The solicitor, Harvey, finally rang him at home. It was late in the afternoon, the sea breeze waving a steamy towel over Coral Shoals, the excited squeals of young children on a day at the beach giving way to stifled yawns and the dull throb of departing vehicles.
‘Is there any chance I can see him?’ Blake had been noodling on his guitar the last two hours, waiting for this.
‘No chance. I’m the only one the police will let within a bull’s roar and believe me, they wish they could keep me away too. He’s been charged with wilful murder. Tomorrow they are going to move him out of remand.’
‘What’s he say about talking to Stokes?’
Now that Crane had seen a photo of her, he was able to vaguely recall chatting to a young woman who may have been her, out the back of the club after his set. She seemed to be looking for somebody. He asked if he could help and she looked horrified. Crane couldn’t give an exact time but thought it might have been after one of the dance heats. He seemed to think there were people coming and going. One of these, Harvey believed, must be the witness. Crane confirmed too that at any time on his way to or from his gig he might have put his hand on any number of the cars in the carpark. When Harvey had shown him the vehicle Stokes had been driving, he took a long time thinking about it. Eventually he had said he was pretty sure intercourse had been taking place in the car.
‘He saw shapes in a car like that and then a French letter tossed from the window.’
That rang a bell, cleaning up the next day.
‘You asked him if he recognised anybody?’
‘Of course. All he saw were outlines. But it’s good. He swears there is no way his prints can be inside the car. We can establish that even if his fingerprint is on the outside of the car, there are other, I assume, unidentified prints inside the car. I asked him if there was anybody else around at this time. He couldn’t recall but he did say your yardman was going to and fro at various times of the night. Can we speak to him?’
Blake explained the situation.
‘That’s too bad. Obviously, if he regains consciousness …’
Blake assured Harvey he would be right onto it. He ran through what he’d found out.
‘You’re good at this, Saunders. Did you get pictures of the hut and the bush?’
Not that good. He admitted he had not.
‘Probably doesn’t matter. They’ll just say it happened some other time.’
Harvey was able to clarify a few other things. The police had found traces of blood, the type matching Stokes’, in the shower fittings and drain and a towel. This led them to believe the killer had showered after the murder. They had also found a knife at the scene but, he was guessing, no fingerprints.
‘If they had prints they’d be laughing at me. You ever known Crane to carry a knife?’
Reluctantly he had to say yes.
‘Couple of months ago some hoons were giving him a hard time. He was looking out for himself.’
‘Crane told me about that. Unfortunately he waved the knife at the little wankers and when they found out he’d been arrested, they contacted the cops.’
‘Doesn’t mean it’s the same knife.’
‘Of course not, but by the time the cops finish with them, the kids will have remembered it as being just like the one that killed Stokes.’
It was as if a concrete block had been dropped from a great height onto what had been a little bud of hope, squashing it flat. Blake scraped together what he could, tried to shape something from what he’d heard and seen. After all, he had more experience of violent death than likely anybody involved in the case, the cops included.
He said, ‘You know there was vomit out front?’
Harvey was aware of this but hadn’t seen any significance.
‘I guess they killed in a frenzy, saw what they’d done.’
Blake explained what jarred. ‘Well, the killer slashes her, showers and redresses, then goes outside and vomits? That doesn’t sound like the right order. Or why not vomit in the bathroom? Maybe there was somebody else there.’
‘And they were the one who vomited?’ Harvey conceded it made sense but wasn’t sure how that advanced them. ‘What we need is an alibi for Crane or somebody else in the frame. Crane doesn’t recall seeing anybody or anybody seeing him after he left the Surf Shack and headed inland, so that’s not a lot of help.’
‘What about the truck driver he says gave him a lift?’
‘Even if we find him — and that’s a big if — it’s too late in the timeline to help. Although, if we could establish that Crane was wearing the same clothes with no blood on them, that might assist us. On the other hand, after his tumble, if he was bleeding a little, the Crown will make a couple of spots of blood sound like a giant pool. It could backfire. We have to tread carefully. If the police found fingerprints in that car other than those of Stokes or her boyfriend, that’s a positive.’
Blake said, ‘I aim to find out where Stokes was from Monday evening till Thursday.’
Harvey agreed that would be extremely helpful. Blake ran his theory about some former client of Stokes paying her to spend some time with him.
Harvey was sceptical. ‘It’s a long shot but you never know. You’d have to go to Sydney, try and find somebody who knew her back then.’
As if he hadn’t already figured that.
Harvey wished him luck, asked to be kept informed.
‘So what are his chances you think?’
‘Better than they were. Just because he was talking to the girl means nothing. Especially if his prints aren’t inside the car and others are. But don’t get your hopes up. A case like this, the public wants to believe the killer has been caught and the police want to believe it too. Vernon is no dummy, he’ll be looking into Crane’s background. Any little slip-up, like the knife, will be magnified. I’ll send you a copy of my file with the police reports and photos. You never know, something might click.’
He wasn’t long off the phone to Harvey when it rang again. It was Doreen and she was excited.
‘Andy’s conscious.’
By the time he got to the hospital, Andy had drifted off to sleep again but he wasn’t covered in tubes or anything except a bandage around his head. He looked like normal Andy, sleeping. Doreen was lit up like the big Christmas tree in New York he and Jimmy had once seen. She was truly beautiful. He wished he could have taken her on his arm for a stroll down South Street. Jimmy would have been impressed.
‘He smiled at me, squeezed my hand, managed to say my name, but he was a bit out to it. The doctor said that’s the drugs.’
‘Andy say anything else?’
‘One other thing: Audrey.’
Shit. That was something he would have to take care of. Only then he noticed his vase had been replaced by a proper goldfish bowl, the fish still swimming.
‘Where did the bowl come from?’
‘I worked an arrangement with an orderly. I’m guessing that the vase was you.’ She had a smile on her lips. He owned up.
‘The other night. So he’s going to be alright?’
‘They say he’s not going to need a plate or anything else. Once they reduce the drugs in his system, he’ll able to hold a proper conversation but he shouldn’t work for a few weeks.’
‘Of course not.’
What he wanted to do was seize her and kiss her, not like with a girlfriend — although maybe there was a bit of that too — but because it just seemed right. He did nothing at all. All of a sudden it felt awkward.
‘What about the family?’
‘I left a message with a neighbour.’
‘I’m driving to Sydney,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘That’s a bad road at night.’
‘I’ll take it easy. There’s things I have to check out.’ He told her about his conversation with Harvey. He nodded at Andy. ‘He might have seen something. Everybody forgot about Andy but he was there all the time.’
‘The doctor said he might not remember anything about the attack or even days before.’
‘I know. But he might.’
After the hospital, he had one more visit to make. Nalder had been eating steak. He had a napkin stained with worcester sauce tucked into his shirt. He wasn’t happy to have Blake knocking on his door.
‘You shouldn’t come here.’
‘It would be weird if I didn’t.’ He told him about Andy.
‘Well if he can identify the men who beat him up, I promise I’ll do something.’
‘That’s not why I’m here. I’m going to Sydney.’
‘To help Crane? You’ve got rocks in your head.’
‘Stokes worked as a hooker. I think maybe she had some special customer, could be our guy, or at least could help if she spent time with him.’
‘What do you want from me? And make it quick, my mashed potato is getting cold.’
‘I need somebody who can tell me where she worked, who her friends were.’
Nalder picked steak from a tooth. ‘There’s a Vice cop I know down there, might not be averse to earning an extra quid or two.’
Detective Sergeant Ray Shearer had shoulders like axe handles, heavy hands. One look told Blake he was vastly more dangerous than the weak punks who’d beat up Andy. Blake had already folded seven pounds into a wad in his palm and when they shook hands Shearer transferred these to his own with practised ease.
They were in a small dining room adjoining a cramped bar somewhere in the Cross. After driving for around five hours, Blake had reached Newcastle near midnight. There he slept on the beach like he had when he’d first arrived in the country. He’d cruised to Sydney, called into the Kings Cross police station and met Shearer, who had suggested a lunch meet at the pub.
‘What’s a septic tank doing up in Boomer’s patch?’ Shearer didn’t bother to check the notes he slipped into his jacket.
‘Surfing, running a bar.’
‘Half your luck. How is the bastard?’
Their earlier meeting that day had been succinct. Blake had established that Nalder had been known as Boomer in his younger days, that he had played rugby with Shearer, and that for seven pounds Shearer would find out what he could about Valerie Stokes, her criminal record and associates.
‘He’s like the sheriff up there.’
Shearer chuckled. The waitress arrived with their food. Shearer winked at her, began sawing meat.
‘This bird, Val Stokes, got done in.’
It was a statement. Blake hadn’t told him that.
‘That’s right.’
‘And you want this information why?’
If he told the truth, Shearer might shut up shop. But what choice did he have?
‘They’ve arrested a guy I know. I think he’s innocent.’
‘The drifter?’
‘He’s not really a drifter.’
Shearer added copious salt and waved his hand. ‘I don’t give a stuff. Vernon and Apollonia have tags on themselves. Always strutting around, “We’re big Homicide D’s”.’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Valerie Stokes’ charge sheet. I’ll be honest, I didn’t remember her, don’t think she was in the game long. Worked at one of George Shaloub’s brothels.’
Blake scanned the sheet. There was a perfunctory arrest report. Not much to go on.
‘How do I get to Shaloub?’
‘You don’t.’ As if he knew Blake was going to argue, he held up a warning palm. ‘Please, trust me on this.’
Blake understood: Shaloub was some kind of Aussie mob boss.
‘So what do I do?’
Shearer ate some more, chewed thoroughly. There was a neatness and efficiency about him.
‘I’ve made some enquiries on your behalf. Shaloub’s bodyguard is a giant, name of Granite. Granite’s no professor but he remembers absolutely every piece of tail ever set foot in the Cross. He remembers Stokes. He says you should speak to a girl called Jill. She’s still on the game but she and Val Stokes used to room together. I’ve written the address on the back. She doesn’t start work till two.’
Blake said he didn’t want to seem rude but he wouldn’t stay, he wanted to get onto it straight away. Shearer told him no offence was taken.
‘Tell Boomer I might pay him a visit one day. Thanks for lunch.’
Perhaps this was a mistake, a waste of time and effort. Perhaps he should have let it go, left it to Harvey to get it right. But he couldn’t, just the same as he couldn’t turn the other cheek when those bozos smashed up Andy. Crane was his responsibility, that’s the way he figured it, same as Jimmy had been, and he’d let him down, right, Jimmy? He did not deserve any of this: playing his guitar in his own bar with a beautiful woman like Doreen working alongside him, surfing in the crystal ocean, watching the sun rise like a gold coin over a sheet of pure silver. He’d suspected all along it hadn’t just been gifted to him, that there must be more to it, some fine print like on a winning lottery ticket. This was the fine print. You have to help those who cannot help themselves, you have to protect and serve those who serve you. Maybe it wouldn’t stop with Crane, maybe there would be another hurdle he had to clear.
The address Shearer gave him was half-a-dozen blocks away, downhill in a cramped quarter of apartments and old triple-storey terraces where damp washing was strung on lines and the road suffered from acne. After following directions from a woman with a scarf knotted over her head, he found himself in a minute kitchen at a tiny table beside a caged mechanical canary. Jill wrangled a kettle on a gas cooker, Viscount between her lips, a housecoat with Chinese blossoms. Her brown hair ran wild like the bracken around the back of Carol’s house. He put her age at thirty, give or take.
‘Can’t believe it.’ She poured hot water into an aluminium teapot, closed it up, shook it around. ‘Stabbed?’
‘Brutally. Sorry.’
She sighed, continue to motion the pot.
‘Can you think of anybody who might have hated her …?’
She looked up sharply. ‘You said the cops had a bloke.’
‘I don’t think he did it.’
She considered him long and hard. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I want to find out who did kill Valerie. Otherwise I think whoever murdered her is walking around laughing.’
She was thinking about that, he could see it.
‘Hey if I’m wrong, you’ve done good by her anyway. Did the police speak to you?’ She shook her head, began to pour tea into two odd cups. He decided his best shot was to keep talking.
‘She left Brisbane on Sunday, stayed at the Heads Sunday night then, voom, disappears from Monday afternoon until Thursday evening. I think she must have stayed with somebody, maybe a former client. Maybe they killed her, or would know who did.’
Jill brought the cups and saucers over and sat on the other chair.
‘Stokesy was a good kid. She was a bit lost, needed to work a few things out. I think she knew this wasn’t the life for her. What’s she been doing?’
‘Barmaid in Brisbane.’
Jill nodded like that made sense.
‘Can you think of anybody she had a special connection with?’
Jill added three spoons of sugar, stirred slowly. ‘Sorry. She had a couple of regulars but …’
‘What is it? Somebody come to mind?’
‘Not exactly somebody. She came back one day grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.’ Jill realised what she said, nodded at the cage with a smile. ‘Not that one. I did have a real canary once but it got out.’ Blake waited patiently. ‘She came back from wherever she’d been, happy as Larry with twenty quid or so. That’s a big haul. She’d spent a few bob already too. She was very mysterious about where it come from but I knew she couldn’t hold out. Later she tells me, she met a couple of fellas on the street. They look her up and down, ask if she wants to be in a film. You can guess what kind of film.’
‘Was it the one time only?’
‘One other time, a month or so later, she said they’d contacted her and she’d done another.’
‘She give any names?’
Jill sucked the last of the fag and stubbed it out. The lipstick on the butt reminded him of the bloody smears in room ten.
‘Tell the truth, I wasn’t sure if I believed her. I never heard of anybody recognising her in any movie.’
‘You think she made it all up?’
‘Not all of it. I remember she had cash, more than normal, but the girls always want to talk it up a bit, you know? Especially with film stars. So and so screwed David Niven or sucked off Tony Curtis. My arse. And the prime minister or premier, of course … mind you, those ones could be telling the truth.’
He couldn’t see a phone in the flat.
‘How would they have contacted her? You have a phone back then?’
‘No. They would have just driven around till they spotted her. Usually she was working Darlo on the other side of William. She was new, so she didn’t get prime territory.’
Dead end. He tried another line. ‘She say anything at all about this movie? Who else was in it?’
‘Said it was suck and fuck in front of a proper big movie camera. The bloke in it with her was one of the ones who fronted her, about forty she said.’
‘She say where they filmed it?’
‘I think she mentioned around Alexandria or Zetland. Some warehouse with a bed and mattress set up. They told her this could be the start of a big career.’ Jill gave a derisive snort.
‘You think she made all this up?’
‘I think she exaggerated. Maybe it was a film but a private one for these jokers to get off on. The so-called second time, she wouldn’t talk much about because I think she knew I didn’t believe her. I think she just made up that to save face.’
But if there was a second time, Blake was thinking, maybe the guy gave her his number or some way to stay in touch. But how could he have contacted her? She would have to have contacted him at some point. Brisbane would have to be his next stop. Her words broke into his contemplation.
‘You look like that movie guy: Troy Donahue.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You want a freebie? Little memory of the Cross?’
The answer was no, he did not. But if he said that, he risked offending somebody whose help he may need again. A thought dashed across his brain that he could pay her for her time without the sex but he dismissed that as insulting.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
Mile after mile of bush. Gum trees standing straight and silent along the side of the road like ghosts sitting in judgement on the living: on him. It was amazing you could drive so far and see so few people. With each passing minute, the sun slunk lower, as if embarrassed by the outcome of the day. Light that had been pale, almost white when he set out, turned the colour of urine. My life is like this, Blake thought. I keep driving on in my car, removed. I don’t get out and touch what’s around me. Little by little, things get darker and you don’t really know where you are any more, you just follow white posts and try not to crash.
Sometimes you fuck up, though. He caught jagged memories of the house on Cockatoo Ridge: muzzle flash, blood, gaping bone.
Darkness was always coming for you.
He saw a brick apartment block, his breath on a misted window. You tried to stop it, to head west, to outrun night, to put distance between your actions and your future, but it was as relentless as age.