Good Money (8 page)

All this luxe made me wonder what a beauty therapist earned these days. Clearly, the community sector had some catching up to do. Of course, you didn't do it for the money. There was the opportunity to rub shoulders with grinding poverty and self-defeating behaviour. Unfortunately however, every now and then, you did come across some truly dreadful people: the bureaucrats and politicians passing through for photo ops. Truth be told, as far as my clients were concerned, money, or the lack of it, wasn't the number-one issue. The divisions were deepest in values, attitudes, clothes. The law courts were a good place to see that. The lawyers were all dark suits and business shoes and the accused was in his best hoodie. His friends and family showed up in trackpants — worn low — T-shirts with obscenities on them, football guernseys, a certain style of sports leisure-wear, the mere sight of which unnerved the more genteel middleclass. Only the deluded could say Australia was classless.

By now, Ben was going through her cupboards. ‘Hey, this chick's loaded. Laptop, iPod, camera, phones —'

‘Leave things alone, can't you?'

‘An iPad.'

‘Show me.' I poked my head in the cupboard. On a bottom shelf was a brand new iPad, still in the box. Next to it was a digital SLR camera, also new. I couldn't quite tally this place with Tania the naive, nervous Nellie.

Ben had moved on to some drawers. ‘Wow.' He held up a bundle of envelopes. ‘Someone likes writing letters.'

I rolled my eyes; he had the IQ of an amoeba.

‘Fortynucks —'

‘Give those to me.' Business-size envelopes — the top left-hand corner:
Faurtinaux Bath
, the address was a post-office box in Perth. The typed addressee on the front:
Miss Nina J. Brodtmann
, and some address in Cottesloe. I'd never been to WA and I didn't know much about the place, but I knew Cottesloe was the well-to-do part of Perth. Alan Bond lived there.

I checked the bathroom and the toilet. No unconscious Tania. I went to her bedroom, and found no one in there. Her wardrobe was equal in size to mine, built-in, and with two doors. But compared to my dull, monochrome work wear, Tania's wardrobe was a silky, glittering, sequinned, leopard-skinned, and shining gold mess. There was no dead body in among the sparkles though. I even checked under the bed. Nothing, no one.

Back in the lounge room, I noticed her coffee table had drawers, and one of the drawers was open and was empty. I checked the others: one had more bundles of letters, pens, small writing pads — all with the same Faurtinaux Bath swirl. There were a couple of business cards in there too: one for a security-door firm, a taxi service, and one for a
Vince McKechnie, Fairfax Media journalist
. In the another drawer, I found a packet of incense, nail clippers, a remote control, a USB drive, DVDs in plastic sleeves, and the WA licence of Nina Brodtmann with a photo of Tania's not-smiling face.

‘Look,' I said, showing Ben the licence. ‘That's her … but her name's not Nina Brodtmann.'

‘Interesting,' Ben said, flipping through a pile of CDs. ‘Did you know she had all this gear?'

‘No, I didn't.'

Brodtmann. I tried to remember where I'd heard that name before. I tried snapping my fingers, but it failed to jog my memory. Was it the name of a celebrity, perhaps? Then it came to me, someone with that name had been at the opening of the Crouching Tiger restaurant, in a photo with the South African bloke in the funny hat.
Prominent Perth socialite Clayton Brodtmann and his wife Crystal
. Could those people be Tania's parents? It would explain the money. I looked at the Blackman on the wall. It probably
was
an original.

Now Ben was into her kitchen cupboards, inspecting the pantry. ‘Whoa, she's got scotch, tequila, vodka.' He showed me a bottle of French cognac. ‘What does she do again?'

‘Beauty therapist.'

‘Jesus. Might take that up myself.'

‘Let's go.'

‘Do your nails, Mrs Hardy? Fancy a facial?'

‘It's
Ms
Hardy and no, at least not from you. Now, let's go.'

‘You going out the front door?'

‘Yes. Why?'

‘I'll make sure it's all clear.'

‘Good one, Ben.' And for the first time ever, I was not being sarcastic. Brown Cardigan needed no encouragement to create rumours of my misdeeds. I waited while Ben looked through the peephole. On the sideboard by the door was Tania's handbag.

‘All clear.'

‘Just a sec.' I pulled the zip back. Phone. Make-up. Wallet. Keys.

‘Come on, Stella.' Ben grabbed my arm and marched me out of there. Once inside my flat, Ben paced the room. Nothing like a little breaking and entering to get the juices flowing. ‘She's been abducted,' he said.

I had reached a similar conclusion. I hadn't said the word, hadn't allowed myself to think it, but the idea was there, and it stirred dread in my heart like a sacred truth. ‘That's bullshit. You have an excessive imagination.'

‘She has a fake name. Why?' he demanded.

‘Wants to get some distance from her family.' It was a choice I could relate to.

‘So where is she?'

‘Maybe she went to the wine bar on Union Road and met someone.'

‘We both saw her handbag. Why would she go to a wine bar without her handbag?'

‘Let's google the new name, real name, whatever — Nina Brodtmann.'

I set up my laptop at the kitchen table and Ben pulled up a chair. I started pressing keys, searching for an unsecured network.
Deathcult245, De-LINK888, Donteventhinkaboutit, Furphy
. Furphy aka Brown Cardigan had wireless, no password required. Network strength: very good.

Nina Brodtmann had made the papers. Celebrity news. She was the youngest child of Clayton and Juliana Brodtmann. Juliana died in 2002 and Clayton had married Crystal Watt in 2003. In the wedding photos, the new wife was a skank with a horsey face, dark around the eyes, fake-tanned the colour of baby poo, breasts that hung in mid-air, and eyelashes like a child's drawing. The gown cost more than I earned in a year. Three years.

‘They're rich,' Ben said in awe.

I clicked on
Clayton
and followed the Brodtmann links. He went to Sydney University, was a member of the Castleburn Grammar old boys club … pro bono work for Sri Lankan refugees … had attended a fundraiser for the Cancer Council. One of the grainy photos had a familiar face. It was taken, judging from the foppish haircuts and pirate shirts, in the eighties. They both had goofy grins. Caption:
Clayton Brodtmann and Finchley Price
in the Sydney University Law Review.
And he had been a senior partner at Faurtinaux Bath. Faurtinaux Bath was your average mid-sized law firm, based in Perth; specialising in corporate law, taxation, competition, and regulatory law. Offices in Singapore, Beijing, and Tokyo. Since leaving, he and Crystal had set up numerous enterprises including CC Prospecting, a mining company with assets over three billion dollars.

‘I never thought I'd say this,' Ben said. ‘But it's time to get the cops involved.'

I was thinking the same thing. ‘You want to call? Anonymously?'

‘What? No. Are you crazy? Tell that friend of yours. What's her name — Phuong?'

‘Tell Phuong?' After she dismissed my concerns about Mabor? It was almost 1.00pm. Phuong was probably already downstairs. Damn, I didn't have time to change into something more professional-looking.

‘Where's that copy of the
Herald Sun
you were reading?'

He pointed to the sofa. I flicked through to the
EYE ON THE GLITERATI
pages, found the article and tore it out. Then I put on my coat. ‘I'm going to see Phuong.'

‘Bout time,' Ben said.

As I opened the door, I noticed, with a heavy heart, a red blink on my landline phone. She must have called while we were in Tania's flat. I hit
play
.

It's Mum, love. Tyler's fortieth birthday's this weekend. I'm having a little get together for him here at the farm. Making that casserole you like, and a sponge. By the way, that Shane Farquar's been ringing up here leaving messages, saying things.

Ben was laughing. ‘Dodged a bullet there, Stella.'

8

PHUONG ROCKED
up in an unmarked Commodore she'd wangled from the Victoria Police maintenance garage. I hopped in and we fanged out of there. Soon, we were merging into the westbound traffic on the toll flyover and navigating the bewildering weave of highway ribbons. Make a wrong turn, hesitate for a nanosecond, and you could find yourself in Geelong or Bendigo, or back where you started. But Phuong was up to the task, and we threaded the concrete needle, an architectural hoax, unyielding and sculptural like a Playtex bra — for lifting and separating lanes — then she sped onto the bridge like those deep-fried spicy ribs would not wait.

As she passed a thundering P-plater in a ute — we had to be going over a hundred and thirty — she was chatting away. ‘So Ben showed up, did he? How is he, what's he doing?' I held the side of my seat belt and concentrated on my breathing. At the Footscray Road turn-off, Phuong slowed to a hundred. I unclenched my every muscle and silently thanked whatever God it was that had allowed me to live to see another day.

In a lane off Hopkins Street, she parked, with two wheels on the footpath.

‘Very narrow street; this is better,' Phuong said. ‘Safer.'

‘Pretty certain for a Buddhist. Where's the doubt? The reticence?'

She ignored me, and the many misdemeanours happening around us, like the enterprising teenager exchanging goods for money on the corner.

Footscray was busy — and deliciousness was in the air. That's when I twigged we were headed for Thien An, on Irving Avenue. As the aromas became stronger, I developed sudden, frenzied cravings:
must eat … sugarcane prawn … fried noodle … must have … shaken beef on rice.
We took a table and I studied the menu. The place was packed, and everyone was shouting to be heard over the cheesy love song on the PA and the industrial kitchen machinery being used at high revs out the back. When the guy came with the thermos of jasmine tea and the little cups, Phuong ordered in rapid Vietnamese without bothering to consult me. We were back, baby.
Old times.

‘I need to ask you about a police thing.'

‘Another police thing?' She poured out the tea. ‘What did you overhear now?'

I looked at her without speaking.

‘What?'

I said, ‘Well, just now I overheard my friend being a total bitch.'

Phuong had the decency to look chastened. ‘I regret that remark.'

As apologies went, it was pathetic, but I moved on. ‘It's about my neighbour, in the flat across the landing; a young woman living on her own. We were supposed to meet today and she didn't show. She didn't go to work. She's not answering her phone. She's not at home. I'm worried.'

‘When was she last seen?'

‘Last night — I left her place around midnight.'

She lowered her cup and put an elbow on the table, rested her chin on her thumb. ‘Did you hear anything?'

‘No. Look, I know it's too soon for an APB or whatever you do. But — and I only just found this out — she's been using a different name.'

She dug in her bag and pulled out an iPad. ‘Give me all the details. Is she a client?'

‘No.'

‘An unofficial one, one of your rescue jobs?'

‘Jesus, why does everyone keep saying that?'

‘Who's “everyone”?'

‘No one.'

‘Ninety per cent of the time they turn up.'

‘It's out of character.'

‘Character is an illusion; at the centre of all beings is
shunyata
, the void. There is no abiding self.'

‘I don't know when you became so supercilious, but that's twice now that you've dismissed my concerns. While you're making Zen jokes, Tania is God-knows-where.'

Phuong raised her eyebrows. ‘Stella, I'm trying to take you seriously but you do have a tendency to overreact sometimes.'

‘What? Is it too soon? How long does a person have to be missing, for fuck's sake?'

‘There's no waiting period. You can report a missing person as soon as you think there's cause for concern.'

‘There is.'

Phuong frowned. ‘Was she in danger?'

‘How would I know? Maybe.'

‘Where's she from again?'

‘Perth. And what about the name change? Her real name is Nina Brodtmann.'

Phuong pecked this information into the screen.

A waitress came from the kitchen with a plate held high. We eyed it reverently until it was in front of us, a pile of crispy, golden chicken pieces on a bed of lettuce and fried noodles, smothered in salt, oil, chilli — in short, the heroin of food. More plates arrived: broken rice with shredded pork, a platter of seafood, and assorted tasty morsels. We'd never eat it all — but we'd die trying. We transferred portions to our little bowls. I abandoned the chopsticks and used a fork, for improved face-stuffing results. Eventually, I came up for air and patted my lips with a napkin. I cleared my throat. ‘This is confidential, okay?'