Eden (14 page)

Twelve

I spent forty minutes in the National Library the next morning, looking up Mike Carnegie's story. In the accompanying photos, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, and without the russet wig, Jenny Bishop looked younger than ever.

There was a voyeuristic tone to the piece that I didn't like. When asked about the men she'd worked with on the movie, ‘Jane' had said one was a novice like herself, a guy who'd ‘done it for a laugh'.

I was still thinking about this as I drove to Fyshwick to meet Stan Walewicz in his studio.

As I pulled up, a white Hyundai with NSW plates was backing out of the small carpark. Morning light made the driver's cleft chin more acute. His eyes widened in recognition, then he smiled. I smiled back, memorising the rego number.

. . .

Walewicz's handshake was brisk. His hands were square cut, his nails a manicurist's pride. He was about five foot seven or eight, with very broad shoulders for his height, gym muscles and thin hips, no bum at all. His face was square to match his hands. His eyes and the ends of his fingers flashed hello.

‘How's the censorship legislation affecting your business?' I asked him. ‘Has it made a difference?'

‘That bunch of God botherers in their committee rooms think they can control the Internet? What a joke.'

‘They shut down your site.'

Walewicz laughed. It seemed he found the setback amusing. He asked me what I'd like to drink.

‘Tea would be nice.'

I sat down in a padded leather chair, in an alcove at one end of a compact film studio. Two cameras on tripods stared at me from the other end. The air-conditioning was quiet and efficient. Dark curtains blocked out the hard tracks of the sun. Wall lamps were easy on the eyes, but powerful lights stood next to the cameras, ready to accentuate every swelling curve. Through an open doorway, I could see a small office with bookshelves, a desk, computer equipment. Two more doors leading off the studio were closed.

Walewicz poured tea from a jug in a bar fridge, while I asked, ‘Has it cramped your style?'

He said over his shoulder, ‘Depends on what you mean by style,' and repeated what he'd told me over the phone, that there were ways around it.

‘What's your way?'

Walewicz handed me my tea. ‘To tell you the truth, I'm thinking of getting out. It bores me. No challenge any longer.'

‘Diversify, you mean?'

‘Like really out. You work in security. I'd like to hear about your side of things.'

‘That's rather a back flip, wouldn't you say?'

‘I know the sex business, know the guys who run it, but net security's not just about your fifteen-year-old wanking to pictures of Tom and Pammy Lee.' Walewicz looked at me quizzically, and smiled again. ‘Why am I telling you this? You know what I'm saying. It's all the company time getting wasted, spamming, invasion of privacy, industrial sabotage, stalking, all that other shit flying round out there.'

‘Set a thief to catch a thief?'

‘Consumers want security.' Walewicz nodded sagely, refusing to bite. ‘It's the old supply and demand. I love the Internet. I love the freedom of it, but it's got its down side. Anybody who denies that is either a liar or a fool.'

My eye grazed a bookshelf in the office. A box had
CleanNet
written on the spine.

Walewicz followed my line of sight. He frowned, and I wondered if he regretted having left the door open.

‘If you're thinking of getting into security,' I said. ‘They're the ones to beat.'

He thanked me for my advice with a small, polite inclination of the head.

‘Their website's well designed,' I prompted.

Walewicz raised an expressive eyebrow. ‘That so?'

‘I thought you might thank me for the compliment.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘It's your work, isn't it?'

Walewicz raised both eyebrows this time. ‘What makes you think that?'

‘Certain stylistic features.'

‘I'd like to take the credit, but I'm afraid I can't.'

‘You went to
CleanNet
's presentation though.'

Walewicz nodded thoughtfully.

‘And were so impressed you bought their filter.'

‘I'm educating myself in the area, like I told you Mrs Mahoney, or do you prefer Ms?'

‘I'm not particular. What did you think of Richard McFadden?'

‘He's their head honcho, right?' Walewicz made another face, half curious, half envious perhaps. ‘I liked his style.'

‘He has a sense of humour too, I hear.'

‘The security market's expanding. Should be room for all of us to make a buck.'

‘Do you employ a programmer?'

‘Not at the moment.'

‘So your work's all your own.'

Walewicz drank his tea and waited for me to come to the point of my visit, letting me know, by the way he rounded his lips to take in the refreshing liquid, that he was a patient man, but patience had its limits.

‘I found one of your old movies,' I told him.

He looked pleased, as though they were collectors' items.

‘“Jane Springs the Trap.” What was it?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘The trap.'

‘You know, I don't remember.'

‘What got you started in the movie business?'

‘What gets anyone? Want to watch a shoot? I can arrange it.'

‘Thanks. I'll think about it.'

Could I picture myself sprawled naked on the couch, one of his studs going to work on me? I found that yes, I could.

We were alone in the studio. The office was empty too. I gave my denim skirt a tug. Walewicz wasn't looking. I was too old, for one thing.

‘Your young stars,' I said, ‘have you followed any of their careers?'

Walewicz shook his head.

‘What about Jenny Bishop?'

‘Can't say I kept in touch with her.'

‘She wasn't to your liking?'

‘She was okay.'

I watched him carefully, but he gave no sign of knowing Jenny was dead. I decided to leave this for the moment and asked, ‘Simon Lawrence?'

‘I've known Simon like forever. We went to school together.'

‘Have you seen him lately?'

‘I don't often get to see Simon. He's a busy man.'

‘What about today?'

‘He did drop in, as a matter of fact. A coincidence that you should mention it.'

‘What about last November?'

‘What about it?'

‘He was here, in Canberra.'

‘Was he?'

‘I heard he was thinking of buying Margot Lancaster's club.'

‘That's news to me.'

‘Do you know if he kept in touch with Jenny Bishop, after they'd been in your movie?'

‘Simon likes to play the field. He keeps in touch with a lot of girls.'

‘Did you hear they'd had an argument?'

‘Who?'

‘Lawrence and Bishop.'

‘What about?'

‘Unprotected sex.'

‘That doesn't sound like Simon. He's careful. He wouldn't risk getting a disease.'

Walewicz's expression was both fastidious and scornful. What about the risk to Jenny, I felt like asking him. I sniffed. Somewhere in the studio there was a faint, familiar scent.

‘Do you keep costumes here?'

Walewicz's answer was to extend his hand, and, with a slight bow, invite me to follow him.

He opened one of the doors leading off the studio. A small room held a rack of costumes—schoolgirls' dresses, nurses' uniforms. They seemed, at a glance, to be the standard fare, and not, in any case, what I was looking for. Whips hung from hooks on the wall opposite them. A large variety of lingerie occupied one shelf. Above it, another shelf held half-a-dozen wigs, including a shiny chestnut mane.

‘Great wigs,' I said. ‘Do you get them custom-made?'

‘I do.'

‘That must be expensive.'

‘I don't believe in paying good money for trash.'

‘I can see that. Could I hold one for a moment, do you think? That one,' I said, pointing.

I let the red-brown hair slither between my hands, and sniffed again.

‘How do you clean them?'

‘I send them back to the manufacturer every six months for a bit of re-conditioning. They're too valuable not to take good care of. Look after them, they'll last a lifetime.'

‘Who's your supplier?'

‘I get them made in Sydney. Want to try it on?'

‘Not today, thanks. What's in the other room?'

Walewicz opened the door. It was full of cameras, and sound and lighting equipment.

We went back to the front of the studio. I thanked him for talking to me. I never thought I'd go for muscles, but he made his subject interesting. What more could an investigator ask for, in Canberra, in January?

‘Is your old school friend staying in town?' I asked.

‘Excuse me?'

‘Simon Lawrence. Will he be here for a few days?'

‘Why do you want to know?'

‘I thought I might bump into him.'

Walewicz rounded his eyes at this, but made no comment. He shook my hand again and said he'd enjoyed meeting me.

. . .

As I drove from Fyshwick towards the city, I pictured the nursery's website, with Walewicz's neatly tucked inside. I thought about secrecy, deception, and what a person might reasonably expect to get away with. It was time to revise my theory concerning the identity of my intruder. I'd already replaced one suspect with another. If the smell was anything to go by, here was number three. I couldn't imagine what motive Walewicz might have for turning my office upside down. But that wig had had the smell, no doubt about it.

I imagined his studio full of sweating bodies, surrounded by cameramen, sound and lighting technicians, a director. Privacy was a commodity for sale, like any other. Carmichael had paid for his at Margot's club, but I suspected that he'd been cheated in more ways than one.

. . .

‘Margot doesn't care,' Mieke told me. ‘She never gives a shit.'

We were in the same small corner bar, where I'd found Mieke alone again. She'd given me a wary look when I sat down at her table, but had not got up to leave. Instead, she'd started complaining about Margot.

‘What doesn't Margot give a shit about?' I asked.

‘That story in the paper saying she's a good businesswoman. What a load of crap.'

‘What did Margot do to Jenny Bishop?'

Mieke stared at me. I took out a twenty dollar note and she put it in her bag.

‘They get into a fight,' she said without expression.

‘What about?'

‘Don't tell her. You say anything to her about me, I'm history.'

‘I won't.'

Mieke licked her lips. ‘I was at the front when this customer comes in with Margot. He ask for Jenny. I hear him say her name. Kris tell me later that Jenny don't want to do him, but Margot say she has to. He is bastard, a real prick. I found out later what he did.'

‘Was his name Simon Lawrence?'

Mieke nodded.

‘Where were you while Jenny was with him?'

‘I am answering the phone till Margot gets back, then I am in another room with Kris.'

‘Where did Margot go while Lawrence was with Jenny?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Did you and Kris hear Jenny calling out?'

‘Denise did.'

‘Did Jenny threaten to go to the police?'

‘Margot give her money to keep quiet and leave.'

‘Did Denise and Margot argue over Jenny? Denise took Jenny's side, and Margot didn't, is that right?'

‘Side, side,' Mieke said, flipping her left hand over and back again. ‘Denise and Margot, they don't argue. They always work it out.'

‘Did you talk to Denise about what happened?'

‘Denise doesn't want to talk.'

‘Why not?'

Mieke shrugged.

‘How does Margot treat you and Kris?'

‘She like us to dress up.'

‘In what?'

‘Outfits.' Mieke's tone managed to make the word obscene.

‘You mean, like schoolgirls?'

Mieke nodded.

‘Does Kristina mind?'

‘Not so much as me.'

‘What about wigs? Does Margot make you wear them, too?'

‘She just about go crazy when the police take that one away.'

‘Have you ever worn it?'

‘No.'

‘Others?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘Did you ever see Eden Carmichael?'

Mieke responded to my change of subject by narrowing her already narrow nostrils, as though she'd just smelt something bad. ‘He give me the creeps, that one. Once, when Denise is sick, Margot tell me to do him, but I say no.'

‘Who took Denise's place?'

‘Jenny. She laugh about it. She don't care.'

‘Was that the only time Jenny saw Carmichael?'

‘I don't know.'

‘When was the time you remember?'

‘Not long before she leaves. I think, early in November.'

‘How did you find out Jenny was dead?'

‘Kris told me.'

‘What do you think happened?'

‘Jenny never overdosed. That's bullshit. She'd stopped using.'

I put another twenty on the table and asked Mieke for her mobile number. She scribbled a number on the back of her hand, and held it out to me. Her hand was shaking badly.

On the way home, I stopped off at an ATM. Most of the money the lobby group had paid me would be gone before I knew it. But I was supposed to be on holiday, not earning anything for these two weeks, lounging around in a beach house instead. Time to worry about the budget when my family came home. If Electronic Freedom covered my expenses, then I figured that I wasn't doing badly.

. . .

I was writing up my meetings with Stan Walewicz and Mieke when my phone rang. Simon Lawrence sounded the same as he had in the flower shop—charming, with an edge of parody. I asked him how he'd found me and he replied with a slightly sharper edge that he'd used the phone book. We agreed to meet that night. I felt excited to think the nights were mine, to spend any way I liked. Never since Peter was born had it been that way.