Now You See Me (5 page)

Whateve
r
m
y
mothe
r
kne
w,
sh
e
deserve
d
wha
t
happene
d
t
o
he
r.
The
y
bot
h
deserve
d
i
t
.

Mick stood, dazed by the bright sunlight, waiting for Sharon to release the boot of the car. The petrol-cap cover sprang open and he laughed. ‘Other one,’ he said through the window. She looked up at him, smiling. ‘Fucking high-tech cars,’ she muttered, groping around near her foot, and this time managed to activate the boot lever. He flipped the petrol cover closed and got the wicker basket out of the back.

‘Jesus, what’s in this? Rocks?’ He pretended to stagger with the weight.

‘Wimp.’ She had locked the car behind her and was pulling off her cardigan, peering through the contorted banksias to the park lawns. ‘Is anyone else here yet?’

‘Anxious? Don’t worry, they’ll love you. Like I do.’ He put the basket down and kissed her, his hands on her shoulders. ‘You’re not really worried, are you?’

‘Of course not. They’re only all your oldest and closest friends. They’re only going to look at me sideways all afternoon and compare me with Fran and probably ring each other up later and have a really good bitchy gossip about me. Why should I be nervous?’

He hefted the picnic hamper again. ‘If they do compare you with Fran it’ll only be to your benefit. She’s not part of this gang. She made it quite clear when we split that they were my friends, not hers. Come on, I can see Paddy.’

He walked off into the park and she took a deep breath and plumped up her hair before she followed him.

‘And this is Carly, and this is Tom. Rosa, Paddy, this is Sharon.’ Sharon smiled and nodded and tried to keep the names straight. A woman bending over the esky turned around. ‘Um ... and I don’t know who this is,’ Mick said.

‘It’s all right, I do,’ Sharon said, surprised at how relieved she felt, knowing someone else outside the circle. ‘It’s Noel. What are you doing here?’

‘I’m Paddy’s date,’ Noel said, her expression showing something of the same relief. ‘We share a landlord.’

‘Death to them all,’ Paddy shouted, raising his stubby and shaking it so that beer flew about. He was exactly as Sharon had pictured him from Mick’s stories — darkly tanned and muscular, with long streaked blond hair caught back in a loose pony-tail, and a wild, though slightly bewildered look about his pale eyes. She accepted a glass of champagne and sat on the edge of the blanket beside Noel, giving herself a space to examine the others.

They were all pretty much as she’d expected — Mick had a lawyer’s precision in his descriptions of people, and a flair for conveying their personalities, as well. Tom, the academic philosopher, dark, tall and elegant in his jeans and tattered T-shirt; Rosa, his wife, stocky and plain until you looked at her closely and saw the energy and warmth in her face. Some sort of paralegal, studying for a law degree part-time. Carly, the scarlet woman, who’d snaffled Tom for several years during a separation between him and Rosa. It didn’t seem to have left any hard feelings, Sharon thought, watching them. Rosa and Carly were talking quietly together, apparently relaxed and friendly.

She looked around — it appeared that Carly hadn’t brought anyone to the party; she wondered if that meant anything, whether she was still carrying a torch for Tom. She didn’t give the impression of a scarlet woman, with her tailored slacks and long-sleeved blouse. But she was very beautiful, Sharon realised. Ir was seldom that you saw anyone you really thought was beautiful, though you bandied the word about. Carly s broad, high cheekbones and fine slanted blue eyes were perfectly balanced by her long mouth. It was a face that felt absolutely right, that all other faces might be compared against and found somehow unsatisfactory. She must be in her forties, Sharon thought, like the rest of them, but her jaw was strong and pronounced, with no sign of sag under it, and her skin shone fresh like a teenager’s. Her hair was fair, loose around her shoulders and flipped under slightly at clavicle level. Sharon flushed when Carly looked up and found her staring. Carly stared back for a moment, then went back to her conversation with Rosa.

‘Sharon ...’ It was Noel, sounding tentative.

‘Sorry, I was dreaming. Listen, I wanted to apologise about the other day, when I did my block. I was going to ring you ...’

“‘Did my block” ...’ Noel laughed. ‘Jeez, I haven’t heard that since I was a kid.’

Sharon laughed, too. ‘I’ve got more where that came from. My dad was a wharfie, but a big quiet man, a peacemaker. He was always saying, “No need to do your block, mate.” And other things. He was practically a walking encyclopaedia of Australian slang.’

Noel stretched out on her stomach, chewing the tender stalk of a blade of grass. ‘You don’t come across as someone whose father was a wharfie.’

‘No, well, I got educated out of my class, didn’t I? Like most of us — or were you a well brought up gel to start with?’

‘Yeah, I was a bit. Private school and all that. I rebelled. Same thing in a way.’

‘I suppose. So, is Paddy a bit of rough trade, then?’

‘Paddy? God, no. He’s just a mate. Anyway, he’s got a degree in sociology or something, I think.’

‘He didn’t finish it,’ Sharon said. Mick had filled her in on most of them. ‘He dropped out to do things with his hands.’

‘Well, he doesn’t do them with me.’ They both turned to look at Paddy, who was sitting on the sea wall talking to Mick, the Bridge framing them against the torn blue silk of the sea like a photograph. ‘I suppose I assumed he was gay. Or neuter,’ Noel said. ‘All those muscles, and he never has any women around at the flats
.
An
d
he doesn’t give off the right sexual vibes. Know what I mean? Not like your Mick.’ She gestured over towards the sea wall. ‘Hubba, hubba,’ she said, making her voice hoarse.

Sharon looked at her.
‘
Hubb
a,
hubb
a
? I don’t think even my dad knew that one.’

‘It’s what we well brought up girls used to say all the time, usually about the state school boys we saw on the bus. Where did you meet him?’

‘Mick? At a cricket match,’ Sharon said absently. ‘Cops and robbers — lawyers, that is. Listen, Noel, have you talked to Albert Spinks yet?’

‘Don’t you do girl talk? Oh, all right — yes I spoke to him after I saw you.’ She pulled at another grass stalk, frowning. ‘He’s pretty convincing.’

‘What about? I mean, has he got anything concrete?’

‘No, not really. He admits the evidence points to Gus Farrell, but he’s pulled the medical files on the previous incidents involving Belinda, and he says they don’t match this murder.’

‘No,’ Sharon’s voice was impatient. ‘This time he killed her; the other times he didn’t.’

Noel didn’t reply. Sharon turned to watch her nibbling grass and shrugged angrily. ‘OK. What else?’

‘Spinks says he’s tried to tell the cops this, but they’re not interested. That’s why he dropped those hints in the interview — to cover his arse if anything blows up later.’

Sharon twisted her mouth. ‘Yeah, well. It’s all theory, isn’t it? I know the D’s who were on the case; they’re good cops. He couldn’t have been very convincing, or they’d have followed it up.’

‘Would they? Don’
t
d
o
you
r
bloc
k
again, but mightn’t they have just decided to get Farrell for what they know he’s guilty of? Which is bad enough. I can understand them feeling like that.’

‘No, you can’t. Remind me to show you the photos, one day, of the time he did her with the broom handle; then you might be able to imagine it. But it doesn’t work like that any more. We’re squeaky clean now, haven’t you heard? And a murder case — the evidence has to be foolproof or the Prosecutor’s office won’t touch it.’ She shifted her weight onto her other hip. ‘And if you’re thinking the cops planted the stuff themselves, it’s not possible. These guys didn’t know anything about Farrell or his previous history when they were given the investigation. Mind you, I might have set him up myself, if I thought I could get away with it. But it happened when I was on secondment.’

‘What are you two talking so seriously about?’ Mick squatted down beside them, a bottle of champagne in his hand. He filled their glasses, then drank from the bottle himself.

‘Hubba, hubba,’ Sharon muttered, looking at Noel. They both sniggered.

‘What?’ He was distracted by Paddy calling to someone. ‘Oho, here comes Judith and she’s got the ice princess with her. There goes the neighbourhood.’

They turned to watch the newcomers as they sighted the picnic group and waved, then walked the last stretch self-consciously. ‘Judith’s the token dyke,’ Sharon said to Noel. ‘And I suppose the ice princess is her girlfriend.’

‘Significant other, if you don’t mind,’ Mick said. ‘That’s the gorgeously unattainable Tess. We knew her slightly at university — all the blokes had a try at her, but she was never interested in any of us. Now we know why.’

‘Yep. It surely couldn’t have been because she found you callow and boring,’ Sharon said.

‘Hoy. I could talk about torts and precedents for hours on end in those days. Audiences sank down spellbound. Couldn’t be roused, some of them. And anyway, that’s all Judith ever talked about, too, so figure it out.’ He got up and hugged the taller woman. ‘Hi Jude. Tess.’ He introduced them to Noel and Sharon, then went with them back to where Paddy was now teetering riskily along the narrow stoneworks.

‘Judith Harbin,’ Sharon said in answer to Noel’s raised eyebrow. ‘DPP. Barrister. Don’t know what Tess does, Mick hasn’t told me about her.’

‘She does look a bit like an ice maiden,’ Noel said. ‘All that straight pale hair. And all in white. Jesus, fancy wearing white silk pants to a picnic.’ She glanced with satisfaction at her own khakis.

‘Has Albert got any othe
r
clues
?
’ Sharon asked. ‘Has he found any other cases that might have the same MO or is he talking off the top of his head as usual?’

‘You really don’t do girl talk, do you? I don’t know. He only had an hour spare to talk to me. I’m seeing him again next week. Having doubts, are you?’

‘No. Farrell’s guilty, I’m positive. But if Albert’s shaking the tree, who knows what other rotten apples he might let drop.’

‘Great metaphor, kid. I can use that.’ Noel propped herself on an elbow, steeling herself for another rebuff. ‘Why did you become a cop, Sharon?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Sharon squinted at her against the sun. ‘Because I’m so articulate and all? I dunno.’ She was still trying to get comfortable on the hard ground and half rose to her knees, sitting sideways. ‘It was either that or social work, and you know what they say about social workers ... Besides, cops sometimes get to carry a gun.’

‘So you’re an idealist. Doing good in the world is your aim ...’

‘Is this an interview?’

‘Nah. Just champagne curiosity. It’s a thought, though. How many women cops do you reckon would talk to me?’

‘None. We’re the silent minority.’ They stayed unspeaking for a while, watching the others, relaxed, both aware they might be on the verge of a genuine, if uneasy, friendship.

‘Food,’ Mick said, looming over them again. ‘Come and eat.’

‘Thank God,’ Sharon said, grasping Mick’s arm and groaning as she stood up.

Toda
y
I
wen
t
t
o
a
picni
c.
Al
l
th
e
ol
d
gan
g,
plu
s
a
fe
w
rin
g-
in
s.
An
d
m
e—
bu
t
n
o-
on
e
kne
w
i
t
wa
s
m
e
.

To
m
an
d
Ros
a
wer
e
ther
e,
lookin
g
unhapp
y
togethe
r,
an
d
Carl
y;
jealou
s
a
s
hel
l,
stil
l,
bu
t
makin
g
Ros
a
he
r
frien
d,
secretl
y
delighte
d
a
t
th
e
marriag
e
goin
g
sou
r
fo
r
a
secon
d
tim
e,
poise
d
t
o
lea
p
int
o
th
e
ga
p
agai
n
.

Mic
k
Morga
n
brough
t
hi
s
co
p
girlfrien
d,
Sharo
n.
Th
e
firs
t
woma
n
he’
s
actuall
y
live
d
wit
h
sinc
e
Fra
n.
Sharo
n—
wha
t
a
nam
e.
She’
s
muc
h
younge
r
tha
n
hi
m.
Tha
t
won’
t
las
t—
h
e
think
s
she’
s
cut
e
a
s
a
bu
g
no
w,
bu
t
whe
n
h
e
find
s
ou
t
she’
s
no
t
hi
s
pe
t
puss
y
ca
t,
he’l
l
loo
k
fo
r
anothe
r
on
e.
She’
s
toug
h
underneat
h,
tha
t
littl
e
Sharo
n;
Mick’l
l
ge
t
a
shoc
k
th
e
firs
t
tim
e
sh
e
show
s
he
r
claw
s.
I’
d
lik
e
t
o
se
e
the
m
i
n
be
d
togethe
r—
she’
s
on
e
o
f
thos
e
tin
y,
wir
y
wome
n
an
d
h
e
stil
l
look
s
lik
e
a
walkin
g
mountai
n,
thoug
h
h
e
hasn’
t
gon
e
t
o
fa
t,
surprisingl
y,
give
n
al
l
th
e
ric
h
client
s
wh
o
mus
t
win
e
an
d
din
e
hi
m.
H
e
probabl
y
work
s
ou
t
o
r
jog
s,
o
r
somethin
g.I
sur
e
can’
t
imagin
e
hi
m
drinkin
g
Perrie
r
o
r
orderin
g
a
sala
d
wit
h
n
o
dressin
g.
Mea
t
an
d
potatoe
s,
that’
s
Mic
k
.

Padd
y
Gale
n
wa
s
ther
e,
to
o,
playin
g
th
e
clow
n
a
s
alway
s,
stil
l
a
sexuall
y
confuse
d
adolescen
t
a
t
hear
t,
gettin
g
b
y
wit
h
hi
s
ol
d
hipp
y
char
m
an
d
brutis
h
goo
d
look
s.I
giv
e
hi
m
anothe
r
fiv
e
year
s
befor
e
he’
s
a
patheti
c
ol
d
ha
s-
bee
n,
showin
g
hi
s
dic
k
aroun
d
th
e
boys
’
toilet
s
an
d
wonderin
g
wh
y.
H
e
brough
t
someon
e
fro
m
hi
s
bloc
k
o
f
flat
s,a
journalis
t.
Noe
l
Bake
r—
she’
s
younge
r,
to
o,
aroun
d
thirt
y,
on
e
o
f
thos
e
Botticell
i
wome
n
wit
h
th
e
thic
k
hai
r
an
d
th
e
hear
t-
shape
d
fac
e.
Bu
t
dresse
d
cunningl
y
agains
t
he
r
look
s
i
n
wha
t
seeme
d
lik
e
disposa
l-
stor
e
second
s.
Sh
e
an
d
littl
e
Sharo
n
sa
t
wit
h
eac
h
othe
r
mos
t
o
f
th
e
tim
e—
bande
d
agains
t
th
e
olde
r
generatio
n,I
suppos
e
.

An
d
ther
e
wer
e
Judit
h
an
d
Tes
s.
Judith’
s
los
t
al
l
he
r
ol
d
plumpnes
s,
she’
s
th
e
rea
l
streamline
d
lad
y
prosecuto
r
thes
e
day
s—
ha
d
he
r
hai
r
streake
d,
an
d
eve
n
he
r
jean
s
an
d
shir
t
shoute
d
succes
s
dressin
g.
Tes
s
doin
g
he
r
Grac
e
Kell
y
ac
t.
Th
e
sam
e
fire
s
burnin
g
unde
r
tha
t
coo
l
exterio
r,
thoug
h.I
shoul
d
kno
w—
everyon
e
though
t
sh
e
wa
s
Littl
e
Mis
s
Pri
m,
bu
t
no
t
wit
h
m
e.
Tha
t
wa
s
befor
e
sh
e
finall
y
admitte
d
sh
e
wa
s
a
lesbia
n.
N
o-
on
e
kne
w
he
r
secret
s
th
e
wa
y
I
di
d.I
kne
w
secret
s
abou
t
th
e
other
s,
to
o.
I’v
e
alway
s
bee
n
goo
d
a
t
secret
s,a
fac
t
tha
t
wil
l
com
e
i
n
usefu
l
no
w
tha
t
I
hav
e
t
o
star
t
thinkin
g
mor
e
seriousl
y
abou
t
diversion
s,
befor
e
the
y
hav
e
a
chanc
e
t
o
clos
e
i
n.
I’v
e
go
t
m
y
fallbac
k
positio
n
al
l
worke
d
ou
t,
bu
t
toda
y
I
ha
d
th
e
glimmering
s
o
f
anothe
r
possibl
e
re
d
herrin
g,a
secon
d
scapegoa
t.I
thin
k
i
t
woul
d
serv
e
t
o
dela
y
thing
s,
sen
d
th
e
hunter
s
dow
n
th
e
wron
g
trai
l.
I’
m
mixin
g
m
y
metaphor
s
shockingl
y,I
kno
w.
On
e
o
f
th
e
possibl
e
sign
s
o
f
schizophreni
a,
yo
u
use
d
t
o
sa
y,
o
r
jus
t
of muddle
d
thinkin
g.I
don’
t
kno
w—
there’
s
a
certai
n
latera
l
freedo
m
i
n
mixin
g
metaphor
s,a
certai
n
poeti
c
sens
e
o
f
connection
s
almos
t
mad
e,
lik
e
thos
e
fals
e
syllogism
s
w
e
puzzle
d
ove
r
i
n
Firs
t
Yea
r
Philosoph
y
.