Faces in the Rain (10 page)

‘No. Meet outside in front of the Fairies' Tree.'

‘What?'

‘There's a tree with fairies, kangaroos and gnomes carved on it.'

Farrar gave a disgusted grunt of agreement.

I had an hour or so before the meeting so I bought
papers, watched TV and listened to as many radio news programs as possible.

I had been fearful of some development since my failure to meet Benns, but a murder in Altona, a race bashing in Footscray and the injured ankle of a star footballer were the major news items. Perhaps Benns didn't want headlines, I thought as I drove Cassie's white Subaru sportswagon to Fitzroy Gardens. After all, if he was in a conspiracy to kill me, he would wish it done more quietly. The ten a.m. news on the car radio proved me one hundred per cent wrong. ‘Police are searching for the head of the Benepharm Corporation, Mr Duncan Hamilton, who disappeared overnight after failing to come to Homicide police headquarters yesterday to answer questions in relation to the murder of a Polynesian model in South Yarra last week. Police would like to interview Mr Hamilton who they say could help them with their enquiries. They would not say whether or not Mr Hamilton would be charged in relation to the murder. Anyone who may have seen Mr Hamilton should contact Senior Detective Harold Benns or Detective-Sergeant Pru O'Dare, both of the Homicide Squad. Mr Hamilton is thirty-seven, above average height at 186 cm. and weighs about 88 kg. He has dark brown hair and a lean, fit appearance.'

My heart beat fast and I felt ill.

I parked my car and looked away from a woman parking her car next to the Subaru. Did she have the same news item on? I switched off the radio.

God! She has got the same station on and she is staring right at me!

I fiddled with a briefcase, fumbled the car lock, dropped the keys and glanced at the woman. She had
switched off the radio and was feeding a meter next to mine.

‘Hungry, aren't they,' she said with a smile.

‘Pardon me,' I said.

‘The meter,' she said, still smiling.

‘Oh yes!' I said with a too-effusive laugh. The woman was about forty, and dressed like an executive.

‘Sorry, Mondayitis,' I said.

‘It's Thursday,' she said, frowning and studying my face.

‘You're right, all day.'

‘Do I know you?' she said.

‘I don't think so,' I said, touching my spectacles and battling to hide nerves, ‘got one of those identikit faces. You know, whenever someone is murdered or raped, my dial goes up in the frame.'

She laughed and headed for the Treasury Gardens. I walked briskly into the Fitzroy Gardens, mindful that I'd blathered too much. Talk about Freudian slips! I had just fallen on my identikit face in the mud.

An Italian in his gelati van was doing good business because an Italian wedding party was being photographed on the steps of the conservatory.

I passed an old man with a Hawthorn beanie on his head sitting on a park bench reading the
Sun.

Three people were coming in my direction on the way to city offices. An Asian wedding was being conducted by a celebrant near a lake. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Last night's fog had lifted it skirts to reveal a petticoat of cloud and the sun was tantalising the city as I approached the View Room restaurant and stood thirty metres away near a model Tudor village.

I pretended to concentrate on the sign explaining that
the mini-village had been presented to the city by the citizens of Lambeth, England in appreciation of food gifts during the 1939–45 war. The Fairies' Tree was opposite. Farrar wasn't there. About eight people were sitting outside the restaurant at wooden tables under umbrellas advertising Peters Ice Cream. I walked up to the restaurant.

Big Tony was inside. He was spiking his tea with whisky from a hip flask. I wasn't about to reprimand him for drinking on the job, mid-morning. I needed all the friends I could muster.

I sat down at his table in a sea of sickly light green. The colour dominated carpet, chairs, tables and the rest of the decor. Farrar gave me a murderous look and glanced at the other tables. I knew before he opened his rubbery lips that he hadn't recognised me.

‘I'm expecting someone,' he said.

‘Tony, it's me,' I said under my breath. Farrar did a double-take, then recovered.

‘Very good,' he said, ‘Hamilton
au naturel.
No beard makes a hell of a difference.'

‘Benns wouldn't know about it, would he?'

‘Not unless someone told him. The police weren't directly involved when I fixed it up with ASIO.'

‘But the police knew of the kidnap threat?'

‘Sure, but you had private protection. Your only worry really is if someone in ASIO informs Benns about Morten-Saunders.'

I got myself a tea and scones from the counter, and returned to the table.

‘When I heard about you on the radio I nearly collided with the car in front of me!' Farrar said, that forehead crease now permanent. ‘Benns never said a word. Not a bloody word to me!'

‘Think he's leading you on?' I asked. ‘Does he know you're investigating for me?'

‘I don't know,' he said, sipping the tinctured tea. ‘So what's up now?'

I told him more about the Fiat chase.

‘You sure it was the same Fiat waiting at Homicide?'

‘Got the registration. It was the same one. It made me wonder if Benns could have been bribed or something. Think that's possible?'

‘It sort of surprises me,' Farrar said thoughtfully, if that wasn't a contradiction in terms, ‘I've taken him for a nice meal to get into a file. That's always on. But taking dough, that's another thing.'

‘Did Benns say anything which indicated that he may have more evidence,' I said, groping as ever with Farrar, who tended to let things hatch.

‘He did mention the autopsy report on the deceased,' he replied with some effort. ‘The coroner thinks the migraine capsules were pumped down her throat
after
she was drowned.'

‘To make it look like she took an overdose?'

Farrar nodded.

‘I never understand those medical things,' he said with a frown, ‘how could they know someone made it look like an OD?'

‘The body wouldn't stop ingesting the drug immediately after death,' I said, ‘but it would slow down. There would be more traces of the Serophrine in the stomach if the drug had been pumped in after drowning.'

‘There were very minor lacerations found in the oesophagus, which the coroner indicated probably came from a pump.'

‘But they're not certain?'

‘No, but everyone's pretty certain it was murder. The
coroner has laid out the evidence to make it ninety-five per cent certain.'

‘Retarded ingestion, lacerations. What else?'

‘I haven't seen the report,' Farrar said, eyeing me. ‘I have to ask you, have you ever used a stomach pump?'

‘Only after eating Mexican food,' I said, deadpan.

It threw Farrar.

‘C'mon Tony,' I protested, ‘watch my lips. I didn't kill Martine. I've never used a stomach pump. I'm being framed.'

Did I detect a flicker of shame? I wasn't sure, but just to keep him on side, I reached for my chequebook. I had two now. Morten-Saunders was filthy rich. He had a Swiss account as well as a substantial cash balance at the King's Road branch of Barclays' Bank, London.

‘Just in case you run short, or I'm forced into hiding,' I said, ‘here's another four.'

The flicker of shame became a flutter of greed as he pocketed the cheque.

‘Had to be sure, Duncan,' he said with gruff hypocrisy, ‘I trust you, but with you now a target . . .'

‘It's more like danger money?'

‘Right,' he laughed.

‘Have you checked on the French Consul?'

‘His name's Gerard Bonnell. He's known Martine since Paris seven years ago. She was his mistress then and resumed that role here a year ago.'

‘I wonder if he could have killed Martine and then sent those hoods after me because he thinks I know something,' I speculated wildly. ‘Or maybe he or someone else thinks I killed her and wants revenge. It could be also be a frame-up. Then again I haven't even ruled out someone trying to capture me and demanding a ransom!'

‘I have checked on the Consul,' Farrar said. ‘He's married and he plays a lot behind the wife's back. A married Consul with a career at stake might not want an affair made public. Perhaps he was being blackmailed.'

‘Who suggested that?'

‘Martine's friend Danielle. She didn't actually suggest it, but remarked that there'd been some tension between Martine and the Consul in recent weeks.'

‘You should get onto him,' I urged.

‘Tried. But he won't see a private dick like me.'

‘Has Benns tried?'

‘The Consul's on the Homicide Squad's list of interviewees, but well down it. He has diplomatic immunity. Can't be interrogated.'

‘What else do you know about these French hoods? Surely they are near the top of the police suspect list?'

Farrar shook his head.

‘They have watertight alibis,' he said. ‘They were at an Edith Piaf concert at the Alliance Francaise when Martine was killed. They were checked out and found OK. They apparently were friends of hers.'

‘They didn't seem too concerned at the funeral.'

‘But they were there,' Farrar shrugged. ‘The French have a very tight little community in Melbourne. Everyone knows everybody.' Farrar drank more tea. ‘Maniguet and Cochard would have been under greater suspicion if they
hadn't
been at the funeral.'

‘Have you found out anything about the Libyans?'

‘Benns has been picking my brains.'

With a tooth-pick I thought. I was beginning to lose faith in Farrar.

‘Has he found anything?' I asked. Farrar missed the ambiguity.

‘My ASIO friends are watching the Libyans round the
clock,' he said, ‘they've been tipped off by French Intelligence that Fazmi could be here to cause trouble. All consulates and the Embassy in Canberra are on alert. They haven't ruled out bombings.'

‘Does Benns suspect them?'

‘He doesn't buy anything that smacks of international links. It goes into the “too hard” basket. He doesn't relish interference from the Feds or ASIO.'

‘What about Freddie May?' I asked. ‘He's a local.'

‘Danielle says he has left the country to get over Martine. The police are not too pleased. They told him not to leave. They're trying to trace him.'

‘Where?'

‘Europe.'

‘Europe,' I repeated ruefully, ‘bit strange isn't it? Could you speak with Danielle again? We must know where he is.'

Farrar went to the counter and asked if he could use a phone. A waiter pointed to a red public phone in a corner. Farrar lumbered to it. He made a call. After a brief conversation, he beckoned me over.

‘She won't speak with me any more,' he said, handing me the phone.

‘Listen, you must tell me where Freddie is. It's urgent.'

‘If he goes to France,' she said reluctantly, ‘he always stays in Paris at a guest house in Alesia.' I had a pen poised over a notepad. ‘Seventy-five Rue de la Tombe Issoire, apartment ten. Other than that, I can't help you.'

‘What's your connection with him?' I said. She put down the receiver.

Farrar had paid the bill and moved outside. He was standing in front of the mini Tudor village and he was anxious. He indicated something outside was bothering
him. Two police were walking towards the restaurant. One was speaking into a hand-held phone. Farrar came back inside, and nodded to a rear exit.

‘I could hear a bit of the conversation the cop was having,' Farrar said as we left, ‘they were searching for someone.'

We walked at a brisk pace and glanced over our shoulders to see the police enter the restaurant. We doubled back to the Subaru in Lansdowne Street, where Farrar had also left his car.

‘Tony,' I said, getting in, ‘you're my big white hope. If you don't come up with some clues to who the killer really is, I'm finished.'

Farrar bent down to window level.

‘Can you give me your phone number?' he asked. I hesitated. More police were walking in our direction from the Treasury Gardens.

‘It's better I call you,' Farrar persisted. ‘I reckon my phone will be monitored. I'll use public phones.'

I reeled off the number as the police came closer. Farrar memorised it.

‘You better get out of here,' he said as I started the car.

‘I'm going to keep out of sight for a week and hope that you score for me.'

‘If I don't?' he said, glancing at the police, now about fifty metres away.

‘I'll have to come down to St Kilda Road,' I said, one eye on the approaching constabulary, ‘voluntarily.'

T
HE HIDEAWAY
in Lawson Grove was monastic. It was on the top floor of a building perched on a hill and the isolated atmosphere was enhanced by the three storeys of stone steps to Cassie's front door.

There were leafy views from every side, and unless an intruder was a mountain climber he would find it hard scaling the walls. The front-door approach seemed the most vulnerable, but the wire door would take some crashing through.

I grew restless by one p.m. after having watched and listened to media broadcasts that covered the Duncan Hamilton story. The media loved it and old TV footage of me launching a new drug, lunching with the Prime Minister and making speeches was trotted out.

The inference was that I was guilty. Why else would the police be chasing me and why else would I hide? Journalists relished cutting down a tall poppy, a great Aussie pastime, and the whole story had a guilt-by-assocation whiff because so many other ‘successes' had
been found corrupt in recent times. Why not another? There was the Supreme Court judge who took bribes, the former Federal Minister with links to organised crime, the big businessman who did corrupt deals with Panama's General Noriega, and the former Lord Mayor who ran an international drug racket, to name a small cross-section. Why not a pharmaceutical chief who had murdered?