The Shadow Maker (15 page)

Lethargic shoppers strolled past. On public benches nearby, a group of Aborigines sat despondently. As he gazed at them, he caught the bleakness of their mood. Defeated by forces beyond their control.

It bothered him. He looked away, loosening his tie and collar.

As the traffic rolled by the sun bore down like a furnace, making the air shimmer over the asphalt. On the far side of the intersection people sat in the yawning entrance beneath the dome of the railway station, loitering in the shade. In front of them a busker in faded tartans played on his bagpipes. The tune was ‘Amazing Grace’. The lights changed and Barbie strode towards the pub.

It wasn’t the sort of place he frequented but he’d been here before, years ago, during a student rag week. He and his fellow schoolboys visited the pub as a prank, wanting to get a taste of the seedy atmosphere. The bar had a spit and sawdust feel to it, full of deadbeats and aggressive drunks, and the boys had trouble holding their beer. The night became blurred, and Barbie found himself on the back stairs with a cheap whore. He gave her money and she went with him into the old-fashioned lavatories. In a cubicle, amid the dripping pipes and stained enamel fittings, she went down on her knees and sucked his penis. The experience - his first with a prostitute - was both daunting and exciting. It awakened sexual proclivities that he’d indulged in ever since.

As he walked into the pub he was pleasantly surprised. It had gone upmarket with a complete makeover. Carpets, upholstered furniture, American tourists drinking cappuccinos. He climbed the stairs and found much of the upstairs bar was now a fashionable restaurant. Kelly Grattan sat at a table beneath the pub’s most enduring fixture -
Chloe
, a Victorian oil painting of a tantalising nude. In contrast, Kelly was power-dressed in a sharp pinstripe skirt and jacket, and a crisp white blouse. She was wearing sunglasses to hide her black eye, and she’d used make-up to cover her split lip and the graze on her chin. A pair of long gloves concealed the injuries to her wrists and hands.

Barbie sat down opposite her and glanced around the bar to check if anyone had recognised him. No one was paying attention.

He turned to her and gave a nervous smile.

She looked at him coldly and said, ‘I don’t want to discuss what happened. Is that clear?’

He nodded, and she went on, ‘You’re a complete shit. You know that? No scruples or morals. I’m amazed how corrupt you are.’

There was no point in arguing, but he said quietly, ‘What have you told the police?’

‘Nothing.
Yet.
‘

He brushed a bead of sweat from his cheek and breathed a little more easily. ‘So.’ He tried to sound forceful but amenable. ‘You phoned me before you went to hospital, and you phoned me after.

I’m here and I’m listening.’

‘No.’ She folded her arms. ‘You first.’

Barbie liked her style and realised why he’d employed her. Perhaps the best tactic was directness.

‘What will it take to keep your mouth shut?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’

She gave a bitter grunt. ‘That’s more like it. We’re beyond finesse.’

Her gaze didn’t shift from his face. ‘So, for not going to the police, I want one million dollars.’

His mouth fell open. ‘You’ve got to be joking. A million?’

Just a twitch of the lip - the faintest hint of a smile - before she added,

‘And for not going to the media, another one million dollars.’

He stared at her, trying to gauge how serious she was, but her expression was like stone.

‘Two million bucks.’ His voice was deliberate. ‘I can find other solutions much cheaper than that.’

‘Before you start making threats, here’s something for you to think about.’ She bent towards him across the table, the drift of her perfume teasing him as she whispered, ‘I’ve processed a series of emails. Unless I key in a command every three hours, they’ll go automatically to the police, the tabloids, the networks, and my lawyers.’

He stroked his chin thoughtfully, already calculating damage control.

She continued, her voice still low, ‘And don’t assume there’s no evidence. I have samples of DNA, stored and ready for collection.’

His shoulders sagged a little, but he didn’t say anything. Just turned and gazed out the window. A queue of trams was banked up at the intersection. Passengers clambered on and off. At the kerbside a cop was cautioning a pedestrian. He’d ignored a red light.

The pedestrian swore and gesticulated, so the cop booked him. On the far corner, the street musician was still blowing on his bagpipes.

Barbie watched it all, the mundane flow of urban life, and knew that she had him beaten. He almost admired her.

‘The figure’s non-negotiable,’ she said. ‘But look at it this way.

Your reputation’s worth a lot more. And your deal with Tokyo will end up making you a billionaire.’

Clever woman. She was flattering him, but she was also right.

With his eyes still on the scene below the window, he said, ‘When do you delete the emails?’

She opened her handbag, took out a slip of paper and pushed it in front of him.

‘This is the number of a Malaysian bank account. When the money’s cleared, and I’m overseas, I’ll delete them.’

He looked at her heavily, as if to question whether he could trust her.

‘You know I can keep a secret,’ she said. ‘And with adequate financial compensation, there’s no need for me to go public.’

He nodded. Game over.

‘I’ll arrange a money transfer as soon as I’m back at the office.’

He pocketed the slip of paper and allowed himself a modest smile.

‘It’s a rare thing that I’m made to pay for my sins. Considering the price, it’s just as well.’

‘Sins?’ She closed her handbag with a click. ‘You’re guilty of crimes. And one day they’ll catch up with you.’

‘Whatever.’ He shrugged. ‘But we’re both too pragmatic to bother with guilt. It’s just another control mechanism.’

As they got up from the table she looked at him with contempt.

‘Well don’t be smug about it.’

Rita’s visits to the other five software companies proved as unhelpful to the investigation as Xanthus. What set Barbie’s outfit apart from the rest was the level of security and the accompanying air of paranoia. She made a mental note to do a follow-up interview with Kelly Grattan, but for now this line of inquiry was over.

O’Keefe had just phoned her. He’d also drawn a blank with his list of software firms and Strickland had recalled him to the office and assigned him to other duties. The hunt for Emma Schultz’s attacker was already being cut back. Rita could see she’d soon be joining O’Keefe back in the squad room. She had just one last place to check out - the brothel.

It was one of those substantial, late colonial residences that had once formed part of a terrace. Now it stood in isolation between a wood merchant’s and a scrap metal business. The house had long ceased to be residential, but it still seemed out of place in a neighbourhood of wholesale firms and warehouses. With its neat exterior and fresh white paintwork the building had a professional air to it - as if it might belong to a consultant physician or a well-heeled solicitor. Only the gleaming red light over the side entrance told otherwise. That and the discreet neon sign that said ‘Plato’s Cave’.

Rita rang the bell and waited for the door to open. She guessed she was being observed through a small security camera, and wondered what they’d make of a woman in a charcoal grey suit and dark glasses. She tapped her foot impatiently. The sun was hot on her cheeks and a smell of sawdust rose from the alleyway. When a buzzer sounded she pushed the door open and went inside. As it clicked shut behind her she took off her sunglasses.

She was standing in a small entrance lobby with thick pile carpet, dim lighting and a reception desk. No one was sitting at it. On a small side table rested a Greek bronze of a couple about to engage in coitus. Soft orchestral music played in the background. Next to the reception desk was an archway. Rita walked through it into what looked like a waiting room. The decor was more refined than that of other brothels she’d visited. A mixture of classical chic and restrained vulgarity. More bronzes of naked couples, a wall mosaic of Aphrodite, amphoras with erotic scenes. A gilt chandelier hung overhead and leather sofas stood at right angles, but no customers were waiting for service.

An internal door opened and a woman walked through. She was wearing a professional smile and what looked like a black Versace gown. The dress had a thigh-high slash and a low-cut lace bodice that opened on a plunging cleavage. It was the wrong time of day for such fashion, but then again, it was the right place for it. The woman looked charming and expensive. Self-assured, late thirties, with a strong, handsome face and high Slavic cheekbones. Her eyes shot an appraising glance over Rita.

‘How can I help you?’ the woman asked.

‘I’m here to see the manager,’ said Rita.

‘I’m the manager. Come into my office,’ she said, then turned and led Rita through the door into a businesslike room furnished with office chairs, a computer desk, security monitors and a filing cabinet. In one corner a TV set was on, tuned to a financial channel, and at the far end of the room was a curtained window. The black velvet drapes were drawn.

The woman sat down behind the desk but didn’t offer a chair to Rita. Instead she said, ‘You’re a little earlier than I expected, but that’s good.’ She folded her hands together and leant forward on her elbows. ‘I like what I see so far. Let’s see the rest. Take your clothes off.’

Rita stared at her, uncomprehending.

The woman’s smile faded at the edges. ‘Don’t waste my time. Do you want the job or not?’ she said curtly.

At this, Rita threw back her head and laughed.

As the woman watched her, the smile vanished completely, her mouth forming into a hard line. ‘What’s so funny?’

Rita smoothed back her hair. ‘Who do you see me as? A Roxanne?

Or a Jade?’

The manager frowned. ‘I see you as trouble. You’d better just fuck off, honey.’

Rita shook her head, still amused by the mistake. ‘I’m not taking the piss. And I’m not here under false pretences.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel. I need to ask you some questions.’

The woman sighed irritably. ‘Shit. Why didn’t you say you were a cop?’

‘I was about to, believe me. But making the grade as a professional whore - that’s the most flattering thing I’ve heard in ages.’

‘Is it now?’ The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Maybe you ought to think about it.’

‘Is that a job offer?’ said Rita, smiling.

‘Why not? We’ve only been open a month and I’m still recruiting.

You could earn a lot more than you do now.’ The woman eased herself back onto the chair, smoothing her gown. ‘I know what cops earn. I’ve already got several among my customers. Special discount offer.’ She gestured for Rita to sit down. ‘An ex-policewoman would be a great addition to my stable. And you’d outsmart your male colleagues a lot easier here. You know a man loses fifty points off his IQ when he looks at a woman’s breasts?’

‘That explains a few things,’ said Rita.

‘And by the way, I
do
see you as a Roxanne. Not a Marita.’

Rita gave a grunt and sat down. She was starting to dislike the woman. Too confident - and sharp with it. More like a female lawyer than a successful hooker.

‘Okay. You know my name. I assume yours is Kasia Pozarik.

That’s whose name is on the licence as the owner-manager of this whorehouse.’

‘Yes, I’m in charge of what is a completely legal and very profitable business in this town.’

‘But you weren’t always a businesswoman. Or legal. You’ve been round the block a few times.’

The brothel owner said nothing, so Rita went on, ‘Kasia. Unusual name.’

‘Both sides of my family were political refugees from Poland.’

Her voice had an edge to it. ‘But let’s get to the point. What do you want?’

‘I’m investigating the attack on a prostitute who was blinded,’

said Rita, taking the black Plato’s Cave card from her inside pocket and tossing it onto the desk. It lay there like an accusation.

‘What’s this?’ asked Kasia, staring at it suspiciously.

‘That’s what I want to know.’ Rita leant forward, her expression uncompromising. ‘Is it one of your cards?’

‘Of course not,’ Kasia snapped back. ‘Of what possible use could it be?’

‘An entry card to some of your more illicit rooms,’ Rita suggested.

Kasia pulled open a desk drawer, took out a small stack of cards and dumped them in front of Rita. ‘These are the only cards I’ve got. Help yourself.’

They were variations of the pink business card that O’Keefe had collected on his travels. Simple and elegant. Edwardian script printed on the face. Along with the brothel’s name and phone number, one version carried the slogan, ‘For Greeks baring gifts’.

Rita gazed at it distastefully. ‘Don’t tell me. You specialise here

- in Greek.’

The response was contemptuous. ‘It’s not called Plato’s Cave because we study philosophy. Anal sex is one of our major services.’

Rita sat back and glanced at the black velvet drapes covering the window at the far end of the room. It was a momentary reaction, but an obvious one to the other woman’s observant eye.

‘Bother you, does it?’ she asked.

Rita shot her an indignant look. ‘We’re not here to talk about me.’

‘Maybe not,’ replied Kasia smoothly. ‘But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s how to see inside people’s heads.’

Rita lifted her chin and tried to outstare her. ‘Well I do it professionally.’

‘So do I, honey. And I know a control freak when I see one. The flaky type, who secretly likes to lose it.’ She shook her head pityingly.

‘A control freak who wants to be subjugated.’

‘Enough,’ said Rita tightly, putting the card back in her pocket.

‘I don’t have time to waste on crap, I’m trying to find a man who gouged out a prostitute’s eyes. Is he one of your customers?’

‘Absolutely not,’ insisted Kasia. ‘The scumbag who blinded the girl, I want him caught too. But he’s not among my clients. No one with a hint of violence is allowed anywhere near my girls - and believe me, with my experience, I can spot the creeps in an instant.’