Eden (19 page)

I pictured Sophie returning from her daughter's, Brook and Sophie making up. Sophie would throw back the curtains she'd made, those clever curtains of Brook's illness, which had kept the scorching day at one remove. Her opening would be an expansive, graceful gesture. Coming up behind her, Brook would put his hands around her waist, then move them higher. His movement, her response, would be as normal and expected as two masses of air meeting one another after a day apart. I winced at how simply a woman could turn to face a man, after he had cupped her breasts with his hands.

Twenty

Bryant's list of recommended filters was in the morning papers.
The Canberra Times
listed the lucky top scorers on page three, together with brightly coloured pictures of their products.
CleanNet
was not among them.

The phone rang as I was pouring myself a second cup of tea.

Gail was pissed off. ‘You knew they'd been scrubbed,' she said.

‘I didn't.'

Gail didn't stay on the phone long enough to debate the point with me.

. . .

I took Fred for a token walk across the road, then decided to pay Stan Walewicz a visit.

He came to the door of his studio looking a little the worse for wear.

‘Did you know
CleanNet
was going to be left off Senator Bryant's list?' I asked.

‘You're flattering me—Ms Mahoney isn't it? I'm blushing.'

‘Did you?'

Walewicz smiled and rubbed his chin. He hadn't shaved that morning. ‘I wish I could say yes.'

‘How do you feel about it?'

‘Feel?'

‘A shame to see an old friend's company passed over in favour of imports from America.'

‘Old friend?' Walewicz looked puzzled, then he smiled. ‘A crying shame. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm sorry, but I have things to do.'

. . .

I rang Richard McFadden's office. While I waited for him to come to the phone, or perhaps decide not to, I pictured again the 1930s decor, those chandeliers weighted with yellow light, the red velvet and the mirrors. More revealing, in terms of its reflections, had been the shop window on the other side of Castlereagh Street, where I'd glimpsed Simon Lawrence's watchdog for the first time, his large brown eyes and stubbly jaw, his manner that was bumbling and yet predatory.

‘Were you disappointed that
CleanNet
was left off Senator Bryant's list?' I asked when McFadden finally came on the line.

‘It's a loss for the Australian public,' he replied politely, ‘because our product is the best available. But it's not the end of the world. Of course, the minister acts according to his own discretion.
CleanNet
will beat the competition hands down. The market will sort out the sheep from the goats.'

‘Do you know what happened to make Senator Bryant change his mind?'

‘No idea at all. The senator is an intelligent man. He was impressed by our presentation. If
CleanNet
's not to carry a government recommendation, then that's a loss for Australian consumers, and the Australian Treasury as well. That list. Know how many Australian companies are on it? None. Zero. Zilch.'

‘Eden Carmichael would have been disappointed.'

‘I believe he would have.' McFadden sounded genuinely sorry.

‘Did you know that Carmichael was on his way to meet Senator Bryant on the day he died?'

‘On his way?' McFadden repeated. ‘No, I didn't.'

‘Was Carmichael ever a shareholder in your company?'

‘I can't imagine you need that information for your thesis, Ms Mahoney.'

‘What about Margot Lancaster? Was she ever given shares?'

‘Who?'

‘She owns the brothel where Carmichael died.' I pressed on, ignoring McFadden's irritation. ‘What about Ken Dollimore, Carmichael's former colleague?'

‘The one with the coiffure? He paid me a visit. I was staying in that hotel next to the casino. Great spot, great atmosphere. He lectured me about my sins.'

‘Is that all?'

‘It was enough. Quite enough.'

‘And Stan Walewicz? Has he been helpful too?'

‘I'm not—'

‘That would be fair, wouldn't it? Seeing as how you helped him out.'

‘How—'

‘When Mr Walewicz was getting started in the movie business. You lent him a generous amount of money.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘I paid for the information, the way any member of the public can. I wasn't the only one, was I Mr McFadden?'

McFadden's sharp intake of breath told me that I'd hit a nerve.

. . .

I rang Brook who told me he'd paid a visit to my friend.

‘Which one?' I asked him.

‘Seems Lancaster wasn't telling the whole truth about the Bishop girl. Glebe faxed her phone calls down. She made eight to the club after she's supposed to have left.'

‘What did Margot say to that?'

‘Didn't turn a hair. Says Bishop rang about money that she claimed was owed her.'

‘But Denise told—'

‘She covered that as well. Admits there was some disagreement between her and Bishop over money. The other girl—Denise—didn't know the details.'

‘But Margot was definite about the lack of contact. And Denise was definite about the money. She said Margot paid Jenny by cheque.'

Brook had persisted, in a way that let Margot know he had the list of phone calls, and finally Margot had admitted that Jenny had wanted more money than she was owed.

‘How much more?' I asked.

‘Five hundred.'

‘Did she agree to pay it?'

‘Yes. But then Bishop wanted another thousand. Payment for “pain and suffering”, she called it.'

‘Did Margot agree?'

‘She did. She apologised for not having told us before. She said she hadn't wanted to admit that she'd given in to Bishop.'

‘Who else was Jenny ringing in December?'

‘Stan Walewicz and Denise Travers.'

‘Simon Lawrence?'

‘No match for him so far. And—' Brook went on, in a voice that said he'd saved the best for last, ‘three calls to Eden Carmichael in the second half of December.'

‘I knew there was a connection.'

‘Yeah, well,' Brook said dryly, ‘pity they're both dead, and they can't tell us about it.'

I agreed it was.

The fact that Denise had lied about her contact with Jenny didn't surprise me. As for Walewicz, Brook told me Jenny had made numerous calls to his studio. He also said that Jenny's bank transactions included a five hundred dollar deposit, and then one for a thousand dollars dated three weeks later—Margot's ‘pain and suffering' payout.

Twenty-one

Denise Travers was missing. When she hadn't shown up for work, Margot had been worried, but not excessively so. When Denise hadn't answered her phone in the morning, and Margot hadn't been able to reach her on her mobile, she'd decided it was time to tell the police.

Denise had last been seen leaving her flat at eleven o'clock the morning before, Brook rang to tell me. A neighbour had seen her walking down the street, and getting on a bus. He'd watched her till the bus came. His observations were precise. She'd been carrying a small backpack, but no other luggage. When Brook phoned me, he'd just come back from questioning the man, who'd said Denise was a nice woman. He noticed when she came and went.

Brook and a Detective Constable went round to Denise's flat, and interviewed her neighbours after they found it empty, with her red Valiant parked outside. It was Denise's daughter's week for staying with her father. He told Brook that the girl had spent most of yesterday at Civic Pool. Her mother hadn't rung, or left a message.

Margot had no objection to the club and her own flat being searched. While this was underway, the driver of the 11.03 bus, which had picked Denise up according to her neighbour, was tracked down and ­questioned.

When shown a photograph of Denise, the driver remembered her. Denise had had no change. He'd had to give her change for ten dollars, which annoyed him. She'd got off the bus at the Civic Interchange. She'd been alone, as far as he could tell.

. . .

My mobile rang. It was the bartender at
Klim's
. One of Jenny Bishop's drinking mates had just come in, if I was interested.

Inside the bar, it was very still and hot.

The bartender recognised me, and indicated a young woman sitting by herself.

She wasn't anyone I'd seen before, pale and thin, with short, dark hair dyed red in streaks, and small, sharp features.

When I walked over to her, she glanced at me indifferently, as if she was used to being accosted by strangers. She looked round to catch the bartender's attention, but didn't call him over.

‘Who are you?' she asked.

‘My name's Sandra. I'm trying to find out what happened to Jenny Bishop.'

‘Jen was ace. I can't believe she's dead. Are you the one been asking questions about that politician?'

‘That's right. Do you know Denise Travers? She's missing.'

The young woman shook her head.

‘Did you work with Jenny?'

‘I'm not into all that shit. They can keep their money. Jen and me, we like went to the same college.'

‘What about Jenny's other friends?'

The young woman gave me a sharp look. ‘You know, I seen that polly here one night? He was with a guy who Jen said was giving her a hard time. Good-looking guy. Dark hair. Owns some sort of flower shop.'

‘Simon Lawrence. He was with Eden Carmichael?'

‘I recognised the old guy from the telly.'

‘Was anybody else with them?'

‘Another guy came in. He went and sat with them. Muscled-up guy.'

‘Did you recognise him?'

‘Jen told me he makes fuck flicks.'

‘What did they do?'

‘Drank, talked, what anybody does in a bar.'

‘Did Jenny speak to them?'

‘Oh yes. She yelled out to the old guy.'

‘What did she say?'

‘She said she'd got his picture. It was really pretty too, she said.'

‘And then?'

‘He said something to the other two, and Jen called out, “Hey guys, want it for your family album?”.'

‘What happened after that?'

‘The old guy, the politician, he stood up. His face was like all red. The dago guy tried to calm him down. Jen burst out laughing. I go, “What's so funny?” And she goes, “Him with the curly hair? He's the biggest bastard.” I go, “So?” “So, I just figured out a way to get him.” Then they got the old guy out. He was looking pretty sick.'

‘And Jenny?'

‘She told me the story, about what the curly-haired guy done to her.'

‘Did she say how she was going to get even with him?'

‘Nah.'

‘Do you know if they met again?'

‘Who?'

‘Jenny and any of those three men.'

‘I never saw Jen after that night.'

‘Did you speak to her on the phone?'

‘Only once. She rang to ask if I'd seen the politician.'

‘Had you?'

‘No.'

‘The others?'

‘Not the flower guy. The other one come in.'

‘Who with?'

‘Margot, who Jenny used to work for.'

‘You recognised her?'

‘She had her picture in the paper.'

‘What was Jenny doing in Canberra in the middle of December?'

‘Visiting, I guess.'

‘Anybody in particular?'

‘She never said.'

‘Did Jenny see Margot when she was here?'

‘I dunno.'

‘Was Jenny using heroin?'

‘No.'

‘How do you know she hadn't started again?'

‘I just know, that's all.'

‘She died of an overdose.'

‘That's bullshit.'

‘Why would anybody want to kill her?'

‘Jen had a big mouth, and she liked to use it. She made enemies.'

‘Do you know who?'

‘That flower guy, for one.'

‘Do you remember when you saw the three men? What date?'

‘It was a Monday. Round like maybe the sixteenth. I don't remember exactly.'

‘How did Jenny arrange to meet you?'

‘She messaged me and said she was coming down, and maybe we could catch up.'

‘What about Denise?'

‘I don't know nothing about her.'

I asked the young woman for her mobile number, but she wouldn't give it to me.

. . .

Something made me linger after she'd left the bar. It was very quiet. The bartender looked as though he had time for a chat. I bought myself a drink and went over what I'd just been told. The bartender nodded warily, but said he mustn't have been working that night. He would have remembered if Jenny had got into a shouting match with someone. I asked him if he recalled any other occasions when Eden Carmichael had come in. He nodded again, even more reluctantly. Proceeding carefully, I asked him if Carmichael had been in with anyone at the end of December, or the beginning of January. After a few moments, the bartender said he was there one night with a young guy, not the kind of guy he would have expected to be keeping a politician company.

‘Do you know who he was?'

‘Well by sight, kind of.'

‘He makes porn movies?'

The bartender nodded.

‘And Eden Carmichael?'

‘He looked terrible. I wasn't surprised when he had another heart attack. He looked like he was about to have one then.'

. . .

I rang Brook back. He'd obtained a warrant and was supervising a search of Denise's flat. Her bed was made, and there was no sign of disturbance or forced entry, no note, or messages on the answering machine, and no hint as to where she might have gone.

Stan Walewicz's studio was closed and he wasn't answering his phones. Neither was Simon Lawrence. I told Brook I'd found a witness who claimed that Jenny had been in Canberra in the middle of December, and that she and the witness had been drinking in
Klim's
when Lawrence had come in with Walewicz and Carmichael. The net was shrinking, the gaps in the mesh getting smaller. But I was afraid it was too late for Denise.

Brook said that the search of Margot's premises had drawn a blank.

‘What about the wig box?' I asked.

‘I don't know what happened to it. Does it matter?'

‘It might,' I said, then told him I was going to drop by the club.

. . .

I found Margot alone, with all the blinds drawn, sitting in the dark. No one had answered when I rang the doorbell, but her car was parked outside. I'd tried the door, found it locked, but heard a faint scraping sound when I put my ear to it. I knocked and waited, knocked again, called out.

Margot's voice came through the closed door. ‘Go away.'

‘I need to talk to you.'

‘Just go away.'

‘Please,' I said.

Margot opened the door a crack. Seen from above, I thought we would appear to be two anxious women meeting clandestinely, playing out an awkward scene. The pressure of the hot day released itself through the slightly open door. I felt the air's movement gently at first, then more strongly, the way children sometimes push each other experimentally, then find that they like it.

I put my foot in the opening, and, when Margot didn't try to stop me, opened the door wide and walked in.

Her figure was darker than the club's small foyer; her face was one smooth shadow. The air-conditioning wasn't on, and the heat leant with its massive breath against the walls. The desk, the chair, the simple ­furniture of the reception area seemed to swell.

‘What is it between you and that cop?' Margot asked, each word ­distinct.

‘We're friends.'

Margot laughed.

‘Where's the wig?' I asked her.

‘The wig is mine. I bought it. It belongs to me.'

‘Where is it now?'

‘Ed had a bad heart,' Margot said.

‘What about the one in Sydney?'

‘He had a bad heart too.'

‘Did you know his heart was bad?'

‘Nobody did.'

‘Jenny was young and healthy.'

‘She was a junkie.'

‘She'd given up. Can I switch the light on?'

‘No.'

‘Where were you the night Jenny died?'

‘I've been having trouble sleeping. Sometimes I spend the night here.'

‘Were you here that night?'

‘Yes.'

‘On your own?'

‘After Denise left.' Margot's voice rose out of the darkness, sadly, but with steel in it. ‘Rebecca's a great kid. She makes you think about kids who have everything handed to them on a plate.'

I swallowed, then thought, okay, if you want to talk about Rebecca, I'll go along with that.

‘Will her father take good care of her?' I asked.

I could feel Margot looking at me sharply, trying to gauge what I meant.

‘Denise would never do this to Becky. Never. If she got it into her head to go off somewhere, she'd take her daughter with her.'

‘What if Rebecca didn't want to go?'

‘That wouldn't come into it.'

‘You mean—'

‘She would go. I've never seen a mother and daughter as close as those two.'

‘If Denise has gone somewhere on her own, do you think Rebecca knows where?'

Margot didn't answer. I took her silence to mean it was a possibility, and that she understood the danger Rebecca was in better than I did.

I knew the relationship between Margot and Denise was many-layered, and that they were both intelligent, brave women. Yet what I felt most strongly at that moment, as a pull between myself and the two of them, was not female competence and capability, but Margot's need for someone to reach out to, or what I imagined was that need. I wanted to be that person, yet I was afraid of crossing a boundary I would not be able to step back over again, once I had.

‘Why did you lie to me about Carmichael seeing Jenny Bishop?'

‘I didn't want to complicate things any further.'

‘You told Denise to lie to me as well.'

‘Ed died of a heart attack. What difference does it make?'

‘You lied about Jenny's phone calls too.'

‘She wanted money.'

‘Did you see Jenny when she was in Canberra in December?'

‘No.'

‘But you knew she was here.'

‘I heard about it afterwards.'

‘Who from?'

‘Stan Walewicz.'

‘What did Walewicz want?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘When you met him at
Klim's
. He wanted something, didn't he?'

‘Stan was reminding me of my obligations.'

‘Obligations?'

‘If I wanted Lawrence to take the club off my hands, I had to stay sweet.'

‘How?'

When Margot didn't answer, I said, ‘By giving him other girls for free?'

When she still didn't answer, I asked, ‘Who killed Jenny?'

‘She killed herself.' Margot reached for her bag, suddenly crisp and decisive. ‘Come with me.'

. . .

We drove around streets the night was beginning to claim, streets that mocked the disappearance of a single woman who'd left behind a beloved daughter. Neon advertised used cars, sex, used cars. The flags of the second-hand car lots shone wetly, as though it had been raining. The streets were empty of people, though filled with their artefacts, and the promise that tomorrow more shoppers would appear to buy them. I remembered pulling up in a rag of shade, looking across at
Margot's
for the first time. I thought of lights in the main streets of country towns, how they clustered round the service station and the pub, how the brothel, if there was one, would advertise itself discreetly.

Every few minutes, Margot's guard seemed to slip a little. It was more a feeling I had than anything she said. What were we looking for, a body pushed against a wall, long legs protruding from a dumpster, a fingernail the colour of used blood beckoning from a pile of leaves? At any rate, a body. Eden Carmichael, in his finery, was proof that the suburb could absorb a violent death.

‘What's that?' Margot said.

She pulled over to the curb. We got out, but left the engine running. What looked like a heap of clothing piled against a wall proved to be just that. It was near a big Smith Family clothing bin, but not against it, back in the shadows, leaning against a wall advertising Better Bricks. There was a coat, old tracksuit pants, a T-shirt.