by Chris Krupa
‘Any way you could check the logs from the last forty-eight hours?’
‘Sorry, brother, head office keeps the access logs.’
‘I’m investigating her possible disappearance. I only need to sight her—at the very least, knock on the door and confirm she’s okay.’
He raised his hands. ‘I’m the only one here, and I can’t leave the desk.’
I took stock, considered my options, took out my wallet, and removed the twelve-month Peekaboo subscription card. I held it up. ‘Have you heard about this?’
He eyed the card with interest.
I said, ‘Twelve months obligation-free. Premium package. You let me in, it’s all yours.’
He hesitated for a minute and stared at the desk, but eventually held out his hand. I gave him the card and he quickly pocketed it. ‘I’ll have to escort you in.’ He locked the computer screen and left the desk.
I followed him to a pair of glass doors, which he opened with a swipe card. We rode an old elevator to the second floor, walked down a musty hall, and stopped at a door with the number 212 on it. He pushed his card into the lock. When the red light turned green, he pressed against the heavy door, and the hinges squealed.
The smell of urine and shit hit me. The small room had two single beds under a window, a wardrobe, and a small desk with a flat screen TV. A girl’s body lay on the floor, wedged between the right-hand side bed and a small set of bedside drawers. Blowflies circled her in slow, lazy loops. I watched as one of the blowflies landed on her unblinking eye, and made its way to the corner, where it settled and ate from a pool of sticky fluid it found there.
PART TWO
Chapter 4
I carefully navigated the room and made my way to the body, all the while thinking about the contamination I was introducing to the scene. Flecks of blood stained the doona and a smear ran down the sheets to where she lay. I squatted next to the body. It wasn’t Tamsin, and the more I looked at her, the more I recognised her from the photo Tamsin posted in her Flickr gallery—the one labelled ‘Renee and me.’
Her shirt had ridden up, exposing a two-inch-wide, blood-mottled stab wound a finger width below her stomach. Her tracksuit pants were low on her hips and strands of hair lay across her face.
She’d put up a fight.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ the security guard said behind me.
I checked her wrist for a pulse. Her pale skin was cool to the touch.
The guard groaned. ‘Jesus Christ. Leave her alone.’
I said, ‘Call the police.’
‘I will! Get the fuck out of the room up so I can lock it up.’
The second bed appeared freshly made with clean sheets and the pillow untouched. On my way out, I noted a single toothbrush in a plastic cup sat by the bathroom sink, and a small pile of dirty clothes sat piled on a small basket by the shower receptacle.
After I stepped out, the guard closed and locked the door, then jiggled the handle a few times. Once satisfied, he looked at me, ashen-faced, but we didn’t say anything. Downstairs, he made the call while I waited in the foyer and ran the scenarios through my head.
What were the odds of Tamsin’s roommate being found dead on day one of the case? Was Tamsin caught up in something that endangered her life, as well as her roommate’s?
A police car arrived within minutes and two officers approached the guard at the front desk. They eventually made their way to the back elevator. After another twenty minutes a station wagon appeared, and two men climbed out. The passenger, a solid man dressed in a grey suit, a pink and white striped tie with grey cropped hair and red spots across his face, pushed through the glass door and made a beeline for the front desk, carrying a thick notebook.
The driver grunted as he pulled himself out of the car, his bearded porcine face shiny in spite of the overcast sky, and did his best to catch up to this partner. A security van showed up and three security personnel climbed out. One took up position outside, while the remaining two joined the suits, and they all retreated in a huddle down the back hallway to the elevators.
Two young men tried to enter the foyer and were promptly declined entry by the guard outside. They stood nervously nursing coffee cups, and eventually took to swiping their phones.
The art of conversation is truly lost.
After about forty minutes, the grey-suited man re-appeared with the original security guard who’d let me into the room, and he eyed me from the elevator. He leaned forward and summoned me with a crooked finger.
Chapter 5
I approached him and reminded myself that he wasn’t the enemy, just a man whose hard-bitten face wore the blood, guts, and trauma borne from a career in the force. Pain flared in my groin, as it had for months, and I readjusted my jeans.
The suit noticed.
A slew of red spots speckled his forehead and ran down the bridge of his misshapen nose like confetti.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said. His voice lacked tonality and didn’t travel. ‘My name is Detective Constable Mike Ivers of the Sydney homicide squad. We’re making inquiries regarding a suspected homicide and hope you can answer a few questions.’
‘Of course, Detective Constable.’
He flipped open a leather-bound folio, clicked a pen, and asked my name and phone number. I provided the details and handed him one of my cheap business cards, which he scrutinised for a minute, then clipped into his folio. ‘I understand you asked security to grant you access to the room where the victim was found?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
I took a moment to get my thoughts together. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not averse to helping you in any way, but I’m in a fix. I can’t disclose anything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m investigating a related matter, and my client requested utmost confidentiality. I need to think about my reputation. My entire livelihood depends on it. I trust you understand that.’
Ivers shifted his feet. ‘I understand, but there’s a deceased woman upstairs and we need to find the individual responsible. I trust you understand that.’
I copped the moral argument on the chin and nodded.
He said, ‘Are you related to the victim in any way, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Are we likely to find, during the course of our investigation, any association you may have, or have had, with the victim? You don’t need to provide details. You can merely acknowledge a response at this time—either yes or no.’
‘No, you won’t find any association between me and the victim.’
‘Did you interact with the victim last night between 7 and 11PM?’
‘No.’
‘Did you enter the room, sir?’
I hesitated.
Ivers cleared his throat and stared at a spot six feet behind my head.
I nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’
He raised his eyebrows and made a ‘huh’ sound. He clicked his pen and made a note in the folio. ‘Did you touch anything or move anything in the room, sir?’
‘No, I didn’t touch anything. I felt for a pulse. That’s all.’
He made another ‘huh’ sound and scribbled another note. ‘How did you check for a pulse?’
‘With my two right index fingers against the left side of her neck.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr....’ He flipped the folio at ninety degrees and squinted. ‘Kowalski. I may need to consult with you at a future time. It’s possible we’ll need your fingerprints to clear you and assist the investigation. It’s merely a procedure.’
He snapped a card from the folio and held it out to me between two yellowed fingers. ‘If you could contact Sydney Police Station on that number and make an appointment to come in within the next two days, I’d appreciate it.’
I took the card and slid it in the back compartment of my wallet. ‘I understand its early days, but is there any way of knowing what time the victim was murdered?’<
br />
He shook his head. ‘At a guess, within the last twelve hours.’
‘I know this is a stretch, me being a lowly private investigator you don’t know from a bar of soap, but is there any chance in hell of telling me her name? I swear I won’t release it until the matter’s made public.’
‘Not a chance.’
He snapped the folio closed, then saluted with it. ‘Be seeing you.’ He turned on his heel and re-joined the now tired-looking security guard.
I left the building as a mass of grey cloud covered the sun, and a frigid gust of wind carrying the threat of an early winter cut through my tee shirt. Back in the darkness of the parking station, I dug out a flask from the tray of my ute and swallowed three good slugs of scotch. My guts protested as I thought things over.
The murder in Tamsin’s dorm room couldn’t be a coincidence. What were the odds of signing onto a missing person’s case the very night the roommate of the person I’m looking for is murdered? Was my involvement the catalyst for the murder, or was I being paranoid? I faced the very real and daunting prospect of telling Jeff Lyons, multi-millionaire media magnate, that his daughter could be either kidnapped, or dead.
Chapter 6
I rang Jeff’s number and waited nine rings before it answered.
‘Lyons Media, Evelyn speaking.’ Her voice caught me by surprise.
‘Evelyn. Hi, it’s Matt Kowalski. We met last night at The Pavilion?’
‘I might be over the limit, but I do remember you. You’ve caught me at a bad time.’
‘Is Jeff available?’
She cleared her throat. ‘He will be as soon as the ibuprofen kicks in.’
‘Big night?’
‘The biggest. Six hundred and sixty-five subscriptions, with a potential reach of three times that number via the free trial, with the projected demographics reading at full engagement.’
‘Glad to hear it. Listen, something’s come up and I need to talk to Jeff in confidence. I’d appreciate it if you could put me through to him. I know I’m putting you on the spot.’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to talk to him right now. And Jeff’s confidentiality extends to me, particularly if it involves Tamsin.’ Her tone took on a low tone. ‘Have you found her?’
‘Unfortunately, no. I’m in a hard spot, Evelyn. What I tell you could have serious ramifications.’
‘Jeff trusts me with his daughter’s life. I assure you that whatever you say to me will remain in confidence. People tell me I don’t have a filter, so don’t have a filter with me, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Please say what you need to say.’
‘Okay. I want to know if Jeff received any threatening phone calls or ransom demands since he last spoke to Tamsin on the 12th of March?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Jeff’s phone diverts to me. He doesn’t have a direct line—not into the office, not into his home—so I know with absolute certainty there have been no calls out of the ordinary. I would have called the police, or, at the very least, I would have told you last night. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m ruling out a theory. I thought Tamsin might be held somewhere against her will. Children of wealthy media magnates are susceptible to it.’
‘Yeah, look at John Paul Getty. He was cute until they cut his ear off.’ She took a pull on her beer. ‘You think she’s been kidnapped?’
‘I don’t know what to think. I drove to the Queen Mary Building hoping to find Tamsin or at least make some inquiries. Security let me into her room and I found a woman’s body.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Police didn’t confirm it, but I think it’s Tamsin’s roommate. She was murdered last night.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’
‘I don’t know if it’s connected, but it’s a hell of a coincidence. The homicide guys are all over it.’
Evelyn exhaled. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Its early days. I’ll continue to make inquiries, conduct some research, and see if anything connects.’
Evelyn’s breathing became shallow and low.
To break the silence, I said, ‘The optimist in me says Tamsin’s not in any direct danger.’
‘What does the realist in you say?’
‘The realist says she may be caught up in something bigger than herself. Would you know where Tamsin lived before moving into the Queen Mary building?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think she’s been living there for a while.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘For one thing, the other bed was made up with fresh sheets and the pillow hadn’t been slept on. Most of the shared desk area was clear, and I noticed only one toothbrush in the bathroom.’
‘Very weird. Tamsin used to live with her mother in Clovelly. It was only temporary while she found a new place to live, or until she killed her mother—whichever came first.’
‘Could you give me her name and address? I’d like to talk to her.’
Evelyn scoffed. ‘You don’t talk to the ice queen. You tolerate her.’
‘I’ll take that into consideration.’
‘Her name is Zara Venables. She moved on with husband number three a few years ago but didn’t invite me to the wedding. Go figure.’
She gave me the address and told me that if Zara wasn’t home, I’d find her swimming laps at Bronte Baths.
I thanked her and hung up.
I found the address online, and negotiated jittery lunchtime traffic and manic taxi drivers until I reached the beachside suburb of Clovelly, where local eateries charged thirty-dollar lunches and arty types quaffed sauvignon blanc and discussed the next big social media influencers. Lithe, botoxed joggers in active wear paraded their labrapoodles on the running track that hugged the coastline.
The house, a double storey postmodern affair that lacked any character, sat on a narrow coastal road atop a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Its narrow, cement rendered balcony, replete with glass sliding doors and matching Wiccan chairs, enjoyed a view of the coastal shipping routes, the land no doubt appreciating by the second.
A narrow alcove led to the front door, and I rang the doorbell. After two more rings and no signs of life, I stepped back and inspected the northern side of the property. Behind a group of yakka trees, a tall fence obscured the view into the rear yard. I made my way back to the front and crossed the manicured lawn to the southern side. A shaded path lined with stepping stones led to a small gate. I heard a man’s voice and strained my ears.
‘I’m going to give you what you’re begging for, bitch.’
It came from the backyard.
I reached through a hole in the gate, slowly and carefully lifted the latch, and went through.
A woman’s voice said, ‘My husband will be home soon.’
‘Come here,’ the man purred. ‘It won’t hurt. I promise.’
I came around the back of the house past leafy garden beds and saw a stocky man standing at the edge of a lap pool with his back to me. He wore a balaclava, black shorts and a tight-fitting sports tee shirt. I couldn’t see his hands.
A woman with long black hair and wearing a blue swimsuit stood chest deep in the pool. She backed away from the man, her eyes locked on his.
Chapter 7
I tackled the man from behind and we both came down hard on the wet grass. The tight-fitting spandex didn’t provide any purchase, and he managed to get a leg free and kick me in the neck. I let go and got to my feet as he raised himself to his hands and knees, exposing his ribs. I kicked him hard and he flipped onto his back, his mouth a silent ‘O.’ I quickly straddled his chest and punched him hard in the mouth to get through the layer of wool.
From somewhere behind the blood rushing in my ears, a strange caterwauling rang out, and when I went to punch him again, something wrenched my arm away.
The woman screamed in my face. ‘That’s my husband!’
It took a few s
econds for her words to register, and I stared dumbly at her lined face, then down at my victim as blood flowed from a cut in his lip. Five feet away, a square piece of white silk sat delicately atop the blades of grass.
‘Get off him!’ she continued. ‘Leave him alone! Ed! Are you okay, Ed?’
I quickly climbed off and stepped back with my hands raised. ‘I’m so sorry. This has been a huge misunderstanding.’
She leaned into my face. ‘I’d fucking say so! Who the hell are you?’’
‘My name’s Matt Kowalski. I’m a private detective.’
The woman snatched up the piece of silk, bunched it into a ball, and blotted the cut on her husband’s lip. ‘Ed? Sweetheart? Are you okay?’
He took the piece of silk from her, held it against his face and nodded. He laid his head back and looked up at the sky, his chest rising and falling.
The woman stood and faced me squarely. ‘I hope you’ve got a good lawyer, because I’m charging you with assault.’
Despite my better nature, I couldn’t help but notice how the blue one-piece swimsuit clung to her athletic figure. I clocked her at fifty, yet she had the flawless tanned skin and smooth hands of a woman twenty years younger.
I rubbed my temples and met her eyes. ‘Your sister gave me your address.’
She crossed her arms ‘Oh, she did, did she?’
‘Are you Zara Venables?’
‘I want your name and licence number. Right now.’
I handed her my phone case and she disappeared into the house with it.
Ed rolled to his side and made to get up. I put my hand out but he swatted it away with a curt ‘fuck off.’
When he got to his feet, he wobbled for a moment, then slowly peeled the balaclava from his head. It stuck to his lip and he winced.
I shrugged in an attempt to placate him and half expected to be slugged in retaliation.
‘I heard voices,’ I said in my best apologetic voice. ‘I thought you were going to rape her. Or worse. No hard feelings?’