Siren (20 page)

‘I’m glad I got to see you. I hope your case goes well,’ Andy told her softly. ‘You really did do a great job with the Cavanaghs. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that. Not even Jimmy knows. It’s highly confidential.’

‘Jesus, Andy.’ She was exhausted. She looked at her watch. ‘I have to go,’ she said in a whisper. She was aware of his closeness, their intimacy. It was somehow comforting. ‘Thanks for letting me know. Just…with the flowers and stuff, give me a break, okay? Things got really bad between us. I can’t…can’t deal with that sort of thing right now. Okay?’ She gathered herself and stepped out of his car.‘Bye, Andy,’ she said.

The wind grabbed the door and slammed it harder than she had intended.

Shaking, Mak hailed the first vacant cab that approached.

‘No excuses. There aren’t any. I don’t deserve any. I’m not worthy of forgiveness. If only you knew how much I’ve cried…’

Adam Hart felt queasy as he read the lines nervously to his reflection in the mirror of a cramped toilet cubicle. He tried to get the hesitation and emotion just right. A tingle of excitement electrified him at the thought of what he was about to do. He would soon be performing on a stage.
Paris
! He would begin with some acting parts, and work on his magic routine. Perhaps he could even work with Lucien onstage? As a double act?

‘When you said “I’m leaving you” I thought I’d go insane—it was my entire life. I lost my head. People can become ferocious when they’re—’ he said, then mouthed Jeanne’s lines, ‘
I’m going to punish you
.’

He had finally been accepted into the troupe. He was in.

I can do this.

This was to be the finest time of his life, if one of the scariest. The most romantic, exciting adventure he had ever
embarked upon. He was doing it. He was on his way.
You are nineteen. A man. A real man.
He liked the idea of being a real man. He felt he’d been held back until now, but nothing would hold him back any more. His dad was dead and his mum couldn’t tell him what to do.

He was free.

There was a noise outside the bathroom cubicle, someone impatiently knocking on the door.

‘Are you okay?’ came an unfamiliar voice.

‘Just a moment,’ he said, disappointed.

Adam was going to be an actor, and he was nervous about his debut. He had been practising in front of every available mirror since Bijou gave him the part. He had read it for her, and aced it. She had given it to him, just like that! ‘
Magnifique, mon amour…
’ He would be a star! And almost as exciting, Bijou had told him that the contortionist, Arslan, had suggested the part for him. He was finally being accepted. A miracle. He would not let them down. Adam planned to study the lines for the rest of the flight, albeit silently.

Once he touched down, he would have less than seventy-two hours to prepare for his acting debut on Sunday night in a new twist on the classic Grand Guignol short play—
The Final Kiss.

Makedde Vanderwall was loose on the streets of downtown Brisbane, armed with a map.

She felt she nearly had Adam. She would begin with the pawnshop and then try to determine his whereabouts.

What exactly are you up to, Adam? Did someone harm you? Charm you? Or are you just so desperate to get away from home that you’ve stolen your mum’s jewellery and pawned your grandad’s irreplaceable watch?

Behind her professional drive, she was still troubled by her run-in with Andy. Her tears had disturbed her. There was emotional attachment there, even if it was the kind of emotion that caused them frustration and fights, rather than closeness and harmony. Some people, though bonded, seemed destined to never quite make it.

An international investigation?

She imagined herself on the radar of the Feds who were following Damien Cavanagh. She felt a fool. But at least something was being done.

Mak pushed open the door of Rick’s Pawn Shop, to the
sound of a tinkling bell. The shop was filled with glass cases bursting with trinkets and gold chains, watches and clock radios. A depressing number of gold wedding rings were up for sale. Mak noticed an old-fashioned surveillance camera trained on the entrance, and another on the spot where a customer would stand at the counter.

A hirsute, heavy-set man appeared through a doorway screened by a curtain of rainbow streamers. She had not seen one of those since she was a kid.

‘Can I help you?’

‘My name is Makedde. And you are…?’
Rick?

‘Phil.’

‘Phil, I appreciate your time. There is a stop order on a watch you have here. A gold watch with an engraving saying
Jill & John, Amor Vincit Omnia.
’

‘Yeah. What’s that mean,
Amor Vincit Omnia
?’

‘Love conquers all,’ she told him. ‘It’s Latin. Can I have a look at it, please?’

‘You the cops?’

Mak passed him a business card. ‘I’m a private investigator, working for the owner of the watch.’

He disappeared and returned with a gold watch.

‘Look, I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he explained nervously.

‘I know that.’ She held her hand out and he gave her the watch. It felt heavy in her palm. She flipped it over and read the inscription. It was the one.

‘The young man who brought the watch in, he identified himself as Adam Hart?’

‘Yeah. The kid had a passport. I didn’t do anything wrong,’ the man repeated nervously.

Mak smiled.

‘This is my brother’s shop…’ he continued.

She caught his eye and flashed him a pretty smile. She had obviously been too forceful, too direct. She leaned against the counter casually. ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘You like working here, Phil? Is it fun?’

‘Fun?’ he repeated, his eyes wandering a bit. ‘Not fun, really.’

‘Oh. Do you remember much about the guy who brought the watch in? What he looked like?’

‘Not much,’ he said. ‘But he was a good-looking kid. Tall. Blond hair. Didn’t look like most of the customers here. Clean-cut kind of kid, you know.’

That’s our boy.
There was no need to check the security tapes. Mrs Hart would be pleased to know that her son was indeed alive and well, if a thief. Unless he was under duress from someone else…

‘You have a great memory, Phil. That’s a good description. Very accurate.’ She leaned closer and smiled. ‘Did he bring anything else in? Some pearls?’

Phil shook his head. ‘Nuh.’

‘And what happened when he came in?’

‘I gave him some cash. Hey, if I can’t sell this thing my brother says we have to get our money back.’

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred.’

She forked over the cash and he handed her the watch. Incredible. He had just sold it to her and it had a stop order on it. He obviously didn’t know the difference between cops and private investigators.

‘Thanks, Phil. You’ve been really helpful. Do you remember, when the boy came in, was he with anyone?’

‘No. Alone. But there was someone outside, smoking a cig. At the café, right over there.’ He pointed across the road. ‘I knew they was together because he joined her for a drink.’

‘What did she look like?’ Mak asked, feeling a rush of excitement. This guy had been paying attention. Perhaps there was not much else to do when business was slow.

‘Like a movie star,’ he gushed. ‘Kinda like you.’ He added this as an afterthought. It didn’t sound like a sincere compliment.

‘He was with a woman? Do you mean she looked like me?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Dark hair. But yeah, she was a
looker.
She didn’t look like she was from around here,’ Phil said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I dunno,’ he said. Mak waited patiently while he searched for a reason. ‘Like she ain’t a local.’

Mak had to ask. ‘Was she white?’

He nodded.

‘But she didn’t look like she was from around here. How is that, exactly? Was it the way she dressed?’

‘I guess that was it. She was dressed real elegant. Like a movie star.’

‘Was she short, tall? Younger, older?’

‘I dunno. Just like…a movie star. Yeah, she had great legs. Heels. Everything.’

A brunette with great legs. That was something. She wouldn’t get any better description out of him, and Adam’s mysterious companion had not entered the shop, so the tapes wouldn’t help.

‘Thanks, Phil. You’ve been very helpful.’

Mak walked out with Mrs Hart’s missing gold watch in her hand. $500 was nothing. Glenise would be happy to see it back. Now all Mak needed was the boy.

She felt confident, on the scent. The café across the road was an upmarket place, with an interesting, well-planned menu. Mak took a seat and ordered a coffee.

Well, isn’t that something
? she thought.

There was a large sign across the road announcing the shows currently playing at the Powerhouse Theatre. Along with a famous comedy act, it seemed a vaudeville-style troupe was in town—

L
E
T
HÉÂTRE DES
H
ORREURS
.

Sydney, and now Brisbane.

He had run off with a brunette with great legs. A dancer, perhaps.
Brilliant, Adam. Just brilliant.
And he had pawned the watch right across from the theatre. What a boy. Wherever the woman with the great legs was, Adam would be close, Mak felt sure.

She sipped her expensive coffee and smiled to herself.

Bingo.

It was four o’clock when Makedde strolled across the foyer of the Brisbane Powerhouse Theatre, keeping her eye out for anyone of Adam’s description. It was quiet at this time of day, still hours before the evening performances. She stepped inside the air-conditioned building and stopped beneath a graffiti drawing of a staggeringly oversized mosquito. She looked it up and down, not quite able to admire its artistry. Mosquitos had declared war on Makedde Vanderwall back when she was a young model in Hamburg. She had woken to find herself covered in bites—on her right arm, shoulder and side of her face, including some inside her ear, the side which had been exposed while she slept. Needless to say, that had not been one of her more fruitful modelling trips. Mosquitos had been her
sworn enemies since, so this piece of art was not hitting the right notes for her.

A pamphlet told her the theatre had been built in 1902 as a power station, and its exposed brick and concrete refurbishment reminded Mak of some of the places she’d frequented in Berlin. She passed a bar illuminated by dangling exposed light bulbs, and a restaurant with an open kitchen, chefs already fussing over plumes of steam. A few patrons had gathered, sipping coffee and champagne. She scanned the sparse crowd for Adam Hart. What a simple case it would be if he just wandered past! It was a stroke of luck that his grandfather’s watch had shown up so quickly on the register. Were the still-missing pearls around the neck of his new lover, perhaps?

Mak walked up to the box office, far from the threat of the graffiti mosquito. A woman of about twenty was behind the counter.

‘Hello,’ Mak said, and smiled. ‘I’d like a ticket for Le Théâtre des Horreurs. For tonight please.’

‘I’m sorry. You must have your dates mixed up. They were on last night.’

Mak frowned. ‘I saw the sign…’ She looked out the front windows of the building and saw the sign being changed.
Oh, come on!

‘It was one night only. Can I interest you in Tim Minchin, perhaps? He’s playing the larger theatre here, and there are a couple of seats left.’

‘No. Um, can you tell me…where are they playing next?’

‘I don’t know, sorry,’ the young woman said, and Mak, quite unfairly, wanted to slap her.

‘Can you check? I mean, is there any reference to any other shows on their schedule?’

The woman shook her head.

‘Have they packed up already?’

‘Packed up?’ She seemed confused as to why Mak would want to know. ‘Yes, this morning. Why?’

Because everything happened this morning. While I was distracted.

Damn. Mak had so hoped to find Adam Hart in Brisbane, and she could no longer be sure he was even in town.

THEAT

OVE

JOU

Was that a reference to Théâtre des Horreurs? Adam was with them. He had to be.

She had to track down the Théâtre des Horreurs tour dates on the net, and find where they were bound for next.

They can’t have got too far…I hope.

On Friday, Paris time, nearly two weeks after disappearing from his mother’s house, Adam Hart found himself in the 1st arrondissement in Place Vendôme, staring up at the central column, a replica of a phallic obelisk Napoleon had erected to celebrate victory at Austerlitz. Small European cars dashed back and forth as the cold winter wind carried light rain across the square. He felt empty.

Jetlag was not the reason.

It was his lover, Bijou’s, birthday. All morning Adam had watched as enormous bouquets arrived at her small apartment in Montmartre. She had received each extravagant bundle of flowers smiling coquettishly, pocketing the cards before Adam could read them. Three small packages had also arrived. He did not yet know the contents of two, but one had contained a delicate necklace with a single emerald stone. He had been mortified when she had placed it around her throat without pause. Who would send her such a lavish gift? Jealousy had welled up in him, bringing him near tears. He had gone walking.

Adam had to do better.

He stared wide-eyed at the grand Ritz Hotel across the square, feeling a pauper, an outsider. Within those walls, rich men would be giving sparkling jewels to their partners, their wives, their lovers. Dotcom billionaires and supermodels would be sipping expensive champagne in the Vendôme Bar, whiling away an idle afternoon. A couple stepped out the front door, under a neat ivory awning, the woman wearing a luxurious fur. The man held an umbrella for her, and a long black car pulled up to receive them.

Adam could stand it no more. He looked away sullenly, turned and walked down the Rue de la Paix with his hands shoved deep into empty pockets. His eyes moved from the wet footpath at his feet to the glimmering shop windows he passed, and back down again. His leather boots were soaked through, and he could feel the ends of his toes beginning to turn numb. The rain became more fierce, cold drops of water running down his temples.

A strange, pulsing panic took hold of him. He felt on the edge of something exhilarating and dangerous.

Adam reached Number 13 and his boots stopped moving forward. He looked up. The shop window winked at him with its hundreds of carats of diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, and he gazed at the display in fresh wonder. Those kinds of jewels—who wore them? The likes of Bijou, that was who. He was struck with a frustrated longing of a kind he had not before experienced. He wanted to buy something for her, really wanted to buy something like the lavish jewels his eyes had locked onto—but he couldn’t. He didn’t have any of the money left from selling the watch. Never before had he been made so soberly aware of his deficiencies. Adam absent
mindedly touched the wallet in his back pocket, turned on his heel and entered the store.

‘
Bonjour, monsieur.
’

It was a relief to be sheltered from the weather. No sooner had he stepped into the lush interior than a woman dressed neatly in a black suit greeted him politely. Recognising his accent, she spoke to him in heavily accented English. ‘
Monsieur
, you will catch your death.’ She ushered him into an old-fashioned powder room—the entire store was old-fashioned—and he patted his damp hair and clothes down with a towel. When he emerged, the woman had a delicate cup of black coffee waiting for him. She offered him a seat, and took her place behind an ornate gilded desk, smiling pleasantly. Catalogues of jewellery were laid out in front of him. He sipped his coffee. It was strong and invigorating.

‘That is better,
non
?’

He nodded gratefully.

The woman was beautiful. Though she was not Bijou, Adam had to admit that she really was extremely attractive and elegant. Her dark hair was worn in a chignon and her makeup was flawless, accentuating the fine features of a refined older woman. Understated diamond earrings adorned her ears. He noticed a solitaire on her ring finger. He wished he could afford to purchase something like that for Bijou. He would ask her to marry him, if he could dare to, if he could offer her something more than the nothing that he had.

‘My name is Colette.’ She offered him a cool, velvety hand.

‘I’m Adam.’

‘Adam, welcome to Cartier. How may we assist you?’

He shifted in his chair. The building was very old, and extended across two floors, with staircases reaching to an
open mezzanine above them. The carpets were red, the fittings gilded and luxurious. Numerous glass cases on both levels contained priceless objects of beauty, and on the walls were framed portraits of queens, princesses, models and actresses of former days. The ceiling was an elaborate skylight, the panes of glass thrashed violently by the increasingly heavy rain. Overwhelmed, Adam focused on a catalogue. ‘Um, how much is that one,’ he asked, pointing to an image of a small ring. His beautiful host referred to her own catalogue, one elegant finger tracing the page. Finally the price was indicated at the end of her polished fingernail. His heart sank. He could not buy Bijou such a gift. It was impossible.

‘I was thinking of something…simple,’ he said, and swallowed nervously.

She smiled gently. ‘Perhaps a necklace, or a bracelet?’

He nodded, hopeful.

‘Would you like a glass of champagne while I bring you some items to look at?’ she asked him, rising from her chair.

‘
Merci
,’ he responded awkwardly, his heart speeding up. She motioned to someone, and barely one minute later an immaculately dressed man delivered a fresh, chilled flute of effervescent champagne, then disappeared again. Bubbles rose in the glass, and broke on the surface. Adam took a sip and with pleasure felt the cool liquid travel down to his stomach. He began to feel better,
successful
even. Though he was a tall young man, and it was only a single glass, Adam had been a teetotaller most of his life, and had only experienced champagne since meeting Bijou. He still did not realise how slowly it ought to be sipped, and the alcohol went to his head immediately.

‘I have brought you a selection of items I am certain you will like,’ the woman said, returning. She looked at his glass. ‘Would you like another?’

He nodded then stopped himself. ‘
Non. Merci
.’

Adam was, nonetheless, emboldened by the glass he had enjoyed, and had begun to believe he could achieve his desire of purchasing something for Bijou which would impress her. On the velvet tray Colette placed before him, he saw a thin bracelet without embellishment save for a small square charm with a tiny stone in it. He felt sure that this would be within his price range.

‘How much is this one?’ he asked.

‘Oh, a wonderful choice, sir. This is our classic charm bracelet in white gold. Very elegant.’ Again the price list came out, and that elegant finger scanned the page and stopped on a number—1500 euros, considerably less than the ring had been, but still far more money than he could afford. ‘The charm is 900 euros,’ Colette explained. This was a further blow. He had assumed that it was included in the bracelet’s price.

‘Actually, I was thinking of a ring. Something plain,’ Adam said abruptly, now fighting a fresh sense of desperation.

‘
Oui, monsieur
,’ was her reply. ‘Of course.’ She excused herself.

When she returned, the expensive charm bracelet was gone, and in its place were several women’s rings of minimalist design, none extravagant, and each placed lovingly across the velvet-lined tray. The gold shimmered.

‘Um, this one,’ Adam said, and pointed eagerly to a delicate ring with a distinctive circular design carved into the gold. It was one of the few items without any precious stones. ‘Can it be engraved?’ he asked. If he could not afford even a tiny
diamond, perhaps having something engraved would make it more special?

‘I would see to it personally, with no charge,’ she assured him.

‘How long would it take?’ he asked nervously.

‘I could have it ready for you tomorrow.’

Damn.
He would miss Bijou’s birthday. Perhaps he could give it to her before their debut together on stage?

The beautiful saleswoman presented the catalogue to him, and again her elegant finger traced the page until it found the price of the ring.

Adam frowned. It was nearly as much as the bracelet. Blood began pumping in his temples. He felt on the edge of tears. What could he do? He could not return to Bijou empty-handed.

On Sunday he would be performing. Bijou was giving him her love, her confidence, the chance of a lifetime. He had to give her something in return. Something worthy of her. It pained him that he might not even be able to purchase the simplest item in the boutique.

‘Do you believe in the significance of history?’ the woman asked, quite out of the blue, as he stared forlornly at the catalogue and the small, gleaming ring. He nodded. ‘I would like to show you around this building, our headquarters since 1899. There are many interesting rooms and displays…’

Adam found himself trailing behind her as she ascended one of the grand staircases to the mezzanine. He saw portraits of dark-eyed Indian princes with long feminine eyelashes who were weighed down by hundreds of carats of diamonds, and a woman, a Spanish actress, smoking an extravagant cigar and posing in a large-brimmed hat, her ears, her tanned neck and
the length of her arms swathed in bejewelled golden crocodiles and snakes. In a case next to him, the very same crocodile necklace reposed, its emerald eyes gleaming. Adam had never seen such things, and he asked many questions.

Bijou ought to be immortalised in such a place, he thought.

He was barely aware that everywhere they went, his new friend carried the small velvet tray, displaying the shiny ring.