Peepshow (9 page)

I danced over to him and made come-hither gestures with my hands. When he didn’t budge I climbed up onto the table. It was a bit wobbly so I swayed without moving my feet, swinging my hips and lifting my skirt.

The blokes went wild, whistling, yelling and stamping their feet. Doug Mansfield chuckled as he tried to sing.

I spun my skirt higher and was glad I’d worn my good undies when suddenly I felt a sharp pressure behind my knees. Alex had karate chopped me. My legs buckled.

I started to fall and he caught me on the way down and dragged me out of the pub to a chorus of boos. It happened so fast we were halfway out the door before I had the presence of mind to start abusing him.

‘Let go of me. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

He hauled me into a laneway behind the pub and let me go near a wall. The sun had set and the twilight was purple. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’ He looked really pissed off. I rubbed my arm where he’d held it.

‘How dare you,’ I said.

‘You’re an idiot.’ His dark eyes flashed. ‘Don’t you care about your own safety? Carrying on in a place like that. You could get yourself raped.’

‘What fucking century do you live in?’

‘You’re insane,’ he spat.

‘And you’re boring.’ I went to walk off but he pulled me back and held me by the shoulders.

‘You’re just a stupid little girl playing at being a detective. You’re so out of your mind that the Victoria Police wouldn’t even take you. You’re living in some whacked-out fantasy world and you don’t know shit about the murder. You don’t know shit about anything.’

I went to slap him but he grabbed my wrist and pushed me against the wall. I glared at him. ‘Dick Farquhar argued with Frank on the night of the murder,’

I said triumphantly. The expression on his face told me he hadn’t known. ‘Now give me something.’

‘Stay away from Dick Farquhar,’ he said, and kissed me hard.

I kissed him back, bit his bottom lip and tasted scotch. He still held my arm up and he touched my breasts with his free hand and then slid it underneath my dress.

He rubbed my pussy through my knickers and I felt his erection pressing against my thigh. When he released my wrist and fumbled with his belt buckle I snapped out of it, put one hand on his chest and pushed him away as hard as I could. I’m not anti sex-against-a-wall but never on the first date, you know?

‘Get away from me.’ My lips were bruised and wet and I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Alex’s hair was dishevelled and his shirt untucked. Lipstick was smeared on his face. ‘Get the fuck away from me.’

I backed down the laneway, not because I was scared but because I had lifted his notebook from his pants pocket and was holding it behind me. I turned right at the Greyhound and then right again down Mozart Street. I had just stuffed the notebook in my bag when I noticed a dark car following me. Alex. I whirled around to face him and the back door opened.

‘Get in,’ said Sal.

‘I don’t think so.’ I stayed on the pavement, swaying slightly.

‘Don’t you want to talk to your friend?’ Sal waggled a mobile phone at me, so tiny it made mine look like a house brick. Desire to find out about Chloe overtook my better judgement and I got in. The interior was roomy and leather upholstered but the new car smell was overpowered by the cloying musk scent of Sal’s aftershave. The driver had black hair and he stuck to the fifty k limit, going slowly over speed bumps.

‘You’ve been drinking,’ said Sal.

‘Damn right I have.’

‘Women shouldn’t drink,’ he said. ‘It’s unladylike.’ I glared. I wasn’t about to argue the finer points of feminist theory with him. ‘Who was that man you were with?’

‘A cop. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about you. He’s a source. Cops have access to the best information. I’m just doing my job.’

‘Have you found Francesco’s killer?’

‘Not yet, but I’m getting close. I’ve narrowed it down to a couple of suspects and I’ll definitely have the proof you need by Thursday week. Gotta wait for the proof.

Wouldn’t want to wreak your terrible vengeance on the wrong person now, would you?’ I laughed. He didn’t.

‘How do I know Chloe’s all right?’ I asked.

He flipped open the mobile and dialled, then pressed a button to convert it to speakerphone and rested it in his lap.

‘Hello?’ I said.

‘Mate!’ It was her.

‘God, Chloe, are you OK?’

‘Yeah, fine. I’m just bored shitless and tonguing for a bong. Blue here won’t get off his arse and score me some weed. Will you, ya slack bastard?’

I heard Blue say something and laugh in the background.

‘Has he hurt you?’

‘No, but he bought me the ugliest trackies in the world. And all we eat is takeaway for breakfast, lunch and dinner, so my arse is getting huge. You’ve got to find the killer, mate. I don’t have a hairdryer, or makeup, and all Blue wants to do is watch action videos. Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme. Blue thinks he is Van Damme.’

More muttering from Blue.

‘Yes you do,’ Chloe replied.

Jesus Christ, it was like talking to an old married couple. Was it the Stockholm syndrome? Was Chloe turning into Patti Hearst?

Evidently Sal thought we’d talked long enough and pressed the end button.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘I am an honourable man.’

That was debatable.

‘But I stand by my word. If you do not prove someone else killed my brother, she will die.’ The car stopped and he opened the door. We were outside my flat. ‘See you later,’ he said.

‘Adios, amigo,’ I replied with more bravado than I felt.

The next day I drove to Tony Torcasio’s office in North Melbourne, checking for tails the whole way. I changed lanes, turned suddenly—all the stuff Tony had taught us in class. I didn’t see anyone but it didn’t mean they weren’t there. The day was stinking hot and overcast and I was sweating behind the knees and underneath my breasts. As I passed the deserted Vic Markets on Peel Street I popped another two pain tablets and washed them down with a bottle of water. Why did I have to drink so much? Because it was there? Maybe I should give it a rest for awhile. Go healthy and detox with wheatgrass juice and colonic irrigation. Eat raw foods and gobble antioxidants and get into yoga and turn into Gwyneth Paltrow. God, I felt like a drink.

I turned into Victoria Street then drove around some back lanes until I found Tony’s agency. It was a small shopfront on the edge of a row of terrace houses that had been converted for commercial use. The front wall was opaque glass and covered in red and black lettering. A1 Investigations, it read, Corporate, Industrial, Domestic. A buzzer went off as I pushed open the door and I found myself in a small reception area. An Italian-looking girl sat at a desk, typing on a computer.

‘Can I help you?’ She had a sleek black bob and big lips.

‘I’ve got an appointment with Tony for midday.

Name’s Simone Kirsch.’

‘Take a seat.’ She pointed to a black vinyl sofa. ‘He won’t be long.’

The lounge squeaked when I sat down and I looked around the waiting room. A fake palm squatted in the corner and framed certificates hung on the walls. The black melamine coffee table in front of me was strewn with magazines.
Elle
for wronged wives,
FHM
for suspicious husbands and
Investigator
for would-be private eyes. I flipped through it, skimming articles on crime scenes and ads for spy cameras and surveillance gear. I must subscribe, I thought, as the door buzzed open and Tony Torcasio walked in. He carried a can of orange mineral water and a white paper bag with a beetroot stain expanding on its surface. A salad sandwich, I surmised, using my superior powers of detection.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Just in here.’

I followed him through a door beside the reception desk into a small office with a desk, two chairs, filing cabinets and a TV and VCR. I sat in a chair and Tony perched on the edge of his desk. He wore his usual shorts and Hawaiian shirt ensemble. It suited him. He was short and stocky with a barrel chest and muscly legs, the human equivalent of a Staffordshire terrier.

‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ He ripped open the bag and took out a white bread sandwich. ‘This is breakfast.’

‘Go right ahead. So, the nerve centre of A1?’ I looked around.

‘It’s nothing fancy but it does the job,’ he said.

Shredded lettuce fell onto his shorts and he brushed it to the floor. ‘Why the sudden interest in Richard Farquhar?’

‘I’m helping out a friend and his name keeps coming up.’

He watched me as he chewed his sandwich, waiting for me to elaborate.

‘It’s . . . confidential,’ I said. Tony rolled his eyes, balled up his paper bag and lobbed it into a small bin.

‘You know, just because you’ve got a license doesn’t mean you’re an inquiry agent.’

‘But the course—’

‘Between you and me, the course is bullshit. I can’t teach in a couple of months what it took twenty years to learn on the street. I was serious when I said I was going to give you some work. Out of all the students you seemed like a smart cookie, seemed to have your head screwed on right. But taking on a case that involves Farquhar—that’s madness.’

‘She’s in trouble,’ I said, ‘and he’s involved.’

‘Let me tell you about Farquhar.’ Tony got up and paced around the room. ‘He’s a bad bastard, old school.

Grew up in Richmond before it got all trendified, with his violent mother who was an alcoholic and a whore.

Worked vice in the eighties and was rumoured to stand over pro’s and have a stake in a brothel, before prostitution was legalised. One of the girls that worked there got picked up in a heroin bust and wanted to dob him in, in return for immunity from prosecution. When she got let out on bail she died of a hot shot.’

‘Farquhar?’

‘Couldn’t be proven.’

‘How does he keep getting away with stuff?’

‘Friends in high places. Well, not exactly friends.

He got a lot of young coppers into the graft twenty years ago and made sure he had proof of them doing it. There’s rumours of videotapes, photos. Those cops have moved up the ranks now.’

‘Why hasn’t internal affairs got him?’

‘You’re watching too many American cop shows. It’s called Ethical Standards here.’

‘I thought they were cleaning up all the corruption.’

‘Farquhar’s a smart bastard. He’s been investigated.

They couldn’t find enough evidence and no one would talk. Besides, he’s a bit of a hero, arrested the Bayside strangler in the early eighties.’

‘So they just let him carry on.’

‘Evidence, Simone. Makes the law enforcement world go round.’

‘And what about Alex Christakos? Did you find out about him?’

Tony shuffled through some papers on his desk and found the one he was looking for. ‘He works with Farquhar all right. Transferred from Richmond twelve months ago. What’s this Christakos’s story?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was true. Tony sat behind the desk flicking a pen between his fingers. In class he’d been a fun guy, always joking around. Now he was serious.

More serious than I’d ever seen him.

‘What I suggest is you drop the whole thing right now, and get your friend to talk to Ethical Standards.

They’ll protect her.’ He looked at me sternly.

‘I’ll call them,’ I said.

‘You’re out of your depth.’

‘I understand.’

‘So you’ll drop it?’

‘I will.’

‘Good.’ He seemed to relax. ‘You want to help me with some surveillance in three weeks’ time? It’s only a few hours’ work. Fifteen bucks an hour. But it’ll give you a start.’

‘Sure, that’d be great.’ A real detective job. I hoped I would still be alive to take it.

It was only twelve thirty so I drove to the State Library and parked on Latrobe Street. I don’t know much about architecture but with its towering stone columns and marble floors the building could have belonged in ancient Greece. It was quiet and cool inside and I followed the signs to the newspaper reading room and sat down in front of a computer. I typed Farquhar’s name into the search engine and got twenty-three hits. Most were from the early eighties and concerned the Bayside strangler case. A psycho was murdering St Kilda street workers and Farquhar had collared the guy single-handedly, right in the middle of the act. He’d been working vice back then and the arrest had gotten him a promotion, bravery medal and lots of good publicity. As I kept reading I realised he had a knack for great press. If he wasn’t in the news for coaching a footy team of underprivileged kids he was raising money for charity, or visiting schools warning children of ‘stranger danger’.

Frank Parisi’s name appeared forty times. I’d read most of the articles but there were some from a few years back. I opened a file from nineteen ninety-nine.

RESTAURATEUR BEATS RAPE CHARGE

By Curtis Malone

The owner of upmarket Bondi restaurant Deluxe, Francesco ‘Frank’ Parisi, was found not guilty yesterday of raping an eighteen-year-old woman last year. A jury took just over two hours to find Mr. Parisi, thirty-five, not guilty of assault and rape. The woman, a waitress at Parisi’s restaurant, claimed he raped her after the eatery’s star-studded opening night. Parisi maintained the sex was consensual. He was jubilant and punched the air with his fist when the jury handed down the verdict.

‘I always said I was innocent and this proves it. I want to put this whole mess behind me and go back to what I do best—running Deluxe.’

Apparently Frank didn’t run Deluxe all that well because an article a couple of months later explained how the restaurant had gone belly-up and the Parisi brothers were moving to Melbourne to get into the lucrative table-dancing industry.

I printed a selection of articles then went to the microfiche area to copy some photos. I found a picture of Farquhar from the early nineties, posing with his young footy team.
Our Hero
, read the caption. Puh-lease.

He was chunky, with sandy, blow-waved hair, a handlebar moustache and small, flinty eyes. I printed it and a picture of Frank taken not long before he was killed. He was a younger, gaudier version of Sal and favoured thick gold chains and blond tips in his hair. He wore a suit jacket over a black T-shirt, his arms were crossed and his chin tilted arrogantly towards the camera.