Take Out (14 page)

She loomed above him in her seldom worn, thigh-high boots. She’d had to lie on the floor to do up her straight-legged jeans. A hip-hugging broad white belt and a see-through flimsy shirt and diamante camisole completed the outfit. This wasn’t her usual style of comfortable grunge, but it had been appreciated by the various men she’d come across on her journey across the city: the overly attentive cashier, the leering man in the queue at the counter, and the guy in the flash wheels who’d crawled the kerb to get a better look when she alighted from her car.

She heard the roar of laughter from a TV in the room behind, eased her way past him and turned the sound down. The apartment was clean with minimal furniture, mostly white and mostly Ikea. An ironing board with a white shirt draped across it stood next to a basket of more crumpled white shirts. The iron clicked, it was on and the air was tinged with the fresh odour of spray-on starch.

‘What do you want?’ Fowler said with more puzzlement than hostility.

‘How about grabbing something groovy from your wardrobe and hitting the town with me?’

He looked from the pile of ironing to Stevie. ‘Groovy? But I only have these white shirts.’

He was joking; he had to be. She looked at his mask-like face and tried to search for some humour in it. About to give up, she noticed the corners of his mouth rise with the flicker of a smile.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked as he headed to a closed door off the main room.

‘You mentioned you were going to reinterview the staff at Pavel’s restaurants and club,’ Stevie said. ‘I thought now would be a good time to do it, when the staff are preoccupied and not concentrating so much on their answers.’

He thought for a moment, agreed, then disappeared into his room for about five minutes. He re-emerged in suit pants and a cream shirt with no tie.

When he saw Stevie’s barely concealed amusement he said, ‘I didn’t think they’d let me in wearing jeans.’

Shit, he hadn’t been joking. (Image 14.1)

Like many inner city venues on a weeknight, the two Pavel restaurants, one Thai and the other French, were less than half full. ‘You can see why this town gets called Dullsville,’ Fowler said. An interesting comment from Mr Dullsville himself, Stevie thought.

They spoke to the managers in each restaurant, receiving no new information, just repetitions of what the previous investigating officers had been told: that Jon Pavel rarely put in an appearance at these establishments, his interests were more focused on his Fremantle nightclub. Both managers stressed that highly respected certified accountants managed their books. Fowler told them not to worry, that the confiscated books would soon be speaking for themselves. At the mention of an audit, the male and female managers had respectively squirmed inside their business suits.

‘Come on, let’s go find some action. We might have more luck at the hip-hop club in Fremantle,’ Fowler said as they crammed themselves back into his highly polished white WRX. ‘Pavel runs his businesses from an office in the same complex and spends most of his time there.’

‘Has the office been searched?’ Stevie asked.

‘Yeah, some papers and a computer were confiscated, but I’m not sure what they’re about yet. There’s a team briefing tomorrow at Central.’ Fowler hesitated before taking off from the curb and turned to her. ‘Why don’t you come? With your contacts you should be able to wangle yourself in.’

Was he being sarcastic? If he was she decided to ignore him. ‘Thanks, Sergeant, I will.’ That’d teach him. ‘Any more news about Ralph Hardegan?’

‘Same thing. His home and businesses have been searched and his records are being combed, but there’s still no sign of him. A couple of his staff at the veg shop in Mosman Park—where he has his main office—did mention how he’d seemed unusually anxious recently, though they couldn’t say why. SOCO found blood traces in his apartment. Someone had attempted to clean it up with bleach, but missed a few spots.’ He eased his car into a patchy line of traffic.

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Divorced, no current lady-friend, expensive unit in East Perth. Established the Fresh’n’Tasty chain about ten years ago. Met Jon Pavel when he was setting up one of his restaurants. The men hit it off and began investing in each other’s businesses. Both businesses boomed with the new input on both sides. According to the neighbours, Ralph Hardegan found the house for the Pavels next door to his mother. The neighbour, Mrs Blakeman, reckons he must have seen Delia as a soft touch, getting her to keep an eye on his mum and easing his own conscience—he apparently hardly ever visited her.’

‘A man with his own key visited the other night,’ Stevie said, thoughtfully. ‘Do we have a picture of Hardegan?’

‘In the glove box.’

The photo showed a man in his fifties, good looking in a designer way, with a neat beard and wavy hair—not Stevie’s type at all. ‘How tall is he?’

‘About six foot.’

Stevie replaced the picture and thought back to the shadowy figure she’d seen from the window when she was trapped in the room. ‘About the right height, it could’ve been him.’

They crossed the bridge. Lights bobbed on the water below. Hulking silhouettes of docked cargo ships were lit up like apartment blocks. Unlike Perth on a weeknight, these city streets throbbed. There was always something to do around Fremantle provided you had the money for it, and those that didn’t had plenty of ways of getting it. Like its neighbour, Perth, Freo was bright by day, but once night fell its shadows were long and dark.

Parking spots were scarce, but eventually they pulled down a one-way street, not much wider than an alley, and parked with two wheels on the curb. It was a short walk to the club.

Crowds wearing arty black spilled from a nearby cinema. A group of youths in torn jeans lounged on fold-up chairs outside the market’s entrance, selling their wares: cheesecloth skirts and kaftans, brass water pipes and tinkling wind chimes made from knives and forks.

A living statue of Captain Cook spookily illuminated by lamplight shot Stevie a cheeky wink as she walked past. Next to him a bearded busker sang duets with his howling dog. Stevie flipped a dollar into the busker’s hat; the dog stopped howling and wagged its tail.

Situated in the middle of a busy street, the Vertex offered more than hip-hop and expensive drinks. Enticing smells wafted from the Italian restaurant below where well-dressed groups of young people dined and drank before heading for the club upstairs. The dining area was filled with rattan chairs and tables with polished glass tops; one wall taken up with a bad imitation of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Fowler went to find the club’s manager while Stevie scrutinised the menu tacked to the rag-washed pillar at the restaurant’s entrance, her stomach growling at the thought of peppered squid and Mediterranean salad.

‘Can’t get a decent feed anywhere these days,’ Fowler said, looking over her shoulder at the menu. ‘All grease and garlic.’

‘Looks great to me—I missed out on dinner.’

‘Won’t do you any harm.’

Prick. Stevie spun to face him, saw he was holding up a key. ‘Mr Marius told us to wait in his office,’ he said, oblivious to her clamped jaw and narrowed eyes. ‘Said he’d join us when he’d finished dealing with some customers.’

Fowler led the way up the stairs to a closed safety glass door where bright colours flashed, shadows bobbed and weaved. A couple of men in black muscle shirts stood outside. Fowler showed them his ID and Stevie beamed her best Colgate smile—she wasn’t technically supposed to be here and didn’t want anyone making a note of her name. Fowler showed them the key and asked where the office was.

‘Down the corridor, on the right,’ the smaller man pointed. They followed his instructions, the odours indicating they were also heading in the direction of the toilets.

Fowler opened up a door next to the gents and turned on the light. The office was decked out in a style befitting a successful young businessman: antique partner’s desk, framed hunting prints, a silk oriental rug.

‘Doesn’t look very Romanian to me,’ Stevie remarked, realising as she said it that she wasn’t quite sure what a Romanian’s office was supposed to look like. Gothic towers and screeching bats sprang to mind: strings of garlic, wooden stakes and men with very pale faces.

Stevie examined a picture of the mousy Delia on the desk. Fowler said, ‘We’ve already taken his computer and account books, there’s not much left in here to go through, but I think it’s worth talking to the manager again. He said about five minutes.’

Dominic Marius arrived sooner than expected. Stevie replaced the picture of Delia Pavel and turned to face him. He was as short as he was broad, his laboured respiration from climbing the stairs causing the pinstripes of his waistcoat to wave to and fro. Tiny droplets of sweat burst along his hairline. He mopped his brow Pavarotti style, and indicated a studded leather couch to the detectives. He relaxed more as he settled into the matching seat behind the desk and his eyes lit with a small, satisfied gleam: he looked very much at home in his boss’s chair.

Marius looked from one to the other of them and opened up his hands. ‘I really don’t think I can help you any further. I’ve told you everything I know about Jon Pavel.’

‘Which didn’t amount to enough, I’m afraid, Mr Marius,’ Fowler said.

‘I know very little about his personal life, if that’s what you mean, never even met his wife.’ He nodded to the picture Stevie had been studying. Delia stared back with deep-set mournful eyes.

‘Do you know a businessman called Ralph Hardegan?’ she asked.

‘Of course, he runs the fresh fruit and vegetable markets, he’s Mr Pavel’s partner. He supplies our restaurant downstairs as well as several others we have an interest in. You must have heard of Fresh’n’Tasty?’

‘Has there been any trouble between the two of them recently that you’re aware of?’

‘No, not as far as I know. I saw them dining downstairs together about a week before Jon disappeared. They seemed friendly enough.’

‘And Delia Pavel has never joined them at the restaurant?’ Stevie asked.

‘Never when I’ve been around.’

‘What about Ralph Hardegan—when did you last see him?’ Fowler asked.

‘At the same time, with Mr Pavel in the restaurant a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Mr Hardegan seems to have disappeared too. Would you know anything about that, sir?’

Marius looked shocked. ‘No, of course not—have you questioned his staff?’

‘Yes, the story seems to be similar to that of Jon Pavel, only Hardegan disappeared several days later. One evening he was at his main shop in Mosman Park, where his office is, the next day he was gone and hasn’t been seen since. His car was still in his apartment garage.’

Marius swallowed. A look of fear replaced the gleam in his eye. Fear of the police, Stevie wondered, or fear of someone else? ‘You think it’s something to do with their business?’ he asked.

‘More than likely, Mr Marius,’ Stevie said. ‘I’d like to know more about this partnership of theirs.’

‘I’ve already been asked all this.’

‘Not by us.’

Marius gave in with a weary sigh. ‘Each man holds the majority of shares in the businesses they originally established, so their interests are closely connected. They go to Asia frequently to negotiate for fresh produce.’

‘Any specific country?’ Stevie asked.

‘Thailand, mostly—we import a variety of tropical fruits, mandarins, asparagus, garlic, potatoes et cetera. Both men believe in quality control and choose only the best.’

‘Ever been with them on one of these jaunts?’

‘No.’ Marius looked away from Stevie, keeping his expression rigid. Maybe he was pissed off because he’d never been invited. Maybe he knew there was more to these trips than fruit and veg.

‘We can check your passport,’ she added.

Marius, summoning up his indignation, leaned heavily on the desk on flattened palms. ‘Be my guest. I’m
only
the manager, there’s no need for me to go, I just see to the running of the shop floor. I have very few dealings with Ralph Hardegan. Until now I didn’t even know he was missing.’

And now he is, Stevie thought, you might at last get your slice of the pie.

As if sensing that Stevie had seen through him, Marius made an effort to relax into the padding of his chair and tried for a look of respectful calm. ‘Of course I’m devastated by Mrs Pavel’s death and as mystified by Jon and Ralph’s disappearances as you are. I—I just can’t see Jon as the type to murder his wife.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘And I also can’t see why you think I’m somehow involved.’

‘We never implied you were,’ Stevie said, responding to his aggrieved look with a deliberately unnerving smile.

‘We just need to eliminate you from our enquiries, sir,’ Fowler added.

‘Is there a type who murders his wife, Mr Marius?’ Stevie asked, not smiling now.

‘You know what I mean,’ Marius blustered. ‘I only said that because the officers who spoke to me before implied it.’