Eden (13 page)

‘Why not?'

‘A pretty face is all,' said Laura philosophically.

‘Do you recall anything else about the
CleanNet
presentation? Any little detail?'

Laura thought for a while, then said, ‘Not really.'

‘Do you know if Carmichael met Richard McFadden privately?'

‘I made all Ed's appointments for him.'

‘None with McFadden?'

‘No.'

Laura's phone rang. From the way she answered, it sounded as though she'd been waiting for the call. She laughed and tossed her head as though the person she was talking to could see her.

She was still smiling when she said goodbye, thanked me for the ice-cream, and told me she was off to meet a friend in Civic.

. . .

Back home once more, I checked my email. Ivan had replied to the one I'd sent from Sydney.

‘
A fuck's a fuck Sandy. Poor old Carmichael died of a heart attack. I think you'll find that's all there is to it.
'

Up yours too, I said to the computer. At the same time, I was reminded that it was a trap to categorise, abstract, and then ignore whatever details didn't fit. There was the added impulse to solve a mystery on my own, and double-quick, to present Ivan with it at the airport, all tied up in a wig box, finished, done.

Eleven

Next morning, I called in to Canberra's wig shop, not the one at the hospital, but where the snooty woman had answered my enquiry by insisting that all her products were exclusive. I discovered that they didn't sell women's wigs at all, but turned out to be a hairdresser with a side business supplying wiglets for men. There was no hint of the smell.

Gail rang with a piece of news. She'd happened to mention Jenny Bishop's name to Mike Carnegie, and it had rung a bell. Jenny had made the news a few years earlier when, as a Year 12 student at Dickson College, she'd starred in a porn movie made by a local producer.

‘It was one of the first stories Mike wrote.'

‘Who was the filmmaker?'

‘Something Serbian. Or Polish, could be.'

‘Walewicz?'

‘Sounds right.'

I congratulated Gail on her interviews with Margot and Denise, which had been in that morning's paper. They'd both come across as intelligent and careful women, as professional in their dealings with their clientele as anyone who ran a successful business.

Gail said she'd already had complaints from the religious right.

‘Ken Dollimore?'

‘Not yet.'

We talked for a few more minutes, until she said she had to go.

Lucy's reply to my email said she'd found the rosebuds and enjoyed the joke. It proved their claim that the new legislation wouldn't stop pornographers. In the meantime, it was causing a major headache for everybody else. I emailed back saying I was working on a suspicion that someone had complained to the minister about
CleanNet
, and that I hoped to have some details for her soon. My suspicions hardened up, I realised, when I was composing my emails to Lucy. If I'd been truthful, I would have admitted that what I'd just written was no more than a guess, but it was useful, voicing my opinions to someone who was paying me, not just to speculate, but to get results. I was daring to put my hunches into words, and this was leading me to take them seriously, and to try and test them out.

. . .

The adult video place smelt of old cigarettes. I lingered at the sex aids counter for a while, indulging fantasies I would never have imagined if I hadn't been alone, then made my way to the back of the shop, and began going through the videos. Asking for Jenny Bishop by name would be embarrassing, and I thought it unlikely that she would have used her own name anyway.

I spent twenty minutes reading credits and staring at close-ups of giant dripping cocks. I was beginning to think I was wasting my time when I came across a girl with Jenny's face, dressed in a black G-string and waist-length, wavy chestnut hair.

The credits gave her name as Jane. The movie's title was ‘Jane Springs the Trap'.

In order to borrow it, I had to join the library. The young woman at the counter explained tactfully, after she'd asked for some ID, that my borrower's card would be blank apart from the barcode. I bit my tongue to avoid the urge to explain what I was doing.

Back home, I switched on the VCR, then decided I didn't feel like watching it yet. Instead, I did a google search for Jenny Bishop, and came up with hundreds of sites featuring Jennys and Bishops of the ecclesiastical and faux-ecclesiastical variety.

I made myself some lunch, then settled down to see what Rose's friend Jenny had to offer, realising that the reason I'd put it off was that I was no longer sure it was her after all. I don't know what I'd been expecting, apart from disappointment, but I felt surprisingly protective towards ‘Jane' when she came on the screen, and relieved when the action switched to someone else. Jane gave a credible performance of pretending to enjoy sex with one man after another, or perhaps she really had enjoyed it. I was beginning to feel I'd seen enough, when a door opened and another man appeared. The camera lingered on his pelvic area, then moved up to his face. Dark, wavy hair. Dimple in his chin. Smile that promised a better time than anybody else could offer. It was a younger, sweeter Simon Lawrence. I checked the credits again. He'd called himself Trenchant. I looked it up in the dictionary, which defined the word as ‘keen and effective, vigorous, penetrating and ­incisive'.

. . .

I rang
Sans Souci
and asked to speak to Rose. The woman who answered said she wasn't there. Something in her voice warned me against questioning her further.

Then I phoned Mike Carnegie at
The Canberra Times
.

‘The presentation
CleanNet
put on for Senator Bryant last November,' I said, once we'd exchanged pleasantries. ‘How did it come about?'

Carnegie turned the question back on me. ‘Favouritism, you reckon? It's not as though the government's about to buy the filters themselves. Nor the ABA. The legislation leaves that up to the service providers.'

‘Who aren't going to be impressed by
CleanNet
sucking up to the minister.'

‘Not in general. No.'

‘And in particular?'

‘I don't know of anyone who'd be all that impressed. Given that most of them are against the legislation anyway.'

‘Has anyone complained?'

‘Not that I know of. Not directly.'

‘Indirectly?'

‘The guy heading them up—Richard McFadden—he's incredibly gung-ho.'

‘And?'

‘Guys like that are good at making enemies.'

McFadden's propensity for making enemies hadn't stopped a number of local companies investing in
CleanNet
. I wondered if Carnegie knew this. It might be something I could trade.

‘What about the list of recommended filters. Do you know if
CleanNet
's on it?'

‘Do you?'

I bit my tongue to stop myself from pointing out that I wouldn't have asked him if I already knew.

‘Afraid not,' I said. ‘Did you notice Carmichael and McFadden together at the presentation? How did they seem?'

‘They looked to be on good terms. But everyone was sucking up to McFadden that night.'

‘Did you talk to Carmichael?'

‘Briefly. He gave me the usual bullshit about having to keep up with the latest developments.'

Since I didn't seem to be making much headway with this line of questioning, I changed the subject, and asked about Jenny Bishop.

‘Did you know that she was dead?'

‘No. I—that's a pity. I heard she'd become an addict, and turned hooker to support her habit. She seemed a nice girl.'

Carnegie had assumed, without a word of explanation from me, that Jenny had died of an overdose. It would be the common assumption, as Rose understood very well.

‘Did you know that Jenny was back in Canberra last year, working at Margot Lancaster's club?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘What about that porn movie?'

Carnegie coughed. ‘I wanted to do a story about her,' he said, then cleared his throat. ‘She'd just turned eighteen. My impression was she'd done it for a laugh. It wasn't so much the money, and anyway I don't think the guy running the show would have paid her much.'

I asked him the date his story had appeared, and wrote it down.

‘Did you talk to the guys who were in the movie with her?'

‘No.'

‘Trenchant—does that name ring a bell?'

‘That's a name? No, not off hand.'

‘What about Simon Lawrence?'

‘Negative to that as well.'

I asked Carnegie if he'd followed Stan Walewicz's career.

‘I know him as a local character.' Carnegie made the word sound oddly prim.

‘Did you know he'd been ordered to take down his website? He's lost the opportunity for advertising on the net.'

‘Won't he just go offshore? Isn't that what they're all doing?'

‘He was at the
CleanNet
presentation.'

‘Yeah?' Carnegie seemed to be trying to remember. ‘I didn't see him there.'

We talked about the presentation for a while longer, but Carnegie had nothing new to add.

. . .

With a cup of tea in hand, I rang Brook to tell him about the movie, Jenny Bishop's starring role, Lawrence's cameo appearance. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, while I listened for Sophie in the background.

‘There's a logic to it,' I said, feeling a mixture of pleasure and frustration at keeping him on the phone for a few more seconds. ‘These porn companies have had a dream run up till now. Canberra's been a good home to them. But the climate's changed and they're looking to diversify.'

‘A good thing too,' Brook said.

‘Carmichael was sympathetic. At least he didn't try and shut them down. Then last year it seemed that he was moving over to the other side.'

‘The guy had a heart attack. It's hardly unprecedented. Remember Billy Sneddon?'

‘Of course I remember Billy Sneddon.'

I could feel Brook smile at last. ‘I have to go,' he said.

The phone rang as soon as I'd put it down.

Peter's voice was excited, with a new and charming confidence.

‘Is Fred okay? What have you been doing, Mum?'

‘Fred's fine. I went to Sydney for a day or two.'

‘You're not forgetting to feed him?'

‘Would Fred let me do that?'

Peter laughed. I thought of the brown hair beginning on his upper lip, the way he'd turned aside when I kissed him goodbye. His voice, soon to break perhaps, shattered the line between Launceston and Canberra.

I felt restless, jittery, after he'd hung up. It was overcast and hot. I thought about going for a swim, but I wanted the astringency of salt water, water with a bite in it, not the tepid chlorine of Dickson Pool.

. . .

I decided to drop by the club unannounced, but Margot looked as though she'd been expecting me. This time, she let me in.

I was struck by how quiet it was. Once inside, the Mitchell traffic shut out, there wasn't even the noise of a clock ticking, no sign of customers, no sound of the radio or voices from a back room.

The
Times
crossword was open on her desk. Margot fiddled with the page, curling then uncurling it.

‘Are you happy with Gail Trembath's piece?' I asked, nodding at the newspaper.

‘It's okay,' was all Margot said.

‘I hope it helps you find a buyer for the club.'

Margot raised her eyes and studied me.

‘A privileged customer should be grateful,' I said. ‘And gratitude should breed consideration.'

‘What are you talking about?' Margot smiled faintly, as though she expected the riddle to be simple, once I had explained it.

‘Was it Jenny Bishop in particular, or does Simon Lawrence make a habit of breaking the law?'

Margot's lips became a thin, hard line. ‘I threw him out,' she said.

‘You threw Jenny out as well.'

‘She wanted to go back to Sydney.'

‘You didn't like Jenny.'

‘She was a—'

‘A what?'

‘An addict.'

‘I heard she'd given up.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Her friends. What did you have against her?'

‘I never said I had anything against her.'

‘Did Jenny contact you after she left here?'

‘No.'

‘Why was Denise crying the other day?'

‘A personal matter. None of your business.'

‘Who was here the afternoon Carmichael died?'

‘Me and Denise. I've already told you that.'

‘What were you doing for three hours by yourself?'

‘The crossword. I don't have to answer any of your questions.'

‘That's right,' I said, ‘but if I don't get answers from you, I'll take my questions elsewhere, and you might like that even less.'

Margot went on staring at me.

I chanced one last enquiry. ‘What are you going to do with the money from Carmichael's flat?'

‘What do you think?'

‘Sell this place for whatever you can get, and kiss Canberra goodbye.'

Margot laughed. It seemed the prospect made her happier than she'd been in a long time.

I drove home from Mitchell thinking about the words people chose, or rejected, a chance phrase that could catch and hold—but was it chance, then? Margot impressed me as a woman who could turn a lie to suit her purposes better than most. I was pretty sure she'd lied about Jenny Bishop.

But I couldn't help respecting Margot for choosing her words carefully, even for the lies she told. Eden Carmichael had been rushing full tilt towards a burning windmill, though whether he'd lit the fire himself was still an open question. I wished I'd asked her to let me see the room again, the space that I sensed meant a good deal more to her than she was willing to admit. It was too late now. If I went back and asked her, she'd refuse.

I left Grosvenor Street feeling that the brothel resisted, as a sphere will resist from the inside, the denting pressure that is other people's judgements. The past was a treasure which could be visited and looked at, but never removed from its hiding place, and never spent. Something told me that, in spite of Margot's brusqueness with me, and her contempt for sentimentality, the past she'd shared with Eden Carmichael was a place she often visited.

What if a core of carefully constructed lies was at the base of her personality? And what if this base was threatened suddenly? What might she do then, a woman who had lived with, habitually negotiated, the deep contradictions of sex work, within and outside herself, for most of her life?