Authors: Leigh Redhead
I could handle drunk.
‘Simone! How are you?’ She drew out the ‘are’.
‘Good,’ I said carefully.
‘Steve and I just got back from a week in the Hunter Valley. We found some fabulous aged semillon so now we’ve got a few people over for a barbecue to help us drink it. It’s a great day for a barbie. How’s the weather south of the border?’ She said the last bit with a Mexican accent.
Jeez, she was pissed.
‘Yeah, it’s good, mum, uh—’
‘It’s funny you should call,’ she said. ‘Brian was just telling us he read about a shooting in Melbourne a couple of days ago that involved a stripper with the name Kirsch. He wondered if it was you and I told him to stop being ridiculous.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘That’s exactly what I said!’
‘Kirsch probably isn’t even her real name,’ I said.
‘Listen, I need to ask you a favour. You’ve got a classics department at the uni, right?’
‘Of course.’
I heard
The Big Chill
soundtrack start up in the background. Good god.
‘I’ve got a rough sketch of a figure that looks like it’s from ancient Greek mythology and I need to know what it represents. Can I fax it to your office tomorrow and you take it round and—’
‘I don’t know, everyone’s pretty busy. Why don’t you just email them or something?’
‘I need to know as soon as possible. It’s urgent.’
‘Is this part of your detective work?’
I told her it was and she gave me her fax number, then went off to dance to that ‘Joy to the World’ song.
Next I pulled Curtis Malone’s card out of my wallet and dialled his mobile.
‘My name’s Simone,’ I said. ‘I met you at the Miss Striptease comp in Melbourne. You said I should call if I wanted to do some modelling.’
‘Oh yeah.’
Cheering, loud music and a strange squelching sound came from his end of the phone.
‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘The Oxford Hotel, Sydney, reporting on the baked bean wrestling. Hang on, I’ll step outside.’ The noise became muffled. ‘That’s better. So you want to do some glamour modelling, eh?’
‘Yeah, but I need you to do something for me first.’
‘What’s that?’ He sounded amused.
‘I read a story from the Sydney
Tribune
with your byline, published a few years ago. ‘Restaurateur beats rape charge’. Frank Parisi, who owned Deluxe, was acquitted of raping a young waitress. I need to know the name of the girl.’
‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘I remember the case, I covered it, but this is wrong on so many levels. First of all I don’t have to do anything for you, you come in, take your clothes off, and we pay you. Second, it’s unethical. We don’t print the victim’s name—’
‘But you know it. From being in court.’
‘I may have it somewhere—god, all my stuff from the
Tribune
is in my mother’s garage, but, thirdly, why should I? We’ve got no shortage of would-be models and I don’t need the hassle.’
‘Have you been keeping up with the news, Curtis?’
I asked. ‘Been following the story about two strippers and the shooting on a luxury yacht?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well I’m Vivien Kirsch.’
‘The kidnapped one?’
‘No, the private detective one. The kidnapped one’s my friend. She’s going on “A Current Affair” tomorrow night and the story’s about to get even bigger. She’s had offers from
Penthouse
,
FHM
, you name it,’ I lied, ‘but if you get me this information we’ll both pose for you. For
Picture Premium
even, all the hot stuff.’
‘Open leg work?’
‘You betcha.’
Curtis didn’t speak for a while. I could practically hear the cogs turning in his brain.
‘What I’m seeing,’ he said, ‘is like a Chandleresque kind of thing. You’re sitting in an office, venetian blinds, desk fan, wearing a trenchcoat with black lingerie underneath. Then your friend—she’s blonde right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Beautiful. A blonde walks into the office. We could do her up forties style, gloves, dress, then the dress comes off and the two of you go for it on the desk.
I could call it “The Big Sleep-over”. Or maybe “Lesbo Confidential”.’
‘That’s great, Curtis. Just get me the name by midday tomorrow or the deal’s off.’
I gave him my mobile number and he assured me he’d call.
The next morning I dropped by the post office to fax a rough sketch of the tattoo through to my mum before going to Aurora’s place to pick up the books. A sign in front of the building read ‘Pinewood serviced apartments, daily, weekly or long-term’.
I bypassed the reception desk and headed straight for the elevator, got to her floor and rapped on the door.
I stood there a long time, until finally she opened it wearing a red kimono and messed-up hair.
‘Hi,’ she said sleepily.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’
‘I had to get up and get my shit together anyway,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
The apartment was one bedroom, with a kitchen and laundry and decorated like a hotel. A balcony looked out over the leafy streets of South Yarra.
‘Nice place,’ I said.
Aurora was in the kitchen boiling water for coffee.
‘A bit soulless but it beats buying furniture and dealing with share house politics. You can up and leave whenever you want. I like to travel light. That’s why I’m unloading stuff onto you.’
We took our cups onto her small balcony. There was a hot wind blowing, whipping up leaves and dust.
‘Enjoy your going away party?’ I asked.
‘Most of it. What happened to you?’
‘I didn’t feel too good, I had to go home.’ Which was true in a way.
‘Betty lost it right at the end.’
‘Really?’ I blew on my coffee.
‘It was about me leaving. She said some nasty things.
I’d had enough so I left and came back here. Chloe and Johnny were trying to talk her down when I walked out.’
‘Glad I missed that bit,’ I said. ‘What’s her problem, do you think?’
‘Drugs. Abandonment issues. Johnny used too much smack for them to have any kind of sex life. Her parents, her upbringing, shit, I don’t know.’ Aurora put down her coffee and looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to have to jump in the shower. I’ll show you the books and stuff, just go through and take what you like.’
We went into the living area. A neat pile of books and clothes sat on the coffee table and a suitcase was closed but unzipped on the couch. She handed me a couple of plastic bags.
‘Go for your life,’ she said. ‘Whatever you don’t want I’m just going to throw in a charity bin.’
She closed the door behind her and I heard the shower start up. I piled a couple of books and some tops into one of the bags, glanced nervously in the direction of the bathroom and flipped the lid of the suitcase.
I went through it and found nothing but clothes.
Aurora’s handbag sat on the kitchen counter so I tiptoed over and opened it, heart beating fast. I found a plastic wallet for travel documents and picked it up with shaking hands. A passport and air ticket were inside and I slid the passport out and opened it up.
At first I thought it was stolen. A pale, slightly overweight woman with dark hair and thin lips stared out of the photo, a serious expression on her face. It looked nothing like Aurora.
Then I noticed the eyes. They were the same. And the chin, and the general shape of the face. Talk about a makeover. It was more like a total transformation.
I checked out the vital statistics. Name: Hermione Gallagher. DOB: 1/2/70. Eyes: Brown. Hair: Brown.
The passport had been issued four years earlier.
I slipped the passport back and took out the ticket.
It was British Airways, the destination London.
I suddenly realised I couldn’t hear the shower anymore, shoved the ticket back in and zipped up her handbag. I’d just got back to the books on the coffee table when the bathroom door opened and Aurora emerged in a towel and a cloud of strawberry scented steam.
I felt sweaty and out of breath and pretended to read a dust jacket. I couldn’t look her in the eye.
‘Whereabouts you going to work on the Gold Coast?’ I forced myself to sound natural.
Aurora padded to the kitchen and stuffed the few items from her cupboard and fridge into another plastic bag. ‘I don’t know, there are so many places. Bad Girls, Players. I might take a couple of weeks off first, lie on the beach and then find somewhere.’ She held out the bag to me. ‘You may as well take this too, otherwise it’ll just go in the bin.’
‘Sure.’ I took the bag.
‘Do you want to go down to Toorak Road and get something to eat?’ she asked.
‘I’d better get going,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to be in the peeps in half an hour.’ There was an awkward silence.
‘Don’t you hate goodbyes?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I’m no good at them. You feel like you should say something profound, but it just comes out corny.’
Aurora hugged me. Her breasts felt hard against my chest. I couldn’t hug back because of the shopping bags. ‘Well, see you later,’ she said, ‘and good luck with the detective thing. You’ll be great, I know it.’
‘Thanks. Have a good time in Queensland. Send me a tacky postcard.’
‘I will,’ she said.
Yeah right.
I ascended the stairs at the Shaft, disinfectant and cheap air freshener getting up my nose. Dean sat in the book-shop, surrounded by every porn magazine known to man, reading the latest Harry Potter novel. He looked up when I said hello.
‘Read about you in the paper,’ he said. ‘Didn’t think you’d be coming back here.’
‘Being in the paper doesn’t pay the bills,’ I told him.
‘Guess not.’
Three booths were going as I lay in the peeps, feigning masturbation, my mind not on the job at hand. I was thinking of Aurora, Hermione Gallagher.
Telling everyone she was off to the Gold Coast when she was going to London. Getting the tattoo a month ago. Lying about her relationship with Mick. Befriending me. Transforming herself from plain Jane into super-stripper. I kept trying to find reasonable explanations for her behaviour, but couldn’t. It was just too suss.
The guys in the booths were putting in a couple of coins then leaving. I couldn’t really blame them, my act was about as erotic as watching Parliament question time. My mobile rang and I snatched it up.
‘Hello?’
It was my mother.
‘I know what the picture means,’ she said.
I jumped in a cab on Swanston Street and got the driver to take me to the Pinewood Apartments. I’d just walked out halfway through my peeps hour and would probably never masturbate publicly in this town again. Oh well.
I paid the cabbie, took the elevator and knocked on her door. No answer. I went down to reception and spoke to the woman behind the desk.
‘My friend in number twenty-six, did you see her leave?’
‘The blond girl? She’s vacated the apartment. She left in a taxi a few minutes ago. You just missed her.’
Out on Punt Road I hailed a cab to Tullamarine.
Now I was officially broke. It took fifteen minutes to get to the freeway but once on Citylink we reached the airport in ten. As we pulled up outside international departures, excited travellers pulling suitcases and backpacks out of car boots, my phone rang. It was Curtis.
‘I’ve got the name for you.’ He told me what it was.
‘Now when do you want to do the photo shoot?’
‘I’ll call you back.’ I switched the phone off.
Inside the terminal I looked up at the departure display board. British Airways flight 0027 to Heathrow was boarding in an hour. Aurora wasn’t far ahead of me so she had to be around somewhere. I circled the BA checkin counters and the overpriced cafeterias but couldn’t see a statuesque blonde. Just as I was starting to think she’d already gone through customs I spotted her in a duty-free store buying Issey Miyake perfume.
I stood behind her. ‘Hermione,’ I said quietly.
‘God I hate that name,’ she said. She paid for her purchase and turned to look at me. Her eyes weren’t violet anymore, they were brown, and she studied me intently like a hawk zoning in on its prey. The lady at the counter placed the perfume in a sealed bag and Aurora grabbed it and walked out of the shop, me following.
‘I’ve got to board my plane soon,’ she said, and then, ‘you went through my stuff while I was in the shower. Nice.’
‘I know you killed Frank,’ I said, ‘and I know why.’
We were passing the women’s toilet and Aurora abruptly pushed the door in, grabbed my hand and pulled me in after her. It was empty and she dumped her bags on the floor, pushed me up against a wall and started frisking me.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Checking for wires.’
‘In this outfit?’ I was wearing a small singlet with no bra and tight hipster jeans.
‘You do have a reputation, honey.’ She patted me down and I felt a small thrill when her palms brushed my nipples. For god’s sake, not very professional. She checked my backpack too and, satisfied I wasn’t wired up, left the bathroom. I trotted after her to the airport bar. I needed a drink ’cause I certainly didn’t have a plan.
Aurora bought us both champagne, just like old times, and we took our drinks to an out-of-the-way table.
‘What are you actually doing here, Simone?’ she asked. ‘You’re not stupid enough to call the cops. You know you only have circumstantial evidence. Planning to leap on me and make a citizen’s arrest?’
I shook my head, ‘I just want the truth.’
‘How very X-Files. OK, well the truth is I didn’t kill Frank Parisi.’
‘You didn’t? Then who—’
She held up her hand to stop me. ‘Tell me what you’ve worked out first. I’m interested to know.’
‘Chloe saw your tattoo and told me about it. Mick has the same one and yesterday when I left the party I dropped into the tattoo parlour on Chapel Street and found out Betty has it too, and you all got it around the time Frank was killed. My mum works at Sydney uni and I got her to contact the classics department. The tattoo is a picture of one of the Erinyes, or Furies as the Romans called them. In Greek mythology there were three, and they were the underworld goddesses of vengeance and retribution.’