Faces in the Rain

by Roland Perry

  ‘I’d like to talk seriously about your story,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘can I contact you?’

  I looked at him. His face almost touched mine. He had the practised gaze of a mendacious main-chancer, and those wide blue eyes full of candour had never been threatened by original thought. He thrust a card in my hand, as I shouldered into back-slappers, well-wishers, huggers, kissers and those now buoyed enough by champagne who just wanted to touch me.

  I caught a glimpse of Cassie and Walters who looked away.

  Somewhere in the sea of permanent grins I saw a frown. It was Lloyd’s grim visage drifting low between the flotsam of elbows and drink trays like the moon hiding from Mother Earth.

  Firm fingers were pressing my shoulder. These were undelicate, digits of a person with a mission. I glanced round and along the arm of Bill, the front-lobby flunky with hair swept straight back into the 1950s, who had been at the Club for a quarter century.

  ‘Phone call for you,’ he said. ‘Name’s Farrar. Reckon you better take it.’

  It was my chance to escape. I followed old Bill down a corridor of welcome silence, but for the steady clip of our shoes, to a phone booth next to the front entrance. I shut myself in.

  ‘Thank Christ I got you,’ Farrar said, ‘something big is up. I went round to see Benns and O’Dare this morning. Didn’t have an appointment. Waited in me car for them. There was a helluva lot of activity at HQ. Plainclothes boys were running in and out.’

  ‘Yes, so?’

  ‘Well I watched and waited. I know most of the guys in the Homicide hit squad. A couple who had been in on the Libyan ambush were talking inside the front doors. Anyway, Benns and O’Dare arrived. I got out of the car and ran across the road.’

  Farrar paused and added, ‘I blocked them off and asked why they hadn’t returned my calls. They reckon they hadn’t got any. Which was bullshit ‘cause I spoke to their flamin’ secretaries about ten times. They claimed they were in a hurry. They didn’t like me sniffin’ about, so I left. As I was comin’ down the steps, a couple of plainclothes guys I know hurried past me. I heard one of ’em say, “Where’s the stake-out, the MCG?” ’ The other one said something about it being “the snobs and bigshots club. Not the bloody footy club.” ’

  I wanted to run.

  ‘I’ll phone you later,’ Farrar said and rang off.

  I left the booth and had trouble lighting a cigar. More late arrivals were coming in. I stood in the open door and peered out into the rain. Car windows were fogged over but three shadows could be seen in a white Ford parked opposite. I shuddered and returned to the party.

  Lunch was announced. Guests began to surge towards the newlyweds’ families who had lined up to shake hands and exchange banalities at the double wooden door to the dining room. When I reached Oliver he leant close.

  ‘You’re on Cassie Morris’s table,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘I’d go for her myself if she wasn’t thirty.’

  ‘Too old for you,’ I said, ‘but thanks for placing me there.’

  ‘Lloyd told me you wanted to take over her Institute,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve put in a bid.’

  ‘Maybe you should take her over too,’ Oliver said with a wink.

  Our table was in front of an ornate baroque mantelpiece which stretched to the ceiling. We were close to the kitchen doors where ten waiters were lined up as if they were waiting for the starter’s pistol. It crossed my mind that I might have to make a quick exit.

  Cassie’s place-name was next to mine. Moments later she arrived and both Walters and I reached to pull her chair out. He sat the other side of her. She seemed apprehensive. I leant over to shake hands with Walters but he was already engaged with the couple next to him.

  ‘Did you arrange the seating here?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ I said, ‘but I did want to speak with you. I think I may have something.’

  Cassie smiled faintly. I thought of her words, ‘with love’ in her note, and wondered again if they meant anything. One torrid, brilliant night of love-making did not a relationship make. On the other hand, she wasn’t the type to string two men along at the same time.

  ‘We do need to talk, alone,’ I said, glancing at Walters. He was still charming the couple next to him.

  ‘That’s going to be difficult.’

  I paused to acknowledge a couple who sat next to me. They were startled. The woman, a very tall blonde with an appropriately large mouth, examined my place-name, which said,

  ‘D. Hamilton.’

  ‘You’re not the Duncan Hamilton?’ she blurted. Everyone stopped talking and looked at me.

  ‘No, I’m his twin, David.’

  ‘Oh gosh, it must be tough on you!’ she giggled.

  ‘Sure is. I’ve been arrested often enough.’

  ‘I’m Bruce Springstein,’ her companion said, thrusting a hand at me, which I shook. He was a short barrel of a man in his fifties with a shiny bald head and soft wispy hair like mist round a mountain top. I could see her using it for a mirror or a serving plate.

  ‘Not the Bruce Springsteen?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he guffawed, ‘everyone asks that. I’m Springstein.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s in a name?’

  I turned to Cassie and said under my breath, ‘I’ll meet you in the courtyard.’

  I walked along a corridor past another kitchen entrance and a distinct aroma of roast lamb and vegetables. The reading room near the entrance to the courtyard was empty, and without a member in it seemed dank and cold. I pushed through double doors and stood near a bench under an awning.

  It was still raining. Puddles had begun to form on the lawn under an impressive plane tree, which dominated the high-walled yard. Beyond the rear wall, tiers of an ugly grey carpark spoiled the atmosphere. It was an intrusion into a setting that otherwise had not changed in fifty years.

  It was cold. I stood up and lit my third cheroot. My nerve had returned. I strolled under the awning towards the carpark end of the courtyard.

  Cassie appeared. She seemed distracted by something behind me. There was a figure on the fifth level of the carpark. He had binoculars. When I looked round he retreated into the shadows.

  ‘What was he doing?’ Cassie said as she reached me.

  ‘Would have to be a strange pervert to spy on old farts here.’

  ‘They’re talking about you in there,’ she said, putting her arm round me. It was like a shot of cognac.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘They’re arguing over whether or not you’re the Duncan Hamilton.’

  ‘What fun.’

  ‘You’ve taken a bit of a risk, haven’t you?’

  ‘I had to see you.’

  ‘It’s awkward being here with Peter,’ she said, ‘but I had asked him weeks ago.’

  I sat on a bench. Cassie hesitated and sat next to me. ‘I’m going to call it off after the wedding,’ she said. ‘I just haven’t had the time to say anything.’

  I touched her forearm and kissed her.

  ‘This is not too romantic,’ I said, ‘but I want to tell you something about Freddie May.’

  Cassie hunched forward and rubbed her hands.

  ‘Freddie told me that all the women at the funeral had a link to Claude Michel,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he meant Martine, Danielle Mernet and you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I wondered if you might have an inkling of who he is?’

  ‘I would have said,’ Cassie frowned.

  ‘It may be that you know him and don’t realise it,’ I said. ‘It struck me when you looked at Michel’s photo.’

  ‘I thought the face was familiar. That’s all. It was a nervous reaction more than anything else.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain you have not seen him before?’

  ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure, yes.’

  ‘It’s that one per cent I’m interested in.’

  ‘Sometimes faces can be clo
se. You can make a mistake.’

  ‘Tell me about any “mistake”.’

  ‘I can’t think where I’ve seen a face that may be like Michel’s. I can’t pinpoint it. Makes me think I’m just imagining it because of what’s happened, or it’s somebody that has the same expression, that’s all.’

  We were interrupted by the squeak of the double doors and a flash of fear rose in me. It was Bill the flunkey again. There were people behind him. Four men came into the courtyard and I took a deep breath to stop the panic radiating from me. They were led by Benns.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE HOMICIDE interrogation room had a wooden table with four uncomfortable chairs, and a video camera mounted on a TV in one corner. There was no uncovered light, but two neon strips, one of which flickered and was about to give out.

  A policewoman came in and took five minutes lining the video camera up with where I was sitting. I asked for coffee. She returned with a black, no sugar and left. Seconds later Benns and O’Dare entered, themselves carrying cups, clipboards for note-taking and a tape recorder, indicating it would be a long session. I asked for Hewitt and was told he was on his way.

  Benns stroked his wispy moustache and rolled his head round on that gorilla’s neck. O’Dare seemed to hover like a gangling schoolgirl in her first hockey match. Benns’ thighs got in the way as he waddled round me in a tight circle. He rubbed his neck. A book fell out of his jacket pocket. It was entitled, The Serial Killer. He picked it up, placed it on a mantelpiece and took a seat next to me. He pulled out a cigar packet and offered me one. I refused.

  ‘Don’t you realise that we are going to crucify you in court?’ Benns said.

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  Benns slammed a fist down. My coffee mug did a fandango. Cigar ash spilled on his fly.

  ‘Do you realise you could get life!?’

  I swallowed. Benns dragged a chair to the end of the table away from me.

  ‘I think you’re a dangerous man,’ he said, ‘you’ve murdered two people at least.’

  I glanced at the book.

  ‘You mean I could be a serial killer,’ I said incredulously.

  ‘We’re considering all possibilities.’ I shook my head.

  ‘If you had been reading Jack the Ripper,’ I said, ‘I’d be him too, wouldn’t I?’

  Benns didn’t like that. He could barely contain his rage. O’Dare sat at the other end of the table.

  ‘Mr Hamilton,’ she said, sounding like Margaret Thatcher with an Aussie accent, ‘you’ve practically admitted to killing Maniguet . . .’

  ‘No I have not. My written statement explains what happened. It was an accident.’

  ‘So you claim,’ O’Dare said, ‘but the Martine Villon situation is different, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course,’ I shrugged. Benns stopped dragging on his cigar and glared. O’Dare blinked several times.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said shaking my head, ‘I’m not about to confess to something I didn’t do.’

  ‘But if it was an accident too,’ Benns said, ‘we understand. You got drunk, you danced with her, you made love with her. She decided to have a bath. You . . . you got those pills. Maybe she wouldn’t come across a second time. You got playful . . .’

  ‘What you’re saying is fabrication,’ I interrupted, ‘just stupid.’

  ‘You got frolicsome and you drowned her,’ he added, raising his voice.

  ‘Utter baloney.’

  I gave them my interruption-free version of the night. I shouldn’t have been talking but my nerves were frayed. O’Dare and Benns were now playing good cop/bad cop. It was all macho lines and eye contact with Benns, who was intimidating, and politeness and rationality with O’Dare. I found myself looking to her for relief.

  ‘We don’t accept any of your story,’ Benns said, flicking ash carelessly on the floor, ‘and it doesn’t explain why you went into hiding.’

  ‘Cochard and Maniguet were trying to kill me,’ I said, ‘I thought you were connected to them. I couldn’t make that ten o’clock meeting you had agreed to with Hewitt. They were outside HQ waiting for me.’

  ‘So you skipped the country?’ O’Dare said.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence. Benns took a deep breath and flexed his neck muscles again. I wondered if I should explain what happened in France but thought better of it. Hewitt had to have some surprises in court. O’Dare, however, had more guile than expected. ‘It would help if you told us what you think is the motive for Martine Villon’s murder,’ she said.

  Should I tiptoe through the minefield, I wondered. Perhaps it would be better to keep talking, and say nothing.

  ‘I think she was murdered by Claude Michel, a French cancer research specialist,’ I said, and went into a scenario, mixing fact with theory and hunch. Michel was in this country and was behind the stealing of Cassie Morris’s all-important files. He was going to connect up with a European drug manufacturer to market certain anti-cancer drugs and cash in on Cassie’s decade of brilliant work.

  Michel had to kill Martine because she could expose who he was. Cochard and Maniguet were experienced thugs hired by Michel and the drug company to steal the research, protect Michel and keep his operation secret. He wanted to use Cassie’s research to experiment on hospitalised Polynesians who were victims of French nuclear bomb tests in the Pacific. Michel wanted me out of the way because he wanted to take over Benepharm, which would be used to market new drugs around the world. My attempt to take over the Magenta Institute might have wrecked his plans. The fact that I was at Martine’s on the night of the murder was coincidental; he had initially tried to use that to pin the murder on me. He must have changed his mind and decided to eliminate me. He probably convinced Cochard and Maniguet that I killed Martine and then sent them after me.

  I toyed again with the idea of telling them about Freddie’s demise, but decided against it. It was too much too soon, and it would have added fuel to Benns’ loony serial killer concept.

  ‘Michel and Cochard,’ I concluded, ‘would kill anyone who could expose Michel and his operation.’

  I heard my own words at the finish and I believed them. If Cassie or I ever found out who Michel was, he would have to kill us, or hide forever. As matters stood, he could surface under an assumed name anywhere, even France, and continue his inhumane activities.

  After a half hour’s droning on, Benns and O’Dare stopped me and began presenting the evidence against me.

  ‘You had the drug Serophrine in your Rolls Royce,’ Benns said, pulling the capsule bottle from a plastic bag.

  ‘It was planted,’ I said, sliding forward in my seat, ‘and the pharmacist who dispensed the drug will support my claim that Martine had taken, or had forced down her throat, capsules from the unmarked bottle.’

  Benns took the cigar out of his mouth, and searched round his teeth with his tongue. He took some time relighting the cigar, which was down to a stub.

  ‘If I had been the killer,’ I said, ‘do you really think I would have left the capsule bottle I used lying around, with my company’s connection to the “Benepharmacy” clearly marked for all to see?’

  Benns and O’Dare glanced at each other.

  ‘But you were there, Hamilton,’ Benns said, trying to regain the initiative, ‘your prints are over everything.’

  ‘I’ve never denied being at Martine’s place.’

  ‘All the facts point to you,’ he said, hunching forward and angling an accusing finger under my nose. ‘You didn’t go to the police, but instead went into hiding. Then you murdered Maniguet, a friend of Martine’s, because he knew you had killed her. You had to get rid of him.’

  ‘And tell me my motive for killing Martine!’

  ‘You were using her to steal files from the Magenta Institute.’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘She was there often enough during her treatment.’

  ‘She wouldn’t know what to look for.’

  ‘She was an ex
perienced spy.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘The Libyans used her to spy on the French Consul!’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I said, ‘you shouldn’t read fiction stories, you should write them!’

  ‘Where were you when Dr Morris’s files were stolen last night?’ O’Dare said.

  ‘At an apartment above the Society restaurant.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’ O’Dare said. She was turning tougher now too.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Benns sighed and looked at his watch. He nodded at O’Dare and they filed out, leaving the video running and me sweating. A half hour later they returned with five sheets of twenty-two charges.

  ‘You’re down for murder on two counts,’ Benns said, showing me the sheets.

  ‘Where’s my lawyer?’ I said.

  ‘He hasn’t arrived. We’ve tried to contact him.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We find a Supreme Court judge. They’re the only ones who can hear bail applications for homicide charges.’

  ‘You’ll be locked up until we find one,’ O’Dare said.

  ‘They don’t like being pulled off golf courses or paged at the footy finals on weekends,’ Benns said, with a sneer.

  The cell in the remand centre had a small window, two double bunks and a writing table. I had to share it with a man called Bert Glover who was on an armed robbery charge.

  Bert was shorter than me but beefy and menacing. He had a wide-eyed stare, small handlebar moustache and a weakish jawline. The tattoos on his weightlifter-gone-to-fat arms were of naked women of the Rubensesque variety, a stiletto knife and a handgun which could have been a Mauser.

  Bert stank. His body odour was horrific and made worse by his insistence on doing press-ups. His mood fluctuated and he tried to assert his authority over our eight-metre-by-eight-metre abode within minutes of my arrival.