was right.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘It’s the last thing I got out of ASIO,’ Farrar said, puffing smoke, ‘she still is officially in the DGSE.’

  ‘I did worry when I saw her with Cochard in Paris.’

  ‘She’s used you from the start. Ever since she came up to you at the funeral.’

  Farrar circled his open-plan office and I stood in the centre of it near a potted palm.

  ‘The upshot is that Danielle and the others fooled ASIO. They told them they were on an assignment here. When Martine Villon died they bluffed ASIO and in turn, Homicide, into letting them hunt for her killer.’

  ‘To take the heat off the real killer?’

  ‘Possibly. Who knows? The point is ASIO is shy, Homicide is nasty, and I’m like a leper with AIDS.’

  I turned to go.

  ‘Your lawyer rang,’ Farrar said, coming over to me, ‘he says you must give yourself up.’

  ‘And you agree?’

  ‘For your own protection, Duncan.’

  ‘But Benns doesn’t want to protect me! The night I was chased through the city, those thugs were waiting for me at Police HQ.’

  ‘Benns was conned by Cochard and Maniguet. He probably told them that you were going to come in for questioning. They would have been waiting to nail you before you saw him.’

  I headed for the door.

  ‘We’re close,’ I said.

  ‘Will you see the police?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  My final conversation with Freddie May was coming back at me like a spicy curry. ‘The women have the answers’ he had told me. He had to mean Cassie, Danielle and Martine.

  Back at the Bunker I began scribbling their names on bits of paper with arrows going everywhere. On the last page I had arrows from their names all pointing to one word in the middle of a page: Michel. Could each woman have been connected to him? Martine obviously was. Danielle could have been, if she was an agent as Farrar speculated. Cassie was the odd person out. I had to speak with her face to face.

  It was eleven a.m. when I tried for the fourth time and got her. She was very distressed. Somebody had broken into her apartment again while she was away overnight.

  ‘I had the locks changed yesterday!’ she said.

  ‘What was taken?’

  ‘The files!’

  ‘The research on . . .’

  ‘All the special data on my breakthrough.’

  ‘The same files that Maniguet intended to steal.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said despondently. ‘Look, I must go. I’m late for the wedding.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  IT WAS VERY DARK for two o’clock in the afternoon and rain began to pelt down as guests made a dash for the front door of the Melbourne Club at the top end of Collins Street, only metres from Dimset’s surgery. Cassie and Walters got caught with their umbrella unopened for only a few seconds and their hair and faces were wet as they entered. I stood for a few minutes shivering under an awning until most guests had arrived from the South Yarra church.

  For the first time in two weeks I was going somewhere as me. No Morten-Saunders disguise. No Oliver Slack glasses, hat and overcoat. No Russell Dimset rearranged face. Just me in a lounge suit, plain white shirt and red-and-white-striped tie from Oliver’s clothes cupboard in the Bunker.

  My aim was to get Cassie aside and talk. That was going to be hard with Walters right by her side. Knowing him, she wouldn’t be out of his sight. I knew I was taking a risk in going public but I didn’t care any more. I was sick of disguises, of being a fugitive.

  I hurried up the steps and into the high-ceilinged drawing room. A waiter thrust a champagne glass under my nose.

  The atmosphere was in warm contrast to the black outside. It was all smiles and people were
intent on having a good time. In a connecting room a string quartet played light chamber music.

  The bride, in a pink dress that would have been a big hit with Russ Dimset, arrived clutching a bouquet of flowers, and a relieved groom accompanied her. Bridesmaids and groomsmen filtered in and stood by an open fire, warming their tails.

  The happy couple began mingling. There was much kissing, hand-shaking and hugging. As they edged closer to me, I felt a twinge of nerves. Most people had averted their eyes from me, even though there were several faces I knew well, and I could guess what they were thinking. What does one say to a murderer?

  Oliver pumped my hand and introduced me to his new bride.

  ‘Terrific you could come,’ he said, still pumping. It was one of those long handshakes that bestowed legitimacy. Within seconds, others were crowding round wanting to slap me on the back or kiss my cheek. People were hanging on every word. The bridegroom and bride were forgotten and I wanted to hide in the Club’s famous loos, with their barn-sized doors and wooden thrones.

  ‘What’s this I hear about you and a French agent?’ was the way Bruce Gower, a tall, imperious, merchant-banker friend from old school days put it, and it was cunning. No accusations, just a statement couched as a rumour. Now no one was looking away and I was getting more stares than a mouse in a stuffed owl factory.

  ‘Sub judice,’ I grinned.

  ‘But Crime Stoppers practically branded you a m–’

  ‘Uh, uh, uh!’ I interjected, ‘don’t say the ‘m’ word. Not in front of the bridesmaids!’

  The growing circle round me laughed. It was a little too hearty.

  ‘Are you going to sue them, old sport?’ Ken Douglas, a short, podgy corporate lawyer asked.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said, searching for that hole in the ground.

  ‘Did you know that beautiful hooker?’ Shelley Perret, an advertising executive asked. Did you do her in or not?

  ‘For about three hours,’ I said, and wished I hadn’t, for my admission cast doubts, which were pencilled into their wide-eyed expressions.

  Annie Dart, an actress, former lover of Oliver’s, gripped my forearm and began to cry. She sobbed into my shirt, then my pocket handkerchief. Annie had never been a buddy of mine and I conjectured that the tears were induced by the prospect of her former beau going down the aisle with a rival. Or was it because film director, Dirk Clancy, a prematurely silver-haired master of celluloid sex and violence, was with her and watching? He was soon close and holding Annie, who was blowing her nose.