The sign Life’s Pleasures glittered above the lintel of the door in thin multicoloured neon letters, while the bulbs illuminating the stairs inside cast an inviting glow onto the footpath. To Grace, it seemed an offer impossible to refuse in this drab semi-business district of downtown Parramatta, a landscape of warehouses, video stores, cash converters and takeaway food chains.
A police car was already stationed on the street outside. She followed the rest of the convoy to an area at the back of the four-storeyed building where there was room to park in a largish courtyard. A line of cars was parked along one side, presumably belonging to the sex workers and their clients. ‘Get their regos,’ Borghini said to one of his people.
The private entrance Doug had mentioned, a badly lit doorway, led to a flight of stairs next to a service elevator. A short climb took them to the brothel’s open doorway on the first floor. As soon as they walked in, two men waiting in deep armchairs rose to their feet and melted out of the entrance like smoke. They would have disappeared downstairs at speed if they hadn’t been stopped by the police and asked for their names and addresses.
Borghini had organised the raid well—a straightforward exercise without histrionics. He presented his warrant card and the legal papers at the reception desk and sent his people to search the premises in an orderly way. Kidd, last through the doorway, stood in the background, watching. Already the receptionist, an older woman with a solid build, dyed blonde hair and wearing a fashionable off-the-shoulder red number, was on the phone.
‘I’m just ringing Marie,’ she said with a professional smile. ‘She has a flat on the top floor, she’s there now. I’m sure she’ll be down in a moment.’
‘We know where she lives,’ Borghini replied. ‘I’ve already sent some people upstairs to talk to her. But go ahead. You can tell her I’ll be up to see her as soon as I’ve sorted things out down here.’
Officers moved along the hallways knocking on doors, announcing themselves. ‘We have reason to believe there may be illegal immigrants working on these premises,’ they repeated with each knock. ‘Could you come out to the reception desk now with your personal identification ready, please? Thank you.’
Clients began to appear in the hallways in various states of dress. Their IDs checked, they disappeared with the same speed as the men in the reception area earlier. Once out of the rooms, the workers sat in a communal kitchen, smoking and occasionally chatting. Some looked nervous but most seemed bored or irritated as they presented their IDs to the various officers on demand and were interviewed. Grace looked them over but saw no sign of the exotic workers Doug had described earlier that day. So far everybody was just another citizen.
It wasn’t the look of the brothel—much of which had an air of the suburban, of polyester chic—but its size that interested Grace. Whoever owned it was on to a good thing, and whoever had set it up in the first place had had money to invest. So far, that side of the business had proved to be a maze. Both Orion and the police investigation had identified the owner as a company, Santos Associates. Attempts to track down that company’s office holders had led nowhere. Calls to their phone numbers went unanswered, and when the company’s premises were visited no one was there. The brothel’s accounts were handled by a company called Stamfords, who actually did exist and whose people were being interviewed. They had confirmed one fact: all the money Life’s Pleasures made was automatically transferred offshore.
The brothel itself was large enough for Jirawan to have been hidden away in one room while business went on as normal in the rest of the place. Each room had a theme, a colour, a fantasy for whatever taste. The erotic paintings had the commercial look of pneumatic sex, while the mirrors on the walls and ceilings made her wonder why people so enjoyed watching themselves.
At the end of one corridor there was a fire door. Grace opened it to see the landing of a bleak, cement fire stair. She opened the door of the room closest to the exit. It was a little more spare than the others she’d seen, but it was serviceable and could be locked. It held a faint smell of air freshener gone stale. Grace climbed the fire stairs to the fourth floor. The fire door opened onto what seemed to be a private hallway laid with a length of red carpet. Not far from the fire exit a uniformed police officer stood outside an open doorway. Miss Marie Li’s apartment, with a direct line to the most discreet room in the brothel. Grace decided it was time to introduce herself.
She walked into a room where someone had let their imagination take a different turn altogether from the pay-as-you-go fantasy downstairs. It was softer, a place where all negativities were expelled. Close the door behind you and you left the grey Parramatta streets below for some much more romantic place. Even so it had a fake quality, a chinoiserie such as you might find in a 1930s Hollywood film set where the action was supposedly situated in the exotic colonial Far East. The Art Deco furnishings, the drapes in period prints, the light fittings, the potted palms, the decorated screens, even the wallpaper, were a loving recreation of the time; elegant, richly coloured and luxurious.
The room was filled with a sweet, fresh, but still almost overpowering odour. On the tables roundabout stood vases of cut flowers: red, white, lilac and yellow roses, deep blue irises, lilies. An ornate sideboard was covered with an array of orchids in heavy gilded metal pots. The flowers bloomed in every shade of colour merging to deeply variegated textures, one patterned almost like leopard skin. Downstairs, the clients paid by the half-hour to the hour; here the fantasy could go on for as long as anyone wanted.
A smaller room off the main lounge had been set up for entertainment and was dominated by a large, flat screen. There were shelves of DVDs: silent and 1930s films, Hollywood musicals—Chicago, Singing in the Rain and Camelot. Along one wall were framed photographs of famous former love goddesses: Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Marilyn Monroe: their dresses and their blonde hair shimmering under lights. A photograph of the actor Gong Li, exquisite in a gold cheongsam, hung alongside them. Grace saw a DVD of one of her films, Shanghai Triad, sitting on the top of the DVD player.
The sudden and pervasive smell of cigarette smoke caught her attention. She moved towards the kitchen, a room with gleaming stainless-steel fittings and pale granite bench tops. There were signs of interrupted food preparation on one of the benches: an array of dishes usually found on a yum cha menu and a bottle of vintage Pol Roger champagne in an ice bucket with two champagne flutes beside it. Borghini was sitting with Marie Li at the table, a uniformed policewoman with them. The rest of his team were searching the apartment. Jon Kidd was already there, leaning against the bench and watching everything.
Marie was smoking quickly, a packet of cigarettes and a gold lighter close to her hand. There was no ingrained smell of stale cigarette smoke in the flat; if there had been, it would have disturbed the ambience, the smell of the flowers. If Marie lit up at other times, she must have had to go outside. No more than in her early twenties, she was stylishly attractive with a resemblance to Gong Li herself. Her eyebrows were finely curved, her mouth shaped full with red lipstick. Iridescent red tints in her black hair matched her rose-coloured fingernails. Her hands were shaking badly and she seemed unable to sit completely still.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked, her face showing more confusion and fear than anger.
Borghini gave the standard reply to that question. ‘Grace Riordan, one of my officers. I’ve already shown Marie a photograph of Coco and told her she’s dead,’ he said to Grace. ‘I’ve also told her we have information that she was a worker here. She denies that. She also says she’s never met the brothel’s owners and doesn’t know who they are.’
‘Lynette handles all that kind of thing,’ Marie said. ‘She deals with the accountants. I’m the hostess. That’s all I do.’
‘You’re the manager,’ Borghini said.
‘The hostess,’ she replied sharply. ‘It might be called manager but it really means hostess. I make people feel at ease. I’m better at that than Lynette.’
Grace sat down. Marie lit a cigarette from the end of the one she was just finishing. Jirawan’s photograph, taken at the Villawood Immigration Detention Centre, lay on the table.
‘Where did you get this information about this girl?’ Marie asked. ‘Whoever it was, they must have been mistaken. I don’t know her. She’s never worked here.’
‘Our informant knew your receptionist’s name,’ Borghini said.
‘Maybe he’s been a customer here. He might have a grudge against us.’
‘So if I go downstairs and ask Lynette about Coco, what’s she going to tell me?’
‘That she’s never seen her here and she’s never heard of her.’
‘And the workers?’
‘The same!’ Marie’s voice had an edge of panic. ‘She was never here. I don’t know why you keep asking me. Where did this information come from? What was this informant’s name?’ She spoke with a modified Australian accent, giving her speech a strained, artificial, up-market gloss.
‘That information is confidential,’ Borghini said.
‘We don’t even know who’s accusing us. That doesn’t seem very fair.’
‘Who were you expecting tonight? You got the champagne out for someone.’
‘That’s none of your business!’ She almost shrieked this, theatrically.
‘I think you’ll find it is,’ Borghini replied. ‘Whoever he is, he hasn’t turned up.’
‘My private life is my affair. It’s got nothing to do with this.’
Grace’s gaze went past Marie to a plain-clothes officer heading towards them from the hallway that presumably led to the bedrooms. He whispered in Borghini’s ear.
‘Okay,’ Borghini said. ‘If you don’t mind, Marie, we’ll just stop there for the moment. There’s a room in your flat I want to have a look at.’
She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I don’t have anything to hide. This is my home and I don’t like you being here but I don’t have anything to hide. Which room is it?’
‘The one beside the linen cupboard.’
‘There’s nothing to see in there. I’ll show you.’
Marie rose to her feet. She was slender, and wearing a red silk cheongsam set off by very high stiletto heels. Kidd fell into step behind her. They all followed her down the hallway past the main bedroom—a large room furnished with a king-size bed and soft rugs, including one that seemed to be a genuine tiger’s skin. The windows were covered with heavy drapes. They stopped outside another door.
‘Is this the room you’re interested in?’ she said. ‘I can’t see why.’
Furnished with a single bed, it was small and spare and lacking the gaudy luxury of the rest of the flat. There was no window and the door had a lock on the outside.
‘Why do you need a lock on this door?’ Borghini asked. ‘Do you lock anyone in here?’
‘No, of course I don’t. That lock was here when I moved into this place. I don’t use this room. Go inside and look at it if you want to. It’s not such a terrible place. It has heating and an en suite.’
Grace stepped into the room. The surfaces seemed free of dust and there was the same faint smell of artificial air freshener as in the room downstairs. There would be nothing in here, not even a hair. A place with no exit, except to another room downstairs which also had no way out. She returned to the hallway.
‘It’s very clean for a room you never use,’ she said to Marie. ‘Have you cleaned it recently? It smells of air freshener.’
‘I like things clean.’
Grace glanced at Borghini. He was standing back a little, watching; a slight nod said she should go on.
‘You like things clean?’ she said. ‘Is this a maid’s room? A place for someone who cooks and cleans for you?’
‘I do my own cooking. I like to cook.’
‘Then who does your cleaning? Whoever slept in there?’
‘No one slept in there.’
‘Then who cleaned it last and when? It must have been recently. You can smell the air freshener. Why do you need to clean and put air freshener into a room no one uses?’
‘I don’t know. I…’ Marie stopped, not knowing what to say.
Another of Borghini’s people appeared in the hallway. ‘Something else you need to see,’ she said to him quietly.
In the main bedroom, an ornate Chinese cabinet stood open on the dressing table. Beside it was a shiny, silver-edged mirror, a razor blade with a silver edge matching the mirror’s and a thin silver straw, similarly decorated. The silverwork was delicately, intricately made.
‘We found those in the cabinet,’ the officer said.
‘Are these yours?’ Borghini asked Marie.
‘No. I don’t know what they are.’
‘If they’re not yours, can you tell me how they might have got here?’
She shook her head dumbly. She had tears in her eyes.
‘Perhaps someone put them there. A visitor who didn’t like me. I don’t know.’
‘We found this as well,’ one of the other plain-clothes officers said. He was holding a black silk pouch peeled open to reveal several broken lumps of cocaine in a plastic bag. It looked like a stash kept for personal use.
Grace glanced around the room once more. On the dressing table were vases of white roses mixed with smaller flowers, dark blue in colour. A silk and lace negligee lay thrown over a chair, waiting for someone to slip it on. The negligee was for two to enjoy; the cocaine seemed to be only for one. And not Marie.
‘Marie, why don’t you take a seat back out in the kitchen?’ Borghini said. ‘We’ll keep looking through here and then we’ll need to ask you some more questions. I’m afraid we’ll be keeping you for a while yet. Maybe you’d like to have a cup of coffee while you’re waiting. We’ll get to you as soon as we can.’
‘Can I call someone? I want to call someone.’
‘In these circumstances, who do you think?’ Kidd said. It was the first time he’d spoken. ‘Your family. A lawyer.’
‘I’ll call my brother,’ Marie said. ‘Can I do that?’
Grace wasn’t certain who she was asking.
‘You can do that if you want to,’ Borghini told her. ‘But I’m going to ask you not to leave the premises. If you go and sit down now and make your call, we’ll keep searching in here. I’ll send someone to look after you.’
Marie turned to leave the room. She bumped against the uniformed policewoman as if she hadn’t seen her, then glanced around confused. She saw Kidd and looked away. The policewoman guided her out.
‘I think that might be it for me tonight,’ Grace said. ‘This isn’t my field.’
‘No problem.’ Borghini dredged up a smile, presumably pleased to have her out from under his feet. ‘Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow? I’ll let you know how we finished up here and what we’re going to do next.’
‘I’ll do that, thanks.’
Passing the kitchen, she saw Marie sitting at the table, crying while she tried to call a number on her phone. The policewoman sat with her, watching. Kidd, following Grace, went back to his place leaning against the bench. Grace guessed he wanted to listen to whatever Marie Li was going to say on the phone. Ignoring Clive’s instructions to watch him, she walked out of the flat, feeling his eyes on her back.
Downstairs in the reception area, some of the workers were readying to leave. The police had finished their questioning. There was a low buzz of conversation. Lynette, the receptionist, was sitting at the desk flicking half-heartedly through a magazine. Grace went over to her.
‘Lynette,’ she said. ‘Is that who you are?’
‘I’ve already told the police that. Who are you?’
‘Grace Riordan. I’m with the police.’
Lynette looked up at her, polite but ungiving. She was older than Grace had thought, at least fifty. They were interrupted by a chorus of ‘Night, Lynette,’ as the workers left, moving in a small group past the reception desk.
‘You take care out there,’ Lynette called back, watching the women out the door before turning back to Grace. ‘What do you want? I’ve already given you people all my details.’
‘You look like a professional to me,’ Grace said. ‘You’ve been in this business a lot longer than Marie Li, haven’t you? You were doing this when she was in nappies. Now she’s your boss. Do you like that situation? Or do you have to do things you’d normally never do under any other circumstances?’
The woman said nothing, only stared. Grace saw the same fear in her eyes that she’d seen in Marie Li’s.
‘Take this,’ she said and offered a card that had nothing on it but a phone number.
‘What is it?’
‘A contact number. Put it away out of sight.’
The card disappeared into Lynette’s bag. ‘I thought you were with the police.’
‘I want to show you something. This is Coco after we found her.’
Grace slid a photograph across the desk: Coco lying in the scrub in the Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park.
‘Oh, Christ.’ Lynette closed her eyes and covered her mouth.
Grace picked up the photograph and put it back in her bag. ‘I want to know who did that to her. Who is she, and where did she come from?’
Lynette still had her eyes closed. She shook her head.
‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Yes, you have. Don’t think anyone believes you when you say that. And don’t think this is going to go away. We’re going to keep coming back and we’re going to keep asking questions. You’re going to be asked to come in for questioning and that questioning is going to go on for hours. We’re going to talk to all your workers. Some of them will have seen something. Besides that,’ Grace said, ‘you saw Coco in that picture. Think about the people who did that. How do you know they won’t see you as a weak link? And if they do, what are they going to do about it? Do you want to trust them? Or do you want us to offer you some protection?’
‘I can’t talk to you here,’ Lynette said, barely audibly.
‘But she was here.’
The woman had folded her arms close about herself and was staring down into her lap. Very faintly, she nodded.
‘If you want to talk to me in complete privacy, with a promise of complete confidentiality, you can ring that number any time you like. No one has to know you’ve called me. Just ask for me by my first name. If you’re a witness, we may be able to get you immunity. If you need protection, we’ll arrange it.’
The woman looked up, shaking her head, her mouth slightly open. Her make-up seemed old and her eyes were moist as if she might cry. At that moment, Kidd walked into the reception area and came up to the desk.
‘What are you two talking about?’
‘I want to know if Lynette has a book with her workers’ photographs,’ Grace replied. ‘So far she’s been telling me to mind my own business.’
Lynette placed a leather-bound photograph album on the desk.
‘Everyone in there is legal,’ she said. ‘Have a look.’
Grace flicked through, finding the workers Doug had described. A number of Asian women and one African, all very lovely, none of whom had been at work tonight.
‘Satisfied?’ Lynette asked.
‘You have some very attractive workers. I’m sure they bring in the clients.’
‘That’s what we do here—bring in clients.’
‘But not tonight. You had customers waiting.’
‘I was expecting a quiet night. I care about my ladies’ welfare and I make sure they have adequate time off.’
‘Then I’ll say good night,’ Grace said.
She walked out, giving Kidd and Lynette one last backward glance. Lynette was staring into the distance. It was impossible to say if she knew Kidd or not. He was looking after Grace, angry, suspicious. Go on, follow me. Prove you’re what I think you are.
In the courtyard, only one car remained of the workers’ vehicles, an old yellow Toyota Corolla. It didn’t look like the kind of car Grace would have expected Marie Li to drive and she guessed it to be Lynette’s. She took a quick note of the registration number and went to her own car, which was parked at a distance from the building. She didn’t start the engine but looked back, waiting. This side of the building was in darkness; all the house lights looked out onto the front street. There was only the white gleam of the fluorescent tube over the back door. Suddenly Kidd stepped out. He looked around but didn’t seem able to see her in the dark. Then his phone rang. He answered it, turned and walked back inside. The door closed and she could no longer see him. She waited a few minutes longer to see if he would come back. She was about to ring in for a registration check on the Corolla when Lynette, wearing a leather jacket over her dress and with her bag in hand, came running out and went to the car, yanking the door open. Grace watched her start it and then drive away at speed.
She gave a quick glance at the back door to see if Kidd was following, then drove after her. Out on the road, she called in to the Orion control centre with the details of Lynette’s car’s make and registration.
‘Owned by a Jacqueline Ryan,’ the operative said. ‘Her address is the Royal Hotel on Victoria Road, West Ryde. She must be a long-term resident. Do you need backup?’
Grace felt the pressure of her firearm against her ribcage, just under her arm.
‘Not yet. I think we need to pick this woman up. Can you log that as an urgent request, please?’
‘Just a minute. There’s a call coming through to you. Do you want to take it?’
‘Yes. Log the number and put it through, thanks.’
‘Is that Grace?’ the caller said.
‘Yes. Go ahead, Lynette.’
‘I will talk to you but only if it’s tonight. Like now. As soon as you can.’
‘Where do you want to do that?’
‘Do you know the Royal Hotel? It’s on Victoria Road. Can you meet me in the bistro?’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Does that suit you?’
‘I’ll be waiting. I want this over and done with.’
Grace didn’t doubt it. The woman’s voice was shaking with fear. As soon as she’d cut the connection, Grace was back at the control centre.
‘Did you get that?’ she asked.
‘We did.’
‘I’ll report in when I’ve seen her. I think we’ll still need to pick her up but I’ll confirm that after I’ve talked to her.’
‘We’ll be waiting.’
Grace hadn’t been to the Royal Hotel before but it was easy enough to find. A renovated brick building, it had the look of a popular local watering hole with several bars, gaming and a restaurant. The sign said it offered long-stay budget accommodation. Was this all Lynette could afford? Or was she saving her money for a rainy day?
She was in the bistro, drinking a glass of white wine. This late on a week night, there were few diners at the tables. Grace bought a mineral water and went to join her. Lynette looked tired, and the jacket robbed her of whatever glamour she’d had in the brothel.
‘I know it’s not that warm but do you want to go outside?’ she said. ‘That way I can smoke.’
‘Sure.’
‘Don’t you drink?’
‘Not when I’m working,’ Grace replied, this being the easiest explanation.
‘What about a cigarette?’
A former smoker, Grace mentally gritted her teeth. ‘No, I don’t smoke,’ she said.
‘You’re healthy.’
Lynette bought a half-carafe of house white and they went outside. The beer garden was empty. Lynette lit her cigarette with relief. Grace smelled the smoke and was glad she’d said no.
‘How did you get away tonight?’ she asked.
‘I rang what’s-her-features upstairs and told her she could close up, I was going home. She screamed at me! Said she had the police there and she couldn’t do it. I said she’d just have to cope. I won’t have a job as of now but it doesn’t matter. I’ve had enough. As soon as I can book one, I’m getting on a flight to Perth.’
‘Why Perth?’
‘My son’s in Western Australia, working up north with Woodside Petroleum. He’s been asking me to come out and see him for a while. I will now. With a bit of luck, I might be able to get some work over there. There’s a lot of single men working up there besides him. Someone must need a receptionist somewhere.’
‘Some details, Lynette. What’s your real name?’
‘Jacqueline Ryan. Before you ask, yes, I live here. It’s cheap. I’ve got money but I don’t spend it if I can help it. When I quit the business, I’ll buy my dream home.’
‘Who owns the brothel?’ Grace asked.
‘Don’t have a clue and I don’t care. I deal with the accountants. Stamfords. They’re in Parramatta. They do everything. If you want to know more, go talk to them.’
‘Marie’s new, isn’t she? Where did she come from?’
‘Stamfords.’ Lynette blew out smoke. ‘They rang one day and said she was on her way. She was the boss and I had to do what she said. Fine. Why should I give a shit? Look, I don’t ask anybody any questions. In this business, you don’t.’
No, you just did what you were told by a hysterical girl half your age without a murmur, Grace thought. The same way you took on an illegal and unwilling sex worker without batting an eyelid. Whatever’s in the pay packet must be good.
‘Coco,’ Grace said, pushing along. ‘When did she arrive and did she come alone?’
Lynette shook her head over her glass. ‘No. She turned up with Marie, about two months ago now. When I heard she was dead, I didn’t know what to think. I honestly don’t know anything about that.’
‘Marie brought her down by the fire stairs,’ Grace said without pity. ‘You handled the bookings.’
‘I did not handle the bookings. Whatever that nasty little cow says, she did it all.’ Lynette took another mouthful of wine. ‘Cheap white,’ she said with a grimace.
Grace could guess what it tasted like. Alcohol was a caustic poison moving at the edge of the blood, twisting your mind into such a disfigured shape you couldn’t recognise yourself. Others could drink; she could not.
‘What about the other workers? Didn’t they know she was there?’
‘That’s what I used to say to her! They had to see her taking the customers down there. She just laughed at me.’
‘How did the customers find out about Coco?’
Lynette looked at her sharply. ‘You know, don’t you? No condoms if you didn’t want to. On the fucking net!’
‘Yes, I know about that. How did you deal with it?’ Grace asked. ‘Normally you’d never do that, right?’
Lynette wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘There’s plenty of men who don’t want that. They like the protection themselves. I couldn’t help her. I wasn’t the boss any more.’
‘It can’t be good business to do something like that. Didn’t Marie know that?’
This time Lynette did look at her. ‘Anything that gives the clients what they want is good business. There’s a fair few arseholes out there, you know.’
‘Who put it on the net?’
‘Marie. It said Ask Marie.’
Marie was the front. Possibly even the sucker. The one pushed out there to do the dirty work. From Lynette’s description, she’d got a kick out of it.
‘Marie isn’t a big woman,’ Grace said. ‘How did she control Coco?’
‘She had someone to help her. Some guy, I don’t know who he was. He used to bring her down and take her up.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘I hardly ever saw him. He was a big guy, black hair, Italian probably. Head like a bullet. Never washed. You could smell him before you saw him. I stayed out of his way.’
‘Did you ever talk to Coco? Find out anything about her while she was there?’ Grace asked.
‘She didn’t speak enough English. One thing though—I’d give her a break sometimes when there was no one else around. I couldn’t let her go, but I’d let her out of that room and get her a cup of tea and something to eat in the kitchen. She wanted to use a phone one day. She kept pointing to my mobile. She was crying so I let her use it. I think she called Peter, whoever he was.’
‘Peter. That’s all?’
‘That’s all I could understand. But I do know that whatever that call was about, it made her happy. That’s when she started to jack up.’
‘What did she do?’
‘When the men came into the room, she’d be curled up in a heap. Sometimes she’d be in the corner on the floor. She wouldn’t move, wouldn’t even look at them. If they wanted sex, they’d have to force it. Look, the place we run—a lot of our clientele is suburban dads. This is their break. They want someone to give them a good time. Marie would leave the clients there, and often enough they’d come back to me and say they didn’t want that. It wasn’t what they’d paid for. Then Marie started getting angry with Coco because she wouldn’t cooperate. One day, madam dragged me down there and told me to sort her out. What was I supposed to do? Coco was wrapped up like this tight little ball. You could see her shaking. I lost it. I shouted at that little bitch for once. I said, you can’t fucking do this! It’s creating too many bad vibes. That shut her up. Anyway, after that Coco disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘She wasn’t there any more. That was maybe three weeks ago. I never saw her again. Then a bunch of cleaners turned up and went through that room like a dose of salts. Marie came and saw me. She had that look in her eye. She hadn’t forgiven me for swearing at her. If I told anyone about Coco, I was going to regret it, she said. She meant it, too.’
Easy enough, once the brothel was closed, to take someone down in the service elevator and out the back door to a waiting car, Grace thought. But where to from there?
‘Were you expecting us tonight?’ she asked.
Lynette shook her head.
‘You were, weren’t you? Someone called. When? Early? Late? And what about your workers?’ Grace asked. ‘Quite a few of them weren’t there tonight. You had customers waiting. Did you call them or did someone else?’
Lynette refilled her glass. ‘It was just a normal night.’
Someone had called, Grace felt certain of it. But too late to stop Marie making preparations to meet her lover, who instead had sent along his watchdog, Kidd, to keep an eye on her. Not much of an exchange for her.
‘Who’s Marie’s boyfriend?’
‘I wouldn’t have a clue. I’ve never seen him and I don’t want to.’
‘Was there anyone there tonight that you recognised? Anyone you’d seen before?’
‘In your mob?’ She grinned. ‘No, no clients. None that I recognised anyway.’
‘It was your more exotic workers who didn’t turn up tonight, wasn’t it? The Asian and African workers.’
Lynette shrugged, waving Grace away with one hand.
‘Does Marie look after them as well?’ she persisted.
‘No. She didn’t have anything to do with them. I handled the bookings and the money, that’s all.’
‘Do those workers cost more?’
‘What do you think?’
‘And do they get paid more as well?’
‘Of course they do.’
‘You’d know that, wouldn’t you? If you look after them,’ Grace said, watching the sudden panic in the woman’s eyes. ‘Let’s assume they’re not getting paid as much as they should. Where does the money go? Do you split it with the owners?’
Lynette put down her glass. ‘That’s it from me. Good night.’
‘Walk away from here and I’ll have you arrested.’
Lynette, half on her feet, slumped back into her chair, tired and frightened. Her make-up seemed to be slipping away.
‘How can you have me arrested?’
‘There’s plenty in what you’ve told me tonight. Harbouring an illegal immigrant for starters. Deprivation of liberty. Now let’s do this the easy way. You answer my questions. You get looked after.’
‘What do you think I can tell you? I’m just front of house. That’s all.’
‘How much do these workers get paid?’
Lynette looked away. ‘They don’t.’
‘You take the money.’
‘I take a percentage. Do you know how old I am? I’m fifty-three. If I don’t get some money together, what I am going to live on ten years from now? The fucking old-age pension?’
Grace ignored this. ‘Why are these workers doing this? There must be something in it for them. Is it a visa? For them or their families?’
‘I don’t know what the deal is. Some of them have other jobs as well, I’m pretty certain about that. They come in, they work a set number of shifts each week, they go home. I handle it. That’s all.’
‘Do you know Jon Kidd? The man who was at the reception desk when I left.’
‘That little shortie? I’ve never seen him before. And that’s a fact. I never have.’
‘Who brings these workers in to meet you?’
‘They come themselves.’ Lynette took a mouthful of wine. ‘They say they’re here to work for Amelie. I know what that means and I look after them from then on. The money they make gets recorded separately against their names. I send it off to the accountants. They deal with it and then I get my bit at the end of the month. In cash.’
‘They just front up out of the blue? You don’t know they’re coming.’
‘All right. I get a note from the accountant. It comes in a sealed envelope. If they don’t front, I have to send a letter back saying so.’
Someone tells them they’d better be there if they know what’s good for them, Grace thought. And if they don’t or won’t listen to that advice, what happens then?
‘Do they always turn up?’
‘Yeah,’ Lynette said. ‘Except one. That was just a month ago. Another African girl. I had her picture. She was a stunner.’
‘Do you still have the picture?’
‘No, I sent it back when she didn’t turn up.’
‘What was her name?’
‘I wasn’t given a name. I don’t get names for any of them and I don’t ask. We settle on a working name when they get there.’
‘What happened to the one who didn’t turn up?’
‘I don’t know and I didn’t ask.’
‘Why didn’t Marie handle these workers?’
‘Because she doesn’t know her arse from her elbow.’
‘But you do. You’ve been in this business for years. How long have you been working at Life’s Pleasures? Has this been going on all the time you’ve been there?’
‘All my fucking life, it feels like. Three years.’ Lynette had stood up. She was crying. ‘Yes, it’s been going on the whole time. I got paid for it, didn’t I? You can have me arrested now. I don’t give a shit. I’m walking away. I need to get some sleep.’
‘One last question. Did Coco have a wedding ring when she was with you?’
‘Is that a joke? What would she do with that?’
And she was gone, leaving behind an empty glass and carafe and a full ashtray.
Grace walked out to her car, passing a man a distance away from her on his way in. She glanced at him but he was heading for the bar. In her car, she rang the control centre.
‘Did you get that conversation?’
‘We did,’ the operative replied. ‘What’s the request now?’
‘We need to pick her up for questioning ASAP. Her movements need to be monitored and Clive needs to be notified as well. We should pick her up before tomorrow morning at the latest if we can. We also need to notify the police. Can you forward them a transcript of everything that was said tonight? And we need to check Jacqueline Ryan’s mobile phone records for any calls to Thailand.’
‘Will do,’ the operative said. ‘I’ll send that request for a team through now.’
‘Thanks. I’m off duty. You can close my wire down. Call me if you need me.’
‘Okay.’
Grace was tired and it was late. She hadn’t seen Ellie that evening and by now she would be in bed, hopefully asleep. She felt jaded; she didn’t like badgering worn-out, middle-aged women in desperate circumstances, it made her feel grubby. When she got home she would wash off her make-up and become herself. But wasn’t this who she was, with or without the pancake? The hard-faced operative? Orion had extraordinary powers. Those powers were hers to exercise even if they broke people’s lives apart. This was the tightrope she had to walk: find the killers without doing too much damage to herself or anyone else.
She began the drive home, to Harrigan’s Victorian terrace in Birchgrove. His haunted house, she called it; ghosts from his past lived in every room. He had told her to change it as much as she wanted—repaint it, redecorate, whatever she liked. Make it her own. She was working on it, room by room.
It was only after she’d crossed the Gladesville Bridge that she began to wonder if she was being followed. A single light as if from a motorbike seemed to be always at the same distance behind her. Then the light grew closer—a small, agile bike, the kind that slips easily in and out of the traffic. Was it Newell? It couldn’t be. Every police officer in New South Wales would be looking for him. Even he wouldn’t be so mad as to show himself in public right now. And how could he know where she was?
Her mind kept her driving under control but it didn’t stop her fear from growing. The bike came closer; it seemed to be letting her know it was there. She turned on her phone and rang the Orion control centre.
‘I’m fairly certain I’m being followed,’ she said. ‘A bike, small. I can’t see any registration and I’ve got no description of the rider.’
‘Where from?’
‘I first noticed it coming over the Gladesville Bridge. I’m on Victoria Road coming up to Darling Street where I’m turning left. It’s accelerating, coming up beside me, swerving in close.’
‘Take evasive action now.’
‘It’s gone,’ she said.
Suddenly the road was clear. The rider had swerved in dangerously towards her car, then sped past her through the orange light at the intersection of Victoria Road and Darling Street. She hoped her voice hadn’t sounded panicky; it seemed as if it had.
‘Are you there?’ the operative asked.
‘Yes. I don’t know what that was about. Whether it was someone’s idea of a joke or if someone was following me from my op. Can you report it? And make my request for a team to pick up Jacqueline Ryan urgent. Just in case they were following me all the way from Parramatta.’
‘Will do.’
She hung up. She was shaky, tired.
When she turned off Darling Street and was on her way down the hill, she noticed a car behind her. It was still with her when she reached Snails Bay. As she was backing down the steep driveway of her house, the car passed her, turning into Wharf Road. It was a red Saab, a car she’d often seen speeding up the street. She turned off the ignition and sat looking around her. Everything was peaceful. Maybe no one was out there and she could just relax.
Could she tell Paul what had just happened or was it work? No, it was work. Another secret between them. At least she was home, she thought, looking at the lighted windows with relief.