Good Money (10 page)

There was still no sign of a limousine downstairs so I googled Constable Thomas Ashwood. There was a news item that named him as the first police officer on the scene of a suicide in a remote house in, of all places, Warracknabeal.

Nick Cave was from Warracknabeal.

I googled Nick Cave, chased a few random links, and found a great version of ‘The Ship Song' by Amanda Palmer. I googled Amanda Palmer and found a YouTube video of her song about her ‘Map of Tasmania', a clear winner for my new ringtone. Once I'd downloaded it to my phone, I googled Oarsman's Bay: a tropical paradise in the Fijian archipelago. Downmarket from Turtle Bay, upmarket from Suva. A place without a care. Little bungalows, all meals provided. My neighbours' friends Joyce and Frank were probably sipping cocktails as they swayed in their hammocks, the gentle lapping of the sea in their ears, the swish of palm leaves above them.

I closed the laptop, and checked out the window. A white limousine was just pulling up under the pine tree. A man in the chauffeur's uniform headed into my building. I hopped around the room trying to get my boot on, while brushing my hair and putting on my jacket. When I got downstairs, I found the driver studying the names on the intercom in the foyer. The remote locking system didn't work and the names were all incorrect but it did lend the place a certain air of fear and suspicion that said
class
.

‘You Stella?'

‘Yes.'

‘Nigel Broad. Mr Brodtmann sent me to pick you up.'

That was the extent of our conversation — after that, total silence, even the outside world was hushed, like being driven around in a sound-proof hotel suite — until the car pulled in at Crown Casino. Broad murmured into his phone then snapped it shut. ‘Go wait in the foyer,' he told me. ‘Ms Watt is coming to get you.'

10

CROWN CASINO
, a cesspool of avarice, corruption, and thuggery, with fancy carpet and flashing lights — and the sound of money going down the drain. It was well known that Melbourne's criminal society used its rooms for their transactions, that urine gathered in pools under the blackjack tables, that highfliers were seduced while misbehaving low-rent punters were put in a wristlock and manhandled out the door. The ballroom hosted grandiose sports nights, replete with a televised red-carpet parade of tizzed-up WAGs.

I hung around the foyer wondering who, exactly, might be impressed by all this phoney razzle-dazzle when I saw a blonde bouffant weaving through the crowd. Crystal Watt wore a tan and white ensemble — leather skirt and jacket, white over-the-knee boots. Up close, her face was gaunt and pale, as though she was permanently exhausted; her nose was straight and probably cost a bomb, but she had left the eyes undoctored. The area around them was dark, the expression pure sorrow. Rather than a flaw, it had the effect of softening the beauty and making her extraordinary. I imagined that a lot of men, some women even, would very much like to make her smile.

‘You're Stella?'

‘Yes.'

She looked me over with a hint of dismay. ‘You are friend of Nina?'

‘Yes.'

‘Come with me.' She hooked an arm around mine and I inhaled an expensive floral scent. ‘We go in private entrance. Security-pass area.' She had a pass card on a lanyard. ‘Suite is nice.' She took me out of Crown's casino and into its hotel via a covered walkway. I trotted to keep up with the clip of her boots on the polished marble.

‘You will see my dogs. Did she tell you? I have two.'

‘Er, no.' I assumed ‘she' was Tania.

We stopped at doors marked
staff only
. Crystal opened them and walked to a goods lift. She swiped her card and gave me a sidelong look. ‘She is Tania now.'

‘Yes,' I answered, not sure if it was a question.

‘Nina is nice name. After her grandmother.'

The doors opened; we stepped in and the lift raced skyward and then cruised to a stop. The doors opened again and a man in a tartan sports jacket stepped in. The moustache, spiffy bow tie, and waist coat — it had to be Merritt Van Zyl, the man I'd seen in the photo.

He backed up. ‘Look who it is, the Polish Madame.'

‘I told you, I'm Russian,' Crystal hissed at him as she passed. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I had business with Clay,' he said.

‘What business?'

‘None of yours.' He looked me up and down. ‘Who or what is this creature? Not one of the well-heeled, is she?' He turned to Crystal. ‘Did one of your customers request an ageing lesbian cleaning woman?'

‘Hey, Happy Hammond.' I pointed my finger at his face. ‘None of those things is an insult.' I stepped into his personal space. ‘But only a dick would say
well-heeled
.'

He shrank back into the lift, rapidly jabbing the
down
button.

Crystal laughed and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Don't take notice. He's fucking poofta.'

I didn't want to get into a homophobia thing with her so I said, ‘How does he get away with insulting you like that?'

She did a demure lift of the shoulders. ‘Because is true. I used to run brothel.'

I had no idea how to respond to that.

At an unmarked door, she waved her pass card. The room was open-plan and roughly half of the entire thirty-sixth floor. There was a bar, a dining table, and a sunken lounge, and several doors leading to other rooms. There was as a sudden movement from a basket in the corner and a pair of coffee-coloured pugs came shooting over the furniture towards us.

She scooped one up and kissed it on the mouth. ‘Make yourself at home, while I find Clay. Always he's on fucking phone.'

I walked down a couple of steps to where three large sofas, upholstered in plush dove-grey velvet, were arranged around a curved floor-to-ceiling window. On a coffee table, there was a partly consumed fruit and cheese platter, two opened bottles of champagne, empty champagne glasses, a cheesecake with slices taken.

I glanced out the window. Grease-coloured clouds rolled over the towers of Melbourne, hurling ice water on the rooftop pools and tennis courts. A flock of birds banked over the Rialto then dispersed. Far below, trains rumbled beside the aquarium and under the rusted canopy of Flinders Street Station.

‘Stella.' A man came striding into the room, grabbed my hand. ‘Clayton Brodtmann. Good to meet you.'

It was like meeting a newsreader in the flesh — a familiar but unreal face, as though the years of public exposure had changed it to a synthetic veneer. Despite the healthy skin tone he looked like a man who had had many sleepless nights. He bared his dental work at me and pointed to a sofa. ‘Please.'

I sat.

‘Drink?'

I summoned my self-control. ‘No, thank you.'

He nodded, studying me. From his look of mild irritation, I guessed I disappointed him in some way.
Get in line
, I thought.
Behind
me
, mainly.

‘Can't thank you enough,' he said. ‘Alerting us about Nina. Your friendship and kindness.'

‘My … my … yes. Thank you.'

Crystal sat beside her husband and both the dogs leapt into her lap. The sight of their pink, flat tongues was vaguely sickening. ‘Cheesecake?' She held out a chunk on a plate. I declined.

‘I like her, Clay,' she spoke like I wasn't in the room. ‘She called that faggot … what was it? Happy Hammond.' She broke off some cake for the dogs.

Brodtmann cleared his throat. ‘I haven't seen my daughter for … some time; not since she left Perth. I have no idea of her movements. You live next door to her, I believe?'

‘I — yes.'

‘She wants to be independent or some bloody thing. I send her money of course, and gifts —'

‘You mollycoddle her.' Crystal poured herself some champagne. ‘Let her be, if that's what she wants.'

Brodtmann's chin jutted forward. ‘Sweetheart, please.'

Crystal sniffed and pulled an iPad out of her handbag.

‘My daughter — would you say she seems happy to you?'

‘Happy?'

‘Happy Hammond,' Crystal said. ‘Hosted kids TV show in the 60s. Did you watch it?'

Did I? My nose an inch from the screen:
Is everybody happy? Yeeeeessss!
And don't get me started on Zig and Zag. ‘Yes,' I replied. ‘I grew up in the country and they used to show the reruns in the 70s.'

Brodtmann glanced at me, and looked away. There was a buzz in his pocket and he pulled out his phone. ‘Excuse me.'

‘Sure.' I looked out the window.

‘Yes?' He listened for a moment. ‘About fucking time, Marcus. Someone will be down.' He put the phone away and called out. ‘Broad?'

My driver came from a side door. He would have arrived after me, but I had not seen him enter. There must have been several entrances to the apartment. ‘Sir?'

‘The police minister. Downstairs.'

Broad nodded. ‘Right.' He went out the front door.

Brodtmann started pacing. ‘You notified the police today?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But they weren't that concerned at first —'

He cut me off. ‘It doesn't matter. They're taking me seriously, by God.' He rubbed his jaw. ‘In the meantime, please don't speak to anyone about my daughter's … about Nina. Certainly not the media. It would not be helpful, and may possibly hinder the investigation.'

He thought I was an imbecile and I resented it. Talking to the media was the last thing I'd do. Still, I sensed police backsides were about to be kicked, so that was good. ‘I understand,' I said.

The door opened and Broad walked in with — I couldn't believe my eyes — Marcus Pugh. Good old Mucous Pukus. We made eye contact but he didn't recognise me, or chose not to. A woman followed, short grey hair and dead eyes. If she wasn't in a police uniform she could be mistaken for an ageing lesbian cleaning woman.

We were a sombre bunch. With the cheesecake and the champagne still on the table, the gathering had the atmosphere of a baby shower full of guests who disliked each other. Brodtmann sensed it too, suddenly ordering us to move to the dining table.

Broad sat at one end and pulled out a notebook. Brodtmann was at the other end, and Pukus and the cop sat down opposite me. I had that uncomfortable job-interview feeling. Brodtmann did the introductions. Dead Eyes was introduced as Conway, the deputy chief commissioner, with loads of experience with kidnapping cases. She received a nod from Brodtmann and leaned in: ‘Stella, what can you tell us?'

‘I was with her last night at her flat. I left around midnight —'

‘I mean, about her whereabouts?'

I was confused. ‘I have no idea where she is.'

Brodtmann and Conway exchanged glances. ‘You see,' Brodtmann said, ‘she has done this kind of thing before. Run off.' His face creased at the edges. ‘The name change, the move to Melbourne. She's always testing me.'

I almost felt sorry for him. He held his torment in check with sudden jerking movements, the squaring of his shoulders, the forward thrust of his chin. What a fucked up family. And I thought the Hardys were defective.

Conroy pulled out her notebook and started jotting. ‘When did you last see her?'

‘Last night, about midnight. We had plans to meet this morning but when I went to her apartment she wasn't home.'

‘Did you go inside her apartment?' Conway said. ‘Do you have a key?'

I coughed. ‘No.'

‘And her mobile, do you have the number?'

‘Yes.' I looked in my bag for my phone. ‘Oh shit, sorry. It's on the charger.'

‘Do you know if she had more than one mobile?' Conway asked.

‘Has,' said Brodtmann quietly.

Conway flushed to her grey roots.

‘She might,' I said. ‘I don't know.'

‘Is there anything else you can think of — anything at all? Any friends she mentioned?'

‘Not really.'

Pukus gave Brodtmann a look of regret, as though apologising for my inadequacies. Hateful man. Only I was allowed to do that. So I did. ‘Look, I'm sorry but I really don't know her that well —'

Brodtmann mulled over that information by jutting his chin out further. ‘I see.'

‘She'll turn up,' Pukus said suddenly.

From the look of disgust on Brodtmann's face, I gathered he didn't appreciate such glib assurance.

Crystal went to Brodtmann and took his hands. ‘She is getting attention.' He did a slow nod, apparently unconvinced.

Conway ripped a page from her notebook and passed it to me. ‘If you think of anything or hear from Nina, this is my direct number.'

‘Will do.'

Crystal stood. ‘I regret you must all please excuse us. We get ready for tonight.'