10

CROWN CASINO, a cesspool of avarice, corruption, and thuggery, with fancy carpet and flashing lights — and the sound of money going down the drain. It was well known that Melbourne’s criminal society used its rooms for their transactions, that urine gathered in pools under the blackjack tables, that highfliers were seduced while misbehaving low-rent punters were put in a wristlock and manhandled out the door. The ballroom hosted grandiose sports nights, replete with a televised red-carpet parade of tizzed-up WAGs.

I hung around the foyer wondering who, exactly, might be impressed by all this phoney razzle-dazzle when I saw a blonde bouffant weaving through the crowd. Crystal Watt wore a tan and white ensemble — leather skirt and jacket, white over-the-knee boots. Up close, her face was gaunt and pale, as though she was permanently exhausted; her nose was straight and probably cost a bomb, but she had left the eyes undoctored. The area around them was dark, the expression pure sorrow. Rather than a flaw, it had the effect of softening the beauty and making her extraordinary. I imagined that a lot of men, some women even, would very much like to make her smile.

‘You’re Stella?’

‘Yes.’

She looked me over with a hint of dismay. ‘You are friend of Nina?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come with me.’ She hooked an arm around mine and I inhaled an expensive floral scent. ‘We go in private entrance. Security-pass area.’ She had a pass card on a lanyard. ‘Suite is nice.’ She took me out of Crown’s casino and into its hotel via a covered walkway. I trotted to keep up with the clip of her boots on the polished marble.

‘You will see my dogs. Did she tell you? I have two.’

‘Er, no.’ I assumed ‘she’ was Tania.

We stopped at doors marked staff only. Crystal opened them and walked to a goods lift. She swiped her card and gave me a sidelong look. ‘She is Tania now.’

‘Yes,’ I answered, not sure if it was a question.

‘Nina is nice name. After her grandmother.’

The doors opened; we stepped in and the lift raced skyward and then cruised to a stop. The doors opened again and a man in a tartan sports jacket stepped in. The moustache, spiffy bow tie, and waist coat — it had to be Merritt Van Zyl, the man I’d seen in the photo.

He backed up. ‘Look who it is, the Polish Madame.’

‘I told you, I’m Russian,’ Crystal hissed at him as she passed. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I had business with Clay,’ he said.

‘What business?’

‘None of yours.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Who or what is this creature? Not one of the well-heeled, is she?’ He turned to Crystal. ‘Did one of your customers request an ageing lesbian cleaning woman?’

‘Hey, Happy Hammond.’ I pointed my finger at his face. ‘None of those things is an insult.’ I stepped into his personal space. ‘But only a dick would say well-heeled.’

He shrank back into the lift, rapidly jabbing the down button.

Crystal laughed and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t take notice. He’s fucking poofta.’

I didn’t want to get into a homophobia thing with her so I said, ‘How does he get away with insulting you like that?’

She did a demure lift of the shoulders. ‘Because is true. I used to run brothel.’

I had no idea how to respond to that.

At an unmarked door, she waved her pass card. The room was open-plan and roughly half of the entire thirty-sixth floor. There was a bar, a dining table, and a sunken lounge, and several doors leading to other rooms. There was as a sudden movement from a basket in the corner and a pair of coffee-coloured pugs came shooting over the furniture towards us.

She scooped one up and kissed it on the mouth. ‘Make yourself at home, while I find Clay. Always he’s on fucking phone.’

I walked down a couple of steps to where three large sofas, upholstered in plush dove-grey velvet, were arranged around a curved floor-to-ceiling window. On a coffee table, there was a partly consumed fruit and cheese platter, two opened bottles of champagne, empty champagne glasses, a cheesecake with slices taken.

I glanced out the window. Grease-coloured clouds rolled over the towers of Melbourne, hurling ice water on the rooftop pools and tennis courts. A flock of birds banked over the Rialto then dispersed. Far below, trains rumbled beside the aquarium and under the rusted canopy of Flinders Street Station.

‘Stella.’ A man came striding into the room, grabbed my hand. ‘Clayton Brodtmann. Good to meet you.’

It was like meeting a newsreader in the flesh — a familiar but unreal face, as though the years of public exposure had changed it to a synthetic veneer. Despite the healthy skin tone he looked like a man who had had many sleepless nights. He bared his dental work at me and pointed to a sofa. ‘Please.’

I sat.

‘Drink?’

I summoned my self-control. ‘No, thank you.’

He nodded, studying me. From his look of mild irritation, I guessed I disappointed him in some way. Get in line, I thought. Behind me, mainly.

‘Can’t thank you enough,’ he said. ‘Alerting us about Nina. Your friendship and kindness.’

‘My … my … yes. Thank you.’

Crystal sat beside her husband and both the dogs leapt into her lap. The sight of their pink, flat tongues was vaguely sickening. ‘Cheesecake?’ She held out a chunk on a plate. I declined.

‘I like her, Clay,’ she spoke like I wasn’t in the room. ‘She called that faggot … what was it? Happy Hammond.’ She broke off some cake for the dogs.

Brodtmann cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t seen my daughter for … some time; not since she left Perth. I have no idea of her movements. You live next door to her, I believe?’

‘I — yes.’

‘She wants to be independent or some bloody thing. I send her money of course, and gifts —’

‘You mollycoddle her.’ Crystal poured herself some champagne. ‘Let her be, if that’s what she wants.’

Brodtmann’s chin jutted forward. ‘Sweetheart, please.’

Crystal sniffed and pulled an iPad out of her handbag.

‘My daughter — would you say she seems happy to you?’

‘Happy?’

‘Happy Hammond,’ Crystal said. ‘Hosted kids TV show in the 60s. Did you watch it?’

Did I? My nose an inch from the screen: Is everybody happy? Yeeeeessss! And don’t get me started on Zig and Zag. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I grew up in the country and they used to show the reruns in the 70s.’

Brodtmann glanced at me, and looked away. There was a buzz in his pocket and he pulled out his phone. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Sure.’ I looked out the window.

‘Yes?’ He listened for a moment. ‘About fucking time, Marcus. Someone will be down.’ He put the phone away and called out. ‘Broad?’

My driver came from a side door. He would have arrived after me, but I had not seen him enter. There must have been several entrances to the apartment. ‘Sir?’

‘The police minister. Downstairs.’

Broad nodded. ‘Right.’ He went out the front door.

Brodtmann started pacing. ‘You notified the police today?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But they weren’t that concerned at first —’

He cut me off. ‘It doesn’t matter. They’re taking me seriously, by God.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘In the meantime, please don’t speak to anyone about my daughter’s … about Nina. Certainly not the media. It would not be helpful, and may possibly hinder the investigation.’

He thought I was an imbecile and I resented it. Talking to the media was the last thing I’d do. Still, I sensed police backsides were about to be kicked, so that was good. ‘I understand,’ I said.

The door opened and Broad walked in with — I couldn’t believe my eyes — Marcus Pugh. Good old Mucous Pukus. We made eye contact but he didn’t recognise me, or chose not to. A woman followed, short grey hair and dead eyes. If she wasn’t in a police uniform she could be mistaken for an ageing lesbian cleaning woman.

We were a sombre bunch. With the cheesecake and the champagne still on the table, the gathering had the atmosphere of a baby shower full of guests who disliked each other. Brodtmann sensed it too, suddenly ordering us to move to the dining table.

Broad sat at one end and pulled out a notebook. Brodtmann was at the other end, and Pukus and the cop sat down opposite me. I had that uncomfortable job-interview feeling. Brodtmann did the introductions. Dead Eyes was introduced as Conway, the deputy chief commissioner, with loads of experience with kidnapping cases. She received a nod from Brodtmann and leaned in: ‘Stella, what can you tell us?’

‘I was with her last night at her flat. I left around midnight —’

‘I mean, about her whereabouts?’

I was confused. ‘I have no idea where she is.’

Brodtmann and Conway exchanged glances. ‘You see,’ Brodtmann said, ‘she has done this kind of thing before. Run off.’ His face creased at the edges. ‘The name change, the move to Melbourne. She’s always testing me.’

I almost felt sorry for him. He held his torment in check with sudden jerking movements, the squaring of his shoulders, the forward thrust of his chin. What a fucked up family. And I thought the Hardys were defective.

Conroy pulled out her notebook and started jotting. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘Last night, about midnight. We had plans to meet this morning but when I went to her apartment she wasn’t home.’

‘Did you go inside her apartment?’ Conway said. ‘Do you have a key?’

I coughed. ‘No.’

‘And her mobile, do you have the number?’

‘Yes.’ I looked in my bag for my phone. ‘Oh shit, sorry. It’s on the charger.’

‘Do you know if she had more than one mobile?’ Conway asked.

‘Has,’ said Brodtmann quietly.

Conway flushed to her grey roots.

‘She might,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Is there anything else you can think of — anything at all? Any friends she mentioned?’

‘Not really.’

Pukus gave Brodtmann a look of regret, as though apologising for my inadequacies. Hateful man. Only I was allowed to do that. So I did. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I really don’t know her that well —’

Brodtmann mulled over that information by jutting his chin out further. ‘I see.’

‘She’ll turn up,’ Pukus said suddenly.

From the look of disgust on Brodtmann’s face, I gathered he didn’t appreciate such glib assurance.

Crystal went to Brodtmann and took his hands. ‘She is getting attention.’ He did a slow nod, apparently unconvinced.

Conway ripped a page from her notebook and passed it to me. ‘If you think of anything or hear from Nina, this is my direct number.’

‘Will do.’

Crystal stood. ‘I regret you must all please excuse us. We get ready for tonight.’

Brodtmann walked me to the door. ‘Minerals Council dinner,’ he said. ‘I’m giving a speech. Under the circumstances, I’d cancel, but I’m told it’s better to carry on as normal.’

He came with me into the corridor. ‘I am very grateful to you. If you hear from my daughter, I would appreciate you contacting me immediately, day or night. The number is on here.’ He put a card in my hand. ‘You don’t need a pass to get to the foyer. The chauffeur is waiting for you. Goodbye, Miss Hardy.’

While I waited for the lift, I inspected Brodtmann’s business card, which had a mobile number hand-written on the back.

I made my way back to the foyer and found the chauffeur leaning against a pillar reading a newspaper. ‘All set?’

‘Yes.’

‘The limo’s round the back.’

We walked through a mall of high-priced shops and restaurants. I paused at a chic bar and considered an alternative evening to one spent with Ben eating reheated Vietnamese leftovers, like reclining in one of those swanky lounges with a glass of something strong. My eye was drawn to a tall gentleman sitting by himself at a table in the corner. Uh oh, Finchley Price. I had not seen him outside court before and my brain was slow to make the connection. He seemed flustered, not the chill dude I’d seen during the trial. He sat on a low stool, his knees up near his chest, fidgeting with a napkin.

What was it about Price that fascinated me so much? He was a creepy butler of a man, with his permanent look of doom. Not ugly exactly, but funny-looking. Something to do with the rarefied air he breathed. Here was a man at the top of his game, respected, earning more than the prime minister, and yet who was at ease within the criminal milieu — and able to communicate with the likes of Clacker Pickering. Client confidentiality aside, Price was friendly with Melbourne gangland criminals, and he might know if they had learned which usually righteous social worker had deprived them of drug money six years ago.

Broad checked his watch and gave me a beseeching look.

I held up a hand. Could I just stroll up and say, ‘What’s up, Finchley’?

‘Traffic’s dire,’ he said. ‘Make up your mind.’

I brushed down the sleeves of my jacket and squared my shoulders, trying to think of a clever opening line. But before I could act, someone crossed the bar, hand extended, to greet Finchley Price. It was Gaetano Cesarelli, still in the purple velvet jacket and mirrored sunglasses. The barrister stood on his praying mantis legs and they shook hands, then they sat together and began a furtive tête-à-tête. I was tempted to saunter over and eavesdrop. Instead I tore myself away and told Broad to drop me on Union Road so I could pick up a box of refreshment on my way home.

The roads were clogged. As the car crawled north, the streetlights came on. Don’t ask me why, but the change from day to night had always put me on edge. It was the feeling that time had run out, and I was forced to admit to failure somehow.

It had been, without a doubt, a horrible day. It was only once the wine cask was under my arm and I was walking home, that I started to feel better. It was pleasant to unwind, and be outside in the evening air. I passed the local wine bar and saw Amber and Jack, my neighbours from number 11, inside having a drink. Jack took a cracker, added some cheese, and showed it to Amber. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. I averted my eyes and hurried home.