MELBOURNE’S WEATHER had done its four season-cycle by the time I reached Fawkner Cemetery for Martine Villon’s funeral. I had played tennis with Tomi Tashesita in crisp spring sunshine at dawn and it warmed by mid-morning only to become cool and autumny while I was meeting Farrar. By mid-afternoon, as I waited at the railway gates near the cemetery, winter rain was sheeting over the Rolls. It sounded like wild applause at an indoor rock concert as I adjusted the heating to accommodate the drop in temperature.
The funeral was for three and I was late. Lloyd Vickers was in the front seat next to me, having come along for moral support. He had known Martine vaguely, he claimed, because he had overseen the development of in-house advertising to save costs. He had hired and fired and approved the models. He had liked Martine because she was punctual. I wondered for a split second whether crusty old Lloyd could have been playing round with Martine, but dismissed the idea as ludicrous. He could have fancied her, yet I had never heard him utter a feeling about a woman, except his wife, whom he despised, and his daughter, whom he considered out of control because she studied fine arts at Melbourne University. He had wanted her to be an accountant and she had let him down. I admired the daughter for her independence and always chiacked ‘Smiler’, as we nicknamed Lloyd, about her defiance.
I was even glad of his dubious company as the train passed and I drove round the cemetery’s fountain to an avenue leading to the Catholic burial area. The road was hemmed in by overhanging trees that wilted under the weight of the rain and formed a floral tunnel. It was ethereal and claustrophobic as a torrent stormed down and we slipped along in silence like surfers in a pipeline. The plots in the centre of the avenue were awash and their headstones were caked in mud sprayed up from cars.
‘Hope the priest has a wetsuit,’ I said. Lloyd’s frown deepened at my joke, but he never smiled anyway. At least he was not a sycophant. A sullen toad of a man yes, but not toady. From the limited conversation between us on the drive there, it was clear he was surprised that I wanted to attend the funeral. He knew about my tenuous link with the deceased.
‘I heard about it on the corporate grapevine,’ he said as we pulled up about one hundred metres from a cluster of umbrellas near a grave in site thirty-four.
‘From whom, Lloyd?’
‘Another of the . . .’ he coughed diffidently, ‘models. Jenny Clayborough.’
‘Who got it from . . .?’
‘Danielle Mernet.’ Danielle was Freddie’s French friend whom I’d spoken to on the phone. The world was shrinking.
Lloyd had gone a lighter shade of scarlet. Maybe I was wrong about him. Perhaps he was a closet luster. Jenny Clayborough was a petite redhead who did temporary work in Lloyd’s department. I had had some lascivious thoughts about her myself, however fleeting. Like Jimmy Carter I confined them to my heart and didn’t let them drift lower. I had made it an iron rule that I had knowledge of all my employees, but nothing carnal.
These unlikely thoughts about my stolid deputy made me smile as we began to pile out of the car, yet they were really part of a nervy reaction. I knew my every move and utterance here would be watched. In a way I was on trial.
‘You’re wondering why I’m here,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Lloyd said as we opened umbrellas and began to walk towards the gathering.
‘I’m being framed,’ I said and told him about the Serophrine.
‘All the more reason to stay away.’
We were thirty metres from the congregration.
‘Disagree,’ I said. ‘As you know I’m big on research. If some fool or fools are trying to destroy me, I want all the facts. And if being at this gives me even a tenuous clue, then it’s worth the risk.’
A brave speech that, from a man whose knees had gone to jelly. Faces in the mist and rain round the grave turned to us one by one and then in groups.
There were about thirty mourners and I was reeling at the number I knew. The first one I recognised was Dr Peter Walters, the nemesis of Benepharm’s Project Big C. He wore an immaculate dark wool suit, a white shirt so starched that it could have walked away on its own, and a light blue tie. He presented himself faultlessly, neither flashy or understated. Somewhere, someone had put a lot of time into his packaging and had got it right. As he dabbed his eyes I guessed he was the doctor who had handled Martine’s recovery from cancer.
Next to him was Dr Cassandra Morris, who seemed more stoic. She kept looking at me the way she did across the Institute boardroom table, as if she was curious about something. This time she’d made more of an effort with her appearance. The hair, long and lustrous, had been let loose from that austere bun to touch the shoulders, and there was a dash of make-up and lipstick. She must have been freezing in a short wool coat and black silk dress that showed off a superb figure. My feelings had shifted from admiration and interest to something stronger. At that moment I didn’t want to think what, especially as the seed of a corporate battle plan involving her was beginning to germinate in the creative cavern of my overactive mind. I gave her the briefest nod of acknowledgement, which caused her to stare first at the tubby young priest, who was ending the ceremony, and then the coffin, which was about to be lowered into the two-metre hole. I thought he should hurry it along because landslides of mud were starting to slop into the bottom of the grave.
Freddie May was there too, blubbering at the back of the mourners and doing his best to avoid eye contact with me. The more I looked at him the more he howled. It was in stark contrast to our phone chat and he had never struck me as the emotional type.
I glanced at Morris to feel better about the world.
Detectives Benns and O’Dare came into view about forty metres away. Next to them was a photographer with a telephoto lens so long it seemed to poke into the mourners. O’Dare was directing the photographer, a young woman in a blue-and-white police tracksuit, to take snaps of the mourners. She crept round the outskirts of the gathering and clicked away as if at a Scouts’ picnic.
Nothing could be done to avoid being photographed. Like me, the police were hoping that a lead would come out of the event. Another lens protruded from a white Commodore and it took me a minute to realise that it belonged to Tony Farrar. He was on the job already. I was apprehensive when he loped over to the detectives and shook hands with them. It niggled me that he might say I was his client – a fact sure to make them clam up.
The priest moved forward to supervise the lowering of the no-frills box and I caught a glimpse of the woman next to Freddie, presumably Danielle. She was tall and looked French. She had long auburn hair and her dark complexion and angular face suggested she was from Marseilles rather than Paris or Lille. She had dark eyes, which along with an impressive Roman nose and a few lines, made her handsome rather than a catwalk beauty. She was elegant from her wide-brimmed white hat with a navy band to her Lagerfeld navy blue suit, and matching accessories.
Behind them was an odd couple of men. One looked like a one-hundred-kilogram Rugby prop, complete with cauliflower ears, thick neck and a flattened nose which formed a straight line with his forehead, like the nose metal of a mediaeval helmet. He wore a dark green turtleneck sweater and light brown jacket and slacks. There was a European manner about the way he held his Gauloise, the unfiltered kind favoured by working-class Parisians. He had a body tic, which went full cycle from a neck roll, to a chin jut, and then a shoulder roll. His cigarette became soggy, so he flicked it away and lit a new Gauloise. His companion who held the umbrella was taller, with a wiry build, and wore dark glasses that looked silly in the foul weather. His manner and clothes were flamboyant enough to indicate he was gay: he wore tight mauve jeans, a silk black skivvy, a black-and-white check jacket and enough jewellery on his hands to make knuckledusters. He also had very short hair and a preciously neat moustache, a feature of European and American homosexuals. His skin was fair and so tight across his face that you could see the cheekbone and jaw muscles. The man pursed his lips to conceal bad teeth, but it only served to highlight scars round the mouth usually associated with someone being thrown through a windscreen. Despite the glasses it was easy to see that he too couldn’t have given a fig about who was being buried. They both could have been spectators at a bad chess match.
The pallbearers had some trouble with the coffin in the mud and the priest slipped and landed on his rump. I leant forward and held him under the arm as he began to slide into the grave; Walters grabbed the other arm and we pulled the poor man out of a embarrassing predicament that only served to upset the mourners further. The coffin had almost upended itself and for a terrifying moment I could see it snapping open. The priest recovered and directed the pallbearers to use ropes to right it. Flowers were dropped on top and swallowed by the shovelfuls of mud being heaved in. A group of Polynesians turned away and cried. It didn’t seem a fitting way for anyone, let alone such a young beauty, to be sent underground. Forever. I felt more than a twinge of regret and moved off with Lloyd slushing along beside me. We crossed in front of two men who had been standing behind us under a beach umbrella. One I recognised as Karl Krogen, Libya’s representative in Australia since the Libyan Embassy or Peoples’ Bureau had been closed years ago. Next to him was a pock-marked man in a light cotton double-breasted safari suit. He also sported dark glasses that drew attention to him. I whispered Krogen’s name to Lloyd.
‘Bloody extremist loon,’ he mumbled.
‘What about the bloke with him?’
‘Could be a Libyan,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I read somewhere that the government was considering letting in a small group of Libyan nationals to act as trade reps. But they don’t have diplomatic status. They’re on short-term visas for trial purposes.’
I watched them get into a white stretch limousine. There were other people inside it. We got into the Rolls as Freddie drove off fast without daring to look in my direction.
There was a tap on my window. It was the woman who’d been standing next to Freddie.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’m Danielle Mernet.’
‘I guessed,’ I said.
‘I was wondering if we could speak,’ she said, ‘in private.’
‘Did Freddie send you?’
‘It’s fairly urgent,’ she said, ignoring my question.
I got out of the car. Lloyd looked at his watch.
‘If you can’t wait, see if Tony Farrar can you give you a lift back to town,’ I said to him with a wave in Farrar’s direction. He was still talking with Benns and O’Dare. Lloyd appeared put out, but because he often did, I had learnt to ignore it.
I walked away with Danielle, who held her hat with one hand and an umbrella with the other. She had a limp and from the way she swivelled her body, it seemed to be a hip injury.
‘Freddie is very upset,’ she said. ‘He’s worried because the police think that Martine may have been murdered. He had several visits from them and by the end of it all was confused about what actually happened.’
I bit my tongue. He could have been lying.
‘He told me you were unsure also,’ she said looking up for confirmation.
‘I am, but I recall some detail. My memory has come back a little.’ We were strolling towards a mausoleum being built for a Lebanese billionaire, whom I recognised ahead of us. He was speaking animatedly with four workmen, all of whom appeared to be Lebanese. He was no older than fifty-five, and apart from a pot belly hanging over an ostentatious belt, he seemed in good health. Like the Pharoahs he planned to visit his eternal home and become familiar with it before he took up permanent residence.
‘What happened exactly?’ she asked me.
‘Freddie and I slept until four. But I had a chat to Martine before I fell asleep.’
I waved to Lloyd who had taken a lift with Tony Farrar. He held up a car phone and indicated he would call me.
‘And what did she say?’ Danielle asked, her interest heightened.
‘That’s a matter for my lawyer and the police.’
‘Mr Hamilton, you must understand that Freddie thought you might have been setting him up.’
‘That’s a laugh,’ I said, a trace bitterly, ‘I thought the same thing about him.’
‘The police found a bottle of pills prescribed for Martine in his apartment.’
I stopped walking and stared at her.
‘What kind of pills?’
‘Serophrine.’
‘Did they have a label?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘They had been dispensed from a pharmacy in Bourke Street.’
‘How did the police come to search his apartment?’
‘His story was confused. They became suspicious and turned his place upside down.’
‘What did Freddie do when they found them?’
‘Swore that he didn’t take them from Martine’s place.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I do. I really do.’
If I believed her, and Freddie was on the level, it meant someone was trying to pin the death on either or both of us.
We passed the Lebanese, who bowed.
‘Do you mind if we have a look inside?’ I said.
‘My pleasure, Mr Hamilton,’ he said and then shrieked an order at the mausoleum. Two Lebanese security men wearing gun holsters emerged. They were keeping it in the family. We reached the entrance to the structure which was about half complete, and took steps down to the vault. Unprotected light bulbs lit the place and gold dominated the inlays of a podium, the ceiling and the floor. The walls had frescoes of Beirut before it had been flattened.
‘How do you think Martine died?’ I asked.
Danielle shrugged. Her eyes moistened just a bit.
‘I suspect it was murder,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘She was not the type to suicide. She had spent years battling against a serious lymphatic cancer and had beaten it. She was so happy with life.’
‘Have you any ideas on what happened?’
Again that Gallic shrug.
‘Freddie says he left a few minutes after you at about ten past four. I went to pick her up to go to the Victoria Market, which we did every Saturday at eight. She was always so punctual. I found her . . .’
Her voice fell away as she recalled the moment.
‘And that was at what, about nine?’
‘Eight thirty.’
‘OK, so there is a gap of about four hours in which a murderer could have got in and killed her.’
‘Yes.’
The mausoleum was giving me the creeps. We walked back to the Rolls and got in. I offered her the lift which she had been banking on since Freddie had driven off alone. I didn’t start up. ‘Have you any idea who may have killed her?’ I asked.
Danielle hesitated.
‘There are a few possibilities,’ she said.
I switched on the windscreen wipers, their monotonous hum penetrated our conversation pauses, and allowed us to see cemetery workers putting the finishing touches to Martine’s grave.
‘Did she tell you about what happened in Paris?’ she asked.
‘A little,’ I said, leaving an opening. Danielle told me more or less the story Freddie had.
‘The doctor who maltreated Martine in France was Claude Michel,’ Danielle said, touching her glasses. She was distracted by a man standing on the edge of the roadway facing Martine’s grave. He was tall and thin and wore a hat and an expensive suit. He seemed to be waiting for the workers to flatten down the mud and erect a plaque.
‘Did Martine think Michel was in the country?’ I asked.
‘She thought she was being watched.’
I turned to her.
‘Watched? What do you mean?’
‘She claimed her phone was bugged and that she was being followed.’
‘Did you think she was?’
No pout or shrug this time from Danielle.
‘I’m not sure. She seemed obsessed with the idea that she would be murdered.’
‘What other threats did Martine have?’ I said.
‘She lived a, how can I say, “different” life,’ she said. ‘The English would call her a “good time girl”.’
‘Are you telling me she was a high-class hooker?’
‘In a way. You see she had her professional life as a good model and beyond that she liked to live well. To do that she needed money. And Martine would do almost anything for money.’
‘Could she have made enemies amongst her clients?’ I asked.
‘There was a Libyan amongst the mourners,’ Danielle said. ‘Martine hinted that he was perhaps a terrorist.’
‘He was a client?’
‘Don’t think so. She had an affair with a Libyan terrorist in London.’
I pulled a piece of paper from my wallet and scribbled. If I was going to play assistant to Farrar I should be making notes.
‘Name?’
Danielle’s forehead creased in concentration.
‘Something like Al Shahati or Al Shahata. The Libyan at the funeral was a friend of his.’
‘You don’t know his name?’
‘No.’
‘Did you meet him?’
‘No and I didn’t want to.’
‘Martine had something to do with him here?’
‘Yes. It may have just been on an old acquaintance basis.’
Martine was proving to be quite a woman, but my sympathy for her was wavering. She had trodden dangerous ground in her high-class hookery. We had passed in the night, like two ships. Since then she had been torpedoed two metres into the mud and I was rudderless and in danger of being sunk.
I started the Rolls just as the dapper gent in the hat took some flowers from his dark green Peugot and took them over to the head of the grave.
‘Wonder who that guy is?’ I mumbled. I glanced at Danielle. Instead of saying she didn’t know, she remained silent.
‘Do you know him?’ I asked.
‘That’s the French Consul.’
‘Must have been a good friend,’ I observed. There must have been sixty roses in the bunch and roses were for a lot more than friendship.
‘Was he a client of Martine’s?’ I asked.
We watched him retreat.
‘More than that,’ she said, ‘he was a lover.’