by Robert Blain
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Close
Clydebank Blitz
How to Skin a Cat
Bauhinia Star
The Redemption of Garry Jones
Cover design by beegraphica.com
Copyright © 2018 by Robert Blain
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means,
electrical or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or
any information storage and retrieval system now known or
to be invented, without permission in writing from the
author, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages
in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine,
newspaper, or broadcast.
ISBN 9-781728-853697
-
=====
PROLOGUE
Eight-year-old Christopher Hohl was shaken awake by his father. It must have been late because it was dark and very cold.
‘Come with me,’ said the father. ‘Come and see mummy.’
The boy closed his eyes and tried to sleep but his father shook him again.
‘Get up. Mummy wants to see you.’
Christopher Hohl opened his eyes. His father sounded excited. Maybe he wanted to play a game. It was unlike his father, he rarely took such an interest.
Christopher’s younger brother slept on obliviously in the single bed adjacent to his, snoring softly.
Curious, the boy pushed his bedclothes aside and got up. He followed his father out of the bedroom and down the hall. Clad only in his pyjamas, Christopher’s bare feet were icy as he padded along the tiled floor on this freezing August night. He heard a gust of wind outside and could see a tree being blown against the upstairs window by its force, the branches scraping the glass.
He followed his father up the short wooden staircase into the attic. The window was open and the breeze blew white, lacey curtains back into the room, where they ballooned up like billowing ghosts. His father walked to the window and beckoned with a finger for his son to come closer.
It was a very nice house, in a leafy Camberwell street – one of Melbourne’s most affluent suburbs. Old money. But all that wealth couldn’t adequately explain what young Christopher Hohl’s mother was doing standing on the roof of their house on the cold and wet night, wearing only a white nightgown. Christopher could see it shining through the gloom. A fine drizzle was falling and the roof tiles were slicked with water.
‘Wave to mummy,’ said the father.
The boy did so, thinking it was some sort of game. But she didn’t turn. She seemed not to see him at all. She took a step closer to the edge of the roof. And then was still again. Just a white silhouette against the black night.
‘Call out to mummy,’ said the father.
‘Mummy,’ the boy called out. But not too loudly. It was late. He didn’t want to wake everyone up, after all.
But then suddenly he could no longer see her on the rooftop. She was gone. Just like that. The wind continued to blow hard but mummy was gone.
1
=====
SCHLAKIER’S SOLACE
‘Smith Street Investigators.’
He picked up on the third ring. It seemed unprofessional to let it go any longer.
‘Andrew Schlakier?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Peter Michael. From State Corporate Affairs. I received your contact from someone at Russell Street Police Station. You come highly recommended, it seems.’
Schlakier’s pulse quickened. It sounded like a significant case.
‘We’re a pretty small outfit. You’re probably better off getting someone from Russell Street on the case–’
‘We’d prefer to go through a private investigator.’
‘They’re better resourced, they’ve got more manpower and are more likely–’
‘We’d prefer to go through a private investigator.’
There was a pause as Michael let the importance of what he was saying sink in.
‘You’ll be very well compensated,’ Michael added. ‘This is a sensitive case. We want someone who can work surreptitiously. Without any leaks to the press.’
‘Are you representing the government?’
‘Something like that.’
Schlakier clumsily flipped opened a small notebook and dashed a few key details with a pencil stub. He sometimes wondered if it wasn’t just easier to tape his phone conversations, the way his partner did. He made a mental note to set it up.
‘We’re reopening the missing persons case into the disappearance of Justina Doble,’ continued Michael. ‘I’m sure you’re familiar with it.’
‘Yes of course. But it must have been almost ten years ago.’
Schlakier had the image of her that all the newspapers had been running at the time imprinted in his mind – a slightly out of focus photo of a pretty young woman smiling beguilingly into the camera, her light brown hair framing her face.
‘We believe there’s more to her disappearance than meets the eye,’ said Michael.
‘Well, you’re not on your own there. Why are you reopening the case after so long?’
‘We have our reasons.’
‘I mean, that normally only happens for something pretty compelling, like new evidence coming to light. Is that what’s happened here?’
Michael paused, but only for a moment. ‘Not exactly. That’s why we’re hiring you. Believe me, it will all become more obvious as things unfold. So you’ll take the case.’
A statement, not a question.
‘Yes, I’ll take it. But don’t expect a miracle overnight. Especially as the person in question’s disappearance was so long ago. I might find nothing.’
‘As long as you help us get a conviction, you’ll be handsomely rewarded. One thing though, if you want to talk with Hohl you’re going to have to find him first. He’s gone to ground. No one knows where he is.’
‘So you want me to find him?’ said Schlakier.
‘That would help, obviously. But if you can’t, don’t sweat it. Just get the evidence.’
‘I see. It’s going to be tricky if I can’t find him.’
‘Is the email on your business card the best one to contact you on?’ said Michael, ignoring Schlakier’s doubts.
‘You seem to know all about me. Yes, that’s the one.’
‘Perfect. I’ll send you through the dossier of our man and also the contract of our work agreement.
‘I can’t emphasize enough the importance of remaining shtum on this. No talking to the media. Got that?’
‘Yep. But as I say–’
‘Good man. I’ll be in touch.’
Michael rang off.
Within a minute a new email appeared in Schlakier’s inbox. The name made sense but the email address – [email protected] – struck him as rather unprofessional. Suspicious even. Schlakier made a mental note to meet Michael in person to make sure he was legit. He liked to know who was bankrolling him. He doubted Michael was a terrorist but you couldn’t be too careful these days.
Schlakier’s doubts were allayed somewhat as he read through the terms of his contract. He’d been in the game long enough to know when it had been drawn up by a lawyer. This State Corporate Affairs mob clearly had a generous budget. The gist of the document was that it was believed that there was sufficient cause to believe that Christopher Hohl had been involved in the disappearance of then-wife Justina Doble and the case was being reopened.
When Schlakier saw the terms of the payment near the end of the document, he swore quietly under his breath. A thousand dollars a day, plus expenses (air travel, hotels, meals, taxis) – and a $30,000
bonus with a successful conviction.
It had been a good day. This contract could go a long way to establishing him as a private investigator. He should be happy. And yet nothing felt right. And as five o’clock ticked over he felt the blues begin to creep over him. He usually coped for most of the day, keeping busy, talking to people. But as the day wound down he began to slump – worse when he had the office to himself, like now.
It had been six months since he’d broken up with Zoe and it seemed as if it was getting harder, not easier, to forget.
The coup de grace, the time he had inexplicably slapped her across the face, began playing back in his mind. Whenever he thought about it, he winced with shame. What had made him do it? It’s a question he had asked himself many times. Their relationship had begun to die at that moment.
Schlakier made the short walk along Smith Street to the local bottle shop and returned with a six-pack of Crown Lager. He locked the office door behind him. He sat idly at his desk staring at the icons on his computer screen while he sucked back on his first beer. And thought of Zoe. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as the gloom set in.
She had left him for an Italian biologist doing molecular research in Germany. His name was Frederiqué. He could speak five languages. English, Italian, German, Latin and (for some reason) Portuguese. He was also an artist who loved to paint. Basically as far from a Russell Street cop as you could get, which Schlakier still was when Zoe ditched him. She met her Italian lover in an Internet chat room and within two weeks had flown to Frankfurt to meet him – undeterred by the fact that he had a wife and two children.
Schlakier fired up his Facebook page and began to stalk his ex, aware of the cliché he had become. He ploughed through the remaining beers while he trawled her news feed. There was little about the great new love of her life – she had always been a little surreptitious – except for one photo of Zoe with a guy on a boat under sunny skies. He was wiry and bearded and looked decidedly Latino. They both looked very happy. Then Schlakier scrolled down and found one of those locator entries that showed that Zoe had recently arrived in Frankfurt Airport and he felt a knife rip at his guts. He glugged the last of his beer and then found an old bottle of red wine in a forgotten corner of the kitchen and started to demolish that. He continued scrolling through Zoe’s Facebook entries until slowly his funk began to be replaced by anger. He was on the verge of sending her a bitter, sarcastic comment but at the last moment stopped himself – suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing.
Schlakier shut down the computer, left the office and got to his car. Fuck it, he thought. And drove home via the back streets.
2
=====
MY WAY
Fun fact: The song “My Way” is banned at karaoke in the Philippines. This is because the song was once so popular there that a man became so incensed by someone's singing it in a bar that he actually pulled out a pistol and blew their brains out. He must have really hated the Frank Sinatra classic to be driven murder, you’d think. Or possibly the karaoke guy was an unbelievably bad singer. Either way, it does seem to be something of an overreaction.
But why does someone murder someone else?
The point is, killing can be just an arbitrary and act as the type of pizza you order. Personally, I usually go for a spicy Mexicana or the Moroccan lamb. Definitely not the Hawaiian or anything else with pineapple in it. Not that I’d kill anyone over it – at least I don’t think so.
My name is Christopher Hohl. Although my friends usually call me Chris. I’ve been called worse things – especially in the media – but let’s keep it all above board for the time being.
You might recognise my family name from the Boomerang clothing range. Started by my father. Boomerang produced a popular range of surfie clothes. It started in the 1970s. The styles were popular with surfers and then chicks started to dig the clothes because they guys looked hot in them and then even non-surfers started wearing the gear to try and attract the girls as well. My father originally had a shop in Torquay but then it just grew and grew until there was a chain of stores across Australia. And then it expanded overseas. At its height, there was a big store in London. Just along from the big shopping precinct near Borough Market.
Then the bottom started to fall out of the business with the rise of the Internet. So the family began to scale back operations and transferred the family wealth into property in the mid-1990s. Just in time to hitch a ride on Australia’s biggest-ever property boom. You know that building in the city with the Commonwealth Bank logo on it? That’s one of ours.
The real estate company is called Land Lease Corp. It’s on the stock market. You can look it up.
My brother runs the firm. My younger brother. That’s a bit of a story in itself and something of a sore point in family relations. It was clear that Russell was the anointed one – chosen by my father. Even though, by right I, as the eldest sibling, should be the one running the family business. As my second wife often points out, Russell diddled me out of my birthright. Even though I had lots of fancy titles during my time at Land Lease Corp, it was obvious to everyone that I was very much on the margins. Bad blood all round.
You’re probably going to hear some pretty terrible things about me. Most of this relates to the disappearance of my first wife. On a hot January afternoon, she left our home in Castlebrook for a party in Melbourne with some of her university friends but she never made it back home. I was accused in the media of plotting and executing her disappearance. For a time – what seemed like a long time – there was no letup. But she was never found. Although there was speculation. Lots. And lots of nasty things cast in my direction. You sure find out who your friends are at a time like that. Sure, my relationship with Justina had become rocky. I admit it. It got rough at times. Violent. And yes, at times we fought and I hit her on more than one occasion.
Things never seemed the same after she got her abortion. It seemed like the right course of action at the time. I really thought it was for the best. I knew I wouldn’t make a good father. It was in the genes, you could say. But she never stopped resenting me. Until things stopped completely.
But I was never charged with her death.
But back to that guy in the Philippines. The murderer must have really hated that damn song to walk up to a guy in a karaoke booth and blow his brains out with a pistol. What sort of pent-up madness was that? What sort of intense rage? But really it can be as arbitrary as a song. In this case, “My Way” by Frank Sinatra. In fact, the random build-up of events that spark murder is haphazard. Because it can be sparked by nothing.
3
=====
PARTNERS IN CRIME
The office front door chimed as it opened.
‘Hey Andy. Only me mate.’
Bill Birtles. The man Schlakier shared the premises with. They weren’t business partners as such. They both ran their own enterprise, just sharing office space and the cost of overheads. They each had a private office. Schlakier checked his watch: 10:25am. Birtles was making his customary late Monday morning appearance. He made his way past the unmanned front desk. The receptionist only worked part time – Monday was not one of her allocated days.
Birtles poked his head around the door of Schlakier’s office, clinking two mugs together. His black-rimmed glasses matched his cropped head of compact curly hair and neatly trimmed goatee beard. He was tall and slim, in a loose-fitting grey suit – more resembling an IT professional than a private investigator. Schlakier, by contrast, was shorter but more compact, clean-shaven, white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His blonde-brown locks were a relic of his Nordic ancestry.
‘Get you a coffee?’
‘Love one.’
‘There’s another one of those nut-jobs attacking the phone outside again.’
‘I heard.’
Schlakier got up and followed Birtles into the kitchen.
Birtles busied himself tea-spooning sugar and instant coffee into the mugs.
‘Did you see the footy yesterday?’ said Birtles.
‘Nah, missed it. Why would I want to watch your rubbish team?’
‘There’s nothing rubbish about the mighty Hawks, matey. We thrashed the Pies by ten goals. An absolute shellacking.’
The pair had become friends while both had been new boys on the beat at Russell Street. Unlike Schlakier, Birtles decision to quit the force had been an easy one. He did not see himself as a career cop. It was fair to say the rigours of the police force did not suit his free-spirited personality. He admitted as much himself. It was at Birtle’s urging that Schlakier eventually quit the force and became a private investigator.
‘I saw your ex on the weekend,’ said Birtles.
Birtles’ long-term girlfriend was best friends with Zoe. The four of them had been quite a team in the good old days. In the first few months after they broke up, Schlakier tortured himself by pressing his friend for updates on Zoe’s life – romantic and otherwise – which Birtles was only too happy to provide. Schlakier eventually decided it was in his best interest to stop pressing.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s fine.’
Birtles looked into his friend’s eyes to gauge his reaction. Schlakier decided it was probably best to keep the driving-home-pissed episode to himself.
‘I had a very interesting phone call the other day,’ he said, to change the subject.
Birtles raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yeah, who?’
‘Some bloke from State Corporate Affairs.’
‘Never heard of them.’
Birtles busied himself adding teaspoons of instant coffee to the mugs while the kettle boiled.
‘I think they’re something to do with the Victorian government. The case against Christopher Hohl is being reopened. Remember him?’
‘The guy who murdered his wife and hid the body. How could I forget? Charming fellow.’