‘Umm, yes.’ Stevie took a steadying breath and tucked the phone under her ear so she could write.
‘Tell him it looks like I’ll be able to make Monday’s flight after all.’
‘Monday’s flight?’
‘He’ll know what I’m talking about. First the seminar, then the case—this Perth trip has turned out ridiculously long. And tell him to keep his phone on a bit more often,’ she said with more than a prickle of irritation.
You bet I will, Stevie thought after she’d said goodbye, contemplating hurling his phone into the nearest bin.
Wayne straightened from his stooped position. ‘Did I hear that right, he has a wife?’ He shrugged. ‘Didn’t seem the marrying kind to me.’
‘Nor me,’ she said, trying to appear nonchalant, all too aware that Wayne was examining her face as if she were a witness with something to hide. Shit shit shit! Why the hell had she assumed De Vakey wasn’t married? Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hand as she forced herself to listen to the answer ringing from somewhere in the back of her mind: because that’s what she wanted to think.
‘I thought you went to the airport the other night to pick him up off the plane from Melbourne?’
‘I did,’ she said, grateful to Wayne for bringing her back to the objective reality of the situation. She attempted to remember the sequence of events of that night.
‘And didn’t she just say he hadn’t been home for weeks?’ Wayne queried.
‘She implied it. He was already at the airport when I arrived. He said he’d caught an earlier plane.’
‘Bullshit he did. What the hell’s his game then?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.’ She sprang up from the bench and slapped the notebook and phone into Wayne’s hand. ‘You can pass on the message and give him back his phone. Tell him he’ll have to hire a car, I won’t be seeing him tomorrow.’ Because if I do, she thought to herself, I won’t be responsible for my actions.
***
There were only a couple of seconded dees answering the phones in the incident room, the others having called it a night and gone home. Stevie slumped into one of the booths and booted up the computer. Numbed by fatigue she knew sleep wouldn’t come until she could put a stop to Wayne’s words still spinning around in her head. But at least this was taking her mind off Monty.
‘What the hell is De Vakey’s game?’
Whatever it was, she had been sucked in to becoming a part of it; so busy searching for something in De Vakey that had never been there, she’d missed the obvious. She’d been blinded by his physical charms in much the same way that she’d been blinded by Sparrow’s lack of them. The realisation left her with a cold, empty feeling.
Privacy laws meant a warrant was needed to check airplane passenger lists, but a warrant was something Stevie doubted she’d get under the circumstances.
She thought of De Vakey’s show of vulnerability, his apparent sickness at the abduction site, realising it was at about this time that she’d started taking more than a professional interest in him. Had this been a classic con, or a genuine reaction to a horrifying job? It was a good lesson, either way: Manipulation 101. You don’t have to be a serial killer to be good at manipulating people.
And she was a good student. With a stab of guilt, she reached for the phone.
Malcolm Funston of the Australian Federal Police answered his mobile after the fourth ring.
‘Malcolm, it’s Stevie Hooper. I hope I didn’t get you out of bed.’
‘Stevie? Hi baby, great to hear from you. No, I wasn’t in bed. I’m on nights. You’ve reconsidered dinner with me?’
Night shift at the airport; perfect. ‘As a matter of fact...’
‘I have next Saturday night off. Is it a date?’
‘Listen Malcolm, there’s something I need to ask you to do first.’
‘For you doll, anything.’
Stevie took a breath. ‘I need you to fax me the passenger lists for all the Melbourne to Perth flights over the last three weeks.’
After a long uncomfortable silence she heard him whistle between his teeth. ‘Shit. Nothing’s easy about you, is it?’
‘C’mon Mal, I thought you liked a challenge.’
‘I’ll call you back.’
Stevie paced the floor. The call never came, but after about half an hour, the fax machine lurched into life.
Before long her eyes were tracing down interminable lists of passengers. Seventeen days back, she found De Vakey’s name. He’d been in Perth two weeks when she’d come to the airport to collect him. After a phone call to De Vakey’s hotel, she punched the off button and the monitor faded to black. The reason for De Vakey’s earlier clandestine arrival was now as clear in Stevie’s head as the chalked outline of a body on the road.
22
He is a person with a low self-esteem whose feats of infamy help to elevate him in his own eyes. He is proud of his accomplishments and wants recognition for them. His vanity, though, will often lead to his capture.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
Early Saturday night, and the club district was already pumped and ready for action. Most of the car parks were full and the restaurants thronging with affluent older people and their families. At the other end of the demographic spectrum the queues at the clubs were growing with younger folk. Their budgets didn’t stretch to cover a good meal plus the boutique beers, creamy cocktails and designer drugs they craved—but what the hell? Why spend money on food when you can drink until you pass out, throw up, end up in the bed of someone you barely remember meeting, or spend the night on a psychedelic high? It’s Saturday night, party night.
As he shuffled past the restaurants and adult shops, Monty didn’t fit in with either group. He was still in the scruffy gear he had worn to the rose nursery, and the blisters on his sockless feet compounded his image by giving him a genuine down-and-out limp. And he was tired, more mentally than physically. His conversation with Sbresni had fed his suspicions into a strangling vine that twisted and curled around a variety of scenarios. And the common root went back to one of the few men still left in Central who had been involved in the KP investigations: John Baggly.
Although the idea of John Baggly as a serial killer was ludicrous, Monty couldn’t ignore the possibility that someone had been pulling his strings, just as he’d been pulling Sbresni’s. Perhaps Michelle had also reached this conclusion and that was why she’d gone to see Sbresni last week. Whatever she had dug up was more than likely the reason for her death.
The sooner he confronted Baggly, the better. But first there was another matter to take care of.
He stood in a queue waiting to be served by a Lebanese street vendor, conscious of being looked up and down by a man in an expensive suit. The girl by his side loosened her grip on her handbag when she saw the fifty-dollar note Monty handed to the vendor for his kebab and ginger beer. He had more money in his pocket. A prostitute’s basic fee might be low, but the ante was considerably upped when the service included information.
He spied a bevy of girls with large bags standing at the intersection. They didn’t move when the little green man told them they could walk. Only one of the four was dressed for the cold in a warm coat, the others exposing an abundance of flesh for such a chill night. The tops of their short skirts failed to reach the hems of their slinky tops and their jewelled belly buttons flashed with every turn. Years ago, when he’d worked Vice, this would have been a clear indication that the girls were on the game, but fashions now made it hard to tell the real from the counterfeit.
Monty washed down his last bite of kebab with the ginger beer and settled at an empty table of a street cafe. After a wary waiter had taken his cappuccino order, he rocked back on his chair to observe the pantomime of the street.
There was much amicable chattering and giggling going on among the women. Perhaps they were office girls on a night out—a bevy of beauties or a fishnet of prostitutes? He smiled as he pondered the a
ppropriate collective.
Still no one moved to cross when the lights changed again. A group of scruffy young men in uniform baggy jeans and baseball caps pushed past the girls with a surprising absence of comment. One was wobbling on his feet, supported by another. The knee-length crutch of his sagging jeans forced him to affect a penguin waddle, further hampering his efforts at walking. Monty caught the whiff of cheap bourbon as they staggered by, but the girls didn’t seem to be interested, they were after fatter fish.
The waiter brought Monty his cappuccino. He took small sips to make it last, having no idea how long it would take to find out if they were on the game. He leaned back in his seat and watched.
It didn’t take long. A shiny black Mercedes pulled up at the lights and a visible ripple of anticipation shivered through the girls. The tinted window glided down. One of the girls stepped forward and words were exchanged. She turned back to her companions who responded with nods of encouragement. By the time the lights turned green again she was settled in the front seat.
The remaining three stepped back from the intersection and regrouped under the awning of Monty’s cafe, standing just out of earshot from the other customers, no doubt discussing the next stage of the night’s operations.
Now was as good a time as any.
Monty got up from the table and limped towards the threesome. ‘Hi,’ he said, his smile showing just the right amount of discomfort.
The girls assessed him with distaste. One in particular, a girl with hair as colourful as an exotic parrot, looked at him as if he was something on the bottom of the birdcage.
‘Well, what do you want?’ Polly asked, the slight hook of her crinkling nose adding to the avian effect.
‘I’d say it was kinda obvious what he wants,’ her peroxided companion said with a giggle.
Just then the waiter passed. ‘Hang on, mate,’ Monty said to him, ‘I’ll pay for my coffee now, thanks.’ He produced a hundred-dollar note from his pocket. ‘Sorry, haven’t got anything smaller.’
The waiter turned away with the money and Polly nudged the girl in the coat. It was as if a heater had been turned on in a cold room.
Feeling the sudden warmth, the girl parted her coat, flashing Monty with her pointy pink nipples and a neatly waxed landing strip. He swallowed and looked away.
Polly whispered to her companion.
The coat squeezed his upper arm and gave him a salacious smile. ‘You’re supposed to ask how much. I say, what do you want, mister? You tell me your requirements and I give you my price.’
The waiter reappeared with Monty’s change and scowled at the girls. ‘You girls clear off. I don’t want you hanging around my cafe.’
‘Tosser.’
‘Who put the hair up your arse, then?’
Monty decided to jump in before the fireworks started. With a nervous swipe at his mouth with his jacket sleeve, he said, ‘How about we talk some more over there?’ He pointed to a dark service lane between the cafe and the boutique next door.
Clacking heels followed him, whispers and a high-pitched laugh. When they were congregated at the mouth of the alley, Monty said, ‘I’m looking for a girl.’
‘Oh duh,’ Peroxide said, failing to hold back a giggle.
‘So which one of us do you want?’ The coat’s smug expression suggested she’d figured her earlier performance had clinched the deal.
Monty looked from one to the other of them and hesitated. ‘You’re all gorgeous. I’ll come back for you some other time, but tonight I’m in the mood for Champagne Charlie.’
He reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of notes. As he did so, a sachet of chilli powder fluttered to the pavement. Polly eagerly picked it up. Her face fell when she sniffed the innocent contents, then she exploded into a squawk of a sneezes.
Monty said, ‘Bless you,’ and put the sachet back into his pocket. He started to shuffle the notes in his hands into numerical order.
‘No offence, mister,’ Peroxide said, her eyes not wavering from the money, ‘but you’d be in much better hands with one of us than with Charlie. She’s been around the block a few times if you know what I mean.’
Coat added, ‘Past her use-by date by a few years I reckon.’
Polly sneezed again.
Monty dealt a ten-dollar note to each of them. ‘Where can I find her?’
Peroxide shoved the note into her cleavage. ‘I don’t know if she’s even working tonight.’
The woman in the coat eyed the remaining notes in Monty’s hand then glanced at her companions. ‘Saturday night? Course she’s working.’ She put her hand out to Monty. ‘She hangs around outside the train station in Wellington Street.’
He slipped her another ten. ‘She work alone?’
As if not wishing her professional sister to come away any richer, Peroxide added, ‘She’s a bit wacky, no one wants to stick with her, though sometimes her pimp hangs around. You need to watch him. Don’t try any funny business, he doesn’t miss much.’
Monty handed her another note.
Polly sneezed again. He handed her one, too. ‘Bless you.’
***
He found her in a bus shelter, just down from the railway station. A nervous-looking middle-aged couple hovered just beyond the shelter, not wishing to get too close to the feral-looking woman curled up on the bench. They clasped matching green grocery bags, his with milk and orange juice; toilet paper peeked over the top of hers. Monty glanced from one to the other of them.
‘She was like this when we got here. I think she’s just asleep. She’s not sick or anything.’ The man sounded as if he was expecting to be accused of leaving the woman to die.
Monty moved over to the bench, brushed back strands of knotted hair and felt for her carotid. ‘She’s okay.’
The whoosh of a bus’s air brakes masked any sigh of relief the couple might have uttered.
‘This is ours,’ the woman said, waving a hurry-up to her partner and diving for the opening door of the bus. The driver shrugged his question at Monty. He shook his head and the bus took off from the curb, leaving him alone with the woman on the bench.
He shook her shoulder. ‘Champagne Charlie?’
She moaned. Without opening her eyes she said, ‘Whadayawant?’
‘I want to buy you a coffee, have a chat.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Just a chat, Charlie.’
‘Fifty will get you a blow job.’ She was on automatic, still hadn’t opened her eyes.
‘That’s not what I want. I want to talk to you. It’s about my daughter, Lorna Dunn. I’ve been told she was a mate of yours.’
At the mention of Lorna’s name, a pair of bleary brown eyes opened. Charlie pulled herself into a sitting position, filling the air with an unpleasant musky odour as she attempted to focus on Monty.
‘You look like her, it’s the...’ She pointed to her own hair and made pinching gestures with her fingers, as if trying to pluck lost words from the air.
‘That’s right, red hair’s a family trait.’
Monty tried to assess Charlie’s physical and mental condition. Stick-like legs were curled under her body in a position unique to the female sex. Above her legs, concealing little, she wore a strip of red micro skirt. There was no doubt in his mind the sleeves of her black vinyl jacket hid a highway of track marks. Under the streetlight the pupils of her sunken brown eyes were as big and round as eight balls. He was beginning to wonder if she was worth the effort when she finally spoke again. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘There’s a McDonald’s over the road,’ he nodded towards the golden arches. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’
She unfurled her legs and made as if to stand, then seemed to think better of it. Bringing her arm to her mouth she started to suck on the skin of her wrist, leaning forward on the bench to view each side of the bus shelter as she did so.
‘Maybe I’d better not,’ she mumbled through her sucking. ‘If Pedro catches me slacking on the job, I’m history.’
Monty handed her a twenty. As she reached and took it he saw how the top of her wrist was raw from sucking. ‘Tell your pimp this was for services provided. I’ll give you more after you’ve had your feed and you can put it in one of the station lockers so he can’t take it from you.’
The streetlight caught the nicotine-tarnish of her smile.
***
Champagne Charlie took a bite of her second Big Mac, running a weary hand through her tangle of dyed black hair as she chewed. Aware that she wasn’t getting something for nothing, she regarded him through eyes dark with suspicion.
‘Well?’
In between sips of a milkshake Monty gave a similar story to the one he had spun Peter Sbresni, only in this version the pathos fell like tears from each sentence.
Despite his Academy-Award-winning performance, his words seemed to have little effect. She picked up an empty burger wrapper and began to lick the juices with a long, studded tongue. Monty ignored the pathetic attempt at sensuality and started to reminisce on Lorna’s upbringing, striving to touch the right emotional chord. Before he knew it he was recounting one of Izzy’s antics.
‘I’ll never forget catching her in the kitchen with an empty bag of flour. She was about three years old, it was just before her mother and me split. When we walked into the room it was like suddenly being caught in the middle of a blizzard. She’d said she wanted to make it pretty like in her Hansel and Gretel book.’
Charlie put her burger wrapper down and scratched at her arm through the vinyl jacket. ‘I never knew my parents, brought up in foster care.’ Her words were vacant and empty of expression, as if she was too far gone even for bitterness.
But then she surprised him. ‘She was always talking about you. Said you’d promised to take her to Disneyland when she was a kid. The silly cow thought that’s why you robbed the liquor store.’ She giggled and folded one of her fries in half before popping it into her mouth.
Monty stopped sucking on his shake as a wave of shame crashed over him. How easily he had slipped into the stereotype of the ex-con, never even contemplating that the real Dunn, still locked away in prison, might have genuinely cared for his daughter.
An Easeful Death Page 20