"What kind of personal business did you say you were here on?" Kit asked, as she and Marek waited for Erin to finish helping Simon pack his briefcase to go home.
Marek, who'd propped on the sill of the window overlooking Acland Street, had been not-very covertly watching Erin fuss over her assistant. He rubbed his very recently and very closely shaved chin and then turned his attention to Kit, as if he'd been about to do that anyway.
"Official. I said 'official' business, Kitty; and, before you ask, none of yours."
"None of my what?"
"Business. It's none of your business."
"Oh," Kit pulled a face and shrugged. "Tell me again why you're here."
"I'm following up a lead," Marek smiled.
"That's what you usually do," Kit observed, dropping into Erin's chair behind her desk. "But why are you doing it here?"
"Because here's where I got the lead in the first place."
"It's not about the shit, is it?" Kit queried, moving the mouse aside so she could put her arms on the desk. The screen-saver on the monitor, which sat on the desk between her and Marek, dissolved revealing the front-page layout of the paper's next issue.
"What shit?" Marek asked.
"The cow shit," Kit replied, frowning at the world's tackiest headline.
Frozen Stiff, it screamed in huge type, over the subhead: Bagged body found in Elwood freezer.
"No," Marek stated. "I don't do shit; you know that."
"Sorry about that, guys," Erin said, sashaying back to her desk. "Simon's a little fraught at the best of times, and today was not one of his best times. Scoot please, O'Malley, you can have that chair there." Erin pointed behind a bench overflowing with back copies of the Star. Kit dragged the chair around and sat down again.
"Now, Detective Marek," Erin pronounced formally. "What can I do for you today?"
Marek glanced at Kit and, as it was obvious she was not going to leave voluntarily, he gave a resigned sigh. "Two things. First, we would very much appreciate it if you did not, for the time being at least, use the bubblewrap on the body in any of your stories. Second, can you remember anything else about the call or anything unusual about the voice?"
"On the first point - damn, but okay," Erin nodded. "On the other - no, not that I can recall."
"On the first point, thanks," Marek smiled. "On the other, damn! You're sure there weren't any background noises or...?"
Erin shook her head. "Don't think so."
"Is this the body in the Elwood freezer?" Kit asked.
"How the hell did you know that?" Marek demanded.
"Whoa, steady," Kit said, raising her hands in surrender. "My new client told me."
"You've got another client involved in a murder?" he asked.
"No Jonno, I've got a client who reads the newspaper. And sometimes I even watch the news myself; like on Monday night when I saw you so patiently keeping the media uninformed about a body in a freezer in Elwood."
"We did not mention the bubblewrap, O'Malley," Marek scowled. "And that detail has not been given to the media." He threw a glance at Erin. "Has it?"
"I am the media, Jon. But I'm certainly not going to give my information to anyone else, when I can use it. Which I can't now."
"So how did you know about it?" Marek asked Kit.
"I didn't know about it, Marek. I haven't mentioned it at all, yet. But you have - twice, no thrice, so far."
"Oh," Marek said sheepishly. "Sorry."
"I think you should try the government's new anti-paranoia pills," Kit suggested. "I believe they come in your favourite flavours - raspberry and half-cocked. You will have to tell me all the gory details now, Detective-Sergeant, because that is the only way you'll know where my information comes from. Not that I need it for anything, but you started this."
Marek closed his eyes for a moment. "Shit. Okay, but I'll tell you only what Erin knows."
Kit gave him a 'whatever' shrug and then glanced at Erin, whose face was saying, 'I probably know more than you think I do', until it morphed into a professional-looking nod when Marek looked at her for confirmation.
"Erin received an anonymous phone call on Sunday arvo to the effect that something awful had happened at, um, this particular house in Elwood over the weekend," Marek explained.
"Are you using euphemisms Marek?" Kit asked.
"No," Marek replied, doing a left, right left with his eyes. "I don't think I am."
Erin laughed. "That's what the caller said, Kit. He said 'something awful' had happened. He implied there was a dead person, and that I should also call the police."
"Which you obviously did," Kit smiled.
"Yeah," Marek snorted. "After she got to the house and couldn't get in without us."
"Hey. The guy rang me," Erin reminded him.
"It wasn't Mercury was it?" Kit asked.
Erin shook her head. "No, different voice all together."
"Mercury? And who might that be?" Marek queried.
"The cow shit guy," Kit replied.
Marek sighed. "Would you care to explain or elaborate?" he asked Erin.
"He's the cow shit guy," Erin confirmed. "I've been getting tips from someone who is either the irritable and irritating ratepayer who's been sending one of our local councillors loads of cow manure and pig shit, avec la pigs; or he is Mercury's mouthpiece. But he's not the freezer guy."
"Then what happened?" Kit asked, using her professional winding-up finger to prompt Marek to continue. "With the freezer body," she added when he looked blank.
"Oh. The uniforms answered Erin's call; we answered theirs. The back door was unlocked and there was blood on the kitchen floor, which is why they went in. We found, in an otherwise empty house, a deceased woman's naked body bundled in bubblewrap in a large chest freezer. We still don't know who she is; the house, which was a rental, was supposed to be empty. That's it."
"If the back door was unlocked, how come you couldn't you get in?" Kit asked. Marek too raised his eyebrows and looked at Erin.
Erin raised her brows right back at him and then turned to Kit. "The side gate was bolted from the other side. One of the nice young officers jumped it and unbolted it."
"A chest freezer, Marek? Was it on?" Kit queried.
"Yeah," Marek replied, as if it was a stupid question.
"An unoccupied rental house, with the power on?" Kit said quietly.
Marek sniffed. "I'm sure we covered that fact."
"Of course you did, dear," Kit grinned. "But why have you asked Erin not to mention the bubblewrap?"
"Yeah! Good question, Kit."
"Because it's, it's..." Marek made a strangled gargling sound. "Damn it. If it's part of the killer's MO, we don't want to advertise the fact."
"If it is?" Kit repeated. "You mean it is. This wasn't the first body, was it Jonno?"
"Kitty," Marek grumbled.
"It's not? There are other bodies?" Erin asked, sitting bolt upright.
"Think about it, honey," Kit grinned. "You can really only have a recognisable modus operandi if you do something more than once. Otherwise there's no pattern."
"Oh yeah," Erin said.
"Bloody hell, O'Malley. You and your big mouth," Marek complained.
Kit wanted to roll about laughing. She'd been Jon Marek's partner while on the force plenty long enough to know exactly how he worked; how to recognise the little techniques he used to get, give, or avoid giving information. She also knew that Marek knew that she knew that; and that he never made mistakes of the kind he'd apparently just made, which meant only one thing. He had just used her to allow something to slip.
"What are you up to, Marek?" she asked.
"God, it was the one in Brighton," Erin interjected. "Right?"
Marek gave Kit a look she hadn't seen for years. It was a 'secure in the knowledge that your partner can work intuitively with you, even though you're both winging it and have no idea which way the plot is turning' kind of symbiotic looks. Kit offered a half nod and smiled at him.
He turned seriously to Erin. "You cannot use that Erin. Please. I shouldn't have..." he hesitated dramatically. "Look, the death in Brighton last week is not related to this case. Okay? It does not fit the MO of this bloke, this killer. At least we assume it's a bloke."
"Why do you assume it's a bloke?" Erin asked.
"Because it usually is," Marek frowned. "But, O'Malley is right; as usual. The woman we found on Sunday wasn't the first. There have been two previous murders. The other bodies, also encased in bubblewrap, were found after phone calls had been made to the police."
"The MO's not quite the same if the killer didn't call Erin first," Kit noted.
"Yes and no," Marek agreed. "The first body was found two months ago in an empty house in South Caulfield, but had been there a while; the second, was two weeks ago, in Prahran. It's possible the killer may have rung newspapers in those areas; we're checking. Or, and this is what our shrink thinks, the sick bastard wasn't getting any recognition so he opted for direct publicity."
"There's also the possibility that the person who rang me wasn't the killer," Erin suggested.
"There's that too," Marek agreed. "Or he is the killer and he did ring you on both previous occasions, but he caught your mate Simon in the middle of one of his fits of la-la."
"Oh dear! God only knows what stories I've missed out on," Erin grumbled.
"Yeah," Kit laughed. "Like the nogglers. Did you find out what they were?"
"No, I didn't pursue that one," Erin replied. "I'll wait until he's back to his ordinary frantic self before I ask. But, speaking of stories Jon Marek - this is a very big one."
"I know. You can have the exclusive Erin, I promise; if you promise not to use anything I've just told you until I give it to you officially."
He still wants something, Kit thought, as she watched him fidget. It's either a favour or a date.
"You're asking a bloody lot of me Jon; I'm a journo for heaven's sake. If there's a story's here, I've got to chase it."
"I would hope so," Marek said. "But..."
Aha! Kit thought. He's going to give out just enough info to get her on the scent too. Different approaches to the same problem.
"...until I give you the say-so, you can't, I mean please don't, print anything. I'll give you the lowdown, everything I can, if you will hold off. And if you find out anything, I'd really appreciate it if you could run it by me first." Marek looked hopeful, he looked charmingly beseeching, he looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
Erin narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "God, you'll be wanting my soul next. You know him better than I do, Kit, can I trust him?"
"I don't know," Kit said glancing from Marek's blue-eyed, almost boyish trust-me expression, to Erin's green-eyed, sultry and suspicious one.
Sultry? Marek didn't want Erin's soul; he wanted her body. Oh, and her co-operation. And damn it, she was giving in, on both fronts, without so much as a struggle.
"Come on, O'Malley," Marek flipped his palms over to imply he wasn't hiding anything.
"Has he offered to take you out to dinner?" Kit asked, as if that was a no-no in this equation.
"No," Erin declared, as if she wouldn't countenance a proposal that would interfere with any kind of professional working arrangement.
"Pity. Because I would not trust Jon Marek with anything," Kit said, "until he had taken me to my favourite restaurant."
"Really?" Erin smiled.
"Absolutely," Kit stated.
"What is...?" Marek began.
"Exactly," Kit interrupted. "What is the other thing that you want her to do for you, Jonno?" "You mean apart from dinner?" Erin qualified.
"Yeah," Kit nodded. "Apart from, and as well as, dinner."
"I am going to get you for this, Kitty." Marek promised.
"Oh, I have no doubt about that, Jonno."
Marek slipped off the windowsill and picked up the black plastic bag he'd placed on the corner of Erin's desk. He removed a plain cardboard box, about the size of a touch-tone telephone, opened it, and pulled out a touch-tone telephone.
"I noticed when I was in here the other day," he said, "that your phone is last century's model. This one features the numerical display thing, on the top here, that indicates the number of anyone who calls you."
"Unless their phone is coded with the bar-thingy that prevents their number from showing up on your display-thing," Kit said.
"I've often wondered who would bother with that," Erin said.
"You would, if you were a serial killer," Kit said. "You probably would if you were a journalist too, or a PI. Sometimes I don't want people to know who I am when I call."
"Hmm. Obviously I hadn't wondered about this as much as I thought I had," Erin admitted.
"And most crooks would use the bar-thingy, even when they're ringing their Mums, in case the cops are listening," Kit expanded. "So would prank callers, debt collectors, phone survey people - when they're ringing you, not their mothers. As would a serial informant of the anonymous kind..."
Erin chuckled. "Or a serial dumper of the animal ka-ka..."
"Enough already, you two," Marek snapped. "This is serious. And this is a serious bloody phone; okay! This has a special, official encryption device that unbars your bloody bar-thingy."
"Oh please," Erin begged. "Stop with the techno-babble. This already has the better of me. Obviously, Jon, you want me to plug this in and then give you the number if and when, or should, the freezer bloke ring me again. Yeah?"
"Yes," Marek nodded. "Please."
"Fine. I'd be happy to. And, as I have a witness to your promise of an exclusive on this story, I'm happy about that deal too. As for dinner," Erin hoisted a shoulder bag, big enough to pack her desk into, onto her lap. She pulled out a matching mammoth-wallet and handed Marek a business card. "Pellegrini's would be nice, or Vlados. That's my personal card, with my home address and number."
Marek did a lot of head waggling, mostly nodding, but with a bit of the old 'how the hell did this come about?' thrown in. "I'm really tied with this case," he said. "But Saturday night would probably be okay for dinner, unless..."
"Unless shit happens?" Erin finished for him.
"Yeah. Couldn't have said it better myself." Marek grinned, broadly. "Now, I've gotta go. Will you be right with that?"
"There's two of us Jonno. I'm sure we can work out how to plug a phone in," Kit said.
"Oh! Wow!" Erin exclaimed as soon as the Star's front door closed behind Marek.
"How long has he been beating around the bush?" Kit asked.
"On and off for about three weeks," Erin said. "Thank you for making him jump."
"You could have done the inviting you know."
"Yeah, but I got the feeling he needed to do it."
"Probably. It's been a while since he had a relationship of any kind," Kit said. "And no, I am not going to fill you in on anything until after your date."
"That's not fair, Kit."
"It's totally fair, Erin," Kit said, shaking the cardboard box till the phone cord fell out on the desk. "When Jonno rings me to ask about you - which believe me, he will - I won't be able to tell him much at all."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know much. We've only known each other for a couple of months, remember."
Kit plugged the cord into the new phone and waved the other end around until Erin pointed over her own shoulder at the wall behind a huge potted plant. Erin lifted her feet and Kit pushed her and her chair out of the way, then bent down to swap the new plug for the old.
"He is a good guy though, isn't he?" Erin asked.
"Yes, he is that," Kit agreed. She pulled out her mobile and dialled Erin's number.
"Couldn't you just tell me... Hang on a sec," Erin flung out an arm and picked up the receiver of the ringing phone. "Erin Carmody, St Kilda Star."
"Tell me why I get the feeling I know Jack Higgins, when I don't get your paper and don't live in his municipality," Kit said.
"What? Hello!"
"What do you mean 'what, hello'? It's me, you goose," Kit laughed. "See if my number has come up on your display."
"Hey, wow there it is!" Erin exclaimed, pretending she hadn't just made an idiot of herself; before continuing to do just that. "Knowing my luck though it's probably a crossed line."
"I don't think so, Erin," Kit laughed, disconnecting the call.
"You'd be surprised. Technology hates me. I can't even program my VCR."
"I know university lecturers who can't do that. Now, Jack Higgins," she prompted, as she flopped back into the chair opposite Erin. "Why should he be familiar?"
"You are kidding, aren't you?" Erin said, hanging up her phone. "Sportiz."
"Sport is what?" Kit asked.
"Okay; you're not kidding," Erin said wide-eyed. "Sportiz, O'Malley, not sport is. Jack Higgins is Mr Sportiz."
"And?"
"Oh god. I thought you watched a lot of television."
"I do," Kit said.
"I can't believe you don't know who he is then. Up until about five years ago, when he got onto council, he was star of all the ads for his chain of sporting shops. He was Mr Sportiz," Erin said in her special TV announcer's voice. "He still is; he just doesn't do the ads anymore."
"Ads? Well that explains why he's only vaguely familiar," Kit said. "I try not to watch commercials, so he wouldn't have registered consciously."
"But Kit, he was also a runner and a really well known cricketer," Erin declared.
"He's not well known to me," Kit avowed. "And I am quite passionate about cricket. I hate it - passionately."
Erin shook her head in disbelief. "I honestly do not know how to respond to that revelation. So I'll just suggest that you take any copies of any edition of the Star, from the last few months particularly, to fill you in on Higgins the councillor. Then, go talk to - um - Susie Prentice, hairdresser and owner of Cut-Cut in Chapel Street."
"And she is?" Kit asked, scribbling in the notebook she'd yanked out of her bumbag.
"One of Jack's more recent ex-bonks. You could talk to Councillors Carol Webster or Frank Turner, because they don't like him, and Cr John Porter, because he might say something good about him. Um, let me see..."
"Carol Webster?" Kit said casually. "Is that the same Carol Webster standing for um, Labor, in the by-election that's coming up?"
"Yeah, except she's not Labor, she's an Independent candidate," Erin nodded, as she absently studied her front-page screamer.
"You have to change that, you know," Kit stated, nodding at the monitor.
"I know. I have to lose the bag and bubblewrap reference," Erin said grudgingly.
"I didn't mean that," Kit said. "I meant the Frozen Stiff nonsense."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Oh come on, Erin. When they find out who she is, you or your stories will have to, I hope, relate to her as a real person. And if I was related to her, the deceased, and found out you'd called my mum or sister a 'frozen stiff' I'd be paying you a visit. And it wouldn't be friendly. This is a good story; it doesn't need a sensational headline."
Erin sighed. "I suppose. I'm just so accustomed to beating up the facts to make them interesting or different."
"These facts are already interesting; not to mention tragic. You shouldn't be making people laugh, or groan, just to get them to read it. Because this they will read. People are like that: they're voyeurs or vultures."
"I didn't know you were so pessimistic," Erin noted.
"I'm not," Kit denied. "That be the truth, honey; you can't change it. Voyeurs and vultures is what they are. And Frozen Stiff, I'm afraid, is the witty, clever-pants headline that proves it."
Erin sighed again, deeply. "Are you always right Kit O'Malley?"
"It's a terrible burden," Kit grinned. "I'm constantly having to change my mind to suit the facts, or new information. Speaking of which, facts and info I mean, tell me why the Webster woman doesn't like Jack Higgins."
Erin folded her hands in her lap. "She is a charming woman; he is a sexist wanker."
"That can't be the only reason," Kit said.
"It's a good enough reason," Erin stated, "but you're right, again. Carol is a sensible, practical, forward-thinking, broad-minded human being who understands that she is a servant of the public; Jack is an unaware, bigoted, scarcely-evolved life-form, who is nothing but self-serving. Carol Webster is a visionary; Jack Higgins has his head up his own arse."
"I see," Kit nodded. "And Cr Turner? What's his story?"
"Frank is everything that Carol is, except of course he's not a woman. He is a human being of the homosexual variety however, which in Jack's eyes makes him rather less than a woman. That opinion gets him into trouble in chambers all the time though, as Frank is more than a match for him, even when Jack's at his most vitriolic.
"I must admit council meetings will not be the same when Carol leaves. The verbal jousts were always a highlight: with the calm, clever and eloquent Carol and Frank on one side; and the boorish and sometimes cleverly-offensive but always unacceptable Jack on the other."
"This by-election thing," Kit said, "why is Carol Webster, who is obviously a political paragon in your eyes, standing for it? In it," Kit shook her head. "I mean, why is it happening?"
Erin narrowed her eyes. "Have you been out of the country?"
"No."
"Everyone gets a go at Nareen now the seat is empty."
Kit narrowed her eyes at Erin. "I understand that, but why is it empty?"
"Have you been interstate?"
"No Erin. I haven't been anywhere," Kit declared. "Nareen is not my electorate though; so basically, or frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
"But that's not the only..." Erin looked totally perplexed. Even her hands looked perplexed as she waved them around and stretched her fingers here and there, and generally gave the impression that she was lost for words and her hands weren't helping her to find them at all.
"Do you remember, about twelve weeks ago," she finally said, "one of the State Independents was being questioned in parliament about funny financial dealings?"
When Kit looked blank, Erin rubbed her forehead, then continued. "A couple of weeks later he was also being investigated by the federal police over a possible money laundering scam, and for allegations of other criminal activities including some that involved tawdry sexual stuff."
"I have a vague recollection of three or seven cases like that in the recent past," Kit said. "It's not like nefarious activities amongst our state and federal pollies are exactly uncommon. But I gather, in this instance, the guy stood down or whatever it is they do."
"You could say that." Erin tried not to smile. "But only if you'd liked my 'frozen stiff' headline. He, Barry Page, stood down off the balcony at his home in Mt Eliza, with a rope around his neck."
"Oh," Kit said, "now I remember. And I might have sooner if you'd told me his name earlier."
"Sorry Kit. I sometimes forget that people who aren't involved in the news business like me, aren't necessarily interested in every single aspect of it." Erin glanced at her watch.
"Sorry treasure; I hate to work, eat, get a date, gossip and then run, but it's nearly three and I have to interview a ventriloquist. Have I given you enough to go on? Oh, a thought. Depending on her mood today, Barbara Daley-Higgins may also tell you what she really thinks of her hubby."
"You've been very helpful, thank you Erin." Kit stood up to leave. "Especially seeing it's not really Jack-the-bastard I'm interested in, just the coincidental connection to my case."
"Uh huh," Erin acknowledged. "Have you told me anything?"
"No," Kit smiled.
"I didn't think you had."
So, Kit thought, as she turned into the short and completely treeless Banksia Grove in Windsor, everyone likes Carol Webster, except Mercury, and no one likes Jack Higgins, including Mercury.
Kit wondered if Mercury had any feelings at all about the other Independent candidate, Malcolm Brody. As she pulled up in front of the mutant-neo-classical monstrosity that was the residence of a grown man who actually let people call him Beaner, Kit hoped that Mercury did indeed have very strong feelings about Mr Brody. The façade of this house of multi-coloured and way-too-many pillars, balustrades, wrought-iron lace, painted fretwork, finials, curlicues and other decorative fiddlygums, was simply begging for an attack of the manures.
Kit locked the door of her car, after getting out first, and began preparing herself mentally for the horror she just knew lay in the interior of this pocket mansion.
Her phone rang. She flicked it open and answered the call. "O'Malley."
"Hey Boss."
"Hector, please don't call me Boss."
"Okay Chief. I've got some news and I've got a new thing for your computer."
"Is it good news? And how much will the thing cost?"
"It's not good or bad, it's just more news. And it won't cost much 'cause I got a deal for bulk. Just wait till you see what it can do, O'Malley. You'll really want this thing, a lot, believe me."
"As long as you install it or plug it in, and I don't ever have to know how it works."
"Sure thing, that's my job."
"Good. What's the news?"
"Todd Ferguson..."
"Who? You've lost me already."
"Let me finish then, grumpy-boots. Todd Ferguson, aka Darian Wanker-Renault, attended a high school in Parramatta and then a tech school in Wagga Wagga. The lad never went to a religious school, institution or college of any kind."
"Very interesting indeed."
"Yeah. Doesn't mean he wasn't a junkie and just invented the back story to make his book more interesting."
"I gather you've read it already. What do you think?"
"When it comes to the street life and the drugs the author knows what he's talking about. Which, of course, does not mean that Todd-stroke-Darian is the author. I've got a lead on the Adelaide girlfriend angle too."
"You're quite good at this, aren't you Hector."
"I aim to please." Kit could almost feel him grinning. "That's if that was a compliment."
"Of course it was. Do you want to follow this lead of yours?
"Hey, yeah!"
"Can you do it without pretending to be a detective?"
"Um, yes."
"Um, you'd better. Or it will be the last time."
"No worries Boss. I promise that if I need a 'detective' I'll call you. In the meantime can I ask Brigit to let me into your place to do this upgrade on your computer?"
"Of course you can. Oh, one more thing Hector. Can you run a check on the whereabouts of a Steven Penrith? He's Rebecca's ex husband and he is, supposedly, on a romantic cruise of the Caribbean with his fiancée. He usually lives in Sydney."
"Will do. By the way O'Malley, that beeping sound is your call-waiting."
"I know that Hector. And if you go now, they won't have to wait any longer."
"That's very true, Boss. Bye."
"O'Malley," Kit said as the second call kicked in.
"Ah. This is Sally."
"That's nice. Sally who?"
There was five seconds of very huffy silence. "Sally Shaw."
"Oh right," Kit said cheerily. "Hi Sally."
"O'Malley. I just thought I should tell you, or that you should know, that I have to go to Sydney. I'm flying out in two hours."
"Really? That's nice too. But why did you think I should know this?"
"Because... Oh hell! Look, firstly I didn't want you thinking I'd skulked off to Sydney on some kind of absentee stalking exercise..."
"What?"
"I do not want you to be at all suspicious of my movements or my motives."
"Oh. Okay. That's cool. And secondly?"
"Secondly, and most importantly, I wanted you to know that Rebecca will be on her own and perhaps you could, um, make that not so."
"I'll see what I can do, Sally." Kit began strolling up the driveway.
"Thank you, O'Malley. I'm returning on the red-eye so I'll be back by eight in the morning."
"Fine."
"Take care of her." The line went dead.
"Take care of her indeed," Kit said aloud, as she raised her finger to the front door bell. "I'm a private investigator not a celebrity-sitter."
"You're a what?" came a voice from the other side of the screen door. The actual front door was obviously already open.
"I'm a, ah..." Kit began. Oh bugger it, you can't keep lying to people, she thought. "I'm a private investigator. My name is Kit O'Malley and I made a tentative appointment to speak with Mr Brody this afternoon. Are you Mrs Brody?"
"I am," the voice announced, as its owner fumbled with fifty-three locks to open the door.
"Is Mr Brody in?" Kit asked, to while away some time while she waited.
"Yeah, he's out at the pool. Sorry about this door; it gives me the shits, I tell you. We're almost there. I actually thought you were the people with the new water cooler, that's why I was lurkin."
Kit stepped aside to avoid the outward swinging door and then entered the gloom of Chez Brody.
"I know," Mrs Brody observed, "it's bloody dark here in the entry vestibule isn't it."
An entry vestie-bool, no less, Kit thought as they headed towards a patch of sunlight scooting through a doorway halfway down the hall.
"I keep telling Beaner we need a sky light."
Oh my god, Kit cringed, not a skoi-loit.
"I'm Charmaine," Beaner Brody's missus announced as she stepped into the, the 'something' room and turned to face her.
"Of course you are," Kit said, shaking her hand and trying not to stare at the three hair-sculpted finials on top of Charmaine's head.
While Kit had expected to experience the full tragedy of the shaggiest shagpile carpet, gilt mirrors, trophy-filled cabinets, a vinyl studded cocktail bar, a leather and chrome lounge suite, a huge TV and a full-size pool table, she hadn't actually expected to find them all in the one room. And she had not, even in her wildest dreams, thought that the decorative devices on exterior of the house would be carried onto the summit of the lady of the manor herself. Kit had to stop herself from asking Charmaine if she was starring in a repertory production of Space Babes from Mars.
Malcolm Brody's hair, which was reclining along with the rest of his body on a banana lounge by the pool, looked like it too had been scared to death by Charmaine's hairdresser - or maybe by Charmaine.
Kit wanted to go home. She did not want to have to talk to a blonde, spiky-haired, middle-aged male bimbo in Speedos and a crop-top, who refused to make a clothing allowance for the fact that he had lost the muscle tone he'd possibly once had as a quarter-half-back ruck-defence-goalie-hooker - or whatever the hell he'd been when he'd been it.
"Kate, is it?" he said, leaping to his feet while bits of his body, inside and over his Speedos, wobbled disconcertingly. He flung out a very large hand to shake hers.
"Kit," Kit corrected him, with a smile. "I won't take up too much of your time, Malcolm. I just need to ask you a couple of questions."
"Ask away, Kit. And please, call me Beaner."
Do I have to? she thought. "Sure," she agreed. "I am investigating some unpleasantness that has happened to a couple of the other by-election candidates," Kit half lied.
"Who?" Beaner asked.
"I am working confidentially so I can't really say who, at least not yet," Kit shrugged. "But I am concerned that these so far harmless but annoying attacks may be happening to all the candidates."
"Attacks? What kind? How were they attacked?" Charmaine asked, gripping Beaner's arm.
"It's okay, Charmaine. No one has been hurt," Kit reassured her. "These incidents have not been physical attacks. They have taken the form of threatening notes and deliveries of strange things to the candidates' residences."
"Oh." Charmaine let go of Beaner's arm and recomposed herself. "Maybe that's what that thing was about, Beany."
Beany? Kit thought. "What thing?" she asked.
"Someone buried a CD player in our back yard," Beaner explained.
"Backyard?" Kit asked looking around. The pool was the back yard.
"We have a little bit of garden, the other side of that trellis," Charmaine pointed.
"I don't think I understand," Kit admitted. "If someone buried something in your 'back yard' how would you know? And why would anyone bury a..."
"It was playing," Beaner interrupted. "That's how we knew it was there. It was buried under a little pile of dog shit."
"We don't have a dog," Charmaine added helpfully.
"It was like this nightmare," Beaner continued dramatically. "We would hear this bloody song playing over and over and over for like ten hours. We thought the neighbours over the back were deliberately torturing us, till they came back from their holiday and came round to complain about the music. That's when we found the dog shit and the CD player."
"When was this?" Kit asked.
"Sunday wasn't it, Honey?"
Charmaine nodded. "You want me to get it?"
"Yeah. If you wouldn't mind," Kit said, pretty much to thin air as Charmaine had already disappeared inside. She turned to Beaner. "Was there a note with it? Or have you received any odd or threatening notes since?"
"There was a sticky label thing on the player. You'll see what it says. Oh shit!" Beaner moaned, slapping his hands over his ears. "I swear, if I hear that song one more time I'm gonna spew."
Kit thought this a strange reaction for a knuckledragger to have to the approaching sound of a bunch of ballsy-sounding boys singing Good Old Collingwood Forever.
Charmaine emerged from the everything-room with the offending portable CD player and two little speakers. She handed it all to Kit, who switched it off so that Beaner would stop doing his very bad Jimmy Barnes impersonation to drown out the music.
"Since when does a footballer not like hearing a footy song?" Kit joked.
Beaner stared at Kit as if she was the stupidest person in Melbourne. "I did not play for Collingwood," he declared.
"Oh," Kit smiled. The writing scrawled on the yellow label said:
Beaner Boy, you can't win every bloody thing. Stick to your own field.
These big boys won't let you play.
"Any idea who might be responsible?" Kit asked. "Or how they got into your yard?"
"They probbilly came over the back fence," Beaner said, sitting down on the banana lounge. "But I don't have a clue who did it."
"Everybody loves Beaner," Charmaine stated.
"Did you inform the police or tell anyone else about this?"
"The cops? Of course not, we thought it was a prank. Jacko knows about it though. He's my campaign manager."
"The Parkers know," Charmaine reminded him.
"Oh yeah. The neighbours who helped us find and dig it up," Beaner nodded.
"Are they the same neighbours that you thought were torturing you?" Kit asked. Charmaine nodded, so Kit clarified the point. "I gather you now don't think they had anything to do with it."
"Nah," Beaner shook his head. "Turns out he's a nice bloke. They just come back from ten days in Surfers."
Kit pulled out her notebook and pretended to refer to a list. "I'm going to give you some names and I'd like you to tell me if you - either of you - know any of them personally."
"Fire away," Beaner nodded.
"Shane Maloney, Garry Disher, Archie Leach, Jack Higgins, Carol Webster, Hector..."
"I used to play cricket with a Jack Higgins," Beaner interrupted. "If you're talkin Mr Sportiz then it's the same Jack Higgins. Haven't seen him for a couple of years though. Don't recognise any of the other blokes but the name Carol Webster is familiar. I think." Beaner appeared to be seriously searching his memory. "Nah, dunno. Maybe I dated her before Char and I got married."
Kit sat bolt upright in surprise, but Charmaine Brody snorted with laughter.
"That's right, Beaner love. Think with your pleasure pole."
"Huh?"
Charmaine turned to Kit. "He's a sweetheart really," she insisted. "But he's spent his life in locker rooms inhaling lineament and sweaty jocks with a tribe of aging but never maturing boys."
"Are you saying I'm not a man, Char?"
"No, you doofus; of course you're a man. You just haven't grown-up yet - it's why I love you. But you should know that Carol Webster is one of the women running against you in the election."
Malcolm Beaner Brody pouted, pushed his fists into his thighs and leant forward. He looked remarkably like an offended bulldog. "Doesn't mean I didn't date her once."
"In your dreams, Beaner," Charmaine laughed.
In Carol's nightmares, Kit thought.