Maralinga (27 page)

He did the rounds of a few bars, drinking a beer or two in each, before moving on to a downstairs club featuring a piano player, where he switched to Scotch.

‘Thank you,' he said to the waitress as she placed his drink on the table.

The club was small and half-empty and he knew the type well. The clientele was male and the staff female,
with the exception of two bouncers lounging in the shadows. Even the bartenders and the piano player were female, and the several women seated at the bar or drinking with the customers would be hostesses. This was a club for lonely men.

The good-looking brunette playing the piano segued from ‘La Vie En Rose' to ‘Tennessee Waltz', and a couple rose from a table to shuffle around the pocketsized dance floor. A customer leaned against the piano pouring the brunette a glass of champagne, and Nick wondered whether the pianist, too, was on the game. Most of the women would be, he was sure.

‘Hello there. Would you like some company?'

He peered up through the atmospheric gloom of the club's lighting into a pretty face surrounded by platinum blonde hair. The lips were full and red, the figure voluptuous, and she appeared vaguely familiar. He hadn't planned on sex, but it suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.

‘Please. Join me. Champagne?' Nick knew the rules. Hostesses at such clubs were paid commission on the cheap sparkling wine that was sold at exorbitant prices under the guise of champagne.

‘Lovely,' she said breathily, and she sat.

‘What's your name?'

She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Marilyn.'

Of course, he thought.

Marilyn turned out to be fun. ‘You're a military man, aren't you?'

‘How can you tell?'

‘Easy. I always know. It's the body language. I'm a singer myself.'

‘Really? Where do you sing?'

‘Here.'

Five minutes later, the pianist beckoned her over.

‘Do you mind if I take Bella some champagne?' she asked, picking up the bottle and her own full glass.

‘Of course not.' He smiled. ‘I'll get us another one, shall I?'

‘Lovely.'

As she crossed to the piano, he signalled the waitress. The previous bottle would go missing, and Marilyn would probably empty her glass into the lavatory or whatever else the girls did to get rid of the stuff – it was all part of the game. This was how the club made its money.

The rendition of ‘Baby It's Cold Outside', which Marilyn sang as a duet with the pianist, was pure Monroe in every sense. From the breathy tone to the heavy-lidded eyes, the pout and the wiggle of the hips, Marilyn had her namesake to a tee.

‘Sentimental Journey' followed in exactly the same vein, and then she returned to the table.

He applauded her as she sat. ‘Excellent,' he said, and she beamed.

He poured her a wine from the fresh bottle the waitress had delivered.

‘I'm sorry, I seem to have lost my glass,' she said.

‘No matter, the girl brought you another one.' He toasted her with his Scotch. ‘You're a very good singer,' he said. Presuming she wished to be perceived as original, he carefully avoided any reference to Marilyn Monroe.

‘You'll like the next songs even more,' she promised. ‘They're my specialty.'

The next songs turned out to be ‘Diamonds are
a Girl's Best Friend' and ‘The River of No Return'. There was obviously no need to avoid the subject of Marilyn.

‘She's my idol. I based myself on her.'

‘Yes, I had noticed the similarity.'

A breathy laugh of delight.

They talked and drank, and then they danced, and he bought her supper, and then they talked some more, or rather Marilyn did. She was an excellent conversationalist. It was her job, she said. First and foremost she was a singer, but she was also expected to entertain the customers. It would hardly be fair, would it, to scoff the food and champagne and not offer some form of conversation? She believed in giving good value for money. Marilyn's honesty was disarming. She was really Edie Smith from Mount Barker, she told him, but for show business purposes she'd decided to become Marilyn. ‘I'm so good at it now that Marilyn's taken over and I've forgotten who Edie Smith is,' she said with another breathy laugh.

She was intriguing and amusing and Nick was enjoying her company. He looked forward to the sex, but for the moment her presence was enough. He'd missed being with a woman.

Nick Stratton had made it a rule to avoid the complications of relationships. He'd come close only once to marriage. He'd been stationed in Seoul, and she'd been a cipher clerk in the intelligence unit of the US army, a captain by rank. Theirs had been a passionate affair. He'd wanted very much to marry Jennifer, or so he'd thought at the time. But, as it had turned out, they'd proved too alike. ‘Face it, Nick,'
Jenny had said, ‘we're both married to the army.' She'd refused to give up her career and, when the war was over, she'd returned to America. Nick was rather grateful for the fact now. He'd had the odd casual affair since then, but for the most part he was happy to keep his sexual liaisons on a cash basis. He found it simplified things.

‘Do you want to come back to my hotel, Marilyn?' he asked as she finished the last of her crème caramel. The supper had run to three courses.

‘My place would be better,' she said, ‘it's not very far.'

‘Fine.' He pulled out his wallet, about to settle the bill.

‘I can't leave yet though. I have another bracket.' She smiled apologetically. ‘Is midnight all right?'

He looked at his watch – an hour to go. Of course, he thought, it would be a house rule that the girls stayed until midnight, ensuring the management sold its quota of suppers and champagne. It also explained why the place had suddenly become busy. Men purely after sex had only one hour of club prices before leaving with the girl of their choice.

‘Sure,' he said. ‘Shall I get another bottle?'

‘Lovely.'

In the taxi on the way to her nearby flat, she kissed him, sensually, provocatively, a promise of what was to come, and Nick was instantly aroused. It had been a long time.

As they undressed each other, he saw in the light of the bedside lamp that she was a good deal older than she'd appeared in the club – late thirties, certainly. Not that it turned out to matter at all. The sex was
excellent. Just as Marilyn gave good value at supper, so she also gave good value in bed.

But when it was over, Nick realised they hadn't discussed what that value was. She hadn't quoted him a price, and he'd stupidly not asked. He lay looking up at the ceiling for a moment or so, recovering his breath, while she lay panting beside him. She had probably faked her orgasm, he thought, but if so she was a very good actress. He could have sworn her passion was real, which had made the experience so much more enjoyable.

‘Oh, that was
so good
,' she said, stretching luxuriantly and sounding for all the world as though she meant it.

‘It certainly was,' he agreed.

He climbed from the bed and started to dress. Discussing business was always more comfortable with one's clothes on.

She sat up, the sheet demurely clutched about her breasts, and watched him.

‘Thank you for the supper and champagne,' she said. ‘I enjoyed your company very much. I really did.'

‘The feeling's mutual.'

It was as if they'd been out on a date, he thought. She was making it very difficult for him to ask
how much
. Easier to leave a present, he decided – he'd met women before who preferred to ignore any form of transaction had taken place. He took a ten-pound note from his wallet and slid it tastefully under the statuette of the ballerina that sat on the mantelpiece. He expected her to pretend not to notice, but she didn't pretend at all.

‘How generous,' she said, as if it was the most unexpected gift in the world. ‘Thank you,' and she blew him a kiss.

‘My pleasure. Bye, Marilyn.'

As Nick left, he was vaguely aware that the evening had cost him close to a week's wages, but for some strange reason he didn't feel as if he'd been taken advantage of.

Edie Smith from Mount Barker played the game her own way. She vetted her clients with great care. Sometimes she told them an element of truth, as she had tonight, and sometimes she invented a whole new tale to keep a customer entertained throughout supper. But she only ever went home with those she considered gentlemen, and preferably gentlemen she fancied – she enjoyed sex. Edie was content with her singer's wage and club commission, she wasn't interested in chasing a trick a night. And she never quoted a price because there was no need. The standard ‘short time' rate most of the girls at the club charged was five pounds, and her gentlemen invariably came up with twice that amount. She considered it extremely generous on top of the outlay they'd made on champagne and supper. But Edie knew she was worth it. She'd given excellent value for money. They'd scored Marilyn Monroe, no less.

Back at the hotel, Nick managed four hours' sleep before showering and catching a taxi to the airport. He felt a little seedy after too many Scotches, it was true, but he also felt a whole lot better.

 

Around the same time Nick's taxi arrived at the airport, Gideon Melbray and his team pulled up at
Watson railway station. They'd left Maralinga before dawn to meet the train delivery that was due early that morning.

Gideon climbed out from the passenger side, ostensibly to stretch his legs, but really to escape the young private who'd been driving the Land Rover. He wished the transport corps had supplied him with Daniel. For God's sake, he thought, it's too early in the morning – doesn't this boy ever shut up?

Nineteen-year-old Toby also climbed out – still chatting away in his thick Manchester accent, but Gideon ignored him. Behind them, the two Bedford trucks pulled up and Gideon gave them a wave. He couldn't wait to be relieved of Toby's relentless company.

‘Do you have any toilet paper?' As it turned out, Toby was seeking relief of his own – although even a lavatory break seemed to warrant a chat. ‘I should have gone at the barracks before we left,' he said, ‘but I didn't feel the urge.' He caught the roll of toilet paper Gideon tossed to him. ‘And I didn't want to cause any delay, what with the convoy and all –'

‘Shovel's in the back,' Gideon said.

Toby hefted out the shovel and slung it over his shoulder. ‘I shan't be long,' he said and he headed off towards the clump of trees 100 yards or so away.

‘Take your time.' Gideon called after him.

Barely twenty yards from the trees, Toby faltered. He was sure he could hear growling up ahead – low, threatening growls coming from the mallee grove. Then he saw the animal emerge, a big, rangy, mangy, yellow roo dog – one of the fettlers' beasts. It trotted clear of the trees with what appeared to be a
hambone in its mouth and, just ten yards from him, settled down to gnaw at it. But as Toby watched the animal warily, he noticed that it wasn't a hambone at all. It was a human forearm, complete with wristwatch.

He dropped the shovel. The bile rose in his throat, his whole stomach heaved, and seconds later his breakfast lay spewed on the ground. Then he was running back towards the convoy, yelling and gesticulating wildly. ‘Oy! Oy!'

The men turned to see the gawky lad from Manchester bearing down on them, arms flailing ridiculously like a demented bird, the forgotten roll of toilet paper still in his hand. What the hell had happened?

Gideon beckoned to one of the soldiers and together they raced to meet him. If it was a case of snakebite then the boy was mad to run like that – it would only pump the venom more quickly through his system. But they quickly realised it wasn't a case of snake-bite. Toby was babbling something about a human arm and a dog, and he was pointing back where he'd come from.

They could see the dog. Gideon told Toby to return to the convoy, and he and the soldier went forward to investigate. Sure enough, it was true. The dog was chewing on a human arm. The limb was white and in the early stages of decomposition, but Gideon was pretty sure he knew whose arm it was.

Beside him, the soldier gestured towards the trees up ahead, and Gideon nodded. He, too, could hear the sound of growling. He picked up the shovel and held it at the ready as they walked towards the grove of mallee trees.

The sight that greeted them was a gruesome one. Three roo dogs were feeding on the remains of a human corpse. Dingoes had exposed a shallow grave during the night, and in the early hours of the morning the dogs had picked up the scent and come in for their share. The animals were displaying little aggression towards one another – the growls were more a warning to outsiders. A clearly established pecking order existed amongst the fettlers' dogs, and each knew its place. The pack leader was feeding on the carcass at the graveside, and the two subordinates were well clear, with a limb apiece.

The dogs didn't appear to find the humans a threat, or perhaps they were too distracted. The leader of the pack growled as Gideon walked forward to look at the grave, but it was merely a warning not to touch the carcass. Gideon had no intention of doing so. Between the dingoes and the dogs, what was left of the body was barely recognisable as human, but the animals had shown little interest in the head. And the head remained distinctly that of Pete Mitchell.

So Harry Lampton did murder him, Gideon thought. In the eight days since Pete's disappearance, Gideon had pondered the matter and only two scenarios had sprung to mind. Either Pete had run off with Ada, who'd been conspicuously absent of late, or Harry had found out about the affair and killed them. It seemed the latter was the case, although there was no sign of Ada's body – perhaps she'd been spared.

Gideon hadn't bothered to share his suspicions with the military police – he hadn't even mentioned Ada's name. He had no desire to become embroiled in a police enquiry. Now, however, with Pete Mitchell
being rapidly devoured by roo dogs, it appeared unavoidable.