Faces in the Rain (20 page)

Another face in the rain.

T
HE TRIP HOME
took six days, twice as long as anticipated. Farrar advised me to take a train to Marseilles, and planes to Athens, Bali and Timor, where I was supposed to be helped out by an ex-Australian Intelligence – ASIS – agent. He never appeared and I had to bribe a pilot for Colonial Sugar Refineries to fly me to the Gulf of Carpentaria. The Gulf was patrolled by the Australian army and airforce, but because of its vastness, we made it unhindered. Once there I found it easy to befriend prawn fishermen on leave who drove me to Mount Isa in west Queensland, where I caught a plane to Mackay on the east coast. From there it was a matter of a three-day drive down the scenic east-coast road to Melbourne, where I arrived after dark.

On the way, I put through calls to Oliver Slack who gave instructions on how to reach his hideaway apartment in the city. I also phoned Cassie and got her
answer machine each time, which put me off leaving a message. The frustration of not being able to see her made a visit to her apartment my first task.

Cassie unlocked the door and struggled into her apartment laden with shopping bags, which she threw onto a sofa. Her first act was to switch off the answer machine and play back messages as she flopped in a chair with her back to me. I was standing near the second bedroom, unsure of whether to announce myself now or when she had shut the front door, just in case someone had accompanied her home.

Cassie pulled a can of diet Coke out of a shopping bag, zipped it open and reached for a pad and pencil as the playback messages began.

‘Cassie, it's Duncan Hamilton here. I just wanted to tell you that I didn't steal your files. I interrupted the man who was trying to. When I left your apartment the files were sitting on your study desk. If they have been taken, I repeat, it was not me.'

Cassie stood up.

‘When I return to Melbourne I will contact you. I want to explain things to you. (pause) I hope you are well. Bye for now.'

Cassie didn't bother to listen to the other messages. She put down the Coke and began dialling.

‘Is Senior Detective Benns there please?' she said. I stepped into the room and grabbed the phone. She screamed. I put the receiver down and kicked the door shut.

‘Sit down,' I said, ‘I want to talk.'

‘You can't get away with this,' she said. ‘The police are checking me every morning and night.'

‘Fine,' I said, slipping into a chair, ‘I'm getting fed up with the charade.'

Her eyes narrowed.

‘The police say you murdered that man in my apartment!' she said.

‘It was an accident! He was stealing your work.'

‘When I got back from Paris, the study door was unlocked.'

‘So?'

‘Whoever opened it knew where the study key was.'

‘He did, but I didn't! I still don't know where you keep it.'

We stared at each other. I sat next to her.

‘It would help to know,' I said quietly, ‘exactly how Benns got in touch with you.'

‘He and O'Dare arrived Sunday.'

‘No warning? He just arrived?'

Cassie nodded.

‘If Benns learnt I was in Paris,' I said, ‘he could have flown from Australia in a day.'

I weighed that for a moment.

‘What does that mean?' Cassie said, breaking my concentration.

‘I'm not sure,' I said. ‘When Benns actually got in, what did he do? How did he contact you?'

‘They arrived at the Lutetia, and demanded to see us. He looked as if he had come straight off the plane. He and O'Dare were jetlagged. Could hardly keep their eyes open.'

I reached for the can of Coke and took a swig.

‘At first they accused me of murder,' Cassie said, ‘but Peter proved I was out of the country when it happened. Then O'Dare took me aside and got nasty. She said they could charge me with being an accessory to murder. They asked me about you.' Cassie was crestfallen.

‘I admitted I had seen you,' she said.

I kissed her gently on the cheek. She was unresponsive but it eased the tension.

‘So they forced you to help them?' I said.

‘They were right in the room when you rang.'

I pulled the article on Michel from an inside pocket and gave it to her.

‘Do you recognise this man?' I asked.

‘No,' she replied.

The photograph seemed to affect her.

‘Do you know him?' I persisted.

‘I've never seen him before.'

‘He may have had cosmetic surgery.'

She looked up.

‘They can change so much these days, especially with lasers,' she said, ‘you can have just about whatever face you want.' She looked at me whimsically. ‘Perhaps that would solve your problem,' she said, ‘you could have a permanent change rather than a disguise.'

‘Hey!' I said, ‘no way. I'm not having surgery.' I touched my nose. ‘It may not be the prettiest proboscis around, but I'm happy with it. I'd never be as desperate as that.'

‘I was only joking,' she said, ‘I hate that sort of thing. My ex-husband was a plastic surgeon, in more ways than one. He and I had arguments over it all the time.'

‘Is he good?'

‘Colin is one of the best, if not the best, in the country.'

‘Michel may have had surgery here. Going on the little I know about him, he would have sought the best surgeon.'

‘Why?”

I pointed to the photo.

‘He was no matinee idol the way he was. He would
have given himself the best chance of improving his looks. It would be human nature. His nose was a problem, but the fleshy cheeks could have been hollowed out.'

‘And those ears!' Cassie said. She stood and paced the room.

‘I'm not on terrific terms with my ex,' she said, ‘but I could arrange a meeting, if you really feel it might help.'

‘Could I trust him?'

‘Not to turn you in?' she asked. ‘I don't know.'

I stood up and moved close to her.

‘And what about you?' I said.

She turned half away, making direct eye contact difficult.

‘Look,' she said, ‘I'm confused, OK?'

‘Perhaps I shouldn't rely on you. You were about to tell Benns I was back.'

‘You've got to understand,' she said, ‘he put me under a lot of pressure. He said I had to contact him if you got in touch.'

‘And will you?'

She eyeballed me for the first time.

‘No,' she said, ‘I won't.'

‘Thanks.'

‘But you mustn't stay here,' she said, ‘it's a wonder you weren't spotted in Lawson Grove.'

‘I came the back way, from Darling Street, the route I took after seeing you here that night.'

Cassie stepped to a drinks cabinet and poured us both brandies.

‘I'm worried,' she said, handing me a glass, ‘maybe you should consider giving yourself up.'

‘I'm thinking about it. It's my first night back.'

‘You have the best criminal lawyer in town. I believe
you didn't murder Martine. The killing here, well, again, I would give you the benefit of the doubt.'

‘I want a day or two,' I said, ‘then we'll see.'

‘I would take my chances in court, if I were you,' she said, ‘you could overcome Benns if he is corrupt. You could prove your innocence.'

I sat down and sipped the brandy. It warmed me.

‘I would tell them what you've said to me and how you behaved,' Cassie went on. Her eyes widened. ‘And the tape I did with you in Paris. You could use it!'

Cassie took the tape from her study and gave it to me.

‘And Freddie May,' she said, ‘could he help?'

‘Only in spirit.'

‘What?'

‘He's dead.'

Cassie went pale.

‘At least,' I said, ‘I think he is. I saw his grave in a Paris cemetery.'

‘How did he die?' she asked. I could see she was frightened. I was again going to have to justify the grim reaper being my travelling companion. I told her how I had found the grave.

‘I'm certain he was murdered,' I said.

Cassie took some brandy.

‘You treated him for lymphatic cancer, didn't you?' I said.

‘Yes.'

‘No brain tumour?'

‘No. Why?'

‘I was told he died suddenly of a brain tumour. I don't believe it.'

I went through the events in Paris. Cassie listened, or at least appeared to. She was uncomfortable.

‘The point is,' she said when I had finished, ‘that it
would be best in the long run if you . . .'

‘Surrendered?'

‘Went to your lawyer. He could protect you with Benns.'

‘I don't think that is the point,' I said. ‘If I do what you say, Martine's killer will go free.'

‘No,' she said, ‘the court case would clear you. Then the hunt would be on for the real killer.'

We both happened to look down at the photo. It made my point before I said it.

‘Do you seriously believe this creature is going to hang around to be picked up after a court case acquits the number one suspect?'

‘Isn't it more important that you clear your own name?' Cassie said. ‘You can't seriously believe you can track down a murderer. You're not trained to do it. Benns is!'

‘Cassie,' I said, coming close to her once more, ‘were your files stolen?'

‘No.'

‘They were in a pile in your study on the computer table?'

‘Yes, they were.'

‘Just imagine for the moment,' I said, holding her gaze, ‘that this Michel has been in Melbourne,
and
he is after your files.'

‘You're not suggesting Michel is still operating?'

‘If he has a new face and ID, why not?'

‘I had no idea he could still be in practice.'

‘I've found at least one outlet of his in Meudon,' I said. ‘He wasn't caught in France. If I become the patsy, he won't be caught here! He'll go on slaughtering patients, whether he steals your drugs research or not.'

I thought I'd gotten through to her.

‘“Slaughtering . . .”?'

‘As good as. Everything at Meudon points to Michel experimenting on people with various cancers using drugs formulae stolen from God knows where!'

‘Most of my files were on drugs which hadn't been clinically tested!'

‘Right. Under the guise of helping the patients who are sent from Tahiti, he has used them as guinea pigs. Most will never go home. They are buried at Meudon. Of course, some of the drugs will succeed. They will then marketed by Vital.'

Cassie was shocked.

‘That's why I've got to stay on the run a little while longer,' I said speaking calmly but with conviction. ‘Michel has to be caught.'

T
HE MOSQUE OF IRAN
in East Coburg, one of Melbourne's less affluent inner suburbs, was small and shabby, and from the outside it looked as if it could have been a derelict building. Farrar had told me that it was one of about sixteen mosques he knew of in Melbourne, which ranged from the high-domed, richer Mosque of Omar, built by the Saudis, to the poorly maintained Libyan and Iranian buildings.

Fazmi and his fellow Libyans had been monitored by ASIO since their arrival, and they had developed a random schedule of worship, always at night and never at the same mosque two nights in a row. It was one of the few times Fazmi ventured from his fortressed residence in North Melbourne.

This Iranian mosque had one wall under repair and scaffolding ran the length of it.

Just before midnight a three-car convoy of two early-model Mercedes sedans and the white stretch limousine
with darkened windows crawled up to the kerb. Fazmi, wearing dark glasses as he had at Martine's funeral, jumped from the limousine and moved hurriedly into the mosque as four other Libyans distributed themselves along the street. One, wearing glasses similar to Fazmi's, sat on the bonnet of the lead Mercedes and lit a cigarette. Another perched on a seat at a tram stop. A third sat on steps leading into an apartment building, and a fourth strolled, hands in pockets, to some shops about one hundred and fifty metres from the mosque.

‘That's our boy,' Farrar said to me as the man entered a Lebanese restaurant. We were sitting in Farrar's car equidistant from the mosque and the restaurant. He got out.

‘You wait here,' he said, ‘while I go and see what the deal is.'

Farrar entered the restaurant and about three minutes later came out with the Libyan. Farrar stopped at his car and we watched the Libyan enter the mosque. A minute later he came to the door and waved to us. Farrar and I hurried across Nicholson Street and inside. We were followed by the Libyan who had been sitting on the car bonnet.

‘Lift,' he said, indicating our arms. ‘Please face the wall.' The two of them then searched us for weapons. Satisfied, they led us into the mosque's interior.

Inside, an aroma of burnt meat caught us. To the left was the wall under repair, against which rested sheets of corrugated iron. On the right was a small cafe, in which kebab snacks and tea in small tinted Turkish-style cups were being served. In front was a glass-walled prayer room and to the right of that, a wash room. An Iranian Imam in a white cape was leading a prayer group of ten,
including Fazmi. They stood on a green carpet under a chandelier. On the front wall was a blood-red embroidered tapestry depicting Mohammed's mosque. The Imam's chant and the worshippers' response were loud enough to be heard in the cafe where we were asked to wait.

We sat on stools next to a fat Iranian who talked to himself. Next to him was a long-haired Australian. He kept staring at Farrar.

‘Come to pray?' the man asked.

‘No,' Farrar said, ‘ten-pin bowling.'