by Chris Krupa
‘Jeff,’ I said, ‘I know it must hard. My daughter, Alice, is eleven. I don’t know what I’d do if she went missing.’
‘I’m turning into a bloody sook, is all. Never get old, Matt. Never get old. I watch these crime shows—you know the ones—where they show little kids getting killed? I turn into a blubbering mess. Can’t help it.’ He took a sharp intake of breath and glanced at the empty schooner glasses. ‘I’ll get the next round.’
As Lyons carried fresh schooners back from the bar, one of the tradesmen, a short, broad man with mixed Malaysian and Polynesian features and long black hair tied in a ponytail, brushed past me on his way to the bar. The man caught Lyons on the elbow, and beer splashed down the front of Lyons’ trousers.
Lyons roared, ‘You fucking gook cunt!’
Fury flashed across the tradesman’s face and he raised an arm.
I stepped in, deflected his punch with my forearm, and got him around the neck. I brought him back with me until we hit the wall by the bar, then swiveled. I brought him with me, wrestled him into position, and pinned him against the wall, my arm against the back of his neck.
‘You don’t want to hit him, mate,’ I said. ‘Look at him. You lay into him, he’s likely to have a heart attack. You don’t want to be dragged into all of that shit, do you? Police, court, charges... a conviction? Just give him a few years, and he’ll be pushing up daisies.’
The tradesman relented, and I let him go. He straightened his shirt and eyeballed Lyons. ‘You’re fucking lucky you’ve got a mate looking out for you, you fucking racist prick.’
Lyons was too busy soaking up the stains with serviettes to notice the man’s ire.
I returned to my seat and met Lyons’ eyes. For the first time since I met him, he appeared sheepish, and it was clearly not a look he was used to making.
He huffed. ‘Doc’s got me on these new meds for my heart. Some of them give me the shits. They said it would, but I didn’t think it’d be this bad. I appreciate you taking care of that, the way you did. You’re a bit old school. I appreciate that.’
He scratched his cheek. ‘Did Reggie tell you how much I’m willing to pay?’
I nodded. ‘My standard daily rate is three hundred dollars plus expenses.’
‘Does that mean you’ll look for Tamsin?’
‘Yes. Of course, I will.’
He offered his hand and I took it. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
I produced a folded copy of my contract from my jeans, but Lyons waved it away.
‘I want to give you some upfront money—a sign of goodwill.’ He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a wad of fifties, slowly peeled off a pile, and sat them on the table.
I counted seven hundred and fifty dollars.
‘I’m having a launch party,’ he said, ‘Friday night at The Pavilion on the Domain. Mention me at the door and they’ll let you in. You’ll fucking love it—free champers, sexy girls. Margot Robbie on satellite, forty-five grand for three minutes—drives a hard bargain, that girl. I’ll introduce you to my PA, Evelyn. She’ll take care of the paperwork. She’s Tamsin’s aunty and probably closer to Tamsin than me or her mother.’
He gave me the address for the launch party, and I typed a memo into my phone.
He skolled the rest of his schooner and shot a cuff to reveal what appeared to be a Rolex, not that I’ve ever seen one in real life. ‘I have to love you and leave you. Got an oncologist’s appointment in Darlinghurst at four.’ He placed a business card on the table. ‘Call me anytime, Matt.’
He hustled out and left me in a unique situation. It had only just gone past midday, too early to eat and too early to get on the beer, which left me time to sit and ponder things.
Lyons admitted to being a distant, hands-off father, so why was he so worried now? Odds favoured Tamsin running off with a boyfriend for a couple of weeks, but....
I had a feeling like fleas in my collar, and I couldn’t finger where the feeling came from, or why.
Chapter 2
On Friday afternoon, I packed a change of clothes, a razor, and deodorant into an overnight bag, and booked the cheapest room I could find in Sydney. I made a sweeping pass of my galley kitchen, picked up my laptop, said goodbye to my flat for the night, and drove north on the Princes Highway.
I arrived in the CBD of Sydney just before eight, parked the ute at the Domain parking station, and walked across the parklands to The Pavilion on the Domain. I found it tucked away in a corner of the parklands, nestled in amongst Moreton bay fig trees planted in the late eighteen hundreds.
The white cement-rendered building had large glass windows facing the city skyline, and a crowd of people enjoyed thumping music and coloured lights. A gold-lettered sign on a pedestal advertised the launch party for ‘Peekaboo.’ At the entrance to the main building, two bouncers, a Maori, and a short man with stubble and an extremely protruding chin, wore tuxedos and monitored those going in.
The guy with the stubble looked me up and down as I approached. ‘Evenin’, sir. I see your invite, please?’ He had a British accent.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have one,’ I said. ‘Mr. Lyons invited me personally. He said to mention him by name.’
He scoffed. ‘You and a hundred other geezers. And you are?’
‘Matt Kowalski.’
‘Don’t ring no bells. Invite only. Sorry buddy.’
The Maori turned slightly. ‘Gav, leave it out, man.’
‘Am I fucking talking to you, bra?’
The Maori turned back and faced forward.
Gav snapped his eyes back to me, and I made sure to hold his gaze. He was over a foot shorter than me, and radiated a coiled, barely contained anger.
I spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Mr. Lyons hired me to investigate a personal matter.’
‘You taking the mickey out of me, cunt?’
I gave him the Kowalski stare. ‘I need to get inside.’
He said, ‘Right,’ and went to grab my arm.
I pulled away, and he eyeballed me intensely. It suddenly felt as if we were strange dogs in a new neighbourhood, sniffing each other out.
When a smiling, well-dressed couple distracted Gav, I made the most of the opportunity, and took ten paces back and left him shaking and breathing hard through his nose. I called Lyons’ mobile and told him the situation.
Soon Gav’s mobile rang. He snatched it out from the inside of his jacket and listened with a red face. Once he hung up, he eyed me and muttered, ‘You’d better get in there, then.’
Inside, three large flat screens flashed a pink and black graphic on a loop, which read ‘Peekaboo,’ followed by a package of images and footage of mostly American content. I found Lyons at the long, curved bar.
He beamed when he saw me. ‘Help yourself to a drink. I need to take care of a couple of things. Evelyn’s over there.’ He pointed to a tall, thin, curly-haired woman at the end of the bar, and immediately made a beeline to a couple dressed as if they were fresh from the golfing range.
Before I could move, a tall woman no older than twenty, wearing a black baseball cap and a pink jumpsuit with the font zipper dangerously low, slid next to me. Her perfume hit me a second later. ‘Say goodbye to Netflix. Peekaboo offers three exclusive channels devoted to the finest of adult entertainment, including a twenty-four-hour channel featuring AVN award-winning features, a niche channel devoted to selected fetishes, and a retro channel showing classics from the seventies, eighties, and nineties. For tonight only, we are offering twelve months risk free. Sign up online to access your obligation-free account.’ She handed me a pink and black card with the Peekaboo logo on it.
‘Thank you.’
The cocktail of sweet shampoo, freshly soaped skin, and perfectly lacquered lips were indeed a strong force to work against. She smiled, then moved onto the next man.
I noticed many other young, lithe women, dressed the same, posed with middle-aged men for photos, and wondered why they were attracted to this sort of work. Were
they drawn to the highlife and the rich? Did they like profiting from their feminine wiles? Maybe it was just a job.
I navigated the crowd toward Evelyn, and as I approached her, I was struck by her height. She wore high, tight pants, which exaggerated her thin waistline and her hips, what she had of them. Bony décolletage and a delicate silver necklace showed through a white camis tank top, and her slender feet sported open-toed silver shoes. Her bright red lipstick was astonishing next to her milky white skin, and her curly, thick hair was shiny and parted in the middle.
I had a sudden urge to bury my face in it.
She seemed relieved when she saw me. ‘Thanks for arriving at short notice. Simone’s had an anxiety attack and can’t work the bar. Okay if we sort out the particulars end of shift?’
It wasn’t the first time someone mistook my black wardrobe for a wait staff uniform.
‘I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mix up. I’m Matt Kowalski, a private investigator hired by Mr. Lyons to find his missing daughter.’
Evelyn clenched her teeth. ‘Shit. Sorry.’ She offered a thin hand and I took it. ‘I’m Evelyn Turner, Mr. Lyon’s P.A. Welcome to the launch.’ Her hand felt delicate but firm in mine. ‘What do you think? Honestly.’
I looked around arbitrarily. ‘I’m no expert, but cheap and tacky comes to mind. Looks like something Richard Branson would throw.’
She returned a pained smile. ‘I didn’t know which way to go. The projected demographics were all over the place—married couples, young singles. What can you do, am I right?’ She scanned the room nervously, the stress lines apparent around her eyes.
It occurred to me then that she’d organised the party.
Nice work, Kowalski.
She turned back to me. ‘Um, private investigator? Really? I’ve never met one before. Um, Jeff didn’t tell me anything. Did you say Tamsin’s missing?’
‘Eleven days. He recommended I speak to you about it.’
Evelyn scoffed. ‘Jeff’s getting funny in his old age. He needs to let Tamsin grow up.’
‘You’re not concerned?’
‘She’s young, single, and free. She’s probably ignoring him. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Mr. Lyons said she hasn’t been answering her phone. Have you spoken with Tamsin recently?’
‘I spoke to her last week. She’s fine.’
‘Little Bird’ by Annie Lennox came on, and Evelyn started to mouth the words.
I said, ‘He seems genuinely concerned.’
A beautiful woman with a tray of champagne appeared, and I took a glass.
Evelyn offered the woman a tight smile, and the waitress went on her way. Evelyn crossed her arms. ‘Jeff’s scared, Mr. Kowalski. He goes in for a quadruple by-pass in two weeks, and he thinks he’s not going to wake up. He’s convinced. The same thing happened to his father. He believes once you go into hospital, you never come out.’
‘He told you this?’
‘During one of his black dog days. The bypass is hanging over him in a bad way.’
I nodded as certain pieces fell into place. ‘I understand. He wanted me to talk to you. I think he needed you to convince me.’
She shook her head, but I raised a hand. ‘What I mean is... I thought he was a worried father, and he is, but to Jeff, this must be life or death. He needs to know Tamsin is okay for whatever reason—to make amends, to be a better father in his last days, to set her up financially. I don’t know, but I know it’s important to him.’
‘She’s just living her life out of her Daddy’s shadow.’
‘Do you know Tamsin’s current address?’
‘She’s dorming at the Queen Mary building in Camperdown, near the Sydney university grounds. I’m sure it’s nothing, Mr. Kowalski.’
‘If that’s the case, and I find Tamsin tomorrow at the dormitory, its case closed, and it’ll only cost him a few hundred bucks. I won’t charge him the retainer, will reimburse the difference, and we can all go on our merry way. He’s adamant in hiring me, Evelyn. I’ve got a copy of my contract, and he’s asked me to have you sign it.’
I took the contract from my pocket and passed it to her.
She put it on the bar and took her time reading it, then she asked the barmaid for a pen. ‘Can you write here that you’ll waive the retainer if it happens as I said?’
‘Sure thing.’
I wrote it, and she signed it.
I thanked her, finished the champagne, placed the glass at the end of the bar, and walked back out to my car. On my way out, as the machine ate my ticket and the gate saluted, I noticed a grey Toyota Fortuner in my right-hand mirror hastily skid to a stop. I couldn’t make out the occupants due to a windscreen tinted about twenty percent lower than the stipulated legal maximum darkness.
I pulled north onto Macquarie Street and deliberately kept it slow, scrutinising the rear-view mirror to see what the Fortuner would do. It soon emerged with a lurch and dashed into my lane, where it remained, three cars back. I had the fresh green at the next intersection, and turned left onto Hunter Street, where I got stuck behind a cabbie who rode his brakes. The three cars behind me made the green, followed by the Fortuner.
I turned south onto Castlereagh, gunned the ute past a slow-moving mini bus, and abruptly pulled in front of him. I got the horn and grimaced an apology. A lane appeared, and I made a fast right into it.
I shuddered to a stop at the end of a tight cul-de-sac, got out, and jogged back to Castlereagh at a half crouch. At the mouth of the lane way, I hugged the wall, carefully leaned out, and eyed the Fortuner farther south and stuck in traffic.
The driver sat low in the seat and turned his head left and right. The bald head and protruding chin were unmistakable.
I made a note of the make and model in my phone and filed it under ‘Gav’s car.’
Chapter 3
I arrived in Glebe around 10:00 PM, found the hostel I’d booked online, and parked at the rear. I then went in and handed some of Lyons’ money over to a smiling Sudanese clerk, and felt a sense of innate satisfaction at doing so.
He gave me the key, and I wandered down three dank hallways until finding my room. When I opened the door, it smelled like fish warmed up in a microwave, but the bed was comfortable, and the TV worked fine. After flicking through the channels, I took advantage of the free WiFi, booted up my laptop, and started background checks on both Jeff and Tamsin Lyons. I started with Tamsin, and the lack of social media accounts surprised me—no Facebook, no Instagram, no Snapchat. I found a link to ‘Explore Tamsin Lyons’ 5 photos on Flickr!’ and clicked on it. A gallery loaded in a grid pattern, and three photos showed Tamsin on a beach with a group of men and women of similar age, wearing board shorts and bikinis. All stood in a line holding bottles of alcohol, striking more and more outlandish poses in each photo, except for Tamsin, who stood extreme left and slightly apart from the group, wearing a one-piece and smiling, close-mouthed.
The fourth photo showed Tamsin grinning, with her arm around the shoulder of a young woman of similar height and hair colour, on what I assumed to be the Sydney university campus grounds. It was a clear photo, so I took a shot of it with my mobile phone. The last photo was an unflattering and slightly blurred selfie, taken in poor light from a low angle.
Someone who knows she’s pretty trying to see something new. Or maybe that’s how she sees herself.
The photos were simply labelled: ‘session 2 break Burleigh,’ ‘Renee and me,’ and ‘solitude.’ I downloaded each photo into a folder with the plan to print them back home.
Her LinkedIn account listed two jobs, one at a café in Glebe, and an admin role with Waverley council. Both listings were over a year old. I took a screengrab and saved them to the same folder.
Searches on Jeff Lyons revealed a news article from twenty years ago. The photo featured a younger version of the man I’d drunk with. The figure was slimmer, the hair darker and fuller, but the ruddy face gave him away. At his side, a tall, thin woman with
dark curly hair and an angular, determined face looked past the photographer. Lyons, dressed in a business suit, had his hand around her waist and was captured mid laugh. The article detailed the media magnate’s marriage to influential socialite Yvette Turner, daughter of the Australian Minister for Finance, Jeremy Turner, in a civil ceremony. The journalist was quick to mention the lack of a pre-nup in the second paragraph of her article.
I found an older article about Lyons’ success with American media mogul Ted Turner during the early eighties, then losing it all in the crash of eighty-seven. He divorced Yvette in the late nineties and became linked to a list of beautiful Aussie actresses. He moved into other business ventures I didn’t understand, nor had the inclination to. Lyons was money incarnate, and he obviously played up to the media. I wondered where Tamsin fitted into all of it, what with the wheeling and dealing and upper crust hobnobbing.
In the morning, I showered under warm water, checked out early, and thanked the gods my ute appeared unharmed in the harsh morning light. I drove east along Broadway, past Saturday shoppers, to the Queen Mary building in Camperdown. Red-bricked, ten storeys high with a glass atrium, it was situated on a quiet tree-lined street. Luckily, a multi-storey parking station sat directly opposite, so I parked and walked across the road.
The foyer featured comfortable-looking breakout spaces, and wall decals explained that the building used to house nurses during the Second World War.
A Lebanese-looking security guard manned a large desk, and he squinted at me as I approached.
‘Morning, I’m a private detective verifying the whereabouts of Tamsin Lyons. Do you mind if I check in on her?’
‘Sorry, brother, can’t let you access the dorms. Students and family only.’
I took out my phone and showed him the picture of Tamsin. ‘Do you know if she checked in over the last twenty-four hours?’
‘I wasn’t rostered on yesterday, but the kids check in all sorts of hours, and the front desk isn’t manned all the time. They can swipe in and out anytime between six and eleven.’