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The flight lasted barely an hour, but Makedde noticed the drop in temperature as soon as she stepped off the plane in Melbourne. Not exactly a snowstorm—as some Sydneysiders had her believing—but it was about 10 degrees cooler. Considering the recent humidity in Sydney, the change was a relief.

‘How far is it to…?’ She read the address off her notes to the taxidriver at the airport. ‘To St Kilda?’

‘Is no problem. Twenty minutes this time of day. Tops.’

Makedde smiled as the taxi passed a bright yellow rod, like a giant French fry, jutting 50 metres into the sky—someone’s idea of art. They drove through a space-age tunnel and across an overpass that afforded Mak her first view of the city.

It was already two-thirty in the afternoon. Mak would check in to her hotel, freshen up quickly and make it out to Amy Camilleri’s Richmond residential address by perhaps three-thirty; Marian
had hunted down the address, so hopefully it was current. Mak would take note of the surrounding area and, if necessary, gently interrogate some of Amy’s neighbours to see if she could make any further ground. If Amy was as good a friend of Meaghan’s as Jag had suggested, then she should potentially be a great source of information. She could have been privy to a lot of details about Meaghan’s personal life; certainly, more than poor Mrs Wallace seemed to know about her daughter, and more than Jag knew or was willing to divulge. Perhaps Amy even knew something about Meaghan’s involvement with Simon Aston, if there had been any.

‘
All the girls wished they knew Simon.
’

It worried Mak a little that Amy was not answering the home number she had for her. Mak had tried her a couple of times to use the same Rocking Horse Club ruse to confirm her address, but Amy never answered and, even stranger, she had no answering machine or voicemail. What young woman these days didn’t have voicemail? Hopefully the address was up to date, and she would find her at home. And with any luck, Mak hoped, Amy would open up to her.

Marian had organised for Mak to stay at a small St Kilda hotel called the Tolarno. As the taxi pulled up, Mak was surprised to see that the building was a quaint three levels high, and that the front sported a Heineken sign and windows handpainted with swirls of kitsch leaves and a
smiling sun. The name ‘Tolarno’ was painted right across it, so the cabbie was clearly not mistaken. This had to be the right place.

Mak tipped the driver and asked him to wait for her. She didn’t know how much time it might take to catch another taxi, and she always liked to have transportation ready when in unfamiliar territory. It was another of her many paranoid habits.

What, exactly, is this place?

Shoulders back and head high, she strode to the bright red front door, overnight bag in hand, turning the heads of a couple of beer-swilling patrons sitting at picnic benches on the Fitzroy Street sidewalk outside. Stepping inside, she had the feeling that she had been mistakenly dropped off at the entrance to a restaurant by the same name. There were signs for ‘Le Bar’ and ‘Le Bistro’ and a life-sized modern bronze statue of a couple holding hands. No lobby. No porters.

Right.

There were menus propped up on a wooden easel, and signs for the toilets. Mak stood in the entry for a few seconds feeling disoriented before making her way down a meandering hallway, past walls lined with quirky artworks. The passage eventually opened up into a small lobby and sitting room.

This is more like it.

Mak plonked her bag on the desk and checked in. This was her first interstate job for Marian, and
for some reason she had envisaged being booked into a depressing three-star corporate number with bland name-tagged staff, bland halls that smelled vaguely of detergent and cigarettes, and the same bland copied painting of a bouquet in each room. This was an offbeat, retro sort of place, closer to the kind of boutique hotels she had stayed in when she was modelling in Europe. It might have been Australian, but it seemed Euro to Mak, right down to the oversized key, rambling staircase and lack of elevator. Mak found room 222 on the second floor at the end of a big hallway and down an odd set of stairs. Inside was a striking crimson wall and a giant abstract painting of a woman. No flower painting. The room had a good position overlooking the street, the view clear through open wooden slats over the windows. The balcony was exposed; Mak wouldn’t use it.

She closed the slats and peeked out through them secretively. She could clearly see the activity on the street. Her taxi was dutifully waiting for her at the kerb.

Mak brushed her teeth, changed her top, slicked deodorant under her arms, packed her long-lens digital camera, pocket-sized monocular, notepad and mini flashlight into her purse, and dashed out the door again. She had been less than ten minutes.

Soon Mak was in the suburb of Richmond. She found Amy’s home address a few doors past an old television studio in a large brick building
branded with an ancient-looking TVN 9 sign on one side. With few exceptions, the houses in the area looked like wartime shacks: all single-level, with small windows and no yards—far from the sprawling lawns of even the most modest houses on Vancouver Island. Mak let the taxi drive past until she was a block away from Amy’s residence. She paid him, got out and walked back slowly along the street, looking perhaps as if she were on her way to the studio. As she walked she took in the neighbourhood, the movement on the street, and any shrub cover or fences she could use to hide behind if she decided to watch the activity at Amy’s house for a while.

Amy Camilleri did not live terribly well.

The house she rented appeared to be little more than a one-level weatherboard granny flat extended off another modest single-storey residence. Together the two might just make one small house, by most standards. The house did not seem to be very well kept—the white paint of the front had turned grey and patchy—and it looked like it would be very cramped inside. There was a small tangle of weeds where a garden might have been. It had a single window at the front with curtains drawn, and no driveway or garage. Amy had a fifteen-year-old Peugeot registered to her name, but Mak couldn’t see it parked in the surrounding area. At least the lack of garage was good for Mak’s spying purposes, as was the clear view of the front door.

The curtains were drawn and motionless. The house looked to be unoccupied, which was terribly disappointing for Mak. She took a chance and knocked quietly on Amy’s door. There was no answer. Discreetly, she peered into the mailbox next to the door. It was positively stuffed full of mail, junk mail, advertising flyers and letters. An unopened telephone bill was visible.

She walked around to the side of the house. There was barely a foot between the house and the next one, and nothing in between them but more weeds and a rusted hubcap. She could not comfortably walk between the buildings.

Shit.

Mak circled the block once by foot, noticing that the houses were backed by a narrow laneway of parked cars and rubbish bins. She strolled down it until she came to the back of Amy’s house. It had one back door and no other windows.

The place really is a dump.

She approached Amy’s garbage bin. She was not above lifting the lid on it, and she did so slowly, with her nose turned up in distaste. She had been taught in her PI course that trash could reveal a lot about a person. Empty champagne bottles and shopping bags said very different things about a person’s lifestyle than a bin full of diapers and bulk potato-chip packets. It was creepy, but still totally legal to search through
anyone’s garbage bins. Sadly, though, Amy’s trash had been collected recently. Mak found herself staring for a moment into a smelly, empty bin and wondering how she got from catwalking in the Milan shows to checking out other people’s garbage in only a couple of years.

Ah well. Half those outfits were garbage anyway…

And when she finally saved enough to open her forensic psychology practice, the only garbage she would have to check through would be in people’s heads, she assured herself.

So Amy Camilleri had lots of mail and no garbage. That was not what Mak had come to Melbourne to find out. She guessed that Amy had not been home for at least a week, so the trip might be a bust. She’d have to come back with some kind of result, otherwise it would look like she had simply gone to Melbourne as a holiday to visit Loulou on the client’s budget. Which was something that had crossed her mind…

Mak wondered again if the client would cover a rental car. If she had needed to stake out Amy’s place, it would be much easier and more comfortable in a parked car; but, now that it seemed that Amy had not been home for a while, such plans were pointless. Amy could be away for some time.

Disappointed but not discouraged, Makedde Vanderwall returned to her hotel to get ready for her dinner date with Loulou and her new
musician boyfriend. She was not worried just yet. She had at least one more trick up her sleeve.

But the next stage of her investigation could not begin until the sun went down.

Simon Aston held himself stiffly as he stepped out the front door of his Tamarama abode, gripping the handle of a heavy briefcase that was not his own. He nervously scanned the beach paths and glanced up the street in both directions before locking the front door behind him and approaching his vehicle. The sun was beginning to set, the air cooling. Locals in board shorts and bikinis could be seen gathering their blankets and packing up for the walk home, bodies tanned and sprinkled with salt and sand.

Wasting no time, Simon strode to his prized nocturnal ‘party van’, placed the briefcase carefully on the passenger seat and set off for the city. A young man normally unhindered by schedules and commitments, Simon was, for once, mindful of the time. The American had instructed him earlier that afternoon that at six o’clock sharp he was to meet with Mr Hand to give him cash and instructions. It was five-forty now, which allowed him just enough time to get to this important appointment. Some cash was in the
briefcase, and a set of instructions was in a sealed envelope in his jacket pocket. When The American had entrusted him with the envelope it was already sealed and the case locked. Simon didn’t dare open either, and he dared not be late delivering them.

Truthfully, he had been severely shaken by the shocking turn of events.

Since the tense meeting in Jack Cavanagh’s office, Simon had not spoken to anyone except The American—not even his mates—and he had not slept. Rather than attending an all-night party with Damien or bedding the latest hot model, visiting socialite or ambitious promotions girl, Simon had spent this last sleepless night at home alone, intensely uneasy about his future. Fear and uncertainty were not feelings he was accustomed to, and the vibe didn’t sit well with him. Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, all kinds of ideas had run through Simon’s head—everything from fear of jail to ideas of blackmail and escape. He’d thought about using what evidence he had to dob in Jack and his pushy sidekick to the cops, or teaming up with Warwick to try to bring the Cavanagh empire to its knees through blackmail or scandal. Both the media and the authorities would have a field day with a story like this one, and Simon could deliver the whole sordid tale personally. After The American had met with him that afternoon, he had even briefly imagined breaking open the case, taking all that
money and leaving town with it. Hundreds of thousands of dollars could get him somewhere—maybe to a comfortable new life in Bali…

But no.

Simon was no model citizen. He had not so much a skeleton in his closet as a whole crypt, so he was hardly going to speak to any police or reporters. And he knew he had nowhere to run to. Even the money in the case would not sustain him.

He had no choice but to try to salvage the situation, even if it meant being pushed around by Damien’s father. Simon needed Damien and his Cavanagh connections for everything he did in his life.

Unlike most of his friends, Simon didn’t have a title or an impressive career. He was little more than a part-time procurer who dealt in the occasional weed or cocaine, hookers or heroin—whatever people were into. As he saw it, he was not exactly a drug-dealer; he was just a guy who got stuff for Damien and their friends when they wanted it. And, while not a full-time job by any description, the money he made from those casual transactions was all the income he had. He had his looks, the designer clothes on his back and his Cavanagh connections, and those three things were literally his only assets. Even his van was on lease.

Without wealthy friends who wanted to party, Simon could kiss his little money-making ventures goodbye. And without Damien he could kiss his
living arrangements goodbye, too. The Tamarama house he stayed in belonged to the Cavanagh family. It was one of the standard late-seventies buildings of the area with a great view and bad plumbing, and the family was going to knock it down, rebuild and resell it. Damien had talked his father into letting Simon live there in the meantime. So far, Simon had stayed blissfully rent-free for the past two-and-a-half years.

Being cut off would mean disaster for him on every level. It would mean social and financial suicide, and he knew it.

It is your responsibility to make it right
, Jack had said.

Responsibility had nothing to do with it, however; Simon would do what he needed to retain his lifestyle.

At one minute past six, Simon Aston arrived at the Inter-Continental Hotel on Macquarie Street in the city, leaving his van with the valet and telling him he wouldn’t be long. He
hoped
he wouldn’t be long. He didn’t fully know what this meeting would entail, but he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

Simon entered the sliding glass doors with his head down.

‘Simon? Is that you?’ came a voice.

He whirled around, his heart pounding. It was Julie from the Cavanagh offices.

‘Um, hi, Julie,’ he said, completely unprepared to run into anyone he knew.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ she asked, looking at him oddly.

‘Sure,’ he said. A trickle of sweat ran down from his temple.

‘Is Damien around?’ she asked, casting a glance around the lobby.

‘No! No, he’s not here. I’m just, um, meeting a client,’ he stuttered.

‘Oh. Why don’t you guys meet us up in the club lounge for a drink, then?’

‘Okay. Um, I gotta go,’ he said vaguely. She seemed puzzled as he walked away through the lobby towards the elevators.

Minutes later, it was with great apprehension that Simon knocked on the door of room 2908. ‘Excuse me,’ he said through the door, feeling hugely uncomfortable. ‘I’m here for Mr Hand.’

He waited only a few seconds before a deep voice replied from the other side of the door: ‘The time.’

Simon looked at his watch out of instinct.

‘Eleven eleven,’ he said. He’d been told it was a code.

Then the door was unlocked and opened only enough to set it slightly ajar, so that it wouldn’t slide back and lock itself. After a quick pause, Simon pushed it open and stepped inside. The door shut behind him and he was alone, holding the briefcase and the small envelope containing
the unknown instructions for Mr Hand. His heart was in his throat.

From what he could see, room 2908 looked to be an average five-star hotel room, complete with double bed, television and small sitting area. The room was dark, except for a floor lamp in the far corner. Simon guessed it would have a nice aspect of Sydney Harbour, but an opaque blind was obscuring the view. Light seeped through the heavy blinds in blurred patches of colour.

A large man in a dark suit sat in a chair in the corner of the sitting area, with his back to the wall.
Mr Hand
, Simon thought. The floor lamp seemed to cast dim light across everything except the man’s face, and Simon could not yet make out his features. After the overlit hotel corridor, it was taking a while for Simon’s eyes to adjust, and it made him feel even more disadvantaged in this awkward situation.

Great. I can’t see him properly, I don’t know the plan and I don’t know what the fuck I am doing here…

‘You must be Mr Hand,’ Simon said stupidly to the dark figure in the corner.

The man simply said, ‘Simon Ricards Aston.’ Again his voice was low and in a monotone, as it had been through the door.

‘Um, yes.’ Simon didn’t think a lot of people knew his middle name. Where had Mr Hand learned it?

‘Sit. You have something for me?’

‘Um, yeah. Instructions, and money.’ Simon crossed the floor with reluctance, not wanting to be close to the man. He bent at the edge of the coffee table and placed the unopened briefcase carefully on it, and slid the envelope across the glass top towards him. Despite the offer to sit, he continued standing awkwardly for a minute before doing so. He kept trying to think of a line or a gesture he could use to make the best of the situation, but could come up with none.

‘Open it,’ Mr Hand said, gesturing to the briefcase.

Open it?
‘But I was not given the combination number,’ Simon protested, panicking.

Mr Hand fixed him with an imperturbable gaze that Simon felt more than saw. Finally Mr Hand leaned forwards to get the envelope and his face came into the light for a moment, illuminating disharmonious features.

Holy shit…

Mr Hand was a very ugly man. Most obvious was the scarring across his face that left it uneven and pulpy-looking. His face didn’t
look right
, and Simon also noticed that one of his ears was an odd shape, like the top part of it was missing.

Alarmingly, Mr Hand pulled a small glinting blade out of his breast pocket to slit the top of the envelope open. Normally such a diminutive knife would not be cause for concern, but the
sight of it in this man’s hand sent a shiver through Simon. He wanted to get away from the room as soon as possible.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! You are in over your head.

‘You noticed my ear,’ said the man, shrouded again in darkness.

‘Um…what?’ Simon said, busted. He swallowed hard. ‘What do you mean?’

It’s not polite to stare, dear…

‘A man cut part of it off. The doctors can’t fix it right.’

‘Oh…Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,’ Simon lied, trying not to shake.

Mr Hand ignored him. He pulled the sheets of paper out of the envelope and held the instructions under the light to read them. The combination to the briefcase lock must have been there, because he pulled the case over, set the combination and opened it. Simon stared out of the corner of his eye at the incredible stack of cash. This was supposedly only a small slice of the deal—playmoney in local currency. The advance had been paid into a bank account before Mr Hand had even left for Sydney, and the rest of it was to be paid upon completion. This man would be paid millions for whatever he was to do.

Mr Hand closed and relocked the case and went back to reading the instructions. Simon took the opportunity to familiarise himself with the room and try to covertly study this man
whose odd features were now becoming more clear as Simon’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. Who was this guy? Where and how had they found him? And what would happen next? What exactly did The American mean when he said this man was going to ‘take care of the situation’? And what precisely would Mr Hand do for his hefty fee?

Simon noticed there was another briefcase directly next to the man on the floor beside his chair. He wondered what was in it.

After yesterday’s crisis meeting, Simon had thought Jack Cavanagh and his military-like security adviser formidable, but Mr Hand looked to be an altogether more overt menace. Where The American was quiet and precise, Mr Hand had a discomfiting, brute physicality that Simon did not see in his own privileged social circles. Even seated, it was clear that Mr Hand was built like a gladiator, with wide shoulders and a muscular neck visible atop his business shirt and slick dark suit, and those battle scars across his face and hands would give anyone pause. If someone could give
him
those scars, Simon shuddered to think what grief they had been dealt by Mr Hand in return. And, even apart from the scars, Simon suspected that there really was something else wrong with Mr Hand’s face. He’d spent a lot of time around those for whom plastic surgery was a form of maintenance, like getting a manicure or doing sit-ups, and he
thought he recognised in Mr Hand a botched face job of some kind. Perhaps he had gone under the knife to correct a broken nose or jaw; it was hard to tell, but whatever it was, the end result was not pretty. His face was meaty and shapeless, his eyes small.

Simon found himself frightened to be sitting in the same room with Mr Hand. He even found himself wishing that The American was there to walk him through it.

Oh…get this over with and get out of here…

Mr Hand finished with the instructions and slid all but one of the pages back into the envelope, folded the envelope twice and lit the corner with a shiny silver lighter, watching the paper dispassionately as it smouldered in the coffee table ashtray. Simon still didn’t know what the instructions had said.

Mr Hand addressed him now. ‘Tell me everything you know about Warwick O’Connor.’

Simon shifted uncomfortably. ‘Um…He hasn’t called me back. He’s done some work for me before. Never like this, of course—’

Mr Hand cut him off. ‘Alias. Address. Photographs.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Simon thought about his answers. ‘I don’t think he has an alias. I only know him as Warwick, actually. I don’t have any photographs either.’ He felt pathetic.

Mr Hand passed the remaining piece of paper across. ‘Is this him?’

Simon was surprised to see that it was a photocopy of Warwick’s driver’s licence. ‘Um, yeah. That’s him.’ It had his address on it too. There was another driver’s licence copied below it, this time for Lee Lin Tan. ‘And that is the guy I get Damien’s girls through,’ Simon said, pointing at the second photo. ‘He was there when the chick freaked out and died. He was probably on the video.’

Lee was a pimp for Asian sex workers. Simon frequently contacted him to bring girls over for Damien’s special parties, and he always had a fresh batch of pretty faces. Damien liked Lee’s Asian girls because they were petite and pretty, and they didn’t speak English or question anything. There was none of the ‘I’ll do this, but I don’t do that’ or the ‘You can touch me here, but not there’ that they would get with the Australian girls. They never complained, even when Damien left them with burns, bruises or whip marks. And Lee could get them young.

Simon had called Lee straight over and complained when there had been a problem with the girl at the party.

Now that Simon had confirmed the identities of the two men on the photocopy, Mr Hand tucked the piece of paper away.

Simon swallowed hard. In the presence of this man, and in light of the recent turn of events with Warwick, he was finding it difficult to maintain his composure. It was clear that in the
situation he found himself in, he was the bottom of the food chain and should be grateful that he wasn’t just being eaten alive.

‘If you don’t need me for anything else…’ Simon began, eager to make his exit.