Good Money (25 page)

The problem, as I saw it, was that I was always doing things for other people. In the process, I'd been hung out to dry. It was time to focus on myself. On my own affairs. Not men. Not smart-arse little girls. Not sick bastards with tins of petrol wondering the halls of the Flemington Housing Commission with nothing better to do. Not craven politicians. Not crazy-arse billionaires.

I drank my tea and focused on myself. The overwhelming sensation I felt was the heaviness of my body in the chair.

Better to focus on Tania. The last time we spoke she had promised me the mythical Golden Trifecta — gorgeousness, in fact — at her salon in Knifepoint. If I went to her salon, I could freshen up
and
ask her colleagues about Jimmy. I stood to go. Onwards, I thought, to Knifepoint — and into the fires of Mount Doom.

26

I ENTERED
the muzak-filled acres of consumption-land and located Tania's salon on the touch-screen map at the entrance. On the way there, I passed Peppermint Sherbet, a hairdressing salon decorated with enough mirror balls to double as a discotheque after-hours, where I made an appointment for a trim, and continued on my way. Superlative Skin Sensations was fitted out with crystal chandeliers and swathes of black tulle. A series of curtained-off cubicles at the back were where, I supposed, the miracles happened. I surveyed the young beauticians as they stood around chatting among themselves, all made-up and shiny in their medical-looking white jackets. I approached a girl sitting behind a glass desk. She looked me over dismissively.

‘Any chance of a triple golden?' I asked.

‘A gold triple,' she corrected me and paused for the duration of a disdainful sigh. ‘We're fully booked.' She was the one I'd spoken to on the phone. Another girl, who had been looking into a mirror and tweezering stray hairs from her eyebrow, came over. ‘I have half an hour before my next client.'

The girl behind the desk looked doubtful. ‘You sure, Sophie?'

Sophie looked at me and nodded. ‘A mini-facial. No worries.' She guided me towards one of the rooms. ‘It's not the gold, but you'll love it.'

I climbed onto the narrow massage table and under a pre-warmed doona — that part was kind of nice. I was about to doze off, when Sophie said, ‘Where did you hear about our famous gold triple?'

‘From Tania. I had an appointment for Friday but she didn't show. Where do you think she's got to?'

‘Honestly, when she didn't come to work, we all just thought she was sick. But now everyone's saying she's, like, missing.'

‘Do you think she's gone back to WA?'

Sophie put a hairnet over my hair and started slathering cream on my face. ‘Doubt it.'

‘Why?'

‘Because of her work, and because her family are there.'

‘Her family are … difficult?'

‘Very. That's why she came to Melbourne all on her own. Her family are so mean to her. She had to get away. You know her stepmother came in here last week?' She wiped the cream off me with a damp sponge.

‘No, Tania's never mentioned her.'

‘It was, like, totally random,' she said. ‘And she was such a bitch.'

‘Really?' More cream on.

‘Right in front of a client — calling her a scheming so-and-so.'

‘Tania? Scheming?'

‘I know! As if, right? And she was, like, “whatevs!”' Cream off.

‘Good for her,' I said.

‘Totally. And her step-mum's hair was so dry. All that money and she hadn't had a treatment in, like, forever.' Different cream on.

‘But what about her friends,' I asked. ‘She left Jimmy behind in Perth, didn't she?'

‘She never mentioned a Jimmy. Is he cute?'

‘Totally.'

‘Well, like I told her, there's plenty of hot guys here.' Cream off. ‘You know, you should consider an eyebrow shape and tint.'

Consider it I did, and at the end of it all, my face glistened like a ripe plum. I gave a ridiculous sum to the snotty cashier, and Sophie wished me good luck. With what, I didn't ask.

Now I headed to Peppermint Sherbet where the colourist coated my medium-brown hair with an ash-brown tint and applied a contrasting colour on strands that had been wrapped in foil. She set the timer and offered me magazines — but I could sit still no longer and spent the time pacing the room in my plastic gown. The problem with going to the hairdresser was all that staring in the mirror. I usually had my hair cut at a blue-rinse place, among pensioners with their curlers under the dryer — without fuss, and cheap.

When at last my colour had ‘taken', the scissor artist cut my hair fully eight centimetres shorter than requested, significantly altering my appearance. I feigned joy and paid for it. Three figures.

At last, after three hours in the shopping bunker, with a clean face and straight silky hair, I emerged, blinking, into the daylight. But it was all so temporary. My hair would, on the next wash, return to its usual state — hair that was conscious, an autonomous and capricious life form.

It wasn't far from Knifepoint to my flat and I decided to walk. I crossed the footbridge and trespassed on the golf course, passed through the driving range, and entered a deserted Union Road. Squally winds tossed a flurry of plastic bags. I looked to the sky and, sure enough, it was thick with ominous storm clouds. Then came the first drops, and I covered my new hairdo with my jacket and hurried home. Once safely upstairs, I listened as the now driving rain beat down on the window. A fire hose could not have saturated my washing more thoroughly.

When it stopped, I went downstairs and put it all back in the machine to wash it again. I checked my watch; there was still two hours before I was due to meet Phuong. I put on my coat, grabbed an umbrella, and headed out.

As the automatic doors of the Ascot Vale public library slid apart, a familiar and reassuring hush greeted me. I took the empty seat at the information desk and waited. A woman wearing a
Rosamund
name-tag pushed her tortoiseshell bifocals down her nose. ‘Can I help you?' She had on a lot of red lipstick.

‘I need information on a company called CC Prospecting, in relation to a Nina Brodtmann.'

Rosamund, her manicured fingers hovering above the computer keyboard, thought for a moment. ‘Company information, business registrations?'

‘Yes, everything you've got if it includes Nina Brodtmann.'

Flurry of finger tapping. ‘Nothing in the ASIC register. I'll try the business journals.' Pause. ‘No. Nothing for that name and CC Prospecting.'

‘Try combining CC Prospecting and Blue Lagoon Corp.'

A short burst of typing. ‘This might be something. The directors of CC Prospecting are on the board of Blue Lagoon Corp.'

There was no rivalry. Tania was not hiding Blue Lagoon Corp information from CC Prospecting, they
were
Blue Lagoon Corp.

Rosamund looked at me, her fingers waiting.

McKechnie said the Brodtmann's were litigious. ‘Try legal cases, all jurisdictions.'

She typed and clicked and typed some more. ‘There're two cases that mention both companies.' She cut and pasted the results onto a Word document and printed it out.

I took the documents to a quiet corner of the library and read. The first was about a contract being invalid for breach of corporations law — something about a quorum of directors. All very dull. My eyelids started to close involuntarily.

I flipped the page. The next case was a matter heard in the Supreme Court of Western Australia. Dated December 2009, the plaintiff was the liquidator of Bailey Range Metals Proprietary Limited. It appeared to be a routine bankruptcy. I studied the company name again: Bailey Range Metals. The other company on the mining report.

I tapped a finger on my lips, pondering. According to the report, the two companies anticipated mining for gold at Mount Percy Sutton in 2008. Then, in late 2009, one of those companies went bankrupt. I wondered what Blue Lagoon Corporation had to do with Bailey Range going into liquidation. My eyes darted across the page, looking for a mention of Blue Lagoon. I found it mentioned in passing as background information — and it was a tale of mining folly.

There had been a formal joint-venture agreement between Bailey Range and Blue Lagoon Corp. The two companies intended to combine their tenements, or mining claims, in a region west of Laverton, WA, looking for gold and sharing the exploration costs.

According to the terms of the joint venture, each company brought something to the arrangement that was of value to the other. Blue Lagoon had a large amount of land under its claim, about twice what Bailey Range had.

Bailey Range contributed tenements, approximately half the total land area of the venture. They also brought about thirty million dollars in capital, as well as permission to explore from the traditional owners. I wasn't sure if permission was hard to get, but against the vast area of land Blue Lagoon had access to, it must have been worth something.

So the two companies had made a deal to work together. So far, so good. Until exploratory drilling found nothing of value and both parties conceded reluctantly that there was insufficient gold to justify any further expensive extraction.

I sat back. Tania's mineral report told them that. If they had read it, it would have saved them a lot of time and money. I checked the dates. The joint venture was signed in December 2008. The report was written in August 2008.

Why did the directors of Bailey Range Metals and Blue Lagoon not know about the lack of gold? Maybe they did. Someone at Blue Lagoon certainly knew — since Tania had their report to that effect.

But a more puzzling question now arose. Since Crystal and Clayton Brodtmann were directors of both CC Prospecting and Blue Lagoon, they must have known there was no gold in the mountain — why, I wondered, would they deliberately set out to fail?

I checked my watch. There remained only fifteen minutes to get to the Station Hotel and see Phuong. I stuffed the documents in my bag and headed for the door. A taxi was turning into Union Road. I stepped from the pavement and waved as it approached. It pulled over and I asked the driver to take me to Footscray. The inscrutable movement of a turban told me he had heard of such a place.

27

PHOUNG WAS
seated on a bar stool and had started without me. She looked ready for a photo-shoot, in a skin-tight mini-dress — long sleeved, floral print — and her hair loose. She raised her champagne flute in greeting. I spied oysters, three missing from a plate of six. I signalled
same for me
to the barman. He put a glass on the bar, filled it and gave it to Phuong. She slid it over to me. ‘Here's to Ashwood's poor judgement.'

‘Have they appointed you a new companion?'

‘We're all friends in the force. One big happy family.'

I must have been thirsty. The champagne disappeared, and almost immediately a comforting wall rose up, separating me from the harsh reality of the day's events. It was a blessed relief.

Phuong glanced at me. ‘That book of Adut's you had — we're still going over it. It's full of names and dates. All little people, but no leads on the Big Banana. No prints we can find, other than yours. It does confirm that Adut Chol was one of a group of young African boys selling ice for Cesarelli.'

I tried an oyster. ‘A group of them?'

‘Yes. They recruit them young and shower these impoverished kids with cash. And we're still trying to figure out the Funsail thing.'

‘Don't ask
me
; I've been trying to work that out. Mrs Chol doesn't know either.'

This information displeased her. ‘Bruce and I have been to see her. Trying to get in touch with Mabor — but it seems he's skipped town. Know anything about that?'

‘No, sorry.'

She frowned. ‘How long have you had that book? You didn't hand it over right away.'

‘These oysters are good. Very fresh.'

Phuong scoffed and crossed her legs; I noted new high-heeled boots. ‘What's with the break-in?'

‘The location of the ice lab. Where Adut collected the merchandise. I have that information.'

A flicker of intent in her eyes. ‘Mabor told you.'

I drank champagne and neither confirmed nor denied.

‘Flemington?'

‘Not Flemington.'

She picked up an oyster shell and passed it to me. ‘Where?'

‘Diggers Rest. A hobby farm.'

‘You don't know exactly?'

‘I've got directions, sort of. Landmarks. Not a street number.'

‘Wait. Cesarelli's dead — is someone else working the place?'

‘Probably. I heard there was other stuff going on at the house.'

‘Like what?'

‘Don't know.' I did the two-handed, two-fingered quotation sign in the air. ‘Bad shit.'

Phuong tapped her lips with the flute. ‘We go there — quick look. If it's a meth lab, we call in the uniforms, say it was an anonymous tip-off, and no names.'